imposed a great duty on himself as the one object of his life, and never
let anything turn him from it, though obstacles met him in every
direction such as nothing but the highest sense of duty could have
nerved him to break through. In the first place, he was of a weakly
constitution, and might therefore well have excused himself from any
unnecessary labours, and might have indulged in luxuries which might
almost have been considered as necessaries to one whose appetite was not
strong. He could well have afforded such innocent indulgence, for he
was a man of good fortune. He was, however, remarkable for his
abstemious habits; and having been led, when high sheriff of his county,
to look into the state of Bedford jail, he was so shocked with the
miserable condition of the prisoners and their being crowded together in
a place filthy, damp, and ill-ventilated, that he set himself to make a
tour of inspection of all the county jails in England, and soon
completed it, and was examined before the House of Commons on the state
of our prisons. And here he had to suffer from that misrepresentation
and misunderstanding which are too often the lot of those who have set
themselves to some great and noble work. It seemed so extraordinary to
some members of Parliament that a gentleman, out of pure benevolence,
should devote himself to such a painful work, and run the risk of
contagion, that they could hardly understand it; and one gentleman asked
`at whose expense he travelled,'--a question which Howard could scarcely
answer without some indignant emotion. You see, they could not
appreciate such exalted heroism; and surely it required no little moral
courage to persevere. But he did persevere, and his work grew upon him.
"From England he went abroad, and visited the prisons on the Continent,
devoting his time and fortune to the great work of discovering, and, as
far as might be, remedying, the abuses he found in these sad places of
misery and often cruelty; and though he was introduced to the noble and
the great wherever he went, he paid no visits of mere ceremony, but
spoke out most fearlessly, even to the most exalted in rank, about the
abuses he found in the prisons under their control. He had set himself
one great work to do, and he did it. Suffering, toil, hardship were
endured without a murmur. Ah! was not this true heroism?
"And now I come to a point which I want you, dear Walter, specially to
notice. Howard might have spent a portion at least of his time when
abroad in visiting the beautiful picture-galleries and other works of
art in the towns to which his great work led him, but he never suffered
himself to do so. He would not even read a newspaper, lest it should
divert his thoughts from the one great purpose he had in view. I am not
saying for a moment that he would have been wrong to indulge himself
with relaxation in the shape of sight-seeing and reading the news; but
surely when he made everything bend to his one grand self-imposed duty,
we are constrained to admire and not to blame, far less to ridicule, his
magnificent heroism. Yes; he never swerved, he never drew back; and,
best of all, he did his work as a humble and earnest Christian, carrying
it on by that strength and wisdom which he sought and obtained by
prayer.
"I cannot give you a better summing up of my hero's character than in
the words of the great Edmund Burke. I have them here." Saying which
she opened a small manuscript book containing extracts from various
authors in her own handwriting, which she kept in her work-basket, and
read as follows:--"`He has visited all Europe, not to survey the
sumptuousness of palaces, or the stateliness of temples; not to make
accurate measurements of the remains of ancient grandeur, nor to form a
scale of the curiosities of ancient art; not to collect medals, nor to
collate manuscripts: but to dive into the depths of dungeons, and to
plunge into the infection of hospitals; to survey the mansions of sorrow
and pain; to take the gauge and dimensions of misery, depression, and
contempt; to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to
visit the forsaken, and to compare the distresses of men in all
countries. His plan is original, and it is as full of genius as it is
of humanity. It was a voyage of discovery--a circumnavigation, of
charity.' Such was Burke's true estimate of my hero. And surely never
was a nobler heroism--it was so pure, so unselfish; for when they would
have erected a monument to him in his lifetime, and had gathered large
sums for that purpose during his absence abroad, he at once put a stop
to the project on his return home.--Am I wrong, dear Walter, in taking
John Howard for one of my special moral heroes?"
"Not a bit of it, dear aunt. I confess myself beaten; I give in; I hand
over the laurel crown to Amos: for I see that Howard's greatness of
character was shown especially in this, that he imposed upon himself a
work which he might have left undone without blame, and carried it out
through thick and thin as a matter of duty. Bravo, Howard! and bravo,
Amos, with your duty-work!--three cheers for you both! and one cheer
more for Aunt Kate and moral courage." So saying, with a low bow, half
in fun and half in earnest, to Miss Huntingdon and his brother, with a
request to the latter to learn the Canadian boat-song, "Row, Brothers,
Row," at his earliest convenience, he left the summer-house, taking his
two friends with him.
Amos, who had been silent during the latter part of the discussion,
lingered behind for a moment, and rising from his seat, took his aunt's
hand between his own, pressing it warmly as he said, in a voice subdued
and trembling with emotion,--"Thank you, dearest aunt; I see you partly
understand me now. Some day, I hope, you may understand me more fully."
CHAPTER SEVEN.
HARRY IN THE SECRET.
A week or more had passed since the conversation in the summer-house,
and all the family were seated at luncheon in the dining-room of
Flixworth Manor, when a shabby and dirty-looking note was handed to Amos
by the butler. Having hastily read it, Amos exclaimed in an agitated
voice, "Who brought this? where is he?"
"It's no one as I ever seed afore," replied Harry. "He said there was
no answer, but I was to take it in straight; and I doubt he's gone now
far enough away, for he was nothing but a rough-looking lad, and he ran
off when he had given me the note as fast as his legs would carry him."
"Nothing amiss, I hope?" said Miss Huntingdon kindly.
"I hope not," replied her nephew. He was evidently, however, greatly
troubled and confused, and looked nervously towards his father, whose
attention at the time was being given to a noble-looking dog which was
receiving a piece of meat from his hand.
"What's up now?" cried Walter, who, although he was learning to treat
his brother with more respect and consideration, was still rather on the
look-out for opportunities to play off his fun upon him. "Why, surely
there's something amiss. What's the good, Amos, of putting a spoonful
of salt into your gooseberry tart?"
Mr Huntingdon now looked round and stared at his elder son, who had by
this time partly recovered his self-possession. "Nothing serious, my
boy, I hope?" he said.
"I hope not, dear father. It's only about a little child that I take an
interest in; he seems to have got away from home, and his friends can't
find him."
"Is it one of my tenants' children?"
"No; it's a child that lives in a cottage on the Gavelby estate. We
have struck up a friendship. I ride up there sometimes, so they have
sent to me about him; and I will ride over after luncheon and see what
can be done."
Nothing more passed on the subject during the meal; but Miss
Huntingdon's watchful care of her nephew made her notice the deep lines
of anxiety which had gathered on the forehead of Amos, and her heart
ached for him, for she was sure that he was burdened with some
unexpected trouble connected with the work he had set himself to
accomplish. Dinner-time came, but Amos did not make his appearance.
Ten o'clock struck, but he still lingered. Never before had he been
absent for a night except when at school or college, or on a visit to
some friend; for his habits were most regular, and he always rose and
retired to rest early, his custom in this respect having been often the
subject of remark and merriment to Walter, who would say to his friends
that, "although Amos would never join in a lark, he had no objection to
rise with one; nor to lie down with a lamb, though he hadn't it in him
to skip like one." So when the family met next morning at breakfast,
and nothing had been seen or heard of Amos, there was a shade of anxiety
on every one's face.
"Where can the boy have been?" exclaimed Mr Huntingdon; "we never knew
him go off like this before.--Hasn't he sent any message of any kind,
Harry?"
"Not a word, sir, as far as I know."
"What's best to be done, then?--What do you say, Kate?" asked the
squire.
"Perhaps Walter can make inquiries," suggested his sister.
"Well," replied her nephew, "I wouldn't mind, but really I don't know
where to look exactly. I may be riding about all day, for he's gone
after the missing child, I suppose, so it will be no use looking for him
at the child's home. And, besides, I've an engagement to play lawn-
tennis and go to luncheon at the Worthingtons', and I can't disappoint
them."
"Not in such a case as this?" asked his aunt reproachfully. "Can't you
send a note of apology to the Worthingtons? Suppose something serious
has happened to your brother!"
"Oh, nonsense, Aunt Kate," cried Walter, who was not prepared to give up
his engagement of pleasure; "don't be afraid about Amos; he'll turn up
all right. He's on his way home, you may depend upon it; only perhaps
he has been trying to solve some wonderful problem, and has forgotten
all about such commonplace things as time and space, and has fallen
asleep under a hedge."
"I will go myself, then," said Miss Huntingdon, "and see if I can hear
anything of him from the neighbours."
"Indeed, Kate," said her brother, "you must do nothing of the sort. Set
your mind at rest. I will go myself and make inquiries; and if the boy
does not make his appearance by luncheon time, we must take further
steps to find him."
"Can _I_ be of any use, sir, in the matter?" asked Harry.
"Ah, that's just the thing!" cried Walter. "If you can spare Harry,
father, Jane can wait at luncheon; and I'll just put Harry myself on
what I think will be the right scent."
"Well, my boy, it can be so, and you can do as you say," replied his
father. "I know we can trust Harry to do his best; he can take the old
mare, and we shall do very well with Jane till he comes back."
Nothing loath, but rather gratified with the part he had to play and the
trust placed in him, the old butler set out about noon on the old mare,
accompanied by Walter, who was on his way to the Worthingtons'. Harry
would have preferred managing matters in his own fashion, which would
have been to go on a tour of inquiry from farm to farm; but, having no
choice, he surrendered himself to the guidance and directions of Walter.
So they rode on together for some miles till they came within sight of
the cottage where Amos had been seen by his brother playing with the
little children.
"There, Harry," said Walter, "you see that cottage? just you call in
there, and you will either find my brother there, if I am not mistaken,
or, at any rate, you will find somebody who will tell you where to look
for him." Then he turned and put spurs to his horse, and was soon out
of sight, leaving the old servant to jog along at his leisure to the
little dwelling pointed out to him, the roof of which he could just see
distinctly in the distance.
"Humph!" said Harry half out loud, as he rather reluctantly made his way
towards the cottage; "you might have gone yourself, Master Walter, I
think, and saved an old man like me such a shaking as I've had on the
old mare's back. But I suppose that `lawn tens,' as they call it, is a
mighty taking thing to young people; it seems all the go now; all the
young gents and young ladies has gone mad after it. Knocking them balls
back'ards and for'ards used to be called `fives' when I were a boy, but
they calls it `tens' now; I suppose 'cos they does everything in these
days twice as fast as they used to do. Well, it don't matter; but if it
had been Master Amos, and t'other road about, he'd never have let
`tens,' or `twenties,' or `fifties' stand between him and looking arter
a lost brother. But then people don't know Master Amos and Master
Walter as I do. Their aunt, Miss Huntingdon, does a bit, and p'raps
master will himself some day."
By the time he had finished this soliloquy Harry had neared the cottage.
Then he quickened his pace, and having reached the little garden gate,
hung his horse's bridle over a rail, with the full knowledge that the
animal would be well content to stand at ease an unlimited time where
she was left. Then he made his way up to the cottage door and knocked.
His summons was immediately answered by a respectably dressed middle-
aged woman, who opened the door somewhat slowly and cautiously, and then
asked him civilly what was his business with her. "Well, if you please,
ma'am," said the butler, "I'm just come to know if you can tell me
anything about my young master, Mr Amos. He ought to have come home
last night, and none of us has set eyes on him up to the time when I
left home, about an hour since."
The person whom he addressed was evidently in a difficulty what to
answer. She hesitated, and looked this way and that, still holding the
door ajar, but not inviting Harry into the house. The old man waited a
few moments, and then he said, "If you please, ma'am, am I to understand
as you don't know nothing about my young master, Mr Amos, and where
he's gone?"
Still the other made no reply, but only looked more and more uneasy. It
was quite clear to Harry now that she could give him the information he
wanted, if only she were willing to do so. He waited therefore another
minute, and then said, "You've no cause, ma'am, to fear as I shall get
Master Amos into trouble by anything you may tell me. I love him too
well for that; and I can be as close as wax when I like. You may trust
me, ma'am, and he'd tell you the same if he was here."
"And what may your name be, friend?" asked the woman.
"Well," he replied, "the quality calls me `Harry;' but every one else
calls me Mr Frazer,--at least when they behaves as they ought to do. I
am butler at Flixworth Manor, that's Mr Amos Huntingdon's home; and
I've been in the family's service more nor fifty years come next
Christmas, so it ain't likely as I'd wish to do any on 'em any harm."
"Well, Mr Frazer," said the woman, opening the door, "come in then; the
fact is, I am almost as puzzled to know where Mr Amos is as you are. I
have been expecting him all the morning, and he may be here any minute.
But pray come in and wait a bit."
Accepting the invitation, Harry stepped into a neat little parlour,
prettily but not expensively furnished. Over the chimney-piece was a
large drawing in water-colours of Flixworth Manor-house, and, on either
side of this, photographs of Mr and Mrs Huntingdon. What could it
mean? But for Harry every other thought was swallowed up in a moment by
his attention being called to a little girl, about four years of age,
who stole into the room, and stood for a while staring at him with one
finger in her mouth, and her head drooping slightly, but not so much as
to hide a pair of lustrous hazel eyes. A neat and beautifully white
pinafore was bound round her waist by a red belt, and a profusion of
glossy brown ringlets fell upon her shoulders. The old man started at
the sight as if he had been shot, and then gazed at the child with open
mouth and raised eyebrows, till the little thing shrank back to the side
of the woman who had opened the door, and hid her little face in her
apron. "It's herself, her very own self," said Harry half out loud, and
with quivering voice; "tell me, ma'am, oh, pray tell me what's this
child's name!"
"Well, Mr Frazer," replied his companion, though evidently with some
hesitation, "I understand that I may trust you. This dear child's names
are Julia Mary, and I am her nurse, employed by Mr Amos to look after
her for him."
"I begin to see it all now," said Harry half to himself. "Don't trouble
yourself, ma'am; I don't need to ask no more questions. I don't want
any one to tell me who Miss Julia's mother is; there can be no doubt
about that, they're as like as two peas; and I begin to see a bit what
Mr Amos has been a-doing. God bless his dear, unselfish heart! Come
here to me, my child," he added with a pleasant smile. The little Julia
looked hard at him from behind the shelter of her nurse's gown for a
moment, but soon lost all fear, for there was something attractive to
her in the old man's snow-white hair and venerable face, as, surely,
there is commonly a sweet sympathy between the guileless childhood of
infancy and the holy childhood of God--fearing old age. So she shyly
drew towards him, and let him place her on his knee; and then she looked
up wonderingly at him, as his tears fell fast on her brown hair, and his
voice was choked with sobs. "Yes," he said, "my precious Miss Julia,
you're the very image of what your blessed mother was at your age. I've
had her like this on my knee scores of times. Ah! well, perhaps a
brighter day's coming for us all."
We must now leave the old man happy over his gentle charge, and go back
to the previous day when Amos, at luncheon time, received the little
note which so greatly disturbed him. That note was as follows:--
"Respected Sir,--About ten o'clock this morning, as Master George and
Miss Mary were playing in the garden, a strange man looked over the
hedge and called Master George by name. He held out something to him in
his hand, which Master George went out of the gate to look at. Then the
man took him up into his arms, whispered something into his ear, and
walked away with him. I was in the house at the time, and was told this
by Miss Mary. What am I to do? Please, sir, do come over at once if
you can.--Your obedient servant, Sarah Williams."
Amos, as we have seen, left home after luncheon, and did not return. He
made his way as quickly as he could to the little cottage, and found
Mrs Williams in great distress. The poor little girl also was crying
for her brother, declaring that a wicked man had come and stolen him
away. What was to be done? The cottage where the nurse and children
dwelt together was in rather a retired situation, the nearest house to
it being a farm-house, which, though only a few hundred yards distant,
was built in a hollow, so that what was going on outside the cottage
would not be visible to persons about the farm premises. Mrs Williams
was the wife of a respectable farm labourer, of better education and
more intelligence than the generality of his class. They had no
children of their own, so that Mrs Williams, who was a truly godly
woman, was glad to give a home for a time and a motherly care to the two
little ones committed to her charge by Amos. The husband was, of
course, absent from home during the working hours, so that his wife
could not call him to her help when she missed the little boy; indeed,
on the day of her loss her husband had gone with his master, the farmer,
to the neighbouring market-town, some six miles off, so that she could
have no assistance from him in the search for the missing child till
late in the evening. As far as Amos could gather from the little girl's
description, the man who had stolen away her brother was tall, had a
long beard, and very black eyes. He was not on horseback, and there was
no one else with him. But this was very meagre information at the best
on which to build for tracking the fugitives. So Amos called Mrs
Williams into the little parlour, and spread the matter out in prayer
before God, whose "eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and the
good." Then wishing the nurse good-bye, with a heart less burdened than
before, but still anxious, he remounted his pony, and turned him in the
direction of the neighbouring farm-yard.
Having ascertained at the farm-house that no one had seen a man with a
boy in his arms or walking by him pass that way, he proceeded down a
long and not much frequented grassy lane at a jog-trot, but with small
expectation of finding any clew that might guide him to the discovery of
the lost child. He had ridden on thus about half a mile, when he paused
at a place where another grassy lane crossed at right angles the one
down which he had been riding. It was a lonely spot, but yet was a
thoroughfare from which the roads diverged to one or two large villages,
and led in one direction ultimately to the market-town. Close to the
ditch opposite the road down which Amos had come was a white finger-
post, informing those who were capable of deciphering its bleared
inscriptions whither they were going or might go. Amos hesitated; he
had never been on this exact spot before, and he therefore rode close up
to the sign-post to read the names, which were illegible at a little
distance off. To his great surprise, and even dismay, he noticed,
dangling from one of the post's outstretched wooden arms, a silk
handkerchief of a rather marked pattern. Could it really be? Yes, he
could not doubt it; it belonged to little George: it was a present to
the child from himself only a few days before. Amos's blood ran cold at
the sight. Could any one in the shape of humanity have had the heart to
lay violent hands on the poor boy? There was no telling. He scarce
dared to look towards the ditch lest he should see the lifeless body
there. But perhaps a gipsy had got hold of the child, and stripped him
for his clothes: such things used to be done formerly. But, then, why
hang the silk handkerchief in such a conspicuous place? for it could not
have got there by accident, nor been blown there, for it had been
manifestly fastened and suspended there by human fingers. Trembling in
every limb, Amos unfastened the handkerchief from the post. There was
something stiff inside it. He unfolded it slowly; an envelope disclosed
itself. It was directed in pencil. The direction was, "Amos
Huntingdon, Esq. Please forward without delay."
Here, then, was a clue to the mystery. Amos opened the envelope and
read the enclosure, which was also written in pencil, in a neat and
thoroughly legible hand. It ran thus:--
"You are doubtless anxious to know what has become of the little boy
George. Come _alone_ to-morrow morning to the old oak in Brendon wood,
and you shall be duly informed. Mind, come _alone_: if you attempt to
bring one or more with you, it will be simply lost labour, for then
there will be no one to meet you. You have nothing to fear as to any
harm to your own person, or interference with your liberty."
There was no signature to the letter, either of name or initials. Amos
was sorely puzzled what to do when he had read this strange epistle. Of
course it was plain that the writer could put him in the way of
recovering little George if he would; but, then, where was Brendon wood?
and how was he to get to it on the following morning? And yet, if he
did not act upon this letter and follow its directions, the child might
be lost to him for ever, and that he could not bear to think of. The
nearest town to the finger-post was yet some five miles distant; and
should he reach that, and make his inquiries about the wood with
success, it would be difficult for him to return home the same evening
by any reasonable hour. Still, he could not find it in his heart to
abandon the search, and he therefore made the best of his way to the
little town of Redbury.