THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
Alfred Yellam enlisted. But only seven out of the eight other young men
enlisted with him. To the amazement of Nether-Applewhite, Adam Mucklow,
a married man, took the place of the shirker. And this was not under
pressure from Uncle, although he tried (and failed) to "touch" old
Captain Davenant for another half-sovereign. Possibly the sight of the
effulgent George--a younger brother not held in the highest esteem by
Adam--had its effect; possibly, also, Adam had been swept off his large
feet by Lionel Pomfret; possibly, again, Hamlin's good seed may have
sprouted in somewhat thin soil. Motives must not be analysed too
closely.
Susan Yellam and Jane Mucklow said nothing. Susan may have realised that
protest would be wasted; Jane, probably, was just as shrewd. Each woman
cherished a bitter grievance, hiding it grimly from inquisitive eyes.
Each read the heart of the other, and still remained silent. Each,
however, was proud to be the mother of a valiant son. Mrs. Yellam never
knew that a tremendous decision had been left to Fancy. She took for
granted that Fancy felt as she did, and the pale, anxious face of the
girl confirmed this conviction. Alfred, you may be sure, made Fancy
promise to keep silence concerning what passed in the fox-covert. To her
dying day let the mother believe that the son had acted "on his own,"
without consulting another. Fancy sighed and consented. What did it
matter? What did anything matter now that Alfred was going? During these
last few days, the spiritual part of her seemed dead. Triumph appeared
to have killed it! But her will prevailed over the weakness of the
flesh. Alfred must see no more tears. Her smile was the most pathetic
memory which he took with him from Nether-Applewhite.
Before "joining-up," he gave two presents to the women he loved. To his
mother he brought a wire-haired fox-terrier, pure white save for one
round black spot between the ears and an oval black spot upon the loins.
The dog was nine months old and clean thoroughbred, the son of a famous
prize-winner. Alfred paid five pounds for him. Mrs. Yellam was
profoundly moved; and the dog seemed to acclaim her as mistress at
sight, jumping into her ample lap and licking her hand.
"What shall we call him, Mother?" asked Alfred.
Mrs. Yellam studied the dog's lineaments. His eyes sparkled as shrewdly
as her own.
"He looks wonnerful wise," she said. "Wise as Solomon, he be."
"Then we'll call him--Solomon."
And it was so. Solomon--soon abbreviated into "Sol"--wagged his short
tail approvingly.
To Fancy Alfred presented a bicycle, and with it these words:
"Vicarage is nigh three-quarters of a mile from Mother's cottage. I want
you to see Mother whenever 'tis possible. I know her. She'll keep
herself to herself, thinking her own thoughts, and they'll be hard
thoughts, Fancy. You'll help to soften 'em, dear, won't you?"
"Indeed I will."
"Parson'll let you off, afternoons, for an hour, maybe; and the bike'll
make all the difference. I see you nipping down in no time."
"I shall love that, if Mr. Hamlin can spare me."
Alfred laughed gaily.
"I've spoken a word to him. And a kinder gentleman, in spite of his
coldish face, I never met. He shook hands with me, and told me you
should have a whiff of fresh air."
And thus it was cosily arranged.
To find a responsible, capable fellow to take his place as village
carrier, and to drive the precious 'bus, was not so easy of achievement.
But this, too, was managed through Mr. Hamlin. Alfred said uneasily:
"I ask you, sir, to keep an eye on William Saint."
"William Saint?"
"He's crafty as any fox, sir, and a rare pusher. Mother fears that he
may push himself into my good business."
Hamlin promised to bear this possibility in mind. Then Alfred, with
groanings and travailings, delivered himself of the last burden on his
mind:
"I'm sore troubled about Mother."
Hamlin held his tongue.
"She's taking this hard, but not a word does she say, not one. She
thinks, I know, that God Almighty has forsaken her, pore soul. Such a
mort o' trouble as she's had, too. My going seems the last straw.
'Twouldn't be so bad, if all the young men had gone first."
"I can imagine what she feels, Alfred. This is a time of sore trial to
all of us, and, perhaps, the strongest suffer most. I will do what I can
to comfort her, but I can do so little. In all my life I have never felt
before how cheap mere words are. Now, go your way with a glad heart. Put
these anxieties from you, hopefully, and so you will do your duty the
better. God bless you!"
Alfred duly departed.
Before Lionel returned to France, the Squire's ardent desire was
granted. He became the happy grandfather of a stout boy, with his sire's
blue eyes and clear skin--a ten-pounder!
To celebrate this glorious event, the Squire built a shrine and
dedicated it to the men of Nether-Applewhite who had answered the call
to arms. It took the form of a fountain, with a granite trough for
watering horses. Inside the fountain might be found a great slab of
white marble with the names of the young fellows, in order, inscribed
upon it in dull gold lettering, a very notable monument, as Uncle
observed. It stood below the Church, opposite to the _Pomfret Arms_, in
an open space where roads branched. Folk, from far and near, came to
look at it.
From the recruiting point of view, the fountain, as was generally
admitted, furnished inspiration together with pure water to thirsty
souls.
When Lionel went back to France, a drab pall of apathy settled again
upon the village. Mrs. Yellam spent every morning at Pomfret Court,
returning to her cottage after the mid-day meal, which she helped to
serve. Fancy would dash down to see her after five o'clock tea. Within
six weeks Alfred appeared in khaki, with forty-eight hours' leave. He
had joined an infantry regiment, somewhat to his regret, for he had a
leg for a kilt, and remembered the resplendent appearance of "No Account
Harry."
"The Highlanders were in my mind, Mother. I'd a notion to enlist with
them, but 'twas not to be."
Susan Yellam said reflectively:
"I prefer the Grannydeer Guards, to they Seafarin' Highlanders, Alfie."
"Ah-h-h! I might have gone for a horse-soldier, but when they told me
'twould be my pleasure and duty to keep my horse cleaner than myself, I
thought twice about it. 'Tis a hard life, dear, but I feel wonderful
strong, with a tremendous stomach for my victuals."
His appearance delighted Fancy.
They were photographed together, arm in crook, travelling to Salisbury
as passengers in Alfred's 'bus, which provoked many jests. But when
Alfred went back to duty the corners in two hearts seemed more empty
than before.
Meanwhile, Tommies had taken the place of Belgians at Pomfret Court,
much to the satisfaction of the maids in the village. They were an
amazing set of fellows, so the Squire decided, guests after his own
heart, always ready to crack a joke, grousing about trifles, simply
splendid when they discoursed about the war. Some of them, unlike the
Belgians, were impatient to return to the front. They talked pleasantly
of the enemy whom they spoke of generically as "Fritz." The
kindest-hearted of the first lot, a little Cockney, bubbling over with
fun and high spirits, ever ready to help the "Sisters" in any job that
came to the one hand that had not been left in France, gloried in the
distinction of having been in a bayonet charge. The Squire, much
interested, asked for details, gleefully forthcoming.
"Yer see red, sir. I got after a fat 'Un. Lord lumme! 'E run a fair
treat, 'e did. But I stuck him to rights. I lost my 'ead though.
Couldn't see nothink nor nobody except 'im. In my silly 'aste I missed
some fine opportoonities."
"Opportunities?"
"Wounded 'Uns, sir, lyin' there to me 'and. I might 'ave 'ad
'arf-a-dozen notches on my old rifle, instead of one!"
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed Sir Geoffrey.
"Yer see, sir, we knows what they done to women and children."
By this time. George Mucklow and the first to join were at the front,
and every Sunday, during Morning Service, Mr. Hamlin would stand up,
before the Litany, and read out the names on the Roll of Honour. The
congregation, after Service, remained quietly in the church till the
National Anthem had been sung.
Mrs. Yellam sat alone in her pew, rigidly upright.
At home, alone in the evening, she talked to her dog. Solomon would sit
in front of her, staring up into her massive face, with one ear
half-cocked, very alert, very sympathetic.
"You be a wondersome dog."
Solomon's tail flickered.
"You knows more'n they donkeys as walks on two legs."
Solomon winked.
"You knows what a hard old flint I be, same as I digs up in garden."
Solomon laid a protesting paw upon her knee.
"You knows that I be tried beyond my powers, that I be mazed and dazed
beyond what tongue can tell."
Solomon leaped into her lap, and attempted to lick her face.
"No, no, Solly; my kissing days be over."
Solomon refused to believe this.
"You knows, too, that my Alferd be going to the wars, and he won't come
back. 'Twill kill that pore white-faced lil' maid. But 'twon't kill me,
I be too tough, Sol. I be getting tougher. And I get no taste out o'
life neither. I be so wicked that, times, I could lift my hand to kill
they who stay behind, guzzling ale, grinning because they think
theirselves so clever! I fair wonders that you can love so wicked an old
'ooman as I be."
Solomon, as a last reassuring protest, would curl up and fall asleep.
Mrs. Yellam would sit on, staring into the fire, trying to adjust the
workings of the Divine Mind with her own perplexed intelligence. Often
kindly sleep would come to the rescue, and she would wake with a start
to find the fire burnt out and the kitchen cold. But Solomon lay snug
and warm against her.
Many persons, besides Mrs. Yellam, were mazed and dazed during these
Spring days. At Neuve Chapelle, our cavalry had their feet in stirrup
ready to ride down the enemy, when a thick mist rolled up and balked
them of their prey. Jupiter Pluvius seemed to be fighting against us.
The appalling earthquake in Italy was joyously affirmed by Germans to be
God's judgment upon an ally who had deserted them. Strikes in the
industrial parts, Irish troubles going from bad to worse, seemed to
indicate the chastening hand of Omnipotence.
But we had accomplished a mighty miracle.
Five hundred thousand men were in France, and not a life lost during the
perilous operations connected with transport.
And then came the crushing disaster of the _Lusitania_. A wave of horror
and rage swept over the country. Till now, Lissauer's "Hymn of Hate" had
aroused ridicule, not resentment, amongst English-speaking peoples. The
Belgian atrocities, known in all their horror to very few, had been
accepted as the handiwork of brutes driven mad by drink and blood-lust,
not as the systematic, inspired doctrine of Frightfulness. But when all
Germany rose up to justify the slaughter of helpless women and children,
when streets were beflagged, medals struck, and the schools held
holiday, the nation began, at last, to grasp the truth. Might meant to
stick at nothing.
Recruiting, in the rural districts, received a sharp stimulus.
Fancy, lying awake at night, shed many tears, but none before Mrs.
Yellam. The pair, so strangely different, got on well together, because,
so Susan said, the girl was not a chatter-box. Often they would meet and
part without exchanging more than a dozen words. Fancy would help with
the work, the never-ending cleaning and sweeping, or take some sewing
and sit by the kitchen fire in silence. These quiet ways endeared her
more and more to Alfred's mother, and occasionally, very seldom, Fancy
would be vouchsafed a glimpse of an indurated heart. She had noticed
that Mrs. Yellam avoided any direct reference to the Deity, Whose name,
before the war, had been so often on her lips, the personal God, Whose
guiding finger, even in trivial, domestic affairs, could be so plainly
seen. One day, on the eve of Alfred's departure for France, Fancy said
nervously:
"God will be with Alfred."
Mrs. Yellam said quickly:
"He be wi' the Kayser, too, seemin'ly."
Instantly she closed her lips, as if fearful that more might leak from
them. Fancy remained discreetly silent. She comforted herself with this
reflection: faith in works sustained this unhappy old woman. She
laboured abundantly for others at Pomfret Court, and tended her garden
diligently so that she might have fruit and flowers and vegetables to
bestow upon poorer neighbours. In church, her responses were clear and
regular, her deportment irreproachable, but she never discussed the
sermon, once a favourite mental exercise, and Fancy came to the
conclusion that she no longer listened to it, too much obsessed by her
own perplexities.
About this time Nether-Applewhite was electrified out of its apathy by
an extraordinary event, something so unexpected that Hamlin himself, who
had foreshadowed such a remote possibility in his sermon on Patriotism,
began to wonder if he had been inspired.
George Mucklow won the Victoria Cross!
This heavy, stolid young man, who shut both eyes when his shins were
imperilled by a cricket-ball, who was "afeard wi' maids," who had been
driven to the colours before the toe of a thick boot, performed one of
those deeds that thrill an Empire. Fortunately for him, the tremendous
opportunity of which Hamlin had spoken came at a moment when Authority
was looking on, and able to record what took place. George confessed
afterwards that at the time he didn't know what he did, or how he did
it. Out of some subconscious zone surged the irresistible impulse
blindly obeyed. A shell fell in the trenches at a moment when the
officer on duty was making his rounds. Not an "Archie" or a "Black
Maria" but something smaller than a football. Dozens of men were close
to it. George darted past the officer and hurled himself upon it.
_It didn't explode!_
Within a week, George's photograph was given pride of place in
half-a-dozen newspapers. And then the supreme decoration was conferred.
He returned home on leave; the King pinned to his tunic the bronze
cross; Jane Mucklow and Uncle witnessed the ceremony; George came back
to Nether-Applewhite with his parents, and was the hero of another
function when Sir Geoffrey Pomfret presented him with a gold watch and
chain, a tribute from the Squire of the parish, and a well-lined purse,
the gift of the parishioners.
The effect on Uncle may be imagined. For ever after he associated
himself with George as owning an undivided half interest in the cross,
and in describing the glorious deed he assumed the royal plural, and
with it some of the attributes of a monarch.
"Us was standing at attention," he would say, "as I be standing now,
when the dam thing falls slam-bang in front of we. Neighbours, 'twas a
moment as won't bear thinking on. Many souls all unfit for Kingdom Come.
What does we do? We falls atop o' that there cannon-ball--'twas big
enough to blow a thousand fellers to glory--and hugs it to our buzzums.
'Tain't a thing to brag about, but us was in the noospapers, and--and,
well, you knows the end on't--Buckingham Pallis! And, believe me or not,
neighbours, but this be sober truth. Me and King Garge was hobnobbing
together for the space of one mortial minute, just so friendly and kind
as true brothers. I nodded to 'un, as I nods to you, and, by Jo! he nods
back to me."
Jane Mucklow had believed that George would perish in his first action.
He had come triumphantly through half-a-dozen. And, to-day, he wore the
proudest decoration that England's King can bestow. At a bound, she
became an impassioned optimist. She discerned clearly the hand of
Providence. King George was beheld as the Lord's Anointed. Queen Mary
towered higher than he as the sacrosanct Mother. Mrs. Mucklow had her
tale to tell, and told it with Uncle's unction and satisfaction.
"Queen Mary looked at my Garge as if 'twas her own dear son. Yes, she
did. And then she smiles sweetly at me. I tell 'ee this--Queeny Mary was
just so proud o' my Garge as I be. A good, kind 'ooman! I allows that,
now and again, I ha' raised my blasphemious voice against they crowned
heads, believing in my every-day way that they wore golden crowns when
we pore folks was a-wearing made-over bonnets. Such wicked thoughts be
clean gone from me. I be fair aching to sing 'God save the Queen' next
Sunday morning."
A neighbour remarked timidly:
"Lard bless 'ee, Jane Mucklow, we sings 'God save the King.'"
Jane answered solemnly:
"You sings what you please. I began my life singing 'God save the
Queen.' And I means to sing it again next Sunday."
But the glory that encompassed her nephew's thick head as with a halo
flickered like a farthing dip in the mind of Susan Yellam. Her poor
heart was lacerated by envy and jealousy. If George were indeed chosen
by Providence to wear the Victoria Cross, what decoration would He award
to her Alfred? The press had laid emphasis upon George being amongst the
first to volunteer. If Queeny Mary knew the whole truth, would she have
smiled sweetly at George's mother? Not she!
She laid the matter before Solomon that same night, after the memorable
function which took place at the Shrine.
"Solly, my soul be in sore trouble."
Solomon considered this attentively.
"Yes, my dog, I be setting in the seat o' the scornful. I be weary o' my
groanings. I ha' conceived sorrow and brought forth ungodliness."
Solomon whined.
"Why be this change come upon me, Solly? 'Tis written: Upon the ungodly
He shall rain fire and brimstone, storm and tempest. But, to-day,
seemingly, that be the lot o' the godly and the fatherless. To the
ungodly be given Victoria Crosses."
Solomon sat up and begged his mistress to be silent.
She concluded sorrowfully:
"I be cast down, and they that trouble me will rejoice at it."
Solomon leapt into her lap, and thrust his nice cold nose against her
cheek.
Hamlin visited her from time to time, but as friend, not priest. Wisely,
he bided his time to speak, wondering when the right moment would come.
She received him respectfully, answered his questions, enquired after
Mr. Edward, who had just received his Sam Brown belt, and then relapsed
into exasperating silence.
Meanwhile, Mr. William Saint had not neglected his opportunities. The
man chosen by Hamlin and Alfred to "carry on" during Alfred's absence
was sober and honest, but a poor talker. Saint bought a motor-'bus in
May, which he used at first to take passengers to and from the railway
station, some four miles distant. At the same time, he made arrangements
to entertain summer guests, renting a small house with a garden
overlooking the Avon, which served as an annexe for middle class
trippers, elderly spinsters who drew in water-colours, officers' wives
with children, and professional men seeking a little cheap fishing.
Saint drove the 'bus himself, engaging a good-looking young woman to
take his place in the bar. Now and again he made expeditions to
Salisbury, filling his 'bus with strangers who wished to see the
Cathedral. Before June was out, he started a bi-weekly trip. In July he
began carrying parcels.
Hamlin, accordingly, said a word to the Squire. But what could be done?
The Squire and he stuck faithfully to the regular carrier. Others
consulted their own convenience. Mrs. Yellam told Fancy that Alfred's
business was steadily diminishing in volume.
"Have you told Alfred?" asked Fancy.
"No. And don't 'ee tell him, neither."
"Not me. Anyways, so long as dear Alfred be safe and well, I shan't
worry about money matters."
Mrs. Yellam said tartly:
"Folks wi' no money to lose can allers sleep sound at nights." Then,
realising that she had slapped an innocent cheek, she added in a
pleasanter voice: "If Alferd keep safe and well, he'll downscramble this
raskil so soon as he be homealong."
Fancy kissed her.
"He will be homealong soon," she whispered.
"How do 'ee know? You ain't got a letter saying so?"
"N-n-no."
Mrs. Yellam's voice became testy again.
"Then how do 'ee know?"
Fancy hesitated, blushing. But Mrs. Yellam pressed her point. Finally,
the girl made confession. When Alfred went to France, she had consulted
the cards.
Mrs. Yellam exploded. What ridiculous notions young maids got, to be
sure! Cards, indeed! Very scornfully, she informed Fancy of the
existence of a so-called wise woman, half-gypsy, who lived in a
tumble-down cottage at Ocknell.
"You go and see that old grammer. 'Twill cost 'ee sixpence. For a
shillin' she'll tell 'ee a fine fortin, marry 'ee to a young lord, and
make 'ee the mother o' nine children. I ha' no patience wi' such
tricks."
Fancy said humbly:
"Alfred thinks it foolishness, just as you do, but ..."
"Well?"
"The lady in Salisbury, as taught me, did say that I should marry a
soldier. Alfred laughed at that, till--till he became one."
"You bain't married to a soldier yet."
"No. That's true."
Fancy sighed. Mrs. Yellam went on with some knitting. Suddenly, she said
sharply:
"What did they cards say?"
Fancy smiled faintly.
"They said that Alfred would come back--soon."
Mrs. Yellam knitted on. After a long pause, she pronounced a verdict.
"I bain't one to talk about what I don't understand. If so be as Alfred
comes back soon, and if he marries 'ee, I may own up that cards do tell
truth sometimes."