Deluge: A Novel of Global Warming

by S. Fowler Wright

  “Yes,” said Tom; “there was nothing wrong with the children. They were cold and wet, but they were right by the next day. The woman was nearly dead. But we nursed her through. She’s well now.” Martin said nothing. He continued to look at Tom as though implying that there was more to be told. It was a habit that had got many a foolish extra word from all but the wariest. Tom blundered on. “It’s a funny thing that I thought she was your wife till I met you last night. She told me so.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Helen.”

  “Is she well now?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “Is she...married?”

  “No. She believes you are still living. I came partly to look for you.”

  “Are the children well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you doing this for her?”

  Tom answered straightly. “Because she promised to marry me if I failed to find you.”

  “If you should fail...she would have no choice but to marry you?”

  The incisive question startled Tom, who was unconscious that his grammar had been corrected. Probably Martin was also, but it was a revelation of character that he should do it at such a moment, as was the power of inference that the question showed.

  Tom answered frankly. “No, I don’t see that she would. It’s a rule we made. She must marry someone. To all the rest she’s my woman now. It’s that that’s kept her safe.”

  “How far is she away?”

  “About twelve miles, or fourteen.” He looked at Martin, and said abruptly: “Do you want her?”

  Martin answered quietly. “She is my wife, Tom. I think you’ve been very good to us.” He saw clearly enough that Tom had some cause for his question. He saw that the position was conventionally difficult. He did not know what its issue would be. But he was not consciously troubled. The joy of knowing that Helen lived, and his children, was too great. He was not aware of any difference in his feeling for Claire. He had gained a great confidence in her loyalty, and in a largeness of nature which is not most common to her sex, during their brief period of intimacy. It crossed his mind, always inclined to the analytic, that he ought to feel differently, but the fact was that he was anxious to tell her. Anxious to ask her to share his joy!

  This did not prevent him realising Tom’s standpoint with an equal clarity. He saw that Tom had hoped that Helen would fall to his share. He might still hope it. How would Tom act if he should realise that that hope were lost? He might turn awkward. Or he might ask for Claire. Certainly the knowledge that he claimed Helen as his wife must diminish his right to protect Claire if it were known among these men in whose power they were. He thought he could trust Tom. But he took no risk that could be avoided.

  “Tom,” he said, “it isn’t you and I that can settle this. The women must have a voice. How soon can we get back?” He added: “I will tell Claire. But I think this is between ourselves. It would do no good for others to know till we’ve talked it out.”

  Tom saw that. Suppose Claire wouldn’t give Martin up? Suppose Helen wouldn’t forgive such an infidelity? There was hope here, though of a doubtful sort.

  “It’s no one’s matter but ours,” he said. “That’s true. We could be back by tonight.”

  Martin left him to seek Claire.

  But Tom found that they could not be back “by tonight.” Had that been possible many things might have ended differently. But Tom’s impatience was wasted on men who were tired and who saw no need for such haste. There was spoil to collect and pack. There were some wounds to be tended. There were dead men to be buried. It was agreed that they could not move till the next day. What was the haste? Knowing nothing of the activities of an ex-jockey, scarcely, indeed, knowing of his existence, Tom could give no answer.

  There was trouble enough for the remainder of the day in dividing the plunder of Bellamy’s camp and of the stores which Martin had accumulated, and on which he urged no claim, partly because his mind was on other issues and partly for more politic considerations.

  The bickering ended in a sudden outburst of anger, in which Bob Stiles stabbed Tedman under the arm, and would probably have paid for it with his life had not half a dozen of their companions interfered to part them.

  It was just then that Tom noticed Claire and Martin coming over the fields toward the camp together. He had not seen either of them since his conversation with Martin, now some hours ago. They were talking eagerly as they came, but there was no sign of ill will between them. Tom thought, not without some justification, that the omen was favourable to the hope which he would not willingly lose, even now. But things had not occurred as most people would have expected. They seldom do.

  When Martin had gone to seek Claire, whom he had left asleep at the hedge-side, he had found her place vacant; but guessing what her purpose would be, he had been in time to see her disappearing into the wood that bordered the stream on the banks of which they had been first encountered by Bellamy.

  When the fight of the previous night had ended, and they had realised that they had nothing to fear from Tom and his companions, the reaction had brought consciousness of an exhaustion that was both mental and physical. Claire would gladly have sunk into sleep on the spot from which their last defence had been made, but even then she had felt the impulse to get back to the open skies from the foul darkness of the tunnel, made more hateful by the dead bodies with which it was now littered and by the stenches of blood and powder that hung in the damp air. She had readily agreed to Martin’s suggestion that they should make the necessary effort to reach the camping-place of their new companions. But reaching there, and being provided with such comfort as the camp could offer, she had fallen into an instant slumber beneath a wild-grown hedge, sheltering her from the light rain that would clear with the approaching dawn.

  But when she woke in the broad daylight, and cast off the blankets that had been given for her use, rising with a vague sense of well-being and of danger past, she was appalled at the filth and disorder of her garments and at her own condition. More urgent even than the call of a very healthy appetite was the desire for water and to improve her appearance before she should have confidence to move among the strange men who were already busy with the morning meal. She observed Martin engaged in the conversation with Tom, of which we already know the import. She had not the remotest premonition that it could affect her own future. Her one thought was to cleanse herself from the filth in which she had slept. She remembered the little stream. She had no fear of any danger. In the confidence of completed victory she did not even give a thought to the cattle and other animals that were becoming a menace to those who walked unarmed or incautiously. She started over the field at as good a pace as the heavy swathes of un-mown grass and some annoying stiffness in her own limbs would allow her. She had thought to be back before Martin should have observed her absence, but she had not reached the stream when she heard his pursuit, and turned to greet him.

  She was gay at heart, with the joy of victory and freedom won, and the exhilaration of sunshine and a south sea-wind, and was surprised that he did not respond more readily to the mood in which she met him. Misreading the thought behind his eyes, which were serious, though with an elation of their own, she said: “You are no better,” in a tone of light defiance.

  He caught her meaning with the quickness which they always showed to each other’s moods, and answered: “I am much worse. You are delightful always. But a bathe will suit us both.”

  Her words recalled him to a sense of his own physical condition which the news of Helen’s escape had obliterated. He was very hungry, with an appetite that he had rarely known in the old days—an appetite enforced by muscular and nervous excitements and by the clean sea air that was around them. Left to his own choice, he would probably have gratified it before he had satisfied the desire for a more superficial renovation. But he followed her feminine preference without protest. He had news which he was anxious to tell her. News so great th
at all else seemed dwarfed beside it.

  Yet he did not tell it at once. It seemed too great to be mentioned casually as they splashed in the little stream, and Claire sought for places that were deep enough for the exercise which she loved and which had brought her safely through the perils of a drowning world.

  In the delight of a recovered cleanliness, she must wash clothes also that were caked with tunnel mud, and a blood-soaked stocking. For she had only learnt on waking that a bullet must have grazed her heel as she lay on the trolley. Beyond that she had no damage except a few bruises, of which she had not known till she saw them and the marks of Bellamy’s blows, on her body.

  Martin had some bruises also, and the left side of his face was discoloured by the effect of Bellamy’s successful marksmanship.

  They sat on the bank at last, in a bushy shelter, while the sun dried the garments which Claire had spread upon the branches above them. They had no fear of oversight or of interruption. Claire was now the more anxious to get back to the camp. “I could eat a sheep,” she said vividly.

  Martin answered: “They were eating that young pig you captured. I hope they’ll leave some for us.” He changed to a more serious tone as he continued. “But I’ve had some great news this morning. I was only waiting till we could really talk to tell you. Tom Aldworth says that Helen is alive and in safety.”

  If her heart paused for an instant she did not show it. She said: “And the children?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  She looked at him with the wide open glance which he had learnt to trust. “I am very glad,” she said simply. She looked down to the water.

  After a moment’s pause she said: “We ought to go quickly, and was silent again.

  He found a difficulty in speaking which he had not expected. He felt that Claire would take her own line, and that it was already clear to her what it must be. He did not want to give her up. He did not love her the less because of the joy of knowing that Helen lived. That was a fact. It might be right or wrong, natural or unnatural, but it was a fact, and they were facts that counted now. The days of divorce courts were over. They were no longer ruled by the terrors of a vile publicity, by the hectic filth of the daily Press. They could decide for themselves in matters which were theirs only. So he thought, with less than his usual wisdom. There can be no concourse of men, civilised or savage, large or small, in which the individual will not be persecuted to conform to the opinion of others. It is the inevitable penalty of congregation. They would learn that before long, and in unexpected ways.

  She startled him by her next words, which came low and as though spoken to herself as she still gazed at the water: “I am glad that I shall have your son.”

  “You cannot possibly....” he began.

  “Yes, I think I shall,” she said confidently. She lifted her eyes to him again as she continued. “We have done nothing wrong. Neither of us. We couldn’t know....Will she mind?”

  “No,” Martin answered, “she will understand,” and then as he spoke he doubted.

  He knew Helen, with the confidence and intimacy of a union which had been almost perfect in sympathy, and—to a point—he was sure.

  He was sure that it would make no division between them. He had once said to her when a business necessity was taking him away for a month or two: “I don’t believe you’d mind if I found someone else to console me while I’m away.”

  She had smiled her answer, as though it were a question of little import, “Not if you wanted to.”

  “But,” he had added, “you’d want to know all about it when I came back.”

  “Why, of course,” she had answered. That was obvious. She was of the temperament that finds it almost as pleasurable to watch life as to share it. She would have regarded a mental infidelity as of more import than a merely physical one.

  So far he was sure. But how she would feel toward Claire was another matter. Here he was less certain. And of the future—he could not tell.

  He knew that both Helen and Claire were capable of generosities in the decisive issues of life. But that is to be great at the great moments; and the small moments are many.

  But Claire was speaking again. “I’m glad,” she said, “that you told me before you knew.” The meaning was clearer than the words. Perhaps she was right. He did not see that it mattered. She added: “She will be so glad you are alive....”

  He was realising more clearly than he had done before that the issue was between the two women rather than between himself and them. He did not yet realise that, even now, they would not be able to escape from the opinions of others—that these might be decisive. He did realise that Claire had taken it well, and it added to the exaltation that was natural as he thought of this unlooked-for recovery of those who had been dearest to him. Certainly, Claire had taken it well—he might say with a nobility of outlook which he had no right to claim. For Helen could be no more than a name to her. Perhaps she did not greatly care? But he did not think that. He would have little right to complain if it were so. But he did not want to lose her. He did not intend to lose her. He must talk it over with Helen. He thought that she would understand. But there was Claire’s standpoint also. It must wait till they met.

  It may seem strange that neither Claire nor Martin should have met the issue with straight words. Did they mean to part or to continue together? If they decided that they must part, would it be with laughter only, or with tears and kisses? There was no word of parting. There were neither kisses nor tears. Both of them had assumed that Martin would return to Helen immediately. They were not of the characters to consider any other possibility. And Claire had assumed that she would go also. “We ought to go quickly.” Beyond that she kept her counsel. That was simply because she saw that nothing could be resolved till she met Martin’s wife. It was between her and Helen.

  From a different angle, Martin felt in the same way. An instinctive loyalty to Helen prevented him from discussing the future, even with Claire, until he had first agreed it with the one whom he recognised to have the first right to decide.

  Claire rose, stretching herself luxuriously. It was good to be alive in the sunlight. She felt the clothes above her. They were dry enough. Anyway, she was too hungry to wait longer. She began to dress.

  Martin rose also. He saw blackberries.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  On the way back Claire said: “Are there many people alive where we are going?”

  Martin told her what he had learnt from Tom. He added that the confusion appeared bad enough. “Tom said they needed someone to boss them. He offered me the job. He seemed to think he had it in his gift.”

  “Did you accept?” she asked with a quickened interest.

  “I didn’t answer.”

  “You could do that. It would be rather fun,” she said thoughtfully.

  “It would be hard work,” he answered; “there’s always some fun in that. It would mean that many would pay for one’s mistakes instead of a few only. It would mean that I should probably get murdered in the end—and very likely deserve it. Yes, it would be fun enough.”

  “Shall you accept it?”

  He laughed at the idea. “I hadn’t thought of it seriously. If I ever accept such a position I shall have ascertained first that it is offered in earnest.”

  They were talking of the life which could be developed under the new conditions and of the possibilities which it offered of building something better than had been previously, when Tom saw them returning.

  He met them with his own trouble. Could nothing be devised to stop the quarrelling over the spoils, which was threatening the harmony of the expedition? Like many others before them, they were finding that success is more disintegrating than failure.

  There was discord over the ownership of the cart and horse which had been seized. Discord over the right to load it. Acute disputation with the owners of the packhorses, as to their right to burden their quadrupeds with captured articles too bulky for any manual transit, t
o the exclusion of those which they had brought for the general welfare. Discord over principles of distribution: Could each man keep that which he found? Was he entitled to all that he could carry, or ought they to share alike? How could they value the articles that they plundered? How many pots of raspberry jam would be equal to a pair of ivory earrings?

  Martin listened, and said: “You can’t draw lots. Everyone would get what he doesn’t want. Even choosing in turns wouldn’t be satisfactory. Why not have an auction?”

  Tom stared at that. “What could they bid?” he asked, “and who could they pay? You mustn’t forget that money has no value now.”

  “I don’t,” said Martin, “it never had. But we can pretend, as we used to.”

  Tom did not appear enthusiastic. “It would never be agreed,” he said, “because some have plenty of money, and some have none. Some have thrown it away, and some are hoarding it. They cannot believe that its value is over.” He did not say that he was one who had destroyed it. To be fair, it was not that which was first on his mind.

  “I don’t think that matters,” Martin answered; he was thinking quickly, and a plan had formed which might have more far-reaching effects than those who accepted it would be likely to contemplate. He explained it to Tom, who said it would do well enough if the boys would agree. Jack Tolley would be the best one to explain it to them. Jack was called, and understood it almost before Martin had finished speaking. He would tell them all that it was the best way.

  It was about an hour later that the contents of the captured camp, with Martin’s own accumulations, were collected in the centre of a ring from which no man was absent.