LETTERS
The Eldridges arrived home in time for luncheon. They lived in a large
house in Belgravia, old enough to have some character of space and
dignity, but old enough also to have been exceedingly inconvenient if
much money had not been spent in modernizing it. It had been their
London home for about fifteen years, and was a trifle behind the latest
fashion in furnishing and decoration. The latest of such fashions, it
should be recognized, rests upon the recognition of the value of older
fashions, which in its fulness dates from a very few years back. There
was plenty of good old furniture in the Eldridges' house, some of it now
of considerable value, but it would have welded itself into quite a
different whole if the "doing up" and furnishing of the house had been
taken in hand some years later than it was. The time was approaching
when Sir William would acquire another, possibly still larger house, and
begin all over again. He was already vaguely dissatisfied with this one;
but it had qualities which pleased him too, and he had never quite lost
the sense of satisfaction with which he had moved into it from a smaller
house and spent money upon making it the place in which they should live
the larger life that was then opening out before them. His own room,
with its outlook upon a little square of walled-in garden, was a very
refuge, and he and his wife sometimes sat there in the few evenings when
they were at home together alone, in a grateful seclusion of green
morocco and bright Turkey carpet, with books and prints on the
Morris-decked walls, and only the huge and hideous American desk, of the
palest possible growth of oak, to indicate the sterner purposes to which
the room was primarily dedicated.
Sir William went into this room on their arrival, and turned over the
pile of letters and papers that were there awaiting him. He opened a few
of them, and glanced over their contents, and then unlocked his desk,
but only to put certain of the papers away. He was too excited to take
up his immediate affairs in the short time that remained before
luncheon, though on ordinary occasions he would have done so, for he
hated wasting even a few minutes of his time.
He had thought over what had happened, and what might happen during the
journey to London. But, coming thus into his familiar room, he seemed to
see it all with a new significance. He had the feeling that he had come
back to this room a different man--a bigger man than the one who had
used it before; and the feeling rather surprised him. For, after all, to
spend a few days in a large country house was no new experience to him,
he had been in close contact with Lord Chippenham before for many months
upon end, and the idea of a seat in Parliament was not entirely a
novelty. What had happened, he decided, as he walked up and down the
room, or stood looking out upon the green and bright colour of the
little paved square of garden, was that he had attained to recognition,
when he had thought that the official chapter of his life was closed. It
set a higher value on it, even to himself. He was not the same man as
had for so long occupied this room, and thought of his public work as
efficiently done for the good of his country, but as already a thing of
the past. The chapter was not closed, but might lead to other chapters,
beyond the present scope of his imagination. It had put him among the
men of his time who counted for something. Lord Chippenham, whatever his
stirring of expectation might have meant, undoubtedly thought of him as
counting for something already. The last year, during which he had
attended to his affairs, and spent as much of his time as he could spare
from them at Hayslope, had only been a lull. His foot was already on the
ladder of distinction, and he might mount on it higher than he had ever
thought of mounting.
He was summoned to luncheon, and took some of his as yet unopened
letters in with him. He did not come to the one from his brother until
he and his wife were alone together.
"Well, I never--!"
Lady Eldridge looked up, to see his face dark and angry. "Read that," he
said, throwing the letter across to her; "the first part, I mean," and
waited till she had done so, though phrases of indignation kept rising
to his lips, which he stifled by occupying them with food and drink, too
hastily consumed.
He did not wait for her remarks, when she looked up again, with
consternation on her face. "You heard what I said about Edmund only
just this morning," he broke out. "I'm always thinking what I can do for
him, and that's the way he treats me in return. Really, it's
incredible!"
"I must say I'm surprised," she said unwillingly as it seemed, and
turned to the letter again.
"It's beyond everything," he went on angrily. "'This treatment must
stop'--what is it that he says? Haven't I always deferred to him at
Hayslope, because he's my elder brother, and lately I've been sorry for
him? What on earth can he mean by writing to me like that? _What_
treatment, I should like to know! I've spent thousands of pounds on his
property, and should never have got a penny of it back if it hadn't been
for Hugo's death. His position on his own ground! What have I ever done
to belittle it?"
She looked up again. "I thought you did consult him about the garden,"
she said.
"Of course I did. I've never left anything of that sort undone, though
under the circumstances in which we stand to one another most men
wouldn't have expected it. But I know what he is where his rights are
concerned."
"But didn't he give his consent?"
Sir William hesitated. "After that letter, I suppose one has to say that
he didn't. But you can see how it was. There was absolutely no reason
for his withholding it. I practically told him I was going to do it, and
he put forward some objections, which I met. He didn't press them, and I
went away thinking it was all understood. If you like to say so, perhaps
I didn't ask his permission at all. It would have seemed absurd to do
so."
"I am very sorry that he has taken it like this. Of course his letter is
unreasonable, but I think it is only meant to assert his rights. He
doesn't mean to stop you going on."
"Oh, I'm not going on in the face of that. I shall wire to Coombe to
stop the work. Besides, he does mean that, doesn't he? Let me read it
again."
She handed over the letter. Her face was disturbed. "I don't think
Cynthia can have seen it before it was sent," she said.
"There's nothing about going on. I'm told that I've overstepped my
rights, and 'this sort of treatment must now stop.' And fancy writing
this! 'I think there's a touch of vulgarity in it.' Vulgarity! It's a
most offensive letter. One would say that he was laying himself open to
quarrel with me. I'm not going to quarrel with him; but I shall be
precious careful not to give him a handle against me again."
"I don't think he wants to quarrel. It's his way. He wouldn't think of
the effect his words might have. I don't think he even wants to stop you
making the garden."
"Oh, I'm not going on with it now. For one thing, this would spoil all
the pleasure of it. After all, I've got other things to think of besides
garden-making at the Grange. It has just been a recreation, but now I
dare say I shall be too much occupied to be able to pay so much
attention to it. Really, you know, it's ridiculous for Edmund to give
himself those airs of superiority over me. I've given way too much to
them in the past. I wouldn't say so to anybody but you, but what _is_
Edmund's position compared to mine? I'm the last man in the world to
give myself airs because of what I've done in the world; and with him
especially I've made nothing of it, because--well, because I've hated
the idea of making a contrast between him and myself. But what I can't
help feeling is that _he_ might consider all that too. I think if I were
the elder brother I should have shown a good deal more pleasure than
_he_ has ever done at whatever success I have had."
"Perhaps he's a little bit jealous. I've thought that sometimes. I don't
think Cynthia is, and perhaps such a feeling might be expected more from
her than from him."
"Of course he's jealous. That's at the root of it all. It's a very
unworthy feeling from one brother to another."
"I don't think he would recognize it as jealousy, and if he detected
such a feeling in himself I think he would be ashamed of it. He _is_
fond of you, there's no doubt about it, and he relies on you, perhaps
more than he knows. He _can't_ mean to quarrel, and if you don't treat
this letter as an offence it will all blow over."
"My dear girl, what would you have me to do? I'm not going to sit down
under it. My position at Hayslope would be impossible if I were to give
in to this sort of thing."
"No, dear, I don't think so. You know Edmund so well. You know that he
is fond of you. You have always liked being near one another, and you've
had little jars before, which have made no difference."
"Nothing like this. I call a letter like that positively insulting."
"It can't have been meant to be that. If you take it in the right way
he'll be sorry for having written it. If you take it as an insult--"
"What _is_ the right way of taking it then?"
She thought for a moment, and said with slightly heightened colour: "You
are bigger than Edmund. If he has made a mistake, you can afford not to
make the same mistake."
His face changed at that. "You always put me right," he said, with a
smile at her. "Yes, of course. Poor old fellow! He's had a lot to try
him. He doesn't get out into the world as I do, and of course he broods
over his troubles. Any little thing upsets him."
She smiled at him in her turn. "That's how I'm sure it is," she said.
"If he does object to this garden plan, it isn't much to give it up, is
it? Just a little extra amusement, as you said."
He laughed, rather ruefully. "I don't like giving up something that I've
set in hand," he said. "But if it will placate my respected brother--"
"Perhaps he won't want you to, if you return him a soft answer."
"I'll do that all right. If a thing's worth doing at all it's worth
doing well. Besides, you've blown away my annoyance, and, after all,
it's more in accordance with my nature to be generous than to be
resentful--don't you think?"
That was just what she did think. He was quick-tempered, but she had had
abundant experience of the quick revulsion of feeling that came to him
when his generosity was appealed to, and loved him for it. Her own
impulsions drove her upon a more level course. He had no idea of the
anger that his brother's letter had aroused in her mind, that had held
her even while she was pleading for him, and that held her still, when
by her prompting he had chased his away from him. Her accusation of
jealousy had been the only sign of it in her speech, and she had
entirely agreed with him when he had stigmatized that as a most unworthy
feeling under the circumstances that had called it forth. It had cost
her an effort to insist upon the ties that held the brothers together.
To her mind, Colonel Eldridge, with his narrow outlook, and his claims
of superiority, was undeserving of the affection which her husband
constantly showed towards him, and showed little enough of it in return,
though it was true that he relied upon his brother, and made use of him.
Still, when she was alone and thought it all over, she was glad that she
had spoken as she had, putting aside her own feelings, and playing, as
she always could, upon his, which were so large and generous. There was
Cynthia to be thought of, who was putting a brave face upon the
restrictions that had so marred her life, and who expressed only to her,
because she was her best-loved friend, what they meant to her. And there
were the dear children, whom she loved, and the more because she had no
daughter of her own. No, it would never have done to allow a breach to
open, as might well have happened, if Edmund's crabbed obstinacy had
been answered in the way it deserved. They were too much bound up
together at Hayslope not to make all allowances for one another, even
where no allowance was rightly due. Besides, the path of tolerance was
always the right path, though it might not be easy to take it.
To Sir William, that path had its allurements. His nature was generous
and he recognized it. It was with a glow of self-gratulation that he sat
down after luncheon to answer his brother's letter; and he enjoyed the
art with which he brought to bear upon it, so that his meaning should be
made plain, and also his large-minded tolerance.
Beginning "My dear Edmund," he first of all wrote fully about the affair
in which he was interesting himself on behalf of his brother. A good
deal depended upon the way in which he dealt with it, and he showed that
his interests were deeply engaged. In fact, something had already been
done, for the Government Department concerned was that of which Mr.
Vincent, one of his fellow guests at Wellsbury, was the head.
"We have just returned from our visit to Wellsbury, and fortunately
Henry Vincent was staying there. I had a talk with him about the
principle of the thing, and I think I may say that I put the right idea
into his head, and that he will act on it generally. I told him that
there was a personal application of it which I wouldn't trouble him
with, and he told me the right man to go to, and said that I could say
he had done so. I shall follow it up to-morrow, and I hope everything
will be satisfactorily arranged. It is fortunate that I was able to talk
it over with Vincent. I had never happened to meet him before, and it
didn't do me any harm to come first into contact with him at Wellsbury."
That was that. Edmund would be pleased at the probability of this
tiresome affair being settled, and perhaps impressed with the ease with
which such settlements were arranged, when it was possible to approach
the well-guarded head of a Department on equal terms.
And now for the other matter! which should be dealt with shortly but
decisively, and cleared out of the way altogether as a source of
complaint.
He considered it for a time. He was sincere in his desire to act
generously in face of an unreasonable attack. But the offence was really
considerable, pointed as it was by that disagreeable charge of
vulgarity, and it was of no use to pretend it wasn't there. He would
give way; but with a gesture. The gesture would be that it was not worth
while bothering about so small an affair, which could best be expressed
in a few lines. Edmund was not to suppose that he had given him
annoyance; the annoyance was past--or nearly so. He clung to the idea of
terseness, but lest it should be misunderstood, the atmosphere of
friendliness might perhaps best be indicated by something more intimate
coming before it.
So he added a paragraph or two about the visit to Wellsbury, the
magnificence of the house, and the illustriousness of the party gathered
there. There was something also about Lord Chippenham in his private
relations. "I had worked with him for nearly four years," he wrote,
"without really knowing him intimately. He is extraordinary in the way
he keeps his public and private lives apart, and one feels it an honour,
even after all this time, to have been accepted on terms of personal
friendship with him."
The kernel of the letter immediately followed.
"I am sorry that I inadvertently went against your wishes in the matter
of Barton's Close. I didn't understand you actually withheld your
consent to the garden-making, or of course I should not have set it in
hand. I have wired to Coombe to stop the work."
That was terse enough. The only thing was that it might settle it too
completely. He didn't want to give up his garden if it could be avoided.
Edmund ought not to be discouraged from asking that the work should go
on, though he would not write anything to show that that was in his
mind. He went on:
"I was rather keen on this addition to the garden, and think it would
have improved the property, if anything. But where Hayslope is
concerned, my chief desire is to work in with your ideas, even where
they differ from mine."
Would Edmund recognize this note of large generosity? It was to be hoped
so--and give way.
He read his brother's letter again, and asked himself whether it was
possible to ignore the rudeness of it. After careful consideration he
added another paragraph.
"I think, my dear Edmund, that your general charge against me of
overriding your wishes and belittling your position at Hayslope can
hardly be seriously made. Such an attitude would be very far from my
intentions, and I cannot charge my memory with any single instance of my
having done so. If I have given you any cause for such an accusation, as
I suppose I must have done, or you would not have brought it against me,
it can only have been because I have been so occupied with affairs
outside Hayslope that I have perhaps treated Hayslope itself as of less
importance than it naturally is to you. If so, I apologize. Hayslope
still holds the warmest corner in my heart of any place in England, or
out of it for that matter. But the world is a large place, and when one
is taking a part, however modest, in dealing with the difficulties that
it is now involved in, the affairs of one small corner of it do not bulk
so large as if one could give all one's attention to them."
He ended resolutely. The intended terseness had already been somewhat
whittled away, and it was not his idea to read Edmund a lecture, or he
might have read him a much longer one. This would suffice. In the future
he might be more closely devoted to the task of putting the world
straight again than he was now, and Hayslope would be of still less
importance to him. If Edmund had his dignity as Squire of Hayslope so
much at heart, it must strike even him that the dignity of a probable
Cabinet Minister--so far had Sir William's aspiring thoughts led him in
the last few hours--was considerably above it. On reading his letter, he
thought that it might have been better to close with the sentence
ending, "my having done so," and omit that beginning, "If I have given
you any cause." But that would have involved rewriting four whole
pages, and the _coda_ was really only a slight fault in the technique of
his protest, and not in its intention. So he left the letter as it was,
and presently posted it himself.
Lady Eldridge also addressed a letter to Hayslope that afternoon, to her
sister-in-law. She usually wrote to her once in the week, and knew that
she would want to hear all about the visit to Wellsbury. But she did not
begin with that.
"Dearest Cynthia:--I am sorry that Edmund is annoyed about the
garden. I am sure _you_ know that neither William nor I would want
to do anything at the Grange that he objected to, but I can't help
thinking that his putting a veto on it is rather unreasonable.
William has telegraphed for the work to be stopped, but I do hope
that Edmund doesn't really mean that the garden is not to be made.
It would be such a disappointment, for you know what fun we have
had in working it all out. William does love Hayslope, and all
that he has done at the Grange. Perhaps in the future he may have
more work to do, and Hayslope will be more of a recreation to him
than ever. So try to get it put right if you can. William thinks
so much of Edmund, and I'm sure Edmund does of William too. He
can't really want to put such a slight on him as this would be. I
think William has shown, by wiring at once for the work to be
stopped, that he doesn't want to go against Edmund. I'm not sure,
from his letter, that Edmund will even have expected that. If not,
do get him to withdraw. I can write this plainly to you, though
perhaps William couldn't to Edmund, after his letter. Men are more
unreasonable than we are, though they prefer to call it logical.
But we can't helping loving them all the same--those that we _do_
love."
Then she went on to tell all about Wellsbury, and gave an amusing
account of their visit, full of light descriptive detail of the men and
women they had met there, with some descriptions from the inside of a
house that was famous throughout the world. But she wrote nothing of
what had been said to her about her husband, and gave no hint of
anything that might be coming to him.