Everyman's Land

								

to say the same words when I brought you my school prizes.
Perhaps I was "a good girl." Anyhow, I was a good nurse. Not that I
deserved much credit! Brian was fighting, and in danger day and night.
You were gone; and I was glad to be a soldier in my way, with never a
minute to think of myself. Besides, somehow I wasn't one bit afraid. I
loved the work. But, Padre mio, I am not a good girl now. I'm a
wicked girl, wickeder than you or I ever dreamed it was in me to be, at
my worst. Yet if your spirit should appear as I write, to warn me that
I'm sinning an unpardonable sin, I should go on sinning it.
For one thing, it's for Brian, twin brother of my body, twin brother of
my heart. For another thing, it's too late to turn back. There's a door
that has slammed shut behind me.



       *       *       *       *       *
Now, I'll begin and tell you everything exactly as it happened. Many a
"confession-letter" I've begun in just these words, but never one like
this. I don't deserve that it should bring me the heartease which used
to come. But the thought of you is my star in darkness. Brian is the
last person to whom I can speak, because above all things I want him to
be happy. On earth there is no one else. Beyond the earth there
is--you.
When Brian was wounded, they expected him to die, and he was asking for
me. The telegram came one day when we had all been rather overworked in
the hospital, and I was feeling ready to drop. I must only have imagined
my tiredness though, for when I heard about Brian I grew suddenly strong
as steel. I was given leave, and disinfected, and purified as thoroughly
as Esther when she was being made worthy of Ahasuerus. Then I dashed off
to catch the first train going north.
St. Raphael was our railway station, but I hadn't seen the place since I
took up work in the Hôpital des Épidémies. That was many months before;
and meanwhile a training-school for American aviators had been started
at St. Raphael. News of its progress had drifted to our ears, but of
course the men weren't allowed to come within a mile of us: we were too
contagious. They had sent presents, though--presents of money, and one
grand gift had burst upon us from a young millionaire whose father's
name is known everywhere. He sent a cheque for a sum so big that we
nurses were nearly knocked down by the size of it. With it was enclosed
a request that the money should be used to put wire-nettings in all
windows and doors, and to build a roofed loggia for convalescents. If
there were anything left over, we might buy deck-chairs and air-pillows.
Of course it was easy for any one to know that we needed all these
things. Our lack was notorious. We sent a much disinfected,
carbolic-smelling round robin of thanks to "James W. Beckett, Junior,"
son of the western railway king.
As I drove to the gare of St. Raphael, I thought of the kind boys who
had helped our poor poilus, and especially of James Beckett. Whether