All was now peace in the little cottage.
Mrs Huntingdon’s once clouded mind was daily
gaining in clearness and strength, not only from the
loving and judicious attentions of her children, but
still more from the inward peace which had now made
its dwelling in her heart. Ah! surely in nothing
is that declaration of holy Scripture, that godliness
has the promise of the life that now is, as well as
of that which is to come, more evidenced than in the
healthful tone which God’s peace in the soul
imparts to a mind once disordered and diseased.
Few, comparatively, are aware in how many cases that
which the world so specially prizes, “a sound
mind in a sound body,” is enjoyed by its possessor
because that mind belongs to one whom God is keeping
by his indwelling Spirit in perfect peace. It
was so with Mrs Huntingdon. She had found the
only true rest, and so was daily making progress in
strength both of body and mind. And her thorough
establishment in this improvement in physical and
mental health was helped forward by the presence of
her grandchildren, whom Miss Huntingdon had brought
with her to the cottage. Their coming carried
her back in thought to the days when her own children
were as young, and bridged over the gulf of sorrow
which had come in between; so that the painful impressions
made when memory recalled that sorrow grew fainter
and fainter in the happy light that shone on the path
of present duties, just as the waking terrors from
some frightful and vivid dream fade away more and more,
till they vanish and are forgotten in the full, broad,
morning sunshine and the realities of work-day life.
Nor were her grandchildren a source of comfort and
improvement to her alone. Their own mother had
now learned to look upon them in a very different
light no longer as clogs impeding her steps
as she pressed on in pursuit of pleasure and excitement,
but as precious charges intrusted to her by the great
Master, to be brought up for him, and in training
of whom to walk on the narrow way by her side she would
herself find the purest and highest happiness to be
enjoyed on earth. So all things were now going
on brightly at the cottage. Peace, harmony,
and love had their abode there; and never did a happier
party go down to meet the incoming tide, and listen
to its gentle music, than might be seen when Mrs Huntingdon,
her children, grandchildren, and sister-in-law issued
forth for a morning stroll along the beach, to gather
shells, or drink in the bracing air, as they watched
some passing ship, or the sea-birds as they dashed
across the spray.
But now thoughts of home, and of the
restoration to that home of their dear mother, were
busy in the hearts of Amos and his brother and sister.
Mrs Huntingdon herself ventured only a hint or two
on the subject, for she felt that in this matter she
must leave herself in the hands of her children.
When they saw that the fitting time was come,
doubtless the return would be brought about.
On the other hand, Amos was most anxious to spare
his father any pain which he might suffer from anything
like an abrupt disclosure of the intended return home
of his wife. The matter would require gentle
and delicate handling, lest the happiness of that
return should in any degree be marred to Mr Huntingdon
by his feeling that his advice should have been asked
and his wishes consulted before even so happy a consummation
should be brought about. So, after the subject
had been talked over with Miss Huntingdon, it was unanimously
resolved that she should be the person to break the
happy tidings of his wife’s restoration to health
to her brother, and should advise with him as to the
most suitable day for her going back again to the old
home. To this arrangement she cheerfully consented,
and in a few days returned alone to Flixworth Manor,
to the great satisfaction of Mr Huntingdon, who was
getting heartily tired of his solitary life.
And now she had to make her important
disclosure, and how should she best do this?
Unknown to her, the way had already been partially
opened; for one evening, when the squire was taking
his dinner all alone, and Harry was waiting on him,
he said to the old man, “Rather dull work, Harry,
without the young mistress and the children.”
“Ay, sir, to be sure,”
was the butler’s reply; “the house ain’t
like the same. It has got quite like old times
again.”
“Yes,” said his master,
sadly and thoughtfully; “something like old
times. Well, we shall have Mrs Vivian back again
shortly.”
“And the old missus too, maybe,
afore so very long,” said the other quickly.
“What do you mean?”
asked his master in a disturbed voice.
“Oh, beg pardon, sir,”
cried Harry; “I hardly knew what I was saying it
came natural like; but stranger things has happened
afore now. You must excuse me, master; I meant
no harm.”
The dinner over, the squire leaned
back in his armchair, and began to turn over many
thoughts in his mind. Harry’s words kept
recurring to him, “And the old missus too.”
Well, why not? Hitherto he had never thought
the matter over at all. He knew that his wife
had continued much the same, neither better nor worse.
He knew also that to have brought her back while
her daughter was shut out of the house would have
only been the means of aggravating her complaint; and
it had not yet seriously occurred to him that Julia’s
return might remove a difficulty and be a step towards
restoring her mother to her old place in her home.
But Harry’s words now disturbed him and made
him restless, “And the old missus
too.” Could it indeed be brought to pass?
Might not the sight of her daughter in the old home,
occupying the place she used to hold, and of the other
children living with her in harmony and love, act
so beneficially on her as to restore her, with judicious
and tender treatment, to reason, happy intelligence,
and home once more? As he admitted these thoughts
into his heart, his bosom heaved, the tears fell fast
from his eyes, he pressed his hand on his forehead,
and, looking up, murmured a prayer for guidance.
Harassed and worn by electioneering business, and
sickened with the din and unnatural excitement connected
with it, how he yearned for the quiet peace and affectionate
realities of his home society; and with that yearning
came now a special longing to see once more, in her
accustomed chair, her who had dwelt so long in banishment
from him. And yet he scarcely knew how to take
the first step in the bringing about of that which
he so earnestly desired. “I must leave
it till Kate comes home,” he said to himself
with a sigh; “she will be sure to suggest the
right thing, and to go the right way to work in the
matter.” How great, then, were the relief
and happiness of Miss Huntingdon when, on the evening
of the day of her return home, her brother himself
introduced the subject by saying, “Dear Kate,
I have been thinking a good deal of late whether it
would not be possible to get my dear Mary back to
her old home again. You know one great hindrance
has now been removed. She will find our dear
Julia once more ready to welcome her, and that, I
daresay, if the meeting were well managed, might go
a great way towards her cure.”
With what joy, then, did Miss Huntingdon
gradually unfold to her brother the fact that the
cure had already been accomplished, and that nothing
now remained but for him to fix the day for receiving
back to his heart and home her who had been so long
separated from him. Most gladly did he acquiesce
in the plans proposed by his sister as to the day and
manner of his wife’s return, promising that he
would duly restrain himself at the first meeting,
and that he would endeavour to erase, by his future
consideration and attention to her every wish, any
painful scar that might remain from harshness or unkindness
in times past. Miss Huntingdon was most deeply
thankful that her path had been thus smoothed by the
wise and tender hand that guides all the footsteps
of the trusting people of God; and she felt sure that
a bright eventide was in store for those so truly
dear to her. With her brother’s consent
she wrote to the cottage, fixing an early day for
the return home, thinking it wiser to remain at Flixworth
Manor herself, that her presence, when the earnestly
desired meeting should take place, might be a comfort
to all parties, and might help to dispel any little
cloud which memories of the past might cause to hover
even over an hour so full of gladness. The day
came at last. All outside the Manor-house was
as bright as well-kept walks, closely-mown turf, and
flower-beds gay with the rich and tastefully blended
tints of multitudes of bright and fragrant flowers,
could make it. Harry had taken the fine old entrance
hall under his own special care. How the bedrooms
or sitting-rooms might look was not his concern, but
that the hall should look its venerable best, and
that the plate should be bright, that was his business;
it was for him to see to it, and see to it he did.
Never were plate-powder and wash-leather put into
more vigorous exercise, and never was old oak staircase
and panelling bees’-waxed and rubbed with more
untiring energy; so that, as the western sun poured
his rays in through windows and fanlight, a cheery
brightness flashed from a hundred mirror-like surfaces,
including some ancestral helmets and other pieces of
armour, which glowed with a lustre unknown by them
in the days when they were worn by their owners.
“That’ll do, and no mistake,” said
the old man half out loud, as, dressed in his best,
he walked from one corner of the hall to another,
standing a while at each to take in fully all the
beauties of the prospect. “Yes, that’ll
do; don’t you think so, Polly?” Now this
question was addressed, not to a fellow-servant, for
all were at the time busily engaged elsewhere, but
to a grey parrot, one of those sedate and solemn-looking
birds whose remarks are generally in singular contrast
to their outward gravity of demeanour. The parrot
made no reply, but looked a little bewildered.
“Ah, I see how it is,” said Harry; “you
are puzzled at so much brightness. Why, you can
see yourself reflected a dozen times. What a
satisfaction it will be to the dear old missus to
see a likeness of herself in every panel as she walks
upstairs.” Satisfied with this thought,
he looked round him once again with an air of considerable
contentment as well he might, for everything
spoke of comfort, refinement, and welcome, and of the
diligent hands and loving hearts which had provided
these. So, with one more glance round, he again
exclaimed, “Yes, it’ll do; and I think
the dear old missus ’ll think so too,”
at the same time bowing low to the parrot, whose only
reply, “Pretty Poll,” was appreciative
rather of her own attractions than of those of her
surroundings.
And now a sound of wheels was heard,
and all the inmates of the house crowded into the
hall. A minute more and the steps were reached,
and the hall-door was opened by a trembling but faithful
hand. The young people were the first to alight;
and then Mrs Huntingdon, handed out of the carriage
by Walter, and leaning on the arm of Amos, entered
once more the home she had left so sadly. Her
husband’s arms were at once round her, but he
restrained himself by a strong effort, and just drew
her gently very closely to him, whispering to her,
as audibly as tears would let him, “Welcome
home again, my dear, dear wife.” And she
returned the loving pressure, and spoke in subdued
voice her thankfulness to be at home with him once
more; and then they stood apart and gazed earnestly
at each other. Ay, there was change in each.
Time and care and sorrow had done their work and
ploughed their furrows; but there was a sweet peace
which neither had before seen in the other, and, to
Mr Huntingdon’s glad surprise and almost awe,
a heavenly beauty in his recovered wife’s face
which he knew not then how to account for, but he
was not long in learning its source.
And now, as husband and wife, once
more united, were about to move on, old Harry stepped
forward, and with the profoundest of bows, and a very
unsteady voice, wished his old mistress all health
and happiness for many long years among them.
Mrs Huntingdon could not trust herself to speak,
but she held out her hand to him, which he took as
gently in his own as if it had been some article of
ornamental glass of a peculiarly brittle nature, and
then saluted it with a fervent kiss; after which,
rather abashed at his own proceeding, he shrank back,
and allowed the happy travellers to make their way
upstairs. But he could not be satisfied with
having given so partial a vent to his feelings.
So, when the hall was again all his own, he began
to trip round it in a measured sort of dance, to the
intense amusement of Julia and Walter, who were looking
over the banisters from above on the performer, who
was not conscious at the moment of being so observed.
On the old man went, waxing more and more energetic,
till at last he swayed himself into the centre of
the hall, and gave expression to the vehemence of his
feelings in a complicated sort of movement which he
intended for a jump or spring, but which brought him
down on all fours, amidst a burst of irrepressible
laughter from the young people who were looking on.
A little disconcerted, Harry was just recovering
his feet, when the parrot, who had learned a few short
phrases in times past, principally from Walter, and
had now been eyeing Harry’s movements, with his
grey head on one side, and his thoughtful eye twinkling
restlessly, exclaimed, in an almost sepulchral voice,
“What’s up now?” The old man stared
comically at the unexpected speaker, and then said,
as he brushed the dust off his knees, “What’s
up now? why, you stupid old bird, there’s a
great deal that’s up now. I’m up
now, though I was down a minute ago. And Miss
Julia as was and Master Walter’s up now, for
they’re up on the landing a-laughing at me.
And the dear old missus is up now; she’s up
in her room with master, and we don’t want her
to be down in spirits no more. There, Polly,
I’ve answered your question, and answered it
well, I think.”
Never did a happier party gather round
the dinner-table at Flixworth Manor; never did the
old butler ply his office with a readier hand and a
brighter countenance. Dinner over, and all being
grouped together in the drawing-room, where many loving
words had passed, Walter turned to his father and
said, “I have two requests to make to you, dear
father.”
“Well, my boy, what are they?
they must be strange and unreasonable indeed if I
refuse to grant them on such a night as this.”
“I don’t think, father, that you will
call them so.”
“Well, what are they?”
“The first is, that Amos may
be our chaplain just for once at family prayers to-night.”
All looked surprised, but none more
so than Amos himself. Half rising from his seat,
he laid a remonstrating hand upon his brother’s
arm; but it was now too late. The colour flushed
over his face, and he looked uneasily at his father’s
countenance, which was much troubled; yet there was
no look of anger there, but rather a shade of deep
sadness had crept over it. The truth was, Mr
Huntingdon had always entertained a profound respect
for religion, and an equally profound contempt for
hypocrites; but nothing beyond this had till lately
been thought by him to be necessary for his taking
his place in society as a respectably religious man.
He wished all his dependants to be sober and honest,
and to go to church, read their Bibles, and say their
prayers; and what more could be required of him or
them? And, in order to set a good example in
his family and to his tenants, he always himself conducted
family prayers night and morning, reading a few verses
of Scripture, and a plain and suitable prayer.
Nevertheless, he had simply done this hitherto as
a duty, as a matter of form, and always rose from his
knees with a mingled feeling of satisfaction at having
performed a duty, and of relief that a somewhat irksome
task was over. But now a new view of religion,
its duties and privileges, had begun to dawn upon him;
but still he had scarce light enough yet to see his
way to taking a different stand. So, when Walter
preferred his request that Amos should be chaplain
for that evening, a painful sense of deficiency on
his own part clouded his spirit, while at the same
time he was truly anxious to do anything which would
be a step in the direction of real improvement and
spiritual blessing to his household. The cloud,
however, soon melted away, and holding out his hand
to Walter, and grasping his hand warmly, he said,
“With all my heart, my dear boy; nothing could
be better. Let Amos be chaplain to-night, and
not to-night only. I am getting old, and his
younger voice and more experience in such matters
will make it a good thing for us all if he will take
the family prayers whenever he is at home.”
As he concluded with faltering voice, Amos began
to remonstrate in words of earnest deprecation; but
his father stopped him, and, laying his hand on his
shoulder, kindly said, “Do it to please me,
and to please us all, dear boy.” Then,
turning to Walter, with every shade removed from his
countenance, he asked, “And what is your second
request?”
“That’s not a very hard
one to grant,” replied Walter, smiling, “though
perhaps you may repent of saying `Yes’ when you
suffer the consequences. My second request is,
that I may be allowed to make a short speech when
family prayers are over.”
“Granted at once, my son,”
was Mr Huntingdon’s reply; “I am sure you
will have an attentive audience.”
“Ah, it may be so, father; but
I’m not sure that every member of my attentive
audience will hear me willingly.”
And now, when the gong had sounded
and the whole family, including the servants, were
gathered for the evening devotion, Amos, calm and
collected, took his seat at the table, and when all
were assembled, opened the Bible, which Harry had,
by his master’s direction, put before him, at
the hundred and third Psalm. Deeply touching
were those fervent words read out with solemn earnestness
and pathos by the young man, in the presence of those
he loved so dearly, specially when he lingered on
the third and fourth verses, “Who forgiveth all
thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who
redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth
thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies.”
The psalm finished, all knelt, and then, in tones
low and trembling at first, but gaining in power and
firmness as he proceeded, Amos poured out his heart
in supplication and thanksgiving, thanksgiving
that all the members of that family were once again
united under that roof in health and peace; and supplication
that they might henceforth, if spared, go hand in hand
along the narrow way, as true followers of Him whose
service is perfect freedom.
Not a tearless eye was there in that
company as all rose from their knees, no one being
so deeply affected as Mr Huntingdon, who drew Amos
to him with a tenderness which more than repaid his
son for every sacrifice and suffering in the past.
“And now,” said his father, when the
servants had left the room, “we are all waiting
for your promised speech, Walter.” The
smile with which the young man rose to his feet passed
away as he saw all eyes earnestly fixed on him.
For a moment he hesitated, and then began: “Father
and mother dear, I have been learning for some time
past some very important lessons; and my two teachers
are here before you the one is my dear
aunt Kate, and the other is my dear brother Amos.
My aunt has taught me with her lips, and my brother
by his life. Nay, Amos, you must not interrupt
the speaking. At this moment I am in possession
of the house. My lessons have been on the
subject of moral courage. I used to think I was
very brave, and didn’t need any instruction
on such a subject. I looked down upon, and would
have despised, only I couldn’t, the noblest brother
that ever brother had. Ay, ay, it’s
no use shaking your head, Amos; I am speaking nothing
but the truth. Over and over again I have
shown myself a moral coward; over and over again Aunt
Kate has set before me, at my own request, examples
of moral heroism from history and real life, just to
suit my case and stir me up to better things; and
over and over again I have seen acted out by my brother
there the very lessons I have been so slow in learning.
Ah, it has been grand teaching! We have had
such a lot of moral heroes, Columbus, and
Washington, and Howard, and Luther, and Fletcher,
and a score more. But here is my moral hero,”
saying which he threw one arm round his weeping brother’s
neck, and put a hand over his mouth as he proceeded.
“Yes, you must hear me out now. Here is
the brother who, with a moral courage that never nagged,
that no unkindness, no misunderstanding could bend,
has been carrying out for years one great purpose,
which God has permitted him this day to bring to a
full accomplishment. That purpose we all see
fulfilled in our complete family gathering to-night.
Yes; Amos is my hero of heroes, and he shall
hear me say it. I ask his pardon now for all
my unworthy treatment of him. He is my
hero, for he has nobly conquered. He has conquered
us all, but none more completely than the brother who
looks upon it as one of his dearest privileges to
be permitted to love him and to try and copy his example.”
What could Amos do? what could he
say? Clinging to the impulsive brother who had
thus spoken out impetuously what all felt to be true,
and sobbing out his regrets that such words should
have been spoken of one who felt himself to be so
undeserving of them, he was utterly at a loss what
to reply, nor did any one for the moment venture to
add a word. But at last the silence was broken
by the clear and gentle voice of Miss Huntingdon.
“It may be, dearest ones, that a few words from
myself may not be out of place after dear Walter’s
speech. He has indeed spoken the truth.
Our noble Amos has certainly shown us, in the carrying
out of his great heart-purpose, true moral courage
in many of its most striking forms. But he has
not been alone in this. I have been a privileged
teacher by word of mouth, as Walter has said; and
right nobly has he learned and applied his lessons,
and been pressing forward in his brother’s steps.
And not only so, but dear Julia has been also learning
and practising these lessons. And now I think
I need occupy the teacher’s place no longer.
I would rather give up my place to the great Teacher
of all, to Him who both by word and example
shows us moral heroism in its perfection of sublimity.
I have not hitherto ventured specially to dwell on
him as being in this, as in every other excellence,
the one perfect pattern, because Walter wished to be
encouraged by examples in those who were imperfect
and shortcoming creatures like ourselves. But
I would now express the hope that we may all henceforth
find our happiness in taking Him for our teacher, guide,
and model who never shrank from duty, even when to
perform it wrung from him tears of agony and a bloody
sweat, and who held on his course through evil report
and good report, spite of blasphemy, persecution,
and a bitter and shameful death, till he had finished
the work which his Father had given him to do, and
had won for us the victory over sin and death, and
an imperishable crown of glory.”