Part 25 (1/2)
FURTHER PROGRESS.
How greatly did Amos rejoice that now one portion of the great purpose to which he had devoted himself had been so thoroughly accomplished; his dear sister had been restored to her earthly home, and the death of her unhappy husband had taken away all fear of her being withdrawn from it again. And, better still, she, the poor wayward and wandering sheep, who till late did not love the fold nor the Good Shepherd's voice, had been sought and found by him, and brought back from the wilderness with rejoicings. The heart of the good brother overflowed with grat.i.tude and praise for this, for it was more than he had yet dared to hope. But there could be no doubt about it. The eyes of his sister had been opened to see how entirely she had hitherto been living to self, while her husband's dying words had led her to see her duty to her children, and to mourn over her ingrat.i.tude to Amos.
There was one little circ.u.mstance which specially touched that brother's heart. On the Sunday after her return from her parting visit to her husband, Julia appeared at church in deep mourning, her children wearing the same; and at dinner she had put on a neat widow's cap. Amos had rather expected that she would have treated her married life as a thing so entirely to be forgotten--a thing of misery and shame, a thing of the past to be henceforth to her and others as though it had never been, except so far as her children were concerned--that she would have continued to dress herself and her little ones as usual, so as not by any outward sign to remind those around her that she had suffered any loss, or recall their thoughts to the man who had brought nothing but degradation to herself and disgrace to her family. He was therefore deeply thankful to see that she had taken a different course; for it told of a subdued and chastened spirit, and of a willingness to bear patiently and meekly the burden which her own fault, in a measure at least, had laid upon her. Mr Huntingdon also appreciated her conduct in this matter, and, pressing her fondly to him as she was retiring to rest, kissed her tenderly, and whispered in her ear, as he looked lovingly into her tearful eyes, ”Dear child, this is as it should be; you are right, I am sure, in adopting this dress; it would have been unworthy of you and unbecoming not to have done so.” Old Harry, however, was not quite of the same mind; but he would not wound any of the members of the family upstairs by giving expression to his feelings on the subject. But in the kitchen he spoke out his sentiments without any reserve. ”Put herself and the children in mourning for such a scoundrel as him! Why, if it had been me, I'd have clothed myself and them in scarlet and gold, just to show how glad I was to be shut of such a scamp for good and all. But perhaps I'm wrong; they tell me the poor man repented at the last. Well, a good thing for him if he did, for I'm sure he'd a precious lot to repent of.”
And now Amos bent his mind and energies towards the accomplishment of that part of his life's great purpose which lay yet nearer, if possible, to his heart than even his sister's restoration to her father's house and affection. His mother was still a stranger to her home;--how should he bring her back? He felt that he must deal in the matter with a gentle and cautious hand. His aunt and the old butler were the only members of the household who as yet knew of his desire and intention.
Mr Huntingdon had come to acquiesce in his wife's absence as a sad necessity, and it did not now occur to him to connect his daughter's return with the possibility of its being directly or indirectly a link in the recovery of the mother from her mental disorder. Walter also never put the two things together. Indeed, the state of his mother was so distressing a subject, that he had come to act upon the conviction that the less he thought about it the better.
But what could Amos do? Turning matters over in his mind, it became an established purpose with him to bring about his mother's perfect restoration to sanity without letting his father have any suspicion of what he was attempting. With all his love for that father, he could not help having a strong conviction that, were he to consult him in the matter, the attempt at restoration would probably prove a failure.
Either Mr Huntingdon would take things into his own hands, and, acting with characteristic impetuosity and bluffness, would most likely hinder where he meant to help forward, or else he would fail perhaps to understand and appreciate his son's views and methods of proceeding, and would prevent a successful issue by his impatience or interference. So Amos resolved that he would take the responsibility and mode of action on himself. Should he fail, his father would not have to suffer the pain of disappointment from that failure; should he succeed, he would have the happiness of bringing about a loving meeting again between those parents so dear to him, which would be to his father all the more delightful from its taking him by surprise. Secrecy, then, was an essential. No one must betray his purpose to his father. Therefore, when the family had all settled down peacefully, with the young widow sweetly and lovingly filling her place as a daughter and mother, Amos, one evening in the early part of the summer which followed his brother- in-law's death, betook himself to the butler's pantry.
”Harry,” he said, having seated himself on the closed lid of the plate chest, ”I want just a word with you on a subject of great importance.”
”As many words as you like, my dear young master,” said the old man; ”it's always a privilege whenever I gets a visit from you, or dear Miss Julia as was, bless her. What a pity she ever changed Miss into Mrs; but perhaps some good man 'll get her to change it into a better Mrs some day, and wipe the taste of that horrid cruel man's name out of all our mouths.”
”I don't know, Harry; things are better as they are at present. My dear sister's trial has been blessed to her, I can see; she is being brought out by it decidedly on to the Lord's side.”
”You're right, Master Amos, you're right; and I'm nothing but a stupid stumbling old donkey.--Now, please, sir, what's this here important subject you wants to talk to me about?”
”Just this, Harry. You know that I want to get back my dear mother again among us, and I believe it can be done; but it will want a deal of wisdom and what people call 'tact' to bring it about. Now, I'm not going to speak to my father on the subject, because I think his feelings would so stir and excite him if I did, he would be so eager and anxious--it's part of his nature, you know, and he cannot help it--that he might spoil all.”
”Just so, Master Amos; he'd just be going slap-bang about it, I daresay, and he'd drive the poor lady clean out of as many of her seven senses as she'd got still left, poor thing.”
”Something of that kind,” said Amos, smiling. ”Well, you see, Harry, if I am to undertake the matter I must do it my own way; and it will require a great deal of care, and not a word must come out about it.”
”Ah, I see, Master Amos,” said the old man, ”you want me to be 'mum.'
Now, you look here, sir--try now if you can get a word out of me.” So saying, Harry closed his lips tight together, stuck his hands in his trousers' pockets, and walked about the pantry with his head in the air.
”I am quite satisfied,” said Amos, laughing.
”You may well be so, Master Amos,” said the other. ”_Me_ speak about such a thing to them maids in the kitchen, or the coachman, or stable- boy, or any one else in the universal world! Let the whole on 'em put together try it on, that's all.”
”Thank you, Harry,” said Amos; ”no one as yet knows about it but my aunt and yourself. But I shall have to take my brother and sister into my confidence, as I shall want their help in carrying out my plan.”
”All right, sir, all right; and, if any one mentions the poor lady before me, you may depend upon it I shall look like a deaf and dumb statty cut out of stone.”
Amos then sought his aunt, and, having given her briefly his own views, asked his brother and sister to join him in Miss Huntingdon's room. He unfolded to them his purpose, and then proceeded as follows: ”What I propose to do is this: I want to spare our dear father all pain and trouble in the matter, and, if I am permitted to carry out my plan with success, to give him a gentle and happy surprise at the end. But I must have the help of my dear brother and sister. The place where our dear mother now lives in retirement is a few miles inland from the sea-coast.
At the sea-side nearest to her residence I intend taking a house for a time. When I have secured this, I shall invite you, dear Julia and Walter, to be my guests there for a season. I shall easily, I have no doubt, persuade my father to spare you, on the ground that the little change to the sea-air will do us all good, which will be perfectly true, and that this short holiday has been a pet scheme of my own, which will be equally true. My father will be much occupied about electioneering business the next two or three months, and as this will take him a good deal from home, he will not miss us so much as he might otherwise have done; and Aunt Kate, who knows of my plans and approves of them, will kindly spare us for a while, and will look after the children, who will follow us in a few days, and may be of use in carrying out my object.”
”Capital,” said Walter; ”but you will want a mint of money to do all this.”
”Never mind that,” replied his brother; ”I have considered it all, and you may safely leave the ways and means to me.”
”And I am sure, dear Amos,” said his sister, ”we shall be only too thankful to be helpful in any way in bringing back our dear mother amongst us.”
In about three weeks' time from this conversation, during which Amos had been making his arrangements, he told his father of his sea-side scheme, and received his hearty approval. ”It is very good of you, my dear boy,” he said, ”to provide such a nice change for your sister and Walter. Perhaps your aunt and I may run over and see you, if this election business will allow me any spare time.”
Mr Huntingdon was well aware that the sea-side retreat which Amos had selected was near the place where his poor wife was in her retirement, but this was not at all displeasing to him; for though he had never himself mentioned that place of retirement by name to any of his family except his sister, he thought it not improbable that his children would have become by this time acquainted with it, and the thought that they might go over and see their afflicted mother once or more was a comfort to him. Not that he entertained any real hope of his wife's return to such a state of mind as would allow of her coming home again. No such prospect had yet been held out to him, and, indeed, while his daughter was still shut out from his house, he had felt that, had there been sufficient improvement in his wife's state to admit of her return, the continued absence of her daughter, and the very mention of that daughter's name being forbidden in the family, would have been likely to throw her mind off its balance again. So he had learned to acquiesce in her permanent absence as a thing inevitable, and to drown, as far as possible, all thoughts about that absence in a multiplicity of business.
But now that Amos and his brother and sister were going to spend some time in their poor mother's neighbourhood, there arose in Mr Huntingdon's mind a sort of vague idea that perhaps good to her might come of it. But the bustling election business so absorbed him at present that he never thought of bringing that idea into a definite shape.