CHAPTER XVI

SAINT WILLUM

It was a blow over the heart to Nether-Applewhite. Master Teddy, as everybody called him, had grown to man's estate amongst the villagers, but he was remembered as a boy, full of pranks, a bit of a scapegrace, with a smile that Uncle affirmed to be "so good as sixpence." Uncle assumed a band of crepe, and said to Susan Yellam:

"Master Teddy be taken, and us useless old sticks be left. I taught 'un to set night lines. He'd a tang o' the poacher, he had, but allers ready to give away what trout he catched out o' old Captain's water. Bold as brass, too, wi' rich or poor. And a good fighter. He fit 'No Account Harry' back o' village pound, and licked 'un, too, a boy bigger'n older'n he. A pleasant word for all, and fair bustin' wi' fun and kindness. I tell 'ee this, I be so sorrowful as if I'd lost a son, but there's rejoicing where he be gone. I can see Saint Peter a-openin' wide the gate to let 'un in."

Greater orators have declaimed less sincere funeral orations.

Mrs. Yellam said little. Her troubled face made Fancy unhappy. But when she spoke of Edward Hamlin, Mrs. Yellam cut her short:

"He be gone. It don't bear speaking of. Why should such as he be sacrificed to atone for our sins?"

"If God gave His Only Son----!"

"Ah-h-h! That be it. _If...._"

"Mother!"

"You be shocked, and no wonder. But unless I speaks what I feels to 'ee, I must hold my tongue. And more decent, too. I be mazed beyond words. I be losing my grip o' this world and the next."

Fancy met Hamlin two days afterwards as she was leaving Pomfret Court. She quickened her step, but he stopped still. She said simply:

"I be so grieved about Mr. Edward. He was so full of life."

Hamlin took her hand.

"Thank you. The sympathy of all of you is much to me, more than you think." He paused adding slowly: "He may be fuller of life, Fancy, where he is now."

She went her way, strangely comforted. Her time was approaching. Soon she must remain at home, awaiting her ordeal. She confronted that with the courage which is so often the attribute of physically frail women. The month before the wonderful event would be happily occupied in making the _layette_ or such of it as Mrs. Yellam couldn't provide; and Fancy had in mind the lining and trimming of a baby-basket fit for a tiny prince. She intended to embroider a broad blue riband with this legend: "To my little son." She made absolutely certain that the child would be a son. Already she had envisaged his life from the cradle to the grave. She wouldn't allow him to play too rough games, but he must be a _Man_; she shrank from what he would have to go through before he attained his sire's stature; she rehearsed a prayer suitable for babbling lips; she arrayed him in knickerbockers and despatched him to school, with many injunctions not to play truant, or pull the hair of small girls, or be pert to his teacher. Of course, he would be just such a son to her as Alfred was to his mother. She went so far in mental vagabondage as to choose a wife for him, a very practical young woman with a reassuring physique, quite unlike herself. Being his father's son, every inch of him, it was certain that he would have "affairs" with other young women before he chose the "One and Only." Fancy meant to deal faithfully with such flirtations. One of them would nearly capture the youth. He would be saved from a too audacious baggage by his mother! She hoped that he would not be too good, but full of fun, like Mr. Edward. He would be a carrier, because all wars would be over and done with after this war.

These were her day-dreams.

At night, she was not so happy. At night she thought much of Mrs. Yellam. That troubled face formed itself in the dark, mutely entreating comfort and counsel which Fancy could not evoke out of her eagerness to help a sorely-stricken creature.

Why did Mrs. Yellam borrow trouble?

Why did she believe that God had forsaken her? What a terrible notion this of Satan supreme and triumphant in Nether-Applewhite! But she had faith in God's mercy. He would lift this black cloud from a poor old woman's heart.

About two weeks after Edward Hamlin's death, unexpected balm, very precious spikenard, was poured upon Mrs. Yellam's lacerated feelings. William Saint had got his desire and leanness of soul withal. Alfred's good business was his. When he drove past the Yellam cottage, Mrs. Yellam turned her face from the window, if she happened to be there. She told Uncle that she discerned a mocking smile, a contemptuous upper lip, upon that hard, yellow face. Uncle nodded, saying nothing. But leaving his sister's house, he laid a couple of fingers upon his biceps as he contracted the muscles of it. He smiled genially. His biceps still swelled hard and big as a cricket ball. And only the day before he had been out running with the hounds. William Saint did not run. He walked to his objectives, the sort of tortoise, Uncle reflected, who wins prizes from the more nimble hare.

He was so pleasant with Jane that she suspected a frontal attack upon her money-box. Uncle, however, impetrated no loan. Later in the afternoon, when she went to the fowl-house to collect eggs, she surprised her lord and master, with his coat off, vigorously punching a sack of bran in the shed that adjoined the chicken-run.

"Whatever be you doing?" she asked.

Uncle grinned.

"I be working off some ale, Jane. So thin stuff it be that I wants to get rid of it quick."

"I thought you was gone mad."

"Ah-h-h! Others may think that afore we be much older."

To her further amazement, Uncle remained at home that evening instead of going to the _Sir John Barleycorn_. She wondered if he were sickening for an illness. Possibly, the Parson's sermon on lean souls had affected him. Presently Uncle's earnest words lent colour to this possibility. He observed didactically:

"Hate be bad for the body. Parson got that notion from me. A man as hates his feller-men, and lies awake nights plottin' and plannin' evil, bain't never a fighter."

"How about they Proosians?"

Uncle riposted gaily:

"I hain't one to misparage the enemy, but from what I hears, and you knows I hears more than most, they Proosians fights wi' wallopin' big guns, not wi' fisteses."

"Who's talking o' fisteses?"

"I be. I reckons as a man past sixty might well stand up to a Proosian not more'n thirty."

"You ain't never thinking of enlisting, Habakkuk?"

"No, no. I couldn't leave 'ee, Jane."

"You takes keer o' yourself for my sake. I knows that. What be you thinking of?"

"You'll know soon enough, old girl. I minds that time when I bruised meself so bad slidin' off a slippery roof bang on to a stone wall. You rubbed in some wonnerful stuff. Any of it left?"

"Lard help us! I knew you'd miss your ale. You bain't never thinking o' drinking Helliman's Embrocation?"

"Not yet. Have you the bottle handy?"

Jane nodded; Uncle relapsed into silence, broken by rumblings and chucklings. He went to bed early and slept soundly.

Next afternoon, at four, he entered the sanded bar of Saint's tavern. Saint drove his 'bus to Salisbury upon alternate days. He had a man to take his place upon the other days when business kept him at home. Behind the bar stood a fresh-coloured young woman, quick of tongue and hand, floridly good-looking, with very alert eyes. Gossip affirmed that she was secretly engaged to Saint. Jane Mucklow remarked that the hussy ought to be, if she wasn't. Uncle greeted her pleasantly, nodded to those present, called for a tankard of ale, and enquired tenderly after Saint Willum. The young woman frowned. Then she said sharply:

"I've a mind to tell you something."

The company present pricked ears. Uncle smiled, drawing himself up, inflating his chest, quite ready for a preliminary spar.

"You tell it, my girl. 'Tis crool to think o' what wimmen-folk suffer from allers holding their tongues."

"Your tongue is too sharp. Mr. Saint is civil to you. Be civil to him. That's all."

She drew his ale, and handed it to him.

Uncle looked at her with twinkling eyes. She was making things easy for him, and he felt quite grateful to her. She had fired the first shot. This might or might not be used as a _casus belli_. He said, meaningly:

"Be that advice or a warning like?"

"Take it as both, Mr. Mucklow."

"I will. Now, tell me this, my girl; be you speaking for yourself, or for your master? If you be speaking for yourself, I be minded to tell 'ee that you be paid to serve customers, and not to improve their manners. If you be speaking for Willum Saint, I thanks you very kindly and passes no more remarks."

This, it will be admitted, was a crafty speech on Uncle's part, and pleased him mightily. The girl was sure to resent a rebuke before others, and already the gaffers were grinning at her. If she shifted responsibility to Saint Willum, a _casus belli_ had been established. The young woman lacked Uncle's _finesse_. She answered sullenly:

"I spoke up for Mr. Saint, because he's not here to speak for himself."

Uncle felt that this was not satisfactory enough, although promising.

"You means," he said incisively, "that you speaks words which your master bain't man enough to speak for hisself, either to my face or behind me back?"

The derisive intonation placed upon "master" brought a flush to the girl's cheek. Her eyes sparkled. And she believed Saint to be a man.

"If you want it straight," she retorted, "the words I used have been spoken by Mr. Saint and others."

"Thank 'ee," said Uncle, lifting his tankard. "I drinks to your good health, miss. Cheer oh! as our dear lads say."

He buried his nose in the tankard. But he drank little in it, carrying it to the stout oak table near the fire. The gaffers testified afterwards, that Uncle's talk, before Saint came in, was even more genial and easy than usual. And Saint's face, when he appeared, was in marked contrast to Uncle's rubicund cheerful countenance. Obviously Saint was out of temper. He had been cited to appear before the local tribunal again, and exemption might not be granted twice. "Comb-out" articles were appearing in the daily press. And Saint, who tapped private sources of information, was well aware that Captain Davenant, Chairman of the Board, had expressed a strong opinion that Saint, a Class A fellow, b'George! ought to be kicked into the ranks. Saint had just begun to realise, also, that he was hoist with his own petard. Alfred Yellam, as carrier, set a precedent, shewing that carriers could find less able-bodied men to transact necessary local business.

Uncle looked hard at him.

"What's wrong, Saint Willum?" he asked, in the drawling tone that always provoked a cackle from the gaffers.

Saint looked hard at Uncle. He had good reason for knowing that Uncle saw eye to eye with the Captain. Before entering the bar, the landlord of the _Sir John Barleycorn_ had drunk some whisky from a bottle which he kept locked up in his bedroom. In a word, he was ripe for a quarrel.

"What's wrong?" he repeated viciously. "You are. I'm fed up with your insolence. You take yourself off to the _Pomfret Arms_. The landlord there may want your money and your sauce. I've had enough of both."

The young woman smiled. If, as she expected, and not without good reason, William Saint became her husband, he might turn out, with discreet handling, a docile helpmeet. Within twenty-four hours, she had urged him to "out" Habakkuk Mucklow at the first opportunity. Saint had hesitated, observing angrily that he detested Uncle, and would gladly attend his funeral. At the same time, the man brought custom to the tavern. If he left it, some of his cronies might leave with him. Whereupon the young woman remarked scornfully: "If you can stick it, I've nothing more to say." And then she had eyed him slowly from heel to head, as if taking stock of an animal not quite sound. Saint knew that his manhood had been challenged by a woman who was becoming indispensable to him.

Uncle rose, tankard in hand. His smile was so disarming that Saint, probably, believed him to be harmless. Accordingly he scowled the more fiercely as Uncle slowly approached him. An expert of the prize ring, comparing the two men physically, would have said, off-hand, that age could never fight youth on equal terms. Saint was stoutly built, heavy in the shoulder, with good underpinning. He may have lacked two inches of Uncle's height.

Uncle feigned nervousness, luring Saint on. Had the landlord been perfectly sober, he might have suspected guile. Whisky had inflamed his mind and paralysed his judgment.

"Don't 'ee talk that way, Mr. Saint. I be old enough to be your father. And not the man I was."

Saint exploded.

"If you don't walk out, I'll kick you out."

Uncle almost cooed at him.

"What brave words to an old gaffer past sixty! And before ladies, too."

The sly emphasis on "ladies" provoked a titter from a granfer warmed by hot ale.

Saint sprang to the attack. Now, Uncle, the sly old campaigner, had foreseen this opening. He knew well enough the advantage of a first blow. He knew, also, that Saint, out of condition as he was, might end a fight at close quarters in thirty seconds. Within one minute, so Uncle reckoned, Saint would have lost fifty per cent of energy and endurance. With a gay laugh he dashed the ale he had so valiantly refrained from drinking in Saint's face.

"That'll cool 'ee," said Uncle, as he side-stepped as gracefully as a dancing-master.

Saint was half-blinded, but now well aware that Uncle meant business. He must "finish" him at once, inflict a "knock-out" blow. He charged again, head down, like an infuriated bull. Sober reflection might have warned him that Uncle's arms were longer than his. Uncle raised the tankard and brought it down hard upon a thick skull. Saint fell to the floor, stunned. The young woman screamed out:

"You've killed him!"

Uncle laughed pleasantly:

"Not me. I only tapped 'un. Don't 'ee be afeard, my dear. He'll live to make 'ee miserable. I hopes as I ain't hurt this handsome tankard." He examined it. "No. 'Tis ale-tight yet. I sees a dent though. 'Twill serve, like rosemary, for remembrance. Ah-h-h! He be comin' to."

Saint raised his head, but remained huddled up on the sanded floor, rubbing his head and staring at the grinning faces about him. Uncle addressed him with courtesy.

"Willum Saint, I be a marciful man. There be many here as could testify and swear by the Book as you assaulted and batteried me, but I won't have the law on 'ee. More, never again will I call 'ee Saint Willum. For why?--your immortial soul be too lean. I means to call 'ee, after this memorable day, Mr. Sinner. And now, Mr. Sinner, I takes myself off to the _Pomfret Arms_, and my friends go wi' me."

Three out of the five other men rose solemnly, and called for their reckoning. The two that remained might have done so had they possessed cash in their pockets.

Uncle took off his hat to the young woman, and bowed politely:

"Good-bye, miss. If he become too rampagious, do 'ee whisper 'tankard' to 'un."

Uncle did not walk straight to the _Pomfret Arms_; he fetched a compass, calling upon Mrs. Yellam. He told his tale without embellishment. Susan threw back her head and laughed. Then she kissed her brother.

"Habakkuk," she said solemnly, "'twas a gert victory for you, _and for me_, over Satan."

Next day, by the luck of things, Saint met Uncle face to face in the village street.

"You downed me last night, because I wasn't sober."

"Drunk _and_ disorderly!" exclaimed Uncle, raising his voice so that others might hear. "What would Squire say, if so be as you came afore the Bench?"

Saint was perfectly sober and smugly self-possessed.

"You couldn't down me this morning."

"I be willing to try," said Uncle, perceiving that he had room for side-stepping. "You takes your coat off and I takes off mine, and we goes at it, here and now, slam-bang."

Saint declined this cordial invitation. He scowled at Uncle, and went his way.

Next Sunday Mrs. Yellam's responses were half a second ahead of the congregation. On the Saturday Fancy had received a long letter from Alfred. He was out of the danger zone again, and in a rest camp with his men, who "groused" at "fatigues" imposed upon them unreasonably. Alfred reported himself sound of left arm, and, as usual, "in the pink." William Saint did not attend Divine Service, thinking, possibly, that a large strip of plaster across his head might distract the attention of the congregation. In this he was needlessly thoughtful, inasmuch as everybody in the parish knew what had happened in the sanded tap-room, and acclaimed Uncle as the true sire of a valorous son. Uncle sat in his pew, as upright as Mrs. Yellam, inviting inspection with an upward cock of one eyebrow, as much as to say:

"Look at me, neighbours. Not a mark on me!"

You may be sure that the Squire had the epic pat from the lips of Captain Davenant, to whom Uncle had recited it when shooting in the New Forest. More, the Captain made it clear to the Autocrat how insidiously Alfred Yellam had been undermined by "Mr. Sinner." Finally, it was decided between them that William Saint would serve his country to better advantage away from Nether-Applewhite, and the Squire, gravely affected by Susan Yellam's troubles, swore that he would personally see to it that Alfred's carrying business should be resurrected. On Monday morning, Mrs. Yellam, upon arrival at the Court, was informed that Sir Geoffrey wished to see her in his room. For a terrible moment, she feared that the Squire might be about to break bad news of Alfred. A glance at his jolly face reassured her.

"Sit you down, Susan. Make yourself comfortable. What about a glass of port?"

Mrs. Yellam associated port with funerals. She declined any liquid refreshment, very politely. The Squire stood upon the hearth-rug, beneath the portrait of his father, and thrust his hands in his breeches' pockets.

"Now, Susan, where is Alfred's 'bus?"

"In Salisbury, Sir Geoffrey."

"Out of dry dock? Ready for the road--um?"

"I believe so, Sir Geoffrey, but Willum Saint has the business; and I don't know where to turn for a man."

"That's going to be my affair. I should have made it my affair, if you had come to me without my sending for you. Alfred has been treated abominably. All the facts never reached my ears till yesterday, when I heard about Uncle and the tankard."

He laughed, and Susan laughed with him. The Squire waxed confidential.

"Just between us, let it go no further, William Saint will be called up."

"The Lard be praised! This be heartsome news, Sir Geoffrey. If you gets me a man, trade'll come back."

"You rest easy. I repeat, all this is my affair. I'm still Squire of Nether-Applewhite. Have you seen my grandson lately?"

"No, Sir Geoffrey."

"You come along with me to the nursery, and we'll have a squint at him. He's a whopper."

And thus the sun shone bright once more in Mrs. Yellam's heaven. The Squire proved even better than his word. What he said in private to William Saint was never known. Sir Geoffrey found, for Mrs. Yellam, a reliable driver, an ex-soldier discharged from the army but not disabled, with a merry eye and a persuasive tongue. Saint's 'bus went to the station, as before, not to Salisbury.

You may think of this time as the St. Martin's Summer of Mrs. Yellam's life. The dull November days drifted by, bringing with them mist and rain and wind; the trees were stripped of their leaves; Nature sang her requiem for the dying year; but Pentecostal joys filled Mrs. Yellam's heart.

And this Feast of Rejoicing affected Fancy and her child. The Yellam cottage became a heat-centre. From it radiated warming beams. Susan, at work in her kitchen, could hear Fancy's clear voice singing "Abide with Me."

Hold Thou Thy Cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies: Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee; In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!

If it were only so, reflected Mrs. Yellam, how rich and happy life would be, with all its ups and downs. She remained obstinately convinced that she wanted the Lord to abide with her. It was He Who left her so mysteriously. And then, of course, Satan took the vacant place. She examined herself rigorously. She dealt justly with her neighbours; she loved mercy; she read her Bible each day. What more could she do? Really and truly, she demanded so little of Omnipotence--not wealth, not even health, for, at her age, she must expect aches and pains; just peace, only that, and Alfred.