Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Three.Unexpected Fruit.The next day, after luncheon, the brothers, with their sister, started for Stringby, but not in very buoyant spirits. Walter had no thought of drawing back, nevertheless he felt an almost overwhelming shrinking from the task which he had undertaken. The loving smile, however, and gentle words of affectionate concern with which his aunt had cheered him as they set off were a source of much strength and comfort to him; they hovered around his heart like the shadowing wing of an angel whenever the scorching heat of his furnace of trial swept by anticipation across his shrinking spirit. He had thought it wiser not to confide to his mother either the cause of his shame or his intended amends.The weather was clear and bright as they began their ride, but a smart shower burst upon them when they had accomplished half the distance, and forced them to go out of their way to take shelter. Would the preacher, distrusting the sky, have given up his work just for this afternoon? If so, what pain and humiliation Walter would be spared! Oh, how he clung for a few moments to the hope that it might be so! for then he would have made the amends and the sacrifice, and shown the moral courage,in intention, and, at the same time, would be spared the actual heavy trial itself. But then he dashed away these thoughts from him, and with an inward prayer nerved himself for the coming effort.Amos, as he rode by his side, seemed to guess what was passing through his mind, and said, “Can I speak to the preacher for you, Walter? It will save you some pain, and, as I shall be speaking for another, I should not have the same difficulty that you might feel.” But this suggestion at once roused Walter out of all his fears. “No, no, dear Amos,” he cried, “no; I have put my foot in it, and I must go through with it. Your being with me will be a great help, and it would not be right for me to accept any further assistance from you.”Little more was said on the way. Julia scarcely opened her lips, but there was a sweet peace on her fair face. She felt that her brother Walter was going to do the right thing, and, though she thoroughly sympathised with him in his natural shrinking from his task, she was satisfied that he could not now retreat if he would do what duty plainly called him to. So they trotted or cantered leisurely along, while the dashing of the waves, and their ceaseless ebb and flow, seemed to remind them of that love which, in the midst of the ceaseless ebb and flow of this world’s trials, and of man’s personal failures and advances in the life of holiness, ever comes, like the sea-breeze, in breathings of spiritual health and heavenly pity to the souls that are pressing onward and upward to the land unclouded by sin.At last the watering-place was gained. It seemed to Walter and his sister more thronged than ever. Several large excursion trains had brought their many hundreds of eager and excited holiday-keepers. Esplanade, sands, and by-streets were swarming with passers to and fro. Would they meet Gregson and Saunders there? Most earnestly did Walter and his sister, and indeed Amos also, hope that they would not. However, little time was there for scanning the faces of those they met, for now they pressed rapidly forward, Walter leading the way, as he was anxious to plunge at once into his difficult work and get it over as speedily as possible. “You know,” he said to Amos with a faint smile, “it’s just like going to the dentist’s. When you get into his room, you don’t go and ask to look at his instruments,—those horrid pinchers, and pliers, and screw-looking things,—it’s quite bad enough to feel them; and the sooner the wrench comes the sooner it’ll be over. So now for my wrench.” As he said this, they came within sight of the place where the unhappy disturbance occurred in which he had taken a part. A crowd had gathered, on the outskirts of which, people were moving backwards and forwards, but there were no sounds of uproar or interruption as they reached it. All were very attentive. The preacher—the sight of whom caused the blood to rush into Walter’s face—was the same he had encountered before. The good man was standing on his stool giving out two lines of a well-known hymn. And then a noble volume of praise from those united voices rolled up towards heaven.Walter could see in a moment that the preacher’s eye had rested on him, and that he remembered him. So, flinging his horse’s reins to his brother, he slipped off his saddle and elbowed his way vigorously through the crowd. “Stop, young man,” said the evangelist calmly and solemnly, as he saw Walter pressing forward. But Walter made his way close up to him, and, while the other was evidently perplexed as to the meaning of his conduct, said quietly to him, “I am not come here to-day to hinder or make game, but to ask pardon.” The other looked at him in amazement, and for a moment knew not what to say. Then, while there arose a strange buzz of surprise and excitement among the bystanders, Walter asked, “May I stand in your place for a minute, and say a few words to these people?” The good man was clearly taken quite aback by this request, and looked hard at him who had made it. Was this a scheme for turning the preacher and his work into open ridicule? The other members of the evangelist’s party seemed to think so, and advised him to refuse; that it was only a dodge on the young man’s part to get up a piece of extra rich entertainment for his friends, who, no doubt, would not be far off. The good man had come down from his stool while these remarks were being addressed to him. He hesitated, but when he turned to Walter and looked in his face his mind was made up at once; for there was something, he said, in that face which satisfied him that good would come out of his yielding to the request made, and not evil. So, while the spectators were looking on and listening with breathless expectation, he said, in a clear voice, audible to those on the utmost verge of the great assembly,—“Friends, before I address you, a young man has asked leave to occupy my place for a short time. He shall do so, for I have confidence in him that he will not abuse the liberty I give him.”There was a murmur of approbation and intense interest as Walter mounted the stool and looked upon the sea of upturned faces round him. He was very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon grew calm and firm. “My friends,” he began, “I have come here to-day to do an act of justice. Some days ago I was a spectator in this place, as you are now. This good man, the preacher, stood then where I now stand. He had come here to try and do you good; I came, I am sorry to say, in a different spirit. Joining with others as wrong and foolish as myself, I interrupted and ill-treated this servant of the good Master, our Saviour. I am come to-day to make what amends I can. As I then publicly ill-treated him, so I now equally publicly ask his pardon for what I did then; and I earnestly beg you all to give him a patient hearing, and to encourage him in his work of love.”Not a word of this short address was lost by a single hearer, though the last part was almost stifled by the speaker’s emotion. As for the preacher, he knew not how to contain himself. When Walter had sprung to the ground amidst the profoundest silence, both his hands were grasped by the good man whose pardon he had asked, who, as he shook them warmly, could only say at the moment, “The Lord bless you! the Lord be praised!” Then, recovering himself, he sprang upon the stool, and cried out, “That’s a right noble young man, dear friends! There’s real courage there, and a generous heart, and no mistake. He has asked my pardon for what he did, and, had I twenty hearts, he should have it from the bottom of each. I thought, when he came here a few days since and put a little hindrance in the way, ‘Now, the devil’s very busy; what a crafty being he is!’ Ah, but see now. After all, he only outwits himself by his own craftiness. The Lord brings good out of Satan’s evil. Well, now, let us proceed with our proper work.” These words were followed by a hearty cheer from the assenting crowd, and then all listened attentively while the good man gave a plain, practical, faithful, and pointed gospel address.When this was over, and the crowd was dispersing, Amos, whose heart was all in a happy glow, drew near the preaching-place with Julia, both of them having now dismounted. The good evangelist’s fellow-helpers were distributing tracts among the retiring audience, while the preacher himself was in earnest conversation with Walter. Julia held out her hand for some tracts, saying to the man who gave them, “I will do my best to distribute them among those who will be likely to benefit by them. Please let me have as many as you can spare.” He gladly did so.In a short time all had left, except the preacher and his friends, Amos, and his brother and sister. As Walter was about to go, he took out his purse and said to the good man who had so heartily forgiven his former unkindness, “You must allow me to offer you a contribution to your tract fund. I am sure you will understand me. I am not asking you to accept this as any compensation for my abominable treatment of you the other day, but simply as a little token of my sincere desire to help on your good work in however small a way.”The offering was at once and gratefully accepted. “There is no fear,” said the good man, smiling, “of my taking offence at anything which the Lord sends me, or at the way in which he chooses to send it. The work is his, and the silver and the gold are his, and he supplies us with the means in the best way, as he sees it, and therefore in the very best way. So I thank you for your contribution, and accept it with pleasure; and I think we shall neither of us forget this day as long as we live, neither on this side of the river nor on the other.”With a hearty farewell on both sides, Walter and his companions remounted their horses, and rode slowly away, full of happy thoughts: Walter very happy, because he had been enabled to do what his conscience had bidden him; Amos quite as happy, because the brother he loved so dearly had behaved so nobly; and Julia calmly happy, because she felt that bright sunshine had poured through a dark cloud which had brooded for a while sadly over her spirit. And there was something yet more stirring in her heart in consequence of all that she had seen and heard,—it was a rising desire to be doing some real good to others, and to be doing this at the cost of personal sacrifice and self-denial. Ah, what a new and strange desire was this in one who had, till lately, allowed the idol of self to occupy the shrine of her heart. To be thinking of others, to be steadily keeping the good of others in view, to put self-pleasing in the background, or to find it in pleasing others, and that, too, from love to one who for her sake pleased not Himself,—this was something wondrous indeed to her, and yet how full of real and heavenly brightness when it had truly found an entrance into her soul!But how and where was she to begin? She had a little bundle of tracts in her hand; should she begin at once with these? Of all things which she once would have shrunk from, nothing would have then been more repulsive than the office of a distributer of tracts. Some years before, when once asked by a pious friend of her aunt if she would like a few tracts to give away as she might have opportunity, her reply had been, “She had rather not, for she believed that tracts were vulgar, canting things, commonly given by hypocrites to their neighbours when they wanted to deceive them under a cloak of affected godliness.” She had been rather proud of this reply, which certainly for the time had the effect of completely shutting up the good lady who had recommended the tracts to her notice. But now she felt very differently, and looked at the little bundle in her hand, thinking how she might use it to the best advantage. Not that she felt naturally drawn to the work; it would require a considerable effort on her part to bring herself to offer a tract to a stranger, and a far greater effort to accompany the offer with a word or two from herself; but she now believed that sheoughtto make the effort, and that word “ought,” the idea of “duty” which it kept before her, was beginning to exercise a constraining force hitherto unknown to her. And there was a special advantage in the tract. Just the giving of it without comment would be a good preparation for more close and personal work in the loving Master’s service. So, grasping the papers with a trembling hand, she began to look out for an opportunity of parting with some of them, and she had not long to wait. When the little party turned away from the spot where the preaching had been held, and were thinking of returning to their cottage, as they were just directing their horses’ heads homewards, Julia uttered a sort of suppressed cry or exclamation, which at once drew the anxious attention of both her brothers to her.“Anything amiss, dear Julia?” asked Amos and Walter together.“No, not exactly,” she said in a troubled voice, and with a scared look. Then, recovering herself, she pointed to a young woman dressed rather fantastically, who had just passed them in a direction opposite to that in which they were going. “Do you see that woman?” she asked in a low humbled voice; “she is one I have reason to know too well. She was associated in a theatre with poor Orlando. Oh, I wish I could do her some good! Let us follow her; perhaps she would take a tract.”Who would have thought of such a speech from Julia Vivian a few days back? But the earnest desire to do that poor outcast creature good had evidently got possession of her, and so the three turned their horses’ heads in the direction in which the actress was walking. But the object of their loving pursuit had now quickened her pace, and turned up a by-street before they could come up with her. Should they follow? Some impulse urged them forward. The side street led to a square or large open piece of ground, in the centre of which was erected a temporary theatre. The woman whom they were following was just about to enter this building, but turned about and looked back before doing so. Her eyes met those of Julia, and she at once recognised her with a peculiar smile, which sent the blood rushing back to Julia’s heart, and made her for the moment half resolve to turn and fly from the place. But she resisted the feeling and held her ground. The next moment the woman had entered the theatre. The little party lingered for a few moments, and then the theatre door again opened, and several persons in various stage dresses came out and gazed on the newcomers. Then they began to wink at one another as they stared at Julia, and to break out into a broad grin. How earnestly did the object of their curiosity and merriment long to rush away out of the reach of those mocking eyes and sneering lips! Yet she did not move. A purpose was coming into her heart; she might never have such an opportunity again. Yet how weak she felt in herself. But then she lifted up her heart in prayer to the Strong One, and, turning with blanched face, but perfect calmness, to her brothers, asked them to help her to dismount, and then, leaving her horse’s reins in Walter’s hands, advanced towards a group of some dozen persons of different ages who had come out of the theatre to gaze and to make merry.“You know me, I see,” she said, in a voice sweet and sad, but clear as a bell in its utterances, “and I know you. You knew my poor husband in times gone by, but not lately. He is dead; and your time must come too. He was pointed to that Saviour who alone can make a death-bed happy, and Ihopehe was able to see him. His last words were, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’ You and I shall probably never meet again. I have gone back to my early home, and wish to forget the past, but I could not see Jenny Farleigh go by without wishing to say a kind word to her, and this has brought me to you. I believe God has changed my heart; I have learned to know something of the love of my Saviour, and I am happier now than I have ever been all my life. Oh, if you would only give up your present life and come to the same Saviour, how happy you would be! Don’t be angry with me for saying this, but just each of you take one of these little papers from my hand as a token of good-will on my part, and read it when you are alone.”She paused, having uttered these words with deep feeling, but at the same time in a steady and fearless voice. The effect on her hearers was overpowering. Not a scornful eye, not a sneering lip remained when she had finished, but sobs and tears burst from those who had for long years known little other than fictitious weeping. Each took the offered tract, each returned with warmth the kind pressure of her hand as she parted from them; and as she remounted her horse, one voice was heard to say, “Poor thing! God bless her!” Then all shrank back into the theatre, and the happy three turned homeward once again. And oh, with what deep thankfulness did all make their way along the cliffs, and then close to the incoming tide, whose every wave seemed to throw up for them a sparkle of joy in its glittering spray! Few words, however, were spoken. Amos could hardly realise that this moral heroine was the sister whom he had once known so weak, so self-willed, so unimpressible for anything that was good and holy. Walter also was utterly staggered and humbled when he reflected on what he had just witnessed, though at the same time he was truly happy in having been strengthened to carry out his own noble and self-denying purpose. As for poor Julia, she could hardly believe that she herself was the person who had addressed that group outside the theatre walls. Oh, it was so strange, so terrible, and yet so blessed! for through that newly-opened door of work for the gracious Master bright rays from the flood of glory in which he ever dwells had been pouring in upon her soul.The happy three reached their cottage, overflowing with love to one another, and all anxious that Miss Huntingdon should be a sharer in their happiness, when she should hear what a bright and blessed day had been granted them. So they sought her in the evening, when their mother had retired to rest. Seated at her bedroom window, the four looked forth upon the mighty deep, now rolling in its great waves nearer and nearer, and every wave flashing in the silver light of the full-orbed moon. And surely the moonlight streaming down upon those waves, like God’s calm peace on the billows of earthly trial, was in sweet harmony with the feelings of that little group, as Amos and Julia poured out their account of Walter’s noble address, and as Amos and Walter told of the unexpected and loving self-sacrifice exhibited in the conduct of their darling sister. Need it be said that in Miss Huntingdon they had one who listened with almost painful interest and thankfulness to the adventures of that never-to-be-forgotten day? Drawing them all round her, she poured out her heart in praise to God for what he had done in them and by them, and in prayer that they might be enabled to persevere in the glorious course on which they had all now entered. And now, when all were again seated—a little mound or pyramid of young hands being heaped together over one another in Miss Huntingdon’s lap—Walter’s voice was first heard. “I want an anecdote, an example of moral courage, auntie; and it must be a female one this time, for we have a moral heroine here, there can be no doubt about that.”“There is no doubt of it, I am sure,” replied his aunt; “and there can be no difficulty in finding moral heroines, as well as moral heroes. Indeed, the only difficulty lies in making the most suitable selection from so many. Our dear Julia has shown a moral courage such as I am certain she could not have done had she not sought strength from the only unfailing fountain of strength; and so I will take as my example one who was surrounded, as Julia was, by persons and circumstances which might well have daunted the stoutest heart, much more the heart of a poor and desolate young woman. And my example will be the more appropriate because it will bring before us a scene which is closely connected with the seashore—such a seashore, it may be, as we are now gazing on, with its sloping sands, and waves rushing up higher and higher on the beach. My heroine, then—and she had a fellow-heroine with her—was a humble Scottish girl who lived in the reign of Charles the Second, when the poor and pious Covenanters were bitterly and remorselessly persecuted, even to the death, because they would not do violence to their consciences and deny the Lord who bought them. Many of them, you know, were hunted by the king’s savage soldiery among the hills and mountains, and, when overtaken, were slain in cold blood, even when in the act of prayer.“Margaret Wilson, my heroine, was a young girl of eighteen. She was taken prisoner by the soldiers, tried, and condemned to die, because she steadily and courageously refused to acknowledge the supremacy of any other than Christ in the Church. A few words might have saved her life; but she would not utter them, because they would have been words of falsehood, and, though she dared to die, she dared not tell a lie. So they brought her out to the seashore, such as is before us now. The tide was rising, but had not then begun long to turn. She had a fellow-sufferer with her of her own sex—one who, like herself, preferred a cruel death to denying Christ. This fellow-sufferer was an aged widow of sixty-three. The sentence pronounced against them both was that they should be fastened to stakes driven deeply into the sand that covered the beach, and left to perish in the rising tide. The stake to which the aged female was fastened was lower down the beach than that of the younger woman, in order that the expiring agonies of the elder saint, who would be first destroyed, might shake the firmness of Margaret Wilson. The water soon flowed up to the feet of the old woman; in a while it mounted to her knees, then to her waist, then to her chin, then to her lips; and when she was almost stifled by the rising waves, and the bubbling groan of her last agony was reaching her fellow-martyr farther up the beach, one heartless ruffian stepped up to Margaret Wilson, and, with a fiendish grin and mocking laugh, asked her, ‘What think you of your friend now?’ And what was the calm and noble reply? ‘What do I see but Christ, in one of his members, wrestling there? Think you thatweare the sufferers? No. It is Christ in us—he who sendeth us not on a warfare upon our own charges.’ She never flinched; she sought no mercy from man. The waves reached her too at last; they did the terrible work which man had made them do. The heroic girl passed from the hour of mortal struggle into the perfect peace of her Saviour’s presence.”As she finished, Julia looked with tearful eyes into her aunt’s face, and said gently, “Dear auntie, Christ was her strength; and,” she added in a whisper, “I believe he was mine.”“Yes, yes, precious child,” said Miss Huntingdon, drawing her closely to her, “I am sure it was so; and the one great lesson we may learn from our three heroines is this, ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me.’”

The next day, after luncheon, the brothers, with their sister, started for Stringby, but not in very buoyant spirits. Walter had no thought of drawing back, nevertheless he felt an almost overwhelming shrinking from the task which he had undertaken. The loving smile, however, and gentle words of affectionate concern with which his aunt had cheered him as they set off were a source of much strength and comfort to him; they hovered around his heart like the shadowing wing of an angel whenever the scorching heat of his furnace of trial swept by anticipation across his shrinking spirit. He had thought it wiser not to confide to his mother either the cause of his shame or his intended amends.

The weather was clear and bright as they began their ride, but a smart shower burst upon them when they had accomplished half the distance, and forced them to go out of their way to take shelter. Would the preacher, distrusting the sky, have given up his work just for this afternoon? If so, what pain and humiliation Walter would be spared! Oh, how he clung for a few moments to the hope that it might be so! for then he would have made the amends and the sacrifice, and shown the moral courage,in intention, and, at the same time, would be spared the actual heavy trial itself. But then he dashed away these thoughts from him, and with an inward prayer nerved himself for the coming effort.

Amos, as he rode by his side, seemed to guess what was passing through his mind, and said, “Can I speak to the preacher for you, Walter? It will save you some pain, and, as I shall be speaking for another, I should not have the same difficulty that you might feel.” But this suggestion at once roused Walter out of all his fears. “No, no, dear Amos,” he cried, “no; I have put my foot in it, and I must go through with it. Your being with me will be a great help, and it would not be right for me to accept any further assistance from you.”

Little more was said on the way. Julia scarcely opened her lips, but there was a sweet peace on her fair face. She felt that her brother Walter was going to do the right thing, and, though she thoroughly sympathised with him in his natural shrinking from his task, she was satisfied that he could not now retreat if he would do what duty plainly called him to. So they trotted or cantered leisurely along, while the dashing of the waves, and their ceaseless ebb and flow, seemed to remind them of that love which, in the midst of the ceaseless ebb and flow of this world’s trials, and of man’s personal failures and advances in the life of holiness, ever comes, like the sea-breeze, in breathings of spiritual health and heavenly pity to the souls that are pressing onward and upward to the land unclouded by sin.

At last the watering-place was gained. It seemed to Walter and his sister more thronged than ever. Several large excursion trains had brought their many hundreds of eager and excited holiday-keepers. Esplanade, sands, and by-streets were swarming with passers to and fro. Would they meet Gregson and Saunders there? Most earnestly did Walter and his sister, and indeed Amos also, hope that they would not. However, little time was there for scanning the faces of those they met, for now they pressed rapidly forward, Walter leading the way, as he was anxious to plunge at once into his difficult work and get it over as speedily as possible. “You know,” he said to Amos with a faint smile, “it’s just like going to the dentist’s. When you get into his room, you don’t go and ask to look at his instruments,—those horrid pinchers, and pliers, and screw-looking things,—it’s quite bad enough to feel them; and the sooner the wrench comes the sooner it’ll be over. So now for my wrench.” As he said this, they came within sight of the place where the unhappy disturbance occurred in which he had taken a part. A crowd had gathered, on the outskirts of which, people were moving backwards and forwards, but there were no sounds of uproar or interruption as they reached it. All were very attentive. The preacher—the sight of whom caused the blood to rush into Walter’s face—was the same he had encountered before. The good man was standing on his stool giving out two lines of a well-known hymn. And then a noble volume of praise from those united voices rolled up towards heaven.

Walter could see in a moment that the preacher’s eye had rested on him, and that he remembered him. So, flinging his horse’s reins to his brother, he slipped off his saddle and elbowed his way vigorously through the crowd. “Stop, young man,” said the evangelist calmly and solemnly, as he saw Walter pressing forward. But Walter made his way close up to him, and, while the other was evidently perplexed as to the meaning of his conduct, said quietly to him, “I am not come here to-day to hinder or make game, but to ask pardon.” The other looked at him in amazement, and for a moment knew not what to say. Then, while there arose a strange buzz of surprise and excitement among the bystanders, Walter asked, “May I stand in your place for a minute, and say a few words to these people?” The good man was clearly taken quite aback by this request, and looked hard at him who had made it. Was this a scheme for turning the preacher and his work into open ridicule? The other members of the evangelist’s party seemed to think so, and advised him to refuse; that it was only a dodge on the young man’s part to get up a piece of extra rich entertainment for his friends, who, no doubt, would not be far off. The good man had come down from his stool while these remarks were being addressed to him. He hesitated, but when he turned to Walter and looked in his face his mind was made up at once; for there was something, he said, in that face which satisfied him that good would come out of his yielding to the request made, and not evil. So, while the spectators were looking on and listening with breathless expectation, he said, in a clear voice, audible to those on the utmost verge of the great assembly,—“Friends, before I address you, a young man has asked leave to occupy my place for a short time. He shall do so, for I have confidence in him that he will not abuse the liberty I give him.”

There was a murmur of approbation and intense interest as Walter mounted the stool and looked upon the sea of upturned faces round him. He was very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon grew calm and firm. “My friends,” he began, “I have come here to-day to do an act of justice. Some days ago I was a spectator in this place, as you are now. This good man, the preacher, stood then where I now stand. He had come here to try and do you good; I came, I am sorry to say, in a different spirit. Joining with others as wrong and foolish as myself, I interrupted and ill-treated this servant of the good Master, our Saviour. I am come to-day to make what amends I can. As I then publicly ill-treated him, so I now equally publicly ask his pardon for what I did then; and I earnestly beg you all to give him a patient hearing, and to encourage him in his work of love.”

Not a word of this short address was lost by a single hearer, though the last part was almost stifled by the speaker’s emotion. As for the preacher, he knew not how to contain himself. When Walter had sprung to the ground amidst the profoundest silence, both his hands were grasped by the good man whose pardon he had asked, who, as he shook them warmly, could only say at the moment, “The Lord bless you! the Lord be praised!” Then, recovering himself, he sprang upon the stool, and cried out, “That’s a right noble young man, dear friends! There’s real courage there, and a generous heart, and no mistake. He has asked my pardon for what he did, and, had I twenty hearts, he should have it from the bottom of each. I thought, when he came here a few days since and put a little hindrance in the way, ‘Now, the devil’s very busy; what a crafty being he is!’ Ah, but see now. After all, he only outwits himself by his own craftiness. The Lord brings good out of Satan’s evil. Well, now, let us proceed with our proper work.” These words were followed by a hearty cheer from the assenting crowd, and then all listened attentively while the good man gave a plain, practical, faithful, and pointed gospel address.

When this was over, and the crowd was dispersing, Amos, whose heart was all in a happy glow, drew near the preaching-place with Julia, both of them having now dismounted. The good evangelist’s fellow-helpers were distributing tracts among the retiring audience, while the preacher himself was in earnest conversation with Walter. Julia held out her hand for some tracts, saying to the man who gave them, “I will do my best to distribute them among those who will be likely to benefit by them. Please let me have as many as you can spare.” He gladly did so.

In a short time all had left, except the preacher and his friends, Amos, and his brother and sister. As Walter was about to go, he took out his purse and said to the good man who had so heartily forgiven his former unkindness, “You must allow me to offer you a contribution to your tract fund. I am sure you will understand me. I am not asking you to accept this as any compensation for my abominable treatment of you the other day, but simply as a little token of my sincere desire to help on your good work in however small a way.”

The offering was at once and gratefully accepted. “There is no fear,” said the good man, smiling, “of my taking offence at anything which the Lord sends me, or at the way in which he chooses to send it. The work is his, and the silver and the gold are his, and he supplies us with the means in the best way, as he sees it, and therefore in the very best way. So I thank you for your contribution, and accept it with pleasure; and I think we shall neither of us forget this day as long as we live, neither on this side of the river nor on the other.”

With a hearty farewell on both sides, Walter and his companions remounted their horses, and rode slowly away, full of happy thoughts: Walter very happy, because he had been enabled to do what his conscience had bidden him; Amos quite as happy, because the brother he loved so dearly had behaved so nobly; and Julia calmly happy, because she felt that bright sunshine had poured through a dark cloud which had brooded for a while sadly over her spirit. And there was something yet more stirring in her heart in consequence of all that she had seen and heard,—it was a rising desire to be doing some real good to others, and to be doing this at the cost of personal sacrifice and self-denial. Ah, what a new and strange desire was this in one who had, till lately, allowed the idol of self to occupy the shrine of her heart. To be thinking of others, to be steadily keeping the good of others in view, to put self-pleasing in the background, or to find it in pleasing others, and that, too, from love to one who for her sake pleased not Himself,—this was something wondrous indeed to her, and yet how full of real and heavenly brightness when it had truly found an entrance into her soul!

But how and where was she to begin? She had a little bundle of tracts in her hand; should she begin at once with these? Of all things which she once would have shrunk from, nothing would have then been more repulsive than the office of a distributer of tracts. Some years before, when once asked by a pious friend of her aunt if she would like a few tracts to give away as she might have opportunity, her reply had been, “She had rather not, for she believed that tracts were vulgar, canting things, commonly given by hypocrites to their neighbours when they wanted to deceive them under a cloak of affected godliness.” She had been rather proud of this reply, which certainly for the time had the effect of completely shutting up the good lady who had recommended the tracts to her notice. But now she felt very differently, and looked at the little bundle in her hand, thinking how she might use it to the best advantage. Not that she felt naturally drawn to the work; it would require a considerable effort on her part to bring herself to offer a tract to a stranger, and a far greater effort to accompany the offer with a word or two from herself; but she now believed that sheoughtto make the effort, and that word “ought,” the idea of “duty” which it kept before her, was beginning to exercise a constraining force hitherto unknown to her. And there was a special advantage in the tract. Just the giving of it without comment would be a good preparation for more close and personal work in the loving Master’s service. So, grasping the papers with a trembling hand, she began to look out for an opportunity of parting with some of them, and she had not long to wait. When the little party turned away from the spot where the preaching had been held, and were thinking of returning to their cottage, as they were just directing their horses’ heads homewards, Julia uttered a sort of suppressed cry or exclamation, which at once drew the anxious attention of both her brothers to her.

“Anything amiss, dear Julia?” asked Amos and Walter together.

“No, not exactly,” she said in a troubled voice, and with a scared look. Then, recovering herself, she pointed to a young woman dressed rather fantastically, who had just passed them in a direction opposite to that in which they were going. “Do you see that woman?” she asked in a low humbled voice; “she is one I have reason to know too well. She was associated in a theatre with poor Orlando. Oh, I wish I could do her some good! Let us follow her; perhaps she would take a tract.”

Who would have thought of such a speech from Julia Vivian a few days back? But the earnest desire to do that poor outcast creature good had evidently got possession of her, and so the three turned their horses’ heads in the direction in which the actress was walking. But the object of their loving pursuit had now quickened her pace, and turned up a by-street before they could come up with her. Should they follow? Some impulse urged them forward. The side street led to a square or large open piece of ground, in the centre of which was erected a temporary theatre. The woman whom they were following was just about to enter this building, but turned about and looked back before doing so. Her eyes met those of Julia, and she at once recognised her with a peculiar smile, which sent the blood rushing back to Julia’s heart, and made her for the moment half resolve to turn and fly from the place. But she resisted the feeling and held her ground. The next moment the woman had entered the theatre. The little party lingered for a few moments, and then the theatre door again opened, and several persons in various stage dresses came out and gazed on the newcomers. Then they began to wink at one another as they stared at Julia, and to break out into a broad grin. How earnestly did the object of their curiosity and merriment long to rush away out of the reach of those mocking eyes and sneering lips! Yet she did not move. A purpose was coming into her heart; she might never have such an opportunity again. Yet how weak she felt in herself. But then she lifted up her heart in prayer to the Strong One, and, turning with blanched face, but perfect calmness, to her brothers, asked them to help her to dismount, and then, leaving her horse’s reins in Walter’s hands, advanced towards a group of some dozen persons of different ages who had come out of the theatre to gaze and to make merry.

“You know me, I see,” she said, in a voice sweet and sad, but clear as a bell in its utterances, “and I know you. You knew my poor husband in times gone by, but not lately. He is dead; and your time must come too. He was pointed to that Saviour who alone can make a death-bed happy, and Ihopehe was able to see him. His last words were, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’ You and I shall probably never meet again. I have gone back to my early home, and wish to forget the past, but I could not see Jenny Farleigh go by without wishing to say a kind word to her, and this has brought me to you. I believe God has changed my heart; I have learned to know something of the love of my Saviour, and I am happier now than I have ever been all my life. Oh, if you would only give up your present life and come to the same Saviour, how happy you would be! Don’t be angry with me for saying this, but just each of you take one of these little papers from my hand as a token of good-will on my part, and read it when you are alone.”

She paused, having uttered these words with deep feeling, but at the same time in a steady and fearless voice. The effect on her hearers was overpowering. Not a scornful eye, not a sneering lip remained when she had finished, but sobs and tears burst from those who had for long years known little other than fictitious weeping. Each took the offered tract, each returned with warmth the kind pressure of her hand as she parted from them; and as she remounted her horse, one voice was heard to say, “Poor thing! God bless her!” Then all shrank back into the theatre, and the happy three turned homeward once again. And oh, with what deep thankfulness did all make their way along the cliffs, and then close to the incoming tide, whose every wave seemed to throw up for them a sparkle of joy in its glittering spray! Few words, however, were spoken. Amos could hardly realise that this moral heroine was the sister whom he had once known so weak, so self-willed, so unimpressible for anything that was good and holy. Walter also was utterly staggered and humbled when he reflected on what he had just witnessed, though at the same time he was truly happy in having been strengthened to carry out his own noble and self-denying purpose. As for poor Julia, she could hardly believe that she herself was the person who had addressed that group outside the theatre walls. Oh, it was so strange, so terrible, and yet so blessed! for through that newly-opened door of work for the gracious Master bright rays from the flood of glory in which he ever dwells had been pouring in upon her soul.

The happy three reached their cottage, overflowing with love to one another, and all anxious that Miss Huntingdon should be a sharer in their happiness, when she should hear what a bright and blessed day had been granted them. So they sought her in the evening, when their mother had retired to rest. Seated at her bedroom window, the four looked forth upon the mighty deep, now rolling in its great waves nearer and nearer, and every wave flashing in the silver light of the full-orbed moon. And surely the moonlight streaming down upon those waves, like God’s calm peace on the billows of earthly trial, was in sweet harmony with the feelings of that little group, as Amos and Julia poured out their account of Walter’s noble address, and as Amos and Walter told of the unexpected and loving self-sacrifice exhibited in the conduct of their darling sister. Need it be said that in Miss Huntingdon they had one who listened with almost painful interest and thankfulness to the adventures of that never-to-be-forgotten day? Drawing them all round her, she poured out her heart in praise to God for what he had done in them and by them, and in prayer that they might be enabled to persevere in the glorious course on which they had all now entered. And now, when all were again seated—a little mound or pyramid of young hands being heaped together over one another in Miss Huntingdon’s lap—Walter’s voice was first heard. “I want an anecdote, an example of moral courage, auntie; and it must be a female one this time, for we have a moral heroine here, there can be no doubt about that.”

“There is no doubt of it, I am sure,” replied his aunt; “and there can be no difficulty in finding moral heroines, as well as moral heroes. Indeed, the only difficulty lies in making the most suitable selection from so many. Our dear Julia has shown a moral courage such as I am certain she could not have done had she not sought strength from the only unfailing fountain of strength; and so I will take as my example one who was surrounded, as Julia was, by persons and circumstances which might well have daunted the stoutest heart, much more the heart of a poor and desolate young woman. And my example will be the more appropriate because it will bring before us a scene which is closely connected with the seashore—such a seashore, it may be, as we are now gazing on, with its sloping sands, and waves rushing up higher and higher on the beach. My heroine, then—and she had a fellow-heroine with her—was a humble Scottish girl who lived in the reign of Charles the Second, when the poor and pious Covenanters were bitterly and remorselessly persecuted, even to the death, because they would not do violence to their consciences and deny the Lord who bought them. Many of them, you know, were hunted by the king’s savage soldiery among the hills and mountains, and, when overtaken, were slain in cold blood, even when in the act of prayer.

“Margaret Wilson, my heroine, was a young girl of eighteen. She was taken prisoner by the soldiers, tried, and condemned to die, because she steadily and courageously refused to acknowledge the supremacy of any other than Christ in the Church. A few words might have saved her life; but she would not utter them, because they would have been words of falsehood, and, though she dared to die, she dared not tell a lie. So they brought her out to the seashore, such as is before us now. The tide was rising, but had not then begun long to turn. She had a fellow-sufferer with her of her own sex—one who, like herself, preferred a cruel death to denying Christ. This fellow-sufferer was an aged widow of sixty-three. The sentence pronounced against them both was that they should be fastened to stakes driven deeply into the sand that covered the beach, and left to perish in the rising tide. The stake to which the aged female was fastened was lower down the beach than that of the younger woman, in order that the expiring agonies of the elder saint, who would be first destroyed, might shake the firmness of Margaret Wilson. The water soon flowed up to the feet of the old woman; in a while it mounted to her knees, then to her waist, then to her chin, then to her lips; and when she was almost stifled by the rising waves, and the bubbling groan of her last agony was reaching her fellow-martyr farther up the beach, one heartless ruffian stepped up to Margaret Wilson, and, with a fiendish grin and mocking laugh, asked her, ‘What think you of your friend now?’ And what was the calm and noble reply? ‘What do I see but Christ, in one of his members, wrestling there? Think you thatweare the sufferers? No. It is Christ in us—he who sendeth us not on a warfare upon our own charges.’ She never flinched; she sought no mercy from man. The waves reached her too at last; they did the terrible work which man had made them do. The heroic girl passed from the hour of mortal struggle into the perfect peace of her Saviour’s presence.”

As she finished, Julia looked with tearful eyes into her aunt’s face, and said gently, “Dear auntie, Christ was her strength; and,” she added in a whisper, “I believe he was mine.”

“Yes, yes, precious child,” said Miss Huntingdon, drawing her closely to her, “I am sure it was so; and the one great lesson we may learn from our three heroines is this, ‘I can do all things through Christ who strengtheneth me.’”

Chapter Twenty Four.The Crown Won.All was now peace in the little cottage. Mrs Huntingdon’s once clouded mind was daily gaining in clearness and strength, not only from the loving and judicious attentions of her children, but still more from the inward peace which had now made its dwelling in her heart. Ah! surely in nothing is that declaration of holy Scripture, that godliness has the promise of the life that now is, as well as of that which is to come, more evidenced than in the healthful tone which God’s peace in the soul imparts to a mind once disordered and diseased. Few, comparatively, are aware in how many cases that which the world so specially prizes, “a sound mind in a sound body,” is enjoyed by its possessor because that mind belongs to one whom God is keeping by his indwelling Spirit in perfect peace. It was so with Mrs Huntingdon. She had found the only true rest, and so was daily making progress in strength both of body and mind. And her thorough establishment in this improvement in physical and mental health was helped forward by the presence of her grandchildren, whom Miss Huntingdon had brought with her to the cottage. Their coming carried her back in thought to the days when her own children were as young, and bridged over the gulf of sorrow which had come in between; so that the painful impressions made when memory recalled that sorrow grew fainter and fainter in the happy light that shone on the path of present duties, just as the waking terrors from some frightful and vivid dream fade away more and more, till they vanish and are forgotten in the full, broad, morning sunshine and the realities of work-day life. Nor were her grandchildren a source of comfort and improvement to her alone. Their own mother had now learned to look upon them in a very different light—no longer as clogs impeding her steps as she pressed on in pursuit of pleasure and excitement, but as precious charges intrusted to her by the great Master, to be brought up for him, and in training of whom to walk on the narrow way by her side she would herself find the purest and highest happiness to be enjoyed on earth. So all things were now going on brightly at the cottage. Peace, harmony, and love had their abode there; and never did a happier party go down to meet the incoming tide, and listen to its gentle music, than might be seen when Mrs Huntingdon, her children, grandchildren, and sister-in-law issued forth for a morning stroll along the beach, to gather shells, or drink in the bracing air, as they watched some passing ship, or the sea-birds as they dashed across the spray.But now thoughts of home, and of the restoration to that home of their dear mother, were busy in the hearts of Amos and his brother and sister. Mrs Huntingdon herself ventured only a hint or two on the subject, for she felt that in this matter she must leave herself in the hands of her children. Whentheysaw that the fitting time was come, doubtless the return would be brought about. On the other hand, Amos was most anxious to spare his father any pain which he might suffer from anything like an abrupt disclosure of the intended return home of his wife. The matter would require gentle and delicate handling, lest the happiness of that return should in any degree be marred to Mr Huntingdon by his feeling that his advice should have been asked and his wishes consulted before even so happy a consummation should be brought about. So, after the subject had been talked over with Miss Huntingdon, it was unanimously resolved that she should be the person to break the happy tidings of his wife’s restoration to health to her brother, and should advise with him as to the most suitable day for her going back again to the old home. To this arrangement she cheerfully consented, and in a few days returned alone to Flixworth Manor, to the great satisfaction of Mr Huntingdon, who was getting heartily tired of his solitary life.And now she had to make her important disclosure, and how should she best do this? Unknown to her, the way had already been partially opened; for one evening, when the squire was taking his dinner all alone, and Harry was waiting on him, he said to the old man, “Rather dull work, Harry, without the young mistress and the children.”“Ay, sir, to be sure,” was the butler’s reply; “the house ain’t like the same. It has got quite like old times again.”“Yes,” said his master, sadly and thoughtfully; “something like old times. Well, we shall have Mrs Vivian back again shortly.”“And the old missus too, maybe, afore so very long,” said the other quickly.“Whatdoyou mean?” asked his master in a disturbed voice.“Oh, beg pardon, sir,” cried Harry; “I hardly knew what I was saying—it came natural like; but stranger things has happened afore now. You must excuse me, master; I meant no harm.”The dinner over, the squire leaned back in his armchair, and began to turn over many thoughts in his mind. Harry’s words kept recurring to him, “And the old missus too.” Well, why not? Hitherto he had never thought the matter over at all. He knew that his wife had continued much the same, neither better nor worse. He knew also that to have brought her back while her daughter was shut out of the house would have only been the means of aggravating her complaint; and it had not yet seriously occurred to him that Julia’s return might remove a difficulty and be a step towards restoring her mother to her old place in her home. But Harry’s words now disturbed him and made him restless,—“And the old missus too.” Could it indeed be brought to pass? Might not the sight of her daughter in the old home, occupying the place she used to hold, and of the other children living with her in harmony and love, act so beneficially on her as to restore her, with judicious and tender treatment, to reason, happy intelligence, and home once more? As he admitted these thoughts into his heart, his bosom heaved, the tears fell fast from his eyes, he pressed his hand on his forehead, and, looking up, murmured a prayer for guidance. Harassed and worn by electioneering business, and sickened with the din and unnatural excitement connected with it, how he yearned for the quiet peace and affectionate realities of his home society; and with that yearning came now a special longing to see once more, in her accustomed chair, her who had dwelt so long in banishment from him. And yet he scarcely knew how to take the first step in the bringing about of that which he so earnestly desired. “I must leave it till Kate comes home,” he said to himself with a sigh; “she will be sure to suggest the right thing, and to go the right way to work in the matter.” How great, then, were the relief and happiness of Miss Huntingdon when, on the evening of the day of her return home, her brother himself introduced the subject by saying, “Dear Kate, I have been thinking a good deal of late whether it would not be possible to get my dear Mary back to her old home again. You know one great hindrance has now been removed. She will find our dear Julia once more ready to welcome her, and that, I daresay, if the meeting were well managed, might go a great way towards her cure.”With what joy, then, did Miss Huntingdon gradually unfold to her brother the fact that the cure had already been accomplished, and that nothing now remained but for him to fix the day for receiving back to his heart and home her who had been so long separated from him. Most gladly did he acquiesce in the plans proposed by his sister as to the day and manner of his wife’s return, promising that he would duly restrain himself at the first meeting, and that he would endeavour to erase, by his future consideration and attention to her every wish, any painful scar that might remain from harshness or unkindness in times past. Miss Huntingdon was most deeply thankful that her path had been thus smoothed by the wise and tender hand that guides all the footsteps of the trusting people of God; and she felt sure that a bright eventide was in store for those so truly dear to her. With her brother’s consent she wrote to the cottage, fixing an early day for the return home, thinking it wiser to remain at Flixworth Manor herself, that her presence, when the earnestly desired meeting should take place, might be a comfort to all parties, and might help to dispel any little cloud which memories of the past might cause to hover even over an hour so full of gladness. The day came at last. All outside the Manor-house was as bright as well-kept walks, closely-mown turf, and flower-beds gay with the rich and tastefully blended tints of multitudes of bright and fragrant flowers, could make it. Harry had taken the fine old entrance hall under his own special care. How the bedrooms or sitting-rooms might look was not his concern, but that the hall should look its venerable best, and that the plate should be bright, that was his business; it was for him to see to it, and see to it he did. Never were plate-powder and wash-leather put into more vigorous exercise, and never was old oak staircase and panelling bees’-waxed and rubbed with more untiring energy; so that, as the western sun poured his rays in through windows and fanlight, a cheery brightness flashed from a hundred mirror-like surfaces, including some ancestral helmets and other pieces of armour, which glowed with a lustre unknown by them in the days when they were worn by their owners. “That’ll do, and no mistake,” said the old man half out loud, as, dressed in his best, he walked from one corner of the hall to another, standing a while at each to take in fully all the beauties of the prospect. “Yes, that’ll do; don’t you think so, Polly?” Now this question was addressed, not to a fellow-servant, for all were at the time busily engaged elsewhere, but to a grey parrot, one of those sedate and solemn-looking birds whose remarks are generally in singular contrast to their outward gravity of demeanour. The parrot made no reply, but looked a little bewildered. “Ah, I see how it is,” said Harry; “you are puzzled at so much brightness. Why, you can see yourself reflected a dozen times. What a satisfaction it will be to the dear old missus to see a likeness of herself in every panel as she walks upstairs.” Satisfied with this thought, he looked round him once again with an air of considerable contentment—as well he might, for everything spoke of comfort, refinement, and welcome, and of the diligent hands and loving hearts which had provided these. So, with one more glance round, he again exclaimed, “Yes, it’ll do; and I think the dear old missus ’ll think so too,” at the same time bowing low to the parrot, whose only reply, “Pretty Poll,” was appreciative rather of her own attractions than of those of her surroundings.And now a sound of wheels was heard, and all the inmates of the house crowded into the hall. A minute more and the steps were reached, and the hall-door was opened by a trembling but faithful hand. The young people were the first to alight; and then Mrs Huntingdon, handed out of the carriage by Walter, and leaning on the arm of Amos, entered once more the home she had left so sadly. Her husband’s arms were at once round her, but he restrained himself by a strong effort, and just drew her gently very closely to him, whispering to her, as audibly as tears would let him, “Welcome home again, my dear, dear wife.” And she returned the loving pressure, and spoke in subdued voice her thankfulness to be at home with him once more; and then they stood apart and gazed earnestly at each other. Ay, there was change in each. Time and care and sorrow had done their work and ploughed their furrows; but there was a sweet peace which neither had before seen in the other, and, to Mr Huntingdon’s glad surprise and almost awe, a heavenly beauty in his recovered wife’s face which he knew not then how to account for, but he was not long in learning its source.And now, as husband and wife, once more united, were about to move on, old Harry stepped forward, and with the profoundest of bows, and a very unsteady voice, wished his old mistress all health and happiness for many long years among them. Mrs Huntingdon could not trust herself to speak, but she held out her hand to him, which he took as gently in his own as if it had been some article of ornamental glass of a peculiarly brittle nature, and then saluted it with a fervent kiss; after which, rather abashed at his own proceeding, he shrank back, and allowed the happy travellers to make their way upstairs. But he could not be satisfied with having given so partial a vent to his feelings. So, when the hall was again all his own, he began to trip round it in a measured sort of dance, to the intense amusement of Julia and Walter, who were looking over the banisters from above on the performer, who was not conscious at the moment of being so observed. On the old man went, waxing more and more energetic, till at last he swayed himself into the centre of the hall, and gave expression to the vehemence of his feelings in a complicated sort of movement which he intended for a jump or spring, but which brought him down on all fours, amidst a burst of irrepressible laughter from the young people who were looking on. A little disconcerted, Harry was just recovering his feet, when the parrot, who had learned a few short phrases in times past, principally from Walter, and had now been eyeing Harry’s movements, with his grey head on one side, and his thoughtful eye twinkling restlessly, exclaimed, in an almost sepulchral voice, “What’s up now?” The old man stared comically at the unexpected speaker, and then said, as he brushed the dust off his knees, “What’s up now? why, you stupid old bird, there’s a great deal that’s up now. I’m up now, though I was down a minute ago. And Miss Julia as was and Master Walter’s up now, for they’re up on the landing a-laughing at me. And the dear old missus is up now; she’s up in her room with master, and we don’t want her to be down in spirits no more. There, Polly, I’ve answered your question, and answered it well, I think.”Never did a happier party gather round the dinner-table at Flixworth Manor; never did the old butler ply his office with a readier hand and a brighter countenance. Dinner over, and all being grouped together in the drawing-room, where many loving words had passed, Walter turned to his father and said, “I have two requests to make to you, dear father.”“Well, my boy, what are they? they must be strange and unreasonable indeed if I refuse to grant them on such a night as this.”“I don’t think, father, that you will call them so.”“Well, what are they?”“The first is, that Amos may be our chaplain just for once at family prayers to-night.”All looked surprised, but none more so than Amos himself. Half rising from his seat, he laid a remonstrating hand upon his brother’s arm; but it was now too late. The colour flushed over his face, and he looked uneasily at his father’s countenance, which was much troubled; yet there was no look of anger there, but rather a shade of deep sadness had crept over it. The truth was, Mr Huntingdon had always entertained a profound respect for religion, and an equally profound contempt for hypocrites; but nothing beyond this had till lately been thought by him to be necessary for his taking his place in society as a respectably religious man. He wished all his dependants to be sober and honest, and to go to church, read their Bibles, and say their prayers; and what more could be required of him or them? And, in order to set a good example in his family and to his tenants, he always himself conducted family prayers night and morning, reading a few verses of Scripture, and a plain and suitable prayer. Nevertheless, he had simply done this hitherto as a duty, as a matter of form, and always rose from his knees with a mingled feeling of satisfaction at having performed a duty, and of relief that a somewhat irksome task was over. But now a new view of religion, its duties and privileges, had begun to dawn upon him; but still he had scarce light enough yet to see his way to taking a different stand. So, when Walter preferred his request that Amos should be chaplain for that evening, a painful sense of deficiency on his own part clouded his spirit, while at the same time he was truly anxious to do anything which would be a step in the direction of real improvement and spiritual blessing to his household. The cloud, however, soon melted away, and holding out his hand to Walter, and grasping his hand warmly, he said, “With all my heart, my dear boy; nothing could be better. Let Amos be chaplain to-night, and not to-night only. I am getting old, and his younger voice and more experience in such matters will make it a good thing for us all if he will take the family prayers whenever he is at home.” As he concluded with faltering voice, Amos began to remonstrate in words of earnest deprecation; but his father stopped him, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, kindly said, “Do it to please me, and to please us all, dear boy.” Then, turning to Walter, with every shade removed from his countenance, he asked, “And what is your second request?”“That’s not a very hard one to grant,” replied Walter, smiling, “though perhaps you may repent of saying ‘Yes’ when you suffer the consequences. My second request is, that I may be allowed to make a short speech when family prayers are over.”“Granted at once, my son,” was Mr Huntingdon’s reply; “I am sure you will have an attentive audience.”“Ah, it may be so, father; but I’m not sure that every member of my attentive audience will hear me willingly.”And now, when the gong had sounded and the whole family, including the servants, were gathered for the evening devotion, Amos, calm and collected, took his seat at the table, and when all were assembled, opened the Bible, which Harry had, by his master’s direction, put before him, at the hundred and third Psalm. Deeply touching were those fervent words read out with solemn earnestness and pathos by the young man, in the presence of those he loved so dearly, specially when he lingered on the third and fourth verses, “Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies.” The psalm finished, all knelt, and then, in tones low and trembling at first, but gaining in power and firmness as he proceeded, Amos poured out his heart in supplication and thanksgiving,—thanksgiving that all the members of that family were once again united under that roof in health and peace; and supplication that they might henceforth, if spared, go hand in hand along the narrow way, as true followers of Him whose service is perfect freedom.Not a tearless eye was there in that company as all rose from their knees, no one being so deeply affected as Mr Huntingdon, who drew Amos to him with a tenderness which more than repaid his son for every sacrifice and suffering in the past. “And now,” said his father, when the servants had left the room, “we are all waiting for your promised speech, Walter.” The smile with which the young man rose to his feet passed away as he saw all eyes earnestly fixed on him. For a moment he hesitated, and then began: “Father and mother dear, I have been learning for some time past some very important lessons; and my two teachers are here before you—the one is my dear aunt Kate, and the other is my dear brother Amos. My aunt has taught me with her lips, and my brother by his life.—Nay, Amos, you must not interrupt the speaking. At this moment I am in possession of the house.—My lessons have been on the subject of moral courage. I used to think I was very brave, and didn’t need any instruction on such a subject. I looked down upon, and would have despised, only I couldn’t, the noblest brother that ever brother had.—Ay, ay, it’s no use shaking your head, Amos; I am speaking nothing but the truth.—Over and over again I have shown myself a moral coward; over and over again Aunt Kate has set before me, at my own request, examples of moral heroism from history and real life, just to suit my case and stir me up to better things; and over and over again I have seen acted out by my brother there the very lessons I have been so slow in learning. Ah, it has been grand teaching! We have had such a lot of moral heroes,—Columbus, and Washington, and Howard, and Luther, and Fletcher, and a score more. But here is my moral hero,” saying which he threw one arm round his weeping brother’s neck, and put a hand over his mouth as he proceeded. “Yes, you must hear me out now. Here is the brother who, with a moral courage that never nagged, that no unkindness, no misunderstanding could bend, has been carrying out for years one great purpose, which God has permitted him this day to bring to a full accomplishment. That purpose we all see fulfilled in our complete family gathering to-night. Yes; Amos is my hero of heroes, and heshallhear me say it. I ask his pardon now for all my unworthy treatment of him. Heismy hero, for he has nobly conquered. He has conquered us all, but none more completely than the brother who looks upon it as one of his dearest privileges to be permitted to love him and to try and copy his example.”What could Amos do? what could he say? Clinging to the impulsive brother who had thus spoken out impetuously what all felt to be true, and sobbing out his regrets that such words should have been spoken of one who felt himself to be so undeserving of them, he was utterly at a loss what to reply, nor did any one for the moment venture to add a word. But at last the silence was broken by the clear and gentle voice of Miss Huntingdon. “It may be, dearest ones, that a few words from myself may not be out of place after dear Walter’s speech. He has indeed spoken the truth. Our noble Amos has certainly shown us, in the carrying out of his great heart-purpose, true moral courage in many of its most striking forms. But he has not been alone in this. I have been a privileged teacher by word of mouth, as Walter has said; and right nobly has he learned and applied his lessons, and been pressing forward in his brother’s steps. And not only so, but dear Julia has been also learning and practising these lessons. And now I think I need occupy the teacher’s place no longer. I would rather give up my place to the great Teacher of all,—to Him who both by word and example shows us moral heroism in its perfection of sublimity. I have not hitherto ventured specially to dwell on him as being in this, as in every other excellence, the one perfect pattern, because Walter wished to be encouraged by examples in those who were imperfect and shortcoming creatures like ourselves. But I would now express the hope that we may all henceforth find our happiness in taking Him for our teacher, guide, and model who never shrank from duty, even when to perform it wrung from him tears of agony and a bloody sweat, and who held on his course through evil report and good report, spite of blasphemy, persecution, and a bitter and shameful death, till he had finished the work which his Father had given him to do, and had won for us the victory over sin and death, and an imperishable crown of glory.”The End.

All was now peace in the little cottage. Mrs Huntingdon’s once clouded mind was daily gaining in clearness and strength, not only from the loving and judicious attentions of her children, but still more from the inward peace which had now made its dwelling in her heart. Ah! surely in nothing is that declaration of holy Scripture, that godliness has the promise of the life that now is, as well as of that which is to come, more evidenced than in the healthful tone which God’s peace in the soul imparts to a mind once disordered and diseased. Few, comparatively, are aware in how many cases that which the world so specially prizes, “a sound mind in a sound body,” is enjoyed by its possessor because that mind belongs to one whom God is keeping by his indwelling Spirit in perfect peace. It was so with Mrs Huntingdon. She had found the only true rest, and so was daily making progress in strength both of body and mind. And her thorough establishment in this improvement in physical and mental health was helped forward by the presence of her grandchildren, whom Miss Huntingdon had brought with her to the cottage. Their coming carried her back in thought to the days when her own children were as young, and bridged over the gulf of sorrow which had come in between; so that the painful impressions made when memory recalled that sorrow grew fainter and fainter in the happy light that shone on the path of present duties, just as the waking terrors from some frightful and vivid dream fade away more and more, till they vanish and are forgotten in the full, broad, morning sunshine and the realities of work-day life. Nor were her grandchildren a source of comfort and improvement to her alone. Their own mother had now learned to look upon them in a very different light—no longer as clogs impeding her steps as she pressed on in pursuit of pleasure and excitement, but as precious charges intrusted to her by the great Master, to be brought up for him, and in training of whom to walk on the narrow way by her side she would herself find the purest and highest happiness to be enjoyed on earth. So all things were now going on brightly at the cottage. Peace, harmony, and love had their abode there; and never did a happier party go down to meet the incoming tide, and listen to its gentle music, than might be seen when Mrs Huntingdon, her children, grandchildren, and sister-in-law issued forth for a morning stroll along the beach, to gather shells, or drink in the bracing air, as they watched some passing ship, or the sea-birds as they dashed across the spray.

But now thoughts of home, and of the restoration to that home of their dear mother, were busy in the hearts of Amos and his brother and sister. Mrs Huntingdon herself ventured only a hint or two on the subject, for she felt that in this matter she must leave herself in the hands of her children. Whentheysaw that the fitting time was come, doubtless the return would be brought about. On the other hand, Amos was most anxious to spare his father any pain which he might suffer from anything like an abrupt disclosure of the intended return home of his wife. The matter would require gentle and delicate handling, lest the happiness of that return should in any degree be marred to Mr Huntingdon by his feeling that his advice should have been asked and his wishes consulted before even so happy a consummation should be brought about. So, after the subject had been talked over with Miss Huntingdon, it was unanimously resolved that she should be the person to break the happy tidings of his wife’s restoration to health to her brother, and should advise with him as to the most suitable day for her going back again to the old home. To this arrangement she cheerfully consented, and in a few days returned alone to Flixworth Manor, to the great satisfaction of Mr Huntingdon, who was getting heartily tired of his solitary life.

And now she had to make her important disclosure, and how should she best do this? Unknown to her, the way had already been partially opened; for one evening, when the squire was taking his dinner all alone, and Harry was waiting on him, he said to the old man, “Rather dull work, Harry, without the young mistress and the children.”

“Ay, sir, to be sure,” was the butler’s reply; “the house ain’t like the same. It has got quite like old times again.”

“Yes,” said his master, sadly and thoughtfully; “something like old times. Well, we shall have Mrs Vivian back again shortly.”

“And the old missus too, maybe, afore so very long,” said the other quickly.

“Whatdoyou mean?” asked his master in a disturbed voice.

“Oh, beg pardon, sir,” cried Harry; “I hardly knew what I was saying—it came natural like; but stranger things has happened afore now. You must excuse me, master; I meant no harm.”

The dinner over, the squire leaned back in his armchair, and began to turn over many thoughts in his mind. Harry’s words kept recurring to him, “And the old missus too.” Well, why not? Hitherto he had never thought the matter over at all. He knew that his wife had continued much the same, neither better nor worse. He knew also that to have brought her back while her daughter was shut out of the house would have only been the means of aggravating her complaint; and it had not yet seriously occurred to him that Julia’s return might remove a difficulty and be a step towards restoring her mother to her old place in her home. But Harry’s words now disturbed him and made him restless,—“And the old missus too.” Could it indeed be brought to pass? Might not the sight of her daughter in the old home, occupying the place she used to hold, and of the other children living with her in harmony and love, act so beneficially on her as to restore her, with judicious and tender treatment, to reason, happy intelligence, and home once more? As he admitted these thoughts into his heart, his bosom heaved, the tears fell fast from his eyes, he pressed his hand on his forehead, and, looking up, murmured a prayer for guidance. Harassed and worn by electioneering business, and sickened with the din and unnatural excitement connected with it, how he yearned for the quiet peace and affectionate realities of his home society; and with that yearning came now a special longing to see once more, in her accustomed chair, her who had dwelt so long in banishment from him. And yet he scarcely knew how to take the first step in the bringing about of that which he so earnestly desired. “I must leave it till Kate comes home,” he said to himself with a sigh; “she will be sure to suggest the right thing, and to go the right way to work in the matter.” How great, then, were the relief and happiness of Miss Huntingdon when, on the evening of the day of her return home, her brother himself introduced the subject by saying, “Dear Kate, I have been thinking a good deal of late whether it would not be possible to get my dear Mary back to her old home again. You know one great hindrance has now been removed. She will find our dear Julia once more ready to welcome her, and that, I daresay, if the meeting were well managed, might go a great way towards her cure.”

With what joy, then, did Miss Huntingdon gradually unfold to her brother the fact that the cure had already been accomplished, and that nothing now remained but for him to fix the day for receiving back to his heart and home her who had been so long separated from him. Most gladly did he acquiesce in the plans proposed by his sister as to the day and manner of his wife’s return, promising that he would duly restrain himself at the first meeting, and that he would endeavour to erase, by his future consideration and attention to her every wish, any painful scar that might remain from harshness or unkindness in times past. Miss Huntingdon was most deeply thankful that her path had been thus smoothed by the wise and tender hand that guides all the footsteps of the trusting people of God; and she felt sure that a bright eventide was in store for those so truly dear to her. With her brother’s consent she wrote to the cottage, fixing an early day for the return home, thinking it wiser to remain at Flixworth Manor herself, that her presence, when the earnestly desired meeting should take place, might be a comfort to all parties, and might help to dispel any little cloud which memories of the past might cause to hover even over an hour so full of gladness. The day came at last. All outside the Manor-house was as bright as well-kept walks, closely-mown turf, and flower-beds gay with the rich and tastefully blended tints of multitudes of bright and fragrant flowers, could make it. Harry had taken the fine old entrance hall under his own special care. How the bedrooms or sitting-rooms might look was not his concern, but that the hall should look its venerable best, and that the plate should be bright, that was his business; it was for him to see to it, and see to it he did. Never were plate-powder and wash-leather put into more vigorous exercise, and never was old oak staircase and panelling bees’-waxed and rubbed with more untiring energy; so that, as the western sun poured his rays in through windows and fanlight, a cheery brightness flashed from a hundred mirror-like surfaces, including some ancestral helmets and other pieces of armour, which glowed with a lustre unknown by them in the days when they were worn by their owners. “That’ll do, and no mistake,” said the old man half out loud, as, dressed in his best, he walked from one corner of the hall to another, standing a while at each to take in fully all the beauties of the prospect. “Yes, that’ll do; don’t you think so, Polly?” Now this question was addressed, not to a fellow-servant, for all were at the time busily engaged elsewhere, but to a grey parrot, one of those sedate and solemn-looking birds whose remarks are generally in singular contrast to their outward gravity of demeanour. The parrot made no reply, but looked a little bewildered. “Ah, I see how it is,” said Harry; “you are puzzled at so much brightness. Why, you can see yourself reflected a dozen times. What a satisfaction it will be to the dear old missus to see a likeness of herself in every panel as she walks upstairs.” Satisfied with this thought, he looked round him once again with an air of considerable contentment—as well he might, for everything spoke of comfort, refinement, and welcome, and of the diligent hands and loving hearts which had provided these. So, with one more glance round, he again exclaimed, “Yes, it’ll do; and I think the dear old missus ’ll think so too,” at the same time bowing low to the parrot, whose only reply, “Pretty Poll,” was appreciative rather of her own attractions than of those of her surroundings.

And now a sound of wheels was heard, and all the inmates of the house crowded into the hall. A minute more and the steps were reached, and the hall-door was opened by a trembling but faithful hand. The young people were the first to alight; and then Mrs Huntingdon, handed out of the carriage by Walter, and leaning on the arm of Amos, entered once more the home she had left so sadly. Her husband’s arms were at once round her, but he restrained himself by a strong effort, and just drew her gently very closely to him, whispering to her, as audibly as tears would let him, “Welcome home again, my dear, dear wife.” And she returned the loving pressure, and spoke in subdued voice her thankfulness to be at home with him once more; and then they stood apart and gazed earnestly at each other. Ay, there was change in each. Time and care and sorrow had done their work and ploughed their furrows; but there was a sweet peace which neither had before seen in the other, and, to Mr Huntingdon’s glad surprise and almost awe, a heavenly beauty in his recovered wife’s face which he knew not then how to account for, but he was not long in learning its source.

And now, as husband and wife, once more united, were about to move on, old Harry stepped forward, and with the profoundest of bows, and a very unsteady voice, wished his old mistress all health and happiness for many long years among them. Mrs Huntingdon could not trust herself to speak, but she held out her hand to him, which he took as gently in his own as if it had been some article of ornamental glass of a peculiarly brittle nature, and then saluted it with a fervent kiss; after which, rather abashed at his own proceeding, he shrank back, and allowed the happy travellers to make their way upstairs. But he could not be satisfied with having given so partial a vent to his feelings. So, when the hall was again all his own, he began to trip round it in a measured sort of dance, to the intense amusement of Julia and Walter, who were looking over the banisters from above on the performer, who was not conscious at the moment of being so observed. On the old man went, waxing more and more energetic, till at last he swayed himself into the centre of the hall, and gave expression to the vehemence of his feelings in a complicated sort of movement which he intended for a jump or spring, but which brought him down on all fours, amidst a burst of irrepressible laughter from the young people who were looking on. A little disconcerted, Harry was just recovering his feet, when the parrot, who had learned a few short phrases in times past, principally from Walter, and had now been eyeing Harry’s movements, with his grey head on one side, and his thoughtful eye twinkling restlessly, exclaimed, in an almost sepulchral voice, “What’s up now?” The old man stared comically at the unexpected speaker, and then said, as he brushed the dust off his knees, “What’s up now? why, you stupid old bird, there’s a great deal that’s up now. I’m up now, though I was down a minute ago. And Miss Julia as was and Master Walter’s up now, for they’re up on the landing a-laughing at me. And the dear old missus is up now; she’s up in her room with master, and we don’t want her to be down in spirits no more. There, Polly, I’ve answered your question, and answered it well, I think.”

Never did a happier party gather round the dinner-table at Flixworth Manor; never did the old butler ply his office with a readier hand and a brighter countenance. Dinner over, and all being grouped together in the drawing-room, where many loving words had passed, Walter turned to his father and said, “I have two requests to make to you, dear father.”

“Well, my boy, what are they? they must be strange and unreasonable indeed if I refuse to grant them on such a night as this.”

“I don’t think, father, that you will call them so.”

“Well, what are they?”

“The first is, that Amos may be our chaplain just for once at family prayers to-night.”

All looked surprised, but none more so than Amos himself. Half rising from his seat, he laid a remonstrating hand upon his brother’s arm; but it was now too late. The colour flushed over his face, and he looked uneasily at his father’s countenance, which was much troubled; yet there was no look of anger there, but rather a shade of deep sadness had crept over it. The truth was, Mr Huntingdon had always entertained a profound respect for religion, and an equally profound contempt for hypocrites; but nothing beyond this had till lately been thought by him to be necessary for his taking his place in society as a respectably religious man. He wished all his dependants to be sober and honest, and to go to church, read their Bibles, and say their prayers; and what more could be required of him or them? And, in order to set a good example in his family and to his tenants, he always himself conducted family prayers night and morning, reading a few verses of Scripture, and a plain and suitable prayer. Nevertheless, he had simply done this hitherto as a duty, as a matter of form, and always rose from his knees with a mingled feeling of satisfaction at having performed a duty, and of relief that a somewhat irksome task was over. But now a new view of religion, its duties and privileges, had begun to dawn upon him; but still he had scarce light enough yet to see his way to taking a different stand. So, when Walter preferred his request that Amos should be chaplain for that evening, a painful sense of deficiency on his own part clouded his spirit, while at the same time he was truly anxious to do anything which would be a step in the direction of real improvement and spiritual blessing to his household. The cloud, however, soon melted away, and holding out his hand to Walter, and grasping his hand warmly, he said, “With all my heart, my dear boy; nothing could be better. Let Amos be chaplain to-night, and not to-night only. I am getting old, and his younger voice and more experience in such matters will make it a good thing for us all if he will take the family prayers whenever he is at home.” As he concluded with faltering voice, Amos began to remonstrate in words of earnest deprecation; but his father stopped him, and, laying his hand on his shoulder, kindly said, “Do it to please me, and to please us all, dear boy.” Then, turning to Walter, with every shade removed from his countenance, he asked, “And what is your second request?”

“That’s not a very hard one to grant,” replied Walter, smiling, “though perhaps you may repent of saying ‘Yes’ when you suffer the consequences. My second request is, that I may be allowed to make a short speech when family prayers are over.”

“Granted at once, my son,” was Mr Huntingdon’s reply; “I am sure you will have an attentive audience.”

“Ah, it may be so, father; but I’m not sure that every member of my attentive audience will hear me willingly.”

And now, when the gong had sounded and the whole family, including the servants, were gathered for the evening devotion, Amos, calm and collected, took his seat at the table, and when all were assembled, opened the Bible, which Harry had, by his master’s direction, put before him, at the hundred and third Psalm. Deeply touching were those fervent words read out with solemn earnestness and pathos by the young man, in the presence of those he loved so dearly, specially when he lingered on the third and fourth verses, “Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender mercies.” The psalm finished, all knelt, and then, in tones low and trembling at first, but gaining in power and firmness as he proceeded, Amos poured out his heart in supplication and thanksgiving,—thanksgiving that all the members of that family were once again united under that roof in health and peace; and supplication that they might henceforth, if spared, go hand in hand along the narrow way, as true followers of Him whose service is perfect freedom.

Not a tearless eye was there in that company as all rose from their knees, no one being so deeply affected as Mr Huntingdon, who drew Amos to him with a tenderness which more than repaid his son for every sacrifice and suffering in the past. “And now,” said his father, when the servants had left the room, “we are all waiting for your promised speech, Walter.” The smile with which the young man rose to his feet passed away as he saw all eyes earnestly fixed on him. For a moment he hesitated, and then began: “Father and mother dear, I have been learning for some time past some very important lessons; and my two teachers are here before you—the one is my dear aunt Kate, and the other is my dear brother Amos. My aunt has taught me with her lips, and my brother by his life.—Nay, Amos, you must not interrupt the speaking. At this moment I am in possession of the house.—My lessons have been on the subject of moral courage. I used to think I was very brave, and didn’t need any instruction on such a subject. I looked down upon, and would have despised, only I couldn’t, the noblest brother that ever brother had.—Ay, ay, it’s no use shaking your head, Amos; I am speaking nothing but the truth.—Over and over again I have shown myself a moral coward; over and over again Aunt Kate has set before me, at my own request, examples of moral heroism from history and real life, just to suit my case and stir me up to better things; and over and over again I have seen acted out by my brother there the very lessons I have been so slow in learning. Ah, it has been grand teaching! We have had such a lot of moral heroes,—Columbus, and Washington, and Howard, and Luther, and Fletcher, and a score more. But here is my moral hero,” saying which he threw one arm round his weeping brother’s neck, and put a hand over his mouth as he proceeded. “Yes, you must hear me out now. Here is the brother who, with a moral courage that never nagged, that no unkindness, no misunderstanding could bend, has been carrying out for years one great purpose, which God has permitted him this day to bring to a full accomplishment. That purpose we all see fulfilled in our complete family gathering to-night. Yes; Amos is my hero of heroes, and heshallhear me say it. I ask his pardon now for all my unworthy treatment of him. Heismy hero, for he has nobly conquered. He has conquered us all, but none more completely than the brother who looks upon it as one of his dearest privileges to be permitted to love him and to try and copy his example.”

What could Amos do? what could he say? Clinging to the impulsive brother who had thus spoken out impetuously what all felt to be true, and sobbing out his regrets that such words should have been spoken of one who felt himself to be so undeserving of them, he was utterly at a loss what to reply, nor did any one for the moment venture to add a word. But at last the silence was broken by the clear and gentle voice of Miss Huntingdon. “It may be, dearest ones, that a few words from myself may not be out of place after dear Walter’s speech. He has indeed spoken the truth. Our noble Amos has certainly shown us, in the carrying out of his great heart-purpose, true moral courage in many of its most striking forms. But he has not been alone in this. I have been a privileged teacher by word of mouth, as Walter has said; and right nobly has he learned and applied his lessons, and been pressing forward in his brother’s steps. And not only so, but dear Julia has been also learning and practising these lessons. And now I think I need occupy the teacher’s place no longer. I would rather give up my place to the great Teacher of all,—to Him who both by word and example shows us moral heroism in its perfection of sublimity. I have not hitherto ventured specially to dwell on him as being in this, as in every other excellence, the one perfect pattern, because Walter wished to be encouraged by examples in those who were imperfect and shortcoming creatures like ourselves. But I would now express the hope that we may all henceforth find our happiness in taking Him for our teacher, guide, and model who never shrank from duty, even when to perform it wrung from him tears of agony and a bloody sweat, and who held on his course through evil report and good report, spite of blasphemy, persecution, and a bitter and shameful death, till he had finished the work which his Father had given him to do, and had won for us the victory over sin and death, and an imperishable crown of glory.”

|Chapter 1| |Chapter 2| |Chapter 3| |Chapter 4| |Chapter 5| |Chapter 6| |Chapter 7| |Chapter 8| |Chapter 9| |Chapter 10| |Chapter 11| |Chapter 12| |Chapter 13| |Chapter 14| |Chapter 15| |Chapter 16| |Chapter 17| |Chapter 18| |Chapter 19| |Chapter 20| |Chapter 21| |Chapter 22| |Chapter 23| |Chapter 24|

Back to IndexNext