Part 16 (2/2)
William Hunter was very young; life was sweet; he had loving parents.
All the neighbours loved him for his gentle piety. A few words spoken would have saved him from imprisonment, hunger, bitter suffering, and a cruel death; but he would not by a single act or a single word save himself, when by so doing he would be acting against his conscience, much as he loved his home, his parents, and his people.”
Walter clapped his hands with delight when his aunt had finished, and exclaimed, ”Nothing could be better, Aunt Kate; it suits our hero Amos to a T. Yes, for he would suffer anything rather than get his liberty by doing or promising to do what he believed to be wrong. Thank you, dear aunt; I have learned a lesson which I hope I shall never forget.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
WALTER TO THE RESCUE.
The day after his return home Amos sought his father in the library.
Mr Huntingdon's manner to him had become so much more warm and affectionate, that he now ventured on a course which a few days before he could not have brought himself to adopt.
”Father,” he said, ”can you spare me a few minutes? I have something on my mind which I feel that I ought to consult you about.”
”Sit down, sit down, my dear boy; what is it?” said his father.
Thus encouraged, Amos unburdened his mind. ”Father,” he proceeded, ”I must ask you to excuse my absence for a day or two, or perhaps even more. You are aware now that I have taken upon myself, for the present at any rate, the charge of my poor sister Julia's little children. And I may also say, as I suppose I ought not to conceal the state of things from you, that her miserable husband has left her utterly dest.i.tute, so that I am doing what I can to keep her from want. The man has deserted her more than once; and more than once, when he returned and found money in her possession, he forced it from her. So I have placed what I can spare for her in the hands of a thoroughly trustworthy and Christian woman with whom she lodges, and through this good landlady of hers I see that she does not want such necessaries and comforts as are essential to her health.”
He was proceeding with his explanation, but was checked by the deep emotion of Mr Huntingdon, who, resting his head between his hands, could not restrain his tears and sobs. Then, springing up from his seat, he clasped Amos to him, and said, in a voice almost choked by his feelings, ”My dear, n.o.ble boy! and I have misunderstood, and undervalued, and treated you with harshness and coldness all this time!
Can you forgive your unworthy father?”
Poor Amos! Such a speech from his father almost stunned him for the moment. At last, recovering himself, he cried, ”O father, dear father, don't say such a thing! There is not--there cannot be anything for me to forgive. And, oh! the kindness you have shown me the last few days has made up a thousand times for any little trouble in days gone by.”
”You are a dear good boy to say so,” replied Mr Huntingdon, kissing him warmly. ”Well, now tell me all.”
”You see, dear father,” continued Amos when they were again both seated, ”I am afraid, from poor Julia's letter, that she is in some special trouble. It is true that the latter part of her letter looks very much as if the wretched man had forced her to write it, but the first part is clearly written as she herself felt. I have the letter here. You see, she writes,--'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.'
So far the letter is plainly her own, and there can be no doubt what it means. That vile man has been ill-treating her, and has threatened to take the children from under my charge, though he pledged his honour to myself a short time back that he would not remove them; but, of course, the honour of such a man is worth nothing.”
”Yes; I see it all,” said the squire with a sigh; ”but what can be done?
I suppose this unprincipled fellow has a right to the children as their father, and to poor Julia too, as she is his wife.”
”True, father; but it will never do to leave her as she is; and I cannot bear the thought of those dear children being left to the tender mercies of such a man.”
”Well, and where is your poor sister herself at this time?” asked Mr Huntingdon.
”There, again, I am in a difficulty,” said Amos. ”When I first got to know how my dear sister was situated, and where she was living, she made me promise that I would not let any one know where the place was, and specially not you. I suppose she was afraid that something would be done against her husband, whom she had a great affection for, if our family knew where she lived; and she also indulged, I grieve to say, much bitterness of feeling towards yourself, which I have done my best to remove. So she would not hear of my telling any one where she is living; and indeed she has moved about from place to place. But I am still under the promise of secrecy.”
”Well,” said his father, with a sigh, ”I will not of course ask you to break your word to her; but better times will come for her, poor thing, I hope.”
”I hope so too, dear father. But you will understand now, I feel sure, why I wish to be absent for a day or two, that I may see how things are really going on with her and with the poor children.”
”But will it be safe for you to go?” asked his father anxiously. ”Will not that villain entrap you again, or do you some bodily harm?”
”I am not afraid, father. My own opinion is that the unhappy man will not remain long in this country; and that, after what has happened these last two days, he will feel it to be his wisdom to keep as clear of me as possible.”
”Perhaps so; but I must say I don't like the thoughts of your going alone on such an expedition, after what has already happened.”
”Nay, dear father, I believe I ought to go. I believe that duty calls me; and so I may expect that G.o.d will take care of me.”
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