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'It wor our Alfred scared him off, back your life. He must'a flyed ower t'valley. Tha ma' thank thy stars as 'e wor fun, Maggie. 'E'd a bin froze. They a bit nesh, you know, he concluded to me. 'They are, I answered. 'This isn't their country. 'No, it isna, replied Mr. Goyte. He spoke very slowly and deliberately, quietly, as if the soft pedal were always down in his voice.
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.
'I can see it makes you laugh, said Mrs. Goyte, sardonically. I looked up at her. 'It's a love-letter, I know that, she said. 'There's too many "Alfreds" in it. 'One too many, I said. 'Oh, yes And what does she say Eliza? We know her name's Eliza, that's another thing. She grimaced a little, looking up at me with a mocking laugh. 'Where did you get this letter? I said.
Nothing stirred the whole day no plume fell off the shrubs, the valley was as abstracted as a grove of death. I looked over at the tiny, half-buried farms away on the bare uplands beyond the valley hollow, and I thought of Tible in the snow, of the black witch-like little Mrs. Goyte. And the snow seemed to lay me bare to influences I wanted to escape.
She drew a letter from her pocket, and handed it to me. It was addressed from France to Lance-Corporal Goyte, at Tible. I took out the letter and began to read it, as mere words. 'Mon cher Alfred' it might have been a bit of a torn newspaper. So I followed the script: the trite phrases of a letter from a French-speaking girl to an English soldier. 'I think of you always, always.
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
'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 Elise. 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.
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.
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.
He gave a loud, vehement yell, opening his sinister beak, and I stood still, looking at him as he struggled in the bag, shaken myself by his struggles, yet not thinking to release him. Mrs. Goyte came darting past the end of the house, her head sticking forward in sharp scrutiny. She saw me, and came forward. 'Have you got Joey? she cried sharply, as if I were a thief.
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