me that you will not take them from under your brother's eye, and that
you will strive to bring them up as he would have you; then I shall know
that they will be spared such misery as this, that they will not need to
be reminded, by way of warning, of the disgraceful example of their
unworthy and guilty father."
"I promise, I promise!" cried the weeping wife, burying her face in her
husband's bosom. When she raised her eyes to his again there was a
sweet smile on her features as she said, "Dearest Orlando, all may yet
be well, even should you be taken from us."
"For you, yes; for me, I cannot say," was his reply.
"Oh yes," she cried earnestly; "I am sure that dear Amos has put before
you the way to the better land, open to us all through our loving
Saviour; and I prayed last night--oh, so earnestly--that you might find
that way."
"Thank you for that," he said mournfully; "it may be so; at any rate I
have got thus far--I shall not cease to cry, so long as I have breath,
`God be merciful to me a sinner.'" And these were the last words on the
poor penitent's lips.
For three days after this interview he lingered in much pain, but
without a murmur. Whenever Mr Harris or Amos read the Word of God and
prayed he was deeply attentive, but made no remark. Julia was
constantly with him, and poured out her rekindled love in a thousand
little tender services. At last the end came: there was neither joy nor
peace, but there was not despair,--just one little ray of hope lighted
the dark valley.
When the unostentatious funeral was over, Amos and his sister returned
home cast down yet hopeful and trustful. That evening a subdued but
happy little group gathered in Miss Huntingdon's private sitting-room,
consisting of Amos, Julia, Walter, and their aunt. When Amos had
answered many questions concerning the last days of his brother-in-law,
Walter turned to his aunt and said, "Now, dear auntie, you have some
examples of moral courage ready for us I am sure.--Amos, you are to be a
good boy, and not to turn your back upon the teacher, as I see you are
inclined to do. I know why; but it does not matter. Julia and I want
doing good to, if you don't; so let us all attend."
"Yes," said Miss Huntingdon, "I know what you mean, and so of course
does your brother; he does not wish to listen to his own praises, but he
must not refuse to listen to the praises of others, even though their
conduct may more or less resemble his own. I have some noble examples
of moral courage to bring before you, for I have been thinking much on
the matter since Amos and Julia left us. My heroes and heroines--for I
have some of each sex--will now consist of those who have braved death
from disease or pestilence in the path of duty. And first of all, I
must go back to our old example of moral heroism--I mean, to one who has
already furnished us with a lesson--John Howard. That remarkable man
was not satisfied with visiting the prisons, and bringing about reforms
in them for the benefit and comfort of the poor prisoners. He wished to
alleviate the sufferings of his fellow-creatures to a still greater
extent; so he formed the plan of visiting the hospitals and lazarettos
set apart for contagious diseases in various countries. Amongst other
places he went to Smyrna and Constantinople when these cities were
suffering from the plague. From Smyrna he sailed in a vessel with a
foul bill of health to Venice, where he became an inmate of a lazaretto.
Here he was placed in a dirty room full of vermin, without table,
chair, or bed. He employed a person to wash the room, but it was still
dirty and offensive. Suffering here with headache and slow fever, he
was removed to a lazaretto near the town, and had two rooms assigned
him, both in as dirty a state as that he had left. His active mind
devised a plan for making these rooms more comfortable for the next
occupant, and though opposed by the indolence and prejudices of the
people about him, he contrived secretly to procure a quarter of a bushel
of lime and a brush, and, by rising very early, and bribing his
attendant to help him, contrived to have the place completely purified.
Now his object in thus exposing himself to infection and disease was not
that he might gratify some crotchet, or get a name with the world, but
that from personal experience of the unutterable miseries of such places
as these lazarettos were, he might be better able to suggest the needful
improvements and remedies. This he had set before himself as his work;
to this he believed that duty called him; and that was enough for him.
Suffering, sickness, death, they were as nothing to him when weighed in
the balance against high and holy duty."
"A noble hero indeed, dear auntie," cried Walter; "and now for another
of the same sort."
"Well, my dear boy, my second example embraces many excellent men, all
devoted to the same self-denying and self-sacrificing work,--I am now
alluding to the Moravian missionaries. These truly heroic men, not
counting their lives dear, left home and friends, not to visit sunny
lands, where the charms of the scenery might in a measure make up for
the toils and privations they had to undergo, nor to find among Arctic
frosts and snows at any rate pure and refreshing breezes, though many of
them did go forth into these inclement regions to carry the gospel of
peace with them, and in so doing to endure the most terrible hardships.
But the Moravians I am now speaking of are those who volunteered to
enter the pest-houses and infected places from which they could never
come forth again. Here they lived, and here they died, giving up every
earthly comfort and attraction that they might set gospel truth before
those whose infected and repulsive bodies made them objects of terror
and avoidance to all but those self-renouncing followers of their
Saviour. Here, indeed, moral courage has reached its height."
"How wonderful!" said Julia thoughtfully, and with a sigh; "_I_ could
never have done it."
"No," said Miss Huntingdon; "nor does God commonly require such service
from us. And yet, dear Julia, ladies as tenderly brought up as yourself
have gone forth cheerfully to little short of certain death from
pestilential airs, and have neither shrunk nor murmured when the call
came. And this brings me to my last example of what I may call sublime
moral courage or heroism. It is taken from the records of the Church
Missionary Society. When first that society's noble work began, its
agents went forth to settle among the poor negroes of Western Africa in
the neighbourhood of Sierra Leone. But the fever that hovered on the
coast was enough to terrify any one who loved his life more than Christ.
In the first twenty years of that mission no fewer than fifty-three
male and female missionaries died at their posts. In the year 1823, out
of five who went out four died within six months, yet two years
afterwards six presented themselves for that mission; and, indeed, since
the formation of that mission there have never been men wanting--true
heroes of the Lord Jesus Christ--who have willingly offered themselves
for the blessed but deadly service. The women were as devoted as the
men. A bright young couple, the Reverend Henry Palmer and his wife,
landed at Sierra Leone on March 21, 1823. In the beginning of May, not
two full months afterwards, the husband was dead; in June, just one
month later, the wife was dead also. Yet neither spoke in their dying
moments one word of regret, but gloried in the work and in the sacrifice
they had been called to make. Another female missionary to the same
parts, a widow, said: `I have now lived one year in Africa, eight months
of which I have been a widow; but I cannot resolve to leave Africa.'
Another, whose course was finished in twenty-two short days, said to her
husband on her death-bed: `Never once think that I repent of coming here
with you.' Her only fear seemed to be lest her death should discourage
others, or damp her husband's zeal.--I have now finished my examples. I
am sure, dear children, that they are to the point; I mean, that they
are examples of the sublimest moral courage--that courage which leads
godly men and women not to shrink from duty though disease and death lie
before them or hover over their path."
"Thank you, dearest auntie," said Walter; "you have indeed brought some
glorious examples before us, and they just fit in with the conduct of
our own dear hero here, who seems to wish us to forget that there ever
was such a person as Amos Huntingdon, but he certainly won't succeed."
CHAPTER TWENTY.
FURTHER PROGRESS.
How greatly did Amos rejoice that now one portion of the great purpose
to which he had devoted himself had been so thoroughly accomplished; his
dear sister had been restored to her earthly home, and the death of her
unhappy husband had taken away all fear of her being withdrawn from it
again. And, better still, she, the poor wayward and wandering sheep,
who till late did not love the fold nor the Good Shepherd's voice, had
been sought and found by him, and brought back from the wilderness with
rejoicings. The heart of the good brother overflowed with gratitude and
praise for this, for it was more than he had yet dared to hope. But
there could be no doubt about it. The eyes of his sister had been
opened to see how entirely she had hitherto been living to self, while
her husband's dying words had led her to see her duty to her children,
and to mourn over her ingratitude to Amos.
There was one little circumstance which specially touched that brother's
heart. On the Sunday after her return from her parting visit to her
husband, Julia appeared at church in deep mourning, her children wearing
the same; and at dinner she had put on a neat widow's cap. Amos had
rather expected that she would have treated her married life as a thing
so entirely to be forgotten--a thing of misery and shame, a thing of the
past to be henceforth to her and others as though it had never been,
except so far as her children were concerned--that she would have
continued to dress herself and her little ones as usual, so as not by
any outward sign to remind those around her that she had suffered any
loss, or recall their thoughts to the man who had brought nothing but
degradation to herself and disgrace to her family. He was therefore
deeply thankful to see that she had taken a different course; for it
told of a subdued and chastened spirit, and of a willingness to bear
patiently and meekly the burden which her own fault, in a measure at
least, had laid upon her. Mr Huntingdon also appreciated her conduct
in this matter, and, pressing her fondly to him as she was retiring to
rest, kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear, as he looked
lovingly into her tearful eyes, "Dear child, this is as it should be;
you are right, I am sure, in adopting this dress; it would have been
unworthy of you and unbecoming not to have done so." Old Harry,
however, was not quite of the same mind; but he would not wound any of
the members of the family upstairs by giving expression to his feelings
on the subject. But in the kitchen he spoke out his sentiments without
any reserve. "Put herself and the children in mourning for such a
scoundrel as him! Why, if it had been me, I'd have clothed myself and
them in scarlet and gold, just to show how glad I was to be shut of such
a scamp for good and all. But perhaps I'm wrong; they tell me the poor
man repented at the last. Well, a good thing for him if he did, for I'm
sure he'd a precious lot to repent of."
And now Amos bent his mind and energies towards the accomplishment of
that part of his life's great purpose which lay yet nearer, if possible,
to his heart than even his sister's restoration to her father's house
and affection. His mother was still a stranger to her home;--how should
he bring her back? He felt that he must deal in the matter with a
gentle and cautious hand. His aunt and the old butler were the only
members of the household who as yet knew of his desire and intention.
Mr Huntingdon had come to acquiesce in his wife's absence as a sad
necessity, and it did not now occur to him to connect his daughter's
return with the possibility of its being directly or indirectly a link
in the recovery of the mother from her mental disorder. Walter also
never put the two things together. Indeed, the state of his mother was
so distressing a subject, that he had come to act upon the conviction
that the less he thought about it the better.
But what could Amos do? Turning matters over in his mind, it became an
established purpose with him to bring about his mother's perfect
restoration to sanity without letting his father have any suspicion of
what he was attempting. With all his love for that father, he could not
help having a strong conviction that, were he to consult him in the
matter, the attempt at restoration would probably prove a failure.
Either Mr Huntingdon would take things into his own hands, and, acting
with characteristic impetuosity and bluffness, would most likely hinder
where he meant to help forward, or else he would fail perhaps to
understand and appreciate his son's views and methods of proceeding, and
would prevent a successful issue by his impatience or interference. So
Amos resolved that he would take the responsibility and mode of action
on himself. Should he fail, his father would not have to suffer the
pain of disappointment from that failure; should he succeed, he would
have the happiness of bringing about a loving meeting again between
those parents so dear to him, which would be to his father all the more
delightful from its taking him by surprise. Secrecy, then, was an
essential. No one must betray his purpose to his father. Therefore,
when the family had all settled down peacefully, with the young widow
sweetly and lovingly filling her place as a daughter and mother, Amos,
one evening in the early part of the summer which followed his brother-
in-law's death, betook himself to the butler's pantry.
"Harry," he said, having seated himself on the closed lid of the plate
chest, "I want just a word with you on a subject of great importance."
"As many words as you like, my dear young master," said the old man;
"it's always a privilege whenever I gets a visit from you, or dear Miss
Julia as was, bless her. What a pity she ever changed Miss into Mrs;
but perhaps some good man 'll get her to change it into a better Mrs
some day, and wipe the taste of that horrid cruel man's name out of all
our mouths."
"I don't know, Harry; things are better as they are at present. My dear
sister's trial has been blessed to her, I can see; she is being brought
out by it decidedly on to the Lord's side."
"You're right, Master Amos, you're right; and I'm nothing but a stupid
stumbling old donkey.--Now, please, sir, what's this here important
subject you wants to talk to me about?"
"Just this, Harry. You know that I want to get back my dear mother
again among us, and I believe it can be done; but it will want a deal of
wisdom and what people call `tact' to bring it about. Now, I'm not
going to speak to my father on the subject, because I think his feelings
would so stir and excite him if I did, he would be so eager and
anxious--it's part of his nature, you know, and he cannot help it--that
he might spoil all."
"Just so, Master Amos; he'd just be going slap-bang about it, I daresay,
and he'd drive the poor lady clean out of as many of her seven senses as
she'd got still left, poor thing."
"Something of that kind," said Amos, smiling. "Well, you see, Harry, if
I am to undertake the matter I must do it my own way; and it will
require a great deal of care, and not a word must come out about it."
"Ah, I see, Master Amos," said the old man, "you want me to be `mum.'
Now, you look here, sir--try now if you can get a word out of me." So
saying, Harry closed his lips tight together, stuck his hands in his
trousers' pockets, and walked about the pantry with his head in the air.
"I am quite satisfied," said Amos, laughing.
"You may well be so, Master Amos," said the other. "_Me_ speak about
such a thing to them maids in the kitchen, or the coachman, or stable-
boy, or any one else in the universal world! Let the whole on 'em put
together try it on, that's all."
"Thank you, Harry," said Amos; "no one as yet knows about it but my aunt
and yourself. But I shall have to take my brother and sister into my
confidence, as I shall want their help in carrying out my plan."
"All right, sir, all right; and, if any one mentions the poor lady
before me, you may depend upon it I shall look like a deaf and dumb
statty cut out of stone."
Amos then sought his aunt, and, having given her briefly his own views,
asked his brother and sister to join him in Miss Huntingdon's room. He
unfolded to them his purpose, and then proceeded as follows: "What I
propose to do is this: I want to spare our dear father all pain and
trouble in the matter, and, if I am permitted to carry out my plan with
success, to give him a gentle and happy surprise at the end. But I must
have the help of my dear brother and sister. The place where our dear
mother now lives in retirement is a few miles inland from the sea-coast.
At the sea-side nearest to her residence I intend taking a house for a
time. When I have secured this, I shall invite you, dear Julia and
Walter, to be my guests there for a season. I shall easily, I have no
doubt, persuade my father to spare you, on the ground that the little
change to the sea-air will do us all good, which will be perfectly true,
and that this short holiday has been a pet scheme of my own, which will
be equally true. My father will be much occupied about electioneering
business the next two or three months, and as this will take him a good
deal from home, he will not miss us so much as he might otherwise have
done; and Aunt Kate, who knows of my plans and approves of them, will
kindly spare us for a while, and will look after the children, who will
follow us in a few days, and may be of use in carrying out my object."
"Capital," said Walter; "but you will want a mint of money to do all
this."
"Never mind that," replied his brother; "I have considered it all, and
you may safely leave the ways and means to me."
"And I am sure, dear Amos," said his sister, "we shall be only too
thankful to be helpful in any way in bringing back our dear mother
amongst us."
In about three weeks' time from this conversation, during which Amos had
been making his arrangements, he told his father of his sea-side scheme,
and received his hearty approval. "It is very good of you, my dear
boy," he said, "to provide such a nice change for your sister and
Walter. Perhaps your aunt and I may run over and see you, if this
election business will allow me any spare time."
Mr Huntingdon was well aware that the sea-side retreat which Amos had
selected was near the place where his poor wife was in her retirement,
but this was not at all displeasing to him; for though he had never
himself mentioned that place of retirement by name to any of his family
except his sister, he thought it not improbable that his children would
have become by this time acquainted with it, and the thought that they
might go over and see their afflicted mother once or more was a comfort
to him. Not that he entertained any real hope of his wife's return to
such a state of mind as would allow of her coming home again. No such
prospect had yet been held out to him, and, indeed, while his daughter
was still shut out from his house, he had felt that, had there been
sufficient improvement in his wife's state to admit of her return, the
continued absence of her daughter, and the very mention of that
daughter's name being forbidden in the family, would have been likely to
throw her mind off its balance again. So he had learned to acquiesce in
her permanent absence as a thing inevitable, and to drown, as far as
possible, all thoughts about that absence in a multiplicity of business.
But now that Amos and his brother and sister were going to spend some
time in their poor mother's neighbourhood, there arose in Mr
Huntingdon's mind a sort of vague idea that perhaps good to her might
come of it. But the bustling election business so absorbed him at
present that he never thought of bringing that idea into a definite
shape.
It was now, as has been said, early summer. The little family party
were sitting at breakfast the day before the intended trip to the sea,
when Walter remarked to his brother, "What do you say, Amos, to our
taking our ponies to the sea with us? It would do them good, and it
would be capital fun to have some good gallops along the sands."
Amos turned red, and did not answer. Walter repeated his question. His
brother then replied, but with evident reluctance, "The fact is, I have
sold Prince."
"Sold Prince!" exclaimed his brother and sister.
"My dear Amos," said his father, "what can have induced you to sell
Prince? Surely you are imposing too great a burden on yourself. I
remember now that I have not seen you riding lately. I am very sorry
that you should have thought of such a thing. Why didn't you come to
me?"
"My dear father," said Amos earnestly, and with a bright smile, "you
have quite enough to do with your time and money just now, so I have not
troubled you about the matter. I have a little scheme of my own which
is a bit of a secret, and it needs a little self-denial to carry it out.
I want the money more than I want Prince just now. I have found a
capital master for him, who will treat him kindly; and by-and-by I shall
be able to get him back again, perhaps. At any rate, will you be
content to trust me in the matter, dear father?"
"Trust you, my dear boy!" exclaimed the squire; "indeed I ought, and
will, for you thoroughly deserve my trust; only it grieves me to think
that you should have parted with your favourite pony."
"Oh, never mind that, father," replied Amos cheerily, "it will be all
right. Thank you so much for your kind confidence; what I have done
will do me no harm."
The conversation then passed on to other subjects, but Walter was
clearly a little uneasy in his mind. "Amos," he cried, when his father
had left the breakfast-table for a few minutes to speak to a tenant who
wanted an early word with him, "are you going into business soon?"
"Business, Walter! Not that I know of. What sort of business do you
mean?"
"Oh, into the butter, cheese, and bacon line."
"I don't understand you."
"Don't you? Well, it seems to me that sundry pounds of butter which
have not spread themselves lately on your bread or toast, as they ought
to have done, are intended to turn up somewhere one of these days."
The effect of this little speech on Amos was manifestly very
disconcerting; he turned red, looked confused, then with knitted brows
gazed at the window. Walter, sorry to have given him pain, was just
about to make some further remark, when his eyes fell on the hands of
Miss Huntingdon, which were crossed on the table. Nodding his head
profoundly towards his aunt, he dashed off at once into another subject,
and his brother soon recovered his equanimity.
That afternoon, Walter, with his sister leaning on his arm, came and
seated himself by his aunt, who had taken her needlework to the summer-
house. Amos did not join them, being busily engaged in preparations for
the morrow's journey. "And now, auntie," said Walter, "here are two
very docile and attentive scholars come for a promised lesson on moral
courage."
"Oh, but I have not promised them a lesson," said Miss Huntingdon,
laughing.
"No, auntie, perhaps not; but your hands have,--these hands, which were
crossed at breakfast, they have promised the lesson."
"Well, dear boy, that is true in a measure, but I hardly know how to
begin. I have nothing to rebuke or find fault with in you, unless it
was just a little want of consideration in your dealing with Amos; but I
am sure you meant no unkindness."
"Certainly not, auntie, not a bit of it. But now I don't quite
understand about Amos and his leaving off taking butter. It has
something to do with that selling of his pony, I'm sure. Perhaps you
can explain it, and give us a lesson of moral courage from it,
illustrated by historical examples."