CHAPTER XXVIII:  GEORGE AND I SPEND A FEW HOURS TOGETHER AT THE STATUES, AND THEN PART—­I REACH HOME—­POSTSCRIPT

I have said on an earlier page that George gained an immediate ascendancy over me, but ascendancy is not the word—­he took me by storm; how, or why, I neither know nor want to know, but before I had been with him more than a few minutes I felt as though I had known and loved him all my life.  And the dog fawned upon him as though he felt just as I did.

“Come to the statues,” said he, as soon as he had somewhat recovered from the shock of the news I had given him.  “We can sit down there on the very stone on which our father and I sat a year ago.  I have brought a basket, which my mother packed for—­for—­him and me.  Did he talk to you about me?”

“He talked of nothing so much, and he thought of nothing so much.  He had your boots put where he could see them from his bed until he died.”

Then followed the explanation about these boots, of which the reader has already been told.  This made us both laugh, and from that moment we were cheerful.

I say nothing about our enjoyment of the luncheon with which Yram had provided us, and if I were to detail all that I told George about my father, and all the additional information that I got from him—­(many a point did he clear up for me that I had not fully understood)—­I should fill several chapters, whereas I have left myself only one.  Luncheon being over I said—­

“And are you married?”

“Yes” (with a blush), “and are you?”

I could not blush.  Why should I?  And yet young people—­especially the most ingenuous among them—­are apt to flush up on being asked if they are, or are going, to be married.  If I could have blushed, I would.  As it was I could only say that I was engaged and should marry as soon as I got back.

“Then you have come all this way for me, when you were wanting to get married?”

“Of course I have.  My father on his death-bed told me to do so, and to bring you something that I have brought you.”

“What trouble I have given!  How can I thank you?”

“Shake hands with me.”

Whereon he gave my hand a stronger grip than I had quite bargained for.

“And now,” said I, “before I tell you what I have brought, you must promise me to accept it.  Your father said I was not to leave you till you had done so, and I was to say that he sent it with his dying blessing.”

After due demur George gave his promise, and I took him to the place where I had hidden my knapsack.

“I brought it up yesterday,” said I.

“Yesterday? but why?”

“Because yesterday—­was it not?—­was the first of the two days agreed upon between you and our father?”

“No—­surely to-day is the first day—­I was to come XXI. i. 3, which would be your December 9.”

“But yesterday was December 9 with us—­to-day is December 10.”

“Strange!  What day of the week do you make it?”

“To-day is Thursday, December 10.”

“This is still stranger—­we make it Wednesday; yesterday was Tuesday.”

Then I saw it.  The year XX. had been a leap year with the Erewhonians, and 1891 in England had not.  This, then, was what had crossed my father’s brain in his dying hours, and what he had vainly tried to tell me.  It was also what my unconscious self had been struggling to tell my conscious one, during the past night, but which my conscious self had been too stupid to understand.  And yet my conscious self had caught it in an imperfect sort of a way after all, for from the moment that my dream had left me I had been composed, and easy in my mind that all would be well.  I wish some one would write a book about dreams and parthenogenesis—­for that the two are part and parcel of the same story—­a brood of folly without father bred—­I cannot doubt.

I did not trouble George with any of this rubbish, but only shewed him how the mistake had arisen.  When we had laughed sufficiently over my mistake—­for it was I who had come up on the wrong day, not he—­I fished my knapsack out of its hiding-place.

“Do not unpack it,” said I, “beyond taking out the brooches, or you will not be able to pack it so well; but you can see the ends of the bars of gold, and you can feel the weight; my father sent them for you.  The pearl brooch is for your mother, the smaller brooches are for your sisters, and your wife.”

I then told him how much gold there was, and from my pockets brought out the watches and the English knife.

“This last,” I said, “is the only thing that I am giving you; the rest is all from our father.  I have many many times as much gold myself, and this is legally your property as much as mine is mine.”

George was aghast, but he was powerless alike to express his feelings, or to refuse the gold.

“Do you mean to say that my father left me this by his will?”

“Certainly he did,” said I, inventing a pious fraud.

“It is all against my oath,” said he, looking grave.

“Your oath be hanged,” said I.  “You must give the gold to the Mayor, who knows that it was coming, and it will appear to the world, as though he were giving it you now instead of leaving you anything.”

“But it is ever so much too much!”

“It is not half enough.  You and the Mayor must settle all that between you.  He and our father talked it all over, and this was what they settled.”

“And our father planned all this, without saying a word to me about it while we were on our way up here?”

“Yes.  There might have been some hitch in the gold’s coming.  Besides the Mayor told him not to tell you.”

“And he never said anything about the other money he left for me—­which enabled me to marry at once?  Why was this?”

“Your mother said he was not to do so.”

“Bless my heart, how they have duped me all round.  But why would not my mother let your father tell me?  Oh yes—­she was afraid I should tell the King about it, as I certainly should, when I told him all the rest.”

“Tell the King?” said I, “what have you been telling the King?”

“Everything; except about the nuggets and the sovereigns, of which I knew nothing; and I have felt myself a blackguard ever since for not telling him about these when he came up here last autumn—­but I let the Mayor and my mother talk me over, as I am afraid they will do again.”

“When did you tell the King?”

Then followed all the details that I have told in the latter part of Chapter XXI.  When I asked how the King took the confession, George said—­

“He was so much flattered at being treated like a reasonable being, and Dr. Downie, who was chief spokesman, played his part so discreetly, without attempting to obscure even the most compromising issues, that though his Majesty made some show of displeasure at first, it was plain that he was heartily enjoying the whole story.

“Dr. Downie shewed very well.  He took on himself the onus of having advised our action, and he gave me all the credit of having proposed that we should make a clean breast of everything.

“The King, too, behaved with truly royal politeness; he was on the point of asking why I had not taken our father to the Blue Pool at once, and flung him into it on the Sunday afternoon, when something seemed to strike him:  he gave me a searching look, on which he said in an undertone, ‘Oh yes,’ and did not go on with his question.  He never blamed me for anything, and when I begged him to accept my resignation of the Rangership, he said—­

“’No.  Stay where you are till I lose confidence in you, which will not, I think, be very soon.  I will come and have a few days’ shooting about the middle of March, and if I have good sport I shall order your salary to be increased.  If any more foreign devils come over, do not Blue-Pool them; send them down to me, and I will see what I think of them; I am much disposed to encourage a few of them to settle here.”

“I am sure,” continued George, “that he said this because he knew I was half a foreign devil myself.  Indeed he won my heart not only by the delicacy of his consideration, but by the obvious good will he bore me.  I do not know what he did with the nuggets, but he gave orders that the blanket and the rest of my father’s kit should be put in the great Erewhonian Museum.  As regards my father’s receipt, and the Professors’ two depositions, he said he would have them carefully preserved in his secret archives.  ‘A document,’ he said somewhat enigmatically, ’is a document—­but, Professor Hanky, you can have this’—­and as he spoke he handed him back his pocket-handkerchief.

“Hanky during the whole interview was furious, at having to play so undignified a part, but even more so, because the King while he paid marked attention to Dr. Downie, and even to myself, treated him with amused disdain.  Nevertheless, angry though he was, he was impenitent, unabashed, and brazened it out at Bridgeford, that the King had received him with open arms, and had snubbed Dr. Downie and myself.  But for his (Hanky’s) intercession, I should have been dismissed then and there from the Rangership.  And so forth.  Panky never opened his mouth.

“Returning to the King, his Majesty said to Dr. Downie, ’I am afraid I shall not be able to canonize any of you gentlemen just yet.  We must let this affair blow over.  Indeed I am in half a mind to have this Sunchild bubble pricked; I never liked it, and am getting tired of it; you Musical Bank gentlemen are overdoing it.  I will talk it over with her Majesty.  As for Professor Hanky, I do not see how I can keep one who has been so successfully hoodwinked, as my Professor of Worldly Wisdom; but I will consult her Majesty about this point also.  Perhaps I can find another post for him.  If I decide on having Sunchildism pricked, he shall apply the pin.  You may go.’

“And glad enough,” said George, “we all of us were to do so.”

“But did he,” I asked, “try to prick the bubble of Sunchildism?”

“Oh no.  As soon as he said he would talk it over with her Majesty, I knew the whole thing would end in smoke, as indeed to all outward appearance it shortly did; for Dr. Downie advised him not to be in too great a hurry, and whatever he did to do it gradually.  He therefore took no further action than to show marked favour to practical engineers and mechanicians.  Moreover he started an aeronautical society, which made Bridgeford furious; but so far, I am afraid it has done us no good, for the first ascent was disastrous, involving the death of the poor fellow who made it, and since then no one has ventured to ascend.  I am afraid we do not get on very fast.”

“Did the King,” I asked, “increase your salary?”

“Yes.  He doubled it.”

“And what do they say in Sunch’ston about our father’s second visit?”

George laughed, and shewed me the newspaper extract which I have already given.  I asked who wrote it.

“I did,” said he, with a demure smile; “I wrote it at night after I returned home, and before starting for the capital next morning.  I called myself ‘the deservedly popular Ranger,’ to avert suspicion.  No one found me out; you can keep the extract, I brought it here on purpose.”

“It does you great credit.  Was there ever any lunatic, and was he found?”

“Oh yes.  That part was true, except that he had never been up our way.”

“Then the poacher is still at large?”

“It is to be feared so.”

“And were Dr. Downie and the Professors canonized after all.”

“Not yet; but the Professors will be next month—­for Hanky is still Professor.  Dr. Downie backed out of it.  He said it was enough to be a Sunchildist without being a Sunchild Saint.  He worships the jumping cat as much as the others, but he keeps his eye better on the cat, and sees sooner both when it will jump, and where it will jump to.  Then, without disturbing any one, he insinuates himself into the place which will be best when the jump is over.  Some say that the cat knows him and follows him; at all events when he makes a move the cat generally jumps towards him soon afterwards.”

“You give him a very high character.”

“Yes, but I have my doubts about his doing much in this matter; he is getting old, and Hanky burrows like a mole night and day.  There is no knowing how it will all end.”

“And the people at Sunch’ston?  Has it got well about among them, in spite of your admirable article, that it was the Sunchild himself who interrupted Hanky?”

“It has, and it has not.  Many of us know the truth, but a story came down from Bridgeford that it was an evil spirit who had assumed the Sunchild’s form, intending to make people sceptical about Sunchildism; Hanky and Panky cowed this spirit, otherwise it would never have recanted.  Many people swallow this.”

“But Hanky and Panky swore that they knew the man.”

“That does not matter.”

“And now please, how long have you been married?”

“About ten months.”

“Any family?”

“One boy about a fortnight old.  Do come down to Sunch’ston and see him—­he is your own nephew.  You speak Erewhonian so perfectly that no human being would suspect you were a foreigner, and you look one of us from head to foot.  I can smuggle you through quite easily, and my mother would so like to see you.”

I should dearly have liked to have gone, but it was out of the question.  I had nothing with me but the clothes I stood in; moreover I was longing to be back in England, and when once I was in Erewhon there was no knowing when I should be able to get away again; but George fought hard before he gave in.

It was now nearing the time when this strange meeting between two brothers—­as strange a one as the statues can ever have looked down upon—­must come to an end.  I shewed George what the repeater would do, and what it would expect of its possessor.  I gave him six good photographs, of my father and myself—­three of each.  He had never seen a photograph, and could hardly believe his eyes as he looked at those I shewed him.  I also gave him three envelopes addressed to myself, care of Alfred Emery Cathie, Esq., 15 Clifford’s Inn, London, and implored him to write to me if he could ever find means of getting a letter over the range as far as the shepherd’s hut.  At this he shook his head, but he promised to write if he could.  I also told him that I had written a full account of my father’s second visit to Erewhon, but that it should never be published till I heard from him—­at which he again shook his head, but added, “And yet who can tell?  For the King may have the country opened up to foreigners some day after all.”

Then he thanked me a thousand times over, shouldered the knapsack, embraced me as he had my father, and caressed the dog, embraced me again, and made no attempt to hide the tears that ran down his cheeks.

“There,” he said; “I shall wait here till you are out of sight.”

I turned away, and did not look back till I reached the place at which I knew that I should lose the statues.  I then turned round, waved my hand—­as also did George, and went down the mountain side, full of sad thoughts, but thankful that my task had been so happily accomplished, and aware that my life henceforward had been enriched by something that I could never lose.

For I had never seen, and felt as though I never could see, George’s equal.  His absolute unconsciousness of self, the unhesitating way in which he took me to his heart, his fearless frankness, the happy genial expression that played on his face, and the extreme sweetness of his smile—­these were the things that made me say to myself that the “blazon of beauty’s best” could tell me nothing better than what I had found and lost within the last three hours.  How small, too, I felt by comparison!  If for no other cause, yet for this, that I, who had wept so bitterly over my own disappointment the day before, could meet this dear fellow’s tears with no tear of my own.

But let this pass.  I got back to Harris’s hut without adventure.  When there, in the course of the evening, I told Harris that I had a fancy for the rug he had found on the river-bed, and that if he would let me have it, I would give him my red one and ten shillings to boot.  The exchange was so obviously to his advantage that he made no demur, and next morning I strapped Yram’s rug on to my horse, and took it gladly home to England, where I keep it on my own bed next to the counterpane, so that with care it may last me out my life.  I wanted him to take the dog and make a home for him, but he had two collies already, and said that a retriever would be of no use to him.  So I took the poor beast on with me to the port, where I was glad to find that Mr. Baker liked him and accepted him from me, though he was not mine to give.  He had been such an unspeakable comfort to me when I was alone, that he would have haunted me unless I had been able to provide for him where I knew he would be well cared for.  As for Doctor, I was sorry to leave him, but I knew he was in good hands.

“I see you have not brought your knapsack back, sir,” said Mr. Baker.

“No,” said I, “and very thankful was I when I had handed it over to those for whom it was intended.”

“I have no doubt you were, sir, for I could see it was a desperate heavy load for you.”

“Indeed it was.”  But at this point I brought the discussion to a close.

Two days later I sailed, and reached home early in February 1892.  I was married three weeks later, and when the honeymoon was over, set about making the necessary, and some, I fear, unnecessary additions to this book—­by far the greater part of which had been written, as I have already said, many months earlier.  I now leave it, at any rate for the present, April 22, 1892.

* * * *

Postscript.—­On the last day of November 1900, I received a letter addressed in Mr. Alfred Cathie’s familiar handwriting, and on opening it found that it contained another, addressed to me in my own, and unstamped.  For the moment I was puzzled, but immediately knew that it must be from George.  I tore it open, and found eight closely written pages, which I devoured as I have seldom indeed devoured so long a letter.  It was dated XXIX. vii. 1, and, as nearly as I can translate it was as follows;-

“Twice, my dearest brother, have I written to you, and twice in successive days in successive years, have I been up to the statues on the chance that you could meet me, as I proposed in my letters.  Do not think I went all the way back to Sunch’ston—­there is a ranger’s shelter now only an hour and a half below the statues, and here I passed the night.  I knew you had got neither of my letters, for if you had got them and could not come yourself, you would have sent some one whom you could trust with a letter.  I know you would, though I do not know how you would have contrived to do it.

“I sent both letters through Bishop Kahabuka (or, as his inferior clergy call him, ’Chowbok’), head of the Christian Mission to Erewhemos, which, as your father has doubtless told you, is the country adjoining Erewhon, but inhabited by a coloured race having no affinity with our own.  Bishop Kahabuka has penetrated at times into Erewhon, and the King, wishing to be on good terms with his neighbours, has permitted him to establish two or three mission stations in the western parts of Erewhon.  Among the missionaries are some few of your own countrymen.  None of us like them, but one of them is teaching me English, which I find quite easy.

“As I wrote in the letters that have never reached you, I am no longer Ranger.  The King, after some few years (in the course of which I told him of your visit, and what you had brought me), declared that I was the only one of his servants whom he could trust, and found high office for me, which kept me in close confidential communication with himself.

“About three years ago, on the death of his Prime Minister, he appointed me to fill his place; and it was on this, that so many possibilities occurred to me concerning which I dearly longed for your opinion, that I wrote and asked you, if you could, to meet me personally or by proxy at the statues, which I could reach on the occasion of my annual visit to my mother—­yes—­and father—­at Sunch’ston.

“I sent both letters by way of Erewhemos, confiding them to Bishop Kahabuka, who is just such another as St. Hanky.  He tells me that our father was a very old and dear friend of his—­but of course I did not say anything about his being my own father.  I only inquired about a Mr. Higgs, who was now worshipped in Erewhon as a supernatural being.  The Bishop said it was, “Oh, so very dreadful,” and he felt it all the more keenly, for the reason that he had himself been the means of my father’s going to Erewhon, by giving him the information that enabled him to find the pass over the range that bounded the country.

“I did not like the man, but I thought I could trust him with a letter, which it now seems I could not do.  This third letter I have given him with a promise of a hundred pounds in silver for his new Cathedral, to be paid as soon as I get an answer from you.

“We are all well at Sunch’ston; so are my wife and eight children—­five sons and three daughters—­but the country is at sixes and sevens.  St. Panky is dead, but his son Pocus is worse.  Dr. Downie has become very lethargic.  I can do less against St. Hankyism than when I was a private man.  A little indiscretion on my part would plunge the country in civil war.  Our engineers and so-called men of science are sturdily begging for endowments, and steadily claiming to have a hand in every pie that is baked from one end of the country to the other.  The missionaries are buying up all our silver, and a change in the relative values of gold and silver is in progress of which none of us foresee the end.

“The King and I both think that annexation by England, or a British Protectorate, would be the saving of us, for we have no army worth the name, and if you do not take us over some one else soon will.  The King has urged me to send for you.  If you come (do! do! do!) you had better come by way of Erewhemos, which is now in monthly communication with Southampton.  If you will write me that you are coming I will meet you at the port, and bring you with me to our own capital, where the King will be overjoyed to see you.”

* * *

The rest of the letter was filled with all sorts of news which interested me, but would require chapters of explanation before they could become interesting to the reader.

The letter wound up:-

   “You may publish now whatever you like, whenever you like.

“Write to me by way of Erewhemos, care of the Right Reverend the Lord Bishop, and say which way you will come.  If you prefer the old road, we are bound to be in the neighbourhood of the statues by the beginning of March.  My next brother is now Ranger, and could meet you at the statues with permit and luncheon, and more of that white wine than ever you will be able to drink.  Only let me know what you will do.

“I should tell you that the old railway which used to run from Clearwater to the capital, and which, as you know, was allowed to go to ruin, has been reconstructed at an outlay far less than might have been expected—­for the bridges had been maintained for ordinary carriage traffic.  The journey, therefore, from Sunch’ston to the capital can now be done in less than forty hours.  On the whole, however, I recommend you to come by way of Erewhemos.  If you start, as I think possible, without writing from England, Bishop Kahabuka’s palace is only eight miles from the port, and he will give you every information about your further journey—­a distance of less than a couple of hundred miles.  But I should prefer to meet you myself.

“My dearest brother, I charge you by the memory of our common father, and even more by that of those three hours that linked you to me for ever, and which I would fain hope linked me also to yourself—­come over, if by any means you can do so—­come over and help us.

   “GEORGE STRONG.”

“My dear,” said I to my wife who was at the other end of the breakfast table, “I shall have to translate this letter to you, and then you will have to help me to begin packing; for I have none too much time.  I must see Alfred, and give him a power of attorney.  He will arrange with some publisher about my book, and you can correct the press.  Break the news gently to the children; and get along without me, my dear, for six months as well as you can.”

* * * *

I write this at Southampton, from which port I sail to-morrow—­i.e.  November 15, 1900—­for Erewhemos.