D. H. Lawrence

“ Yet I must come to you, I must bring my child, my little Alfred, to his father, the big, beautiful Alfred that I love so much. Oh, write and tell me where I shall come. I have some money. I am not a penniless creature. I have money for myself and my dear baby——”
I read to the end. It was signed: “Your very happy and still more unhappy Elise.” I suppose I must have been smiling.
“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.” ”

“ I said. “We aren't all heroes.”
“Oh, but that's different!—The big, good Alfred!—did you ever 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 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. ”

“ The wind blew fine and keen, in the sunshine, across the snow. I blew my nose and prepared to depart.
“And she doesn't know anything?” he continued, jerking his head up the hill in the direction of Tible.
“She knows nothing but what I've said—that is, if she really burnt the letter.”
“I believe she burnt it,” he said, “for spite. She's a little devil, she is. But I shall have it out with her.” His jaw was stubborn and sullen. Then suddenly he turned to me with a new note.
“Why?” he said. “Why didn't you wring that b—— peacock's neck—that b——Joey?” ”

“ The bird sat silent, seeming to sleep, and the woman also sat huddled and silent, seeming oblivious. Then once more there was a heavy step, and Alfred entered. He looked at his wife, and he looked at the peacock crouching by her. He stood large in the doorway, his hands stuck in front of him, in his breeches pockets. Nobody spoke. He turned on his heel and went out again.
I rose also to go. Maggie started as if coming to herself.
“Must you go?” she asked, rising and coming near to me, standing in front of me, twisting her head sideways and looking up at me. “Can't you stop a bit longer? ”

“ From the background slowly approached a slender man with a grey moustache and large patches on his trousers.
“You've got 'im back 'gain, Ah see,” he said to his daughter-in-law. His wife explained how I had found Joey.
“Ah,” went on the grey man. “It wor our Alfred scarred 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.” ”

“ 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. ”

“ But Alfred turned and disappeared.
“'E's got th' monkey on 'is back, ower this letter job,” said the father secretly to me. “Mother 'er knows nowt about it. Lot o' tomfoolery, isn't it? Ay! What's good o' makin' a peck o' trouble ower what's far enough off, an' ned niver come no nigher. No—not a smite o' use. That's what I tell 'er. 'Er should ta'e no notice on't. Ay, what can y'expect.”
The mother came in again, and the talk became general. Maggie flashed her eyes at me from time to time, complacent and satisfied, moving among the men. ”

“ 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.” ”

“ I went out into the road and looked at the cattle.
“Who is this driving the cows?” I said. She too came out.
“It's the boy from the next farm,” she said.
“Oh well,” said I, “those Belgian girls! You never know where their letters will end.—And after all, it's his affair—you needn't bother.” ”