Misunderstood

Half-an-hour after, a letter was put into Sir Everard's hand. It was from his brother-in-law, and contained these few lines:

"My dear Everard,—I have a few days to spare, and will come down to Wareham on my way to Portsmouth. Tell Humphrey I hope to be in time for his Harvest Home, and beg him to find me a pretty partner.

    "Yours, etc." 

Sir Everard turned the letter over to look at the date. It could not surely be the answer to his letter! But on examining the post-mark, he found that it had been written some days previously from Portsmouth, and that it was directed to his club in London, from whence it had been forwarded.

"He has never got mine," he reflected, "Poor fellow! what a shock it will be when he arrives."

At that very moment Uncle Charlie was reading Sir Everard's letter at an hotel in London. It dropped from his hand, and he remained wrapped in sad meditation.

"Too late to-night," he said at last, looking at his watch, "but by the first train to-morrow morning."

He roused himself, and went to the window. There, looking down upon the ceaseless stream of carriages in the busy street below, his thoughts reverted to the Sunday at Wareham, and the boy's strength and beauty. He thought of him as he had last seen him, radiant with health and spirits, waving his hat on the door-step as the dog-cart drove away. But perhaps recollection brought the child most clearly before him creeping up his leg, when he came to say "Good-night," and begging for more stories on the morrow.

"Going to-morrow! what a short visit!"

"I will pay you a longer visit next time."

"But when will next time be?"

"Yes, when will next time be?"

*         *         *         *         *         *         *         *

"Ah! when indeed?" sighed Uncle Charlie.

CHAPTER XVII

Brightly rose the week which had been fixed for the Harvest Home, but it was welcomed by no festivities in the fields and meadows of Wareham Abbey.

The flags and tents which had been prepared were stored away again; the holiday dresses were put by unfinished; Dolly, the laundry-maid, hid away, with a great sob, the flaming yellow print with a red spot she had been all the way to the market town to buy; and village mothers, standing in groups at their cottage doors, whispered together with tearful eyes, and made faint attempts to keep their own restless boys in sight.

There was mourning far and wide for the young life that was passing away, and rough voices faltered as they spoke of the bright face and ringing laugh which should be known no more among them.

Humphrey was sinking rapidly; but like a lamp which, before it goes finally out, flickers into something like a bright flame, did his brain, after those many days of wandering unconsciousness, seem to regain something of its wonted vigor.

"What does it mean?" he asked his father over and over again, whenever he opened his eyes.

"What does what mean, my darling?"

"Why, this funny noise here"—touching his head.

"It means that your poor head aches."

"Oh! but it means something else; it's a sort of rushing and singing noise, always rushing and singing. What is it like? Do help me to remember!"

Sir Everard racked his brain to satisfy the poor little questioner, but to no purpose.

"You're not trying, father," said the little fellow peevishly.

Sir Everard wondered to himself whether the child could be thinking of the rushing of water in the ears described by people rescued from drowning, and answered—

"Is it like the sound of water?"

"Yes, yes!" exclaimed Humphrey; "it's like the sound–," he stopped, and then added, "of many waters."

He seemed struck by his own words.

"What is that, father? Where have I heard that? What is it like?"

Sir Everard thought he had satisfied him, and was distressed to hear the question again, fearing he would exhaust himself by so much talk.

"I told you before, darling, it is like a sound of water."

"That's all wrong," he said, mournfully, half crying, "it's not water, it's waters—many waters."

"Yes, yes, my child," said Sir Everard soothingly, alarmed at his agitation.

"But say it again, father; say it right through."

Sir Everard repeated, "A sound of many waters."

"There!" exclaimed Humphrey, "now what is it? You must know what it means now!"

Sir Everard was more puzzled than ever, having thought that they had come to an end of the discussion.

"I really don't know, my boy!"

"If you'd got a sound of many waters in your head, father, you'd like to hear what it means! Oh, where did I hear all about it? Where have I been? Who was near me? You were there, father, I know, for I remember your face; and all the while somebody was telling us what the rushing and singing in my head means!"

Sir Everard thought the boy was wandering, and did not try to answer him any more. He was accustomed to sit for hours by the bedside, while Humphrey rambled incoherently on. It was no use trying to follow the poor little brain through the mazes of thought into which it now plunged.

Presently Humphrey startled him by saying—

"What does Charlie mean?"

"Well, nothing particular, darling."

"But it does, it does," said the child. "Does it mean the same thing as a sound of many waters?"

"Yes, yes," said his father, still thinking he was wandering.

"Then if I say 'a sound of Charlie,'" said Humphrey, "it means the same as 'a sound of rushing and singing in my head?'"

"No, no, dear," answered Sir Everard, surprised to find him so rational.

"Why, you said 'Yes,' just now," said the child, with a sob. "If you tell stories, father, you'll go to hell like.... Who was it told stories about the wild men's dinner party?" he concluded, excitedly.