Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Fifteen.Walter to the Rescue.The day after his return home Amos sought his father in the library. Mr Huntingdon’s manner to him had become so much more warm and affectionate, that he now ventured on a course which a few days before he could not have brought himself to adopt.“Father,” he said, “can you spare me a few minutes? I have something on my mind which I feel that I ought to consult you about.”“Sit down, sit down, my dear boy; what is it?” said his father.Thus encouraged, Amos unburdened his mind. “Father,” he proceeded, “I must ask you to excuse my absence for a day or two, or perhaps even more. You are aware now that I have taken upon myself, for the present at any rate, the charge of my poor sister Julia’s little children. And I may also say, as I suppose I ought not to conceal the state of things from you, that her miserable husband has left her utterly destitute, so that I am doing what I can to keep her from want. The man has deserted her more than once; and more than once, when he returned and found money in her possession, he forced it from her. So I have placed what I can spare for her in the hands of a thoroughly trustworthy and Christian woman with whom she lodges, and through this good landlady of hers I see that she does not want such necessaries and comforts as are essential to her health.”He was proceeding with his explanation, but was checked by the deep emotion of Mr Huntingdon, who, resting his head between his hands, could not restrain his tears and sobs. Then, springing up from his seat, he clasped Amos to him, and said, in a voice almost choked by his feelings, “My dear, noble boy! and I have misunderstood, and undervalued, and treated you with harshness and coldness all this time! Can you forgive your unworthy father?”Poor Amos! Such a speech from his father almost stunned him for the moment. At last, recovering himself, he cried, “O father, dear father, don’t say such a thing! There is not—there cannot be anything for me to forgive. And, oh! the kindness you have shown me the last few days has made up a thousand times for any little trouble in days gone by.”“You are a dear good boy to say so,” replied Mr Huntingdon, kissing him warmly. “Well, now tell me all.”“You see, dear father,” continued Amos when they were again both seated, “I am afraid, from poor Julia’s letter, that she is in some special trouble. It is true that the latter part of her letter looks very much as if the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the first part is clearly written as she herself felt. I have the letter here. You see, she writes,—‘Amos, I’m mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He will take them both away; he will ruin us all, body and soul.’ So far the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no doubt what it means. That vile man has been ill-treating her, and has threatened to take the children from under my charge, though he pledged his honour to myself a short time back that he would not remove them; but, of course, the honour of such a man is worth nothing.”“Yes; I see it all,” said the squire with a sigh; “but what can be done? I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the children as their father, and to poor Julia too, as she is his wife.”“True, father; but it will never do to leave her as she is; and I cannot bear the thought of those dear children being left to the tender mercies of such a man.”“Well, and where is your poor sister herself at this time?” asked Mr Huntingdon.“There, again, I am in a difficulty,” said Amos. “When I first got to know how my dear sister was situated, and where she was living, she made me promise that I would not let any one know where the place was, and specially not you. I suppose she was afraid that something would be done against her husband, whom she had a great affection for, if our family knew where she lived; and she also indulged, I grieve to say, much bitterness of feeling towards yourself, which I have done my best to remove. So she would not hear of my telling any one where she is living; and indeed she has moved about from place to place. But I am still under the promise of secrecy.”“Well,” said his father, with a sigh, “I will not of course ask you to break your word to her; but better times will come for her, poor thing, I hope.”“I hope so too, dear father. But you will understand now, I feel sure, why I wish to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things are really going on with her and with the poor children.”“But will it be safe for you to go?” asked his father anxiously. “Will not that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily harm?”“I am not afraid, father. My own opinion is that the unhappy man will not remain long in this country; and that, after what has happened these last two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom to keep as clear of me as possible.”“Perhaps so; but I must say I don’t like the thoughts of your going alone on such an expedition, after what has already happened.”“Nay, dear father, I believe I ought to go. I believe that duty calls me; and so I may expect that God will take care of me.”“Well, go then, my boy; and, see, take these two ten-pound notes to your poor sister. It is not fair that all the burden should fall upon you. These notes will at any rate keep her from want for a time; she can put them into safe keeping with her landlady. And tell her”—here his voice faltered—“that they are sent her with her father’s love, and that there is a place for her here in her old home still.”“Oh, thank you, thank you, dear father,” cried Amos; “youhavemade me glad!”“Yes,” continued the squire, “tell her that from me; yet, of course, that does not includehim.”“Oh no! I thoroughly understand that,” replied his son; “and I see, of course, many difficulties that lie in the way; but still, I believe that brighter and happier days are coming for us all.”“May it be so, my dear boy,” said the other, again drawing him closely to him. “It will not beyourfault, at any rate, if they do not come.”So that morning Amos left on his work of love.He had not been gone many minutes, when Walter knocked at his aunt’s door. “Aunt Kate,” he began, when he had seated himself at her feet, “I want your advice about a little scheme of mine. It’s a good scheme, and perhaps a little bit of moral courage on my part will come out of it.”“Well, my dear boy, let me hear it.”“Father, I know, has been talking to you about Amos,” he went on; “all about his noble and self-denying conduct towards my poor dear sister, and that he is going, in consequence of that horrid letter, to see her and those children of hers. I gather this partly from a few words I had with Amos before he started. But then, nobody knows where Julia lives, and nobody knows what that scamp of a fellow may be up to against my dear good brother.”“Yes, Walter,” said his aunt, “I understand all that; and I must say that I feel a little anxious about your brother, though I know that he is in better hands than ours.”“Well, auntie, shall I tell you what I have thought of?”“Do, dear boy.”“If father will let me, I should like to go and keep guard over Amos till he comes back.”“But how can you do that?” asked Miss Huntingdon. “You said just now that no one knows where your poor sister lives except Amos himself; and it would hardly do for you to overtake him, if that could be done, and join yourself to him whether he would or no.”“No, Aunt Kate, that is not my idea. Now, though nobody but Amos knows where Julia lives, I think I know.”“What do you mean?” asked the other, laughing.“Why, just this. I don’t know properly. I’m not supposed to know, and so I take it for granted that I don’t know; and yet really I believe I do know.”“My boy, you speak in riddles.”“Ah yes, Aunt Kate, I do; and I see you will never guess the answers to them, so you must give up, and I will tell you. You know that for some time now it has been Amos’s place to unlock the post-bag of a morning and give out the letters. The other day, however, he made a mistake, and threw me two which were really directed to him. I gave them back to him, and I saw him turn red when he saw the mistake he had made. I couldn’t help noticing the post-mark at the time, and I thought I knew the handwriting on one of the envelopes. The post-mark was the same on each. I am sure now that one was directed by my sister; I know her handwriting well, for I have two little hymns in my desk which she wrote out for me before—before she left us, and I often look at them. And so, putting two and two together, I believe the other was most likely directed by the person in whose house she is living.”“And what was the post-mark?”“Ah, auntie, I don’t think I ought to tell, not even you. It seems like a breach of confidence towards Amos, though it really is not. At any rate, I am not sure that he would like me to tell.”“Quite right, my dear Walter; I had no idle curiosity in asking; and if Amos wishes it still to be a secret, of course you ought not to disclose it.”“Thank you, auntie, for looking at it in that light. Now it can be no breach of confidence on my part to go over to that place from which the letters came, as shown by the post-mark, and just keep my eyes and ears open, and see if I can get within sight or hearing of Amos without making myself known. I would not intrude myself into my poor sister’s house if I can find it out, but I would just keep a bit of a watch near it, and look if I can see anything of that miserable man who has given us so much trouble; and then I might be able to give him a little of my mind, so as to induce him to take himself clean off out of the country. At any rate, I would watch over Amos, that no harm should come to him. What do you think?”“Well, dear boy,” replied his aunt, “it is very generous of you to make such a proposal, and good might come out of your plan; but what will your father say to it?”“Ah, that’s the point, auntie. I must get you to persuade him to let me go. Tell him how it is—tell him I’ll be as prudent as a policeman, or a stationmaster, or any one else that’s particularly prudent, or ought to be; and, if I don’t find Amos where I imagine he will be, I’ll be back again before bed-time to-morrow.”Miss Huntingdon spoke to her brother, and put Walter’s scheme before him; but at first he would not hear of it. “The boy must be crazy,” he said; “why, he’s not fit to be out all by himself on such an errand as this. That scoundrel of a man might be getting hold of him, and no one knows what might happen then. It’s absurd,—it’s really quite out of the question.”“Don’t you think, Walter,” replied his sister calmly, “that God, who has put such a loving thought into the heart of Walter, will keep him from harm? Would it be right to check him when he is bent on such a work? Besides, as to the wretched and unhappy man who has caused all this trouble, are not such characters, with all their bluster, commonly arrant cowards when they find themselves firmly confronted?”“Perhaps so, Kate. Well, send Walter to me.”“My boy,” exclaimed the squire, when Walter made his appearance, “what wild scheme is this? Why, surely you can’t be serious?”“Indeed I am, father. You needn’t be afraid for me. It was not my own thought,—I’m sure it was put into my mind; besides, it will be capital fun just having to look after myself for a night or two, and a little roughing it will do me good.”“And where do you intend to sleep and to put up, I should like to know?” asked Mr Huntingdon, half seriously and half amused.“Oh, I’ll find a shakedown somewhere; and I’m sure to be able to get lots of eggs and bacon and coffee, and I could live on them for a week.”“And I suppose I am to be paymaster,” said his father, laughing.“Oh no, father, not unless you like. I’ve a sovereign still left; I’ll make that pay all, and I must do without things till I get my next quarter’s allowance.”“Very well, my boy; but hadn’t you better take Harry or Dick with you?”“O father! take old Harry! why, I might as well take the town-crier. Oh no, let me go alone. I know what Amos would say if it were he that was in my place; he would say that we may trust to be taken care of while we are in the path of duty.—May I go, then, father?”“Well—yes,” said Mr Huntingdon, but rather reluctantly; and then he said, “But how shall I be sure that you haven’t got into any trouble? for I understand from your aunt that you make it a point of honour not to let us know where you are going to.”“All right, father: if I don’t turn up some time to-morrow afternoon, I’ll manage to send a letter by some means or other.”After luncheon Walter set out on his self-imposed expedition, on his own pony, with a wallet strapped behind him which Miss Huntingdon had taken care should be furnished with such things as were needful. His father also thrust some money into his hand as they parted. And now we must leave him as he trots briskly away, rather proud of his solitary journey, and follow his brother, who little suspected that a guard and protector was pursuing him in the person of his volatile brother Walter.The little town to which Amos leisurely made his way was about twenty miles from Flixworth Manor. It was one of those exceedingly quiet places which, boasting no attractions in the way of either architecture or situation, and being on the road to or from no places of note or busy traffic, are visited rarely by any but those who have their permanent abode in the neighbourhood. Neither did coach pass through it nor railway near it, so that its winding street or two, with their straggling masses of dingy houses, would be suggestive to any accidental visitor of little else than unmitigated dulness. It had, of course, its post office, which was kept at a miscellaneous shop, and did not tax the energies of the shopkeeper to any great degree by the number of letters which passed through his hands. The stamp, however, of this office was that which Walter had noticed on the letters which had furnished him with a clew.The heart of Amos was very sad as he rode along, and yet it was filled with thankfulness also. Yes, he could now rejoice, because he saw the dawning of a better day now spreading into broad flushes of morning light. His father’s kindness to him, so unexpected and so precious, and, almost better still, his father’s altered feeling to his sister Julia—how thoughts of these things gladdened him, spite of his sadness! Oh, if only he could rid the family of that miserable husband of his sister’s in some lawful way! Of course it might be possible to put the police on his track; but then, if he were caught and brought to justice, what a lamentable and open disgrace it would be to them all, and might perhaps be the means of partially closing the opening door for his sister to her father’s heart.With such thoughts of mingled cloud and sunshine chasing one another through his mind, he reached, about two o’clock in the afternoon, the little town of Dufferly, and drew rein at the dusky entrance to the Queen’s Hotel, as it was somewhat ambitiously called. Having secured a bed, he walked out into the pebbly street, and strolled into the market-place. He might have proceeded at once to his sister’s lodgings, but he had no wish to encounter her husband there if he could avoid it; but how to ascertain whether he was in the town or no he could not tell. That he was not likely to remain many days at once in the place he was pretty sure; and yet his sister’s letter implied that he had been lately with her, and had been taking some steps towards removing the children from their present place of abode. So he walked up and down the little town in all directions, thinking that if Mr Vivian should be anywhere about, and should catch sight of him, he might retire from the place for a season, and give him an opportunity of visiting his sister unmolested. At length, after returning to his inn and refreshing himself, he made up his mind to call at his sister’s home, trusting that he should find her alone.All was quiet as could be in the little street or lane down which he now made his way. Knocking at the door of the neat but humble dwelling where his sister lived, she herself answered the summons. “Oh! is it you, Amos?” she cried, clasping her hands passionately together. “Oh, I am so glad, so glad! I want to tell you all, it has been so terrible; come in, come in.” Amos entered the little parlour and looked round. He had himself furnished it with a few extras of comfort and refinement. “O Amos, dear, dear Amos,” cried his sister, throwing her arms round his neck and weeping bitterly, “it has been so dreadful. Oh pardon me, pray pardon me!”“What for, dearest Julia?” he asked.“Why, for writing that last part of the letter. He stood over me; he made me do it. He stood over me with a whip; yes, he struck me over and over again—look at my neck here—he struck me till the blood came, when I refused at first to write as he dictated. But oh! I hope no harm came of that letter?”“None, dear sister, none. No; the Lord took care of me and delivered me.—But the children—what of them?”“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure; but I rather think he doesn’t mean to move them after all.”“And where is he himself—I mean your—”“My husband, as he calls himself,” she said bitterly. “Oh, he is anywhere and everywhere; sometimes here for a day or two, and then absent for weeks. Indeed, he hardly dares stay for any length of time in any one place, for fear of the police getting hold of him.”“My poor sister!” exclaimed Amos with a sigh; “but, at any rate,allis not dark,” he added. “I am bringing a little gladness with me. My dear father sends you his love—”“What—what, Amos!” she exclaimed, interrupting him with almost a shriek. “Oh, say it again! Oh, can it really be?—my father send me his love! Oh, dearest Amos, was it really so?”“Yes; he knows nearly all now, and his heart has opened to you, and he bids me tell you there is a place for you in the old home still.”Sinking on the ground, the bewildered, agitated creature clasped her hands across her forehead, as though the swollen veins would burst with the intensity of her emotion. At last, yielding to her brother’s tender caresses, she grew calmer, and allowing him to draw her close to him, she wept a full flood of tears, which brought with them a measure of peace in their flow. “Oh! can it be?” she cried again, but now more hopefully—“a place for me yet in the dear old home, and my father’s smile on me once more.” Then she added in a scared, hoarse whisper, “But that doesn’t includehim?”“No, not your unhappy husband; my father could not receive him.”“Of course not, Amos. Oh that I had never married him! Every spark of love for him has died out of my heart now. I hate him, and I loathe myself.”“Nay, nay, dear sister,” said Amos soothingly, “don’t say so. He has sinned, greatly sinned, but all may yet be well.”“Never, never,” she cried, “while he claims me for his wife!”“Well, well,” said Amos, “calm yourself, dear Julia. See, here is proof visible of my father’s love to you: he has bid me put these two ten-pound notes into Mrs Allison’s hands for you. He sends them to yourself, but I am to place them with her, lest they should be taken from you.”“Let me look at them with my own eyes,” she cried; and when Amos produced them, she pressed them eagerly to her lips, exclaiming, “Dear, dear father, God bless you for this!”“And now,” said her brother, when she had sufficiently recovered herself to listen to him quietly, “we must consider next what is best to be done. Do you think your husband is likely to be here again soon? and if so, will it be of any use your speaking to him on the subject of your father having expressed his willingness to receive you without him? Would he be willing to leave you to us now, and to go abroad himself to some distant land? and do you yourself really desire this separation?”“Desire it, Amos! how can I help desiring it? Though marrying him lost me home and almost everything I once loved, yet I could have followed him all the world over if he had really loved me. But he hates me; he takes a spiteful pleasure in ill-treating me. He would never come near me at all, if he did not think that he could manage to squeeze some money out of me. HowcanI have any love left for such a wretch?”“But will he be willing to leave you in our hands? Remember you are still his wife, and he has therefore a claim upon you.”“I know it, Amos, too well. Oh! what can I do?”“Well, I can hardly tell; but I am remaining in the town to-night, and as it is now getting late, I will go to my room at the inn, and will come and see you again to-morrow morning, by which time I shall have got more light on the subject, I have no doubt.” So they parted.As Amos walked into the inn-yard to have a last look at his pony, he saw a young man advancing towards him; but as it was now getting dark, he could not at first make out his features. A moment more, and he recognised his brother.“What, Walter!” he exclaimed in astonishment; “how didyoucome here?”“Oh, very comfortably indeed!” was the reply. “I have ridden over on a little private business of my own—in fact, I may tell you in confidence that I am at present a member of the mounted police force, and am on duty to-night in the noble town of Dufferly, keeping my eye on a certain person who is running his head into danger, and wants carefully looking after, lest he get himself into mischief.” Amos looked puzzled. “In other words,” continued his brother, “I could not bear the thought of your getting again into the clutches of that horrid man; so I have come over, not to be a spy upon you, or any fetter on your movements, but just to be at hand, to give you a help if you want it.”“How generous of you, dear Walter!” cried his brother, shaking him warmly by the hand; “but does my father know?”“Of course he does, and my aunt too. It’s all right. You are captain, and I’m only lieutenant; and now, what’s the next move?”“Well, to have some tea together in my room, Walter. But really your coming was quite unnecessary. I shall be taken care of without your needing to put yourself to all this trouble. However, as youarehere, I begin to see that good may come of it. So let us have tea, and then you must tell me how you found me out, after which I will tell you what is in my mind.” So the brothers had a cozy meal together, and then Amos told Walter about his interview with their sister, and having taken him fully into his confidence, discussed with him what was best to be done under the sad circumstances.“If I could only get hold of that rascally scamp!” said Walter, with an inclination of his head which implied that nothing would give him more intense satisfaction.“I am afraid,” said his brother, “that would not help us much: the thing that would do us all good is not to get hold of him, but to get rid of him. Unfortunately, however, he knows the hold he has upon us through poor Julia, and I fear that he will leave no stone unturned to accomplish his own objects through her directly or indirectly.”“And can’t we set the police on him?”“I daresay we could, Walter; but what a disgrace it would be to have him exposed and brought to justice!”“Ah, I see that. Well, Amos, we must see if we cannot frighten him away for good and all.”His brother shook his head. “He knows very well, you may be sure,” he said, “that for Julia’s sake and our own we shall not drag him out into the light, with all his sins and misdemeanours, for the public to gaze at, if we can help it; and yet I think he may perhaps be induced to retire of his own accord and settle abroad, if he finds that we are both of us determined to keep him in view. Suppose, then, we go together to poor Julia’s to-morrow. Oh, how delighted she will be to see you once again! And we can get her to make her husband understand that we are both of us keeping our eyes open about him, and that unless he takes himself off at once, and gives up his poor abused wife into our keeping, and leaves her there, we shall bring him to justice, let the disgrace be what it may.”“Well, Amos,” replied Walter, “I can see no better plan; so if agreeable to you I will have the happiness of going with you to-morrow to my dear sister’s.”The next morning, accordingly, the two brothers stood at the door of Julia Vivian’s humble dwelling. The landlady answered the bell, and said that her lodger was still in her bedroom, having passed a very disturbed night, but that, if they would come in, she would soon come down to them. In a few minutes the parlour door slowly opened, and Julia, deadly pale, a wild light in her eyes, and her hands trembling with excitement, made her appearance. She advanced with hesitating steps towards Amos, behind whom stood Walter, partly hidden by his brother; but as his sister caught sight of her younger brother, the colour rushed into her face, and with a wild cry she sprang into his arms. “Walter! O Walter, Walter! is it really you? Oh, this is too much happiness.—Amos, you never told me of this.”“No, my dear sister, because I did not know of it myself. But calm yourself now. You look so very ill, I am afraid the excitement has been too much for you.”“No, no!” she cried, with a look of terror in her eyes, “it is not that,—seeing you both is nothing but joy; it would make me well and ready for anything. But—buthehas been here since I saw you yesterday, Amos. He found out from my manner that something had happened, and he made me tell that you had been here. And then he asked if you had said anything about money; and, when I hesitated, he threatened and threatened till he forced it out of me that my dear father had sent me those notes. He went off again last night, and said that he should like to meet you this morning, and that perhaps something might be arranged to the satisfaction of all parties.”“Then you told him that I was coming again this morning?”“Yes; he dragged it from me by his sharp and cruel questioning. But he is not coming till twelve o’clock.”“And where is he now?”“I cannot tell. He never lets me know where he is going to, or how long he means to stay away.”“I will meet him here, then,” said Amos; “perhaps we may now really come to some understanding which will get us out of our difficulties.”“And what about me?” asked Walter. “I have come over here in the character of a policeman in plain clothes to watch over my brother Amos, and I don’t want that precious blackguard—I beg your pardon, Julia, I mean your husband—to have any moretête-à-têteswith my charge unless I am by. Can you hide me away in some corner where I can hear and see all that is going on without being seen myself?”“Would that be right?” asked his brother hesitatingly.“Perfectly right,” said Walter, “so long asyouare willing that I should hear what passes between you. I’m not fond of acting the spy, but this is simply taking reasonable precautions to prevent an honest man being entrapped or injured by a rogue.”“Yes,” said his sister, “I am afraid what you say is too true. I would not answer for what Orlando might do at any time. So I think I can place you where you can observe and hear what is going on without being observed yourself.”Having said this, she led the way into another room on the opposite side of the passage, which was usually occupied by the owner of the house, but which she had this morning lent to her lodger for her use, as it was rather larger than the one Mrs Vivian occupied, and more convenient for the reception of a visitor. On the farther side of this apartment was a door leading out to the back part of the house. It was seldom used now, and a curtain hung before it, as the weather was cold and a strong current of air came through it. In an upper panel of this door was a small glass window, now disused, for some alterations had been made in the back premises which blocked out the light. The panes of this window had been pasted over and covered by paper similar in colour to the door, so that the existence of any glass there would not have been suspected by any ordinary observer.When this door and its window had been shown to Walter, what he should do flashed upon him at once. “May we take the landlady in a measure into our confidence?” he asked.“Yes,” said his sister, “I am sure you may. She knows my trials and troubles too well.”Amos having assented, Mrs Allison was called, and it was explained to her that Walter wished to watch behind the door unobserved, and to be able, if possible, to see as well as hear what was going on in the room during the interview between his brother and brother-in-law. The good woman, at once comprehending the situation, gave cheerful leave to Walter to take his stand where he proposed, promising that no one should interrupt; and then with her own hands scratched with an old pair of scissors two small round holes in the paper which had been pasted on the small window, such as would not attract the notice of any one in the room, but through which Walter would be able to see everything that was going on inside.A few minutes before twelve he duly took his stand behind this disused door. The curtain had previously been removed by the landlady, so that any conversation in the room could be readily heard through the not over tight-fitting woodwork. Anxiously did the young man wait for the coming interview. He was not kept long in suspense. A loud ring at the front door was followed by the sound of a heavy stalking tread. Mr Orlando Vivian entered the other parlour, whither Amos and his sister had retired, and saluted the former with an offhand, swaggering assumption of politeness.“Your servant, Mr Huntingdon,” he said. Whose everservanthe might be, at that moment he was clearly theslaveof strong drink.Amos bowed.“I hope you find your sister well, Mr Huntingdon,” he added; “it is very kind of you to visit us in our humble dwelling.”The other replied that he did not find his sister looking as well as he had hoped, but trusted that she might soon be better.“The better for my absence, I suppose you mean,” said his brother-in-law sneeringly.Amos made no reply.“Well, sir,” continued the wretched stroller, whose swaggering manner was evidently merely assumed, “every man’s house is his castle, and therefore mine must be so too. I haven’t much to offer you in the way of welcome just now, but, before we part, I should like a word in private with you.—Is the other room occupied?” he asked of his wife.“No; Mrs Allison has put it at my service this morning.”“Then, Mr Huntingdon, will you be so good as to follow me?” Saying which, he led the way to the other parlour, and, when they had entered, locked the door, to the surprise and not particular satisfaction of Amos, who gave just one glance at the little window, and thought he saw two eyes peeping through the little holes.“Pray be seated,” said the player.Amos accepted the invitation and sat.“You have brought some money, I understand, from my father-in-law for his daughter,” began Mr Vivian abruptly.“I have,” said the other, after his questioner had waited a minute or so for a reply.“Would you have the goodness to hand it to me?” continued the player.“I brought it,” replied Amos, “for my sister’s own private use and benefit, and cannot therefore give it to you.”“Ah, indeed!” said the other sarcastically; “but you know, sir, that a wife’s goods belong to her husband, who, as I think the Bible has it, is the head of the wife, so that what is hers is his, and indeed his more than hers.”“Perhaps so, under ordinary circumstances,” replied Amos; “but this is a free gift from a father to a daughter, and I am sure no kind or reasonable husband would wish to deprive her of it.”“Deprive, sir? No,—deprive is not the word. Husband and wife are one, you know: the wife is the weaker vessel, and the husband the stronger; and it is only right and natural that the stronger should have the money, that he may use it for the benefit of the weaker.”“Mr Vivian,” said Amos firmly, “all this, and you must know it, is mere idle talk. I cannot give you the money.”“And I on my part say, sir,” replied the other, “that I must have it. I want it. I cannot do without it.”“I have told you my decision,” said Amos.“Indeed,” said the other. “Then I am driven to an unpleasant line of persuasion, though very reluctantly.”He rose, and Amos did the same.“Do you see this?” he said, taking from his pocket a revolver.“I do,” said Amos.“Should I be disposed to use this by way of compulsion, what would you say?”“That I am in God’s hands and not in yours,” replied Amos, looking Vivian full in the face, who quailed before the calm, steady gaze of the young man.Neither spoke for half a minute; then the unhappy stroller stepped back, and began to raise his right arm. The next instant the disused door was dashed open, and Walter sprang upon his astounded brother-in-law with the fury of a tiger. The pistol flew from Vivian’s hand, and he fell to the ground. Walter, who was full of vigour and activity, pinned him down, and called to Amos to give him one of the bell ropes. With this, being assisted by his brother, he pinioned the prostrate man so that he was utterly helpless.“Now,” said Walter, “let us search the villain’s pockets.” He did so, and discovered a second revolver. “What’s to be done now?” he asked; “shall we hand him over at once to the police?”At this moment his sister, having heard the scuffle, tried the door. Amos unlocked it. What a sight presented itself! “Oh, what does it all mean?” she cried.“Why, just this,” exclaimed her brother. “This dastardly villain—I must call him so—has been threatening to shoot Amos because he would not give him the money that was sent by my father to you.”“Oh, misery! misery!” cried the unhappy wife, hiding her face with her hands.“Let me get up; untie the rope,” wailed the unhappy Vivian, now utterly crestfallen and abject. “I meant your brother no harm; I only intended to frighten him. The pistols are neither of them loaded.”“It may be so,” said Walter. “Well, get up,” and he helped him to rise. “Now sit down in that chair and listen to me. You’ve behaved like a brute, and worse than a brute, to my poor sister; you have cruelly trapped my dear noble brother, and would have murdered him if you had dared. The simplest thing would just be to send for a policeman and give you into his charge. But I don’t want to do this for my poor sister’s sake and the family’s sake. But now I’ve made up my mind—come what may, disgrace or no disgrace, if you show your face amongst any of us again, the constable shall have you, and you shall get your deserts. We’ve got a home for our sister at the old place, and Amos has got a home for the children. Now if, after I’ve set you free, you turn up anywhere near us or the children, we’ll make no more bones of the matter; you shall get your deserts, and these will be the deserts of a mean, cowardly, rascally wife-beater, to say the best of you.”Not a word of reply did the guilty man make to this speech. He writhed in his chair, and looked utterly humbled and crushed.When Walter—who had now, with the tacit consent of Amos, taken the management of matters into his own hands—had examined the pistols, which proved to be unloaded, he approached his brother-in-law once more, and said, with less excitement, “Now, Mr Orlando Vivian, I am going to release you, and you will have the goodness to take yourself out of this town before you are an hour older, else you will have to take the consequences.” Having said this, he proceeded to unfasten the cord which bound the degraded and spirit-broken wretch. When this had been accomplished, the baffled stroller rose, and, with head hanging down, and without a word uttered, left the house.

The day after his return home Amos sought his father in the library. Mr Huntingdon’s manner to him had become so much more warm and affectionate, that he now ventured on a course which a few days before he could not have brought himself to adopt.

“Father,” he said, “can you spare me a few minutes? I have something on my mind which I feel that I ought to consult you about.”

“Sit down, sit down, my dear boy; what is it?” said his father.

Thus encouraged, Amos unburdened his mind. “Father,” he proceeded, “I must ask you to excuse my absence for a day or two, or perhaps even more. You are aware now that I have taken upon myself, for the present at any rate, the charge of my poor sister Julia’s little children. And I may also say, as I suppose I ought not to conceal the state of things from you, that her miserable husband has left her utterly destitute, so that I am doing what I can to keep her from want. The man has deserted her more than once; and more than once, when he returned and found money in her possession, he forced it from her. So I have placed what I can spare for her in the hands of a thoroughly trustworthy and Christian woman with whom she lodges, and through this good landlady of hers I see that she does not want such necessaries and comforts as are essential to her health.”

He was proceeding with his explanation, but was checked by the deep emotion of Mr Huntingdon, who, resting his head between his hands, could not restrain his tears and sobs. Then, springing up from his seat, he clasped Amos to him, and said, in a voice almost choked by his feelings, “My dear, noble boy! and I have misunderstood, and undervalued, and treated you with harshness and coldness all this time! Can you forgive your unworthy father?”

Poor Amos! Such a speech from his father almost stunned him for the moment. At last, recovering himself, he cried, “O father, dear father, don’t say such a thing! There is not—there cannot be anything for me to forgive. And, oh! the kindness you have shown me the last few days has made up a thousand times for any little trouble in days gone by.”

“You are a dear good boy to say so,” replied Mr Huntingdon, kissing him warmly. “Well, now tell me all.”

“You see, dear father,” continued Amos when they were again both seated, “I am afraid, from poor Julia’s letter, that she is in some special trouble. It is true that the latter part of her letter looks very much as if the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the first part is clearly written as she herself felt. I have the letter here. You see, she writes,—‘Amos, I’m mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He will take them both away; he will ruin us all, body and soul.’ So far the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no doubt what it means. That vile man has been ill-treating her, and has threatened to take the children from under my charge, though he pledged his honour to myself a short time back that he would not remove them; but, of course, the honour of such a man is worth nothing.”

“Yes; I see it all,” said the squire with a sigh; “but what can be done? I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the children as their father, and to poor Julia too, as she is his wife.”

“True, father; but it will never do to leave her as she is; and I cannot bear the thought of those dear children being left to the tender mercies of such a man.”

“Well, and where is your poor sister herself at this time?” asked Mr Huntingdon.

“There, again, I am in a difficulty,” said Amos. “When I first got to know how my dear sister was situated, and where she was living, she made me promise that I would not let any one know where the place was, and specially not you. I suppose she was afraid that something would be done against her husband, whom she had a great affection for, if our family knew where she lived; and she also indulged, I grieve to say, much bitterness of feeling towards yourself, which I have done my best to remove. So she would not hear of my telling any one where she is living; and indeed she has moved about from place to place. But I am still under the promise of secrecy.”

“Well,” said his father, with a sigh, “I will not of course ask you to break your word to her; but better times will come for her, poor thing, I hope.”

“I hope so too, dear father. But you will understand now, I feel sure, why I wish to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things are really going on with her and with the poor children.”

“But will it be safe for you to go?” asked his father anxiously. “Will not that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily harm?”

“I am not afraid, father. My own opinion is that the unhappy man will not remain long in this country; and that, after what has happened these last two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom to keep as clear of me as possible.”

“Perhaps so; but I must say I don’t like the thoughts of your going alone on such an expedition, after what has already happened.”

“Nay, dear father, I believe I ought to go. I believe that duty calls me; and so I may expect that God will take care of me.”

“Well, go then, my boy; and, see, take these two ten-pound notes to your poor sister. It is not fair that all the burden should fall upon you. These notes will at any rate keep her from want for a time; she can put them into safe keeping with her landlady. And tell her”—here his voice faltered—“that they are sent her with her father’s love, and that there is a place for her here in her old home still.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, dear father,” cried Amos; “youhavemade me glad!”

“Yes,” continued the squire, “tell her that from me; yet, of course, that does not includehim.”

“Oh no! I thoroughly understand that,” replied his son; “and I see, of course, many difficulties that lie in the way; but still, I believe that brighter and happier days are coming for us all.”

“May it be so, my dear boy,” said the other, again drawing him closely to him. “It will not beyourfault, at any rate, if they do not come.”

So that morning Amos left on his work of love.

He had not been gone many minutes, when Walter knocked at his aunt’s door. “Aunt Kate,” he began, when he had seated himself at her feet, “I want your advice about a little scheme of mine. It’s a good scheme, and perhaps a little bit of moral courage on my part will come out of it.”

“Well, my dear boy, let me hear it.”

“Father, I know, has been talking to you about Amos,” he went on; “all about his noble and self-denying conduct towards my poor dear sister, and that he is going, in consequence of that horrid letter, to see her and those children of hers. I gather this partly from a few words I had with Amos before he started. But then, nobody knows where Julia lives, and nobody knows what that scamp of a fellow may be up to against my dear good brother.”

“Yes, Walter,” said his aunt, “I understand all that; and I must say that I feel a little anxious about your brother, though I know that he is in better hands than ours.”

“Well, auntie, shall I tell you what I have thought of?”

“Do, dear boy.”

“If father will let me, I should like to go and keep guard over Amos till he comes back.”

“But how can you do that?” asked Miss Huntingdon. “You said just now that no one knows where your poor sister lives except Amos himself; and it would hardly do for you to overtake him, if that could be done, and join yourself to him whether he would or no.”

“No, Aunt Kate, that is not my idea. Now, though nobody but Amos knows where Julia lives, I think I know.”

“What do you mean?” asked the other, laughing.

“Why, just this. I don’t know properly. I’m not supposed to know, and so I take it for granted that I don’t know; and yet really I believe I do know.”

“My boy, you speak in riddles.”

“Ah yes, Aunt Kate, I do; and I see you will never guess the answers to them, so you must give up, and I will tell you. You know that for some time now it has been Amos’s place to unlock the post-bag of a morning and give out the letters. The other day, however, he made a mistake, and threw me two which were really directed to him. I gave them back to him, and I saw him turn red when he saw the mistake he had made. I couldn’t help noticing the post-mark at the time, and I thought I knew the handwriting on one of the envelopes. The post-mark was the same on each. I am sure now that one was directed by my sister; I know her handwriting well, for I have two little hymns in my desk which she wrote out for me before—before she left us, and I often look at them. And so, putting two and two together, I believe the other was most likely directed by the person in whose house she is living.”

“And what was the post-mark?”

“Ah, auntie, I don’t think I ought to tell, not even you. It seems like a breach of confidence towards Amos, though it really is not. At any rate, I am not sure that he would like me to tell.”

“Quite right, my dear Walter; I had no idle curiosity in asking; and if Amos wishes it still to be a secret, of course you ought not to disclose it.”

“Thank you, auntie, for looking at it in that light. Now it can be no breach of confidence on my part to go over to that place from which the letters came, as shown by the post-mark, and just keep my eyes and ears open, and see if I can get within sight or hearing of Amos without making myself known. I would not intrude myself into my poor sister’s house if I can find it out, but I would just keep a bit of a watch near it, and look if I can see anything of that miserable man who has given us so much trouble; and then I might be able to give him a little of my mind, so as to induce him to take himself clean off out of the country. At any rate, I would watch over Amos, that no harm should come to him. What do you think?”

“Well, dear boy,” replied his aunt, “it is very generous of you to make such a proposal, and good might come out of your plan; but what will your father say to it?”

“Ah, that’s the point, auntie. I must get you to persuade him to let me go. Tell him how it is—tell him I’ll be as prudent as a policeman, or a stationmaster, or any one else that’s particularly prudent, or ought to be; and, if I don’t find Amos where I imagine he will be, I’ll be back again before bed-time to-morrow.”

Miss Huntingdon spoke to her brother, and put Walter’s scheme before him; but at first he would not hear of it. “The boy must be crazy,” he said; “why, he’s not fit to be out all by himself on such an errand as this. That scoundrel of a man might be getting hold of him, and no one knows what might happen then. It’s absurd,—it’s really quite out of the question.”

“Don’t you think, Walter,” replied his sister calmly, “that God, who has put such a loving thought into the heart of Walter, will keep him from harm? Would it be right to check him when he is bent on such a work? Besides, as to the wretched and unhappy man who has caused all this trouble, are not such characters, with all their bluster, commonly arrant cowards when they find themselves firmly confronted?”

“Perhaps so, Kate. Well, send Walter to me.”

“My boy,” exclaimed the squire, when Walter made his appearance, “what wild scheme is this? Why, surely you can’t be serious?”

“Indeed I am, father. You needn’t be afraid for me. It was not my own thought,—I’m sure it was put into my mind; besides, it will be capital fun just having to look after myself for a night or two, and a little roughing it will do me good.”

“And where do you intend to sleep and to put up, I should like to know?” asked Mr Huntingdon, half seriously and half amused.

“Oh, I’ll find a shakedown somewhere; and I’m sure to be able to get lots of eggs and bacon and coffee, and I could live on them for a week.”

“And I suppose I am to be paymaster,” said his father, laughing.

“Oh no, father, not unless you like. I’ve a sovereign still left; I’ll make that pay all, and I must do without things till I get my next quarter’s allowance.”

“Very well, my boy; but hadn’t you better take Harry or Dick with you?”

“O father! take old Harry! why, I might as well take the town-crier. Oh no, let me go alone. I know what Amos would say if it were he that was in my place; he would say that we may trust to be taken care of while we are in the path of duty.—May I go, then, father?”

“Well—yes,” said Mr Huntingdon, but rather reluctantly; and then he said, “But how shall I be sure that you haven’t got into any trouble? for I understand from your aunt that you make it a point of honour not to let us know where you are going to.”

“All right, father: if I don’t turn up some time to-morrow afternoon, I’ll manage to send a letter by some means or other.”

After luncheon Walter set out on his self-imposed expedition, on his own pony, with a wallet strapped behind him which Miss Huntingdon had taken care should be furnished with such things as were needful. His father also thrust some money into his hand as they parted. And now we must leave him as he trots briskly away, rather proud of his solitary journey, and follow his brother, who little suspected that a guard and protector was pursuing him in the person of his volatile brother Walter.

The little town to which Amos leisurely made his way was about twenty miles from Flixworth Manor. It was one of those exceedingly quiet places which, boasting no attractions in the way of either architecture or situation, and being on the road to or from no places of note or busy traffic, are visited rarely by any but those who have their permanent abode in the neighbourhood. Neither did coach pass through it nor railway near it, so that its winding street or two, with their straggling masses of dingy houses, would be suggestive to any accidental visitor of little else than unmitigated dulness. It had, of course, its post office, which was kept at a miscellaneous shop, and did not tax the energies of the shopkeeper to any great degree by the number of letters which passed through his hands. The stamp, however, of this office was that which Walter had noticed on the letters which had furnished him with a clew.

The heart of Amos was very sad as he rode along, and yet it was filled with thankfulness also. Yes, he could now rejoice, because he saw the dawning of a better day now spreading into broad flushes of morning light. His father’s kindness to him, so unexpected and so precious, and, almost better still, his father’s altered feeling to his sister Julia—how thoughts of these things gladdened him, spite of his sadness! Oh, if only he could rid the family of that miserable husband of his sister’s in some lawful way! Of course it might be possible to put the police on his track; but then, if he were caught and brought to justice, what a lamentable and open disgrace it would be to them all, and might perhaps be the means of partially closing the opening door for his sister to her father’s heart.

With such thoughts of mingled cloud and sunshine chasing one another through his mind, he reached, about two o’clock in the afternoon, the little town of Dufferly, and drew rein at the dusky entrance to the Queen’s Hotel, as it was somewhat ambitiously called. Having secured a bed, he walked out into the pebbly street, and strolled into the market-place. He might have proceeded at once to his sister’s lodgings, but he had no wish to encounter her husband there if he could avoid it; but how to ascertain whether he was in the town or no he could not tell. That he was not likely to remain many days at once in the place he was pretty sure; and yet his sister’s letter implied that he had been lately with her, and had been taking some steps towards removing the children from their present place of abode. So he walked up and down the little town in all directions, thinking that if Mr Vivian should be anywhere about, and should catch sight of him, he might retire from the place for a season, and give him an opportunity of visiting his sister unmolested. At length, after returning to his inn and refreshing himself, he made up his mind to call at his sister’s home, trusting that he should find her alone.

All was quiet as could be in the little street or lane down which he now made his way. Knocking at the door of the neat but humble dwelling where his sister lived, she herself answered the summons. “Oh! is it you, Amos?” she cried, clasping her hands passionately together. “Oh, I am so glad, so glad! I want to tell you all, it has been so terrible; come in, come in.” Amos entered the little parlour and looked round. He had himself furnished it with a few extras of comfort and refinement. “O Amos, dear, dear Amos,” cried his sister, throwing her arms round his neck and weeping bitterly, “it has been so dreadful. Oh pardon me, pray pardon me!”

“What for, dearest Julia?” he asked.

“Why, for writing that last part of the letter. He stood over me; he made me do it. He stood over me with a whip; yes, he struck me over and over again—look at my neck here—he struck me till the blood came, when I refused at first to write as he dictated. But oh! I hope no harm came of that letter?”

“None, dear sister, none. No; the Lord took care of me and delivered me.—But the children—what of them?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure; but I rather think he doesn’t mean to move them after all.”

“And where is he himself—I mean your—”

“My husband, as he calls himself,” she said bitterly. “Oh, he is anywhere and everywhere; sometimes here for a day or two, and then absent for weeks. Indeed, he hardly dares stay for any length of time in any one place, for fear of the police getting hold of him.”

“My poor sister!” exclaimed Amos with a sigh; “but, at any rate,allis not dark,” he added. “I am bringing a little gladness with me. My dear father sends you his love—”

“What—what, Amos!” she exclaimed, interrupting him with almost a shriek. “Oh, say it again! Oh, can it really be?—my father send me his love! Oh, dearest Amos, was it really so?”

“Yes; he knows nearly all now, and his heart has opened to you, and he bids me tell you there is a place for you in the old home still.”

Sinking on the ground, the bewildered, agitated creature clasped her hands across her forehead, as though the swollen veins would burst with the intensity of her emotion. At last, yielding to her brother’s tender caresses, she grew calmer, and allowing him to draw her close to him, she wept a full flood of tears, which brought with them a measure of peace in their flow. “Oh! can it be?” she cried again, but now more hopefully—“a place for me yet in the dear old home, and my father’s smile on me once more.” Then she added in a scared, hoarse whisper, “But that doesn’t includehim?”

“No, not your unhappy husband; my father could not receive him.”

“Of course not, Amos. Oh that I had never married him! Every spark of love for him has died out of my heart now. I hate him, and I loathe myself.”

“Nay, nay, dear sister,” said Amos soothingly, “don’t say so. He has sinned, greatly sinned, but all may yet be well.”

“Never, never,” she cried, “while he claims me for his wife!”

“Well, well,” said Amos, “calm yourself, dear Julia. See, here is proof visible of my father’s love to you: he has bid me put these two ten-pound notes into Mrs Allison’s hands for you. He sends them to yourself, but I am to place them with her, lest they should be taken from you.”

“Let me look at them with my own eyes,” she cried; and when Amos produced them, she pressed them eagerly to her lips, exclaiming, “Dear, dear father, God bless you for this!”

“And now,” said her brother, when she had sufficiently recovered herself to listen to him quietly, “we must consider next what is best to be done. Do you think your husband is likely to be here again soon? and if so, will it be of any use your speaking to him on the subject of your father having expressed his willingness to receive you without him? Would he be willing to leave you to us now, and to go abroad himself to some distant land? and do you yourself really desire this separation?”

“Desire it, Amos! how can I help desiring it? Though marrying him lost me home and almost everything I once loved, yet I could have followed him all the world over if he had really loved me. But he hates me; he takes a spiteful pleasure in ill-treating me. He would never come near me at all, if he did not think that he could manage to squeeze some money out of me. HowcanI have any love left for such a wretch?”

“But will he be willing to leave you in our hands? Remember you are still his wife, and he has therefore a claim upon you.”

“I know it, Amos, too well. Oh! what can I do?”

“Well, I can hardly tell; but I am remaining in the town to-night, and as it is now getting late, I will go to my room at the inn, and will come and see you again to-morrow morning, by which time I shall have got more light on the subject, I have no doubt.” So they parted.

As Amos walked into the inn-yard to have a last look at his pony, he saw a young man advancing towards him; but as it was now getting dark, he could not at first make out his features. A moment more, and he recognised his brother.

“What, Walter!” he exclaimed in astonishment; “how didyoucome here?”

“Oh, very comfortably indeed!” was the reply. “I have ridden over on a little private business of my own—in fact, I may tell you in confidence that I am at present a member of the mounted police force, and am on duty to-night in the noble town of Dufferly, keeping my eye on a certain person who is running his head into danger, and wants carefully looking after, lest he get himself into mischief.” Amos looked puzzled. “In other words,” continued his brother, “I could not bear the thought of your getting again into the clutches of that horrid man; so I have come over, not to be a spy upon you, or any fetter on your movements, but just to be at hand, to give you a help if you want it.”

“How generous of you, dear Walter!” cried his brother, shaking him warmly by the hand; “but does my father know?”

“Of course he does, and my aunt too. It’s all right. You are captain, and I’m only lieutenant; and now, what’s the next move?”

“Well, to have some tea together in my room, Walter. But really your coming was quite unnecessary. I shall be taken care of without your needing to put yourself to all this trouble. However, as youarehere, I begin to see that good may come of it. So let us have tea, and then you must tell me how you found me out, after which I will tell you what is in my mind.” So the brothers had a cozy meal together, and then Amos told Walter about his interview with their sister, and having taken him fully into his confidence, discussed with him what was best to be done under the sad circumstances.

“If I could only get hold of that rascally scamp!” said Walter, with an inclination of his head which implied that nothing would give him more intense satisfaction.

“I am afraid,” said his brother, “that would not help us much: the thing that would do us all good is not to get hold of him, but to get rid of him. Unfortunately, however, he knows the hold he has upon us through poor Julia, and I fear that he will leave no stone unturned to accomplish his own objects through her directly or indirectly.”

“And can’t we set the police on him?”

“I daresay we could, Walter; but what a disgrace it would be to have him exposed and brought to justice!”

“Ah, I see that. Well, Amos, we must see if we cannot frighten him away for good and all.”

His brother shook his head. “He knows very well, you may be sure,” he said, “that for Julia’s sake and our own we shall not drag him out into the light, with all his sins and misdemeanours, for the public to gaze at, if we can help it; and yet I think he may perhaps be induced to retire of his own accord and settle abroad, if he finds that we are both of us determined to keep him in view. Suppose, then, we go together to poor Julia’s to-morrow. Oh, how delighted she will be to see you once again! And we can get her to make her husband understand that we are both of us keeping our eyes open about him, and that unless he takes himself off at once, and gives up his poor abused wife into our keeping, and leaves her there, we shall bring him to justice, let the disgrace be what it may.”

“Well, Amos,” replied Walter, “I can see no better plan; so if agreeable to you I will have the happiness of going with you to-morrow to my dear sister’s.”

The next morning, accordingly, the two brothers stood at the door of Julia Vivian’s humble dwelling. The landlady answered the bell, and said that her lodger was still in her bedroom, having passed a very disturbed night, but that, if they would come in, she would soon come down to them. In a few minutes the parlour door slowly opened, and Julia, deadly pale, a wild light in her eyes, and her hands trembling with excitement, made her appearance. She advanced with hesitating steps towards Amos, behind whom stood Walter, partly hidden by his brother; but as his sister caught sight of her younger brother, the colour rushed into her face, and with a wild cry she sprang into his arms. “Walter! O Walter, Walter! is it really you? Oh, this is too much happiness.—Amos, you never told me of this.”

“No, my dear sister, because I did not know of it myself. But calm yourself now. You look so very ill, I am afraid the excitement has been too much for you.”

“No, no!” she cried, with a look of terror in her eyes, “it is not that,—seeing you both is nothing but joy; it would make me well and ready for anything. But—buthehas been here since I saw you yesterday, Amos. He found out from my manner that something had happened, and he made me tell that you had been here. And then he asked if you had said anything about money; and, when I hesitated, he threatened and threatened till he forced it out of me that my dear father had sent me those notes. He went off again last night, and said that he should like to meet you this morning, and that perhaps something might be arranged to the satisfaction of all parties.”

“Then you told him that I was coming again this morning?”

“Yes; he dragged it from me by his sharp and cruel questioning. But he is not coming till twelve o’clock.”

“And where is he now?”

“I cannot tell. He never lets me know where he is going to, or how long he means to stay away.”

“I will meet him here, then,” said Amos; “perhaps we may now really come to some understanding which will get us out of our difficulties.”

“And what about me?” asked Walter. “I have come over here in the character of a policeman in plain clothes to watch over my brother Amos, and I don’t want that precious blackguard—I beg your pardon, Julia, I mean your husband—to have any moretête-à-têteswith my charge unless I am by. Can you hide me away in some corner where I can hear and see all that is going on without being seen myself?”

“Would that be right?” asked his brother hesitatingly.

“Perfectly right,” said Walter, “so long asyouare willing that I should hear what passes between you. I’m not fond of acting the spy, but this is simply taking reasonable precautions to prevent an honest man being entrapped or injured by a rogue.”

“Yes,” said his sister, “I am afraid what you say is too true. I would not answer for what Orlando might do at any time. So I think I can place you where you can observe and hear what is going on without being observed yourself.”

Having said this, she led the way into another room on the opposite side of the passage, which was usually occupied by the owner of the house, but which she had this morning lent to her lodger for her use, as it was rather larger than the one Mrs Vivian occupied, and more convenient for the reception of a visitor. On the farther side of this apartment was a door leading out to the back part of the house. It was seldom used now, and a curtain hung before it, as the weather was cold and a strong current of air came through it. In an upper panel of this door was a small glass window, now disused, for some alterations had been made in the back premises which blocked out the light. The panes of this window had been pasted over and covered by paper similar in colour to the door, so that the existence of any glass there would not have been suspected by any ordinary observer.

When this door and its window had been shown to Walter, what he should do flashed upon him at once. “May we take the landlady in a measure into our confidence?” he asked.

“Yes,” said his sister, “I am sure you may. She knows my trials and troubles too well.”

Amos having assented, Mrs Allison was called, and it was explained to her that Walter wished to watch behind the door unobserved, and to be able, if possible, to see as well as hear what was going on in the room during the interview between his brother and brother-in-law. The good woman, at once comprehending the situation, gave cheerful leave to Walter to take his stand where he proposed, promising that no one should interrupt; and then with her own hands scratched with an old pair of scissors two small round holes in the paper which had been pasted on the small window, such as would not attract the notice of any one in the room, but through which Walter would be able to see everything that was going on inside.

A few minutes before twelve he duly took his stand behind this disused door. The curtain had previously been removed by the landlady, so that any conversation in the room could be readily heard through the not over tight-fitting woodwork. Anxiously did the young man wait for the coming interview. He was not kept long in suspense. A loud ring at the front door was followed by the sound of a heavy stalking tread. Mr Orlando Vivian entered the other parlour, whither Amos and his sister had retired, and saluted the former with an offhand, swaggering assumption of politeness.

“Your servant, Mr Huntingdon,” he said. Whose everservanthe might be, at that moment he was clearly theslaveof strong drink.

Amos bowed.

“I hope you find your sister well, Mr Huntingdon,” he added; “it is very kind of you to visit us in our humble dwelling.”

The other replied that he did not find his sister looking as well as he had hoped, but trusted that she might soon be better.

“The better for my absence, I suppose you mean,” said his brother-in-law sneeringly.

Amos made no reply.

“Well, sir,” continued the wretched stroller, whose swaggering manner was evidently merely assumed, “every man’s house is his castle, and therefore mine must be so too. I haven’t much to offer you in the way of welcome just now, but, before we part, I should like a word in private with you.—Is the other room occupied?” he asked of his wife.

“No; Mrs Allison has put it at my service this morning.”

“Then, Mr Huntingdon, will you be so good as to follow me?” Saying which, he led the way to the other parlour, and, when they had entered, locked the door, to the surprise and not particular satisfaction of Amos, who gave just one glance at the little window, and thought he saw two eyes peeping through the little holes.

“Pray be seated,” said the player.

Amos accepted the invitation and sat.

“You have brought some money, I understand, from my father-in-law for his daughter,” began Mr Vivian abruptly.

“I have,” said the other, after his questioner had waited a minute or so for a reply.

“Would you have the goodness to hand it to me?” continued the player.

“I brought it,” replied Amos, “for my sister’s own private use and benefit, and cannot therefore give it to you.”

“Ah, indeed!” said the other sarcastically; “but you know, sir, that a wife’s goods belong to her husband, who, as I think the Bible has it, is the head of the wife, so that what is hers is his, and indeed his more than hers.”

“Perhaps so, under ordinary circumstances,” replied Amos; “but this is a free gift from a father to a daughter, and I am sure no kind or reasonable husband would wish to deprive her of it.”

“Deprive, sir? No,—deprive is not the word. Husband and wife are one, you know: the wife is the weaker vessel, and the husband the stronger; and it is only right and natural that the stronger should have the money, that he may use it for the benefit of the weaker.”

“Mr Vivian,” said Amos firmly, “all this, and you must know it, is mere idle talk. I cannot give you the money.”

“And I on my part say, sir,” replied the other, “that I must have it. I want it. I cannot do without it.”

“I have told you my decision,” said Amos.

“Indeed,” said the other. “Then I am driven to an unpleasant line of persuasion, though very reluctantly.”

He rose, and Amos did the same.

“Do you see this?” he said, taking from his pocket a revolver.

“I do,” said Amos.

“Should I be disposed to use this by way of compulsion, what would you say?”

“That I am in God’s hands and not in yours,” replied Amos, looking Vivian full in the face, who quailed before the calm, steady gaze of the young man.

Neither spoke for half a minute; then the unhappy stroller stepped back, and began to raise his right arm. The next instant the disused door was dashed open, and Walter sprang upon his astounded brother-in-law with the fury of a tiger. The pistol flew from Vivian’s hand, and he fell to the ground. Walter, who was full of vigour and activity, pinned him down, and called to Amos to give him one of the bell ropes. With this, being assisted by his brother, he pinioned the prostrate man so that he was utterly helpless.

“Now,” said Walter, “let us search the villain’s pockets.” He did so, and discovered a second revolver. “What’s to be done now?” he asked; “shall we hand him over at once to the police?”

At this moment his sister, having heard the scuffle, tried the door. Amos unlocked it. What a sight presented itself! “Oh, what does it all mean?” she cried.

“Why, just this,” exclaimed her brother. “This dastardly villain—I must call him so—has been threatening to shoot Amos because he would not give him the money that was sent by my father to you.”

“Oh, misery! misery!” cried the unhappy wife, hiding her face with her hands.

“Let me get up; untie the rope,” wailed the unhappy Vivian, now utterly crestfallen and abject. “I meant your brother no harm; I only intended to frighten him. The pistols are neither of them loaded.”

“It may be so,” said Walter. “Well, get up,” and he helped him to rise. “Now sit down in that chair and listen to me. You’ve behaved like a brute, and worse than a brute, to my poor sister; you have cruelly trapped my dear noble brother, and would have murdered him if you had dared. The simplest thing would just be to send for a policeman and give you into his charge. But I don’t want to do this for my poor sister’s sake and the family’s sake. But now I’ve made up my mind—come what may, disgrace or no disgrace, if you show your face amongst any of us again, the constable shall have you, and you shall get your deserts. We’ve got a home for our sister at the old place, and Amos has got a home for the children. Now if, after I’ve set you free, you turn up anywhere near us or the children, we’ll make no more bones of the matter; you shall get your deserts, and these will be the deserts of a mean, cowardly, rascally wife-beater, to say the best of you.”

Not a word of reply did the guilty man make to this speech. He writhed in his chair, and looked utterly humbled and crushed.

When Walter—who had now, with the tacit consent of Amos, taken the management of matters into his own hands—had examined the pistols, which proved to be unloaded, he approached his brother-in-law once more, and said, with less excitement, “Now, Mr Orlando Vivian, I am going to release you, and you will have the goodness to take yourself out of this town before you are an hour older, else you will have to take the consequences.” Having said this, he proceeded to unfasten the cord which bound the degraded and spirit-broken wretch. When this had been accomplished, the baffled stroller rose, and, with head hanging down, and without a word uttered, left the house.

Chapter Sixteen.Back to the Old Home again.“I shall remain here with poor Julia,” said Amos to his brother, when their unhappy sister, completely overcome by the terrible scene she had just witnessed, had retired to her bedroom, where she was lovingly tended by her kind landlady.“And what is the next move for me?” asked Walter.“Well,” replied Amos, “you have done your part most nobly, and I am so thankful now that you came. Not that I think that wretched man would really have harmed me. He just wanted to frighten the money out of me; but I believe, on finding me firm, and not to be frightened, he would have dropped his pistol, and made some shuffling attempt to turn the matter into a joke, and would then have tried to wheedle the money out of me, when he saw that a show of violence would not do. Still, I am truly glad that you were here, and that things have turned out as they have done. I feel sure now that you have thoroughly humbled this unprincipled scoundrel, and that he has slunk away like a whipped hound, and I have every hope that he will not trouble poor Julia any more with his odious presence. As he knows now that there are two of us keeping watch, and must remember what you have said to him, I fully believe that he will take himself off to a distance, if not go abroad, and that we need not be afraid of his annoying us any more either here or at Flixworth Manor.”“That’s pretty much what I think too,” replied his brother; “but what am I to say at home?”“Just what you like. But as to our dear sister, I want you to express to my father her delight and gratitude when I gave her his love, and told her that there was still a place for her in the old home. And then would you find out from him or through our aunt how soon she may come back to us? for I want to get her out of this place. When she is once in her old home again she will be safe out of the clutches of her cruel husband. I will wait here for an answer, which you can send me by post; and, should that answer warrant poor Julia’s return at once, I will see all things got ready, and will bring her myself. And, should there be anything in the way of her returning immediately, I can remove her for a time to where her children are, as I shall be better able to keep my eye upon her there.”“All right, Amos; I’m not afraid of leaving you here now, for I am as fully persuaded as you are that Mr Vivian has had such a lesson as he won’t forget in a hurry, and that he will make himself pretty scarce for some time to come. You shall hear from me by to-morrow’s post.—Ah, but there’s another thing: am I to say anything about the children? for if poor Julia is to come back we shall have to make room for the children as well.”“Nay, dear Walter,” said his brother, “I think it would be better to say nothing about the children; they are safe and happy where they are. Let us leave the matter to our dear father. When Julia has got her old place in his house and heart back again, I feel sure that it will not be long before he bids her himself send for the children. Don’t you think it will be better that it should come from himself?”“Just so, Amos; you are right, as usual. Well, this is a capital ending to a queer beginning. And what will old Harry say to see ‘Miss Julia as was’ turning up ‘Mistress Julia as is’? Oh, won’t it be capital fun to see him welcome her back!” So Walter set off on his homeward journey in high spirits, and in due time reached his destination brimful of news and excitement.“All well, I hope?” asked his father, who, with his aunt, met him in the hall on his arrival.“Oh yes, father, it’s all well, and a deal better than all well—it’s all best.” Then the three gathered round the fire in Mr Huntingdon’s library, and Walter told his story. Deep was the emotion of Mr Huntingdon and his sister, and deeper still their thankfulness, when they heard of the happy conclusion of the terrible and exciting meeting between Amos and his brother-in-law.“And you did nobly and wisely yourself, my dear boy,” said the squire. “I believe you have given that wretched scoundrel his quietus so far as we are concerned.—And what of your poor sister? Are we to expect her soon?”“That’s what I’ve got to write to Amos about,” replied his son. “As soon as you are ready to receive her she will be only too thankful to come.”“Let her come at once—write by this night’s post,” cried his father in an agitated voice. “Poor dear child, I long to welcome her back again; and I think, if I am not mistaken, that your aunt has been making some quiet preparations, so that it will not be inconvenient to you, Kate, for her to come at once, will it?”“Not in the least,” replied his sister; “I have been earnestly hoping and praying for this.”“And what about the children?” said her brother; “we must make room for them too, poor things. We can’t keep the mother and her children separate.”“Of course not, dear Walter,” replied Miss Huntingdon; “we shall be quite prepared to receive them also, though they are at present not with their mother, but under Amos’s charge.”“Ah, I remember,” said her brother; “well, we can send for them too, when the poor child herself has got here.”“Am I to write all that?” asked Walter.“Oh, certainly,” was the reply.“Then hip, hip, hurrah forty-four thousand times! And now I will write the letter; and then I’ll have a fine bit of fun with Harry.” So the letter was written and duly posted that evening; and Walter, after he had finished it, betook himself to the butler’s pantry.“Harry,” he said to the worthy old servant, who, wash-leather in hand, was burnishing the plate with all the solemnity of one engaged in some very serious and responsible undertaking, “what do you think?”“Well, Master Walter, I think a good many things.”“I daresay you do. But what do you thinknow?”“Why, pretty much what I’ve been thinking of for the last half-hour; and that ain’t much to the purpose to any one but myself.”“Just so, Harry; well, I’m not going to offer you a penny for your thoughts, but I’m sure you would give a good many pence for mine. However, I’ll make no charge on the present occasion, but will tell you out at once—Miss Julia that was is coming back to us to her old home, perhaps to-morrow or next day. My father has sent for her. Now, isn’t that stunning?”It certainly looked so in Harry’s case, for the old man dropped a large silver fork on to the ground, and stood, with his mouth and eyes wide open, staring at Walter, the very picture of amazement.“All, I thought so,” said Walter. “Well, Harry, it’s true. Isn’t that good news?”Yes; it was joy and gladness to the faithful old servant’s heart. One big tear after another rolled down his cheeks, and then he said in a low voice, “The Lord be praised! I’ve prayed as it might come to this some day; and so it has at last. And you’re sure of it, Master Walter; you’re not a-cramming of me?”“Nothing of the sort, Harry; I couldn’t have the heart to do it. No, it is perfectly true. And now, what shall we do? Shall we pile up a great bonfire, and light it the same night she comes back? What do you say to that?”“I don’t know, Master Walter, I don’t know. Somehow or other it don’t seem to me quite suitable. I think master would hardly like it. You see, it isn’t as if she’d been and married a creditable person, or were coming back after all had gone on straight and smooth like. There’s been faults on both sides, maybe; but it seems to me as we’d better do our rejoicing in a quieter sort of way, and light the bonfires in our hearts, and then we shan’t give offence to nobody.”“Harry, I believe you’re right,” said Walter. “You’re a regular old brick, and nothing but it; thank you for your sensible advice.”When dinner was over, and Miss Huntingdon had retired for a few minutes to her own room, she received a visit from Walter. “Auntie,” he said, “I am come for a lesson on moral courage, and for a little encouragement. Now, you know all the circumstances of our grand scene with that shocking scoundrel at Dufferly; so you must tell me who is your special hero for moral courage in whose steps Amos trode on that occasion.”“Yes, I can do that, my dear boy,” replied his aunt; “but, first of all, I must speak a word of congratulation and praise to another hero—my dear nephew Walter.”“Nay, aunt,” he replied, “I don’t think there was much moral courage about it in my case. My blood was up when I saw Amos’s life threatened, and I should have pitched into the cowardly wretch if he had been as tall as a lighthouse and as big as an elephant.”“True, dear boy, that was natural courage principally; but there was moral courage too in your whole conduct in the matter, in the steady perseverance with which you went to be your brother’s protector, come what might and at all hazards.”“Thank you, dear aunt, but you have given me more praise than I deserve. And now for the special hero, the counterpart of Amos.”“My hero this time,” said Miss Huntingdon, “is a very remarkable man, a most excellent clergyman, Mr Fletcher of Madeley. He had a very profligate nephew, a military man, who had been dismissed from the Sardinian service for base and ungentlemanly conduct, had engaged in two or three duels, and had wasted his means in vice and extravagance. One day this nephew waited on his uncle, General de Gons, and, presenting a loaded pistol, threatened to shoot him unless he would immediately advance him five hundred crowns. The general, though a brave man, well knew what a desperado he had to deal with, and gave a draft for the money, at the same time expostulating with him freely on his conduct. The young madman rode off triumphantly with his ill-gotten cheque. In the evening, passing the door of Mr Fletcher, he determined to call on him, and began by telling him how liberal General de Gons had been to him, and, as a proof, exhibited the draft. Mr Fletcher took it from his nephew, and looked at it with astonishment. Then, after some remarks, putting it into his pocket, he said, ‘It strikes me, young man, that you possessed yourself of this note by some indirect method; and in honesty I cannot return it without my brother’s knowledge and approbation.’ The young man’s pistol was immediately at his uncle’s breast. ‘My life,’ said Mr Fletcher, with perfect calmness, ‘is secure in the protection of an Almighty Power, nor will he suffer it to be the forfeit of my integrity and your rashness.’—This firmness staggered his nephew, who exclaimed, ‘Why, Uncle de Gons, though an old soldier, was more afraid of death than you are.’—‘Afraid of death!’ cried Mr Fletcher. ‘Do you think I have been twenty-five years the minister of the Lord of life, to be afraid of death now? No, sir; it is foryouto fear death. Look here, sir, the broad eye of Heaven is fixed upon us; tremble in the presence of your Maker, who can in a moment kill your body, and for ever punish your soul in hell.’—The unhappy man turned pale, and trembled first with fear and then with rage. He still threatened his uncle with instant death. Mr Fletcher, however, gave no alarm and made no attempt to escape. He calmly conversed with his miserable nephew; and at last, when he saw that he was touched, addressed him like a father till he had fairly subdued him. But he would not return his brother’s draft. However, he gave him some help himself, and having prayed with him, let him go.”“Ay, dear aunt,” exclaimed Walter, “that was a hero indeed.”“Yes, Walter, a true moral hero; for, if you remember, moral courage is the bravery shown, not in acting from sudden impulse, nor from ‘pluck,’ as you call it, nor from mere animal daring, but in deliberately resolving to do and doing as a matter of principle or duty what may cost us shame, or loss, or suffering, or even death. Such certainly was Mr Fletcher’s courage. A sense of duty and the fear of God upheld him against all fear of man.”“True, auntie,” acquiesced her nephew; “and so it was with Amos.”“Yes, just so, Walter. You tell me that when your unhappy brother-in-law pointed the pistol at Amos, your brother said with perfect calmness that he was in God’s hands, and not in the hands of Mr Vivian. In thus acting from duty, and deliberately hazarding the loss of his own life rather than do what his conscience disapproved of, Amos exhibited, like Mr Fletcher, the most exalted moral courage.”“Thank you, dear aunt; and I am so glad that I have been permitted to help my hero out of his trouble.”On the third day after this conversation, the post brought the welcome news from Amos that he should bring his sister that afternoon to her old home, and that her children would follow in a day or two. Seven years had elapsed since the erring daughter had left sorrow and shame behind her in her home, by suddenly and clandestinely quitting it, to become, without the sanction of father or mother, the wife of a specious but profligate and needy adventurer. And now, sad and forsaken, she was returning to a home which had for a long time been closed against her. Oh, with what a wild throbbing of heart did she gaze at the familiar sights which presented themselves to her on all sides, as she and Amos drove along the well-known roads, in through the great green gates, up the drive, and then, with a sudden pull up, to the front door. The next moment she had sprung on to the door-steps with an eager cry, and found herself clasped in her father’s arms.“My poor, poor child! welcome home again,” he murmured, with choking tears.“O father! father!” she cried, “it is too much happiness.” She could say no more.Then she received the warm embrace of her aunt, who was saddened to mark the lines of care on that young face, which was all brightness the last time she had seen it. And then, as she raised herself up, and disengaged herself from those loving arms, her eyes fell on the old butler, who was twisting a large red pocket-handkerchief into a rope, in his vain efforts to restrain his emotions, which at last found vent in a long cadence of mingled sobs and exclamations. For a moment Julia Vivian hesitated, and then flung her arms round the neck of the old man, who made the hall ring with a shout of thanksgiving. Then, calming down, he said, half out loud, and half confidentially to himself, “You know it was to be so, and so it is. We’ve got Miss Julia as was back among us again; and we don’t mean to part with her never again no more.”Oh, what a day of gladness was that to Amos Huntingdon! One half of the great purpose to which he had devoted his life was now accomplished. The banished sister had been welcomed back by his father to her earthly home. And yet, how much still remained to be done! But, as he had worked on in faith and trust before, so he would continue trusting, watching, working, committing all to the wise guiding and overruling of that loving Father whose leading hand he had hitherto sought to follow, but never to outrun.How bright were the faces which gathered round the dinner-table that evening!—though even then the cloud rested in a measure on every heart; for that poor worn face, and those wistful pitiful eyes, told of a deep and hidden sorrow, and of an abiding humiliation, which not even the pure love that now beamed on her from all sides could remove from the burdened spirit of the restored wanderer. Down in the kitchen, however, the rejoicing was unclouded, except that Harry mourned over his young mistress’s faded beauty and sad looks, and occupied a considerable portion of his leisure time in punching an imaginary head, held firm under his left arm, and supposed by his fellow-servants to belong to Miss Julia’s brute of a husband.Dinner had been over rather more than an hour, when Walter, who had been absent for a short time from the drawing-room, returned, beckoned to Amos, and then, gently laying hold of his sister’s hand, drew her towards the door. “Come here, just for one minute,” he said, with a merry smile twinkling in his eyes. “Father will spare you just for a minute;” and he conducted her out of the room. Oh, what a flood of joy came into her heart with that smile of Walter’s. Years had passed since she had rejoiced in its light. What would she have given could the frightful interval between this smile and the last she had seen before it have been wiped clean out! To her that interval had been one prolonged and gloomy frown. But now the three, Amos, Walter, and their sister, made their way downstairs. Oh, it was so like a bit of childish fun in days gone by! And now they arrived at the butler’s pantry, the door of which was fast closed. Walter knocked. “Come in,” said the old man. They entered; and all exclaimed at the sight which presented itself. On every available projection there was placed a portion of a candle, making in all some thirty or forty lights, which made the little room one brilliant blaze. On the wall opposite the door were the words, “Welcome home again,” in large red and blue letters; and on another wall the words, “Hip, hip, hooray!” in golden characters.“O dear Harry!” cried his young mistress, her face glowing with such a smile as no one had seen on it yet since her return, “how good and kind of you—just like your dear old self! how came you to think of it?”“Well, Miss Julia,” was his reply, “it’s this way,—Master Walter and me talked about having a bonfire on the hill; but when we came to think it over, we decided as it wouldn’t p’r’aps be altogether the right thing, for reasons as needn’t be named on this here occasion. So I’ve been and got up a little bit of an illumination all of my own self. But don’t you go for to suppose as these candles belongs to master. I’m not the man to use his goods this way without leave. It’s a pound of the best composite as I bought out of my own wages, and you’re heartily welcome to every one on ’em.”“Thank you, dear Harry,” she said, holding out her hand to him; “it is the sweetest of welcomes. I feel that it has done me good already; there is true love in every light.”“Just so, miss,” said the old man, his face brimming over with happiness. “And now, before we part, we must have a bit of toffee all round, as you was used to in old times.” So saying, he opened an old drawer, which seemed abundantly furnished with sundry kinds of sweets, and produced the toffee, which he pressed upon each of his three visitors. “There,” he said in a tone of deep satisfaction, “that’s just as it should be; and now, Miss Julia,” he added, “when you want any more, you know where to come for it.”Few happier hearts were laid on a bed that night in England than the heart of old Harry the butler.

“I shall remain here with poor Julia,” said Amos to his brother, when their unhappy sister, completely overcome by the terrible scene she had just witnessed, had retired to her bedroom, where she was lovingly tended by her kind landlady.

“And what is the next move for me?” asked Walter.

“Well,” replied Amos, “you have done your part most nobly, and I am so thankful now that you came. Not that I think that wretched man would really have harmed me. He just wanted to frighten the money out of me; but I believe, on finding me firm, and not to be frightened, he would have dropped his pistol, and made some shuffling attempt to turn the matter into a joke, and would then have tried to wheedle the money out of me, when he saw that a show of violence would not do. Still, I am truly glad that you were here, and that things have turned out as they have done. I feel sure now that you have thoroughly humbled this unprincipled scoundrel, and that he has slunk away like a whipped hound, and I have every hope that he will not trouble poor Julia any more with his odious presence. As he knows now that there are two of us keeping watch, and must remember what you have said to him, I fully believe that he will take himself off to a distance, if not go abroad, and that we need not be afraid of his annoying us any more either here or at Flixworth Manor.”

“That’s pretty much what I think too,” replied his brother; “but what am I to say at home?”

“Just what you like. But as to our dear sister, I want you to express to my father her delight and gratitude when I gave her his love, and told her that there was still a place for her in the old home. And then would you find out from him or through our aunt how soon she may come back to us? for I want to get her out of this place. When she is once in her old home again she will be safe out of the clutches of her cruel husband. I will wait here for an answer, which you can send me by post; and, should that answer warrant poor Julia’s return at once, I will see all things got ready, and will bring her myself. And, should there be anything in the way of her returning immediately, I can remove her for a time to where her children are, as I shall be better able to keep my eye upon her there.”

“All right, Amos; I’m not afraid of leaving you here now, for I am as fully persuaded as you are that Mr Vivian has had such a lesson as he won’t forget in a hurry, and that he will make himself pretty scarce for some time to come. You shall hear from me by to-morrow’s post.—Ah, but there’s another thing: am I to say anything about the children? for if poor Julia is to come back we shall have to make room for the children as well.”

“Nay, dear Walter,” said his brother, “I think it would be better to say nothing about the children; they are safe and happy where they are. Let us leave the matter to our dear father. When Julia has got her old place in his house and heart back again, I feel sure that it will not be long before he bids her himself send for the children. Don’t you think it will be better that it should come from himself?”

“Just so, Amos; you are right, as usual. Well, this is a capital ending to a queer beginning. And what will old Harry say to see ‘Miss Julia as was’ turning up ‘Mistress Julia as is’? Oh, won’t it be capital fun to see him welcome her back!” So Walter set off on his homeward journey in high spirits, and in due time reached his destination brimful of news and excitement.

“All well, I hope?” asked his father, who, with his aunt, met him in the hall on his arrival.

“Oh yes, father, it’s all well, and a deal better than all well—it’s all best.” Then the three gathered round the fire in Mr Huntingdon’s library, and Walter told his story. Deep was the emotion of Mr Huntingdon and his sister, and deeper still their thankfulness, when they heard of the happy conclusion of the terrible and exciting meeting between Amos and his brother-in-law.

“And you did nobly and wisely yourself, my dear boy,” said the squire. “I believe you have given that wretched scoundrel his quietus so far as we are concerned.—And what of your poor sister? Are we to expect her soon?”

“That’s what I’ve got to write to Amos about,” replied his son. “As soon as you are ready to receive her she will be only too thankful to come.”

“Let her come at once—write by this night’s post,” cried his father in an agitated voice. “Poor dear child, I long to welcome her back again; and I think, if I am not mistaken, that your aunt has been making some quiet preparations, so that it will not be inconvenient to you, Kate, for her to come at once, will it?”

“Not in the least,” replied his sister; “I have been earnestly hoping and praying for this.”

“And what about the children?” said her brother; “we must make room for them too, poor things. We can’t keep the mother and her children separate.”

“Of course not, dear Walter,” replied Miss Huntingdon; “we shall be quite prepared to receive them also, though they are at present not with their mother, but under Amos’s charge.”

“Ah, I remember,” said her brother; “well, we can send for them too, when the poor child herself has got here.”

“Am I to write all that?” asked Walter.

“Oh, certainly,” was the reply.

“Then hip, hip, hurrah forty-four thousand times! And now I will write the letter; and then I’ll have a fine bit of fun with Harry.” So the letter was written and duly posted that evening; and Walter, after he had finished it, betook himself to the butler’s pantry.

“Harry,” he said to the worthy old servant, who, wash-leather in hand, was burnishing the plate with all the solemnity of one engaged in some very serious and responsible undertaking, “what do you think?”

“Well, Master Walter, I think a good many things.”

“I daresay you do. But what do you thinknow?”

“Why, pretty much what I’ve been thinking of for the last half-hour; and that ain’t much to the purpose to any one but myself.”

“Just so, Harry; well, I’m not going to offer you a penny for your thoughts, but I’m sure you would give a good many pence for mine. However, I’ll make no charge on the present occasion, but will tell you out at once—Miss Julia that was is coming back to us to her old home, perhaps to-morrow or next day. My father has sent for her. Now, isn’t that stunning?”

It certainly looked so in Harry’s case, for the old man dropped a large silver fork on to the ground, and stood, with his mouth and eyes wide open, staring at Walter, the very picture of amazement.

“All, I thought so,” said Walter. “Well, Harry, it’s true. Isn’t that good news?”

Yes; it was joy and gladness to the faithful old servant’s heart. One big tear after another rolled down his cheeks, and then he said in a low voice, “The Lord be praised! I’ve prayed as it might come to this some day; and so it has at last. And you’re sure of it, Master Walter; you’re not a-cramming of me?”

“Nothing of the sort, Harry; I couldn’t have the heart to do it. No, it is perfectly true. And now, what shall we do? Shall we pile up a great bonfire, and light it the same night she comes back? What do you say to that?”

“I don’t know, Master Walter, I don’t know. Somehow or other it don’t seem to me quite suitable. I think master would hardly like it. You see, it isn’t as if she’d been and married a creditable person, or were coming back after all had gone on straight and smooth like. There’s been faults on both sides, maybe; but it seems to me as we’d better do our rejoicing in a quieter sort of way, and light the bonfires in our hearts, and then we shan’t give offence to nobody.”

“Harry, I believe you’re right,” said Walter. “You’re a regular old brick, and nothing but it; thank you for your sensible advice.”

When dinner was over, and Miss Huntingdon had retired for a few minutes to her own room, she received a visit from Walter. “Auntie,” he said, “I am come for a lesson on moral courage, and for a little encouragement. Now, you know all the circumstances of our grand scene with that shocking scoundrel at Dufferly; so you must tell me who is your special hero for moral courage in whose steps Amos trode on that occasion.”

“Yes, I can do that, my dear boy,” replied his aunt; “but, first of all, I must speak a word of congratulation and praise to another hero—my dear nephew Walter.”

“Nay, aunt,” he replied, “I don’t think there was much moral courage about it in my case. My blood was up when I saw Amos’s life threatened, and I should have pitched into the cowardly wretch if he had been as tall as a lighthouse and as big as an elephant.”

“True, dear boy, that was natural courage principally; but there was moral courage too in your whole conduct in the matter, in the steady perseverance with which you went to be your brother’s protector, come what might and at all hazards.”

“Thank you, dear aunt, but you have given me more praise than I deserve. And now for the special hero, the counterpart of Amos.”

“My hero this time,” said Miss Huntingdon, “is a very remarkable man, a most excellent clergyman, Mr Fletcher of Madeley. He had a very profligate nephew, a military man, who had been dismissed from the Sardinian service for base and ungentlemanly conduct, had engaged in two or three duels, and had wasted his means in vice and extravagance. One day this nephew waited on his uncle, General de Gons, and, presenting a loaded pistol, threatened to shoot him unless he would immediately advance him five hundred crowns. The general, though a brave man, well knew what a desperado he had to deal with, and gave a draft for the money, at the same time expostulating with him freely on his conduct. The young madman rode off triumphantly with his ill-gotten cheque. In the evening, passing the door of Mr Fletcher, he determined to call on him, and began by telling him how liberal General de Gons had been to him, and, as a proof, exhibited the draft. Mr Fletcher took it from his nephew, and looked at it with astonishment. Then, after some remarks, putting it into his pocket, he said, ‘It strikes me, young man, that you possessed yourself of this note by some indirect method; and in honesty I cannot return it without my brother’s knowledge and approbation.’ The young man’s pistol was immediately at his uncle’s breast. ‘My life,’ said Mr Fletcher, with perfect calmness, ‘is secure in the protection of an Almighty Power, nor will he suffer it to be the forfeit of my integrity and your rashness.’—This firmness staggered his nephew, who exclaimed, ‘Why, Uncle de Gons, though an old soldier, was more afraid of death than you are.’—‘Afraid of death!’ cried Mr Fletcher. ‘Do you think I have been twenty-five years the minister of the Lord of life, to be afraid of death now? No, sir; it is foryouto fear death. Look here, sir, the broad eye of Heaven is fixed upon us; tremble in the presence of your Maker, who can in a moment kill your body, and for ever punish your soul in hell.’—The unhappy man turned pale, and trembled first with fear and then with rage. He still threatened his uncle with instant death. Mr Fletcher, however, gave no alarm and made no attempt to escape. He calmly conversed with his miserable nephew; and at last, when he saw that he was touched, addressed him like a father till he had fairly subdued him. But he would not return his brother’s draft. However, he gave him some help himself, and having prayed with him, let him go.”

“Ay, dear aunt,” exclaimed Walter, “that was a hero indeed.”

“Yes, Walter, a true moral hero; for, if you remember, moral courage is the bravery shown, not in acting from sudden impulse, nor from ‘pluck,’ as you call it, nor from mere animal daring, but in deliberately resolving to do and doing as a matter of principle or duty what may cost us shame, or loss, or suffering, or even death. Such certainly was Mr Fletcher’s courage. A sense of duty and the fear of God upheld him against all fear of man.”

“True, auntie,” acquiesced her nephew; “and so it was with Amos.”

“Yes, just so, Walter. You tell me that when your unhappy brother-in-law pointed the pistol at Amos, your brother said with perfect calmness that he was in God’s hands, and not in the hands of Mr Vivian. In thus acting from duty, and deliberately hazarding the loss of his own life rather than do what his conscience disapproved of, Amos exhibited, like Mr Fletcher, the most exalted moral courage.”

“Thank you, dear aunt; and I am so glad that I have been permitted to help my hero out of his trouble.”

On the third day after this conversation, the post brought the welcome news from Amos that he should bring his sister that afternoon to her old home, and that her children would follow in a day or two. Seven years had elapsed since the erring daughter had left sorrow and shame behind her in her home, by suddenly and clandestinely quitting it, to become, without the sanction of father or mother, the wife of a specious but profligate and needy adventurer. And now, sad and forsaken, she was returning to a home which had for a long time been closed against her. Oh, with what a wild throbbing of heart did she gaze at the familiar sights which presented themselves to her on all sides, as she and Amos drove along the well-known roads, in through the great green gates, up the drive, and then, with a sudden pull up, to the front door. The next moment she had sprung on to the door-steps with an eager cry, and found herself clasped in her father’s arms.

“My poor, poor child! welcome home again,” he murmured, with choking tears.

“O father! father!” she cried, “it is too much happiness.” She could say no more.

Then she received the warm embrace of her aunt, who was saddened to mark the lines of care on that young face, which was all brightness the last time she had seen it. And then, as she raised herself up, and disengaged herself from those loving arms, her eyes fell on the old butler, who was twisting a large red pocket-handkerchief into a rope, in his vain efforts to restrain his emotions, which at last found vent in a long cadence of mingled sobs and exclamations. For a moment Julia Vivian hesitated, and then flung her arms round the neck of the old man, who made the hall ring with a shout of thanksgiving. Then, calming down, he said, half out loud, and half confidentially to himself, “You know it was to be so, and so it is. We’ve got Miss Julia as was back among us again; and we don’t mean to part with her never again no more.”

Oh, what a day of gladness was that to Amos Huntingdon! One half of the great purpose to which he had devoted his life was now accomplished. The banished sister had been welcomed back by his father to her earthly home. And yet, how much still remained to be done! But, as he had worked on in faith and trust before, so he would continue trusting, watching, working, committing all to the wise guiding and overruling of that loving Father whose leading hand he had hitherto sought to follow, but never to outrun.

How bright were the faces which gathered round the dinner-table that evening!—though even then the cloud rested in a measure on every heart; for that poor worn face, and those wistful pitiful eyes, told of a deep and hidden sorrow, and of an abiding humiliation, which not even the pure love that now beamed on her from all sides could remove from the burdened spirit of the restored wanderer. Down in the kitchen, however, the rejoicing was unclouded, except that Harry mourned over his young mistress’s faded beauty and sad looks, and occupied a considerable portion of his leisure time in punching an imaginary head, held firm under his left arm, and supposed by his fellow-servants to belong to Miss Julia’s brute of a husband.

Dinner had been over rather more than an hour, when Walter, who had been absent for a short time from the drawing-room, returned, beckoned to Amos, and then, gently laying hold of his sister’s hand, drew her towards the door. “Come here, just for one minute,” he said, with a merry smile twinkling in his eyes. “Father will spare you just for a minute;” and he conducted her out of the room. Oh, what a flood of joy came into her heart with that smile of Walter’s. Years had passed since she had rejoiced in its light. What would she have given could the frightful interval between this smile and the last she had seen before it have been wiped clean out! To her that interval had been one prolonged and gloomy frown. But now the three, Amos, Walter, and their sister, made their way downstairs. Oh, it was so like a bit of childish fun in days gone by! And now they arrived at the butler’s pantry, the door of which was fast closed. Walter knocked. “Come in,” said the old man. They entered; and all exclaimed at the sight which presented itself. On every available projection there was placed a portion of a candle, making in all some thirty or forty lights, which made the little room one brilliant blaze. On the wall opposite the door were the words, “Welcome home again,” in large red and blue letters; and on another wall the words, “Hip, hip, hooray!” in golden characters.

“O dear Harry!” cried his young mistress, her face glowing with such a smile as no one had seen on it yet since her return, “how good and kind of you—just like your dear old self! how came you to think of it?”

“Well, Miss Julia,” was his reply, “it’s this way,—Master Walter and me talked about having a bonfire on the hill; but when we came to think it over, we decided as it wouldn’t p’r’aps be altogether the right thing, for reasons as needn’t be named on this here occasion. So I’ve been and got up a little bit of an illumination all of my own self. But don’t you go for to suppose as these candles belongs to master. I’m not the man to use his goods this way without leave. It’s a pound of the best composite as I bought out of my own wages, and you’re heartily welcome to every one on ’em.”

“Thank you, dear Harry,” she said, holding out her hand to him; “it is the sweetest of welcomes. I feel that it has done me good already; there is true love in every light.”

“Just so, miss,” said the old man, his face brimming over with happiness. “And now, before we part, we must have a bit of toffee all round, as you was used to in old times.” So saying, he opened an old drawer, which seemed abundantly furnished with sundry kinds of sweets, and produced the toffee, which he pressed upon each of his three visitors. “There,” he said in a tone of deep satisfaction, “that’s just as it should be; and now, Miss Julia,” he added, “when you want any more, you know where to come for it.”

Few happier hearts were laid on a bed that night in England than the heart of old Harry the butler.

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