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 passion of patriotism, seemed to pass 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 hell 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.