Isn't he pure gold, my Boggley? I know that you too "think nobly of the soul." He will be home in a year, and I am trying to tell myself that a year isn't long. Well, the Indian trip is over, and I have a lot, learned a few things, and made some friends—best of them my faithful G. It is rather astonishing that I should have the joy of her company home again. Many people, I am sure, expected she would remain in India, but I think she took the precaution to leave her heart at home, wise G. One thing you should be thankful for, there will be no more letters. What a blessing people are nicer than their letters! How good you have been about mine, how willing to take an interest in the people I met, in the places I saw, in everything I told you about; and when I was jocose, you pretended to be amused. Ah, well! Be cheerful, sir, our revels now are ended!
And so I am going home, home to my own bleak kindly land, "place of all weathers that end in rain." I am going home to my own people (I think I see Peter jigging up and down in expectation before my trunks); and I am going to you. And the queer thing is, I can't feel glad, I am so home-sick for India. All my horror of bombs and sudden death has gone, and memory (as someone says) is making magic carpets under my feet, so that I am back again in the white, hot sunlight, under the dusty palm-trees, hearing the creak of the wagons, as the patient oxen toil on the long straight roads, and the songs of the coolies returning home at even, I see the country lying vague in the clammy morning mist, and the great broad Ganges glimmering wanly; and again it is a wonderful clear night of stars. I know that my own land is the best land, that the fat babu with his carefully oiled and parted hair and his too-apparent sock-suspenders can't be mentioned in the same breath as the Britisher; that our daffodils and primroses are sweeter far than the heavy-scented blossoms of the East; that the "brain-fever" bird of India is a wretched substitute for the lark and the thrush and others of "God's jocund little fowls"; that Abana and Pharpar and other rivers of Damascus are better than this Jordan—all this, I say, I know; but to-night I don't believe it.
India has thrown golden dust in my eyes, and I am seeing things all wrong. We have anchored for the night…. I am watching the misty green blur, which is all that is left to me of India, grow more and more indistinct as darkness falls. Soon it will be night.
G., who has been absolutely silent for more than an hour, sat up suddenly just now, and took my hand.
"Olivia," she said. "It's a nice place, England." Her tone was the tone of one seeking reassurance.
"It is," I said dolefully. "Very."
"And it really doesn't rain such a great deal,"
"No."
"Anyway, it's home, and India isn't, though India has been jolly." She sighed.
Then, "I shall enjoy a slice of good roast beef," said G.
The Setons
TO
MY MOTHER
IN MEMORY OF
HER TWO SONS
They sought the glory of their country they see the glory of God
CHAPTER I
"Look to the bakemeats, good Angelica,
Spare not for cost."
Romeo and Juliet.
A November night in Glasgow.
Mr. Thomson got out of the electric tram which every evening brought him from business, walked briskly down the road until he came to a neat villa with Jeanieville cut in the pillar, almost trotted up the gravelled path, let himself in with his latchkey, shut the door behind him, and cried, "Are ye there, Mamma? Mamma, are ye there?"
After four-and-twenty years of matrimony John Thomson still cried for Jeanie his wife the moment he entered the house.
Mrs. Thomson came out of the dining-room and helped her husband to take off his coat.
"You're home, Papa," she said, "and in nice time, too. Now we'll all get our tea comfortable in the parlour before we change our clothes. (Jessie tell Annie Papa's in.) Your things are all laid out on the bed, John, and I've put your gold studs in a dress shirt—but whit's that you're carrying, John?"
John Thomson regarded his parcel rather shame-facedly.
