‘But no,’ said Coachy firmly, ‘he goo on and on, whether us wants him or not. On and on he goo, and there’s no stoppen un. Now if I had the driving of un: Not so fast, my fine gennelman. I’d say. And I’d handle they reins to shew un who was master, and I’d pull un to a standstill if I had to lift un on his two legs like a Christian, and leave him kick his fill. But Time’s no harse, more’s the pity. Time’s no harse. He be water that slip through the fingers, he be wind that goo by. But he’s with us to the last, and if you scape him, tis as good as sayen you’re dead and gone. He daun’t visit the tomb, nor be halted there; in that quiet place there be never blink nor breath of un, and the patter of’s feet runnen past do make no hurry nor commotion to a man lyen at rest, for he daun’t stay at the tomb: there be naun to the purpose there: he’s away in the fields where there’s bright summer to sport with, and blossom to shake down, and leaves to trample, and lusty fine lovers to watch growen old and winded. Lie you down once and for all and he’ll leave you be. But that’s not Coachy’s way,’ said Coachy, with a serene smile. ‘I haply can’t catch him, and I haply can’t dodge him, but I can keep him company, and I can speak my bosom, and we’ll see who gets beazled first.’
Silence fell. There was no sound but the sound of drinking and loud breathing and the burble of the fire on the hearth. Coachy seemed to have fallen asleep. Mr Bailey stared at the fire. Gipsy brooded on the vanity of life, and the injustice of a fate that would cut short a smart man’s song. Roger Peakod grinned vacantly, peering from face to face. And Tom Shellett’s gaping mouth shewed Tom Shellett to be engaged in deep thought.
Mykelborne, emerging from a muttering reverie, looked up, looked round him, with the air of a man visited with a new and powerful idea.
‘But what I say is this, friends. What I do is to put a plain question. Time. That’s the question. Time. We be talken of time, bain’t us? Am I right, friends, or am I wrong?’
‘I take your meanen,’ said Tom Shellett, admiringly. ‘There’s no doubt, no manner of doubt, Mus Mykelborne, that you be a thinker. If there was more such——’
‘Very well then,’ said Mykelborne. ‘Now you may say this, and,’ he added, with generous concession, ‘you may say that. But what I say is this: what
‘Ay, that’s a question right enough.’
‘Now listen to me, friends. Listen to me, one and all. Ask me this: what do Postle Paul say about time? And I answer: Just these two words. Time and tide, says Postle Paul, waits for no man. Which he spoke in parables for such as be of poor understanding, like poor Peakod here, or like yourself, Tahm Shellett. And which he meant that time and tide, you follow me so far, doon’t wait for no one, be he high,
‘Or be he low,’ echoed Shellett intelligently. ‘I see what you mean, Mus Mykelborne.’
‘Which is to say that this here Time, accorden to Postle Paul, and he’s Holy Writ as we all know, this here Time won’t wait for you, Tahm Shellett, nor yet for you, Coachy Timms, nor yet again for Mus Bailey, nor none of us, any mother’s son.’
There was no dissenting voice. The interpretation was accepted.
‘And here’s another thing about time,’ said Mykelborne, ‘and a tarrible strange thing, and a pretty thing, and a brave scholarly piece of work though I says ut. Listen here, neighbours. Mark my words and use your minds. Sometimes tis five o’claack, and sometimes tis six o’claack. Did you ever give thought to that, neighbours?’ He savoured his subtlety with a tender smile, and struggled carefully to his feet. With the instinct of the artist he knew that this was the right moment for departure. He would step from the peak of his triumph into the night, leaving his audience dazzled. He steered a jerky zig-zag course towards the door, and turned with his hand on the latch to say his parting word. ‘There be food for thought in that, my friends. Rich toothsome food. Food and drink and merry tomorrow we die, as Postle Paul said.’
With Mykelborne gone, the others began to think of moving. It had wanted but his example to set their thoughts towards home and bed. The talk seemed over, the money was spent, the genial spirit of Coachy Timms was away visiting the borderlands of sleep. One after another, but in a swift series, they rose, muttered their farewells, and filed into the street, leaving Bailey alone with his thoughts, his two strange guests, and Coachy, who sat quiet and still and with eyes closed but in an upright posture curiously at variance with, the idea of sleep. Bailey, staring down at the old man, wondered for a moment whether to rouse him and send him on his way. But a harsh voice calling for wine set him hurrying about his proper business.
‘Coming, sir. Coming.’