Chapter Thirteen.
Perplexing.
Many months had rolled by since Amos had undertaken to pay for the horse which his brother had unhappily ruined in the steeplechase. Mr Huntingdon never alluded to the matter again, but the difference in his manner towards his elder son was so marked that none could fail to observe it. There were both respect and affection in his voice when he addressed him, and the poor young man’s naturally grave face lighted up as with a flood of sunshine when his father thus spoke to him. Miss Huntingdon, of course, rejoiced in this change with all her heart. Walter was as pleased and proud at it as if some special honours were being conferred on himself. And old Harry—it was a sight worth seeing to observe the old servant when his master spoke kindly to Amos: what with winking and nodding, opening wide his eyes, lifting his eyebrows, rolling his tongue about, and certain inward volcanic mutterings, all constituting a little bit of private acting for his own special and peculiar benefit, it might have been thought by those who did not know him that something had been passing at the moment causing a temporary derangement of his digestive organs. But Miss Huntingdon, as she marked his mysterious conduct, was perfectly aware that it simply meant an expression on his part—principally for the relief of his own feelings, and partly also to give a hint to those who might care to know how he felt in the matter—that things were “coming round nicely,” and that Mr Amos would get his proper place and his rights given him in the family, and would in due time accomplish his great purpose.
Amos himself began to be much of the same opinion, and was greatly touched by receiving a cheque from his father for a hundred pounds one morning, with the assurance that he did not wish him to be out of pocket on Walter’s account, while at the same time the squire neither mentioned the steeplechase himself nor allowed Amos to refer to it. The money was now his own, he remarked, and the less said about where it was going to the better.
A new year had now begun, and deep snow lay around the Manor-house. The family party had assembled at breakfast, all except Miss Huntingdon and Amos. The former at last appeared, but there was trouble on her brow, which Walter, who loved her dearly, instantly noticed.
“Auntie dear,” he asked, “what’s amiss? I’m sure you are not well this morning.”
“I am a little upset, dear boy,” she replied, “but it is nothing serious.”
“I hope not, Kate,” said her brother. “But where is Amos?”
“Well, Walter,” replied his sister, “that is just it. I have a note from him this morning asking me to excuse him to you; that duty has called him away, and that I shall understand in what direction this duty lies. I can only hope that nothing serious is amiss; but this I am quite sure of, that Amos would never have gone off in this abrupt way had there not been some pressing cause.”
Mr Huntingdon did not speak for a while, his thoughts were evidently troubling him. He remembered the last occasion of his son’s sudden absence, and was now well aware that it had been care for his poor erring child’s neglected little ones that had then called Amos away. Perhaps it might be so now. Perhaps that daughter herself, against whom his heart and home had been closed so long, might be ill or even dying. Perhaps she was longing for a father’s smile, a father’s expressed forgiveness. His heart felt very sore, and his breakfast lay untasted before him.