Amos Huntingdon

by William Henry Giles Kingston

  CHAPTER NINETEEN.

  IN THE DARK VALLEY.

  Six weeks after the sad accident in the park the squire sat in thelibrary after breakfast reading the county paper. Suddenly he turnedvery red, and his chest heaved with emotion, as his eyes ran rapidlythrough the following paragraph:--

  "Extraordinary Proceeding at the County Hospital.

  "It will be remembered that some few weeks ago a terrible accidenthappened to one Signor Telitetti, an acrobat of professedly world-widereputation. The unfortunate man, while performing on the high rope inthe presence of some thousands of spectators, suddenly lost his self-possession, or experienced some failure in power, and in consequencefell from a considerable height to the ground. He was taken to thehospital, where, under the skilful treatment of the medical officers, hemade rapid progress towards returning health and strength, havingsuffered no more serious injuries than the breaking of an arm and two orthree ribs. To the astonishment, however, and perplexity of thehospital officials, the signor has managed to leave the premisesunobserved, and in his still feeble condition, and with his arm yet in asling, to get clear away, so that no one had any idea what had become ofhim. The reason, however, of this move on his part is becoming prettyplain, for it is now being more than whispered about that SignorTelitetti is no foreigner after all, but that this name is only oneamong many aliases borne by a disreputable stroller and swindler, whosome time since victimised Lady Gambit by cheating her out of twentypounds. There can be no doubt that the unfortunate man, dreading lestthe police should pounce upon him when he left the hospital fully cured,contrived to elude their vigilance by taking himself off at a time whenno one would suspect him of wishing or being able to change hisquarters."

  Mr Huntingdon read this over and over again, and his brow contracted asmany painful thoughts crowded in upon him. Then, rising, he repaired tothe morning room, where the other members of the family were assembled,reading or answering their letters. Taking the paper to Amos, he placedhis finger on the painful paragraph, and signed to him to read it. Amosdid so with a beating heart and troubled brow. "Anything amiss,father?" asked Walter, noticing the grave look on the faces of MrHuntingdon and his brother. The squire made no reply, but, holding outhis hand for the paper, passed it to his younger son. Julia, lookingup, noticed the flushed face of her brother, and, before her fathercould prevent her, sprang up and, leaning over Walter's shoulder, readthe article. Then, with a wild cry, she rushed out of the room.

  "Oh! what is the trouble?" exclaimed Miss Huntingdon in a tone of greatdistress. Once more the paper was passed on, and she read thehumiliating paragraph.

  All were silent for a while. Then Miss Huntingdon said, "I must go topoor Julia."

  "Do so," said the squire; "but come back as soon as you can."

  His sister soon returned, saying that her niece had been much upset bywhat she had read, but would be better shortly.

  "And now," said Mr Huntingdon, "I want to know if Julia was aware whothe signor was at the time when the accident happened."

  "She was," said Walter sorrowfully.

  "And could she leave her wretched husband, wounded and perhaps dying,without an attempt to see that he was properly cared for?"

  "Father," replied Walter, "it was so, and I deeply grieve over it. Itried to persuade her at the time--for we both knew him too well as helay on the ground at our feet senseless and bleeding--I tried topersuade her that it was her duty to go with him; but she would not hearof it; she insisted on returning home at once, and said that he would bewell looked after at the hospital, and that if she were to go to him hewould only swear at her. So at last I gave it up; and she would not bepacified till I promised not to mention to any one that I knew thewretched man to be her husband. I suppose I was wrong in giving thispromise,--I have never felt comfortable about it; but she was somiserable till I made it that I gave her my word; and that is just howit was."

  "I quite understand you," said his father. "Poor Julia! we must makeallowances for her; but she has plainly fallen short of her duty in thematter. I trust, however, that she has now had a wholesome lesson, poorthing, and that for her children's sake, and all our sakes, she will becontent with her own home, and more ready to fulfil her duties as amother."

  Amos did not speak, but he was deeply moved. He felt that his sister'sproper place would have been at the bedside of the man who, whatever hissins against her, was still her husband, and was when the accident hadhappened, for anything she knew to the contrary, crushed and dying, andabout to be speedily separated from her for ever in this world. But shehad not so seen her duty; she had shrunk from the pain, the sacrifice.She could not bear the thought of the interruption to her recovered homecomforts and pleasures which the work of a nurse to the stricken manwould involve. And could Amos make her see and acknowledge that she haderred? He feared not.

  Dinner-time came. Julia was in her place as usual. There was a gloomover all the party, but no one alluded to the sad cause. And so, thingsreverted to their ordinary channel in a few days. Julia had becomeagain full of life and spirits, though to close observers there wassomething forced and unnatural about her mirth and vivacity. And onething Amos noticed with special pain--it was that she carefully avoidedever being alone with him; if they were accidentally left together bythemselves, she would in a moment or two make some excuse for leavingthe room.

  Thus did things continue, till summer had given place to the richbeauties of autumn. It was on a mellow October morning that the postbrought a letter for Amos in a handwriting which was not familiar tohim, and from a locality with which he was not acquainted. It was asfollows:--

  "Dear Sir,--In the course of my duties as Scripture reader in the townof Collingford, I have come upon a case which has greatly interested me.The reason for my troubling you about it will appear further on in myletter. I was calling about a fortnight ago on a poor widow woman wholives in one of the lowest parts of this town, in a miserable house, orrather part of it. She asked me to step into a small back room and seea lodger whom she had taken in some days before, and who was in a verybad state of health, and indeed not likely to recover. I did as shedesired, and found a wretched-looking man seated in an old armchair,bowed together, and racked with a severe cough. One of his arms was ina sling, and he seemed to be suffering considerable pain in his leftside. There was something in his appearance different from that ofordinary tramps; and when I heard him speak, I saw at once that he musthave had a good education. I could make very little out of him atfirst, for he was very shy and reserved, and seemed terribly annoyedwhen I read a chapter and had a prayer with him the first visit, and hesaid some very sharp things against religion and the Bible. However, Ipersevered, and he got a little softened, especially when I brought hima little help and a few comforts from some Christian friends who had gotinterested in him. He has always avoided speaking about himself and hispast history, and I suspect that he is hiding from the police. However,I have nothing to do with that, and am truly sorry for him. Thismorning I called and found him much worse. I asked him if he would likeme to get him into the hospital, but he would not hear of it. Then Iasked him if I could do anything more for him. He did not speak forsome time, and then he said, `Yes. Write a few lines for me to Mr AmosHuntingdon'--he gave me your address--`and just tell him how I am. Hewill know me by the name of Orlando Vivian.' `Shall I say anythingmore?' I asked. `No,' he said; `please, just say that, and leave it.'So, dear sir, I have followed the poor gentleman's wishes. I call him agentleman, for I think he must have been a gentleman once. Poor man! Ifear he is dying, and cannot be here very long. At the same time, Ifeel it to be my duty to tell you that there is a bad fever raging inthe town, and the place where he lives is anything but clean andhealthy. And now I have only to ask your pardon for troubling you withthis long letter, and to say that I shall be very happy to do anythingfor your friend, if such he is, that lies in my power, or to meet you atthe Collingford station, should you think it r
ight to come down and seehim.--I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris."

  It hardly need be said that this letter moved Amos deeply. What couldbe done? What was his duty? What was his sister's duty? He felt inperplexity, so he took the trouble and laid it out before Him who bidsus cast on him every care. Then he betook himself to his aunt's roomand read the letter to her. "What shall I do, dear aunt?" he asked.

  "The question, I think, rather is," replied Miss Huntingdon, "What oughtnot your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it is her duty to go to herpoor dying husband, forgive all if he shows himself really penitent, andbe with him to the last."

  "Such is my conviction too," said Amos sadly; "but I fear that Juliawill not see her duty in the light in which we see it. May I call her,and just read the letter to her before you?"

  "Yes, dear boy, if you like." So Amos repaired to the dining-room,where his sister and Walter were engaged in a brisk conversation.

  "What's amiss with you now?" asked Walter, noticing the serious look onhis brother's face. "You ought to be very bright this beautifulmorning. Julia and I have been planning a nice little scheme for thisafternoon. I am hoping, with the gamekeeper's help, to bag two or threebrace of partridges before dinner-time. I can drive Julia to thegamekeeper's hut, and she can take a sketch or two while I am shooting.The woods are looking beautiful now with their autumnal tints, and willgive lovely little bits for a sketch. Won't you join us?"

  "Well," replied Amos gravely, "it would be very nice; but just now Ihave a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about, if shewill just spare me a few minutes, and come with me to my aunt's room."

  "Dear me! what can you want with _me_?" asked his sister, turning deepred and then very pale. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about anythingdismal this delicious morning. Oh! don't look so serious, Amos; you arealways in the dolefuls now. Why can't you be cheerful and jolly, likeWalter?"

  "I am sorry to trouble you," replied her brother, "but there is a causejust now. I shall not keep you long, and then you can return to yourjollity if you will." These last words he uttered in a tone of reproachwhich touched her spite of herself.

  She rose and followed him in silence to her aunt's room. When all wereseated, Amos produced the Scripture reader's letter, and, expressing hisdeep sorrow to have to wound his sister, read it slowly out in a subduedvoice. Julia sprang from her seat, and having snatched the letter fromher brother's hand, read it through several times, her bosom heaving andher eyes flashing, and a few tears bursting forth now and then. "It's ahoax," she cried at last; "one of _his_ hoaxes. It can't be true."

  "I fear it _is_ true," said Amos calmly. "To me the letter bears allthe marks of truth.--Don't you think so, Aunt Kate?"

  "Yes, surely," replied Miss Huntingdon sadly; "I cannot doubt itsgenuineness."

  Julia then tossed the letter to her brother and sat down. "And what isit, then," she asked bitterly, and with knitted brows, "that you want meto do?"

  "I think, dear Julia," said her aunt, "the real question is, What is ityour duty to do?"

  "Oh yes," she cried passionately; "my duty! Duty's a very fine thing.It's always `duty, duty.' But there are two parties to duty: has _he_done his duty? He has beaten me, starved me, cursed me--is that doinghis duty? And now I am to go and nurse him in a vile fever-smittenhole, and lose my life, and so deprive my children of a mother, becauseit's my duty. I don't see it at all."

  Both her hearers looked deeply distressed. Then Amos said, "Still he isyour husband, and dying."

  "Dying!" she exclaimed sneeringly; "not he--it's all pretence. Ifanything common could have killed him, such as kills other people, hewould have been dead ages ago. But he isn't like other men; he has gota charmed life. He'll be all right again after a while."

  "And you will not go to him?" asked Amos, calmly and sadly.

  "No, certainly not," she cried indignantly. "I've suffered more thanenough already for him and from him. Besides, if you talk of duty, itis surely my duty to think of the dear children, and not run the risk ofbringing back the fever to them, supposing I should not be killed by itmyself."

  "Then," said her brother deliberately, "_I_ shall go."

  "You, Amos!" exclaimed both his aunt and sister.

  "Yes," he said; "my own duty is now plain to me. The poor man has letme know his case; he is my sister's husband, however unworthy a husband;he is dying, and may be eternally lost body and soul, and by going I maybe made the means of helping on the good Scripture reader's work. Thepoor dying man's heart is softened just now, and it may be that when hehears the words of God's truth, and experiences kindness from one whohas been treated by him as I have been, he may be led to seek and findpardon before he is taken away."

  "But," said his aunt anxiously, "you will be running a great risk ofcatching the fever, and may lose your own health, and even your life."

  "I know it," he said; "I have counted the cost; and should I be takenaway, I shall merely have done my duty, and"--his voice trembled as heproceeded--"I shall be the one best spared and least missed in thehousehold." As he uttered these last words, his sister, who had beengradually crouching down shiveringly on to the floor, clasped her handsover her face and wept bitterly, but she uttered no word. Then Amosturned to his aunt and said, "Will you, dear aunt, kindly explain to myfather how matters are, and why I am gone?--Poor Julia!" he added,raising her up gently and kissing her forehead, "all may yet be well.May I take him _one_ kind word from you?" She did not speak, but herbosom heaved convulsively. At last she said in a hoarse, quiveringwhisper, "Yes, what you like; and--write and tell me if he is reallydying." Then she rushed out of the room to her own chamber, butappeared at luncheon with all traces of emotion vanished from herfeatures.

  The squire was absent attending a business meeting in the neighbouringtown, and nothing had yet been said to Walter on the subject of hisbrother's departure. That afternoon Amos set off for Collingford, andWalter and his sister on their shooting and sketching expedition, whichproved a miserable failure, so far as any pleasure to Julia wasconcerned.

  Collingford was nearly a day's journey from Flixworth Manor, so it wasnot till dark that Amos arrived at the town. He sought out at once theScripture reader, and obtained full information as to the state of thepoor sufferer. Could he obtain lodgings in the house where the sick manwas? Mr Harris shook his head.

  "I am not afraid either of poor accommodation or of infection," saidAmos. "I am come to do a work, and am safe in the Lord's hands till itis done. He has sent me, and he will keep me."

  The Scripture reader grasped him warmly by the hand. "You shall lodgein my house," he said, "if you can be satisfied with humble fare and myplain ways. I am not a married man, but I have a good old woman wholooks after me, and she will look after you too, and you can come and gojust as you please."

  "I will take you at your word, my friend," said the other, "and willgladly pay for bed and board."

  "All right, all right," cried Mr Harris: "and for my part I am notgoing to pry into your reasons for coming. You are one of the Lord'sservants on an errand of mercy and self-denying love--I can see that;and you are welcome to my services and my silence."

  Amos thanked him warmly, and his moderate luggage was soon deposited inthe Scripture reader's dwelling.

  The next morning, after an early breakfast, the two friends--for truefriends they at once became in the bonds of the gospel, loving Christ'simage in each other--set out for Orlando Vivian's lodging.

  "You must be prepared for something very miserable," said the Scripturereader.

  "I am prepared for anything," said the other calmly. But truly Amos wasstaggered when he entered the room where sat, in the midst of gloom andfilth, the man who had been the cause of so much distress to him andhis. The atmosphere was oppressive with the concentrated foulness ofnumberless evil odours. A bed there was in the darkest corner of theroom on the floor. It looked as though composed of the refuse rakedfrom a pig-sty,
and thrust into a sack which had been used for theconveyance of dust and bones. Bolster or pillow it had none, butagainst the wall, where the bed's head was supposed to be, were three orfour logs of rough wood piled together, over which was laid a fadedcloak crumpled into a heap. Such was the only couch which the unhappysufferer had to lay him down upon at night, or when weary of sitting inthe high-backed, creaking armchair. Uncleanness met the eye on everyside--in the one greasy plate, on which lay a lump of repulsive-lookingfood; in the broken-mouthed jug, which reeked with the smell of stalebeer; in the window, whose bemired and cobwebbed panes kept out morelight than they admitted; in the ceiling, between whose smoke-grimedrafters large rents allowed many an abomination to drop down from thecrowded room above; in the three-legged table, which, being loose in allits decaying joints, reeled to and fro at every touch; in the spiders,beetles, and other self-invited specimens of the insect tribe, which hadlong found a congenial home in these dismal quarters. And there--worn,haggard, hungry, suffering, helpless--in the midst of all thisdesolation, sat the broken-down, shattered stroller, coughing every nowand then as though the spasm would rend him in pieces.

  The heart of Amos was touched at the terrible sight with a feeling ofthe profoundest pity, as he approached the chair occupied by the wreckof what might have been a man noble and good, loving and loved.Anything like resentment was entirely lost in his desire to alleviate ifhe could the misery he saw before him.

  "I have brought a friend to see you," said Mr Harris, stepping forward.The sick man raised his head slowly, and, as his eyes fell on Amos, hetrembled violently, and clutched his chair with a convulsive grasp.Then a fit of coughing came on, and all were silent. "I will leave youtogether, if you please," said the Scripture reader after a pause toAmos. "You know where to find me if I am wanted," and he retired.

  Long was it before the unhappy man could trust himself to speak. Atlast, having sipped a little of a soothing mixture which Mr Harris hadbrought him, he turned his face towards his brother-in-law, who had nowtaken a seat in front of him on a three-legged stool, and said, "Shall Itell you why I sent to you, Mr Huntingdon?" Amos inclined his head."It was," continued the sick man, "because I have insulted you, deceivedyou, entrapped you, and threatened your life. That would be in mostcases the very reason why you should have been the very last person Ishould have sent to. But I believe you are _real_. I believe you are atrue Christian, if there is such a thing. _I_ am not real. I am asham, a cheat, a lie; my whole life has been a lie; my unbelief has beena lie. But, if there is truth in the Bible and in Christianity, Ibelieve you have found it. I am sure that you are real and genuine. Ifelt it when I was deceiving you, and I feel it more and more the more Ithink about it. So, as I am told that it is part of the character ofthose who really take the Bible for their guide to return good for evil,I have sent to you."

  He had uttered these words in broken sentences, and now sank backexhausted. When he had recovered himself sufficiently to listen, Amos,deeply moved, said kindly and earnestly, "You did right, my poor friend,to send to me; and now I am here, I must see what I can do for you."

  "But, can you really forgive me?" said the other, fixing his dark eyeson his visitor. "Remember how I have behaved to yourself; remember howI have behaved to your sister. Can you really forgive me."

  Amos made no immediate reply, but, taking out of his pocket a small NewTestament which he had purposely brought with him, read in a clear,earnest voice the parable of the unmerciful servant, and, when he hadfinished it, added, "How could I ever hope for forgiveness from God if Icould not forgive the transgressions of a poor fellow-sinner againstmyself? Yes, my poor brother, I do freely forgive you; and oh, let mehave the happiness of seeing you seek forgiveness of Him who has still aplace in his heart and in his kingdom for you."

  The poor sufferer struggled in vain to conceal his strong emotion.Tears, sobs would burst forth. A violent fit of coughing came on, andfor a time Amos feared a fatal result. But at length the sick manregained composure and a lull from his cough, and then said, with slowand painful effort, "It is true. I believe your religion is true. Icannot doubt it. It is real, for you are real. It is real for you,but, alas! not real for me."

  Amos was going to turn to another passage in his New Testament, but theother waved his hand impatiently. "No more of that now," he said; "Ihave other things just at present on my mind. You know that I am adoomed man. The police are looking out for me; but I shall cheat themyet. Death will have me first. Yes, I am a dying man.--Of course _she_has not come with you. Perhaps you have not told her that you werecoming. Well, it's better she shouldn't come; there's fever about, andI have dragged her down low enough already. This is no place for her.But I shall not be here long to trouble any of you. Will you tell herthat I am sorry for my past treatment of her? and keep an eye on thechildren, will you, as you have done? Oh, don't let them come to this!"Here the unhappy man fairly broke down.

  When he had again partially recovered, Amos begged him to keep himselfas quiet as he could, adding that all might yet be well, and that hemust now leave him, but would return again in a few hours.

  Having sought the good Scripture reader, and ascertained from him thatthe medical man gave no hopes of the unhappy man living more than a fewdays, Amos at once confided to his host the sad story of his sister'smarriage and its consequences, and now asked his advice and help as tohow he could make the remaining time of his brother-in-law's life ascomfortable as circumstances would permit. Mr Harris at once threwhimself heartily into the matter, and before night the dying man hadbeen tenderly conveyed from his miserable quarters to the Scripturereader's own dwelling, where everything was at once done that couldalleviate his sufferings and supply his wants.

  That same evening Amos wrote to his sister in these brief words:"Orlando is dying. A few days will end all." He purposely added nowords of persuasion, nor any account of his interview with her husbandand what he had done for his comfort; for he feared that any suchaccount from himself might just steel her heart against any appeal, andmake her rest satisfied with what another was doing for the man whom shehad vowed to love in sickness as well as in health. He knew that hisscrap of a letter must prove startling by its abruptness; but he had nowish that it should be otherwise. These startling words might rouse herto a sense of her duty; if they did not, he felt that nothing would.

  Two days passed over. Orlando Vivian grew weaker and weaker, but wasfull of gratitude to Amos. He also listened with patience and respectwhen the Scripture was read to him or prayer offered by his side; but hemade no remark at such times. It was on the morning of the third dayafter the patient's removal to his new abode that a hired carriage drewup at the Scripture reader's door, and, to Amos's great pleasure andthankfulness, brought his sister. Yes, and he could tell by hergreeting of him and by her whole manner that a new light had dawned uponher heart and conscience, in which the idol of self had been seen by herin somewhat of its true deformity. "Oh, dear Amos!" she cried, as shewept on his shoulder, "pardon me; pity me. I have been wrong, oh, verywrong; but I hope, oh, I do hope that it is not yet quite too late!"Fondly pressing her to him, her brother told her that she had his fulland forgiving love; and then he gave her an account of what he had donesince his arrival in Collingford, and told her that her husband was nowin the same house as herself, and was receiving every attention andcomfort. On hearing this, Julia Vivian would have at once rushed intothe sick chamber, but Amos checked her, warning her of the effect such asudden appearance might have on one in his exhausted and sufferingcondition. He must himself break the news of her coming gradually.

  Entering the neat little bedroom, to his surprise Amos found hisbrother-in-law painfully agitated. "You have got a visitor," he said,in a voice scarcely audible. "I heard a carriage drive up to the door,and since then I have heard a voice. Oh, can it be? Yes; I see it inyour eyes."

  "Calm yourself, my poor brother," said Amos; "it is even as you suppose.Julia has come, and I
am truly thankful for it."

  The humbled man tried to conceal his tears with his one uninjured hand,and said at last, "I think I can bear it now; let her come in."

  On her brother's invitation Julia entered. The eyes of the two met,--the eyes of the oppressor and the oppressed; but how changed in positionnow! The once down-trodden wife now radiant with health and beauty, abeauty heightened by its passing cloud of tender sadness. The onceoverbearing, heartless husband now a stranded wreck. How haggard helooked! and how those hollow sunken eyes swam with a tearful look thatcraved a pity which they seemed at the same time to despair of! Andcould she give that pity? Had he not forsaken her and her children, andleft them to grinding poverty? Had he not raised his hand against herand cruelly smitten her? Had he not laughed her to scorn? Had he notused her as a mere plaything, and then flung her aside, as the childdoes the toy which it has covered for a time with its caresses? He haddone all this, and more; and now she was there before him, but out ofhis clutches, and able, without fear of harm to herself, to charge himwith his past neglect and cruelty. Yes; the outraged wife could havedone this, but the woman's heart that throbbed in her bosom forbade it.She was the loving woman still, though the fountain of her love had beensealed for a time. Stealing gently up to his chair, lest any suddenmovement should agitate him too much, and yet quivering all the while inevery limb from suppressed excitement, she bowed herself over him, andgathered his head softly to her bosom, whispering, "Poor, dear Orlando,you are glad, are you not, to see me?" Then, as the huge rapid drops ofthe thunder-cloud, which has hung overhead for a time in the midst ofoppressive stillness, patter at first on the leaves one by one, and thenbreak into a sweeping deluge, so did a storm of weeping pour from theeyes and heart of that crushed and spirit-broken sinner. Hardly daringto place a hand with its pressure of answering love on the neck whichthat same hand had not long since disfigured with bruises and blood, heyet ventured at last to draw his wife closer to him, whispering, "It istoo much." Sweetly soothing him, Julia helped him to dry his tears, andthen sat down by his side, taking the hand of his uninjured arm in herown.

  No one spoke again for a while. At last Mr Vivian roused himself to aneffort, and, disengaging his hand, looked his wife steadily andsorrowfully in the face. "Tell me, Julia," he said, "tell me thetruth,--tell me, can you really and from your heart forgive me?--nay, donot speak till you have heard me out,"--for she was about to give aneager reply. "Consider well. You know what I have been to you,--thebrute, the tyrant, the traitor. Can you, then, in view of all the past,forgive me from your heart?"

  "I can, I do, dear Orlando, from my very heart," she cried; "and surelyI too have much to be forgiven."

  "Not by me," he said earnestly. "And now," he added, "as you haveassured me of your forgiveness, and as my days in this world can be butfew,--nay, I know it, I know it,--I have two dying requests to make ofyou, and only two. Will you grant me them?"

  "Oh yes, yes, dear husband, if they are in my power."

  "They are perfectly within your power. The first is, that you would tryand pay back part of my deep debt of gratitude to your noblest ofbrothers, who is standing there--to Amos Huntingdon, whom _I_ dare notcall brother; and I will tell you how the payment is to be made--not ingold or silver, for he would not take such payment, but in givingyourself up to the service of that Saviour whom he has truly andcourageously followed. That, I know, would be the only payment he wouldcare to accept, and that will rejoice his heart. Will you promise?"

  "Oh, that I will!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands passionatelytogether. "I have misunderstood, I have thwarted dear Amos shamefully,but now I can truly say, `His people shall be my people, and his God myGod.'"

  "Thank you for that. My second request concerns our children. Promiseme that you will not take them from under your brother's eye, and thatyou will strive to bring them up as he would have you; then I shall knowthat they will be spared such misery as this, that they will not need tobe reminded, by way of warning, of the disgraceful example of theirunworthy and guilty father."

  "I promise, I promise!" cried the weeping wife, burying her face in herhusband's bosom. When she raised her eyes to his again there was asweet smile on her features as she said, "Dearest Orlando, all may yetbe well, even should you be taken from us."

  "For you, yes; for me, I cannot say," was his reply.

  "Oh yes," she cried earnestly; "I am sure that dear Amos has put beforeyou the way to the better land, open to us all through our lovingSaviour; and I prayed last night--oh, so earnestly--that you might findthat way."

  "Thank you for that," he said mournfully; "it may be so; at any rate Ihave got thus far--I shall not cease to cry, so long as I have breath,`God be merciful to me a sinner.'" And these were the last words on thepoor penitent's lips.

  For three days after this interview he lingered in much pain, butwithout a murmur. Whenever Mr Harris or Amos read the Word of God andprayed he was deeply attentive, but made no remark. Julia wasconstantly with him, and poured out her rekindled love in a thousandlittle tender services. At last the end came: there was neither joy norpeace, but there was not despair,--just one little ray of hope lightedthe dark valley.

  When the unostentatious funeral was over, Amos and his sister returnedhome cast down yet hopeful and trustful. That evening a subdued buthappy little group gathered in Miss Huntingdon's private sitting-room,consisting of Amos, Julia, Walter, and their aunt. When Amos hadanswered many questions concerning the last days of his brother-in-law,Walter turned to his aunt and said, "Now, dear auntie, you have someexamples of moral courage ready for us I am sure.--Amos, you are to be agood boy, and not to turn your back upon the teacher, as I see you areinclined to do. I know why; but it does not matter. Julia and I wantdoing good to, if you don't; so let us all attend."

  "Yes," said Miss Huntingdon, "I know what you mean, and so of coursedoes your brother; he does not wish to listen to his own praises, but hemust not refuse to listen to the praises of others, even though theirconduct may more or less resemble his own. I have some noble examplesof moral courage to bring before you, for I have been thinking much onthe matter since Amos and Julia left us. My heroes and heroines--for Ihave some of each sex--will now consist of those who have braved deathfrom disease or pestilence in the path of duty. And first of all, Imust go back to our old example of moral heroism--I mean, to one who hasalready furnished us with a lesson--John Howard. That remarkable manwas not satisfied with visiting the prisons, and bringing about reformsin them for the benefit and comfort of the poor prisoners. He wished toalleviate the sufferings of his fellow-creatures to a still greaterextent; so he formed the plan of visiting the hospitals and lazarettosset apart for contagious diseases in various countries. Amongst otherplaces he went to Smyrna and Constantinople when these cities weresuffering from the plague. From Smyrna he sailed in a vessel with afoul bill of health to Venice, where he became an inmate of a lazaretto.Here he was placed in a dirty room full of vermin, without table,chair, or bed. He employed a person to wash the room, but it was stilldirty and offensive. Suffering here with headache and slow fever, hewas removed to a lazaretto near the town, and had two rooms assignedhim, both in as dirty a state as that he had left. His active minddevised a plan for making these rooms more comfortable for the nextoccupant, and though opposed by the indolence and prejudices of thepeople about him, he contrived secretly to procure a quarter of a bushelof lime and a brush, and, by rising very early, and bribing hisattendant to help him, contrived to have the place completely purified.Now his object in thus exposing himself to infection and disease was notthat he might gratify some crotchet, or get a name with the world, butthat from personal experience of the unutterable miseries of such placesas these lazarettos were, he might be better able to suggest the needfulimprovements and remedies. This he had set before himself as his work;to this he believed that duty called him; and that was enough for him.Suffering, sickness, death, they were as nothing to him when weighed inthe
balance against high and holy duty."

  "A noble hero indeed, dear auntie," cried Walter; "and now for anotherof the same sort."

  "Well, my dear boy, my second example embraces many excellent men, alldevoted to the same self-denying and self-sacrificing work,--I am nowalluding to the Moravian missionaries. These truly heroic men, notcounting their lives dear, left home and friends, not to visit sunnylands, where the charms of the scenery might in a measure make up forthe toils and privations they had to undergo, nor to find among Arcticfrosts and snows at any rate pure and refreshing breezes, though many ofthem did go forth into these inclement regions to carry the gospel ofpeace with them, and in so doing to endure the most terrible hardships.But the Moravians I am now speaking of are those who volunteered toenter the pest-houses and infected places from which they could nevercome forth again. Here they lived, and here they died, giving up everyearthly comfort and attraction that they might set gospel truth beforethose whose infected and repulsive bodies made them objects of terrorand avoidance to all but those self-renouncing followers of theirSaviour. Here, indeed, moral courage has reached its height."

  "How wonderful!" said Julia thoughtfully, and with a sigh; "_I_ couldnever have done it."

  "No," said Miss Huntingdon; "nor does God commonly require such servicefrom us. And yet, dear Julia, ladies as tenderly brought up as yourselfhave gone forth cheerfully to little short of certain death frompestilential airs, and have neither shrunk nor murmured when the callcame. And this brings me to my last example of what I may call sublimemoral courage or heroism. It is taken from the records of the ChurchMissionary Society. When first that society's noble work began, itsagents went forth to settle among the poor negroes of Western Africa inthe neighbourhood of Sierra Leone. But the fever that hovered on thecoast was enough to terrify any one who loved his life more than Christ.In the first twenty years of that mission no fewer than fifty-threemale and female missionaries died at their posts. In the year 1823, outof five who went out four died within six months, yet two yearsafterwards six presented themselves for that mission; and, indeed, sincethe formation of that mission there have never been men wanting--trueheroes of the Lord Jesus Christ--who have willingly offered themselvesfor the blessed but deadly service. The women were as devoted as themen. A bright young couple, the Reverend Henry Palmer and his wife,landed at Sierra Leone on March 21, 1823. In the beginning of May, nottwo full months afterwards, the husband was dead; in June, just onemonth later, the wife was dead also. Yet neither spoke in their dyingmoments one word of regret, but gloried in the work and in the sacrificethey had been called to make. Another female missionary to the sameparts, a widow, said: `I have now lived one year in Africa, eight monthsof which I have been a widow; but I cannot resolve to leave Africa.'Another, whose course was finished in twenty-two short days, said to herhusband on her death-bed: `Never once think that I repent of coming herewith you.' Her only fear seemed to be lest her death should discourageothers, or damp her husband's zeal.--I have now finished my examples. Iam sure, dear children, that they are to the point; I mean, that theyare examples of the sublimest moral courage--that courage which leadsgodly men and women not to shrink from duty though disease and death liebefore them or hover over their path."

  "Thank you, dearest auntie," said Walter; "you have indeed brought someglorious examples before us, and they just fit in with the conduct ofour own dear hero here, who seems to wish us to forget that there everwas such a person as Amos Huntingdon, but he certainly won't succeed."