The long summer day dragged itself out for centuries; but at last there was tea on the lawn, and Miriam appeared.
She was in the saddle before he could offer to help, with the clean spring of the child who mounted the pony for the Thirty–Mile Ride. The day held mercilessly, though Georgie got down thrice to look for imaginary stones in Rufus's foot. One cannot say even simple things in broad light, and this that Georgie meditated was not simple. So he spoke seldom, and Miriam was divided between relief and scorn. It annoyed her that the great hulking thing should know she had written the words of the song overnight; for though a maiden may sing her most secret fancies aloud, she does not care to have them trampled over by the male Philistine. They rode into the little red–brick street of Bassett, and Georgie made untold fuss over the disposition of that duck. It must go in just such a package, and be fastened to the saddle in just such a manner, though eight o'clock had struck and they were miles from dinner.
"We must be quick!" said Miriam, bored and angry.
"There's no great hurry; but we can cut over Dowhead Down, and let 'em out on the grass. That will save us half an hour."
The horses capered on the short, sweet–smelling turf, and the delaying shadows gathered in the valley as they cantered over the great dun down that overhangs Bassett and the Western coaching–road. Insensibly the pace quickened without thought of mole–hills; Rufus, gentleman that he was, waiting on Miriam's Dandy till they should have cleared the rise. Then down the two–mile slope they raced together, the wind whistling in their ears, to the steady throb of eight hoofs and the light click–click of the shifting bits.
"Oh, that was glorious!" Miriam cried, reining in. "Dandy and I are old friends, but I don't think we've ever gone better together."
"No; but you've gone quicker, once or twice."
"Really? When?"
Georgie moistened his lips. "Don't you remember the Thirty–Mile Ride—with me—when 'They' were after us—on the beach–road, with the sea to the left—going toward the lamp–post on the downs?"
The girl gasped. "What—what do you mean?" she said hysterically.
"The Thirty–Mile Ride, and—and all the rest of it."
"You mean—? I didn't sing anything about the Thirty–Mile Ride. I know I didn't. I have never told a living soul.'"
"You told about Policeman Day, and the lamp at the top of the downs, and the City of Sleep. It all joins on, you know—it's the same country—and it was easy enough to see where you had been."
"Good God!—It joins on—of course it does; but—I have been—you have been—Oh, let's walk, please, or I shall fall off!"
Georgie ranged alongside, and laid a hand that shook below her bridle–hand, pulling Dandy into a walk. Miriam was sobbing as he had seen a man sob under the touch of the bullet.
"It's all right—it's all right," he whispered feebly. "Only—only it's true, you know."
"True! Am I mad?"
"Not unless I'm mad as well. Do try to think a minute quietly. How could any one conceivably know anything about the Thirty–Mile Ride having anything to do with you, unless he had been there?"
"But where? But where? Tell me!"
"There—wherever it may be—in our country, I suppose. Do you remember the first time you rode it—the Thirty–Mile Ride, I mean? You must."
"It was all dreams—all dreams!"
"Yes, but tell, please; because I know."
"Let me think. I—we were on no account to make any noise—on no account to make any noise." She was staring between Dandy's ears, with eyes that did not see, and a suffocating heart.
"Because 'It' was dying in the big house?" Georgie went on, reining in again.
"There was a garden with green–and–gilt railings—all hot. Do you remember?"
"I ought to. I was sitting on the other side of the bed before 'It' coughed and 'They' came in."
"You!"—the deep voice was unnaturally full and strong, and the girl's wide–opened eyes burned in the dusk as she stared him through and through. "Then you're the Boy—my Brushwood Boy, and I've known you all my life!"
She fell forward on Dandy's neck. Georgie forced himself out of the weakness that was overmastering his limbs, and slid an arm round her waist. The head dropped on his shoulder, and he found himself with parched lips saying things that up till then he believed existed only in printed works of fiction. Mercifully the horses were quiet. She made no attempt to draw herself away when she recovered, but lay still, whispering, "Of course you're the Boy, and I didn't know—I didn't know."
"I knew last night; and when I saw you at breakfast—"
"Oh, that was why! I wondered at the time. You would, of course."
"I couldn't speak before this. Keep your head where it is, dear. It's all right now—all right now, isn't it?"
"But how was it I didn't know—after all these years and years? I remember—oh, what lots of things I remember!"
"Tell me some. I'll look after the horses."
"I remember waiting for you when the steamer came in. Do you?"
"At the Lily Lock, beyond Hong–Kong and Java?"
"Do you call it that, too?"
"You told me it was when I was lost in the continent. That was you that showed me the way through the mountains?"
"When the islands slid? It must have been, because you're the only one I remember. All the others were 'Them.'
"Awful brutes they were, too."
"I remember showing you the Thirty–Mile Ride the first time. You ride just as you used to—then. You are you!"
"That's odd. I thought that of you this afternoon. Isn't it wonderful?"
"What does it all mean? Why should you and I of the millions of people in the world have this—this thing between us? What does it mean? I'm frightened."
"This!" said Georgie. The horses quickened their pace. They thought they had heard an order. "Perhaps when we die we may find out more, but it means this now."
There was no answer. What could she say? As the world went, they had known each other rather less than eight and a half hours, but the matter was one that did not concern the world. There was a very long silence, while the breath in their nostrils drew cold and sharp as it might have been a fume of ether.
"That's the second," Georgie whispered. "You remember, don't you?"
"It's not!"—furiously. "It's not!"
"On the downs the other night–months ago. You were just as you are now, and we went over the country for miles and miles."
"It was all empty, too. They had gone away. Nobody frightened us. I wonder why, Boy?"
"Oh, if you remember that, you must remember the rest. Confess!"
"I remember lots of things, but I know I didn't. I never have—till just now."
"You did, dear."
"I know I didn't, because—oh, it's no use keeping anything back! because I truthfully meant to."
"And truthfully did."
"No; meant to; but some one else came by."
"There wasn't any one else. There never has been."
"There was—there always is. It was another woman—out there—on the sea. I saw her. It was the 26th of May. I've got it written down somewhere."
"Oh, you've kept a record of your dreams, too? That's odd about the other woman, because I happened to be on the sea just then."
"I was right. How do I know what you've done when you were awake—and I thought it was only you!"
"You never were more wrong in your life. What a little temper you've got! Listen to me a minute, dear." And Georgie, though he knew it not, committed black perjury. "It—it isn't the kind of thing one says to any one, because they'd laugh; but on my word and honour, darling, I've never been kissed by a living soul outside my own people in all my life. Don't laugh, dear. I wouldn't tell any one but you, but it's the solemn truth."