Sir Richard was satisfied, Maisie knew her own mind — an admirable woman — no wonder they all wanted her as a wife.
Farquhar wasted no time; the cottage was cleaned and refurnished ready for the bride, and two days later the whole party walked down to the village to attend the wedding.
The night before Sir Richard had written in his book — “There are one or two curious facts to be noted about this marriage which throw an interesting light upon the effect of the new régime upon the psychology of the survivors. For one thing nobody has given the happy couple any presents, and I do not think it has crossed anybody’s mind to do so. The reason is that property is no longer of any value. If a man can go into any house or shop and take what he requires, he takes only what he requires — anything more is mere lumber. For another thing, Maisie’s “trousseau” is a very moderate one, not nearly so elaborate a one as she would have had if she had had to pay for every garment. I feel sure that the reason for this is because she knows she can have as many clothes as she likes whenever she wants them. But she has not reasoned it out, it is merely subconscious. I find this interesting. Is greed merely a result of the subconscious fear of future privation? — A big subject. It would be instructive to know what the other survivors are doing — whether there has been looting or burning — but I hope I shall never be in a position to find this out.
“We are all very happy together, I believe I should be quite happy if Jane were here. It is nearly a week now since we left the aerodrome — it feels like a month — and I am beginning to be afraid that something dreadful has happened to her —
The wedding went off very well. Sir Richard read the marriage service at the Altar steps. Miss May Hervey played “The Voice that breathed o’er Eden” on the organ. She had suggested this herself, mentioning that she often played the organ for the Vicar at home — for the Children’s Service. Sir Richard had been a little nervous about this wedding, he was afraid it might be absurd, but he need not have feared. As he looked at the row of faces in the front pew he realised that everybody was feeling the solemnity of the occasion. Not one of them but was moved. The whole service seemed to take on added significance from their isolated position in the world. The fact that they — out of all the world’s millions — had been saved was brought home to each one of them very vividly. It was an awe-inspiring fact. This first marriage seemed to knit them all together into a closer bond, it was an important milestone in their communal existence.
They walked back from church across the fields to partake of the wedding luncheon which had been left ready. It was a glorious day, warm and sunny, with a pleasantly cool breeze. The trees had already taken on a tinge of autumn colouring. Maule commented on this to Sir Richard and asked whether he thought it might have been caused by the electrical wave. (Maule was becoming slightly less monosyllabic at times.) Sir Richard agreed that it might be the case. It was certainly earlier than usual for the trees to colour.
They turned in at the big gates and walked slowly up the avenue. As they approached the house the sound of a motor-horn broke the silence — a motor-horn blown with frightful intensity.
The whole party halted. They looked at each other aghast.
Iris rushed to Sir Richard and caught his arm.
“It’s him,” she cried incoherently, her face pale with terror. “It’s Haviland, I know it’s Haviland. He’s followed me here — save me from him — I can’t bear it — for Heaven’s sake —”
“It may not be he,” Sir Richard said, trying to reassure her.
“It is. I know it is — we must hide — we must all hide and then he’ll think nobody’s here and go away — hide — hide in the woods —” She burst into tears.
The horn blared on without ceasing. It was an eerie sound. They had all become so used to the silence that the noise of it jarred upon their nerves like a dentist’s drill.
Sir Richard saw every eye turned to him; he made up his mind what to do.
“Come, Maule,” he said wearily, “and Bunce had better come too. We will go and see who it is. Farquhar can take the women and hide in the woods. Don’t come near the house unless you hear the fire-bell. I will ring it if all’s well. Do you understand?”
They said they did. Sir Richard watched them disappear into the woods and led the way up the drive.
CHAPTER
THREE
“The Log of the
Survivors”
Jane had despaired of anybody coming, she had made up her mind that the house was deserted — they had gone without her. The courage, which had sustained her during all her adventures, had ebbed out of her, leaving her limp and helpless. She dragged herself out of the car and fell, half fainting, upon the steps.
Sir Richard saw her first; he rushed forward and raised her in his arms. Maule ran for brandy, and they forced a few drops between her clenched teeth. After a few moments she sighed and opened her eyes.
“It’s all right, my dear,” Sir Richard said. “We’re all here. We’ve been waiting for you —”
“I came as soon as I could,” she whispered, clinging to his arm.
“I know,” he said gently. “It’s quite all right.”
They carried her into the house and put her down on the sofa in the drawing-room. She lay there for a few minutes, holding Sir Richard’s hand — it was such a firm, kind hand, so safe and reassuring. Then she sat up and smiled at them.
“I’m all right,” she said. “Just silly. Where is everybody? Did Captain Fenemore tell you I was coming?”
“Maule told us you were coming,” replied Sir Richard, laughing a little from the sheer joy of seeing her apparently safe and sound. “Fenemore seemed to think you were not coming.”
Jane wrinkled her brows. “Yes,” she said, “I wondered if he had told you that. I had to frighten him away — he was angry with me, I suppose.”
“Very angry,” Sir Richard admitted.
“I couldn’t help it, they gave me no choice,” Jane said. “They told me if I couldn’t make him clear out they would shoot him — they had shot at him once and missed — Frederick Lammer is — is dead.”
“We know that,” said Sir Richard quietly.
“So you see I had to make him go — and it was the only way. When I found nobody here I thought you had believed Captain Fenemore and gone without me. Why didn’t you?”
“Some of us happened to know you,” replied Sir Richard, smiling. “And Maule gave us hope. I was very much worried about you though —”
“I was all right,” Jane said; “they treated me very decently on the whole.”
Bunce put a stop to further conversation by appearing with a tray, upon which he had prepared a bowl of soup and some biscuits and a glass of sherry. “I thought Miss Forrest would be the better of some nourishment after her long drive,” he said seriously. “And what about ringing the fire-bell for the others, sir? Mrs. Farquhar will be glad to hear that Miss Forrest has arrived — and I have taken the liberty of laying another place — (at your right hand, sir) at the wedding luncheon.”
Sir Richard felt that Bunce had excelled himself, and was about to say so, when Jane forestalled him by exclaiming in amazement:
“Mrs. Farquhar! Wedding luncheon! What have you been doing?”
She was immediately overwhelmed by explanations of all that had occurred.
It was late that night, dinner was over, and the married pair had departed to their new home. Jane had given a full account of her adventures to the assembled company, and had received in return a full account of theirs. Now, everyone had gone to bed except Sir Richard and Jane.
“Let’s go into the library,” Sir Richard said. “If you are not too tired, Jane.”
Jane rose at once and followed him. He took her into his room and seated her in one of his big leather chairs with a brown velvet cushion at her back. He gave her a cigarette and lighted it for her.
For a little while they did not speak, the silence was beautiful. The night was warm and
very still, not a leaf moved. The moonlight lay across the smooth lawn in white swathes, beneath every tree gloomed a velvet black shadow.
“This is a lovely place,” Jane said at last, in a quiet voice. “We should all be very happy here, I think. We are very lucky that they are all so nice.”
“Yes, they are nice,” agreed Sir Richard. “And I am happy now that you are here — happy, but very tired. I have dreamed so often of seeing you sitting in that chair, Jane.”
She smiled at him. “But I don’t like you being so tired. What have you been doing?”
“Nothing,” he said, “I think perhaps it is the responsibility — I told you I was too old for it — everything worries me. The future — what effect will it have upon our health when we can get no animal food — there are no eggs, no milk nor butter nor cheese. When we have finished all the tinned stuff, or it has gone bad (for I suppose it will not keep for ever) what then?”
“We can live on vegetables,” Jane said.
“We could,” he agreed. “But will vegetables grow all right with no animals, and no insects for fertilisation? I’m not a scientist, and I find I am very ignorant upon the subject. I think and think and get no further.”
“Why do you bother?” Jane said gently.
“I have to,” Sir Richard said. “I have to try and think ahead in case there is anything I can do now to safeguard the future.”
“I should leave it,” Jane said. “I don’t mean sit down and do nothing, of course, but just do the best you can and leave the rest to God. We have been saved, we out of all the world; don’t let us worry too much about the future.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Sir Richard said. “You are right, of course — beautifully right. I think, now that you are here, I shall feel better. I have not been sleeping well. The thought of you, in those men’s power … the fear of what they might do to you … but now you are safe I shall feel able to rest. Rely on Maule if anything goes wrong.”
“Rely on Maule?” echoed Jane in surprise.
“He has got more sense than you would imagine from his appearance,” Sir Richard explained, smiling a little, “and he’s sound. He would stand by you. You can trust Maule.”
“But what about you?”
“I mean if anything were to happen to me. Sometimes I feel rather ill — I don’t quite know what it can be. Perhaps it is just a little indigestion —”
“Richard!” she exclaimed anxiously.
“It’s nothing much,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry. I shall be all right now you have come. I feel better already. I didn’t mean to tell you I had been feeling ill, but somehow it slipped out. It is nothing — absolutely nothing, I assure you. Just a little pain now and then, nothing to make a fuss about.”
Jane did not say any more, but she determined to watch him closely, and to make him rest as much as possible. He was not looking well. How awful if he got ill, really ill, and there was no doctor to appeal to.
“I want to show you my book, Jane,” Sir Richard said, taking a bulky volume out of the safe in the corner of the room and placing it in her hands.
Jane looked at it with interest. On the cover was written in Sir Richard’s fine flowing hand “The Log of the Survivors.” She turned the closely written pages and saw that it was in the form of a diary. It seem to be a detailed account of all that had happened.
Jane looked up at him and smiled. “A best-seller,” she said. “Two editions sold out before publication.”
Sir Richard laughed. “I vowed I would never write a book, and now I have started one that will never be read —”
Jane said, “But I should like to read it.”
“Of course, but nobody else,” he replied quickly.
He wanted to ask her to go on with the book if he were unable to do so himself, but he did not want to alarm her about his health. Perhaps she understood without words, perhaps she realised why he had shown it to her.
She said, looking up at him, suddenly, “There was one thing I missed out in my story, Richard; I could not tell them all —”
He looked at her quickly and anxiously.
“— just that they were drawing lots for me,” she said in a low voice. “It sounds almost — almost funny, doesn’t it? But it wasn’t funny.”
Sir Richard was pacing up and down the room. “Go on, Jane,” he said hoarsely.
“But that’s all,” Jane replied, smiling at him. “I just walked down the stairs while they were all busy, and got into the car, and drove off.”
“Thank God!”
“I’m sorry I scared you. I only told you so that you would know what they are like. You can put it in your book if you think necessary.”
“I’ll put it in,” he said. “It is just as well to know — to know what they are like. You understand about the book, don’t you, Jane? It is to be in the possession of the leader — whoever he, or she, may be.”
“I understand,” she said, sighing a little.
He wondered if he should say more, but decided not to. Jane was the person he would choose to be the leader — he did not think that any of the others could do it. Fenemore was the only other possible choice, but he believed that Fenemore was too unbalanced. Fenemore had behaved so strangely. Sir Richard was loath to bind the responsibility upon Jane’s back, but it was inevitable. He looked at her and thought — she knows what I mean. There was a lot left unsaid between them.
“Well,” he said at last. “What about bed?”
They went upstairs together, and parted at Jane’s door. She had been allotted Maisie’s old room, next door to Iris. It was a beautiful room, facing west, with wide windows. The carpet was a warm brown and the curtains a darker tone of the same colour. A white rug lay in front of the fireplace.
Jane noticed that the door into the next room was ajar; she peeped in.
“Is that you, Miss Forrest?” Iris said. “I’ve been keeping awake. Come in and talk to me unless you’re tired.”
“I’m not tired,” said Jane.
She went in and sat down on the bed. The room was upholstered in pink; Iris had a pink-shaded lamp beside her bed, it cast a becoming light upon the girl’s pretty face and bare white arms. I don’t wonder they liked Iris on their screens, Jane thought, I could look at her all day. She smiled at Iris and said,
“Well, what do you want to talk about?”
“Everything,” replied Iris.
“Go ahead,” Jane told her, laughing.
“It’s so difficult to start when you say that. But the first thing is I want us to be friends.”
“Of course we’re friends.”
“No, we’re not — not yet I mean — you don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I’m like, you don’t even know my name.”
“I don’t think that matters much —” Jane began, and then she saw a hurt expression in the girl’s eyes, and realised that she had every right to be hurt. It was because Jane was not particularly interested in Iris that she thought it did not matter, and Iris had offered her friendship. “I mean your name doesn’t matter,” Jane added hastily. “Of course, film stars always change their names —”
“Yes,” said Iris. “But I think names do matter. My name was Fanny Brown — isn’t it awful? Well, anyway, that’s what it was, although it’s so long since anybody called me Fanny that I feel as if it belonged to a different girl. And, of course, I’m not American at all.”
“I wondered,” Jane admitted. She was beginning to be interested in Iris. “You don’t talk like an American now, and yet I could have sworn you were. I heard your farewell speech —”
“Did you?” said Iris with interest. “Did you like it? No, I bet you didn’t. It was poppycock, wasn’t it? But it went down like ice-cream. You see, America likes girls to be American — and they love all that sentimental stuff about Home Sweet Home.”
“You must miss all the excitement and fuss,” Jane suggested.
“No I don’t. I’m quite happy. Happier than I’ve
ever been in my life,” Iris replied. “It was an awful wearing sort of life — just one long rush, and never a moment to be really you — if you know what I mean. Television all day long. Please, Miss Bright, will you give us your ideas on what girls ought to wear, or what girls ought to do? Please, Miss Bright, will you tell us what is your favourite flower, your favourite scent, your favourite candy, your favourite face powder? Oh dear!” said Iris, stretching her arms, “it’s nice to be real and to have real friends. I never had a real friend before — film stars don’t,” added Iris ingenuously.
“Your mother —” began Jane.
“Haven’t got one,” Iris said. “Never had one as far as I can remember. I was brought up in a Foundling Hospital in London, and sent out to N’York as a housemaid, but no lady would take me on account of my looks — too pretty.”
Jane looked at her, and they both smiled.
“I kept straight, though — I swear I did — Dickens knows how I did it! And then Haviland took me up, and carted me off to Hollywood. I’ve always fought through things on my own, and sometimes it seemed hardly worth while — nobody cared, you see.”
“But your mother —” said Jane again.
“I told you I never had one,” Iris said. “Oh, I see — you mean that woman at the aerodrome. Haviland hired her for the day. She was good, wasn’t she?”
Jane gazed at her, and then burst out laughing; they laughed together, laughed until they cried.
“Oh, dear,” Iris said. “It’s a mad world, isn’t it? At least it was mad — it’s saner now, I think — and easier — the only difficulty now is men.”
“Men?” enquired Jane, wiping her tearful eyes.
“Yes, that’s another thing I want to talk to you about — men,” said Iris, sitting up in bed, and clasping her hands round her knees. “There’s only you and I left (and Alice, of course, if she ever comes back) so we can have our pick. Have you made up your mind yet?”
Jane blinked at her, somewhat startled.
“It’s better to be quite open about it,” Iris continued. “Because there’s only us left. Maisie took Farquhar — it wouldn’t have been my choice, but I don’t blame her really, he’s safe. Are you taking Sir Richard?”
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