The Earl of Crowborough, though he lived in a Castle, and enjoyed a rent-roll which provided him with everything that was suitable to his rank in the way of elaborate living, yet shared many simple tastes with people of less exalted station. Among them was that of propelling himself about on a tricycle. He had acquired one of those machines in their early days of solid rubber tires, before the invention of the safety bicycle, and ridden it for many years, until it became almost a curiosity, or what the shops call an "antique." He would probably have continued to ride it until it could be repaired no longer; but riding through the village of Pershore one morning he had heard somebody—he never wished to inquire whom—call out: "Here comes that old fool on his bone-shaker!" After that he had bought a new tricycle of the latest pattern and its pneumatic tires and easy running had given him a new delight in his chosen form of exercise and locomotion; so that he could hardly be persuaded to drive in a motor-car or behind horses when he was in the country, and would have ridden his tricycle in London if he had not shrunk from the comments that might reach his ears.

It was on his tricycle that he rode over to Hayslope one afternoon to look up his old friend, Colonel Eldridge. He did want this unpleasantness between them ended, and though he believed that he had been the chiefly injured party, his kindness of heart prompted him to have done with it all and forget it. He was a creature of habit, and Hayslope and the people who lived there had come into his life in the country ever since his childhood. At the height of the recent disturbances he had never got rid of the feeling of discomfort when custom had suggested to him that he should ride over to Hayslope, as he had so often been wont to do, and he had realized that the familiar road was closed to him. He had continued to visit the Grange, but it was not the same thing. The Grange was new, at least in its present aspect; the Hall was the same as he had always known it—a nice comfortable place full of old memories which kept alive old friendships. There was no other house within reach of his that he liked so much. And though he liked William Eldridge, it was Edmund towards whom his deeper feelings went out. They had been friends for nearly fifty years. Lord Crowborough did not possess many intimate friends, and there was no special community of taste between him and Colonel Eldridge, or even of interest, outside their common interests as neighbouring landowners. But a tie had grown up between them. Edmund Eldridge did not make the demands upon his substantial but slow moving intellect that William did; they were always at ease together.

He could not do without his old friend. Speculation was alien to his habit of mind, but he did sometimes wonder, during the course of their estrangement, whether the same sense of blankness might not be working in Edmund as well. At last he decided to go over and see. He made no plans as to what he should do if he were received coldly, nor did he intend to make any appeal. He wanted Edmund again, and it was in his mind, though not consciously defined as an expectation, that Edmund would be glad to see him.

Behold him, then, laboriously pedalling up the drive to Hayslope Hall on a warm afternoon, a not undignified figure, though his large form lurched and swayed as he took the rise, and his chosen form of country costume was a suit of pepper and salt and a high-crowned felt hat. But for his coloured tie, he might have been taken for a country parson of the older school, and he would not have been displeased at the comparison, for he was a pillar of the church on its official side, and had a greater regard for its religious significance than many of its supporters in that aspect.

Life was pursuing its ordinary course at Hayslope Hall on a summer afternoon. In these leaner times lawn tennis was apt to be the chief of its recreations, and the excuse for the gathering together of neighbours. There were several of them in the garden as Lord Crowborough was convoyed across the lawn, mopping his super-heated brow, and wishing that his first appearance were a little less public. Colonel Eldridge was playing; but he left off immediately, and after greeting his old friend called to somebody else to take his place in the game, though Lord Crowborough begged him to continue it.

Colonel Eldridge was not a man to show his emotions except occasionally that of annoyance, but they were strong within him as his eyes fell upon the familiar figure advancing towards him, and would have made it impossible for him to continue the game, though he was in the middle of his service.

He had never realized until that moment—perhaps he had forbidden himself the realization—how warm a corner there was in his heart for this tall, bulky figure, and how empty that place had been of late. The last vestiges of resentment against him melted away completely. He was as glad to see him as he had ever been to see anybody.

But nothing of this showed in his face, hardly even the pleasure, as he shook hands with him, and said: "Halloa! Tricycled over? Afraid you've got rather warm."

A little later they were sitting together indoors, in grateful coolness, and there was a tumbler at Lord Crowborough's elbow, which, however, contained nothing alcoholic. No word had been said about the late dispute, but the two men were on their old terms. There was gratitude in the minds of both of them, but it did not show in their speech, which was level and unconcerned.

They talked first chiefly about the land, and the difficulties of landlords, with special reference to Mr. Henry Vincent, and whether he knew anything about the conditions of landowning at all or was only out to screw as much as possible out of the unfortunate landlord. The question admitted of some doubt, and there were instances to be brought forward in support of either view. The matter that was engaging Colonel Eldridge's attention at this time, which also affected Lord Crowborough, was fully discussed, and Sir William's name came up in the course of discussion.

"I don't think he knows Vincent," said Colonel Eldridge; "but I suppose it would be easy for him to get an introduction. He has the whole business at his fingers' ends, and is keen to get it settled on the lines we've agreed upon."

"William's a very capable fellow," said Lord Crowborough. "If he throws himself into a question of this sort he's likely to get it put through—unless he puts their backs up."

"Why should he do that?"

"Well, I've a great admiration for William, and of course it has been a pleasure to me, knowing him ever since he was a boy, to see him climb up the ladder; he did extraordinary good work during the war; I've heard fellows say so. But I've met people who say that—well, that he does put people's backs up; that he's got a way of pushing his own ideas, and won't listen to anything against them. I don't say it, mind you."

"I think it's a very unfair accusation." Colonel Eldridge spoke warmly, and it delighted Lord Crowborough's heart to hear him. He even disposed himself to increase his indignation, because if they two could dispute upon a subject, as they always had done, and still remain fast friends, the larger dispute which had set them at enmity for a time must hold out no further danger.

"Well, that's what a number of people do say," he said dogmatically.

"Then you ought to contradict it if they say it to you. You know William."

"Oh, yes; and I like William. Nobody likes William more than I do, but he does set great store by his own opinion. It's a very good thing, if you're running a business or whatever it may be. Make up your mind what you want done and don't listen to the people who want it done differently. I dare say that's all it really means. Still, that's the general opinion of William, and there's no good shutting your eyes to it. Besides, you must have had experience of it yourself. You and William get on very well here—better than most brothers would, I dare say—but if William wants his own way I'll bet he takes it."

Lord Crowborough went rather beyond what he had grounds for saying here, for the sake of keeping up that mood of opposition which under the circumstances was gratifying to him, and was not prepared to give chapter and verse for his statement, as he was now requested to do.

"Has anybody told you that? What do you mean by it exactly? Is there any gossip about any dispute between William and me? It would annoy me very much if it were so."

"Oh, I don't say that, Edmund. You know best what's passing between you and William."

Colonel Eldridge jumped to conclusions. "It's damnably annoying how things get put about, and exaggerated," he said. "William and I are the best of friends—always have been; but each of us has got his own way of looking at things and sometimes I don't say we don't have a little breeze, which makes no difference, or we shouldn't have chosen to live here close together for so many years."

"That's true enough; though of course it's William who has chosen to live here, for you can't help yourself."

"That's a foolish way of putting it. If I hadn't let William do what he liked with the Grange he wouldn't have wanted to live here; there wouldn't have been a house for him. It hasn't altogether suited me what he has done there, but I've let him do it because I like having him there."

"I suppose as he and his boy will come after you it doesn't so much matter what he does. I must say I shouldn't like, myself, to have a house of that sort growing up within a stone's throw of my own. I should think the Grange is as big as this house now, isn't it? And with William I should never be surprised to see it a good deal bigger. He's a fellow who likes spending his money and never seems satisfied with what he's got."

"There's some truth in what you say there, and as a matter of fact William and I have discussed that very question. He is making an addition to his garden there at this very minute. I dare say gossip has got about that I objected. Well, I did tell him that I thought it had gone quite far enough, and I shouldn't care for any further additions to be made."

"But you didn't stop him making this one?"

"Of course I didn't. I tell you that we understand one another thoroughly."

"There you are then. In the long run it comes to this, that he does exactly what he likes, which is what I said at the beginning. Still, William's a good fellow, and I know he's devoted to you; I've reason to know it. I should like to have a brother of that sort myself, but my brother Alfred has always been a nuisance to me, with his schemes for making enormous fortunes which never came off. It's different when your brother has a lot more money than you have. It's a very good thing, with all the burdens they're heaping on land nowadays, to have money brought into a property from outside. I suppose William could buy another place now, if he wanted to. I rather admire him for sticking to Hayslope, and if it amuses him to spend money on the Grange—well, it's because he likes it better than any other place."

Colonel Eldridge walked to the lodge gates with Lord Crowborough, who, mounted on his machine, suited his pace to his. They parted with much good will on either side, though with no more than a "Good-bye then for the present" to show it.

As he walked slowly back to the house, his heart was tender within him. It was almost worth while to have quarrelled with this old friend to have him back on the old terms again. But quarrelling was never worth while. He had come rather near to quarrelling with William over that affair of Barton's Close. He remembered with some compunction that he had spoken angrily to his wife about it, and had written to William with more irritation than he now liked to think about; though he had shown in the latter part of his letter that the strength of his protest was not meant to go deeper than its expression. William had not yet answered his letter, as there would have been just time for him to do, which seemed to show that he had not taken it in offence; and the work of his garden was still going on. Colonel Eldridge had been inclined to take exception to that, although he was quite prepared for it to go on. It would have been better if William had written, saying that he had not understood his objection as serious, or something of that sort. It gave some colour to Crowborough's criticism of his way of pushing through his intentions. But it was true, what Crowborough had also said, that he loved Hayslope, and preferred to spend his money there rather than to make another place to his liking. Colonel Eldridge well knew that itch for improvement, and more improvement, and had acted upon it himself in the days when there had been money to spare for that sort of thing. He now thought of his protest as altogether exaggerated, and wished he hadn't made it. He was even inclined to be interested in the new garden that William had designed, and thought that he might be able to suggest some slight improvement in the details of the design when they came together on it, with the protest put aside and forgotten.

As he walked slowly along on the grass by the drive, with the wide acres of his park surrounding him, the sheep and cattle feeding peacefully, or lying in the shade of the trees in which he took pride, he thought of himself as too apt to get annoyed about trifles.

It had not always been so. He was rigid in the demands he made upon others, but he thought about them kindly too—even his servants, whom he treated with old-fashioned stiffness, but whose welfare he would take pains to promote; much more the members of his family, in whose happiness his was bound up. He was the head of his house, and that must be recognized by everybody around him. But his rule was not exercised for his own exclusive benefit, and it had been his pride not to make it irksome by indulgence in transitory moods.

He was more at peace with himself at this moment than he had been since his troubles had come upon him. He saw that the trouble about money had loomed too large in his mind. There was enough money to have in the quiet way in which life had been going at Hayslope Hall, now for some time past. Cynthia was making herself happy in it; the children were happy. Why shouldn't he be? For the first time he caught a glimpse of a life lived more closely to the soil than it had come to be lived in such houses as his before the war. In the time of his great-grandfather, before a rich marriage had brought more money into the family, when a London house had been added to the country one, and the country house keyed up to a more elaborate style, Hayslope had been occupied for by far the greater part of the year, with a rare visit to London or Bath, or to the country houses of friends or relations. There were old letters and diaries in the library which told of the life that had centred at Hayslope in those days. It was far simpler than the life that he and his had lived there before the war, but it seemed to have contented those who lived it.

They saw the seasons in and out, and each had its duties as well as pleasures. Guests would be entertained for weeks together, and live the daily life of their hosts; they seemed to see even more of their country neighbours, who lived in the same way as they did, with their recognized indoor and outdoor pursuits to fill the days, and their merry-makings in company, more eagerly looked forward to than the more frequent and elaborate amusements of to-day. The great charm of those days seemed in part actually to rest upon the difficulty of communication with the world outside, which concentrated the sweets of life upon the country home. And where the home was of the spacious and well-provided kind of Hayslope Hall, it must have been more cherished than if it were only resorted to for periods in the year, and even those periods broken up by frequent departures elsewhere.

Perhaps that old stay-at-home life of the country house would come back of compulsion, now that so many people were straitened in circumstances. It would be a good thing in many ways if it did; if the men who owned the land lived more closely to it, and identified themselves with those who were bound to it. That was a larger question; but there was no doubt that it could be made a satisfying life, if the necessary changes were squarely faced and accepted, and the life was arranged on a new basis. It came to his mind, with a gratifying sense of discovery, that for him and his family that basis had already been found. It only remained to cease always casting back towards what had been before and could now be no longer. The best part remained, and life for him and his at Hayslope might be happy as it had ever been.

And the other deeper trouble was clearing too. He was glad that it had been mentioned between him and his old friend, whom for a time it had parted. At the last, as they had gone down the drive together, Lord Crowborough had said to him, quite simply: "We fell out about your poor boy, Edmund. I don't want to go away and leave him as something that must never be mentioned between us. It was a sad business, but for him it was wiped out when he fought well and was killed. He was your only son, and you've lost him. I've been more lucky in keeping mine."

That had put the finishing touch to their reconciliation. Hugo's lapses could be forgotten now, as they had been forgiven. They had been bad. For a long time after his death one trouble after another had come because of him, one revelation after another had been made. He had kept them nearly all to himself. Only his brother knew something of them, and he knew by no means all. His wife knew nothing. But an end seemed to have come to it at last. The burden on his mind was lifting, though it still lay heavy upon his purse, and would mean rigid economy for years to come.

How good William had been about it all! A real consolation and support in his troubles, and willing, as he was able, to lift even the money burden of them from him. He blamed himself for having shown the irritability that had grown upon him, under the stress he had gone through, towards his brother. It was a poor return for what he had been so ready to do for him, to make a mountain out of that little molehill of irritation over Barton's Close. But William would not make too much of that. Perhaps the very best way to show him that it had been only a surface irritation, which did not affect the permanent tie of affection between them, would be to accept the help that he had so freely offered. Only pride had held him back, and that had prevented him from even acknowledging the generosity of the offer. He had simply put it aside. With that burden removed, scarcely any trouble would remain to him at all. He had already everything that was necessary to his own life for the remainder of his years. It was only upon Cynthia and the children that the economies which now had to be practised bore hardly. With this relief, which it was open to him to take at any time, he could give them more—if not all that he would have been able to give them but for the war. And he knew that William would be pleased if he were to go to him and say that he would accept his help. It would bind them together still more closely, for it would mean the merging of pride in affection.

He saw it all in that moment of enlightenment and softer feeling, and lingered on his way back to the house to taste the serener air which his vision brought him. His well-loved home would be a source of delight to him once more, and no longer a source of anxiety, if he were to take the freedom that he could have at any time by a word of surrender. He looked about him before he entered the house, and the sunshine that steeped the wide spaces of the park seemed brighter and lovelier than before. There had lain a veil over the beauties of his home. But it only needed a gesture of his to have it removed altogether.

The parlour-maid met him as he went into the hall. "Mr. Coombe, Sir William's gardener, would like to see you, sir."

He went into his business room, where the man was waiting for him.

"I've had this telegram from Sir William, sir."

He handed over the pink sheet, and stood respectfully, cap in hand, while Colonel Eldridge read it. But his eyes rested upon him with an expression that had nothing pleasant in it.

"Stop work on new garden at once; pay outside labourers week's wages and dismiss them."

Colonel Eldridge's eyes, resting upon the paper, remained there longer than it required to take in its meaning. Coming immediately upon the thoughts with which his mind had been full, they gave him an unpleasant shock, the effect of which he could not entirely hide from the man who had administered it to him.

"There's a mistake," he said shortly. "I never intended that the work should be stopped."

Coombe did not take this up. "I've come to ask, sir," he said, "if anything can be done about the men I got in to help with the work. I had a good deal of difficulty in finding them, and I told them it was likely to be at least a two months' job. Sir William said I could count it as that. They're mostly men who've been in the army—unemployed. There's dissatisfaction among them, and I—"

Colonel Eldridge had allowed him to go on because he wanted time to collect himself; but he now interrupted brusquely: "There's no need to make trouble at all. You can tell them there's been a mistake, and they can go on."

Coombe's eyes dropped. He was a youngish man, with a self-confident air, but with something secretive in his appearance and demeanour which seemed to contradict his quiet respectful manner. "I've given them notice, sir, on that telegram," he said. "I couldn't do anything else."

"You ought to have come and seen me first. It seems to me that you've been glad of the opportunity to make trouble."

It was a relief to him to speak like this. He disliked the man who stood before him with his sleek, respectful air, which he suspected to hide hostility that would show itself in insolence if it dared.

"I didn't come to see you about that, sir. My instructions are plain enough from that telegram, and I'd only got to carry them out."

"Then why do you come to me at all?"

"Because I thought you might be able to do something to keep these men from making trouble, sir, as Sir William isn't here. Only two of them belong to Hayslope—Jackson and Pegg. The others are lodging here. I've paid them their wages, as instructed, and with no work to do they're likely to get drinking and—"

"Oh, it's out of consideration for the good behaviour of the village you've come to me, is it?"

"Yes, sir. And because Sir William isn't here to deal with it."

Colonel Eldridge was getting more and more annoyed with him. But his training prevented his showing more annoyance with men of this class than he could make effectual. "Sir William is your master," he said, "and you are quite right to take your orders from him. But you know perfectly well that it's for me as a magistrate to deal with anything of that sort, whether he is here or not."

"Yes, sir, that's why I have come to you. I only meant that as the men are upset-like at Sir William's turning them off, he might have done something to quiet them."

There was no offence apparent in this. Colonel Eldridge thought for a moment. "The best thing to do is to tell them that there has been a mistake," he said. "They can go back to their work. You can tell them that on my authority, and I'll make it right with Sir William."

Coombe hesitated, and then came plump out with a refusal. "I can't do that, sir, without instructions from Sir William himself."

There was a moment's pause. Coombe kept his eyes on the ground, but his face became a shade paler. Colonel Eldridge looked at him as if he would have annihilated him, and then turned away, and said quietly: "Very well, then. You can go."

Coombe threw a glance at him, seemed as if he were going to say something further, but went out without a word.