Elizabeth's Campaign Part 15

It seemed to Beryl that he was fencing with her--delaying their real talk. But she accepted his lead.

'Yes, Desmond seems to like her. I don't gather that Pamela cares very much about her.'

'Oh, Pamela takes time. But what do you think the secretary did last night?'

'What?' They had paused under a group of limes clad in a glory of yellow leaf, and she was looking up in surprise at the unusual animation playing over the features of the man beside her.

'She refused to sign a codicil to my father's will, disinheriting me, and came to tell me so this morning! You should have heard her!

Very formal and ceremonious--very much on her dignity! But such a brick!'

Mannering's deep-set eyes under his lined thinker's brow shone with amus.e.m.e.nt. Beryl, with the instinctive jealousy of a girl in love, was conscious of a sudden annoyance that Miss Bremerton should have been mixed up in Aubrey's personal affairs.

'What _do_ you mean?'

Aubrey put an arm round her shoulder. She knew she ought to shake it off, but the pressure of it was too welcome. They strolled on.

'I had my talk with father last night. I told him he was absurd, and I was my own master. That you were perfectly free to give me up--that I had begged you to consider it--but I didn't think you would,' he smiled down upon her, but more gravely; 'and failing dismissal from you, we should be married as soon as it was reasonably possible. Was that right, darling?'

She evaded the question.

'Well--and then?'

'Then he broke out. Sir Henry of course was the _bete noire_. You can imagine the kind of things he said, I needn't repeat them. He is in a mood of perfectly mad opposition to all this war legislation, and it is not the least good arguing with him. Finally he told me that my allowance would be stopped, and Mannering would be left to Desmond, if we married. "All right!" I said, "I daresay, if he and I survive you, Desmond will let me look round sometimes." Not very respectful, perhaps, but by that time I was fed up. So then I wished him good-night, and went back to the drawing-room. In a few minutes he sent for Miss Bremerton--n.o.body knew why. I was dog-tired, and went to bed, and didn't I sleep!--nine good hours. Then this morning, just after breakfast, when I was strolling in the garden with a cigarette waiting for Pamela, who should come out but Miss Bremerton! Have you seen her?'

'Only in the distance.'

'Well, she's really a very fine creature, not pretty exactly--oh, not pretty at all--but wonderfully well set up, with beautiful hair, and a general look of--what shall I say?--dignity, refinement, knowing her own mind. You feel she would set you down in a moment if you took the smallest liberty. I could not think what she wanted.

But she came up to me--of course we had made acquaintance the night before--"May I speak to you, Major Mannering? I wish to say something private. Shall we walk down to the kitchen garden?" So we walked down to the kitchen garden, and then she told me what had happened after dinner, when my father sent for her. She told it very stiffly, rather curtly in fact, as though she were annoyed to have to bother about such unprofessional things, and hated to waste her time. "But I don't wish, I don't intend," she said, "to have the smallest responsibility in the matter. So after thinking it over, I decided to inform you--and Mr. Desmond too, if you will kindly tell him--as to what I had done. That is all I have to say," with her chin very much in the air! "I did it, of course, because I did not care to be mixed up in _any_ private or family affairs. That is not my business." I was taken aback, as you can imagine! But, of course, I thanked her--'

'Why, she couldn't have done anything else!' said Beryl with vivacity.

'I don't know that. Anybody may witness anything. But she seems to have guessed. Of course my father never keeps anything to himself.

Anyway she didn't like being thanked at all. She turned back to the house at once. So then I asked her if she knew what had happened to the precious codicil. And she flushed up and said, with the manner of an icicle, "Mr. Mannering sent me to the drawer this morning, where he had put it away. It was lying on the top, and I saw it."

"Signed?" I said. "No, not signed." Then she began to hurry, and I thought I had offended her in some way. But it dawned upon me, presently, that she was really torn between her feeling of chivalry towards me--she seems to have a kindness for soldiers! her brother is fighting somewhere--and her professional obligations towards my father. Wasn't it odd? She hated to be indiscreet, to give him away, and yet she could not help it! I believe she had been awake half the night. Her eyes looked like it. I must say I liked her very much. A woman of a great deal of character! I expect she has a rough time of it!'

'But of course,' said Beryl, 'it may be all signed and witnessed by now!'

'Most probably!' The Major laughed. 'But _she_ did her best anyway, and I shan't ask her any more questions. We had better take it for granted. My father is as obstinate as they make 'em. Well now, dear Beryl, have you--have you thought it over?'

He pointed to a seat, and sat down by her. The brightness of his look had pa.s.sed away. The thin, intellectual face and lined brow had resumed the expression that was familiar to Beryl. It was an expression of fatigue--not physical now, for he had clearly recovered his health, but moral; as though the man behind it were worn out by some hidden debate with his own mind, into which he fell perpetually, when left to himself. It was the look which divided him from her.

'Yes,' she said slowly, 'I've been thinking a great deal.' She stopped; then lifting her eyes, which were grey and fringed with dark lashes--beautiful eyes, timid yet pa.s.sionately honest--she said, 'You'd better give me up, Aubrey!'

He made a restless movement, then took her hands and raised them to his lips.

'I don't feel like it!' he said, smiling. 'Tell me what you mean.'

She looked down, plucking at the fringed belt of her sports coat.

Her lips trembled a little.

'I don't think, Aubrey, I can make you happy! I've been feeling often--that I don't seem to make much difference to you. And now this is very serious--giving up Mannering. _You_ may mind it much more than you think. And if--'

'If what? Go on!'

She raised her eyes again and looked at him straight.

'If I can't make up?'

The colour flooded into his face, as though, far within, something stirred 'like a guilty thing surprised.' But he said tenderly:

'I don't care _that_, Beryl'--he snapped his fingers--'for Mannering in comparison with you.'

Her breath fluttered a little, but she went on resolutely. 'But I must say it--I must tell you what I feel. It seems the right opportunity. So often, Aubrey, I don't seem to understand you! I say the wrong thing. I'm not clever. I haven't any deep thoughts--like you or Arthur. It would be terrible if you married me, and then--I felt you were disappointed.'

He moved a little away from her and, propping his chin on his hands, looked gravely through the thinning branches of the wood.

'I wonder why you say that--I wonder what I've done!'

'Oh, you've done nothing!' cried Beryl. 'It's only I feel--sometimes--that--that you don't let me know things--share things. You seem sometimes so sad--and I can't be any help--you won't let me! That's what I mind so much--so dreadfully!'

He was silent a moment. Then without any attempt at caresses, he said, 'I wonder, Beryl, whether you--whether you--ever realize--what we soldiers have _seen_? No!--thank G.o.d!--you don't--you can't.'

She pressed her hands to her eyes, and shuddered.

'No, of course I can't--of course I can't!' she said pa.s.sionately.

Then, while her eyes were still hidden, there pa.s.sed through his worn features a sharp spasm, as of some uncontrollable anguish--pa.s.sed and was gone.

He turned towards her, and she looked up. If ever love, all-giving, self-forgetting, was written on a girl's face, it was written on Beryl's then. Her wild-rose colour came and went; her eyes were full of tears. She had honestly made her attempt, but she could not carry it through, and he saw it. Some vague hope--of which he was ashamed--died away. Profoundly touched, he put out his arms, and making nothing of her slight resistance, gathered her close to him.

'Did you ever read _Sintram_, Beryl?'

'Yes, years ago.'

'Do you remember his black fits--how they came upon him unexpectedly--and only Verena could help him? It's like that with me sometimes. Things I've seen--horrible sufferings and death--come back on me. I can't get over it--at least not yet. But I'll never let it come really between us. And perhaps--some day'--he hesitated and his voice dropped--'you shall help me--like Verena!'

She clung to him, not knowing what he meant, but fascinated by his deep voice, and the warm shelter of his arms. He bent down to kiss her, in the most pa.s.sionate embrace he had ever given her.

Then he released her, and they both looked at each other with a new shyness.

'So that's all right!' he said, smiling. 'You see you can't drop me as easily as you think. I stick! Well, now, you take me as a pauper--not exactly a pauper--but still--I've got to settle things with your father, though!'

Beryl proposed that they should go and look for the others.

They went hand in hand.

Sir Henry meanwhile was engaged in the congenial occupation of inspecting and showing his kitchen gardens. His son Arthur and Pamela Mannering were following him round the greenhouses, finding more amus.e.m.e.nt in the perplexities of Sir Henry's conscience than interest in the show itself.