CHAPTER FIVE.
IS HE RIDICULOUS?
Few people besides the actual sufferers can at all conceive orappreciate the intense misery which shy and retiring charactersexperience when themselves or their conduct are made the subjects ofopen ridicule, especially in company. Amos was peculiarly sensitive onthis point; and Walter knew it, and too often ungenerously availedhimself of this knowledge to wound his brother when he owed him agrudge, or was displeased or out of temper with him. He would watch hisopportunity to drag Amos forward, as it were, when he could present himto his father and his friends in a ridiculous light; and then he wouldclap his hands, point to his brother's flushed face, and make sometaunting or sarcastic remark about his "rosy cheeks." Poor Amos, onthese occasions, tingling in every nerve, and ready almost to weep tearsof vexation, would shrink into himself and retreat into another room atthe earliest opportunity, followed not unfrequently by an outspokenreproach from his brother, that "he must be a regular muff if hecouldn't bear a joke." Sometimes Walter's unfeeling sallies wouldreceive a feeble rebuke from his father; but more often Mr Huntingdonwould join in the laugh, and remark to his friends that Amos had nospirit 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 hernephews; and, while she profoundly pitied Amos, she equally grieved atthe cruel want of love and forbearance in her younger nephew towards hiselder brother.
Some weeks had passed away since the disastrous ride, and Forester beingnone the worse for his mishap, Mr Huntingdon allowed Walter to exercisehim occasionally, accompanied by Dick, who had been fully restored tofavour. It was on a lovely summer afternoon that the two had trottedbriskly along to a greater distance from home than they had at allcontemplated reaching when they started. They had now arrived at a partof the country quite unknown to Walter, and were just opposite a neatlittle cottage with a porch in front of it covered with honeysuckle,when Walter checked his horse, and said, "Dick, it's full time we turnedback, or my father will wonder what has become of us." So they turnedhomewards. They had not, however, ridden more than a quarter of a mile,when Walter found that he had dropped one of his gloves; so, tellingDick to walk his horse, and he would join him in a few minutes, hereturned to the little cottage, and, having recovered his glove justopposite the gate, was in the act of remounting, when he suddenlyexclaimed, "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 onethat might naturally astonish him. At the moment when he was about tospring into his saddle, the cottage door had opened, and out ran alittle boy and girl about four or five years of age, followed by AmosHuntingdon, who chased them round the little garden, crying out, "I'llcatch you, George; I'll catch you, Polly;" laughing loud as he said so,while the children rushed forward shouting at the fun. They had gonethus twice round the paths, when Amos became suddenly aware that he wasbeing observed by some one on horseback. In an instant he made a rushfor the house, and, as he was vanishing through the porch, a woman'shead and a portion of her dress became visible in the entrance.
Walter paused in utter bewilderment; but the next minute Amos was at hisside, and said, in a hoarse, troubled voice, "Not a word of this,Walter, not a word of this to any one at home." Walter's only reply tothis at first was a hearty peal of laughter; then he cried out, "Allright, 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 hisbrother, whose appealing look might well have touched his heart, heurged his horse to a canter, and was gone.
Amos did not appear among the family that evening. He had returned homejust before dinner-time, and sent a message into the drawing-room askingto be excused as he did not feel very well. Miss Huntingdon went up tohis room to see what was amiss, and returned with the report that therewas nothing seriously wrong; that her nephew had a bad sick headache,and that bed was the best thing at present for him. Mr Huntingdonasked no further questions, for Amos was not unfrequently kept bysimilar attacks from joining the family circle. His father sometimesthought and called him fanciful, but for the most part left him to do ashe liked, without question or remark. And so it was that Amos had grownup to manhood without settling down to any profession, and was leftpretty much to follow the bent of his own inclinations. His father knewthat there was no need to be anxious about him on the score of worldlyprovision. He had seen well to his education, having sent him to a goodschool, and in due time to the university, and, till he came of age, hadmade him a sufficient allowance, which was now no longer needed, sincehe had come into a small fortune at his majority, left him by hismother's father; and, as he was heir to the entailed property, there wasno need for concern as to his future prospects, so no effort was made byMr Huntingdon to draw him out of his natural timidity and reserve, andinduce him to enter on any regular professional employment. Perhaps hewould take to travelling abroad some day, and that would enlarge hismind and rouse him a bit. At present he really would make nothing oflaw, physic, or divinity. He was sufficiently provided for, and wouldturn out some day a useful and worthy man, no doubt; but he was nevermeant to shine; he must leave that to Walter, who had got it naturallyin him. So thought and so sometimes said the squire; and poor Amospretty much agreed with this view of his father's; and Walter did so, ofcourse. The Manor-house therefore continued Amos's home till he shouldchoose to make another for himself.
But was he making a new home for himself? This was Walter's bewilderingthought as he cantered back, after his strange discovery of his brotherat the cottage. Was it really so? Had this shy, silent brother of hisactually taken to himself a wife unknown to any one, just as his poorsister had married clandestinely? It might be so--and why not? Strangepeople do strange things; and not only so, but Walter's conscience toldhim 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 aboutthe 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, andhave inveigled Amos into marrying her, knowing that he was heir toFlixworth Manor. Eh, what a disgrace! Such were Walter's thoughts ashe rode home from the scene of the strange encounter. But then, again,he felt that this was nothing but conjecture after all. Why might notAmos have just been doing a kind act to some poor cottager and herchildren, whom he had learned to take an interest in? And yet it wasodd that he should be so terribly upset at being found out in doing alittle act of kindness. Walter was sure that not a shadow of moralwrong could rest on his brother's conduct. He might have made a fool ofhimself, but it could not be anything worse.
One thing, however, Walter was resolved upon, he would have a bit of funout of his discovery. So next day at luncheon, when they were seated attable, unattended by a servant, Amos being among them, but unusuallynervous and ill at ease, Walter abruptly inquired of his brother acrossthe table if he could lend him a copy of the "Nursery Rhymes." No replybeing given, Walter continued, "Oh, do give us a song, Amos,--`Ride aCock Horse,' or `Baby Bunting,' or `Hi, Diddle, Diddle.' I'm sure youmust 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 imploringthat Walter was for a moment silenced. Miss Huntingdon also noticedthat look, and, though she could not tell the cause of it, she wasdeeply pained that her nephew should have called it forth from hisbrother. Walter, however, was not to be kept from his joke, though hehad noticed that his aunt looked gravely and sorrowfully at him, and hadcrossed one hand upon the other. "Ah, well," he went on, "love in acottage is a very romantic thing, no doubt; and I hope these darlinglittle ones, Amos, enjoy the best of health."
"Whatever does the boy mean?" exclaimed the squire, whose attention wasnow fairly roused.
Amos looked at first, when his father put the
question, as though hewould have sunk into the earth. His colour came and went, and he halfrose up, as though he would have left the table; but, after a moment'spause, he resumed his seat, and, turning quietly to Mr Huntingdon, saidin a low, clear voice, "Walter saw me yesterday afternoon playing withsome 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 gamesaren't much in your line."
"I had my reasons for what I was doing," replied the other calmly. "Iam not ashamed of it; I have done nothing to be ashamed of in thematter. I can give no other explanation at present. But I must regretthat 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 noharm," said the squire pettishly.
"Perhaps not, dear father," replied Amos gently; "but some funny wordshave a very sharp edge to them."
No sooner had Miss Huntingdon retired to her room after luncheon thanshe was joined by Walter. He pretended not to look at her, but, layinghold of her two hands, and then putting them wide apart from oneanother, he said, still keeping his eyes fixed on them, "Unkind hands ofa 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 moralcourage."
Disengaging her hands from her nephew's grasp, Miss Huntingdon put oneof them on his shoulder, and with the other drew him into a chair. "Ismy dear Walter satisfied with his behaviour to his brother?" she asked.
"Ah! that was not the point, Aunt Kate," was his reply; "the hands wereto be crossed when I had failed in moral courage; and I have not failedto-day."
"No, Walter, perhaps not; but you told me you should like to be taughtmoral courage by examples, and what happened to-day suggested to me avery striking example, so I crossed my hands."
"Well, dear auntie, please let me hear it."
"My moral hero to-day is Colonel Gardiner, Walter."
"Ah! he was a soldier then, auntie?"
"Yes, and a very brave one too; indeed, never a braver. When he was ayoung man, and had not been many years in the army, he was terriblywounded in a battle, and lay on the field unable to raise himself to hisfeet or move from his place. Thinking that some one might come round toplunder 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 notwishing that his money should be taken from him, as he had several goldpieces about him, he managed to get these pieces out of his pocket, andthen to glue them in his clenched hand with the clotted blood which hadcollected about one of his wounds. Then he became insensible, andfriends at last recovered his body and brought him to consciousnessagain, and the money was found safe in his unrelaxed grasp. I mentionthis merely to show the cool and deliberate courage of the man; hiswonderful 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 samemarvellous bravery then. It was in the disastrous engagement ofPrestonpans, in the year 1745. The Highlanders surprised the Englisharmy, turned their position, and seized their cannon. Colonel Gardinerexerted himself to the utmost, but his men quickly fled, and otherregiments did the same. He then joined a small body of English foot whoremained firm, but they were soon after overpowered by the Highlanders.At the beginning of the onset, which in the whole lasted but a fewminutes, Colonel Gardiner received a bullet-wound in his left breast;but he said it was only a flesh-wound, and fought on, though hepresently after received a shot in the thigh. Then, seeing a party ofthe foot bravely fighting near him, who had no officer to head them, herode 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 wasdragged off his horse, and received a mortal blow on the back of hishead; and yet he managed to wave his hat as a signal to a faithfulservant to retreat, crying out at the same time, `Take care ofyourself.'"
"Bravo! auntie, that was true courage if you like; that's old-fashionedcourage such as suits my father and me."
"I know it, Walter. But Colonel Gardiner showed a higher and noblercourage; higher and nobler because it required far more steady self-denial, and arose from true religious principle. I want you to noticethe contrast, and that is why I have mentioned these instances of what Imay call his animal bravery. I have no wish to rob him of the honourdue to him for those acts of courage; but then, after all, he was bravein those constitutionally,--I might say, indeed, because he could nothelp it. It was very different with his moral courage. When he wasliving an utterly godless and indeed wicked life, it pleased God toarrest him in his evil career by a wonderful vision of our Saviourhanging on the cross for him. It was the turning-point of his life. Hebecame a truly changed man, and as devoted a Christian as he hadformerly been a slave to the world and his own sinful habits. And nowhe had to show on whose side he was and meant to be. It is always adifficult thing to be outspoken for religion in the army, but it was tentimes as difficult then as it is now, seeing that in our day there areso many truly Christian officers and common soldiers in the service.Drunkenness and swearing were dreadfully prevalent; indeed, in thosedays it was quite a rare thing to find an officer who did not defile hisspeech continually with profane oaths. But Colonel Gardiner was not aman to do things by halves: he was now enlisted under Christ's banner asa soldier of the Cross, and he must stand up for his new Master andnever be ashamed of him anywhere. But to do this would bring himpersecution in a shape peculiarly trying to him,--I mean in the shape ofridicule. He would, he tells us, at first, when the change had onlylately taken place in him, rather a thousandfold have marched up to themouth of a cannon just ready to be fired than stand up to bear the scornand jests of his ungodly companions; he winced under these, andinstinctively shrank back from them. Nevertheless, he braved all, thescorn, the laughter, the jokes, and made it known everywhere that he wasnot ashamed of confessing his Saviour, cost what it might; and he evenmanaged, by a mixture of firm remonstrance and good-tempered persuasion,to put down all profane swearing whenever he was present, by inducinghis brother officers to consent to the payment of a fine by the guiltyparty for every oath uttered. And so by his consistency he won atlength the respect of all who knew him, even of those who most widelydiffered from him in faith and practice. There, Walter, that is what Icall true and grand moral courage and heroism."
"So it was, so it was, dear auntie; but why have you brought forwardColonel 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 yourjokes on Amos, and nothing seems to please you better than to raise thelaugh against him and to bring the hot flush into his cheeks. Ah! butyou little know the pain and the misery you are inflicting; you littleknow the moral courage it requires on your brother's part to stand upunder that ridicule without resenting it, and to go on with any purposehe may have formed in spite of it. I want you to see a reflection ofColonel Gardiner's noblest courage, his high moral courage, in your owndear brother, and to value him for it, and not to despise him, as I seeyou 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 youare right. Poor Amos! I've been very hard upon him, I believe. Itwasn't right, and I'll try and do better. But it's such a funny ideataking _him_ as a copy. Why, everybody's always telling me to mark whatAmos does, and just do the very opposite."
"Not everybody, Walter; not the aunt who wants to see you truly good andnoble. There are a grandeur of character and true nobility in Amoswhich you little suspect, but which one day you also will admire, thoughyou do not see nor understand them now."
Walter did not reply. He was not best pleased with his aunt's lastremarks, 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 youare in Amos's confidence, and that you know all about the littlechildren and their cottage home."
"Nay, my boy," replied his aunt, "you are mistaken; Amos has not made mehis confidante in the matter. But I have formed my opinion of him andhis motives from little things which have presented themselves to myobservation from time to time, and I have a firm conviction that mynephew Walter will agree with me in the end about his brother, whateverhe may think now. At least I hope so."
"So do I, dear auntie. Good-bye, good-bye." And, having said thesewords half playfully and half seriously, Walter vanished from the roomwith a hop, skip, and jump.