CHURCH AND AFTER
There was nothing remarkable about Hayslope Church, unless it was its
tower, which was large enough to make it a landmark for miles around,
and its bells, whose full and mellow peal ringing out across the summer
woods and fields, or in winter time over a landscape muffled white in
snow, brought that sense of peaceful festivity which belongs especially
to rural England, so many centuries old. The tower was of perpendicular
architecture, the main body of the church, conceived with less largeness
of aim, of an earlier date. But most of its character had been finally
lost in the restoration to which it had been subjected in the latter
half of the nineteenth century. Colonel Eldridge's grandfather had
supplied the money for this work, as a thank-offering for the safe
return of his son, who had been in the thick of the Indian Mutiny. The
taste, which had seemed to him of the best, had been supplied by one or
other of the ecclesiological malefactors of the time, whose baneful
activities, carried on by their immediate successors, have left scarcely
an old church in all England in which it is possible to feel the quiet
and grateful influences of tradition. There were seats of pitch pine,
varnished, a chancel paved with encaustic tiles, thinly lacquered metal
work of a mean design, and a little triple reredos of oak underneath
the distressing colours of the East window.
And yet it was possible sometimes to catch the sense of the long past,
which the restorers had done their mischievous best to destroy. Lady
Eldridge, somewhat troubled in her mind, and anxious to lay hold of
whatever composing influence the morning service could bring her, looked
here and there during the progress of the sermon, and it came home to
her--that soothing impression of age and use and wont, which is the
rightful heritage of old churches, and especially of old country
churches.
The seats belonging to the Hall and the Grange were in what had once
been the South Chapel, and were slightly raised above the rest. The side
view of the altar, the choir-boys and handful of choirmen, backed by the
garishly patterned organ pipes, held nothing for the eye to rest on with
pleasure. But the high pulpit, of Jacobean oak, from which Mr. Comfrey
was engaged in directing his flock, was consecrated by some centuries of
use to that weekly exercise. Behind him, in a line from where she was
sitting, was a window of little diamond panes of clear glass, through
which the trees could be seen, and the birds flying to and fro. Perhaps
it was this which first brought the sense of peace to her mind; for that
outlook into the happy world of birds and trees had often freed her
thoughts from the slight oppression caused by Mr. Comfrey's dialectics,
which were concerned with nothing that seemed to bear upon the life that
was all about him. But this morning it set her thinking of the past, as
it hung about the familiar church, in which once or twice before she
had caught at the skirts of time, and held them for a little.
Underneath the tower, from the wooden ceiling behind the high-pointed
arch, the stout bell-ropes hung down, thickened with worsted where the
ringers held them. Behind them were the ponderous oak doors, from a
chink between which streamed a thin plate of golden light, that fell
upon the sombre tables of the law, which the renovators had banished
from over the altar; and above the arch was a large square panel painted
with the Royal Coat of Arms. Somehow, the sight of these things, which
had nothing to do with the long-ago history of the church, was grateful
to her. Her imagination, and her knowledge, were equal to reviving some
vision of the church as it had been before the Reformation, when the
same kind of country-folk as now resorted to it fixed their stolid gaze
upon the priest before the altar, and knew him in his outside comings
and goings as the villagers of to-day knew their Mr. Comfrey. But it was
a life nearer to her own, and yet established for some generations past,
of which the voice of the old church whispered to her this morning. By
turning her head to the right she could see a large mural monument of
white marble, filling the space of a blocked-up window, which
commemorated the virtues of an early eighteenth century Eldridge, and
those, less enlarged upon but possibly as exemplary, of his wife. Those
were the times of which she liked to think, and the years that came
after them, when her husband's forbears lived in the Hall, much as it
was now, and came here every Sunday, to take part in the same prayers
and psalms, and to listen, or otherwise, to sermons from the same
pulpit. Some of them had lived through troublous times, but none,
surely, in such a time of unrest as this, with the great catastrophe
only just lifted, and its ultimate results not yet in any power to
foresee. She herself had been less affected by it than many. She had
lost no near relations; she had not to rearrange her life to meet
reduced opportunities. But the weight of it hung over her all the same.
It was a comfort to feel that here was something that went on, that came
from a past not too remote, and was joined to her life by special ties.
In the two seats in front of her sat the family from the Hall. They had
not come unscathed out of the catastrophe. Yet the same sense of
something stable and supporting in this Sunday habit of churchgoing hung
about them. More even than herself they belonged here. Almost more than
the house they inhabited, this place seemed to stand for continuity and
settlement in the lives of such as they. For life in the house must
alter from time to time, and might alter much; but what went on in the
church altered little.
Such a life as theirs seemed to her preferable to her own life, even
with the restrictions that diminished means had brought them. Such
restrictions would not have troubled her for herself, as long as the
quiet round of daily duty and pleasure remained. She would have enjoyed
it more than the life she led, chiefly in London. The days she spent at
the Grange were the best days, but the Grange too seemed to echo the
busy London life, so bound up in all its aspects with the spending of
money. There was some restful feeling about it, surrounded as it was by
the woods and fields, but it was not to compare with the restfulness of
the Hall, which reflected only the life of the country, as it had been
lived there for generations. It seemed to her that if she had been in
Cynthia's place she would have been glad that the London house had had
to be given up, for all her interests then would have been concentrated
upon the house which was really the home. Cynthia did love her country
home, she knew, and had accepted the change in her lot with admirable
absence of complaint. But they were not made alike; Cynthia would have
been completely happy if their positions in life had been changed.
Colonel Eldridge sat upright in his seat, his closely-cropped grey head
held erect, the brown skin of his neck and shaven cheek contrasting with
the clean polished white of his stiff collar, his flat back and square
shoulders clothed in dark creaseless serge. The rigid neatness of his
appearance and attire went with his straight confined mind, in which
there was little room for the leniencies that gave her the sense of
something large and responsive in her husband. Her gaze rested on him,
and she tried to imagine something of what he was thinking, as he sat so
unmoved, his eyes bent down, and his ears, she was sure, not responsive
to Mr. Comfrey's well-intentioned hair-splittings.
It was probably this effort to put herself in his place that brought to
her a rush of pity for him, so strong that moisture came to her eyes,
and she looked away to the ribbons and daisies in Isabelle's hat,
immediately in front of her.
She had been hard to him in her thoughts, although she had worked upon
her husband's more easily moved sensibilities to put aside the offence
he had caused, and to treat him with generosity. She had even felt great
impatience with Cynthia, though she hoped she had refrained from showing
it. It had been difficult, the day before, to treat her with the
customary affection, when they had laid aside their discussion, which
was leading to no understanding, and spent an hour together out of
doors. She believed Cynthia to be as anxious as she was that this
unseemly dispute in which they had found themselves involved should end;
but Cynthia had allowed herself to say many things that she would not
have allowed to be said to her without taking great offence. She had
been right to let them go by, but she was not so sure that she had not
kept a spark of resentment over them alive in her mind. If so, she must
put it out. Cynthia was her friend of many years, and did love her; of
that she was assured. Friends ought to be able to speak plainly to one
another, and if they did not agree upon a given subject, they must fall
back upon the deeper agreement to which their friendship had brought
them, tested by time and welded by affection.
In this dispute there seemed to be nothing that could be done by
discussing the rights and wrongs of it. Discussion seemed only to add
new causes of complaint, which were already so numerous as to be
swamping the original one. But the deeper tie was there, for all of
them. She made up her mind definitely that she, for her part, would lean
all her weight upon it, and not allow herself to be turned aside by any
accidents of the moment. And she knew that William would be ready to act
the large generosity that was his, even to the extent of accepting
blame, where blame was not rightly due to him.
What was it that really lay at the bottom of the feeling that seemed to
be growing up to separate them? Not the question of the garden, which
had been complicated by all sorts of little mistakes, or it would have
been amicably settled long ago. Cynthia had been right when she had said
that that was only a symptom, though she had applied it only to one
side. Edmund complained of William overshadowing him at Hayslope. That
was what it came to in the last resort. Well, William was a man of mark,
and Edmund was not. And it was impossible for William to put the same
value upon what was of most importance to Edmund, which was also a cause
of complaint. Hayslope wasn't and couldn't be always in the forefront of
his mind, with all the varied and thronging interests that were his.
Edmund ought to be able to see that; but if he couldn't, or wouldn't,
then it only remained for William to be more careful than ever not to
upset his dignity, which should not be very difficult for him, with the
affection that he had for Edmund. As for the dictatorial methods that
Edmund was apt to adopt towards his younger brother, perhaps it had been
a mistake to bring them up at all. It would be small-minded to keep them
standing as a subject for resentment, and they meant nothing that
mattered. William had put up with them comfortably for the greater part
of his life, and she was sure he would go on putting up with them for
the sake of keeping the peace.
Without a doubt, when the balance was struck, there had been more
offence against them than against Edmund. Very well, then; it was for
them to make light of it. They could well afford to do so. They had so
much more than Edmund now; they would even stand in Edmund's place some
day, if they survived him, and would have that in addition which he had
hoped to have handed on to his son. Poor Edmund; he had been very much
tried. It would not cost much to give way to him in this affair, and
carefully to avoid all occasions of offence in the future.
The service came to an end, and the congregation streamed out into the
bright sunlight. It was composed of the households from the Hall, the
Grange, and the Vicarage, a few farmers and their families, villagers
and labouring people. It had not filled half the church, for the country
habit of churchgoing is lessening, along with the not so admirable habit
of Sabbatarianism. At Hayslope, perhaps more people went to church than
would be usual in a country village, because the gentry went regularly,
and, although Colonel Eldridge would not have put pressure on any of his
tenantry to follow his example, it was generally supposed that he liked
to see as full a congregation as possible. It was his custom to linger
in the churchyard after the service, to exchange salutations, and for a
few words with one and another. Lady Eldridge, whose eyes and ears were
open towards him, marked his pleasant courteous air with those to whom
he spoke. It was plain that they liked to be singled out by him. He was
an excellent Squire, of a kind that is fast disappearing. There was
nobody there that morning of whom he did not know something more than
their occupations about this estate. He could probably have put a name
to all the children, and they bobbed, and touched their caps to him, not
as if they had merely been taught to do so. It was not, after all, no
small a thing to hold the respect and esteem of some few hundreds of
people towards all of whom, directly or indirectly, he stood in a
special position not invariably easy to maintain. Money could not have
bought just that response; there were many rich landowners, generous
according to their lights, who would not have been liked and respected
in the way this one was, who might now be called poor.
There was a gate leading from the churchyard to the Vicarage garden, but
Fred Comfrey joined himself on to the Eldridges, who crossed the road
and entered the park through the lodge gates, just opposite. He seemed
to Norman, who watched him with an unfavouring eye, to do this with a
hangdog air, as if he knew he was taking a liberty. At any rate, he
should not walk with Pamela, if that was his object. Norman fastened
upon her himself, and said: "Let's get away. I want to talk to you about
something."
"Wait half a minute," she said, her head turned towards the group behind
her; and then she moved towards Fred, and said: "I've found that book at
last. If you'll come up now I'll give it to you."
Fred visibly brightened, before Norman's offended eyes, and seized upon
her invitation as inclusive of her company during the walk home, for he
put himself instantly by her side. She threw a half-glance at Norman,
such as to absolve her in his mind from having intended this; but she
shouldn't have given the bounder the opportunity of joining her in that
way. Of course he would stick like a leech, if he got the smallest
encouragement.
Pamela said to Norman, trying to bring him into a conversation of three:
"Do you remember that book, 'Jack o' the Mill' that Hugo used to be so
fond of when he was a boy? I remember him showing me the pictures in it,
when I was quite tiny. Fred reminded me of it, and I've found it for
him."
"No," said Norman, who remembered the book perfectly well. But "no" was
the shortest word he could find. He wanted to hear Fred talk, and give
himself away.
Fred seemed to be quite ready to talk, and he did not follow Pamela's
lead in trying to bring Norman into the conversation. He talked about
Hugo, in a way that aroused Norman's contemptuous disgust. Really, one
would have thought that the two of them together had been models of
sweet and innocent boyhood, and that the one who was dead lived
enshrined in the heart of the other as a tender memory that would never
fade. Poor little Pam liked it, of course, and there was no objection to
having Hugo turned into a plaster saint for her benefit. But the fellow
was obviously out to recommend himself through this beatification, and
to share the halo. He was trying now to bring Pamela herself into the
picture of the blameless past, representing the three of them as having
taken part in the sacred idyll. This afforded Norman food for sardonic
amusement, remembering as he did how little Pamela had been considered
by the hulking brute that Fred had been then, or even by Hugo, when he
had been in Fred's company. At the third or fourth "Do you remember?" he
could stand it no longer, and turned back to join the children and Miss
Baldwin, who were immediately behind them. This was intended as a
protest, but neither Pamela nor Fred, in the interest of their
conversation, seemed to notice it.
Fred did not stay to luncheon, although Norman heard his aunt invite
him. He went off with his book, and Norman had his opportunity of
talking to Pamela. It had been in his mind to begin upon the subject of
Fred; but it was of no use just to repeat his warning of yesterday, and
anything he might say about the conversation from which he had just
retired in disgust would reflect upon Hugo. Hugo was becoming
increasingly a subject not to be mentioned between him and Pamela.
Besides, he _had_ something he wanted to say to her.
She waited for him to speak first, as they turned towards the lawn, and
possibly expected a rebuke, as before. "I say, Pam," he said. "This is a
rotten business about the new garden."
"What new garden?" she asked in surprise, for her parents were
old-fashioned in respect of not discussing all and everything before
their children, and no echo of what had been disturbing them had reached
her.
He was surprised in his turn. "What, don't you know?" he said. "Father
had begun to make a garden in that field at the bottom of the wood, and
Uncle Edmund stopped it."
Then he gave her the story, as it had been told him by Coombe that
morning, when he had gone down to Barton's Close, and found him in his
Sunday clothes, musing over the havoc he had wrought. The story had lost
nothing in the way of incrimination of Colonel Eldridge, and complete
exculpation of himself.
"I don't believe it," said Pam shortly. "If anything has happened, it
wasn't like that."
"Well, something _has_ happened, because the digging was stopped a week
ago, and the men who were doing it are working at the drive here."
"Yes, Dad did say, now I remember, that he had taken on some men, who
had been working for Uncle Bill. What does Auntie Eleanor say about it?"
"I haven't said anything to her. It seems to me, anyhow, as if our
respective, and respected, parents had fallen out, and I want to know
what line _we_ are going to take about it."
"The line _I_ should take about it, if I had to take any, would be that
if Dad and Uncle Bill disagreed about something, Dad would be in the
right."
"I say, Pam! Are you annoyed about anything?"
"No."
"Well, you're rather terse, aren't you? It's a pity, because you're
looking particularly seraphic this morning. I noticed it first in
church."
"It was very sweet of you; and I believe it to be so. Everything seemed
to go on right this morning. There _are_ days like that. You don't
think that Dad and Uncle Bill have really quarrelled, do you? Of course
I know the garden _was_ to be made, and it seems odd that it should have
been left off like that."
"Yes, it is odd. I don't like to think of their having a row. It would
be very unlike them. Still, according to Coombe--"
"_What_, according to Coombe? If he said what you say he did about Dad,
you ought to have shut him up."
"I did, as a matter of fact. But there must be _something_ in it."
"I think we'd better wait and see what there is. If there's anything at
all, it will blow over. I suppose you can't expect them always to agree
about everything, and Uncle Bill is so much away, and so busy, that he
might not always think enough of Dad's point of view, who is always
here."
"It might be something of that sort. Anyhow, _we_ needn't take sides."
"Oh, _I_ should, if there was really a quarrel. I adore Uncle Bill, but
if it was a question between him and Dad I should take Dad's side
through thick and thin. And I should expect you to take Uncle Bill's. So
I expect we should quarrel worse than they would."
He laughed lightly. "Not much fear of our quarrelling," he said. "I say,
Pam, have you seen Sunny Jim lately? I'm told that he is in residence at
Pershore Castle, the seat of his father, the Earl of Crowborough, and a
dull dog at that."
"Yes, he has been over here once or twice. I should think he might
quite possibly come over this afternoon. Do you want to see him?"
"I don't know that I particularly want to; but I shall, no doubt. How is
his affair progressing?"
"What affair?"
"His suit for the hand of Miss Eldridge, of Hayslope Hall. Is his ardour
still undiminished, and has he had any encouragement yet?"
Pamela laughed. "I'll tell you something, if you'll promise to keep it
to yourself," she said.
Norman promised.
"Well, I don't think he knows it yet, but he is beginning to fall in
love with Judith. She doesn't know it either, of course; but it's the
greatest fun in the world to watch them."
"Tell me about it. I shouldn't mind that at all. As a matter of fact, I
think Jim ought to be kept in the family, dull as he is. As long as it
isn't you!"
"Judith doesn't find him dull. And you make a great deal too much of his
dulness. He isn't interested in the things that we like; but he does
know a lot, and I should think he was very sound in what he does know."
"Let's hope he is. Oh, he's not a bad fellow, I like old Jim; and people
liked him at school. It's only that one gets in the way of labelling a
fellow. Judith's a funny bird; you never quite know how to take her.
She's extraordinarily pretty, though, and ought to be prettier still
when she's quite fledged. I don't wonder that Jim is beginning to see
it."
"Oh, but I don't think he is yet. As the danger is passing, I don't mind
admitting now that I _was_ the attraction, and perhaps he still thinks
I am. He-- Well, he behaves like that. But it's Judith who really
interests him--I suppose because he interests her. They talk over all
sorts of things together, and he tells her everything about himself, and
what he is going to do. At _present_ he doesn't in the least mind a
third person assisting in their confabulations; and of course _she_
doesn't, except that--you know--she hates giving herself away. I keep
quiet, and listen, putting in a word every now and then, so that I
shan't appear to be just taking notes of them. It's awfully funny; and
rather touching too, sometimes. I'm longing for the time to come when I
shall be found _de trop_. When that happens, something else will happen
very soon afterwards."
"Rather exciting, isn't it? Have the parents tumbled to it yet, do you
think?"
"Not to Judith. Oh, look! There he is! I said he would be over to-day.
Now, if you keep your mouth shut and your ears open you'll see that I'm
right."
Lord Horsham advanced across the lawn towards them, a smile of
deprecation on his face. His apologies and explanations over having
invited himself to lunch, delivered with looks directed straight at
Pamela, seemed to furnish a contradiction to her late pronouncement. But
when he had made them, and addressed a few words to Norman, he drew from
under his arm a large Blue Book, and asked: "Where's Judith? I said I
would bring this over to show her. It's about Rural Housing. You know we
were talking about it the other day."
"Yes," said Pam. "I know she wants to hear more about it. I think you'll
find her in the library, Jim. I won't come in just now, because Norman
and I have something to talk about."
"Oh, I'm sorry I disturbed you. Yes, I'll go and find her. You're _sure_
Mrs. Eldridge won't mind my inviting myself like this?"
He was once more reassured, and went off. "You see!" said Pam, in a low
voice. "I took a bright part in that conversation, but it's with Judy he
wants to go on with it."
"Oh, it's a cinch!" said Norman, with delight. "Dear old silly old
solemn old Jim, and Judith with her golden hair a hanging down her back!
What a lark, Pam! But I say, old girl, I don't quite like the idea of
you getting left in this way. If everything else had failed I did think
you could fall back upon the Viscountess Horsham. Are you sure you don't
mind? You're not hiding rampant jealousy under a mask of indifference,
are you? It is sometimes done, I know."
"No, I'm not. It's an incubus lifted from me."
"Well, it _would_ have been rather rotten. You're made for better
things. What I have thought of doing is to bring relays of bright young
fellows down to stay, and let you run your eye over them. What do you
think of that? I'm rather tired of running about, and I thought I'd stay
here for a bit, and do some work, and play with you."
"Oh, I'm so glad, Norman. It is a little dull here sometimes without
you. As for the bright young fellows, I shall be pleased to inspect
them. I do enjoy a little male society occasionally."