Already his prophetic soul had caught the light, and seemed to know herself, and maddened him and wrung his frame with her wild and bitter struggles to proclaim her inspiration and pierce her reflected beam through the film that still blinded the eye of the mind.
The sun was still high, and flung its yellow brilliance over the fair and gilded prospect. The coach had turned the corner of the long road that led straight as an arrow into Southbourne; and far away at the extremity, in mingled shadow and shine, the few houses could be seen, with the spire of St. George’s Church rearing high its flaming vane, and on the left the gleam of the river shadowed by many trees.
“There’s Southbourne!” said the coachman, pointing with his whip.
The dust whirled in a cloud behind the wheels, the guard sounded his horn, and with a rush and a rattle the coach drew up opposite the “Hare and Hounds,” a tavern as familiar to Holdsworth as the sight of his own hand.
“Hullo!” cried the coachman. “Hi, you there! Help! A glass o’ brandy! Blowed if the gentleman hasn’t fainted!”
“Fainted!” cried the young ladies on the top of the coach, leaning forward to catch a sight of his face.
No, not fainted; but struck down by a revelation such as, had the two young ladies and the small-nosed man and the coachman been told the story of it, would have supplied them with enough matter to keep them talking without intermission as long as the coach-wheels turned.
Memory, coming out of the little house at the bottom of the long familiar thoroughfare, out of the little house that turned its shoulder upon the highway and parted it into lanes, had rushed upon him like an armed man, and struck him a staggering blow. He had dropped under it, and, but for the support of the apron over his knees, would have fallen to the ground.
The guard ran into the tavern and returned with a glass of brandy, which the coachman put to Holdsworth’s lips.