THE WEAVERS

By Gilbert Parker

CONTENTS

BOOK II. AS THE SPIRIT MOVEDII. THE GATES OF THE WORLDIII. BANISHEDIV. THE CALL

BOOK II

V. THE WIDER WAYVI. "HAST THOU NEVER BILLED A MANY"VII. THE COMPACTVIII. FOR HIS SOUL'S SAKE AND THE LAND'S SAKEIX. THE LETTER, THE NIGHT, AND THE WOMANX. THE FOUR WHO KNEWXI. AGAINST THE HOUR OF MIDNIGHTXII. THE JEHAD AND THE LIONSXIII. ACHMET THE ROPEMAKER STRIKESXIV. BEYOND THE PALE

BOOK IIIXV. SOOLSBY'S HAND UPON THE CURTAINXVI. THE DEBT AND THE ACCOUNTINGXVII. THE WOMAN OF THE CROSS-ROADSXVIII. TIME, THE IDOL-BREAKERXIX. SHARPER THAN A SWORDXX. EACH AFTER HIS OWN ORDERXXI. "THERE IS NOTHING HIDDEN WHICH SHALL NOT BE REVEALED"XXII. AS IN A GLASS DARKLYXXIII. THE TENTS OF CUSHANXXIV. THE QUESTIONERXXV. THE VOICE THROUGH THE DOORXXVI. "I OWE YOU NOTHING"XXVII. THE AWAKENING

BOOK IVXXVIII. NAHOUM TURNS THE SCREWXXIX. THE RECOILXXX. LACEY MOVESXXXI. THE STRUGGLE IN THE DESERTXXXII. FORTY STRIPES SAVE ONEXXXIII. THE DARK INDENTUREXXXIV. NAHOUM DROPS THE MASK

BOOK VXXXV. THE FLIGHT OF THE WOUNDEDXXXVI. "IS IT ALWAYS SO-IN LIFE?"XXXVII. THE FLYING SHUTTLEXXXVIII. JASPER KIMBER SPEAKSXXXIX. FAITH JOURNEYS TO LONDON

BOOK VIXL. HYLDA SEEKS NAHOUMXLI. IN THE LAND OF SHINARXLII. THE LOOM OF DESTINY

INTRODUCTION

When I turn over the hundreds of pages of this book, I have a feelingthat I am looking upon something for which I have no particularresponsibility, though it has a strange contour of familiarity. It is asthough one looks upon a scene in which one had lived and moved, with thefriendly yet half-distant feeling that it once was one's own possessionbut is so no longer. I should think the feeling to be much like that ofthe old man whose sons, gone to distant places, have created their ownplantations of life and have themselves become the masters ofpossessions. Also I suppose that when I read the story through againfrom the first page to the last, I shall recreate the feeling in whichI lived when I wrote it, and it will become a part of my own identityagain. That distance between himself and his work, however, whichimmediately begins to grow as soon as a book leaves the author's handsfor those of the public, is a thing which, I suppose, must come to onewho produces a work of the imagination. It is no doubt due to the factthat every piece of art which has individuality and real likeness to thescenes and character it is intended to depict is done in a kind oftrance. The author, in effect, self-hypnotises himself, has createdan atmosphere which is separate and apart from that of his dailysurroundings, and by virtue of his imagination becomes absorbed in thatatmosphere. When the book is finished and it goes forth, when theimagination is relaxed and the concentration of mind is withdrawn, theatmosphere disappears, and then. One experiences what I feel when I takeup 'The Weavers' and, in a sense, wonder how it was done, such as it is. 

The frontispiece of the English edition represents a scene in the Houseof Commons, and this brings to my mind a warning which was given mesimilar to that on my entering new fields outside the one in which Ifirst made a reputation in fiction. When, in a certain year, Idetermined that I would enter the House of Commons I had many friendswho, in effect, wailed and gnashed their teeth. They said that it wouldbe the death of my imaginative faculties; that I should never writeanything any more; that all the qualities which make literature livingand compelling would disappear. I thought this was all wrong then, and Iknow it is all wrong now. Political life does certainly interfere withthe amount of work which an author may produce. He certainly cannotwrite a book every year and do political work as well, but if he does notattempt to do the two things on the same days, as it were, but in blocksof time devoted to each separately and respectively, he will only find, as I have found, that public life the conflict of it, the accompanyingattrition of mind, the searching for the things which will solve theproblems of national life, the multitudinous variations of character withwhich one comes in contact, the big issues suddenly sprung upon thecongregation of responsible politicians, all are stimulating to theimagination, invigorating to the mind, and marvellously freshening toevery literary instinct. No danger to the writer lies in doing politicalwork, if it does not sap his strength and destroy his health. Apart fromthat, he should not suffer. The very spirit of statesmanship isimagination, vision; and the same quality which enables an author torealise humanity for a book is necessary for him to realise humanity inthe crowded chamber of a Parliament. 

So far as I can remember, whatever was written of The Weavers, no criticsaid that it lacked imagination. Some critics said it was too crowdedwith incident; that there was enough incident in it for two novels; somesaid that the sweep was too wide, but no critic of authority declaredthat the book lacked vision or the vivacity of a living narrative. It isnot likely that I shall ever write again a novel of Egypt, but I havemade my contribution to Anglo-Egyptian literature, and I do not think Ifailed completely in showing the greatness of soul which enabled one manto keep the torch of civilisation, of truth, justice, and wholesome lovealight in surroundings as offensive to civilisation as was Egypt in thelast days of Ismail Pasha--a time which could be well typified by thewords put by Bulwer Lytton in the mouth of Cardinal Richelieu:

 "I found France rent asunder, Sloth in the mart and schism in the temple; Broils festering to rebellion; and weak laws Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths. I have re-created France; and, from the ashes Of the old feudal and decrepit carcase, Civilisation on her luminous wings Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove!"

Critics and readers have endeavoured to identify the main characteristicsof The Weavers with figures in Anglo-Egyptian and official public life. David Claridge was, however, a creature of the imagination. It has beensaid that he was drawn from General Gordon. I am not conscious of havingtaken Gordon for David's prototype, though, as I was saturated with allthat had been written about Gordon, there is no doubt that something ofthat great man may have found its way into the character of DavidClaridge. The true origin of David Claridge, however, may be found in ashort story called 'All the World's Mad', in Donovan Pasha, which wasoriginally published by Lady Randolph Churchill in an ambitious butdefunct magazine called 'The Anglo-Saxon Review'. The truth is thatDavid Claridge had his origin in a fairly close understanding of, andinterest in, Quaker life. I had Quaker relatives through the marriage ofa connection of my mother, and the original of Benn Claridge, the uncleof David, is still alive, a very old man, who in my boyhood days wore thebroad brim and the straight preacher-like coat of the old-fashionedQuaker. The grandmother of my wife was also a Quaker, and used the"thee" and "thou" until the day of her death. 

Here let me say that criticism came to me from several quarters both inEngland and America on the use of these words thee and thou, andstatements were made that the kind of speech which I put into DavidClaridge's mouth was not Quaker speech. For instance, they would nothave it that a Quaker would say, "Thee will go with me"--as though theywere ashamed of the sweet inaccuracy of the objective pronoun being usedin the nominative; but hundreds of times I have myself heard Quakers use"thee" in just such a way in England and America. The facts are, however, that Quakers differ extensively in their habits, and there grewup in England among the Quakers in certain districts a sense of shamefor false grammar which, to say the least, was very childish. To bedeliberately and boldly ungrammatical, when you serve both euphony andsimplicity, is merely to give archaic charm, not to be guilty of anoffence. I have friends in Derbyshire who still say "Thee thinks, "etc. , and I must confess that the picture of a Quaker rampant over mydeliberate use of this well-authenticated form of speech produced to mymind only the effect of an infuriated sheep, when I remembered thepeaceful attribute of Quaker life and character. From another quartercame the assurance that I was wrong when I set up a tombstone with a nameupon it in a Quaker graveyard. I received a sarcastic letter from a ladyon the borders of Sussex and Surrey upon this point, and I immediatelysent her a first-class railway ticket to enable her to visit the Quakerchurchyard at Croydon, in Surrey, where dead and gone Quakers havetombstones by the score, and inscriptions on them also. It is a goodthing to be accurate; it is desperately essential in a novel. Theaverage reader, in his triumph at discovering some slight error ofdetail, would consign a masterpiece of imagination, knowledge of lifeand character to the rubbish-heap. 

I believe that 'The Weavers' represents a wider outlook of life, closerunderstanding of the problems which perplex society, and a clearer viewof the verities than any previous book written by me, whatever itspopularity may have been. It appealed to the British public rather morethan 'The Right of Way', and the great public of America and the OverseaDominions gave it a welcome which enabled it to take its place beside'The Right of Way', the success of which was unusual. 

NOTE

This book is not intended to be an historical novel, nor are itscharacters meant to be identified with well-known persons connected withthe history of England or of Egypt; but all that is essential in the taleis based upon, and drawn from, the life of both countries. Though Egypthas greatly changed during the past generation, away from Cairo and thecommercial centres the wheels of social progress have turned but slowly, and much remains as it was in the days of which this book is a record inthe spirit of the life, at least. G. P. 

 "Dost thou spread the sail, throw the spear, swing the axe, lay thy hand upon the plough, attend the furnace door, shepherd the sheep upon the hills, gather corn from the field, or smite the rock in the quarry? Yet, whatever thy task, thou art even as one who twists the thread and throws the shuttle, weaving the web of Life. Ye are all weavers, and Allah the Merciful, does He not watch beside the loom?"

BOOK I

CHAPTER I

AS THE SPIRIT MOVED

The village lay in a valley which had been the bed of a great river inthe far-off days when Ireland, Wales and Brittany were joined togetherand the Thames flowed into the Seine. The place had never known turmoilor stir. For generations it had lived serenely. 

Three buildings in the village stood out insistently, more by theauthority of their appearance and position than by their size. One was asquare, red-brick mansion in the centre of the village, surrounded by ahigh, redbrick wall enclosing a garden. Another was a big, low, gracefulbuilding with wings. It had once been a monastery. It was covered withivy, which grew thick and hungry upon it, and it was called theCloistered House. The last of the three was of wood, and of no greatsize--a severely plain but dignified structure, looking like somecouncil-hall of a past era. Its heavy oak doors and windows with diamondpanes, and its air of order, cleanliness and serenity, gave it acommanding influence in the picture. It was the key to the history ofthe village--a Quaker Meeting-house. 

Involuntarily the village had built itself in such a way that it made awide avenue from the common at one end to the Meeting-house on the gorse-grown upland at the other. With a demure resistance to the will of itsmakers the village had made itself decorative. The people wereunconscious of any attractiveness in themselves or in their village. There were, however, a few who felt the beauty stirring around them. These few, for their knowledge and for the pleasure which it brought, paid the accustomed price. The records of their lives were the onlynotable history of the place since the days when their forefatherssuffered for the faith. 

One of these was a girl--for she was still but a child when she died;and she had lived in the Red Mansion with the tall porch, the wide gardenbehind, and the wall of apricots and peaches and clustering grapes. Herstory was not to cease when she was laid away in the stiff graveyardbehind the Meeting-house. It was to go on in the life of her son, whomto bring into the world she had suffered undeserved, and loved with apassion more in keeping with the beauty of the vale in which she livedthan with the piety found on the high-backed seats in the Quaker Meeting-house. The name given her on the register of death was Mercy Claridge, and a line beneath said that she was the daughter of Luke Claridge, thather age at passing was nineteen years, and that "her soul was with theLord. "

Another whose life had given pages to the village history was one ofnoble birth, the Earl of Eglington. He had died twenty years after thetime when Luke Claridge, against the then custom of the Quakers, set up atombstone to Mercy Claridge's memory behind the Meeting-house. Onlythrice in those twenty years had he slept in a room of the CloisteredHouse. One of those occasions was the day on which Luke Claridge put upthe grey stone in the graveyard, three years after his daughter's death. On the night of that day these two men met face to face in the garden ofthe Cloistered House. It was said by a passer-by, who had involuntarilyoverheard, that Luke Claridge had used harsh and profane words to LordEglington, though he had no inkling of the subject of the bitter talk. He supposed, however, that Luke had gone to reprove the other for awasteful and wandering existence; for desertion of that Quaker religionto which his grandfather, the third Earl of Eglington, had turned in thesecond half of his life, never visiting his estates in Ireland, andresiding here among his new friends to his last day. This listener--JohnFairley was his name--kept his own counsel. On two other occasions hadLord Eglington visited the Cloistered House in the years that passed, andremained many months. Once he brought his wife and child. The formerwas a cold, blue-eyed Saxon of an old family, who smiled distantly uponthe Quaker village; the latter, a round-headed, warm-faced youth, with abold, menacing eye, who probed into this and that, rushed here and thereas did his father; now built a miniature mill; now experimented at someperil in the laboratory which had been arranged in the Cloistered Housefor scientific experiments; now shot partridges in the fields wherepartridges had not been shot for years; and was as little in the pictureas his adventurous father, though he wore a broad-brimmed hat, smilingthe while at the pain it gave to the simple folk around him. 

And yet once more the owner of the Cloistered House returned alone. Theblue-eyed lady was gone to her grave; the youth was abroad. This time hecame to die. He was found lying on the floor of his laboratory with abroken retort in fragments beside him. With his servant, Luke Claridgewas the first to look upon him lying in the wreck of his last experiment, a spirit-lamp still burning above him, in the grey light of a winter'smorning. Luke Claridge closed the eyes, straightened the body, andcrossed the hands over the breast which had been the laboratory of manyconflicting passions of life. 

The dead man had left instructions that his body should be buried in theQuaker graveyard, but Luke Claridge and the Elders prevented that--he hadno right to the privileges of a Friend; and, as the only son was afar, and no near relatives pressed the late Earl's wishes, the ancient familytomb in Ireland received all that was left of the owner of the CloisteredHouse, which, with the estates in Ireland and the title, passed to thewandering son. 

CHAPTER II

THE GATES OF THE WORLD

Stillness in the Meeting-house, save for the light swish of onegraveyard-tree against the window-pane, and the slow breathing of theQuaker folk who filled every corner. On the long bench at the upper endof the room the Elders sat motionless, their hands on their knees, wearing their hats; the women in their poke-bonnets kept their gaze upontheir laps. The heads of all save three were averted, and they were LukeClaridge, his only living daughter, called Faith, and his dead daughter'sson David, who kept his eyes fixed on the window where the twig flickedagainst the pane. The eyes of Faith, who sat on a bench at one side, travelled from David to her father constantly; and if, once or twice, theplain rebuke of Luke Claridge's look compelled her eyes upon her foldedhands, still she was watchful and waiting, and seemed demurely to defythe convention of unblinking silence. As time went on, others of her sexstole glances at Mercy's son from the depths of their bonnets; and atlast, after over an hour, they and all were drawn to look steadily at theyoung man upon whose business this Meeting of Discipline had been called. The air grew warmer and warmer, but no one became restless; all seemed ascool of face and body as the grey gowns and coats with grey steel buttonswhich they wore. 

At last a shrill voice broke the stillness. Raising his head, one of theElders said: "Thee will stand up, friend. " He looked at David. 

With a slight gesture of relief the young man stood up. He was good tolook at-clean-shaven, broad of brow, fine of figure, composed ofcarriage, though it was not the composure of the people by whom he wassurrounded. They were dignified, he was graceful; they were consistentlyslow of movement, but at times his quick gestures showed that he had notbeen able to train his spirit to that passiveness by which he livedsurrounded. Their eyes were slow and quiet, more meditative thanobservant; his were changeful in expression, now abstracted, now dark andshining as though some inner fire was burning. The head, too, had ahabit of coming up quickly with an almost wilful gesture, and with an airwhich, in others, might have been called pride. 

"What is thy name?" said another owl-like Elder to him. 

A gentle, half-amused smile flickered at the young man's lips for aninstant, then, "David Claridge--still, " he answered. 

His last word stirred the meeting. A sort of ruffle went through theatmosphere, and now every eye was fixed and inquiring. The word wasominous. He was there on his trial, and for discipline; and it wasthought by all that, as many days had passed since his offence wascommitted, meditation and prayer should have done their work. Now, however, in the tone of his voice, as it clothed the last word, there wassomething of defiance. On the ear of his grandfather, Luke Claridge, itfell heavily. The old man's lips closed tightly, he clasped his handsbetween his knees with apparent self-repression. 

The second Elder who had spoken was he who had once heard Luke Claridgeuse profane words in the Cloistered House. Feeling trouble ahead, andliking the young man and his brother Elder, Luke Claridge, John Fairleysought now to take the case into his own hands. 

"Thee shall never find a better name, David, " he said, "if thee live ahundred years. It hath served well in England. This thee didst do. While the young Earl of Eglington was being brought home, with noise andbrawling, after his return to Parliament, thee mingled among thebrawlers; and because some evil words were said of thy hat and thyapparel, thee laid about thee, bringing one to the dust, so that his lifewas in peril for some hours to come. Jasper Kimber was his name. "

"Were it not that the smitten man forgave thee, thee would now be in aprison cell, " shrilly piped the Elder who had asked his name. 

"The fight was fair, " was the young man's reply. "Though I am a Friend, the man was English. "

"Thee was that day a son of Belial, " rejoined the shrill Elder. "Theedid use thy hands like any heathen sailor--is it not the truth?"

"I struck the man. I punished him--why enlarge?"

"Thee is guilty?"

"I did the thing. "

"That is one charge against thee. There are others. Thee was seen todrink of spirits in a public-house at Heddington that day. Twice--thrice, like any drunken collier. "

"Twice, " was the prompt correction. 

There was a moment's pause, in which some women sighed and others foldedand unfolded their hands on their laps; the men frowned. 

"Thee has been a dark deceiver, " said the shrill Elder again, and with aring of acrid triumph; "thee has hid these things from our eyes manyyears, but in one day thee has uncovered all. Thee--"

"Thee is charged, " interposed Elder Fairley, "with visiting a play thissame day, and with seeing a dance of Spain following upon it. "

"I did not disdain the music, " said the young man drily; "the flute, ofall instruments, has a mellow sound. " Suddenly his eyes darkened, hebecame abstracted, and gazed at the window where the twig flicked softlyagainst the pane, and the heat of summer palpitated in the air. "It hasgood grace to my ear, " he added slowly. 

Luke Claridge looked at him intently. He began to realize that therewere forces stirring in his grandson which had no beginning in Claridgeblood, and were not nurtured in the garden with the fruited wall. He wasnot used to problems; he had only a code, which he had rigidly kept. Hehad now a glimmer of something beyond code or creed. 

He saw that the shrill Elder was going to speak. He intervened. "Theeis charged, David, " he said coldly, "with kissing a woman--a stranger anda wanton--where the four roads meet 'twixt here and yonder town. " Hemotioned towards the hills. 

"In the open day, " added the shrill Elder, a red spot burning on eachwithered cheek. 

"The woman was comely, " said the young man, with a tone of irony, recovering an impassive look. 

A strange silence fell, the women looked down; yet they seemed not soconfounded as the men. After a moment they watched the young man withquicker flashes of the eye. 

"The answer is shameless, " said the shrill Elder. "Thy life is that of acarnal hypocrite. "

The young man said nothing. His face had become very pale, his lips wereset, and presently he sat down and folded his arms. 

"Thee is guilty of all?" asked John Fairley. 

His kindly eye was troubled, for he had spent numberless hours in thisyoung man's company, and together they had read books of travel andhistory, and even the plays of Shakespeare and Marlowe, though drama wasanathema to the Society of Friends--they did not realize it in the lifearound them. That which was drama was either the visitation of God orthe dark deeds of man, from which they must avert their eyes. Their owntragedies they hid beneath their grey coats and bodices; their dirtylinen they never washed in public, save in the scandal such as this wherethe Society must intervene. Then the linen was not only washed, but dulystarched, sprinkled, and ironed. 

"I have answered all. Judge by my words, " said David gravely. 

"Has repentance come to thee? Is it thy will to suffer that which we maydecide for thy correction?" It was Elder Fairley who spoke. He wasdetermined to control the meeting and to influence its judgment. Heloved the young man. 

David made no reply; he seemed lost in thought. "Let the disciplineproceed--he hath an evil spirit, " said the shrill Elder. 

"His childhood lacked in much, " said Elder Fairley patiently. 

To most minds present the words carried home--to every woman who had achild, to every man who had lost a wife and had a motherless son. Thismuch they knew of David's real history, that Mercy Claridge, his mother, on a visit to the house of an uncle at Portsmouth, her mother's brother, had eloped with and was duly married to the captain of a merchant ship. They also knew that, after some months, Luke Claridge had brought herhome; and that before her child was born news came that the ship herhusband sailed had gone down with all on board. They knew likewise thatshe had died soon after David came, and that her father, Luke Claridge, buried her in her maiden name, and brought the boy up as his son, notwith his father's name but bearing that name so long honoured in England, and even in the far places of the earth--for had not Benn Claridge, Luke's brother, been a great carpet-merchant, traveller, and explorer inAsia Minor, Egypt, and the Soudan--Benn Claridge of the whimsical speech, the pious life? All this they knew; but none of them, to his or herknowledge, had ever seen David's father. He was legendary; though therewas full proof that the girl had been duly married. That had been laidbefore the Elders by Luke Claridge on an occasion when Benn Claridge, hisbrother was come among them again from the East. 

At this moment of trial David was thinking of his uncle, Benn Claridge, and of his last words fifteen years before when going once again to theEast, accompanied by the Muslim chief Ebn Ezra, who had come with him toEngland on the business of his country. These were Benn Claridge'swords: "Love God before all, love thy fellow-man, and thy conscience willbring thee safe home, lad. "

"If he will not repent, there is but one way, " said the shrill Elder. 

"Let there be no haste, " said Luke Claridge, in a voice that shook alittle in his struggle for self-control. 

Another heretofore silent Elder, sitting beside John Fairley, exchangedwords in a whisper with him, and then addressed them. He was a verysmall man with a very high stock and spreading collar, a thin face, andlarge wide eyes. He kept his chin down in his collar, but spoke at theceiling like one blind, though his eyes were sharp enough on occasion. His name was Meacham. 

"It is meet there shall be time for sorrow and repentance, " he said. "This, I pray you all, be our will: that for three months David liveapart, even in the hut where lived the drunken chair-maker ere hedisappeared and died, as rumour saith--it hath no tenant. Let it be thatafter to-morrow night at sunset none shall speak to him till that time become, the first day of winter. Till that day he shall speak to no man, and shall be despised of the world, and--pray God--of himself. Upon thefirst day of winter let it be that he come hither again and speak withus. "

On the long stillness of assent that followed there came a voice acrossthe room, from within a grey-and-white bonnet, which shadowed a delicateface shining with the flame of the spirit within. It was the face ofFaith Claridge, the sister of the woman in the graveyard, whose soul was"with the Lord, " though she was but one year older and looked muchyounger than her nephew, David. 

"Speak, David, " she said softly. "Speak now. Doth not the spirit movethee?"

She gave him his cue, for he had of purpose held his peace till all hadbeen said; and he had come to say some things which had been churning inhis mind too long. He caught the faint cool sarcasm in her tone, andsmiled unconsciously at her last words. She, at least, must have reasonsfor her faith in him, must have grounds for his defence in painful daysto come; for painful they must be, whether he stayed to do their will, orwent into the fighting world where Quakers were few and life composite ofthings they never knew in Hamley. 

He got to his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. After aninstant he broke silence. 

"All those things of which I am accused, I did; and for them is askedrepentance. Before that day on which I did these things was therecomplaint, or cause for it? Was my life evil? Did I think in secretthat which might not be done openly? Well, some things I did secretly. Ye shall hear of them. I read where I might, and after my taste, manyplays, and found in them beauty and the soul of deep things. Tales Ihave read, but a few, and John Milton, and Chaucer, and Bacon, andMontaigne, and Arab poets also, whose books my uncle sent me. Was thissin in me?"

"It drove to a day of shame for thee, " said the shrill Elder. 

He took no heed, but continued: "When I was a child I listened to thelark as it rose from the meadow; and I hid myself in the hedge that, unseen, I might hear it sing; and at night I waited till I could hear thenightingale. I have heard the river singing, and the music of the trees. At first I thought that this must be sin, since ye condemn the humanvoice that sings, but I could feel no guilt. I heard men and women singupon the village green, and I sang also. I heard bands of music. Oneinstrument seemed to me more than all the rest. I bought one like it, and learned to play. It was the flute--its note so soft and pleasant. I learned to play it--years ago--in the woods of Beedon beyond the hill, and I have felt no guilt from then till now. For these things I have norepentance. "

"Thee has had good practice in deceit, " said the shrill Elder. 

Suddenly David's manner changed. His voice became deeper; his eyes tookon that look of brilliance and heat which had given Luke Claridge anxiousthoughts. 

"I did, indeed, as the spirit moved me, even as ye have done. "

"Blasphemer, did the spirit move thee to brawl and fight, to drink andcurse, to kiss a wanton in the open road? What hath come upon thee?"Again it was the voice of the shrill Elder. 

"Judge me by the truth I speak, " he answered. "Save in these things mylife has been an unclasped book for all to read. "

"Speak to the charge of brawling and drink, David, " rejoined the littleElder Meacham with the high collar and gaze upon the ceiling. 

"Shall I not speak when I am moved? Ye have struck swiftly; I will drawthe arrow slowly from the wound. But, in truth, ye had good right towound. Naught but kindness have I had among you all; and I will answer. Straightly have I lived since my birth. Yet betimes a torturing unrestof mind was used to come upon me as I watched the world around us. I sawmen generous to their kind, industrious and brave, beloved by theirfellows; and I have seen these same men drink and dance and givethemselves to coarse, rough play like young dogs in a kennel. Yet, too, I have seen dark things done in drink--the cheerful made morose, thegentle violent. What was the temptation? What the secret? Was it butthe low craving of the flesh, or was it some primitive unrest, or cravingof the soul, which, clouded and baffled by time and labour and the wearof life, by this means was given the witched medicament--a false freedom, a thrilling forgetfulness? In ancient days the high, the humane, insearch of cure for poison, poisoned themselves, and then applied theantidote. He hath little knowledge and less pity for sin who has neversinned. The day came when all these things which other men did in mysight I did--openly. I drank with them in the taverns--twice I drank. I met a lass in the way. I kissed her. I sat beside her at the roadsideand she told me her brief, sad, evil story. One she had loved had lefther. She was going to London. I gave her what money I had--"

"And thy watch, " said a whispering voice from the Elders' bench. 

"Even so. And at the cross-roads I bade her goodbye with sorrow. "

"There were those who saw, " said the shrill voice from the bench. 

"They saw what I have said--no more. I had never tasted spirits in mylife. I had never kissed a woman's lips. Till then I had never struckmy fellow-man; but before the sun went down I fought the man who drovethe lass in sorrow into the homeless world. I did not choose to fight;but when I begged the man Jasper Kimber for the girl's sake to follow andbring her back, and he railed at me and made to fight me, I took off myhat, and there I laid him in the dust. "

"No thanks to thee that he did not lie in his grave, " observed the shrillElder. 

"In truth I hit hard, " was the quiet reply. 

"How came thee expert with thy fists?" asked Elder Fairley, with theshadow of a smile. 

"A book I bought from London, a sack of corn, a hollow leather ball, andan hour betimes with the drunken chair-maker in the hut by the lime-kilnon the hill. He was once a sailor and a fighting man. "

A look of blank surprise ran slowly along the faces of the Elders. Theywere in a fog of misunderstanding and reprobation. 

"While yet my father"--he looked at Luke Claridge, whom he had ever beentaught to call his father--"shared the great business at Heddington, andthe ships came from Smyrna and Alexandria, I had some small duties, as iswell known. But that ceased, and there was little to do. Sports areforbidden among us here, and my body grew sick, because the mind had nolabour. The world of work has thickened round us beyond the hills. Thegreat chimneys rise in a circle as far as eye can see on yonder crests;but we slumber and sleep. "

"Enough, enough, " said a voice from among the women. "Thee has a friendgone to London--thee knows the way. It leads from the cross-roads!"

Faith Claridge, who had listened to David's speech, her heart panting, her clear grey eyes--she had her mother's eyes--fixed benignly on him, turned to the quarter whence the voice came. Seeing who it was--a widowwho, with no demureness, had tried without avail to bring Luke Claridgeto her--her lips pressed together in a bitter smile, and she said to hernephew clearly:

"Patience Spielman hath little hope of thee, David. Hope hath died inher. "

A faint, prim smile passed across the faces of all present, for all knewFaith's allusion, and it relieved the tension of the past half-hour. From the first moment David began to speak he had commanded his hearers. His voice was low and even; but it had also a power which, when put tosudden quiet use, compelled the hearer to an almost breathless silence, not so much to the meaning of the words, but to the tone itself, to theman behind it. His personal force was remarkable. Quiet and paleordinarily, his clear russet-brown hair falling in a wave over hisforehead, when roused, he seemed like some delicate engine made to dogreat labours. As Faith said to him once, "David, thee looks as thoughthee could lift great weights lightly. " When roused, his eyes lightedlike a lamp, the whole man seemed to pulsate. He had shocked, awed, andtroubled his listeners. Yet he had held them in his power, and wasmaster of their minds. The interjections had but given him new means todefend himself. After Faith had spoken he looked slowly round. 

"I am charged with being profane, " he said. "I do not remember. But isthere none among you who has not secretly used profane words and, neitherin secret nor openly, has repented? I am charged with drinking. On oneday of my life I drank openly. I did it because something in me keptcrying out, 'Taste and see!' I tasted and saw, and know; and I know thatoblivion, that brief pitiful respite from trouble, which this eviltincture gives. I drank to know; and I found it lure me into a newcareless joy. The sun seemed brighter, men's faces seemed happier, theworld sang about me, the blood ran swiftly, thoughts swarmed in my brain. My feet were on the mountains, my hands were on the sails of great ships;I was a conqueror. I understood the drunkard in the first withdrawalbegotten of this false stimulant. I drank to know. Is there none amongyou who has, though it be but once, drunk secretly as I drank openly? Ifthere be none, then I am condemned. "

"Amen, " said Elder Fairley's voice from the bench. "In the open way bythe cross-roads I saw a woman. I saw she was in sorrow. I spoke to her. Tears came to her eyes. I took her hand, and we sat down together. Ofthe rest I have told you. I kissed her--a stranger. She was comely. And this I know, that the matter ended by the cross-roads, and that byand forbidden paths have easy travel. I kissed the woman openly--isthere none among you who has kissed secretly, and has kept the matterhidden? For him I struck and injured, it was fair. Shall a man bebeaten like a dog? Kimber would have beaten me. "

"Wherein has it all profited?" asked the shrill Elder querulously. 

"I have knowledge. None shall do these things hereafter but I shallunderstand. None shall go venturing, exploring, but I shall pray forhim. "

"Thee will break thy heart and thy life exploring, " said Luke Claridgebitterly. Experiment in life he did not understand, and even BennClaridge's emigration to far lands had ever seemed to him a monstrous andamazing thing, though it ended in the making of a great business in whichhe himself had prospered, and from which he had now retired. He suddenlyrealized that a day of trouble was at hand with this youth on whom hisheart doted, and it tortured him that he could not understand. 

"By none of these things shall I break my life, " was David's answer now. 

For a moment he stood still and silent, then all at once he stretched outhis hands to them. "All these things I did were against our faith. Idesire forgiveness. I did them out of my own will; I will take up yourjudgment. If there be no more to say, I will make ready to go to oldSoolsby's hut on the hill till the set time be passed. "

There was a long silence. Even the shrill Elder's head was buried inhis breast. They were little likely to forego his penalty. There wasa gentle inflexibility in their natures born of long restraint andpractised determination. He must go out into blank silence andbanishment until the first day of winter. Yet, recalcitrant as they heldhim, their secret hearts were with him, for there was none of them buthad had happy commerce with him; and they could think of no more bitterpunishment than to be cut off from their own society for three months. They were satisfied he was being trained back to happiness and honour. 

A new turn was given to events, however. The little wizened ElderMeacham said: "The flute, friend--is it here?"

"I have it here, " David answered. 

"Let us have music, then. "

"To what end?" interjected the shrill Elder. 

"He hath averred he can play, " drily replied the other. "Let us judgewhether vanity breeds untruth in him. "

The furtive brightening of the eyes in the women was represented in themen by an assumed look of abstraction in most; in others by a blandassumption of judicial calm. A few, however, frowned, and would haveopposed the suggestion, but that curiosity mastered them. These watchedwith darkening interest the flute, in three pieces, drawn from an innerpocket and put together swiftly. 

David raised the instrument to his lips, blew one low note, and then alittle run of notes, all smooth and soft. Mellowness and a sobersweetness were in the tone. He paused a moment after this, and seemedquestioning what to play. And as he stood, the flute in his hands, histhoughts took flight to his Uncle Benn, whose kindly, shrewd face andsharp brown eyes were as present to him, and more real, than those ofLuke Claridge, whom he saw every day. Of late when he had thought ofhis uncle, however, alternate depression and lightness of spirit hadpossessed him. Night after night he had troubled sleep, and he haddreamed again and again that his uncle knocked at his door, or came andstood beside his bed and spoke to him. He had wakened suddenly and said"Yes" to a voice which seemed to call to him. 

Always his dreams and imaginings settled round his Uncle Benn, until hehad found himself trying to speak to the little brown man across thethousand leagues of land and sea. He had found, too, in the past thatwhen he seemed to be really speaking to his uncle, when it seemed asthough the distance between them had been annihilated, that soonafterwards there came a letter from him. Yet there had not been morethan two or three a year. They had been, however, like books of manypages, closely written, in Arabic, in a crabbed characteristic hand, andfull of the sorrow and grandeur and misery of the East. How many bookson the East David had read he would hardly have been able to say; butsomething of the East had entered into him, something of the philosophyof Mahomet and Buddha, and the beauty of Omar Khayyam had given a touchof colour and intellect to the narrow faith in which he had beenschooled. He had found himself replying to a question asked of him inHeddington, as to how he knew that there was a God, in the words of aMuslim quoted by his uncle: "As I know by the tracks in the sand whethera Man or Beast has passed there, so the heaven with its stars, the earthwith its fruits, show me that God has passed. " Again, in reply to thesame question, the reply of the same Arab sprang to his lips--"Does theMorning want a Light to see it by?"

As he stood with his flute--his fingers now and then caressingly risingand falling upon its little caverns, his mind travelled far to thoseregions he had never seen, where his uncle traded, and explored. Suddenly, the call he had heard in his sleep now came to him in thiswaking reverie. His eyes withdrew from the tree at the window, as ifstartled, and he almost called aloud in reply; but he realised where hewas. At last, raising the flute to his lips, as the eyes of LukeClaridge closed with very trouble, he began to play. 

Out in the woods of Beedon he had attuned his flute to the stir ofleaves, the murmur of streams, the song of birds, the boom and burden ofstorm; and it was soft and deep as the throat of the bell-bird ofAustralian wilds. Now it was mastered by the dreams he had dreamed ofthe East: the desert skies, high and clear and burning, the desertsunsets, plaintive and peaceful and unvaried--one lovely diffusion, inwhich day dies without splendour and in a glow of pain. The long velvetytread of the camel, the song of the camel-driver, the monotonous chant ofthe river-man, with fingers mechanically falling on his little drum, thecry of the eagle of the Libyan Hills, the lap of the heavy waters of theDead Sea down by Jericho, the battle-call of the Druses beyond Damascus, the lonely gigantic figures at the mouth of the temple of Abou Simbel, looking out with the eternal question to the unanswering desert, thedelicate ruins of moonlit Baalbec, with the snow mountains hoveringabove, the green oases, and the deep wells where the caravans lay down inpeace--all these were pouring their influences on his mind in the littleQuaker village of Hamley where life was so bare, so grave. 

The music he played was all his own, was instinctively translated fromall other influences into that which they who listened to him couldunderstand. Yet that sensuous beauty which the Quaker Society was soconcerned to banish from any part in their life was playing upon themnow, making the hearts of the women beat fast, thrilling them, turningmeditation into dreams, and giving the sight of the eyes far visions ofpleasure. So powerful was this influence that the shrill Elder twiceessayed to speak in protest, but was prevented by the wizened ElderMeacham. When it seemed as if the aching, throbbing sweetness mustsurely bring denunciation, David changed the music to a slow mourningcadence. It was a wail of sorrow, a march to the grave, a benediction, asoft sound of farewell, floating through the room and dying away into themid-day sun. 

There came a long silence after, and David sat with unmoving look uponthe distant prospect through the window. A woman's sob broke the air. Faith's handkerchief was at her eyes. Only one quick sob, but it hadbeen wrung from her by the premonition suddenly come that the brother--he was brother more than nephew--over whom her heart had yearned had, indeed, come to the cross-roads, and that their ways would henceforthdivide. The punishment or banishment now to be meted out to him was asnothing. It meant a few weeks of disgrace, of ban, of what, in effect, was self-immolation, of that commanding justice of the Society which noone yet save the late Earl of Eglington had defied. David could refuseto bear punishment, but such a possibility had never occurred to her orto any one present. She saw him taking his punishment as surely asthough the law of the land had him in its grasp. It was not that whichshe was fearing. But she saw him moving out of her life. To her thismusic was the prelude of her tragedy. 

A moment afterwards Luke Claridge arose and spoke to David in austeretones: "It is our will that thee begone to the chair-maker's but upon thehill till three months be passed, and that none have speech with theeafter sunset to-morrow even. "

"Amen, " said all the Elders. 

"Amen, " said David, and put his flute into his pocket, and rose to go. 

CHAPTER III

BANISHED

The chair-maker's hut lay upon the north hillside about half-way betweenthe Meeting-house at one end of the village and the common at the otherend. It commanded the valley, had no house near it, and was shelteredfrom the north wind by the hill-top which rose up behind it a hundredfeet or more. No road led to it--only a path up from the green of thevillage, winding past a gulley and the deep cuts of old rivulets nowover grown by grass or bracken. It got the sun abundantly, and it wasprotected from the full sweep of any storm. It had but two rooms, thefloor was of sanded earth, but it had windows on three sides, east, west, and south, and the door looked south. Its furniture was a plank bed, afew shelves, a bench, two chairs, some utensils, a fireplace of stone, apicture of the Virgin and Child, and of a cardinal of the Church of Romewith a red hat--for the chair-maker had been a Roman Catholic, the onlyone of that communion in Hamley. Had he been a Protestant his viceswould have made him anathema, but, being what he was, his fellow-villagers had treated him with kindness. 

After the half-day in which he was permitted to make due preparations, lay in store of provisions, and purchase a few sheep and hens, hithercame David Claridge. Here, too, came Faith, who was permitted one hourwith him before he began his life of willing isolation. Little was saidas they made the journey up the hill, driving the sheep before them, fourstrong lads following with necessities--flour, rice, potatoes, andsuchlike. 

Arrived, the goods were deposited inside the hut, the lads weredismissed, and David and Faith were left alone. David looked at hiswatch. They had still a handful of minutes before the parting. Theseflew fast, and yet, seated inside the door, and looking down at thevillage which the sun was bathing in the last glowing of evening, theyremained silent. Each knew that a great change had come in theirhitherto unchanging life, and it was difficult to separate premonitionfrom substantial fact. The present fact did not represent all they felt, though it represented all on which they might speak together now. 

Looking round the room, at last Faith said: "Thee has all thee needs, David? Thee is sure?"

He nodded. "I know not yet how little man may need. I have lived inplenty. "

At that moment her eyes rested on the Cloistered House. 

"The Earl of Eglington would not call it plenty. " A shade passed overDavid's face. "I know not how he would measure. Is his own field sowide?"

"The spread of a peacock's feather. "

"What does thee know of him?" David asked the question absently. 

"I have eyes to see, Davy. " The shadows from that seeing were in hereyes as she spoke, but he did not observe them. 

"Thee sees but with half an eye, " she continued. "With both mine I haveseen horses and carriages, and tall footmen, and wine and silver, andgilded furniture, and fine pictures, and rolls of new carpet--of UncleBenn's best carpets, Davy--and a billiard-table, and much else. "

A cloud slowly gathered over David's face, and he turned to her with analmost troubled surprise. "Thee has seen these things--and how?"

"One day--thee was in Devon--one of the women was taken ill. They sentfor me because the woman asked it. She was a Papist; but she begged thatI should go with her to the hospital, as there was no time to send toHeddington for a nurse. She had seen me once in the house of the toll-gate keeper. Ill as she was, I could have laughed, for, as we went inthe Earl's carriage to the hospital-thirty miles it was--she said shefelt at home with me, my dress being so like a nun's. It was then I sawthe Cloistered House within and learned what was afoot. "

"In the Earl's carriage indeed--and the Earl?"

"He was in Ireland, burrowing among those tarnished baubles, his titles, and stripping the Irish Peter to clothe the English Paul. "

"He means to make Hamley his home? From Ireland these furnishings come?"

"So it seems. Henceforth the Cloistered House will have its doors flungwide. London and all the folk of Parliament will flutter along the dunesof Hamley. "

"Then the bailiff will sit yonder within a year, for he is but a starvedIrish peer. "

"He lives to-day as though he would be rich tomorrow. He bids for fameand fortune, Davy. "

"'Tis as though a shirtless man should wear a broadcloth coat over acotton vest. "

"The world sees only the broadcloth coat. For the rest--"

"For the rest, Faith?"

"They see the man's face, and--"

His eyes were embarrassed. A thought had flashed into his mind which heconsidered unworthy, for this girl beside him was little likely to dwellupon the face of a renegade peer, whose living among them was a constantreminder of his father's apostasy. She was too fine, dwelt in such highspheres, that he could not think of her being touched by the glitteringadventures of this daring young member of Parliament, whose book oftravels had been published, only to herald his understood determinationto have office in the Government, not in due time, but in his own time. What could there be in common between the sophisticated Eglington andthis sweet, primitively wholesome Quaker girl?

Faith read what was passing in his mind. She flushed--slowly flusheduntil her face--and eyes were one soft glow, then she laid a hand uponhis arm and said: "Davy, I feel the truth about him--no more. Nothing ofhim is for thee or me. His ways are not our ways. " She paused, and thensaid solemnly: "He hath a devil. That I feel. But he hath also a mind, and a cruel will. He will hew a path, or make others hew it for him. Hewill make or break. Nothing will stand in his way, neither man northing, those he loves nor those he hates. He will go on--and to go on, all means, so they be not criminal, will be his. Men will prophesy greatthings for him--they do so now. But nothing they prophesy, Davy, keepspace with his resolve. "

"How does thee know these things?"

His question was one of wonder and surprise. He had never before seen inher this sharp discernment and criticism. 

"How know I, Davy? I know him by studying thee. What thee is not he is. What he is thee is not. " The last beams of the sun sent a sudden glintof yellow to the green at their feet from the western hills, rising farover and above the lower hills of the village, making a wide ocean oflight, at the bottom of which lay the Meeting-house and the CloisteredHouse, and the Red Mansion with the fruited wall, and all the others, like dwellings at the bottom of a golden sea. David's eyes were on thedistance, and the far-seeing look was in his face which had so deeplyimpressed Faith in the Meeting-house, by which she had read his future. 

"And shall I not also go on?" he asked. 

"How far, who can tell?"

There was a plaintive note in her voice--the unavailing and sad protestof the maternal spirit, of the keeper of the nest, who sees the brood flysafely away, looking not back. 

"What does thee see for me afar, Faith?" His look was eager. 

"The will of God, which shall be done, " she said with a suddenresolution, and stood up. Her hands were lightly clasped before her likethose of Titian's Mater Dolorosa among the Rubens and Tintorettos of thePrado, a lonely figure, whose lot it was to spend her life for others. Even as she already had done; for thrice she had refused marriagessuitable and possible to her. In each case she had steeled her heartagainst loving, that she might be all in all to her sister's child and toher father. There is no habit so powerful as the habit of care ofothers. In Faith it came as near being a passion as passion could have aplace in her even-flowing blood, under that cool flesh, governed by aheart as fair as the apricot blossoms on the wall in her father's garden. She had been bitterly hurt in the Meeting-house; as bitterly as is many awoman when her lover has deceived her. David had acknowledged beforethem all that he had played the flute secretly for years! That he shouldhave played it was nothing; that she should not have shared his secret, and so shared his culpability before them all, was a wound which wouldtake long to heal. 

She laid her hand upon his shoulder suddenly with a nervous littlemotion. 

"And the will of God thee shall do to His honour, though thee is outcastto-day. . . . But, Davy, the music-thee kept it from me. "

He looked up at her steadily; he read what was in her mind. 

"I hid it so, because I would not have thy conscience troubled. Theewould go far to smother it for me; and I was not so ungrateful to thee. I did it for good to thee. "

A smile passed across her lips. Never was woman so grateful, never woundso quickly healed. She shook her head sadly at him, and stilling theproud throbbing of her heart, she said:

"But thee played so well, Davy!"

He got up and turned his head away, lest he should laugh outright. Herreasoning--though he was not worldly enough to call it feminine, andthough it scarce tallied with her argument--seemed to him quite her own. 

"How long have we?" he said over his shoulder. "The sun is yet fiveminutes up, or more, " she said, a little breathlessly, for she saw hishand inside his coat, and guessed his purpose. 

"But thee will not dare to play--thee will not dare, " she said, but moreas an invitation than a rebuke. "Speech was denied me here, but not mymusic. I find no sin in it. "

She eagerly watched him adjust the flute. Suddenly she drew to him thechair from the doorway, and beckoned him to sit down. She sat where shecould see the sunset. 

The music floated through the room and down the hillside, a searchingsweetness. 

She kept her face ever on the far hills. It went on and on. At last itstopped. David roused himself, as from a dream. "But it is dark!" hesaid, startled. "It is past the time thee should be with me. Mybanishment began at sunset. "

"Are all the sins to be thine?" she asked calmly. She had purposely lethim play beyond the time set for their being together. 

"Good-night, Davy. " She kissed him on the cheek. "I will keep the musicfor the sin's remembrance, " she added, and went out into the night. 

CHAPTER IV

THE CALL

"England is in one of those passions so creditable to her moral sense, so illustrative of her unregulated virtues. We are living in the firstexcitement and horror of the news of the massacre of Christians atDamascus. We are full of righteous and passionate indignation. 'Punish--restore the honour of the Christian nations' is the proud appeal ofprelate, prig, and philanthropist, because some hundreds of Christianswho knew their danger, yet chose to take up their abode in a fanaticalMuslim city of the East, have suffered death. "

The meeting had been called in answer to an appeal from Exeter Hall. Lord Eglington had been asked to speak, and these were among his closingwords. 

He had seen, as he thought, an opportunity for sensation. Politiciansof both sides, the press on all hands, were thundering denunciations uponthe city of Damascus, sitting insolent and satiated in its exquisitebloom of pear and nectarine, and the deed itself was fading into thatblank past of Eastern life where there "are no birds in last year'snest. " If he voyaged with the crowd, his pennant would be lost in theclustering sails! So he would move against the tide, and would startle, even if he did not convince. 

"Let us not translate an inflamed religious emotion into a war, " hecontinued. "To what good? Would it restore one single life in Damascus?Would it bind one broken heart? Would it give light to one darkenedhome? Let us have care lest we be called a nation of hypocrites. I willneither support nor oppose the resolution presented; I will contentmyself with pointing the way to a greater national self-respect. "

Mechanically, a few people who had scarcely apprehended the full force ofhis remarks began to applaud; but there came cries of "'Sh! 'Sh!" andthe clapping of hands suddenly stopped. For a moment there was absolutesilence, in which the chairman adjusted his glasses and fumbled with theagenda paper in his confusion, scarcely knowing what to do. The speakerhad been expected to second the resolution, and had not done so. Therewas an awkward silence. Then, in a loud whisper, some one said:

"David, David, do thee speak. "

It was the voice of Faith Claridge. Perturbed and anxious, she had cometo the meeting with her father. They had not slept for nights, for thelast news they had had of Benn Claridge was from the city of Damascus, and they were full of painful apprehensions. 

It was the eve of the first day of winter, and David's banishment wasover. Faith had seen David often at a distance--how often had she stoodin her window and looked up over the apricot-wall to the chair-maker'shut on the hill! According to his penalty David had never come to Hamleyvillage, but had lived alone, speaking to no one, avoided by all, workingout his punishment. Only the day before the meeting he had read of themassacre at Damascus from a newspaper which had been left on his doorstepovernight. Elder Fairley had so far broken the covenant of ostracism andboycott, knowing David's love for his Uncle Benn. 

All that night David paced the hillside in anxiety and agitation, and sawthe sun rise upon a new world--a world of freedom, of home-returning, yeta world which, during the past four months, had changed so greatly thatit would never seem the same again. 

The sun was scarce two hours high when Faith and her father mounted thehill to bring him home again. He had, however, gone to Heddington tolearn further news of the massacre. He was thinking of his Uncle Benn-all else could wait. His anxiety was infinitely greater than that ofLuke Claridge, for his mind had been disturbed by frequent premonitions;and those sudden calls in his sleep-his uncle's voice--ever seemed to bewaking him at night. He had not meant to speak at the meeting, but thelast words of the speaker decided him; he was in a flame of indignation. He heard the voice of Faith whisper over the heads of the people. "David, David, do thee speak. " Turning, he met her eyes, then rose tohis feet, came steadily to the platform, and raised a finger towards thechairman. 

A great whispering ran through the audience. Very many recognised him, and all had heard of him--the history of his late banishment and self-approving punishment were familiar to them. He climbed the steps of theplatform alertly, and the chairman welcomed him with nervous pleasure. Any word from a Quaker, friendly to the feeling of national indignation, would give the meeting the new direction which all desired. 

Something in the face of the young man, grown thin and very pale duringthe period of long thought and little food in the lonely and meditativelife he had led; something human and mysterious in the strange tale ofhis one day's mad doings, fascinated them. They had heard of the liquorhe had drunk, of the woman he had kissed at the cross-roads, of the manhe had fought, of his discipline and sentence. His clean, shapelyfigure, and the soft austerity of the neat grey suit he wore, his broad-brimmed hat pushed a little back, showing well a square white forehead--all conspired to send a wave of feeling through the audience, whichpresently broke into cheering. 

Beginning with the usual formality, he said: "I am obliged to differ fromnearly every sentiment expressed by the Earl of Eglington, the member forLevizes, who has just taken his seat. "

There was an instant's pause, the audience cheered, and cries of delightcame from all parts of the house. "All good counsel has its sting, " hecontinued, "but the good counsel of him who has just spoken is a sting ina wound deeper than the skin. The noble Earl has bidden us to beconsistent and reasonable. I have risen here to speak for that to whichmere consistency and reason may do cruel violence. I am a man of peace, I am the enemy of war--it is my faith and creed; yet I repudiate theprinciple put forward by the Earl of Eglington, that you shall not clinchyour hand for the cause which is your heart's cause, because, if yousmite, the smiting must be paid for. "

He was interrupted by cheers and laughter, for the late event in his ownlife came to them to point his argument. 

"The nation that declines war may be refusing to inflict that justpunishment which alone can set the wrong-doers on the better course. Itis not the faith of that Society to which I belong to decline correctionlest it may seem like war. "

The point went home significantly, and cheering followed. "The highwall of Tibet, a stark refusal to open the door to the wayfarer, I canunderstand; but, friend"--he turned to the young peer--"friend, I cannotunderstand a defence of him who opens the door upon terms of mutualhospitality, and then, in the red blood of him who has so contracted, blots out the just terms upon which they have agreed. Is that thy faith, friend?"

The repetition of the word friend was almost like a gibe, though it wasnot intended as such. There was none present, however, but knew of thedefection of the Earl's father from the Society of Friends, and theychose to interpret the reference to a direct challenge. It was adifficult moment for the young Earl, but he only smiled, and cherishedanger in his heart. 

For some minutes David spoke with force and power, and he ended withpassionate solemnity. His voice rang out: "The smoke of this burningrises to Heaven, the winds that wail over scattered and homeless dustbear a message of God to us. In the name of Mahomet, whose teachingcondemns treachery and murder, in the name of the Prince of Peace, whotaught that justice which makes for peace, I say it is England's duty tolay the iron hand of punishment upon this evil city and on the Governmentin whose orbit it shines with so deathly a light. I fear it is that oneof my family and of my humble village lies beaten to death in Damascus. Yet not because of that do I raise my voice here to-day. These manyyears Benn Claridge carried his life in his hands, and in a good cause itwas held like the song of a bird, to be blown from his lips in the day ofthe Lord. I speak only as an Englishman. I ask you to close your mindsagainst the words of this brilliant politician, who would have you settlea bill of costs written in Christian blood, by a promise to pay, gotthrough a mockery of armed display in those waters on which once lookedthe eyes of the Captain of our faith. Humanity has been put in thewitness-box of the world; let humanity give evidence. "

Women wept. Men waved their hats and cheered; the whole meeting rose toits feet and gave vent to its feelings. 

For some moments the tumult lasted, Eglington looking on with faceunmoved. As David turned to leave the table, however, he murmured, "Peacemaker! Peacemaker!" and smiled sarcastically. 

As the audience resumed their seats, two people were observed makingtheir way to the platform. One was Elder Fairley, leading the way to atall figure in a black robe covering another coloured robe, and wearing alarge white turban. Not seeing the new-comers, the chairman was about toput the resolution; but a protesting hand from John Fairley stopped him, and in a strange silence the two new-comers mounted the platform. Davidrose and advanced to meet them. There flashed into his mind that thisstranger in Eastern garb was Ebn Ezra Bey, the old friend of BennClaridge, of whom his uncle had spoken and written so much. The sameinstinct drew Ebn Ezra Bey to him--he saw the uncle's look in thenephew's face. In a breathless stillness the Oriental said in perfectEnglish, with a voice monotonously musical:

"I came to thy house and found thee not. I have a message for thee fromthe land where thine uncle sojourned with me. "

He took from a wallet a piece of paper and passed it to David, adding: "Iwas thine uncle's friend. He hath put off his sandals and walketh withbare feet!" David read eagerly. 

"It is time to go, Davy, " the paper said. "All that I have is thine. Go to Egypt, and thee shall find it so. Ebn Ezra Bey will bring thee. Trust him as I have done. He is a true man, though the Koran be hisfaith. They took me from behind, Davy, so that I was spared temptation--I die as I lived, a man of peace. It is too late to think how it mighthave gone had we met face to face; but the will of God worketh notaccording to our will. I can write no more. Luke, Faith, and Davy--dearDavy, the night has come, and all's well. Good morrow, Davy. Can younot hear me call? I have called thee so often of late! Good morrow!Good morrow! . . . I doff my hat, Davy--at last--to God!"

David's face whitened. All his visions had been true visions, his dreamstrue dreams. Brave Benn Claridge had called to him at his door--" Goodmorrow! Good morrow! Good morrow!" Had he not heard the knocking andthe voice? Now all was made clear. His path lay open before him--a farland called him, his quiet past was infinite leagues away. Already thestaff was in his hands and the cross-roads were sinking into the distancebehind. He was dimly conscious of the wan, shocked face of Faith in thecrowd beneath him, which seemed blurred and swaying, of the bowed head ofLuke Claridge, who, standing up, had taken off his hat in the presence ofthis news of his brother's death which he saw written in David's face. David stood for a moment before the great throng, numb and speechless. "It is a message from Damascus, " he said at last, and could say no more. 

Ebn Ezra Bey turned a grave face upon the audience. 

Will you hear me?" he said. "I am an Arab. " "Speak--speak!" came fromevery side. 

"The Turk hath done his evil work in Damascus, " he said. "All theChristians are dead--save one; he hath turned Muslim, and is safe. " Hisvoice had a note of scorn. "It fell sudden and swift like a storm insummer. There were no paths to safety. Soldiers and those who led themshared in the slaying. As he and I who had travelled far together thesemany years sojourned there in the way of business, I felt the air growcolder, I saw the cloud gathering. I entreated, but he would not go. If trouble must come, then he would be with the Christians in theirperil. At last he saw with me the truth. He had a plan of escape. There was a Christian weaver with his wife in a far quarter--against myentreaty he went to warn them. The storm broke. He was the first tofall, smitten in 'that street called Straight. ' I found him soon after. Thus did he speak to me--even in these words: 'The blood of women andchildren shed here to-day shall cry from the ground. Unprovoked the hosthas turned wickedly upon his guest. The storm has been sown, and thewhirlwind must be reaped. Out of this evil good shall come. Shall notthe Judge of all the earth do right?' These were his last words to methen. As his life ebbed out, he wrote a letter which I have broughthither to one"--he turned to David--"whom he loved. At the last he tookoff his hat, and lay with it in his hands, and died. . . . I am aMuslim, but the God of pity, of justice, and of right is my God; and inHis name be it said that was a crime of Sheitan the accursed. "

In a low voice the chairman put the resolution. The Earl of Eglingtonvoted in its favour. 

Walking the hills homeward with Ebn Ezra Bey, Luke, Faith, and JohnFairley, David kept saying over to himself the words of Benn Claridge:"I have called thee so often of late. Good morrow! Good morrow! Goodmorrow! Can you not hear me call?"

GLOSSARY

Aiwa----Yes. Allah hu Achbar----God is most Great. Al'mah----Female professional singers, signifying "a learned female. "Ardab----A measure equivalent to five English bushels. 

Backsheesh----Tip, douceur. Balass----Earthen vessel for carrying water. Bdsha----Pasha. Bersim----Clover. Bismillah----In the name of God. Bowdb----A doorkeeper. 

Dahabieh----A Nile houseboat with large lateen sails. Darabukkeh----A drum made of a skin stretched over an earthenware funnel. Dourha----Maize. 

Effendina----Most noble. El Azhar----The Arab University at Cairo. 

Fedddn----A measure of land representing about an acre. Fellah----The Egyptian peasant. 

Ghiassa----Small boat. 

Hakim----Doctor. Hasheesh----Leaves of hemp. 

Inshallah----God willing. 

Kdnoon----A musical instrument like a dulcimer. Kavass----An orderly. Kemengeh----A cocoanut fiddle. Khamsin----A hot wind of Egypt and the Soudan. 

Kourbash----A whip, often made of rhinoceros hide. 

La ilaha illa-llah----There is no deity but God. 

Malaish----No matter. Malboos----Demented. Mastaba----A bench. Medjidie----A Turkish Order. Mooshrabieh----Lattice window. Moufettish----High Steward. Mudir----The Governor of aMudirieh, or province. Muezzin----The sheikh of the mosque who calls to prayer. 

Narghileh----A Persian pipe. Nebool----A quarter-staff. 

Ramadan----The Mahommedan season of fasting. 

Saadat-el-bdsha----Excellency Pasha. Sdis----Groom. Sakkia----The Persian water-wheel. Salaam----Eastern salutation. Sheikh-el-beled----Head of a village. 

Tarboosh----A Turkish turban. 

Ulema----Learned men. 

Wakf----Mahommedan Court dealing with succession, etc. Welee----A holy man or saint. 

Yashmak----A veil for the lower part of the face. Yelek----A long vest or smock. 

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