much, `What can I do now?' as, `What must I do next?' Now it seems to
me that the next thing is just prayerfully and patiently to keep your
great purpose in view, and to be on the watch for opportunities, and God
will give success in due time.--Ah, here comes Walter." She repeated to
him what she had just been saying to his brother, and then continued,
"Now here we may bring in moral heroism; for it is a very important
feature in moral courage to wait steadily watching for opportunities to
carry out a noble purpose, and specially so when the way seems
completely, or to a great extent, hedged up."
"Examples, auntie, examples!" exclaimed Walter.
"You shall have them," she implied. "I have two noble heroes to bring
before you, and they both had the same glorious object in view, and went
steadily on in their pursuit of it when everything before them looked as
nearly hopeless as it could do. My two heroes are Clarkson and
Wilberforce.
"I daresay you remember that there was a time when slaves were as much
property and a matter of course in our own foreign possessions as they
were a short time since in the Southern States of America. So
completely was this the case, that when a slave was brought to England
by one of our countrymen, he was considered his master's absolute
property. However, this was happily brought to an end more than a
hundred years ago. A slave named Somerset, who had been brought by his
master to this country, fell ill, and his master, thinking that he would
be of no more use to him, turned him adrift. But a charitable
gentleman, Mr Granville Sharp, found him in his wretched state, had
pity on him, and got him restored to health. Then his old master,
thinking that now he would be of service to him, claimed him as his
property. This led to the matter being taken up; a suit was instituted;
and by a decision of the Court of King's Bench, slavery could no longer
exist in England. That became law in 1772. The poet Cowper has some
beautiful lines on this subject:--
"`Slaves cannot breathe in England: if their lungs
Receive our air, that moment they are free;
They touch our country, and their shackles fall.
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then,
And let it circulate through every vein
Of all our empire, that, where Britain's power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.'
"Still, we could hold, and did hold, slaves to a large extent in some of
our colonies. Now the great object of Clarkson and Wilberforce was to
get slavery abolished throughout the British dominions all the world
over; in other words, that it should not be lawful for a slave to exist
as a slave in any of our possessions. But they had a hard and steady
fight for years and years in pursuit of their great object. Patience,
faith, calm courage, perseverance, these were the noble constituents of
their moral heroism. Thomas Clarkson, from youth to manhood, from
manhood to old age, devoted himself unreservedly to the one great
purpose of obtaining freedom and justice for the oppressed negro. His
work was to collect information, to spread it on all sides, to agitate
the question of the abolition of slavery throughout the United Kingdom
and the world. William Wilberforce's place in the work was different.
His part was to introduce Clarkson's plans to the notice of Parliament,
and to advocate them with his wonderful eloquence, and to persevere in
that advocacy with untiring zeal and love. When he called the attention
of the House of Commons to the question of the slave-trade in 1788 he
was met by the most determined opposition. Men's worldly interests were
arrayed in arms against the abolition. The traffic in slaves brought
millions of money to the British coffers. So the case appeared for a
time to be hopeless. But this made no difference to Wilberforce--his
courage never failed; his resolution never wavered; year after year he
brought forward the subject, and, though he experienced eleven defeats
in his endeavours to carry the measure, at last he triumphed. And the
result was the termination of slavery in the British dominions in August
1834, and that, too, at a cost to the country of twenty millions of
money as compensation to those who, at the time, were holders of
property in slaves. All honour to Clarkson and Wilberforce, for theirs
was a noble victory, a grand result of the unwavering, unflinching moral
courage of those two moral heroes."
"A thousand cheers for them, auntie!" cried Walter. Then turning to his
brother, he added, "So you see, Amos, you must not lose heart; indeed, I
know you won't. Things will come nicely round, as Harry said. My
father, I am sure, will understand and appreciate you in time; and I
shall have to erect a triumphal arch with flowers and evergreens over
the front door, with this motto in letters of gold at the top, `Amos and
moral courage for ever.'"
"I don't know," said his brother rather sadly; "I trust things may come
round as you say. But anyhow, I mean, with God's help, to persevere;
and it is a great happiness for me to know that I have the sympathy of
my dear aunt and brother."
Not many days after this conversation, when the family were at
breakfast, Mr Huntingdon asked Walter when the steeplechase was coming
off.
"Three weeks to-morrow, I believe," replied his son. "By-the-by, I
think I ought to mention that Saunders wants me to be one of the
riders."
"You!" exclaimed his father in astonishment.
"Yes, father; he says I am the best rider of my age anywhere round, and
that I shall stand a good chance of coming in at the head of them."
"Very likely that may be the opinion of Mr Robert Saunders," replied
the squire; "but I can only say I wish you were not quite so friendly
with that young man; you know it was he who led you into that scrape
with poor Forester."
"Ah, but, father, Bob wasn't to blame. You know I took the blame on
myself, and that was putting it on the right shoulders. There's no harm
in Bob; there are many worse fellows than he is."
"But perhaps," said Miss Huntingdon, "he may not be a very desirable
companion for all that."
"Perhaps not, auntie.--Well, father, if you don't mind my riding this
time, I'll try and keep a little more out of his way in future."
"I think you had better, my boy; you are not likely to gain much either
in reputation or pocket by the acquaintance. You know it was only the
other day that he helped to let you in for losing a couple of sovereigns
in that wretched affair on Marley Heath; and one of them was lost to
about the biggest blackguard anywhere hereabouts. I think, my boy, it
is quite time that you kept clear of such things."
"Indeed, father. I almost think so too; and, at any rate, you won't
find me losing any more sovereigns to Jim Jarrocks. But I'm almost
pledged to Saunders to ride in this steeplechase. It will be capital
fun, and no harm, and perhaps I may never have another chance."
"I had rather you didn't," said his father; "anyhow, your friend
Saunders must find you a horse for I am not going to have one of mine
spoilt again, and your own pony would make but a poor figure in a
steeplechase."
"All right, father," replied Walter, and the conversation passed on to
another subject.
The three weeks came and went; the steeplechase came off, and Walter was
one of the riders. The admired of all eyes, he for a time surmounted
all difficulties. At last, in endeavouring to clear an unusually wide
ditch, he was thrown, and his horse so badly injured that the poor
animal had to be shot. Walter himself, though stunned and bruised, was
not seriously hurt, and was able to return home in time for dinner.
The party had assembled in the drawing-room, all but Mr Huntingdon.
Five minutes--ten--a quarter of an hour past the usual time, but the
squire had not made his appearance. At last his step was heard rapidly
approaching. Then he flung the door hastily open, and rushed into the
room, his face flushed, and his chest heaving with anger. Striding up
to Walter, he exclaimed: "So this is the end of your folly and
disobedience. You go contrary to my orders, knowing that I would not
have you take part in the steeplechase; you ruin another man's horse
worth some three hundred guineas; and then you come home, just as if
nothing had happened, and expect me, I suppose, to pay the bill. But
you may depend upon it I shall do nothing of the sort."
No one spoke for a few minutes. Then Walter stammered out that he was
very sorry.
"Sorry, indeed!" cried his father; "that's poor amends. But it seems
I'm to have nothing but disobedience and misery from my children."
"Dear Walter," said his sister gently, "are you not a little hard upon
the poor boy?"
"Hard, Kate?--poor boy?--nonsense! You're just like all the rest,
spoiling and ruining him by your foolish indulgence. He's to be master,
it seems, of the whole of us, and I may as well give up the management
of the estate and of my purse into his hands."
Miss Huntingdon ventured no reply; she felt that it would be wiser to
let the first violence of the storm blow by. But now Amos rose, and
approached his father, and confronted him, looking at him calmly and
steadily. Never before had that shy, reserved young man been seen to
look his father so unflinchingly in the face. Never, when his own
personal character or comfort had been at stake, had he dreamt of so
much as a remonstrance. He had left it to others to speak for him, or
had submitted to wrong or neglect without murmuring. How different was
it now! How strange was the contrast between the wild flashing eyes of
the old man, and the deeply tranquil, thoughtful, and even spiritual
gaze of the son! Before that gaze the squire's eyes lost their fire,
his chest ceased to heave, he grew calm.
"What's the meaning of this?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
"Father," said Amos slowly, "I am persuaded that you are not doing full
justice to dear Walter. I must say a word for him. I do not think his
going and riding in the steeplechase was an act of direct disobedience.
I think your leave was implied when you said that at any rate he must
not look to you for a horse. I know that you would have preferred his
not going, and so must he have known, but I do not think that he was
wrong in supposing that you had not absolutely forbidden him."
"Indeed!" said Mr Huntingdon dryly and sarcastically, after a pause of
astonishment; "and may I ask where the three hundred guineas are to come
from? for I suppose the borrowed horse will have to be paid for."
"Father," said Walter humbly, and with tears in his eyes and a tremor in
his voice, "I know the horse must be paid for, because it was not
Saunders's own; he borrowed it for me, and I know that he cannot afford
the money. But it's an exaggeration that three hundred guineas; the
horse was really worth about a hundred pounds."
"It makes no matter," replied his father, but now with less of
irritation in his voice, "whether it was worth three hundred guineas or
one hundred pounds. I want to know who is going to pay for it, for
certainly _I_ am not."
"You must stop it out of my allowance," said Walter sorrowfully.
"And how many years will it take to pay off the debt, then, I should
like to know?" asked his father bitterly.
Again there was a few moments' silence. But now Amos stepped forward
once more, and said quietly, "Father, I will take the debt upon myself."
"_You_, Amos!" exclaimed all his three hearers, but in very different
tones.
Poor Walter fairly broke down, sobbing like a child, and then threw
himself into his brother's arms and kissed him warmly. Mr Huntingdon
was taken quite aback, and tried in vain to hide his emotion. Miss
Huntingdon wept bright tears of gladness, for she saw that Amos was
making progress with his father, and getting nearer to his heart.
"There, then," said her brother with trembling voice, "we must make the
best of a bad job.--Walter, don't let's have any more steeplechases.--
Amos, my dear boy, I've said I wouldn't pay, so I must stick to it, but
we'll make up the loss to you in some way or other."
"All right, dear father," replied Amos, hardly able to speak for
gladness. Never for years past had Mr Huntingdon called him "dear."
That one word from his father was worth the whole of the hundred pounds
to him twice over.
The squire had business with one of the tenants in the library that
evening, so his sister and her two nephews were alone in the drawing-
room after dinner.
"Aunt," said Walter, "look at my hands; do you know what this means?"
His hands were crossed on his knees.
"I think I do," she replied with a smile; "but do you tell me yourself."
"Why, it means this,--_I_ am going to bring forward for our general
edification an example of moral courage to-night, and my hero is no less
a person than Martin Luther; and there is _my_ Martin Luther." As he
said this he placed his hand on his brother's shoulder, and looked at
him with a bright and affectionate smile. "Yes, he is my Martin Luther:
only, instead of his being brought before a `Diet of Worms,' a very
substantial _diet_ of fish, flesh, and fowl has just been brought before
_him_; and instead of having to appear before the Emperor Charles the
Fifth, he is now appearing before Queen Katharine the First of Flixworth
Manor."
Both his hearers laughed heartily and happily; then he added: "Now I am
going to trot out my hero--nay, that word `trot' won't do; I've had too
much of both trotting and galloping lately. But what I mean is, I want
to show you what it is that I specially admire in my hero, and how this
exactly fits in with my dear hero-brother Amos. Ah! I see he wants to
stop me, but, dear Aunt Kate, you must use your royal authority and back
me up; and when I have done, you can put in what notes and comments and
addenda and corrigenda you like, and tell me if I have not just hit the
right nail on the head.
"Very well; now I see you are all attention. Martin Luther--wasn't he a
grand fellow? Just look at him as he is travelling up to the Diet of
Worms. As soon as the summons came to him, his mind was made up; he did
not delay for a moment. People crowded about him and talked of
_danger_, but Luther talked about _duty_. He set out in a waggon, with
an imperial herald before him. His journey was like a triumphal
procession. In every town through which he passed, young and old came
out of their doors to wonder at him, and bless him, and tell him to be
of good courage. At last he has got to Oppenheim, not far from Worms,
and his friends do their very best to frighten him and keep him back;
but he tells them that if he should have to encounter at Worms as many
devils as there were tiles on the houses of that city, he would not be
kept from his purpose. Ah! that was a grand answer. And then, when he
got to his lodgings, what a sight it must have been! They were crowded
inside and out with all classes and all kinds of persons,--soldiers,
clergy, knights, peasants, nobles by the score, citizens by the
thousand. And then came the grand day of all, the day after his
arrival. He was sent for into the council-hall. What a sight that must
have been for the poor monk! There was the young emperor himself,
Charles the Fifth, in all his pomp and splendour, and two hundred of his
princes and nobles. Why, it would have taken the breath out of a dozen
such fellows as I am to have to stand up and speak up for what I knew to
be right before such a company. But Luther did speak up; and there was
no swagger about him either. They asked him to recant, and he begged
time to consider of it. They met again next day, and then he refused to
recant, with great gentleness. `Show me that I have done wrong,' he
said, `and I will submit: until I am better instructed I cannot recant;
it is not wise, it is not safe for a man to do anything against his
conscience. Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise. God help me. Amen.'
There, auntie, don't you agree with me in giving the crown of moral
courage to Martin Luther? It's an old story, and I've learned it quite
by heart, for I was always fond of it, but it is none the less true on
that account."
"Yes, Walter, clear boy," replied his aunt, "I must heartily agree with
you, and acknowledge that you have made a most excellent choice of a
hero in Martin Luther. Not a doubt of it, he was a truly great and good
man, a genuine moral hero. For a man who can be satisfied with nothing
less than what is real and right; who is content to count all things
loss for the attainment of a spiritual aim, and to fight for it against
all enemies; who does his duty spite of all outward contradiction; and
who reverences his conscience so greatly that he will face any
difficulty and submit to any penalty rather than do violence to it, that
is a truly great man, exhibiting a superb example of moral courage. And
such a man, no doubt, was Martin Luther; and I believe I can see why you
have chosen him just now, but you must tell me why yourself."
"I will, Aunt Kate. You see we are in Worms now. This is the council-
hall; before dinner to-day was the time of meeting; and my dear father
was in his single person the august assembly. Amos, the best of
brothers to the worst of brothers, is Martin Luther. He might have kept
himself to himself, but he comes forward. It is the hardest thing
possible for him to speak; if he had consulted his own feelings he would
have spared himself a mighty struggle, and have left his scamp of a
brother to get out of the scrape as best he could. But he stands up as
brave as a lion and as gentle as a lamb, and looks as calm as if he were
made of sponge-biscuits instead of flesh and blood. He ventures to
address the august assembly--I mean my father--in a way he never did in
all his life before, and never would have done if he had been speaking
for himself; but it was duty that was prompting him, it was love that
was nerving him, it was unselfishness that made him bold. And so he has
shown himself the bravest of the brave; and I hope the brother for whom
he has done and suffered all this, if he has any shame left in him, will
learn to copy him, as he already learned to respect and admire him.
There, Aunt Kate, I've been, and gone, and said it."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
PERPLEXING.
Many months had rolled by since Amos had undertaken to pay for the horse
which his brother had unhappily ruined in the steeplechase. Mr
Huntingdon never alluded to the matter again, but the difference in his
manner towards his elder son was so marked that none could fail to
observe it. There were both respect and affection in his voice when he
addressed him, and the poor young man's naturally grave face lighted up
as with a flood of sunshine when his father thus spoke to him. Miss
Huntingdon, of course, rejoiced in this change with all her heart.
Walter was as pleased and proud at it as if some special honours were
being conferred on himself. And old Harry--it was a sight worth seeing
to observe the old servant when his master spoke kindly to Amos: what
with winking and nodding, opening wide his eyes, lifting his eyebrows,
rolling his tongue about, and certain inward volcanic mutterings, all
constituting a little bit of private acting for his own special and
peculiar benefit, it might have been thought by those who did not know
him that something had been passing at the moment causing a temporary
derangement of his digestive organs. But Miss Huntingdon, as she marked
his mysterious conduct, was perfectly aware that it simply meant an
expression on his part--principally for the relief of his own feelings,
and partly also to give a hint to those who might care to know how he
felt in the matter--that things were "coming round nicely," and that Mr
Amos would get his proper place and his rights given him in the family,
and would in due time accomplish his great purpose.
Amos himself began to be much of the same opinion, and was greatly
touched by receiving a cheque from his father for a hundred pounds one
morning, with the assurance that he did not wish him to be out of pocket
on Walter's account, while at the same time the squire neither mentioned
the steeplechase himself nor allowed Amos to refer to it. The money was
now his own, he remarked, and the less said about where it was going to
the better.
A new year had now begun, and deep snow lay around the Manor-house. The
family party had assembled at breakfast, all except Miss Huntingdon and
Amos. The former at last appeared, but there was trouble on her brow,
which Walter, who loved her dearly, instantly noticed.
"Auntie dear," he asked, "what's amiss? I'm sure you are not well this
morning."
"I am a little upset, dear boy," she replied, "but it is nothing
serious."
"I hope not, Kate," said her brother. "But where is Amos?"
"Well, Walter," replied his sister, "that is just it. I have a note
from him this morning asking me to excuse him to you; that duty has
called him away, and that I shall understand in what direction this duty
lies. I can only hope that nothing serious is amiss; but this I am
quite sure of, that Amos would never have gone off in this abrupt way
had there not been some pressing cause."
Mr Huntingdon did not speak for a while, his thoughts were evidently
troubling him. He remembered the last occasion of his son's sudden
absence, and was now well aware that it had been care for his poor
erring child's neglected little ones that had then called Amos away.
Perhaps it might be so now. Perhaps that daughter herself, against whom
his heart and home had been closed so long, might be ill or even dying.
Perhaps she was longing for a father's smile, a father's expressed
forgiveness. His heart felt very sore, and his breakfast lay untasted
before him.
As for Walter, he knew not what to say or think. He dared not speak his
fears out loud lest he should wound his father, whose distress he could
not help seeing. He would have volunteered to do anything and
everything, only he did not know exactly where to begin or what to
propose. At length Mr Huntingdon, turning to the old butler, who was
moving about in a state of great uneasiness, said, "Do you know, Harry,
at what hour Mr Amos left this morning?"
"No, sir, not exactly. But when Jane came down early and went to open
the front door, she found the chain and the bolts drawn and the key
turned back. It was plain that some one had gone out that way very
early."
"And when did you get your note from Amos, Kate?" asked her brother.
"My maid found it half slipped under my door when she came to call me,"
was the reply.
"And is there nothing, then, to throw light on this sudden and strange
act on Amos's part?" asked the squire.
"Well, there is," she answered rather reluctantly. "My maid has found a
little crumpled up sheet of paper, which Amos must have accidentally
dropped as he left his room. I don't know whether I ought to have taken
charge of it; but, as it is, the best thing I can do is to hand it to
you."
Mr Huntingdon took it from her, and his hand shook with emotion as he
glanced at it. It was a small sheet of note-paper, and there was
writing on two sides in a female hand, but the lines were uneven, and it
seemed as though the writer had been, for some reason or other, unable
to use the pen steadily. Mr Huntingdon hesitated for a moment. Had he
any right to read a communication which was addressed to another? Not,
surely, under ordinary circumstances. But the circumstances now were
not ordinary; and he was the father of the person to whom the letter was
addressed, and by reading it he might take steps to preserve his son
from harm, or might bring him out of difficulties. So he decided to
read the letter, and judge by its contents whether he was bound to
secrecy as to those contents or no. But, as he read, the colour fled
from his face, and a cold perspiration burst out upon him. What could
the letter mean? Was the writer sane? And if not, oh, misery! then
there was a second wreck of reason in the family; for the handwriting
was his daughter's, and the signature at the foot of the paper was hers
too. With heaving breast and tearful eyes he handed the letter to his
sister, whose emotion was almost as distressing as his own as she read
the following strange and almost incoherent words:--
"Amos,--I'm mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He
will take them both away. He will ruin us all, body and soul."
Then there was a break. The words hitherto had been written in a steady
hand; those which followed were wavering, as though penned against the
will of the writer, and under fear of some one standing by. They were
as follows:--
"Come to me early to-morrow morning. You will see a man at the farther
side of Marley Heath on horseback--follow him, and he will bring you to
me, for I am not where I was. Come alone, or the man will not wait for
you, and then you will never be seen again in this world by your
wretched sister,--Julia."