ENGLAND'S WITCHERY.

Auckland Star, Volume XLVII, Issue 180, 29 July 1916, Page 13

ENGLAND'S WITCHERY.

ANZAC SOLDIER'S WELCOME.

"HABBY BE COME HOME."

4By J- E - G - MONTMORENCY, in the "Contemporary Review.").

_, young man lingered on the steps of a famous Thames-side building chatting in the crowd of English and Australians who were gathered together to welcome and entertain some wounded Australians. This young man was one of the wounded, and his pale face and strained eyes made the onlookers feel that, despite all welcomes and kindnesses, he was not yet at home in England. Far from his native land, be felt in this, the land of his allegiance, that he was on foreign soil. Born in Sydney, and indeed in the poorest part of Sydney, his home and his heart were there. AH that he loved are there or at the fruit farm not so far away, where he gained, as the hero limned by Mr. C. J. Dennis gained, the splendid thews and health that this hero gave up, perhaps for ever, j_ gaunt Gall ipoli.

What could Australia, from the point of view of homeliness, have m common with England? No doubt to-day they bare sparrows and rabbits and other imported birds and animals of a more pleasing type in common; no doubt there was resemblance between the apples and "berries" of Australia and the Motherland; but the sea, the mountains, the gum trees, the native birds and beasts, the lie of scenery, the, flow of water, the endless bush, had nothing in common with England. To this lad's consciousness England was almost as foreign as the Grecian Isles he bad visited, and it seemed to him strange to hear the chatter of English in the streets and recognise some of the sources of the Sydney slang of 'his boyhood.

Someone said to him: "You know Sydney, of course?"

His pale face coloured, and he sighed rather than said "Sydney," and as he said it the strained eyes lor a moment grew dreamy and fixed on infinity, vAere dwelt the wonderful headlands of that Southern world which the little Southern Cross watches with eyes of hope. (Yes, he knew Sydney; his father and mother were near there, and his little brothers and sisters, too young for war. His father talked of coming over; what did the questioner think? His father was 55. Did that seem too old? And so he chattered on.

Then his new friend said. "But have you no English relations!" and the young man, turning his gaze on tbe sparkling Thames flood-tide that on this •May day was gaily tumbling down to the sea, said slowly, with something like a nervous drawl: "Yes, I have English idations; i birt they are far away." "Whit is the address ? The new friend opened his eyes and smiled, as he read a rather thumbed letter which the Australian soldier boy handed to him, and murmured: "It is a small world." This was the letter, which had gone from England to Australia, from Australia to Gallipoli, and at last had run down the J>oung warrior in a London hospital: "Yexiter Farm, "Worthlton-on-the-Moor, England. "Dear Cousin Jane,—We have never seen etch other since we played in the fields here, as little girls, bnt it is not too late to write to each other, though I am nearly 90 <ad you are more. I have here many family relics and portraits. If any of your foli at any time during this war or after come over, they must come and see their old cousin. I grow rather shaky, but how we did dance 80 years ago. My granddanghter, who is writing this for mc, is 20 years old, and I have a great-grandchild of ». It is only lately that I have got your address through the family law suit, in which the lawyers got much of the money, bat not this farm. "Ever your affectionate cousin, •"Emily Brayfield." No date; the handwriting of a village school; the sentiments of a very aged, cheery cynic. The letter conveyed nothing to the Australian soldier, Harry Brayfield, but it conveyed a very great deal to his new friend, who had argued bo long in the exhausting partition suit ol Brayfield v. Brayfield to which the old lady referred.

Do you know Mrs. Brayfield? Yes, I mow Mrs. Brayfield well. She put mc in the suit; almost my first important •uit. She lives in the chimney corner. What is a chimney comer? Have you ho chimney corners in Australia? Come, come, my friend, there must be no delay. You must come aud see Mrs. Brayfield Pub week.

"Wait a minute," said the boy, exotedly, and biting his lip 6as his wound him an intimation of human frailty. "Wait a minute. Is she a *ilich? I remember grandma told mc fwt there were witches at Worthiton. Grandma said if she had stayed in England she would have been a witch by "ow, and said—that was a year ago— that if Cousin Emily were alive 6he "fould be a witch. We have no witches fa Australia, except the Blaekboy ■itches."

Very earnestly this was all said, and. plainly, the boy was struggling with memories of things that he had been told about England; things that he had wen frightened with or pleased with as * child. Suddenly England was no longer foreign or strange, and the young lawyer smiled with delight as Barry Brayfield found kinship with England througn the medium of a witch of to years.

So lie springtide trip was arranged, wd the barrister wrote to old Mrs. wayfield with the news. They were to meet at a certain station by a certain train, and were to be whirled through W greenelad, homely lands, Bwect w : th •OBg and redolent of pear and plum and , ™ e "ry and early apple blossom, to the kad of the witches where grandma's •"Mia dwelt. And the pair met a? 'as arranged, and sped west and south *L Waa arra nged, and one fine golden •fteraoon found themselves standing on * nttle station road waiting for the eon 'eyaace from Yexiter Farm. They were the only souls on the road *d they revelled in the fresh beauty of ™* scene, the sweetness of sun and air. ™ a gold of the gorae, the thrilling of we thrush, the clearness of the clouds *"<! presently the conveyance came in "gat, tumbling down the road with an ~ aerit y that betokened dissolution. A ** l E6 and aged horse ambled with a danjJMous speed, and the great haycart that M drew seemed to shake with laughter « such speed. In the cart were three "*ing stools, two of which rolled . y°SV While the third supported the aged man, in, Wortcir

ton, -white-bearded, fresh-faced, but infinitely wrinkled, " and joyous in an antamnal way thia fresh spring afternoon.

The cart drew up with a jerk by the travellers, and the braes decorations on the horse—all, as young Harry learnt later, designed to ward off witches, a fact few people know—jingled for joy. since they, at any rate, had known Harry's great-grandfather, who had assiduous! r polished them when George HI. was ; i-ing. The old man was out of the cart with a speed that amazed the soldier, who looked at the tall, lean figure with tbe humorous bearded face as though something was familiar.

"Master George," said the old farmer cunningly to the lawyer, "bast seen in Lunnon ma cousin Harry Brayfield?" The lawyer laughed but said nothing, for the keen-eyed Australian bad already traced the secret of tbe curious familiarity of manner.

' "I'm Harry Brayfield," said he, "and you must be my grandpa's brother. You have just his shoulders." "I do be be, Harry, mv lad, I do be be, and I be very old. But bow, now tell Ime, now do ye tell without delay, how do be my brother James wbom I did think dead, long dead? How do be he?" "He is well and hale, Unde Charles." "Do he be so?" and the old man, heedlese of Master George, rained down teats of memories and thankfulness, and placing bis long, thin, brown hands on his great-nephew's shoulders, gazed through the mist of the stirred heart at this lithe scion of the ancient stock.

It was a moving 6cene, but not one to witness, so George sought a bird nest that never hung 'twist sky and earth, while Great-uncle Charles and Greatnephew Harry knit without words the broken links of time. When George at last turned lie heaTd the old man say:

'Tor five hundered 'ears, lad. Yexiter Farm has been held by a Brayfield, all those 'ears and more, and now a Brayfield has come back in nick o' time. My son died long ago, his Bons are dead ir. Flander3. I—so old, so old—be the 1a.4 o' the name, 'mong males that be. Cut Harry be come home."

The young soldier said nothing. Floods of something that he did not understand were entering his being. It was the per sonal call of the Motherland, throush the broken, thin voice of this strange, gaunt, white - bearded, ruddy-faced. hrown-handed old man. Something of the Old Testament seemed to rinu through this strange interview in th> brilliant May sunlight on that deephedged warm hillside. "Come," said lawyer George, 'Hve must make the cart comfortable for this wounded warrior. Did you bring no hay for him to lie in?' " 1

"He must make shift with grass, like Nezzar," said the old man.

It was plain for a long drive that the milking-etool was out of the question, and lawyer George, who knew these parts and the farms, disappeared with a grunt, and returned in a few minutes so laden with hay that his own inn would not have known him, and soon the Prodigal was lying in perfect comfort on a divine bed of last year's hay, with law jer George watching over him from the height of a milking-stool, while old Farmer Charles skilfully steered the ancient steed up the longhill that led to the "moor.

They had so adjusted the Australian lad that he could watch the scene as they wound along the open land where the green farm 6 shone in the ever-ex-tending distance like islands on the great moor. It was a land of wonderful distances, wonderful healing power, strange and holy silences. Xiltle was said as they went along. Old Charles drove with infinite care tc prevent tbe racking of wounds, but Harry thought little of wounds or war; he was, though he never said it to himself, really entering the land of the witches. A subtle witchery had woven itself round his being. He knew that be was coming home. He did not ask himself what home was like. He was not fcr an instant disloyal to Sydney and itc matchless beauties, home 'n the great irrigated fruitlands of tho Southern Cross, to his father and mother and the little brothers and sisters. But he was, all the same, coming home; any- , thing might happen at any moment, he I felt, and it was not a dream like tie dTeam of the trenches or of the hopftal; the dreams of deaT home faces and tender cooling hands on his hot forehead. It was a reality that seemed to penetrate every pore, every thought. "Harry be come home."

Presently the cart turned off the Ion? main road down a wandering elm-laced lane that passed on through a wood of Scotch firs, and then suddenly there was a vision of open fields, and in the heart of the greenery was set a large thatched and timbered house with many outlying barns. It was Yexitc-r Farm. And as they came in sight a young girl of teu or so, who was watching, turned ana sped into the house with a call like a bell, and returned with an older sturdy girl, or woman rather, both running with amazing swiftness. As they reached the cart they stopped disappointed.

"Where be he? Where be Cousin Harry?"

"Dropped he down the well by gate." Baid the old man grimly. "He be black man."

"Ye be old fibber, granfer," said the elder girl, as she caught sight of the hay and the khaki burden.

But her voice was hushed-. Tired — lulled by tbe air and the quietnessHarry had fallen asleep, and as he lay there a sudden dread fell on them all. the fear that he, too, had been taken, he whom they were longing to know and love.

And then, stirred by the sudden quietness of the creaking cart, he opened his eyes, and saw looking at him his cousin. Esther Brayfield. There she stood, hands on hips, with just a glimpse of defiance at her grandfather, a glimmer of respect for Master George, and a wealth of pity and sympathy for Harry, the hero. The mingling of all these feelings in her face, so rosy and bright and healthy, made her certainly an attractive figure. The 6ight of her was an awakening that Herrrck would have chosen in the merry month of May. And they smiled at each other.

"Grandmother is waiting for you," she said, with sudden formality. "Cousin Harry, and will 6erve the tea herself."

So the descent from the cart was made successfully, and Master George was bidden to tea, and leaning, almost unnecessarily on Great-uncle Charlee and Great-cousin Esther, Harry was led into the presence. It is not a scene to describe in detail. Mrs. Emily BrayfieJd, who lives in the chimney corner, would not wish it, and | those who know her repnted powers as a witch—and who does not?—are ever anxious to obey her orders. When Harry entered he saw m the half light a, mighty figuro emerge from the Shelter of a chimney corner almost behind the flickering fire itself. Erect, hot •with slow stops, it came forward, and, looking -with piercing eyes at the votdj man, welcomed him to the old Home. Piercing though her eyee vara, they were fall, too, of hnmonr and sjatJßaaaa, and. fcer -rodeo partook but little of the toa*t

brows. Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman, was her voice, singularly sweet and' musical. This gigantic presence overwhelmed the young man where Turk and Hun had failed. "Sit ye, my dear," Baid she. For days with her aged hands 6he had cleaned and prepared for this feast family silver, some of which had not 6cen the light for 70 years. Such a meal never was before since the beginning of time, and Harry had travelled 1 many a thousand miles to win it; but it was not the vast abundance of jams and cakes and scones and cream and good things, but the sacramental nature of the feast in that old kitchen parlour, with its visions of black oak and shining pewter and ancient glasses, set forth by the shining white of tablecloths woven a century ago, that stirred the soul. It was tc the old man and the old woman and all the folk a consecration of family life. A mystic presence over shadowed the feast; flowed in through the lattice windows from the gleaming fruit bloseom of the orchard. The ho6ts •were old, but they had lived to say "Harry be come home" again. All -the rifts of all the years had -vanished. The Motherland had called to her children and they had come, and. having come, they are •welcomed for «*ennore: for each is the •witchery of Kngtond, mother -of .io»nxJetton*.