# The Soldier's Visitor

The Country Gentleman and Land & Water Vol.45 No.2787 pg15-16 10/09/1914
I sit in my room and dream.⁠ ⁠… Autumn steals across the slanting sunlight on the lawn for the year stands at the keen, and the smells of childhood float beneath the thinning branches. In my long chair by the open window I sit and dream. I played upon that lawn, I took the hawks’ eggs from the dizzy, topmost branches; it was on turf like that I won the hundred yards. Sure of myself, I moved swiftly, easily, a few weeks, a few months⁠—or was it years?⁠—ago.⁠ ⁠… I have forgotten. It is past. I sit and dream.⁠ ⁠…
The little room is narrow, but autumn, entering softly, brings in distance as of the open sky, with misty places that are immense. Once they seemed endless. The whole world enters; there are two magnificent horizons, where the sun sets and where it rises: both I could reach easily, without toil or pain, without the help of anyone. Birds pass from one horizon to the other, singing, high above all obstacles; I loved free space as they do; the sails are flashing white on blue, blue seas; there is the plash of mountain streams, the rustle of foliage⁠ ⁠… and the autumn wind goes past my window, picking the crisp, dying leaves from every bough⁠ ⁠…
“He will recover. At least, he will not lose the other,” are the words I remember dimly, each syllable a century, each word an age. It was so long ago. And I try to rise and see the folded daisies as they take the sunset by the grey thatched summerhouse. But my body stops⁠—I cannot move without assistance.⁠ ⁠… I remember how it happened. I remember a pause, then saying aloud as quietly as if I were playing tennis, “Now, old chap, it’s your turn! Go it!” There was a blank, but no terror, and no pain. I heard no noise, the explosion was quite soundless; my last cartridge was gone, my bayonet was in⁠ ⁠… then came the stretcher.⁠ ⁠… God bless those fellows, those brave and tireless bearers.⁠ ⁠… A dirty job! He’ll bless them for me. I can’t even go across the field to find them.
“The sunlight dies; the leaves are down; the chill air cloaks the laurel shrubberies in white and gauze; the soaking dew begins to fall. I am in England. England! She was in danger, so they said. That’s why I’m here, I suppose. She’s taking care of me. I did my bit, my best. Nine months of weary training, three days of glorious fighting. Then this⁠ ⁠…”
“I am carried back into the bed, the lamp is lit, the figures, speaking low and with marvellous tenderness, are gone. I am alone, my pals are out there⁠ ⁠… where there is singing, stories, action. There is no singing here, no stories. I am in a hothouse⁠—damn⁠ ⁠… !”
I glance at my little table by the pillow, at the small white jug of liquid food, at the little silver bell, the glass with the sleeping draught⁠ ⁠… and I turn the lamp out and watch through the open window the faces of the peeping stars. A bat flits past; I hear a moth’s big wings; a corncrake whirrs and rattles far away⁠—I used to chase all three.⁠ ⁠… No other sound is in the world. The hours are asleep. Autumn sits in her lonely wood, weaving her red and yellow leaves into a net to hold me lest I fall! When I wake in the morning, I shall see her tears upon the crimson leaves, upon the grass, upon the iron railing, big, big drops as clear as crystal, holding all the sky, I shall see the few lost stitches that she dropped, floating on cobwebs in the yellow sunlight. I shall hear her cloak sweep trailing through the beechwood on the hill. And that is the cloak I ask to cover me⁠—below the knees. I shall also smell the perfume of her lustrous hair⁠—but that hair, that perfume I shall take to wrap my thoughts in, and my dreams, through years to come,⁠ ⁠…
For I shall recover. But I shall not⁠—no, I shall never again in this world⁠—I cannot say it⁠—below both knees⁠—I know it⁠—I am nothing.
There came a knock quite suddenly at the door⁠ ⁠… and I shut my eyes, because I had no liking for my night-nurse. I left my hand outside upon the coverlet, that she might take my pulse, then leave me without that meeting of the eye, that intimate gesture, that exchange of little words that were distasteful to me. It was, no doubt, a sick man’s whim, and yet to me just then it was intolerable. To meet the eye is an intimacy that draws the other person near, too near, unless she be desired and desirable. I feel the soul in contact. It is only one degree more intimate than to hear the mention of my name, my little name.⁠ ⁠… And yet, before my mind could question⁠—it works slowly, thickly in this pain⁠—who it was for certain my voice had answered, I had said, “Come in.⁠ ⁠…”
I closed my eyes, however, none the less. But, through my lids, I felt the searching glance that saw me⁠—more⁠—that met my own. And I heard my name, my little name. A strange and marvellous thrill went through me. The very intimacies I had dreaded I now claimed eagerly. I opened my eyes and looked.
No especial revelation of beauty have I ever claimed in life, but I have known ideals, I have had my dreams like other men. The figure I now saw before me was surely not of this earth. The stars, the moon, sunlight, and wildflowers had made her, perhaps.⁠ ⁠… I was speechless.
“I have come like this,” said the woman in the soft brown garment, “because there are things that I can give you now. Before⁠—when you could seek them⁠—you could not find them, Now that you cannot go to them, they may come to you. They are all within your reach.”
And then I saw that, while more beautiful and desirable than anyone I had ever known, she was yet strangely familiar to me. Where, how, under what conditions, I could not recall. She was some Grandeur, surely. Queens and the like, I knew, were visiting chaps like me, and yet she was not dressed as such folks dress, and her robe of russet-brown spread in some kind of imperial way behind her. It trailed, I fancied, through the open window, joining the mist above the lawn. The stars shone in it very faintly. But it was her incomparable beauty that made it difficult to speak, for my heart became suddenly so large it choked me.
“I must have dreamed of you,” I murmured at length. A feeling of endless life rose in me⁠—the life people so glibly call eternal. It was beyond description.
“Dreamed!” she echoed gently, shaking her head and smiling. “Oh no; not dreamed! I called you and you came.” There was a touch of sternness in her smile that stirred the blood in me. But I did not understand.
“You called me?” I asked faintly, for such beauty put confusion in me.
“And you came,” she answered. “It was no dream. You gave me all you had to give.” She paused an instant; there was moisture in her eyes. “It is now my turn to give all you desire, all you ask or dream.”
The feeling of familiarity was afflicting; but still I could not understand. As she spoke I saw burning love in the great clear eyes. But there was more than love; there was sympathy, understanding⁠—a woman who could understand everything in the world⁠—there was admiration, gratitude, and more than these⁠—I swear it⁠—there was worship.
“I have asked for nothing,” I faltered, an unbelievable happiness rising. “I did not call⁠—I had no thought⁠—at least I only⁠—”
“It is yours⁠—all, all,” she answered, “because of that. You did not ask, you did not think of self.”
My face, of course, betrayed me hopelessly. The strange joy found utterance in a somewhat trembling voice, humbly, perhaps a little awed.
“I meant your Beauty⁠ ⁠… !” I whispered it in my inmost heart. For there was a shyness in me I could not understand.
And then a strange thing happened, for, as she stood between me and the open window, a light air stirred her dress, and I caught the gleam of something bright beneath, almost as though she wore a breastplate of some kind⁠—like shining armour.
“Who are you, then?” I murmured, trying to raise myself, but sinking back again before the painful effort. I had the feeling that for such love as hers, such beauty, splendour, strength, no loss, no pain was of the least account. I forgot my conditions, almost my identity. I was just⁠—a man like other men.
“I am rich,” she answered, “I am true, and I am faithful unto death and after it. All that you ask is mine to give. And I am here to give it you.”
“Me⁠—?” I could not believe my ears. Something broke within me, bathing my soul in light. I repeated my astonished question. I mentioned my name. I thought swiftly. Everything, by heaven, was worth it, if this were true.
She looked down at me for a long time without speaking. Then her lips moved a little; the wonderful eyes brimmed over; she said two perfect words as she gazed at me: “Thank you.⁠ ⁠…” It was followed by my name, my little name.
What happened exactly I cannot tell. I remember thinking it must be somewhere a miserable mistake, that it was too impossible for truth, when in the midst of my anguish she again repeated my name with such pride and gratitude in her voice, such love and admiration in her eyes, that my doubts were gone and I felt remade in joy. “It is written here,” she said, pointing to where her heart lay beating behind the gleaming metal.
She then bent over me and kissed me⁠ ⁠… she took me in her comforting arms⁠ ⁠… I fell asleep. And in my sleep I dreamed of a new and glorious movement, light as air, and easy, swift as wind. Everything in the world was mine, for everything came to me of its own accord. All space lay within my reach. I was no longer walking, running, climbing. I had wings.⁠ ⁠… But also I remembered where it was that I had seen her, and consequently why I loved her so. I understood at last, God bless her, and I loved her all the more.
Hitherto, indeed, I had asked nothing of her knowingly, yet I had taken all she had to give. I suppose, unconsciously as it were, I knew this well enough. That, apparently, was why I fought.⁠ ⁠… At any rate, I remembered clearly where I had seen her, and why she seemed so curiously familiar, yet unrealised; for her face, now stamped upon my soul, is also stamped upon every copper penny of the Realm.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1951, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 72 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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