A new year had now begun, and deep snow lay around the Manor-house. The family party had a.s.sembled at breakfast, all except Miss Huntingdon and Amos. The former at last appeared, but there was trouble on her brow, which Walter, who loved her dearly, instantly noticed.

"Auntie dear," he asked, "what's amiss? I'm sure you are not well this morning."

"I am a little upset, dear boy," she replied, "but it is nothing serious."

"I hope not, Kate," said her brother. "But where is Amos?"

"Well, Walter," replied his sister, "that is just it. I have a note from him this morning asking me to excuse him to you; that duty has called him away, and that I shall understand in what direction this duty lies. I can only hope that nothing serious is amiss; but this I am quite sure of, that Amos would never have gone off in this abrupt way had there not been some pressing cause."

Mr Huntingdon did not speak for a while, his thoughts were evidently troubling him. He remembered the last occasion of his son's sudden absence, and was now well aware that it had been care for his poor erring child's neglected little ones that had then called Amos away.

Perhaps it might be so now. Perhaps that daughter herself, against whom his heart and home had been closed so long, might be ill or even dying.

Perhaps she was longing for a father's smile, a father's expressed forgiveness. His heart felt very sore, and his breakfast lay untasted before him.

As for Walter, he knew not what to say or think. He dared not speak his fears out loud lest he should wound his father, whose distress he could not help seeing. He would have volunteered to do anything and everything, only he did not know exactly where to begin or what to propose. At length Mr Huntingdon, turning to the old butler, who was moving about in a state of great uneasiness, said, "Do you know, Harry, at what hour Mr Amos left this morning?"

"No, sir, not exactly. But when Jane came down early and went to open the front door, she found the chain and the bolts drawn and the key turned back. It was plain that some one had gone out that way very early."

"And when did you get your note from Amos, Kate?" asked her brother.

"My maid found it half slipped under my door when she came to call me,"

was the reply.

"And is there nothing, then, to throw light on this sudden and strange act on Amos's part?" asked the squire.

"Well, there is," she answered rather reluctantly. "My maid has found a little crumpled up sheet of paper, which Amos must have accidentally dropped as he left his room. I don't know whether I ought to have taken charge of it; but, as it is, the best thing I can do is to hand it to you."

Mr Huntingdon took it from her, and his hand shook with emotion as he glanced at it. It was a small sheet of note-paper, and there was writing on two sides in a female hand, but the lines were uneven, and it seemed as though the writer had been, for some reason or other, unable to use the pen steadily. Mr Huntingdon hesitated for a moment. Had he any right to read a communication which was addressed to another? Not, surely, under ordinary circ.u.mstances. But the circ.u.mstances now were not ordinary; and he was the father of the person to whom the letter was addressed, and by reading it he might take steps to preserve his son from harm, or might bring him out of difficulties. So he decided to read the letter, and judge by its contents whether he was bound to secrecy as to those contents or no. But, as he read, the colour fled from his face, and a cold perspiration burst out upon him. What could the letter mean? Was the writer sane? And if not, oh, misery! then there was a second wreck of reason in the family; for the handwriting was his daughter's, and the signature at the foot of the paper was hers too. With heaving breast and tearful eyes he handed the letter to his sister, whose emotion was almost as distressing as his own as she read the following strange and almost incoherent words:--

"Amos,--I'm mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He will take them both away. He will ruin us all, body and soul."

Then there was a break. The words. .h.i.therto had been written in a steady hand; those which followed were wavering, as though penned against the will of the writer, and under fear of some one standing by. They were as follows:--

"Come to me early to-morrow morning. You will see a man at the farther side of Marley Heath on horseback--follow him, and he will bring you to me, for I am not where I was. Come alone, or the man will not wait for you, and then you will never be seen again in this world by your wretched sister,--Julia."

Such were the contents of the mysterious letter, which were well calculated to stir to their depths the hearts of both the squire and his sister, who looked at each other as those look who become suddenly conscious of a common misfortune. A spell seemed on their tongues. At last the silence was broken by Walter.

"Dear father! dear auntie!" he exclaimed, "whatever is the matter?"

"Matter enough, I fear," said his father sadly.--"There, Kate, let him look at the letter."

Walter read it, and his eyes filled with tears. Busy thoughts chased one another through his brain, and very sad and humbling thoughts they were. He understood now much that had once seemed strange in Amos. He began to appreciate the calm and deep n.o.bility of his character, the tenacity of his grasp on his one great purpose. He gave back the letter to his father with downcast eyes, but without making any remark upon it.

And now, what was to be done? As soon as breakfast was over, the three, by Mr Huntingdon's desire, met in the library. The letter was laid on the table before them, and the squire opened the discussion of its contents by saying to his sister, "What do you make out of this miserable business, Kate?"

"Plainly enough," was her reply, "poor Julia is in great distress. I gather that her cruel and base husband has been removing, or intending to remove, her two children from Amos's charge, and that she is afraid they will be utterly ruined if they continue in their father's hands.

Poor thing! poor thing! I pity her greatly."

Her brother did not speak for a while, but two big tears fell on his daughter's letter, as he bent over it trying to conceal his emotion.

"And what do you think about it, my boy?" he said to his son, when he had in some degree recovered his composure.

"Aunt Kate is right, no doubt," replied Walter, "but that is not all.

It strikes me that my sister wrote the first part of this letter of her own head, but not the last. I should not wonder if that scamp of a fellow her husband has found her out writing, and has forced her to add the last words, intending to bring poor Amos into trouble some way or other."

"I believe the boy is right," said Mr Huntingdon anxiously; "but then, what is to be the next step?"

"Surely," said his sister, "you ought to send out some one immediately to follow up Amos, and see that no harm comes to him."

"Well, I hardly know," replied her brother; "I don't think any one would dare to do Amos any personal injury, and I don't see that it would be anyone's interest to do so. The last time he was called away he returned to us all right; and perhaps he may feel hurt if we do not let him manage things in his own way, seeing he has so n.o.bly taken upon himself the cause of poor--poor"--he would have said "Julia," but he could not get out the word--"my poor child." Here the squire fairly broke down, covering his face with his hands.

"Shall we ask Harry," said his sister, when she could trust herself to speak, "who brought this note for Amos? that mis-hit give us a little bit of a clew if it should be necessary to go and find him out." Harry was accordingly summoned and questioned. He had already made full inquiries of the other servants, but none of them could throw any light on the subject. No one about the premises knew anything about the carrier of the letter. So it was resolved to wait, in hopes that either Amos himself or, at any rate, tidings of him and of his movements would arrive some time during the day. Hour, however, pa.s.sed by after hour, and no news of Amos came to gladden the hearts at the mansion; and when darkness settled down, and nothing had been heard of the absent one, a deep gloom pervaded the whole household. But of all hearts under that roof during that long and weary night, none was so heavy as Mr Huntingdon's. Memories of the past crowded in upon him; smitings of conscience deeply troubled him. Had he acted a father's part towards that erring daughter? should he have closed the door of home and heart so fast, and kept it barred against her? was she not still his own flesh and blood? and could he justify to himself the iron sternness which had perhaps now driven her to despair? How could _he_ hope for mercy who had shown neither mercy nor pity to one whose sinful disobedience and folly could not make her less his child, though doubtless a sadly misguided one? When morning came, Mr Huntingdon rose a wiser and a humbler man. He poured out his heart in prayer for forgiveness of his own many sins and shortcomings, and then came to a full determination to deal very differently with Amos for the time to come, and to undo his past treatment of his poor daughter as opportunity might be afforded him.

And now we must leave for a while the party at the Manor-house in their sadness and perplexity, and follow Amos Huntingdon himself. When he had retired to his room on the night previous to his unexpected departure, he was startled by hearing the sound of what seemed to be earth or small pebbles thrown against his bedroom window. He paused for a few moments, and the sound was repeated. Then he opened the window slowly, and looking out, cried, "Who is there?"

All around, the snow lay thick on the ground. His room was on one side of the house, and its window looked out on a flower-garden, so that any one approaching the building from that side would not be liable to be observed by the general inmates of the Manor-house. When Amos had asked who was there, a short figure, partly m.u.f.fled up in a cloak, rose from where it had been crouching against the wall, and a man's voice said in a loud whisper, "Is that you, Mr Amos?"

"What do you want with me at this hour?" was the reply.

"Ah! all right," rejoined the stranger; "here--catch this." Saying which, he flung something up at the opening made by the raising of the window. "A bad shot," said the mysterious person half out loud, and with perfect coolness, as the thing he was throwing fell short of its mark. "Try again." Suiting the action to the word, he a second time aimed at the opening, and now with success. A small packet fell into the room, and reached the floor with a "thud."

"All right; good-night," said the thrower with a chuckle, and soon disappeared through the falling snow, which was now coming down thickly.

What could be the meaning of this strange performance? Was it some foolish hoax or practical joke played off by Saunders or Gregson, or some other of Walter's giddy and not over-considerate companions? He almost thought it must be so, and that his brother had put them up to the joke for some wild piece of fun, or to win some senseless wager.

Rather vexed at the thought, and not feeling over amiable towards the missile, if such it was, which had come so unseasonably and so unceremoniously into his chamber, he was half inclined at first to throw it back through the window on to the snow. And yet, perhaps, he had better see what it was. So he took it from the floor. It was a little brown paper parcel, about three inches square, and very heavy for its size. His curiosity was now excited. He opened the packet warily, lest it should contain something explosive, such as might cause a report, not dangerous in itself, but calculated to alarm the family. There was nothing, however, of such a kind, but merely a flat piece of thick tile, with a sheet of note-paper doubled round it.

Rather annoyed at the folly of the whole thing, he slowly unfolded the paper, and opened it out. The writing struck him at once; it was his sister's. The contents of the letter staggered him. That his sister had written it there could be no doubt. That she was in grievous trouble, and that her villainous husband had violated his pledge and was removing the children out of his reach, was equally plain. The appearance of the closing portion of the note puzzled him. He had his misgivings about it. Had his sister's husband anything to do with it, and with making the appointment on Marley Heath? It might or might not be so. The changed appearance of the latter part of the writing might only be the result of agitation or distress on his sister's part. But, anyhow, what was the course that duty and brotherly love bade him now take? A lonely meeting in the snow with a solitary horseman on Marley Heath early in the morning did not read very pleasantly nor appear very safe; and yet, could he leave his poor sister to her misery? If he should do so, what evils might not follow? and what would come of the great purpose to which he had dedicated his life and energies? Was this a time for fear or shrinking back? No, surely. So he knelt down and asked for guidance of him who is unerring Wisdom to every one of his children. And then he retired to rest, and slept soundly till early morning.

His mind was made up. Having written a few lines to his aunt, he made his way quietly out of the house to the stable, and, mounting his own faithful pony, sallied forth. He had, however, dropped his sister's note by his own room door without being aware of it, and did not miss it, for his mind was full of engrossing thoughts. It was a bright and sparkling morning; the snow had been falling more or less for the last few days, and had in some places formed deep drifts, as a strong wind had been blowing from the north for some hours. But now all was calm and bright for the present, though the distant horizon seemed to threaten a further downfall before long.

Amos had clothed himself warmly, for the cold was now severe. His great-coat, also, which he had gathered close round him, contained in its ample pockets some cakes, oranges, and sweeties--a stock of which he always kept on hand in his own room for the benefit of his niece and nephew whenever he might happen to visit them at the cottage. On the present occasion, it is true, he had no expectation of meeting the children, but only their mother; but he brought these little luxuries with him notwithstanding, as they might perhaps be welcome to his poor sister, who was not likely to be furnished with more than the bare necessaries of life by the man who, though bound to care for her comfort, would no doubt wrench from her every penny he was able.

With noiseless tread, then, did Prince the pony carry his young master along the dazzling white roads, shaking his ears and his head from time to time, as though in wonder at what could have induced his owner to bring him out so early. Amos had, however, not neglected the poor animal, but had given him a good feed before starting, having himself also made such an early meal as the pantry could provide him. So the two jogged quietly on; and whatever misgivings the young man might have from time to time, these were more than outweighed by the abiding conviction that he was on the path of love and duty, and might therefore expect to be guided and preserved by Him to whom he had committed his cause. Still, there was something overawing in the solitude of that early ride. Not a person did he meet as he threaded his way through the lanes. The moon was some days past the full, and shone with almost undiminished light on the sparkling crystals of snow. Spikes of h.o.a.r- frost bristled on the branches of the trees, and here and there a long gaunt group of icicles, dependent from an overhanging rock, gleamed and flashed in the pale light as he pa.s.sed along.

And now, when he had accomplished some three miles--which was about half the distance to the heath--he emerged from a winding road which had led him through a copse on to high ground, from which he had an almost panoramic view of the surrounding country. He checked his pony and looked about him. How exquisitely fair and pure was that landscape, one vast expanse of spotless white! Not a breath of wind was now stirring, and, struggling against the moonlight, the first flushes of a winter's dawn crept up along the far-off eastern sky. Everything spoke of peace and purity. G.o.d's hand had clothed the earth, the trees with a stainless robe of majestic beauty studded with countless flashing gems.

Man's works were hidden or but dimly seen here and there, with all their imperfections withdrawn from sight under that snowy veil. And man himself was absent. An all-absorbing sense of the nearness of G.o.d stole over the young traveller's heart, so deep, so unearthly as to be almost painful, but, oh, so full of blessedness! What should make him afraid, with G.o.d so near? And then there unfolded themselves to his memory the words, "Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy G.o.d: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness." Amos bowed his head, and remained wrapt for a while in holy and happy meditation.

But he had a work before him, and must move on. At last he reached Marley Heath. Hitherto he had seen no human being, nor indeed any living thing except a hare which once crossed his path. The heath was extensive, and had many pathways through it. All, however, were now more or less covered with snow, though here and there the wind had exposed a bare spot, and a large pond on one side glowed in the light of the now rising sun. Riding slowly across the wide common, Amos looked for some time in vain for the person whom he was to meet, and it was almost with a feeling of relief that he contemplated the possibility of no one appearing. The air was sharp and clear now, and, as he gazed on all sides, an inward shrinking from the proposed meeting came over him; and then again the consciousness that he was on duty's path nerved him for whatever might be before him. He had not long to wait. First he heard the far-off faint barking of a dog, and in a few minutes afterwards a horseman made his appearance coming up on to the heath from the opposite quarter to that by which he himself had reached it. The stranger was manifestly in no hurry, but allowed his horse, a big, gaunt, and seedy-looking animal, to take its own time, which clearly was not a very rapid one. The costume of the new-comer was in keeping with the appearance of his steed, being ample but considerably the worse for wear. As the two riders slowly approached each other, Amos recognised his brother-in-law, Mr Orlando Vivian,--there could be no doubt about it. A theatrical salute on the other's part was answered by Amos with a quiet inclination of his head.

"Your servant, friend," then said Mr Vivian in a free and easy manner; "a fine winter's morning you bring with you, though I think we shall have more snow."

"Good morning," returned Amos, not knowing what else to say, and feeling far from comfortable.

When they had remained facing each other for a minute, during which the dark malicious eyes of the player sent a shudder through his companion, the former said, "You are come to see your sister, I presume; at any rate this meeting is clearly by appointment made for that purpose.

Shall we proceed?"

"Yes," replied Amos, but with some hesitation in his tone of voice.

"Ah, I understand," said the other; "you were expecting to be conducted to a _tete-a-tete_. You didn't antic.i.p.ate meeting a brother-in-law as well as a sister,--is it not so?"

Amos hardly knew what to reply, for the bantering air and words of his companion filled him with disgust and repugnance.--"Oh, I see it all-- it's perfectly natural," said Mr Vivian sarcastically; "but set your mind at ease on that point, Mr Huntingdon. As soon as you reach the house you will cease to be troubled with my company; nay, I shall not go with you beyond the door."