Part 22 (2/2)

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 suns.h.i.+ne 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.

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