The Hall and the Grange: A Novel

by Archibald Marshall

Sir William enjoyed himself exceedingly. So did Lady Eldridge, who found people among the numerous guests whom she liked and who liked her. They were not all strangers either. The Eldridges had a large circle of acquaintance in London, which touched other circles, and was always enlarging itself. There were people at Wellsbury during that week-end who knew less of the world gathered there than they did.

At least half the guests bore names that were well known, and some were of real eminence. And there were many young people, who made themselves merry, and were encouraged to do so, not only by their hostess, who was merry and high-spirited herself, but by the venerated Minister of State, who listened with a twinkling eye to the hubbub of talk and laughter that arose around him, and sometimes contributed to it. He spent much of his time during the day with the children who were collected there with the rest, and had a grandchild seated on either side of him at lunch on Sunday. He was a very charming benign old gentleman in his own lovely home; the word "harmless" might perhaps have been used to describe him as he showed himself there, and William Eldridge gained some amusement from the recollection of episodes in his official hours, when that epithet would not have seemed suitable.

It did occur to Sir William once or twice during those lovely summer days to ask himself whether he had been invited to Wellsbury with any particular object. He and his wife had been received there almost as if they were habitués of the house; and yet it was over a year since he had had word with Lord Chippenham at all, and this private recognition of him was at least tardy. But there was so much to see and to do, in the great house, full of its wonderful treasures, and full, too, of agreeable and interesting people, that he gave himself up to the flow of it all, and put aside the idea of anything to come of the visit except the pleasure of the visit itself.

Rain came on late on Sunday morning, and though it was not enough to keep everybody indoors and never looked like continuing, Sir William took the opportunity of writing a few letters after luncheon. There was a little panelled room off the billiard-room, which he had seen the evening before, with just one lovely early Dutch picture in it, and he went there rather than to his own room upstairs, partly because he wanted to look at the picture again, partly because of the satisfaction of making use of as many rooms as possible in this beautiful ancient house, in which for two days he was at home.

There was nobody in the billiard-room, or in the inner room, which was open to it, but also in part concealed. He had been there for some little time when two young men came into the billiard-room and began to play. He recognized them by their voices as Nigel Byrne, Lord Chippenham's private secretary, and William Despencer, the youngest son of the house. He went on writing, being now immersed in what he was doing, as his habit was, and paid no further attention to them. It did not occur to him that they would not know that anybody was in the inner room; he did not think about it at all, concentrated as his mind was on his writing. The click of the balls and the voices of the young men, who were playing in desultory fashion and talking all the time, came to him as an accompaniment to his thoughts, but with no more meaning than the noises of traffic would have had if he had been writing in a room in London.

But presently, as he leant back in his chair to consider something, a phrase struck upon his ear, and he woke up to the disagreeable fact that they were talking about him, and for all he knew might have been talking about him for the last ten minutes.

"The Chief thinks a lot of him. He did extraordinarily good work in the war."

"I know he did. These big business men did make themselves useful—some of them. Did pretty well out of it too."

"Eldridge didn't."

It was at this point that Sir William woke up to their speech, but what had come immediately before his name was mentioned, which his ears had taken in without conveying it to his brain, also turned itself into meaning.