a.s.suming it to have been drawn at Oxford, or not very long after he left, I think it must belong very nearly to a time when he was going off abroad on one of his long trips, and I had the sympathy of a dear old lady friend of ours on having to part with him. I remember replying, "Yes, it always seems as if peace and happiness, truth and justice, religion and piety went with him when he goes!" She laughed a good deal, and then said, seriously, repeating over to herself the stately mounting sixteenth century phrases, "But it"s quite true, you know!" I hardly think, though, that I should have said it of the young man in the sketch!

I am now going to make a comment or two on my brother"s word-pictures as I should if he were by my side. But first I should like his readers to know and realize that both were written before the period of what I may call Donald"s "Renaissance," a period that can be roughly marked by the publication of his first book, _The Lord of all Good Life_.

Up to then he had been struggling in vain for self-expression. How he had worked the amount of MSS. he has left alone proves--for we have it on a friend"s testimony that "he tore up much of what he wrote"; and he also had experienced and suffered, violating his natural "timidity"

and his in some ways, precarious health, for he had never got over certain weaknesses engendered by his illness in Mauritius--in his struggle to get a true basis for a solution of the meaning of life and of religion. What cost him most was the knowledge that he was frequently doubted and misunderstood by many of those whose approbation would have been very dear to him. This is proved by his constantly expressed grat.i.tude to the one or two who never doubted him for one moment.

With the writing of this book, as we know, all his difficulties began to clear away, and at the same time he began to reap the harvest of love and admiration that he had sown in his toils to produce it.

And the result was he opened out like a flower to the sun! No one can doubt this for a moment who has read his book of a year later, _The Student in Arms_, and rejoiced in the radiant happiness of its inspiration.

He had more than once said to me during the past two years, "You know it makes a _tremendous_ difference to me when people really _like_ me." No longer was it a case of "one friend at a time." The period for that was over and done with. He had come into his own. He was ready for a universal brotherhood, and no hand would ever be held out to him in vain.

It is impossible to believe that he does not now know of and appreciate all the beautiful tributes that have come to him since his "pa.s.sing"--from the perfect wreath of immortelles weaved by Mr.

Strachey to the sweet pansy of thought dropped by a little fellow V.A.D. of mine who said beautifully and courageously--though knowing him solely through his book--"We feel since he gave us his thought that he belongs a tiny bit to us, too," thus voicing the feeling of many.

I believe the paper ent.i.tled "My Home" to have been written at Oxford, and "School" not so very long after. In any case, I have definite proof of their both belonging to Donald"s pre-"Renaissance" period, for the friendship with F----, that began at "the Shop" and went under a cloud for a time, was renewed with fresh vigour in 1914, and has burned brightly ever since. Only last July was I sent by him a letter of F----"s from the trenches, with the injunction, "Please put this among my treasures," and there is an allusion to a story told in this letter in the article ent.i.tled "Romance" of the present volume.

To return to "My Home," I question whether the love and devotion of "Hilda" and "Ma" for Hugh was so entirely unselfish. For my mother I fully believe, as for "Hilda," Hugh was the epitome of all that was fine, splendid and joyous in life. He was the glorious knight, the "preux chevalier" "sans peur et sans reproche," who rode forth at dawn with clean sword and shining armour, and all the world before him, yet keeping his heart for ever in his home. He was the child of her youth as Donald was the child of her maturity. Deep down in her wonderfully varied nature there were certain bottomless springs of courage, daring and enterprise which she herself had little chance of expressing and of which Hugh alone was the personification.

As long as I can remember Hugh had been my ideal and made all the interest and joy of life for me. Whether he were at home or abroad I never had a thought I did not share with him. When he died, the best part of me died too, or was paralysed rather, and Heaven knows what sort of a "subst.i.tute" I should have been for "Ma" to Donald, had not the baby Hugh come, just in time, with healing in his wings to restore life to the best part of me!

I am glad to think that Donald"s "Autobiography" was written before 1914, for I know that even before that I was becoming more to him than a "subst.i.tute." I too have my memories and pictures!

It is May, 1915. I am in the country-house--cleaning is going on at home.

I get a letter to say that the Rifle Brigade may leave for France at any time, and that Donald _may_ get some "leave" on Sat.u.r.day or Sunday.

I make a dash for town.

There I find a telegram of reckless and unconscionable length, running into two pages. He cannot come up--they may leave at any moment. It seems hardly worth while my bothering to come to Aldershot on the chance--he may be unable to leave barracks.

I write a return telegram--also of reckless and unconscionable length, and reply paid--it is a relief to do so--asking for a place of meeting at Aldershot to be suggested.

I get no answer at all, and on Sunday morning, in despair, I go over to see my aunt and cousin. My aunt is my mother"s sister and a sportswoman. She counsels, "Go at all costs." Dorothy will come with me: Dorothy is Donald"s best woman pal--she reminds him of his mother.

She is all that is wholesome and comportable.

The element of enjoyment comes in, and I go home and pack a nice lunch.

We arrive at Aldershot.

There is no one on the platform to meet us, and we push our way through the turnstile.

There is Donald, on the outskirts of the waiting crowd--a tall, soldierly figure in the uniform of a private--for he has resigned his sergeant"s stripes by now.

His face is very boyish--not the face of the photograph at the beginning of this book: that was taken after he had been to France, and had been wounded, and had written "A Pa.s.sing in June," and "The Honour of the Brigade"--but a much younger face, really boyish.

He glances quickly and anxiously at every face that pa.s.ses, and each time he is a little more disappointed--but he tries not to show it.

I am not tall and cannot catch his eye. It is like being at a play, watching him! All at once he sees me! Involuntarily a sudden quick spasm of joy pa.s.ses across his face, absolutely transfiguring it.

He smooths it away quickly, for he is a Briton and does not like to show his feelings--but he has given himself away!

Dorothy and I shall never forget that look. And it was for _me_--at first he does not see Dorothy. When he does it is an added pleasure.

With _two_ ladies to escort he a.s.sumes a lordly air.

He had thought of everything. We would like some tea? Yes, all the big places are shut as it is Sunday, but he has marked down a little place on his way to the station.

It is a lovely day, and we are very happy!

The girl who waits upon us at the little tea place likes us, and so do the other Tommies and their friends who are having tea there.

We sit at little tables, but at very close quarters with each other, and we smile at them and they at us.

I have brought Donald some letters, which pleases him, and Dorothy has brought him some splendid socks, knitted by herself.

After tea we walk across an arid plain to a little wood, and sit down under the trees.

Donald changes to the new socks--those he had on were wringing wet!

He picks us little bunches of violets, hyacinths and wild strawberry flowers--we have them still.

We are very happy the whole of the day, and have my sandwiches and cake and fruit for supper, there under the trees. And here in thought let me leave "The Student in Arms," who was to me part son, best pal, brother, comrade, and counsellor on all subjects--and more than a little bit of grandpapa!

He could be so many different things because, as another friend and cousin said, "he seemed to know everything about everybody."

I like to think of those two fine spirits--Hugh and Donald--each with a hand to the tiny baby nephew, and a word of greeting for me when I go over the top.

THE END