Amos and Walter for some weeks after the unexpected absence of the
former from home; so that the hearts of the brothers were really being
drawn closer together, notwithstanding natural dissimilarity of
disposition, and the absence in Walter of that high principle and self-
discipline which were moulding his elder brother's character into daily
nearer conformity to Him who is the one only perfect pattern of
humanity.
It was while Walter was thus increasingly becoming sensible of the
superior beauty of his brother's sterling worth and consistency, and was
at the same time secretly resenting the pressure of that nobler life's
influence upon him, being unprepared to follow it out himself and submit
to its gentle restraints and self-denial, that a party of friends was
assembled at dinner one summer evening at the Manor-house. Mr
Huntingdon did not give dinner-parties now as frequently as in happier
days, and his friends and neighbours understood and appreciated the
cause; but now and then he felt it to be his duty to entertain his
friends in the old way; so, on the present occasion, some thirty guests
sat down to table.
Among those present were an old Mrs Morse, a widow lady, and her
daughter. The mother was a kind-hearted woman of the world, reasonably
well-to-do, and visited by all the good families in the neighbourhood.
She was very anxious to see her daughter, who was her only child, and
was now passing out of her youthful days, well married, as the world
esteems it; so she was very glad of an opportunity of drawing out Amos
Huntingdon, whom she looked upon as a worthy, weak, shy, dull young man,
rather depressed by his discouraging home surroundings, and not a likely
person to attract or seek the affections of any young lady who might be
fortunate enough to combine the allurements of wealth and beauty. He
might, however, with a little judicious management, be led to look with
interest on her daughter, and would prove, no doubt, an excellent
husband, as he had means of his own, the prospect of inheriting the
Manor, and was exceedingly amiable, and free from habits of
extravagance. Gladly, therefore, did she avail herself of the present
opportunity to engage Amos in conversation before dinner was announced,
expressing, at the same time, her regret that she had so seldom the
pleasure of meeting him, and how much it would gratify herself and her
daughter if he would come over now and then and spend a quiet afternoon
or evening with them. "You know," she continued, "we are quiet people,
and, if report says true, Mr Amos, your own tastes and habits are of
the quiet sort. We should be so glad to see you in our simple way; and
I think we could show you, in the beauties of our charming
neighbourhood, what would really be a pleasure to you and a refreshment
to your mind."
Amos thanked her, and listened with due decorum to a good deal of small
talk on the old lady's part till dinner was announced, when she so
contrived that he should take her daughter down and sit between them.
Walter was seated just opposite his brother, full of life and fun, as he
threw off his gay remarks now on this side and now on that. Suddenly he
looked across at Amos, and something in the situation of his brother
between the old lady and her daughter struck him as so irresistibly
funny, that it was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained himself
from a violent outburst of laughter. And, certainly, to one easily
moved to merriment there was something singularly quaint and almost
comic in the contrast between the subdued but courteous manner of Amos,
who was patiently endeavouring to make himself agreeable to his two
immediate neighbours, and the excited frivolity of Miss Morse's running
fire of worldly commonplaces, occasionally interrupted by her mother's
more staid utterances of a similar character.
Walter thoroughly comprehended the situation, and the reason why such
pains were being taken to draw out his brother; and his satisfaction and
amusement were unbounded at the manifest failure of the effort. The old
lady caught Walter's eye, and divining somewhat of the cause of its
merry twinkle, coloured, and was silent. Her daughter also looked
uneasily across the table, and then exclaimed,--
"Were you at Lady Gambit's garden-party last Tuesday, Mr Walter?"
"No," he replied; "I was not there."
"Then I can tell you that you missed a treat," said the other.
"Why, what was the special attraction?" he asked.
"Oh, everything that you can imagine!"
"Well, I can imagine so many things," said Walter laughing, "that I am
quite sure her ladyship's garden could never have held them all. Pray,
tell me what you yourself thought _the_ attraction _par excellence_."
"Yes, I can do that. You know these garden-parties are generally rather
dull affairs after all."
"What! with those numberless attractions?"
"Yes; one gets weary of them. You know, go where you will, it's the
same thing over and over again."
"But it seems that it was not so in this case."
"No, it was not. Her ladyship, no doubt, wished to make a little
variety, and so she was good enough to provide us with something new."
"Dear me!" cried Walter; "how I should have liked being there! What was
the novelty? Was it a temperance lecture, or a Band of Hope meeting for
the benefit of the old boys and girls of sixty or seventy years of age?
That must have been very lively. Or perhaps it was a Protestant address
against nunneries and monasteries. My brother Amos would have liked to
have had a word on that subject."
"No, no, Mr Walter; you must not be foolish."
"Well, do tell me. I am all anxiety to know what this attractive
novelty was. Not a conjurer? that would have been capital fun."
"No, not a conjurer exactly."
"Well, then, something of the sort?"
"Yes; Lady Gambit had engaged a celebrated mimic--a man, I mean, who can
take off other people to the life."
"Indeed," said Walter. "Perhaps it might have been as well if he had
taken himself off. But, excuse my nonsense; what did he mimic?"
"Oh, all sorts of funny people. We all gathered round him under the
great sycamore tree, and he kept us in peals of laughter for an hour."
"Tell me, please, some of the characters he took off."
"I can remember two especially. One of them was a drunkard, and the
other was a hypocrite. In taking off the drunkard he called himself
`Mr Adolphus Swillerly.' You never heard anything more amusing in your
life."
"And the hypocrite?" asked Walter, but with less of amusement in his
tone.
"Ah, I think that was better still! He assumed the character of `Simon
Batter-text;' and he mimicked his preaching, and his praying, and his
sighs, and his `ahmens' in a wonderful way. It really was perfect. I'm
so sorry you were not there, you would have so thoroughly enjoyed it."
There was a pause, and a general silence, for the attention of the rest
of the company had been drawn to the subject and the speakers.
"Surely you don't see any harm in a little fun like that?" asked the
young lady in some dismay, as she noticed that Walter's face and manner
were troubled as he hesitated in his reply.
All eyes were on him. What should he say? He turned very red; and
then, having helped himself to a glass of wine, he said, carelessly, and
with a short, merry laugh, "Harm! oh, of course not! The man meant no
harm; he didn't attack individuals. All the better if he made
drunkenness and hypocrisy ridiculous.--Don't you think so, Amos?"
For a moment his brother hesitated, for every eye was directed towards
him. No one spoke; not a knife nor fork clattered.
"Well, my boy," said his father, "let us have your opinion."
Thus appealed to, Amos no longer hesitated, but said calmly, and in a
low distinct voice, heard by every one at the table, "I had rather not
have given my opinion; but, when I am thus openly appealed to, I must
not shrink from expressing it. I think it wrong, utterly wrong, to
ridicule sin in any shape or form. To put sin in a funny light is not
the way to make us hate it as we ought to do. Our Saviour never made
light or a jest of sin; and I believe that the man who mimicked a
drunkard and a hypocritical preacher had no love for either sobriety or
holiness."
The profoundest silence reigned while Amos uttered these words. At
first his voice had trembled, but it immediately became perfectly firm,
and a quiet peace rested on his sweet face as he finished. A sudden
chill seemed to have fallen on most of the party. Some shrugged their
shoulders, some smiled, others looked annoyed. Mrs Morse and her
daughter exchanged looks of bewilderment behind Amos's back. Walter,
with feelings of mingled shame and vexation, glanced at the bright face
of his aunt, whose eyes swam with grateful tears. Then he glanced down:
her hands were crossed; yes, he knew that it would be so. And how felt
Mr Huntingdon? To the surprise of all, and of none more than Amos
himself, he exclaimed, "That's right, Amos; you've spoken out like a
man, and I believe you are right."
For a while there was silence; then a gentleman near the squire's end of
the table asked his next neighbour, "What sort of a looking man was this
same mimic? I believe you were at Lady Gambit's."
"Yes, I was there," replied the other. "I can't say much in his favour.
He was not a bad-looking fellow,--black hair, if it was his own, black
piercing eyes, and a black beard. I can't imagine where her ladyship
picked him up."
"But _I_ can," said a gentleman opposite. "He is some strolling player.
He got, it would seem, access to Lady Gambit's ear in some underhand
way; and he has done now what our young friend Walter suggested a little
while ago that he might as well have done sooner. Having taken other
people off, he has taken himself off also, and has contrived to carry
some twenty pounds of her ladyship's money with him, which he managed to
swindle her out of; and the police are on the look-out for him. I heard
that only this morning from the sergeant himself."
Poor Amos! how terribly his heart sank within him when he heard these
words! Yes; he could have little doubt about it. This mimic and
swindler, he felt assured, was none other than his own brother-in-law.
Happily, however, he was pretty sure to be now out of the neighbourhood,
and was not likely to show himself soon again. But what of his unhappy
wife? Alas! Amos dreaded to think what the unprincipled man might do
with or against her.
Glad, heartily glad, were both the brothers when the dinner was over,
and the rest of the evening, after "dragging its slow length along," had
at last come to an end. Walter, indeed, rattled away in the drawing-
room to every one's content but his own. Still, a chill had fallen on
more than one of the party; and as for poor Mrs Morse and her daughter,
after endeavouring to make themselves agreeable by gusts which were
followed by portentous lulls, they were glad to order their carriage and
take their departure at the earliest hour consistent with politeness.
And now, when all the guests had taken leave, and Miss Huntingdon had
retired to her room, happy in the prospect of coming rest, she heard a
sort of half scuffle at her door, followed by a knock. Then in came
Walter, dragging in some one after him who was evidently reluctant to be
thus introduced. "Can you, oh, can you, dear aunt, spare me--ay, spare
_us_,--that means me and Amos, or, rather, it ought to be Amos and me,--
just a few minutes? Amos doesn't want to come, just like his unselfish
self, but I do. No, I don't want to tire you after all your fatigues,
but I can't go to sleep till I have had a word from you. If you don't
let me stop, if you don't say that word, I shall lie awake all night,
thinking of those hands--not _cross_, for their owner is never cross,
but _crossed_--those crossed hands. Or if I do go to sleep, I shall do
nothing but dream of them. So pray let me stop; and Amos must stop
too."
The permission to remain having been cheerfully granted, Walter hauled
his brother into a chair, and then, stooping over him, kissed his
forehead. Then he flung himself on his knees and looked up wistfully
into Miss Huntingdon's face. Oh, how entirely did she forget all
weariness, as she marked the effect that Walter's kiss had on his
brother; how it brought tears from those eyes which had long known
little of weeping except for sorrow.
"Well, dear boy," she said, "and what would you have with me now?"
"Ah! auntie, I want those hands to talk to me, and I want Amos to hear
them talk. I want you to tell us both some of your moral courage
anecdotes; they will strengthen him and be a lesson to me; for I don't
want you to tell me this time that I was wrong. There sits the brave
man, here kneels the coward."
"Dear, dear boy," was Miss Huntingdon's reply, with a warm embrace,
"yes; what you say is true. It _did_ require true moral courage to
speak up as Amos did, at such a time and before so many; and we have
some noble instances on record of such a courage under somewhat similar
circumstances, and these show us that conduct like this will force
respect, let the world say and think what it pleases. I have two or
three heroes to bring forward on this topic, but I must be brief, as the
hour is late.
"You remember Frederick the Great, as he was called. Alas! he was great
in infidelity as well as in war; and he delighted to gather round him
those who shared in the same unbelieving views. God and his truth were
subjects of ridicule with them; and a bold man indeed would he be who
would venture to say in their presence a word in favour of the gospel or
of respect for its divine Author. But there was such a one amongst
those who had the privilege of sitting at the king's table; an old grey-
headed man of rank, who had fought his country's battles nobly, and
whose wise counsels in state affairs were highly prized by his
sovereign. He was dining one day at the palace, and saw all round him
none but those who made a mock of sin and religion. The conversation
flowed freely, and the smart jests of Frederick called forth similar
flashes of wit from his different guests. The subject of Christianity
soon came up, and was immediately handled in the most profane and bitter
style by the king and those around him. No wit is so cheap as profane
wit; for the devil seems to give a special facility of sarcasm to those
who attack God's truth; and, besides that, there seems nothing which
ungodly men relish so much, for giving point to their blasphemies, as
Scripture facts or words misquoted, misapplied, or parodied. So the
gospel and its Founder were bandied from tongue to tongue as a theme for
unholy mirth. But presently there was a pause and a dead silence; for
the grey-headed old soldier, who had sat perfectly silent and deeply
pained, as he listened to the unhallowed talk of his companions, rose to
his feet, his face flushed, and his hoary head bowed down. What was
coming now?
"`May it please your majesty,' the old man began, while the tears ran
down his cheeks, and his voice was troubled, `I have always, as I am
sure you will acknowledge, behaved with due respect to your majesty
whenever in your majesty's presence; nor can any one here say that he
has ever heard me speak evil of your majesty behind your back. Your
majesty knows, also, that I have endeavoured to serve you faithfully on
the field and in the council-chamber. You must therefore bear with me
while I say that I cannot sit patiently by and hear your majesty join
with your friends in speaking evil of the dearest friend I have, one
dearer to me than my life, and whom I must hold in greater honour than
even your majesty. I mean my Saviour and heavenly King, the Lord Jesus
Christ. Pardon me, therefore, your majesty, if I ask leave to withdraw
at once.'
"Just imagine, dear boys, such a speech in such a company, for to such
effect were the words spoken by that noble old soldier of the Cross.
Ah! it is comparatively easy to stand up for the truth in our day and
country, because religion is now universally respected by all people of
good sense and refinement, even by those who do not follow it; and
anything like an open attack upon Christianity, in a mixed company,
would be frowned upon by society as being ungentlemanly and in bad
taste. But it was not so in Frederick's court, where a profession of
infidel opinions was almost held to be an essential in one who would
make any pretension to intellectual acuteness. And the old officer knew
this well. He knew the scorn which would glare upon him from the eyes
of the other guests. He expected nothing but sneering pity, where such
sentiments as his own could not be visited with a severer penalty. But
he did not hang back through fear of man. He could say, as David says
in the Psalms, `I will speak of thy testimonies even before kings, and
will not be ashamed.' Was he not a true moral hero, dear Walter?"
"An out-and-out one, dear aunt," was his reply. "But what did the king
say to this?"
"The king behaved on this occasion like a king and a man. Poor king, he
was not without a heart that could, at times, feel as it ought to do.
He at once turned to the faithful old servant of the great Master, and,
checking all attempts at ridicule or retort in the other guests, assured
him that he thoroughly respected and appreciated his feelings and
motives and his present conduct, and that never again would he himself
say anything against the old man's faith nor his Saviour while he was
by, nor would he suffer any who might be with him to do so."
"Hip, hip, hurrah!" said Walter. "The old man got the best of it after
all; and so will my brother Amos here, spite of his having such an
unworthy coward of a brother as poor Walter. But you have another
example for us, auntie; nothing like knocking the nail on the head. I
feel better already, and mean to be a perfect moral lion for bravery in
future; at least I hope so."
"I hope so too, Walter," said his aunt with a smile. "I will give you,
then, one other instance of the same sort of moral courage, but taken
from quite a different country, and occurring in our own days; and then
I think we shall have had lessons enough for to-night. My hero this
time is an American, and a young man too.
"You will have heard of the remarkable revival which took place in that
country, I mean in the United States, some few years since. Of course,
at such seasons there will be a mixture of good and evil. Not all who
make a profession will stand firm; while those who have been merely
carried along by the current of excitement will return at last to the
world, from which they have never really separated themselves, when the
excitement has passed away. But, indeed, a great and lasting work for
God was accomplished in that revival, and the young man I am speaking
about was one of the fruits of it.
"He had been living a very gay and thoughtless life. I am not sure that
he had been indulging in any openly sinful practices; but, at any rate,
he had been giving himself up wholly to the pursuit of this world. He
was in a good social position, and possessed of abundant means.
Moreover, he had received a good education, so far as mere learning
went, and was of pleasing and popular manners. The last thing he would
have thought of would have been turning a Christian. But God, whose
thoughts are not as our thoughts, had better things in store for him.
The revival wave swept over the neighbourhood where he was, and carried
him along with it. His heart, his views, his aims were all really
changed; he was, indeed and in truth, a new creature. And now he felt
that he must not hide his colours, he must nail them to the mast, or,
rather, he must wrap them round him that, go where he might, every one
might see them. His was that thorough-going, energetic, outspeaking
disposition which has accomplished such marvellous earthly things
through so many of his fellow-countrymen. He was not the person to do
anything by halves.
"Before his conversion, himself and several other young men, of like
tastes and habits, used to meet weekly at one another's houses, in turn,
for card-playing and carousing; and at these meetings he used to be the
very life of the party, the gayest of the gay. But what should he do
now? It would be no easy matter to confess to his young associates the
change that had taken place in his heart. What would they think and
say? Perhaps he might let it get known by degrees, and then he could
just absent himself from the old gatherings, and merely drop out of a
society no longer congenial to him. This would save him a great deal of
shame and reproach. Would not this be as much as could be reasonably
expected of him, and sufficient to show his sincerity and consistency?
It might have satisfied ordinary characters, but it did not satisfy him.
He wanted to be doing something at once for the Master, and to begin
with those very young men who had been his companions in sin. So he
sent round his printed invitations to every one of them to a gathering
in his own house. Such had been the custom with all the members of
their fraternity. But this time the invitation was no longer to `Tea
and Cards,' but to `Tea and Prayer.' It was, indeed, a bold stroke, but
it was not the act of the moment from mere impulse or excitement.
"The day of meeting came. A few of his old acquaintances arrived, some,
it may be, out of curiosity, or supposing that the `Prayer' was only a
joke. But none were left in doubt. Plainly, lovingly, faithfully, he
set before them how the change had been wrought in himself, and how
happy it had made him; and then he affectionately urged them all to take
the same course as he had done. And I believe that his noble and
courageous dealing was not in vain. Am I wrong, Walter, in classing
that young American gentleman among my moral heroes?"
"No, dear aunt, certainly not," replied her nephew thoughtfully. "I
think he deserves a foremost place;--don't you, Amos?"
"Yes," replied his brother; "he reminds me of the greatest, perhaps, of
all moral heroes--I mean, of course, among beings like ourselves. I am
thinking of the apostle Paul, who changed at once from the persecutor to
the preacher; gave up every earthly honour and advantage; braved the
bitter scorn of his old friends; and, without hesitation, began
immediately publicly to proclaim the gospel which he had before been mad
to destroy."
Walter held out his hand to his brother, and the clasp was a close and
mutual one; and then, hand in hand, they left their aunt, who laid her
head on her pillow that night with deep thankfulness in her heart, for
she saw that, spite of all drawbacks, there was a good work making
progress in Walter, and that the high and holy character of the true and
tried disciple of the Saviour was gaining strength and beauty in the
once despised and misunderstood Amos.
CHAPTER NINE.
IS IT GENUINE?
But though Walter was learning to understand and appreciate his
brother's character, and to acknowledge his superiority to himself in
moral courage, he was not altogether satisfied with continuing to lie
under the sense of that superiority on his brother's part. He had
himself been so constantly made the object of his father's admiration
and outspoken praises, and had always been so popular with all friends
of the family and guests at the Manor-house, that anything like a
feeling of inferiority to his brother was one which he found it very
hard to allow a lodging in his heart and thoughts. So, while the
generous impulse of the moment had led him to applaud and rejoice in his
brother's noble moral courage, when they were discussing the matter in
his aunt's room, he was by no means prepared, when that impulse had died
away, to allow Amos to carry off and retain the palm which he
acknowledged that he had won. Jealousy of his brother's reputation for
moral courage with Miss Huntingdon was a meanness which he would have
thought himself incapable of, and which he would have repudiated
indignantly had he been charged with it. Nevertheless, it was there in
his heart; it made him restless and dissatisfied, and kept him longing
for an opportunity to display a moral courage which should shine with a
light that might, even in his aunt's eyes, eclipse, or at any rate
equal, that which glowed so brightly in Amos. He was therefore on the
watch for such an opportunity; and before long that opportunity, as he
thought, presented itself.