The Amateur Gentleman Part 17

"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 surpa.s.ses 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 a.s.suaged 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 hards.h.i.+ps, 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 abas.e.m.e.nt 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 suns.h.i.+ne as he went.

CHAPTER XIII

IN WHICH BARNABAS MAKES A CONFESSION

"A very remarkable man!" said the Viscount, taking up his hat.

"And a very pitiful story!" said Barnabas, thoughtfully.

"Though I could wish," pursued the Viscount, dreamy of eye, and settling his hat with a light tap on the crown, "yes, I do certainly wish that he hadn't interfered quite so soon, I was just beginning to--ah--enjoy myself."

"It must be a terrible thing to be haunted by remorse so bitter as his, 'to fancy her voice weeping in the night,' and to see her creeping on into the shadows always--away from him," said Barnabas.

But now, having helped each other into their coats, they set off back to the inn.

"My ribs," said the Viscount, feeling that region of his person with tender solicitude as he spoke, "my ribs are infernally sore, Bev, though it was kind of you not to mark my face; I'm sorry for your lip, my dear fellow, but really it was the only opening you gave me; I hope it isn't painful?"

"Indeed I had forgotten it," returned Barnabas.

"Then needs must I try to forget my bruised ribs," said the Viscount, making a wry face as he clambered over the stile.

But here Barnabas paused to turn and look back at the scene of their encounter, quite deserted now, for the stranger had long since disappeared in the green.

"Yes, a very remarkable man!" sighed Barnabas, thoughtfully.

"I wish he had come back with us to the inn and--Clemency. Yes, a very strange man. I wonder now--"

"And I beg you to remember," added the Viscount, taking him by the arm, "he said that you and I were ordained to be friends, and by Gad!

I think he spoke the truth, Bev."

"I feel sure of it, Viscount," Barnabas nodded.

"Furthermore, Bev, if you are 'Bev' to me, I must be 'd.i.c.k' to you henceforth--amen and so forth!"

"Agreed, d.i.c.k."

"Then, my dear Bev?" said the Viscount impulsively.

"Yes, my dear d.i.c.k?"

"Suppose we shake hands on it?"

"Willingly, d.i.c.k, yet, first, I think it but honorable to tell you that I--love the Lady Cleone Meredith."

"Eh--what?" exclaimed the Viscount, falling back a step, "you love her? the devil you do! since when?"

"Since this morning."

"Love her!" repeated the Viscount, "but you've seen her but once in your life."

"True," said Barnabas, "but then I mean to see her many times, henceforth."

"Ah! the deuce you do!"

"Yes," answered Barnabas. "I shall possibly marry her--some day."

The Viscount laughed, and frowned, and laughed again, then noting the set mouth and chin of the speaker, grew thoughtful, and thereafter stood looking at Barnabas with a new and suddenly awakened interest. Who was he? What was he? From his clothes he might have been anything between a gentleman farmer and a gamekeeper.

As for Barnabas himself, as he leaned there against the stile with his gaze on the distance, his eyes a-dream, he had clean forgotten his awkward clothes and blunt-toed boots.

And after all, what can boots or clothes matter to man or woman?

indeed, they sink into insignificance when the face of their wearer is stamped with the serene yet determined confidence that marked Barnabas as he spoke.