The four now made their way to the sands. As they did so, they observed a considerable number of the visitors making their way in a body towards a spot where a crowd had evidently assembled. “What’s up now?” cried Gregson. “Let us go and see.” They all joined the stream of walkers, and at last reached a spot where a large company of listeners were gathered round a group of men, some of whom were distributing tracts among the people, while one with a grave but pleasing countenance, standing on a stout oak stool which was firmly planted among the shingles, was giving out a verse of a popular hymn preparatory to addressing the spectators.
“Ain’t this capital?” said Gregson to Walter and Saunders in a loud whisper. “Won’t we just have a rare bit of fun!” He then spoke in a low voice in Saunders’s ear, and the young man stole round to the opposite side of the crowd. When the hymn had been sung, and the speaker was in the very act of commencing his discourse, a loud mew from Gregson, who was affecting to look very solemn, made the good man pause. He made a second attempt; but now a noise as of two cats fighting violently came from the opposite side of the concourse. The poor preacher looked sadly disconcerted; but when the pretended mewing and wrangling were continued, the sense of the ludicrous seemed to prevail in the crowd over everything else, and there was one general outburst of laughter, in which no one joined more heartily than Walter. The crowd began to surge backwards and forwards, and many to move off. But the preacher still maintained his stand. “Come here! come here!” cried Gregson in an undertone to Walter. Julia felt her brother suddenly disengage his arm from hers, and then he was lost in the crowd. A few minutes later, and there was a movement among the audience—if it could now be called an audience—in the rear of the speaker; and during the confusion, Julia, who was gazing intently on the spot where the preacher stood, saw two faces crouching down for a moment. One was Gregson’s, the other was Walter’s; and then two hands clutched the legs of the stool, and the preacher was pitched head-foremost into the sand. A roar of mirth followed this performance, but it soon gave place to cries of “Shame! shame!” Then there was a lull, and then a profound silence, as the good man who had been so cruelly used planted his feet firmly among the shingles, and said in a clear and unfaltering voice, “My friends, may the Lord forgive these misguided young men for their uncalled-for and unprovoked interference and ridicule! But their malice shall not stop the good work. Here I stand to preach God’s truth; and here I mean to stand, if the Lord will, every day during the season, opposition or no opposition, persecution or no persecution. Let us sing another verse of a hymn.” Amidst the profoundest stillness, and evidently with the hearty sympathy of the bulk of his hearers, the good evangelist proceeded with his holy work.
“Come along! come along!” whispered Gregson, creeping round to Walter, who had now regained his sister, and was feeling heartily ashamed of himself. They all hastened back to the hotel. Walter was now thoroughly subdued, and with a very cold leave-taking of his former friends, he and his sister sought their horses, and made the best of their way to the cottage, exchanging but few words as they rode along. Such was the shameful and sorrowful ending of what had promised to be a very happy day.
And now, when Mrs Huntingdon had been a few days established in the cottage, by her own earnest request, and with the hearty concurrence of her children, their aunt came over to spend a little time with them. This she could the more easily do as her brother was fully occupied with his endeavours to secure the return of the candidate whose politics he agreed with. Surely there can be few, who have a large circle of relations of different degrees of nearness, who have not among these some pre-eminently special ones who draw to themselves a more than ordinary share of affection from all their kindred—a special sister, or brother, or cousin, who does not however, make others less loved, while being the privileged object of a peculiarly tender regard. Such a special aunt was Miss Huntingdon to all her nephews and nieces. A visit from her was everywhere hailed with rejoicing. And so now every heart was glad when she joined the little party at the sea-side cottage. To Mrs Huntingdon the coming of her sister-in-law was eminently beneficial; for her tender love, her wise and judicious counsels, her earnest prayers, all helped to establish the restored mother in a healthful and happy tone of mind, and were the means of guiding her to that perfect peace which dwells nowhere but in the hearts of those who have sought and found in their Saviour the friend who loves above all others.
When Miss Huntingdon had been at the cottage two or three days, and was walking with Amos and Walter by the ebbing waves, Julia having remained behind with her mother, Walter suddenly stopped, and said, “Auntie, I have something very sad to tell you, and I want your advice.”
Both his aunt and Amos looked at him with surprise and anxiety, and then the former said, “Well, dear boy, I am sorry that there should be anything troubling you; but if I can be of any use or comfort to you in the matter. I shall be only too glad.”
“Sit down here then, Aunt Kate, if you please, on this bank; and if you are not both of you heartily ashamed of me and disgusted with me when I have told you all, well, you ought to be.”
When all three were seated, Walter fully related his adventure at the watering-place, concluding with the attack upon the preacher, laying a full share of blame on himself, and ending with the words, “Now, dear auntie, what do you say to that?”
Both his hearers looked very grave, and were silent for some time. At last Miss Huntingdon, laying her hand lovingly on Walter’s shoulder, said, “Dear boy, it is certainly a sad story, but you were led into what you did from want of watchfulness; and as you are now aware of your fault, and are sorry for it, I should not, if I were you; needlessly distress myself, but just make, if you can, some amends.”
“Ah! that’s the point,” cried Walter; “you mean, of course, make some amends to the good preacher. Yes, that can be done, for he said he should be at his post at the same hour every day during the season. But it will require some moral courage to do it, and no little of that valuable article too. Now I am sure, dear auntie, you have in that cabinet of your memory one drawer at least full of examples of moral courage, and you can pick me out one to suit this case.”