KASPER CRABTREE FALLS AMONG THIEVES.
“All vice in which man yields in greed to do it,
Or soon or late, be sure he’ll sorely rue it.
Experience deep, howe’er false seemings blind him,
Surcharged with retribution, out will find him.
The whole creation’s strange and endless dealing,
In spite of shields and veils and arts concealing,
Proclaims that whosoe’er is long a sinner,
Can only be by it of woe a winner.”
_Oriental._
Kesterton Fair was always held about the middle of November, and a
large number of cattle, bred and fed on the various farms in that
highly-cultivated district, were, as usual, gathered there for public
sale. On the afternoon of that day, a party of four suspicious-looking
fellows sat boozing on strong ale in the kitchen of a small
public-house, which stood by the roadside between Kesterton and
Nestleton Magna, and near a long tract of plantation known as Thurston
Wood. They were habited in velveteen, fustian, and corduroy, wore
hair-skin caps, and bore the usual marks of that class of leafing,
poaching, lawless vagabonds, who, fifty years ago, were sadly
plentiful in all rural districts, and are not by any means extinct
to-day. They were holding a secret confabulation, and judging by their
low tones and watchful glances it was evident that they were desirous
of avoiding observation. The principal spokesman was an ill-favoured
looking fellow, whose broad, whiskerless face betokened the bully and
the brute. His name was Bill Buckley, commonly known as “Fighting
Bill,” and the terror of the country side.
“There’s seeafe to be a good chance te-neet,” said the desperado; “the
worst on’t is ’at there’s ower monny chances at yance, an’ if we
tackle mair than we can manage, we may happen to get nowt. And Kasper
Crabtree, o’ Kesterton Grange, is at the fair, an’ he’s sellin’ a lot
o’ beeasts, an’ ’ll carry a looad o’ swag, you may depend on’t.”
“Ah sud like te throttle him,” said another, professedly a
besom-maker, named Dick Spink, a resident in the unsavoury regions of
Midden Harbour. “He set his big dog at me while ah was cuttin’ some
besom shafts in his wood; ah’ll hev it oot with ’im when ah’ve
chance.”
“That’s right, Dick,” said Buckley; “t’ chance is come, an’ thoo’ll
get booath revenge an’ a hundred gold guineas beside.”
After a little more conversation in the same strain, in which the
third and fourth showed themselves to be of the same murderous mind,
the rascals left the house, and made their way to the cover of
Thurston Wood, to lie in wait for the doomed victim of their cupidity
and malice. They knew that the old farmer rode on a grey pony, and
when the shadows of night gathered round, and the town clock of
Kesterton struck nine, they took their station by the roadside, under
the shade of a large hawthorn hedge, and waited for the chance of
carrying out their wicked intent.
By and bye, footsteps were heard approaching. Somebody was walking on
the high road, whose steps as they neared the shelter of the robbers
were suddenly silent, as if the new-comer had stood still. After a
few moments’ pause, Bill Buckley stepped from his hiding-place to
reconnoitre, and came suddenly in contact with Black Morris, who had
not stood still, as they imagined, but had merely transferred his walk
to the grassy border of the road, and hence had come upon them
unobserved.
“Hallo, Bill!” said Black Morris, “what in the world are you after?”
He would gladly have passed them without further parley, for, thanks
to Mr. Clayton, his thoughts and feelings had taken quite a new
direction. His collision with Bill Buckley, however, had made that
impossible.
“Stow thy clapper, old chum,” was the response of Buckley, and leading
him to his three comrades, he said, “here, lads, we’ve gotten a bit o’
help.” He proceeded to tell him their nefarious plans, and assumed
that he would willingly coincide.
“Not I,” said Black Morris; “Kasper Crabtree’s done me no harm, an’
I’ll bring no harm to him.”
Breaking from them he proceeded on his way, resolved to warn the
purposed victim of the fate in store for him. Swearing a dreadful
oath, his features black with rage, Buckley seized him.
“Stow that,” said he; “you shan’t stir ’til we’ve gotten what we
want.” Holding him in his giant grip, he said, “Thoo shall see it oot,
an’ then thoo can’t split on us.”
At that moment the little grey pony was seen ambling on the road, with
old Crabtree on his back. The three ruffians sprang out, seized the
pony, and dragged the old man down. He fell with a heavy thud on the
ground; his pockets were rifled, and as the victim shouted for help,
Spink struck him a cruel blow. Black Morris, roused to the utmost
pitch of indignation, broke from his muscular jailer, and ran to the
aid of the prostrate farmer. Leaning over him, his eyes met those of
the wounded man.
“Black Morris, I know you!” said Crabtree, and instantly fainted away.
“Ha! ha! thoo’s in for it, noo, wi’ t’ rest on us,” said Buckley.
“Here thou may hev t’ paper an’ we’ll hev t’ gold!” Thrusting a parcel
into Morris’s jacket, Buckley and his companions in villainy ran off
with speed. Poor Morris knelt by the still unconscious victim,
appalled at his position and staggered by the net with which he was
inclosed. He loosed Mr. Crabtree’s neckcloth and fetched water in his
hat from the ditch hard by. The old man revived under his treatment
and was able to sit up. He looked with dazed and wondering eyes at his
companion. Morris heard the sound of many voices, the tramp of many
feet, doubtless of those returning from the fair. In a sudden fit of
fear, and conscious how black the case looked against himself, he
foolishly sprang up, cleared the hedge, and sped like lightning
through Thurston Wood, and home to Midden Harbour. He went to his
room, but not to sleep. Every sound he heard he construed into the
steps of those who were coming to seize him for the murder of the
unfortunate farmer. When the light of early morning dawned, he was
able to bear the dread suspense no longer; letting himself out in
silence, he stole away to hide himself from what he deemed to be a
felon’s doom.
Poor Morris! he found it out now that the way of transgressors is
hard. His evil ways, his bad associates, had webbed him round; now
that he had within him the stirrings of desire for better things, he
found that the fetters which his own recklessness had rivetted around
him were too firm to be easily broken off. He repaired to the house of
an aunt who lived some few miles away, and taking the notes from his
pocket amounting to more than three hundred pounds, he enclosed them
in a letter in which he declared himself innocent of the outrage, and
despatched it by a boy to Kesterton Grange. At his wit’s end, he
strolled aimlessly through solitary places, and in the shades of the
succeeding evening made his way to Thurston Wood. In a secret place
therein was hidden his gun, a store of powder and shot, and certain
other matters connected with his poaching habits. Taking up the
weapon, he felt sorely tempted to lodge its contents in his own heart.
He paced backwards and forwards, discussing the awful question whether
to die or live--had all but decided to end his life and his misery
together, when he heard a footstep, and lifting up his eyes found
himself confronted by the scowling face and now hateful presence of
Bill Buckley!
* * * * *
Meanwhile, the hapless farmer had been discovered by certain friends
and neighbours who were returning from the fair. Under their kindly
care he so far recovered that, lifted on his quiet steed and upheld by
a couple of stalwart men, he was enabled to reach his home. After a
little while, however, fever supervened, and Kasper Crabtree lay in
sore uncertainty as to whether the issue would be life or death. The
miserly and irascible old bachelor could not command that loving
attention and affectionate nursing which his age and weakness now
required. The mechanical offices of his hired housekeeper were but a
poor substitute for the tender sympathies and watchful care of wife or
daughter. Dr. Jephson had been called in, and seeing the gravity of
the case he assumed at once unquestioned authority; and at his urgent
request Lucy Blyth was speedily installed as sick nurse by the old
man’s bed. It must be owned that even her patient and gentle spirit
was tried to the utmost, by the peevish and testy invalid, whose
crabbish nature was developed by his constrained imprisonment to an
almost unbearable degree. But Lucy Blyth was doing her Saviour’s work,
doing it in His strength and for His glory. Her naturally loving and
sympathetic spirit was strengthened and purified by the helpful grace
of God; so she went through her merciful mission with a brave heart,
and in a little while, pierced the crust that surrounded the heart of
her unpromising charge. He melted beneath the sunshine of her
presence, and by slow degrees Kasper Crabtree was led to employ his
compulsory leisure in thinking and talking of “Jesus and His love.”
When first the invalid descried her by his bed, he bluntly said,--
“Who sent for you?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Lucy, “I should have come of my own accord
as soon as I heard you were ill.”
“Why, what business is it of yours, whether I’m ill or well?”
persisted he.
“It’s my business to go wherever I can do anybody a service. Jesus
went about doing good, and I’m trying to follow in His steps. Here,”
said she, lifting a glass of cool, refreshing drink to his parched
lips, “You must drink this, then I shall smooth your pillow, and you
must try to go to sleep.”
“And what will you do?”
“I shall sit here and pray that you may soon get well, and watch till
you wake, and then give you another drink.”
“You’re a queer fish,” said the farmer, as he looked with wonder at
the beautiful face bending over him. By and bye he dropped off into
half a doze, and Lucy softly sang as she would a lullaby,--
“Jesu, lover of my soul.”
After a little while he appeared to wake up.
“What was that you were singing?” he said; “sing it again.”
Again the sweet words, which have brought hope and balm to thousands
of sufferers, were trilled out in touching tones from Lucy’s lips. A
strange light shone through his eyes, as he sighed, and said,--
“How sweet it is! Now, I shall be very quiet, and you must go down
into the parlour and rest a bit.”
Lucy would have protested, but he showed such signs of determination
that she prudently obeyed. An hour after as she laid her hand on his
bedroom door, she heard him speaking aloud, and caught the words,--
“Hide me, O my Saviour, hide.”
Tears of joy mingled with the smile on Lucy’s cheek as she knew that
her prayers were being answered, and that the old man was creeping
slowly and surely to the Cross. So the days passed by. At length the
fountain sprung, and even his poor, arid soul was quickened,
refreshed, and beautified by the streams of saving grace.
One day Lucy ventured to speak of the attack made upon him on the
Kesterton Road. He no longer flashed up with anger--no longer called
aloud for revenge.
“Bring me that letter that Black Morris sent.”
As he turned over the crisp notes, and read the words accompanying
them, he said,--
“Poor fellow! I don’t think he had a hand in it. I recollect his
sprinkling cold water on my face and fanning me with his cap. At any
rate he has sent back all he got, and if he’s guilty I forgive him, as
God hath forgiven me.”
Lucy, who knew of the sad fate which had befallen Black Morris, a
knowledge not yet imparted either to Kasper Crabtree or my readers,
knelt by his side, took his hand in hers, and said,--
“Mr. Crabtree, God bless you for that word!”
“Aye, little one! and God bless you for ever and ever, for I have been
entertaining an angel unawares!”