Betty remained in attendance. Phillips, a young plumber of Cowley Thorn, to whom she had been previously engaged, directed his energies to rebuilding a portion of the ruins, and was invited to reside upon the premises. The young couple, as satisfied as Stacey himself with the provisions which Providence had made for their well-being, were content enough to wait upon him and forage for their common needs, and he was thus enabled to continue an existence which, without suffering any unaccustomed privations, was freed at once from the obligation of work, and the burden of debt which had previously embarrassed him.
When his incursion into Victorian fiction, on the morning of the day with which we are dealing, was disturbed by Phillips with the news that Jerry Cooper’s band was approaching, he had looked up from the hammock in which he lay and answered with his usual aloof urbanity.
“My good man, they don’t want me—or you. But they may want Betty. It is a desire with which we can both sympathise very easily. But I don’t see any reason why we should let them have her. You had better take her into Cowley Wood and lie close. You can tell her from me that lunch can wait.”
Phillips looked doubtful. “Won’t you come, sir?” he asked. “They’re a rough lot.”
“No, Phillips,” he answered. “I’m too comfortable where I am. Besides, if they see me here they won’t suppose that anyone has left the house.”
The man went a few paces and hesitated. He had a liking for his curious master, and thought him foolish to remain.
Stacey saw his hesitation, and added: “I shouldn’t waste time, Phillips, if I were you. You might be sorry tomorrow. And don’t try to go far. It isn’t running that will save you. It’s lying close. Get Betty well into the brambles. She’ll be scratched now, but glad afterwards. “
He returned to a consideration of the conversation of Betsy Trotwood.
It was well for Phillips and Betty that they had lost no time as he had suggested, for it was scarcely three minutes later that the troop that had been detailed for Cowley Thorn reined at his gate, and the next moment two of them were riding up the garden path. They did not observe Stacey, and had they continued through the orchard they must have seen the fugitives crossing the field beyond. So Stacey considered, with an unhurried mind. He raised himself and called after them. They pulled up at the voice, and commenced to question him. They called to their comrades to surround the house. They concluded, as he had foreseen, that his presence and occupation would give the impression that no alarm had reached, and that the occupants would still be about the premises.
He told them, with a careful accuracy, that he had two servants, of whom he had seen one enter the house only three minutes ago. He suggested, with a polite irony, that they should respect the privacy of his residence.
They left him to search the house. Supposing that the inmates would be in hiding, they spent ten minutes with a result which need not be stated. They returned to Stacey with a natural anger and a request that he should rise and assist the search. He replied that he would do so with pleasure when the day became cooler, but at present he was too comfortable.
The sergeant of the troop shot him through the head where he lay. “Captain’s orders,” he said. “‘Don’t waste time. Shoot the men. Come on, boys. Well get nothing here.” They rode on to Cowley Thorn.
It is probable that Stacey had saved the life of Phillips and the happiness of the woman. He did this from the same cause that had made the payment of Betty’s wages so irregular an event in earlier days. He was himself throughout. With many faults, he had still been greater, in one aspect as least, than were most of those that the seas had swallowed. He had declined to be dominated by his environment. He had lived and died as near to individual freedom as was possible in those days.
As we have observed, it was a silly murder. Like most human actions, it had a variety of unforeseen and unforeseeable consequences. The first of these was that Tom, hearing of it, had promptly interviewed the grief-stricken servants and arranged, by whatever arguments, or threats, or persuasions, that the succession of the freehold should pass not to themselves, as would have been most natural under the existing conditions, but to the new leader whom he was introducing. Probably they were well content with this solution. Both Phillips and Betty were of the dying class of English people to whom it was natural to give faithful service to others. There was much nobility in its ideals and practice, and it had been succeeded by baser things, but it preferred security to responsibility.
Tom explained the circumstances briefly. The house was about two miles away in a direct line, but it was over three by road, and the road was easier. The day was far advanced, and he proposed that they should go without delay. The dead master of the house would be already buried. Betty had promised that all possible provision should be made for their comfort.
Helen looked doubtfully at the children, already sleeping. She was reluctant to disturb them further. She was not prepared to leave them. She was not prepared to suggest that Martin should go without her. She asked Tom what accommodation they could rely upon at the house to which he would take them.
He was not clear on that point. It was doubtful whether more had been rendered fit for occupation than would provide for the two servants, in addition to Stacey’s own apartment. But that alone, if it were only his library and an adjoining bedroom, would be much more than the lodge could offer.
Claire cut the knot. She said to Helen: “Hadn’t the children better stay here for tonight? I will stay with them. It’s the best way for them, and far the safest. If you find everything satisfactory where Tom is taking you, you can fetch them in the morning, or I will bring them.”
Helen hesitated. They had scarcely left her sight since she had saved them from the floods. But she knew that Claire spoke reasonably. They could scarcely be safer than with Claire, who had proved both her willingness and her power to protect them. And she wanted Martin—to herself. She turned to him for decision.
Martin turned to Tom.
“I don’t think there’ll be anything more to fear from Cooper’s lot. Not for some time, anyway. Is there any danger from the people round?”
Tom shook his head.
“They won’t come here,” he said. “They never have done. They know me too well. Anyway, they wouldn’t come for the children.” He looked at Claire, hesitated, and stopped. Then he added: “It sounds the best way.”
“Very well,” said Martin, and then to Claire: “If you don’t mind?”
Claire laughed. “I shall like it,” she said, “I shall be asleep before you’ve gone two minutes.”
Tom was still puzzled, but recognised that the problem was postponed, not solved. He still thought that Helen could not know, but he was baffled by the easy understanding which seemed to exist between Martin and Claire, and by the apparent good will with which she almost thrust him into the arms of her rival.
He led the way to the new house.
But, left alone, Claire did not laugh, nor did she sleep quickly. The old woman went to her bed. The twilight came. Claire sat beside the sleeping children. Her eyes were sombre, and she bit her lips as she had done when she stood and watched the water from the Cotswold Hill.
She heard the tethered horses move without. An owl hooted. She got up and barred the door.
Her glance fell on the sleeping children and softened. Should she stay or go? It was so hard to think of what was right, and not merely of what had been customary. She was his, as Helen was his. And he hers. But Helen had the first right. Her mind moved in a circle. There might be his child and hers. It should not be less. It should not be second. If he should be the first among them, as she thought he would, then the child was his. His eldest son. Not less than Helen’s children. In no way less. Of course she must not go. Where should she? How would she provide for an unborn child, alone, and wandering in such a world? Where should she bear it?
Her thoughts went to Martin. After all, it would be his child, as much as hers. The problem was not hers a
lone, but his also. Perhaps he saw no problem. She felt certain that he did not wish her to go, nor expect it. But she saw difficulties that he might not see, if she should remain.
She was not jealous of Helen. Helen had not wronged her. Nor had she wronged Helen; at least, not with intention or knowledge. Indeed, she knew that she had not wronged her in any way, for she had not alienated Martin’s affection from her. Of that she was sure—and glad. Otherwise, there would have been tragedy, where now there was none. Surely there could be no cause except for rejoicing in the recovery of one who was loved, and who was well worthy of the love that was given? To think otherwise would be to think basely. Then was it a natural consequence that she should part from Martin? Was it a good thing that they should part? And, if so, exactly why was it?
A man could not have two wives! It was not the custom of their race. But to state a fact (if fact it be) is not to explain it.
It was better to have one only. Probably happier for the man. Certainly better for the woman. But if there were, in fact, two? That was the issue which they had to face. If she removed herself, she resolved it, perhaps in the best, perhaps in the only way. She would be equal to that if she should think it right. But she would not sacrifice the child. Her mind came back, full-circle, to the point from which it had started.
She knew the way in which the drowned civilisation would have decided it. A man might marry two women, each believing herself to be the only wife he had. It would punish the man, which did no good to him, nor to the women. A most utterly abortive stupidity. It did not punish him for any moral wrong he had done. He might have lived with a woman for years, promised her marriage, and then deserted her and her children to marry another, and the law was indifferent to a monstrous wickedness. If the deserted woman should have any means of support—if she should make no complaint—it would not interfere. But if he were to marry two women in a legal way, then it interfered. Its dignity was offended. It acted like a petulant child, careless of the misery which it caused. And for the women it had a solution of a callous stupidity. The first had all: the second nothing. The first was bound: the second free. It had no regard for their wishes; no regard for circumstances; no regard for either justice or mercy. It was inflexible in its folly. There was no help there, for there was no wisdom.
But those laws were dead. There was no law now—unless Martin should make it. She thought that they were utterly free—as free as is possible in any human circumstance. They three—she, and Helen, and Martin. There was no law to coerce, protect, or punish. It was their own characters which must decide. Finally, it was Helen. She had the first right. Claire allowed that; though whether from any reasoned conviction, or from the bias of tradition, she was not analytical enough to determine. She would go, rather than contest a claim which Helen would not admit. But there might be another life to consider! She would not sacrifice her child. So her mind went round the circle again, and found no outlet.
So she thought; seeing many things clearly. But there was one thing that she did not see, which Tom had seen from the first. Which Martin had seen also, and which had already occupied his mind as the decisive factor in the problem which was before them.
A low moon shone through the little window. Its square of light moved upward to the coarse coverlet of the bed, and to the faces of the sleeping children. Martin’s children—and Helen’s. With a rare tenderness—for she was not lightly demonstrative—she bent and kissed them. As she did so, it seemed to her that a solution came, it should be the children first—always the children. But how, and what, did it solve?
Comforted, but with no logical cause, she lay down and was asleep beside them.
CHAPTER XLVII
Martin and Helen were not quick to sleep either.
In the moonlit shadows of a room more luxuriously appointed than anything to which they had been accustomed, even in the earlier days, and in the recovered sanctuary of each other’s arms, they talked long of many things, joining again the threads of divided experience, and looking forward to a united future the possibilities of which were beyond their seeing.
Martin told of his loneliness, and of how Claire had come to him out of the water. He had not sought her. He did not say this. He did not excuse himself. He did not think of any excuse being needed. But it was clear to Helen as he told it. He did not touch on the future. It was Helen who said later. “It seems hard on Claire. I wonder she doesn’t hate me.”
“She doesn’t hate you?” Martin asked. Certainly he did not wish that.
“No,” Helen said, “I think she likes me a little, though we are so different. I don’t think she could hate anyone, unless they deserved it. She’s not that kind....I shouldn’t like her to hate me.” The vision came again of Claire’s eyes as she had emptied her automatic into Bryan’s falling body. “I’m sorry about it all. We owe her a great deal. You’ll know what we ought to do.”
So she left the responsibility to him, as she always had done. He did not answer but he saw that the final decision would not be his, but hers.
In the morning they woke to a new world. They woke late, and tired. Emotion stirred reluctantly, and limbs were slow to fulfil their usual service. But it was not an exacting world. Time had ceased to tyrannise in the old manner. It moved inexorably, to change, to winter, to decay, but it did it quietly. The human yoke, the complexity of interdependent duties, had been removed. It was a new dawn, and the day would be of their own making.
It was knowledge that Martin most needed—knowledge of the character and conditions of the community into which he had intruded so strangely. He wished to know many things of which he had not yet been informed, and from a different angle than that of Tom Aldworth and his associates.
He questioned Phillips, and found him a mine of information. Deferential in manner, offering no unasked opinion, he was yet clear in his replies, and had obviously studied the life around him with an observant thoughtfulness. Martin did not doubt that he had been an efficient plumber, but his tradition was that of the English manservant of the better kind.
Meanwhile Helen was questioning Betty with a similar experience. To her, Helen came as a miracle. A mistress resurrected, akin in dress, and habit, and manner to the best of those that the seas had swallowed. Seeing Helen, she realised how great was the gulf that widened continually between that which was, and which had been.
They were disturbed by the sound of horses on the roadway. Phillips, looking hastily out, announced that there was no cause for alarm. Going towards the gate, they saw Claire dismounting lightly, with Mary in her arm. The brown gelding was there also. Her voice, buoyant and confident, called a greeting as they approached. She put the impatient Mary into her mother’s arms. “I’m going back for Joan,” she said; and then to Martin: “I’ve brought you the jockey’s horse. He’s not bad, but I’ll never give up the chestnut. A king can’t walk,” she added with a mocking smile.
Helen thought her different from yesterday. She had thought her taller than she now seemed. Larger. More devastating.
“Did they worry you?” she asked.
Claire laughed again. “They didn’t wake me in the night,” she said, “if you mean that. They did in the morning, or I might still have been asleep. Do you always tell them tales when it’s scarcely light?”
She turned back to the gate. “I promised Joan I wouldn’t wait, and I’ve taken a long time to find you.”
Then she turned away, and was back in the saddle in a moment.
CHAPTER XLVIII
It has been said by those who have recovered from prolonged illness that the desires and interests which had previously absorbed their minds are often found to be no longer dominant. They remember, but no longer feel them. The old fertility is dead, and the ground is fallow for a new sowing.
So, to a lesser extent, change may come between a night and a morning. The problems which had held Claire from sleep in the moonlight hours had receded. She knew of them still. She knew that they must be faced; but her
mind was untroubled.
She saw her course clearly. She would take one of the children to their parents—she could not safely carry two at once. That would necessitate a return. There would be no awkwardness, prolonged at the first meeting. After that, when she returned, they could talk things over at leisure. Whatever were decided, she did not intend that there should be ambiguity or delay. She had none of Martin’s calculating caution, none of Helen’s aloofness, that would wait and watch the event, rather than be active to form it. She liked to ride straight at a fence, without too much inquiry as to what lay beyond it.
She did not know more than the general direction and distance of the house she sought, as she had heard Tom describe them, but she was confident that she would find it easily.
The morning was cooler and cloudy. There was a hint of autumn in the air. Some leaves fell lazily.
As she rode, she looked round with a lively interest at the country of which she thought, with a half-serious half-deriding mind, as of a kingdom into which Martin had entered. She had had no leisure to observe it yesterday.
She had then been only subconsciously aware of the rabbits. And the rabbits were everywhere! There would be no danger of immediate starvation. And the old oaks—how well they had stood the storm! Great limbs had been torn and scattered, some had been swept far distant from their parent trunks. But the trunks stood, and some still showed a good head of fading green above the seas of bracken.
The country lane had been well wooded, but she saw, as she had seen elsewhere, that, apart from the great oaks of the park, the trees had had no power to withstand the tempest, except where they had grown thickly, and then they had been snapped short or uprooted, until a barrier of their broken limbs had been swept and piled against those that remained, so that the northern side of any wood showed the full havoc of the storm, while its southern aspect (especially where the ground had any slope to southward) might have little remaining evidence of the ordeal that had passed over it.
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