THE RETURN.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 6, Issue 266, 13 April 1917, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE RETURN.

By DENIS GARSTJN In The Daily News.

Jacques Virot's homecoming was simple, but it satisfied him. Ho opened | tho door and entered in a stream ot | sunlight. j "Mo voila," ho said. | "Mo voila," said his mother, her face j all puckered up with the effori of ac- j copbing a new situation. Her mind worked slowly, but the man in the sky bluo uniform smiled and 1 said 1 " Maman." "Maman," repeated Madame Virot; ' then she gasped, swam out of her chair, and went towards tho newcomer. " Jac-! quot, mon petit Jacquot, t'cs bden?" j "Bien, et toi?" j "Oh! lo bon l):eu-" said Madame Virot, clutching her boy's arm. j Ho tbore it for a little, then released his arm. I "Blesse," he said. "Blesse," repeat-J ed his mother. In a moment iier large 1 faco was puckered again her mind slow- ; ly grasping his meaning, and her blue eyes full of anxiety. "Toi, t'es blesse?" | "Qui, mais ee n'est rien. Pas le mort." I "Pas lo mort," agreed his mother . . j When I returned his father had come in, and with a neighbour they were dis- j cussing crops and village chatter. Tho son had already changed his uniform ' for corduroys and, except for tho way , his mother's eyes followed every move- j ment that he made, there was nothing to suggest that he had ever l>een away, j They agreed that in the mornings j Jacques should drive tho farm cart with milk for the English hospital. That | was all his arm allowed him to do. In j tho afternoons ho should help cut tne clover. "Et la guerre?" asked 1 the neighbour. "Ca marche, ma.is tous doucement," answered tho boy. • * * I was not tho only ono surprised at . the quietness of Jacques Virot's return. Private Durkins expressed himself , "knocked hukri." t " 'E's 'ome from Verdun, 'o is. Ono ' of them blokes what put little Willio j in tho barrer, and tney treat 'im as if j 'o'd 'been 'aving a Saterday binge, j Don't seem natural. Never thought . Fronsays was like that. Did you?" His companion expressed jjicturesque wonder. "Feel sorry for tne feller," said Dur-1 kins, " 'lis 'ome must seem strange with j all of us alxnit." There was a pause, then, "Let's cheer tho bloke up." j They invaded tho kitchen with gusto. " 'Ello," said Durkins to the boy, "Nous camarades. Content vous voir. Sante." "Sante," whispered Madamo V.irot, then she rose slowly and fetched two j moro glasses. j The boy held out his hand t> the two , newcomers and smiled. Ho saw there ; was no need for him to talk. Private Durkins was quite at his ease and full of conversation. Thov drank eacu other's health several times in feeble ( older and exchanged opinions of th«> • wa.r. Jacques was reserved. Ho spoke i of it as a great cruelty to bo endured, 1 gladly for France. He had none of. Durkins' air of careless adventure. | Only when he spoke of the Germans did j ho show any emotion. "Ceux sont des crapauds, ces sales Bodhos," ho said. "Dirty 'Uns," jjgreed Private Dur-• kins. * * * | What were the succeeding stages of ■. tho intimacy I do not know. I only : know that Private Durkins was con- J stantly to be found in the kitchen of j my billet, while Jacquot, or Jacko, as , his new friends called luni, seemed to i bo elected an honorary member of tho local canteen. Tho conversation was ( rather limited, but that was no obsta- j c!o to Durkins' iii'm resolve to fraternise. They went lor long walks together, or sat by the side of tho little stream, exchanging few remarks but | many cigarettes. In the distance the battle of the Somme thundered through the long summer days. Ono evening Private Durkins grew sentimental. " I like trees and tilings," ho sa.d. f They were sitting at tho edge of tho camp, watching all the little tricks of j light and colour that the sunlight | played with tho river and with tho j wood that fringed its hanks. Above , them, very high and tiny, a fleet of : aeroplanes came droning homewards j through tho cloudless sky. Durkms j watched them for a little, then, smok- j ing stolidly., turned to the big hills , that were glowing red in the evening light. "Remind me of my 'ills at 'ome," ho said. "Chiltorns we call them." "Vous ditc-s?" asked Jacques.

"Ah," said Durkins. "jo dis quo, i'ilinie lie know no more, and j spread his hand out towards the countryside. "Li France?" asked Jacko. "Oui, La. France," said Durkins ■ hastily. | Their friendship blossomed apaco from tth:s date. * * * I But most interesting v. js it to no to that tlie Englishman did what little talking there was. Durkins was the gay, whimsical spirit, while the French-! man remained cold, enigmatic, and very silent. I The end came suddenly. T entered , my billet one night to find "all a his- . torv," as Madame Yirot said. But .Tacfjiiot had lest Ids t.-sual phlegm, j "Fair spitt'ng out words I:ko a bloom- . ing machine gun, aren't you?" saiii Durkins calmly. Their s-'peeclies were , lost on each other, hut tin ir purport ■ was obvious. A certain Celine Didelct had come between them, or, rather. 1 suspect, that Durkins, irresponsible Knglish Durkins, had conic lietween tbo fa it bfu! French lovers. ) It was a tragic scene, but I felt mo>t j sorry for Madame Yirot. who sat star- j ing at the pair, repeat'nn odd words ! from her .laer|Uot\s tirnd: s utterly nils- j epa'ble and bewildered bv- itfiie volte i lace. When she saw n:e she looked --till , more aghast, then s>)i<> Mivbd. and spreading out her fat hands in explanation. said, "Monsieur l'i>ffi 'ier. - I "We're for the trenches to-morrow, Durkins,'' I said. "Yes, sir." sa.'d Durkms impcrturb- , nblv ; but the others caught t'he wo'"d. I Madame Yirot threw up In r hand-;, and :.':i-'ped. "Tranches." wa-• all -at I. I The animosity left Jacouoi lace. He stared at Durkins, and in his uaze there ( was no anger, only recognition. Qu'ek- j Iv ho snrang forward and clipped his rival's hand; but. he, t;o. could find , little to »ay. And then 1 nut-iced.