These questions--'Why did I come back?--What am I going to do?' were
still ringing through Elizabeth's mind when, on the evening of her
return, she entered the library to find the Squire eagerly waiting
for her.
But the spectacle presented by the room quickly drove out other
matters. She stood aghast at the disorder which three weeks of the
Squire's management had brought about. Books on the floor and piled
on the chairs--a dusty confusion of papers everywhere--drawers open
and untidy--her reign of law seemed to have been wiped out.
'Oh, what a _dreadful_ muddle!'
The Squire looked about him--abashed.
'Yes, it's awful--it's all that fellow Levasseur. I ought to have
turned him out sooner. He's the most helpless, incompetent idiot.
But it won't take you very long to get straight? I'll do anything
you tell me.'
He watched her face appealingly, like a boy in a scrape. Elizabeth
shook her head.
'It'll take me a full day. But never mind; we need not begin
to-night.'
'No, we won't begin to-night!' said the Squire emphatically.
'There!--I've found a chair for you. Is that fire as you like it?'
What astonishing amiability! The attack of nerves which had assailed
Elizabeth upstairs began to disappear. She took the chair the Squire
offered her, cleared a small table, and produced from the
despatch-box she had brought into the room with her a writing-block
and a fountain-pen.
'Do you want to dictate anything?'
'Not at all!' said the Squire. 'I've got nothing ready for
dictating. The work I have done during your absence I shall probably
tear up.'
'But I thought--'
'Well, I daresay--but can't a man change his mind? Greek be hanged!'
thundered the impatient voice. 'I want some conversation with
you--if you will allow me?'
The last words slipped awkwardly into another note. It was as though
a man should exchange the trombone for the flute. Elizabeth held her
peace; but her pulse was beginning to quicken.
'The fact is,' said the Squire, 'I have been thinking over a good
many things--in the last hour.' Then he turned upon her abruptly.
'What was that you were saying to Alice in the hall just now, about
moving your mother into better rooms?'
Elizabeth's parted lips showed her surprise.
'We do want better rooms for her,' she said hesitatingly, after a
moment. 'My sister Joan, who is at home just now, is looking out.
But they are not easy to find.'
'Don't look out!' said the Squire impetuously. 'I have a better plan
to propose to you. In these horrible days people must co-operate and
combine. I know many instances of families sharing a house--and
servants. Beastly, I admit, in the case of a small house. One runs
up against people--and then one hates them. I do! But in the case of
a large house it is different. Now, what do you say to this? Bring
your mother here!'
'Bring--my mother--here?' repeated Elizabeth stupidly. 'I don't
understand.'
'It's very simple.' The Squire stood over her, his thumbs in his
waistcoat pockets, his eyes all vivacity. 'This is a big house--an
old barn, if you like, but big enough. Your mother might have the
whole of the east wing--which looks south--if she pleased; and
neither she nor I need ever come in each other's way, any more than
people who have flats in the same building. I heard you say she had
a nurse. Well, there would be the nurse--and another servant
perhaps. And the housekeeping could be in common. Now do consider
it. Be reasonable! Don't mock at it, because it isn't your own
plan,' said the Squire severely, perceiving the smile, which she
could not repress, spreading over Elizabeth's countenance.
'It's awfully good of you!' she began warmly--'but--'
'But what?'
Then Elizabeth's smile vanished, and instead he saw a dimness in the
clear blue eyes.
'My poor little mother is too ill--much too ill--' she said in a low
voice. 'She may live a good while yet; but her mind is no longer
clear.'
The Squire was checked. This possible aspect of the case had not
occurred to him. But he was not to be defeated.
'If you can move her from one house to another, surely you could
move her here--in an invalid motor? It would only take an hour and a
half.'
Elizabeth shook her head quietly, but decidedly.
'Thank you, but I am afraid it is impossible. She couldn't take the
journey, and--no, indeed, it is out of the question!'
'Will you ask your doctor?' said the Squire obstinately.
'I know what he would say. Please don't think of it, Mr. Mannering.
It's very, very good of you.'
'It's not the least good,' said the Squire roughly. 'It's sheer,
naked self-interest. If you're not at ease about your mother, you'll
be throwing up your work here again some day, for good, and that'll
be death and damnation!'
He turned frowning away, and threw himself into a chair by the fire.
So the murder was out. Elizabeth must needs laugh. But this clumsy
way of showing her that she was indispensable not only touched her
feeling, but roused up the swarm of perplexities which had buzzed
around her ever since her summons to her mother's bedside on the
morning after her scene with Pamela. And again she asked herself,
'Why did I come back? And what am I going to do?'
She looked in doubt at the fuming gentleman by the fire, and
suddenly conscience bade her be frank.
'I would like to stay here, Mr. Mannering, and go on with my work. I
have told you so before. I will stay--as long as I can. But I
mustn't burn my boats. I mustn't stay indefinitely. I have come to
see that would not be fair--'
'To whom?' cried the Squire, raising himself--'to whom?'
'To Pamela,' said Elizabeth firmly.
'Pamela!' The Squire leapt from his seat. 'What on earth has Pamela
got to do with it!'
'A very great deal. She is the natural head of your house, and it
would be very difficult for me to go on living here--after--perhaps--I
have just put a few things straight for you, and catalogued the
pots--without getting in her way, and infringing her rights!'
Elizabeth was sitting very erect and bright-eyed. It seemed to her
that some subliminal self for which she was hardly responsible had
suddenly got the better of a hair-splitting casuistical self, which
had lately been in command of her, and that the subliminal self had
spoken words of truth and soberness.
But instead of storming, the Squire laughed contemptuously.
'Pamela's rights? Well, I'll discuss them when she remembers her
duties! I remonstrated with her one morning when the servants were
all giving warning--and there was nothing to eat--and she had made a
hideous mess of some instructions of mine about a letter to the
County Council--and I pointed out to her that none of these things
would have happened if you had been here.'
'Oh, poor Pamela!' exclaimed Elizabeth--'but still more, poor me!'
'"Poor me"?' said the Squire. 'What does that mean?'
'You see, I have a weakness for being liked!' said Elizabeth after a
moment. 'And how can Pamela like anybody that is being thrown at her
head like that?' She looked at her companion reproachfully. But the
Squire was not to be put down.
'Besides,' he continued, without noticing her interruption, 'Pamela
writes to me this morning that she wants my consent to her training
as an Army nurse.'
'Oh no,' cried Elizabeth--'not yet. She is too young!'
Her face showed her distress. So she was really driving this poor
child, whom she would so easily have loved had it been allowed her,
out of her home! No doubt Pamela had seized on the pretext of her
'row' with her father to carry out her threat to Elizabeth of
'running away,' and before Elizabeth's return to Mannering, so that
neither the Squire nor any one else should guess at the real reason.
But how could Elizabeth acquiesce?
Yet if she revealed the story of Pamela's attack upon her to the
Squire, what would happen? Only a widening of the breach between him
and his daughter. Elizabeth, of course, might depart, but Pamela
would be none the more likely to return to face her father's wrath.
And again for the hundredth time Elizabeth said to herself, in
mingled pain and exasperation--'What _did_ she mean?--and what have
I ever done that she should behave so?'
Then she raised her eyes. Something impelled her--as it were a
strong telepathic influence. The Squire was gazing at her. His
expression was extraordinarily animated. It seemed to her that words
were already on his lips, and that at all costs she must stop them
there.
But fortune favoured her. There was a knock at the library door. The
Squire irritably said, 'Come in!' and Forest announced, 'Captain
Dell.' The Squire, with some muttered remark, walked across to his
own table.
The agent entered with a beaming countenance. All that he knew was
that the only competent person in a rather crazy household had
returned to it, and that business was now likely to go forward. He
had brought some important letters, and he laid them nominally
before his employer, but really before Elizabeth. He and she talked;
the Squire smoked and listened, morosely aloof. Yet by the end of
the agent's visit a grudging but definite consent had been given to
the great timber deal; and Elizabeth hurried off as Captain Dell
departed--thankful for the distant sound of the first bell for
dinner.
* * * * *
Sitting up in bed that night, with her hands behind her head, while
a westerly wind blew about the house, Elizabeth again did her best
to examine both her conscience and her situation.
The summons which had taken her home had been a peremptory one. Her
mother, who had been ill for a good many months, had suddenly
suffered some brain injury, which had reduced her to a childish
helplessness. She did not recognize Elizabeth, and though she was
very soon out of physical danger, the mental disaster remained. A
good nurse was now more to her than the daughter to whom she had
been devoted. A good nurse was in charge, and Elizabeth had
persuaded an elderly cousin, living on a small annuity, to come and
share her mother's rooms. Now what was more necessary than ever
was--money! Elizabeth's salary was indispensable.
Was she to allow fine feelings about Pamela to drive her out of her
post and her earnings--to the jeopardy not only of her mother's
comfort, but of the good--the national--work open to her at
Mannering?
But there was a much more agitating question behind. She had only
trifled with it till now. But on the night of her return it pressed.
And as a reasonable woman, thirty years of age, she proceeded to
look it in the face.
When Captain Dell so opportunely--or inconveniently--knocked at the
library door, Mr. Mannering was on the point of asking his secretary
to marry him. Of that Elizabeth was sure.
She had just escaped, but the siege would be renewed. How was she
going to meet it?
Why shouldn't she marry the Squire? She was poor, but she had
qualities much more valuable to the Squire than money. She could
rescue him from debt, put his estate on a paying footing, restore
Mannering, rebuild the village, and all the time keep him happy by
her sympathy with and understanding of his classical studies and
hobbies.
And thereby she would be doing not only a private but a public
service. The Mannering estate and its owner had been an offence to
the patriotism of a whole neighbourhood. Elizabeth could and would
put an end to that. She had already done much to modify it. In her
Greek scholarship, and her ready wits, she possessed all the spells
that were wanted for the taming of the Squire.
As to the Squire himself? She examined the matter dispassionately.
He was fifty-two--sound in wind and limb--a gentleman in spite of
all his oddities and tempers--and one of the best Greek scholars of
his day. She could make her own terms. 'I would take his name--give
him my time, my brains, my friendship--in time, no doubt, my
affection.' He would not ask for more. The modern woman, no longer
young, an intellectual, with a man's work to do, can make of
marriage what she pleases. The possibilities of the relations
between men and women in the future are many, and the psychology of
them unexplored. Elizabeth was beginning to think her own case out,
when, suddenly, she felt the tears running over her cheeks.
She was back in past days. Mannering had vanished. Oh--for
love!--for youth!--for the broken faith and the wounded trust!--for
the first fresh wine of life that, once dashed from the lips, the
gods offer no more! She found herself sobbing helplessly, not for
her actual lost lover, who had passed out of her life, but for those
beautiful ghosts at whose skirts she seemed to be clutching--youth
itself, love itself.
Had she done with them for good and all? That was what marrying the
Squire meant.
A business marriage--on her side, for an income, a home, a career;
on his, for a companion, a secretary, an agent. Well, she said to
herself as she calmed down, that she could face; but supposing,
after all, that the Squire was putting more into the scales than
she? A sudden fear grew strong in her--fear lest this man should
have more heart, more romance in him than she had imagined
possible--that while she was thinking of a business partnership, the
Squire was expecting, was about to offer, something quite different.
The thought scared and repelled her. If that were indeed the case,
she would bid Mannering a long and final farewell.
But no!--she reassured herself; she recalled the Squire's passionate
absorption in his archæological pursuits; how his dependence upon
her, his gratitude to her, his surprising fits of docility, were all
due to the fact that she helped him to pursue them--that his mind
sharpened itself against hers--that her hand and brain were the
slaves of his restless intelligence.
That was all--that must, that should be all. She thought vigorously
of the intellectual comradeships of history--beginning with Michael
Angelo and Vittoria Colonna. They were not certainly quite on all
fours with her own situation--but give modern life and the new woman
time!
Suppose, then, these anxieties set at rest, and that immediately,
within twenty-four hours, or a week, the Squire were to ask her to
marry him and were ready to understand the matter as she did--what
else stood in the way?
Then, slowly, in the darkness of the room, there rose before her the
young figures of the twins, with their arms round each other's
necks, as she had often seen them--Desmond and Pamela. And they
looked at her with hostile eyes!
'Cuckoo!--intriguer!--we don't want you!--we won't accept you!'
But after all, as Elizabeth reflected not without a natural
exasperation, she was _not_--consciously--a cuckoo; she was not an
intriguer; there was nothing of the Becky Sharp about her at all; it
would have been so very much simpler if there had been! To swallow
the Squire and Mannering at one gulp, to turn out the twins, to put
Mrs. Gaddesden--who, as Elizabeth had already discovered, was
constantly making rather greedy demands upon her father--on rations
according to her behaviour, to bring in her own poor mother and all
her needy relations--to reign supreme, in fact, over Mannering and
the county--nothing would be easier.
The only thing that stood in the way was that the Squire's secretary
happened to be a nice woman--and not an adventuress. Elizabeth's
sense of humour showed her the kind of lurid drama that Pamela no
doubt was concocting about her--perhaps with the help of Beryl--the
two little innocents! Elizabeth recalled the intriguing French
'companion' in _War and Peace_ who inveigles the old Squire. And as
for the mean and mercenary stepmothers of fiction, they can be
collected by the score. That, no doubt, was how Pamela thought of
her. So that, after her involuntary tears, Elizabeth ended in a
laughter that was half angry, half affectionate.
Poor children! She was not going to turn them out of their home. She
had written to Pamela during her absence with her mother, asking
again for an explanation of the wild and whirling things that Pamela
had said to her that night in the hall, and in return not a single
frank or penitent word!--only a few perfunctory enquiries after Mrs.
Bremerton, and half a page about an air-raid. It left Elizabeth
sorer and more puzzled than before.
Desmond too! She had written to him also from London a long chat
about all the things he cared about at Mannering--the animals,
Pamela's pony, the old keeper, the few pheasants still left in the
woods, and what Perley said of the promise of a fair partridge
season. And the boy had replied immediately. Desmond's Eton manners
were rarely caught napping; but the polite little note--stiff and
frosty--might have been written to a complete stranger.
What _was_ in their minds? How could she put it right? Well, anyhow,
Desmond could not at that moment be wasting time or thought on home
worries, or her own supposed misdemeanours. Where was the radiant
boy now? In some artillery camp, she supposed, behind the lines,
waiting for his ordeal of blood and fire. Waiting with the whole
Army--the whole Empire--for that leap of the German monster which
must be met and parried and struck down before England could breathe
again. And as she thought of him, her woman's soul, winged by its
passion of patriotism, seemed to pass out into the night across the
sea, till it stood beside the English hosts.
'Forces and Powers of the Universe, be with them!--strengthen the
strong, uphold the weak, comfort the dying!--for in them lies the
hope of the world.'
Her life hung on the prayer. The irresponsive quiet of the night
over the Mannering woods and park, with nothing but the wind for
voice, seemed to her unbearable. And it only answered to the apathy
within doors. Why, the Squire had scarcely mentioned the war since
her return! Neither he nor Mrs. Gaddesden had asked her for an
evening paper, though there had been a bad London raid the night
before. She had seen a letter 'on active service,' and addressed,
she thought, in Desmond's handwriting, lying on the library table;
and it seemed to her there was a French ordnance map near it. But in
answer to her enquiries about the boy, the Squire had vouchsafed
only a few irritable words, 'Well--he's not killed yet! The devil's
business over there seems to be working up to a greater hell than
ever!' Nothing more.
Well, she would see to that! Mannering should feel the war, if she
were to live in it. She straightened her shoulders, her will
stiffening to its task.
Yes, and while that dear boy was out there, in that grim fighting
line, no action of hers, if she could help it, should cause him a
moment's anger or trouble. Her resolution was taken. If the Squire
did mean to ask her to marry him she would try and stop him in
mid-career. If she couldn't stop him, well, then, she would give him
his choice--either to keep her, as secretary and friend, and hold
his peace, or to lose her. She felt certain of her power to contain
the Squire's 'offensive,' if it were really threatened.
But, on the other hand, she was not going to give up her post
because the twins had taken some unjust prejudice against her!
Nothing of the kind. She had those ash trees to look after! She was
tolerably sure that a thorough search would comb out a good many
more for the Air Board from the Squire's woods than had yet been
discovered. The Fallerton hospital wanted more accommodation. There
was an empty house belonging to the Squire, which she had already
begun, before her absence, with his grudging permission, to get
ready for the purpose. _That_ had to be finished. The war workroom
in the village, which she had started, must have another
Superintendent, the first having turned out a useless chatterbox.
Elizabeth had her successor already in mind. There were three or
four applications waiting for the two other neglected farms. Captain
Dell was hurrying on the repairs; but there was more money
wanted--she must get it out of the Squire. Then as to labour--German
prisoners?--or women?
Her brain began to teem with a score of projects. But after lying
awake another hour, she pulled herself up. 'This won't do. I must
have six hours' sleep.' And she resolutely set herself to repeat one
of the nursery poems of her childhood, till, wooed by its silly
monotony, sleep came.
It was a bright March day in the Mannering woods, where the Squire,
Elizabeth, and Captain Dell were hanging about waiting for Sir Henry
Chicksands. The astonishing warmth and sunshine of the month had
brought out a shimmer of spring everywhere, reddened the great heads
of the oaks, and set the sycamore buds shining like jewels in the
pale blue. There was an endless chatter and whirr of wood-pigeons in
the high tree-tops, and underfoot the anemones and violets were busy
pushing their gentle way through the dead leaves of autumn. The
Squire's beechwoods were famous in the neighbourhood, and he was
still proud of them; though for many years past they had gone
unnoticed to decay, and were in some places badly diseased.
To Elizabeth, in an artistic mood--the mood which took her in town
to see exhibitions of Brabazon or Steer--the woods were fairyland.
The high slender oak of the middle wood, the spreading oak that
lived on its borders, the tall columnar beech feathering into the
sky, its grey stem shining as though by some magic property in the
beautiful forest twilight--the gleams and the shadows, the sounds
and scents of the woodland world--she could talk or write about
these things as poetically, and as sincerely, as any other educated
person when put to it; but on this occasion, it has to be said
frankly, she was thinking of nothing but aeroplanes and artillery
waggons. And she had by now developed a kind of _flair_ in the
woods, which was the astonishment of Captain Dell, himself no mean
forester. As far as ash was concerned, she was a hunter on the
trail. She could distinguish an ash tree yards ahead through a mixed
or tangled wood, and track it unerringly. The thousand ash that she,
and the old park-keepers set on by her, had already found for the
Government, were nothing to what she meant to find. The Squire's
woods, some of which she had not yet explored at all, were as mines
to her in which she dug for treasure--for the timber that might save
her country.
Captain Dell delighted in her. He had already taught her a great
deal, and was now drilling her in the skilled arts of measurement
and valuation. The Squire, in stupefaction, watched her at work with
pole and tape, measuring, noting, comparing. Had it been any one
else he would have been bored and contemptuous. But the novelty of
the thing and the curious fact that the lady who looked up his Greek
references was also the lady who was measuring the trees, kept him a
half-unwilling but still fascinated spectator of her proceedings.
In the midst of them Sir Henry Chicksands appeared, making his way
through the thick undergrowth. Elizabeth threw a hasty look at the
Squire. This was the first time the two neighbours had met since the
quarrel. The Squire had actually written first--and to please her.
Very touching, and very embarrassing! She hoped for the best.
Sir Henry Chicksands advanced as though nothing had happened--solid,
ruddy, benevolent, and well dressed, as usual.
He bowed with marked deference to Elizabeth, and then offered a hand
to the Squire, which was limply accepted.
'Well, Mannering, very glad to see you. Like every one else, you
seem to be selling your woods.'
'Under threat of being shot if I don't!' said the Squire grimly.
'What? They're commandeered?'
'The Government spies are all about. I preferred to anticipate them.
Well, what about your ploughed-up grass-lands, Chicksands? I hear
they are full of wire-worms, and the crops a very poor show.'
'Ah, it was an enemy said that,' laughed Sir Henry, submitting with
a good grace to some more remarks of the same kind, and escaping
from them as soon as he could.
'I heard of your haul of ash,' he said. 'A man in the Air Board told
me. Magnificent!'
'You may thank her.' The Squire indicated his secretary. 'I knew
nothing about it.'
'And you're still hunting?' Sir Henry turned to Elizabeth. 'May I
join your walk if you're going through the woods?' Captain Dell was
introduced. 'You want my opinion on your deal? Well, I'm an old
forester, and I'll give it you with pleasure. I used to shoot here,
year after year, with the Squire, in our young days--isn't that so,
Mannering? I know this bit of country by heart, and I think I could
help you to bag a few more ash.'
Elizabeth's blue eyes appealed with all proper deference to the
Squire.
'Won't you come?'
He shook his head.
'I'm tired of timber. Do what you like. I'll sit here and read till
you come back.'
Sir Henry's shrug was perceptible, but he held his peace, and the
three walked away. The Squire, finding a seat on a fallen tree, took
a book out of his pocket and pretended to read it.
'Nobody can be as important as Chicksands looks!' he said to himself
angrily. Even the smiling manner which ignored their six months'
quarrel had annoyed him hugely. It was a piece of condescension--an
impertinence. Oh, of course Chicksands was the popular man, the
greatest power in the county, looked up to, and listened to by
everybody. The Squire knew very well that he himself was ostracized,
even hated; that there had been general chuckling in the
neighbourhood over his rough handling by the County Committee, and
that it would please a good many people to see all his woods
commandeered and 'cut clean.'
Six months before, his inborn pugnacity would only have amused
itself with the situation. He was a rebel and a litigant by nature.
Smooth waters had never attracted him.
Yet now--though he would never have admitted it--he was often
conscious of a flagging will and a depressed spirit. The loneliness
of his life, due entirely to himself, had, during Elizabeth
Bremerton's absence, begun sharply to find him out. He had no true
fatherly relation with any of his children. Desmond loved him--why,
he didn't know. He didn't believe any of the others cared anything
at all about him. Why should they?
The Squire's eyes followed the three distant walkers, Elizabeth,
graceful and vigorous, between the other two. And the conviction
gripped him that all the pleasure, the _liveableness_ of life--such
as still remained possible--depended for him on that central figure.
He looked back on his existence before her arrival at Mannering, and
on what it had been since. Why, she had transformed it!
How could he cage and keep her?--the clever, gracious creature! For
the first time in his life he was desperately, tremulously humble.
He placed no dependence at all on his name or his possessions.
Elizabeth was not to be bought.
But management--power--for the things she believed in--_they_ might
tempt her. He would give them to her with both hands, if only she
would settle down beside him, take a freehold of that chair and
table in the library, for life!
He looked back gloomily to his clumsy proposal about her mother, and
to her remarks about Pamela. It would be indeed intolerable if his
children got in his way! The very notion put him in a fever.
If that tiresome fellow, Dell, had not interrupted them the night
before, what would have happened?
He had all the consciousness of a man still in the prime of life, in
spite of his white hair; for he had married at twenty-one, and had
never--since they grew up--seemed to himself very much older than
his elder children. He had but a very dim memory of his wife.
Sometimes he felt as if, notwithstanding the heat of boyish passion
which had led him to marry her, he had never really known her. There
were moments when he had an uncomfortable suspicion that for some
years before her death she had silently but irrevocably passed
judgment upon him, and had withdrawn her inner life from him.
Friends of hers had written to him after her death of beautiful
traits and qualities in her of which he himself had known nothing.
In any case they were not traits and qualities which appealed in the
long run to a man of his pursuits and temperament. He was told that
Pamela had inherited some of them.
A light rustling sound in the wood. He looked up to see Elizabeth
coming back towards him unaccompanied. Captain Dell and Sir Henry
seemed to have left her.
A thrill of excitement ran through him. They were alone in the
depths of the spring woodland. What better opportunity would he ever
have?