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.