He broke off. "You've wished lately that I'd known that," said Colonel Eldridge quietly. "So do I. One doesn't quarrel with men who treat one like that."

Lord Crowborough didn't quite understand him. "I don't think you need consider it as an extra obligation," he said. "I know it was over and done with, for William, when he wrote his cheque, and made me promise to say nothing about it. I've talked to him since, as you know, and he was extremely irritated against you--no sense in pretending he wasn't--but _that_ never came up. I'm sure he's never grudged it, whatever has happened since."

"I wasn't thinking about the money. I've thought too much about William's money, and talked too much about it, to you among others. His money made it easy for him, perhaps, to pay what had to be paid; but it had nothing to do with his taking pains to keep me from knowledge of my son's disgrace."

Lord Crowborough brightened. "Oh, I'm so glad you've said that, Edmund,"

he said. "You've both misunderstood each other, and you've drifted apart. My dear fellow, if this brings you together again-- Oh, I shall be so glad of that."

Again there was silence for a time. Then Colonel Eldridge said: "Horsham knows, I suppose. He and this--this woman's son joined together, didn't they? It was plain to all of them."

Lord Crowborough had forgotten for the moment what a shock the certain knowledge of his son's disgrace must have been to him, and set himself to remove the effects of it from his mind. Colonel Eldridge accepted what he said, listlessly, but it was evident that no words could heal the wound that had been dealt him. Only time could do that. Even the knowledge of his brother's action, which had changed the current of his thoughts for a time seemed to have brought him only temporary relief. He seemed hardly interested in it now. There was an air of hopeless depression on him that Lord Crowborough was quite unable to remove.

He roused himself to agree upon what steps to take. There was little that could be done. Lord Crowborough himself answered the letter then and there. He wrote on behalf of his friend, who was ill. His own son had been concerned in the affair about which Mrs. Barrett had written to Colonel Eldridge, and all the facts were known to him. Until now they had not been known to Colonel Eldridge. He would not pretend that he understood the motives which had led her to deliver such a blow to a man who had lost his only son, and thus immeasurably increase his grief. He would only beg of her to let the story go no farther.

He directed and closed the letter without offering to show it to Colonel Eldridge, who made no request that he should do so. Then he burnt the letter that had worked such mischief, and soon afterwards he went away, very disturbed in his mind at what had taken place, and what its effects might be.

Colonel Eldridge lay in bed all that day, doing nothing, and not wishing to talk. The next day he got up, and went about his business as usual, though Mrs. Eldridge begged him to stay in the house.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE TRODDEN WAY

It was a wild night of wind and rain. Mrs. Eldridge and Pamela sat in the morning-room, waiting. Every now and then Mrs. Eldridge would go upstairs, and creep quietly into her husband's room, to see if he was still asleep. Then she would come down again, and they would sit still, talking very little, while the big clock in the corner ticked on, and the gusts of rain blew against the window-panes.

Colonel Eldridge had come in the evening before, shivering, and had gone to bed. In the morning his temperature was high, but he said he felt better, and refused to have a doctor sent for. Mrs. Eldridge, however, took that matter into her own hands, and sent for one, who came towards the end of the morning. He took a grave view of the case, and feared pneumonia. He would come again in the evening, and bring a nurse with him. It might be late before he came. There was a lot of illness about, and nurses were difficult to get.

There was no telephone at the Hall, but there was one at the Grange.

Pamela and Judith had spent most of the afternoon there. At last the doctor had telephoned that a nurse was coming down from London by the last train. He would meet her and bring her himself.

The train arrived at a quarter past eleven, and it was half an hour's motor-run to the Hall. On such a night as this it might take longer.

The time crept on. Soon after half-past eleven Pamela sprang up from her chair. "I'm sure I heard a motor," she said, and ran to the window.

"It's too early yet," Mrs. Eldridge said; but Pamela had drawn back the curtains. The strong headlights of a big car were already swinging round to the hall door.

They went out, and Mrs. Eldridge opened the door, as the bell rang. It was Lord Eldridge who was standing there, already unfastening his heavy fur coat.

He slipped it off as he came in. He was in his evening clothes. "How is he?" he asked, without any other greeting. "Has the nurse come yet?"

Many emotions crossed Mrs. Eldridge's mind, but the chief of them, in spite of her disappointment, and the resentment she had nurtured against him, was relief at his appearance; for it seemed to her that if anything ought to be done, he could do it.

When he heard of the nurse expected, he considered, watch in hand, whether it would be worth while to motor back in his fast car towards the station, but decided against it. In a few minutes the doctor and the nurse would be coming. He went into the morning-room with Pamela, while Mrs. Eldridge went upstairs again.

"I only got your message just before nine o'clock," he said. "They didn't know where to find me."

She stood before him, looking up into his face. "I haven't told mother I tried to get you," she said, "in case you couldn't come. I knew you would if you could, Uncle Bill."'

"Oh, my dear, of course. Poor dear fellow! But he'll get over it. We'll pull him round between us."

There was such an air of energy and resource about him that it seemed as if he could do more than a nurse or a doctor. He was wiping his face, which was red, and wet with the rain. He told her hurriedly that he had come up from Suffolk only that afternoon, and had gone to his club for the night. He had dined out, and her message had pa.s.sed to and fro until it had found him, when he had come straight away. "If I'd only gone home, as I might have done," he said, "I should have been here hours ago, and might have brought a nurse down with me."

He put his arm round her as she bent her head to hide her tears. "There, there, my dear!" he said consolingly. "Don't worry. It will be all right now."

She dried her eyes. "I don't want mother to see me upset," she said; "but I've been so frightened. Father has hardly ever been ill, until lately. He has been so worried and unhappy, I suppose he couldn't throw it off. I'm sure it will be the best thing for him that you have come at once, like this."

A shade pa.s.sed over his face. "I'd have come before if I'd thought he would want me," he said. "It's been an unhappy business, but it's all over now. It _shall_ be all over. I've taken offence too readily. I won't take offence at anything now."

"I'm sure there'll be nothing to take offence at," she said, a little stiffly. "When you see him, you'll only be sorry for him."

Mrs. Eldridge came in at that moment. "He's awake," she said. "He had heard the car and I had to tell him it was you who had come, William. He wants to see you. I don't know--"

"If he wants it!" he said, preparing to go. "I shan't upset him, Cynthia. And the doctor ought to be here directly."

She took him upstairs. "He's very ill," she said, in a colourless voice.

"I know he is, though he says he isn't. I'm sure he mustn't be excited.

But I had to tell him you were here, and he would see you at once."

"I shan't excite him," he said shortly.

They went into the room. Colonel Eldridge was lying in his bed in a corner of the room, with a shaded reading-lamp by his side. He hardly looked ill, and he greeted his brother in his ordinary voice. "Well, Bill, I'm glad you've come, though it's a beastly night to get you out.

You didn't walk through the wood, did you?"

His brother understood at once that he was light-headed. "No, old boy,"

he said, taking his hand in his. "I came in the car. I thought I must look in and see how you were. You'll have the doctor here in a minute.

I'll keep you company till he comes."

He sat down by the bed, while Mrs. Eldridge stood, not knowing what to do. "You can leave me and Bill for a bit," her husband said. "I want to talk to him about that four acre field at Barton's Close. I don't think it's much good for pasture where it is. I thought he might like to take it into his garden. Just see if you can find the big estate map in my room."

She went out slowly. "That's a good idea, Edmund," William said in a quiet voice. "We can talk it over when you're better. I shouldn't think about it now, if I were you. Let me make you a bit more comfortable."

He rearranged the bedclothes, which his brother had thrown off, talking in a soothing voice as he did so. Colonel Eldridge was in a high fever.

He thought it was his father who was with him, and said: "William didn't want to get into the punt. It was me who made him."

What strange things come to the surface of the mind when it is no longer under control! Years ago, when they were children, they had been upset from a shooting punt, into which they had been forbidden to go. It was one of countless such pranks that had been forgotten, or at least never brought to memory. It came to William now that his brother had always taken blame on himself for any of them that had turned out unfortunately, and touched him acutely. It was his elder brother who was lying there, until lately the person most looked up to in all his world.

His heart was constricted with a poignant emotion, and his voice trembled as he said words that would calm the rapid flow of his speech, now becoming more incoherent. Oh, if only they could pull him through this, he would never allow himself again to treat him as anything but the elder brother, whom he could uphold, but must not gainsay. What would it matter if he was sometimes unreasonable? There was no one else in the world to whom it was so worth while to give in; no one who carried with him that sense of rightful authority, even of protection.

He had been borne down by his troubles. Were any of them his brother's making?

The doctor and the nurse came in. William was sent out of the room at once.

By the next day they seemed to have settled down to the struggle for a life, as if nothing else in the world mattered. Lord Eldridge, after a few hours' sleep, had motored back to London, to find and bring down another nurse. He had sent for his wife to come to the Grange, and set in hand all arrangements for their staying there, and for the carrying on of such of his work as could not be left undone. He was back at the Hall before mid-day, looking as if he had been doing nothing out of the usual run, but with a deep gravity underlying his capable confidence-bearing demeanour. His contact with Mrs. Eldridge was almost impersonal. She relied on him, and talked with him about what was to be done without any sense of awkwardness. Her resentments were not solved; they were just put aside. But for the girls the estrangement was over and done with. They clung to his authority and resource, and to his warm supporting affection, which he showed towards them so abundantly.

Soon after he had returned, Mrs. Eldridge came to him and said that her husband wanted to see him. He was quite himself now. The nurse had said that he had better have his way, but Lord Eldridge must be careful not to excite him, and must not stop in the room long.

The weight of past trouble was upon Mrs. Eldridge now. She hesitated and faltered, and it was plain that she disliked being the bearer of this message.