But though Walter was learning to
understand and appreciate his brother’s character,
and to acknowledge his superiority to himself in moral
courage, he was not altogether satisfied with continuing
to lie under the sense of that superiority on his
brother’s part. He had himself been so
constantly made the object of his father’s admiration
and outspoken praises, and had always been so popular
with all friends of the family and guests at the Manor-house,
that anything like a feeling of inferiority to his
brother was one which he found it very hard to allow
a lodging in his heart and thoughts. So, while
the generous impulse of the moment had led him to
applaud and rejoice in his brother’s noble moral
courage, when they were discussing the matter in his
aunt’s room, he was by no means prepared, when
that impulse had died away, to allow Amos to carry
off and retain the palm which he acknowledged that
he had won. Jealousy of his brother’s reputation
for moral courage with Miss Huntingdon was a meanness
which he would have thought himself incapable of,
and which he would have repudiated indignantly had
he been charged with it. Nevertheless, it was
there in his heart; it made him restless and dissatisfied,
and kept him longing for an opportunity to display
a moral courage which should shine with a light that
might, even in his aunt’s eyes, eclipse, or at
any rate equal, that which glowed so brightly in Amos.
He was therefore on the watch for such an opportunity;
and before long that opportunity, as he thought, presented
itself.
One morning as the squire was reading
the county paper, while his sister was superintending
the preparations for breakfast, and her two nephews
were seated near her, Mr Huntingdon exclaimed suddenly,
in a tone of angry excitement, “Why, whatever
is the meaning of this? Walter, my boy, whatever
does it mean?”
“What, father?” asked
his son in a voice of mingled uneasiness and surprise.
“Why, just listen to this advertisement: `I
hereby challenge the working-men of this neighbourhood
to a trial of skill in running, leaping, and shooting;
and I promise to give a sovereign to any man who shall
beat me in a mile race, a high jump, and firing at
a mark. The trial to come off on Marley Heath,
on Tuesday, June 8th, at four o’clock p.m.
“`Signed, Walter Huntingdon,
Flixworth Manor.’ Do you know anything
about this, Walter? Did you really put this advertisement
into the paper? or is it a disgraceful hoax?”
Poor Walter looked perfectly astounded,
as did also his aunt and brother. Then he said,
with some hesitation, “It is no advertisement
of mine.”
“No, I thought not,” said
his father indignantly. “It must be, then,
a most shameful hoax; and I shall speak or write to
the editor about it in pretty strong terms you may
be sure.”
“Father,” said Walter
sadly, and after a pause, “it is no hoax.”
“No hoax! What do you
mean? You said you did not put the advertisement
in; so it must be a hoax.”
“I will explain it,” said
his son in a subdued voice. “The other
day, young Saunders, Gregson, and myself were discussing
which of us was the best shot, and best at a race
and a jump. `Well,’ said I, `we can easily
put it to the test. Let us meet to-morrow on
Marley Heath and have it out.’ So we brought
our guns with us next day; and Saunders and Gregson
brought a few other fellows with them to look on and
see all fair. We three fired at a mark, and
leapt over a rod hung across two poles, and tried
who was best runner over a hundred yards; and I won
the day in all three things. So, as we were
sitting down in the little roadside inn, where we
all had some eggs and bacon and bread and cheese together
for lunch, Gregson said to the other fellows, `Why,
our friend Walter here might challenge the whole county.’
`That he might; and win too,’ said more than
one of them. `I don’t know,’ I said; `but
I shouldn’t mind offering a sovereign to any
working-man in the neighbourhood who would beat me.’
`Good,’ said Saunders; `there’s many
a working-man that would like to have a try for your
sovereign; and it would be capital fun to see the
match come off.’ `What do you say to putting
an advertisement in the county paper to that effect?’
said Gregson. `Not I,’ I said; `I shall do
nothing of the sort.’ `Ah, he’s backing
out,’ said Saunders. `Indeed, I’m not,’
I cried; `I meant what I said.’ `Well, will
you let me put the advertisement in in your name?
Don’t be modest, man; you’re sure to win,’
said Gregson. `You can do so if you like,’
I replied; `I have no intention to go back from my
word.’ I said this half in joke and half
in earnest, and no doubt we were all a little excited
with the sport and with the lunch; but I never dreamed
that Gregson was serious when he talked about putting
in the advertisement in my name, and I shall not soon
forgive him for getting me into such a fix.
So, father, that’s just all about it.”
Mr Huntingdon listened to this explanation
with much surprise and vexation, and then was silent.
“And what do you mean to do
about it, Walter?” asked his aunt. “You
surely won’t let the matter go on.”
“I don’t see how I can
help it,” was her nephew’s reply; “the
challenge has been publicly given in my name.”
“It can’t be it
mustn’t be,” exclaimed his father angrily;
“it’s perfectly preposterous. We
shall be the talk and the jest of the whole county.
It will do harm, too, to the working-classes.
Why, you’ll have all the idle vagabonds there.
Some light-fingered and light-heeled poacher will
win your sovereign you’ll be the laughing-stock
of all the country round, and so shall I too.
And such a thing, instead of encouraging patient
industry and sobriety, will be just the means of giving
heart to the idlers and the profligates. It must
not be, Walter, my boy.”
His son did not reply for some time;
at last he said, “I don’t see how I can
back out of it; I’ve pledged my word. I’m
sorry for it, and I’m willing to take all the
shame and blame to myself, and all the ridicule, if
I’m beaten. You may depend upon it I won’t
be caught in this way again, but I must go through
with it now.”
“Nonsense,” said his father; “I
don’t see that at all.”
“Perhaps not, father,”
replied his son; “but I can’t go back from
what I’ve said.” These last words
were uttered with a dogged determination of tone and
manner which showed that Walter had made up his mind,
and was not to be turned from his purpose.
Like his father, he had a considerable
share of obstinacy in his disposition, and Mr Huntingdon
could call to mind several occasions on which a battle
with his favourite son had ended in the boy’s
getting his own way. And so, thinking further
remonstrance useless, at any rate for the present,
he let the matter drop, hoping, as he said afterwards
to his sister, that Walter would come to his senses
on the matter when he had had time to think the subject
over coolly. But he was mistaken in this hope.
Much as Walter was annoyed at having been thus taken
at his word, which he had given half in jest, he nevertheless
considered that he was pledged to abide by what had
been advertised in his name and with his sanction.
So on the day appointed there was a considerable
gathering of working-men, and also of women and children,
on Marley Heath, and this gathering swelled into a
crowd as the time of trial approached.
Gregson and Saunders who
enjoyed the whole thing amazingly, and none the less
because, as they had expressed it to each other as
they came along, “Young Huntingdon would be
none the worse fellow for getting a little of the
shine and brag taken out of him” were
on the spot in good time, with several like-minded
companions. These all gathered round Walter
as he came on to the ground, and wished him good success,
assuring him that no doubt he would keep his sovereign
safe in his pocket, and come off conqueror.
Poor Walter’s reply to his friends
was not particularly cordial in its tone, and made
Gregson see that he must put in a word of conciliation.
“Come, old fellow,” he said, “you
must forgive me if I took you too literally at your
word. I really thought you meant it; it will
do no harm to anybody, and will only show that you’ve
got the old Huntingdon pluck and spirit in you.”
“All right,” said Walter,
but not very cheerily; “I’m booked now,
and must make the best of it. How many are there
who are going in for the trial, do you think?”
“We shall see,” said Saunders,
“if we wait a bit; it wants a quarter to four,
still.”
Everything was then duly arranged
for the contest. A mile’s course had been
previously marked out, and a shooting-butt set up,
and also two poles with a leaping-rod across them.
As the hour approached, several young men respectably
dressed came up, and among them a powerful and active-looking
fellow whose appearance was hailed by a general shout
of mirth. His clothing was none of the best;
his face was scarred in several places; and there
was a free-and-easy manner about him, very different
from that of the other competitors. He answered
the loud laughter by which his appearance had been
greeted with a broad grin and a profound bow of mock
salutation. Each candidate for the trial had
brought his gun with him, and stood prepared for the
contest. Gregson and Saunders managed all the
arrangements after a brief consultation with Walter.
Four o’clock had now come, and
Gregson, having ascertained the fact by looking at
his watch, brought the competitors forward, and informed
them that the shooting would be the first thing, and
that six shots would be allowed to each, the winner
being of course he who should place the greatest number
of marks nearest the bull’s-eye. At the
same time Gregson made it to be distinctly understood
that the sovereign was only to be given to the man,
if such should be found, who should beat Walter Huntingdon
in all three things, namely, in shooting,
leaping, and running.
By his own request Walter came first.
Whatever may have been his feelings of annoyance
or reluctance up to this time, they were now completely
swallowed up in the excitement of the moment and the
desire to maintain the high reputation he had previously
gained. So he threw his whole soul into the
contest, and with steady eye and unwavering hand pointed
his rifle towards the target. Bang! a cloud of
smoke. Well shot! the bullet had struck the
target, but not very near the centre. A second
and third were equally but not more successful.
The fourth struck the bull’s-eye, the fifth
the ring next it, and the sixth the bull’s-eye
again. Bravo! shouted the excited crowd; would
any one beat that? Forward now came a sober-looking
young man, and did his best, but this was far short
of what Walter had achieved. Two others followed
with no better success. Then came one who handled
his gun very carefully, and took his aims with great
deliberation. Three shots in the bull’s-eye!
here was a winner would any one come up
to him? Four more came forward, and two of these
again scored three shots in the bull’s-eye.
And now the rough-looking man, who had excited the
general mirth of the crowd on his arrival, took his
stand opposite the target. He gazed at it a full
minute before raising his piece. There was a
derisive titter throughout the spectators as at last
he did so in an awkward style, and with a queer twist
of his mouth. The next moment he was rigid as
a statue cut out of stone. Flash! bang! the bull’s-eye;
again the bull’s-eye; two more very near it;
twice again the bull’s-eye. So he has made
the best score after all. “I thought so,”
he cried, with a swaggering toss of his head and a
jaunty whistle, and then with a flourish of his rifle
high in air he strode back into the midst of the onlookers.
Thus there were four of the competitors who had outdone
Walter in the firing at the mark.
But the running and jumping yet remained
to be contested. The jumping was arranged to
come next, and the four winners in the shooting prepared
to do their best against their young challenger:
Walter was now thoroughly roused, and, taking off
his coat, and exchanging his boots for a pair of light
shoes, stepped forward to exert himself to his utmost.
Higher and higher did he bound over the cross-rod
as it was raised for him by his friends peg by peg.
Jumping was a feat in which he specially prided himself,
and loud was the applause of Gregson, Saunders, and
their friends as he sprang over the rod time after
time. At last he failed to clear it, and his
utmost was done. And now the previous winners
came on in turn. The first who made the attempt
soon gave in; he was clearly inferior to Walter in
the high jump. The next surpassed him by one
peg. The third equalled him. And now came
forward the strange-looking man on whom all eyes were
eagerly bent. He had divested himself of his
coat and dirty neck-tie, and having kicked off his
shoes, looked round him with a snort and a wild grimace,
and then ran forward with a light, skipping step,
and cleared the first stick without the slightest
effort. Each succeeding height was leapt over
with the same ease, till he had equalled the most successful
jumper. “And now for a topper,” he
cried, as the rod was raised by still another peg.
Throwing all his energies into the effort, with a
rush and a mighty bound he cleared the stick by nearly
a foot, and danced gaily back to the starting-point
amidst the vociferous applause of all present.
Therefore Walter had now the two to contend with in
the foot-race who had surpassed him in the high jump.
The interest of the crowd was now at boiling-point,
and all sorts of conjectures, opinions, and affirmations
were circulated as to the issue of the trial, while
the three who were to run were resting a while.
At length, cheered on by the sympathising shouts
of the impatient spectators, they placed themselves
abreast, stripped of all superfluous garments, and
at a signal from Gregson the race began. Walter
commenced warily, husbanding his strength, and not
quickening his speed till he had reached the middle
of the course; the one of the remaining two did much
the same. As for the other, the wild-looking
winner of the highest place in the two previous contests,
he slouched along amidst peals of laughter all through
the line. Nevertheless, it was soon evident that,
although dropping behind a little in the first quarter
of a mile, he was gradually drawing up nearer and
nearer to the front. When Walter had accomplished
three-fourths of his task, and was now putting on extra
speed, the wild stranger, with a shout of “Victory
for ever!” flung himself forward at a tremendous
speed, and kept easily ahead to the end. The
two remaining racers now pressed on abreast till within
a yard of the place from whence they started, when,
by a last vehement effort, Walter’s companion
came in a foot or two in advance. All flung
themselves on the grass, and when the hubbub of cheers
and shouts had subsided, Walter rose to his feet,
and holding out a hand to each of the victors, said
with a laugh, “Fairly beaten.”
Gradually now the crowd began to disperse,
while the little band of competitors gathered round
a cart which had been brought up by Walter’s
direction carrying some refreshments for himself and
his friends, and those who had tried skill and endurance
with him. When the provisions had been duly
partaken of, Walter, taking out his purse, turned to
those about him and said: “And now, to
whom am I to give the sovereign, for two have beaten
me?”
“Oh, to our friend here, of
course,” said Gregson, placing his hand on the
strange-looking man’s shoulder, “for he
has done the best right through.”
“Come forward, then, my man,”
said Walter; “and pray, may I ask your name?”
“Oh,” said the man addressed,
with a laugh, “every one knows my name
Jim Jarrocks they calls me.”
“Well, Jim, here’s your
sovereign, and you’ve fairly won it.”
“Thank’ee, sir,”
said Jim; “and so has Will Gittins here, if I’m
not mistaken.”
“How do you mean?” asked
Saunders; “the sovereign was offered to the
best man.”
“Them’s not the terms
of the advertisement,” said Jim, taking the
newspaper out of his pocket. “Here it is:
`I promise to give one sovereign to any man who shall
beat me in a mile race, a high jump, and firing at
a mark.’ Now, I’ve done it and won
my sovereign, and Will Gittins has done it and won
his sovereign too.”
It was even so. Two had fairly
won the prize. So Walter, not with the best
grace, felt in his purse for a second sovereign, which
he handed to the other winner; and the two men walked
away from the place of meeting arm in arm.
“Walter,” said Gregson
earnestly and apologetically as they left the ground,
“I never meant this nor thought of it.
I can’t let you be out of pocket this second
sovereign; you must allow me to give it you back.”
But Walter declined it, spite of earnest
remonstrance and pressure on his friend’s part.
“No,” he said; “I’ve got myself
into a nice mess by my folly; but what I’ve
undertaken I mean to carry out, and take my own burdens
upon myself.” And so, notwithstanding the
applause and fine speeches showered on him by his
friends, Walter returned home considerably crestfallen
and out of spirits, the only thing that comforted
him being a sort of half conviction that he had shown
a considerable degree of moral courage in the way
in which he had stuck to and carried out his engagement.
As for Mr Huntingdon, his mortification
was extreme when there appeared in the next issue
of the county paper a full description of the contest,
from which it appeared that his favourite son had been
beaten in a public trial of skill by Jim Jarrocks,
well-known all over the county as the most reckless
poacher and unblushing profligate anywhere about, and
had thus given encouragement to a man who was constantly
before the magistrates for all sorts of minor breaches
of the law. However, he felt that he must make
the best of it, and he therefore spoke of it among
his friends as a bit of foolish practical joking on
his son’s part, in which he had burned his fingers
pretty severely, and which would therefore, he had
no doubt, read him a lesson to avoid anything of the
sort in the future.
As for Walter himself, he was only
too glad to keep silent on the matter, and let it
die out; and so were the family generally. There
was one, however, from whom Walter looked for sympathy,
and even for a measure of approbation this
was his aunt. In the evening, after the article
in the county paper on his challenge and its results
had been read with severe comments by his father at
the breakfast-table, he found Miss Huntingdon sitting
alone in the summer-house. Having cut two or
three small slips off a laurel, he brought them to
her, and, as he sat down by her side, said, half mournfully,
half playfully, “Auntie, I want you to make
me a laurel crown or chaplet of these.”
“Indeed, Walter; what for?”
“That I may wear it as a reward
from you, and a token of victory in moral courage.”
“Well, but, my dear boy, if
the laurels are to be looked at as a reward from myself,
I cannot crown you till I am satisfied that you have
won them.”
“Exactly so, auntie; now that
is just what I am going to show you.”
“Do so, dear boy, and I shall
be only too rejoiced to make the chaplet, and to place
it with my own hands on your head.”
“Well then, dear aunt, you have
heard all about this wretched business of the race;
you may be sure that it has made me feel very small
and very foolish.”
“I can quite understand that,”
said Miss Huntingdon; “and I have felt very
sorry for you in the matter; but I hope it may turn
out for good, and make you a little more cautious.”
“I hope so too, auntie; but
this is not the point with me just now. I want
to get credit, from you at any rate, for a little bit,
perhaps only a very little bit, of moral heroism or
courage.”
“Well, Walter?”
“Ah, now, auntie, that `well’
didn’t sound well. I’m afraid I shan’t
get much credit or encouragement from you.”
“Let me hear all about it, dear
boy,” said his aunt kindly.
“Why then, you see, I made a
foolish offer, and might have backed out of it; and
if I had done so I should have pleased my father and
saved my money, and not have encouraged one of the
biggest scamps going, and have been spared a lot of
chaffing and ridicule. But you see I had given
my word, though it was only half a word after all,
for I never dreamed that Gregson would have taken
me up as he did. But rather than break my word,
I stood by what I had promised, and got all sorts of
bother and trouble by doing so. Now, wasn’t
that something like moral courage? Don’t
I deserve my laurels?”
“It was something like it,” replied
his aunt gravely.
“Is that all, auntie?
Wasn’t it the thing itself? You know there
has been no dash or mere impulse here. I’ve
had a deal of patience and forbearance to exercise,
and these are quite out of my line.”
“Yes, I see that; but then, Walter ”
“But then, Aunt Kate, it wasn’t moral
courage after all.”
“Do you yourself think it was, dear boy?”
“Well, I don’t know; I
should like to think it was, but I am almost afraid.
What should you call it, dear aunt, if it wasn’t
truly moral courage?”
“I fear, dear Walter, you will
think me very hard and unfeeling if I say what I really
think.”
“Oh, no, no! speak out, auntie let
me hear the truth; you are never really unkind.”
“Then, Walter, I should call
it obstinacy, and not moral courage. You made
a promise, and you would stick to it through thick
and thin, let the consequences to yourself and others
be what they might, just because you had said it.
Was it not so?”
Walter turned red, and looked very
uncomfortable, and for a little time made no reply.
Then he said hastily, “And what ought
I to have done?”
“Well, my boy, in my judgment,”
replied his aunt, “you ought to have listened
to your father, and to have withdrawn your offer, and
to have borne patiently the shame and the annoyance
this would have brought upon you from your friends
Gregson, Saunders, and others.”
“Ah, I see; and then I should
have shown real moral courage. What’s the
difference, then?”
“I think, Walter, the difference
is just this: in the course you took, your firmness
and patience were for an unworthy object; had
you taken the other course, they would have been for
a worthy object. It seems to me that
this makes all the difference. I could not myself
call that moral courage which made a man carry through,
spite of all hindrances, opposition, and with much
personal sacrifice, a purpose which he must know to
be unworthy. Now, I will give you an illustration
of what I mean by an example. And first, I would
remind you that all my heroes hitherto have been those
who showed their moral courage about worthy objects;
for instance, Washington, Howard, Colonel Gardiner,
the young man in the American revival. But the
person whose moral courage I am now going to mention
was not on other occasions one of my heroes, but his
conduct on one particular occasion is specially to
the point just now. For I want you to see, dear
boy, that true moral courage is shown, not in sticking
to a thing just because you have said it, when you
must know that you ought not to have said it, but
in giving up what you have said, and bearing the reproach
of doing so, when you have become convinced that you
have said or undertaken what was wrong. It is
duty, in fact, that makes all the difference.”
“I see it, auntie; and who’s your hero
now?”
“Frederick the Great of Prussia, Walter.”
“What! the man who ridiculed that good officer’s
religion?”
“The same; but remember that,
while he ridiculed religion, he was constrained to
honour that officer for his consistency. But
his moral courage was exhibited on a very different
occasion. Now, you must remember what sort of
a man Frederick was, he just resembled a
spoiled child, who could not brook the slightest thwarting
of his will or pleasure. In some things he was
a miser, and in others just the reverse. He
wore his uniform till it was patched and threadbare,
while he gave two dollars each for cherries in the
winter. He would pay enormous sums to secure
a singer, and then refuse to allow the opera-house
to be lighted with wax-candles, so that the pleasure
of the evening was spoiled by the smell of tallow.
He was, unhappily, well-known in the army for two
peculiarities, first, a temper of such iron
unforgiveness that, if he had taken offence at any
one, that man’s career was closed, he was never
employed again; and, second, a memory of such tenacity
that not a hope existed of entrapping him into forgetfulness.
“Now, among his officers there
was a colonel, a very brave man, and a capital soldier,
who, on one occasion, had made some slight military
slip or blunder. This drew on him the king’s
displeasure, and was never forgotten. So his
pension or half-pay allowance was made the very lowest
his rank would permit; for these allowances were regulated
by the king himself.
“The poor colonel had a wife
and a large family of children; he did not understand
how to make the best of his small income, nor to improve
it by other employment, so that he was at last reduced
to what was little short of beggary and starvation.
Day after day he placed himself in the royal ante-chamber
and begged an audience; but the king would not hear
him, and one day got into a towering passion when the
officer-in-waiting ventured to utter the poor man’s
name in the king’s presence. At last the
colonel grew desperate. He could not make up
his mind to beg; his wife was ill, his children starving, what
was he to do? He hit upon the curious idea of
getting relief for his family by putting up, unobserved,
in the night time, at the corners of the streets in
Berlin, placards breathing the most venomous abuse
of the king, in the hope that a reward would be offered
to the person who should disclose who was the writer
of the placard, that he might then himself claim the
reward by informing against himself, and so might
relieve the immediate pressing necessities of his
wife and children, whatever might be the personal
suffering and consequences to himself.
“The plan succeeded. The
king, in a transport of rage, offered a reward of
fifty gold pieces to whoever should disclose the offender.
But you may imagine Frederick’s amazement when
the poor colonel, in ragged regimentals, and half
perishing with hunger, obtained an interview, and
named himself as the guilty libeller.
“And now, how did the king act,
when the unhappy officer begged that the reward might
be sent at once to his wife, that she might obtain
medical help for herself and bread for her children?
What was such a man as Frederick likely to do?
The colonel, when he confessed his crime, acknowledged
that his life was justly forfeited, and asked no pity
for himself; and had the king acted up to his ordinary
rules, he would have at once ordered the miserable
officer off to execution, or, at least, lifelong imprisonment.
But it was not thus that he punished the crushed
and miserable culprit. His heart was touched,
his conscience was pricked; he felt that he had acted
wrongly to the colonel in times past, and that he
must now undo the wrong as far as was possible.
But then remember the king’s character and
habits, especially in military matters. When
he had once said `No,’ when he had once resolved
upon a course of policy or action, he was the very
last man to alter; the whole world might go to pieces
sooner than he change. And yet, in this instance,
having become thoroughly convinced that he had been
treating a deserving man with injustice, he had the
moral courage to reverse his conduct, to unsay what
he had before said, and to incur the risk of being
called fickle or changeable by doing what he now believed
to be the right thing. So he at once laid the
poor man on his own couch, for the colonel had fainted
after making his confession. Then he gave him
food, and sent the doctor to his wife and provisions
for the children; and then, having summoned an attendant,
he bade him take the colonel’s sword, and consider
the officer himself as his prisoner. After this
he sat down and wrote a letter, and, having delivered
it to the attendant, dismissed the unhappy man from
his presence.
“The person who now had the
colonel in charge was an old friend of his, who had
often tried to put in a kind word for him to the king,
but hitherto without any good result. And now,
as he conducted him from the palace, he said, `You
are to be taken to the fortress of Spandau, but,
believe me, you have nothing to fear.’
Spandau was a fortress near Berlin, to which
at that time all state prisoners were sent.
“On reaching Spandau, the
officer gave his prisoner in charge to the captain
of the guard, while he himself carried the king’s
sealed order and the prisoner’s sword to the
governor of the fortress, who, having read the king’s
letter, told the colonel that, although he was his
prisoner, yet he was not forbidden to invite him for
once to join himself and his brother officers at the
dinner-table.
“In due time the guests assembled,
and with them the poor, half-starved colonel.
But imagine the astonishment of all when, after the
dinner was over, the governor of the fortress read
out to the whole company the king’s letter,
which ran thus: `Sir Commandant, I hereby
nominate and appoint the present half-pay colonel,
who was this day delivered over to you as a prisoner,
to the command of my fortress of Spandau, and
I look to receive from him in his new service proofs
of the same fidelity, bravery, and attention to duty,
and strict obedience, which he so often exhibited
in the late war. The late commandant of Spandau
now goes, in reward of his faithful services, as commandant
of Magdeburg.’
“Now I call this, dear Walter,
real nobility of conduct, real moral courage in such
a man as Frederick, the courage of acting out his
convictions, when in so doing he was going contrary
to those cherished habits and principles which were
part of his very self, and made him in a degree what
he was in the eyes of the world. This was indeed
moral courage, and not weak changeableness or fickleness,
because it had a noble object. To have adhered
to his ordinary course in the colonel’s case,
when he had become convinced that he had been wronging
that officer, would have been obstinacy and littleness.”
“Ay, auntie,” said Walter
thoughtfully, “I am sure your view is the right
one. So good-bye, laurels, for this time;”
saying which, he threw the boughs among the trees
of the shrubbery. As he did so, he felt the
loving arms of Miss Huntingdon drawing him closely
to her, and then a warm kiss on his fair brow.