Amos Huntingdon Part 22

"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 G.o.d, 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, "Circ.u.mstances 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 a.s.sembled, and the place was glowing with banners and glittering devices, and resounding with the vigorous music of a bra.s.s 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 n.o.ble 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 amus.e.m.e.nt to the motley mult.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce 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 mult.i.tude 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 mult.i.tude. 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 pa.s.sionately, "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 antic.i.p.ate 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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.