The Day's Work

[385]

HE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" I have n't told him anything."

" You have. He 's been dreaming about them."

" We met Tisdall on Dowhead when we were in the
donkey-cart this morning. P'r'aps that 's what put it
into his head."

l' Oh! Now you are n't going to frighten the child
into fits with your silly tales, and the master know
nothing about it. If ever I catch you again, ' ' etc.
**********

A child of six was telling himself stories as he lay in
bed. It was a new power, and he kept it a secret. A
month before it had occurred to him to carry on a nur-
sery tale left unfinished by his mother, and he was
delighted to find the tale as it came out of his own
head just as surprising as though he were listening to it
' ' all new from the beginning. ' ' There was a prince in
that tale, and he killed dragons, but only for one night.
Ever afterwards Georgie dubbed himself prince, pasha,
giant-killer, and all the rest (you see, he could not tell
any one, for fear of being laughed at), and his tales
faded gradually into dreamland, where adventures were
so many that he could not recall the half of them.
They all began in the same way, or, as Georgie ex-
plained to the shadows of the night-light, there was
"the same starting-off place"— a pile of brushwood
stacked somewhere near a beach ; and round this pile
Georgie found himself running races with little boys and
girls. These ended, ships ran high up the dry land and
opened into cardboard boxes; or gilt-and-green iron
railings that surrounded beautiful gardens turned all
soft and could be walked through and overthrown so
[386]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

long as he remembered it was only a dream. He could
never hold that knowledge more than a few seconds ere
things became real, and instead of pushing down houses
full of grown-up people (a just revenge), he sat miserably
upon gigantic door-steps trying to sing the multiplica-
tion-table up to four times six.

The princess of his tales was a person of wonderful
beauty (she came from the old illustrated edition of
Grimm, now out of print), and as she always applauded
Georgie 's valour among the dragons and buffaloes, he
gave her the two finest names he had ever heard in his
life— Annie and Louise, pronounced " Annieanlouise. "
When the dreams swamped the stories, she would change
into one of the little girls round the brushwood-pile, still
keeping her title and crown. She saw Georgie drown
once in a dream-sea by the beach (it was the day after
he had been taken to bathe in a real sea by his nurse) ;
and he said as he sank : ' ' Poor Anniecwlouise ! She '11
be sorry for me now ! ' ' But ' ' Anniecmlouise, ' ' walking
slowly on the beach, called, '"Ha! ha! ' said the duck,
laughing, ' ' which to a waking mind might not seem to
bear on the situation. It consoled Georgie at once, and
must have been some kind of spell, for it raised the bot-
tom of the deep, and he waded out with a twelve-inch
flower-pot on each foot. As he was strictly forbidden
to meddle with flower-pots in real life, he felt triumph-
antly wicked.

**********

The movements of the grown-ups, whom Georgie
tolerated, but did not pretend to understand, removed
his world, when he was seven years old, to a place
[387]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

called " Oxford-on-a-vishV ' Here were huge buildings
surrounded by vast prairies, with streets of infinite
length, and, above all, something called the " buttery,"
which Georgie was dying to see, because he knew it
must be greasy, and therefore delightful. He perceived
how correct were his judgments when his nurse led him
through a stone arch into the presence of an enormously
fat man, who asked him if he would like some bread
and cheese. Georgie was used to eat all round the clock,
so he took what ' ' buttery ' ' gave him, and would have
taken some brown liquid called ' ' auditale ' ' but that his
nurse led him away to an afternoon performance of a
thing called "Pepper's Ghost." This was intensely
thrilling. People's heads came off and flew all over the
stage, and skeletons danced bone by bone, while Mr.
Pepper himself, beyond question a man of the worst,
waved his arms and flapped a long gown, and in a deep
bass voice (Georgie had never heard a man sing before)
told of his sorrows unspeakable. Some grown-up or
other tried to explain that the illusion was made with
mirrors, and that there was no need to be frightened.
Georgie did not know what illusions were, but he did
know that a mirror was the looking-glass with the ivory
handle on his mother's dressing-table. Therefore the
"grown-up" was "just saying things" after the dis-
tressing custom of ' ' grown-ups, ' ' and Georgie cast about
for amusement between scenes. Next to him sat a little
girl dressed all in black, her hair combed off her forehead
exactly like the girl in the book called " Alice in Won-
derland, ' ' which had been given him on his last birthday.
The little girl looked at Georgie, and Georgie looked at
[388]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

her. There seemed to be no need of any further intro-
duction.

" I 've got a cut on my thumb," said he. It was the
first work of his first real knife, a savage triangular
hack, and he esteemed it a most valuable possession.

" I 'm tho thorry!" she lisped. "Let me look—
pleathe,"

" There 's a di-ack-lum plaster on, but it 's all raw
under," Georgie answered, complying.

" Dothent it hurt? "—her grey eyes were full of pity
and interest.

" Awf'ly. Perhaps it will give me lockjaw."

"It lookth very horrid. I 'm tho thorry!" She
put a forefinger to his hand, and held her head sidewise
for a better view.

Here the nurse turned, and shook him severely.
"You mustn't talk to strange little girls, Master
Georgie."

" She is n't strange. She 's very nice. I like her,
an' I 've showed her my new cut."

' ' The idea ! You change places with me. ' '

She moved him over, and shut out the little girl from
his view, while the grown-up behind renewed the futile
explanations.

" I am not afraid, truly," said the boy, wriggling in
despair; " but why don't you go to sleep in the after-
noons, same as Provost of Oriel? "

Georgie had been introduced to a grown-up of that

name, who slept in his presence without apology.

Georgie understood that he was the most important

grown-up in Oxford; hence he strove to gild his rebuke

[389]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

with flatteries. This grown-up did not seem to like it,
but he collapsed, and Georgie lay back in his seat, silent
and enraptured. Mr. Pepper was singing again, and
the deep, ringing voice, the red fire, and the misty,
waving gown all seemed to be mixed up with the little
girl who had been so kind about his cut. When the
performance was ended she nodded to Georgie, and
Georgie nodded in return. He spoke no more than was
necessary till bedtime, but meditated on new colors and
sounds and lights and music and things as far as he
understood them; the deep-mouthed agony of Mr. Pep-
per mingling with the little girl's lisp. That night he
made a new tale, from which he shamelessly removed
the Rapunzel-Rapunzel-let-do wn-your-hair princess, gold
crown, Grimm edition, and all, and put a new Annie-
cmlouise in her place. So it was perfectly right and
natural that when he came to the brushwood-pile he
should find her waiting for him, her hair combed off her
forehead more like Alice in Wonderland than ever, and
the races and adventures began.

**********
Ten years at an English public school do not encour-
age dreaming. Georgie won his growth and chest
measurement, and a few other things which did not ap-
pear in the bills, under a system of cricket, foot-ball,
and paper-chases, from four to five days a week, which
provided for three lawful cuts of a ground-ash if any
boy absented himself from these entertainments. He
became a rumple- collared, dusty-hatted fag of the Lower
Third, and a light half-back at Little Side foot-ball ; was
pushed and prodded through the slack back-waters of
[390]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

the Lower Fourth, where the raffle of a school generally
accumulates ; won his ' ' second-fifteen ' ' cap at foot-ball,
enjoyed the dignity of a study with two companions in
it, and began to look forward to office as a sub-prefect.
At last he blossomed into full glory as head of the school,
ex-officio captain of the games ; head of his house, where
he and his lieutenants preserved discipline and decency
among seventy boys from twelve to seventeen ; general
arbiter in the quarrels that spring up among the touchy
Sixth— and intimate friend and ally of the Head himself.
When he stepped forth in the black jersey, white knick-
ers, and black stockings of the First Fifteen, the new
match-ball under his arm, and his old and frayed cap at
the back of his head, the small fry of the lower forms
stood apart and worshipped, and the " new caps " of the
team talked to him ostentatiously, that the world might
see. And so, in summer, when he came back to the
pavilion after a slow but eminently safe game, it mat-
tered not whether he had made nothing or, as once
happened, a hundred and three, the school shouted just
the same, and women-folk who had come to look at the
match looked at Cottar— Cottar, major ; " that 's Cot-
tar! " Above all, he was responsible for that thing
called the tone of the school, and few realise with what
passionate devotion a certain type of boy throws him-
self into this work. Home was a far-away country, full
of ponies and fishing and shooting, and men- visitors
who interfered with one's plans; but school was the real
world, where things of vital importance happened, and
crises arose that must be dealt with promptly and quietly.
Not for nothing was it written, " Let the Consuls look to
[391]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

it that the Eepublic takes no harm, ' ' and Georgie was
glad to be back in authority when the holidays ended.
Behind him, but not too near, was the wise and tem-
perate Head, now suggesting the wisdom of the serpent,
now counselling the mildness of the dove ; leading him
on to see, more by half -hints than by any direct word,
how boys and men are all of a piece, and how he who
can handle the one will assuredly in time control the
other.

For the rest, the school was not encouraged to dwell
on its emotions, but rather to keep in hard condition, to
avoid false quantities, and to enter the army direct,
without the help of the expensive London crammer,
under whose roof young blood learns too much. Cottar,
major, went the way of hundreds before him. The Head
gave him six months' final polish, taught him what kind
of answers best please a certain kind of examiners, and
handed him over to the properly constituted authorities,
who passed him into Sandhurst. Here he had sense
enough to see that he was in the Lower Third, once more,
and behaved with respect toward his seniors, till they
in turn respected him, and he was promoted to the rank
of corporal, and sat in authority over mixed peoples
with all the vices of men and boys combined. His re-
ward was another string of athletic cups, a good-con-
duct sword, and, at last, Her Majesty's commission as
a subaltern in a first-class line regiment. He did not
know that he bore with him from school and college a
character worth much fine gold, but was pleased to find
his mess so kindly. He had plenty of money of his
own; his training had set the public-school mask upon
[392]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

his face, and had taught him how many were the
"things no fellow can do." By virtue of the same
training he kept his pores open and his mouth shut.

The regular working of the Empire shifted his world
to India, where he tasted utter loneliness in subaltern's
quarters,— one room and one bullock-trunk,— and, with
his mess, learned the new life from the beginning. But
there were horses in the land— ponies at reasonable
price ; there was polo for such as could afford it ; there
were the disreputable remnants of a pack of hounds;
and Cottar worried his way along without too much
despair. It dawned on him that a regiment in India
was nearer the chance of active service than he had
conceived, and that a man might as well study his
profession. A major of the new school backed this idea
with enthusiasm, and he and Cottar accumulated a
library of military works, and read and argued and dis-
puted far into the nights. But the adjutant said the
old thing: "Get to know your men, young un, and
they '11 follow you anywhere. That 's all you want-
know your men. ' ' Cottar thought he knew them fairly
well at cricket and the regimental sports, but he never
realised the true inwardness of them till he was sent off
with a detachment of twenty to sit down in a mud fort
near a rushing river which was spanned by a bridge of
boats. When the floods came they went forth and
hunted strayed pontoons along the banks. Otherwise
there was nothing to do, and the men got drunk, gam-
bled, and quarrelled. They were a sickly crew, for a
junior subaltern is by custom saddled with the worst
men. Cottar endured their rioting as long as he could,
[393]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

and then sent down-country for a dozen pairs of boxing-
gloves.

" I would n't blame you for fightin'," said he, " if
you only knew how to use your hands; but you don't.
Take these things, and I '11 show you." The men
appreciated his efforts. Now, instead of blaspheming
and swearing at a comrade, and threatening to shoot
him, they could take him apart, and soothe themselves
to exhaustion. As one explained whom Cottar found
with a shut eye and a diamond- shaped mouth spitting
blood through an embrasure: "We tried it with the
gloves, sir, for twenty minutes, and that done us no
good, sir. Then we took off the gloves and tried it that
way for another twenty minutes, same as you showed
us, sir, an' that done us a world o' good. 'T was n't
fightin', sir; there was a bet on."

Cottar dared not laugh, but he invited his men to
other sports, such as racing across country in shirt and
trousers after a trail of torn paper, and to single-stick in
the evenings, till the native population, who had a lust
for sport in every form, wished to know whether the
white men understood wrestling. They sent in an
ambassador, who took the soldiers by the neck and
threw them about the dust; and the entire command
were all for this new game. They spent money on
learning new falls and holds, which was better than
buying other doubtful commodities ; and the peasantry
grinned five deep round the tournaments.

That detachment, who had gone up in bullock-carts,
returned to headquarters at an average rate of thirty
miles a day, fair heel-and-toe; no sick, no prisoners,
[394]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

and no court martials pending. They scattered them-
selves among their friends, singing the praises of their
lieutenant and looking for causes of offense.

" How did you do it, young un? " the adjutant asked.

" Oh, I sweated the beef off 'em, and then I sweated
some muscle on to 'em. It was rather a lark."

" If that 's your way of lookin' at it, we can give
you all the larks you want. Young Davies is n't feelin'
quite fit, and he 's next for detachment duty. Care to
go for him? "

" 'Sure he would n't mind? I don't want to shove
myself forward, you know."

"You need n't bother on Davies's account. We '11
give you the sweepin's of the corps, and you can see
what you can make of 'em."

"All right," said Cottar. "It's better fun than
loafin' about cantonments."

" Rummy thing," said the adjutant, after Cottar had
returned to his wilderness with twenty other devils
worse than the first. " If Cottar only knew it, half the
women in the station would give their eyes— confound
'em!— to have the young un in tow."

" That accounts for Mrs. Elery sayin' I was workin'
my nice new boy too hard," said a wing commander.

" Oh, yes; and ' Why does n't he come to the band-
stand in the evenings? ' and ' Can't I get him to make
up a four at tennis with the Hammon girls? ' " the ad-
jutant snorted. "Look at young Davies makin' an
ass of himself over mutton-dressed-as-lamb old enough
to be his mother! "

"No one can accuse young Cottar of runnin' after
[395]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

women, white or black, ' ' the major replied thoughtfully.
" But, then, that 's the kind that generally goes the
worst mucker in the end. ' '

" Not Cottar. I 've only run across one of his mus-
ter before— a fellow called Ingles, in South Africa. He
was just the same hard-trained, athletic -sports build of
animal. Always kept himself in the pink of condition.
Did n't do him much good, though. 'Shot at Wessel-
stroom the . week before Majuba. Wonder how the
young un will lick his detachment into shape."

Cottar turned up six weeks later, on foot, with his
pupils. He never told his experiences, but the men
spoke enthusiastically, and fragments of it leaked back
to the colonel through sergeants, batmen, and the like.

There was great jealousy between the first and second
detachments, but the men united in adoring Cottar, and
their way of showing it was by sparing him all the
trouble that men know how to make for an unloved
officer. He sought popularity as little as he had sought
it at school, and therefore it came to him. He favoured
no one— not even when the company sloven pulled the
company cricket-match out of the fire with an unex-
pected forty- three at the last moment. There was very
little getting round him, for he seemed to know by
instinct exactly when and where to head off. a malin-
gerer ; but he did not forget that the difference between
a dazed and sulky junior of the upper school and a be-
wildered, browbeaten lump of a private fresh from the
depot was very small indeed. The sergeants, seeing
these things, told him secrets generally hid from young
officers. His words were quoted as barrack authority
[396]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

on bets in canteen and at tea ; and the veriest shrew of
the corps, bursting with charges against other women
who had used the cooking- ranges out of turn, forbore
to speak when Cottar, as the regulations ordained,
asked of a morning if there were " any complaints."

" I 'm full o' complaints," said Mrs. Corporal Mor-
rison, " an' I 'd kill O'Halloran's fat sow of a wife any
day, but ye know how it is. 'E puts 'is head just inside
the door, an' looks down 'is blessed nose so bashful,
an' 'e whispers, 'Any complaints? ' Ye can't complain
after that. I want to kiss him. Some day I think I
will. Heigh-ho! she '11 be a lucky woman that gets
Young Innocence. See 'im now, girls. Do ye blame
me?"

Cottar was cantering across to polo, and he looked a
very satisfactory figure of a man as he gave easily to
the first excited bucks of his pony, and slipped over a
low mud wall to the practice-ground. There were
more than Mrs. Corporal Morrison who felt as she did.
But Cottar was busy for eleven hours of the day. He
did not care to have his tennis spoiled by petticoats in
the court; and after one long afternoon at a garden-
party, he explained to his major that this sort of thing
was " futile piffle," and the major laughed. Theirs
was not a married mess, except for the colonel's wife,
and Cottar stood in awe of the good lady. She said
' ' my regiment, ' ' and the world knows what that means.
None the less, when they wanted her to give away the
prizes after a shooting-match, and she refused because
one of the prize-winners was married to a girl who had
made a jest of her behind her broad back, the mess
[397]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

ordered Cottar to " tackle her," in his best calling-kit.
This he did, simply and laboriously, and she gave way
altogether.

" She only wanted to know the facts of the case," he
explained. ' ' I just told her, and she saw at once. ' '

" Ye-es," said the adjutant. " I expect that 's what
she did. Comin' to the Fusiliers' dance to-night, Gala-
had?"

*' No, thanks. I 've got a fight on with the major."
The virtuous apprentice sat up till midnight in the
major's quarters, with a stop-watch and a pair of com-
passes, shifting little painted lead-blocks about a four-
inch map.

Then he turned in and slept the sleep of innocence,
which is full of healthy dreams. One peculiarity of his
dreams he noticed at the beginning of his second hot
weather. Two or three times a month they duplicated
or ran in series. He would find himself sliding into
dreamland by the same road— a road that ran along a
beach near a pile of brushwood. To the right lay the
sea, sometimes at full tide, sometimes withdrawn to the
very horizon; but he knew it for the same sea. By
that road he would travel over a swell of rising ground
covered with short, withered grass, into valleys of won-
der and unreason. Beyond the ridge, which was
crowned with some sort of street-lamp, anything was
possible ; but up to the lamp it seemed to him that he
knew the road as well as he knew the parade-ground
He learned to look forward to the place; for, once there,
he was sure of a good night's rest, and Indian hot
weather can be rather trying. First, shadowy under
[398]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

closing eyelids, would come the outline of the brush-
wood-pile , next the white sand of the beach-road, almost
overhanging the black, changeful sea ; then the turn in-
land and uphill to the single light. When he was unrest-
ful for any reason, he would tell himself how he was sure
to get there— sure to get there— if he shut his eyes and
surrendered to the drift of things. But one night after
a foolishly hard hour's polo (the thermometer was 94°
in his quarters at ten o'clock), sleep stood away from
him altogether, though he did his best to find the well-
known road, the point where true sleep began. At last
he saw the brushwood-pile, and hurried along to the
ridge, for behind him he felt was the wide-awake, sul-
try world. He reached the lamp in safety, tingling
with drowsiness, when a policeman— a common coun-
try policeman— sprang up before him and touched him
on the shoulder ere he could dive into the dim valley
below. He was filled with terror,— the hopeless terror
of dreams,— for the policeman said, in the awful, dis-
tinct voice of dream-people, ' ' I am Policeman Day
coming back from the City of Sleep. You come with
me. ' ' Georgie knew it was true —that just beyond him
in the valley lay the lights of the City of Sleep, where
he would have been sheltered, and that this Police-
man-Thing had full power and authority to head him
back to miserable wakefulness. He found himself
looking at the moonlight on the wall, dripping with
fright; and he never overcame that horror, though he
met the Policeman several times that hot weather, and
his coming was the forerunner of a bad night.
But other dreams— perfectly absurd ones—filled him
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THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

with an incommunicable delight. All those that he
remembered began by the brushwood-pile. For in-
stance, he found a small clockwork steamer (he had
noticed it many nights before) lying by the sea-road,
and stepped into it, whereupon it moved with surpass-
ing swiftness over an absolutely level sea. This was
glorious, for he felt he was exploring great matters ; and
it stopped by a lily carved in stone, which, most natu-
rally, floated on the water. Seeing the lily was labelled
" Hong-Kong," Georgie said: " Of course. This is pre-
cisely what I expected Hong-Kong would be like. How
magnificent ! M Thousands of miles farther on it halted
at yet another stone lily, labelled "Java"; and this,
again, delighted him hugely, because he knew that now
he was at the world's end. But the little boat ran on
and on till it lay iri a deep fresh-water lock, the sides of
which were carven marble, green with moss. Lily-pads
lay on the water, and reeds arched above. Some one
moved among the reeds— some one whom Georgie knew
he had travelled to this world's end to reach. There-
fore everything was entirely well with him. He was
unspeakably happy, and vaulted over the ship's side to
find this person , When his feet touched that still water,
it changed, with the rustle of unrolling maps, to nothing
less than a sixth quarter of the globe, beyond the most
remote imagining of man— a place where islands were
coloured yellow and blue, their lettering strung across
their faces. They gave on unknown seas, and Georgie's
urgent desire was to return swiftly across this floating
atlas to known bearings. He told himself repeatedly
that it was no good to hurry ; but still he hurried des-
[400]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

perately, and the islands slipped and slid under his feet,
the straits yawned and widened, till he found himself
utterly lost in the world's fourth dimension, with no
hope of return. Yet only a little distance away he
could see the old world with the rivers and mountain-
chains marked according to the Sandhurst rules of
map-making. Then that person for whom he had come
to the Lily Lock (that was its name) ran up across un-
explored territories, and showed him a way. They fled
hand in hand till they reached a road that spanned
ravines, and ran along the edge of precipices, and was
tunnelled through mountains. " This goes to our
brushwood-pile, ' ' said his companion ; and all his trouble
was at an end. He took a pony, because he understood
that this was the Thirty-Mile Ride and he must ride
swiftly, and raced through the clattering tunnels and
round the curves, always downhill, till he heard the
sea to his left, and saw it raging under a full moon,
against sandy cliffs. It was heavy going, but he recog.
nised the nature of the country, the dark -purple downs
inland, and the bents that whistled in the wind. The
road was eaten away in places, and the sea lashed at
him— black, foamless tongues of smooth and glossy
rollers ; but he was sure that there was less danger from
the sea than from "Them," whoever "They" were,
inland to his right. He knew, too, that he would be
safe if he could reach the down with the lamp on it.
This came as he expected : he saw the one light a mile
ahead along the beach, dismounted, turned to the right,
walked quietly over to the brushwood-pile, found the
little steamer had returned to the beach whence he had
[401]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

unmoored it, and— must have fallen asleep, for he could
remember no more. "I'm gettin' the hang of the geog-
raphy of that place, ' ' he said to himself, as he shaved
next morning. ' ' I must have made some sort of circle.
Let 's see. The Thirty-Mile Eide (now how the deuce
did I know it was called the Thirty-Mile Ride?) joins
the sea-road beyond the first down where the lamp is.
And that atlas-country lies at the back of the Thirty-
Mile Ride, somewhere out to the right beyond the hills
and tunnels. Rummy things, dreams. 'Wonder what
makes mine fit into each other so? "

He continued on his solid way through the recurring
duties of the seasons. The regiment was shifted to
another station, and he enjoyed road-marching for two
months, with a good deal of mixed shooting thrown in,
and when they reached their new cantonments he
became a member of the local Tent Club, and chased
the mighty boar on horseback with a short stabbing-
spear. There he met the mahseer of the Poonch, beside
whom the tarpon is as a herring, and he who lands him
can say that he is a fisherman. This was as new and as
fascinating as the big-game shooting that fell to his
portion, when he had himself photographed for the
mother's benefit, sitting on the flank of his first tiger.

Then the adjutant was promoted, and Cottar rejoiced
with him, for he admired the adjutant greatly, and
marvelled who might be big enough to fill his place ; so
that he nearly collapsed when the mantle fell on his
own shoulders, and the colonel said a few sweet things
that made him blush. An adjutant's position does not
differ materially from that of head of the school, and
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THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

Cottar stood in the same relation to the colonel as he
had to his old Head in England. Only, tempers wear
out in hot weather, and things were said and done that
tried him sorely, and he made glorious blunders, from
which the regimental sergeant-major pulled him with
a loyal soul and a shut mouth. Slovens and incompe-
tents raged against him; the weak-minded strove to
lure him from the ways of justice; the small-minded—
yea, men whom Cottar believed would never do ' ' things
no fellow can do "— imputed motives mean and circuit-
ous to actions that he had not spent a thought upon ;
and he tasted injustice, and it made him very sick. But
his consolation came on parade, when he looked down
the full companies, and reflected how few were in hos-
pital or cells, and wondered when the time would come
to try the machine of his love and labour.

But they needed and expected the whole of a man's
working-day, and maybe three or four hours of the
night. Curiously enough, he never dreamed about the
regiment as he was popularly supposed to. The mind,
set free from the day's doings, generally ceased work-
ing altogether, or, if it moved at all, carried him along
the old beach-road to the downs, the lamp-post, and,
once in a while, to terrible Policeman Day. The second
time that he returned to the world's lost continent (this
was a dream that repeated itself again and again, with
variations, on the same ground) he knew that if he only
sat still the person from the Lily Lock would help him,
and he was not disappointed. Sometimes he was
trapped in mines of vast depth hollowed out of the heart
of the world, where men in torment chanted echoing
[403]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

songs ; and he heard this person coming along through
the galleries, and everything was made safe and delight-
ful. They met again in low-roofed Indian railway-car-
riages that halted in a garden surrounded by gilt-and-
green railings, where a mob of stony white people, all
unfriendly, sat at breakfast-tables covered with roses,
and separated Georgie from his companion, while
underground voices sang deep- voiced songs. Georgie
was filled with enormous despair till they two met again.
They foregathered in the middle of an endless, hot
tropic night, and crept into a huge house that stood, he
knew, somewhere north of the railway-station where
the people ate among the roses. It was surrounded
with gardens, all moist and dripping; and in one room,
reached through leagues of whitewashed passages, a
Sick Thing lay in bed. Now the least noise, Georgie
knew, would unchain some waiting horror, and his com-
panion knew it, too ; but when their eyes met across the
bed, Georgie was disgusted to see that she was a child
—a little girl in strapped shoes, with her black hair
combed back from her forehead.

" What disgraceful folly! " he thought. " Now she
could do nothing whatever if Its head came off."

Then the Thing coughed, and the ceiling shattered
down in plaster on the mosquito-netting, and " They "
rushed in from all quarters. He dragged the child
through the stifling garden, voices chanting behind
them, and they rode the Thirty-Mile Ride under whip
and spur along the sandy beach by the booming sea, till
they came to the downs, the lamp-post, and the brush-
wood-pile, which was safety. Very often dreams would
[404]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

break up about them in this fashion, and they would
be separated, to endure awful adventures alone. But
the most amusing times were when he and she had a
clear understanding that it was all make-believe, and
walked through mile- wide roaring rivers without even
taking off their shoes, or set light to populous cities to
see how they would burn, and were rude as any chil-
dren to the vague shadows met in their rambles. Later
in the night they were sure to suffer for this, either at the
hands of the Railway People eating among the roses,
or in the tropic uplands at the far end of the Thirty-Mile
Ride. Together, this did no much affright them; but
often Georgie would hear her shrill cry of " Boy ! Boy ! ' '
half a world away, and hurry to her rescue before
u They " maltreated her.

He and she explored the dark-purple downs as far
inland from the brushwood-pile as they dared, but that
was always a dangerous matter. The interior was filled
with " Them," and " They " went about singing in the
hollows, and Georgie and she felt safer on or near the
seaboard. So thoroughly had he come to know the
place of his dreams that even waking he accepted it as a
real country, and made a rough sketch of it. He kept
his own counsel, of course; but the permanence of the
land puzzled him. His ordinary dreams were as form-
less and as fleeting as any healthy dreams could be, but
once at the brushwood- pile he moved within known
limits and could see where he was going. There were
months at a time when nothing notable crossed his sleep.
Then the dreams would come in a batch of five or six,
and next morning the map that he kept in his writing-
[405]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

case would be written up to date, for Georgie was a
most methodical person. There was, indeed, a danger
—his seniors said so— of his developing into a regular
"Auntie Fuss" of an adjutant, and when an officer

N

once takes to .old-maidism there is more hope for the
virgin of seventy than for him.

But fate sent the change that was needed, in the
shape of a little winter campaign on the Border, which,
after the manner of little campaigns, flashed out into a
very ugly war; and Cottar's regiment was chosen
among the first.

"Now," said a major, "this '11 shake the cobwebs
[406]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

out of us all— especially you, Galahad; and we can see
what your hen-with-one-chick attitude has done for the
regiment."

Cottar nearly wept with joy as the campaign went
forward. They were fit — physically fit beyond the other
troops; they were good children in camp, wet or dry,
fed or unfed ; and they followed their officers with the
quick suppleness and trained obedience of a first-class
foot-ball fifteen. They were cut off from their apology
for a base, and cheerfully cut their way back to it again ;
they crowned and cleaned out hills full of the enemy
with the precision of well-broken dogs of chase ; and in
the hour of retreat, when, hampered with the sick and
wounded of the column, they were persecuted down
eleven miles of waterless valley, they, serving as rear-
guard, covered themselves with a great glory in the
eyes of fellow-professionals. Any regiment can advance,
but few know how to retreat with a sting in the tail.
Then they turned to made roads, most often under fire,
and dismantled some inconvenient mud redoubts.
They were the last corps to be withdrawn when the
rubbish of the campaign was all swept up ; and after a
month in standing camp, which tries morals severely,
they departed to their own place in column of fours,
singing:

" 'E 's goin' to do without 'em —

Don't want 'em any more ;
'E 's goin' to do without 'em,

As 'e 's often done before.
'E 's goin' to be a martyr
On a 'ighly novel plan,

[407]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

An' all the boys and girls will say,
' Ow ! what a nice young man — man — 'man !
Ow! what a nice young man! ' '

There came out a "Gazette" in which Cottar found
that he had been behaving with * ' courage and coolness
and discretion ' ' in all his capacities ; that he had as-
sisted the wounded under fire, and blown in a gate, also
under fire. Net result, his captaincy and a brevet ma-
jority, coupled with the Distinguished Service Order.

As to his wounded, he explained that they were both
heavy men, whom he could lift more easily than any
one else. " Otherwise, of course, I should have sent
out one of my men ; and, of course, about that gate
business, we were safe the minute we were well under
the walls." But this did not prevent his men from
cheering him furiously whenever they saw him, or the
mess from giving him a dinner on the eve of his
departure to England. (A year's leave was among the
things he had ' ' snaffled out of the campaign, ' x to use his
own words.) The doctor, who had taken quite as much
as was good for him, quoted poetry about ' ' a good blade
carving the casques of men, ' ' and so on, and everybody
told Cottar that he was an excellent person ; but when
he rose to make his maiden speech they shouted so that
he was understood to say, "It is n't any use tryin' to
speak with you chaps rottin' me like this. Let 's have
some pool."

**********

It is not unpleasant to spend eight-and-twenty days
in an easy-going steamer on warm waters, in the com-
pany of a woman who lets you see that you are head
[408]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

and shoulders superior to the rest of the world, even
though that woman may be, and most often is, ten
counted years your senior. P. O. boats are not lighted
with the disgustful particularity of Atlantic liners.
There is more phosphorescence at the bows, and greater
silence and darkness by the hand-steering gear aft.

Awful things might have happened to Georgie but for
the little fact that he had never studied the first prin-
ciples of the game he was expected to play. So when
Mrs. Zuleika, at Aden, told him how motherly an inter-
est she felt in his welfare, medals, brevet, and all,
Georgie took her at the foot of the letter, and promptly
talked of his own mother, three hundred miles nearer
each day, of his home, and so forth, all the way up the
Red Sea. It was much easier than he had supposed to
converse with a woman for an hour at a time . Then Mrs.
Zuleika, turning from parental affection, spoke of love
in the abstract as a thing not unworthy of study, and
in discreet twilights after dinner demanded confidences.
Georgie would have been delighted to supply them, but
he had none, and did not know it was his duty to manu-
facture them. Mrs. Zuleika expressed surprise and
unbelief, and asked those questions which deep asks of
deep. She learned all that was necessary to conviction,
and, being very much a woman, resumed (Georgie
never knew that she had abandoned) the motherly at-
titude.

" Do you know," she said, somewhere in the Medi-
terranean, " I think you 're the very dearest boy I
have ever met in my life, and I 'd like you to remem-
ber me a little. You will when you are older, but I
[409]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

want you to remember me now. You '11 make some
girl very happy."

" Oh ! Hope so, ' ' said Georgie, gravely ; * ' but there's
heaps of time for marryin' an' all that sort of thing,
ain't there?"

" That depends. Here are your bean-bags for the
Ladies' Competition. I think I 'm growing too old to
care for these tamashas."

They were getting up sports, and Georgie was on the
committee. He never noticed how perfectly the bags
were sewn, but another woman did, and smiled— once.
He liked Mrs. Zuleika greatly. She was a bit old, of
course, but uncommonly nice. There was no nonsense
about her.

A few nights after they passed Gibraltar his dream
returned to him. She who waited by the brushwood-
pile was no longer a little girl, but a woman with black
hair that grew into a "widow's peak," combed back
from her forehead. He knew her for the child in black,
the companion of the last six years, and, as it had been
in the time of the meetings on the Lost Continent, he
was filled with delight unspeakable. ' ' They, ' ' for some
dreamland reason, were friendly or had gone away that
night, and the two flitted together over all their coun-
try, from the brushwood-pile up the Thirty-Mile Ride,
till they saw the House of the Sick Thing, a pin-point
in the distance to the left ; stamped through the Railway
Waiting-room where the roses lay on the spread break-
fast-tables ; and returned, by the ford and the city they
had once burned for sport, to the great swells of the
downs under the lamp-post. Wherever they moved a
[410]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

strong singing followed them underground, but this
night there was no panic. All the land was empty
except for themselves, and at the last (they were sit-
ting by the lamp-post hand in hand) she turned and
kissed him. He woke with a start, staring at the
waving curtain of the cabin door; he could almost
have sworn that the kiss was real.

Next morning the ship was rolling in a Biscay sea,
and people were not happy; but as Georgie came to
breakfast, shaven, tubbed, and smelling of soap, several
turned to look at him because of the light in his eyes
and the splendour of his countenance.

"Well, you look beastly fit," snapped a neighbour.
" Any one left you a legacy in the middle of the Bay? "

Georgie reached for the curry, with a seraphic grin.
" I suppose it 's the gettin' so near home, and all that.
I do feel rather festive this mornin'. 'Rolls a bit,
does n't she?"

Mrs. Zuleika stayed in her cabin till the end of the
voyage, when she left without bidding him farewell,
and wept passionately on the dock-head for pure joy of
meeting her children, who, she had often said, were so
like their father.

Georgie headed for his own country, wild with delight
of his first long furlough after the lean seasons. Nothing
was changed in that orderly life, from the coachman
who met him at the station to the white peacock that
stormed at the carriage from the stone wall above the
shaven lawns. The house took toll of him with due
regard to precedence— first the mother; then the father;
then the housekeeper, who wept and praised God; then
[411]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

the butler, and so on down to the under-keeper, who
had been dog-boy in Georgie's youth, and called him
" Master Georgie," and was reproved by the groom who
had taught Georgie to ride.

" Not a thing changed," he sighed contentedly, when
the three of them sat down to dinner in the late sun-
light, while the rabbits crept out upon the lawn below
the cedars, and the big trout in the ponds by the home
paddock rose for their evening meal.

" Our changes are all over, dear," cooed the mother;
" and now I am getting used to your size and your tan
(you 're very brown, Georgie), I see you have n't
changed in the least. You 're exactly like the pater."

The father beamed on this man after his own heart,
— u youngest major in the army, and should have had
the V. C., sir,"— and the butler listened with his pro-
fessional mask off when Master Georgie spoke of war as
it is waged to-day, and his father cross-questioned.

They went out on the terrace to smoke among the
roses, and the shadow of the old house lay long across
the wonderful English foliage, which is the only living
green in the world.

"Perfect! By Jove, it 's perfect!" Georgie was
looking at the round-bosomed woods beyond the home
paddock, where the white pheasant boxes were ranged ;
and the golden air was full of a hundred sacred scents
and sounds. Georgie felt his father's arm tighten in
his.

"It 's not half bad— but hodie mihi, eras tibi, is n't
it? I suppose you '11 be turning up some fine day with
a girl under your arm, if you have n't one now, eh? "
[412]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

* * You can make your mind easy, sir. I have n't one. ' '

" Not in all these years? " said the mother.

" I had n't time, mummy. They keep a man pretty
busy, these days, in the service, and most of our mess
are unmarried, too."

"But you must have met hundreds in society— at
balls, and so on? "

" I 'm like the Tenth, mummy: I don't dance."

"Don't dance! What have you been doing with
yourself, then— backing other men's bills?" said the
father.

" Oh, yes; I 've done a little of that too; but you see,
as things are now, a man has all his work cut out for
him to keep abreast of his profession, and my days
were always too full to let me lark about half the
night."

" Hmm! "—suspiciously.

" It 's never too late to learn. We ought to give some
kind of housewarming for the people about, now you ' ve
come back. Unless you want to go straight up to town,
dear?"

"No. I don't want anything better than this. Let's
sit still and enjoy ourselves. I suppose there will be
something for me to ride if I look for it? "

" Seeing I 've been kept down to the old brown pair
for the last six weeks because all the others were being
got ready for Master Georgie, I should say there might
be," the father chuckled. " They 're reminding me in
a hundred ways that I must take the second place
now."

"Brutes!"

[413]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" The pater does n't mean it, dear; but every one has
been trying to make your home-coming a success ; and
you do like it, don't you? "

" Perfect! Perfect! There 's no place like England
—when you 've done your work."

" That 's the proper way to look at it, my son."

And so up and down the nagged walk till their shad-
ows grew long in the moonlight, and the mother went
indoors and played such songs as a small boy once
clamoured for, and the squat silver candlesticks were
brought in, and Georgie climbed to the two rooms in
the west wing that had been his nursery and his play-
room in the beginning. Then who should come to tuck
him up for the night but the mother? And she sat
down on the bed, and they talked for a long hour, as
mother and son should, if there is to be any future for
the Empire. With a simple woman's deep guile she
asked questions and suggested answers that should have
waked some sign in the face on the pillow, and there
was neither quiver of eyelid nor quickening of breath,
neither evasion nor delay in reply. So she blessed him
and kissed him on the mouth, which is not always a
mother's property, and said something to her husband
later, at which he laughed profane and incredulous
laughs.

All the establishment waited on Georgie next morn-
ing, from the tallest six-year-old, " with a mouth like
a kid glove, Master Georgie," to the under-keeper
strolling carelessly along the horizon, Georgie's pet rod
in his hand, and u There 's a four-pounder risin' below
the lasher. You don't ^ave 'em in Injia, Mast— Major
[414]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

Georgie." It was all beautiful beyond telling, even
though the mother insisted on taking him out in the
landau (the leather had the hot Sunday smell of his
youth) and showing him off to her friends at all the
houses for six miles round ; and the pater bore him up
to town and a lunch at the club, where he introduced
him, quite carelessly, to not less than thirty ancient
warriors whose sons were not the youngest majors in
the army and had not the D. S. O. After that it was
Georgie 's turn; and remembering his friends, he filled
up the house with that kind of officer who live in cheap
lodgings at Southsea or Montpelier Square, Brompton
—good men all, but not well off. The mother perceived
that they needed girls to play with; and as there was
no scarcity of girls, the house hummed like a dovecote
in spring. They tore up the place for amateur theat-
ricals; they disappeared in the gardens when they
ought to have been rehearsing; they swept off every
available horse and vehicle, especially the governess-
cart and the fat pony; they fell into the trout-ponds;
they picnicked and they tennised ; and they sat on
gates in the twilight, two by two, and Georgie found
that he was not in the least necessary to their enter-
tainment.

" My word! " said he, when he saw the last of their
dear backs. ' ' They told me they ' ve enjoyed 'emselves,
but they have n't done half the things they said they
would."

" I know they 've enjoyed themselves— immensely ,"
said the mother. " You 're a public benefactor, dear."

u Now we can be quiet again, can't we? "
[415]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" Oh, quite. I 've a very dear friend of mine that I
want you to know. She could n't come with the house
so full, because she 's an invalid, and she was away
when you first came. She 's a Mrs. Lacy."

" Lacy! I don't remember the name about here."

u No; they came after you went to India— from Ox-
ford. Her husband died there, and she lost some
money, I believe. They bought The Firs on the Bassett
Road. She 's a very sweet woman, and we 're very
fond of them both."

" She 's a widow, did n't you say? "

" She has a daughter. Surely I said so, dear? "

" Does she fall into trout-ponds, and gas and giggle,
and ' Oh, Major Cottah! ' and all that sort of thing? "

" No, indeed. She 's a very quiet girl, and very
musical. She always came over here witli her music-
books—composing, you know; and she generally works
all day, so you won't—"

u 'Talking about Miriam?" said the pater, coming
up. The mother edged toward him within elbow-reach.
There was no finesse about Georgie's father. " Oh,
Miriam 's a dear girl. Plays beautifully. Rides beau-
tifully, too. She 's a regular pet of the household.
Used to call me—" The elbow went home, and igno-
rant but obedient always, the pater shut hin/iself off.

" "What used she to call you, sir? "

' * All sorts of pet names. I 'm very fond of Miriam. ' '

* ' Sounds Jewish— Miriam. ' '

* ' Jew ! You '11 be calling yourself a Jew next. She 's
one of the Herefordshire Lacys. When her aunt dies — ' '
Again the elbow.

[416]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" Oh, you won't see anything of her, Georgie. She 's
busy with her music or her mother all day. Besides,
you 're going up to town to-morrow, are n't you? I
thought you said something about an Institute meet-
ing? " The mother spoke.

" Go up to town now! What nonsense ! ' ' Once more
the pater was shut off.

" I had some idea of it, but I *m not quite sure," said
the son of the house. Why did the mother try to get
him away because a musical girl and her invalid pa-
rent were expected? He did not approve of unknown
females calling his father pet names. He would observe
these pushing persons who had been only seven years
in the county.

All of which the delighted mother read in his coun-
tenance, herself keeping an air of sweet disinterested'
ness.

" They '11 be here this evening for dinner. I 'm send-
ing the carriage over for them, and they won't stay
more than a week."

" Perhaps I shall go up to town. I don't quite know
yet." Georgie moved away irresolutely. There was a
lecture at the United Services Institute on the supply
of ammunition in the field, and the one man whose
theories most irritated Major Cottar would deliver it.
A heated discussion was sure to follow, and perhaps
he might find himself moved to speak. He took his rod
that afternoon and went down to thrash it out among
the trout.

"Good sport, dear!" said the mother, from the
terrace.

[417]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" 'Fraid it won't be, mummy. All those men from
town, and the girls particularly, have put every trout
off his feed for weeks. There is n't one of 'em that
cares for fishin'— really. Fancy stampin' and shoutin'
on the bank, and tellin' every fish for half a mile exactly
what you 're goin' to do, and then chuckin' a brute of
a fly at him! By Jove, it would scare me if I was a
trout!"

But things were not as bad as he had expected. The
black gnat was on the water, and the water was strictly
preserved. A three-quarter-pounder at the second cast
set him for the campaign, and he worked down-stream,
crouching behind the reed and meadow-sweet; creeping
between a hornbeam hedge and a foot- wide strip of
bank, where he could see the trout, but where they
could not distinguish him from the background ; lying
almost on his stomach to switch the blue-upright side-
wise through the checkered shadows of a gravelly rip-
ple under overarching trees. But he had known every
inch of the water since he was four feet high. The
aged and astute between sunk roots, with the large and
fat that lay in the frothy scum below some strong rush
of water, sucking as lazily as carp, came to trouble in
their turn, at the hand that imitated so delicately the
flicker and wimple of an egg-dropping fly. Conse-
quently, Georgie found himself five miles from home
when he ought to have been dressing for dinner. The
housekeeper had taken good care that her boy should
not go empty, and before he changed to the white moth
he sat down to excellent claret with sandwiches of
potted egg and things that adoring women make and
[418]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

men never notice. Then back, to surprise the otter
grubbing for fresh- water mussels, the rabbits on the
edge of the beechwoods foraging in the clover, and the
policeman-like white owl stooping to the little field-
mice, till the moon was strong, and he took his rod
apart, and went home through well-remembered gaps in
the hedges. He fetched a compass round the house, for,
though he might have broken every law of the estab-
lishment every hour, the law of his boyhood was un-
breakable : after fishing you went in by the south garden
back-door, cleaned up in the outer scullery, and did
not present yourself to your elders and your betters till
you had washed and changed.

" Half -past ten, by Jove! Well, we '11 make the sport
an excuse. They would n't want to see me the first even-
ing, at any rate. Gone to bed, probably." He skirted
by the open French windows of the drawing-room.
" No, they have n't. They look very comfy in there."

He could see his father in his own particular chair,
the mother in hers, and the back of a girl at the piano
by the big potpourri- jar. The gardens looked half
divine in the moonlight, and he turned down through
the roses to finish his pipe.

A prelude ended, and there floated out a voice of the
kind that in his childhood he used to call ' ' creamy ' ' —
a full, true contralto; and this is the song that he heard,
every syllable of it :

Over the edge of the purple down,

Where the single lamplight gleams,

Know ye the road to the Merciful Town
That is hard by the Sea of Dreams—

[419]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,

And the sick may forget to weep?
But we— pity us ! Oh, pity us !

We wakeful ; ah, pity us !—
We must go back with Policeman Day —

Back from the City of Sleep!

Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,

Fetter and prayer and plough—
They that go up to the Merciful Town,

For her gates are closing now.
It is their right in the Baths of Night

Body and soul to steep :
But we— pity us ! ah, pity us !

We wakeful ; oh, pity us ! —
We must go back with Policeman Day —

Back from the City of Sleep !

Over the edge of the purple down,

Ere the tender dreams begin,
Look— we may look— at the Merciful Town,

But we may not enter in !
Outcasts all, from her guarded wall

Back to our watch we creep :
We — pity us ! ah, pity us !

We wakeful ; oh, pity us ! —
We that go back with Policeman Day—

Back from the City of Sleep !

At the last echo he was aware that his mouth was dry

and unknown pulses were beating in the roof of it. The

housekeeper, who would have it that he must have

fallen in and caught a chill, was waiting to catch him

[420]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

on the stairs, and, since he neither saw nor answered
her, carried a wild tale abroad that brought his mother
knocking at the door.

' ' Anything happened, dear ? Harper said she thought
you were n't—

" No; it 's nothing. I 'm all right, mummy. Please
don't bother."

He did not recognise his own voice, but that was a
small matter beside what he was considering. Obvi-
ously, most obviously, the whole coincidence was crazy
lunacy. He proved it to the satisfaction of Major
George Cottar, who was going up to town to-morrow to
hear a lecture on the supply of ammunition in the field ;
and having so proved it, the soul and brain and heart
and body of Georgie cried joyously: " That 's the Lily
Lock girl— the Lost Continent girl— the Thirty-Mile
Eide girl— the Brushwood girlr /know her! "

He waked, stiff and cramped in his chair, to recon-
sider the situation by sunlight, when it did not appear
normal. But a man must eat, and he went to break-
fast, his heart between his teeth, holding himself
severely in hand.

" Late, as usual," said the mother. " 'My boy, Miss
Lacy."

A tall girl in black raised her eyes to his, and Georgie's
life training deserted him— just as soon as he realised
that she did not know. He stared coolly and critically.
There was the abundant black hair, growing in a
widow's peak, turned back from the forehead, with that
peculiar ripple over the right ear; there were the grey
eyes set a little close together; the short upper lip, reso-
[421]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

lute chin, and the known poise of the head. There was
also the small well-cut mouth that had kissed him.

" Georgie— dear! " said the mother, amazedly, for
Miriam was flushing under the stare.

' * I— I beg your pardon ! " he gulped. ' ' I don't know
whether the mother has told you, but I 'm rather an
idiot at times, specially before I 've had my breakfast.
It 's— it 's a family failing."

He turned to explore among the hot-water dishes on
the sideboard, rejoicing that she did not know— she did
not know.

His conversation for the rest of the meal was mildly
insane, though the mother thought she had never seen
her boy look half so handsome. How could any girl,
least of all one of Miriam's discernment, forbear to fall
down and worship? But deeply Miriam was displeased.
She had never been stared at in that fashion before,
and promptly retired into her shell when Georgie an-
nounced that he had changed his mind about going to
town, and would stay to play with Miss Lacy if she had
nothing better to do.

" Oh, but don't let me throw you out. I 'm at work.
I ' ve things to do all the morning. ' '

"What possessed Georgie to behave so oddly?" the
mother sighed to herself. " Miriam 's a bundle of feel-
ings—like her mother."

" You compose— don't you? Must be a fine thing to
be able to do that. [" Pig-oh, pig! " thought Miriam.]
I think I heard you singin' when I came in last night
after fishin'. All about a Sea of Dreams, was n't it?
[Miriam shuddered to the core of the soul that afflicted
[422]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

her.] Awfully pretty song. How d' you think of such
things?"

" You only composed the music, dear, did n't you? "

" The words too. I 'm sure of it, ' x said Georgie, with
a sparkling eye. No; she did not know.

' ' Yeth ; I wrote the words too. ' ' Miriam spoke slowly,
for she knew she lisped when she was nervous.

" Now how could you tell, Georgie? " said the mother,
as delighted as though the youngest major in the army
were ten years old, showing off before company.

" I was sure of it, somehow. Oh, there are heaps of
things about me, mummy, that you don't understand.
Looks as if it were goin' to be a hot day— for England.
Would you care for a ride this afternoon, Miss Lacy?
We can start out after tea, if you 'd like it."

Miriam could not in decency refuse, but any woman
might see she was not filled with delight.

" That will be very nice, if you take the Bassett Road.
It will save me sending Martin down to the village,1'
said the mother, filling in gaps.

Like all good managers, the mother had her one
weakness— a mania for little strategies that should
economise horses and vehicles. Her men-folk com-
plained that she turned them into common carriers, and
there was a legend in the family that she had once said
to the pater on the morning of a meet : " If you should
kill near Bassett, dear, and if it is n't too late, would
you mind just popping over and matching me this? "

* ' I knew that was coming. You 'd never miss a
chance, mother. If it 's a fish or a trunk I won't."
Georgie laughed.

[423]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" It 's only a duck. They can do it up very neatly at
Mallett's, ' ' said the mother, simply. ' ' You won't mind,
will you? We '11 have a scratch dinner at nine, because
it 's so hot."

The long summer day dragged itself out for centuries ;
but at last there was tea on the lawn, and Miriam ap-
peared.

She was in the saddle before he could offer to help,
with the clean spring of the child who mounted the pony
for the Thirty-Mile Ride. The day held mercilessly,
though Georgie got down thrice to look for imaginary
stones in Rufus's foot. One cannot say even simple
things in broad light, and this that Georgie meditated
was not simple. So he spoke seldom, and Miriam was
divided between relief and scorn. It annoyed her that
the great hulking thing should know she had written
the words of the song overnight; for though a maiden
may sing her most secret fancies aloud, she does not
care to have them trampled over by the male Philistine.
They rode into the little red-brick street of Bassett,
and Georgie made untold fuss over the disposition of
that duck. It must go in just such a package, and be
fastened to the saddle in just such a manner, though
eight o'clock had struck and they were miles from
dinner.

" We must be quick! " said Miriam, bored and angry.

" There 's no great hurry; but we can cut over Dow-
head Down, and let 'em out on the grass. That will
save us half an hour."

The horses capered on the short, sweet- smelling turf,
and the delaying shadows gathered in the valley as
[424]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

they cantered over the great dun down that overhangs
Bassett and the Western coaching- road. Insensibly the
pace quickened without thought of mole-hills; Rufus,
gentleman that he was, waiting on Miriam's Dandy till
they should have cleared the rise. Then down the
two-mile slope they raced together, the wind whistling
in their ears, to the steady throb of eight hoofs and the
light click-click of the shifting bits.

" Oh, that was glorious! " Miriam cried, reining in.
" Dandy and I are old friends, but I don't think we 've
ever gone better together. ' '

" No; but you 've gone quicker, once or twice."

"Really? When?"

Georgie moistened his lips. " Don't you remember
the Thirty-Mile Ride— with me— when ' They ' were
after us— on the beach-road, with the sea to the left—
going toward the lamp-post on the downs? "

The girl gasped. " What— what do you mean? " she
said hysterically.

" The Thirty-Mile Ride, and— and all the rest of it."

" You mean— ? I didn't sing anything about the
Thirty-Mile Ride! I know I did n't. I have never told
a living soul."

u You told about Policeman Day, and the lamp at the
top of the downs, and the City of Sleep. It all joins on,
you know— it 's the same country— and it was easy
enough to see where you had been."

44 Good God!— It joins on— of course it does; but— I
have been— you have been— Oh, let 's walk, please,
or I shall fall off!"

Georgie ranged alongside, and laid a hand that shook
[425]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

below her bridle-hand, pulling Dandy into a walk.
Miriam was sobbing as he had seen a man sob under
the touch of the bullet.

"It 's all right— it 's all right," he whispered feebly.
" Only— only it 's true, you know."

"True! Am I mad? "

" Not unless I 'm mad as well. Do try to think a
minute quietly. How could any one conceivably know
anything about the Thirty-Mile Bide having anything
to do with you, unless he had been there? "

"But where? But where f Tell me!"

" There— wherever it may be— in our country, I sup-
pose. Do you remember the first time you rode it— the
Thirty-Mile Ride, I mean? You must."

" It was all dreams— all dreams! "

" Yes, but tell, please; because I know."

" Let me think. I— we were on no account to make
any noise— on no account to make any noise." She
was staring between Dandy's ears, with eyes that did
not see, and a suffocating heart.

" Because ' It ' was dying in the big house? " Georgie
went on, reining in again.

" There was a garden with green-and-gilt railings—
all hot. Do you remember? "

' ' I ought to. I was sitting on the other side of the
bed before ' It ' coughed and ' They ' came in."

"You!"— the deep voice was unnaturally full and
strong, and the girl's wide-opened eyes burned in the
dusk as she stared him through and through. " Then
you 're the Boy— my Brushwood Boy, and I 've known
you all my life! "

[426]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

She fell forward on Dandy's neck. G-eorgie forced
himself out of the weakness that was overmastering his
limbs, and slid an arm round her waist. The head
dropped on his shoulder, and he found himself with
parched lips saying things that up till then he believed
existed only in printed works of fiction. Mercifully
the horses were quiet. She made no attempt to draw
herself away when she recovered, but lay still, whis-
pering, u Of course you 're the Boy, and I did n't know
—I didn't know."

" I knew last night; and when I saw you at break-
fast-"

" Oh, that was why! I wondered at the time. You
would, of course."

"I could n't speak before this. Keep your head
where it is, dear. It 's all right now— all right now,
is n't it?"

44 But how was it I did n't know— after all these
years and years? I remember— oh, what lots of things
I remember ! ' '

" Tell me some. I '11 look after the horses."

" I remember waiting for you when the steamer
came in. Do you?"

" At the Lily Lock, beyond Hong- Kong and Java? "

" Do you call it that, too? "

" You told me it was when I was lost in the continent.
That was you that showed me the way through the
mountains?"

" When the islands slid? It must have been, because
you 're the only one I remember. All the others were
'Them.'

[427]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" Awful brutes they were, too."

" I remember showing you the Thirty- Mile Ride the
first time. You ride just as you used to— then. You
are you! "

" That 's odd. I thought that of you this afternoon.
Is n't it wonderful? "

" What does it all mean? Why should you and I of
the millions of people in the world have this— this
thing between us? What does it mean? I 'm fright-
ened."

"This!" said Georgie. The horses quickened their
pace. They thought they had heard an order. "Per-
haps when we die we may find out more, but it means
this now."

There was no answer. What could she say? As the
world went, they had known each other rather less
than eight and a half hours, but the matter was one
that did not concern the world. There was a very long
silence, while the breath in their nostrils drew cold and
sharp as it might have been a fume of ether.

"That 's the second," Georgie whispered. "You
remember, don't you? "

" It 's not ! ' ' —furiously . " It 's not ! "

" On the downs the other night— months ago. You
were just as you are now, and we went over the coun-
try for miles and miles."

" It was all empty, too. They had gone away.
Nobody frightened us. I wonder why, Boy? "

" Oh, if you remember that, you must remember the
rest. Confess! "

[428]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" I remember lots of things, but I know I did n't. I
never have— till just now."

" You did, dear."

" I know I did n't, because— oh, it 's no use keeping
anything back!— because I truthfully meant to."

" And truthfully did."

"No; meant to; but some one else came by."

' ' There was n't any one else. There never has been. ' '

' ' There was— there always is. It was another woman
—out there on the sea. I saw her. It was the 26th of
May. I 've got it written down somewhere."

" Oh, you 've kept a record of your dreams, too?
That 's odd about the other woman, because I happened
to be on the sea just then."

" I was right. How do I know what you 've done
when you were awake— and I thought it was only
you!"

' ' You never were more wrong in your life. What a
little temper you ' ve got ! Listen to me a minute, dear. ' '
And Georgie, though he knew it not, committed black
perjury. " It— it is n't the kind of thing one says to
any one, because they 'd laugh; but on my word and
honour, darling, I 've never been kissed by a living
soul outside my own people in all my life. Don't laugh,
dear. I would n't tell any one but you, but it 's the
solemn truth. ' '

" I knew! You are you. Oh, I knew you 'd come
some day ; but I did n't know you were you in the least
till you spoke."

" Then give me another."

[429]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

" And you never cared or looked anywhere? Why,
all the round world must have loved you from the very
minute they saw you, Boy."

" They kept it to themselves if they did. No ; I never
cared."

' ' And we shall be late for dinner —horribly late. Oh,
how can I look at you in the light before your mother
—and mine! "

" We '11 play you 're Miss Lacy till the proper time
comes. What 's the shortest limit for people to get en-
gaged? S'pose we have got to go through all the fuss
of an engagement, have n't we? "

" Oh, I don't want to talk about that. It 's so com-
monplace. I 've thought of something that you don't
know. I 'm sure of it. What 's my name? "

"Miri— no, it isn't, by Jove! Wait half a second,
and it '11 come back to me. You are n't— you can't?
Why, those old tales— before I went to school! I 've
never thought of 'em from that day to this. Are you
the original, only Annieanlouise? "

" It was what you always called me ever since the
beginning. Oh! We 've turned into the avenue, and
we must be an hour late."

" What does it matter? The chain goes as far back
as those days? It must, of course— of course it must.
I ' ve got to ride round with this pestilent old bird— con-
found him! "

** * " Ha! ha! " said the duck, laughing '—do you re-
member thatf"

" Yes, I do— flower-pots on my feet, and all. We 've
been together all this while; and I 've got to say good-
[430]

THE BRUSHWOOD BOY

bye to you till dinner. Sure I '11 see you at dinner-time?
Sure you won't sneak up to your room, darling, and
leave me all the evening? Good-bye, dear— good»bye."
' ' Good-bye, Boy, good-bye. Mind the arch ! Don't
let Rufus bolt into his stables. Good-bye. Yes, I '11
come down to dinner; but— what shall I do when I see
you in the light 1 ' '

[431]

PR 4854 .033 1898 SMC

Kipling, Rudyard
The day's work