"Prewent it? Lord, Mr. Barty, sir—then vere vould my murder case be?
Besides, I ain't so onprofessional as to step in afore my time.
Prewent it? No, sir. My dooty is to apprehend a man arter the crime,
not afore it."
"But surely you don't mean to allow this unfortunate person to be done to death?"
"Sir," said Mr. Shrig, beginning to finger his ear again, "unfort'nate wictims is born to be—vell, let's say—unfort'nate. You can't 'elp 'em being born wictims. I can't 'elp it,—nobody can't, for natur' vill 'ave 'er own vay, sir, and I ain't vun to go agin natur' nor yet to spile a good case,—good cases is few enough. Oh, life ain't all lavender, as I said afore,—burn my neck if it is!" And here Mr. Shrig shook his head again, sighed again, and walked on in a somewhat gloomy silence.
Now, all at once, as they turned into the rush and roar of Holborn, Barnabas espied a face amid the hurrying throng; a face whose proud, dark beauty there was no mistaking despite its added look of sorrow; and a figure whose ripe loveliness the threadbare cloak could not disguise. For a moment her eyes looked up into his, dark and suddenly wide,—then, quick and light of foot, she was gone, lost in the bustling crowd.
But, even so, Barnabas turned and followed, striding on and on until at length he saw again the flutter of the threadbare cloak. And, because of its shabbiness, he frowned and hastened his steps, and because of the look he had read in her eyes, he paused again, yet followed doggedly nevertheless. She led him down Holborn Hill past the Fleet Market, over Blackfriars Bridge, and so, turning sharp to the right, along a somewhat narrow and very grimy street between rows of dirty, tumble-down houses, with, upon the right hand, numerous narrow courts and alley-ways that gave upon the turgid river. Down one of these alleys the fluttering cloak turned suddenly, yet when Barnabas reached the corner, behold the alley was quite deserted, save for a small and pallid urchin who sat upon a rotting stump, staring at the river, with a pallid infant in his arms.
"Which way did the lady go?" inquired Barnabas.
"Lady?" said the urchin, staring.
"Yes. She wore a cloak,—a gray cloak. Where did she go?" and Barnabas held up a shilling. Instantly the urchin rose and, swinging the pallid infant to his ragged hip, pattered over the cobbles with his bare feet, and with one small, dirty claw extended.
"A bob!" he cried in a shrill, cracked voice, "gimme it, sir! Yus, —yus,—I'll tell ye. She's wiv Nick—lives dere, she do. Now gimme th' bob,—she's in dere!" And he pointed to a narrow door at the further end of the alley. So Barnabas gave the shilling into the eager clutching fingers, and approaching the door, knocked upon the rotting timbers with the head of his cane.
"Come in!" roared a mighty voice. Hereupon Barnabas pushed open the crazy door, and descending three steps, found himself in a small, dark room, full of the smell of leather. And here, its solitary inmate, was a very small man crouched above a last, with a hammer in his hand and an open book before him. His head was bald save for a few white hairs that stood up, fiercely erect, and upon his short, pugnacious nose he wore a pair of huge, horn-rimmed spectacles.
"What's for you, sir?" he demanded in the same great, fierce voice, viewing Barnabas over his spectacles with sharp, bright eyes. "If it's a pair o' Hessians you'll be wanting—"
"It isn't," said Barnabas, "I—"
"Or a fine pair o' dancing shoes—?"
"No, thank you, I want to—"
"Or a smart pair o' bang up riding-jacks—?"
"No," said Barnabas again, "I came here to see—"
"You can't 'ave 'em! And because why?" demanded the little man, his fierce eyes growing fiercer as he stared at Barnabas from modish hat to flowered waistcoat, "because I don't make for the Quality. Quality—bah! If I 'ad my way, I'd gillertine 'em all,—ah, that I would! Like the Frenchies did when they revolutioned. I'd cut off their 'eads! By the dozen! With j'y!"
"You are Nick, the Cobbler, I think?"
"And what if I am? I'd chop off their 'eads, I tell ye,—with j'y and gusto!"
"And pray where is Clemency?"
"Eh?" exclaimed the little cobbler, pushing up his horn spectacles, "'oo did ye say?"
"Where is the lady who came in here a moment ago?"
"Lady?" said the cobbler, shaking his round, bald head, "Lord, sir, your heyes 'as been a-deceiving of you!"
"I am—her friend!"
"Friend!" exclaimed the cobbler, "to which I says—Hookey Walker, sir! 'Andsome gells don't want friends o' your kind. Besides, she ain't here—you can see that for yourself. Your heyes 'as been a-deceiving of you,—try next door."
"But I must see her," said Barnabas, "I wish to help her,—I have good news for her—"
"Noos?" said the cobbler, "Oh? Ah! Well go and tell your noos to someone else as ain't so 'andsome,—Mrs. Snummitt, say, as lives next door,—a widder,—respectable, but with only one heye,—try Mrs. Snummitt."
"Ah,—perhaps she's in the room yonder," said Barnabas, "anyhow, I mean to see—"
"No ye don't!" cried the little cobbler, seizing a crutch that leant near him, and springing up with astonishing agility, "no ye don't, my fine gentleman,—she ain't for you,—not while I'm 'ere to protect her!" and snatching up a long awl, he flourished it above his head. "I'm a cobbler, oh yes,—but then I'm a valiant cobbler, as valiant as Sir Bedevere, or Sir Lancelot, or any of 'em,—every bit,—come and try me!" and he made a pass in the air with the awl as though it had been a two-edged sword. But, at this moment, the door of the inner room was pushed open and Clemency appeared. She had laid aside her threadbare cloak, and Barnabas was struck afresh by her proud, dark loveliness.
"You good, brave Nick!" said she, laying her hand upon the little cripple's bent shoulder, "but we can trust this gentleman, I know."
"Trust him!" repeated the cobbler, peering at Barnahas, more particularly at his feet, "why, your boots is trustworthy—now I come to look at 'em, sir,"
"Boots?" said Barnabas.
"Ah," nodded the cobbler, "a man wears his character into 'is boots a sight quicker than 'e does into 'is face,—and I can read boots and shoes easier than I can print,—and that's saying summat, for I'm a great reader, I am. Why didn't ye show me your boots at first and have done with it?" saying which the cobbler snorted and sat down; then, having apparently swallowed a handful of nails, he began to hammer away lustily, while Barnabas followed Clemency into the inner room, and, being there, they stood for a long moment looking on each other in silence.
And now Barnabas saw that, with her apron and mobcap, the country serving-maid had vanished quite. In her stead was a noble woman, proud and stately, whose clear, sad eyes returned his gaze with a gentle dignity; Clemency indeed was gone, but Beatrix had come to life. Yet, when he spoke, Barnabas used the name he had known her by first.
"Clemency," said he, "your father is seeking for you."
"My—father!" she exclaimed, speaking in a whisper. "You have seen—my father? You know him?"
"Yes. I met him—not long ago. His name is Ralph Darville, he told me, and he goes up and down the countryside searching for you—has done so, ever since he lost you, and he preaches always Forgiveness and Forgetfulness of Self!"
