ALMOST
They had just finished lunch at the Hall. Pamela was wondering rather
disconsolately what she should do with herself for the afternoon. The
times seemed out of gear. There was the Grange half a mile away, to
which she was accustomed to repair if there seemed to be nothing
particular to do at home. Aunt Eleanor was there. She had come over this
morning, but Pamela had not seen her, and she had made no suggestions
for meeting later in the day. Norman was there, with his two friends. He
might bring them over some time during the afternoon; she had half
expected that he would do so during the morning; but perhaps they had
been reading, as they called it. Eric Blundell, the one who had talked
to her most the afternoon before at Pershore Castle had told her that
they intended to read very hard during their stay at the Grange. Norman
had been excessively annoyed with her when she had last seen him, but
his annoyance seldom lasted long. He would surely want to have it out
with her! She would rather enjoy that. Anything to escape from this
deadly blight which seemed to be settling down on them all!
She had stepped out of the window of the dining-room after lunch, and
was standing there, when she saw Norman coming towards her from among
the trees. He was alone. He must have hurried over his lunch, and left
his friends upon some pretext. Perhaps he had done that so as to have it
out with her. She brightened, but did not go forward to meet him.
He waved his stick to her, in his usual manner, when he saw her, and
there was no sign of annoyance on his face as he approached. That was
one thing that was rather nice about Norman. If he ever lost his temper,
as he did occasionally, he recovered it very quickly.
"We're going off for a joy-ride," he called out, as he came up to her.
"I've come to fetch you."
"Who is going?" she asked, "and where?"
"Just we three bright young sparks, and you. We're going in Eric
Blundell's car. She's a flier, but she only holds four, sitting rather
snug, or we'd have asked Judy. He wants to go and see some cousins who
live at Medchester. It's about forty miles there and another forty back,
so we ought to start at once. Are you on?"
She was on; and soon they were walking down the wood together.
"I say, old girl," said Norman, as soon as they started, "I was rather
shirty with you yesterday, and I'm afraid I showed it. I'm sorry. You
won't have it up against me, will you?"
"You didn't like me taking notice of Fred Comfrey, I suppose."
"You've hit it. I always say you can see a thing as quick as anybody,
and I'll maintain that against all and sundry."
He seemed to be in high spirits. It was grateful to Pamela to find him
like that, and relieved some of her soreness. "Fred Comfrey is going
away this afternoon," she said. "He came up to say good-bye this
morning."
"Did he? Well, we must try to bear up under it. Is he coming back
to-morrow afternoon?"
"No, he isn't. He's going to London to start work again. So you won't
have to lose your temper any more because of him."
"No. That's such an advantage, isn't it? I hate losing my temper,
especially with you. It wastes such a lot of time."
"You're very foolish to have done it at all. You know I don't really
like him much; but I can't treat him rudely, just to please you."
Norman became a shade graver. "I said to myself that you couldn't really
like him," he said. "But I'm glad _you've_ said it too. You see, Pam,
when you think a lot of a girl, as I do of you--I mean when you put her
high--you don't like seeing her make friends with somebody miles below
her. That's really how it was when I saw you going off with that
creature; but of course I was an ass to get shirty about it. You see,
old girl, it means nothing to you. I know that. But probably it means a
good deal to him, and you give him a handle. You can't afford to give
handles to people like that. At least--no; I didn't mean to say that.
I'm not going to lecture you about it. You do exactly what you like, and
I'm sure it will be all right."
"Well, it's self-denying of you not to want to lecture me about it; and
I think you can trust me too. Talking about it at all makes it of too
much importance. So let's leave off. There are other things to talk
about, and I shouldn't have been sorry to have had an opportunity of
doing it yesterday."
"Ah! Well, I wasn't ready to talk about those other things yesterday.
Now I am. In fact it's what I came over to do, and I had some trouble to
prevent those other lads from coming with me. We've got plenty of time.
Let's sit down here and discuss the situation."
They had come to the stile leading to the meadows. Norman perched
himself upon it. Pamela stood in front of him, with some indecision in
her face. She was not quite prepared for a full-dress debate, and the
afternoon's pleasure was in front of her. "I thought you said we must
start at once," she said.
"That was camouflage. I told Castor and Pollux that we'd start in half
an hour. I gave them two glasses of port each to keep them quiet. What
I've got to tell you won't take long. It's chiefly that I investigated
that business of Coombe for myself, as the governor didn't seem to be
giving it enough attention. I think Uncle Edmund made a bit too much of
it, because it hasn't really done him any harm; in fact, I think it has
rallied the enlightened electorate of Hayslope to him. At the same time
the fellow _had_ tried to make mischief, and I think the governor ought
to have sent him away for it. I told him so, in a letter written under
my own hand and seal, and I got his reply this morning. I'm glad to say
that he had come to the same conclusion himself, and Mr. Coombe departs
immediately. So that ought to end it, oughtn't it, Pam?"
"I'm very glad you did that, Norman," said Pamela, looking down. "I knew
you were trying to find out something, but-- Oh, I _am_ so glad." She
looked up at him, smiling.
"Dear old girl," he said affectionately. "You set Master Comfrey on to
it, didn't you? Well, I'm not going to say any more about that. We can
forget all the disagreeables now--I'm afraid I must continue to think
Master Comfrey one of them--and be as we were. I think we ought to be
moving on now, or Castor-oil and Pole-ax will be getting restive. I say,
mother told you about the shoot in Suffolk, didn't she? It's a topping
place. I expect the governor will want to ask Uncle Edmund to come up
and blaze at 'em directly they've made it up. You'll have to come too.
It's a good big house, and we shall be able to put up lots of bright
spirits."
"Oh, it will be heavenly to get all this trouble over," said Pamela, as
they walked on together. "You can't think how glad I am. It's like a
great weight lifted off me."
"I know. They're both of them a bit touchy; but they're good sorts. I
knew _we_ could put it right if we took it in hand. I wanted to tell you
what I'd done yesterday; but I thought it would come better if I could
tell you that it was all finished with."
"Oh, Norman, I'm afraid I was rather horrid. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about
asking Fred to help me too. But let's forget all about him, and about
it, and enjoy ourselves. It will be rather fun this afternoon, won't it?
I feel I can _really_ enjoy myself now."
She chatted on gaily as they climbed up through the wood at the Grange
garden, and hardly left off chattering and laughing as preparations and
adjustments were made for their drive, and she was packed into the front
seat beside the owner of the car. It was Norman's suggestion that she
should keep company with his friend Blundellovitch on the outward
journey and with his friend Pollocksky on the homeward. But he altered
this arrangement on the return, and insisted upon sitting behind with
her himself. "She's my cousin and not yours," was his argument, "and I
find I've got a lot to say to her."
* * * * *
For a good many months afterwards Pamela looked back upon that
expedition as the last entirely happy time she had had. It seemed as if
the troubles that had been darkening her home life increasingly of late
had all been swept away, for she had no doubt then that her father and
her uncle would immediately compose their differences, and the close
intimacy between the two families would go on as before. It had not
occurred to her that the Grange would be completely unoccupied. Her
uncle and aunt had often been away, for many weeks together, and she had
sometimes been with them, in the South of France or in Scotland, or
elsewhere. It would be fun to go to the house in Suffolk; she had not
been away from home for a long time, and change was agreeable to her,
especially in that company.
So she gave herself up to the enjoyment of the hour, and was sparkling
and radiant with happiness. Mr. Blundellovitch, as he was called
throughout the afternoon, was a stricken victim of her charms, and Mr.
Pollocksky, though unrighteously deprived of his opportunities, was not
behind him in admiration of her. They had a merry time in the house
which they visited, and started homewards so late that it was dark long
before they reached Hayslope. During the last half hour she and Norman
talked quietly together, her hand in his. There had been
misunderstandings between them, as between their parents, but they were
done away with now, and they were as close together as they had ever
been. It was not until then that she realized that the Grange was to be
forsaken in two days' time, which induced a slight touch of melancholy,
not unpleasing under the circumstances, which included a full moon, and
a delicious astringent hint of autumn in the warm night air. Norman
wasn't sure that even the partridges would make it worth while to
exchange Hayslope for Eylsham; but Pamela said wisely that it would be
better for their two families not to be so close to one another for a
time. "When you're as old as Dad and Uncle Bill," she said, "it's more
difficult to make up a quarrel. They'll like each other much better if
they don't see so much of one another for a time."
"Yes," said Norman, "I think that's true. They wouldn't be able to treat
it as you and I should. We might have little rows occasionally, but we
should always make them up, and when we had we should forget all about
them at once. That's one of the advantages of being young. I like being
young, don't you? It comes over me sometimes that I am, just as it used
to come over me out there, 'I'm in France.' But I'm not in France now,
and I shan't be young any longer in half a minute or so."
"I don't know that I quite follow you," said Pamela politely.
"Oh, I follow myself, all the way. Don't you see? Take the governor, for
instance. He must have enjoyed himself as we're doing now when he was
our age, and sometimes thought how jolly it was to be young. And being
old seemed centuries off, or at least so far off that it didn't count.
Yet here he is thirty years or so older, and it's what he's doing now
that matters to him. It isn't that it's a short time or a long time.
It's just that time doesn't seem to count somehow. Look at old Horace,
we three Latinists were reading this morning. He was extraordinarily
alive, and aware of himself, so to speak. But nearly two thousand years
have slipped by since he got tight, or half tight, and played the goat
generally. They don't count when you read him, and another few years
won't count for us when we look back on to-day. We're here--now. That's
all that seems to matter."
"Yes, I think I see it dimly," said Pam. "Anyhow, I'm very glad that we
are here now. It's a lovely world, and I think you _must_ enjoy it more
when you're young."
* * * * *
The next day there was some coming and going between the Hall and the
Grange, but the shadow of immediate departure lay over the Grange, and
it was impossible not to take it as a departure more significant than it
had hitherto appeared. Lady Eldridge might come down again for a day or
two to finish her packings away for the winter. Norman said that he
would come down before he went back to Cambridge. But the prospect of
autumn and winter passing over the house emptied of its usual life could
not be ignored, and as yet there were no signs of the complete
reconciliation that Norman had announced. All the family from the Hall
were at the Grange during the afternoon except Colonel Eldridge. Pamela
had thought he would come with them and was disappointed because he
didn't. Her mother and her aunt talked together, but, it seemed to
Pamela, not in quite the same way as before.
She had one more talk with Norman alone. They went down together to
Barton's Close, not with any conscious intention of visiting the scene
of so much disturbance, but probably led to it by some such impulse. The
wide, wood-enclosed meadow lay quiet and deserted. The soil that had
been dug up for the plantings over a considerable area had been grassed
over again, with the sods cut from it, but the design of the garden, as
far as it had gone, was plain to be seen. It would never be made now.
That thought struck them both at the same time, for they had taken a
modified interest in the project, and their imaginations had played
about the garden that was to have been made here. It was almost as if it
had been, and was now destroyed.
"It's a pity," Norman said. "However, it doesn't really matter, if we
can get rid of the bothers that came of it."
For the first time, the thought came to Pamela that her father had been
unreasonable. But she put it away from her. "It wasn't this that they
really quarrelled about," she said, "though it began it. Norman, do you
think that it is all over? I don't feel quite so sure as I did
yesterday."
Norman didn't feel quite so sure either. He had had a talk with his
mother, and though she had agreed that there was nothing left now of the
original grounds of the quarrel, she had not treated it as if they were
back on the old terms yet. It had almost seemed to him that she didn't
wish that particularly. She had been very quiet about it, but what had
struck him most was that she was obviously glad that they were going
away. He knew that she loved the home that she had made for herself at
the Grange. She had not even seen the Suffolk house, which had not at
first been talked of as if it were to provide them with more than a
place for the entertainment of their shooting-parties. Some of those
might very well have been for men only, and she might have preferred to
come to the Grange at intervals instead of arranging for everything away
from it, as she was doing now, hurriedly but completely.
But he didn't want Pam to think that they were leaving Hayslope because
of the quarrel. Better debit something to his father rather than that!
"Well, all this sudden pushing off is rather like the governor, you
know," he said. "He's kept himself young in that way. He gets a sudden
idea into his head, and that's the great thing for the moment. I'm
rather like that myself. Perhaps Uncle Edmund thinks it all rather
funny; but--you'll see--when he's been up to Eylsham and shot a few
birds and drunk a few glasses of good old tawny, they'll be as thick as
thieves together again."
"Do you think Uncle William will ask him to shoot with him?"
"Why, of course he will." But as he said it Norman had some doubts of
his own. Uncle Edmund was a difficult person. The disordered ground in
front of them seemed to cry that aloud. His father was about fed up with
it. If Uncle Edmund didn't respond graciously to this last attempt to
satisfy his demands there might be no reconciliation at all. There was
nothing more left to be done, and he would just have to be left alone
till he came round of himself. If Norman read his mother aright, she was
already preparing for that to be a long process.
Moreover, he had asked if Pam couldn't be included in the first party,
which his father had already made up. The guns were to be three of his
father's friends, and Norman and Blundell and Pollock, who were
proposing to pursue their course of reading in whatever intervals of
leisure might be left to them at Eylsham. Only one man was bringing his
wife. There would be plenty of room for Pam. But his mother had said
that his father didn't want anybody from the Hall until they knew where
they stood. There would be plenty of time later.
So there was something that couldn't be said to her, and yet she must
know that in ordinary times she would have been asked. Oh, it was all
becoming difficult and beastly again. Why on earth couldn't Uncle Edmund
do the proper generous thing for once and put an end to it all for good?
Yesterday they had been as happy as larks because they had thought their
elders had settled their quarrel. Perhaps they had, but it wasn't
certain yet, and in the meantime here was poor little Pam getting sad
about it again. And no wonder, with this beastly half-made and unmade
garden in front of her eyes.
"Oh, why did we come down here?" he said, turning away in impatience. "I
hate the very sight of the place. Let's go back and find the others."
They went back, and were cousinly to one another, but careful again now
not to touch upon the awkward subject. The cord that had bound them
together so closely the evening before was loosened.
The next day the Grange was left empty, and the gardeners went down to
Barton's Close with a horse-roller, and flattened down the places where
the ground had been disturbed.