CRISIS
Mrs. Eldridge was waiting for her husband in his room, where he usually
sat for an hour or so after she had gone to bed. The lamps were lit and
the curtains drawn. She was standing by the fireplace, and still wore
her cloak over her evening gown. She looked amazingly young for her
years as she stood there in her graceful evening guise, with an
expression of almost childish alarm in her eyes, looking up at him
expectantly.
"Did you see William?" he asked her shortly.
"No," she said. "He wouldn't come in to us. We came away about a quarter
of an hour after he had come, without seeing him."
"Ah!"
He was very quiet in speech and manner, with an air as it struck her, of
great depression. She could not be sure, until he had spoken, of what
had happened, that he had not something deeply to regret upon his own
part.
"Better sit down," he said, "and I'll tell you about it. Until William
apologizes to me for things he has said, and dismisses that man Coombe
for his insolence, I won't see him or have anything to do with him. But
I don't want you or the children to make any difference. Let's hope
Eleanor will bring him to reason; I know she has a good influence over
him. She may not want to meet me; I've thought of that. But I should
like you to go to the Grange as usual. I don't want you to quarrel with
William either. We'll leave the quarrelling to him, as he seems bent on
it."
"Tell me what happened, dear," she said. "He came here on his way home,
didn't he?"
"Oh, yes; with an air of coming to put everything right by making
handsome concessions over something he doesn't care a hang about. If I
was so unreasonable as to question anything he had done he would give it
up--of course. I wasn't to be allowed to have had any reason on my side;
it didn't matter even that he'd mistaken me, and that I hadn't wanted to
stop what he was doing, and had tried to get it carried on. He waved all
that aside--didn't want to talk about it. What he did want was very
plain. He wanted to show himself as the large-minded man who could make
all allowances for a narrow-minded fool of an elder brother always
standing on his own petty dignity. However, he'd be careful not to tread
on my corns in that way again. Let's forget all about it and begin
afresh. I would have swallowed all that--I did swallow it--for there was
some right feeling behind it; but...."
"Edmund dear," she interrupted him, "before you go on--oughtn't we to
keep that in front of us as the thing that really matters? William is
fond of you, and you of him. When Eleanor and I have been talking it
over, we...."
"It has got beyond that now," he interrupted her in his turn. "What
neither you nor Eleanor can see is that William is not the same man as
he used to be. What really matters, you say! What really matters is what
he founds himself upon; and what he founds himself upon now is his
money, and the place he has made for himself in the world. Fond of me?
Yes, I dare say he is. He'd like to do this or that to help me where
things are difficult; but it's to be on the understanding that I knuckle
under to him. I can't accept his help, or his--or his fondness on those
terms. I'm fond of him, you say? Yes--or of what he was before his
success spoilt him. When he returns to that, things shall be as they
were between us. Until then, I've got to take him as he is now; and
without loss of self-respect I can't do it and keep on terms with him."
"What was it, then, that you quarrelled about?"
He hesitated at the word. "William may call it quarrelling," he said. "I
suppose it is just a quarrel to him. I shouldn't admit that I
quarrelled. He got very excited, and I didn't. That's the plain truth. I
didn't feel excited; I felt very sad."
"My poor old darling!" she said tenderly. "It's too bad of William, with
all the troubles you have had on you."
He went on, in the same quiet, unemotional voice: "I accepted his good
will. Yes, I did that, though his way of expressing it was distasteful
to me. But I said that I didn't want the cause of complaint set aside
like that. I thought that the reasons I had given against the extra
garden-making were sound; but they didn't override other considerations
and I should prefer it to go on. That didn't seem to suit him. In the
mood he was in, I suppose he didn't want _me_ to be the one to make
concessions. But I rather think, from something he let fall, that he has
something new on hand to interest him, and the garden plan means nothing
to him now; or at any rate that he would rather give it up, on the
grounds of giving way to me, than go on with it because I have given way
to him. That's one of the ways in which his money has spoilt him. When a
man has a lot of money, and doesn't care for just piling it up, he's
always looking about for ways of spending it; and the last way he has
found is all important to him, until he finds another one; then his
interest in it goes. I'm sure that's how it is with William. But I was
firm about it. 'It may not interest you now as much as it did,' I said;
'but the way in which it has been thrown over will reflect upon me, if
it is given up altogether. For one thing, there's Barton's Close already
cut up, and you can't leave it like that. You must either go on with the
work or put it back as it was. It has been put about that I stopped the
work, unreasonably; and the men who were doing it are now working for
me. If you want to do justice to me, you'll remove all that talk, and
you can only do it by going on. When the road has been mended,' I said,
'you can take on that extra labour again, and get all the digging and so
on done in time to plant!'"
"Did he make any fuss about the men being taken on for the drive?"
"It was one of the things that he had put aside, with a wave of the
hand, as if I had done something that I ought not to have done, but he
would overlook it with the rest. That was why I mentioned it. I wasn't
going to justify myself about it, but I said: 'The men wouldn't have
gone straight back to work for you after being sent away; but they will
when the time comes, if I talk to them.' He didn't quite like that
either. He was gradually losing his position as being entirely in the
right, but giving way because it wasn't worth while to come up against
me in something that didn't matter. It does matter, and I was determined
not to close it up on those terms.
"At last he agreed to go on, but by that time he had lost a good deal of
his--what shall I say?--expansive manner, and gave in grudgingly. Then
he was for going home, and if it could have been settled at that, there
would have been an end of the affair. I had left Coombe out of it until
then, for I didn't want it complicated by something that I thought would
probably be new to him altogether. I said: 'There's one thing, William,
that I must ask you to do and that is to send Coombe about his business.
If it hadn't been for him the work would have been going on now. You can
easily satisfy yourself about that,' I said, 'and I don't press it. But
Coombe spoke of me openly with the grossest impertinence, and in a way
that you would have resented just as much as if you had heard it. I've
held my hand,' I said; 'I left it till you came down. But something has
got to be done about it now.'"
"You didn't tell me, dear, that you were going to say that Coombe must
be sent away."
"I didn't talk to you much about Coombe, did I? I took it for granted
that William would dismiss him when he knew what sort of man he was.
Servants may talk about you behind your back, and I dare say most of
them do. But when it is brought to your notice you can't shut your eyes
to it. If I had heard one of mine speaking of William in the way that
fellow spoke of me, I should have sent him about his business in
double-quick time, however useful he was to me."
"Did William refuse to do it?"
"He haggled about it. He had always found Coombe perfectly respectful.
Surely I was mistaken. He couldn't have said what he was reported to
have said. If I showed annoyance at all perhaps I showed it then; but I
had myself in hand. I knew that if I got into the excited state that he
was beginning to get into then, it was all up. Besides, I was determined
that he should get rid of Coombe. For one thing, it will be a sort of
test of his sincerity, for I don't deny that it will be of some
inconvenience to him. Coombe is a good gardener, and they are not so
easy to get now. But it's a monstrous idea that a man who has openly
shown his hand in that way should be kept in the place. It would have a
bad effect all round. William ought to be able to see that, and I told
him so."
"Did you tell him exactly what the man had said?"
"I told him the worst of it. I said: 'One of the things that was
repeated to me was that I was jealous of your money and your title, and
I should stop you doing anything you wanted to do in Hayslope if I
possibly could. Are you going to keep in your service a man who has said
a thing like that about me?' I asked him. He said he didn't believe it
had been said; somebody was trying to stir up mischief. I said: 'I'm
afraid, William, that your money and your title have had an influence in
this place that isn't exactly what you think it to be. This man Coombe
has only let some of it out. Still,' I said, 'he's let it out in such a
way that it can't be passed over. The only way you can possibly put it
right is to show that _you_ are not going to stand that sort of talk,
and the only way you can do that is to send Mr. Coombe marching. And
that's what you'll do,' I said, 'if you mean what you have been saying
about wanting to put things straight between us, and to work in with me
here at Hayslope.'"
"Yes," she said with a sigh, "I think you were right there."
"I'm sorry to say that that was too much for him. It was the end of
anything like reasonable talk on his part. Every now and then he seemed
to be trying to pull himself together, as when he tried to get from me
who had heard those words said; but when I told him, he said that I had
only got them third-hand, and it wouldn't be fair on Coombe to sack him
without giving him a chance to defend himself. I said I shouldn't expect
him to do anything but deny it all. 'And with all respect to you,
William,' I said, 'I'm not going to make you a judge between me and your
servant. You can ask old Jackson, if you like, what happened; but even
by doing that you'll be appearing to doubt my word, and you won't want
to do it if you're ready to act rightly by me. As long as that man
remains in your service,' I said, 'I'm not going near the Grange. You
owe it to me to send him away.'"
"Was that at the end of all?"
"No. He wouldn't promise to do it without making inquiries for himself,
and I said: 'Very well, then; you are putting yourself definitely
against me here. I suppose you understand that. How do you propose that
we shall go on living next door to one another with this between us? It
will be known all over the place that Coombe has insulted me, that you
have been told of it, and don't think it necessary to take any steps.
It's an impossible position,' I said."
"Surely he could see that, couldn't he?"
"He had worked himself up into such a state then that he couldn't see
anything. After that, until he went away, he was simply offensive. He
justified everything that I have said about his attitude towards me and
more. Oh, I don't want to go over it all. I should think he'd be sorry
when some of the things he said come back to him. There was he, spending
his life in the service of his country, and here was I, consumed with
jealousy of him and thinking only how I could put spokes in his wheel.
It's that accusation of jealousy that I won't put up with. He must
withdraw it and apologize for it before I'll meet him again. It means a
break, Cynthia. I had time to think it all over before you came home.
I'm afraid it means a break. He brought Eleanor into it. He gave me to
understand that she was up against me for what he was pleased to call my
dictatorial ways; it wasn't only he who had suffered under them. If
that's so, she won't try to put it straight, and that's really the only
chance with what it has come to now."
"Oh, my dear, she will. I know she will. She and I talked about it the
other day. I know what is in her mind. She only meant that first letter
you wrote, and she said that that was all wiped out now. I told you,
didn't I? She is longing for it to be put right. She will do all she
can, I know."
"I hope so. It will be a very serious matter if it isn't put right. But
I stand upon those two points. William must take back that accusation of
jealousy. It's a wrong thing for one brother to say of another."
"Oh, yes. If it was said in the heat of the moment...."
"I'm afraid that what was said in the heat of the moment was only what
has been building itself up in his mind for a long time past. It's a
result of his deterioration. Because I don't treat him as I suppose
other people do who worship success--and he has come to want that--I'm
jealous of his success. He can't see straight any longer; he can't see
me as I've always been, and am still. _That_ is what is between us, and
it goes deeper than anything he has said or done. He isn't any longer
the brother I used to have."
She saw that he was deeply moved and that it was no time now to say
anything to alter his mind. Besides, the one fact that she and Eleanor
had both insisted on as lying behind everything--the affection between
the brothers--seemed no longer to govern the situation. Their ways had
widely diverged, and it looked as if they had drifted apart in spirit
as well as in the interests they had once held in common.
Her husband rose from his chair with a deep sigh, and said something
that she was unprepared for. "Thank God, that I've still got you and the
children left to me!"
She broke down and shed tears, but dried them immediately, for she knew
how he disliked the expression of emotion, and that his own had been
wrung from him only by deep feeling. He kissed her good-night and said
kindly: "Don't take it too much to heart. And if you and Eleanor can
mend it between you, you won't find me implacable. I've gone a long way
in trying to put it straight, and I'll go further if it's necessary."
"If William will apologize?" she said, making a last effort.
"I'll do without an apology. After all, it isn't words that I want. Let
him dismiss Coombe, without any further to-do. I'll take that as
covering everything. I dare say I said things to him that offended him
as much as he offended me, though it is certain that I held myself more
in hand than he did. No, I don't want any apology. But he must dismiss
Coombe."