Nestleton Magna Part 15

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 pa.s.sing his mother's door, he paused, and said, "G.o.d bless her! an'

the Methody parson, too!"

CHAPTER XX.

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 s.h.i.+elds 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 cla.s.s 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 princ.i.p.al 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 d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k," 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 gra.s.sy border of the road, and hence had come upon them un.o.bserved.

"Hallo, Bill!" said Black Morris, "what in the world are you after?"

He would gladly have pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumed 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 a.s.sociates, 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 subst.i.tute 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 a.s.sumed 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 G.o.d; 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 gla.s.s of cool, refres.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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,--