“All except the noise. That always seems to daze me still. Some of our fellows are deaf from it.—You heard of Toppie, mother?” Jack asked.
Toppie was Alan Graham, Jack’s nearest friend. He had been killed ten days before.
“I heard it, Jack. Were you with him?”
“Yes. It was in a bayonet charge. He didn’t suffer. A bullet went right through him. He just gave a little cry and fell.” Jack’s voice had the mildness of a sorrow that has passed beyond the capacity for emotion. “We found him afterwards. He is buried out there.”
“You must tell Frances about it, Jack. I went to her at once.” Frances was Toppie’s sister. “She is bearing it so bravely.”
“I must write to her. She would be sure to be plucky.”
He answered all her questions, sitting closely against her, his arm around her; looking down, while he spoke, and twisting, as had always been his boyish way, a button on her coat. 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 his splendid shoulders, long legs, and noble little head, he was yet as endearing as he was impressive. His mother’s heart ached with love and pride and fear as she gazed at him.
And a question came, near the sharp one, yet hoping to evade it:—
“Jack, dearest, how long will you be with me? How long is the leave?”
He raised his eyes then and looked at her; a curious look. Something in it blurred her mind with a sense of some other sort of fear.