Read Ebook: Amos Huntingdon by Wilson Theodore P

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Ebook has 1110 lines and 101612 words, and 23 pages

Provisions ran short, and every day's course made return home more hopeless. But still his mind never changed; still he plunged on across that trackless waste of waters. The men mutinied--and one can hardly blame them; but he subdued them by his force of character,--they saw in his eye that which told them that their leader was no common man, but one who would die rather than abandon his marvellous enterprise. And you remember the end? The very day after the mutiny, a branch of thorn with berries on it floats by them. They are all excitement. Then a small board appears; then a rudely-carved stick; then at night Columbus sees a light, and next day lands on the shores of his new world, after a voyage of more than two months over seas hitherto unexplored by man, and in vessels which nothing but a special providence could have kept from foundering in the mighty waters. The man who could carry out such a purpose in the teeth of such overwhelming opposition, discouragement, and difficulty, may well claim our admiration for courage of the highest and noblest order."

No one spoke for a moment, and then Mr Huntingdon said, "Well, Kate, Columbus was a brave man, no doubt, and deserves the best you can say of him; and I think I see what you mean, from his case, about the greatness and superiority of moral courage."

"I am glad, Walter, that I have satisfied you on that point," was her reply. "You see there was no sudden excitement to call out or sustain his courage. It was the bravery of principle, not of mere impulse. It was so grand because it stood the strain, a daily-increasing strain, of troubles, trials, and hindrances, which kept multiplying in front of him every day and hour as he pressed forward; and it never for a moment gave way under that strain."

"It was grand indeed, aunt," said Walter. "I am afraid my courage would have oozed out of every part of me before I had been a week on board one of those caravels. So all honour to Christopher Columbus and moral courage."

That same morning, when Miss Huntingdon was at work in her own private sitting-room, there came a knock at the door, followed by the head of Walter peeping round it.

"May I come in, auntie? I've a favour to ask of you."

"Come in, dear boy."

"Well, Aunt Kate, I've been thinking over what you said at breakfast about moral courage, and I begin to see that I am uncommonly short of it, and that Amos has got my share of it as well as his own."

"But that need not be, Walter," said his aunt; "at least it need not continue to be so."

"I don't know, auntie; perhaps not. But, at any rate, what father calls old-fashioned courage is more in my line; and yet I don't want to be quite without moral courage as well,--so will you promise me just two things?"

"What are they, Walter?"

"Why, the first is to give me a bit of a hint whenever you see me--what I suppose I ought to call acting like a moral coward."

"Well, dear boy, I can do that. But how am I to give the hint if others are by? for you would not like me to speak out before your father or the servants."

"I'll tell you, auntie, what you shall do--that is to say, of course, if you don't mind. Whenever you see me showing moral cowardice, or want of moral courage, and I suppose that comes much to the same thing, and you would like to give me a hint without speaking, would you put one of your hands quietly on the table, and then the other across it--just so--and leave them crossed till I notice them?"

"Never mind that, auntie; it will do me good."

"Well, dear boy, and what is the other thing I am to promise?"

"Why, this,--I want you, the first opportunity after the hint, when you and I are alone together, to tell me some story--it must be a true one, mind--of some good man or woman, or boy or girl, who has shown moral courage just where I didn't show it. `Example is better than precept,' they say, and I am sure it is a great help to me; for I shan't forget Christopher Columbus and his steady moral courage in a hurry."

"I am very glad to hear what you say, Walter," replied his aunt; "and it will give me great pleasure to do what you wish. My dear, dear nephew, I do earnestly desire to see you grow up into a truly noble man, and I want to be, as far as God permits me, in the place of a mother to you."

As Miss Huntingdon uttered these words with deep emotion, Walter flung his arms passionately round her, and, sinking on his knees, buried his face in her lap, while tears and sobs, such as he was little accustomed to give vent to, burst from him.

"Well, my dear boy, I hope you will be able to please me too, and, better still, to please God." She spoke gently and almost sadly as she said these words, kissing at the same time Walter's fair brow.

"I'm afraid, auntie," was the boy's reply, "I don't think much about that. But Amos does, I know; and though I laugh at him sometimes, yet I respect him for all that, and I believe he will turn out the true hero after all."

THE CRIPPLED HORSE.

Nature and circumstances had produced widely differing characters in the two brothers. Walter, forward enough by natural temperament, and ready to assert himself on all occasions, was brought more forward still and encouraged in self-esteem and self-indulgence, by the injudicious fondness of both his parents. Handsome in person, with a merry smile and a ripple of joyousness rarely absent from his bright face, he was the favourite of all guests at his father's house, and a sharer in their field-sports and pastimes. That his father and mother loved him better than they loved Amos it was impossible for him not to see; and, as he grew to mature boyhood, a feeling of envy, when he heard both parents regret that himself was not their heir, drew his heart further and further from his elder brother, and led him to exhibit what he considered his superiority to him as ostentatiously as possible, that all men might see what a mistake Nature had made in the order of time in which she had introduced the two sons into the family. Not that Walter really hated his brother; he would have been shocked to admit to himself the faintest shadow of such a feeling, for he was naturally generous and of warm affections; but he clearly looked upon his elder brother as decidedly in his way and in the wrong place, and often made a butt of him, considering it quite fair to play off his sarcasms and jokes on one who had stolen a march upon him by coming into the world before him as heir of the family estate. And now that their mother--who had made no secret of her preference of Walter to her elder son--was removed from them, the cords of Mr Huntingdon's affections were wound tighter than ever round his younger son, in whom he could scarce see a fault, however glaringly visible it might be to others; while poor Amos's shortcomings received the severest censure, and his weaknesses were visited on him as sins. No wonder, then, that, spite of the difference in their ages and order of birth, Walter Huntingdon looked upon himself as a colossal figure in the household, and on his poor brother as a cipher.

On the other hand, Amos, if he had been of a similar temperament to his brother, would have been inevitably more or less cowed and driven into himself by the circumstances which surrounded him, and the treatment which he undeservedly received at the hands of his parents and younger brother. Being, however, naturally of a shy and nervous disposition, he would have been completely crushed under the burden of heartless neglect, and his heart frozen up by the withholding of a father's and mother's love, had it not been for the gentle and deep affection of his aunt, Miss Huntingdon, who was privileged to lead that poor, desolate, craving heart to Him whose special office it is to pour a heavenly balm into the wounded spirit. In herself, too, he found a source of comfort from her pitying love, which in a measure took the place of that which his nearest ought to have given him, but did not. And so, as boy and young man, Amos Huntingdon learned, under the severe discipline of his earthly home, lessons which were moulding his character to a nobility which few suspected, who, gazing on that timid, shrinking youth, went on their way with a glance or shrug of pity. But so it was.

Amos had formed a mighty purpose; it was to be the one object of his earthly life, to which everything was to bend till he had accomplished it. But who would have thought of such an iron resolution of will in a breast like that poor boy's? For to him an ordinary conversation was a trial, and to speak in company an effort, though it was but to answer a simple question. If a stranger asked his opinion, a nervous blush covered his face as he forced out a reply. The solitude which others found irksome had special charms for him. With one person only in his own home did he feel really at ease,--that person was his aunt, for he believed that she in a measure really understood and sympathised with him. And yet that shy, nervous, retiring young man, down-trodden and repulsed as he was, was possessed by one grand and all-absorbing purpose: it was this, to bring back his sister to her father's home forgiven, and his mother to that same home with the cloud removed from her mind and spirit.

This purpose had hovered before his thoughts in dim outline while he was yet a boy, and had at length assumed its full and clear proportions while he was at Oxford. There it was that he became acquainted with a Christian young man who, pitying his loneliness and appreciating his character, had sought and by degrees obtained his friendship, and, in a measure, his confidence, as far as he was able to give it. To his surprise Amos discovered that his new friend's father was the physician under whose charge and in whose house his own mother, Mrs Huntingdon, had been placed. Mr Huntingdon had kept the matter a profound secret from his own children, and no member of his household ever ventured to allude to the poor lady or to her place of retirement, and it was only by an inadvertence on his young friend's part that Amos became aware of his mother's present abode. But this knowledge, after the first excitement of surprise had passed away, only strengthened the purpose which had gradually taken its settled hold upon his heart. It was to him a new and important link in the chain of events which would lead, he knew, finally to the accomplishment of his one great resolve. And so he determined to communicate with his friend's father, the physician, and ascertain from him in confidence his opinion of his mother's mental condition, and whether there was any possibility of her restoration to sanity. The reply to his inquiries was that his mother's case was far from hopeless; and with this he was satisfied. Then he took the letter which conveyed the opinion of the physician to him, and, spreading it out before God in his chamber, solemnly and earnestly dedicated himself to the work of restoration, asking guidance and strength from on high.

From that day forward he was gradually maturing his plans, being ever on the watch to catch any ray of light which might show him where to place a footstep on the road which led up to the end he had in view. Earthly counsellors he had none; he dared not have any--at least not at present. Even Miss Huntingdon knew nothing of his purpose from himself, though she had some suspicions of his having devoted himself to some special work, gathered from her own study of his character and conduct; but these suspicions she kept entirely to herself, prepared to advise or assist should Amos give her his confidence in the matter, and seek her counsel or help. Such was the position of things when our story opens. Amos was waiting, hoping, watching; but no onward step had been taken since he had received the physician's letter.

A fortnight passed away after the accident, when Miss Huntingdon, who had now completely recovered from her fright and bruises, was coming out of a labouring man's cottage on a fine and cheery afternoon. As she stood on the doorstep exchanging a few parting words with the cottager's wife, she was startled by the sound of furious galloping not far off, and shrank back into the cottage, naturally dreading the sight of an excited horse so soon after her perilous upset in her brother's carriage. Nearer and nearer came the violent clatter, and, as she involuntarily turned her eyes towards the road with a nervous terror, she was both alarmed and surprised to see her nephew Walter and another young man dashing past on horseback at whirlwind speed, the animals on which they rode being covered with foam.

In a few moments all was still again, and Miss Huntingdon continued her rounds, but, as she turned the corner of a lane which led up to the back of the Manor-house, she was startled at seeing her nephew Walter in front of her on foot, covered with mud, and leading his horse, which was limping along with difficulty, being evidently in pain. His companion was walking by his side, also leading his horse, and both were so absorbed with their present trouble that they were quite unconscious of her approach. Something plainly was much amiss. Walter had had a fall, and his horse was injured; of this there could be no doubt. Could she be of any service? She was just going to press forward, when she observed Mr Huntingdon's groom coming from the direction of the house, and, as her nephew did not walk as if he had received any serious injury, she thought it better to leave him to put matters straight for himself, knowing that young men are very sensitive about being interfered with or helped when their pride has been wounded by any humiliating catastrophe. So she turned aside into a small copse through which was a short cut to the house, intending to go forward and be prepared to render any assistance should Walter desire it.

None of the party had seen her, but she passed near enough to them on the other side of a tall hedge to overhear the words, "Won't the governor just be mad!" and then, "Here's a sovereign, Dick, and I'll make it all straight for you with my father." What could have happened? She was not long left in suspense; for her brother's voice in high anger soon resounded through the house, and she learned from her maid, who rushed into her room full of excitement, that Forester, Mr Huntingdon's favourite hunter, had been lamed, and otherwise seriously injured, and that Dick the groom, who had been the author of the mischief, had been dismissed at a moment's notice.

Poor Miss Huntingdon's heart misgave her that all had not been quite straightforward in the matter, and that the blame had been laid on the wrong person. So she went down to dinner, at the summoning of the gong, with a heavy heart. As she entered the drawing-room she saw her brother, who usually advanced to give her his arm with all due courtesy, sitting still in his easy-chair, hiding his face with the newspaper, which a glance showed her to be turned the wrong way up. Amos also and Walter were seated as far apart from their father and from each other as was possible, and for a few moments not a word was spoken. Then, suddenly remembering himself, the squire dismissed the paper from his hand with an irritable jerk, and, with the words, "I suppose that means dinner," gave his arm to his sister, and conducted her in silence to the dining-room.

Nothing in the shape of conversation followed for a while, Mr Huntingdon having shut up his sister by a very curt reply to a question which she put on some commonplace subject, just for the sake of breaking through the oppressive stillness. At length, when the meal was half-way through, Mr Huntingdon exclaimed abruptly,--

"I can't understand for the life of me how that fool of a Dick ever managed to get poor Forester into such a scrape. I always thought the boy understood horses better than that."

"I hope, Walter," ventured his sister in a soothing tone, "that the poor animal is not seriously, or at any rate permanently, damaged."

"Yes, father."

"What horse did you ride?"

"My own pony, Prince."

"Did you meet Dick exercising the horses?"

"No; I didn't see anything of him."

"That is strange. Where were you riding to?"

"I was off on a little business beyond the moor."

"Beyond the moor! what can you have been wanting beyond the moor?"

Amos turned red and did not reply.

"I don't know what has come to the boy," said the squire surlily. But now Walter, who had not uttered a word hitherto, broke in suddenly, "Father, you mustn't be hard upon Dick. It's a misfortune, after all. There isn't a better rider anywhere; only accidents will happen sometimes, as you know they did the other night. Forester bolted when the little girl's red cloak blew off and flapped right on to his eyes. Dick was not expecting it, and tried to keep the horses in; but Forester sprang right through a hedge and staked himself before Dick could pull him in. It's a mercy, I think, that Dick hadn't his neck broke."

He said these last words slowly and reluctantly, for his eye had rested on his aunt's hands, which were being laid quietly one across the other on the table in front of her.

"Red cloak!" exclaimed the squire; "why, Dick told me it was a boy's hat that blew off and flapped against Forester's eyes."

"Ah! well, father, it may have been a hat. I thought he said a cloak; but it comes pretty much to the same thing."

There was an unsteadiness about the boy's voice as he said these last words which every one noticed except his father. The subject, however, was now dropped, and was not again alluded to during the evening.

Next morning after breakfast Walter knocked at his aunt's door. When he had entered and taken the offered chair by her side, he sat for a minute or so with eyes cast down, and silent.

"Well, Walter," she said after a while.

"What is it, dear Walter?"

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