Nestleton Magna Part 11

Groping in darkness and pain, he found his way to the slake-trough and plunged his head into the water. The sense of relief was brief, and Natty, still unable to see, was compelled to feel his way indoors, and present his scorched locks, blackened face, and fiery eyes, to his distressed and startled daughter.

In a case like this, however, Lucy showed her remarkable tact and skill--characteristics which made her presence and a.s.sistance invaluable by every sick-bed in Nestleton. Calm, firm, and skilful, she applied oil and flour and cotton wool to the burns, and then dispatched her little maid to Farmer Houston's. In a few moments a messenger had ridden off post-haste to Kesterton to fetch Dr. Jephson, the most noted medico in all the country-side. Lucy's resources, meanwhile, were tested to the utmost, for her father was suffering the severest pain, especially in the eyes. At length the doctor arrived, made careful examination of his injuries, and cheered them and Mrs.

Houston and Judith Olliver, who had come to render what help they could, with the gratifying announcement that his eyesight was uninjured, and that no permanent harm was done. A few days of bandaging and darkness, of embrocation and patience, would put him to rights, the doctor said, especially with such a nurse as Lucy by his side. It was a narrow escape, however, and the wonder was that he had not been blinded for life.

"Thank G.o.d," said Blithe Natty, who was blind Natty too for a season, "thank G.o.d for sparing us that sorrow. Things are never so bad but they might be worse!" and even in his pain Blithe Natty could joke about Guy Fawkes and the gunpowder plot, for we may depend upon it he was not called Blithe Natty for nought.

Tenderly, lovingly, patiently, Lucy nursed her father night and day.

Tenderly, lovingly, patiently, Nathan bore his pain and enforced blindness for her sake, and went so far as to say, though it must be taken _c.u.m grano salis_, that it would be worth while for Guy Fawkes to come again, that he might have another course of nursing and syllabubs from the same gentle hands.

When Nathan appeared again in public, with his scars not yet healed, and a large green shade over both eyes, he was met with universal congratulations on his escape, and universal anathemas on the dastardly villains who had done the shameful deed.

Now, Nathan Blyth and his daughter were quite persuaded that the rough and cruel treatment which they had received was the result of the malice and jealousy of Black Morris. So far they were right; at the same time it is fair to him to say that he was innocent of this crowning outrage. The fact is, that in his first fierce and unrestrained paroxysm of vexation he had enlisted his alehouse chums in his wicked crusade of vengeance; and in the hope of more fully winning him over to their bad confederacy, and partly out of sheer love of mischief, they had espoused his cause with an energy that surpa.s.sed all that in his cooler moments he desired to inflict. His disreputable cronies enjoyed the surrept.i.tious "fun" of "taking a rise" out of "Parson Blyth," as they called him; their horse-play grew on what it fed on, and hence the shameful extremes I have had to chronicle. The gunpowder was secreted by Bill Buckley, a beetle-browed rascal, with whom we shall have to make a closer acquaintance by and bye. He inserted it in the nozzle of the smithy bellows not only without Black Morris's permission, but utterly without his knowledge, and so far, although it grew out of his conduct, he must be acquitted of so vile and cowardly a deed. It is far easier to set the ball rolling down hill than to stop it on its course; and spirits like those which he had called from the vasty deep to serve his purpose, were not to be laid again, without doing a little extra devilry on their own account.

When Black Morris heard of Nathan Blyth's misfortune he was not only genuinely sorry, but, suspecting it was some of his set who had done it, he went off straightway into a frenzy of rage against them, altogether as hot as that which had been directed against Nathan Blyth himself. This man was an oddity, and it took all the power and subtlety of the devil to spoil him--whether he succeeded remains to be seen.

After Nathan's recovery he had returned to his old post at the anvil, and had tuned up again as merrily as ever, for the gunpowder wasn't manufactured which could blow his "sing" out of him, without dislodging either his tongue or his life. In fact he was one of the Mark Tapley genius with a higher inspiration, and his spirits always seemed to rise towards boiling point as his surroundings sank towards zero. Nathan was fashioning harrow teeth, and the quick rap-tap of his hammer on the heated iron bar kept capital time to his song:

Oh, Love is a clever magician; His rod is a conjuror's wand; And this is his heavenly mission-- To bind in his magical band The hearts of all men to each other In amity, friendship, and peace, That each may to each be a brother, And hatred and envy may cease.

This, this was the way of the Saviour, His enemies eager to bless: Repaying their evil behaviour With pardon and gift and caress.

Like Him on all hate will I trample, And every foe I'll forgive; And copy His holy example As long as on earth I may live.

If my enemy hunger I'll feed him, If he thirst I will give him to drink; With a smile and a blessing I'll speed him, Nor leave him in trouble to sink.

Here's my hand and my heart for each comer, Be he stranger or foeman or friend; For love brings a genial summer, A summer that never shall end.

Oh, Love is a clever magician, His rod is a conjuror's wand; Good speed to his heavenly mission, Alike on the sea and the land.

He binds human hearts to each other, That hatred and envy may cease, That each may to each be a brother, And the earth be an Eden of peace.

In this strain of high philanthropy, Blithe Natty was merrily singing away, when who should darken the smithy door but Black Morris, whom the honest blacksmith had rarely seen since the night when his hasty and wrathful speech anent his daughter, sowed dragons' teeth, whose painful harvest he had already partly reaped.

"Good mornin', Nathan Blyth; I reckon you are blamin' me for that gunpowder business?"

"Yes, I am," said Nathan, candidly. "Can you look at my scarred face and say you didn't do it?"

"I did _not_" said Black Morris, with much emphasis; "I never knew of it till my sister Mary told me. Nathan Blyth, believe me, I not only could not do so beastly a thing, but I could and would fell to the ground the man who did."

Nathan had kept his eyes on him, "looking him through and through."

"Morris!" said he, "give me your hand. I believe you didn't. I am sorry I spoke to you that day as I did. Let bygones be bygones"----

"Nay," said Black Morris, as his head dropped to his bosom, "I don't say I haven't brought you mischief, an' if you knew all I'd said and done against you, I don't suppose you would be so free with your hand; but I never was brute enough for that last business, an' now that you believe it, I'll bid you good-morning."

"Stop," said Nathan, "stop a minute. I've been singing this morning about love and forgiveness, and I mean to do as I sing. Whatever you've done against me or mine, I forgive freely and fully, and now or then, here or yonder, you'll never hear any more of it from me--give us your hand."

Black Morris stood awhile looking hard at the man he had injured, then holding out his hand, permitted Natty to shake it, and then suddenly and without a word shot through the doorway and disappeared.

That's right, Nathan Blyth! Sing your song over again as the anvil rings, and the bright sparks fly, for though there is still a cloud on the horizon whose sombre shadows shall gloom your hearthstone, your kindly deed and Christly spirit done and evinced to-day, will largely help to lift the shadow, and bring back the sunshine of abiding peace!

CHAPTER XVI.

SQUIRE FULLER RECEIVES A DEPUTATION.

"Scorn not the smallness of early endeavour, Let thy great purpose enn.o.ble it ever; Droop not o'er efforts extended in vain; Work! work, with a will; thou shalt find it again.

Fear not! for greater is G.o.d by thy side Than armies of Satan against thee allied."

_Anon._

The lovely spring had deepened into a warm, fruitful summer, the corn was rapidly ripening for the scythe, and the orchards were beginning to bend beneath a burden of expanding fruit, when the Rev. Theophilus Clayton mounted his antique gig, and directed Jack, the circuit horse, on the road that led to Nestleton Magna. That good man had but just finished his dinner of plain and frugal fare--such l.u.s.ts of the flesh as expensive cates and costly luxuries were far beyond the reach of all his tribe--and his intention was to drop into Farmer Houston's for a cup of tea, and then to talk over a scheme for a new chapel, which was rendered necessary by the fact that the s.p.a.cious kitchen was quite unequal to the increasing congregation. Jack bore his master onward at his usual slow and sober pace, and Mr. Clayton gave himself up to a sort of waking dream, now thinking over his evening sermon, now weighing the _pros_ and _cons_ of the proposal to "arise and build,"

when he was roused from his ponderings by means far more effective than agreeable.

"Here's a Methody parson, lads! Let's have a shy at him!"

Scarcely had he time to turn his head towards the speaker, and scan the group of lazy loafers congregated by the roadside at the corner of Midden Harbour, before he was saluted with a shower of stones, which fell on startled Jack, rattled on the ancient gig, and one of them, at any rate, made an unnecessary indentation in his silk hat, whose long term of faithful service demanded more respectful treatment. Waxing indignant at this gratuitous and cowardly attack, he turned to expostulate with the lawless batch of wastrels, when a well-aimed brickbat from the hand of Black Morris struck him on the cheek, and, after drawing a stream of blood, fell into the body of the gig. Mr.

Clayton, maintaining his presence of mind, brought down his whip upon the withers of the startled pony, which broke into a gallop, and bore him through the village with the crimson token of the outrage still wet upon his face.

When he drove up to Farmer Houston's gate, quite a knot of villagers gathered around him, alarmed and indignant at the scurvy treatment he had received. He lifted up the quarter brick which had dealt the ugly wound, and said, with a smile, for he was a hero in his way, "That's the mischievous gentleman that did it, and you see, like a true soldier, I carry my scars in front."

"Oh, what a shame!" "Who did it?" "Who threw it?" were the exclamations of the farmer and his household, as warm water and sticking-plaster were being provided. The prudent preacher, however, in the spirit of his Master, thought of the probable results to Black Morris if he mentioned his name, and so he contented himself with a general statement that he had been maltreated by a set of scoundrels at Midden Harbour.

Well done, Mr. Clayton! Your kindly forbearance will bear richer fruit than you imagine, and, like many another persecution meekly borne for the Master's sake, will in no wise lose its reward. After the needful attention had been bestowed on his wounded cheek, and a few cups of tea had refreshed his inner man, Theophilus was himself again: and when Nathan Blyth, Old Adam Olliver, and Farmer Houston were closeted with him in close committee on the new chapel, he was able to guide their deliberations with his accustomed skill.

The first, and, indeed, the crucial point was the question of a site.

The entire village, with the exception of the undesirable locality of Midden Harbour, was the property of Squire Fuller; and the very first step was to ask that gentleman to sell or lease them a plot of ground suitable to the requirements of the case. Their hopes of success were by no means strong; but Mr. Clayton, who was never much given to beating about the bush, proposed that they should form themselves into a deputation, and see the squire on the subject.

"It's no use going to the steward," said Farmer Houston, "for he hates the Methodists like poison, and would set his foot on us if he could."

"I'm willing to try the squire," said Natty Blyth, "if you think it's best; but I don't expect he'll be particularly glad to see me, seeing that Master Phil's unlucky fancy has angered his father with me and mine."

"Nivver mind that," chimed in Old Adam; "t' aud squire knoas it's neean o' your deein', and as for its bein' unlikely, he'll be fooast te deea as G.o.d tells 'im, an' if it's His will 'at we sud hev a chapel, it isn't Squire Fuller nor t' devil aback on 'im 'at can hinder uz! Let's pray aboot it. We'll fost ax the Lord, 'at hez t'

hearts ov all men in His hands, an' then ax t' squire, an' leeave t'

rest wi' G.o.d."

This admirable hint was at once acted on, and Mr. Clayton asked the old hedger to engage in prayer. Adam went straight to the point at once--a practice not too common, as many a heavy and listless prayer-meeting can testify.

"Oh, Lord," he prayed, "Thoo knoas 'at we want te build a sanctuary i'

Thy honour, an' for t' good o' sowls. Thah good Spirit's meead wer borders ower strayt for uz. We beseeach Tha te give uz room te dwell in. Thoo can oppen t' way as eeasily as Thoo oppen'd t' Rid Sea for t'

children o' Isra'l, an' Thoo can tonn t' heart o' Squire Fuller as Thoo tonn'd t' heart o' King Pharaoh. We're gannin' te see 'im i' Thah neeam, an' for t' seeak o' Thah cause. Gan wiv uz, Lord; wi' Thoo wiv us we're bun' te prosper. Thoo wadn't hev crammed t' kitchen wi'

precious souls te hear Thah Wod if Thoo didn't meean te gether 'em all inte t' Gospel net. Lord, t' ship's full an' beginnin' te sink! Bud it can't sink while t' prayers o' Thah people hod it up. Lord help uz!

and gan wiv uz, for Jesus Christ's seeak. Amen."

O wondrous power of faithful prayer! The four men rose from their knees, ready and eager for the interview, and as Farmer Houston was able to affirm that the squire was at home, they resolved at once to go forward in the name of the Lord.

Waverdale Hall, the seat of Ainsley Fuller, Esq., J.P., was a large and imposing building, in which the Italian style of architecture was exhibited to the best advantage, and which was said to have been erected under the personal superintendence of that noted deviser of aristocratic piles, Inigo Jones. Situated in the midst of a large and well-wooded park, and partially surrounded by trim terraces and well-kept ornamental grounds, it formed the centre of a landscape of which the inhabitants of Waverdale were justly proud. Our brave quarternion of Methodists made their way to a side entrance to the stately mansion, and in answer to their call, a grave-looking, white-headed butler, ushered them into the bounteously-furnished library, whose mult.i.tudinous bookshelves laden with ancient and modern literature, so excited the astonishment of Adam Olliver, that he could not help exclaiming,--

"What a parlous lot o' beeaks! Pack'd like herrin's iv a barrel!