Sir Arthur rose. “You’ve bungled the whole thing,” he said. “Why didn’t you ask Glover or me? I’ll go up to the house and reason with them —”
“You can’t reason with madmen,” put in Crackling. “They’ll shoot you, Sir Arthur.”
“They won’t shoot me,” replied Sir Arthur confidently. He strode off towards the house. David followed him.
“Look here, Fenemore, you’re not coming,” said Sir Arthur. “I don’t mind what happens to me — you know that — but it’s different for you. There’s that nice wife of yours —”
“You’re not going alone, sir,” replied David firmly. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and then Sir Arthur turned, and they went on together.
The big house was silent, but, as they approached, David had a feeling that they were being watched from the windows — it was a horrid feeling — his blood chilled as they walked across the broad sweep of gravel — how easy it would be for a watcher at one of the windows to put a bullet through his companion and himself! But no bullet came.
As they went up the steps, the door was opened by Marker.
“You can’t see the Professor; they’re having a consultation,” Marker whispered. “Nobody’s to interrupt them.”
“I’ll wait,” said Sir Arthur firmly.
Marker left them in the hall and went upstairs.
“Queer place this,” Sir Arthur said. “Pure nineteenth century — that hall table, for instance, with its elaborate carving — how does it strike you, Fenemore?”
David was too excited, too inwardly disturbed, to be interested in the carved table. He lit a cigarette with hands that shook a little despite himself and vouchsafed the opinion that it was “unhygienic.” At that moment one of the guards came out of the dining-room on his way to the back premises. He started back in surprise when he saw Sir Arthur.
“Oh, look here, my man,” Sir Arthur said, “I should like to speak to Major Keen. Will you tell him?”
“He’s dead,” said the man bluntly.
“Dead!”
“Yes, he was shot.”
David was watching the man’s face; there was something shifty about his eyes; he was either lying about Keen, or else he was frightened.
“I’ll have a look at Major Keen’s body,” said the surgeon.
“You can’t do him any good, sir,” objected the man. “He’s dead.”
“I said I would have a look at him,” said Sir Arthur irritably. “I never said I could do him any good. Where is he?”
“In the morning-room.”
“How do I know which is the morning-room?”
The man turned with obvious reluctance and led the way to a small room at the back of the house. Major Keen’s body was lying on a sofa covered with a sheet. Sir Arthur turned back the sheet and looked at him.
“Yes,” he said. “He’s dead — shot through the heart. How did it happen?”
“In the attack, of course,” the guard replied quickly.
“Oh yes. Who is in command of the guard now?”
“Nobody, sir. We were all equal under Major Keen. It was his idea.” He shifted on his feet and looked from Sir Arthur to David. “We were wondering,” he said. “We were thinking of leaving here. It’s pretty dull at Shallowdale.”
“You think you would like to see the world?” suggested Sir Arthur.
“That was the idea,” agreed the man. “Some of us think we would like to go about a bit and see what’s happened.”
While they were talking David was examining Major Keen’s body more closely. It was rather curious that a bullet coming through the window should have entered Major Keen’s body behind the left shoulder-blade, and even more curious that it should have left a small signed hole in his khaki tunic. David was aware that only a bullet fired at very close quarters leaves a singed hole. He drew the obvious conclusion that Major Keen had been shot in the back by one of his own men under cover of the attack on the house. This man knew it; he had either done it himself or knew who it was that had done it. That would account for his furtive manner, and his reluctance for the body to be examined. David drew up the sheet and arranged it carefully; he decided to say nothing about his discovery; it might be a useful weapon later, though he did not see at the moment how the weapon could be used.
By this time the other guards had appeared, and were discussing the situation with Sir Arthur. They were a husky lot — tall, and well set up, not particularly intelligent, but fine material for all that. As he looked at them it struck David that not one of them seemed to have the essential qualities of a leader, and he wondered if they had been chosen for that lack. Major Keen had chosen them, perhaps he had wanted no potential leader amongst them. Nobody to question his absolute authority. Nobody who could take his place if trouble arose.
“Why not disband the guard?” suggested David. “Let them do what they want — either stay at Shallowdale as working members of the community, or else go and have a look at the world. It’s an interesting world — empty but interesting — I’ve been over to the Continent —”
He saw the faces turn in his direction with sudden excitement.
“What about our pay?” one of them enquired.
David smiled at the ignorance of the new conditions which the question betrayed. He took his bundle of notes out of his pocket and opened it slowly. They were all watching him eagerly now.
“Are you all here?” he enquired.
“Yes, sir — fourteen of us.”
“Fourteen,” David said. He counted out fourteen fifty-pound notes and distributed them into the eagerly grasping hands. In two minutes the room was empty.
“Good God!” exclaimed Sir Arthur. “I didn’t know you were a millionaire, Fenemore.”
“We all are — if we want to be,” David replied, laughing. “You can go into any bank and get as many of these as you want. I got them for a joke; it amused me to carry them about in my pocket.”
He had four notes left; he took them up and looked at them again, and then he tore them across and dropped them into the waste-paper basket.
“Good God!” said Sir Arthur again, “I’ve been asleep — I never realised — anything. Of course, they are valueless.”
“Utterly valueless,” agreed David.
Sir Arthur looked at David with interest. The boy had brains, more brains than he had given him credit for. He had read those men like a book, and had done it without being aware of his own cleverness. He was used to the type of men of whom the guard were composed, used to handling men, and commanding their respect and obedience by the force of his personality — that was the explanation, of course, but it did not diminish his achievement in Sir Arthur’s eyes.
“Well, Fenemore, you’ve done your bit,” he said, smiling at David. “Our task is three-quarters accomplished.”
“I hope I did right,” replied David rather anxiously, “to let those men loose — and yet what harm can they do? The world is wide enough for us all.”
“Not a bad lot.”
“No,” said David doubtfully; they weren’t a bad lot really — though one of them was a murderer. Probably Keen had been a perfect brute to them (he looked capable of most villainies). A man was not necessarily a danger to the community because he had murdered one man — or was he? David could not answer the question to his own satisfaction.
Sir Arthur had just begun to feel impatient when Marker came to say the professors would see him.
“Come along, Fenemore,” he said. “I shall want some moral support.”
They found the three professors in the same room that David had seen before. They looked pale and somewhat shaken by their experiences.
“Well,” said Sir Arthur cheerfully. “You’ve made a nice mess of your New World.”
“Just a little temporary trouble,” Professor Boddington said, blinking his prominent eyes nervously.
“A passing storm,” agreed Professor Paignton.
Sir Arthur smiled. “I’ll t
ell you what it is,” he said. “You have been overdoing things — all of you — you can’t manage everything. This storm has been gathering for some time, and none of you knew a thing about it because you aren’t in touch with the people. You should confine yourselves to meteorology, physiology, and astronomy and leave the governing of Shallowdale to a lesser mortal.”
“You forget,” Professor Paignton said, “you forget that my line of study is the human race; my knowledge fits me for the government of Shallowdale.”
The boast was absurd in the face of what had happened — absurd and rather pathetic, David thought. He felt very sorry for the three old men who had undertaken so much and had accomplished so much. They had failed in the end because they were ignorant of human nature — stars and meteors and the intricacies of the human body were open books to them, but the human mind, the mind of the ordinary human being, was beyond their ken.
“The guards will soon put down the insurrection,” Professor Struthers was saying. “We were considering the temporary withdrawal of the new edict —”
Sir Arthur shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s too late for half-measures,” he said. “Shallowdale wants to elect a President, and I think it is entitled to do so. Your only way out of the difficulty — or at least the only dignified way — is to give your consent. If you do not give your consent the people will act without it, and your position will be untenable, not to say dangerous —”
“Dangerous!” exclaimed Professor Boddington. “I have my guards. Keen is loyal, and they are loyal to Keen —”
“Keen is dead,” said Sir Arthur baldly.
Professor Boddington said nothing for a moment; David had a queer feeling that the man was shrinking before his eyes. His tiny yellow face became smaller, and was invaded by a greyish pallor, his head sank lower between his rounded shoulders.
“Keen dead?” he said at last in a hoarse voice. “Who killed him — who dared to lay hands on Keen?”
“His own men,” replied David suddenly — the weapon had its uses after all — “he was shot in the back by one of his own men.” He met Sir Arthur’s eyes, and nodded gravely.
The professors looked at each other in horror. They had banked on the loyalty of the guards, and the guards had murdered Keen.
“It will be our turn next,” Struthers said, voicing all their thoughts.
“No, no,” Sir Arthur assured them. “You need have no fear of that. Your lives are perfectly safe as long as you do not interfere with the liberty of the people.”
“Ungrateful wretches!” exclaimed Professor Struthers.
“They have a right to their own lives,” said Sir Arthur reasonably.
“What right?” enquired Professor Paignton. “They were saved by us from destruction; they have no more right to their own lives. Their lives belong to us.”
“The subject is too deep to discuss now,” returned Sir Arthur, hiding a smile. “The point is they consider they have a right to order their own lives — and, unfortunately for you, they have the power to brush aside your objections.”
Professor Boddington had not spoken for some moments. He now leaned forward in his chair and said:
“We are helpless. We are in your hands, Sir Arthur. What are we to do?”
“Leave it all to me,” replied Sir Arthur quite kindly and gently. “Don’t worry about it any more. The best thing you can do is to go to bed and have a good rest. Dr. Glover will call on you, and prescribe a sedative.”
They agreed to Sir Arthur’s suggestion with surprising meekness. There was no fight left in them; they were old, and frightened, and very tired.
As they walked back to join the others in the kitchen garden David told Sir Arthur how he had discovered the true explanation of Keen’s death. Sir Arthur listened with interest.
“Queer!” he exclaimed. “Shot in the back by his own men! The man was a bully, of course, and bullies are always hated. My father used to tell me that there were instances of the same kind in the Great War. Human nature doesn’t alter, does it?”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
There Is Something I
Must Tell You
Jane and Mrs. Glover spent a long, anxious afternoon. They heard the shots, and wondered what had happened. There were no more shots; no sound broke the silence in the valley.
Mrs. Glover moved restlessly about the house; she went to the window and peered out. Jane sat huddled over the fire smoking innumerable cigarettes.
“Shall we go out and see what has happened?” said Mrs. Glover at last.
“We had better not,” replied Jane. “We should only be in the way; we should make more trouble. I’m as anxious to go out as you are; but we had better stay where we are.”
“I can’t bear it,” Mrs. Glover said.
“They know where to find us if we stay here,” Jane continued drearily. “If we go out they may return and find us gone —”
Her voice died away into silence. How miserable I am, she thought, how utterly and completely miserable! David may be dead, for all I know, and even if he is not dead he is lost to me for ever. She had not yet found an opportunity to tell him about Elsie Wainwright; she must get him alone and tell him. The thought of the telling appalled her; it would be so dreadful to tell David, to see his face light up with joy, to know that he was lost to her for ever. He would try to be kind, of course — Jane knew that — he would try to pretend that it made no difference, but Jane would know. She must treat the whole thing lightly; she must laugh and tell him that it didn’t matter, that of course he must marry Elsie — that was the only way. Heavens, how hard it would be!
“It’s getting dark!” Mrs. Glover said at last. “It’s getting dark, and they haven’t come back — oh, what can have happened!”
“We must just wait,” said Jane doggedly, and lit another cigarette.
The boys spent the afternoon playing with their model train (it ran by electricity and was perfect in every detail). They did not realise what was happening, nor sense their mother’s anxiety. It was enough for them that, for some unknown reason, they had been given a half-holiday, and, instead of toiling at uncongenial tasks, they were at liberty to play.
The time wore on slowly, and, at last, when the two women were almost in despair, they heard the scrape of feet on the gravel and the cheerful voices of men. They heard Sir Arthur laugh, and the creak of the little gate as it swung on its hinges.
Mrs. Glover flung herself into her husband’s arms and wept hysterically. Jane did not move; her limbs had become so weak that she could not rise out of her chair. She only looked across the room at David with her soul in her eyes.
“It’s all right,” he said cheerfully, crossing over and taking her hand in his. “Everything is settled. Shallowdale is safe —”
“And Sir Arthur —” she whispered weakly.
“He is coming with us to-night.”
“Let’s go with them, Jim,” cried Mrs. Glover, looking up at her husband through her tears. “I can’t stand this place any more. Let’s leave it and go. We shall have freedom — freedom to do what we want, and live our own lives —”
“I can’t my dear,” Dr. Glover said.
“Why not?” asked Jane. “Why don’t you come with us? It is peaceful at Bardsholme —”
David sensed the hysteria in the air. He decided that it would be best to treat the situation in a light vein.
“You see before you the most important man in the world,” he said, with a laugh, “President Glover — or Emperor of Shallowdale — don’t forget to curtsy when you speak to him, Jane, or he may order you to the scaffold.”
It was a relief to joke about it — the strain had been great, and the reaction was in proportion. He looked to Jane for an answering smile and was absurdly disappointed when he found no gleam of humour in her eyes. Jane was beyond smiling; she was too miserable, too weary to attempt a smile.
“Is it true?” Mrs. Glover demanded. “Jim, have they elected you? Are all our t
roubles over?”
“Yes to the first two questions, no to the third,” replied her husband, smiling; “our troubles are by no means at an end, I’m afraid — to tell the truth, I am not enamoured of my new job, but it seemed the only way out of the mess.”
“He was the only man that pleased everyone,” David explained.
“But what happened?” asked Mrs. Glover. “You haven’t told us a thing. What have you done with the Professor?”
“The Professor abdicated — thanks to the persuasions of Sir Arthur and Fenemore. He went to bed and I gave him a sedative which should keep him quiet for a bit. Then we repaired to the Lecture Room to elect a new president, and, after a great deal of talk, the proletariat elected me. Then we came home, feeling very hungry and expecting to find some supper —”
“Oh, my dear, I’m sorry!” Mrs. Glover said. “We were too anxious and worried to think of supper; — I’ll get it ready in a minute. But tell me first — what happened to Major Keen? Where are the guards?”
Sir Arthur, who had been standing looking out of the window at the gathering darkness, turned round and replied to that question.
“Fenemore disbanded the guards,” he said, with a reminiscent smile. “He gave them each fifty pounds, and told them to go out into the Great World and seek their fortunes. The room was clear in ten seconds —”
“Oh, David!” cried Jane. “How clever of you!”
“Fifty pounds each!” exclaimed the Glovers incredulously with one voice.
“Fifty nothings,” David told them, smiling at their astonishment. “What good is money now? You can go into any garage you like and take your pick of cars and fill it up to the brim with everything you want — with anything you happen to fancy.”
Mrs. Glover stared at him with eyes like saucers, but the doctor nodded gravely. “We’re isolated here — we don’t realise what has happened to the world — everything has changed,” he said.
Mrs. Glover produced an excellent supper, and they all sat down. They were all cheerful and happy except Jane; she tried to eat, and to take her part in the conversation, but it was a great effort. She felt weary and very sad. She listened to the others discussing the strange condition of the world and the new régime at Shallowdale; these things seemed unimportant to her.
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