Father Brighthopes Part 28

Mark's fist was raised to strike.

"I _shall_ tear you to pieces!" he articulated, hoa.r.s.e 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 G.o.d!" 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 pa.s.sion. 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 pa.s.sion?"

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 pa.s.sion 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 b.u.t.t 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.

SAt.u.r.dAY AFTERNOON.

The fine weather continued during the week. Literally Mr. Royden and his men "made hay while the sun shone." Sat.u.r.day 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. Sat.u.r.day 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 c.o.c.k 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."