Elizabeth's Campaign Part 37

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 cla.s.sical 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 dispa.s.sionately.

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 G.o.ds offer no more! She found herself sobbing helplessly, not for her actual lost lover, who had pa.s.sed 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 rea.s.sured herself; she recalled the Squire's pa.s.sionate absorption in his archaeological pursuits; how his dependence upon her, his grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sion of patriotism, seemed to pa.s.s 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 h.e.l.l 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 embarra.s.sing! 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 antic.i.p.ate them.

Well, what about your ploughed-up gra.s.s-lands, Chicksands? I hear they are full of wire-worms, and the crops a very poor show.'