“Well, after all,” Oldmeadow after another moment felt impelled to say, “She got hold of you, too. In the same way; by believing in herself and by understanding you. She thinks she’s right.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Barney and for a moment, an acutely uncomfortable one for Oldmeadow, he turned his eyes on his friend. “Thinks she’s right! You needn’t tell me that, Roger!”
It had indeed, Oldmeadow felt, hardly been decent of him.
“I know. Of course she would. But, all the same, people must be allowed to hold their own opinions.”
“Must they?” said Barney. “At a time like this? Adrienne must, of course; as a woman she doesn’t come into it; she brings other people in, that is to say, and keeps out herself. Besides she’s an American. But Palgrave shouldn’t be allowed the choice. He’s dishonouring us all—as Meg has done. Poor, foolish, wretched Mother! She’s seeing it at last, though she won’t allow herself to say it, or, rather, Adrienne won’t allow her—” He checked himself.
“Dishonour is a strong word, Barney. Palgrave is hardly more than a boy.”
“Jim Errington is a year younger than Palgrave, and Peter Layard six months. They’re both in. I don’t think nineteen is too young to dishonour your family. If Palgrave committed a murder, he’d be hanged. But it will no doubt come to conscription and then we’ll see where he’ll find himself. Herded in as a Tommy. All this talk of a few months is folly.”
“I know. Yes. Folly,” said Oldmeadow absently. “Have you tried to have it out with Palgrave, Barney? If he only hears Adrienne’s side what can you expect of him? If you leave them all to sink or swim without you, you mustn’t blame Adrienne for steering as best she can.”
“Sink or swim without me!” Barney echoed. “Why they’d none of them listen to me. You saw well enough how it was with them that day in July when you came up. Adrienne is twice as strong as I am when it comes to anything like a struggle and she has them all firmly under her thumb. She steers because she intends to steer and intends I shan’t. I’ve tried nothing with Palgrave, except to keep my hands off him. Mother’s talked to him, and Meg’s talked to him; but nothing does any good. Oh, yes; Meg hangs on Adrienne because she’s got nothing else to hang to; but she’s frightfully down on Palgrave all the same. They’re all united against me, but they’re not united among themselves by any means. It’s not a peaceful family party at Coldbrooks, I promise you. Poor Mother spends most of her time shut up in her room crying.”
Barney offered no further information on this occasion and Oldmeadow asked for no more. It was from Mrs. Aldesey, some weeks later, that he heard that Eric Hayward had been killed. Mrs. Aldesey was his most punctual correspondent and her letters, full of pungent, apposite accounts of how the war was affecting London, the pleasantest experiences that came to him on the Berkshire downs, where, indeed, he did not find life unpleasant. Mrs. Aldesey made time for these long letters after tiring days spent among Belgian refugees and his sense of comradeship had been immensely deepened by the vast, new experience they were, from their different angles, sharing. It was difficult, on the soft October day, to dissociate the mere pleasure of reading her letter from the miserable news she gave. Yet he knew, stretched at ease after strenuous exercise, the canvas of his tent idly flapping above him and the sunlight falling across his feet, that it was very miserable news indeed and must miserably affect his friends at Coldbrooks. What was to become of poor Meg now? And after his mind had paused on poor Meg a pang of memory brought back the face of his setter John. Poor Hayward.