“True, dear boy, that was natural courage principally; but there was moral courage too in your whole conduct in the matter, in the steady perseverance with which you went to be your brother’s protector, come what might and at all hazards.”
“Thank you, dear aunt, but you have given me more praise than I deserve. And now for the special hero, the counterpart of Amos.”
“My hero this time,” said Miss Huntingdon, “is a very remarkable man, a most excellent clergyman, Mr Fletcher of Madeley. He had a very profligate nephew, a military man, who had been dismissed from the Sardinian service for base and ungentlemanly conduct, had engaged in two or three duels, and had wasted his means in vice and extravagance. One day this nephew waited on his uncle, General de Gons, and, presenting a loaded pistol, threatened to shoot him unless he would immediately advance him five hundred crowns. The general, though a brave man, well knew what a desperado he had to deal with, and gave a draft for the money, at the same time expostulating with him freely on his conduct. The young madman rode off triumphantly with his ill-gotten cheque. In the evening, passing the door of Mr Fletcher, he determined to call on him, and began by telling him how liberal General de Gons had been to him, and, as a proof, exhibited the draft. Mr Fletcher took it from his nephew, and looked at it with astonishment. Then, after some remarks, putting it into his pocket, he said, ‘It strikes me, young man, that you possessed yourself of this note by some indirect method; and in honesty I cannot return it without my brother’s knowledge and approbation.’ The young man’s pistol was immediately at his uncle’s breast. ‘My life,’ said Mr Fletcher, with perfect calmness, ‘is secure in the protection of an Almighty Power, nor will he suffer it to be the forfeit of my integrity and your rashness.’—This firmness staggered his nephew, who exclaimed, ‘Why, Uncle de Gons, though an old soldier, was more afraid of death than you are.’—‘Afraid of death!’ cried Mr Fletcher. ‘Do you think I have been twenty-five years the minister of the Lord of life, to be afraid of death now? No, sir; it is for you to fear death. Look here, sir, the broad eye of Heaven is fixed upon us; tremble in the presence of your Maker, who can in a moment kill your body, and for ever punish your soul in hell.’—The unhappy man turned pale, and trembled first with fear and then with rage. He still threatened his uncle with instant death. Mr Fletcher, however, gave no alarm and made no attempt to escape. He calmly conversed with his miserable nephew; and at last, when he saw that he was touched, addressed him like a father till he had fairly subdued him. But he would not return his brother’s draft. However, he gave him some help himself, and having prayed with him, let him go.”
“Ay, dear aunt,” exclaimed Walter, “that was a hero indeed.”
“Yes, Walter, a true moral hero; for, if you remember, moral courage is the bravery shown, not in acting from sudden impulse, nor from ‘pluck,’ as you call it, nor from mere animal daring, but in deliberately resolving to do and doing as a matter of principle or duty what may cost us shame, or loss, or suffering, or even death. Such certainly was Mr Fletcher’s courage. A sense of duty and the fear of God upheld him against all fear of man.”
“True, auntie,” acquiesced her nephew; “and so it was with Amos.”
“Yes, just so, Walter. You tell me that when your unhappy brother-in-law pointed the pistol at Amos, your brother said with perfect calmness that he was in God’s hands, and not in the hands of Mr Vivian. In thus acting from duty, and deliberately hazarding the loss of his own life rather than do what his conscience disapproved of, Amos exhibited, like Mr Fletcher, the most exalted moral courage.”
“Thank you, dear aunt; and I am so glad that I have been permitted to help my hero out of his trouble.”
On the third day after this conversation, the post brought the welcome news from Amos that he should bring his sister that afternoon to her old home, and that her children would follow in a day or two. Seven years had elapsed since the erring daughter had left sorrow and shame behind her in her home, by suddenly and clandestinely quitting it, to become, without the sanction of father or mother, the wife of a specious but profligate and needy adventurer. And now, sad and forsaken, she was returning to a home which had for a long time been closed against her. Oh, with what a wild throbbing of heart did she gaze at the familiar sights which presented themselves to her on all sides, as she and Amos drove along the well-known roads, in through the great green gates, up the drive, and then, with a sudden pull up, to the front door. The next moment she had sprung on to the door-steps with an eager cry, and found herself clasped in her father’s arms.
“My poor, poor child! welcome home again,” he murmured, with choking tears.