The Soul of Susan Yellam Part 44

"What is it, sir?"

"The peace that pa.s.ses understanding. And now, Fancy, in the trial that awaits you, trust in that first faith of which I spoke, the faith that I am sure is yours. G.o.d knows what is best for us. We all try to make Him walk in our ways, instead of walking humbly in His."

She said shyly: "Thank you, sir; you have made things easier for me."

It was late when Hamlin left the Yellam cottage and bitterly cold. He walked to Pomfret Court, and found the Squire in his room. In that room hard words had pa.s.sed between Squire and Parson. To-day they were friends, working together. And the marriage of their children did not adequately account for this. It was one of the unexpected results of the war.

"Dinner in five-and-twenty minutes," said Sir Geoffrey. "I'm delighted to see you, my dear fellow."

"I wish I could stop. I need your help."

The Squire rang the bell. When the butler came, dinner was postponed a quarter of an hour. Another straw to indicate a change in domestic currents. Before the war, dinner at Pomfret Court had been regarded as a sacred function, never postponed merely because the Parson wanted a word with the Squire.

"I want you to pull more strings," said Hamlin, after telling his story at some length. "You know swells at the Foreign Office. It must be possible to find out through some kind neutral at The Hague whether a prisoner of the name of Alfred Yellam was taken upon the night of the fifteenth. Very few prisoners have been taken lately; that would make the enquiry comparatively simple."

"I'll draw that cover to-morrow morning."

Hamlin thanked him and hurried away. The Squire was amazing. To travel to London in this bitter weather meant the sacrifice of what the genial Autocrat ranked high--comfort. He would go, like a terrier to a fox, straight to a Mandarin and bark at him, worry him, stick to him, till a pledge was extracted.

He thought of the trains congested by Christmas travel, the lack of porters and taxis. Obviously, the Squire recked nothing of this in his hot desire to do a kind turn to a humble neighbour.

Hamlin reflected that Christmas would be the cosier to the Autocrat after a cold excursion. He remembered hearing him say that he never appreciated his own fireside so much as after a bad day's hunting, when the wind blew chill from the north and hounds wouldn't run a yard.

Thoughts of hunting distracted the Parson as he strode back to his lonely Vicarage. What a master pa.s.sion it was in everybody! The Squire hunted foxes in all weathers, regardless of weather conditions. Nothing stopped him but a hard frost. His Parson hunted men and women, a more arduous chase, hounding them out of covers where dirt, ignorance, poverty and vice hid them from view. A hard frost, such as had settled on Susan Yellam, stopped him. Others hunted fame, money, position, just as ardently. And a hard frost, like this war, stopped them.

When would the thaw set in for Mrs. Yellam?

Upon Christmas Eve Fancy's ordeal began.

Hamlin hoped and believed that tiny hands would melt the ice in an old woman's heart. Everybody knew that Susan Yellam loved children, and that her rather grim face inspired no terrors in them. She kept the large green bottle full of bull's-eyes, simply because it lured pattering feet to her door. If they trotted up too often, rebukes, not bull's-eyes, were forthcoming. A sure way to her favour, as little girls soon discovered, was to ask for a flower out of the garden. Fa.r.s.eeing women, over-busy on washing-days, popped torn pinafores onto their toddlers, knowing that Mrs. Yellam would be sure to take her needle and repair the damage. She could always be called upon to sit up with a sick child, provided--_bien entendu_--that she was permitted to administer her own simple medicines. Grateful mothers, with an eye upon further favours, would say to Mrs. Yellam in the presence of neighbours:

"Susan Yellam saved my Daisy's life."

And then Mrs. Yellam would nod majestically, accepting such artful homage as her just due.

To Mrs. Yellam's great relief, Fancy suffered less than she had feared and expected. Nature was kind to this soft-boned little woman, and chloroform a.s.suaged the fiercer pangs. But the baby seemed loath to enter so cold a world. There were long and exasperating intermittencies, which Fancy endured very patiently. Throughout these periods, when Fancy wished to talk about Alfred, Mrs. Yellam dissembled. She even went so far, in her eagerness to please and distract the patient, that she accepted the s.e.x of the tardy infant, speaking of it as "him," to Fancy's great gratification.

Finally, "He" was born at two o'clock upon Christmas Day.

And, alack! the cards had not told true. _He_ was a _She_.

Fancy did not know this for some time. Too exhausted to ask questions, she lay silent and still, a faint smile upon her white face, till she dozed off into a dreamless sleep.

In the parlour downstairs, where a fire had been lighted in the doctor's honour, Mrs. Yellam received another blow. There had been no complications in the case; the baby was perfectly formed and normal in every way. Nevertheless, the doctor looked worried and refused such refreshment as had been provided. Obviously, too, he was in a hurry to be gone, but he lingered.

"She is very weak," he said, in a low, impressive voice.

"That's natural."

"Keep her as quiet as possible. I shall return about ten. The nurse has my instructions. Great lack of vitality is indicated. Needless to say, there is no question of her nursing the child. You are a strong, sensible woman, Mrs. Yellam, and able to hide any anxiety you may feel from the patient."

The poor heart, just beginning to thaw, felt an icy hand closing about it.

"I know how to behave," she muttered.

"I must prepare you for a possible change--not for the better."

"Yes."

She spoke so calmly, that the doctor glanced at her keenly. Was she indifferent? It might be so. Relations, as he well knew, were often strained between elderly women of strong character and their sons'

wives. He knew that Alfred had been reported missing. The monthly nurse might be regarded as a professional, like himself, willing and able to do her duty. More than this might be required. He reflected swiftly that he must make the situation even plainer to this somewhat hard-faced, hard-eyed woman.

"She might sink from anaemia, Mrs. Yellam."

"I understand, sir."

He slipped on his heavy coat, picked up hat and gloves and turned to leave the room. His motor was gently purring outside. Mrs. Yellam prided herself upon her manners. But she never moved to open the door, till the doctor had his hand upon it.

"Sir----?"

"Yes?"

She approached him. Her face remained calm, but he saw that her strong, capable hands were twitching. Her voice, too, quavered a little.

"She be very dear to me, so dear that I be ready to fight for her life harder than I would for my own. That's all."

The doctor, ashamed of too hasty conclusions, took both her hands in his.

"That is much," he said gravely; "and it may make all the difference.

Good-night, Mrs. Yellam."

"Good-morning, sir," she admonished him.

Left alone, she sat down, palsied by despair.

And this was Christmas Day!

Upon the table, near the window, the big Bible caught her eye. She stared at it, thinking of the page upon which, soon, she might be called upon to make three entries--two deaths and one birth. Heavy antimaca.s.sars embellished the horsehair-covered sofa and the armchairs.

Mrs. Yellam rose up, s.n.a.t.c.hed three antimaca.s.sars from their abiding-place and covered the Bible with them. Then she sat down again, looking about her, glaring at the familiar objects, so eloquent of the past. Upon each side of a large mirror, with its gilt frame protected by muslin from flies that had never dared to enter the room, hung two enlarged photographs of herself and her husband, taken some five-and-twenty years ago. They seemed to stare unblushingly and aggressively at her, as if they were rude strangers overbr.i.m.m.i.n.g with self-importance, smug with prosperity.

"Fools," said Mrs. Yellam, scornfully.

She looked at the other photographs, each in turn, portraits of the children who lay in the churchyard.

"You be the lucky ones," she said, in the same derisive tone.

There were many photographs of Alfred in all stages of development: Alfred sucking his thumb with an expression upon his year-old countenance as if he were thinking regretfully of something more nourishing; Alfred in a much be-ribanded frock; Alfred in knickerbockers; Alfred in a kilt; Alfred in trowsers, evidently on good terms with himself and all the world; Alfred as he appeared in his Sunday best, about to take the air with an audacious parlourmaid; and, lastly, Alfred in khaki and Fancy, arm in crook.

She glanced hastily at other photographs, of Sir Geoffrey and Lady Pomfret and Master Lionel. They smiled so pleasantly that she frowned.