was superintending the preparations for breakfast, and her two nephews
were seated near her, Mr Huntingdon exclaimed suddenly, in a tone of
angry excitement, "Why, whatever is the meaning of this? Walter, my
boy, whatever does it mean?"
"What, father?" asked his son in a voice of mingled uneasiness and
surprise.
"Why, just listen to this advertisement:--`I hereby challenge the
working-men of this neighbourhood to a trial of skill in running,
leaping, and shooting; and I promise to give a sovereign to any man who
shall beat me in a mile race, a high jump, and firing at a mark. The
trial to come off on Marley Heath, on Tuesday, June 8th, at four o'clock
p.m.
"`Signed, Walter Huntingdon, Flixworth Manor.'--Do you know anything
about this, Walter? Did you really put this advertisement into the
paper? or is it a disgraceful hoax?"
Poor Walter looked perfectly astounded, as did also his aunt and
brother. Then he said, with some hesitation, "It is no advertisement of
mine."
"No, I thought not," said his father indignantly. "It must be, then, a
most shameful hoax; and I shall speak or write to the editor about it in
pretty strong terms you may be sure."
"Father," said Walter sadly, and after a pause, "it is no hoax."
"No hoax! What do you mean? You said you did not put the advertisement
in; so it must be a hoax."
"I will explain it," said his son in a subdued voice. "The other day,
young Saunders, Gregson, and myself were discussing which of us was the
best shot, and best at a race and a jump. `Well,' said I, `we can
easily put it to the test. Let us meet to-morrow on Marley Heath and
have it out.' So we brought our guns with us next day; and Saunders and
Gregson brought a few other fellows with them to look on and see all
fair. We three fired at a mark, and leapt over a rod hung across two
poles, and tried who was best runner over a hundred yards; and I won the
day in all three things. So, as we were sitting down in the little
roadside inn, where we all had some eggs and bacon and bread and cheese
together for lunch, Gregson said to the other fellows, `Why, our friend
Walter here might challenge the whole county.' `That he might; and win
too,' said more than one of them. `I don't know,' I said; `but I
shouldn't mind offering a sovereign to any working-man in the
neighbourhood who would beat me.' `Good,' said Saunders; `there's many
a working-man that would like to have a try for your sovereign; and it
would be capital fun to see the match come off.' `What do you say to
putting an advertisement in the county paper to that effect?' said
Gregson. `Not I,' I said; `I shall do nothing of the sort.' `Ah, he's
backing out,' said Saunders. `Indeed, I'm not,' I cried; `I meant what
I said.' `Well, will you let me put the advertisement in in your name?
Don't be modest, man; you're sure to win,' said Gregson. `You can do so
if you like,' I replied; `I have no intention to go back from my word.'
I said this half in joke and half in earnest, and no doubt we were all a
little excited with the sport and with the lunch; but I never dreamed
that Gregson was serious when he talked about putting in the
advertisement in my name, and I shall not soon forgive him for getting
me into such a fix. So, father, that's just all about it."
Mr Huntingdon listened to this explanation with much surprise and
vexation, and then was silent.
"And what do you mean to do about it, Walter?" asked his aunt. "You
surely won't let the matter go on."
"I don't see how I can help it," was her nephew's reply; "the challenge
has been publicly given in my name."
"It can't be--it mustn't be," exclaimed his father angrily; "it's
perfectly preposterous. We shall be the talk and the jest of the whole
county. It will do harm, too, to the working-classes. Why, you'll have
all the idle vagabonds there. Some light-fingered and light-heeled
poacher will win your sovereign--you'll be the laughing-stock of all the
country round, and so shall I too. And such a thing, instead of
encouraging patient industry and sobriety, will be just the means of
giving heart to the idlers and the profligates. It must not be, Walter,
my boy."
His son did not reply for some time; at last he said, "I don't see how I
can back out of it; I've pledged my word. I'm sorry for it, and I'm
willing to take all the shame and blame to myself, and all the ridicule,
if I'm beaten. You may depend upon it I won't be caught in this way
again, but I must go through with it now."
"Nonsense," said his father; "I don't see that at all."
"Perhaps not, father," replied his son; "but I can't go back from what
I've said." These last words were uttered with a dogged determination
of tone and manner which showed that Walter had made up his mind, and
was not to be turned from his purpose.
Like his father, he had a considerable share of obstinacy in his
disposition, and Mr Huntingdon could call to mind several occasions on
which a battle with his favourite son had ended in the boy's getting his
own way. And so, thinking further remonstrance useless, at any rate for
the present, he let the matter drop, hoping, as he said afterwards to
his sister, that Walter would come to his senses on the matter when he
had had time to think the subject over coolly. But he was mistaken in
this hope. Much as Walter was annoyed at having been thus taken at his
word, which he had given half in jest, he nevertheless considered that
he was pledged to abide by what had been advertised in his name and with
his sanction. So on the day appointed there was a considerable
gathering of working-men, and also of women and children, on Marley
Heath, and this gathering swelled into a crowd as the time of trial
approached.
Gregson and Saunders--who enjoyed the whole thing amazingly, and none
the less because, as they had expressed it to each other as they came
along, "Young Huntingdon would be none the worse fellow for getting a
little of the shine and brag taken out of him"--were on the spot in good
time, with several like-minded companions. These all gathered round
Walter as he came on to the ground, and wished him good success,
assuring him that no doubt he would keep his sovereign safe in his
pocket, and come off conqueror.
Poor Walter's reply to his friends was not particularly cordial in its
tone, and made Gregson see that he must put in a word of conciliation.
"Come, old fellow," he said, "you must forgive me if I took you too
literally at your word. I really thought you meant it; it will do no
harm to anybody, and will only show that you've got the old Huntingdon
pluck and spirit in you."
"All right," said Walter, but not very cheerily; "I'm booked now, and
must make the best of it. How many are there who are going in for the
trial, do you think?"
"We shall see," said Saunders, "if we wait a bit; it wants a quarter to
four, still."
Everything was then duly arranged for the contest. A mile's course had
been previously marked out, and a shooting-butt set up, and also two
poles with a leaping-rod across them. As the hour approached, several
young men respectably dressed came up, and among them a powerful and
active-looking fellow whose appearance was hailed by a general shout of
mirth. His clothing was none of the best; his face was scarred in
several places; and there was a free-and-easy manner about him, very
different from that of the other competitors. He answered the loud
laughter by which his appearance had been greeted with a broad grin and
a profound bow of mock salutation. Each candidate for the trial had
brought his gun with him, and stood prepared for the contest. Gregson
and Saunders managed all the arrangements after a brief consultation
with Walter.
Four o'clock had now come, and Gregson, having ascertained the fact by
looking at his watch, brought the competitors forward, and informed them
that the shooting would be the first thing, and that six shots would be
allowed to each, the winner being of course he who should place the
greatest number of marks nearest the bull's-eye. At the same time
Gregson made it to be distinctly understood that the sovereign was only
to be given to the man, if such should be found, who should beat Walter
Huntingdon in all three things,--namely, in shooting, leaping, and
running.
By his own request Walter came first. Whatever may have been his
feelings of annoyance or reluctance up to this time, they were now
completely swallowed up in the excitement of the moment and the desire
to maintain the high reputation he had previously gained. So he threw
his whole soul into the contest, and with steady eye and unwavering hand
pointed his rifle towards the target. Bang! a cloud of smoke. Well
shot! the bullet had struck the target, but not very near the centre. A
second and third were equally but not more successful. The fourth
struck the bull's-eye, the fifth the ring next it, and the sixth the
bull's-eye again. Bravo! shouted the excited crowd; would any one beat
that? Forward now came a sober-looking young man, and did his best, but
this was far short of what Walter had achieved. Two others followed
with no better success. Then came one who handled his gun very
carefully, and took his aims with great deliberation. Three shots in
the bull's-eye! here was a winner--would any one come up to him? Four
more came forward, and two of these again scored three shots in the
bull's-eye. And now the rough-looking man, who had excited the general
mirth of the crowd on his arrival, took his stand opposite the target.
He gazed at it a full minute before raising his piece. There was a
derisive titter throughout the spectators as at last he did so in an
awkward style, and with a queer twist of his mouth. The next moment he
was rigid as a statue cut out of stone. Flash! bang! the bull's-eye;
again the bull's-eye; two more very near it; twice again the bull's-eye.
So he has made the best score after all. "I thought so," he cried,
with a swaggering toss of his head and a jaunty whistle, and then with a
flourish of his rifle high in air he strode back into the midst of the
onlookers. Thus there were four of the competitors who had outdone
Walter in the firing at the mark.
But the running and jumping yet remained to be contested. The jumping
was arranged to come next, and the four winners in the shooting prepared
to do their best against their young challenger: Walter was now
thoroughly roused, and, taking off his coat, and exchanging his boots
for a pair of light shoes, stepped forward to exert himself to his
utmost. Higher and higher did he bound over the cross-rod as it was
raised for him by his friends peg by peg. Jumping was a feat in which
he specially prided himself, and loud was the applause of Gregson,
Saunders, and their friends as he sprang over the rod time after time.
At last he failed to clear it, and his utmost was done. And now the
previous winners came on in turn. The first who made the attempt soon
gave in; he was clearly inferior to Walter in the high jump. The next
surpassed him by one peg. The third equalled him. And now came forward
the strange-looking man on whom all eyes were eagerly bent. He had
divested himself of his coat and dirty neck-tie, and having kicked off
his shoes, looked round him with a snort and a wild grimace, and then
ran forward with a light, skipping step, and cleared the first stick
without the slightest effort. Each succeeding height was leapt over
with the same ease, till he had equalled the most successful jumper.
"And now for a topper," he cried, as the rod was raised by still another
peg. Throwing all his energies into the effort, with a rush and a
mighty bound he cleared the stick by nearly a foot, and danced gaily
back to the starting-point amidst the vociferous applause of all
present. Therefore Walter had now the two to contend with in the foot-
race who had surpassed him in the high jump. The interest of the crowd
was now at boiling-point, and all sorts of conjectures, opinions, and
affirmations were circulated as to the issue of the trial, while the
three who were to run were resting a while. At length, cheered on by
the sympathising shouts of the impatient spectators, they placed
themselves abreast, stripped of all superfluous garments, and at a
signal from Gregson the race began. Walter commenced warily, husbanding
his strength, and not quickening his speed till he had reached the
middle of the course; the one of the remaining two did much the same.
As for the other, the wild-looking winner of the highest place in the
two previous contests, he slouched along amidst peals of laughter all
through the line. Nevertheless, it was soon evident that, although
dropping behind a little in the first quarter of a mile, he was
gradually drawing up nearer and nearer to the front. When Walter had
accomplished three-fourths of his task, and was now putting on extra
speed, the wild stranger, with a shout of "Victory for ever!" flung
himself forward at a tremendous speed, and kept easily ahead to the end.
The two remaining racers now pressed on abreast till within a yard of
the place from whence they started, when, by a last vehement effort,
Walter's companion came in a foot or two in advance. All flung
themselves on the grass, and when the hubbub of cheers and shouts had
subsided, Walter rose to his feet, and holding out a hand to each of the
victors, said with a laugh, "Fairly beaten."
Gradually now the crowd began to disperse, while the little band of
competitors gathered round a cart which had been brought up by Walter's
direction carrying some refreshments for himself and his friends, and
those who had tried skill and endurance with him. When the provisions
had been duly partaken of, Walter, taking out his purse, turned to those
about him and said: "And now, to whom am I to give the sovereign, for
two have beaten me?"
"Oh, to our friend here, of course," said Gregson, placing his hand on
the strange-looking man's shoulder, "for he has done the best right
through."
"Come forward, then, my man," said Walter; "and pray, may I ask your
name?"
"Oh," said the man addressed, with a laugh, "every one knows my name--
Jim Jarrocks they calls me."
"Well, Jim, here's your sovereign, and you've fairly won it."
"Thank'ee, sir," said Jim; "and so has Will Gittins here, if I'm not
mistaken."
"How do you mean?" asked Saunders; "the sovereign was offered to the
best man."
"Them's not the terms of the advertisement," said Jim, taking the
newspaper out of his pocket. "Here it is: `I promise to give one
sovereign to any man who shall beat me in a mile race, a high jump, and
firing at a mark.' Now, I've done it and won my sovereign, and Will
Gittins has done it and won his sovereign too."
It was even so. Two had fairly won the prize. So Walter, not with the
best grace, felt in his purse for a second sovereign, which he handed to
the other winner; and the two men walked away from the place of meeting
arm in arm.
"Walter," said Gregson earnestly and apologetically as they left the
ground, "I never meant this nor thought of it. I can't let you be out
of pocket this second sovereign; you must allow me to give it you back."
But Walter declined it, spite of earnest remonstrance and pressure on
his friend's part. "No," he said; "I've got myself into a nice mess by
my folly; but what I've undertaken I mean to carry out, and take my own
burdens upon myself." And so, notwithstanding the applause and fine
speeches showered on him by his friends, Walter returned home
considerably crestfallen and out of spirits, the only thing that
comforted him being a sort of half conviction that he had shown a
considerable degree of moral courage in the way in which he had stuck to
and carried out his engagement.
As for Mr Huntingdon, his mortification was extreme when there appeared
in the next issue of the county paper a full description of the contest,
from which it appeared that his favourite son had been beaten in a
public trial of skill by Jim Jarrocks, well-known all over the county as
the most reckless poacher and unblushing profligate anywhere about, and
had thus given encouragement to a man who was constantly before the
magistrates for all sorts of minor breaches of the law. However, he
felt that he must make the best of it, and he therefore spoke of it
among his friends as a bit of foolish practical joking on his son's
part, in which he had burned his fingers pretty severely, and which
would therefore, he had no doubt, read him a lesson to avoid anything of
the sort in the future.
As for Walter himself, he was only too glad to keep silent on the
matter, and let it die out; and so were the family generally. There was
one, however, from whom Walter looked for sympathy, and even for a
measure of approbation--this was his aunt. In the evening, after the
article in the county paper on his challenge and its results had been
read with severe comments by his father at the breakfast-table, he found
Miss Huntingdon sitting alone in the summer-house. Having cut two or
three small slips off a laurel, he brought them to her, and, as he sat
down by her side, said, half mournfully, half playfully, "Auntie, I want
you to make me a laurel crown or chaplet of these."
"Indeed, Walter; what for?"
"That I may wear it as a reward from you, and a token of victory in
moral courage."
"Well, but, my dear boy, if the laurels are to be looked at as a reward
from myself, I cannot crown you till I am satisfied that you have won
them."
"Exactly so, auntie; now that is just what I am going to show you."
"Do so, dear boy, and I shall be only too rejoiced to make the chaplet,
and to place it with my own hands on your head."
"Well then, dear aunt, you have heard all about this wretched business
of the race; you may be sure that it has made me feel very small and
very foolish."
"I can quite understand that," said Miss Huntingdon; "and I have felt
very sorry for you in the matter; but I hope it may turn out for good,
and make you a little more cautious."
"I hope so too, auntie; but this is not the point with me just now. I
want to get credit, from you at any rate, for a little bit, perhaps only
a very little bit, of moral heroism or courage."
"Well, Walter?"
"Ah, now, auntie, that `well' didn't sound well. I'm afraid I shan't
get much credit or encouragement from you."
"Let me hear all about it, dear boy," said his aunt kindly.
"Why then, you see, I made a foolish offer, and might have backed out of
it; and if I had done so I should have pleased my father and saved my
money, and not have encouraged one of the biggest scamps going, and have
been spared a lot of chaffing and ridicule. But you see I had given my
word, though it was only half a word after all, for I never dreamed that
Gregson would have taken me up as he did. But rather than break my
word, I stood by what I had promised, and got all sorts of bother and
trouble by doing so. Now, wasn't that something like moral courage?
Don't I deserve my laurels?"
"It was something _like_ it," replied his aunt gravely.
"Is that all, auntie? Wasn't it the thing itself? You know there has
been no dash or mere impulse here. I've had a deal of patience and
forbearance to exercise, and these are quite out of my line."
"Yes, I see that; but then, Walter--"
"But then, Aunt Kate, it wasn't moral courage after all."
"Do you yourself think it was, dear boy?"
"Well, I don't know; I should like to think it was, but I am almost
afraid. What should you call it, dear aunt, if it wasn't truly moral
courage?"
"I fear, dear Walter, you will think me very hard and unfeeling if I say
what I really think."
"Oh, no, no! speak out, auntie--let me hear the truth; you are never
really unkind."
"Then, Walter, I should call it obstinacy, and not moral courage. You
made a promise, and you would stick to it through thick and thin, let
the consequences to yourself and others be what they might, just because
you had said it. Was it not so?"
Walter turned red, and looked very uncomfortable, and for a little time
made no reply. Then he said hastily, "And what _ought_ I to have done?"
"Well, my boy, in my judgment," replied his aunt, "you ought to have
listened to your father, and to have withdrawn your offer, and to have
borne patiently the shame and the annoyance this would have brought upon
you from your friends Gregson, Saunders, and others."
"Ah, I see; and then I should have shown real moral courage. What's the
difference, then?"
"I think, Walter, the difference is just this: in the course you took,
your firmness and patience were for an _unworthy_ object; had you taken
the other course, they would have been for a _worthy_ object. It seems
to me that this makes all the difference. I could not myself call that
moral courage which made a man carry through, spite of all hindrances,
opposition, and with much personal sacrifice, a purpose which he must
know to be unworthy. Now, I will give you an illustration of what I
mean by an example. And first, I would remind you that all my heroes
hitherto have been those who showed their moral courage about worthy
objects; for instance, Washington, Howard, Colonel Gardiner, the young
man in the American revival. But the person whose moral courage I am
now going to mention was not on other occasions one of my heroes, but
his conduct on one particular occasion is specially to the point just
now. For I want you to see, dear boy, that true moral courage is shown,
not in sticking to a thing just because you have said it, when you must
know that you ought not to have said it, but in giving up what you have
said, and bearing the reproach of doing so, when you have become
convinced that you have said or undertaken what was wrong. It is duty,
in fact, that makes all the difference."
"I see it, auntie; and who's your hero now?"
"Frederick the Great of Prussia, Walter."
"What! the man who ridiculed that good officer's religion?"
"The same; but remember that, while he ridiculed religion, he was
constrained to honour that officer for his consistency. But his moral
courage was exhibited on a very different occasion. Now, you must
remember what sort of a man Frederick was,--he just resembled a spoiled
child, who could not brook the slightest thwarting of his will or
pleasure. In some things he was a miser, and in others just the
reverse. He wore his uniform till it was patched and threadbare, while
he gave two dollars each for cherries in the winter. He would pay
enormous sums to secure a singer, and then refuse to allow the opera-
house to be lighted with wax-candles, so that the pleasure of the
evening was spoiled by the smell of tallow. He was, unhappily, well-
known in the army for two peculiarities,--first, a temper of such iron
unforgiveness that, if he had taken offence at any one, that man's
career was closed, he was never employed again; and, second, a memory of
such tenacity that not a hope existed of entrapping him into
forgetfulness.
"Now, among his officers there was a colonel, a very brave man, and a
capital soldier, who, on one occasion, had made some slight military
slip or blunder. This drew on him the king's displeasure, and was never
forgotten. So his pension or half-pay allowance was made the very
lowest his rank would permit; for these allowances were regulated by the
king himself.
"The poor colonel had a wife and a large family of children; he did not
understand how to make the best of his small income, nor to improve it
by other employment, so that he was at last reduced to what was little
short of beggary and starvation. Day after day he placed himself in the
royal ante-chamber and begged an audience; but the king would not hear
him, and one day got into a towering passion when the officer-in-waiting
ventured to utter the poor man's name in the king's presence. At last
the colonel grew desperate. He could not make up his mind to beg; his
wife was ill, his children starving,--what was he to do? He hit upon
the curious idea of getting relief for his family by putting up,
unobserved, in the night time, at the corners of the streets in Berlin,
placards breathing the most venomous abuse of the king, in the hope that
a reward would be offered to the person who should disclose who was the
writer of the placard, that he might then himself claim the reward by
informing against himself, and so might relieve the immediate pressing
necessities of his wife and children, whatever might be the personal
suffering and consequences to himself.