The Empty World

by D. E. Stevenson

  “You heard him moving round your cottage?” Tom enquired.

  “I did,” replied Farquhar. “He moved quietly — like an animal — it might have been an animal if there was such a thing. And this morning when I came up to the house with Maisie I thought I saw the bushes move — the rhododendron bushes near the gate — I was not going to frighten Maisie so I never said a word — just walked on — I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck. I’ve seldom been more frightened in my life.”

  “We’ll look there first, shall we, sir?” Tom said, turning to Sir Richard.

  Sir Richard nodded. “You understand, all of you,” he said, “the man is not to escape. Whether it’s Haviland, or whether it isn’t, we’ve got to get him — dead or alive —”

  “Preferably dead,” Farquhar said.

  “I’m not so sure, Farquhar,” said Sir Richard. “It would be interesting to hear what he could tell us about the others — where they are and what they are doing —”

  “It would save a lot of bother to shoot him, sir,” Farquhar replied. “We should have to keep him locked up — we could never let him go.”

  By this time they had reached the big clump of rhododendron bushes to which Farquhar had referred. They surrounded the bushes and beat through them carefully, revolver in hand. It was nervous work, for they could hear each other crashing through the undergrowth and could not help wondering whether the noise was made by friend or foe. Bunce, who was not used to firearms, very nearly shot Sir Richard by mistake.

  They were soon satisfied that there was nobody there, and, forming up into a compact group, they walked on through the gardens, looking everywhere systematically as they went. There was nobody in the currant bushes, or amongst the raspberry canes, nobody in any of the greenhouses, nobody in the potting-shed.

  “I suppose you think I imagined it,” Farquhar said at last.

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” replied Sir Richard — and he was sure. Farquhar had very little imagination — if it had been any of the others he might have put it down to an attack of nerves, but Farquhar was so steady, and sane, and practical.

  “I’m sure I didn’t, too,” Farquhar said, “but where is he?”

  “There he is,” cried Maule.

  “Where?”

  “What did you see?”

  “Who is it?”

  “I saw a man on the wall,” said Maule calmly. “He’s gone now — jumped down the other side —”

  They ran down the path and out of the gate. There was a road on the other side of the wall, and beyond the road a steep bank leading down to the river. The man was running along the river-bank. He looked back and saw them, jumped into the river, and began to wade across. The water was low and did not come above his knees.

  “Shoot!” cried Farquhar.

  “No, wait,” Tom said. “Wait — it’s Gosse — give the man a chance.”

  “Call him,” Sir Richard panted.

  Tom shouted to the man to come back, but he took no notice. He waded on through the river, stumbling over stones, faltering as he got deeper and the rush of water swirled about his legs. Suddenly he put his foot in a hole; he threw up his arms and vanished — they saw him swept down the stream, now an arm showing above the racing wate, now a leg.

  Tom threw off his coat and ran down the bank, he reached a spot where the main part of the current curved in towards the shore — a tree overhung the water. Tom seized the tree and swung himself into the water — as Gosse was swept past, Tom caught at him, caught the wet folds of the man’s coat and held on for dear life. Farquhar had now reached the spot, and, between them, with the greatest difficulty, they dragged the man out of the water and laid him on the bank. He lay there gasping like a fish, his eyes starting out of his head.

  Farquhar turned him over and pumped the water out of his lungs, and, after a few minutes, he recovered and sat up.

  “What on earth did you do that for?” Tom asked him. “Why didn’t you come back when I called you?”

  Gosse didn’t answer, he looked from one to the other of the little group that had gathered about him; looked at them in a queer scared way like a trapped animal.

  “You have nothing to be afraid of,” Sir Richard said kindly. “Tell us how you came here. Were you with the others? Are they anywhere —” He stopped — the man was not listening, or else he did not understand what was being said.

  “There’s something queer about him, sir,” said Bunce in a low voice.

  “Well, it’s no use standing here,” Farquhar said sensibly. “Bring him up to my cottage — it’s nearest. Perhaps he’ll feel better after a meal and some dry clothes.” He bent forward and took hold of the man’s arm to help him up, but Gosse saw him coming and rolled over out of reach. Then, before the others could stop him, he sprang up and ran for the woods. Tom was after him in a moment; he tackled him like a rugby back, and brought him down.

  “Look here, Gosse,” he said, “it’s no use your trying to escape. We don’t want to do you any harm, but we’ve got to keep you now you’re here — see? We won’t have you going off to Bolton. Come on and have a meal.”

  They dragged the man up and marched him off to Farquhar’s cottage, and very soon he was sitting in front of the fire, rigged out in some of Farquhar’s clothes, eating a hearty meal. He ate wolfishly, tearing the bread with his hands, and stuffing it into his mouth, while his eyes roved ceaselessly round the room following every movement of his captors.

  “It’s my belief the man’s daft,” Farquhar said in a low voice. “We’ll not get anything out of him — neither information nor —”

  “He’ll be better after a good sleep,” said Sir Richard, trying to make his words sound convincing.

  “Maybe,” replied Farquhar doubtingly. “I’ll put him in my bed and we’ll see. I’ll take good care he doesn’t make off, anyway.”

  They left Gosse in Farquhar’s care and walked back to the house.

  “What do you make of it, Tom?” Sir Richard asked, as they went through the garden. “You know the man better than I do —”

  “I’m afraid Farquhar’s right,” replied Tom. “He looks to me as if he had had a shock — as if his brain had given way. He wasn’t bad like the others, but he was always weak and easily influenced. No guts — if you know what I mean, sir.”

  “I know what you mean,” Sir Richard said with a smile.

  “Perhaps he left the other lot — couldn’t stand them or something — and then found himself alone. It would be ghastly to find yourself alone.”

  Sir Richard agreed. He thought Tom’s surmise might very likely be correct — it would take a strong man to bear loneliness in this empty world where no animal moved, and no bird sang. He shuddered as he thought of it — the silence, the appalling emptiness — it would be enough to turn anybody’s brain.

  Gosse slept for twelve hours, he was better when he awoke, but it was obvious that his brain was affected. He could not remember anything that had happened to him, he could not even remember his name. He went about like a man in a dream, doing what he was told, and eating what was set before him, but to all intents and purposes the man was not there. He did not try to escape again, nor did they have any trouble with him, he was like a ghost in their midst — a queer silent ghost with scared eyes. At first they tried to talk to him, and to remind him of things that had happened before the cataclysm, but, after a day or two, they saw that it was no use — it only worried him and made him frightened and miserable.

  “We had better just leave him alone,” Sir Richard said sadly. “Perhaps in time he will recover. We can do nothing for him, poor creature.”

  Maisie was the one who worried about Gosse most. He had been brought to her in the first instance, and she could not help feeling responsible for him. He was happier when he was alone with Maisie — perhaps he felt that she was especially interested in him, perhaps he realised her true kindness and goodness of heart. He would sit for hours in the gardener’s cottage watching Maisie
at work, or follow her about the garden as she planted out seedlings or weeded the beds under her husband’s direction. I’m sure something could be done for him, Maisie thought, if only we had a doctor here. His brain is there all right, but it has gone to sleep — that’s what has happened. And she would look at the thin shambling figure and wonder what she could do to help him, and how she could rouse that poor sleeping brain. Sometimes she tried chatting to him as she went about her work, and it seemed to her, that, although he made no response, the sound of her voice soothed him and reassured him. The strained anxious look vanished from his eyes and his face assumed a more normal expression. But this improvement only lasted for a short time — it was only an occasional gleam — for the most part poor Gosse was completely separated from human companionship, lost in some terrifying country from which he could find no escape.

  By this time David Fenemore’s arm was better, it had healed completely, and the wound had left no bad effects, but Jane had no sooner got rid of one patient than she had another on her hands, and this time the disease was much more serious, and horribly obscure. One morning, soon after the advent of Gosse, Sir Richard did not appear at breakfast. Jane, who was always a little anxious about Sir Richard’s health, was hurrying upstairs to see if anything was the matter when she met Bunce, coming down, looking very scared.

  “He’s ill,” said Bunce urgently, “you better come up and see him, miss. He said I wasn’t to fetch you, but —”

  “Of course I’ll come,” Jane replied with a cheerfulness she did not feel. “What’s the matter, Bunce?”

  “He’s been ill all night,” Bunce told her. “He says it’s a chill. He says he doesn’t want any breakfast, but perhaps if I were to take him up a little piece of crisp bacon —”

  Jane thought that bacon was the last thing that anybody suffering from a chill was likely to want. She prepared a bowl of bread and milk and carried it up to Sir Richard’s room. Sir Richard was very feverish, and restless, and evidently in great pain. Jane was terrified at his appearance, but she hid her fear and did what she could for him — which was little enough.

  “I’m all right, don’t worry, Jane,” he said hoarsely. “Just a little chill — better tomorrow.”

  David had followed Jane upstairs, he stood looking down at Sir Richard with anxiety in his eyes.

  “What do you think is the matter with him?” Jane asked in a low whisper.

  David did not answer. He turned back the bedclothes and examined Sir Richard carefully. Jane watched him — how firm and sure his hands were — almost like a doctor, she thought.

  “Is it — d’you think it is a chill?” she asked anxiously.

  “I’m afraid — I’m not a doctor,” David said in a queer strained voice.

  Jane had a feeling that he had intended to say something different, and had changed his mind. She wondered what he could have been going to say, but she had little time for thought. It was a dreadful day. Even Jane, with her slight knowledge, could see that Sir Richard was terribly ill. His face became more and more grey and pinched as the hours wore on, and the pain which racked him became more and more intense. David took charge of the sick-room — he seemed to know what to do, he was very deft in his ministrations to the sick man, very quiet and grave. Jane saw that he was much better at this sort of thing than she was, and she left the actual nursing in his hands. She ran upstairs and downstairs bringing basins of hot water for fomentations, filling hot-water bottles and airing sheets. All the stress and strain of their relationship to each other melted away in the agony of their anxiety. They both loved Sir Richard, and, in their services to him, their personal feelings were forgotten.

  The rest of the party hung about the house miserably, waiting for news, discussing Sir Richard’s sudden illness in snatches of conversation, and relapsing into silence again. In the few weeks since the catastrophe they had all come to love him, and to depend upon him for sympathy and counsel — he was so kind and considerate, so just and wise. If he were taken from them they would indeed be bereft. Who would be the leader then? Who was fit to fill his shoes?

  “If only we had a doctor!” Iris said, putting the thoughts of them all into words. “Why isn’t one of us a doctor? Can’t we get books about it and learn?”

  “It takes years and years to learn,” said Tom hopelessly.

  But in spite of the hopelessness of it they adjourned to the library and searched the shelves for medical books, trying to find a disease which would fit Sir Richard’s symptoms and a treatment which might alleviate his condition.

  That night Jane was sitting at the wide-open window in Sir Richard’s room. It was very late, she had heard the rest of the household go to bed hours ago. The moonlight fell upon the lawn making long swathes of light between the shadow of the trees.

  The room itself was dark, save for a small shaded light on the table beside her. She had been trying to read, but had found it impossible to keep her attention on the printed page. Her mind was too full of apprehension.

  Sir Richard was asleep now, she could hear his light hurried breathing in the stillness of the room.

  The door opened softly, and she saw that it was David Fenemore. He came over to the window and sat down beside her on a low stool.

  “How is he now?”

  “He seems a little better,” she replied.

  David nodded. “The attack is passing off,” he said. “It’s appendicitis, you know.”

  Jane looked at him in horror. She could see that his face was very pale, and there were dark shadows under his eyes.

  “Jane,” he continued, still in the low tone in which they had been speaking, “Jane, I must speak to you. I can’t bear it alone — he ought to have an operation.”

  “Yes,” she said, “but we can do nothing.”

  “We might — that’s the awful bit,” David replied. He was silent for a moment, and Jane did not speak, she felt that he was searching for words. Presently he said, “I studied medicine before I took up flying. My father was a surgeon and he was very anxious for me to follow him. He could not understand why it made no appeal to me — his profession was everything to him. I tried for his sake. But, after a little, he saw that my heart was not in it — he was very kind about it — and he let me have my way. I never finished my training —”

  “But you could do the operation,” Jane said eagerly.

  “I don’t know,” he cried in agonised tones. “That’s the awful bit — I don’t know.”

  “You could do it,” she said again.

  He sighed. “I have seen the operation performed — dozens of times. I was lucky in being the son of a surgeon. The risk is frightful — but rather than let him die — Oh, Jane, what shall I do?” He raised his eyes and looked at her; they were full of pain, full of the agony of indecision. “If I didn’t love him it would be easier,” he added.

  “I know,” said Jane softly. She could share his terrible quandary. Should she persuade him to try or not? If he tried, and failed, it would be ghastly, he would never forgive himself, but if it became absolutely necessary, if it were the only chance of life for Sir Richard, could they let him die without raising a hand to help him? Which was worse?

  David bowed his face on his hands. Jane put her hand upon his shoulders, she could feel him shaking all over.

  “Don’t worry about it too much,” Jane said. “Perhaps he will get better now without needing the operation — he is better to-night. If it becomes absolutely necessary, if it is the only chance —”

  “Yes,” said David, “then I must try. You’re right, Jane. I should never forgive myself if I let him die without trying.” He turned suddenly and took her hand. “You’ve forgiven me, haven’t you?” he said. “I don’t deserve it, of course. I was mad, I think, mad with rage. But all the time I was lying in bed I was thinking about it, and I saw that it was the only thing you could have done, under the circumstances. A little blood-letting is a wonderful thing to clear the mind,” he added, smiling warmly.


  “I understood your being angry.”

  “I couldn’t bear to think you had tricked me, and sent me away. I wanted to save you from those brutes, and instead of that you saved me.”

  “It was galling for you, wasn’t it?”

  “Don’t laugh, Jane.”

  “I’m not laughing,” she said gently. “I understood your feelings, David, and I have forgiven you. But it was all true, you know. It hurt me when you didn’t believe what I said. Even the blackbird was true — I don’t know how it got there, but it was there.”

  “I believed you all the time, but I was angry — are you sure about the blackbird? Couldn’t it have been a dream?”

  “I’m sure,” said Jane.

  “Where could it have come from?” he said perplexedly. “I don’t like mysteries.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Jane quickly. She did not want to begin another argument about the wretched bird. “It doesn’t matter where it came from — we shall never know.”

  David was silent for a minute. “Jane,” he said at last, “I wonder — could it be Boddington?”

  She looked at him, puzzled and bewildered. “Somebody must have saved the blackbird — and if a blackbird, then other things,” said David, thinking aloud. “Boddington knew the catastrophe was coming — what would you save if you could choose out of everybody in the world?”

  Jane followed his train of thought, she said, “I would save the people I loved, and the people who would be useful —”

  “Yes,” said David eagerly. “Go on, Jane.”

  “A doctor,” she said breathlessly.

  “That’s what I think,” David told her.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Adventures in

  Fairtown

  Sir Richard’s condition improved. Jane and David nursed him assiduously. Quite soon he was able to sit up and take an interest in things again. Whilst he was ill Jane had kept “The Diary of the Survivors,” writing it up every evening when the others were in bed. There was not much of interest to record save the recovery of their patient, but Jane searched for data, and wrote down everything she could think of with meticulous care. Her clear, round, black writing was very different from Sir Richard’s sloping copperplate hand — she looked at it in some disgust — it spoilt the look of the book completely, she thought — still, she had promised to write up the log if Sir Richard were not able to do it himself (the promise was all the more binding because it had not been put into definite words).