The Streets of Ascalon

The young fellow stopped and looked down curiously at the sunken, unhealthy face, then, shocked, came forward hastily and shook hands.

"Why, Ledwith," he said, "what are you doing here? – Oh, I forgot; you live here, don't you?"

"That's my house yonder – or was," said the man with a slight motion of his head. And, after a moment: "You didn't recognise me. Have I changed much?"

Quarren said: "You seem to have been – ill."

"Yes; I have been. I'm ill, all right… Will you have a seat for a few minutes – unless you are going somewhere in particular – or don't care to talk to me – "

"Thank you." Quarren seated himself. It was his instinct to be gentle – even with such a man.

"I haven't seen much of you, for a couple of years – I haven't seen much of anybody," said Ledwith, turning the pages of his book without looking at them. Then, furtively, his sunken eyes rested a moment on Quarren:

"You are stopping with – "

"The Wycherlys."

"Oh, yes… I haven't seen them lately… They are neighbours" – he waved his sickly coloured hand – "but I'm rather quiet – I read a good deal – as you see." – He moistened his bluish lips every few moments, and his nose seemed to annoy him, too, for he rubbed it continually.

"It's a pretty country," said Quarren.

"Yes – I thought so once. I built that house… There's no use in my keeping up social duties," he said with another slinking glance at Quarren. "So I'm giving up the house."

"Really."

"Hasn't – you have heard so, haven't you?"

He kept twitching his shoulders and shifting his place continually, and his fingers were never still, always at the leaves of his book or rubbing his face which seemed to itch; or he snapped them nervously and continuously as he jerked about in his seat.

"I suppose," he said slyly, "people talk about me, Quarren."

"Do you know anybody immune to gossip?" inquired Quarren, smiling.

"No; that's true. But I don't care anything for people… I read, I have my horses and dogs – but I'm going to move away. I told you that, didn't I?"

"I believe you did."

Ledwith stared at his book with lack-lustre eyes, then, almost imperceptibly shifted his gaze craftily askance:

"There's no use pretending to you, Quarren; is there?"

Quarren said nothing.

"You know all the gossip – all the dirty little faits divers of your world. And you're a sort of doctor and confidential – "

"You're mistaken, Ledwith," he said pleasantly. "I'm done with it."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, that I've gone into a better business and I'm too busy to be useful and amusing any longer."

Ledwith's dead eyes stared:

"I heard you had dropped out – were never seen about. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Found the game too rotten?"

"Oh, no. It's no different from any other game – a mixture of the same old good and bad, with good predominating. But there's more to be had out of life in other games."

"Yours is slipping phony pictures to the public, with Dankmere working as side partner, isn't it?"

Quarren said pleasantly: "If you're serious, Ledwith, you're a liar."

After a silence Ledwith said: "Do you think there's enough left of me to care what anybody calls me?"

Quarren turned: "I beg your pardon, Ledwith; I had no business to make you such an answer."

"Never mind… In that last year – when I still knew people – and when they still knew me – you were very kind to me, Quarren."

"Why not? You were always decent to me."

Ledwith was now picking at his fingers, and Quarren saw that they were dreadfully scarred and maltreated.

"You've always been kind to me," repeated Ledwith, his extinct eyes fixed on space. "Other people would have halted at sight of me and gone the other way – or passed by cutting me dead… You sat down beside me."

"Am I anybody to refuse?"

But Ledwith only blinked nervously down at his book, presently fell to twitching the uncut pages again.

"Poems," he said – "scarcely what you'd think I'd wish to read, Quarren – poems of youth and love – "

"You're young, Ledwith – if you cared to help yourself – "

"Yes, if I cared – if I cared. In this book they all seem to care; youth and happiness care; sorrow and years still care. Listen to this:

"'You who look forward through the shining tears
Of April's showers
Into the sunrise of the coming years
Golden with unborn flowers —
I who look backward where the sunset lowers
Counting November's hours!'

"But – I don't care. I care no longer, Quarren."

"That's losing your grip."

He raised his ashy visage: "I'm trying to let go… But it's slow – very slow – with a little pleasure – hell's own pleasure – " He turned his shoulder, fished something out of his pocket, and pulling back his cuff, bent over. After a few moments he turned around, calmly: