Amos Huntingdon

  CHAPTER FOUR.

  THE CRIPPLED HORSE.

  Nature and circumstances had produced widely differing characters in thetwo brothers. Walter, forward enough by natural temperament, and readyto assert himself on all occasions, was brought more forward still andencouraged in self-esteem and self-indulgence, by the injudiciousfondness of both his parents. Handsome in person, with a merry smileand a ripple of joyousness rarely absent from his bright face, he wasthe favourite of all guests at his father's house, and a sharer in theirfield-sports and pastimes. That his father and mother loved him betterthan they loved Amos it was impossible for him not to see; and, as hegrew to mature boyhood, a feeling of envy, when he heard both parentsregret that himself was not their heir, drew his heart further andfurther from his elder brother, and led him to exhibit what heconsidered his superiority to him as ostentatiously as possible, thatall men might see what a mistake Nature had made in the order of time inwhich she had introduced the two sons into the family. Not that Walterreally hated his brother; he would have been shocked to admit to himselfthe faintest shadow of such a feeling, for he was naturally generous andof warm affections; but he clearly looked upon his elder brother asdecidedly in his way and in the wrong place, and often made a butt ofhim, considering it quite fair to play off his sarcasms and jokes on onewho had stolen a march upon him by coming into the world before him asheir of the family estate. And now that their mother--who had made nosecret of her preference of Walter to her elder son--was removed fromthem, the cords of Mr Huntingdon's affections were wound tighter thanever round his younger son, in whom he could scarce see a fault, howeverglaringly visible it might be to others; while poor Amos's shortcomingsreceived the severest censure, and his weaknesses were visited on him assins. No wonder, then, that, spite of the difference in their ages andorder of birth, Walter Huntingdon looked upon himself as a colossalfigure in the household, and on his poor brother as a cipher.

  On the other hand, Amos, if he had been of a similar temperament to hisbrother, would have been inevitably more or less cowed and driven intohimself by the circumstances which surrounded him, and the treatmentwhich he undeservedly received at the hands of his parents and youngerbrother. Being, however, naturally of a shy and nervous disposition, hewould have been completely crushed under the burden of heartlessneglect, and his heart frozen up by the withholding of a father's andmother's love, had it not been for the gentle and deep affection of hisaunt, Miss Huntingdon, who was privileged to lead that poor, desolate,craving heart to Him whose special office it is to pour a heavenly balminto the wounded spirit. In herself, too, he found a source of comfortfrom her pitying love, which in a measure took the place of that whichhis nearest ought to have given him, but did not. And so, as boy andyoung man, Amos Huntingdon learned, under the severe discipline of hisearthly home, lessons which were moulding his character to a nobilitywhich few suspected, who, gazing on that timid, shrinking youth, went ontheir way with a glance or shrug of pity. But so it was.

  Amos had formed a mighty purpose; it was to be the one object of hisearthly life, to which everything was to bend till he had accomplishedit. But who would have thought of such an iron resolution of will in abreast like that poor boy's? For to him an ordinary conversation was atrial, and to speak in company an effort, though it was but to answer asimple question. If a stranger asked his opinion, a nervous blushcovered his face as he forced out a reply. The solitude which othersfound irksome had special charms for him. With one person only in hisown home did he feel really at ease,--that person was his aunt, for hebelieved that she in a measure really understood and sympathised withhim. And yet that shy, nervous, retiring young man, down-trodden andrepulsed as he was, was possessed by one grand and all-absorbingpurpose: it was this, to bring back his sister to her father's homeforgiven, and his mother to that same home with the cloud removed fromher mind and spirit.

  That both these objects _might_ be accomplished he was firmly persuaded.At the same time, he was fully aware that to every one else who knewhis father and the circumstances which had led to the sad estrangementof the daughter and removal of the mother, such a restoration as hecontemplated bringing about would appear absolutely hopeless. Yet hehimself had no doubts on the subject. The conviction that his purposemight and would be accomplished was stamped into his soul as by anindelible brand. He was perfectly sure that every hindrance could beremoved, though _how_ he could not tell. But there stood up thisconviction ever facing him, ever beckoning him on, as though a messengerfrom an unseen world. Not that he was ignorant of nor underrated themagnitude of the obstacles in his way. He knew and felt mostoppressively that everything almost was against him. The very thoughtof speaking to his father on the subject made a chill shudder creep overhim. To move a single step in the direction of the attainment of hisobject required an effort from which his retiring nature shrank as ifstung by a spark of white heat. The opposition, direct or indirect, ofthose nearest to him was terrible even to contemplate, and was magnifiedwhile yet at a distance through the haze of his morbid sensitiveness.Yet his conviction and purpose remained unshaken. He was, moreover,fully aware that neither mother nor sister had any deep affection forhim, and that, should he gain the end he had set before him, he mightget no nearer to their hearts than the place he now occupied. Itmattered not; he had devoted himself to his great object as to a work ofholy self-denial and labour of love, and from the pursuit of that objectnothing should move him, but onward he would struggle towards itsattainment, with the steady determination which would crush throughhindrances and obstacles by the weight of its tremendous earnestness.

  This purpose had hovered before his thoughts in dim outline while he wasyet a boy, and had at length assumed its full and clear proportionswhile he was at Oxford. There it was that he became acquainted with aChristian young man who, pitying his loneliness and appreciating hischaracter, had sought and by degrees obtained his friendship, and, in ameasure, his confidence, as far as he was able to give it. To hissurprise Amos discovered that his new friend's father was the physicianunder whose charge and in whose house his own mother, Mrs Huntingdon,had been placed. Mr Huntingdon had kept the matter a profound secretfrom his own children, and no member of his household ever ventured toallude to the poor lady or to her place of retirement, and it was onlyby an inadvertence on his young friend's part that Amos became aware ofhis mother's present abode. But this knowledge, after the firstexcitement of surprise had passed away, only strengthened the purposewhich had gradually taken its settled hold upon his heart. It was tohim a new and important link in the chain of events which would lead, heknew, finally to the accomplishment of his one great resolve. And so hedetermined to communicate with his friend's father, the physician, andascertain from him in confidence his opinion of his mother's mentalcondition, and whether there was any possibility of her restoration tosanity. The reply to his inquiries was that his mother's case was farfrom hopeless; and with this he was satisfied. Then he took the letterwhich conveyed the opinion of the physician to him, and, spreading itout before God in his chamber, solemnly and earnestly dedicated himselfto the work of restoration, asking guidance and strength from on high.

  From that day forward he was gradually maturing his plans, being ever onthe watch to catch any ray of light which might show him where to placea footstep on the road which led up to the end he had in view. Earthlycounsellors he had none; he dared not have any--at least not at present.Even Miss Huntingdon knew nothing of his purpose from himself, thoughshe had some suspicions of his having devoted himself to some specialwork, gathered from her own study of his character and conduct; butthese suspicions she kept entirely to herself, prepared to advise orassist should Amos give her his confidence in the matter, and seek hercounsel or help. Such was the position of things when our story opens.Amos was waiting, hoping, watching; but no onward step had been takensince he had received the physician's letter.

  A fortnight passed away after the accident, when Miss Huntingdon, whoh
ad now completely recovered from her fright and bruises, was coming outof a labouring man's cottage on a fine and cheery afternoon. As shestood on the doorstep exchanging a few parting words with the cottager'swife, she was startled by the sound of furious galloping not far off,and shrank back into the cottage, naturally dreading the sight of anexcited horse so soon after her perilous upset in her brother'scarriage. Nearer and nearer came the violent clatter, and, as sheinvoluntarily turned her eyes towards the road with a nervous terror,she was both alarmed and surprised to see her nephew Walter and anotheryoung man dashing past on horseback at whirlwind speed, the animals onwhich they rode being covered with foam.

  In a few moments all was still again, and Miss Huntingdon continued herrounds, but, as she turned the corner of a lane which led up to the backof the Manor-house, she was startled at seeing her nephew Walter infront of her on foot, covered with mud, and leading his horse, which waslimping along with difficulty, being evidently in pain. His companionwas walking by his side, also leading his horse, and both were soabsorbed with their present trouble that they were quite unconscious ofher approach. Something plainly was much amiss. Walter had had a fall,and his horse was injured; of this there could be no doubt. Could shebe of any service? She was just going to press forward, when sheobserved Mr Huntingdon's groom coming from the direction of the house,and, as her nephew did not walk as if he had received any seriousinjury, she thought it better to leave him to put matters straight forhimself, knowing that young men are very sensitive about beinginterfered with or helped when their pride has been wounded by anyhumiliating catastrophe. So she turned aside into a small copse throughwhich was a short cut to the house, intending to go forward and beprepared to render any assistance should Walter desire it.

  None of the party had seen her, but she passed near enough to them onthe other side of a tall hedge to overhear the words, "Won't thegovernor just be mad!" and then, "Here's a sovereign, Dick, and I'llmake it all straight for you with my father." What could have happened?She was not long left in suspense; for her brother's voice in highanger soon resounded through the house, and she learned from her maid,who rushed into her room full of excitement, that Forester, MrHuntingdon's favourite hunter, had been lamed, and otherwise seriouslyinjured, and that Dick the groom, who had been the author of themischief, had been dismissed at a moment's notice.

  Poor Miss Huntingdon's heart misgave her that all had not been quitestraightforward in the matter, and that the blame had been laid on thewrong person. So she went down to dinner, at the summoning of the gong,with a heavy heart. As she entered the drawing-room she saw herbrother, who usually advanced to give her his arm with all due courtesy,sitting still in his easy-chair, hiding his face with the newspaper,which a glance showed her to be turned the wrong way up. Amos also andWalter were seated as far apart from their father and from each other aswas possible, and for a few moments not a word was spoken. Then,suddenly remembering himself, the squire dismissed the paper from hishand with an irritable jerk, and, with the words, "I suppose that meansdinner," gave his arm to his sister, and conducted her in silence to thedining-room.

  Nothing in the shape of conversation followed for a while, MrHuntingdon having shut up his sister by a very curt reply to a questionwhich she put on some commonplace subject, just for the sake of breakingthrough the oppressive stillness. At length, when the meal was half-waythrough, Mr Huntingdon exclaimed abruptly,--

  "I can't understand for the life of me how that fool of a Dick evermanaged to get poor Forester into such a scrape. I always thought theboy understood horses better than that."

  "I hope, Walter," ventured his sister in a soothing tone, "that the pooranimal is not seriously, or at any rate permanently, damaged."

  "Nonsense, Kate," he exclaimed peevishly;--"but, pardon me, it's nofault of yours. Damaged! I should think so. I doubt if he will everbe fit to ride again. But I can't make it out quite yet, it's veryvexing. I had rather have given a hundred pounds than it should havehappened. And Dick, too; the fellow told the queerest tale about it. Ishould have thought he was telling a lie, only he was taking the blameto himself, and that didn't look like lying.--By-the-by, Amos, have_you_ been out riding this afternoon?"

  "Yes, father."

  "What horse did you ride?"

  "My own pony, Prince."

  "Did you meet Dick exercising the horses?"

  "No; I didn't see anything of him."

  "That is strange. Where were you riding to?"

  "I was off on a little business beyond the moor."

  "Beyond the moor! what can you have been wanting beyond the moor?"

  Amos turned red and did not reply.

  "I don't know what has come to the boy," said the squire surlily. Butnow Walter, who had not uttered a word hitherto, broke in suddenly,"Father, you mustn't be hard upon Dick. It's a misfortune, after all.There isn't a better rider anywhere; only accidents will happensometimes, as you know they did the other night. Forester bolted whenthe little girl's red cloak blew off and flapped right on to his eyes.Dick was not expecting it, and tried to keep the horses in; but Forestersprang right through a hedge and staked himself before Dick could pullhim in. It's a mercy, I think, that Dick hadn't his neck broke."

  He said these last words slowly and reluctantly, for his eye had restedon his aunt's hands, which were being laid quietly one across the otheron the table in front of her.

  "Red cloak!" exclaimed the squire; "why, Dick told me it was a boy's hatthat blew off and flapped against Forester's eyes."

  "Ah! well, father, it may have been a hat. I thought he said a cloak;but it comes pretty much to the same thing."

  There was an unsteadiness about the boy's voice as he said these lastwords which every one noticed except his father. The subject, however,was now dropped, and was not again alluded to during the evening.

  Next morning after breakfast Walter knocked at his aunt's door. When hehad entered and taken the offered chair by her side, he sat for a minuteor so with eyes cast down, and silent.

  "Well, Walter," she said after a while.

  "_Ill_, auntie," he replied, in a voice between a laugh and a sigh.

  "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 moralcourage?"

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

  "My hero this morning, Walter, is George Washington, the great Americangeneral and statesman, the man who had so much to do in the founding ofthat great republic which is called the United States. A braver mannever lived; but he was a brave boy too, brave with moral courage. Notthat he wanted natural courage in his early years, for at school nonecould beat him in leaping, wrestling, swimming, and other athleticexercises. When he was about six years old, his father gave him a newhatchet one day. George was highly pleased, and went about cutting andhacking everything in his way. Unfortunately, amongst other things heused the hatchet with all the force of his little arm on a young Englishcherry tree, which happened to be a great favourite with his father.Without thinking of the mischief he was doing, George greatly injuredthe 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 theyknew nothing of it; when little George entering the room and hearing theinquiry, though he saw that his father was very angry, went straight upto 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.' `Mynoble boy,' said his father, as he clasped him in his arms, `I wouldrather lose a hundred cherry-trees, were their blossoms of silver andtheir fruit of gold, than that a son of mine should dare to tell alie.'--Dear Walter, that was true noble courage; and George Washingtongrew up with it. Those are beautiful lines of one of our old poets,George Herbert,--

  "`Dare to be true, nothing can need a lie; T
he fault that needs it most grows two thereby.'"

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

  "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, itis never too late to mend."

  "Yes, dear Aunt Kate, I'll tell you all. Bob Saunders called yesterdayjust after luncheon, and asked me to go out for a ride with him, and ifI could give him a mount, for his own horse was laid up with someoutlandish 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 wasjust coming out of the yard as I got into it; he was riding Forester andleading 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 rideBessie.' `Please, Master Walter,' says Dick, `your father's veryparticular. I don't know what he'll say to me if I let you exerciseForester.' `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, andbegged me to be very careful. `Never fear,' I said; `we'll bring themboth back as cool as cucumbers.' And I meant it, auntie. But somehowor 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 thecommon? it'll do them no harm.' Well, I didn't say yes or no; butsomehow or other, off we were in another minute, and, do what I would, Icouldn't keep Forester back. Down the lane we went, and right over thecommon like lightning, and, when I was pulling hard to get Foresterround, he went smack through a hedge, and left me on the wrong side ofit. Bob laughed at first, but we soon saw that it was no laughingmatter. He caught Forester directly, for the poor beast had hurt hisfoot, and limped along as he walked; and there was an ugly wound in hischest from a pointed stick in the hedge which had struck him. So wecrawled home, all of us in a nice pickle, you may be sure. And then Ibegan to think of what father would say, and I couldn't bear to thinkthat he would have to blame me for it all; so I turned into a regularsneaking coward, and gave Dick a sovereign to tell a lie and take theblame 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 knewwhat a coward I was before. But only let me get well through thisscrape, 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?" askedhis aunt after a pause.

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

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

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

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

  "Is it hard, Walter?" she replied gently. "The next best thing to notdoing wrong is to be sorry for it when you have done it."

  "Well, Aunt Kate, I _am_ sorry--terribly sorry. I wish I'd nevertouched the horses. I wish that fellow Bob had been a hundred miles offyesterday afternoon."

  "I daresay, Walter; but is that all? Are you not going to _show_ thatyou are sorry? Won't you imitate, as far as it is now possible, littleGeorge 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 alie, but I would, and did; so it's too late now for me to show moralcourage."

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

  "Well, I suppose you are right, auntie," he said slowly, and with aheavy sigh; "but I shan't find _my_ father throwing his arms round me asGeorge Washington's father did, and calling me his noble boy, andtelling me he had rather I told the truth than have a thousand gold andsilver cherry-trees."

  "Perhaps not, Walter; but you will have, at any rate, the satisfactionof 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 andknitting his brows by way of strengthening his resolution; and he leftthe 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 withForester after all. He has got an ugly cut; but he doesn't walk butvery slightly lame. A week's rest will set him all right; but I shallsend that Dick about his business to-morrow, or as soon as his quarter'sup. 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 hadForester well in hand, the accident couldn't have happened."

  Walter then gave his father the true version of the mishap, andconfessed his own wrong-doing in the matter. For a few moments MrHuntingdon looked utterly taken aback; then he walked up and down theroom, at first with wide and excited strides, and then more calmly. Atlast 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 sorryto find that Dick, after all, was not the culprit; for he had a greatliking for the lad, who suited him excellently as groom, and hadreceived many kindnesses from him. No doubt he had told him an untruthon the present occasion; but then, as he had done this to screen hismaster's favourite son, Mr Huntingdon did not feel disposed to take himto task severely for the deceit; and, as Walter had now made the onlyamends in his power, his father was glad to withdraw Dick's dismissal,and to pass over the trouble without further comment.