The Eldridges arrived home in time for luncheon. They lived in a large house in Belgravia, old enough to have some character of space and dignity, but old enough also to have been exceedingly inconvenient if much money had not been spent in modernizing it. It had been their London home for about fifteen years, and was a trifle behind the latest fashion in furnishing and decoration. The latest of such fashions, it should be recognized, rests upon the recognition of the value of older fashions, which in its fulness dates from a very few years back. There was plenty of good old furniture in the Eldridges' house, some of it now of considerable value, but it would have welded itself into quite a different whole if the "doing up" and furnishing of the house had been taken in hand some years later than it was. The time was approaching when Sir William would acquire another, possibly still larger house, and begin all over again. He was already vaguely dissatisfied with this one; but it had qualities which pleased him too, and he had never quite lost the sense of satisfaction with which he had moved into it from a smaller house and spent money upon making it the place in which they should live the larger life that was then opening out before them. His own room, with its outlook upon a little square of walled-in garden, was a very refuge, and he and his wife sometimes sat there in the few evenings when they were at home together alone, in a grateful seclusion of green morocco and bright Turkey carpet, with books and prints on the Morris-decked walls, and only the huge and hideous American desk, of the palest possible growth of oak, to indicate the sterner purposes to which the room was primarily dedicated.

Sir William went into this room on their arrival, and turned over the pile of letters and papers that were there awaiting him. He opened a few of them, and glanced over their contents, and then unlocked his desk, but only to put certain of the papers away. He was too excited to take up his immediate affairs in the short time that remained before luncheon, though on ordinary occasions he would have done so, for he hated wasting even a few minutes of his time.

He had thought over what had happened, and what might happen during the journey to London. But, coming thus into his familiar room, he seemed to see it all with a new significance. He had the feeling that he had come back to this room a different man—a bigger man than the one who had used it before; and the feeling rather surprised him. For, after all, to spend a few days in a large country house was no new experience to him, he had been in close contact with Lord Chippenham before for many months upon end, and the idea of a seat in Parliament was not entirely a novelty. What had happened, he decided, as he walked up and down the room, or stood looking out upon the green and bright colour of the little paved square of garden, was that he had attained to recognition, when he had thought that the official chapter of his life was closed. It set a higher value on it, even to himself. He was not the same man as had for so long occupied this room, and thought of his public work as efficiently done for the good of his country, but as already a thing of the past. The chapter was not closed, but might lead to other chapters, beyond the present scope of his imagination. It had put him among the men of his time who counted for something. Lord Chippenham, whatever his stirring of expectation might have meant, undoubtedly thought of him as counting for something already. The last year, during which he had attended to his affairs, and spent as much of his time as he could spare from them at Hayslope, had only been a lull. His foot was already on the ladder of distinction, and he might mount on it higher than he had ever thought of mounting.

He was summoned to luncheon, and took some of his as yet unopened letters in with him. He did not come to the one from his brother until he and his wife were alone together.

"Well, I never—!"

Lady Eldridge looked up, to see his face dark and angry. "Read that," he said, throwing the letter across to her; "the first part, I mean," and waited till she had done so, though phrases of indignation kept rising to his lips, which he stifled by occupying them with food and drink, too hastily consumed.

He did not wait for her remarks, when she looked up again, with consternation on her face. "You heard what I said about Edmund only just this morning," he broke out. "I'm always thinking what I can do for him, and that's the way he treats me in return. Really, it's incredible!"

"I must say I'm surprised," she said unwillingly as it seemed, and turned to the letter again.

"It's beyond everything," he went on angrily. "'This treatment must stop'—what is it that he says? Haven't I always deferred to him at Hayslope, because he's my elder brother, and lately I've been sorry for him? What on earth can he mean by writing to me like that? What treatment, I should like to know! I've spent thousands of pounds on his property, and should never have got a penny of it back if it hadn't been for Hugo's death. His position on his own ground! What have I ever done to belittle it?"

She looked up again. "I thought you did consult him about the garden," she said.

"Of course I did. I've never left anything of that sort undone, though under the circumstances in which we stand to one another most men wouldn't have expected it. But I know what he is where his rights are concerned."

"But didn't he give his consent?"

Sir William hesitated. "After that letter, I suppose one has to say that he didn't. But you can see how it was. There was absolutely no reason for his withholding it. I practically told him I was going to do it, and he put forward some objections, which I met. He didn't press them, and I went away thinking it was all understood. If you like to say so, perhaps I didn't ask his permission at all. It would have seemed absurd to do so."

"I am very sorry that he has taken it like this. Of course his letter is unreasonable, but I think it is only meant to assert his rights. He doesn't mean to stop you going on."

"Oh, I'm not going on in the face of that. I shall wire to Coombe to stop the work. Besides, he does mean that, doesn't he? Let me read it again."

She handed over the letter. Her face was disturbed. "I don't think Cynthia can have seen it before it was sent," she said.

"There's nothing about going on. I'm told that I've overstepped my rights, and 'this sort of treatment must now stop.' And fancy writing this! 'I think there's a touch of vulgarity in it.' Vulgarity! It's a most offensive letter. One would say that he was laying himself open to quarrel with me. I'm not going to quarrel with him; but I shall be precious careful not to give him a handle against me again."

"I don't think he wants to quarrel. It's his way. He wouldn't think of the effect his words might have. I don't think he even wants to stop you making the garden."

"Oh, I'm not going on with it now. For one thing, this would spoil all the pleasure of it. After all, I've got other things to think of besides garden-making at the Grange. It has just been a recreation, but now I dare say I shall be too much occupied to be able to pay so much attention to it. Really, you know, it's ridiculous for Edmund to give himself those airs of superiority over me. I've given way too much to them in the past. I wouldn't say so to anybody but you, but what is Edmund's position compared to mine? I'm the last man in the world to give myself airs because of what I've done in the world; and with him especially I've made nothing of it, because—well, because I've hated the idea of making a contrast between him and myself. But what I can't help feeling is that he might consider all that too. I think if I were the elder brother I should have shown a good deal more pleasure than he has ever done at whatever success I have had."

"Perhaps he's a little bit jealous. I've thought that sometimes. I don't think Cynthia is, and perhaps such a feeling might be expected more from her than from him."

"Of course he's jealous. That's at the root of it all. It's a very unworthy feeling from one brother to another."

"I don't think he would recognize it as jealousy, and if he detected such a feeling in himself I think he would be ashamed of it. He is fond of you, there's no doubt about it, and he relies on you, perhaps more than he knows. He can't mean to quarrel, and if you don't treat this letter as an offence it will all blow over."

"My dear girl, what would you have me to do? I'm not going to sit down under it. My position at Hayslope would be impossible if I were to give in to this sort of thing."

"No, dear, I don't think so. You know Edmund so well. You know that he is fond of you. You have always liked being near one another, and you've had little jars before, which have made no difference."

"Nothing like this. I call a letter like that positively insulting."

"It can't have been meant to be that. If you take it in the right way he'll be sorry for having written it. If you take it as an insult—"

"What is the right way of taking it then?"

She thought for a moment, and said with slightly heightened colour: "You are bigger than Edmund. If he has made a mistake, you can afford not to make the same mistake."

His face changed at that. "You always put me right," he said, with a smile at her. "Yes, of course. Poor old fellow! He's had a lot to try him. He doesn't get out into the world as I do, and of course he broods over his troubles. Any little thing upsets him."

She smiled at him in her turn. "That's how I'm sure it is," she said. "If he does object to this garden plan, it isn't much to give it up, is it? Just a little extra amusement, as you said."

He laughed, rather ruefully. "I don't like giving up something that I've set in hand," he said. "But if it will placate my respected brother—"

"Perhaps he won't want you to, if you return him a soft answer."

"I'll do that all right. If a thing's worth doing at all it's worth doing well. Besides, you've blown away my annoyance, and, after all, it's more in accordance with my nature to be generous than to be resentful—don't you think?"

That was just what she did think. He was quick-tempered, but she had had abundant experience of the quick revulsion of feeling that came to him when his generosity was appealed to, and loved him for it. Her own impulsions drove her upon a more level course. He had no idea of the anger that his brother's letter had aroused in her mind, that had held her even while she was pleading for him, and that held her still, when by her prompting he had chased his away from him. Her accusation of jealousy had been the only sign of it in her speech, and she had entirely agreed with him when he had stigmatized that as a most unworthy feeling under the circumstances that had called it forth. It had cost her an effort to insist upon the ties that held the brothers together. To her mind, Colonel Eldridge, with his narrow outlook, and his claims of superiority, was undeserving of the affection which her husband constantly showed towards him, and showed little enough of it in return, though it was true that he relied upon his brother, and made use of him.

Still, when she was alone and thought it all over, she was glad that she had spoken as she had, putting aside her own feelings, and playing, as she always could, upon his, which were so large and generous. There was Cynthia to be thought of, who was putting a brave face upon the restrictions that had so marred her life, and who expressed only to her, because she was her best-loved friend, what they meant to her. And there were the dear children, whom she loved, and the more because she had no daughter of her own. No, it would never have done to allow a breach to open, as might well have happened, if Edmund's crabbed obstinacy had been answered in the way it deserved. They were too much bound up together at Hayslope not to make all allowances for one another, even where no allowance was rightly due. Besides, the path of tolerance was always the right path, though it might not be easy to take it.

To Sir William, that path had its allurements. His nature was generous and he recognized it. It was with a glow of self-gratulation that he sat down after luncheon to answer his brother's letter; and he enjoyed the art with which he brought to bear upon it, so that his meaning should be made plain, and also his large-minded tolerance.

Beginning "My dear Edmund," he first of all wrote fully about the affair in which he was interesting himself on behalf of his brother. A good deal depended upon the way in which he dealt with it, and he showed that his interests were deeply engaged. In fact, something had already been done, for the Government Department concerned was that of which Mr. Vincent, one of his fellow guests at Wellsbury, was the head.

"We have just returned from our visit to Wellsbury, and fortunately Henry Vincent was staying there. I had a talk with him about the principle of the thing, and I think I may say that I put the right idea into his head, and that he will act on it generally. I told him that there was a personal application of it which I wouldn't trouble him with, and he told me the right man to go to, and said that I could say he had done so. I shall follow it up to-morrow, and I hope everything will be satisfactorily arranged. It is fortunate that I was able to talk it over with Vincent. I had never happened to meet him before, and it didn't do me any harm to come first into contact with him at Wellsbury."

That was that. Edmund would be pleased at the probability of this tiresome affair being settled, and perhaps impressed with the ease with which such settlements were arranged, when it was possible to approach the well-guarded head of a Department on equal terms.

And now for the other matter! which should be dealt with shortly but decisively, and cleared out of the way altogether as a source of complaint.

He considered it for a time. He was sincere in his desire to act generously in face of an unreasonable attack. But the offence was really considerable, pointed as it was by that disagreeable charge of vulgarity, and it was of no use to pretend it wasn't there. He would give way; but with a gesture. The gesture would be that it was not worth while bothering about so small an affair, which could best be expressed in a few lines. Edmund was not to suppose that he had given him annoyance; the annoyance was past—or nearly so. He clung to the idea of terseness, but lest it should be misunderstood, the atmosphere of friendliness might perhaps best be indicated by something more intimate coming before it.

So he added a paragraph or two about the visit to Wellsbury, the magnificence of the house, and the illustriousness of the party gathered there. There was something also about Lord Chippenham in his private relations. "I had worked with him for nearly four years," he wrote, "without really knowing him intimately. He is extraordinary in the way he keeps his public and private lives apart, and one feels it an honour, even after all this time, to have been accepted on terms of personal friendship with him."

The kernel of the letter immediately followed.

"I am sorry that I inadvertently went against your wishes in the matter of Barton's Close. I didn't understand you actually withheld your consent to the garden-making, or of course I should not have set it in hand. I have wired to Coombe to stop the work."

That was terse enough. The only thing was that it might settle it too completely. He didn't want to give up his garden if it could be avoided. Edmund ought not to be discouraged from asking that the work should go on, though he would not write anything to show that that was in his mind. He went on:

"I was rather keen on this addition to the garden, and think it would have improved the property, if anything. But where Hayslope is concerned, my chief desire is to work in with your ideas, even where they differ from mine."

Would Edmund recognize this note of large generosity? It was to be hoped so—and give way.

He read his brother's letter again, and asked himself whether it was possible to ignore the rudeness of it. After careful consideration he added another paragraph.

"I think, my dear Edmund, that your general charge against me of overriding your wishes and belittling your position at Hayslope can hardly be seriously made. Such an attitude would be very far from my intentions, and I cannot charge my memory with any single instance of my having done so. If I have given you any cause for such an accusation, as I suppose I must have done, or you would not have brought it against me, it can only have been because I have been so occupied with affairs outside Hayslope that I have perhaps treated Hayslope itself as of less importance than it naturally is to you. If so, I apologize. Hayslope still holds the warmest corner in my heart of any place in England, or out of it for that matter. But the world is a large place, and when one is taking a part, however modest, in dealing with the difficulties that it is now involved in, the affairs of one small corner of it do not bulk so large as if one could give all one's attention to them."

He ended resolutely. The intended terseness had already been somewhat whittled away, and it was not his idea to read Edmund a lecture, or he might have read him a much longer one. This would suffice. In the future he might be more closely devoted to the task of putting the world straight again than he was now, and Hayslope would be of still less importance to him. If Edmund had his dignity as Squire of Hayslope so much at heart, it must strike even him that the dignity of a probable Cabinet Minister—so far had Sir William's aspiring thoughts led him in the last few hours—was considerably above it. On reading his letter, he thought that it might have been better to close with the sentence ending, "my having done so," and omit that beginning, "If I have given you any cause." But that would have involved rewriting four whole pages, and the coda was really only a slight fault in the technique of his protest, and not in its intention. So he left the letter as it was, and presently posted it himself.

Lady Eldridge also addressed a letter to Hayslope that afternoon, to her sister-in-law. She usually wrote to her once in the week, and knew that she would want to hear all about the visit to Wellsbury. But she did not begin with that.

"Dearest Cynthia:—I am sorry that Edmund is annoyed about the garden. I am sure you know that neither William nor I would want to do anything at the Grange that he objected to, but I can't help thinking that his putting a veto on it is rather unreasonable. William has telegraphed for the work to be stopped, but I do hope that Edmund doesn't really mean that the garden is not to be made. It would be such a disappointment, for you know what fun we have had in working it all out. William does love Hayslope, and all that he has done at the Grange. Perhaps in the future he may have more work to do, and Hayslope will be more of a recreation to him than ever. So try to get it put right if you can. William thinks so much of Edmund, and I'm sure Edmund does of William too. He can't really want to put such a slight on him as this would be. I think William has shown, by wiring at once for the work to be stopped, that he doesn't want to go against Edmund. I'm not sure, from his letter, that Edmund will even have expected that. If not, do get him to withdraw. I can write this plainly to you, though perhaps William couldn't to Edmund, after his letter. Men are more unreasonable than we are, though they prefer to call it logical. But we can't helping loving them all the same—those that we do love."

Then she went on to tell all about Wellsbury, and gave an amusing account of their visit, full of light descriptive detail of the men and women they had met there, with some descriptions from the inside of a house that was famous throughout the world. But she wrote nothing of what had been said to her about her husband, and gave no hint of anything that might be coming to him.