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 shadow.

It was well past noon when he beheld a certain lonely church where many a green mound and mossy headstone marked the resting-place of those that sleep awhile. And here, beside the weather-worn porch, were the stocks, that "place of thought" where Viscount Devenham had sat in solitary, though dignified meditation. A glance, a smile, and Barnabas was past, and galloping down the hill towards where the village nestled in the valley. Before the inn he dismounted, and, having seen Four-legs well bestowed, and given various directions to a certain sleepy-voiced ostler, he entered the inn, and calling for dinner, ate it with huge relish. Now, when he had done, came the landlord to smoke a pipe with him,—a red-faced man, vast of paunch and garrulous of tongue.

"Fine doin's there be up at t' great 'ouse, sir," he began.

"You mean Annersley House?"

"Ay, sir. All the quality is there,—my son's a groom there an' 'e told me, so 'e did. Theer ain't nobody as ain't either a Markus or a Earl or a Vi'count, and as for Barry-nets, they're as thick as flies, they are,—an' all to meet a little, old 'ooman as don't come up to my shoulder! But then—she's a Duchess, an' that makes all the difference!"

"Yes, of course," said Barnabas.

"A little old 'ooman wi' curls, as don't come no-wise near so 'igh as my shoulder! Druv up to that theer very door as you see theer, in 'er great coach an' four, she did,—orders the steps to be lowered, —comes tapping into this 'ere very room with 'er little cane, she do, —sits down in that theer very chair as you're a-sittin' in, she do, fannin' 'erself with a little fan—an' calls for—now, what d' ye suppose, sir?"

"I haven't the least idea."

"She calls, sir,—though you won't believe me, it aren't to be expected,—no, not on my affer-daver,—she being a Duchess, ye see—"

"Well, what did she call for?" inquired Barnabas, rising.

"Sir, she called for—on my solemn oath it's true—though I don't ax ye to believe me, mind,—she sat in that theer identical chair,—an' mark me, 'er a Duchess,—she sat in that cheer, a-fannin' 'erself with 'er little fan, an' calls for a 'arf of Kentish ale—'Westerham brew,' says she; an' 'er a Duchess! In a tankard! But I know as you won't believe me,—nor I don't ax any man to,—no, not if I went down on my bended marrer-bones—"

"But I do believe you," said Barnabas.

"What—you do?" cried the landlord, almost reproachfully.

"Certainly! A Duchess is, sometimes, almost human."

"But you—actooally—believe me?"

"Yes."

"Well—you surprise me, sir! Ale! A Duchess! In a tankard! No, it aren't nat'ral. Never would I ha' believed as any one would ha' believed such a—"

But here Barnabas laughed, and taking up his hat, sallied out into the sunshine.

He went by field paths that led him past woods in whose green twilight thrushes and blackbirds piped, by sunny meadows where larks mounted heavenward in an ecstasy of song, and so, eventually he found himself in a road where stood a weather-beaten finger-post, with its two arms wide-spread and pointing:

TO LONDON. TO HAWKHURST

Here Barnabas paused a while, and bared his head as one who stands on hallowed ground. And looking upon the weather-worn finger-post, he smiled very tenderly, as one might who meets an old friend. Then he went on again until he came to a pair of tall iron gates, hospitable gates that stood open as though inviting him to enter. Therefore he went on, and thus presently espied a low, rambling house of many gables, about which were trim lawns and stately trees. Now as he stood looking at this house, he heard a voice near by, a deep, rolling bass upraised in song, and the words of it were these:

  "What shall we do with the drunken sailor,

   Heave, my lads, yo-ho!

     Why, put him in the boat and roll him over,

     Put him in the boat till he gets sober,