“Don’t think I was afraid,” said Mr. Clayton, who read his thoughts clearly enough. “If I was given that way, I should scarcely have chosen to tax Black Morris with it, out on a solitary road at ten o’clock on a winter’s night, and give it him back with a hint that he might perhaps want to use it again.”
To this Black Morris made no reply; but his respect for his Methody companion began to rise, and he grew somewhat uncomfortable in his seat.
“No, Morris, I have given my heart and life to that loving Saviour who bids me return good for evil and to love them that hate me. He prayed for His persecutors even on the Cross to which they nailed Him, as I have prayed for you every time I’ve thought of the blow or seen the scar in the looking-glass. When Farmer Houston asked me who did it, I knew that one word of mine could have thrown you into jail; but I loved and pitied you, and refused to tell either him or anybody else who did the deed. Your sister Mary asked me to go and see your mother, who is a suffering woman, Morris. Your mother asked, in sympathy, who had hurt my cheek. Do you think that I was going to sadden her heart by telling her that the man who had come to pray with her had been ill-treated by the son whom she loves dearer than her life? Morris, I’m a good deal troubled about you, and would do you good for my Master’s sake, even if I knew that you would fling that brickbat at the other cheek. Oh, Morris!” said he, earnestly, laying his hand upon the young man’s arm; “for your patient mother’s sake, for your own soul’s sake, for your loving Saviour’s sake, give up this bad and wasted life of yours; turn your back on the evil companions that are dragging you to ruin, and give your heart to Jesus, who died upon the cross for you.”
Not one word did Black Morris utter in reply. Mr. Clayton’s well-weighed words had gone to his heart like a shot, and the reference to his mother had struck him dumb. By this time they had reached the point where the Nestleton road branched off from the Kesterton highway.
“I must get down here, and thank you for the ride,” said Black Morris.
“Thank you, Morris, for your kind assistance, and remember that if ever I can serve you, if you’ll come and ask me, I’ll do it with all my heart. Good-night.”
Having come almost within sight of his welcome stable, Jack trotted along the Kesterton High-street, and in a little while both he and his master were safe at home. The sight of his ‘kerchief-bound head would have alarmed his waiting household, but his vigorous step and cheery voice, both intensified as a protest against sympathy or fear, re-assured them. He told his family the exciting story of his night’s adventure, and in the family prayer that night the good man made special intercession for the conversion of Black Morris.
After alighting from the gig at Kesterton town-end, that puzzled young ne’er-do-weel stood stock still, following with his gaze the retreating “Methody parson,” until a bend in the street hid him from his view. Then, released from the spell, he turned homeward with a long sigh of amazement.
“By Jove!” said he, “this bangs Banagher!” The brickbat was still in his hand. All unconsciously his fingers had closed around it when Mr. Clayton had placed it in his palm. He looked at it, and then turned round again, and looked down Kesterton High-street, as if the donor was still in view. There was an unwonted moisture in his eyes, as he said to himself, “Hey, I shall want it again.” He dropped it into his pouch-like pocket, and strode away in silence towards Midden Harbour. Letting himself into the house, Black Morris stole to his room, and passing his mother’s door, he paused, and said, “God bless her! an’ the Methody parson, too!”
