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

Many months had rolled by since Amos had undertaken to pay for the horse which his brother had unhappily ruined in the steeplechase. Mr Huntingdon never alluded to the matter again, but the difference in his manner towards his elder son was so marked that none could fail to observe it. There were both respect and affection in his voice when he addressed him, and the poor young man’s naturally grave face lighted up as with a flood of sunshine when his father thus spoke to him. Miss Huntingdon, of course, rejoiced in this change with all her heart. Walter was as pleased and proud at it as if some special honours were being conferred on himself. And old Harry it was a sight worth seeing to observe the old servant when his master spoke kindly to Amos: what with winking and nodding, opening wide his eyes, lifting his eyebrows, rolling his tongue about, and certain inward volcanic mutterings, all constituting a little bit of private acting for his own special and peculiar benefit, it might have been thought by those who did not know him that something had been passing at the moment causing a temporary derangement of his digestive organs. But Miss Huntingdon, as she marked his mysterious conduct, was perfectly aware that it simply meant an expression on his part principally for the relief of his own feelings, and partly also to give a hint to those who might care to know how he felt in the matter that things were “coming round nicely,” and that Mr Amos would get his proper place and his rights given him in the family, and would in due time accomplish his great purpose.

Amos himself began to be much of the same opinion, and was greatly touched by receiving a cheque from his father for a hundred pounds one morning, with the assurance that he did not wish him to be out of pocket on Walter’s account, while at the same time the squire neither mentioned the steeplechase himself nor allowed Amos to refer to it. The money was now his own, he remarked, and the less said about where it was going to the better.

A new year had now begun, and deep snow lay around the Manor-house. The family party had assembled at breakfast, all except Miss Huntingdon and Amos. The former at last appeared, but there was trouble on her brow, which Walter, who loved her dearly, instantly noticed.

“Auntie dear,” he asked, “what’s amiss? I’m sure you are not well this morning.”

“I am a little upset, dear boy,” she replied, “but it is nothing serious.”

“I hope not, Kate,” said her brother. “But where is Amos?”

“Well, Walter,” replied his sister, “that is just it. I have a note from him this morning asking me to excuse him to you; that duty has called him away, and that I shall understand in what direction this duty lies. I can only hope that nothing serious is amiss; but this I am quite sure of, that Amos would never have gone off in this abrupt way had there not been some pressing cause.”

Mr Huntingdon did not speak for a while, his thoughts were evidently troubling him. He remembered the last occasion of his son’s sudden absence, and was now well aware that it had been care for his poor erring child’s neglected little ones that had then called Amos away. Perhaps it might be so now. Perhaps that daughter herself, against whom his heart and home had been closed so long, might be ill or even dying. Perhaps she was longing for a father’s smile, a father’s expressed forgiveness. His heart felt very sore, and his breakfast lay untasted before him.

As for Walter, he knew not what to say or think. He dared not speak his fears out loud lest he should wound his father, whose distress he could not help seeing. He would have volunteered to do anything and everything, only he did not know exactly where to begin or what to propose. At length Mr Huntingdon, turning to the old butler, who was moving about in a state of great uneasiness, said, “Do you know, Harry, at what hour Mr Amos left this morning?”

“No, sir, not exactly. But when Jane came down early and went to open the front door, she found the chain and the bolts drawn and the key turned back. It was plain that some one had gone out that way very early.”

“And when did you get your note from Amos, Kate?” asked her brother.

“My maid found it half slipped under my door when she came to call me,” was the reply.

“And is there nothing, then, to throw light on this sudden and strange act on Amos’s part?” asked the squire.

“Well, there is,” she answered rather reluctantly. “My maid has found a little crumpled up sheet of paper, which Amos must have accidentally dropped as he left his room. I don’t know whether I ought to have taken charge of it; but, as it is, the best thing I can do is to hand it to you.”

Mr Huntingdon took it from her, and his hand shook with emotion as he glanced at it. It was a small sheet of note-paper, and there was writing on two sides in a female hand, but the lines were uneven, and it seemed as though the writer had been, for some reason or other, unable to use the pen steadily. Mr Huntingdon hesitated for a moment. Had he any right to read a communication which was addressed to another? Not, surely, under ordinary circumstances. But the circumstances now were not ordinary; and he was the father of the person to whom the letter was addressed, and by reading it he might take steps to preserve his son from harm, or might bring him out of difficulties. So he decided to read the letter, and judge by its contents whether he was bound to secrecy as to those contents or no. But, as he read, the colour fled from his face, and a cold perspiration burst out upon him. What could the letter mean? Was the writer sane? And if not, oh, misery! then there was a second wreck of reason in the family; for the handwriting was his daughter’s, and the signature at the foot of the paper was hers too. With heaving breast and tearful eyes he handed the letter to his sister, whose emotion was almost as distressing as his own as she read the following strange and almost incoherent words:

“Amos, I’m mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He will take them both away. He will ruin us all, body and soul.”

Then there was a break. The words hitherto had been written in a steady hand; those which followed were wavering, as though penned against the will of the writer, and under fear of some one standing by. They were as follows:

“Come to me early to-morrow morning. You will see a man at the farther side of Marley Heath on horseback follow him, and he will bring you to me, for I am not where I was. Come alone, or the man will not wait for you, and then you will never be seen again in this world by your wretched sister, Julia.”

Such were the contents of the mysterious letter, which were well calculated to stir to their depths the hearts of both the squire and his sister, who looked at each other as those look who become suddenly conscious of a common misfortune. A spell seemed on their tongues. At last the silence was broken by Walter.

“Dear father! dear auntie!” he exclaimed, “whatever is the matter?”

“Matter enough, I fear,” said his father sadly. “There, Kate, let him look at the letter.”

Walter read it, and his eyes filled with tears. Busy thoughts chased one another through his brain, and very sad and humbling thoughts they were. He understood now much that had once seemed strange in Amos. He began to appreciate the calm and deep nobility of his character, the tenacity of his grasp on his one great purpose. He gave back the letter to his father with downcast eyes, but without making any remark upon it.

And now, what was to be done? As soon as breakfast was over, the three, by Mr Huntingdon’s desire, met in the library. The letter was laid on the table before them, and the squire opened the discussion of its contents by saying to his sister, “What do you make out of this miserable business, Kate?”

“Plainly enough,” was her reply, “poor Julia is in great distress. I gather that her cruel and base husband has been removing, or intending to remove, her two children from Amos’s charge, and that she is afraid they will be utterly ruined if they continue in their father’s hands. Poor thing! poor thing! I pity her greatly.”

Her brother did not speak for a while, but two big tears fell on his daughter’s letter, as he bent over it trying to conceal his emotion. “And what do you think about it, my boy?” he said to his son, when he had in some degree recovered his composure.

“Aunt Kate is right, no doubt,” replied Walter, “but that is not all. It strikes me that my sister wrote the first part of this letter of her own head, but not the last. I should not wonder if that scamp of a fellow her husband has found her out writing, and has forced her to add the last words, intending to bring poor Amos into trouble some way or other.”

“I believe the boy is right,” said Mr Huntingdon anxiously; “but then, what is to be the next step?”

“Surely,” said his sister, “you ought to send out some one immediately to follow up Amos, and see that no harm comes to him.”

“Well, I hardly know,” replied her brother; “I don’t think any one would dare to do Amos any personal injury, and I don’t see that it would be anyone’s interest to do so. The last time he was called away he returned to us all right; and perhaps he may feel hurt if we do not let him manage things in his own way, seeing he has so nobly taken upon himself the cause of poor poor” he would have said “Julia,” but he could not get out the word “my poor child.” Here the squire fairly broke down, covering his face with his hands.

“Shall we ask Harry,” said his sister, when she could trust herself to speak, “who brought this note for Amos? that mis-hit give us a little bit of a clew if it should be necessary to go and find him out.” Harry was accordingly summoned and questioned. He had already made full inquiries of the other servants, but none of them could throw any light on the subject. No one about the premises knew anything about the carrier of the letter. So it was resolved to wait, in hopes that either Amos himself or, at any rate, tidings of him and of his movements would arrive some time during the day. Hour, however, passed by after hour, and no news of Amos came to gladden the hearts at the mansion; and when darkness settled down, and nothing had been heard of the absent one, a deep gloom pervaded the whole household. But of all hearts under that roof during that long and weary night, none was so heavy as Mr Huntingdon’s. Memories of the past crowded in upon him; smitings of conscience deeply troubled him. Had he acted a father’s part towards that erring daughter? should he have closed the door of home and heart so fast, and kept it barred against her? was she not still his own flesh and blood? and could he justify to himself the iron sternness which had perhaps now driven her to despair? How could he hope for mercy who had shown neither mercy nor pity to one whose sinful disobedience and folly could not make her less his child, though doubtless a sadly misguided one? When morning came, Mr Huntingdon rose a wiser and a humbler man. He poured out his heart in prayer for forgiveness of his own many sins and shortcomings, and then came to a full determination to deal very differently with Amos for the time to come, and to undo his past treatment of his poor daughter as opportunity might be afforded him.

And now we must leave for a while the party at the Manor-house in their sadness and perplexity, and follow Amos Huntingdon himself. When he had retired to his room on the night previous to his unexpected departure, he was startled by hearing the sound of what seemed to be earth or small pebbles thrown against his bedroom window. He paused for a few moments, and the sound was repeated. Then he opened the window slowly, and looking out, cried, “Who is there?”

All around, the snow lay thick on the ground. His room was on one side of the house, and its window looked out on a flower-garden, so that any one approaching the building from that side would not be liable to be observed by the general inmates of the Manor-house. When Amos had asked who was there, a short figure, partly muffled up in a cloak, rose from where it had been crouching against the wall, and a man’s voice said in a loud whisper, “Is that you, Mr Amos?”

“What do you want with me at this hour?” was the reply.

“Ah! all right,” rejoined the stranger; “here catch this.” Saying which, he flung something up at the opening made by the raising of the window. “A bad shot,” said the mysterious person half out loud, and with perfect coolness, as the thing he was throwing fell short of its mark. “Try again.” Suiting the action to the word, he a second time aimed at the opening, and now with success. A small packet fell into the room, and reached the floor with a “thud.”

“All right; good-night,” said the thrower with a chuckle, and soon disappeared through the falling snow, which was now coming down thickly.

What could be the meaning of this strange performance? Was it some foolish hoax or practical joke played off by Saunders or Gregson, or some other of Walter’s giddy and not over-considerate companions? He almost thought it must be so, and that his brother had put them up to the joke for some wild piece of fun, or to win some senseless wager. Rather vexed at the thought, and not feeling over amiable towards the missile, if such it was, which had come so unseasonably and so unceremoniously into his chamber, he was half inclined at first to throw it back through the window on to the snow. And yet, perhaps, he had better see what it was. So he took it from the floor. It was a little brown paper parcel, about three inches square, and very heavy for its size. His curiosity was now excited. He opened the packet warily, lest it should contain something explosive, such as might cause a report, not dangerous in itself, but calculated to alarm the family. There was nothing, however, of such a kind, but merely a flat piece of thick tile, with a sheet of note-paper doubled round it.

Rather annoyed at the folly of the whole thing, he slowly unfolded the paper, and opened it out. The writing struck him at once; it was his sister’s. The contents of the letter staggered him. That his sister had written it there could be no doubt. That she was in grievous trouble, and that her villainous husband had violated his pledge and was removing the children out of his reach, was equally plain. The appearance of the closing portion of the note puzzled him. He had his misgivings about it. Had his sister’s husband anything to do with it, and with making the appointment on Marley Heath? It might or might not be so. The changed appearance of the latter part of the writing might only be the result of agitation or distress on his sister’s part. But, anyhow, what was the course that duty and brotherly love bade him now take? A lonely meeting in the snow with a solitary horseman on Marley Heath early in the morning did not read very pleasantly nor appear very safe; and yet, could he leave his poor sister to her misery? If he should do so, what evils might not follow? and what would come of the great purpose to which he had dedicated his life and energies? Was this a time for fear or shrinking back? No, surely. So he knelt down and asked for guidance of him who is unerring Wisdom to every one of his children. And then he retired to rest, and slept soundly till early morning.

His mind was made up. Having written a few lines to his aunt, he made his way quietly out of the house to the stable, and, mounting his own faithful pony, sallied forth. He had, however, dropped his sister’s note by his own room door without being aware of it, and did not miss it, for his mind was full of engrossing thoughts. It was a bright and sparkling morning; the snow had been falling more or less for the last few days, and had in some places formed deep drifts, as a strong wind had been blowing from the north for some hours. But now all was calm and bright for the present, though the distant horizon seemed to threaten a further downfall before long.

Amos had clothed himself warmly, for the cold was now severe. His great-coat, also, which he had gathered close round him, contained in its ample pockets some cakes, oranges, and sweeties a stock of which he always kept on hand in his own room for the benefit of his niece and nephew whenever he might happen to visit them at the cottage. On the present occasion, it is true, he had no expectation of meeting the children, but only their mother; but he brought these little luxuries with him notwithstanding, as they might perhaps be welcome to his poor sister, who was not likely to be furnished with more than the bare necessaries of life by the man who, though bound to care for her comfort, would no doubt wrench from her every penny he was able.

With noiseless tread, then, did Prince the pony carry his young master along the dazzling white roads, shaking his ears and his head from time to time, as though in wonder at what could have induced his owner to bring him out so early. Amos had, however, not neglected the poor animal, but had given him a good feed before starting, having himself also made such an early meal as the pantry could provide him. So the two jogged quietly on; and whatever misgivings the young man might have from time to time, these were more than outweighed by the abiding conviction that he was on the path of love and duty, and might therefore expect to be guided and preserved by Him to whom he had committed his cause. Still, there was something overawing in the solitude of that early ride. Not a person did he meet as he threaded his way through the lanes. The moon was some days past the full, and shone with almost undiminished light on the sparkling crystals of snow. Spikes of hoar-frost bristled on the branches of the trees, and here and there a long gaunt group of icicles, dependent from an overhanging rock, gleamed and flashed in the pale light as he passed along.

And now, when he had accomplished some three miles which was about half the distance to the heath he emerged from a winding road which had led him through a copse on to high ground, from which he had an almost panoramic view of the surrounding country. He checked his pony and looked about him. How exquisitely fair and pure was that landscape, one vast expanse of spotless white! Not a breath of wind was now stirring, and, struggling against the moonlight, the first flushes of a winter’s dawn crept up along the far-off eastern sky. Everything spoke of peace and purity. God’s hand had clothed the earth, the trees with a stainless robe of majestic beauty studded with countless flashing gems. Man’s works were hidden or but dimly seen here and there, with all their imperfections withdrawn from sight under that snowy veil. And man himself was absent. An all-absorbing sense of the nearness of God stole over the young traveller’s heart, so deep, so unearthly as to be almost painful, but, oh, so full of blessedness! What should make him afraid, with God so near? And then there unfolded themselves to his memory the words, “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.” Amos bowed his head, and remained wrapt for a while in holy and happy meditation.

But he had a work before him, and must move on. At last he reached Marley Heath. Hitherto he had seen no human being, nor indeed any living thing except a hare which once crossed his path. The heath was extensive, and had many pathways through it. All, however, were now more or less covered with snow, though here and there the wind had exposed a bare spot, and a large pond on one side glowed in the light of the now rising sun. Riding slowly across the wide common, Amos looked for some time in vain for the person whom he was to meet, and it was almost with a feeling of relief that he contemplated the possibility of no one appearing. The air was sharp and clear now, and, as he gazed on all sides, an inward shrinking from the proposed meeting came over him; and then again the consciousness that he was on duty’s path nerved him for whatever might be before him. He had not long to wait. First he heard the far-off faint barking of a dog, and in a few minutes afterwards a horseman made his appearance coming up on to the heath from the opposite quarter to that by which he himself had reached it. The stranger was manifestly in no hurry, but allowed his horse, a big, gaunt, and seedy-looking animal, to take its own time, which clearly was not a very rapid one. The costume of the new-comer was in keeping with the appearance of his steed, being ample but considerably the worse for wear. As the two riders slowly approached each other, Amos recognised his brother-in-law, Mr Orlando Vivian, there could be no doubt about it. A theatrical salute on the other’s part was answered by Amos with a quiet inclination of his head.

“Your servant, friend,” then said Mr Vivian in a free and easy manner; “a fine winter’s morning you bring with you, though I think we shall have more snow.”

“Good morning,” returned Amos, not knowing what else to say, and feeling far from comfortable.

When they had remained facing each other for a minute, during which the dark malicious eyes of the player sent a shudder through his companion, the former said, “You are come to see your sister, I presume; at any rate this meeting is clearly by appointment made for that purpose. Shall we proceed?”

“Yes,” replied Amos, but with some hesitation in his tone of voice.

“Ah, I understand,” said the other; “you were expecting to be conducted to a tete-a-tete. You didn’t anticipate meeting a brother-in-law as well as a sister, is it not so?”

Amos hardly knew what to reply, for the bantering air and words of his companion filled him with disgust and repugnance. “Oh, I see it all it’s perfectly natural,” said Mr Vivian sarcastically; “but set your mind at ease on that point, Mr Huntingdon. As soon as you reach the house you will cease to be troubled with my company; nay, I shall not go with you beyond the door.”

“I am ready,” said Amos calmly.

“Good, then follow me,” said the other; and both descended from the heath, and, striking at once out of the more frequented paths, made their way through brier and brushwood till Amos had entirely lost all knowledge of where he was. They had ridden thus about two miles when they suddenly emerged on to some cleared ground, and then came to the side of a large brick-field which had been for some time disused. At one end of the field was a small two-roomed cottage substantially built of rough stone. This had been inhabited formerly by a labourer and his family, the man having been a sort of overlooker while the brick-making was going on. Of course there was a standstill to the manufacture at present, but, to the surprise of Amos, smoke was coming out of the cottage chimney. He was surprised, because, as they rode close up to the building, it looked the last place likely to have a tenant at the present time. Its extreme loneliness also struck him, there being no other building in sight anywhere. As they came just opposite to its outer door, Mr Vivian turned to Amos, and said with a malicious smile, “This, sir, is the house.”

“This!” exclaimed the young man, indignant and horrified, “this the house where my poor sister lives!”

“Even so,” was the reply; “any roof to cover you this severe season is surely better than none.”

“It cannot be,” said Amos; but at that moment the door half opened, and a woman’s hand and part of her dress appeared. Then the door was rapidly closed, and he heard from within the sound of weeping and wailing. “It must be so, then,” he exclaimed sadly, and proceeded to dismount.

“Don’t trouble about your pony,” said the player, “I will look after him. Give me the bridle.” Amos did so, and was entering by the low massive door, when to his astonishment a female figure pushed past him into the open air. Then the door was closed upon him, thrusting him forward into the building, while Vivian cried out with a laugh, “Au revoir, mon ami farewell for the present!” The next moment the door was locked, and some heavy weight jammed against it. What could it all mean?

Utterly overwhelmed with dismay, Amos stood for a while as though chained to the spot. Then, opening a door which divided the outermost apartment from the other room, he entered the latter and looked round him. No one was there, neither man, woman, nor child. The walls were very thick, and the room was lighted by a large leaded casement which would open, but there were stout iron bars which would make it next to impossible for any one to get into the cottage that way or escape from it. A fire of wood burned on the hearth, and a small pile of logs was heaped up against the wall near it. On a rough square oak table lay a huge loaf of bread, a considerable mass of cheese, and a quart jug of milk. There was neither chair nor bed in the place. Hurrying into the outer room, Amos found that it was dimly lighted by a very narrow little window, which even a dog could scarcely creep through. There were no upstairs rooms in the cottage. And thus Amos found himself basely entrapped and taken prisoner. And what for? For no good purpose he felt fully assured. He threw open the casement of the inner room and looked out. There was his late companion riding slowly off, and by his side, mounted on his own pony Prince, a female figure. Could that be his sister? and, if so, whither was she going? and what was their purpose, or his wretched betrayer’s purpose, with him?

Miserably bewildered, and much cast down, he knelt him down by the table and poured out his care in prayer. That he was in the power of an utterly unscrupulous villain was plain enough, and what, then, could he do? He had brought with him a small pocket New Testament, with which the Psalms were also bound up, for he had hoped to have read from it to his sister words that might have been of use and comfort to her. But that was not to be. However, he turned over the leaves, and his eyes fell on a verse which he had often read before, but never with so much happy thankfulness as now: “What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.”

“Ah, yes,” he said aloud, “these words are just sent to me now. I will put my trust in Him, for he knows where I am and what errand I am on, and I know that he will deliver me out of this trouble.”

Calmed by these thoughts, he once more looked round him. There was a shelf by the fire-place which he had not noticed before. Something lay on it; it was a small desk. Perhaps it belonged to his sister, and might throw some light on his difficulties. He took it down and placed it on the table. The key was in the lock. He opened it, and his eye fell at once on an envelope directed, “Amos Huntingdon, Esquire,” but not in his sister’s hand. Having undone the envelope, he drew out its contents. These consisted of a note and a blank cheque. The note was as follows:

“Dear Brother-in-Law, You have money, and I have none. I want money very much, and you can spare it. I enclose a blank cheque, which I have managed to procure from your bankers. Please fill it up for a hundred pounds. I am sorry to trouble you, but `necessity has no law,’ as the old proverb says. I shall call to-night at the window for the cheque. You will find pen and ink in the desk. Pardon my little bit of eccentricity in bringing you here. When I have got the cheque you will soon be at liberty again, and none the worse, I trust, for your short captivity. I don’t wish to proceed to extremities with a relation, but the money I must have. Only let me get the cheque, and then, as the poet says, `My native land, good-night;’ I shall trouble you and yours no more. Your affectionate brother-in-law, Vivian.”

The cool audacity of this letter was perfectly staggering to Amos. And yet there was no mistaking the writer’s meaning and intentions. It was plain that the reckless adventurer was resolved to extort money from his wife’s brother, whom he had succeeded in entrapping, and that remonstrance would be of very little avail with such a character. That the wretched man would do him serious bodily injury Amos did not think probable, but that he would use any pressure short of this seemed tolerably certain. On thinking it over, the young man came to the conviction that his unhappy relation, being hard up for money, and intending probably to go abroad with the help of this hundred pounds, had compelled his sister to write the latter part of her letter, and had then employed some unprincipled female associate to act as his confederate. No doubt he had calculated that it might be a day or two before Amos’s friends would become alarmed at his absence, and probably a day or two more before they discovered his prison, especially as the snow would make it more difficult to trace him. In the meantime he trusted to be able so to play upon the fears of Amos, and to wear him out by scanty food and rough lodging, that, sooner than continue in such durance, he would sign the cheque for the amount demanded.

Such was the view that Amos took of the matter, and now came the question what he was to do. He had money enough at his bankers to meet the cheque, and no doubt his father would help him when he knew all the circumstances; but then, was it right to give the man this money? Was he justified in doing so, and thus encouraging a villain in his villainy? The more he thought the matter over, the more firmly he became persuaded that, so long as his own life was not seriously threatened and endangered, he ought to hold out against this infamous demand, and be ready to endure days of privation, suffering, and loneliness, rather than give in to what he was persuaded would be wrong-doing. After much thought and prayer, he came to the decision that he would not give the cheque, but would leave it to God to deliver him, how and when he pleased.

Perfectly calmed by this act of self-committal into his heavenly Father’s keeping, he sat down by the fire on a seat which he had raised by piling some of the logs together, and prepared for a long spell of waiting. Whatever others might think, he was sure that his aunt would not be content to let more than one night pass without sending out to seek for him, and by this assurance he was greatly comforted. His bread, cheese, and milk, carefully husbanded, would last him two or three days, and for anything beyond that he did not feel it needful to take any forethought.

Slowly and wearily did the long hours drag on as he paced up and down the room, or sat by the flickering logs, which threw out but a moderate degree of heat. His frugal meals were soon despatched, and at last evening came. He had tried the bars of his window more than once, but his utmost exertion of strength could not shake one of them. No; he must abide in that prison until released from without. And then he thought of noble prisoners for conscience’ sake, Daniel, and Paul, and Bunyan, and many a martyr and confessor, and he felt that he was suffering in good company. It was just getting dusk when there came a rap at the window. He opened the casement. The face of his cruel jailer was there.

“The cheque,” said Mr Vivian, with what was meant to be a winning smile. “Your pony is close by, and I will let you out in a minute. The cheque, if you please.”

“I cannot give it,” was the reply.

“Indeed!” said the other, raising his eyebrows, and displaying fully the evil light of his wicked eyes. “Ah! is it so? Well, if you like your fare and your quarters so well that you are loath to leave them, it is not for me to draw you away from such sumptuous hospitality and such agreeable society. Farewell. Good-night. I will call to-morrow morning, in the hopes that a night’s rest in this noble mansion may lead you to arrive at a different conclusion. Pleasant dreams to you.” So saying, with a discordant chuckle he left the window, and the poor prisoner had to make the best of the situation for the night.

Adding another log to the fire, and wrapping his great-coat together for a couch, with the upper part raised over two or three logs for a pillow, he resigned himself to rest, and, much to his surprise, slept pretty soundly till daybreak. His morning devotions over, and his scanty breakfast eaten, he waited for the return of his brother-in-law with very mingled feelings. About nine o’clock he appeared, and greeted Amos with the hope that he had passed a good night and felt quite himself this morning. Amos replied that he was thankful to say that he had slept as well or better than he expected, and that he only wished that his brother-in-law had had as soft a pillow to lie on as himself had enjoyed.

“Dear me,” said the other sneeringly, “I was not aware that the establishment was provided with such luxuries. Pray, of what materials may this pillow of yours have been made?”

“Of the promises of God,” said Amos solemnly; “and I can only regret, Mr Vivian, that you will not abandon those ways which God cannot bless, and seek your peace and happiness, as you may do, in your Saviour’s service. Why should you not? He has a place in his loving heart for you.”

“Is the sermon over, Mr Parson?” asked the other with a snarl. “Oh, very good; and now, let us come to business again. What about the cheque? Is it ready?”

“I cannot give it,” was Amos’s reply. “I should be wrong to give it. I should only be encouraging evil, and that I dare not do.”

“Be it so,” said the other; “then, remember, you must take the consequences.”

“I am in God’s hands,” replied Amos, “and am prepared to take them.”

“Good again,” said his persecutor. “Once more, then, I come. This night, before sunset, I must have the cheque, or else you must abide the consequences.”

No more was said, and the young man was again left to his solitude. Had he done right? Yes; he had no doubt on the subject. And now he must prepare himself for what might be his lot, for he had no thought of changing his resolution not to sign the cheque. Having fortified himself by spreading out his case before the Lord in prayer, and strengthened himself physically by eating and drinking a small portion of his now nearly exhausted provisions, he once more examined every place through which it might be possible for him to make his escape, but in vain. Last of all he looked up the chimney, but felt that he could not attempt to make his way out in that direction. He must just wait then; and he turned to some of those promises in the Psalms which are specially encouraging to those who wait, and a strange, unearthly peace stole into his heart.

Noon had passed, but not a sound broke the stillness except the drip, drip from the roof, for a thaw had set in. Three o’clock came. What was that sound? Was the end nearer than he expected? Had his brother-in-law, in his impatience, come earlier than he had said? No. There was the welcome tone of a young voice crying out to some one else. Then Amos sprang to the window, and, opening the casement, shouted out. In a few moments Walter’s face met his brother’s. “Here he is! here he is!” he screamed out. “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” Old Harry came round to the barred window, and, lifting up his hands and eyes, exclaimed, “The Lord be praised!” Then followed rapid questionings. But to these Amos replied, “You shall know all by-and-by; but now I must ask you to set me free. I am a prisoner here. The only outside door is locked, and I cannot undo it; and these bars, which I have tried in vain to force, have prevented my escape this way.” “All right,” said his brother. “Come along, Harry.”

The two went round to the door and shook it, but to no purpose. A heavy log had also been jammed down against it. This, by their united strength, they with difficulty removed. Again they tried to wrench open the door, but without effect, for it was a huge and ponderous structure, and they could make nothing of it. “Harry must ride over to the nearest village and fetch a blacksmith,” said Walter, when he had returned to the window. “Tell him to be quick then, and to bring two or three men with him, for there is danger before us. I cannot tell you more now.” “I’ll tell him,” replied his brother; and the old servant departed with all speed on his errand. Then Walter came back to the window, and talked long and earnestly with Amos, telling him of the deep concern felt by his aunt and father on account of his prolonged absence. “But,” he added, “I’m not going to tell you now how we found you. We will keep that till we get home, and then shan’t we have a regular pour out?”

Wearied at last with waiting, Walter began to make another assault on the front door. It was now getting a little dusk, and he was hoping for Harry’s return with the men; so, as he said, partly to see what he could do by himself, and partly to keep himself warm, he proceeded to shower upon the stubborn oak a perfect hail of blows and kicks. He was in the very thick of this performance when he was suddenly made aware that a horseman was close to him. He therefore stopped his exciting occupation, and looked round. The horseman was tall, and of a very sinister expression of countenance, with piercing black eyes. He was also rather fantastically but shabbily dressed.

“What is all this noise about, young gentleman?” asked the stranger. “Why are you battering my property in that wild fashion?”

“Because,” replied Walter, rather taken aback by this question, “my brother has been fastened in here by some scoundrel, and I want to get him out.”

“You must be dreaming, or mad, my young friend,” said the rider; “who would ever think of making a prisoner of your brother in such a place?”

“It’s a fact for all that,” replied Walter. “He’s in there, and he must be got out. I’ve sent for a blacksmith and some men from the nearest village to burst open the door, and I expect them here directly.”

“I can save them that trouble,” said the other. “I keep a few odd things implements and things of that sort in this cottage of mine, and if by some strange accident your brother has got locked in here, I shall be only too happy to let him out.” So saying, he dismounted, and, having hung his horse’s bridle over a staple projecting from the stone wall, produced a large key from his pocket, unlocked the heavy door, and threw it wide open.

Walter rushed in and flung his arms round his brother, who gazed at him in some bewilderment, hardly expecting so speedy a release. Then both came to the outside of the building. The stranger had remounted; and then, looking the brothers steadily in the face, he made a low bow, and with the words, “Good-evening, gentlemen; I wish you a safe and pleasant journey home,” turned round, and trotted briskly away.

“Did you notice that man’s face?” asked Amos of his brother in a half whisper. “Should you know it again?” “Anywhere all the world over,” was the reply. “Ah, well,” said the other, “I shall have strange things to tell you about him.” The next minute Harry and his party came in sight, and, on arriving at the cottage, were astonished and not altogether pleased to find the prisoner at liberty without their assistance. However, the pleasure expressed by Harry, and a little present from Walter, as a token of thankfulness for their prompt appearance, sent them all home well content. And now Amos had to prepare for his return.

“You shall have my pony,” said Walter, “and Harry and I will ride doublets on the old mare.”

To this Amos having assented “What has become of poor Prince?” he asked. “Does any one know?”

“All right,” said Walter; “Prince is safe at home in the stable. He must have a sack of corn all to himself, for when he came in he was ready to eat his head off. You shall hear all about it.”

Having duly clothed himself, Amos was about to mount the pony, when, bethinking himself, he turned back, and secured and brought away the desk, believing that it might possibly be of use in the way of evidence by-and-by. Then all set off, and in due time reached Flixworth Manor, to the great joy of Mr Huntingdon and his sister, and also of many a tenant and neighbour, who were lingering about, hoping for news of the lost one. The first congratulations over, and dinner having been partaken of, at which only a passing allusion was made to the trouble which had terminated so happily, Mr Huntingdon, his sister, and the two young men drew round the drawing-room fire, while Amos gave them a full and minute account of his strange and distressing adventure.