Six weeks after the sad accident in
the park the squire sat in the library after breakfast
reading the county paper. Suddenly he turned
very red, and his chest heaved with emotion, as his
eyes ran rapidly through the following paragraph:
“Extraordinary Proceeding at the County Hospital.
“It will be remembered that
some few weeks ago a terrible accident happened to
one Signor Telitetti, an acrobat of professedly world-wide
reputation. The unfortunate man, while performing
on the high rope in the presence of some thousands
of spectators, suddenly lost his self-possession,
or experienced some failure in power, and in consequence
fell from a considerable height to the ground.
He was taken to the hospital, where, under the skilful
treatment of the medical officers, he made rapid progress
towards returning health and strength, having suffered
no more serious injuries than the breaking of an arm
and two or three ribs. To the astonishment,
however, and perplexity of the hospital officials,
the signor has managed to leave the premises
unobserved, and in his still feeble condition, and
with his arm yet in a sling, to get clear away, so
that no one had any idea what had become of him.
The reason, however, of this move on his part is becoming
pretty plain, for it is now being more than whispered
about that Signor Telitetti is no foreigner after
all, but that this name is only one among many aliases
borne by a disreputable stroller and swindler, who
some time since victimised Lady Gambit by cheating
her out of twenty pounds. There can be no doubt
that the unfortunate man, dreading lest the police
should pounce upon him when he left the hospital fully
cured, contrived to elude their vigilance by taking
himself off at a time when no one would suspect him
of wishing or being able to change his quarters.”
Mr Huntingdon read this over and over
again, and his brow contracted as many painful thoughts
crowded in upon him. Then, rising, he repaired
to the morning room, where the other members of the
family were assembled, reading or answering their
letters. Taking the paper to Amos, he placed
his finger on the painful paragraph, and signed to
him to read it. Amos did so with a beating heart
and troubled brow. “Anything amiss, father?”
asked Walter, noticing the grave look on the faces
of Mr Huntingdon and his brother. The squire
made no reply, but, holding out his hand for the paper,
passed it to his younger son. Julia, looking
up, noticed the flushed face of her brother, and, before
her father could prevent her, sprang up and, leaning
over Walter’s shoulder, read the article.
Then, with a wild cry, she rushed out of the room.
“Oh! what is the trouble?”
exclaimed Miss Huntingdon in a tone of great distress.
Once more the paper was passed on, and she read the
humiliating paragraph.
All were silent for a while.
Then Miss Huntingdon said, “I must go to poor
Julia.”
“Do so,” said the squire;
“but come back as soon as you can.”
His sister soon returned, saying that
her niece had been much upset by what she had read,
but would be better shortly.
“And now,” said Mr Huntingdon,
“I want to know if Julia was aware who the signor
was at the time when the accident happened.”
“She was,” said Walter sorrowfully.
“And could she leave her wretched
husband, wounded and perhaps dying, without an attempt
to see that he was properly cared for?”
“Father,” replied Walter,
“it was so, and I deeply grieve over it.
I tried to persuade her at the time for
we both knew him too well as he lay on the ground
at our feet senseless and bleeding I tried
to persuade her that it was her duty to go with him;
but she would not hear of it; she insisted on returning
home at once, and said that he would be well looked
after at the hospital, and that if she were to go to
him he would only swear at her. So at last I
gave it up; and she would not be pacified till I promised
not to mention to any one that I knew the wretched
man to be her husband. I suppose I was wrong
in giving this promise, I have never felt
comfortable about it; but she was so miserable till
I made it that I gave her my word; and that is just
how it was.”
“I quite understand you,”
said his father. “Poor Julia! we must make
allowances for her; but she has plainly fallen short
of her duty in the matter. I trust, however,
that she has now had a wholesome lesson, poor thing,
and that for her children’s sake, and all our
sakes, she will be content with her own home, and
more ready to fulfil her duties as a mother.”
Amos did not speak, but he was deeply
moved. He felt that his sister’s proper
place would have been at the bedside of the man who,
whatever his sins against her, was still her husband,
and was when the accident had happened, for anything
she knew to the contrary, crushed and dying, and about
to be speedily separated from her for ever in this
world. But she had not so seen her duty; she
had shrunk from the pain, the sacrifice. She
could not bear the thought of the interruption to her
recovered home comforts and pleasures which the work
of a nurse to the stricken man would involve.
And could Amos make her see and acknowledge that she
had erred? He feared not.
Dinner-time came. Julia was
in her place as usual. There was a gloom over
all the party, but no one alluded to the sad cause.
And so, things reverted to their ordinary channel
in a few days. Julia had become again full of
life and spirits, though to close observers there was
something forced and unnatural about her mirth and
vivacity. And one thing Amos noticed with special
pain it was that she carefully avoided
ever being alone with him; if they were accidentally
left together by themselves, she would in a moment
or two make some excuse for leaving the room.
Thus did things continue, till summer
had given place to the rich beauties of autumn.
It was on a mellow October morning that the post
brought a letter for Amos in a handwriting which was
not familiar to him, and from a locality with which
he was not acquainted. It was as follows:
“Dear Sir, In the
course of my duties as Scripture reader in the town
of Collingford, I have come upon a case which has greatly
interested me. The reason for my troubling you
about it will appear further on in my letter.
I was calling about a fortnight ago on a poor widow
woman who lives in one of the lowest parts of this
town, in a miserable house, or rather part of it.
She asked me to step into a small back room and see
a lodger whom she had taken in some days before, and
who was in a very bad state of health, and indeed
not likely to recover. I did as she desired,
and found a wretched-looking man seated in an old armchair,
bowed together, and racked with a severe cough.
One of his arms was in a sling, and he seemed to
be suffering considerable pain in his left side.
There was something in his appearance different from
that of ordinary tramps; and when I heard him speak,
I saw at once that he must have had a good education.
I could make very little out of him at first, for
he was very shy and reserved, and seemed terribly annoyed
when I read a chapter and had a prayer with him the
first visit, and he said some very sharp things against
religion and the Bible. However, I persevered,
and he got a little softened, especially when I brought
him a little help and a few comforts from some Christian
friends who had got interested in him. He has
always avoided speaking about himself and his past
history, and I suspect that he is hiding from the police.
However, I have nothing to do with that, and am truly
sorry for him. This morning I called and found
him much worse. I asked him if he would like
me to get him into the hospital, but he would not hear
of it. Then I asked him if I could do anything
more for him. He did not speak for some time,
and then he said, `Yes. Write a few lines for
me to Mr Amos Huntingdon’ he gave
me your address `and just tell him how I
am. He will know me by the name of Orlando Vivian.’
`Shall I say anything more?’ I asked. `No,’
he said; `please, just say that, and leave it.’
So, dear sir, I have followed the poor gentleman’s
wishes. I call him a gentleman, for I think
he must have been a gentleman once. Poor man!
I fear he is dying, and cannot be here very long.
At the same time, I feel it to be my duty to tell
you that there is a bad fever raging in the town,
and the place where he lives is anything but clean
and healthy. And now I have only to ask your
pardon for troubling you with this long letter, and
to say that I shall be very happy to do anything for
your friend, if such he is, that lies in my power,
or to meet you at the Collingford station, should
you think it right to come down and see him. I
am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris.”
It hardly need be said that this letter
moved Amos deeply. What could be done?
What was his duty? What was his sister’s
duty? He felt in perplexity, so he took the
trouble and laid it out before Him who bids us cast
on him every care. Then he betook himself to
his aunt’s room and read the letter to her.
“What shall I do, dear aunt?” he asked.
“The question, I think, rather
is,” replied Miss Huntingdon, “What ought
not your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it
is her duty to go to her poor dying husband, forgive
all if he shows himself really penitent, and be with
him to the last.”
“Such is my conviction too,”
said Amos sadly; “but I fear that Julia will
not see her duty in the light in which we see it.
May I call her, and just read the letter to her before
you?”
“Yes, dear boy, if you like.”
So Amos repaired to the dining-room, where his sister
and Walter were engaged in a brisk conversation.
“What’s amiss with you
now?” asked Walter, noticing the serious look
on his brother’s face. “You ought
to be very bright this beautiful morning. Julia
and I have been planning a nice little scheme for this
afternoon. I am hoping, with the gamekeeper’s
help, to bag two or three brace of partridges before
dinner-time. I can drive Julia to the gamekeeper’s
hut, and she can take a sketch or two while I am shooting.
The woods are looking beautiful now with their autumnal
tints, and will give lovely little bits for a sketch.
Won’t you join us?”
“Well,” replied Amos gravely,
“it would be very nice; but just now I have
a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about,
if she will just spare me a few minutes, and come
with me to my aunt’s room.”
“Dear me! what can you want
with me?” asked his sister, turning deep
red and then very pale. “I’m sure
I don’t want to talk about anything dismal this
delicious morning. Oh! don’t look so serious,
Amos; you are always in the dolefuls now. Why
can’t you be cheerful and jolly, like Walter?”
“I am sorry to trouble you,”
replied her brother, “but there is a cause just
now. I shall not keep you long, and then you
can return to your jollity if you will.”
These last words he uttered in a tone of reproach
which touched her spite of herself.
She rose and followed him in silence
to her aunt’s room. When all were seated,
Amos produced the Scripture reader’s letter,
and, expressing his deep sorrow to have to wound his
sister, read it slowly out in a subdued voice.
Julia sprang from her seat, and having snatched the
letter from her brother’s hand, read it through
several times, her bosom heaving and her eyes flashing,
and a few tears bursting forth now and then.
“It’s a hoax,” she cried at last;
“one of his hoaxes. It can’t
be true.”
“I fear it is true,”
said Amos calmly. “To me the letter bears
all the marks of truth. Don’t you
think so, Aunt Kate?”
“Yes, surely,” replied
Miss Huntingdon sadly; “I cannot doubt its genuineness.”
Julia then tossed the letter to her
brother and sat down. “And what is it,
then,” she asked bitterly, and with knitted brows,
“that you want me to do?”
“I think, dear Julia,”
said her aunt, “the real question is, What is
it your duty to do?”
“Oh yes,” she cried passionately;
“my duty! Duty’s a very fine thing.
It’s always `duty, duty.’ But there
are two parties to duty: has he done his
duty? He has beaten me, starved me, cursed me is
that doing his duty? And now I am to go and
nurse him in a vile fever-smitten hole, and lose my
life, and so deprive my children of a mother, because
it’s my duty. I don’t see it at all.”
Both her hearers looked deeply distressed.
Then Amos said, “Still he is your husband,
and dying.”
“Dying!” she exclaimed
sneeringly; “not he it’s all
pretence. If anything common could have killed
him, such as kills other people, he would have been
dead ages ago. But he isn’t like other
men; he has got a charmed life. He’ll
be all right again after a while.”
“And you will not go to him?”
asked Amos, calmly and sadly.
“No, certainly not,” she
cried indignantly. “I’ve suffered
more than enough already for him and from him.
Besides, if you talk of duty, it is surely my duty
to think of the dear children, and not run the risk
of bringing back the fever to them, supposing I should
not be killed by it myself.”
“Then,” said her brother deliberately,
“I shall go.”
“You, Amos!” exclaimed both his aunt and
sister.
“Yes,” he said; “my
own duty is now plain to me. The poor man has
let me know his case; he is my sister’s husband,
however unworthy a husband; he is dying, and may be
eternally lost body and soul, and by going I may be
made the means of helping on the good Scripture reader’s
work. The poor dying man’s heart is softened
just now, and it may be that when he hears the words
of God’s truth, and experiences kindness from
one who has been treated by him as I have been, he
may be led to seek and find pardon before he is taken
away.”
“But,” said his aunt anxiously,
“you will be running a great risk of catching
the fever, and may lose your own health, and even your
life.”
“I know it,” he said;
“I have counted the cost; and should I be taken
away, I shall merely have done my duty, and” his
voice trembled as he proceeded “I
shall be the one best spared and least missed in the
household.” As he uttered these last words,
his sister, who had been gradually crouching down
shiveringly on to the floor, clasped her hands over
her face and wept bitterly, but she uttered no word.
Then Amos turned to his aunt and said, “Will
you, dear aunt, kindly explain to my father how matters
are, and why I am gone? Poor Julia!”
he added, raising her up gently and kissing her forehead,
“all may yet be well. May I take him one
kind word from you?” She did not speak, but
her bosom heaved convulsively. At last she said
in a hoarse, quivering whisper, “Yes, what you
like; and write and tell me if he is really
dying.” Then she rushed out of the room
to her own chamber, but appeared at luncheon with
all traces of emotion vanished from her features.
The squire was absent attending a
business meeting in the neighbouring town, and nothing
had yet been said to Walter on the subject of his
brother’s departure. That afternoon Amos
set off for Collingford, and Walter and his sister
on their shooting and sketching expedition, which
proved a miserable failure, so far as any pleasure
to Julia was concerned.
Collingford was nearly a day’s
journey from Flixworth Manor, so it was not till dark
that Amos arrived at the town. He sought out
at once the Scripture reader, and obtained full information
as to the state of the poor sufferer. Could
he obtain lodgings in the house where the sick man
was? Mr Harris shook his head.
“I am not afraid either of poor
accommodation or of infection,” said Amos.
“I am come to do a work, and am safe in the
Lord’s hands till it is done. He has sent
me, and he will keep me.”
The Scripture reader grasped him warmly
by the hand. “You shall lodge in my house,”
he said, “if you can be satisfied with humble
fare and my plain ways. I am not a married man,
but I have a good old woman who looks after me, and
she will look after you too, and you can come and go
just as you please.”
“I will take you at your word,
my friend,” said the other, “and will
gladly pay for bed and board.”
“All right, all right,”
cried Mr Harris: “and for my part I am not
going to pry into your reasons for coming. You
are one of the Lord’s servants on an errand
of mercy and self-denying love I can see
that; and you are welcome to my services and my silence.”
Amos thanked him warmly, and his moderate
luggage was soon deposited in the Scripture reader’s
dwelling.
The next morning, after an early breakfast,
the two friends for true friends they at
once became in the bonds of the gospel, loving Christ’s
image in each other set out for Orlando
Vivian’s lodging.
“You must be prepared for something
very miserable,” said the Scripture reader.
“I am prepared for anything,”
said the other calmly. But truly Amos was staggered
when he entered the room where sat, in the midst of
gloom and filth, the man who had been the cause of
so much distress to him and his. The atmosphere
was oppressive with the concentrated foulness of numberless
evil odours. A bed there was in the darkest corner
of the room on the floor. It looked as though
composed of the refuse raked from a pig-sty, and thrust
into a sack which had been used for the conveyance
of dust and bones. Bolster or pillow it had none,
but against the wall, where the bed’s head was
supposed to be, were three or four logs of rough wood
piled together, over which was laid a faded cloak
crumpled into a heap. Such was the only couch
which the unhappy sufferer had to lay him down upon
at night, or when weary of sitting in the high-backed,
creaking armchair. Uncleanness met the eye on
every side in the one greasy plate, on
which lay a lump of repulsive-looking food; in the
broken-mouthed jug, which reeked with the smell of
stale beer; in the window, whose bemired and cobwebbed
panes kept out more light than they admitted; in the
ceiling, between whose smoke-grimed rafters large
rents allowed many an abomination to drop down from
the crowded room above; in the three-legged table,
which, being loose in all its decaying joints, reeled
to and fro at every touch; in the spiders, beetles,
and other self-invited specimens of the insect tribe,
which had long found a congenial home in these dismal
quarters. And there worn, haggard,
hungry, suffering, helpless in the midst
of all this desolation, sat the broken-down, shattered
stroller, coughing every now and then as though the
spasm would rend him in pieces.
The heart of Amos was touched at the
terrible sight with a feeling of the profoundest pity,
as he approached the chair occupied by the wreck of
what might have been a man noble and good, loving and
loved. Anything like resentment was entirely
lost in his desire to alleviate if he could the misery
he saw before him.
“I have brought a friend to
see you,” said Mr Harris, stepping forward.
The sick man raised his head slowly, and, as his eyes
fell on Amos, he trembled violently, and clutched
his chair with a convulsive grasp. Then a fit
of coughing came on, and all were silent. “I
will leave you together, if you please,” said
the Scripture reader after a pause to Amos.
“You know where to find me if I am wanted,”
and he retired.
Long was it before the unhappy man
could trust himself to speak. At last, having
sipped a little of a soothing mixture which Mr Harris
had brought him, he turned his face towards his brother-in-law,
who had now taken a seat in front of him on a three-legged
stool, and said, “Shall I tell you why I sent
to you, Mr Huntingdon?” Amos inclined his head.
“It was,” continued the sick man, “because
I have insulted you, deceived you, entrapped you,
and threatened your life. That would be in most
cases the very reason why you should have been the
very last person I should have sent to. But
I believe you are real. I believe you
are a true Christian, if there is such a thing. I
am not real. I am a sham, a cheat, a lie; my
whole life has been a lie; my unbelief has been a
lie. But, if there is truth in the Bible and
in Christianity, I believe you have found it.
I am sure that you are real and genuine. I
felt it when I was deceiving you, and I feel it more
and more the more I think about it. So, as I
am told that it is part of the character of those
who really take the Bible for their guide to return
good for evil, I have sent to you.”
He had uttered these words in broken
sentences, and now sank back exhausted. When
he had recovered himself sufficiently to listen, Amos,
deeply moved, said kindly and earnestly, “You
did right, my poor friend, to send to me; and now
I am here, I must see what I can do for you.”
“But, can you really forgive
me?” said the other, fixing his dark eyes on
his visitor. “Remember how I have behaved
to yourself; remember how I have behaved to your sister.
Can you really forgive me.”
Amos made no immediate reply, but,
taking out of his pocket a small New Testament which
he had purposely brought with him, read in a clear,
earnest voice the parable of the unmerciful servant,
and, when he had finished it, added, “How could
I ever hope for forgiveness from God if I could not
forgive the transgressions of a poor fellow-sinner
against myself? Yes, my poor brother, I do freely
forgive you; and oh, let me have the happiness of
seeing you seek forgiveness of Him who has still a
place in his heart and in his kingdom for you.”
The poor sufferer struggled in vain
to conceal his strong emotion. Tears, sobs would
burst forth. A violent fit of coughing came on,
and for a time Amos feared a fatal result. But
at length the sick man regained composure and a lull
from his cough, and then said, with slow and painful
effort, “It is true. I believe your religion
is true. I cannot doubt it. It is real,
for you are real. It is real for you, but, alas!
not real for me.”
Amos was going to turn to another
passage in his New Testament, but the other waved
his hand impatiently. “No more of that
now,” he said; “I have other things just
at present on my mind. You know that I am a
doomed man. The police are looking out for me;
but I shall cheat them yet. Death will have
me first. Yes, I am a dying man. Of
course she has not come with you. Perhaps
you have not told her that you were coming.
Well, it’s better she shouldn’t come; there’s
fever about, and I have dragged her down low enough
already. This is no place for her. But
I shall not be here long to trouble any of you.
Will you tell her that I am sorry for my past treatment
of her? and keep an eye on the children, will you,
as you have done? Oh, don’t let them come
to this!” Here the unhappy man fairly broke
down.
When he had again partially recovered,
Amos begged him to keep himself as quiet as he could,
adding that all might yet be well, and that he must
now leave him, but would return again in a few hours.
Having sought the good Scripture reader,
and ascertained from him that the medical man gave
no hopes of the unhappy man living more than a few
days, Amos at once confided to his host the sad story
of his sister’s marriage and its consequences,
and now asked his advice and help as to how he could
make the remaining time of his brother-in-law’s
life as comfortable as circumstances would permit.
Mr Harris at once threw himself heartily into the
matter, and before night the dying man had been tenderly
conveyed from his miserable quarters to the Scripture
reader’s own dwelling, where everything was at
once done that could alleviate his sufferings and
supply his wants.
That same evening Amos wrote to his
sister in these brief words: “Orlando is
dying. A few days will end all.”
He purposely added no words of persuasion, nor any
account of his interview with her husband and what
he had done for his comfort; for he feared that any
such account from himself might just steel her heart
against any appeal, and make her rest satisfied with
what another was doing for the man whom she had vowed
to love in sickness as well as in health. He
knew that his scrap of a letter must prove startling
by its abruptness; but he had no wish that it should
be otherwise. These startling words might rouse
her to a sense of her duty; if they did not, he felt
that nothing would.
Two days passed over. Orlando
Vivian grew weaker and weaker, but was full of gratitude
to Amos. He also listened with patience and respect
when the Scripture was read to him or prayer offered
by his side; but he made no remark at such times.
It was on the morning of the third day after the
patient’s removal to his new abode that a hired
carriage drew up at the Scripture reader’s door,
and, to Amos’s great pleasure and thankfulness,
brought his sister. Yes, and he could tell by
her greeting of him and by her whole manner that a
new light had dawned upon her heart and conscience,
in which the idol of self had been seen by her in
somewhat of its true deformity. “Oh, dear
Amos!” she cried, as she wept on his shoulder,
“pardon me; pity me. I have been wrong,
oh, very wrong; but I hope, oh, I do hope that it
is not yet quite too late!” Fondly pressing
her to him, her brother told her that she had his full
and forgiving love; and then he gave her an account
of what he had done since his arrival in Collingford,
and told her that her husband was now in the same
house as herself, and was receiving every attention
and comfort. On hearing this, Julia Vivian would
have at once rushed into the sick chamber, but Amos
checked her, warning her of the effect such a sudden
appearance might have on one in his exhausted and suffering
condition. He must himself break the news of
her coming gradually.
Entering the neat little bedroom,
to his surprise Amos found his brother-in-law painfully
agitated. “You have got a visitor,”
he said, in a voice scarcely audible. “I
heard a carriage drive up to the door, and since then
I have heard a voice. Oh, can it be? Yes;
I see it in your eyes.”
“Calm yourself, my poor brother,”
said Amos; “it is even as you suppose.
Julia has come, and I am truly thankful for it.”
The humbled man tried to conceal his
tears with his one uninjured hand, and said at last,
“I think I can bear it now; let her come in.”
On her brother’s invitation
Julia entered. The eyes of the two met,
the eyes of the oppressor and the oppressed; but how
changed in position now! The once down-trodden
wife now radiant with health and beauty, a beauty
heightened by its passing cloud of tender sadness.
The once overbearing, heartless husband now a stranded
wreck. How haggard he looked! and how those
hollow sunken eyes swam with a tearful look that craved
a pity which they seemed at the same time to despair
of! And could she give that pity? Had
he not forsaken her and her children, and left them
to grinding poverty? Had he not raised his hand
against her and cruelly smitten her? Had he
not laughed her to scorn? Had he not used her
as a mere plaything, and then flung her aside, as the
child does the toy which it has covered for a time
with its caresses? He had done all this, and
more; and now she was there before him, but out of
his clutches, and able, without fear of harm to herself,
to charge him with his past neglect and cruelty.
Yes; the outraged wife could have done this, but
the woman’s heart that throbbed in her bosom
forbade it. She was the loving woman still, though
the fountain of her love had been sealed for a time.
Stealing gently up to his chair, lest any sudden
movement should agitate him too much, and yet quivering
all the while in every limb from suppressed excitement,
she bowed herself over him, and gathered his head
softly to her bosom, whispering, “Poor, dear
Orlando, you are glad, are you not, to see me?”
Then, as the huge rapid drops of the thunder-cloud,
which has hung overhead for a time in the midst of
oppressive stillness, patter at first on the leaves
one by one, and then break into a sweeping deluge,
so did a storm of weeping pour from the eyes and heart
of that crushed and spirit-broken sinner. Hardly
daring to place a hand with its pressure of answering
love on the neck which that same hand had not long
since disfigured with bruises and blood, he yet ventured
at last to draw his wife closer to him, whispering,
“It is too much.” Sweetly soothing
him, Julia helped him to dry his tears, and then sat
down by his side, taking the hand of his uninjured
arm in her own.
No one spoke again for a while.
At last Mr Vivian roused himself to an effort, and,
disengaging his hand, looked his wife steadily and
sorrowfully in the face. “Tell me, Julia,”
he said, “tell me the truth, tell
me, can you really and from your heart forgive me? nay,
do not speak till you have heard me out,” for
she was about to give an eager reply. “Consider
well. You know what I have been to you, the
brute, the tyrant, the traitor. Can you, then,
in view of all the past, forgive me from your heart?”
“I can, I do, dear Orlando,
from my very heart,” she cried; “and surely
I too have much to be forgiven.”
“Not by me,” he said earnestly.
“And now,” he added, “as you have
assured me of your forgiveness, and as my days in this
world can be but few, nay, I know it, I
know it, I have two dying requests to make
of you, and only two. Will you grant me them?”
“Oh yes, yes, dear husband, if they are in my
power.”
“They are perfectly within your
power. The first is, that you would try and
pay back part of my deep debt of gratitude to your
noblest of brothers, who is standing there to
Amos Huntingdon, whom I dare not call brother;
and I will tell you how the payment is to be made not
in gold or silver, for he would not take such payment,
but in giving yourself up to the service of that Saviour
whom he has truly and courageously followed.
That, I know, would be the only payment he would
care to accept, and that will rejoice his heart.
Will you promise?”
“Oh, that I will!” she
exclaimed, clasping her hands passionately together.
“I have misunderstood, I have thwarted dear
Amos shamefully, but now I can truly say, `His people
shall be my people, and his God my God.’”
“Thank you for that. My
second request concerns our children. Promise
me that you will not take them from under your brother’s
eye, and that you will strive to bring them up as
he would have you; then I shall know that they will
be spared such misery as this, that they will not need
to be reminded, by way of warning, of the disgraceful
example of their unworthy and guilty father.”
“I promise, I promise!”
cried the weeping wife, burying her face in her husband’s
bosom. When she raised her eyes to his again
there was a sweet smile on her features as she said,
“Dearest Orlando, all may yet be well, even
should you be taken from us.”
“For you, yes; for me, I cannot say,”
was his reply.
“Oh yes,” she cried earnestly;
“I am sure that dear Amos has put before you
the way to the better land, open to us all through
our loving Saviour; and I prayed last night oh,
so earnestly that you might find that way.”
“Thank you for that,”
he said mournfully; “it may be so; at any rate
I have got thus far I shall not cease to
cry, so long as I have breath, `God be merciful to
me a sinner.’” And these were the last
words on the poor penitent’s lips.
For three days after this interview
he lingered in much pain, but without a murmur.
Whenever Mr Harris or Amos read the Word of God and
prayed he was deeply attentive, but made no remark.
Julia was constantly with him, and poured out her
rekindled love in a thousand little tender services.
At last the end came: there was neither joy nor
peace, but there was not despair, just one
little ray of hope lighted the dark valley.
When the unostentatious funeral was
over, Amos and his sister returned home cast down
yet hopeful and trustful. That evening a subdued
but happy little group gathered in Miss Huntingdon’s
private sitting-room, consisting of Amos, Julia, Walter,
and their aunt. When Amos had answered many
questions concerning the last days of his brother-in-law,
Walter turned to his aunt and said, “Now, dear
auntie, you have some examples of moral courage ready
for us I am sure. Amos, you are to be a
good boy, and not to turn your back upon the teacher,
as I see you are inclined to do. I know why;
but it does not matter. Julia and I want doing
good to, if you don’t; so let us all attend.”
“Yes,” said Miss Huntingdon,
“I know what you mean, and so of course does
your brother; he does not wish to listen to his own
praises, but he must not refuse to listen to the praises
of others, even though their conduct may more or less
resemble his own. I have some noble examples
of moral courage to bring before you, for I have been
thinking much on the matter since Amos and Julia left
us. My heroes and heroines for I
have some of each sex will now consist of
those who have braved death from disease or pestilence
in the path of duty. And first of all, I must
go back to our old example of moral heroism I
mean, to one who has already furnished us with a lesson John
Howard. That remarkable man was not satisfied
with visiting the prisons, and bringing about reforms
in them for the benefit and comfort of the poor prisoners.
He wished to alleviate the sufferings of his fellow-creatures
to a still greater extent; so he formed the plan of
visiting the hospitals and lazarettos set apart for
contagious diseases in various countries. Amongst
other places he went to Smyrna and Constantinople
when these cities were suffering from the plague.
From Smyrna he sailed in a vessel with a foul bill
of health to Venice, where he became an inmate of a
lazaretto. Here he was placed in a dirty room
full of vermin, without table, chair, or bed.
He employed a person to wash the room, but it was
still dirty and offensive. Suffering here with
headache and slow fever, he was removed to a lazaretto
near the town, and had two rooms assigned him, both
in as dirty a state as that he had left. His
active mind devised a plan for making these rooms
more comfortable for the next occupant, and though
opposed by the indolence and prejudices of the people
about him, he contrived secretly to procure a quarter
of a bushel of lime and a brush, and, by rising very
early, and bribing his attendant to help him, contrived
to have the place completely purified. Now his
object in thus exposing himself to infection and disease
was not that he might gratify some crotchet, or get
a name with the world, but that from personal experience
of the unutterable miseries of such places as these
lazarettos were, he might be better able to suggest
the needful improvements and remedies. This
he had set before himself as his work; to this he
believed that duty called him; and that was enough
for him. Suffering, sickness, death, they were
as nothing to him when weighed in the balance against
high and holy duty.”
“A noble hero indeed, dear auntie,”
cried Walter; “and now for another of the same
sort.”
“Well, my dear boy, my second
example embraces many excellent men, all devoted to
the same self-denying and self-sacrificing work, I
am now alluding to the Moravian missionaries.
These truly heroic men, not counting their lives
dear, left home and friends, not to visit sunny lands,
where the charms of the scenery might in a measure
make up for the toils and privations they had to undergo,
nor to find among Arctic frosts and snows at any rate
pure and refreshing breezes, though many of them did
go forth into these inclement regions to carry the
gospel of peace with them, and in so doing to endure
the most terrible hardships. But the Moravians
I am now speaking of are those who volunteered to
enter the pest-houses and infected places from which
they could never come forth again. Here they
lived, and here they died, giving up every earthly
comfort and attraction that they might set gospel truth
before those whose infected and repulsive bodies made
them objects of terror and avoidance to all but those
self-renouncing followers of their Saviour.
Here, indeed, moral courage has reached its height.”
“How wonderful!” said
Julia thoughtfully, and with a sigh; “I
could never have done it.”
“No,” said Miss Huntingdon;
“nor does God commonly require such service
from us. And yet, dear Julia, ladies as tenderly
brought up as yourself have gone forth cheerfully
to little short of certain death from pestilential
airs, and have neither shrunk nor murmured when the
call came. And this brings me to my last example
of what I may call sublime moral courage or heroism.
It is taken from the records of the Church Missionary
Society. When first that society’s noble
work began, its agents went forth to settle among
the poor negroes of Western Africa in the neighbourhood
of Sierra Leone. But the fever that hovered on
the coast was enough to terrify any one who loved
his life more than Christ. In the first twenty
years of that mission no fewer than fifty-three male
and female missionaries died at their posts.
In the year 1823, out of five who went out four died
within six months, yet two years afterwards six presented
themselves for that mission; and, indeed, since the
formation of that mission there have never been men
wanting true heroes of the Lord Jesus Christ who
have willingly offered themselves for the blessed
but deadly service. The women were as devoted
as the men. A bright young couple, the Reverend
Henry Palmer and his wife, landed at Sierra Leone
on March 21, 1823. In the beginning of May, not
two full months afterwards, the husband was dead; in
June, just one month later, the wife was dead also.
Yet neither spoke in their dying moments one word
of regret, but gloried in the work and in the sacrifice
they had been called to make. Another female
missionary to the same parts, a widow, said:
`I have now lived one year in Africa, eight months
of which I have been a widow; but I cannot resolve
to leave Africa.’ Another, whose course
was finished in twenty-two short days, said to her
husband on her death-bed: `Never once think that
I repent of coming here with you.’ Her
only fear seemed to be lest her death should discourage
others, or damp her husband’s zeal. I
have now finished my examples. I am sure, dear
children, that they are to the point; I mean, that
they are examples of the sublimest moral courage that
courage which leads godly men and women not to shrink
from duty though disease and death lie before them
or hover over their path.”
“Thank you, dearest auntie,”
said Walter; “you have indeed brought some glorious
examples before us, and they just fit in with the conduct
of our own dear hero here, who seems to wish us to
forget that there ever was such a person as Amos Huntingdon,
but he certainly won’t succeed.”