The Soul of Susan Yellam Part 50

"Ay. I never thought o' that. I think, Fancy, that you did ought to put this strange notion of Alferd's coming out of your dear lil' head. 'Tis most onlikely. I dunno' how such a queer idea got into it."

"Because he promised me that he would come."

"But, Lard bless 'ee, he meant so be as he got leave. If 'tis true that he be safe in France----"

"I know he be safe."

Mrs. Yellam glanced at her anxiously. Was the girl light-headed? She must know that if Alfred were missing, owing--as Fancy had been discreetly told--to some injury to his head which had caused him to stray from the British lines, his first steps, when he became himself again, would be directed back to his battalion. Wisely, she busied herself about the room, entreating her patient to compose herself to sleep. Presently Fancy dozed off, and Mrs. Yellam, softly approaching the bed, examined her critically. She looked startlingly pretty. A faint colour tinged lips and cheeks; her skin was translucently clear; her hair, regularly brushed by Mrs. Yellam, lay thick and l.u.s.trous above her forehead.

It was almost impossible to behold her as a widow.

For the first time since she had dedicated all her energies to fighting for this frail life doubt a.s.sailed Mrs. Yellam. Fancy's hand lay upon the white counterpane. Mrs. Yellam laid her hand beside it and compared the two.

All her experience of life as it is lived by people who cannot afford servants, the endless bondage to manual labour, the washing, scrubbing of floors and pots and pans, the cooking, the mending, rose up in her ample mind, and filled it with poignant misgiving. Could this attenuated hand, soft and weak as a child's, fend for Lizzie if--if Death came at the despairing call of Susan Yellam?

She clenched her own hand, nearly as large and powerful as a man's fist.

Fancy _must_ live to mother her child. She had no claim on Death, this young, pretty creature, so easily pleased with life, so happy with simple things, so contented with what she possessed, incapable of envying those above her in station. Time would be kind to her. Time would enshrine Alfred in her heart as the man who had taught her to love, who had given her a fidelity and tenderness rarely found in cottages or palaces. She might marry again. Why not? It says much for Susan Yellam's essential wisdom that she could visualise such a possibility, however remote, without a pang.

A couple of hours pa.s.sed.

Lizzie Alfreda was fed and washed, with Fancy looking on, and replaced in her cradle. Mrs. Yellam mended the fire, and went down to the kitchen to prepare supper. Fancy seemed to be refreshed after her nap, but some inflection of her voice warned an obstinate old woman that strength was departing, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, as the hour-hand moves round the dial.

After supper she took her knitting and sat by the bed. To her great relief, Fancy never mentioned Alfred. She prattled artlessly about Lizzie. And then, gradually, during the intermittancies of silence, Mrs.

Yellam knew that the victory, for which she had fought so desperately, which she had believed to be won, was unachievable. Afterwards, she was unable to say when this conviction seized her. She admitted, however, to Uncle that she knew because Fancy must have known. And Fancy believed that she was cunningly hiding this knowledge. It leaked from her lips, as she talked about Lizzie Alfreda to her grandmother, conjuring up a picture of youth ministering to age, a picture so vivid, so true to life, that something told Susan Yellam that it must come to pa.s.s. Fancy was going. And when her own time came, she would lie in this bed, and Alfred's child would close her eyes. Fancy foreshadowed no such scene.

But she spoke of Mrs. Yellam teaching Lizzie Alfreda how to use her needle and instructing her in other domestic tasks. The thought of doing this, of playing mother in her old age, softened indurated tissues, but the original hardness remained. Susan turned desperately for comfort to a flesh-and-blood grandchild; she turned as desperately from any faith in a wise and merciful G.o.d.

Outside, the rain went on falling; the wind wailed through the firs where the ospreys found sanctuary on their flight south. Solomon slept comfortably at the foot of the bed. Presently, it became time to prepare Fancy for the night. Face and hands were washed with soap which Mrs.

Yellam had never applied to her weather-beaten countenance. Fancy's hair was brushed and plaited in two coils.

"Put on fresh ribands to-night, mother."

"What an idea! You be so vain as any twoad."

"Are toads vain? I'd like blue ribands."

Grumblingly, Mrs. Yellam went to a drawer and produced new ribands. When she had finished her patient's toilet, she said:

"My! But you look pretty to-night."

"Do I? I'm glad of that."

Lizzie Alfreda woke up, clamouring for Frisian-Holstein milk. She lay beside Fancy till the bottle was finished. Then she was taken back to her cradle in the next room.

It was fully time now for Mrs. Yellam to prepare for the night, but she didn't do so. Fancy had closed her eyes. The faint colour had gone from her cheeks. She had fallen asleep. Susan laid her finger upon the pulse; she could just feel it beating, but not regularly. A wild impulse surged through her to rush into the night, to send Uncle for the doctor. But she dared not leave her patient. And, after all, there was so little change; the child had talked too much after tea; strength would return in the morning.

She made up the fire again, slipped off her austere black gown, and put on a dressing-gown, an ancient garment known to many mothers in Nether-Applewhite. Draped in this, with list sandals on her feet, you might have taken Susan for a Roman matron. Hamlin, who had seen her thus arrayed, nearly addressed her as "Cornelia."

An hour or more may have pa.s.sed, during which time the gale began to rage itself out. Lulls succeeded roaring blasts. Mrs. Yellam felt no inclination to sleep; she became, instead, sensible of alertness, a quickening of sensibilities and senses. Her hearing, still acute, became painfully so. The patter of the rain upon the windows irritated her; when it stopped, she missed it, and wanted it to begin again.

And then a strange thing happened, strange only when taken in connection with what followed. Solomon woke up, jumped lightly from the bed, and went to the door. He had been let out, as usual, some two hours previously. Mrs. Yellam held up a finger, enjoining silence. Solomon lay down, head up, staring at the door, alert, as Mrs. Yellam was, expectant, with ears c.o.c.ked as if he heard something or somebody.

"What is it, Solly?" she whispered.

He paid no attention.

If the cottage had not been surrounded by water, Mrs. Yellam might have considered the probability of tramps trying to find shelter in the barn.

She would not have been alarmed. Her cottage was tramp-proof and at this moment an island fortress. At the same time, she knew that her heart was beating faster; an indefinable fear a.s.sailed her, something she had never experienced before.

She started violently. Fancy was sitting up in bed, her cheeks flushed with colour, her eyes dancing, her arms outstretched.

"I hear him," she exclaimed. "Don't you, Mother?"

"Lie down, child; lie down."

"It's Alfred. Let him in!"

Mrs. Yellam did not move. Fancy, she decided, was light-headed. She hesitated, fearing to excite her, willing to humour her, provided she made no attempt to leave her bed.

"He's coming upstairs."

She no longer looked at Mrs. Yellam; her eyes remained upon the bedroom door. So strange a light shone in those eyes that Mrs. Yellam began to question her own sanity, not Fancy's.

Solomon never moved.

The suspense became unendurable. But Mrs. Yellam remained in her chair, ready to spring to her feet, if Fancy left the bed.

Solomon got up, whined, turned from the door, and jumped into Mrs.

Yellam's lap. He was trembling. At the same moment she heard Fancy's voice, strong and exultant:

"Alfie!--I knew you'd come."

Her speech became broken and faltering:

"I did want you, as never was. It was awful going through it without you. And it's a She--what you wanted. How lovely you look! Kiss me again! Hold me tight! If you don't, I--I may slip off...."

Her voice died away in sighs; her eyes closed; her head fell back upon her pillow. Mrs. Yellam put Solomon down, rose to her feet, and hurried to the bed. In an instant her strong arms were encircling the wasted body, clutching it to her, trying to hold Fancy back, but knowing that she was, as she said, slipping away. Fancy spoke again, very faintly:

"However did you manage to come back?"

Mrs. Yellam listened, waiting, hoping, and almost believing, that an answer would be forthcoming. Her son, according to Colonel Tring, had been killed by a sh.e.l.l--killed and obliterated. She had known that death must have been painless.

Fancy answered for Alfred, in a whisper that seemed to come from an immense distance.

"I hear you, plain as plain. What? A--_sh.e.l.l_--! Did it hurt, Alfie? It didn't. But because of that you were able to come. You had to come for both our sakes--Mother's and mine. And such a night! You ain't a bit wet, neither.... Afraid, Alfie...? With you holding me tight as tight.... Oh, no."

Susan Yellam heard a trickle of laughter. After that Fancy sighed twice, and then her small body relaxed.

She had slipped away.