FANCY BROOMFIELD
Fancy Broomfield left Salisbury for Nether-Applewhite with a heavy heart
not hidden by a pathetic smile. Possibly Alfred Yellam had a glimpse of
unshed tears, when she took her place beside him in his van. And his
ears may have caught a poignant note of distress quavering now and again
beneath her prattle. Country folk are observant, although they keep
their observations to themselves. Fancy had been happy at home. When she
took a place in Salisbury, in the time-honoured Cathedral Close, she saw
her people frequently. As she moved farther from Salisbury, she was
grievously conscious of what separation from her father included. The
fact that he was failing in health, and therefore in fortune, punctuated
her misgivings. Alfred won her confidence with a few curt words about
her new place and its master. He did not mention her bouncing
predecessor, but he talked of the Parson and his household with the
incisive tones of one who knew. What he said was reassuring. Most
maidservants approach a new place with justifiable apprehensions
concerning the mistress. In this case there was no mistress. Possibly
disagreeable fellow-servants may arouse even livelier forebodings. A
cook, for example, holds the keys of Heaven and Hell in her hands. Fancy
had envisaged an immense cook with a great red face, and a liver swollen
to atrabiliar disproportions. She was pleased to learn that the autocrat
of the Parson's kitchen was not much larger than herself and
consistently amiable.
"Parson preaches against sour faces," said Alfred. "No yapping and
snarling in his house. From your looks, you ain't one to come
slummicking in after hours with a silly tale about being took all over
queer when out walking."
"My! no," affirmed Fancy.
Alfred digested this in silence. Fancy had already told him much about
her family, but she had not mentioned others. Presently, Alfred said
abruptly:
"Have you got a young man in Salisbury?"
Fancy laughed for the first time, a silvery trickle of laughter.
"Why should you think I have, Mr. Yellam?"
"It seems to me likely."
"Well, I am fond of one boy. He's too sweet for anything."
"Is he?"
"Yes, I'd like you to meet him. Maybe I'll show you his photograph one
fine day. It's in my trunk. He's a sailor-boy, and at sea."
"Ah. At sea, is he? My mother says that a woman is silly to marry a
sailor. Why? Because, if you love him, he is always at sea, and if you
hate him, he bides at home."
Fancy laughed again.
"Then my boy, after he marries, will be always at sea. How miserable for
his wife!"
"It is a fair warning."
"For me, Mr. Yellam?"
"I mean, if you marry your sailor-boy."
"But I can't marry my own dear brother."
And then Alfred laughed, Homerically.
Soon afterwards, he left her and a modest box at the Vicarage. She
thanked him demurely, asking how much she owed him. Alfred was tempted
to demand a kiss in payment, but a glance at a virginal face restrained
him. He said, "One shilling, please, miss," and she slipped the coin
into his ample palm, adding: "It's a new one. That brings luck, don't
it?" Alfred indulged in no speculations on this point, but when he found
himself alone, he examined the loose change in his pocket, and picking
out a new shilling, transferred it to another pocket, wondering
furtively if he were making a fool of himself. He whistled gaily as he
drove on.
Fancy was shown to a small room, which pleased her immensely, because no
other maid shared it with her. From a casemented window, she could see
the park of Pomfret Court, with its clumps of fine trees and its herds
of dappled deer. She felt that she would be happy in such a quiet place.
The room was very simply but comfortably furnished, spotlessly clean and
fresh. She admired the wall-paper, white with small sprigs of pink roses
on it. What a lucky girl to have such a nice room! And, approaching the
Vicarage, she had fallen in love with the many-gabled house standing
amongst beeches, a warm-looking house of time-mellowed brick, built
substantially, happily situated below the church and just above the
village. As she was unpacking, the house-maid, Molly, brought her a cup
of tea. Being her first day, Fancy was not expected to wait at dinner,
but Molly told her that after dinner she would be sent for, and that she
might expect a five-minute chat with her master.
"Is he masterful?" she asked.
Molly nodded, adding confidentially:
"Such a pair of eyes as never was. Gimlets! It ain't no fun lying to
him, and no use either. He can look bang through a pore girl, and tell
her what she's had for dinner."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Fancy.
"Don't you worry! 'Tis an easy place. No SHE poking and prying about.
Only we have to be good girls here, and then we're happy."
"I do hope I shall be happy," said Fancy, adding hastily, "I look such a
fright when I ain't."
After dinner she was duly sent for, and found the Parson walking up and
down his study. He regarded her austerely, bidding her welcome to his
house. Fancy noticed at once the keenness of his glance, and the still
more penetrating quality of his voice. First impressions count
enormously with sensitive creatures, and young women in Fancy's station
of life are not much concerned with shades and gradations. To most of
them men are angels or devils, black or white. Fancy had encountered
what she called "devils" in Salisbury, rough fellows with Rabelaisian
jests upon their thick lips. From such she shrank instinctively. Happily
for her, she had met the other sort in and out of the Cathedral Close.
Instantly, she acclaimed Mr. Hamlin as angel, a rather terrible angel,
such as she imagined Saint Michael to be, pitiless to the wicked,
smiting them hip and thigh with a flaming sword. Her second impression,
not quite so vivid, was more agreeable. The Parson's clothes were
shabby, and his study, which, indeed, reflected truthfully the man's
personality, presented a somewhat bleak aspect. It looked a workshop
rather than a comfortable room. The cocoanut matting was worn; plain
deal shelves held innumerable cheaply-bound books; pamphlets were piled
upon the floor; the chairs, with one exception, were not upholstered.
She blushed a little as the thought came to her that she, the new
parlourmaid, not yet in working kit, was the smartest object in her
master's room.
Mr. Hamlin asked her a few questions. Fancy had good references; she was
a Churchwoman; she had been confirmed by Sarum himself. She belonged to
the Girls' Friendly Society. Did she like her work? Yes. Mr. Hamlin
smiled. For a moment Saint Michael vanished and a less terrifying
personage stood in his place.
"I like _my_ work," said the Parson incisively. "That is a vital matter.
Perhaps it is the most vital matter in the world. Each of us has his or
her work, and if we do it gladly it is well with us. You don't look very
strong."
"I'm much stronger than I look, sir."
Her soft, deprecating voice brought another smile to the Parson's lips.
He said abruptly:
"Good. Women need all their strength and reserves of strength. Your work
here will not be too hard. Spare yourself whenever you reasonably can,
and so you will serve me and yourself the better. Good-night."
Fancy went away, slightly awed, but feeling much more comfortable.
Before going to bed, she wrote a short letter to her father, telling him
that she liked her place. She added a postscript: "Mr. Yellam, the
carrier, was ever so kind to me."
She slept well in a comfortable bed.
She came to Nether-Applewhite on a Thursday. On the following Sunday, as
Alfred Yellam had foreseen, she was feeling homesick, because she had
never failed to see her own people on that day. After luncheon, to
hearten herself up, she sang hymns in the pantry.
Her face brightened, when she perceived Alfred at the door of the
pantry. After asking her how she fared, and learning that the other
maids were "out," he said, in business-like tones:
"Any orders for the carrier?"
Fancy smiled demurely. She was alone in the house. The Parson had a
Children's Service at three. She guessed that, as a rule, carriers did
not call for orders at such an hour.
"Not as I know of, Mr. Yellam. Do you generally call for orders on
Sunday afternoon?"
By this time she had been informed of Alfred's perambulations with her
predecessor. It might be an honoured custom in Nether-Applewhite for the
carrier to walk out with the Vicarage parlourmaid. Alfred gave a guffaw.
"Well, no; I took a notion to drop in, casual-like, to pass the time of
day."
"What would the Vicar say to that?"
"Parson ain't the fearsome man you take him to be. A very human
gentleman, always welcome in our house. And I make bold to tell you that
I'm heartily welcome in his."
"If that is so," said Fancy, politely, "won't you sit down, Mr. Yellam?"
She indicated a chair into which Alfred bumped massively, with the air
of one not to be budged from an impregnable position. Fancy was getting
ready some dainty tea-things.
"Expecting company, miss?"
"Yes. Mr. Lionel Pomfret and Mrs. Pomfret. A nice tea. Master's orders."
Alfred nodded. He eyed Fancy with ever-increasing approval. A black
gown, with snowy apron, bib, and cap, became her admirably. Beneath the
cap her soft brown hair lay in shining ripples; the bib lent extra
fulness to a too thin bosom; her big hazel eyes sparkled with animation;
her pale cheeks had a tinge of pink in them. Alfred contrasted her
delicate features with the exuberant comeliness of the late parlourmaid.
Charm was not a word very distinctly defined in his vocabulary. But he
became conscious of Fancy's charm, although he would have called it by
another name. Certainly she was sweetly pretty, like a rose-leaf which a
rough wind might blow away. More than aught else, too, he was struck by
her little hands, which moved deftly and swiftly. He made sure that she
was a good needlewoman. Such hands could make light pastry. All this
pleased him tremendously. Fancy prattled on about the company expected,
telling Alfred what he knew already, but he listened in silence,
captivated by her voice. She cut dexterously some thin slices of brown
bread-and-butter, as she spoke of the love-match between Squire's son
and Parson's daughter.
"I am looking forward to waiting on them," she declared.
"Yes--a very handsome, notable couple. Squire'll be a granfer before he
knows where he is."
"What things you do say, Mr. Yellam!"
"Ah-h-h! In my common way, I say what I think, never meaning offence,
particularly to young maids, but 'tis a fact Sir Geoffrey is fair aching
for grandchildren, the more the merrier. 'Twould be terrible if his
house and lands passed to some measly next-of-kin. But we won't think of
that."
"No. Not yet, at any rate."
Alfred felt reproved but not disconcerted. It might be politic to change
the talk to motor-'buses, so he said abruptly:
"I'm in a fair sweat, Miss Fancy."
"Mercy me! Shall I fetch you a glass of water?"
"Figure of speech, miss. It's like this, if you'll excuse me talking of
my own affairs."
"Why, I like that. It's so--so friendly of you, Mr. Yellam."
"I'm standing betwixt the devil and the deep sea."
"Well, I never!"
He gazed so earnestly at Fancy that she wondered if she were the deep
sea, and that the devil was an allusion to the late parlourmaid. Alfred
continued:
"The world, miss, goes round and round for true lovers, but it don't
stand still for anybody, leastways not for carriers. We must push along
with the times, eh?"
He glanced at her anxiously. She was quick to perceive that he wanted
counsel and much flattered thereby. She eyed him as keenly as he, just
now, had eyed her. Being so frail and attenuated herself, his massive
form and square head attracted her strangely. She admired his big chin
and too heavy nose. And her eyes lingered with appreciation upon the
bulging biceps and deltoids shewing strongly beneath his thin summer
jacket. What a sad pity that her dear father had not been cast in such a
mould! To his anxious question, she replied with a little bob of her
head.
"My father and granfer were carriers before me. Van and horses was good
enough for them. And good enough for me, too. It tears me to scrap 'em."
"Scrap them?"
"Ay. When you go back home, how'd it suit you to ride in a motor-'bus?"
"It would be grand," said Fancy.
Alfred rubbed his hands; his red face beamed.
"Dang me, if that don't put the lid on it."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Yellam?"
"I was half hoping you'd say what you did. Yes--it would be grand. A
nice 'bus--red and yaller--'d make the neighbours yap a bit. Do you know
what they call my old van?"
"It's a nice comfortable van."
"So 'tis. But would-be funny folks call it 'Flash o' Lightnin'.'"
Fancy laughed. Alfred decided that it was a treat to hear her laugh.
"Are you angry with me for laughing?"
"Lord--no! A laugh like yours warms the cockles of my heart. Laugh away,
miss. All the same, there's a meaning in what neighbours say. I do move
slow, when I've a load. And in winter-time, when roads are heavy, I just
crawl along. You're right. A motor-'bus _is_ grand. And I can pay cash
for one, I can."
He spoke with pride, opening his large hands. Fancy, having finished
cutting the bread-and-butter, sat down opposite to Alfred. With some
difficulty he mastered the impulse to invite this bird-like creature to
perch on his knee. Her air of aloofness both pleased and exasperated
him. She sat very still, with her hands folded upon her lap, just as
good girls sat in church. Alfred talked with gusto about motor-'buses.
"Can you drive a motor?" asked Fancy, when he paused to mop his forehead
with a huge red bandana.
"No, miss. But if I say it as shouldn't, I can do most anything when I
try. They'll teach me in Salisbury--free, gratis and for nothing, if I
buy the 'bus."
"I do hope you'll be careful, Mr. Yellam."
Alfred was delighted at this mark of solicitude. For the moment nothing
more was to be said. He searched his mind for another suitable topic of
conversation. Already he had decided to ask Fancy to walk out with him,
but he feared a rebuff. It was "up" to him to shew her his paces. Any
premature love-making might be disastrous. Nevertheless, it behoved him
to waste no time in making himself agreeable. Half-a-dozen likely young
fellows would be fluttering about Fancy before the week was out. First
come, first served. He essayed a fresh flight:
"Coming through village, miss, I met a soldier--'No Account Harry' we
used to call him. Back from the Indies, and spruced up wonderful."
Fancy exhibited lively interest.
"A soldier, Mr. Yellam! I do like soldiers, because--because----" Her
voice melted on a silence; her cheeks shewed a deeper pink.
"Do tell, miss. Why do you like--soldiers?"
"You'll think me such a silly."
"Not me. I'm no mumbudgetter. What you tell me I'll keep to myself."
Her eyes dwelt steadily on his. In a lower voice, she asked:
"Do you believe in fortune-telling, Mr. Yellam?"
"I don't know as I do. But I don't know as I don't."
"I do. And--maybe the Vicar wouldn't like this--I can tell fortunes
myself with cards."
"Well, I never!"
"Yes. About three months ago, a lady came to Salisbury and lodged near
us. She told fortunes with cards; she taught me. She didn't do it for
money. Now, if you laugh, I'll never forgive you...."
Alfred became portentously solemn.
"The lady told me that I should marry a soldier."
Alfred looked perturbed, but his shrewd sense sustained him.
"Did she? Likely as not she'd seen you walking out with one."
"I have never walked out with a soldier."
Alfred looked unhappy. He thought of the well-set-up Highlander. He
beheld Fancy hanging on his arm, gazing upward into a bronzed,
devil-may-care face, listening to strange tales of the Orient. Jealousy
ravaged him. His dejection deepened when he discovered that his tongue
had lost the trick of speech. He yearned to speak lightly and
facetiously about soldiers. But he could think of nothing better than
this:
"Soldiers are soldiers."
Fancy read him easily. Her father distrusted soldiers, who loved and ran
away. He had warned her against their beguilements. But Fancy had read
English history, more intelligently than most girls of similar
upbringing. She knew what soldiers had done for England. Also, she had
eye for a bit of colour. Soldiers appealed to her imagination. She put
sailors first, the jolly tars. Tommy came next, with his swagger cane,
his jaunty walk, and his cap cocked on one side, shewing a "quiff"
beneath.
"Why do men, like you, Mr. Yellam, despise soldiers?"
Alfred wriggled, impaled upon this barbed hook. He had wit enough to
realise that serious issues impended. He might easily offend Fancy. And
no answer rose pat to his tongue. Why did he despise soldiers? He was
too honest to deny the indictment. Yes; he did despise soldiers. He
answered stolidly:
"There are soldiers and soldiers. 'Tis sober truth, miss, that the best
men in these parts don't enlist. The pay is bad, and the work hard. The
wrong 'uns take the shilling only when they're driven to it. It may be
different in Salisbury."
"I don't know that it is. I can understand why men like you, Mr. Yellam,
don't enlist. Why should you? But that doesn't change my feelings about
soldiers. Whatever they may have been, whatever they are, I think of
this: At any moment, with their hard work, with their poor pay, they may
be called upon to give their lives for--us."
Her soft voice faltered. Perhaps Alfred was already in love. He may have
been. When her voice failed, and he beheld her for the first time as a
woman of sensibilities, tender for others, pleading for the less
fortunate, all that was best in him leaped into being. Nothing but his
disability to find words for his thoughts prevented him from avowing his
feelings. He realised instantly that here sat the girl for him, the wife
he wanted. His experiments in courtship, if you could term it that,
confirmed his conviction that he had remained single so long simply
because Fancy was waiting for him. She was absolutely right because the
others had been as absolutely wrong.
"That's true," he heard himself saying.
Fancy went on in a livelier tone:
"Have you read Kipling, Mr. Yellam?"
"I seem to have heard tell of Mr. Rudyard Kipling in the newspapers."
"I want to tell you what he said about soldiers."
She quoted slowly:
"It's Tommy this, and Tommy that, and Tommy--go away!
But it's--Thank you, Mr. Atkins, when the band begins to play."
Alfred was visibly impressed. He recalled the Highlander's words about
war, such a war as he had never dreamed of. What if the band did begin
to play? More, it surprised him that Fancy should quote Kipling.
Obviously, she had enjoyed educational advantages denied to him. She
spoke like the quality. He began to measure the distance between them,
conscious of shrinkage in himself. To gain time he repeated her last
words:
"When the band begins to play! 'No Account Harry' spoke of that, yes, he
did. But war is for kings and potentates, not for us. As I came along
river, I says to myself: 'We have peace here, glory be to our noble
Fleet!' It gives me a mort of comfort thinking of our mighty ships. And
I remember what Parson said not so long ago. 'You working-men,' he says,
'are the backbone of England.' And, by Golly! I stiffened myself
accordingly."
Fancy smiled, and said no more. She glanced at the pantry clock. Alfred
rose. His face was redder than usual, as he held out his hand. It
consoled him mightily to reflect that "No Account Harry," by virtue or
vice of an unsavoury record, would hardly dare to stick his tip-tilted
nose into the Vicarage.
"So long, Miss Fancy. Would it be called presumption, if I made so bold
as to ask you to take the air with me next Sunday? 'Tis wonderful pretty
in the Park, and I'd like to shew you the fat bullocks."
Fancy blushed, for he was squeezing her small hand.
"I should like it very much," she replied simply.
Alfred asked for no more, wise man! He had squeezed her hand, and she
had not resented it, although her slim fingers lay calm and cool within
his ardent clasp. She accompanied him to the back door. In the lapel of
his jacket Alfred sported one of his mother's roses. He presented it to
Fancy in silence--and fled. As he passed into the park, intending to map
out a pilgrimage for the following Sunday, he thought complacently:
"I'm a forcible man. Neighbours say that, and 'tis so. She's a dinky
maid, bless her!"
With eager strides he mounted the gentle slope of the long escarpment
between Pomfret Vicarage and Pomfret Court, keeping to the right of the
main drive. The path he followed meandered through a plantation.
Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of a pair of lovers strolling arm in
crook, with love in their eyes and laughter on their lips. He recognised
Lionel Pomfret and his bride. Alfred plunged into the hazels and let
them pass. When the coast was clear he took the path again, skirting the
Court and the Home Farm, and, ultimately, debouching upon the downs.
Warmed by his walk, he removed his hat and fanned himself with it. Then
he sat down and let his eyes wander across the landscape.
How fair it was upon that midsummer's afternoon!
A soft haze slightly obscured the water meadows. Through it he could see
the Avon, a silvery riband. In the far distance the finest spire in the
world soared into palely blue skies. The breeze from the land had died
down. Presently the breeze from the sea would stir, tremulously, the
grasses at his feet. Sheep were grazing hard by. Some of them rested in
the shade of the yews which fringed the top of the down. Immediately
below him stretched the park. Under the clumps of beeches stood the
fallow deer. Beyond were the lawns of Pomfret Court, flanked by ancient
elms and oaks and horse-chestnuts. Between the masses of translucent
foliage, the facade of the house glowed faintly red as if the sunbeams
penetrating the bricks during nearly four hundred years were now
radiating from them.
All this to Alfred--and to how many others--was the outward and visible
sign of peace, a peace sanctified by time and the labour of countless
hands. That such a peace could be imperilled passed the understanding of
wiser men than the carrier. Surely it would endure till the end, till
eternity.
For ever and ever--Amen!