Not ever again to hear that deep miaow, nor behold those unyielding
eyes of blue, nor watch that absurd tail respond to her lightest
murmur on the assumption that any sound uttered in an empty room was
intended for herself.
An empty room? Empty indeed now, a thousand times emptier now that
Pierrette was dead.
If she could only pray!
Would that serene daughter of hers be able to pray if she found herself
alone like this under the trees that looked not a day older than when
forty years ago she had walked beneath their boughs with Mac? Would not
Muriel suffer a dismay? Would not she doubt the value of her prayers?
There would be no communication with the spirit of Pierrette. There
would be no deep-voiced miaows scrawled by _la planchette_, not with
the help of all the auto-suggestion in her being. She was irrevocably
vanished, as irrevocably as a flower.
The little cat was not. Her grace and beauty were lost; her lithe and
shapely form was destroyed. Her memory would endure for a little while
until her friend died; and when she died there would never have been a
cat called Pierrette. She would be less than one of the crushed shells
among these myriads of crushed shells that were strewn upon the walks
of Kensington Gardens. How heedless was the laughter of the children
all around her, and yet there were few of those children who would not
themselves know sorrow before they were old. Would they hear then the
echo of their youth's heedless laughter?
When Mary came back to the house in Paris she found a letter waiting
for her.
92 Carminia Road,
Balham, S.W.,
_December 26, 1920_.
_Dear Madam_,
_This is to inform you that last week Mrs. Alison, your
daughter-in-law, died of the influenza very suddenly the week before
Xmas. As I understood from her who was her sister that you were
anxious to have the care of her little girl, and as me and my husband
cannot undertake the responsibility we are taking the liberty of
asking if you would kindly accept delivery of the little girl as per
this letter. My sister, Mrs. Alison, kept your address in her writing
materials and I have taken the liberty to write to you direct hoping
I may be pardoned for the intrusion. She is a very nice well-behaved
little girl and my husband and me are very sorry to part with her
which we wouldn't want to do if we hadn't six of our own which
makes it a bit difficult in a small house and not being very rich
people. The little girl could be dispatched to Paris to suit your
convenience if you would kindly remit cost of sending her as per your
instructions which we duly await._
_And I am,
Yours truly,
Emily Bocock._
(_Mrs. Alfred Bocock._)
"Célestine! Célestine!"
"Madame?" cried Célestine, running to find out what her mistress wanted.
"Célestine, pack my things, we are going back to London."
"_Tout de suit, Madame?_"
"Don't stop to argue, Célestine. Pack! Pack!"
The preparations for their return to London were no sooner finished
than Mary was seized with nervousness. Suppose she presented herself at
this house to fetch her granddaughter and the little girl, who by now
was twelve and likely to have a mind of her own, refused to accompany
her? It would be a dreadfully inauspicious beginning to what she hoped
was going to be the happiest time since Richard was alive. It would
be easier to welcome the child here by herself. She should feel less
self-conscious, and the child separated from her companions would be
more ready to accept her grandmother. If she had a house in London it
would be different; but she should be afraid to take her to an hotel.
Yes, it was better to be patient for an extra day and send Célestine to
fetch her. Besides, there was much to prepare here. There was Mary's
bedroom to be got ready. She must choose the furniture herself. She
knew exactly what a child of twelve would like. There were toys to
buy. She would not be too old for dolls and a really good doll's-house
and a variety of games which perhaps she would enjoy playing with her
grandmother. It might be advisable to begin looking about for a good
governess. If only she could find somebody like Mademoiselle Lucinge.
Yes, it would be wiser to send Célestine to fetch her. Célestine could
be trusted? Or should she telegraph to Muriel and ask her to arrange
for a trustworthy person to escort the child? No, that might delay
matters. Muriel was so particular, and in Gloucestershire she might not
be able to find the right person at once. No, Célestine must go.
On New Year's Day Mary was sitting by the fire-side reading a yellow
French novel. The doors of the _salon_ were flung open by François, and
she heard the voice of her maid.
"_Allez-y, mademoiselle. Voilà Madame qui vous attend._"
Thin black legs moving in gingerly steps over the gleaming parquet. A
shy face hiding itself in the wraps of the long journey.
"My darling child, here you are at last!"
"Oh, grandmother, you've thrown your book in the fire. Shall I pick it
out for you?"
Yes, a slight Cockney accent, but what did that matter when in her arms
she held youth, when to her heart she pressed youth?
"My little girl, I'm so glad you're come to live with your old
grandmother."
THE END