Nestleton Magna Part 4

'Oor Jesus te knoa, an' te feel His blood floa It's life ivverlastin', it's heaven beloa!'

Lord! There's them here to-neet' at's strangers te d' blood 'at bowt ther pardon up o' d' tree. Thoo loves 'em. Thoo pities 'em. Thoo dee'd for 'em. Oppen ther hearts, Lord. Melt their consciences an' mak' 'em pray, 'G.o.d be ma.s.siful te me a sinner.' Seeave 'em, Lord! Rich or poor, young or aud. Put d' poor wand'ring sheep o' Thi' shoother an'

lead 'em inte d' foad o' Thi' infannit luv." No sooner was the benediction p.r.o.nounced than Philip stole silently away. As he trod the shady lanes and crossed the park his mind was full of serious thought.

During the entire evening, he was silent and abstracted, and as he laid his head upon his pillow the plaintive appeal still rung in his ears,--

"To you is it nothing that Jesus should die."

CHAPTER VIII.

ADAM OLLIVER BEGINS TO PROPHESY.

"If bliss had lien in art and strength, None but the wise and strong had gained it; Where now, by faith, all arms are of a length; One size doth all conditions fit.

A peasant may believe as much As a great clerk, and reach the highest stature; Thus dost thou make proud knowledge crouch, While grace fills up uneven nature.

Faith makes me anything, or all That I believe is in the sacred story; And when sin placeth me in Adam's fall, Faith sets me higher in his glory."

_George Herbert._

Gregory Houston, Adam Olliver's master, and, as far as means and position were concerned, princ.i.p.al member of the little Methodist society in Nestleton, was crossing his farmyard one summer's day, when his aged serving-man was engaged in getting together a few "toppers."

These are long screeds of thinly-sawn larch fir, to be nailed on the top of stakes driven into weak places in the hedgerows to strengthen them, and to secure the continuity of the fence.

"Well, Adam," said the genial farmer, "how are you getting on?"

"Why, ah's getting en all reet. It's rayther ower yat for wark; but while it's ower yat for me, it's grand for t' wheeat, an' seea ah moan't grummle. It's varry weel there isn't mitch te deea at t'

hedges, or ah's flaid 'at ah sud be deead beeat."

"Oh, they're all right, I've no doubt," said Mr. Houston; "I didn't mean that. I was thinking of better matters."

"Oh, as te that, bless the Lord, ah've niwer nowt te grummle at i'

that respect, but me aun want o' faith an' luv. T' Maister's allus good, an' ah's meeastlin's 'appy. Neeabody sarves the Lord for nowt, an' mah wayges is altegither oot of all measure wi' me' addlings, beeath frae you an' Him."

"How did you like Nathan's sermon last night, Adam?"

Adam picked up one of the larch strips, and handing it to his master, he said, "It was just like that."

"Like that?" said the farmer--"In what way?"

"Why," quoth Adam, "Nathan Blyth's sarmon was a reg'lar 'topper.' He'd a good tahme, an' seea 'ad ah. T' way he browt oot hoo Jesus was t'

Lamb o' G.o.d, 'armless an' innocent, an' willin' te dee, was feyn, an'

ah felt i' my sowl 'at if it was wanted ah wer' willin' te dee for Him. Bud wasn't t' kitchen crammed! Ah deean't knoa what we'r gannin te deea wi' t' fooaks if they keep c.u.mmin' i' this oathers. Ah've aboot meead up me' mind 'at we mun hev a chapel i' Nestleton."

"A chapel!" said Mr. Houston; "no such luck. I should like to see it, Adam; but there's no chance of that, you may depend on't."

"Why, noo, maister, ah's surprahsed at yo.' What i' the wolld are yo'

talkin' aboot? 'Luck' and 'chance' hae neea mair te deea wiv it then t' 'osspond hez te deea wi' t' kitchen fire. 'Them 'at trusts te luck may tummle i' t' muck;' an' 'him 'at waits upo' chances gets less then he fancies.' For mah payt, ah'd rayther put mi' trust i' G.o.d, put mi'

shoother te d' wheel, an' wopp for t' best."

"Yes, that's true," said Mr. Houston, somewhat rebuked. "Still, you know, it isn't likely."

"Noa, ah deean't say 'at it is; bud what o' that? It wahn't varry likely 'at watter sud brust oot ov a rock at t' slap of a stick, or 'at t' axe heead sud swim like a duck, or 'at a viper sud loss its vemmun; bud they were all deean for all that, an' fifty thoosand wundherful things besahde. It altegither depends wheea undertak's em."

"But where is the money to come from? And if we had the money how are we to get the land?"

"That's nowt te deea wiv it," said Adam. "T' queshun is, de wa' need it? An' is it right to ax G.o.d for it? T' silver an' gold's all His, an' He can tonn it intiv oor hands as eeasy as Miller Moss can oppen t' sluice of his mill-dam. As for t' land, it were G.o.d's afoore it were Squire Fuller's, an' it'll be His when Squire Fuller's deead, an'

He can deea as He likes wiv it while Squire Fuller's livin'. Ah reckon nowt aboot that. Next Sunday, t' congregation 'll hae te tonn oot inte d' foadgarth, an' ah want te knoa whither that isn't a sign that the Lord speeaks tiv us te gan forrad."

"Oh, there's no doubt that a chapel is wanted, and if it was four times as big as the kitchen it would soon be full. I would give anything if we could manage it."

"There you gooa, y' see," said Adam, laughing. "There's payt o' t'

silver an' gowld riddy at yance. Ah sall set te wark an' pray for 't, an' seea mun wa' all. It'll be gran' day for Nestleton," said Adam, rubbing his hands in fond antic.i.p.ation, for he never dreamed of questioning the "mighty power of faithful prayer."

Farmer Houston shook his head as he turned away saying, "It's too good to be true, Adam. It's too good to be true."

"What's too good to be true?" said Mrs. Houston, who now appeared on the scene. A large and shady bonnet for "home service," of printed calico, protected her from the sun. In her hand was a milk-can, containing the mid-day meal of certain calves she was rearing, for Mrs. Houston was a thrifty, bustling body, who not only saw that all the woman folk of the establishment did their duty, but was herself the first to show the way. Crossing the farmyard just at that moment she overheard the words, and hence her inquiry, "What's too good to be true?"

"Why," said Adam Olliver, "t' maister's gotten it intiv 'is heead that if the divvil an' Squire Fuller says we aren't te hev a Methodist chapel i' Nestleton, t' Almighty's gotten te knock under an' leave His bairns withoot a spot te put their heeads in."

"Nay, nay," said Farmer Houston, deprecatingly, "I was only saying that there was small hope of our getting a chapel at all."

"An' ah was sayin'," persisted Adam, "'at we mun pray for it, an' ah weean't beleeave 'at prayer's onny waiker then it was when Peter was i' prison, or when t' heavens was bra.s.s for t' speeace o' three years an' six months. It oppen'd t' iron yatt for Peter an' t' bra.s.s yatt for t' rain, an' it'll oppen d' gold an' silver yatt for uz. Missis, we're gannin' te hev a Methodist chapel!"

"Well done, Adam! I think you're in the right. I don't see how it's going to be done, but if the way is open, you may depend on it I'll do _my_ best."

A fourth party here appeared upon the scene. This was none other than Mrs. Houston's eldest daughter, Grace, a genteel and pleasant-looking girl of twenty--one who could play the piano and milk a cow with equal willingness and skill, could knit a wool cus.h.i.+on or darn a stocking, and did both with deft fingers that knew their business. She, too, sided with Adam Olliver, and, with the sanguine impulsiveness of youth, began to discuss the ways and means, and even hinted at so unheard-of a marvel as a Nestleton Methodist bazaar.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Adam Olliver, as he shouldered his "toppers,"

and strolled away with them. "As seeaf as theease toppers is gannin'

to Beeachwood Pasther, there'll be a Methodist chapel i' Nestleton c.u.m Can'lemas twel'month. Seea we'd better leeak sharp an' get things riddy."

The divvil says, "You sahn't,"

An' man says, "You can't, It's ower big a job for lahtle fooaks like you.

But t' Maister says, "You sall,"

An' seea say we all, For what t' Maister says, you knoa, is sartain te be true!"

Old Adam went about his work full of the new idea, and we may depend upon it that Balaam's back was, as truly as the borders of Brook Jabbok or the house-top at Joppa, the place of prayer, and that Beechwood Pasture witnessed that day the pleadings of one whose name was not only Adam Olliver, but "Israel, for as a prince had he power with G.o.d to prevail."

The sun was sinking in the West, flooding the evening landscape with a mellow glory, reddening the foliage of the h.o.a.ry beech-trees until they seemed to be a-glow with mystic fire, concentrating its beams upon, here and there, a window in distant Nestleton, which flashed back like a mimic luminary, while Nestleton Mere, just above the white-washed, odd-built water-mill, shone like burnished silver flushed with crimson, beneath the cloudless sky. The feathered choristers had not yet gone to their repose, and tree, copse, and hedgerow were vocal with their vesper hymns, as Adam Olliver, having disposed of his toppers and repaired the gaps, was jogging homeward on his imperturbable donkey, after the labours of the day.

Jabez Hepton, the village carpenter, and two of his apprentices, returning from their labours at a distant farmhouse, overtook him as he was communing, according to his wont, with his four-footed retainer.

"Balaam," said he, "we sall hev a chapel at Nestleton"--though how that fact should concern his uncomprehending companion it is difficult to see. In all probability the promise of a few carrots or a quartern of oats would have been far more acceptable information, for, like many other donkeys we wot of, Balaam's preferences were all in favour of carnal pleasures.

"When?" said Jabez Hepton, suddenly.