Dawn

by S. Fowler Wright

  Martin felt that this man could help him in many ways, and that his goodwill would be worth getting. He wondered how he could win a similar confidence.

  “We mustn’t ask you to stay now,” he said. “We know the tide won’t. But, if I may, I’ll come and call on you tomorrow. I should like another talk when we’ve more leisure.”

  It had entered his mind that to offer to go alone into Burman’s territory, after what had happened to the adventurous Arter, would be a sign of confidence which might attain his end, but he quickly learnt his mistake.

  Burman was half-way to the door when he spoke, and he swung round instantly.

  “No,” he said, with a note of anger in his voice, for which there seemed little provocation. “I allow no one my side.” Then he paused abruptly, as though a new thought had entered his mind. He looked at Helen, who had risen courteously at his abrupt signal of departure.

  When he spoke again the anger had left his voice, which had a note of hesitation, even of awkwardness, of which he had shown no sign previously. “If you like,” he said, “I’ll take the girl.”

  “I think not,” Martin answered quietly. The proposal was as puzzling as it was audacious. It might be a jest, or a foolish insolence. But Martin did not judge the man as likely to err in such directions. In the present social disorder, it might even be taken as a serious offer of marriage. He might not understand the existing relationships.

  Helen stood silent and self-possessed. A smile at the absurdity of the suggestion parted her lips. She was no more sure than Martin that she understood, but she felt no resentment. In fact, she liked being called a girl. She was proud of the youthful slimness which had survived the ordeal of motherhood.

  Burman was quickly conscious of the ambiguity of his proposal. He added, “If you trust me, I’ll trust you. She shall come back tomorrow, if the calm lasts.”

  “I think not,” Martin repeated. “I trust you well enough, but the suggestion is unreasonable. There is no occasion for hostages. It would mean possible discomfort to no good purpose. If you wish to work with us we shall be glad; but, if not, I think you will be the loser.”

  “You offered to come yourself. I only want to be left alone.” He appeared to realize that the proposal was hopeless, and attempted no further argument, but he was plainly disappointed at the refusal.

  “I don’t mind going,” said Claire.

  She spoke impulsively. The love of experience, of adventure, may have impelled her, but she was aware also that the impulse sprang from that clear and sudden realization that Helen would always be the “official wife.” If she were to do her part to make a success of the strange ménage into which fate had thrown them, it was outside the house, rather than in it, that she must prove her value. It was fundamental that she thought less of what might be gained than given.

  She had formed her own opinion of Burman, and did not fear him. Beyond that, she felt that there must be some reason for such a proposal, and she was of some curiosity to probe it.

  Her words drew the glances of those around her in a surprise which was general.

  Helen made an exclamation of protest. It sprang not only from a generous objection to an ambiguous and perhaps dangerous enterprise, but from a sudden realization that she wished to keep Claire beside her, that she was already relying, in an atmosphere of dimly apprehended dangers, upon the more buoyant and vigorous personality of this strange protagonist.

  Claire looked to Martin as she spoke, and saw the assent which quickly followed his first surprise and reluctance. He would much rather have gone himself. He would have rejected the thought of Helen going alone, even had she been willing—which it would be difficult to imagine—with an abrupt finality. But Claire was different. He did not think that any treachery was intended, though there was an impression of mystery, which might prove to be of much account or of little.

  The thought was in his mind that they had taken hands at a game which could not be played without risks, and that these risks would be greater should they hesitate to meet them boldly.

  Burman looked directly at Claire for the first time. Previously, his attention had been directed to Martin: his admiration to Helen. His offer had been deliberate, with a motive which they could not know. It had been to take Helen. Not any woman who might offer.

  Claire was conscious of a glance that was shrewd and penetrating. She felt that she was being comprehensively appraised, as might have been a heifer at Helford market six months ago. But it was too impersonal for resentment.

  “I can’t wait more’n a minute,” he said, and Claire, rightly taking this for assent, answered, “I shan’t be half,” and went out of the room.

  Helen followed her at once. They heard her voice, “You’ll need—” as the door closed.

  “She’ll be quite safe?” Martin asked.

  “Yes—if the calm lasts.”

  Martin said no more on that point. He had not been thinking of the danger of water.

  A minute passed, and Burman glanced restlessly at the door. He was clearly uneasy at the delay.

  “Sister?” he said abruptly.

  In a few words Martin told him the true position, including the claim upon Claire which was being made by the rest of the community. He felt he could judge the man by how he accepted the confidence.

  Burman gave no indication of his thoughts. “You won’t loose her?” he queried.

  “No. What I have, I hold. It is how they wish it to be…. I shall meet them with their own law ‘The women choose.’ We did not intend the position, but, it having arisen, it seems the only right thing to do.”

  Burman offered no opinion on the ethical aspects of the problem.

  He said, “I’d back you’d come to in a scrap.”

  It was not all that was in his mind. He would have congratulated Martin on the fortune which had given him not merely a plurality of wives when his neighbours lacked them (which might not be universally regarded as an unmixed advantage), but upon the more evident fact that they both appeared to be of more than average quality.

  But he was not a man of fluent speech, except upon farming topics. Had he attempted it, he would probably have remarked that they were both cup-winners, or commented favourably upon their potentialities of procreation. Which is not to say that he was a fool, which he certainly was not; nor that he was not a gentleman, on which it may be best to reserve opinion, but he had not, like Martin, made an occupation of the use of words.

  He was an expert farmer—which is one of the most difficult and exacting of human occupations—and his vocabulary, like his seed-corn, was chosen for utility only….

  Claire, being a woman, was more than the half-minute she promised. Had it been otherwise it would have been useless to write it, being incredible.

  But, though she was more than half a minute, she was less than ten, which may be accounted for righteousness.

  She had, in fact, little preparation to make, having improved her garments earlier in the day, to the extent that either Helen’s or Betty’s resources, and the extremity of her own needs, had rendered possible, and had had a moment’s annoyance that Martin had not noticed the change.

  During her present retirement she appeared to have done no more than to resume the belt of yesterday, with the knife and pistol which she had used to such good purpose in the tunnel fight of two days ago.

  If she had made other provisions for the night’s absence, they were not outwardly visible It must have been some months since her head had known anything but its natural covering against either rain or sun.

  Burman looked at her belted ironmongery with more interest than satisfaction.

  “If you don’t come friendly—” he began.

  “It’s not for you, it’s before,” Claire answered, with sufficient clarity.

  Burman nodded. “We’d best be moving,” he said restlessly.

  Claire followed him through the door, waving a hand of casual parting. “Back tomorrow…. Take care of the chestnut,�
�� her voice came back cheerfully through the closing door.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  “Will she be safe?” Helen said doubtfully, as the sound of their steps receded. She was not quite easy in mind, feeling obscurely that Claire had taken a risk to which she had been invited, and which she should therefore have accepted if anyone were to do so.

  This was unfair to herself, for there was no necessity for anyone to have done it, and it had been Claire’s own proposal that she should go; but feelings are not logical. She was aware also, that Claire was better able to protect herself than she would have been in any possible complications.

  Martin answered, “I think she’ll be safe enough. It’s queer that he should refuse my offer, and yet be willing to take a woman. There’s something we don’t understand yet…. I don’t suppose she gave it a thought, but it’s a fact that it removes her from the scene for the time, if Butcher or the others should try to make any trouble.”

  Helen recognized the cool quickness of mind which seemed to give Martin time for analysis and decision under any urgency of circumstance. She did not think of this, it was a familiar knowledge. It gave serenity to her own mind, though the “two hours before sunset” were already passing, and Butcher’s threat was upon them.

  Then Jack Tolley came, bringing a pheasant which he had shot, and this being delivered into Betty’s capable hands, he came into the library.

  “There’ll be no trouble today,” he reported. “There’s been a heap of talk, and some quarrelling, but our lot knew their own minds, and the rest didn’t. Briscoe talked big about what he’d do, and Pellow keeps quiet, and Butcher’s trying to make all the trouble he can, without coming into the front row, but I think they mostly mean to wait to hear what you’ve got to say.… I think you’ll get them all to the meeting…. It’s what happens then that’s going to settle it.… Pellow may need watching. He’s quiet, and stubborn. His sister’s married to one of Butcher’s men.… He helped us turn Bellamy out. He’s a good fighter.… But he wouldn’t come with us this last time. I don’t know why. He’s hard to drive, but if he trusts you he’ll come willing…. Tom’s been after Burman. He thinks he might help.”

  He began to explain about Burman. Martin stopped him to tell him of what had happened, and of Claire’s going.

  Jack made no comment, being unsure whether he had been told all the truth, or what else might underlie her departure.

  Martin asked if he could stay for a time. He had a project of compiling a complete register o£ the population of his new dominion, with details of each individual. In particular, what occupations they had previously followed, so that he could have a comprehensive knowledge of the human material at his disposal.

  This was work to Jack’s liking. He was used to the pen. He liked method. He would willingly stay for an hour, though he must then return to his own concerns.

  They were on this work together, when Phillips announced that Butcher was again requesting an interview.

  It was sunset without, and the shadowing of the room was already warning them that the work could not be continued much longer. The resources of the house did not include any provision for artificial lighting under the new conditions of life. It was a problem which was only beginning to become serious as the days were shortening.

  “Yes, I’ll see him,” Martin answered. “I expect we’ve done for tonight,” he added to Jack. “No. Don’t go. You’d better hear what he’s got to say this time.… Yes, of course you’ll stay.”

  The last words were to Helen, who was reknitting a damaged garment for one of the children.

  Butcher entered without formality. He pulled a chair up to the table, and sat down so that Martin was opposite him. He ignored the others.

  “May I see you alone?”

  The tone was something less than rude, but it lacked courtesy. It was not a command, but it assumed that assent would follow.

  “I don’t see any need for that.”

  “I think it would be better. There are one or two personal matters which I should like to talk over.”

  “I am willing to hear them.”

  “I would prefer to see you privately.”

  “I never see anyone alone now.”

  It was a decision made as it was spoken. Martin guessed that the man had come to propose some form of alliance, whether in good faith or treachery, and he had no mind that such a bond should be suspected between them. It was best that Jack should hear.

  He thought that Butcher was annoyed and disconcerted, though he was too practised in control of voice and expression to disclose his feeling.

  “Just as you like,” he said easily. “I only thought you might prefer it, as it’s a business talk. It doesn’t matter on my side. I ought to tell you first that I succeeded in getting you the extra time you wanted. Though it wasn’t easy.”

  He turned his eyes to Jack, who had made a half-articulate exclamation at this version of the events of two hours ago, but Jack’s face was expressionless as he bent over his work, and he said nothing.

  “I’ve got you the time you want,” he repeated, with added emphasis. “But what happens when we meet can best be settled beforehand. If you want the girl, I don’t say that it couldn’t be managed. Or if you want to settle Cooper, and control things here in your own way, I don’t say that mightn’t be managed either. It needs someone. But if you want both, you’ll ask too much, and you’ll get nothing. If Tom’s lot stand for it, there’s too many others that won’t.”

  He paused, as though for Martin to answer, seeking to gauge the effect he had produced. But Martin only said, “Well?” as though discussing a matter in which his interest was perfunctory.

  Butcher went on, “You’ve got one chance. If it were known that Tom and I would both support you, you wouldn’t have much trouble. Not at first, anyway. If you’ll say what you really mean, I may find I can make a deal. I’ve come in a friendly way to talk it over.”

  “And if I won’t deal you think you can head the opposition successfully?” Martin suggested.

  Butcher shook his head.

  “No, I don’t quarrel,” he said, “I’ve too much to do. But you’ll fail without me. You can try if you like. You’ll learn when it’s too late.”

  “I shall not fail,” Martin assured him confidently. “Don’t let that idea mislead you. It might be a dear mistake.… What do you want?”

  “I want to know what you mean to do,” Butcher answered, with some reason behind him.

  “I will tell you on Thursday.”

  “It won’t do then. We must know before that.”

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Butcher did not find this easy to do. He really wanted an alliance with Martin which would have secured his commercial activities—an alliance preferably to be made in secret. But he was not yet willing to propose it plainly.

  “If we were assured of peace and security—” he began.

  “For what?” Martin interrupted curtly.

  The interruption confused Butcher for an evident second. Then his practised suavity in negotiation resumed, and he answered readily.

  “For our lives and property, and—”

  “I couldn’t promise you that. As for your lives, there may be men among you who may be needed, should I decide to deal with Cooper, or should he attack us again. There will be no security till he’s finished, one way or other. And there’ll certainly be no promise of security for those who don’t help. Besides, there may be risks of other kinds to be undertaken.”

  “Then you would destroy all individual freedom? Do you think you can make military service compulsory? Even service for other purposes?” Butcher shook his head sagely. “Believe an older, and perhaps a wiser, man when he tells you that it couldn’t be done. Even as things are, it couldn’t last for a week.”

  Martin smiled slightly “You assume too much. I don’t intend to make anything compulsory. You can join Cooper tomorrow if you prefer. The roads are open. But I’m not going to h
ave my best men risk their lives, and perhaps lose them, for the benefit of those who do nothing. They’ll do their part, or clear.

  “Then as to property. How do I know what you have, or how you have gained it, or for what purpose it may be needed by others? Take an extreme possibility. Suppose the spring should come, and I should find that all the available seed for some necessary crop should be in your hands. What do you suppose I should do?”

  “But if that were so, I should be prepared to sell it. It would not be reasonable to suppose that I should be holding it for any other purpose. Surely you would not support any man who would take it from me without payment? That would be anarchy. If you allow such things as that, no man will save anything. There will be no incentive to labour. You would reduce every man in the end to a common poverty. I suppose that you would support me in selling it at a fair price to those who would require it.”

  “At a price of your fixing?” Martin answered “Not for a moment.” He leant forward, and spoke slowly and decisively: “Mr. Butcher, I would sooner hang you. If we are to work together at all, we must understand each other clearly. There will be no lack of incentive to work if I have my way. Every man shall have the fruit of his labour, and shall sell it at the highest price he can get. I have watched the other incentive—the incentive of starvation. I will have no man working on such terms that he has a scanty margin for himself after he has handed the bulk to others.

  “You may sell your corn at your own price if you have grown it with your own labour. You may sell fish at your own price if you have caught it with your own nets. But not otherwise.

  “That, at least, is how it seems to me that it will be best to have it.… But I may see reason to change my view. I cannot tell. You may barter for your own need, and I will protect you to hold what you gain, even though it may be coveted by others. But if you gain by barter that which you do not need, so that you may take a later advantage of the necessity of others, I may interfere to protect them…. And there is one change about which there is no doubt at all.

  “There will be no charging of usury. Not even though you label it ‘interest,’ and profess that its moderation renders it harmless. A spade today has the same value as a spade three years hence. To think otherwise is to support the subtlest and most devilish slavery that the world has known.”