"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 t.i.tle, 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 t.i.tle 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 pa.s.sed 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 att.i.tude 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 G.o.d, 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."

CHAPTER XVII

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 l.u.s.tre chandelier of Waterford gla.s.s. The few ornaments admitted were also mostly of old gla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s-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 a.s.sociations 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.