"Sir William Eldridge, who was recently raised to the peerage, has taken the title 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 title, but under the circumstances 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 attitude 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, sparsely-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 scraping 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, spacious 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.

"Colonel Eldridge has never been consulted on the matter," said Fred, in answer to his mother's speech. "To my mind he has every right to object to the way in which he has been treated."

"It is difficult to get at the rights of the quarrel," said Mrs. Comfrey. "But we all know that Lord Eldridge, as I suppose we can call him now, isn't a quarrelsome man, and I'm sure nobody could call Lady Eldridge a quarrelsome woman."

Mr. Comfrey chipped in before Fred could speak. "I think it's a pity," he said, "to talk about a quarrel at all. There has been an unfortunate misunderstanding which I'm very sure will soon be cleared up."

"There has been a quarrel," Mrs. Comfrey pronounced, "and a pretty serious one. The two brothers are not on speaking terms. It's no good shutting your eyes to facts. I suppose we shall keep out of it as long as we can, but I think we shall have to take sides in it sooner or later, and I must say I'm inclined to take Lord Eldridge's side."

"Oh, my dear," expostulated the Vicar. "Don't talk about taking sides. I'm sure it isn't necessary. We've always been good friends with both families. Do let us remain so, I beg of you."

"I agree with mother," said Fred, at which she brightened visibly, but drooped somewhat when he added: "There's enough to go on, and I'm on the side of the family at the Hall, all the way and all the time."

"Well, of course," said Mrs. Comfrey, "you have had the Hall almost as your second home all your life, and I suppose it's natural that you should think more of it than of the Grange, which is new since you went away. But there's no doubt that the Grange is a more important house now than the Hall, which isn't what it used to be and won't be again until Lord Eldridge succeeds his brother there."

Mr. Comfrey made a deprecatory gesture, and Fred said, rather roughly: "What do I care about all that?"

"What I mean," Mrs. Comfrey hastened to explain herself, "is that with your way to make in business, Lord Eldridge may be very useful to you, and it would be a pity to go against him. Of course, if Hugo hadn't died...! What I mean is that Colonel Eldridge isn't the chief man in Hayslope any longer, and...."

She tailed off ineffectively, but picked herself up to add: "Norman has taken the place that used to be Hugo's. You used to be great friends with Norman."

"I hate Norman," said Fred, "and always did. I dare say Sir William may be of use to me when I get started. I haven't lost sight of that. But I'm not going to pay too high a price for his help. The people at the Hall are my friends, and I'm not going back on them."

He was not offended by his mother's crudities, having nurtured himself on crudities and practised them, all his life. Nor was he going to make her partaker of his secret hopes, or even, if he could help it, give her cause for suspecting his desires. "Sir William was quite decent to me, when I saw him," he said, "and Lady Eldridge has asked me—once—to the Grange since I've been home. But look at the welcome they've given me at the Hall! I don't care much for female society; it's never been in my line. But as long as I'm living quietly here, I like to have the Hall to go to; and I believe Colonel Eldridge likes to see me there. I find plenty to talk to him about. No, I'm not going back on them."

Mrs. Comfrey expressed her appreciation of the nobility of this attitude. It had occurred to her once or twice that Fred might be attracted by Pamela, but the idea had taken no firm hold of her mind. She knew that he was not a lady's man, as he would have expressed it, and besides, the difference in social status between the Eldridges and themselves had always been accepted by her, although she liked to make use of such phrases as, for instance, that the Hall had always been a second house to Fred. The Eldridges, living now in a far more restricted way than before, had come to have less value in her eyes; but they were still a good way above the level upon which Fred would be likely to look when thoughts of matrimony engaged him. His reference now to talks with Colonel Eldridge confirmed her view that he went to the Hall for the reasons that he said he did, and not for the sake of Pamela in particular. But she brought in Pamela's name, just to see how he would take it.

"Pamela being so thick with Norman," she said, "I dare say they will do more to keep the peace than even Lady Eldridge and Mrs. Eldridge."

"I shouldn't count too much on that if I were you," said Fred. "Pamela takes her father's side, and she's quite right too. I don't pretend to know what she thinks about it all, because I haven't asked her, but it's my opinion that she's getting a bit sick of Norman's swank. He's always been a sort of tin god to those girls, and now they're older they're getting tired of taking all their opinions from him. At least that's how it seems to me with Pam."

Mr. Comfrey arose apologetically from the table. "I think I'll leave you, if you don't mind," he said, and as they did not mind, he left them.

Fred's speech had been unconcerned enough until it had come to that last word. He had not been used to calling Pamela "Pam," and there was just a something in his voice to lead Mrs. Comfrey a little farther in her investigations. "Pamela has grown into a very pretty girl," she said. "I wonder if there is anything in what they say about her and Lord Horsham."

"It's not at all unlikely," said Fred, in such a tone as to remove the last traces of suspicion from her, though for his own comfort he allowed himself to add: "I don't think she has any idea of it yet though."

"It would be a good match for her," said Mrs. Comfrey; which ended the conversation.

Half an hour later, Fred made his way to the Hall. It had been hard work for him to conduct himself thus unconcernedly with his parents, for something exciting was before him, on which all his mind had been working ever since he had last seen Pamela the evening before.

It was not true that he had not talked over the current affair with her. He had borne himself in such a way, with a mixture of reticence and sympathy, that she had first of all mentioned openly to him the fact of the dispute, which she had not intended to do, and had then discussed it with him in all its bearings. What he had told his mother of his being on the side of the Hall was entirely true, for he had shown himself such an ardent partisan that Pamela preferred him as a receptacle for her confidences to anybody else. So far, Colonel and Mrs. Eldridge had held to their custom of keeping their children out of such discussions. Their hold on it was already weakening, for it was becoming impossible to ignore the dispute altogether. Pamela and her mother had talked about it, but not yet without many reticences on Mrs. Eldridge's side. Pamela and Judith had agreed that it was a nuisance. The children were supposed to know nothing. Miss Baldwin didn't count.

There remained Norman. Norman had behaved well about it, Pamela thought. At the very outset he had said to her that it was impossible for him and her to get at the rights of it, and that he didn't particularly want to. He looked up to his uncle almost as much as to his own father, and hated to think of either of them being discovered in the wrong. They, too, had better leave it out of account, and go on being pals as before. Then Norman had gone away on a visit, and had written to Pam, a long letter from a country house in which Lady Margaret Joliffe was also staying. He had written a good deal about her, but the most important of his statements was that there was another fellow there whose attritions she seemed to prefer to his. "My proud spirit won't brook rivalry," was his comment upon the situation. "I must be all or nothing. By the time I come home I shall be able to tell you whether I'm all or nothing." He had come home two days before, and had told her with a grin that his fate still hung in the balance; and she divined that that affair had passed its zenith, and would soon fade away like the rest.

Oh, if only this unhappy cleavage could have been mended, how pleased she would have been to have Norman back at Hayslope for the full month he now intended to stay there! His letter had been very grateful to her. No mention had been made of the trouble at home. He had written with his old-time affection, as if she were the one person in the world to whom he could go with everything, and to whom he wanted to go with everything. At that distance away, what he omitted from his letters may have seemed of small importance, but when he returned it could not be so. It was bound to come up between them sooner or later, and when it did come up they could no longer be absolutely frank and outspoken together. Each of them must be very careful not to say anything that could arouse opposition in the other.

For a fortnight had passed since the brothers had met and quarrelled, and nothing had been mended yet, though attempts had been made.

Sir William had written to Colonel Eldridge the next day, telling him first of all of the honour that was to be conferred on him, which he said he had intended to do the evening before. He regretted exceedingly what had passed between them, and if he had said anything in the heat of the moment that had offended his brother he regretted that too, and apologized for it. He had given careful consideration to his brother's demand that he should dismiss his head gardener, and, as he understood the demand, without giving the man the chance of defending himself against the accusation brought against him, and had decided not to act in a way that he thought would be arbitrary and unjust. But he had examined Coombe upon what he was reported to have said and had no doubt that it had been much exaggerated. Something Coombe had admitted to have said that was not respectful to Colonel Eldridge, after he had come down to where he was working and expressed his annoyance at what was being done. Sir William hoped very much that his brother would take into consideration the fact, of which he seemed to have lost sight, that the slight put upon him, Sir William, in this expression of annoyance at what he was doing was considerable. He had not allowed Coombe to repeat to him what had actually been said to him, but had given him a pretty stiff rebuke for the disrespect he had admitted to. Might not this be allowed now to close the account? It was a most disagreeable thing for them to be at loggerheads in this way, after all the years of close intimacy that had existed between them and their families. For his part he was ready to forget all about it, the moment his brother gave him the chance.

To which Colonel Eldridge had replied shortly that he congratulated his brother upon the honour he was about to receive, and that he must abide by the stipulation he had made before they could return to their old terms with one another.

Then Lady Eldridge had gone to the Hall, and had a long conversation with him and his sister-in-law. Cynthia had seemed to want him to give way, but he had refused to do so, firmly though not with the slightest show of temper. He had, in fact, treated Lady Eldridge with the most courteous consideration, but he had put her in somewhat of a difficulty. "I don't think William sees the situation very clearly," he had said. "I haven't so many outside matters to occupy my thoughts as he has, and I do see it clearly. Have either of you ever expressed to one another this idea that I am jealous of William's success in life, which has been so much greater than mine?"

She had cast down her eyes and there had been an awkward pause, which he had cut short by saying: "That feeling has never existed in my mind, and therefore I can't have shown it. That's what's between us, Eleanor—that unjust and damaging accusation. William sees nothing more than disrespect in what his servant said to me, but I see that accusation defended in him, and as long as he's here, allowed to spread unchecked. William can only put that right by dismissing Coombe. It's no good writing any more or talking any more until that's done."

So Coombe remained the obstacle to at least a formal reconciliation. For he did remain, and it may be supposed that his tongue was not idle in the village, where, however, he was not liked. Colonel Eldridge was; far more liked than his brother, in spite of Sir William's open-handed ways. He was stiff, but he was kind. He lived among his people, and they knew that he was interested in all of them, though he was never hail-fellow-well-met with anybody. There was growing up a strong body of support for him, in a controversy into which the village folk had a far clearer insight than might have been supposed. If he had escaped the jealousy that had been laid to his charge, they had not, on his account. It was hard lines that the Squire at the Hall should have to give up this and that that he'd always been accustomed to, and Sir William at the Grange should be rolling in money. It didn't seem right somehow. And the Colonel had been out and fought in the war, and lost his only son too, while Sir William had stopped at home and made money. No, it didn't seem right, did it? And now they'd gone and made him lord and all; and when the Colonel died he would step into the Hall, and Mrs. Eldridge and the young ladies would be turned out. And so he'd have everything, which didn't hardly seem fair, whichever way you looked at it.

That was the way the majority of opinion went, and when the affair at Barton's Close came to give point to it, crystallized into still sharper criticism. No wonder the Colonel had objected to that—money chucked away in cutting up good pasture, and more labour wanted for a garden that wouldn't be no use to anybody, while the garden at the Hall was run with two men short now, and the road through the park was getting into a dreadful state. It was generally supposed, and approved of, that Colonel Eldridge had peremptorily stopped the garden-making at Barton's Close. Quite right too! Time he stopped something! He hadn't thought of the men who'd lose their jobs by it; but see how he'd put that right! He hadn't wanted to spend the money on the road, but he wasn't one to see a man out of a job if he'd got one to give him. They'd work for him too, and at less wages than they could get working under a man like Coombe. Coombe ought to have been sent off for what he'd let out about the Colonel. It wasn't the way to talk, for a man who'd been brought into the place when there were other men there who could have done his job just as well as he could. Sir William would have sacked him too, if he'd done what he ought. They did say that he'd quarrelled with the Colonel for stopping him cutting up Barton's Close. Sir William was getting a bit too big for his boots. That was about the size of it, and it wouldn't do him any harm to be told so.

Thus the commonalty of Hayslope, not knowing everything that had passed, and splitting no hairs, but ready to endorse in their Squire a more unreasoned attitude than he had actually yet taken. It was not suspected, either at the Hall or the Grange how keen was the interest in the dispute, or even that it was known that the brothers were keeping apart; for there was still coming and going between the two houses as before, and a great carefulness that no significant word should be dropped before the servants. But Pamela, going about in the village, had sensed the feeling of expectation. Coombe, she felt sure, was still making mischief. If only Uncle William would send him away, there might be a chance of their all settling down again.

Treading very delicately, she put it to Norman. Couldn't they do something to find out what was going on? Uncle William wouldn't believe that Coombe had made mischief. But if it was proved to him that he had!

Norman took refuge in their compact, but in defence of it made it plain that he thought her father's demand unreasonable. This warned her that she mustn't look to him for any help now. He was on his father's side, as she was on hers. She couldn't blame him, but it was good-bye, for the present, to the freedom and confidence that had always existed between them. She felt sad, when he had left her, but a little hurt with him too, because he had failed her.

Fred wouldn't fail her. He showed himself eager to help her in any way that she might suggest. What they were going to do this morning was to see old Jackson together, and get from him exactly what had happened at first, and what was happening now.