Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming

by S. Fowler Wright

  She met no man or woman, even when she came to the main road, where she marvelled at the pace at which she must have ridden yesterday when she saw its condition.

  It would have been impossible, but that the telegraph poles, being on the south side of the road, had fallen clear with their tangled wires. As they fell they lay. She saw that the tops of two or three poles had been cut off and removed. But the two-handed saw that had been used for this purpose had been cast aside when its immediate need was over, and lay rusting.

  She heard the distant sound of a hammer. Someone was working.

  Surely it would be worth while to clear the roads? With sane usage their surfaces would last for a generation. But whose duty, or whose interest, would it be to do it? Were they to have taxes again, and all the old organisation of industrial slavery? She was glad that it was Martin’s problem, not hers.

  She rode on some distance past the turning for Cowley Thorn before deciding that it was the road which she must take, and had just gone back and turned into it when she heard shots in an adjoining coppice. She heard the cries of pheasants.

  She was walking the horses quietly at the time, and did not alter the pace, though she prepared to cast loose the led horse, and ride hard if the need should arise. She had had enough of fighting—and there was the child on her arm.

  But it was Jack Tolley who came into the road, having heard the noise of the horses. He carried a pheasant, and two rabbits. He came to her horse’s head, and she pulled up, seeing that he wished to speak.

  He guessed where she was going. “You might take this,” he said, holding up the pheasant, “Betty’ll know how to cook it. I expect I’ve shot my last bird.”

  “Your last bird—why?”

  “Because the Captain’s sure to stop it. I only thought this morning. I suppose we shall have to begin thinking. I’ve got about sixty cartridges, and when they’re gone, what use will the rifle be?”

  Claire saw; but she was in a cheerful mood this morning. “Perhaps it won’t matter,” she said. “There seems to be enough cartridges left to reduce the population considerably. I suppose we shall stop some time. But I’ve been wondering about the cattle. I saw nearly thirty beyond the hollow where the road drops. How will they do when the cold comes?”

  Jack could not answer that. His knowledge of the feeding of cattle was too vague, but he recognised that it was a question of some importance. There was no hay, and the fields of roots were choked with weeds, and ravaged by cattle, and sheep, and pigs. And the rabbits were everywhere. If there were no intervention, how many of these creatures would survive the winter, however mild it might be?

  Claire, seeing that no wisdom was to be obtained from Jack as to the future of the cattle, would have continued her way, after getting more definite directions from him than she had had previously, but Jack kept a detaining hand on her bridle. He had something to say of a more personal application, but seemed to have some difficulty in commencing.

  Remembering what she had heard of his own concerns, she wondered whether he might be intending to confide a trouble, and opened the subject with the direct friendliness which was her natural manner.

  “Did Madge take it the right way?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, in a tone that made it clear that had not been on his mind. He was, in fact, happy in the knowledge that the lady in question had accepted the inevitable with fewer tears than he had expected, and with an implication that the death of Ellis, however sincerely she might regret it, was not without compensation. It may have been the happiness of his own experience that inclined him to give Claire a warning that was not without delicacy, in view of how little he knew, either of herself or her relations to Martin. But he went on easily. He knew what he had to say, and it was not his nature to bungle.

  “I think you will like to know what is being said. It was after Tom took them to Stacey’s place. There was a crowd on the road here. They were coming back from the auction. They all wanted to see the Captain.”

  “Martin?”

  “Yes—and his wife. They expected you to be with him. Instead, there was a woman that no one had seen before.

  “They were puzzled—and curious. Everyone asked who you were. Women matter now. Tom said the woman they saw was the one that had been sick, that he had kept at the Hall lodge—his woman; and that it had turned out that she was the Captain’s wife. It sounded a queer tale. Then they asked whose wife you were. Tom didn’t seem to know how to answer. He said it was between him and the Captain; but no one would have that. Butcher told him it was between you and ninety men who had got no wives, and that he was just one of the ninety.”

  Claire frowned thoughtfully. “Well?” she said, for Jack remained silent.

  “That’s all,” he answered. “But I thought you’d like to know beforehand. They may want you to decide before the day’s over.”

  “Decide what?”

  “Who you’ll choose....You know,” he added, as though he were making a personal apology, “we told you what the law is. A woman can choose the man she will, and we all agreed to stand by her, and protect her choice. But if she won’t choose, she’s for anyone that can take her.”

  “Jack,” said Claire, “that law’s dead.”

  “I don’t know,” Jack said doubtfully; “does the Captain say so? If he does, I’ll stand by him, and I suppose Tom will, and some others, but we shall all be fighting again by tomorrow....It wasn’t a bad law—for the women...If you’ve lost the Captain, why not choose Tom?”

  Claire looked at Jack, and considered. He could be trusted to say what he meant—to say it precisely. She recognised a mental independence, which might give trouble at a future time. He was loyal, but it was not a blind loyalty. It was like having a cat in the house. You could not call it to heel like a dog. But having said that he would stand by Martin in this thing, he could be trusted to do it. She decided on the disarming candour which was her most natural weapon.

  “Jack,” she said, “when the flood came, I had a husband in a nursing home at Cheltenham. Was I right to suppose him dead, and act accordingly?”

  “Yes,” he said, “how could he have lived? It’s all under water there.”

  “Not all,” she answered. “But I had no doubt he was dead. I have none now. You see, Martin felt the same about his own wife. It seemed just as sure. And now he has found her alive.”

  “So that was Tom’s wife?—and you’ve changed round?” said Jack, who may be excused for interpreting the position in that way.

  “No,” said Claire, “she was never Tom’s wife. He was taking care of her till she could find out whether Martin were living.”

  Jack expressed no opinion on that point.

  Claire added: “There’s been no change at all.”

  Jack thought a moment. “Well, that brings us back where we were. The Captain’s got his own wife now, and it leaves you free to choose.”

  “I’m not free at all,” said Claire.

  “But you don’t still reckon you’re the Captain’s wife? He can’t have two,” said Jack.

  “It’s not what I reckon,” said Claire, “it’s the fact that counts. I am.”

  “What does the Captain say?” asked Jack, not unreasonably.

  “It’s not a question of what the Captain says—the Captain knows,” said Claire.

  “The boys won’t stand for it,” said Jack doubtfully. He wasn’t very clear as to what Claire meant to do, but he was sure that the sense of the community would regard her as free for others, now that Martin had recovered his real wife. “His real wife,” was how he put it in his own mind.

  “Jack,” said Claire again, “it’s a long way from the Cotswolds. I’ve swum most of it—not all at once. I did that to avoid two men that I didn’t like. I’d swim back before I’d take a man that I didn’t choose,”

  “Well, they want you to choose,” said Jack.

  “I have chosen,” she answered. She rode on.

  Jack looked after her. “He’ll
be lucky that gets her,” he said. He became aware that the pheasant was still in his own hand. He was annoyed at that, for his oversights were few, and he did not regard them lightly.

  Claire rode on in good spirits from the encounter. She began to see the real difficulty of her position, which Tom had seen from the first—but she saw it differently.

  Then she delivered Mary to her mother’s arm, as we have seen, and rode back for the elder child.

  CHAPTER XLIX

  After Claire had left, Tom came to see Martin. It was he who had given the account of Claire and Helen which had resulted as we have heard. He had said nothing which was either untrue or misleading. He could have been more explicit as to the relations which he believed to have existed between Martin and Claire, but it is improbable that that would have made any difference to men so situated, and it might be argued that it would have been unchivalrous to have done so.

  Yet his conscience was not easy, for he was aware that he had done nothing to avert an immediate crisis—had, indeed, regarded it with satisfaction. He was convinced of the closeness of the understanding which existed between Claire and Martin. He might well hope that if Martin were forced to make an open choice, or lose Claire, he would elect to have her rather than Helen, in which case his own claim on Helen might be admitted by herself, and would certainly be recognised by the community. He might hope something also from Helen’s natural resentment at the disclosure. It did not enter his mind that she would have been told by those who (as he supposed) were most concerned to conceal it.

  He knew also that he could have averted the whole difficulty had he allowed the conclusion to which Jack’s mind had turned as the most natural interpretation of the whole matter, and which would have been borne out by the fact that Claire had remained at the Lodge. He could easily have allowed it to be supposed that there had been a change by mutual consent when it was discovered that his wife had occupied that relation to Martin in the earlier time.

  Tom was conscious therefore of a treachery of intention, and of a willingness to take his own advantage from difficulties which threatened those with whom he was associated, and which he was doing less than he might to avert, rather than of any active betrayal. Yet it gave some constraint to the natural openness of his manner as he met Martin, who led him into Stacey’s library, and told him to sit down, as he had much which he wished to say.

  Martin had taken a swift advantage of the amenities of his new residence. Stacey’s clothes were good, and fitted him comfortably. Seated at Stacey’s desk, and adding rapidly to a pile of notes which he had made already, as Tom answered the questions suggested by a night of thought, and by the information which Phillips had already given, he reminded Tom more strongly than yesterday of the lawyer who had once fought for his life, and saved it.

  Martin was well aware as he talked that there was something troubling Tom’s mind, but he gave no sign. It would come out soon enough.

  At last he said: “Listen, Tom. I don’t want any false start. There’s a great deal to be considered, and when we move it must be in the right way.

  “Cooper doesn’t count for the moment. We’ll deal with him, but he can wait. He won’t trouble us for a day or two. But you must set someone to watch him.

  “I want you to bring me one by one the best men that you can trust, so that I can talk to them and see what their capacities are. I shall want them for the jobs they can do best, and, first of all, I must know them.

  “Besides that, I want you to get all the signatures you can and let me know also of any men you can’t trust, or who may be making trouble. If you can get them to come I will see them also.

  “For the next three days I shall stay here. I don’t suppose I shall go out at all. Then I shall want you to call a meeting of all the people who will come, and make sure that those who are with us will be there.

  “I shall be ready then to say what I want done and how it’s to be started.”

  Tom said: “There’s one thing that won’t wait.”

  “You’d better tell me,” said Martin.

  “It’s about Helen—partly. There was a lot of talk after you came here last night. They were puzzled. They hadn’t seen Helen before because no one goes that way; the road leads nowhere now. But they knew that I had a woman at the lodge who was called my wife.”

  “You’ve explained this before.”

  “Yes, but not to them. They thought your wife had come with you.

  “Well?”

  “Well, if she wasn’t, they want to know whose she is.”

  “You mean Claire?”

  “Yes. They mean Claire.”

  “Then tell them.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But I told you when first we met.”

  “But you didn’t know then that Helen was living.

  “I see. What’s the real trouble, and how near?”

  “There’s a meeting this afternoon. All the men that want wives will be there. They’ll want Claire to choose.”

  “If she doesn’t?”

  “Then she’s any man’s that can take her.”

  “Tom, you could have saved this trouble.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I do. But we won’t talk of that. The plan seems fair enough. We will ask Claire to choose. I understand that the man she chooses must consent, or the choice must be made again?”

  “Yes.”

  Martin looked hard at Tom. “She might choose you.”

  “I don’t want that.”

  Martin suggested again. “She might choose me.”

  Tom looked up questioningly. “Then you’d give up Helen?”

  “I didn’t say so. The women choose. It’s your own law. It seems good enough to me. Good enough for this occasion anyway. But I don’t know how it will end any more than you do. I guess—but I may guess wrong. Perhaps you’ll get what you want. But I don’t think you will. Nor they.”

  He changed his manner to a sudden sincerity. “Tom,” he said, “don’t you see that I’ve no right to decide this? No right at all. I have no right even to say what I think, or what I wish. The women must decide, and they shall have their way. “

  He looked searchingly at Tom, and said quietly: “You must promise this, Tom. The women shall have their way.”

  Tom looked puzzled and half sulky. He said: “Do you want them both?”

  “It’s not what I want that matters. It’s what has been done in the past. It’s what is. It’s what’s right. Neither of them may want me. Or both. Or they may differ. They may make conditions which are incompatible. Circumstances may arise which would make it right for me to say what I think—even to make a choice. But till they do—unless they do—I shall say no more. It is your own law. The women choose.”

  He sat silent for a moment, and Tom was not quick to answer. He was puzzled by Martin’s attitude, and could not decide whether it left any hope for himself. He supposed that Helen knew nothing yet, and he built something on that. He had always been taught that a man could not have two wives. He had never thought why. It was the law. He knew vaguely that the majority of the earth’s inhabitants had a somewhat different opinion. But these opinions were negligible because their skins were not pink. But the situation was scarcely of Martin’s making. It was the product of circumstance. He was under obligation to two women and he was leaving them to decide what should happen in future. They might decide to share his affections. It seemed unlikely. They might toss a coin. But that was a man’s way rather than a woman’s. They were more likely to quarrel. They might both resent the fact that he made no decided choice between them. As his first and “legal” wife, Helen had the greater cause for resentment on such grounds. So it seemed to Tom.

  “I want your promise,” Martin repeated.

  “Yes,” Tom said at length. “I promise that.”

  Martin rose at once. “Tell Jack,” he said. “Have the men you can trust in readiness if there be any sign of trouble. But I don’t think there will
. You can tell them that Claire will make her own choice, and if that means a meeting to look them over, they shall have what they want. But you can tell them that I call the meeting now.”

  Tom went out, and he turned back to his work. He thought that he had acted rightly in a position in which precedent or tradition was of no value. Neither was it a case in which wrong had been done, and its consequences must be endured. He could see no wrong.

  Nor was he aiming to avoid a responsibility which was properly his. If they came to him he would say what he thought was right, but it was between themselves in the first instance. That was how he would have ruled had such a case been brought to him for a judgement. If they should differ, then it might be his part to decide. But not till then. It would be so much the best if the right decision should come from them.

  So he thought, and waited.

  CHAPTER L

  Tom did not go far. At the gate he met an angry Claire. She rode up with Joan on the chestnut’s neck. She spoke playfully enough to the child as she handed her to Helen, who had come out at the sound of her approach, but her eyes were alight with anger as she turned to Tom, who had stood aside to make way for her entrance

  It was not only what Jack had told her, though that had given cause enough, but it had helped her to understand what had followed. There had been men waiting round the locked gate of the lodge when she returned, men along the road, both as she went and came, men who would not willingly let her pass, who had justified their importunity by the use of Tom Aldworth’s name.

  There was one man that she would have ridden down but for the child on her arm, and the impulse had brought realisation of how quickly the habit of violence grows. It was five days since she had come up from the water to the spot where Martin had watched the sunset. Five days! and a life of difference had arisen between that hour and this.