JOURNEY'S END.
By S.Y.B.
168
The Ypres Times.
One day in late October, not very many years ago, two men disembarked from a cross-
channel steamer at Dover. The scenes on the quay-side were more than usually refreshing
to these two travellers, for they were exiles; English voices, English airin short, the
England of their birth lay ahead of them. The younger of the two was tall, pale, with
black hair you might have judged him an artist from his general appearance.
It was not until he had reached an empty carriage in the waiting train, and turned
to beckon his porter that he saw the other returning exile.
La Sage was his first remark. Where on earth have you come from
Rome, via Paris," replied the other. Where have you come from I didn't see
you on the boat."
Perhaps notI was however, let's get this compartment." And the tall
young man entered with his luggage, followed by La Sage, whom we must study somewhat
closer. He was a heavy, well-groomed man. Actor, soldier, traveller, he bore his forty-
eight years wonderfully well, though his hair was a steel grey. A genial, pleasure-loving
being was La Sage, in marked contrast to his younger companion, who had evidently
met with some of the bad things of life. La Sage, too, had met them only more com
placently. The young man looked too earnest, too sincere to be ever complacent.
The train moved slowly out of the station into the murky atmosphere of autumn
England.
I can well remember when I shuddered at this," said La Sage ten minutes later,
waving his hand towards the landscape, which was becoming rapidly obscured by the waves
of fog. Now it's different. Four years of Italy teach one to appreciate this island."
He looked across at his companion.
It's very nice," said the young man, in that careful English which tells of close and
constant acquaintanceship with other languages, seeing one's dreams realised like this.
It is just six years since I was last here. A long time."
There was a pause.,
What did you show in the last Salon asked La Sage.
Nothing, I am afraid," replied the man who looked like, and was, an artist.
Nothing echoed La Sage. Nothing there But that beautiful girl of two
years ago, those etchings. Do you mean to say you haven't made your fortune painting
her
The young man smiled whimsically.
I only wish I could," was his quiet reply. He looked steadily at the alarm signal
near the roof of the carriage. La Sage, who had known his companion for many years,
said nothing, but watched him grow tired of the alarm signal and look out of the window.
Then, falteringly at first, he told La Sage a story.
II.
The little hamlet of Hautzeele lay in the flat country of southern Belgium.
It was here that Philipp, a tall, rather pale young man of twenty-four or so, came for
rest and work. Rest, because he had sold his first exhibition picture work, because the
money he received wouldn't last very long. The drive from Ypres he found pleasantly
tiring, and the countryside on the May evening more than sufficient reward for any minor
discomforts. There was a warm, pleasant, earthy smell. At the end of the solitary street
of Hautzeele stood a little cottage, which was ta.be his home for the few weeks. In the
garden were lilacs and bees wisteria and early venturing butterflies. Indeed, it was one
