"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.'"

"Bravo! auntie, that was true courage if you like; that's old-fashioned courage such as suits my father and me."

"I know it, Walter. But Colonel Gardiner showed a higher and n.o.bler courage; higher and n.o.bler because it required far more steady self- denial, and arose from true religious principle. I want you to notice the contrast, and that is why I have mentioned these instances of what I may call his animal bravery. I have no wish to rob him of the honour due to him for those acts of courage; but then, after all, he was brave in those const.i.tutionally,--I might say, indeed, because he could not help it. It was very different with his moral courage. When he was living an utterly G.o.dless and indeed wicked life, it pleased G.o.d to arrest him in his evil career by a wonderful vision of our Saviour hanging on the cross for him. It was the turning-point of his life. He became a truly changed man, and as devoted a Christian as he had formerly been a slave to the world and his own sinful habits. And now he had to show on whose side he was and meant to be. It is always a difficult thing to be outspoken for religion in the army, but it was ten times as difficult then as it is now, seeing that in our day there are so many truly Christian officers and common soldiers in the service.

Drunkenness and swearing were dreadfully prevalent; indeed, in those days it was quite a rare thing to find an officer who did not defile his speech continually with profane oaths. But Colonel Gardiner was not a man to do things by halves: he was now enlisted under Christ's banner as a soldier of the Cross, and he must stand up for his new Master and never be ashamed of him anywhere. But to do this would bring him persecution in a shape peculiarly trying to him,--I mean in the shape of ridicule. He would, he tells us, at first, when the change had only lately taken place in him, rather a thousandfold have marched up to the mouth of a cannon just ready to be fired than stand up to bear the scorn and jests of his unG.o.dly companions; he winced under these, and instinctively shrank back from them. Nevertheless, he braved all, the scorn, the laughter, the jokes, and made it known everywhere that he was not ashamed of confessing his Saviour, cost what it might; and he even managed, by a mixture of firm remonstrance and good-tempered persuasion, to put down all profane swearing whenever he was present, by inducing his brother officers to consent to the payment of a fine by the guilty party for every oath uttered. And so by his consistency he won at length the respect of all who knew him, even of those who most widely differed from him in faith and practice. There, Walter, that is what I call true and grand moral courage and heroism."

"So it was, so it was, dear auntie; but why have you brought forward Colonel Gardiner's case for my special benefit on the present occasion?"

"I will tell you, dear boy. You think it fine fun to play off your jokes on Amos, and nothing seems to please you better than to raise the laugh against him and to bring the hot flush into his cheeks. Ah! but you little know the pain and the misery you are inflicting; you little know the moral courage it requires on your brother's part to stand up under that ridicule without resenting it, and to go on with any purpose he may have formed in spite of it. I want you to see a reflection of Colonel Gardiner's n.o.blest courage, his high moral courage, in your own dear brother, and to value him for it, and not to despise him, as I see you now do. You say you want to be free from moral cowardice; then, copy moral courage wherever you can see it."

"Well, auntie," said her nephew after a minute's silence, "I daresay you are right. Poor Amos! I've been very hard upon him, I believe. It wasn't right, and I'll try and do better. But it's such a funny idea taking _him_ as a copy. Why, everybody's always telling me to mark what Amos does, and just do the very opposite."

"Not everybody, Walter; not the aunt who wants to see you truly good and n.o.ble. There are a grandeur of character and true n.o.bility in Amos which you little suspect, but which one day you also will admire, though you do not see nor understand them now."

Walter did not reply. He was not best pleased with his aunt's last remarks, and yet, at the same time, he was not satisfied with himself.

So he rose to go, and as he did so he said, "Ah, Aunt Kate, I see you are in Amos's confidence, and that you know all about the little children and their cottage home."

"Nay, my boy," replied his aunt, "you are mistaken; Amos has not made me his confidante in the matter. But I have formed my opinion of him and his motives from little things which have presented themselves to my observation from time to time, and I have a firm conviction that my nephew Walter will agree with me in the end about his brother, whatever he may think now. At least I hope so."

"So do I, dear auntie. Good-bye, good-bye." And, having said these words half playfully and half seriously, Walter vanished from the room with a hop, skip, and jump.

CHAPTER SIX.

MISAPPREHENSION.

Miss Huntingdon was not the only person in the family at Flixworth Manor who entertained a deep affection for Amos Huntingdon, and highly valued him. Harry the butler loved him as if he had been his own son. The old man had been inherited with the estate by its present owner, who remembered him almost as long as he could remember anything, and had a sincere regard for him, knowing him to be one of those old-fashioned domestics who look upon their employer's interests as their own.

Harry's hair was now snowy-white, but he retained much of his vigour unimpaired, the winter of his old age being "frosty, but kindly." So he had never gone by any other name than "Harry," nor wished to do so, with his master and his master's friends. However, in the kitchen he expected to be called "_Mr_. Frazer," and would answer to no other name when addressed by boys and strangers of his own rank. When the first child was born Harry took to her with all his might. He knew that his master was disappointed because she was not a boy, but that made no difference to Harry. Nothing pleased him better than to act now and then as nurse to Miss Julia when she was still in long clothes; and many a peal of hearty and innocent mirth resounded from the kitchen premises as the servants gazed, with tears of amus.e.m.e.nt running down their faces, at _Mr_. Frazer, by the nurse's permission, pacing up and down a sunny walk in the kitchen garden, with steps slow and grotesquely dignified, holding the infant warily and tenderly, affirming, when he gave her back to the nurse, in a self-congratulatory tone, that "little miss" would be quiet with him when she would be so with no one else; which certainly might be cause for some wonder, seeing that he would usually accompany his nursings with such extraordinarily guttural attempts at singing as were far better calculated to scare any ordinary baby into temporary convulsions than to soothe it to rest when its slumbers had once been broken. And how the old man did rejoice when the little thing could toddle into his pantry! And no wonder that she was very ready to do so, for Harry had an inexhaustible store of plums, and bonbons, and such like enticements, which were always forthcoming when little miss gladdened his heart with a visit. So they were fast friends, and thoroughly understood each other.

When, however, a son and heir was born, and there was in consequence a perfect delirium of bell-ringing in the village church-tower, Harry by no means entered heart and soul into the rejoicings. "Well," he said with a sigh, "there's no help for it, I suppose. It's all right, no doubt; but Miss Julia's my pet, and so she shall be as long as my name's Harry." The new infant, therefore, received none of the attention at his hands which its predecessor had enjoyed. When pressed by the housekeeper, with an arch smile on her good-natured face, to take "baby"

out for an airing, he shook his head very gravely and declined the employment, affirming that his nursing days were over. The name also of the new baby was a sore subject to Harry. "'Amos,' indeed! Well, what next? Who ever heard of an 'Amos' in the family? You might go as far back as Noah and you'd never find one. Mr Sutterby might be a very good gentleman, but his Christian name was none the better for that."

And, for a while, the old man's heart got more and more firmly closed against the young heir; while Amos, on his part, in his boyish days, made no advances towards being on friendly terms with the old servant, who yet could not help being sometimes sorry for his young master, when he marked how the sunshine of love and favour, which was poured out abundantly on Miss Julia, came but in cold and scattered rays to her desolate-hearted brother.

This kindly feeling was deepened in Harry's heart, and began to show itself in many little attentions, after the death of Mr Sutterby. He could not avoid seeing how the father's and mother's affections were more and more drawn away from their little son, while he keenly felt that the poor child had done nothing to deserve it; so in a plain and homely way he tried to draw him out of himself, and made him as free of his pantry as his sister was. And when Walter came, a few years before Mr Sutterby's death, putting Amos into almost total eclipse, Harry would have none of this third baby. "He'd got notice enough and to spare," he said, "and didn't want none from him." And now a new cord was winding itself year by year round the old butler's heart--a cord woven by the character of the timid child he had learned to love. He could not but notice how Amos, while yet a boy, controlled himself when cruelly taunted or ridiculed by his younger brother; how he returned good for evil; and how, spite of sorrow and a wounded spirit, there was peace on the brow and in the heart of that despised and neglected one.

For he had discovered that, in his visits to his aunt, Amos had found the pearl of great price, and the old man's heart leapt for joy, for he himself was a true though unpretending follower of his Saviour.

So Harry's attachment to his young master grew stronger and stronger, and all the more so as he came to see through the more attractive but shallower character of Walter, whose praises were being constantly sounded in his ears by Mr Huntingdon. And there was one thing above all others which tended to deepen his attachment to Amos, which was Amos's treatment of his sister, who was still the darling of Harry's heart. Walter loved his sister after a fashion. He could do a generous thing on the impulse of the moment, and would conform himself to her wishes when it was not too much trouble. But as for denying himself, or putting himself out of the way to please her, it never entered into his head. Nevertheless, any little attention on his part, spite of his being so much younger than herself, was specially pleasing to Julia, who was never so happy as when she and he could carry out by themselves some little scheme of private amus.e.m.e.nt. Harry noticed this, and was far from feeling satisfied, observing to the housekeeper that "Master Walter was a nasty, stuck-up little monkey; and he only wondered how Miss Julia could be so fond of him." On the other hand, Amos always treated his sister, even from his earliest boyhood, with a courtesy and consideration which showed that she was really precious to him. And, as she grew up towards womanhood and he towards mature boyhood, the beauty and depth of his respectful and unselfish love made themselves felt by all who could value and understand them, and among these was Harry. He could appreciate, though he could not explain, the contrast between a mere sentiment of affection, such as that which prompted Walter to occasional acts of kindness to his sister which cost him nothing, and the abiding, deep-seated principle of love in Amos which exhibited itself in a constant thoughtful care and watchfulness to promote the happiness of its object, his beloved sister.

So Harry's heart warmed towards his young master more and more, especially when he could not help noticing that, while Amos never relaxed his endeavours to make his sister happy, she on her part either resented his kindness, or at the best took it as a matter of course, preferring--and not caring to conceal her preference--a smile or word or two from Walter to the most patient and self-denying study of her tastes and wishes on the part of her elder brother. The old man grieved over this conduct in his darling Miss Julia, and gave her a hint on the subject in his own simple way, which to his surprise and mortification she resented most bitterly, and visited her displeasure also on Amos by carefully avoiding him as much as possible, and being specially demonstrative in her affection to Walter. Amos of course felt it deeply, but it made no alteration in his own watchful love to his sister. As for Harry, all he could do was to wait in hopes of brighter times, and to console himself for his young mistress's coldness by taking every opportunity of promoting the happiness and winning the fuller confidence of the brother whom she so cruelly despised.

But then came the crash; and this well-nigh broke the faithful old servant's heart. She whom he still loved as though she were his own, following her own unrestrained fancies, left her father's house to unite herself to a heartless adventurer before she had reached full womanhood, and thus closed the door of her old home against her. Then followed a frightful blank. An allusion by the old butler to "Miss Julia," when the squire and he were alone together, was met by a burst of violence on his master's part, and a threat that Harry must leave if he ever again mentioned his old favourite's name to her father. So his lips were closed, but not his heart; for he waited, watched, and prayed for better times, even after a still heavier cloud had gathered over the family in the removal of poor Mrs Huntingdon, and all the love he had to spare was given to his poor desolate young master, whose spirit had been crushed to the very dust by the sad withdrawal of his mother and sister from his earthly home.

Walter too was, of course, grieved at the loss of his sister and mother, but the blow was far lighter to him than to his brother, partly from his being of a more lively and elastic temperament, and partly because he did not, being so young a boy when the sad events took place, so fully understand as did his elder brother the shame and disgrace which hung over the family through his sister's heartless and selfish conduct. His aunt soon came to supply his mother's place, and completely won the impulsive boy's heart by her untiring and thoughtful affection. And one lesson he was learning from her, which was at first the strangest and hardest of lessons to one brought up as he had been, and that was, to respect the feelings and appreciate, though by very slow degrees, the character of his brother. His own superiority to Amos he had hitherto taken as a matter of course and beyond dispute. Everybody allowed it, except perhaps old Harry; but that, in Walter's eyes, was nothing. Amos was the eldest son, and heir to the family estate, and therefore the old butler took to him naturally, and would have done so if he had been a cow without any brains instead of a human being. So said Walter, and was quite content that a poor, ignorant fellow like Harry, who could have no knowledge or understanding of character, should set his regards on the elder son, and not notice the otherwise universally acknowledged bodily and intellectual superiority of his more worthy self. No wonder, then, that pity more than love was the abiding feeling in Walter's heart towards his less popular and less outwardly attractive brother. And it was a very strange discovery, and as unwelcome as strange, which his aunt was now leading him gradually to make spite of himself, that in real sterling excellence and beauty of character the weight, which he had hitherto considered to lie wholly in his own scale, was in truth to be found in the opposite scale on his brother's side of the balance.

Very slowly and reluctantly indeed was he brought to admit this at all, and, even when he was constrained to do so, he by no means surrendered at discretion to his aunt's view of the matter, but fought against it most vigorously, even when his conscience reproved him most loudly. And thus it was that a day or two after his conversation with Miss Huntingdon on the moral courage exhibited by Colonel Gardiner, he was rather glad of an opportunity that presented itself of exhibiting his brother in an unamiable light, and "trotting him out with his shabby old horsecloth on," as he expressed it, for the amus.e.m.e.nt of himself and friends. It was on a summer evening, and very hot, so that Miss Huntingdon, her two nephews, and two young men, friends of Walter, were enjoying tea and strawberries in a large summer-house which faced a sloping lawn enamelled with flower-beds glowing with ma.s.ses of richly tinted flowers. Mr Huntingdon was not with them, as this was Bench day, and he was dining after business hours with a brother magistrate.

Walter, full of life and spirits, rattled away to his heart's content, laughing boisterously at his own jokes, which he poured forth the more continuously because he saw that Amos was more than usually indisposed to merriment.

"By-the-by, Tom," he said suddenly to one of his companions, "what about the boat-race? When is it to come off?"

"In September," replied his friend. "But we are in a little difficulty.

You know Sir James has lent us the Park for the occasion, and a capital thing it will be; for we can make a good two miles of it by rowing round the ornamental water twice. It is to be a four-oared match; four Cambridge against four Oxford men, old or young, it doesn't matter. It is to be part of the fun on the coming of age of Sir James's eldest son.

I rather think he was born on the eighth. Young James is a Cambridge man and a capital oar, and I'm of the same college, and so is Harrison here, as you know, and we shall have no difficulty in finding a fourth; but we are rather puzzled about the Oxford men. We can calculate upon three, but don't know where to look for the fourth. I wish, Walter, you'd been old enough, and a member of the university."

"Ay, Tom, I wish I had been. But, by-the-by, there's no difficulty after all. Here's Amos, an Oxford man, and a very good oar too--he's just the very man you want."

It was quite true, as Walter said, that Amos had been a good rower at the university. Rowing was one of the few amus.e.m.e.nts in which he had indulged himself, but he had never joined a racing boat though often solicited to do so.

"What do you say, Amos?" asked his young companion. "Will you join us, and make up the Oxford four complete? We shall be really much obliged if you will; and I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

"Thank you," replied Amos; "it's very kind of you to ask me, I'm sure.

I should have liked it had I been able to undertake it, but I am sorry to say that it cannot be."

"Cannot be!" exclaimed Walter. "Why, what's to hinder you?"

"I cannot spare the time just now," said his brother quietly.

"Not spare the time!--not spare half-an-hour one fine afternoon in September! Dear me! you must be oppressed with business. What is it?

It isn't farming, I know. Is it legal business? Have you got so many appointments with the Lord Chancellor that he can't spare you even for one day?"

"It will not be only for one day," replied Amos quietly. "If the race is to be a real trial of skill and strength we must train for it, and have many practices, and I cannot promise to find time for these."

"Oh, nonsense! Why not? You've nothing to do."

"I have something to do, Walter, and something too that I cannot give up for these practisings."

"What! I suppose you think such vanities as these waste of precious time."

"I never said nor thought so, Walter; but I have a work in hand which will prevent my having the pleasure of taking a part in this race, for it really would have been a pleasure to me."

"Ah! it must be a precious important work, no doubt," said his brother satirically. "Just tell us what it is, and we shall be able to judge."

Amos made no reply to these last words, but turned first very red and then very pale.

"Humph!" said Walter; "I guess what it is. It's a new scheme for paying off the national debt, by turning radishes into sovereigns and cabbage- leaves into bank-notes; and it'll take a deal of time and pains to do it." He laughed furiously at his own wit, but, to his mortification, he laughed alone. There was a rather painful silence, which was broken by the gentle voice of Miss Huntingdon.

"I think, dear Walter," she said, "that you are a little hard on your brother. Surely he may have an important work on hand without being engaged in such a hopeless task as attempting to turn radishes into sovereigns and cabbage-leaves into bank-notes. And does it follow that he despises your boat-race because he prefers duty to pleasure?"

"Ah! that's just it," cried Walter, in a tone of mingled excitement and displeasure. "Who's to know that it _is_ duty? I think one duty is very plain, and I should have thought you would have agreed with me here, and that is to give up your own way and pleasure sometimes, when by doing so you may help to make other people happy."

"I quite agree with you in that, Walter," said his aunt. "It may be and often does become a duty to surrender our own pleasure, but never surely to surrender our duty."