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THE SOUL OF SUSAN YELLAM
by
HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL
Author of
Some Happenings, Quinneys,
Blinds Down, Loot, etc.
[Illustration: printer's decoration]
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1918,
By George H. Doran Company
Printed in the United States of America
TO THE MEMORY OF
MY SON
RICHARD TANFIELD VACHELL
CAPTAIN, FIFTH FUSILIERS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I MOTHER AND SON 11
II FANCY BROOMFIELD 27
III INTRODUCING MRS. MUCKLOW 42
IV LE PAYS DU TENDRE 57
V UNCLE 70
VI FIRST IMPRESSIONS 86
VII SECOND IMPRESSIONS 101
VIII RECRUITING 116
IX PARSON'S METHODS 130
X FANCY'S ORDEAL 144
XI THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS 160
XII THE EMPTY PEW 174
XIII FANCY CONSULTS THE CARDS 190
XIV HYMENEAL 203
XV LEANNESS OF SOUL 217
XVI SAINT WILLUM 234
XVII FOOL-WISDOM 248
XVIII MISSING! 263
XIX SUSPENSE 279
XX THE TRAVELLER RETURNS 294
THE SOUL OF SUSAN YELLAM
THE
SOUL OF SUSAN YELLAM
CHAPTER I
MOTHER AND SON
The village church at Nether-Applewhite has been described as an
interesting chapter in ecclesiastical architecture. It stands a little
apart from the cottages upon a hill which presents something of the
appearance of a tumulus. Part of the church is Norman, but to the
uninstructed the outside has been mellowed by time and weather into a
charming homogeneity. It was embellished early in the eighteenth century
by the addition of a brick tower. The inside is likely to challenge even
the uncritical eye. The transept is as long as the nave, and two large
galleries arrest attention in the west end. Overlooking the chancel is
the Squire's pew, a sort of royal opera-box, provided with chairs, a
table, and a fireplace, not to mention a private entrance. Opposite to
this, across the chancel, stands a three-decker pulpit of
seventeenth-century woodwork, with a fine hexagonal canopy. On the north
side of the steps to the chancel is a mutilated fifteenth-century
screen.
Squire and parson can see every member of the congregation.
There are large pews in nave and transept occupied by the gentry and
farmers, and many small pews which--although the seats in the church are
spoken of as "free"--have been used habitually by certain cottagers. One
of these pews in the nave was known as the Yellam pew. Sunday after
Sunday, rain or shine, Susan Yellam sat bolt upright in her pew. Her
son, Alfred, sat beside her. Mother and son were never guilty of missing
a response, or of looking behind them, or of failing to contribute
something in copper to the offertory plate. If a stranger happened to be
conducting the service, and if he was so lost to a sense of duty as to
display unseemly haste, Mrs. Yellam's voice might be heard, loud and
clear, setting the proper pace. At the end of every prayer, her "Amen"
came to be accepted, even by the young and thoughtless, as a grace and
benediction. Always she wore decent black, as became a woman who had
buried--in the churchyard outside--a husband and three children. But her
Easter bonnet had a touch of mauve in it.
Her clothes were not the least part of a tremendous personality.
Children believed that she went to bed in her black gown. Authority
exuded from every pore of her skin. Probably Boadicea was cast in just
such a generous mould. She possessed, as will be seen presently, that
British cocksureness which so endears us to foreigners. Her particular
views upon religion, politics, ethics and agriculture (she tended her
own garden admirably)--views constantly aired for the benefit of her
neighbours--had become indurated by use. They had stood, as she informed
all and sundry, the test of time and experience. The Parson, Mr. Hamlin,
observed of her that she was temperamentally incapable of detecting the
defects of her great qualities. She supported Squire and Parson in all
that they said or did, and after the gracious lady of the manor was the
most respected woman in Nether-Applewhite.
Upon a certain Sunday in June, 1914, Susan Yellam sat as usual in her
pew. Across the aisle, higher up, sat the Squire's servants, and behind
them the Parson's three maids. Before the service began, Mrs. Yellam
noticed that one of the maids was a stranger and not country-bred. The
girl flaunted no finery, but the cut of her modest skirt and jacket
proclaimed her urban. Mrs. Yellam guessed that this was Mr. Hamlin's new
parlourmaid from Old Sarum. She might be described as pretty, but
"peaky" and "spindling." The Squire preached eugenics, in and out of
season, and upon the subject of young females as potential mothers Mrs.
Yellam saw eye to eye with that genial autocrat. However, she consoled
herself with the reflection that Nether-Applewhite air and good plain
food would accomplish a much needed change. She hoped that the girl
would not smirk or giggle if old Captain Davenant read the lessons, an
infallible test in propriety for strangers. And she wondered vaguely
what Alfred would think of her. For a season, Alfred had "walked out"
with this young woman's predecessor, a bouncing, red-cheeked lass of the
village. Nothing had come of such perambulations. Alfred was what the
French term "un celebataire endurci." And he was made extremely
comfortable at home. But he had passed his thirtieth year, and of late
his mother had hinted discreetly that her cottage, larger than most,
could accommodate three persons--or more.
Her thoughts were distracted from the new parlourmaid by the arrival of
the Squire and his party. All eyes in the church were concentrated upon
the Squire's only son, Lionel, who brought with him his young wife,
Joyce, the daughter of Mr. Hamlin. Mrs. Yellam knew that this had been a
love-match, brought to a happy issue against opposition. It was known,
also, that Master Lionel had left his regiment, the Rifle Brigade, and
was installed as his sire's land agent. Tongues had wagged freely
concerning a young soldier's competence for such a position. But Mrs.
Yellam had firm faith in the lords of the soil. Master Lionel, in her
opinion, had done the real right thing, both in his choice of a wife and
of a calling. Perhaps to her the call of the land sounded a more clarion
note than any other.
Mr. Hamlin and the choir filed in. The congregation rose. In the days of
Mr. Hamlin's predecessor, nobody budged from his comfortable seat when
the parson bustled out of the vestry. Mr. Hamlin had changed all that.
He put down billing and cooing in the galleries, and the sucking of
peppermints. At first he was regarded with hostile eyes as an innovator,
but gradually it became known that he had restored forms and ceremonies
which presented definite meaning to the instructed. Villagers love forms
and ceremonies when they are discreetly led to understand them.
Old Captain Davenant read the lessons, and the new parlourmaid emerged
triumphant from the ordeal. Mrs. Yellam noticed, too, that she joined in
the responses, and sang the hymns in a modestly restrained, clear,
musical voice. Later, she listened attentively to the sermon. So far, so
good. At the same time, it became obvious to the mother that her son,
even more than herself, was impressed by the deportment and behaviour of
this pretty stranger. During the psalms Alfred's eyes strayed too often
across the narrow aisle, and at sounds of a soft, beguiling voice he
opened his mouth and left it open for a significant space of time.
After church, Mrs. Yellam walked home by herself, exchanging sober
greetings with her neighbours. Alfred lingered in the churchyard, as was
his custom, because, being a carrier, he captured a little extra trade
thereby. Also, although a confirmed bachelor, he liked to bandy
pleasantries with the women, young and old, who were indeed his
principal customers.
Mrs. Yellam, having curtsied respectfully to the Squire and his lady,
moved majestically along the village street. As she passed the baker's a
savoury odour of baked meats assailed her nostrils. It is said that
smell affects the memory potently. So long as she could remember, Susan
Yellam had connected this smell of baked meat with Divine Service. As a
child she had fetched her Sunday dinner from the grandfather of the
present baker, and, always, as a reward, her mother had given her a
large lollipop. After she married, her Sunday dinner was cooked for her
in the same oven and carried to her cottage by a small maid, who, then
and there, received and consumed an immense bull's-eye. And it seemed to
Mrs. Yellam a very fitting and proper thing that on Sunday the flesh
should be as adequately nourished as the spirit. Invariably, also, on
passing the baker's, she experienced a mournful pleasure in recalling
her late husband's remarkable appetite. Alfred, as a trencherman, was no
degenerate son of such a sire.
When she reached the bend of the road, which skirts the placid Avon, she
saw her cottage and smiled pleasantly. It was thatched, and on that
account beloved by elderly spinsters who drew in water-colour, and
frowned upon by sanitary inspectors. The thatch, a masterpiece of
craftsmanship, surmounted whitewashed walls held together by stout oak
beams black as the Ace of Spades. Generations of Yellams had lived and
died in this cottage. Some might have lived longer--so said the sanitary
inspectors--if the Avon, inconsiderate stream, had never overflowed its
banks, making thereby an island of the cottage and its garden.
She entered her house, and walked into the parlour, rarely used. Upon a
round table near the window was an immense family Bible. Mrs. Yellam
placed her prayer-book beside it, and turned to go into the kitchen,
which served as a living-room for herself and her son. Suddenly she
paused, went back to the table, and opened the Bible. It had belonged to
Alfred's great-grandfather. Upon a fly-leaf were many names and
dates--births, marriages and deaths. Her eyes lingered upon Alfred's
name.
Alfred Habakkuk Yellam, born November 19th, 1883.
Alfred's father had objected to the name Habakkuk. But Alfred's mother
had her way. A favourite brother had been so christened.
She closed the Book. Yes; it was fully time that Alfred should marry.
She wondered what name would be inscribed beside his.
At the kitchen door she found waiting a small Hebe carrying a beef-steak
pudding in a basin done up in a white napkin. Mrs. Yellam took the
pudding from the child, placed it in the oven, after removing the
napkin, and said wonderingly:
"Whatever be you waiting for?"
Hebe grinned. Young children love old jokes. Mrs. Yellam took from a
shelf a large green bottle, shook it, and produced the expected
bull's-eye. Hebe opened wide her mouth. Mrs. Yellam popped in the sweet.
Hebe raced away to her own dinner. Mrs. Yellam, holding the bottle in
her hand, stood still for a minute, watching the diminutive, diminishing
figure till it was lost to sight. Then she turned and contemplated her
garden smiling beneath a June sun. The midsummer heat still held
deliciously the freshness of spring. The pervasive charm of the glorious
month was at its highest pitch. And this stout, red-cheeked woman,
nearing her sixtieth year, was subtly conscious of this, although
incapable of putting thoughts into words. But dominating her sense of
the beauty of things there remained an even more immeasurable
satisfaction common to all women when they survey their belongings,
great or small, a fundamental pride in possession which Tory statesmen,
denying the vote to these supermen, have failed to take into wise
account. Women are basically conservative, even the humblest of them.
They cling to property, to tradition; they love the deep lanes, the very
ruts along which they move; they clutch to their bosoms all that is
truly theirs, beginning, of course, with their own children.
At this moment, the Squire of the parish, Sir Geoffrey Pomfret, happened
to be surveying his domain as seen from his own front door. And he had
less reason behind a pride in great possession than Susan Yellam,
inasmuch as his broad acres were an inheritance. Every vegetable and
flower in the Yellam garden had been planted and tended by the
proprietress. They were perfect in her eyes because of this. She had
precisely the same feeling about Alfred, her son, whom she perceived
leisurely approaching the comfortable home that she had made for him.
She went indoors and busied herself with preparations for the most
substantial meal of the week.
Alfred quickened his pace as he approached the small stable which held
his two serviceable horses and the van which plied regularly between
Nether-Applewhite and Old Sarum. He, too, on entering the stable, paused
to survey his possessions, but not with the same complacency which might
have been seen upon his mother's face. Alfred loved his horses, and his
roomy van balked dearer to him than he would have cared to admit,
certainly as dear as the full-length Reynolds portrait in the
dining-room of Pomfret Court was to the Squire. Both Sir Geoffrey and he
knew that portrait and van must be sacrificed upon the altar of
necessity. Sir Geoffrey needed twenty thousand pounds to reduce a
crippling mortgage; Alfred, if he intended to keep and improve a good
business, must advance with the times to the rattle of a motor. And, of
late, whenever his mind had grappled with this insistent problem, he had
noticed that the old van creaked more than usual, as if in protest.
Alfred fed his horses, patted their shining necks, and went into the
cottage to "clean up." Splashing mightily, he smelt the beef-and-kidney
pudding. Five minutes afterwards, Mrs. Yellam said grace. Mother and son
ate in silence till the meal was nearly over. Then Mrs. Yellam asked a
question:
"What be the name, Alferd, o' the new maid over to Vicarage?"
"Fancy Broomfield."
"Fancy! Wherever did she come by such a finical name as that?"
"I don't know, Mother."
Mrs. Yellam continued, in a slightly aggressive tone:
"I never was one to hold with queer onChristian names. It's silly, too,
to call girls by names o' flowers. Look at Lily Pavey!"
"I never do," affirmed Alfred.
"Dark-complected, and no better than she should be. An' that there Rose
Mucklow--! More like a gert carrot, seemin'ly."
Alfred, having enjoyed "advantages," did not use the dialect of
Wiltshire, seldom heard now except from the elderly villagers. As became
a carrier accustomed to pick his way through country lanes, he seldom
argued with his mother, partly because he knew that her tongue was
sharper than his, partly, also, because he travelled, mentally, along
lines of less resistance. On this occasion, he said curtly:
"I like Fancy."
"The name or the maid?" asked his mother quickly.
"Both. The name seems to match the maid."
"Why, Alferd, whatever do 'ee know about her?"
"I brought her from Salisbury. A rare talker; she sat beside me, she
did, and talked free and pleasant, as--as a throstle sings."
His mother eyed him sharply. Alfred, as a rule, disdained flowers of
speech. She proceeded more warily:
"If so be as you know all about her, let's hear what's to tell. I'll say
this, she behaves herself in church."
This commendation loosened Alfred's tongue, as was intended. Very
leisurely, between immense mouthfuls of bread and cheese, he told an
artless tale. Fancy, it appeared, was the youngest daughter of a small
farrier in Salisbury, and the first of three daughters to take service.
Her father enjoyed poor health. At this Mrs. Yellam sniffed. She held
strong opinions, like the Squire, upon eugenics. If put to it, she might
have admitted that ill-health was apportioned by Providence to the less
deserving. Dissenters, in her experience, suffered more from mysterious
ailments than Church-people. Draughty, jerry-built Chapels were
handicraft of Satan. Alfred continued. Fancy had chosen a country place,
because she was none too robust.
"Peaky and spindlin'," remarked Mrs. Yellam. "Is her mother alive?"
"The pore soul gave up the ghost when Fancy was born."
"That's very bad, Alferd."
Alfred, no pessimist, answered cheerfully:
"Might have been worse, Mother."
"Eh?"
Alfred grinned.
"She might have died before Fancy was born, and then there'd be one
pretty maid the less in Nether-Applewhite to-day."
"Gracious! She do seem to find favour with 'ee. 'Tis wicked to wager
money on't, but I'll lay a pound o' good butter, Alferd, that you
disremember Mr. Hamlin's text this marning."
"You'd win that bet, Mother. I'm bothered and moithered to death."
"About this white-faced maid, Alferd?"
"About my old van. About the horses, too. I'm far-seeing, Mother. Get
that from you, I reckon. Yesterday, in Salisbury, I did take upon myself
the very hateful job of looking at a motor-'bus."
Mrs. Yellam sighed. Fancy flew out of her capacious mind.
"What be us coming to, Alferd!"
"I don't know. But I'm always one to make a guess. My son, maybe, 'll be
a carrier, like his father and granfer before him; likely as not he'll
want to sell the motor-'bus and buy a flying-machine. We all march on
and on."
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
Mrs. Yellam gazed mournfully at her son. As a Christian soldier she
believed devoutly in "marching on," but such marching implied a
leisurely procession, not excess speed. She hated motors, because they
rushed by, covering the foot-passengers with dust or mud according to
the season. She had, too, an inchoate aversion to all machinery, because
it minimised and mocked at human labour, which she respected
inordinately. Machinery had driven able-bodied men overseas to return no
more. She had seen certain cunning handicrafts wither and die. For
instance, how many thatchers were left? Machinery, so she believed, had
raised the cost of living; machinery--the ubiquitous locomotive--linked
together disastrously town and country, filling the minds of maids with
what she called "flummery" and covering their bodies with cheap finery.
Machinery, had you probed her heart to its depths, manufactured free
thought, and everything else that lured God-fearing persons from the old
ways. It was, indeed, hateful to think of her Alfred driving a
motor-'bus.
She exclaimed impulsively:
"Alferd, don't 'ee sell the horses and van."
Alfred scratched his head, looking sheepishly at his mother. He
understood her very well, and shared most of her cut-and-dried opinions,
cherishing even her admonitions. All his life he had had good reason to
respect and admire her sterling common sense, less rare amongst
Arcadians than is generally supposed. He replied uneasily:
"That means losing good business, Mother. Folks want more and more
nowadays, and they want it in a hurry."
"Leave well alone, Alferd."
"Suppose well can't be left alone? I ain't one to complain; I'm grateful
to the Lord for His blessings, but if another likely young feller
started a motor-'bus, he'd down-scramble me."
"I allow you knows best about that."
She sighed again. He could see that she was profoundly affected. He went
on very slowly, thinking as he spoke:
"And there's others.... You rub it well into me that this cottage'd hold
more than a man and his mother. If I bring the others here, I must think
of them. I'd like to do handsomely by them as come after us. Mother,"
his voice trembled a little, "it's more to me than you think for, but
the old van must go. Our folk won't stay homealong. I'll do a big
business carrying people instead of parcels."
Mrs. Yellam rose.
"If you give me they others, Alferd, I'll put up with this wondersome
change. God's ways be our ways, if we look humbly into 'em. I did hear
tell t'other day of a motor-hearse. Don't 'ee carry me to my grave in
one!"
Alfred solemnly reassured her, and began to fill his pipe.
As a rule, he took a Sunday nap after dinner, whilst his mother was
washing up. At three, he would stroll along the village street,
combining business with pleasure, picking up gossip and booking orders
for the coming week. Later, he might walk in the park with a companion,
not always of the opposite sex. He liked a wit-sharpening talk with a
man, sensible, perhaps, that his own wits had not too sharp an edge to
them. The women of the village were unanimous in pronouncing him a true
Yellam. All the men of his family were good to look on--stoutly-built
fellows, broad-sterned and broad-shouldered, slow of speech and
movement, slow, too, to wrath, patient under adversity and modest under
prosperity, solid and stolid, kind to animals and children, and racy of
the soil.
Upon this particular Sunday, Alfred took the high-road earlier than
usual. Fate, rather than inclination, directed his steps towards the
Vicarage. For the moment his van and a pair of horses filled his mind.
Back of these lay a pleasant wish to pass the time of day with Fancy
Broomfield. No doubt she was feeling very homesick. He wondered what she
would have to say upon the subject of motor-'buses. He divined in her a
vein of sentiment, which appealed to him the more strongly because it
was absent in the red-cheeked, bouncing girl whom he had considered,
temporarily, as a future wife. From her he had escaped--thank the Lord!
Alfred reached the village in five minutes. It was a source of pride to
his mother and himself that their cottage was isolated. Such isolation
carried with it a certain distinction, an immunity from derisive comment
upon the Monday's washing, and the shrill voices of scolding wives, and
the howling of babies. The Yellams' cottage always smelled sweet. There
were no neighbours to pop in at unseasonable hours to borrow
unconsidered trifles which they had no intention of returning.
Nether-Applewhite was regarded by the Squire as a model village,
delightfully old-fashioned in appearance but brought up-to-date by a
judicious expenditure of time and money. The passing traveller admired
the width of the main street which meandered north and south, following
the course of the Avon. Some of the cottages had been built in the
sixteenth century, or, possibly, at an even earlier date. Some were, as
obviously, modern, but not, on that account, unpleasing to the more
critical, for harmony had been aimed at and achieved. The high note--_la
note qui chante_--was the curious thatching of the roofs, some of them
miracles of cunning craftsmanship. The tiny gardens blazed with colour,
because the lady of the manor loved flowers and bestowed handsome
prizes, each year, upon the most successful of many competitors. Stocks,
red-hot-pokers, larkspur, polyanthus, peonies and dahlias caught the eye
which was lured back to the humbler beauties of mignonette,
forget-me-not, love-in-idleness, and a generous profusion of roses.
Few villagers were abroad, but Alfred Yellam bagged a brace of orders
and exchanged banter with half-a-dozen young men loafing near the main
bridge across the Avon. Amongst these happened to be a soldier, looking
very smart in a kilt and white spats. Soldiers were not too highly
esteemed in Nether-Applewhite. This particular specimen was the son of a
notorious poacher, and till now regarded by the fathers of the hamlet as
a ne'er-do-well. To-day, he carried himself handsomely, turning a bold,
bronzed face upon all beholders. He spoke civilly to Alfred and enquired
after his mother. He had just come back from India with his regiment,
and was entertaining an appreciative audience with Eastern tales spiced
like the breezes that blow from Ceylon.
Alfred listened to him, marvelling at the change in the man. Presently,
he essayed a mild jest:
"You were a rare runner after the petticoats, Harry, but I never thought
you'd live to wear 'em."
Bucolic laughter greeted this sally. Harry laughed as gaily as the
others.
"You may come to it, Alfred Yellam, if what I hear tell of comes true."
"And whatever might that be, Harry?"
"War, Alfred, war such as you fellers never dreamed of."
"What a tale!"
Harry surveyed the group critically:
"A bit o' drill'd make men o' some of 'ee." He broke into a lusty
barrack-room ditty--
"It's One--Two--ten times a day,
And now that you 'ave got it,
Don't yer give it away--!
ONE--TWO--ten times a day,
When I was in the timid, orkard squad, boys."
Alfred said solemnly:
"I ain't one to deny that wars may come. And you were always a good
fighter, Harry, but we are men o' peace."
"Ay," said one of the group, "I never did fancy soldierin'."
Alfred said slily:
"William ain't yet forgiven a Hampshire redcoat who walked out and off,
by Golly! with his girl."
Having fired this shot, Alfred walked on. In his mind he turned over the
thought of war, such a war as he, indeed, had never dreamed of in
maddest nightmare. And the words and tune of the barrack-room ditty
echoed through the cells of his brain. He wondered vaguely whether he
could stick such dire discipline--ten times a day. Wouldn't he up and
smite the sergeant to mother earth with his big fists, which clenched
themselves at the mere thought of such a treadmill? Then he reflected
comfortably that England's fleet sailed gloriously between him and such
a possibility. The Squire belonged to the blue-water school. So did the
Parson. Alfred muttered to himself:
"They talk that way because they know no better, pore souls!"
A carrier had other things to worry about.
Approaching the Vicarage by the back way, he heard a woman's voice. He
stood still. Tender modulations fluttered, like doves of peace, out of
the pantry window. Alfred smiled.
"'Tis she, the pretty dear! Talks and sings just like a throstle."