“Tell Tom I depend on him to see that there’s no trouble tonight. As to that, he knows what he’s to do. But if anyone comes here to make it they’ll get plenty.”
He turned to Butcher as he continued, I don’t want to quarrel. It will be better for all of us if we can work together. It’s only Cooper who’ll profit if we fall out. Can’t you wait three days? I shall be ready then to discuss everything.”
Thus addressed, Pellow did not reply, but he looked round at Butcher, as though expecting him to do so. Butcher hesitated. He disliked Martin for several reasons. He thought him dangerous. He had never troubled about Tom. He considered that he was more astute, and that he had become more powerful, in his own way, than Tom was ever likely to be. It suited his plans quite well that Tom should busy himself in defence of the community. In fact, with his own defence, among others. And he was entirely pleased that Cooper should have his following also. There would always be such as these to keep the peace, or to quarrel between themselves, so that wiser men might prosper. But the real power was his. His more securely with every day that passed. The power of wealth.
He did not hesitate because Martin’s words were conciliatory, or his voice persuasive. He did not intend that Martin should control this community, unless he could control Martin, which he thought unlikely. Nor did his mind deviate from the object which had brought him there. Like his son, and Pellow, he had no wife. He bitterly resented, in his secret mind, that no woman had shown him favour, even with the solid advantages which he could offer. But he was not one to seek his ends by obvious or violent means. He had tried threats, which had failed. And he recognized that to threaten further would be of no avail, whatever might be the sequel. He thought that Martin would be beaten, and the wish went with the thought. But suppose he were not? There would be no advantage in having committed himself to an open enmity.
He rose slowly, signalling by a jerk of his hand for his son and Pellow to do the same.
“You’ll come today,” he said, “if you’re wise. If you don’t, it’s your risk, not mine. I’ll tell the men what you say, but it isn’t likely they’ll wait. We’ve warned you fairly.”
With these words they had reached the door, and with no further leave-taking they went out.
Martin followed to the outer door, and watched them go up the road together. He saw that Pellow had found a voice, and that Butcher gave him what appeared to be a facetious answer.
He went back into the house, and found the women together. Under Betty’s guidance, they were busily occupied in reviewing the resources of the establishment.
“Well?” said Helen, as he approached. She was interested, rather than concerned. She had an acquired confidence in Martin’s ability to deal successfully with any difficulty which might confront him—a confidence which he might not find it easy to sustain, under the conditions of life which were now before them.
“Only talk, so far. But we mustn’t take it too lightly. I want Phillips.” He went on to find him.
Chapter Forty-Six
“Phillips,” he said. “What’s Butcher?”
It appeared that Butcher was medicine and commerce. He was more than that. He was wealth and power. He had made his habitation in the ruins of Helford Grange. Fire had levelled it with the ground, but the cellars were dry and extensive, and in these he lived, with about a dozen followers, including his son, who had been a medical student in his third year.
The younger Butcher, and a woman who had gained some experience as a dispenser, and who was also of their party, were the only two known to be remaining alive who had any knowledge of medicine or surgery as it was practised in England in pre-deluge days. This fact alone gave him an assured status, and assisted to enable him to accumulate stores with impunity, which another might have found it difficult either to acquire or hold.
From the first, Butcher had set his mind to the cornering of various articles, mostly of the less bulky order, which he foresaw would be in demand after their supplies became restricted. He had traded these articles fairly enough, and had continued to accumulate with diligence. He had enlisted the help of several men, especially such as had particular knowledge which could be usefully employed, and who were of that order of mentality which can give good results under the influence of a stronger will, but is not separately formidable.
He claimed that there was nothing which could not be obtained from Helford Grange, if the price which he asked were paid—a price in other articles of his own naming.
He did not usually supply his customers’ requirements immediately, but would state a day on which they would be in readiness. This may have been unavoidable in some cases, and he may have gone to much trouble and search to maintain the reputation which he desired, but it is probable that it was more often the result of a policy of concealing the extent and variety of his accumulations.
His followers were quiet and industrious. They did not menace the interests of their fellows in any open manner. They carried no arms. They took no sides. They had declined, under his instructions, to take part in the conflicts which had resulted in the expulsions of Bellamy and Cooper. If there were any provision for the defence of the Grange itself, it was not outwardly visible, nor apparent to those who called there for advice or barter.
Neither he nor his followers produced anything. They lived by barter and acquisition. Under the conditions which had prevailed, they cannot be considered entirely predatory or parasitic. Their activities must have resulted in the conservation of many useful things which might otherwise have been destroyed or wasted.
Martin observed that an ascendancy was being established which was not based on physical force, and with which he might have to reckon seriously and promptly if another authority were not to be developed beside his own, which might ultimately prove the stronger, and of a very doubtful benevolence.
He reflected that the problems of government are always the same. The civil power and the power of finance are at perpetual issue. Here was the old power in a new form, and he must conciliate or uproot it.
He was aware that the repeated lesson of history is that autocracy cannot continue unless it be allied with those who govern in finance and commerce.
King John had drawn the teeth of financiers, but in the end they had accomplished his ruin.
The Tudors had allied themselves with finance, and had established an absolute monarchy. Was it not the power of finance alone which had delayed the Armada for twelve vital months, while the Spanish Philip had learnt in bewildered wrath that his orders for Baltic stores were refused, on a hint from the London merchants, until he should have paid in cash against a pro forma invoice?
When the Stuarts preferred the agricultural interest, had not finance turned and destroyed them?
It was a truth which could be illustrated from every chapter of the history of civilization.
If he would establish an autocracy of any kind, he must control or conciliate commerce, in whatever form he should meet it. But did he wish to do so? Should not his aim be rather to establish a freer democracy than the older world had known? But even so, was it not under such conditions that finance became the more intolerable menace the more dominant power?
Suppose that the better aim should be to establish a simpler form of living than had been the ideal of the earlier days? An agricultural community, in which the manufacturing and trading interests should be controlled, if not eliminated? Even then, would not the financier triumph?
Was not the Mosaic Law an example of the difficulty of formulating a code which could resist such dominance? There would, at least, be one of its provisions—the prohibition of usury—which he would do well to remember.
There were few of the drowned world from which he came who would not have mocked the thought. Its industrial and commercial systems had been built on that foundation, so that it might have become impossible that they should survive its withdrawal. Yet he saw it for what it had been, with all its splendour—a palace built on sand—o
r, rather, upon a swamp of more sinister potentialities.
So his mind wandered, and he must recall himself to the insistent needs of the moment. And yet the rapidity of thought is such that it had been but a passing minute, while Phillips stood, silent and deferential, awaiting his further questions.
But he only said, “Thanks, Phillips. That will do,” for the thought which was now in his mind was one which was best left unspoken. What was the significance of Pellow’s presence with Butcher? Pellow, who was said to be of Tom Aldworth’s party. Pellow, who could not be drawn into speech.
It might mean much or little, but he would ask nothing which might be construed into a doubt of Tom’s loyalty, or of his ability to influence his own party successfully. He was already realizing something of the isolation of those who rule: gaining something of their habit of reticence.
He was puzzled also as to the significance of Butcher having appeared as the leader of the deputation. He had kept himself aloof from all previous controversy, as the trader will, till he considers that his purse is jeopardized too seriously for further quietude.
Possibly his attitude might be still undecided. Possibly he had come to form his own opinion of the proposed ruler. Possibly he might have spoken differently if Pellow had not been present.
Martin considered that it was unlikely that he had been actuated by a simple desire that Claire should be surrendered. From her own account of her interview with him, it appeared improbable that he could hope that any personal advantage would follow. He might conceivably have been actuated by a desire to revenge the insult which he had received, but Martin judged that his feelings would not easily deflect his judgment on such a question.
But all this was speculation, and might be absurdly far from reality, though it might well be that by the success of such guessing he would stand or fall.
His mind faced an urgent issue, which might be vital. Was there cause to fear an immediate hostility from those whom he had refused to meet till his own time, and should he make defensive preparations of any kind against that contingency?
He had given instructions to Tom to deal with such a position, and he did not think he would fail him. But he might be finding an unexpected difficulty in keeping his party together.
Martin recognized that, by his own dispositions, he was alone, and almost defenceless, against a combined attack Alone with Phillips and three women and two children. Protected only by the prestige which he had established, and the improbability that such hostile elements as might be arraying themselves against him would act without the knowledge of those on whose support he must rely, and with such concerted promptitude.
He recognized that his attitude in regard to Claire had placed a ready weapon in the hands of all who might desire to oppose him.
More than that, it gave a motive for hostility to many who might otherwise have been well disposed to his cause. And even those who had given him their adherence had done so before this question had arisen to test them.
Yet he did not think it likely that there would be any attack to be feared that day, or that it would be made without warning. He trusted Tom. Besides, there was Jack Tolley, whom he had not seen since his coming to Stacey’s house. He did not think that Jack was very enthusiastic in his support, but he was one who would very certainly be loyal to the side he had taken, and he was one who could be trusted to watch, and to judge the position well, and to give warning, if it should be needed.
Finally, he decided that the probability of any danger threatening the women without sufficient warning was too slight for it to be expedient that he should be observed making preparation against it. Above all, he must show confidence…. It might have been better to go at once to this meeting that they had offered, and to have faced them at once, with Claire beside him, trusting to the ascendancy which he had already gained, and to his ability to control an audience.
But having decided differently, having challenged them at the outset by saying that they must meet him at his own time, it was essential that he should show no fear of the security of his own position.
Thinking thus, he let the hours pass. His mind was busy with many plans and speculations that jostled one another, so that he had an unaccustomed difficulty in keeping his thoughts on any single issue.
On two sides of Stacey’s library bookshelves rose from floor to ceiling. He began to examine these volumes. They had acquired an altered importance.
He could not tell how widely, or how utterly, his civilization had fallen. But it was at least probable that a thousand years of human effort had disappeared beneath Atlantic waves.
It might rest with him to decide how much or little should be done to conserve the wrecks of the old literatures, of the old sciences, of the old philosophies and religions…
Stacey’s library was as cultured and varied as had been the contents of his own mind. Fiction and belles-lettres predominated. In the bulk, these books appeared to Martin to have become of a doubtful value. Certainly the more modern fiction, with its morbid introspection, its lack of humour, and of any sane estimate of relative values, its assumption of the normality of vicious living, its lack of fortitude or of ideality, would have little to offer that men would longer care to read, or which could be worth their reading. At the best, they were unimportant. They could await the verdict of leisure.
There was some biography…. That could wait also.
There was a good deal of history. His eye fell on Motley’s Dutch Republic, on Prescott’s Conquest of Mexico. He passed along the shelf in a thoughtful silence.
Then he came on a little group of scientific text-books. They may have been the best of their kind, but they could contain little beside the total of knowledge—physical, chemical, biological—that the ages had accumulated and the seas had covered. Still there could be no other end. It had been inevitable—always. It was only the date which had been unknown, which must always be uncertain. Did not every civilization that the earth had known begin with a tale of flood, and of the few that survived it?
It seemed pitiful, if this were all that remained from so large a harvest. But there must be other books elsewhere.… And yet, if all were gone, was it so entirely regrettable? They had held such power for good—and for evil also. It was hard to say.
And beyond these he came on a little group of the disciples of the hoary cult of the Witch of Endor. He read “Oliver Lodge,” “Arthur Conan Doyle,” on the covers. He did not doubt that they were well-meaning men, not intending harm to any. Men so much to the liking of their own time that they had both been knighted. Humble men, who accepted without protest the verdict that a knighthood is the fitting reward of their calling from politicians who would not have dared so to insult a successful brewer or barrister.
Martin was something other than a typical lawyer, but he could not avoid a flicker of contempt for the ineffectual. To refuse a title is one thing. To accept a fifth-rate article from a man who would have despised it for himself….
He became aware that he was wasting time on trivialities that the floods had ended.
As for the books, it seemed incredible that they should influence any but the feeble-minded; yet he knew in the past…. Well, Betty should burn them tomorrow.
But how, he wondered, could the best of the old knowledge, or at least some of it, be conserved, and its falsehoods ended? Who could be competent to discriminate? Could he claim such competence? Were he of the generation that would follow, would he not resent such action having been taken?
This last thought brought another. What could be the system of education on which the next generation would be reared? He saw that this would bear directly upon the earlier question. The peculiarity of recent years had not been the extent so much as the wide distribution of knowledge among those who had little inclination or capacity to digest or co-ordinate it. Many thousands who never exercised their minds at all…. The increased leisure that had been almost universal…. Not that they had lived quietly. Far from it. But the
hours given to routine labour had been abnormally short—had been shortening continually, even as the labour itself had been specialized further into more intolerable monotonies.
Previously there had been a small section of the community who were expert in arts and sciences of which others were ignorant. The farther back we inquire, the more primitive the conditions we encounter, the more marked is this division, till we find, at the foundation of every civilization, a priestly order reserving to itself a body of inherited knowledge, which the general community is permitted to approach, if at all, only by the medium of allegorical tales, the true meaning of which is quickly lost, even if explanation be given.
Which was the better way? Martin saw that the question was not a simple one. A privacy of knowledge places a great power in hands that may abuse it. Against this was the fact that knowledge given out to a whole people becomes uncontrollable, either for good or evil. And how much knowledge there is, curious to acquire, which can be used for evil only! Even should a new poison be discovered, its nature and use would be made known to all men, even though the civil power, acting at a somewhat higher level of sanity, might make regulations to hamper its distribution.
Perhaps there was no absolute answer. The great error of the latest developments of Western civilization had been its tendency to treat all men as alike and equal. An equality of opportunity might be good—might be ideal—but it had gone beyond that. There were some volumes of The Golden Bough upon the shelves beside him. They brought recollection of a stray sentence of their author—he could not recall exactly where it occurred—“No abstract doctrine is more false and mischievous than that of the natural equality of men.” That, at least, was an error which he could avoid without difficulty. It is not one which finds nourishment in the soil of primitive circumstance.
He saw that knowledge had been made a fetish, so that those who pursued it were regarded as though they could do no wrong. Knowledge, under its new name of science, was a sacred thing, however foul or foolish, or by whatever cruelty it might have been obtained. Even the chemists who had increased the horrors of human conflict had not been reasonably exterminated when that conflict ceased….
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