the room, or sat by the flickering logs, which threw out but a moderate
degree of heat. His frugal meals were soon despatched, and at last
evening came. He had tried the bars of his window more than once, but
his utmost exertion of strength could not shake one of them. No; he
must abide in that prison until released from without. And then he
thought of noble prisoners for conscience' sake,--Daniel, and Paul, and
Bunyan, and many a martyr and confessor,--and he felt that he was
suffering in good company. It was just getting dusk when there came a
rap at the window. He opened the casement. The face of his cruel
jailer was there.
"The cheque," said Mr Vivian, with what was meant to be a winning
smile. "Your pony is close by, and I will let you out in a minute. The
cheque, if you please."
"I cannot give it," was the reply.
"Indeed!" said the other, raising his eyebrows, and displaying fully the
evil light of his wicked eyes. "Ah! is it so? Well, if you like your
fare and your quarters so well that you are loath to leave them, it is
not for me to draw you away from such sumptuous hospitality and such
agreeable society. Farewell. Good-night. I will call to-morrow
morning, in the hopes that a night's rest in this noble mansion may lead
you to arrive at a different conclusion. Pleasant dreams to you." So
saying, with a discordant chuckle he left the window, and the poor
prisoner had to make the best of the situation for the night.
Adding another log to the fire, and wrapping his great-coat together for
a couch, with the upper part raised over two or three logs for a pillow,
he resigned himself to rest, and, much to his surprise, slept pretty
soundly till daybreak. His morning devotions over, and his scanty
breakfast eaten, he waited for the return of his brother-in-law with
very mingled feelings. About nine o'clock he appeared, and greeted Amos
with the hope that he had passed a good night and felt quite himself
this morning. Amos replied that he was thankful to say that he had
slept as well or better than he expected, and that he only wished that
his brother-in-law had had as soft a pillow to lie on as himself had
enjoyed.
"Dear me," said the other sneeringly, "I was not aware that the
establishment was provided with such luxuries. Pray, of what materials
may this pillow of yours have been made?"
"Of the promises of God," said Amos solemnly; "and I can only regret,
Mr Vivian, that you will not abandon those ways which God cannot bless,
and seek your peace and happiness, as you may do, in your Saviour's
service. Why should you not? He has a place in his loving heart for
you."
"Is the sermon over, Mr Parson?" asked the other with a snarl. "Oh,
very good; and now, let us come to business again. What about the
cheque? Is it ready?"
"I cannot give it," was Amos's reply. "I should be wrong to give it. I
should only be encouraging evil, and that I dare not do."
"Be it so," said the other; "then, remember, you must take the
consequences."
"I am in God's hands," replied Amos, "and am prepared to take them."
"Good again," said his persecutor. "Once more, then, I come. This
night, before sunset, I must have the cheque, or else you must abide the
consequences."
No more was said, and the young man was again left to his solitude. Had
he done right? Yes; he had no doubt on the subject. And now he must
prepare himself for what might be his lot, for he had no thought of
changing his resolution not to sign the cheque. Having fortified
himself by spreading out his case before the Lord in prayer, and
strengthened himself physically by eating and drinking a small portion
of his now nearly exhausted provisions, he once more examined every
place through which it might be possible for him to make his escape, but
in vain. Last of all he looked up the chimney, but felt that he could
not attempt to make his way out in that direction. He must just wait
then; and he turned to some of those promises in the Psalms which are
specially encouraging to those who wait, and a strange, unearthly peace
stole into his heart.
Noon had passed, but not a sound broke the stillness except the drip,
drip from the roof, for a thaw had set in. Three o'clock came. What
was that sound? Was the end nearer than he expected? Had his brother-
in-law, in his impatience, come earlier than he had said? No. There
was the welcome tone of a young voice crying out to some one else. Then
Amos sprang to the window, and, opening the casement, shouted out. In a
few moments Walter's face met his brother's. "Here he is! here he is!"
he screamed out. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" Old Harry came round to the
barred window, and, lifting up his hands and eyes, exclaimed, "The Lord
be praised!" Then followed rapid questionings. But to these Amos
replied, "You shall know all by-and-by; but now I must ask you to set me
free. I am a prisoner here. The only outside door is locked, and I
cannot undo it; and these bars, which I have tried in vain to force,
have prevented my escape this way."--"All right," said his brother.
"Come along, Harry."
The two went round to the door and shook it, but to no purpose. A heavy
log had also been jammed down against it. This, by their united
strength, they with difficulty removed. Again they tried to wrench open
the door, but without effect, for it was a huge and ponderous structure,
and they could make nothing of it. "Harry must ride over to the nearest
village and fetch a blacksmith," said Walter, when he had returned to
the window. "Tell him to be quick then, and to bring two or three men
with him, for there is danger before us. I cannot tell you more
now."--"I'll tell him," replied his brother; and the old servant
departed with all speed on his errand. Then Walter came back to the
window, and talked long and earnestly with Amos, telling him of the deep
concern felt by his aunt and father on account of his prolonged absence.
"But," he added, "I'm not going to tell you now how we found you. We
will keep that till we get home, and then shan't we have a regular pour
out?"
Wearied at last with waiting, Walter began to make another assault on
the front door. It was now getting a little dusk, and he was hoping for
Harry's return with the men; so, as he said, partly to see what he could
do by himself, and partly to keep himself warm, he proceeded to shower
upon the stubborn oak a perfect hail of blows and kicks. He was in the
very thick of this performance when he was suddenly made aware that a
horseman was close to him. He therefore stopped his exciting
occupation, and looked round. The horseman was tall, and of a very
sinister expression of countenance, with piercing black eyes. He was
also rather fantastically but shabbily dressed.
"What is all this noise about, young gentleman?" asked the stranger.
"Why are you battering my property in that wild fashion?"
"Because," replied Walter, rather taken aback by this question, "my
brother has been fastened in here by some scoundrel, and I want to get
him out."
"You must be dreaming, or mad, my young friend," said the rider; "who
would ever think of making a prisoner of your brother in such a place?"
"It's a fact for all that," replied Walter. "He's in there, and he must
be got out. I've sent for a blacksmith and some men from the nearest
village to burst open the door, and I expect them here directly."
"I can save them that trouble," said the other. "I keep a few odd
things--implements and things of that sort--in this cottage of mine, and
if by some strange accident your brother has got locked in here, I shall
be only too happy to let him out." So saying, he dismounted, and,
having hung his horse's bridle over a staple projecting from the stone
wall, produced a large key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door, and
threw it wide open.
Walter rushed in and flung his arms round his brother, who gazed at him
in some bewilderment, hardly expecting so speedy a release. Then both
came to the outside of the building. The stranger had remounted; and
then, looking the brothers steadily in the face, he made a low bow, and
with the words, "Good-evening, gentlemen; I wish you a safe and pleasant
journey home," turned round, and trotted briskly away.
"Did you notice that man's face?" asked Amos of his brother in a half
whisper. "Should you know it again?"--"Anywhere all the world over,"
was the reply.--"Ah, well," said the other, "I shall have strange things
to tell you about him." The next minute Harry and his party came in
sight, and, on arriving at the cottage, were astonished and not
altogether pleased to find the prisoner at liberty without their
assistance. However, the pleasure expressed by Harry, and a little
present from Walter, as a token of thankfulness for their prompt
appearance, sent them all home well content. And now Amos had to
prepare for his return.
"You shall have my pony," said Walter, "and Harry and I will ride
doublets on the old mare."
To this Amos having assented--"What has become of poor Prince?" he
asked. "Does any one know?"
"All right," said Walter; "Prince is safe at home in the stable. He
must have a sack of corn all to himself, for when he came in he was
ready to eat his head off. You shall hear all about it."
Having duly clothed himself, Amos was about to mount the pony, when,
bethinking himself, he turned back, and secured and brought away the
desk, believing that it might possibly be of use in the way of evidence
by-and-by. Then all set off, and in due time reached Flixworth Manor,
to the great joy of Mr Huntingdon and his sister, and also of many a
tenant and neighbour, who were lingering about, hoping for news of the
lost one. The first congratulations over, and dinner having been
partaken of, at which only a passing allusion was made to the trouble
which had terminated so happily, Mr Huntingdon, his sister, and the two
young men drew round the drawing-room fire, while Amos gave them a full
and minute account of his strange and distressing adventure.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
MORAL MARTYRDOM.
When Amos had finished the account of his singular and painful
imprisonment, while all united in an expression of their deep
thankfulness, there remained a heavy cloud on the face of Mr
Huntingdon. At last he said, slowly and sadly, "And this unmitigated
scamp calls our poor Julia wife."
"It is so, dear father," said Amos in reply; "but may we not hope that
he will take himself away to America or Australia before long? That
seems to be what he has in view, for clearly he has made this country
too hot to hold him."
"I only hope it may be so," rejoined Mr Huntingdon, "for it is a
miserable business, look at it which way you will."
"Yes," said Walter; "but I am persuaded that my sister was frightened by
the man into writing the last part of that letter;--don't you think so,
Amos?"
"Yes," replied his brother, "I certainly do. He has been plotting this
scheme in order to get me into his power; and when he found that by your
coming he had failed in his object, he made the best of matters for
himself by pretending to be the owner of the cottage, and to be in
ignorance of what had happened to me. And now you must tell me how you
found me, and how poor Prince found his way back."
Walter looked up to see if his father or aunt would give the account,
and then, when neither spoke, he plunged at once into his narrative.
"You must know, then, that we were all much distressed and perplexed
when my father showed us the letter, Amos, which you accidentally
dropped, and which we should none of us have read under ordinary
circumstances. We knew that you felt it to be your duty to go to poor
Julia; but we none of us liked the last part of the letter, and I am
sure I can say truly that I had my grievous suspicions from the very
first. However, when we got the news of your having set off to this
meeting, we could not have prevented it, even if we had thought it right
to do so; it would have been too late then. But we did not think it
would have been right; and auntie comforted us with the assurance that
God would take care of you, as you were gone on a work he must approve
of. So we waited patiently--or, as far as _I_ was concerned,
impatiently--all day, and went to bed with heavy hearts when you did not
turn up, and we had heard nothing of you. But father reminded us how
you had been absent once before for the night, when you had been
summoned to look after those poor children, and that you had come back
all safe; so we hoped that we should see you this morning early, or at
any rate before luncheon.
"And who do you think was our first messenger? Ah! you will hardly
guess. Why, none other than Prince, your pony. We were sitting at
breakfast very dull, and imagining all sorts of things, when Harry
hurried into the room, as white as if he had just seen a ghost, and
cried out, `Master, master! here's Prince come back all alone, and never
a word about poor dear Master Amos!' You may be sure this did just
upset us all, and no mistake. I was out in the stable-yard in a moment,
and there was Prince sure enough, and all the servants round him; and
they had got a stable bucket with some corn in it, and he was devouring
it as though he had been starved for a week. `And where's your master,
Prince?' I said. The poor animal only whinnied, but seemed almost as
if he understood my question. As for Harry, who had joined me in the
yard, he could only blubber out, `Eh! he's done for, sure enough.
They've been and gone and murdered him, and haven't had even the good
feeling to send us back his lifeless corpse. Whatever shall we do?'
`Nay, Harry,' I said, `it hasn't come to that yet; we must go and look
after him, and bring him back; he'll turn up all right, I
daresay.'--`The Lord grant it,' said the dear old man.
"Well, you may be sure we were all in a pretty state, and at our wits'
end what to do. Father set off at once for the police station, and
Harry and I started at the same time for Marley Heath."
Here Miss Huntingdon interposed, and said, "And I ought to tell you,
dear Amos, that when your father was feeling a little anxious about
Walter's going, lest he too should fall into some snare or difficulty,
your brother would not hear of any one else taking his place, and rushed
away saying, `It would be a privilege to suffer anything for such a
brother as Amos.'"
"Auntie, auntie!" cried her nephew remonstratingly, "you mustn't tell
secrets; I never meant Amos to know anything about that."
There was a brief silence, for all the party were deeply moved, and the
two brothers clasped hands eagerly and lovingly. Then Walter continued:
"So Harry took the old mare, and I took my pony, and we set off soon
after breakfast, and got in a little time to Marley Heath; and I can't
say I felt very warm to the place, and certainly it didn't _look_ very
warm to me. `What's to come next?' I said to Harry. `Well,' he said,
`we must make inquiries.' That was all easy enough to say, but who were
we to make inquiries of? The only living thing about was an old donkey
who had strayed on to the heath, and was trying to get a mouthful of
something off a bare patch or two; and as we came up he stared at us as
though he thought that we were bigger donkeys than he was for coming to
such a place at such a time. It wasn't much use looking about, for
there was nothing to guide us. We tried to track your pony's footmarks,
but as there had been more snow in the night, and it had now set in to
thaw, we could see nothing anywhere in the way of footmarks to trust to.
Certainly it was a regular puzzle, for we hadn't the slightest idea
which way to turn. `Well, Harry?' I said. `Well, Master Walter?' he
said in reply; but that didn't help us forward many steps. `Let us ride
on till we get to some house where we may make inquiries,' I said. So
we set off, and after a bit came to a farm-house, and asked if any one
had seen two people on horseback about, that day or the day before,
describing Amos as one. No; they had seen no such riders as we
described, therefore we had to trot back to the heath again. `Well,
Harry?' I said again. `Well, Master Walter?' he replied; and we stared
at one another like two--well, I hardly know what to say, but certainly
not like two very wise men. So we rode about, first in this direction,
and then in that, till we began to be fairly tired.
"It was now getting on for luncheon time, so we made for a farm-house,
got some bread and cheese and milk, and a feed for our horses, and then
set out again; and weary work we had. At last I was almost giving up in
despair, and beginning to think that we had better go home and try some
other plan, when, as we were passing near a copse, we saw a tall figure
slouching along through the melting snow. The man did not see us at
first, but when he looked round and made out who we were, he began to
quicken his pace, and strode along wonderfully. There was no mistaking
him; it was Jim Jarrocks, the fellow who won my sovereign in that
foolish match on Marley Heath. Jim evidently had rather we had not met,
for he had a couple of hares slung over his shoulder, which he could not
well hide. However, there was no help for it, so he put a bold face on
the matter, and touched his hat as I overtook him, and said, `Your
servant, Mr Walter; I hope you're well.' Of course I did not think
anything about the hares then, I was too full of Amos; so I asked him if
he had seen Amos alone, or with another horseman. `No, sir,' he
replied, `I've not; but I'll tell you what I've seen. Last night I
found Mr Amos's pony, Prince, about a mile from here; he was saddled
and bridled, and had broke loose somehow or other, it seemed. So, as in
duty bound, I got on him, and rode him over to the Manor-house, and
fastened him up in the stable-yard; for it was late, and I didn't like
to rouse anybody.'--`All right, Jim,' I said; `Dick found him when he
went to the stables this morning. But whereabouts was it that you found
him?'--`Well, it's a queer and awkward road to get to it,' he said; `but
I can show you the way.'--`And is there any house near where you found
Prince?' I asked.--`House! no; nothing of the kind,' said he, `except
the brickmaker's cottage, about a mile further on.'--`And no one lives
in that cottage, I suppose?'--`No; and hasn't done for months past;'--
then he stopped all of a sudden, and said, `By-the-by, there was smoke
coming out of the chimney of that cottage as I passed it last night;
that was strange anyhow.'--`Well, then, Jim,' I said, `there may be some
one in it now, and we can find out if they've seen anything of my
brother. Just put us in the way to the cottage; there's a good
man.'--`By all means,' he said, and strode on before us for about a
mile, and then pointed up a winding lane. `There,' he cried; `keep
along that lane till you come to an open field, and you'll soon see the
cottage; you can't miss it, for there isn't another anywhere about.
Good afternoon, sir.' And away he went, evidently glad to get off with
his hares as speedily as possible. The rest does not take much telling.
We soon came to the cottage, and discovered dear Amos, and encountered
that miserable man who has treated him so cruelly. Ah! well, it's been
a good ending to a bad beginning."
"Thank you, my dear brother," said Amos warmly; "it was well and kindly
done. Yes, God has been very good in delivering me out of my trouble,
and specially in making you, dear Walter, the chief instrument in my
deliverance."
"I only wonder," said his brother, "that the wretched man did not make
off with the pony."
"No," said Amos; "that might have got him into trouble with the police,
if they had found the pony in his possession, or had he sold it to
anybody. No doubt, when he found the first night that I would not give
him the cheque, he just turned the pony adrift, so that, whether he made
his way home or any one found him, there would be no clue to the person
who had entrapped me."
"I see it all!" cried Walter. "But now we must finish up with a word on
moral courage, with an illustration by dear auntie.--Yes, Aunt Kate, you
see our hero Amos; you see how he has been ready to make a regular
martyr of himself, and surely that is real moral courage."
"Indeed it is so, dear Walter," said Miss Huntingdon; "and you were
right in calling your brother's courage a species of martyrdom, for the
spirit of a true martyr has been well described as `a readiness to
suffer the greatest evil rather than knowingly to do the least.'"
"Capital, auntie! And now, if father is willing, give us an example."
Mr Huntingdon having gladly given his consent, his sister spoke as
follows:--
"My moral hero this time is a real martyr, and a young one. In the
spring of the year 1555, a youth, named William Hunter, entered the
church of Brentwood, in Essex, to read in the great Bible which stood
there chained to a desk for the use of the people. He was an apprentice
to a London weaver, but was now on a visit to his native town. He loved
the Bible, and it was his joy to read it. As he stood before the desk,
a man named Atwell, an officer of the Romish bishop, came that way, and,
seeing how he was engaged, remonstrated with him, and then said, when
the young man quietly justified himself, `I see you are one who dislike
the queen's laws, but if you do not turn you will broil for your
opinions.'--`God give me grace,' replied William, `to believe his word
and confess his name, whatever may come of it.'
"Atwell reported him; he was seized, and placed in the stocks. Then he
was taken before Bishop Bonner, who, finding him resolute, ordered him
again to the stocks; and there he lay two long days and nights, without
any food except a crust of brown bread and a little water. Then, in
hopes of subduing his spirit, Bonner sent him to one of the London
prisons, with strict orders to the jailer to put as many iron chains
upon him as he could possibly bear; and here he remained for three-
quarters of a year. At last the bishop sent for him and said, `If you
recant, I will give you forty pounds and set you up in business.' That
was a large sum in those days. But William rejected the offer. `I will
make you steward of my own house,' added Bonner. `But, my lord,'
replied the young man, `if you cannot persuade my conscience by
Scripture, I cannot find in my heart to turn from God for the love of
the world.' `Then away with him to the fire!'
"He was to suffer near his native town. There was no prison in the
place, so William Hunter was confined in an inn, and guarded by
constables. His mother rushed to see him, and his words to her were,
`For my little pain which I shall suffer Christ hath procured for me a
crown of joy; are you not glad of that, mother?' On the morning when he
was to die, as he was being led from the inn, his father sprang forward
in an agony of grief, and threw his arms round him, saying, `God be with
thee, son William.' His son looked calmly at him and said, `God be with
you, father. Be of good comfort; I trust we shall soon meet again where
we shall rejoice together.' When he had been secured to the stake, a
pardon was offered him if he would recant. `No,' he said, `I will not
recant, God willing.' When the fire was lighted, and the flames began
to rise, he threw a book of Psalms, which he still held in his hands,
into the hands of his brother, who had followed him to the place of
death. Then his brother called to him and said, `William, think on the
sufferings of Christ, and be not afraid.'--`I am not afraid,' cried the
young martyr. `Lord, Lord, receive my spirit.' These were his last
words. The dry fagots burned briskly, and in a few minutes his
sufferings were at an end for ever.
"Here, surely, dear Walter, was moral courage of the highest order.
William Hunter was very young; life was sweet; he had loving parents.
All the neighbours loved him for his gentle piety. A few words spoken
would have saved him from imprisonment, hunger, bitter suffering, and a
cruel death; but he would not by a single act or a single word save
himself, when by so doing he would be acting against his conscience,
much as he loved his home, his parents, and his people."
Walter clapped his hands with delight when his aunt had finished, and
exclaimed, "Nothing could be better, Aunt Kate; it suits our hero Amos
to a T. Yes, for he would suffer anything rather than get his liberty
by doing or promising to do what he believed to be wrong. Thank you,
dear aunt; I have learned a lesson which I hope I shall never forget."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
WALTER TO THE RESCUE.
The day after his return home Amos sought his father in the library.
Mr Huntingdon's manner to him had become so much more warm and
affectionate, that he now ventured on a course which a few days before
he could not have brought himself to adopt.
"Father," he said, "can you spare me a few minutes? I have something on
my mind which I feel that I ought to consult you about."
"Sit down, sit down, my dear boy; what is it?" said his father.