It was a pleasant little holiday that Sir Everard spent with his children during the days that followed; and often in after years did he look back upon it with a tender regret.
Miles's health improved steadily, and in a little while he was allowed to be carried in the afternoon to his father's dressing-room where, nestled in a huge arm-chair, with his father and Humphrey sitting by, he passed some very happy hours. Sometimes they played games, or else Sir Everard would read out loud from a book of fairy tales he had brought from London. One evening he read a story which greatly delighted both little boys. It was about a wonderful mirror, which had the power of showing to itsowner what any of his absent friends might be doing at the moment he was looking into it.
"Oh, how IwishI could have such a mirror!" said Humphrey, very earnestly.
"How I wish I could!" echoed Miles.
"Do you?" said Sir Everard; "I wonder why."
Humphrey did not answer; he was gazing out of the window in deep thought.
"Who would you look for, my little man?" asked Sir Everard of Miles.
"I should look for you, dear Fardie."
"But I am here, darling."
"Not always," said Miles, laying his little hand caressingly on Sir Everard's. "When you are away in London, I should like to look in and see what you are doing."
It was by these engaging little words and ways, that Miles had wound himself so closely round his father's heart.
"So you would like to see me when I am away," he said, stroking the child's hand, "do you miss me when I'm not with you?"
"So much, Fardie; I wish you would never go. Humphie, don't we miss Fardie dreadfully when he's away, and wish he would never go?"
Sir Everard glanced at his elder boy, as if hoping to hear him confirm his little brother's words, but Humphrey was still looking thoughtfully up, out of the window, and took no notice.
"What is he thinking about?" whispered Sir Everard to Miles.
"I don't know," said Miles, softly; "perhaps he's wishing very hard for a mirror."
Whatever the boy was wishing for, it must have been something which he felt he could never have, for the brown eyes were full of tears as they gazed up into the blue sky.
"Wait a minute," breathed Miles, "he'll say how we miss you, when he's done thinking; often, when he's thinking, he doesn't answer me till he's quite done what he's thinking about."
With the tears still standing in them, theeyes suddenly sparkled with a new feeling, and Humphrey sprang to the window, exclaiming,—
"A hawk! I do declare; and he'll have the sparrow in a minute!"
Sir Everard looked disappointed, and drew Miles closer to him.
"He's not thinking about us, is he, darling?"
"Eh!" exclaimed Humphrey, starting, "were you speaking to me? What did you say, Miles?"
"It was about the glass, Humphie; I said we should like so much to see what Fardie is doing in London sometimes."
"Oh, wouldn't it be fun!" said Humphrey, seating himself by his brother; "sometimes we should see him in his club, and sometimes in a Hansom cab, and sometimes we should see you making a speech in the House of Parliament, shouldn't we, father, with your arm out, and a great sheet all round you, like the statue of Mr. Pitt down-stairs?"
Sir Everard laughed.
"Not very often," I think.
"How should we see you, Fardie?"
"I'm afraid, if you looked late in the evening, you would often see meso," he answered, folding his arms, and shutting his eyes.
"What, asleep!" exclaimed the children.
"Fast asleep," returned their father.
"Isn't the Queen very angry with you?" inquired Miles.
"The Queen is generally asleep herself at such hours."
"What! in the House of Parliament?"
"No; but in one or other of her palaces."
"But she isn't always asleep at night," said Humphrey, in a superior tone; "sometimes she sits up very late, and has a ball. I know a picture of her giving a ball, in the old book of prints down-stairs."
The volume in question bore the date of 1710, and the engraving represented the court of Queen Anne, but it was all the same to Humphrey.
"Do you ever go to the Queen's ball Fardie?" inquired Miles.
"Yes, dear, I have been, but not for a long time."
"Father's too old for balls now," observed Humphrey. "Ain't you, father?"
"My dancing days are over, yes," said Sir Everard, absently. He was thinking how lovely his wife had looked at the last court ball he had been to.
"Do they dance 'Up the middle and down again,' Fardie?"
"No," answered Sir Everard, smiling, "quadrilles and valses mostly."
"I suppose when you were young and went to balls, they used to dance the minuet?" said Humphrey. "Used you to wear a pig-tail, father?"
"Upon my word!" said Sir Everard, "why, how old do you think I am?"
The children had no idea, and amused themselves for the next ten minutes by trying to guess, their conjectures varying between sixty and ninety.
"Will you come for a run, father?" said Humphrey, presently.
"It's a little hot for running, isn't it?" answered Sir Everard; "but if you are tired of being indoors, you can go in the garden, and I will join you in about an hour."
"We might go to the village, mightn't we, and spend my pennies? Dyson's got his trumpet, so there's nothing to save for, and I should like to spend them."
"Very well: where shall I find you?"
"I shall be feeding my jackdaw, or working in my garden; or, perhaps," after a moment's reflection, "I might be sitting at the top of the apple tree, or running along the kitchen garden wall. But if you don't find me in any of those places, look in the hen-house. I might be getting an egg there for Miles' tea."
"But isn't the hen-house kept locked?"
"Oh, yes, but that doesn't matter a bit. I always squeeze myself through the hen's little trap door."
"You don't expect me to do the same, I hope?"
Humphrey's sense of the ridiculous wastickled by the idea of his father's tall form struggling through the little hole of a few inches wide; and his merry laugh echoed through the room.
"What fun it would be!" he exclaimed, "you'd stick in the middle, and not be able to get in or out. How you would kick!"
Little Miles laughed till he coughed, and Sir Everard was obliged to dismiss Humphrey to the garden.
Humphrey was not engaged in any of the employments he had mentioned when his father joined him an hour later. He was standing gazing thoughtfully at the lame jackdaw hopping about on his wooden leg.
"What a funny boy you are," said his father, laying a hand on his shoulder. "I do believe you care more for that ugly old jackdaw than for anything else that you have. He always seems to me the most uninteresting of creatures and I'm sure he is very ungrateful, for the kinder you are to him the crosser he gets."
"Yes, he's very cross, poor old fellow!" said Humphrey. "Look!" holding out his hand, which bore unmistakable evidence of a bird's beak, "how he's pecked me. He always does whenever I feed him."
"I should almost be inclined not to feed him then."
"I couldn't let him starve, you know. Besides, I don't wonder he's cross. It's enough to make any one angry to be always hopping about in one little place, instead of having the whole world to fly about in. And if it wasn't for me," he added, half to himself, "he would be flying about now."
Sir Everard did not catch the last words, but the boy's face reminded him that he had touched on a painful subject, and he hastened to change it by proposing they should start for the village.
Humphrey brightened up directly, and was soon talking as gaily as usual. The painfulness of the subject consisted in this.
One day, Humphrey and Miles were amusing themselves in their gardens, whenthe jackdaw, then young and active, came flying past.
Humphrey without the slightest idea of touching it, flung a stone at it, exclaiming, "Get away, old fellow!"
But so unerring was his aim, that the stone struck the bird on the wing, and brought it struggling and fluttering to the ground.
Dolly, the laundry-maid, was close at hand, and she never forgot Humphrey's burst of grief and remorse, when, on picking up the jackdaw, they found both leg and wing broken. That a living creature should be deprived of its powers by his means was more than the tender-hearted child could bear, and for a long while he was inconsolable.
In due time the bird had been supplied with a wooden leg through Dolly, by whom it had ever since been carefully tended, but its life, in Humphrey's eyes, was over; and he never passed the cage without a pang. He seldom spoke of it, it was too sore asubject; but his attention to the lame bird had from that day to this never relaxed for an instant.
On the way to the village, Sir Everard questioned him on his progress with his lessons.
Humphrey always gave a capital account of himself; reading, writing, French, everything, according to him, was going on as swimmingly as possible.
Sir Everard's faith in these reports had been rather shaken since the memorable occasion when, relying on Humphrey's confident assertion, that he now knew the auxiliary verbs perfectly, he had, with a father's pride, called upon him suddenly to repeat the verb "avoir" to his grandmother. She was a lady of the old school, and a great stickler for early education: and he had been rather nettled by an observation that had dropped from her, to the effect that Humphrey was rather backward.
"Indeed, mother," he had answered, "I think few boys of his age know so much ofFrench. He speaks it perfectly, and is well grounded in the grammar."
To prove which, Humphrey had been called out of the garden, and, to his father's dismay, had conjugated the first tense of the verb in the following manner:—
J'aiTu asIl aNous sommesVous étesIls sont.
J'aiTu asIl aNous sommesVous étesIls sont.
Conversation did not flag for a moment as they walked along.
On the subject of history, Humphrey not only professed to be, but was, well informed. It gave food to his imagination, and he delighted in it. Sir Everard felt quite brushed up in the early parts of history before they reached the village, and Humphrey himself was so taken up with his subject, that he readily agreed to give up his expedition to the shop, so that they might extend their walk by returning home another way.
"We shall pass little lame Tom, anyhow," he said, "and I can give my pennies to him instead."
Lame Tom was a little cripple, who sat all day long in a little wooden chair, and was an object of great commiseration to Humphrey. A creature who had never known what it was to walk, run, or climb, and had to sit still in a chair from year's end to year's end! How keenly such a condition appealed to the pity of such a nature as Humphrey's!
He gave him his pennies as he passed, and then resumed his conversation with his father.
It was nearly dinner-time when they reached home, and Miles was eagerly waiting for his game of "Spelicans" with Sir Everard. He was, however, never quite happy unless Humphrey was included in his amusements, if he happened to be present: so after a time "Spelicans" was changed to "Old Maid," a game of which both boys were particularly fond.
No "lady of a certain age" could have shown more eagerness to get rid of the fatal Queen than did the two little brothers, and they played as if their whole future depended upon it.
Great was their delight and exultation when, at the end of the game, they found they had both escaped the fate of single blessedness; and, with great clapping of hands and other demonstrations of triumph, Sir Everard was informed that he "would be an old maid."
It was a lovely day, real harvest weather, when Sir Everard Duncombe and his two little boys took their way to the corn-field to see the new machine at work.
Sir Everard was going up to town that evening, but it was for the last time; and then, to the children's delight, he had promised to come down for good, and had settled that the Harvest Home should take place early in the ensuing week.
The corn-field presented a gay appearance when they reached it. The new machine, drawn by two fine horses, and driven by the bailiff, was careering along the corn, with the reapers all running by the side. Down fell the golden grain on all sides, and eager hands collected and bound it up.
With a shout of joy, Humphrey was among them, hindering every one and alarming his father by continually getting in the way of the machine and the horses.
Of course he was not long content with so subordinate a part in the proceedings; and came to beg his father to let him mount up on the little seat by the bailiff's side.
Sir Everard assisted him up, and the machine went off again, followed by the reapers.
By and by, Sir Everard looked at his watch, and found it was time to be making his way to the station. The children were so happy, he had not the heart to take them away.
"They are quite safe," he reflected, "with so many people about; and I will send Virginie to them, as I pass the house."
Humphrey was out of sight, so Sir Everard told Miles (who was playing with the "little girl at the lodge") to look out for Virginie, and to say "good-bye" for him to Humphrey.
Little Miles held up his face to be kissed—a thin face it was still—and said: "You'll come back soon, Fardie, and not go away any more?"
"Very soon, my darling; and then not leave you again till next year! We'll have great fun, and you must be a good little man, and not get ill any more."
"I promise, Fardie."
Sir Everard smiled rather sadly, kissed the child over and over again, and then walked away.
When he got to the gate, he turned round to have one more look at the gay scene. Miles was still standing where he had left him, gazing after his father, and kissing his hand. His was the prominent figure in the foreground, surrounded by the golden corn. Away behind him stretched the lovely landscape, and in the background was the machine returning to its starting point followed by the reapers. Humphrey, sitting by the bailiff, had now got the reins in his own hands, and was cheering on the horses as he came.
So Sir Everard left them.
Excitement cannot last for ever, and after a time, Humphrey got tired of driving, and got down to play with his little brother. They followed the machine once or twice, picking up the corn, but it was hot work, and they went to rest under the hedge.
"It is very hot, even here," said Humphrey, taking off his hat, and fanning himself. "I think we'll go and sit under the tree in the next field, where we sat the Sunday Uncle Charlie was here. Come along."
They climbed over the gate, and made for the tree, where they sat down on the grass.
"How jolly Uncle Charlie's stories were," sighed Humphrey; "how I wish we could hear them all over again. It's a great pity father ever told me not to climb the bough that sticks out. It would have been the very thing to crawl along, like the man in that story. Father says its rotten and unsafe. I think hemustmake a mistake; it looks as strong as possible!"
He sighed again, and there was a long pause.
Presently he resumed. "I don't see why we shouldn't go andlook. It would be so cool by the pond."
"Oh! Humphie,pleasedon't. We shall lose our way, and Virginie will be so angry."
"But I know the way quite well from here, Miles. It was only because we started from Dyson's cottage that I lost it before."
"But, Humphie, if we get wet again! IpromisedFardie not to get ill."
"The rain made you wet, Miles, not the pond; and it's not going to rain to-day. Look what a blue sky!"
The two little brothers gazed upwards. It was clear overhead, but there was a suspicious bank of clouds in the distance.
"Those clouds won't come down till night," Humphrey observed. "Come along. It's not very far."
"Better not, Humphie."
"I'm only going to look, Miles. What are you afraid of?"
"Don't know, Humphie," answered the little fellow, with a tiny shake in his voice; "butpleasedon't let us go!"
"Well, you needn't come if you don't like. I'll go alone—I shan't be long."
But Miles didn't like being left in the field by himself; so with a little sigh, he got up, and put his hand in his brother's.
"I'll come," he said, resignedly.
"That's right," said Humphrey; "there's nothing to be afraid of—isthere?"
"No," said the child; but his face was troubled, and his voice still shook a little.
So over the grass the two little brothers went, hand in hand, till in an adjoining field they saw the waters of the pond gleaming like silver in the summer sunshine. Side by side they stood on its brink.
"We're only going tolook, you know," said Humphrey.
They were the first words he had spoken for some time, and they came so suddenly that Miles started as they fell on the still air. They seemed to arouse the inhabitantsof that secluded spot, for a bird flew out of the tree, and soared away with a scared chirrup, which fell with a melancholy sound on the children's ears; and a water-rat bounded from under a lily-leaf, and plunged with a dull splash into another part of the pond.
Innumerable insects skimmed across the surface of the water, and one or two bees droned idly, as they flew from one water lily to another.
The branch of the tree that stretched over the pond dipped its topmost leaves into the water with a sleepy sound; as the breeze swayed it gently backwards and forwards, the water-lilies danced lightly with the movement of the water; and there was over the whole place a sense of repose and an isolation which infected the children with its dreaminess, keeping even Humphrey silent, and making little Miles feel sad.
"Let's go, Humphie."
"Not yet," answered Humphrey, recovering from his fit of abstraction, and movingtowards the tree: "I want to look at the branch. Why, it's not rotten a bit!" he exclaimed, as he examined it. "I do believe it would hold us quite well!"
He clasped his arms round the trunk of the tree, and propelled himself upwards, where he was soon lost to view in the thick foliage.
Miles gave a little sigh; he could not shake off the melancholy that oppressed him, and he was longing to get away from the place.
Presently Humphrey's ringing laugh was heard, and Miles, looking up, saw him crawling along the branch which stretched out over the water. His face was flushed, and his eyes sparkling with excitement, and he was utterly regardless of the shivering and shaking of the branch under his weight. When he had got out a certain distance he returned, and throwing his arms once more round the upper part of the trunk, he raised himself to his feet and stood upright, triumphant.
"There!" he exclaimed—"I've done it. Who says it's dangerous now? It's as safe as safe can be. Come up, Miles. You can't think how jolly it is!"
Miles drew a long breath. "Must I reallyreallycome?"
"Why not? you see how easily I did it. Give me your hand, and I'll help you up."
Bright and beautiful was the aspect of the elder boy, as he stood above, with his graceful figure clearly defined against the green foliage, one arm thrown carelessly round a bough, and the other outstretched to his little brother; and very lovely the expression of wistful uncertainty on the face of the younger one, as he stood below, with his eyes upraised so timidly to his brother's face, and his hands nervously clasped together.
Involuntarily he shrank back a little, and there was a pause.
He looked all around the secluded spot, as if to find help, as if to discover a loophole whereby he might escape, even at theeleventh hour. But the insects skimming from side to side of the pond, the water-lilies dancing gently on the surface, were still the only animate things to be seen, and no sound was to be heard save the dipping of the branch into the water, and the splash of the active water-rat. They were powerless to help him, and he resigned himself to Humphrey's will.
"I know I shall bekilt, but I'll come," he said; and he held out his shaking little hand.
Humphrey grasped it tightly, and got him up by degrees to the same level as himself. Then carefully he dropped down on his hands and knees and helped Miles to do the same.
Slowly they both began to move, and gradually they crawled along the branch that stretched over the water! Clinging tightly with arms and legs, and listening to Humphrey's encouraging voice, little Miles settled himself on the branch in fancied security.
Humphrey got close up to him behind, and put his arms round him. "Hurrah" he shouted; "here we both are!"
They had been so engrossed that they had not noticed how the weather had clouded over. The bank of clouds they had noticed was nearly over their heads, the air was becoming thick and oppressive, far in the distance was heard the growl of approaching thunder, and some big drops of rain fell.
Humphrey remembered, with a start, his father's injunctions about Miles, and the ill effects of their last adventure. "We must go home," he exclaimed; and, forgetting their perilous position, he moved so suddenly, that he nearly sent his little brother off the branch. Instinctively he reached out his hand to save him, and Miles nearly overbalanced himself in his attempt to cling to it.
Their combined movements were too much for the decaying wood, already rocking beneath their weight. It swayed—itshivered—it creaked ... and then with a crash it broke from its parent bark!—and boys and branch were precipitated into the water below.
PART II.
Sir Everard Duncombe pursued his way to the stables on leaving the harvest field; and as he passed the house, he called out to Virginie, who was sitting at work at the nursery window, to go and join the children.
On arriving in London, he went to his club for his letters, and, meeting a friend on the steps, they walked down Piccadilly together, and turned into the park at Hyde Park Corner.
They stood by the railings for a little while, watching the stream of carriages and their gaily dressed occupants; but itwas very hot, and after a time Sir Everard took leave of his friend, and strolled towards the Serpentine, in search of a little air.
Miles's delicacy, ever the subject rising uppermost in his mind, occupied his thoughts as he walked along. He wondered to himself whether he would outgrow it, whether a winter abroad would set him up, and whether it would not be wise to bring him to London, and show him to one of the great chest doctors.
The sight of the water, as he approached the Serpentine, recalled to his mind the pond at Wareham, and the expedition which had been the cause of the mischief. He remembered, with a start, how near he had left the children to the tempting spot, for the pond was almost within sight of the field where they were reaping.
For a moment he debated whether he had been wise to trust Humphrey again; but then he reflected how soon Virginie must have joined them, and how many people there were about.
Besides, they were quite taken up with the reaping, and when he remembered his own severe words to Humphrey, and the boy's penitence and remorse, he could hardly fancy he would transgress again.
Still, he could not get it out of his head, and as he stood watching the water, he wished there were such a thing as the magic glass he had read to the children about; that he might see as far as Wareham, and satisfy himself about them.
Had his wish been gratified at that moment, he would have seen Humphrey and Miles astride on the rotten bough, with flushed and exultant faces.
The same change of weather now took place as was taking place at Wareham. Umbrellas and carriage-hoods were quickly put up, and very soon the park was empty.
Sir Everard retraced his steps to his club and was closing his umbrella leisurely in the hall, when a telegram was put into his hand.
He glanced his eye hastily over it, andthen dashed into the street and hailed a hansom.
"Waterloo Station," he shouted, as he threw himself into it; "double fare if you catch the train!"
Bustle and confusion, though no doubt, uninteresting and unpoetical, are, certainly, at such times useful. They keep the mind from dwelling too much on the painful, and thus rub off the sharp edge of the first moment.
So it was not till Sir Everard was in the train, and tearing swiftly, though quietly to Wareham, that he realized his position.
Till then, his thoughts had been entirely taken up with passing this carriage, shaving that omnibus, or rounding that corner. He had chafed at every stoppage, fumed at every delay, and been able to think of nothing but whether or no he should catch the train.
And now, the strain over, he leant back in the railway carriage and examined the telegram at leisure.
There was not much to be learnt from it; it was terse and unsatisfactory, like most messages of the kind—just sufficiently clear not to quell all hope, and yet undefined enough to give reins to the imagination. It contained these words: "An accident has happened. Both the young gentlemen have fallen into the pond, but neither are drowned. Come directly."
Those who have read and re-read such missives, and vainly endeavored to extract something from them, will best understand how Sir Everard tortured himself during the next quarter of an hour. Might not this be a part of the truth, and the rest concealed? Might it not be meant as a preparation?
But, no—unless the message told a deliberate falsehood, "neither were drowned." Why, then, bid him come directly, unless Miles's condition after his immersion in the water was all but hopeless. "A ducking will not hurt Humphrey," he reflected "so of course, it is Mile."
He thought of Miles's fragile appearance as he stood in the corn-field. How little he was fitted to cope with such an accident! Fragile and flushed, with traces of his late illness lingering about his lustrous eyes and colorless lips.
He worked himself up into a terrible state of anxiety as the train neared Wareham, and restlessly he laid the blame of the accident on everything and everybody.
What business had they at the pond? he angrily questioned; it was the most flagrant act of disobedience on Humphrey's part he had ever heard of.
For the moment, he felt as if he could never forgive the boy for such a barefaced breach of his command. Over and over again had Miles's health, life even, been endangered by Humphrey's heedlessness.
Heedlessness!—willfulness he felt inclined to call it. Perhaps he was too indulgent. Stricter measures should be enforced; the boy must and should learn to obey. He had been weak, but he would be so nolonger. No punishment could be severe enough for Humphrey; and punished he should certainly be.
Then he thought perhaps it was too much to expect of such a young creature and he began to lay the blame on others. Virginie—why wasshenot there? Why did notsheprevent their going to the pond?
Even the reapers and the bailiff came in for a share of his anger. Surely, among so many people,somebodymight have prevented two children leaving the field!
But, after all, Humphrey was the chief offender, and he felt he ought not to try to shield him, by throwing the blame on others.
There was no carriage waiting for him at the station, and no one could give him any information beyond that contained in the telegram.
He ordered a fly, and then, unable to bear the delay, walked on without it. He got more and more anxious as he neared theAbbey. He took a short cut to the house. There was no one about—not a servant, not a gardener. His heart misgave him as he strode on. He reached the hall door, passed in, ran up the stairs to the nursery. Still no sound—no voices. The nurseries were empty! He called. No answer. He shouted. How horrible his voice sounded in the empty passages! He rang the bell furiously, and, without waiting the answer, he ran down-stairs again, and opened the library door.
A confused hum of voices struck upon his ear, a confused group of people swam before his eyes, but he only distinguished a little form that ran forward with outstretched arms; and with an exclamation of fervent thanksgiving he clasped Miles safe, warm, and unhurt in his arms!
How eagerly he felt the little pulse and chafed the little hands! He stopped the child's mouth with kisses whenever he attempted to speak.
He was so occupied with his newlyrecovered treasure, that he did not notice what a deep silence had fallen on the assembled group on his entrance; but now he turned to one of the maids, and asked how the accident had happened. "And, by the way," he added, "where is Master Humphrey?"
No one answered.
"Where is Master Humphrey?" repeated the baronet.
"They told me not to say," began little Miles; but his father was looking directly at one of the gardeners, and the man was obliged to answer.
"If you please, Sir Everard, we carried Master Duncombe in there," pointing to the drawing-room.
"Inthere!" said the baronet, amazed.
"If you please, Sir Everard, it was the first room we came to; and the only one where there was a sofa."
Before he had done speaking, Sir Everard was in the room. A shutter had been opened, and there was just light enough for himto see Virginie bending over the sofa, round which was a group of people.
The doctor came forward from among them, but Sir Everard pushed past him, and advanced to the side of the sofa.
And there, under his mother's picture, colorless, motionless, and to all appearance lifeless, lay the boy for whom "no punishment could be severe enough," and whose disobedience he had felt he never could forgive!
No one was to blame. The reapers had run to the pond on hearing the children's cries, and had extricated them immediately; Virginie had sent for the doctor at once. So no one had failed in their duty; or had, as I say, been to blame—except the poor little victim himself.
"At present," the doctor informed Sir Everard, "the extent of the injuries could not be determined."
Miles, from having been jerked off the end of the branch straight into the water, had escaped with a wetting; but Humphrey, from having been nearer the tree, had come in contact with the trunk, and the bough under the water, and the doctor feared both spine and head had been injured. He askedfor further advice, and a man was dispatched with a telegram for two of the greatest surgeons of the day.
The calamity was so sudden, so awful, so unexpected! Sir Everard could not realize it—kept on misunderstanding the doctor's incoherence—the poor old doctor who had known him all his life, and could not bear to be the one to tell him that, even if his boy's life were spared, he must ever be a helpless cripple.
Humphrey a cripple! Humphrey to lie on his back all his life! Sir Everard could not grasp the idea, could not collect his thoughts to conceive anything so impossible, could not follow the doctor through the circumlocution in which he tried to clothe the announcement, and at last lost patience.
"For God's sake, tell me what you mean! Can you be trying to break to me that my boy—that child who has never to my knowledge sat still in his life—will never have the use of his limbs any more? Speak out, I implore you!"
"Never any more, Sir Everard!—never any more."
* * * * * * * * *
Still he could not realize it, could not take it in.
He turned away, and went out into the air, to clear, as it were, the mistiness of his brain, and to bring himself face to face with the words, so as toforcehimself to understand them. "Never have the use of his limbs any more!" Simple English words—he knew he must really understand them, and yet they seemed to him mere sounds, devoid of any signification.
He repeated them over and over again, to see what he could make of them. "Never have the use of his limbs any more." That meant—let him think it out clearly—it meant, that his boy, his restless, impetuous boy, would be chained to a sofa all his life, for ever cut off from all that glorified his young existence—thatwas what it meant. It meant—for now that thought was beginning to assert herself, each word that wasmeaningless before, was becoming alive with signification—it meant that all that had been should be again no more—that all that the child calledlifewas over—that all that went to make up the sum of his existence wasgone—that death in life must be his portion for ever and for ever!
For what did the wordlifemean to Humphrey? Why, the powers of which he was to be deprived were the very germs of his whole existence—the things for which he was, and moved, and had his being. Take them away, and what remained? Life bereft of these, what was it to him? What is a husk from which the kernel has been taken, or a casket from which the jewel is gone?
Sir Everard was not a worldly man, and in those moments he did not dwell on the blighted youth, and blasted manhood; he did not think of the earthly career for ever clouded, the hopes of earthly distinction for ever shut out. He did not see that his boy was debarred from every path of usefulnessor honor which man delights to tread—alike shut out from active service, and learned profession. Results painful enough in themselves; but it is none of them that have brought that despairing expression to his set, white face. No!
He is thinking of the active little figure, chained to an invalid's chair. He is trying to realize that the lawns and gardens will know his joyous presence no more. Surrounded by the haunts of the young life, he is forcing himself to believe that all henceforth shall be lone and silent, that never again shall they echo to his light footstep, or ring with his merry laugh; that the active limbs shall be motionless, and the busy hands for ever still. And only one word rose to his lips, "Impossible!"
At moments like these, how our feelings are reflected on all things around. Never before had Sir Everard so keenly realized the endless motion of nature.
With the probable fate of his boy lying before him, he was perhaps exaggerating theblessing of movement; but certainly he had never before so forcibly noticed how every little leaf on the trees fluttered as the breeze passed over it, how every little blade of grass shook and danced in the wind, how the boughs swayed and the blossoms nodded, how the waters of the streamlet rippled and leapt on their way!
And this with what is calledinanimatenature; and when it came to the birds, and the beasts, and the insects!
It was cruel of two lambs to come and gambol together at that moment, just under the poor father's eyes; cruel of a little rabbit to choose that second, out of all the hours of a long summer day, to pop up from under the brushwood, and scamper away across the green grass! When had the air ever been so full of butterflies, horseflies, and beetles; for ever and ever on the wing! The bees hurried from flower to flower, the birds chased each other from tree to tree, the summer gnats never rested for a moment;—and Humphrey, of all Nature's children thehappiest and the brightest, was to be the one who should sport in the sunshine no more!
He thought of the boy's restless activity, his joy in motion and exercise. From dawn to sunset, never still, never weary of rushing about in the open air. There had always been with him a sort of lavish enjoyment of existence for its own sake, as if there were happiness in the mere sense ofbeingandmoving.
Even as a little baby it had always been the same. When he could scarcely stand alone, he would struggle to get out of his nurse's arms, and start off by himself, heedless of the many falls he would get on the way. And as memory brought back the early days of the child's life, came mingled with them the thought of the mother who had so delighted in him. And as Sir Everard remembered how she had gloried in his manly spirit, and in his energy and activity, he bowed his head, and thanked God that she had not lived to see this day.
Once more he saw her restraining her maternal fears that she might not interfere with her boy's love of enterprise, or bring a shadow on his happiness. Once more he seemed to hear the baby voice at the bed-room door, before the shutters were opened.
"Mother, mother, may I go out?"
The breathless pause till the answer came.
"Out now! My darling, it is so early and so cold. Better wait a little!"
"The insides of houses are so hot, mother; please say I may go out!" ...
Had the boy ever walked? Had he ever done anything but run?
Sir Everard could not recall one instance of meeting him out of doors, except running and rushing headlong, jumping over everything which obstructed his path.
Once again, there rose the thought of the motionless little figure sitting pale and silent in a cripple's chair. God help the poor father! In the bitterness of his spirit he had almost said, "Sooner than clip his wings, let him soar away."
He retraced his steps, and on entering the hall, was informed by the trembling Virginie that Humphrey had recovered consciousness, and had spoken.
He hurried to the drawing-room, but the doctor met him at the door, and motioned him back.
"Do not go in just yet," he said, closing the door behind him; "he seems to fear your displeasure about something, and shows great excitement at the thought of seeing you. I dare say," he added, quickly, for he was touched by the expression of pain which passed over the poor father's face, "I dare say he will get over it, when he is a little less confused."
"Does he understand what has happened?"
"I think so, now. At first he was sadly confused at finding himself in the drawing-room; but by degrees he remembered the events of the day. The moment he grasped the idea of the accident, he became excited, and asked repeatedly for his little brother.I should fancy this anxiety was associated with his shrinking from seeing you. Perhaps you understand better than I do?"
"I have been obliged several times lately to find fault with him for leading his little brother into mischief, and this last unfortunate escapade I had most especially forbidden. Miles is, as you know, so very delicate that I am obliged to be very careful of him."
This was said almost in an exculpatory tone.
"He is certainly very delicate," answered the doctor, "and ought not to be exposed to such dangers. I am very thankful he has escaped so easily. Now my little patient's constitution is altogether different; seldom have I seen a finer or stronger. However," he added, breaking off with a sigh, "the most iron frame is not proof against such an accident as this. I think, Sir Everard," he concluded, "that what you tell me would quite account for the excitement. May I tell him from you that he has no cause to fear your anger?"
"Need you ask?" said the baronet, impatiently, and the doctor returned to the sick room.
Sir Everard paced up and down till the door re-opened, and the doctor made him a sign to come in.
He entered, and advanced to the side of the sofa. The room was so dark that he could only see the outline of the curly head, lying back among the pillows, but a little hand came out, and pulled him down.
"Father," in a voice which was hardly above a whisper, "it's all right. He isn't hurt a bit—not even a cold. I am so glad it is me that is hurt instead of him."
"Oh, hush! hush! my darling."
"You're not angry with me, father? I'm so sorry I climbed. I'll never do it again. Say you're not angry, father."
"No, no my poor child—I'm not angry only so sorry to see you ill."
"Am Iveryill? What is the matter with my head? Shall I soon be well again?"
"I hope so, darling. There are somegentlemen coming to-morrow, to help you to get well very quick."
"I shall be well by the Harvest Home shan't I?"
"The Harvest Home? When is that?"
"You promised to fix a day early next week, you know, father. Which day shall it be?"
"I—I don't—quite know what day to fix, my boy."
"The corn fell so fast, all day, father—it must be ready soon. Shall we say Tuesday?"
No answer: only an inarticulate murmur.
"Then that's settled. Shall I be well enough on Tuesday to dance 'Up the middle and down again,' with Dolly?"
Rises again, all unbidden, before the father's eyes, a motionless little figure, sitting in a cripple's chair. Dance! Ought he to tell him? ought he to prepare him? who was to do it, if not he? who else was to tell him of the blight that had fallen on his young life?
"You don't tell me, father. Shall I be well soon?"
Hecouldnot tell him. He only kissed the little hand, and murmured, "God grant you may, my child!"
"I shan't be able to lie still very long. If it wasn't that I feel so tired, I should like to jump up now."
"Are you very tired, Humphrey?"
"Yes," with a sigh, "and my back aches, and so does my head, and feels so funny. It makes my eyes swim, and that makes me so sleepy."
"Will you try to go to sleep?"
"Yes," murmured the child, and his heavy eyes closed; "I shall wake up quite well to-morrow."
"A good sign," whispered Sir Everard to the doctor. The doctor did not answer; and Sir Everard went up to the nursery, to see Miles. The little fellow was gazing out of the window, humming a forlorn little tune to himself. Jane, with red eyes, was sitting at work.
Sir Everard took the child up in his arms "What are you doing, my little man?"
"I'm so dull without Humphie. When will he come and play?"
"Soon, I hope, darling."
"Is Humphie going to sleep all night in the drawing-room?"
"Yes—isn't that funny?"
"May I go and say good-night to him?"
"No; you can't go to him to-night."
Miles's eyes filled with tears. "I can't go to sleep without saying good-night to Humphie."
"Ah! don't cry, my child," said the poor father, beseechingly. His feelings had been on the strain so many hours; he felt he could not stand any more, and he dared not let his thoughts dwell on the subject. He tried to turn the conversation. "Tell me," he said, with a forced smile, "what was that little song you were singing to yourself when I came in?"
"It was about Humpty-Dumpty," said Miles, mournfully.
"Let me see: Humpty-Dumpty, was an egg, wasn't he?"
"That gentleman said it was Humphie who was Humpty-Dumpty. Is that true, Fardie?"
"No, darling; how could Humphrey be an egg?"
"One part's true, though," said Miles, "'Humpty-Dumpty had a great fall.'"
"Ah! that's true!" sighed Sir Everard.
"What's the end, Fardie? I want to remember it, and I can't—do you?"
Why did Sir Everard put the child down so suddenly, and why should his voice falter a little, as he repeated the baby couplet? They were only nursery rhymes, and this is how they ended: