Читать книгу The Soul of Susan Yellam - Horace Annesley Vachell - Страница 6

Fancy Broomfield left Salisbury for Nether-Applewhite with a heavy heart not hidden by a pathetic smile. Possibly Alfred Yellam had a glimpse of unshed tears, when she took her place beside him in his van. And his ears may have caught a poignant note of distress quavering now and again beneath her prattle. Country folk are observant, although they keep their observations to themselves. Fancy had been happy at home. When she took a place in Salisbury, in the time-honoured Cathedral Close, she saw her people frequently. As she moved farther from Salisbury, she was grievously conscious of what separation from her father included. The fact that he was failing in health, and therefore in fortune, punctuated her misgivings. Alfred won her confidence with a few curt words about her new place and its master. He did not mention her bouncing predecessor, but he talked of the Parson and his household with the incisive tones of one who knew. What he said was reassuring. Most maidservants approach a new place with justifiable apprehensions concerning the mistress. In this case there was no mistress. Possibly disagreeable fellow-servants may arouse even livelier forebodings. A cook, for example, holds the keys of Heaven and Hell in her hands. Fancy had envisaged an immense cook with a great red face, and a liver swollen to atrabiliar disproportions. She was pleased to learn that the autocrat of the Parson's kitchen was not much larger than herself and consistently amiable.

"Parson preaches against sour faces," said Alfred. "No yapping and snarling in his house. From your looks, you ain't one to come slummicking in after hours with a silly tale about being took all over queer when out walking."

"My! no," affirmed Fancy.

Alfred digested this in silence. Fancy had already told him much about her family, but she had not mentioned others. Presently, Alfred said abruptly:

"Have you got a young man in Salisbury?"

Fancy laughed for the first time, a silvery trickle of laughter.

"Why should you think I have, Mr. Yellam?"

"It seems to me likely."

"Well, I am fond of one boy. He's too sweet for anything."

"Is he?"

"Yes, I'd like you to meet him. Maybe I'll show you his photograph one fine day. It's in my trunk. He's a sailor-boy, and at sea."

"Ah. At sea, is he? My mother says that a woman is silly to marry a sailor. Why? Because, if you love him, he is always at sea, and if you hate him, he bides at home."

Fancy laughed again.

"Then my boy, after he marries, will be always at sea. How miserable for his wife!"

"It is a fair warning."

"For me, Mr. Yellam?"

"I mean, if you marry your sailor-boy."

"But I can't marry my own dear brother."

And then Alfred laughed, Homerically.

Soon afterwards, he left her and a modest box at the Vicarage. She thanked him demurely, asking how much she owed him. Alfred was tempted to demand a kiss in payment, but a glance at a virginal face restrained him. He said, "One shilling, please, miss," and she slipped the coin into his ample palm, adding: "It's a new one. That brings luck, don't it?" Alfred indulged in no speculations on this point, but when he found himself alone, he examined the loose change in his pocket, and picking out a new shilling, transferred it to another pocket, wondering furtively if he were making a fool of himself. He whistled gaily as he drove on.

Fancy was shown to a small room, which pleased her immensely, because no other maid shared it with her. From a casemented window, she could see the park of Pomfret Court, with its clumps of fine trees and its herds of dappled deer. She felt that she would be happy in such a quiet place. The room was very simply but comfortably furnished, spotlessly clean and fresh. She admired the wall-paper, white with small sprigs of pink roses on it. What a lucky girl to have such a nice room! And, approaching the Vicarage, she had fallen in love with the many-gabled house standing amongst beeches, a warm-looking house of time-mellowed brick, built substantially, happily situated below the church and just above the village. As she was unpacking, the house-maid, Molly, brought her a cup of tea. Being her first day, Fancy was not expected to wait at dinner, but Molly told her that after dinner she would be sent for, and that she might expect a five-minute chat with her master.

"Is he masterful?" she asked.

Molly nodded, adding confidentially:

"Such a pair of eyes as never was. Gimlets! It ain't no fun lying to him, and no use either. He can look bang through a pore girl, and tell her what she's had for dinner."

"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Fancy.

"Don't you worry! 'Tis an easy place. No SHE poking and prying about. Only we have to be good girls here, and then we're happy."

"I do hope I shall be happy," said Fancy, adding hastily, "I look such a fright when I ain't."

After dinner she was duly sent for, and found the Parson walking up and down his study. He regarded her austerely, bidding her welcome to his house. Fancy noticed at once the keenness of his glance, and the still more penetrating quality of his voice. First impressions count enormously with sensitive creatures, and young women in Fancy's station of life are not much concerned with shades and gradations. To most of them men are angels or devils, black or white. Fancy had encountered what she called "devils" in Salisbury, rough fellows with Rabelaisian jests upon their thick lips. From such she shrank instinctively. Happily for her, she had met the other sort in and out of the Cathedral Close. Instantly, she acclaimed Mr. Hamlin as angel, a rather terrible angel, such as she imagined Saint Michael to be, pitiless to the wicked, smiting them hip and thigh with a flaming sword. Her second impression, not quite so vivid, was more agreeable. The Parson's clothes were shabby, and his study, which, indeed, reflected truthfully the man's personality, presented a somewhat bleak aspect. It looked a workshop rather than a comfortable room. The cocoanut matting was worn; plain deal shelves held innumerable cheaply-bound books; pamphlets were piled upon the floor; the chairs, with one exception, were not upholstered. She blushed a little as the thought came to her that she, the new parlourmaid, not yet in working kit, was the smartest object in her master's room.

Mr. Hamlin asked her a few questions. Fancy had good references; she was a Churchwoman; she had been confirmed by Sarum himself. She belonged to the Girls' Friendly Society. Did she like her work? Yes. Mr. Hamlin smiled. For a moment Saint Michael vanished and a less terrifying personage stood in his place.

"I like my work," said the Parson incisively. "That is a vital matter. Perhaps it is the most vital matter in the world. Each of us has his or her work, and if we do it gladly it is well with us. You don't look very strong."

"I'm much stronger than I look, sir."

Her soft, deprecating voice brought another smile to the Parson's lips. He said abruptly:

"Good. Women need all their strength and reserves of strength. Your work here will not be too hard. Spare yourself whenever you reasonably can, and so you will serve me and yourself the better. Good-night."

Fancy went away, slightly awed, but feeling much more comfortable. Before going to bed, she wrote a short letter to her father, telling him that she liked her place. She added a postscript: "Mr. Yellam, the carrier, was ever so kind to me."

She slept well in a comfortable bed.

She came to Nether-Applewhite on a Thursday. On the following Sunday, as Alfred Yellam had foreseen, she was feeling homesick, because she had never failed to see her own people on that day. After luncheon, to hearten herself up, she sang hymns in the pantry.

Her face brightened, when she perceived Alfred at the door of the pantry. After asking her how she fared, and learning that the other maids were "out," he said, in business-like tones:

"Any orders for the carrier?"

Fancy smiled demurely. She was alone in the house. The Parson had a Children's Service at three. She guessed that, as a rule, carriers did not call for orders at such an hour.

"Not as I know of, Mr. Yellam. Do you generally call for orders on Sunday afternoon?"

By this time she had been informed of Alfred's perambulations with her predecessor. It might be an honoured custom in Nether-Applewhite for the carrier to walk out with the Vicarage parlourmaid. Alfred gave a guffaw.

"Well, no; I took a notion to drop in, casual-like, to pass the time of day."

"What would the Vicar say to that?"

"Parson ain't the fearsome man you take him to be. A very human gentleman, always welcome in our house. And I make bold to tell you that I'm heartily welcome in his."

"If that is so," said Fancy, politely, "won't you sit down, Mr. Yellam?"

She indicated a chair into which Alfred bumped massively, with the air of one not to be budged from an impregnable position. Fancy was getting ready some dainty tea-things.

"Expecting company, miss?"

"Yes. Mr. Lionel Pomfret and Mrs. Pomfret. A nice tea. Master's orders."

Alfred nodded. He eyed Fancy with ever-increasing approval. A black gown, with snowy apron, bib, and cap, became her admirably. Beneath the cap her soft brown hair lay in shining ripples; the bib lent extra fulness to a too thin bosom; her big hazel eyes sparkled with animation; her pale cheeks had a tinge of pink in them. Alfred contrasted her delicate features with the exuberant comeliness of the late parlourmaid. Charm was not a word very distinctly defined in his vocabulary. But he became conscious of Fancy's charm, although he would have called it by another name. Certainly she was sweetly pretty, like a rose-leaf which a rough wind might blow away. More than aught else, too, he was struck by her little hands, which moved deftly and swiftly. He made sure that she was a good needlewoman. Such hands could make light pastry. All this pleased him tremendously. Fancy prattled on about the company expected, telling Alfred what he knew already, but he listened in silence, captivated by her voice. She cut dexterously some thin slices of brown bread-and-butter, as she spoke of the love-match between Squire's son and Parson's daughter.

"I am looking forward to waiting on them," she declared.

"Yes—a very handsome, notable couple. Squire'll be a granfer before he knows where he is."

"What things you do say, Mr. Yellam!"

"Ah-h-h! In my common way, I say what I think, never meaning offence, particularly to young maids, but 'tis a fact Sir Geoffrey is fair aching for grandchildren, the more the merrier. 'Twould be terrible if his house and lands passed to some measly next-of-kin. But we won't think of that."

"No. Not yet, at any rate."

Alfred felt reproved but not disconcerted. It might be politic to change the talk to motor-'buses, so he said abruptly:

"I'm in a fair sweat, Miss Fancy."

"Mercy me! Shall I fetch you a glass of water?"

"Figure of speech, miss. It's like this, if you'll excuse me talking of my own affairs."

"Why, I like that. It's so—so friendly of you, Mr. Yellam."

"I'm standing betwixt the devil and the deep sea."

"Well, I never!"

He gazed so earnestly at Fancy that she wondered if she were the deep sea, and that the devil was an allusion to the late parlourmaid. Alfred continued:

"The world, miss, goes round and round for true lovers, but it don't stand still for anybody, leastways not for carriers. We must push along with the times, eh?"

He glanced at her anxiously. She was quick to perceive that he wanted counsel and much flattered thereby. She eyed him as keenly as he, just now, had eyed her. Being so frail and attenuated herself, his massive form and square head attracted her strangely. She admired his big chin and too heavy nose. And her eyes lingered with appreciation upon the bulging biceps and deltoids shewing strongly beneath his thin summer jacket. What a sad pity that her dear father had not been cast in such a mould! To his anxious question, she replied with a little bob of her head.

"My father and granfer were carriers before me. Van and horses was good enough for them. And good enough for me, too. It tears me to scrap 'em."

"Scrap them?"

"Ay. When you go back home, how'd it suit you to ride in a motor-'bus?"

"It would be grand," said Fancy.

Alfred rubbed his hands; his red face beamed.

"Dang me, if that don't put the lid on it."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Yellam?"

"I was half hoping you'd say what you did. Yes—it would be grand. A nice 'bus—red and yaller—'d make the neighbours yap a bit. Do you know what they call my old van?"

"It's a nice comfortable van."

"So 'tis. But would-be funny folks call it 'Flash o' Lightnin'.'"

Fancy laughed. Alfred decided that it was a treat to hear her laugh.

"Are you angry with me for laughing?"

"Lord—no! A laugh like yours warms the cockles of my heart. Laugh away, miss. All the same, there's a meaning in what neighbours say. I do move slow, when I've a load. And in winter-time, when roads are heavy, I just crawl along. You're right. A motor-'bus is grand. And I can pay cash for one, I can."

He spoke with pride, opening his large hands. Fancy, having finished cutting the bread-and-butter, sat down opposite to Alfred. With some difficulty he mastered the impulse to invite this bird-like creature to perch on his knee. Her air of aloofness both pleased and exasperated him. She sat very still, with her hands folded upon her lap, just as good girls sat in church. Alfred talked with gusto about motor-'buses.

"Can you drive a motor?" asked Fancy, when he paused to mop his forehead with a huge red bandana.

"No, miss. But if I say it as shouldn't, I can do most anything when I try. They'll teach me in Salisbury—free, gratis and for nothing, if I buy the 'bus."

"I do hope you'll be careful, Mr. Yellam."

Alfred was delighted at this mark of solicitude. For the moment nothing more was to be said. He searched his mind for another suitable topic of conversation. Already he had decided to ask Fancy to walk out with him, but he feared a rebuff. It was "up" to him to shew her his paces. Any premature love-making might be disastrous. Nevertheless, it behoved him to waste no time in making himself agreeable. Half-a-dozen likely young fellows would be fluttering about Fancy before the week was out. First come, first served. He essayed a fresh flight:

"Coming through village, miss, I met a soldier—'No Account Harry' we used to call him. Back from the Indies, and spruced up wonderful."

Fancy exhibited lively interest.

"A soldier, Mr. Yellam! I do like soldiers, because—because——" Her voice melted on a silence; her cheeks shewed a deeper pink.

"Do tell, miss. Why do you like—soldiers?"

"You'll think me such a silly."

"Not me. I'm no mumbudgetter. What you tell me I'll keep to myself."

Her eyes dwelt steadily on his. In a lower voice, she asked:

"Do you believe in fortune-telling, Mr. Yellam?"

"I don't know as I do. But I don't know as I don't."

"I do. And—maybe the Vicar wouldn't like this—I can tell fortunes myself with cards."

"Well, I never!"

"Yes. About three months ago, a lady came to Salisbury and lodged near us. She told fortunes with cards; she taught me. She didn't do it for money. Now, if you laugh, I'll never forgive you...."

Alfred became portentously solemn.

"The lady told me that I should marry a soldier."

Alfred looked perturbed, but his shrewd sense sustained him.

"Did she? Likely as not she'd seen you walking out with one."

"I have never walked out with a soldier."

Alfred looked unhappy. He thought of the well-set-up Highlander. He beheld Fancy hanging on his arm, gazing upward into a bronzed, devil-may-care face, listening to strange tales of the Orient. Jealousy ravaged him. His dejection deepened when he discovered that his tongue had lost the trick of speech. He yearned to speak lightly and facetiously about soldiers. But he could think of nothing better than this:

"Soldiers are soldiers."

Fancy read him easily. Her father distrusted soldiers, who loved and ran away. He had warned her against their beguilements. But Fancy had read English history, more intelligently than most girls of similar upbringing. She knew what soldiers had done for England. Also, she had eye for a bit of colour. Soldiers appealed to her imagination. She put sailors first, the jolly tars. Tommy came next, with his swagger cane, his jaunty walk, and his cap cocked on one side, shewing a "quiff" beneath.

"Why do men, like you, Mr. Yellam, despise soldiers?"

Alfred wriggled, impaled upon this barbed hook. He had wit enough to realise that serious issues impended. He might easily offend Fancy. And no answer rose pat to his tongue. Why did he despise soldiers? He was too honest to deny the indictment. Yes; he did despise soldiers. He answered stolidly:

"There are soldiers and soldiers. 'Tis sober truth, miss, that the best men in these parts don't enlist. The pay is bad, and the work hard. The wrong 'uns take the shilling only when they're driven to it. It may be different in Salisbury."

"I don't know that it is. I can understand why men like you, Mr. Yellam, don't enlist. Why should you? But that doesn't change my feelings about soldiers. Whatever they may have been, whatever they are, I think of this: At any moment, with their hard work, with their poor pay, they may be called upon to give their lives for—us."

Her soft voice faltered. Perhaps Alfred was already in love. He may have been. When her voice failed, and he beheld her for the first time as a woman of sensibilities, tender for others, pleading for the less fortunate, all that was best in him leaped into being. Nothing but his disability to find words for his thoughts prevented him from avowing his feelings. He realised instantly that here sat the girl for him, the wife he wanted. His experiments in courtship, if you could term it that, confirmed his conviction that he had remained single so long simply because Fancy was waiting for him. She was absolutely right because the others had been as absolutely wrong.

"That's true," he heard himself saying.

Fancy went on in a livelier tone:

"Have you read Kipling, Mr. Yellam?"

"I seem to have heard tell of Mr. Rudyard Kipling in the newspapers."

"I want to tell you what he said about soldiers."

She quoted slowly: