CHAPTER XII.LEFT ALONE.
When Agnes went out the two children stared at each other.
"Connie," said Ronald, "I wish you'd tell me the real, real truth."
But Connie was trembling very much. "Don't yer ax me," she said. She suddenly burst into tears. "I am so dreadfully frightened," she cried. "I don't think I ever wor so frightened in all my life before. You're not half so frightened as I am, Ronald."
"Of course not," said Ronald, "for I am a boy, you see, and I'll be a man by-and-by. Besides, I have to think of father—father would have gone through anything. Once he was in a shipwreck. The ship was really wrecked, and a great many of the passengers were drowned. Father told me all about it, but it was from a friend of father's that I learned afterwards how splendid he was, saving—oh, heaps of people! It was that night," continued Ronald, sitting down by the fire as he spoke, his eyes glowing with a great thought, and his little face all lit up by the fire-light—"it was that night that hefirst found out how much he loved mother; for mother was in a great big Atlantic liner, and it was father who saved her life. Afterwards they were married to each other, and afterwards I came to them—God sent me, you know."
"Yus," said Connie.
She dried her eyes.
"Go on talking, Ronald," she said. "I never met a boy like you. I thought there were no one like Giles, but it seems to me some'ow that you're a bit better—you're so wonnerful, wonnerful brave, and 'ave such a cunnin' way of talkin'. I s'pose that's 'cos you—you're a little gen'leman, Ronald."
Ronald made no answer to this. After a minute he said:
"There's no thanks to me to be brave—that is, when I'm brave it's all on account of father, and 'Like father, like son.' Mother used to teach me that proverb when I was very small. Shall I tell you other things that father did?"
"Oh yus, please," said Connie.
"He saved some people once in a great big fire. No one else had courage to go in, but he wasn't afraid of anything. And another time he saved a man on the field of battle. He got his V. C. for that."
"Wotever's a V. C.?" inquired Connie.
"Oh," said Ronald, "don't you even know that? How very ignorant you are, dear Connie. A V. C.—why, it's better to be a Victoria Cross man than to be the greatest noble in the land. Even the King couldn't be more than a Victoria Cross man."
"Still, I don't understand," said Connie.
"It's an honor," said Ronald, "that's given for a very, very brave deed. Father had it; when he comes back he'll show you his Victoria Cross; then you'll know."
"Do yer think as he'll come soon?" asked Connie.
"He may come to-day," said Ronald—"or he may not," he added, with a profound sigh.
The little boy had been talking with great excitement, but now the color faded from his cheeks and he coughed a little. He had coughed more or less since that dreadful day when Mrs. Warren had taken him out in the snowstorm. He was always rather a delicate child, and after his bad fever he was not fit to encounter such misery and hardship.
"Connie," he said after a time, "it's the worst of all dreadful things, isn't it, to pretend that you are what you aren't?"
"What do yer mean by that?" asked Connie.
"Well, it's this way. You praise me for being brave. I am not brave always; I am very frightened sometimes. I am very terribly frightened now, dear Connie."
"Oh Ronald!" said Connie, "if you're frightened hall's hup."
"Let me tell you," said Ronald. He laid his little, thin hand on the girl's arm. "It's about father. Do you think, Connie, that Mammy Warren could have invented that story about him?"
"I dunno," said Connie.
"But what do you think, Connie? Tell me just what you think."
"Tell me what you think, Ronald."
"I am afraid to think," said the child. "At first I believed it, just as though father had spoken himself to me. I thought for sure and certain he'd be waiting for me here. I didn't think for a single moment that he'd be the sort of father that would come and stand outside in the landing and go away again just because I wasn't here. For, you see, I am his own little boy; I am all he has got. I know father so well, I don't believe he could do that kind of thing."
"Oh, but you can't say," answered Connie. "Certain sure, it seemed as though Agnes spoke the truth."
"I thought that too; only father's a very refined sort of man, and he'd never, never chuck Mrs. Warren under the chin."
"Agnes might have invented that part," said poor Connie. But in her heart of hearts she had long ago given up all hope of Ronald's father coming to fetch him.
"She might," said Ronald; "that is quite true; and he might have had to go to the country—perhaps to rescue some one in great danger. He is the sort who are always doing that. That's quite, quite likely, for it would be in keeping with father's way. And he'd like me, of course, to be unselfish, and never to make a fuss—he hated boys who made a fuss. Oh yes, I did believe it; and on Saturday night and on Sunday, when Big Ben talked to us, it seemed that it was mother telling me that father would soon be with me. But a whole week has gone and he hasn't come. Why, it's Saturday night again, Connie. I've been back again in this house for a whole week now, and father has never, never come."
"Maybe he'll come to-night," said Connie.
"I don't think so; somehow I'd sort of feel it in my bones if he was coming back."
"What do yer mean by that?" said Connie.
"Oh, I'd be springy-like and jumpy about. But I'm not. I feel—oh, so lazy and so—so tired! and a little bit—yes, a greatbit—frightened—terribly frightened."
"You must cheer up, Ronald," said Connie. Then she added, "I wish we could get out o' this. I wish I could pick the lock and get aw'y."
"Oh, I wish you could, Connie," said the child. "Couldn't you try?"
"I'm a'most afeered to go into Mammy Warren's room," said Connie; "for ef she did come back and see me any time, she'd punish me awful; but p'r'aps I might find tools for picking the lock in her room."
"Oh, do let's try!" said Ronald.
Connie half-rose, then sat down again.
"It's me that's the coward now," she said.
"Oh, how so, Connie?"
"'Cos," said Connie, "there's that dark room with no winder—'tain't a dream, Ronald."
"I thought it wasn't," said Ronald, turning white.
"No—it's there," said Connie, "and I'm afeered o' it."
Ronald sat very still for a minute then. He was thinking hard. He was only a little boy of ten years old, but he was a very plucky one. He looked at Connie, who although a little older than he, was very slight and small for her age.
"Connie," he said, "if you and I are ever to make our escape we must not be frightened. Even the dark closet won't frighten me now.Iam going into Mrs. Warren's room."
"Oh Ronald! Are you? Dare you?"
"Yes, I dare. Father did worse things than that—why should I be afraid?"
"You'd win the V. C., Ronald, wouldn't you, now?"
Ronald smiled.
"Not for such a little, little thing. But perhaps some day," he said; and his eyes looked very bright. "Connie, if we can unpick the lock and get the door open, where shall we go?"
"We'll go," said Connie in a brisk voice, "back to Father John as fast as ever we can."
"Father John," said Ronald—"who is he?"
"I told you, Ronnie—I told you about him."
"I forgot for a minute," said Ronald. "You mean the street preacher."
"Yus," said Connie. "'E'll save us. There's no fear o' Mammy Warren getting to us ever again ef he takes us in 'and."
Ronald smiled.
"The only thing I'm afraid of is this," he said—"that if it's true about father, he may come here and find me gone."
"Let's leave a note for him," said Connie then. "Let's put it on the table. If Mammy Warren should come back she'll find the note, but that won't do any harm, for she knows Father John, and she's awful afeered of him, 'cos she said as much, so she'd never follow us there."
"The very thing!" said Ronald. "Let's get some paper. Will you write the note, Connie?"
The children poked round in the sitting-room, and found a sheet of very thin paper, and an old pen, and a penny bottle of ink. Ronald dictated, and Connie wrote:
"Dear Father,—I've waited here for a week. I am trying to be very brave. Connie's an awful nice girl. We've picked the lock here, father, and we've gone to Father John, in Adam Street. Please come quick, for your little boy is so very hungry for you. Come quick, darling father.—Your little waiting boy,Ronald."
"That'll bring him," said Ronald. "We'll put it on the table."
Connie had written her letter badly, and there were several blots; but still a feat was accomplished. Her cheeks were bright with excitement now.
"What shall I put outside?" she asked—"on the envelope, I mean."
Ronald thought for a minute; then he said in a slow and impressive voice:
"To Major Harvey, V. C., from Ronald."
"Nobody can mistake who it's meant for," said Ronald.
"Here's a bit of sealing-wax," said Connie. "Let's seal it."
They did so, Connie stamping the seal with a penny thimble which she took out of her pocket.
"And now," said Ronald, pulling himself up, "all is ready, and I am going into Mammy Warren's room to try and find tools for picking the lock."
"I'm a-goin' with yer," said Connie.
"Oh Connie, that is brave of you."
"No," said Connie, "it 'ud be real cowardly to let yer go alone."
Hand in hand the two children crossed the ugly sitting-room, and opened the door which led into that mysterious apartment known as Mammy Warren's room. It certainly was a very strange-looking place. There was no bed to be seen anywhere, which in itself was surprising. But Connie explained to Ronald that the huge wooden wardrobe was doubtless a press-bed which let down at night.
"She'd keep all kinds of things at the back of the bed," said the practical Connie, who had seen several similar arrangements in the houses of the poor.
This room, however, although ugly and dark—very dark—seemed to be suspiciously bare. The children had turned on the gas—for evening had already arrived—and they could see with great distinctness.
Mammy Warren owned the upper part of this tenement-house, and no one ever came up the creaking stairs except to visit her. The children therefore knew that if there was a footstep they would be in danger. Connie, however, assured Ronald that she could put out the light and be innocently seated by the fire if Mammy Warren did arrive unexpectedly.
All was silence, however, on the creaking stairs, and they were able to resume their search. The chest of drawers stood with all its drawers open and each one of them empty. No sort of tool could the children find. The yellow and black silk dress had disappeared, but the disreputable old beggar's clothes hung on the peg behind the door. There was also a very ancient bonnet, which was hung by its strings over the dress. Otherwise there was not a scrap of anything whatever in the room except the press bedstead, which the children could not possibly open, and the empty chest of drawers.
"But here," said Connie, "is a door. P'rhaps it's a cupboard door."
"Let's try if it will open," said Ronald.
He turned the handle. The door shot back with a spring, and the boy's face turned pale.
"The dark closet!" said Connie. "The dark, dark room without a winder!"
Ronald caught hold of Connie's hand and squeezed it tightly. After a minute he said in a husky voice:
"Come away."
Connie shut the mysterious closet door. The children turned out the gas in Mammy Warren's bedroom, and went back to the sitting-room. Here they crouched down, pale and trembling, before the fire.
"Don't, Ronnie—don't," said Connie.
"Hold me very tight, Connie," said the little boy.
She did so, pressing him to her heart and kissing his little face. After a minute tears came to his eyes, and he said in a sturdy tone:
"Now I am better. It was wrong of me to be so frightened."
"Hark—there's the Woice!" said Connie.
They sat very still while Big Ben proclaimed the hour of nine.
"What does he say?" asked Ronald, turning round and looking at Connie.
"I know," said Connie, a light on her pretty face. "Father John preached on it once. I know wot Big Ben's a-sayin' of to-night."
"Tell me," said Ronald.
"He that shall endure," said Connie. "Yes, Connie," repeated Ronald—"'He that shall endure'——"
"To the end," said Connie, "shall be saved," she added.
"Oh Connie!" cried the boy. "Do you really, really think so?"
"Father John says it, and Father John couldn't tell a lie," continued the girl. "He says that is one of God's promises, and God never made a mistake. 'He that shall endure to the end—shall be saved.'"
"Then," said Ronald, "ifweendureweshall be saved."
"Yes," replied Connie.
"You're not frightened, then?"
"Not after that," said Connie.
"How can you tell thatwaswhat Big Ben said?"
"'Eard him," said Connie.
She unclasped Ronald's arms from her neck and stood up.
"I'm better," she said; "I'm not frightened no more. Sometimes it's 'ard to endure—Father John says it is. But ''E thatshallendure to the end'—to theend—he made a great p'int o' that—'shall be saved.'"
"Thenwe'llbe saved," said Ronald.
"Yus," answered Connie.
She looked down at the little boy. The boy was gazing into the fire and smiling. Connie put on some fresh lumps of coal, and the fire broke into a cheerful blaze. It did not matter at all to the good coal whether it burned out its heart in an attic or a palace; wherever it was put to do its duty, it did it. Nowgay little flames and cheerful bursts of bubbling gas rendered even the hideous room bright.
"W'y, it's long past tea!" said Connie. "I'll put on the kettle and we'll have our tea, Ronald. Maybe Aggie'll be back in a minute, and maybe she'd like a cup o' tea."
Connie put on the kettle, and then went to the cupboard to get out the provisions. These were exceedingly short. There was little more than a heel of very stale bread, and no butter, and only a scrape of jam; but there was a little tea in the bottom of the tea-canister, and a little coarse brown sugar in a cup.
Connie laid the table quite cheerfully.
"We'll toast the bread," she said. "Tea and toast is famous food."
She got an old, bent toasting-fork, and she and Ronald laughed and even joked a little as they browned the stale bread until it was quite crisp and tempting-looking.
"I'd ever so much rather have this tea than a great, big, grand one with Mammy Warren," said Connie.
"Yes, Connie," said the boy; "so would I."
They had no milk with their tea, but that was, after all but a small circumstance. They scraped out the jam-pot and spread its contents on the hot toast, and contrived to enjoy the slender meal to the utmost.
Ronald said nothing about breakfast the next morning; he doubtless did not even give it a thought. But Connie remembered it well, although she took care not to allude to it.
Ten o'clock struck, and still Agnes did not appear. Eleven, twelve—and no sign either of Mammy Warren or the girl.
"Shall we go to bed?" said Ronald.
"Let's bring our beds and lay 'em on the floor," said Connie, "in this room. Some'ow I don't think as Mammy Warren 'ull come back to-night. She wouldn't 'ave tuk all her things ef she meant to come; would she, Ronald?"
"I don't know," said Ronald. He was very sleepy, for the hour was terribly late for so young a child to be awake.
After a little reflection Connie decided only to drag his bed into the front room. She could lie on the floor by his side, wrapped up in a blanket. The fire was built up with the last scrap of coal in the hod, and then Ronald lay down without undressing. Connie begged of him to take off his clothes, but he said to her:
"Maybe father'll come in the middle of the night. I somehow feel as if something must happen to-night, and I don't want not to be ready."
Connie therefore only removed his shoes. She tucked the blankets round him, and said, "Good-night, Ronnie."
"What is that verse?" asked Ronald again. "'He that shall endure to the end'——"
"'Shall be saved,'" finished Connie.
When she came to these words she noticed that little Ronald was sound asleep. Connie changed her mind about lyingdown. She sat on the floor by the boy's side, laid her head on the pillow close to his, and also dropped asleep.
Big Ben called out the hour but the children slept. Perhaps the Voice spoke to them in their dreams, for they smiled now and then. Doubtless they were far away in those dreams from the dreadful attic, from the influence of a most cruel woman, from hunger and cold. The fire burned to a fine red glow, and then cooled down and grew gray and full of ashes, and eventually went out. For it had burned its heart out trying to help the children; and without a heart, even fire cannot keep alive.
But the two children slept on, although Ronald now stirred uneasily and coughed in his sleep. It seemed to Connie that she also was oppressed by something, as though a great and terrible nightmare were sitting on her chest. Ronald coughed louder and opened his eyes.
"Connie, Connie—where are we?" he cried.
Connie sat up with a stare.
"I be stiff," she began, "and—and cold. Wotever's the hour? Bide a bit, Ronald, and I'll find the matches and turn on the gas."
"What's the matter with the room?" said Ronald.
"I don't know nothing," said Connie.
"My eyes smart," said Ronald, "and I can't breathe."
"I feel queer too," said Connie. "I won't be a second finding out, though. You lie quiet."
She groped about, found a match-box, which still contained a few matches, struck a light, and applied it to the gas, which was at full pressure now, and roared out, making a great flame.
"W'y, the room's full o' smoke," said Connie. "Wottever can it be?"
Ronald sat up in bed, opening his eyes.
"Where does it come from?" he said. "The fire is out."
Just then Big Ben proclaimed the hour of three.
"He that shall endure," thought Connie. "To the end," darted through Ronald's mind; and just then both children heard an unmistakable and awful roar. Was it the roar of human voices or the roar of something else—a devouring and awful element? Connie turned white. Now, if ever, was the time to be brave.
"I'll open the winder and look out," she said.
She sprang towards it and, with a great effort, pushed it half up. The moment she did so, the noise from without came louder, and the noise from within was more deafening.
"Fire! fire!" shouted a multitude of people from below in the street; and "Fire! fire!" cried the frenzied inhabitants of the old tenement-house. Connie and Ronald were on the top story. Connie went back to Ronald.
"The house is on fire, Ronnie!" she said. "But we mustn't be frightened, either of us; we must think of the grand verse,and of what Big Ben said. Big Ben's an angel, you mind; Giles knows all about that."
"Oh yes," said Ronald, his teeth chattering; for the draught from the open window, although it relieved his breathing, made him intensely cold. "It's a beautiful verse, isn't it, Connie?" he continued.
"Yus," said Connie. "Let's get to the winder, Ronnie dear. We'll call out. There are people down in the street. The fire-engines 'ull be on in a minute; we'll be saved, in course."
"Oh, of course," said Ronnie. He staggered to the floor, and put his feet into his shoes. "A good thing I wasn't undressed," he said.
"Yus," said Connie. "Now, let's get to the winder."
The children staggered there. The smoke was getting more dense; the room was filling faster and faster with the horrible, blinding, suffocating thing. But at the window there was relief. Connie put out her head for a minute, and then quickly drew it back.
"There's flames burstin' out o' the winders," she said. "I wish as the firemen 'ud come."
The children clung to one another. Just then, above the roar of the flames and the screams of the people, something else was distinctly audible. The fast approach of horses; the gallant figures of men in brass helmets: the brave firemen—members of the noblest brigade in the world—were on the spot.
"It's hall right," said Connie. "They've come. Don't yer be a bit frightened, Ronnie; we'll soon be out o' this. You ax Giles w'en you see him wot'ethinks o' firemen. 'Esfather were one. Oh, there's no fear now that they've come!"
She pressed close to the window and put out her head and shoulders. Ronald did likewise. The men out in the street were acting promptly. The hose were brought to bear on the increasing flames. But all to no purpose; the house was past saving. Was any one within?
"No," said a woman down in the crowd; "hevery soul is out, even to my last biby—bless him!"
She gave a hysterical cry, and sat down on a neighboring doorstep.
But the firemen of the London Brigade are very careful to ascertain for themselves whether there is any likelihood of loss of life.
"Has any one come down from the top floor?" asked a tall young man. He had a splendid figure—broad, square shoulders, and a light and athletic frame—which showed at once that he was the very best possible sort of fireman.
Just then the flames burst out more brightly than ever, and Connie, with her fair hair surrounding her little face, and Ronald clinging to her hand, were both distinctly seen.
"My God!" cried the firemen, "there are children up there. Put the escape up at once—don't lose an instant—I am going up to them."
"You can't; it's certain death," said one or two. Several other voices were also raised in expostulation. But if any one in that crowd supposed that they were going to turn George Anderson, the bravest fireman in London, from his purpose, they were mistaken.
"That little angel face, and the face of the boy by her side!" he said once or twice under his breath. And then up and up he went—up and up—the children in the burning room (for the flames had broken out behind them now) watching and watching. His fear was that they might fall from their perilous position. But they had both crept out on to the window-ledge.
"Courage, courage!" he shouted to them. "Hold tight—I'll be there in a minute!"
"The window is so hot!" gasped Connie.
"Think—think of the Voice," whispered Ronald.
He closed his eyes. In another minute he would have been beyond all earthly succor, and up in those beautiful realms where angels live, and his mother would meet him. But this was not to be.
In less than an instant a firm hand rescued the two children from their perilous position, and they were brought down to the ground uninjured. Ronald fainted in that descent, but Connie kept her consciousness. They were out of Mammy Warren's awful house. She had a queer sense as though she had been delivered from a worse danger even than fire.
People crowded round, and presently the tall fireman came up.
"What is your name?" he said to Connie.
"Connie," she replied.
"Well, Connie," he answered, "it was the sight of your beautiful face in the window that gave me courage to save yer. Now, do you want to have a shelter for yourself and your little brother to-night?'
"Thank you, sir," said Connie. The man pulled a card—it looked just like a gentleman's visiting card—out of his pocket.
"Will you take that," he said, "to No. 12 Carlyle Terrace? It's just round the corner. Take your little brother with you. There are two bells to the house. Look for the one that has the word 'Night' written under it. It used to be a doctor's house, but there's no doctor there now. My mother will understand—give her that card, and tell her what has happened. Good night."
He turned away. It was some time before Connie and Ronald could get rid of the many neighbors who volunteered help, and who regarded the two pretty children as the hero and heroine of the hour. Offers of a shake-down for the night, of a hasty meal, of a warm fire, came to Connie from all sorts of people. But she had made up her mind to follow out the directions of the tall fireman, and saying that shehad friends at No. 12 Carlyle Terrace, she and Ronald soon started off to go to the address the fireman had given them.
They were both too excited to feel the effects of all they had gone through at first, but when they reached the house, and Connie pressed the button of the bell which had the word "Night" written under it, she was trembling exceedingly.
"Why are we coming here?" asked Ronald.
"I dunno," said Connie. "Seems as though a hangel was with us all the time."
"I expect so," answered Ronald in a very weak voice.
"And," continued Connie, "he's a-leadin' of us 'ere."
They had pressed the bell, and quickly—wonderfully quickly—they heard steps running down the stairs; and the door was opened by a tall woman—very tall and very thin—with a beautiful pale face and soft motherly eyes.
"What is it?" she asked. "What is the matter? Oh, my poor little dears! And how you smell of fire! Have you been in a fire?"
"Please, ma'am," said Connie, "be yer the mother o' Mr. George Anderson—the bravest fireman, ma'am? He told me to give yer this card, ma'am."
"I am Mrs. Anderson. Oh, of course, if he's sent you——"
"'Esaved us from the fire, ma'am," said Connie.
"Come in, you poor little things," said Mrs Anderson. She drew the children in; she shut the door behind them. It seemed to Connie when that door shut that it shut out sorrow and pain and hunger and cold; for within the house there was warmth—not only warmth for frozen little bodies, but for tired souls.
Mrs. Anderson was one of the most motherly women in London; and George, her son, knew what he was about when he sent the children to her.
Soon they were revived with warm baths and with hot port-wine and water, and very soon afterwards they were both lying in beds covered with linen sheets that felt soft and fine as silk. But Mrs. Anderson sat by them both while they slept, for she did not like the look on the boy's face, and felt very much afraid of the shock for him.
"The little girl can stand more," she said to herself. "She's a beautiful little creature, but she's a child of the people. She has been accustomed to hardships all her life; but with the boy it's different—he's a gentleman by birth. Something very cruel has happened to him, poor little lad! and this seems to be the final straw."
Mrs. Anderson was a very wise woman, and her fears with regard to little Ronald were all too quickly realized. By the morning the boy was in a high state of fever. A doctor was summoned, and Mrs. Anderson herself nursed him day and night. Connie begged to be allowed to remain, and her request was granted.
"For the present you shall stay with me," said Mrs. Anderson."I don't know your story, nor the story of this little fellow, but I am determined to save his life if I can."
"I can tell yer something," said Connie. "Little Ronald's a real gent—'e'sthe son of a hofficer in 'Is Majesty's harmy, an' the hofficer's name is Major Harvey, V. C."
"What?" cried Mrs. Anderson. She started back in amazement. "Why, I knew him and his wife," she said. "I know he was killed in South Africa, and I know his dear wife died about a year ago. Why, I've been looking for this child. Is your story quite true, little girl?"
"Yus, it's quite true," said Connie. "But tell me—do tell me—is his father really dead?"
"I fear so. It is true that his death was not absolutely confirmed; but he has been missing for over two years."
"Ma'am," said Connie, "wot do yer mean by his death not bein' confirmed?"
"I mean this, little girl," said Mrs. Anderson—"that his body was never found."
"Then he ain't dead," said Connie.
"What do you mean?"
"I feel it in my bones," said Connie, "same as Ronald felt it in his bones.'Eain't dead."
Mrs. Anderson laid her hand on the girl's pretty hair.
"I am getting in a real trained nurse to look after Ronald Harvey," she said. "If he's the son of my old friend, more than ever is he my care now; and you this evening, little Connie, shall tell me your story."
This Connie did. When she had described all that had occurred to her during the last few weeks, Mrs. Anderson was so amazed that she could hardly speak.
"My poor child!" she said. "You can't guess what terrible dangers you've escaped. That dreadful woman was, without doubt, a member of a large gang of burglars. Several have been arrested within the last day or two, and I have no doubt we shall hear of her soon at the police courts."
"Burglars?" said Connie—"burglars? Them be thieves, bean't they?"
"Yes—thieves."
"But what could she do with us?" said Connie.
"She used you for her own purposes. While people were looking at you, she was doubtless picking their pockets. Don't think any more about it, dear, only be thankful that you have escaped. And now, don't you feel very anxious about your father and your old friends?"
"Yus," said Connie. "I'd like to go home. I'd like them to know once for all what happened."
"Would you like to go back to-night? You can return to me, you know. I shall be up with Ronald until far into the night."
Connie rose swiftly.
"You're not afraid of the streets, my poor little child?"
"Oh no, ma'am. I'm only quite an ordinary girl. I ha' learnt my lesson," continued Connie. "I were real discontent wid my life at the factory, but I'll be discontent no more."
"You had a sharp lesson," said Mrs. Anderson. "I think God wants you to be a particularly good and a particularly brave woman, or He wouldn't have let you go through so much."
"Yes, ma'am," answered Connie; "and I'll try 'ard to be good and brave."
CHAPTER XIII.PETER HARRIS.
While Connie was going through such strange adventures in Mammy Warren's attic room, her father, Giles, and Sue, and dear Father John were nearly distracted about her.
Peter Harris was a rough, fierce, unkempt individual. He was fond of drink. He was not at all easily impressed by good things; but, as has been said before, if he had one tender spot in his heart it was for Connie. When he drank he was dreadfully unkind to his child; but in his sober moments there was nothing he would not do for the pretty, motherless girl.
As day after day passed without his seeing her, he got nearly frantic with anxiety. At first he tried to make nothing of her disappearance, saying that the girl had doubtless gone to visit some friends; but when a few days went by and there were no tidings of her, and Sue assured him that she not only never appeared now at the great warehouse in Cheapside where they used to work together, but also that she had been seen last with Agnes Coppenger, and that Agnes Coppenger had also disappeared from her work at the sewing-machine, he began to fear that something bad had happened.
Father John was consulted, and Father John advised the necessity of at once acquainting the police. But although the police did their best, they could get no trace whatever either of Agnes or of Connie.
Thus the days passed, and Connie's friends were very unhappy about her. Her absence had a bad effect on Peter, who, from his state of grief and uneasiness, had taken more and more consolation out of the gin-palace which he was fond of frequenting. Every night now he came home tipsy, and the neighbors were afraid to go near. Soon he began to abuse Connie, to say unkind things about her, and to fly into a passion with any neighbor who mentioned her name.
Giles shed silent tears for his old playmate, and even the voice of Big Ben hardly comforted him, so much did he miss the genial companionship of pretty Connie. But now at last the girl herself was going home. She had no fear. She was full of a wild and yet terrible delight. How often she had longed for her father! Connie had a great deal of imagination, and during the dreadful time spent at Mother Warren's, and in especial since Ronald had come, she beganto compare her father with Ronald's, and gradually but surely to forget the cruel and terrible scenes when that father was drunk, and to think of him only in his best moments when he kissed her and petted her and called her his dear little motherless girl.
Oh, he would be glad to see her now! He would rejoice in her company.
Connie quickly found the old house in Adam Street, and ran up the stairs. One or two people recognized her, and said, "Hullo, Con! you back?" but being too busy with their struggle for life, did not show any undue curiosity.
"Is my father in?" asked Connie of one.
The man said, "He be." And then he added, "Yer'd best be careful. He ain't, to say, in his pleasantest mood to-night."
Connie reached the well-known landing. She turned the handle of the door. It was locked. She heard some one moving within. Then a rough voice said:
"Get out o' that!"
"It's me, father!" called Connie back. "It's Connie!"
"Don't want yer—get away!" said the voice.
Connie knelt down and called through the keyhole:
"It's me—I've 'ad a dreadful time—let me in."
"Go 'way—don't want yer—get out o' this!"
"Oh father—father!" called Connie. She began to sob. After all her dreams, after all her longings, after all her cruel trials—to be treated like this, and by her father! It seemed to shake her very belief in fathers, even in the great Father of all.
"Please—please—I'm jest wanting yer awfu' bad!" she pleaded.
Her gentle and moving voice—that voice for which Peter Harris, when sober and in his right mind, so starved to hear again—now acted upon him in quite the opposite direction. He had not taken enough to make him stupid, only enough to rouse his worst passions. He strode across the room, flung the door wide, and lifting Connie from her knees, said to her:
"Listen. You left me without rhyme or reason—not even a word or a thought. I sorrowed for yer till I turned to 'ate yer! Now then, get out o' this. I don't want yer, niver no more. Go down them stairs, unless yer want me to push yer down. Go 'way—and be quick!"
There was a scowl on his angry face, a ferocious look in his eyes. Connie turned quite gently, and without any apparent anger went downstairs.
"Ah!" said a man in the street, "thought yer wouldn't stay long."
"He's wery bad," said Connie. She walked slowly, as though her heart were bleeding, down Adam Street until she came to the house where Father John Atkins lived.
It was a little house, much smaller than its neighbors. Father John's room was on the ground floor. She knockedat the door. There was no answer. She turned the handle: it yielded to her pressure. She went in, sank down on the nearest chair, and covered her face with both her hands.
She was trembling exceedingly. The shock of her father's treatment was far greater than she could well bear in her present weak and over-excited condition. She had gone through—oh, so much—so very much! That awful time with Mammy Warren; her anxiety with regard to little Ronald; and then that final, awful, never-to-be-forgotten day, that night which was surely like no other night that had ever dawned on the world—the noise of the gathering flames, the terrific roar they made through the old building; the shouts of the people down below; the heat, the smoke, the pain, the cruel, cruel fear; and then last but not least—the deliverance!
When that gallant fireman appeared, it seemed to both Connie and Ronald as though the gates of heaven had opened, and they had been taken straight away from the pains of hell into the glories of the blest. But all these things told on the nerves, and when Connie now had been turned away from her father's door, she was absolutely unfit for such treatment.
When she reached Father John's she was as weak and miserable a poor little girl as could found anywhere in London.
"My dear! my dear!" said the kind voice—the sort of voice that always thrilled the hearts of those who listened to him. A hand was laid on the weeping girl's shoulder. "Look up," said the voice again. Then there was a startled cry, an exclamation of the purest pleasure.
"Why Connie—my dear Connie—the good Lord has heard our prayers and has sent you back again!"
"Don't matter," said Connie, sobbing on, quite impervious to the kindness, quite unmoved by the sympathy. "There ain't no Father 'chart 'eaven," she continued. "I don't believe in 'Im no more. There ain't no Father, and no Jesus Christ. Ef there were, my own father wouldn't treat me so bitter cruel."
"Come, Connie," said the preacher, "you know quite well that you don't mean those dreadful words. Sit down now by the cosy fire; sit in my own little chair, and I'll talk to you, my child. Why, Connie, can't you guess that we've been praying for you?"
"Don't matter," whispered Connie again.
The preacher looked at her attentively. He put his kind hand for a minute on her forehead, and then, with that marvellous knowledge which he possessed of the human heart and the human needs, he said nothing for the time being. Connie was not fit to argue, and he knew she was worn-out. He got her to sit in the old arm-chair, and to lay her golden head against a soft cushion, and then he prepared coffee—strong coffee—both for her and himself.
It was late, and he was deadly tired. He had been up all the night before. It was his custom often to spend his nights in this fashion; for, as he was fond of expressing it, the DivineMaster seemed to have more work for him to do at night than in the daytime.
"There are plenty of others to help in the daytime," thought Father John, "but in the darkness the sin and the shame are past talking about. If I can lift a burden from one heart, and help one poor suffering soul, surely that is the best night's rest I can attain to."
Last night he had put a drunken woman to bed. He had found her on a doorstep, and had managed, notwithstanding his small stature and slender frame, to drag her upstairs. There her terrified children met him. He managed to get them into a calm state of mind, and then induced them to help him for all they were worth. The great, bulky woman was undressed and put into bed. She slept, and snored loudly, and the children crowded round. He made them also go to bed, and went away, promising to call in the morning.
He did so. The woman was awake, conscious, and bitterly ashamed. He spoke to her as he alone knew how, and, before he left, induced her to go with him to take the pledge. He then gave her a little money out of his slender earnings to get a meal for the children, and spent the rest of the day trying to get fresh employment for her. She had been thrown out of work by her misdemeanors; but Father John was a power, and more than one lady promised to try Mrs. Simpkins once again. The little preacher was, therefore, more tired than his wont. He bent over Connie. She drank her coffee, and, soothed by his presence, became calmer herself.
"Now then," he said, "you will tell me everything. Why did you run away?"
"'Cos I were tired o' machine-work. But, oh, Father John! I niver, niver meant to stay aw'y. I jest thought as I were to get a nice new situation; I niver guessed as it 'ud be a prison." Connie then told her story, with many gaps and pauses.
"You see," said Father John when she had finished, "that when you took the management of your own life into your own hands you did a very dangerous thing. God was guiding you, and you thought you could do without Him. You have been punished."
"Yus," said Connie. "I'll niver be the same again."
"I hope, indeed, that you will not be the same. You have gone through marvellous adventures, and but for God Himself you would not now be in the world. It is not only your pain and misery that you have to consider, but you have also to think of the pain and misery you inflicted on others."
"No," said Connie defiantly, "that I won't do. I thought father 'ud care, but he turned me from 'ome."
"He did care, Connie. I never knew any one so distracted. He cared so terribly, and was so sore about you, that he took to drink to drown his pain. In the morning, when he is sober, you will see what a welcome he will give you."
"No," said Connie, shaking her head.
"But I say he will. He will help you, and he will be a father to you. I will take you to him myself in the morning."
Connie did not say anything more. When she had finished her coffee, the preacher suggested that he should take her to Sue and Giles. The girl looked at him wildly. In telling her story, she had never mentioned the name of the lady who had taken her in, nor the name of the brave fireman who had befriended her. But now Father John boldly asked her for these particulars. Her little face flushed and she looked up defiantly.
"I dunnut want to give 'em," she said.
"But I ask you for them, Connie," said the preacher.
Connie could no more withstand Father John's authoritative tone than she could fly. After a minute's pause she did tell what she knew, and Father John wrote Mrs. Anderson's address down in his note-book.
"Now then, Connie," he said, rising, "you're better. Sue and Giles will be so glad to see you once more! Come, dear; let me take you to them."
Connie stood up. There was a curious, wild light in her eyes; but she avoided looking at the street preacher, and he did not observe it. Had he done so he would have been more careful.
The two went out into the street together. It was now getting really late. The distance between the preacher's room and the humble lodgings where Sue and Giles lived was no great way, but to reach the home of the little Giles they had to pass some very ill-favored courts. At one of these Connie suddenly saw a face she knew. She started, trembling, and would have fled on had not a hand been raised to warning lips. The preacher at that instant was stopped by a man who wanted to ask him a question with regard to a child of his whom Father John was trying to find employment for.
Before he knew what had happened, Connie's hand was dragged from his. The girl uttered a slight cry, and the next minute was enveloped in the darkness of one of the worst courts in the whole of London.
"Quiet—quiet!" said a voice. "Don't you let out one sound or you'll niver speak no more. It's me—Agnes. I won't do yer no 'arm ef ye're quiet. Come along with me now."
Connie went, for she could not do anything else. Her feelings were absolutely confused. She did not know at that fearful moment whether she was glad or sorry to be back with Agnes Coppenger again. She only felt a sense of relief at having slipped away from Father John, and at having, as she thought, parted from her own cruel father.
"Oh Agnes!" she whispered, "hide me; and don't—don't take me back to Mammy Warren!"
"Bless yer!" said Agnes, "she's coped by the perlice. Mammy Warren's awaiting her trial in the 'Ouse of Detention; yer won't be worried by her no more."
"W'ere are yer taking me, then, Agnes?"
"'Ome—to my 'ouse, my dear."
"Yer'll promise to let me go in the morning?"
"Safe an' sure I will—that is, ef yer want to go."
Agnes was now walking so fast that Connie had the utmost difficulty in keeping up with her. She seemed all the time to be dodging, getting into shadows, avoiding lights, turning rapidly round corners, making the most marvellous short cuts, until at last—at last—she reached a very tall house, much taller than the one where Mammy Warren had lived. She made a peculiar whistle when she got there. The door was opened by a boy of about Connie's age.
"'Ere we be, Freckles," said Agnes; "and I ha' got the beautiful and saintly Connie back again."
"Hurrah for saintly Connie!" cried Freckles.
The two girls were dragged in by a pair of strong hands, and Connie found herself in utter darkness, descending some slippery stairs—into what depths she had not the slightest idea.
"These are the cellars," said Agnes when at last a door was flung open, and she found herself in a very poorly lit apartment with scarcely any furniture. "You was in hattics before," continued Agnes; "now ye're in the cellars. Yer didn't greatly take to kind Mammy Warren, but perhaps yer'll like Simeon Stylites better. He's a rare good man is Simeon—wery pious too. He sets afore him a saint o' the olden days, an' tries to live accordin'. He ain't in yet, so yer can set down and take things heasy."
Connie sat down.
"I'm that frightened!" she said. Agnes began to laugh.
"Sakes!" she exclaimed, "you ha' no cause. Simeon's a real feeling man, and he's allers kind to pore gels, more particular ef they 'appen to be purty."
Agnes now proceeded to light a fire in a huge, old-fashioned grate. There seemed to be abundance of coal. She built the fire up high, and when it roared up the chimney she desired Connie to draw near.
"You ain't got over yer fright yet," she began.
"Don't talk of it," said Connie.
"I guess as I won't—yer do look piquey. 'Ow's the other kid?"
"I dunno."
Agnes laughed and winked. After a minute she said,
"Yer needn't tell me. 'E's with Mrs. Anderson, mother o' the fireman. The fireman—'e's a real 'andsome man—I can tike to that sort myself. The kid's wery bad, he is. Wull, ef he dies it'll be a pity, for he 'ave the makings in 'im of a first-rate perfessional."
"Perfessional?" said Connie.
"Yus—ef he lives 'e'll be one. Simeon Stylites 'ull see to that. You'll be a perfessional, too. There's no use in these 'ere days bein' anything of an amattur; yer must be a perfessional or yer can't earn yer bread."
"I don't understand," said Connie.
"Sakes! you be stupid. It's good to open yer heyes now. Wot do yer think Mammy Warren wanted yer for?"
"I never could tell, only Mrs. Anderson said——"
"Yus—tell us wot she said. She's a torf—let's get'eridees on the subjeck."
"I won't tell yer," said Connie.
"Oh—that'syer little gime! Wull—I don't keer—I'll tell yer from my p'int o' view. Mammy Warren wanted yer—not for love—don't think no sech thing—but jest 'cos she could make you a sort o' decoy-duck. W'ile she was pickin' up many a good harvest, folks was a-starin' at you; an' w'en the little boy were there too, w'y, they stared all the more. She 'ad the boy first, and he were a fine draw. But he tuk ill, an' then she had to get some sort, an' I told her 'bout you, and 'ow purty you were, an' wot golden 'air you 'ad. 'Her golden 'air was 'angin' down her back,' I sung to her, an' she were tuk with the picter. Then I got yer for her—you knows 'ow. Wull, pore Mammy Warren! she's in quad for the present. But she'll come out agin none the worse; bless yer! they feeds 'em fine in quad now. Many a one as I know goes in reg'lar for the cold weather. You see, we'n yer gets yer lodgin' an' yer food at Government expense, it don't cost yer nothing, an' yer come out none the worse. That's wot Mammy Warren 'ull do. But Simeon Stylites-'e's a man 'oo prides himself on niver 'avin' been tuk yet. He'll teach yer 'ow to be a perfessional. Now then—yer ain't frightened, be yer?"
"No," said Connie. Once again she was the old Connie. She had got over her anguish of despair and grief about her father's conduct. She must get out of this, and the only chance was to let Agnes think that she didn't mind.
"Yer'll make abeautifulperfessional!" said Agnes, looking at her with admiration now. "I could—I could grovel at yer feet—pore me, so plain as I ham an' hall, an' you so wery genteel. There now, 'oo's that a-knockin' at the door?"
Agnes went to the door. She opened it about an inch, and had a long colloquy with some one outside.
"All right, Freckles," she said, "you can go to bed."
She then came back to Connie.
"Simeon ain't returning afore to-morrer," she said. "We'll tike to our beds. Come along with me, Connie."