LITMIR.BIZ

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thee with thy doings that mad midsummer time. The tavern, the

       theatre, the cross-roads, and the cockpit—was ever such a day!

       Now, Davy, I must tell of a strange thing. But first, a moment.

       Thee remembers the man Kimber smitten by thee at the public-house on

       that day? What think thee has happened? He followed to London the

       lass kissed by thee, and besought her to return and marry him. This

       she refused at first with anger; but afterwards she said that, if in

       three years he was of the same mind, and stayed sober and hard-

       working meanwhile, she would give him an answer, she would consider.

       Her head was high. She has become maid to a lady of degree, who has

       well befriended her.

       How do I know these things? Even from Jasper Kimber, who, on his

       return from London, was taken to his bed with fever. Because of the

       hard blows dealt him by thee, I went to make amends. He welcomed

       me, and soon opened his whole mind. That mind has generous moments,

       David, for he took to being thankful for thy knocks.

       Now for the strange thing I hinted. After visiting Jasper Kimber at

       Heddington, as I came back over the hill by the path we all took

       that day after the Meeting—Ebn Ezra Bey, my father, Elder Fairley,

       and thee and me—I drew near the chairmaker’s but where thee lived

       alone all those sad months. It was late evening; the sun had set.

       Yet I felt that I must needs go and lay my hand in love upon the

       door of the empty hut which had been ever as thee left it. So I

       came down the little path swiftly, and then round the great rock,

       and up towards the door. But, as I did so, my heart stood still,

       for I heard voices. The door was open, but I could see no one. Yet

       there the voices sounded, one sharp and peevish with anger, the

       other low and rough. I could not hear what was said. At last, a

       figure came from the door and went quickly down the hillside. Who,

       think thee, was it? Even “neighbour Eglington.” I knew the walk

       and the forward thrust of the head. Inside the hut all was still.

       I drew near with a kind of fear, but yet I came to the door and

       looked in.

       As I looked into the dusk, my limbs trembled under me, for who

       should be sitting there, a half-finished chair between his knees,

       but Soolsby the old chair-maker! Yes, it was he. There he sat

       looking at me with his staring blue eyes and shock of redgrey hair.

       “Soolsby! Soolsby!” said I, my heart hammering at my breast; for

       was not Soolsby dead and buried? His eyes stared at me in fright.

       “Why do you come?” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Is he dead, then?

       Has harm come to him?”

       By now I had recovered myself, for it was no ghost I saw, but a

       human being more distraught than was myself. “Do you not know me,

       Soolsby?” I asked. “You are Mercy Claridge from beyond—beyond and

       away,” he answered dazedly. “I am Faith Claridge, Soolsby,”

       answered I. He started, peered forward at me, and for a moment he

       did not speak; then the fear went from his face. “Ay, Faith

       Claridge, as I said,” he answered, with apparent understanding, his

       stark mood passing. “No, thee said Mercy Claridge, Soolsby,” said

       I, “and she has been asleep these many years.” “Ay, she has slept

       soundly, thanks be to God!” he replied, and crossed himself. “Why

       should thee call me by her name?” I inquired. “Ay, is not her tomb

       in the churchyard?” he answered, and added quickly, “Luke Claridge

       and I are of an age to a day—which, think you, will go first?”

       He stopped weaving, and peered over at me with his staring blue

       eyes, and I felt a sudden quickening of the heart. For, at the

       question, curtains seemed to drop from all around me, and leave me

       in the midst of pains and miseries, in a chill air that froze me to

       the marrow. I saw myself alone—thee in Egypt and I here, and none

       of our blood and name beside me. For we are the last, Davy, the

       last of the Claridges. But I said coldly, and with what was near to

       anger, that he should link his name and fate with that of Luke

       Claridge: “Which of ye two goes first is God’s will, and according

       to His wisdom. Which, think thee,” added I—and now I cannot

       forgive myself for saying it—“which, think thee, would do least

       harm in going?” “I know which would do most good,” he answered,

       with a harsh laugh in his throat. Yet his blue eyes looked kindly

       at me, and now he began to nod pleasantly. I thought him a little

       mad, but yet his speech had seemed not without dark meaning. “Thee

       has had a visitor,” I said to him presently. He laughed in a

       snarling way that made me shrink, and answered: “He wanted this and

       he wanted that—his high-handed, second-best lordship. Ay, and he

       would have it, because it pleased him to have it—like his father

       before him. A poor sparrow on a tree-top, if you tell him he must

       not have it, he will hunt it down the world till it is his, as

       though it was a bird of paradise. And when he’s seen it fall at

       last, he’ll remember but the fun of the chase; and the bird may get

       to its tree-top again—if it can—if it can—if it can, my lord!

       That is what his father was, the last Earl, and that is what he is

       who left my door but now. He came to snatch old Soolsby’s palace,

       his nest on the hill, to use it for a telescope, or such whimsies.

       He has scientific tricks like his father before him. Now is it

       astronomy, and now chemistry, and suchlike; and always it is the

       Eglington mind, which let God A’mighty make it as a favour. He

       would have old Soolsby’s palace for his spy-glass, would he then?

       It scared him, as though I was the devil himself, to find me here.

       I had but come back in time—a day later, and he would have sat here

       and seen me in the Pit below before giving way. Possession’s nine

       points were with me; and here I sat and faced him; and here he

       stormed, and would do this and should do that; and I went on with my

       work. Then he would buy my Colisyum, and I wouldn’t sell it for all

      

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