Sir Everard and Humphrey were shown into the drawing-room where were two ladies and some children.
Mrs. Colville came forward to receive them, and informed Sir Everard that her husband was confined to his room with a slight attack of gout.
Sir Everard immediately volunteered togo and see him. Mrs. Colville took him up-stairs, and Humphrey was left with the other lady.
"What is your name, dear?" she asked.
"I'm Humphrey Duncombe," he answered, seating himself by her side. "Who are you?"
"I'm Mrs. Colville's sister," she answered, smiling. "I suppose you don't remember me, but I have seen you before, at your grandmother's, at Banleigh. I live close by."
"I wonder if you could keep a secret?" said Humphrey eagerly.
"Yes, dear, I think so; but why? Have you got one to tell me?"
"A very great one. I've never had one before, and I don't like it at all. Imusttell some one, or else I shall be telling it to father, you know."
"But why not tell your father? Surely he would be the best person."
"Tell father! Mrs. Colville's sister? Why, he's just the very person who isn't to know."
"Mrs. Colville's sister" had been half afraid she was going to be made the confidante of some boyish escapade which the child had concealed from his father; but Humphrey's open face disarmed suspicion, and she listened attentively while he poured forth his tale.
It was necessary to listen attentively, for, in the first place, Humphrey was in such a hurry to get to his point, that he rather slurred over the necessary explanations; and, in the second place, he insisted on whispering it all in her ear, on account of the presence of the children.
He had just finished his story, and she was making solemn protestations of the strictest secrecy, when Mrs. Colville came back.
"You must not tell evenheryou know," concluded Humphrey; and, with a sigh of relief, he sat down again.
Mrs. Colville was one of those mothers who are always fancying other children are better dressed than their own. She was agreat copyist, and an unscrupulous borrower of patterns.
Virginie held her in abhorrence. She had once asked for the pattern of Miles's blouse, and Virginie had never forgotten or forgiven Sir Everard's ready acquiescence.
Mrs. Colville and her family came to the same church as the Duncombes, and it was almost more than Virginie could stand to see other children dressed like her young gentlemen.
Mrs. Colville—blinded, a little, like most mothers—did not see that what suited Humphrey and Miles, both exceedingly pretty children, did not have quite the same effect on her nice, but decidedly plain, little boys, and went steadily on. Whatever appeared on Humphrey's graceful figure one Sunday, was sure to be reproduced on some fat little Colville the next.
Men do not notice these things. Sir Everard was quite unaware of what went on, but, to Virginie, it was a constant source of annoyance.
"That'sa pretty suit," said Mrs. Colville examining Humphrey's clothes.
"Very," returned her sister; "they fit so well."
"Come here, Clement," said Mrs. Colville to a little boy in the distance; "there, don't you see, Mary, how differently his things set?"
Mary saw well enough, and saw too that it was figure and not clothes that made such a difference between the two boys, but she did not like to wound her sister's maternal vanity by saying so.
"Does your French bonne make your clothes, dear?" Mrs. Colville inquired of Humphrey.
"Not mine," he answered—"only Miles's. Mine," he added with great pride, "come from a London tailor's."
"Do you happen to remember his name?"
"Swears and Wells," answered Humphrey; "I went there once to see 'Gulliver.' I advise you to go and see him whenyou are in London. You can't think how jolly he is!"
"I suppose, of course, you don't remember the direction?" Of course Humphrey didn't.
"Stop a bit," he said, all of a sudden. "I've seen the direction written somewhere quite lately. WherecouldI have seen it? Why, since I've been in this room I've read it."
"Impossible, my dear child," said Mrs. Colville, laughing.
"But I havereally," getting up from his chair in his excitement; "I've seen the number and the name of the street written somewhere in this drawing-room."
"You must be dreaming, dear."
"No, I'm quite sure I did. Now wherecouldit have been? Did I go near the writing-table?" As he spoke, he advanced. "Or, stop, here are some cards. Did I see it written on a card?"
"No; I assure you Swears and Wells are not visitors of mine."
Humphrey was determined not to give it up, and in spite of the laughter of both ladies, he got up, went to the door, and made his entry all over again, that he might see what he could have passed on the way that might have had the direction on it.
He reflected out loud as he went along: "I came in here and passed the table (no, not on the books, or the work-basket, or the flower-stand). Then I stood by the piano a minute, while father was shaking hands with Mrs. Colville (no, not on the piano or the music). Then I shook hands with Mrs. Colville, then I sat down on the sofa by her sister, and put my hat by my side so—and——Oh!" he exclaimed, so suddenly that he startled both ladies, "here it is, written inside my hat!That'swhere I saw it—look! a little ticket: 'Swears and Wells, 192 Regent Street.'Ain'tyou glad, Mrs. Colville? Now you'll be able to find the shop. Hadn't you better write it down?"
He was heart and soul in the subject, and did not perceive the amusement he gave.
What would Virginie's feelings have been could she have seen the name, number and address, copied with great accuracy into Mrs. Colville's "Where is it?" and to make sure there should be no mistake, this memorandum added: "a suit such as was lately made for Sir E. Duncombe's little boy"?
This was just accomplished when Sir Everard came back.
"I'm afraid the General is in for a sharp attack, Mrs. Colville."
"I am afraid he is—he is so very imprudent. You know my sister, Sir Everard?"
Sir Everard advanced with a smile of recognition.
"Is it possible you are little Mary Wilberforce? I didn't recognize you just now, you are grown out of all recollection. To be sure, it is a long time since I saw you—three or four years, isn't it?"
Mary said something about it being a long time, but she did not like to particularize the date, though she remembered it perfectly: because Lady Duncombe had beenwith him at the time, and she was afraid of recalling painful associations.
"And when did you leave Banleigh?"
"About a week ago."
"How were my people?"
"I saw Lady Albinia and Miss Duncombe the day before I left. They were both very well."
A shy smile lighted up her face as she mentioned Miss Duncombe. There was evidently some joke about her, for it was reflected on Sir Everard's. "Poor old Cecilia," laughed he.
Miss Duncombe was a lady of limited intellect, and exceedingly young for her age; and everybody was at liberty to laugh at her. They talked on about her for some time, while Humphrey listened with all his might, and then Sir Everard took his leave.
"I'm better now," said Humphrey, as they rode along.
"What! were you not feeling well?" said Sir Everard, alarmed.
"Oh, yes; but I mean about my secret. What makes me feel better is, that I've told it to that lady—Mrs. Colville's sister."
"I don't believe you will ever keep that secret for ten days more. Do you know my birthday is not till Monday week?"
"Oh dear! oh dear! I thought it was much sooner than that. Let's be quick and talk of something else!"
"What shall we talk about? I am expecting two gentlemen down from London to-night, to spend Sunday; and I'm going to meet them at the station, as soon as I have taken you home to your tea. Will that do?"
"Yes, that will do. Are they nice gentlemen?"
"Yes, I think them so: but then tastes differ. Perhaps you won't."
"Old or young?"
"Well! one is a good deal older than me and——"
"White hair, thenof course?" put in Humphrey.
"Greyish, perhaps; and the other is about the age of your uncle Charlie."
"Will he tell us such nice stories about kangaroos and boar-hunting?"
"I should think probably not. The other one is more likely to tell you stories, as he has had little boys of his own."
"Miles and I know of a pond where the branch of a tree hangs over, just like the one in Uncle Charlie's story; and we are going to crawl along it some day, and look down at our faces in the water, like the man did."
"Now, Humphrey," said Sir Everard, "I won't have it done. The branch is quite rotten, and may break off any minute."
Humphrey looked very mournful. "Are you quite sure, father?"
"Quite sure; and I forbid you to do it. Do you hear?"
"Very well, father," with a sigh; "we won't crawl along, if you don't like it; but you won't mind our going to look at it? We've been prevented so many times, and we do so want to go there! If wepromisenot to climb, you won't say we're not to go,willyou?"
"Yes—once for all, I say you are not to go near the pond; and I trust to you, Humphrey, to obey me. Promise."
"It's agreatpity, father!"
"Never mind. I won't have Miles led into any more mischief."
Humphrey promised rather reluctantly adding to himself: "It's not much use makingmepromise anything, because I'msureto forget."
They rode on in silence for some time after this; and when Humphrey next spoke, it was on quite a different subject.
"I didn't know till to-day, father, that you didn't like Aunt Cecilia!"
"Whatdoyou mean, Humphrey?" said Sir Everard, horrified.
"You spoke as if you didn't much like her, to Mrs. Colville's sister."
"Why, what did I say?" said Sir Everard, hastily casting back his thoughts to the conversation.
"Well, you seemed to laugh at her a good deal."
"My dear child," said Sir Everard, relieved, "having a little joke about a person does not prove one does not like that person. I am very fond of your Aunt. It would be odd indeed if I did not like my only sister. Why, when I laugh at you and Miles, do you think I do not like you?"
It was a lame sentence, badly put together, and not expressing much. Sir Everard was not at all satisfied with it himself. He had got it up in such a hurry that he was not at all sure whether it was sense or not, and he was anxious to see if it would answer its purpose. Children are sometimes, however, very easily silenced; and Humphrey received the explanation with great respect.
The danger was past, for this time; but Sir Everard, inwardly resolved never to speak before the children again; and the anxieties of the evening before recurring at the same moment to his mind, he determined not to run any more risks.
So, on arriving at home, he sent up a private message to Virginie that he should not require either of the young gentlemen down-stairs that evening, though they might come to his dressing-room as usual.
Then, after transferring the precious parcel from his own to Humphrey's pocket, he wished the boy "good-bye," and went to meet his friends at the station.
The next day was Sunday, and a hopelessly wet one. Humphrey and Miles made great friends with their father's guests at breakfast—the former giving them the whole account of the aborigines' dinner-party and the birthday present.
As soon as breakfast was over, Sir Everard and one of his friends went into the library to look for a book they had been talking about, and the two little boys were left with the other gentleman.
Presently Virginie looked in. "M. Humphrey! M. Miles!"
Little Miles jumped up, and went to the door, but Humphrey took no notice.
"Je vous attends, M. Humphrey."
"I'm not coming," said Humphrey. "I'm going to stay and amuse this gentleman."
"Je reviendrai bientôt," said Virginie and she went away, with Miles.
"Is your nurse French?" enquired Colonel Sturt.
"Yes—she's French."
"Then why do you speak to her in English?"
"I never speak French on Sunday," answered Humphrey; "I don't think it's right."
"Not right! Why not?"
"Lessons are wrong on Sunday; and French is a sort of lessons—so French must be wrong too."
"Humphie," said little Miles, running in: "Virginie says youmustcome, or you'll be late for chairs."
"What does he mean?" asked Colonel Sturt.
"He means prayers," answered Humphrey; "he always calls them 'chairs' because he only sees the long rows beforewe begin, as he's too young to stay. I suppose, as it's so wet, we are not going to church."
"Oh, that's it—is it? Well I'm inclined to think you ought to go then, Humpty-Dumpty, or whatever it is he calls you."
The little boys thought this a capital joke.
"Why, Humpty-Dumpty was the man who sat on a wall!"
"Yes, and had a great fall—which is just what you'll do in a minute," said the Colonel to Humphrey, who had climbed up the back of his chair, and was sitting astride on the top.
"Humpty-Dumpty was an egg," said Humphrey. "Idon't break so easily. Come along, Miles." And he jumped down and ran off, followed by his brother, both singing:
"Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall,Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall."
"Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall,Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall."
"Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall,Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall."
"Humpty-Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall."
The echoes of their merry voices died away as they ran up-stairs, and the concluding words were not distinguishable.
Five minutes after, the gong sounded, and the servants filed into the library.
Humphrey was in his place by his father, Mr. Wemyss seated near, and everything ready. But Colonel Sturt had not appeared. Humphrey looked up anxiously at every sound.
Sir Everard concluded he did not mean to come, so he opened his book, and signed to one of the servants to shut the door. Humphrey's restless eyes followed his friend William's movements as he rose to obey. The next moment he was convulsed with laughter, and could scarcely restrain himself.
No one else seemed to see anything amusing, and Sir Everard began to read with his usual gravity; but Humphrey, though he got better as the service proceeded, did not dare glance towards the servants' end of the room, and had to keep his eyes fixed on his prayer-book, for fear they should be tempted to stray in that direction. What was it that had tickled the boy's fancy?
Only that just as William was closing the door, the missing gentleman had slipped quietly in and unconsciously seated himself in the footman's vacant place at the end of the long line of servants, where he remained during the rest of the service.
The sight of him there, combined with the expression of William's face at finding his place occupied, had at first completely upset Humphrey; but, after a time, the veneration for solemn things, which was so prominent a feature in his character, came to his help and he became engrossed in his responses.
The afternoon proving as wet as the morning, Sir Everard, for want of something better to do, showed his friends over the house. He had a few good pictures, and the ceiling of one of the upper rooms; was curiously painted; otherwise there was, not much to see.
Wandering about a thinly-inhabited house on a wet day is always rather depressing and it would have been a melancholybusiness, but for the children. But Humphrey and Miles chased each other along the passages, and made the unoccupied rooms ring with their merry voices. They were very anxious to do the honors of their own apartments, when, in due course, the nurseries were reached.
"This is my bed," proclaimed Humphrey and "Here is my bath," announced Miles.
"But what's this?" said Colonel Sturt, taking up an embroidered cigar-case that lay upon the table.
A shriek was the only answer.
Colonel Sturt nearly dropped the cigar-case in his consternation; Sir Everard turned hastily round; and Humphrey, snatching it up, rushed out of the room.
"What is the matter?" asked Sir Everard.
"It was the birthday present!" said little Miles, in an awe-struck whisper.
Sir Everard followed Humphrey to assure him he had not seen anything; which made matters rather worse, as he found him in the act of hiding it in Virginie's band-box, underher best Sunday bonnet. With some difficulty he reassured the boy, and brought him back.
"It was a near thing, though," observed Humphrey, with a sigh of relief.
Colonel Sturt was now almost afraid to remark on anything else; but a shilling concealed in a tooth-glass attracted his attention.
"Oh, that's my money," explained Humphrey, "that I am saving to buy old Dyson an ear-trumpet with. It was the only safe place I could find to keep it in."
"How much will it cost?" asked the Colonel.
"Seventeen shillings, I believe."
"And how much have you got?"
"Well, only that yet," answered the boy, pointing to the solitary shilling; "but then you know, I only began yesterday."
Colonel Sturt asked a good many questions about old Dyson, and then took half-a-sovereign from his pocket, and dropped it into the tooth-glass. "That's my contribution," said he.
Humphrey was too much excited by this unexpected munificence to make civil speeches; but his unfeigned surprise and delight were worth all the thanks in the world. He ran after his father to exhibit his treasure, and returned breathless.
"Only think!" he said to Colonel Sturt, "that other gentlemen has given me six shillings; so now I can buy the trumpet directly, and I thought it would be weeks and weeks before I got it!"
The children were now summoned to their tea, and told to wish the gentlemen "good-night," as they were not to come down to dinner.
But Humphrey first extorted a promise from Colonel Sturt, that he would go to the ear-trumpet shop the next day, the very minute he arrived in London, and have it sent off directly.
Sir Everard had nearly finished dressing that evening, when the door was thrown open, and both boys rushed into the room.
"There! take it father," said Humphreyholding out the cigar-case—"that's for you. That's your birthday present—the grand secret! It's no use our trying to keep it any longer, because wecan't!"
"Are you surprised, Fardie?" asked little Miles, clapping his hands, and Humphrey eagerly repeated the question.
Sir Everard could, with all truth, assure the children that he had never been so surprised in his life; for, as he did not smoke, certainly the very last present he would have expected was a cigar-case!
But his pleasure and gratitude were so well feigned, that the children went to bed highly delighted with the success of their birthday present.
"Good-bye, Humpty-Dumpty! The trumpet shall be at the station at five o'clock this afternoon without fail."
So spoke Colonel Sturt, as Sir Everard drove his two friends from the door the next morning.
Humphrey waved his hat in answer, and flew off to make arrangements with Virginie for going to the station to meet it. He had his father's leave for himself and Miles to go there with the coachman, and to be dropped afterwards at old Dyson's, where Virginie was to meet them, and bring them home.
Nothing could be more perfect! At about half-past four, the dog-cart drove up to the door, and off they went, followed by manyparting injunctions from Virginie as to getting in and out carefully, and sitting very still.
The trumpet was waiting at the station, and was safely delivered into their eager hands.
On the way to old Dyson's, Humphrey opened the parcel, and displayed the ear-trumpet to Miles.
Never had they seen so curious an article! It was composed of three tubes, each fitting into the next, and it lengthened or shortened at will.
Humphrey got very impatient to arrive, and tried to persuade the coachman to whip up the horse into a gallop; but steady old Peter didn't see it at all.
Humphrey then amused himself by lengthening out the tubes, and trumpeting loudly through them; causing the horse to start so violently, that little Miles was almost pitched out. Then, in shutting it up again, he dropped it into the road, and they had to wait while he got out and picked it up.
All this causing a delay, Peter was told on arriving at the cottage, that Virginie had already been there, but that, finding she was too soon, she had walked on to the village, and was to call again in a few minutes.
This information he gathered from a woman who was standing at the gate, and who assisted the children to alight.
Then, having deposited them safely, Peter drove off; and Humphrey, brandishing his trumpet, rushed down the little garden, and beat a thundering tattoo on old Dyson's door. But, loud as it was, it did not make any impression on the deaf old man, who was sitting in his arm-chair, indulging in an afternoon nap.
One minute Humphrey waited, and then his patience gave way. He raised the latch, and the two children entered the cottage.
"He's asleep," whispered Miles.
"You must go and give him a little shake," said Humphrey.
Miles advanced timidly. He didn't muchlike the job, but disobedience to Humphrey was a thing he never dreamt of.
Humphrey hid the trumpet behind him, and waited eagerly.
Miles's gentle shake produced no effect at all; Dyson only smiled pleasantly in his sleep.
"Shake his hand," said Humphrey.
Miles looked doubtfully at the horny hand lying on the arm of the chair, and flushed a little as he put his tiny fingers upon it. But the old man did not move.
"Harder!" cried Humphrey.
Miles exerted himself to the utmost, and succeeded better, for the old man turned over to one side of his chair, and lifted his head a little.
Miles retreated a few steps. But it was a false alarm, for old Dyson's head fell forward again.
"You must jump on his knee, Miles."
The pretty little face lengthened considerably.
"Oh, Humphie! must I really?"
"Why not?"
"Don't much like it, Humphie."
"What! afraid of poor old Dyson! Never mind, I'll do it."
And, putting the trumpet on the floor, Humphrey sprang upon the old man, and shook him so vigorously that he woke in a fright; but when he saw his little visitors, he sat down again with a smile, saying, "Aye, aye, Mamselle said I was to expect you; and how are ye to-day, my pretty dears?"
"Quite well, thank you," said Miles, drawing nearer.
Dyson put his hand behind his ear: "I don't hear what you say," he said, rather sadly; "I'm an old man, and I'm getting deafer every day."
Humphrey chuckled with delight, and Miles looked up smiling.
"He'll hear soon, won't he, Humphie?"
"Dyson!" shouted Humphrey, backing a few steps and beckoning, "come here."
The unsuspecting old man rose andadvanced. The boy was watching his opportunity, and directly he was near enough Humphrey snatched up the trumpet, and putting it up, shouted such a "How are you?" into the old man's ear, that the shock caused Dyson to bound into the air, and then fall backwards with such force, that if he had not providentially fallen into his chair, he might never have survived to tell the tale. And there he remained, sputtering and panting, shaking his head about, as if he felt he would never get rid of the vibration.
The two little boys stood aghast. As good luck would have it, the woman who had met them at the gate was of an inquisitive disposition; and wondering what was going on in the cottage, she had for some time been peeping in at the window.
She understood at once the position of affairs, and came hastily in.
Raising the old man from his chair, she explained to him what had happened. It was some minutes before he understood, for he was bewildered and alarmed: but hetook it in at last, and the children had the satisfaction of receiving his thanks, and assurances that he was by no means ungrateful for their present.
Then the woman spoke gently to him through the trumpet, and his look of pleasure at hearing so clearly, and his "Well! to be sure!" was a great delight to the two little boys.
When Dyson had got accustomed to the sound, he declared himself willing for Humphrey to try again, but the woman suggested that Miles's voice was the softest, to which Humphrey agreed.
Miles took up the trumpet, and his gentle "I'm so sorry Humphie made you jump," was whispered so quietly, that Dyson only just caught the sound.
Then the old man held it out to Humphrey, who, not expecting it, had not got anything to say. So no sooner had he put his lips to it than he went off into such fits of laughter, that Dyson hastily removed the trumpet, and began to rub his ear, "Aye,but it does tickle so." This made Humphrey laugh more, and the woman advised his abandoning the attempt for that day.
By this time, however, Dyson had got so pleased with his new accomplishment, that he declared it his intention to go and pay some visits in the village, saying it was several years since he had had a good chat with his neighbors.
But they all went, the old man hurrying on at a great rate, so eager was he to show off his newly-recovered powers.
The first person they met was Virginie, and Dyson said he must have a word with "Mamselle."
Humphrey was in an excited state, ready for anything; so while Virginie was talking, he called Miles, and told him he thought it would be a capital evening for the pond where the water-lilies grew. There was a stile at the side of the road, which he knew to be a short cut to the pond, and he had no doubt they would be able to find their way.
No recollection of his promise to his father troubled his conscience; and as they were not going to climb the tree, even Virginie could not object!
So he helped his little brother over the stile, and then they both ran with all their might.
Meanwhile Virginie, talking affably through the trumpet, in the high road, did not notice that they had disappeared.
There was an unusual stir in the quiet household of Wareham Abbey that evening; for at nearly eight o'clock the two little boys had not returned home.
Virginie had not been very much concerned at their absence during the first few hours, as they very often ran on before her, and then betook themselves to some of their favorite haunts.
But when tea-time came and passed, she got uneasy, and went to look for them. Her uneasiness changed to alarm when she had visited in vain the dairy, laundry, swing, gardens, and dog-kennel. Then, when it came on to rain, her anxiety increased; and when from drizzling it changed to a steady down-pour her "nerves" gave waycompletely, and she returned home to consult with the other servants as to what steps had best be taken.
She went into the housekeeper's room, wringing her hands, and prognosticating all sorts of evils to Miles. "Never, never, would he recover from the effects of such a wetting!"
The gardener was dispatched one way and the coachman another, bearing umbrellas and galoshes.
The two little culprits were soon discovered sitting in a damp ditch, sheltering themselves under a hedge.
Humphrey took great credit to himself for having hit upon this plan.
"The fact was," he said, "the pond and the water-lilies had been so engrossing, that he had forgotten all about the time till he saw the sun beginning to sink; then starting off in a great hurry, they had taken the wrong turning out of the field, and lost their way in the wood."
They were wandering on in the wrongdirection, when they met a boy, who had pointed out their mistake, and brought them back to the high road. Here Humphrey had suddenly recollected that rain was apt to give his little brother cold, and with great pride in his own forethought had established him, dripping wet as he already was, under the hedge where they had been sitting for about half an hour before the coachman found them.
It was no use Virginie venting her wrath upon Humphrey. All that could be done now, was to get Miles into bed as quickly as could be, and ward off ill effects if possible.
But the mischief was done. Miles tossed about all night, and woke next morning with an oppression on his chest, which was always with him the forerunner of an attack on the lungs.
The doctor came to see him, and ordered him to be kept in bed.
Humphrey spent the morning with his little brother, but was dismissed at last, as talking only made Miles cough.
In the afternoon Miles got worse, and Virginie sent off again for the doctor.
Humphrey kept out of her way, feeling that he was in disgrace, and went out into the garden. He felt dull and solitary without his little brother, but, childlike, he had not begun to be anxious, for Miles had often been ill before, and had always got well again. Still there was no fun in anything without him, no exploit any satisfaction without his applause. Humphrey betook himself at last to the little gardens, where he had a friend in the person of Dolly, the laundry-maid. The gardens were close to the laundry, and often, when she was ironing at the window, Dolly had watched the children at their play, and overheard their long conversations. She was perhaps the only person who had seen Humphrey in his serious moods. Unknown to him, she had witnessed one of his rare bursts of feeling at the time of his mother's death, and after that, had ever been one of his staunchest supporters. She could never forget howthe little fellow had sobbed over the mustard and cress he had sown for his mother and which had come up too late!
The weather had been dry for some time previously, and it had shown no sign of coming up. Every day he had visited it, that he might cut it for her to eat with her afternoon tea; but every visit had been in vain. Then, on that sad day, when the funeral train had borne away all that remained of her, he had come to his garden in his restless longing to escape from his sorrow, and the first thing that had met his eye was the green A. D. mocking him with its freshness and luxuriance.
"It's no use now," Dolly had heard him sob; "I wish it had never come up!"
This was the very day he had been chasing the young lambs in the meadow, while his father watched him from the window and this was how it had ended.
Humphrey found a good deal to do in his garden, and worked away busily for sometime; he then assisted Dolly to turn the mangle, and bottled some soap-suds for future bubble blowing. He also informed her of the honor in store for her at the Harvest Home, and anxiously asked her what gown she meant to wear on the occasion. She must be very smart, he said,awfullysmart! Dolly confided her intention of investing in a new print dress, and consulted him as to the color.
Casting his thoughts back to the smartest thing he had lately seen, they reverted to the cigar-case, and he suggested crimson and gold.
Dolly looked rather scared, and expressed her doubts as to the probability of those colors being found in any print sold in the village.
"Yellow woulddo, you know," said Humphrey, "and it would be like the corn."
So Dolly promised to try and procure a yellow print, with a red stripe or spot; and, if that were impossible, a plain yellow one could no doubt be found.
Time slipped by very quickly, but still Humphrey rather wondered at last that no one should call him in to his tea; and after a while he put his tools away, and wished Dolly good-bye.
He gathered a few young radishes for a treat for Miles, and then ran home.
He was surprised to find the nursery door locked, and began to kick it.
"Miles!" he called out, "I've brought you some radishes. Ouvrez, Virginie, c'est moi!"
The door was opened with an angry jerk, and Virginie flounced into the passage.
Humphrey saw at a glance that she was in one of what he and Miles called "her states," but whether it was of anger or alarm, he could not at first make out. It was always a bad sign when her face was enveloped in flannel, as was now the case. Virginie always tied up her face on the smallest provocation, though to what end the children had never discovered. But anyhow, she was sure to be out of temperwhen she did so, and Humphrey waited rather anxiously to hear what she had to say.
She burst into a voluble flow of talk, which, owing to her excitement, the boy found it difficult to follow. He managed however, to gather that Miles was very, very ill, that the doctor was very much alarmed about him; that it was all his (Humphrey's) fault; that he had woke Miles by kicking at the door just as she had hoped he was going to get some sleep; that he was to go away and keep away, and that everybody, including the doctor, was very angry with him.
Then she retreated into the room, and shut the door, leaving him standing in the passage, with his bunch of radishes in his hand.
All the light faded out of Humphrey's face, as he tried to think over what he had just heard.
"Miles so ill that the doctor was frightened."
That was the most prominent idea at first, and in his dread and apprehension, Humphrey hardly dared move.
Sometimes he put his eye to the keyhole, to see if he could discover what was going on in the room, and then, lying down on the door-mat, he listened with all his might.
The silence within, only broken by whispering voices, frightened him, and his heart began to beat loudly.
If only the child could have looked into the room and seen his little brother lying in bed half asleep, and Virginie putting a linseed poultice on his chest, or whispering to Jane to bring her his cooling-draught, his fears would have vanished.
But it is ever so with sudden illness. Those who are kept in the dark always have the worst of it; for mystery and suspense are, like anticipation, always worse than reality. Imagination runs riot, and brings great suffering to the outsiders. How much are children to be pitied on these occasions! Everyone's thoughts arenecessarily with the invalid, and no one has time to bestow a word on the poor little trembling things standing outside the sick-room. They feel they are useless, and considered in the way; and do not dare make inquiries of the maids who run in and out of the room—with important faces, who probably could not stop to answer even if they did; and so are left to magnify every sound into some terrible significance, which probably has no foundation but in their own disordered fancies.
There is terror in whispering voices, agony in the sharp ringing of a bell, mystery even in the calling for spoons and glasses, and their jingling as they are handed in.
All this, and more, was experienced by little Humphrey Duncombe. I saymore, because his fears were not those of ordinary children. The dread I have been describing is for the most part a nameless dread; the children know not why they fear, nor what; it is all vague and undefined, because they have no experience of sorrow.
But remember that this child was no stranger to sickness and death; that into his little life they had already entered; that the grim visitor had swept through the walls of his home, and left it very empty. What had happened once, might happen again. So he gave it all up at once, "Miles was dying! perhaps already dead!"
A child of Humphrey's disposition suffers intensely when face to face with sorrow. Granted that the power of being easily distracted is a mitigation, it does not alter the feelingfor the time. Life, past and future, is grafted into the misery of the present, and existence itself is a blank.
He was so tender-hearted, too, poor little fellow! so remorseful for his errors, so sensitive to an unkind word. Yet, as we have seen, with all this, he was so heedless, thoughtless, and volatile, that no one could give him credit for any depth of feeling; and even his father (though he would not have had it otherwise, though he rejoiced that he should have the capability of turninginto enjoyment, both for himself and Miles every event of their lonely child-life) had marvelled at him, and had more than once said to himself, "The boy has no heart!"
No heart! why, as we see him there in the passage, his poor little heart is filled to bursting.
Stung by Virginie's harsh words, wrung with fear for his little brother, alarmed as much for his father's grief as his father's anger, and remorseful at the thought of his own broken promise, Humphrey sank down on the ground, and cried as if his heart would break.
In addition to the grief, it was such a dreadful feeling, that, in a trouble like this, no one cared to help him; that he was looked upon as the cause of it all; that his hand seemed against every man, and every man's hand against him.
His sorrow must be greater than theirs, he reflected. Was not Miles more to him than to Virginie? And yet they left him—sobbing and crying—unheeded.
Lying there, crouched up by the door such an awful sense of loneliness came down upon the boy's soul. In the hour of his trouble he needed pity so much, and no one gave it to him.
Then there arose in his heart such a terrible longing for his mother; such a yearning, that would not be quieted, for all that he had had, and all that he had lost; such an overwhelming sense of the void in his life, that he could not bear it, and he started to his feet with a sob which was almost a cry.
This feelingmustgo, he could not bear it, and he fought with it with desperation; for it was an old enemy, one with whom he had often wrestled in desperate conflict before, and upon whose attacks he always looked back with horror. Deep down in his heart it had its being, but it was only every now and then that it rose up to trouble him.
Of late it had assailed him much less, its attacks had been weaker, and occurring atmuch longer intervals. Why has it risen with such relentless force now? How is he to resist it? How is he to fight with it? This blank, empty feeling, how is he to drive it away?
He tried to think of his garden, of his games, and of all the things which constituted the joy of his young existence.
Children of a larger growth, but children in understanding still, do not many of us wrestle with this undefined feeling in the same way? This mysterious thing, which we, with our maturer experience, call sorrow, is not our first thought when it assails us, "How shall we drive it away?" Call it grief, despair, disappointment, anxiety, care—call it what you will, do we not try to drown it in change of thought of some kind? Does it not drive the rich to society, traveling, or excitement, and the poor to the public-house?
Here were the passages where he had romped with Miles; here were the stairs down which he had jumped that verymorning, and the balustrades down which he had slid; why did they look so different?
God help him! the emptiness in his heart was so great, that it was repeating itself on all around. There was no help to be got from the feeling of his recent happiness in the old house. Never had it seemed so dreary; never had he realized before what an empty house it was, occupied only in one corner by a nurse and two little boys.
There was no sound, no life anywhere; the twilight was creeping over the silent hall and staircase, and he knew it was deepening in the uninhabited rooms below. And then, as if to mock him with the contrast, came before him so vivid a recollection of life with his mother in the house; of her voice and her laugh upon that staircase; of her presence in those rooms; so clear and distinct a vision of her soft eyes and gentle smile, that the motherless child could bear it no longer, and covering his face with his hands to shut out the sight of the emptiness, he fled away down the passage, asif he thought to leave the desolation behind.
But the emptiness was with him as he went; all down the stairs and through the hall it pursued him; it gained upon him as he stood with his hand upon the drawing-room door; it preceded him into the darkened room, and was waiting for him when he entered.
The light that came in through the chinks of the shutters was very faint, but his longing eye sought the picture, and he could just distinguish the sweet face and the smiling babe in her arms.
He ran forward, and threw himself on the sofa beneath it.
"Mother!" he sobbed, "I want you back so much! Every one is angry with me, and I am so very miserable!"
Cold, blank silence all around; mother and child smiled on, unconscious of his words; even as he gazed the light faded away from the picture, and he was left alone in the gathering darkness!
In vain he tried to fancy himself once more the child in the picture; in vain he tried to fancy he felt her arms around him, and her shoulder against his head. It would not do! In fits of passion or disobedience he had come here, and the memory of his mother had soothed him, and sent him away penitent; but in this dreadful sense of loneliness he wanted comfort, and of comfort he found none.
* * * * *
Yet was there comfort near, if he would but ask for it, and of the very kind he wanted: "As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you." He knew it not; he cried not for it. He was not ignorant of God's omnipresence; in ordinary times the boy believed with a child's simple faith that God was always near him, but in the hour of his trouble he was incapable of deriving any comfort from the knowledge, incapable of any thought but his own sorrow.
Children of a larger growth, but children in understanding still, do not many of us, inspite of our maturer experience, do likewise? "There is no help," we say; "our trouble is greater than we can bear." We lie like the child, crushed and despairing, and God, who at other times we feel to be so near, seems hidden from us altogether.
But thank God it is onlyseems, notis. He is unchangeable, and unaffected by our changeability. Hidden, it may be, by the cloud we have ourselves raised, the dark cloud of hopelessness, He is still there, the Same whose presence we realise so fully in happier moments. "He," says a writer of the present century, "is immutable, unchangeable, while we are different every hour. What He is in Himself, the great unalterable I Am, not what we in this or that moment feel Him to be,thatis our hope."
The comfort, then, for us and for the stricken child is, that though we may not at such times do our part, He is ever ready to do His; and it would almost seem as if He were providing for this state of feelingwhen he says, "Beforethey call, I will answer." But whatcouldbe done for the child in the terrible hour of his trouble?Weknow not, but God knew. The little heart was open before Him, and He knew that his sorrow would flee at morning light, and that he only wanted comfort for the present moment. So, looking pityingly down upon the lonely child, He sent him the only thing that could help him—laid gently upon his heavy eyelids the only gift that could do him any good—giving him the peace of unconsciousness till the hour of sorrow and sighing should pass away!
There one of the maids found him an hour or so later, and carried him up to bed without waking him.
Humphrey slept late the next morning, and the sun was streaming on his face when he awoke.
He sprang out of bed with an exclamation of delight at seeing such a fine day, and then started back in surprise at finding himself in a strange room.
Recollections of last night were beginning to steal over him, when the door opened, and Jane came in.
"At last! Master Humphrey. Why I thought you were never going to wake up! Master Miles has been asking for you for ever so long!"
"Then he's better, is he?" said Humphrey, eagerly.
"Better!" exclaimed Jane, in a sprightly tone; "why bless you, he's quite well."
Jane had been the one to find Humphrey in the drawing-room the night before, and had guessed by his tear-stained face how it had been.
She was not equivocating; Miles had taken a turn for the better in the night, and there was no further anxiety about him.
Humphrey's spirits rose immediately to their usual height; he dressed himself in a great hurry, and soon the two little brothers were together again.
Humphrey did not allude to his troubles of the evening before. Perhaps he had already forgotten them; or if they did recur to his memory, it was with a dull, dead sense of pain which he had no wish to call into life again.
His was a nature that was only too glad to escape from such recollections. His buoyant spirits and volatile disposition helped him to throw off sad memories, and never had he been gayer or wilder than onthis morning, as he laughed and talked, and played by his brother's bedside.
It was a glorious day, Miles was nearly well, his father was coming (in obedience to Virginie's letter), and life seemed to him one flood of sunshine.
Virginie, however, still shaky from her late anxiety, and with her head ominously tied up with flannel, looked grimly on his mirth. She did not understand the boy: how should she? She was feeling very sore with him for having caused all this trouble; she was, of course, ignorant of what he had suffered, and she looked upon his noisy merriment as only another proof of his usual heartlessness.
Humphrey was not in the room when his father arrived, having gone out for a run in the garden; so Virginie had no check in pouring out her complaint.
Sir Everard was startled at the effect the short illness had had upon Miles, and listened more patiently than usual.
The delicate child looked so much likehis mother as he lay in bed, with his flushed cheeks and lustrous eyes, that the vague fear about him, that almost always haunted the father, took a more definite shape.
Certainly Virginie's account of Humphrey's disobedience was not calculated to soften him towards the boy, and he really felt more angry with him than he had ever done before.
Little Miles was particularly engaging that day, so delighted to see his father, and so caressing in his ways, that Humphrey's want of heart seemed to stand out in sharper contrast. Sir Everard could not tear himself away from the little fellow for some time, and the more coaxing the child was, the more painfully came home to the father the thought of having so nearly lost him.
On descending from the nursery, Sir Everard went into the library, and ringing the bell, desired that Master Duncombe should be sent to him immediately.
"I don't suppose I shall make any impression upon him," he said to himself while hewaited, "but I must try." He never expected much of Humphrey, but he was hardly prepared for the boisterous opening of the door, and the gay aspect of the boy as he bounded into the room.
Sir Everard was, as we have seen, always loth to scold or punish either of his motherless children, and when it must be done, he schooled himself to do it from a sense of duty. But the bold, and, as it seemed to him, defiant way in which the boy presented himself, fairly angered him, and it was in a tone of no forced displeasure that he exclaimed, "What do you mean, sir, by coming into the room like that?"
Now Humphrey had been busy working in his garden when his father's message had reached him, in happy forgetfulness of his recent conduct and his brother's recent danger.
In the excitement of hearing of his father's arrival, he had overlooked the probability of his displeasure; and it was with unfeigned astonishment that he heard himself thusgreeted. His wondering expression only irritated his father the more.
"Don't stand there, looking as if you thought you had done nothing wrong," he exclaimed testily; "do you think you are to lead your poor little brother into danger, and make him ill, and then not to be found fault with? Don't you know that you have disobeyed me, and broken your promise? Did I not forbid you to go near that pond? I tell you I won't have it, and you shall go to school if you can't behave better at home. Do you hear me, sir? what do you mean by behaving in this way?"
Humphrey understood now. His lips quivered, and his cheek flushed at hearing himself so sternly spoken to, and he dared not attempt to answer, lest he should disgrace himself by tears.
Sir Everard's anger soon evaporated.
"You see, Humphrey," he went on more gently, "it is always the same thing. Day after day and week after week I have the same complaints of you. I should havethought you were old enough now to remember that Miles is very delicate, and that you would have taken care of him, instead of leading him into mischief. Do you know," he concluded, suddenly dropping his voice, "that we have very nearly lost your little brother?"
To Sir Everard's surprise, Humphrey burst into a passion of tears. The words brought back to him the suffering of last night with a sharp pang, and his whole frame shook with sobs.
Sir Everard was instantly melted. Like most men, the sight of tears had a magical effect upon him; and he took the child on his knee, and tried to comfort him.
"There, there," he said soothingly, as he stroked the curly head, "that will do; I must not expect old heads on young shoulders; but you must try and remember what I tell you, and not disobey me any more. And now give me a kiss, and run out, and have a game of cricket."
Humphrey lifted up his tear-stained faceand gladly received the kiss of forgiveness.
A few minutes after he was playing single wicket in the field with the footman, without a trace of sorrow on his countenance or a sad thought in his heart.
But Sir Everard remained in the library, perturbed and uneasy. Miles's fragile appearance had made him nervous, and he was thinking how easily any little chill might bring on inflammation again. He was well versed in all the sudden relapses and as sudden improvements of delicate lungs. Had he not watched them hour by hour? Did he not know every step? It was an attack like this that had preceded his wife's slow fading. Daily had he watched the flush deepen and the features sharpen on a face which was so like the little face up-stairs, that, as he thought of them both, he could hardly separate the two.
Something must be done to prevent the recurrence of any risks for Miles. But what? It was clear that Humphrey wasnot to be trusted; and yet Sir Everard could not bear to spoil the children's fun by separating them, or by letting Virginie mount in too strict guard over them. She was a nervous woman, and too apt to think everything they did had danger in it.
"Boys must amuse themselves," he reflected; "and at Humphrey's age it is natural they should do extraordinary things. I don't want to make him a muff." Involuntarily he smiled at the idea of Humphrey being a muff. "How easily Miles might have fallen into that horrid pond! The slightest push from Humphrey, who never looks where he is going, would have sent him in. Would he ever have recovered the effects of a wholesale soaking? However," he concluded, half out loud, as he rose to return to the nursery, "the session is nearly over, and I shall be down here, and able to look after them myself. And meanwhile I shall remain on for a day or two, till Miles is quite well again."