Atlantic Narratives

im resistance-was over. Paris, pale, and slightly shuddering still, stood safe. Calais was not taken, and, dug into their tr

, and appeared immaculate and cheerful at breakfast; a little sober and preoccupied, perhaps; touched, perhaps, with strangeness; but ready for the valorous family jest, and alluding to the war as if, while something too solemn for adequate comment, it were yet something that lent itself to laughter. One did such funny things, and saw them; of the other things one did not speak; and there was the huge standing joke of an enemy who actually hated one. These grave and che

d her husband was now with her; and Lady Wrexham expected her boy to-morrow. There was no certainty at all as regarded herself; yet at any moment she might have a wire; and f

placid, comely red brick house to which she and Jack had come fifteen years ago, after the death of her husband in India. Enclosed by woods, and almost catching sight of the road,-from its upper windows and over its old brick wall,-the house could have seemed to her too commonplace and almost suburban, in spite of the indubitably old oak-paneling of the drawing-room, had it not been for the river and the hills. Stepping out on to the lawn from the windows of the drawing-room, she and Jack, on that April day, had found themselves confront

elves in an opening under trees where neighboring woods looked at them over an old stone wall, and where, from an old stone bench, one could see the river. The ground was soft with the fallen leaves of man

y, or so placed. And Jack, presently, lifting his dear nut-brown head and nut-brown eyes,

t he could not know the sorrow, the longing, the earthly sense of irreparable loss, the heavenly sense of a possession unalterably hers, that the dark, melancholy leaves and celestial whiteness of the

them both; the loveliest ritual of the year that early spring one when, in the hazel copse, they would find the white hepaticas again

all, and when she raised herself to look over the meadows at the hills, she showed small, decisive features, all marked, in the pallor of her face, as if with the delicate, neutral emphasis of an etching: the gray, scrutinizing eyes, the charming yet ugly nose, the tranquil mouth which had, at the corners

g off her wet gloves, she followed the path under the leafless branches and among the hepaticas to the stone bench, where, sinking down, she knew that she

f discipline and only in these later years schooled to a control and submission that, in her youth, she would have believed impossible to her,-she had told herself, when he had gone from her, that, as a soldier's widow, she must see her soldier son go to death. She must give him to that; be ready for it; and if he came back to her it would be as if he were born again-a gift, a grace, unexpected and unclaimed. She must feel, for herself as well as f

by the fallen leaves. And, half rising, afraid of her own joy, she hardly knew that she saw him before she was in his arms; and it was better to

' she heard

dear, beautiful Jack,-could see the nut-brown head, the smooth brown cheek, the firm brown hand which grasped her, he did not for a long time rai

him why he had not wired. That question pressed too

n,-so much older,-but yo

inarily fit, mummy. It's

ng shells? I had your last letter

then. Every day seems a miracle-

get use

ze me still. Some of our fellows are deaf from

ck's nearest friend. He ha

Jack. Were

just gave a little cry and fell.' Jack's voice had the mildness of a sorrow which has pa

went to her at once.' Frances was Toppie'

er. She would be s

t. He was at that enchanting moment of young manhood when the child is still apparent in the man. His glance was shy, yet candid; his small, firm lips had a child's gravity. With

near the sharp one, y

g will you be with me?

curious look. Something in it blurred her m

to-night,

y till to-night, Jack? But Richard Crawley has been back

at the button-did it tremble?-twisted and untwisted. 'I'

he sense of alien fear became a fog,

couldn't wire and tell you. I felt that I had to see you when I told you. Mother-I'm married

ld her and his eyes

choking her, burning her; and as if from far away she heard her own voice saying, after a little tim

I simply went off my head when I saw her. We all had supper together afterwards. Toppie knew one of the other girls, and Dollie was there. That's her name-Dollie Vaughan-her stage name. Her real name was Byles. Her people, I think, were little tradespeople, and she'd lost her father and mother, and an aunt had been very unkind. She told me all about it that night. Mother, please believe just this: it

The wife who was, perhaps, to have been his. The children that she, perhaps, should have seen. All dead. The future blott

ring breath had failed, she said

th his hands. 'Mother,

eel, that life could mend from terrible wounds, could marvelously grow from compromises and defeats. 'No, deares

at now a little turned away from her, s

, and then the war came, and I simply forgot all about her. And the other day, over there, I had a letter from her. She was in terrible trouble. She was ill and had no mon

with it, too, was the strangest sense of gladness. He was her own Jack, completely hers, for she saw now why he had done it; she coul

ent after what one had been through. One saw everything differently. Some things didn't matter at all, and other things mattered tremendously. This was one of them. I knew I couldn't just send her money. I knew I couldn't bear to have the p

eyes, her smile at him, showed him th

hardly have known her. Mother, darling, I wonder, could you just go and see her once or twice? She's frightfully lonely; and so very young.-If you could-if you wo

im, 'she is coming here, of course.

color rose. 'Get her? B

you don't come back, I wil

lize. I mean-she's a dear little thing-but you couldn't be happy with her. She'd get most

at they should see alike, while she answered, 'It's not exactly a time for considering one's ne

smile back at her when she said, 'You know that I am good at managing people. I'll mana

ed in light. Jack held her hands and gazed at her. Love could say no more than his eyes, in their trust and sorrow, said to her; she could never more completely possess her son. Sitting t

become almost dark. Far away, through the trees, they could see the lighted

a moment, looking about him. 'Do you remember th

now the burden of what he had done to her, to their life, to all the future. And, protesting against his pain, her mother's heart strove

tle voice. 'I can hardly see t

doing be

hat I could have seen you and them together, like that first day.' And then, putting his head down

her with the full reassurance of her resolution. 'Nothing is spoiled, Jack, nothing. You have never been so near me-so how can anyt