“Why, yes. To be frank with you, Mr Huntingdon, there is; and, without any more beating about the bush, I will come to the point at once. The fact is, I want money, and—not an uncommon thing in this not over agreeable or accommodating world—don’t know where to get it. I have, therefore, just this to say,—if you will pledge me your word to send me a cheque for fifty pounds as soon as you get home, I, on my part, will at once deliver up little George to you; and will pledge my word, as a man of honour, not again to interfere with either of the children. You may think what you please of me, but such is my proposal.”
These words were uttered in a tone of the most imperturbable self-possession, and perfectly staggered poor Amos by their amazing effrontery. But all was now plain enough to him. This needy adventurer, who had entangled poor Julia in his cruel meshes, and had deserted her for a time, was hard up for money; and, having found out that Amos had taken upon himself to provide for his children at present, had hit upon the scheme of withdrawing one of them from the cottage, as a way of extorting money from his brother-in-law. It was also pretty clear that he was afraid to show himself openly, lest the officers of justice should lay hold of him and bring him to trial for some breach of the law. He had, therefore, betaken himself to the expedient of hanging up the little boy’s handkerchief on the way-post, being sure that persons would be out immediately in all directions searching for the child, and that some one of them would light upon the handkerchief with the letter in it, and would forward it to Amos without delay, as the young man would be sure to be informed of the loss as soon as the nurse discovered it, and would lose no time in making personally search for the missing child; and thus the writer’s purpose would be answered without his having given any clew by which himself could be discovered and brought into trouble. All this was now plainly unfolded to Amos. And what was he to do? That the man before him was utterly selfish and unscrupulous, he had no doubt, and little good, he feared, could be done by appealing to the conscience or better feelings of one who could act deliberately as he had done. Was he, then, to leave his little nephew in his father’s hands, to be brought up to the stage—or, in other words, to certain ruin under the training of such a man? The thought was not to be endured. No, he must make the sacrifice.
While these things were passing through his mind, his companion looked about him with cool indifference, kicking the leaves and sticks at his feet, and whistling in a low tone some operatic air. Then he broke silence. “Which is it to be, Mr Huntingdon?” he asked. “Am I to keep little George, or do you wish to have him back again? You know the conditions; and you may be sure that I should not have taken the trouble to meet you here if I had any thoughts of changing my mind.”
Amos looked sadly and kindly at him, and then said, “And can you really, Mr Vivian, justify this conduct of yours to yourself? Can you feel really happy in the course you are pursuing? Oh! will you not let me persuade you—for my poor sister’s sake, for your own sake—to leave your present mode of life, and to seek your happiness in the only path which God can bless? I would gladly help you in any way I could—”
But here his companion broke in, scorn on his lip, and a fierce malignant anger glaring from his eyes. “Stop, stop, Mr Huntingdon! enough of that. We are not come here for a preaching or a prayer-meeting. The die has long since been cast, and the Rubicon crossed. You can take your course; I will take mine. If you have nothing more agreeable to say to me, we had better each go our own way, and leave matters as they are.”
“No,” said Amos, firmly but sorrowfully; “it shall not be so. I promise that you shall have my cheque for fifty pounds when you have placed little George in my hands, and on the understanding that you pledge your word, as a man of honour, to leave the children with me unmolested.”
“Exactly so,” replied the other; “and now, as a little matter of business, I shall be obliged by your making out the cheque to ‘John Smith or Bearer,’—that, certainly, will tell no tales.”
“And where shall I send it to meet you? to what address?”
“To no address at all, if you please. I will be myself at the spot where the four lanes meet near your house, to the north of the Manor; it is about a quarter of a mile from you. Of course you know the place well. I will be there at five o’clock to-morrow morning, before the general world is astir. You can either meet me there yourself, or send some trusty person who is sure not to know me. I need hardly say that any attempt to surprise or lay violent hands on me on that occasion would be fruitless, as I should be well on my guard; and, further, should there be any foul play of any kind, you may depend upon my removing both my children from your cottage at the earliest opportunity.”
“I understand you,” said Amos, “and will send my father’s old butler to take you the cheque at the hour and to the place you name. The old man will ask no questions; he will be satisfied to do just what I tell him, neither more nor less. You will easily recognise him, as he has snowy-white hair, and he will be riding on this pony of mine.”