"So much the better," returned the teacher of forgiveness with his gentle smile, and laying a hand upon the arm of each.
"But, sir, I went so far as to give this gentleman the lie!" resumed the Viscount.
"Which I went so far as to—return," said Barnabas.
"But surely the matter can be explained?" inquired the stranger.
"Possibly!" nodded the Viscount, "though I generally leave explanations until afterwards."
"Then," said the stranger, glancing from one proud young face to the other, "in this instance, shake hands first. Hate and anger are human attributes, but to forgive is Godlike. Therefore now, forget yourselves and in this thing be gods. For, young sirs, as it seems to me, it was ordained that you two should be friends. And you are young and full of great possibilities and friendship is a mighty factor in this hard world, since by friendship comes self-forgctfulness, and no man can do great works unless he forgets Self. So, young sirs, shake hands!"
Now, as they looked upon each other, of a sudden, despite his split lip, Barnabas smiled and, in that same moment, the Viscount held out his hand.
"Beverley," said he, as their fingers gripped, "after your most convincing—shall we say, argument?—if you tell me you have boxed with all and every champion back to Mendoza, Jack Slack, and Broughton, egad! I'll believe you, for you have a devilish striking and forcible way with you at times!" Here the Viscount cherished his bruised ribs with touches of tender inquiry. "Yes," he nodded, "there is a highly commendable thoroughness in your methods, my dear Bev, and I'm free to confess I like you better and better—but—!"
"But?" inquired Barnabas.
"As regards the handkerchief now—?"
"I found it—on a bramble-bush—in a wood," said Barnabas.
"In a wood!"
"In Annersley Wood; I found a lady there also."
"A lady—oh, egad!"
"A very beautiful woman," said Barnabas thoughtfully, "with wonderful yellow hair!"
"The Lady Cleone Meredith!" exclaimed the Viscount, "but in a—wood!"
"She had fallen from her horse."
"How? When? Was she hurt?"
"How, I cannot tell you, but it happened about two hours ago, and her hurt was trifling."
"And you—found her?"
"I also saw her safely out of the wood."
"And you did not know her name?"
"I quite—forgot to ask it," Barnabas admitted, "and I never saw her until this morning."
"Why, then, my dear Bev," said the Viscount, his brow clearing, "let us go back to breakfast, all three of us."
But, now turning about, they perceived that the stranger was gone, yet, coming to the bridge, they presently espied him sitting beside the stream laving his hurts in the cool water.
"Sir," said Barnabas, "our thanks are due to you—"
"And you must come back to the inn with us," added the Viscount; "the ham surpasses description."
"And I would know what you meant by the 'blood of atonement,'" said
Barnabas, the persistent.
"As to breakfast, young sirs," said the stranger, shaking his head,
"I thank you, but I have already assuaged my hunger; as to my story,
well, 'tis not over long, and indeed it is a story to think upon—a
warning to heed, for it is a story of Self, and Self is the most
insidious enemy that man possesses. So, if you would listen to the
tale of a selfish man, sit down here beside me, and I'll tell you."
CHAPTER XII
OF THE STRANGER'S TALE, WHICH, BEING SHORT, MAY PERHAPS MEET WITH THE READER'S KIND APPROBATION.
"In ancient times, sirs," began the stranger, with his gaze upon the hurrying waters of the brook, "when a man had committed some great sin he hid himself from the world, and lashed himself with cruel stripes, he walked barefoot upon sharp flints and afflicted himself with grievous pains and penalties, glorying in the blood of his atonement, and wasting himself and his remaining years in woeful solitude, seeking, thereby, to reclaim his soul from the wrath to come. But, as for me, I walk the highways preaching always forgiveness and forgetfulness of self, and if men grow angry at my teaching and misuse me, the pain of wounds, the hardships, the fatigue, I endure them all with a glad and cheerful mind, seeking thereby to work out my redemption and atonement, for I was a very selfish man." Here the stranger paused, and his face seemed more lined and worn, and his white hair whiter, as he stared down into the running waters of the brook.
"Sirs," he continued, speaking with bent head, "I once had a daughter, and I loved her dearly, but my name was dearer yet. I was proud of her beauty, but prouder of my ancient name, for I was a selfish man."
"We lived in the country, a place remote and quiet, and consequently led a very solitary, humdrum life, because I was ever fond of books and flowers and the solitude of trees—a selfish man always. And so, at last, because she was young and high-spirited, she ran away from my lonely cottage with one who was a villain. And I grieved for her, young sirs, I grieved much and long, because I was lonely, but I grieved more for my name, my honorable name that she had besmirched, because, as I told you, I was a selfish man." Again the stranger was silent, sitting ever with bent head staring down at the crystal waters of the brook, only he clasped his thin hands and wrung them as he continued:
"One evening, as I sat among my roses with a book in my hand, she came back to me through the twilight, and flung herself upon her knees before me, and besought my forgiveness with sobs and bitter, bitter tears. Ah, young sirs! I can hear her weeping yet. The sound of it is always in my ears. So she knelt to me in her abasement with imploring hands stretched out to me. Ah, the pity of those white appealing hands, the pity of them! But I, sirs, being as I say a selfish man and remembering only my proud and honorable name, I, her father, spurned her from me with reproaches and vile words, such burning, searing words as no daughter should hear or father utter."
"And so, weeping still, she turned away wearily, hopelessly, and I stood to watch her bowed figure till she had crept away into the evening and was gone."
"Thus, sirs, I drove her from me, this wounded lamb, this poor broken-hearted maid—bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh—I drove her from me, I who should have comforted and cherished her, I drove her out into the night with hateful words and bitter curses. Oh, was ever sin like mine? Oh, Self, Self! In ancient times, sirs, when a man had committed some great sin he lashed himself with cruel stripes, but I tell you no rod, no whip of many thongs ever stung or bit so sharp and deep as remorse—it is an abiding pain. Therefore I walk these highways preaching always forgiveness and forgetfulness of self, and so needs must I walk until my days be done, or until—I find her again." The stranger rose suddenly and so stood with bent head and very still, only his hands griped and wrung each other. Yet when he looked up his brow was serene and a smile was on his lips."
"But you, sirs, you are friends again, and that is good, for friendship is a blessed thing. And you have youth and strength, and all things are possible to you, therefore. But oh, beware of self, take warning of a selfish man, forget self, so may you achieve great things."
"But, as for me, I never stand upon a country road when evening falls but I see her, a broken, desolate figure, creeping away from me, always away from me, into the shadows, and the sound of her weeping comes to me in the night silences." So saying, the stranger turned from them and went upon his way, limping a little because of his hurts, and his hair gleamed silver in the sunshine as he went.
