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Some months later the following letter came to David Claridge in Cairo from Faith Claridge in Hamley:

David, I write thee from the village and the land of the people

which thou didst once love so well. Does thee love them still?

They gave thee sour bread to eat ere thy going, but yet thee didst

grind the flour for the baking. Thee didst frighten all who knew

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

his puffball lordship might offer. Isn’t the house of the snail as

much to him as the turtle’s shell to the turtle? I’ll have no

upstart spilling his chemicals here, or devilling the stars from a

seat on my roof.” “Last autumn,” said I, “David Claridge was housed

here. Thy palace was a prison then.” “I know well of that.

Haven’t I found his records here? And do you think his makeshift

lordship did not remind me?” “Records? What records, Soolsby?”

asked I, most curious. “Writings of his thoughts which he forgot—

food for mind and body left in the cupboard.” “Give them to me upon

this instant, Soolsby,” said I. “All but one,” said he, “and that

is my own, for it was his mind upon Soolsby the drunken chair-maker.

God save him from the heathen sword that slew his uncle. Two better

men never sat upon a chair!” He placed the papers in my hand, all

save that one which spoke of him. Ah, David, what with the flute

and the pen, banishment was no pain to thee! … He placed the

papers, save that one, in my hands, and I, womanlike, asked again

for all. “Some day,” said he, “come, and I will read it to you.

Nay, I will give you a taste of it now,” he added, as he brought

forth the writing. “Thus it reads.”

Here are thy words, Davy. What think thee of them now?

“As I dwell in this house I know Soolsby as I never knew him when he

lived, and though, up here, I spent many an hour with him. Men

leave their impressions on all around them. The walls which have

felt their look and their breath, the floor which has taken their

footsteps, the chairs in which they have sat, have something of

their presence. I feel Soolsby here at times so sharply that it

would seem he came again and was in this room, though he is dead and

gone. I ask him how it came he lived here alone; how it came that

he made chairs, he, with brains enough to build great houses or

great bridges; how it was that drink and he were such friends; and

how he, a Catholic, lived here among us Quakers, so singular,

uncompanionable, and severe. I think it true, and sadly true, that

a man with a vice which he is able to satisfy easily and habitually,

even as another satisfies a virtue, may give up the wider actions of

the world and the possibilities of his life for the pleasure which

his one vice gives him, and neither miss nor desire those greater

chances of virtue or ambition which he has lost. The simplicity of

a vice may be as real as the simplicity of a virtue.”

Ah, David, David, I know not what to think of those strange words;

but old Soolsby seemed well to understand thee, and he called thee

“a first-best gentleman.” Is my story long? Well, it was so

strange, and it fixed itself upon my mind so deeply, and thy

writings at the hut have been so much in my hands and in my mind,

that I have put it all down here. When I asked Soolsby how it came

he had been rumoured dead, he said that he himself had been the

cause of it; but for what purpose he would not say, save that he was

going a long voyage, and had made up his mind to return no more. “I

had a friend,” he said, “and I was set to go and see that friend

again. … But the years go on, and friends have an end. Life

spills faster than the years,” he said. And he would say no more,

but would walk with me even to my father’s door. “May the Blessed

Virgin and all the Saints be with you,” he said at parting, “if you

will have a blessing from them. And tell him who is beyond and away

in Egypt that old Soolsby’s busy making a chair for him to sit in

when the scarlet cloth is spread, and the East and West come to

salaam before him. Tell him the old man says his fluting will be

heard.”

And now, David, I have told thee all, nearly. Remains to say that

thy one letter did our hearts good. My father reads it over and

over, and shakes his head sadly, for, truth is, he has a fear that

the world may lay its hand upon thee. One thing I do observe, his

heart is hard set against Lord Eglington. In degree it has ever

been so; but now it is like a constant frown upon his forehead. I

see him at his window looking out towards the Cloistered House; and

if our neighbour comes forth, perhaps upon his hunter, or now in his

cart, or again with his dogs, he draws his hat down upon his eyes

and whispers to himself. I think he is ever setting thee off

against Lord Eglington; and that is foolish, for Eglington is but a

man of the earth earthy. His is the soul of the adventurer.

Now what more to be set down? I must ask thee how is thy friend Ebn

Ezra Bey? I am glad thee did find all he said was true, and that in

Damascus thee was able to set a mark by my uncle’s grave. But that

the Prince Pasha of Egypt has set up a claim against my uncle’s

property is evil news; though, thanks be to God, as my father says,

we have enough to keep us fed and clothed and housed. But do thee

keep enough of thy inheritance to bring thee safe home again to

those who love thee. England is ever grey, Davy, but without thee

it is grizzled—all one “Quaker drab,” as says the Philistine. But

it is a comely and a good land, and here we wait for thee.

In love and remembrance.

I am thy mother’s sister, thy most loving friend.

FAITH.

David received this letter as he was mounting a huge white Syrian donkey to ride to the Mokattam Hills, which rise sharply behind Cairo, burning and lonely and large. The cities of the dead Khalifas and Mamelukes separated them from the living city where the fellah toiled, and Arab, Bedouin, Copt strove together to intercept the fruits of his toiling, as it passed in the form of taxes to the Palace of the Prince Pasha; while in the dark corners crouched, waiting, the cormorant usurers—Greeks, Armenians, and Syrians, a hideous salvage corps, who saved the house of a man that they might at last walk off with his shirt and the cloth under which he was carried to his grave. In a thousand narrow streets and lanes, in the warm glow of the bazaars, in earth-damp huts, by blistering quays, on the myriad ghiassas on the river, from long before sunrise till the sunset-gun boomed from the citadel rising beside the great mosque whose pinnacles seem to touch the blue, the slaves of the city of Prince Kaid ground out their lives like corn between the millstones.

David had been long enough in Egypt to know what sort of toiling it was. A man’s labour was not his own. The fellah gave labour and taxes and backsheesh and life to the State, and the long line of tyrants above him, under the sting of the kourbash; the high officials gave backsheesh to the Prince Pasha, or to his Mouffetish, or to his Chief Eunuch, or to his barber, or to some slave who had his ear.

But all the time the bright, unclouded sun looked down on a smiling land, and in Cairo streets the din of the hammers, the voices of the boys driving heavily laden donkeys, the call of the camel-drivers leading their caravans into the great squares, the clang of the brasses of the sherbet-sellers, the song of the vendor of sweetmeats, the drone of the merchant praising his wares, went on amid scenes of wealth and luxury, and the city glowed with colour and gleamed with light. Dark faces grinned over the steaming pot at the door of the cafes, idlers on the benches smoked hasheesh, female street-dancers bared their faces shamelessly to the men, and indolent musicians beat on their tiny drums, and sang the song of “O Seyyid,” or of “Antar”; and the reciter gave his sing-song tale from a bench above his fellows. Here a devout Muslim, indifferent to the presence of strangers, turned his face to the East, touched his forehead to the ground, and said his prayers. There, hung to a tree by a deserted mosque near by, the body of one who was with them all an hour before, and who had paid the penalty for some real or imaginary crime; while his fellows blessed Allah that the storm had passed them by. Guilt or innocence did not weigh with them; and the dead criminal, if such he were, who had drunk his glass of water and prayed to Allah, was, in their sight, only fortunate and not disgraced, and had “gone to the bosom of Allah.” Now the Muezzin from a minaret called to prayer, and the fellah in his cotton shirt and yelek heard, laid his load aside, and yielded himself to his one dear illusion, which would enable him to meet with apathy his end—it might be to-morrow!—and go forth to that plenteous heaven where wives without number awaited him, where fields would yield harvests without labour, where rich food in gold dishes would be ever at his hand. This was his faith.

David had now been in the country six months, rapidly perfecting his knowledge of Arabic, speaking it always to his servant Mahommed Hassan, whom he had picked from the streets. Ebn Ezra Bey had gone upon his own business to Fazougli, the tropical Siberia of Egypt, to liberate, by order of Prince Kaid—and at a high price—a relative banished there. David had not yet been fortunate with his own business—the settlement of his Uncle Benn’s estate—though the last stages of negotiation with the Prince Pasha seemed to have been reached. When he had brought the influence of the British Consulate to bear, promises were made, doors were opened wide, and Pasha and Bey offered him coffee and talked to him sympathetically. They had respect for him more than for most Franks, because the Prince Pasha had honoured him with especial favour. Perhaps because David wore his hat always and the long coat with high collar like a Turk, or because Prince Kaid was an acute judge of human nature, and also because honesty was a thing he greatly desired—in others—and never found near his own person; however it was, he had set David high in his esteem at once. This esteem gave greater certainty that any backsheesh coming from the estate of Benn Claridge would not be sifted through many hands on its way to himself. Of Benn Claridge Prince Kaid had scarcely even heard until he died; and, indeed, it was only within the past few years that the Quaker merchant had extended his business to Egypt and had made his headquarters at Assiout, up the river.

David’s donkey now picked its way carefully through the narrow streets of the Moosky. Arabs and fellaheen squatting at street corners looked at him with furtive interest. A foreigner of this character they had never before seen, with coat buttoned up like an Egyptian official in the presence of his superior, and this wide, droll hat on his head. David knew that he ran risks, that his confidence invited the occasional madness of a fanatical mind, which makes murder of the infidel a passport to heaven; but as a man he took his chances, and as a Christian he believed he would suffer no mortal hurt till his appointed time. He was more Oriental, more fatalist, than he knew. He had also early in his life learned that an honest smile begets confidence; and his face, grave and even a little austere in outline, was usually lighted by a smile.

From the Mokattam Hills, where he read Faith’s letter again, his back against one of the forts which Napoleon had built in his Egyptian days, he scanned the distance. At his feet lay the great mosque, and the citadel, whose guns controlled the city, could pour into it a lava stream of shot and shell. The Nile wound its way through the green plains, stretching as far to the north as eye could see between the opal and mauve and gold of the Libyan Hills. Far over in the western vista a long line of trees, twining through an oasis flanking the city, led out to a point where the desert abruptly raised its hills of yellow sand. Here, enormous, lonely, and cynical, the pyramids which Cheops had built, the stone sphinx of Ghizeh, kept faith with the desert in the glow of rainless land-reminders ever that the East, the mother of knowledge, will by knowledge prevail; that: