CHAPTER XIX.A SAINTLY LADY.
When so many strange things were happening, we may be sure that Father John was not idle. He had hoped much from Peter Harris's knowledge of the byways and dens and alleys of Westminster. But although Peter was accompanied by the sharpest detectives that Scotland Yard could provide, not the slightest clue to Connie's whereabouts could be obtained. The man was to meet more detectives again that same afternoon, and meanwhile a sudden gleam of hope darted through Father John's brain.
What a fool he had been not to think of it before! How glad he was now that he had insisted on getting the name and address of the brave fireman deliverer from Connie on the previous night!
He went straight now to the house in Carlyle Terrace. He stopped at No. 12. There he rang the bell and inquired if Mrs. Anderson were within.
Mrs. Anderson was the last woman in the world to refuse to see any one, whether rich or poor, who called upon her. Even impostors had a kindly greeting from this saintly lady; for, as she was fond of saying to herself, "If I can't give help, I can at least bestow pity."
Mrs. Anderson was no fool, however, and she could generally read in their faces the true story of a man or woman who came to her. More often than not the story was a sad one, and the chance visitor was in need of help and sympathy. When this was not the case, she was able to explain very fully to the person who had called upon her what she thought of deceit and dishonest means of gaining a livelihood; and that person, as a rule, went away very much ashamed, and in some cases determined to turn over a new leaf. When this really happened Mrs. Anderson was the first to help to get the individual who had come to her into respectable employment.
She was by no means rich, but nearly every penny of her money was spent on others; her own wants were of the simplest. The house she lived in belonged to her son, who, although a gentleman by birth, had long ago selected his profession—that of a fireman in the London Fire Brigade. He had a passion for his calling, and would not change it for the richest and most luxurious life in the world.
Now Mrs. Anderson came downstairs to interview Father John. Father John stood up, holding his hat in his hand. He always wore a black frock-coat; his hair hung long over his shoulders; his forehead was lofty; his expressive and marvelously beautiful gray eyes lit up his rugged and otherwise plain face. It was but to look at this man to know that he was absolutely impervious to flattery, and did not mind in the least what others thought about him. His very slight but perceptible deformity gave to his eyes that pathetic look which deformed people so often possess.
The moment Mrs. Anderson entered the room she recognized him.
"Why," she said in a joyful tone, "is it true that I have the honor of speaking to the great street preacher?"
"Not great, madam," said Father John—"quite a simple individual; but my blessed Father in heaven has given me strength to deliver now and then a message to poor and sorrowful people."
"Sit down, won't you?" said Mrs. Anderson.
Father John did immediately take a chair. Mrs. Anderson did likewise.
"Now," said the widow, "what can I do for you?"
"I will tell you, madam. Her father and I are in great trouble about the child——"
"What child?" asked Mrs. Anderson. "You surely don't mean little Connie Harris? I have been nervous at her not reappearing to-day. At her own express wish, she went to visit her father last night. I would have sent some one with her, but she wouldn't hear of it, assuring me that she had been about by herself in the London streets as long as she could remember; but she has not returned."
"No, madam?"
Over Father John's face there passed a quick emotion. Then this last hope must be given up.
"You have news of her?" said Mrs. Anderson.
"I have, and very bad news."
Father John then related his story.
"Oh, why—why did I let her go?" said Mrs. Anderson.
"Don't blame yourself dear lady; the person to blame is the miserable father who would not receive his lost child when she returned to him."
"Oh, poor little girl!" said Mrs. Anderson. "Such a sweet child, too, and so very beautiful!"
"Her beauty is her danger," said Father John.
"What do you mean?"
"She told me her story, as doubtless she has told it to you."
"She has," said Mrs. Anderson.
"There is not the least doubt," continued the street preacher, "that that notorious thief, Mrs. Warren, used the child to attract people from herself when she was stealing their goods. Mrs. Warren is one of the most noted pickpockets in London. She has been captured, but I greatly fear thatsome other members of the gang have kidnapped the child once more."
"What can be done?" said Mrs. Anderson. "I wish my son were here. I know he would help."
"Ah, madam," said Father John, "how proud you must be of such a son! I think I would rather belong to his profession than any other in all the world—yes, I believe I would rather belong to it than to my own; for when you can rescue the body of a man from the cruel and tormenting flames, you have a rare chance of getting at his soul."
"My son is a Christian as well as a gentleman," said Mrs. Anderson. "He would feel with you in every word you have uttered, Father John. I will send him a message and ask him if he can meet you here later on to-night."
"I shall be very pleased to come; and I will if I can," said Father John. "But," he added, "my time is scarcely ever my own—I am the servant of my people."
"Your congregation?" said Mrs. Anderson.
"Yes, madam; all sorts and conditions of men. I have no parish; still, I consider myself God's priest to deliver His message to sorrowful people who might not receive it from an ordained clergyman."
Mrs. Anderson was silent. Father John's eyes seemed to glow. He was looking back on many experiences. After a minute he said:
"The consolation is this: 'He that shall endure to the end—shall be saved.'"
"How very strange that you should speak of that!" said Mrs. Anderson.
"Why so, madam? Don't you believe it?"
"Oh, indeed I do! But I'll tell you why I think it strange. There is a little boy—the child who was also rescued from the fire—in my house. He was very ill at first; he is now better, but not well enough to leave his bedroom. I was anxious about him for a time, but he is, I thank God, recovering. Now, this child went on murmuring that text during his delirium—a strange one to fall from the lips of so young a child."
"Indeed, yes, madam. I am most deeply interested. I am glad you have mentioned the little boy. Connie told me about him last night. I am sorry that in my anxiety for her I forgot him."
"You could never forget little Ronald if you were to see him," said Mrs. Anderson. "I don't think I ever saw quite so sweet a child. His patience, his courage, and I think I ought to add his faith, are marvelous."
"He cannot be nicer or better than a little boy of the name of Giles who lives in a very poor attic near my own room," said the preacher.
"I wonder," said Mrs. Anderson after a pause, "if you could spare time to come up and see little Ronald with me."
"I should be only too glad," said Father John.
So Mrs. Anderson took the preacher upstairs, and very softly opened the door, beyond which stood a screen. She entered, followed by the preacher, into a pretty room, which had lovely photographs hanging on the walls, that bore on childhood in different aspects. There was the summer child—the child of happiness—playing in the summer meadows, chasing butterflies and gathering flowers. And there also was the winter child—the child of extreme desolation—shivering on a doorstep in one of London's streets. There were other children, too—saintly children—St. Agnes and her lamb, St. Elizabeth, St. Ursula; and, above all, there were photographs of the famous pictures of the Child of all children, the Child of Bethlehem.
The windows of the room were shaded by soft curtains of pale blue. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, and a child lay, half-sitting up, in a bed covered by a silken eider-down.
The child looked quite content in his little bed, and a trained nurse who was in the room went softly out by another door as Mrs. Anderson and the preacher entered.
"Hasn't Connie come back?" asked Ronald.
"No, dear," said Mrs. Anderson; "she's not able to do so just yet."
"I want her," said Ronald, suppressing a sigh.
"I have brought this gentleman to see you, Ronald."
"What?"
The boy cast a quick glance at the somewhat ungainly figure of Father John. Another disappointment—not the father he was waiting for. But the luminous eyes of the preacher seemed to pierce into the boy's soul. When he looked once, he looked again. When he looked twice, it seemed to him that he wanted to look forever.
"I am glad," he said; and a smile broke over his little face.
Father John sat down at once by the bedside, and Mrs. Anderson went softly out of the room.
"Waiting for something, little man?" said the street preacher.
"How can you tell?" asked Ronald.
"I see it in your eyes," said the preacher.
"It's father," said Ronald.
"Which father?" asked the preacher.
"My own," said Ronald—"my soldier father—the V. C. man, you know."
"Yes," said Father John.
"I want him," said Ronald.
"Of course you do."
"Is he likely to come soon?" asked Ronald.
"If I could tell you that, Ronald," said the street preacher, "I should be a wiser man than my Father in heaven means me to be. There is only one Person who can tell you when your earthly father will come."
"You mean Lord Christ," said Ronald.
"I mean Christ and our Father in heaven."
Ronald shut his eyes for a minute. Then he opened them.
"I want my father," he said. "I'm sort o' starving for him."
"Well," said Father John, "you have a father, you know—you have two fathers. If you can't get your earthly father down here, you're certain safe to get him up there. A boy with two fathers needn't feel starved about the heart, need he, now?"
"I suppose not," said Ronald.
"He need not, of course," said Father John. "I'll say a bit of a prayer for you to the Heavenly Father, and I know that sore feeling will go out of your heart. I know it, Ronald; for He has promised to answer the prayers of those who trust in Him. But now I want to talk to you about something else. I guess, somehow, that the next best person to your father to come to see you now is your little friend Connie."
"Yes, yes!" said Ronald. "I've missed her dreadful. Mrs. Anderson is sweet, and Nurse Charlotte very kind, and I'm beginning not to be quite so nervous about fire and smoke and danger. It's awful to be frightened. I'll have to tell my father when he comes back how bad I've been and how unlike him. But if I can't get him just now—and I'm not going to be unpatient—I want Connie, 'cos she understands."
"Of course she understands," said the preacher. "I will try and get her for you."
"But why can't she come back?"
"She can't."
"But why—why?"
"That is another thing I can't tell you."
"And I am not to be unpatient," said Ronald.
"You're to be patient—it's a big lesson—it mostly takes a lifetime to get it well learned. But somehow, when it is learned, then there's nothing else left to learn."
Ronald's eyes were so bright and so dark that the preacher felt he had said enough for the present. He bent down over the boy.
"The God above bless thee, child," he said; "and if you have power and strength to say a little prayer for Connie, do. She will come back when the Heavenly Father wills it. Good-bye, Ronald."
CHAPTER XX.CAUGHT AGAIN.
When Connie awoke the next morning, it was to see the ugly face of Agnes bending over her.
"Stylites is to 'ome," she said briefly. "Yer'd best look nippy and come into the kitchen and 'ave yer brekfus'."
"Oh!" said Connie.
"You'll admire Stylites," continued Agnes; "he's a wery fine man. Now come along—but don't yer keep him waiting."
Connie had not undressed. Agnes poured a little water into a cracked basin for her to wash her face and hands, andshowed her a comb, by no means specially inviting, with which she could comb out her pretty hair. Then, again enjoining her to "look slippy," she left the room.
In the kitchen a big breakfast was going on. A quantity of bacon was frizzling in a pan over a great fire; and Freckles, the boy who had let Connie and Agnes in the night before, was attending to it. Two men with rough faces—one of them went by the name of Corkscrew, and the other was known as Nutmeg—were standing also within the region of the warm and generous fire. But the man on whom Connie fixed her pretty eyes, when she softly opened the door and in all fear made her appearance, was of a totally different order of being.
He was a tall man, quite young, not more than thirty years of age, and remarkably handsome. He had that curious combination of rather fair hair and very dark eyes and brows. His face was clean-shaven, and the features were refined and delicate without being in the least effeminate; for the cruel strength of the lower jaw and firmly shut lips showed at a glance that this man had a will of iron. His voice was exceedingly smooth and gentle, however, in intonation.
When he saw Connie he stepped up to her side and, giving her a gracious bow, said:
"Welcome to the kitchen, young lady."
"It's Stylites—bob yer curtsy," whispered Agnes in Connie's ear.
So Connie bobbed her curtsy. Was this the man she was to be so dreadfully afraid of? Her whole charming little face broke into a smile.
"I'm so glad as you're Stylites!" she said.
The compliment, the absolutely unexpected words, the charm of the smile, had a visible effect upon the man. He looked again at Connie as though he would read her through and through; then, taking her hand, he led her to the breakfast-table.
"Freckles," he said, "put a clean plate and knife on the table. That plate isn't fit for a young lady to eat off."
Freckles grinned from ear to ear, showing rows of yellow teeth. He rushed off to wash the plate in question, and returned with it hot and shining to lay again before Connie's place. Simeon Stylites himself helped the little girl to the choicest pieces of bacon, to delicate slices of white bread, and to any other good things which were on the table. As he did this he did not speak once, but his eyes seemed to be everywhere. No one dared do a thing on the sly. The rough-looking men, Corkscrew and Nutmeg, were desired in a peremptory tone to take their mugs of tea to another table at the farther end of the great room. One of them ventured to grumble, and both cast angry glances at Connie. Stylites, however, said, "Shut that!" and they were instantly mute as mice.
The boy Freckles also took his breakfast to the other table; but Agnes sat boldly down, and pushing her ill-favored face forward, addressed Simeon in familiar style:
"I nabbed her—yer see."
"Shut that!" said Stylites.
Agnes flushed an angry red, gave Connie a vindictive look, but did not dare to utter another word. Connie ate her breakfast with wonderful calm, and almost contentment. During the night which had passed she had gone through terrible dreams, in which Simeon Stylites had figured largely. He had appeared to her in those dreams as an ogre—a monster too awful to live. But here was a gracious gentleman, very goodly to look upon, very kind to her, although rude and even fierce to the rest of the party.
"He'll let me go 'ome," thought Connie; "he 'ave a kind 'eart."
The meal came to an end. When it did so Corkscrew came up and inquired if the young "amattur" were "goin' to 'ave her first lesson in perfessional work."
"Shut that!" said Stylites again. "You go into cellar No. 5 and attend to the silver, Corkscrew.—Nutmeg, you'll have the other jewelry to put in order this morning. Is the furnace in proper order?"
"Yus, sir."
"Get off both of you and do your business. We're going out this evening."
"When, sir?"
"Ten o'clock—sharp's the word."
"On wot, sir?"
"No. 17's the job," said Simeon Stylites.
"And wot am I to do?" said Agnes.
"Stay indoors and mend your clothes."
"In this room, sir?"
"No; your bedroom."
"Please, Simeon Stylites, yer ain't thanked me yet for bringin' Connie along."
For answer Stylites put his hand into his pocket, produced half-a-crown, and tossed it to Agnes.
"Get into your room, and be quick about it," he said.
"May I take Connie along, please, sir?"
"Leave the girl alone. Go!"
Agnes went.
"Come and sit in this warm chair by the fire, dear," said Stylites.
Connie did so. The smile round her lips kept coming and going, going and coming. She was touched; she was soothed; she had not a scrap of fear; this great, strong, kind man would certainly save her. He was so different from dreadful Mammy Warren.
"Freckles," said the chief, "wash the breakfast things; put them in order; take them all into the pantry. When you have done, go out by the back door, being careful to put on the old man's disguise to-day. Fasten the wig firmly on, and put a patch over your eye. Here's five shillings; get food for the day, and be here by twelve o'clock sharp. Now go."
"Yus, sir."
Freckles had an exceedingly cheerful manner. He knew very little fear. The strange life he led gave him a sort of wild pleasure. He winked at Connie.
"Somethin' wery strange be goin' to 'appen," he said to himself. "A hamattur like this a-brought in by private horders, an' no perfessional lesson to be tuk." He thought how he himself would enjoy teaching this pretty child some of the tricks of the trade. Oh, of course, she was absolutely invaluable. He didn't wonder that Mammy had brought in such spoil when Connie was there. But even Freckles had to depart, and Connie presently found herself alone with the chief.
He stood by the hearth, looking taller and more exactly like a fine gentleman, and Connie was more and more reassured about him.
"Please, sir——" she began.
"Stop!" he interrupted.
"Mayn't I speak, sir?"
"No—not now. For God's sake don't plead with me; I can't stand that."
"Why, sir?"
But Connie, as she looked up, saw an expression about that mouth and that jaw which frightened her, and frightened her so badly that all the agony she had undergone in Mammy Warren's house seemed as nothing in comparison. The next minute, however, the cruel look had departed. Simeon Stylites drew a chair forward, dropped into it, bent low, and looked into Connie's eyes.
"Allow me," he said; and he put his hand very gently under her chin, and raised her little face and looked at it.
"Who's your father?" he asked.
"Peter Harris."
"Trade?"
"Blacksmith, sir."
"Where do you live?"
"Adam Street, sir; and——"
"Hush! Only answer my questions."
Stylites removed his hand from under the girl's chin, and Connie felt a blush of pain sweeping over her face.
"How long were you with that woman Warren?"
"Dunno, sir."
"What do you mean by answering me like that?"
"Can't 'elp it, sir. Tuk a fright there—bad fire—can't remember, please, sir."
"Never mind; it doesn't matter. Stand up; I want to look at your hair."
Connie did so. Simeon took great masses of the golden, beautiful hair between his slender fingers. He allowed it to ripple through them. He felt its weight and examined its quality.
"Sit down again," he said.
"Yus, sir."
"You're exactly the young girl I want for my profession."
"Please, sir——"
"Hush!"
"Yus, sir."
"I repeat—and I wish you to listen—that in my profession you would rise to eminence. You haven't an idea what it is like, have you?"
"No—I mean I'm not sure——"
"You had better keep in ignorance, for it won't be really necessary for you to understand."
"Oh, sir."
"Not really necessary."
Connie looked up into the stern and very strange face.
"But you miss a good deal," said Stylites—"yes, a very great deal. Tell me, for instance, how you employed your time before you entered Mrs. Warren's establishment."
"I did machine-work, sir."
"I guessed as much—or perhaps Coppenger told me. Machine-work—attic work?—Shop?"
"Yus, sir—in Cheapside, sir—a workshop for cheap clothing, sir."
"Did you like it?"
"No, sir."
"I should think not. Let me look at your hand."
He took one of Connie's hands and examined it carefully.
"Little, tapering fingers," he said, "spoiled by work. They could be made very white, very soft and beautiful. Have you ever considered what a truly fascinating thing a girl's hand is?"
Connie shook her head.
"You'd know it if you stayed with me. I should dress you in silk and satins, and give you big hats with feathers, and lovely silk stockings and charming shoes."
"To wear in this 'ere kitchen, sir?"
"Oh no, you wouldn't live in this kitchen; you would be in a beautiful house with other ladies and gentlemen.You wouldlike that, wouldn't you?"
"Yus, sir—ef I might 'ave Ronald and Giles and father and Father John, and p'rhaps Mrs. Anderson and Mr. George Anderson, along o' me."
"But in that beautiful house you wouldn't have Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, nor your father, nor that canting street preacher, nor the children you've just mentioned. It's just possible you might have the boy Ronald, but even that is problematical—you'd have to give up the rest."
"Then, sir," said Connie, "I rayther not go, please."
"Do you think that matters?" said Stylites.
"Wot, sir?"
"That you'd rather not go?"
"I dunno, sir."
"It doesn't matter one whit. Children who come herearen't asked what they'd rather or rather not do, girl—they've got to do whatIorder."
The voice came out, not loud, but sharp and incisive, as though a knife were cutting something.
"Yus, sir—yus, sir."
"Connie"—the man's whole tone altered—"what will you give me if I let you go?" "Oh, sir——"
"I want you to give me something very big, I've taken great trouble to secure you. You're the sort of little girl I want; you would be very useful to me. You have come in here—it is true you haven't the least idea where this house is—but you've come in, and you've seen me, and you've discovered the name which these low people call me. Of course, you can understand that my real name is not Simeon Stylites—I have a very different name; and my home isn't here—I have a very different home. I would take you there, and treat you well, and afterwards perhaps send you to another home. You should never know want, and no one would be unkind to you. You would be as a daughter to me, and I am a lonely man."
"Oh, sir—sir!" said poor Connie, "I—I like you, sir—I'm not afeered—no, not much afeered—but if you 'ud only let the others come——"
"That I cannot do, girl. If you choose to belong to me you must give up the others."
"EfI choose, sir—may I choose?"
"Yes—on a condition."
The man who called himself Simeon Stylites looked at the girl with a queer, hungry expression in his eyes.
"I wanted you very badly indeed," he said; "and I was not in the least prepared to be sentimental. But I had a little sister like you. She died when she was rather younger than you. I loved her, and she loved me. I was quite a good man then, and a gentleman——"
"Oh, sir—ye're that now."
"No, girl—I am not. There are things that a gentleman would do which I wouldnotdo, and there are things which no gentleman would do which I do. I have passed the line; nevertheless, the outward tokens remain; and I live—well, child, I want for nothing. My profession is very lucrative—very."
Connie did not understand half the words of this strange, queer man, with a terribly stern and yet terribly pathetic voice.
"When I saw you this morning," said Stylites, "I knew at once it was no go. You were like the little Eleanor whom alone in all the world I ever truly loved. You are too young to be told my story, or I would tell it to you."
"Oh, sir," said Connie, "I'd real like to comfort yer."
"You can't do that, and I won't spoil the life of any child with such a look of my little Eleanor. I am going to give you back your liberty—on a condition."
"Wot's that?" said Connie.
"That you never breathe to mortal what happened to you from the time you left your friend, the street preacher, last night, until the time when you found yourself at liberty and outside that same court. Wild horses mustn't drag it from you; detectives must do their utmost in vain. I am willing to do a good deal for you, girl, solely and entirely because of that chance likeness. But I won't havemyprofession andmychances in life imperilled. Do you promise?"
"Sir, I'll niver,—niver tell."
"You must promise more strongly than that—the others must be witnesses."
"Oh, sir—oh, sir! you must trust me. Don't call the others in; let me promise to you, yer lone self, an' I will keep my word."
The strange man with the strange eyes looked long for a full minute into Connie's face.
"I could have been good to you," he said, "and what I had to offer was not altogether contemptible. But it somehow wouldn't have fitted in with my memory of Eleanor, who went back to God at eleven years of age, very pure in heart, and just like a little child. 'Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.' Those are the words which mark her little grave in a distant part of the country. If you will follow in her steps, and be pure and good in heart and life, you may meet my Eleanor in another world. And perhaps you may be able to tell her that I—a man given over to extreme wickedness—did one kind deed for her sake when I gave you back to your friends."
"Sir——"
"Not another word. I am a man of moods, and I might recant what I have just said."
Simeon Stylites sounded a little gong on the table. Agnes came hurriedly in.
"Fetch this child's hat and jacket," said the great man imperatively.
Agnes brought them.
"Be I to take her out, sir?" she said.
"No. And listen. This child isn't for us; let her alone in future.—Are you ready, Connie?"
"Yus, sir."
Simeon Stylites put on the most gentlemanly overcoat and a well-brushed silk hat, and he took a neat stick in his hand and went boldly out of the house. As soon as ever he got outside he saw a hansom, and beckoned the driver. He and Connie got in.
They went for a long drive, and Stylites dismissed the hansom in a distant part of the town.
"You wouldn't know your way back again?" he said to the girl.
"No, sir; an' ef I knew I wouldn't tell."
"Well, then—good-bye."
"Good-bye, sir."
"Yes, good-bye. Walk down this street till you come to the end. Here's a shilling—you'll get a hansom; ask a policeman to put you in. From there go home again, and forget that you ever saw or heard of Simeon Stylites."
CHAPTER XXI.SAFE HOME AT LAST.
When Harris parted from Sue he ran quickly in his cowardly flight. He did not stay his fleet steps until he had gained a very quiet street. Then, knowing that he was now quite safe, he exchanged his running for a rapid walk. He suddenly remembered that he was to meet the detectives, who were moving heaven and earth to get Connie back for him, not later than three o'clock.
They were to meet by appointment in a certain street, and the hour of rendezvous was quickly approaching. He got there in good time; but what was his amazement to see, not only the two detectives—ordinary-looking men in plain clothes—but also the street preacher?
The street preacher came up to him eagerly. The detectives also followed close.
"Harris," said Atkins, "you can thank God on your knees—your child is safe at home."
"Wot?" said Harris.
In that instant something sharp as a sword went through his heart. Oh, what a mean, terrible, horrible wretch he was! What a cowardly deed he had just committed! And yet God was kind, and had given him back his child.
"Connie is in your room, waiting for you," said Atkins. "I went in not an hour ago, hoping to find you, and there she was."
"It's very queer," said Detective Z. "You should have been there also, and have questioned the girl. There isn't the least doubt that she could give the most valuable information, but she won't utter a word—not a word."
"Won't she, now?" said Harris. "Perhaps not to you, but she wull, quick enough, to her own father."
The entire party then turned in the direction of Harris's rooms. They went up the stairs, and Harris flung the door wide. A little, slight girl, in the identical same dark-blue dress which Harris had bought for her with such pride not many weeks ago, was standing near the fire. Already her womanly influences had been at work.
The fire burned brightly. The room was tidy. The girl herself was waiting—expectation, fear, longing, all expressed in her sensitive face.
"Father!" she cried as Harris—brutal, red of face, self-reproachful, at once the most miserable and the gladdest man on earth—almost staggered into the room.
He took the slim little creature into his arms, gave her a few fierce, passionate kisses; then saying, "It is good to have yer back, wench," pushed her from him with unnecessary violence. He sank into a seat, trembling all over. The two detectives marked his agitation and were full of compassion for him. How deeply he loved his child, they felt. But Father John read deeper below the surface.
The man was in a very queer state. Had anything happened? He knew Harris well. At such a moment as this, if all were right, he would not be so overcome.
The detectives began to question Connie.
"We want to ask you a few questions, my dear," said Constable Z. "Who dragged you into that court last night?"
"I won't say," answered Connie.
"You won't say? But you know."
"I won't say nothing," said Connie.
"That is blamed nonsense!" cried Harris, suddenly rousing himself. "Yer've got to say—yer've got to make a clean breast of it. Wot's up? Speak!"
"I wouldn't be here, father," said Connie, "'ef I'd not promised most faithfully notiverto tell, and I won't iver, iver, iver tell, not to anybody in all the world."
There was a decidedly new quality in the girl's voice.
"I wouldn't do it for nobody," continued Connie. She drew herself up, and looked taller; her eyes were shining. The detectives glanced at each other.
"If you was put in the witness-box, missy," said one, "yer'd have to break that promise o' yourn, whoever you made it to, or you'ud know what contempt of the law meant."
"But I am not in the witness-box," said Connie, her tone suddenly becoming gay. "It was awful kind of people to look for me, but they might ha' looked for ever and niver found me again. I'm 'ere now quite safe, and nothing 'as 'appened at all, and I'm niver goin' to tell. Please, Father John,youwon't ask me?"
"No, my child," said Father John. "You have made a promise, perhaps a rash one, but I should be the last to counsel you to break it."
Nothing more could be gained from Connie at present; and by-and-by Father John and the two detectives left her alone with Harris. When the door closed behind the three men a timid expression came into Connie's gentle eyes. Beyond doubt her father was sober, but he looked very queer—fearfully red in the face, nervous, trembling, bad in his temper. Connie had seen him in many moods, but this particular mood she had never witnessed in him before. He must really love her. He knew nothing about that terrible time last night when he had turned her away. Then he did not know what he was doing.
Connie was the last to bear him malice for what—like many other little girls of her class—she considered he could not help. Most of the children in the courts and streetsaround had fathers who drank. It seemed to Connie and to the other children that this was a necessary part of fathers—that they all took what was not good for them, and were exceedingly unpleasant under its influence.
She stood now by the window, and Harris sank into a chair. Then he got up restlessly.
"I be goin' out for a bit, lass," he said. "You stay 'ere."
"Oh, please, father," said Connie, "ef you be goin' out, may I go 'long and pay Giles a wisit? I want so much to have a real good talk with him."
When Connie mentioned the word Giles, Harris gave quite a perceptible start. Something very like an oath came from his lips; then he crushed back his emotion.
"Hall right," he said; "but don't stay too long there. And plait up that 'air o' yourn, and put it tight round yer 'ead; I don't want no more kidnappin' o' my wench."
There was a slight break in the rough man's voice, and Connie's little sensitive heart throbbed to the tone of love. A minute later Harris had gone out, and Connie, perceiving that it was past four o'clock, and that it would not be so very long before Sue was back from Cheapside, prepared to set off in quite gay spirits to see little Giles.
She went into her tiny bedroom. It was a very shabby room, nothing like as well furnished as the one she had occupied at Mammy Warren's. But oh, how glad she was to be back again! How sweet the homely furniture looked! How dear was that cracked and handleless jug! How nice to behold again the wooden box in which she kept her clothes!
The little girl now quickly plaited her long, thick hair, arranged it tightly round her head, and putting on a shabby frock and jacket, and laying the dark blue, which had seen such evil days, in the little trunk, she hastily left the room.
She was not long in making her appearance in Giles's very humble attic. Her heart beat as she mounted the well-worn stairs. How often—oh, how often she had though of Giles and Sue! How she had longed for them! The next minute she had burst into the room where the boy was lying, as usual, flat on his back.
"Giles," she said, "I've come back."
"Connie!" answered Giles. He turned quickly to look at her. His face turned first red, then very pale; but the next minute he held up his hand to restrain further words.
"Don't say anything for half a minute, Connie, for 'e's goin' to speak."
"Big Ben? Oh!" said Connie.
She remembered what Big Ben had been to her and to Ronald in Mammy Warren's dreadful rooms. She too listened, half-arrested in her progress across the room. Then, above the din and roar of London, the sweet chimes pealed, and the hour of five o'clock was solemnly proclaimed.
"There!" said Giles. "Did yer 'ear wot he said now?"
"Tell us—do tell us!" said Connie.
"'The peace of God which passeth all understanding.'" said Giles. "Ain't it fine?"
"Oh yus," said Connie—"yus! Giles—little Giles—'ow I ha' missed yer! Oh Giles, Giles! this is the peace o' God come back to me again."
Giles did not answer, and Connie had time to watch him. It was some weeks now since she had seen him—weeks so full of events that they were like a lifetime to the child; and in those weeks a change had come over little Giles. That pure, small, angel face of his looked smaller, thinner, and more angelic than ever. It seemed as if a breath might blow him away. His sweet voice itself was thin and weak.
"I did miss yer, Connie," he said at last. "But then, I were never frightened; Sue were—over and over."
"And w'y weren't yer frightened, Giles?" said Connie. "You 'ad a reason to be, if yer did but know."
"I did know," said Giles, "and that were why I didn't fret. I knew as you were safe—I knew for sartin sure that Big Ben 'ud talk to yer—'e'dbring yer a message, same as 'e brings to me."
"Oh—he did—he did!" said Connie. "I might ha' guessed that you'd think that, for the message were so wery strong. It were indeed as though a Woice uttered the words. But oh, Giles—I 'ave a lot to tell yer!"
"Well," said Giles, "and I am ready to listen. Poke up the fire a bit, and then set near me. Yer must stop talkingw'en 'espeaks, but otherwise you talk and I listen."
"Afore I do anything," said Connie—"'ave you 'ad your tea?"
"No. I didn't want it. I'll 'ave it w'en Sue comes 'ome."
"Poor Sue!" said Connie. "I'm that longin' to see her! I 'ope she won't be hangry."
"Oh, no," said Giles. "We're both on us too glad to be angry. We missed yer sore, both on us."
While Giles was speaking Connie had put on the kettle to boil. She had soon made a cup of tea, which she brought to the boy, who, although he had said he did not want it, drank it off with dry and thirsty lips.
"Dear Connie!" he said when he gave her the cup to put down.
"Now you're better," said Connie, "and I'll speak."
She began to tell her story, which quickly absorbed Giles, bringing color into his cheeks and brightness into his eyes, so that he looked by no means so frail and ill as he had done when Connie first saw him. She cheered up when she noticed this, and reflected that doubtless Giles was no worse. It was only because she had not seen him for so long that she was really frightened.
When her story was finished Giles spoke:
"You're back, and you're safe—and it were the good Lord as did it. Yer'll tell me 'bout the fire over agin another day;and yer'll tell me 'bout that little Ronald, wot 'ave so brave a father, another day. But I'm tired now a bit. It's wonnerful, all the same, wot brave fathers do for their children. W'en I think o' mine, an' wot 'e wor, an' 'ow 'e died, givin' up his life for others, I'm that proud o' him, an' comforted by him, an' rejoiced to think as I'll see 'im agin, as is almost past talkin' on. But there! you'd best go 'ome now; you're quite safe, for 'E wot gives Big Ben 'is message 'ull regard yer."
"But why mayn't I wait for Sue?" said Connie.
"No," said Giles in a faint tone; "I'm too tired—I'm sort o' done up, Connie—an' I can't listen, even to dear Sue axin' yer dozens and dozens o' questions. You go 'ome now, an' come back ef yer like later on, w'en Sue 'ull be 'ome and I'll ha' broke the news to her. She knows she must be very quiet in the room with me, Connie."
So Connie agreed to this; first of all, however, placing a glass with a little milk in it by Giles's side. She then returned to her own room, hoping that she might find her father there before her.
He was not there; his place was empty. Connie, however, was not alarmed, only it had struck her with a pang that if he really loved her half as much as she loved him he would have come on that first evening after her return. She spent a little time examining the room and putting it into ship-shape order, and then suddenly remembered that she herself was both faint and hungry.
She set the kettle on, therefore, to boil, and made herself some tea. There was a hunch of bread and a piece of cold bacon in the great cupboard, which in Connie's time was generally stored with provisions. She said to herself:
"I must ax father for money to buy wittles w'en he comes in." And then she made a meal off some of the bacon and bread, and drank the sugarless and milkless tea as though it were nectar. She felt very tired from all she had undergone; and as the time sped by, and Big Ben proclaimed the hours of seven, eight, and nine, she resolved to wait no longer for her father. She hoped indeed, he would not be tipsy to-night but she resolved if such were the case, and he again refused to receive her, to go to Mrs. Anderson and beg for a night's lodging.
First of all, however, she would visit Giles and Sue. Giles would have told Sue the most exciting part of the story, and Sue would be calm and practical and matter-of-fact; but of course, at the same time, very, very glad to see her. Connie thought how lovely it would be to get one of Sue's hearty smacks on her cheek, and to hear Sue's confident voice saying:
"Youwerea silly. Well, now ye're safe 'ome, you'll see as yer stays there."
Connie thought no words would be quite so cheerful and stimulating to hear as those matter-of-fact words of Sue's.She soon reached the attic. She opened the door softly, and yet with a flutter at her heart.
"Sue," she said. But there was no Sue in the room; only Giles, whose face was very, very white, and whose gentle eyes were full of distress.
"Come right over 'ere, Connie," he said. She went and knelt by him.
"Ye're not well," she said. "Wot ails yer?"
"Sue ain't come 'ome," he answered—"neither Sue nor any tidin's of her. No, I ain't frightened, but I'm—I'm lonesome, like."
"In course ye're not frightened," said Connie, who, in the newrôleof comforter for Giles, forgot herself.
"I'll set with yer," she said, "till Sue comes 'ome. W'y, Giles, anythink might ha' kep' her."
"No," said Giles, "not anythink, for she were comin' 'ome earlier than usual to-night, an' we was to plan out 'ow best to get me a new night-shirt, an' Sue herself were goin' to 'ave a evenin' patchin' her old brown frock. She were comin' 'ome—she 'ad made me a promise; nothin' in all the world would make her break it—that is,efshe could 'elp herself."
"Well, I s'pose she couldn't 'elp herself," said Connie. "It's jest this way. They keep her in over hours—they often do that at Cheadle's."
"They 'aven't kep' 'er in to-night," said Giles.
"Then wot 'ave come to her?" "I dunno; only Big Ben——"
"Giles dear, wotdoyer mean?"
"I know," said Giles, with a catch in his voice, "as that blessed Woice comforts me; but there! I must take the rough with the smooth. 'E said w'en last 'e spoke, 'In all their affliction 'E were afflicted.' There now! why did those words sound through the room unless thereistrouble about Sue?"
Connie argued and talked, and tried to cheer the poor little fellow. She saw, however, that he was painfully weak, and when ten o'clock struck from the great clock, and the boy—his nerves now all on edge—caught Connie's hand, and buried his face against it, murmuring, "The Woice has said them words agin," she thought it quite time to fetch a doctor.
"You mustn't go on like this, Giles," she said, "or yer'll be real ill. I'm goin' away, and I'll be back in a minute or two."
She ran downstairs, found a certain Mrs. Nelson who knew both Sue and Giles very well, described the state of the child, and begged of Mrs. Nelson to get the doctor in.
"Wull, now," said that good woman, "ef that ain't wonnerful! Why, Dr. Deane is in the 'ouse this very blessed minute attending on Hannah Blake, wot broke her leg. I'll send him straight up to Giles, Connie, ef yer'll wait there till he comes. Lor, now!" continued Mrs. Nelson, "w'y hever should Sue be so late—and this night, of all nights?"
Connie, very glad to feel that the doctor was within reach,returned to the boy, who now lay with closed eyes, breathing fast. Dr. Deane was a remarkably kind young man. He knew the sorrows of the poor, and they all loved him, and when he saw Giles he bent down over the little fellow and made a careful examination. He then cheered up the boy as best he could, and told him that he would send him a strengthening medicine, also a bottle of port-wine, of which he was to drink some at intervals, and other articles of food.
"Wen 'ull Sue come back?" asked Giles of the doctor.
"Can't tell you that, my dear boy. Your sister may walk in at any minute, but I am sure this little friend will stay with you for the night."
"Yus, if I may let father know," said Connie.
"You mustn't fret, Giles; that would be very wrong," said the doctor. He then motioned Connie on to the landing outside. "The boy is ill," he said, "and terribly weak—he is half-starved. That poor, brave little sister of his does what she can for him, but it is impossible for her to earn sufficient money to give him the food he requires. I am exceedingly sorry for the boy, and will send him over a basket of good things."
"But," said Connie, her voice trembling, "is he wery, wery ill?"
"Yes," said the doctor—"so ill that he'll soon be better. In his case, that is the best sort of illness, is it not? Oh, my child, don't cry!"
"Do yer mean that Giles is goin'—goin' right aw'y?" whispered Connie.
"Right away—and before very long. It's the very best thing that could happen to him. If he lived he would suffer all his life. He won't suffer any more soon. Now go back to him, and cheer him all you can."
Connie did go back. Where had she learnt such wonderful self-control—she who, until all her recent trials, had been rather a selfish little girl, thinking a good deal of her pretty face and beautiful hair, and rebelling when trouble came to her? She had chosen her own way, and very terrible trials had been hers in consequence. She had learned a lesson, partly from Ronald, partly from Big Ben, partly from the words of her little Giles, whom she had loved all her life. For Giles's sake she would not give way now.
"Set you down, Connie—right here," said Giles.
She sat down, and he looked at her.
"Wot do doctor say?" said Giles.
"Oh, that ye're a bit weakly, Giles. He's goin' to send yer a basket o' good wittles."
Giles smiled. Then he held out his shadowy little hand and touched Connie.
"Niver mind," he said softly; "I know wot doctor said."
A heavenly smile flitted over his face, and he closed his eyes.
"It won't be jest yet," he said. "There'll be plenty o' time. Connie, wull yer sing to me?"
"Yus," said Connie, swallowing a lump in her throat.
"Sing ''Ere we suffer.'"
Connie began. How full and rich her voice had grown! She remembered that time when, out in the snow, she had sung—little Ronald keeping her company: