SUSPENSE
Sir Geoffrey returned home on Saturday, the 23rd, having achieved his
purpose. From The Hague, within twenty-four hours, discreet enquiries
would be made concerning Sergeant Yellam. But the answer might be
delayed a week.
On Sunday and on Christmas Day Mrs. Yellam's pew was empty, but
everybody knew that she was in attendance upon Fancy.
Hamlin preached what Uncle called a "very upliftin'" discourse, and
Uncle made it his business to drop down to the Yellam cottage during the
afternoon to learn how Fancy fared and to give his sister a synopsis of
the morning's sermon. By the luck of things, the nurse had just got up,
and was able to sit with Fancy, whilst Uncle talked with Susan in the
kitchen.
"She be low, Habakkuk, but I be fighting for her. Oh, me! there's so
little of her. And no milk for the baby."
"Lard preserve her dear life!"
Susan frowned.
"'Tis milk that be wanted."
"You be right. Bottle-babies suffer crool wi' colic."
"Not if I wash the bottles. Fancy have chosen the names."
"Ah-h-h! Susan be one of 'em; I'll lay a crown-piece on that."
"You'd lose your money. Lizzie Alfreda be the name."
Uncle considered this, and commended the choice. Then he squared his
shoulders and inflated his big chest.
"You missed a rare treat this marning, Susan."
"Did I?"
She spoke with indifference. Uncle believed in "gentling" refractory
horses and women. Conviction had descended upon him during the sermon
that he might be the Lord's instrument to lead Susan Yellam back to her
pew.
"Pa'son preached about the Babe of Bethlehem, as was right and proper,
but I makes bold to say as he was thinking of 'ee, Susan, and of Lizzie
Alfreda, bless 'un."
Mrs. Yellam felt strangely bored. But she knew that it was hopeless to
try to stop Uncle. What did it matter what any parson said? She was
wondering whether she could apply for milk to Mr. Fishpingle, at the
Home Farm. Village cows, grazing by the roadside, might pick up any
noxious weed.
Uncle continued solemnly:
"Me and Pa'son sees eye to eye about babes. And times, when he do drop
out o' sky and walks the green earth with mortial men, I feel sure that
fool-wisdom be his as 'tis mine. We sucked 'un in wi' mother's milk."
Susan said abruptly:
"I've a notion, Habakkuk, that the milk from they Freesian-Holsteen cows
bain't too rich for a baby's stomach."
Uncle stared at her, anxiously. With difficulty, he assimilated her
thoughts, abandoning, for the moment, his own.
"Quantity they gives, Susan, not quality. If I was lookin' after lil'
Lizzie Alfreda, dang me, if I wouldn't give 'un pure cream."
"I'll be bound you would. Or old ale."
She smiled grimly. Uncle really thought that the thaw had set in. He
continued joyously:
"You listen to me, Susan; I've an upliftin' message for 'ee, and it
consarns what your thoughts be dwellin' on--the baby upstairs. Pa'son
made that plain this marning to us old sticks. The Babe of Bethlehem
brought good cheer and peace to a wicked world ten thousand years ago,
and the peace o' this world, seemin'ly, lies wi' the little 'uns. And we
be bound to take extry good care o' they. I tell 'ee, Pa'son talked so
warm about babes that I felt it in me to raise another family."
"On pure cream?" asked Susan. But, at last, he had challenged her
attention.
"Ah-h-h! You has your joke. But babes be goin' to be our salvation. 'Tis
a brave, true notion. What makes a pack o' hounds, Susan? The young
drafts. If they be lackin' in bone and blood, they turns out skirters,
and presently the pack be streamin' all over country, runnin' riot,
chasin' everything and catchin' nothing. And so, old girl, when you sets
your gert mind on what milk to give lil' Lizzie, you be sarvin' the Lard
and your country."
Encouraged by Susan's softer expression, Uncle went on, embroidering his
theme with pardonable exaggeration, setting forth prodigious statistics.
Millions of babes died for lack of proper care, millions survived
infancy to become rickety, misformed, wretched children. And the war was
going to change all this. A nation bled white of its men must make the
care of children its first and paramount consideration. When he had
finished, Susan was so impressed that she said commandingly:
"'Tis true. And your duty be plain, Habakkuk."
"Meanin', Susan,----?"
"You step up so brisk as may be to Home Farm. You see Mr. Fishpingle.
You tell 'un that my gran'child needs pure milk, and, if you don't get
it, your powers o' speech bain't what you crack 'em up to be."
"Come wi' me, Susan. 'Twill blow some cobwebs out of 'ee."
"No; I sets in this house till----"
"Till when, you broody old hen?"
"Till Fancy be better."
After some protest, Uncle went his way alone, but he whistled as he
strode along, the jolly optimist. Next Sunday he would see Susan in her
pew. Soon there would be a christening, and word would come from Alfred.
Uncle now shared with the Squire the conviction that Alfred, probably
rushing ahead of his men, had been surrounded by Proosians and
overpowered.
Upon the Tuesday, the Squire received a telegram from London, which he
shewed to his wife:
"Yellam not a prisoner."
The telegram was signed by one of the most honoured names in England.
Lady Pomfret sighed. The Squire fussed and fumed, detesting mystery.
"What does it mean, Mary? If he isn't a prisoner, where the dooce is he?
I have his Colonel's word for it that all the dead and wounded were
brought in. This telegram is equally reliable. I ask you, where is
Alfred Yellam?"
"Shell-shock affects some of them very strangely."
"What d'ye mean by that, my dear?"
"You remember John Boyce?"
The Squire was not likely to forget John Boyce, one of the quietest,
gentlest, and pluckiest of the many wounded men who had passed through
Pomfret Court. He had been a sufferer from shell-shock and gas, but
otherwise sound of limb. One morning, as the Squire was lathering his
face, word came to him that John Boyce had gone mad. Without pausing to
remove the lather, wearing pyjamas and slippers, the Squire had rushed
out of his dressing-room, downstairs, and into a corridor, where Boyce
stood at bay, with a valiant V. A. D. in front of him. He had escaped
from the ward, and happened to be close to Lionel's sitting-room. Into
this room the Squire led Boyce, trying to calm him down. The poor fellow
was possessed of suicidal mania. He had lost his chums and his health.
He demanded a rifle and permission to go into the garden and "end it."
It was piteous to hear him. As yet he had exhibited no violence. But in
Lionel's room, where swords were hanging on the wall, Boyce, with his
congested eyes on the naked steel, struggled desperately to get hold of
a sword. The Squire was a very powerful man, and Boyce undersized, but
insanity nearly mastered sanity. Suddenly, Boyce's body relaxed. All
violence went out of him. Soon he went back to the saloon, quite himself
again. Later, he was taken to Netley Hospital, where he recovered
completely.
Lady Pomfret said slowly:
"Just between ourselves, Geoffrey, is it possible that poor Alfred,
slightly wounded in the head, perhaps, is wandering somewhere in
France?"
The Squire opened his mouth.
"My dear Mary, are you hinting at--desertion?"
"If he were not himself, like John Boyce?"
The Squire had to admit that this was possible. Alfred must be
somewhere. Upon him would be his identification-disk. The number of this
had been sent to The Hague.
"I must see Hamlin."
He did. Hamlin told him that Fancy was fluttering between life and
death. Under the circumstances, it might be expedient to say nothing
about the telegram. To this the Squire warmly agreed. Nobody knew what
was in the telegram, except Lady Pomfret and themselves. Nobody would
know till Fancy had turned the corner, one way or t'other, poor little
dear!
Within twenty-four hours all Nether-Applewhite knew.
Somebody at the telegraph-office must have babbled.
What followed may be imagined. Dick told Tom, and Tom told Harry, till
verisimilitude--to quote Gilbert--attached itself to an otherwise bald
and unconvincing narrative. Ultimately, the tale reached the ears of
Uncle. Alfred Yellam was a deserter--such a deduction from the telegram
might be considered crude, but on that very account likely to be gobbled
by gaffers--with a price set upon him, alive or dead. King Garge on his
throne knew it.
Poor Uncle became distraught. If it were true, he could never carry a
high head again. Stoutly he refused to believe it, breathing strange
oaths and threatening violence to all and sundry. If such a wicked lie
reached Fancy's ears, it would kill her. He strode into the forest to
cool himself. Could he face his fellow-men in church? He beheld two
empty pews, and gnashed his teeth.
Returning from the forest, somewhat easier in mind, he decided that
Susan must be warned. Very wisely he went to Hamlin first, who confirmed
the telegram, agreeing with Uncle that Mrs. Yellam should be told the
truth and what it had been twisted into by wagging tongues. Sensible of
Uncle's excitement and indignation, he said quietly:
"You must rise above this gossip. It is not unnatural and not
ill-natured."
"I begs your pardon, sir?"
"Sir Geoffrey says that Alfred must be somewhere. For my part, I prefer
to think of him in the care, perhaps, of some friendly French peasant,
tending a man who may not remember his own name."
"That be a mort o' comfort. Twice in my long life, I minds forgetting my
own name. I took a notion that I were the village idiot. Bad ale's
tricksy stuff. But desartion be a tarr'ble word."
Hamlin clapped him hard on the shoulder.
"Nobody who knows Alfred, or his mother, or you, would credit such a
monstrous perversion of the truth."
Uncle, much heartened, betook himself to his sister's cottage, where the
surprise of his life awaited him. Susan literally jumped at this new
hypothesis. She burst into excited speech.
"If Squire thinks that, 'tis so. Parson be a wonnerful man, but, as you
says, Habakkuk, sky-high above we. Squire be clay, a gert human bein'
wise wi' the wisdom that I understands. If he holds that my Alferd be
wanderin', pore dear, in France, 'tis so. I feels a different 'ooman
to-night. And Fancy be better, too, wi' some sart o' appetite for her
victuals. I be fightin' hard for her life, Habakkuk, and I believes
to-night that all will be well. 'Tis queer, Fancy keeps on a-sayin' to
me: 'Alferd'll come back.'"
"Maybe he will, maybe he won't. Pa'son be prayin' in church for Alferd.
'Twould seem more respectful-like if you jined in wi' your loud voice."
At once Mrs. Yellam's face hardened.
"I bide at home till Alferd comes back."
"Ah-h-h! You be set as never was on guidin' yourself, Susan. Now, what
about tellin' Fancy?"
"I tells her the moment you be gone. 'Twill perk her up, better'n
ginger-brandy. And what do I keer what they says in village? Let 'un
talk. Squire be right. Alferd must be somewheres."
Fancy was told within the hour. It will never be known whether the news
affected her for good or ill. Mrs. Yellam lacked imagination. Fancy, we
may believe, conjured up a lamentable picture of her Alfred, bereft of
his wits, wandering in a strange land, homeless and half-starving, at
the mercy of the elements in mid-winter. But she repeated the main
clause in her creed:
"Alfred'll come back."
Napoleon has assured us that repetition is the greatest figure of
rhetoric. The stone is worn away by the ever-falling drop of water.
Fancy's reiterated phrase fell persistently upon the ice in Susan
Yellam's heart and melted some of it, not all.
Upon the Thursday morning the Squire received a letter from the Colonel
commanding Sergeant Yellam's battalion. He read it to Lady Pomfret.
"My dear Sir:
"With deep regret I have to inform you of the death of
Sergeant Alfred Yellam upon the night of the fifteenth of
December. All the facts have come to light, beyond dispute.
One of our wounded men has been lying unconscious in our
receiving hospital. Last night he became conscious. It seems
that Yellam was close to him when a shell from a trench
howitzer burst literally upon poor Yellam. According to the
evidence of the wounded man Yellam disappeared. That was the
last indelible impression of the only witness, who was
struck by a splinter from the same shell, and lost
consciousness immediately afterwards.
"Sergeant Yellam had earned the affection and confidence of
all ranks. He was the type of man we value most, cool in
danger, modest at all times, cheerful, energetic and
capable. Peace be with him!
"Yours faithfully,
"Courtenay Tring.
"P. S.--The official communication will reach Sergeant
Yellam's widow in due course. This letter will precede it,
and I leave it to your discretion what to do."
"What shall we do?" groaned the Squire.
Before telling the news to anybody else, Sir Geoffrey walked to the
Vicarage. Hamlin read the letter.
"Susan Yellam must be told," he said slowly. "She can intercept the
official communication. Such news would kill Fancy."
"Who will tell Susan?"
"I will take the letter to her."
The Squire looked at his face. He wondered why Hamlin was so affected.
The Parson had sat down, as if he had received a personal blow. He
rested his austere face upon his hand, thinking not of the young wife,
so full of faith and courage, but of the old woman. Sir Geoffrey said
impulsively:
"I wish that you could be spared this, Hamlin."
"So do I."
"You might let Jane Mucklow do it, or Uncle."
"Susan Yellam is my parishioner. God's hand lies heavy on her--how heavy
I am unable to determine. I have never felt, Pomfret, so conscious of my
disabilities, of anaemic faith in such cases as this."
The Squire stood confounded.
"I wish I had your faith, Hamlin."
"What is faith?" asked Hamlin, almost fiercely. "Is it merely a belief
that satisfies and helps oneself? The faith that burned in the Apostles
was more than that. It saved others. Virtue, at a touch, went out of the
faithful into the faithless. If I could touch this poor old woman----!"
"You will," said the Squire, with assurance.
"No. And that is why I wish that I could be spared another--failure."
Soon afterwards he left the Vicarage, and, passing the church, paused a
moment. He went in and stood near the Font, staring at the Christmas
decorations and then at the Pomfret achievements emblazoned upon many of
the windows. The decorations served to remind the smallest child in his
congregation that another Child had been born into the world; the
achievements reminded the more sophisticated of the Pomfrets who had
died. The Child had been born to save others; the Pomfrets, many of them
worthy, God-fearing persons, had been mainly concerned in preserving
their own bodies and souls.
"He saved others; Himself He cannot save."
The wonderful line came into his mind, as his thoughts dwelt upon the
millions of seemingly righteous, respectable men and women bent on
saving their own souls, with but little regard for the souls of others.
The Salvation Army, so derided and condemned by Church and State when he
was a boy, had accomplished work which could not be ignored by priest
and prelate, work undertaken by labourers with no outshining
qualifications except faith in their ability to convince others, others
as humble in condition as themselves, who stood, for the most part,
beyond the pale of organised charity and richly-endowed religious
denominations.
Did this war, in relation to such thoughts, assume a new significance?
Could regeneration, reconstruction come from below, from the masses, for
example, out of which General Booth had enlisted his soldiers? Would a
privilege, the noblest in the world, the sacrosanct prerogative to touch
others to finer issues, emanate from the unprivileged? Hamlin could not
answer the question. Or, as seemed more likely, would light shine from
above, from a purified aristocracy, purged of self-interest by
sacrifice, proud and eager to remove intolerable burdens from their less
fortunate fellow-men? Or, a happier hypothesis than either, would the
complex problem be solved by co-operation of masses and classes made one
by sorrow and suffering, born anew through blood and tears? It might
well be so.
He left the church, and walked through the village. Much rain had
fallen. He noticed that the Avon was swollen, and ready to overflow its
banks. The wind blew cold upon his cheeks. The sun moved behind heavy
clouds ready to discharge vast accumulations of moisture. In short, a
raw, drizzling day, one of the last of an unhappy year.
When Hamlin reached the cottage, a small girl, who came in during the
morning to do house-work, the scrubbing and cleaning so dear to Susan,
told the Parson that Mrs. Yellam was upstairs. She believed that Mrs.
Alfred had passed a nice night. The baby was doing "lovely."
Susan appeared within a minute. A glance at Hamlin's face was enough for
her. In silence he took her hand and pressed it.
"You has news of Alferd, sir?"
Her voice was perfectly calm, calmer than his.
"I have a letter from his Commanding Officer. Sit down, and read it."
They were alone in the parlour. The antimacassars had been taken from
the big Bible and replaced. But no fire burned in the grate. To Hamlin
the room stood for all that he detested and assailed in English life and
character. In its humble way, it positively exuded pretension. The
carpet, a crudely-coloured body Brussels, the ornaments on the
mantel-shelf, the enlarged photographs, the horse-hair and mahogany
furniture, the prim bookcase, glazed and glaringly varnished,
imprisoning, under lock and key, books that nobody read or could read,
the mirror, the velveteen curtains with imitation lace under-curtains,
all had been bought to impress neighbours! It was pathetic to reflect
that Mrs. Yellam thought this hideous parlour a thing of beauty, whereas
her kitchen, a joy to behold, was merely regarded as utilitarian. And
yet the kitchen expressed sincerely all that was finest in Mrs. Yellam;
the parlour set forth blatantly the defects of her strong personality.
She read the letter.
"May I keep it, sir?"
"Yes. Colonel Tring tells us, Mrs. Yellam, what we all know here. Alfred
was a son to be proud of."
Her face remained impassive. She agreed respectfully that it would be
unwise to tell Fancy the truth till some measure of strength returned to
her. Hamlin had thought out a score of simple sentences. He said none of
them. In all his long life he had never realised so acutely the
illimitable space which may divide two human beings. At this moment
Parson and Parishioner stood far apart as the poles. He had intended to
allude to his own son. But she might fling in his teeth the cutting
reminder that he had others and a daughter. And in this cold, ugly room,
looking upon her frozen face, sympathy congealed at its source. He
withheld condolence, because it must hurt instead of help. In silence he
commended her soul to God, and went away.
Mrs. Yellam unlocked her brass-cornered desk, and placed the letter
amongst other papers. Then, idly, she looked out of the window, which
faced the road and river. Before Hamlin came, she had stood at the
window upstairs, staring out upon the same familiar landscape. And she
had asked for a sign. She had looked at the heavy clouds even as Fancy
had looked at her cards. If light shone through them, she might believe
that for her spring and summer would bloom again.
The sign had not been vouchsafed.
Now, she stood at the window again, with features slightly relaxed. Such
an expression informed her face as may be seen, sometimes, on the faces
of steerage passengers upon trans-Atlantic boats taking leave for ever
of their native land.
She turned from the window and went, heavily, into the kitchen.
Had she waited a minute longer, she would have seen a sign. Through the
falling rain shone a strange light, palely amber. It illuminated the
dull water-meadows, evoking colour--iridescent, opaline tints--where
colour had ceased to be. It transmuted, magically, the sombre lead of
the swollen river into sparkling gold. And then, swiftly, the light
failed, the vision splendid vanished like a mirage, leaving behind a
desert.
She went up stairs. Fancy said eagerly:
"What does Mr. Hamlin say, Mother?"
Mrs. Yellam hesitated, for one second only. She was unprepared for this
question; she had forgotten the small maid who had scuttled into the
room, saying that the Parson wanted to see Mrs. Yellam. With a
tremendous effort she lied superbly, this woman who loathed lies
because, in her masculine wisdom, she knew that lies made all ordinary
matters worse instead of better.
She held up her finger.
"You be much too curious, my girl. Mr. Hamlin dropped in, very
friendly-like, to ask me about the baby's christening. He be a oner for
gettin' the lambs into the fold so quick as may be."
Fancy was quite satisfied.
"I told 'un," continued Mrs. Yellam placidly, embroidering her theme
after a fashion which surely would have provoked envy and commendation
from Uncle, "that you'd be up and about in no time. We passed a few
cheerful remarks about this be-utiful weather, and then off he goes."
"I'd like to wait for Alfred," murmured Fancy. "I've a notion that he'll
come before the New Year. If he ain't a prisoner, he will come. I wonder
if he knows how bad I want him."
"Ah-h-h!" She paused, and then added sharply: "If wanting 'd bring
Alferd, he'd be here now. You eat more and think less, and then we'll
all be happy."
With that Mrs. Yellam went abruptly out of the room.