October 9, 1915. 
LAND A .N I) ,W A T E R 
THE SOLDIER'S VISITOR. 
By Algernon Blackwood. 
I SIT ill mv room and dream. . . . Autumn steals 
across the slanting sunlight on the la^v^ for the 
year stands at the keen, and the smells of child- 
hood float beneath the thinning branches. In my 
long chair bv the open window I sit and dream. 
I plaved upon that lasxn, I Uyok the hawks eggs 
from the dizzy, topmost branches ; It was on tt.rf like that 
I won the hundred yards. Sure of myself, I moyed 
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 
1 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 s\ liable a 
century, each word an age. It was so long ago. And 
1 try to rise and see the folded daisies as they take the 
sunset by the grey thatched summer-house. But my 
body stops — I cannot move without assistance. . . . 
I remember how it happened. I remember a pause, then 
saving aloud as quietly as if I were playing tennis, 
*' Now, old chap, it's your turn ! Go it 1 " 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 bavonet 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. 1 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 f fall I 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 ihall hear her cloak sweep trailing 
through the beech-wood 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 thall take to wrap my thoughts In, and 
my dreams, through years to come, • • i 
For I phall 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 doo? 
. . . and I shut my eyes, because I had no liking for mj^ 
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 sh* 
be desired and desirable. I feel the soul in contact. It 
is only one degree more intimate than to hear the men- 
tion of my name, my little name. . . . And yet, before 
my mind could question — it works slowly, thickly it\ 
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 feU 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 
tiirough 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, sun- 
light, and wild-flowers 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 tliem — you 
could not find them, 
they may come to you. 
And then I saw that, while more beautiful and de- 
sirable than anyone I had ever known, she was yet 
strangely familiar to me. Where, how, under what con- 
ditions, 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 incompar- 
able 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 1 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 un- 
believable happiness rising. " I did not call — I had no 
thought — at least I only- 
1. Now that you cannot go to them, 
ou. They are all within your reach. 
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 
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