“The simple plan
That he should take who has the power,
And he should keep who can.”
But his training had taught him not to vex his mind with a problem till all its factors were known. In the end he would act according to the impulses of his nature, which would hold; though creed and law seemed to have been swept away in the deluge.
He covered her carefully. Then he collected such other garments and rugs as he had accumulated and made a bed for himself. He considered whimsically that had this happened a few months earlier he would have felt compelled to make his bed outside the hut. Well, the night was warm and he would not have minded that. But he knew that he should not have done it for her sake or his own, but in obedience to the almost intolerable tyranny under which a community of men such as he had known will coerce their fellows.
Now he was free for the adventure of life untrammelled—or at least trammelled only by forces that are at once beneficial, and blind, and impartial. So he thought; but who has ever foreseen the future?
He did not wake till the August sun was high, and found his companion still sleeping heavily. There had been rain in the night, and the banks of the cutting were steaming to the increasing warmth of the morning. It meant that there was water in the ditch at the further side of the metals, such as he could use for all purposes except drinking, and that water need not be fetched from the stream till the next day.
He washed and dressed with something more than his usual care, and then remembered that he had not arranged the stone last night in its usual position, and he climbed the bank and adjusted it.
Then he prepared a meal. With some reluctance he drew on the store of pressed beef and biscuits which were his assurance of life during the colder months to come. There were eggs already boiled. There was water to drink. He had no mind to light a fire, nor to go foraging while a stranger was in his home.
Then he sat and watched her for a time as she slept. He was not easily hurried either in thought or action.
Would she wish to stay when she woke? Would she wish to betray him to others? She was a delight to watch as she slept. Rest had smoothed the fatigue from her face, and the healthy vigour of the open life she had been leading had resumed its right. Trained to the knowledge of men, he judged of her favourably both in mind and body. There was an instinct in him which desired her fiercely. But she was a stranger as yet.
It crossed his mind that a bolder man would take that which the gods gave, and with shorter thought for the morrow. Was he of a lesser manhood?—or more scrupulous? He decided that he was nothing better than cautious, and he was not sure that he did not despise himself for that quality. Cowardice was its familiar friend. But his will ruled, and his thoughts left it unshaken.
Still—he did think. He imagined her as his wife and with children around them. He was not without experience of life. Neither he thought was she. He could foresee many difficulties, changes, troubles. This hut, so convenient and sufficient—“Hostages to fortune”—there was much still to be learnt from the wisdom of an age that had ended.
He became aware that he was hungry, and laid a quiet hand on her shoulder to wake her.
After a time the touch roused her. She opened wondering eyes to the dusky interior of the cabin. She had no memory of how she got there. She was conscious of stiffness and of a pleasant lassitude. He remained silent, and confidence grew as she watched him.
At last he spoke: “Will you tell me how you came?”
He did not ask her who she was, for such a question would have lost its meaning. People were no longer other than themselves, or that which they appeared to be.
She said: “I swam to the land. I had been all day in the water. I cannot remember since.”
“Yes, I saw you land,” he replied. “I helped you here. Have you no friends?”
“No,” she said, “I am quite alone.”
He was glad at the word, but she was afraid that she had spoken imprudently and became silent.
“You will need food,” he said, “there is breakfast waiting outside.” He went out.
She followed a few moments later. She moved stiffly, but in the close-fitting bathing-dress she appeared tall and graceful and of a fine vitality. He was conscious that his heart was beating more rapidly, but his manner gave no sign as he asked: “Are you warm enough in that dress? I can find you clothes of a kind.”
The tone and the words pleased her, and she laughed for the first time, giving him open friendly eyes as she answered.
“Oh no, it is warm enough; and I am used to this. I don’t think I should care for yours. Let’s have breakfast first, and then we can think of other things. If you knew how hungry I am—!”
She had glanced at the torn and clay-soiled clothes he wore as she answered, and he was the more self-conscious as they approached the meal before them.
But of that, at least, she was not critical. She became aware that her hunger was ravenous.
There had been a rough table in the hut which he had dragged out on to the metals to make more room in the interior. It stood sufficiently far under the tunnel to be protected from the rain of the night, and he cleared it of the litter of unsorted spoils which had been piled upon it, and laid the meal with a greater formality than he had been accustomed to use. Stools, which had also been expelled from the hut, were now requisitioned.
They sat opposite one another, neither forgetting the courtesies due to host or guest as their training had taught them, yet aware that the old restraints were broken and that each was playing a lonely hand in which human law and convention and privilege would take no part. The only laws that concerned them now were those which are fundamental and inexorable.
Outside, a lark sang to the morning.
As he divided the meal, he made an apology for its lack of variety, and she laughed in answer: “I have never enjoyed the look of one in my life so much. Do you know that it is more than twenty-four hours since I have eaten? And how far I have swum since then—!”
He waited for her to continue, but she fell silent. They were both friendly, but guarded. Could she say that she had risked the waters to escape from men she despised or loathed; and then again from a secure and peaceful place, because she sought a man that would content her? Not yet, anyway.
On his part, he spoke of his solitary life and of the magpie-store he was accumulating, but he avoided any allusion to those he had lost, nor would he mention that his most precious things were in a recess a hundred yards down the tunnel, where even those who might invade and spoil his cabin would be unlikely to find them.
The constraint of each increased with the consciousness of the reticence of the other. As she ate she reflected that she could not stay there unless she were prepared to face a greater intimacy than she was yet disposed to grant—and he had shown no sign that he desired it!
On the impulse of a sound instinct she rose as the meal ended and held out her hand. She gave him a glance of frank gratitude as she said: “I cannot thank you enough. You have been too kind. You may have saved my life. I think I will get on now.”
He was not prepared for this, and he took the offered hand, while scarcely conscious of his answering words: “It was nothing. It was a pleasure.”
As she turned away he knew that he did not want her to go like that, but of what he did want he was uncertain. She was already halfway up the bank when he called to her to come back. She hesitated, and he called more urgently. “You cannot go that way unless you know the trick of the stone.”
At this she paused, being puzzled. It crossed her mind also that she ought to have asked if there were any service she could render him in return for his hospitality.
She came back doubtfully.
“Where were you going?” he asked.
She answered lightly: “I am going to see the world. I have had enough of sea-water. Perhaps I shall follow your excellent example and do a little collecting. Judging from what I see, I don’t think I shall starve. Or perhaps,” she
added, “I am on an island again, and it is all your property? If you would give me a limit?”
He saw that her mind went back to some earlier experience, but he did not ask it. He said simply: “You can go if you wish. But I can tell you some things first which may help you.”
He sat down at the foot of the bank, and after a moment’s hesitation she sat down beside him.
He said: “There is sea to the south, and on the east it is very near. I do not know how far there may be land to the west or north, but until yesterday I had supposed myself to be the only one living. Then I saw a party of men. I did not like them, and hid. You might differ, but I think if you should join them you would regret it. There may be others living of which I do not know. I had explored several miles before yesterday and had seen no one. There are cattle and neglected crops, and there are some houses that did not burn. Certainly you need not starve. If you meet with those men, I ask that you will not tell of this retreat. They were of the kind which wastes, but does not store, and what I have would be scattered.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t do that,” she answered readily. “But what kind of men are they?” She was not at all sure that she did not want to meet them.
He said: “I did not see much of them, nor did I wish to see more.” Briefly he told her what he had seen.
She was silent, and he went further: “You can stay here for a time, if you will, or longer; but you know what it must mean if you do so. You are alone, and it may be best for both.” But she was silent and made no response. He could not tell what she thought, but he felt that he was blundering, and that neither of them was prepared for an instant decision. Only he was determined now that she should not go.
His trained faculty of compromise showed him the way to avoid the issue successfully. He said: “Suppose you stay for a week. We can be friends for that time, and you can help me in many ways. Then you can go if you will, and I am quite sure that you will not betray me.”
“Yes,” she said, “I do not know—no, I mean I certainly should not betray you to anyone. Anyway, I will stay today if you really wish it.”
He was surprised at his own pleasure as he gained this concession, though she rose as she said it, and stood doubtfully, as though half-regretting already, and with a shyness that she had not shown previously.
If there were any lesson of his past life which he had learned beyond forgetting, it was the folly of the extra word after the point is won. He turned the subject instantly, and resolving to trust her wholly, he asked her help to remove some of his stores to the further cache which he had commenced in the depths of the tunnel.
She agreed, of course; but added a question as to whether there were any possibility of finding clothes if she sought them. She knew that if the weather changed the need might become urgent at any time. She had a further thought that she would rather seek them for herself than take them from him, even though there should be anything suitable among his goods, which was not very probable.
He answered: “Yes, I think we could find something, but we will go together. The other matter can wait. Most of the houses were burnt. It is astonishing how few escaped fire when the storm overthrew them When they were in rows or groups they were always destroyed, as far as I have yet explored, but some escaped that were solitary, and there are still many things to be found uninjured in the ruins. Some of them might be made more comfortable than this tunnel; but I think we are safer here, for a time at least.
“Your best chance would be at a house about two miles away, part of which is still standing, and it is in the direction where we are least likely to meet those we would avoid.”
He considered a moment. Their worst danger was that they should be seen as they started, and their hiding-place be located. Besides, the shortest way was through the tunnel.
“Do you think you could walk bare-footed through the tunnel?” he asked. “It is a long way. Or could you make use of my shoes? I know they are too large.”
“No,” she answered; “my skin ought to be thick enough now. I can walk on the sleepers. Have you a lantern?”
Yes, he had that.
They went back into the hut together, and prepared for the expedition. He produced the lantern, and a clean sack, and a large basket.
He showed her his armoury. There were two trophies of travel which he had taken from the hall of the house to which they were going. A hunting-knife with sheath and belt, and a five-foot spear with a bamboo shaft.
She laughed at the quaint weapons, and when she understood that he intended to carry them she supposed that it was as a protection against the men he had seen on the previous day.
“No,” he answered, “they are too numerous. If we see them our only chance would be in flight or to attempt friendly relations, which I don’t think would be possible. But there are cattle the way we are going, and they are wilder than they were. The cows with young calves are the worst. One of them would have had me down but for a lucky thrust which caught her in the mouth, and after that I had to walk backwards for a time, threatening her with the point, till I gained shelter.
“I always take the spear when I go that way now. You can have the knife and belt, though I don’t suppose you will need it. But it is useful for many things.”
He showed her also an automatic pistol with a store of ammunition which he had found, and which he now proposed to hide in the depths of the tunnel.
“Why don’t you take it with you if there is any danger?” she asked. “I suppose you can use it?”
He answered frankly: “I never fired a shot in my life, but I know how it is made, and how it works. I had to defend a man last February who was accused of murder, and had been shot at with such a weapon, and it was necessary that I should know how it acted. But it is best that I should not take it now, for the reason I have explained already.”
It was the first allusion he had made to his previous life, and it took her thoughts at once to the trial of which he spoke, which had been a universal topic of the time.
“Then you are Martin Webster?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, “I was—I don’t know what I am now.”
They were both silent after that, while she adjusted her mind to this new conception of his personality, and his went back to the triumph of the crowded court, when the words Not Guilty, for which he had fought for three strenuous days, came from the foreman’s lips.
“I suppose he really did it?” she asked, as they started along the tunnel.
“Oh yes,” he replied at once, showing that their minds had been on the same track, “but the verdict was right all the same—as the wrong verdict often is—or was.”
They were silent again, their minds reverting to a catastrophe too great for speech and a future beyond foreseeing.
The tunnel was about a quarter of a mile long. After the first hundred yards it bent slightly to the right, so that the entrance was no longer visible. Water dripped from the roof, and there were wet pools underfoot as they advanced toward the point of light which marked the further exit.
They came out between high banks, topped with thick hedges, but these banks decreased in height as they proceeded till they reached the locked gate of a level crossing. There was no road here but a cart-track only at the side of a field of beans, the crossing being nothing more than a right-of-way for the farmer whose land the railway had divided.
It was characteristic of Martin’s caution that he had not marked his passage by forcing the lock, but had climbed over with the loads which he had brought back from the ruined house which they were seeking.
There had been no collieries on this side of the line, and now that the murky atmosphere, which had been an unlifting blight upon the midland plain, was gone forever, the fields showed as fairly as though no pollution had ever touched them.
The cart-track followed the side of a tall hedge, and then passed through a small wood, emerging on a steep and narrow lane, which descended between high wooded banks, the trees often mee
ting overhead.
They heard cattle breaking through the undergrowth as they crossed the wood, but they did not see them, nor anything living larger than a magpie, till they were at the foot of the lane, when they came on a large and shaggy dog as the road turned. They were within a few yards only when they became conscious of each other’s presence. The dog backed a few paces, growling savagely. Its hairs bristled, and it advanced again, seeming disposed to rush them.
They had both halted abruptly. Martin was slightly in advance. He had the spear in one hand, and the empty sack was thrown over his left shoulder. Claire was carrying the basket with the lantern within it.
On an instinctive impulse he threw the sack at the dog’s head, and it checked it for a moment. Then he waited with the spear lowered, grasping it firmly in both hands. Every instant he expected it to charge. It was a large and savage brute, and he felt that he should be in a poor case if the spear broke or were brushed aside when it did so.
It moved from side to side, watching the spear-point that moved with it.
Claire stood behind, frightened, and very conscious of her bare legs and scanty covering.
The dog would not advance or retreat, and he felt that the tension could not continue.
“Draw the knife,” he said, without taking his eyes from the dog for an instant, “and then throw the basket at it.”
She drew it out, and the sight of the straight, keen blade gave her a moment’s confidence. He had thought that the basket would divert the dog’s attention the while he thrust with the spear, but she threw it badly, and it passed over its head unregarded.
She saw that she had failed, and picking up a large stone threw it with all her force. It was a poor throw enough, but it fulfilled its purpose. It struck the brute on the shoulder, and as he flinched sideways, a second too late to avoid it, Martin thrust, striking beneath the side of the throat. The dog sprang back, howling. Martin could not tell how deep had been the wound beneath the thick and matted hair, but the blade was red, and blood was falling fast where the dog stood. For a moment it stayed uncertain, and then turned and fled down the road.
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