Part 49 (1/2)

Poor Uncle could not take it in.

”But, Susan, Alferd be lost.”

”'Twas a sh.e.l.l. They couldn't find 'un, because there was nothing to find.”

To her dismay, Uncle bowed his head upon his hands and wept like a woman, shedding the copious tears that might have softened the hard eyes steadily regarding him. He had loved Alfred. Susan knew this. He could have better spared one of his own sons rather than this kindly, affectionate nephew. She rose quietly and fetched the letter, giving him time to recover his self-control. As she held out the letter, he raised a face to hers so seamed by grief and pain that almost, almost her heart melted within her. He read the letter and returned it. She put it away, and took a chair upon the other side of the hearth. Uncle gazed about him, noting, as men do upon such occasions, trifles that escape notice in happier times. The coffin stools stood in their old place against the wall. Uncle pointed at them, with trembling finger:

”Fancy be dead, too.”

”No. She be more like herself to-day, although tarr'ble weak. They stools be for me, Habakkuk. The sooner I goes the better.”

No inflection of resignation tempered this statement. Uncle, like Hamlin, realised the futility of condolence, but silence imposed too great a burden upon him.

”You has the baby,” he suggested.

”She belongs to Fancy. I bain't afeard for they two.”

”Be you afeard for yourself, Susan?”

She eyed him, sensible of an ever-increasing aversion to questions. Was he thinking of punishment hereafter, of h.e.l.l's fires?

”I bain't afeard o' h.e.l.l, and I bain't going to Heaven. For why? Heaven and h.e.l.l be here on earth--and nowheres else.”

”Susan----!”

”Ay, you be mazed, and no wonder. But I be come to that. I believed in G.o.d A'mighty; I believed in Satan--for sixty long years. But such belief be clean gone.”

”You be wrong, Susan. It ain't in me to argufy wi' 'ee, and, maybe, tear both our hearts. But you be wrong. The swallers knows better'n that. Who gave 'em their wisdom? I says no more but this: G.o.d sent His Own People into the wilderness, where you be, and He brought 'em out.”

She shook her head. Uncle stood up.

”'Tis rainin' crool hard, but I be off to the Forest. You won't want Jane fussin' about 'ee? No. Or anybody else. I allers allowed as misery loved company, but I be so miserable this day that I wants to be alone, as you does.”

He kissed her cold cheeks and went out into the rain.

She sat on for a minute, but the thought that worried her most was the regret that he had not had his tea. The day was failing fast. In a moment she would have to light a lamp and carry it upstairs. But something remained to be done, a duty neglected since the morning.

She went into the parlour, where the light was better, but not good; good enough, she reflected, for her purpose. She lifted the Bible, placed it upon the middle table, and opened it at the fly-leaf. Then she took pen and ink from her desk and a clean sheet of blotting-paper. She took out her spectacles, wiped them carefully, put them on, and sat down. Against Alfred's name she made the necessary entry, ”_Killed in Action_,” adding the date. Her hand never trembled; the writing was characteristic; firm, bold, with the words neatly s.p.a.ced, indicating love of order. What she had willed herself to be, she was: a flint embedded in sterile soil. She took off her spectacles and placed them in their case, rising as she did so. Upon second thoughts, she decided to let the ink dry upon the page. Suddenly, an irresistible impulse gripped her. She glanced about her furtively, defiantly, as if challenging unseen powers to thwart her determination. Hastily with fingers that trembled this time, she s.n.a.t.c.hed up the pen, dipped it into the ink, and wrote against her name, Susan Yellam, these words:

”_Died. December 28th, 1916._”

As hastily, she placed the sheet of blotting-paper above the entries, closed the Bible, and replaced it upon its table.

Having shut up the parlour, she lit a lamp and carried it upstairs. The baby was asleep. The nurse went home for the night. Then Mrs. Yellam told Fancy, in a cheerful voice, that she would bring up tea in a few minutes.

”I thought I heard Uncle,” said Fancy.

”Yes; he looked in and made some stupid jokes, he did, about gettin' the miller's boat.”

”Whatever for?”