FullReads

At this point the peacocks came round the corner on a puff of wind.

“Hello, Joey!” she called, and one of the birds came forward, on delicate legs. Its grey spreckled back was very elegant, it rolled its full, dark-blue neck as it moved to her. She crouched down. “Joey dear,” she said, in an odd, saturnine caressive voice: “you’re bound to find me, aren’t you?” She put her face downward, and the bird rolled his neck, almost touching her face with his beak, as if kissing her.

“He loves you,” I said.

She twisted her face up at me with a laugh.

“Yes,” she said, “he loves me, Joey does”–then, to the bird–“and I love Joey, don’t I? I do love Joey.” And she smoothed his feathers for a moment. Then she rose, saying: “He’s an affectionate bird.”

I smiled at the roll of her “bir-rrd.”

“Oh yes, he is,” she protested. “He came with me from my home seven years ago. Those others are his descendants–but they’re not like Joey–are they, dee-urr?” Her voice rose at the end with a witch-like cry.

Then she forgot the birds in the cart-shed, and turned to business again.

“Won’t you read that letter?” she said. “Read it, so that I know what it says.”

“It’s rather behind his back,” I said.

“Oh, never mind him,” she cried, “He’s been behind my back long enough. If he never did no worse things behind my back than I do behind his, he wouldn’t have cause to grumble. You read me what it says.”

Now I felt a distinct reluctance to do as she bid, and yet I began–“‘My dear Alfred.'”

“I guessed that much,” she said. “Eliza’s dear Alfred.” She laughed. “How do you say it in French? Eliza?”

I told her, and she repeated the name with great contempt–Elise.

“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–from Lille. 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 leg is better, and that you can nearly walk—-‘”

“How did he find his dear wife!” cried Mrs. Goyte. “He never told her that 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—-‘”