It will be remembered that Julia and
Walter had an excursion to a neighbouring fashionable
watering-place about five miles distant, and spent
the day there while Amos was making his first call
at his mother’s retreat, and that they returned
in the evening out of spirits, something evidently
having gone amiss with them. The incidents of
that excursion will sufficiently explain the cause
of their depression.
It can readily be understood that
Walter’s progress in the higher paths of duty
on which he had now sincerely entered was not at all
times equally rapid. He was always meaning well,
and could “put on a spurt and row hard against
the stream,” as he himself expressed it, from
time to time, but the long, steady, and regular stroke
he found it very hard to keep up. Naturally
full of spirits, cherished and encouraged in thoughts
of his own superiority, and accustomed, as long as
he could remember, to have pretty much his own way,
it was no light thing for him to put a curb on his
inclinations, or to check sudden impulses when they
were in the direction of what was dashing or generous.
So that, while his deliberate convictions were on
the side of all that was right, he was very liable
to be led to swerve a little from the narrow path when
any sudden strain was put upon him by his own natural
or acquired tastes, where he could not gratify these
with a safe conscience.
With Julia the case was different.
Long had she resisted the hand that would have led
her heavenwards by trial and sorrow. High-spirited,
self-willed, and self-absorbed though not selfish,
she had struggled long against those cords of love
which were drawing her out of the pathway of error
and death. But she had yielded at last, and,
having yielded, she struggled no longer. Her
one great and abiding desire now was to make progress
on the higher road. Not that she had lost her
relish for amusement or her interest in outward things;
but her spirit was chastened, a new light
burned within her. Not that she loved Walter
less, but she loved Amos more; her heart was now more
in unison with his, and she could now appreciate the
delicacy, and deep tenderness, and consideration of
his self-sacrificing love towards herself, which she
had in time past so cruelly flung back upon him, and
occasionally almost resented. So that now she
felt it to be both her duty and her privilege to mark
and copy the nobility of his unpretending but sterling
character.
Such were brother and sister as they
cantered off along the sands on the morning when Amos
set off to call on and consult Dr Atkin about his
mother. It was a charming summer day. The
sea was sparkling in its numberless wavelets; a gentle
breeze blew with just so much pressure in the faces
of the riders as to add vigour to their spirits as
they plunged forward against it. Sea-birds wheeled
round and round before them, and everything spoke
of brightness and enjoyment. The five miles,
partly along the sands and partly along roads skirting
the edge of the cliffs, and affording a magnificent
extent of sea-view, were soon completed. Walter
was full of life and fun, only regretting that he
could not work up his sister into a mood as buoyant
as his own. However, he did his best, and satisfied
himself that it was only natural that the pressure
of old sorrows could not yet be wholly taken off from
Julia’s heart.
And now they were come to the outskirts
of the little town. It was the height of the
season, and gaiety and frolic seemed masters of the
place. Old and young were to be met with at every
turn, and, with the exception of the manifest invalids,
all looked radiant with smiles, as though determined and
who could blame them? to extract as much
pleasure out of their little period of holiday as the
place and its occupations could afford them.
It so happened that the watering-place was this day
flooded with one or two large arrivals of excursionists.
These had evidently come down with the intention of
making the very most of their time, and doing the
whole thing thoroughly. Walter and his sister
were highly entertained by watching some of these excursionists.
Here, for instance, was the family of a worthy mechanic
who were intent on getting the utmost possible out
of the occasion that time and means would allow.
Father, mother, children old and young, including
a baby, with the wife’s old father and mother,
made up the party. Hastening from the station
to the beach, the whole family sat down together on
the sands for some ten minutes or so, inhaling, with
widely opened mouths, copious draughts of sea-air.
Then the younger ones mounted donkeys, and the father
and mother each a pony, while the old folks looked
on. Having raced about hither and thither on
the jaded animals in abrupt jerks of speed prompted
by the resounding blows of the owners of the unfortunate
brutes, all betook themselves to a sailing-boat; and
landed again after half-an-hour’s sail, mostly
pale, and with dismay in their looks, which manifestly
proclaimed that “a life on the ocean wave”
was certainly not a life to their taste. Then
the old grandfather called to the driver of an open
carriage, and took an airing in it with his wife,
both sitting close behind the coachman with their backs
to the horses, and leaving the best seat vacant, utterly
unconscious that they were occupying the less desirable
position, and smiling all the while blandly on the
general public, pleased to have, for once in a way,
a little taste of the pleasures of a higher grade
of society than their own. The ride over, the
entire party, baby and all, dived into some obscure
region, where an unlimited amount of hot water and
stale shrimps could be had for a very trifling charge.
While Walter and his sister were amusing
themselves by watching the excursionists, they became
aware of being the object of notice to two young men
who were walking slowly along the esplanade near them.
But they were so absorbed with what for the time
had got their attention, that they failed to give
any special heed to these strangers. Having
put up their horses, they made for the sea, and mingled
with the numerous comers and goers, keeping a special
eye, from time to time, on the mechanic’s family
and their doings. They were gazing down from
the esplanade upon the busy crowds rushing backwards
and forwards on the sands below them, when the two
young men who had before noticed them passed slowly
by them, raising their hats. The two were Saunders
and Gregson. Now, it is true that Walter had,
as he called it, dissolved partnership with these
his old companions, and had not met them since the
day of the sad disaster in the park; but, nevertheless,
there still lingered in his heart a measure of liking
for them which he could not altogether get rid of,
and a certain amount of regret that all intercourse
with them had been broken off. So he looked round
hesitatingly as he marked their salutation, and they
noticed it. Again they neared one another, and
this time the young men smiled, and Walter returned
the smile. Then the two stopped, and Gregson
said, “Come, old fellow, shake hands; you’ve
treated us rather shabbily to cut us as you have done,
but we cannot bear the thought of our old friendship
being so easily broken up. We’ve had many
a jolly day together, and why should it not be so
again?” He held out his hand, and Walter could
not, or did not, resist the impulse to grasp it warmly.
Then Saunders must have a similar grip, and Walter
could not bring himself to refuse it. After
this Julia was introduced, and the four went about
amicably together, the two young men warming up, as
they saw Walter’s resolution melting away, and
rattling on with all sorts of light and frivolous talk,
which grated sadly on the ear and heart of Julia Vivian.
It was now one o’clock, when
Gregson exclaimed, “You must all come to the
Ship, and dine at my expense. Nay, my dear old
fellow” addressing Walter “I’ll
not hear of a refusal. You know how I let you
in for that second sovereign at the match, when Jim
Jarrocks won so cleverly. I didn’t mean
it, of course, but you must allow me the pleasure of
making some little amends by having you and your sister
as my guests to-day.” Julia tried, by a
gentle pressure of her brother’s arm, to dissuade
him from accepting the invitation, but without avail.
Walter felt that he was now “in for it,”
and must go through with it. So the four companions
walked to the Ship Hotel, and partook of an excellent
dinner ordered by Gregson, in a private room which
commanded a full view of the sea and the crowds of
pleasure-seekers who were swarming along the sands.
Both the young host and his friend Saunders drank
wine and beer freely. Walter, who had never
been given to excess, was more cautious; but partly
from the excitement of the occasion, and partly, it
may be, to drown some uncomfortable whisperings of
conscience, he took more of these stimulating drinks
than he would have thought of doing under ordinary
circumstances, and the result was that he was prepared,
when the meal was over, to take his part in any scheme
of fun or frolic that his new companions might propose.
Julia saw this with deep shame and regret, but she
also saw that now was not the time to remonstrate.
She did speak to her brother, as they were leaving
the hotel, about returning at once, as she did not
wish to be late; but Walter replied in an impatient
tone that there was plenty of time, and they might
as well have a little bit of fun first. So,
with trembling heart she took his arm as they emerged
on to the esplanade, resolved that, at any rate, come
what might, she would keep close to her brother, and
be as much a check upon him as possible.
The four now made their way to the
sands. As they did so, they observed a considerable
number of the visitors making their way in a body towards
a spot where a crowd had evidently assembled.
“What’s up now?” cried Gregson.
“Let us go and see.” They all joined
the stream of walkers, and at last reached a spot
where a large company of listeners were gathered round
a group of men, some of whom were distributing tracts
among the people, while one with a grave but pleasing
countenance, standing on a stout oak stool which was
firmly planted among the shingles, was giving out
a verse of a popular hymn preparatory to addressing
the spectators.
“Ain’t this capital?”
said Gregson to Walter and Saunders in a loud whisper.
“Won’t we just have a rare bit of fun!”
He then spoke in a low voice in Saunders’s
ear, and the young man stole round to the opposite
side of the crowd. When the hymn had been sung,
and the speaker was in the very act of commencing
his discourse, a loud mew from Gregson, who was affecting
to look very solemn, made the good man pause.
He made a second attempt; but now a noise as of two
cats fighting violently came from the opposite side
of the concourse. The poor preacher looked sadly
disconcerted; but when the pretended mewing and wrangling
were continued, the sense of the ludicrous seemed to
prevail in the crowd over everything else, and there
was one general outburst of laughter, in which no
one joined more heartily than Walter. The crowd
began to surge backwards and forwards, and many to
move off. But the preacher still maintained
his stand. “Come here! come here!”
cried Gregson in an undertone to Walter. Julia
felt her brother suddenly disengage his arm from hers,
and then he was lost in the crowd. A few minutes
later, and there was a movement among the audience if
it could now be called an audience in the
rear of the speaker; and during the confusion, Julia,
who was gazing intently on the spot where the preacher
stood, saw two faces crouching down for a moment.
One was Gregson’s, the other was Walter’s;
and then two hands clutched the legs of the stool,
and the preacher was pitched head-foremost into the
sand. A roar of mirth followed this performance,
but it soon gave place to cries of “Shame! shame!”
Then there was a lull, and then a profound silence,
as the good man who had been so cruelly used planted
his feet firmly among the shingles, and said in a
clear and unfaltering voice, “My friends, may
the Lord forgive these misguided young men for their
uncalled-for and unprovoked interference and ridicule!
But their malice shall not stop the good work.
Here I stand to preach God’s truth; and here
I mean to stand, if the Lord will, every day during
the season, opposition or no opposition, persecution
or no persecution. Let us sing another verse
of a hymn.” Amidst the profoundest stillness,
and evidently with the hearty sympathy of the bulk
of his hearers, the good evangelist proceeded with
his holy work.
“Come along! come along!”
whispered Gregson, creeping round to Walter, who had
now regained his sister, and was feeling heartily ashamed
of himself. They all hastened back to the hotel.
Walter was now thoroughly subdued, and with a very
cold leave-taking of his former friends, he and his
sister sought their horses, and made the best of their
way to the cottage, exchanging but few words as they
rode along. Such was the shameful and sorrowful
ending of what had promised to be a very happy day.
And now, when Mrs Huntingdon had been
a few days established in the cottage, by her own
earnest request, and with the hearty concurrence of
her children, their aunt came over to spend a little
time with them. This she could the more easily
do as her brother was fully occupied with his endeavours
to secure the return of the candidate whose politics
he agreed with. Surely there can be few, who
have a large circle of relations of different degrees
of nearness, who have not among these some pre-eminently
special ones who draw to themselves a more than ordinary
share of affection from all their kindred a
special sister, or brother, or cousin, who does not
however, make others less loved, while being the privileged
object of a peculiarly tender regard. Such a
special aunt was Miss Huntingdon to all her nephews
and nieces. A visit from her was everywhere
hailed with rejoicing. And so now every heart
was glad when she joined the little party at the sea-side
cottage. To Mrs Huntingdon the coming of her
sister-in-law was eminently beneficial; for her tender
love, her wise and judicious counsels, her earnest
prayers, all helped to establish the restored mother
in a healthful and happy tone of mind, and were the
means of guiding her to that perfect peace which dwells
nowhere but in the hearts of those who have sought
and found in their Saviour the friend who loves above
all others.
When Miss Huntingdon had been at the
cottage two or three days, and was walking with Amos
and Walter by the ebbing waves, Julia having remained
behind with her mother, Walter suddenly stopped, and
said, “Auntie, I have something very sad to
tell you, and I want your advice.”
Both his aunt and Amos looked at him
with surprise and anxiety, and then the former said,
“Well, dear boy, I am sorry that there should
be anything troubling you; but if I can be of any
use or comfort to you in the matter. I shall
be only too glad.”
“Sit down here then, Aunt Kate,
if you please, on this bank; and if you are not both
of you heartily ashamed of me and disgusted with me
when I have told you all, well, you ought to be.”
When all three were seated, Walter
fully related his adventure at the watering-place,
concluding with the attack upon the preacher, laying
a full share of blame on himself, and ending with
the words, “Now, dear auntie, what do you say
to that?”
Both his hearers looked very grave,
and were silent for some time. At last Miss
Huntingdon, laying her hand lovingly on Walter’s
shoulder, said, “Dear boy, it is certainly a
sad story, but you were led into what you did from
want of watchfulness; and as you are now aware of your
fault, and are sorry for it, I should not, if I were
you; needlessly distress myself, but just make, if
you can, some amends.”
“Ah! that’s the point,”
cried Walter; “you mean, of course, make some
amends to the good preacher. Yes, that can be
done, for he said he should be at his post at the
same hour every day during the season. But it
will require some moral courage to do it, and no little
of that valuable article too. Now I am sure,
dear auntie, you have in that cabinet of your memory
one drawer at least full of examples of moral courage,
and you can pick me out one to suit this case.”
“Yes, dear boy,” said
his aunt, smiling, “I daresay I can; for ever
since you first asked me to help you in the matter
of moral courage by examples drawn from real life,
I have been noticing and storing up in one of these
drawers you speak of whatever instances of moral courage
have come before me in my reading.”
“What, then, is it to be to-day,
dear Aunt Kate? Can you find me one that will
show me how I ought to act in this sad business?”
After reflecting for a few minutes,
Miss Huntingdon began: “I have rather a
strange moral hero to mention now, and yet he is a
most real one. His name is James Comley.
He was for years a confirmed infidel a
most intelligent man, but in utter spiritual darkness.
He lived at Norwich, and carried on the business
of a tea-dealer. He had indoctrinated his wife
and children with his own infidel views, and had never
lost an occasion of publicly assailing the truths of
religion. But at last he was brought to see the
misery of his condition. He prayed earnestly
for light, and God gave it him at last, and he became
a truly changed man. And now, mark his conduct
after this change had taken place. He at once
tore down some lying placards which covered the shutters
of his shop and the whole front of his house placards
which stated that his tea business was `The Eastern
Branch of the Great European Tea Company,’ which
company, in fact, had no existence. He disposed
of about seventy empty tea-chests, which had been so
arranged in his shop as to suggest the idea of an
immense stock. A huge bale of unused placards
he carried into the Norwich market-place, where he
addressed the crowd that awaited his arrival, and then
carried this bundle of lies to Mousehold Heath, where,
after the singing of a hymn, praying, and addressing
the crowd which had accompanied him, he committed
it to the flames. He after this began publicly
to preach that gospel which for nine years in Norwich
he had done his best to destroy. Here was true
moral courage indeed; and perhaps his example may be
a help to you, dear Walter, in showing you what you
ought to do.”
Her nephew had listened with the deepest
interest, and now remained buried in thought.
At length he said: “True, dear auntie;
I see it all; my duty is plain enough. James
Comley had publicly insulted God and religion, and
he made amends as far as he could do so. At any
rate he showed his sincerity by coming out boldly
as an honest man, and as one who was sorry for the
past, by his publicly burning those placards and then
preaching the truth which he used to deny and revile.
And I ought to do the same. I mean that, as
I did a public wrong in open daylight, and before
many people, to that good man at Stringby, so my duty
is to go over to Stringby and just as publicly to
confess to him, and to the people who may be there,
and in open daylight, my sorrow for what I did.
That’s just it, auntie, is it not?”
“It will certainly be making
the best use of my example, dear boy,” she replied,
“and will be showing true moral courage; but
no doubt it will involve much self-denial, and require
much strength from the only true fountain of strength.”
“It shall be done, and to-morrow,” said
Walter firmly.
“Would it be any comfort or
help to you if I were to go with you?” asked
Amos.
“The greatest comfort in the
world,” cried his brother joyfully; “yes,
and let Julia come too. She was grieved to see
me led away as I was, and it will therefore be a happiness
to me if she will come with us and hear my confession.”
And so it was arranged.