The Hall and the Grange: A Novel

by Archibald Marshall

When Norman went to his room he did not immediately get ready to go to bed. The window attracted him, open to all the loveliness of the summer night, and he went and leant out of it, taking into his nostrils the scent of the dew-steeped earth, and into his ears the little noises that a nature-lover can perceive and distinguish, where to others there is only silence.

The world was so beautiful, and life was so full and interesting, that it was impossible for him to be affected overmuch by either of the factors that had just been introduced into it. The honour that was coming to his father he thought a very proper one, and he had seen that he was pleased about it, not only because of the work that it would enable him to do. Norman had no fault to find with that. It would be rather fun to call yourself Lord Something-or-other, though the thrill would probably pass off sooner than you expected. It would even be rather fun to be called "the Honourable" though that would no doubt pass off too—rather more quickly. That seemed to be about all there was to it; but there had been so many peerages created of late years that there had even come to be something to deprecate about such handles to your name. You were always coming across fellows you had never heard of before who called themselves, quite legitimately, "the Honourable." He would be one of them now, and he grinned to himself as he imagined the chaff to which he would be subjected on that account, and formulated a few of the replies he would make to it.

But he had soon exhausted the subject, and his smile faded as that other troublesome affair took its place in his mind.

He didn't like that at all. It seemed to contradict all the jolly things that were connected in his mind with his uncle, who was stiffer in manner than his father, but so kind-hearted underneath it all. He had never thought of him as he had been reflected in his father's speech, and it was difficult to think about him like that now, though he certainly seemed to be behaving in a way that could scarcely be defended.

His window overlooked the wooded valley that lay between the two houses, and the opposite hill. A corner of the Hall could be seen from it. His thoughts went out to his cousins, asleep there, and especially to Pam, whom he loved more than the others. He and Pam were as close friends as they had always been. He couldn't do without Pam. He always wanted to tell her everything that had happened to him, as he supposed fellows who had favourite sisters did. But he was not quite so sure now of her always adopting his views. She was getting together a collection of views of her own. How would she take this?

It was not necessary to accept seriously what she had said this evening about their backing up their respective parents in any dispute between them, and quarrelling with each other because of their quarrel. Her mother and his wouldn't do that. They would try to get at the rights of the case. There must be a right and a wrong somewhere, and it was probable that there was some of each on both sides. He had only heard his father's story so far, and Pam would only hear her father's. They ought to put their heads together and balance the two.

He thought over this for some time, and came to the conclusion that they were not likely to agree, which somewhat depressed him. Then he thought it over further still, and it seemed to him that the only thing to say to Pam was: "You and I can't get at the rights of it, so let's leave it alone altogether, and by and by it will right itself. And above all, don't let it make any difference to us."

Would Pam accept that, as the course laid down by his superior wisdom? A year or two ago, she certainly would have done so. If she didn't now, it would seem as if he had lost some of his influence over her.