“Well, I hardly know,” replied her brother; “I don’t think any one would dare to do Amos any personal injury, and I don’t see that it would be anyone’s interest to do so. The last time he was called away he returned to us all right; and perhaps he may feel hurt if we do not let him manage things in his own way, seeing he has so nobly taken upon himself the cause of poor—poor”—he would have said “Julia,” but he could not get out the word—“my poor child.” Here the squire fairly broke down, covering his face with his hands.
“Shall we ask Harry,” said his sister, when she could trust herself to speak, “who brought this note for Amos? that mis-hit give us a little bit of a clew if it should be necessary to go and find him out.” Harry was accordingly summoned and questioned. He had already made full inquiries of the other servants, but none of them could throw any light on the subject. No one about the premises knew anything about the carrier of the letter. So it was resolved to wait, in hopes that either Amos himself or, at any rate, tidings of him and of his movements would arrive some time during the day. Hour, however, passed by after hour, and no news of Amos came to gladden the hearts at the mansion; and when darkness settled down, and nothing had been heard of the absent one, a deep gloom pervaded the whole household. But of all hearts under that roof during that long and weary night, none was so heavy as Mr Huntingdon’s. Memories of the past crowded in upon him; smitings of conscience deeply troubled him. Had he acted a father’s part towards that erring daughter? should he have closed the door of home and heart so fast, and kept it barred against her? was she not still his own flesh and blood? and could he justify to himself the iron sternness which had perhaps now driven her to despair? How could he hope for mercy who had shown neither mercy nor pity to one whose sinful disobedience and folly could not make her less his child, though doubtless a sadly misguided one? When morning came, Mr Huntingdon rose a wiser and a humbler man. He poured out his heart in prayer for forgiveness of his own many sins and shortcomings, and then came to a full determination to deal very differently with Amos for the time to come, and to undo his past treatment of his poor daughter as opportunity might be afforded him.
And now we must leave for a while the party at the Manor-house in their sadness and perplexity, and follow Amos Huntingdon himself. When he had retired to his room on the night previous to his unexpected departure, he was startled by hearing the sound of what seemed to be earth or small pebbles thrown against his bedroom window. He paused for a few moments, and the sound was repeated. Then he opened the window slowly, and looking out, cried, “Who is there?”
All around, the snow lay thick on the ground. His room was on one side of the house, and its window looked out on a flower-garden, so that any one approaching the building from that side would not be liable to be observed by the general inmates of the Manor-house. When Amos had asked who was there, a short figure, partly muffled up in a cloak, rose from where it had been crouching against the wall, and a man’s voice said in a loud whisper, “Is that you, Mr Amos?”
“What do you want with me at this hour?” was the reply.
“Ah! all right,” rejoined the stranger; “here—catch this.” Saying which, he flung something up at the opening made by the raising of the window. “A bad shot,” said the mysterious person half out loud, and with perfect coolness, as the thing he was throwing fell short of its mark. “Try again.” Suiting the action to the word, he a second time aimed at the opening, and now with success. A small packet fell into the room, and reached the floor with a “thud.”
“All right; good-night,” said the thrower with a chuckle, and soon disappeared through the falling snow, which was now coming down thickly.
What could be the meaning of this strange performance? Was it some foolish hoax or practical joke played off by Saunders or Gregson, or some other of Walter’s giddy and not over-considerate companions? He almost thought it must be so, and that his brother had put them up to the joke for some wild piece of fun, or to win some senseless wager. Rather vexed at the thought, and not feeling over amiable towards the missile, if such it was, which had come so unseasonably and so unceremoniously into his chamber, he was half inclined at first to throw it back through the window on to the snow. And yet, perhaps, he had better see what it was. So he took it from the floor. It was a little brown paper parcel, about three inches square, and very heavy for its size. His curiosity was now excited. He opened the packet warily, lest it should contain something explosive, such as might cause a report, not dangerous in itself, but calculated to alarm the family. There was nothing, however, of such a kind, but merely a flat piece of thick tile, with a sheet of note-paper doubled round it.
Rather annoyed at the folly of the whole thing, he slowly unfolded the paper, and opened it out. The writing struck him at once; it was his sister’s. The contents of the letter staggered him. That his sister had written it there could be no doubt. That she was in grievous trouble, and that her villainous husband had violated his pledge and was removing the children out of his reach, was equally plain. The appearance of the closing portion of the note puzzled him. He had his misgivings about it. Had his sister’s husband anything to do with it, and with making the appointment on Marley Heath? It might or might not be so. The changed appearance of the latter part of the writing might only be the result of agitation or distress on his sister’s part. But, anyhow, what was the course that duty and brotherly love bade him now take? A lonely meeting in the snow with a solitary horseman on Marley Heath early in the morning did not read very pleasantly nor appear very safe; and yet, could he leave his poor sister to her misery? If he should do so, what evils might not follow? and what would come of the great purpose to which he had dedicated his life and energies? Was this a time for fear or shrinking back? No, surely. So he knelt down and asked for guidance of him who is unerring Wisdom to every one of his children. And then he retired to rest, and slept soundly till early morning.
His mind was made up. Having written a few lines to his aunt, he made his way quietly out of the house to the stable, and, mounting his own faithful pony, sallied forth. He had, however, dropped his sister’s note by his own room door without being aware of it, and did not miss it, for his mind was full of engrossing thoughts. It was a bright and sparkling morning; the snow had been falling more or less for the last few days, and had in some places formed deep drifts, as a strong wind had been blowing from the north for some hours. But now all was calm and bright for the present, though the distant horizon seemed to threaten a further downfall before long.