The Dawn of Reckoning

by James Hilton

  “Yes, of course. I did lock my door, and then one morning during breakfast Philip said: ‘So you barricade yourself in at nights now?’—Just that—nothing more. But I knew—I knew from the tone of his voice that he knew I had seen him. And I’m certain that when I get back to-night he’ll know where I’ve been. I’m certain, I’m certain—”

  “Now, just a moment—”

  “It’s no use trying to talk me round. I feel I’m going mad in that awful old house day after day and night after night—I can’t endure it much longer—I know I can’t. Something in my head will break suddenly, and then—”

  “Mrs. Monsell.” He looked at her earnestly until she had regained some measure of calmness, and then went on: “From what you have told me I should imagine that both you and Philip are suffering from a severe attack of nerves. As regards Philip, it isn’t at all unusual after a bad illness. Anyhow, I’ll come round and observe things for myself. I’ll just run up some evening unexpectedly and stay for dinner. Will that suit you?”

  She nodded without much enthusiasm; it was as if her excitement had been quenched suddenly by a fit of exhaustion.

  They dropped the subject then. He talked to her of his medical work in Bethnal Green, and from that the conversation turned to the polar expedition and his adventures in the South. He told her that another South Polar expedition had been projected, and that he had been asked by the promoters to join it.

  “And will you?” she said, with a strange fearfulness at her heart.

  His answer was: “I might. I shall think about it.”

  Then they had to leave in time for her to catch the last train but one back to Chassingford. As they left the café, newsboys were rushing through the streets crying out: “Great Fog over London. M.P.‘s Tragic Death…”

  Ward bought a paper, but did not glance at it until he had seen Stella safely on the train. Then, leaning against a pillar underneath a light, he read: “Among the victims of to-day’s fog was Mr. James Grainger, M.P. He was knocked down by a lorry whilst crossing the Strand, and although the vehicle pulled up in time, he fell badly, fracturing the base of the skull and dying almost immediately…His death necessitates a bye-election in the Chassingford division of Essex…”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIII

  I

  There was no chance of any assiduous newspaper-reader forgetting Chassingford in the days that followed. Ward was by no means an assiduous newspaper-reader, but on this occasion he took the trouble to glance at a few head-lines, and from these he gathered (very vaguely, for he knew next to nothing about politics) that popular feeling was beginning to turn against the Government of the day, and that such popular feeling was expected to find an outlet in the Chassingford bye-election. It was to be a “key” election, to which the big guns of all parties would give their keenest attention. And within a few days of the funeral of the late Mr. Grainger it was announced officially that Philip Monsell would stand again for the constituency.

  Ward was not surprised. He wondered, though, whether the impending election would help or hinder him in his task of judging the peculiarities of life at the Hall. In one sense the mere announcement of Philip’s candidature helped him to judge, for it was obvious that there could not be very much amiss with a man who had offered himself and had been accepted as a Parliamentary candidate. And if, therefore, there was nothing wrong with Philip, with whom did the wrong lie? He could see only one answer, and it both hurt and worried him.

  He was on the point of making his own personal arrangement to visit Chassingford one evening when the following letter arrived, solving his problem to some extent:

  “My Dear Ward,—As you may perhaps have seen from the papers, I am once again in the turmoil of an election campaign. I should be delighted, however, if you could come up to see us one evening and stay the night. I have to be out a good deal, of course, but if you would let me know a date that suited you I would try to arrange to be in for at least a part of the evening.

  “By the way, could you lend me a revolver—the more murderous-looking the better? There have been a good many attempted burglaries round here lately, and once or twice, when I have been working late, I have had the idea that men were trying to get into the house. Recently also I have had several threatening letters, though these are quite possibly political hoaxes. Any-how, as you know, I am temperamentally rather nervous, and I should feel better if I had a revolver in one of my desk-drawers. Could you bring me one when you come? But for goodness sake don’t bring it loaded, as that would only make me more nervous than ever. My idea is to frighten any intruders, you see.

  “Stella and I both hope we shall see you very soon. My health is not so bad, considering the strain of the campaign. Stella, however, seems run down and low-spirited—I think she is even more scared of burglars than I am.—Yours cordially,

  “Philip.”

  Ward nodded to himself as he read it. It seemed to confirm both his hopes and his fears. Philip was all right, evidently; it was Stella who was in a far more serious condition.

  He wrote to Philip suggesting the following Wednesday evening, but making it clear that he could not stay overnight. And after posting the letter he examined some of his old polar kit and selected a villainous-looking fire-arm that he had used on the ice-floes of Adelie Land for killing seals. He smiled at the notion of the mild-mannered, pacifically-inclined Philip flourishing such a weapon.

  II

  Chassingford, when Ward reached it at twilight on the following Wednesday evening, betrayed all the evidences of having been violently wakened up. There was a life, a pulsating activity everywhere, which Ward, knowing the place very well, had never witnessed before. At the corner where the station approach curved into the High Street, a great hoard-ing advised the passer-by to “Vote for Monsell,” and beneath the fat red letters was a head-and-shoulders photograph of Philip, more than life-size, that made him look almost Napoleonic. Unfortunately, just as Ward passed by, some urchin with opposite political views aimed a dollop of mud very accurately on Philip’s nose and mouth. The urchin ran away and Ward laughed.

  He was still laughing when he saw a car, gaily decorated with red and blue streamers, draw up at the kerb near-by. In front of the radiator was a card: “Vote for Monsell.” And in the car was Philip himself.

  Now Philip had seen the mud-throwing incident. Ward was certain of it from the look in his eyes. It was a look of fierce, consuming hatred, the kind that is powerless to hurt anyone save its possessor. It was obviously hurting Philip. His eyes kept looking first at the defaced poster and then at the grey distance into which the urchin had disappeared. And then, quite suddenly, he saw Ward.

  His face changed then, as quickly as the removal of a mask. With some agility he got out of the car and went up to Ward with a cordially outstretched hand. “Hallo, old chap…How are you?…So glad you’ve come. You’re looking fit. Just hop into the car, will you?…Home, Stimpson…”

  Ward, never very communicative at first, smiled a greeting and settled himself into a corner of the car. One thing he noticed; Philip both talked and looked more like a public man. There was a new verve about him; almost a personality. His slang phrases—his “Halo, old chap,” and “hop into the car” showed the extent of his improvement. And if he had not been able to laugh at a small boy throwing mud at his photograph, well, perhaps that was an irremediable deficiency in sense of humour.

  The car was an open touring-car, and the journey through the pleasant chilly twilight gave some impression of the extent to which the bye-election had roused Chassingford from its customary lethargy. The High Street presented a litter of posters and hoardings—“Vote for Monsell”—and “Vote for Stookes”; Monsell was championed by most of the big shops, but Stookes seemed strong in the residential roads that branched out from the High Street. As they passed one rather busy corner a group of children booed vociferously. Ward smiled, but once again Philip seemed hurt, even by such a paltry matter.

  In
the open road between the town and the Hall Philip became very cordial. “I’m so glad you’ve come, Ward. For one thing, it will be a change for Stella. She likes you, and as a matter of fact, she gets rather bored with living at a dull place like this.”

  “Dull? I shouldn’t call it dull at present. Isn’t she working in the election?”

  Philip spoke more quietly. “No, she’s not. I wish she were, but she doesn’t appear to want to, and I don’t care to persuade her. The fact is, she suffers terribly from nerves. Are you a nerve specialist at all?

  “Well, I shouldn’t call myself that. But of course I know something about nerves. What exactly is the matter with—with Mrs. Monsell?”

  Philip considered. “Well, she’s frightened. She’s frightened of any sudden noise, or anything—anything that comes unexpectedly. By the way, while I think of it—did you bring me that revolver?”

  “It’s safely packed away in my bag.”

  “Good. Well, that’s an instance—don’t let Stella see it. It’s the sort of thing that would most certainly frighten her. See?”

  “Quite. And if you like I’ll try to diagnose what’s wrong, so far as I can without seeming inquisitive.”

  “I wish you would. I shall be going out to a meeting almost immediately after dinner, so you’ll be alone with her for a little while.”

  “Wouldn’t she care for us all to go to the meeting?”

  “I think not. She hates politics. She’s often told me so. I’m sure she’d rather stay indoors and talk to you.”

  III

  Philip was almost a charming host that evening. Before dinner he took Ward into his study and showed him the drawer in which he proposed to keep the revolver. He was very amusing when he flourished it as he would do if he were confronted by any unwelcome intruder. “We really need a weapon in this house,” he said. “Venner’s very deaf, and the maids go out in the evenings. I told you in my letter—didn’t I?—that I rather thought that burglars had been trying to get in. I think Stella must have heard them too, for she always locks her bedroom door now.”

  Dinner Was a pleasant meal, admirably seasoned with conversation. Ward tried from time to time to include Stella in it, but she seemed terribly low-spirited and despondent, giving a morose, almost a surly reply to everything he asked her.

  He was quite certain now that it was Stella with whom the trouble lay, and that her complaints against Philip were based on mere delusions of her own. Perhaps Philip was tactless in dealing with her; but no doubt she was difficult to deal with. The truth most likely was that her careful nursing of Philip during his illness had strained her nerves, and that life at Chassingford was not making her any better. Perhaps after the election Philip would take her for a long holiday abroad.

  After dinner the snorting of the car in the drive outside was a reminder of the busy life of the parliamentary candidate. Philip, notes and dispatch-case in his hand, bade farewell to Ward. “So sorry I’ve got to be off. Wish you could stay the night…Afraid I shan’t be back till after you’ve gone, if you’re catching the last train, because I’ve two meetings out in the villages…Good-bye, old chap…So pleased to have seen you…” And in a whisper: “Find out what’s the matter with Stella if you can.”

  The car drove away and left Ward standing rather uncomfortably in the hall. He did not much care for being left in the house in this way; he would much rather have gone with Philip to the meetings, intensely as he loathed politics. As Venner locked and bolted the front door, the Hall seemed to grow suddenly darker and huger, so that for a fleeting moment he could almost share Stella’s distaste for it.

  “Perhaps you will ring the bell, sir, if you want anything,” said Venner, shuffling down to the side staircase with a huge bunch of keys in his hand.

  Ward nodded, and as soon as Venner was out of sight he walked briskly to the drawing-room door and knocked on it. There was no answer, and after a pause he turned the handle and entered.

  IV

  The moment he saw her he lost something, some sense of personal security that he had always possessed up to then. Before he saw her he had been wishing that Philip had taken him along to the meeting. Now he was strangely glad that he was left behind.

  And as soon as she saw him she smiled. She looked sadly, pitiably beautiful, like a bird with a torn wing, fluttering on the earth instead of soaring in the skies. His senses were, for the moment, reeling; if he had taken wine he would have believed himself drunk.

  “Come and sit down,” she said quietly. And when he had taken a chair near to her she went on, just as quietly: “Now what is it you have been commissioned to find out?”

  He stared at her blankly. “What—what—”

  “Poor man,” she said. “You must be in a dreadful muddle. I ask you here for you to find out what’s wrong with Philip, and as soon as you come he gets hold of you and asks you to find out what’s wrong with me. Well, you can have your chance. One or the other of us is mad, that’s certain.”

  There was not a trace of excitement in her voice.

  “Mad?” he echoed, and then shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “Oh, that’s an absurd word to use, Mrs. Monsell. Now, now, since you’ve mentioned the subject, I may as well give you a little lecture about it. First of all, let me tell you this—that there’s nothing seriously the matter, either with you or with Philip. It’s entirely a question of nerves. You’re run down, you need a change and a holiday, you—”

  But she had sprung to her feet with clenched fists and wildly flashing eyes.

  “It’s me?” she cried fiercely. “It’s me, is it? I’m all wrong, and he’s all right!—You really think that? Do you?—Are you against me also?”

  He rose and faced her sternly.

  “Sit down and be quiet. Don’t make a scene.”

  “Thinking of the servants?—There aren’t any, except Venner, and an earthquake wouldn’t wake him.”

  “I’m not thinking of the servants. I’m thinking of you yourself. It’s dangerous for you to get excited like this. Sit down and keep calm.”

  She sat down, sobbing convulsively. He took her hand and gave it a friendly pressure.

  “Now, Mrs. Monsell, I want you to understand that I’m not against you. I—I…” He stopped; her eyes were searching his with a look he had never seen in them before. “I’m your true friend,” he finished up hastily. He went on after a pause: “You’re unhappy here. That’s very certain. The place worries you—gets on your nerves. You think—”

  Her eyes, still searching his, brought him to a stop. Into the pause she interjected sadly and without vehemence: “I don’t think at all. I feel. And I feel—that there’s evil brooding. Can you understand? I hoped you could. There’s too much thinking in this house and not enough feeling. Philip thinks…He’s all thought…And you—I thought you were like me—feeling. Oh, God, I am miserable. I wasn’t made for a man like him. I want warmth and sunshine and—and love…and he hasn’t any of them to give me.”

  She felt his grip on her arm tighten like a vice.

  V

  And meanwhile, in some crowded village hall, miles away, Philip was delivering thunderous platitudes and receiving thunderous applause…The thought occurred to Ward as he sat there in the darkly-glowing room, his senses tingling with a new and curious excitement. Philip’s activities seemed vague and unreal; it was he himself who was at the core of things, touching a human soul.

  She was only a girl, even yet, and she was hungry for love. But the love he thought of was that of a mother for her child; for that, he knew, was the love she had had for Philip during his illness. She was so pitiful and lonely, with this newly-grown, self-reliant Philip.

  “You love children?” he heard himself saying.

  He saw her dark-lashed eyes fill suddenly with tears. “Why do you ask me that?” she whispered. “Do you love children?”

  He answered: “I do.”

  She went on: “When you are very lonely you love anything—a kitten, an old book,
a doll, a half-faded flower that somebody has thrown away. But children…”

  “Yes?

  “It hurts so much to want them that one tries to forget. Do you understand?” She paused, glanced down at the wrist which he still held and was hurting, and then continued: “I had a baby once…It was born dead…Perhaps you knew?”

  He started violently, as at a physical shock. She had been this in his mind, and now he had to make her that…It seemed to him that the room was growing smaller, that the walls were closing in upon them—stooping to hear what she was saying. How young and girlish she was…and how her brown eyes stared at him, calmly, mystically. They stole the years from him, made him a boy again, shy and almost afraid in the presence of some beautiful, unknown thing.

  “No, I didn’t know.” His words were hardly audible.

  Still her eyes were fixed on his in that same calm, tranquil stare. “That was because of a fall I had…It was while you were away on your expedition. Philip came to me one morning with the newspaper. He said—there was bad news of your party—many killed—and—and he didn’t tell me that—that you were safe…And I fell down…and hurt myself…”

  He felt as if his brain were whirling round in his head at a maddening pace. “Because—” he ejaculated harshly, without knowing what or why he spoke.

  “Because,” she answered, with almost unearthly serenity, “because I didn’t want any harm to come to you.”

  He knew then that he loved her. The knowledge was like a spear of flame burning into him; he closed his eyes and could not speak.

  VI

  An hour later she was sitting by the fire alone. Venner had brought in a heaped-up scuttle, and the new coal crackled fiercely on its bed of living embers. In the light of the flames the dark copper-brown of her hair kindled almost to gold.