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 un.o.bserved, 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 a.s.sembled, 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, pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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.

Dinner-time came. Julia was in her place as usual. There was a gloom over all the party, but no one alluded to the sad cause. And so, things reverted to their ordinary channel in a few days. Julia had become again full of life and spirits, though to close observers there was something forced and unnatural about her mirth and vivacity. And one thing Amos noticed with special pain--it was that she carefully avoided ever being alone with him; if they were accidentally left together by themselves, she would in a moment or two make some excuse for leaving the room.

Thus did things continue, till summer had given place to the rich beauties of autumn. It was on a mellow October morning that the post brought a letter for Amos in a handwriting which was not familiar to him, and from a locality with which he was not acquainted. It was as follows:--

"Dear Sir,--In the course of my duties as Scripture reader in the town of Collingford, I have come upon a case which has greatly interested me.

The reason for my troubling you about it will appear further on in my letter. I was calling about a fortnight ago on a poor widow woman who lives in one of the lowest parts of this town, in a miserable house, or rather part of it. She asked me to step into a small back room and see a lodger whom she had taken in some days before, and who was in a very bad state of health, and indeed not likely to recover. I did as she desired, and found a wretched-looking man seated in an old armchair, bowed together, and racked with a severe cough. One of his arms was in a sling, and he seemed to be suffering considerable pain in his left side. There was something in his appearance different from that of ordinary tramps; and when I heard him speak, I saw at once that he must have had a good education. I could make very little out of him at first, for he was very shy and reserved, and seemed terribly annoyed when I read a chapter and had a prayer with him the first visit, and he said some very sharp things against religion and the Bible. However, I persevered, and he got a little softened, especially when I brought him a little help and a few comforts from some Christian friends who had got interested in him. He has always avoided speaking about himself and his past history, and I suspect that he is hiding from the police. However, I have nothing to do with that, and am truly sorry for him. This morning I called and found him much worse. I asked him if he would like me to get him into the hospital, but he would not hear of it. Then I asked him if I could do anything more for him. He did not speak for some time, and then he said, 'Yes. Write a few lines for me to Mr Amos Huntingdon'--he gave me your address--'and just tell him how I am. He will know me by the name of Orlando Vivian.' 'Shall I say anything more?' I asked. 'No,' he said; 'please, just say that, and leave it.'

So, dear sir, I have followed the poor gentleman's wishes. I call him a gentleman, for I think he must have been a gentleman once. Poor man! I fear he is dying, and cannot be here very long. At the same time, I feel it to be my duty to tell you that there is a bad fever raging in the town, and the place where he lives is anything but clean and healthy. And now I have only to ask your pardon for troubling you with this long letter, and to say that I shall be very happy to do anything for your friend, if such he is, that lies in my power, or to meet you at the Collingford station, should you think it right to come down and see him.--I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris."

It hardly need be said that this letter moved Amos deeply. What could be done? What was his duty? What was his sister's duty? He felt in perplexity, so he took the trouble and laid it out before Him who bids us cast on him every care. Then he betook himself to his aunt's room and read the letter to her. "What shall I do, dear aunt?" he asked.

"The question, I think, rather is," replied Miss Huntingdon, "What ought not your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it is her duty to go to her poor dying husband, forgive all if he shows himself really penitent, and be with him to the last."

"Such is my conviction too," said Amos sadly; "but I fear that Julia will not see her duty in the light in which we see it. May I call her, and just read the letter to her before you?"

"Yes, dear boy, if you like." So Amos repaired to the dining-room, where his sister and Walter were engaged in a brisk conversation.

"What's amiss with you now?" asked Walter, noticing the serious look on his brother's face. "You ought to be very bright this beautiful morning. Julia and I have been planning a nice little scheme for this afternoon. I am hoping, with the gamekeeper's help, to bag two or three brace of partridges before dinner-time. I can drive Julia to the gamekeeper's hut, and she can take a sketch or two while I am shooting.

The woods are looking beautiful now with their autumnal tints, and will give lovely little bits for a sketch. Won't you join us?"

"Well," replied Amos gravely, "it would be very nice; but just now I have a rather important matter I want to talk to Julia about, if she will just spare me a few minutes, and come with me to my aunt's room."

"Dear me! what can you want with _me_?" asked his sister, turning deep red and then very pale. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about anything dismal this delicious morning. Oh! don't look so serious, Amos; you are always in the dolefuls now. Why can't you be cheerful and jolly, like Walter?"

"I am sorry to trouble you," replied her brother, "but there is a cause just now. I shall not keep you long, and then you can return to your jollity if you will." These last words he uttered in a tone of reproach which touched her spite of herself.

She rose and followed him in silence to her aunt's room. When all were seated, Amos produced the Scripture reader's letter, and, expressing his deep sorrow to have to wound his sister, read it slowly out in a subdued voice. Julia sprang from her seat, and having s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from her brother's hand, read it through several times, her bosom heaving and her eyes flashing, and a few tears bursting forth now and then. "It's a hoax," she cried at last; "one of _his_ hoaxes. It can't be true."

"I fear it _is_ true," said Amos calmly. "To me the letter bears all the marks of truth.--Don't you think so, Aunt Kate?"

"Yes, surely," replied Miss Huntingdon sadly; "I cannot doubt its genuineness."

Julia then tossed the letter to her brother and sat down. "And what is it, then," she asked bitterly, and with knitted brows, "that you want me to do?"

"I think, dear Julia," said her aunt, "the real question is, What is it your duty to do?"

"Oh yes," she cried pa.s.sionately; "my duty! Duty's a very fine thing.

It's always 'duty, duty.' But there are two parties to duty: has _he_ done his duty? He has beaten me, starved me, cursed me--is that doing his duty? And now I am to go and nurse him in a vile fever-smitten hole, and lose my life, and so deprive my children of a mother, because it's my duty. I don't see it at all."

Both her hearers looked deeply distressed. Then Amos said, "Still he is your husband, and dying."

"Dying!" she exclaimed sneeringly; "not he--it's all pretence. If anything common could have killed him, such as kills other people, he would have been dead ages ago. But he isn't like other men; he has got a charmed life. He'll be all right again after a while."

"And you will not go to him?" asked Amos, calmly and sadly.

"No, certainly not," she cried indignantly. "I've suffered more than enough already for him and from him. Besides, if you talk of duty, it is surely my duty to think of the dear children, and not run the risk of bringing back the fever to them, supposing I should not be killed by it myself."

"Then," said her brother deliberately, "_I_ shall go."

"You, Amos!" exclaimed both his aunt and sister.

"Yes," he said; "my own duty is now plain to me. The poor man has let me know his case; he is my sister's husband, however unworthy a husband; he is dying, and may be eternally lost body and soul, and by going I may be made the means of helping on the good Scripture reader's work. The poor dying man's heart is softened just now, and it may be that when he hears the words of G.o.d's truth, and experiences kindness from one who has been treated by him as I have been, he may be led to seek and find pardon before he is taken away."

"But," said his aunt anxiously, "you will be running a great risk of catching the fever, and may lose your own health, and even your life."

"I know it," he said; "I have counted the cost; and should I be taken away, I shall merely have done my duty, and"--his voice trembled as he proceeded--"I shall be the one best spared and least missed in the household." As he uttered these last words, his sister, who had been gradually crouching down shiveringly on to the floor, clasped her hands over her face and wept bitterly, but she uttered no word. Then Amos turned to his aunt and said, "Will you, dear aunt, kindly explain to my father how matters are, and why I am gone?--Poor Julia!" he added, raising her up gently and kissing her forehead, "all may yet be well.

May I take him _one_ kind word from you?" She did not speak, but her bosom heaved convulsively. At last she said in a hoa.r.s.e, quivering whisper, "Yes, what you like; and--write and tell me if he is really dying." Then she rushed out of the room to her own chamber, but appeared at luncheon with all traces of emotion vanished from her features.

The squire was absent attending a business meeting in the neighbouring town, and nothing had yet been said to Walter on the subject of his brother's departure. That afternoon Amos set off for Collingford, and Walter and his sister on their shooting and sketching expedition, which proved a miserable failure, so far as any pleasure to Julia was concerned.

Collingford was nearly a day's journey from Flixworth Manor, so it was not till dark that Amos arrived at the town. He sought out at once the Scripture reader, and obtained full information as to the state of the poor sufferer. Could he obtain lodgings in the house where the sick man was? Mr Harris shook his head.

"I am not afraid either of poor accommodation or of infection," said Amos. "I am come to do a work, and am safe in the Lord's hands till it is done. He has sent me, and he will keep me."

The Scripture reader grasped him warmly by the hand. "You shall lodge in my house," he said, "if you can be satisfied with humble fare and my plain ways. I am not a married man, but I have a good old woman who looks after me, and she will look after you too, and you can come and go just as you please."

"I will take you at your word, my friend," said the other, "and will gladly pay for bed and board."