I shall lay these papers aside for another day. Perhaps even for two or three days. Blades has kindly moved my bed for me to the side of the best window, which faces north-east; in the Antipodes, a very pleasant aspect. I shall not actually 'go to bed' again in the day-time, but I think I will lie on the bed beside that open window. Sitting upright at the table here I feel, not pain, but a kind of aching weakness which I escape when lying down.

And yet, though not worried about it, I am rather sorry still farther to neglect this desultory task of mine, even for a day or two. The tree-tops are tossing bravely in the westerly wind this morning, and it is well that my banana clump has all the shelter of the gunyah, or its graceful leaves would suffer. The big cabbage palm outside the verandah makes a curious, dry, parchment-like crackling in the wind. But the three silver tree-ferns have a cool, swishing note, very pleasing to the ear; while for the bush trees beyond, theirs is the steady music of the sea on a sandy beach. I fancy this wind must be a shade too boisterous to be good for Blades's orange orchard. At all events it brings a strong citrus scent this way, after bustling across the side of Blades's hill.

There can be no doubt about it that this mine hermitage is very beautifully situated. Any man of discernment should be well content here to bide. The air about me is full of a nimble sweetness, and as utterly free from impurity as the air one breathes in mid-ocean. More, it is impregnated by the tonic perfumes of all the myriad aromatic growths that surround my cottage. Men say the Australian bush is singularly soulless; starkly devoid of the elements of interest and romance which so strongly endear to the hearts of those dwelling there the countryside in such Old World lands as the England of my birth. Maybe. Yet I have met men, both native-born and alien-born, who have dearly loved Australia; loved the land so well as to return to it, even after many days.

England! Of all the place names, the names of countries that the world has known, was ever one so simply magic as this—England? Surely not. How the tongue caresses it! In the past it has always seemed to me that the question of a man's place of birth was infinitely more significant and important than the mere matter of where he died, of where his bones were laid. And yet, even that matter of the resting-place for a man's bones.... Undoubtedly, there is magic in English earth. England! Thank God I was born in England!



EDITOR'S NOTE

Here the written record of my friend's life ends, though it clearly was not part of his design that this should be its end. Thanks to Mrs. Blades, I have a record of the date of Freydon's last writing. It came two days before his own end. He died alone, and, by the estimate of the doctor from Peterborough, at about daybreak. The doctor thought it likely that he passed away in his sleep; of all ends, the one he would have chosen.

So far as my own observation informs me, the death of Nicholas Freydon was noted by no more than three English journals: two of the oldest morning newspapers in London, and that literary weekly which, despite the commercial fret and fume of our time, has so far preserved itself from the indignity of any attempted blending of books with haberdashery or 'fancy goods.' Had Freydon died in England, I apprehend that a somewhat larger circle of newspaper readers might have been advertised of the fact. But I would not willingly be understood to suggest any kind of reproach in this.

It would probably be correct to say that the writings of Nicholas Freydon never have reached the many-headed public, whose favour gives an author's name weight in circulating libraries and among the gentlemen of 'The Trade.' He had no illusions on this point, and of late years at all events cherished no dreams of fame or immortality. But it is equally correct to say that he was genuinely a man of letters, and there is a circle of more or less fastidious readers who are aware that everything published under Freydon's name was, from the literary standpoint, worth while.

For me the news of Freydon's end had something more than literary significance. There was a period during which we shared an office room, and I recall with peculiar satisfaction the fact that it was no kind of friction or difficulty between us which brought an end to that working companionship. The much longer period over which our friendship extended was marred by no quarrel, nor even by any lapse into mutual indifference. And it may be admitted, in all affectionate respect, that Freydon was not exactly of those who are said to 'get on with any one.'

In the matter of my own recent journey to Australia, the thing which I looked forward to with keenest interest was the opportunity I thought it would afford me of seeing and talking with Freydon, in his chosen retreat in the Antipodes, and judging of his welfare there. And then, on the eve of my departure, came the news that he was no more.

Under the modest roof which had sheltered him, on the coast of northern New South Wales, I presently spent two quiet and thoughtful weeks, given for the most part to the perusal of his papers, which, along with his other personal effects, he had bequeathed to me. (His remaining property was left to the friend whose name is given here as Sidney Heron.)

Before I left that lonely, sunny spot, I had practically decided to pass on to such members of the reading world as might be interested therein what seemed to me the more salient and important of these papers: the bulky document which forms a record of its writer's life. Afterwards, as was inevitable, came much reflection, and at times some hesitancy. But, when all is done, and the proof sheets lie before me, my conviction is that I decided rightly out there in the bush; and that something is inherent in these last writings of Nicholas Freydon's which, properly understood, demands and deserves the test of publication. Therefore, they are made available to the public, in the belief that some may be the richer and the kindlier for reading them.

But, for revising, altering, dove-tailing, or shaping these papers, with a view to the attainment of an orthodox form of literary production, whether in the guise of autobiography, life-story, dramatic fiction, or what not, I desire explicitly to disclaim all thought of such a pretension. As I see it, that would have been an impertinence. I cannot claim to know what Freydon's intentions may have been regarding the ultimate disposition of these papers, having literally no other information on the point than they themselves furnish. Needless to say they would not be published now if I had any kind of reason to believe, or to suspect, that my friend would have resented such a course.

But I will say that, in the writing, I do not think Freydon had considered the question of publication. I do not think that in these last exercises of his pen he wrote consciously for the printer and the public. As those who know his published work are aware, he was much given to literary allusiveness and to quotation. In these papers such characteristic pages did occur, it is true, but in practically every case they had been scrawled over in pencil, and have been studiously omitted by me in my preparation of the manuscript for the press. Here and there it was clear that entire pages had been removed and apparently destroyed by their writer.

Again, in this record, Freydon—always in his writings for the press, literary and journalistic, meticulous in the matter of constructive detail—clearly gave no thought to the arrangement of chapters or other divisions. He wrote of his life, as he has said, to enable himself to see it as a whole. For my part I have felt a natural delicacy about intruding so far as to introduce chapter headings or the like. It was easy for me to note the points at which the writer had laid aside his pen, presumably at the day's end, for there a portion of a sheet was left blank, and sometimes a zig-zag line was drawn. At these points then, where the writer himself paused, I have allowed the pause to appear. And this, in effect, represents the sum of my small contribution to the volume; for I have altered nothing, added nothing, and taken nothing away, beyond those previously mentioned passages (literary rather than documentary) which the author's own pencil had marked for deletion; the removal, where these occurred, of references to myself; and the substitution, where that seemed desirable, of imaginary proper names for the names of actual places and living people as written by my friend.

Two other points, and the task which for me has certainly been a labour of love, is done.

Nicholas Freydon was perfectly correct in his belief that he might have wooed and won the lady who is referred to in these pages as Mrs. Oldcastle. In this, as in other episodes of his life which happen to be known to me, the motives behind his self-abnegation were in the highest degree creditable to him. This I have been asked to say, and I am glad to say it.

Among Freydon's papers was one which, for a time, greatly puzzled me. Once I had learned precisely what this paper meant, it became for me most deeply significant, knowing as I did that it must have been lying where I found it, in a drawer of Freydon's work-table, while he wrote, immediately before his last illness, the final sections of this work, including its penultimate chapter; including, therefore, such passages as these:

Over and above all this I deliberately chose my 'way out,' and it is good. I am assured the life of this my hermitage is one better suited to the man I am to-day than any other life I could hope to lead elsewhere.... And if I, my inner self, cannot find peace here, where peace so clearly is, what should it profit me to go seeking it where peace is not visible at all, and where all that is visible is turmoil, hurry, and fret.... And, in short, Je suis, je reste! ... England! Of all the place names, the names of countries that the world has ever known, was ever one so simply magic as this—England? ...

This document was a certificate entitling Freydon to a passage to England by an Orient line steamer. Upon inquiry at the offices of the line in Sydney, I found that, twenty-eight days before his death, my friend had booked and paid for a passage to London. At his request no berth had been allotted, and no date fixed. But, by virtue of the payment then made, he was assured of a passage home when he should choose to claim it. To my mind this discovery was one of peculiar interest, considered in the light of the concluding pages of that record of Nicholas Freydon's thoughts and experiences which is presented in this volume.

THE END