Part 13 (1/2)
”A thousand cheers for them, auntie!” cried Walter. Then turning to his brother, he added, ”So you see, Amos, you must not lose heart; indeed, I know you won't. Things will come nicely round, as Harry said. My father, I am sure, will understand and appreciate you in time; and I shall have to erect a triumphal arch with flowers and evergreens over the front door, with this motto in letters of gold at the top, 'Amos and moral courage for ever.'”
”I don't know,” said his brother rather sadly; ”I trust things may come round as you say. But anyhow, I mean, with G.o.d's help, to persevere; and it is a great happiness for me to know that I have the sympathy of my dear aunt and brother.”
Not many days after this conversation, when the family were at breakfast, Mr Huntingdon asked Walter when the steeplechase was coming off.
”Three weeks to-morrow, I believe,” replied his son. ”By-the-by, I think I ought to mention that Saunders wants me to be one of the riders.”
”You!” exclaimed his father in astonishment.
”Yes, father; he says I am the best rider of my age anywhere round, and that I shall stand a good chance of coming in at the head of them.”
”Very likely that may be the opinion of Mr Robert Saunders,” replied the squire; ”but I can only say I wish you were not quite so friendly with that young man; you know it was he who led you into that sc.r.a.pe with poor Forester.”
”Ah, but, father, Bob wasn't to blame. You know I took the blame on myself, and that was putting it on the right shoulders. There's no harm in Bob; there are many worse fellows than he is.”
”But perhaps,” said Miss Huntingdon, ”he may not be a very desirable companion for all that.”
”Perhaps not, auntie.--Well, father, if you don't mind my riding this time, I'll try and keep a little more out of his way in future.”
”I think you had better, my boy; you are not likely to gain much either in reputation or pocket by the acquaintance. You know it was only the other day that he helped to let you in for losing a couple of sovereigns in that wretched affair on Marley Heath; and one of them was lost to about the biggest blackguard anywhere hereabouts. I think, my boy, it is quite time that you kept clear of such things.”
”Indeed, father. I almost think so too; and, at any rate, you won't find me losing any more sovereigns to Jim Jarrocks. But I'm almost pledged to Saunders to ride in this steeplechase. It will be capital fun, and no harm, and perhaps I may never have another chance.”
”I had rather you didn't,” said his father; ”anyhow, your friend Saunders must find you a horse for I am not going to have one of mine spoilt again, and your own pony would make but a poor figure in a steeplechase.”
”All right, father,” replied Walter, and the conversation pa.s.sed on to another subject.
The three weeks came and went; the steeplechase came off, and Walter was one of the riders. The admired of all eyes, he for a time surmounted all difficulties. At last, in endeavouring to clear an unusually wide ditch, he was thrown, and his horse so badly injured that the poor animal had to be shot. Walter himself, though stunned and bruised, was not seriously hurt, and was able to return home in time for dinner.
The party had a.s.sembled in the drawing-room, all but Mr Huntingdon.
Five minutes--ten--a quarter of an hour past the usual time, but the squire had not made his appearance. At last his step was heard rapidly approaching. Then he flung the door hastily open, and rushed into the room, his face flushed, and his chest heaving with anger. Striding up to Walter, he exclaimed: ”So this is the end of your folly and disobedience. You go contrary to my orders, knowing that I would not have you take part in the steeplechase; you ruin another man's horse worth some three hundred guineas; and then you come home, just as if nothing had happened, and expect me, I suppose, to pay the bill. But you may depend upon it I shall do nothing of the sort.”
No one spoke for a few minutes. Then Walter stammered out that he was very sorry.
”Sorry, indeed!” cried his father; ”that's poor amends. But it seems I'm to have nothing but disobedience and misery from my children.”
”Dear Walter,” said his sister gently, ”are you not a little hard upon the poor boy?”
”Hard, Kate?--poor boy?--nonsense! You're just like all the rest, spoiling and ruining him by your foolish indulgence. He's to be master, it seems, of the whole of us, and I may as well give up the management of the estate and of my purse into his hands.”
Miss Huntingdon ventured no reply; she felt that it would be wiser to let the first violence of the storm blow by. But now Amos rose, and approached his father, and confronted him, looking at him calmly and steadily. Never before had that shy, reserved young man been seen to look his father so unflinchingly in the face. Never, when his own personal character or comfort had been at stake, had he dreamt of so much as a remonstrance. He had left it to others to speak for him, or had submitted to wrong or neglect without murmuring. How different was it now! How strange was the contrast between the wild flas.h.i.+ng eyes of the old man, and the deeply tranquil, thoughtful, and even spiritual gaze of the son! Before that gaze the squire's eyes lost their fire, his chest ceased to heave, he grew calm.
”What's the meaning of this?” he asked in a hoa.r.s.e voice.
”Father,” said Amos slowly, ”I am persuaded that you are not doing full justice to dear Walter. I must say a word for him. I do not think his going and riding in the steeplechase was an act of direct disobedience.
I think your leave was implied when you said that at any rate he must not look to you for a horse. I know that you would have preferred his not going, and so must he have known, but I do not think that he was wrong in supposing that you had not absolutely forbidden him.”
”Indeed!” said Mr Huntingdon dryly and sarcastically, after a pause of astonishment; ”and may I ask where the three hundred guineas are to come from? for I suppose the borrowed horse will have to be paid for.”
”Father,” said Walter humbly, and with tears in his eyes and a tremor in his voice, ”I know the horse must be paid for, because it was not Saunders's own; he borrowed it for me, and I know that he cannot afford the money. But it's an exaggeration that three hundred guineas; the horse was really worth about a hundred pounds.”