Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  Muriel seized the opportunity to tell him of Tom’s plan, and, to her surprise, she found an immediate supporter. Len had always prided himself on being a good sport. He would not only support Tom, he would get the others to come. When was it to be?

  Tom wanted to get a meeting on Wednesday evening. But that meant nothing to him. Wednesday? Which day was that?

  It was the day after tomorrow, she said. Today was Monday. He had not known or cared.

  Tom had warned her of that. It made it impossible to call a meeting more than two days ahead.

  There were many who still kept count of time. Butcher did, and watched for the punctual settlement of the credits that he gave so judiciously. So did others. But there were many who had lost count of days, and were glad to do so….

  The meeting was held at the cross-roads as before, beside the ruins of the Plasterers’ Arms, but this time the roads were crowded from side to side. There were few men absent, and not many women, though they had not been asked to come.

  Tom had not sufficiently calculated that all the men who had already contracted any female alliance would be there, and would support his proposal. They had nothing to lose, and might have much to gain by its adoption. And there were many others who were assured, often on slender grounds enough, that a woman’s favour was theirs, or confident from a general vanity that they would not be left unmated under such conditions.

  They passed a resolution with cheers, and without any open dissension, that they would support any woman in the choice she made, and would expel or execute any individual who interfered or quarrelled to overset this freedom, and this having been done, the allocation of the unattached and of some previously doubtful women became the conscious preoccupation of the whole community, to which those who were already mated contributed their advice, and made or thwarted opportunity.

  The railway camp, having the largest female element, became increasingly populous, especially in the evening hours, and more than one inhabitant of Cowley Thorn or of Larkshill retired from it in triumph, leading his living booty before the eyes of scowling but silent rivals—exits which would have been more dignified, if not more romantic in character, had not the man usually been bowed down with the weight of goods which his acquisition (or perhaps ‘selector’ would be the better word) was taking with her.

  In other cases the favoured ones would join the wives that had chosen them at their own residences, so that the total population of the camp was not greatly altered, though its women lessened, and those of Cowley Thorn, where there had been scarcely any since Cooper had disappeared, taking five with him (such as were little loss), was considerably increased.

  In this atmosphere the unions of those who had remained unmated proceeded rapidly; not without some incongruities, for it would not be reasonable to suppose that selection could be made with the compatibility which had been instinctively required amid the freer choice of larger populations; not without some bitterness, and some open quarrels, of which one resulted in the expulsion of a man named Bryan, who wandered off to find Jerry Cooper and increase his following—the first instance of the public enforcement of enacted law, and, as such, an event of some historic interest in the development of this fortuitous island colony.

  * * * * * * *

  Muriel did not go through this period without adding to her experiences. She was approached in different ways by several men of diverse ages and character, all of whom she repulsed with the same impersonal friendliness. Among these, the diffident homage of the man Burke, whom she had interviewed on behalf of Sybil Debenham, was the most incongruous. This sporting character, having abandoned his pursuit of the frightened Sybil (losing nothing thereby, for when she understood that she could gain a respite from more urgent masculine solicitations by promising herself to the shy and youthful Davy she had taken that course as easily as his mother had prophesied) followed Muriel, like a frightened dog, at a timid distance, till she shortened the physical separation to explain the wider gulfs which divided them. There were others also; but when she had made it clear that she had no purpose of marriage, she had little reason to doubt that she could walk secure and unmolested, somewhat as a nurse may do in slums which other women could only traverse at continual peril.

  She had the confidence of many, and gave some hesitant advice, though it was usually of an abstract character, for she had outlived the folly of supposing that she had the gift of altering the lives of others to their own advantage.

  Tom was among those who made her a confidante of his troubles. He lacked the art of graphic words, such as will make the dull-minded see vividly that which is in the thought of the speaker. But he could state the vital facts so that they became real to one who had sufficient sympathy and imagination to see them.

  Now he told fully what she had previously known only by hint or inference, or by the talk of those who themselves had little certain knowledge.

  It began with the experiences of those who had struggled up to daylight after more than twenty-four hours’ imprisonment with little hope of rescue, in a mine where walls caved in, and props gave way, and floods were rising—struggled up to the safety of the surface-world, to find that safety marvellously gone, and to a view of long-familiar scenes that had been wrecked around them.

  To no others to whom storm came, and fire, and drowning floods, could the catastrophe have appeared so sudden, so inexplicable, so bewildering, as to these men who stepped out to an accomplished ruin.

  A little band of them, of which Tom was one, had wandered round Hallowby Park, and found along its farther side that the whole country they knew was beneath the waters, and while they gazed at the tossing, sunlit sea in which so many things were afloat which were not good to look at, and debated with inward fears whether the water might not be rising upon them, a little boat—an empty boat, as they had first thought it—drifting before the wind, had grounded on a shallow place a hundred yards from the land.

  And while they watched, a child’s cry had sounded across the water, and Tom had swum out, and brought the boat to the land.

  It held two living children, and a woman who had seemed dead. They had carried her to the little lodge on the west side of the park, that being the nearest building the storm had spared, and an old woman there, Mary Wittals, had taken charge of her and of the children, and, after a long illness, she was now living there in recovered health.

  Tom had promised the old woman that he would provide for those who had been landed upon her, and he had kept his word, taking daily food and other necessities. He had endeavoured not to alarm these unprotected people during the time of their enforced isolation by explaining more than was necessary, or than must have been apparent from their own experiences; and while the woman had lain ill, if not dying, she had excited little interest or cupidity.

  But she was now regaining her youthful vigour; she was a young and (Tom evidently thought) a very beautiful woman; circumstance had isolated her from the rough and primitive conditions of the past months; and she had, as yet, no conception of what she would have to face if she and her children should be brought to the railway camp.

  The lodge lay out of the way of any likely wandering, for the road which ran north from the Larkshill district along the west side of the park and past the lodge went on only to break off at the new coast, and at a spot where the cliff was high and straight, and no one would go there in search of the harvests that the sea would yield on shallower shores. (Generally, the shore was flat along the east and high along the northern coast. It was at the north-east that the boat had grounded, and across the park, south-westward, that the rescued party had been taken.)

  Those who knew had little interest in a woman who was regarded as Tom’s property, who had been seen apparently dead from exposure or other causes, and who was reported still to be a bedridden invalid.

  Now Tom’s problem was to decide whether the time had not come when the isolation must end, and she and her children be brought into the camp.


  “Isn’t there more room at the lodge?” asked Muriel “Hadn’t you better settle down there?”

  “No, there’s not much room at the lodge. There’s only one room, and one bed, and there’s Mrs. Webster and the two children sleeping in it, and Mary Wittals—to whom it all belongs, in a way—sleeping on chairs to make room for her visitors. I had thought that if Jack had gone with Madge I could have offered them this compartment, but that isn’t the whole difficulty…. You see, she only looks on me as a friend, or a servant—and I know who she is.”

  “Who is she? And why shouldn’t you know?”

  “There’s no reason I shouldn’t, but it makes it awkwarder than it would be. You see, she’s Martin Webster’s wife—Martin Webster, the barrister—no? I thought every one knew him by name—he saved my life once, in a way. I’ll tell you about it some time, but not now.

  “Well, she thinks he’s alive, and now she’s stronger she wants to set out to look for him. Of course, she can’t.

  “They lived about twenty miles to the south, about where the land ends. From what she tells me, I should think it’s quite certain he’s drowned.”

  “Is she young?”

  “Yes,” said Tom, “Quite. Not very. She’s got two children.” (Helen Webster was actually twenty-eight—five years older than Tom.) “I suppose I shall have to go to look for him before I can propose anything else.”

  “What else do you propose?” Muriel asked.

  Tom hesitated. It wasn’t easy to explain. Of course, as things were, it had been taken for granted, among those who knew, that he had a first claim on those whom he had rescued, and for whom he had provided when they must have fared hardly—could, indeed, not have lived at all in the first days, had they been left unaided. But Helen Webster, however grateful she might be, did not realize the position. She was always friendly: was obviously glad to see him on his almost daily visits. But her friendliness was that of an older woman, of different education and social status—a distant friendliness, which may be a more effective barrier than dislike or discord.

  And yet, while he had realized this, he had set his mind on her as being naturally, almost inevitably, his sooner or later, under the new conditions of life. He did not think it likely that her husband was living. He did not see how she and her children could easily exist without his support and protection. He did not see that she could expect it to continue permanently on its existing basis. Her own self-respect would reject it when she understood. He did not think that there were many in the very limited choice that now remained that she would be likely to prefer to himself. He knew that he would be fiercely resentful if anyone should interfere between them—that he would share the difficulty of peaceful adjustment of such differences which he had, so far, only attempted to solve for others.

  “Well,” he said at last, “I know she’s free to make her own choice, but I reckon I’ve got the first claim.”

  Muriel saw clearly enough that he spoke without assurance, and that their relations could not have advanced to any confident intimacy. She remembered that Mrs. Webster was married, but such ties were being ignored or forgotten—perhaps rightly—on every side. So many had husbands, wives, lovers, that had disappeared, and whom it must be assumed that the floods had covered. But she believed that her husband might be alive. Thinking that, she would not be likely to consider Tom Aldworth in such a possible relationship till that doubt were removed. Muriel considered (reasonably enough, though quite wrongly) that her anxiety to be quite sure of her husband’s fate might arise from a willingness to clear the way for another union. She wondered whether Tom would welcome any help from her, and whether she could give it. She could do nothing till she had some idea of what kind of woman Mrs. Webster was.

  A barrister’s wife, who had saved her two children somehow, in a drifting boat—that was all she knew.

  “Is she pretty?” she asked.

  Tom was not eloquent. He felt vaguely that “pretty” was not the right word. “Beautiful” would have been better. But the right word failed him. Possibly he did not know it.

  He answered awkwardly, “Yes—at least…. It’s more than that. She’s different.” He tried to think of another of the remaining women to whom he might compare her, and failed. “You see, she hasn’t been through it, like we have.”

  “I see,” said Muriel. It occurred to her, among other things, that Helen Webster might be quite capable of looking after herself. Anyway, she would defer the offer of going to see her which she had been about to make. Sooner or later it would happen. She had long since learnt to control her youthful inclination to butt in where she wasn’t needed.

  As Tom said no more she added, “If you’ve got to look for Mr. Webster, hadn’t you better get it done quickly? You can’t leave her there forever, now she’s got well; and I suppose you don’t want her here till you both know where you are.”

  “Yes,” said Tom. “He was square to me. I reckon I’ve got to go. But I shan’t find him. It oughtn’t to take long to look. Hatterley’s been wandering round down south, and he says there’s hardly anyone there at all. It’s just going wild.”

  He thought of himself as setting off alone—or perhaps Jack would come with him, if this trouble with Madge were over one way or other. Jack was a good, though not always a very sanguine, companion, and his quickness with the rifle gave a feeling of security to anyone who walked beside him. Also, he knew the countryside, and not only the now obstructed roads, from the experience of many nights of unsuspected poaching in the old days.

  So he planned; but when he went, he went differently.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  James Hatterley had no cause to complain that he had been born into an uncongenial century.

  He had preached the advantages of a life of bare feet, nut-butter, and parsnips (raw), and had been living in the summer woods with a wife to whom he had been too “advanced” to unite himself with the formality of a legal marriage, while he lamented the decadent civilization around him; a civilization which had regarded him with an even more confident contempt, being assured by its own majority, and had disposed of him to its own satisfaction by describing him as a crank—a word which it had appeared to mistake for an argument.

  Now James Hatterley and his wife remained, and the civilization of which he complained had disappeared around him.

  There is much to be said for James Hatterley, and I am sorry that the first historical fact which must be put on record concerning him after the storm rose is that he was badly frightened. His bare feet and his habits of simple living gave him an enormous advantage over his fellow-survivors, and the increased difficulty which had arisen in obtaining regular supplies of nut-butter must be accounted a triviality in that comparison.

  He should have emerged from his hollow oak on the second day, or the third at latest, and taken control of the survivors of an effete generation.

  Instead of that, he lay close, and watched, and did not like what he saw, and lay closer than ever.

  He had to fight once to save his wife from a stranger’s familiarity, which he did sufficiently well, but he realized more vividly than ever that he was now in a world in which a summons for assault could not be ‘issued.’ It may be that a prolonged diet of parsnips and nut-butter improves the health so much that the joy of living becomes too great to be lightly risked. Anyway, he lay closer than ever, keeping his wife beside him.

  None the less, though he lay close, he looked out, and his eyes were good.

  He saw Bellamy’s gang going south, at as good a pace as the two-horsed cart that carried all their permanent baggage could be persuaded to move. He was under cover, on an elevation nearly a quarter of a mile away, but he could tell most of the men, including the huge form of Bellamy himself. He saw the two old hags who had been their only feminine associates since they had been marched with roped hands through Larkshill village. He saw another woman among them. One who did not go willingly. He could not tell who she might be.

 
; His wife, lying beside him, had better eyes, or could use them to better purpose.

  “That’s Marian Hulse,” she said. “I wonder how they got her.”

  “Such things ought to be stopped,” he said firmly. He rose up as he did so.

  “You’re going to interfere?” said his astonished wife.

  “No, I can’t do that. But I’m going to let them know.”

  He set off at once. He did not understand his own motive for this activity. Probably it was composite in character. Most motives are.

  He came to the patched cottage on the southern limit of Larkshill, where Marian Hulse had been living with John Pettifer (a man of sufficient placidity to endure her tempers), but he found it empty. The door hung inward by a single hinge. The window was broken in. Brick-ends lay on the floor, and there was blood on one of them. There was more blood on the hearth.

  James Hatterley went on across the fields to the railway camp. Tom Aldworth was away, but he saw Jack Tolley and Ellis Roberts, who had kept their word and held their friendship since Madge had exhibited the caprice of women by choosing the one who was twice the age of the other, and of the more battered appearance.

  He saw John Pettifer also, who had been left for dead on his own hearth, and who now sat on the bankside, with a bloody bandage round his head, and a face of unnatural pallor, telling once again, to an ever-increasing group of listeners, the tale of the early morning hours.

  It had been scarcely light when they had surrounded the cottage. (The days were shortening now, though the warm weather continued.) They had thrown brick-ends through the window when he would not open, and he had returned them by the same way.

  Finally, Bellamy himself had forced the door. John had attempted to defend himself and his wife with a carving-knife, but Bellamy had seized his arm, and a broken wrist showed how the struggle for the knife had ended. Then Bellamy had thrown him down, so that his head struck the stone floor, and there he had lain unconscious till the chance call of a neighbour had found him.