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 crape 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 circumstances 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 fashion head foremost on the
grass-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 passed 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-glass. 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 assistance, 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-assured 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.
After alighting from the gig at Kesterton town-end, that puzzled young
ne’er-do-weel stood stock still, following with his gaze the
retreating “Methody parson,” until a bend in the street hid him from
his view. Then, released from the spell, he turned homeward with a
long sigh of amazement.
“By Jove!” said he, “this bangs Banagher!” The brickbat was still in
his hand. All unconsciously his fingers had closed around it when Mr.
Clayton had placed it in his palm. He looked at it, and then turned
round again, and looked down Kesterton High-street, as if the donor
was still in view. There was an unwonted moisture in his eyes, as he
said to himself, “Hey, I shall want it again.” He dropped it into his
pouch-like pocket, and strode away in silence towards Midden Harbour.
Letting himself into the house, Black Morris stole to his room, and
passing his mother’s door, he paused, and said, “God bless her! an’
the Methody parson, too!”