Read CHAPTER TWELVE - PROGRESS of Amos Huntingdon , free online book, by T.P. Wilson, on ReadCentral.com.

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.”