He was in this state of comparative luxury when at last, by the merest accident, I foregathered with him once more.  I had pulled up to Streatley one afternoon, and, leaving my boat, had gone for a long ramble on the glorious North Berkshire Downs to stretch my legs before dinner.  Somewhere over on Cuckhamsley Hill, by the side of the Ridgeway, remote from the habitable world, I found him, smoking his vesper pipe on the shaft of his cart, the mare cropping the short grass beside him.  He greeted me without surprise or effusion, as if we had only parted yesterday, and without a hint of an allusion to past times, but drifted quietly into rambling talk of his last three years, and, without ever telling his story right out, left a strange picturesque impression of a nomadic life which struck one as separated by fifty years from modern conventional existence.  The old road-life still lingered on in places, it seemed, once one got well away from the railway:  there were two Englands existing together, the one fringing the great iron highways wherever they might go —­ the England under the eyes of most of us.  The other, unguessed at by many, in whatever places were still vacant of shriek and rattle, drowsed on as of old:  the England of heath and common and windy sheep down, of by-lanes and village-greens —­ the England of Parson Adams and Lavengro.  The spell of the free untrammelled life came over me as I listened, till I was fain to accept of his hospitality and a horse-blanket for the night, oblivious of civilised comforts down at the Bull.  On the downs where Alfred fought we lay and smoked, gazing up at the quiet stars that had shone on many a Dane lying stark and still a thousand years ago; and in the silence of the lone tract that enfolded us we seemed nearer to those old times than to these I had left that afternoon, in the now hushed and sleeping valley of the Thames.

When the news reached me, some time later, that Fothergill’s aunt had died and left him her house near town and the little all she had possessed, I heard it with misgivings, not to say forebodings.  For the house had been his grandfather’s, and he had spent much of his boyhood there; it had been a dream of his early days to possess it in some happy future, and I knew he could never bear to sell or let it.  On the other hand, can you stall the wild ass of the desert?  And will not the caged eagle mope and pine?

However, possession was entered into, and all seemed to go well for the time.  The cart was honourably installed in the coach-house, the mare turned out to grass.  Fothergill lived idly and happily, to all seeming, with ``a book of verses underneath the bough,’’ and a bottle of old claret for the friend who might chance to drop in.  But as the year wore on small signs began to appear that he who had always ``rather hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak’’ was beginning to feel himself caged, though his bars were gilded.

I was talking one day to his coachman (he now kept three men-servants), and he told me that of a Sunday morning when the household had gone to church and everything was quiet, Mr Fothergill would go into the coach-house and light his pipe, and sit on the step of the brougham (he had a brougham now), and gaze at the old cart, and smoke and say nothing; and smoke and say nothing again.  He didn’t like it, the coachman confessed; and to me it seemed ominous.