Mr Huntingdon’s conduct toward
Amos was a great grief to his sister, but she felt
that she must not openly interfere, and that she could
only do her best to make up to her nephew, as far
as was possible, for his father’s coldness,
and look for brighter times, which she felt sure were
coming, though as yet scarcely the faintest streak
of dawn could be seen on the horizon. The old
butler also was a great comfort to his young master,
being most anxious to do everything in his power to
undo any evil consequences which his own abrupt outspeaking
might have brought upon Amos. So he encouraged
him to persevere in his great purpose, with all his
might, assuring him that things would come nicely round
in time. Amos shook his head sadly, for he was
naturally of a desponding turn; he could see at present
little but clouds and thorns before him. Not
that he wavered in his purpose for a moment, or had
the least thought of holding back from the work he
had set his hand to, even for a time. But his
father’s harshness and manifestly abiding displeasure
towards himself he found very hard to bear.
Nevertheless he was comforted by the reiterated affirmations
of Harry that things were coming nicely round.
“Take my word for it,”
said the shrewd old man; “I knows the old master
and his ways better than you do, Master Amos, though
you’re his son and I ain’t. But
I’ve knowed him years longer than you have.
Now he’s displeased with you; but I’ll
tell you who he’s more displeased with, and
that’s just his own self. I don’t
mean no disrespect to your father, Master Amos he’s
as kind-hearted a gentleman and as good a master as
ever was, only a bit hasty sometimes; but then, which
on us ain’t got faults of our own enough and
to spare? But I’m sure of this, he has
never been fairly satisfied with keeping the door shut
agen dear Miss Julia as was, and he won’t be
satisfied, depend on it, till she’s back again I
know it. You see, though there was a reg’lar
flare up when I spoke up for you the other night,
he has never said a word of blame to me on the subject;
and for why? I’ll tell you it’s
just because he knows and feels down in his heart
of hearts as I were not to blame. But
he must be angry with somebody ’taint
pleasant to be angry with one’s own self; he’s
never been used to be angry with Master Walter; ’tain’t
no use being angry with Miss Huntingdon, ’cos
she’d look the fiercest man as ever lived into
a good temper the mere sight of her face
is enough for that, let alone her words. So master’s
just showing his anger to you, Master Amos.
But it won’t last; it can’t last.
So you just stick to your work, and I’ll back
you up all in my power, and I’ll keep my tongue
inside my teeth for the future, if I possibly can.”
As for Walter, he felt thoroughly
ashamed of himself, and tried in many ways to make
up to his brother for his past unkindness, by various
little loving attentions, and by carefully abstaining
from taunting and ungracious speeches. This
was very cheering to the heart of Amos, and lightened
his trial exceedingly; but he felt that he could not
yet take Walter fully into his confidence, nor expect
him to join with him in a pursuit which would involve
much quiet perseverance and habitual self-denial.
For how were the banished ones to be brought back?
What present steps could be taken for their restoration?
Any attempt to introduce the subject of his sister’s
marriage and present position in his father’s
presence he felt would, as things now were, be worse
than useless. Once he attempted to draw the
conversation in that direction; but Mr Huntingdon,
as soon as he became aware of the drift of his son’s
observations, impatiently changed the subject.
On another occasion, when Walter plunged headlong
into the matter by saying at tea-time to his aunt,
“Eh! what a long time it is since we saw anything
of Julia. I should so like to have her with
us again; shouldn’t you, auntie?” his
father, striking his clenched fist on the table, and
looking sternly at his son, said in a voice trembling
with suppressed anger, “Not a word again on
that subject, Walter, unless you wish to drive me out
of my own house.” So Amos’s great
purpose, his life-work to which he had dedicated himself,
his means, his best energies, seemed hopelessly blocked.
The great hindrance was, alas! in
that father whose heart must be touched and subdued
before any effectual and really onward steps could
be taken. But this barrier seemed to become daily
more formidable. “What am I to do, Aunt
Kate?” Amos said, when discussing the matter
with Miss Huntingdon in private; “what can I
do now?”
“Rather, dear Amos,” replied
his aunt, “must the question be, not so much,
`What can I do now?’ as, `What must I do next?’
Now it seems to me that the next thing is just prayerfully
and patiently to keep your great purpose in view,
and to be on the watch for opportunities, and God
will give success in due time. Ah, here
comes Walter.” She repeated to him what
she had just been saying to his brother, and then continued,
“Now here we may bring in moral heroism; for
it is a very important feature in moral courage to
wait steadily watching for opportunities to carry
out a noble purpose, and specially so when the way
seems completely, or to a great extent, hedged up.”
“Examples, auntie, examples!” exclaimed
Walter.
“You shall have them,”
she implied. “I have two noble heroes to
bring before you, and they both had the same glorious
object in view, and went steadily on in their pursuit
of it when everything before them looked as nearly
hopeless as it could do. My two heroes are Clarkson
and Wilberforce.
“I daresay you remember that
there was a time when slaves were as much property
and a matter of course in our own foreign possessions
as they were a short time since in the Southern States
of America. So completely was this the case,
that when a slave was brought to England by one of
our countrymen, he was considered his master’s
absolute property. However, this was happily
brought to an end more than a hundred years ago.
A slave named Somerset, who had been brought by his
master to this country, fell ill, and his master, thinking
that he would be of no more use to him, turned him
adrift. But a charitable gentleman, Mr Granville
Sharp, found him in his wretched state, had pity on
him, and got him restored to health. Then his
old master, thinking that now he would be of service
to him, claimed him as his property. This led
to the matter being taken up; a suit was instituted;
and by a decision of the Court of King’s Bench,
slavery could no longer exist in England. That
became law in 1772. The poet Cowper has some
beautiful lines on this subject:
“`Slaves cannot breathe in England:
if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they
are free; They touch our country, and their shackles
fall. That’s noble, and bespeaks a nation
proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread
it, then, And let it circulate through every vein
Of all our empire, that, where Britain’s power
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.’
“Still, we could hold, and did
hold, slaves to a large extent in some of our colonies.
Now the great object of Clarkson and Wilberforce was
to get slavery abolished throughout the British dominions
all the world over; in other words, that it should
not be lawful for a slave to exist as a slave in any
of our possessions. But they had a hard and steady
fight for years and years in pursuit of their great
object. Patience, faith, calm courage, perseverance,
these were the noble constituents of their moral heroism.
Thomas Clarkson, from youth to manhood, from manhood
to old age, devoted himself unreservedly to the one
great purpose of obtaining freedom and justice for
the oppressed negro. His work was to collect
information, to spread it on all sides, to agitate
the question of the abolition of slavery throughout
the United Kingdom and the world. William Wilberforce’s
place in the work was different. His part was
to introduce Clarkson’s plans to the notice of
Parliament, and to advocate them with his wonderful
eloquence, and to persevere in that advocacy with
untiring zeal and love. When he called the attention
of the House of Commons to the question of the slave-trade
in 1788 he was met by the most determined opposition.
Men’s worldly interests were arrayed in arms
against the abolition. The traffic in slaves
brought millions of money to the British coffers.
So the case appeared for a time to be hopeless.
But this made no difference to Wilberforce his
courage never failed; his resolution never wavered;
year after year he brought forward the subject, and,
though he experienced eleven defeats in his endeavours
to carry the measure, at last he triumphed. And
the result was the termination of slavery in the British
dominions in August 1834, and that, too, at a cost
to the country of twenty millions of money as compensation
to those who, at the time, were holders of property
in slaves. All honour to Clarkson and Wilberforce,
for theirs was a noble victory, a grand result of
the unwavering, unflinching moral courage of those
two moral heroes.”
“A thousand cheers for them,
auntie!” cried Walter. Then turning to
his brother, he added, “So you see, Amos, you
must not lose heart; indeed, I know you won’t.
Things will come nicely round, as Harry said.
My father, I am sure, will understand and appreciate
you in time; and I shall have to erect a triumphal
arch with flowers and evergreens over the front door,
with this motto in letters of gold at the top, `Amos
and moral courage for ever.’”
“I don’t know,”
said his brother rather sadly; “I trust things
may come round as you say. But anyhow, I mean,
with God’s help, to persevere; and it is a great
happiness for me to know that I have the sympathy of
my dear aunt and brother.”
Not many days after this conversation,
when the family were at breakfast, Mr Huntingdon asked
Walter when the steeplechase was coming off.
“Three weeks to-morrow, I believe,”
replied his son. “By-the-by, I think I
ought to mention that Saunders wants me to be one of
the riders.”
“You!” exclaimed his father in astonishment.
“Yes, father; he says I am the
best rider of my age anywhere round, and that I shall
stand a good chance of coming in at the head of them.”
“Very likely that may be the
opinion of Mr Robert Saunders,” replied the
squire; “but I can only say I wish you were not
quite so friendly with that young man; you know it
was he who led you into that scrape with poor Forester.”
“Ah, but, father, Bob wasn’t
to blame. You know I took the blame on myself,
and that was putting it on the right shoulders.
There’s no harm in Bob; there are many worse
fellows than he is.”
“But perhaps,” said Miss
Huntingdon, “he may not be a very desirable
companion for all that.”
“Perhaps not, auntie. Well,
father, if you don’t mind my riding this time,
I’ll try and keep a little more out of his way
in future.”
“I think you had better, my
boy; you are not likely to gain much either in reputation
or pocket by the acquaintance. You know it was
only the other day that he helped to let you in for
losing a couple of sovereigns in that wretched affair
on Marley Heath; and one of them was lost to about
the biggest blackguard anywhere hereabouts. I
think, my boy, it is quite time that you kept clear
of such things.”
“Indeed, father. I almost
think so too; and, at any rate, you won’t find
me losing any more sovereigns to Jim Jarrocks.
But I’m almost pledged to Saunders to ride
in this steeplechase. It will be capital fun,
and no harm, and perhaps I may never have another chance.”
“I had rather you didn’t,”
said his father; “anyhow, your friend Saunders
must find you a horse for I am not going to have one
of mine spoilt again, and your own pony would make
but a poor figure in a steeplechase.”
“All right, father,” replied
Walter, and the conversation passed on to another
subject.
The three weeks came and went; the
steeplechase came off, and Walter was one of the riders.
The admired of all eyes, he for a time surmounted
all difficulties. At last, in endeavouring to
clear an unusually wide ditch, he was thrown, and
his horse so badly injured that the poor animal had
to be shot. Walter himself, though stunned and
bruised, was not seriously hurt, and was able to return
home in time for dinner.
The party had assembled in the drawing-room,
all but Mr Huntingdon. Five minutes ten a
quarter of an hour past the usual time, but the squire
had not made his appearance. At last his step
was heard rapidly approaching. Then he flung
the door hastily open, and rushed into the room, his
face flushed, and his chest heaving with anger.
Striding up to Walter, he exclaimed: “So
this is the end of your folly and disobedience.
You go contrary to my orders, knowing that I would
not have you take part in the steeplechase; you ruin
another man’s horse worth some three hundred
guineas; and then you come home, just as if nothing
had happened, and expect me, I suppose, to pay the
bill. But you may depend upon it I shall do
nothing of the sort.”
No one spoke for a few minutes.
Then Walter stammered out that he was very sorry.
“Sorry, indeed!” cried
his father; “that’s poor amends.
But it seems I’m to have nothing but disobedience
and misery from my children.”
“Dear Walter,” said his
sister gently, “are you not a little hard upon
the poor boy?”
“Hard, Kate? poor
boy? nonsense! You’re just like
all the rest, spoiling and ruining him by your foolish
indulgence. He’s to be master, it seems,
of the whole of us, and I may as well give up the management
of the estate and of my purse into his hands.”
Miss Huntingdon ventured no reply;
she felt that it would be wiser to let the first violence
of the storm blow by. But now Amos rose, and
approached his father, and confronted him, looking
at him calmly and steadily. Never before had
that shy, reserved young man been seen to look his
father so unflinchingly in the face. Never, when
his own personal character or comfort had been at
stake, had he dreamt of so much as a remonstrance.
He had left it to others to speak for him, or had
submitted to wrong or neglect without murmuring.
How different was it now! How strange was the
contrast between the wild flashing eyes of the old
man, and the deeply tranquil, thoughtful, and even
spiritual gaze of the son! Before that gaze
the squire’s eyes lost their fire, his chest
ceased to heave, he grew calm.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he
asked in a hoarse voice.
“Father,” said Amos slowly,
“I am persuaded that you are not doing full
justice to dear Walter. I must say a word for
him. I do not think his going and riding in
the steeplechase was an act of direct disobedience.
I think your leave was implied when you said that at
any rate he must not look to you for a horse.
I know that you would have preferred his not going,
and so must he have known, but I do not think that
he was wrong in supposing that you had not absolutely
forbidden him.”
“Indeed!” said Mr Huntingdon
dryly and sarcastically, after a pause of astonishment;
“and may I ask where the three hundred guineas
are to come from? for I suppose the borrowed horse
will have to be paid for.”
“Father,” said Walter
humbly, and with tears in his eyes and a tremor in
his voice, “I know the horse must be paid for,
because it was not Saunders’s own; he borrowed
it for me, and I know that he cannot afford the money.
But it’s an exaggeration that three hundred
guineas; the horse was really worth about a hundred
pounds.”
“It makes no matter,”
replied his father, but now with less of irritation
in his voice, “whether it was worth three hundred
guineas or one hundred pounds. I want to know
who is going to pay for it, for certainly I
am not.”
“You must stop it out of my
allowance,” said Walter sorrowfully.
“And how many years will it
take to pay off the debt, then, I should like to know?”
asked his father bitterly.
Again there was a few moments’
silence. But now Amos stepped forward once more,
and said quietly, “Father, I will take the debt
upon myself.”
“You, Amos!” exclaimed
all his three hearers, but in very different tones.
Poor Walter fairly broke down, sobbing
like a child, and then threw himself into his brother’s
arms and kissed him warmly. Mr Huntingdon was
taken quite aback, and tried in vain to hide his emotion.
Miss Huntingdon wept bright tears of gladness, for
she saw that Amos was making progress with his father,
and getting nearer to his heart.
“There, then,” said her
brother with trembling voice, “we must make the
best of a bad job. Walter, don’t let’s
have any more steeplechases. Amos, my
dear boy, I’ve said I wouldn’t pay, so
I must stick to it, but we’ll make up the loss
to you in some way or other.”
“All right, dear father,”
replied Amos, hardly able to speak for gladness.
Never for years past had Mr Huntingdon called him
“dear.” That one word from his father
was worth the whole of the hundred pounds to him twice
over.
The squire had business with one of
the tenants in the library that evening, so his sister
and her two nephews were alone in the drawing-room
after dinner.
“Aunt,” said Walter, “look
at my hands; do you know what this means?” His
hands were crossed on his knees.
“I think I do,” she replied
with a smile; “but do you tell me yourself.”
“Why, it means this, I
am going to bring forward for our general edification
an example of moral courage to-night, and my hero is
no less a person than Martin Luther; and there is
my Martin Luther.” As he said this
he placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder,
and looked at him with a bright and affectionate smile.
“Yes, he is my Martin Luther: only, instead
of his being brought before a `Diet of Worms,’
a very substantial diet of fish, flesh, and
fowl has just been brought before him; and
instead of having to appear before the Emperor Charles
the Fifth, he is now appearing before Queen Katharine
the First of Flixworth Manor.”
Both his hearers laughed heartily
and happily; then he added: “Now I am going
to trot out my hero nay, that word `trot’
won’t do; I’ve had too much of both trotting
and galloping lately. But what I mean is, I want
to show you what it is that I specially admire in my
hero, and how this exactly fits in with my dear hero-brother
Amos. Ah! I see he wants to stop me, but,
dear Aunt Kate, you must use your royal authority and
back me up; and when I have done, you can put in what
notes and comments and addenda and corrigenda you
like, and tell me if I have not just hit the right
nail on the head.
“Very well; now I see you are
all attention. Martin Luther wasn’t
he a grand fellow? Just look at him as he is
travelling up to the Diet of Worms. As soon
as the summons came to him, his mind was made up; he
did not delay for a moment. People crowded about
him and talked of danger, but Luther talked
about duty. He set out in a waggon, with
an imperial herald before him. His journey was
like a triumphal procession. In every town through
which he passed, young and old came out of their doors
to wonder at him, and bless him, and tell him to be
of good courage. At last he has got to Oppenheim,
not far from Worms, and his friends do their very
best to frighten him and keep him back; but he tells
them that if he should have to encounter at Worms as
many devils as there were tiles on the houses of that
city, he would not be kept from his purpose.
Ah! that was a grand answer. And then, when
he got to his lodgings, what a sight it must have
been! They were crowded inside and out with
all classes and all kinds of persons, soldiers,
clergy, knights, peasants, nobles by the score, citizens
by the thousand. And then came the grand day
of all, the day after his arrival. He was sent
for into the council-hall. What a sight that
must have been for the poor monk! There was
the young emperor himself, Charles the Fifth, in all
his pomp and splendour, and two hundred of his princes
and nobles. Why, it would have taken the breath
out of a dozen such fellows as I am to have to stand
up and speak up for what I knew to be right before
such a company. But Luther did speak up; and
there was no swagger about him either. They
asked him to recant, and he begged time to consider
of it. They met again next day, and then he refused
to recant, with great gentleness. `Show me that I
have done wrong,’ he said, `and I will submit:
until I am better instructed I cannot recant; it is
not wise, it is not safe for a man to do anything against
his conscience. Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise.
God help me. Amen.’ There, auntie,
don’t you agree with me in giving the crown of
moral courage to Martin Luther? It’s an
old story, and I’ve learned it quite by heart,
for I was always fond of it, but it is none the less
true on that account.”
“Yes, Walter, clear boy,”
replied his aunt, “I must heartily agree with
you, and acknowledge that you have made a most excellent
choice of a hero in Martin Luther. Not a doubt
of it, he was a truly great and good man, a genuine
moral hero. For a man who can be satisfied with
nothing less than what is real and right; who is content
to count all things loss for the attainment of a spiritual
aim, and to fight for it against all enemies; who
does his duty spite of all outward contradiction; and
who révérences his conscience so greatly that
he will face any difficulty and submit to any penalty
rather than do violence to it, that is a truly great
man, exhibiting a superb example of moral courage.
And such a man, no doubt, was Martin Luther; and
I believe I can see why you have chosen him just now,
but you must tell me why yourself.”
“I will, Aunt Kate. You
see we are in Worms now. This is the council-hall;
before dinner to-day was the time of meeting; and my
dear father was in his single person the august assembly.
Amos, the best of brothers to the worst of brothers,
is Martin Luther. He might have kept himself
to himself, but he comes forward. It is the hardest
thing possible for him to speak; if he had consulted
his own feelings he would have spared himself a mighty
struggle, and have left his scamp of a brother to
get out of the scrape as best he could. But he
stands up as brave as a lion and as gentle as a lamb,
and looks as calm as if he were made of sponge-biscuits
instead of flesh and blood. He ventures to address
the august assembly I mean my father in
a way he never did in all his life before, and never
would have done if he had been speaking for himself;
but it was duty that was prompting him, it was love
that was nerving him, it was unselfishness that made
him bold. And so he has shown himself the bravest
of the brave; and I hope the brother for whom he has
done and suffered all this, if he has any shame left
in him, will learn to copy him, as he already learned
to respect and admire him. There, Aunt Kate,
I’ve been, and gone, and said it.”