The Soul of Susan Yellam Part 32

"They ain't all bad," said Alfred.

To Mrs. Yellam's amazement, her son merely laughed when she told him of Willum Saint's activities.

"'Tis life, Mother. Down river, if a trout's caught behind an old stump, another takes his pitch before night."

Mrs. Yellam, however, noted with satisfaction that although Alfred was incapacitated from driving his motor-'bus, the business, since his arrival in Nether-Applewhite, had leaped ahead again with a renewed impetus. William Saint looked sour.

Fancy bought her modest trousseau, and, incidentally, put on several pounds in weight. The weather happened to be bitter, but she never felt cold when walking out with Alfred. He spoke with enthusiasm of his officers:

"They're fine gentlemen, Fancy. And those in the ranks are finest of all." Then he told her a story about two men in a London regiment, both privates and chums. One was an East-ender; the father of the other owned a house in Park Lane. The c.o.c.kney asked his chum if he had ever visited Whitechapel. The other remembered that he had bought a bull-terrier from a fancier in the Mile End Road. He remembered, also, that he had been handsomely "done" over the deal. After a pause, the c.o.c.kney said with a grin: "I sold you that dawg, Algy. What a mug you was then!"

But Fancy remarked one amazing change in her lover. He never spoke of the future. His enjoyment of the present was unmistakable. This abstention from a topic which formerly had engrossed him became more and more significant. The girl realised what Alfred had been through, although, unlike most of the wounded men at the Court, he recited no "horrors." Gradually, too, she perceived a change in his face: he had "fined down"; his eyes were more alert, with a curiously steadfast expression. She had never talked with him about religion. That was taken for granted, and might be summed up as a cut-and-dried sense of certain obligations such as church-going, honourable dealings with neighbours, loyalty to the Sovereign, and sobriety of conduct. He knew nothing about the empty pew.

"Mother took my going awful hard. Did she talk to you about it?"

Fancy told him what had taken place. Alfred held his tongue till she had finished.

"Thought she'd lost her soul, did she? Poor dear!"

"William Saint doing so well and cutting into your business worried her dreadful. I think it worries her still that you takes it so easy."

Alfred meditated upon this. When he answered her, he conveyed to her mind an extraordinary sense of detachment, as if he, the strong man, so enterprising as a carrier, so alert for "orders," had become suddenly an onlooker at the game of life. Perhaps surroundings lent themselves to this impression. They had climbed slowly to the high downs, and were standing near a noted landmark, a small tower known as the Pepper Box. A sharp frost had silvered the downs. The air was very still. Upon each side of them stretched the uplands, melting into distant woods. No animals were to be seen, not a sheep, not a bird. They seemed to stand alone in a beautiful, deserted world.

"I suppose," he said, "that 'tis like this. Before the war, I might have felt different towards William Saint. And after the war, Fancy, if I'm here, I shall try hard to get back my own again. But to-day I'm thinking of peace. Fed-up with war I am. I want to live quiet with you and Mother. I talked a lot of foolishness once about making big money. You didn't cotton much to the notion. Maybe you feared it would take me away from you?"

"I did."

"Well, maybe it would. Money drives some folks apart, and the want of it brings 'em together. And, out there, plotting and planning seems silly, because one may be--'next.'"

She clutched his arm. He smiled at her, continuing slowly:

"'Tain't so terrible a thought. Most of us fears pain more'n death. I see more frightened folks in Nether-Applewhite than in the dug outs.

Queer thoughts have come to me, my maid, since we two parted."

"Tell them to me, Alfie."

"'Tisn't easy unless a man has the gift of words. Times, especially at night, when an attack is expected I've lain still as a dormouse, thinking that 'twas unreal, a dream like, and that soon I should wake up and find myself somewhere else."

"I often feel just that way."

"Ah-h-h! Another queer notion is this: the best seem to go first, Fancy; some of the young officers. Why? I figure it out that death is a big prize to such. It does explain things a bit, don't it? They get their reward---quick! And then I set to figuring who is best. G.o.d Almighty knows. One feller in my platoon, before I got my stripes, was a right-down scallywag, a gaol-bird."

"My!"

"'Twas his notion about death being a prize for the lucky ones. And he told me that he loved to think how bad he'd been, because he reckoned himself safe, sure to be one of the last to be called. Next week, he was blown to a pulp, except his face, and on that was the queerest smile I ever saw. I helped to carry in what was left."

She clung closer to him. He said in his ordinary genial tones:

"I feel myself again in Blighty, dear. But I want no unpleasantness with William Saint or any one else. I think, night and day, of you, soon to be my dear wife."

Love-making rolled on smoothly, as before the war.

But what Alfred had said remained in Fancy's mind. It explained much that had puzzled her ever since she was able to think: her father's ill-health and ill-fortune, her mother's premature death, and the big casualty-lists. If life was a dream--! If reality lay beyond--! Then all the mysteries, the inequalities, the apparent injustices, could be explained. Such an explanation is old as human thought. It can be found in the Vedas, in the Bible, in the writings of the Gnostics, in some of the pagan and modern philosophies. Fancy, however, was neither concerned nor interested in speculations veiled in words she could not understand.

Alfred's queer notions were his and hers, rushlights s.h.i.+ning in the darkness. But terror touched her heart, when she applied the obvious conclusion to herself. If the best were taken, why then Alfred would be numbered amongst them.

As her wedding-day approached, this apprehension grew fainter and then disappeared for a time. She resolved to live in the present, not in the shadows of past or future. Such resolution has been a fairy G.o.dmother's gift to young women in Fancy's cla.s.s of life. They turn their eyes gratefully to the sun whenever it s.h.i.+nes upon them.

She had never been so happy before.

It was arranged that part of the honeymoon should be spent in London.

After three days' sight-seeing, the pair would return to Mrs. Yellam's cottage. Alfred bestowed upon Fancy a black fur stole and m.u.f.f, a wrist-watch, and a pair of silver-backed hair-brushes.

She placed these oblations upon a chair near her bed, so that her eyes could gloat upon them the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning.

Sergeant George Mucklow, V. C., promised to act as best man.

Mrs. Yellam was nearly as happy as Fancy. One fly settled in her ointment. Conscription had become the law of the land. But the local tribunal exempted William Saint. Uncle predicted that he would be called up later. Jane, of course, contradicted this on general principles. With Mrs. Yellam she believed that Satan would take good care of his own.

The men at Pomfret Court gave a sing-song in Alfred's honour upon the afternoon before he left them. Fancy sat beside the bridegroom-elect amongst the quality. She liked one new song so much that she clapped her hands and called out "Encore" before anybody else. The chorus of that song is now known to every English-speaking soldier in the world.

There's a long, long trail a-winding Into the land of my dreams; Where the nightingales are singing, And a white moon beams.

There's a long, long night of waiting Until my dreams all come true; Till the day when I'll be going down That long, long trail with you.

Her dreams had come true; the night of waiting was past.

CHAPTER XIV

HYMENEAL

They were married from Mr. Broomfield's house in Salisbury, and, before returning to Nether-Applewhite, Mrs. Yellam reconsidered her opinion of Fancy's father. He was more than half a man. Call him three-quarters at least. The other quarter was woman. Fancy always affirmed that her sire had played mother to her. Mrs. Yellam, after some intimate conversation with Mr. Broomfield, believed this to be true. It seemed odd to think of a farrier--the brawny blacksmith of the village chestnut-tree--helping to undress dolls and smacking them when they misbehaved themselves. But Mr. Broomfield was not brawny. He had Fancy's pale face and large, luminous eyes. He talked about books, not storybooks, which Susan Yellam disdained as "rubbishy truck," but solid, respectable treatises dealing with subjects far beyond Susan's ken, such as the better housing of the poor, communal kitchens, and a more equable wage for the working-man.

About such talk hung a flavour of Radicalism, a whiff of Socialism. Mrs.

Yellam gasped for breath when Mr. Broomfield "blasphemiously" labelled Christ as Socialist. As a set-off, the man actually believed in fairies!

Mrs. Yellam had never met his like. But she admitted somewhat grudgingly his charm as a companion. He attended Divine Wors.h.i.+p, regularly, observed the Sabbath, and spoke with enthusiasm of the cathedral. He could laugh at his own mild jokes. Through him, Mrs. Yellam came to a subtler understanding of her daughter-in-law. She accepted Fancy, so she informed Mr. Broomfield, as a daughter, saying trenchantly: "No 'in-laws' for me." But she ceased to regard her as a child. Fancy's artless ways, she decided, were on the surface. Beneath might be found, by a diligent delver, a remarkable little woman, sensible, very affectionate, but queer, like her father. Mr. Broomfield, apparently, could enjoy a joke against himself. Susan, with a very limited sense of humour, was incapable of such a feat. Speaking of motors, Mr. Broomfield said whimsically:

"What I've lost over 'em, Mrs. Yellam, seems to have been picked up by Alfred. So--no complaints! Good money remains in the family."

To Susan this cheerful acceptance of bludgeonings indicated Christian resignation rather than humour. She told the farrier forthwith all about William Saint--the "Proosian." Mr. Broomfield listened sympathetically.

He perceived that Mrs. Yellam was disappointed because Alfred had not "man-handled" a rascal and hypocrite, but he said with an odd chuckle:

"That makes things harder for this Saint, don't it?"

"I begs your pardon, Mr. Broomfield--whatever does you mean?"

She thought for the moment that he was as light in head as in body.

Fancy's father went on chuckling: