It was a wild night of wind and rain. Mrs. Eldridge and Pamela sat in the morning-room, waiting. Every now and then Mrs. Eldridge would go upstairs, and creep quietly into her husband's room, to see if he was still asleep. Then she would come down again, and they would sit still, talking very little, while the big clock in the corner ticked on, and the gusts of rain blew against the window-panes.

Colonel Eldridge had come in the evening before, shivering, and had gone to bed. In the morning his temperature was high, but he said he felt better, and refused to have a doctor sent for. Mrs. Eldridge, however, took that matter into her own hands, and sent for one, who came towards the end of the morning. He took a grave view of the case, and feared pneumonia. He would come again in the evening, and bring a nurse with him. It might be late before he came. There was a lot of illness about, and nurses were difficult to get.

There was no telephone at the Hall, but there was one at the Grange. Pamela and Judith had spent most of the afternoon there. At last the doctor had telephoned that a nurse was coming down from London by the last train. He would meet her and bring her himself.

The train arrived at a quarter past eleven, and it was half an hour's motor-run to the Hall. On such a night as this it might take longer.

The time crept on. Soon after half-past eleven Pamela sprang up from her chair. "I'm sure I heard a motor," she said, and ran to the window.

"It's too early yet," Mrs. Eldridge said; but Pamela had drawn back the curtains. The strong headlights of a big car were already swinging round to the hall door.

They went out, and Mrs. Eldridge opened the door, as the bell rang. It was Lord Eldridge who was standing there, already unfastening his heavy fur coat.

He slipped it off as he came in. He was in his evening clothes. "How is he?" he asked, without any other greeting. "Has the nurse come yet?"

Many emotions crossed Mrs. Eldridge's mind, but the chief of them, in spite of her disappointment, and the resentment she had nurtured against him, was relief at his appearance; for it seemed to her that if anything ought to be done, he could do it.

When he heard of the nurse expected, he considered, watch in hand, whether it would be worth while to motor back in his fast car towards the station, but decided against it. In a few minutes the doctor and the nurse would be coming. He went into the morning-room with Pamela, while Mrs. Eldridge went upstairs again.

"I only got your message just before nine o'clock," he said. "They didn't know where to find me."

She stood before him, looking up into his face. "I haven't told mother I tried to get you," she said, "in case you couldn't come. I knew you would if you could, Uncle Bill."'

"Oh, my dear, of course. Poor dear fellow! But he'll get over it. We'll pull him round between us."

There was such an air of energy and resource about him that it seemed as if he could do more than a nurse or a doctor. He was wiping his face, which was red, and wet with the rain. He told her hurriedly that he had come up from Suffolk only that afternoon, and had gone to his club for the night. He had dined out, and her message had passed to and fro until it had found him, when he had come straight away. "If I'd only gone home, as I might have done," he said, "I should have been here hours ago, and might have brought a nurse down with me."

He put his arm round her as she bent her head to hide her tears. "There, there, my dear!" he said consolingly. "Don't worry. It will be all right now."

She dried her eyes. "I don't want mother to see me upset," she said; "but I've been so frightened. Father has hardly ever been ill, until lately. He has been so worried and unhappy, I suppose he couldn't throw it off. I'm sure it will be the best thing for him that you have come at once, like this."

A shade passed over his face. "I'd have come before if I'd thought he would want me," he said. "It's been an unhappy business, but it's all over now. It shall be all over. I've taken offence too readily. I won't take offence at anything now."

"I'm sure there'll be nothing to take offence at," she said, a little stiffly. "When you see him, you'll only be sorry for him."

Mrs. Eldridge came in at that moment. "He's awake," she said. "He had heard the car and I had to tell him it was you who had come, William. He wants to see you. I don't know—"

"If he wants it!" he said, preparing to go. "I shan't upset him, Cynthia. And the doctor ought to be here directly."

She took him upstairs. "He's very ill," she said, in a colourless voice. "I know he is, though he says he isn't. I'm sure he mustn't be excited. But I had to tell him you were here, and he would see you at once."

"I shan't excite him," he said shortly.

They went into the room. Colonel Eldridge was lying in his bed in a corner of the room, with a shaded reading-lamp by his side. He hardly looked ill, and he greeted his brother in his ordinary voice. "Well, Bill, I'm glad you've come, though it's a beastly night to get you out. You didn't walk through the wood, did you?"

His brother understood at once that he was light-headed. "No, old boy," he said, taking his hand in his. "I came in the car. I thought I must look in and see how you were. You'll have the doctor here in a minute. I'll keep you company till he comes."

He sat down by the bed, while Mrs. Eldridge stood, not knowing what to do. "You can leave me and Bill for a bit," her husband said. "I want to talk to him about that four acre field at Barton's Close. I don't think it's much good for pasture where it is. I thought he might like to take it into his garden. Just see if you can find the big estate map in my room."

She went out slowly. "That's a good idea, Edmund," William said in a quiet voice. "We can talk it over when you're better. I shouldn't think about it now, if I were you. Let me make you a bit more comfortable."

He rearranged the bedclothes, which his brother had thrown off, talking in a soothing voice as he did so. Colonel Eldridge was in a high fever. He thought it was his father who was with him, and said: "William didn't want to get into the punt. It was me who made him."

What strange things come to the surface of the mind when it is no longer under control! Years ago, when they were children, they had been upset from a shooting punt, into which they had been forbidden to go. It was one of countless such pranks that had been forgotten, or at least never brought to memory. It came to William now that his brother had always taken blame on himself for any of them that had turned out unfortunately, and touched him acutely. It was his elder brother who was lying there, until lately the person most looked up to in all his world. His heart was constricted with a poignant emotion, and his voice trembled as he said words that would calm the rapid flow of his speech, now becoming more incoherent. Oh, if only they could pull him through this, he would never allow himself again to treat him as anything but the elder brother, whom he could uphold, but must not gainsay. What would it matter if he was sometimes unreasonable? There was no one else in the world to whom it was so worth while to give in; no one who carried with him that sense of rightful authority, even of protection. He had been borne down by his troubles. Were any of them his brother's making?

The doctor and the nurse came in. William was sent out of the room at once.

By the next day they seemed to have settled down to the struggle for a life, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Lord Eldridge, after a few hours' sleep, had motored back to London, to find and bring down another nurse. He had sent for his wife to come to the Grange, and set in hand all arrangements for their staying there, and for the carrying on of such of his work as could not be left undone. He was back at the Hall before mid-day, looking as if he had been doing nothing out of the usual run, but with a deep gravity underlying his capable confidence-bearing demeanour. His contact with Mrs. Eldridge was almost impersonal. She relied on him, and talked with him about what was to be done without any sense of awkwardness. Her resentments were not solved; they were just put aside. But for the girls the estrangement was over and done with. They clung to his authority and resource, and to his warm supporting affection, which he showed towards them so abundantly.

Soon after he had returned, Mrs. Eldridge came to him and said that her husband wanted to see him. He was quite himself now. The nurse had said that he had better have his way, but Lord Eldridge must be careful not to excite him, and must not stop in the room long.

The weight of past trouble was upon Mrs. Eldridge now. She hesitated and faltered, and it was plain that she disliked being the bearer of this message.

"My dear Cynthia," he said, "if he wants to see me, it is because he wants our dispute to be put an end to, once for all. I want that too, and you can trust me to think of nothing but to set his mind at rest. Don't think of me as an enemy any longer."

She made no reply, but led him up to the room.

His brother's eyes were upon him, as he went in, with an expression that was sorrowful, but also welcoming. "Well, William," he said, in a low but audible voice, "it does me good to see you here. I seem to be worse than I thought I was, but we can have a little chat. It was good of you to come, after all that has happened."

"My dear old fellow, don't let's talk about what has happened. I've been very much to blame; but you have always had a lot to put up with in my ways of doing things. Yet we've been friends all our lives, and nothing is ever going to part us again."

He had taken his hand, and given it a gentle pressure. His brother held it in his for an appreciable time, and then grasped it with a meaning that was plain enough without further words. William sat down by his side, with a sensation of choking in his throat. Their quarrel was at an end.

"There's a lot to settle," Colonel Eldridge said. "I may not be fit to talk to you again. If I don't get over this, you'll look after Cynthia and the children. They'll have enough, but I've always directed all our affairs; she'll be lost at first."

William forced himself with a great effort to speak naturally and evenly. "You'll get over it, my dear old fellow," he said confidently; "but I agree that it's best to be prepared. We've been like one family, until lately, and that's what we are again now. You were quite right in saying that I had spoilt the Grange for them, or I'd have looked after them there. They shall stay here, dear Edmund. The old place will be more like it has always been with them in it, and as I like it to be, than with us living in it. I'm committed to another sort of life now, and it's too late to go back. But we shall be down here often, in the old way. They'll have us to depend upon, in whatever they can't do for themselves."

"You haven't bought that other place?"

"No. I did think of it; but I shall give it up after this season, anyhow. If all goes well, as I'm sure it will, if you set your mind to getting better, we shall come back here, to the Grange, and you must let me join you in a closer partnership. You'll be here to look after the place in a way I couldn't do; you'll go on running it in your own way, which couldn't be bettered, but under all the new conditions there's room for capital and business methods in estate management, which I'm in a position to bring in. We can do better with Hayslope if we work together; we can get as much out of it as ever."

Colonel Eldridge sighed. "It is what ought to have been done," he said. "And you have always been ready to do it, I know. You'll do better for the place than I could now, and for my family. I've thought of them always; but I've not done the best for them that could have been done. I think I did before, but I've been too slow to see that it wasn't in my power any longer. I shall leave it all to you, William, and go with a quiet mind, if I have to go. Thank God, you can do what I couldn't and that I've come round to trusting to you for it before it's too late. Perhaps all the girls won't be here at home much longer. I should have liked to know that Pamela would be happily married; but that can't be hurried. There are other things to settle, William. We mustn't lose time. Poor Hugo ... there's something I want to tell you ... you know something of it. Oh, and Crowborough told me what you'd done, when it first came out. I haven't thanked you for that. There's such a lot to talk about."

He was getting restless. William put a quietening hand upon him. "I know everything," he said. "Don't let's waste time over that. I know about Mrs. Barrett, and the money. Young Comfrey told me of the new demand. He ought not to have done it, but I'm very glad he did. I can take all that on me now, Edmund. You won't want to hold out any longer, will you? I know you won't. I'm very sorry, dear old fellow, for the resentment I've been keeping up; and ashamed of it. If you leave it all to me, and put it out of your mind once for all, you'll give me more comfort and pleasure than you could in any other way."

He seemed to be controlling his mind to a new idea. "Yes," he said, at last, and more quietly. "It's one of the many things that you'll do for me. You've been generous all through, and I've been stiff and ungrateful."

The nurse and Mrs. Eldridge came in. William took his brother's hand in his, and they looked into one another's faces. It was a momentary look, but there was nothing to interrupt the message it carried, of understanding, and affection, and trust.

William went downstairs, and found Pamela there. He was much moved, and could not hide his emotion from her. She loved him the better for it. "You don't think he's worse, do you, Uncle Bill?" she asked him. "He will get better, won't he?"

"One always thinks of strong people you've never seen ill worse than they are," he said, to explain his emotion. "Yes, I think he'll get better now. I've had very little time with him, but I've been able to relieve his mind of some things that have lain heavy on it. I think there's nothing he need worry about now; and I shall be able to talk to him again. It's been a sad business, Pam—our quarrel. I've been very much to blame, but it's all over now. I don't want to think too much about it, as he won't, any longer. The way has been made clear for us to help each other in what we want done. You won't be leaving Hayslope, my dear. That's settled, at any rate."

"I shall be very glad of that, if he gets better," she said quietly. "Uncle Bill, I wish you'd send for Lord Crowborough."

"My dear, you mustn't get thinking that he won't recover. I'm not going to let myself think it. I believe, somehow, that if we fight against that idea in our minds, it will help him to fight through himself."

"Oh, yes, I know. But if he doesn't! I've made Nurse Mary tell me, if he doesn't get better, it can't last very long. I think he would like to see Lord Crowborough; he has depended on him a good deal lately, and he has always cheered him up when he has been over. Do send for him, will you, Uncle Bill?"

He was a little surprised at her earnestness, but promised to do what she wished. "I'll telephone over directly I get to the Grange," he said.

"He isn't at the Castle," she said. "They went up to London a few days ago. You'll telephone to him there, won't you? I know he will come down, if he knows how ill father is. Tell him that I asked you to."

He promised to do that, and left her. She stood at the window, and saw him go across the lawn and under the bare branches of the trees down into the wood. She stood there for a long time, after he had disappeared, and when she turned back to the room her face was sad but composed.

The illness ran its quick course, which seemed to drag interminably to those who could do little but watch it. There were slight fluctuations, but never much hope of recovery, at least to those who had had experience of such an illness. To his children, who saw him sometimes for a few minutes when he was at his best, it seemed impossible that he should be nearing his end. He would smile at them, and say a few words. They were always words that they would remember afterwards—as if he had thought out what he could say in so short a time, that would not sadden them with the idea that he expected to die, and yet would not waste the precious time he had still to be with them. He sent for Timbs and old Jackson, and one or two more of the servants and the villagers. To all of these he had something definite to say which was not a farewell; but they would count it so afterwards.

Lord Crowborough had left London for Bath. He wired to say he was coming on the fourth day, by the train which arrived in the middle of the afternoon. It was doubtful whether he would be able to see Colonel Eldridge that day; but it had been arranged that he was to stay at the Grange.

Lord Eldridge's car had been sent to the station. It might be back at any time now. Pamela was alone in the morning-room. It had come to be recognized that it was she who had pressed for him to come, and pressed again when it had seemed impossible to get him. It was she who was to receive him; she had asked that she should.

She sat motionless in front of the fire, except that once or twice she turned her head to listen. The big car made very little noise; she was on the alert to catch the first sounds of it.

At last it came—the crunching of the wet gravel, heard as soon as the purring of the engine. She sprang up, as if she would go out to meet the arrival, but stood still, as if, after all, she was unable to stir. Her hand went to her heart, and there was a look almost of fright on her face, as she stood in front of the fire, looking towards the door.

It opened, but she could not move. Then her face changed altogether, with a breaking up of its expression of strain, and she gave a little cry. For it was not Lord Crowborough, but Norman who came quickly into the room.