The mild September days swung past; the peaceful English atmosphere and
the wholesome English food, added to the unobtrusive English
kindness--which consists mainly in leaving people alone and pretending
not to notice their existence--wrought gentle miracles on the three
stricken creatures.
Not that Mireille found speech again, but Louise watched day by day with
beating heart the return of the tender wild-rose colour to her child's
thin cheeks, and saw the strange fixed expression of terror gradually
fade out of her eyes.
Mireille never wept and never smiled; she seemed to wander in the shadow
of life, mute, quiet, and at peace.
But life and joy came throbbing back to Chérie's young heart, in
fluttering smiles and little trills of laughter, in soft flushes and
quick, light-running steps. Louise, seated by Mireille at the schoolroom
window, would let her work sink on her lap to watch the girlish slender
figure of her sister-in-law darting to and fro on the tennis-lawn; she
would listen amazed to the sweet voice that had so quickly attuned
itself to English words and English laughter. And her soul was filled
with wonder. How--how had Chérie so quickly forgotten? Had she no
thought for brother and lover fighting on the blood-drenched plains of
Ypres? How could she play and talk and laugh while there was no news
from Claude or from Florian? While they might even now be lying
dead--dead with upturned faces, under the distant Belgian sky! And how,
ah! how could she have forgotten what befell, on that night of horror
but a few short weeks ago?
As if some subtle heart-throb warned her, Chérie would turn suddenly and
gaze up at the two pale faces framed in the window beneath the red and
gold leaves of the autumnal creeper. Then she would fling down her
racket and, leaving Eva and Kitty Mulholland and George--who were often
her partners in the game--without a word, she would run into the house
and up to the schoolroom and fling herself at Louise's feet in a storm
of tears.
"Mireille!... Florian!... Claude!" The beloved names were sobbed out in
accents of despair, and Louise must needs comfort her as best she could,
smoothing the tumbled locks, kissing the flushed, wet face, and finally
herself leading her out into the garden again. Mireille went lightly and
silently beside them, like a pale seraph walking in her sleep.
It was not only to console Chérie that Louise smiled in those first
days of exile. Hope, like a shy bird, had entered into her heart.
There was better news from the Continent; all Europe had taken up arms
and was fighting for them and with them. There had been the glorious
tidings of the battle of the Marne. Then one day Florian had sent a
message.
It appeared on the front page of _The Times_, and Mr. Whitaker himself
went up with it to the schoolroom, followed by Mrs. Whitaker, Eva and
George. Florian said he was safe, and was in touch with Claude. He gave
an address for them to write to if this message caught their eye.
Louise and Chérie embraced each other with tears of joy. Claude and
Florian were safe! Safe! And would one day come over to England to fetch
them. Perhaps in a month or two the war would be over.
Louise dreamt every night of Claude's return. She pictured his arrival,
the sound of his footsteps in the garden, his voice in the hall--then
his strong arms around her.... Ah! but then he would see Mireille! He
would ask what had happened--he would have to be told....
No! No! Mireille must be healed before he arrives. He must never
know--Never! She need not tell him. She must not tell him.
Or must she?
It became an obsession. Must she tell him? Why, why must she tell him?
Why break his heart? No; he need never know--never! Mireille must be
healed before he arrives. Mireille must be taught to speak and smile
again. Mireille must find again the dear shrill voice of her childhood,
the sweet piercing treble laughter with which to welcome his return. The
laughter and the voice of Mireille! Where were they?
Had the Holy Saints got them in their keeping?
Louise fell on her knees a hundred times a day and prayed to God and to
the Virgin Mary and to the Saints to give back to Mireille her voice.
Perhaps Saint Agnes would help her? Or little Saint Philomena, who both
were martyred in their thirteenth year. Or if not, surely there was
Saint Anthony of Padua who would restore Mireille's voice to her. He was
the Saint who found and gave back what one had lost. And to Saint
Anthony she prayed, in hope and faith for many days; in anguish and
despair for many weeks.... Then, suddenly, she prayed no more.
From one day to another her gentle face changed. The soft lines seemed
suddenly to be carved out of stone. When she sat alone face to face with
Mireille their eyes would gaze into each other with the same fixity and
stupefaction; but while the gaze of the child was clear and vacant, the
eyes of the mother were wild and wide with some dark horror and
despair. Fear--fear--the mad affrightment of a lost spirit haunted her,
and with the dawn of each new day seemed to take deeper root in her
being, seemed to rise from ever profounder depths of woe and horror.
"Loulou! dearest! What is the matter? Are you ill?" Chérie asked her one
morning, noting her lagging footsteps and her deathly pallor.
"No, darling, no," said Louise. "But--you?" She asked the question
suddenly, turning and fixing her burning eyes on the girl's face.
"I? Why do you ask me?" smiled Chérie, surprised.
"Are you well?" insisted Louise. "The English boy told me"--Louise
seemed hardly able to speak--"that the other day--you fainted."
"Oh!" Chérie laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "How silly of him to
tell you. It was nothing. They were teaching me to play hockey ... and
suddenly I was giddy and I stumbled and fell. I am often giddy and sick.
It is nothing. I believe I am a little anæmic. But I really am quite
well. Really, really!" she repeated laughing and embracing Loulou. "I am
always as hungry as a wolf!"
And she danced away to find "Monsieur George" and scold him for telling
tales.
Louise's eyes followed her with a deep and questioning gaze.