The only thing Miss May needed was a crony, a confidante — poor Ethel was no use at all for that — she longed for somebody to talk to, somebody of her own age with whom she could gossip by the hour as she rolled pastry, or polished the drawing-room furniture. If only there were two of us, she thought, how lovely it would be. Things were never really perfect, you couldn’t expect it. Life was more interesting now, much more full of romance and excitement, but she had nobody to talk to about it. In the old days she had had plenty of people to talk to, tea-parties to attend and bazaars to work for, but romance was a rare thing, it did not come in Miss May’s path. I ought to be happy, Miss May thought, and I am happy. (But like all people who proclaim their happiness firmly to themselves there was a core of doubt in her mind.) They are just like a big family, she thought, and I’m the mother, but it is really more exciting than an ordinary family because there is no love interest in an ordinary family. In Miss May’s family the excitement lay in the fact that anybody might marry anybody. There were three girls and five men completely unattached, potential victims for the god of love. I wish they would hurry up — she thought to herself — how lovely it will be when the grand-children begin to arrive. She visualised a nursery full of woolly bundles, crowing babies being bathed in tubs before the fire, and herself moving quietly amongst them, patting the fractious ones to sleep, warming their milk, and airing their sweet small garments on the nursery guard.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Worse Than Any Wild
Beast
One afternoon, shortly after the return of the wanderers, Jane and Iris set out together for a walk. They took a basket with them to gather blackberries — Miss May wanted to make some jam. They crossed the river and went up the hill, strolling along and picking the fruit as they went. It was a beautiful day, the sunshine was golden, and the air was very clear and still — not a breath of wind stirred. Jane and Iris were very contented in each other’s company, they had a great deal in common and they were interested in each other’s views. Jane valued Iris for her sincerity. Her education had been sketchy, but she had a clear intelligent brain, she was shrewd and far-seeing, her comments upon her fellow-creatures were amusing and enlightening. She had lived by her wits, and had fought her own way through life from her earliest days — Iris was by no means the beautiful nonentity that Jane had at first imagined. Iris valued Jane’s friendship very highly. In the eyes of Iris, Jane was perfect — she was everything that Iris would have liked to be. Jane was clever, she wrote books, and delivered lectures — that was amazing if you liked — but, in addition to that, and, far more important, Jane was a “real lady.” She was a “real lady,” Iris thought, in the best and highest sense of the term. She was not only well born, but she was white all through.
When the two friends reached the top of the hill their basket was full, so they sat down and rested, and looked at the view. The trees and hedges wore their autumn garments — red, and yellow, and green, and brown mingled in glorious confusion.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Iris said.
“Lovely,” agreed Jane.
“And it all belongs to us,” Iris continued thoughtfully. “D’you ever think of that, Jane? The whole world belongs to us. I like the feeling rather. D’you see that notice saying “Trespassers will be prosecuted” — it’s funny, isn’t it?”
Jane agreed again.
“But there’s something sad about it, too. The person who wrote the notice has gone, but the notice remains, and we pick blackberries all over his land.”
“He doesn’t mind,” Jane replied, lying on her back and gazing at the glorious blue sky.
“You never see anything so pretty as England, wherever you go,” Iris continued. “Not that I’ve ever taken much notice of countries up to now. It’s always been people that I looked at most. They crowded me so — if you know what I mean. I couldn’t see past them. But now it’s different.”
“You’re still liking it?” Jane asked her interestedly.
“Yes, I like it awfully,” replied Iris. “There’s only one thing worries me — or two if you count Joe — but the main thing that worries me is Haviland.”
“Perhaps he’s dead,” Jane suggested comfortingly.
“Perhaps,” agreed Iris. “But I don’t think I shall ever be really happy until I know he’s dead. You see he’s been after me for years, and when I’m with him he kind of hypnotises me. I don’t really know how I’ve been able to hold him off for so long. And then that day — when Alice and I went off with him and we found the place empty — he — he sort of went mad, and I saw him — well bare, if you know what I mean — I saw exactly what he was like.”
Jane knew what she meant. The empty world had that effect on people — she had seen its effect on Bolton’s gang — people came out in their true colours, you saw them stripped of convention and discipline — the fetters of civilisation.
“I expect he’s dead,” Jane said again. “Nobody could live alone for long.”
“He may have gone back to the others,” Iris pointed out. “You probably think I’m silly to make such a song and dance about the man — but then you don’t know Haviland. He’s kind of terrifying.”
“Let’s go and have tea with Maisie,” Jane suggested. Maisie was an extraordinarily comforting person, she had found. If the empty world got upon Jane’s nerves she always went to Maisie to be comforted and soothed.
Iris rose with alacrity. “Yes, let’s,” she agreed, “I like Maisie, she’s got what she wants, and she’s happy. We shall all feel better when once we’re married.”
Jane thought that this was probably true, but she did not reply. She could not discuss marriage with Iris — Iris was too devastatingly honest, and Jane did not want to examine her own feelings too closely. She was very unhappy at this time. David Fenemore was still angry with her. He would scarcely speak to her, and, when his eyes rested upon her, it was with a cold hard look that froze her heart. She did not really blame him for his anger, it was natural, she thought. No man likes to be duped, even though it be for his own good. David Fenemore was very young and his vanity, the attitude of every virile man, had been sorely wounded. And then, to add to that, when she had almost won him round with the story of her adventures with the gang, and her escape from their clutches, the incident of the blackbird had cropped up. It was most unfortunate, Jane reflected, for the blackbird — though a small matter in itself — had discredited the rest of her story in David Fenemore’s eyes. She could hardly blame him for not believing in her blackbird, it seemed impossible that it should have been there — and yet she was sure, absolutely sure that it had been there.
Jane had spoken to Sir Richard about the blackbird, but he — not perceiving the gravity of the problem — had merely replied that the blackbird was either a real blackbird which had escaped the electric wave by some means or other, or else that Jane’s imagination had played her a trick; and had passed on to speak of other matters. Jane did not like to pursue the subject any further, nor to disclose the real reason for the importance of the blackbird to her. She did not want Sir Richard to know of her quarrel with Fenemore, he had enough worries to bear without that. Perhaps in time it would all blow over, and Fenemore would forget about it, and be friendly again. It did not seem likely at present, but Jane was old enough to know that time heals most wounds.
Jane thought of all this as she and Iris went down the hill together. She was grateful to Iris for her silence. It was a sympathetic silence. She wondered how much Iris knew, how much she had seen. Did Iris know of the bitter feelings that David Fenemore was nursing? Did Iris know that Jane would have done anything to regain his friendship? I expect she knows, Jane thought, she reads people as easily as I read books — I don’t mind her knowing as long as she doesn’t want to talk about it.
They found Maisie in the garden, helping her husband to collect rubbish for a huge bonfire. The smoke rose up in the calm air like a grey pillar.
“Come and hel
p!” Maisie cried. “It’s rather fun, really.”
Iris and Jane were quite pleased to help, they worked hard, piling on more rubbish and getting very hot and very dirty in the process. They were so busy that they forgot all about their troubles for a little while.
“I wish there was real milk,” Maisie said, as she poured out tea for her guests in the comfortable little living-room. “Real milk and real butter is what I miss most. Tinned milk gives tea such a funny musty sort of taste.”
“And real bread,” Jane said.
“And eggs,” added Iris. “I’d give all the caviare in the world if I could have a real egg for breakfast every morning.”
“I don’t mind so much about the food,” put in John Farquhar. “You get used to tinned food. It’s birds I miss most. It seems funny when you’re digging not to have a robin hopping about asking for worms — there are no worms either, of course,” he added somewhat thoughtfully.
“That’s all to the good, anyhow,” Iris cried. “No worms or spiders and no wasps —”
Jane felt happier already, it was pleasant to see Maisie and her husband together, they were so contended, so sane and comfortable. Their house was an oasis of peace in this strange, terrifying new world.
It’s all right, she thought, it really is all right. We others will settle down in time and be happy and contented like Maisie. We’re taking longer to get acclimatised, that’s all.
After tea they all walked up to the big house together. It had become a recognised habit for John and Maisie to dine at the big house, and spend the evening with the others in the drawing-room. Sometimes they played cards, but more often they had music and singing.
Except for the elder Miss Hervey, and Sir Richard, they all found that they could sing — well enough at least to take part in the choruses — and, now that there were no prima donnas carolling over the wireless with whom to compare their efforts, they did not mind discovering their small talents, and were agreeably surprised at their success.
Miss May Hervey played accompaniments very nicely, and Iris had a pretty soprano voice. David Fenemore produced a pleasant baritone, and John Farquhar a surprisingly deep bass. Alice O’Connell found a ’cello in Fairtown, and, after a little practice, she consented to play it before this not very critical audience. She had played the ’cello years ago when she was a carefree girl in Ireland, before her father died and there was no money, and she had gone to Hollywood to make her fortune.
Sir Richard, lying back in a comfortable chair by the fire, thought that the impromptu concerts were most enjoyable. More pleasant and interesting than listening to celebrated performers on the radio. The voices were not so perfect — that went without saying — but the human element in the music more than made up for its deficiencies. Sir Richard liked to see them all gathered round the piano, and to hear the young laughter and the eager talk with which each number was preceded, but, best of all, he liked it when Jane sang, her voice was deep and sweet and velvety. It was a small voice but very true. It was agreeable to watch Jane when she was singing, she looked as if she were happy. Sir Richard was afraid that Jane was not happy, and he was afraid that he knew the reason. He sighed a little wearily, for he saw several undercurrents of trouble beneath the smooth surface of their daily life, and he could find solution to them. Maule was manoeuvring for the good graces of Iris, but Iris seemed oblivious of the fact. He wondered if it were David Fenemore she wanted. He had thought that David Fenemore was attracted by Alice, but now he was not so sure. Bunce was still moping a little on account of his disappointment over Maisie. The only people who were really happy were John Farquhar and Maisie, and, perhaps, Miss May.
Miss Hervey sat at a little table by herself, playing patience. Sometimes she nodded her head a little in time with the music, sometimes she tapped the beats with her foot. She was a strange colourless woman, Sir Richard reflected, looking at her perplexedly. She scarcely ever spoke, one hardly noticed she was there, and yet she must have her own thoughts and feelings like all the rest. I don’t know her at all, he thought; I don’t know what she is like.
Suddenly there was a scream from Iris. The music stopped, with a crash of wrong notes. Sir Richard started up in his chair and turned round to the door. He saw that two men were standing in the open doorway with revolvers in their hands.
“Haviland!” Iris said. Her voice, though scarcely louder than a whisper, seemed to fill the room. She stood there as if she had turned to stone.
“Don’t move, any of you,” Haviland said. “I have Miss Forrest covered. It would give me great pleasure to shoot Miss Forrest through the heart.”
The other man (Jane saw to her horror that it was Fuller Brown) had a revolver in each hand. He was covering Sir Richard with one and Maisie with the other.
They all remained perfectly still, what else could they do?
“Such a pity to interrupt your musical evening,” Haviland continued in his oily tones. “But we really could not wait any longer. It has taken us some time to find you in this charming spot.”
“What do you want?” Sir Richard said quietly.
“We want Miss Bright and Miss Forrest,” replied Haviland. “It shows excellent taste on our part, don’t you think. Please walk over to the door, Miss Forrest, and you too, Iris — quickly please, or Brown will be obliged to shoot —”
Jane saw there was nothing else for it. She walked over to the door. Iris tottered after her.
“Now, Brown,” said Haviland. “Give us five minutes, please.” He took Jane and Iris firmly by their arms and marched them out of the door. Fuller Brown remained, covering Sir Richard and Maisie. The whole incident was over in a few moments.
“Fenemore,” cried Sir Richard. “Go after them — never mind me — for God’s sake —”
“Miss Walker is covered too,” Brown informed him. “That is the beauty of it. Mr. Farquhar will tell you that I can shoot with both hands —”
Sir Richard saw that Tom Day was edging his way round the back of the piano. Fuller Brown could not keep his eye on everybody. There was just a chance that Tom might be able to do something — Sir Richard knew that he must not look at Tom, he must keep the man’s attention focussed upon himself.
“That’s unusual surely,” he said, “to be able to shoot with both hands at different targets —”
“Mr. Farquhar knows I can,” Brown replied.
“Yes, he can,” said Farquhar hoarsely. Farquhar was as pale as a ghost, and beads of sweat were standing upon his forehead. He prayed silently that none of them would move. The deadly little weapon was pointing straight at Maisie’s heart, and Fuller Brown’s finger was quivering on the trigger. It would be impossible to miss at that range. Could he fling himself upon her and cover her body with his own? — it was too much risk, the bullet would go through them both. He knew then, perhaps for the first time, the extent of his love for Maisie. She was so dear and funny; so sweet-tempered; so practical in some ways, so child-like in others.
“Two more minutes,” said Brown suddenly, “and then I shall have to leave you. How sorry you’ll be! You’ll find your cars have been put out of gear a bit, but Mr. Farquhar will put them right for you, he’s good at that sort of thing —”
Fuller Brown did not finish, Tom was behind him now, he jerked the man’s two arms upwards simultaneously. There was a deafening report as one of the revolvers went off, and a shower of plaster from the ceiling where the bullet had torn a hole. Fenemore threw up the window and leaped out, Maule followed. They disappeared, running across the lawn to the short cut which led to the big gates. Tom and Farquhar had got Brown down on the floor. Sir Richard saw that they were more than a match for him, he left them to it, and ran out to get his car which was standing in the drive. Bunce was there before him. “The tyres are punctured, sir,” he said.
“I was afraid of it,” Sir Richard replied. He ran back to the drawing-room to fetch a revolver, leaving Bunce to change the tyres as quickly as he could. As he entered the drawi
ng-room he was just in time to see Farquhar put a revolver to Fuller Brown’s head and shoot him dead.
“Farquhar!” he exclaimed.
Farquhar raised a strained face and looked at him. “You’re shocked, sir,” he said. “But if you think for a minute you’ll see it was the only thing. We couldn’t keep him a prisoner for ever, and we couldn’t let him go. He’d have had the whole gang about our ears. It wasn’t a nice thing to have to do —”
The Empty World Page 12