over all the party, but no one alluded to the sad cause. And so, things
reverted to their ordinary channel in a few days. Julia had become
again full of life and spirits, though to close observers there was
something forced and unnatural about her mirth and vivacity. And one
thing Amos noticed with special pain--it was that she carefully avoided
ever being alone with him; if they were accidentally left together by
themselves, she would in a moment or two make some excuse for leaving
the room.
Thus did things continue, till summer had given place to the rich
beauties of autumn. It was on a mellow October morning that the post
brought a letter for Amos in a handwriting which was not familiar to
him, and from a locality with which he was not acquainted. It was as
follows:--
"Dear Sir,--In the course of my duties as Scripture reader in the town
of Collingford, I have come upon a case which has greatly interested me.
The reason for my troubling you about it will appear further on in my
letter. I was calling about a fortnight ago on a poor widow woman who
lives in one of the lowest parts of this town, in a miserable house, or
rather part of it. She asked me to step into a small back room and see
a lodger whom she had taken in some days before, and who was in a very
bad state of health, and indeed not likely to recover. I did as she
desired, and found a wretched-looking man seated in an old armchair,
bowed together, and racked with a severe cough. One of his arms was in
a sling, and he seemed to be suffering considerable pain in his left
side. There was something in his appearance different from that of
ordinary tramps; and when I heard him speak, I saw at once that he must
have had a good education. I could make very little out of him at
first, for he was very shy and reserved, and seemed terribly annoyed
when I read a chapter and had a prayer with him the first visit, and he
said some very sharp things against religion and the Bible. However, I
persevered, and he got a little softened, especially when I brought him
a little help and a few comforts from some Christian friends who had got
interested in him. He has always avoided speaking about himself and his
past history, and I suspect that he is hiding from the police. However,
I have nothing to do with that, and am truly sorry for him. This
morning I called and found him much worse. I asked him if he would like
me to get him into the hospital, but he would not hear of it. Then I
asked him if I could do anything more for him. He did not speak for
some time, and then he said, `Yes. Write a few lines for me to Mr Amos
Huntingdon'--he gave me your address--`and just tell him how I am. He
will know me by the name of Orlando Vivian.' `Shall I say anything
more?' I asked. `No,' he said; `please, just say that, and leave it.'
So, dear sir, I have followed the poor gentleman's wishes. I call him a
gentleman, for I think he must have been a gentleman once. Poor man! I
fear he is dying, and cannot be here very long. At the same time, I
feel it to be my duty to tell you that there is a bad fever raging in
the town, and the place where he lives is anything but clean and
healthy. And now I have only to ask your pardon for troubling you with
this long letter, and to say that I shall be very happy to do anything
for your friend, if such he is, that lies in my power, or to meet you at
the Collingford station, should you think it right to come down and see
him.--I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris."
It hardly need be said that this letter moved Amos deeply. What could
be done? What was his duty? What was his sister's duty? He felt in
perplexity, so he took the trouble and laid it out before Him who bids
us cast on him every care. Then he betook himself to his aunt's room
and read the letter to her. "What shall I do, dear aunt?" he asked.
"The question, I think, rather is," replied Miss Huntingdon, "What ought
not your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it is her duty to go to her
poor dying husband, forgive all if he shows himself really penitent, and
be with him to the last."
"Such is my conviction too," said Amos sadly; "but I fear that Julia
will not see her duty in the light in which we see it. May I call her,
and just read the letter to her before you?"
"Yes, dear boy, if you like." So Amos repaired to the dining-room,
where his sister and Walter were engaged in a brisk conversation.
"What's amiss with you now?" asked Walter, noticing the serious look on
his brother's face. "You ought to be very bright this beautiful
morning. Julia and I have been planning a nice little scheme for this
afternoon. I am hoping, with the gamekeeper's help, to bag two or three
brace of partridges before dinner-time. I can drive Julia to the
gamekeeper's hut, and she can take a sketch or two while I am shooting.
The woods are looking beautiful now with their autumnal tints, and will
give lovely little bits for a sketch. Won't you join us?"
"Well," replied Amos gravely, "it would be very nice; but just now I
have a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about, if she
will just spare me a few minutes, and come with me to my aunt's room."
"Dear me! what can you want with _me_?" asked his sister, turning deep
red and then very pale. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about anything
dismal this delicious morning. Oh! don't look so serious, Amos; you are
always in the dolefuls now. Why can't you be cheerful and jolly, like
Walter?"
"I am sorry to trouble you," replied her brother, "but there is a cause
just now. I shall not keep you long, and then you can return to your
jollity if you will." These last words he uttered in a tone of reproach
which touched her spite of herself.
She rose and followed him in silence to her aunt's room. When all were
seated, Amos produced the Scripture reader's letter, and, expressing his
deep sorrow to have to wound his sister, read it slowly out in a subdued
voice. Julia sprang from her seat, and having snatched the letter from
her brother's hand, read it through several times, her bosom heaving and
her eyes flashing, and a few tears bursting forth now and then. "It's a
hoax," she cried at last; "one of _his_ hoaxes. It can't be true."
"I fear it _is_ true," said Amos calmly. "To me the letter bears all
the marks of truth.--Don't you think so, Aunt Kate?"
"Yes, surely," replied Miss Huntingdon sadly; "I cannot doubt its
genuineness."
Julia then tossed the letter to her brother and sat down. "And what is
it, then," she asked bitterly, and with knitted brows, "that you want me
to do?"
"I think, dear Julia," said her aunt, "the real question is, What is it
your duty to do?"
"Oh yes," she cried passionately; "my duty! Duty's a very fine thing.
It's always `duty, duty.' But there are two parties to duty: has _he_
done his duty? He has beaten me, starved me, cursed me--is that doing
his duty? And now I am to go and nurse him in a vile fever-smitten
hole, and lose my life, and so deprive my children of a mother, because
it's my duty. I don't see it at all."
Both her hearers looked deeply distressed. Then Amos said, "Still he is
your husband, and dying."
"Dying!" she exclaimed sneeringly; "not he--it's all pretence. If
anything common could have killed him, such as kills other people, he
would have been dead ages ago. But he isn't like other men; he has got
a charmed life. He'll be all right again after a while."
"And you will not go to him?" asked Amos, calmly and sadly.
"No, certainly not," she cried indignantly. "I've suffered more than
enough already for him and from him. Besides, if you talk of duty, it
is surely my duty to think of the dear children, and not run the risk of
bringing back the fever to them, supposing I should not be killed by it
myself."
"Then," said her brother deliberately, "_I_ shall go."
"You, Amos!" exclaimed both his aunt and sister.
"Yes," he said; "my own duty is now plain to me. The poor man has let
me know his case; he is my sister's husband, however unworthy a husband;
he is dying, and may be eternally lost body and soul, and by going I may
be made the means of helping on the good Scripture reader's work. The
poor dying man's heart is softened just now, and it may be that when he
hears the words of God's truth, and experiences kindness from one who
has been treated by him as I have been, he may be led to seek and find
pardon before he is taken away."
"But," said his aunt anxiously, "you will be running a great risk of
catching the fever, and may lose your own health, and even your life."
"I know it," he said; "I have counted the cost; and should I be taken
away, I shall merely have done my duty, and"--his voice trembled as he
proceeded--"I shall be the one best spared and least missed in the
household." As he uttered these last words, his sister, who had been
gradually crouching down shiveringly on to the floor, clasped her hands
over her face and wept bitterly, but she uttered no word. Then Amos
turned to his aunt and said, "Will you, dear aunt, kindly explain to my
father how matters are, and why I am gone?--Poor Julia!" he added,
raising her up gently and kissing her forehead, "all may yet be well.
May I take him _one_ kind word from you?" She did not speak, but her
bosom heaved convulsively. At last she said in a hoarse, quivering
whisper, "Yes, what you like; and--write and tell me if he is really
dying." Then she rushed out of the room to her own chamber, but
appeared at luncheon with all traces of emotion vanished from her
features.
The squire was absent attending a business meeting in the neighbouring
town, and nothing had yet been said to Walter on the subject of his
brother's departure. That afternoon Amos set off for Collingford, and
Walter and his sister on their shooting and sketching expedition, which
proved a miserable failure, so far as any pleasure to Julia was
concerned.
Collingford was nearly a day's journey from Flixworth Manor, so it was
not till dark that Amos arrived at the town. He sought out at once the
Scripture reader, and obtained full information as to the state of the
poor sufferer. Could he obtain lodgings in the house where the sick man
was? Mr Harris shook his head.
"I am not afraid either of poor accommodation or of infection," said
Amos. "I am come to do a work, and am safe in the Lord's hands till it
is done. He has sent me, and he will keep me."
The Scripture reader grasped him warmly by the hand. "You shall lodge
in my house," he said, "if you can be satisfied with humble fare and my
plain ways. I am not a married man, but I have a good old woman who
looks after me, and she will look after you too, and you can come and go
just as you please."
"I will take you at your word, my friend," said the other, "and will
gladly pay for bed and board."
"All right, all right," cried Mr Harris: "and for my part I am not
going to pry into your reasons for coming. You are one of the Lord's
servants on an errand of mercy and self-denying love--I can see that;
and you are welcome to my services and my silence."
Amos thanked him warmly, and his moderate luggage was soon deposited in
the Scripture reader's dwelling.
The next morning, after an early breakfast, the two friends--for true
friends they at once became in the bonds of the gospel, loving Christ's
image in each other--set out for Orlando Vivian's lodging.
"You must be prepared for something very miserable," said the Scripture
reader.
"I am prepared for anything," said the other calmly. But truly Amos was
staggered when he entered the room where sat, in the midst of gloom and
filth, the man who had been the cause of so much distress to him and
his. The atmosphere was oppressive with the concentrated foulness of
numberless evil odours. A bed there was in the darkest corner of the
room on the floor. It looked as though composed of the refuse raked
from a pig-sty, and thrust into a sack which had been used for the
conveyance of dust and bones. Bolster or pillow it had none, but
against the wall, where the bed's head was supposed to be, were three or
four logs of rough wood piled together, over which was laid a faded
cloak crumpled into a heap. Such was the only couch which the unhappy
sufferer had to lay him down upon at night, or when weary of sitting in
the high-backed, creaking armchair. Uncleanness met the eye on every
side--in the one greasy plate, on which lay a lump of repulsive-looking
food; in the broken-mouthed jug, which reeked with the smell of stale
beer; in the window, whose bemired and cobwebbed panes kept out more
light than they admitted; in the ceiling, between whose smoke-grimed
rafters large rents allowed many an abomination to drop down from the
crowded room above; in the three-legged table, which, being loose in all
its decaying joints, reeled to and fro at every touch; in the spiders,
beetles, and other self-invited specimens of the insect tribe, which had
long found a congenial home in these dismal quarters. And there--worn,
haggard, hungry, suffering, helpless--in the midst of all this
desolation, sat the broken-down, shattered stroller, coughing every now
and then as though the spasm would rend him in pieces.
The heart of Amos was touched at the terrible sight with a feeling of
the profoundest pity, as he approached the chair occupied by the wreck
of what might have been a man noble and good, loving and loved.
Anything like resentment was entirely lost in his desire to alleviate if
he could the misery he saw before him.
"I have brought a friend to see you," said Mr Harris, stepping forward.
The sick man raised his head slowly, and, as his eyes fell on Amos, he
trembled violently, and clutched his chair with a convulsive grasp.
Then a fit of coughing came on, and all were silent. "I will leave you
together, if you please," said the Scripture reader after a pause to
Amos. "You know where to find me if I am wanted," and he retired.
Long was it before the unhappy man could trust himself to speak. At
last, having sipped a little of a soothing mixture which Mr Harris had
brought him, he turned his face towards his brother-in-law, who had now
taken a seat in front of him on a three-legged stool, and said, "Shall I
tell you why I sent to you, Mr Huntingdon?" Amos inclined his head.
"It was," continued the sick man, "because I have insulted you, deceived
you, entrapped you, and threatened your life. That would be in most
cases the very reason why you should have been the very last person I
should have sent to. But I believe you are _real_. I believe you are a
true Christian, if there is such a thing. _I_ am not real. I am a
sham, a cheat, a lie; my whole life has been a lie; my unbelief has been
a lie. But, if there is truth in the Bible and in Christianity, I
believe you have found it. I am sure that you are real and genuine. I
felt it when I was deceiving you, and I feel it more and more the more I
think about it. So, as I am told that it is part of the character of
those who really take the Bible for their guide to return good for evil,
I have sent to you."
He had uttered these words in broken sentences, and now sank back
exhausted. When he had recovered himself sufficiently to listen, Amos,
deeply moved, said kindly and earnestly, "You did right, my poor friend,
to send to me; and now I am here, I must see what I can do for you."
"But, can you really forgive me?" said the other, fixing his dark eyes
on his visitor. "Remember how I have behaved to yourself; remember how
I have behaved to your sister. Can you really forgive me."
Amos made no immediate reply, but, taking out of his pocket a small New
Testament which he had purposely brought with him, read in a clear,
earnest voice the parable of the unmerciful servant, and, when he had
finished it, added, "How could I ever hope for forgiveness from God if I
could not forgive the transgressions of a poor fellow-sinner against
myself? Yes, my poor brother, I do freely forgive you; and oh, let me
have the happiness of seeing you seek forgiveness of Him who has still a
place in his heart and in his kingdom for you."
The poor sufferer struggled in vain to conceal his strong emotion.
Tears, sobs would burst forth. A violent fit of coughing came on, and
for a time Amos feared a fatal result. But at length the sick man
regained composure and a lull from his cough, and then said, with slow
and painful effort, "It is true. I believe your religion is true. I
cannot doubt it. It is real, for you are real. It is real for you,
but, alas! not real for me."
Amos was going to turn to another passage in his New Testament, but the
other waved his hand impatiently. "No more of that now," he said; "I
have other things just at present on my mind. You know that I am a
doomed man. The police are looking out for me; but I shall cheat them
yet. Death will have me first. Yes, I am a dying man.--Of course _she_
has not come with you. Perhaps you have not told her that you were
coming. Well, it's better she shouldn't come; there's fever about, and
I have dragged her down low enough already. This is no place for her.
But I shall not be here long to trouble any of you. Will you tell her
that I am sorry for my past treatment of her? and keep an eye on the
children, will you, as you have done? Oh, don't let them come to this!"
Here the unhappy man fairly broke down.
When he had again partially recovered, Amos begged him to keep himself
as quiet as he could, adding that all might yet be well, and that he
must now leave him, but would return again in a few hours.
Having sought the good Scripture reader, and ascertained from him that
the medical man gave no hopes of the unhappy man living more than a few
days, Amos at once confided to his host the sad story of his sister's
marriage and its consequences, and now asked his advice and help as to
how he could make the remaining time of his brother-in-law's life as
comfortable as circumstances would permit. Mr Harris at once threw
himself heartily into the matter, and before night the dying man had
been tenderly conveyed from his miserable quarters to the Scripture
reader's own dwelling, where everything was at once done that could
alleviate his sufferings and supply his wants.
That same evening Amos wrote to his sister in these brief words:
"Orlando is dying. A few days will end all." He purposely added no
words of persuasion, nor any account of his interview with her husband
and what he had done for his comfort; for he feared that any such
account from himself might just steel her heart against any appeal, and
make her rest satisfied with what another was doing for the man whom she
had vowed to love in sickness as well as in health. He knew that his
scrap of a letter must prove startling by its abruptness; but he had no
wish that it should be otherwise. These startling words might rouse her
to a sense of her duty; if they did not, he felt that nothing would.
Two days passed over. Orlando Vivian grew weaker and weaker, but was
full of gratitude to Amos. He also listened with patience and respect
when the Scripture was read to him or prayer offered by his side; but he
made no remark at such times. It was on the morning of the third day
after the patient's removal to his new abode that a hired carriage drew
up at the Scripture reader's door, and, to Amos's great pleasure and
thankfulness, brought his sister. Yes, and he could tell by her
greeting of him and by her whole manner that a new light had dawned upon
her heart and conscience, in which the idol of self had been seen by her
in somewhat of its true deformity. "Oh, dear Amos!" she cried, as she
wept on his shoulder, "pardon me; pity me. I have been wrong, oh, very
wrong; but I hope, oh, I do hope that it is not yet quite too late!"
Fondly pressing her to him, her brother told her that she had his full
and forgiving love; and then he gave her an account of what he had done
since his arrival in Collingford, and told her that her husband was now
in the same house as herself, and was receiving every attention and
comfort. On hearing this, Julia Vivian would have at once rushed into
the sick chamber, but Amos checked her, warning her of the effect such a
sudden appearance might have on one in his exhausted and suffering
condition. He must himself break the news of her coming gradually.
Entering the neat little bedroom, to his surprise Amos found his
brother-in-law painfully agitated. "You have got a visitor," he said,
in a voice scarcely audible. "I heard a carriage drive up to the door,
and since then I have heard a voice. Oh, can it be? Yes; I see it in
your eyes."
"Calm yourself, my poor brother," said Amos; "it is even as you suppose.
Julia has come, and I am truly thankful for it."
The humbled man tried to conceal his tears with his one uninjured hand,
and said at last, "I think I can bear it now; let her come in."
On her brother's invitation Julia entered. The eyes of the two met,--
the eyes of the oppressor and the oppressed; but how changed in position
now! The once down-trodden wife now radiant with health and beauty, a
beauty heightened by its passing cloud of tender sadness. The once
overbearing, heartless husband now a stranded wreck. How haggard he
looked! and how those hollow sunken eyes swam with a tearful look that
craved a pity which they seemed at the same time to despair of! And
could she give that pity? Had he not forsaken her and her children, and
left them to grinding poverty? Had he not raised his hand against her
and cruelly smitten her? Had he not laughed her to scorn? Had he not
used her as a mere plaything, and then flung her aside, as the child
does the toy which it has covered for a time with its caresses? He had
done all this, and more; and now she was there before him, but out of
his clutches, and able, without fear of harm to herself, to charge him
with his past neglect and cruelty. Yes; the outraged wife could have
done this, but the woman's heart that throbbed in her bosom forbade it.
She was the loving woman still, though the fountain of her love had been
sealed for a time. Stealing gently up to his chair, lest any sudden
movement should agitate him too much, and yet quivering all the while in
every limb from suppressed excitement, she bowed herself over him, and
gathered his head softly to her bosom, whispering, "Poor, dear Orlando,
you are glad, are you not, to see me?" Then, as the huge rapid drops of
the thunder-cloud, which has hung overhead for a time in the midst of
oppressive stillness, patter at first on the leaves one by one, and then
break into a sweeping deluge, so did a storm of weeping pour from the
eyes and heart of that crushed and spirit-broken sinner. Hardly daring
to place a hand with its pressure of answering love on the neck which
that same hand had not long since disfigured with bruises and blood, he
yet ventured at last to draw his wife closer to him, whispering, "It is
too much." Sweetly soothing him, Julia helped him to dry his tears, and
then sat down by his side, taking the hand of his uninjured arm in her
own.
No one spoke again for a while. At last Mr Vivian roused himself to an
effort, and, disengaging his hand, looked his wife steadily and
sorrowfully in the face. "Tell me, Julia," he said, "tell me the
truth,--tell me, can you really and from your heart forgive me?--nay, do
not speak till you have heard me out,"--for she was about to give an
eager reply. "Consider well. You know what I have been to you,--the
brute, the tyrant, the traitor. Can you, then, in view of all the past,
forgive me from your heart?"
"I can, I do, dear Orlando, from my very heart," she cried; "and surely
I too have much to be forgiven."
"Not by me," he said earnestly. "And now," he added, "as you have
assured me of your forgiveness, and as my days in this world can be but
few,--nay, I know it, I know it,--I have two dying requests to make of
you, and only two. Will you grant me them?"
"Oh yes, yes, dear husband, if they are in my power."
"They are perfectly within your power. The first is, that you would try
and pay back part of my deep debt of gratitude to your noblest of
brothers, who is standing there--to Amos Huntingdon, whom _I_ dare not
call brother; and I will tell you how the payment is to be made--not in
gold or silver, for he would not take such payment, but in giving
yourself up to the service of that Saviour whom he has truly and
courageously followed. That, I know, would be the only payment he would
care to accept, and that will rejoice his heart. Will you promise?"
"Oh, that I will!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands passionately
together. "I have misunderstood, I have thwarted dear Amos shamefully,
but now I can truly say, `His people shall be my people, and his God my
God.'"