"Have you ever had one, I wonder, like mine, about Jim? Dare I speak to
you of this?"
"Why not?"
"Well--I wouldn't dare to his mother. Or even to the old man."
"You _must_ speak now, please, Mr. Curtis, to me!"
"It's this; have you ever had the feeling that Jim may be alive?"
We were standing. I caught at the back of a chair. Things whirled for an
instant. Then I gathered my wits together. "I haven't let myself feel
it," I said. "And yet, in a way, I _always_ feel it. I mean, I seem to
feel--his thoughts round us. But that's because we speak and think of
him almost every moment of the day, his father and mother and I. There
can be no doubt--can there?"
"Others have come back from the dead since this war. Why not Jim
Beckett?"
"They said they had--found his body."
"Oh, they _said_! Germans say a lot of things. But for the Lord's sake,
Miss O'Malley, don't let's upset those poor old people with any such
hope. I've only my feeling--and other people's stories of escape--to go
upon. I spoke to you, because I guess you've got a strong soul, and can
stand shocks. Besides, you told me I must speak. I had to obey."
"Thank you for obeying," I said. And just then someone came into the
room.
* * * * *
Now, Padre, I have told you the _great thing_. What does it matter what
happens to me, if only Jack Curtis's "feeling" comes true?
CHAPTER XXIII
It is two days since I wrote, Padre; and I have come back to Compiegne
from a world of unnatural silence and desolation.
Pages:
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254