"Sh.e.l.l-shock affects some of them very strangely."

"What d'ye mean by that, my dear?"

"You remember John Boyce?"

The Squire was not likely to forget John Boyce, one of the quietest, gentlest, and pluckiest of the many wounded men who had pa.s.sed through Pomfret Court. He had been a sufferer from sh.e.l.l-shock and gas, but otherwise sound of limb. One morning, as the Squire was lathering his face, word came to him that John Boyce had gone mad. Without pausing to remove the lather, wearing pyjamas and slippers, the Squire had rushed out of his dressing-room, downstairs, and into a corridor, where Boyce stood at bay, with a valiant V. A. D. in front of him. He had escaped from the ward, and happened to be close to Lionel's sitting-room. Into this room the Squire led Boyce, trying to calm him down. The poor fellow was possessed of suicidal mania. He had lost his chums and his health.

He demanded a rifle and permission to go into the garden and "end it."

It was piteous to hear him. As yet he had exhibited no violence. But in Lionel's room, where swords were hanging on the wall, Boyce, with his congested eyes on the naked steel, struggled desperately to get hold of a sword. The Squire was a very powerful man, and Boyce undersized, but insanity nearly mastered sanity. Suddenly, Boyce's body relaxed. All violence went out of him. Soon he went back to the saloon, quite himself again. Later, he was taken to Netley Hospital, where he recovered completely.

Lady Pomfret said slowly:

"Just between ourselves, Geoffrey, is it possible that poor Alfred, slightly wounded in the head, perhaps, is wandering somewhere in France?"

The Squire opened his mouth.

"My dear Mary, are you hinting at--desertion?"

"If he were not himself, like John Boyce?"

The Squire had to admit that this was possible. Alfred must be somewhere. Upon him would be his identification-disk. The number of this had been sent to The Hague.

"I must see Hamlin."

He did. Hamlin told him that Fancy was fluttering between life and death. Under the circ.u.mstances, it might be expedient to say nothing about the telegram. To this the Squire warmly agreed. n.o.body knew what was in the telegram, except Lady Pomfret and themselves. n.o.body would know till Fancy had turned the corner, one way or t'other, poor little dear!

Within twenty-four hours all Nether-Applewhite knew.

Somebody at the telegraph-office must have babbled.

What followed may be imagined. d.i.c.k told Tom, and Tom told Harry, till verisimilitude--to quote Gilbert--attached itself to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. Ultimately, the tale reached the ears of Uncle. Alfred Yellam was a deserter--such a deduction from the telegram might be considered crude, but on that very account likely to be gobbled by gaffers--with a price set upon him, alive or dead. King Garge on his throne knew it.

Poor Uncle became distraught. If it were true, he could never carry a high head again. Stoutly he refused to believe it, breathing strange oaths and threatening violence to all and sundry. If such a wicked lie reached Fancy's ears, it would kill her. He strode into the forest to cool himself. Could he face his fellow-men in church? He beheld two empty pews, and gnashed his teeth.

Returning from the forest, somewhat easier in mind, he decided that Susan must be warned. Very wisely he went to Hamlin first, who confirmed the telegram, agreeing with Uncle that Mrs. Yellam should be told the truth and what it had been twisted into by wagging tongues. Sensible of Uncle's excitement and indignation, he said quietly:

"You must rise above this gossip. It is not unnatural and not ill-natured."

"I begs your pardon, sir?"

"Sir Geoffrey says that Alfred must be somewhere. For my part, I prefer to think of him in the care, perhaps, of some friendly French peasant, tending a man who may not remember his own name."

"That be a mort o' comfort. Twice in my long life, I minds forgetting my own name. I took a notion that I were the village idiot. Bad ale's tricksy stuff. But desartion be a tarr'ble word."

Hamlin clapped him hard on the shoulder.

"n.o.body who knows Alfred, or his mother, or you, would credit such a monstrous perversion of the truth."

Uncle, much heartened, betook himself to his sister's cottage, where the surprise of his life awaited him. Susan literally jumped at this new hypothesis. She burst into excited speech.

"If Squire thinks that, 'tis so. Parson be a wonnerful man, but, as you says, Habakkuk, sky-high above we. Squire be clay, a gert human bein'

wise wi' the wisdom that I understands. If he holds that my Alferd be wanderin', pore dear, in France, 'tis so. I feels a different 'ooman to-night. And Fancy be better, too, wi' some sart o' appet.i.te for her victuals. I be fightin' hard for her life, Habakkuk, and I believes to-night that all will be well. 'Tis queer, Fancy keeps on a-sayin' to me: 'Alferd'll come back.'"

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't. Pa'son be prayin' in church for Alferd.

'Twould seem more respectful-like if you jined in wi' your loud voice."

At once Mrs. Yellam's face hardened.

"I bide at home till Alferd comes back."

"Ah-h-h! You be set as never was on guidin' yourself, Susan. Now, what about tellin' Fancy?"

"I tells her the moment you be gone. 'Twill perk her up, better'n ginger-brandy. And what do I keer what they says in village? Let 'un talk. Squire be right. Alferd must be somewheres."

Fancy was told within the hour. It will never be known whether the news affected her for good or ill. Mrs. Yellam lacked imagination. Fancy, we may believe, conjured up a lamentable picture of her Alfred, bereft of his wits, wandering in a strange land, homeless and half-starving, at the mercy of the elements in mid-winter. But she repeated the main clause in her creed:

"Alfred'll come back."

Napoleon has a.s.sured us that repet.i.tion is the greatest figure of rhetoric. The stone is worn away by the ever-falling drop of water.

Fancy's reiterated phrase fell persistently upon the ice in Susan Yellam's heart and melted some of it, not all.

Upon the Thursday morning the Squire received a letter from the Colonel commanding Sergeant Yellam's battalion. He read it to Lady Pomfret.

"My dear Sir:

"With deep regret I have to inform you of the death of Sergeant Alfred Yellam upon the night of the fifteenth of December. All the facts have come to light, beyond dispute.

One of our wounded men has been lying unconscious in our receiving hospital. Last night he became conscious. It seems that Yellam was close to him when a sh.e.l.l from a trench howitzer burst literally upon poor Yellam. According to the evidence of the wounded man Yellam disappeared. That was the last indelible impression of the only witness, who was struck by a splinter from the same sh.e.l.l, and lost consciousness immediately afterwards.

"Sergeant Yellam had earned the affection and confidence of all ranks. He was the type of man we value most, cool in danger, modest at all times, cheerful, energetic and capable. Peace be with him!

"Yours faithfully, "Courtenay Tring.

"P. S.--The official communication will reach Sergeant Yellam's widow in due course. This letter will precede it, and I leave it to your discretion what to do."

"What shall we do?" groaned the Squire.

Before telling the news to anybody else, Sir Geoffrey walked to the Vicarage. Hamlin read the letter.

"Susan Yellam must be told," he said slowly. "She can intercept the official communication. Such news would kill Fancy."

"Who will tell Susan?"

"I will take the letter to her."

The Squire looked at his face. He wondered why Hamlin was so affected.

The Parson had sat down, as if he had received a personal blow. He rested his austere face upon his hand, thinking not of the young wife, so full of faith and courage, but of the old woman. Sir Geoffrey said impulsively:

"I wish that you could be spared this, Hamlin."

"So do I."