Part 23 (2/2)
The woods are looking beautiful now with their autumnal tints, and will give lovely little bits for a sketch. Won't you join us?”
”Well,” replied Amos gravely, ”it would be very nice; but just now I have a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about, if she will 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 deep red and then very pale. ”I'm sure I don't want to talk about anything dismal this delicious morning. Oh! don't look so serious, Amos; you are always in the dolefuls now. Why can't you be cheerful and jolly, like Walter?”
”I am sorry to trouble you,” replied her brother, ”but there is a cause just now. I shall not keep you long, and then you can return to your jollity if you will.” These last words he uttered in a tone of reproach which touched her spite of herself.
She rose and followed him in silence to her aunt's room. When all were seated, Amos produced the Scripture reader's letter, and, expressing his deep sorrow to have to wound his sister, read it slowly out in a subdued voice. Julia sprang from her seat, and having s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from her brother's hand, read it through several times, her bosom heaving and her eyes flas.h.i.+ng, and a few tears bursting forth now and then. ”It's a hoax,” 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 all the marks of truth.--Don't you think so, Aunt Kate?”
”Yes, surely,” replied Miss Huntingdon sadly; ”I cannot doubt its genuineness.”
Julia then tossed the letter to her brother and sat down. ”And what is it, then,” she asked bitterly, and with knitted brows, ”that you want me to do?”
”I think, dear Julia,” said her aunt, ”the real question is, What is it your duty to do?”
”Oh yes,” she cried pa.s.sionately; ”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 doing his duty? And now I am to go and nurse him in a vile fever-smitten hole, and lose my life, and so deprive my children of a mother, because it's my duty. I don't see it at all.”
Both her hearers looked deeply distressed. Then Amos said, ”Still he is your husband, and dying.”
”Dying!” she exclaimed sneeringly; ”not he--it's all pretence. If anything common could have killed him, such as kills other people, he would have been dead ages ago. But he isn't like other men; he has got a 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 than enough already for him and from him. Besides, if you talk of duty, it is surely my duty to think of the dear children, and not run the risk of bringing back the fever to them, supposing I should not be killed by it myself.”
”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 let me 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 may be made the means of helping on the good Scripture reader's work. The poor dying man's heart is softened just now, and it may be that when he hears the words of G.o.d's truth, and experiences kindness from one who has been treated by him as I have been, he may be led to seek and find pardon before he is taken away.”
”But,” said his aunt anxiously, ”you will be running a great risk of catching 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 taken away, I shall merely have done my duty, and”--his voice trembled as he proceeded--”I shall be the one best spared and least missed in the household.” As he uttered these last words, his sister, who had been gradually crouching down s.h.i.+veringly on to the floor, clasped her hands over her face and wept bitterly, but she uttered no word. Then Amos turned to his aunt and said, ”Will you, dear aunt, kindly explain to my father 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 her bosom heaved convulsively. At last she said in a hoa.r.s.e, quivering whisper, ”Yes, what you like; and--write and tell me if he is really dying.” Then she rushed out of the room to her own chamber, but appeared at luncheon with all traces of emotion vanished from her features.
The squire was absent attending a business meeting in the neighbouring town, and nothing had yet been said to Walter on the subject of his brother's departure. That afternoon Amos set off for Collingford, and Walter and his sister on their shooting and sketching expedition, which proved a miserable failure, so far as any pleasure to Julia was concerned.
Collingford was nearly a day's journey from Flixworth Manor, so it was not till dark that Amos arrived at the town. He sought out at once the Scripture reader, and obtained full information as to the state of the poor sufferer. Could he obtain lodgings in the house where the sick man was? Mr Harris shook his head.
”I am not afraid either of poor accommodation or of infection,” said Amos. ”I am come to do a work, and am safe in the Lord's hands till it is done. He has sent me, and he will keep me.”
The Scripture reader grasped him warmly by the hand. ”You shall lodge in my house,” he said, ”if you can be satisfied with humble fare and my plain ways. I am not a married man, but I have a good old woman who looks after me, and she will look after you too, and you can come and go just as you please.”
”I will take you at your word, my friend,” said the other, ”and will gladly pay for bed and board.”
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