'Hullo, Aubrey! what brings you here?' And with the words Arthur
Chicksands, just emerging from the War Office, stopped to greet a
brother officer, who was just entering it.
'Nothing much. I shan't be long. Can you wait a bit?'
'Right you are. I've got to leave a note at the Ministry of
Munitions, but I'll be back in a few minutes.'
Arthur Chicksands went his way to Whitehall Gardens, while Major
Mannering disappeared into the inner regions of that vast building
where dwell the men on whom hang the fortunes of an Empire. Arthur
walking fast up Whitehall was very little aware of the scene about
him. His mind was occupied with the details of the interview in
which he had just been engaged. His promotion had lately been rapid,
and his work of extraordinary interest. He had been travelling a
great deal, backwards and forwards between London and Versailles,
charged with several special enquiries in which he had shown both
steadiness and _flair_. Things were known to him that he could not
share even with a friend so old and 'safe' as Aubrey Mannering. The
grip of the coming crisis was upon him, and he seemed 'to carry the
world in his breast'
'Next year--next February--where shall we all be?' The question was
automatically suggested to him by the sight of the green buds of the
lilac trees In front of Whitehall Terrace.
'Oh, my dear Susan!--do look at those trees!'
Chicksands, startled from his own meditations, looked up to see two
old ladies gazing with an eager interest at a couple of plane trees,
which had just shed a profusion of bark and stood white and almost
naked in the grey London air. They were dear old ladies from some
distant country-side, with bonnets and fronts, and reticules, as
though they had just walked out of _Cranford_, and after gazing with
close attention at the plane trees near them they turned and looked
at all the other plane trees in Whitehall, which presented an
equally plucked and peeled appearance.
Then the one addressed as Susan laughed out--a happy, chuckling
laugh.
'Oh, I see! My dear Ellen, how clever people are now! They're
_camouflaged_--that's what it is--can't you see?--all the way down,
because of the raids!'
The admiring fervour of the voice was too much for Chicksands. He
hurried past them, head down, and ran up the steps of the Ministry
of Munitions. From that point of vantage he turned, shaken with
amusement, to see the pair advancing slowly towards Westminster,
their old-fashioned skirts floating round them, still pointing
eagerly at the barkless trees. Had they come from some piny region
where the plane is not? Anyway the tension of the day was less.
He repeated the tale to Aubrey Mannering a few minutes later, when
they had turned together into Birdcage Walk. But Aubrey scarcely
gave it the ghost of a smile. As to his old friend's enquiries about
his own work and plans, he answered them quite readily, but shortly,
without any expansion; with the manner, indeed, of one for whom
talk about himself had no sort of attraction. And as they passed
along the front of the barracks, where a few men were drilling,
Chicksands, struck by his companion's silence, turned a sudden look
upon him. Mannering's eyes were absently and yet intently fixed on
the small squads of drilling men. And it was sharply borne in on
Chicksands that he was walking beside the mere image or phantom of a
man, a man whose mind was far away--'voyaging through strange seas
of thought alone.' Mannering's eyes were wide open; but they made
the weird impression on the spectator of a double seeing--of some
object of vision beyond and behind the actual scene of the barracks
and the recruits, and that an object producing terror or pain.
Chicksands made a remark and it was not answered.
It was not the first time that Arthur had observed this trance-like
state in the man who was to be his brother-in-law, and had been his
'chum' from childhood. Others had noticed it, and he had reason to
think that Beryl was often distressed by it. He had never himself
seen any signs of strangeness or depression in Aubrey before the
Easter of 1915, when they met in Paris, for the first time after the
battle of Neuve Chapelle, in which Mannering had lost his dearest
friend, one Freddy Vivian, of the Worcesters. During the winter they
had met fairly often in the neighbourhood of Ypres, and Aubrey was
then the same eager, impulsive fellow that Chicksands had known at
Eton and Cambridge, bubbling over with the exploits of his
battalion, and adored by his own men. In April, in a raid near
Festubert, Mannering was badly wounded. But the change in him was
already evident when they were in Paris together. Chicksands could
only suppose it represented the mental and nervous depression caused
by Vivian's death, and would pass away. On the contrary, it had
proved to be something permanent.
Yet it had never interfered with his efficiency as a soldier, nor
his record for a dare-devil courage. There were many tales current
of his exploits on the Somme, in which again and again he had singed
the beard of Death, with an absolute recklessness of his own
personal life, combined with the most anxious care for that of his
men. Since the battle of Messines he had been the head of a
remarkable Officers' School at Aldershot, mainly organized by
himself. But now, it seemed, he was moving heaven and earth to get
back to France and the front. Chicksands did not think he would
achieve it. He was invaluable where he was, and his superiors, to
Mannering's indignation, were inclined to regard him as a man who
was physically fit rather for home service than the front.
When they reached the Buckingham Palace end of the Walk, Mannering
paused.
'Where are you lunching?'
'At Brooks', with my father.'
'Oh, then I'll walk there with you.'
They struck across the park, and talk fell on a recent small
set-back which had happened to a regiment with which they were both
well acquainted.
Chicksands shrugged his shoulders.
'I've heard some details at the War Office. Just ten minutes' rot!
The Colonel stopped it with his revolver. Most of them splendid
fellows. Two young subs gave way under a terrific shelling and their
men with them. And in ten minutes they were all rushing forward
again, straight through the barrage--and the two lieutenants were
killed.'
'My God!--lucky fellows!' cried Mannering, under his breath, with a
passion and suddenness that struck astonishment into his companion.
'Well, yes,' said Arthur, 'in a sense--but--nothing would have
happened to them. They had wiped it out.'
Mannering shook his head. Then with a great and evident effort he
changed the conversation.
'You know Pamela's in town?'
'Yes, with Margaret Strang. I'm going to dine there to-night. How's
the new agent getting on?'
Aubrey smiled.
'Which?--the man--or the lady?'
'Miss Bremerton, of course. I got a most interesting letter from her
a fortnight ago. Do you know that she herself has discovered nearly
a thousand ash in the Squire's woods, after that old idiot Hull had
told her she wouldn't find half-a-dozen? A thousand ash is not to be
sneezed at in these days! I happen to know that the Air Board wrote
the Squire a very civil letter.'
'"All along of Eliza!"' mused Mannering. 'She's been away from
Mannering just lately. Her invalid mother became very seriously ill
about three weeks ago, and she had to go home for a time. My father,
of course, has been fussing and fuming to get her back.'
'Poor Squire! But how could Pamela be spared too?'
Mannering hesitated.
'Well, the fact is she and my father seem to have had a good
old-fashioned row. She tried to fill Miss Bremerton's place, and of
course it didn't answer. She's too young, and my father too
exacting. Then when it broke down, and he took things out of her
hands again, comparing her, of course, enormously to her
disadvantage with Miss Bremerton, Pamela lost her temper and said
foolish things of Miss Bremerton. Whereupon fury on my father's
part--and sudden departure on Pamela's. She actually bicycled off to
the railway station, sent a telegram for her things, and came up to
Margaret. Alice Gaddesden is looking after father. But of course he
and she don't get on a bit.'
The Captain looked much concerned.
'It's a pity Pamela takes that line--don't you think? I really don't
see the conspirator in Miss Bremerton. I hoped when I saw her first
she would make just all the difference to Pamela.'
'Yes, it's puzzling. I ran down to see my father, who was in a rabid
state of mind, not knowing what to do with all the schemes and
business this clever woman started--perfectly lost without her.'
'Ah, that's the worst of your Indispensable!' laughed Chicksands.
Mannering threw him a quick, scrutinizing look. Various items of
information picked up at Mannering, mostly from his sister Alice,
had made him wonder whether some jealousy of a more vital and
intimate kind than appeared might not be at the root of Pamela's
behaviour. He was not observant at this period of his life, except
of things relating to his engagement to Beryl, his work, or those
inner pre-occupations which held him. But it had once or twice
crossed his mind that Pamela might be interested in Arthur; and
there had been certain hints from Beryl, who was, however, he was
certain, scarcely better informed than he was. Pamela was a most
secretive and independent young woman. He doubted whether even
Desmond, whom she adored, knew much about her.
Well, supposing she was jealous--jealous of her father's secretary,
and on account of Arthur, was there the smallest cause for it? He
understood that Arthur and Miss Bremerton had met occasionally, and
he had himself heard Chicksands express the warmest admiration for
her as the right sort of new woman, 'as straight as you make
'em'--and with 'a brain like a man'--which, from one who was always
rather a critical spectator than a courtier of women, was high
praise. But as for any spark of sex in it--Mannering laughed at the
notion. No. If that really was Pamela's delusion, something must be
done to rid his little sister of it if possible. He would talk to
Beryl.
But--as always when any new responsibility presented itself to
him--a deep inner weariness rebelled. In small things as in great,
he was mentally like a man walking and working with a broken limb.
* * * * *
Arthur Chicksands stood some time that evening waiting on the
doorstep of Mrs. Strang's small house, in one of the old streets of
Westminster. 'No servants, I suppose,' he said to himself with
resignation. But it was bitterly cold, and he was relieved to hear
at last the sound of a voice and a girl's laugh inside. Pamela
opened the door to him, pulling down the sleeves of a thin black
dress over her shapely arms.
'Oh, come in. Margaret's cooking the dinner, and I've laid the
table. Bernard's just bringing up some coals, and then we're ready.'
Mr. Bernard Strang, a distinguished Home Office official, appeared
at that moment in his shirt-sleeves at the head of the kitchen
stairs, bearing a scuttle of coal in each hand.
'Gracious! Give me one of them!' said the Captain, hurrying to the
rescue.
But Mr. Strang, putting down the right-hand scuttle, to take breath,
warned him off.
'Thank you, Chicksands--but no brass hats need apply! Many
thanks--but you're too smart!' He pointed, panting, to the red tabs
and to the bit of variegated ribbon on Chicksands' broad chest. 'Go
and help Pamela bring in the dinner.'
The Captain obeyed with alacrity.
'All the servants left on Monday,' said Pamela. 'We had a charwoman
this morning, but she's gone to-night, because there's a new moon.'
'What--raids?'
Pamela nodded as she gave him the soup, with instructions to carry
it carefully and put it by the fire. She seemed to be in her gayest
mood, and Chicksands' eyes followed her perpetually as she went
backwards and forwards on her household tasks. Presently Mrs. Strang
appeared, crimson from the fire, bearing the fishpie and vegetables
that were to provide the rationed meal.
'To think,' said Mr. Strang, when they were at last at table, 'that
there was a time when we were proud of our "little dinners," and
that I never made myself unpleasant unless Margaret spent more than
five pounds on the food alone. Shall I ever eat a good dinner
again?'
He looked wistfully at the bare table.
'Will you ever want to?' said Arthur, quietly.
A momentary silence fell upon the little party. Bernard Strang had
lost two brothers in the war, and Chicksands had no sooner spoken
than he reproached himself for a tactless brute. But, suddenly, the
bells of the Abbey rang: out above their heads, playing with every
stroke on the nerves of the listeners. For the voice of England was
in them, speaking to that under-consciousness which the war has
developed in us all.
'Any news?' said Strang, looking at Arthur.
'No. The Eastern business gets a little worse every day.'
'And the "Offensive"?
'Let them! Our men want nothing better.'
On which the dinner resolved itself into a device for making the
Captain talk. The War Office crisis, the men gathered in conclave at
Versailles, and that perpetual friction between the politician and
the soldier, which every war, big or little, brings to the front,
and which will only end when war ends--those were the topics of it,
with other talk such as women like to listen to of men about
individual men, shrewd, careless, critical, strangely damning here,
strangely indulgent there, constant only in one quality--that it is
the talk of men and even if one heard it behind a curtain and
strained through distance, could never by any chance be mistaken for
the talk of women.
At intervals Pamela got up to change the plates and the dishes,
quieting with a peremptory gesture the two males, who would spring
to their feet. 'Haven't I done parlour-work for six months?--no
amateurs, please!' And again, even while he talked on, Arthur's eyes
would stray after the young full figure, the white neck and throat,
the head with the soft hair folded close around it in wavy bands
that followed all its lines--as it might have been the head of one
of those terra-cottas that her father had stolen from the Greek
tombs in his youth.
But unfortunately, after dinner, in a corner of the dark
drawing-room, he must needs try and play the schoolmaster a little,
for her good of course; and then all went to pieces.
'I hear you ran away!'
The voice that threw out this sudden challenge was half ironical,
half affectionate; the grey eyes under their strong black brows
looked at her with amusement.
Pamela flushed at once.
'Aubrey told you, I suppose? What was the good of staying? I
couldn't do anything right. I was only making things worse.'
'I can hardly believe that! Couldn't you just have kept Miss
Bremerton's work going till she came back?'
'I tried,' said Pamela stiffly, 'and it didn't do.'
'Perhaps she attempts too much. But she seemed to me to be very
sensible and human. And--did you hear about the ash trees?'
'No,' said Pamela shortly, her foot nervously beating the ground.
'It doesn't matter. Of course I know she's the cleverest person
going. But I can't get on with her--that's all! I'm going to take up
nursing--properly. I'm making enquiries about the London Hospital. I
want to be a real Army nurse.'
'Will your father consent?'
'Fathers can't stop their daughters from doing things--as they used
to do!' said Pamela, with her chin in the air.
She had moved away from him; her soft gaiety had disappeared; he
felt her all thorns. Yet some perversity made him try to argue with
her. The war--pray the Lord!--might be over before her training as
an Army nurse was half done. Meanwhile, her V.A.D. work at Mannering
was just what was wanted at the moment from girls of her age--hadn't
she seen the appeals for V.A.D.'s? And also, if by anything she did
at home--or set others free for doing--she could help Captain Dell
and Miss Bremerton to pull the estate round, and get the maximum
amount of food out of it, she would be serving the country in the
best way possible.
'The last ounce of food, mind!--that's what it depends on,' he said,
smiling at her, 'which can stick it longest--they or we. You belong
to the land--ought you desert it?'
Pamela sat unmoved. She knew nothing about the land. Her father had
the new agent--and Miss Bremerton.
'Your sister there,' said Chicksands, nodding towards the front
drawing-room, where Strang and his wife were sitting Darby and Joan
over the fire discussing rations and food prices, 'thinks Miss
Bremerton already overdone.'
'I never saw the least sign of it!'
'But think!--your father never slackens his Greek work--and there is
all the rest.'
'I suppose if it's too much for her she'll give it up,' said Pamela
in her most obstinate voice.
But even then a normally tactful man still held on.
Never was anything more maladroit. It was the stupidity of a clever
fellow, deluding himself with the notion that having refused the
rôle of lover, he could at least play that of guardian and adviser;
whose conscience, moreover, was so absolutely clear on the subject
of Elizabeth Bremerton that he did not even begin to suspect what
was rankling In the girl's morbid sense.
The relation between them accordingly went from bad to worse; and
when Pamela rose and sharply put an end to their private
conversation, the evening would have practically ended in a quarrel
but for some final saving instinct on Chicksands' part, which made
him mention Desmond as he bade her good-night.
'I could tell you where he is,' he said gravely. 'Only I mustn't. I
had a note from him yesterday--the dear old boy! He wrote in the
highest spirits. His colonel was "ripping," and his men, of course,
the best in the whole battery.'
'If you get any news--ever--before we do,' said Pamela, suddenly
choking, 'you'll tell us at once?'
'Trust me. He's never out of my mind.'
On that her good-night was less cold than it would have been five
minutes before. But he walked home through the moonlit streets both
puzzled and distressed--till he reached his club in Pall Mall, where
the news coming through on the tape quickly drove everything out of
his soldier's mind but the war.
* * * * *
Mrs. Gaddesden was sitting as usual in the hall at Mannering. A mild
February was nearly out. It would be the first of March on the
morrow.
Every moment she expected to hear the Fallerton taxi draw up at the
front door--bringing Elizabeth Bremerton back to Mannering. She had
been away more than a month. Mrs. Gaddesden went back in thought to
the morning when it had been announced to the Squire by his pale and
anxious secretary that she had had bad news of her invalid mother,
and must go home at once. The Squire--his daughter could not deny
it--had behaved abominably. But of all of his fume and fret, his
unreasonable complaints and selfish attempts to make her fix the
very day and hour of her return, Elizabeth had taken no notice. Go
she would, at once; and she would make no promises as to the exact
date of her return. But on the morning before she went she had
worked superhumanly to put things in order, whether for her typist,
or Captain Dell, or Pamela, who must at least take over the
housekeeping. The relations between her and Miss Bremerton that
morning had struck Mrs. Gaddesden as odd--certainly not cordial. But
there was nothing to complain of in Pamela's conduct. She would do
her best, she said, and sat listening while Elizabeth gave her
instructions about food cards, and servants, and the rest.
Then, when the taxi had driven away with the Dictator, what temper
on the Squire's part! Mrs. Gaddesden had very nearly gone home to
London--but for the fact of raids, and the fact that two of her most
necessary servants had joined the W.A.A.C.'s. Pamela, on the other
hand, had gone singing about the house. And really the child had
done her best. But how could any one expect her to manage her father
and the house, especially on the scraps of time left her by her
V.A.D. work? The Squire had been like a fractious child over the
compulsory rations. Nobody was less of a glutton--he pecked like a
bird; but the proper food to peck at must be always there, or his
temper was unbearable. Pamela made various blunders; the household
knew hunger for the first time; and the servants began to give
warning. Captain Dell could do nothing with his employer, and the
timber business was hung up.
Then came Pamela's outbreak after a tirade from the Squire bitterly
contrasting his lost secretary's performances, in every particular,
with those of his daughter. The child had disappeared, and a message
from the station was all that remained of her. Well, who could
wonder? Mrs. Gaddesden reflected, with some complacency, that even
she had spoken her mind to her father that night, conveniently
forgetting some annoying retorts of his about herself, and the
custom she had developed of sitting for hours over the fire
pretending to knit, but really doing nothing. After her enormous
exertions in the cause of the war--she was accustomed to say--of the
year before, she was in need of a rest. She was certainly taking it.
Since Pamela left, indeed, she had been obliged to do the
housekeeping, and considered it very hard work. She had never yet
been able to calculate the food coupons correctly.
So she, like all the rest, was looking eagerly for Elizabeth.
Yes!--that was the cracked horn of the village taxi. Mrs. Gaddesden
poked the fire with energy and rang for Forest. But his quick ears
had heard the signal before hers, and he was already hurrying
through the hall to the front door.
And there was the library door opening, so her father too had been
on the watch. Voices in the vestibule, and as the outer door of the
hall opened, the Squire appeared at the further end. Alice Gaddesden
had an odd feeling that something important--decisive--was going to
happen.
Yet nothing could have been more unassuming than Elizabeth's entry.
It was evident, indeed, that Forest was overjoyed to see her. He
shouldered her modest boxes and bags with a will, and a housemaid,
all smiles, came running half way downstairs to take some of his
burden from him. Elizabeth followed the butler and took Mrs.
Gaddesden's hand.
'My train was late. I hope you've not waited tea?'
'Why, of course we have,' said the Squire's voice. 'Forest!--tea at
once.'
Elizabeth, not having perceived his approach in the dimness of the
February twilight, turned with a start to greet the Squire. He
looked, to her eyes, lankier and thinner and queerer than ever. But
it was a distinguished queerness. Elizabeth had forgotten that the
brow and eyes were so fine, and the hair so glistening white. The
large nose and small captious chin passed unnoticed. She was
astonished at her own throb of pleasure in seeing her employer
again.
His pleasure was boisterously evident, though presently he showed it
in his usual way by attacking her. But first Mrs. Gaddesden made the
proper enquiries after Elizabeth's invalid mother.
Elizabeth, looking extremely tired as she sat by the fire, in the
chair which the Squire--most unwonted attention!--had drawn up for
her, said that her mother was better, and volunteered nothing
further. The Squire, meanwhile, had observed her looks, and was
chafing inwardly against invalid relations who made unjust claims
upon their kith and kin and monstrously insisted on being nursed by
them. But he had the sense to hold his tongue, and even to profess a
decent sympathy.
Then, without any further preamble, he plunged into his own affairs.
'Everything's gone to rack and ruin since you left,' he said
vehemently. 'Of course you knew it would!'
Elizabeth's eyebrows lifted. The look, half tolerant, half amused,
with which she greeted sallies of this kind was one of her
attractions for the Squire.
'What's Captain Dell been doing?' she inquired.
'Marking time!' was the testy reply. 'He's been no good by
himself--I knew he wouldn't be--no more use than old Hull.'
Elizabeth's expression showed her sceptical.
'And the timber?'
'Just where you left it. The rascally fellows want all sorts of
conditions. You may accept them if you like--I won't. But I told
them we'd meet them in the woods to-morrow--you, and Dell and I. And
Chicksands, who likes poking his nose into everything, is coming
too.'
'Sir Henry?' asked Elizabeth in astonishment.
'Well, I thought you might like the old boy's opinion, so I rang him
up on that horrid thing you've put into the office. I don't care
about his opinion in the least!'
A treat arranged for her return! Elizabeth felt as if she were being
offered Sir Henry's head on a charger.
'That will be a great help!' she said with rather artificial
enthusiasm, at which the Squire only shrugged his shoulders. 'Has
Sir Henry been over here--'
'While you've been away? Nothing of the sort. He's not crossed the
threshold since I turned him out six months ago. But he's coming all
the same--as mild as milk.'
'Very good of him!' said Elizabeth with spirit.
'That's as you choose to look at it. And as to everything else--'
'The catalogue?'
'Gone to the crows!' said the Squire gloomily. 'Levasseur took some
references to look out last week, and made twenty mistakes in as
many lines. He's off!'
Elizabeth removed her hat and pressed her hands to her eyes, half
laughing, half aghast. Never had anything been more welcome to the
Squire than the sheen of her hair in the semi-darkness. Mrs.
Gaddesden had once annoyed him by calling it red.
'And the farms?'
'Oh, that I leave you to find out. I shovelled all the letters on to
your table, just as Pamela left them.'
'Pamela!' said Elizabeth, looking up. 'But where is she?'
The Squire held his peace. Mrs. Gaddesden drily observed that she
was staying with Mrs. Strang in town. A bright colour spread in
Elizabeth's cheeks and she fell silent, staring into the fire.
'Hadn't you better take your things off?' said Mrs. Gaddesden.
Elizabeth rose. As she passed the Squire, he said gruffly:
'Of course you're not ready for any Greek before dinner?'
She smiled. 'But of course I am. I'll be down directly.'
In a few more minutes she was standing alone in her room. The
housemaid, of her own accord, had lit a fire, and had gathered some
snowdrops for the dressing table. Elizabeth's bags had been already
unpacked, and all her small possessions had been arranged just as
she liked them.
'They spoil me,' she thought, half pleased, half shrinking. 'But why
am I here? Why have I come back? And what do I mean to do?'