Nestleton Magna Part 14

Meanwhile, that good man stood looking after the retreating youth, with a smile of triumph and a tear of joy mingling on his cheek. "He's thahne, Lord, seeave him!" he said aloud, and then, retiring to a little clump of trees, where Balaam was listlessly cropping the gra.s.s, more for occupation than through hunger, Adam knelt in prayer; there were few spots on Farmer Houston's farm which had not been consecrated by his secret devotions. He pleaded fervently, as one who had but to ask and have, for the struggling penitent whom he had just pointed to the Lamb of G.o.d. Praises soon mingled with his prayers, and he rose from his knees, a.s.sured and happy.

"Balaam!" said he, as he went back to his employment, "an heir ov glory hez been born te-day!"

Philip Fuller's horse might just as well have had no rider for all the control he felt. The bridle was hung loosely on his neck, his pace was a slow and measured walk, and his rider, all the while, was thinking, praying, and talking to himself.

"He bare our sins, _my sins_, in His own body on the tree. _Whosoever_ believeth--Lord, I believe! I come to the Cross! My sins, I cannot bear them. Thou hast borne them--hast died for me! My Lord and my G.o.d!

Mine! What's this?" he shouted. "I know it; I feel it. Jesus, Thou art my Saviour, too!" He looked around--the very trees wore a brighter robe, the sky a fairer blue, the very birds were singing of his new-born peace! Seizing the bridle, he turned his startled steed and galloped back to where the old hedger was at work.

"Adam Olliver!" he shouted, "Adam Olliver!"

"Halleluia!" shouted Adam. "Ah knoa all aboot it. Prayse the Lord!"

The young man leaped from his horse, seized the old man's hands and shook them, while the happy tears ran down his sunny face.

"Adam Olliver, my sins are gone!"

"Halleluia, ah saw 'em gannin'. Good-bye tiv 'em!"

"But Jesus is mine. My Saviour and my all."

"Prayse the Lord. Ah saw He was comin'. Bless your heart; ah knoa'd it were all right afoore yo' went away. Ah saw it i' your een, an' the Lord tell'd me you were His."

Thus did Philip Fuller find rest to his soul. The mental doubts, the troubled conscience, and the broken heart, which had so long distressed him, had all died out beneath the lifted Cross; the new life which was to be for ever was breathed into his soul on Nestleton Wold, and the apostle who led the rich patrician youth to Jesus was the humble hedger on a Yorks.h.i.+re farm. Go thy way, happy youth!

Brighter suns.h.i.+ne than that which floods the autumn noon around thee fills thy rejoicing soul. Go thy way, and be sure that in the thick darkness which is soon to gather round thee, the Saviour in whom thy trust is will be thy faithful strength and stay. Thou shalt walk through the valley whose shadows are as dark as death; but upheld by the strong arm of the loving Saviour, thou shalt pa.s.s on to greet the dawn in G.o.d's decisive hour when the sun shall chase the gloom, and the hill-tops catch the glory of returning day!

CHAPTER XIX.

BLACK MORRIS IS TAKEN BY SURPRISE.

"How hardly man this lesson learns, To smile, and bless the hand that spurns; To see the blow and feel the pain, And only render love again!

ONE had it--but He came from heaven, Reviled, rejected, and betrayed; No curse He breathed, no plaint He made, But when in death's dark pang He sighed, Prayed for His murderers, and died."

_Edmeston._

The good folks who dwelt in Waverdale and the regions round about, were thrown into a good deal of consternation by reason of a series of daring burglaries and highway robberies with violence, which had been committed during the later autumn days. Isolated farmhouses and solitary inns had been forced open and ransacked, inducing a general feeling of alarm. Two or three men, with c.r.a.pe over their faces and armed with knife and pistol, had been seen by sundry wayfarers.

Farmers and others, returning late from Kesterton Market, were suddenly set upon, and not only robbed, but cruelly maltreated. Under these circ.u.mstances it can scarcely be wondered at, that our good friend, the Rev. Theophilus Clayton, was now and then a little nervous during his late rides from those country appointments over moor and wold where the mysterious footpads plied their cruel and dishonest trade. On one occasion the worthy minister was returning home from Bexton, a distance of nine miles from Kesterton. Just as he reached the brow of a hill, a strong-looking fellow, with villainous features, called out to him, "How far is it to Kesterton?" Neither voice nor face was calculated to soothe the good pastor's nerves, for, though he was no coward, he could not help being influenced by the current panic of the district. "A little over five miles," he answered. At that moment the fellow made a dash at the horse's bridle, but Mr. Clayton was on the alert, he gave Jack a smart stroke with his whip, regardless of all equine proverbs about "down hill, bear me,"

and Jack dashed off at a sharp trot down the steep hill. The robber was thrown upon his face, and then a volley of oaths and curses was followed by the sharp crack of a pistol; but either through faulty aim or distance gained, neither Jack nor the driver was any the worse for that.

The hill was long and steep, and poor Jack was going at a dangerous rate. The gig swung from side to side. In vain the occupant tightened the reins. Circuit horses are not famous for being very sound at the knees, thanks to bungling drivers, and just at the foot of the hill Jack stumbled and fell. A shaft of the gig was broken, Mr. Clayton was thrown out, landed in most uncomfortable fas.h.i.+on head foremost on the gra.s.s-clad roadside, and lay for a brief moment half-stunned by his fall.

"Hallo! what's this?" said a voice. The minister thinking the angry robber was at hand, freed himself from the bondage of the now much-battered hat which had been forced over his face and had doubtless done much to save him from serious injury. By his side knelt no other than Black Morris, who helped him to sit upright on the bank, and as the preacher complained of his head, examined his temple, and found a sharp cut from which the blood was flowing pretty freely. Mr.

Clayton pulled out his handkerchief, and Black Morris proceeded to bind it round his head. In doing so, however, the clear bright moonlight fell on a still red and ugly-looking scar on the cheek below.

"Hallo!" said Morris; "you have had a nasty cut before this."

"Yes," said Mr. Clayton, who found himself not seriously the worse for his mishap. "I'll tell you directly how it was done. But will you kindly help me to put my gig to rights? I fancy I heard a smash."

The damage was confined to the splintered shaft, if we except an abrasion on each knee of poor old Jack, who having recovered his feet, stood, as a circuit horse is pretty sure to do, with no thought of running away. As for the rub on his knees, why he was used to that sort of thing, as eels are to skinning, and doubtless he looked upon it as the indispensable badge of his enlistment in the Church militant. Black Morris drew from his capacious pockets, which were often filled with the produce of midnight raid in copse and glen, a supply of stout cord, and bound the lancewood limb so firmly as to ensure its trustworthiness for the remainder of the journey.

"I'm sincerely obliged to you," said Mr. Clayton, warmly; "I don't know what I should have done without your help. If you are going to Kesterton I shall be glad to give you a ride."

The proposal was timely, and so the Methodist preacher and the poacher rode off in an honest Methodist gig, carrying, also, it is to be feared, contraband game in the secret recesses of Black Morris's velveteen jacket.

"What made you drive so fast down hill?" said Black Morris, as they bowled rapidly along the high road, for the mishap appeared to have electrified Jack into a renewal of his youth.

"Why," said Mr. Clayton, "I was attacked by a highwayman at the top of the hill, and as he made a dash at the reins, I drove off as hard as we could go. The fellow was knocked down, I think, at any rate he was in a great rage, for he swore loudly, and sent a bullet after us, but luckily without effect."

"What sort of a fellow was he?" said Morris.

"Oh! a big, broad-shouldered man, with no whiskers and as villainous a face as I have ever seen."

"Hey, he's a rum un is Bi---- I mean there are rum fellows about just now."

Mr. Clayton noticed the slip of the tongue, but prudently changed the subject.

"You were noticing just now the nasty-looking scar on my cheek; I'll tell you how I got it." Our business-like superintendent had a large canvas pocket nailed under the seat of his gig, in which to put parcels of books, reports, and other matters for safe keeping. Leaning forward he brought out of that receptacle the smaller half of a red brick. "You see that," said he, handing it to his companion, "I was riding to Nestleton a short time since to preach the Gospel of Jesus in Farmer Houston's kitchen,"--here Black Morris gave a sudden start of surprise. "As I pa.s.sed the corner of Midden Harbour, a number of men and boys threw a shower of stones at me. None of them hit me, but the gig suffered a bit, and Jack got a nasty blow or two. I turned round to speak to them, but at that instant somebody threw that brickbat, cutting my cheek, and leaving a scar which I shall carry to my dying day. Black Morris, you gave me that brickbat," said Mr.

Clayton, with a smile, "allow me to give it you back, you may want it again."

"The d----!" said Morris, in unmixed surprise, "then you are the Methody parson."

"Yes, I'm the Methodist parson, Morris, but not the devil, as your words might imply. On the contrary, I hate him, and I am spending my life in trying to get poor souls away from him, and to take them to the Saviour."

"But how do you know that it was me that threw it, when there were so many of 'em."

"Because it was thrown afterwards, and because I saw you do it."

"Then if you could have sworn to it, why didn't you tell who it was, an' get a summons? You seem to have ta'en it wonderfully quiet."

There was half a tone of contempt in the question and remark, which intimated that the Methodist parson was what he would have called "a white-livered sort of a fellow."

"Don't think I was afraid," said Mr. Clayton, who read his thoughts clearly enough. "If I was given that way, I should scarcely have chosen to tax Black Morris with it, out on a solitary road at ten o'clock on a winter's night, and give it him back with a hint that he might perhaps want to use it again."

To this Black Morris made no reply; but his respect for his Methody companion began to rise, and he grew somewhat uncomfortable in his seat.

"No, Morris, I have given my heart and life to that loving Saviour who bids me return good for evil and to love them that hate me. He prayed for His persecutors even on the Cross to which they nailed Him, as I have prayed for you every time I've thought of the blow or seen the scar in the looking-gla.s.s. When Farmer Houston asked me who did it, I knew that one word of mine could have thrown you into jail; but I loved and pitied you, and refused to tell either him or anybody else who did the deed. Your sister Mary asked me to go and see your mother, who is a suffering woman, Morris. Your mother asked, in sympathy, who had hurt my cheek. Do you think that I was going to sadden her heart by telling her that the man who had come to pray with her had been ill-treated by the son whom she loves dearer than her life? Morris, I'm a good deal troubled about you, and would do you good for my Master's sake, even if I knew that you would fling that brickbat at the other cheek. Oh, Morris!" said he, earnestly, laying his hand upon the young man's arm; "for your patient mother's sake, for your own soul's sake, for your loving Saviour's sake, give up this bad and wasted life of yours; turn your back on the evil companions that are dragging you to ruin, and give your heart to Jesus, who died upon the cross for you."

Not one word did Black Morris utter in reply. Mr. Clayton's well-weighed words had gone to his heart like a shot, and the reference to his mother had struck him dumb. By this time they had reached the point where the Nestleton road branched off from the Kesterton highway.

"I must get down here, and thank you for the ride," said Black Morris.

"Thank _you_, Morris, for your kind a.s.sistance, and remember that if ever I can serve you, if you'll come and ask me, I'll do it with all my heart. Good-night."

Having come almost within sight of his welcome stable, Jack trotted along the Kesterton High-street, and in a little while both he and his master were safe at home. The sight of his 'kerchief-bound head would have alarmed his waiting household, but his vigorous step and cheery voice, both intensified as a protest against sympathy or fear, re-a.s.sured them. He told his family the exciting story of his night's adventure, and in the family prayer that night the good man made special intercession for the conversion of Black Morris.