"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 façade 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!
Susan Yellam rarely left her cottage, and, during week-days, was not too cordial to chance visitors. On Sunday afternoon, however, she was at home to friends, and hospitably glad to offer them the best cup of tea in Nether-Applewhite, and some hot buttered toast which waited for nobody. If a too nice stomach disdained buttered toast, the pangs of hunger could be alleviated with bread and honey (from the hives in the garden) or bread and jam (of Mrs. Yellam's own making). A rich cake was in cut.
Mrs. Yellam had been a Mucklow. And her favourite brother, Habakkuk, had married a Rockley—all of Nether-Applewhite. Mrs. Mucklow generally dropped in on Sunday afternoons, bringing a grievance with her. The Mucklows had not prospered like the Yellams and Rockleys. And this was the more remarkable because the Mucklow men were fine upstanding fellows, reasonably sober, and God-fearing Churchgoers. The ancients of the village affirmed that the brains of the family had been served out in one lump, and given to Susan Yellam.
Upon the Sunday following Alfred's visit to the Vicarage, Mrs. Mucklow, wearing black silk and a bonnet, dropped into the cottage. She was taller than her sister-in-law, and very thin. Invariably she disagreed with everything said by Mrs. Yellam, and yet, oddly enough, the two women remained friends, partly because Susan believed devoutly in the ties of blood, and partly because Jane's rather fatuous contradictions shed searchlights upon Susan's commonsense. Wisdom is comfortably bolstered by the folly of others.
"Well, Jane, how be you?"
Mrs. Mucklow answered dolorously:
"I be no better than I was las' Sunday."
"That's bad."
"No, it ain't. I expected to be worse. Very soon I shall be lying along o' Mother. She suffered wi' her innards, pore soul, just as I do."
"She got comfort out of it, too, just as you do, dear. Sit you down, and let's hear the news."
Jane Mucklow sighed, and sat down. Unlike her sister-in-law, she strayed daily into the cottages of her neighbours, picking up gossip, and repeating it with embellishments of her own. As she removed white cotton gloves, she said sharply:
"I want your news first, Susan."
"But I haven't any, Jane; nothing, that is to say, which you don't well know already."
"Maybe. But I wanted it from your own lips."
"Bless the woman! Whatever do 'ee want?"
"What you prides yourself on giving—information. Don't sit there so genteel, and pretend to me that you don't know what your Alferd be up to this very minute!"
"I don't—and nor do you."
"Yas, I do. Your Alferd was over to Vicarage las' Sunday. To-day, he's traipsin' the Park with Miss Fancy Broomfield."
From her pronunciation of the name, it was quite evident that the young person in question was not what diplomats callgratissimato Mrs. Mucklow. And the sniff that followed was aggressive. Mrs. Yellam poured out a large cup of tea with an impassive face. Inwardly, she winced. Alfred had kept his plans to himself, doing so, moreover, in accordance with advice well rubbed into him ever since he had affairs of his own to attend to. But a mother—and such a mother—might be deemed an exception to a golden rule. Mrs. Yellam said calmly:
"Is he? Who is your Rose walking out wi'?"
The question was ungrammatical and unkind. Rose, large, plain, and red-headed, sighed for swains who did not walk out with her. She might have been comfortably married to Alfred at this minute. The older families in Nether-Applewhite fancied intermarriage, much to the exasperation of Sir George Pomfret. And so far—the stock being exceptionally sound—no great evil had come of this. Within the year Prudence Rockley had married her first cousin. In Mrs. Mucklow's opinion marriages between near of kin were preferable to alliances with outsiders. Town girls, she regarded, not without reason, as hussies.
"My Rose be a good girl, and well you knows it."
"Maybe you have something agen this Fancy Broomfield? If so, Jane, out wi' it."
"Townbred girls be all alike."
Mrs. Yellam replied tranquilly:
"I bain't an upholder o' they, but I keep faith in my Alferd's good sense and judgment. He's walked out wi' a baker's dozen o' maids afore this 'un, and why not? I've allers told Alferd to pick an' choose."
Mrs. Mucklow attacked the buttered toast almost viciously.
"'Tis true, I suppose, that his father's van ain't good enough foryourson?"
Inwardly Mrs. Yellam winced again. Alfred had made his decision "on his own." But she answered as tranquilly as before:
"Seemin'ly it ain't. God A'mighty knows what us be coming to, and He don't tell. As a Christian woman I bows afore Him."
Poor Mrs. Mucklow, continually contrasting the prosperity of Alfred with the ill-luck, as she deemed it, of her own three sons, sniffed again. Not long since the three Mucklows had contemplated emigration to Canada. They had been anchored in Nether-Applewhite by Mr. Fishpingle, sometime butler to Sir Geoffrey, now bailiff at the Home Farm. They happened to pursue avocations such as hurdling, spar-making, hedging and ditching, which were precariously dependent upon a demand that varied tremendously, a demand that, year by year, shewed inexorable signs of failing. And Mrs. Mucklow was uneasily conscious that her sons' ill luck was regarded by her sister-in-law as part of a Divine dispensation. In the same complacent spirit the good-luck of Alfred became, in Susan Yellam's eyes, a mark of Divine favour. It may be imagined how this rankled in the heart of a woman who held herself to be as good a Christian as her neighbours, and perhaps better. Mrs. Mucklow retorted tartly:
"You be allers shovin' your Christian feelin's down our throats, Susan. But I say this—you ain't been tried as I hev."
Mrs. Yellam dealt with this drastically.
"I be thankful for God's mercies. I might be less thankful if so be as I mixed up my victuals as you do. Faith in A'mighty God have more to do wi' the stomach than most folks think on. As for being tried—I tend four graves in churchyard to your one."
Mrs. Mucklow's small beady eyes softened.
"Yas—you've had your sore trials, Susan. And the graves be a credit to 'ee. But I've said it afore, and I say it again, small fam'lies make for righteousness. Keepin' my childern in shoe-leather alone took a deal o' saintliness out o' me. Be that cake?"
"I hopes so. Have a slice?"
"Your rich cake allers lies heavy on my pore stomach, but 'twould be ungenteel to refuse."
Mrs. Yellam cut a large slice. As Mrs. Mucklow consumed it, Mrs. Yellam said impressively:
"I'll tell 'ee something, Jane, as betwixt us two. I ain't one to brag unduly, and 'tis true that I be proud o' my Christian feelings. For why? Because, long ago, I come mighty near to losing 'em."
Mrs. Mucklow gasped; a piece of cake stuck in her throat.
"I never did! Come near to losin' 'em, did 'ee?"
"Yas." Mrs. Yellam's voice became solemn. "When I buried my pore husband...."
"That was a rare funeral, Susan. Squire and my lady there, flowers from the Hall, a very moving set-out. Was I interrupting of 'ee?"
"You was, Jane, but never mind. As I laid my husband to rest, I says to myself: 'The Lard gave and the Lard ha' taken away.'"
"Very proper."
"The pore man suffered so bad with rheumatics that it seemed God's mercy to take 'un. He'd no pleasure in life onless he were talking of his aches and pains. And allers the misery o' telling me what he'd like to eat an' drink—and couldn't. That fair tore him, and me. He was a rare doer, like Alferd. When he was taken, I did not rebel."
Mrs. Mucklow was so interested that she suspended operations with the cake, awaiting the climax of an astounding tale, arrested by a strange expression upon her sister-in-law's face. The pupils of Mrs. Yellam's eyes seemed to contract; her lips became set. She continued very impressively:
"When my children died, 'twas different. Seemed to me like as if I was buryin' part o' myself. 'Twere bad enough when the two boys went, but when Lizzie sickened, my own lil' maid, why then, Jane, I did rebel."
"And no wonder!"
"I watched her slippin' away, and I says, 'No more churchgoin'.'"
Mrs. Mucklow repeated the words:
"No more churchgoing—! That, from you? I be shaken to my beam ends."
Mrs. Yellam went on, in the same cold, incisive voice:
"We be told, Jane, that the Lard chastens him whom He loves, but we read elsewhere in the holy Book that He chastises them as He hates. When Lizzie died I'd the blasphemeous notion that God A'mighty hated me. And then my faith went a-flutterin' out o' winder. I lay in bed two Sundays, because I dassn't go into my pew. I never spoke to nobody. Yas—I lay abed, fighting Satan. He tempted me rarely."
Mrs. Mucklow nodded.
"Ah-h-h! You be tellin' a wondersome tale, Susan. Satan nearly had me, near as no matter, when I was a maid. He came gallivantin' along in a red coat...."
"A soldier?"
"No, a fox-hunting young gentleman. 'Tis a subject I don't care to think about. How did Satan tempt you, Susan?"
"Wi' a brandy-bottle. It stood there makin' eyes at me...."
"For all the world like my young gentleman."
"What saved you, Jane?"
"I dunno'. It might ha' been God A'mighty's grace. It might ha' been fear o' consequences.'
"Them two things saved me, Jane. But I calls it one thing. God A'mighty's grace made both on us think o' consequences. I says to myself: 'What will Alferd do if his mother don't go churchalong? What'll happen to him, if his mother be known as a drunkard?' And, there and then, Jane, my pore faith come a-flutterin' back, a-shaking its feathers, like a hen after a storm o' rain. And the storm was over, too. It's been warm and sunny for me ever since. Now you know why I be proud o' my Christian feelings."
Mrs. Mucklow nodded and finished her cake. She had begun her second cup of tea, when steps were heard upon the stone flags which led from the front wicket to the back door.
"'Tis Alferd," said Mrs. Yellam.
"And Miss Fancy Broomfield," added Jane Mucklow. "Come to ask your blessing, Susan."
"Fiddle!" replied Mrs. Yellam sharply.
Within a minute, however, it became plain that Alfred wanted nothing more exciting than a cup of tea for himself and his companion. They had climbed to the top of the down, after visiting Mr. Fishpingle at the Home Farm. Miss Broomfield, formally presented to the elder women and as formally received, looked pale and tired. Possibly, she divined hostility the more penetrating because suppressed. Mrs. Yellam said magnificently:
"Please excuse me for welcoming you, Miss Broomfield, in my kitchen."
Fancy smiled.
"What a pretty kitchen!"
The kitchen—as Mrs. Yellam was complacently aware—deserved the adjective. It boasted, what is never found in modern cottages, an open hearth and ingle-nook. Hams and flitches of bacon were smoked in the wide chimney. After such treatment, the hams were hung in a row from a big black beam. By the side of the hearth stood a small stove large enough to bake modest joints. The window, with diamond-paned casements, was deeply recessed, with a red-cushioned seat running round it. The dresser, opposite to the hearth, exhibited pewter and some willow-pattern pottery. Upon the oak panelling on each side of the hearth hung gleaming brass, including an immense warming-pan. The table in the middle of the room had been stoutly built of deal. Removing the table-cloth, you would have seen a surface scrubbed white as the linen cloth. Along the window-sill were pots of geraniums. Even Mrs. Mucklow admitted that Queen Mary could eat her dinner off the red tiles of the floor.
Mrs. Yellam nodded. Alfred brought a chair for Fancy, but she declared her intention of sitting upon one of two stools against the wall.
To her amazement, Alfred said sharply:
"Don't sit on that!"
"Why ever not, Mr. Yellam?"
"'Tis a coffin stool."
Fancy sat down upon the chair he placed for her. Mrs. Mucklow said mournfully:
"I wonders, Susan, why you keep they stools in your kitchen."
"And so do I," added Alfred.
Mrs. Yellam answered simply:
"They mind me, Alferd, that in the midst o' life we be wise to think, now and again, o' death. Will you remove your hat, Miss Broomfield?"
Fancy did so, slipping off her gloves first. Mrs. Yellam frightened her a little. Not quite at ease, she minded her table manners, and behaved with a gentility quietly noted and silently commended by the elder women. On such occasions, when a stranger happened to be present, Mrs. Yellam loved to lead the talk, choosing a subject likely to improve the minds of her listeners. The captious may regard this as an unpleasing trait. Mrs. Yellam believed that it was more blessed to give than to receive instruction. But, listening to Parson or Squire, she imbibed such wisdom as fell from their august lips with an attention and an intelligence which she exacted from others when she held the floor. Her first duty, as hostess, was to see that her guest made a good tea, the sort of tea, obviously, that she did not get at home. Fancy, however, trifled with her food, being overtired, and positively refused to eat cake. Mrs. Yellam said majestically:
"My son tells me that you be a reader, Miss Broomfield."
"I like books," replied Fancy. "I have not read many, Mrs. Yellam."
"I don't hold wi' reading," observed Mrs. Mucklow; "leastways, not for pore folks as has no time to waste."
This was a sly thrust at Susan Yellam, one of the few villagers who took in and read a halfpenny paper.
"Nor do I, Jane, for such as you means. Parson says you find in a book just what you bring to 'un. There's folks in Nether-Applewhite as brings nothing, nothing at all."
Mrs. Mucklow helped herself to a second slice of cake. Alfred lit his pipe, hoping that Fancy would stand her ground when his mother opened fire. Mrs. Yellam smiled graciously at her guest. She might be "spindling," but she looked intelligent. Nevertheless, she distrusted intelligence in very young women. Undisciplined, it might turn a modest maid into a militant suffragette. From all such, Good Lord, deliver us! A Nether-Applewhite girl, at the head of her class in school, had joined the Salvation Army, and now banged a tambourine in Southampton. Sometimes she wondered whether her own Lizzie mightn't have turned out a handful. Such a possibility almost resigned her to the loss of a child very precocious and with a strong will of her own. You will understand the temperament and character of Susan Yellam better if you grasp the fact that she endeavoured, habitually, to explain the mysterious workings of Providence both to herself and to her neighbours. She had been a devoted wife and mother, but, marking as she did the disconcerting changes in young women of her acquaintance, she was forced to the conclusion that many mothers profited by losing their prayers. God Almighty knew best. She addressed Fancy again:
"You live in Salisbury?"
"I do, Mrs. Yellam."
"My son tells me that there be many radicals in the town."
"I daresay."
"Be you true blue or yaller?"
"I don't quite understand."
"Be you Conservative or Radical?"
"My father is a Liberal."
Alfred looked uneasy. As a carrier, seeking business where he could find it, and dealing impartially with all, he eschewed politics, and deprecated the discussion of controversial themes. He would have been amazed had a stranger informed him that his outlook on life was panoramic in comparison with his mother's. Coming to the rescue of Fancy, he said encouragingly:
"So is Mr. Hamlin. He ain't the worse parson for that. As Mother knows."
Mrs. Yellam nodded. A slight acerbity informed her voice as she answered her son:
"Mr. Hamlin be a good man in parish, Alferd. 'Tis a square sound peg in a square hole. And I say this for 'un. He don't talk politics wi' me."
Mrs. Mucklow interpolated slily:
"Ah-h-h! Parson be a wise man too."
Mrs. Yellam ignored this superbly. She looked at Alfred, but her remarks were addressed to Fancy.
"We all knows that Mr. Hamlin is Radical, and 'tis a sore point wi' Squire and many others. I hold wi' the old ways, I do. I've no patience wi' mischief-makers, a-settin' class agen class, stirrin' up strife, and a-puttin' beggars on horseback. As for they jumped-up folks, sanding their sugar yesterday an' to-day peacocking along pretending to be quality, I fair hates the sight o' 'em. I wouldn't let a maid o' mine take service wi' such. All this talk about equality be foolish and contrary to Scrupture. There be gentle, and simple, rich and pore. And I takes it that pore means more nor poverty—pore o' purse, pore o' mind, pore o' body...."
"And poor of soul," said Fancy.
Mrs. Yellam turned sharply. But there was no offence in the girl's quiet voice. She lay back in her chair, listening attentively, obviously interested. Mrs. Yellam nodded.
"And pore o' soul. You don't look, Miss Broomfield, as if you was ashamed o' service."
"I ain't," said Fancy.
"And I reckons you hold wi' me that folks should rest content in their proper station o' life, eh?"
Fancy answered politely:
"I heard a sermon preached on that in our cathedral."
"Did 'ee now?"
"Yes. Till I heard that sermon, Mrs. Yellam, I was never quite able to understand about doing my duty in that state of life unto which it should please God to call me."
"'Tis plain as plain to me," said Mrs. Yellam.
Fancy hesitated. She desired to please Alfred's mother. She was quick to realise how easily she might displease her. Being innately sincere, she continued bravely:
"It seemed to me to be wrong not to want to better oneself, to rise higher...."
As she paused, at a loss for words, Mrs. Mucklow interrupted with a hard laugh.
"Right or wrong, we all feels that way. Susan Yellam don't fancy motors, but she'd like to ride in her carriage an' pair, and would too, if so be as a convict uncle from Australia left her a fortin'."
Alfred said uneasily:
"Now, Aunt Jane, you know we ain't got convict uncles t'other side of the world. What will Miss Broomfield be thinking of us?"
To his astonishment and delight Fancy, not his mother, answered Mrs. Mucklow.
"But that is what the preacher made so plain and comfortsome. He said that we were not to be content with the station to which we might be born, but content in that unto which God might call us. He might call us to a higher position, or to a lower. He might give carriages and horses, or take them away."
Her gentle voice, so persuasive, so sincere, carried with it an extraordinary conviction. This simple explanation of a text familiar to anybody who has learnt the Catechism became instantly adequate.
Mrs. Yellam, quite as sincere as Fancy, said quickly:
"'Tis true. I never thought on't just that way. And 'tis fair, too. Let God's Will be done, whate'er betide." Her face brightened. She said almost joyously: "I shall ride in Alferd's new motor-'bus wi' proper pride now, feeling sure that God A'mighty called me to do so."
Alfred beamed. Fancy, he perceived, had "made a hit." It might be prudent to take her away, and run no risks. If he and she resumed their walk, the elder women would discuss her handsomely. A favourable first impression might become indelible. He got up:
"If you feel good and ready, Miss Broomfield, we might take the road again."
"She be tired out," declared Mrs. Yellam. "Anybody but a man'd see that. You let Miss Broomfield bide along wi' us, Alferd; she can bide so long as she's a mind to."
This was disconcerting both for Alfred and Fancy. Happily for them, Mrs. Mucklow espied an opening for contradiction. She exclaimed derisively:
"What a notion, askin' a young maid to bide along wi' two old women, when every bird i' the trees is a-singing to his mate. But 'tis true, Miss Broomfield be leg-weary, after climbing our hills. Take her down river, Alferd. Do 'ee borrow the miller's boat."
"That I will," said Alfred. "And glad he'll be to oblige me, too. Come on, miss. 'Tis only a step to the mill."
The pair vanished. The elder women looked at each other.
Mrs. Mucklow said slowly:
"I be flambergasted, Susan."
"So be I."
"A very pretty, modest maid."
"Alferd might do worse; I allows that."
"So do I, Susan."
Mrs. Yellam hesitated, and then said slowly:
"Alferd be fair daffy about her, that's a fact. Miffed as I may well be at his choosin' a sweetheart who looks, seemin'ly, as if a puff o' wind'd blow her bang out o' parish, I sticks to what I says, the boy might ha' done worse."
"Boy, indeed! He be a man."
"'Tis true. And the multiplication-table, one might say, be made for him rather than her. Alfred did tell me las' night that an auntie, on her mother's side, bore twins twice. But as to that, we women be all in God A'mighty's hands."
"Then Alferd have told 'ee as he wants her?"
"Don't 'ee repeat it. He have."
"Then he'll get her. A big strong feller like that feels wonnerful cuddlesome when he comes acrost they delicate, abstemious females. 'Tis as sartain as we be sitting here that he'll put the question in his own good time."
Mrs. Yellam sighed.
"We be on the skirts o' great happenings. If 'tis the Lard's Will, I have nothing to say."
During the month that followed, Fancy was very happy. Time stands still for true lovers. Past and future seem immensely remote; the present, with its rosy hours, holds captive the happy prisoners. Alfred, it is true, had not yet put his fate to more than the touch. He had encircled a slender waist with a reassuringly strong arm—no more. Being a Yellam and a carrier, he disdained haste. Fancy was well content to stroll arm in crook towards the altar. Indeed, upon more than one occasion she had checked Alfred when about to explode into speech. Behind this procrastination lay a maiden's quickening sense of the passion she had provoked. Men whom she regarded as "devils" had accused her of being prim and cold. She happened to be neither, but it delighted her to think that she inspired restraint in her lover, that he treated her with a delicacy less rare in big strong men than is generally supposed. His dry humour appealed to her, and the rude Doric of this remote Wiltshire village brought many a smile to lips that grew redder as kissing-time drew near. As yet Alfred had not kissed her, although he had kissed theothersmany times. She gleaned this information from her fellow-maids, who were very sympathetic and, apparently, more impatient for a satisfactory consummation than the protagonists themselves.
Meanwhile, Alfred was learning how to drive a motor, and becoming acquainted, very slowly but surely, with the "insides" of the great beast. Already he regarded it as human, and of the same sex as Fancy. He would say:
"She was ramping and roaring yesterday afternoon and spitting black smoke at me. But when I coax her, she purrs sweet as any pussy-cat."
Lively chaff was exchanged between the lovers upon fortunes told by real ladies, which turned out wrong. Fancy, however, still pinned her faith to an old pack of cards in her possession, and to appease her Alfred began to speak of himself as a soldier. When Fancy confided this to Molly, she said maliciously: "Soldier, eh? Well, he ain't one o' the 'onward' sort, is he?" Fancy divined that Alfred would speak when the motor-'bus was delivered; and there were moments when she asked herself anxiously which of the two "hers" he loved the better.
Toward the end of July, her mind was set at rest upon this point. After the first walk to the downs, Alfred discovered that Fancy tired easily, although her alert little mind remained active and indefatigable. His own brains moved slowly; frequently he was unable to follow the maid's divagations and speculations. For example, he had asked her soberly what she intended to mean by the expression a "poor soul," an expression used by him in an entirely different sense.
"You came nigh upsetting Mother," he told her. "Dang me, if she didn't think 'twas a biff at her."
"I meant a lean soul."
"Whatever may that be, dear?"
Always, when these problems presented themselves for solution, Fancy would hesitate and blush a little, which hugely delighted Alfred, who set himself the pleasant task of framing questions during his drives to and from Salisbury to be answered on the next Sunday.
Having taken time to collect her powers of speech, Fancy said solemnly:
"Some rich people as well as poor have lean souls."
"Rich people? Do you know any rich people?"
"No, but David says so."
"David? You don't mean David Mucklow? He's a pore soul, sure enough."
"I was speaking of King David, who wrote the Psalms. When people's bodies wax fat with riches, their souls grow lean."
Alfred nodded, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He weighed an honest fifteen stone.
"Ah-h-h! They wax so fat that they stick in the Narrer Gate?"
"Yes; I suppose so."
Alfred considered this, frowning. Then his face brightened.
"I see you slipping through that Gate like a lozenge."
"Oh, please don't say that! 'Tis a figure of speech, Mr. Yellam. Thin people may have lean souls. I sometimes think that my soul is lean, when I lie awake thinking of—of——"
"Of what, dear?"
"Of myself, and what I want for myself."
"What do you want?"
"Lots and lots of things."
She evaded further questions, arousing a keener curiosity. Her elusiveness frightened him. He couldn't understand anybody lying awake after an honest day's toil. He tried to picture her lying sleepless, with her luminous eyes gazing into the darkness. Did she think of him? Did she really want him as he wanted her? The mere thought of her frail little body aroused a strange reverence. His mother was right. A puff of wind would blow her out of parish, blow her out of sight, blow her bang through the Narrow Gate. And feeling this, with the stabbing, ever-recurring reflection that she was the least fleshly of mortal women whom he knew, he would not willingly have added half a cubit to her stature or half a pound to her weight. In his eyes, she was just right.
Upon a never-to-be-forgotten Sunday, much rain had fallen. Fancy, who, like most servants, wore too thin shoes, perpetrated a mild joke:
"'Twill be dryer on the river than on land, Alfred."
For some time they had called each other by their Christian names.
"You're right, Fancy."
The motor-'bus, gloriously red-and-yellow, shining like a sunset, had been brought homealong the night before. Alfred shewed it to Fancy, expatiating upon its superlative merits and beauties till Fancy's jealousy was kindled afresh. Oddly enough, urban though the girl was and advanced in her ideas, she felt as Mrs. Yellam did about machinery. Whirring wheels and roarings and rampings aroused queer qualms in her. Alfred took out the heavy silver watch which had belonged to his father, and balanced it on the radiator. Then he proceeded to "race" the engine, although he had been advised not to do so. The watch never quivered, but Fancy did. She put her hands to her small ears, and ejaculated:
"O-h-h!"
"What's the matter?"
When the engine was purring gently, Fancy confessed that noise upset her. Pistols, for example, discharged suddenly in places of entertainment, made her jump. Alfred said derisively:
"What a rare wife for a soldier!"
"I thought 'twas going to explode, yes, I did."
"Not she. 'Tis a beautiful 'bus, and, maybe, she'll carry me and mine"—he glanced at her now pensive face—"to fame and fortune."
With this hope animating his heart and voice, Alfred spoke at length, and with impressive deliberation, mapping out a golden future. Already he had made arrangements to transport passengers to Salisbury, likely boys and girls anxious to attend the High School. He predicted an ever-increasing traffic and the almost immediate necessity of running two 'buses and engaging an assistant.
"Maybe such a job would suit a young woman I know, Miss Fancy Broomfield."
Fancy hastened to assure him that such ambitions soared high above her disabilities. Alfred continued, waxing very eloquent, letting loose amazing phrases, setting forth prospects which must please and allure his listener, talking at her so persistently that Fancy became frightened.
"Alfred," she said, entreatingly, "don't make so sure of things."
"'Tis in my hand."
"I mind poor Father's plans, and that makes me nervous when you race on so."
"What about his plans?"
"He'd a nice business, shoeing the carriage horses of the quality. He never did fancy rough work. But it went to bits, when motoring came in. That lay back of his poor health. We never know what'll happen."
"I say we do. God Almighty helps them as helps themselves. I'm helping myself to a large spoonful, but I can down it, and more too."
Undeterred and undismayed by her protestations, he rushed on gaily, as if driving his 'bus at excess speed. To Fancy he seemed to be whirling out of sight altogether. Nevertheless she guessed that this nerve-racking, soul-jolting excursion into the future was presented as a joy-ride for her.
"If you ain't careful," she warned him, "you'll fetch up in Buckingham Palace."
At this derisive quip, he jammed on brakes, regaining her sympathy with the grim remark:
"Or in a ditch. You're right, my girl. 'Tis a fool as toots his own horn. Let's say good-bye to the old van."
The van stood derelict at the back of the shed; the stout horses had been sold at a fair price. Alfred locked up the door of the shed and glanced dubiously at the grey skies. The afternoon promised fine weather, but the grass in the park was sopping. Being a true Yellam, Alfred had made elaborate plans; he had chosen the spot where he meant to propose, a bosky nook in one of the smaller plantations, hard by a tiny stream, where ferns grew luxuriantly. In this sanctuary Fancy might be persuaded to take off her hat and gloves. Then, after due preliminaries, the man would have his way with the maid. He felt full of poetry, and quite incapable of expressing it.
"Wet as water it be underfoot," he growled.
And then Fancy made her small joke. Alfred jumped at the suggestion. Twenty minutes later, they were floating upon the quiet bosom of the Avon, where the river widened above the mill.
"Perfectly lovely," murmured Fancy.
Alfred nodded, with a heart too full for speech. The sight of his red face amused the maid. She knew well enough what was simmering beneath a too stolid exterior. He pulled up-stream with short, jerky strokes, effective but not elegant. His jacket lay across Fancy's knees, a protection against splashings. White shirt-sleeves bulged with big muscles. They were heading for a small willow-covered eyot, really—as Alfred reflected—a more secluded spot than the bosky dell. He could push the boat through the reeds and bulrushes and find snug harbourage under the willows.
He did so.
Secure from prying eyes, they sat together, side by side, at the bottom of the boat. Alfred slipped an arm round Fancy's waist, and pressed her to him. He wondered whether she would remain cool and calm, when the burning question was asked. With huge satisfaction he noticed that her bosom just heaved beneath her thin blouse. On this blouse rested a tiny gold locket which held the portrait of her sailor brother. Alfred had never seen this locket palpitate before. His own heart thumped almost indecorously at the sight. Stealing a glance at her face, he saw that she was blushing. The silence was so delicious that he hated to break it—and didn't. Certain carefully-prepared phrases whirled out of his mind.
"My!" exclaimed Fancy.
"What is it, dear?"
"A big water-rat!"
"So 'tis. I don't blame him for wishing to have a look at you."
The rat behaved charmingly, peering down at them from the bank, ready to dive into his hole, if the trespassers upon his domain moved.
"He ain't afraid," said Alfred; "but I am."
Fancy said hastily:
"Don't move! What bright eyes he has, to be sure."
"No brighter than others I know."
"Shush-h-h! There! He's gone. I wanted to see him stroke his whiskers. I wonder whether he be a gentleman rat or a lady rat?"
This happy remark provided a new opening. Alfred said with authority:
"He's a buck rat. He didn't feel frightened, but I reckon he'd told his missis and the little 'uns that he'd just take a squint at a notable couple, and come back. I'll wager a new hat, he's telling 'em a fine tale."
"For all you know he may be an old bachelor."
"Ah! Rats are wiser than we. And Nature is kinder to them. 'Tis no big business for them to get to house-keeping. When they're good and ready, they go at it—slam bang."
"Yes. Animals don't want much."
Alfred pressed her a little closer.
"Take off hat and gloves, Fancy."
"Why?"
"'Tis a notion I have."
She smiled faintly, and obeyed. Alfred eyed the hat, a simple affair, home-made. The gloves were of white silkette. Everything she wore seemed to be part of herself, dainty, ephemeral, easily crushed and soiled.
"Put your dear head on my shoulder. 'Twill be more cosy."
She hesitated, and did so. Her palely-pink cheek lay close to his lips. He said solemnly:
"I mind what you said, Fancy, about lying awake nights, wanting lots and lots of things. Tell me about the things you want."
"I c-c-can't."
Her voice had sunk to an attenuated whisper. He realised that she was trembling, and his own pulses throbbed with hers. He continued, more fluently, pressing her tighter to him:
"Are you wanting grand things?"
"Oh, no. Whatever made you think so?"
"Because, dear, there is something grand about you. It mazes me, when I think on't in my everyday way. You're Parson's parlourmaid, thank the Lord! and I'm a plain carrier, with no book-learning and rough manners. 'Tis like this, Fancy. I'm of the earth, and you're a lil' angel. 'Twouldn't surprise me to find wings growing on your dear back."
He touched her back gently, to make sure. It was satisfactory to find that wings, as yet, had not sprouted.
"I'm only a silly girl, Alfred."
He repeated obstinately:
"You're grand. I reckon 'tis your soul which comes nigh to busting your dinky body. Now, Fancy, what do you think about, nights?"
Direct in all things, it never occurred to Alfred that a modest girl might shrink from answering such a question in the sincere spirit which put it. She smiled sweetly:
"When we talked about that, Alfred, I was thinking amongst other things of...."
"Yes, dear?"
"That hat." She pointed a slim finger at it. "I wanted that hat ever so, because I saw one very like it on the pretty head of Mrs. Lionel Pomfret. I wrote a long letter to Father, telling him where to buy the straw and the trimmings. You like it, don't you?"
"I never saw a prettier hat, but I like best the head as bobs under it."
"It cost me four-and-eight; not a penny more."
"Wonderful you be with your needle. Go on, Fancy. I reckon that hats ain't all you think about."
"I think about Willie, tossing in his great ship."
A consuming envy of Willie, the sailor brother, assailed Alfred, but no suitable phrase occurred to him. Fancy continued:
"Most of the time, Alfred, my thoughts are with poor Father. He does miss me."
"I'll be bound he does."
"He enjoys such miserable health. He's a real farrier, doctors horses as well as shoes 'em. And he takes his own medicine. I used to water it down, unbeknown to him."
"Horse medicine? That's moving stuff. Looks as if your thoughts, dear, never rambled far from the family."
"Oh, yes, they do. I think a lot, Alfred, about the future."
This was more encouraging.
"So do I; so do I."
"If anything happened to Father or Willie, where would I be?"
Alfred replied happily:
"I don't know where you would be, but I can tell you where you might be."
His eager voice beguiled her, but she resisted its pleading.
"I might be almost alone in the world. My two sisters are married. They live in small houses. There wouldn't be room for me. I like this place, but, oh, dear! some places be awful. It's selfish to think of myself, but I can't help it."
"'Tis a heartsome thing to think about. I think about you, Fancy, when I drive slow along our roads. You fill my mind, you do."
He hoped fervently that she would say what he wanted and confess outright that she let some of her thoughts dwell on him. But again the poor fellow was grievously disappointed. She murmured confusedly:
"How funny!"
"Funny be damned!"
"Alfred——!"
"I don't care. I'm moved as if I'd taken your father's horse medicine. You're raking me up with a small tooth-comb. If I think of you all the time, 'twould seem fair that you'd think of me some of the time."
"Perhaps I do."
"Ah-h-h! That's better. We're coming to grips."
As if contradicting this, the aggravating witch raised her head. Alfred grew desperate. Had he been browsing in a fool's paradise? The thought palsied speech. He spoke angrily:
"I see how 'tis. You lie awake shaking with laughter, thinking what I fool I am."
"Gracious! If you talk like that, I shall think so."
"I am a fool about you. 'Tis a fact. I ain't ashamed on't."
"Folks say...." She hesitated; her eyes twinkled demurely, but he couldn't see them.
"Well, what do folks say?"
"That you're a oner with girls, on and off like."
"On and off? You're throwing big Eliza at my head. If I was a true soldier man, always bragging about my victorious marches with women, I might tell you 'twas t'other way about. Being only a timorsome carrier, and a lover of God Almighty's truth, I say this. Eliza scairt the gizzard out of me, she did. I fair ran away from her audacious, ungenteel attacks. Now you have it."
Fancy laughed. Alfred fumed on, beside himself with love and impatience.
"I've walked out with many maids, some not so maidenly as might be. I'm a picker and chooser, getting that much sense from my mother. I never walked long with any of 'em. If you'd happened along fifteen years ago, when the first petticoat hit me in eye, I'd have remained true and faithful to you—so help me God!"
She remained silent, twisting her fingers. He said hoarsely:
"I want you desperately for my wife, Fancy Broomfield. And you know it, being a clever maid. Now—don't you want me?"
He felt her body relaxing, almost slipping from him. Then, very slowly, she lifted her eyes to his, and he read in their luminous depths the blessed answer which her quivering lips withheld.
He kissed her reverently and tenderly.
To his surprise and delight, she kissed him, clinging to him, and whispering pantingly:
"You'll be kind to me, Alfred; I know you will. I'm such a poor wife for the likes of you. Your mother thinks so, and your Aunt Jane."
"You can twist them round your lil' finger."
"I believe you love your motor-'bus more than me."
"What a notion! Now I'm going to kiss such foolishness out of you. If it ain't gone when I've given you the first big dose, why, I must begin all over again."
The river lapped its approval against the sides of the old boat. A sedge warbler looked on with his tiny head on one side. The tall reeds nodded. The sun peeped from behind a cloud and shot a golden shaft upon the pair. Why do we think of the orbéd maiden, the Moon, as being kinder to lovers than the great god of day, which warms and fructifies? Upon this artless pair he poured generously his vivifying beams. Suddenly the willows sparkled with diamonds, the grey river became a sheet of silver, the sedge warbler fluted his hymeneal note, and other warblers joined in the chorus.
And, far away, in a great palace, men were bending frowning brows over a vast war-map, gesticulating fiercely, plotting and planning Armageddon.
But the lovers had their hour.
Everybody in Nether-Applewhite called Habakkuk Mucklow Uncle.
In all villages remote from what we call civilisation there may be found men like him, loose-limbed, loose-tongued, easy, pleasure-loving, quick-witted in what concerns others, strangely slow to grapple with their own opportunities, always at the mercy of their wives and genially dependent upon them. Uncle was the best thatcher in the countryside. He might have been busy all the time, but it was known that he refused disdainfully the more primitive forms of his work; he never touched barns or stacks. On the other hand, he was artistically eager to tackle the decorative thatching which is still to be found in Wiltshire. Although he was older than his sister, Mrs. Yellam, and past sixty, he still ran afoot with the hounds, and earned handsome tips as an independent harbourer of deer. During many years, also, he had been "beater" to old Captain Davenant, who took out a Forest License from the Crown which afforded him three days' rough shooting a week, from October till the end of January. Nobody, in those parts, knew the northern half of the New Forest better than Habakkuk Mucklow.
Like all his family, he was an upstanding fellow, a six-footer, and finely proportioned, with a cheerful red face, cleanly-shaven save for a wisp of grey whisker which he sported high on his cheek after the fashion adopted by the Iron Duke, whom Habakkuk venerated as the greatest of Englishmen. Had you told him that his hero came from Ireland, he would not have believed it.
Uncle loved creature comforts, and could carry more strong ale without showing it than any man in the parish. Very wisely he had married Jane Rockley who, in her time, had served a long apprenticeship at Pomfret Court as scullery-maid and then kitchen-maid, becoming, finally, cook in that handsome establishment. Jane Mucklow ruled Habakkuk through his stomach, and he was well aware of this, and rebelled constantly against what he considered to be an abuse of power.
"Womenfolk," he would remark, "don't wage honourable warfare. They hits below the belt, they do. When my old 'ooman gets miffed wi' me, I notices a tremenjous difference in my victuals."
Uncle had pipeclay in his marrow. During his hot youth he had taken the Queen's shilling after a poaching affair, and served some five years with the colours of the county regiment. He had not seen active service, but he allowed strangers to believe that he was a great warrior. Possibly, the discipline of the parade ground had made him swear to take life easily for the rest of his days.
Captain Davenant spoke of him as a "character." The word "card" was not known in Nether-Applewhite.
Uncle loved two persons nearly as much as himself—his sister, Susan, and his nephew, Alfred. When the news of Alfred's engagement became known to him, he expressed great interest and pleasure, drinking the health of prospective groom and bride in much ale and cider. Alfred brought the blushing Fancy to Uncle's cottage, and received the felicitations which the good looks of the young woman warranted.
Uncle had sentimental views about the married state not shared by his wife. As he kissed Fancy, he said solemnly:
"'Tis a great venture. We all likes a dip into the lucky bag. And it do seem to me, Alferd, as you've pulled a prize."
Mrs. Mucklow sniffed. She, too, kissed Fancy, but uttered a warning note:
"Marriage ain't what some folks crack it up to be, my girl. But I've not a word agen courtship. Your uncle, as is to be, follered me about like a dog for three years, and I own up truthful 'twas the happiest time o' my life."
Uncle laughed cheerily.
"I be your old dog still, Jane, and allers ready for a bone."
Mrs. Mucklow nodded, looking whimsically at Fancy.
"You hear that, my girl? 'Tis the bone they look for. A man's heart lies in his stomach. Feed up Alferd so long as he behaves himself. I says nothing about the power o' prayer, seein' as generally speaking my most powerful prayers ain't been answered as I could wish, but fasting do wonnerful work, especially wi' men."
Uncle laughed again.
Marriage, however, seemed reasonably remote. Fancy wished to "make good" in her new place. Alfred, very comfortable at home, intended to work hard for a year at least, laying the solid foundations of a business likely to be bigger than he had ever dreamed it to be. Mrs. Yellam, moreover, had spoken plainly and sensibly to her son.
"She be a sweet maid, Alferd, but tarribly spindlin', a slip o' muslin, and young for her years."
"Twenty-two, Mother."
"I knows that. And I minds that her mother died, pore soul, when Fancy was born. A bottle-baby; and I never did hold wi' that. Don't 'ee look so glum. She be plumper a'ready. Pa'son give his maids good plain food, and our air blowing over downs be better nor strong ale for such as she."
"You do love her, Mother?"
"In course I do, and I'm doing my duty by her and you when I tells 'ee that she ain't marriage-ripe, nor likely to be for many months to come. If I was only thinking o' myself, my son, I'd be laying out your wedding sheets this day. Squire and me has many things in common, and this afore all: we likes to see red-cheeked little 'uns coming on."
"You're a wonderful, farseeing woman. Fair aching I am for her, the pretty dear, but wait we must for matrimonial joys, and wait we shall. That's certain."
To his surprise, she laid her strong hands upon his shoulder and kissed him solemnly: demonstrations rare indeed with her, which provoked surprise.
"Why, Mother!"
She said slowly:
"You be all I have, Alferd, and a son to be proud of as never was. I be farseein'. 'Tis a gift o' God. Biding for happiness, in the right Christian spirit, generally brings it, but not allers, not allers."
With a sigh she turned to her daily work, and he went, thoughtfully, to his.
July glided away peacefully. Wars and rumours of wars reached few ears in Nether-Applewhite. The possibility of civil war in Ireland disturbed Mr. Hamlin and provoked to wrath Sir Geoffrey Pomfret; the villagers remained blandly indifferent to anything outside the sphere of their own interests and activities.
With the one exception of Uncle.
Perhaps that old war-horse—for so he deemed himself to be—nosed from afar the coming battles. More than likely, he picked up chance words dropped by Captain Davenant, once a Guardsman, who rented two miles of fishing on the Avon, preserves under Uncle's watchful eye. The Captain predicted war with Germany as inevitable. Uncle, like his wife, could be trusted to repeat what he heard with sundry additions peculiarly his own. In the ale-house, he told his cronies what he knew and much more.
"'Twill be a nice bloody how-dy-do; and it mads me to think that time, as the saying goes, have laid me by the heels. The Kayser be bent on the job, and have been ever since they ancient days, which I recalls right well, when he licked the Frenchies. A rare doin' he give 'em, to be sure."
An old gaffer answered promptly, voicing, unwittingly, the general opinion:
"'Tain't none of our affair. I be sick to my stomach wi' such flustratious talk. We English be the mightiest people on earth because we minds our own business. I don't think nothing o' foreigners; they be, one and all, so wonderful peevish."
Uncle smiled genially.
"Minds our own business, do us? I bain't so cocky-sure o' that, old friend. Speaking up for myself, and bigger fools have spoken in this ale-house, I be sartain sure that good money comes my way through minding other folks' business. I was never one to think of myself."
"What a tale!"
"The Captain be a dry old stick, but cracklin' wi' ripe wisdom, as I be. And he's seen the world, as I have. Stay-at-home folk never look further than their back-yards. I takes a very wide view. Me and Lord Roberts have sized up this yere Kayser for what he be, a very bumptious, slambang, bold pirate, a Grab-all as must be put in his place by we. And why? Because 'tis our duty and privilege to keep proper order. We had to down Krooger." He trolled out lustily: