stillness that sound of distant guns which no English
ear has heard — till now — since the Civil War.

' And there are the searchlights ! '

For over London, some forty miles away behind a
low range of hills, faint fingers of light were searching
the sky.

' At this very moment, perhaps,' — said the boy
between his teeth — ' those demons are blowing women
and children to pieces — over there ! '

Pamela shivered and laid her cheek against his
shoulder. But both he and she were aware of that
strange numbness which in the fourth year of the war

203



204 THE WAR AND ELIZABETH

has been creeping over all the belligerent nations, so
that horror has lost its first edge, and the minds, whether
of soldiers in the field, or of civilians at home, have
become hardened to facts or ideas which would once
have stirred in them wild ferments of rage and terror.

' Shall we win, this year, Desmond ? ' said Pamela,
as they stood gazing out into the park, where, above a
light silvery mist, a young moon was riding in a clear
blue. Not a branch stirred in the great leafless trees ;
only an owl's plaintive cry seemed to keep in rhythm
with that sinister murmur on the horizon.

' Win ? — this year ? ' said the boy, with a shrug.
' Don't reckon on it, Pam. Those Russian fools have
dished it all for months ! '

' But the Americans will make up ? '

Desmond assented eagerly. And in the minds of the
Enghsh boy and girl there rose a kind of vague vision
of an endless procession of great ships, on a boundless
ocean, carrying men, and men, and more men — guns, and
aeroplanes, and shining piles of shells — bringing the New
World to the help of the Old.

Desmond turned to his sister.

' Look here, Pam, this time next week I shall be
in the line. Well, I daresay I shan't be at the actual
front for a week or two — but it won't be long. We shall
want every battery we've got. Now — suppose I don't
come back ? '

' Desmond ! '

' For goodness' sake, don't be silly, old girl. We've
got to look at it, you know. The death-rate of men of
my age ' {men ! — Desmond, a man !) ' has gone up to
about four times what it was before the war. I saw that
in one of the papers this morning. Lve only got a



THE WAR AND ELIZABETH 205

precious small chance. And if I don't come back, I
want to know what you're going to do with yourself.'

' I don't care what happens to me if you don't come
back ! ' said the girl passionately. She was leaning
with folded arms against the side of the window, the
moonlight, or something else, blanching the face and
her fair hair.

Desmond looked at her with a troubled expression.
For two or three years past he had felt a special re-
sponsibility towards this twin-sister of his. Who was
there to look after her but he ? He saw that his father
never gave her a serious thought, and as to Aubrey —
well, he too seemed to have no room in his mind for
Pam — poor old Pam !

' How are you getting on with Broomie ? ' he asked
suddenly.

' I don't like her ! ' said Pamela fiercely. ' I shall
never like her ! '

'Well, that's awkward,' — said the boy slowly,
' because '

' Because what ? '

' Because I believe she means to marry father ! *

Pamela laughed angrily.

' Ah, you've found that out too ! '

Desmond pulled down the blind again, and they
went back to the fire, sitting on the floor beside it, with
their arms round each other, as they had been used to
do as children. And then in a low voice, lest any ears
in the sleeping house should be, after all, on the alert,
he told her what he had seen in the library. He was
rather ashamed of telling her ; only there was this queer
sense of last words — of responsibility — for his sister,
which excused it.



2o6 THE WAR AND ELIZABETH

Pamela listened despondently.

' Perhaps they're engaged already ! Well, — I can
tell you this — if father does marry her, she'll rule him,
and me — if I give her the chance — and everybody on
the place, with a rod of iron.'

Desmond at first remonstrated. He had been taken
aback by the sudden vision in the library ; and Pamela's
letters for some time past had tended to alter his first
liking for ' Broomie ' into a feeling more distrustful and
uncertain. But, after all, Broomie's record must be
remembered. ' She wouldn't sign that codicil thing —
she made father climb down about the gates — and Sir
Henry says she's begun to pull the estate together like
anything, and if father will only let her alone for a
year or two she'll make him a rich man.'

' Oh, I know,' said Pamela gloomily, ' she's paid
most of the bills already. When I go into Fallerton now
— everybody — all the tradesmen are as sweet as sugar.'

' Well, that's something to the good, isn't it ? Don't
be unfair ! '

' I'm not unfair ! ' cried Pamela. ' Don't you see
how she just swallows up everybody's attention — how
nobody else matters when she's there ! How can you
expect me to like that — if she were an archangel — which
she isn't ! '

' But has she done anything nasty — anything to
bother you ? '

' Well, of course, I'm just a cypher when she's there.
I'm afraid I oughtn't to mind — but I do ! '

And Pamela, with her hands round her knees, stared
into the fire in bitterness of spirit. She couldn't explain,
even to Desmond, that the inward eye all the time was
tormented by two kindred visions — Arthur in the hall



THE WAR AND ELIZABETH 207

that afternoon, talking war work with Ehzabeth with
such warm and eager deference, and Arthur on Holme
Hill, stretched at Elizabeth's feet, and bandjdng classical
chaff with her. And there was a third, still more poignant,
of a future in which Elizabeth would be always there,
the centre of the picture, mistress of the house, the
clever and charming woman, beside whom girls in their
teens had no chance.

She was startled out of these reflections by a remark
from Desmond.

' You know, Pam, you ought to get married soon.'

The boy spoke shyly — but gravely and decidedly.
Pam thought with a sudden anguish — ' He would never
have said that, unless '

She laid her head on his shoulder, clinging to him.

' I shan't get married, old boy.'

' Oh, that's nonsense ! Look here, Pam — you mustn't
mind my poking my nose into things where Eve no
business. You see, it's because — Well, I've sometimes
thought — punch my head, if you like ! — that you had
a fancy for Arthur Chicksands.'

Pamela laughed.

' Well, as he hasn't got any fancy for me, you needn't
take that into your dear old head ! '

' Why, he was always very fond of you, Pam.'

' Oh, yes, he liked ragging me when I was a child.
I'm not good enough for him now.'

' What do you mean — not good enough ? '

' Not clever enough, you silly old boy. He'll marry
somebody much older than me.'

Desmond ruminated.

' He seemed to be getting on with Broomie this
afternoon ? '



2o8 THE WAR AND ELIZABETH

' Magnificently. He always does. She's his sort.
She writes to him.'

' Oh, does she ? ' The boy's voice was dry and
hostile. He began to understand, or thought he did.
Miss Bremerton was not only plotting to marry his
father — had perhaps been plotting it from the beginning
— ^but was besides playing an unfair game with Pam —
spoiling Pam's chances — cutting in where she wasn't
wanted — grabbing, in fact. Anger was mounting in
him. Why should his father be mopped up like this ?
— and Pamela made unhappy ?

' I'd jolly well like to stop it all ! ' he said, under his
breath.

' Stop what ? You dear, foolish old man ! You
can't stop it, Dezzy.'

' Well, if she'll only make him happy ! '

' Oh, she'll be quite decent to him,' said Pamela, with
a shrug, ' but she'll despise him ! '

' What the deuce do you mean, Pam ? '

Whereupon, quite conscious that she was obeying
an evil and feverish impulse, but unable to control it,
Pamela went into a long and passionate justification of
what she had said. A number of small incidents — trifling
acts and sa5dngs of Elizabeth's — misinterpreted and
twisted by the girl's jealous pain, were poured into
Desmond's ears.

' All the servants know that she treats father like a
baby. She and Forest manage him in little things — in
the house — just as she runs the estate. For instance,
she does just what she likes with the fruit and the
flowers '

' Why, you ought to do all that, Pam ! '

' I tried when I came home from school. Father



THE WAR AND ELIZABETH 209

wouldn't let me do a thing. But she does just what
she pleases. You can hear her and Forest laughing over
it. Oh, it's all right, of course. She sends things to
hospitals every week.'

' That was what you used to want.'

' I do want it — but '

' You ought to have the doing of it ? '

' Oh, I don't know. I'm away all day. But she
might at least pretend to refer to him — or me — some-
times. It's the same in everything. She twists father
round her little finger ; and you can see all the time
what she thinks — that there never was such a bad
landlord, or such a miserable, feckless crew as the rest
of us, before she came to put us straight ! '

Desmond listened — partly resisting — but finally
carried away. By the time their talk was over he felt
that he too hated Elizabeth Bremerton, and that it was
horrid to have to leave Pamela with her.

When they said good-night Pamela threw herself on
her bed face downwards, more wretched than she had
ever been — wretched because Desmond was going, and
might be killed, wretched, too, because her conscience
told her that she had spoilt his last evening, and made
him exceedingly unhappy, by a lot of exaggerated com-
plaints. She was degenerating — she knew it. ' I am
a little beast, compared to what I was when I left school/
she confessed to herself with tears, and did not know
how to get rid of this fiery plague that was eating at her
heart. She seemed to look back to a time — only yester-
day ! — when poetry and high ideals, friendships and
religion filled her mind ; and now nothing — nothing ! —
was of any importance, but the look, the voice, the
touch of a man.

P



210 THE WAR AND ELIZABETH

The next day, Desmond's last day at home, for he was
due in London by the evening, was gloomy and embar-
rassed for all concerned. Elizabeth, preoccupied and
shrinking from her own thoughts, could not imagine
what had happened. She had put off all her engagements
for the day, that she might help in any last arrangements
that might have to be made for Desmond.

But Desmond declined to be helped, not rudely, but
with a decision, which took Elizabeth aback.

' Mayn't I look out some books for you ? I have
found some more pocket classics,' she had said to him
with a smile, remembering his application to her in the
autumn.

' No, thank you. I shall have no time.' And with
that, a prompt retreat to Pamela and the Den. Eliza-
beth, indeed, who was all eagerness to serve him, found
herself rebuffed at every turn.

Nor were matters any better with Pamela, who had
cried off her hospital work in order to pack for Desmond.
Elizabeth, seeing her come downstairs with an armful
of khaki shirts to be marked, offered assistance — almost
timidly. But Pamela's 'Thank you, but I'd rather not
trouble you — I can do it quite well ' — was so frosty that
Elizabeth could only retire — bewildered — to the library,
where she and the Squire gave a morning's work to the
catalogue, and never said a word of farm or timber.

But the Squire worked irritably, finding fault with a
number of small matters, and often wandering away into
the house to see what Desmond was doing. During
these intervals Elizabeth would sit, pen in hand, staring
absently into the dripping garden and the park beaten
by a cold rain. The future began to seem to her big
with events — and perplexity.



THE WAR AND ELIZABETH 211

Then with the evening came the boy's leave-taking ;
full of affection towards his father and sister, and
markedly chilly in the case of Elizabeth. When the
station taxi had driven off, Elizabeth — with that cold
touch of the boy's fingers still tingling on her hand —
turned from the front door to see Pamela disappearing
to the schoolroom, and the Squire fidgeting with an
evening paper which the taxi had brought from the
station.

Elizabeth suddenly noticed the shaking of the paper,
over which only the crest of white hair showed. Too
bad of Pamela to have gone off without a word to her
father ! Was it sympathy with the Squire, or resent-
ment on her own account, that made Elizabeth go up
to him ? — though at a respectful distance.

' Shall we finish that bit of translation we began this
morning, if you're not busy ? ' she said gently. It
was very rarely now that she was able to do any classical
work after the mornings.

The Squire threw down the newspaper, and strode
on before her to the library without a word. Elizabeth
followed. Rain and darkness had been shut out. The
wood fire glowed on the hearth, and its ruddy light was
on the face of the Nike, and its solemn outstretched
wings. All the apparatus of their common work was
ready, the work that both loved. Elizabeth felt a
sudden, passionate drawing towards this man twenty
years older than herself, which seemed to correspond
to the new and smarting sense of alienation from the
twins and their raw, unjust youth. What had been the
reason for their behaviour to her that day ? — what had
she done ? She was conscious of long weeks of effort,
in Pamela's case, — trying to please and win her ; and



212 THE WAR AND ELIZABETH

of a constant tender interest in Desmond, which had
never missed an opportunity of doing or suggesting
something he might hke — all for this ! She must have
offended them she supposed in some way ; how, she
could not imagine. But her mood was sore ; and, self-
controlled as she was, her pulse raced.

Here, however, she was welcome, she was needed ;
she could distract and soothe a bitterness of soul
best measured by the Squire's most unusual taciturnity.
No railing at the Government or the war, not a

fling even at that ' d d pedant, Chicksands ! ' or

' The Bubbly-jocks,' as he liked to call the members
of the County War Committee. Elizabeth put a text
of Aristophanes — the Pax — into his hands, and drew
her table near to him, waiting his pleausre. There was
a lamp behind him which fell on her broad white brow,
her waiting eyes and hand, and all the friendly intelli-
gence of her face. The Squire began haltingly, lost his
place, almost threw the book away ; but she cheered
him on, admired this phrase, delicately amended that,
till the latent passion had gripped him, and he was soon
in full swing, revelling in all the jests and topicalities of
the play, where the strikers and pacifists, the profiteers,
the soldiers and munition workers of two thousand odd
years ago, fight and toil, prate and wrangle and scheme,
as eager and as alive as their descendants of to-day.
Soon his high, tempestuous laugh rang out ; Elizabeth's
gentler mirth answering. Sometimes there was a dispute
about a word or a rendering ; she would put up her own
view, with obstinacy, so that he might have the pleasure
of knocking it down. And all through there was the
growing sense of comradeship, of mutual understanding,
which, in their classical work at least, had been always



THE WAR AND ELIZABETH 213

present for Elizabeth, since her first acquaintance with
her strange employer.

When she rose, reluctantly, at the sound of the
dressing-bell, the Squire paced up and down while she
put her books and papers away. Then as she was going,
he turned abruptly —

' I told Forest to order the Times — will you see he
does it ? '

' Certainly.'

' I loathe all newspapers,' he said sombrely. ' If we
must go to the devil, I don't want to know too much
about it. But still '

She waited a moment, but as nothing more came she
was leaving the room, when he added —

' And don't forget the timber business to-morrow
afternoon. Tell Dell to meet us in Cross Wood.'

When she had gone, the Squire still continued pacing,
absorbed in meeting the attack of new and strange
ideas. He had always been a man with a singularly
small reflective gift. Self-examination — introspection of
any sort — were odious to him. He lived on stimulus
from outside, attracted or repelled, amused or inter-
ested, bored or angry, as the succession of events or
impressions might dictate. To collect beautiful things
was a passion with him, and he was proud of the natural
taste and instinct, which generally led him right. But
for ' aesthetics ' — the philosophy of art — he had nothing
but contempt. The volatile, restless mind escaped at
once from the concentration asked of it ; and fell back
on what the Buddhist calls ' Maia,' the gay and changing
appearances of things, which were all he wanted. And
it was because the war had interfered with this pleasant



214 THE WAR AND ELIZABETH

and perpetual challenge to the senses of the outer world,
because it forced a man back on general ideas that he
did not want to consider — God, Country, Citizenship —
that the Squire had hated the war.

But this woman who had become an inmate of his
house, while she ministered to all the tastes that the
Squire had built up as a screen between himself and
either the tragic facts of contemporary life, or any
troublesome philosophising about them, was yet gradu-
ally, imperceptibly, drawing the screen aside. Her
humanity was developing the feeble shoots of sympathy
and conscience in himself. What she felt, he was
beginning to feel ; and when she hated anything he
must at least uncomfortably consider why.

But all this she did and achieved through her mere
fitness and delightfulness as a companion. He had
never imagined that life would bring him anybody —
least of all a woman — who would both give him so
much, and save him so much. Selfish, exacting,
irritable — he knew very well that he was all three. But
it had not prevented this capable, kind, clever creature
from devoting herself to him, from doing her utmost, not
only to save his estate and his income, but to make his
life once more agreeable to him, in spite of the war
and all the rancour and resentments it had stirred up
in him.

How patient she had been with these last ! He was
actually beginning to be ashamed of some of them.
And now to-night — what made her come and give him
the extra pleasure of her company these two hours ?
Sympathy, he supposed, about Desmond.

Well, he was grateful ; and for the first time liis heart
reached out for pity — almost humbled itself — accepted



THE WAR AND ELIZABETH 215

the human lot. If Desmond were killed, he would never
choose to go on living. Did she know that ? Was it
because she guessed at the feelings he had always done
his best to hide that she had been so good to him that
evening ?

What as to that love-story of hers ? — her family ? —
her brother in Mesopotamia ? He began to feel a
hundred curiosities about her, and a strong wish to make
life easy for her, as she had been making it easy for him.
But she was excessively proud and scrupulous — that he
had long since found out. No use offering to double
her salary, now that she had saved him all this money !
His first advance in that direction had merely offended
her. The Squire thought vaguely of the brother —
no doubt a young lieutenant. Could interest be made
for him ? — ^with some of the bigwigs. Then his — very
intermittent — sense of humour asserted itself. He to
make interest with anybody — for anybody — in con-
nection with the war ! He, who had broken with every
soldier-friend he ever had, because of his opinions about
the war ! — and was anathema throughout the county
for the same reason. Like all members of old families
in this old country he had a number of aristocratic and
wealthy kinsfolk, the result of Mannering marriages in the
past. But he had never cared for any of them, except
to a mild degree for his sister. Lady Cassiobury, who
was ten years older than himself, and still paid long
visits to Mannering, which bored him hugely. On the
last occasion, he was quite aware that he had behaved
badly, and was now in her black-books.

No — there was nothing to be done, except to let this
wonderful woman have her own way ! If she wanted
to cut down the woods, let her ! — if she wanted to amuse



2i6 THE WAR AND ELIZABETH

herself by rebuilding the village, and could find the
money out of the estate, let her ! — it would occupy her,
attach her to the place, and do him no harm.

Yes, attach her to the place ; bind her ! hold her !
— that was what he wanted. Otherwise, how hideously
uncertain it all was ! She might go at any time. Her
mother might be ill — old ladies have a way of being ill.
Her brother might be wounded — or kiUed. Either of
those events would carry her off — out of his ken. But,
if she were engaged deeply enough in the estate affairs
she would surely come back. He knew her ! — she hated
to leave things unfinished. He was eager now to heap
all kinds of responsibilities upon her. He would be
meek and pliable ; he would put no sort of obstacles
in her way. She should have no excuse for giving him
notice again. He would put up with all her silly
Jingoism — if only she would stay !

But at this point the Squire suddenly pulled up short
in liis pacing and excitedly asked himself the question,
which half the people about him were already beginning
to ask.

' Why shouldn't I marry her ? '

He stood transfixed — the colour rising in his thin
cheeks.

Hitherto the notion, if it had ever knocked at the
outer door of the brain, had been chased away with
mockery. And he had no sooner admitted it now than
he drove it out again. He was simply afraid of it — in
terror lest any suspicion of it should reach Elizabeth.
Her loyalty, her single-mindedness, her freedom from
the smallest taint of intrigue — he would have answered
for them with all he possessed. If, for a moment, she
chose to think that he had misinterpreted her kindness,



THE WAR AND ELIZABETH 217

her services in any vile and vulgar way, why, he might
lose her on the instant ! Let him walk warily — do
nothing at least to destroy the friend in her, before he
grasped at anything more.

Besides, how could she put up with him ? ' I am
the dried husk of a man ! ' thought the Squire, with
vehemence. ' I couldn't learn her ways now, nor she
mine. No ; let us be as we are — only more so ! '

But he was shaken through and through ; first by
that vanishing of his boy into the furnace of the war,
which had brought him at last within the grip of the
common grief, the common fear, and now by this
strange thought which had invaded him.

After dinner, Elizabeth, who was rather pale, but as
cheerful and self-possessed as usual, put Mrs. Gaddesden's
knitting to rights at least three times, and held the wool
for that lady to wind till her arm ached. Then Mrs.
Gaddesden retired to bed ; the Squire, who with only
occasional mutterings and mumblings had been deep in
Elizabeth's copy of the Times, which she had at last
ventured to produce in public, went off to the library,
and Elizabeth and Pamela were left in the hall alone.

Elizabeth lingered over the fire ; while Pamela
wondered impatiently why she did not go to her office
work as she generally did about nine o'clock. Pamela's
mood was more thorny than ever. Had she not seen a
letter in Elizabeth's handwriting lying that very after-
noon on the hall-table for post — addressed to Captain
Chicksands, D.S.O., War Office, Whitehall ? Common
sense told her that it probably contained notliing but
an answer to some questions Arthur had put to the
Squire's ' business secretary ' as to the amount of ash



2i8 THE WAR AND ELIZABETH

in the Squire's woods — Arthur's IntelHgence appoint-
ment having something to do with the Air Board. But
the mere fact that Elizabeth should be writing to him
stirred intolerable resentment in the girl's passionate
heart. She knew very well that it was foolish, un-
reasonable, but could no more help it than a love-smitten
maiden of old Sicily. It was her hour of possession,
and she was struggling with it blindly.

And Elizabeth, the shrewd and clever Elizabeth, saw
nothing, and knew nothing. If she had ever for a
passing moment suspected the possibility of ' an affair '
between Arthur Chicksands and Pamela, she had ceased
to think of it. The eager projects with which her own
thoughts were teeming had driven out the ordinary