When Amos had finished the account
of his singular and painful imprisonment, while all
united in an expression of their deep thankfulness,
there remained a heavy cloud on the face of Mr Huntingdon.
At last he said, slowly and sadly, “And this
unmitigated scamp calls our poor Julia wife.”
“It is so, dear father,”
said Amos in reply; “but may we not hope that
he will take himself away to America or Australia before
long? That seems to be what he has in view,
for clearly he has made this country too hot to hold
him.”
“I only hope it may be so,”
rejoined Mr Huntingdon, “for it is a miserable
business, look at it which way you will.”
“Yes,” said Walter; “but
I am persuaded that my sister was frightened by the
man into writing the last part of that letter; don’t
you think so, Amos?”
“Yes,” replied his brother,
“I certainly do. He has been plotting this
scheme in order to get me into his power; and when
he found that by your coming he had failed in his
object, he made the best of matters for himself by
pretending to be the owner of the cottage, and to be
in ignorance of what had happened to me. And
now you must tell me how you found me, and how poor
Prince found his way back.”
Walter looked up to see if his father
or aunt would give the account, and then, when neither
spoke, he plunged at once into his narrative.
“You must know, then, that we
were all much distressed and perplexed when my father
showed us the letter, Amos, which you accidentally
dropped, and which we should none of us have read under
ordinary circumstances. We knew that you felt
it to be your duty to go to poor Julia; but we none
of us liked the last part of the letter, and I am
sure I can say truly that I had my grievous suspicions
from the very first. However, when we got the
news of your having set off to this meeting, we could
not have prevented it, even if we had thought it right
to do so; it would have been too late then. But
we did not think it would have been right; and auntie
comforted us with the assurance that God would take
care of you, as you were gone on a work he must approve
of. So we waited patiently or, as
far as I was concerned, impatiently all
day, and went to bed with heavy hearts when you did
not turn up, and we had heard nothing of you.
But father reminded us how you had been absent once
before for the night, when you had been summoned to
look after those poor children, and that you had come
back all safe; so we hoped that we should see you
this morning early, or at any rate before luncheon.
“And who do you think was our
first messenger? Ah! you will hardly guess.
Why, none other than Prince, your pony. We were
sitting at breakfast very dull, and imagining all
sorts of things, when Harry hurried into the room,
as white as if he had just seen a ghost, and cried
out, `Master, master! here’s Prince come back
all alone, and never a word about poor dear Master
Amos!’ You may be sure this did just upset
us all, and no mistake. I was out in the stable-yard
in a moment, and there was Prince sure enough, and
all the servants round him; and they had got a stable
bucket with some corn in it, and he was devouring
it as though he had been starved for a week. `And
where’s your master, Prince?’ I said.
The poor animal only whinnied, but seemed almost as
if he understood my question. As for Harry, who
had joined me in the yard, he could only blubber out,
`Eh! he’s done for, sure enough. They’ve
been and gone and murdered him, and haven’t had
even the good feeling to send us back his lifeless
corpse. Whatever shall we do?’ `Nay, Harry,’
I said, `it hasn’t come to that yet; we must
go and look after him, and bring him back; he’ll
turn up all right, I daresay.’ `The
Lord grant it,’ said the dear old man.
“Well, you may be sure we were
all in a pretty state, and at our wits’ end
what to do. Father set off at once for the police
station, and Harry and I started at the same time
for Marley Heath.”
Here Miss Huntingdon interposed, and
said, “And I ought to tell you, dear Amos, that
when your father was feeling a little anxious about
Walter’s going, lest he too should fall into
some snare or difficulty, your brother would not hear
of any one else taking his place, and rushed away
saying, `It would be a privilege to suffer anything
for such a brother as Amos.’”
“Auntie, auntie!” cried
her nephew remonstratingly, “you mustn’t
tell secrets; I never meant Amos to know anything
about that.”
There was a brief silence, for all
the party were deeply moved, and the two brothers
clasped hands eagerly and lovingly. Then Walter
continued: “So Harry took the old mare,
and I took my pony, and we set off soon after breakfast,
and got in a little time to Marley Heath; and I can’t
say I felt very warm to the place, and certainly it
didn’t look very warm to me. `What’s
to come next?’ I said to Harry. `Well,’
he said, `we must make inquiries.’ That
was all easy enough to say, but who were we to make
inquiries of? The only living thing about was
an old donkey who had strayed on to the heath, and
was trying to get a mouthful of something off a bare
patch or two; and as we came up he stared at us as
though he thought that we were bigger donkeys than
he was for coming to such a place at such a time.
It wasn’t much use looking about, for there
was nothing to guide us. We tried to track your
pony’s footmarks, but as there had been more
snow in the night, and it had now set in to thaw,
we could see nothing anywhere in the way of footmarks
to trust to. Certainly it was a regular puzzle,
for we hadn’t the slightest idea which way to
turn. `Well, Harry?’ I said. `Well, Master
Walter?’ he said in reply; but that didn’t
help us forward many steps. `Let us ride on till
we get to some house where we may make inquiries,’
I said. So we set off, and after a bit came
to a farm-house, and asked if any one had seen two
people on horseback about, that day or the day before,
describing Amos as one. No; they had seen no
such riders as we described, therefore we had to trot
back to the heath again. `Well, Harry?’ I
said again. `Well, Master Walter?’ he replied;
and we stared at one another like two well,
I hardly know what to say, but certainly not like
two very wise men. So we rode about, first in
this direction, and then in that, till we began to
be fairly tired.
“It was now getting on for luncheon
time, so we made for a farm-house, got some bread
and cheese and milk, and a feed for our horses, and
then set out again; and weary work we had. At
last I was almost giving up in despair, and beginning
to think that we had better go home and try some other
plan, when, as we were passing near a copse, we saw
a tall figure slouching along through the melting
snow. The man did not see us at first, but when
he looked round and made out who we were, he began
to quicken his pace, and strode along wonderfully.
There was no mistaking him; it was Jim Jarrocks,
the fellow who won my sovereign in that foolish match
on Marley Heath. Jim evidently had rather we
had not met, for he had a couple of hares slung over
his shoulder, which he could not well hide.
However, there was no help for it, so he put a bold
face on the matter, and touched his hat as I overtook
him, and said, `Your servant, Mr Walter; I hope you’re
well.’ Of course I did not think anything
about the hares then, I was too full of Amos; so I
asked him if he had seen Amos alone, or with another
horseman. `No, sir,’ he replied, `I’ve
not; but I’ll tell you what I’ve seen.
Last night I found Mr Amos’s pony, Prince,
about a mile from here; he was saddled and bridled,
and had broke loose somehow or other, it seemed.
So, as in duty bound, I got on him, and rode him
over to the Manor-house, and fastened him up in the
stable-yard; for it was late, and I didn’t like
to rouse anybody.’ `All right, Jim,’
I said; `Dick found him when he went to the stables
this morning. But whereabouts was it that you
found him?’ `Well, it’s a queer
and awkward road to get to it,’ he said; `but
I can show you the way.’ `And is there
any house near where you found Prince?’ I asked. `House!
no; nothing of the kind,’ said he, `except the
brickmaker’s cottage, about a mile further on.’ `And
no one lives in that cottage, I suppose?’ `No;
and hasn’t done for months past;’
then he stopped all of a sudden, and said, `By-the-by,
there was smoke coming out of the chimney of that
cottage as I passed it last night; that was strange
anyhow.’ `Well, then, Jim,’
I said, `there may be some one in it now, and we can
find out if they’ve seen anything of my brother.
Just put us in the way to the cottage; there’s
a good man.’ `By all means,’
he said, and strode on before us for about a mile,
and then pointed up a winding lane. `There,’
he cried; `keep along that lane till you come to an
open field, and you’ll soon see the cottage;
you can’t miss it, for there isn’t another
anywhere about. Good afternoon, sir.’
And away he went, evidently glad to get off with
his hares as speedily as possible. The rest does
not take much telling. We soon came to the cottage,
and discovered dear Amos, and encountered that miserable
man who has treated him so cruelly. Ah! well,
it’s been a good ending to a bad beginning.”
“Thank you, my dear brother,”
said Amos warmly; “it was well and kindly done.
Yes, God has been very good in delivering me out of
my trouble, and specially in making you, dear Walter,
the chief instrument in my deliverance.”
“I only wonder,” said
his brother, “that the wretched man did not make
off with the pony.”
“No,” said Amos; “that
might have got him into trouble with the police, if
they had found the pony in his possession, or had he
sold it to anybody. No doubt, when he found
the first night that I would not give him the cheque,
he just turned the pony adrift, so that, whether he
made his way home or any one found him, there would
be no clue to the person who had entrapped me.”
“I see it all!” cried
Walter. “But now we must finish up with
a word on moral courage, with an illustration by dear
auntie. Yes, Aunt Kate, you see our hero
Amos; you see how he has been ready to make a regular
martyr of himself, and surely that is real moral courage.”
“Indeed it is so, dear Walter,”
said Miss Huntingdon; “and you were right in
calling your brother’s courage a species of martyrdom,
for the spirit of a true martyr has been well described
as `a readiness to suffer the greatest evil rather
than knowingly to do the least.’”
“Capital, auntie! And
now, if father is willing, give us an example.”
Mr Huntingdon having gladly given
his consent, his sister spoke as follows:
“My moral hero this time is
a real martyr, and a young one. In the spring
of the year 1555, a youth, named William Hunter, entered
the church of Brentwood, in Essex, to read in the
great Bible which stood there chained to a desk for
the use of the people. He was an apprentice
to a London weaver, but was now on a visit to his native
town. He loved the Bible, and it was his joy
to read it. As he stood before the desk, a man
named Atwell, an officer of the Romish bishop, came
that way, and, seeing how he was engaged, remonstrated
with him, and then said, when the young man quietly
justified himself, `I see you are one who dislike
the queen’s laws, but if you do not turn you
will broil for your opinions.’ `God
give me grace,’ replied William, `to believe
his word and confess his name, whatever may come of
it.’
“Atwell reported him; he was
seized, and placed in the stocks. Then he was
taken before Bishop Bonner, who, finding him resolute,
ordered him again to the stocks; and there he lay
two long days and nights, without any food except
a crust of brown bread and a little water. Then,
in hopes of subduing his spirit, Bonner sent him to
one of the London prisons, with strict orders to the
jailer to put as many iron chains upon him as he could
possibly bear; and here he remained for three-quarters
of a year. At last the bishop sent for him and
said, `If you recant, I will give you forty pounds
and set you up in business.’ That was
a large sum in those days. But William rejected
the offer. `I will make you steward of my own house,’
added Bonner. `But, my lord,’ replied the young
man, `if you cannot persuade my conscience by Scripture,
I cannot find in my heart to turn from God for the
love of the world.’ `Then away with him to
the fire!’
“He was to suffer near his native
town. There was no prison in the place, so William
Hunter was confined in an inn, and guarded by constables.
His mother rushed to see him, and his words to her
were, `For my little pain which I shall suffer Christ
hath procured for me a crown of joy; are you not glad
of that, mother?’ On the morning when he was
to die, as he was being led from the inn, his father
sprang forward in an agony of grief, and threw his
arms round him, saying, `God be with thee, son William.’
His son looked calmly at him and said, `God be with
you, father. Be of good comfort; I trust we shall
soon meet again where we shall rejoice together.’
When he had been secured to the stake, a pardon was
offered him if he would recant. `No,’ he said,
`I will not recant, God willing.’ When
the fire was lighted, and the flames began to rise,
he threw a book of Psalms, which he still held in his
hands, into the hands of his brother, who had followed
him to the place of death. Then his brother
called to him and said, `William, think on the sufferings
of Christ, and be not afraid.’ `I
am not afraid,’ cried the young martyr. `Lord,
Lord, receive my spirit.’ These were his
last words. The dry fagots burned
briskly, and in a few minutes his sufferings were
at an end for ever.
“Here, surely, dear Walter,
was moral courage of the highest order. William
Hunter was very young; life was sweet; he had loving
parents. All the neighbours loved him for his
gentle piety. A few words spoken would have
saved him from imprisonment, hunger, bitter suffering,
and a cruel death; but he would not by a single act
or a single word save himself, when by so doing he
would be acting against his conscience, much as he
loved his home, his parents, and his people.”
Walter clapped his hands with delight
when his aunt had finished, and exclaimed, “Nothing
could be better, Aunt Kate; it suits our hero Amos
to a T. Yes, for he would suffer anything rather than
get his liberty by doing or promising to do what he
believed to be wrong. Thank you, dear aunt;
I have learned a lesson which I hope I shall never
forget.”