calculated to stir to their depths the hearts of both the squire and his
sister, who looked at each other as those look who become suddenly
conscious of a common misfortune. A spell seemed on their tongues. At
last the silence was broken by Walter.
"Dear father! dear auntie!" he exclaimed, "whatever is the matter?"
"Matter enough, I fear," said his father sadly.--"There, Kate, let him
look at the letter."
Walter read it, and his eyes filled with tears. Busy thoughts chased
one another through his brain, and very sad and humbling thoughts they
were. He understood now much that had once seemed strange in Amos. He
began to appreciate the calm and deep nobility of his character, the
tenacity of his grasp on his one great purpose. He gave back the letter
to his father with downcast eyes, but without making any remark upon it.
And now, what was to be done? As soon as breakfast was over, the three,
by Mr Huntingdon's desire, met in the library. The letter was laid on
the table before them, and the squire opened the discussion of its
contents by saying to his sister, "What do you make out of this
miserable business, Kate?"
"Plainly enough," was her reply, "poor Julia is in great distress. I
gather that her cruel and base husband has been removing, or intending
to remove, her two children from Amos's charge, and that she is afraid
they will be utterly ruined if they continue in their father's hands.
Poor thing! poor thing! I pity her greatly."
Her brother did not speak for a while, but two big tears fell on his
daughter's letter, as he bent over it trying to conceal his emotion.
"And what do you think about it, my boy?" he said to his son, when he
had in some degree recovered his composure.
"Aunt Kate is right, no doubt," replied Walter, "but that is not all.
It strikes me that my sister wrote the first part of this letter of her
own head, but not the last. I should not wonder if that scamp of a
fellow her husband has found her out writing, and has forced her to add
the last words, intending to bring poor Amos into trouble some way or
other."
"I believe the boy is right," said Mr Huntingdon anxiously; "but then,
what is to be the next step?"
"Surely," said his sister, "you ought to send out some one immediately
to follow up Amos, and see that no harm comes to him."
"Well, I hardly know," replied her brother; "I don't think any one would
dare to do Amos any personal injury, and I don't see that it would be
anyone's interest to do so. The last time he was called away he
returned to us all right; and perhaps he may feel hurt if we do not let
him manage things in his own way, seeing he has so nobly taken upon
himself the cause of poor--poor"--he would have said "Julia," but he
could not get out the word--"my poor child." Here the squire fairly
broke down, covering his face with his hands.
"Shall we ask Harry," said his sister, when she could trust herself to
speak, "who brought this note for Amos? that mis-hit give us a little
bit of a clew if it should be necessary to go and find him out." Harry
was accordingly summoned and questioned. He had already made full
inquiries of the other servants, but none of them could throw any light
on the subject. No one about the premises knew anything about the
carrier of the letter. So it was resolved to wait, in hopes that either
Amos himself or, at any rate, tidings of him and of his movements would
arrive some time during the day. Hour, however, passed by after hour,
and no news of Amos came to gladden the hearts at the mansion; and when
darkness settled down, and nothing had been heard of the absent one, a
deep gloom pervaded the whole household. But of all hearts under that
roof during that long and weary night, none was so heavy as Mr
Huntingdon's. Memories of the past crowded in upon him; smitings of
conscience deeply troubled him. Had he acted a father's part towards
that erring daughter? should he have closed the door of home and heart
so fast, and kept it barred against her? was she not still his own flesh
and blood? and could he justify to himself the iron sternness which had
perhaps now driven her to despair? How could _he_ hope for mercy who
had shown neither mercy nor pity to one whose sinful disobedience and
folly could not make her less his child, though doubtless a sadly
misguided one? When morning came, Mr Huntingdon rose a wiser and a
humbler man. He poured out his heart in prayer for forgiveness of his
own many sins and shortcomings, and then came to a full determination to
deal very differently with Amos for the time to come, and to undo his
past treatment of his poor daughter as opportunity might be afforded
him.
And now we must leave for a while the party at the Manor-house in their
sadness and perplexity, and follow Amos Huntingdon himself. When he had
retired to his room on the night previous to his unexpected departure,
he was startled by hearing the sound of what seemed to be earth or small
pebbles thrown against his bedroom window. He paused for a few moments,
and the sound was repeated. Then he opened the window slowly, and
looking out, cried, "Who is there?"
All around, the snow lay thick on the ground. His room was on one side
of the house, and its window looked out on a flower-garden, so that any
one approaching the building from that side would not be liable to be
observed by the general inmates of the Manor-house. When Amos had asked
who was there, a short figure, partly muffled up in a cloak, rose from
where it had been crouching against the wall, and a man's voice said in
a loud whisper, "Is that you, Mr Amos?"
"What do you want with me at this hour?" was the reply.
"Ah! all right," rejoined the stranger; "here--catch this." Saying
which, he flung something up at the opening made by the raising of the
window. "A bad shot," said the mysterious person half out loud, and
with perfect coolness, as the thing he was throwing fell short of its
mark. "Try again." Suiting the action to the word, he a second time
aimed at the opening, and now with success. A small packet fell into
the room, and reached the floor with a "thud."
"All right; good-night," said the thrower with a chuckle, and soon
disappeared through the falling snow, which was now coming down thickly.
What could be the meaning of this strange performance? Was it some
foolish hoax or practical joke played off by Saunders or Gregson, or
some other of Walter's giddy and not over-considerate companions? He
almost thought it must be so, and that his brother had put them up to
the joke for some wild piece of fun, or to win some senseless wager.
Rather vexed at the thought, and not feeling over amiable towards the
missile, if such it was, which had come so unseasonably and so
unceremoniously into his chamber, he was half inclined at first to throw
it back through the window on to the snow. And yet, perhaps, he had
better see what it was. So he took it from the floor. It was a little
brown paper parcel, about three inches square, and very heavy for its
size. His curiosity was now excited. He opened the packet warily, lest
it should contain something explosive, such as might cause a report, not
dangerous in itself, but calculated to alarm the family. There was
nothing, however, of such a kind, but merely a flat piece of thick tile,
with a sheet of note-paper doubled round it.
Rather annoyed at the folly of the whole thing, he slowly unfolded the
paper, and opened it out. The writing struck him at once; it was his
sister's. The contents of the letter staggered him. That his sister
had written it there could be no doubt. That she was in grievous
trouble, and that her villainous husband had violated his pledge and was
removing the children out of his reach, was equally plain. The
appearance of the closing portion of the note puzzled him. He had his
misgivings about it. Had his sister's husband anything to do with it,
and with making the appointment on Marley Heath? It might or might not
be so. The changed appearance of the latter part of the writing might
only be the result of agitation or distress on his sister's part. But,
anyhow, what was the course that duty and brotherly love bade him now
take? A lonely meeting in the snow with a solitary horseman on Marley
Heath early in the morning did not read very pleasantly nor appear very
safe; and yet, could he leave his poor sister to her misery? If he
should do so, what evils might not follow? and what would come of the
great purpose to which he had dedicated his life and energies? Was this
a time for fear or shrinking back? No, surely. So he knelt down and
asked for guidance of him who is unerring Wisdom to every one of his
children. And then he retired to rest, and slept soundly till early
morning.
His mind was made up. Having written a few lines to his aunt, he made
his way quietly out of the house to the stable, and, mounting his own
faithful pony, sallied forth. He had, however, dropped his sister's
note by his own room door without being aware of it, and did not miss
it, for his mind was full of engrossing thoughts. It was a bright and
sparkling morning; the snow had been falling more or less for the last
few days, and had in some places formed deep drifts, as a strong wind
had been blowing from the north for some hours. But now all was calm
and bright for the present, though the distant horizon seemed to
threaten a further downfall before long.
Amos had clothed himself warmly, for the cold was now severe. His
great-coat, also, which he had gathered close round him, contained in
its ample pockets some cakes, oranges, and sweeties--a stock of which he
always kept on hand in his own room for the benefit of his niece and
nephew whenever he might happen to visit them at the cottage. On the
present occasion, it is true, he had no expectation of meeting the
children, but only their mother; but he brought these little luxuries
with him notwithstanding, as they might perhaps be welcome to his poor
sister, who was not likely to be furnished with more than the bare
necessaries of life by the man who, though bound to care for her
comfort, would no doubt wrench from her every penny he was able.
With noiseless tread, then, did Prince the pony carry his young master
along the dazzling white roads, shaking his ears and his head from time
to time, as though in wonder at what could have induced his owner to
bring him out so early. Amos had, however, not neglected the poor
animal, but had given him a good feed before starting, having himself
also made such an early meal as the pantry could provide him. So the
two jogged quietly on; and whatever misgivings the young man might have
from time to time, these were more than outweighed by the abiding
conviction that he was on the path of love and duty, and might therefore
expect to be guided and preserved by Him to whom he had committed his
cause. Still, there was something overawing in the solitude of that
early ride. Not a person did he meet as he threaded his way through the
lanes. The moon was some days past the full, and shone with almost
undiminished light on the sparkling crystals of snow. Spikes of hoar-
frost bristled on the branches of the trees, and here and there a long
gaunt group of icicles, dependent from an overhanging rock, gleamed and
flashed in the pale light as he passed along.
And now, when he had accomplished some three miles--which was about half
the distance to the heath--he emerged from a winding road which had led
him through a copse on to high ground, from which he had an almost
panoramic view of the surrounding country. He checked his pony and
looked about him. How exquisitely fair and pure was that landscape, one
vast expanse of spotless white! Not a breath of wind was now stirring,
and, struggling against the moonlight, the first flushes of a winter's
dawn crept up along the far-off eastern sky. Everything spoke of peace
and purity. God's hand had clothed the earth, the trees with a
stainless robe of majestic beauty studded with countless flashing gems.
Man's works were hidden or but dimly seen here and there, with all their
imperfections withdrawn from sight under that snowy veil. And man
himself was absent. An all-absorbing sense of the nearness of God stole
over the young traveller's heart, so deep, so unearthly as to be almost
painful, but, oh, so full of blessedness! What should make him afraid,
with God so near? And then there unfolded themselves to his memory the
words, "Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy
God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold
thee with the right hand of my righteousness." Amos bowed his head, and
remained wrapt for a while in holy and happy meditation.
But he had a work before him, and must move on. At last he reached
Marley Heath. Hitherto he had seen no human being, nor indeed any
living thing except a hare which once crossed his path. The heath was
extensive, and had many pathways through it. All, however, were now
more or less covered with snow, though here and there the wind had
exposed a bare spot, and a large pond on one side glowed in the light of
the now rising sun. Riding slowly across the wide common, Amos looked
for some time in vain for the person whom he was to meet, and it was
almost with a feeling of relief that he contemplated the possibility of
no one appearing. The air was sharp and clear now, and, as he gazed on
all sides, an inward shrinking from the proposed meeting came over him;
and then again the consciousness that he was on duty's path nerved him
for whatever might be before him. He had not long to wait. First he
heard the far-off faint barking of a dog, and in a few minutes
afterwards a horseman made his appearance coming up on to the heath from
the opposite quarter to that by which he himself had reached it. The
stranger was manifestly in no hurry, but allowed his horse, a big,
gaunt, and seedy-looking animal, to take its own time, which clearly was
not a very rapid one. The costume of the new-comer was in keeping with
the appearance of his steed, being ample but considerably the worse for
wear. As the two riders slowly approached each other, Amos recognised
his brother-in-law, Mr Orlando Vivian,--there could be no doubt about
it. A theatrical salute on the other's part was answered by Amos with a
quiet inclination of his head.
"Your servant, friend," then said Mr Vivian in a free and easy manner;
"a fine winter's morning you bring with you, though I think we shall
have more snow."
"Good morning," returned Amos, not knowing what else to say, and feeling
far from comfortable.
When they had remained facing each other for a minute, during which the
dark malicious eyes of the player sent a shudder through his companion,
the former said, "You are come to see your sister, I presume; at any
rate this meeting is clearly by appointment made for that purpose.
Shall we proceed?"
"Yes," replied Amos, but with some hesitation in his tone of voice.
"Ah, I understand," said the other; "you were expecting to be conducted
to a _tete-a-tete_. You didn't anticipate meeting a brother-in-law as
well as a sister,--is it not so?"
Amos hardly knew what to reply, for the bantering air and words of his
companion filled him with disgust and repugnance.--"Oh, I see it all--
it's perfectly natural," said Mr Vivian sarcastically; "but set your
mind at ease on that point, Mr Huntingdon. As soon as you reach the
house you will cease to be troubled with my company; nay, I shall not go
with you beyond the door."
"I am ready," said Amos calmly.
"Good, then follow me," said the other; and both descended from the
heath, and, striking at once out of the more frequented paths, made
their way through brier and brushwood till Amos had entirely lost all
knowledge of where he was. They had ridden thus about two miles when
they suddenly emerged on to some cleared ground, and then came to the
side of a large brick-field which had been for some time disused. At
one end of the field was a small two-roomed cottage substantially built
of rough stone. This had been inhabited formerly by a labourer and his
family, the man having been a sort of overlooker while the brick-making
was going on. Of course there was a standstill to the manufacture at
present, but, to the surprise of Amos, smoke was coming out of the
cottage chimney. He was surprised, because, as they rode close up to
the building, it looked the last place likely to have a tenant at the
present time. Its extreme loneliness also struck him, there being no
other building in sight anywhere. As they came just opposite to its
outer door, Mr Vivian turned to Amos, and said with a malicious smile,
"This, sir, is the house."
"This!" exclaimed the young man, indignant and horrified,--"this the
house where my poor sister lives!"
"Even so," was the reply; "any roof to cover you this severe season is
surely better than none."
"It cannot be," said Amos; but at that moment the door half opened, and
a woman's hand and part of her dress appeared. Then the door was
rapidly closed, and he heard from within the sound of weeping and
wailing. "It must be so, then," he exclaimed sadly, and proceeded to
dismount.
"Don't trouble about your pony," said the player, "I will look after
him. Give me the bridle." Amos did so, and was entering by the low
massive door, when to his astonishment a female figure pushed past him
into the open air. Then the door was closed upon him, thrusting him
forward into the building, while Vivian cried out with a laugh, "_Au
revoir, mon ami_--farewell for the present!" The next moment the door
was locked, and some heavy weight jammed against it. What could it all
mean?
Utterly overwhelmed with dismay, Amos stood for a while as though
chained to the spot. Then, opening a door which divided the outermost
apartment from the other room, he entered the latter and looked round
him. No one was there, neither man, woman, nor child. The walls were
very thick, and the room was lighted by a large leaded casement which
would open, but there were stout iron bars which would make it next to
impossible for any one to get into the cottage that way or escape from
it. A fire of wood burned on the hearth, and a small pile of logs was
heaped up against the wall near it. On a rough square oak table lay a
huge loaf of bread, a considerable mass of cheese, and a quart jug of
milk. There was neither chair nor bed in the place. Hurrying into the
outer room, Amos found that it was dimly lighted by a very narrow little
window, which even a dog could scarcely creep through. There were no
upstairs rooms in the cottage. And thus Amos found himself basely
entrapped and taken prisoner. And what for? For no good purpose he
felt fully assured. He threw open the casement of the inner room and
looked out. There was his late companion riding slowly off, and by his
side, mounted on his own pony Prince, a female figure. Could that be
his sister? and, if so, whither was she going? and what was their
purpose, or his wretched betrayer's purpose, with him?
Miserably bewildered, and much cast down, he knelt him down by the table
and poured out his care in prayer. That he was in the power of an
utterly unscrupulous villain was plain enough,--and what, then, could he
do? He had brought with him a small pocket New Testament, with which
the Psalms were also bound up, for he had hoped to have read from it to
his sister words that might have been of use and comfort to her. But
that was not to be. However, he turned over the leaves, and his eyes
fell on a verse which he had often read before, but never with so much
happy thankfulness as now: "What time I am afraid, I will trust in
thee."
"Ah, yes," he said aloud, "these words are just sent to me now. _I
will_ put my trust in Him, for he knows where I am and what errand I am
on, and I know that he will deliver me out of this trouble."
Calmed by these thoughts, he once more looked round him. There was a
shelf by the fire-place which he had not noticed before. Something lay
on it; it was a small desk. Perhaps it belonged to his sister, and
might throw some light on his difficulties. He took it down and placed
it on the table. The key was in the lock. He opened it, and his eye
fell at once on an envelope directed, "Amos Huntingdon, Esquire," but
not in his sister's hand. Having undone the envelope, he drew out its
contents. These consisted of a note and a blank cheque. The note was
as follows:--
"Dear Brother-in-Law,--You have money, and I have none. I want money
very much, and you can spare it. I enclose a blank cheque, which I have
managed to procure from your bankers. Please fill it up for a hundred
pounds. I am sorry to trouble you, but `necessity has no law,' as the
old proverb says. I shall call to-night at the window for the cheque.
You will find pen and ink in the desk. Pardon my little bit of
eccentricity in bringing you here. When I have got the cheque you will
soon be at liberty again, and none the worse, I trust, for your short
captivity. I don't wish to proceed to extremities with a relation, but
the money I _must_ have. Only let me get the cheque, and then, as the
poet says, `My native land, good-night;' I shall trouble you and yours
no more.--Your affectionate brother-in-law, Vivian."
The cool audacity of this letter was perfectly staggering to Amos. And
yet there was no mistaking the writer's meaning and intentions. It was
plain that the reckless adventurer was resolved to extort money from his
wife's brother, whom he had succeeded in entrapping, and that
remonstrance would be of very little avail with such a character. That
the wretched man would do him serious bodily injury Amos did not think
probable, but that he would use any pressure short of this seemed
tolerably certain. On thinking it over, the young man came to the
conviction that his unhappy relation, being hard up for money, and
intending probably to go abroad with the help of this hundred pounds,
had compelled his sister to write the latter part of her letter, and had
then employed some unprincipled female associate to act as his
confederate. No doubt he had calculated that it might be a day or two
before Amos's friends would become alarmed at his absence, and probably
a day or two more before they discovered his prison, especially as the
snow would make it more difficult to trace him. In the meantime he
trusted to be able so to play upon the fears of Amos, and to wear him
out by scanty food and rough lodging, that, sooner than continue in such
durance, he would sign the cheque for the amount demanded.
Such was the view that Amos took of the matter, and now came the
question what he was to do. He had money enough at his bankers to meet
the cheque, and no doubt his father would help him when he knew all the
circumstances; but then, was it right to give the man this money? Was
he justified in doing so, and thus encouraging a villain in his
villainy? The more he thought the matter over, the more firmly he
became persuaded that, so long as his own life was not seriously
threatened and endangered, he ought to hold out against this infamous
demand, and be ready to endure days of privation, suffering, and
loneliness, rather than give in to what he was persuaded would be wrong-
doing. After much thought and prayer, he came to the decision that he
would not give the cheque, but would leave it to God to deliver him, how
and when he pleased.
Perfectly calmed by this act of self-committal into his heavenly
Father's keeping, he sat down by the fire on a seat which he had raised
by piling some of the logs together, and prepared for a long spell of
waiting. Whatever others might think, he was sure that his aunt would
not be content to let more than one night pass without sending out to
seek for him, and by this assurance he was greatly comforted. His
bread, cheese, and milk, carefully husbanded, would last him two or
three days, and for anything beyond that he did not feel it needful to
take any forethought.