Few people besides the actual sufferers
can at all conceive or appreciate the intense misery
which shy and retiring characters experience when
themselves or their conduct are made the subjects of
open ridicule, especially in company. Amos was
peculiarly sensitive on this point; and Walter knew
it, and too often ungenerously availed himself of
this knowledge to wound his brother when he owed him
a grudge, or was displeased or out of temper with
him. He would watch his opportunity to drag
Amos forward, as it were, when he could present him
to his father and his friends in a ridiculous light;
and then he would clap his hands, point to his brother’s
flushed face, and make some taunting or sarcastic
remark about his “rosy cheeks.” Poor
Amos, on these occasions, tingling in every nerve,
and ready almost to weep tears of vexation, would
shrink into himself and retreat into another room at
the earliest opportunity, followed not unfrequently
by an outspoken reproach from his brother, that “he
must be a regular muff if he couldn’t bear a
joke.” Sometimes Walter’s unfeeling
sallies would receive a feeble rebuke from his father;
but more often Mr Huntingdon would join in the laugh,
and remark to his friends that Amos had no spirit
in him, and that all the wit of the family was centred
in Walter. Not so Miss Huntingdon. She
fully understood the feelings of both her nephews;
and, while she profoundly pitied Amos, she equally
grieved at the cruel want of love and forbearance
in her younger nephew towards his elder brother.
Some weeks had passed away since the
disastrous ride, and Forester being none the worse
for his mishap, Mr Huntingdon allowed Walter to exercise
him occasionally, accompanied by Dick, who had been
fully restored to favour. It was on a lovely
summer afternoon that the two had trotted briskly
along to a greater distance from home than they had
at all contemplated reaching when they started.
They had now arrived at a part of the country quite
unknown to Walter, and were just opposite a neat little
cottage with a porch in front of it covered with honeysuckle,
when Walter checked his horse, and said, “Dick,
it’s full time we turned back, or my father
will wonder what has become of us.” So
they turned homewards. They had not, however,
ridden more than a quarter of a mile, when Walter
found that he had dropped one of his gloves; so, telling
Dick to walk his horse, and he would join him in a
few minutes, he returned to the little cottage, and,
having recovered his glove just opposite the gate,
was in the act of remounting, when he suddenly exclaimed,
“Holloa! what’s that? Well, I never!
It can’t be, surely! Yes, it is, and no
mistake!”
The sight which called forth these
words of surprise from Walter was one that might naturally
astonish him. At the moment when he was about
to spring into his saddle, the cottage door had opened,
and out ran a little boy and girl about four or five
years of age, followed by Amos Huntingdon, who chased
them round the little garden, crying out, “I’ll
catch you, George; I’ll catch you, Polly;”
laughing loud as he said so, while the children rushed
forward shouting at the fun. They had gone thus
twice round the paths, when Amos became suddenly aware
that he was being observed by some one on horseback.
In an instant he made a rush for the house, and,
as he was vanishing through the porch, a woman’s
head and a portion of her dress became visible in the
entrance.
Walter paused in utter bewilderment;
but the next minute Amos was at his side, and said,
in a hoarse, troubled voice, “Not a word of this,
Walter, not a word of this to any one at home.”
Walter’s only reply to this at first was a
hearty peal of laughter; then he cried out, “All
right, Amos;” and, taking off his hat with affected
ceremony, he added, “My best respects to Mrs
Amos, and love to the dear children. Good-bye.”
Saying which, without stopping to hear another word
from his brother, whose appealing look might well
have touched his heart, he urged his horse to a canter,
and was gone.
Amos did not appear among the family
that evening. He had returned home just before
dinner-time, and sent a message into the drawing-room
asking to be excused as he did not feel very well.
Miss Huntingdon went up to his room to see what was
amiss, and returned with the report that there was
nothing seriously wrong; that her nephew had a bad
sick headache, and that bed was the best thing at
present for him. Mr Huntingdon asked no further
questions, for Amos was not unfrequently kept by similar
attacks from joining the family circle. His father
sometimes thought and called him fanciful, but for
the most part left him to do as he liked, without
question or remark. And so it was that Amos had
grown up to manhood without settling down to any profession,
and was left pretty much to follow the bent of his
own inclinations. His father knew that there
was no need to be anxious about him on the score of
worldly provision. He had seen well to his education,
having sent him to a good school, and in due time
to the university, and, till he came of age, had made
him a sufficient allowance, which was now no longer
needed, since he had come into a small fortune at
his majority, left him by his mother’s father;
and, as he was heir to the entailed property, there
was no need for concern as to his future prospects,
so no effort was made by Mr Huntingdon to draw him
out of his natural timidity and reserve, and induce
him to enter on any regular professional employment.
Perhaps he would take to travelling abroad some day,
and that would enlarge his mind and rouse him a bit.
At present he really would make nothing of law, physic,
or divinity. He was sufficiently provided for,
and would turn out some day a useful and worthy man,
no doubt; but he was never meant to shine; he must
leave that to Walter, who had got it naturally in
him. So thought and so sometimes said the squire;
and poor Amos pretty much agreed with this view of
his father’s; and Walter did so, of course.
The Manor-house therefore continued Amos’s home
till he should choose to make another for himself.
But was he making a new home for himself?
This was Walter’s bewildering thought as he
cantered back, after his strange discovery of his brother
at the cottage. Was it really so? Had this
shy, silent brother of his actually taken to himself
a wife unknown to any one, just as his poor sister
had married clandestinely? It might be so and
why not? Strange people do strange things; and
not only so, but Walter’s conscience told him
that his brother might well have been excused for seeking
love out of his home, seeing that he got but
little love in it. And what about the
children? No doubt they were hers; he must have
married a widow. But what a poky place they were
living in. She must have been poor, and have
inveigled Amos into marrying her, knowing that he was
heir to Flixworth Manor. Eh, what a disgrace!
Such were Walter’s thoughts as he rode home
from the scene of the strange encounter. But
then, again, he felt that this was nothing but conjecture
after all. Why might not Amos have just been
doing a kind act to some poor cottager and her children,
whom he had learned to take an interest in? And
yet it was odd that he should be so terribly upset
at being found out in doing a little act of kindness.
Walter was sure that not a shadow of moral wrong
could rest on his brother’s conduct. He
might have made a fool of himself, but it could not
be anything worse.
One thing, however, Walter was resolved
upon, he would have a bit of fun out of his discovery.
So next day at luncheon, when they were seated at
table, unattended by a servant, Amos being among them,
but unusually nervous and ill at ease, Walter abruptly
inquired of his brother across the table if he could
lend him a copy of the “Nursery Rhymes.”
No reply being given, Walter continued, “Oh,
do give us a song, Amos, `Ride a Cock Horse,’
or `Baby Bunting,’ or `Hi, Diddle, Diddle.’
I’m sure you must have been practising these
lately to sing to those dear children.”
As he said this, Amos turned his eyes
on him with a gaze so imploring that Walter was for
a moment silenced. Miss Huntingdon also noticed
that look, and, though she could not tell the cause
of it, she was deeply pained that her nephew should
have called it forth from his brother. Walter,
however, was not to be kept from his joke, though he
had noticed that his aunt looked gravely and sorrowfully
at him, and had crossed one hand upon the other.
“Ah, well,” he went on, “love in
a cottage is a very romantic thing, no doubt; and
I hope these darling little ones, Amos, enjoy the
best of health.”
“Whatever does the boy mean?”
exclaimed the squire, whose attention was now fairly
roused.
Amos looked at first, when his father
put the question, as though he would have sunk into
the earth. His colour came and went, and he half
rose up, as though he would have left the table; but,
after a moment’s pause, he resumed his seat,
and, turning quietly to Mr Huntingdon, said in a low,
clear voice, “Walter saw me yesterday afternoon
playing with some little children in a cottage-garden
some miles from this house. This is all about
it.”
“And what brought you there,
Amos?” asked Walter. “Little baby
games aren’t much in your line.”
“I had my reasons for what I
was doing,” replied the other calmly. “I
am not ashamed of it; I have done nothing to be ashamed
of in the matter. I can give no other explanation
at present. But I must regret that I have not
more of the love and confidence of my only brother.”
“Oh, nonsense! You make
too much of Walter’s foolish fun; it means no
harm,” said the squire pettishly.
“Perhaps not, dear father,”
replied Amos gently; “but some funny words have
a very sharp edge to them.”
No sooner had Miss Huntingdon retired
to her room after luncheon than she was joined by
Walter. He pretended not to look at her, but,
laying hold of her two hands, and then putting them
wide apart from one another, he said, still keeping
his eyes fixed on them, “Unkind hands of a dear,
kind aunt, you had no business to be crossed at luncheon
to-day, for poor Walter had done no harm, he had not
showed any want of moral courage.”
Disengaging her hands from her nephew’s
grasp, Miss Huntingdon put one of them on his shoulder,
and with the other drew him into a chair. “Is
my dear Walter satisfied with his behaviour to his
brother?” she asked.
“Ah! that was not the point,
Aunt Kate,” was his reply; “the hands were
to be crossed when I had failed in moral courage; and
I have not failed to-day.”
“No, Walter, perhaps not; but
you told me you should like to be taught moral courage
by examples, and what happened to-day suggested to
me a very striking example, so I crossed my hands.”
“Well, dear auntie, please let me hear it.”
“My moral hero to-day is Colonel Gardiner, Walter.”
“Ah! he was a soldier then, auntie?”
“Yes, and a very brave one too;
indeed, never a braver. When he was a young
man, and had not been many years in the army, he was
terribly wounded in a battle, and lay on the field
unable to raise himself to his feet or move from his
place. Thinking that some one might come round
to plunder the dead and dying before his friends could
find him as, alas! there were some who
were heartless enough to do in those days and
not wishing that his money should be taken from him,
as he had several gold pieces about him, he managed
to get these pieces out of his pocket, and then to
glue them in his clenched hand with the clotted blood
which had collected about one of his wounds.
Then he became insensible, and friends at last recovered
his body and brought him to consciousness again, and
the money was found safe in his unrelaxed grasp.
I mention this merely to show the cool and deliberate
courage of the man; his wonderful pluck, as you would
call it.”
“Very plucky, auntie, very; but please go on.”
“Well, many years after, he
died in battle, and showed the same marvellous bravery
then. It was in the disastrous engagement of
Prestonpans, in the year 1745. The Highlanders
surprised the English army, turned their position,
and seized their cannon. Colonel Gardiner exerted
himself to the utmost, but his men quickly fled, and
other regiments did the same. He then joined
a small body of English foot who remained firm, but
they were soon after overpowered by the Highlanders.
At the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted
but a few minutes, Colonel Gardiner received a bullet-wound
in his left breast; but he said it was only a flesh-wound,
and fought on, though he presently after received
a shot in the thigh. Then, seeing a party of
the foot bravely fighting near him, who had no officer
to head them, he rode up to them and cried aloud,
`Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing!’ Just then
he was cut down by a man with a scythe, and fell.
He was dragged off his horse, and received a mortal
blow on the back of his head; and yet he managed to
wave his hat as a signal to a faithful servant to
retreat, crying out at the same time, `Take care of
yourself.’”
“Bravo! auntie, that was true
courage if you like; that’s old-fashioned courage
such as suits my father and me.”
“I know it, Walter. But
Colonel Gardiner showed a higher and nobler courage;
higher and nobler because it required far more steady
self-denial, and arose from true religious principle.
I want you to notice the contrast, and that is why
I have mentioned these instances of what I may call
his animal bravery. I have no wish to rob him
of the honour due to him for those acts of courage;
but then, after all, he was brave in those constitutionally, I
might say, indeed, because he could not help it.
It was very different with his moral courage.
When he was living an utterly godless and indeed
wicked life, it pleased God to arrest him in his evil
career by a wonderful vision of our Saviour hanging
on the cross for him. It was the turning-point
of his life. He became a truly changed man,
and as devoted a Christian as he had formerly been
a slave to the world and his own sinful habits.
And now he had to show on whose side he was and meant
to be. It is always a difficult thing to be
outspoken for religion in the army, but it was ten
times as difficult then as it is now, seeing that in
our day there are so many truly Christian officers
and common soldiers in the service. Drunkenness
and swearing were dreadfully prevalent; indeed, in
those days it was quite a rare thing to find an officer
who did not defile his speech continually with profane
oaths. But Colonel Gardiner was not a man to
do things by halves: he was now enlisted under
Christ’s banner as a soldier of the Cross, and
he must stand up for his new Master and never be ashamed
of him anywhere. But to do this would bring him
persecution in a shape peculiarly trying to him, I
mean in the shape of ridicule. He would, he
tells us, at first, when the change had only lately
taken place in him, rather a thousandfold have marched
up to the mouth of a cannon just ready to be fired
than stand up to bear the scorn and jests of his ungodly
companions; he winced under these, and instinctively
shrank back from them. Nevertheless, he braved
all, the scorn, the laughter, the jokes, and made
it known everywhere that he was not ashamed of confessing
his Saviour, cost what it might; and he even managed,
by a mixture of firm remonstrance and good-tempered
persuasion, to put down all profane swearing whenever
he was present, by inducing his brother officers to
consent to the payment of a fine by the guilty party
for every oath uttered. And so by his consistency
he won at length the respect of all who knew him,
even of those who most widely differed from him in
faith and practice. There, Walter, that is what
I call true and grand moral courage and heroism.”
“So it was, so it was, dear
auntie; but why have you brought forward Colonel Gardiner’s
case for my special benefit on the present occasion?”
“I will tell you, dear boy.
You think it fine fun to play off your jokes on Amos,
and nothing seems to please you better than to raise
the laugh against him and to bring the hot flush into
his cheeks. Ah! but you little know the pain
and the misery you are inflicting; you little know
the moral courage it requires on your brother’s
part to stand up under that ridicule without resenting
it, and to go on with any purpose he may have formed
in spite of it. I want you to see a reflection
of Colonel Gardiner’s noblest courage, his high
moral courage, in your own dear brother, and to value
him for it, and not to despise him, as I see you now
do. You say you want to be free from moral cowardice;
then, copy moral courage wherever you can see it.”
“Well, auntie,” said her
nephew after a minute’s silence, “I daresay
you are right. Poor Amos! I’ve been
very hard upon him, I believe. It wasn’t
right, and I’ll try and do better. But
it’s such a funny idea taking him as
a copy. Why, everybody’s always telling
me to mark what Amos does, and just do the very opposite.”
“Not everybody, Walter; not
the aunt who wants to see you truly good and noble.
There are a grandeur of character and true nobility
in Amos which you little suspect, but which one day
you also will admire, though you do not see nor understand
them now.”
Walter did not reply. He was
not best pleased with his aunt’s last remarks,
and yet, at the same time, he was not satisfied with
himself. So he rose to go, and as he did so he
said, “Ah, Aunt Kate, I see you are in Amos’s
confidence, and that you know all about the little
children and their cottage home.”
“Nay, my boy,” replied
his aunt, “you are mistaken; Amos has not made
me his confidante in the matter. But I have
formed my opinion of him and his motives from little
things which have presented themselves to my observation
from time to time, and I have a firm conviction that
my nephew Walter will agree with me in the end about
his brother, whatever he may think now. At least
I hope so.”
“So do I, dear auntie.
Good-bye, good-bye.” And, having said
these words half playfully and half seriously, Walter
vanished from the room with a hop, skip, and jump.