"Yes," said Walter; "but I am persuaded that my sister was frightened by the man into writing the last part of that letter;--don't you think so, Amos?"

"Yes," replied his brother, "I certainly do. He has been plotting this scheme in order to get me into his power; and when he found that by your coming he had failed in his object, he made the best of matters for himself by pretending to be the owner of the cottage, and to be in ignorance of what had happened to me. And now you must tell me how you found me, and how poor Prince found his way back."

Walter looked up to see if his father or aunt would give the account, and then, when neither spoke, he plunged at once into his narrative.

"You must know, then, that we were all much distressed and perplexed when my father showed us the letter, Amos, which you accidentally dropped, and which we should none of us have read under ordinary circ.u.mstances. We knew that you felt it to be your duty to go to poor Julia; but we none of us liked the last part of the letter, and I am sure I can say truly that I had my grievous suspicions from the very first. However, when we got the news of your having set off to this meeting, we could not have prevented it, even if we had thought it right to do so; it would have been too late then. But we did not think it would have been right; and auntie comforted us with the a.s.surance that G.o.d would take care of you, as you were gone on a work he must approve of. So we waited patiently--or, as far as _I_ was concerned, impatiently--all day, and went to bed with heavy hearts when you did not turn up, and we had heard nothing of you. But father reminded us how you had been absent once before for the night, when you had been summoned to look after those poor children, and that you had come back all safe; so we hoped that we should see you this morning early, or at any rate before luncheon.

"And who do you think was our first messenger? Ah! you will hardly guess. Why, none other than Prince, your pony. We were sitting at breakfast very dull, and imagining all sorts of things, when Harry hurried into the room, as white as if he had just seen a ghost, and cried out, 'Master, master! here's Prince come back all alone, and never a word about poor dear Master Amos!' You may be sure this did just upset us all, and no mistake. I was out in the stable-yard in a moment, and there was Prince sure enough, and all the servants round him; and they had got a stable bucket with some corn in it, and he was devouring it as though he had been starved for a week. 'And where's your master, Prince?' I said. The poor animal only whinnied, but seemed almost as if he understood my question. As for Harry, who had joined me in the yard, he could only blubber out, 'Eh! he's done for, sure enough.

They've been and gone and murdered him, and haven't had even the good feeling to send us back his lifeless corpse. Whatever shall we do?'

'Nay, Harry,' I said, 'it hasn't come to that yet; we must go and look after him, and bring him back; he'll turn up all right, I daresay.'--'The Lord grant it,' said the dear old man.

"Well, you may be sure we were all in a pretty state, and at our wits'

end what to do. Father set off at once for the police station, and Harry and I started at the same time for Marley Heath."

Here Miss Huntingdon interposed, and said, "And I ought to tell you, dear Amos, that when your father was feeling a little anxious about Walter's going, lest he too should fall into some snare or difficulty, your brother would not hear of any one else taking his place, and rushed away saying, 'It would be a privilege to suffer anything for such a brother as Amos.'"

"Auntie, auntie!" cried her nephew remonstratingly, "you mustn't tell secrets; I never meant Amos to know anything about that."

There was a brief silence, for all the party were deeply moved, and the two brothers clasped hands eagerly and lovingly. Then Walter continued: "So Harry took the old mare, and I took my pony, and we set off soon after breakfast, and got in a little time to Marley Heath; and I can't say I felt very warm to the place, and certainly it didn't _look_ very warm to me. 'What's to come next?' I said to Harry. 'Well,' he said, 'we must make inquiries.' That was all easy enough to say, but who were we to make inquiries of? The only living thing about was an old donkey who had strayed on to the heath, and was trying to get a mouthful of something off a bare patch or two; and as we came up he stared at us as though he thought that we were bigger donkeys than he was for coming to such a place at such a time. It wasn't much use looking about, for there was nothing to guide us. We tried to track your pony's footmarks, but as there had been more snow in the night, and it had now set in to thaw, we could see nothing anywhere in the way of footmarks to trust to.

Certainly it was a regular puzzle, for we hadn't the slightest idea which way to turn. 'Well, Harry?' I said. 'Well, Master Walter?' he said in reply; but that didn't help us forward many steps. 'Let us ride on till we get to some house where we may make inquiries,' I said. So we set off, and after a bit came to a farm-house, and asked if any one had seen two people on horseback about, that day or the day before, describing Amos as one. No; they had seen no such riders as we described, therefore we had to trot back to the heath again. 'Well, Harry?' I said again. 'Well, Master Walter?' he replied; and we stared at one another like two--well, I hardly know what to say, but certainly not like two very wise men. So we rode about, first in this direction, and then in that, till we began to be fairly tired.

"It was now getting on for luncheon time, so we made for a farm-house, got some bread and cheese and milk, and a feed for our horses, and then set out again; and weary work we had. At last I was almost giving up in despair, and beginning to think that we had better go home and try some other plan, when, as we were pa.s.sing near a copse, we saw a tall figure slouching along through the melting snow. The man did not see us at first, but when he looked round and made out who we were, he began to quicken his pace, and strode along wonderfully. There was no mistaking him; it was Jim Jarrocks, the fellow who won my sovereign in that foolish match on Marley Heath. Jim evidently had rather we had not met, for he had a couple of hares slung over his shoulder, which he could not well hide. However, there was no help for it, so he put a bold face on the matter, and touched his hat as I overtook him, and said, 'Your servant, Mr Walter; I hope you're well.' Of course I did not think anything about the hares then, I was too full of Amos; so I asked him if he had seen Amos alone, or with another horseman. 'No, sir,' he replied, 'I've not; but I'll tell you what I've seen. Last night I found Mr Amos's pony, Prince, about a mile from here; he was saddled and bridled, and had broke loose somehow or other, it seemed. So, as in duty bound, I got on him, and rode him over to the Manor-house, and fastened him up in the stable-yard; for it was late, and I didn't like to rouse anybody.'--'All right, Jim,' I said; 'd.i.c.k found him when he went to the stables this morning. But whereabouts was it that you found him?'--'Well, it's a queer and awkward road to get to it,' he said; 'but I can show you the way.'--'And is there any house near where you found Prince?' I asked.--'House! no; nothing of the kind,' said he, 'except the brickmaker's cottage, about a mile further on.'--'And no one lives in that cottage, I suppose?'--'No; and hasn't done for months past;'-- then he stopped all of a sudden, and said, 'By-the-by, there was smoke coming out of the chimney of that cottage as I pa.s.sed it last night; that was strange anyhow.'--'Well, then, Jim,' I said, 'there may be some one in it now, and we can find out if they've seen anything of my brother. Just put us in the way to the cottage; there's a good man.'--'By all means,' he said, and strode on before us for about a mile, and then pointed up a winding lane. 'There,' he cried; 'keep along that lane till you come to an open field, and you'll soon see the cottage; you can't miss it, for there isn't another anywhere about.

Good afternoon, sir.' And away he went, evidently glad to get off with his hares as speedily as possible. The rest does not take much telling.

We soon came to the cottage, and discovered dear Amos, and encountered that miserable man who has treated him so cruelly. Ah! well, it's been a good ending to a bad beginning."

"Thank you, my dear brother," said Amos warmly; "it was well and kindly done. Yes, G.o.d has been very good in delivering me out of my trouble, and specially in making you, dear Walter, the chief instrument in my deliverance."

"I only wonder," said his brother, "that the wretched man did not make off with the pony."

"No," said Amos; "that might have got him into trouble with the police, if they had found the pony in his possession, or had he sold it to anybody. No doubt, when he found the first night that I would not give him the cheque, he just turned the pony adrift, so that, whether he made his way home or any one found him, there would be no clue to the person who had entrapped me."

"I see it all!" cried Walter. "But now we must finish up with a word on moral courage, with an ill.u.s.tration by dear auntie.--Yes, Aunt Kate, you see our hero Amos; you see how he has been ready to make a regular martyr of himself, and surely that is real moral courage."

"Indeed it is so, dear Walter," said Miss Huntingdon; "and you were right in calling your brother's courage a species of martyrdom, for the spirit of a true martyr has been well described as 'a readiness to suffer the greatest evil rather than knowingly to do the least.'"

"Capital, auntie! And now, if father is willing, give us an example."

Mr Huntingdon having gladly given his consent, his sister spoke as follows:--

"My moral hero this time is a real martyr, and a young one. In the spring of the year 1555, a youth, named William Hunter, entered the church of Brentwood, in Ess.e.x, to read in the great Bible which stood there chained to a desk for the use of the people. He was an apprentice to a London weaver, but was now on a visit to his native town. He loved the Bible, and it was his joy to read it. As he stood before the desk, a man named Atwell, an officer of the Romish bishop, came that way, and, seeing how he was engaged, remonstrated with him, and then said, when the young man quietly justified himself, 'I see you are one who dislike the queen's laws, but if you do not turn you will broil for your opinions.'--'G.o.d give me grace,' replied William, 'to believe his word and confess his name, whatever may come of it.'

"Atwell reported him; he was seized, and placed in the stocks. Then he was taken before Bishop Bonner, who, finding him resolute, ordered him again to the stocks; and there he lay two long days and nights, without any food except a crust of brown bread and a little water. Then, in hopes of subduing his spirit, Bonner sent him to one of the London prisons, with strict orders to the jailer to put as many iron chains upon him as he could possibly bear; and here he remained for three- quarters of a year. At last the bishop sent for him and said, 'If you recant, I will give you forty pounds and set you up in business.' That was a large sum in those days. But William rejected the offer. 'I will make you steward of my own house,' added Bonner. 'But, my lord,'

replied the young man, 'if you cannot persuade my conscience by Scripture, I cannot find in my heart to turn from G.o.d for the love of the world.' 'Then away with him to the fire!'

"He was to suffer near his native town. There was no prison in the place, so William Hunter was confined in an inn, and guarded by constables. His mother rushed to see him, and his words to her were, 'For my little pain which I shall suffer Christ hath procured for me a crown of joy; are you not glad of that, mother?' On the morning when he was to die, as he was being led from the inn, his father sprang forward in an agony of grief, and threw his arms round him, saying, 'G.o.d be with thee, son William.' His son looked calmly at him and said, 'G.o.d be with you, father. Be of good comfort; I trust we shall soon meet again where we shall rejoice together.' When he had been secured to the stake, a pardon was offered him if he would recant. 'No,' he said, 'I will not recant, G.o.d willing.' When the fire was lighted, and the flames began to rise, he threw a book of Psalms, which he still held in his hands, into the hands of his brother, who had followed him to the place of death. Then his brother called to him and said, 'William, think on the sufferings of Christ, and be not afraid.'--'I am not afraid,' cried the young martyr. 'Lord, Lord, receive my spirit.' These were his last words. The dry f.a.gots burned briskly, and in a few minutes his sufferings were at an end for ever.

"Here, surely, dear Walter, was moral courage of the highest order.

William Hunter was very young; life was sweet; he had loving parents.

All the neighbours loved him for his gentle piety. A few words spoken would have saved him from imprisonment, hunger, bitter suffering, and a cruel death; but he would not by a single act or a single word save himself, when by so doing he would be acting against his conscience, much as he loved his home, his parents, and his people."

Walter clapped his hands with delight when his aunt had finished, and exclaimed, "Nothing could be better, Aunt Kate; it suits our hero Amos to a T. Yes, for he would suffer anything rather than get his liberty by doing or promising to do what he believed to be wrong. Thank you, dear aunt; I have learned a lesson which I hope I shall never forget."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

WALTER TO THE RESCUE.

The day after his return home Amos sought his father in the library.

Mr Huntingdon's manner to him had become so much more warm and affectionate, that he now ventured on a course which a few days before he could not have brought himself to adopt.

"Father," he said, "can you spare me a few minutes? I have something on my mind which I feel that I ought to consult you about."

"Sit down, sit down, my dear boy; what is it?" said his father.

Thus encouraged, Amos unburdened his mind. "Father," he proceeded, "I must ask you to excuse my absence for a day or two, or perhaps even more. You are aware now that I have taken upon myself, for the present at any rate, the charge of my poor sister Julia's little children. And I may also say, as I suppose I ought not to conceal the state of things from you, that her miserable husband has left her utterly dest.i.tute, so that I am doing what I can to keep her from want. The man has deserted her more than once; and more than once, when he returned and found money in her possession, he forced it from her. So I have placed what I can spare for her in the hands of a thoroughly trustworthy and Christian woman with whom she lodges, and through this good landlady of hers I see that she does not want such necessaries and comforts as are essential to her health."

He was proceeding with his explanation, but was checked by the deep emotion of Mr Huntingdon, who, resting his head between his hands, could not restrain his tears and sobs. Then, springing up from his seat, he clasped Amos to him, and said, in a voice almost choked by his feelings, "My dear, n.o.ble boy! and I have misunderstood, and undervalued, and treated you with harshness and coldness all this time!

Can you forgive your unworthy father?"

Poor Amos! Such a speech from his father almost stunned him for the moment. At last, recovering himself, he cried, "O father, dear father, don't say such a thing! There is not--there cannot be anything for me to forgive. And, oh! the kindness you have shown me the last few days has made up a thousand times for any little trouble in days gone by."

"You are a dear good boy to say so," replied Mr Huntingdon, kissing him warmly. "Well, now tell me all."

"You see, dear father," continued Amos when they were again both seated, "I am afraid, from poor Julia's letter, that she is in some special trouble. It is true that the latter part of her letter looks very much as if the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the first part is clearly written as she herself felt. I have the letter here. You see, she writes,--'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.'

So far the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no doubt what it means. That vile man has been ill-treating her, and has threatened to take the children from under my charge, though he pledged his honour to myself a short time back that he would not remove them; but, of course, the honour of such a man is worth nothing."

"Yes; I see it all," said the squire with a sigh; "but what can be done?

I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the children as their father, and to poor Julia too, as she is his wife."

"True, father; but it will never do to leave her as she is; and I cannot bear the thought of those dear children being left to the tender mercies of such a man."

"Well, and where is your poor sister herself at this time?" asked Mr Huntingdon.

"There, again, I am in a difficulty," said Amos. "When I first got to know how my dear sister was situated, and where she was living, she made me promise that I would not let any one know where the place was, and specially not you. I suppose she was afraid that something would be done against her husband, whom she had a great affection for, if our family knew where she lived; and she also indulged, I grieve to say, much bitterness of feeling towards yourself, which I have done my best to remove. So she would not hear of my telling any one where she is living; and indeed she has moved about from place to place. But I am still under the promise of secrecy."

"Well," said his father, with a sigh, "I will not of course ask you to break your word to her; but better times will come for her, poor thing, I hope."

"I hope so too, dear father. But you will understand now, I feel sure, why I wish to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things are really going on with her and with the poor children."

"But will it be safe for you to go?" asked his father anxiously. "Will not that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily harm?"

"I am not afraid, father. My own opinion is that the unhappy man will not remain long in this country; and that, after what has happened these last two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom to keep as clear of me as possible."

"Perhaps so; but I must say I don't like the thoughts of your going alone on such an expedition, after what has already happened."

"Nay, dear father, I believe I ought to go. I believe that duty calls me; and so I may expect that G.o.d will take care of me."