_Barnabas_. "But Fame means Power, and I would succeed for the sake of others beside myself. Yes,--I must succeed, and, as I think you once said, all things are possible to us! Pray, what did you mean?"
_The Preacher_. "Young sir, into each of us who are born into this world God puts something of Himself, and by reason of this Divine part, all things are possible."
_Barnabas_. "Yet the world is full of failures."
_The Preacher_. "Alas! yes; but only because men do not realize power within them. For man is a selfish creature, and Self is always grossly blind. But let a man look within himself, let him but become convinced of this Divine power, and the sure and certain knowledge of ultimate success will be his. So, striving diligently, this power shall grow within him, and by and by he shall achieve great things, and the world proclaim him a Genius."
_Barnabas_. "Then--all men might succeed."
_The Preacher_. "Assuredly! for success is the common heritage of Man. It is only Self, blind, ignorant Self, who is the coward, crying 'I cannot! I dare not! It is impossible!'"
_Barnabas_. "What do you mean by 'Self'?"
_The Preacher_. "I mean the grosser part, the slave that panders to the body, a slave that, left unchecked, may grow into a tyrant, a Circe, changing Man to brute."
Here Barnabas, having finished his bread and butter, very thoughtfully cut himself another slice.
_Barnabas_ (still thoughtful). "And do you still go about preaching Forgetfulness of Self, sir?"
_The Preacher_. "And Forgiveness, yes. A good theme, young sir, but--very unpopular. Men prefer to dwell upon the wrongs done them, rather than cherish the memory of benefits conferred. But, nevertheless, I go up and down the ways, preaching always."
_Barnabas_. "Why, then, I take it, your search is still unsuccessful."
_The Preacher_. "Quite! Sometimes a fear comes upon me that she may be beyond my reach--"
_Barnabas_. "You mean--?"
_The Preacher_. "Dead, sir. At such times, things grow very black until I remember that God is a just God, and therein lies my sure and certain hope. But I would not trouble you with my griefs, young sir, more especially on such a glorious morning,--hark to the throstle yonder, he surely sings of Life and Hope. So, if you will, pray tell me of yourself, young sir, of your hopes and ambitions."
_Barnabas_. "My ambitions, sir, are many, but first,--I would be a gentleman."
_The Preacher_ (nodding). "Good! So far as it goes, the ambition is a laudable one."
_Barnabas_ (staring thoughtfully at his bread and butter). "The first difficulty is to know precisely what a gentleman should be. Pray, sir, what is your definition?"
_The Preacher_. "A gentleman, young sir, is (I take it) one born with the Godlike capacity to think and feel for others, irrespective of their rank or condition."
_Barnabas_. "Hum! One who is unselfish?"
_The Preacher_. "One who possesses an ideal so lofty, a mind so delicate, that it lifts him above all things ignoble and base, yet strengthens his hands to raise those who are fallen--no matter how low. This, I think, is to be truly a gentleman, and of all gentle men Jesus of Nazareth was the first."
_Barnabas_ (shaking his head). "And yet, sir, I remember a whip of small cords."
_The Preacher_. "Truly, for Evil sometimes so deadens the soul that it can feel only through the flesh."
_Barnabas_. "Then--a man may fight and yet be a gentleman?"
_The Preacher_. "He who can forgive, can fight."
_Barnabas_. "Sir, I am relieved to know that. But must Forgiveness always come after?"
_The Preacher_. "If the evil is truly repented of."
_Barnabas_. "Even though the evil remain?"
_The Preacher_. "Ay, young sir, for then Forgiveness becomes truly divine."
_Barnabas_. "Hum!"
_The Preacher_. "But you eat nothing, young sir."
_Barnabas_. "I was thinking."
_The Preacher_. "Of what?"
_Barnabas_. "Sir, my thought embraced you."
_The Preacher_. "How, young sir?"
_Barnabas_. "I was wondering if you had ever heard of a man named Chichester?"
_The Preacher_ (speaking brokenly, and in a whisper). "Sir!--young sir,--you said--?"
_Barnabas_ (rising). "Chichester!"
_The Preacher_ (coming to his knees). "Sir,--oh, sir,--this man--Chichester is he who stole away--my daughter,--who blasted her honor and my life,--who--"
_Barnabas_. "No!"
_The Preacher_ (covering his face). "Yes,--yes! God help me, it's true! But in her shame I love her still, oh, my pride is dead long ago. I remember only that I am her father, with all a father's loving pity, and that she--"
_Barnabas_. "And that she is the stainless maid she always was--"
"Sir," cried the Preacher, "oh, sir,--what do you mean?" and Barnabas saw the thin hands clasp and wring themselves, even as he remembered Clemency's had done.
"I mean," answered Barnabas, "that she fled from pollution, and found refuge among honest folk. I mean that she is alive and well, that she lives but to bless your arms and feel a father's kiss of forgiveness. If you would find her, go to the 'Spotted Cow,' near Frittenden, and ask for 'Clemency'!"
"Clemency!" repeated the Preacher, "Clemency means mercy. And she called herself--Clemency!" Then, with a sudden, rapturous gesture, he lifted his thin hands, and with his eyes upturned to the blue heaven, spoke.
"Oh, God!" he cried, "Oh, Father of Mercy, I thank Thee!" And so he arose from his knees, and turning about, set off through the golden morning towards Frittenden, and Clemency.
CHAPTER XXXVII
IN WHICH THE BO'SUN DISCOURSES ON LOVE AND ITS SYMPTOMS
Oho! for the warmth and splendor of the mid-day sun; for the dance and flurry of leafy shadows on the sward; for stilly wayside pools whose waters, deep and dark in the shade of overhanging boughs, are yet dappled here and there with glory; for merry brooks leaping and laughing along their stony beds; for darkling copse and sunny upland,--oho! for youth and life and the joy of it.
To the eyes of Barnabas, the beauty of the world about him served only to remind him of the beauty of her who was compounded of all things beautiful,--the One and Only Woman, whose hair was yellow like the ripening corn, whose eyes were deep and blue as the infinite heaven, whose lips were red as the poppies that bloomed beside the way, and whose body was warm with youth, and soft and white as the billowy clouds above.
Thus on galloped Barnabas with the dust behind and the white road before, and with never a thought of London, or its wonders, or the gathering