The day after his return home Amos
sought his father in the library. Mr Huntingdon’s
manner to him had become so much more warm and affectionate,
that he now ventured on a course which a few days before
he could not have brought himself to adopt.
“Father,” he said, “can
you spare me a few minutes? I have something
on my mind which I feel that I ought to consult you
about.”
“Sit down, sit down, my dear
boy; what is it?” said his father.
Thus encouraged, Amos unburdened his
mind. “Father,” he proceeded, “I
must ask you to excuse my absence for a day or two,
or perhaps even more. You are aware now that
I have taken upon myself, for the present at any rate,
the charge of my poor sister Julia’s little children.
And I may also say, as I suppose I ought not to conceal
the state of things from you, that her miserable husband
has left her utterly destitute, so that I am doing
what I can to keep her from want. The man has
deserted her more than once; and more than once, when
he returned and found money in her possession, he
forced it from her. So I have placed what I can
spare for her in the hands of a thoroughly trustworthy
and Christian woman with whom she lodges, and through
this good landlady of hers I see that she does not
want such necessaries and comforts as are essential
to her health.”
He was proceeding with his explanation,
but was checked by the deep emotion of Mr Huntingdon,
who, resting his head between his hands, could not
restrain his tears and sobs. Then, springing
up from his seat, he clasped Amos to him, and said,
in a voice almost choked by his feelings, “My
dear, noble boy! and I have misunderstood, and undervalued,
and treated you with harshness and coldness all this
time! Can you forgive your unworthy father?”
Poor Amos! Such a speech from
his father almost stunned him for the moment.
At last, recovering himself, he cried, “O father,
dear father, don’t say such a thing! There
is not there cannot be anything for me
to forgive. And, oh! the kindness you have shown
me the last few days has made up a thousand times
for any little trouble in days gone by.”
“You are a dear good boy to
say so,” replied Mr Huntingdon, kissing him
warmly. “Well, now tell me all.”
“You see, dear father,”
continued Amos when they were again both seated, “I
am afraid, from poor Julia’s letter, that she
is in some special trouble. It is true that
the latter part of her letter looks very much as if
the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the
first part is clearly written as she herself felt.
I have the letter here. You see, she writes, `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.’ So far
the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no
doubt what it means. That vile man has been
ill-treating her, and has threatened to take the children
from under my charge, though he pledged his honour
to myself a short time back that he would not remove
them; but, of course, the honour of such a man is
worth nothing.”
“Yes; I see it all,” said
the squire with a sigh; “but what can be done?
I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the
children as their father, and to poor Julia too, as
she is his wife.”
“True, father; but it will never
do to leave her as she is; and I cannot bear the thought
of those dear children being left to the tender mercies
of such a man.”
“Well, and where is your poor
sister herself at this time?” asked Mr Huntingdon.
“There, again, I am in a difficulty,”
said Amos. “When I first got to know how
my dear sister was situated, and where she was living,
she made me promise that I would not let any one know
where the place was, and specially not you.
I suppose she was afraid that something would be done
against her husband, whom she had a great affection
for, if our family knew where she lived; and she also
indulged, I grieve to say, much bitterness of feeling
towards yourself, which I have done my best to remove.
So she would not hear of my telling any one where
she is living; and indeed she has moved about from
place to place. But I am still under the promise
of secrecy.”
“Well,” said his father,
with a sigh, “I will not of course ask you to
break your word to her; but better times will come
for her, poor thing, I hope.”
“I hope so too, dear father.
But you will understand now, I feel sure, why I wish
to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things
are really going on with her and with the poor children.”
“But will it be safe for you
to go?” asked his father anxiously. “Will
not that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily
harm?”
“I am not afraid, father.
My own opinion is that the unhappy man will not remain
long in this country; and that, after what has happened
these last two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom
to keep as clear of me as possible.”
“Perhaps so; but I must say
I don’t like the thoughts of your going alone
on such an expedition, after what has already happened.”
“Nay, dear father, I believe
I ought to go. I believe that duty calls me;
and so I may expect that God will take care of me.”
“Well, go then, my boy; and,
see, take these two ten-pound notes to your poor sister.
It is not fair that all the burden should fall upon
you. These notes will at any rate keep her from
want for a time; she can put them into safe keeping
with her landlady. And tell her” here
his voice faltered “that they are
sent her with her father’s love, and that there
is a place for her here in her old home still.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, dear
father,” cried Amos; “you have made
me glad!”
“Yes,” continued the squire,
“tell her that from me; yet, of course, that
does not include him.”
“Oh no! I thoroughly understand
that,” replied his son; “and I see, of
course, many difficulties that lie in the way; but
still, I believe that brighter and happier days are
coming for us all.”
“May it be so, my dear boy,”
said the other, again drawing him closely to him.
“It will not be your fault, at any rate,
if they do not come.”
So that morning Amos left on his work of love.
He had not been gone many minutes,
when Walter knocked at his aunt’s door.
“Aunt Kate,” he began, when he had seated
himself at her feet, “I want your advice about
a little scheme of mine. It’s a good scheme,
and perhaps a little bit of moral courage on my part
will come out of it.”
“Well, my dear boy, let me hear it.”
“Father, I know, has been talking
to you about Amos,” he went on; “all about
his noble and self-denying conduct towards my poor
dear sister, and that he is going, in consequence
of that horrid letter, to see her and those children
of hers. I gather this partly from a few words
I had with Amos before he started. But then,
nobody knows where Julia lives, and nobody knows what
that scamp of a fellow may be up to against my dear
good brother.”
“Yes, Walter,” said his
aunt, “I understand all that; and I must say
that I feel a little anxious about your brother, though
I know that he is in better hands than ours.”
“Well, auntie, shall I tell you what I have
thought of?”
“Do, dear boy.”
“If father will let me, I should
like to go and keep guard over Amos till he comes
back.”
“But how can you do that?”
asked Miss Huntingdon. “You said just now
that no one knows where your poor sister lives except
Amos himself; and it would hardly do for you to overtake
him, if that could be done, and join yourself to him
whether he would or no.”
“No, Aunt Kate, that is not
my idea. Now, though nobody but Amos knows where
Julia lives, I think I know.”
“What do you mean?” asked the other, laughing.
“Why, just this. I don’t
know properly. I’m not supposed to know,
and so I take it for granted that I don’t know;
and yet really I believe I do know.”
“My boy, you speak in riddles.”
“Ah yes, Aunt Kate, I do; and
I see you will never guess the answers to them, so
you must give up, and I will tell you. You know
that for some time now it has been Amos’s place
to unlock the post-bag of a morning and give out the
letters. The other day, however, he made a mistake,
and threw me two which were really directed to him.
I gave them back to him, and I saw him turn red when
he saw the mistake he had made. I couldn’t
help noticing the post-mark at the time, and I thought
I knew the handwriting on one of the envelopes.
The post-mark was the same on each. I am sure
now that one was directed by my sister; I know her
handwriting well, for I have two little hymns in my
desk which she wrote out for me before before
she left us, and I often look at them. And so,
putting two and two together, I believe the other was
most likely directed by the person in whose house
she is living.”
“And what was the post-mark?”
“Ah, auntie, I don’t think
I ought to tell, not even you. It seems like
a breach of confidence towards Amos, though it really
is not. At any rate, I am not sure that he would
like me to tell.”
“Quite right, my dear Walter;
I had no idle curiosity in asking; and if Amos wishes
it still to be a secret, of course you ought not to
disclose it.”
“Thank you, auntie, for looking
at it in that light. Now it can be no breach
of confidence on my part to go over to that place from
which the letters came, as shown by the post-mark,
and just keep my eyes and ears open, and see if I
can get within sight or hearing of Amos without making
myself known. I would not intrude myself into
my poor sister’s house if I can find it out,
but I would just keep a bit of a watch near it, and
look if I can see anything of that miserable man who
has given us so much trouble; and then I might be
able to give him a little of my mind, so as to induce
him to take himself clean off out of the country.
At any rate, I would watch over Amos, that no harm
should come to him. What do you think?”
“Well, dear boy,” replied
his aunt, “it is very generous of you to make
such a proposal, and good might come out of your plan;
but what will your father say to it?”
“Ah, that’s the point,
auntie. I must get you to persuade him to let
me go. Tell him how it is tell him
I’ll be as prudent as a policeman, or a stationmaster,
or any one else that’s particularly prudent,
or ought to be; and, if I don’t find Amos where
I imagine he will be, I’ll be back again before
bed-time to-morrow.”
Miss Huntingdon spoke to her brother,
and put Walter’s scheme before him; but at first
he would not hear of it. “The boy must
be crazy,” he said; “why, he’s not
fit to be out all by himself on such an errand as
this. That scoundrel of a man might be getting
hold of him, and no one knows what might happen then.
It’s absurd, it’s really quite
out of the question.”
“Don’t you think, Walter,”
replied his sister calmly, “that God, who has
put such a loving thought into the heart of Walter,
will keep him from harm? Would it be right to
check him when he is bent on such a work? Besides,
as to the wretched and unhappy man who has caused all
this trouble, are not such characters, with all their
bluster, commonly arrant cowards when they find themselves
firmly confronted?”
“Perhaps so, Kate. Well, send Walter to
me.”
“My boy,” exclaimed the
squire, when Walter made his appearance, “what
wild scheme is this? Why, surely you can’t
be serious?”
“Indeed I am, father.
You needn’t be afraid for me. It was not
my own thought, I’m sure it was put
into my mind; besides, it will be capital fun just
having to look after myself for a night or two, and
a little roughing it will do me good.”
“And where do you intend to
sleep and to put up, I should like to know?”
asked Mr Huntingdon, half seriously and half amused.
“Oh, I’ll find a shakedown
somewhere; and I’m sure to be able to get lots
of eggs and bacon and coffee, and I could live on them
for a week.”
“And I suppose I am to be paymaster,”
said his father, laughing.
“Oh no, father, not unless you
like. I’ve a sovereign still left; I’ll
make that pay all, and I must do without things till
I get my next quarter’s allowance.”
“Very well, my boy; but hadn’t
you better take Harry or Dick with you?”
“O father! take old Harry! why,
I might as well take the town-crier. Oh no,
let me go alone. I know what Amos would say if
it were he that was in my place; he would say that
we may trust to be taken care of while we are in the
path of duty. May I go, then, father?”
“Well yes,”
said Mr Huntingdon, but rather reluctantly; and then
he said, “But how shall I be sure that you haven’t
got into any trouble? for I understand from your aunt
that you make it a point of honour not to let us know
where you are going to.”
“All right, father: if
I don’t turn up some time to-morrow afternoon,
I’ll manage to send a letter by some means or
other.”
After luncheon Walter set out on his
self-imposed expedition, on his own pony, with a wallet
strapped behind him which Miss Huntingdon had taken
care should be furnished with such things as were needful.
His father also thrust some money into his hand as
they parted. And now we must leave him as he
trots briskly away, rather proud of his solitary journey,
and follow his brother, who little suspected that a
guard and protector was pursuing him in the person
of his volatile brother Walter.
The little town to which Amos leisurely
made his way was about twenty miles from Flixworth
Manor. It was one of those exceedingly quiet
places which, boasting no attractions in the way of
either architecture or situation, and being on the
road to or from no places of note or busy traffic,
are visited rarely by any but those who have their
permanent abode in the neighbourhood. Neither
did coach pass through it nor railway near it, so
that its winding street or two, with their straggling
masses of dingy houses, would be suggestive to any
accidental visitor of little else than unmitigated
dulness. It had, of course, its post office,
which was kept at a miscellaneous shop, and did not
tax the energies of the shopkeeper to any great degree
by the number of letters which passed through his
hands. The stamp, however, of this office was
that which Walter had noticed on the letters which
had furnished him with a clew.
The heart of Amos was very sad as
he rode along, and yet it was filled with thankfulness
also. Yes, he could now rejoice, because he saw
the dawning of a better day now spreading into broad
flushes of morning light. His father’s
kindness to him, so unexpected and so precious, and,
almost better still, his father’s altered feeling
to his sister Julia how thoughts of these
things gladdened him, spite of his sadness! Oh,
if only he could rid the family of that miserable husband
of his sister’s in some lawful way! Of
course it might be possible to put the police on his
track; but then, if he were caught and brought to justice,
what a lamentable and open disgrace it would be to
them all, and might perhaps be the means of partially
closing the opening door for his sister to her father’s
heart.
With such thoughts of mingled cloud
and sunshine chasing one another through his mind,
he reached, about two o’clock in the afternoon,
the little town of Dufferly, and drew rein at the
dusky entrance to the Queen’s Hotel, as it was
somewhat ambitiously called. Having secured a
bed, he walked out into the pebbly street, and strolled
into the market-place. He might have proceeded
at once to his sister’s lodgings, but he had
no wish to encounter her husband there if he could
avoid it; but how to ascertain whether he was in the
town or no he could not tell. That he was not
likely to remain many days at once in the place he
was pretty sure; and yet his sister’s letter
implied that he had been lately with her, and had
been taking some steps towards removing the children
from their present place of abode. So he walked
up and down the little town in all directions, thinking
that if Mr Vivian should be anywhere about, and should
catch sight of him, he might retire from the place
for a season, and give him an opportunity of visiting
his sister unmolested. At length, after returning
to his inn and refreshing himself, he made up his
mind to call at his sister’s home, trusting that
he should find her alone.
All was quiet as could be in the little
street or lane down which he now made his way.
Knocking at the door of the neat but humble dwelling
where his sister lived, she herself answered the summons.
“Oh! is it you, Amos?” she cried, clasping
her hands passionately together. “Oh, I
am so glad, so glad! I want to tell you all,
it has been so terrible; come in, come in.”
Amos entered the little parlour and looked round.
He had himself furnished it with a few extras of comfort
and refinement. “O Amos, dear, dear Amos,”
cried his sister, throwing her arms round his neck
and weeping bitterly, “it has been so dreadful.
Oh pardon me, pray pardon me!”
“What for, dearest Julia?” he asked.
“Why, for writing that last
part of the letter. He stood over me; he made
me do it. He stood over me with a whip; yes,
he struck me over and over again look at
my neck here he struck me till the blood
came, when I refused at first to write as he dictated.
But oh! I hope no harm came of that letter?”
“None, dear sister, none.
No; the Lord took care of me and delivered me. But
the children what of them?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m
sure; but I rather think he doesn’t mean to move
them after all.”
“And where is he himself I mean your ”
“My husband, as he calls himself,”
she said bitterly. “Oh, he is anywhere
and everywhere; sometimes here for a day or two, and
then absent for weeks. Indeed, he hardly dares
stay for any length of time in any one place, for
fear of the police getting hold of him.”
“My poor sister!” exclaimed
Amos with a sigh; “but, at any rate, all
is not dark,” he added. “I am bringing
a little gladness with me. My dear father sends
you his love ”
“What what, Amos!”
she exclaimed, interrupting him with almost a shriek.
“Oh, say it again! Oh, can it really be? my
father send me his love! Oh, dearest Amos, was
it really so?”
“Yes; he knows nearly all now,
and his heart has opened to you, and he bids me tell
you there is a place for you in the old home still.”
Sinking on the ground, the bewildered,
agitated creature clasped her hands across her forehead,
as though the swollen veins would burst with the intensity
of her emotion. At last, yielding to her brother’s
tender caresses, she grew calmer, and allowing him
to draw her close to him, she wept a full flood of
tears, which brought with them a measure of peace
in their flow. “Oh! can it be?” she
cried again, but now more hopefully “a
place for me yet in the dear old home, and my father’s
smile on me once more.” Then she added
in a scared, hoarse whisper, “But that doesn’t
include him?”
“No, not your unhappy husband;
my father could not receive him.”
“Of course not, Amos.
Oh that I had never married him! Every spark
of love for him has died out of my heart now.
I hate him, and I loathe myself.”
“Nay, nay, dear sister,”
said Amos soothingly, “don’t say so.
He has sinned, greatly sinned, but all may yet be
well.”
“Never, never,” she cried,
“while he claims me for his wife!”
“Well, well,” said Amos,
“calm yourself, dear Julia. See, here is
proof visible of my father’s love to you:
he has bid me put these two ten-pound notes into
Mrs Allison’s hands for you. He sends them
to yourself, but I am to place them with her, lest
they should be taken from you.”
“Let me look at them with my
own eyes,” she cried; and when Amos produced
them, she pressed them eagerly to her lips, exclaiming,
“Dear, dear father, God bless you for this!”
“And now,” said her brother,
when she had sufficiently recovered herself to listen
to him quietly, “we must consider next what is
best to be done. Do you think your husband is
likely to be here again soon? and if so, will it be
of any use your speaking to him on the subject of your
father having expressed his willingness to receive
you without him? Would he be willing to leave
you to us now, and to go abroad himself to some distant
land? and do you yourself really desire this separation?”
“Desire it, Amos! how can I
help desiring it? Though marrying him lost me
home and almost everything I once loved, yet I could
have followed him all the world over if he had really
loved me. But he hates me; he takes a spiteful
pleasure in ill-treating me. He would never come
near me at all, if he did not think that he could
manage to squeeze some money out of me. How
can I have any love left for such a wretch?”
“But will he be willing to leave
you in our hands? Remember you are still his
wife, and he has therefore a claim upon you.”
“I know it, Amos, too well. Oh! what can
I do?”
“Well, I can hardly tell; but
I am remaining in the town to-night, and as it is
now getting late, I will go to my room at the inn,
and will come and see you again to-morrow morning,
by which time I shall have got more light on the subject,
I have no doubt.” So they parted.
As Amos walked into the inn-yard to
have a last look at his pony, he saw a young man advancing
towards him; but as it was now getting dark, he could
not at first make out his features. A moment
more, and he recognised his brother.
“What, Walter!” he exclaimed
in astonishment; “how did you come here?”
“Oh, very comfortably indeed!”
was the reply. “I have ridden over on a
little private business of my own in fact,
I may tell you in confidence that I am at present
a member of the mounted police force, and am on duty
to-night in the noble town of Dufferly, keeping my
eye on a certain person who is running his head into
danger, and wants carefully looking after, lest he
get himself into mischief.” Amos looked
puzzled. “In other words,” continued
his brother, “I could not bear the thought of
your getting again into the clutches of that horrid
man; so I have come over, not to be a spy upon you,
or any fetter on your movements, but just to be at
hand, to give you a help if you want it.”
“How generous of you, dear Walter!”
cried his brother, shaking him warmly by the hand;
“but does my father know?”
“Of course he does, and my aunt
too. It’s all right. You are captain,
and I’m only lieutenant; and now, what’s
the next move?”
“Well, to have some tea together
in my room, Walter. But really your coming was
quite unnecessary. I shall be taken care of without
your needing to put yourself to all this trouble.
However, as you are here, I begin to see that
good may come of it. So let us have tea, and
then you must tell me how you found me out, after which
I will tell you what is in my mind.” So
the brothers had a cozy meal together, and then Amos
told Walter about his interview with their sister,
and having taken him fully into his confidence, discussed
with him what was best to be done under the sad circumstances.
“If I could only get hold of
that rascally scamp!” said Walter, with an inclination
of his head which implied that nothing would give him
more intense satisfaction.
“I am afraid,” said his
brother, “that would not help us much: the
thing that would do us all good is not to get hold
of him, but to get rid of him. Unfortunately,
however, he knows the hold he has upon us through
poor Julia, and I fear that he will leave no stone
unturned to accomplish his own objects through her
directly or indirectly.”
“And can’t we set the police on him?”
“I daresay we could, Walter;
but what a disgrace it would be to have him exposed
and brought to justice!”
“Ah, I see that. Well,
Amos, we must see if we cannot frighten him away for
good and all.”
His brother shook his head.
“He knows very well, you may be sure,”
he said, “that for Julia’s sake and our
own we shall not drag him out into the light, with
all his sins and misdemeanours, for the public to gaze
at, if we can help it; and yet I think he may perhaps
be induced to retire of his own accord and settle
abroad, if he finds that we are both of us determined
to keep him in view. Suppose, then, we go together
to poor Julia’s to-morrow. Oh, how delighted
she will be to see you once again! And we can
get her to make her husband understand that we are
both of us keeping our eyes open about him, and that
unless he takes himself off at once, and gives up
his poor abused wife into our keeping, and leaves
her there, we shall bring him to justice, let the disgrace
be what it may.”
“Well, Amos,” replied
Walter, “I can see no better plan; so if agreeable
to you I will have the happiness of going with you
to-morrow to my dear sister’s.”
The next morning, accordingly, the
two brothers stood at the door of Julia Vivian’s
humble dwelling. The landlady answered the bell,
and said that her lodger was still in her bedroom,
having passed a very disturbed night, but that, if
they would come in, she would soon come down to them.
In a few minutes the parlour door slowly opened, and
Julia, deadly pale, a wild light in her eyes, and her
hands trembling with excitement, made her appearance.
She advanced with hesitating steps towards Amos,
behind whom stood Walter, partly hidden by his brother;
but as his sister caught sight of her younger brother,
the colour rushed into her face, and with a wild cry
she sprang into his arms. “Walter!
O Walter, Walter! is it really you? Oh, this
is too much happiness. Amos, you never
told me of this.”
“No, my dear sister, because
I did not know of it myself. But calm yourself
now. You look so very ill, I am afraid the excitement
has been too much for you.”
“No, no!” she cried, with
a look of terror in her eyes, “it is not that, seeing
you both is nothing but joy; it would make me well
and ready for anything. But but he
has been here since I saw you yesterday, Amos.
He found out from my manner that something had happened,
and he made me tell that you had been here. And
then he asked if you had said anything about money;
and, when I hesitated, he threatened and threatened
till he forced it out of me that my dear father had
sent me those notes. He went off again last night,
and said that he should like to meet you this morning,
and that perhaps something might be arranged to the
satisfaction of all parties.”
“Then you told him that I was coming again this
morning?”
“Yes; he dragged it from me
by his sharp and cruel questioning. But he is
not coming till twelve o’clock.”
“And where is he now?”
“I cannot tell. He never
lets me know where he is going to, or how long he
means to stay away.”
“I will meet him here, then,”
said Amos; “perhaps we may now really come to
some understanding which will get us out of our difficulties.”
“And what about me?” asked
Walter. “I have come over here in the
character of a policeman in plain clothes to watch
over my brother Amos, and I don’t want that
precious blackguard I beg your pardon, Julia,
I mean your husband to have any more tete-a-têtes
with my charge unless I am by. Can you hide
me away in some corner where I can hear and see all
that is going on without being seen myself?”
“Would that be right?” asked his brother
hesitatingly.
“Perfectly right,” said
Walter, “so long as you are willing that
I should hear what passes between you. I’m
not fond of acting the spy, but this is simply taking
reasonable precautions to prevent an honest man being
entrapped or injured by a rogue.”
“Yes,” said his sister,
“I am afraid what you say is too true.
I would not answer for what Orlando might do at any
time. So I think I can place you where you can
observe and hear what is going on without being observed
yourself.”
Having said this, she led the way
into another room on the opposite side of the passage,
which was usually occupied by the owner of the house,
but which she had this morning lent to her lodger for
her use, as it was rather larger than the one Mrs
Vivian occupied, and more convenient for the reception
of a visitor. On the farther side of this apartment
was a door leading out to the back part of the house.
It was seldom used now, and a curtain hung before
it, as the weather was cold and a strong current of
air came through it. In an upper panel of this
door was a small glass window, now disused, for some
alterations had been made in the back premises which
blocked out the light. The panes of this window
had been pasted over and covered by paper similar in
colour to the door, so that the existence of any glass
there would not have been suspected by any ordinary
observer.
When this door and its window had
been shown to Walter, what he should do flashed upon
him at once. “May we take the landlady
in a measure into our confidence?” he asked.
“Yes,” said his sister,
“I am sure you may. She knows my trials
and troubles too well.”
Amos having assented, Mrs Allison
was called, and it was explained to her that Walter
wished to watch behind the door unobserved, and to
be able, if possible, to see as well as hear what
was going on in the room during the interview between
his brother and brother-in-law. The good woman,
at once comprehending the situation, gave cheerful
leave to Walter to take his stand where he proposed,
promising that no one should interrupt; and then with
her own hands scratched with an old pair of scissors
two small round holes in the paper which had been pasted
on the small window, such as would not attract the
notice of any one in the room, but through which Walter
would be able to see everything that was going on
inside.
A few minutes before twelve he duly
took his stand behind this disused door. The
curtain had previously been removed by the landlady,
so that any conversation in the room could be readily
heard through the not over tight-fitting woodwork.
Anxiously did the young man wait for the coming interview.
He was not kept long in suspense. A loud ring
at the front door was followed by the sound of a heavy
stalking tread. Mr Orlando Vivian entered the
other parlour, whither Amos and his sister had retired,
and saluted the former with an offhand, swaggering
assumption of politeness.
“Your servant, Mr Huntingdon,”
he said. Whose ever servant he might
be, at that moment he was clearly the slave
of strong drink.
Amos bowed.
“I hope you find your sister
well, Mr Huntingdon,” he added; “it is
very kind of you to visit us in our humble dwelling.”
The other replied that he did not
find his sister looking as well as he had hoped, but
trusted that she might soon be better.
“The better for my absence,
I suppose you mean,” said his brother-in-law
sneeringly.
Amos made no reply.
“Well, sir,” continued
the wretched stroller, whose swaggering manner was
evidently merely assumed, “every man’s
house is his castle, and therefore mine must be so
too. I haven’t much to offer you in the
way of welcome just now, but, before we part, I should
like a word in private with you. Is the
other room occupied?” he asked of his wife.
“No; Mrs Allison has put it at my service this
morning.”
“Then, Mr Huntingdon, will you
be so good as to follow me?” Saying which,
he led the way to the other parlour, and, when they
had entered, locked the door, to the surprise and
not particular satisfaction of Amos, who gave just
one glance at the little window, and thought he saw
two eyes peeping through the little holes.
“Pray be seated,” said the player.
Amos accepted the invitation and sat.
“You have brought some money,
I understand, from my father-in-law for his daughter,”
began Mr Vivian abruptly.
“I have,” said the other,
after his questioner had waited a minute or so for
a reply.
“Would you have the goodness
to hand it to me?” continued the player.
“I brought it,” replied
Amos, “for my sister’s own private use
and benefit, and cannot therefore give it to you.”
“Ah, indeed!” said the
other sarcastically; “but you know, sir, that
a wife’s goods belong to her husband, who, as
I think the Bible has it, is the head of the wife,
so that what is hers is his, and indeed his more than
hers.”
“Perhaps so, under ordinary
circumstances,” replied Amos; “but this
is a free gift from a father to a daughter, and I
am sure no kind or reasonable husband would wish to
deprive her of it.”
“Deprive, sir? No, deprive
is not the word. Husband and wife are one, you
know: the wife is the weaker vessel, and the husband
the stronger; and it is only right and natural that
the stronger should have the money, that he may use
it for the benefit of the weaker.”
“Mr Vivian,” said Amos
firmly, “all this, and you must know it, is mere
idle talk. I cannot give you the money.”
“And I on my part say, sir,”
replied the other, “that I must have it.
I want it. I cannot do without it.”
“I have told you my decision,” said Amos.
“Indeed,” said the other.
“Then I am driven to an unpleasant line of
persuasion, though very reluctantly.”
He rose, and Amos did the same.
“Do you see this?” he said, taking from
his pocket a revolver.
“I do,” said Amos.
“Should I be disposed to use
this by way of compulsion, what would you say?”
“That I am in God’s hands
and not in yours,” replied Amos, looking Vivian
full in the face, who quailed before the calm, steady
gaze of the young man.
Neither spoke for half a minute; then
the unhappy stroller stepped back, and began to raise
his right arm. The next instant the disused door
was dashed open, and Walter sprang upon his astounded
brother-in-law with the fury of a tiger. The
pistol flew from Vivian’s hand, and he fell to
the ground. Walter, who was full of vigour and
activity, pinned him down, and called to Amos to give
him one of the bell ropes. With this, being
assisted by his brother, he pinioned the prostrate
man so that he was utterly helpless.
“Now,” said Walter, “let
us search the villain’s pockets.”
He did so, and discovered a second revolver.
“What’s to be done now?” he asked;
“shall we hand him over at once to the police?”
At this moment his sister, having
heard the scuffle, tried the door. Amos unlocked
it. What a sight presented itself! “Oh,
what does it all mean?” she cried.
“Why, just this,” exclaimed
her brother. “This dastardly villain I
must call him so has been threatening to
shoot Amos because he would not give him the money
that was sent by my father to you.”
“Oh, misery! misery!”
cried the unhappy wife, hiding her face with her hands.
“Let me get up; untie the rope,”
wailed the unhappy Vivian, now utterly crestfallen
and abject. “I meant your brother no harm;
I only intended to frighten him. The pistols
are neither of them loaded.”
“It may be so,” said Walter.
“Well, get up,” and he helped him to rise.
“Now sit down in that chair and listen to me.
You’ve behaved like a brute, and worse than
a brute, to my poor sister; you have cruelly trapped
my dear noble brother, and would have murdered him
if you had dared. The simplest thing would just
be to send for a policeman and give you into his charge.
But I don’t want to do this for my poor sister’s
sake and the family’s sake. But now I’ve
made up my mind come what may, disgrace
or no disgrace, if you show your face amongst any of
us again, the constable shall have you, and you shall
get your deserts. We’ve got a home for
our sister at the old place, and Amos has got a home
for the children. Now if, after I’ve set
you free, you turn up anywhere near us or the children,
we’ll make no more bones of the matter; you
shall get your deserts, and these will be the deserts
of a mean, cowardly, rascally wife-beater, to say
the best of you.”
Not a word of reply did the guilty
man make to this speech. He writhed in his chair,
and looked utterly humbled and crushed.
When Walter who had now,
with the tacit consent of Amos, taken the management
of matters into his own hands had examined
the pistols, which proved to be unloaded, he approached
his brother-in-law once more, and said, with less
excitement, “Now, Mr Orlando Vivian, I am going
to release you, and you will have the goodness to
take yourself out of this town before you are an hour
older, else you will have to take the consequences.”
Having said this, he proceeded to unfasten the cord
which bound the degraded and spirit-broken wretch.
When this had been accomplished, the baffled stroller
rose, and, with head hanging down, and without a word
uttered, left the house.