AND THE THIRD
On the afternoon of Christmas Day Norman went out to take the air. There
was a cold drizzle of rain, and nobody was inclined to accompany him. He
was not sorry to be alone, for he had a good deal to think about, and
his thoughts flowed freely as he strode along, buttoned up in his rain
coat and rather enjoying the bleak inclemency of the weather, so unlike
that of the traditional Christmas. But the Christmas atmosphere was
abundantly alive at the Hall, and he carried it with him as he tramped
through the mud.
He came back as dusk was falling through the wood at the lower end of
the park, and some association of place brought sharply back to his
memory the fight he had had with Fred Comfrey down here, years before.
He could see Fred and Hugo sitting on the log as he went towards them
across the park, and there came to him a return of the feelings with
which he had approached them. He came out of the wood at the place where
the fallen log had been. It had gone now, but there was Fred, his
old-time enemy, standing under a tree, with his eyes fixed upon the
Hall, the windows of which were showing their welcoming lights that no
longer welcomed him.
He started in surprised affront, as Norman came upon him. It was an
awkward meeting, for his reason for being there was apparent, and he
could not help knowing that it was so to Norman. He hunched his
shoulders and turned away in offence, without a greeting. Norman, who
had been thinking of him with cherished aversion, had an impulse of pity
towards him, and obeyed the impulse instantly, as his custom was. "Merry
Christmas!" he said. "I heard you were down here."
It was the first thing that came into his head to say, and was only
meant as a disclaimer of enmity. But Fred took it as a jeer, and turned
on him, his face flaming with antagonism. "I dare say you did," he said.
"Damn you! I say something in confidence, and it's told to everybody at
once; and I'm kicked out because of it. A merry Christmas!" There
followed an oath directed against Norman, and he turned his back on him
again.
Norman's impulsion of pity still held him. He had disliked Fred, in
their boyhood, but before their final quarrel there had been times in
which they had been companions, without hostility between them. That old
contact was present to his mind; and Fred was down now; he couldn't
triumph over him. "I didn't mean any offence," he said. "I do know what
happened, but there's no offence in that either."
Fred turned on him again. "I'm not good enough for her," he said. "No
offence in showing me that in the beastliest sort of way, I suppose! I
do the straight thing, and it's immediately used as a weapon against me.
Yet Eldridge was ready enough to come to me for help in his blasted
money difficulties. If he doesn't mind telling everybody my affairs I
don't mind telling his."
Again he turned away, leaving Norman at a loss. He took a few steps, and
threw over his shoulder: "You make her think she's everything to you,
and behave as if she was nothing. I'd have given her more than you ever
will." Then he went away, leaving Norman with something more to think
about, as he walked slowly back across the park in the chilly dusk to
where the warmth and light of the house was awaiting him.
The next day he went away, and the Hall settled down again to the quiet
life that had been brightened by his coming.
The weather cleared after Christmas, and on the first day on which the
roads were dry enough Lord Crowborough came tricycling over to Hayslope
Hall, and, in the same state of heat as before and with the same means
of allaying it by his side, sat talking to his old friend.
He had heard of the decision to let the Hall, and was full of sympathy.
At the same time, he couldn't quite understand it. What did William say
about it? Surely--!
Colonel Eldridge cut him short. "There's no enmity now between me and
William," he said. "We've practically agreed to go our separate ways,
though that has never been put into words. William doesn't come into
this, and wouldn't have come into it if we had never fallen out. All he
could have done would have been to subsidize me here, and I dare say he
would have been quite ready to do it. But of course I couldn't have
accepted that in any case."
"No. I can see that, if you put it in that way. But there ought to be a
way out, Edmund. He will succeed you here, and I am pretty certain that
if you both wanted to you could arrange things."
"Not in any way that wouldn't come round in the long run to my staying
here as William's pensioner. The property could be resettled by him and
me and Norman agreeing; but there's nothing in it for me beyond my life
interest and my wife's jointure. No; I am ready to go now, for some
years at least. It's possible that after a time, when I've cleared off
certain encumbrances on my income, I might be able to come back. But it
isn't time to think of that yet. I shan't be sorry to go, if I can find
something suitable to go to. This place has become a burden, and all the
pleasure of living in it has departed. The nuisance is that there's no
house here for me to go to. The Grange is out of the question, and
there's no other house that would do for us without a lot of money spent
upon it. I haven't got any money for such purposes."
"It seems hard lines that William should have spoilt the only house in
the place that would suit you; and now he doesn't even live in it
himself."
"Oh, well; that's done, and there's no good dwelling on it. Things have
gone his way and they haven't gone mine. They haven't been going the way
of us landowners for a long time, and the war has about finished us. I
sometimes wish I'd been born a generation earlier. My father used to
grumble sometimes; but look at the difference between those times and
these. Oh, no; it's time I cleared out. There's no room in the world
that's coming for people like me."
"Oh, my dear fellow, you mustn't talk like that. There's always room in
the world for people like you. We shouldn't have won the war without
'em, for one thing."
"It doesn't seem to have done us much good winning the war. Nothing's
the same as it was, and it will get worse. However, we needn't talk
about that. We shall have to stick it out, whatever's in store for us. I
don't suppose I've got more to grumble about than most. If I can let
this house well, as I think I can, and find another somewhere, we shall
be all right. I suppose the girls will marry in time. Cynthia and I will
have enough, for as long as remains to us."
"I think I might find you a house, Edmund. I've been turning it over in
my mind since I heard that you wanted something near here. Give me a few
days longer. But I want to know--you didn't tell me. What _does_ William
say about your leaving Hayslope?"
"I don't suppose he knows. I haven't told him. I dare say Norman has by
this time."
"I see Norman was here for Christmas, wasn't he? He's a nice boy, that.
I'm glad it shouldn't have made a difference to him."
"So am I--very glad. Yes; he's a very nice boy. He's like a brother to
my girls, and I'm glad they've got him, now their own brother is dead.
He'll look after them, if they ever want looking after."
"They're dear girls, all of them, Edmund. You won't have them all with
you for very long, I expect. I've had a sort of hope lately that--I
don't see why such old friends as we are shouldn't talk over these
things--I've a fancy that my boy thinks there's nobody in the world like
your Pamela. Well, my wife says it's Pamela; I had a sort of idea myself
that it was little Judith. It's one of 'em, or I'll eat my hat. Would
that be agreeable to you, if it came off some day?"
Colonel Eldridge laughed. "It would be very agreeable to me," he said.
"I've had things put to me that weren't so agreeable. Fathers don't seem
to have much of a say in these matters nowadays. But, thank goodness, my
girls weren't old enough to run all those risks of war-time. Yes, John,
if that arrangement would suit you, it would certainly suit me. I've
been wondering, quite lately what sort of marriage Pamela would
make--realizing that she was old enough to get married, which I suppose
doesn't come into a father's head about his eldest girl until it's put
there."
"No; or with a son either. But Jim is my only one, and I should like him
to marry early, and see my grandson growing up, if I'm spared so long. I
shouldn't care for my brother Alfred's boys to come into the succession.
However, that's a long way ahead yet. Jim's a steady fellow now, and
inclined to take his life seriously--more seriously, perhaps, than we
did when we were young fellows; but it's not a bad thing either. What I
mean is that I think it would be a good thing for him to marry, and with
such a wife as your Pamela--well, he'd be a very lucky fellow, and
she'd get him on in the world. There's still something to do for a man
in the position he'll have to fill, and the right sort of wife would
help him no end."
When Lord Crowborough had pedalled himself away, Colonel Eldridge went
back to his room, and sat there in front of the fire, with pleasanter
thoughts to keep him company than he had had for some time. The episode
with Fred Comfrey had made its mark upon him, though it had come and
gone so quickly that he had suffered little distress because of it. He
could hardly help thinking of himself as having come down in the world,
since he was no longer able to support the modest dignity that had been
his as the head of an old-established family living in the large house
in the middle of his acres in which his fathers had lived before him.
Fred Comfrey's proposal had seemed to mark that descent, for it had not
been from among men such as he that the daughters of the house had taken
their husbands. Now this so different proposal wiped out the effect of
that one. If only Pamela...!
When he told his wife about it, he found that it was no new idea to her.
"I didn't want to talk about it," she said, "because one is naturally
careful about not appearing to rush at a marriage of that sort. There
will be plenty of people to say that we have been angling for it--or
that I have--if it does happen. I do think that there's no doubt about
Jim. In fact, I shouldn't be in the least surprised if he hadn't put it
to Pam already."
"What--do you mean to say that they have come to an understanding?"
"I'm afraid not. If he has asked her, she has refused him. I don't know,
because she has said nothing to me; but one has a sort of instinct with
one's own daughters. Perhaps it's more likely that she won't give him an
answer yet. They are as good friends as ever. I don't think he would
come here in the way he does if she had refused him definitely."
This rather dashed him. "Crowborough said something about Judith," he
said. "He'd had an idea that she was the attraction; but her ladyship
seems to have chased that idea out of his head."
Mrs. Eldridge laughed, and said: "For once I agree with her. I was
inclined to think it was Judith at one time myself, though I'd hardly
come to think of her as more than a child. They get on splendidly
together, and really I think she'd be more suited to him than Pam.
However, there's no good thinking of that, for it is Pam, and there's no
doubt about it. Darling Pam! I do wish she would come round to it. She
is taking our present troubles hardly, and it would be good for her to
be lifted out of them. Perhaps she will, in time. But there's no good in
pressing her; we must just leave it."
"Oh, pressing her! Good heavens, no! I shouldn't like her to marry him
for the reasons that would appeal to us, either. I believe in a love
match, for everybody; but there ought to be something behind it too."
Mrs. Eldridge leant over his chair and kissed him on the forehead.
"We've never regretted our love match, have we?" she said.
He reached up and took her hand in his. "We hardly thought it was going
to bring us to this pass towards the close of our lives," he said. "But
it won't part us, so it's not so bad. Crowborough said he might be able
to find a house for us. There are several nice little places on his
property. If one of them fell vacant, I could carry on here from it.
Otherwise, I don't see anything for it but to put in an agent, and only
come down now and then. I think now we've made up our minds, the worst
is over. I wish William had written, though. He couldn't do anything to
help us, perhaps; but I should have thought it must have meant something
to him--our having to clear out. Norman must have told him, and there
would have been time to hear from him by now."
"If there's nothing he could do," she said, "perhaps it's as well that
he should leave it alone. We don't want the contrast between us made
plainer than it is."
With that she left him. She could not trust herself to talk with him
about his brother, against whom her anger was hot within her. She knew
with what a weight the estrangement was lying upon him now; that the
irritation he had felt against William had all disappeared; and that he
was inclined to blame himself for all that had happened, to the
justification of the man who was pursuing his eager successful course
without an apparent thought of the troubles from which he had cut
himself loose. She had hoped something from William until now. Looking
back upon the whole course of the quarrel, she did recognize that he
had made efforts to end it, and shown here and there the generosity
which had always been a mark of his character. But, after all, his
generosity had been easy to exercise. They had all lived in close
contact for years, and he had got as good as he had given, in the
affection which had prompted his generosity. Now that had fallen into
the second place with him; he was in pursuit of associations other than
the ties of family, and it was to further them that his openhandedness
would be used. What did they matter to him at Hayslope? He had run away
from the place in which so many of his interests had been bound up,
rather than face the awkwardness of a situation which he could have
ended at any time by a little patience and consideration. Even their
leaving it was nothing to him now. Four days had gone by since he must
have been told of it. He was not away, for Norman had written to Pam
only the day before, and mentioned him. It must be accepted now that he
didn't care. It would be as well that her husband should come to
recognize that, and then he would cease longing for what was over and
done with, and rely only upon those who loved him so dearly for his
solace in life.
But she couldn't hasten the time. He must be made sadder yet before he
could put away his sadness, and accept the new conditions.
She talked to Pamela that night. No pressure was to be put on her, she
had said. She put all the pressure of which she was capable, being very
careful to disguise the fact that she was putting any pressure at all.
She loved Pamela more than her other girls; she was making more and more
of a companion of her; she would hate giving her up to the best of
husbands. But to please her own husband, to get for him, something that
would lift from him some of the weight under which he was drooping, she
would have pushed her daughter into a marriage with less prospects of
happiness in it than this held out. She was ruthless with her, while
talking to her with a sort of cooing tenderness and sympathy, and
searching among half confessions and confidences for the point upon
which she could concentrate to move her. Her father was mentioned but
rarely. There was no plea to sacrifice herself for his sake. But it was
inherent in everything that she said that submission on Pamela's part
would bring something to him that nothing else could in these shadowed
days. She did not place before her any of the advantages that would
accrue to her from a marriage that would bring her wealth and station.
She mentioned them only to make light of them. _They_ knew, she and
Pamela, that those were not the best things in life, though one was
better off with them than without them. What were the best things? They
seemed to be summed up in Horsham, according to her opinion, though she
did not overpraise him.
No disagreement was possible with anything that she said. She put
herself apparently into complete accord with Pamela, and made it
difficult for her so much as to say that she didn't love Horsham; for
that would have been the answer to an invitation that was never made, in
so many words. The respect and even affection that Pamela was made to
acknowledge as representing her feelings towards Horsham were taken as
the most satisfactory with which to start upon married life. That was
apparently agreed on all hands, and was hardly worth discussing. The
question of "falling in love" was lightly touched upon. It sometimes
happened before marriage, sometimes afterwards. The marriages that began
with youthful raptures didn't always turn out the most satisfactory. It
seemed to be indicated that there was something almost indelicate in a
girl's looking out for those raptures; she would have no fear of such a
desire in a daughter of hers.
They ended their long talk under the supposition that Pamela wouldn't
marry for years to come, and discussed the future hopefully. It would be
splendid if Lord Crowborough did find them a nice house, near enough to
Hayslope for father to be able to look after things from there. They
could furnish a house of three or four sitting-rooms and eight or ten
bedrooms beautifully from the Hall, and leave quite enough behind them.
They could have a lovely garden, and there would probably be enough land
for a little farmery, in which they would all interest themselves. "I'm
sure we should be much happier than we are here now," Mrs. Eldridge
said. "I think even father has come to see that, and if he gets rid of
his worries we shall have him with us for many years to come, just as he
used to be. He is more cheerful now than he has been for a long time,
though he isn't well. I do think there's a brighter time coming for us
at last."