The Revellers

But the Elmsdale attack, thanks to a limited supply of brandy and Eau de Cologne, was of brief duration. Françoise knew exactly what to do. Every drop of alcoholic liquor – even the methylated spirit used for heating curling-irons – must be kept out of her mistress’s way during the ensuing twenty-four hours, and a deaf ear turned to frantic pleadings for the smallest quantity of any intoxicant. Threats, tears, pitiable requests, physical violence at times, must be disregarded callously; then would come reaction, followed by extreme exhaustion. Françoise, despising her German mistress, nevertheless had the avaricious soul of a French peasant, and was amassing a small fortune by attending to her.

The Misses Walker were so eager to retain their wealthy guest that they pretended absolute ignorance of her condition. They succeeded so well – their own dyspeptic symptoms were described with such ingenuous zeal – that the lady believed her secret was unknown to the household at The Elms.

Oddly enough, certain faculties remained clear during these attacks. She took care that the chauffeur should not see her, and remembered also that young Martin Bolland had conversed with her while she was in the worst paroxysm of drink-craving. He was a quick boy, observant beyond his age. What did he know? What wondrous tale had he spread through the village? A visit to his mother, a meeting with the gossip-loving women sure to be gathered beneath the farmer’s hospitable roof, would tell her all. She nerved herself for the ordeal, and approached slowly, fearfully, but outwardly dignified as ever.

Mrs. Bolland’s hearty greeting was reassuring.

“Eh, my lady, but ye do look poorly, te be sure. I’ve bin worritin’ te think ye’ve mebbe bin upset by all this racket i’ t’ place, when ye kem here for rest an’ quiet.”

Mrs. Saumarez smiled.

“Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Bolland,” she said. “I cannot blame Elmsdale, except, perhaps, that your wonderful air braced up my appetite too greatly, and I had to pay the penalty for so many good things to eat.”

“Ay, I said so,” chimed in Mrs. Summersgill, in the accents of deep conviction. “Ower much grub an’ nowt te do is bad for man or beast.”

Mrs. Saumarez laughed frankly at that.

“In which category do you place me, Mrs. Summersgill?” she inquired. Meanwhile, her eyes wandered to where Martin stood. She was asking herself why the boy should gaze so fixedly at Angèle.

The stout party did not know what a category was. She thought it was some species of malady.

“Well, ma’am,” she cried, “if I was you, I’d try rabbit meat for a few days. Eat plenty o’ green stuff an’ shun t’ teapot. It’s slow p’ison.”

She stretched out a huge arm and poured out a cup of tea. There was a general laugh at this forgetfulness. Mrs. Summersgill waved aside criticism.

“Ay, ay!” she went on, “it’s easier te preach than te practice, as t’ man said when he fell off a haystack efther another man shooted tiv him te ho’d fast.”

Mrs. Saumarez took a seat. Thus far, matters had gone well. But why did Martin avoid her?

“Martin, my little friend,” she said, “why did you not come in and see me yesterday when you called at The Elms?”

“Miss Walker did not wish it,” was the candid answer. “I suppose she thought I might be in the way when you were so ill.”

“There nivver was sike a bairn,” protested Martha Bolland. “He’s close as wax sometimes. Not a wud did he say, whether ye were ill or well, Mrs. Saumarez.”

The lady’s glance rested more graciously on the boy. She noticed his bandaged arms and hands.

“What is the matter?” she asked. “Have you been scalding yourself?”

Martin reddened. It was Angèle who answered quickly:

“You were too indisposed last night to hear the story, chère maman. It was all over the village. Il y a tout le monde qui sait. Martin saved Elsie Herbert from a wildcat. It almost tore him into little pieces.”

And so the conversation glided safely away from the delicate topic of Mrs. Saumarez’s sudden ailment. She praised Martin’s bravery in her polished way. She expressed proper horror when the wildcat’s skin was brought in for her edification, and became so lively, so animated, that she actually asked Mrs. Bolland for some tea, notwithstanding Mrs. Summersgill’s earnest warnings.

She made a hearty meal. Françoise, too, joined in the feast, her homely Norman face perceptibly relaxing its grim vigilance. Her mistress was safe now, for a month, two months, perchance six. The desire for food was the ultimate sign of complete recovery – for the time. Had Mrs. Saumarez dared ask for a glass of beer from the majestic cask in the corner, Françoise would have prevented her from taking it, using force if necessary. The sturdy peasant from Tinchebrai was of stronger moral fiber than the born aristocrat, and her mistress knew it.

Martin stood somewhat shyly near the broad ingle. Angèle approached. She caressed his lint-wrapped arms, saying sweetly:

“Do they pain you a great deal?”

“Of course not. They’re just a bit sore to the touch – that’s all.”

His manner was politely repellant. He wished she would not pat him with her nervous fingers. She pawed him like a playful cat. To-day she wore the beautiful muslin frock he had admired so greatly on the first day of the fair. The deep brim of her hat concealed her eyes from all but his.

“I am quite jealous of Elsie,” she murmured. “It must be simply lovely to be rescued in that way. Poor little me! At home nursing mamma, while you were fighting for another girl!”

“The thing was not worth so much talk. I did nothing that any other boy would not have done.”

“My wud,” cried Mrs. Summersgill suddenly, “it’d do your little lass a power o’ good te git some o’ that fat beäcan intiv her, Mrs. Saumarez.”

From the smoke-blackened rafters over the spacious fireplace were hanging a dozen sides of home-cured bacon, huge toothsome slabs suggesting mounds of luscious rashers. The sturdy boy beneath gave proof that there was good nutriment in such ample store, but the girl was so fragile, so fairy-like in her gossamer wings, that she might have been reared on the scent of flowers.

The attention thus drawn to the two caused Martin to flush again, but Angèle wheeled round.

“Do all pigs grow fat when they are old?” she asked.

“Nay, lass, that they don’t. We feed ’em te mak’ ’em fat while they’re young, but some pigs are skinny ’uns always.”

Mrs. Saumarez smiled indulgently at this passage between two such sharp-tongued combatants. Angèle’s eyes blazed. Françoise, eating steadily, wondered what had been said to make the women laugh, the child angry.

Angèle caught the astonished expression on the nurse’s face. Quickly her mood changed. Françoise sat near. She bent over and whispered:

“Tiens, nanna! Voici une vieille truie qui parle comme nous autres!”

Françoise nearly choked under a combination of protest and bread crumbs. Before she could recover her breath at hearing Mrs. Summersgill described “an old sow who talks like one of us!” Angèle cried airily to Martin:

“Take me to the stables. I haven’t seen the pony and the dogs for days and days.”

He was glad to escape. He dreaded Mrs. Summersgill’s mordant humor if a war of wits broke out between her and the girl.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll whistle for Curly and Jim at the back and join you at the gate.”

But Angèle skipped lightly toward her hostess.

“Please, Mrs. Bolland,” she said coaxingly, “may I not go through the back kitchen, too?”

“Sure-ly, honey,” cried Martha. “One way’s as good as another. Martin, tak t’ young leddy anywheres she wants te go, an’ dinnat be so gawky. She won’t bite ye.”

The two passed into the farmyard.

“You see, Martin,” explained Angèle coolly, “I must find out how Jim Bates and Tommy Beadlam always get hold of you without other people being the wiser. Show me the lane and the paddock they tell me of.”

“I don’t see why it should interest you,” was the ungracious reply.

“You dear boy! Are you angry yet because I wouldn’t let you kiss me the other night?”

He was compelled to laugh at the outrageous untruth.

“I’m afraid I spoke very crossly then,” he admitted, thinking it best to avoid argument.

“Oh, yes. I wept for hours. My poor little eyes were sore yesterday. Look and see if they are red now.”

They were standing behind the woodpile. She thrust her face temptingly near. Her beautiful eyes, clear and limpid in their dark depths, blinked saucily. Her parted lips revealed two rows of white, even teeth, and her sweet breath mingled with the fragrance that always clung to her garments. He experienced a new timidity now; he was afraid of her in this mood, though secretly flattered by the homage she was paying.

“Martin,” she whispered, “I like you better than any of the other boys, oh, a great deal better, even though Evelyn Atkinson does say you are a milksop.”

What a hateful word to apply to one whose flesh was scarred by the claws of an infuriated wildcat conquered in fair fight. Milksop, indeed! He knew Angèle’s ways well enough by this time to give convincing proof that he was no milksop.

He placed his bandaged right arm around her waist, boldly drew her toward him, and kissed her three times – on the lips.

“That is more than I ever did to Evelyn Atkinson,” he said.

She returned the embrace with ardor.

“Oh, Martin, I do love you,” she sighed. “And you fought for me as well as for Elsie, didn’t you?”

If the thought were grateful to Angèle, it stung the boy’s conscience. Under what different circumstances had he defended the two girls! He grew scarlet with confusion and sought to unclasp those twining arms.

“Someone may see us,” he protested.

“I don’t care,” she cooed. “Tommy Beadlam is watching us now over the hedge. Tell him to go away.”

He wrenched himself free. True enough, “White Head” was gazing at them, eyes and mouth wide open.

“Hello, Tommy!” shouted Martin.

“By gum!” gasped Tommy.

But the spell was broken, and the three joined company to make a tour of the farm. Angèle was quite unembarrassed and promptly rescued both boys from sheepishness. She knew that the observant “White Head” would harrow Evelyn Atkinson’s soul with a full description of the tender episode behind the big pile of wood. This pleased her more than Martin’s gruff “spooning.”

Inside the farmhouse conversation progressed vigorously. Mrs. Saumarez joined in the talk with zest. The quaint gossip of the women interested her. She learnt, seemingly with surprise, that these, her humble sisters, were swayed by emotions near akin to her own. Some quiet chronicle of a mother’s loss by the death of a soldier son in far-off South Africa touched a dormant chord in her heart.

“My husband was killed in that foolish war,” she said. “I never think of it without a shudder.”

“I reckon he’d be an officer, ma’am,” said Martha.

“Yes; he was shot while leading his regiment in a cavalry charge at the Modder River.”

“It’s a dreadful thing, is war,” observed the bereaved mother. “My lad wouldn’t hurt a fly, yet his capt’in wrote such a nice letter, sayin’ as how Willie had killed four Boers afore he was struck down. T’ capt’in meant it kindly, no doot, but it gev me small consolation.”

“It is the wives and mothers who suffer most. Men like the army. I suppose if my child were a boy he would enter the service.”

“Thank the Lord, Martin won’t be a sojer!” cried Martha fervently.

“You’re going to make him a minister, are you not?”

“Noa,” said John Bolland’s deep voice from the door. “He’s goin’ to college. I’ve settled it to-day.”

None present appreciated the force of this statement like Martha, and she resented such a momentous decision being arrived at without her knowledge. Her head bent, and twitching fingers sought the ends of her apron. John strode ponderously forward and placed a huge hand on her shoulder.

“Dinnat be vexed, Martha,” he said gently. “I hadn’t a chance te speak wi’ ye sen Dr. MacGregor an’ me had a bit crack about t’ lad. I didn’t need te coom te you for counsel. Who knew better’n me that yer heart was set on Martin bein’ browt up a gentleman?”

This recognition of motherly rights somewhat mollified his wife.

“Eh, but I’m main pleased, John,” she said. “Yet I’ll be sorry to lose him.”

“Ye’ll wear yer knuckles te t’ bone makkin’ him fine shirts an’ fallals, all t’ same,” laughed her husband.

Mrs. Saumarez had seen the glint of tears in Mrs. Bolland’s eyes, and came to the rescue with a request for a second cup of tea.

“England is fortunate in being an island,” she said. “Now, in my native land every man has to serve in the army. It cannot be avoided, you know. Germany has France on the one hand and Russia on the other, each ready to spring if she relaxes her vigilance for a moment.”

“Is that so?” inquired Bolland. “I wunner why?”

The lady smiled.

“That is a wide political question,” she replied. “To give one reason out of many, look at our – at Germany’s thousand miles of open frontier.”

“Right enough, ma’am. But why is Jarmany buildin’ such a big fleet?”

Mrs. Saumarez raised her lorgnette. She had not expected so apt a retort.

“She is gathering colonies, and already owns a huge mercantile marine. Surely, these interests call for adequate protection?”

“Nobody’s threatenin’ ’em, so far as I can see,” persisted Bolland.

“Not at present. But a wise government looks ahead of the hour. Germany’s aim is to educate the world by her culture. She is doing it already, as any of your own well-informed leading men will tell you; but the time may come when, in her zeal for advancement, she may tread on somebody’s toes, so she must be prepared, both on land and sea. Fortunately, this is the one country she will never attack.”

John shook his head.

“I’m none so sure,” he said slowly. “I hevn’t much time fer readin’, but I did happen t’ other day on a speech by Lord Roberts which med me scrat me head. Beg pardon, ma’am. I mean it med me think.”

“Lord Roberts!” began the lady scornfully. Then she sipped her tea, and the pause gave time to collect her wits. “You must remember that he is a professional soldier, and his views are tainted by militarism.”

“Isn’t that the trouble i’ Jarmany?”

Mrs. Saumarez drank more tea.

“Circumstances alter cases,” she said. “The broad fact remains that Germany harbors no evil designs against Great Britain. She believes the world holds plenty of room for both powers. And, when all is said and done, why should the two nations quarrel? They are kith and kin. They look at life from the same viewpoints. Even their languages are alike. Hardly a word in your quaint Yorkshire dialect puzzles me now, because I recognize its source in the older German and in the current speech of our Baltic provinces. Germany and England should be friends, not enemies. It will be a happy day for England when she ceases worrying about German measures of self-defense, but tries, rather, to imitate her wonderful achievements in every field of science. Any woman who uses fabrics need not be told how Germany has taught the whole world how to make aniline dyes, while her chemists are now modernizing the old-time theories of agriculture. You, Mr. Bolland, as a practical farmer, can surely bear out that contention?”

“Steady on, ma’am,” said Bolland, leaning forward, with hands on knees, and with eyes fixed on the speaker in an almost disconcerting intensity. “T’ Jarmans hev med all t’ wo’ld buy their dyes, but there hezn’t been much teachin’, as I’ve heerd tell of. As for farmin’, they coom here year after year an’ snap up our best stock i’ horses an’ cattle te improve their own breeds. I can’t grummel at that. They compete wi’ t’ Argentine an’ t’ United States, an’ up go my prices. Still, I do think our government is te blame for lettin’ our finest stallions an’ brood mares leave t’ country. They differ frae cattle. They’re bowt for use i’ t’ army, an’ we’re bein’ drained dhry. That’s bad for us. An’ why are they doin’ it?”

Mrs. Saumarez pushed away her cup and saucer. She laughed nervously, with the air of one who had gone a little further than was intended.

“There, there!” she cried pleasantly. “I am only trying to show you Germany’s open aims, but some Englishmen persist in attributing a hostile motive to her every act. You see, I know Germany, and few people here trouble either to learn the language or visit the country.”

“Likely not, ma’am,” was the ironical answer. “Mr. Pickerin’ went te some pleäce – Bremen, I think they call it – two year sen this July, te see a man who’d buy every Cleveland bay he could offer. George had just been med an officer i’ t’ Territorials – which meant a week’s swankin’ aboot i’ uniform at a camp, an’ givin’ his men free beer an’ pork pies te attend a few drills – an’ he was fule enough te carry a valise wi’ his rank an’ regiment painted on it. Why, they watched him like a cat watchin’ a mouse. He couldn’t eat a bite or tak a pint o’ their light beer that a ’tec wasn’t sittin’ at t’ next table. They fairly chased him away. Even his friend, the hoss-buyer, got skeered at last, an’ advised him te quit te avoid arrest.”

“That must have been a wholly exceptional case,” said Mrs. Saumarez, speaking in a tone of utter indifference. “Had I known him, for instance, and given him a letter of introduction, he would have been welcomed, not suspected. By the way, how is he? I hear – ”

The conversation was steered into a safer channel. They were discussing the wounded man’s condition when Mrs. Saumarez’s car passed. The door stood open, so they all noted that the vehicle was white with dust, but the chauffeur was the sole occupant.

“Her ladyship” was pleased to explain.

“It is a new car, so Fritz took it for a long spin to-day,” she said. “You will understand, Mr. Bolland, that the engine has to find itself, as the phrase goes.”

“Expensive work, ma’am,” smiled John, rising. “An’ now, good folk,” he continued, “wheä’s coomin’ te t’ love feast?”

There was a general movement. The assembly dear to old-time Methodism appealed to the majority of the company. Mrs. Saumarez raised her lorgnette once more.

“What is a love feast?” she asked.

“It’s a gathering o’ members o’ our communion, ma’am,” was Bolland’s ready answer.

“May I come, too?”

Instantly a rustle of surprise swept through her hearers. Even John Bolland was so taken aback that he hesitated to reply. But the lady seemed to be in earnest.

“I really mean it,” she went on. “I have a spare hour, and, as I don’t care for dinner to-night, I’ll be most pleased to attend – that is, if I may?”

The farmer came nearer. He looked at the bulbous eyelids, the too-evenly tinted skin, the turgid veins in the brilliant eyes, and perhaps saw more than Mrs. Saumarez dreamed.

“Happen it’ll be an hour well spent, ma’am,” he said quietly. “Admission is by membership ticket, but t’ minister gev’ me a few ‘permits’ for outside friends, an’ I’ll fill yan in for ye wi’ pleasure.”

He produced some slips of paper bearing the written words, “Admit Brother” or “Sister – ,” and signed, “Eli Todd.” With a stubby pencil he scrawled “Saumarez” in a blank space. The lady thanked him, and gave some instructions in French to Françoise. Five minutes later “Sister Saumarez,” escorted by “Brother” and “Sister” Bolland, entered the village meetinghouse.

The appearance of a fashionable dame in their midst created a mild sensation among the small congregation already collected. They were mostly old or middle-aged people; youngsters were conspicuous by their absence. There was a dance that night in a tent erected in a field close to the chapel; in the boxing booth the semi-final round would be fought for the Elmsdale championship. Against these rival attractions the Gospel was not a “draw.”

Gradually the spacious but bare room – so unlike all that Mrs. Saumarez knew of churches – became fairly well filled. As the church clock chimed the half-hour after six the Rev. Eli Todd came in from a neighboring classroom. This was the preacher with the powerful voice, but his bell-like tones were subdued and reverent enough in the opening prayer. He uttered a few earnest sentences and quickly evoked responses from the people. The first time John Bolland cried “Amen!” Mrs. Saumarez started. She thought her friend had made a mistake, and her nerves were on edge. But the next period produced a hearty “Hallelujah!” and others joined in with “Glory be!” “Thy will, O Lord!” and kindred ejaculations.

One incident absolutely amazed her. The minister was reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

“Give us this day our daily bread,” he said.

“And no baccy, Lord!” growled a voice from the rear of the chapel.

The minister had a momentary difficulty in concluding the petition, and a broad grin ran through the congregation. Mrs. Saumarez learned subsequently that the interrupter was a converted poacher, who abandoned his pipe, together with gun and beer jug, “when he found Christ.” Eli Todd was a confirmed smoker, and the two were ever at variance on the point.

All stood up when their pastor gave out the opening verses of a hymn:

O what a joyful meeting there,In robes of white arrayed;Palms in our hands we all shall bearAnd crowns upon our heads.

The joyous energy of his declamation, the no less eager volume of sound that arose from the congregation, atoned for any deficiencies of meter or rhyme. The village worshipers lost themselves in the influence of the moment. With spiritual vision they saw the last great meeting, and thundered vociferously the closing lines of the chorus:

And then we shall in Heaven reign,And never, never part again.

“Grace before meat” was sung, and, to Mrs. Saumarez’s great discomfiture, bread and water were passed round. Each one partook save herself; Bolland, with real tact, missed her in handing the tray and pitcher to the other occupants of their pew.

“Grace after meat” followed, and forthwith Eli Todd began to deliver an address. His discourse was simple and well reasoned, dealing wholly with the sustenance derived from God’s saving spirit. It may be that the unexpected presence of a stranger like Mrs. Saumarez exercised a slightly unnerving influence, as he spoke more seriously and with less dramatic intensity than was his wont.

Suddenly he rebelled against this sensation of restraint. Changing, with the skill of a born revivalist, from the rounded periods of ordinary English to the homely vernacular of the district, he thundered out:

“There’s noa cittidell o’ sin ’at God cannot destroy. Ay, friends, t’ sword o’ t’ Spirit s’all oppen a way through walls o’ brass an’ iron yats (gates). Weän’t ye jine His conquerin’ army? He’s willin’ te list ye noo. There’s none o’ yer short service whilst ye deä t’ Lord’s work – it’s for ivver an’ ivver, an’ yer pension is life ivverlastin’.”

And so the curious service went to its end, which came not until various members of the congregation made public confession of faith, personal statements which often consisted of question and answer between pastor and penitent. It was a strange interrogatory. Eli Todd had a ready quip, a quick appreciation, an emphatic or amusing disclaimer, for each and every avowal of broad-minded Christianity or intolerant views. For these dalesfolk did not all think alike. Some were inclined to damn others who did not see through the myopic lenses of their own spiritual spectacles.

The preacher would have none of this exclusive righteousness. As he said, in his own strenuous way:

“The Lord is ivverywhere. He isn’t a prisoner i’ this little room te-night. He’s yonder i’ t’ street amang t’ organs an’ shows. He’s yonder i’ t’ tent where foolish youths an’ maidens cannot see Him. If ye seek Him ye’ll find Him, ay, in the abodes of sin and the palaces of wantonness. No door can be closed to His saving mercy, no heart too hardened to resist His love.”

As it happened, his glance fell on Mrs. Saumarez as he uttered the concluding words, and his voice unconsciously tuned itself to suit her understanding. She dropped her eyes, and the observant minister thought that she was reading a personal meaning into his address.

At once he began the “Doxology,” which was sung with great fervor, and the love feast broke up after a brief prayer. Mr. Todd overtook Mrs. Saumarez on the green. Bolland and his wife were escorting her to The Elms.