The difference between Colonel Eldridge's room at the Hall and his brother's at the Grange was a good deal more than the difference between a room in an old house and one devoted to like uses in a new. Indeed if you had averaged the age of their contents, the room at the Grange would have shown the earlier date. It had been one of the latest additions, when furniture and decoration had become a source of keen interest to its owner, and there had been no lack of money to carry out his tastes. There was no bright Turkey carpet or American desk here, as in Sir William's room in London. He wrote his letters at a Queen Anne Bureau, bought at Christie's for a sum that would have paid for everything in his brother's room and left a substantial amount over. There was no insistent colour, to detract from the rich subdued values of this and other fine pieces of furniture. A few pictures of the early Dutch school, which Sir William particularly affected, hung upon the walls, panelled in dark oak. The electric light glowed and sparkled from a lustre chandelier of Waterford glass. The few ornaments admitted were also mostly of old glass, and as many of them as were suitable held flowers. There was a beautiful soft-hued Persian carpet, and curtains of heavy brocade of no determinate hue. Only The room was a success from first to last, and Sir William felt it to be so every time he entered it. And yet he still gained, whenever he went into his brother's room at the Hall, a sense of satisfaction for which he would perhaps have exchanged the different sort of pleasure that he took in his own creation. That room, with its old-fashioned furniture of no special value; its faded and threadbare carpet, and shabby easy chairs; the untidy books on the shelves; the paintings, prints and photographs that crowded the walls; the medley of ornaments and knicknacks on the mantelpiece and side-tables; the gun-cases, cartridge-cases, game-bags, golf-clubs, and all the litter of a sportsman's room; the very smell of it, compounded of tobacco smoke and leather, slightly musty paper, and slightly damp dog, with a reminder of ripe apples mysteriously underlying it all—it meant quiet and ease and a thousand associations of indoor and outdoor life, hardly any of which were represented in the room that was his. He had even been slightly ashamed of his room when he had first shown it to his brother, who had said: "It's very fine. I've never seen a finer, for a fellow who can live up to it. It wouldn't do for me, because I couldn't keep that old shooting-jacket of mine hanging up behind the door." That was it, Sir William decided afterwards. It was really a room for a man who liked to live in a drawing-room, and he didn't want, himself, to live always in a drawing-room, even a man's drawing-room. Still, he It was this room that Norman entered when he returned from the Hall. He had none of the doubts about it that his father sometimes expressed. His appreciations were finer than his father's. Sir William had to possess a treasure of art for it to give him the acme of pleasure. Norman loved it for itself, and he loved the beautiful things in this room. His appreciation of it even affected him now, as he went in, though he was thinking of something else. His mother, in her evening gown, sitting near a great bowl of flowers, seemed to him to add to its value; his father, standing over her, in the light tweed suit in which he had been travelling, seemed slightly out of place. It was a room in which, if you occupied it in the evening, you ought to be dressed for the evening. This impression, however, was momentary, for a stronger one immediately took its place. He had expected to see his father considerably disturbed, and his mother disturbed too, but by this time less so than his sharp eyes had made her out to be when she had said good-bye to his aunt and cousins. For she was a queller of disturbance, in herself and others, and might by this be expected to have made her mark upon his father, though not perhaps to the extent of quieting him altogether. But there were no signs of disturbance upon their faces at all, nor in their manner. His father was leaning 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 "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 "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 title 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 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 shifted 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 God 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 "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, "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 "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 lÉse majestÉ 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 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 pass off sooner than you expected. It would even be rather fun to be called "the Honourable" though that would no doubt pass 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. |