Nature and circumstances had produced
widely differing characters in the two brothers.
Walter, forward enough by natural temperament, and
ready to assert himself on all occasions, was brought
more forward still and encouraged in self-esteem and
self-indulgence, by the injudicious fondness of both
his parents. Handsome in person, with a merry
smile and a ripple of joyousness rarely absent from
his bright face, he was the favourite of all guests
at his father’s house, and a sharer in their
field-sports and pastimes. That his father and
mother loved him better than they loved Amos it was
impossible for him not to see; and, as he grew to
mature boyhood, a feeling of envy, when he heard both
parents regret that himself was not their heir, drew
his heart further and further from his elder brother,
and led him to exhibit what he considered his superiority
to him as ostentatiously as possible, that all men
might see what a mistake Nature had made in the order
of time in which she had introduced the two sons into
the family. Not that Walter really hated his
brother; he would have been shocked to admit to himself
the faintest shadow of such a feeling, for he was naturally
generous and of warm affections; but he clearly looked
upon his elder brother as decidedly in his way and
in the wrong place, and often made a butt of him,
considering it quite fair to play off his sarcasms
and jokes on one who had stolen a march upon him by
coming into the world before him as heir of the family
estate. And now that their mother who
had made no secret of her preference of Walter to
her elder son was removed from them, the
cords of Mr Huntingdon’s affections were wound
tighter than ever round his younger son, in whom he
could scarce see a fault, however glaringly visible
it might be to others; while poor Amos’s shortcomings
received the severest censure, and his weaknesses were
visited on him as sins. No wonder, then, that,
spite of the difference in their ages and order of
birth, Walter Huntingdon looked upon himself as a colossal
figure in the household, and on his poor brother as
a cipher.
On the other hand, Amos, if he had
been of a similar temperament to his brother, would
have been inevitably more or less cowed and driven
into himself by the circumstances which surrounded
him, and the treatment which he undeservedly received
at the hands of his parents and younger brother.
Being, however, naturally of a shy and nervous disposition,
he would have been completely crushed under the burden
of heartless neglect, and his heart frozen up by the
withholding of a father’s and mother’s
love, had it not been for the gentle and deep affection
of his aunt, Miss Huntingdon, who was privileged to
lead that poor, desolate, craving heart to Him whose
special office it is to pour a heavenly balm into
the wounded spirit. In herself, too, he found
a source of comfort from her pitying love, which in
a measure took the place of that which his nearest
ought to have given him, but did not. And so,
as boy and young man, Amos Huntingdon learned, under
the severe discipline of his earthly home, lessons
which were moulding his character to a nobility which
few suspected, who, gazing on that timid, shrinking
youth, went on their way with a glance or shrug of
pity. But so it was.
Amos had formed a mighty purpose;
it was to be the one object of his earthly life, to
which everything was to bend till he had accomplished
it. But who would have thought of such an iron
resolution of will in a breast like that poor boy’s?
For to him an ordinary conversation was a trial,
and to speak in company an effort, though it was but
to answer a simple question. If a stranger asked
his opinion, a nervous blush covered his face as he
forced out a reply. The solitude which others
found irksome had special charms for him. With
one person only in his own home did he feel really
at ease, that person was his aunt, for he
believed that she in a measure really understood and
sympathised with him. And yet that shy, nervous,
retiring young man, down-trodden and repulsed as he
was, was possessed by one grand and all-absorbing
purpose: it was this, to bring back his sister
to her father’s home forgiven, and his mother
to that same home with the cloud removed from her
mind and spirit.
That both these objects might
be accomplished he was firmly persuaded. At the
same time, he was fully aware that to every one else
who knew his father and the circumstances which had
led to the sad estrangement of the daughter and removal
of the mother, such a restoration as he contemplated
bringing about would appear absolutely hopeless.
Yet he himself had no doubts on the subject.
The conviction that his purpose might and would be
accomplished was stamped into his soul as by an indelible
brand. He was perfectly sure that every hindrance
could be removed, though how he could not tell.
But there stood up this conviction ever facing him,
ever beckoning him on, as though a messenger from
an unseen world. Not that he was ignorant of
nor underrated the magnitude of the obstacles in his
way. He knew and felt most oppressively that
everything almost was against him. The very thought
of speaking to his father on the subject made a chill
shudder creep over him. To move a single step
in the direction of the attainment of his object required
an effort from which his retiring nature shrank as
if stung by a spark of white heat. The opposition,
direct or indirect, of those nearest to him was terrible
even to contemplate, and was magnified while yet at
a distance through the haze of his morbid sensitiveness.
Yet his conviction and purpose remained unshaken.
He was, moreover, fully aware that neither mother
nor sister had any deep affection for him, and that,
should he gain the end he had set before him, he might
get no nearer to their hearts than the place he now
occupied. It mattered not; he had devoted himself
to his great object as to a work of holy self-denial
and labour of love, and from the pursuit of that object
nothing should move him, but onward he would struggle
towards its attainment, with the steady determination
which would crush through hindrances and obstacles
by the weight of its tremendous earnestness.
This purpose had hovered before his
thoughts in dim outline while he was yet a boy, and
had at length assumed its full and clear proportions
while he was at Oxford. There it was that he
became acquainted with a Christian young man who,
pitying his loneliness and appreciating his character,
had sought and by degrees obtained his friendship,
and, in a measure, his confidence, as far as he was
able to give it. To his surprise Amos discovered
that his new friend’s father was the physician
under whose charge and in whose house his own mother,
Mrs Huntingdon, had been placed. Mr Huntingdon
had kept the matter a profound secret from his own
children, and no member of his household ever ventured
to allude to the poor lady or to her place of retirement,
and it was only by an inadvertence on his young friend’s
part that Amos became aware of his mother’s
present abode. But this knowledge, after the
first excitement of surprise had passed away, only
strengthened the purpose which had gradually taken
its settled hold upon his heart. It was to him
a new and important link in the chain of events which
would lead, he knew, finally to the accomplishment
of his one great resolve. And so he determined
to communicate with his friend’s father, the
physician, and ascertain from him in confidence his
opinion of his mother’s mental condition, and
whether there was any possibility of her restoration
to sanity. The reply to his inquiries was that
his mother’s case was far from hopeless; and
with this he was satisfied. Then he took the
letter which conveyed the opinion of the physician
to him, and, spreading it out before God in his chamber,
solemnly and earnestly dedicated himself to the work
of restoration, asking guidance and strength from on
high.
From that day forward he was gradually
maturing his plans, being ever on the watch to catch
any ray of light which might show him where to place
a footstep on the road which led up to the end he had
in view. Earthly counsellors he had none; he
dared not have any at least not at present.
Even Miss Huntingdon knew nothing of his purpose from
himself, though she had some suspicions of his having
devoted himself to some special work, gathered from
her own study of his character and conduct; but these
suspicions she kept entirely to herself, prepared to
advise or assist should Amos give her his confidence
in the matter, and seek her counsel or help.
Such was the position of things when our story opens.
Amos was waiting, hoping, watching; but no onward step
had been taken since he had received the physician’s
letter.
A fortnight passed away after the
accident, when Miss Huntingdon, who had now completely
recovered from her fright and bruises, was coming out
of a labouring man’s cottage on a fine and cheery
afternoon. As she stood on the doorstep exchanging
a few parting words with the cottager’s wife,
she was startled by the sound of furious galloping
not far off, and shrank back into the cottage, naturally
dreading the sight of an excited horse so soon after
her perilous upset in her brother’s carriage.
Nearer and nearer came the violent clatter, and, as
she involuntarily turned her eyes towards the road
with a nervous terror, she was both alarmed and surprised
to see her nephew Walter and another young man dashing
past on horseback at whirlwind speed, the animals on
which they rode being covered with foam.
In a few moments all was still again,
and Miss Huntingdon continued her rounds, but, as
she turned the corner of a lane which led up to the
back of the Manor-house, she was startled at seeing
her nephew Walter in front of her on foot, covered
with mud, and leading his horse, which was limping
along with difficulty, being evidently in pain.
His companion was walking by his side, also leading
his horse, and both were so absorbed with their present
trouble that they were quite unconscious of her approach.
Something plainly was much amiss. Walter had
had a fall, and his horse was injured; of this there
could be no doubt. Could she be of any service?
She was just going to press forward, when she observed
Mr Huntingdon’s groom coming from the direction
of the house, and, as her nephew did not walk as if
he had received any serious injury, she thought it
better to leave him to put matters straight for himself,
knowing that young men are very sensitive about being
interfered with or helped when their pride has been
wounded by any humiliating catastrophe. So she
turned aside into a small copse through which was
a short cut to the house, intending to go forward and
be prepared to render any assistance should Walter
desire it.
None of the party had seen her, but
she passed near enough to them on the other side of
a tall hedge to overhear the words, “Won’t
the governor just be mad!” and then, “Here’s
a sovereign, Dick, and I’ll make it all straight
for you with my father.” What could have
happened? She was not long left in suspense;
for her brother’s voice in high anger soon resounded
through the house, and she learned from her maid,
who rushed into her room full of excitement, that Forester,
Mr Huntingdon’s favourite hunter, had been lamed,
and otherwise seriously injured, and that Dick the
groom, who had been the author of the mischief, had
been dismissed at a moment’s notice.
Poor Miss Huntingdon’s heart
misgave her that all had not been quite straightforward
in the matter, and that the blame had been laid on
the wrong person. So she went down to dinner,
at the summoning of the gong, with a heavy heart.
As she entered the drawing-room she saw her brother,
who usually advanced to give her his arm with all due
courtesy, sitting still in his easy-chair, hiding
his face with the newspaper, which a glance showed
her to be turned the wrong way up. Amos also
and Walter were seated as far apart from their father
and from each other as was possible, and for a few
moments not a word was spoken. Then, suddenly
remembering himself, the squire dismissed the paper
from his hand with an irritable jerk, and, with the
words, “I suppose that means dinner,”
gave his arm to his sister, and conducted her in silence
to the dining-room.
Nothing in the shape of conversation
followed for a while, Mr Huntingdon having shut up
his sister by a very curt reply to a question which
she put on some commonplace subject, just for the sake
of breaking through the oppressive stillness.
At length, when the meal was half-way through, Mr
Huntingdon exclaimed abruptly,
“I can’t understand for
the life of me how that fool of a Dick ever managed
to get poor Forester into such a scrape. I always
thought the boy understood horses better than that.”
“I hope, Walter,” ventured
his sister in a soothing tone, “that the poor
animal is not seriously, or at any rate permanently,
damaged.”
“Nonsense, Kate,” he exclaimed
peevishly; “but, pardon me, it’s
no fault of yours. Damaged! I should think
so. I doubt if he will ever be fit to ride again.
But I can’t make it out quite yet, it’s
very vexing. I had rather have given a hundred
pounds than it should have happened. And Dick,
too; the fellow told the queerest tale about it.
I should have thought he was telling a lie, only
he was taking the blame to himself, and that didn’t
look like lying. By-the-by, Amos, have
you been out riding this afternoon?”
“Yes, father.”
“What horse did you ride?”
“My own pony, Prince.”
“Did you meet Dick exercising the horses?”
“No; I didn’t see anything of him.”
“That is strange. Where were you riding
to?”
“I was off on a little business beyond the moor.”
“Beyond the moor! what can you have been wanting
beyond the moor?”
Amos turned red and did not reply.
“I don’t know what has
come to the boy,” said the squire surlily.
But now Walter, who had not uttered a word hitherto,
broke in suddenly, “Father, you mustn’t
be hard upon Dick. It’s a misfortune, after
all. There isn’t a better rider anywhere;
only accidents will happen sometimes, as you know
they did the other night. Forester bolted when
the little girl’s red cloak blew off and flapped
right on to his eyes. Dick was not expecting
it, and tried to keep the horses in; but Forester
sprang right through a hedge and staked himself before
Dick could pull him in. It’s a mercy,
I think, that Dick hadn’t his neck broke.”
He said these last words slowly and
reluctantly, for his eye had rested on his aunt’s
hands, which were being laid quietly one across the
other on the table in front of her.
“Red cloak!” exclaimed
the squire; “why, Dick told me it was a boy’s
hat that blew off and flapped against Forester’s
eyes.”
“Ah! well, father, it may have
been a hat. I thought he said a cloak; but it
comes pretty much to the same thing.”
There was an unsteadiness about the
boy’s voice as he said these last words which
every one noticed except his father. The subject,
however, was now dropped, and was not again alluded
to during the evening.
Next morning after breakfast Walter
knocked at his aunt’s door. When he had
entered and taken the offered chair by her side, he
sat for a minute or so with eyes cast down, and silent.
“Well, Walter,” she said after a while.
“Ill, auntie,”
he replied, in a voice between a laugh and a sigh.
“What is it, dear Walter?”
“Only those two hands of yours, dear auntie.”
“Was there not a cause, Walter?”
No reply.
“Shall I tell you one of the
stories you asked me to tell about moral courage?”
“Do, auntie dear,” he said in a low tearful
voice.
“My hero this morning, Walter,
is George Washington, the great American general and
statesman, the man who had so much to do in the founding
of that great republic which is called the United
States. A braver man never lived; but he was
a brave boy too, brave with moral courage. Not
that he wanted natural courage in his early years,
for at school none could beat him in leaping, wrestling,
swimming, and other athletic exercises. When
he was about six years old, his father gave him a new
hatchet one day. George was highly pleased, and
went about cutting and hacking everything in his way.
Unfortunately, amongst other things he used the hatchet
with all the force of his little arm on a young English
cherry tree, which happened to be a great favourite
with his father. Without thinking of the mischief
he was doing, George greatly injured the valuable
tree. When his father saw what was done he was
very angry, and asked the servants who had dared to
injure the tree. They said they knew nothing
of it; when little George entering the room and hearing
the inquiry, though he saw that his father was very
angry, went straight up to him, his cheeks colouring
crimson as he spoke, and cried, `I did it. I
cannot tell a lie. I cut your cherry tree with
my hatchet.’ `My noble boy,’ said his
father, as he clasped him in his arms, `I would rather
lose a hundred cherry-trees, were their blossoms of
silver and their fruit of gold, than that a son of
mine should dare to tell a lie.’ Dear
Walter, that was true noble courage; and George Washington
grew up with it. Those are beautiful lines of
one of our old poets, George Herbert,
“`Dare to be true, nothing can need
a lie;
The fault that needs it most grows two
thereby.’”
She paused. Her nephew kept
silent for a time, nervously twisting the fringe of
her little work-table; and then he said very slowly
and sadly,
“So, auntie, you have found
me out. Yes, I’ve been a beastly coward,
and I’m heartily ashamed of myself.”
“Well, dear boy,” replied
his aunt, “tell me all about it; happily, it
is never too late to mend.”
“Yes, dear Aunt Kate, I’ll
tell you all. Bob Saunders called yesterday
just after luncheon, and asked me to go out for a ride
with him, and if I could give him a mount, for his
own horse was laid up with some outlandish complaint.
I didn’t like to say `No;’ but my own
pony, Punch, was gone to be shod, and Bob had no time
to wait. Well, Dick was just coming out of the
yard as I got into it; he was riding Forester and
leading Bessie, to exercise them. `That’ll do,’
I said. `Here, Dick; I’ll take Forester out
and give him a trot, and Mr Saunders can ride Bessie.’
`Please, Master Walter,’ says Dick, `your father’s
very particular. I don’t know what he’ll
say to me if I let you exercise Forester.’
`Oh, nonsense!’ I said. `I’ll make that
all straight.’ Dick didn’t like it;
but I wouldn’t be denied, so he let us mount,
and begged me to be very careful. `Never fear,’
I said; `we’ll bring them both back as cool
as cucumbers.’ And I meant it, auntie.
But somehow or other our spirits got the better of
us; it was such a fine afternoon, and the horses seemed
wild for a gallop; so at last Bob Saunders said, `What
do you say, Walter, to a half-mile race just on to
the top of the common? it’ll do them no harm.’
Well, I didn’t say yes or no; but somehow or
other, off we were in another minute, and, do what
I would, I couldn’t keep Forester back.
Down the lane we went, and right over the common
like lightning, and, when I was pulling hard to get
Forester round, he went smack through a hedge, and
left me on the wrong side of it. Bob laughed
at first, but we soon saw that it was no laughing
matter. He caught Forester directly, for the
poor beast had hurt his foot, and limped along as
he walked; and there was an ugly wound in his chest
from a pointed stick in the hedge which had struck
him. So we crawled home, all of us in a nice
pickle, you may be sure. And then I began to
think of what father would say, and I couldn’t
bear to think that he would have to blame me for it
all; so I turned into a regular sneaking coward, and
gave Dick a sovereign to tell a lie and take the blame
on himself, promising him to make it all right with
my father. There, auntie, that’s just the
whole of it; and I’m sure I never knew what
a coward I was before. But only let me get well
through this scrape, and my name’s not Walter
if I ever get into such another.”
“And now, dear boy, what are
you going to do about this matter?” asked his
aunt after a pause.
“Do, auntie? I’m
sure I don’t know; I’ve done too much already.
It’s a bad business at the best, and I don’t
see that I can do anything about it without making
it worse.”
“Then, Walter, is the burden
still to rest on the wrong shoulders? and is Dick
to be punished for your fault?”
“Oh, as to that, auntie, Dick
shan’t be the worse for it in the end: he
has had a sovereign remedy already; and I’ll
beg him off from being turned away when I see my father
has quite cooled down.”
Miss Huntingdon said nothing in reply,
but laid one of her hands across the other on her
little work-table. Walter saw the action, but
turned his head away and fidgeted in his chair.
At last he said, “That’s rather hard,
auntie, to make me a moral coward again so soon.”
“Is it hard, Walter?”
she replied gently. “The next best thing
to not doing wrong is to be sorry for it when you
have done it.”
“Well, Aunt Kate, I am
sorry terribly sorry. I wish I’d
never touched the horses. I wish that fellow
Bob had been a hundred miles off yesterday afternoon.”
“I daresay, Walter; but is that
all? Are you not going to show that you
are sorry? Won’t you imitate, as far as
it is now possible, little George Washington’s
moral courage?”
“What! go and tell my father
the whole truth? Do you think I ought?”
“I am sure you ought, dear boy.”
Walter reflected for a while, then
he said, in a sorrowful tone, “Ah, but there’s
a difference. George Washington didn’t
and wouldn’t tell a lie, but I would, and did;
so it’s too late now for me to show moral courage.”
“Not at all, Walter; on the
contrary, it will take a good deal of moral courage
to confess your fault now. Of course it would
have been far nobler had you gone straight to your
father and told him just how things were; and then,
too, you would not have been Dick’s tempter,
leading him to sin. Still, there is a right
and noble course open to you now, dear boy, which
is to go and undo the mischief and the wrong as far
as you can.”
“Well, I suppose you are right,
auntie,” he said slowly, and with a heavy sigh;
“but I shan’t find my father throwing
his arms round me as George Washington’s father
did, and calling me his noble boy, and telling me
he had rather I told the truth than have a thousand
gold and silver cherry-trees.”
“Perhaps not, Walter; but you
will have, at any rate, the satisfaction of doing
what will have the approval of God, and of your own
conscience, and of the aunt who wants you to do the
thing that is right.”
“It shall be done,” said
her nephew, pressing his lips together and knitting
his brows by way of strengthening his resolution; and
he left the room with a reluctant step.
He found his father, who had just
come from the stables, in the dining-room.
“Well, Walter, my boy,” he said cheerily,
“it isn’t so bad with Forester after all.
He has got an ugly cut; but he doesn’t walk
but very slightly lame. A week’s rest
will set him all right; but I shall send that Dick
about his business to-morrow, or as soon as his quarter’s
up. I’d a better opinion of the boy.”
“Dick’s not to blame,” said Walter
slowly.
“Not to blame! How do
you make out that? I’m sure, if he had
had Forester well in hand, the accident couldn’t
have happened.”
Walter then gave his father the true
version of the mishap, and confessed his own wrong-doing
in the matter. For a few moments Mr Huntingdon
looked utterly taken aback; then he walked up and down
the room, at first with wide and excited strides,
and then more calmly. At last he stopped, and,
putting his hand on his son’s shoulder, said,
“That’s right, my boy. We won’t
say anything more about it this time; but you mustn’t
do it again.” The truth was, the squire
was not sorry to find that Dick, after all, was not
the culprit; for he had a great liking for the lad,
who suited him excellently as groom, and had received
many kindnesses from him. No doubt he had told
him an untruth on the present occasion; but then,
as he had done this to screen his master’s favourite
son, Mr Huntingdon did not feel disposed to take him
to task severely for the deceit; and, as Walter had
now made the only amends in his power, his father
was glad to withdraw Dick’s dismissal, and to
pass over the trouble without further comment.