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Once the cue was given, what more natural than that young Rudyard Kipling, fresh home from India, brimming over with genius and with knowledge of two concurrent streams of life that flow on side by side yet never mingle, should take up his parable in due course, and storm us all by assault with his light field artillery?
The White Old Maid, Nathaniel Hawthorne. A Journey, Edith Wharton. The Brushwood Boy, Rudyard Kipling. At the Pit's Mouth, Rudyard Kipling. The Gold Bug What ho! what ho! this fellow is dancing mad! He hath been bitten by the Tarantula. All in the Wrong. Many years ago I contracted an intimacy with a Mr. William Legrand.
Has the British soldier, one wonders, yet discovered Rudyard Kipling, or is the Wessex peasant aware of Thomas Hardy? It is odd to think that the last people to read such authors are the very people they most concern.
Late in December some one in the War Office thought that we had given up too much ground about Fromelles and Armentieres, so an attack was ordered which resulted in nothing beyond the killing of a great many Highlanders, Gordons, Black Watch, Argyles, and virtually destroying a Brigade of Guards. But nothing came of all this, and it is, as I suppose as Rudyard Kipling would say, "another story."
Al'mah was gently appreciative of the welcome she received from both Byng and Jasmine, and she prepared to sing. "Yes, I think I am in good voice," she said to Jasmine, presently. Then Rudyard went, giving his wife's arm a little familiar touch as he passed, and said: "Remember, we must have some patriotic things tonight. I'm sure Al'mah will feel so, too. Something really patriotic and stirring.
She sat up straight in the seat of the cart, her hands clinched. No, no, no, Rudyard was not dead, and he should not die. It mattered not what Al'mah had written, she must have her chance to prove herself; his big soul must have its chance to run a long course, must not be cut off at the moment when so much had been done; when there was so much to do.
He was much among his own wounded, much with others who were comforted by his solicitude, by the courage of his eye, and the grasp of his firm, friendly hand. It was at what the soldiers called the Stay Awhile Hospital that he came in living touch again with the life he had left behind. He knew that Rudyard Byng had come to South Africa; but he knew no more.
Was it that Other Self which is allowed to come to us as our trouble or our doom approaches, who called sharply in his ear as De Lancy Scovel said, "Byng ought to get up earlier in the morning much earlier." Rudyard wakened upon the words without stirring just a wide opening of the eyes and a moveless body.
She found the attendant who had given her the letter, and asked if the messenger was waiting, and was only then informed that he had been gone three hours or more. Three hours or more! It might be that Rudyard was gone forever without hearing what she had to say, or knowing whether she desired reconciliation and peace. She at once gave orders for a cape-cart to take her over to Brinkwort's Farm.
NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: "The White Old Maid." BRET HARTE: "Tennessee's Pardner." ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON: "Markheim." RUDYARD KIPLING: "Without Benefit of Clergy." KENNETH GRAHAME: "The Roman Road." F. J. STIMSON: "Mrs. Knollys." GUY DE MAUPASSANT: "The Necklace." ALPHONSE DAUDET: "The Last Class." H. C. BUNNER: "A Sisterly Scheme." O. HENRY: "A Municipal Report."
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