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.