CHAPTER VII
The craze for refugees cooled slightly in the neighbourhood after that. The first rush of enthusiastic generosity abated, and when friends met at knitting-parties and compared refugees there was a certain ægritude on the part of those who had them, and a certain smiling superiority on the part of those who had not. They were spoken of as if they were a disease, like measles or mumps.
"I hear that Lady Osmond has them," said Mrs. Mellon.
"Has she really?"
"Yes. And poor Mrs. Whitaker, too."
"Mrs. Whitaker? You don't say so."
"Yes, indeed. Mrs. Whitaker has them. And she feels it badly."
"I will run over to see her," said the sympathetic Mrs. Mulholland. "I am so fond of the dear soul."
But that very afternoon Mrs. Whitaker herself called on Mrs. Mulholland, at Park House.
"How do you do, my poor dear Theresa?" began Mrs. Mulholland, taking Mrs. Whitaker's hand and pressing it. "I hear–"
"Yes, yes," said Mrs. Whitaker rather fretfully, drawing her hand away. "Of course you have heard that I have them." There was a brief silence. "I must confess I did not expect quite such dreary ones."
"Dreary, are they?" exclaimed Mrs. Mulholland. "Is that all?"
"It's bad enough," sighed Mrs. Whitaker. "You have no idea what they are like. Three creatures that look as if they had stepped out of a nightmare."
But Mrs. Mulholland overflowed with her own grievances. "Do they borrow your clothes and use all your letter-paper and order your dinners?" asked Mrs. Mulholland, quivering with indignation. Her cook had just given notice on account of Madame Pitou going into the kitchen and making herself a timbale de riz aux champignons.
"No. They don't do that. But they sit about and never speak and look like ghosts," said Mrs. Whitaker. "When you have time you might drop in and see them."
"I think I'll run over with you now," said Mrs. Mulholland; "though I don't for a moment believe they can be as bad as mine."
She put on her garden-hat and her macintosh, told Kitty not to let the Pitous do any cooking in the drawing-room, and went out with Mrs. Whitaker. They took the short cut across the fields to Acacia Lodge.
"What language do they speak?" asked Mrs. Mulholland, as she proceeded with Mrs. Whitaker through the green garden-gate and down the drive.
"They never speak at all," replied Mrs. Whitaker; "and I must say I had looked forward to a little French conversation for Eva and Tom. That is really what I got them for."
They walked on under the chestnut-trees towards the house. Eva in trim tennis attire and George in khaki came to meet them, running across the lawn.
"I've beaten George by six four," cried Eva, waving her racket.
"That's because I let you," said her brother, shaking hands with Mrs. Mulholland and allowing his mother to pat his brown cheek.
"Handsome lad," murmured Mrs. Mulholland, and wished she had brought Kitty with her, even though the Pitous should profit by her absence to prepare their tête-de-veau en poulette on the drawing-room fire. "Where are … they?" she added, dropping her voice and looking round.
"I don't know," said Eva. "I have not seen them all the afternoon."
"I have," said George. "They are in the shrubbery."
"You might call them, dear boy," said his fond mother.
"Not I," said George.
"I will," said Eva, and ran down the flower-bordered path swinging her racket.
"Sweet girl," said Mrs. Mulholland, following Eva's slim silhouette with benevolent eyes, and then gazing even more benevolently at George Whitaker's stalwart figure. "She and my Kitty should really see something more of each other."
Mrs. Whitaker threw a penetrating glance at her friend's profile. "Schemer," she murmured to herself. "Certainly," she said aloud. "As soon as George goes to Aldershot I hope your dear daughter will often come here."
"Cat," reflected Mrs. Mulholland. And aloud she said, "How delightful for both the dear girls!"
George had sauntered with his long khaki limbs towards the shrubbery, but Eva reappeared alone.
"They won't come," she said.
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Mulholland.
"Why not?" asked Mrs. Whitaker.
"They don't want to," said Eva. "The tall one shook her head and said, 'Merci.'"
"I am not surprised," laughed George, "considering they have been exhibited to half the county within the last three days."
"I'll fetch them myself," said Mrs. Whitaker sternly. Then she turned to her son. "George, you who are half a Frenchman after your visit to Montreux, do tell me—how do I say in French, 'I desire you all three to come and be introduced to a very dear friend of mine?'"
There was a brief silence; then George translated. "Venny," he said.
"Is that all?"
"Yes," said George.
His mother was about to go when Mrs. Mulholland suggested: "Had we not both of us better take a turn round the garden, and casually saunter into the shrubbery?"
"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Whitaker.
And so they did. George followed them slowly, with Eva hanging on his arm. She was very fond and proud of her soldier brother.
They entered the shrubbery and saw seated upon a bench three figures dressed in black, who rose to their feet at their hostess's approach.
"Goodness gracious! how uncanny they look!" whispered Mrs. Mulholland, and added, with a smile of half-incredulous pleasure, "I believe they really are worse than mine."
The three black figures stood silent and motionless, and Mrs. Mulholland found herself gazing as if fascinated into the depths of three pairs of startled, almost hallucinated eyes, fixed gloomily upon her.
Mrs. Whitaker addressed them in English, speaking very loud with an idea of making them understand her better. They seemed not to hear, they certainly made no attempt to answer her amiable platitudes.
Mrs. Mulholland, moved to something like pity by their stricken appearance, put out her hand saying, "How do you do?" and two of them laid their limp fingers in hers—the third, whom she now noticed was a child although she wore a long black skirt, neither stirred nor removed her stony gaze from her face. There was an embarrassing pause. Then Mrs. Mulholland asked with a bright society smile—
"How do you like England?"
No answer.
"George, dear, ask them in French," said his mother.
George stepped forward blushing through his tan. "Um … er …" he cleared his throat. "S'il vous plaît Londres?" he inquired timidly.
He addressed the tallest, but she gazed at him vacantly, not understanding. The little girl stood next to her—the large tragic eyes in her small pale face still fixed on the unknown countenance of Mrs. Mulholland. She conveyed the impression that she had not heard any one speak.
George, blushing deeper, turned towards the third ghost standing before him, coughed again and repeated his question, "S'il vous plaît Londres?"
Then a strange thing happened. The third ghost smiled. It was a real smile, a gleaming smile, a smile with dimples. The ghost was suddenly transformed into a girl. "Merci. L'Angleterre nous plaît beaucoup." That was in order not to hurt the "half Frenchman's" feelings. Then she added in English, "London is very nice."
"Oh," snapped the astonished Mrs. Whitaker, "you speak English?" and her tone conveyed the impression that something belonging exclusively to her had been taken and used without her permission.
"A little," was the murmured reply. The smile had quickly died away; the dimples had vanished. Under Mrs. Whitaker's scrutiny the girl faded into a ghost again. The two ladies nodded and moved away. George and Eva, after a moment's hesitation and embarrassment, followed them.
"What strange, underhand behaviour!" commented Mrs. Whitaker; "never to have told me she understood English until today."
"I suppose they were trying to find out all your family concerns," said Mrs. Mulholland.