We have to thank Henry of Navarre for her. He had a
pleasant way, when he wished to be rid of an old love with a compliment,
of turning her into an Abbess. That time he made a lucky stroke for us."
At the end of luncheon we all drank healths, and nearly everyone made a
speech except Mrs. Beckett. She only nodded and smiled, looking so ideal
a little mother that she must have made even the highest officers
homesick for their _mamans_.
Then we were led through a mysterious network of narrow passages and
vaulted rooms, all lit with electric lamps, and striking cold and
cellary. We saw the big hospital, not very busy just then, and the
clean, empty operating theatre, and gnome-caverns where munitions were
stored in vast, black pyramids. When there was nothing left to see in
the citadel, our hosts asked if we would like to pay a visit to the
trenches--old trenches which had once defended Thiaumont.
"I don't think my wife had better----" Mr. Beckett began; but the little
old lady cut him short. "Yes, Father, I just _had_ better! To-day, being
among all these splendid brave soldiers has shown me that I'm weak--a
spoiled child. I felt yesterday I'd been a coward. Now I _know_ it! And
I'm _going_ to see those trenches."
I believe it was partly the powder and lip salve that made her so
desperate!
Her husband yielded, meek as a lamb. Big men like Mr. Beckett always do
to little women like Mrs. Beckett. But she bore it well.
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