Part 9

"What is the matter with your colt's eye?" asked Chester, as they walked amid the young corn.

"I am afraid it is spoilt," replied Mark, between his teeth.

"Spoilt! Not your new horse,--the splendid sorrel colt you got of Mr. Skenitt?"

"Yes; the splendid sorrel colt; if 'twas either of the others, I wouldn't care so much."

"How _did_ it happen?" cried Mr. Royden, deeply pained.

"By----"

The oath came out before Mark thought of it.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he added, with emotion, turning to the old clergyman. "I'm so in the habit of swearing, that I swear without knowing what I am about."

"My friend," replied Father Brighthopes, laying his hand kindly upon his shoulder, "I forgive you, from the bottom of my heart. But it is not of _me_ you should ask pardon. I know the slavery of habit. It is only by resolutely breaking its chains that we can be free."

"An oath must shock you," muttered Mark, penitently.

"True, my friend. I look upon profanity as awful, in view of the stern commandment, 'THOU SHALT NOT TAKE THE NAME OF THE LORD THY GOD IN VAIN.' But, if you take an oath, it matters little whether I hear it. Not against me, but against God and your own soul, is the sin."

"I never thought about the sin being so very great."

"At least," said the old man, kindly, "swearing is not wise. You purchase no pleasure, I am sure, by an idle oath."

"Well, but it is not so easy to break off the habit," replied Mark.

"I have heard a story of a converted sailor," said Chester,--to whom the subject seemed an unpleasant one, without spice,--"who, from his youth upwards, had made profane expletives a large proportion of his conversation, so that, when he came to pray, the favorite oaths would, in spite of himself, besprinkle the piety of his prayer. Yet he prayed with a soul convulsed with anguish for his sins, and, with profanity on his lips, pleaded that he might be pardoned the folly of swearing."

"And he was pardoned! believe it, that prayer was accepted and answered!" exclaimed the old man, with enthusiasm. "It is the heart God reads,--the heart, the heart!"

"I was going to tell you about the colt," said Mark, after a pause. "I went into the yard, and found him picking some spears of grass out of the corner of the fence. He didn't see me, and, without thinking, I spoke to him quick; he flung up his head," continued Mark, with emotion, "and the point of a rail struck him right in the eye."

"Did it put it out?"

"I am afraid so. I wouldn't have had it happen--" another oath--"for one hundred dollars!"

Beyond the cornfield was a swampy lot, overgrown with coarse, wild grass, and partially drained by a black, sluggish stream. Mark led the way, treading upon stones, sticks and slabs, in springy spots, or walking upon logs, that lay rotting upon the ground. Mr. Royden followed, and Chester, with Father Brighthopes, came after.

"I hope you will not wet your feet," said the young man, helping the clergyman over a bad place. "Step on this dead limb; it is solid."

"That is well passed," cried the other, cheerily. "What a fine thing it would be, if, in the difficult path of life, we could get over all bad habits as easily!"

"There is one habit," rejoined Chester, in a low tone, "which I trust I have overcome,--thanks to your timely counsel."

"Ah? It is gratifying to me to hear you say so."

"And I feel that I owe you an apology."

"Me? How so?" asked the old man.

"The truth is," replied Chester, coloring very red, and speaking as if it was a great effort and a relief to be candid, "I haven't been easy in my conscience since the unlucky--or rather lucky--day I met you outside the stage-coach."

"Oh, never speak of it. It is all forgotten," exclaimed Father Brighthopes.

"Not with me, Father. I have been heartily ashamed of my conduct. It was kind in you to rebuke me for swearing, and I should have taken it so. What you said appealed to my reason and to my feelings. But I was too proud to acknowledge the justice of your reproof; and, as I did not know you, I thought to carry out my assumed recklessness by a dash of insolence."

"I forgave it at the moment, my son. I understood it all."

"I hope you will not think I have been in the habit of using profane language," said Chester. "It is my misfortune to be easily influenced by the kind of society I am in. You remember, I was conversing with a wild fellow, who was by no means sparing of oaths. I have lived in the atmosphere of too many such; and, somehow, I have learned to imitate their habits unconsciously."

"Our only armor against such influences is _firm principle_," answered the old man, encouragingly. "No warm-blooded young person, entering the world, is safe without this."

"It must be so, Father. But why is it that the sight of vice does not always strike us with the same disgust or horror as the mere contemplation of it?"

"We can accustom our palate to any description of vile drugs, by persisting in their use, I suppose."

"I see," said Chester.

"'We first endure, then pity, then embrace,'

the vices we come in contact with. But vices we witness for the first time--they do not always shock us."

"The more pleasing the devil's coat, the more dangerous he is," replied Father Brighthopes. "And there is another thing to be considered. Persons following intellectual pursuits are apt to take purely intellectual views of great as well as petty crimes. The independent MIND can analyze the nature of a murder, coolly as the anatomist dissects his human subject. Eugene Aram has too much intellect. Perhaps his heart is not bad,--what there is of it,--but its virtue is negative. When we silence the conscience, in judging of right and wrong, reason is sure to lead us astray."

"I understand now, better than ever before, why expanded minds are so prone to smile upon and shake hands with crime," said Chester. "Enlarging the intellect, to the neglect of the soul, we leave this to become shriveled, like a flower growing in the shade of a great tree."

"A truth, my young friend, every student should bear in mind," observed the clergyman, earnestly.

Chester walked before him, on a thick fragment of bark, and over a grassy knoll, in silence. He was wondering why it was that the gentle old man had gained such a power over him, to conquer his pride, and to call out his deepest feelings.

"I don't know why it is," said he, as they crossed a rude bridge, thrown over the sluggish brook, "but I feel as though I could talk with you more freely than with anybody else. Perhaps it is well that the stage-coach incident occurred. I felt that I _must_ apologize to you for my ungentlemanly conduct; and I see that what was so unpleasant to me was only the breaking of the ice. It must be your wide and genial charity that has had such an effect upon me. Clergymen are generally such grim moralists, that they make me shudder."

"When I consider the calm benignity, the ineffably sweet wisdom, the infinite love of Him who said, 'Go, and sin no more,' what am I, that I should condemn a brother?" said Father Brighthopes, with suffused features.

Chester was deeply touched.

"I am not a wilful sinner," he muttered, from his heart. "I do love purity, goodness, holiness. _I hate myself_ for my bad nature!" he exclaimed, bitterly.

"Ah, that will never do," replied the old man, softly and kindly. "My son, I feel for you. I feel with you. But the nature God has given you in his wisdom,--hate not that. It is the soil in which your soul is planted. You must be content with it for a season. It is a suicidal thought, to wish your roots plucked up, because they reach down amid weeds and rottenness. No; cultivate the soil. Carefully, prayerfully purify it, and subdue its rankness. Then shall your spirit, grafted with the scion of holiness, flourish like a goodly tree. It shall gather wholesome sustenance from below, and at the same time it shall blossom and bloom, and put forth green leaves, struggling upward, upward,--higher, higher, still--in the golden atmosphere; its fruits shall ripen in the beautiful sunlight of heaven, and it shall be blessed forevermore."

"But the flowers fade, the leaves fall, the fruit drops off and decays, and the tree is a naked, desolate object, when the storms of winter wheel and whistle around it," said Chester, darkly.

"Not so with the TREE OF LIFE," cried the old man, with fine enthusiasm. "Earth is but its nursery. In his own good time, the Husbandman transplants it into the pure soil of his eternal gardens."

"And the weeds are burned in everlasting fire!"

"The _weeds_--yes; let us hope so! Let us pray that the good God will deliver us from the weeds of all base passion, which continually spring up in the most carefully tended soil of earth. What remembrance do we need of this swamp-lot, when we are once out of its mud and mire?"

"I mean," said Chester, "those trees which the weeds do choke,--those wild crabs which bring forth no good fruit,--_they_ are cast out."

"And can the good Husbandman plant them side by side with the better trees, in his garden?" asked the clergyman. "Indeed, would they flourish in a soil so different from that they loved here too well? Nor would they choose that soil. If they are not prepared for the companionship of the cultivated grafts, other and lower places will be found most appropriate for their unsubdued natures."

Chester remained very thoughtful. By this time they had come in sight of Mark's house,--a wood-colored building, situated on a pleasant rise of ground, in the midst of an orchard. Mr. Royden and Mark were already climbing the fence built about the inclosure, in the midst of which stood the barn and stables.

XXII.

THE FIGHT AND THE VICTORY.

Father Brighthopes and his companion found Mr. Royden examining the injured eye of the sorrel colt, which Mark held by the halter in the yard.

"Can anything be done for it?" asked the jockey, anxiously.

Mr. Royden shook his head, with a pained expression. He loved horses above all other domestic animals, and a fine colt like Mark's he regarded almost as a human being. He could not, it seemed, have felt much worse, had he witnessed the effects of a similar injury upon a fellow-mortal.

"Spoilt, an't it?"

"Yes," said the farmer; "I see no help for it."

"I know," rejoined Mark, "the sight is ruined. But is the eye going to look very bad? Will he show it much?"

"Ah, Mark!" said Chester, rather harshly, for a fresh suspicion had entered his mind; "that hurt can never be covered up. You can't trade him off for a sound horse, if you try."

Mark turned upon him, with a fierce oath.

"An't it enough for me to know it, without having it flung in my teeth?" he demanded.

"You deserve it all," retorted Chester, kindling.

"I do?" muttered Mark, with clenched fists.

"Oh, I am not afraid of you," said Chester, turning slightly pale, but not from fear.

His lips were firmly compressed, and he fixed his fine dark eyes upon the jockey, with a look of defiance.

"Boys, boys!" exclaimed Mr. Royden, impatiently, "what is all this about? Chester, leave the yard!"

"If you say so, I will go."

"I say so, if you can't stay and be on good terms with your neighbor."

"I only tell him calmly what I think," said Chester, with a resolute air.

"And if older persons had not been present," cried Mark, with another oath, "I should have flung you over the fence, like a puppy,--as you are!"

"Be calm, my son! bridle your tongue," said the clergyman, gently, to Chester.

But the young man's pride was touched and his wrath enkindled. He did not pause to consider the consequences of a rash word.

"I should really have liked to see you try that game!" he replied, with cutting sarcasm in his tones.

The jockey uttered a stifled growl, like an enraged bull-dog, and, flinging the halter over the colt's neck, aimed a blow with his fist at Chester's head. But the latter was not unprepared. Avoiding the attack, he skillfully took advantage of Mark's impetuosity, grappled with him, and flung him almost instantly to the ground.

The jockey came down with a tremendous jar, Chester falling upon him. In a moment the latter was upon his feet; when his father, alarmed and highly displeased, seized him by the collar.

"Let go!" muttered Chester, in an excited manner, but not disrespectfully.

"What are you going to do, you foolhardy boy?"

"Nothing; unless I am compelled to. You will let me defend myself, I hope? I don't want to hurt Mark Wheeler; but then Mark Wheeler must keep off."

Meanwhile Mark Wheeler had regained his feet, mad from the fall. His red-burning eyes were like a wild beast's. Father Brighthopes took his arm with a mild and soothing word; but he shook him off, fiercely.

The jockey was a much stronger man than his quick and determined adversary; but either he feared the latter's agility, or blinding passion made him forgetful of every feeling of honor and humanity. His eye fell upon a dangerous weapon, a fragment of a hickory fork-handle, that lay within his reach. He made a spring for it; but the clergyman had picked it up before him.

"Give it to me, old man!" Mark muttered through his teeth.

"Nay, my friend, you must not have it," replied Father Brighthopes, firmly, but kindly.

"I must not? You mean to govern me like a boy, on my own ground?" hissed the angry man. "Let go your hold!"

"I entreat you, pause one minute to consider," said the clergyman, meekly. "Then you shall have the club, to use it as you please."

His words had no effect, except to turn the tide of Mark's fury against him. The angry man raved at him with a tempest of oaths; shaking his fist in his face, he swore that, were it not for his white hairs, he would have crushed him beneath his heel.

"God have mercy on you!" said Father Brighthopes, with solemn earnestness, and with tears.

"None of your pious nonsense here!" thundered Mark, convulsed with passion. "Let go the club, or I shall break your arms."

"You will not break an old man's arms," replied the clergyman, with sublime energy. "No, Mark Wheeler! I know you better. You cannot injure me."

The strong hand of the jockey seized the old man's shoulder. The latter seemed but a frail child in his grasp; but still he did not shrink, nor loose his hold of the club. To Chester and his father, who sprang to rescue him, he said,

"Do not touch him. I am not afraid. He dare not hurt me. _I am in the hands of my God._"

Mark's fist was raised to strike.

"I _shall_ tear you to pieces!" he articulated, hoarse with rage.

"The Lord pity you! The Lord forgive you, for raising your hand against his servant!" exclaimed Father Brighthopes, with tears coursing down his pale cheeks. "Mark Wheeler, you cannot hurt me,--not if you kill me. But _your own soul_ is in your grasp. My friend, I love you, I pray for you! You cannot make me angry. I will be a Christian towards you. I _will_ pray for you! You cannot prevent that. Strike the old man to the earth, and his last words shall be a prayer for your darkened soul!"

Mark's clenched hand fell to his side; but with the other he still held the clergyman's shoulder, looking full in his face.

"My friend," said the old man, "you know I have but done my duty. I would not harm you, nor see you harmed. It is to defend you against yourself that I hold the club from you. You may, indeed, hurt my body, which is old, and not worth much, but you will hurt your own soul a thousand, thousand times more. Oh, my God!" prayed the old man, raising his streaming eyes to heaven, "have mercy upon this my poor erring brother!"

Mark's hand dropped from the old man's shoulder. The flame in his eyes began to flicker. His lips quivered, and his face became pale. Father Brighthopes continued to pour out the overflowing waters of his heart, to quench the fire of passion. At length Mark's eyes fell, and he staggered backward. Then the old man took his hand, and put the club into it.

"Our minute is up. Here is the weapon," said he. "Use it as you will."

The club dropped upon the ground.

"Take it, and kill me with it!" muttered Mark. "I am not fit to live."

He sat down upon an overturned trough, and covered his face with his hands, gnashing his teeth.

"Are you fit to die?" asked the old man, sitting down by his side. "Would you enter the tomb through a boiling gulf of passion?"

Mark started up.

"Ches is to blame!" he said, with an oath. "He provoked me, when I was mad from losing my colt's eye."

"Be calm, my friend. Sit down," replied the clergyman. "If Chester has done wrong, he will acknowledge it."

"I spoke what I thought just and true," added the young man, promptly.

"Why just and true?" echoed Mark, his passion blazing up again.

"You will be angry, if I tell you."

"No, I won't."

"Then I will speak plainly. I said you deserved to lose the beauty and value of your colt. Perhaps I was wrong. But I did not believe his eye was hurt by any such accident as you described."

"How then?" muttered the jockey.

"It seemed to me," answered Chester, folding his arms, "you got mad training him, and _knocked his eye out_."

"Do you mean that?"

"Yes. I saw marks on his head, where you had been whipping him."

"I acknowledge I whipped him," said Mark. "But----"

"Come, come, boys!" cried Mr. Royden, "drop the subject. You, Chester, are to blame; for, even though your suspicion was correct, you had no right to speak it. I am mortified beyond measure to think your folly has fallen upon the head of our good old friend."

"Father Brighthopes, what shall I say to express my sorrow and shame for what has taken place?" asked Chester, with deep humility.

"Promise me that you will never again speak unkindly to one who has erred," answered the clergyman, with a sad smile, pressing his hand. "It was not well that you should use the cutting tone in which you hinted your suspicion."

"I know it," said Chester, frankly. "Mark, I hope you cherish no ill feeling. Here is my hand, if you will take it."

Mark had covered his face again; he did not look up nor move.

"I don't know but I was wrong in my thoughts," proceeded the young man. "I hope I was. But my blood boils when I see cruelty to animals, and I have not yet learned self-control."

"Which you _must_ learn," added Father Brighthopes, with tender earnestness.

"I am sorry, Mark, I can't do anything for your colt," observed Mr. Royden, who, to change the disagreeable topic, had caught the animal, and led him by the halter to the spot where the jockey was sitting. "I wish I could."

"I don't deserve it," muttered the other, with his head down. "It is good enough for me. Ches was right. _I knocked that eye out with the butt of my whip._"

He gnashed his teeth again, and began to tear his hair with remorse.

Father Brighthopes whispered to Chester and his father, who presently went away together, leaving him alone with Mark. They returned to the hay-field. It was noon before they saw the clergyman again. He arrived home from talking with Mark just as the mowers were washing their hot faces at the well, in preparation for dinner.

And still Mark Wheeler sat upon the trough, with his face in his hands; no longer gnashing his teeth and tearing his hair, but sobbing as only strong men sob.

XXIII.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

The fine weather continued during the week. Literally Mr. Royden and his men "made hay while the sun shone." Saturday came, and they were astonished at what was done.

"I have tried my new system pretty thoroughly," said the farmer to his aged guest, that morning. "I have taken things in an easy way, decidedly, this week. Work has gone ahead amazingly. The river was deep, but it ran smoothly. The hay-field has been like a play-ground to all of us."

But the crisis was to come. Saturday was the great "drawing" day. Mr. Royden was a cautious man; doubting whether the fine weather would continue until Monday, he was anxious to see every cock of hay in the stack, or under shelter, before night. He had laid his plans with great foresight, and would have accomplished them beautifully, had not a sudden change of weather in the afternoon occurred, to throw his affairs into confusion.

When Father Brighthopes mounted the hay-rick, to ride to the field with the laborers, after their brief nooning, he remarked that he "smelt a storm brewing."

"Let it come," said the farmer. "We will try to be prepared for it."

The air was close and sultry. A few dark western clouds showed their sullen foreheads over the horizon's rim, like grim giants meditating battle. There appeared angry commotions among them now and then, and some low growls of thunder came to the ear.

But overhead the yellow sky was clear. In the east, in the north, in the south, not even a white fleece was to be seen.

"It may rain by evening," said the farmer, gently touching the flanks of the horses with the point of a pitchfork. "We have got our stint, boys; it will be no harm if we have it done when the sun is an hour high."

The horses threw themselves into a lazy trot. The wagon rattled down the lane, and went jolting over the rough ground at the entrance of the meadow. The men jumped out and took their rakes, followed by Chester; while Mr. Royden and James resumed their work of drawing.

The farmer pitched up the cocks, James shaped the load, and the clergyman "raked after," cheerful and spry as any of them. The smell of the hay-field had a fascination for the old man. He felt new strength since he had breathed its healthful odors. His cheek had browned, and he had learned to eat meat with the men.

Suddenly one of the great clouds shook himself, slowly reared his mighty form, and put his shoulder up against the sun. A cooling shadow swept across the meadow. At the same time he hurled a swift thunder-bolt, and growled in deep and wrathful tones.

"It is going to rain, father," cried James, from the top of the load.

"Drive on," answered the farmer, pitching on the last of a large hay-cock.

Father Brighthopes scratched up the few remaining wisps with his rake, and followed along the wagon-track.

While Mr. Royden and James were transferring the load from the rick to the growing stack in the midst of the meadow, the old man lay upon the grass in the shade to rest. He heard a footstep, and, looking up, saw Mark Wheeler approaching.

"Do you think it is going to rain?" asked the jockey, talking up to Mr. Royden.

"I should not be surprised if we had a shower this evening," replied the farmer, heaving up a heavy forkful to James. "I don't think those clouds will touch us yet a while."

"I can help you just as well as not, if you think there is any danger," rejoined Mark.

"Very well," said Mr. Royden. "It's always safe to be beforehand. If you're a mind to take hold, and help the boys get the hay that's down into shape, I'll do as much for you, some time."

"I owe you work, I believe," replied Mark, throwing off his vest. "Are you going to pitch on to the load out of the win'row?"

"Yes; unless there comes up a shower. If it looks like it, you'll have to get the hay into cocks the quickest way you can."

Mark found a rake by the stack; but still he lingered. He had not seen the clergyman since Monday, and he appeared desirous, yet somewhat ashamed, to speak with him.

"How do you do to-day, friend Mark?" Father Brighthopes said, reading his mind.

The jockey came up to him, where he lay under the stack, and gave him his hand.

"I am well, I thank you," he replied, in a low tone. "I was afraid to speak to you."

"Afraid!"

"Yes, Father. I know you must despise me and hate me."

"No, my son; you misjudge me," answered the old man, with a kindly smile, sitting up, and pressing Mark's hand, as the latter stooped down to him. "On the contrary I am drawn toward you, Mark. There is much in you to love; only overcome these besetting faults, which are your worst enemies."

"I shall try--thank you,"--Mark's voice quivered with emotion. "I haven't forgot what you said to me t'other day. I shall not forget it."