The Hall and the Grange Part 20

Sir William turned round, as he came into the room. "Ah, Norman!" he said. "Here you are! I've been waiting for you. You come into this little affair, as well as mother and me. You'll want to hear all about it."

Norman sat himself down, with his hands in his pockets. "I always want to hear all about everything," he said.

His father laughed. "It's rather exciting," he said. "I really hadn't been expecting anything of the sort. They've offered me a peerage."

"Good business!" said Norman warmly.

Sir William laughed again. "It will come to you some day," he said.

"That's one reason why I feel pleased about it."

"When the time comes," said Norman, "I shall grow a little tiny chin beard, like the peers in 'Iolanthe.' But I thought you were going to be a Member of Parliament, father."

"Well, that is being a Member of Parliament--of the Upper House. Oh, it isn't--I've been telling mother--just a mark of honour for what I did during the war. They gave me a knighthood for that, which closed the account. They want me for something else now--a new business altogether.

I won't go into the details of it now, but they want somebody in both Houses for it. It was just a question in which one I should be of most use, and it was decided finally that someone else--I won't mention his name yet--should look after it in the Commons, and I in the Lords. It will mean a lot of work, but I don't mind that. I like work, and I really think I can do something in this job they've given me. I know I did good work in the war, and I've had the feeling sometimes--though I've kept it to myself--that enough notice wasn't taken of it. I don't mean in the way of reward, for I didn't do it for reward; but I thought they might have found me of such use that they would want to give me something else to do, when there's so much that wants doing. Well, it seems that they haven't lost sight of me at all; they have only been waiting for an opportunity. And now it has come. Yes, I'm very well pleased about it."

"So am I," said Norman. "And I'm jolly glad it has come in that way. If they had given you a peerage instead of making you a knight, people might have said you had paid out cash for it. They wouldn't have said it to you, but they might have said it to me. Fellows will say anything to you nowadays; it's the modern technique. I shall be an Honourable, I suppose. I shall have to put up with a lot because of that. But I shall live it down in time. When is it coming off, father?"

Sir William did not smile at this speech. "There's a lot of nonsense talk about buying peerages," he said. "I've been saying to mother, only just now, that I doubt whether there has ever been a single instance of a man putting down so much money and getting a peerage for it, or even a baronetcy. Or, if things were ever done in that way, they're certainly not now. As far as I'm concerned, I'd just as soon have done what I'm going to do in the Commons as in the Lords. For many things I would much rather have been in the Commons. But it would have meant fighting an election, with a lot of time and energy wasted; and _that_ would have cost money. On the whole, I am glad it was settled as it has been.

You're pleased too, Nell, aren't you? I wouldn't have taken it, you know, Norman, without first consulting your mother--and telling you. I haven't yet, as a matter of fact, though I promised to write, either accepting or declining, to-morrow."

"Oh, I hope you won't decline, father. I didn't gather there was any chance of that. I've got rather keen on it now. Aren't you, Mum?"

She smiled at him and then at her husband, looking up at him. "I'm very glad," she said, "that they want you again. And I know that you will do splendid work, as you did before. It will mean a lot more work for father, you know, Norman; but it will be work that he will do well and enjoy doing."

"You never were a half-doer, were you, father?" said Norman. "I should think you would wake up the old Lords a bit. The general idea seems to be that they can do with it. What are you going to call yourself?"

Sir William's face lost its brighter look. "There's a slight difficulty about that," he said. "In the ordinary way I should take the t.i.tle of Hayslope. It would be the natural thing, as we've been here so long, and--and--considering that Hayslope is coming to me some day. The trouble is that it isn't mine yet, and I'm afraid the present owner might object. He'd have no reason to; but...."

Norman's ears were disagreeably affected by that phrase "the present owner." The dispute, which he had forgotten until that moment, was serious, then.

Lady Eldridge spoke, in her quiet firm voice. "I think you ought to know, Norman," she said, "that Uncle Edmund is showing himself hostile to your father. Father went to the Hall to tell him, first of all, about what has been happening, but there was a disagreement that had to be cleared out of the way first, and he found it impossible to do it."

Sir William s.h.i.+fted his position. "I've done all I can," he said. "The dispute was about a twopenny halfpenny affair which I've been trying to put right ever since. I've given way upon all points--more than I ought to have done; but it's of no use. Nothing's of any use. He's determined on quarrelling. I can't do any more."

"I suppose it's about that garden," said Norman. "What does Uncle Edmund want done about it?"

"What does he want done about it? I wish to G.o.d you could find out.

First of all he makes himself offensive because I began it. Very well! I overlook the offence and I stop it. But that doesn't do. I'm told I shall be damaging his position in the place if I don't begin all over again. Very well; I say I will, when he has finished with the men I took on for the work, and he took from me for _his_ work. Then I'm told that before I do anything else I've got to get rid of the man who has been doing it all. Something has come to his ears that Coombe is supposed to have said about him. A wise man would have shut his ears to that sort of gossip; but because of it, I'm to dismiss a man who has served me well, out of hand, and without giving him a chance of defending himself. I said I'd look into it; but he wouldn't have that. To ask questions of anybody would be to doubt his word, though all he has to go on is what somebody told somebody else who told him. It's perfectly childish; but I'm not going to bother about it any more. I've got far too much to do.

If he wants to break with me, he must. _I_ don't want it, and I've gone all lengths to pacify him. But the fact is that he isn't a big enough man to be able to see me going ahead in the world while he's standing still. All his life he has considered himself my superior. He's my elder brother, and I've given in to him. I've given in to him over this, up to the limit. But now he asks too much. I shall just have to go on, and leave him out of account."

"If we weren't all living at Hayslope," Lady Eldridge said, "it would be easy to keep apart for a time, and the friction would die down. What we must do is to make the best of it until Uncle Edmund becomes more reasonable. Neither you nor I, Norman, need take notice of it unless we are forced to. Father wants us to treat it in that way."

"Oh, yes," said Sir William. "He can't visit my sins upon you; and I certainly don't want to visit his upon Cynthia and the girls. You must go on as much as possible as before. He won't come here, and I shan't go to the Hall. That's all the difference it need make, and when we have gone on for some time like that, I dare say he will come round--see he's been making a fool of himself." He paused for a moment. "I know you're not used to hearing me talk of him like that, but I really can't help myself. I've been sorry for him lately, and have done my best to help him over the troubles and difficulties he has had. But none of that seems to count for anything. He was so--so coldly and obstinately determined to have his own way this evening that it thoroughly upset me.

He seems to have nothing in him to respond to the feeling I have always had for him--no kindness, no generosity. I'm not used to losing my temper, but I'm afraid I did lose it with him this evening--his arrogance worked me up to such an extent. No doubt that will all be brought up against me. Actually, I came away without telling him what I had gone there to tell him. That will be brought up against me too. I really can't cope with it any longer. It's an infernal nuisance that this place, which would be more than ever a recreation to me now, should only be turned into a worry. But I won't have it so. I'm not coming down here to be plunged into little local bothers, which take more settling than any of the big things I have to deal with. For the present he and I had better keep apart."

"I'm afraid it's the only way--for the present," said Lady Eldridge.

"But it is a very unhappy state of things."

Norman had listened to his father's speech not without discomfort, which was increased by his mother's acceptance of it. "You and Uncle Edmund have always been good pals," he said. "I should have thought mother and Aunt Cynthia might do something together to put him right. I expect he would want to behave decently, if he saw the way."

"I'm quite ready to leave it to them," said Sir William. "If they can bring him to reason I'll put it all aside--any time. It's all I want to do. But there's one thing I won't do, and that's to dismiss Coombe off-hand on his orders. I shall have him up to-morrow, and hear _his_ story. And I shall ask that old Jackson what happened. I'm kindly permitted to do that. If I find Coombe has gone altogether too far, I shall consider what to do next. But I'm not going to be hectored and pressed to act hastily on a one-sided second or third hand statement.

I've a pretty good idea of what did happen. Edmund goes down to find the men working at the garden; he examines Coombe about it in an arrogant sort of way, and shows him plainly that he's annoyed with _me_--he wouldn't mind that, though it's _lese majeste_ to breathe a word of criticism against _him_. Then when he's gone, Coombe, who after all owes loyalty to me and not to him, lets something drop before men who take it up and make mischief of it to score off him--perhaps because he was getting rid of them, though he was acting under orders there. Oh, it isn't worth while going into it all. I'm sick to death of the whole business. Here we are now, going over and over it, when there's something of real interest to ourselves to talk over. We'd better go to bed, I think. I'm afraid I've worked myself up again. To-morrow I dare say I shall be able to see it all more calmly. I can't to-night."

When Norman went to his room he did not immediately get ready to go to bed. The window attracted him, open to all the loveliness of the summer night, and he went and leant out of it, taking into his nostrils the scent of the dew-steeped earth, and into his ears the little noises that a nature-lover can perceive and distinguish, where to others there is only silence.

The world was so beautiful, and life was so full and interesting, that it was impossible for him to be affected overmuch by either of the factors that had just been introduced into it. The honour that was coming to his father he thought a very proper one, and he had seen that he was pleased about it, not only because of the work that it would enable him to do. Norman had no fault to find with that. It would be rather fun to call yourself Lord Something-or-other, though the thrill would probably pa.s.s off sooner than you expected. It would even be rather fun to be called "the Honourable" though that would no doubt pa.s.s off too--rather more quickly. That seemed to be about all there was to it; but there had been so many peerages created of late years that there had even come to be something to deprecate about such handles to your name. You were always coming across fellows you had never heard of before who called themselves, quite legitimately, "the Honourable." He would be one of them now, and he grinned to himself as he imagined the chaff to which he would be subjected on that account, and formulated a few of the replies he would make to it.

But he had soon exhausted the subject, and his smile faded as that other troublesome affair took its place in his mind.

He didn't like that at all. It seemed to contradict all the jolly things that were connected in his mind with his uncle, who was stiffer in manner than his father, but so kind-hearted underneath it all. He had never thought of him as he had been reflected in his father's speech, and it was difficult to think about him like that now, though he certainly seemed to be behaving in a way that could scarcely be defended.

His window overlooked the wooded valley that lay between the two houses, and the opposite hill. A corner of the Hall could be seen from it. His thoughts went out to his cousins, asleep there, and especially to Pam, whom he loved more than the others. He and Pam were as close friends as they had always been. He couldn't do without Pam. He always wanted to tell her everything that had happened to him, as he supposed fellows who had favourite sisters did. But he was not quite so sure now of her always adopting his views. She was getting together a collection of views of her own. How would she take this?

It was not necessary to accept seriously what she had said this evening about their backing up their respective parents in any dispute between them, and quarrelling with each other because of their quarrel. Her mother and his wouldn't do that. They would try to get at the rights of the case. There must be a right and a wrong somewhere, and it was probable that there was some of each on both sides. He had only heard his father's story so far, and Pam would only hear _her_ father's. They ought to put their heads together and balance the two.

He thought over this for some time, and came to the conclusion that they were not likely to agree, which somewhat depressed him. Then he thought it over further still, and it seemed to him that the only thing to say to Pam was: "You and I can't get at the rights of it, so let's leave it alone altogether, and by and by it will right itself. And above all, don't let it make any difference to us."

Would Pam accept that, as the course laid down by his superior wisdom? A year or two ago, she certainly would have done so. If she didn't now, it would seem as if he had lost some of his influence over her.

Hoping that she would, but a little doubtful of it, Norman presently went to bed.

CHAPTER XVIII

FRED COMFREY

"Sir William Eldridge, who was recently raised to the peerage, has taken the t.i.tle Lord Eldridge of Hayslope."

Mr. Comfrey read out this item of information from his newspaper, as he sat at breakfast with his wife and his son, and expressed his satisfaction over it. "I'm glad it has been settled like that," he said.

"He will simply be called Lord Eldridge, and there can't possibly be any objection to it. Lord Hayslope would have made a good t.i.tle, but under the circ.u.mstances it would hardly have done."

"I don't see why not," said Mrs. Comfrey. "It would be ridiculous of Colonel Eldridge to object, and he'd have no grounds for it either."

Mr. Comfrey was a mild-mannered man, who took his opinions upon worldly affairs very much on his wife's recommendation; but as she took hers upon ecclesiastical affairs chiefly on his, he never felt his self-respect wounded by her somewhat peremptory methods. She was a short, broad woman with a somewhat masculine type of countenance, which, indeed, had been reproduced with surprising fidelity in her son. She might have been expected, from her appearance, to be immovable in whatever opinions she did hold, in face of whatever opposition. But she was very apt to weaken on them if they proved unwelcome to those with whom she wished to stand well. Perhaps if her husband had ever tried to controvert them he might have secured an occasional option upon views of his own; but he would have had to do so long before this, for by now she had established her ascendancy. Fred seemed to pay no respect to them at all, with the consequence that she often wavered before him. But they remained good friends. She admired her son, built in her own image, and, if he did not admire her, he liked her treatment of him since he had returned home, which was very different from what it had been when he was a boy.

Fred's whole att.i.tude towards his home had changed since his boyhood.

Hayslope was a college living, and a small one at the best of times. Mr.

Comfrey, who had gained no particular scholastic honour, would not have been offered it if its emoluments had been enough to attract a bigger gun. He had scarcely any money of his own to supplement them, but his wife had brought him a few hundred a year, with which they had managed to get along. There had never been enough for anything but a skimped existence, and Fred had not enjoyed the same advantages as those of other sons of the clergy in the parishes around Hayslope, still less of the well-endowed laity. He had been glad enough to get away, at an early age, and not for some years had had any desire to come back again.

But after a time, his memories had softened. His home life had been dull and meagre, but the inconvenient, spa.r.s.ely-furnished old house with its shady garden gradually grew upon him during his hard exile; and all around it was the country in which he had tasted some of the delights which better-endowed youth enjoyed so fully. When he did come back he had money of his own. His mother made no difficulty about accepting a substantial payment from him for his board, which removed the effect of sc.r.a.ping from the Vicarage household arrangements; and he did pretty well as he liked at home, which he had never been allowed to do before.

It was pleasant enough to idle there during the months of his convalescence, and to feel that he need not hurry them.

And there was the Hall, which had always provided him with an outlet into the kind of life denied to one of his parentage. If it had been a place of desire to him in his youth, it was a thousand times more so now, for it enshrined Pamela, who threw her sweet radiance upon everything about her.

For one who had lived roughly, as he had, and mostly with men for years past, it was a revelation of quietness and happiness to be taken in upon intimate terms to such a life as was led at the Hall. It was happiness of a sort that he had never imagined for himself. It was not entirely because of Pamela that he hugged himself upon the memory of those hours he had spent in the schoolroom, helping the children with their games, or of other hours in other rooms of the quiet, s.p.a.cious house and in the summer playground of the garden. Love had softened this young man, not cut out by nature, it would have seemed, to tread the gentler ways of life. Love had transformed for him even the shabby rooms and overshaded surroundings of his own home, since Pamela had enlightened them with her presence. He had thought of himself as staying there only so long as his health required it, and then leaving it again to plunge into the excitements of the career that he had marked out for himself. But still he lingered on, though now he was nearly strong again, and would soon be ready for the fray. He did not suppose that he would have any chance in the pursuit upon which his mind was set until he had something more definite than at present to lay before Pamela's parents; nor did he suppose himself as yet to have made any impression upon Pamela herself in the way he was determined upon. It would be better for him to go away for a time, and to come back every now and then with something done to recommend himself further to her and to her parents. But he could not bring himself to make plans to go away yet.