The British Barbarians

Frida seated herself in her misery on the ice-worn boulder where three minutes earlier Bertram had been sitting.  Her face was buried in her bloodless hands.  All the world grew blank to her.

Monteith, for his part, sat down a little way off with folded arms on another sarsen-stone, fronting her.  The strange and unearthly scene they had just passed through impressed him profoundly.  For the first few minutes a great horror held him.  But his dogged Scottish nature still brooded over his wrongs, in spite of the terrible sight he had so unexpectedly evoked.  In a way, he felt he had had his revenge; for had he not drawn upon his man, and fired at him and killed him?  Still, after the fever and torment of the last few days, it was a relief to find, after all, he was not, as this world would judge, a murderer.  Man and crime were alike mere airy phantoms.  He could go back now to the inn and explain with a glib tongue how Mr. Ingledew had been hurriedly called away to town on important business.  There was no corpse on the moor, no blabbing blood to tell the story of his attempted murder:  nobody anywhere, he felt certain in his own stolid soul, would miss the mysterious Alien who came to them from beyond the distant abyss of centuries.  With true Scotch caution, indeed, even in the midst of his wrath, Robert Monteith had never said a word to any one at Brackenhurst of how his wife had left him.  He was too proud a man, if it came to that, to acknowledge what seemed to him a personal disgrace, till circumstances should absolutely force such acknowledgment upon him.  He had glossed it over meanwhile with the servants and neighbours by saying that Mrs. Monteith had gone away with the children for their accustomed holiday as always in August.  Frida had actually chosen the day appointed for their seaside journey as the fittest moment for her departure with Bertram, so his story was received without doubt or inquiry.  He had bottled up his wrath in his own silent soul.  There was still room, therefore, to make all right again at home in the eyes of the world—­if but Frida was willing.  So he sat there long, staring hard at his wife in speechless debate, and discussing with himself whether or not to make temporary overtures of peace to her.

In this matter, his pride itself fought hard with his pride.  That is the wont of savages.  Would it not be better, now Bertram Ingledew had fairly disappeared for ever from their sphere, to patch up a hollow truce for a time at least with Frida, and let all things be to the outer eye exactly as they had always been?  The bewildering and brain-staggering occurrences of the last half-hour, indeed, had struck deep and far into his hard Scotch nature.  The knowledge that the man who had stolen his wife from him (as he phrased it to himself in his curious belated mediaeval phraseology) was not a real live man of flesh and blood at all, but an evanescent phantom of the twenty-fifth century, made him all the more ready to patch up for the time-being a nominal reconciliation.  His nerves—­for even he had nerves—­were still trembling to the core with the mystic events of that wizard morning; but clearer and clearer still it dawned upon him each moment that if things were ever to be set right at all they must be set right then and there, before he returned to the inn, and before Frida once more went back to their children.  To be sure, it was Frida’s place to ask forgiveness first, and make the first advances.  But Frida made no move.  So after sitting there long, salving his masculine vanity with the flattering thought that after all his rival was no mere man at all, but a spirit, an avatar, a thing of pure imagination, he raised his head at last and looked inquiringly towards Frida.

“Well?” he said slowly.

Frida raised her head from her hands and gazed across at him scornfully.

“I was thinking,” Monteith began, feeling his way with caution, but with a magnanimous air, “that perhaps—­after all—­for the children’s sake, Frida—­”

With a terrible look, his wife rose up and fronted him.  Her face was red as fire; her heart was burning.  She spoke with fierce energy.  “Robert Monteith,” she said firmly, not even deigning to treat him as one who had once been her husband, “for the children’s sake, or for my own sake, or for any power on earth, do you think, poor empty soul, after I’ve spent three days of my life with him, I’d ever spend three hours again with you?  If you do, then this is all:  murderer that you are, you mistake my nature.”

And turning on her heel, she moved slowly away towards the far edge of the moor with a queenly gesture.

Monteith followed her up a step or two.  She turned and waved him back.  He stood glued to the ground, that weird sense of the supernatural once more overcoming him.  For some seconds he watched her without speaking a word.  Then at last he broke out.  “What are you going to do, Frida?” he asked, almost anxiously.

Frida turned and glanced back at him with scornful eyes.  Her mien was resolute.  The revolver with which he had shot Bertram Ingledew lay close by her feet, among the bracken on the heath, where Monteith had flung it.  She picked it up with one hand, and once more waved him backward.

“I’m going to follow him,” she answered solemnly, in a very cold voice, “where you have sent him.  But alone by myself:  not here, before you.”  And she brushed him away, as he tried to seize it, with regal dignity.

Monteith, abashed, turned back without one word, and made his way to the inn in the little village.  But Frida walked on by herself, in the opposite direction, across the open moor and through the purple heath, towards black despair and the trout-ponds at Broughton.

The end