Read Ebook: Amos Huntingdon by Wilson Theodore P

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Ebook has 1110 lines and 101612 words, and 23 pages

"What is it, dear Walter?"

"Only those two hands of yours, dear auntie."

"Was there not a cause, Walter?"

No reply.

"Shall I tell you one of the stories you asked me to tell about moral courage?"

"Do, auntie dear," he said in a low tearful voice.

"My hero this morning, Walter, is George Washington, the great American general and statesman, the man who had so much to do in the founding of that great republic which is called the United States. A braver man never lived; but he was a brave boy too, brave with moral courage. Not that he wanted natural courage in his early years, for at school none could beat him in leaping, wrestling, swimming, and other athletic exercises. When he was about six years old, his father gave him a new hatchet one day. George was highly pleased, and went about cutting and hacking everything in his way. Unfortunately, amongst other things he used the hatchet with all the force of his little arm on a young English cherry tree, which happened to be a great favourite with his father. Without thinking of the mischief he was doing, George greatly injured the valuable tree. When his father saw what was done he was very angry, and asked the servants who had dared to injure the tree. They said they knew nothing of it; when little George entering the room and hearing the inquiry, though he saw that his father was very angry, went straight up to him, his cheeks colouring crimson as he spoke, and cried, `I did it. I cannot tell a lie. I cut your cherry tree with my hatchet.' `My noble boy,' said his father, as he clasped him in his arms, `I would rather lose a hundred cherry-trees, were their blossoms of silver and their fruit of gold, than that a son of mine should dare to tell a lie.'--Dear Walter, that was true noble courage; and George Washington grew up with it. Those are beautiful lines of one of our old poets, George Herbert,--

"`Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie; The fault that needs it most grows two thereby.'"

She paused. Her nephew kept silent for a time, nervously twisting the fringe of her little work-table; and then he said very slowly and sadly,--

"So, auntie, you have found me out. Yes, I've been a beastly coward, and I'm heartily ashamed of myself."

"Well, dear boy," replied his aunt, "tell me all about it; happily, it is never too late to mend."

"Yes, dear Aunt Kate, I'll tell you all. Bob Saunders called yesterday just after luncheon, and asked me to go out for a ride with him, and if I could give him a mount, for his own horse was laid up with some outlandish complaint. I didn't like to say `No;' but my own pony, Punch, was gone to be shod, and Bob had no time to wait. Well, Dick was just coming out of the yard as I got into it; he was riding Forester and leading Bessie, to exercise them. `That'll do,' I said. `Here, Dick; I'll take Forester out and give him a trot, and Mr Saunders can ride Bessie.' `Please, Master Walter,' says Dick, `your father's very particular. I don't know what he'll say to me if I let you exercise Forester.' `Oh, nonsense!' I said. `I'll make that all straight.' Dick didn't like it; but I wouldn't be denied, so he let us mount, and begged me to be very careful. `Never fear,' I said; `we'll bring them both back as cool as cucumbers.' And I meant it, auntie. But somehow or other our spirits got the better of us; it was such a fine afternoon, and the horses seemed wild for a gallop; so at last Bob Saunders said, `What do you say, Walter, to a half-mile race just on to the top of the common? it'll do them no harm.' Well, I didn't say yes or no; but somehow or other, off we were in another minute, and, do what I would, I couldn't keep Forester back. Down the lane we went, and right over the common like lightning, and, when I was pulling hard to get Forester round, he went smack through a hedge, and left me on the wrong side of it. Bob laughed at first, but we soon saw that it was no laughing matter. He caught Forester directly, for the poor beast had hurt his foot, and limped along as he walked; and there was an ugly wound in his chest from a pointed stick in the hedge which had struck him. So we crawled home, all of us in a nice pickle, you may be sure. And then I began to think of what father would say, and I couldn't bear to think that he would have to blame me for it all; so I turned into a regular sneaking coward, and gave Dick a sovereign to tell a lie and take the blame on himself, promising him to make it all right with my father. There, auntie, that's just the whole of it; and I'm sure I never knew what a coward I was before. But only let me get well through this scrape, and my name's not Walter if I ever get into such another."

"And now, dear boy, what are you going to do about this matter?" asked his aunt after a pause.

"Do, auntie? I'm sure I don't know; I've done too much already. It's a bad business at the best, and I don't see that I can do anything about it without making it worse."

"Then, Walter, is the burden still to rest on the wrong shoulders? and is Dick to be punished for your fault?"

Miss Huntingdon said nothing in reply, but laid one of her hands across the other on her little work-table. Walter saw the action, but turned his head away and fidgeted in his chair. At last he said, "That's rather hard, auntie, to make me a moral coward again so soon."

"Is it hard, Walter?" she replied gently. "The next best thing to not doing wrong is to be sorry for it when you have done it."

"What! go and tell my father the whole truth? Do you think I ought?"

"I am sure you ought, dear boy."

Walter reflected for a while, then he said, in a sorrowful tone, "Ah, but there's a difference. George Washington didn't and wouldn't tell a lie, but I would, and did; so it's too late now for me to show moral courage."

"Not at all, Walter; on the contrary, it will take a good deal of moral courage to confess your fault now. Of course it would have been far nobler had you gone straight to your father and told him just how things were; and then, too, you would not have been Dick's tempter, leading him to sin. Still, there is a right and noble course open to you now, dear boy, which is to go and undo the mischief and the wrong as far as you can."

"Perhaps not, Walter; but you will have, at any rate, the satisfaction of doing what will have the approval of God, and of your own conscience, and of the aunt who wants you to do the thing that is right."

"It shall be done," said her nephew, pressing his lips together and knitting his brows by way of strengthening his resolution; and he left the room with a reluctant step.

He found his father, who had just come from the stables, in the dining- room. "Well, Walter, my boy," he said cheerily, "it isn't so bad with Forester after all. He has got an ugly cut; but he doesn't walk but very slightly lame. A week's rest will set him all right; but I shall send that Dick about his business to-morrow, or as soon as his quarter's up. I'd a better opinion of the boy."

"Dick's not to blame," said Walter slowly.

"Not to blame! How do you make out that? I'm sure, if he had had Forester well in hand, the accident couldn't have happened."

Walter then gave his father the true version of the mishap, and confessed his own wrong-doing in the matter. For a few moments Mr Huntingdon looked utterly taken aback; then he walked up and down the room, at first with wide and excited strides, and then more calmly. At last he stopped, and, putting his hand on his son's shoulder, said, "That's right, my boy. We won't say anything more about it this time; but you mustn't do it again." The truth was, the squire was not sorry to find that Dick, after all, was not the culprit; for he had a great liking for the lad, who suited him excellently as groom, and had received many kindnesses from him. No doubt he had told him an untruth on the present occasion; but then, as he had done this to screen his master's favourite son, Mr Huntingdon did not feel disposed to take him to task severely for the deceit; and, as Walter had now made the only amends in his power, his father was glad to withdraw Dick's dismissal, and to pass over the trouble without further comment.

IS HE RIDICULOUS?

Few people besides the actual sufferers can at all conceive or appreciate the intense misery which shy and retiring characters experience when themselves or their conduct are made the subjects of open ridicule, especially in company. Amos was peculiarly sensitive on this point; and Walter knew it, and too often ungenerously availed himself of this knowledge to wound his brother when he owed him a grudge, or was displeased or out of temper with him. He would watch his opportunity to drag Amos forward, as it were, when he could present him to his father and his friends in a ridiculous light; and then he would clap his hands, point to his brother's flushed face, and make some taunting or sarcastic remark about his "rosy cheeks." Poor Amos, on these occasions, tingling in every nerve, and ready almost to weep tears of vexation, would shrink into himself and retreat into another room at the earliest opportunity, followed not unfrequently by an outspoken reproach from his brother, that "he must be a regular muff if he couldn't bear a joke." Sometimes Walter's unfeeling sallies would receive a feeble rebuke from his father; but more often Mr Huntingdon would join in the laugh, and remark to his friends that Amos had no spirit in him, and that all the wit of the family was centred in Walter. Not so Miss Huntingdon. She fully understood the feelings of both her nephews; and, while she profoundly pitied Amos, she equally grieved at the cruel want of love and forbearance in her younger nephew towards his elder brother.

Some weeks had passed away since the disastrous ride, and Forester being none the worse for his mishap, Mr Huntingdon allowed Walter to exercise him occasionally, accompanied by Dick, who had been fully restored to favour. It was on a lovely summer afternoon that the two had trotted briskly along to a greater distance from home than they had at all contemplated reaching when they started. They had now arrived at a part of the country quite unknown to Walter, and were just opposite a neat little cottage with a porch in front of it covered with honeysuckle, when Walter checked his horse, and said, "Dick, it's full time we turned back, or my father will wonder what has become of us." So they turned homewards. They had not, however, ridden more than a quarter of a mile, when Walter found that he had dropped one of his gloves; so, telling Dick to walk his horse, and he would join him in a few minutes, he returned to the little cottage, and, having recovered his glove just opposite the gate, was in the act of remounting, when he suddenly exclaimed, "Holloa! what's that? Well, I never! It can't be, surely! Yes, it is, and no mistake!"

The sight which called forth these words of surprise from Walter was one that might naturally astonish him. At the moment when he was about to spring into his saddle, the cottage door had opened, and out ran a little boy and girl about four or five years of age, followed by Amos Huntingdon, who chased them round the little garden, crying out, "I'll catch you, George; I'll catch you, Polly;" laughing loud as he said so, while the children rushed forward shouting at the fun. They had gone thus twice round the paths, when Amos became suddenly aware that he was being observed by some one on horseback. In an instant he made a rush for the house, and, as he was vanishing through the porch, a woman's head and a portion of her dress became visible in the entrance.

Walter paused in utter bewilderment; but the next minute Amos was at his side, and said, in a hoarse, troubled voice, "Not a word of this, Walter, not a word of this to any one at home." Walter's only reply to this at first was a hearty peal of laughter; then he cried out, "All right, Amos;" and, taking off his hat with affected ceremony, he added, "My best respects to Mrs Amos, and love to the dear children. Good- bye." Saying which, without stopping to hear another word from his brother, whose appealing look might well have touched his heart, he urged his horse to a canter, and was gone.

Amos did not appear among the family that evening. He had returned home just before dinner-time, and sent a message into the drawing-room asking to be excused as he did not feel very well. Miss Huntingdon went up to his room to see what was amiss, and returned with the report that there was nothing seriously wrong; that her nephew had a bad sick headache, and that bed was the best thing at present for him. Mr Huntingdon asked no further questions, for Amos was not unfrequently kept by similar attacks from joining the family circle. His father sometimes thought and called him fanciful, but for the most part left him to do as he liked, without question or remark. And so it was that Amos had grown up to manhood without settling down to any profession, and was left pretty much to follow the bent of his own inclinations. His father knew that there was no need to be anxious about him on the score of worldly provision. He had seen well to his education, having sent him to a good school, and in due time to the university, and, till he came of age, had made him a sufficient allowance, which was now no longer needed, since he had come into a small fortune at his majority, left him by his mother's father; and, as he was heir to the entailed property, there was no need for concern as to his future prospects, so no effort was made by Mr Huntingdon to draw him out of his natural timidity and reserve, and induce him to enter on any regular professional employment. Perhaps he would take to travelling abroad some day, and that would enlarge his mind and rouse him a bit. At present he really would make nothing of law, physic, or divinity. He was sufficiently provided for, and would turn out some day a useful and worthy man, no doubt; but he was never meant to shine; he must leave that to Walter, who had got it naturally in him. So thought and so sometimes said the squire; and poor Amos pretty much agreed with this view of his father's; and Walter did so, of course. The Manor-house therefore continued Amos's home till he should choose to make another for himself.

One thing, however, Walter was resolved upon, he would have a bit of fun out of his discovery. So next day at luncheon, when they were seated at table, unattended by a servant, Amos being among them, but unusually nervous and ill at ease, Walter abruptly inquired of his brother across the table if he could lend him a copy of the "Nursery Rhymes." No reply being given, Walter continued, "Oh, do give us a song, Amos,--`Ride a Cock Horse,' or `Baby Bunting,' or `Hi, Diddle, Diddle.' I'm sure you must have been practising these lately to sing to those dear children."

As he said this, Amos turned his eyes on him with a gaze so imploring that Walter was for a moment silenced. Miss Huntingdon also noticed that look, and, though she could not tell the cause of it, she was deeply pained that her nephew should have called it forth from his brother. Walter, however, was not to be kept from his joke, though he had noticed that his aunt looked gravely and sorrowfully at him, and had crossed one hand upon the other. "Ah, well," he went on, "love in a cottage is a very romantic thing, no doubt; and I hope these darling little ones, Amos, enjoy the best of health."

"Whatever does the boy mean?" exclaimed the squire, whose attention was now fairly roused.

Amos looked at first, when his father put the question, as though he would have sunk into the earth. His colour came and went, and he half rose up, as though he would have left the table; but, after a moment's pause, he resumed his seat, and, turning quietly to Mr Huntingdon, said in a low, clear voice, "Walter saw me yesterday afternoon playing with some little children in a cottage-garden some miles from this house. This is all about it."

"And what brought you there, Amos?" asked Walter. "Little baby games aren't much in your line."

"I had my reasons for what I was doing," replied the other calmly. "I am not ashamed of it; I have done nothing to be ashamed of in the matter. I can give no other explanation at present. But I must regret that I have not more of the love and confidence of my only brother."

"Oh, nonsense! You make too much of Walter's foolish fun; it means no harm," said the squire pettishly.

"Perhaps not, dear father," replied Amos gently; "but some funny words have a very sharp edge to them."

No sooner had Miss Huntingdon retired to her room after luncheon than she was joined by Walter. He pretended not to look at her, but, laying hold of her two hands, and then putting them wide apart from one another, he said, still keeping his eyes fixed on them, "Unkind hands of a dear, kind aunt, you had no business to be crossed at luncheon to-day, for poor Walter had done no harm, he had not showed any want of moral courage."

Disengaging her hands from her nephew's grasp, Miss Huntingdon put one of them on his shoulder, and with the other drew him into a chair. "Is my dear Walter satisfied with his behaviour to his brother?" she asked.

"Ah! that was not the point, Aunt Kate," was his reply; "the hands were to be crossed when I had failed in moral courage; and I have not failed to-day."

"No, Walter, perhaps not; but you told me you should like to be taught moral courage by examples, and what happened to-day suggested to me a very striking example, so I crossed my hands."

"Well, dear auntie, please let me hear it."

"My moral hero to-day is Colonel Gardiner, Walter."

"Ah! he was a soldier then, auntie?"

"Yes, and a very brave one too; indeed, never a braver. When he was a young man, and had not been many years in the army, he was terribly wounded in a battle, and lay on the field unable to raise himself to his feet or move from his place. Thinking that some one might come round to plunder the dead and dying before his friends could find him--as, alas! there were some who were heartless enough to do in those days--and not wishing that his money should be taken from him, as he had several gold pieces about him, he managed to get these pieces out of his pocket, and then to glue them in his clenched hand with the clotted blood which had collected about one of his wounds. Then he became insensible, and friends at last recovered his body and brought him to consciousness again, and the money was found safe in his unrelaxed grasp. I mention this merely to show the cool and deliberate courage of the man; his wonderful pluck, as you would call it."

"Very plucky, auntie, very; but please go on."

"Well, many years after, he died in battle, and showed the same marvellous bravery then. It was in the disastrous engagement of Prestonpans, in the year 1745. The Highlanders surprised the English army, turned their position, and seized their cannon. Colonel Gardiner exerted himself to the utmost, but his men quickly fled, and other regiments did the same. He then joined a small body of English foot who remained firm, but they were soon after overpowered by the Highlanders. At the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a few minutes, Colonel Gardiner received a bullet-wound in his left breast; but he said it was only a flesh-wound, and fought on, though he presently after received a shot in the thigh. Then, seeing a party of the foot bravely fighting near him, who had no officer to head them, he rode up to them and cried aloud, `Fire on, my lads, and fear nothing!' Just then he was cut down by a man with a scythe, and fell. He was dragged off his horse, and received a mortal blow on the back of his head; and yet he managed to wave his hat as a signal to a faithful servant to retreat, crying out at the same time, `Take care of yourself.'"

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