“Dear Brother-in-Law,—You have money, and I have none. I want money very much, and you can spare it. I enclose a blank cheque, which I have managed to procure from your bankers. Please fill it up for a hundred pounds. I am sorry to trouble you, but ‘necessity has no law,’ as the old proverb says. I shall call to-night at the window for the cheque. You will find pen and ink in the desk. Pardon my little bit of eccentricity in bringing you here. When I have got the cheque you will soon be at liberty again, and none the worse, I trust, for your short captivity. I don’t wish to proceed to extremities with a relation, but the money I must have. Only let me get the cheque, and then, as the poet says, ‘My native land, good-night;’ I shall trouble you and yours no more.—Your affectionate brother-in-law, Vivian.”
The cool audacity of this letter was perfectly staggering to Amos. And yet there was no mistaking the writer’s meaning and intentions. It was plain that the reckless adventurer was resolved to extort money from his wife’s brother, whom he had succeeded in entrapping, and that remonstrance would be of very little avail with such a character. That the wretched man would do him serious bodily injury Amos did not think probable, but that he would use any pressure short of this seemed tolerably certain. On thinking it over, the young man came to the conviction that his unhappy relation, being hard up for money, and intending probably to go abroad with the help of this hundred pounds, had compelled his sister to write the latter part of her letter, and had then employed some unprincipled female associate to act as his confederate. No doubt he had calculated that it might be a day or two before Amos’s friends would become alarmed at his absence, and probably a day or two more before they discovered his prison, especially as the snow would make it more difficult to trace him. In the meantime he trusted to be able so to play upon the fears of Amos, and to wear him out by scanty food and rough lodging, that, sooner than continue in such durance, he would sign the cheque for the amount demanded.
Such was the view that Amos took of the matter, and now came the question what he was to do. He had money enough at his bankers to meet the cheque, and no doubt his father would help him when he knew all the circumstances; but then, was it right to give the man this money? Was he justified in doing so, and thus encouraging a villain in his villainy? The more he thought the matter over, the more firmly he became persuaded that, so long as his own life was not seriously threatened and endangered, he ought to hold out against this infamous demand, and be ready to endure days of privation, suffering, and loneliness, rather than give in to what he was persuaded would be wrong-doing. After much thought and prayer, he came to the decision that he would not give the cheque, but would leave it to God to deliver him, how and when he pleased.
Perfectly calmed by this act of self-committal into his heavenly Father’s keeping, he sat down by the fire on a seat which he had raised by piling some of the logs together, and prepared for a long spell of waiting. Whatever others might think, he was sure that his aunt would not be content to let more than one night pass without sending out to seek for him, and by this assurance he was greatly comforted. His bread, cheese, and milk, carefully husbanded, would last him two or three days, and for anything beyond that he did not feel it needful to take any forethought.
Slowly and wearily did the long hours drag on as he paced up and down the room, or sat by the flickering logs, which threw out but a moderate degree of heat. His frugal meals were soon despatched, and at last evening came. He had tried the bars of his window more than once, but his utmost exertion of strength could not shake one of them. No; he must abide in that prison until released from without. And then he thought of noble prisoners for conscience’ sake,—Daniel, and Paul, and Bunyan, and many a martyr and confessor,—and he felt that he was suffering in good company. It was just getting dusk when there came a rap at the window. He opened the casement. The face of his cruel jailer was there.
“The cheque,” said Mr Vivian, with what was meant to be a winning smile. “Your pony is close by, and I will let you out in a minute. The cheque, if you please.”
“I cannot give it,” was the reply.
“Indeed!” said the other, raising his eyebrows, and displaying fully the evil light of his wicked eyes. “Ah! is it so? Well, if you like your fare and your quarters so well that you are loath to leave them, it is not for me to draw you away from such sumptuous hospitality and such agreeable society. Farewell. Good-night. I will call to-morrow morning, in the hopes that a night’s rest in this noble mansion may lead you to arrive at a different conclusion. Pleasant dreams to you.” So saying, with a discordant chuckle he left the window, and the poor prisoner had to make the best of the situation for the night.
Adding another log to the fire, and wrapping his great-coat together for a couch, with the upper part raised over two or three logs for a pillow, he resigned himself to rest, and, much to his surprise, slept pretty soundly till daybreak. His morning devotions over, and his scanty breakfast eaten, he waited for the return of his brother-in-law with very mingled feelings. About nine o’clock he appeared, and greeted Amos with the hope that he had passed a good night and felt quite himself this morning. Amos replied that he was thankful to say that he had slept as well or better than he expected, and that he only wished that his brother-in-law had had as soft a pillow to lie on as himself had enjoyed.
“Dear me,” said the other sneeringly, “I was not aware that the establishment was provided with such luxuries. Pray, of what materials may this pillow of yours have been made?”