Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  “‘Well,’ I says to Davy, ‘there’s no girls left in these parts, an’ when you’re more grown, come Christmas, you’d better have her than naught.’ I reckon I saved her life, an’ she’s mine to give, if I wants; an’ she says yes to that, though a bit slow-like, as some girls are.”

  “What does Davy say?” Muriel asked, as Martha paused, on approaching the point of her narrative. “Davy? He’ll do as his mother says. He’s a good lad enough.”

  “Then what’s the trouble?”

  “Trouble is I can’t let her out of sight of the door, now her leg’s healed, an’ she’s puttin’ flesh on. There’s Burke, an’ Willetts, always round. An’ there’s a young lout Parkins, as follows her like a dog. Like a dog that snarls, when he meets my Davy, as I’ve told not to fight. ‘You just keep clear,’ I tells him, ‘you keep clear of they, an’ I’ll see as you has her’.”

  “But if she likes one of these men better, Mrs. Barnes,” Muriel answered, “I don’t see what we can do to help you. We can’t make her marry your Davy unless she likes.”

  “It’s not that, miss. I’d manage that, an’ not trouble anyone. Trouble is I don’t want my Davy killed.”

  “But surely, Mrs. Barnes, there’s no danger of that, if he doesn’t quarrel, as you say?”

  “It isn’t danger, miss—it’s a sure thing, if things go on as they are. There’s no law now, an’ we’re all made the way that we want most what we can’t get…. I’ve known Burke since he was born. That’s nigh on thirty years, an’ he wouldn’t have given two shifts o’ work for the best girl that ever stepped. He was all for cards, an’ the dogs, an’ a bit o’ drink at the weekend, an’ Susie Clements ’ud cry her eyes out cus us laughed at her tryin’s on, an’ the way he wouldn’t see what she showed him…. An’ now it’s said as there’s no girls to be had, an’ he’s as bad as the rest, or a bit worse…. Trouble is, there’s all talk, an’ no doin’. There’s been Cooper’s talk, an’ Tom Aldworth’s talk, an’ more talk that’s worse, but there’s no law to be feared of, an’ what I say is Tom ’ud better start doin’ something, or stop talkin’ as though he meant as he would.”

  Martha, who seldom spoke at such length, now stopped definitely. She felt that the case had been fully put, and waited for Muriel’s comments upon it.

  Muriel was rarely slow to encounter a difficulty, or to speak her mind, however it might differ from those to whom she spoke it, but she hesitated now.

  The fact was that she did not like Tom’s plan, and felt that the difficulty (as far as she admitted its existence) should be fought on a higher plane. But she had had several discussions with him which had had the effect—an unusual one from such arguments—of bringing them to a better understanding and sympathy with their opponents’ opinions. That was natural enough, because they were both anxious that the right course should be taken, rather than that it should be one of their inception, and to discover a satisfactory solution to such a problem is about as easy as to divide a square mile by a cubic foot.

  But Muriel knew that it washer discouragement acting upon Tom’s natural diffidence which had delayed any attempt to grapple with the difficult question of the marriage laws which should regulate the new community.

  Muriel saw that Tom was being blamed for that for which she was largely responsible, and she answered accordingly.

  “I’m afraid it’s my fault, Mrs. Barnes, that nothing’s been done since Cooper went. I think that marriage is one of God’s laws that we can’t alter. I didn’t like Tom’s plan, and I don’t like it now. But I do see that there are things that we’ve got to face.

  “I’ll tell Tom what you say, and I’ll promise that I’ll let you know tomorrow what’s going to be done about this. If Tom doesn’t come over, I will.… I should like a talk with this man Burke, and the others.”

  “It isn’t talk ’ull do much, miss,” Martha answered doubtfully, “when there’s three hungry men, and one platter o’ food that’s not for they. It’s knowin’ as it’s hot to touch that’ll do most…. An’ there’s times when a bad plan’s good, if there’s no better…. But I’ll be gettin’ back now. I left them hid in what’s standin’ o’ Reynolds’s outhouse an’ Berry’s sties over the wall…. Except Davy’s gone to Butcher’s for some lime we’re needin’, an’ we can’t go on that-like forever.”

  Saying this, she rose and went without formality. But the two women parted with a mutual confidence. Martha was shrewd enough to know that she had won a promise that would be kept, and Muriel recognized and appreciated the spirit of the woman who fought for her son’s life, and would not make any offer of compromise with such a stake to consider.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Muriel, being alone, faced the problem again, as she had done a dozen times before. A man should not be forced to marry any woman, nor a woman a man. There should be no marriage without love, and love cannot be forced. She felt also that there should be no unions of any kind without that which she considered to be a Christian marriage. How, with these beliefs, could she give any support to the proposals which Tom advocated? He had proposed that if any woman definitely elected her protector her choice should have the support and protection of all to whom it was communicated. As to the formality of ‘marriage,’ he was indifferent, one way or other. The old laws, the old social order, had passed away. What was the use of pretending otherwise? He supposed that other customs, and, in time, other laws, would replace them.… He would ask all men to support that, so that any who interfered should become a hunted outlaw…. But he would not go further…. If a woman would not marry at all, she must fare as best she could, he would not ask others to risk their lives in her defence. He did not say that this last condition was bad or good. He simply said it was no use to ask for something which you could not get…. Muriel, less used to be concerned for herself than for others, had realized very suddenly, with a pause of pulse and breath, that this question was one that concerned herself also. Was she to be told to choose one from this somewhat unshaved community? It was absurd….

  There had been episodes in the past. There had been the youthful captain of the C. M. R…. He had been very hard to discourage…. And only she knew how many tears it had cost her…. But he had had no faith…. There had been so little in common…. She had never doubted that she had done wisely…. And there had been others before that…. But those things were long past now…. She was getting old, and her health…was it really so soon to fail her…? She did not tire so easily as she had done, or so she thought…. No, she would never do that…and surely others would feel the same….

  She became aware that she was doing what Tom had lamented to her that every one did now—thinking only of themselves, with no thought for the common good. But, after all, what was best for each should be the common good also. And over all there was that which was right, as she saw it. The divine Law, which should be followed unswervingly, wherever it might seem to lead. “Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my word shall not pass away.” That was the faith she held. Tangled with false traditions, with mistaken dogma, with the customs of the race that bred her, weakened by the infirmities of her body and the limitations of her mind, it still shone with the spirit of the Galilean carpenter: that dauntless, deathless faith, which, could it be shown that he were no more than human, would so proclaim, in triumphant paradox, that he were more divine. What could she do but trust God, and face the new, strange questions that arose with such wisdom as His Word supplied? She remembered the test which she had taken as her motto, when she had gone out to Africa, from the old Hebrew song of faith that had echoed down the millenniums: “I will fear no evil.” How often since had it given her fresh courage and renewed her faith, in the lonely dangers and difficulties that her life had known. She put the whole matter resolutely aside, and turned to the tasks of the day.

  For though she had dismissed the children, her work was far from over. She had, as was the case with all, the daily necessities of her own existence, where no shops wer
e open, and no tradesmen called—tasks which might be light or easy from day to day, and which varied greatly with the standards of decency or comfort to which they clung—she had also the care of the sick, and of two or three who were still unhealed of wounds, and of the rather frequent accidents in the camp. She had long learnt that it was by this means that she could best establish an influence that could be used in other ways; and was consequently more competent than any other that the camp contained.

  There would be Will Carless coming to her at midday. No one asked why he came so frequently, and stayed with her for ten minutes or more inside the compartment. He had a knife-wound in the side. Not a deep wound, nor one that need have been serious. But he had concealed it from every one. Would not now tell Muriel how it occurred, nor from whom he had received it. He had only come to her when its inflamed condition warned him that it would not heal without treatment. Of course she knew that it was Steve Fortune’s knife that had done it, as she knew that Doll had the ultimate responsibility. Doll would flirt with her own shadow in the grass. Whatever her life might have been in the old factory days of hard work and unhealthy living, now, with abundant food, and idle life in the sea air and the sunshine, she was like a dangerous cat. She had the power to madden men with her sleek ways and her lazy laughter.

  She had captured Will, a somewhat stunned, bewildered youth from somewhere in the south of England, in the first week after the flood. She may have liked his simplicity, and his inexperience. Anyway, he had waited on her like a dog, and she had lazed and lacked nothing. Muriel thought that she loved him, and was true to him—in her own way; but she would smile on any man for a gift, and do more than that to gain one that her whim might value.

  Perhaps she might alter beneath the pressure of the elemental responsibilities, but it was her creed to take all and to give nothing. “No kids for me,” she had told Muriel, yawning as she spoke, and looking at her with mocking eyes….

  Does Doll know?” Muriel asked, as she adjusted the bandage.

  Will looked unwilling to answer. Any reference to Doll seemed to make him uncomfortable. “She knows I cut myself, somehow.” He was hurt that she had shown so little curiosity about the nature or extent of his injury, but he would not say that, even to Muriel.

  “I think you ought to have told her. You don’t give her a chance.”

  Will looked bewildered, and Muriel turned the subject quickly. She knew that it is so much easier to say too much than too little.…

  Later in the day she saw Tom. The day was fine and dry enough for them to sit on some of the rusting wreckage of the burnt train as they talked. Tom and Jack shared the foremost of the undamaged compartments. At least, it had not been entirely undamaged, but they had combined to repair it for occupation.

  Tom said, “I daren’t ask you to sit inside, even if it were raining. I never venture in when Jack isn’t there. He always says something’s been moved. There are more things in there than in any other three compartments, and they’re all packed so that it looks almost empty. Where is he now? Oh, off somewhere after Madge, I suppose…. But what’s the trouble with Martha Barnes?”

  Muriel told him briefly. She added, “We can’t hear that trouble’s coming without our doing something to stop it. I’ll go to see this man Burke in the morning, unless you’d rather.”

  “No, you’d do more than I could. I thought I’d found a way of stopping that kind of thing, but I suppose it wouldn’t work, and most of them won’t listen anyway. There’s too many who want to go their own road.”

  “It isn’t only that,” she said. “You were disappointed because I thought you were wrong.”

  “Yes, that’s true enough.”

  “Well, I want to tell you I’m not so sure as I was. I don’t like your idea that the women have got to marry someone whether they like it or not, or be a kind of outlaw if they don’t. But I don’t suppose you think it’s a good way either. But it may be as much as you could possibly get supported. And even those women who refuse mightn’t be any worse off than they are now.

  “I shouldn’t consent for one. I don’t know whether that will surprise you. But perhaps I’m too old to matter?”

  She looked at him with the humour which she showed too seldom. It was of her nature that she took life too seriously. She could be kind, cheerful, joyous, sympathetic, but she seldom jested.

  Tom did not know how to answer at once. Of course, she wasn’t too old; but somehow it was true that he hadn’t thought of her as being directly interested.

  He said at last, “I know you’ll do what you think right, law or no law; and if you marry anyone, he’ll be a lucky man. But I don’t think anyone here would worry you, or let the others outside.”

  “Then you’d break your own law as soon as it was made,” she said, logically. But she was relieved at the assurance, with just a shadow of underlying bitterness (she understood that second’s pause quite clearly), which she hardly recognized for what it was.

  “I don’t see,” she went on, “why you shouldn’t get the men together, and get the best agreement you can. I don’t think you should ask the women. It isn’t quite fair to them. But if you do it at all, it needs doing quickly. If you reckon, you’ll find that about half the women in this camp are either married already, or most of us know who they’d choose without much guessing, and the more that’s the case the harder it may be to get those who know they’ll get left out to agree to anything like you propose.”

  Tom said, “It won’t be easy. It ought to have been done sooner. I know that. And if we try to get the men together for anything there’s many that don’t come, and don’t care. It’s everyone for himself now, and the mess gets worse every week. I think it’s partly because we had so much too much law before that every one’s afraid now of beginning the same thing. We’ve got troubles enough, but no one calls for the rent, and if we can’t do anything it’s because we can’t, it isn’t because we’re afraid we’d get a summons if we did. And no one starves with the shops full of food that they daren’t touch. And no one’s obliged to be at work at seven, or get sacked if he’s late…. It’s just the difference between being a wild animal and a tame one. There may be more comforts for the one, but the other’s free. And if it doesn’t get such good food in the winter—”

  “Yes,” Muriel interjected. “No one seems to think of the winter.”

  “I know that; and I’ve said it’s a worse mess every week. But there it is. They’ll all listen, and agree, and then they go off their own ways. They don’t mean to be locked up again because their rates aren’t paid.”

  “Isn’t Butcher trying to get the old ways back?” Muriel asked.

  “Butcher?” said Tom, jumping hastily, “that reminds me. I ought to have got Monty and Ted Wrench to go for the fish.”

  “What’s Butcher got to do with the fish?”

  “Well, he just has. He pays Burman, and he lets each lot of us have what we need. It saves trouble, and he just started doing it, and it goes on. Of course, we pay him with other things…. But I mustn’t stay now.”

  Muriel did not try to delay him. She wanted some fish herself. There had been none for the last ten days, and they had not thought it worth while to send that afternoon. Now it would be two hours before the messenger would be back, and late for the cleaning and cooking that must follow.

  The fish all came from Burman, the farmer on the island which had been Upper Helford. He kept to himself, and made it clear that it would be unhealthy for anyone to trespass on his domain; but having cornered the boats, he had taken to bringing a supply of fish twice a week when the sea was smooth enough for him to venture, which he exchanged with Butcher for such necessities as his island lacked.

  The fish he brought were somewhat miscellaneous in kind and quality. There must have been strange feeding for them on the submerged lands. Lost wandering shoals must have fled starvation, or blundered upon some gluttonous, unfamiliar feeding-grounds.

  So Tom went off to persuade the
more habitual loungers to exert themselves to bring the fish, which they would otherwise have little claim to share. And Muriel sat puzzling herself somewhat over the complicated blend of individual and communal trading and ownership which was developing around her. She recognized that the subject was beyond her grasp, but she realized the position to the extent of seeing that the basis of the confusion lay in the unowned goods that could still be garnered from land and sea, and that when these sources failed, or were subjected to the assertion of individual claims, there must be some sharp adjustments, though their nature was beyond her guessing.

  And when the winter came…? Perhaps if there should be privations there would be less quarrelling, or would it be as bad, or worse, but from a different impulse…? She remembered that in the savage lands she knew men were most prone to quarrel over the women when crops and game were abundant.

  Jack Tolley came up as she rose to go. If he had gone to see Madge he was soon back…. She could judge nothing by his face, for he did not show his feelings lightly. She spoke a few moments on indifferent matters, and passed on. Could Madge really prefer Ellis Roberts, she wondered? Well, after all, why not?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Muriel went to seek Len Burke the next morning, as she had promised, and found her task much easier than she had expected. Len might be formidable to men, but he was only like a big child when she talked to him.

  He admitted that there were four of them (if he included Davy Barnes, whom he plainly held in contempt) who wanted Sybil Debenham, and that there had been rows about it, and might be worse ones. But it was all the fault of Martha Barnes, who wouldn’t let the girl out of her sight. If they all had a fair chance…?