“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.