Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  The fact was that the law which had been adopted at Tom’s suggestion was now working to its natural consequence. The available women having been definitely mated, those men who were left had a feeling of being permanently shut out, and it is a position which always improves the flavour of the forbidden fruit. They had been restrained from any violent reaction, in some cases by their own characters, and in others by the strength of opposition which would now be arrayed against them. It was a fact of few exceptions that the men who had secured the available women were those who were best adapted, in brain or muscle, for the conditions of the life around them.

  The instinct to gain security for home and children, which is fundamental to women, had operated as it was bound to do, and they had chosen for the qualities which would give the greatest assurance of such protection.

  The destruction of Bellamy’s gang, the repulse of Cooper, and the memory of Rattray’s end would give little encouragement to any thought of active rebellion against the law which had left so many with no hope of home or household, but this very condition must make them the more alert to any chance of altering the restriction under which they lived.

  The appearance of Claire, and the news that she was apparently unattached, had caused an unprecedented excitement. Butcher himself was said to be a candidate, and one who, whatever his physical disadvantages might be, would not readily admit defeat. It was at his instigation that a meeting was to be held that afternoon, at which it had been proposed that Claire should be present, and should be pressed to make her choice from among them.

  Martin listened to this tale, and said little. He saw that Tom might have influenced the matter differently, in view of his supposed relations with Helen—might, at least, have averted an immediate difficulty. But it was useless to say that now.

  He only said that he would have no meeting called in the future, except by himself. As to Claire, Tom could tell them all that the law still held, and she should choose as she would. He would say no more, but he must have Tom’s promise to support that, wherever it might lead.

  Somewhat reluctantly, being still mystified as to Martin’s ultimate purpose, as he had been from the first, Tom gave the required promise.

  Having this, and judging that it would be kept, Martin dismissed him with few further words. If there were trouble about a meeting that afternoon, for whatever purpose, Tom was to get together those he could trust, and they were to disperse it, by force if necessary, referring to him only if the position should be sufficiently serious to require it.

  Martin judged that it would be inexpedient to appear to take the possibility too seriously, or as something which he could not rely upon Tom to deal with, but he saw clearly enough that if his authority should be challenged, from whatever quarter, or on whatever issue, he must assert it promptly and absolutely, or his rule would be over before it had well begun.

  As to this matter of Claire—well, he saw that much must depend upon her own intentions, which he could only guess, but he thought that he was acting rightly in a position which had no precedent.

  His thought was interrupted by the sound of voices coming through the open window. He could see nothing, for they came from the front of the house, and the library window was on its southern side, but he heard the voice of Claire raised in an indignant anger, “Well, you can call it off,” and Tom’s reply in a tone of apologetic protest, the words of which did not reach him. She must have stopped Tom at the gate. The voices went on for some time, but softened somewhat, so that he could hear no more of what was said. He considered that Helen would be there. Claire was bringing Joan, and Helen would be certain to go out to receive her. He judged that the crisis had come, as he had supposed it would, but more quickly.

  Then the voices died away, the library door opened, and the two women came in together.

  Helen spoke with her usual quietness, but there was too full a sympathy between them for him to fail to recognize the controlled emotion which her words concealed.

  “Claire is—is staying here. She wanted to go—but we owe—I owe her too much for that,” and then, with a quick instinct of error, “it isn’t what we owe, but what we need. Martin, I want her to stay with us.”

  She lied easily, as did most women of her social rank in the England that the seas had covered, but she may never have lied meanly, and she lied nobly now. And as she lied she realized that the lie might become truth. In such times as were before them she might yet be glad of such a comrade. And then—wondering if they understood all that she meant to give—she added, “I told Tom that you want us both…that we are equal in all things…. I think it’s the right way. It’s the only way now.”

  Claire found no words in response. Offered all that she had instinctively felt her right, offered it so generously, against the whole weight of the traditions and customs of the race from which they came, and against the natural jealousy of her kind, she had a reluctance to take it, and in the pause Martin answered,

  “Yes, it’s the only way…the only right one…. I think you both know that I couldn’t have foreseen this…but the old laws are gone.… I don’t mean that they were bad in that way…but we’ve got to think them out afresh.… I suppose, according to tradition, I ought to have chosen one of you and deserted the other—and the one might be happy afterwards, but I don’t think the two could—they would always have a consciousness of having acted basely to the one that was left. At its best, it could be no more than a cowardly way of avoiding a difficulty…unless either of you had wished to go…. I think you had the right to decide that.”

  Then Claire spoke. “But I’m not sure that it is right to stay. It will bring trouble…. No, I’m not sure that it is…. You’ll have enough without this.”

  Martin answered frankly, “Yes, it will bring trouble at first. I don’t know how much, but I think it will bring it quickly. After that we shall be stronger, if we survive. It will be best in the end.

  “I’ve undertaken to rule this crowd, and I don’t mean to turn back now. And to do that I’ve got to fight them over something. It doesn’t much matter what. But I need a fight. I don’t mean violence. But I’ve got to show them who’s in control, and when they’ve learnt that they can have all the freedom they’re fit for.

  “It’s not going to be easy. There’s so much to be scrapped, or rebuilt. But you can both help me immensely. I don’t think there’d have been much chance if you’d decided differently. It’s the only chance to face new conditions boldly, and we should have failed at the first fence.… But we should be able to do a great deal together, we three.”

  Helen spoke again. She had adjusted the defensive armour which had seemed to slip for a moment, and had regained the self-control which had rarely failed her, in whatever emergency.

  “It mayn’t always be easy, but I think it rests with ourselves. I think it’s hardest on Claire, in a way. We’ve got back what we thought we’d lost, and she’s got less than she thought she had.”

  She was aware, as she spoke, that she thought of Claire as something that came in from outside. They might take it in, but it would be alien still. She and Martin were one. Martin knew that. Perhaps Claire knew it too. She recognized in Claire a large-natured generosity which would simplify the adjustments that they must face together. But primarily it would depend upon herself to make such a household happy, or even tolerable. With the mental aloofness which was of her nature, she tried to regard it as an experiment of unusual interest, at which she should be ashamed to fail. Surely her love for Martin should be sufficient to protect her from any risk of failure. She said, “It’s the eternal triangle in a new shape,” and was uncertain whether the metaphor were absurd or witty.

  She looked at Stacey’s clock, still ticking over the fireplace. It was past midday. They had spoken slowly, with pauses pregnant of thought, and more had passed than the words would have held at a smaller time. She was relieved that they had understood each other so well without emotional expression, from which she alw
ays shrank. She said, “It must be time to see about lunch. I wonder what Betty’s doing,” and went out as she said it.

  Left alone with Martin, Claire spoke with her usual directness. “I don’t know now that I’m right to stay. I don’t think I would, if I didn’t think of the child that I may have. But I don’t know even that. I could find somewhere to go to. I’m not bound to stay with this crowd. I found my way about a good bit before we met…. I’m sorry for Helen…. You love her better than you do me. It’s right you should.” Martin answered with the frankness which had become habitual between them. “Perhaps I do; and perhaps it’s natural I should. But I don’t know, and I don’t want to think. I know that what has been in the past cannot be altered, and ought not to be ignored—and I know that I need you both.”

  “It may come right,” she answered, “if we all play fair, and I think we shall. We’re that sort, rather. Martin, you haven’t kissed me since—”

  Helen, coming back, found them together, with Martin’s arm round her. They did not move as she entered, but Claire looked up, and said, “You know, Helen, he’ll never care for me as he does for you. I suppose it’s because you were first.… And because you’re different from me. But I’d rather have it so than have anyone else in the world—or what’s left of it.”

  They were finishing a belated lunch, that drawled neglected as the talk swayed between narrations of their separate experiences and speculations of the future, when a noise of altercation arose in the hall, and three men, pushing past the protesting Phillips, entered the room together.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The first of the three was a tall, thin, elderly man, very narrowly made, which gave his height a grotesque effect. He walked with a permanent stoop, as though to discount this effect of deformity, but this manner rather emphasized than concealed it, and gave him, as he moved, the appearance which Claire had recognized when she told him with more truth than courtesy, that she would remember him, should she wish to marry an eel. For this was Butcher, of whom we have heard more than once or twice already. Henry Butcher, once junior and acting partner in the firm of Butcher, Trent, and Butcher, stockbrokers, of Colmore Row, Birmingham.

  He was accompanied by his son William, a young man of twenty-four, of too little individuality to merit a detailed observation, and James Pellow, a man of about the same age, or somewhat older, of a rather melancholy aspect, having a smear of coal on one side of his face, and wearing a soiled apron of basil skin, which suggested, truly enough, that he had been engaged in the work of a smithy before being called upon to join the deputation (if such it were) in which he now figured.

  It had been a fiction of the old days that all men are equal. The belief (so far as any believed it) was pernicious in its fruits, as falsehood must be. It had not even resulted in giving men an equality of opportunity, to which equity would entitle them: it had not even given them equality of legal right, the scales of justice refusing to move except for those who could weight them with surrendered gold.

  There were seven present here, including Phillips, who stood, passive but alert, at the open door, but none among them doubted that the issue of this invasion rested between Henry Butcher and Martin, who had risen to meet him.

  Earlier experiences had taught them both to estimate position coolly and rapidly. Martin saw that the intruders were unarmed, and though he was aware of hostility, he felt no apprehension of an appeal to the argument of immediate force. Before Butcher could speak he had taken control of the situation.

  “You needn’t wait,” he said to Phillips; and then, turning to Helen, “I don’t suppose you or Claire will want to, either. I suppose these gentlemen wish to talk to me. But there’s no reason that Betty shouldn’t clear the table.”

  His tone was quiet and decisive, but Butcher broke in brusquely, though with a voice which was little louder than his own, “The women had better stay.”

  Martin met his glance with one of courteous wonder. “The ladies will please themselves,” he said, as one who states the obvious. “Won’t you sit down?”

  To be just, we must observe that the dead Stacey had his part in setting the tone of this interview. The room had an air of leisured dignity, such as was already fading from the memories even of those who had been accustomed to such surroundings. It was improbable that such another room existed in the houses which were now occupied, or which remained derelict and unplundered.

  The men sat, though doubtfully. Helen and Claire went out.

  Martin said, “Perhaps you’ll tell me why you’ve called so—abruptly.” His tone was light, but conveyed subtly that they had placed themselves in the wrong by their mode of entrance, as though they had advanced a plea of inferiority.

  Butcher answered, unabashed, “We’ve come to find out who you are, and to take charge of the woman. We have come in the names of about ninety men by whom we have been nominated to see you. We don’t want any trouble, but the woman must come with us.”

  The words were suave enough, but the tone was rasping. Martin did not reply instantly. He looked at his questioner. The scrawny throat worked curiously. The left hand appeared to be shrivelled, as by neuritis. The man’s clothing was soiled and slovenly, but Martin was too used to appraising his fellow-men not to know that he had been of some social status in the old days.

  Physically, he judged him to be a wreck, as he was—and with additional infirmity arising from the exposures of the first days. Yet, like many others, he was finding a returned vitality. Hardship and exposure had killed many. In many they had developed latent diseases. But those who had not died were, in many instances, finding a degree of health beyond their previous imaginations.

  Butcher, on his part, was aware of the atmosphere of the room, and of the quality of his opponent. He had not guessed that Stacey had a house like this. Even his old residence in Westfield Road had not contained a room of such quiet luxury—and now his headquarters were a range of cellars! Good cellars, no doubt. Light and dry. But cellars all the same. Martin, armed by old practice for a battle which must be of wits, not weapons, countered his attack with a curter query.

  “Who are you?”

  Butcher said, “I am Henry Butcher. This is my son. This is James Pellow, one of Tom Aldworth’s set.”

  Martin recognized the hit. How much did Butcher know of the support that Tom had promised? Of the plan that had been based on so insecure a foundation? What was the significance of one of Tom’s party, if such he were, being a member of this intrusion?

  Showing no sign of his thought, he answered in turn, “I am Martin Webster. I have been living farther south, where the land is deserted. I came here yesterday. Tom arrived very opportunely, when I was attacked by some lawless rogues that you had turned out of this part of the country. After that I took control of his party, at their own request. You seem to need someone to do that, judging by what was going on when I arrived.”

  Butcher refused this gambit. He held to the object which had brought them.

  “It’s the women we want,” he answered. “How many are there?”

  “There are three women in this house,” Martin replied, with precision. “I understand that one has been here from the first. She is Phillips’s wife. I don’t suppose you want her. Of the two others, one came with me. The other has been my wife for many years.”

  “Yes,” said Butcher, “I heard that. Well, you can take your pick. You can’t have both.”

  “I hadn’t heard of that law,” Martin answered, smiling slightly. “I was told that the women chose. Now you say that I can pick which I will! Have you made a new law today?” He turned to the melancholy blacksmith, who had not spoken, and who now shook his head, without breaking his silence.

  “No?” said Martin, smiling again. “Don’t you think you should know your own laws before you come to explain them to me?”

  Butcher answered, with a higher note in his voice, for he was angered by the tone of banter that met him, “I haven’t come to argue here. You
can do that tonight. You’ve got to bring her to Cowley Common—one or both—by two hours before sunset. If you’re not there, you’ll get fetched.”

  “I shall not come tonight,” Martin answered coolly. “I am calling a meeting for Thursday. We shall all come to that. I shall have something to say then.”

  James Pellow spoke for the first time. “Thursday?” he said vaguely. Like so many others, he had ceased the counting of either dates or days. After disputes, and confusions, and discordant reckonings, the attempt had been very generally abandoned. What need was there of such reckonings when no one recollected beyond yesterday, nor planned beyond tomorrow? And, apart from this, there was a feeling among many that they had been a part of the old servitudes. They had the taint of the compelling sound of the factory siren.

  But Stacey’s calendar still hung on the wall, and it had been one of Betty’s duties to correct it daily. Otherwise Martin might have known no better than the men who faced him. But there was no need to mention that!

  “Yes,” he said, “Thursday. It’s Monday now.”

  He would have said more, but Butcher broke in.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

  Martin interrupted quickly. There was something in the working of that scrawny neck which had brought another scene to his mind.

  “Oh, yes, you do. I was Courtfield Against Marlow. I cross-examined you about the date on which the transfers were executed.”

  Butcher did not often show his thoughts, but he had been ruffled throughout by the tone which the interview had taken, as Martin may have meant that he should be, and he was now obviously startled by the unexpectedness of the retort. In the second of silence that followed Martin turned from him, and addressed himself to James Pellow directly.

  “If you’re a friend of Tom’s, he’ll tell you that we’re not coming to any meeting tonight, because I’m not ready, and I’ve got other things to do. Thursday is three days from now—it’s Monday now—and on Thursday we shall come, and I hope every one else will be there. After that we shan’t waste much time in meetings, unless some of us want to starve when the cold comes.