AN ENDING AND A BEGINNING
Pamela was sobbing in Norman's arms when Lord Crowborough came into the
room almost immediately after him. She controlled herself with a great
effort, and found herself able to talk to Lord Crowborough, while Norman
went to find his father and mother, who were both in the house.
Lord Crowborough was in great distress, but he had to explain fully why
he had not been able to come earlier, and to express his regret at the
delay. Perhaps his deliberate detailed speech calmed her. She would not
acknowledge to him that hope was small. "When he is well enough it will
be a great pleasure to him to see you," she said. "I knew he would want
to, and that anything that cheers him up must be good for him. That's
why I persuaded Uncle William to go on until he got you. I knew you
would come if you could."
"Oh, yes, my dear; oh, yes. It's dreadfully sad. I should never have
forgiven myself if I hadn't come in time. Poor, dear fellow! It gave me
a great shock to get the news. Dear, dear! I can't believe it now."
He was not consoling, in his evident expectation of the worst, but
Pamela seemed to have strength enough to combat his pessimism. "He will
get better," she said confidently. "He was better this morning.
To-morrow I am sure he will be able to see you."
Lord Crowborough found it necessary to explain why his wife had been
unable to come with him. "But I've sent for Jim," he said. "He'll be
here to-morrow. I wish I'd sent for him before. Norman left Cambridge
this morning, he tells me."
She showed a momentary confusion, but said: "I think father will be
pleased to see Jim too, if he is well enough. We're all very fond of
Jim."
He looked at her and cleared his throat preparatory to some speech of
special meaning, as it seemed; but fortunately for her Lord and Lady
Eldridge came into the room before he could utter it. Norman was with
them, and as their elders engaged in greetings he and Pamela slipped
away together.
They went into Colonel Eldridge's room, which was being used now,
perhaps with the idea of keeping it alive and expectant of him. Norman
took her two hands into his, and said: "Pam darling, it has been you all
the time, but I've only just found it out."
She allowed her tears to fall then. "I've wanted you dreadfully,
lately," she said. "If only father gets better, we shall all be very
happy now."
That was almost the extent of their love-making. They had known each
other for so long. What was in the mind of each gained instant response
from the other. Pamela could take refuge from her deep trouble in his
love; joy in their new discovery could wait.
The discovery itself, however, must not be kept to themselves. Lord
Crowborough was the only person whom it seemed somewhat to disconcert,
but he joined with the rest in the desire to make it known to Pamela's
father. They would get his blessing upon it, which would be a happiness
to them to remember in after years. And it would please and comfort him.
Lord Eldridge, still cherishing determined hope, expected much from it.
Whether he was abundantly pleased himself, or only moderately so, did
not appear, for he seemed to accept it only as it might affect his
brother. But he did accept it; and Lady Eldridge made it plain to
Pamela, with a warm embrace, what it meant to her. Poor Mrs. Eldridge,
who hardly left the sickroom now, treated it as unimportant. But she had
greeted her sister-in-law in a way to show that the late estrangement
was not now in her mind; and she no longer held herself aloof in any way
from her brother-in-law. Perhaps unconsciously she took it as bringing
them all more closely together. She wanted all the support now that
family affection and sympathy could give her.
Pamela stood with Norman by her father's bedside the next morning, and
he smiled at them with full knowledge, and whispered a word to her as
she kissed him. He saw no one else but his wife that day, and on the
afternoon of the next he died. All his family were around him, but he
did not know them. There was none of whom he had not already taken
leave, and he had left them with no trouble on his mind on their behalf,
except the great sorrow of his loss, which time would change into a most
loving memory.
Time had already softened the sorrow when Spring came treading its
flowery way over the gardens of Hayslope and the country round them. If
there were still tears shed at the Hall there was sometimes laughter
too, from the young people whose life lay all before them, and on whom
no burden of loss could rest forever. And care was lifted from the
house, though at a very heavy price.
Mrs. Eldridge sometimes asked herself if it was possible that she should
ever come to enjoy life again, the question being prompted not by the
desire to do so, but by an uneasy suspicion of disloyalty because she
was beginning to find these bright soft spring days pleasant, in the
house and in the garden. She need not have feared, for she never had
that sensation of grateful expectancy which is spring's message and
bright consolation without an immediate pang to follow it. She had not
made herself his constant companion in the comings and goings of his
days, but never for very long together had she been without the sense of
his being there. When she had most seemed to be taking her own way, her
life in its ultimate ends had yet been lived with reference to him. Now
she had to adopt a life not so very different from that which she had
led before at Hayslope to a new impulsion. The life was pleasant enough
in itself, but at present it seemed to count for nothing. The days came,
ran their quiet course, and ended. Each one carried her a little farther
from the time when she had had him with her. And she would live them for
years to come, with nothing to look forward to. So it seemed to her
when she thought about it; and presently she found it was better not to
think about it, but to take the days as they came. Then her spirit
quieted itself by degrees, and her grief became less bewildering.
She and Lady Eldridge were close friends again now. There had been a
time, after her husband's death, when she had put it down to the trouble
through which he had gone on account of his brother. Then she had held
herself aloof from them. But the feeling had faded away. What did it
matter now? He was dead. Keeping up the quarrel in her mind would not
bring him back. And he had been so glad to have it ended. He had given
her and his children over to his brother's keeping, in solemn words to
her, almost the last of any he had spoken. Her mind was too tired to
think it out. She just let go of the feeling, and presently it died.
William was very good to her, and she recognized that his goodness came
from his love for his brother, whose wishes in anything to do with
Hayslope it was his guiding principle to follow. He took all money
affairs into his hands. He had assured her that the substantial income
she had to spend was due to her, and not supplemented by him, except
that he asked her to live at the Hall, as long as it suited her, and she
paid no rent for it. He professed great frankness with her, and told her
that the lines upon which he was dealing with her income enabled him to
make more of it. She did not ask how it was done; she was content, for
herself and her girls, to live quietly for the present at Hayslope,
under his protective influence. They were all one family again now,
though its headship had shifted.
* * * * *
One windy day of early April, when the daffodils were gleaming and
swaying under the trees, and all the air was clean and sweet, Norman and
Pamela walked together in the garden and down through the wood. Norman
had just come home from Cambridge. He and Pamela had been very little
together since the discovery of their love for one another, under the
sorrow that had prompted it but forbidden that absorption in themselves
which is the usual effect of such discoveries. Perhaps their love was
all the deeper because of the sorrow. Pamela had clung to Norman in her
grief, and had aroused in him the strongest emotion to pity and
protection towards her. Their love had struck deep roots during that sad
time.
Then had followed the constant interchange of letters, in which all the
marvellous phenomena of their mutual attraction had been minutely
explored with one hurried week-end visit from Norman, just to assure
himself that Pamela was real flesh and blood, and that she loved him as
much as she said she did. Now they would be together for a month, before
Norman's final term at Cambridge. Already Pamela's sorrow had become
gentler. They would often talk very seriously and soberly together; but
they were very young, and they were going to be very happy. It would not
be forbidden them to be light-hearted during that Easter vacation.
They were discussing the future now. It involved, immediately, a great
deal of work for Norman's final examinations, and a visit from Pamela to
Cambridge when their tyranny should be overpast, and more lightsome
pursuits would follow. After that?
Well, Cambridge term ends when summer is still young. Wouldn't this be
the happiest time for a honeymoon? They would go abroad, to the most
beautiful places they could find, within the restricted area which the
war had left in Europe for searchers after summer beauty. Then they
would come back to England, at the time when England--or perhaps
Scotland--offered more than any other country. And some time in the
autumn they would make a home for themselves, which gave them more to
talk about even than the prospective travels.
Their first home was to be that Town Farm which Colonel Eldridge had so
wished he could afford to restore for his own occupation. The visits of
the best available architect, and consultation over plans, would very
pleasurably occupy the weeks of the vacation. The work would go on while
they were abroad, and be finished in the late summer, if the conditions
of the building trade permitted. Then there would be the house to
furnish, and the garden to make anew. Here was something to dwell upon!
But Pamela had a trifle of doubt in the corner of her mind. "Of course
it will be perfectly heavenly living there together," she said. "But I
shouldn't like you to lead an altogether idle life."
He laughed at her. "Darling old thing!" he said. "I shall be as busy as
the day is long. I had a talk with father last night, which I wanted to
tell you about; but there are so many things to say that you've just got
to take them as they come. He says I needn't work with the idea of
earning my living. It seems that he has been watching me, when I thought
he was so busy about other things that I was out of the orbit of his
eagle eye. I hardly know how to tell you this without blushing; but he
says that if I'd shown myself any sort of a waster he'd have dumped me
down on an office stool and seen that I stuck to it, or made me do
something equally beastly until I'd made good for myself. He was quite
frank, as only a father can be, and said that he had sometimes thought I
was a bit too passionate in the pursuit of pleasure. But he'd come to
the conclusion that on the whole I had made whatever I had to do for the
time being the chief thing. So he thought I could be trusted not to
abuse the freedom he was going to give me. And this is where _you_
blush, Pam--he thought you were just the right sort of girl to temper my
wayward tendencies. He wasn't sure what I could do best in the world,
because I seemed to like doing such lots of things that if he gained an
idea of anything special one moment he had to give it up the next. But
with you to steady me, I ought to be able to do _something_. He's a wise
bird--the Lord Eldridge of Hayslope. He knows how happy we are going to
be together, and he's going to let us be as happy as ever we can. Make
people happy, and you'll make 'em good."
"He has been very good to us," said Pamela. "I wasn't quite sure that he
was really pleased, at first. It was very sweet of him to talk like
that about me. I'm sure there are heaps of things you will do, darling,
better than other people; and you know I'll do every mortal thing I can
to help you. Uncle Bill shan't be disappointed in me."
"Adorable angel," said Norman. "Father's as pleased as he can be about
us. He said he saw it coming all the time. So did mother. It seems so
extraordinary that _we_ didn't."
The conversation then took a lighter turn. Pamela threw a quick look at
him, and said: "Well, you were rather busy looking out for somebody
else, weren't you? I often used to wonder who it would be, and I'm bound
to say that I never thought it would be me. I can't be blamed. It would
have looked so very unlikely."
"Now, Pam, we've had that out before. If I hadn't told you all about all
of them as they came and went--especially as they went--I might be
inclined to wince at your reminder. But I suppose you only want me to
say again that I could never have loved anybody but you for more than a
few minutes, and that what I felt for all those charmers put together
wasn't a drop in the ocean compared to what I feel for you. Oh, Lord!
What a discovery it was! Pam darling, could I have just one? It would be
such a refreshment."
There was a short interlude, and then Pam said: "I don't think I really
feel jealous about Margaret and Company--Unlimited. It will give us
something to talk about in future years. Still, I'm glad that I didn't
go about falling in love myself."
"So am I, darling. But people would soon have begun to fall in love
with you. There was poor old Jim already."
She turned her head away, and a blush came to her face. "I'd rather that
you didn't talk about him and me like that," she said. "For one thing,
he will almost certainly marry Judith some day."
"I suppose so. How are they getting on together? Has he been over since
he came down?"
"Yes. It's rather touching to see them. Poor little Ju! She has been
frightfully sad, and she's kept it so much to herself. Jim seems to have
just the right way with her. She talks about father to him, I know. And
he was so nice about us, Norman. I think there's something really fine
about Jim, and we've been rather prigs about him. He hasn't got our sort
of interests; but Judith hasn't either, and nobody could call her dull.
Jim is simple in a large sort of way; and it's a very good quality."
"Yes, I think it is. And he _has_ behaved well, for it must have been a
bit of a knock for him to come and find you and me as we were. You do
think he and Judy will fix it up between them, do you?"
"Not yet. But I think it will come. They're rather like you and me. Each
of them is what the other wants, and they'll find it out all of a
sudden."
"What has become of Mr. Fred Comfrey, Pam? I haven't seen him since
father found out what sort of a fellow he was, and wouldn't have
anything more to do with him."
Her face grew shadowed again. "He doesn't come here," she said. "Mrs.
Comfrey thinks it is my fault. At least, she'll hardly speak to me; and
I suppose it is that. I'm not sure that I ought not to have given him my
answer myself, instead of leaving it to Daddy."
"Oh, my dear child, it was infernal impudence of him to think about you
at all--a creature like that!"
"Well, I suppose you have always been right about him. But he showed his
best side to me. There was a lot that was good and kind in him."
"Nobody is all bad, I suppose; and even a beast like that rises to
something, when he's thinking about somebody else, and not always about
himself. The trouble is, though, that it doesn't always last. I've seen
it in marriages made in a hurry during the war. What's so heavenly about
us, Pam, is that we do know each other; and yet there's always something
new, somehow. I don't believe there's anybody in the world loves
somebody else more than I love you. And I love you more and more every
day. I may have made one or two half-hearted experiments before, but
there was never anything like this."
"Not even when Margaret said 'Good-bye, Norman'?"
"That was a thrill, I admit. But what a faint thrill, after all! Nothing
like what I get every time you come into a room. But there's something
more than thrills in it. The thrills are only the ripples on the
surface. The real love is the quiet deep water underneath. That's what
we've got, darling. It will last us all our lives."
They had come down to Barton's Close, where the thick grass had already
hidden all signs of the disturbance to which it had been subjected.
They found a bank on the edge of it bright with primroses, upon which
the sun was shining, and sat there for a time. Looking over the rich
green carpet of the meadow, it was natural that they should fall into
talk of the disturbances that had had their rise here; for there was no
subject that they shirked, and this one had affected them deeply.
"Of course it was nothing in itself," Norman said. "If it hadn't been
for an accident here and there, they would have settled it at once.
Father says that. It began with their writing letters to one another,
instead of talking it over. Then when they did talk the quarrel had gone
too far."
"Does Uncle Bill talk about it still?"
"He talked about it yesterday. He feels it very much still."
"Poor Uncle Bill! But I've thought about it a lot, and I don't love him
any less because of it. If he weren't sorry about it himself, I suppose
it would make a difference. But I know he did love my darling Daddy;
they loved one another underneath it all. They both knew it at the last.
When father couldn't speak any more, and Uncle Bill took my hand in his,
and said he would look after me and all of us, I could tell by the way
he looked at him that that was what he wanted. Oh, they did love one
another, I know. If only that quarrel hadn't come between them, almost
at the last! Why do people quarrel who love one another?"
"I think that we ought not to make too much of it, Pam darling. I've
thought about it too. It's because poor Uncle Edmund died that it seems
so important. If he had lived they would have made it up. They couldn't
have helped themselves, because of what they really were to one another.
Then it would all have been forgotten very quickly; and I should think
they would both have been careful that it shouldn't happen again."
"Yes, I dare say that's true. But it just shows that it doesn't do for
people who love one another to let themselves quarrel at all. We never
will, will we?"
They agreed upon that, and upon many other things. Then they walked
slowly back to the Hall together, hand in hand part of the way. Miss
Baldwin, from her watch tower of the schoolroom window, saw them under
the trees before they came out on to the lawn as separate units. She had
seen few signs of the emotion she had craved for between them, and to
catch that glimpse of them together pleased her. It was the right ending
of the story whose vicissitudes she had watched with such interest. Its
later chapters had been sadder than she had anticipated, and her
sympathies had of late been more human than literary with the family
with whom she lived. But the shadow of loss seemed to be lifting, in
these sunny spring days. It was not forbidden to her now to weave her
tales around them. Already she scented another absorbing romance to
unfold itself before her eyes. And with this one, the interest of which
she might have expected to come to an end with the approaching pealing
of wedding bells, she found herself still looking forward. For if you
could take leave of the heroes and heroines of fiction at the church
door, with no wish to follow their fortunes further, it was not so with
those with whom you had come to feel a living sympathy. For them a new
story was beginning, from which as much happiness was to be looked for
as from the one that had led up to it.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's The Hall and the Grange, by Archibald Marshall