"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 p.r.o.noun you like--[Greek: tyche], 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 a.s.sist 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."