purpose respecting future loans, Walter was not disposed to look with a
very favourable eye on his brother's money arrangements. What could he
be wanting with so much? What could he be doing with it? There was
nothing to show for it. If he had spent it in guns, or horses, or dogs,
or travelling, or sight-seeing, Walter could have better acquiesced in
the expenditure. But the money seemed to be wanted for something which,
as far as he could see, turned out to be nothing. So his curiosity was
considerably roused, and he resolved to find out, if he could, where his
brother's spare cash went to.
Things were in this position, when one evening, as the whole family were
seated on the lawn under some noble elms, enjoying the shade--for the
weather had been exceedingly hot--a gentleman, well-known throughout the
county for the interest he took in plans for doing good and alleviating
the sorrows and sufferings of his poorer neighbours, called, and was
invited by Mr Huntingdon to join his family on the lawn. "And now, my
dear sir," said the squire, "I know you are out on some errand of
benevolence. You are a grand worker yourself, and a grand giver too, so
tell us what is your present charitable hobby, and we must try and give
you a help, so that you may ride him easily."
"Thank you, Mr Huntingdon, with all my heart," said the other; "you are
very kind. My hobby this time is a very robust animal, and will want a
good deal of feeding if he is to keep up his strength. But to come to
plain language, I am collecting subscriptions for a working-men's
coffee-house in Redbury--a British Workman they call it. You know, I
dare say, that two ruinous old houses of mine in the market-place are
being pulled down. Now, I am going to give the ground which one of them
stands on for the new coffee-house. It is a capital situation, just in
the centre of the town. I shall want funds, however, for the erection
of a new and suitable building, and also a few annual subscriptions to
keep the establishment going and pay the expenses of management, as I
don't suppose it will be self-supporting, at any rate not at first."
"Well," said the squire, "let me look at your subscription list, for I
see you have one with you. Ah, good! it is very generous of you to put
down your own name for so large a sum to the building fund, besides
giving the land. Put me down then for fifty pounds, and an annual
subscription of three guineas till the concern is self-supporting."
"May I look at the list?" asked Miss Huntingdon, when their visitor had
expressed his thanks to her brother. Having glanced at it, she also
signified her willingness to be a helper in the work, and gave the list
to Walter to return to the gentleman.
As her nephew was giving back the subscription list, he paused for a
moment to run his eye over the names of the contributors. "Ah!" he
said, "I see your own sons down, Mr Johnson, for a guinea a piece. I
wish I could afford to follow their example."
"Perhaps, after all, you can," said the gentleman, smiling. "I am sure
it does young people good to practise a little self-denial in helping on
a good cause like this."
"I don't doubt that, sir," replied Walter, "but I am ashamed to say that
self-denial of that sort is not much in my line. But, then, I am not a
man of independent fortune like my brother Amos here. Ask him, pray.
He has, or ought to have, lots of spare cash, and he is always on the
look-out to be doing good with it." There was a tone of sarcasm in his
voice which grated very painfully on Miss Huntingdon's ear. Amos
coloured deeply, but made no remark.
"What say you, my young friend?" asked Mr Johnson, in a kindly voice,
turning to him. "Your brother encourages me to hope that we may add
your name to the list."
The young man, thus appealed to, looked uneasy and embarrassed, and
then, in a few moments, said in an undertone, "I am sorry that just now
I am not in a position to add my name, but I shall be glad to do so when
I am better able."
Mr Johnson did not press the matter, but shortly left, having first
partaken of a little fruit which had been brought to him by the butler
while the conversation about the subscriptions had been going on.
It has already been said that the old man Harry was a privileged servant
of long standing, almost a portion of the estate, so that he was allowed
little liberties which would not ordinarily have been permitted to one
in his place. He had listened with burning cheeks and flashing eyes to
Walter's sneering remarks about his brother's wealth, and now lingered
near the group, as he was removing a little table on which he had placed
the fruit for Mr Johnson. There was a restlessness about his manner
which Miss Huntingdon noticed and wondered at; but her attention was
then drawn to Walter, who, lounging against a bench, said in a rather
drawling voice, "I really wonder what some people do with their money.
For my part, I don't see what's the use of it except to be jolly with it
yourself, and to make other people jolly with it.--Amos," he added
abruptly, "what's up with you that you've become so very poor all of a
sudden?"
To this Amos made no reply, but turned away to hide his vexation.
"My boy," said Mr Huntingdon, addressing his elder son, "I'm a little
surprised myself that you should be at all hard up. I quite expected
that you would have followed the example of Mr Johnson's sons, and have
put down your name. I think you could have afforded it."
Still Amos did not reply, but seemed hesitating what to say. But here
Walter broke in again. "I call it downright mean!" he exclaimed
bitterly; "but he's getting meaner and meaner, that he is. What he does
with his money nobody knows. I suppose he spends it in religious
pocket-handkerchiefs and pious bed-quilts for the little niggers in
Africa, or something of the sort. At any rate, he has none to spare for
those nearer home." He was about to say more, but happening to raise
his eyes he was astonished to see the old butler, who had been slowly
drawing nearer and nearer, raising his right arm, and looking at him
almost fiercely, as though he were going to strike him.--"What's up now,
Harry?" he cried; "is the black cat dead?"
The old man's appearance now attracted every one's attention. He had
drawn himself up to his full height, and had turned so as to confront
Mr Huntingdon, who was sitting with his sister by his side on a garden
bench facing the house. His snow-white hair gave him ordinarily a
venerable appearance, and this was now increased by the look of intense
earnestness which glowed in his every feature. His back was to Amos,
who, noticing that the old man was evidently about to speak under the
pressure of some unusual excitement, half rose to his feet, but too late
to stop old Harry's purpose.
"Master," said the old man, in a voice hoarse with emotion, "hear me; if
it's to be for the last time, you must hear me. I can't hold in no
longer; so it's no use, come what may."
Mr Huntingdon, struck with amazement at this speech of the old
domestic, could only exclaim, "Well!" while his sister and Walter looked
on and listened in mute wonder.
"Master," continued the old man, "you must hear me this once, if I'm to
be turned away this blessed night for what I'm a-going to say. I've
been hearing Master Amos called by Master Walter mean about his money,
and I can't stand it, for I knows better."
Here Amos sprang forward, and coming in front of Harry, strove by
gesture and whispered remonstrance to stop him; but the other shook his
head, and motioned his young master back.
"It's of no manner of use, Master Amos," he cried; "I must and will
speak--the time's come for it. _I_ know why Master Amos can't afford to
subscribe: 'tain't because he hasn't got the will; 'tain't because he's
been spending it on himself, or sending it to the niggers, though he
might be doing worse with it than that. His money goes to keep dear
Miss Julia as was--bless her little heart!--from want; and it goes, too,
to keep a home for her little ones, and one on 'em's a girl, and she's
as like what her blessed mother was at her age as one lamb's like
another. O master, master! if you loved Miss Julia as was as I love
her, and as Master Amos loves her, though she has married a vagabond of
a husband, and had the door of her home closed agen her for ever for it,
and oh, if you'd but a touch still of the dear Saviour's forgiving love
towards your own flesh and blood, you couldn't blame Master Amos for
doing as he's doing, if you only knew too how he's been a-sacrificing of
himself, and bearing the shame and scorn all the while without a murmur.
There, master, I've had it out. And now I suppose I must pack up and
be off for good; but it don't matter. I couldn't keep it in, so there's
an end of it."
The effect of this speech on all the members of the party was
overwhelming, though in different ways.
Mr Huntingdon's face turned deadly pale, and then flushed fiery red.
He half rose from the bench on which he was sitting, and then sank back
again and buried his face in his hands. Then he started up, and
muttering something hoarsely, rushed into the house, and was not seen
again by the family that night. Next morning, before breakfast, his
sister received a hasty note from him, merely stating that he was
leaving home, and should not return that day, and perhaps not for a few
days.
The old butler's disclosure was also most trying to Miss Huntingdon by
its suddenness. Not that she was unprepared for it altogether, for
quiet observation of Amos had made her sure that he had some noble and
self-denying work in hand, and that probably it might have something to
do with the welfare of his sister, whom she knew that he dearly loved.
She was grieved, however, that the old butler had blurted out the secret
in such an abrupt manner, and at the terrible distress which the
unexpected revelation had caused her brother.
As for Amos, he was ready to sink into the earth with dismay and
vexation. All he could do was to look up reproachfully at Harry, who,
now that the explosion had burst forth, and had driven his master
apparently almost out of his senses, looked round him with an utterly
crestfallen air, and then, coming up to Amos, said, while the big tears
rolled rapidly down his cheeks, "Oh, dear Master Amos, you must forgive
me. I didn't go for to do it with no bad meaning; but I couldn't bear
it no longer. I daresay the master 'll turn me off for it, so I shall
be punished if I've done wrong."
And how felt Walter? He was utterly crushed for a time beneath the old
man's words. All the truth flashed upon him now. And this was the
brother whom he had been holding up to ridicule and accusing of
meanness. As thoughts of shame and stings of conscience stabbed into
his heart with their thousand points, he sank down lower and lower to
the ground till he had buried his face in the grass, sobbing
convulsively. Then, before Amos could reply to the old butler's pitiful
apology, he sprang up, and flinging his arms round his brother's neck
and hiding his head in his bosom, wept for a time as if his heart would
break. At last he looked up at Amos, who had pressed him close to him
and had lovingly kissed him, and cried out, "Was there ever such a
beastly, ungrateful sneak of a brother as I am? Here have I been
calling Amos all sorts of names, and treating him worse than a dog, and
he's been acting like a hundred thousand moral heroes all the time! Can
you forgive your cowardly snob of a brother, Amos dear?"
There was no reply to this but another long and close embrace.
As for old Harry, his face calmed down into its usual peacefulness. He
no longer waited for any reply from his young master, but turned towards
the house with a smile beaming all over his countenance, and saying half
out loud, "All's well as ends well. There'll be good come out of this
here trouble as sure as my name's Harry."
When he was fairly gone, both nephews drew close to their aunt, and took
each a hand as they sat one on either side of her. Smiling at Walter
through happy tears, she said, "I cannot cross my hands, you see, for my
dear nephews have each got possession of one."
"But they _ought_ to be crossed," said Walter in a low, sad voice.
"Not _now_, dear boy," she replied; "I think we may let bygones be
bygones, for surely better and brighter days are coming."
"I hope so, aunt," said Walter, now more cheerily, "But you must give me
the example for all that; for you have one to the purpose, I know."
"Yes," was her reply, "I think I have, and I will tell it because it may
help to confirm you in keeping on the right side that new leaf which I
feel sure you are now turning over."
"Ah, tell it me then, auntie; if it shames me a hit it will do me no
harm."
"My hero then, this time, did not look much like one at the time when he
displayed his heroism. He was a poor schoolboy, a Christ's Hospital
lad."
"What! one of those who go about without hats, in long coats and yellow
stockings?"
"Yes, the same. Charles Lamb, who tells the story, which is a true one,
was himself one of these Bluecoat boys. Among his schoolfellows was
this boy, my present moral hero. He was dull and taciturn, and no
favourite with the other lads; but no one could bring any charge of
improper conduct against him. There was one thing, however, about him
which none of the other boys could understand. He always lingered
behind all the rest after dinner was over, and came out of the dining-
hall hiding something under his dress, and looking about him
suspiciously. What did it mean? Had he an unnaturally large appetite,
so that he was led by it to steal food and eat it by himself after the
meal was over? At any rate, if it was so, his extra provision did not
improve his personal appearance, for he was still thin and hungry-
looking.
"Some questioned him roughly on the subject, but they could get nothing
out of him. He stopped for a while the practice which had drawn
attention to him, but resumed it again when he thought that curiosity
had died out, and that he could follow his old ways unobserved. But
there were boys on the watch, and at last it was fairly ascertained that
the poor lad used to gather, as far as he had opportunity, scraps of
meat, pieces of fat, and fragments of bread and potatoes, which had been
left on the boys' plates. These he collected and carried off. But
then, what did he do with them? It was not likely that he ate them.
No. Then he must sell them when he went home, for his parents lived in
London, and he was a day boy. No doubt he disposed of them to people
who were ready to give a few pence for refuse food, and thus the little
miser was making money in this mean and underhand way. When this
conclusion had been arrived at, the whole school was in a state of
boiling indignation against the culprit.
"They might have taken the law into their own hands, and have punished
him in their own rough and ready way. But no; his conduct was too
shameful for that. It was looked upon as a serious disgrace to the
whole school. So the case was duly reported to the masters, and by them
to the governors. Witnesses were examined, and the offence proved. And
now, what was the defence of the poor lad? He had borne shame, scorn,
reproach, reviling; he had borne them all patiently, without murmur,
without resentment. What, then, was the reason for his strange conduct?
what motive or inducement could make him thus brave the scorn and
contempt, the daily jeers, and the cut direct from his schoolfellows?
All was soon made plain. This boy's parents were old and very poor--so
poor, helpless, and friendless that they were often brought to the verge
of starvation. In those days, remember, there was not the same
attention paid to the poor of all classes, nor loving provision made for
their wants, as there is now. So the noble son--for truly noble he
was--submitted cheerfully to every trouble and shame that could fall
upon himself, in order to get food from time to time for his almost
famishing parents. They were too respectable to beg, and would have
never allowed their boy to beg for them; and yet so destitute were they
that they were even glad of those miserable scraps, the after-dinner
leavings on the boys' plates. And these their son gathered for them,
indifferent to the consequences which might happen to himself, while at
the same time he added a portion of his own daily food to supply the
wants of the old people.
"Ah! this was true moral courage, dear Walter; and it was all the
greater and nobler because it was exercised in such humble elements, as
it were--I mean under circumstances where there was everything to
degrade and nothing to elevate the poor boy in the eyes of his
schoolfellows."
"I see, aunt," said Walter, sadly and thoughtfully. "Yes, they called
him mean, and shabby, and selfish, and frowned and scowled at him, when
all the while he was most nobly denying himself, and bearing all that
trouble that he might help those who were dearer to him than his good
name with his schoolfellows. Ay, I see it all; and it's just a case in
point. That's just what I've been doing to my own dear noble brother,
who has been sacrificing himself that he might help poor Julia and her
little ones. And it has been worse in my case, because those Bluecoat
boys had perhaps no particular reason to think well of the other chap
before they found out what he had been driving at, and so it was natural
enough that they should suspect him. But it's been exactly the reverse
with me. I've had no reason to suspect Amos of anything but goodness.
All the baseness and meanness have been on my own part; and yet here
I've been judging him, and thinking the worst of him, and behaving
myself like a regular African gorilla to him.--Dear Amos, can you really
forgive me?"
Hands were clasped tightly across Miss Huntingdon's lap, and then Amos
asked, "And what was done to the poor boy?"
"Oh," replied his aunt, "the governors of course acquitted him of all
blame, and not only so, but rewarded him also, and, if I remember
rightly, proper provision was made for the poor parents of the noble
lad."
"Bravo! that's right," cried Walter with a sigh of relief. "Well, I
don't like making big promises, but I do think I mean it when I say that
Amos shall not have an ungenerous or reproachful word from me again."
"And so," said Miss Huntingdon with a smile, "good will come out of this
evil, and it will turn out one of those `all things' which `work
together for good to those who love God.'"
And Walter strove bravely to keep his word, and in the main succeeded.
Old Harry began, on the day after he had made the unlooked-for
disclosure, to pack up his things and make preparations for his
departure, feeling fully persuaded that, on his master's return, he
should receive his instant dismissal. However, when Mr Huntingdon came
home, two or three days after the explosion, not a word was said about
the butler's leaving; indeed, if anything, his master's manner was
kinder to him than usual, but not the slightest reference was made on
either side to what had passed. With Amos, however, it was different.
His father would scarcely speak to him beyond the coldest salutations
morning and evening. The poor young man felt it keenly, but was not
surprised. He could now open his mind fully to his aunt, and did so,
and his own convictions and judgment agreed with her loving counsel that
he should wait in trust and patience, and all would be well.
CHAPTER TWELVE.
PROGRESS.
Mr Huntingdon's conduct toward Amos was a great grief to his sister,
but she felt that she must not openly interfere, and that she could only
do her best to make up to her nephew, as far as was possible, for his
father's coldness, and look for brighter times, which she felt sure were
coming, though as yet scarcely the faintest streak of dawn could be seen
on the horizon. The old butler also was a great comfort to his young
master, being most anxious to do everything in his power to undo any
evil consequences which his own abrupt outspeaking might have brought
upon Amos. So he encouraged him to persevere in his great purpose, with
all his might, assuring him that things would come nicely round in time.
Amos shook his head sadly, for he was naturally of a desponding turn;
he could see at present little but clouds and thorns before him. Not
that he wavered in his purpose for a moment, or had the least thought of
holding back from the work he had set his hand to, even for a time. But
his father's harshness and manifestly abiding displeasure towards
himself he found very hard to bear. Nevertheless he was comforted by
the reiterated affirmations of Harry that things were coming nicely
round.
"Take my word for it," said the shrewd old man; "I knows the old master
and his ways better than you do, Master Amos, though you're his son and
I ain't. But I've knowed him years longer than you have. Now he's
displeased with you; but I'll tell you who he's more displeased with,
and that's just his own self. I don't mean no disrespect to your
father, Master Amos--he's as kind-hearted a gentleman and as good a
master as ever was, only a bit hasty sometimes; but then, which on us
ain't got faults of our own enough and to spare? But I'm sure of this,
he has never been fairly satisfied with keeping the door shut agen dear
Miss Julia as was, and he won't _be_ satisfied, depend on it, till she's
back again--I know it. You see, though there was a reg'lar flare up
when I spoke up for you the other night, he has never said a word of
blame to me on the subject; and for why? I'll tell you--it's just
because he knows and feels down in his heart of hearts as I were _not_
to blame. But he must be angry with somebody--'taint pleasant to be
angry with one's own self; he's never been used to be angry with Master
Walter; 'tain't no use being angry with Miss Huntingdon, 'cos she'd look
the fiercest man as ever lived into a good temper--the mere sight of her
face is enough for that, let alone her words. So master's just showing
his anger to you, Master Amos. But it won't last; it can't last. So
you just stick to your work, and I'll back you up all in my power, and
I'll keep my tongue inside my teeth for the future, if I possibly can."
As for Walter, he felt thoroughly ashamed of himself, and tried in many
ways to make up to his brother for his past unkindness, by various
little loving attentions, and by carefully abstaining from taunting and
ungracious speeches. This was very cheering to the heart of Amos, and
lightened his trial exceedingly; but he felt that he could not yet take
Walter fully into his confidence, nor expect him to join with him in a
pursuit which would involve much quiet perseverance and habitual self-
denial. For how were the banished ones to be brought back? What
present steps could be taken for their restoration? Any attempt to
introduce the subject of his sister's marriage and present position in
his father's presence he felt would, as things now were, be worse than
useless. Once he attempted to draw the conversation in that direction;
but Mr Huntingdon, as soon as he became aware of the drift of his son's
observations, impatiently changed the subject. On another occasion,
when Walter plunged headlong into the matter by saying at tea-time to
his aunt, "Eh! what a long time it is since we saw anything of Julia. I
should so like to have her with us again; shouldn't you, auntie?" his
father, striking his clenched fist on the table, and looking sternly at
his son, said in a voice trembling with suppressed anger, "Not a word
again on that subject, Walter, unless you wish to drive me out of my own
house." So Amos's great purpose, his life-work to which he had
dedicated himself, his means, his best energies, seemed hopelessly
blocked.
The great hindrance was, alas! in that father whose heart must be
touched and subdued before any effectual and really onward steps could
be taken. But this barrier seemed to become daily more formidable.
"What am I to do, Aunt Kate?" Amos said, when discussing the matter
with Miss Huntingdon in private; "what can I do now?"