the fire. "Yesterday," he continued, "as I was riding out before
dinner, I met Saunders and Gregson on horseback. Gregson was riding
Rosebud.--`Well,' said Gregson, `is Rosebud to be yours?'--`Can't afford
it,' I said; `a hundred guineas is too much. I haven't got the money to
spare.'--`No, of course not,' he said; `but you can spare a
guinea.'--`Yes,' I replied; `but that won't buy Rosebud.'--`No,' he
said; `but it will give you a chance of getting her for a
guinea.'--`That's one way,' I said; `but it don't seem the right one to
me. What do you say to swopping Rosebud for my pony? then you'll have
an equivalent, at least if you think so.'--Saunders and he looked at one
another as if they had seen a ghost; and then I said, `Perhaps I can
work out the value. Let me see. Will you give me fifty guineas a year
if I take the place of groom to you? I may earn Rosebud that way in two
years if you give her to me instead of wages.'--My two companions began
to whisper to one another, and to stare at me as if I'd just come out of
an Egyptian mummy-case.--`What's up now?' I said.--`We can't make you
out,' said Saunders; `whatever are you driving at?'--`Oh, I'll soon make
that clear!' I said. `The fact is, gentlemen, I've been led to the
conclusion that raffling isn't right; that it's only a sort of gambling;
that, in fact, there are only three honest ways of my getting Rosebud.
One is by giving an equivalent in money or something else; but I can't
afford the hundred guineas, and you won't take my pony in exchange. The
second way is by earning her--that is, by my doing so much work as will
be of the same value; but it wouldn't suit you nor me for me to take the
place of your groom for a couple of years. And the third way is for me
to have her as a free gift; but I'm not so sanguine as to suppose that
you mean to give her to me right out.'--`And where have you got all this
precious nonsense from?' cried Saunders.--`In the first place,' I
answered, `you're right about the "precious," but wrong about the
"nonsense;" it's precious truth. In the next place, I have learned
these views on the subject of raffles from my brother Amos.'--Then there
_was_ a hullaballoo. `Your brother Amos!' they shouted out, as if my
dear brother was the very last person in the world that anything good or
sensible could be expected from.--`Yes,' I said, as cool as an icicle,
`my brother Amos. I suppose if a thing's right, it's as good when it
comes from him as from any one else.'--They were both taken aback, I can
tell you. But I stuck to my point. They tried to chaff me out of it by
saying, `Well, I would be a man if I were you, and have an opinion of my
own.'--`I have an opinion of my own,' said I, `and it's none the less my
own because it's the same as my brother's.'--`He daren't move a step by
himself now for that brother of his,' sneered Saunders.--To this I
replied, `I'll just give you an answer in the words of one whose opinion
you'll respect, I think, and it's this--'
"I dare do all that may become a man,
Who dares do more is none."
"So says Shakespeare, and so say I.--Then they took to abusing Amos
again; so I just told them that I had found by experience that my
brother's advice and opinion were worth taking, and that I had no wish
to hear him cried down unless they could show that he was wrong. Well,
you may suppose that we soon found out that our horses wanted to go
different ways; so we raised our hats to one another and took leave, and
thus ended the partnership of Huntingdon, Gregson, and Saunders."
There was silence for a while, during which the hands of the two
brothers were clasped tightly in each other. At last Miss Huntingdon
said, "Now, dear Walter, you may make your laurel crown whenever you
please, and I shall be only too happy to place it myself on your head--
yes, the crown fairly won by an act of true and lofty moral courage."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
A FEW BACKWARD STEPS.
A year slipped rapidly by after the return of Julia Vivian to her home.
Her unhappy husband had not shown himself anywhere in the neighbourhood,
nor had he sent her a single letter. She herself gradually recovered
her once lively spirits, and scattered much brightness round her. Miss
Huntingdon would have retired, and left her to take the management of
her father's household, but she implored her not to do so; and as Mr
Huntingdon himself evidently preferred that his sister should keep her
usual position in the family, at any rate for the present, she
consented, hoping that the united influence of Amos and herself might be
the means, under God, of bringing Julia and Walter to take a decided
stand on the Lord's side.
So far, Walter was manifestly anxious to do what was right and to
support his elder brother in his endeavours to bring a holy peace into
the household. But his good intentions were often thwarted by his
natural self-esteem. As for Julia, she was by no means prepared to see
things in the same light that Amos did. Naturally high-spirited and
self-willed, her troubles had rather bent her down for a while than in
any degree permanently improved her character,--for there never was a
truer remark than that of an old writer when he says, "Circumstances do
not _make_ us what we are, they rather _show_ what we are." And now
that one of her heaviest burdens was gone, she was very reluctant to
curb her temper or give up her own will when to Amos it was her plain
duty to do so. Self was none the less her idol because much of the
gilding with which it had been adorned in happier days had been rudely
rasped from it. She wished to please Amos, but she wished to please
herself more. And whenever Amos's views and those of Walter did not
quite coincide, she always took side with the younger brother. Amos saw
this, of course, but he was willing to bide his time. One part of his
great object had been accomplished,--his sister had been restored to her
old home and to her father's heart.
Mr Huntingdon, of course, never alluded to the past, and took great
delight in his grandchildren, who were left pretty much to the care and
training of an excellent servant whom Amos had chosen for them by his
father's desire, and also to the loving and wise instructions of Miss
Huntingdon; for their mother professed that she had not yet recovered
health and energy sufficient to enable her to look after them herself.
Amos saw this with regret, and wished that his sister could take a right
view of her duty in the matter. At the same time he felt sure that the
day had not yet come for making any attempt to bring his mother home
again. He must defer this his cherished hope and purpose till his
sister should have come to a different and better mind. For as she
recovered herself, which she soon did, from the effects of her late life
of trial and privation, Julia Vivian gave herself up almost entirely to
reading amusing books, fishing, riding, and making one in any little
party of pleasure which could be got up for her. She saw her children
just for a few minutes night and morning, but evidently felt it rather a
distasteful toil than a pleasure if anything obliged her now and then to
give them a little extra attention. Indeed, she seemed to have got the
idea firmly fixed in her mind that she was now to get all the enjoyment
she could to make up for past years of trouble, and that the main
business of her two brothers was to provide for her comfort and
entertainment. And very charming she could make herself when her own
tastes and whims were gratified, but anything like thwarting or
opposition produced in her at once gloom and irritation. For her
father's sake and the credit of the family she abstained from showing
herself at large parties and entertainments where many of the guests
would know a good deal about her past history; but whenever she could
join in a bit of excitement without bringing herself into notice, she
was wild to avail herself of the opportunity, and would not let children
or home be any hindrance if she could possibly help it.
Summer had arrived, when one morning the post brought Mr Huntingdon a
huge bill printed in letters of various shapes, colours, and sizes, from
which it appeared that "the wonderful acrobat, Signor Giovani Telitetti,
of world-wide celebrity, would exhibit some marvellous feats, to
conclude with a dance on the high rope." The entertainment was to be
given in a park situate in the next county, about ten miles distant from
Flixworth Manor.
"There," said the squire, tossing the bill from him, so that it floated
on to the loaf and settled there, "I suppose we shall none of us think
it worth while to ride or drive ten miles to see this wonderful
performer."
"Oh, I should so like to go!" cried Julia, when she had glanced through
the bill.
"You, my child!" exclaimed her father in astonishment.
"Oh yes, father. Why not?"
"I should have thought," said her aunt, "that you--"
But here her niece interrupted her. "O auntie, there can be no possible
harm. No one will notice us; there will be thousands of people, and we
shall be lost in the crowd. People are never so thoroughly alone as
when they are in the middle of a great crowd."
"And who is to go with you?" asked Mr Huntingdon.
"Oh, of course I don't expect dear sober old Amos to go, he is quite
above such things; but Walter might take me,--wouldn't you, dear
Walter?--Now, may I go, dear father, if Walter takes me? It will be
such fun cantering there and back this delightful summer weather." She
looked at Walter beseechingly, and her father hem'd and ha'd, not quite
knowing what to say. "It's settled," she cried, clapping her hands.
"Now, Walter, you can't say no."
"When is it to come off?" asked the squire.
"Next Wednesday," she replied. "Please don't trouble about it," she
added; "it will be all right. I will be as grave as a duenna; and when
I come back Amos shall read me an essay on prudence, and I will listen
to every word and be so good."
No further opposition was attempted, and Walter considered himself bound
to escort his sister.
On the following Wednesday, after luncheon, Walter and Julia set off for
the place of amusement in high spirits. Julia was looking specially
bright and attractive; and Walter, though he did not feel fully
satisfied in going, yet threw himself now into the excitement with all
his might, partly for his sister's sake, and partly to drown any murmurs
of conscience which he was not prepared to listen to. So with a merry
ringing laugh they set off, and arrived at the park on the best terms
with themselves and with each other. Large numbers of people had
already assembled, and the place was glowing with banners and glittering
devices, and resounding with the vigorous music of a brass band. Signor
Telitetti was to be the special attraction, but there were many other
objects of interest and excitement forming part of the entertainment.
Among these were a small theatre, and a tent in which were various
enticing-looking articles to be raffled for. The noble park, with its
groups of trees of different species, its sloping sward, and a lake in
the centre well stocked with water-fowl of various kinds, gave ample
room and amusement to the motley multitude which had gathered for the
show.
Walter and his sister, having left their horses at a neighbouring
stable, paid their money at the gate, strolled into the park, and made
their way amongst the crowds bent like themselves on getting as large a
draught of excitement as the occasion would afford. As they came near
the tent, they encountered Gregson and Saunders arm in arm. The young
men took off their hats with an exaggerated show of politeness, and
Saunders said half out loud as they passed on, "Not going in just at
present for the raffle, I suppose." Walter coloured, but did not reply;
but he began to feel a hearty dislike to the whole thing, and would have
gladly beat a hasty retreat had he been alone. But now a more than
ordinarily vehement flourish of music warned the spectators that Signor
Telitetti was about to commence his athletic wonders. All crowded up to
the place of exhibition, which was a broad open space in the very midst
of the park, where a wooden structure had been erected, representing
some grand palace or temple in Eastern style, and being gorgeously and
profusely painted and gilded. In front of this were various smaller
wooden erections, set up for the purpose of exhibiting the powers of the
acrobat; while from the highest part of the sham palace a stout rope was
led along at a considerable height from the ground to a neighbouring
tree, from that tree to a second, and then down to the ground by a rapid
incline.
All eyes were on the signor as he took his stand in front of the wooden
building. Walter and his sister had pressed nearly to the edge of the
crowd, and gazed with the deepest interest on the performer, who was
habited in the tight-fitting garment usually worn by persons of his
calling, his head, however, being enveloped in a strangely made, many-
coloured cap, which very much concealed his features; indeed it looked
as if he were wearing a sort of mask, and that his eyes alone were
unhidden. Had Walter or his sister seen him anywhere before? Walter
was not sure, and yet he had an impression that there was something
about the man familiar to him, but perhaps it was only the general
similarity to others dressed for exhibitions of the like kind. He was
surprised, however, and startled to find his sister, as she leaned her
full weight on his arm, trembling violently. It might have been merely
excitement; but the announcement that the signor's feats were about to
commence prevented his asking his sister the cause of her agitation.
And now all sorts of strange contortions, unnatural postures, and
perverse displays of muscular eccentricity were gone through by the
exhibitor, much to the satisfaction of the applauding crowd. As to
Walter, somehow or other the whole thing seemed full of emptiness. Why
was it so? Surely because, to use the forcible language of Chalmers,
"the expulsive power of a superior affection" had begun to make such
exhibitions distasteful to him. However, he had not much time for
reflection. The acrobat was now coming to his performances on the rope.
Hitherto his exertions and feats had been attended simply with
difficulty; now they were to be attended with danger, and were therefore
looked upon by the multitude with thrilling and breathless interest.
Springing upon the rope, pole in hand, he made his way rapidly up the
sloping cord, then from one tree to another, and then high in mid-air to
the summit of the wooden palace or temple. Vehement bursts of applause
rewarded him for this feat accomplished. And now he came down from his
height on his return journey, which he accomplished with perfect ease.
Again he was in the act of ascending, when, looking round for a moment
on the crowd below him, his eye fell on Walter and his sister. Then a
change appeared to come over him,--he seemed to have lost his steadiness
and self-possession. Nevertheless he continued his upward course. But
when he had gained the part of the rope which sloped upwards to the
temple, and was about to exhibit some daring feat of agility, twice did
he make the effort unsuccessfully, and then, in a third violent attempt,
missed his foothold, and fell to the ground amongst the terror-stricken
spectators.
Frightful then were the excitement and the cries of the horrified
multitude. Some rushed to raise the poor fallen man, while the police
struggled to keep back the surging crowd. Drawn on by a strange and
terrible fascination, Walter and his sister pressed forward to where the
unhappy acrobat lay bleeding and insensible. His features were now more
plainly visible,--there could be no mistake about him. Signor Telitetti
was none other than Orlando Vivian.
"We must take him to the hospital, poor fellow, as quickly as possible,"
said one of the policemen. A stretcher was accordingly brought, and the
poor shattered player was carried speedily forth from the scene of his
transitory triumphs.
"And what shall _we_ do?" asked Walter in a disturbed whisper to his
sister.
"Oh, take me home! take me home!" she cried; "I can't bear it."
"But ought we not to go and look after him?" asked her brother.
"Take me home! take me home!" was all her cry, and the horses were soon
brought and mounted; while the vast crowd melted gradually away,
subdued, and exchanging half-whispered words of surprise and dismay.
Sadly and slowly did the brother and sister make their way home to
Flixworth Manor, neither venturing a word for some miles. At last
Julia, drawing as close to her brother as possible, said in a voice of
agitated entreaty, "Walter, dear Walter, you _must_ promise me one
thing."
"What is that?" he asked gloomily.
She noticed his manner, and cried, "O Walter, you must; indeed you
must."
"Must what?" he asked.
"Oh, you must promise me not to breathe to any one at home--not to my
father, not to my aunt, not to any one at all, and least of all to
Amos--who it was that--that met with this sad accident to-day. Will you
promise me?" Walter was silent for a minute or more. "Oh!" she
exclaimed passionately, "you will, you must; I shall be miserable if you
do not."
"But," said her brother, "will this be right? ought you not to go to
your poor wretched husband? Perhaps he is dying. I am sure Amos would
say that you ought."
"Never mind what Amos would say," she exclaimed angrily; "I have not
given up my conscience into his keeping. It's of no use; I have
suffered enough for _him_ (you know who I mean) and from him already.
He can't be better cared for than he will be at the hospital. If I were
to go to him he would only swear at me."
"But it will be sure to come out and be generally known who he is,
sooner or later," her brother replied; "and what good can be done by
concealing it now?"
"Only the good of doing your poor sister a kindness," she said bitterly
and pettishly. "But I don't see why it need come out; and it will be
time for it to be known at home when it does come out."
"Well," said Walter reluctantly, "I promise--"
"There's a dear, good brother," she said; "you have taken a load off my
mind. And as for him, we can get to hear from the hospital people how
he is going on, and I can but go to him if they give a very bad report."
Her brother made no further reply, and the rest of the journey was
completed almost in silence.
Every one at the Manor was of course deeply interested in the story
which Walter had to tell, and shocked at the dreadful termination of the
exhibition in the park. That Julia looked scared and ill was naturally
no matter of wonder to anybody; to have witnessed such an accident was
enough to upset the strongest nerves. In a day or two, however, she had
pretty nearly recovered her former spirits, for the newspaper account of
the terrible catastrophe finished by stating that Signor Telitetti was
going on well; an arm and two or three ribs had been broken, and the
body generally much bruised and shaken, but the hospital surgeons did
not anticipate fatal results,--it was expected that in a few weeks the
signor would be able to go about again. But though this news had come
as a relief to Julia Vivian, and raised her spirits, there was by no
means unclouded sunshine in her face or words. Conscience _would_
speak, and it spoke in low but distinct utterances of condemnation. She
could see, too, that Walter was not altogether feeling towards her as he
had done before the accident. She had sunk in his esteem; he clearly
did not take the same pleasure in consulting her wishes and getting up
schemes for her amusement as formerly. To her aunt and Amos she rarely
spoke, except when compelled to do so; and her father would often look
at her anxiously, fearing that her health was giving way.
Amos wondered a little, and asked his brother if he could account for
the change in their sister; for though at times she was hurried along by
a perfect gale of boisterous spirits, at others she was swallowed up by
the profoundest gloom. Walter's answer was evasive, and left an
impression on his brother's mind that there was something amiss which
had been kept back from him. He made several loving attempts to draw
his sister out of herself, and to lead her to confide her sorrows or
difficulties to him, but all in vain: and when he attempted gently to
guide her thoughts to Him who alone could give her true peace, she would
turn from him with a vexed expression of countenance and an air of
almost disdain. Poor Amos! how grievously was he disappointed to find
the sister for whom he had done and suffered so much getting, now that
she was restored to her old home, more and more out of sympathy with him
in what was highest and best, and giving herself up to reckless and
unmitigated selfishness. But he did not, he would not despair. Much
had been accomplished already, and, though things were looking black,
and heavy clouds were gathering, he would still wait and work in faith
and patience, remembering that when the night is darkest the dawn is
nearest.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
IN THE DARK VALLEY.
Six weeks after the sad accident in the park the squire sat in the
library after breakfast reading the county paper. Suddenly he turned
very red, and his chest heaved with emotion, as his eyes ran rapidly
through the following paragraph:--
"Extraordinary Proceeding at the County Hospital.
"It will be remembered that some few weeks ago a terrible accident
happened to one Signor Telitetti, an acrobat of professedly world-wide
reputation. The unfortunate man, while performing on the high rope in
the presence of some thousands of spectators, suddenly lost his self-
possession, or experienced some failure in power, and in consequence
fell from a considerable height to the ground. He was taken to the
hospital, where, under the skilful treatment of the medical officers, he
made rapid progress towards returning health and strength, having
suffered no more serious injuries than the breaking of an arm and two or
three ribs. To the astonishment, however, and perplexity of the
hospital officials, the signor has managed to leave the premises
unobserved, and in his still feeble condition, and with his arm yet in a
sling, to get clear away, so that no one had any idea what had become of
him. The reason, however, of this move on his part is becoming pretty
plain, for it is now being more than whispered about that Signor
Telitetti is no foreigner after all, but that this name is only one
among many aliases borne by a disreputable stroller and swindler, who
some time since victimised Lady Gambit by cheating her out of twenty
pounds. There can be no doubt that the unfortunate man, dreading lest
the police should pounce upon him when he left the hospital fully cured,
contrived to elude their vigilance by taking himself off at a time when
no one would suspect him of wishing or being able to change his
quarters."
Mr Huntingdon read this over and over again, and his brow contracted as
many painful thoughts crowded in upon him. Then, rising, he repaired to
the morning room, where the other members of the family were assembled,
reading or answering their letters. Taking the paper to Amos, he placed
his finger on the painful paragraph, and signed to him to read it. Amos
did so with a beating heart and troubled brow. "Anything amiss,
father?" asked Walter, noticing the grave look on the faces of Mr
Huntingdon and his brother. The squire made no reply, but, holding out
his hand for the paper, passed it to his younger son. Julia, looking
up, noticed the flushed face of her brother, and, before her father
could prevent her, sprang up and, leaning over Walter's shoulder, read
the article. Then, with a wild cry, she rushed out of the room.
"Oh! what is the trouble?" exclaimed Miss Huntingdon in a tone of great
distress. Once more the paper was passed on, and she read the
humiliating paragraph.
All were silent for a while. Then Miss Huntingdon said, "I must go to
poor Julia."
"Do so," said the squire; "but come back as soon as you can."
His sister soon returned, saying that her niece had been much upset by
what she had read, but would be better shortly.
"And now," said Mr Huntingdon, "I want to know if Julia was aware who
the signor was at the time when the accident happened."
"She was," said Walter sorrowfully.
"And could she leave her wretched husband, wounded and perhaps dying,
without an attempt to see that he was properly cared for?"
"Father," replied Walter, "it was so, and I deeply grieve over it. I
tried to persuade her at the time--for we both knew him too well as he
lay on the ground at our feet senseless and bleeding--I tried to
persuade her that it was her duty to go with him; but she would not hear
of it; she insisted on returning home at once, and said that he would be
well looked after at the hospital, and that if she were to go to him he
would only swear at her. So at last I gave it up; and she would not be
pacified till I promised not to mention to any one that I knew the
wretched man to be her husband. I suppose I was wrong in giving this
promise,--I have never felt comfortable about it; but she was so
miserable till I made it that I gave her my word; and that is just how
it was."
"I quite understand you," said his father. "Poor Julia! we must make
allowances for her; but she has plainly fallen short of her duty in the
matter. I trust, however, that she has now had a wholesome lesson, poor
thing, and that for her children's sake, and all our sakes, she will be
content with her own home, and more ready to fulfil her duties as a
mother."
Amos did not speak, but he was deeply moved. He felt that his sister's
proper place would have been at the bedside of the man who, whatever his
sins against her, was still her husband, and was when the accident had
happened, for anything she knew to the contrary, crushed and dying, and
about to be speedily separated from her for ever in this world. But she
had not so seen her duty; she had shrunk from the pain, the sacrifice.
She could not bear the thought of the interruption to her recovered home
comforts and pleasures which the work of a nurse to the stricken man
would involve. And could Amos make her see and acknowledge that she had
erred? He feared not.