It was now the beginning of April; a month had passed since the
temperance meeting, and James Barnes and William Foster were keeping
clear of the drink and of their old ungodly companions. But it was not
to be supposed that the enemies were asleep, or willing to acquiesce
patiently in such a desertion from their ranks. Nevertheless, little
stir was made, and open opposition seemed nearly to have died out.
"How quietly and peaceably matters are going on," said the vicar to
Thomas Bradly one morning; "I suppose the intemperate party feel they
can do our cause no real harm, and so are constrained to let Foster and
Barnes alone."
"I'm not so sure about that, sir," was Bradly's reply. "I'm rather
looking out for a breeze, for things are too quiet to last; there's been
a queerish sort of grin on the faces of Foster's old mates when they've
passed me lately, as makes me pretty sure there's something in the wind
as mayn't turn out very pleasant. But I'm not afraid: we've got the
Lord and the right on our side, and we needn't fear what man can do unto
us."
"True, Thomas, we must leave it there; and we may be sure that all will
work together for the furtherance of the good cause in the end."
"I've not a doubt of it, sir; but for all that, I mean to keep a bright
look-out. I'm not afraid of their trying their games with me; it's
Barnes and Foster as they mean to pay off if they can."
That same evening James Barnes knocked at Bradly's Surgery door, and
closed it quickly after him. There was a scared look in his eyes; his
dress was all disordered; and, worse still, he brought with him into the
room an overpowering odour of spirits. Poor Thomas's heart died within
him. Alas! was it really so? Had the enemy gained so speedy a triumph?
"So, Jim, you've broken, I see," exclaimed Bradly sorrowfully. "The
Lord pardon and help you!"
"Nothing of the sort," cried the other; "I've never touched a drop,
Thomas, since I signed, though a good big drop has touched me."
"What do you mean, Jim?" asked Bradly, greatly relieved at the tone of
his voice. "Are you sure it's all right? Come, sit down, and tell me
all about it."
"That I will, Thomas; it's what I've come for. You'll easily believe me
when I tell you," he continued, after taking a seat, "that they've been
at me every road to try and get me back, badgering, chaffing,
threatening, and coaxing: it's strange what pains they'll take as is
working for the devil. But it wouldn't act. Well, three or four nights
ago, when I got home from my work, I found two bottles on my table.
They was uncorked; one had got rum, and the other gin in it. Now, I
won't say as my mouth didn't water a bit, and the evil one whispered
`Just take a glass;' but no, I wasn't to be done that way, so I lifts up
a prayer for strength, and just takes the bottles at once out into the
road, and empties them straight into the gutter. There was some looking
on as would let the enemy know. So to-night, as smooth ways wouldn't
act, they've been trying rough 'uns. Four of my old mates, Ned Taylor
among 'em, watches when my missus went off to the shop, and slips into
the kitchen where I was sitting. They'd brought a bottle of rum with
them, and began to talk friendly fashion, and tried might and main to
get me to drink. But I gave the same answer--I'd have none of it. Then
one of them slipped behind my chair, and pinned me down into it, and Ned
Taylor tried to force my mouth open, while another man held the bottle,
ready to pour the rum down my throat. But just then our little Bob,
seeing how roughly they were handling me, bolted out into the street,
screaming, `They're killing daddy! They're killing daddy!' So the
cowardly chaps, seeing it was time to be off, took to their heels, all
but Ned Taylor. He'd taken the bottle of rum from the man as held it,
and he took and poured it all down my coat and waistcoat, and said, `If
you won't have it inside, you shall have it out;' and then he burst out
into a loud laugh, and went after the rest of them. If you examine my
clothes, Thomas, you can see as I'm telling the truth. However, they've
just been and cut their own throats, for they've only made me more
determined than ever to stick to my tee-totalism."
"All right, Jim," said the other cheerfully; "they've outwitted
themselves. I've an old coat and waistcoat as I've nearly done with,
but they've got a good bit of wear in them yet. They'll just about fit
you, I reckon. You shall go back in them, and keep them and welcome,
and we'll make these as they've spoilt a present to the dunghill. I
only wish all other bad habits, and more particularly them as comes
through rum, brandy, and such like, could be cast away on to the same
place. You did quite right, Jim, to come straight to me."
"Ay, Thomas, I felt as it were best; for I were in a towering rage at
first, and I think I should have half killed some of 'em, if I could
only have got at them."
"Ah, well, Jim, you just let all that alone. `Vengeance is mine, I will
repay, saith the Lord.' We'll get our revenge in another way some day;
we may heap coals of fire on some of their heads yet. But you leave
matters now to me. I shall see Ned Taylor to-morrow myself, and give
him a bit of my mind; and warn him and his mates that if they try
anything of the kind on again, they'll get themselves into trouble."
"Thank you, Thomas, with all my heart, for your kindness: `a friend in
need's a friend indeed.' But there's just another thing as I wants to
talk to you about afore I go. I meant to come up to-night about it
anyhow, even if this do hadn't happened."
"Well, Jim, let's hear it."
"Do you remember Levi Sharples, Thomas?"
"What! That tall, red-haired chap, with a cast in his left eye, and a
mouth as wide and ugly as an ogre's?"
"Yes, that's the man. You'll remember, Thomas, he was concerned in that
housebreaking job four years ago, and the police have been after him
ever since."
"To be sure, Jim, I remember him fast enough; he's not a man one's
likely to forget. I suppose a more thorough scoundrel never set foot in
Crossbourne. It was a wonderful thing how he managed to escape and keep
out of prison after that burglary business. But what about him?"
"Why, Thomas, I seed him in this town the day before yesterday."
"Surely, Jim, you must be mistaken. He durstn't show his face in
Crossbourne for the life of him."
"No, I know that; but he's got himself made up to look like another
man,--black hair, great black whiskers, and a thick black beard, and a
foreign sort of cap on his head,--and he's lodging at the Green Dragon,
and pretends as he's an agent for some foreign house to get orders for
rings, and brooches, and watches, and things of that sort."
"But are you certain, Jim, you're not mistaken?"
"Mistaken! Not I. I used to know him too well in my drinking days.
He'll never disguise that look of that wicked eye of his from them as
knows him well; and though he's got summat in his mouth to make him talk
different, I could tell the twang of his ugly voice anywheres."
"Well, Jim?"
"Ah, but it ain't well, Thomas, I'm sorry to say: there's mischief, you
may be sure, when the like of him's about. You know he used to be a
great man with Will Foster's old set; and, would you believe it, I saw
him yesterday evening, when it was getting dark, standing near Foster's
house talking with him. They didn't see me, for I was in the shadow;
I'd just stooped down to fasten my boot-lace as they came up together.
I'd had a message to take to William's wife, and was coming out the back
way, when I heard footsteps, and I knew Levi in a moment, as the gas
lamp shone on him. I didn't want to play spy, but I _did_ want to know
what that chap was up to. So, while their backs was towards me, I
crawled behind the water-butt without making any noise, and I could
catch a few words now and then, as they were not far-off from me."
"Well, Jim, and what did you hear?"
"Why, Levi said, `It won't do for me to be seen here, so let us have a
meeting in some safe place.'--`Very well,' says William, and then they
spoke so low I could only catch the words, `Cricketty Hall;' but just as
Levi were moving off, he said in a loud whisper, `All right, then--
Friday night;' and I think he mentioned the hour, but he spoke so low I
couldn't clearly mate out any more. So I've come to tell you, Thomas
Bradly, for there's mischief of some sort up, I'll be bound."
Bradly did not answer, but for a time a deep shade of anxiety settled on
his features. But after a while the shadow passed away. "James," he
said earnestly, "I can't believe as there's anything wrong in this
matter in William Foster. I can't believe the Lord's led him so far, in
the right way, and has now left him to stray into wrong paths. I've
watched him narrowly, and I'm certain he's as true as steel. But I
think with you as there's mischief brewing. Though William has got a
clever head, yet he's got a soft heart along with it, and he's not over
wide-awake in some things; and I'll be bound he's no match for a villain
like that Levi. I tell you what it is, Jim: it strikes me now, just as
we're speaking, as Levi's being set on by some of William's old mates to
draw him out of the town to a place where they can play him some trick,
or do him some harm, without being hindered or found out. I can't
explain how, of course, but that's my thought. Now, if you'll lend me a
helping hand, I'm persuaded as we shall be able, if the Lord will, to
turn the tables on these fellows in such a way as'll effectually tie
their hands and stop their tongues for many a long day to come."
"All right, Thomas," cried Barnes, "I'm your man; I think you're on the
right scent."
"Very good, Jim; Cricketty Hall, and Friday night, that's where and when
the meeting's to be. It means next Friday no doubt, for Levi Sharples
won't stay in this neighbourhood a moment longer than he can help. You
may depend upon it, when these two meet at the old ruin, Levi'll have
some of their old mates not far-off, and there'll be wild work with poor
William when they've got the opportunity. But we'll give 'em more
company than they'll reckon for. But now, Jim, we must be cautious how
we act. Of course I could go and tell William privately what I think
Levi's up to, but I shall not do that; I want to catch that rascal in
his own trap, and get him out of the country for good and all, and give
the rest of them such a lesson as they'll not soon forget. So it won't
do for you or me to be seen going out towards Cricketty Hall on Friday
evening, for they are sure to set spies about, and we should spoil all.
I'll tell you how we'll manage. I've been wanting a day at Foxleigh for
some time, as I've some business of my own there. You get leave to meet
me there, and I'll pay your fare. Go by the eight a.m. train on Friday
morning, and I'll take the train that starts at dinner-time. No one'll
ever suspect us of going to Cricketty Hall that way. I shall tell the
police at Foxleigh my business, and they'll be glad enough to send some
men with us when they know that Levi Sharples will be there, the man
they've been wanting to catch. We can get round to the woods above
Cricketty Hall from Foxleigh without being seen, when it begins to be
dark, and can get down into the ruins without their noticing us, for
they'll never think of any one coming by that road, such a roundabout
way. And mind, Jim, not a word to any one, not even to your missus.
All you need tell her is, that I've wanted you to meet me about some
business at Foxleigh, and you won't be back till late."
"All right, Thomas," said Barnes; "you may depend on it I shan't say
nothing to nobody. I shall just tell my missus afore I'm setting off on
the Friday morning as I've got a job to do for you, and she mustn't
expect me home till she sees me; and no one'll be surprised at my
turning up at the station, as they all know as I used to be porter
there."
Cricketty Hall was one of those decayed family mansions which are to be
met with in many parts of England. Its original owners had been persons
of importance many generations back, but their name and fame had passed
away. The lands connected with the Hall had become absorbed into other
properties; and the building itself had gradually crumbled down, many a
neighbouring farm-house owing some of its most solid and ornamental
portions to the massive ruins from which they had been borrowed or
taken. Still, enough had been left to show that the place had once been
a mansion of considerable pretensions. The old gateway, with its
portcullis and drawbridge, was still standing, while the moat which
surrounded the entire building indicated that it had been originally of
very capacious dimensions. The roof and most of the walls had long
since disappeared; trees grew in the centre, and spread out their
branches over the space once occupied by the dormitories, while a
profusion of ivy concealed many a curiously carved arch and window.
From the gateway the ground sloped rapidly, affording a fine view of the
neighbouring country. Behind the house was high ground, once thickly
wooded, and still partially covered with trees and underwood. The Hall
was about two miles distant from Crossbourne, and was well-known to most
of its inhabitants, though but seldom visited, except occasionally by
picnic parties in summer-time. Old tradition pronounced it to be
haunted, but though such an idea was ridiculed now by everybody whenever
the superstition was alluded to, yet very few persons would have liked
to venture into the ruins alone after dark; and, indeed, the loneliness
of the situation made it by no means a desirable place for solitary
evening musings.
The ordinary way to the Hall was by a footpath leading to it out of the
highroad across fields for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. It
could also be approached by a much less frequented track, which passed
along sequestered lanes out of the main road from the town of Foxleigh,
the nearest town to Crossbourne by rail, and brought the traveller to
it, after a walk of six miles from Foxleigh, through the overhanging
wooded ground which has been mentioned as rising up in the rear of the
old ruins.
The only exception to the dilapidated state of the premises was a large
vaulted cellar or underground room. Its existence, however, had been
well-nigh forgotten, except by a few who occasionally visited it, and
kept the secret of the entrance to it to themselves.
The Friday on which the appointment between Foster and Levi Sharples was
to be kept at Cricketty Hall, was one of those dismal April days which
make you forget that there is any prospect of a coming summer in the
chilly misery of the present. Cold showers and raw breezes made the
passers through the streets of Crossbourne fold themselves together, and
expose as little surface as was possible to the inclemency of the
weather; so that when James Barnes and Thomas Bradly left the station by
the early and mid-day trains, there were but few idlers about to notice
their departure.
At length the mills loosed, and Foster hurried home, and, after a hasty
tea, told his wife that an engagement would take him from home for a few
hours, and that she must not be alarmed if he was a little late. Then,
having put on a stout overcoat, he made his way through the higher part
of the town, and past the vicarage, and was soon in the open country.
It was past seven o'clock when he reached the place where the footpath
leading to the old Hall met the highroad. It was still raining, though
not heavily; but thick, leaden-coloured clouds brooded over the whole
scene, and served to deepen the approaching darkness. It was certainly
an evening not calculated to raise any one's spirits; and the harsh
wind, as it swept over the wide expanse of the treeless fields, with
their stern-looking stone fences, added to the depressing influences of
the hour. But Foster was a man not easily daunted by such things, and
he had stridden on manfully, fully occupied by his own thoughts, till he
reached the stile where the footpath to the ruins began. Here he
paused, looked carefully in all directions, listened attentively without
hearing sound of traveller or vehicle, and then whistled in a low tone
twice. A tall figure immediately rose up from the other side of the
hedge and joined him.
"Well, Levi," said Foster, "I have kept my appointment; and now what
would you have with me?"
"I'll tell you, William," replied his companion. "You know I'm a marked
man. The police are looking out for me on account of that housebreaking
job--more's the pity I ever had anything to do with it. However, I'm a
changed man now, I hope: I think I've given you some proof of that
already, William, so you may trust me. A man wouldn't come back and
thrust his head into the lion's mouth as I've done, to show his
sincerity and sorrow for the past, if he hadn't been in earnest. Now,
what I want you to do is this:--You know how many Sunday afternoons you
and I, and others of our old mates, have spent in card-playing in the
cellar of that old Hall--the Lord forgive me for having wasted his holy
day in such sin and folly! Now, I've a long story to tell, and I should
like to tell it in that same place where you and I joined in what was
sinful in our days of ignorance and darkness. I can tell you there how
I was brought to see what a fool's part I had been playing, and how I
came to my right mind at last. You can give me some good advice; and I
want to leave one or two little things with you to give or send to my
poor old mother when I'm far away. And when we've had our talk out,
we'll part at the old ruin, and I shall make the best of my way out of
the country, and begin a new and better life, I trust, where I'm not
known. I'm sorry to have given you the trouble to come out all this
way, specially on such a night as this; but I really don't feel safe
anywhere in or near Crossbourne, as the police might pop on me at any
moment, and I felt sure, from what I heard of the change that has taken
place in you, that you wouldn't mind a little trouble to help an old
companion out of the mire. You needn't be afraid to come with me; I can
have no possible motive to lead you into danger."
"I'm not afraid, Levi," said Foster quietly. "I'm ready to go with
you."
Nothing more was said by either of them till they had followed out the
footpath and stood before the gateway of the old Hall. They were soon
making their way cautiously amongst the fallen blocks of stone towards a
turret which rose to a considerable height at the end of the ruins
farthest from the gateway. "Go forward, William," said Sharples, "while
I light my lantern." So saying, he paused to strike a match, while his
companion threaded his way towards the turret. At this moment a figure,
unobserved by Foster, emerged from behind a low wall, and, having
exchanged a few whispered words with Levi, disappeared through an
archway.
The two companions, having now gained the turret, proceeded to descend a
few broken steps concealed from ordinary observation by a mass of
brushwood, and reached the entrance of a spacious vault. "Stay a
moment," said Sharples; "I'll go first and show a light." So saying, he
pushed past the other, and the next instant Foster felt himself held
fast by each arm, while a handkerchief was pressed over his mouth. He
was at once painfully conscious that he had been completely entrapped,
and that resistance was perfectly useless, for two strong men grasped
him, one on either side. But his presence of mind did not desert him,
and he now had learnt where to look, in secret prayer, for that "very
present help in trouble" which never fails those who seek it aright.
Thus fortified, he attempted no resistance, but patiently awaited the
event.
In a few minutes the handkerchief was withdrawn from his eyes, and he
found himself in the presence of about a dozen men, all of whose faces
were blackened. On a large stone in the centre of the vault was placed
the bull's-eye lantern which his companion had recently lighted, and
which, by pouring its light fully on himself, prevented him from clearly
seeing the movements of his captors. What was to come next? He was not
long left in doubt.
"Saint Foster," said Levi Sharples, who stood just behind the lantern,
and spoke in a sneering, snuffling voice, "we don't wish you any harm;
but we have brought your saintship before our right worshipful court,
that you may answer to the charge brought against you, of having
deserted your old principles and companions, and inflicted much
inconvenience and discredit on the cause of free-thought and good
fellowship in Crossbourne. What say you to this charge, Saint Foster?"
Their poor victim had by this time thoroughly recovered his self-
possession, and being now set at liberty--for his enemies knew that he
could not escape them--answered quietly, and in a clear, unfaltering
voice, "I must ask first by what authority this court is constituted;
and by whose authority you are now questioning me?"
"By the authority of `might,' which on the present occasion makes
`right,' Saint Foster," was the reply.
"Be it so," said Foster. "I can only reply that I have been following
out my own honest convictions in the course I have lately taken. What
right has any man to object to this?"
"A good deal of right, Saint Foster, since your following out your
present honest convictions is a great hindrance to those who used to
agree with you in your former honest convictions."
"I am not responsible for that," was Foster's reply.
"Perhaps not," continued Sharples; "nevertheless, we are met on the
present agreeable occasion to see if we cannot induce you to give up
those present honest convictions of yours, and join your old friends
again."
"That I neither can nor will," said the other in a firm voice.
"That's a pity," said Sharples; "because if you persist in your
determination, the consequences to yourself may be unpleasant. However,
the court wishes to deal very leniently with you, in consideration of
past services, and therefore I am commissioned to offer you a choice
between two things.--Officer! Bring forward the `peacemaker.'"
Upon this, a man stepped forward, uncorked a bottle of spirits, and
placed it on the stone in front of the lantern.
"Saint Foster," proceeded his pretended judge, "we earnestly exhort you
to lift this bottle of spirits to your lips, and, having taken a hearty
swig thereof, to say after me, `Long life and prosperity to free-thought
and good fellowship.' If you will do this we shall be fully satisfied,
and shall all part good friends."
"And if I refuse?" asked the other.
"Oh! There'll be no compulsion--we are not going to force you to drink.
This is `Liberty Hall;' only, you must submit to the alternative."
"And what may that be?"
"Oh! Just to carry home with you a little of our ointment, as a token
of our kind regards.--Officer! Bring forward the ointment."
A general gruff titter ran round the vault as one of the men placed
beside the bottle a jar with a brush in it and a bag.
"My worthy friend," proceeded the former speaker, "that jar is full of
ointment, vulgarly called tar, and that little bag contains feathers.
Now, if you positively refuse to drink the toast I have just named in
spirits, we shall be constrained to anoint you all over from head to
foot with our ointment, and then to sprinkle you with the feathers; in
so doing, we shall be affording an amusing spectacle to the inhabitants
of Crossbourne, and shall be doing yourself a real kindness, by
furnishing you with abundant means of `feathering your own nest.'"
A roar of discordant laughter followed this speech. Then there was a
pause, and a deathlike silence, while all waited for Foster's answer.
For a few moments he attempted no reply; then he said, slowly and sadly:
"I know it will be of no use for me to say what I think of the utter
baseness of the man who has enticed me here, and now acts the part of my
judge. You have me in your power, and must work your will on me, for I
will never consent to drink the toast proposed to me. But I warn you
that--"
At this moment a shrill whistle was heard by every one in the vault, and
then the sound of shouts outside, and the tramping of feet.--"The game's
up!" cried one of the men with the blackened faces; "every one for
himself!" and a rush was made for the steps. But it was too late: a
strong guard of police fully armed had taken their stand at the top of
the stair, and escape was impossible, for there was no other outlet from
the vault. As each man emerged he was seized and handcuffed--all except
Foster, whose unblackened face told at once that he was not one of the
guilty party, and who was grasped warmly by the hand by Thomas Bradly
and James Barnes, who now came forward.
When the vault had been searched by the constables, and they had
ascertained that no one was still secreted there, the whole of the
prisoners were marched into the open court and placed in a row. The
sergeant, who had come with his men, then passed his lantern from face
to face. There was no mistake about Sharples; his false hair and beard
had become disarranged in the scuffle, and other marks of identification
were immediately observed. "Levi Sharples," said the sergeant, "you're
our prisoner--we've been looking out for you for a long time; you'll
have to come with us.--As for the rest of you, well, I think you won't
any of you forget this night; so you'd best get home as fast as you can
and wash your faces.--Constables, take the handcuffs off 'em."
No sooner was this done than the whole body of the conspirators vanished
in a moment, while the police proceeded to carry off their prisoner.
But before the officers were clear of the ruins, a strange moaning sound
startled all who remained behind. "Eh! What's that? Surely it ain't--
a--a--" exclaimed Jim Barnes, in great terror. The sergeant, who was
just leaving with his men, turned back. All stood silent, and then
there was distinctly heard again a deep groaning, as of one in pain.
"Lend a light here, Thomas," cried the sergeant to one of his
constables. All, except those who were guarding the prisoner, proceeded
in the direction from which the unearthly sounds came. "Have a care,"
cried Bradly; "there's some ugly holes hereabouts." Picking their way
carefully, they came at last to the mouth of an old well: it had been
long choked up to within a few feet of the top, but still it was an
awkward place to fall into.
There could now be no mistake; the groaning came from the old well, and
it was a human cry of distress. "Who's there?" cried the sergeant,
throwing his light down upon a writhing figure. "It's me--it's Ned
Taylor. Lord help me! I've done for myself. Oh, help me out for
pity's sake!" With great difficulty, and with terrible suffering to the
poor wretch himself, they contrived at last to draw him up, and to place
him with his back against a heap of fallen masonry.
"What's to be done now?" asked the sergeant. "Leave him to us," replied
Bradly; "we'll get him home. I see how it is: he's one of these chaps
as has been taking part in this sad business, and in his hurry to get
off he has tumbled into this old well and injured himself. We'll look
after him, poor fellow; he shall be properly cared for. Good-night,
sergeant, and thank you for your timely help."
When the police had departed with their prisoner, Bradly went to the
wounded man and asked him if he thought he could walk home with help;
but the only reply was a groan. "He's badly hurt, I can see," said
Thomas; "we must make a stretcher out of any suitable stuff we can find,
and carry him home between us. The Lord's been very gracious to us so
far in this business, and I don't doubt but he'll bring good out of this
evil." So they made a litter of boughs and stray pieces of plank, and
set out across the fields for Crossbourne.
"Stay a bit, Jim," whispered Bradly to James Barnes; "lend me your
lantern. Go forward now, and I'll join you in a minute." He was soon
back again, having brought the jar of tar from the vault, about which
and its purpose he had heard from Foster while the police were searching
the place. "I must keep this," he said, "in my Surgery; it'll do
capitally to give an edge to a lesson." And it may be here said that
the jar was in due time placed on a bracket in Bradly's private room,
and labelled in large red letters, "Drunkards' Ointment,"--giving Thomas
many an opportunity of speaking a forcible word against evil
companionship to those who sought his help and counsel.
But to return to the party at the old Hall. Long and weary seemed that
walk home, specially to the wounded man. At last they reached the town,
and carried the sufferer to his miserable dwelling, with cheery words to
his poor wife, and a promise from Bradly to send the doctor at once, and
that he would call himself next day and see how he was going on.
Then the three friends hastened at once to Foster's house, that they
might be the first to acquaint his wife with her husband's peril and
deliverance. Never was thanksgiving prayer uttered or joined in with
more fervour than that which was offered by Thomas Bradly after he had
given to Kate Foster a full account of the evening's adventure. Then
all sat down to a simple supper, at which Foster was asked by Thomas
Bradly to tell him how he came to be taken in by such a man as Levi
Sharples.
"I don't wonder," began Foster, "that you should think it weak and
strange in me; but you shall judge. Levi Sharples and myself used to be
great friends--or rather, perhaps, I ought to say frequent companions,
for I don't think there was ever anything worth calling friendship
between us. He used to profess a great respect for my opinion. He
regularly attended the meetings of our club, and made smart speeches,
and would come out with the vilest sentiments expressed in the vilest
and foulest language, such as disgusted me even then, and makes me
shudder now when I think of it. He had a ready way with him, and could
trip a man up in an argument and get the laugh against him. Not that he
had really read or studied much; but he had gathered a smattering on
many subjects, and knew how to make a little knowledge go a great way.
Most of the other members of the club were afraid of him, for he had no
mercy when he chose to come down on a fellow; and if any one tried to
make a stand against him for a bit, he would soon talk him down with his
biting sarcasms and loud sneering voice.
"I told you that he professed to have a high opinion of myself as a
debater and free-thinker. He seldom crossed me in argument, and when he
did he was sure to give in in the end. I was vain enough at the time to
set this down to my own superior wit and knowledge; but I am now fully
persuaded that he was only pretending to have this good opinion of me
that he might make use of me for his own purposes. He knew that I was a
skilful workman, and earned more than average wages, and so he would
often borrow a few shillings from me, which he never remembered to pay
back again. But he managed to get these loans very dexterously, always
mixing up a little flattery when he came to borrow.
"Often and often, I'm ashamed to say, I have wandered out with him and
other members of our club in the summer, on Sunday afternoons, to
Cricketty Hall; and there, down in the old vault, we have been playing
cards and drinking till it was time to return. I could see plainly
enough on these occasions that Levi would have been only too glad to win
largely from me; but I had sense enough to keep out of his clutches, as
I had noticed him managing the cards unfairly when playing with others.
"I can't say that I felt any particular regret when he had to take
himself off out of the neighbourhood. There were no ties that could
really bind us together; for, indeed, how can there be any real union
where the closest bond is a common hatred of that gospel which is so
truly, as I am thankful to say I have myself found it, the religion of
love? I scarcely missed him, and seldom thought of him, and was rather
startled when, a few days ago, he made himself known to me in the
twilight.
"We were alone, and I was going to pass on with a civil word; but he
begged me to stop, and in such a tone of voice as rather touched me. He
then reminded me that we had been companions in evil, and said that he
had heard of the change that had taken place in me. He added that he
was very unhappy, that he hated himself for his past wicked life, and
that as I used to stand his friend formerly when he needed a helping
hand, he hoped I would show that my change was a real one by my
willingness to give an old mate a lift over the stile and into the same
way of peace in which I professed to be walking myself. He had much to
tell me and ask of me, he said; but he was afraid of being discovered by
the police, spite of his disguise. Would I meet him at Cricketty Hall,
he should feel safe there.
"I did not know what to say. I could not get rid of my suspicions,
notwithstanding his changed tone and manner. He saw it, and said: `You
doubt my sincerity. Well, I suppose you'll agree that when a man's
sincerity gets into his pocket it's pretty sure to be genuine. Now,
you've lent me money at different times, and I never paid any of it
back. I've reckoned it up, and it comes altogether to three pounds ten
shillings. Here it is; and many thanks to you for lending it me. I'm
only sorry that I was not an honest man before.'
"I hardly knew what to say; however, I took the money, for I knew that
it was due to me. `Well, will you trust me now?' he asked. `Meet me,
Levi, to-morrow night just after dark outside my house,' I said, `and I
will tell you then.' He hesitated a little, and then said, `Very well,'
and left me. I was sorely puzzled, and could not tell what to think.
And then at last it occurred to me that perhaps it was wrong in me to
hang back. There _might_ be a real change beginning even in such a man
as Levi Sharples. The Lord had been merciful to me, and why not to him?
There hadn't been much to choose between us in badness in bygone days;
and should I be right in repelling the poor man if I could be in any way
the means of bringing him into the narrow way? Well, you know the rest.
We met the next night; and, mercifully for me, Jim Barnes, as I find
from him, overheard the appointment to meet at Cricketty Hall; and
wonderfully and graciously has the Lord kept me _in_ my trouble, and
delivered me out of it."
"But how do you suppose that Sharples got hold of that money?" asked
Bradly.
"Oh," replied the other, "I can easily understand all about that. You
may depend upon it the whole matter has gone on somewhat in this way:--
My old mates have been scheming how to be revenged on me ever since I
left them, and showed my colours on the side of Temperance and Religion.
They've known Levi's whereabouts, and were aware how thick we used to
be; so they've set him upon drawing me into the snare. I don't doubt
that they subscribed that three pound ten between them, that Levi might
be able to throw dust in my eyes with it, and throw me off my guard."
"Just so, just so; I see it all!" cried Bradly. "Eh! Haven't they been
nicely outwitted? Why, they've lost their money, they've lost the bird
out of the cage, and they've clapped their own man in prison. Mark my
words, William, we shan't have much more trouble from them for many a
long day; but if they attempt to give us any, I shall bring them out the
little jar of ointment they left behind them, and bid them tell us what
complaints it's good for. Ah! Well, there's just a few words out of
the good old book as'll crown it all. Here they are in the Twenty-
seventh Psalm: `The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I
fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up
my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though an host should encamp against
me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this
will I be confident.'"