Wheatsheaf, the principal inn in the place, he observed a man--tall,
with long beard, and very dark eyes--stepping down into the inn-yard,
who, as soon as he saw Amos, immediately retreated into the house. Had
Amos seen him before? Never, as far as he knew; and yet a strange
suspicion came over him that this was the man who had enticed little
George away, and was also the writer of the pencilled letter. Still, it
might not be so; he had no proof of it; and how was he to ascertain if
it was the case or no? He lingered about the yard for a time, but the
stranger did not again make his appearance; so he strolled out into the
town, and ascertained that Brendon wood was about two miles from
Redbury, and had an old oak in the centre of it. Turning matters over
in his mind, he at last came to the not very comfortable conclusion
that, as the evening was now far advanced, his best course was to put up
for the night in the little town, and betake himself to the wood at an
early hour next day. Grieved as he was to give his friends at home
anxiety by not returning that night, he felt that, if his object was to
be attained, he had better remain where he was; and he was sure that his
aunt would believe that he would not absent himself without good reason,
and would do her best to allay in his father any undue anxiety on his
account. Having come to this conclusion, he returned to the Wheatsheaf
and secured a bed, and then passed the rest of the evening in the
coffee-room, watching very carefully to see if he could catch anywhere
another glimpse of the mysterious stranger, but to no purpose.
After a restless and anxious night he rose early; and, after commending
himself and his cause to God in earnest prayer, set off, after a hasty
breakfast, in the direction given him as leading to the place of
appointment. It was a glorious summer day; and as he rode briskly along
the country road, out of which he soon turned into a long lane skirted
on either side by noble trees, he could not help sighing to think how
man's sin had brought discord and deformity into a world which might
otherwise have been so full of beauty. The wood soon appeared in sight,
and a lonely as well as lovely spot it was. Many bridle-roads
intersected it; he chose one which seemed to lead into the centre, and
in a short time the great oak was visible. There was no mistaking the
venerable forest giant, with its rugged fantastic limbs towering high
above the neighbouring trees. So he made straight for it at once. Amos
was no coward, though naturally of a timid disposition; for he had
patiently acquired habits of self-control, learned partly in the school
of chastisement, and partly in the school of self-discipline. And yet
it was not without a feeling of shrinking and misgiving that he saw a
man approaching the oak from a path opposite to that by which he himself
had come. Trees, mingled with thick brushwood, covered the ground on
all sides, except where the roads and bridle-paths ran, and not a
creature had he met before since he turned out of the main road. Little
time, however, was allowed him for further reflection; in a minute more
he was joined by the other traveller. A single glance was sufficient to
satisfy him that he had before him the same man who had attracted his
attention the evening before at the Wheatsheaf.
The stranger was, as has been said, tall, and wore a long beard. On the
present occasion he was wrapped in an ample cloak, and had on his head a
high-crowned hat encircled with a feather. Amos could not make him
out;--what was he? As they came close up to one another, the stranger
saluted Amos with an air of mingled ease and affectation, and motioned
him to a seat when he had dismounted from his pony. So Amos, still
holding Prince's bridle in his hand, placed himself on a grassy mound
near the base of the old oak, while the other seated himself a few paces
from him. Neither spoke for a little while; then the stranger broke the
silence. His voice was not, in its natural tones, otherwise than
pleasing; but there was an assumption in his manner of speaking and a
spice of sarcastic swagger which grated very painfully on the
sensibilities of his companion. However, it was pretty evident that the
stranger had no particular care to spare the feelings of the person whom
he was addressing.
"I may as well explain at once, Mr Huntingdon," he began, "how I came
to communicate with you in a way somewhat uncommon. The fact is, that I
have reasons for not wishing to make myself known more than I can help
to the good people in these parts. Now, had I sent you my note by the
hand of any messenger, this would have drawn attention to myself, and
might have led to inquiries about me which are not just now convenient.
I was quite sure that yourself, or some one belonging to you, would be
searching up and down the lanes for the little boy, and that his silk
handkerchief, placed where I put it, would attract notice, and the note
tied up in it be conveyed to yourself without my appearing personally on
the scene. And so it has turned out. You have read my note, I see; and
no one has been in communication with the writer but yourself. This is
as it should be. And now, may I ask, do you know me? or at any rate, do
you guess who I am? for we have not seen each other, I believe, before
yesterday evening."
"I do not know your name," replied Amos sadly; "but I cannot say that I
have no suspicion as to who you are."
"Exactly so," replied the other; "I am, in fact, none other than your
brother-in-law, or, if you like it better, your sister Julia's husband."
"I have feared so," replied Amos.
"Feared!" exclaimed his companion in a tone of displeasure. "Well, be
it so. I am aware that our marriage was not to the taste of the
Huntingdons, so we have kept out of the way of the family as much as
possible; and, indeed, I believe that your father has never even known
the name of his daughter's husband, but simply the fact of her
marriage."
"I believe so," said Amos; "at any rate, all that has been known by the
family generally has been that she married"--here he hesitated; but the
other immediately added,--
"Beneath her, you would say. Be it so, again. Well, you may as well
know my name yourself, at any rate, for convenience' sake. It is, at
your service, Orlando Vivian. Shall I go on?"
"If you please."
"You are aware, then, of course, that I deserted your sister, as it is
called, for a time; the fact being, that we discovered after marriage
that our tastes and habits of thought were very dissimilar, and that we
should be happier apart, at least for a season. And in the meantime you
stepped in, and have acted very nobly, I must say, in taking charge of
my two little children, for which I must tender you my best thanks."
There was a brief pause, and then Amos inquired anxiously, "Is it your
intention to take the children from me?"
"Well, not necessarily, but perhaps so; certainly not the girl, at
present, unless you yourself wish it."
"And the boy?" asked Amos.
"Ah, I have not quite made up my mind about him," was the reply. "It
may be that I shall keep him with me, and bring him up to my own
profession."
"And what may that profession be?" asked the other.
"The stage," was the reply.
"What!" exclaimed Amos in a tone of horror, "bring up the poor child to
be an actor! Why, it will be his ruin, body and soul!"
"And if so, Mr Huntingdon," said the other sternly and bitterly, and
with his dark eyes glaring fiercely, "I suppose I, as his father, have a
right to bring him up as I please. The father's profession is, I
imagine, notwithstanding your disparaging remarks, good enough for the
son."
Amos leaned his head on his hand for a while without reply; then he
looked his companion steadily in the face, and said, "And is there no
other course open?"
"Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, without
any more beating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. The
fact is, I want money, and--not an uncommon thing in this not over
agreeable or accommodating world--don't know where to get it. I have,
therefore, just this to say,--if you will pledge me your word to send me
a cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, will
at once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as a
man of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. You
may think what you please of me, but such is my proposal."
These words were uttered in a tone of the most imperturbable self-
possession, and perfectly staggered poor Amos by their amazing
effrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needy
adventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and had
deserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found out
that Amos had taken upon himself to provide for his children at present,
had hit upon the scheme of withdrawing one of them from the cottage, as
a way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also pretty
clear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers of
justice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach of
the law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hanging
up the little boy's handkerchief on the way-post, being sure that
persons would be out immediately in all directions searching for the
child, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief with
the letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as the
young man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nurse
discovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search for
the missing child; and thus the writer's purpose would be answered
without his having given any clew by which himself could be discovered
and brought into trouble. All this was now plainly unfolded to Amos.
And what was he to do? That the man before him was utterly selfish and
unscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be done
by appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could act
deliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephew
in his father's hands, to be brought up to the stage--or, in other
words, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thought
was not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice.
While these things were passing through his mind, his companion looked
about him with cool indifference, kicking the leaves and sticks at his
feet, and whistling in a low tone some operatic air. Then he broke
silence. "Which is it to be, Mr Huntingdon?" he asked. "Am I to keep
little George, or do you wish to have him back again? You know the
conditions; and you may be sure that I should not have taken the trouble
to meet you here if I had any thoughts of changing my mind."
Amos looked sadly and kindly at him, and then said, "And can you really,
Mr Vivian, justify this conduct of yours to yourself? Can you feel
really happy in the course you are pursuing? Oh! will you not let me
persuade you--for my poor sister's sake, for your own sake--to leave
your present mode of life, and to seek your happiness in the only path
which God can bless? I would gladly help you in any way I could--"
But here his companion broke in, scorn on his lip, and a fierce
malignant anger glaring from his eyes. "Stop, stop, Mr Huntingdon!
enough of that. We are not come here for a preaching or a prayer-
meeting. The die has long since been cast, and the Rubicon crossed.
You can take your course; I will take mine. If you have nothing more
agreeable to say to me, we had better each go our own way, and leave
matters as they are."
"No," said Amos, firmly but sorrowfully; "it shall not be so. I promise
that you shall have my cheque for fifty pounds when you have placed
little George in my hands, and on the understanding that you pledge your
word, as a man of honour, to leave the children with me unmolested."
"Exactly so," replied the other; "and now, as a little matter of
business, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to `John
Smith or Bearer,'--that, certainly, will tell no tales."
"And where shall I send it to meet you? to what address?"
"To no address at all, if you please. I will be myself at the spot
where the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; it
is about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the place
well. I will be there at five o'clock to-morrow morning, before the
general world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or send
some trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say that
any attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasion
would be fruitless, as I should be well on my guard; and, further,
should there be any foul play of any kind, you may depend upon my
removing _both_ my children from your cottage at the earliest
opportunity."
"I understand you," said Amos, "and will send my father's old butler to
take you the cheque at the hour and to the place you name. The old man
will ask no questions; he will be satisfied to do just what I tell him,
neither more nor less. You will easily recognise him, as he has snowy-
white hair, and he will be riding on this pony of mine."
"So far so good," said the other; "I have no doubt you will keep your
word. And now as to the boy. You will find him at the finger-post on
which his silk handkerchief was tied, at two o'clock this afternoon;
that is to say, if you come alone, and are there punctually." Then he
rose, and, stretching himself to his full height, saluted Amos with a
bow of exaggerated ceremoniousness, and, turning on his heel, was soon
hidden from view by the trees of the wood.
Sadly and slowly Amos made his way back to the market-town, his
thoughts, as he rode along, being far from pleasant companions. What
was to be the end of all this? Could he have done differently? No. He
was satisfied that duty plainly called him to the sacrifice which he had
made. He would have reproached himself bitterly had he lost the
opportunity of recovering his little nephew from such a father. He had
no doubt, then, taken one right step; the next he must leave to the same
heavenly guidance which never had misled nor could mislead him. So
having waited in the town till he had refreshed himself with a mid-day
meal, he made his way back along the roads he had travelled the day
before, and in due time arrived in sight of the finger-post, and of the
child who was sitting alone beneath it, his little head buried in his
lap, till, roused by the sound of the pony's feet, he looked up, and
with a joyful cry ran to meet his uncle. Another moment, and Amos had
sprung from his saddle and was clasping the sobbing, laughing child to
his heart.
"O dear, dear Uncle Amos!" cried the little boy; "how good it is of God
to send you for me. Oh, don't let the tall, ugly, cruel man take me
away again."
"Not if I can help it, dear child," said his uncle. "There now, jump
up, Georgie," he added; "we shall soon be at home again."
As he was in the act of remounting, having placed the child on the front
of the saddle, he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind the
post, and that he saw the glancing of a dark body through the trees
beyond the hedge. However, that mattered not; in a very little time,
having put his pony to a brisk canter, he reached the cottage, and
received a hearty welcome from the nurse, and also from old Harry, whose
presence at the house he was not surprised at, when he remembered that
his brother Walter would no doubt have directed the old man to seek for
him there. But now he began to see that Harry had become acquainted, in
a measure, with his secret; for the nurse called him aside into another
room soon after his return, and told him of the old servant's emotion at
the sight of the little girl, and of his recognising in her the child of
his master's daughter.
Amos was at first considerably disturbed at the old man's having made
this discovery. Then, by degrees, the conviction grew upon him that
this very discovery might be an important step in the direction of
carrying out the work he had set himself to do. Surely it had been
permitted for that end; and here was one who would become a helper to
him in the attainment of his purpose. So, after having pondered over
the matter, as he walked backwards and forwards in the little garden for
some half-hour or more, he called Harry out to him, and took him into
his confidence.
"Harry," he began, "can you keep a secret?"
"Well, Master Amos, that depends upon what sort of a secret it is, and
who tells it me. Some folks give you secrets to keep which everybody
knows, so that they're gone afore you gets 'em. But if _you've_ got a
secret for me to keep, you may depend upon it no one shall get it from
me."
"Just so, Harry. Then I have a secret which I want you to keep for me--
or, perhaps, I had better say that I have something which I should like
to tell you, because I believe you may be able to help me in an
important matter. And instead of binding you to keep my secret, I shall
just leave it to your own good sense to say nothing about the matter
till the right time comes; and I am sure, when you know all, you will
have no wish to make my business a subject of conversation in the
family, nor of idle gossip out of it."
"You're right there, sir," was the old butler's hearty reply; "you may
trust me. I've too much respect for the family to go about like a
sieve, shaking such things as I've a notion you're a-going to speak to
me about all up and down the country, for every idle man, woman, and
child to be wagging their tongues about them."
"Well then, Harry," continued his young master, "I shall count upon your
discretion as to silence, and on your help, where you can be of use to
me."
"They're both at your service, Mr Amos."
"Then I shall speak openly to you, and without any reserve. I need
hardly remind you of the sad beginning of our family troubles. You will
remember too well how my poor sister left her home, and married secretly
a man altogether beneath her. You know how terribly my poor father was
cut up by that marriage, and how he closed the door of our home against
Miss Julia, as I must still call her to you. I am not blaming him nor
excusing her, but just referring to the facts themselves. I never knew
till to-day who or what my poor sister's husband was. I never dared
mention the subject to my father, especially after my dear mother had to
leave us; but ever since they were gone from us I have had it on my
heart to make it the great business of my life to get them back again.
I know it can be done, and I believe, with God's help, it will be done.
I have found out to-day that my poor sister's husband is an actor,
evidently a thoroughly unprincipled man. She went about with him from
one place to another for a while; then he deserted her, before the
children were old enough to know him as their father; and about a year
ago I got a letter from her, telling me that she was left in a miserable
lodging with two little children, and must starve unless somebody helped
her. I went to see her, and found her mixed up with a number of her
husband's stage acquaintances, from whom she seemed unable to free
herself. So I promised to supply her with what would keep her from want
till her husband should return to her; and got her to let me have her
two children, whom she was quite unable to feed and clothe, and who
would soon be ruined, I saw, if they were left with their poor mother as
she then was, and with such people about her as friends or
acquaintances. So I brought the children here, and have put them under
the charge of good Mrs Williams, who knows all about them; and since
then I have been just watching and waiting to see how the Lord would
guide me, and have been content to move as he directs me, one step at a
time. But yesterday I got a sad check. The father of the children
enticed away his little boy, and got me to meet him this morning some
miles away from here. He cared nothing for the child, but only took him
away that he might get some money out of me. So, when we met this
morning, he engaged to give me back the child if I would promise to send
him a sum of money which he named; and if I would not do so, then he
said he would keep the boy, and bring him up as a stage-player. That I
would not hear of; so I promised him the money, and he has given me back
the little boy as you see, and has solemnly undertaken not to meddle
with either of the children again. And now I want you to take the money
for me when we get home. He is to be at the four turnings above the
Manor-house at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and I am to send him a
cheque in an envelope. This I have promised, and I want your help in
the matter. You understand, Harry, how things are?--they are black
enough just now, I grant, but they might be blacker."
The old man, who had listened with breathless interest, now stood still
and looked his young master steadily in the face, while two or three big
tears rolled down his cheeks.
"And so you've been a-sacrificing yourself, Master Amos, for your sister
and her dear children," he said. "I see it all; but shouldn't I just
like to have fast hold of that rascal's neck with one hand, and a good
stout horsewhip in the other. But I suppose it's no use wishing for
such things. Well, I'm your man, sir, as far as I can be of any
service. But as for him and his promises, what are they worth? Why,
he'll be just squeezing you as dry as an old sponge as has been lying
for a month in a dust-pan. He'll never keep his word, not he, while
there's a penny to be got out of you. And yet, I suppose, you couldn't
have done different for the sake of the poor children, bless their
little hearts. And I'm to take the money to him? Yes; and a policeman
or two at the same time would be best. But no, I suppose not, as you've
promised, and for the credit of the family. Well, it's a shocking bad
business altogether; but when a man's been and tackled it as you've
done, Master Amos, it'll come right in the end, there's no doubt of it."
"Thank you, Harry, a thousand times," said the other; "and I am sure you
shall see the wisdom of keeping quiet on the subject for the sake of the
family."
"You're safe there with me, Master Amos," was the old man's reply.
So, when Amos and Harry returned to Flixworth Manor, the young man
explained to his father that the little child at the cottage, in whom he
was interested, had been enticed away by a stranger, and that he had
been unable to recover him till that morning, and had, in his search for
the child, been obliged to spend the previous night at the market-town.
Mr Huntingdon, who was just then very fully occupied in planning and
carrying out some improvements on his estate, was satisfied with this
explanation. So the subject was not further discussed in the family.
On the morning after his return, Amos duly conveyed the cheque, through
Harry, to his brother-in-law.
CHAPTER EIGHT.
BEARING THE CROSS.
Walter's good intentions and resolutions respecting his treatment of his
brother, though sincere when he uttered them in the presence of his
aunt, were by no means strong enough to make him curb his wit or his
displeasure when Amos did anything to annoy or thwart him. And not only
so; but there abode in his mind a feeling of mingled jealousy and
annoyance when he was constrained to admit to himself his brother's
superiority. If Amos had some self-imposed duty to perform, why should
he thrust this duty into other people's faces? Duty was a very fine
thing in its way, no doubt, but grave Mr Duty was a very sour-tempered,
troublesome old fellow when he trode on his neighbour's toes. And why
should Amos make himself disagreeable by adopting a course of duty which
unfitted him for cordially co-operating with his younger brother in his
schemes? There was a sort of monasticism in this conduct in Walter's
eyes. Here was his brother living amongst them, and yet, having taken
the vows of some self-imposed duty upon him, he was looking down upon
them all as though from some higher standing-ground. What a pity that
he did not retire into a monastery, where he could act out his vows and
his duty without troubling the noses of ordinary mortals like his
relations with this oppressive "odour of sanctity." So thought Walter;
and he made no concealment of his feelings from Amos, whom he now began
to call "the Monk," or "Father Gengulphus."
Amos took it all very quietly, fully understanding that Walter was vexed
with him for pursuing a path alone, along which his brother neither
could nor would follow him at present. He was content that it should be
so, and bore the cross patiently, being willing to bide his time,
thankful to notice in Walter a kindlier feeling towards himself on the
whole, and convinced that, in the end, his own motives and work would be
duly appreciated by that brother whom he sincerely loved.
Miss Huntingdon saw what was going on, and rejoiced. She knew well that
the discipline would only tend to brighten the character of her elder
nephew, and felt sure that Walter would learn by degrees fully to
understand and value his brother. Meanwhile, she was ever ready to
throw in a little oil when the waters were more than usually troubled.
She knew, too, the strength of Amos's religious character, and the
weakness of any higher or holier principles in Walter's heart; and she
was sure that the steady consistency of her elder nephew would gradually
win on the generous heart of his brother, spite of himself.