must ask you to excuse my absence for a day or two, or perhaps even
more. You are aware now that I have taken upon myself, for the present
at any rate, the charge of my poor sister Julia's little children. And
I may also say, as I suppose I ought not to conceal the state of things
from you, that her miserable husband has left her utterly destitute, so
that I am doing what I can to keep her from want. The man has deserted
her more than once; and more than once, when he returned and found money
in her possession, he forced it from her. So I have placed what I can
spare for her in the hands of a thoroughly trustworthy and Christian
woman with whom she lodges, and through this good landlady of hers I see
that she does not want such necessaries and comforts as are essential to
her health."
He was proceeding with his explanation, but was checked by the deep
emotion of Mr Huntingdon, who, resting his head between his hands,
could not restrain his tears and sobs. Then, springing up from his
seat, he clasped Amos to him, and said, in a voice almost choked by his
feelings, "My dear, noble boy! and I have misunderstood, and
undervalued, and treated you with harshness and coldness all this time!
Can you forgive your unworthy father?"
Poor Amos! Such a speech from his father almost stunned him for the
moment. At last, recovering himself, he cried, "O father, dear father,
don't say such a thing! There is not--there cannot be anything for me
to forgive. And, oh! the kindness you have shown me the last few days
has made up a thousand times for any little trouble in days gone by."
"You are a dear good boy to say so," replied Mr Huntingdon, kissing him
warmly. "Well, now tell me all."
"You see, dear father," continued Amos when they were again both seated,
"I am afraid, from poor Julia's letter, that she is in some special
trouble. It is true that the latter part of her letter looks very much
as if the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the first part is
clearly written as she herself felt. I have the letter here. You see,
she writes,--`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.'
So far the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no doubt what it
means. That vile man has been ill-treating her, and has threatened to
take the children from under my charge, though he pledged his honour to
myself a short time back that he would not remove them; but, of course,
the honour of such a man is worth nothing."
"Yes; I see it all," said the squire with a sigh; "but what can be done?
I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the children as their
father, and to poor Julia too, as she is his wife."
"True, father; but it will never do to leave her as she is; and I cannot
bear the thought of those dear children being left to the tender mercies
of such a man."
"Well, and where is your poor sister herself at this time?" asked Mr
Huntingdon.
"There, again, I am in a difficulty," said Amos. "When I first got to
know how my dear sister was situated, and where she was living, she made
me promise that I would not let any one know where the place was, and
specially not you. I suppose she was afraid that something would be
done against her husband, whom she had a great affection for, if our
family knew where she lived; and she also indulged, I grieve to say,
much bitterness of feeling towards yourself, which I have done my best
to remove. So she would not hear of my telling any one where she is
living; and indeed she has moved about from place to place. But I am
still under the promise of secrecy."
"Well," said his father, with a sigh, "I will not of course ask you to
break your word to her; but better times will come for her, poor thing,
I hope."
"I hope so too, dear father. But you will understand now, I feel sure,
why I wish to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things are
really going on with her and with the poor children."
"But will it be safe for you to go?" asked his father anxiously. "Will
not that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily harm?"
"I am not afraid, father. My own opinion is that the unhappy man will
not remain long in this country; and that, after what has happened these
last two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom to keep as clear of me
as possible."
"Perhaps so; but I must say I don't like the thoughts of your going
alone on such an expedition, after what has already happened."
"Nay, dear father, I believe I ought to go. I believe that duty calls
me; and so I may expect that God will take care of me."
"Well, go then, my boy; and, see, take these two ten-pound notes to your
poor sister. It is not fair that all the burden should fall upon you.
These notes will at any rate keep her from want for a time; she can put
them into safe keeping with her landlady. And tell her"--here his voice
faltered--"that they are sent her with her father's love, and that there
is a place for her here in her old home still."
"Oh, thank you, thank you, dear father," cried Amos; "you _have_ made me
glad!"
"Yes," continued the squire, "tell her that from me; yet, of course,
that does not include _him_."
"Oh no! I thoroughly understand that," replied his son; "and I see, of
course, many difficulties that lie in the way; but still, I believe that
brighter and happier days are coming for us all."
"May it be so, my dear boy," said the other, again drawing him closely
to him. "It will not be _your_ fault, at any rate, if they do not
come."
So that morning Amos left on his work of love.
He had not been gone many minutes, when Walter knocked at his aunt's
door. "Aunt Kate," he began, when he had seated himself at her feet, "I
want your advice about a little scheme of mine. It's a good scheme, and
perhaps a little bit of moral courage on my part will come out of it."
"Well, my dear boy, let me hear it."
"Father, I know, has been talking to you about Amos," he went on; "all
about his noble and self-denying conduct towards my poor dear sister,
and that he is going, in consequence of that horrid letter, to see her
and those children of hers. I gather this partly from a few words I had
with Amos before he started. But then, nobody knows where Julia lives,
and nobody knows what that scamp of a fellow may be up to against my
dear good brother."
"Yes, Walter," said his aunt, "I understand all that; and I must say
that I feel a little anxious about your brother, though I know that he
is in better hands than ours."
"Well, auntie, shall I tell you what I have thought of?"
"Do, dear boy."
"If father will let me, I should like to go and keep guard over Amos
till he comes back."
"But how can you do that?" asked Miss Huntingdon. "You said just now
that no one knows where your poor sister lives except Amos himself; and
it would hardly do for you to overtake him, if that could be done, and
join yourself to him whether he would or no."
"No, Aunt Kate, that is not my idea. Now, though nobody but Amos knows
where Julia lives, I think I know."
"What do you mean?" asked the other, laughing.
"Why, just this. I don't know properly. I'm not supposed to know, and
so I take it for granted that I don't know; and yet really I believe I
do know."
"My boy, you speak in riddles."
"Ah yes, Aunt Kate, I do; and I see you will never guess the answers to
them, so you must give up, and I will tell you. You know that for some
time now it has been Amos's place to unlock the post-bag of a morning
and give out the letters. The other day, however, he made a mistake,
and threw me two which were really directed to him. I gave them back to
him, and I saw him turn red when he saw the mistake he had made. I
couldn't help noticing the post-mark at the time, and I thought I knew
the handwriting on one of the envelopes. The post-mark was the same on
each. I am sure now that one was directed by my sister; I know her
handwriting well, for I have two little hymns in my desk which she wrote
out for me before--before she left us, and I often look at them. And
so, putting two and two together, I believe the other was most likely
directed by the person in whose house she is living."
"And what was the post-mark?"
"Ah, auntie, I don't think I ought to tell, not even you. It seems like
a breach of confidence towards Amos, though it really is not. At any
rate, I am not sure that he would like me to tell."
"Quite right, my dear Walter; I had no idle curiosity in asking; and if
Amos wishes it still to be a secret, of course you ought not to disclose
it."
"Thank you, auntie, for looking at it in that light. Now it can be no
breach of confidence on my part to go over to that place from which the
letters came, as shown by the post-mark, and just keep my eyes and ears
open, and see if I can get within sight or hearing of Amos without
making myself known. I would not intrude myself into my poor sister's
house if I can find it out, but I would just keep a bit of a watch near
it, and look if I can see anything of that miserable man who has given
us so much trouble; and then I might be able to give him a little of my
mind, so as to induce him to take himself clean off out of the country.
At any rate, I would watch over Amos, that no harm should come to him.
What do you think?"
"Well, dear boy," replied his aunt, "it is very generous of you to make
such a proposal, and good might come out of your plan; but what will
your father say to it?"
"Ah, that's the point, auntie. I must get you to persuade him to let me
go. Tell him how it is--tell him I'll be as prudent as a policeman, or
a stationmaster, or any one else that's particularly prudent, or ought
to be; and, if I don't find Amos where I imagine he will be, I'll be
back again before bed-time to-morrow."
Miss Huntingdon spoke to her brother, and put Walter's scheme before
him; but at first he would not hear of it. "The boy must be crazy," he
said; "why, he's not fit to be out all by himself on such an errand as
this. That scoundrel of a man might be getting hold of him, and no one
knows what might happen then. It's absurd,--it's really quite out of
the question."
"Don't you think, Walter," replied his sister calmly, "that God, who has
put such a loving thought into the heart of Walter, will keep him from
harm? Would it be right to check him when he is bent on such a work?
Besides, as to the wretched and unhappy man who has caused all this
trouble, are not such characters, with all their bluster, commonly
arrant cowards when they find themselves firmly confronted?"
"Perhaps so, Kate. Well, send Walter to me."
"My boy," exclaimed the squire, when Walter made his appearance, "what
wild scheme is this? Why, surely you can't be serious?"
"Indeed I am, father. You needn't be afraid for me. It was not my own
thought,--I'm sure it was put into my mind; besides, it will be capital
fun just having to look after myself for a night or two, and a little
roughing it will do me good."
"And where do you intend to sleep and to put up, I should like to know?"
asked Mr Huntingdon, half seriously and half amused.
"Oh, I'll find a shakedown somewhere; and I'm sure to be able to get
lots of eggs and bacon and coffee, and I could live on them for a week."
"And I suppose I am to be paymaster," said his father, laughing.
"Oh no, father, not unless you like. I've a sovereign still left; I'll
make that pay all, and I must do without things till I get my next
quarter's allowance."
"Very well, my boy; but hadn't you better take Harry or Dick with you?"
"O father! take old Harry! why, I might as well take the town-crier. Oh
no, let me go alone. I know what Amos would say if it were he that was
in my place; he would say that we may trust to be taken care of while we
are in the path of duty.--May I go, then, father?"
"Well--yes," said Mr Huntingdon, but rather reluctantly; and then he
said, "But how shall I be sure that you haven't got into any trouble?
for I understand from your aunt that you make it a point of honour not
to let us know where you are going to."
"All right, father: if I don't turn up some time to-morrow afternoon,
I'll manage to send a letter by some means or other."
After luncheon Walter set out on his self-imposed expedition, on his own
pony, with a wallet strapped behind him which Miss Huntingdon had taken
care should be furnished with such things as were needful. His father
also thrust some money into his hand as they parted. And now we must
leave him as he trots briskly away, rather proud of his solitary
journey, and follow his brother, who little suspected that a guard and
protector was pursuing him in the person of his volatile brother Walter.
The little town to which Amos leisurely made his way was about twenty
miles from Flixworth Manor. It was one of those exceedingly quiet
places which, boasting no attractions in the way of either architecture
or situation, and being on the road to or from no places of note or busy
traffic, are visited rarely by any but those who have their permanent
abode in the neighbourhood. Neither did coach pass through it nor
railway near it, so that its winding street or two, with their
straggling masses of dingy houses, would be suggestive to any accidental
visitor of little else than unmitigated dulness. It had, of course, its
post office, which was kept at a miscellaneous shop, and did not tax the
energies of the shopkeeper to any great degree by the number of letters
which passed through his hands. The stamp, however, of this office was
that which Walter had noticed on the letters which had furnished him
with a clew.
The heart of Amos was very sad as he rode along, and yet it was filled
with thankfulness also. Yes, he could now rejoice, because he saw the
dawning of a better day now spreading into broad flushes of morning
light. His father's kindness to him, so unexpected and so precious,
and, almost better still, his father's altered feeling to his sister
Julia--how thoughts of these things gladdened him, spite of his sadness!
Oh, if only he could rid the family of that miserable husband of his
sister's in some lawful way! Of course it might be possible to put the
police on his track; but then, if he were caught and brought to justice,
what a lamentable and open disgrace it would be to them all, and might
perhaps be the means of partially closing the opening door for his
sister to her father's heart.
With such thoughts of mingled cloud and sunshine chasing one another
through his mind, he reached, about two o'clock in the afternoon, the
little town of Dufferly, and drew rein at the dusky entrance to the
Queen's Hotel, as it was somewhat ambitiously called. Having secured a
bed, he walked out into the pebbly street, and strolled into the market-
place. He might have proceeded at once to his sister's lodgings, but he
had no wish to encounter her husband there if he could avoid it; but how
to ascertain whether he was in the town or no he could not tell. That
he was not likely to remain many days at once in the place he was pretty
sure; and yet his sister's letter implied that he had been lately with
her, and had been taking some steps towards removing the children from
their present place of abode. So he walked up and down the little town
in all directions, thinking that if Mr Vivian should be anywhere about,
and should catch sight of him, he might retire from the place for a
season, and give him an opportunity of visiting his sister unmolested.
At length, after returning to his inn and refreshing himself, he made up
his mind to call at his sister's home, trusting that he should find her
alone.
All was quiet as could be in the little street or lane down which he now
made his way. Knocking at the door of the neat but humble dwelling
where his sister lived, she herself answered the summons. "Oh! is it
you, Amos?" she cried, clasping her hands passionately together. "Oh, I
am so glad, so glad! I want to tell you all, it has been so terrible;
come in, come in." Amos entered the little parlour and looked round.
He had himself furnished it with a few extras of comfort and refinement.
"O Amos, dear, dear Amos," cried his sister, throwing her arms round
his neck and weeping bitterly, "it has been so dreadful. Oh pardon me,
pray pardon me!"
"What for, dearest Julia?" he asked.
"Why, for writing that last part of the letter. He stood over me; he
made me do it. He stood over me with a whip; yes, he struck me over and
over again--look at my neck here--he struck me till the blood came, when
I refused at first to write as he dictated. But oh! I hope no harm
came of that letter?"
"None, dear sister, none. No; the Lord took care of me and delivered
me.--But the children--what of them?"
"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure; but I rather think he doesn't mean to move
them after all."
"And where is he himself--I mean your--"
"My husband, as he calls himself," she said bitterly. "Oh, he is
anywhere and everywhere; sometimes here for a day or two, and then
absent for weeks. Indeed, he hardly dares stay for any length of time
in any one place, for fear of the police getting hold of him."
"My poor sister!" exclaimed Amos with a sigh; "but, at any rate, _all_
is not dark," he added. "I am bringing a little gladness with me. My
dear father sends you his love--"
"What--what, Amos!" she exclaimed, interrupting him with almost a
shriek. "Oh, say it again! Oh, can it really be?--my father send me
his love! Oh, dearest Amos, was it really so?"
"Yes; he knows nearly all now, and his heart has opened to you, and he
bids me tell you there is a place for you in the old home still."
Sinking on the ground, the bewildered, agitated creature clasped her
hands across her forehead, as though the swollen veins would burst with
the intensity of her emotion. At last, yielding to her brother's tender
caresses, she grew calmer, and allowing him to draw her close to him,
she wept a full flood of tears, which brought with them a measure of
peace in their flow. "Oh! can it be?" she cried again, but now more
hopefully--"a place for me yet in the dear old home, and my father's
smile on me once more." Then she added in a scared, hoarse whisper,
"But that doesn't include _him_?"
"No, not your unhappy husband; my father could not receive him."
"Of course not, Amos. Oh that I had never married him! Every spark of
love for him has died out of my heart now. I hate him, and I loathe
myself."
"Nay, nay, dear sister," said Amos soothingly, "don't say so. He has
sinned, greatly sinned, but all may yet be well."
"Never, never," she cried, "while he claims me for his wife!"
"Well, well," said Amos, "calm yourself, dear Julia. See, here is proof
visible of my father's love to you: he has bid me put these two ten-
pound notes into Mrs Allison's hands for you. He sends them to
yourself, but I am to place them with her, lest they should be taken
from you."
"Let me look at them with my own eyes," she cried; and when Amos
produced them, she pressed them eagerly to her lips, exclaiming, "Dear,
dear father, God bless you for this!"
"And now," said her brother, when she had sufficiently recovered herself
to listen to him quietly, "we must consider next what is best to be
done. Do you think your husband is likely to be here again soon? and if
so, will it be of any use your speaking to him on the subject of your
father having expressed his willingness to receive you without him?
Would he be willing to leave you to us now, and to go abroad himself to
some distant land? and do you yourself really desire this separation?"
"Desire it, Amos! how can I help desiring it? Though marrying him lost
me home and almost everything I once loved, yet I could have followed
him all the world over if he had really loved me. But he hates me; he
takes a spiteful pleasure in ill-treating me. He would never come near
me at all, if he did not think that he could manage to squeeze some
money out of me. How _can_ I have any love left for such a wretch?"
"But will he be willing to leave you in our hands? Remember you are
still his wife, and he has therefore a claim upon you."
"I know it, Amos, too well. Oh! what can I do?"
"Well, I can hardly tell; but I am remaining in the town to-night, and
as it is now getting late, I will go to my room at the inn, and will
come and see you again to-morrow morning, by which time I shall have got
more light on the subject, I have no doubt." So they parted.
As Amos walked into the inn-yard to have a last look at his pony, he saw
a young man advancing towards him; but as it was now getting dark, he
could not at first make out his features. A moment more, and he
recognised his brother.
"What, Walter!" he exclaimed in astonishment; "how did _you_ come here?"
"Oh, very comfortably indeed!" was the reply. "I have ridden over on a
little private business of my own--in fact, I may tell you in confidence
that I am at present a member of the mounted police force, and am on
duty to-night in the noble town of Dufferly, keeping my eye on a certain
person who is running his head into danger, and wants carefully looking
after, lest he get himself into mischief." Amos looked puzzled. "In
other words," continued his brother, "I could not bear the thought of
your getting again into the clutches of that horrid man; so I have come
over, not to be a spy upon you, or any fetter on your movements, but
just to be at hand, to give you a help if you want it."
"How generous of you, dear Walter!" cried his brother, shaking him
warmly by the hand; "but does my father know?"
"Of course he does, and my aunt too. It's all right. You are captain,
and I'm only lieutenant; and now, what's the next move?"
"Well, to have some tea together in my room, Walter. But really your
coming was quite unnecessary. I shall be taken care of without your
needing to put yourself to all this trouble. However, as you _are_
here, I begin to see that good may come of it. So let us have tea, and
then you must tell me how you found me out, after which I will tell you
what is in my mind." So the brothers had a cozy meal together, and then
Amos told Walter about his interview with their sister, and having taken
him fully into his confidence, discussed with him what was best to be
done under the sad circumstances.
"If I could only get hold of that rascally scamp!" said Walter, with an
inclination of his head which implied that nothing would give him more
intense satisfaction.
"I am afraid," said his brother, "that would not help us much: the thing
that would do us all good is not to get hold of him, but to get rid of
him. Unfortunately, however, he knows the hold he has upon us through
poor Julia, and I fear that he will leave no stone unturned to
accomplish his own objects through her directly or indirectly."
"And can't we set the police on him?"
"I daresay we could, Walter; but what a disgrace it would be to have him
exposed and brought to justice!"
"Ah, I see that. Well, Amos, we must see if we cannot frighten him away
for good and all."
His brother shook his head. "He knows very well, you may be sure," he
said, "that for Julia's sake and our own we shall not drag him out into
the light, with all his sins and misdemeanours, for the public to gaze
at, if we can help it; and yet I think he may perhaps be induced to
retire of his own accord and settle abroad, if he finds that we are both
of us determined to keep him in view. Suppose, then, we go together to
poor Julia's to-morrow. Oh, how delighted she will be to see you once
again! And we can get her to make her husband understand that we are
both of us keeping our eyes open about him, and that unless he takes
himself off at once, and gives up his poor abused wife into our keeping,
and leaves her there, we shall bring him to justice, let the disgrace be
what it may."
"Well, Amos," replied Walter, "I can see no better plan; so if agreeable
to you I will have the happiness of going with you to-morrow to my dear
sister's."
The next morning, accordingly, the two brothers stood at the door of
Julia Vivian's humble dwelling. The landlady answered the bell, and
said that her lodger was still in her bedroom, having passed a very
disturbed night, but that, if they would come in, she would soon come
down to them. In a few minutes the parlour door slowly opened, and
Julia, deadly pale, a wild light in her eyes, and her hands trembling
with excitement, made her appearance. She advanced with hesitating
steps towards Amos, behind whom stood Walter, partly hidden by his
brother; but as his sister caught sight of her younger brother, the
colour rushed into her face, and with a wild cry she sprang into his
arms. "Walter! O Walter, Walter! is it really you? Oh, this is too
much happiness.--Amos, you never told me of this."
"No, my dear sister, because I did not know of it myself. But calm
yourself now. You look so very ill, I am afraid the excitement has been
too much for you."