"HE AROSE AND CAME TO HIS FATHER."
Major Lovell stayed a week, and Sir Edward seemed the better for his
company, as far as his bodily health was concerned. But at heart he was
very wretched, and his cousin's influence was not the sort to help him.
"Now, old chap, make haste and get well, and don't moon over yourself
and your feelings. And come down to our place for Christmas, won't you?
You're getting quite in the blues by being so much alone."
These were Major Lovell's parting words, and Sir Edward responded,--
"No, thanks; I prefer being at home this Christmas. Why, I doubt if I
shall leave my room by that time; I am as weak as a baby."
The week before Christmas Sir Edward was in an easy chair in the
library, and, though still an invalid, was now making rapid progress
towards recovery. He was conning over an article he had just written,
before a blazing fire, when there was a knock at the door. A frown came
to his face as he turned to see who the intruder was, but disappeared at
the sight of his little niece, rosy and breathless, in out-door
garments, and hugging a large piece of holly in her arms.
"Uncle Edward, he has come!"
"Who has come?"
"Tommy--he really and truly has. Ford told me just as I came in with
nurse. He heard it from Harris, and Harris heard it from Maxwell
himself. He said, 'My lad has come, tell little missy,' and Ford says
Harris said, 'He looked as if he could dance a jig for joy!' Oh, Uncle
Edward, may I go to them? Nurse says it's too late, but I do want to be
there. There's such a lot to be done now he has really come; and, Uncle
Edward, may they kill one of the cows in the farm that are being fatted
up? There's no calf, I'm afraid. May they? And may I go and tell them
so? You will let me go, won't you?"
[Illustration: HUGGING A LARGE PIECE OF HOLLY IN HER ARMS.]
"Most certainly not; it is much too late in the afternoon for you to
be going down there. It is getting quite dark, and as to one of my
cattle being disposed of in that way, I should not dream of allowing it
for one moment."
Milly's eyes filled with tears, which she vainly tried to restrain. When
her uncle spoke to her in that tone she knew it was useless to
remonstrate.
"They'll be having the feast without me," she said, with a little sob in
her voice. "Mrs. Maxwell promised me I should be there when they had it,
and I'm longing to see Tommy."
"Then if Mrs. Maxwell promised you that, she will put off her feast till
to-morrow," said Sir Edward in a softer tone. "And now be a sensible
little woman, and wait patiently till the time comes. You may be sure
his parents will like to have him to themselves the first night. Run
away now; I don't want to be disturbed."
Poor little Milly crept out of the room feeling very crestfallen, and a
short time after was lying on the hearth-rug before the nursery fire,
her arms wound round Fritz's neck, confiding to him the whole story, and
comforting herself by conjecturing how and where the meeting had taken
place. Her little mind was so full of the subject that it was long
before nurse could get her to sleep that night. Her last words before
she dropped off were,--
"I wonder who will do the music and dancing!"
The next morning, the instant her breakfast was over, Milly obtained
nurse's permission to go down to the keeper's cottage under charge of
Sarah, the nursery maid. She was away the whole morning, and about one
o'clock a message came from Mrs. Maxwell to ask if she might stay to
dinner with them. So that it was not till nearly four in the afternoon
that she was brought up to the house, and then, flushed and excited, she
poured into her nurse's ear a long account of all that she had been
hearing and doing.
"Now, come, my dear, you mustn't talk forever," was nurse's remonstrance
at last; "Sir Edward told me I could send you to him for a little when
you came in, and I must make you tidy first."
It was quite dusk when Milly entered the library, but the bright
firelight showed her the figure of her uncle leaning back in his easy
chair, and indulging in a reverie.
"Well," he said, looking round, "where have you been all day? Down at
Maxwell's, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Milly, sedately; "and I'll tell you all about it, if you
like. May I make myself comfortable first?"
And after a minute's hesitation she climbed into the heavy armchair on
the opposite side of the fireplace, making a pretty picture, as she
leaned her curly head back on the cushion and gazed earnestly into her
uncle's face.
"We will have a crack together, uncle. That's what Maxwell calls it,
when Mrs. Maxwell and I talk over the fire. May I tell you all about
Tommy now?"
"You may," was the amused reply.
"Well, you know, I ran as fast as I could down to the wood this morning,
and Sarah ran after me, and Mrs. Maxwell saw me coming and she ran to
the door. I was rather out of breath, you see, so she just smoothed me
down a little, and we kissed each other, and she cried a tiny bit, for I
felt her tears on my face. Then she took me in to see Tommy--Maxwell was
out, and Tommy was in the kitchen in one of Maxwell's great-coats, and
he was eating some bacon at the table for his breakfast. He got up when
he saw me--he's a nice big man, uncle, but I think his hair wants
cutting. We shook hands, and I told him I'd been expecting him ever so
long. He looked rather shy, but after he had quite finished his
breakfast, we had a very nice talk, and Mrs. Maxwell went bustling about
getting dinner ready. Tommy told me all about himself from the very
beginning, but I really quite forget some of it. He never kept any pigs
at all, but he kept some sheep instead--he went out to America and did
it--and then he was a railway man, and then he had a fever, and then he
got into bad company, and at last he came to London, and he was an
omnibus man there, and then a cabman, and then he drank too much beer,
and his money all went away, and he was ashamed of himself, and so he
wouldn't write home, and then he smashed his cab against the lamp-post,
and then he drank too much again."
"I don't think you need tell me any more of his misdoings," said Sir
Edward, drily.
"But, you see, he had to get very bad before he got good, because he was
a prodigal son. And he is sorry now. He said he never, never would have
come home until he was a good man, only one day he listened to a man
preaching a sermon in the middle of a street on a Sunday night, and he
felt uncomfortable, and then he was spoken to after by--now guess,
uncle, who do you think?"
Sir Edward could not guess, so Milly went on triumphantly: "Why, it was
my Jack, and he began to talk to him, and told him he was like him once,
and he said he was looking out for a Tommy Maxwell. Now wasn't that
wonderful, when it was Tommy himself he spoke to! Well, Tommy said he
hadn't the face to go home till he was better, but Jack told him not to
wait a day longer, for his father and mother were waiting for him; but
the strange thing was that even then Tommy waited a whole two weeks
before he made up his mind to come. Now don't you think he was foolish,
uncle?"
"Very foolish."
"I couldn't quite understand it, but nurse says there are lots of people
like that, waiting to make themselves better, instead of running home
just as they are. She says some of God's prodigal sons do that; do you
think many do, uncle?"
"I daresay."
"And Tommy said, though he wanted to see his home again dreadfully, he
had a great fight with himself to come at all. I didn't know prodigal
sons found it so difficult--the one in the Bible didn't, not when he
once made up his mind. Well, and so Tommy got out at the station--I'm
sorry he came by train, but Jack's uncle paid for his ticket--I would
rather he had run the whole way."
"Why would you?" asked Sir Edward, with a smile.
"I think it would have been more proper if he had," said the child
slowly, her head a little on one side, as she gazed thoughtfully into
the fire. "I always run or walk the whole way when I play the prodigal
son. I begin rather slowly, because it looks a long way off, but when I
come near I hurry. I'm wanting to be there when I see my home. The
prodigal son didn't have a train in the Bible, and I think Tommy might
have tried to do without it."
The tone of reproach at the end of her speech was too much for her
uncle's gravity, and he laughed aloud.
"I am afraid Tommy has sadly disappointed you. Did he take a cab from
the station?"
"No, he didn't do that. He got home in the afternoon, and Maxwell was
cleaning his gun on the doorstep, when he saw a shadow, and he looked up
and there he was! Oh! I should like to have been there, but I'm sorry to
say Maxwell didn't fall on his neck and kiss him. I asked Tommy very
carefully about it, and he said he took hold of both his hands and
squeezed them tight, and he gave a shout, and Mrs. Maxwell was doing her
washing in the back yard, and she heard it, and she shook all over so
that she could hardly walk. She cried so much when she saw Tommy that
Maxwell had to pat her on the back and give her a glass of water; and
Tommy he sat down on the little seat inside the porch, and he
said--these were his very words, uncle--'I ain't fit to come home,
father. I'm a disgrace to your name,' and Mrs. Maxwell--Tommy told
me--she just took his head between her two hands, and drew it to rest on
her shoulder, and then she bent down and kissed him all over and she
said:--
"'My boy, who should you come to when you are in disgrace and trouble
but your own father and mother?'
"Tommy said, when he told me this, 'It fair broke my heart, miss,' and
then he gave a great sob, and I began to cry, and then Mrs. Maxwell came
up, and her hands were all floury, for she was making an apple pudding,
and she cried too, and then we all cried together--at least, Tommy
turned his head away and pretended he didn't, but I saw he did."
Milly paused for breath, and her eyes looked wistfully into the glowing
coals before her.
"I didn't know prodigal sons were sad when they came back, but Tommy
seemed so sad that he made me sad too. Why do you think Tommy cried,
uncle?"
Sir Edward did not reply. He was gazing dreamily into the fire, and
something of the wistfulness in his little niece's face seemed to be
reflected in his. He gave a start after a moment's silence.
"Eh, child? What are you saying? Have you finished your story?"
"Why, no, uncle, not nearly. Are you tired? Nurse said I must not tire
you too much."
Sir Edward laughed, but it was not a happy laugh.
"Oh, finish your story by all means, little woman," he said, and Milly
continued:--
"We all cheered up when Mrs. Maxwell asked me if I'd like to stay to
dinner. I asked if it was the feast, and she laughed and said, 'Yes.'
She had a roast leg of pork in the oven, with some stuffing and apple
sauce, and, uncle, it was lovely! Maxwell came in just in time, and he
looked so happy, and then we all sat down to dinner, but I asked Maxwell
to say first before we began: '_Let us eat, and be merry, for this my
son was dead, and is alive again, he was lost, and is found_.' He folded
his hands and said it like grace, and Mrs. Maxwell said 'Amen' when he
had finished, and wiped her eyes with her apron. I told them we must all
be very merry, but Tommy wasn't, I'm afraid. He kept looking first at
Mrs. Maxwell and then all round the kitchen, and then at Maxwell, and
then he sighed very big sighs. He said he couldn't believe he was at
home, but he told me, when I asked him quietly afterwards, that he was
really very happy, he only sighed and looked sad because he thought how
foolish he had been to stay away so long. I was very sorry for one thing
about him, uncle. He wasn't in his best clothes. They were all too small
for him, and the slippers wouldn't fit him, but Maxwell says he will buy
him some new ones to-morrow. And Tommy told me he wouldn't wear a ring
if he had one. He asked me why he should, so I told him about the
prodigal son in the Bible--he seemed to like hearing about it, and he
said he thought he was very like him. And then I asked about the music
and dancing. I wanted to have that, but we couldn't manage it. Mrs.
Maxwell said we had music in our hearts; how can we have that, uncle? I
didn't hear any in mine, for I kept silent and listened for it."
"I expect she meant you were so happy that you did not want any music to
make you happier."
"I was very happy. Oh, Uncle Edward, why won't all the prodigal sons go
home? I can't think why they like staying away. It is so lovely to think
of Tommy now! And every one would be just as happy, wouldn't they?"
"I don't think all young men have such fond parents as your friend
Tommy has," said Sir Edward gravely.
"Haven't they? Well, God's prodigal sons couldn't have a nicer father. I
lie and think of them when I'm in bed sometimes, and I talk to God about
them. I was so glad when Jack went back to Him. I think it is worst of
all to stay a long way off from God, because He does love them so. I
wonder if it is that they don't know whether God will take them back.
Tommy seemed half afraid till he came, that his father would be angry
with him. I should like to see a prodigal son running back into God's
arms so much! But I suppose he does it very quietly, and only the angels
look down and see it!"
"And what is this young scapegrace going to do now? Live on his father
and mother, or is he going to try and do some honest work?"
Sir Edward's tone was rather impatient. Milly looked up surprised.
"Do you mean Tommy, uncle? Are you angry with him? He told me he was
going to look for work directly, and Maxwell is coming up to speak to
you about him to-morrow."
"Ah! I daresay--wants him to take the place of under-keeper, I suppose,"
and Sir Edward gave a little grunt of dissatisfaction at the thought.