Amos Huntingdon Part 8

"And the hypocrite?" asked Walter, but with less of amus.e.m.e.nt in his tone.

"Ah, I think that was better still! He a.s.sumed the character of 'Simon Batter-text;' and he mimicked his preaching, and his praying, and his sighs, and his 'ahmens' in a wonderful way. It really was perfect. I'm so sorry you were not there, you would have so thoroughly enjoyed it."

There was a pause, and a general silence, for the attention of the rest of the company had been drawn to the subject and the speakers.

"Surely you don't see any harm in a little fun like that?" asked the young lady in some dismay, as she noticed that Walter's face and manner were troubled as he hesitated in his reply.

All eyes were on him. What should he say? He turned very red; and then, having helped himself to a gla.s.s of wine, he said, carelessly, and with a short, merry laugh, "Harm! oh, of course not! The man meant no harm; he didn't attack individuals. All the better if he made drunkenness and hypocrisy ridiculous.--Don't you think so, Amos?"

For a moment his brother hesitated, for every eye was directed towards him. No one spoke; not a knife nor fork clattered.

"Well, my boy," said his father, "let us have your opinion."

Thus appealed to, Amos no longer hesitated, but said calmly, and in a low distinct voice, heard by every one at the table, "I had rather not have given my opinion; but, when I am thus openly appealed to, I must not shrink from expressing it. I think it wrong, utterly wrong, to ridicule sin in any shape or form. To put sin in a funny light is not the way to make us hate it as we ought to do. Our Saviour never made light or a jest of sin; and I believe that the man who mimicked a drunkard and a hypocritical preacher had no love for either sobriety or holiness."

The profoundest silence reigned while Amos uttered these words. At first his voice had trembled, but it immediately became perfectly firm, and a quiet peace rested on his sweet face as he finished. A sudden chill seemed to have fallen on most of the party. Some shrugged their shoulders, some smiled, others looked annoyed. Mrs Morse and her daughter exchanged looks of bewilderment behind Amos's back. Walter, with feelings of mingled shame and vexation, glanced at the bright face of his aunt, whose eyes swam with grateful tears. Then he glanced down: her hands were crossed; yes, he knew that it would be so. And how felt Mr Huntingdon? To the surprise of all, and of none more than Amos himself, he exclaimed, "That's right, Amos; you've spoken out like a man, and I believe you are right."

For a while there was silence; then a gentleman near the squire's end of the table asked his next neighbour, "What sort of a looking man was this same mimic? I believe you were at Lady Gambit's."

"Yes, I was there," replied the other. "I can't say much in his favour.

He was not a bad-looking fellow,--black hair, if it was his own, black piercing eyes, and a black beard. I can't imagine where her ladyship picked him up."

"But _I_ can," said a gentleman opposite. "He is some strolling player.

He got, it would seem, access to Lady Gambit's ear in some underhand way; and he has done now what our young friend Walter suggested a little while ago that he might as well have done sooner. Having taken other people off, he has taken himself off also, and has contrived to carry some twenty pounds of her ladyship's money with him, which he managed to swindle her out of; and the police are on the look-out for him. I heard that only this morning from the sergeant himself."

Poor Amos! how terribly his heart sank within him when he heard these words! Yes; he could have little doubt about it. This mimic and swindler, he felt a.s.sured, was none other than his own brother-in-law.

Happily, however, he was pretty sure to be now out of the neighbourhood, and was not likely to show himself soon again. But what of his unhappy wife? Alas! Amos dreaded to think what the unprincipled man might do with or against her.

Glad, heartily glad, were both the brothers when the dinner was over, and the rest of the evening, after "dragging its slow length along," had at last come to an end. Walter, indeed, rattled away in the drawing- room to every one's content but his own. Still, a chill had fallen on more than one of the party; and as for poor Mrs Morse and her daughter, after endeavouring to make themselves agreeable by gusts which were followed by portentous lulls, they were glad to order their carriage and take their departure at the earliest hour consistent with politeness.

And now, when all the guests had taken leave, and Miss Huntingdon had retired to her room, happy in the prospect of coming rest, she heard a sort of half scuffle at her door, followed by a knock. Then in came Walter, dragging in some one after him who was evidently reluctant to be thus introduced. "Can you, oh, can you, dear aunt, spare me--ay, spare _us_,--that means me and Amos, or, rather, it ought to be Amos and me,-- just a few minutes? Amos doesn't want to come, just like his unselfish self, but I do. No, I don't want to tire you after all your fatigues, but I can't go to sleep till I have had a word from you. If you don't let me stop, if you don't say that word, I shall lie awake all night, thinking of those hands--not _cross_, for their owner is never cross, but _crossed_--those crossed hands. Or if I do go to sleep, I shall do nothing but dream of them. So pray let me stop; and Amos must stop too."

The permission to remain having been cheerfully granted, Walter hauled his brother into a chair, and then, stooping over him, kissed his forehead. Then he flung himself on his knees and looked up wistfully into Miss Huntingdon's face. Oh, how entirely did she forget all weariness, as she marked the effect that Walter's kiss had on his brother; how it brought tears from those eyes which had long known little of weeping except for sorrow.

"Well, dear boy," she said, "and what would you have with me now?"

"Ah! auntie, I want those hands to talk to me, and I want Amos to hear them talk. I want you to tell us both some of your moral courage anecdotes; they will strengthen him and be a lesson to me; for I don't want you to tell me this time that I was wrong. There sits the brave man, here kneels the coward."

"Dear, dear boy," was Miss Huntingdon's reply, with a warm embrace, "yes; what you say is true. It _did_ require true moral courage to speak up as Amos did, at such a time and before so many; and we have some n.o.ble instances on record of such a courage under somewhat similar circ.u.mstances, and these show us that conduct like this will force respect, let the world say and think what it pleases. I have two or three heroes to bring forward on this topic, but I must be brief, as the hour is late.

"You remember Frederick the Great, as he was called. Alas! he was great in infidelity as well as in war; and he delighted to gather round him those who shared in the same unbelieving views. G.o.d and his truth were subjects of ridicule with them; and a bold man indeed would he be who would venture to say in their presence a word in favour of the gospel or of respect for its divine Author. But there was such a one amongst those who had the privilege of sitting at the king's table; an old grey- headed man of rank, who had fought his country's battles n.o.bly, and whose wise counsels in state affairs were highly prized by his sovereign. He was dining one day at the palace, and saw all round him none but those who made a mock of sin and religion. The conversation flowed freely, and the smart jests of Frederick called forth similar flashes of wit from his different guests. The subject of Christianity soon came up, and was immediately handled in the most profane and bitter style by the king and those around him. No wit is so cheap as profane wit; for the devil seems to give a special facility of sarcasm to those who attack G.o.d's truth; and, besides that, there seems nothing which unG.o.dly men relish so much, for giving point to their blasphemies, as Scripture facts or words misquoted, misapplied, or parodied. So the gospel and its Founder were bandied from tongue to tongue as a theme for unholy mirth. But presently there was a pause and a dead silence; for the grey-headed old soldier, who had sat perfectly silent and deeply pained, as he listened to the unhallowed talk of his companions, rose to his feet, his face flushed, and his h.o.a.ry head bowed down. What was coming now?

"'May it please your majesty,' the old man began, while the tears ran down his cheeks, and his voice was troubled, 'I have always, as I am sure you will acknowledge, behaved with due respect to your majesty whenever in your majesty's presence; nor can any one here say that he has ever heard me speak evil of your majesty behind your back. Your majesty knows, also, that I have endeavoured to serve you faithfully on the field and in the council-chamber. You must therefore bear with me while I say that I cannot sit patiently by and hear your majesty join with your friends in speaking evil of the dearest friend I have, one dearer to me than my life, and whom I must hold in greater honour than even your majesty. I mean my Saviour and heavenly King, the Lord Jesus Christ. Pardon me, therefore, your majesty, if I ask leave to withdraw at once.'

"Just imagine, dear boys, such a speech in such a company, for to such effect were the words spoken by that n.o.ble old soldier of the Cross.

Ah! it is comparatively easy to stand up for the truth in our day and country, because religion is now universally respected by all people of good sense and refinement, even by those who do not follow it; and anything like an open attack upon Christianity, in a mixed company, would be frowned upon by society as being ungentlemanly and in bad taste. But it was not so in Frederick's court, where a profession of infidel opinions was almost held to be an essential in one who would make any pretension to intellectual acuteness. And the old officer knew this well. He knew the scorn which would glare upon him from the eyes of the other guests. He expected nothing but sneering pity, where such sentiments as his own could not be visited with a severer penalty. But he did not hang back through fear of man. He could say, as David says in the Psalms, 'I will speak of thy testimonies even before kings, and will not be ashamed.' Was he not a true moral hero, dear Walter?"

"An out-and-out one, dear aunt," was his reply. "But what did the king say to this?"

"The king behaved on this occasion like a king and a man. Poor king, he was not without a heart that could, at times, feel as it ought to do.

He at once turned to the faithful old servant of the great Master, and, checking all attempts at ridicule or retort in the other guests, a.s.sured him that he thoroughly respected and appreciated his feelings and motives and his present conduct, and that never again would he himself say anything against the old man's faith nor his Saviour while he was by, nor would he suffer any who might be with him to do so."

"Hip, hip, hurrah!" said Walter. "The old man got the best of it after all; and so will my brother Amos here, spite of his having such an unworthy coward of a brother as poor Walter. But you have another example for us, auntie; nothing like knocking the nail on the head. I feel better already, and mean to be a perfect moral lion for bravery in future; at least I hope so."

"I hope so too, Walter," said his aunt with a smile. "I will give you, then, one other instance of the same sort of moral courage, but taken from quite a different country, and occurring in our own days; and then I think we shall have had lessons enough for to-night. My hero this time is an American, and a young man too.

"You will have heard of the remarkable revival which took place in that country, I mean in the United States, some few years since. Of course, at such seasons there will be a mixture of good and evil. Not all who make a profession will stand firm; while those who have been merely carried along by the current of excitement will return at last to the world, from which they have never really separated themselves, when the excitement has pa.s.sed away. But, indeed, a great and lasting work for G.o.d was accomplished in that revival, and the young man I am speaking about was one of the fruits of it.

"He had been living a very gay and thoughtless life. I am not sure that he had been indulging in any openly sinful practices; but, at any rate, he had been giving himself up wholly to the pursuit of this world. He was in a good social position, and possessed of abundant means.

Moreover, he had received a good education, so far as mere learning went, and was of pleasing and popular manners. The last thing he would have thought of would have been turning a Christian. But G.o.d, whose thoughts are not as our thoughts, had better things in store for him.

The revival wave swept over the neighbourhood where he was, and carried him along with it. His heart, his views, his aims were all really changed; he was, indeed and in truth, a new creature. And now he felt that he must not hide his colours, he must nail them to the mast, or, rather, he must wrap them round him that, go where he might, every one might see them. His was that thorough-going, energetic, outspeaking disposition which has accomplished such marvellous earthly things through so many of his fellow-countrymen. He was not the person to do anything by halves.

"Before his conversion, himself and several other young men, of like tastes and habits, used to meet weekly at one another's houses, in turn, for card-playing and carousing; and at these meetings he used to be the very life of the party, the gayest of the gay. But what should he do now? It would be no easy matter to confess to his young a.s.sociates the change that had taken place in his heart. What would they think and say? Perhaps he might let it get known by degrees, and then he could just absent himself from the old gatherings, and merely drop out of a society no longer congenial to him. This would save him a great deal of shame and reproach. Would not this be as much as could be reasonably expected of him, and sufficient to show his sincerity and consistency?

It might have satisfied ordinary characters, but it did not satisfy him.

He wanted to be doing something at once for the Master, and to begin with those very young men who had been his companions in sin. So he sent round his printed invitations to every one of them to a gathering in his own house. Such had been the custom with all the members of their fraternity. But this time the invitation was no longer to 'Tea and Cards,' but to 'Tea and Prayer.' It was, indeed, a bold stroke, but it was not the act of the moment from mere impulse or excitement.

"The day of meeting came. A few of his old acquaintances arrived, some, it may be, out of curiosity, or supposing that the 'Prayer' was only a joke. But none were left in doubt. Plainly, lovingly, faithfully, he set before them how the change had been wrought in himself, and how happy it had made him; and then he affectionately urged them all to take the same course as he had done. And I believe that his n.o.ble and courageous dealing was not in vain. Am I wrong, Walter, in cla.s.sing that young American gentleman among my moral heroes?"

"No, dear aunt, certainly not," replied her nephew thoughtfully. "I think he deserves a foremost place;--don't you, Amos?"

"Yes," replied his brother; "he reminds me of the greatest, perhaps, of all moral heroes--I mean, of course, among beings like ourselves. I am thinking of the apostle Paul, who changed at once from the persecutor to the preacher; gave up every earthly honour and advantage; braved the bitter scorn of his old friends; and, without hesitation, began immediately publicly to proclaim the gospel which he had before been mad to destroy."

Walter held out his hand to his brother, and the clasp was a close and mutual one; and then, hand in hand, they left their aunt, who laid her head on her pillow that night with deep thankfulness in her heart, for she saw that, spite of all drawbacks, there was a good work making progress in Walter, and that the high and holy character of the true and tried disciple of the Saviour was gaining strength and beauty in the once despised and misunderstood Amos.

CHAPTER NINE.

IS IT GENUINE?

But though Walter was learning to understand and appreciate his brother's character, and to acknowledge his superiority to himself in moral courage, he was not altogether satisfied with continuing to lie under the sense of that superiority on his brother's part. He had himself been so constantly made the object of his father's admiration and outspoken praises, and had always been so popular with all friends of the family and guests at the Manor-house, that anything like a feeling of inferiority to his brother was one which he found it very hard to allow a lodging in his heart and thoughts. So, while the generous impulse of the moment had led him to applaud and rejoice in his brother's n.o.ble moral courage, when they were discussing the matter in his aunt's room, he was by no means prepared, when that impulse had died away, to allow Amos to carry off and retain the palm which he acknowledged that he had won. Jealousy of his brother's reputation for moral courage with Miss Huntingdon was a meanness which he would have thought himself incapable of, and which he would have repudiated indignantly had he been charged with it. Nevertheless, it was there in his heart; it made him restless and dissatisfied, and kept him longing for an opportunity to display a moral courage which should shine with a light that might, even in his aunt's eyes, eclipse, or at any rate equal, that which glowed so brightly in Amos. He was therefore on the watch for such an opportunity; and before long that opportunity, as he thought, presented itself.

One morning as the squire was reading the county paper, while his sister was superintending the preparations for breakfast, and her two nephews were seated near her, Mr Huntingdon exclaimed suddenly, in a tone of angry excitement, "Why, whatever is the meaning of this? Walter, my boy, whatever does it mean?"

"What, father?" asked his son in a voice of mingled uneasiness and surprise.

"Why, just listen to this advertis.e.m.e.nt:--'I hereby challenge the working-men of this neighbourhood to a trial of skill in running, leaping, and shooting; and I promise to give a sovereign to any man who shall beat me in a mile race, a high jump, and firing at a mark. The trial to come off on Marley Heath, on Tuesday, June 8th, at four o'clock p.m.

"'Signed, Walter Huntingdon, Flixworth Manor.'--Do you know anything about this, Walter? Did you really put this advertis.e.m.e.nt into the paper? or is it a disgraceful hoax?"

Poor Walter looked perfectly astounded, as did also his aunt and brother. Then he said, with some hesitation, "It is no advertis.e.m.e.nt of mine."

"No, I thought not," said his father indignantly. "It must be, then, a most shameful hoax; and I shall speak or write to the editor about it in pretty strong terms you may be sure."

"Father," said Walter sadly, and after a pause, "it is no hoax."

"No hoax! What do you mean? You said you did not put the advertis.e.m.e.nt in; so it must be a hoax."

"I will explain it," said his son in a subdued voice. "The other day, young Saunders, Gregson, and myself were discussing which of us was the best shot, and best at a race and a jump. 'Well,' said I, 'we can easily put it to the test. Let us meet to-morrow on Marley Heath and have it out.' So we brought our guns with us next day; and Saunders and Gregson brought a few other fellows with them to look on and see all fair. We three fired at a mark, and leapt over a rod hung across two poles, and tried who was best runner over a hundred yards; and I won the day in all three things. So, as we were sitting down in the little roadside inn, where we all had some eggs and bacon and bread and cheese together for lunch, Gregson said to the other fellows, 'Why, our friend Walter here might challenge the whole county.' 'That he might; and win too,' said more than one of them. 'I don't know,' I said; 'but I shouldn't mind offering a sovereign to any working-man in the neighbourhood who would beat me.' 'Good,' said Saunders; 'there's many a working-man that would like to have a try for your sovereign; and it would be capital fun to see the match come off.' 'What do you say to putting an advertis.e.m.e.nt in the county paper to that effect?' said Gregson. 'Not I,' I said; 'I shall do nothing of the sort.' 'Ah, he's backing out,' said Saunders. 'Indeed, I'm not,' I cried; 'I meant what I said.' 'Well, will you let me put the advertis.e.m.e.nt in in your name?