Читать книгу The Soul of Susan Yellam - Horace Annesley Vachell - Страница 9

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 call gratissima to 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 for your son?"

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."