DUKE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF their children IN MEMORY OF William Franklin Hovland Mary McIntosh Holland iiM'fly V S' - 1 I j ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from Duke University Libraries I I https://archive.org/details/elizabethscampai01ward ELIZABETH ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD >• !' Al<“U AUTHOR OF LADY ROSE’S DAUGHTER, MISSING, Etc. FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR BY C. ALLAN GILBERT NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1918 By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC. Second Rd’tion. Printed Oetotier ai, 1918 Third Edition, Printed December 1918 Fourth Edition, Printed December, 1918 Fifth Edition, Printed February, 1919 n'-i. Vi TO THE DEAR AND GALLANT MEMORY OF T. S. A. PASSCHENDAELE, OCTOBER 11. 1917 FOREWORD This book was finished in April 1918, and represents the naood of a supremely critical moment in the war. M. A. W. ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN CHAPTER I R emember, Slater, if I am detained, that I am expecting the two gentlemen from the War Agricultural Committee at six, and Captain Mills of the Red Cross is coming to dine and sleep. Ask Lady Chicksands to look after him in case I am late — and put those Tribunal papers in order for me, by the way. I really must go properly into that Quaker man’s case — horrid nuisance ! I hope to be back in a couple of hours, but I can’t be sure. Hullo, Beryl! I thought you were out.’ The speaker. Sir Henry Chicksands, already mounted on his cob outside his own front door, turned from his secretary, to whom he had been giving these directions, to see his only daughter hurrying through the inner hall with the evident in- tention of catching her father before he rode off. She ran down the steps, but instead of speaking at once she began to stroke and pat his horse’s neck, as though doubtful how to put what she had to say. ‘ Well, Beryl, what’s the matter? ’ said her father impatiently. The girl, who was slender and delicate in build, raised her face to his. ‘ Are you — are you really going to Mannering, father? ’ 2 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN ‘ I am — worse luck ! ’ ‘You’ll handle him gently, won’t you?’ There wp anxiety in the girl’s voice. ‘ But of course you will — I know you will.’ Chicksands shrugged his shoulders. ‘ I shall do my best. But you know as well as I do that he’s a queer customer when it comes to any- thing connected with the war.’ The girl looked behind her to make sure that the old butler of the house had retired discreetly out of earshot. ‘ But he can’t quarrel with you, father! ’ ‘ I hope not — for your sake.’ ‘ Must you really tackle him? ’ ‘Well, I thought I was the person to do it. It’s quite certain nobody else could make anything of it.’ Privately Beryl disagreed, but she made no com- ment. ‘ Aubrey seems to be pretty worried,’ she said. In a depressed tone, as she turned away. ‘ I don’t wonder. He should have brought up his father better. Well, good-bye, dear. Don’t bother too much.’ She waved her hand to him as he made off, and stood watching him from the steps — a gentle, attach- ing figure, her fair hair and the pale oval of her face standing out against the panelled hall behind her. Her father went his way down a long winding hill beyond his own grounds, along a country road lined with magnificent oaks, through a village where his practised eye noted several bad cottages with dis- approval, till presently he slackened his horse’s pace, as he passed an ill-looking farm about half a mile beyond the village. ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 3 ‘ ‘ Not a decent gate in the whole place ! ’ he said to himself with disgust. ‘ And the farm buildings only fit for a bonfire. High time indeed that we made Mannering sit up ! ’ He paused also to look over the neighbour- ing hedge at some fields literally choked with weeds. ‘ And as for Gregson — lazy, drunken fellow ! Why didn’t he set some village women on? Just see what they’ve done on my place ! Hullo, here he is! Now I’m in for it! ’ For he saw a slouching man coming rapidly towards him from the farmyard, with the evident intention of waylaying him. The man’s shabby, untidy dress and blotched complexion did not escape Sir Henry’s quick eye. ‘ Seems to have been making a night of it,’ was his inward comment. ‘ Good-day, Sir Henry,’ said the farmer, laying a hand on Chicksands’ bridle, ‘ I wanted a word with you, sir. I give you fair warning, you and your Committee, you’ll not turn me out without a fight! I was never given no proper notice — and there are plenty as ’ll stand by me.’ The voice was thick and angry, and the hand shook. Sir Henry drew his horse away, and the man’s hold dropped. ‘ Of course you had every notice,’ said Sir Henry drily. ‘ I hadn’t,’ the man persisted. ‘ If the letters as they talk of were sent, I never saw ’em. And when the Committee came I was out — on business. Can’t a man be out on his lawful business, Sir Flenry, in- stead of dancin’ attendance on men as know no bet- ter than he? The way this Government is doing things — you might 3s well live under the Czar of 4 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN Russia as in this country. It’s no country this for free men now, Sir Henry.’ ‘ The Czar of Russia has come to grrief, my man, for the same reason that you have,’ said Sir Henry, gathering up the reins, ‘ for shirking his duty. All very well before the war, but now we can’t afford this kind of thing.’ ‘ And so you’ve told the Squire to turn me out?’ said the man fiercely, his hands on his sides. ‘ You’ve had no notice from Mr. Mannering yet? ’ ‘ Not a word.’ ‘ But you’ve heard from the Inspection Commit- tee? ’ The man nodded. ‘ But it’s not they as can turn me out, if the Squire don’t agree.’ There v/as a note of surly defiance in his voice. ‘ I don’t know about that,’ said Sir Henry, whose horse was getting restive. ‘ My advice to you, Gregson, is to take it quietly, pull yourself together, and get some other work. There’s plenty going nowadays.’ ‘ Thank you for nothing, Sir Henry. I’ve got plenty to advise me — people as I set more store by. I’ve got a wife and children, sir, and I shan’t give in without a fuss — you may be sure of that. Good- day to you.’ Sir Henry nodded to him and rode off. ‘ He’ll go, of course,’ reflected the rider. ‘ Our powers are quite enough. But if I can’t get Man- nering to send the notice, it’ll be a deal more trouble. Hullo, here’s some one else ! This is another pair of boots ! ’ He had scarcely turned the corner beyond the farm when another man came running down the ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 5 sloping field, calling to him. Sir Henry pulled up his horse again. But his aspect had changed, and his voice took another note. ‘ Did you want to speak to me, Adam? A nice day, isn’t it ? ’ ‘ I saw you. Sir Henry, from the top of the field, talking to Gregson in the road, and I thought per- haps you’d let me have a few words with you. You know, sir, this is awfully hard lines.’ Sir Henry looked impatient, but the man who had spoken to him was a fine specimen of young man- hood — broad-shouldered, clear-eyed, with a natural dignity of manner, not at all a person to be brushed aside. ‘ I’m sure you can’t defend Gregson, Adam,’ said Sir Flenry, ‘ you — one of the best farm.ers in the district! I wish they had put you on the Inspection Committee.’ ‘ Well, they didn’t,’ said the other, perhaps with a slight emphasis. ‘ And there’s many of us feel, I can assure you, as I do. Gregson’s a poor creature, but he hasn’t had quite fair play. Sir Henry — that’s what Vt^e feel. And he’s been fifteen years on his place.’ The man spoke hesitatingly, but strongly. There was a queer, suppressed hostility in his pleas- ant blue eyes. ‘ Fifteen years too long,’ interrupted Sir Henry. ‘ I tell you, Adam, we can’t afford now to let men like Gregson spoil good land while the country’s likely to go hungry 1 The old happy-go-lucky days are done with. I wonder whether even you recog- nize that we’re fighting for our lives? ’ ‘ I know we are, Sir Henry. But if the war makes slaves of us what good will it do if we do win it? ’ Sir Henry laughed. ‘ Well, Adam, you were al- 6 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN ways a Radical and I was always a Conservative. And I don’t like being managed any more than you do. But look at the way I’m managed in my busi- ness ! — harried up and down by a parcel of young fellows from the Ministry that often seem to me fools! But we’ve all got to come in. And this country’s worth it I ’ ‘ You know I’m with you there, sir. But why don’t you get at the Squire himself? What good have he or his agent ever been to anybody? You’re a landlord worth living under; but ’ ‘ Ah I don’t be in too great a hurry, Adam, and you’ll see what you will seel ’ And with a pleasant salute, his handsome face twitching between frowns and smiles. Sir Henry rode on. ‘ What trade union- ists we all are — high and low ! That man’s as good a farmer as Gregson’s a vile one. But he stands by his like, as I stand by mine.’ Then bis thoughts took a different turn. He was entering a park, evidently of wide extent, and finely wooded. The road through it had long fallen out of repair, and was largely grass-grown. A few sheep were pasturing on it, and a few estate cottages showed here and there. Sir Henry looked about him with quick eyes. He understood that the In- spection Sub-Committee, constituted under the Corn Production Act, and on the look-out for grass-land to put under the plough, had recommended the ploughing up of all this further end of Mannering Park. It carried very few sheep under its present management; and the herd of Jersey cattle that used to graze it had long since died out. As for the game, it had almost gone — before the war. No use, either for business or play! Then — on this early autumn day of 1917 — Sir ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 7 Henry fell to musing on the vast changes coming over England in consequence of the war. ‘ Who would ever have believed that we — we should put ourselves to school as we have done? Military .service, rations, food-prices, all our businesses “ con- trolled,” and now our land looked after! How much of it has come to stay? Well, it won’t affect me much! Ah! Is that the Rector?’ For a hundred yards ahead of him he perceived a clerical figure, spare and tall, in a wideawake hat, swinging towards him. The September sun was westering, and behind the approaching man lay broad stretches of wood, just showing here and there the first bronze and purple signs of au- tumn. The Rector, recognizing the solitary rider, waved his hand in welcome, and Sir Henry pulled up. The two men, who were evidently personal friends, ex- changed greetings. ‘ You’re going to the Hall, Sir Henry? ’ said the Rector. Sir Henry described his business. The Rector shook his head reflectively. ‘ You haven’t announced yourself, I hope? ’ ‘ No, I took that simple precaution. I suppose he’s already pretty savage?’ ‘With whom? The Committee? Yes, you won’t find him easy to deal with. But just at present there’s a distraction. His new secretary arrived some weeks ago, and he now spends his v/hole time, from morning till night, dictating to her and shov/- ing her his things.’ ‘Secretary? A woman? Good heavens! Who is she ? ’ ‘ A great swell, I understand. Oxford First 8 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN Class in Mods, Second in Greats. I’ve only just seen her. A striking-looking person.’ ‘ Why isn’t she in France, or doing munition work?’ growled Sir Henry. ‘ I don’t know. I suppose she has her reasons. She seems patriotic enough. But I’ve only ex- changed a few words with her, at a very hurried luncheon, at which, by the way, theie was a great deal too much to eat. She and Pamela disappeared directly afterwards.’ ‘ Oh, so Pamela’s at home? What’s the name of the new woman? I suppose she’s to chaperon Pamela ? ’ ‘ I shouldn’t wonder. Her name is Miss Bremer- ton.’ ‘ Beryl declares that Pamela is going to be a beauty — and clever besides. She used to be a jolly child. But then they go to school and grow up quite different. I’ve hardly seen her for a year and a half.’ ‘Well, you’ll judge for yourself. Good luck to you! I don’t envy you your job.’ ‘ Good Lord, no ! But you see I’m Chairman of this blessed show, and they all fixed on me to bell the cat. We want a hundred acres of the Park, a new agent, notices for three farmers, etcetera ! ’ The Rector whistled. ‘ I shall wait, on tiptoe, to see what happens! What are your powers?’ ‘ Oh, tremendous ! ’ ‘ So you have him? Well, good-day.’ And the Rector was passing on. But Sir Henr\^ stooped over his horse’s neck — ‘ As you know, per- haps, it would be very inconvenient to my poor little Beryl if Mannering were to make a quarrel of it with me.’ ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 9 ‘ Ah, I gathered that she and Aubrey were en- gaged,’ said the Rector cordially. ‘ Best congratu- lations! Has the Squire behaved well? ’ ‘ Moderately. He declares he has no money to give them.’ ‘ And yet he spent eighteen hundred pounds last week at that Christie sale ! ’ said the Rector with a laugh. ‘ And now I suppose the new secretary will add fuel to the flame. I saw Pamela for a minute alone, and she said Miss Bremerton was “just as much gone on Greek things as father,” and they were like a pair of lunatics when the new vases came down.’ ‘ Oh, blow the secretary ! ’ said Sir Henry with exasperation. ‘ And meanwhile his daughters can’t get a penny out of him for any war purpose what- ever! Well, I must go on.’ They parted, and Sir Henry put his cob into a sharp trot which soon brought him in sight of a distant building — low and irregular — surrounded by trees, and by the wide undulating slopes of the park. ‘ Dreadfully ugly place,’ he said to himself, as the house grew plainer; ‘ rebuilt at the worst time, by a man with no more taste than a broomstick. Still, he was the sixteenth owner, from father to son. That’s something.’ And he fell to thinking, with that half-ironic de- preciation which he allowed to himself, and would have stood from no one else, of his own brand-new Georgian house, built from the plans of a famous American architect, ten years before the war, out of the profits of an abnormally successful year, and furnished in what he believed to be faultless taste by the best professional decorator he could find. ‘ Yet compared to a Mannering, what do I mean 10 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN to the people here? You scarcely begin to take root in this blessed country under half a century. Mannering is exceedingly unpopular; the people think him a selfish idler; but if he chose he could whistle them back with a hundredth part of the trouble it would take me ! And if Aubrey wanted to go into Parliament, he’d probably have his pick of the county divisions. Curious fellow, Aubrey! I wonder exactly what Beryl sees in him? ’ His daughter’s prospects were not indeed very clear to a mind that liked everything cut and dried. Aubrey Mannering was the Squire’s eldest son; but the Squire was not rich, and had been for years past wasting his money on Greek antiquities, which seemed to his neighbours, including Sir Henry Chicksands, a very dubious investment. If Aubrey should want to sell, who was going to buy such things at high prices after the war? No doubt prices at Christie’s — for good stuff — had been keeping up very well. That was because of war profits. People were throwing money about now. But when the war industries came to an end? and the national bills had to be paid? ‘ The only thing that can’t go down is land,’ thought Sir Henry, with the cheerful consciousness of a man who had steadily year by year increased what had originally been a very modest property to something like a large estate. Mannering had plenty of that commodity. But how far had he dipped the estate? It must be heavily mortgaged. By decent management any- body, no doubt, might still bring it round. ‘ But Aubrey’s not the man. And since he joined up at the beginning of the war the Squire won’t let him have a voice in anything. And now Desmond — by ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 1 1 George, the twins are nineteen this month ! — Des- mond ’ll be off directly. And then his father will be madder than ever.’ By this time the ugly house was near at hand, and the thick woods which surrounded it had closed about the horse and rider. , ‘ Splendid timber,’ thought Sir Henry, as he rode through it, measuring it with a commercial eye, ‘ but all past its prime, and abominably neglected . . . Hullo ! that looks like Pamela, and the new woman V— the secretary ! ’ For two ladies were coming down the drive to- wards him, with a big white and tan collie jumping round them. One of them, very tall and erect, was dressed in a dark coat and skirt, reasonably short, a small black toque, and brown boots and leggings. The close-fitting coat showed a shapely but quite substantial figure. She carried a stick, and walked with a peculiarly rapid and certain step. The young girl beside her seemed by comparison a child. She wore a white dress, in keeping with the warm Sep- tember day, and with it a dark blue sports coat, and a shady hat. Her dress only just passed her knees, and beneath it the slender legs and high heels drew Sir Henry’s disapproving eye. He hated extrava- gance in anything. Beryl managed to look fashion- able, without looking outre, as Pamela did. But he reined up to greet her with ready smiles. ‘Well, Pamela, jolly to see you at home again! My word, you’ve grown 1 Shall I find your father in? ’ ‘ Yes, we left him in the library. May I Intro- duce Miss Bremerton — Sir Henry Chicksands.’ The girl spoke with hurried shyness, the quick colour in her cheeks. The lady beside her bowed, and Sir 12 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN Henry took off his hat. Each surveyed the other. ‘ A strong-minded female ! ’ thought Sir Henry, who was by no means advanced in his views of the other sex. ‘ The strong-minded female,’ however, was not, it seemed, of the talkative kind. She remained quite silent while Pamela and Sir Henry exchanged some family gossip, with her ungloved hand caressing the nose of the collie, who was pressing against her with intrusive friendliness. But her easy self- possession as contrasted with Pamela’s nervousness was all the time making an impression on Sir Henry, as was also the fact of her general good looks. Not a beauty — not at all; but, as the Rector had said, ‘ striking.’ As for Pamela, what was the matter with the child? Until Beryl’s name was mentioned, there was not a smile to be got out of her. And it was a very fleeting one when it came. Desmond’s name fared a little better. At that the girl did at last raise her beautiful eyes, which till then she had hardly allowed to be seen, and there was a ray in them. ‘ He’s here on leave,’ she said; ‘ a few days. He’s just got his Commission and been accepted for the artillery. He goes into camp next week. He thinks he’ll be out by January.’ ‘ We must certainly manage to see him before he goes,’ said Sir Henry heartily. Then turning to Miss Bremerton with the slightly over-emphatic civility of a man who prides himself on his manners in all contingencies, he asked her if she was already acquainted with the Mannering neighbour- hood. Miss Bremerton replied that it was quite unknown ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 13 to her. ‘ You’ll admire our trees,’ said Sir Henry. ‘ They’re very fine.’ ‘ Are they? ’ said the lady rather absently, giving a perfunctory glance to the woods sloping away on her right towards a little stream winding in the hollow. Sir Henry felt a slight annoyance. He was a good fellow, and no more touchy as to per- sonal dignity than the majority of men of his age and class. But he was accustomed to be treated with a certain deference, and in Miss Bremerton’s manner there was none whatever. ‘ Well, good-bye, Pamela. I mustn’t miss your father. When are you coming over to see Beryl?’ ‘ How am I to get there ? ’ said the girl with a sudden laugh. ‘ Oh, I see, you’ve got no petrol allowance? ’ ‘ How should we ? Nobody’s doing any war work here.’ There was an odd note in the speaker’s voice. ‘ Why don’t you join Beryl in her canteen work? ’ said Sir Henry abruptly. ‘ I don’t know.’ ‘ She wants help badly. She passes your gate on her way to Fallerton. She could pick you up, and bring you back.’ ‘ Yes,’ said Pamela. There was a pause. ‘Well, good-bye, dear,’ said Sir Henry again, and with a ceremonious bow to Pamela’s companion, he rode on — meditating on many things. ‘ The Squire’s in. Sir Henry, but — ^well, he’s very busy.’ ‘ Never mind. Forest. I must see him. Can you find some one to take my horse round? ’ The grey-haired butler looked perplexed. 14 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN ‘ I’ve only got my own small boy. Sir Henry. There’s two more of our men gone this morning. I don’t know if you’ll trust him. He’s a good boy.’ ‘ Send him along, Forest. My beast’s a lamb — you know him. But look here. Forest ’ — Sir Henry dismounted, bridle in hand. ‘ Don’t give the Squire notice that I’m here, if you can help it, till you announce me.’ The butler, who, in spite of his grey hair, was a square-set, vigorous-looking fellow, might be said, in reply, to have given the Squire’s visitor a wink. At any rate a look of understanding passed betv/een the two. The butler went quickly back into the house, and re-emerged with a boy, who was the small image of his father, to whom Sir Henry cheer- fully gave up his cob. But as Forest led the way through the outer hall he stopped to say: ‘ The Squire’s not alone, sir. There was a gentle- man arrived just as Miss Pamela w’ent out. But I don’t think he’ll stay long.’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘ Can’t say, sir. He’s lodging in the village, and comes to see the Squire’s collections sometimes.’ They were now in a long passage running along the eastern front of the house to a large room which had been added to its southern end, in order to hold the Squire’s library and collections. Midway the butler turned. ‘ You’ve heard. Sir Henry, about Mr. Desmond? ’ ‘ Yes, Miss Pamela told me.’ ‘ Mr. Desmond says he’ll be in France by Jan- uary. He’s as pleased as possible, but it’s a deal sooner than Mr. Mannering hoped.’ ‘ Well, we’ve all got to take our chance in this war,’ said Sir Henry gravely. ‘ And the artillery is ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN IS a bit safer than the infantry. You know my son Arthur’s a gunner.’ ‘ I hope he’s all right, sir? ’ ‘ Well, he’s still on light work. He comes home this week for a bit. He was gassed at Ypres a year and a half ago, and had a bullet taken out of his chest about two months since. But he is nearly fit again.’ The butler expressed his sympathy with a com- plete absence of shyness or servility, then threw open a door at the end of the passage, announcing, ‘ Sir Henry Chicksands, sir.’ ‘ D — mni* said a voice loudly within. Sir Henry gave an involuntary start. Another look passed between him and Forest, amused or interrogative on the visitor’s part, non-committal on the butler’s. The library of Mannering Hall as Sir Henry Chicksands entered it presented a curious spectacle. It was a long, barn-like room, partly lined with books, and partly with glass cases, in which Greek vases, Tanagra figures, and other Greek and Etruscan antiquities, all carefully marked and labelled, were displayed. A few large tables stood at intervals on the shabby carpet, also laden with books and specimens. They conveyed an impression of dust and disorder, as though no housemaid had been allowed to touch them for weeks — with one exception. A table, smaller than the rest, but ar- ranged with scrupulous neatness, stood at one side of the room, with a typewriter upon it, certain books, and a rack for stationery. A folded duster lay at one corner. Pens, pencils, a box of clips, and a gum-pot stood where a careful hand had placed i6 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN them. And at a corner corresponding to the duster was a small vase of flowers — autumnal roses — the only flowers in the room. But the various untidy accumulations, most of which seemed to be of old standing, had been evi- dently just added to by some recent arrivals. Four large packing-cases, newly opened, took up much of what free space was left on the floor. The straw, paper, and cottonwool, in which their contents had been packed, had been tossed out with a careless or Impatient hand, and littered the carpet. Among the litter stood here and there some Greek vases of different sizes; in particular, a superb pair, covered with figures; beside which stood the owner of Man- nering, talking to an apparently young man with an eye-glass, who was sitting on the floor closely ex- amining the vases. The Squire turned a furrowed brow towards his approaching visitor, and putting down a small bronze he had been holding raised a warning hand. ‘How do you do, Chicksands? Very sorry, but I’m much too filthy to touch. And I’m horribly busy I These things arrived last night, and Mr. Levasseur has kindly come over to help me unpack them. Don’t know if you’ve met him. Mr. Levas- seur — Sir Henry Chicksands.’ The man on the floor looked up carelessly, just acknowledging Sir Henry’s slight inclination. Sir Henry’s Inner mind decided against him — at once — Instinctively. What was a stout fellow, who at any rate looked as though he were still of military age, doing with nonsense of this sort, at four o’clock in the day, when England wanted every able-bodied man she possessed, either to fight for her or to work for her? At the same time the reflection passed ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 17 rapidly through his mind that neither the man nor the name had come up — so far as he could remem- ber — before the County Tribunal of which he was Chairman. ‘ Well, Chicksands, what do you want with me? ’ said the Squire abruptly. ‘ Will you take a chair? ’ And he pointed to one from which he hastily re- moved a coat. ‘ I have some confidential business to talk to you about,’ said Sir Henry, with a look at the dusty gentleman among the straw. ‘ Something you want me to do that I’ll be bound I shan’t want to do I Is that it?’ said Mannering with vivacity. He stood with his hands on a table behind him, his long spare frame in a nervous fidget, his eyes bright and hostile, and a spot of red on either thin cheek. Beside Chicksands, who was of middle height, solidly built, and moderately stout, with mental and physical competence written all over him, the Squire of Mannering seemed but the snip- pet of a man. He was singularly thin, with a slender neck, and a small head covered with thick hair, prematurely white, which tumbled over his forehead and eyes. He had the complexion of a girl, disproportionately large nose, very sharply and delicately cut as to bridge and nostril, and a mouth and chin which seemed to be in perpetual move- ment. He looked older than Sir Henry, who was verging on sixty, but he was in fact just over fifty. Sir Henry smiled a little at the tone of the Squire’s question, but he answered good-humour- edly. ‘ I believe, when we’ve talked it over, you won’t think it unreasonable. But I’ve come to explain.’ i8 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN ‘ I know, you want me to give Gregson notice. But I warn you I’m not the least inclined to do any- thing of the kind.’ And the speaker crossed his arms, which were very long and thin, over a narrow chest, while his eyes restlessly countered those of Sir Henry. Chicksands paused a moment before replying. ‘ I have a good many papers here to show you,’ he said at last, mildly, drawing a large envelope half-way from the inner pocket of his coat to illus- trate his words, and then putting it back again. ‘ But I really can’t discuss them except with yourself.’ The Squire’s eyes shot battle. ‘ It’s the war, of course,’ he said with emphasis; ‘ it’s all the war. I’m told to do things I don’t want to do, which affect my personal freedom, and other people’s, because of a war I don’t believe in, never asked for, and don’t approve of. Here’s Levasseur now, a clever fellow, cleverer than either you or me, Chicksands, and he’s no more patriotic than I am. You talk to him!’ ‘ Thank you. I’m too busy,’ said Sir Henry sharply, his face stiffening. ‘ Where can you see me, Mannering? I’m rather pressed for time. Is the smoking-room free?’ And with a marked avoid- ance of any concern with the gentleman on the floor, who had by now risen to his feet. Sir Henry made an impatient movement towards a door at the fur- ther end of the library which stood ajar. Levasseur looked amused. He was a strongly- built, smooth-shaven fellow, with rather long hair, and the sallow look of the cigarette-smoker. His eyes were sleepy, his expression indolent or good- natured. ‘ Oh, I’ll make myself scarce with the greatest ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 19 pleasure,’ he said civilly. ‘ I can stroll about the park till you’re ready for me again,’ he added, turning to the Squire. ‘ Lovely day — I’ll take a book and some cigarettes.’ And diving into an open box which stood near he filled his cigarette-case from it, and then looked round him for a book. ‘Where’s that copy of the Anthology? That’ll do nicely.’ The Squire burst into a laugh, observing Sir Henry. ‘ He’s over military age, Chicksands.’ ‘ I suppose so,’ said Sir Henry stiffly. ‘ But only by six months, when the Act passed. So he’s just escaped you.’ ‘ I’ve really no concern whatever with Mr. Levas- seur’s affairs.’ Sir Henry had flushed angrily. ‘ Is it to be here, or the smoking-room? ’ ‘Ta-ta! See you again presently,’ said Levas- seur. ‘ Ah, there’s the book! ’ And diving to the floor for a hat and a book lying beside it, he made off, lighting a cigarette, with a laughing backward glance towards the Squire and his companion. ‘Well, now, what is it?’ said Mannering, throw- ing himself with an air of resignation into a low arm-chair, and taking out a pipe. ‘ Won’t you smoke, Chicksands?’ ‘ Thank you. I’ve had my morning’s allowance. Hullo! Who did that? What an awfully fine thing! ’ For suddenly, behind the Squire’s head, Chick- sands had become aware of an easel, and on it a charcoal sketch, life-size, of a boy, who seemed about eighteen or nineteen, in cricketing dress. The Squire looked round. ‘What, that sketch of Desmond? Haven’t you 20 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN seen it? Yes, It’s jolly good. I got Orpen to do It In July.’ Now that Sir Henry had once perceived the draw- ing It seemed to him to light up the whole place. The dress was the dress of the Eton Eleven; there was just a suggestion of pale blue in the sash round the waist. But the whole impression was Greek in Its manly freedom and beauty; above all in its sacri- fice of all useless detail to one broad and simple effect. Youth, eager, strong, self-confident, with its innocent parted lips, and its steadfast eyes looking out over the future — the drawing stood there as the quintessence, the embodiment, of a whole genera- tion. So might the young Odysseus have looked when he left his mother on his first journey to hunt the boar with his kinsfolk on Mount Parnassus. And v/ith such an air had hundreds of thousands of English boys gone out on a deadlier venture since the great war began, with a like Intensity of will, a like merry scorn of fate. Sir Henry was conscious of a lump In his throat. He had lost his youngest son In the retreat from Mons, and two nephews on the Somme. ‘ It’s wonderful,’ he said, not very clearly. ‘I envy you such a possession.’ The Squire made no reply. He sat with his long body hunched up in the deep chair, a pair of brood- ing eyes fixed on his visitor. ‘ Well, what Is it? ’ he said again, in a voice that was barely civil. CHAPTER II S IR HENRY had been talking some time. The Squire had not interrupted him much, but the papers which Sir Henry had presented to him from time to time — Government communications, Committee reports, and the like — were mostly lying on the floor, where, after a perfunctory glance at them, he had very quickly dropped them. ‘ Well, that’s our case,’ said Sir Henry at last, thrusting his hands into his pockets and leaning back in his chair, ‘ and I assure you we’ve taken a great deal of trouble about it. We shouldn’t ask you or anybody else to do these things if it wasn’t vitally necessary for the food-supply of the country. But we’re going to have a narrow squeak for it next spring and summer, and we must get more food out of the land.’ Whereupon, in a manner rather provokingly remi- niscent of a public meeting. Sir Henry fell into a dis- course on submarines, tonnage, the food needs of our Allies, and the absolute necessity for undoing and repairing the havoc of Cobdenism — matters of which the newspapers of the day were commonly full. That the sound of his own voice was agreeable to him might have been suspected. Mr. Mannering roughly broke In upon him. ‘ What was that you said about ploughing up the park? ’ ‘ We ask you to break up fifty acres of it near the Fallerton end, and perhaps some other bits else- 31 22 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN where. This first bit is so far from the house you’ll never notice it; and the land ought to do very well if it’s properly broken and trampled down.’ The Squire sat up and began to tick things off on the fingers of his left hand. ‘ Let me understand. You want me to give three of my farmers notice to quit — Gregson first of all — for bad farming; you ask me to plough up fifty acres of my park; and you have the goodness to suggest that I should cut some of my woods.’ Sir Henry realized that possibly a strain on his temper was coming, but he felt sure he could stand it. ‘ That is what we suggest — for your own advan- tage and the country’s.’ ‘And pray who are “we”? I don’t yet under- stand that clearly.’ ‘ “ We,” ’ said Sir Henry patiently, ‘ are the County War Agricultural Committee, formed for the express purpose of getting more food out of the land, and so making these islands self-support- ing.’ ‘ And if I refuse, v/hat can you do? ’ ‘ Well, I’m afraid,’ said Sir Henry, smiling un- comfortably, ‘ we can act without you.’ ‘ You can turn out my farmers, and plough my land, as you please?’ ‘ Our powers are very wide.’ ‘ Under — what do you call the beastly thing? — “ Dora ” — the Defence of the Realm Act?’ Sir Henry nodded. The Squire rose and began to pace up and down, his hands under his coat-tails, his long spider legs and small feet picking their way in and out of the piles and boxes on the floor. At last he turned impetuously. ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 23 ‘ Look here, Chicksands, I shall not give that man warning! ’ Sir Henry surveyed the lanky figure standing op- posite to him. ‘ I should be very sorry, Mannering, to see you take that course,’ he said, smiling and amiable as before. ‘ In some ways, of course, I am no more in love with some of the Government’s proceedings than you are. We landlords may have to defend ourselves. I want, if I may say so, to keep your influence intact for the things that really matter. You and I, and all the other Brookshire landlords, may have, at some point, to act together. But we shall resist unreasonable demands much more easily if we accept the reasonable ones.’ The Squire shook his head. The suave tone of the speaker had clearly begun to rasp his nerves. ‘No! You and I have really nothing in com- mon. You may take It from me that I shall not give these men notice. What happens then? ’ ‘ The Government steps in,’ said Sir Henry quietly. ‘ And turns them out? Very well, let them. And the park? ’ ‘ We are, of course, most anxious to consult you.’ ‘ Excuse me, that’s nonsense I I refuse — that’s flat.’ Sir Henry shrugged his shoulders. His tone be- came a trifle colder. ‘I can’t believe that you will refuse. You can’t deny — no sensible man could — that we’ve simply got to grow more food at home. The submarines have settled that for us.’ ‘Who brought the submarines upon us? The politicians! No politicians, no war! If it hadn’t 24 ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN been for a pack of idiots called diplomats making mischief abroad, and a pack of incompetents called politicians unable to keep their heads at home, there’d have been no war. It’s Russia’s war — France’s war I Who asked the country whether it wanted a war? Who asked me?’ The Squire, standing opposite to Sir Henry, tapped his chest vehemently. ‘ The country is behind the war,’ said Chicksands firmly. ‘ How do we know? How do you know? I’ve as much right to an opinion as you, and I tell you the country is sick and tired of the war. We are all dying of the war! We shall all be paupers because of the war! What is France to me, or Belgium? We shall have lost men, money, security — half the things that make life worth living — for what? ’ ‘ Honour! ’ said Sir Henry sharply, as he got on his feet. ' Honour! ’ sneered Mannering — ‘ what’s hon- our? It means one thing to me and another to you. Aubrey bangs me over the head with it. But I’m like the Doctor in the Punch and Judy show — he thinks he’s knocked me flat. He hasn’t. I’ve a new argument every time he comes. And as for my daughters, they think me a lunatic — a stingy lunatic besides — because I won’t give to their Red Cross shows and bazaars. I’ve nothing to give. The in- come tax gentlemen have taken care of that.’ ‘Yet you spend on this kind of thing!’ Sir Henry pointed to the vases. He had grown a little white. ‘ Of course I can. That’s permanent. That’s something to mend the holes that the soldiers and ELIZABETH’S CAMPAIGN 25 the politicians are making. When the war’s be- come a nightmare that nobody wants to remember, those little things ’ — he pointed to a group of Greek bronzes and terra-cottas on a table near — ‘ will still be the treasures of the world! ’ In the yeasty deep of Sir Henry’s honest mind emotions were rising which he knew now he should not long be able to control. He took up his hat and stick. ‘ I’m sorry, Mannering, that I have not been able to convince you. I’m sorry for your point of view — and I’m sorry for your sons.’ The words slipped out of his mouth before he knew. The Squire bounded. ‘ My sons 1 The one’s a fire-eater, with whom you can’t argue. The other’s a child — a babe — whom the Government proposes to murder before he has begun to live.’ Sir Henry looked at the speaker, who had been violently flushed a minute earlier, and was now as pale as himself, and then at the sketch of Desmond, just behind the Squire. His eyes dropped; the hurry in his blood subsided. ‘ Well, good-bye, Mannering. I’ll — I’ll do what I can to make things easy for you.’ The Squire laughed angrily. ‘You’ll put on the screws politely? Thank you! But still it will be you who’ll be putting the screw on, who’ll be turning out my farmers, and ploughing up my land, and cutting down my trees. Doesn’t it strike you that — well, that — under the circumstances — It will be rather dlflicult for Aubrey and Beryl to keep up their engagement? ’ The Squire was sitting on