The petrol ran down the road blazing merrily, the flames shot up, irradiating the darkness with flickering light. The other two vehicles caught fire, and, in a few moments, the whole road was covered with blazing wreckage.
There happened to be a small bungalow on the left-hand side of the road. It stood rather high and was reached by a flight of steep steps. Jane dragged herself up the steps and found herself in a porch covered with roses. She pushed the front door open and peered in; it was very dark inside, dark and eerie, but her knee was so painful that she could go no farther.
“Is there anybody here?” she asked in a strange husky voice that she scarcely recognised as her own. There was no reply, of course — how could there be? She reached out and found the electric switch and flooded the place with light.
Jane saw, then, that the room which she had entered so unceremoniously was a very pleasant place; it was a sort of lounge-hall with panelled walls and comfortable chairs. In the middle of the room was a little table set for lunch. There were flowers on the table, and bright cutlery, and two white table-napkins folded into fans.
“Oh dear,” said Jane aloud. “It all looks so — so ready.”
That was the pathetic part of it: it looked as if somebody had just prepared it all, and had gone away for a moment to wash her hands, or to powder her nose, or to make some other last-minute preparation.
“Oh dear,” said Jane. “How sad it is!” She limped to the sofa and sat down. She found that her eyes were full of tears. It was so sad: the intimate friendly room, and the table set ready for two people who would never come. Jane had never felt the sadness of the catastrophe before. She had felt the horror of it, and the eeriness of the empty world, but she had been too concerned with her own terrible problems to visualise the little intimate tragedies of the victims of the catastrophe.
She sat there for a while, nursing her knee, and feeling sad, and lonely, and utterly miserable. If only Maisie were here, she thought, I wish I had Maisie. Suddenly she was frightfully homesick for Maisie, for Maisie’s cheerful round face, for Maisie’s reassuring, matter-of-fact personality, for Maisie’s affection.
“Well,” she said aloud (she was beginning to form the habit of talking aloud). “Well, I suppose I can cry if I like. I’ve got something to cry for, haven’t I?”
After a little she decided to explore the house. She could go no farther to-night, for her knee was increasingly painful. She did not get very far with her explorations, the first bed that she saw beguiled her — it looked so comfortable, and she was so tired.
“I shall lie down and rest,” Jane said.
The next thing that Jane knew was the sun shining upon her face; she sat up in bed, and wondered where she was. The scent of the roses — with which the bungalow was covered — drifted in through the open window, and, outside, on the low branch of a tree a blackbird was sitting, singing his early morning hymn. Jane was much refreshed by her sleep, she felt full of courage. Her knee was much better. She had noticed a geyser in the bathroom last night, and now she decided to have a hot bath. It would be lovely. She had not had a proper bath since — Goodness, she thought, not since I was in America! Jane whistled in her bath, and surprised herself. She decided that things were not so bad. It was not so much that the wind was tempered to the shorn lamb, but that the lamb was tempered (in the sense that steel is tempered to sword-strength by fire) to the blast. Jane had borne things that she would never have believed herself capable of bearing. She had had no option but to bear them, of course, but she had borne them with a fair amount of courage. “It just shows what you can do if you have to,” Jane told herself, as she soaped her back. “There’s a hard core inside you that you never suspect until you’re absolutely up against things. You would think it would atrophy when it’s not used — but it doesn’t atrophy.” She thought about it seriously, lying in the warm water and soaking the tiredness and stiffness out of her limbs; she looked back at the past week which had seemed so long and so unutterably sordid, and she realised that it was the night’s rest and sleep which had made it possible for her to carry on. However miserable and despondent she might be when she went to bed she felt full of courage in the morning. Courage flowed into her while she slept — Jane thought it was God.
When she had finished her bath she boiled a kettle and made tea, and soon she was having breakfast as if the whole place belonged to her. She felt a little like Goldilocks in the fairy-tale — the three bears might return at any moment and demand, “Who’s been sitting in my chair and eating my breakfast?”
But I can’t help it, Jane thought, and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind — they must be nice people to have such a nice little house. I’m sure I should have liked them.
When she had finished breakfast, she washed up the dishes and put everything tidy. It was a silly thing to do, of course, because the house was ownerless now, and it was unlikely that anybody would cross its threshold again. It would gradually tumble to pieces, and the roof would fall in — poor little house! Jane wished that the owners could know how their little house had welcomed her in her need, had comforted and encouraged her — she would have liked to thank them. The least she could do was to leave it tidy.
Jane passed the wreckage in the road and limped on for about half a mile before she found a car. It was rather an ancient and dilapidated affair, but it would serve. She started it without any difficulty and drove off. The way was easy to find now that it was daylight and she could see the signposts. She turned eastwards, and soon found her way back on to the main road. In a surprisingly short time she was approaching Bardsholme.
The big gates were standing open, and the drive was swept and tidy; presently the house itself came into view — a long low building of white concrete in the modern style. There was a short flight of steps up to the front door. Jane drew up and looked about her. It was very quiet, not a creature was to be seen. It was only now, when she had arrived safely at her destination, having surmounted all obstacles and dangers, that she began to wonder whether the others were here. Before this she had taken it for granted that they would be here waiting for her. She realised now that they might not have waited, perhaps Captain Fenemore had told them that she was not coming — it was strange that she had not thought of this before. A sense of panic grew in her breast — how dreadful if they had gone! If they had gone she would never find them again. She would be alone in the world — far more alone than anybody had ever been before.
If they had gone … and they had gone. There was nobody here. Not a movement in the house, not a sign of smoke from the chimneys.
Then she leaned with all her might on the button of the electric horn. The horn blared out raucously, and went on blaring and blaring, cutting through the still air like a saw.
PART II
For to be wrath with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
Anon.
CHAPTER
ONE
Arrivals at Bardsholme
When David Fenemore strode out of the mess he was so angry that he scarcely knew what he was doing. A red mist of rage blotted out the scene, and every atom of the rage was directed against Jane. He would have liked to put his two hands round her neck and strangle her slowly — his hands moved convulsively at the thought — it was what she deserved.
The truth was that for two days — and they were long days and packed with incident — Fenemore’s admiration for Jane had been growing rapidly. She was white all through, she was staunch and courageous, she had humour and a bright intelligence, and all this in a woman’s body. Fenemore had not seen her like before. All the time he was imprisoned (in a dark, bare detention cell) he had been wrestling with the problem of their escape. He had made various plans — some bold and some ingenious — of how he would rescue her from her captors, and carry her off in triumph from under their very noses. He had toyed with the pleasant idea of Jane’s gratitude; he had imagined driving up to Bardsholme and Jane’s glowing account of
their escape, and Sir Richard’s quiet commendation of his resource. It was all very pleasant — if a trifle vague. And now these dreams were all shattered, simply because Jane was not Jane at all. She was not like the Jane that he had imagined. The Jane that he had imagined did not exist, she was nothing but a figment of his imagination — a dream. The real Jane was nothing but a worthless jade.
Fenemore scarcely noticed that Maule was following him. He strode up to the Rolls, which was still waiting where he had left it, near the gate, and climbed in. Maule climbed in beside him, and they shot off.
Fenemore drove like a madman. He pushed down the accelerator and held it down. They swung round corners on two wheels, they passed between derelict cars at full speed with an inch to spare. Twice they escaped death by no more than a hair’s breadth, once at a bridge which was almost blocked by a steam-roller, and once at a level-crossing, where the gates had been left shut.
Maule made no comment, he never spoke once the whole way, he never even asked where they were going; he seemed content to leave himself in Fenemore’s hands. When, at last, they drew up at Bardsholme, Maule merely uncurled his long legs, and followed Fenemore up the steps.
They found the whole party in the drawing-room. Dinner was over. Sir Richard, Day, and the Misses Hervey were playing Bridge and the others were talking quietly near the fire.
They were all on their feet in a moment.
“Fenemore!” cried Sir Richard, coming forward and shaking him by the hand.
“David, my dear fellow!” cried Day.
Everybody spoke at once, crowding round the newcomers, welcoming them, offering explanations or demanding them, enquiring for Miss Forrest.
“She was very well indeed when I saw her last,” said David Fenemore bitterly. He strode across to the fire, and lit a cigarette with fingers that trembled a little.
“But where is she?” enquired Sir Richard, pulling in a chair for Maule, and patting him on the shoulder in a welcoming manner.
“Yes, where is she?” echoed Maisie. “Where have you left her? What happened? Why didn’t you bring her with you?”
“Simply because she didn’t want to come,” Fenemore replied.
“She didn’t want to come?” said Sir Richard incredulously. “What is she doing then?”
“Staying with the others —”
“I don’t believe it,” Maisie cried.
“I don’t care whether you believe it or not,” Fenemore replied. “It’s true anyhow. She’s chosen to remain with Bolton and Co.”
“I don’t believe it,” Maisie cried again.
“You mean I’m a liar?”
“Yes, if you say that —”
They glared at each other savagely.
Sir Richard intervened. “I think we would all like to know more about it, Fenemore,” he said as calmly as he could. “We are all finding it a little difficult to believe that Miss Forrest deliberately chose to remain with the others —”
“Well, she did — ask Maule,” Fenemore cried angrily. “I had it straight from her own lips. Told me to get out. D’you suppose I’d have come away and left her with those swine if she hadn’t made it perfectly clear that she wanted to stay? I suppose you think I — ask Maule,” he added furiously. “Maule heard her; Maule saw her boozing with them, sitting there with her arm round that lounge-lizard’s neck —”
They all looked at Maule with bewildered faces. He cleared his throat nervously.
“Clever woman, Miss Forrest,” he said.
“Clever!” cried Fenemore.
They all waited for Maule to continue, but apparently Maule thought he had said all that was necessary. He stretched out his long legs and gazed into the fire.
“In what way did you think her clever?” enquired Sir Richard patiently.
“Wanted us out of the way,” Maule replied.
“That was obvious, wasn’t it?” sneered Fenemore.
Maule nodded. “Quite,” he said contentedly.
The others were watching the little scene with varied feelings. Maisie’s were of sheer rage, she could hardly keep her hands off Fenemore — how dared he come away and leave her beloved Miss Forrest with those dreadful creatures? Sir Richard’s feelings were more complicated. He was seeking for an explanation of the inexplicable. Of course, Jane did not intend to remain with Bolton’s crowd, and, equally of course, Fenemore would not have come away and left her in the lurch. There must be some explanation. Maule evidently thought there was. Maule looked a fool, with his long thin vacant face, and his eyeglass, but Sir Richard was beginning to wonder whether he really was a fool.
“Do you think Miss Forrest is safe?” he asked anxiously.
“Safe as long as she keeps her head,” Maule replied calmly. “Clever woman, you know. Had them on a piece of string.”
“Oh, why did you come away and leave her?” Maisie cried.
“She wanted us out of the way,” Maule said. “Wanted him out of the way. They’d have scuppered him if he’d stayed. He’s unpopular with that bunch.”
“Nonsense!” cried Fenemore angrily. “Do you think I would have come away and left her there if she hadn’t made it obvious that she was quite happy with those beasts?”
“ ’Course not. That’s why she made it obvious.”
“One would have thought you would have remained,” said Fenemore with a sneer, “if you really thought Miss Forrest was such a paragon of cleverness.”
Maule took his eyeglass out of his eye, and cleaned it carefully on a corner of his white silk handkerchief. He sighed a little, for words were difficult to him, and then he said,
“Didn’t want to spoke her wheel. Besides, she said go. When I’m in a hole with somebody cleverer that me I take orders from them.”
Sir Richard was beginning to see light. He looked at Maule with respect and some amazement. Maule would be an acquisition to them.
By dint of questioning they gradually got the whole story out of the sullen and reluctant Fenemore. The group divided itself into two camps — those who agreed with Fenemore that Miss Forrest had really meant what she said, and those who agreed with Maule that she had acted in accordance with some deep-laid plan.
The discussion which ensued threatened to become acrimonious. Fenemore was obviously not himself, he was upset and irritable. Sir Richard tried to pour oil upon the waters without much success. Finally he suggested that the newcomers might like a meal, and advised the remainder of the company to go to bed. In moments such as these Sir Richard’s tact — both native and acquired — was very useful to him. It had been an asset in his newspaper days and it was still an asset. The group broke up without any more unpleasantness, and Sir Richard retired to his library for a quiet smoke before he turned in.
He was very tired, and a little discouraged.
It seemed to him that his whole aim in life had narrowed itself down to keeping these people together. He lived in a continual strain of looking forward, and trying to foresee trouble and avert it, of visualising these people’s actions and reactions, and guiding them — or trying to. He was beginning to know these people very well.
They were settling down now, recovering from the shock of the catastrophe and taking up the small duties which suited them best. They were all anxious to pull their weight in this new life, there were no slackers. It made it easier for Sir Richard that the house was his own house. He felt at home in it. Sometimes he thought that it was the one thing which made life bearable. He hoped very much that they would all be happy here, and not want to move on somewhere else. When he shut himself up in his library, with his own books round him, and rested in the old leather chair which had grown into the curves of his body, it was easier to shut out the fears and difficulties of the empty world, and to imagine for a little that the catastrophe had never happened.
Sir Richard spent a good deal of his time alone in his library. It was restful there. He was too old to recover quickly from shock and adjust himself to new conditions, and he was not old en
ough to have achieved the resignation to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune which comes with really old age.
The day after their arrival at Bardsholme, Sir Richard started writing a book, a history of all that had occurred, fully detailed and illuminated with snatches of philosophy. It also contained Sir Richard’s observations of the effects of the new régime on the psychology of his companions. The book was a great interest to him, he wrote it up every night when the others had gone to bed. Apart from this, there was, of course, no writing to do. There were no letters to answer, there was no business to transact. To a man like Sir Richard, who was used to employing half a dozen typists, and employing them fully, this seemed very strange. He felt quite lost. He had often thought, in those days of hustle and rush, amongst the whirr of printing presses, and the click of typewriters, how pleasant it would be to retire to Bardsholme and have nothing to do but read. There were many books that he had promised himself to read when this nebulous time came — Gibbon’s Decline and Fall was one of them, and Sartor Resartus was another — but, of course, he had always imagined that he would be old when he retired from business life, old and contented, fit for nothing but to sit and read, and to dream in the sun. And he had hoped to entertain his few old friends for long visits, and to take part in long interesting discussions with them — discussions all the more enjoyable because he would be too old to take any part in life. He remembered, now, a conversation he had had with one of his editors, a well-read man of about his own age. They had been talking about what they would do when they retired. “You will give us your reminiscences,” this individual had suggested. “Not I,” Sir Richard had replied. “I intend to enjoy myself when I retire. A book of reminiscences would be too like work. Besides, there are too many books in the world already. No, I shall bury myself in the country. I shall not have a radio in the house — perhaps not even a telephone —” The man had laughed, but Sir Richard had been serious, or nearly so.
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