Amos Huntingdon Part 7

Amos was at first considerably disturbed at the old man's having made this discovery. Then, by degrees, the conviction grew upon him that this very discovery might be an important step in the direction of carrying out the work he had set himself to do. Surely it had been permitted for that end; and here was one who would become a helper to him in the attainment of his purpose. So, after having pondered over the matter, as he walked backwards and forwards in the little garden for some half-hour or more, he called Harry out to him, and took him into his confidence.

"Harry," he began, "can you keep a secret?"

"Well, Master Amos, that depends upon what sort of a secret it is, and who tells it me. Some folks give you secrets to keep which everybody knows, so that they're gone afore you gets 'em. But if _you've_ got a secret for me to keep, you may depend upon it no one shall get it from me."

"Just so, Harry. Then I have a secret which I want you to keep for me-- or, perhaps, I had better say that I have something which I should like to tell you, because I believe you may be able to help me in an important matter. And instead of binding you to keep my secret, I shall just leave it to your own good sense to say nothing about the matter till the right time comes; and I am sure, when you know all, you will have no wish to make my business a subject of conversation in the family, nor of idle gossip out of it."

"You're right there, sir," was the old butler's hearty reply; "you may trust me. I've too much respect for the family to go about like a sieve, shaking such things as I've a notion you're a-going to speak to me about all up and down the country, for every idle man, woman, and child to be wagging their tongues about them."

"Well then, Harry," continued his young master, "I shall count upon your discretion as to silence, and on your help, where you can be of use to me."

"They're both at your service, Mr Amos."

"Then I shall speak openly to you, and without any reserve. I need hardly remind you of the sad beginning of our family troubles. You will remember too well how my poor sister left her home, and married secretly a man altogether beneath her. You know how terribly my poor father was cut up by that marriage, and how he closed the door of our home against Miss Julia, as I must still call her to you. I am not blaming him nor excusing her, but just referring to the facts themselves. I never knew till to-day who or what my poor sister's husband was. I never dared mention the subject to my father, especially after my dear mother had to leave us; but ever since they were gone from us I have had it on my heart to make it the great business of my life to get them back again.

I know it can be done, and I believe, with G.o.d's help, it will be done.

I have found out to-day that my poor sister's husband is an actor, evidently a thoroughly unprincipled man. She went about with him from one place to another for a while; then he deserted her, before the children were old enough to know him as their father; and about a year ago I got a letter from her, telling me that she was left in a miserable lodging with two little children, and must starve unless somebody helped her. I went to see her, and found her mixed up with a number of her husband's stage acquaintances, from whom she seemed unable to free herself. So I promised to supply her with what would keep her from want till her husband should return to her; and got her to let me have her two children, whom she was quite unable to feed and clothe, and who would soon be ruined, I saw, if they were left with their poor mother as she then was, and with such people about her as friends or acquaintances. So I brought the children here, and have put them under the charge of good Mrs Williams, who knows all about them; and since then I have been just watching and waiting to see how the Lord would guide me, and have been content to move as he directs me, one step at a time. But yesterday I got a sad check. The father of the children enticed away his little boy, and got me to meet him this morning some miles away from here. He cared nothing for the child, but only took him away that he might get some money out of me. So, when we met this morning, he engaged to give me back the child if I would promise to send him a sum of money which he named; and if I would not do so, then he said he would keep the boy, and bring him up as a stage-player. That I would not hear of; so I promised him the money, and he has given me back the little boy as you see, and has solemnly undertaken not to meddle with either of the children again. And now I want you to take the money for me when we get home. He is to be at the four turnings above the Manor-house at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and I am to send him a cheque in an envelope. This I have promised, and I want your help in the matter. You understand, Harry, how things are?--they are black enough just now, I grant, but they might be blacker."

The old man, who had listened with breathless interest, now stood still and looked his young master steadily in the face, while two or three big tears rolled down his cheeks.

"And so you've been a-sacrificing yourself, Master Amos, for your sister and her dear children," he said. "I see it all; but shouldn't I just like to have fast hold of that rascal's neck with one hand, and a good stout horsewhip in the other. But I suppose it's no use wis.h.i.+ng for such things. Well, I'm your man, sir, as far as I can be of any service. But as for him and his promises, what are they worth? Why, he'll be just squeezing you as dry as an old sponge as has been lying for a month in a dust-pan. He'll never keep his word, not he, while there's a penny to be got out of you. And yet, I suppose, you couldn't have done different for the sake of the poor children, bless their little hearts. And I'm to take the money to him? Yes; and a policeman or two at the same time would be best. But no, I suppose not, as you've promised, and for the credit of the family. Well, it's a shocking bad business altogether; but when a man's been and tackled it as you've done, Master Amos, it'll come right in the end, there's no doubt of it."

"Thank you, Harry, a thousand times," said the other; "and I am sure you shall see the wisdom of keeping quiet on the subject for the sake of the family."

"You're safe there with me, Master Amos," was the old man's reply.

So, when Amos and Harry returned to Flixworth Manor, the young man explained to his father that the little child at the cottage, in whom he was interested, had been enticed away by a stranger, and that he had been unable to recover him till that morning, and had, in his search for the child, been obliged to spend the previous night at the market-town.

Mr Huntingdon, who was just then very fully occupied in planning and carrying out some improvements on his estate, was satisfied with this explanation. So the subject was not further discussed in the family.

On the morning after his return, Amos duly conveyed the cheque, through Harry, to his brother-in-law.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

BEARING THE CROSS.

Walter's good intentions and resolutions respecting his treatment of his brother, though sincere when he uttered them in the presence of his aunt, were by no means strong enough to make him curb his wit or his displeasure when Amos did anything to annoy or thwart him. And not only so; but there abode in his mind a feeling of mingled jealousy and annoyance when he was constrained to admit to himself his brother's superiority. If Amos had some self-imposed duty to perform, why should he thrust this duty into other people's faces? Duty was a very fine thing in its way, no doubt, but grave Mr Duty was a very sour-tempered, troublesome old fellow when he trode on his neighbour's toes. And why should Amos make himself disagreeable by adopting a course of duty which unfitted him for cordially co-operating with his younger brother in his schemes? There was a sort of monasticism in this conduct in Walter's eyes. Here was his brother living amongst them, and yet, having taken the vows of some self-imposed duty upon him, he was looking down upon them all as though from some higher standing-ground. What a pity that he did not retire into a monastery, where he could act out his vows and his duty without troubling the noses of ordinary mortals like his relations with this oppressive "odour of sanct.i.ty." So thought Walter; and he made no concealment of his feelings from Amos, whom he now began to call "the Monk," or "Father Gengulphus."

Amos took it all very quietly, fully understanding that Walter was vexed with him for pursuing a path alone, along which his brother neither could nor would follow him at present. He was content that it should be so, and bore the cross patiently, being willing to bide his time, thankful to notice in Walter a kindlier feeling towards himself on the whole, and convinced that, in the end, his own motives and work would be duly appreciated by that brother whom he sincerely loved.

Miss Huntingdon saw what was going on, and rejoiced. She knew well that the discipline would only tend to brighten the character of her elder nephew, and felt sure that Walter would learn by degrees fully to understand and value his brother. Meanwhile, she was ever ready to throw in a little oil when the waters were more than usually troubled.

She knew, too, the strength of Amos's religious character, and the weakness of any higher or holier principles in Walter's heart; and she was sure that the steady consistency of her elder nephew would gradually win on the generous heart of his brother, spite of himself.

Nothing special had occurred to spoil the harmony of feeling between Amos and Walter for some weeks after the unexpected absence of the former from home; so that the hearts of the brothers were really being drawn closer together, notwithstanding natural dissimilarity of disposition, and the absence in Walter of that high principle and self- discipline which were moulding his elder brother's character into daily nearer conformity to Him who is the one only perfect pattern of humanity.

It was while Walter was thus increasingly becoming sensible of the superior beauty of his brother's sterling worth and consistency, and was at the same time secretly resenting the pressure of that n.o.bler life's influence upon him, being unprepared to follow it out himself and submit to its gentle restraints and self-denial, that a party of friends was a.s.sembled at dinner one summer evening at the Manor-house. Mr Huntingdon did not give dinner-parties now as frequently as in happier days, and his friends and neighbours understood and appreciated the cause; but now and then he felt it to be his duty to entertain his friends in the old way; so, on the present occasion, some thirty guests sat down to table.

Among those present were an old Mrs Morse, a widow lady, and her daughter. The mother was a kind-hearted woman of the world, reasonably well-to-do, and visited by all the good families in the neighbourhood.

She was very anxious to see her daughter, who was her only child, and was now pa.s.sing out of her youthful days, well married, as the world esteems it; so she was very glad of an opportunity of drawing out Amos Huntingdon, whom she looked upon as a worthy, weak, shy, dull young man, rather depressed by his discouraging home surroundings, and not a likely person to attract or seek the affections of any young lady who might be fortunate enough to combine the allurements of wealth and beauty. He might, however, with a little judicious management, be led to look with interest on her daughter, and would prove, no doubt, an excellent husband, as he had means of his own, the prospect of inheriting the Manor, and was exceedingly amiable, and free from habits of extravagance. Gladly, therefore, did she avail herself of the present opportunity to engage Amos in conversation before dinner was announced, expressing, at the same time, her regret that she had so seldom the pleasure of meeting him, and how much it would gratify herself and her daughter if he would come over now and then and spend a quiet afternoon or evening with them. "You know," she continued, "we are quiet people, and, if report says true, Mr Amos, your own tastes and habits are of the quiet sort. We should be so glad to see you in our simple way; and I think we could show you, in the beauties of our charming neighbourhood, what would really be a pleasure to you and a refreshment to your mind."

Amos thanked her, and listened with due decorum to a good deal of small talk on the old lady's part till dinner was announced, when she so contrived that he should take her daughter down and sit between them.

Walter was seated just opposite his brother, full of life and fun, as he threw off his gay remarks now on this side and now on that. Suddenly he looked across at Amos, and something in the situation of his brother between the old lady and her daughter struck him as so irresistibly funny, that it was with the utmost difficulty that he restrained himself from a violent outburst of laughter. And, certainly, to one easily moved to merriment there was something singularly quaint and almost comic in the contrast between the subdued but courteous manner of Amos, who was patiently endeavouring to make himself agreeable to his two immediate neighbours, and the excited frivolity of Miss Morse's running fire of worldly commonplaces, occasionally interrupted by her mother's more staid utterances of a similar character.

Walter thoroughly comprehended the situation, and the reason why such pains were being taken to draw out his brother; and his satisfaction and amus.e.m.e.nt were unbounded at the manifest failure of the effort. The old lady caught Walter's eye, and divining somewhat of the cause of its merry twinkle, coloured, and was silent. Her daughter also looked uneasily across the table, and then exclaimed,--

"Were you at Lady Gambit's garden-party last Tuesday, Mr Walter?"

"No," he replied; "I was not there."

"Then I can tell you that you missed a treat," said the other.

"Why, what was the special attraction?" he asked.

"Oh, everything that you can imagine!"

"Well, I can imagine so many things," said Walter laughing, "that I am quite sure her ladys.h.i.+p's garden could never have held them all. Pray, tell me what you yourself thought _the_ attraction _par excellence_."

"Yes, I can do that. You know these garden-parties are generally rather dull affairs after all."

"What! with those numberless attractions?"

"Yes; one gets weary of them. You know, go where you will, it's the same thing over and over again."

"But it seems that it was not so in this case."

"No, it was not. Her ladys.h.i.+p, no doubt, wished to make a little variety, and so she was good enough to provide us with something new."

"Dear me!" cried Walter; "how I should have liked being there! What was the novelty? Was it a temperance lecture, or a Band of Hope meeting for the benefit of the old boys and girls of sixty or seventy years of age?

That must have been very lively. Or perhaps it was a Protestant address against nunneries and monasteries. My brother Amos would have liked to have had a word on that subject."

"No, no, Mr Walter; you must not be foolish."

"Well, do tell me. I am all anxiety to know what this attractive novelty was. Not a conjurer? that would have been capital fun."

"No, not a conjurer exactly."

"Well, then, something of the sort?"

"Yes; Lady Gambit had engaged a celebrated mimic--a man, I mean, who can take off other people to the life."

"Indeed," said Walter. "Perhaps it might have been as well if he had taken himself off. But, excuse my nonsense; what did he mimic?"

"Oh, all sorts of funny people. We all gathered round him under the great sycamore tree, and he kept us in peals of laughter for an hour."

"Tell me, please, some of the characters he took off."

"I can remember two especially. One of them was a drunkard, and the other was a hypocrite. In taking off the drunkard he called himself 'Mr Adolphus Swillerly.' You never heard anything more amusing in your life."