Probable Sons - Amy LeFeuvre
"PROBABLE SONS"
BY
AMY LEFEUVRE
AUTHOR OF "CHERRY," "THE ODD ONE," ETC.
"_A little child shall lead them_."
1896
[Illustration: The Broken Statue.]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. AN UNWELCOME LEGACY
CHAPTER II. DAVID AND GOLIATH
CHAPTER III. THE FIRST PUNISHMENT
CHAPTER IV. MRS. MAXWELL'S SORROW
CHAPTER V. A PRODIGAL
CHAPTER VI. A PROMISE KEPT
CHAPTER VII. CROSS-EXAMINATION
CHAPTER VIII. "HE AROSE AND CAME TO HIS FATHER"
CHAPTER IX. "A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM"
"PROBABLE SONS."
* * * * *
CHAPTER I.
AN UNWELCOME LEGACY.
"Children! They are a nuisance to everyone--my abomination, as you know,
Jack. Why on earth they can not be kept out of sight altogether till
they reach a sensible age is what puzzles me! And I suppose if anything
could make the matter worse, it is that this is a girl."
The tone of disgust with which the last word was uttered brought a laugh
from Sir Edward Wentworth's companion, who replied, as he took his cigar
from his mouth and gazed critically into the worried, perplexed face of
his host--
"My dear fellow, she is not of an age yet to trouble you much. Wait till
she gets a bit older. When her education is finished, and she takes
possession of you and your house, will be the time for you to look to
us for pity!"
"Look here, Sir Edward," said a bright looking youth from the other side
of the room, "I'll give you a bit of advice. Send the child straight off
to school. Is she coming to-day? Good. Then pack her off to-morrow, and
keep her there as long as is needful. Then I will go down and inspect
her, and if she grows up to be a moderately decent-looking girl, I will
do you a good turn by taking her off your hands. She will have a nice
little fortune, you informed us, and if you will give her something in
addition, out of gratitude to me for relieving you of all responsibility
concerning her, upon my word I think I should not do badly!"
But Sir Edward was not in a mood to joke. He looked gloomily around upon
his friends as they gathered around the smoking-room fire after a hard
day's shooting, and remarked--
"I know what is before me. I have seen it in my sister's family, and
have heard something of all her toils and troubles. How thankful I was
when she and hers were translated to Australia, and the sea came between
us! It is first the nurses, who run off with one's butler, make love to
the keepers, and bring all kinds of followers about the house, who
sometimes make off with one's plate. Then it's the governesses, who come
and have a try at the guests, or most likely in my case they would set
their affections on me, and get the reins of government entirely into
their hands. If it is school, then there is a mass of correspondence
about the child's health and training; and, in addition, I shall have
all the ladies in the neighborhood coming to mother the child and tell
me how to train it. It is a bad look-out for me, I can tell you, and not
one of you would care to be in my shoes."
"What is the trouble, Ned?" asked a new-comer, opening the door and
glancing at the amused faces of those surrounding Sir Edward, all of
whom seemed to be keenly enjoying their host's perplexity.
"He has received a legacy to-day, that is all," was the response; "he
has had an orphan niece and nurse sent to him from some remote place in
the Highlands. Come, give us your case again, old fellow, for the
benefit of your cousin."
Sir Edward, a grave, abstracted-looking man, with an iron-grey
moustache and dark, piercing eyes, looked up with a desponding shake of
the head, and repeated slowly and emphatically--
"A widowed sister of mine died last year, and left her little girl in
the charge of an old school friend, who has now taken a husband to
herself and discarded the child, calmly sending me the following
letter:--
'DEAR SIR: Doubtless you will remember that
your sister's great desire on her death-bed was that
you should receive her little one and bring her up
under your own eye, being her natural guardian
and nearest relative. Hearing, however, from you
that you did not at that time feel equal to the
responsibility, I came forward and volunteered to
take her for a short while till you had made
arrangements to receive her. I have been expecting
to hear from you for some time, and
as I have promised my future husband to fix
the day for our marriage some time early next
month, I thought I could not do better than send
the child with her nurse to you without delay.
She will reach you the day after you receive this
letter. Perhaps you will kindly send me word of
her safe arrival. Yours truly,
ANNA KENT.'
Now, Lovell, what do you think of that? And sure enough, this afternoon,
while we were out, the child and nurse appeared, and are in the house
at this present moment. Don't you think it a hard case for such a
confirmed bachelor as I am?"
"I do indeed," was the hearty reply; "but I think you will find a way
out of it, Ned. Take a wife unto yourself, and she will relieve you of
all responsibility."
There was a general laugh at this, but in the midst of it the door
slowly opened, and the subject of all this discussion appeared on the
threshold, a fragile little figure, with long, golden-brown hair, and a
pair of dark brown eyes that looked calmly and searchingly in front of
her. Clad in white, with her dimpled hands crossed in front of her, she
stood there for a moment in silence, then spoke:--
"Where is my Uncle Edward?"
"Here," replied Sir Edward, as he looked helplessly round, first at his
friends and then at his small niece.
The child stepped up to him with perfect composure, and held out her
little hand, which her uncle took, undergoing all the while a severe
scrutiny from the pair of dark eyes fixed upon him. There was dead
silence in the room. Sir Edward's companions were delighting in the
scene, and his great discomfiture only heightened their enjoyment.
"Well," he said at length, rather feebly, "I think you know the look of
me now, don't you? Where is your nurse? Ought you not to be in your bed?
This is not the place for little girls, you know."
"I was thinking you would kiss me," and the child's lips began to
quiver, while a pink flush rose to her cheeks, and she glanced wistfully
round, in the hope of seeing some sympathetic face near her.
But Sir Edward could not bring himself to do this. Laying his hand on
the curly head raised to his, he patted it as he might his dog, and
said,--
"There, there! Now you have introduced yourself to me, you can run away.
What is your name? Millicent, isn't it?"
"Milly is my name. And are all these gentlemen my uncles too?"
The tone of doubtful inquiry was too much for the little company, and
Milly's question was answered by a shout of laughter.
Again the child's face flushed, and then a grey-haired man stepped
forward.
"Come, Wentworth, this is a severe ordeal for such a mite. I have
grandchildren of my own, so am not so scared as you. Now, little one, is
that better?"
And in an instant the child was lifted by him and placed upon his knee
as he took a seat by the fire.
Milly heaved a short sigh.
"I like this," she said, looking up at him confidingly. "Does Uncle
Edward really want me to go to bed? Nurse said it wasn't time yet. Nurse
wanted her supper, so she sent me in here while she had it."
"The reign of the nurse has begun," said Sir Edward. "Well, it may be a
very fine joke to all you fellows, but if I don't make my authority felt
at once, it will be all up with me. Lovell, be so good as to ring that
bell."
Sir Edward's voice was irate when his old butler appeared.
"Ford, take this child to her nurse, and tell her that she is never to
appear in my presence again unless sent for. Now, Millicent, go at
once."
The child slid down from her seat, but though evidently puzzled at the
quick, sharp words, she seemed to have no fear, for, going up to her
uncle, she slipped her little hand into his.
"Are you angry, uncle? What does 'presence' mean? Will you say,
'Good-night; God bless you,' to me?"
With the baby fingers clinging to his, what could Sir Edward say?
"Good-night; good-night, child! Now go."
"Say, 'God bless you!'" persisted the little one, and it was not till
her uncle muttered the desired words that she relinquished her hold and
followed the butler sedately out of the room.
CHAPTER II.
DAVID AND GOLIATH.
Sir Edward Wentworth was, as he expressed it, a "confirmed bachelor,"
and though during the autumn months he was quite willing to fill his
house with his London friends, he was better pleased to live the greater
part of the year in seclusion, occupying himself with looking after his
estate and writing articles for several of the leading reviews of the
day.
The advent of his small niece was indeed a great trial to him, but, with
his characteristic thoroughness, he determined that he would make the
necessary arrangements for her comfort. Accordingly he had a long
interview with her nurse the following morning. It proved to be
satisfactory. The nurse was a staid, elderly woman, who assured him she
was accustomed to the sole charge of the child, and would keep her
entirely under her own control.
"I expect you would like her to be sent down to you in the evening--at
dessert, perhaps, sir?" she inquired.
Sir Edward pulled the ends of his moustache dubiously. "Is it necessary?
I thought children ought to be in bed at that time."
"Of course it shall be as you like, sir. You do not dine so late as some
do. I thought you would expect to see her once in the day."
After a little hesitation Sir Edward gave his permission; and when he
found that Milly neither screamed nor snatched for the fruit on the
table, and did not herself engross the whole conversation, he became
quite reconciled to the little white figure stealing in and occupying
the chair that was always placed at his left-hand side for her.
Beyond this he saw very little of her while his guests were with him;
but afterwards, when they had all left him, and he relapsed into his
ordinary life, he was constantly coming across her. Sometimes he would
find her in the stables, her arms round the stable cat, and the grooms
holding a voluble conversation with her, or among the cows at the bottom
of the paddock, or feeding the pigs and fowls in the poultry yard.
Generally she was attended by Fritz, a beautiful collie, who had, with
the fickleness of his nature, transferred his affection from his master
to her, and though uncertain in temper towards most, was never anything
but amiable when with the little girl.
Her uncle's form approaching was quite a sufficient hint to her to make
herself scarce. She would generally anticipate the usual formula: "Now
run away child, to nurse," by singing out cheerfully: "I am just off,
uncle," and by the time he had reached the spot where she was standing
the little figure would be running off in the distance, Fritz close at
her heels.
One afternoon Sir Edward was returning from a stroll up the avenue when
he saw the child at play among the trees, and for a moment he paused and
watched her. She appeared to be very busy with a doll wrapped in a fur
rug which she carefully deposited at the foot of the tree; then for some
minutes she and Fritz seemed to be having a kind of a game of hide and
seek with one another, until she pushed him into a bush and commanded
him to stay there. Suddenly dog and child darted at each other, and
then, to Sir Edward's amazement, he saw his little niece seize Fritz by
the throat and bring him to the ground. When both were rolling over one
another, and Fritz's short, sharp barks became rather indignant in tone,
as he vainly tried to escape from the little hands so tightly round him,
Sir Edward thought it high time to interfere.
"Millicent," he called out sharply, "come to me at once; what are you
doing?"
In an instant Milly was upon her feet, and lifting a hot flushed little
face to his, she placed herself in her favorite attitude when in his
presence; her hands clasped behind her back, and feet closely planted
together.
"Don't you know Fritz might bite if you are so rough with him? Were you
trying to choke him?" demanded her uncle.
"Yes," she responded, breathless from her late exertions, "I was trying
to kill him! He's a bear, and that's my lamb, and I am David; that's
all."
A child's games were beyond Sir Edward's comprehension. He looked down
upon her with a knitted brow.
She continued--
"You see, he has to do for both, a bear and a lion, for they both came,
and they both tried to get the lamb. Nurse was the lion one day, but she
is too big; I can't knock her down, though I try hard."
"I will not have Fritz knocked down in that fashion. He might hurt you,"
said Sir Edward, sternly.
Milly looked sorrowful; then brightening up, she asked--
"But I may kill Goliath, mayn't I? Do you know that is one of my games.
See, I'm David, and you see that big old tree standing by itself? That's
Goliath. He is looking at me now. Do you see where his eyes come? Just
up there in those first branches. When it's windy he shakes his head at
me fearful! He's a wicked, wicked old thing, and he thinks no one can
knock him down. Do you remember about him, uncle?"
Sir Edward was becoming slightly interested. He leaned against a tree
and took out a cigar.
"No, I don't think I do," he said.
"Don't you remember? He stood up so proud, and called out: 'Choose a man
to come and fight me.' He's saying that to me now. I'm David, you know,
and I'm going. Just wait a moment till I'm ready."
She darted away to where her doll was, and soon returned with a tiny
calico bag, which she opened very carefully and disclosed to her uncle's
puzzled gaze five round stones.
"You see," she went on, "it's a pity I haven't a sling, but Tom in the
stable says he will make me a cattypot; that's a lovely sling, he says,
which would kill anything. But it's all right; I pretend I have a sling,
you know. Now you wait here; I'm going to meet him. I'm not a bit
afraid, though he looks so big, because David wasn't, you know. God
helped him. Now, Goliath, I'm ready!"
Sir Edward looked on in some amusement as Milly stepped out with regular
even steps until she was about twenty feet from the tree, then suddenly
stopped.
"I hear what you say, Goliath. You say you'll give my body to be pecked
at and eaten by the birds; but you won't do that, for I am coming, and I
am going to kill you."
And then with all her strength the child flung her stones one by one at
the tree, pausing for some moments when she had done so.
"He's quite dead, uncle," she said calmly, as she retraced her steps and
stood before Sir Edward, again looking up at him with those earnest eyes
of hers, "quite dead; and if I had a sword I would play at cutting off
his head. I suppose you wouldn't lend me your sword hanging up in the
hall, would you?"
"Most certainly not," was the quick reply. Then taking his cigar from
his mouth, Sir Edward asked:
"And does all your play consist in killing people?"
"I only try to kill the bear and lion and Goliath, because they're so
wicked and so strong."
Milly continued,--
"This is such a lovely place to play in--trees are so nice to have games
with. Shall I tell you some more? Do you see that little tree over
there? That's where I sit when I'm the probable son, and when I've sat
there a long time and been very miserable, and eaten some of the beech
nuts that do for husks, then suddenly I think I will go home to my
father. It's rather a long walk, but I get happier and happier as I go,
and I get to walk very quick at last, and then I run when I see my
father. Do you see that nice big old tree right up there with the red
leaves, uncle? That's him, and I run up and say, 'Father, I have sinned;
I am not fit to come back, but I am so sorry that I left you,' and then
I just hug him and kiss him; and, do you know, I feel he hugs and kisses
me back. He does in the story, you know. And then I have a nice little
feast all ready. I get some biscuits from nurse, and a little jam, and
some sugar and water, and I sit down and feel so happy to think I'm not
the probable son any more, and haven't got to eat husks or be with the
pigs. Don't you think that's a beautiful game, uncle?"
"Do you get all your games from the Bible?" inquired Sir Edward. "I
somehow think it is not quite correct," and he looked very dubiously at
his little niece as he spoke.
"Well," said Milly, the earnest look coming into her eyes again, "I love
the Bible so much, you see. Nurse tells me the stories ever so often,
and I know lots and lots of them. But I like the probable son the best.
Do you like it?"
Sir Edward replaced his cigar in his mouth and strolled on without a
reply. His little niece's words awakened very uncomfortable feelings
within his heart. Years before he had known and loved his Bible well. He
had been active in Christian work, and had borne many a scoff and jeer
from his companions when at Oxford for being "pious," as they termed it.
But there came a time when coldness crept into his Christianity, and
worldly ambition and desires filled his soul. Gradually he wandered
farther and farther away from the right path, and when he came into his
property he took possession of it with no other aim and object in life
than to enjoy himself in his own way and to totally ignore both the past
and future. Beyond going to church once on Sunday he made no profession
of religion, but that custom he conformed to most regularly, and the
vicar of the parish had nothing to complain of in the way in which his
appeals for charity were met by the squire. It is needless to say that
Sir Edward was not a happy man. There were times when he could not bear
his own thoughts and the solitude of his position; and at such times
there was a hasty departure for town, and some weeks of club life
ensued, after which he would return to his home, and engross himself in
both his literary and country occupations with fresh vigor.
CHAPTER III.
THE FIRST PUNISHMENT.
Slowly but surely little Milly was advancing in her uncle's favor. Her
extreme docility and great fearlessness, added to her quaintness of
speech and action, attracted him greatly. He became interested in
watching her little figure as it flitted to and fro, and the sunny laugh
and bright childish voice about the house were no longer an annoyance to
him.
One day he was moved to anger by an accident that happened to a small
statue in the hall and Milly was the delinquent. Her ball had rolled
behind it, and both she and the dog were having a romp to get it, when
in the scuffle the statue came to the ground and lay there in a thousand
pieces. Hearing the crash, Sir Edward came out of his study, and
completely losing his temper, he turned furiously upon the child, giving
vent to language that was hardly fit for her ears to hear. She stood
before him with round, frightened eyes and quivering lips, her little
figure upright and still, until she could bear it no longer; and then
she turned and fled from him through the garden door out upon the smooth
grassy lawn, where she flung herself down face foremost close to her
favorite beech tree, there giving way to a burst of passionate tears.
"I didn't mean it--oh! I didn't mean to break it," she sobbed aloud.
"Uncle Edward is a fearful angry man; he doesn't love me a bit. I wish I
had a father! I want a father like the probable son; he wouldn't be so
angry!"
And when later on nurse came, with an anxious face, to fetch her little
charge in from the cold, wet grass, she had not the heart to scold her,
for the tear-stained face was raised so pitifully to hers with the
words,--
"Oh, nurse, dear, carry me in your arms. No one loves me here. I've been
telling God all about it. He's the only One that isn't angry."
That evening, at the accustomed time, Milly stole quietly into the
dining-room, wondering in her little heart whether her uncle was still
angry with her.
As she climbed into her chair, now placed on the opposite side of the
large table, she eyed him doubtfully through her long eyelashes; then
gathering courage from the immovable expression of his face, she said in
her most cheerful tone,--
"It's a very fine night, uncle."
"Is it?" responded Sir Edward, who was accustomed by this time to some
such remark when his little niece wanted to attract his notice. Then
feeling really ashamed of his outburst a few hours before, he said, by
way of excusing himself,--"Look here, Millicent, you made me exceedingly
angry by your piece of mischief this afternoon. That statue can never be
replaced, and you have destroyed one of my most valuable possessions.
Let it be a warning for the future. If ever you break anything again, I
shall punish you most severely. Do you understand?"
"Yes, uncle," she answered, looking up earnestly. "'You will punish me
_most_ severely.' I will remember. I have been wondering why I broke it,
when I didn't mean to do it. Nurse says it was a most 'unfortunate
accident.' I asked her what an accident was. She says it's a thing that
happens when you don't expect it--a surprise, she called it. I'm sure
it was a dreadful surprise to me, and to Fritz, too; but I'll never play
ball in the hall again, _never_!"
A week later, and Sir Edward was in his study, absorbed in his books and
papers, when there was a knock at his door, and, to his astonishment,
his little niece walked in. This was so against all rules and
regulations that his voice was very stern as he said,--
"What is the meaning of this intrusion, Millicent? You know you are
never allowed to disturb me when here."
Milly did not answer for a moment. She walked up to her uncle, her small
lips tightly closed, and then, standing in front of him with clasped
hands, she said,--
"I've come to tell you some dreadful news."
Sir Edward pushed aside his papers, adjusted his glasses, and saw from
the pallor of the child's face and the scared expression in her eyes,
that it was no light matter that had made her venture into his presence
uncalled for.
"It's a dreadful surprise again," Milly continued, "but I told nurse I
must tell you at once. I--I felt so bad here," and her little hand was
laid pathetically on her chest.
"Well, what is it? Out with it, child! You are wasting my time," said
her uncle impatiently.
"I have--I have broken something else."
There was silence. Then Sir Edward asked drily,--
"And what is it now?"
"It's a--a flower-pot, that the gardener's boy left outside the
tool-house. I--I--well, I put it on Fritz's head for a hat, you know. He
did look so funny, but he tossed up his head and ran away, and it fell,
and it is smashed to bits. I have got the bits outside the door on the
mat. Shall I bring them in?"
A flower-pot was of such small value in Sir Edward's eyes that he almost
smiled at the child's distress.
"Well, well, you must learn not to touch the flower-pots in future. Now
run away, and do not disturb me again."
But Milly stood her ground.
"I think you have forgot, Uncle Edward. You told me that if I broke
anything again you would punish me '_most_ severely.' Those were the
words you said; don't you remember?"
Sir Edward pulled the ends of his moustache and fidgeted uneasily in his
chair. He always prided himself upon being a man of his word, but much
regretted at the present moment that he had been so rash in his speech.
"Oh! ah! I remember," he said at length, meeting his little niece's
anxious gaze with some embarrassment. Then pulling himself together, he
added sternly,--
"Of course you must be punished; it was exceedingly careless and
mischievous. What does your nurse do when she punishes you?"
"She never does punish me--not now," said Milly plaintively. "When I was
a very little girl I used to stand in the corner. I don't think nurse
has punished me for years."
Sir Edward was in a dilemma; children's punishments were quite unknown
to him. Milly seemed to guess at his difficulty.
"How were you punished when you were a little boy, uncle?"
"I used to be well thrashed. Many is the whipping that I have had from
my father!"
"What is a whipping--like you gave Fritz when he went into the game
wood?"
"Yes."
There was a pause. The child clasped her little hands tighter, and set
her lips firmer, as she saw before her eyes a strong arm dealing very
heavy strokes with a riding-whip. Then she said in an awe-struck tone,--
"And do you think that is how you had better punish me?"
Sir Edward smiled grimly as he looked at the baby figure standing so
erect before him.
"No," he said; "I do not think you are a fit subject for that kind of
treatment."
Milly heaved a sigh of relief.
"And don't you know how to punish," she said after some minutes of
awkward silence. There was commiseration in her tone. The situation was
becoming ludicrous to Sir Edward, though there was a certain amount of
annoyance at feeling his inability to carry out his threat.