Part 14 (1/2)

A new year had now begun, and deep snow lay around the Manor-house. The family party had a.s.sembled at breakfast, all except Miss Huntingdon and Amos. The former at last appeared, but there was trouble on her brow, which Walter, who loved her dearly, instantly noticed.

”Auntie dear,” he asked, ”what's amiss? I'm sure you are not well this morning.”

”I am a little upset, dear boy,” she replied, ”but it is nothing serious.”

”I hope not, Kate,” said her brother. ”But where is Amos?”

”Well, Walter,” replied his sister, ”that is just it. I have a note from him this morning asking me to excuse him to you; that duty has called him away, and that I shall understand in what direction this duty lies. I can only hope that nothing serious is amiss; but this I am quite sure of, that Amos would never have gone off in this abrupt way had there not been some pressing cause.”

Mr Huntingdon did not speak for a while, his thoughts were evidently troubling him. He remembered the last occasion of his son's sudden absence, and was now well aware that it had been care for his poor erring child's neglected little ones that had then called Amos away.

Perhaps it might be so now. Perhaps that daughter herself, against whom his heart and home had been closed so long, might be ill or even dying.

Perhaps she was longing for a father's smile, a father's expressed forgiveness. His heart felt very sore, and his breakfast lay untasted before him.

As for Walter, he knew not what to say or think. He dared not speak his fears out loud lest he should wound his father, whose distress he could not help seeing. He would have volunteered to do anything and everything, only he did not know exactly where to begin or what to propose. At length Mr Huntingdon, turning to the old butler, who was moving about in a state of great uneasiness, said, ”Do you know, Harry, at what hour Mr Amos left this morning?”

”No, sir, not exactly. But when Jane came down early and went to open the front door, she found the chain and the bolts drawn and the key turned back. It was plain that some one had gone out that way very early.”

”And when did you get your note from Amos, Kate?” asked her brother.

”My maid found it half slipped under my door when she came to call me,”

was the reply.

”And is there nothing, then, to throw light on this sudden and strange act on Amos's part?” asked the squire.

”Well, there is,” she answered rather reluctantly. ”My maid has found a little crumpled up sheet of paper, which Amos must have accidentally dropped as he left his room. I don't know whether I ought to have taken charge of it; but, as it is, the best thing I can do is to hand it to you.”

Mr Huntingdon took it from her, and his hand shook with emotion as he glanced at it. It was a small sheet of note-paper, and there was writing on two sides in a female hand, but the lines were uneven, and it seemed as though the writer had been, for some reason or other, unable to use the pen steadily. Mr Huntingdon hesitated for a moment. Had he any right to read a communication which was addressed to another? Not, surely, under ordinary circ.u.mstances. But the circ.u.mstances now were not ordinary; and he was the father of the person to whom the letter was addressed, and by reading it he might take steps to preserve his son from harm, or might bring him out of difficulties. So he decided to read the letter, and judge by its contents whether he was bound to secrecy as to those contents or no. But, as he read, the colour fled from his face, and a cold perspiration burst out upon him. What could the letter mean? Was the writer sane? And if not, oh, misery! then there was a second wreck of reason in the family; for the handwriting was his daughter's, and the signature at the foot of the paper was hers too. With heaving breast and tearful eyes he handed the letter to his sister, whose emotion was almost as distressing as his own as she read the following strange and almost incoherent words:--

”Amos,--I'm mad; and yet I am not. No; but he will drive me mad. He will take them both away. He will ruin us all, body and soul.”

Then there was a break. The words. .h.i.therto had been written in a steady hand; those which followed were wavering, as though penned against the will of the writer, and under fear of some one standing by. They were as follows:--

”Come to me early to-morrow morning. You will see a man at the farther side of Marley Heath on horseback--follow him, and he will bring you to me, for I am not where I was. Come alone, or the man will not wait for you, and then you will never be seen again in this world by your wretched sister,--Julia.”

Such were the contents of the mysterious letter, which were well calculated to stir to their depths the hearts of both the squire and his sister, who looked at each other as those look who become suddenly conscious of a common misfortune. A spell seemed on their tongues. At last the silence was broken by Walter.

”Dear father! dear auntie!” he exclaimed, ”whatever is the matter?”

”Matter enough, I fear,” said his father sadly.--”There, Kate, let him look at the letter.”

Walter read it, and his eyes filled with tears. Busy thoughts chased one another through his brain, and very sad and humbling thoughts they were. He understood now much that had once seemed strange in Amos. He began to appreciate the calm and deep n.o.bility of his character, the tenacity of his grasp on his one great purpose. He gave back the letter to his father with downcast eyes, but without making any remark upon it.

And now, what was to be done? As soon as breakfast was over, the three, by Mr Huntingdon's desire, met in the library. The letter was laid on the table before them, and the squire opened the discussion of its contents by saying to his sister, ”What do you make out of this miserable business, Kate?”

”Plainly enough,” was her reply, ”poor Julia is in great distress. I gather that her cruel and base husband has been removing, or intending to remove, her two children from Amos's charge, and that she is afraid they will be utterly ruined if they continue in their father's hands.

Poor thing! poor thing! I pity her greatly.”

Her brother did not speak for a while, but two big tears fell on his daughter's letter, as he bent over it trying to conceal his emotion.

”And what do you think about it, my boy?” he said to his son, when he had in some degree recovered his composure.