It is strange how a woman can be homesick for a man she has known only
one day; but she can--she _can_--for a Jim Beckett! He was so vital, so
central in life, known even for a day, that after his going the world is
a background from which his figure has been cut out, leaving a blank
place. These jolly, brave American soldier-men made me want so
desperately to see Jim that I wished a bomb would drop in--just a
_small_ bomb, touching only me, and whisking me away to the place where
he is. In body he could not forgive me, of course, for what I've done;
but in spirit he might forgive my spirit if it travelled a long way to
see his!
I am almost sure that the Americans did bring Jim back to Father
Beckett, as to me, for though he was cheerful, and even made jokes to
show that he mustn't be treated as a mourner, there was one piteous sign
of emotion which no self-control could hide. I saw his throat work--the
throat of an old man--his "Adam's apple" going convulsively up and down
like a tossed ball in a fountain jet. Then, lest I should sob while his
eyes were dry, I looked away.
We all had champagne out of the marvellous bottle which had been hoarded
during long months in case of "a great occasion," and we economized sips
but not healths. We drank to each one of the Allies in turn, and to a
victorious peace. Then the officers--French and American--began telling
us trench tales--no grim stories, only those at which we could laugh.
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