Probable Sons
Copyright© 2024 by Amy Le Feuvre
Chapter 6: A Promise Kept
About a fortnight later Sir Edward, who always opened the post-bag himself, found there a letter addressed to his little niece, and sent a message to the nursery to tell her to come down to him. She arrived very surprised at the summons, as Sir Edward always wished to be left undisturbed at his breakfast, but when she saw the letters on the table she cried out joyously, —
“Good morning, Uncle Edward. I know there’s a letter from Jack for me, isn’t there? I’ve been waiting for it every day.”
“I think there may be, judging from the writing on the envelope. Come here and open it.”
Milly took the letter, and her little fingers fairly trembled with excitement as she opened it, saying softly to herself as she did so, —
“I knew he would keep his promise. I knew he wasn’t a thief.”
A money order dropped out.
“Well,” said Sir Edward, “you were right, little woman, and we were wrong. Would you like me to read it for you?”
“Yes, please, uncle.”
The letter read as follows:—
“I am as good as my word, little Miss, in sending
you back what you lent me with many grateful
thanks for the loan, as I reached London safe and
have never touched a drop of drink since I seen
you, and am in work at my uncle’s, which is good
of him to take me, and am getting good wages and
goes to church again. And my uncle has a chum
which is a street preacher, and comes along of
plenty of fellows like I was, and I told him of your
young fellow, Tommy Maxwell, and he will keep a
look-out for him. Tell the woman that fetched
you sharp away that I’ll hold up my head with her
yet, and every night I asks God to bless you, for I
hopes I am getting on the right track again, and
thank you kindly for your talk, which is sticking to
me.
“Yours obediently,
“JACK GRAY.”
Sir Edward laid the letter down in silence when he had finished reading it. Milly’s face was radiant.
“I’ve never had a letter in my life before, uncle, but I don’t quite understand all of it. Will you explain it to me?”
And this her uncle did, sending her upstairs at length to show it to nurse, but sitting wrapped in thought himself and leaving both his letters and breakfast untouched for some considerable time.
That same day he went out driving in the afternoon with a young horse, and returning home met a traction engine, at which the horse instantly took fright and bolted.
For some time Sir Edward kept steadily to his seat, and though powerless to check the animal’s course was able to guide it; but in spite of all his efforts the trap was at last upset, and he was thrown violently to the ground. He had no groom with him, and the accident took place on a lonely road, so that it was not till an hour later that help came, in the shape of a farmer returning from market in his cart. He found Sir Edward unconscious, and the horse still feebly struggling to extricate himself from under the trap, which was badly broken.
It was about seven o’clock in the evening when Sir Edward was brought home, and he had three ribs broken, besides some very severe injuries to his head. The doctor wished to telegraph for a nurse from London, but Sir Edward had a horror of them, and having recovered consciousness shook his head vehemently when it was suggested; and so it ended in Milly’s nurse volunteering to assist his valet in nursing him. Poor little Milly wandered about the house with Fritz at her heels in a very woe-begone fashion. What with the anxiety in her heart lest her uncle should die, and the absence of her nurse—who could spare little time now to look after her—she felt most forlorn, and her greatest comfort was to go down to the keeper’s cottage and talk to Mrs. Maxwell.
Sir Edward was soon out of danger, but he was a long time recovering, and required most careful nursing. Milly begged and entreated to go in and see him, but this was not allowed. At last permission was given by the doctor for a very short visit, and the child stole in on tip-toe, but insisted upon taking a large brown paper parcel in with her, the contents of which were unknown to all except herself.
Softly she crept up to the bed and looked at her uncle’s bandaged head and worn face with the greatest awe.
He put out his hand, which she took in hers, and then she said, her brown eyes fixed wistfully on his face, —
“I’ve wanted to see you, Uncle Edward, for so long. I wish you would let me come in and help to nurse you.”
Sir Edward smiled, then shook his head.
“I’ve been asking God to make you better so many times,” she continued, softly stroking his hand as she spoke, “and He is going to make you live again; now isn’t He? I wasn’t quite sure whether you mightn’t like to die best, but I didn’t want you to. Nurse says I mustn’t stay a moment, but I’ve brought you a present. Maxwell went to the town and got it for me with the money Jack sent back to me. May I open it for you?”
Reading assent in his eyes, Milly eagerly removed her brown paper, and then lifted on to the bed with difficulty a picture of the Prodigal Son, in a plain oak frame.
“Isn’t it a lovely one, Uncle Edward? There’s the prodigal son—I’ve learned to say it properly now—all in rags hurrying along the road, and there’s his old father in the distance coming to meet him; and can you see the words underneath?—’I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against Heaven, and before thee.’ I thought you would like it to look at while you are in bed. May I rest it against the rail at the bottom of your bed?—then you can see it beautifully.”
Nurse came forward and helped the child to put the picture in the place she wished; and Sir Edward tried to look pleased, and said in a low tone, —
“Thank you, little one, I can see it well from there”; but under his breath he muttered, “Has she a purpose in bringing that everlasting subject before me? I’m sick to death of it. I shall get rid of that picture when she is gone.”
But he did not. His eyes grew somewhat wistful as he gazed upon it, and later in the day, when nurse asked him if he would like to have it removed, he shook his head in the negative.
No one could know his thoughts during those long days and nights of weariness and pain. The restlessness of body did not equal the restlessness of soul, and the past came back with a startling vividness. The wasted years, the misused talents, and above all, the fast-closed heart against its rightful Owner, now seemed to stand up in judgment against him. Often in his wretchedness would he groan aloud, and wish for unconsciousness to come to his aid and consign to oblivion his accusing memory.
It was a cold, gray afternoon. Mrs. Maxwell’s little kitchen was in perfect order. The fire shed flickering lights on the bright dish-covers on the wall, and the blue and white china on the old-fashioned dresser was touched with a ruddy glow. Mrs. Maxwell herself, seated in a wooden rocking-chair, in spotless white apron, was knitting busily as she talked; and Milly on a low stool, the tabby in her arms, with her golden-brown curls in pretty disorder, and her large dark eyes gazing earnestly into the fire, completed the picture.
“Do you like winter, Mrs. Maxwell?” she was asking.
“Well, my dear, I can’t say as I don’t prefer the summer; but there!—the Almighty sends it, and it must be right, and I don’t think folks have a right to grumble and go rushing off to them foreign parts, a-leaving their own country and the weather God gives them, because they say they must have sunshine. I allays thinks they’ve no sunshine in their hearts, or they wouldn’t be so up and down with the weather.”
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