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