HONOURS
The difference between Colonel Eldridge's room at the Hall and his
brother's at the Grange was a good deal more than the difference between
a room in an old house and one devoted to like uses in a new. Indeed if
you had averaged the age of their contents, the room at the Grange would
have shown the earlier date. It had been one of the latest additions,
when furniture and decoration had become a source of keen interest to
its owner, and there had been no lack of money to carry out his tastes.
There was no bright Turkey carpet or American desk here, as in Sir
William's room in London. He wrote his letters at a Queen Anne Bureau,
bought at Christie's for a sum that would have paid for everything in
his brother's room and left a substantial amount over. There was no
insistent colour, to detract from the rich subdued values of this and
other fine pieces of furniture. A few pictures of the early Dutch
school, which Sir William particularly affected, hung upon the walls,
panelled in dark oak. The electric light glowed and sparkled from a
lustre chandelier of Waterford glass. The few ornaments admitted were
also mostly of old glass, and as many of them as were suitable held
flowers. There was a beautiful soft-hued Persian carpet, and curtains of
heavy brocade of no determinate hue. Only the books in the
glass-fronted Sheraton bookcase were mostly new, many of them in rich
bindings; and the easy chairs and sofa were of the latest word in
comfort.
The room was a success from first to last, and Sir William felt it to be
so every time he entered it. And yet he still gained, whenever he went
into his brother's room at the Hall, a sense of satisfaction for which
he would perhaps have exchanged the different sort of pleasure that he
took in his own creation. That room, with its old-fashioned furniture of
no special value; its faded and threadbare carpet, and shabby easy
chairs; the untidy books on the shelves; the paintings, prints and
photographs that crowded the walls; the medley of ornaments and
knicknacks on the mantelpiece and side-tables; the gun-cases,
cartridge-cases, game-bags, golf-clubs, and all the litter of a
sportsman's room; the very smell of it, compounded of tobacco smoke and
leather, slightly musty paper, and slightly damp dog, with a reminder of
ripe apples mysteriously underlying it all--it meant quiet and ease and
a thousand associations of indoor and outdoor life, hardly any of which
were represented in the room that was his. He had even been slightly
ashamed of his room when he had first shown it to his brother, who had
said: "It's very fine. I've never seen a finer, for a fellow who can
live up to it. It wouldn't do for me, because I couldn't keep that old
shooting-jacket of mine hanging up behind the door." That was it, Sir
William decided afterwards. It was really a room for a man who liked to
live in a drawing-room, and he didn't want, himself, to live always in a
drawing-room, even a man's drawing-room. Still, he liked to have
beautiful things about him, and with that taste you had to discriminate.
You couldn't get the two kinds of attraction into the same room. He had
the one, and must do without the other.
It was this room that Norman entered when he returned from the Hall. He
had none of the doubts about it that his father sometimes expressed. His
appreciations were finer than his father's. Sir William had to possess a
treasure of art for it to give him the acme of pleasure. Norman loved it
for itself, and he loved the beautiful things in this room. His
appreciation of it even affected him now, as he went in, though he was
thinking of something else. His mother, in her evening gown, sitting
near a great bowl of flowers, seemed to him to add to its value; his
father, standing over her, in the light tweed suit in which he had been
travelling, seemed slightly out of place. It was a room in which, if you
occupied it in the evening, you ought to be dressed for the evening.
This impression, however, was momentary, for a stronger one immediately
took its place. He had expected to see his father considerably
disturbed, and his mother disturbed too, but by this time less so than
his sharp eyes had made her out to be when she had said good-bye to his
aunt and cousins. For she was a queller of disturbance, in herself and
others, and might by this be expected to have made her mark upon his
father, though not perhaps to the extent of quieting him altogether.
But there were no signs of disturbance upon their faces at all, nor in
their manner. His father was leaning up against the mantelpiece,
talking with some show of excitement, certainly, but with a smile upon
his face; and she was looking up at him, not smiling, but with interest
and sympathy.
Sir William turned round, as he came into the room. "Ah, Norman!" he
said. "Here you are! I've been waiting for you. You come into this
little affair, as well as mother and me. You'll want to hear all about
it."
Norman sat himself down, with his hands in his pockets. "I always want
to hear all about everything," he said.
His father laughed. "It's rather exciting," he said. "I really hadn't
been expecting anything of the sort. They've offered me a peerage."
"Good business!" said Norman warmly.
Sir William laughed again. "It will come to you some day," he said.
"That's one reason why I feel pleased about it."
"When the time comes," said Norman, "I shall grow a little tiny chin
beard, like the peers in 'Iolanthe.' But I thought you were going to be
a Member of Parliament, father."
"Well, that is being a Member of Parliament--of the Upper House. Oh, it
isn't--I've been telling mother--just a mark of honour for what I did
during the war. They gave me a knighthood for that, which closed the
account. They want me for something else now--a new business altogether.
I won't go into the details of it now, but they want somebody in both
Houses for it. It was just a question in which one I should be of most
use, and it was decided finally that someone else--I won't mention his
name yet--should look after it in the Commons, and I in the Lords. It
will mean a lot of work, but I don't mind that. I like work, and I
really think I can do something in this job they've given me. I know I
did good work in the war, and I've had the feeling sometimes--though
I've kept it to myself--that enough notice wasn't taken of it. I don't
mean in the way of reward, for I didn't do it for reward; but I thought
they might have found me of such use that they would want to give me
something else to do, when there's so much that wants doing. Well, it
seems that they haven't lost sight of me at all; they have only been
waiting for an opportunity. And now it has come. Yes, I'm very well
pleased about it."
"So am I," said Norman. "And I'm jolly glad it has come in that way. If
they had given you a peerage instead of making you a knight, people
might have said you had paid out cash for it. They wouldn't have said it
to you, but they might have said it to me. Fellows will say anything to
you nowadays; it's the modern technique. I shall be an Honourable, I
suppose. I shall have to put up with a lot because of that. But I shall
live it down in time. When is it coming off, father?"
Sir William did not smile at this speech. "There's a lot of nonsense
talk about buying peerages," he said. "I've been saying to mother, only
just now, that I doubt whether there has ever been a single instance of
a man putting down so much money and getting a peerage for it, or even a
baronetcy. Or, if things were ever done in that way, they're certainly
not now. As far as I'm concerned, I'd just as soon have done what I'm
going to do in the Commons as in the Lords. For many things I would much
rather have been in the Commons. But it would have meant fighting an
election, with a lot of time and energy wasted; and _that_ would have
cost money. On the whole, I am glad it was settled as it has been.
You're pleased too, Nell, aren't you? I wouldn't have taken it, you
know, Norman, without first consulting your mother--and telling you. I
haven't yet, as a matter of fact, though I promised to write, either
accepting or declining, to-morrow."
"Oh, I hope you won't decline, father. I didn't gather there was any
chance of that. I've got rather keen on it now. Aren't you, Mum?"
She smiled at him and then at her husband, looking up at him. "I'm very
glad," she said, "that they want you again. And I know that you will do
splendid work, as you did before. It will mean a lot more work for
father, you know, Norman; but it will be work that he will do well and
enjoy doing."
"You never were a half-doer, were you, father?" said Norman. "I should
think you would wake up the old Lords a bit. The general idea seems to
be that they can do with it. What are you going to call yourself?"
Sir William's face lost its brighter look. "There's a slight difficulty
about that," he said. "In the ordinary way I should take the title of
Hayslope. It would be the natural thing, as we've been here so long,
and--and--considering that Hayslope is coming to me some day. The
trouble is that it isn't mine yet, and I'm afraid the present owner
might object. He'd have no reason to; but...."
Norman's ears were disagreeably affected by that phrase "the present
owner." The dispute, which he had forgotten until that moment, was
serious, then.
Lady Eldridge spoke, in her quiet firm voice. "I think you ought to
know, Norman," she said, "that Uncle Edmund is showing himself hostile
to your father. Father went to the Hall to tell him, first of all, about
what has been happening, but there was a disagreement that had to be
cleared out of the way first, and he found it impossible to do it."
Sir William shifted his position. "I've done all I can," he said. "The
dispute was about a twopenny halfpenny affair which I've been trying to
put right ever since. I've given way upon all points--more than I ought
to have done; but it's of no use. Nothing's of any use. He's determined
on quarrelling. I can't do any more."
"I suppose it's about that garden," said Norman. "What does Uncle Edmund
want done about it?"
"What does he want done about it? I wish to God you could find out.
First of all he makes himself offensive because I began it. Very well! I
overlook the offence and I stop it. But that doesn't do. I'm told I
shall be damaging his position in the place if I don't begin all over
again. Very well; I say I will, when he has finished with the men I took
on for the work, and he took from me for _his_ work. Then I'm told that
before I do anything else I've got to get rid of the man who has been
doing it all. Something has come to his ears that Coombe is supposed to
have said about him. A wise man would have shut his ears to that sort of
gossip; but because of it, I'm to dismiss a man who has served me well,
out of hand, and without giving him a chance of defending himself. I
said I'd look into it; but he wouldn't have that. To ask questions of
anybody would be to doubt his word, though all he has to go on is what
somebody told somebody else who told him. It's perfectly childish; but
I'm not going to bother about it any more. I've got far too much to do.
If he wants to break with me, he must. _I_ don't want it, and I've gone
all lengths to pacify him. But the fact is that he isn't a big enough
man to be able to see me going ahead in the world while he's standing
still. All his life he has considered himself my superior. He's my elder
brother, and I've given in to him. I've given in to him over this, up to
the limit. But now he asks too much. I shall just have to go on, and
leave him out of account."
"If we weren't all living at Hayslope," Lady Eldridge said, "it would be
easy to keep apart for a time, and the friction would die down. What we
must do is to make the best of it until Uncle Edmund becomes more
reasonable. Neither you nor I, Norman, need take notice of it unless we
are forced to. Father wants us to treat it in that way."
"Oh, yes," said Sir William. "He can't visit my sins upon you; and I
certainly don't want to visit his upon Cynthia and the girls. You must
go on as much as possible as before. He won't come here, and I shan't go
to the Hall. That's all the difference it need make, and when we have
gone on for some time like that, I dare say he will come round--see he's
been making a fool of himself." He paused for a moment. "I know you're
not used to hearing me talk of him like that, but I really can't help
myself. I've been sorry for him lately, and have done my best to help
him over the troubles and difficulties he has had. But none of that
seems to count for anything. He was so--so coldly and obstinately
determined to have his own way this evening that it thoroughly upset me.
He seems to have nothing in him to respond to the feeling I have always
had for him--no kindness, no generosity. I'm not used to losing my
temper, but I'm afraid I did lose it with him this evening--his
arrogance worked me up to such an extent. No doubt that will all be
brought up against me. Actually, I came away without telling him what I
had gone there to tell him. That will be brought up against me too. I
really can't cope with it any longer. It's an infernal nuisance that
this place, which would be more than ever a recreation to me now, should
only be turned into a worry. But I won't have it so. I'm not coming down
here to be plunged into little local bothers, which take more settling
than any of the big things I have to deal with. For the present he and I
had better keep apart."
"I'm afraid it's the only way--for the present," said Lady Eldridge.
"But it is a very unhappy state of things."
Norman had listened to his father's speech not without discomfort, which
was increased by his mother's acceptance of it. "You and Uncle Edmund
have always been good pals," he said. "I should have thought mother and
Aunt Cynthia might do something together to put him right. I expect he
would want to behave decently, if he saw the way."
"I'm quite ready to leave it to them," said Sir William. "If they can
bring him to reason I'll put it all aside--any time. It's all I want to
do. But there's one thing I won't do, and that's to dismiss Coombe
off-hand on his orders. I shall have him up to-morrow, and hear _his_
story. And I shall ask that old Jackson what happened. I'm kindly
permitted to do that. If I find Coombe has gone altogether too far, I
shall consider what to do next. But I'm not going to be hectored and
pressed to act hastily on a one-sided second or third hand statement.
I've a pretty good idea of what did happen. Edmund goes down to find the
men working at the garden; he examines Coombe about it in an arrogant
sort of way, and shows him plainly that he's annoyed with _me_--he
wouldn't mind that, though it's _lése majesté_ to breathe a word of
criticism against _him_. Then when he's gone, Coombe, who after all owes
loyalty to me and not to him, lets something drop before men who take it
up and make mischief of it to score off him--perhaps because he was
getting rid of them, though he was acting under orders there. Oh, it
isn't worth while going into it all. I'm sick to death of the whole
business. Here we are now, going over and over it, when there's
something of real interest to ourselves to talk over. We'd better go to
bed, I think. I'm afraid I've worked myself up again. To-morrow I dare
say I shall be able to see it all more calmly. I can't to-night."
When Norman went to his room he did not immediately get ready to go to
bed. The window attracted him, open to all the loveliness of the summer
night, and he went and leant out of it, taking into his nostrils the
scent of the dew-steeped earth, and into his ears the little noises that
a nature-lover can perceive and distinguish, where to others there is
only silence.
The world was so beautiful, and life was so full and interesting, that
it was impossible for him to be affected overmuch by either of the
factors that had just been introduced into it. The honour that was
coming to his father he thought a very proper one, and he had seen that
he was pleased about it, not only because of the work that it would
enable him to do. Norman had no fault to find with that. It would be
rather fun to call yourself Lord Something-or-other, though the thrill
would probably pass off sooner than you expected. It would even be
rather fun to be called "the Honourable" though that would no doubt pass
off too--rather more quickly. That seemed to be about all there was to
it; but there had been so many peerages created of late years that there
had even come to be something to deprecate about such handles to your
name. You were always coming across fellows you had never heard of
before who called themselves, quite legitimately, "the Honourable." He
would be one of them now, and he grinned to himself as he imagined the
chaff to which he would be subjected on that account, and formulated a
few of the replies he would make to it.
But he had soon exhausted the subject, and his smile faded as that other
troublesome affair took its place in his mind.
He didn't like that at all. It seemed to contradict all the jolly things
that were connected in his mind with his uncle, who was stiffer in
manner than his father, but so kind-hearted underneath it all. He had
never thought of him as he had been reflected in his father's speech,
and it was difficult to think about him like that now, though he
certainly seemed to be behaving in a way that could scarcely be
defended.
His window overlooked the wooded valley that lay between the two houses,
and the opposite hill. A corner of the Hall could be seen from it. His
thoughts went out to his cousins, asleep there, and especially to Pam,
whom he loved more than the others. He and Pam were as close friends as
they had always been. He couldn't do without Pam. He always wanted to
tell her everything that had happened to him, as he supposed fellows who
had favourite sisters did. But he was not quite so sure now of her
always adopting his views. She was getting together a collection of
views of her own. How would she take this?
It was not necessary to accept seriously what she had said this evening
about their backing up their respective parents in any dispute between
them, and quarrelling with each other because of their quarrel. Her
mother and his wouldn't do that. They would try to get at the rights of
the case. There must be a right and a wrong somewhere, and it was
probable that there was some of each on both sides. He had only heard
his father's story so far, and Pam would only hear _her_ father's. They
ought to put their heads together and balance the two.
He thought over this for some time, and came to the conclusion that they
were not likely to agree, which somewhat depressed him. Then he thought
it over further still, and it seemed to him that the only thing to say
to Pam was: "You and I can't get at the rights of it, so let's leave it
alone altogether, and by and by it will right itself. And above all,
don't let it make any difference to us."
Would Pam accept that, as the course laid down by his superior wisdom? A
year or two ago, she certainly would have done so. If she didn't now, it
would seem as if he had lost some of his influence over her.
Hoping that she would, but a little doubtful of it, Norman presently
went to bed.