On the following morning the breakfast at Mannering was a very tame
and silent affair. Forest was not in attendance, and the under
housemaid, who commonly replaced him when absent, could not explain
his non-appearance. He and his wife lived in a cottage beyond the
stables, and all that could be said was that he 'had not come in.'
The Squire also was absent. But as his breakfast habits were
erratic, owing to the fact that he slept badly and was often up and
working at strange seasons of the night, neither of his daughters
took any notice. Elizabeth did not feel inclined to say anything of
her own observations in the small hours. If the Squire and Forest
had been working at the barricade together, they were perhaps
sleeping off their exertions. Or the Squire was already on the spot,
waiting for the fray? Meanwhile, out of doors, a thick grey mist
spread over the park.
So she sat silent like the other two--(Mrs. Gaddesden was of course
in bed)--wondering from time to time when and how she should
announce her departure.
Pamela meanwhile was thinking of the letter she would have to write
to Desmond about the day's proceedings, and was impatient to be off
as soon as possible for the scene of action. Once or twice it
occurred to her to notice that Miss Bremerton was looking rather
pale and depressed. But the fact only made Pamela feel prickly. 'If
father does get into a row, what does it really matter to her.
She's not responsible!--she's not one of us!'
Immediately after breakfast, Pamela disappeared. She made her way
quietly through the park, where the dank mist still clung to the
trees from which the leaf was dropping silently, continuously. The
grass was all cobwebs. Every now and then the head of a deer would
emerge from the dripping fern only to be swallowed up again in the
fog.
Could a motor-plough work in a fog?
Presently, she who knew every inch of the ground and every tree upon
it, became aware that she was close to the Chetworth gate. Suddenly
the rattle of an engine and some men's voices caught her ear. The
plough, sure enough! The sound of it was becoming common in the
country-side. Then as the mist thinned and drifted she saw the thing
plain--the puffing engine, one man driving and another following,
while in their wake ran the black glistening furrow, where the grass
had been.
And here was the gate. Pamela stood open-mouthed. Where were the
elaborate defences and barricades of which rumour had been full the
night before? The big gate swung idly on its hinges. And in front of
it stood two men placidly smoking, in company with the village
policeman. Not a trace of any obstruction--no hurdles, no barbed
wire, only a few ends of rope lying in the road.
Then, looking round, she perceived old Perley, with a bag of ferrets
in his hand, emerging from the mist, and she ran up to him
breathlessly.
'So they've come, Perley! Was it they forced the gate?'
Perley scratched his head with his free hand.
'Well, it's an uncommon queer thing, Miss--but I can't tell yer who
opened them gates! I come along here about seven o'clock this
mornin', and the fog was so thick yo couldn't see nothin' beyond a
yard or two. But when I got up to the gates, there they were open,
just as you see 'em now. At first I thought there was summat
wrong--that my eyes wasn't what they used to was. But they was all
right.'
'And you saw the gates shut last night?'
'Barred up, so as you couldn't move 'em, Miss!--not without a
crowbar or two, an' a couple of men. I thowt it was perhaps some
village chaps larkin' as had done it. But it ain't none o' them. It
beats me!'
Pamela looked at the two men smoking by the gate--representatives,
very likely, of the Inspection Sub-Committee. Should she go up and
question them? But some inherited instinct deterred her. She was
glad the country should have the land and the corn. She had no
sympathy with her father. And yet all the same when she actually saw
Demos the outsider forcibly in possession of Mannering land, the
Mannering spirit kicked a little. She would find out what had
happened from some of their own people.
So after watching the County Council plough for a while as it clove
its way up and down the park under the struggling sun which was
gradually scattering the fog--her young intelligence quite aware all
the time of the significance of the sight--she turned back towards
the house. And presently, advancing to meet her, she perceived the
figure of Elizabeth Bremerton--coming, no doubt, to get picturesque
details on the spot for the letter she had promised to write to a
certain artillery officer. A quick flame of jealousy ran through
the girl's mind.
Miss Bremerton quickened her step.
'So they're open!' she said eagerly, as she and Pamela met. 'And
there's nothing broken, or--or lying about!'
She looked in bewilderment at the unlittered road and swinging gate.
'They were open, Perley says, first thing this morning. He came by
about seven.'
'Before the plough arrived?'
'Yes.'
They stood still, trying to puzzle it out. Then a sudden laugh
crossed Elizabeth's face.
'Perhaps there were no barricades! Perhaps your father was taking us
all in!'
'Not at all,' said Pamela drily. 'Perley saw the gates firmly barred
with hurdles and barbed wire, and all tied up with rope, when he and
his wife left the Lodge late last night.'
Elizabeth suddenly coloured brightly. Why, Pamela could not imagine.
Her fair skin made it impossible for a flush to pass unnoticed. But
why should she flush?
Elizabeth walked on rapidly, her eyes on the ground. When she raised
them it was to look rather steadily at her companion.
'I think perhaps I had better tell you at once--I am very
sorry!--but I shall be leaving you in a month. I told your father so
last night.'
Pamela looked the astonishment she felt. For the moment she was
tongue-tied. Was she glad or sorry? She did not know. But the
instinct of good manners came to her aid.
'Can't you stand us?' she said bluntly. 'I expect you can't.'
Elizabeth laughed uncomfortably.
'Why, you've all been so kind to me. But I think perhaps'--she
paused, trying to find her words--'I didn't quite understand--when I
came--how much I still wanted to be doing things for the war--'
'Why, you might do heaps of things!' cried Pamela. 'You have been
doing them. Taking an interest in the farms, I mean--and all that.'
'Well, but--' Elizabeth's brow puckered.
Then she broke into a frank laugh--'After all, that wasn't what I
was engaged for, was it?'
'No--but you seemed to like to do it. And it's war-work,' said
Pamela, inexorably.
Elizabeth was dismally conscious of her own apparent
inconsistencies. It seemed best to be frank.
'The fact is--I think I'd better tell you--I tried yesterday to get
your father to give up his plans about the gates. And when he
wouldn't, and it seemed likely that there might be legal proceedings
and--and a great fuss--in which naturally he would want his
secretary to help him--'
'You just felt you couldn't? Well, of course I understand that,'
said Pamela fervently. 'But then, you see,' she laughed, 'there
isn't going to be a fuss. The plough just walked in, and the fifty
acres will be done in no time.'
Elizabeth looked as she felt--worried.
'It's very puzzling. I wonder what happened? But I am afraid there
will be other things where your father and I shall disagree--if,
that is, he wants me to do so much else for him than the Greek
work--'
'But you might say that you wouldn't do anything else but the Greek
work?'
'Yes, I might,' said Elizabeth smiling, 'but once I've begun--'
'You couldn't keep to it?--father couldn't keep to it?'
Elizabeth shook her head decidedly. A little smile played about her
lips, as much as to say, 'I am a managing woman and you must take me
at that. "Il ne faut pas sortir de son caractère."' Pamela, looking
at her, admired her for the first time. And now that there was to be
no more question--apparently--of correspondence with Arthur
Chicksands, her mood changed impulsively.
'Well, I'm very sorry!' she said--and then, sincerely, 'I don't know
how the place will get on.'
'Thank you,' said Elizabeth. Her look twinkled a little. 'But you
don't know what I might be after if I stayed!'
Pamela laughed out, and the two walked home, better friends than
they had been yet, Elizabeth asking that the news of her resignation
of her post might be regarded as confidential for a few days.
When they reached the house, Pamela went into the morning-room to
tell her sisters of the tame ending to all their alarms, while
Elizabeth hurried to the library. She was due there at half-past
ten, and she was only just in time. Would the Squire be there? She
remembered that she had to apologize for her absence of the day
before.
She felt her pulse thumping a little as she opened the library
door. There was undoubtedly something about the Squire--some
queer magnetism--born perhaps of his very restlessness and
unexpectedness--that made life in his neighbourhood seldom less
than interesting. His temper this morning would probably be of the
worst. Something, or some one, had defeated all his schemes for a
magnificent assertion of the rights of man. His park was in the
hands of the invaders. The public plough was impudently at work.
And at the same moment his secretary had given warning, and the
new catalogue--the darling of his heart--would be thrown on his
hands. It would not be surprising to find him rampant. Elizabeth
entered almost on tip-toe, prepared to be all that was meek and
conciliating, so far as was compatible with her month's notice.
* * * * *
A tall figure rose from the Squire's table and made her a formal
bow.
'Good-morning, Miss Bremerton. I expected your assistance yesterday
afternoon, but you had, I understand, made an engagement?'
'I asked you--a few days ago,' said Elizabeth, mildly confronting
him. 'I am sorry if it inconvenienced you.'
'Oh, all right--all right,' said the Squire hastily. 'I had
forgotten all about it. Well, anyway, we have lost a great deal of
time.' His voice conveyed reproach. His greenish eyes were fierily
bent upon her.
Elizabeth sat down at her table without reply, and chose a pen. The
morning's work generally consisted of descriptions of vases and
bronzes in the Mannering collection, dictated by the Squire, and
illustrated often by a number of references to classical writers,
given both in Greek and English. The labour of looking out and
verifying the references was considerable, and the Squire's testy
temper was never more testy than when it was quarrelling with the
difficulties of translation.
'Kindly take down,' he said peremptorily.
Elizabeth began:
'"No. 190. Greek vase, from a tomb excavated at Mitylene in 1902.
Fine work of the fifth century B.C. Subject: Penelope's Web.
Penelope is seated at the loom. Beside her are the figures of a
young man and two females--probably Telemachus and two hand-maidens.
The three male figures in the background may represent the suitors.
Size, 23 inches high; diameter, 11 inches. Perfect, except for a
restoration in one of the handles."
'Have you got that?'
'Yes.'
'Go on please. "This vase is of course an illustration of the
well-known passage in the _Odyssey_, Book 21. 103. I take Mr. Samuel
Butler's translation, which is lively and modern and much to be
preferred to the heavy archaisms of the other fellows."'
Elizabeth gave a slight cough. The Squire looked at her sharply.
'Oh, you think that's not dignified? Well, have it as you like.'
Elizabeth altered the phrase to 'other translators.' The Squire
resumed. '"Antinous, one of the suitors, is speaking: 'We could see
her working on her great web all day long, but at night she would
unpick the stitches again by torchlight. She fooled us in this way
for three years, and we never found her out, but as time wore on,
and she was now in her fourth year, one of her maids, who knew what
she was doing, told us, and we caught her in the act of undoing her
work, so she had to finish it, whether she would or no....' I tell
you, we never heard of such a woman; we know all about Tyro,
Alcmena, Mycene, and the famous women of old, but they were nothing
to your mother--any one of them."--And yet she was only undoing her
own work!--she was not forcing a grown man to undo his!' said the
Squire, with a sudden rush of voice and speech.
Elizabeth looked up astonished.
'Am I to put that down?'
The Squire threw away the book he was holding. His shining white
hair seemed positively to bristle on his head, his long legs twined
and untwined themselves.
'Don't pretend, please, that you don't know what part you've been
playing in this affair!' he said with sarcasm. 'It took Forest and
me three good hours this morning to take down as fine a barricade as
ever I saw put up. I'm stiff with it still. British liberties have
been thrown to the dogs--[Greek: gynaikos houneka]--all because of a
woman! And there you sit, as though nothing had happened! Yet I
chanced to see you just now, coming back with Pamela!'
Elizabeth's flush this time dyed her all crimson. She sat, pen in
hand, staring at her employer.
'I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Mannering.' At which her
conscience whispered to her sharply, 'You guessed it already--in the
park!'
The Squire jumped to his feet, and came to stand excitedly in front
of her, his hands thrust into the high pockets of his waistcoat.
'I am _extremely_ sorry!' he said, with that _grand seigneur_
politeness he could put on when he chose--'but I am not able to
credit that statement. You make it honestly, of course, but that a
person of your intelligence, when you saw those gates, failed to put
two and two together, well!'--the Squire shook his head, and
shrugged his shoulders, became, in fact, one protesting gesture--'if
you ask me to believe it,' he continued, witheringly, 'I suppose I
must, but--'
'Mr. Mannering!' said Elizabeth earnestly, 'it would really be kind
of you to explain.'
Her blush had died away. She had fallen back in her chair, and was
meeting his attack with the steady, candid look that betrayed her
character. She was now entirely self-possessed--neither nervous nor
angry.
The Squire changed his tone. Folding his arms, he leant against a
pedestal which supported a bust of a Roman emperor.
'Very well, then--I _will_ explain. I told you yesterday of a step I
proposed to take by way of testing how far the invasion of personal
freedom had gone in this country. I was perfectly justified in
taking it. I was prepared to suffer for my action. I had thought it
all out. Then _you_ came in--and by _force majeure_ compelled me to
give it all up!'
Elizabeth could not help laughing.
'I never heard any account of an incident which fitted less with the
facts!' she said with vivacity.
'It exactly fits them!' the Squire insisted. 'When I told you what I
meant to do, instead of sympathy--instead of simple acquiescence,
for how the deuce were you responsible!--you threatened to throw up
the work I cannot now possibly accomplish without you--'
'Mr. Levasseur?' suggested Elizabeth.
'Levasseur be hanged!' said the Squire, taking an angry pace up and
down. 'Don't please interrupt me. I have given you a perfectly free
hand, and you have organized the work--your share of it--as you
please. Nobody else is the least likely to do it in the same way.
When you go, it drops. And when your share drops, mine drops.
That's what comes of employing a woman of ability, and trusting to
her--as I have trusted to you!'
Was there ever any attack so grotesque, so unfair? Elizabeth was for
one moment inclined to be angry--and the next, she was conscious of
yieldings and compunctions that were extremely embarrassing.
'You rate my help a great deal too high,' she said after a moment.
'It is you yourself who have taught me how to work in your way. I
don't think you will have any real difficulty with another
secretary. You are'--she ventured a smile--'you are a born teacher.'
Never was any compliment less successful. The Squire looked sombrely
down upon her.
'So you _still_ intend to leave us,' he said slowly, 'after what I
have done?'
'What have you done?' said Elizabeth faintly.
'Made myself a laughing-stock to the whole country-side!--and thrown
all my principles overboard--to content you--and save my book!' The
reply was given with an angry energy that shook her. 'I have humbled
myself to the dust to meet your sentimental ideas--and there you
sit--as stony and inaccessible as this fellow here!'--he brought his
hand down with vehemence on the Roman emperor's shoulder. 'Not a
word of gratitude--or concession--or sympathy! I was indeed a fool
to take any trouble to please you!'
Elizabeth was silent. They surveyed each other. 'No agitation!' said
Elizabeth's inner mind; 'keep cool!'
At last she withdrew her own eyes from the angry tension of
his--dropped them to the table where her right hand was
mechanically drawing nonsense figures on her blotting-paper.
'Did you really yourself take down that barricade?' she said gently.
'I did! And it was an infernal piece of work!'
'I'm awfully glad!' Her voice was very soft.
'I daresay you are. It suits your principles, and your ideas, of
course--not mine! And now, having driven me to it--having publicly
discredited and disgraced me--you can still sit there and talk of
throwing up your work.'
The growing passion in the irascible gentleman towering above her
warned her that it was time to bring the scene to an end.
'I am glad,' she repeated steadily, 'very glad--especially--for Mr.
Desmond.'
'Oh, Desmond!' the Squire threw out impatiently, beginning again to
walk up and down.
'He would have minded so dreadfully,' she said, still in a lower
key. 'It was really him I was thinking of. Of course I had no right
to interfere with your affairs--'
The Squire turned, the tyrant in him reviving fast.
'Well, you did interfere--and to some purpose! Now then--yes or
no--is your notice withdrawn?'
Elizabeth hesitated.
'I would willingly stay with you,' she said, 'if--'
'If what?'
She looked up with a sudden flash of laughter.
'If we can really get on!'
'Name your terms!' He returned, frowning and excited, to the
neighbourhood of the Roman emperor.
'Oh no--I have no terms,' she said hurriedly. 'Only--if you
ask me to help you with the land, I should want to obey the
Government--and--and do the best for the war.'
'Condition No. 1,' said the Squire grimly, checking it off. 'Go on!'
'And--I should--perhaps--beg you to let Pamela do some V.A.D. work,
if she wants to.'
'Pamela is your affair!' said the Squire impatiently. 'If you stay
here, you are her chaperon, and, for the present, head of the
household.'
'Only just for the present--till Pamela can do it!' put in Elizabeth
hastily. 'But she's nineteen--she ought to take a part.'
'Well, don't bother me about that. You are responsible. I wash my
hands of her. Anything else?'
It did not do to think of Pamela's feelings, should she ever become
aware of how she was being handed over. But the mention of her, on a
sudden impulse, had been pure sympathy on Elizabeth's part; a wish
to strike on the girl's behalf while the iron was so very hot. She
looked up quietly.
'No, indeed there is nothing else--except indeed--that you won't
expect me to hide what I feel about the war--and the little we at
home can do to help--'
Her voice failed a little. The Squire said nothing. She went on,
with a clearing countenance.
'So--if you really wish it--I will stay, Mr. Mannering--and try to
help you all I can. It was splendid of you--to give up your plans.
I'm sure you won't regret it.'
'I'm not sure at all--but it's done. Now, then, let us understand.
You take over my estate correspondence. You'll want a clerk--I'll
find one. You can appoint a new agent if you like. You can do what
you like, in fact. I was never meant to be a landowner, and I hate
the whole business. You can harry the farmers as you please--I
shan't interfere.'
'Allow me to point out,' said Elizabeth firmly, 'that at college I
was not trained in land-agency--but in Greek!'
'What does that matter? If women can build Dreadnoughts, as they say
they can, they can manage estates. Now, then, as to my conditions.
Do what you like--but my book and the catalogue come _first_!' He
looked at her with an exacting eye.
'Certainly,' said Elizabeth.
'But I know what you'll do--you'll go and break down! You are _not_
to break down.'
'Certainly!' said Elizabeth.
'But you have once broken down.'
Her start was perceptible, but she answered quietly.
'I was ill a year ago--partly from overwork. But I am normally quite
strong.'
The Squire observed her. It was very pleasant to him to see her
sitting there, in her trim serge dress, with its broad white collar
and cuffs--the sheen of her hair against the dark wall--her shapely
hands ready for work upon his table. He felt as if he had with
enormous difficulty captured--recaptured--something of exceptional
value; like one of those women 'skilled in beautiful arts' whom the
Greek slave-raiders used to carry off from a conquered city, and
sell for large sums to the wives of wealthy Greek chieftains. Till
now he had scarcely thought of her as a woman, but rather as a
fine-edged but most serviceable tool which he had had the
extraordinary good luck to find. Now, with his mere selfish feeling
of relief there mingled something rather warmer and more human. If
only she would stay, he would honestly try and make life agreeable
to her.
'Well now, that's settled,' he said, drawing a long
breath--'Oh--except one thing--you will of course want a larger
salary?'
'Not at all,' said Elizabeth decidedly. 'You pay me quite enough.'
'You are not offended with me for asking?' His tone had become
astonishingly deferential.
'Not the least. I am a business woman. If I thought myself entitled
to more I should say so. But it is extremely doubtful whether I can
really be of any use whatever to you.'
'All right,' said the Squire, returning to his own table. 'Now,
then, let us go on with No. 190.'
'Is it necessary now to put in--well, _quite_ so much about
Penelope?' asked Elizabeth, as she took up her pen.
'What do you think?'
'It seems a little long and dragged in.' Elizabeth looked critically
at the paragraph.
'And we have now unravelled the web?--we can do without her?
Yes--let her go!' said the Squire, in a tone of excessive
complaisance.
* * * * *
When the morning's work was done, and luncheon over, Elizabeth
carried off Pamela to her room. When Pamela emerged, she went in
search of Forest, interviewed him in the gun-room, and then shutting
herself up in the 'den' she wrote to Desmond.
'MY DEAR DEZZY--There are such queer things going on in this
queer house! Yesterday Broomie gave warning, and father
barricaded the park gates, and was perfectly mad, and
determined not to listen to anybody. In the middle of the night
he and Forest took the barricade down, and to-day, Broomie is
to be not only secretary, but land-agent, and anything else she
pleases--queen, in fact, of all she surveys--including me. But
I am bound to say she had been very decent to me over it all.
She _wants_ me to do some of the housekeeping--and she has
actually made father consent to my helping at the hospital
every afternoon. Of course I am awfully glad about that. I
shall bicycle over.
'But all the same it is very odd, and perhaps you and I had
better consider what it _may_ mean. I know from Broomie herself
that she gave notice yesterday--and now she is going to stay.
And I know from Forest that father called him up when it was
quite dark, between three and four in the morning--Mrs. Forest
thought the Germans had come when she heard the knocking--and
asked him to come with him and undo the gates. Forest told me
that _he_ would have had nothing whatever to do with closing
them, nor with anything 'agin the Government! He's a staunch
old soul, is Forest. So when father told him what he wanted, he
didn't know what to make of it. However, they both groped their
way through the fog, which was thick on the other side of the
park, and set to at the gates. Forest says it was an awful
business to get everything cleared away. Father and Gregson had
made an uncommonly good job of it. If Gregson had put in work
like that on his own hedges and gates, Forest says he mightn't
have been kicked out! It took them ages getting the barbed
wire cleared away, because they hadn't any proper nippers.
Father took off his coat, and worked like a navvy, and Forest
hoisted him up to get at the wire along the wall. Forest says
he was determined to leave nothing! "And I believe, Miss, the
Squire was very glad of the fog--because there couldn't be any
one prying around."
'For it seems to be really true that the village has been in a
state of ferment, and that they had determined to free the
gates and let in the Council plough. Perley was seen talking to
a lot of men on the green last night. I met him myself this
morning after breakfast near the gates, and he confessed he had
been there already--early. I expect he came to reconnoitre and
take back the news. Rather calm, for one of father's own men!
But that's the new spirit, Dezzy. We're not going to be allowed
to have it all our own way any more. Well, thank goodness, I
don't mind. At least, there is something in me that minds. I
suppose it's one's forbears. But the greater part of me wants a
_lot_ of change--and there are often and often times when I
wish I'd been born in the working-class and was just struggling
upwards with them, and sharing all their hopes and dreams for
"after the war." Well, why shouldn't I? I'm going to set
Broomie on to some of the cottages in the village--not that
she'll want setting on--but after all, it's I who know the
people.
'But that's by the way. The point is why did father give in?
Evidently because Broomie gave notice, and he couldn't bear the
idea of parting with her. Of course Alice--and Margaret too, to
some extent--are convinced it all means that father wants to
marry her. Only Alice thinks that Miss Bremerton has been
intriguing for it since the first week she set foot in the
house; while Margaret is certain that she wouldn't marry father
if he asked her. She thinks that Miss B. is just the new woman,
who wants to _do_ things, and isn't always thinking about
getting married. Well, Dezzy, old boy--_I_ don't know what to
think. I'll keep my eyes open, and report to you. I
_don't--altogether--like her_. No, I don't--that's flat. I
wish, on the whole, she'd taken her departure! And yet I feel
rather a toad for saying so. She is splendid in some
things--yes, she is! And the Rectory people take the most
rose-coloured view of her--it's too late to tell you why, for
the postman is just coming.
'Good-bye, Dezzy--dear Dezzy! I know how glad you'll be about
the gates. Write to me as often as you can. By the way, Miss
Bremerton has got a brother in the war--with General Maude.
That ought to make me like her. But why did she leave us to
find it out through the Rectory? She never says anything about
herself that she can help. Do you think you'll really get to
France in January? Ever your loving
'PAM.'