Part 6 (2/2)
”Well, not necessarily, but perhaps so; certainly not the girl, at present, unless you yourself wish it.”
”And the boy?” asked Amos.
”Ah, I have not quite made up my mind about him,” was the reply. ”It may be that I shall keep him with me, and bring him up to my own profession.”
”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 to be an actor! Why, it will be his ruin, body and soul!”
”And if so, Mr Huntingdon,” said the other sternly and bitterly, and with his dark eyes glaring fiercely, ”I suppose I, as his father, have a right to bring him up as I please. The father's profession is, I imagine, notwithstanding your disparaging remarks, good enough for the son.”
Amos leaned his head on his hand for a while without reply; then he looked his companion steadily in the face, and said, ”And is there no other course open?”
”Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, without any more beating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. The fact is, I want money, and--not an uncommon thing in this not over agreeable 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 me a cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, will at once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as a man of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. You may 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 amazing effrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needy adventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and had deserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found out that 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, as a way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also pretty clear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers of justice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach of the law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hanging up the little boy's handkerchief on the way-post, being sure that persons would be out immediately in all directions searching for the child, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief with the letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as the young man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nurse discovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search for the missing child; and thus the writer's purpose would be answered without his having given any clew by which himself could be discovered and 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 and unscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be done by appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could act deliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephew in his father's hands, to be brought up to the stage--or, in other words, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thought was not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice.
While these things were pa.s.sing through his mind, his companion looked about him with cool indifference, kicking the leaves and sticks at his feet, and whistling in a low tone some operatic air. Then he broke silence. ”Which is it to be, Mr Huntingdon?” he asked. ”Am I to keep little George, or do you wish to have him back again? You know the conditions; and you may be sure that I should not have taken the trouble to 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 feel really happy in the course you are pursuing? Oh! will you not let me persuade you--for my poor sister's sake, for your own sake--to leave your present mode of life, and to seek your happiness in the only path which G.o.d can bless? I would gladly help you in any way I could--”
But here his companion broke in, scorn on his lip, and a fierce malignant 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 more agreeable to say to me, we had better each go our own way, and leave matters as they are.”
”No,” said Amos, firmly but sorrowfully; ”it shall not be so. I promise that you shall have my cheque for fifty pounds when you have placed little George in my hands, and on the understanding that you pledge your word, as a man of honour, to leave the children with me unmolested.”
”Exactly so,” replied the other; ”and now, as a little matter of business, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to 'John Smith 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 spot where the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; it is about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the place well. I will be there at five o'clock to-morrow morning, before the general world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or send some trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say that any attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasion would 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 my removing _both_ my children from your cottage at the earliest opportunity.”
”I understand you,” said Amos, ”and will send my father's old butler to take you the cheque at the hour and to the place you name. The old man will 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 your word. And now as to the boy. You will find him at the finger-post on which his silk handkerchief was tied, at two o'clock this afternoon; that is to say, if you come alone, and are there punctually.” Then he rose, and, stretching himself to his full height, saluted Amos with a bow of exaggerated ceremoniousness, and, turning on his heel, was soon hidden from view by the trees of the wood.
Sadly and slowly Amos made his way back to the market-town, his thoughts, as he rode along, being far from pleasant companions. What was to be the end of all this? Could he have done differently? No. He was satisfied that duty plainly called him to the sacrifice which he had made. He would have reproached himself bitterly had he lost the opportunity of recovering his little nephew from such a father. He had no doubt, then, taken one right step; the next he must leave to the same heavenly guidance which never had misled nor could mislead him. So having waited in the town till he had refreshed himself with a mid-day meal, he made his way back along the roads he had travelled the day before, and in due time arrived in sight of the finger-post, and of the child who was sitting alone beneath it, his little head buried in his lap, till, roused by the sound of the pony's feet, he looked up, and with a joyful cry ran to meet his uncle. Another moment, and Amos had sprung from his saddle and was clasping the sobbing, laughing child to his heart.
”O dear, dear Uncle Amos!” cried the little boy; ”how good it is of G.o.d to send you for me. Oh, don't let the tall, ugly, cruel man take me away again.”
”Not if I can help it, dear child,” said his uncle. ”There now, jump up, Georgie,” he added; ”we shall soon be at home again.”
As he was in the act of remounting, having placed the child on the front of the saddle, he thought he heard a rustling in the hedge behind the post, and that he saw the glancing of a dark body through the trees beyond the hedge. However, that mattered not; in a very little time, having put his pony to a brisk canter, he reached the cottage, and received a hearty welcome from the nurse, and also from old Harry, whose presence at the house he was not surprised at, when he remembered that his brother Walter would no doubt have directed the old man to seek for him there. But now he began to see that Harry had become acquainted, in a measure, with his secret; for the nurse called him aside into another room soon after his return, and told him of the old servant's emotion at the sight of the little girl, and of his recognising in her the child of his master's daughter.
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