"
"He told his mother," Mr. Beckett said. "Afterwards she told me. Jim
wouldn't have minded. He knew well enough she always tells me
everything, and he didn't ask her to keep any secret."
"It was when I was sort of cross one night, because he didn't pay enough
attention to a nice girl I'd invited, hoping to please him," Mrs.
Beckett confessed. "He'd just come back from Europe, and I enquired if
the French girls were so handsome, they'd spoiled him for our home
beauties. I let him see that his father and I wanted him to marry young,
and give us a daughter we could love. Then he answered--I remember as if
'twas yesterday!--'Mother, you wouldn't want her unless I could love her
too, would you?' 'Why no,' I answered. 'But you _would_ love her!' He
didn't speak for a minute. He was holding my hand, counting my
rings--these ones you see--like he always loved to do from a child. When
he'd counted them all, he looked up and said, 'It wasn't a French girl
spoiled me for the others. I'm not sure, but I think she was Irish. I
lost her, like a fool, trying to win a silly bet.' Those were his very
words. I know, because they struck me so I teased him to explain. After
a while he did."
"Oh, do tell me what he said!" I begged.
At that minute Jim was alive for us all three. We were living with him
in the past. I think none of us saw the little stuffy room where we sat.
Only our bodies were there, like the empty, amber shells of locusts when
the locusts have freed themselves and vanished.
Pages:
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48