Читать книгу Dawn - S. Fowler Wright - Страница 10

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As Muriel had watched the ocean that afternoon, and tried to imagine the conditions under which human life could be continuing, she had resolved to lose no time in joining herself to those who remained alive, and that she would set out the next morning to Cowley Thorn or to Larkshill, where she felt it to be most probable that her search would be successful. It was characteristic that she did not give any thought to her own safety, or to her own advantage. It was the duty of service which called her. However limited her strength might be, she did not doubt that she could do something, in their emergency, to aid her fellows.

But the next morning brought its own delays. She went farther among the ruins of Sterrington, and discovered, as she had expected, that there was much of probable or potential use which could still be salved from the ruins. Much that weather and vermin were deteriorating, if not destroying.

There was, in particular, a detached bakehouse which had contained several sacks of flour, which had been only partially protected by the ruins under which they lay. The exposed portions had attracted the cow to which she had been previously introduced in Datchett’s paddock, the rector’s wandering sow, and a young black pig. When these marauders had made some tactical dispositions to rearward, in the face of Gumbo’s vociferous protests, he had dashed into the rubble of flour and tiles and mortar, and scattered a score of busy rats.

Muriel recognized that the flour ought to be salved, but she found it a laborious task. She emptied a sack which had been largely exposed and damaged, carried it up to the vestry, and then filled it, in the course of many journeys, by means of the basket which had been given her from the foundered motor; the dog keeping guard over the sacks in her absence. In the process of filling the sack she had emptied another, which was carried up and filled in turn, and this continued till she had salved nearly four sacksful. After this the weather turned wet, and the remaining flour was largely spoiled, at least for any lengthened storage.

Meanwhile, there was other needed food for which to forage, cooking to be done, and many things that hindered, and made the days pass quickly. She had felt that Datchett’s cow should be captured, and that its milk would be welcome, but she had difficulty in finding any enclosure that could be sufficiently secured, without labor beyond her capacity.

In the end, she got it into the rector’s orchard, where she tethered it. The June grass was abundant among the uprooted orchard trees, and the cow settled down contentedly; but she gave little milk. She was near her time for calving again, and the interval during which she had been left unmilked had nearly dried her.

Muriel had tried to secure the two pigs, and had succeeded, with Gumbo’s energetic assistance, in persuading the rector’s sow into a sty adjoining that from which she had escaped previously, but the young black pig had avoided all her efforts, and had finally disappeared.

Having secured the sow, she became aware that she must release it again, or be content to remain sufficiently near the spot to feed it daily. All these things had not been done continuously, but between others, such as a determined search for sewing materials of any kind. In her three days’ search she had come on so many things she did not need at the moment, but which she knew might be of irreplaceable value. These she must also try to secure from beast and bird and weather.

... And then the gardens. Already the weeds were rejoicing that the hoe had ceased to trouble them. They were beyond any possible effort from her; but on an impulse, one day, she had decided that she would, at least, save the patch of potatoes that Mr. Wilkes had been earthing-up on his last Saturday, and had spent the best part of the day in searching for a suitable tool before she could complete her labor.

One afternoon, while she was engaged in retrieving the contents of one of her most desirable discoveries—a stout leather trunk containing a wealth of silk and linen garments—two men approached the church. They did not walk openly down the road, as honest men should surely do, but came furtively through the ruined woods, among fallen trunks, and half-uprooted trees that yet showed a valor of green leaves upon their skyward branches.

They walked straight to the church, as men that had an assured objective. The one who entered first was slim and rather short, young, and dressed with a surprising neatness, as though unaware of any change in the conditions of life around him. He carried a light sporting rifle under his arm. He glanced round the empty church, and whistled to attract the notice of any possible occupant.

“Probably dead, or gone,” he remarked to his rearward companion, a fresh-colored youth, who was rarely talkative. “But we’d better look thoroughly, now we’re here. Tom was sure he saw them; and there’s been a fire outside not many days since.”

Bill Horton said, “Ah,” and followed him up the church.

Muriel had grown careless about locking the vestry door during the day. Jack Tolley lifted the latch, and the two men gazed at a sight which left no doubt that they had found what they sought.

“Here’s your chance, Bill, if you can’t get Bella. There’s one here that understands housekeeping. Ever see so much flour in a church before? And here’s half a hundredweight of Brazil nuts. It’s like a harvest service.”

Bill Horton said “Ah” again.

Jack Tolley closed the door, and retreated down the church. “We’ve got to find them,” he said, “It’s not likely they’re far. But they might scare if they saw us.”

They lay for half an hour in the orchard grass, watching the churchyard path, and were then roused to alertness by a sound of furious barking in the road below.

“That’s dogs,” said Bill, with more animation of voice than he had shown previously. He jumped the low hedge, and ran down the field, followed by Jack Tolley at a more moderate pace. Jack did not approach anything, even a dog-fight, without circumspection—especially in such days as these.