THE RIFT
Dusk was beginning to fall as Colonel Eldridge took a last stroll round
the garden he loved, smoking the pipe to which he had taken when he had
decided that cigars were too expensive for him any longer. The rest of
the family were at the Grange, except the two children, who were
supposed to be in bed. Whether they actually were so or not their father
allowed himself to doubt, with a smile at the corners of his mouth. They
had been keeping him company until summoned by Miss Baldwin, and his
thoughts were still upon them. He had a great love for young children,
but some stiff reserved trait in his character prevented him from
showing it, even to his own, when there was anyone else by. What he
liked was to have them to himself, and listen to their prattle, which
was all music in his ears, though he affected to exercise some control
over it. He would rather stay at home with the children, he had said,
than dine at the Grange; but Mrs. Eldridge had understood that he would
not go there until the dispute between him and his brother was settled.
Sir William was coming down late that evening, dining on the train.
The children actually were in bed; for Miss Baldwin, always eager to get
to her evening's reading, was strict in this matter. She was sitting by
the window that faced on to the drive. She liked best the other
windows, with their view across the lawn, but thought that Colonel
Eldridge might look up and see her there, and feel that he was being
watched. She did take an occasional surreptitious look at him. He was
interesting her at this time, for she thought that he must soon come
into the story which she was weaving around Pamela, and though she knew
how he ought to act in order to advance the interest of the story, she
was not sure that he would fulfil her expectations. It was more
interesting so. One did not always want to look at pages ahead in an
exciting story.
Miss Baldwin was not so immersed in the printed story she was reading as
to be quite oblivious to the beauty of the scene before her, in the
fading light of the summer evening. She sometimes raised her eyes to it,
with a grateful sense of its increasing her enjoyment in the pleasant
hour that was all her own. The sky was an expanse of faint pulsing blue,
passing to a delicate rose above the horizon; the distant country was
losing its sharper details in the pale haze that enveloped it, but the
heavy mass of Pershore Castle could still be seen in the middle
distance, and kept alive in her mind that other story which she was
making for herself.
It was this state of awareness, no doubt, that suggested to her that the
motor-car which she descried on the drive, upon one of her upward looks,
was bringing one of Pamela's suitors to interview Pamela's father.
Horsham had driven himself over a few evenings before, after dinner,
with the offer of a joy-ride. She rose hastily and looked out of the
other window. Colonel Eldridge was still there, looking at his roses
now, in the garden nearest the drive. He would be seen by whoever was in
the car, and it was probable that the ensuing conversation would take
place under her eyes.
The car could be seen more plainly when she went back, and it was a
disappointment to recognize it as Sir William Eldridge's big touring
Rolls-Royce, instead of the more modest and slightly out-of-date Rénault
from Pershore Castle. It had purred up to the iron gate which divided
the gravelled square in front of the house from the park by the time she
had adjusted her mind to the disappointment, and while the chauffeur was
opening the gate she looked out again at Colonel Eldridge, who by this
time had heard it, and was moving towards where he could see who was
coming. She saw Sir William hitch himself out of the driving-seat, and
go across to his brother, with the light active step which she always
admired in him, and heard his hearty greeting. "Well, Edmund, old
fellow, I thought I'd come and have a word or two with you on my way
home, though I wasn't sure that you wouldn't be dining at the Grange.
Eleanor wrote that Cynthia and the girls were."
It seemed to Miss Baldwin that Colonel Eldridge's reply to the greeting
was lacking in the warmth which it invited. But his manner was never so
free and open as Sir William's, who had the pleasantest way with him,
even when he addressed himself to a retiring but appreciative governess.
The words he used had no importance to impress themselves upon her, but
Sir William's next speech, delivered in his clear voice, which carried
them up to her, were: "I'm glad I've found you alone, then. Look here,
old boy, let's get this tiresome business that we've been writing about
out of the way." Here they moved off together on to the lawn. "The last
thing in the world I want is to get up against you, and if I've done or
written anything that has offended you, I'm sorry for it."
There was a pause before Colonel Eldridge replied. His voice was in a
lower key, and by this time they were out of hearing. Miss Baldwin, who
had much delicacy of feeling, shut the two windows which looked on to
the lawn, softly, while their backs were turned to her; but she did not
forbid herself to conjecture what it was that had happened between them
or to taste her own surprise that anything should have happened to bring
forth that introductory speech. She did not connect it with the affair
in which she was so interested, for she had not given Sir William a part
in that story. Probably it was nothing of any consequence, and when they
had talked it over, walking up and down the lawn, Colonel Eldridge with
his pipe, Sir William with his cigar, they would go into the house, and
Sir William would take a little refreshment before driving himself home
to the Grange. The great car stood there below, its latent power ready
to be put in motion at a moment's notice, and the chauffeur stood by it,
as if he, at least, was not expecting to be kept there long.
The two men walked up and down together for half an hour, until it
became too dark to see their faces. Sometimes they stopped in their walk
and stood still for a time, and then they would go on again. Sometimes
Sir William made a gesture, but Colonel Eldridge hardly moved his hands,
except to take his pipe out of his mouth, and once to fill and light it
again. It was impossible for Miss Baldwin, who now watched them,
fascinated by a sense of drama, and with no pretence to herself of not
doing so, to avoid the conviction that their dispute was serious, and
not easy of settlement. She thought she could tell from Sir William's
movements that he was coming to feel more and more annoyance, and that
Colonel Eldridge was also angry, though he was exercising control over
himself.
But surely, it must end some time! It was so dark now that she could
only just see their forms in the shade of the trees, and Sir William's
cigar glowed with a red point of light; and still they went on. She
began to get alarmed lest Colonel Eldridge might look up at the windows
of the schoolroom and notice that they were unlit, and it would be
discovered that she had been watching them, sitting in the dark. But she
dared not draw the curtains now, for that would be to attract attention.
The end came suddenly, and in a way to make her draw her breath. They
had been stationary for some time, and their voices had raised
themselves slightly. She could hear them through the other window, which
remained open, but not what they were saying. Sir William walked quickly
across the lawn, and through the gate to where his car was standing. He
got into his seat, and the twin lights in front of the car blazed out
blindingly. The chauffeur ran to open the gate into the park, and it
seemed to her that he hardly had time to jump on to the car as it went
through it, swinging to behind them. She watched the radiance that moved
with it, and the little point of red light behind it, until it
disappeared over a dip, and then went again to the other window. Colonel
Eldridge was lighting his pipe once more. When he had done so, he
resumed his slow pacing of the lawn.
* * * * *
They were playing Bridge at the Grange, Lady Eldridge and Pamela against
Mrs. Eldridge and Norman. Judith, who did not care for Bridge, was deep
in a big chair, reading a book. Her passion for facts, lately fostered
by her friendship with Lord Horsham, had not driven her to choose this
book, which was "Three Men in a Boat." She read it closely, turning over
the pages at regular intervals, and never smiled once. But when she came
to reproducing scraps of its wisdom after she had digested it and made
it her own, she would make others laugh over it.
Her mother's eyes were often upon her in the intervals of the game, with
a sort of critical look, as if she were trying to see her in some new
light. She made a picture to fill the eye, in her white frock, with the
deep purple ribbons at her waist and in her dusky hair. The dark
covering of the chair framed her young form, and threw up the delicate
profile of her face, the long lashes veiling her eyes, the full red lips
a little apart. She was a very beautiful girl, but childhood seemed to
linger about her, emphasized by the way her hair was done, and the slim
crossed ankles beneath her skirt, shorter than she would presently come
to wear it. Was her mother trying to see her as already a woman? It
would not be surprising if others did, though it was doubtful if she
herself was yet ready to step out of the enchanted garden of her
girlhood.
A rubber was just finished, and Pamela and Norman were endeavouring to
come to some agreement about the score, when sounds were heard outside
which caused Lady Eldridge to rise from her chair. "That must be
William," she said. "He's very late. I'll just go and see if he wants
anything."
She went out, and did not return. Pamela and Norman finished their
calculations and leant back in their chairs. Mrs. Eldridge had already
moved to a more comfortable one, and was sitting there in silence,
looking out into the night, through the open French windows.
Presently it became noticeable that they were left alone. Even Judith
looked up from her book inquiringly, but turned again to Montmorency,
relieved, perhaps, at having a few more minutes' respite. Norman said:
"I wonder what they're doing?" Then he and Pamela began to play
Patience, and so they all continued, but with expectancy.
Ten minutes must have gone by before Lady Eldridge came in again. Her
sister-in-law threw a sharp glance at her, but she showed no traces of
anything having happened to disturb her, unless it was in an added
seriousness of expression. "William sends his love, and hopes you will
excuse his coming in," she said. "He has some letters to write before
he goes to bed."
Mrs. Eldridge got up. "It is time we were going," she said, and Lady
Eldridge did not ask her to stay longer, though it was not later than
half-past ten, and their parties did not usually break up so early.
Norman looked quickly from one to the other, and said: "All right; I'll
go and get the car. I shall be ready by the time you've got your bonnet
and spencer on, Aunt Cynthia."
Their light cloaks were in the hall. Pamela went out to get hers, and
Judith followed her, Mrs. Eldridge lingering behind. "William went to
see Edmund on his way home," Lady Eldridge said to her; "and they have
quarrelled. Oh, Cynthia, do put it right! I'll do all _I_ can. We
mustn't stay here now, or the girls will suspect something."
She had spoken with great earnestness, though hurriedly, and immediately
went into the hall, where she talked to Pamela and Judith until Norman
came round with the car. Mrs. Eldridge said nothing; but when she kissed
her sister-in-law good-night, she gave her a pressure of the hand, which
was returned as warmly.
Pamela sat in front with Norman. The car he was driving was half closed,
and the screen behind them allowed them to talk without being overheard
by Mrs. Eldridge and Judith. "Father has been with Uncle Edmund," he
said, "for nearly an hour. I'm afraid they've had a row."
Pamela had not imagined anything of the sort, and was disagreeably
affected. "Oh, they can't have," she said. "Why do you think so?"
"Well, it was odd, his not coming in. And why shouldn't mother have said
that he had been at the Hall? And why should she have stayed out with
him so long?"
Depression seized upon Pamela. She was young enough to feel rather
shocked at the idea of her elders quarrelling, which had never happened
at home within her knowledge. The Hall and the Grange had been in such
close contact for years past that her uncle and aunt shared something of
the feeling that she had for her parents, who had not yet come to be
criticized by their children. It was unpleasant to think of them as
moved by temper, or more than on the surface by irritation, at least
against one another. A rift would affect them all. A disagreeable
impression had already been made by Uncle Bill not coming in to see
them, for he had always given them such a welcome, and hurried to greet
them as if they were a part of his own family, whom he was glad to see
again after an absence.
"I suppose it's about that beastly garden," said Norman. "But mother
told me he had written to her about it, and said that he wasn't going on
with it now. If he went to see Uncle Edmund on his way home, it can only
have been to tell him so."
The implied criticism of her father moved Pamela. "It's no use our
imagining what it is," she said. "Let's wait until we know."
"Yes; we can't do anything. I suppose mother and Aunt Cynthia can,
though. _They_ don't want to quarrel."
"Dad and Uncle William won't either. I should think Uncle Bill is more
easily upset than Dad. If he is annoyed with him now, he will have got
over it by to-morrow."
There was a slight pause. "It's rather beastly, you know," Norman said.
"Already, in the few words we've had about it, I've been looking at it
from father's point of view and you from Uncle Edmund's. I suppose it's
natural; but what I think is that it can't be anything serious, and
there's no reason for us to take sides. I won't, anyhow. I dare say
you're right, and father is more quick-tempered than Uncle Edmund.
They're both jolly good sorts, and I don't think you'll often find two
brothers of their age who get on so well together as they do. I suppose
I'm rather like father myself. I've often said things you haven't liked,
but I've been sorry for them afterwards."
This touched her. It was one of the things that she loved about
Norman--his quick reactions at the call of affection. She had sometimes
been guilty of arousing his annoyance, so that she might see him come
round to her again. "I'm sure we needn't worry ourselves," she said,
with more agreement in her tone than she had used before. "Uncle Bill
not coming in to see us was so unusual that we are making more of it
than it can possibly mean. Supposing they were both angry with one
another just now, it can't possibly last. Even if they didn't calm down
at once themselves, mother and Auntie Eleanor wouldn't let them go on
with it."
Norman laughed at that. "And if they couldn't stop them, we should," he
said. "We're all like one family. Nothing could separate us for long."
When they came to the iron gate where the park ended, it was to find it
open. "Oh, there's Dad!" said Pamela, and called out a greeting to him
as they passed through. "I'm so glad, Norman. _He_ isn't keeping out of
your way. He must have got over it already."
She ran back to her father when the car stopped before the door, and put
her arm through his. "Have you been lonely without us, darling?" she
said. "I'll stay with you till Norman goes through again. I know he
isn't coming in."
It was in his usual rather expressionless voice that he asked her: "Had
a good evening? The children and I practised archery, with some old bows
and arrows they found upstairs. I think we must set that up properly."
It was a great relief to her to find him like this. When Norman came
back slowly through the gate, he thanked him for bringing them home, and
bid him good-night in his usual way. She could see that Norman was
relieved too. There had been if not an actual quarrel something very
like it, but this was the way in which such unfortunate occurrences
between elders should be treated, with nothing of it allowed to be seen
by those who looked up to them. She could not help comparing his
attitude with that of Uncle William, who had taken it in such different
fashion. Her father's dignity and self-control seemed to her to exhibit
itself plainly beside his unwillingness to show himself under his
annoyance. It was not difficult to judge which of the two was more
likely to have been in the right.
They shut the gate and went back to the house. Colonel Eldridge kissed
her good-night. "I'll go and have a word with mother," he said.
Yes, something had happened, and her father and mother would talk it
over together. And very soon it would all be put right. Uncle William
and Auntie Eleanor were also probably talking it over, and she would
certainly bring him to the right frame of mind. He was such a good
sport, though without the essential wisdom that showed up so plainly in
her father. He must have been in the wrong; but he was so generous and
so affectionate that it would not take him long to see it and to say so.
As for Norman, his uncle's greeting had removed his discomfort entirely.
The best of friends were apt to fall out occasionally, and if that had
happened between his father and his uncle, it was nothing to worry
about. He dismissed them from his mind as he sped down the drive, until
he had to slow up for that part of the road which was under repair, when
it occurred to him that this was probably what the row was about. The
workmen who had been engaged for work at the Grange had been snooped for
work at the Hall. Really, that _was_ rather thick! There was no doubt
that Uncle Edmund had an arbitrary way with him; but he was a thoroughly
good old sort, all the same. Norman had many kindnesses to remember from
him, from his early boyhood, when country pursuits had not come to him
so readily as they did now, and during his visits to the Hall it had
always been thoughtfully arranged that he should have all possible
opportunities for enjoying himself.
He did not accelerate to his former pace when he had passed over the
loose stones but leant back in his seat and crawled along, so as to give
himself up to the romance of the summer night, and all the moving
thoughts that his surrender to it would bring him. The young moon had
not long since risen, and bathed the undulating spaces of the park in a
soft, silvery sheen. The night coolness after the heat of the day
brought sweet, sharp scents to his nostrils. The still beauty of the
night seemed to be inviting him to something more than a solitary
appreciation of it. He wished he had suggested that they should go for a
longer drive. He and Pam both loved the beauty of the earth, and would
have expressed their love for this sweet aspect of it to one another,
heightening their own appreciations, as they did with every new
discovery they made about truth and beauty. Pam was a girl in a
thousand. His thoughts dwelt upon her, though he had thought of inviting
them to the contemplation of another figure. As an only child he was
lucky to have these girl cousins at the Hall, in place of sisters, and
especially Pam, whom he had loved since she was a tiny child, Pam, who
had grown up to take so many of her ideas and opinions from him, as a
girl should, with one much older, who had seen more of the world than
she had. Pam was grown up now; sometimes she expressed ideas of her own,
and was inclined to assert them, as she had not been wont to do. That
made her more interesting, for he would not have had her a mere echo of
himself; and he knew that, for all her little charming airs of
independence, she still looked up to him and admired him, which was
right too, for although there were many better fellows than himself, he
had taught her to accept the right pattern. Pam would be throwing
herself away if she chose from another one. He was glad that the danger
from Horsham's incipient suit seemed to be over. It was odd that he
should be coming to prefer Judith, who, in spite of her beauty, had none
of the bright charm and cleverness of dear Pam; but Horsham certainly
wasn't good enough for her, though he would do very well for Judith. As
for that outsider, Fred Comfrey...!
Norman accelerated here, and did not slow down again until he had
reached the elaborate iron gates which gave access to the Grange. He had
had the idea of a long moonlight drive by himself, with his thoughts to
keep him company, but changed his mind now, and went in.
As he entered the brightly lit hall, the remembrance of the occurrences
of half an hour before returned to him. He hadn't seen his father yet,
who would probably be in his room, for he never went to bed early. He
would go in and find out all about it.