Read CHAPTER THREE - A TALK AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE of Amos Huntingdon , free online book, by T.P. Wilson, on ReadCentral.com.

The morning after the accident, Miss Huntingdon, who was now keeping her brother’s house, and had been returning with him the night before after a visit to a friend, appeared as usual at the breakfast-table, rather to Mr Huntingdon’s surprise.

“My dear Kate,” he said, “I hardly expected to see you at breakfast, after your fright, and shaking, and bruising. Most ladies would have spent the morning in bed; but I am delighted to see you, and take it for granted that you are not seriously the worse for the mishap.”

“Thank you, dear Walter,” was her reply; “I cannot say that I feel very brilliant this morning, but I thought it would be kinder in me to show myself, and so relieve you from all anxiety, as I have been mercifully preserved from anything worse than a severe shaking, the effects of which will wear off in a day or two, I have no doubt.”

“Well, Kate, I must say it’s just like yourself, never thinking of your own feelings when you can save other people’s. Why, you are almost as brave as our hero Walter, who risked his own neck to get us out of our trouble last night. Ah! here he comes, and Amos after him. Well, that’s perhaps as it should be honour to whom honour is due.”

A cloud rested on Miss Huntingdon’s face as she heard these last words, and it was deepened as she observed a smile of evident exultation on the countenance of her younger nephew, as he glanced at the flushed face of his elder brother. But now all seated themselves at the table, and the previous evening’s disaster was the all-absorbing topic of conversation.

“Well,” said the squire, “things might have been worse, no doubt, though it may be some time before the horses will get over their fright, and the carriage must go to the coachmaker’s at once. By-the-by, Harry,” speaking to the butler, who was waiting at table, “just tell James, when you have cleared away breakfast, to see to that fence at once. It must be made a good substantial job of, or we shall have broken bones, and broken necks too, perhaps, one of these days.”

“I hope, Walter,” said his sister, “the horses were not seriously injured.”

“No, I think not,” was his reply; “nothing very much to speak of. Charlie has cut one of his hind legs rather badly, that must have been when he flung out and broke away; but Beauty hasn’t got a scratch, I’m pleased to say, and seems all right.”

“And yourself, Walter?”

“Oh, I’m all safe and sound, except a few bruises and a bit of a sprained wrist. And now, my boy, Walter, I must thank you once more for your courage and spirit. But for you, your aunt and myself might have been lying at the bottom of the chalk-pit, instead of sitting here at the breakfast-table.”

Walter laughed his thanks for the praise, declaring that he exceedingly enjoyed getting his father and aunt on to dry land, only he was sorry for the carriage and horses. But here the butler who was an old and privileged servant in the family, and therefore considered himself at liberty to offer occasionally a remark when anything was discussed at table in which he was personally interested interrupted.

“If you please, sir, I think Master Amos hasn’t had his share of the praise. ’Twas him as wouldn’t let us cut the traces, and then stood by Beauty and kept her still. I don’t know where you’d have been, sir, nor Miss Huntingdon neither, if it hadn’t been for Master Amos’s presence of mind.”

“Ah, well, perhaps so,” said his master, not best pleased with the remark; while Amos turned red, and motioned to the butler to keep silent. “Presence of mind is a very useful thing in its way, no doubt; but give me good manly courage, there’s nothing like that, to my mind. What do you say, Kate?”

“Well, Walter,” replied his sister slowly and gravely, “I am afraid I can hardly quite agree with you there. Not that I wish to take away any of the credit which is undoubtedly due to Walter. I am sure we are all deeply indebted to him; and yet I cannot but feel that we are equally indebted to Amos’s presence of mind.”

“Oh, give him his due, by all means,” said the squire, a little nettled at his sister’s remark; “but, after all, good old English courage for me. But, of course, as a woman, you naturally don’t value courage as we men do.”

“Do you think not, Walter? Perhaps some of us do not admire courage quite in the same way, or the same sort of courage most; but I think there can be no one of right feeling, either man or woman, who does not admire real courage.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Kate, about `the same sort of courage.’ Courage is courage, I suppose, pretty much the same in everybody who has it.”

“I was thinking of moral courage,” replied the other quietly; “and that often goes with presence of mind.”

“Moral courage! moral courage! I don’t understand you,” said her brother impatiently. “What do you mean by moral courage?”

“Well, dear brother, I don’t want to vex you; I was only replying to your question. I admire natural courage, however it is shown, but I admire moral courage most.”

“Well, but you have not told me what you mean by moral courage.”

“I will try and explain myself then. Moral courage, as I understand it, is shown when a person has the bravery and strength of character to act from principle, when doing so may subject him, and he knows it, to misunderstanding, misrepresentation, opposition, ridicule, or persecution.”

The squire was silent for a moment, and fidgeted on his chair. Amos coloured and cast down his eyes; while his brother looked up at his aunt with an expression on his face of mingled annoyance and defiance. Then Mr Huntingdon asked, “Well, but what’s to hinder a person having both what I should call old-fashioned courage and your moral courage at the same time?”

“Nothing to hinder it, necessarily,” replied Miss Huntingdon. “Very commonly, however, they do not go together; or perhaps I ought rather to say, that while persons who have moral courage often have natural courage too, a great many persons who have natural courage have no moral courage.”

“You mean, aunt, I suppose,” said her nephew Walter, rather sarcastically, “that the one’s all `dash’ and the other all `duty.’”

“Something of the kind, Walter,” replied his aunt. “The one acts upon a sudden impulse, or on the spur of the moment, or from natural spirit; the other acts steadily, and from deliberate conviction.”

“Can you give us an example, aunt?” asked the boy, but now with more of respect and less of irritation in his manner.

“Yes, I can,” she replied; “and I will do so if you like, and my example shall be that of one who combined both natural and moral courage. My moral hero is Christopher Columbus.”

“A regular brick of a man, I allow; but, dear aunt, pray go on.”

“Well, then, I have always had a special admiration for Columbus because of his noble and unwavering moral courage. Just think of what he had to contend with. It was enough to daunt the stoutest heart and wear out the most enduring patience. Convinced that somewhere across the ocean to the west there must be a new and undiscovered world, and that it would be the most glorious of enterprises to find that new world and plant the standard of the Cross among its people, he never wavered in his one all-absorbing purpose of voyaging to those unknown shores and winning them for Christ. And yet, from the very first, he met with every possible discouragement, and had obstacle upon obstacle piled up in his path. He was laughed to scorn as a half-mad enthusiast; denounced as a blasphemer and gainsayer of Scripture truth; cried down as an ignoramus, unworthy of the slightest attention from men of science; tantalised by half promises; wearied by vexatious delays: and yet never did his courage fail nor his purpose waver. At last, after years of hope deferred and anxieties which made him grey while still in the prime of life, he was permitted to set sail on what was generally believed to be a desperate crusade, with no probable issue but death. And just picture him to yourself, Walter, as he set out on that voyage amidst the sullen murmurs and tears of the people. His ships were three `caravels,’ as they were called, that is, something the same as our coasting colliers, or barges, and there was no deck in two of them. Besides, they were crazy, leaky, and scarcely seaworthy; and the crews numbered only one hundred and twenty men, most of them pressed, and all hating the service. Nevertheless, he ventured with these into an ocean without any known shore; and on he went with one fixed, unalterable purpose, and that was to sail westward, westward, westward till he came to land. Days and weeks went by, but no land was seen. Provisions ran short, and every day’s course made return home more hopeless. But still his mind never changed; still he plunged on across that trackless waste of waters. The men mutinied and one can hardly blame them; but he subdued them by his force of character, they saw in his eye that which told them that their leader was no common man, but one who would die rather than abandon his marvellous enterprise. And you remember the end? The very day after the mutiny, a branch of thorn with berries on it floats by them. They are all excitement. Then a small board appears; then a rudely-carved stick; then at night Columbus sees a light, and next day lands on the shores of his new world, after a voyage of more than two months over seas hitherto unexplored by man, and in vessels which nothing but a special providence could have kept from foundering in the mighty waters. The man who could carry out such a purpose in the teeth of such overwhelming opposition, discouragement, and difficulty, may well claim our admiration for courage of the highest and noblest order.”

No one spoke for a moment, and then Mr Huntingdon said, “Well, Kate, Columbus was a brave man, no doubt, and deserves the best you can say of him; and I think I see what you mean, from his case, about the greatness and superiority of moral courage.”

“I am glad, Walter, that I have satisfied you on that point,” was her reply. “You see there was no sudden excitement to call out or sustain his courage. It was the bravery of principle, not of mere impulse. It was so grand because it stood the strain, a daily-increasing strain, of troubles, trials, and hindrances, which kept multiplying in front of him every day and hour as he pressed forward; and it never for a moment gave way under that strain.”

“It was grand indeed, aunt,” said Walter. “I am afraid my courage would have oozed out of every part of me before I had been a week on board one of those caravels. So all honour to Christopher Columbus and moral courage.”

That same morning, when Miss Huntingdon was at work in her own private sitting-room, there came a knock at the door, followed by the head of Walter peeping round it.

“May I come in, auntie? I’ve a favour to ask of you.”

“Come in, dear boy.”

“Well, Aunt Kate, I’ve been thinking over what you said at breakfast about moral courage, and I begin to see that I am uncommonly short of it, and that Amos has got my share of it as well as his own.”

“But that need not be, Walter,” said his aunt; “at least it need not continue to be so.”

“I don’t know, auntie; perhaps not. But, at any rate, what father calls old-fashioned courage is more in my line; and yet I don’t want to be quite without moral courage as well, so will you promise me just two things?”

“What are they, Walter?”

“Why, the first is to give me a bit of a hint whenever you see me what I suppose I ought to call acting like a moral coward.”

“Well, dear boy, I can do that. But how am I to give the hint if others are by? for you would not like me to speak out before your father or the servants.”

“I’ll tell you, auntie, what you shall do that is to say, of course, if you don’t mind. Whenever you see me showing moral cowardice, or want of moral courage, and I suppose that comes much to the same thing, and you would like to give me a hint without speaking, would you put one of your hands quietly on the table, and then the other across it just so and leave them crossed till I notice them?”

“Yes, Walter, I can do that, and I will do it; though I daresay you will sometimes think me hard and severe.”

“Never mind that, auntie; it will do me good.”

“Well, dear boy, and what is the other thing I am to promise?”

“Why, this, I want you, the first opportunity after the hint, when you and I are alone together, to tell me some story it must be a true one, mind of some good man or woman, or boy or girl, who has shown moral courage just where I didn’t show it. `Example is better than precept,’ they say, and I am sure it is a great help to me; for I shan’t forget Christopher Columbus and his steady moral courage in a hurry.”

“I am very glad to hear what you say, Walter,” replied his aunt; “and it will give me great pleasure to do what you wish. My dear, dear nephew, I do earnestly desire to see you grow up into a truly noble man, and I want to be, as far as God permits me, in the place of a mother to you.”

As Miss Huntingdon uttered these words with deep emotion, Walter flung his arms passionately round her, and, sinking on his knees, buried his face in her lap, while tears and sobs, such as he was little accustomed to give vent to, burst from him.

“O auntie!” he said vehemently, when he had a little recovered himself, “I know I am not what I ought to be, with all my dash and courage, which pleases father so much. I’m quite sure that there’s a deal of humbug in me after all. It’s very nice to please him, and to hear him praise me and call me brave; but I should like to please you too. It would be worth more, in one way, to have your praise, though father is very kind.”

“Well, my dear boy, I hope you will be able to please me too, and, better still, to please God.” She spoke gently and almost sadly as she said these words, kissing at the same time Walter’s fair brow.

“I’m afraid, auntie,” was the boy’s reply, “I don’t think much about that. But Amos does, I know; and though I laugh at him sometimes, yet I respect him for all that, and I believe he will turn out the true hero after all.”