Amos Huntingdon Part 15

"I am ready," said Amos calmly.

"Good, then follow me," said the other; and both descended from the heath, and, striking at once out of the more frequented paths, made their way through brier and brushwood till Amos had entirely lost all knowledge of where he was. They had ridden thus about two miles when they suddenly emerged on to some cleared ground, and then came to the side of a large brick-field which had been for some time disused. At one end of the field was a small two-roomed cottage substantially built of rough stone. This had been inhabited formerly by a labourer and his family, the man having been a sort of overlooker while the brick-making was going on. Of course there was a standstill to the manufacture at present, but, to the surprise of Amos, smoke was coming out of the cottage chimney. He was surprised, because, as they rode close up to the building, it looked the last place likely to have a tenant at the present time. Its extreme loneliness also struck him, there being no other building in sight anywhere. As they came just opposite to its outer door, Mr Vivian turned to Amos, and said with a malicious smile, "This, sir, is the house."

"This!" exclaimed the young man, indignant and horrified,--"this the house where my poor sister lives!"

"Even so," was the reply; "any roof to cover you this severe season is surely better than none."

"It cannot be," said Amos; but at that moment the door half opened, and a woman's hand and part of her dress appeared. Then the door was rapidly closed, and he heard from within the sound of weeping and wailing. "It must be so, then," he exclaimed sadly, and proceeded to dismount.

"Don't trouble about your pony," said the player, "I will look after him. Give me the bridle." Amos did so, and was entering by the low ma.s.sive door, when to his astonishment a female figure pushed past him into the open air. Then the door was closed upon him, thrusting him forward into the building, while Vivian cried out with a laugh, "_Au revoir, mon ami_--farewell for the present!" The next moment the door was locked, and some heavy weight jammed against it. What could it all mean?

Utterly overwhelmed with dismay, Amos stood for a while as though chained to the spot. Then, opening a door which divided the outermost apartment from the other room, he entered the latter and looked round him. No one was there, neither man, woman, nor child. The walls were very thick, and the room was lighted by a large leaded cas.e.m.e.nt which would open, but there were stout iron bars which would make it next to impossible for any one to get into the cottage that way or escape from it. A fire of wood burned on the hearth, and a small pile of logs was heaped up against the wall near it. On a rough square oak table lay a huge loaf of bread, a considerable ma.s.s of cheese, and a quart jug of milk. There was neither chair nor bed in the place. Hurrying into the outer room, Amos found that it was dimly lighted by a very narrow little window, which even a dog could scarcely creep through. There were no upstairs rooms in the cottage. And thus Amos found himself basely entrapped and taken prisoner. And what for? For no good purpose he felt fully a.s.sured. He threw open the cas.e.m.e.nt of the inner room and looked out. There was his late companion riding slowly off, and by his side, mounted on his own pony Prince, a female figure. Could that be his sister? and, if so, whither was she going? and what was their purpose, or his wretched betrayer's purpose, with him?

Miserably bewildered, and much cast down, he knelt him down by the table and poured out his care in prayer. That he was in the power of an utterly unscrupulous villain was plain enough,--and what, then, could he do? He had brought with him a small pocket New Testament, with which the Psalms were also bound up, for he had hoped to have read from it to his sister words that might have been of use and comfort to her. But that was not to be. However, he turned over the leaves, and his eyes fell on a verse which he had often read before, but never with so much happy thankfulness as now: "What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee."

"Ah, yes," he said aloud, "these words are just sent to me now. _I will_ put my trust in Him, for he knows where I am and what errand I am on, and I know that he will deliver me out of this trouble."

Calmed by these thoughts, he once more looked round him. There was a shelf by the fire-place which he had not noticed before. Something lay on it; it was a small desk. Perhaps it belonged to his sister, and might throw some light on his difficulties. He took it down and placed it on the table. The key was in the lock. He opened it, and his eye fell at once on an envelope directed, "Amos Huntingdon, Esquire," but not in his sister's hand. Having undone the envelope, he drew out its contents. These consisted of a note and a blank cheque. The note was as follows:--

"Dear Brother-in-Law,--You have money, and I have none. I want money very much, and you can spare it. I enclose a blank cheque, which I have managed to procure from your bankers. Please fill it up for a hundred pounds. I am sorry to trouble you, but 'necessity has no law,' as the old proverb says. I shall call to-night at the window for the cheque.

You will find pen and ink in the desk. Pardon my little bit of eccentricity in bringing you here. When I have got the cheque you will soon be at liberty again, and none the worse, I trust, for your short captivity. I don't wish to proceed to extremities with a relation, but the money I _must_ have. Only let me get the cheque, and then, as the poet says, 'My native land, good-night;' I shall trouble you and yours no more.--Your affectionate brother-in-law, Vivian."

The cool audacity of this letter was perfectly staggering to Amos. And yet there was no mistaking the writer's meaning and intentions. It was plain that the reckless adventurer was resolved to extort money from his wife's brother, whom he had succeeded in entrapping, and that remonstrance would be of very little avail with such a character. That the wretched man would do him serious bodily injury Amos did not think probable, but that he would use any pressure short of this seemed tolerably certain. On thinking it over, the young man came to the conviction that his unhappy relation, being hard up for money, and intending probably to go abroad with the help of this hundred pounds, had compelled his sister to write the latter part of her letter, and had then employed some unprincipled female a.s.sociate to act as his confederate. No doubt he had calculated that it might be a day or two before Amos's friends would become alarmed at his absence, and probably a day or two more before they discovered his prison, especially as the snow would make it more difficult to trace him. In the meantime he trusted to be able so to play upon the fears of Amos, and to wear him out by scanty food and rough lodging, that, sooner than continue in such durance, he would sign the cheque for the amount demanded.

Such was the view that Amos took of the matter, and now came the question what he was to do. He had money enough at his bankers to meet the cheque, and no doubt his father would help him when he knew all the circ.u.mstances; but then, was it right to give the man this money? Was he justified in doing so, and thus encouraging a villain in his villainy? The more he thought the matter over, the more firmly he became persuaded that, so long as his own life was not seriously threatened and endangered, he ought to hold out against this infamous demand, and be ready to endure days of privation, suffering, and loneliness, rather than give in to what he was persuaded would be wrong- doing. After much thought and prayer, he came to the decision that he would not give the cheque, but would leave it to G.o.d to deliver him, how and when he pleased.

Perfectly calmed by this act of self-committal into his heavenly Father's keeping, he sat down by the fire on a seat which he had raised by piling some of the logs together, and prepared for a long spell of waiting. Whatever others might think, he was sure that his aunt would not be content to let more than one night pa.s.s without sending out to seek for him, and by this a.s.surance he was greatly comforted. His bread, cheese, and milk, carefully husbanded, would last him two or three days, and for anything beyond that he did not feel it needful to take any forethought.

Slowly and wearily did the long hours drag on as he paced up and down the room, or sat by the flickering logs, which threw out but a moderate degree of heat. His frugal meals were soon despatched, and at last evening came. He had tried the bars of his window more than once, but his utmost exertion of strength could not shake one of them. No; he must abide in that prison until released from without. And then he thought of n.o.ble prisoners for conscience' sake,--Daniel, and Paul, and Bunyan, and many a martyr and confessor,--and he felt that he was suffering in good company. It was just getting dusk when there came a rap at the window. He opened the cas.e.m.e.nt. The face of his cruel jailer was there.

"The cheque," said Mr Vivian, with what was meant to be a winning smile. "Your pony is close by, and I will let you out in a minute. The cheque, if you please."

"I cannot give it," was the reply.

"Indeed!" said the other, raising his eyebrows, and displaying fully the evil light of his wicked eyes. "Ah! is it so? Well, if you like your fare and your quarters so well that you are loath to leave them, it is not for me to draw you away from such sumptuous hospitality and such agreeable society. Farewell. Good-night. I will call to-morrow morning, in the hopes that a night's rest in this n.o.ble mansion may lead you to arrive at a different conclusion. Pleasant dreams to you." So saying, with a discordant chuckle he left the window, and the poor prisoner had to make the best of the situation for the night.

Adding another log to the fire, and wrapping his great-coat together for a couch, with the upper part raised over two or three logs for a pillow, he resigned himself to rest, and, much to his surprise, slept pretty soundly till daybreak. His morning devotions over, and his scanty breakfast eaten, he waited for the return of his brother-in-law with very mingled feelings. About nine o'clock he appeared, and greeted Amos with the hope that he had pa.s.sed a good night and felt quite himself this morning. Amos replied that he was thankful to say that he had slept as well or better than he expected, and that he only wished that his brother-in-law had had as soft a pillow to lie on as himself had enjoyed.

"Dear me," said the other sneeringly, "I was not aware that the establishment was provided with such luxuries. Pray, of what materials may this pillow of yours have been made?"

"Of the promises of G.o.d," said Amos solemnly; "and I can only regret, Mr Vivian, that you will not abandon those ways which G.o.d cannot bless, and seek your peace and happiness, as you may do, in your Saviour's service. Why should you not? He has a place in his loving heart for you."

"Is the sermon over, Mr Parson?" asked the other with a snarl. "Oh, very good; and now, let us come to business again. What about the cheque? Is it ready?"

"I cannot give it," was Amos's reply. "I should be wrong to give it. I should only be encouraging evil, and that I dare not do."

"Be it so," said the other; "then, remember, you must take the consequences."

"I am in G.o.d's hands," replied Amos, "and am prepared to take them."

"Good again," said his persecutor. "Once more, then, I come. This night, before sunset, I must have the cheque, or else you must abide the consequences."

No more was said, and the young man was again left to his solitude. Had he done right? Yes; he had no doubt on the subject. And now he must prepare himself for what might be his lot, for he had no thought of changing his resolution not to sign the cheque. Having fortified himself by spreading out his case before the Lord in prayer, and strengthened himself physically by eating and drinking a small portion of his now nearly exhausted provisions, he once more examined every place through which it might be possible for him to make his escape, but in vain. Last of all he looked up the chimney, but felt that he could not attempt to make his way out in that direction. He must just wait then; and he turned to some of those promises in the Psalms which are specially encouraging to those who wait, and a strange, unearthly peace stole into his heart.

Noon had pa.s.sed, but not a sound broke the stillness except the drip, drip from the roof, for a thaw had set in. Three o'clock came. What was that sound? Was the end nearer than he expected? Had his brother- in-law, in his impatience, come earlier than he had said? No. There was the welcome tone of a young voice crying out to some one else. Then Amos sprang to the window, and, opening the cas.e.m.e.nt, shouted out. In a few moments Walter's face met his brother's. "Here he is! here he is!"

he screamed out. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" Old Harry came round to the barred window, and, lifting up his hands and eyes, exclaimed, "The Lord be praised!" Then followed rapid questionings. But to these Amos replied, "You shall know all by-and-by; but now I must ask you to set me free. I am a prisoner here. The only outside door is locked, and I cannot undo it; and these bars, which I have tried in vain to force, have prevented my escape this way."--"All right," said his brother.

"Come along, Harry."

The two went round to the door and shook it, but to no purpose. A heavy log had also been jammed down against it. This, by their united strength, they with difficulty removed. Again they tried to wrench open the door, but without effect, for it was a huge and ponderous structure, and they could make nothing of it. "Harry must ride over to the nearest village and fetch a blacksmith," said Walter, when he had returned to the window. "Tell him to be quick then, and to bring two or three men with him, for there is danger before us. I cannot tell you more now."--"I'll tell him," replied his brother; and the old servant departed with all speed on his errand. Then Walter came back to the window, and talked long and earnestly with Amos, telling him of the deep concern felt by his aunt and father on account of his prolonged absence.

"But," he added, "I'm not going to tell you now how we found you. We will keep that till we get home, and then shan't we have a regular pour out?"

Wearied at last with waiting, Walter began to make another a.s.sault on the front door. It was now getting a little dusk, and he was hoping for Harry's return with the men; so, as he said, partly to see what he could do by himself, and partly to keep himself warm, he proceeded to shower upon the stubborn oak a perfect hail of blows and kicks. He was in the very thick of this performance when he was suddenly made aware that a horseman was close to him. He therefore stopped his exciting occupation, and looked round. The horseman was tall, and of a very sinister expression of countenance, with piercing black eyes. He was also rather fantastically but shabbily dressed.

"What is all this noise about, young gentleman?" asked the stranger.

"Why are you battering my property in that wild fas.h.i.+on?"

"Because," replied Walter, rather taken aback by this question, "my brother has been fastened in here by some scoundrel, and I want to get him out."

"You must be dreaming, or mad, my young friend," said the rider; "who would ever think of making a prisoner of your brother in such a place?"

"It's a fact for all that," replied Walter. "He's in there, and he must be got out. I've sent for a blacksmith and some men from the nearest village to burst open the door, and I expect them here directly."

"I can save them that trouble," said the other. "I keep a few odd things--implements and things of that sort--in this cottage of mine, and if by some strange accident your brother has got locked in here, I shall be only too happy to let him out." So saying, he dismounted, and, having hung his horse's bridle over a staple projecting from the stone wall, produced a large key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door, and threw it wide open.

Walter rushed in and flung his arms round his brother, who gazed at him in some bewilderment, hardly expecting so speedy a release. Then both came to the outside of the building. The stranger had remounted; and then, looking the brothers steadily in the face, he made a low bow, and with the words, "Good-evening, gentlemen; I wish you a safe and pleasant journey home," turned round, and trotted briskly away.

"Did you notice that man's face?" asked Amos of his brother in a half whisper. "Should you know it again?"--"Anywhere all the world over,"

was the reply.--"Ah, well," said the other, "I shall have strange things to tell you about him." The next minute Harry and his party came in sight, and, on arriving at the cottage, were astonished and not altogether pleased to find the prisoner at liberty without their a.s.sistance. However, the pleasure expressed by Harry, and a little present from Walter, as a token of thankfulness for their prompt appearance, sent them all home well content. And now Amos had to prepare for his return.

"You shall have my pony," said Walter, "and Harry and I will ride doublets on the old mare."

To this Amos having a.s.sented--"What has become of poor Prince?" he asked. "Does any one know?"

"All right," said Walter; "Prince is safe at home in the stable. He must have a sack of corn all to himself, for when he came in he was ready to eat his head off. You shall hear all about it."

Having duly clothed himself, Amos was about to mount the pony, when, bethinking himself, he turned back, and secured and brought away the desk, believing that it might possibly be of use in the way of evidence by-and-by. Then all set off, and in due time reached Flixworth Manor, to the great joy of Mr Huntingdon and his sister, and also of many a tenant and neighbour, who were lingering about, hoping for news of the lost one. The first congratulations over, and dinner having been partaken of, at which only a pa.s.sing allusion was made to the trouble which had terminated so happily, Mr Huntingdon, his sister, and the two young men drew round the drawing-room fire, while Amos gave them a full and minute account of his strange and distressing adventure.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

MORAL MARTYRDOM.

When Amos had finished the account of his singular and painful imprisonment, while all united in an expression of their deep thankfulness, there remained a heavy cloud on the face of Mr Huntingdon. At last he said, slowly and sadly, "And this unmitigated scamp calls our poor Julia wife."

"It is so, dear father," said Amos in reply; "but may we not hope that he will take himself away to America or Australia before long? That seems to be what he has in view, for clearly he has made this country too hot to hold him."

"I only hope it may be so," rejoined Mr Huntingdon, "for it is a miserable business, look at it which way you will."