THE GRANGE
Sir William Eldridge, with a step wonderfully light and quick for a man
of his years and weight, came out of his brother's garden by a gate that
led to a woodland path, and so down a long slope under the thick shade
of trees, till the wood gave place to an open meadow bordered by a
placid-flowing stream--almost a river. The meadow sloped up to the high
woods which enclosed it in a long crescent, but on the other side of the
stream was open grass-land, with lines of willows here and there, dykes,
and little bits of wooden fences. Cattle were dotted all over it,
feeding peacefully in the hot afternoon sunshine, or recumbent on the
rich turf. In the distance were more woods, and where the river took a
turn and followed the contour of the hill in front, it was seen to be
flowing towards a lake of considerable size, to judge by the growth of
the trees which encircled and hid all but the nearer end of it.
The river path continued for a quarter of a mile or so, and then once
more became a woodland path, turning sharply to the left and rising more
steeply than it had dropped in the other wood. The exit there had been
by a stile, not as firm as it might have been under the weight of a big
man. But this entrance was by a closely fitting gate, and a new solid
fence ran away to right and left of it, gate and fence alike carrying
an elaborate wire defence against rabbits.
Sir William climbed the steep path, slowly, but not, apparently, because
of any necessity to save his breath. He looked to right and left of him
with interest at the plantings of shrubs and flowers and ferns that had
been made in clearings under the trees. On the outside this was a thick
wood, as the other had been; but once through the gate it was seen to be
a garden, full of interest and surprise. Little winding paths led off
from the main ascent, and Sir William followed one or two of these to
look at some treasure that he had established, and lingered over it as
if his chief interest in life were the planting and the growth of
flowers.
The steep path became a rocky staircase, which emerged from the wood
into an elaborate rock garden, so artfully constructed that it seemed
almost a natural outcrop from the leafy soil. On the further side the
trees closed in on it again, but they had been still further thinned out
here and did not conceal the artificially flat expanse of tennis and
croquet lawn upon which the path came somewhat too suddenly. Immediately
beyond the lawn was a house--a long rambling structure of many-gabled
red brick and tile, with rose-covered verandas, loggias, pergolas, and
all the paraphernalia of a rich man's country cottage. The original
house, of a date somewhere about the seventies, was ugly enough, and had
never pretended to be a cottage; and the additions, though in much
better architectural taste, were incongruous to it. But it might have
been supposed, even from an outside view, that everything about this
house would be of the highest possible convenience for a life of country
pleasure, and that if anything should occur to its occupants that would
improve its amenities in this respect it would promptly be supplied.
Four young people were playing lawn tennis, and four older people were
playing croquet, as Sir William came within sight of the lawn, and on
the broad pillared veranda which finished off the house at this end
other people were sitting, and servants were arranging tea-tables. House
and garden seemed to be fulfiling their purpose with these groups of
people laughing and talking and playing games in the summer afternoon,
and everything at hand to enhance their enjoyment. Sir William's face
lightened as he waved his greetings. He loved these lively gatherings of
the summer time. He had something to offer at Hayslope Grange that
people found it worth while to seek out and enjoy. There was more coming
and going between the Grange and Pershore Castle, the Earl of
Crowborough's seat five miles away, than between the Castle and Hayslope
Hall, although the two families had run neck and neck in this part of
the country for generations, and intimacy had established itself between
their two houses almost to the exclusion of others.
It was with Lord Crowborough that Sir William walked down to the meadow
which he wanted to bring into his garden, while the rest of the party
were still busy round the tea-tables. Lord Crowborough was a man of
sixty, heavy in bulk and somewhat heavy in demeanour, though with a
kindly expression of face and of speech that relieved him of the charge
of pomposity. He was disturbed, it appeared, at the coolness that had
arisen between him and his old friend and neighbour, Edmund Eldridge,
and wanted a word about it alone with Sir William. "Such old friends!"
was the burden of his regrets. And he enlarged on it: "Surely such old
friends ought to be able to speak freely to one another--even lose their
tempers; we both did that, but surely--"
Sir William was more silent under the complaints than would have seemed
to be natural to him. "It was the charge of swindling," he said rather
shortly.
"Oh, I know," said Lord Crowborough. "After all your kindness, one
doesn't want--"
"Never mind about that," Sir William interrupted him almost
peremptorily. There was a hint in his manner that spoke of another man
than the one who grew his flowers and welcomed his friends at Hayslope
Grange. Lord Crowborough, some years older, and of greater apparent
importance, seemed to bow to it. "I know it was never to be mentioned,"
he said, apologetically. "Very well. But really, you know, William--!
Well, the poor fellow's dead; but he was an out and out wrong 'un. I did
do my best to hush it all up. Edmund must know that. If it had come out
he'd have been kicked out of the regiment. I should think he must know
that, too, if he thinks straight about it at all."
"Perhaps he doesn't think quite straight about it, poor old chap! You
can hardly blame him. As far as I'm concerned I'm going to do all I can
to encourage him to think that Hugo was just sowing his wild oats, and
that he'd have settled down to be a credit to his name. I'm afraid it
isn't true, but surely it's a good thing if Edmund can think so."
"Oh, yes, I quite agree. Poor old fellow! I'll ask him to dine. I
remember him quite well as a little fellow--you too, of course. I
believe I was even a sort of hero of his when I was a big boy and he was
a little one."
Sir William laughed. "Of course you were," he said. "I think that's the
line to go on, you know. Old times, and all that. At least, I shouldn't
mention the affair again, if I were you. Treat him with--well,
affection. I know you feel that for him. The row will pass over. He's
sore all round. He's sore about Hugo. He's a little sore about my
stepping into the position of heir to him--though, goodness knows,
_I've_ no wish to change places with him in any way."
"No, you've made yourself a bigger man than he is."
"Well, that's as may be. Anyhow, I'm in a different line altogether.
He's nothing to be sore about there; and we stick together. I can help
him in lots of ways, if he'll let me."
"He's stiff about things; he's got stiffer as he's got older."
"Yes, that's true. He's the military type; and going back to his old job
during the war has brought it out in him, more than ever. Still, I know
well enough how to deal with men of that sort--had lots of practice at
it lately. And Edmund's my brother. I'm fond of him. In some ways I
look up to him; he's straight and honest as the day. And he's
affectionate, too, under his stiffness. You can't drive him, but you can
lead him, if you're careful in the way you do it. Hold out a hand to
him, Crowborough. He'll respond all right, and you'll soon git rid of
_that_ soreness."
They strolled back to the upper garden together, and Lord Crowborough
lost no time in goading his wife into asking Mrs. Eldridge to dine. It
was necessary to detach her from the side of Lady Eldridge and draw her
a little aside, and it was plain to everybody that something in the way
of pressure was being exercised. Lady Crowborough did not want to invite
the Eldridges. She was more incensed against Colonel Eldridge than her
husband, and had no memory of intimacies of early childhood to soften
her towards him. However, she obeyed her husband, as a good wife should.
She had not yet had any conversation with Mrs. Eldridge, and might even
have been supposed to have avoided her. But she went straight up to her
and said: "We haven't really seen anything of each other for months. I
wish you and your husband and Pamela would come over and dine to-morrow
evening. Lord and Lady Branchley aren't going until Tuesday, and I've
asked the Hobkirks and one or two other people."
Mrs. Eldridge looked up at her from the cushioned chair in which she was
sitting, so very much at her ease, showing the neatest feet and ankles
under her short-skirted summer frock. A wonderful woman for her age, it
was the custom to say of her. Her age might have been forty-five, but
she looked at least ten years younger than that, and on some occasions
younger still. There was not a thread of grey in her rippling, lustrous
brown hair; her cheeks were softly rounded, her skin was fresh. She wore
a large flowery hat, which accentuated the graceful slimness of her
form. She looked up at Lady Crowborough, looming profusely above her,
out of untroubled blue eyes. "Thanks so much," she said. "I'm not sure
what Edmund is doing to-morrow. Pamela and I could come. I could let you
know if _he_ can't."
Lady Crowborough grunted. She was a tall, upright woman with a
decorative façade, and seemed to have been formed by nature to play the
part of a great lady. But there was something lacking in her equipment.
She was easily flustered, and when confronted with any difficulty seemed
to lose even in physical bulk. "Crowborough particularly wanted me to
ask Colonel Eldridge," she said in a tone that did not carry out the
promise of the preliminary grunt.
"So I saw," said Mrs. Eldridge, with unbaffled sweetness. "It was very
good of him. I don't see in the least why he shouldn't come, but it's
never safe to make promises for him. If you don't want me and Pamela
without him--"
"Oh, of course I do, if he _can't_ come. Yes, of course I shall be
delighted. It's really ages since we saw anything of one another."
She suddenly became friendly and confidential, dropping into a seat next
to Mrs. Eldridge's, and demanding her ear for a low-spoken account of
the trouble she had been going through with a laundry maid who had
unwisely loved a Canadian soldier. Mrs. Eldridge was all sympathy, but
managed to impart some lightness into an affair that Lady Crowborough
had never thought to regard as anything but a gloomy tragedy. When she
took leave of her Lady Crowborough's manner was intimately affectionate.
She kissed her and called her "my dear," and said what a comfort it was
to pour out one's troubles to an old friend.
Afterwards, in conversation with her husband, she was a little doubtful
whether she had not gone rather too far. "Of course I have known her for
a good many years," she said. "And I've always liked her too. But the
fact is, I like her better when I'm with her than when I'm away from
her; I don't know why. She's got a sort of way with her."
"She's a very charming woman," said Lord Crowborough. "I've nothing
against her at all. I don't know why you shouldn't like her when you're
away from her. Anyhow, I'm glad you made a bit of a fuss with her. And
evidently she responded, from what you say. No doubt she wants this
trouble ended. So do we. Poor old Edmund! I've forgiven him for what he
said, though 'pon my word it was outrageous."
"Well, I said I never would forget it," said Lady Crowborough. "And
really, John, when I come to think of it, I'm not at all sure you're
right in making it so plain that we are anxious to see Colonel Eldridge
back on the old terms with us. Perhaps he'll even refuse my invitation,
and we shall have given him a handle. If he does come, of course I shall
be polite to him, but I've no intention of treating him in the same way
as I have Cynthia."
"Well, I don't suppose you'll kiss him; but I'm quite sure you won't
treat him stiffly, my dear. You may begin like that, but you're
incapable of keeping it up."
Lady Crowborough sighed. "I _am_ like that," she admitted. "I get
carried away."
When the party from Pershore Castle had driven off, Lady Eldridge took
her sister-in-law into the house, leaving the young people still at
their games, and Sir William, who had changed into gleaming white,
playing with them. Lady Eldridge was a handsome dark-eyed, dark-haired
woman, very well preserved for her years, which were about the same as
those of Mrs. Eldridge, but without the look of fragile youth that was
the note of that lady's appearance in her most favourable moments. She
had an agreeable, decisive manner of speech, and a straightforward,
honest look. The two of them had been friends at school, and it was at
Hayslope Hall that Lady Eldridge had first met her husband, at that time
a young barrister, not entirely briefless, or he would not have been in
a position to marry, but with nothing in his prospects to indicate the
opulence that he now so much enjoyed.
Lady Eldridge's special room was the most recent addition to the house,
pleasing in its proportions and decoration, and beautifully but quietly
furnished. Mrs. Eldridge sank into a deep cushioned chair, and said with
a plaintive sigh: "I wish I could afford a room like this. You've made
such a perfect success of it, Eleanor. I don't think it could possibly
be nicer."
"It's very sweet of you to say so, my dear. But I don't think you have
any cause to grumble, with all the beautiful old things you have in your
room. Of course these are mostly old, too, but then they have all been
bought. I might easily have gone wrong, you know. You don't think it
looks like just money, do you?"
"Oh, no! Oh, no!" Mrs. Eldridge held up hands of expostulation. Then she
dropped the subject. "The Crowboroughs want to bury the hatchet," she
said. "I'm glad enough, I do hate rows, especially between old friends.
But my poor old Edmund had a lot to put up with. I suppose Lord
Crowborough means well. It's what everybody says of him. It's what they
generally do say of thoroughly tiresome people, isn't it?--especially if
they've got titles. Of course he is tiresome, and so is she, but both of
them have their uses, so one puts up with it."
Lady Eldridge laughed. Her laugh was agreeable to listen to, and always
meant that she was amused. "What uses?" she asked.
"Well, there's the Castle to go to, for one thing."
"You used to bewail your lot in being expected to go so much to the
Castle."
"My dear, I've grown wiser, as well as a good deal poorer. Nobody can
deny that the Castle is desperately dull, entirely owing to the people
who inhabit it; for it's a fine enough house. But they do occasionally
have people to stay, though I don't know whether you've noticed that the
same people seldom come twice. It's a house to go to. To that I've
come--that I'm thankful for an invitation to dine at Pershore Castle.
I'm not sure that I didn't even angle for it. I certainly intimated that
if Edmund didn't think it good enough, the invitation was on no account
to be withdrawn from Pam and me. I made eyes at her, and she gave in at
once. She thinks I'm a very sweet woman, until she goes away from me,
and then she's not so sure about it. Am I a sweet woman, Eleanor, or a
bit of a cat? I'm never quite certain."
"You were a very sweet child," said Lady Eldridge, whose face had become
rather serious during this speech. "I always loved you and always shall.
And as long as you say everything you think to me...."
"Oh, my dear, I shall always do that. You're one of the few comforts
left to me in life. I can't grumble to Edmund, or the children. Besides,
you're so generous. I should never have had my little bit of London this
year but for you. How I should have missed it! And how I enjoyed it!
There is no doubt that one does enjoy pleasures that come to one
unexpectedly more than those that one takes as a matter of course."
"Well, Cynthia, you know that until you have a house of your own again
in London, ours is there for you to come to whenever you like. And for
the girls too. It doesn't want saying, does it, dear? We've always been
very close together. There was a time when I owed almost all my
pleasures in life to you, and I don't forget how generous _you_ were.
We've been fortunate, Bill and I, and at a time when so many people have
had to alter their way of living. It's nice to think that our good
fortune is of use not only to ourselves; that those we love can share it
with us. I suppose there aren't many people who are so close together
as you and Edmund and Bill and I. And our children too. I can't imagine
anything that would come between us."
"No," said Mrs. Eldridge. "I can't either. It's a great comfort to have
you here. I don't know what we should do without you."