"To search for her?"
"To preach for her. And when I have preached sufficiently, God will bring me to her. So come, young sir, if you will, let us walk together as far as we may." Thus, together, they left the shadow and went on, side by side, in the soft radiance of the rising moon.
"Sir," said Barnabas after a while, seeing his companion was very silent, and that his thin hands often griped and wrung each other, —that gesture which was more eloquent than words,—"Sir, is there anything I can do to lighten your sorrow?"
"Yes, young sir, heed it well, let it preach to you this great truth, that all the woes arid ills we suffer are but the necessary outcome of our own acts. Oh sir,—young sir, in you and me, as in all other men, there lies a power that may help to make or mar the lives of our fellows, a mighty power, yet little dreamed of, and we call it Influence. For there is no man but he must, of necessity, influence, to a more or less degree, the conduct of those he meets, whether he will or no,—and there lies the terror of it! Thus, to some extent, we become responsible for the actions of our neighbors, even after we are dead, for Influence is immortal. Man is a pebble thrown into the pool of Life,—a splash, a bubble, and he is gone! But—the ripples of Influence he leaves behind go on widening and ever widening until they reach the farthest bank. Oh, had I but dreamed of this in my youth, I might have been—a happy man to-night, and—others also. In helping others we ourselves are blessed, for a noble thought, a kindly word, a generous deed, are never lost; such things cannot go to waste, they are our monuments after we are dead, and live on forever."
So, talking thus, they reached a gate, and, beyond the gate, a road, white beneath the moon, winding away between shadowy hedges.
"You are for London, I fancy, young sir?"
"Yes."
"Then we part here. But before I bid you God speed, I would know your name; mine is Darville—Ralph Darville."
"And mine, sir, is Barnabas—Beverley."
"Beverley!" said the Preacher, glancing up quickly, "of Ashleydown?"
"Sir," said Barnabas, "surely they are all dead?"
"True, true!" nodded the Preacher, "the name is extinct. That is how the man—Chichester came into the inheritance. I knew the family well, years ago. The brothers died abroad, Robert, the elder, with his regiment in the Peninsula, Francis, in battle at sea, and Joan—like my own poor Beatrix, was unhappy, and ran away, but she was never heard of again."
"And her name was Joan?" said Barnabas slowly, "Joan—Beverley?"
"Yes."
"Sir, Joan Beverley was my mother! I took her name—Beverley—for a reason."
"Your mother! Ah, I understand it now; you are greatly like her, at times, it was the resemblance that puzzled me before. But, sir—if Joan Beverley was your mother, why then—"
"Then, Chichester has no right to the property?"
"No!"
"And—I have?"
"If you can prove your descent."
"Yes," said Barnabas, "but—to whom?"
"You must seek out a Mr. Gregory Dyke, of Lincoln's Inn; he is the lawyer who administered the estate—"
"Stay," said Barnabas, "let me write it down."
"And now, young sir," said the Preacher, when he had answered all the eager questions of Barnabas as fully as he might, "now, young sir, you know I have small cause to love the man—Chichester, but, remember, you are rich already, and if you take this heritage also,—he will be destitute."
"Sir," said Barnabas, frowning, "better one destitute and starving, than that many should be wretched, surely."
The Preacher sighed and shook his head.
"Young sir, good-by," said he, "I have a feeling we may meet again,
but life is very uncertain, therefore I would beg of you to remember
this: as you are strong, be gentle; as you are rich, generous; and
as you are young, wise. But, above all, be merciful, and strive to
forgive wrongs." So they clasped hands, then, sighing, the Preacher
turned and plodded on his lonely way. But, long after he had
vanished down the moonlit road, Barnabas stood, his fists clenched,
his mouth set, until he was roused by a sound near by, a very small
sound like the jingle of distant spurs. Therefore, Barnabas lifted
his head, and glanced about him, but seeing no one, presently went
his way, slow of foot and very thoughtful.
CHAPTER XLII
IN WHICH SHALL BE FOUND FURTHER MENTION OF A FINGER-POST
The hands of Natty Bell's great watch were pointing to the hour of nine, what time Barnabas dismounted at the cross-roads, and tethering Four-legs securely, leaned his back against the ancient finger-post to wait the coming of Cleone.
Now being old, and having looked upon many and divers men (and women) in its day, it is to be supposed that the ancient finger-post took more or less interest in such things as chanced in its immediate vicinity. Thus, it is probable that it rightly defined why this particular long-legged human sighed so often, now with his gaze upon the broad disc of the moon, now upon a certain point of the road ahead, and was not in the least surprised to see Barnabas start forward, bareheaded, to meet her who came swift and light of foot; to see her pause before him, quick-breathing, blushing, sighing, trembling; to see how glance met glance; to see him stoop to kiss the hand she gave him, and all—without a word. Surprised? not a bit of it, for to a really observant finger-post all humans (both he and she) are much alike at such times.
"I began to fear you wouldn't come," said Barnabas, finding voice at last.
"But to-night is—Barnaby Bright, and the prophecy must be fulfilled, sir. And—oh, how wonderful the moon is!" Now, lifting her head to look at it, her hood must needs take occasion to slip back upon her shoulders, as if eager to reveal her loveliness,—the high beauty of her face, the smooth round column of her throat, and the shining wonder of her hair.
"Cleone—how beautiful you are!"
And here ensued another silence while Cleone gazed up at the moon, and Barnabas at Cleone.
But the ancient finger-post (being indeed wonderfully knowing—for a finger-post) well understood the meaning of such silences, and was quite aware of the tremble of the strong fingers that still held hers, and why, in the shadow of her cloak, her bosom hurried so. Oh! be sure the finger-post knew the meaning of it all, since humans, of every degree, are only men and women after all.
"Cleone, when will you—marry me?"
Now here my lady stole a quick glance at him, and immediately looked up at the moon again, because the eyes that could burn so fiercely could hold such ineffable tenderness also.
"You are very—impetuous, I think," she sighed.
"But I—love you," said Barnabas, "not only for your beauty, but because you are Cleone, and there is no one else in the world like you. But, because I love you so much, it—it is very hard to tell you of it. If I could only put it into fine-sounding phrases—"
