hter was his
lady--the Countess of Eglington! Not all the Quakers in heaven or earth
could alter that. His first-born son is Earl of Eglington, and has been
so these years past; and you, nor his second-best lordship there, nor
all the courts in England can alter that.... Ay, I've kept my peace,
but I will speak out now. I was with the Earl--James Fetherdon he called
himself--when he married her that's gone to heaven, if any ever went to
heaven; and I can prove all. There's proof aplenty, and 'tis a pity,
ay, God's pity! that 'twas not used long ago. Well I knew, as the years
passed, that the Earl's heart was with David, but he had not the courage
to face it all, so worn away was the man in him. Ah, if the lad had
always been with him--who can tell?--he might have been different!
Whether so or not, it was the lad's right to take his place his mother
gave him, let be whatever his father was. 'Twas a cruel thing done to
him. His own was his own, to run his race as God A'mighty had laid the
hurdles, not as Luke Claridge willed. I'm sick of seeing yonder fellow
in Our Man's place, he that will not give him help, when he may; he that
would see him die like a dog in the desert, brother or no brother--"

"He does not know--Lord Eglington does not know the truth?" interposed
the old man in a heavy whisper. "He does not know, but, if he knew,
would it matter to him! So much the more would he see Our Man die yonder
in the sands. I know the breed. I know him yonder, the skim-milk lord.
There is no blood of justice, no milk of kindness in him. Do you think
his father that I friended in this thing--did he ever give me a penny,
or aught save that hut on the hill that was not worth a pound a year?
Did he ever do aught to show that he remembered?--Like father like son.
I wanted naught. I held my peace, not for him, but for her--for the
promise I made her when she smiled at me and said: 'If I shouldn't
be seeing thee again, Soolsby, remember; and if thee can ever prove a
friend to the child that is to be, prove it.' And I will prove it now.
He must come back to his own. Right's right, and I will have it so. More
brains you may have, and wealth you have, but not more common sense than
any common man like me. If the spirit moved you to hold your peace, it
moves me to make you speak. With all your meek face you've been a hard,
stiff-necked man, a tyrant too, and as much an aristocrat to such as
me as any lord in the land. But I've drunk the