"'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, d.i.c.k 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, d.i.c.k; I'll take Forester out and give him a trot, and Mr Saunders can ride Bessie.' 'Please, Master Walter,' says d.i.c.k, '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.'

d.i.c.k 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 cuc.u.mbers.' 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 d.i.c.k 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 sc.r.a.pe, 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 d.i.c.k to be punished for your fault?"

"Oh, as to that, auntie, d.i.c.k shan't be the worse for it in the end: he has had a _sovereign_ remedy already; and I'll beg him off from being turned away when I see my father has quite cooled down."

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."

"Well, Aunt Kate, I _am_ sorry--terribly sorry. I wish I'd never touched the horses. I wish that fellow Bob had been a hundred miles off yesterday afternoon."

"I daresay, Walter; but is that all? Are you not going to _show_ that you are sorry? Won't you imitate, as far as it is now possible, little George Washington's moral courage?"

"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 n.o.bler had you gone straight to your father and told him just how things were; and then, too, you would not have been d.i.c.k's tempter, leading him to sin. Still, there is a right and n.o.ble course open to you now, dear boy, which is to go and undo the mischief and the wrong as far as you can."

"Well, I suppose you are right, auntie," he said slowly, and with a heavy sigh; "but I shan't find _my_ father throwing his arms round me as George Washington's father did, and calling me his n.o.ble boy, and telling me he had rather I told the truth than have a thousand gold and silver cherry-trees."

"Perhaps not, Walter; but you will have, at any rate, the satisfaction of doing what will have the approval of G.o.d, 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 d.i.c.k about his business to-morrow, or as soon as his quarter's up. I'd a better opinion of the boy."

"d.i.c.k'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 d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k's dismissal, and to pa.s.s over the trouble without further comment.

CHAPTER FIVE.

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 m.u.f.f 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 pa.s.sed away since the disastrous ride, and Forester being none the worse for his mishap, Mr Huntingdon allowed Walter to exercise him occasionally, accompanied by d.i.c.k, 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, "d.i.c.k, 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 d.i.c.k 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 hoa.r.s.e, 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.

But was he making a new home for himself? This was Walter's bewildering thought as he cantered back, after his strange discovery of his brother at the cottage. Was it really so? Had this shy, silent brother of his actually taken to himself a wife unknown to any one, just as his poor sister had married clandestinely? It might be so--and why not? Strange people do strange things; and not only so, but Walter's conscience told him that his brother might well have been excused for seeking love _out_ of his home, seeing that he got but little love _in_ it. And what about the children? No doubt they were hers; he must have married a widow.

But what a poky place they were living in. She must have been poor, and have inveigled Amos into marrying her, knowing that he was heir to Flixworth Manor. Eh, what a disgrace! Such were Walter's thoughts as he rode home from the scene of the strange encounter. But then, again, he felt that this was nothing but conjecture after all. Why might not Amos have just been doing a kind act to some poor cottager and her children, whom he had learned to take an interest in? And yet it was odd that he should be so terribly upset at being found out in doing a little act of kindness. Walter was sure that not a shadow of moral wrong could rest on his brother's conduct. He might have made a fool of himself, but it could not be anything worse.

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 c.o.c.k 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."