Deluge. S. Fowler Wright

injury had been growing upon him as he carried her, and noticed her exhaustion and wavering consciousness, but doubt was certainty as soon as he raised the loose wraps and dresses on which she had lain, and which he had lifted with her. Below her waist they had been soaked in blood which had dried, and in a fresh stream which must have broken out when she moved, and which still continued to drip from them.

      Another moment disclosed the injury. On the left side, across the lower ribs, a piece of broken glass had made a wound about six inches long, though not, he thought, very deeply.

      “It hasn’t killed me?” she asked lightly, though with anxious eyes.

      “No,” he answered, in the way of the world that they had known, where there was always leisure for words, whatever else might be lacking, so that a man might be expected to handle them skilfully, though he would be of little use with spade or chisel; “you’ll die of old age before that kills you. But you’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’ll have to lie quite still, and the question is how I can make you comfortable, and get all that is needed for you and the children.”

      As he spoke, he saw that her eyes had wandered ruefully to the ruined dresses, and then forgot them in the realisation of the children’s safety, and with a sudden consciousness of all that was lost or left, he bent and kissed her. “You will soon be well,” he said, “and nothing matters, if you are safe and the children.”

      They talked quietly for a few minutes, trying to comprehend the catastrophe which had fallen upon the world, and to adjust their minds to its necessities, and then she called to the children, who were crying quietly in a frightened way, to come to her, and comforted them, telling them that she was hurt in falling, but would soon be well, and making a game of everything.

      Meanwhile Martin had improved their shelter to some extent, breaking down some of the lower growth, so that they could be brought more inward and gain some shelter from the bank itself, as well as from the trees above them, and had placed the various garments and the children’s bedclothes—the only things they had saved—in the driest spot he could find.

      Helen lay in the dressing-gown which she had put on when she first rose, and would have no other covering, nor was she willing that he should examine her wound again when he suggested that they ought to be sure that no broken glass had been left in it.

      “Perhaps you think I ought to lose some more blood,” she said, “but I would rather have breakfast.”

      Martin could sympathise with that feeling, as could the children, who were becoming fretful with hunger. They were all used to a ready meal when they rose in the morning. A marlpit might have blackberries in September, but at the end of May it offered no evident nourishment. The world’s fate became a less urgent matter than the meal they were needing.

      It would be tedious to tell the work of the next few hours in detail.

      Three times Martin went out and returned loaded with such necessities as he could discover, while the wind fell and the rain ceased, and the sky became covered with a reddish, smoky haze, beneath which the wet ground steamed visibly, and, as it dried, which it did very quickly, the atmosphere was one of oppressive and increasing heat, as of an oven.

      During this time they saw no living person. If any but themselves had survived the ravages of fire and storm—and they supposed that many must have done so—they were cowering in such cover as they could find, or had fled in other directions. Such wind as continued blew towards the city, fortunately, no doubt, for them, as it was fortunate also that they were on higher ground, and that a ridge divided it from them, but it was clear that it still burnt, and indeed the whole sky, with its smoky haze, and horizons of molten copper, gave an impression of a world in flame.

      Up to this time, through the physical exhaustion of his body, Martin’s mind had worked in a dazed and almost mechanical manner, only dimly realising the shadow of catastrophe beneath which their lives had fallen, and it may have been the effect of food, and a brief interval of rest, which made him so much more alertly conscious as he left the pit for the fourth time, but the dullest mind—and his was very far from that—would have been waked to some excitement when the red haze of the southern sky was transformed to a sudden sheet of flame, and a low rumble followed, as of a great noise at a great distance, and continued for some time, but with a gradually decreasing volume, till he could not tell certainly whether or when it had entirely ceased, while his strained hearing became aware that a low inarticulate murmur, as of the wailing of millions, was in the air continually.

      But he turned away from the southern sky, which had resumed its previous aspect, and went on up the field in a mood of lively speculation as to the nature of the catastrophe which had overwhelmed the world he knew; and in doubt as to whether the worst had yet come upon them, and in what way, if at all, he could best protect his own from its dangers.

      His objective was now the row of cottages beyond his own grounds. He thought that if they had fallen, but had not burnt, he might find there many things of value, and also that there would surely be some people still living who might be helpful, or who might need help which he could give them.

      In his first hope he was disappointed. The row of cottages, from end to end, was a smoking ruin. For though many buildings were separately strong or sheltered enough to withstand the force of the gale, yet in the cities, where the older or frailer fell, and any fire was started, the wind would spread it very quickly, and such fires were too numerous for any organised resistance to be offered.

      In the country districts, many buildings that fell would have escaped unburnt but for a prevalent custom of leaving enough hot ashes in their grates at night to make the restarting of the fire an easy process in the following morning. In the towns, the fusing of electric wires may have been a frequent cause of conflagration.

      Anyway, the cottages were burned, and the only sign of life was a small dog that ran round them.

      On a paved yard which had divided one of the cottage-fronts from the road, a boy was lying. It seemed that he had jumped from one of the upper windows. It was no great height, but he may have climbed or been thrown clumsily from a small window.

      An arm lay awkwardly, as though the shoulder were dislocated. His clothing was charred in places, but the wind must have blown the fire from him, so that he was scorched rather than burned.

      He was plainly dead.

      As Martin stooped over him to assure himself that no help were possible, a rat ran from his clothing. It darted aside, evidently expecting a hole beneath the wall which was no longer there. Then it turned in an instant’s indecision, and Martin’s foot, in a revulsion of antipathy, came down upon it. It ran on a few paces unsteadily, as though partially stunned, and he stamped on it again—and again—till all movement ceased.

      He felt an illogical satisfaction, as though he had successfully defied the blind and terrible forces by which the boy had perished, and had avenged his death.

      He went on along the road. It was a quiet byway, running east and west, and the flight of the surrounding inhabitants had been by other ways. But the wall along its northern side was in ruins, and the bricks were scattered across it at several places. Where the elm had fallen he came to a new horror. Near that point there was a slight bend in the road. A motor, driven at a high pace round the curve, had been unable to slacken speed quickly enough to avoid the impact. It was evident that it had taken a somersault over it, flinging forward a woman who had been driving, and who now lay in a heap in the middle road.

      The instinct of service led Martin to approach her. She lay in a pool of her own blood. She was not dead, for her eyes moved, following him as he bent over her. He spoke, but she did not answer. He thought to move her by the roadside, but when he touched her, she shrank, and moaned pitifully. What could he do? He saw that she was hopelessly injured. It might have been kind to kill her, but of this he was incapable.

      He was sick of horrors, and his inclination was to return to Helen without seeking further for the things they needed. Seeing that the cottages had shared the fate of his own house, it became doubtful how far he might have to go to obtain them.

      But he became aware that his hands were