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.