No
one else could have slept, after so heavy a blow of disappointment,
without a drug, but Brian is a law unto himself. He said if I would sit
by him and read, he'd feel at peace, and would drop off into a doze. It
was three o'clock in the afternoon, and I hadn't glanced yet at the
newspaper we had bought in the morning. I took it up, to please Brian
with the rustling of the pages, not expecting to concentrate upon a line
but instantly my eyes were caught by a name I knew.
"Tragic Romance of Millionaire's Family," I read. "James W. Beckett
brings his wife to France and Reads Newspaper Notice of Only Son's
Death."
This was the double-line, big-lettered heading of a half column on the
front page; and it brought to my mind a picture. I saw a group of nurses
gazing over each other's shoulders at a blue cheque. It was a cheque for
six thousand francs, signed in a clear, strong hand, "James W. Beckett,
Junior."
So he was dead, that generous boy, to whom our hearts had gone out in
gratitude! It could not be very long since he had finished his training
at St. Raphael and begun work at the front. What a waste of splendid
material it seemed, that he should have been swept away so soon!
I read on, and from my own misery I had an extra pang to spare for James
Beckett, Senior, and his wife.
Someone had contrived to tear a fragmentary interview from the "bereaved
railway magnate," as he was called in the potted phrase of the
journalist.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25