“Go on,” she said. “You’re not reading.”
So I began—“I have been thinking of you sometimes—have you been
thinking of me?”—
“Of several others as well, beside her, I’ll wager,” said Mrs. Goyte.
“Probably not,” said I, and continued. “A dear little baby was born
here a week ago. Ah, can I tell you my feelings when I take my darling
little brother into my arms—”
“I’ll bet it’s _his_,” cried Mrs. Goyte.
“No,” I said. “It’s her mother’s.”
“Don’t you believe it,” she cried. “It’s a blind. You mark, it’s her
own right enough—and his.”
“No,” I said, “it’s her mother’s.” “He has sweet smiling eyes, but not
like your beautiful English eyes—”
She suddenly struck her hand on her skirt with a wild motion, and bent
down, doubled with laughter. Then she rose and covered her face with
her hand.
“I’m forced to laugh at the beautiful English eyes,” she said.
“Aren’t his eyes beautiful?” I asked.
“Oh, yes—_very!_ Go on!—_Joey, dear, dee-urr, Joey!_”—this to the
peacock.
—“Er—We miss you very much. We all miss you. We wish you were here to
see the darling baby. Ah, Alfred, how happy we were when you stayed
with us. We all loved you so much. My mother will call the baby Alfred
so that we shall never forget you—”
“Of course it’s his right enough,” cried Mrs. Goyte.
“No,” I said. “It’s the mother’s.” Er—“My mother is very well. My
father came home yesterday—on leave. He is delighted with his son, my
little brother, and wishes to have him named after you, because you
were so good to us all in that terrible time, which I shall never
forget. I must weep now when I think of it. Well, you are far away in
England, and perhaps I shall never see you again. How did you find your
dear mother and father? I am so happy that your wound is better, and
that you can nearly walk—”
“How did he find his dear _wife!_” cried Mrs. Goyte. “He never told her
he had one. Think of taking the poor girl in like that!”
“We are so pleased when you write to us. Yet now you are in England you
will forget the family you served so well—”
“A bit too well—eh, _Joey!_” cried the wife.
“If it had not been for you we should not be alive now, to grieve and
to rejoice in this life, that is so hard for us. But we have recovered
some of our losses, and no longer feel the burden of poverty. The
little Alfred is a great comfort to me. I hold him to my breast and
think of the big, good Alfred, and I weep to think that those times of
suffering were perhaps the times of a great happiness that is gone for
ever.”
“Oh, but isn’t it a shame, to take a poor girl in like that!” cried
Mrs. Goyte. “Never to let on that he was married, and raise her hopes—I
call it beastly, I do.”
“You don’t know,” I said. “You know how anxious women are to fall in
love, wife or no wife. How could he help it, if she was determined to
fall in love with him?”
“He could have helped it if he’d wanted.”
“Well,” I said, “we aren’t all heroes.”
“Oh, but that’s different! The big, good Alfred!—did ever you hear such
tommy-rot in your life! Go on—what does she say at the end?”
“Er—We shall be pleased to hear of your life in England. We all send
many kind regards to your good parents. I wish you all happiness for
your future days. Your very affectionate and ever-grateful Élise.”
There was silence for a moment, during which Mrs. Goyte remained with
her head dropped, sinister and abstracted. Suddenly she lifted her
face, and her eyes flashed.
“Oh, but I call it beastly, I call it mean, to take a girl in like
that.”
“Nay,” I said. “Probably he hasn’t taken her in at all. Do you think
those French girls are such poor innocent things? I guess she’s a great
deal more downy than he.”
“Oh, he’s one of the biggest fools that ever walked,” she cried.
“There you are!” said I.
“But it’s his child right enough,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” said I.
“I’m sure of it.”
“Oh, well,” I said, “if you prefer to think that way.”
“What other reason has she for writing like that—”