FullReads

But the room into which I was shown was clean, and there on a bed, with the gas and the dawn from the east making a queer light on his face, sat Fenwick Major.

He held out his hand.

“How are you, Chirnside? Kind of you to come. This is the little wife!” was what he said, but I can tell you he looked a lot more.

At the word a girl in black stole silently out of the shadow, in which I had not noticed her.

She had a white, drawn face, and she watched Fenwick Major as a mother watches a sick child that is going to be taken from her up at the hospital.

“I wanted to see you, old chap, before I went–you know. It’s a long way to go, and there’s no use in hanging back even if I could. But the little wife says she knows the road, and that I won’t find it dark. She can’t read much, the little wife–education neglected and all that. Precious lot I made of mine, medals and all! But she’s a trump. She made a man of me. Worked for me, nursed me. Yes, you did, Sis, and I shall say it. It won’t hurt me to say it. Nothing will hurt me now, Sis.”

“James, do not excite yourself!” said the little wife just then.

I had forgotten his name was James. He was only Fenwick Major to me.

“Now, little wife,” he said, “let me tell Chirnside how I’ve been a bad fellow, but the Little ‘Un pulled me through. It was the best day’s work I ever did when I married Sis!”

“James!” she said again, warningly.

“Look here, Chirnside,” Fenwick went on, “the Little ‘Un can’t read; but, do you know, she sleeps with my old mother’s Bible under her pillow. I can’t read either, though you would hardly know it. I lost my sight the year I married (my own fault, of course), and I’ve been no better than a block ever since. I want you to read me a bit out of the old Book.”

“Why didn’t you send for a minister, Fenwick?” I said. “He could talk to you better than I can.”

“Don’t want anybody to speak to me. Little ‘Un has done all that. But I want you to read. And, see here, Chirnside, I was a brute beast to you once–quarrelled with you years ago–“

“Don’t think of that, Fenwick Major!” I said. “That’s all right!”

“Well, I won’t,” he said; “for what’s the use? But Little ‘Un said, ‘Don’t let the sun go down upon your wrath.’ ‘And no more I will, Little ‘Un,’ says I. So I sent a boy after you, old man.”

Now, you fellows, don’t laugh; but there and then I read three or four chapters of the Bible–out of Fenwick’s mother’s Bible–the one she handed in at the carriage window that morning he and I set off for college. I actually did and this is the Bible.

[ Bentley and Tad Anderson do not laugh.

When I had finished, I said–“Fenwick, I’m awfully sorry, but fact is–I can’t pray.”

“Never mind about that, old man!” said he; “Little ‘Un can pray!”

And Little ‘Un did pray; and I tell you what, fellows, I never heard any such prayer. That little girl was a brick.

Then Fenwick Major put out fingers like pipe-staples, and said–

“Old man, you’ll give Little ‘Un a hand–after–you know.”

I don’t know that I said anything. Then he spoke again, and very slowly–

“It’s all right, old boy. Sun hasn’t gone down on our wrath, has it?”

And even as he smiled and held a hand of both of us, the sun went down.

Little brick, wasn’t she? Good little soul as ever was! Three cheers for the little wife, I say. What are you fellows snuffling at there? Why can’t you cheer?