Americans -- England -- Fiction; Diary fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- England -- Fiction
It began three days ago; I was walking down the village street with Don
at my heels, when I noticed a large touring car at the Inn, with a
group of people very much excited, gesticulating and talking with a
vehemence that usually means Latin blood. Mine hostess of the Inn was
running to and from the car with bottles and flannel cloths; turpentine
on warm flannel is her cure for every human ailment. Then I saw in the
car an old, old lady--quite ill, evidently--leaning heavily on the
shoulder of a younger woman. I shall not soon forget the look of that
grey-white face under the snow-white hair and black widow's bonnet, set
in a group of strange faces, among which I remember one of a little
boy, watching breathlessly with his mouth wide open, and a smaller
girl, staring apathetically with her eyes full of tears that looked as
if they had long been there. I did not need to be told that this
oddly-assorted set of people were refugees. I had seen too many utter
strangers, from diverse surroundings, hastily gathered together, clad
in velvet, clad in rags, to share one suffering.
I found that they were being taken from London, where they had been
cared z many weeks, to different destinations in the northern
counties, but the man in charge had evidently lost his way and was
making an unnecessary detour toward the coast. He could not speak their
language, nor they his, and he seemed entirely at a loss in this
dilemma. Oh, the loneliness, and the desolation, and the bitter shame
of it all!
"The old lady's took ill, of a sudden, 'm," said the landlady, stopping
her little trot near me.
I asked the younger woman, whose face was very kindly, if this was her
mother, but she shook her head.
"I don't know who she is; I never saw her until we started."
Then I begged and pleaded; the chauffeur looked greatly relieved, and
so did mine hostess, though she remonstrated that it would be quite too
much for me.
"Are you sure, Miss, that you want her? We don't know what it is; it
may be contagious."
"I don't care what it is!" I said so suddenly that Don barked out;
there was a little feeling of joy within me at the thought that there
might be danger; it is hard to be shut out from the great danger that
circles the world.
So the big touring car was turned about, with much puffing and panting;
my little iron gate was opened wide to let two men carry the poor old
creature to my guest room, and I sent the others on, with such comforts
as I could supply. The small boy went nibbling a cookie, the little
girl with hers in her hand, too dazed to eat it. Haven't you ever seen
a frightened little bird holding something in its mouth, not daring to
swallow?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account