“I shall open the gates,” Dr. Glover said earnestly. “Nobody need stay here if they don’t want to. They can go or stay.”
“They’ll go — most of them — but they’ll come back,” David told him. “The world is a lonely place. You have no idea of the loneliness and the silence. Not a bird in the woods, not a rabbit. It’s terrifying.”
“What will happen?” enquired Mrs. Glover. “Will there never be any animals again?”
“We’ve got rabbits here,” her husband reminded her. “They will breed very quickly, of course. One will have to guard against an unbalanced production, I suppose.”
“You’ve got your scientists to advise you,” put in Sir Arthur.
“It’s an immense responsibility,” he replied.
Sir Arthur rose and stretched himself. “I’m ready when you are, Fenemore,” he said. “Your wife is anxious to get home, I think.” He smiled kindly at Jane — so kindly that she was moved almost to tears.
David sprang up from the table and went to get the car ready. Jane put on her coat and hat.
“You will come back — often,” Mrs. Glover said.
“Of course.”
“Are you very tired?”
“I am — rather,” said Jane.
The two women kissed each other; it seemed absurd that they had only known each other for twenty-four hours. They were old friends; they had suffered so much together.
“Come along,” David said. “Are you ready, Jane?”
They climbed into the Rolls. The two men in front and Jane alone in the back seat. It was very dark, for the night was cloudy and the moon was obscured. The great lights of the car shone ahead like beacons.
“Goodbye!” cried the Glovers. “Come back soon.”
“Goodbye. Goodbye.”
They glided up the hill which led to the gates. The big steel gates which were open now, and unguarded.
Jane was exhausted. She had been through so much in the last two days, and suffered so many anxieties and emotions. It seemed impossible that it was only yesterday morning that she and David had set out from Bardsholme on their quest for Professor Boddington — only yesterday morning! Jane felt as if she had been away for years. She had not known then that David loved her, had not known that she loved David — she had gained and lost David in less than thirty-six hours.
It was only twenty miles from Shallowdale to Bardsholme, and David did it easily in half an hour. The sound of his horn brought Tom Day running to the door with the inevitable revolver in his hand. When he saw who it was he shouted to the others, and they crowded out on to the doorstep to welcome the wanderers home.
Jane almost wept with joy to see the familiar faces; she hugged her dear Maisie as if she would never let her go. Meanwhile David was enquiring for Sir Richard and introducing their guest to the whole company.
“Not the Sir Arthur Willis?” enquired Maule of David in a low voice. “The surgeon — eh? Good God, where did you find him?” He put his eyeglass in his right eye, and looked at Sir Arthur with awe and amazement.
Sir Richard was sitting in front of the drawing-room fire with a rug over his knees. He looked very pale and fragile, but Jane saw a gleam of his old spirit in his eyes as she took his hand.
“We have found an old friend of yours,” she said, and stood aside to make way for Sir Arthur.
“Willis, my dear fellow! Where have you dropped from?” cried Sir Richard.
Everybody began to talk at once, asking questions, and answering them in the same breath. Sir Arthur was struck with the difference between these people and the people of Shallowdale. These seemed happy and contented, they were obviously fond of each other, bound together by their isolated position and the frightful dangers they had shared. They were like a big family party — and that in spite of the fact that they were a mixed lot in the social sense, and had all been complete strangers to each other a little over a month ago. Is it Boddington’s influence that has poisoned Shallowdale, he wondered, or is it because the numbers are so much larger there, or is it the absence of freedom? We are all prisoners at Shallowdale, the place is nothing but a luxurious prison camp where everybody has got a life sentence.
He was glad to think that the prison was a prison no longer. Glover was kind and just, he would give the people freedom to roam the world, and they would return and settle down in their comfortable homes when their wanderings were over. For himself, he would like to settle here, near his old friend, and he had no doubt that his wish could be fulfilled. Barton would like to have a man of approximately his own age to talk to; they had always got on well, and had much in common.
The news that they were not, after all, the only people in the world affected the little community at Bardsholme in different ways. To John Farquhar and Maisie it made little difference; they were completely happy in each other, and, like all people in their condition, they were a trifle selfish. The Misses Hervey were delighted to hear from Jane that their nephew was alive; they chattered happily about the baby, and decided that they must go over to Shallowdale as soon as possible. Miss Hervey had never talked so much nor looked so animated. Iris Bright was enchanted by the prospect of meeting new people. She decided that she would go over to Shallowdale herself — when the others went — and see all the wonders that Jane was describing. Perhaps she would find a husband amongst the handsome men who had been chosen by scientists for the perfection of their anatomy — somebody more appreciative of her own indubitable charms than the stolid Bunce. The news that Haviland was dead lifted a load from her mind — she was frankly terrified of the man. He had exercised a sort of hypnotic influence upon her for years. Now he was dead, and could never return to molest her — she felt like a slave emancipated from hateful bondage.
Tom and Alice were too taken up with their new relationship to be much excited about the discovery of Shallowdale — there was only one thing that Tom wanted, one thing to complete his happiness. He managed to get Sir Arthur alone for a few moments after supper and make his request.
“I wonder,” he said, looking earnest and very boyish as he waylaid their guest in the hall, “I wonder if it would be possible, sir — I mean whether I could possibly — er — get hold of a dog.”
“A dog?” enquired Sir Arthur in surprise.
“I know it seems funny,” Tom said, “but I’ve always had one — and I miss a dog more than anything. I’d do any sort of job of work that they wanted done — you can’t pay for things now, I mean you can pay for things but it’s no use. But I’m quite handy with engines and that — what’d you think, sir?”
“I’ll see you get a dog,” Sir Arthur said gravely; “you may have to wait a bit —”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
“But I think I can safely promise you a puppy from the first litter we get.”
“Thank you, sir — thank you very much indeed — and you won’t forget that I’m handy with engines —”
“I won’t forget,” Sir Arthur promised.
“Or perhaps I could get something for you,” Tom continued earnestly. “Are you fond of pictures, sir? Would you care for a couple of Turners, or a Rembrandt or anything like that?”
Sir Arthur, who was just turning away, stopped and gazed at Tom in amazement.
“I could get anything like that — anything you would like,” Tom told him.
“My dear boy,” Sir Arthur said, “my dear boy —” and then he began to laugh. “I thought at first you were having a joke with me, but I see you are in earnest. You would fetch me any picture in the world that I like to name in exchange for a dog.”
“That’s right, sir,” Tom agreed. “If you just tell me where it is, and how I am to know it when I see it — I’m not much good at pictures.”
“It’s amazing,” Sir Arthur said. “I am beginning to realise — No, my dear fellow, I don’t want a picture — I don’t want anything at all, not even the Crown Jewels from the Tower of London. You shall have your dog, and, if Glover requires a car
overhauled, you shall do that for him.” He patted Tom’s shoulder and walked away.
Maisie was the next to tackle Sir Arthur. She met him on the stairs and asked shyly if she might speak to him.
“It’s about that poor man,” she said — “about Gosse. He has lost his memory.”
“Yes, I saw him,” said Sir Arthur.
“I thought perhaps you could do something for him,” Maisie said. “It’s so dreadful to see him wandering about like a lost soul.”
Sir Arthur smiled. “You think I am a sort of magician?”
“I know you’re very clever,” replied Maisie earnestly.
“Something might be done,” he admitted. “These cases can be treated by psychoanalysis; it is not really in my line, but there are books on the subject, and it would be well worth trying.”
“I thought you could operate on his brain,” Maisie said in a disappointed tone.
“If the loss of memory were due to an accident I could,” Sir Arthur replied. “If the man’s skull were injured — but I take it that his condition is due to a shock, or a prolonged strain. In these cases surgery can do nothing. No,” he continued thoughtfully, “psychoanalysis is the only chance — and it would be a most interesting experiment — most interesting. I must certainly procure some books on the subject and see what can be done.”
Maisie was satisfied, or at least partially so. She had roused Sir Arthur’s interest in poor Gosse; the interest was in the case, rather than in the man himself — she realised that quite clearly — but it did not matter so long as the interest was there. Something would be done to help the man, to bring back his memory and restore him to sanity, that was the main thing; and her confidence in Sir Arthur was such that she had no doubt of his success.
The following day Sir Richard had a slight return of pain, and it was decided to operate at once. There was nothing to wait for now that a competent surgeon was at hand. A room was chosen for the theatre and prepared for the operation under David’s supervision. Basins were found, linen was boiled, and the requisite amount of gauze dressings was fetched from Fairtown and sterilised.
“You can help me, of course,” Sir Arthur said to David. “There will not be much to do; I do not anticipate anything complicated.”
“I have often assisted my father,” replied David.
“And there is no need for an anæsthetist with Glover’s anæsthetic,” continued the surgeon. “It is wonderful, and perfectly safe. I have used it before with Glover; it is the perfect anæsthetic at last.”
Everything was now ready, and the two men went upstairs to their patient, who was lying in bed waiting for them with a smile on his lips.
“I am lucky,” he said, as he bared his arm for the anæsthetic to be injected. “I am extraordinarily lucky to have my appendix removed by the only surgeon in the world.”
“We are all lucky,” put in David with feeling. “If we had not found Sir Arthur —” He broke off, almost overcome by the horror of the thought. If they had not found Sir Arthur, he would have had to operate, or Sir Richard would have died.
“Don’t think about that now,” Jane said quickly. “Sir Arthur is here, and everything is ready.”
They waited until the anæsthetic had begun to take effect, and then Bunce and Farquhar carried Sir Richard into the impromptu operating-theatre, and laid him on the table. Sir Arthur was waiting, clad in a long white overall and a rubber mask, and, beside him, stood David, pale but confident. He smiled at Jane as she came in with the others and whispered, “Don’t worry. This is nothing to Sir Arthur — nothing. It will be all over in a few minutes —”
He had complete faith in Sir Arthur’s skill, and he was also confident in his own ability to assist in the operation. The surgeon had explained beforehand all that he wanted done and there was nothing for David to do that he had not done before a score of times for his father.
When they had lifted Sir Richard on to the table the others went away, closing the door behind them, but Jane remained. There was just a chance that they might want someone — if anything went wrong — and Jane had insisted on being at hand. She sat down on a wooden chair and waited quietly.
“Is the light right?” David asked in a low voice.
“Yes.”
Silence fell. Jane sat very still; she tried not to look at Sir Arthur, but she could not help looking. She watched with bated breath. She saw the fine hands in their silk rubber gloves moving with delicate precision amongst the queer unfamiliarly shaped instruments laid out on the glass sheet — she saw them select a long, glittering knife … David’s hands were moving too — handing silver clips, following the other hands … David’s face was frowning and absorbed. They seemed to be isolated in a bubble of silence, cut off from the outer world. Not a sound broke the intense stillness, save now and then a murmur of instruction from the surgeon to his assistant.
There was blood now … a small pile of red dressings … a tangle of crimson … Jane wrenched her eyes away. Oh, what were they doing to him! How dreadful it was, how dreadful! She had never thought it would be like this — nobody could live through anything so horrible … and what hours they were taking!
They must have found something else — something much more serious, Jane thought, wiping the palms of her wet hands on her handkerchief. There must be something wrong … She looked at her watch and saw that five minutes had elapsed since they had started; five minutes — she could have sworn it had been at least half an hour, but her watch had not stopped — she could hear its faint reassuring tick in the tense silence of the room.
She looked up again. Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to the table. David was handing Sir Arthur a curved needle, threaded with something that gleamed like silver thread in the bright light. He took it between his finger and thumb and bent over his patient. Jane shuddered — she reminded herself that Sir Richard could feel nothing. How deft the surgeon’s fingers were! How sure and swift! Thoughts flashed across her mind like swallows in flight: she remembered watching his hands as he peeled an apple at the Glovers’ table — so swiftly, so surely — while he talked to her about saving Shallowdale from its tyrant …
It was over. David had straightened his back and was smiling at her reassuringly … they were carrying Sir Richard back to his bed … Sir Arthur took off his gloves and tossed them on to the table.
“Perfect,” said David. “Simply perfect.”
“He’s well rid of that!” Sir Arthur said, looking at something in a bowl.
Jane did not move; she felt limp and exhausted; her face was burning. She put up her hand and pushed back her hair. Sir Arthur threw up the window and went out.
“Is it really all right, David?” Jane said faintly.
“Perfect,” he said again. He came across to her and took her hand, smiling into her eyes. Then he bent down and kissed her.
“Don’t, David,” she said, pushing him away. “There is something I must tell you —”
“Not now, darling.”
“Yes, now. I’ve been trying to tell you all day —”
“I know,” he replied. “But I don’t want to hear it, Jane. You are tired and worried. Wait a day or two; you’ll feel different.”
“You don’t know what it is.”
“I think I do. You feel — you feel different, Jane. You think you have changed your mind; it’s only because you are tired and worried —”
“No,” cried Jane. “No — it isn’t that at all. It is nothing to do with me. You must listen, David.” She put her hands on his shoulders and looked at him straightly. This is the last moment that he is mine, she thought.
“Jane,” he was saying. “Jane, I’m not going to let you off — I can’t. It’s only because of Sir Richard being ill … you feel you can’t let him down. I know the feeling —”
“Elsie Wainwright is at Shallowdale,” Jane said, shaking him gently. “That is what I’ve been trying to tell you, David. Elsie Wainwright.”
David was smiling now,
his eyes very close to Jane’s. “Was that all you were going to tell me?” he said.
“All?” echoed Jane.
“I knew it,” he said. “I met her when I was with Franklin — we congratulated each other. She’s going to marry Franklin. You’d like Elsie; she’s rather a dear —”
“But, David — you must marry her,” Jane told him in a bewildered voice.
“I don’t want to,” he replied. “I only wanted to marry Elsie because I hadn’t seen you. Don’t be silly, Jane.”
“Silly?”
“Yes, awfully silly. It’s all settled between us. We’re already married as far as Shallowdale is concerned. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
“No, but you might,” Jane said soberly. “Even if you don’t want to marry Elsie there are other women. I feel unsettled and all adrift. We thought we were the only people in the world when I said I would marry you — and we are not. I’m too old for you, David —”
“It makes no difference to me,” David told her. “No difference at all whether there are a thousand women in the world or just you. It’s you I want, Jane, only you, always.”
Jane could not speak. Her eyes were full of tears — if David felt like that it was all right.
The Empty World Page 25