Part 98 (1/2)

”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 astonis.h.i.+ng agility, ”no ye don't, my fine gentleman,--she ain't for you,--not while I'm 'ere to protect her!” and s.n.a.t.c.hing 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 pa.s.s 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 l.u.s.tily, 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 ap.r.o.n and mobcap, the country serving-maid had vanished quite. In her stead was a n.o.ble 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!”

”My father!” she whispered again with quivering lips. ”Preaching?”

”He tramps the roads hoping to find you, Clemency, and he preaches at country wakes and fairs because, he told me, he was once a very selfish man, and unforgiving.”

”And--oh, you have seen him, you say,--lately?” she cried.

”Yes. And I sent him to Frittenden--to the 'Spotted Cow.' But Clemency, he was just a day too late.”

Now when Barnabas said this, Clemency uttered a broken cry, and covered her face.

”Oh, father!” she whispered, ”if I had only known,--if I could but have guessed! Oh, father! father!”

”Clemency, why did you run away?”

”Because I--I was afraid!”

”Of Chichcster?”

”No!” she cried in sudden scorn, ”him I only--hate!”