'Come in!' said Alice Gaddesden in a languid tone. From the knock,
sharp and loud, on her bedroom door, she guessed that it was her
sister Margaret who wished to see her. She did not wish, however, to
see Margaret at all. Margaret, who was slightly the elder, tired and
coerced her. But she had no choice.
Mrs. Strang entered briskly.
'My dear Alice! what a time of day to be in bed! Are you really
ill?'
Mrs. Gaddesden grew red with annoyance.
'I thought I had told you, Margaret, that Dr. Crother advised me
more than a year ago not to come down till the middle of the
morning. It rests my heart.'
Mrs. Strang, who had come up to the bedside, looked down upon her
sister with amused eyes. She herself was curiously like the Squire,
even as to her hair, which was thick and fair, and already
whitening, though she was not yet thirty. Human thinness could
hardly have been carried further than she and the Squire achieved
it. She had her father's nose also. But the rest of her features
were delicately regular, and her quick blue eyes were those of a
woman who told no falsehoods herself, and had little patience with
other people's.
'My dear Alice, why do you believe doctors? They always tell you
what you want to hear. I am sure you told Dr. Crother exactly what
to say,' said Margaret, laughing, as she placed a chair by the
bedside.
'Oh, of course I know you think everybody's a sham who isn't as
strong as yourself!' said Mrs. Gaddesden, sinking back on her
pillows with a soft sigh of resignation. 'Though I think you _might_
have remembered the horribly hard work I've been doing lately.'
'Have you?' Mrs. Strang wrinkled her brow, as though in an effort to
recollect. 'Oh, yes, I know. I have always been getting notices
lately with your name on them, at the end of a long tail beginning
with a Duchess, and stuffed with Countesses. And I always
think--there's Alice doing the work, and the Countesses getting the
glory. Do you really do the work?'
And Margaret, who did not often see her sister, and was of a
genuinely inquiring turn of mind, turned upon her a penetrating
look.
'Well, of course,' said Mrs. Gaddesden, a little confused, 'there
are always the secretaries.'
'Ah-ha!' Mrs. Strang laughed--one might almost say crowed. 'Yes,
indeed, if it weren't for the secretaries! By the way, what do you
think about the specimen here?'
Mrs. Gaddesden lost her languid air at once. She sat up among her
pillows, a reasonably pretty woman, not without some likeness to
Pamela, in points that did not matter.
'My dear Margaret,' she said, with emphasis, 'this has got to be
watched!--_watched_, I tell you.'
Mrs. Strang opened her eyes wide.
'What on earth do you mean?'
Alice Gaddesden smiled.
'Well, of course, you're much cleverer than I am, but I really do
see further in practical matters than you do. Haven't you noticed,'
she bent forward, looking mysterious and intent, 'how _already_
father depends upon her, how she's beginning to run the whole
show--and she hasn't been here much more than six weeks? My dear
Margaret, with a secretary like that you _never_ can tell!'
'Well,' said Mrs. Strang coolly, 'and what then?'
'Oh, well, of course, if you're prepared to see a person like
that--in our mother's place!'
'"A person like that"--how dreadfully old-fashioned you are, Alice!
She's a lady; she's much more highly educated than you or I, and if
she gets her way, she'll perhaps keep father out of some of the
scrapes he seems bent on. You know this business of the park is
perfectly mad!'
For the first time in this conversation Margaret Strang's face was
grave. And when it was grave, some people would have called it fine.
'And just think what it'll cost,' said Mrs. Gaddesden despondently,
'even if he had a case--which he probably hasn't--and if he were to
win it. There'll be no money left for Aubrey or any of us soon.'
'But of course he hasn't a case, and of course he can't win!' cried
Margaret Strang. 'It's not that I care about--or the money--it's the
disgrace!'
'Yes,' murmured Alice doubtfully.
'When you think--'
Mrs. Strang paused; her bright blue eyes, alive with thoughts, were
fixed absently on her sister. She seemed to see a number of shabby
streets, where she was accustomed to work, with little shabby shops,
and placards on them--'No butter,' 'No milk,' and apples marked 4d.
each.
'Think what?' said Alice.
Mrs. Strang's mind returned to Alice, and Alice's very elaborate and
becoming _negligée_.
'Only that, in my opinion, it's the duty of every landowner to
produce every ounce of food he can, and to do what he's told! And
father not only sets a shocking example, but he picks this absurd
quarrel with the Chicksands. What on earth is Aubrey to do? Or poor
Beryl?'
'Well, he comes to-night,' said Alice, 'so I suppose we shall hear.
I can't make Aubrey out,' she added reflectively.
'Nobody can. I was talking to a brother-officer of his last week, a
man who's awfully fond of him. He told me Aubrey did his work very
well. He was complimented by Headquarters on his School only last
month. But he's like an automaton. Nobody really knows him, nobody
gets any forwarder with him. He hardly speaks to anybody except on
business. The mess regard him as a wet blanket, and his men don't
care about him, though he's a capital officer. Isn't it strange,
when one thinks of what Aubrey used to be five years ago?'
Alice agreed. Perhaps he was still suffering from the effects of his
wound in 1915.
'Anyway he can't give Beryl up,' said Margaret with energy, 'if he's
a man of honour!'
Alice shrugged her shoulders.
'Then he'll give up the estate, according to father.'
'Desmond would give it back to him, if there's anything left of it,
or if he wants it.'
'Margaret!'
'You think I don't care about the family--that there should always
be a Mannering of Mannering? Yes, I do care, but there are so many
other things now to care about,' added Mrs. Strang slowly.
'Who's making me late now?' said Alice, looking at her watch.
Margaret took the hint and departed.
* * * * *
That same evening, in the September dusk, a dog-cart arrived at the
Hall, bringing Major Mannering and a Gladstone bag.
Pamela and Desmond rushed out to meet him. Their elder sisters were
dressing for dinner, and the Squire was in the library with
Elizabeth. The twins dragged the newcomer into their own den, and
shut the door upon him. There Desmond gave him a breathless survey
of the situation, while Pamela sat on a stool at his feet, and put
in explanatory words at intervals. Their father's extraordinary
preparations for waging war against the County Committee; his
violence on the subject of the Chicksands; Beryl's despairing
letters to Pamela; a letter from Arthur Chicksands to Desmond,--all
these various items were poured out on the newcomer, with an
eagerness and heat which showed the extreme interest which the twins
took in the situation.
Meanwhile Aubrey Mannering sat listening almost in silence. He was a
delicately built, distinguished-looking man, who carried a large
scar on his forehead, and had lost a finger of the left hand. The
ribbons on his breast showed that he was both an M.C. and a
D.S.O.--distinctions won at the second battle of Ypres and on the
Somme. While the twins talked, his eyes travelled from one to the
other, attentive, but curiously aloof.
He was saying to himself that Pamela was extremely pretty, and
Desmond a splendid fellow. Then--in a moment--while he looked at his
young brother, a vision, insistent, terrible, passed ghost-like
between him and the boy. Again and again he tried to shake it off,
and again and again it interposed.
'Oh, Aubrey, what will you do?' said Pamela despairingly, leaning
her head against her brother's knee.
Her voice recalled him. He laid his hand upon her beautiful hair.
'Well, dear, there's only one thing, of course, for me to do--to
stick to Beryl and let father do his worst.'
'Hurrah!' said Desmond. 'That's all right. And of course you know,
Aubrey, that if father tries any hankey-pankey with the estate, and
leaves it to me, I shall give it back to you next day.'
Aubrey smiled. 'Father'll live another twenty years, old man. Will
there be any England then, or any law, or any estates to leave?'
The twins looked at him in amazement. Again he recovered himself
quickly.
'I only meant that, in times like these, it's no good planning
anything twenty years ahead. We've got to win the war, haven't
we?--that's the first thing. Well, now, I must go and clean up.
Who's here?'
'Alice and Margaret,' said Pamela. 'And father's new secretary.'
'You never told me about him,' said Aubrey indifferently, as he
rose.
'"Him" indeed!' laughed Desmond. 'Nothing of the sort!'
Aubrey turned a puzzled look upon him.
'What! a lady?'
Desmond grinned.
'First Class in Mods, and an awful swell. Father can't let her out
of his sight. Says he never had anybody so good.'
'And she'll end by bossing us all,' put in Pamela. 'She's begun it
already. Now you really must go and dress.'
* * * * *
When the eldest son of the house entered the drawing-room, he found
everybody gathered there but his father and the Rector, who was
coming to dine. He was at once seized on by his married sisters, who
saw him very rarely. Then Pamela led him up to a tall lady in pale
blue.
'My eldest brother--Miss Bremerton.'
He looked at her with curiosity, and was glad when, after the
arrival of his father and the Rector, it fell to him to take the new
secretary in to dinner. His father's greeting to him had been
decidedly cool--the greeting of a man who sees a fight impending and
wishes to give away nothing to his opponent. In fact the two men had
never been on really cordial terms since August 1914, when Aubrey
had thrown up his post in the Foreign Office to apply for one of the
first temporary commissions in the New Army. The news came at a
moment when the Squire was smarting under the breakdown of a
long-cherished scheme of exploration in the Greek islands, which was
to have been realized that very autumn--a scheme towards which his
whole narrow impetuous mind had been turned for years. No more
Hellenic or Asia Minor excavations! no more cosmopolitan
_Wissenschaft_! On that fatal August 4 a whole world went down
submerged beneath the waves of war, and the Squire cared for no
other. His personal chagrin showed itself in abuse of the bungling
diplomats and 'swashbuckler' politicians who, according to him, had
brought us into war. So that when Aubrey applied for a commission,
the Squire, mainly to relieve his own general irritation, had
quarrelled with him for some months, and was only outwardly
reconciled when his son came home invalided in 1915.
During the summer of 1917, Aubrey, after spending three days' leave
at Mannering, had gone on to stay at Chetworth with the Chicksands
for a week. The result of that visit was a letter to his father in
which he announced his engagement to Beryl. The Squire could make
then no open opposition, since he was still on friendly terms with
Sir Henry, who had indeed done him more than one good turn. But in
reply to his son's letter, he stood entirely on the defensive, lest
any claim should be made upon him which might further interfere with
the passion of his life. He was not, he said, in a position to
increase Aubrey's allowance--the Government robbers had seen to
that--and unless Beryl was prepared to be a poor man's wife he
advised them to wait till after the war. Then Sir Henry had ridden
over to Mannering with a statement of what he was prepared to do for
his daughter, and the Squire had given ungracious consent to a
marriage in the spring. Chicksands knew his man too well to take
offence at the Squire's manners, and Beryl was for a time too
timidly and blissfully happy to be troubled by them.
'You have been here a few weeks,' said the newcomer to Elizabeth,
when the party had settled down at table.
'About six weeks. It seems longer!' smiled Elizabeth.
'You are doing some work for my father?'
Elizabeth explained herself. Major Mannering listened attentively.
'So what you do for him is literary--and historical?'
'Oh no--I do accounts, and write letters too.'
'Accounts? I thought there was a housekeeper?'
'She went a month ago to the W.A.A.C.'s. Please!--do you mind?' And
to his amazement, as he was putting out his hand automatically to a
piece of bread lying on his left, Miss Bremerton's hand holding a
fork neatly intercepted him, and moved the bread away.
'It's our "Self-denying Ordinance,"' explained the lady, colouring a
little. 'The bread appears because--because your father doesn't
think rations necessary. But no one touches it, and Forest collects
it afterwards--for breakfast.'
A smile broke on Aubrey's grave and pensive face.
'I see. Mayn't I really have any?'
Elizabeth hesitated.
'Well, perhaps, as a guest, and a soldier. Yes, I think you may.'
And she would have restored her prey had not her neighbour stopped
her.
'Not at all. As a soldier I obey orders. My hat! how you've drilled
them all!' For, looking round the table, he saw that not a single
guest had touched the bread lying to their left.
'That's Pamela and Mr. Desmond! They've given everybody a _menu_ for
three days.'
'Good heavens--not my father!'
'Oh no, _no_! We don't think he suspects anything, and he has
everything he likes.'
'And my married sisters?' Elizabeth hesitated again.
'Well, Mrs. Gaddesden is rather afraid of being starved. Mrs.
Strang, on the other hand, thinks we're wickedly extravagant!'
Her neighbour was so much amused that conversation flowed on easily
thenceforward; and Desmond opposite whispered to Pamela:
'Just look at Broomie! She's actually making Aubrey talk.'
The Major's rôle, however, was on the whole that of listener. For
Elizabeth meant to talk--meant to explain herself to the son and
heir, and, if she could, to drive him to an interest in the family
affairs. To her trained, practical mind the whole clan seemed by now
criminally careless and happy-go-lucky. The gardens were neglected;
so was the house; so was the estate. The gardens ought to have been
made self-supporting; there were at least a third too many servants
in the house; and as for the estate, instead of being a
profit-making and food-producing concern, as it should have been, it
was a bye-word for bad management and neglected land. She did not
pretend to know much about it yet; but what she did know roused her.
England was at grips with a brutal foe. The only weapon that could
defeat her was famine--the sloth and waste of her own sons. This
woman, able, energetic, a lover of her country, could not conceal
her scorn for such a fatal incompetence. Naturally, in talking to
the eldest son, she made the agent her scapegoat for the sins of the
owner. The Squire's responsibility was carefully masked. But Aubrey
Mannering perfectly understood what she would be at. She was a
clever woman who wanted things improved. Well, let her improve
them. It did not matter to him.
But she appeared to him as a somewhat special type of the modern
woman, with her advanced education and her clear brain; and for a
time he observed her curiously. The graceful dress, pale blue with
touches of black, which exactly became her fair skin, the bright
gold of her hair, and the pleasant homeliness of her face--her
general aspect indeed--attracted him greatly. She might know Greek;
at heart, he believed, she was a good housewife; and when she
incidentally mentioned Dutch relations, he seemed to see her with a
background of bright pots and pans, mopping tiled floors.
But presently he ceased to pay much attention to her. His dreamy
sense became aware of the scene as a whole; the long table; his
father's fantastic figure at the head of it; Alice Gaddesden
elaborately dressed and much made up on the one side, his sister
Margaret in a high black gown, erect and honest, on the other;
Desmond and Pamela together, chatting and chaffing with the Rector.
It was the room so familiar to his childhood and youth, with the
family pictures, the Gainsborough full-length of his very plain
great-grandmother in white satin at the end, two or three Vandyck
school-portraits of seventeenth-century Mannerings, and the
beautiful Hogarth head--their best possession--that was so like
Pamela. The furniture of the room was of many different
dates--incongruous, shabby, and on the whole ugly. The Mannerings of
the past had not been an artistic lot.
Nor had the room--the house indeed--many tender associations for
him. His childhood had not been very happy. He had never got on with
his father, and his mother, who had been the victim of various long
illnesses during his boyhood, had never, unluckily, meant much to
him. He knew that he was of a very old stock, which had played a
long and considerable part in the world; but the fact brought him no
thrill. 'That kind of thing is played out,' he thought. Let his
father disinherit him--he was quite indifferent.
Then, as he fell silent beside his father's new secretary, the table
vanished. He saw instead the wide Picardy flats, a group of poplars,
a distant wood, and in front a certain hollow strewn with dead and
dying men--one figure, in front of the rest, lying face downwards.
The queer twisted forms, the blasted trees, the inexorable
horror--the whole vision swept over him again, as it had done in the
schoolroom. His nerves shrank and trembled under it.
Beryl--poor little Beryl! What a wretch he had been to propose to
her--in a moment of moral and physical weakness, when it had seemed
a simple thing to accept her affection and to pledge his own! But if
she stood by him, he must stand by her. And he had had the kindest
letter from Sir Henry, and some sweet tremulous words from her.
Suppose she offered to release him? His heart leapt guiltily at the
thought. What, indeed, had a man so haunted and paralysed to give to
a girl like Beryl? It was an outrage--it ought to cease.
But as to his father, that was simple enough.
The Squire and his eldest son retreated to the library after dinner,
and all the rest of the party waited uneasily to see what would
happen. Elizabeth did her best to keep things going. It might have
been noticed--it was noticed by at least two of the persons
present--that quite unobtrusively, she was already the mistress of
the house. She found a stool and a fire-screen for Mrs. Gaddesden;
she held some wool for Mrs. Strang to wind; and a backgammon board
was made ready for the Squire, in case he returned.
But he did not return. Aubrey came back alone, and found them all
hanging on his entrance. Pamela put down her knitting and looked at
him anxiously; so did the elder sisters. He went up absently to the
chimney-piece, and stood leaning against it.
'Well?' said Pamela in a low voice, as she came to sit on a stool
near him.
He smiled, but she saw that he was pale.
'Can you take me over to Chetworth to-morrow--early--in the
pony-cart?'
'Yes, certainly.'
'Half-past ten?'
'Right you are.'
No more was said. Aubrey turned at once to Alice Gaddesden and
proposed a round game. He played it with much more spirit than
usual, and Desmond's antics in 'Animal Grab' put all serious notions
to flight.
But when the game was over, and Forest brought in the candles,
Margaret tried to get some information.
'You found the father reasonable?' she said to her brother in an
undertone, as they stood together by the fire.
'Oh, yes,' was the indifferent answer, 'from his own point of view.'
And when he had lit their candles for his sisters, he excused
himself at once on the ground of being dog-tired after a long day.
The door closed upon him.
The family gathered together in a group, while the Rector and
Elizabeth talked about the village at the further end of the room.
'They've quarrelled!' said Margaret decisively.
Alice Gaddesden, because it was Margaret's opinion, disagreed. There
was nothing to show it, she said. Aubrey had been quite calm.
Desmond broke out, 'Did you ever see Aubrey anything else?' Pamela
said nothing, but she slipped out to tell Forest about the
pony-cart.
Meanwhile the Rector had looked at his watch, and came up to take
his leave.
'Has the Squire gone to bed?' he said cheerfully. 'I daresay. He
works so hard. Give him my fare-wells.'
And he went off, quite aware, both from his knowledge of the family
and of the Squire's recent actions, that there were storms brewing
in the old house, but on the whole thinking more of the new
secretary than of his old friends. A charming woman!--most capable!
For the first time he might get some attention paid to the village
people. That child with the shocking bow-legs. Poor little Pamela
had tried to do her best. But this woman would see to it; she knew
how to get things done.
Meanwhile, as the rest of the party dispersed, Forest brought a
message to Elizabeth. 'The Squire would be glad if you would spare
him a few minutes, Miss, in the library. He won't keep you long.'
Elizabeth went unwillingly.
* * * * *
The library was in darkness, except for one small lamp at the
further end, and the Squire was walking up and down. He stopped
abruptly as he saw his secretary.
'I won't keep you, Miss Bremerton, but do you happen to know at all
where my will is?'
'Your will, Mr. Mannering?' said Elizabeth in amazement. 'No,
indeed! I have never seen it.'
'Well, it's somewhere here,' said the Squire impatiently. 'I should
have thought in all your rummagings lately you must have come across
it. I took it away from those robbers, my old solicitors, and I
wasn't going to give it to the new man--don't trust him particularly
not to talk. So I locked it up here--somewhere. And I can't find
it.' And he began restlessly to open drawer after drawer, which
already contained piles of letters and documents, neatly and
systematically arranged, with the proper dockets and sub-headings,
by Elizabeth.
'Oh, it can't be there!' cried Elizabeth. 'I know everything in
those drawers. Surely it must be in the office?' By which she meant
the small and hideously untidy room on the ground floor into which
masses of papers of all dates, still unsorted, had been carted down
from London.
'It isn't in the office!' He was, she saw, on the brink of an
outburst. 'I put it somewhere in this room my own self! And I should
have thought by now you knew the geography of this place as well as
I do!'
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. The big room indeed
was still full to her of unexplored territory, with _caches_ of all
kinds in it, new and ancient, waiting to be discovered. She looked
round her in perplexity, not knowing where to begin. A large part of
the room was walled with glass cases, holding vases, bronzes, and
other small antiquities, down to about a yard from the floor, and
the space below being filled by cupboards and drawers. Elizabeth
made a vague movement towards a particular set of cupboards which
she knew she had not yet touched, but the Squire irritably stopped
her.
'It's certainly not there. That bit of the room hasn't been
disturbed since the Flood! Now those drawers'--he pointed--'might be
worth looking at.'
She hurried towards them. But the Squire, instead of helping her in
her search, resumed his walk up and down, muttering to himself. As
for her, she was on the verge of laughter, the laughter that comes
from nerves and fatigue; for she had had a long day's work and was
really tired. The first drawer she opened was packed with papers, a
few arranged in something like order by her predecessor, the London
University B.A., but the greater part of them in confusion. They
mostly related to a violent controversy between the Squire and
various archæological experts with regard to some finds in the Troad
a year or two before the war, in which the Squire had only just
escaped a serious libel suit, whereof indeed all the preliminaries
were in the drawer.
On the very top of the drawer, however, was a conveyance of a small
outlying portion of the Mannering estate, which the Squire had sold
to a neighbour only a year before this date. Hopeless! If that was
there, anything might be anywhere!
Was she to spend the night searching for the needle in this bottle
of hay? Elizabeth's face began to twitch with uncomfortable
merriment. Should she go and knock up the housekeeper and instal her
as chaperon, or take a stand, and insist on going to bed like a
reasonable woman?
She hunted through three drawers. The Squire meanwhile paced
incessantly, sometimes muttering to himself. Every time he came
within the circle of lamplight his face was visible to Elizabeth,
wrinkled and set, with angry eyes; and she saw him as a person
possessed by a stubborn demon of self-will. Once, as he passed her,
she heard him say to himself, 'Of course I can write another at
once--half a sheet will do.'
She replaced the third drawer. Was the Squire to have a monopoly of
stubbornness? She thought not. Waves of indefinite but strong
indignation were beginning to sweep through her. Why was the Squire
hunting for his will? What had he been saying to his son--his son
who bore on his breast and on his body the marks of his country's
service?
She rose to her feet.
'I can't find anything, Mr. Mannering. And I think, if you will
allow me, I will go to bed.'
He looked at her darkly.
'I see. You are a person who stickles for your hours--you won't do
anything extra for me.' There was a sneer in his tone.
Elizabeth felt her cheeks suddenly burn. In the dim light she looked
amazingly tall, as she stood straightened to her full height,
confronting this man who really seemed to her to be only half sane.
'I think I have done a great deal for you, Mr. Mannering. But if you
don't think so we had better end my engagement!'
His countenance changed at once. He eagerly apologized. He was
perfectly aware of her extraordinary merits, and should be entirely
lost without her help. The fact was he had had a painful scene, and
was overdone.
Elizabeth received his explanation very coldly, only repeating, 'May
I go to bed?'
The Squire drew his hand across his eyes.
'It is not very late--not yet eleven.' He pointed to the grandfather
clock opposite. 'If you will only wait while I write something?'--he
pointed to a chair. 'Just take a book there, and give me a quarter
of an hour, no more--I want your signature, that's all. We won't
look any further for the will. I can do all I want by a fresh
document. I have been thinking it over, and can write it in ten
minutes. I know as much about it as the lawyers--more. Now do oblige
me. I am ashamed of my discourtesy. I need not say that I regard you
as indispensable--and--I think I have been able to do something for
your Greek.'
He smiled--a smile that was like a foam-flake on a stormy sea. But
he could put on the grand manner when he chose, and Elizabeth was to
some extent propitiated. After all he and his ways were no longer
strange to her. Very unwillingly she seated herself again, and he
went rapidly to his writing-table.
Then silence fell, except for the scratching of the Squire's pen.
Elizabeth sat pretending to read, but in truth becoming every moment
the prey of increasing disquiet. What was he going to ask her to
sign? She knew nothing of his threat to his eldest son--nothing,
that is, clear or direct, either from himself or from the others;
but she guessed a good deal. It was impossible to live even for a
few weeks in close contact with the Squire without guessing at most
things.
In the silence she became aware of the soft autumn wind--October
had just begun--playing with a blind on a distant window. And
through the window came another sound--Desmond and Pamela, no doubt,
still laughing and talking in the schoolroom.
The Squire rose from his seat.
'I shall be much obliged,' he said formally, 'if you will kindly
come here. We shall want another witness, of course. I will call
Forest.'
Elizabeth approached, but paused a yard or two from him. He saw her
in the light--her gold hair and brilliant dress illuminated against
the dark and splendid background of the Nikê in shadow.
She spoke with hesitation.
'I confess I should like to know, Mr. Mannering, what it is you are
asking me to sign.'
'That doesn't matter to a witness. It is nothing which will in any
way compromise you.'
'No--but'--she drew herself up--'I should blame myself if I made it
easier for you to do something you would afterwards regret.'
'What do you mean?'
She summoned all her courage.
'Of course I must know something. You have not kept your affairs
very secret. I guess that you are angry with your son, with Major
Mannering. If this thing you ask me to sign is to hurt--to injure
him--if it is--well, then--I refuse to sign it!'
And with a sudden movement she threw both her hands behind her back
and clasped them there.
'You refuse?'
'If you admit my description of that paper.' She motioned towards it
as it lay on the writing-table.
'I have no objection whatever to your knowing what it is--as you
seem determined to know,' he said sarcastically. 'It is a codicil
revoking my will in favour of my eldest son, and leaving all the
property of which I die possessed, and which is in my power to
bequeath, to my younger son Desmond. What have you to do with that?
What possible responsibility can you have?'
Elizabeth wavered, but held her ground, though in evident distress.
'Only that--if I don't sign it--you would have time to consider it
again. Mr. Mannering--isn't it--isn't it--very unjust?'
The Squire laughed.
'How do you know that in refusing you are not unjust to Desmond?'
'Oh no!' she said fervently. 'Mr. Desmond would never wish to
supplant his brother--and for such a reason. And especially--' she
paused.
There were tears rising in her throat.
'Especially--what? Upon my word, you claim a rather remarkable
knowledge of my family--in six weeks!'
'I do know something of Desmond!' Her voice showed her agitation.
'He is the dearest, the most generous boy. In a few months he will
be going out--he will be saying good-bye to you all.'
'And then?'
'Is this a time to make him unhappy--to send him out with something
on his mind?--something that might even--'
'Well, go on!'
'Might even make him wish'--her voice dropped--'not to come back.'
There was silence. Then the Squire violently threw down the pen he
was holding on the table beside him.
'Thank you, Miss Bremerton. That will do. I bid you good-night!'
Elizabeth did not wait to be told twice. She turned and fled down
the whole length of the library. The door at the further end closed
upon her.
'A masterful young woman!' said the Squire after a moment, drawing a
long breath. Then he took up the codicil, thrust it into a drawer of
his writing-table, lit a cigarette, and walked up and down smoking
it. After which he went to bed and slept remarkably well.
Elizabeth cried herself to sleep. No comforting sprite whispered to
her that she had won the first round in an arduous campaign. On the
contrary, she fully expected dismissal on the morrow.