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.
