"'We first endure, then pity, then embrace,'
the vices we come in contact with. But vices we witness for the first
time--they do not always shock us."
"The more pleasing the devil's coat, the more dangerous he is," replied
Father Brighthopes. "And there is another thing to be considered.
Persons following intellectual pursuits are apt to take purely
intellectual views of great as well as petty crimes. The independent
MIND can analyze the nature of a murder, coolly as the anatomist
dissects his human subject. Eugene Aram has too much intellect. Perhaps
his heart is not bad,--what there is of it,--but its virtue is negative.
When we silence the conscience, in judging of right and wrong, reason is
sure to lead us astray."
"I understand now, better than ever before, why expanded minds are so
prone to smile upon and shake hands with crime," said Chester.
"Enlarging the intellect, to the neglect of the soul, we leave this to
become shriveled, like a flower growing in the shade of a great tree."
"A truth, my young friend, every student should bear in mind," observed
the clergyman, earnestly.
Chester walked before him, on a thick fragment of bark, and over a
grassy knoll, in silence. He was wondering why it was that the gentle
old man had gained such a power over him, to conquer his pride, and to
call out his deepest feelings.
"I don't know why it is," said he, as they crossed a rude bridge, thrown
over the sluggish brook, "but I feel as though I could talk with you
more freely than with anybody else. Perhaps it is well that the
stage-coach incident occurred. I felt that I _must_ apologize to you
for my ungentlemanly conduct; and I see that what was so unpleasant to
me was only the breaking of the ice. It must be your wide and genial
charity that has had such an effect upon me. Clergymen are generally
such grim moralists, that they make me shudder."
"When I consider the calm benignity, the ineffably sweet wisdom, the
infinite love of Him who said, 'Go, and sin no more,' what am I, that I
should condemn a brother?" said Father Brighthopes, with suffused
features.
Chester was deeply touched.
"I am not a wilful sinner," he muttered, from his heart. "I do love
purity, goodness, holiness. _I hate myself_ for my bad nature!" he
exclaimed, bitterly.
"Ah, that will never do," replied the old man, softly and kindly. "My
son, I feel for you. I feel with you. But the nature God has given you
in his wisdom,--hate not that. It is the soil in which your soul is
planted. You must be content with it for a season. It is a suicidal
thought, to wish your roots plucked up, because they reach down amid
weeds and rottenness. No; cultivate the soil. Carefully, prayerfully
purify it, and subdue its rankness. Then shall your spirit, grafted with
the scion of holiness, flourish like a goodly tree. It shall gather
wholesome sustenance from below, and at the same time it shall blossom
and bloom, and put forth green leaves, struggling upward,
upward,--higher, higher, still--in the golden atmosphere; its fruits
shall ripen in the beautiful sunlight of heaven, and it shall be blessed
forevermore."
"But the flowers fade, the leaves fall, the fruit drops off and decays,
and the tree is a naked, desolate object, when the storms of winter
wheel and whistle around it," said Chester, darkly.
"Not so with the TREE OF LIFE," cried the old man, with fine enthusiasm.
"Earth is but its nursery. In his own good time, the Husbandman
transplants it into the pure soil of his eternal gardens."
"And the weeds are burned in everlasting fire!"
"The _weeds_--yes; let us hope so! Let us pray that the good God will
deliver us from the weeds of all base passion, which continually spring
up in the most carefully tended soil of earth. What remembrance do we
need of this swamp-lot, when we are once out of its mud and mire?"
"I mean," said Chester, "those trees which the weeds do choke,--those
wild crabs which bring forth no good fruit,--_they_ are cast out."
"And can the good Husbandman plant them side by side with the better
trees, in his garden?" asked the clergyman. "Indeed, would they flourish
in a soil so different from that they loved here too well? Nor would
they choose that soil. If they are not prepared for the companionship of
the cultivated grafts, other and lower places will be found most
appropriate for their unsubdued natures."
Chester remained very thoughtful. By this time they had come in sight of
Mark's house,--a wood-colored building, situated on a pleasant rise of
ground, in the midst of an orchard. Mr. Royden and Mark were already
climbing the fence built about the inclosure, in the midst of which
stood the barn and stables.
XXII.
THE FIGHT AND THE VICTORY.
Father Brighthopes and his companion found Mr. Royden examining the
injured eye of the sorrel colt, which Mark held by the halter in the
yard.
"Can anything be done for it?" asked the jockey, anxiously.
Mr. Royden shook his head, with a pained expression. He loved horses
above all other domestic animals, and a fine colt like Mark's he
regarded almost as a human being. He could not, it seemed, have felt
much worse, had he witnessed the effects of a similar injury upon a
fellow-mortal.
"Spoilt, an't it?"
"Yes," said the farmer; "I see no help for it."
"I know," rejoined Mark, "the sight is ruined. But is the eye going to
look very bad? Will he show it much?"
"Ah, Mark!" said Chester, rather harshly, for a fresh suspicion had
entered his mind; "that hurt can never be covered up. You can't trade
him off for a sound horse, if you try."
Mark turned upon him, with a fierce oath.
"An't it enough for me to know it, without having it flung in my teeth?"
he demanded.
"You deserve it all," retorted Chester, kindling.
"I do?" muttered Mark, with clenched fists.
"Oh, I am not afraid of you," said Chester, turning slightly pale, but
not from fear.
His lips were firmly compressed, and he fixed his fine dark eyes upon
the jockey, with a look of defiance.
"Boys, boys!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, impatiently, "what is all this
about? Chester, leave the yard!"
"If you say so, I will go."
"I say so, if you can't stay and be on good terms with your neighbor."
"I only tell him calmly what I think," said Chester, with a resolute
air.
"And if older persons had not been present," cried Mark, with another
oath, "I should have flung you over the fence, like a puppy,--as you
are!"
"Be calm, my son! bridle your tongue," said the clergyman, gently, to
Chester.
But the young man's pride was touched and his wrath enkindled. He did
not pause to consider the consequences of a rash word.
"I should really have liked to see you try that game!" he replied, with
cutting sarcasm in his tones.
The jockey uttered a stifled growl, like an enraged bull-dog, and,
flinging the halter over the colt's neck, aimed a blow with his fist at
Chester's head. But the latter was not unprepared. Avoiding the attack,
he skillfully took advantage of Mark's impetuosity, grappled with him,
and flung him almost instantly to the ground.
The jockey came down with a tremendous jar, Chester falling upon him. In
a moment the latter was upon his feet; when his father, alarmed and
highly displeased, seized him by the collar.
"Let go!" muttered Chester, in an excited manner, but not
disrespectfully.
"What are you going to do, you foolhardy boy?"
"Nothing; unless I am compelled to. You will let me defend myself, I
hope? I don't want to hurt Mark Wheeler; but then Mark Wheeler must keep
off."
Meanwhile Mark Wheeler had regained his feet, mad from the fall. His
red-burning eyes were like a wild beast's. Father Brighthopes took his
arm with a mild and soothing word; but he shook him off, fiercely.
The jockey was a much stronger man than his quick and determined
adversary; but either he feared the latter's agility, or blinding
passion made him forgetful of every feeling of honor and humanity. His
eye fell upon a dangerous weapon, a fragment of a hickory fork-handle,
that lay within his reach. He made a spring for it; but the clergyman
had picked it up before him.
"Give it to me, old man!" Mark muttered through his teeth.
"Nay, my friend, you must not have it," replied Father Brighthopes,
firmly, but kindly.
"I must not? You mean to govern me like a boy, on my own ground?" hissed
the angry man. "Let go your hold!"
"I entreat you, pause one minute to consider," said the clergyman,
meekly. "Then you shall have the club, to use it as you please."
His words had no effect, except to turn the tide of Mark's fury against
him. The angry man raved at him with a tempest of oaths; shaking his
fist in his face, he swore that, were it not for his white hairs, he
would have crushed him beneath his heel.
"God have mercy on you!" said Father Brighthopes, with solemn
earnestness, and with tears.
"None of your pious nonsense here!" thundered Mark, convulsed with
passion. "Let go the club, or I shall break your arms."
"You will not break an old man's arms," replied the clergyman, with
sublime energy. "No, Mark Wheeler! I know you better. You cannot injure
me."
The strong hand of the jockey seized the old man's shoulder. The latter
seemed but a frail child in his grasp; but still he did not shrink, nor
loose his hold of the club. To Chester and his father, who sprang to
rescue him, he said,
"Do not touch him. I am not afraid. He dare not hurt me. _I am in the
hands of my God._"
Mark's fist was raised to strike.
"I _shall_ tear you to pieces!" he articulated, hoarse with rage.
"The Lord pity you! The Lord forgive you, for raising your hand against
his servant!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with tears coursing down his
pale cheeks. "Mark Wheeler, you cannot hurt me,--not if you kill me. But
_your own soul_ is in your grasp. My friend, I love you, I pray for you!
You cannot make me angry. I will be a Christian towards you. I _will_
pray for you! You cannot prevent that. Strike the old man to the earth,
and his last words shall be a prayer for your darkened soul!"
Mark's clenched hand fell to his side; but with the other he still held
the clergyman's shoulder, looking full in his face.
"My friend," said the old man, "you know I have but done my duty. I
would not harm you, nor see you harmed. It is to defend you against
yourself that I hold the club from you. You may, indeed, hurt my body,
which is old, and not worth much, but you will hurt your own soul a
thousand, thousand times more. Oh, my God!" prayed the old man, raising
his streaming eyes to heaven, "have mercy upon this my poor erring
brother!"
Mark's hand dropped from the old man's shoulder. The flame in his eyes
began to flicker. His lips quivered, and his face became pale. Father
Brighthopes continued to pour out the overflowing waters of his heart,
to quench the fire of passion. At length Mark's eyes fell, and he
staggered backward. Then the old man took his hand, and put the club
into it.
"Our minute is up. Here is the weapon," said he. "Use it as you will."
The club dropped upon the ground.
"Take it, and kill me with it!" muttered Mark. "I am not fit to live."
He sat down upon an overturned trough, and covered his face with his
hands, gnashing his teeth.
"Are you fit to die?" asked the old man, sitting down by his side.
"Would you enter the tomb through a boiling gulf of passion?"
Mark started up.
"Ches is to blame!" he said, with an oath. "He provoked me, when I was
mad from losing my colt's eye."
"Be calm, my friend. Sit down," replied the clergyman. "If Chester has
done wrong, he will acknowledge it."
"I spoke what I thought just and true," added the young man, promptly.
"Why just and true?" echoed Mark, his passion blazing up again.
"You will be angry, if I tell you."
"No, I won't."
"Then I will speak plainly. I said you deserved to lose the beauty and
value of your colt. Perhaps I was wrong. But I did not believe his eye
was hurt by any such accident as you described."
"How then?" muttered the jockey.
"It seemed to me," answered Chester, folding his arms, "you got mad
training him, and _knocked his eye out_."
"Do you mean that?"
"Yes. I saw marks on his head, where you had been whipping him."
"I acknowledge I whipped him," said Mark. "But----"
"Come, come, boys!" cried Mr. Royden, "drop the subject. You, Chester,
are to blame; for, even though your suspicion was correct, you had no
right to speak it. I am mortified beyond measure to think your folly has
fallen upon the head of our good old friend."
"Father Brighthopes, what shall I say to express my sorrow and shame for
what has taken place?" asked Chester, with deep humility.
"Promise me that you will never again speak unkindly to one who has
erred," answered the clergyman, with a sad smile, pressing his hand. "It
was not well that you should use the cutting tone in which you hinted
your suspicion."
"I know it," said Chester, frankly. "Mark, I hope you cherish no ill
feeling. Here is my hand, if you will take it."
Mark had covered his face again; he did not look up nor move.
"I don't know but I was wrong in my thoughts," proceeded the young man.
"I hope I was. But my blood boils when I see cruelty to animals, and I
have not yet learned self-control."
"Which you _must_ learn," added Father Brighthopes, with tender
earnestness.
"I am sorry, Mark, I can't do anything for your colt," observed Mr.
Royden, who, to change the disagreeable topic, had caught the animal,
and led him by the halter to the spot where the jockey was sitting. "I
wish I could."
"I don't deserve it," muttered the other, with his head down. "It is
good enough for me. Ches was right. _I knocked that eye out with the
butt of my whip._"
He gnashed his teeth again, and began to tear his hair with remorse.
Father Brighthopes whispered to Chester and his father, who presently
went away together, leaving him alone with Mark. They returned to the
hay-field. It was noon before they saw the clergyman again. He arrived
home from talking with Mark just as the mowers were washing their hot
faces at the well, in preparation for dinner.
And still Mark Wheeler sat upon the trough, with his face in his hands;
no longer gnashing his teeth and tearing his hair, but sobbing as only
strong men sob.
XXIII.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
The fine weather continued during the week. Literally Mr. Royden and his
men "made hay while the sun shone." Saturday came, and they were
astonished at what was done.
"I have tried my new system pretty thoroughly," said the farmer to his
aged guest, that morning. "I have taken things in an easy way,
decidedly, this week. Work has gone ahead amazingly. The river was deep,
but it ran smoothly. The hay-field has been like a play-ground to all of
us."
But the crisis was to come. Saturday was the great "drawing" day. Mr.
Royden was a cautious man; doubting whether the fine weather would
continue until Monday, he was anxious to see every cock of hay in the
stack, or under shelter, before night. He had laid his plans with great
foresight, and would have accomplished them beautifully, had not a
sudden change of weather in the afternoon occurred, to throw his affairs
into confusion.
When Father Brighthopes mounted the hay-rick, to ride to the field with
the laborers, after their brief nooning, he remarked that he "smelt a
storm brewing."
"Let it come," said the farmer. "We will try to be prepared for it."
The air was close and sultry. A few dark western clouds showed their
sullen foreheads over the horizon's rim, like grim giants meditating
battle. There appeared angry commotions among them now and then, and
some low growls of thunder came to the ear.
But overhead the yellow sky was clear. In the east, in the north, in the
south, not even a white fleece was to be seen.
"It may rain by evening," said the farmer, gently touching the flanks of
the horses with the point of a pitchfork. "We have got our stint, boys;
it will be no harm if we have it done when the sun is an hour high."
The horses threw themselves into a lazy trot. The wagon rattled down the
lane, and went jolting over the rough ground at the entrance of the
meadow. The men jumped out and took their rakes, followed by Chester;
while Mr. Royden and James resumed their work of drawing.
The farmer pitched up the cocks, James shaped the load, and the
clergyman "raked after," cheerful and spry as any of them. The smell of
the hay-field had a fascination for the old man. He felt new strength
since he had breathed its healthful odors. His cheek had browned, and he
had learned to eat meat with the men.
Suddenly one of the great clouds shook himself, slowly reared his mighty
form, and put his shoulder up against the sun. A cooling shadow swept
across the meadow. At the same time he hurled a swift thunder-bolt, and
growled in deep and wrathful tones.
"It is going to rain, father," cried James, from the top of the load.
"Drive on," answered the farmer, pitching on the last of a large
hay-cock.
Father Brighthopes scratched up the few remaining wisps with his rake,
and followed along the wagon-track.
While Mr. Royden and James were transferring the load from the rick to
the growing stack in the midst of the meadow, the old man lay upon the
grass in the shade to rest. He heard a footstep, and, looking up, saw
Mark Wheeler approaching.
"Do you think it is going to rain?" asked the jockey, talking up to Mr.
Royden.
"I should not be surprised if we had a shower this evening," replied the
farmer, heaving up a heavy forkful to James. "I don't think those clouds
will touch us yet a while."
"I can help you just as well as not, if you think there is any danger,"
rejoined Mark.
"Very well," said Mr. Royden. "It's always safe to be beforehand. If
you're a mind to take hold, and help the boys get the hay that's down
into shape, I'll do as much for you, some time."
"I owe you work, I believe," replied Mark, throwing off his vest. "Are
you going to pitch on to the load out of the win'row?"
"Yes; unless there comes up a shower. If it looks like it, you'll have
to get the hay into cocks the quickest way you can."
Mark found a rake by the stack; but still he lingered. He had not seen
the clergyman since Monday, and he appeared desirous, yet somewhat
ashamed, to speak with him.
"How do you do to-day, friend Mark?" Father Brighthopes said, reading
his mind.
The jockey came up to him, where he lay under the stack, and gave him
his hand.
"I am well, I thank you," he replied, in a low tone. "I was afraid to
speak to you."
"Afraid!"
"Yes, Father. I know you must despise me and hate me."
"No, my son; you misjudge me," answered the old man, with a kindly
smile, sitting up, and pressing Mark's hand, as the latter stooped down
to him. "On the contrary I am drawn toward you, Mark. There is much in
you to love; only overcome these besetting faults, which are your worst
enemies."
"I shall try--thank you,"--Mark's voice quivered with emotion. "I
haven't forgot what you said to me t'other day. I shall not forget it."
"Do not!" exclaimed the clergyman, earnestly, smiling through the mist
that gathered in his eyes. "Go; and God bless you!" he added, tenderly.
The jockey turned away, humble, and much affected. When he came up to
where Chester was at work, he spoke to him in a friendly tone, and asked
where he should commence.
"Follow after me, if you please," said the young man, with real kindness
in his tones.
The quarrel seemed forgotten.
In a little while, Sam came limping to the field with a jug of fresh
water. He was beginning to use his sprained ankle again, but he made
awkward work of it. Mr. Royden called him, and drank from the jug,
having first offered it to Father Brighthopes.
"Any mice, Jim?" asked Sam, slyly.
"We have no time to think of mice, my son," said the clergyman.
At that moment one of the little animals in question ran away from his
rake, and took refuge under the wagon.
"I'll ketch him!" said Sam, with eyes sparkling mischief.
"Come, come! no nonsense this afternoon," cried Mr. Royden. "Go and
carry the jug to the men. They're wanting it by this time."
"I'm going right along, sir," replied Sam, starting, but looking back
for the mouse.
Mr. Royden went on. Turning presently, he saw the boy in hot pursuit of
the unhappy mouse. He had forgotten about his lame foot. He was leaping
about on the mown sward, and dancing this way and that, with surprising
agility.
The truth is, his ankle had been nearly well for two or three days; and
he had cherished the convenient habit of hopping and jumping only to
excuse himself from labor. Betrayed into running by a mouse, and by his
passion for mischief, he confirmed a suspicion which had already entered
Mr. Royden's mind.
"Here, you little rascal!" cried the farmer, provoked, but at the same
time not a little amused. "Sam Cone!"
Sam did not hear, or would not heed, so enthusiastic was he in the
pursuit of fun. At length he made a seizure, with his hand in the turf,
and brought up the mouse, screaming with delight.
"I got him! I got him! I g----Blast your pictur'!"
His song changed suddenly from joy to lamentation. The mouse had bit his
finger with its sharp teeth, and would not let go. Sam flirted, yelled,
and finally shook him off, with much ado. The animal escaped, while he,
reflecting probably that it was a small affair to cry about, became
silent, and squeezed the oozing drops of blood from his wounds, glancing
sheepishly around, to see who was looking at him.
"So, your foot is well enough to chase mice, is it?" said Mr. Royden,
with quiet humor. "Now, supposing you should take a rake, and help the
men with those win'rows?"
"Got bit!" muttered Sam. "Darned ol' mouse!"
"Shall we send for a doctor?" laughed James.
"His teeth went clear through!" complained Sam, limping again worse than
ever, and sucking his finger.
But he did not argue the propriety of obeying the farmer's directions.
He carried the jug to the men, and went slowly, limpingly, to work.
XXIV.
THE THUNDER-STORM.
Mr. Royden got upon the stack with James, and, to hasten this department
of the afternoon's work, Mark Wheeler and one of the laborers pitched up
the load.
They had now commenced drawing from the windrows where they had been
longest exposed to the curing process of the sun. On their return,
Chester complained of Sam's laziness, declaring that he was only in the
way.
"I'm lame, and you know it," said Sam, in an injured tone.
"Very lame, I know, you ambitious mouse-catcher!" said Mr. Royden. "I'll
favor your broken leg. Here, if you can't rake hay, get up on the rick
with James. See if you two can load as fast as Mark and I can pitch."
"Get up," cried Mark. "We'll find something for you to do."
Mark was a giant at pitching. He rolled up vast forkfuls, with which he
inundated Sam at every rod. The latter had no time for fun; the moment
he paused, up came a perfect cloud of hay, which he must dispose of, or
be buried.
A towering load went to the stack. By the time the rick was emptied, the
clouds, which had made no show of hostilities for some time, sent out a
detachment that swept across the sky, black and threatening, wheeling
and darkening the field.
"I vow," said Mark, "that looks like rain!"
"Rain--sure enough!" articulated Mr. Royden, with a troubled expression.
"A big sprinkle struck me right on the nose," cried Sam.
"I wish we had got up the hay that was down, the first thing after
dinner, and left the cocks," said the farmer, pricking the horses. "I
would have risked it in the stack, if I had known it was so well cured.
If there should come up a rain, it would be spoilt."
There was real danger, and each man went to work as if the hay was all
his own.
"Don't pitch so fast as you did afore, Mark," whined Sam. "You 'most
covered me up, fifteen or sixteen times."
"It'll do you good," replied the jockey, heaving a fraction of a ton
from the heavy windrow directly upon Sam's head. "Tread it down!"
Father Brighthopes, who had been some time sitting by the stack, to rest
his old limbs, observed the threatening clouds, and came out again with
his rake.
"You'd better go to the house, Father," said Mr. Royden, in a hurried
tone. "I would not have you get wet and take cold for ten times the
worth of the hay."