Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Amos Huntingdon
By Reverend T.P. Wilson
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This a very well written and interesting story, well up to Wilson's
best. It deals with the various moral issues that beset a rather
well-off family. The old father makes his two sons an allowance, which
one of them, Amos, manages well, while the other does not. Stability in
the family is provided by an old maiden aunt, Kate, the sister of the
old man. There was also a daughter, Julia, who had married a
ne'er-do-well, and who had been shown the door on that account by the
old father, but who was still of great concern to the two young men,
particularly to Amos, as she had small children, who were so destitute
that Amos was spending all his allowance in looking after his sister and
her children, thus making it impossible for him to lend his brother any
money.
Because there are not many people in the story, and because their
characters are so well-described, the reader is drawn into the family,
and follows their concerns with interest. It makes a good audiobook of
about eleven hours duration. NH
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AMOS HUNTINGDON
BY REVEREND T.P. WILSON
CHAPTER ONE.
BRAVELY DONE.
"Help! help! holloa there! Master Walter--Mr Amos--Jim--Harry--quick--
bring us a light!--lend a hand here!" Such were the words which
suddenly broke the stillness of a dark October night, and roused up the
household of Mr Walter Huntingdon, a country gentleman living on his
own estate in Derbyshire. The voice was the coachman's, and came
apparently from somewhere near the drive-gate, which was about a couple
of hundred yards from the front door of the house. The evening had been
dark and stormy; and it was in a lull of the tempest that the ominous
sounds of distress reached the ears of the inmates of Flixworth Manor.
In a few moments all was bustle and excitement--lights flashing; feet
hurrying; voices shouting; and then a rush for the scene of danger and
trouble.
Outside the grounds in which the Manor-house stood were extensive grass
lands on either side of the public road. In the field nearest to the
drive-gate, and on the left as you entered it, was a deep and
precipitous chalk-pit, now disused. This pit was some little distance
from the road itself, and was not noticeable by persons unacquainted
with the locality. It had been there no one knew how long, and was a
favourite resort of adventurous children, a footpath to the village
passing not far from its edge. Towards this chalk-pit the startled
party of rescue from the house hurried with one consent, several of them
carrying lanterns or extemporised torches.
Ten o'clock was striking in the distant church-tower as they gathered
round the spot from which the cries for help had proceeded. A terrible
sight was dimly revealed to them in the uncertain glare cast upon it by
the lights which they carried. Hanging over the edge of the chalk-pit
was the squire's carriage. One horse had broken away from the traces,
but the other was struggling violently, and seemed likely, in its
plungings, to force the carriage still further over the precipitous side
of the pit. The coachman, who had managed to spring unharmed from the
box, was doing his best to restrain the violence of the terrified
animal, but with only partial success; while the situation of Mr
Huntingdon himself and of his maiden sister, who were inside the
carriage, was perilous and distressing in the extreme.
The accident had been caused by a strange and savage dog suddenly
springing at the horses' heads as the carriage was nearing the outer
gate. The night was very dark, and the horses, which were young and
full of spirit, being startled by the unexpected attack of the dog,
which belonged to some passing traveller, sprang violently out of the
road, and, easily crashing through the wooden fence, which happened to
be unusually weak just at that part, carried the carriage along with
them to the very edge of the chalk-pit, spite of all the efforts of the
coachman to hold them in; so that when the people of the Manor-house
came to the rescue, they found the carriage and its occupants in a most
critical position.
Not a moment was to be lost. Jim, the stable-boy, was quickly by the
side of the coachman, who was almost exhausted with his efforts to curb
the terrified horse, the animal becoming still more excited by the flare
of the lights and the rush of the newcomers.
"Cut the traces, man! cut the traces!" cried Harry the butler, as he
gained the spot.
"Do nothing of the sort," said a voice close by him. "Don't you see
that there may be nothing to hold the carriage up, if you cut the
traces? it may fall sheer over into the chalk-pit.--Steady, Beauty!
steady, poor Beauty!" These last words came from a young man who
evidently had authority over the servants, and spoke calmly but firmly,
at the same time patting and soothing the terror-stricken animal, which,
though still trembling in every limb, had ceased its frantic plungings.
"William," continued the same speaker, addressing the coachman, "keep
her still, if you can, till we have got my father and aunt out."
Just at that moment a boy of about seventeen years of age sprang on to
the front wheel, which was a little tilted on one side, and with a
violent wrench opened the carriage-door. "Father, dear father," he
cried, "are you there? are you hurt?"
For a moment no reply was made; then in a stifled voice came the words,
"Save your aunt, my dear boy, save your aunt!"
Miss Huntingdon, who was nearest the door, and had contrived to cling to
a stout strap at the side of it, was now dragged with difficulty, by the
joint efforts of her nephew and the butler, out on to the firm ground.
Walter, her young deliverer, then sprang back to extricate his father.
"Give me your hand, father," he cried, as he stooped down into the
carriage, which was now creaking and swaying rather ominously. "A light
here, Harry--Jim!" he continued. It was plain that there was no time
for delay, as the vehicle seemed to be settling down more and more in
the direction of the chasm over which it hung. A light was quickly
brought, and Mr Huntingdon was released at last from his trying and
painful durance; but not without considerable difficulty, as he had been
much bruised, and almost stunned, by being dashed against the undermost
door, and by his poor sister having been thrown violently on him, when
the carriage had turned suddenly on its side.
"Hip, hip, hurrah!" shouted Walter, springing on to the hind wheel;
"`all's well that ends well.' No bones broken I hope, dear father, dear
aunt."
"Have a care, Master Walter," cried the coachman, who had now managed,
with the elder son's help, to release the frightened horse from the
traces, and had given it in charge to the stable-boy,--"have a care, or
you'll be over into the chalk-pit, carriage and all."
"All right, William," cried the boy; "you look after Beauty, and I'll
look after myself." So saying, he jumped down, making the carriage rock
as he sprang to the ground.
And now, while Miss Huntingdon, who had suffered nothing more serious
than a severe shaking, was being led to the house by her elder nephew
and the female servants who had joined the rescuing party, Mr
Huntingdon, having made a careful inspection of the position of his
carriage, found that it was in no danger of falling to the bottom of the
chalk-pit, as a stout tree, which sprang from the side of the pit, close
to the top, had become entangled in the undermost hind wheel, and would
form a sufficient support till the proper means of drawing the vehicle
fully on to the level ground could be used on the morrow. All parties
then betook themselves slowly to the Manor-house.
In the kitchen, William the coachman was, of course, the great centre of
attraction to a large gathering of domestics, and of neighbours also,
who soon came flocking in, spite of the lateness of the hour, to get an
authentic version of the accident, which, snowball-like, would, ere noon
next day, get rolled up into gigantic proportions, as it made its way
through many mouths to the farther end of the parish.
In the drawing-room of the Manor-house a sympathising group gathered
round Mr Huntingdon and his sister, eager to know if either were
seriously the worse for the alarming termination to their journey.
Happily, both had escaped without damage of any consequence, so that
before they retired to rest they were able, as they drew round the
cheery fire, and heard the stormy wind raging without, to talk over the
perilous adventure with mutual congratulations at its happy termination,
and with thankfulness that the travellers were under the shelter of the
Manor roof, instead of being exposed to the rough blasts of the storm,
as they might still have been had the mishap occurred further from home.
"Walter, my boy," exclaimed Mr Huntingdon, stretching out his hand to
his younger son, "it was bravely done. If it had not been for you, we
might have been hanging over the mouth of the chalk-pit yet--or,
perhaps, been down at the bottom. You are a lad after your father's own
heart,--good old-fashioned English pluck and courage; there's nothing I
admire so much." As he said these words, his eye glanced for a moment
at his eldest son Amos, who was standing at the outside of the group, as
though he felt that the older brother had no claim on his regard on the
score of courage. The young man coloured slightly, but made no remark.
He might, had he so pleased, have put in his claim for loving notice, on
the ground of presence of mind in stilling the plunging horse,--presence
of mind, which commonly contributes more to success and deliverance in
an emergency than impulsive and impetuous courage; but he was not one to
assert himself, and the coachman and stable-boy, who knew the part he
had taken, were not present to speak a word for him. So his younger
brother Walter got the praise, and was looked upon as the hero of the
adventure.
CHAPTER TWO.
UNDER A CLOUD.
Mr Huntingdon was a country gentleman of good fortune and popular
manners, warm in his temper, hasty in his speech, upright in his
transactions, and liberal in his dealings. No man could make a better
speech, when he had those to address who substantially agreed with him;
while in ordinary conversation he generally succeeded in silencing an
opponent, though, perhaps, more by the vehemence of his utterances than
by the cogency of his reasonings. He had a considerable knowledge of
field-sports and farming, rather less of literature, and less still of
character. Naturally, he had a high opinion of his own judgment, in
which opinion his dependants agreed with him before his face, but
differed from it behind his back. However, every one allowed that he
was a worthy man, a good landlord, a kind master, and a faithful friend.
A cloud, however, rested on his home.
He had married early, and had made, in the estimation of his friends and
of the county generally, an excellent choice of a wife in the person of
the eldest daughter of a neighbouring squire. The marriage was
apparently a very happy one; for the bride brought her husband a fair
face, a loving heart, and a good fortune, and entertained his friends
with due courtesy and cordiality. Moreover, she neither thwarted his
tastes nor squandered his money; while he, on his part, pursued his
hunting, shooting, and fishing, and his occasional magisterial duties,
with due consideration for his wife's domestic and social engagements,
so that their married life ran its course with as little friction or
creaking as could reasonably be expected. Then there came, in due time,
the children: first, a little girl, the object of her mother's
passionate love, and as dear to her father as the mistake of her not
having been a boy would allow her to be; then, after an interval of
three years, came a son.
Now it so happened that at the time of this son's birth there was
residing as a guest at the Manor-house a middle-aged gentleman reputed
to be very rich. His name was Amos Sutterby. Mr Huntingdon had met
him abroad in the second year after his marriage when taking a tour in
Switzerland with his wife. Mr Sutterby was an old bachelor, rather
bluff in his manners, but evidently in easy circumstances. The
Huntingdons and himself had met on the Rigi, and the squire had taken to
him at once--in a great measure, it may be, because Mr Amos was a good
listener, and was very ready to ask Mr Huntingdon's opinion and advice.
So the squire gave his new acquaintance a general invitation to
Flixworth Manor, which the other cordially accepted: and in a little
while this acquaintanceship ripened into a steady friendship, though by
no means entirely to the satisfaction of Mrs Huntingdon. The result,
however, was that Mr Sutterby spent several weeks of every year, at the
close of the summer and beginning of the autumn, at the Manor, and was
the constant companion of the squire in his field-sports. Mr
Huntingdon had taken care to satisfy himself that his new friend, though
somewhat of an oddity, was a man of substance. True, he was only living
in bachelor style, and possessed no landed property; but then he was
able at all times to command ready money, and was reputed by persons who
had long known him to be the holder of a large amount in the funds, an
impression which seemed to be justified by some elegant and costly
presents of which Mr Sutterby begged his friend's acceptance, as a
token of his esteem and a mark of his appreciation of that kind
hospitality which, as he said, an eccentric old bachelor living in
lodgings in London was unable to return in kind.
Now it was, as has been said, during a visit of Mr Sutterby to
Flixworth Manor that a son and heir was given to the Huntingdons. Of
course there were great rejoicings, and no one seemed more glad than Mr
Sutterby; and when he was asked if he would stand godfather to the
child, he declared that nothing could please him more. So the
christening day was fixed, and now the question of a name for the child
was discussed, as father, mother, and their guest were sitting round the
fire after dinner on the first day of Mrs Huntingdon's appearing
downstairs.
"Of course he must be `Walter,' after yourself," said the lady.
"Unless you would like to call him `Amos,' after his godfather," said
the squire, laughing.
"Capital!" exclaimed Mr Sutterby, with a roar of merriment. "In that
case, of course, I shall feel it nothing less than my duty to make him
my heir."
Now these words of their guest, though spoken just on the spur of the
moment, and probably only in jest, made an impression on the mind of Mr
Huntingdon which he could not get rid of. Why should not his friend
have really meant what he said? He was rich, and an old bachelor, and
had no near relations, so far as the squire knew; and though Mr
Huntingdon's estate and fortune were large, yet his open-house way of
living left him little to spare at the year's end, so that Mr
Sutterby's money would be very acceptable, should he see fit to leave it
to his godson. He therefore represented this view of the matter to his
wife in private; but she would not hear of such a name as Amos being
given to her son.
"Better lose a thousand fortunes, and quarrel with every friend they had
or might have, rather than bring such an odious combination as `Amos
Huntingdon' into the family genealogy." The squire's temper, however,
was roused by this opposition, and he wound up the only sharp
altercation which had occurred between himself and his wife since their
marriage by a vehement asseveration that "Amos" and nothing but "Amos"
should be the Christian name of his first-born son.
Sorely against her will, his wife was obliged to yield; for though Mr
Huntingdon had his own secret regrets that he had gone so far, yet he
was one of those who, wanting that true greatness of character which
leads its possessor to change a hastily adopted decision for one
resulting from a maturer judgment, abide by what they have said simply
because they have said it, and thus mistake obstinacy for a right-minded
firmness. "Amos," therefore, was the name given, considerably to the
satisfaction of Mr Sutterby, who made his godson handsome presents from
time to time, and often spoke of him playfully as "my godson and heir."
His mother, however, never forgave his name, and it was clear to all
that the poor child himself had but a cold place in that mother's heart.
What wonder, then, that the boy grew up shy and reserved, dreading the
sound of his own name, and shrinking within himself; for seldom was he
gladdened by a father's or mother's smile. Added to this, he was not
naturally of a lively temperament, and so never exhibited those
boisterous spirits which might have won for him in a measure his
father's heart. So he was brought up with all due care, as was suitable
for an eldest son, and was sent to a public school as soon as he could
be safely trusted from home. Indeed, all his wants were supplied but
one, and that one was what his heart craved with a painful intensity--
love. They gave him no real love, at least none that came like sunshine
to his spirit. Such love as they did measure out to him was rather like
the feeble sunlight on a cloudy winter day, that seems to chill as it
scarcely struggles through the mists that almost quench it.
Such was Amos Huntingdon in his early childhood. But the cloud grew
darker over him when he had reached the age of ten. It was then that
the news came one morning that Mr Sutterby had died, leaving no will,
for indeed he had nothing to bequeath except a few small personal
effects, which went to some distant cousin. The fact was that, having
an eye to his own personal comfort and well-doing, he had sunk a nice
little fortune, which he had inherited from a maiden aunt, in a handsome
annuity. Thus he was able to travel and spend his money like a man of
wealth, and was very glad of the opportunity of making Mr Huntingdon's
acquaintance, which gave him access to a house where he could spend a
portion of every year amidst bountiful hospitality and in good society.
He had no deliberate intention of deceiving Mr Huntingdon about his
son, but having once given him the impression that he would leave that
son a fortune, he did not trouble himself to undeceive his friend on the
subject; but being a man in whom self-interest spoke with a louder voice
than conscience, he was not sorry to find the conviction strongly rooted
in the squire's mind that Amos was to be his godfather's heir, as this
conviction evidently added to the warmth of the welcome with which he
was received at the Manor-house whenever he chose to take up his
quarters there. And as he had always carefully avoided making any
definite statement of his intentions, and had only thrown out hints from
time to time, which might be either serious or playful, he was content
that a state of things should continue which brought considerable
satisfaction to himself, and could not deprive the squire or his son of
anything to which either had a legal claim. The disgust, however, of
Mr Huntingdon, when he found out how he had, as he considered it, been
taken advantage of and imposed upon, was intense in the extreme. No one
dared refer to Mr Sutterby in his presence, while the very name of the
poor boy Amos was scarcely ever spoken by him except in a tone of
bitterness; and even his mother looked forward to his holidays with more
of apprehension than rejoicing.
There was one, however, who felt for that desolate-hearted child, and
loved him with a mother's tenderness. This was his aunt, Miss
Huntingdon, his father's unmarried and only sister. Half his holidays
would be spent at her house; and oh, what happy days they were for him!
Happy, too, at last in the brightest and fullest sense; for that loving
friend was privileged to lead her nephew gently to Him who says to the
shy schoolboy, as much as to the mature man, in his sorrows, "Come unto
me, all ye that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you rest."
In the meanwhile, when Amos was five years old, another son was born at
Flixworth Manor. The baby was christened Walter, and nearly all the
love that was the share of the elder brother was poured by both father
and mother on the younger son. Years rolled on, and when our story
opens Amos was twenty-two years of age. He had passed creditably
through the university course at Oxford, but had not settled down to any
profession. Walter was seventeen; his father's delight and constant
companion in his holidays; full of life, energy, and fun, with an
unlimited good opinion of himself, and a very limited good opinion of
his brother; while all around who knew him only a little were loud in
his praises, which were not, however, echoed by those who knew him more
thoroughly. At present he was remaining at home, after completing his
school education, neither his father nor himself being able to make up
their minds as to the sphere in which his abilities would shine the
best.
And where was his sister, the eldest of the three, who was now twenty-
five years of age? Alas! she had grievously disappointed the hopes of
both father and mother, having clandestinely married, when not yet
arrived at womanhood, a man altogether beneath her in position. From
the day of that marriage Mr Huntingdon's heart and house were closed
against her. Not so the heart of her mother; but that mother pleaded
with her husband in vain for a reconciliation, for permission even to
have a single meeting with her erring child. And so the poor mother's
mind came under partial eclipse, and herself had been some years away
from home under private superintendence, when the accident above
recorded occurred to her husband and his sister.
CHAPTER THREE.
A TALK AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE.
The morning after the accident, Miss Huntingdon, who was now keeping her
brother's house, and had been returning with him the night before after
a visit to a friend, appeared as usual at the breakfast-table, rather to
Mr Huntingdon's surprise.
"My dear Kate," he said, "I hardly expected to see you at breakfast,
after your fright, and shaking, and bruising. Most ladies would have
spent the morning in bed; but I am delighted to see you, and take it for
granted that you are not seriously the worse for the mishap."
"Thank you, dear Walter," was her reply; "I cannot say that I feel very
brilliant this morning, but I thought it would be kinder in me to show
myself, and so relieve you from all anxiety, as I have been mercifully
preserved from anything worse than a severe shaking, the effects of
which will wear off in a day or two, I have no doubt."
"Well, Kate, I must say it's just like yourself, never thinking of your
own feelings when you can save other people's. Why, you are almost as
brave as our hero Walter, who risked his own neck to get us out of our
trouble last night.--Ah! here he comes, and Amos after him. Well,
that's perhaps as it should be--honour to whom honour is due."
A cloud rested on Miss Huntingdon's face as she heard these last words,
and it was deepened as she observed a smile of evident exultation on the
countenance of her younger nephew, as he glanced at the flushed face of
his elder brother. But now all seated themselves at the table, and the
previous evening's disaster was the all-absorbing topic of conversation.
"Well," said the squire, "things might have been worse, no doubt, though
it may be some time before the horses will get over their fright, and
the carriage must go to the coachmaker's at once.--By-the-by, Harry,"
speaking to the butler, who was waiting at table, "just tell James, when
you have cleared away breakfast, to see to that fence at once. It must
be made a good substantial job of, or we shall have broken bones, and
broken necks too, perhaps, one of these days."
"I hope, Walter," said his sister, "the horses were not seriously
injured."
"No, I think not," was his reply; "nothing very much to speak of.
Charlie has cut one of his hind legs rather badly,--that must have been
when he flung out and broke away; but Beauty hasn't got a scratch, I'm
pleased to say, and seems all right."
"And yourself, Walter?"
"Oh, I'm all safe and sound, except a few bruises and a bit of a
sprained wrist.--And now, my boy, Walter, I must thank you once more for
your courage and spirit. But for you, your aunt and myself might have
been lying at the bottom of the chalk-pit, instead of sitting here at
the breakfast-table."
Walter laughed his thanks for the praise, declaring that he exceedingly
enjoyed getting his father and aunt on to dry land, only he was sorry
for the carriage and horses. But here the butler--who was an old and
privileged servant in the family, and therefore considered himself at
liberty to offer occasionally a remark when anything was discussed at
table in which he was personally interested--interrupted.
"If you please, sir, I think Master Amos hasn't had his share of the
praise. 'Twas him as wouldn't let us cut the traces, and then stood by
Beauty and kept her still. I don't know where you'd have been, sir, nor
Miss Huntingdon neither, if it hadn't been for Master Amos's presence of
mind."
"Ah, well, perhaps so," said his master, not best pleased with the
remark; while Amos turned red, and motioned to the butler to keep
silent. "Presence of mind is a very useful thing in its way, no doubt;
but give me good manly courage,--there's nothing like that, to my
mind.--What do _you_ say, Kate?"
"Well, Walter," replied his sister slowly and gravely, "I am afraid I
can hardly quite agree with you there. Not that I wish to take away any
of the credit which is undoubtedly due to Walter. I am sure we are all
deeply indebted to him; and yet I cannot but feel that we are equally
indebted to Amos's presence of mind."
"Oh, give him his due, by all means," said the squire, a little nettled
at his sister's remark; "but, after all, good old English courage for
me. But, of course, as a woman, you naturally don't value courage as we
men do."
"Do you think not, Walter? Perhaps some of us do not admire courage
quite in the same way, or the same sort of courage most; but I think
there can be no one of right feeling, either man or woman, who does not
admire real courage."
"I don't know what you mean, Kate, about `the same sort of courage.'
Courage is courage, I suppose, pretty much the same in everybody who has
it."
"I was thinking of moral courage," replied the other quietly; "and that
often goes with presence of mind."
"Moral courage! moral courage! I don't understand you," said her
brother impatiently. "What do you mean by moral courage?"
"Well, dear brother, I don't want to vex you; I was only replying to
your question. I admire natural courage, however it is shown, but I
admire moral courage most."
"Well, but you have not told me what you mean by moral courage."
"I will try and explain myself then. Moral courage, as I understand it,
is shown when a person has the bravery and strength of character to act
from principle, when doing so may subject him, and he knows it, to
misunderstanding, misrepresentation, opposition, ridicule, or
persecution."
The squire was silent for a moment, and fidgeted on his chair. Amos
coloured and cast down his eyes; while his brother looked up at his aunt
with an expression on his face of mingled annoyance and defiance. Then
Mr Huntingdon asked, "Well, but what's to hinder a person having both
what I should call old-fashioned courage and your moral courage at the
same time?"
"Nothing to hinder it, necessarily," replied Miss Huntingdon. "Very
commonly, however, they do not go together; or perhaps I ought rather to
say, that while persons who have moral courage often have natural
courage too, a great many persons who have natural courage have no moral
courage."
"You mean, aunt, I suppose," said her nephew Walter, rather
sarcastically, "that the one's all `dash' and the other all `duty.'"
"Something of the kind, Walter," replied his aunt. "The one acts upon a
sudden impulse, or on the spur of the moment, or from natural spirit;
the other acts steadily, and from deliberate conviction."
"Can you give us an example, aunt?" asked the boy, but now with more of
respect and less of irritation in his manner.
"Yes, I can," she replied; "and I will do so if you like, and my example
shall be that of one who combined both natural and moral courage. My
moral hero is Christopher Columbus."
"A regular brick of a man, I allow; but, dear aunt, pray go on."
"Well, then, I have always had a special admiration for Columbus because
of his noble and unwavering moral courage. Just think of what he had to
contend with. It was enough to daunt the stoutest heart and wear out
the most enduring patience. Convinced that somewhere across the ocean
to the west there must be a new and undiscovered world, and that it
would be the most glorious of enterprises to find that new world and
plant the standard of the Cross among its people, he never wavered in
his one all-absorbing purpose of voyaging to those unknown shores and
winning them for Christ. And yet, from the very first, he met with
every possible discouragement, and had obstacle upon obstacle piled up
in his path. He was laughed to scorn as a half-mad enthusiast;
denounced as a blasphemer and gainsayer of Scripture truth; cried down
as an ignoramus, unworthy of the slightest attention from men of
science; tantalised by half promises; wearied by vexatious delays: and
yet never did his courage fail nor his purpose waver. At last, after
years of hope deferred and anxieties which made him grey while still in
the prime of life, he was permitted to set sail on what was generally
believed to be a desperate crusade, with no probable issue but death.
And just picture him to yourself, Walter, as he set out on that voyage
amidst the sullen murmurs and tears of the people. His ships were three
`caravels,' as they were called,--that is, something the same as our
coasting colliers, or barges,--and there was no deck in two of them.
Besides, they were crazy, leaky, and scarcely seaworthy; and the crews
numbered only one hundred and twenty men, most of them pressed, and all
hating the service. Nevertheless, he ventured with these into an ocean
without any known shore; and on he went with one fixed, unalterable
purpose, and that was to sail westward, westward, westward till he came
to land. Days and weeks went by, but no land was seen. Provisions ran
short, and every day's course made return home more hopeless. But still
his mind never changed; still he plunged on across that trackless waste
of waters. The men mutinied--and one can hardly blame them; but he
subdued them by his force of character,--they saw in his eye that which
told them that their leader was no common man, but one who would die
rather than abandon his marvellous enterprise. And you remember the
end? The very day after the mutiny, a branch of thorn with berries on
it floats by them. They are all excitement. Then a small board
appears; then a rudely-carved stick; then at night Columbus sees a
light, and next day lands on the shores of his new world, after a voyage
of more than two months over seas hitherto unexplored by man, and in
vessels which nothing but a special providence could have kept from
foundering in the mighty waters. The man who could carry out such a
purpose in the teeth of such overwhelming opposition, discouragement,
and difficulty, may well claim our admiration for courage of the highest
and noblest order."
No one spoke for a moment, and then Mr Huntingdon said, "Well, Kate,
Columbus was a brave man, no doubt, and deserves the best you can say of
him; and I think I see what you mean, from his case, about the greatness
and superiority of moral courage."
"I am glad, Walter, that I have satisfied you on that point," was her
reply. "You see there was no sudden excitement to call out or sustain
his courage. It was the bravery of principle, not of mere impulse. It
was so grand because it stood the strain, a daily-increasing strain, of
troubles, trials, and hindrances, which kept multiplying in front of him
every day and hour as he pressed forward; and it never for a moment gave
way under that strain."
"It was grand indeed, aunt," said Walter. "I am afraid my courage would
have oozed out of every part of me before I had been a week on board one
of those caravels. So all honour to Christopher Columbus and moral
courage."
That same morning, when Miss Huntingdon was at work in her own private
sitting-room, there came a knock at the door, followed by the head of
Walter peeping round it.
"May I come in, auntie? I've a favour to ask of you."
"Come in, dear boy."
"Well, Aunt Kate, I've been thinking over what you said at breakfast
about moral courage, and I begin to see that I am uncommonly short of
it, and that Amos has got my share of it as well as his own."
"But that need not be, Walter," said his aunt; "at least it need not
continue to be so."
"I don't know, auntie; perhaps not. But, at any rate, what father calls
old-fashioned courage is more in my line; and yet I don't want to be
quite without moral courage as well,--so will you promise me just two
things?"
"What are they, Walter?"
"Why, the first is to give me a bit of a hint whenever you see me--what
I suppose I ought to call acting like a moral coward."
"Well, dear boy, I can do that. But how am I to give the hint if others
are by? for you would not like me to speak out before your father or the
servants."
"I'll tell you, auntie, what you shall do--that is to say, of course, if
you don't mind. Whenever you see me showing moral cowardice, or want of
moral courage, and I suppose that comes much to the same thing, and you
would like to give me a hint without speaking, would you put one of your
hands quietly on the table, and then the other across it--just so--and
leave them crossed till I notice them?"
"Yes, Walter, I can do that, and I _will_ do it; though I daresay you
will sometimes think me hard and severe."
"Never mind that, auntie; it will do me good."
"Well, dear boy, and what is the other thing I am to promise?"
"Why, this,--I want you, the first opportunity after the hint, when you
and I are alone together, to tell me some story--it must be a true one,
mind--of some good man or woman, or boy or girl, who has shown moral
courage just where I didn't show it. `Example is better than precept,'
they say, and I am sure it is a great help to me; for I shan't forget
Christopher Columbus and his steady moral courage in a hurry."
"I am very glad to hear what you say, Walter," replied his aunt; "and it
will give me great pleasure to do what you wish. My dear, dear nephew,
I do earnestly desire to see you grow up into a truly noble man, and I
want to be, as far as God permits me, in the place of a mother to you."
As Miss Huntingdon uttered these words with deep emotion, Walter flung
his arms passionately round her, and, sinking on his knees, buried his
face in her lap, while tears and sobs, such as he was little accustomed
to give vent to, burst from him.
"O auntie!" he said vehemently, when he had a little recovered himself,
"I know I am not what I ought to be, with all my dash and courage, which
pleases father so much. I'm quite sure that there's a deal of humbug in
me after all. It's very nice to please him, and to hear him praise me
and call me brave; but I should like to please you too. It would be
worth more, in one way, to have _your_ praise, though father is very
kind."
"Well, my dear boy, I hope you will be able to please me too, and,
better still, to please God." She spoke gently and almost sadly as she
said these words, kissing at the same time Walter's fair brow.
"I'm afraid, auntie," was the boy's reply, "I don't think much about
that. But Amos does, I know; and though I laugh at him sometimes, yet I
respect him for all that, and I believe he will turn out the true hero
after all."
CHAPTER FOUR.
THE CRIPPLED HORSE.
Nature and circumstances had produced widely differing characters in the
two brothers. Walter, forward enough by natural temperament, and ready
to assert himself on all occasions, was brought more forward still and
encouraged in self-esteem and self-indulgence, by the injudicious
fondness of both his parents. Handsome in person, with a merry smile
and a ripple of joyousness rarely absent from his bright face, he was
the favourite of all guests at his father's house, and a sharer in their
field-sports and pastimes. That his father and mother loved him better
than they loved Amos it was impossible for him not to see; and, as he
grew to mature boyhood, a feeling of envy, when he heard both parents
regret that himself was not their heir, drew his heart further and
further from his elder brother, and led him to exhibit what he
considered his superiority to him as ostentatiously as possible, that
all men might see what a mistake Nature had made in the order of time in
which she had introduced the two sons into the family. Not that Walter
really hated his brother; he would have been shocked to admit to himself
the faintest shadow of such a feeling, for he was naturally generous and
of warm affections; but he clearly looked upon his elder brother as
decidedly in his way and in the wrong place, and often made a butt of
him, considering it quite fair to play off his sarcasms and jokes on one
who had stolen a march upon him by coming into the world before him as
heir of the family estate. And now that their mother--who had made no
secret of her preference of Walter to her elder son--was removed from
them, the cords of Mr Huntingdon's affections were wound tighter than
ever round his younger son, in whom he could scarce see a fault, however
glaringly visible it might be to others; while poor Amos's shortcomings
received the severest censure, and his weaknesses were visited on him as
sins. No wonder, then, that, spite of the difference in their ages and
order of birth, Walter Huntingdon looked upon himself as a colossal
figure in the household, and on his poor brother as a cipher.
On the other hand, Amos, if he had been of a similar temperament to his
brother, would have been inevitably more or less cowed and driven into
himself by the circumstances which surrounded him, and the treatment
which he undeservedly received at the hands of his parents and younger
brother. Being, however, naturally of a shy and nervous disposition, he
would have been completely crushed under the burden of heartless
neglect, and his heart frozen up by the withholding of a father's and
mother's love, had it not been for the gentle and deep affection of his
aunt, Miss Huntingdon, who was privileged to lead that poor, desolate,
craving heart to Him whose special office it is to pour a heavenly balm
into the wounded spirit. In herself, too, he found a source of comfort
from her pitying love, which in a measure took the place of that which
his nearest ought to have given him, but did not. And so, as boy and
young man, Amos Huntingdon learned, under the severe discipline of his
earthly home, lessons which were moulding his character to a nobility
which few suspected, who, gazing on that timid, shrinking youth, went on
their way with a glance or shrug of pity. But so it was.
Amos had formed a mighty purpose; it was to be the one object of his
earthly life, to which everything was to bend till he had accomplished
it. But who would have thought of such an iron resolution of will in a
breast like that poor boy's? For to him an ordinary conversation was a
trial, and to speak in company an effort, though it was but to answer a
simple question. If a stranger asked his opinion, a nervous blush
covered his face as he forced out a reply. The solitude which others
found irksome had special charms for him. With one person only in his
own home did he feel really at ease,--that person was his aunt, for he
believed that she in a measure really understood and sympathised with
him. And yet that shy, nervous, retiring young man, down-trodden and
repulsed as he was, was possessed by one grand and all-absorbing
purpose: it was this, to bring back his sister to her father's home
forgiven, and his mother to that same home with the cloud removed from
her mind and spirit.
That both these objects _might_ be accomplished he was firmly persuaded.
At the same time, he was fully aware that to every one else who knew
his father and the circumstances which had led to the sad estrangement
of the daughter and removal of the mother, such a restoration as he
contemplated bringing about would appear absolutely hopeless. Yet he
himself had no doubts on the subject. The conviction that his purpose
might and would be accomplished was stamped into his soul as by an
indelible brand. He was perfectly sure that every hindrance could be
removed, though _how_ he could not tell. But there stood up this
conviction ever facing him, ever beckoning him on, as though a messenger
from an unseen world. Not that he was ignorant of nor underrated the
magnitude of the obstacles in his way. He knew and felt most
oppressively that everything almost was against him. The very thought
of speaking to his father on the subject made a chill shudder creep over
him. To move a single step in the direction of the attainment of his
object required an effort from which his retiring nature shrank as if
stung by a spark of white heat. The opposition, direct or indirect, of
those nearest to him was terrible even to contemplate, and was magnified
while yet at a distance through the haze of his morbid sensitiveness.
Yet his conviction and purpose remained unshaken. He was, moreover,
fully aware that neither mother nor sister had any deep affection for
him, and that, should he gain the end he had set before him, he might
get no nearer to their hearts than the place he now occupied. It
mattered not; he had devoted himself to his great object as to a work of
holy self-denial and labour of love, and from the pursuit of that object
nothing should move him, but onward he would struggle towards its
attainment, with the steady determination which would crush through
hindrances and obstacles by the weight of its tremendous earnestness.
This purpose had hovered before his thoughts in dim outline while he was
yet a boy, and had at length assumed its full and clear proportions
while he was at Oxford. There it was that he became acquainted with a
Christian young man who, pitying his loneliness and appreciating his
character, had sought and by degrees obtained his friendship, and, in a
measure, his confidence, as far as he was able to give it. To his
surprise Amos discovered that his new friend's father was the physician
under whose charge and in whose house his own mother, Mrs Huntingdon,
had been placed. Mr Huntingdon had kept the matter a profound secret
from his own children, and no member of his household ever ventured to
allude to the poor lady or to her place of retirement, and it was only
by an inadvertence on his young friend's part that Amos became aware of
his mother's present abode. But this knowledge, after the first
excitement of surprise had passed away, only strengthened the purpose
which had gradually taken its settled hold upon his heart. It was to
him a new and important link in the chain of events which would lead, he
knew, finally to the accomplishment of his one great resolve. And so he
determined to communicate with his friend's father, the physician, and
ascertain from him in confidence his opinion of his mother's mental
condition, and whether there was any possibility of her restoration to
sanity. The reply to his inquiries was that his mother's case was far
from hopeless; and with this he was satisfied. Then he took the letter
which conveyed the opinion of the physician to him, and, spreading it
out before God in his chamber, solemnly and earnestly dedicated himself
to the work of restoration, asking guidance and strength from on high.
From that day forward he was gradually maturing his plans, being ever on
the watch to catch any ray of light which might show him where to place
a footstep on the road which led up to the end he had in view. Earthly
counsellors he had none; he dared not have any--at least not at present.
Even Miss Huntingdon knew nothing of his purpose from himself, though
she had some suspicions of his having devoted himself to some special
work, gathered from her own study of his character and conduct; but
these suspicions she kept entirely to herself, prepared to advise or
assist should Amos give her his confidence in the matter, and seek her
counsel or help. Such was the position of things when our story opens.
Amos was waiting, hoping, watching; but no onward step had been taken
since he had received the physician's letter.
A fortnight passed away after the accident, when Miss Huntingdon, who
had now completely recovered from her fright and bruises, was coming out
of a labouring man's cottage on a fine and cheery afternoon. As she
stood on the doorstep exchanging a few parting words with the cottager's
wife, she was startled by the sound of furious galloping not far off,
and shrank back into the cottage, naturally dreading the sight of an
excited horse so soon after her perilous upset in her brother's
carriage. Nearer and nearer came the violent clatter, and, as she
involuntarily turned her eyes towards the road with a nervous terror,
she was both alarmed and surprised to see her nephew Walter and another
young man dashing past on horseback at whirlwind speed, the animals on
which they rode being covered with foam.
In a few moments all was still again, and Miss Huntingdon continued her
rounds, but, as she turned the corner of a lane which led up to the back
of the Manor-house, she was startled at seeing her nephew Walter in
front of her on foot, covered with mud, and leading his horse, which was
limping along with difficulty, being evidently in pain. His companion
was walking by his side, also leading his horse, and both were so
absorbed with their present trouble that they were quite unconscious of
her approach. Something plainly was much amiss. Walter had had a fall,
and his horse was injured; of this there could be no doubt. Could she
be of any service? She was just going to press forward, when she
observed Mr Huntingdon's groom coming from the direction of the house,
and, as her nephew did not walk as if he had received any serious
injury, she thought it better to leave him to put matters straight for
himself, knowing that young men are very sensitive about being
interfered with or helped when their pride has been wounded by any
humiliating catastrophe. So she turned aside into a small copse through
which was a short cut to the house, intending to go forward and be
prepared to render any assistance should Walter desire it.
None of the party had seen her, but she passed near enough to them on
the other side of a tall hedge to overhear the words, "Won't the
governor just be mad!" and then, "Here's a sovereign, Dick, and I'll
make it all straight for you with my father." What could have happened?
She was not long left in suspense; for her brother's voice in high
anger soon resounded through the house, and she learned from her maid,
who rushed into her room full of excitement, that Forester, Mr
Huntingdon's favourite hunter, had been lamed, and otherwise seriously
injured, and that Dick the groom, who had been the author of the
mischief, had been dismissed at a moment's notice.
Poor Miss Huntingdon's heart misgave her that all had not been quite
straightforward in the matter, and that the blame had been laid on the
wrong person. So she went down to dinner, at the summoning of the gong,
with a heavy heart. As she entered the drawing-room she saw her
brother, who usually advanced to give her his arm with all due courtesy,
sitting still in his easy-chair, hiding his face with the newspaper,
which a glance showed her to be turned the wrong way up. Amos also and
Walter were seated as far apart from their father and from each other as
was possible, and for a few moments not a word was spoken. Then,
suddenly remembering himself, the squire dismissed the paper from his
hand with an irritable jerk, and, with the words, "I suppose that means
dinner," gave his arm to his sister, and conducted her in silence to the
dining-room.