Amos Huntingdon

by William Henry Giles Kingston

  CHAPTER SEVEN.

  HARRY IN THE SECRET.

  A week or more had passed since the conversation in the summer-house,and all the family were seated at luncheon in the dining-room ofFlixworth Manor, when a shabby and dirty-looking note was handed to Amosby the butler. Having hastily read it, Amos exclaimed in an agitatedvoice, "Who brought this? where is he?"

  "It's no one as I ever seed afore," replied Harry. "He said there wasno answer, but I was to take it in straight; and I doubt he's gone nowfar enough away, for he was nothing but a rough-looking lad, and he ranoff when he had given me the note as fast as his legs would carry him."

  "Nothing amiss, I hope?" said Miss Huntingdon kindly.

  "I hope not," replied her nephew. He was evidently, however, greatlytroubled and confused, and looked nervously towards his father, whoseattention at the time was being given to a noble-looking dog which wasreceiving a piece of meat from his hand.

  "What's up now?" cried Walter, who, although he was learning to treathis brother with more respect and consideration, was still rather on thelook-out for opportunities to play off his fun upon him. "Why, surelythere's something amiss. What's the good, Amos, of putting a spoonfulof salt into your gooseberry tart?"

  Mr Huntingdon now looked round and stared at his elder son, who had bythis time partly recovered his self-possession. "Nothing serious, myboy, I hope?" he said.

  "I hope not, dear father. It's only about a little child that I take aninterest in; he seems to have got away from home, and his friends can'tfind him."

  "Is it one of my tenants' children?"

  "No; it's a child that lives in a cottage on the Gavelby estate. Wehave struck up a friendship. I ride up there sometimes, so they havesent to me about him; and I will ride over after luncheon and see whatcan be done."

  Nothing more passed on the subject during the meal; but MissHuntingdon's watchful care of her nephew made her notice the deep linesof anxiety which had gathered on the forehead of Amos, and her heartached for him, for she was sure that he was burdened with someunexpected trouble connected with the work he had set himself toaccomplish. Dinner-time came, but Amos did not make his appearance.Ten o'clock struck, but he still lingered. Never before had he beenabsent for a night except when at school or college, or on a visit tosome friend; for his habits were most regular, and he always rose andretired to rest early, his custom in this respect having been often thesubject of remark and merriment to Walter, who would say to his friendsthat, "although Amos would never join in a lark, he had no objection torise with one; nor to lie down with a lamb, though he hadn't it in himto skip like one." So when the family met next morning at breakfast,and nothing had been seen or heard of Amos, there was a shade of anxietyon every one's face.

  "Where can the boy have been?" exclaimed Mr Huntingdon; "we never knewhim go off like this before.--Hasn't he sent any message of any kind,Harry?"

  "Not a word, sir, as far as I know."

  "What's best to be done, then?--What do you say, Kate?" asked thesquire.

  "Perhaps Walter can make inquiries," suggested his sister.

  "Well," replied her nephew, "I wouldn't mind, but really I don't knowwhere to look exactly. I may be riding about all day, for he's goneafter the missing child, I suppose, so it will be no use looking for himat the child's home. And, besides, I've an engagement to play lawn-tennis and go to luncheon at the Worthingtons', and I can't disappointthem."

  "Not in such a case as this?" asked his aunt reproachfully. "Can't yousend a note of apology to the Worthingtons? Suppose something serioushas happened to your brother!"

  "Oh, nonsense, Aunt Kate," cried Walter, who was not prepared to give uphis engagement of pleasure; "don't be afraid about Amos; he'll turn upall right. He's on his way home, you may depend upon it; only perhapshe has been trying to solve some wonderful problem, and has forgottenall about such commonplace things as time and space, and has fallenasleep under a hedge."

  "I will go myself, then," said Miss Huntingdon, "and see if I can hearanything of him from the neighbours."

  "Indeed, Kate," said her brother, "you must do nothing of the sort. Setyour mind at rest. I will go myself and make inquiries; and if the boydoes not make his appearance by luncheon time, we must take furthersteps to find him."

  "Can _I_ be of any use, sir, in the matter?" asked Harry.

  "Ah, that's just the thing!" cried Walter. "If you can spare Harry,father, Jane can wait at luncheon; and I'll just put Harry myself onwhat I think will be the right scent."

  "Well, my boy, it can be so, and you can do as you say," replied hisfather. "I know we can trust Harry to do his best; he can take the oldmare, and we shall do very well with Jane till he comes back."

  Nothing loath, but rather gratified with the part he had to play and thetrust placed in him, the old butler set out about noon on the old mare,accompanied by Walter, who was on his way to the Worthingtons'. Harrywould have preferred managing matters in his own fashion, which wouldhave been to go on a tour of inquiry from farm to farm; but, having nochoice, he surrendered himself to the guidance and directions of Walter.So they rode on together for some miles till they came within sight ofthe cottage where Amos had been seen by his brother playing with thelittle children.

  "There, Harry," said Walter, "you see that cottage? just you call inthere, and you will either find my brother there, if I am not mistaken,or, at any rate, you will find somebody who will tell you where to lookfor him." Then he turned and put spurs to his horse, and was soon outof sight, leaving the old servant to jog along at his leisure to thelittle dwelling pointed out to him, the roof of which he could just seedistinctly in the distance.

  "Humph!" said Harry half out loud, as he rather reluctantly made his waytowards the cottage; "you might have gone yourself, Master Walter, Ithink, and saved an old man like me such a shaking as I've had on theold mare's back. But I suppose that `lawn tens,' as they call it, is amighty taking thing to young people; it seems all the go now; all theyoung gents and young ladies has gone mad after it. Knocking them ballsback'ards and for'ards used to be called `fives' when I were a boy, butthey calls it `tens' now; I suppose 'cos they does everything in thesedays twice as fast as they used to do. Well, it don't matter; but if ithad been Master Amos, and t'other road about, he'd never have let`tens,' or `twenties,' or `fifties' stand between him and looking artera lost brother. But then people don't know Master Amos and MasterWalter as I do. Their aunt, Miss Huntingdon, does a bit, and p'rapsmaster will himself some day."

  By the time he had finished this soliloquy Harry had neared the cottage.Then he quickened his pace, and having reached the little garden gate,hung his horse's bridle over a rail, with the full knowledge that theanimal would be well content to stand at ease an unlimited time whereshe was left. Then he made his way up to the cottage door and knocked.His summons was immediately answered by a respectably dressed middle-aged woman, who opened the door somewhat slowly and cautiously, and thenasked him civilly what was his business with her. "Well, if you please,ma'am," said the butler, "I'm just come to know if you can tell meanything about my young master, Mr Amos. He ought to have come homelast night, and none of us has set eyes on him up to the time when Ileft home, about an hour since."

  The person whom he addressed was evidently in a difficulty what toanswer. She hesitated, and looked this way and that, still holding thedoor ajar, but not inviting Harry into the house. The old man waited afew moments, and then he said, "If you please, ma'am, am I to understandas you don't know nothing about my young master, Mr Amos, and wherehe's gone?"

  Still the other made no reply, but only looked more and more uneasy. Itwas quite clear to Harry now that she could give him the information hewanted, if only she were willing to do so. He waited therefore anotherminute, and then said, "You've no cause, ma'am, to fear as I shall getMaster Amos into trouble by anything you may tell me. I love him toowell for that; and I can be as close as wax when I like. You may trustme, ma'am, and he'd tell you
the same if he was here."

  "And what may your name be, friend?" asked the woman.

  "Well," he replied, "the quality calls me `Harry;' but every one elsecalls me Mr Frazer,--at least when they behaves as they ought to do. Iam butler at Flixworth Manor, that's Mr Amos Huntingdon's home; andI've been in the family's service more nor fifty years come nextChristmas, so it ain't likely as I'd wish to do any on 'em any harm."

  "Well, Mr Frazer," said the woman, opening the door, "come in then; thefact is, I am almost as puzzled to know where Mr Amos is as you are. Ihave been expecting him all the morning, and he may be here any minute.But pray come in and wait a bit."

  Accepting the invitation, Harry stepped into a neat little parlour,prettily but not expensively furnished. Over the chimney-piece was alarge drawing in water-colours of Flixworth Manor-house, and, on eitherside of this, photographs of Mr and Mrs Huntingdon. What could itmean? But for Harry every other thought was swallowed up in a moment byhis attention being called to a little girl, about four years of age,who stole into the room, and stood for a while staring at him with onefinger in her mouth, and her head drooping slightly, but not so much asto hide a pair of lustrous hazel eyes. A neat and beautifully whitepinafore was bound round her waist by a red belt, and a profusion ofglossy brown ringlets fell upon her shoulders. The old man started atthe sight as if he had been shot, and then gazed at the child with openmouth and raised eyebrows, till the little thing shrank back to the sideof the woman who had opened the door, and hid her little face in herapron. "It's herself, her very own self," said Harry half out loud, andwith quivering voice; "tell me, ma'am, oh, pray tell me what's thischild's name!"

  "Well, Mr Frazer," replied his companion, though evidently with somehesitation, "I understand that I may trust you. This dear child's namesare Julia Mary, and I am her nurse, employed by Mr Amos to look afterher for him."

  "I begin to see it all now," said Harry half to himself. "Don't troubleyourself, ma'am; I don't need to ask no more questions. I don't wantany one to tell me who Miss Julia's mother is; there can be no doubtabout that, they're as like as two peas; and I begin to see a bit whatMr Amos has been a-doing. God bless his dear, unselfish heart! Comehere to me, my child," he added with a pleasant smile. The little Julialooked hard at him from behind the shelter of her nurse's gown for amoment, but soon lost all fear, for there was something attractive toher in the old man's snow-white hair and venerable face, as, surely,there is commonly a sweet sympathy between the guileless childhood ofinfancy and the holy childhood of God--fearing old age. So she shylydrew towards him, and let him place her on his knee; and then she lookedup wonderingly at him, as his tears fell fast on her brown hair, and hisvoice was choked with sobs. "Yes," he said, "my precious Miss Julia,you're the very image of what your blessed mother was at your age. I'vehad her like this on my knee scores of times. Ah! well, perhaps abrighter day's coming for us all."

  We must now leave the old man happy over his gentle charge, and go backto the previous day when Amos, at luncheon time, received the littlenote which so greatly disturbed him. That note was as follows:--

  "Respected Sir,--About ten o'clock this morning, as Master George andMiss Mary were playing in the garden, a strange man looked over thehedge and called Master George by name. He held out something to him inhis hand, which Master George went out of the gate to look at. Then theman took him up into his arms, whispered something into his ear, andwalked away with him. I was in the house at the time, and was told thisby Miss Mary. What am I to do? Please, sir, do come over at once ifyou can.--Your obedient servant, Sarah Williams."

  Amos, as we have seen, left home after luncheon, and did not return. Hemade his way as quickly as he could to the little cottage, and foundMrs Williams in great distress. The poor little girl also was cryingfor her brother, declaring that a wicked man had come and stolen himaway. What was to be done? The cottage where the nurse and childrendwelt together was in rather a retired situation, the nearest house toit being a farm-house, which, though only a few hundred yards distant,was built in a hollow, so that what was going on outside the cottagewould not be visible to persons about the farm premises. Mrs Williamswas the wife of a respectable farm labourer, of better education andmore intelligence than the generality of his class. They had nochildren of their own, so that Mrs Williams, who was a truly godlywoman, was glad to give a home for a time and a motherly care to the twolittle ones committed to her charge by Amos. The husband was, ofcourse, absent from home during the working hours, so that his wifecould not call him to her help when she missed the little boy; indeed,on the day of her loss her husband had gone with his master, the farmer,to the neighbouring market-town, some six miles off, so that she couldhave no assistance from him in the search for the missing child tilllate in the evening. As far as Amos could gather from the little girl'sdescription, the man who had stolen away her brother was tall, had along beard, and very black eyes. He was not on horseback, and there wasno one else with him. But this was very meagre information at the beston which to build for tracking the fugitives. So Amos called MrsWilliams into the little parlour, and spread the matter out in prayerbefore God, whose "eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and thegood." Then wishing the nurse good-bye, with a heart less burdened thanbefore, but still anxious, he remounted his pony, and turned him in thedirection of the neighbouring farm-yard.

  Having ascertained at the farm-house that no one had seen a man with aboy in his arms or walking by him pass that way, he proceeded down along and not much frequented grassy lane at a jog-trot, but with smallexpectation of finding any clew that might guide him to the discovery ofthe lost child. He had ridden on thus about half a mile, when he pausedat a place where another grassy lane crossed at right angles the onedown which he had been riding. It was a lonely spot, but yet was athoroughfare from which the roads diverged to one or two large villages,and led in one direction ultimately to the market-town. Close to theditch opposite the road down which Amos had come was a white finger-post, informing those who were capable of deciphering its blearedinscriptions whither they were going or might go. Amos hesitated; hehad never been on this exact spot before, and he therefore rode close upto the sign-post to read the names, which were illegible at a littledistance off. To his great surprise, and even dismay, he noticed,dangling from one of the post's outstretched wooden arms, a silkhandkerchief of a rather marked pattern. Could it really be? Yes, hecould not doubt it; it belonged to little George: it was a present tothe child from himself only a few days before. Amos's blood ran cold atthe sight. Could any one in the shape of humanity have had the heart tolay violent hands on the poor boy? There was no telling. He scarcedared to look towards the ditch lest he should see the lifeless bodythere. But perhaps a gipsy had got hold of the child, and stripped himfor his clothes: such things used to be done formerly. But, then, whyhang the silk handkerchief in such a conspicuous place? for it could nothave got there by accident, nor been blown there, for it had beenmanifestly fastened and suspended there by human fingers. Trembling inevery limb, Amos unfastened the handkerchief from the post. There wassomething stiff inside it. He unfolded it slowly; an envelope discloseditself. It was directed in pencil. The direction was, "AmosHuntingdon, Esq. Please forward without delay."

  Here, then, was a clue to the mystery. Amos opened the envelope andread the enclosure, which was also written in pencil, in a neat andthoroughly legible hand. It ran thus:--

  "You are doubtless anxious to know what has become of the little boyGeorge. Come _alone_ to-morrow morning to the old oak in Brendon wood,and you shall be duly informed. Mind, come _alone_: if you attempt tobring one or more with you, it will be simply lost labour, for thenthere will be no one to meet you. You have nothing to fear as to anyharm to your own person, or interference with your liberty."

  There was no signature to the letter, either of name or initials. Amoswas sorely puzzled what to do when he had read this strange epistle. Ofcourse it was plain t
hat the writer could put him in the way ofrecovering little George if he would; but, then, where was Brendon wood?and how was he to get to it on the following morning? And yet, if hedid not act upon this letter and follow its directions, the child mightbe lost to him for ever, and that he could not bear to think of. Thenearest town to the finger-post was yet some five miles distant; andshould he reach that, and make his inquiries about the wood withsuccess, it would be difficult for him to return home the same eveningby any reasonable hour. Still, he could not find it in his heart toabandon the search, and he therefore made the best of his way to thelittle town of Redbury.

  As he was giving up his pony to the care of the hostler at theWheatsheaf, the principal inn in the place, he observed a man--tall,with long beard, and very dark eyes--stepping down into the inn-yard,who, as soon as he saw Amos, immediately retreated into the house. HadAmos seen him before? Never, as far as he knew; and yet a strangesuspicion came over him that this was the man who had enticed littleGeorge away, and was also the writer of the pencilled letter. Still, itmight not be so; he had no proof of it; and how was he to ascertain ifit was the case or no? He lingered about the yard for a time, but thestranger did not again make his appearance; so he strolled out into thetown, and ascertained that Brendon wood was about two miles fromRedbury, and had an old oak in the centre of it. Turning matters overin his mind, he at last came to the not very comfortable conclusionthat, as the evening was now far advanced, his best course was to put upfor the night in the little town, and betake himself to the wood at anearly hour next day. Grieved as he was to give his friends at homeanxiety by not returning that night, he felt that, if his object was tobe attained, he had better remain where he was; and he was sure that hisaunt would believe that he would not absent himself without good reason,and would do her best to allay in his father any undue anxiety on hisaccount. Having come to this conclusion, he returned to the Wheatsheafand secured a bed, and then passed the rest of the evening in thecoffee-room, watching very carefully to see if he could catch anywhereanother glimpse of the mysterious stranger, but to no purpose.

  After a restless and anxious night he rose early; and, after commendinghimself and his cause to God in earnest prayer, set off, after a hastybreakfast, in the direction given him as leading to the place ofappointment. It was a glorious summer day; and as he rode briskly alongthe country road, out of which he soon turned into a long lane skirtedon either side by noble trees, he could not help sighing to think howman's sin had brought discord and deformity into a world which mightotherwise have been so full of beauty. The wood soon appeared in sight,and a lonely as well as lovely spot it was. Many bridle-roadsintersected it; he chose one which seemed to lead into the centre, andin a short time the great oak was visible. There was no mistaking thevenerable forest giant, with its rugged fantastic limbs towering highabove the neighbouring trees. So he made straight for it at once. Amoswas no coward, though naturally of a timid disposition; for he hadpatiently acquired habits of self-control, learned partly in the schoolof chastisement, and partly in the school of self-discipline. And yetit was not without a feeling of shrinking and misgiving that he saw aman approaching the oak from a path opposite to that by which he himselfhad come. Trees, mingled with thick brushwood, covered the ground onall sides, except where the roads and bridle-paths ran, and not acreature had he met before since he turned out of the main road. Littletime, however, was allowed him for further reflection; in a minute morehe was joined by the other traveller. A single glance was sufficient tosatisfy him that he had before him the same man who had attracted hisattention the evening before at the Wheatsheaf.

  The stranger was, as has been said, tall, and wore a long beard. On thepresent occasion he was wrapped in an ample cloak, and had on his head ahigh-crowned hat encircled with a feather. Amos could not make himout;--what was he? As they came close up to one another, the strangersaluted Amos with an air of mingled ease and affectation, and motionedhim to a seat when he had dismounted from his pony. So Amos, stillholding Prince's bridle in his hand, placed himself on a grassy moundnear the base of the old oak, while the other seated himself a few pacesfrom him. Neither spoke for a little while; then the stranger broke thesilence. His voice was not, in its natural tones, otherwise thanpleasing; but there was an assumption in his manner of speaking and aspice of sarcastic swagger which grated very painfully on thesensibilities of his companion. However, it was pretty evident that thestranger had no particular care to spare the feelings of the person whomhe was addressing.

  "I may as well explain at once, Mr Huntingdon," he began, "how I cameto communicate with you in a way somewhat uncommon. The fact is, that Ihave reasons for not wishing to make myself known more than I can helpto the good people in these parts. Now, had I sent you my note by thehand of any messenger, this would have drawn attention to myself, andmight have led to inquiries about me which are not just now convenient.I was quite sure that yourself, or some one belonging to you, would besearching up and down the lanes for the little boy, and that his silkhandkerchief, placed where I put it, would attract notice, and the notetied up in it be conveyed to yourself without my appearing personally onthe scene. And so it has turned out. You have read my note, I see; andno one has been in communication with the writer but yourself. This isas it should be. And now, may I ask, do you know me? or at any rate, doyou guess who I am? for we have not seen each other, I believe, beforeyesterday evening."

  "I do not know your name," replied Amos sadly; "but I cannot say that Ihave no suspicion as to who you are."

  "Exactly so," replied the other; "I am, in fact, none other than yourbrother-in-law, or, if you like it better, your sister Julia's husband."

  "I have feared so," replied Amos.

  "Feared!" exclaimed his companion in a tone of displeasure. "Well, beit so. I am aware that our marriage was not to the taste of theHuntingdons, so we have kept out of the way of the family as much aspossible; and, indeed, I believe that your father has never even knownthe name of his daughter's husband, but simply the fact of hermarriage."

  "I believe so," said Amos; "at any rate, all that has been known by thefamily generally has been that she married"--here he hesitated; but theother immediately added,--

  "Beneath her, you would say. Be it so, again. Well, you may as wellknow my name yourself, at any rate, for convenience' sake. It is, atyour service, Orlando Vivian. Shall I go on?"

  "If you please."

  "You are aware, then, of course, that I deserted your sister, as it iscalled, for a time; the fact being, that we discovered after marriagethat our tastes and habits of thought were very dissimilar, and that weshould be happier apart, at least for a season. And in the meantime youstepped in, and have acted very nobly, I must say, in taking charge ofmy two little children, for which I must tender you my best thanks."

  There was a brief pause, and then Amos inquired anxiously, "Is it yourintention to take the children from me?"

  "Well, not necessarily, but perhaps so; certainly not the girl, atpresent, unless you yourself wish it."

  "And the boy?" asked Amos.

  "Ah, I have not quite made up my mind about him," was the reply. "Itmay be that I shall keep him with me, and bring him up to my ownprofession."

  "And what may that profession be?" asked the other.

  "The stage," was the reply.

  "What!" exclaimed Amos in a tone of horror, "bring up the poor child tobe an actor! Why, it will be his ruin, body and soul!"

  "And if so, Mr Huntingdon," said the other sternly and bitterly, andwith his dark eyes glaring fiercely, "I suppose I, as his father, have aright to bring him up as I please. The father's profession is, Iimagine, notwithstanding your disparaging remarks, good enough for theson."

  Amos leaned his head on his hand for a while without reply; then helooked his companion steadily in the face, and said, "And is there noother course open?"

  "Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, withoutany more be
ating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. Thefact is, I want money, and--not an uncommon thing in this not overagreeable or accommodating world--don't know where to get it. I have,therefore, just this to say,--if you will pledge me your word to send mea cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, willat once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as aman of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. Youmay think what you please of me, but such is my proposal."

  These words were uttered in a tone of the most imperturbable self-possession, and perfectly staggered poor Amos by their amazingeffrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needyadventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and haddeserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found outthat Amos had taken upon himself to provide for his children at present,had hit upon the scheme of withdrawing one of them from the cottage, asa way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also prettyclear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers ofjustice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach ofthe law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hangingup the little boy's handkerchief on the way-post, being sure thatpersons would be out immediately in all directions searching for thechild, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief withthe letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as theyoung man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nursediscovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search forthe missing child; and thus the writer's purpose would be answeredwithout his having given any clew by which himself could be discoveredand brought into trouble. All this was now plainly unfolded to Amos.And what was he to do? That the man before him was utterly selfish andunscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be doneby appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could actdeliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephewin his father's hands, to be brought up to the stage--or, in otherwords, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thoughtwas not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice.

  While these things were passing through his mind, his companion lookedabout him with cool indifference, kicking the leaves and sticks at hisfeet, and whistling in a low tone some operatic air. Then he brokesilence. "Which is it to be, Mr Huntingdon?" he asked. "Am I to keeplittle George, or do you wish to have him back again? You know theconditions; and you may be sure that I should not have taken the troubleto meet you here if I had any thoughts of changing my mind."

  Amos looked sadly and kindly at him, and then said, "And can you really,Mr Vivian, justify this conduct of yours to yourself? Can you feelreally happy in the course you are pursuing? Oh! will you not let mepersuade you--for my poor sister's sake, for your own sake--to leaveyour present mode of life, and to seek your happiness in the only pathwhich God can bless? I would gladly help you in any way I could--"

  But here his companion broke in, scorn on his lip, and a fiercemalignant anger glaring from his eyes. "Stop, stop, Mr Huntingdon!enough of that. We are not come here for a preaching or a prayer-meeting. The die has long since been cast, and the Rubicon crossed.You can take your course; I will take mine. If you have nothing moreagreeable to say to me, we had better each go our own way, and leavematters as they are."

  "No," said Amos, firmly but sorrowfully; "it shall not be so. I promisethat you shall have my cheque for fifty pounds when you have placedlittle George in my hands, and on the understanding that you pledge yourword, as a man of honour, to leave the children with me unmolested."

  "Exactly so," replied the other; "and now, as a little matter ofbusiness, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to `JohnSmith or Bearer,'--that, certainly, will tell no tales."

  "And where shall I send it to meet you? to what address?"

  "To no address at all, if you please. I will be myself at the spotwhere the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; itis about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the placewell. I will be there at five o'clock to-morrow morning, before thegeneral world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or sendsome trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say thatany attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasionwould be fruitless, as I should be well on my guard; and, further,should there be any foul play of any kind, you may depend upon myremoving _both_ my children from your cottage at the earliestopportunity."

  "I understand you," said Amos, "and will send my father's old butler totake you the cheque at the hour and to the place you name. The old manwill ask no questions; he will be satisfied to do just what I tell him,neither more nor less. You will easily recognise him, as he has snowy-white hair, and he will be riding on this pony of mine."

  "So far so good," said the other; "I have no doubt you will keep yourword. And now as to the boy. You will find him at the finger-post onwhich his silk handkerchief was tied, at two o'clock this afternoon;that is to say, if you come alone, and are there punctually." Then herose, and, stretching himself to his full height, saluted Amos with abow of exaggerated ceremoniousness, and, turning on his heel, was soonhidden from view by the trees of the wood.

  Sadly and slowly Amos made his way back to the market-town, histhoughts, as he rode along, being far from pleasant companions. Whatwas to be the end of all this? Could he have done differently? No. Hewas satisfied that duty plainly called him to the sacrifice which he hadmade. He would have reproached himself bitterly had he lost theopportunity of recovering his little nephew from such a father. He hadno doubt, then, taken one right step; the next he must leave to the sameheavenly guidance which never had misled nor could mislead him. Sohaving waited in the town till he had refreshed himself with a mid-daymeal, he made his way back along the roads he had travelled the daybefore, and in due time arrived in sight of the finger-post, and of thechild who was sitting alone beneath it, his little head buried in hislap, till, roused by the sound of the pony's feet, he looked up, andwith a joyful cry ran to meet his uncle. Another moment, and Amos hadsprung from his saddle and was clasping the sobbing, laughing child tohis heart.

  "O dear, dear Uncle Amos!" cried the little boy; "how good it is of Godto send you for me. Oh, don't let the tall, ugly, cruel man take meaway again."

  "Not if I can help it, dear child," said his uncle. "There now, jumpup, Georgie," he added; "we shall soon be at home again."

  As he was in the act of remounting, having placed the child on the frontof the saddle, he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind thepost, and that he saw the glancing of a dark body through the treesbeyond the hedge. However, that mattered not; in a very little time,having put his pony to a brisk canter, he reached the cottage, andreceived a hearty welcome from the nurse, and also from old Harry, whosepresence at the house he was not surprised at, when he remembered thathis brother Walter would no doubt have directed the old man to seek forhim there. But now he began to see that Harry had become acquainted, ina measure, with his secret; for the nurse called him aside into anotherroom soon after his return, and told him of the old servant's emotion atthe sight of the little girl, and of his recognising in her the child ofhis master's daughter.

  Amos was at first considerably disturbed at the old man's having madethis discovery. Then, by degrees, the conviction grew upon him thatthis very discovery might be an important step in the direction ofcarrying out the work he had set himself to do. Surely it had beenpermitted for that end; and here was one who would become a helper tohim in the attainment of his purpose. So, after having pondered overthe matter, as he walked backwards and forwards in the little garden forsome half-hour or more, he called Harry out to him, and took him intohis confidence.

  "Harry," he began, "can you keep a secret?"

  "Well, Master Amos, that depends upon what sort of a secret it is, andwho tells it me. Some folks give you secrets to keep which everybodyknows, so that they're gone
afore you gets 'em. But if _you've_ got asecret for me to keep, you may depend upon it no one shall get it fromme."

  "Just so, Harry. Then I have a secret which I want you to keep for me--or, perhaps, I had better say that I have something which I should liketo tell you, because I believe you may be able to help me in animportant matter. And instead of binding you to keep my secret, I shalljust leave it to your own good sense to say nothing about the mattertill the right time comes; and I am sure, when you know all, you willhave no wish to make my business a subject of conversation in thefamily, nor of idle gossip out of it."

  "You're right there, sir," was the old butler's hearty reply; "you maytrust me. I've too much respect for the family to go about like asieve, shaking such things as I've a notion you're a-going to speak tome about all up and down the country, for every idle man, woman, andchild to be wagging their tongues about them."

  "Well then, Harry," continued his young master, "I shall count upon yourdiscretion as to silence, and on your help, where you can be of use tome."

  "They're both at your service, Mr Amos."

  "Then I shall speak openly to you, and without any reserve. I needhardly remind you of the sad beginning of our family troubles. You willremember too well how my poor sister left her home, and married secretlya man altogether beneath her. You know how terribly my poor father wascut up by that marriage, and how he closed the door of our home againstMiss Julia, as I must still call her to you. I am not blaming him norexcusing her, but just referring to the facts themselves. I never knewtill to-day who or what my poor sister's husband was. I never daredmention the subject to my father, especially after my dear mother had toleave us; but ever since they were gone from us I have had it on myheart to make it the great business of my life to get them back again.I know it can be done, and I believe, with God's help, it will be done.I have found out to-day that my poor sister's husband is an actor,evidently a thoroughly unprincipled man. She went about with him fromone place to another for a while; then he deserted her, before thechildren were old enough to know him as their father; and about a yearago I got a letter from her, telling me that she was left in a miserablelodging with two little children, and must starve unless somebody helpedher. I went to see her, and found her mixed up with a number of herhusband's stage acquaintances, from whom she seemed unable to freeherself. So I promised to supply her with what would keep her from wanttill her husband should return to her; and got her to let me have hertwo children, whom she was quite unable to feed and clothe, and whowould soon be ruined, I saw, if they were left with their poor mother asshe then was, and with such people about her as friends oracquaintances. So I brought the children here, and have put them underthe charge of good Mrs Williams, who knows all about them; and sincethen I have been just watching and waiting to see how the Lord wouldguide me, and have been content to move as he directs me, one step at atime. But yesterday I got a sad check. The father of the childrenenticed away his little boy, and got me to meet him this morning somemiles away from here. He cared nothing for the child, but only took himaway that he might get some money out of me. So, when we met thismorning, he engaged to give me back the child if I would promise to sendhim a sum of money which he named; and if I would not do so, then hesaid he would keep the boy, and bring him up as a stage-player. That Iwould not hear of; so I promised him the money, and he has given me backthe little boy as you see, and has solemnly undertaken not to meddlewith either of the children again. And now I want you to take the moneyfor me when we get home. He is to be at the four turnings above theManor-house at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and I am to send him acheque in an envelope. This I have promised, and I want your help inthe matter. You understand, Harry, how things are?--they are blackenough just now, I grant, but they might be blacker."

  The old man, who had listened with breathless interest, now stood stilland looked his young master steadily in the face, while two or three bigtears rolled down his cheeks.

  "And so you've been a-sacrificing yourself, Master Amos, for your sisterand her dear children," he said. "I see it all; but shouldn't I justlike to have fast hold of that rascal's neck with one hand, and a goodstout horsewhip in the other. But I suppose it's no use wishing forsuch things. Well, I'm your man, sir, as far as I can be of anyservice. But as for him and his promises, what are they worth? Why,he'll be just squeezing you as dry as an old sponge as has been lyingfor a month in a dust-pan. He'll never keep his word, not he, whilethere's a penny to be got out of you. And yet, I suppose, you couldn'thave done different for the sake of the poor children, bless theirlittle hearts. And I'm to take the money to him? Yes; and a policemanor two at the same time would be best. But no, I suppose not, as you'vepromised, and for the credit of the family. Well, it's a shocking badbusiness altogether; but when a man's been and tackled it as you'vedone, Master Amos, it'll come right in the end, there's no doubt of it."

  "Thank you, Harry, a thousand times," said the other; "and I am sure youshall see the wisdom of keeping quiet on the subject for the sake of thefamily."

  "You're safe there with me, Master Amos," was the old man's reply.

  So, when Amos and Harry returned to Flixworth Manor, the young manexplained to his father that the little child at the cottage, in whom hewas interested, had been enticed away by a stranger, and that he hadbeen unable to recover him till that morning, and had, in his search forthe child, been obliged to spend the previous night at the market-town.Mr Huntingdon, who was just then very fully occupied in planning andcarrying out some improvements on his estate, was satisfied with thisexplanation. So the subject was not further discussed in the family.On the morning after his return, Amos duly conveyed the cheque, throughHarry, to his brother-in-law.