The Good Comrade

by Una L. Silberrad

"The ancient Britons wore paint, and probably had fashions in it; I don't think of imitating them. Tell me," she said, turning now to gather the sweet-scented wild thyme, "did you ever really do anything foolish in your life? I should like to know."

He answered her that he had, but without convincing her. Afterwards, he came to the conclusion that, whatever might have been the case before, he that day qualified to take rank with any one in the matter.

All the same, it was a very pleasant day, and they both enjoyed it much; it is doubtful if any one in the town or its environs enjoyed that holiday more than these two, who, from different reasons, had probably never had so real a holiday before. They wandered over the great open tract of land, meeting no one; once they came near enough to the seaward edge to see the distant shimmer of water; once they found themselves in the part where there has been some little attempt at cultivation, and small patches of potatoes struggle for life, and a little railway crosses the sandhills. Twice they came upon the road along which, on working days, the peasant women bring their fish to market in the town. But chiefly they kept to the small, dense woods, where the sunlight only splashed the ground; or to the open solitary spaces where the bees hummed in the wild thyme, and the butterflies chased each other over the low rose bushes.

A good deal after mid-day, at a time dictated entirely by choice, and not custom, they made their way back to the beer garden. It was a very little place, scarcely worthy of the name; the smallest possible house, more like a barn than anything else, right in the shadow of the wood. The fare to be obtained was bad beer, excellent coffee, new bread, and old cheese; but it was enough, supplemented by the cakes bought yesterday in the town; Julia knew enough of the ways of the place to know one can bring one's own food to such places without giving offence. As in the morning, when they first passed it, there was no one about, every one had gone to the fair, except one taciturn old woman who brought the required things and then shut herself in the house. The meal was spread under the trees on a little green-painted table, with legs buried deep in sand; there were two high, straight chairs set up to the table, and a wooden footstool put by one for Julia, who, seeing it, said this was certainly a picnic, and it was really necessary to eat the broodje in the correct picnic way. Rawson-Clew tried, with much gravity, but she laughed till the taciturn old woman looked out of window, and wondered who they were, and how they came to be here.

When the meal was done, they went back again up the steep slope, and then away on the left. The country on this side was less open, and more hilly, deeper hollows and larger woods, still there was not much difficulty in finding the way. The latter part of the day was not so fine as the earlier, the sky clouded over, and, though there was still no wind, the air grew more chilly. They hardly noticed the change, being in a dense young wood where there was little light, but Julia lost something of the holiday spirit, and Rawson-Clew became grave, talking more seriously of serious things than had ever before happened in their curious acquaintanceship. They sat down to rest in a green hollow, and Julia began to arrange neatly the bunch of short-stemmed thyme flowers that she carried. They had been quiet for some little time, she thinking about their curious acquaintance, and wondering when it would end. Of course it would end—she knew that; it was a thing of mind only; there was very little feeling about it—a certain mutual interest and a liking that had grown of late, kindness on his part, gratitude on hers, nothing more. But of its sort it had grown to be intimate; she had told him things of her thoughts, and of herself, and her people too, that she had told to no one else; and he, which was perhaps more remarkable, had sometimes returned the compliment. And yet by and by—soon, perhaps—he would go away, and it would be as if they had never met; it was like people on a steamer together, she thought, for the space of the voyage they saw each other daily, saw more intimately into each other than many blood relations did, and then, when port was reached, they separated, the whole thing finished. She wondered when this would finish, and just then Rawson-Clew spoke, and unconsciously answered her thought.

"I am going back to England soon," he said.

She looked up. "Is your work here finished?" she asked.

"It is at an end," he answered; "that is the same thing."

Then she, her intuition enlightened by a like experience suddenly knew that he, too, had failed. "You mean it cannot be done," she said.

He opened his cigarette case, and selected a cigarette carefully. "May I smoke?" he asked; "there are a good many gnats and mosquitoes about here." He felt for a match, and, when he had struck it, asked impersonally, "Do you believe things cannot be done?"