CHAPTER I

ELIZABETH'S CAMPAIGN

by

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

Author of _Lady Rose's Daughter_, _Missing_, etc.

Frontispiece in Color by C. Allan Gilbert

1918

[Illustration: ELIZABETH]

TO THE DEAR AND GALLANT

MEMORY

OF

T. S. A.

PASSCHENDAELE, OCTOBER 11, 1917

FOREWORD

This book was finished in April 1918, and represents

the mood of a supremely critical moment in the war.

M. A. W.

ELIZABETH'S CAMPAIGN

CHAPTER I

'Remember, Slater, if I am detained, that I am expecting the two

gentlemen from the War Agricultural Committee at six, and Captain

Mills of the Red Cross is coming to dine and sleep. Ask Lady

Chicksands to look after him in case I am late--and put those

Tribunal papers in order for me, by the way. I really must go

properly into that Quaker man's case--horrid nuisance! I hope to be

back in a couple of hours, but I can't be sure. Hullo, Beryl! I

thought you were out.'

The speaker, Sir Henry Chicksands, already mounted on his cob

outside his own front door, turned from his secretary, to whom he

had been giving these directions, to see his only daughter hurrying

through the inner hall with the evident intention of catching her

father before he rode off.

She ran down the steps, but instead of speaking at once she began to

stroke and pat his horse's neck, as though doubtful how to put what

she had to say.

'Well, Beryl, what's the matter?' said her father impatiently. The

girl, who was slender and delicate in build, raised her face to his.

'Are you--are you really going to Mannering, father?'

'I am--worse luck!'

'You'll handle him gently, won't you?' There was anxiety in the

girl's voice. 'But of course you will--I know you will.'

Chicksands shrugged his shoulders.

'I shall do my best. But you know as well as I do that he's a queer

customer when it comes to anything connected with the war.'

The girl looked behind her to make sure that the old butler of the

house had retired discreetly out of earshot.

'But he can't quarrel with _you_, father!'

'I hope not--for your sake.'

'Must you really tackle him?'

'Well, I thought I was the person to do it. It's quite certain

nobody else could make anything of it.'

Privately Beryl disagreed, but she made no comment.

'Aubrey seems to be pretty worried,' she said, in a depressed tone,

as she turned away.

'I don't wonder. He should have brought up his father better. Well,

good-bye, dear. Don't bother too much.'

She waved her hand to him as he made off, and stood watching him

from the steps--a gentle, attaching figure, her fair hair and the

pale oval of her face standing out against the panelled hall behind

her.

Her father went his way down a long winding hill beyond his own

grounds, along a country road lined with magnificent oaks, through a

village where his practised eye noted several bad cottages with

disapproval, till presently he slackened his horse's pace, as he

passed an ill-looking farm about half a mile beyond the village.

'Not a decent gate in the whole place!' he said to himself with

disgust. 'And the farm buildings only fit for a bonfire. High time

indeed that we made Mannering sit up!'

He paused also to look over the neighbouring hedge at some fields

literally choked with weeds.

'And as for Gregson--lazy, drunken fellow! Why didn't he set some

village women on? Just see what they've done on my place! Hullo,

here he is! Now I'm in for it!' For he saw a slouching man coming

rapidly towards him from the farmyard, with the evident intention

of waylaying him. The man's shabby, untidy dress and blotched

complexion did not escape Sir Henry's quick eye. 'Seems to have

been making a night of it,' was his inward comment.

'Good-day, Sir Henry,' said the farmer, laying a hand on Chicksands'

bridle, 'I wanted a word with you, sir. I give you fair warning, you

and your Committee, you'll not turn me out without a fight! I was

never given no proper notice--and there are plenty as 'll stand by

me.'

The voice was thick and angry, and the hand shook. Sir Henry drew

his horse away, and the man's hold dropped.

'Of course you had every notice,' said Sir Henry drily.

'I hadn't,' the man persisted. 'If the letters as they talk of were

sent, I never saw 'em. And when the Committee came I was out--on

business. Can't a man be out on his lawful business, Sir Henry,

instead of dancin' attendance on men as know no better than he? The

way this Government is doing things--you might as well live under

the Czar of Russia as in this country. It's no country this for

free men now, Sir Henry.'

'The Czar of Russia has come to grief, my man, for the same reason

that you have,' said Sir Henry, gathering up the reins, 'for

shirking his duty. All very well before the war, but now we can't

afford this kind of thing.'

'And so you've told the Squire to turn me out?' said the man

fiercely, his hands on his sides.

'You've had no notice from Mr. Mannering yet?'

'Not a word.'

'But you've heard from the Inspection Committee?'

The man nodded.

'But it's not they as can turn me out, if the Squire don't agree.'

There was a note of surly defiance in his voice.

'I don't know about that,' said Sir Henry, whose horse was getting

restive. 'My advice to you, Gregson, is to take it quietly, pull

yourself together, and get some other work. There's plenty going

nowadays.'

'Thank you for nothing, Sir Henry. I've got plenty to advise

me--people as I set more store by. I've got a wife and children,

sir, and I shan't give in without a fuss--you may be sure of that.

Good-day to you.'

Sir Henry nodded to him and rode off.

'He'll go, of course,' reflected the rider. 'Our powers are quite

enough. But if I can't get Mannering to send the notice, it'll be a

deal more trouble. Hullo, here's some one else! This is another pair

of boots!'

He had scarcely turned the corner beyond the farm when another man

came running down the sloping field, calling to him. Sir Henry

pulled up his horse again. But his aspect had changed, and his voice

took another note.

'Did you want to speak to me, Adam? A nice day, isn't it?'

'I saw you, Sir Henry, from the top of the field, talking to Gregson

in the road, and I thought perhaps you'd let me have a few words

with you. You know, sir, this is awfully hard lines.'

Sir Henry looked impatient, but the man who had spoken to him was a

fine specimen of young manhood--broad-shouldered, clear-eyed, with a

natural dignity of manner, not at all a person to be brushed aside.

'I'm sure you can't defend Gregson, Adam,' said Sir Henry, 'you--one

of the best farmers in the district! I wish they had put you on the

Inspection Committee.'

'Well, they didn't,' said the other, perhaps with a slight emphasis.

'And there's many of us feel, I can assure you, as I do. Gregson's a

poor creature, but he hasn't had quite fair play, Sir Henry--that's

what we feel. And he's been fifteen years on his place.' The man

spoke hesitatingly, but strongly. There was a queer, suppressed

hostility in his pleasant blue eyes.

'Fifteen years too long,' interrupted Sir Henry. 'I tell you, Adam,

we can't afford now to let men like Gregson spoil good land while

the country's likely to go hungry! The old happy-go-lucky days are

done with. I wonder whether even you recognize that we're fighting

for our lives?'

'I know we are, Sir Henry. But if the war makes slaves of us what

good will it do if we do win it?'

Sir Henry laughed. 'Well, Adam, you were always a Radical and I was

always a Conservative. And I don't like being managed any more than

you do. But look at the way I'm managed in my business!--harried up

and down by a parcel of young fellows from the Ministry that often

seem to me fools! But we've all got to come in. And this country's

worth it!'

'You know I'm with you there, sir. But why don't you get at the

Squire himself? What good have he or his agent ever been to anybody?

You're a landlord worth living under; but--'

'Ah! don't be in too great a hurry, Adam, and you'll see what you

will see!' And with a pleasant salute, his handsome face twitching

between frowns and smiles, Sir Henry rode on. 'What trade unionists

we all are--high and low! That man's as good a farmer as Gregson's a

vile one. But he stands by his like, as I stand by mine.'

Then his thoughts took a different turn. He was entering a park,

evidently of wide extent, and finely wooded. The road through it had

long fallen out of repair, and was largely grass-grown. A few sheep

were pasturing on it, and a few estate cottages showed here and

there. Sir Henry looked about him with quick eyes. He understood

that the Inspection Sub-Committee, constituted under the Corn

Production Act, and on the look-out for grass-land to put under the

plough, had recommended the ploughing up of all this further end of

Mannering Park. It carried very few sheep under its present

management; and the herd of Jersey cattle that used to graze it had

long since died out. As for the game, it had almost gone--before the

war. No use, either for business or play!

Then--on this early autumn day of 1917--Sir Henry fell to musing on

the vast changes coming over England in consequence of the war. 'Who

would ever have believed that we--_we_ should put ourselves to

school as we have done? Military service, rations, food-prices, all

our businesses "controlled," and now our land looked after! How much

of it has come to stay? Well, it won't affect me much! Ah! is that

the Rector?'

For a hundred yards ahead of him he perceived a clerical figure,

spare and tall, in a wideawake hat, swinging towards him. The

September sun was westering, and behind the approaching man lay

broad stretches of wood, just showing here and there the first

bronze and purple signs of autumn.

The Rector, recognizing the solitary rider, waved his hand in

welcome, and Sir Henry pulled up. The two men, who were evidently

personal friends, exchanged greetings.

'You're going to the Hall, Sir Henry?' said the Rector.

Sir Henry described his business.

The Rector shook his head reflectively.

'You haven't announced yourself, I hope?'

'No, I took that simple precaution. I suppose he's already pretty

savage?'

'With whom? The Committee? Yes, you won't find him easy to deal

with. But just at present there's a distraction. His new secretary

arrived some weeks ago, and he now spends his whole time, from

morning till night, dictating to her and showing her his things.'

'Secretary? A woman? Good heavens! Who is she?'

'A great swell, I understand. Oxford First Class in Mods, Second in

Greats. I've only just seen her. A striking-looking person.'

'Why isn't she in France, or doing munition work?' growled Sir

Henry.

'I don't know. I suppose she has her reasons. She seems patriotic

enough. But I've only exchanged a few words with her, at a very

hurried luncheon, at which, by the way, there was a great deal too

much to eat. She and Pamela disappeared directly afterwards.'

'Oh, so Pamela's at home? What's the name of the new woman? I

suppose she's to chaperon Pamela?'

'I shouldn't wonder. Her name is Miss Bremerton.'

'Beryl declares that Pamela is going to be a beauty--and clever

besides. She used to be a jolly child. But then they go to school

and grow up quite different. I've hardly seen her for a year and a

half.'

'Well, you'll judge for yourself. Good luck to you! I don't envy you

your job.'

'Good Lord, no! But you see I'm Chairman of this blessed show, and

they all fixed on me to bell the cat. We want a hundred acres of the

Park, a new agent, notices for three farmers, etcetera!'

The Rector whistled. 'I shall wait, on tiptoe, to see what happens!

What are your powers?'

'Oh, tremendous!'

'So you have him? Well, good-day.'

And the Rector was passing on. But Sir Henry stooped over his

horse's neck--'As you know, perhaps, it would be very inconvenient

to my poor little Beryl if Mannering were to make a quarrel of it

with me.'

'Ah, I gathered that she and Aubrey were engaged,' said the Rector

cordially. 'Best congratulations! Has the Squire behaved well?'

'Moderately. He declares he has no money to give them.'

'And yet he spent eighteen hundred pounds last week at that Christie

sale!' said the Rector with a laugh. 'And now I suppose the new

secretary will add fuel to the flame. I saw Pamela for a minute

alone, and she said Miss Bremerton was "just as much gone on Greek

things as father," and they were like a pair of lunatics when the

new vases came down.'

'Oh, blow the secretary!' said Sir Henry with exasperation. 'And

meanwhile his daughters can't get a penny out of him for any war

purpose whatever! Well, I must go on.'

They parted, and Sir Henry put his cob into a sharp trot which

soon brought him in sight of a distant building--low and

irregular--surrounded by trees, and by the wide undulating slopes

of the park.

'Dreadfully ugly place,' he said to himself, as the house grew

plainer; 'rebuilt at the worst time, by a man with no more taste

than a broomstick. Still, he was the sixteenth owner, from father to

son. That's something.'

And he fell to thinking, with that half-ironic depreciation which he

allowed to himself, and would have stood from no one else, of his

own brand-new Georgian house, built from the plans of a famous

American architect, ten years before the war, out of the profits of

an abnormally successful year, and furnished in what he believed to

be faultless taste by the best professional decorator he could find.

'Yet compared to a Mannering, what do I mean to the people here?

You scarcely begin to take root in this blessed country under half a

century. Mannering is exceedingly unpopular; the people think him a

selfish idler; but if he chose he could whistle them back with a

hundredth part of the trouble it would take me! And if Aubrey wanted

to go into Parliament, he'd probably have his pick of the county

divisions. Curious fellow, Aubrey! I wonder exactly what Beryl sees

in him?'

His daughter's prospects were not indeed very clear to a mind that

liked everything cut and dried. Aubrey Mannering was the Squire's

eldest son; but the Squire was not rich, and had been for years past

wasting his money on Greek antiquities, which seemed to his

neighbours, including Sir Henry Chicksands, a very dubious

investment. If Aubrey should want to sell, who was going to buy such

things at high prices after the war? No doubt prices at

Christie's--for good stuff--had been keeping up very well. That was

because of war profits. People were throwing money about now. But

when the war industries came to an end? and the national bills had

to be paid?

'The only thing that can't go down is land,' thought Sir Henry, with

the cheerful consciousness of a man who had steadily year by year

increased what had originally been a very modest property to

something like a large estate.

Mannering had plenty of that commodity. But how far had he dipped

the estate? It must be heavily mortgaged. By decent management

anybody, no doubt, might still bring it round. 'But Aubrey's not the

man. And since he joined up at the beginning of the war the Squire

won't let him have a voice in anything. And now Desmond--by George,

the twins are nineteen this month!--Desmond'll be off directly. And

then his father will be madder than ever.'

By this time the ugly house was near at hand, and the thick woods

which surrounded it had closed about the horse and rider.

'Splendid timber,' thought Sir Henry, as he rode through it,

measuring it with a commercial eye, 'but all past its prime, and

abominably neglected.... Hullo! that looks like Pamela, and the new

woman--the secretary!'

For two ladies were coming down the drive towards him, with a big

white and tan collie jumping round them. One of them, very tall and

erect, was dressed in a dark coat and skirt, reasonably short, a

small black toque, and brown boots and leggings. The close-fitting

coat showed a shapely but quite substantial figure. She carried a

stick, and walked with a peculiarly rapid and certain step. The

young girl beside her seemed by comparison a child. She wore a white

dress, in keeping with the warm September day, and with it a dark

blue sports coat, and a shady hat. Her dress only just passed her

knees, and beneath it the slender legs and high heels drew Sir

Henry's disapproving eye. He hated extravagance in anything. Beryl

managed to look fashionable, without looking _outré_, as Pamela did.

But he reined up to greet her with ready smiles.

'Well, Pamela, jolly to see you at home again! My word, you've

grown! Shall I find your father in?'

'Yes, we left him in the library. May I introduce Miss

Bremerton--Sir Henry Chicksands.' The girl spoke with hurried

shyness, the quick colour in her cheeks. The lady beside her bowed,

and Sir Henry took off his hat. Each surveyed the other. 'A

strong-minded female!' thought Sir Henry, who was by no means

advanced in his views of the other sex.

'The strong-minded female,' however, was not, it seemed, of the

talkative kind. She remained quite silent while Pamela and Sir Henry

exchanged some family gossip, with her ungloved hand caressing the

nose of the collie, who was pressing against her with intrusive

friendliness. But her easy self-possession as contrasted with

Pamela's nervousness was all the time making an impression on Sir

Henry, as was also the fact of her general good looks. Not a

beauty--not at all; but, as the Rector had said, 'striking.'

As for Pamela, what was the matter with the child? Until Beryl's

name was mentioned, there was not a smile to be got out of her. And

it was a very fleeting one when it came. Desmond's name fared a

little better. At that the girl did at last raise her beautiful

eyes, which till then she had hardly allowed to be seen, and there

was a ray in them.

'He's here on leave,' she said; 'a few days. He's just got his

Commission and been accepted for the artillery. He goes into camp

next week. He thinks he'll be out by January.'

'We must certainly manage to see him before he goes,' said Sir Henry

heartily. Then turning to Miss Bremerton with the slightly

over-emphatic civility of a man who prides himself on his manners in

all contingencies, he asked her if she was already acquainted with

the Mannering neighbourhood.

Miss Bremerton replied that it was quite unknown to her. 'You'll

admire our trees,' said Sir Henry. 'They're very fine.'

'Are they?' said the lady rather absently, giving a perfunctory

glance to the woods sloping away on her right towards a little

stream winding in the hollow. Sir Henry felt a slight annoyance. He

was a good fellow, and no more touchy as to personal dignity than

the majority of men of his age and class. But he was accustomed to

be treated with a certain deference, and in Miss Bremerton's manner

there was none whatever.

'Well, good-bye, Pamela. I mustn't miss your father. When are you

coming over to see Beryl?'

'How am I to get there?' said the girl with a sudden laugh.

'Oh, I see, you've got no petrol allowance?'

'How should we? Nobody's doing any war work here.'

There was an odd note in the speaker's voice.

'Why don't you join Beryl in her canteen work?' said Sir Henry

abruptly.

'I don't know.'

'She wants help badly. She passes your gate on her way to Fallerton.

She could pick you up, and bring you back.'

'Yes,' said Pamela. There was a pause.

'Well, good-bye, dear,' said Sir Henry again, and with a ceremonious

bow to Pamela's companion, he rode on--meditating on many things.

* * * * *

'The Squire's in, Sir Henry, but--well, he's very busy.'

'Never mind, Forest. I must see him. Can you find some one to take

my horse round?'

The grey-haired butler looked perplexed.

'I've only got my own small boy, Sir Henry. There's two more of our

men gone this morning. I don't know if you'll trust him. He's a good

boy.'

'Send him along, Forest. My beast's a lamb--you know him. But look

here, Forest'--Sir Henry dismounted, bridle in hand. 'Don't give the

Squire notice that I'm here, if you can help it, till you announce

me.'

The butler, who, in spite of his grey hair, was a square-set,

vigorous-looking fellow, might be said, in reply, to have given the

Squire's visitor a wink. At any rate a look of understanding passed

between the two. The butler went quickly back into the house, and

re-emerged with a boy, who was the small image of his father, to

whom Sir Henry cheerfully gave up his cob. But as Forest led the way

through the outer hall he stopped to say:

'The Squire's not alone, sir. There was a gentleman arrived just as

Miss Pamela went out. But I don't think he'll stay long.'

'Who is he?'

'Can't say, sir. He's lodging in the village, and comes to see the

Squire's collections sometimes.'

They were now in a long passage running along the eastern front of

the house to a large room which had been added to its southern end,

in order to hold the Squire's library and collections. Midway the

butler turned.

'You've heard, Sir Henry, about Mr. Desmond?'

'Yes, Miss Pamela told me.'

'Mr. Desmond says he'll be in France by January. He's as pleased as

possible, but it's a deal sooner than Mr. Mannering hoped.'

'Well, we've all got to take our chance in this war,' said Sir Henry

gravely. 'And the artillery is a bit safer than the infantry. You

know my son Arthur's a gunner.'

'I hope he's all right, sir?'

'Well, he's still on light work. He comes home this week for a bit.

He was gassed at Ypres a year and a half ago, and had a bullet taken

out of his chest about two months since. But he is nearly fit

again.'

The butler expressed his sympathy with a complete absence of shyness

or servility, then threw open a door at the end of the passage,

announcing, 'Sir Henry Chicksands, sir.'

'_D-mn_!' said a voice loudly within.

Sir Henry gave an involuntary start. Another look passed between

him and Forest, amused or interrogative on the visitor's part,

non-committal on the butler's.

* * * * *

The library of Mannering Hall as Sir Henry Chicksands entered it

presented a curious spectacle. It was a long, barn-like room,

partly lined with books, and partly with glass cases, in which

Greek vases, Tanagra figures, and other Greek and Etruscan

antiquities, all carefully marked and labelled, were displayed. A

few large tables stood at intervals on the shabby carpet, also

laden with books and specimens. They conveyed an impression of

dust and disorder, as though no housemaid had been allowed to

touch them for weeks--with one exception. A table, smaller than

the rest, but arranged with scrupulous neatness, stood at one side

of the room, with a typewriter upon it, certain books, and a rack

for stationery. A folded duster lay at one corner. Pens, pencils,

a box of clips, and a gum-pot stood where a careful hand had

placed them. And at a corner corresponding to the duster was a

small vase of flowers--autumnal roses--the only flowers in the

room.

But the various untidy accumulations, most of which seemed to be of

old standing, had been evidently just added to by some recent

arrivals. Four large packing-cases, newly opened, took up much of

what free space was left on the floor. The straw, paper, and

cottonwool, in which their contents had been packed, had been tossed

out with a careless or impatient hand, and littered the carpet.

Among the litter stood here and there some Greek vases of different

sizes; in particular, a superb pair, covered with figures; beside

which stood the owner of Mannering, talking to an apparently young

man with an eye-glass, who was sitting on the floor closely

examining the vases. The Squire turned a furrowed brow towards his

approaching visitor, and putting down a small bronze he had been

holding raised a warning hand.

'How do you do, Chicksands? Very sorry, but I'm much too filthy to

touch. And I'm horribly busy! These things arrived last night, and

Mr. Levasseur has kindly come over to help me unpack them. Don't

know if you've met him. Mr. Levasseur--Sir Henry Chicksands.'

The man on the floor looked up carelessly, just acknowledging Sir

Henry's slight inclination. Sir Henry's inner mind decided against

him--at once--instinctively. What was a stout fellow, who at any

rate _looked_ as though he were still of military age, doing with

nonsense of this sort, at four o'clock in the day, when England

wanted every able-bodied man she possessed, either to fight for her

or to work for her? At the same time the reflection passed rapidly

through his mind that neither the man nor the name had come up--so

far as he could remember--before the County Tribunal of which he was

Chairman.

'Well, Chicksands, what do you want with me?' said the Squire

abruptly. 'Will you take a chair?' And he pointed to one from which

he hastily removed a coat.

'I have some confidential business to talk to you about,' said Sir

Henry, with a look at the dusty gentleman among the straw.

'Something you want me to do that I'll be bound I shan't want to do!

Is that it?' said Mannering with vivacity.

He stood with his hands on a table behind him, his long spare frame

in a nervous fidget, his eyes bright and hostile, and a spot of red

on either thin cheek. Beside Chicksands, who was of middle height,

solidly built, and moderately stout, with mental and physical

competence written all over him, the Squire of Mannering seemed but

the snippet of a man. He was singularly thin, with a slender neck,

and a small head covered with thick hair, prematurely white, which

tumbled over his forehead and eyes. He had the complexion of a girl,

disproportionately large nose, very sharply and delicately cut as to

bridge and nostril, and a mouth and chin which seemed to be in

perpetual movement. He looked older than Sir Henry, who was verging

on sixty, but he was in fact just over fifty.

Sir Henry smiled a little at the tone of the Squire's question, but

he answered good-humouredly.

'I believe, when we've talked it over, you won't think it

unreasonable. But I've come to explain.'

'I know, you want me to give Gregson notice. But I warn you I'm not

the least inclined to do anything of the kind.' And the speaker

crossed his arms, which were very long and thin, over a narrow

chest, while his eyes restlessly countered those of Sir Henry.

Chicksands paused a moment before replying.

'I have a good many papers here to show you,' he said at last,

mildly, drawing a large envelope half-way from the inner pocket of

his coat to illustrate his words, and then putting it back again.

'But I really can't discuss them except with yourself.'

The Squire's eyes shot battle.

'It's the war, of course,' he said with emphasis; 'it's all the war.

I'm told to do things I don't want to do, which affect my personal

freedom, and other people's, because of a war I don't believe in,

never asked for, and don't approve of. Here's Levasseur now, a

clever fellow, cleverer than either you or me, Chicksands, and he's

no more patriotic than I am. You talk to him!'

'Thank you, I'm too busy,' said Sir Henry sharply, his face

stiffening. 'Where can you see me, Mannering? I'm rather pressed for

time. Is the smoking-room free?' And with a marked avoidance of any

concern with the gentleman on the floor, who had by now risen to his

feet, Sir Henry made an impatient movement towards a door at the

further end of the library which stood ajar.

Levasseur looked amused. He was a strongly-built, smooth-shaven

fellow, with rather long hair, and the sallow look of the

cigarette-smoker. His eyes were sleepy, his expression indolent or

good-natured.

'Oh, I'll make myself scarce with the greatest pleasure,' he said

civilly. 'I can stroll about the park till you're ready for me

again,' he added, turning to the Squire. 'Lovely day--I'll take a

book and some cigarettes.' And diving into an open box which stood

near he filled his cigarette-case from it, and then looked round him

for a book. 'Where's that copy of the _Anthology_? That'll do

nicely.'

The Squire burst into a laugh, observing Sir Henry.

'He's over military age, Chicksands.'

'I suppose so,' said Sir Henry stiffly.

'But only by six months, when the Act passed. So he's _just_ escaped

you.'

'I've really no concern whatever with Mr. Levasseur's affairs.' Sir

Henry had flushed angrily. 'Is it to be here, or the smoking-room?'

'Ta-ta! See you again presently,' said Levasseur. 'Ah, there's the

book!' And diving to the floor for a hat and a book lying beside it,

he made off, lighting a cigarette, with a laughing backward glance

towards the Squire and his companion.

'Well, now, what is it?' said Mannering, throwing himself with an

air of resignation into a low arm-chair, and taking out a pipe.

'Won't you smoke, Chicksands?'

'Thank you, I've had my morning's allowance. Hullo! Who did that?

What an awfully fine thing!'

For suddenly, behind the Squire's head, Chicksands had become aware

of an easel, and on it a charcoal sketch, life-size, of a boy, who

seemed about eighteen or nineteen, in cricketing dress.

The Squire looked round.

'What, that sketch of Desmond? Haven't you seen it? Yes, it's jolly

good. I got Orpen to do it in July.'

Now that Sir Henry had once perceived the drawing it seemed to him

to light up the whole place. The dress was the dress of the Eton

Eleven; there was just a suggestion of pale blue in the sash round

the waist. But the whole impression was Greek in its manly freedom

and beauty; above all in its sacrifice of all useless detail to one

broad and simple effect. Youth, eager, strong, self-confident, with

its innocent parted lips, and its steadfast eyes looking out over

the future--the drawing stood there as the quintessence, the

embodiment, of a whole generation. So might the young Odysseus have

looked when he left his mother on his first journey to hunt the boar

with his kinsfolk on Mount Parnassus. And with such an air had

hundreds of thousands of English boys gone out on a deadlier venture

since the great war began, with a like intensity of will, a like

merry scorn of fate.

Sir Henry was conscious of a lump in his throat. He had lost his

youngest son in the retreat from Mons, and two nephews on the Somme.

'It's wonderful,' he said, not very clearly. 'I envy you such a

possession.'

The Squire made no reply. He sat with his long body hunched up in

the deep chair, a pair of brooding eyes fixed on his visitor.

'Well, what is it?' he said again, in a voice that was barely civil.