Elizabeth was coming back in that flushed mood when an able man or
woman who begins to feel the tide of success or power rising beneath
them also begins to remind himself or herself of all the old
commonplaces about Fate or Chance. Elizabeth's Greek reading had
steeped her in them. 'Count no man happy till his death'; 'Count
nothing finished till the end'; tags of this kind were running
through her mind, while she smiled a little over the compliments
that Sir Henry had been paying her.
He could not express, he said, the relief with which he had heard of
her return to Mannering. 'Don't, please, go away again!' Everybody
in the county who was at all responsible for its war-work felt the
same. Her example, during the winter, had been invaluable, and the
skill with which she had brought the Squire into line, and set the
Squire's neglected estate on the road to food-production, had
been--in Sir Henry's view--nothing short of a miracle.
'Yes, a miracle, my dear lady!' repeated Sir Henry warmly. 'I know
the prickliness of our good friend there! I speak to you
confidentially, because I realize that you could not possibly have
done what you have done unless you had won the Squire's
confidence--his complete confidence. Well, that's an achievement, I
can tell you--as bad as storming a redoubt. Go on--don't let go!
What you are doing here--the kind of work you are doing--is of
national importance. God only knows what lies before us in the next
few months!'
And therewith a sudden sobering of the ruddy countenance and
self-important manner. For a few seconds, from his mind and
Elizabeth's there vanished all consciousness of the English woodland
scene, and they were looking over a flayed and ravaged country where
millions of men stood ranged for battle.
Sir Henry sighed.
'Thank God, Arthur is still at home--doing some splendid work, they
tell me, at the War Office, but, of course, pining to be off to
France again. I hear from him that Desmond is somewhere near
Armentières. Well, good-bye--I tied my horse to the gate, and must
get home. Stick to it! Say good-bye to the Squire for me--I shall be
over again before long. If there is anything I can do for you--count
upon me. But _we_ count upon you!'
Astonishing effusion!--from an elderly gentleman who, at the
beginning of things, had regarded her as elderly gentlemen of great
local position do regard young women secretaries who are earning
their own living. Sir Henry's tone was now the tone of one potentate
to another; and, as we have seen, it caused Elizabeth to tame her
soul with Greek, as she walked back through the wood to rejoin the
Squire.
When she perceived him waiting for her, she wished with some fervour
that she were not alone. She had tried to keep Captain Dell with
her, but he had pleaded an urgent engagement at a village near the
farther end of the wood. And then Sir Henry had deserted her. It was
annoying--and unforeseen.
The Squire observed her as she came up--the light, springing step,
the bunch of primroses in her belt. He closed the book, of which he
had not in truth read a word.
'You have been a long time?'
'But I assure you it was well worth while!' She paused in front of
him, a little out of breath, leaning on her measuring-pole. 'We
found ten or twelve more ash--some exactly of the size they want.'
'Who are "they"?'
'The Air Board,' said Elizabeth, smiling.
'The fellows that wrote me that letter? I didn't want their thanks.'
Elizabeth took no notice. She resumed--
'And Sir Henry went into the figures of that contract with Captain
Dell. He thinks the Captain has done very well, and that the prices
are very fair--very good, in fact.'
'All the same, I don't mean to accept their blessed contract.'
'Oh, but I thought it was settled!' cried Elizabeth in distress. She
sat down on a dry stump a little way off, and the Squire actually
enjoyed the sight of her discomfiture.
'Why on earth should I allow these people, not only to make a
hideous mess of my woods, and murder my trees, but to take three
years--_three years_--over the disgusting business, before they get
it all done and clear up the mess? One year is the utmost I will
allow.'
Elizabeth looked consternation.
'But think of the labour difficulties,' she pleaded. 'The contractor
can't get the men. Of course, he _wants_ to cut and move the trees
as soon as he can, so as to get his money back.'
'That's his affair,' said the Squire obstinately. 'I want to get my
woods in a decent state again, so that I mayn't be for ever reminded
that I sold them--betrayed them--for filthy lucre.'
'No!' said Elizabeth firmly, her colour rising, 'for the Army!'
The Squire shrugged his shoulders.
'So they say. Meanwhile the timber-man makes an unholy profit.'
There was silence for a moment, then Elizabeth said,
'Do you really mean to stick to that condition?'
'I should be glad if Dell would see to it.'
'Then'--said Elizabeth slowly--'the contract will drop. I understand
they cannot possibly pledge themselves to removal within the time
named.'
'Well, there are other timber-merchants.'
'The difficulty of labour is the same for everybody. And Captain
Dell thinks no one else would give the price--certainly not the
Government. You will remember that some of the money was to be spent
immediately.' Her tone was cold and restrained, but he thought it
trembled a little.
'I know,' he interrupted, 'on cottages and the hospital. Money oozes
away at every pore! I shall be a bare beggar after the war. Have you
the contract there? Or did Dell take it?'
Elizabeth drew a roll of blue paper out of her pocket. Her
indignation made her speechless. All the endless negotiations,
Captain Dell's work, her work--to go for nothing! What was the use
of trying to serve--to work with such a man?
The Squire took the roll from her and searched his pockets for a
fountain-pen.
'I will make some notes on it now for Dell's guidance. I might
forget it to-night.'
Elizabeth said nothing. He turned away, spread out the papers on the
smooth trunk of the fallen tree, and began to write.
Elizabeth sat very erect, her mouth proudly set, her eyes wandering
into the distance of the wood. What was she to do? The affront to
herself was gross--for the Squire had definitely promised her the
night before that the bargain should go through. And she felt hotly
for the hard-working agent. Should she put up with it? Her
meditations of the night recurred to her--and she seemed to herself
a very foolish woman!
'There you are!' said the Squire, as he handed the roll back to her.
She looked at it unwillingly. Then her face changed. She
stooped over the contract. Below the signature of the firm of
timber-merchants stood large and full that of 'Edmund Mannering.'
The Squire smiled.
'Now are you satisfied?'
She returned the contract to its envelope, and both to her pocket.
Then she looked at him uncertainly.
'May I ask what that meant?'
Her voice was still strained, and her eyes by no means meek.
'I am sorry,' said the Squire hurriedly. 'I don't know--it was a
whim. I wanted to have the pleasure--'
'Of seeing how a person looks under a sudden disappointment?' said
Elizabeth, with rather pinched lips.
'Not at all. It was a childish thing--I wanted to see you smile
when I gave you the thing back. There--that's the truth. It was you
disappointed me!'
Elizabeth's wrath vanished. She hid her face in her hands and
laughed. But there was agitation behind the laughter. These were not
the normal ways of a reasonable man.
When she looked up, the Squire had moved to a log close beside her.
The March sun was pouring down upon them, and there was a robin
singing, quite undisturbed by their presence, in a holly-bush near.
The Squire's wilful countenance had never seemed to Elizabeth more
full of an uncanny and even threatening energy. Involuntarily she
withdrew her seat.
'I wish to be allowed to make a very serious proposition to you,' he
said eagerly, 'one that I have been considering for weeks.'
Elizabeth--rather weakly--put up a protesting hand.
'I am afraid I must point out to you, Mr. Mannering, that Mrs.
Gaddesden will be waiting lunch.'
'If I know Alice, she will not wait lunch! And anyway there are
things more important than lunch. May I take it for granted, Miss
Bremerton, that you have not been altogether dissatisfied with your
life here during this six months?'
Elizabeth looked him gravely in the face. It was clear there was to
be no escape.
'How could I have been, Mr. Mannering? You have taught me a great,
great deal--and given me wonderful opportunities.'
The Squire nodded, with a look of satisfaction.
'I meant to. Of course Chicksands would say that it was only my
own laziness--that I have given you the work I ought to have done
myself. My reply would be that it was not my work. If a man
happens to be born to a job he is not in the least fitted for,
that's the affair of Providence. Providence bungled it when he,
she, or it--take which pronoun you like--[Greek: tychê], as you
and I know, is feminine--made me a landowner. My proper job was to
dig up and decipher what is left of the Greeks. And if any one
says that the two jobs are not _tanti_, and the landowning job is
more important than the other, I disagree with him entirely, and
it would be impossible for him to prove it. But there was a
vacuum--that I quite admit--and Nature--or Providence--disliked
it. So she sent you along, my dear lady!'--he turned upon her a
glowing countenance--'and you fitted it exactly. You laid hands on
what has proved to be your job, and Chicksands, I expect, has been
telling you how marvellously you're doing it, and begging you
not to let this duffer'--the Squire pointed to his leather
waistcoat--'get hold of it again. Hasn't he?'
He smiled triumphantly, as Elizabeth's sudden flush showed that his
shaft had hit. But he would not let her speak.
'No--please don't interrupt me! Of course Chicksands took that view.
Any sensible man would--not that Henry is really a sensible man.
Well, now, then--I want to ask you this. Don't these facts point to
a rather--remarkable--combination? You assist me in the job that I
was born for. I have been fortunate enough to be able to put into
your hands the job that you apparently were born for. And you will
forgive me for saying that it might have been difficult for you to
find it without my aid. Nature--that is--seems to have endowed you
not only with a remarkable head for Greek, but also with the
capacity for dealing with the kind of people who drive me
distracted--agents and timber-merchants, and stuck-up county
officials, whom I want to slay. And you combine your job with an
idealism--just as I do mine. You say "it's for the country" or "for
the army," as you did just now. And I scribble and collect--for
art's sake--for beauty's sake--for the honour of human genius--what
you like! What then could be more reasonable--more natural'--the
Squire drew himself up gravely--'than that you and I should join
forces--permanently? That I should serve your ideas--and you should
serve mine?'
The Squire broke off, observing her. Elizabeth had listened to this
extraordinary speech with growing bewilderment. She had dreaded lest
the Squire--in proposing to marry her--should make love to her. But
the coolness of the bargain actually suggested to her, the apparent
absence from it of any touch of sentiment, took her completely
aback. She was asked, in fact, to become his slave--his bailiff and
secretary for life--and the price was offered.
Her face spoke for her, before she could express her feeling in
words. The Squire, watching her, hurriedly resumed.
'I put it like an idiot! What I meant was this. If I could induce
you to marry me--and put up with me--I believe both our lives might
be much more interesting and agreeable!'
The intensity of the demand expressed in his pale hazel eyes and
frowning brow struck full upon her.
But Elizabeth slowly shook her head.
'I am very grateful to you, Mr. Mannering, but'--a rather ironical
smile showed itself--'I think you hardly understand me. We should
never get on.'
'Why?'
'Because our temperaments--our characters--are so different.'
'You can't forgive me about the war?'
'Well, that hurts me,' she said, after a moment, 'but I leave that
to Mr. Desmond. No! I am thinking of myself and you. What you
propose does not attract me at all. Marriage--in my view--wants
something--deeper--to build on than you suggest.'
'Inconsistent woman!' cried the inner voice, but Elizabeth silenced
it. She was not inconsistent. She would have resented love-making,
but _feeling_--something to gild the chain!--that she had certainly
expected. The absence of it humiliated her.
The Squire's countenance fell.
'Deeper?' he said, with a puzzled look. 'I wonder what you mean? I
haven't anything "deeper." There isn't anything "deep" about me.'
Was it true? Elizabeth suddenly recalled those midnight steps on the
night of Desmond's departure.
'You know,' he resumed, 'for you have worked with me now for six
months--you know at least what kind of a man I am. I assure you it's
at any rate no worse than that! And if I ever annoyed you too much,
why you could always keep me in order--by the mere threat of going
away! I could have cut my throat any day with pleasure during those
weeks you were absent!'
Again Elizabeth hid her face in her hands and laughed--rather
hysterically. There _was_ something in this last appeal that touched
her--some note of 'the imperishable child,' which indeed she had
always recognized in the Squire's strange personality.
The Squire waited--frowning. When she looked up at last she spoke in
her natural friendly voice.
'I don't think, Mr. Mannering, we had better go on talking like
this. I can't accept what you offer me--'
'Again I can't think why,' he interrupted vehemently; 'you have
given me no sort of explanation. Why must you refuse?'
'Because I don't feel like it,' she said, smiling. 'That's all I
need say. Please don't think me ungrateful. You've offered me now a
position and a home--and you've given me my head all this time. I
shall never forget it. But I'm afraid--'
'That now I've made such an ass of myself you'll have to go?'
She thought a moment.
'I don't know that I need say that--if--if I could be sure--'
'Of what? Name your conditions!'
His face suddenly lightened again. And again a quick compunction
struck her.
She looked at him gently.
'It's only--that I couldn't stay here--you will see of course that I
couldn't--unless I were quite sure that this was dead and buried
between us--that you would forget it entirely--and let me forget
it!'
Was it fancy, or did the long Don Quixotish countenance quiver a
little?
'Very well. I will never speak of it again. Will that do?' There was
a long pause. The Squire's stick attacked a root of primroses
closely, prized it out of the damp ground, and left it there. Then
he turned to his companion with a changed aspect. 'Well, now,
then--we are as we were--and'--with a long half-indignant
breath--'remember I have signed that contract!'
He rose from his seat as he spoke.
They walked home together through the great wood, and across the
park. They were mostly silent. The Squire's words 'we are as we
were' echoed in the ears of both. And yet both were secretly aware
that something irrevocable had happened.
Then, suddenly, beating down all the personal trouble and disquiet
in Elizabeth's mind, there rushed upon her afresh, as she walked
beside the Squire, that which seemed to shame all personal
feeling--the renewed consciousness of England's death-grapple with
her enemy--the horror of its approaching crisis. How could this
strange being at her elbow be still deaf and blind to it!
* * * * *
They parted in the hall.
'Shall I expect you at six?' said the Squire formally. 'I have some
geographical notes I should like you to take down.'
She assented. He went to his study, and shut himself in. For a long
time he paced up and down, flinging himself finally into a chair in
front of Desmond's portrait. There his thoughts took shape.
'Well, my boy, I thought I'd won some trenches--but the
counter-attack has swept me out. Where are you? Are you still alive?
If not, I shan't be long after you. I'm getting old, my boy--and
this world, as the devil has made it, is not meant for me.'
He remained there for some time, his hands on his knees, staring
into the bright face of his son.
Elizabeth too went to her room. On her table lay the _Times_. She
took it up and read the telegrams again. Raid and counter-raid all
along the front--and in every letter and telegram the shudder of the
nearing event, ghastly hints of that incredible battlefield to come,
that hideous hurricane of death in which Europe was to see once more
her noblest and her youngest perish.
'Oh, why, why am I a woman?' she clasped her hands above her head in
a passion of revolt. 'What does one's own life matter? Why waste a
thought--an hour upon it!'
In a second she was at her table putting together the notes she had
made that morning in the wood. About a hundred and fifty more ash
marked in that wood alone!--thanks to Sir Henry. She rang up Captain
Dell, and made sure that they would be offered that night direct to
the Government timber department--the Squire's ash, for greater
haste, having been now expressly exempted from the general contract.
Canadians were coming down to fell them at once. They must be
housed. One of the vacant farms, not yet let, was to be got ready
for them. She made preliminary arrangements by telephone. Then,
after a hasty lunch, at which the Squire did not appear, and Mrs.
Gaddesden was more than usually languid and selfish, Elizabeth
rushed off to the village on her bicycle. The hospital Commandant
was waiting for her, with such workpeople as could be found, and the
preparation of the empty house for fifty more beds was well begun.
Elizabeth was frugal, but resolute, with the Squire's money. She had
leave to spend. But she would not abuse her power; and all through
her work she was conscious of a queer remorseful gratitude towards
the man in whose name she was acting.
Then she bicycled to the School, where a group of girls whom she
had captured for the land were waiting to see her. Their uniforms
were lying ready on one of the schoolroom tables. She helped the
girls to put them on, laughing, chatting, admiring--ready besides
with a dozen homely hints on how to keep well--how to fend for
themselves, perhaps in a lonely cottage--how to get on with the
farmer--above all, how to get on with the farmer's wife. Her
sympathy made everything worth while--put colour and pleasure into
this new and strange adventure, of women going out to break up and
plough and sow the ancient land of our fathers, which the fighting
men had handed over to them. Elizabeth decked the task with honour,
so that the girls in their khaki stood round her at last glowing,
though dumb!--and felt themselves--as she bade them feel--the
comrades-in-arms of their sweethearts and their brothers.
Then with the March twilight she was again at Mannering. She changed
her bicycling dress, and six o'clock found her at her desk,
obediently writing from the Squire's dictation.
He put her through a stiff series of geographical notes, including a
number of quotations from Homer and Herodotus, bearing on the spread
of Greek culture in the Aegean. During the course of them he broke
out once or twice into his characteristic sayings and illustrations,
racy or poetic, as usual, and Elizabeth would lift her blue eyes,
with the responsive look in them, on which he had begun to think all
his real power of work depended. But not a word passed between them
on any other subject; and when it was over she rose, said a quiet
good-night, and went away. After she had gone, the Squire sat over
the fire, brooding and motionless, for most of the evening.
One March afternoon, a few days later, the following letter reached
Pamela, who was still with her sister. It was addressed in Desmond
Mannering's large and boyish handwriting.
'B.E.F., _March_.
'MY DEAR PAMELA--I am kicking my heels here at an engineer's
store, waiting for an engineer officer who is wanted to plan
some new dug-outs for our battery, and as there is no one to
talk to inside except the most inarticulate Hielander I ever
struck, I shall at last make use of one of your little
oddments, my dear, which are mostly too good to use out
here--and write you a letter on a brand new pocket-pad, with a
brand new stylo.
'I expect you know from Arthur about where we are. It's a
pretty nasty bit of the line. The snipers here are the
cleverest beasts out. There isn't a night they don't get some
of us, though our fellows are as sharp as needles too. I went
over a sniping school last week with a jolly fellow who used to
hunt lions in Africa. My hat!--we have learnt a thing or two
from the Huns since we started. But you have to keep a steady
look-out, I can tell you. There was a man here last night in a
sniper's post, shooting through a trench loophole, you
understand, which had an iron panel. Well, he actually went to
sleep with his rifle in his hand, having had a dog's life for
two or three nights. But for a mercy, he had pulled down his
panel--didn't know he had!--and the next thing he knew was a
bullet spattering on it--just where his eye should have been.
He was jolly quick in backing out and into a dug-out, and an
hour later he got the man.
'But there was an awful thing here last night. An officer was
directing one of our snipers--stooping down just behind him,
when a Hun got him--right in the eyes. I was down at the
dressing-station visiting one of our men who had been knocked
over--and I saw him led in. He was quite blind,--and as calm as
anything--telling people what to do, and dictating a post card
to the padre, who was much more cut up than he was. I can tell
you, Pamela, our Army is _fine_! Well, thank God, I'm in
it--and not a year too late. That's what I keep saying to
myself. And the great show can't be far off now. I wouldn't
miss it for anything, so I don't give the Hun any more chances
of knocking me over than I can help.
'You always want to know what things look like, old Pam, so
I'll try and tell you. In the first place, it's just a glorious
spring day. At the back of the cranky bit of a ruined farm
where we have our diggings (by the way, you may always go back
at night and find half your bedroom shot away--that happened to
me the other night--there was a tunic of mine still hanging on
the door, and when you opened the door, nothing but a hole ten
feet deep full of rubble--jolly luck, it didn't happen at
night-time!) there are actually some lilac trees, and the buds
on them are quite big. And somehow or other the birds manage to
sing in spite of the hell the Huns have made of things.
'I'm looking out now due east. There's a tangled mass of
trenches not far off, where there's been some hot raiding
lately. I see an engineer officer with a fatigue party working
away at them--he's showing the men how to lay down a new
trench with tapes and pegs. Just to my left some men are
filling up a crater. Then there's a lorry full of bits of an
old corduroy road they're going to lay down somewhere over a
marshy place. There are two sausage balloons sitting up aloft,
and some aeroplanes coming and going. Our front line is not
more than a mile away, and the German line is about a mile and
a quarter. Far off to my right I can just see a field with
tanks in it. Ah--there goes a shell on the Hun line--another!
Can't think why we're tuning up at this time of day. We shall
be getting some of their heavy stuff over directly, if we don't
look out. It's rot!
'And the sun is shining like blazes on it all. As I came up I
saw some of our men resting on the grass by the wayside. They
were going up to the trenches--but it was too early--the sun
was too high--they don't send them in till dusk. Awfully good
fellows they looked! And I passed a company of Bantams, little
Welsh chaps, as fit as mustard. Also a poor mad woman, with a
basket of cakes and chocolate. She used to live in the village
where I'm sitting now--on a few bricks of it, I mean. Then her
farm was shelled to bits and her old husband and her daughter
killed. And nothing will persuade her to go. Our people have
moved her away several times--but she always comes back--and
now they let her alone. Our soldiers indeed are awfully good to
her, and she looks after the graves in the little cemetery. But
when you speak to her, she never seems to understand, and her
eyes--well, they haunt one.
'I'm beginning to get quite used to the life--and lately I have
been doing some observation work with an F.O.O. (that means
Forward Observation Officer), which is awfully exciting. Your
business on these occasions is to get as close to the Germans
as you can, without being seen, and you take a telephonist with
you to send back word to the guns, and, by Jove, we do get
close sometimes!
'Well, dear old Pam, there's my engineer coming across the
fields, and I must shut up. Mind--if I don't come back to
you--you're just to think, as I told you before, that it's _all
right_. Nothing matters--_nothing_--but seeing this thing
through. Any day we may be in the thick of such a fight as I
suppose was never seen in the world before. Or any night--hard
luck! one may be killed in a beastly little raid that nobody
will ever hear of again. But anyway it's all one. It's worth
it.
'_Your_ letters don't sound to me as though you were
particularly enjoying life. Why don't you ever give me news of
Arthur? He writes me awfully jolly letters, and always says
something nice about you. Father has written to me _three_
times--decent, I call it,--though he always abuses Lloyd
George, and generally puts some Greek in I can't read. I wonder
if we were quite right about Broomie? You never say anything
about her either. But I got a letter from Beryl the other day,
and what Miss B. seems to be doing with Father and the estate
is pretty marvellous.
'All the same I don't hear any gossip as to what you and I were
afraid of. I wonder if I was a brute to answer her as I
did--and after her nice letter to me? Anyway, it's no wonder
she doesn't write to me any more. And she _did_ tell me such a
lot of news.
'Good-bye. Your writing-pad is really ripping. Likewise pen.
Hullo, there go some more shells. I really must get back and
see what's up.--Your loving
'DESMOND.'
Meanwhile in the seething world of London, where the war-effort of
an Empire was gathered up into one mighty organism, the hush of
expectancy grew ever deeper. Only a few weeks or days could now
divide us from the German rush on Paris and the coast. Behind the
German lines all was movement and vast preparation. Any day England
might rise to find the last fight begun.
Yet morning after morning all the news that came was of raids,
endless raids, on both sides--a perpetual mosquito fight, buzzing
now here, now there, as information was wanted by the different
Commands. Many lives were lost day by day, many deeds of battle
done. But it all seemed as nothing--less than nothing--to those
whose minds were fixed on the clash to come.
Then one evening, early in the second week in March, a telegram
reached Aubrey Mannering at Aldershot. He rushed up to town, and
went first to the War Office, where Chicksands was at work.
Chicksands sprang up to meet him.
'You've heard? I've just got this. I made his Colonel promise to
wire me if--'
He pointed to an open telegram on his table:
"Desmond badly hit in raid last night. Tell his people. Authorities
will probably give permission to come. Well looked after."
The two men stared at each other.
'I have wired to my father,' said Mannering, 'and am now going to
meet him at King's Cross. Can you go and tell Pamela to get
ready--or Margaret? But he'll want Pamela!'
Neither was able to speak for a moment, till Mannering said, 'I'll
bring my father to Margaret's, and then I'll go and see after the
permits.'
He lingered a moment.
'I--I think it means the worst.'
Chicksands' gesture was one of despair.
Then they hurried away from the War Office together.