turn over many thoughts in his mind. Harry's words kept recurring to
him, "And the old missus too." Well, why not? Hitherto he had never
thought the matter over at all. He knew that his wife had continued
much the same, neither better nor worse. He knew also that to have
brought her back while her daughter was shut out of the house would have
only been the means of aggravating her complaint; and it had not yet
seriously occurred to him that Julia's return might remove a difficulty
and be a step towards restoring her mother to her old place in her home.
But Harry's words now disturbed him and made him restless,--"And the
old missus too." Could it indeed be brought to pass? Might not the
sight of her daughter in the old home, occupying the place she used to
hold, and of the other children living with her in harmony and love, act
so beneficially on her as to restore her, with judicious and tender
treatment, to reason, happy intelligence, and home once more? As he
admitted these thoughts into his heart, his bosom heaved, the tears fell
fast from his eyes, he pressed his hand on his forehead, and, looking
up, murmured a prayer for guidance. Harassed and worn by electioneering
business, and sickened with the din and unnatural excitement connected
with it, how he yearned for the quiet peace and affectionate realities
of his home society; and with that yearning came now a special longing
to see once more, in her accustomed chair, her who had dwelt so long in
banishment from him. And yet he scarcely knew how to take the first
step in the bringing about of that which he so earnestly desired. "I
must leave it till Kate comes home," he said to himself with a sigh;
"she will be sure to suggest the right thing, and to go the right way to
work in the matter." How great, then, were the relief and happiness of
Miss Huntingdon when, on the evening of the day of her return home, her
brother himself introduced the subject by saying, "Dear Kate, I have
been thinking a good deal of late whether it would not be possible to
get my dear Mary back to her old home again. You know one great
hindrance has now been removed. She will find our dear Julia once more
ready to welcome her, and that, I daresay, if the meeting were well
managed, might go a great way towards her cure."
With what joy, then, did Miss Huntingdon gradually unfold to her brother
the fact that the cure had already been accomplished, and that nothing
now remained but for him to fix the day for receiving back to his heart
and home her who had been so long separated from him. Most gladly did
he acquiesce in the plans proposed by his sister as to the day and
manner of his wife's return, promising that he would duly restrain
himself at the first meeting, and that he would endeavour to erase, by
his future consideration and attention to her every wish, any painful
scar that might remain from harshness or unkindness in times past. Miss
Huntingdon was most deeply thankful that her path had been thus smoothed
by the wise and tender hand that guides all the footsteps of the
trusting people of God; and she felt sure that a bright eventide was in
store for those so truly dear to her. With her brother's consent she
wrote to the cottage, fixing an early day for the return home, thinking
it wiser to remain at Flixworth Manor herself, that her presence, when
the earnestly desired meeting should take place, might be a comfort to
all parties, and might help to dispel any little cloud which memories of
the past might cause to hover even over an hour so full of gladness.
The day came at last. All outside the Manor-house was as bright as
well-kept walks, closely-mown turf, and flower-beds gay with the rich
and tastefully blended tints of multitudes of bright and fragrant
flowers, could make it. Harry had taken the fine old entrance hall
under his own special care. How the bedrooms or sitting-rooms might
look was not his concern, but that the hall should look its venerable
best, and that the plate should be bright, that was his business; it was
for him to see to it, and see to it he did. Never were plate-powder and
wash-leather put into more vigorous exercise, and never was old oak
staircase and panelling bees'-waxed and rubbed with more untiring
energy; so that, as the western sun poured his rays in through windows
and fanlight, a cheery brightness flashed from a hundred mirror-like
surfaces, including some ancestral helmets and other pieces of armour,
which glowed with a lustre unknown by them in the days when they were
worn by their owners. "That'll do, and no mistake," said the old man
half out loud, as, dressed in his best, he walked from one corner of the
hall to another, standing a while at each to take in fully all the
beauties of the prospect. "Yes, that'll do; don't you think so, Polly?"
Now this question was addressed, not to a fellow-servant, for all were
at the time busily engaged elsewhere, but to a grey parrot, one of those
sedate and solemn-looking birds whose remarks are generally in singular
contrast to their outward gravity of demeanour. The parrot made no
reply, but looked a little bewildered. "Ah, I see how it is," said
Harry; "you are puzzled at so much brightness. Why, you can see
yourself reflected a dozen times. What a satisfaction it will be to the
dear old missus to see a likeness of herself in every panel as she walks
upstairs." Satisfied with this thought, he looked round him once again
with an air of considerable contentment--as well he might, for
everything spoke of comfort, refinement, and welcome, and of the
diligent hands and loving hearts which had provided these. So, with one
more glance round, he again exclaimed, "Yes, it'll do; and I think the
dear old missus 'll think so too," at the same time bowing low to the
parrot, whose only reply, "Pretty Poll," was appreciative rather of her
own attractions than of those of her surroundings.
And now a sound of wheels was heard, and all the inmates of the house
crowded into the hall. A minute more and the steps were reached, and
the hall-door was opened by a trembling but faithful hand. The young
people were the first to alight; and then Mrs Huntingdon, handed out of
the carriage by Walter, and leaning on the arm of Amos, entered once
more the home she had left so sadly. Her husband's arms were at once
round her, but he restrained himself by a strong effort, and just drew
her gently very closely to him, whispering to her, as audibly as tears
would let him, "Welcome home again, my dear, dear wife." And she
returned the loving pressure, and spoke in subdued voice her
thankfulness to be at home with him once more; and then they stood apart
and gazed earnestly at each other. Ay, there was change in each. Time
and care and sorrow had done their work and ploughed their furrows; but
there was a sweet peace which neither had before seen in the other, and,
to Mr Huntingdon's glad surprise and almost awe, a heavenly beauty in
his recovered wife's face which he knew not then how to account for, but
he was not long in learning its source.
And now, as husband and wife, once more united, were about to move on,
old Harry stepped forward, and with the profoundest of bows, and a very
unsteady voice, wished his old mistress all health and happiness for
many long years among them. Mrs Huntingdon could not trust herself to
speak, but she held out her hand to him, which he took as gently in his
own as if it had been some article of ornamental glass of a peculiarly
brittle nature, and then saluted it with a fervent kiss; after which,
rather abashed at his own proceeding, he shrank back, and allowed the
happy travellers to make their way upstairs. But he could not be
satisfied with having given so partial a vent to his feelings. So, when
the hall was again all his own, he began to trip round it in a measured
sort of dance, to the intense amusement of Julia and Walter, who were
looking over the banisters from above on the performer, who was not
conscious at the moment of being so observed. On the old man went,
waxing more and more energetic, till at last he swayed himself into the
centre of the hall, and gave expression to the vehemence of his feelings
in a complicated sort of movement which he intended for a jump or
spring, but which brought him down on all fours, amidst a burst of
irrepressible laughter from the young people who were looking on. A
little disconcerted, Harry was just recovering his feet, when the
parrot, who had learned a few short phrases in times past, principally
from Walter, and had now been eyeing Harry's movements, with his grey
head on one side, and his thoughtful eye twinkling restlessly,
exclaimed, in an almost sepulchral voice, "What's up now?" The old man
stared comically at the unexpected speaker, and then said, as he brushed
the dust off his knees, "What's up now? why, you stupid old bird,
there's a great deal that's up now. I'm up now, though I was down a
minute ago. And Miss Julia as was and Master Walter's up now, for
they're up on the landing a-laughing at me. And the dear old missus is
up now; she's up in her room with master, and we don't want her to be
down in spirits no more. There, Polly, I've answered your question, and
answered it well, I think."
Never did a happier party gather round the dinner-table at Flixworth
Manor; never did the old butler ply his office with a readier hand and a
brighter countenance. Dinner over, and all being grouped together in
the drawing-room, where many loving words had passed, Walter turned to
his father and said, "I have two requests to make to you, dear father."
"Well, my boy, what are they? they must be strange and unreasonable
indeed if I refuse to grant them on such a night as this."
"I don't think, father, that you will call them so."
"Well, what are they?"
"The first is, that Amos may be our chaplain just for once at family
prayers to-night."
All looked surprised, but none more so than Amos himself. Half rising
from his seat, he laid a remonstrating hand upon his brother's arm; but
it was now too late. The colour flushed over his face, and he looked
uneasily at his father's countenance, which was much troubled; yet there
was no look of anger there, but rather a shade of deep sadness had crept
over it. The truth was, Mr Huntingdon had always entertained a
profound respect for religion, and an equally profound contempt for
hypocrites; but nothing beyond this had till lately been thought by him
to be necessary for his taking his place in society as a respectably
religious man. He wished all his dependants to be sober and honest, and
to go to church, read their Bibles, and say their prayers; and what more
could be required of him or them? And, in order to set a good example
in his family and to his tenants, he always himself conducted family
prayers night and morning, reading a few verses of Scripture, and a
plain and suitable prayer. Nevertheless, he had simply done this
hitherto as a duty, as a matter of form, and always rose from his knees
with a mingled feeling of satisfaction at having performed a duty, and
of relief that a somewhat irksome task was over. But now a new view of
religion, its duties and privileges, had begun to dawn upon him; but
still he had scarce light enough yet to see his way to taking a
different stand. So, when Walter preferred his request that Amos should
be chaplain for that evening, a painful sense of deficiency on his own
part clouded his spirit, while at the same time he was truly anxious to
do anything which would be a step in the direction of real improvement
and spiritual blessing to his household. The cloud, however, soon
melted away, and holding out his hand to Walter, and grasping his hand
warmly, he said, "With all my heart, my dear boy; nothing could be
better. Let Amos be chaplain to-night, and not to-night only. I am
getting old, and his younger voice and more experience in such matters
will make it a good thing for us all if he will take the family prayers
whenever he is at home." As he concluded with faltering voice, Amos
began to remonstrate in words of earnest deprecation; but his father
stopped him, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, kindly said, "Do it
to please me, and to please us all, dear boy." Then, turning to Walter,
with every shade removed from his countenance, he asked, "And what is
your second request?"
"That's not a very hard one to grant," replied Walter, smiling, "though
perhaps you may repent of saying `Yes' when you suffer the consequences.
My second request is, that I may be allowed to make a short speech when
family prayers are over."
"Granted at once, my son," was Mr Huntingdon's reply; "I am sure you
will have an attentive audience."
"Ah, it may be so, father; but I'm not sure that every member of my
attentive audience will hear me willingly."
And now, when the gong had sounded and the whole family, including the
servants, were gathered for the evening devotion, Amos, calm and
collected, took his seat at the table, and when all were assembled,
opened the Bible, which Harry had, by his master's direction, put before
him, at the hundred and third Psalm. Deeply touching were those fervent
words read out with solemn earnestness and pathos by the young man, in
the presence of those he loved so dearly, specially when he lingered on
the third and fourth verses, "Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who
healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who
crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies." The psalm
finished, all knelt, and then, in tones low and trembling at first, but
gaining in power and firmness as he proceeded, Amos poured out his heart
in supplication and thanksgiving,--thanksgiving that all the members of
that family were once again united under that roof in health and peace;
and supplication that they might henceforth, if spared, go hand in hand
along the narrow way, as true followers of Him whose service is perfect
freedom.
Not a tearless eye was there in that company as all rose from their
knees, no one being so deeply affected as Mr Huntingdon, who drew Amos
to him with a tenderness which more than repaid his son for every
sacrifice and suffering in the past. "And now," said his father, when
the servants had left the room, "we are all waiting for your promised
speech, Walter." The smile with which the young man rose to his feet
passed away as he saw all eyes earnestly fixed on him. For a moment he
hesitated, and then began: "Father and mother dear, I have been learning
for some time past some very important lessons; and my two teachers are
here before you--the one is my dear aunt Kate, and the other is my dear
brother Amos. My aunt has taught me with her lips, and my brother by
his life.--Nay, Amos, you must not interrupt the speaking. At this
moment I am in possession of the house.--My lessons have been on the
subject of moral courage. I used to think I was very brave, and didn't
need any instruction on such a subject. I looked down upon, and would
have despised, only I couldn't, the noblest brother that ever brother
had.--Ay, ay, it's no use shaking your head, Amos; I am speaking nothing
but the truth.--Over and over again I have shown myself a moral coward;
over and over again Aunt Kate has set before me, at my own request,
examples of moral heroism from history and real life, just to suit my
case and stir me up to better things; and over and over again I have
seen acted out by my brother there the very lessons I have been so slow
in learning. Ah, it has been grand teaching! We have had such a lot of
moral heroes,--Columbus, and Washington, and Howard, and Luther, and
Fletcher, and a score more. But here is my moral hero," saying which he
threw one arm round his weeping brother's neck, and put a hand over his
mouth as he proceeded. "Yes, you must hear me out now. Here is the
brother who, with a moral courage that never nagged, that no unkindness,
no misunderstanding could bend, has been carrying out for years one
great purpose, which God has permitted him this day to bring to a full
accomplishment. That purpose we all see fulfilled in our complete
family gathering to-night. Yes; Amos is my hero of heroes, and he
_shall_ hear me say it. I ask his pardon now for all my unworthy
treatment of him. He _is_ my hero, for he has nobly conquered. He has
conquered us all, but none more completely than the brother who looks
upon it as one of his dearest privileges to be permitted to love him and
to try and copy his example."
What could Amos do? what could he say? Clinging to the impulsive
brother who had thus spoken out impetuously what all felt to be true,
and sobbing out his regrets that such words should have been spoken of
one who felt himself to be so undeserving of them, he was utterly at a
loss what to reply, nor did any one for the moment venture to add a
word. But at last the silence was broken by the clear and gentle voice
of Miss Huntingdon. "It may be, dearest ones, that a few words from
myself may not be out of place after dear Walter's speech. He has
indeed spoken the truth. Our noble Amos has certainly shown us, in the
carrying out of his great heart-purpose, true moral courage in many of
its most striking forms. But he has not been alone in this. I have
been a privileged teacher by word of mouth, as Walter has said; and
right nobly has he learned and applied his lessons, and been pressing
forward in his brother's steps. And not only so, but dear Julia has
been also learning and practising these lessons. And now I think I need
occupy the teacher's place no longer. I would rather give up my place
to the great Teacher of all,--to Him who both by word and example shows
us moral heroism in its perfection of sublimity. I have not hitherto
ventured specially to dwell on him as being in this, as in every other
excellence, the one perfect pattern, because Walter wished to be
encouraged by examples in those who were imperfect and shortcoming
creatures like ourselves. But I would now express the hope that we may
all henceforth find our happiness in taking Him for our teacher, guide,
and model who never shrank from duty, even when to perform it wrung from
him tears of agony and a bloody sweat, and who held on his course
through evil report and good report, spite of blasphemy, persecution,
and a bitter and shameful death, till he had finished the work which his
Father had given him to do, and had won for us the victory over sin and
death, and an imperishable crown of glory."
THE END.