Huntingdon having shut up his sister by a very curt reply to a question
which she put on some commonplace subject, just for the sake of breaking
through the oppressive stillness. At length, when the meal was half-way
through, Mr Huntingdon exclaimed abruptly,--
"I can't understand for the life of me how that fool of a Dick ever
managed to get poor Forester into such a scrape. I always thought the
boy understood horses better than that."
"I hope, Walter," ventured his sister in a soothing tone, "that the poor
animal is not seriously, or at any rate permanently, damaged."
"Nonsense, Kate," he exclaimed peevishly;--"but, pardon me, it's no
fault of yours. Damaged! I should think so. I doubt if he will ever
be fit to ride again. But I can't make it out quite yet, it's very
vexing. I had rather have given a hundred pounds than it should have
happened. And Dick, too; the fellow told the queerest tale about it. I
should have thought he was telling a lie, only he was taking the blame
to himself, and that didn't look like lying.--By-the-by, Amos, have
_you_ been out riding this afternoon?"
"Yes, father."
"What horse did you ride?"
"My own pony, Prince."
"Did you meet Dick exercising the horses?"
"No; I didn't see anything of him."
"That is strange. Where were you riding to?"
"I was off on a little business beyond the moor."
"Beyond the moor! what can you have been wanting beyond the moor?"
Amos turned red and did not reply.
"I don't know what has come to the boy," said the squire surlily. But
now Walter, who had not uttered a word hitherto, broke in suddenly,
"Father, you mustn't be hard upon Dick. It's a misfortune, after all.
There isn't a better rider anywhere; only accidents will happen
sometimes, as you know they did the other night. Forester bolted when
the little girl's red cloak blew off and flapped right on to his eyes.
Dick was not expecting it, and tried to keep the horses in; but Forester
sprang right through a hedge and staked himself before Dick could pull
him in. It's a mercy, I think, that Dick hadn't his neck broke."
He said these last words slowly and reluctantly, for his eye had rested
on his aunt's hands, which were being laid quietly one across the other
on the table in front of her.
"Red cloak!" exclaimed the squire; "why, Dick told me it was a boy's hat
that blew off and flapped against Forester's eyes."
"Ah! well, father, it may have been a hat. I thought he said a cloak;
but it comes pretty much to the same thing."
There was an unsteadiness about the boy's voice as he said these last
words which every one noticed except his father. The subject, however,
was now dropped, and was not again alluded to during the evening.
Next morning after breakfast Walter knocked at his aunt's door. When he
had entered and taken the offered chair by her side, he sat for a minute
or so with eyes cast down, and silent.
"Well, Walter," she said after a while.
"_Ill_, auntie," he replied, in a voice between a laugh and a sigh.
"What is it, dear Walter?"
"Only those two hands of yours, dear auntie."
"Was there not a cause, Walter?"
No reply.
"Shall I tell you one of the stories you asked me to tell about moral
courage?"
"Do, auntie dear," he said in a low tearful voice.
"My hero this morning, Walter, is George Washington, the great American
general and statesman, the man who had so much to do in the founding of
that great republic which is called the United States. A braver man
never lived; but he was a brave boy too, brave with moral courage. Not
that he wanted natural courage in his early years, for at school none
could beat him in leaping, wrestling, swimming, and other athletic
exercises. When he was about six years old, his father gave him a new
hatchet one day. George was highly pleased, and went about cutting and
hacking everything in his way. Unfortunately, amongst other things he
used the hatchet with all the force of his little arm on a young English
cherry tree, which happened to be a great favourite with his father.
Without thinking of the mischief he was doing, George greatly injured
the valuable tree. When his father saw what was done he was very angry,
and asked the servants who had dared to injure the tree. They said they
knew nothing of it; when little George entering the room and hearing the
inquiry, though he saw that his father was very angry, went straight up
to him, his cheeks colouring crimson as he spoke, and cried, `I did it.
I cannot tell a lie. I cut your cherry tree with my hatchet.' `My
noble boy,' said his father, as he clasped him in his arms, `I would
rather lose a hundred cherry-trees, were their blossoms of silver and
their fruit of gold, than that a son of mine should dare to tell a
lie.'--Dear Walter, that was true noble courage; and George Washington
grew up with it. Those are beautiful lines of one of our old poets,
George Herbert,--
"`Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie;
The fault that needs it most grows two thereby.'"
She paused. Her nephew kept silent for a time, nervously twisting the
fringe of her little work-table; and then he said very slowly and
sadly,--
"So, auntie, you have found me out. Yes, I've been a beastly coward,
and I'm heartily ashamed of myself."
"Well, dear boy," replied his aunt, "tell me all about it; happily, it
is never too late to mend."
"Yes, dear Aunt Kate, I'll tell you all. Bob Saunders called yesterday
just after luncheon, and asked me to go out for a ride with him, and if
I could give him a mount, for his own horse was laid up with some
outlandish complaint. I didn't like to say `No;' but my own pony,
Punch, was gone to be shod, and Bob had no time to wait. Well, Dick was
just coming out of the yard as I got into it; he was riding Forester and
leading Bessie, to exercise them. `That'll do,' I said. `Here, Dick;
I'll take Forester out and give him a trot, and Mr Saunders can ride
Bessie.' `Please, Master Walter,' says Dick, `your father's very
particular. I don't know what he'll say to me if I let you exercise
Forester.' `Oh, nonsense!' I said. `I'll make that all straight.'
Dick didn't like it; but I wouldn't be denied, so he let us mount, and
begged me to be very careful. `Never fear,' I said; `we'll bring them
both back as cool as cucumbers.' And I meant it, auntie. But somehow
or other our spirits got the better of us; it was such a fine afternoon,
and the horses seemed wild for a gallop; so at last Bob Saunders said,
`What do you say, Walter, to a half-mile race just on to the top of the
common? it'll do them no harm.' Well, I didn't say yes or no; but
somehow or other, off we were in another minute, and, do what I would, I
couldn't keep Forester back. Down the lane we went, and right over the
common like lightning, and, when I was pulling hard to get Forester
round, he went smack through a hedge, and left me on the wrong side of
it. Bob laughed at first, but we soon saw that it was no laughing
matter. He caught Forester directly, for the poor beast had hurt his
foot, and limped along as he walked; and there was an ugly wound in his
chest from a pointed stick in the hedge which had struck him. So we
crawled home, all of us in a nice pickle, you may be sure. And then I
began to think of what father would say, and I couldn't bear to think
that he would have to blame me for it all; so I turned into a regular
sneaking coward, and gave Dick a sovereign to tell a lie and take the
blame on himself, promising him to make it all right with my father.
There, auntie, that's just the whole of it; and I'm sure I never knew
what a coward I was before. But only let me get well through this
scrape, and my name's not Walter if I ever get into such another."
"And now, dear boy, what are you going to do about this matter?" asked
his aunt after a pause.
"Do, auntie? I'm sure I don't know; I've done too much already. It's a
bad business at the best, and I don't see that I can do anything about
it without making it worse."
"Then, Walter, is the burden still to rest on the wrong shoulders? and
is Dick to be punished for your fault?"
"Oh, as to that, auntie, Dick shan't be the worse for it in the end: he
has had a _sovereign_ remedy already; and I'll beg him off from being
turned away when I see my father has quite cooled down."
Miss Huntingdon said nothing in reply, but laid one of her hands across
the other on her little work-table. Walter saw the action, but turned
his head away and fidgeted in his chair. At last he said, "That's
rather hard, auntie, to make me a moral coward again so soon."
"Is it hard, Walter?" she replied gently. "The next best thing to not
doing wrong is to be sorry for it when you have done it."
"Well, Aunt Kate, I _am_ sorry--terribly sorry. I wish I'd never
touched the horses. I wish that fellow Bob had been a hundred miles off
yesterday afternoon."
"I daresay, Walter; but is that all? Are you not going to _show_ that
you are sorry? Won't you imitate, as far as it is now possible, little
George Washington's moral courage?"
"What! go and tell my father the whole truth? Do you think I ought?"
"I am sure you ought, dear boy."
Walter reflected for a while, then he said, in a sorrowful tone, "Ah,
but there's a difference. George Washington didn't and wouldn't tell a
lie, but I would, and did; so it's too late now for me to show moral
courage."
"Not at all, Walter; on the contrary, it will take a good deal of moral
courage to confess your fault now. Of course it would have been far
nobler had you gone straight to your father and told him just how things
were; and then, too, you would not have been Dick's tempter, leading him
to sin. Still, there is a right and noble course open to you now, dear
boy, which is to go and undo the mischief and the wrong as far as you
can."
"Well, I suppose you are right, auntie," he said slowly, and with a
heavy sigh; "but I shan't find _my_ father throwing his arms round me as
George Washington's father did, and calling me his noble boy, and
telling me he had rather I told the truth than have a thousand gold and
silver cherry-trees."
"Perhaps not, Walter; but you will have, at any rate, the satisfaction
of doing what will have the approval of God, and of your own conscience,
and of the aunt who wants you to do the thing that is right."
"It shall be done," said her nephew, pressing his lips together and
knitting his brows by way of strengthening his resolution; and he left
the room with a reluctant step.
He found his father, who had just come from the stables, in the dining-
room. "Well, Walter, my boy," he said cheerily, "it isn't so bad with
Forester after all. He has got an ugly cut; but he doesn't walk but
very slightly lame. A week's rest will set him all right; but I shall
send that Dick about his business to-morrow, or as soon as his quarter's
up. I'd a better opinion of the boy."
"Dick's not to blame," said Walter slowly.
"Not to blame! How do you make out that? I'm sure, if he had had
Forester well in hand, the accident couldn't have happened."
Walter then gave his father the true version of the mishap, and
confessed his own wrong-doing in the matter. For a few moments Mr
Huntingdon looked utterly taken aback; then he walked up and down the
room, at first with wide and excited strides, and then more calmly. At
last he stopped, and, putting his hand on his son's shoulder, said,
"That's right, my boy. We won't say anything more about it this time;
but you mustn't do it again." The truth was, the squire was not sorry
to find that Dick, after all, was not the culprit; for he had a great
liking for the lad, who suited him excellently as groom, and had
received many kindnesses from him. No doubt he had told him an untruth
on the present occasion; but then, as he had done this to screen his
master's favourite son, Mr Huntingdon did not feel disposed to take him
to task severely for the deceit; and, as Walter had now made the only
amends in his power, his father was glad to withdraw Dick's dismissal,
and to pass over the trouble without further comment.
CHAPTER FIVE.
IS HE RIDICULOUS?
Few people besides the actual sufferers can at all conceive or
appreciate the intense misery which shy and retiring characters
experience when themselves or their conduct are made the subjects of
open ridicule, especially in company. Amos was peculiarly sensitive on
this point; and Walter knew it, and too often ungenerously availed
himself of this knowledge to wound his brother when he owed him a
grudge, or was displeased or out of temper with him. He would watch his
opportunity to drag Amos forward, as it were, when he could present him
to his father and his friends in a ridiculous light; and then he would
clap his hands, point to his brother's flushed face, and make some
taunting or sarcastic remark about his "rosy cheeks." Poor Amos, on
these occasions, tingling in every nerve, and ready almost to weep tears
of vexation, would shrink into himself and retreat into another room at
the earliest opportunity, followed not unfrequently by an outspoken
reproach from his brother, that "he must be a regular muff if he
couldn't bear a joke." Sometimes Walter's unfeeling sallies would
receive a feeble rebuke from his father; but more often Mr Huntingdon
would join in the laugh, and remark to his friends that Amos had no
spirit in him, and that all the wit of the family was centred in Walter.
Not so Miss Huntingdon. She fully understood the feelings of both her
nephews; and, while she profoundly pitied Amos, she equally grieved at
the cruel want of love and forbearance in her younger nephew towards his
elder brother.
Some weeks had passed away since the disastrous ride, and Forester being
none the worse for his mishap, Mr Huntingdon allowed Walter to exercise
him occasionally, accompanied by Dick, who had been fully restored to
favour. It was on a lovely summer afternoon that the two had trotted
briskly along to a greater distance from home than they had at all
contemplated reaching when they started. They had now arrived at a part
of the country quite unknown to Walter, and were just opposite a neat
little cottage with a porch in front of it covered with honeysuckle,
when Walter checked his horse, and said, "Dick, it's full time we turned
back, or my father will wonder what has become of us." So they turned
homewards. They had not, however, ridden more than a quarter of a mile,
when Walter found that he had dropped one of his gloves; so, telling
Dick to walk his horse, and he would join him in a few minutes, he
returned to the little cottage, and, having recovered his glove just
opposite the gate, was in the act of remounting, when he suddenly
exclaimed, "Holloa! what's that? Well, I never! It can't be, surely!
Yes, it is, and no mistake!"
The sight which called forth these words of surprise from Walter was one
that might naturally astonish him. At the moment when he was about to
spring into his saddle, the cottage door had opened, and out ran a
little boy and girl about four or five years of age, followed by Amos
Huntingdon, who chased them round the little garden, crying out, "I'll
catch you, George; I'll catch you, Polly;" laughing loud as he said so,
while the children rushed forward shouting at the fun. They had gone
thus twice round the paths, when Amos became suddenly aware that he was
being observed by some one on horseback. In an instant he made a rush
for the house, and, as he was vanishing through the porch, a woman's
head and a portion of her dress became visible in the entrance.
Walter paused in utter bewilderment; but the next minute Amos was at his
side, and said, in a hoarse, troubled voice, "Not a word of this,
Walter, not a word of this to any one at home." Walter's only reply to
this at first was a hearty peal of laughter; then he cried out, "All
right, Amos;" and, taking off his hat with affected ceremony, he added,
"My best respects to Mrs Amos, and love to the dear children. Good-
bye." Saying which, without stopping to hear another word from his
brother, whose appealing look might well have touched his heart, he
urged his horse to a canter, and was gone.
Amos did not appear among the family that evening. He had returned home
just before dinner-time, and sent a message into the drawing-room asking
to be excused as he did not feel very well. Miss Huntingdon went up to
his room to see what was amiss, and returned with the report that there
was nothing seriously wrong; that her nephew had a bad sick headache,
and that bed was the best thing at present for him. Mr Huntingdon
asked no further questions, for Amos was not unfrequently kept by
similar attacks from joining the family circle. His father sometimes
thought and called him fanciful, but for the most part left him to do as
he liked, without question or remark. And so it was that Amos had grown
up to manhood without settling down to any profession, and was left
pretty much to follow the bent of his own inclinations. His father knew
that there was no need to be anxious about him on the score of worldly
provision. He had seen well to his education, having sent him to a good
school, and in due time to the university, and, till he came of age, had
made him a sufficient allowance, which was now no longer needed, since
he had come into a small fortune at his majority, left him by his
mother's father; and, as he was heir to the entailed property, there was
no need for concern as to his future prospects, so no effort was made by
Mr Huntingdon to draw him out of his natural timidity and reserve, and
induce him to enter on any regular professional employment. Perhaps he
would take to travelling abroad some day, and that would enlarge his
mind and rouse him a bit. At present he really would make nothing of
law, physic, or divinity. He was sufficiently provided for, and would
turn out some day a useful and worthy man, no doubt; but he was never
meant to shine; he must leave that to Walter, who had got it naturally
in him. So thought and so sometimes said the squire; and poor Amos
pretty much agreed with this view of his father's; and Walter did so, of
course. The Manor-house therefore continued Amos's home till he should
choose to make another for himself.
But was he making a new home for himself? This was Walter's bewildering
thought as he cantered back, after his strange discovery of his brother
at the cottage. Was it really so? Had this shy, silent brother of his
actually taken to himself a wife unknown to any one, just as his poor
sister had married clandestinely? It might be so--and why not? Strange
people do strange things; and not only so, but Walter's conscience told
him that his brother might well have been excused for seeking love _out_
of his home, seeing that he got but little love _in_ it. And what about
the children? No doubt they were hers; he must have married a widow.
But what a poky place they were living in. She must have been poor, and
have inveigled Amos into marrying her, knowing that he was heir to
Flixworth Manor. Eh, what a disgrace! Such were Walter's thoughts as
he rode home from the scene of the strange encounter. But then, again,
he felt that this was nothing but conjecture after all. Why might not
Amos have just been doing a kind act to some poor cottager and her
children, whom he had learned to take an interest in? And yet it was
odd that he should be so terribly upset at being found out in doing a
little act of kindness. Walter was sure that not a shadow of moral
wrong could rest on his brother's conduct. He might have made a fool of
himself, but it could not be anything worse.
One thing, however, Walter was resolved upon, he would have a bit of fun
out of his discovery. So next day at luncheon, when they were seated at
table, unattended by a servant, Amos being among them, but unusually
nervous and ill at ease, Walter abruptly inquired of his brother across
the table if he could lend him a copy of the "Nursery Rhymes." No reply
being given, Walter continued, "Oh, do give us a song, Amos,--`Ride a
Cock Horse,' or `Baby Bunting,' or `Hi, Diddle, Diddle.' I'm sure you
must have been practising these lately to sing to those dear children."
As he said this, Amos turned his eyes on him with a gaze so imploring
that Walter was for a moment silenced. Miss Huntingdon also noticed
that look, and, though she could not tell the cause of it, she was
deeply pained that her nephew should have called it forth from his
brother. Walter, however, was not to be kept from his joke, though he
had noticed that his aunt looked gravely and sorrowfully at him, and had
crossed one hand upon the other. "Ah, well," he went on, "love in a
cottage is a very romantic thing, no doubt; and I hope these darling
little ones, Amos, enjoy the best of health."
"Whatever does the boy mean?" exclaimed the squire, whose attention was
now fairly roused.
Amos looked at first, when his father put the question, as though he
would have sunk into the earth. His colour came and went, and he half
rose up, as though he would have left the table; but, after a moment's
pause, he resumed his seat, and, turning quietly to Mr Huntingdon, said
in a low, clear voice, "Walter saw me yesterday afternoon playing with
some little children in a cottage-garden some miles from this house.
This is all about it."
"And what brought you there, Amos?" asked Walter. "Little baby games
aren't much in your line."
"I had my reasons for what I was doing," replied the other calmly. "I
am not ashamed of it; I have done nothing to be ashamed of in the
matter. I can give no other explanation at present. But I must regret
that I have not more of the love and confidence of my only brother."
"Oh, nonsense! You make too much of Walter's foolish fun; it means no
harm," said the squire pettishly.
"Perhaps not, dear father," replied Amos gently; "but some funny words
have a very sharp edge to them."
No sooner had Miss Huntingdon retired to her room after luncheon than
she was joined by Walter. He pretended not to look at her, but, laying
hold of her two hands, and then putting them wide apart from one
another, he said, still keeping his eyes fixed on them, "Unkind hands of
a dear, kind aunt, you had no business to be crossed at luncheon to-day,
for poor Walter had done no harm, he had not showed any want of moral
courage."
Disengaging her hands from her nephew's grasp, Miss Huntingdon put one
of them on his shoulder, and with the other drew him into a chair. "Is
my dear Walter satisfied with his behaviour to his brother?" she asked.
"Ah! that was not the point, Aunt Kate," was his reply; "the hands were
to be crossed when I had failed in moral courage; and I have not failed
to-day."
"No, Walter, perhaps not; but you told me you should like to be taught
moral courage by examples, and what happened to-day suggested to me a
very striking example, so I crossed my hands."
"Well, dear auntie, please let me hear it."
"My moral hero to-day is Colonel Gardiner, Walter."
"Ah! he was a soldier then, auntie?"
"Yes, and a very brave one too; indeed, never a braver. When he was a
young man, and had not been many years in the army, he was terribly
wounded in a battle, and lay on the field unable to raise himself to his
feet or move from his place. Thinking that some one might come round to
plunder the dead and dying before his friends could find him--as, alas!
there were some who were heartless enough to do in those days--and not
wishing that his money should be taken from him, as he had several gold
pieces about him, he managed to get these pieces out of his pocket, and
then to glue them in his clenched hand with the clotted blood which had
collected about one of his wounds. Then he became insensible, and
friends at last recovered his body and brought him to consciousness
again, and the money was found safe in his unrelaxed grasp. I mention
this merely to show the cool and deliberate courage of the man; his
wonderful pluck, as you would call it."
"Very plucky, auntie, very; but please go on."