CHAPTER FOURTEEN.
MORAL MARTYRDOM.
When Amos had finished the account of his singular and painfulimprisonment, while all united in an expression of their deepthankfulness, there remained a heavy cloud on the face of MrHuntingdon. At last he said, slowly and sadly, "And this unmitigatedscamp calls our poor Julia wife."
"It is so, dear father," said Amos in reply; "but may we not hope thathe will take himself away to America or Australia before long? Thatseems to be what he has in view, for clearly he has made this countrytoo hot to hold him."
"I only hope it may be so," rejoined Mr Huntingdon, "for it is amiserable business, look at it which way you will."
"Yes," said Walter; "but I am persuaded that my sister was frightened bythe man into writing the last part of that letter;--don't you think so,Amos?"
"Yes," replied his brother, "I certainly do. He has been plotting thisscheme in order to get me into his power; and when he found that by yourcoming he had failed in his object, he made the best of matters forhimself by pretending to be the owner of the cottage, and to be inignorance of what had happened to me. And now you must tell me how youfound me, and how poor Prince found his way back."
Walter looked up to see if his father or aunt would give the account,and then, when neither spoke, he plunged at once into his narrative.
"You must know, then, that we were all much distressed and perplexedwhen my father showed us the letter, Amos, which you accidentallydropped, and which we should none of us have read under ordinarycircumstances. We knew that you felt it to be your duty to go to poorJulia; but we none of us liked the last part of the letter, and I amsure I can say truly that I had my grievous suspicions from the veryfirst. However, when we got the news of your having set off to thismeeting, we could not have prevented it, even if we had thought it rightto do so; it would have been too late then. But we did not think itwould have been right; and auntie comforted us with the assurance thatGod would take care of you, as you were gone on a work he must approveof. So we waited patiently--or, as far as _I_ was concerned,impatiently--all day, and went to bed with heavy hearts when you did notturn up, and we had heard nothing of you. But father reminded us howyou had been absent once before for the night, when you had beensummoned to look after those poor children, and that you had come backall safe; so we hoped that we should see you this morning early, or atany rate before luncheon.
"And who do you think was our first messenger? Ah! you will hardlyguess. Why, none other than Prince, your pony. We were sitting atbreakfast very dull, and imagining all sorts of things, when Harryhurried into the room, as white as if he had just seen a ghost, andcried out, `Master, master! here's Prince come back all alone, and nevera word about poor dear Master Amos!' You may be sure this did justupset us all, and no mistake. I was out in the stable-yard in a moment,and there was Prince sure enough, and all the servants round him; andthey had got a stable bucket with some corn in it, and he was devouringit as though he had been starved for a week. `And where's your master,Prince?' I said. The poor animal only whinnied, but seemed almost asif he understood my question. As for Harry, who had joined me in theyard, he could only blubber out, `Eh! he's done for, sure enough.They've been and gone and murdered him, and haven't had even the goodfeeling to send us back his lifeless corpse. Whatever shall we do?'`Nay, Harry,' I said, `it hasn't come to that yet; we must go and lookafter him, and bring him back; he'll turn up all right, Idaresay.'--`The Lord grant it,' said the dear old man.
"Well, you may be sure we were all in a pretty state, and at our wits'end what to do. Father set off at once for the police station, andHarry and I started at the same time for Marley Heath."
Here Miss Huntingdon interposed, and said, "And I ought to tell you,dear Amos, that when your father was feeling a little anxious aboutWalter's going, lest he too should fall into some snare or difficulty,your brother would not hear of any one else taking his place, and rushedaway saying, `It would be a privilege to suffer anything for such abrother as Amos.'"
"Auntie, auntie!" cried her nephew remonstratingly, "you mustn't tellsecrets; I never meant Amos to know anything about that."
There was a brief silence, for all the party were deeply moved, and thetwo brothers clasped hands eagerly and lovingly. Then Walter continued:"So Harry took the old mare, and I took my pony, and we set off soonafter breakfast, and got in a little time to Marley Heath; and I can'tsay I felt very warm to the place, and certainly it didn't _look_ verywarm to me. `What's to come next?' I said to Harry. `Well,' he said,`we must make inquiries.' That was all easy enough to say, but who werewe to make inquiries of? The only living thing about was an old donkeywho had strayed on to the heath, and was trying to get a mouthful ofsomething off a bare patch or two; and as we came up he stared at us asthough he thought that we were bigger donkeys than he was for coming tosuch a place at such a time. It wasn't much use looking about, forthere was nothing to guide us. We tried to track your pony's footmarks,but as there had been more snow in the night, and it had now set in tothaw, we could see nothing anywhere in the way of footmarks to trust to.Certainly it was a regular puzzle, for we hadn't the slightest ideawhich way to turn. `Well, Harry?' I said. `Well, Master Walter?' hesaid in reply; but that didn't help us forward many steps. `Let us rideon till we get to some house where we may make inquiries,' I said. Sowe set off, and after a bit came to a farm-house, and asked if any onehad seen two people on horseback about, that day or the day before,describing Amos as one. No; they had seen no such riders as wedescribed, therefore we had to trot back to the heath again. `Well,Harry?' I said again. `Well, Master Walter?' he replied; and we staredat one another like two--well, I hardly know what to say, but certainlynot like two very wise men. So we rode about, first in this direction,and then in that, till we began to be fairly tired.
"It was now getting on for luncheon time, so we made for a farm-house,got some bread and cheese and milk, and a feed for our horses, and thenset out again; and weary work we had. At last I was almost giving up indespair, and beginning to think that we had better go home and try someother plan, when, as we were passing near a copse, we saw a tall figureslouching along through the melting snow. The man did not see us atfirst, but when he looked round and made out who we were, he began toquicken his pace, and strode along wonderfully. There was no mistakinghim; it was Jim Jarrocks, the fellow who won my sovereign in thatfoolish match on Marley Heath. Jim evidently had rather we had not met,for he had a couple of hares slung over his shoulder, which he could notwell hide. However, there was no help for it, so he put a bold face onthe matter, and touched his hat as I overtook him, and said, `Yourservant, Mr Walter; I hope you're well.' Of course I did not thinkanything about the hares then, I was too full of Amos; so I asked him ifhe had seen Amos alone, or with another horseman. `No, sir,' hereplied, `I've not; but I'll tell you what I've seen. Last night Ifound Mr Amos's pony, Prince, about a mile from here; he was saddledand bridled, and had broke loose somehow or other, it seemed. So, as induty bound, I got on him, and rode him over to the Manor-house, andfastened him up in the stable-yard; for it was late, and I didn't liketo rouse anybody.'--`All right, Jim,' I said; `Dick found him when hewent to the stables this morning. But whereabouts was it that you foundhim?'--`Well, it's a queer and awkward road to get to it,' he said; `butI can show you the way.'--`And is there any house near where you foundPrince?' I asked.--`House! no; nothing of the kind,' said he, `exceptthe brickmaker's cottage, about a mile further on.'--`And no one livesin that cottage, I suppose?'--`No; and hasn't done for months past;'--then he stopped all of a sudden, and said, `By-the-by, there was smokecoming out of the chimney of that cottage as I passed it last night;that was strange anyhow.'--`Well, then, Jim,' I said, `there may be someone in it now, and we can find out if they've seen anything of mybrother. Just put us in the way to the cottage; there's a goodman.'--`By all means,' he said, and strode on before us for about amile, and then pointed up a winding lane. `There,' he cried;
`keepalong that lane till you come to an open field, and you'll soon see thecottage; you can't miss it, for there isn't another anywhere about.Good afternoon, sir.' And away he went, evidently glad to get off withhis hares as speedily as possible. The rest does not take much telling.We soon came to the cottage, and discovered dear Amos, and encounteredthat miserable man who has treated him so cruelly. Ah! well, it's beena good ending to a bad beginning."
"Thank you, my dear brother," said Amos warmly; "it was well and kindlydone. Yes, God has been very good in delivering me out of my trouble,and specially in making you, dear Walter, the chief instrument in mydeliverance."
"I only wonder," said his brother, "that the wretched man did not makeoff with the pony."
"No," said Amos; "that might have got him into trouble with the police,if they had found the pony in his possession, or had he sold it toanybody. No doubt, when he found the first night that I would not givehim the cheque, he just turned the pony adrift, so that, whether he madehis way home or any one found him, there would be no clue to the personwho had entrapped me."
"I see it all!" cried Walter. "But now we must finish up with a word onmoral courage, with an illustration by dear auntie.--Yes, Aunt Kate, yousee our hero Amos; you see how he has been ready to make a regularmartyr of himself, and surely that is real moral courage."
"Indeed it is so, dear Walter," said Miss Huntingdon; "and you wereright in calling your brother's courage a species of martyrdom, for thespirit of a true martyr has been well described as `a readiness tosuffer the greatest evil rather than knowingly to do the least.'"
"Capital, auntie! And now, if father is willing, give us an example."
Mr Huntingdon having gladly given his consent, his sister spoke asfollows:--
"My moral hero this time is a real martyr, and a young one. In thespring of the year 1555, a youth, named William Hunter, entered thechurch of Brentwood, in Essex, to read in the great Bible which stoodthere chained to a desk for the use of the people. He was an apprenticeto a London weaver, but was now on a visit to his native town. He lovedthe Bible, and it was his joy to read it. As he stood before the desk,a man named Atwell, an officer of the Romish bishop, came that way, and,seeing how he was engaged, remonstrated with him, and then said, whenthe young man quietly justified himself, `I see you are one who dislikethe queen's laws, but if you do not turn you will broil for youropinions.'--`God give me grace,' replied William, `to believe his wordand confess his name, whatever may come of it.'
"Atwell reported him; he was seized, and placed in the stocks. Then hewas taken before Bishop Bonner, who, finding him resolute, ordered himagain to the stocks; and there he lay two long days and nights, withoutany food except a crust of brown bread and a little water. Then, inhopes of subduing his spirit, Bonner sent him to one of the Londonprisons, with strict orders to the jailer to put as many iron chainsupon him as he could possibly bear; and here he remained for three-quarters of a year. At last the bishop sent for him and said, `If yourecant, I will give you forty pounds and set you up in business.' Thatwas a large sum in those days. But William rejected the offer. `I willmake you steward of my own house,' added Bonner. `But, my lord,'replied the young man, `if you cannot persuade my conscience byScripture, I cannot find in my heart to turn from God for the love ofthe world.' `Then away with him to the fire!'
"He was to suffer near his native town. There was no prison in theplace, so William Hunter was confined in an inn, and guarded byconstables. His mother rushed to see him, and his words to her were,`For my little pain which I shall suffer Christ hath procured for me acrown of joy; are you not glad of that, mother?' On the morning when hewas to die, as he was being led from the inn, his father sprang forwardin an agony of grief, and threw his arms round him, saying, `God be withthee, son William.' His son looked calmly at him and said, `God be withyou, father. Be of good comfort; I trust we shall soon meet again wherewe shall rejoice together.' When he had been secured to the stake, apardon was offered him if he would recant. `No,' he said, `I will notrecant, God willing.' When the fire was lighted, and the flames beganto rise, he threw a book of Psalms, which he still held in his hands,into the hands of his brother, who had followed him to the place ofdeath. Then his brother called to him and said, `William, think on thesufferings of Christ, and be not afraid.'--`I am not afraid,' cried theyoung martyr. `Lord, Lord, receive my spirit.' These were his lastwords. The dry fagots burned briskly, and in a few minutes hissufferings were at an end for ever.
"Here, surely, dear Walter, was moral courage of the highest order.William Hunter was very young; life was sweet; he had loving parents.All the neighbours loved him for his gentle piety. A few words spokenwould have saved him from imprisonment, hunger, bitter suffering, and acruel death; but he would not by a single act or a single word savehimself, when by so doing he would be acting against his conscience,much as he loved his home, his parents, and his people."
Walter clapped his hands with delight when his aunt had finished, andexclaimed, "Nothing could be better, Aunt Kate; it suits our hero Amosto a T. Yes, for he would suffer anything rather than get his libertyby doing or promising to do what he believed to be wrong. Thank you,dear aunt; I have learned a lesson which I hope I shall never forget."