"Here we suffer grief and pain,Here we meet to part again,In Heaven we part no more.Oh! that will be joyful,When we meet to part no more."
"Here we suffer grief and pain,Here we meet to part again,In Heaven we part no more.Oh! that will be joyful,When we meet to part no more."
The words of the hymn were sung to the very end, Giles listening in an ecstasy of happiness.
"Now, 'Happy Land,'" he said.
Connie sang:
"There is a Happy Land,Far, far away,Where saints in glory stand,Bright, bright as day."
"There is a Happy Land,Far, far away,Where saints in glory stand,Bright, bright as day."
The second hymn was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, who brought a bottle of medicine and a large basket. The contents of the basket were laid on the table—a little crisp loaf of new bread, a pat of fresh butter, half a pound of tea, a small can of milk, a pound of sugar, half-a-dozen new-laid eggs, and a chicken roasted whole, also a bottle of port-wine.
"Now then," said Connie, "look, Giles—look!"
The messenger took away the basket. Even Giles was roused to the semblance of appetite by the sight of the tempting food. Connie quickly made tea, boiled an egg, and brought them with fresh bread-and-butter to the child. He ate a little; then he looked up at her.
"You must eat, too, Connie. Why, youbewhite and tired!"
Connie did not refuse. She made a small meal, and then, opening the bottle of wine with a little corkscrew which had also been sent, kept the precious liquid in readiness to give to Giles should he feel faint.
Eleven o'clock rang out in Big Ben's great and solemn voice. Connie was very much startled when she heard the great notes; but, to her surprise, Giles did not take any notice. He lay happy, with an expression on his face which showed that his thoughts were far away.
"Connie," he said after a minute, "be yer really meanin' to spend the night with me?"
"Oh yus," said Connie, "ef yer'll 'ave me."
"You've to think of your father, Connie—he may comeback. He may miss yer. Yer ought to go back and see him, and leave him a message."
"I were thinking that," said Connie; "and I won't be long. I'll come straight over here the very minute I can, and ef Sue has returned——"
"Sue won't come back—not yet," said Giles.
"Why, Giles—how do you know?"
"Jesus Christ told me jest now through the Woice o' Big Ben," said the boy.
"Oh Giles—wot?"
"'E said, 'Castin' all your care on God, for He careth for you.' I ha' done it, and I'm not frettin' no more. Sue's all right; God's a-takin' care of her. I don't fret for Sue now, no more than I fretted for you. But run along and tell your father, and come back." Connie went.
At this hour of night the slums of Westminster are not the nicest place in the world for so pretty a girl to be out. Connie, too, was known by several people, and although in her old clothes, and with her hair fastened round her head, she did not look nearly so striking as when Mammy Warren had used her as a decoy-duck in order to pursue her pickpocket propensities, yet still her little face was altogether on a different plane from the ordinary slum children.
"W'y, Connie," said a rough woman, "come along into my den an' tell us yer story."
"Is it Connie Harris?" screamed another. "W'y, gel, w'ere hever were yer hall this time? A nice hue and cry yer made! Stop 'ere this minute and tell us w'ere yer ha' been."
"I can't," said Connie. "Giles is bad, and Sue ain't come 'ome. I want jest to see father, and then to go back to Giles. Don't keep me, neighbors."
Now, these rough people—the roughest and the worst, perhaps, in the land—had some gleams of good in them; and little Giles was a person whom every one had a soft word for.
"A pore little cripple!" said the woman who had first spoken.—"Get you along at once, Connie; he's in."
"I be sorry as the cripple's bad, and Sue not returned," cried another. "I 'ope Sue's not kidnapped too. It's awful w'en folks come to kidnappin' one's kids."
While the women were talking Connie made her escape, and soon entered her father's room. She gave a start at once of pleasure and apprehension when she saw him there. Was he drunk? Would he again turn her out into the street? She didn't know—she feared. Peter Harris, however, was sober. That had happened in one short day which, it seemed to him, made it quite impossible for him ever to drink again.
He looked at Connie with a strange nervousness.
"Wull," he said, "youbelate! And 'ow's Giles?"
He did not dare to ask for Sue. His hope—for he had a hope—was that Sue had come back without ever discovering the locket which he had transferred to her pocket. In that case he might somehow manage to get it away again withouther knowing anything whatever with regard to his vile conduct. If God was good enough for that, why, then indeed He was a good God, and Harris would follow Him to his dying day. He would go to the preacher and tell him that henceforth he meant to be a religious, church-going man, and that never again would a drop of drink pass his lips. He had spent an afternoon and evening in the most frightful remorse, but up to the present he had not the most remote intention of saving Sue at his own expense. If only she had escaped unsuspected, then indeed he would be good; but if it were otherwise he felt that the very devils of hell might enter into his heart.
"'Ow's Giles? 'Ow did he take yer comin' 'ome again, wench?"
"Oh father," said Connie, panting slightly, and causing the man to gaze at her with wide-open, bloodshot eyes, "Giles is wery, wery bad—I 'ad to send for the doctor. 'E come, and 'e said—ah! 'e said as 'ow little Giles 'ud soon be leavin' us. I can't—can't speak on it!"
Connie sat down and covered her face with her hands. Harris drew a breath at once of relief and suspicion. He was sorry, of course, for little Giles; but then, the kid couldn't live, and he had nothing to do with his death. It was Sue he was thinking about. Of course Sue was there, or Connie would have mentioned the fact of her not having returned home.
Connie wept on, overcome by the strange emotions and experiences through which she had so lately passed.
"Connie," said her father at last, when he could bear the suspense no longer, "Sue must be in great takin'—poor Sue!"
"But, father," said Connie, suddenly suppressing her tears, "that's the most dreadful part of all—Sue ain't there!"
"Not there? Not to 'ome?" thundered Harris.
"No, father—she ha' niver come back. It's goin' on for twelve o'clock—an' Giles expected her soon arter six! She ain't come back, 'ave Sue. Wottever is to be done, father?"
Harris walked to the fire and poked it into a fierce blaze. Then he turned his back on Connie, and began to fumble with his neck-tie, tightening it and putting it in order.
"Father," said Connie.
"Wull?"
"Wot are we to do 'bout Sue?"
"She'll be back come mornin'."
"Father," said Connie again, "may I go and spend the night 'long o' Giles? He's too weakly to be left."
"No," said Harris; "I won't leave yer out o' my sight. Ef there's kidnappin' about an' it looks uncommon like it—you stay safe within these four walls."
"But Giles—Giles?" said Connie.
"I'll fetch Giles 'ere."
"Father! So late?"
"Yus—why not? Ef there's kidnappin' about, there's niverany sayin' w'en Sue may be back. I'll go and fetch him now, and you can get that sofy ready for him; he can sleep on it. There—I'm off! Sue—God knows wot's come o' Sue; but Giles, e' sha'n't want."
Harris opened the door, went out, and shut it again with a bang. Connie waited within the room. She was trembling with a strange mixture of fear and joy. How strange her father was—and yet he was good too! He was not drunk to-night. That was wonderful. It was sweet of him to think of bringing Giles to Connie's home, where Connie could look after him and give him the best food, and perhaps save his life. Children as inexperienced as Connie are apt to take a cheerful view even when things are at their lowest. Connie instantly imagined that Giles in his new and far more luxurious surroundings would quickly recover.
She began eagerly to prepare a place for him. She dragged a mattress from her own bed, and managed to put it on the sofa; then she unlocked a trunk which always stood in the sitting-room; she knew where to find the key. This trunk had belonged to her mother, and contained some of that mother's clothing, and also other things.
Connie selected from its depths a pair of thin and very fine linen sheets. These she aired by the fire, and laid them over the mattress when they were quite warm. There was a blanket, white and light and very warm, which was also placed over the linen sheets; and a down pillow was found which Connie covered with a frilled pillow-case; and finally she took out the most precious thing of all—a large crimson and gold shawl, made of fine, fine silk, which her mother used to wear, and which Connie dimly remembered as thinking too beautiful for this world. But nothing was too beautiful for little Giles; and the couch with its crimson covering was all ready for him when Harris reappeared, bearing the boy in his arms.
"I kivered him up with his own blanket," he said, turning to Connie. "Ain't that sofy comfor'ble to look at? You lie on the sofa, sonny, an' then yer'll know wot it be to be well tended."
Little Giles was placed there, and Connie prepared a hot bottle to put to his feet, while Harris returned to the empty room to fetch away the medicine and get the things which Dr. Deane had ordered. He left a message, too, with Mrs. Nelson, telling her what had become of the boy, and asking Dr. Deane to call at his house in the future.
"You be a good man," said Mrs. Nelson in a tone of great admiration. "My word, now! and ain't it lucky for the kid? You be a man o' money, Mr. Harris—he'll want for nothing with you."
"He'll want for nothing no more to the longest day he lives," answered Harris.
"Ah, sir," said Mrs. Nelson, "he—he won't live long; he'll want for nothing any more, sir, in the Paradise of God."
"Shut up!" said Harris roughly. "Ye're all with yer grumblin's and moans jest like other women."
"And what message am I to give to Sue—poor girl—when she comes 'ome?" called Mrs. Nelson after him.
But Harris made no reply to this; only his steps rang out hard and firm and cruel on the frosty ground.
CHAPTER XXII.NEWS OF SUE.
The next morning, when Connie awoke, she remembered all the dreadful things that had happened. She was home again. That strange, mysterious man, Simeon Stylites, had let her go. How awful would have been her fate but for him!
"He were a wery kind man," thought Connie. "And now I must try to forget him. I must never mention his name, nor think of him no more for ever. That's the way I can serve him best—pore Mr. Simeon! He had a very genteel face, and w'en he spoke about his little sister it were real touching. But I mustn't think of him, for, ef I do, some day I might let his name slip, an' that 'ud do him a hurt."
Connie's thoughts, therefore, quickly left Simeon Stylites, Agnes Coppenger, Freckles, Nutmeg, and Corkscrew, and returned to the exciting fact that Sue was now missing, and that Giles was under her own father's roof.
She sprang out of bed, and quickly dressing herself, entered the general sitting-room. She was surprised to find that her father had taken his breakfast and had gone; that Giles was sitting up, looking very pretty, with his little head against the white pillow, and the crimson and gold shawl covering his couch.
"Why, Connie," he said, the minute he saw her, "wot a silly chap I wor yesterday! It's all as plain now as plain can be—I know everything now."
"Wottever do you mean?" said Connie. "But don't talk too much, Giles, till I ha' got yer yer breakfast."
"Bless yer!" said Giles, with a weak laugh, "I ha' had my breakfast an hour and a half ago—yer father guv it to me. He be a wery kind man."
"My father guv you your breakfast?" said Connie.
She felt that wonders would never cease. Never before had Harris been known to think of any one but himself.
"Set down by me, Connie; you can't do naught for your breakfast until the kettle boils. I'll tell yer now w'ere Sue is."
"Where?" asked Connie. "Oh Giles! have yer heard of her?"
"Course I 'ave—I mean, it's all as clear as clear can be. It's only that Sue 'ave more money than she told me 'bout, and that she's a-tryin' to give me my 'eart's desire."
"Your 'eart's desire, Giles?"
"Yus—her an' me 'ave always 'ad our dream; and dear Sue—she's a-makin' it come to pass, that's all. It's as plain as plain can be. She's a-gone to the country."
"To the country? Oh no, Giles; I don't think so. Wottever 'ud take her to the country at this time o' year?"
"It's there she be," said Giles. "She knew as I wanted dreadful to 'ear wot it were like, an' she 'ave gone. Oh Connie, you went to the country; but she didn't guess that. She ha' gone—dear Sue 'ave—to find out all for herself; an' she thought it 'ud be a rare bit of a s'prise for me. I must make the most of it w'en I see her, and ax her about the flowers and everything. She's sartin to be back to-day. Maybe, too, she could get work at plain sewin' in the country; an' she an' me could live in a little cottage, an' see the sun in the sky, and 'ear the birds a singin'. It's a'most like 'eaven to think of the country—ain't it, Connie?"
"Yus," said Connie, "the country's beautiful; but wicked people come out o' Lunnon to it, an' then it's sad. An' there's no flowers a-growin' in the fields and 'edges in the winter, Giles—an' there's no birds a-singin'."
"Oh! but that 'ull come back," said Giles. "You can eat yer breakfast now, Connie, an' then arter that we'll talk more about the country. Youain'tgoin' to work to-day—be you, Connie?"
"Oh no," said Connie; "I ha' lost that place, an' I dunno w'ere to find another. But there's no hurry," she added, "and I like best now to be along o' you."
Connie then ate her breakfast, and Giles lay with his eyes closed and a smile of contentment on his face.
In the course of the morning there came an unlooked-for visitor.
A funny-looking, red-haired boy entered the room. Seeing Giles asleep, he held up his finger warningly to Connie, and stealing on tiptoe until he got opposite to her, he sat down on the floor.
"Wull, an' wottever do yer want?" asked Connie.
"Hush!" said the red-haired boy.
He pointed to Giles. This action on the part of a total stranger seemed so absurd to Connie that she burst out laughing. The red-haired boy never smiled. He continued to fix his round, light-blue eyes on her face with imperturbable gravity.
"Wull," he exclaimed under his breath, "ef she ain't more of a Cinderella than t' other! Oh, wouldn't the Prince giveherthe glass slipper! Poor, poor Cinderella at 'ome!you'veno chance now. Ain't she jest lovely! I call her hangelic! My word! I could stare at that 'ere beauteous face for hiver."
As these thoughts crept up to the fertile brain of Pickles his lips moved and he nodded his head, so that Connie really began to think he was bewitched.
"Wottever do you want?" she whispered; and, fortunatelyfor them both, at that juncture Giles stirred and opened his eyes.
"That's right!" cried Pickles. "Now I can let off the safety-valve!"
He gave a sigh of relief.
"Whoever's he?" asked Giles, looking from the red-faced boy to Connie. But before she had time to reply, Pickles sprang to his feet, made a somersault up and down the room, then stood with his arms akimbo just in front of Giles.
"I'm glad as you hintroduced the word 'he,' young un; hotherwise, from the looks of yer both, you seems to liken me to a monster. Yer want to know who'she? He's a boy—a full-grown human boy—something like yerself, only not so flabby by a long chalk."
"But wot did you want? and wot's yer name, boy?" said Connie, who could not help laughing again.
"Ah!" said Pickles, "now ye're comin' to the p'int o' bein' sensible, young 'oman. I thought at first you could only drop hangelic speeches, an' that you 'ailed from the hangel spheres; but now I see ye're a gel—oh, quite the very purtiest I hiver laid heyes on. Now, as I've spoke my true mind, I'll hanswer yer questions in a discreet an' pious manner. My name is Pickles—Pickles, at yer sarvice."
"I never heered such a name in all my life," said Connie.
"Wery like not. I were christened by the proper name o' James; but no James as ever walked 'ud hold me—it didn't fit no w'y; an' Pickles did. So Pickles I am, an' Pickles I'll be to the end o' the chapter. Now, as to wot I wants—w'y; I wants a talk with that mealy-faced chap wot looks as if I'd heat him up alive."
"No, I don't," said Giles. "I were only thinking as you 'ad the wery reddest 'air I iver see'd in my life."
"Personal remarks air considered ill-mannered, young man. And let me tell yer as my hair's my special glory. But now to business. You can't know, I guess, wot I wants yer for."
"No, I can't," said Giles.
"That's rum; and I to tike the trouble not only to wisit yer own most respectable mansion, but to foller yer 'ere in the true sperrit of kindness."
"Ye're wery good; but I can't guess wot ye're up to," answered Giles.
"Dear, dear! the silliness o' folks! Now, w'en a stranger seeks yer hout, isn't it safe to s'pose as he brings news?"
"Wull, yes."
"Next clue—shall I 'elp yer a bit? You 'asn't, so to speak, lost something lately—thimble, or a pair of scissors, or something o' that sort?"
"Oh, it's Sue! It's my darling Sue;" exclaimed Giles, a light breaking all over his face. "'As yer brought news of Sue, boy?"
"Be Sue a thimble, scissors, or a gel?"
"Oh! a gel, in course—my own dear, dear, only sister."
"A little, fat, podgy kind o' woman-gel, wid a fine crop o' freckles and sandy hair?"
"Yes, yes; that's she. I have bin waiting fur her hall night. Where is she? Please, please, Pickles, where is she?"
"Well, can't yer guess? Where 'ud she be likely ter be? She worn't a wandering sort o' gel, as neglected her home duties, wor she?"
"Oh no! she never stayed out in hall her life afore."
"She worn't, so to speak, a gel as wor given to pilfer, and might be tuk to cool herself in the lock-up."
"Never—never! Sue 'ud sooner die than take wot worn't her own; and I wish I wor strong enough to punch yer head fur thinkin' sech a thing," said Giles, his face now crimson with indignation.
"Well, softly, softly, young un; I didn't say as shedidpilfer. I think that 'ere podgy gel as honest as the day. But now, can't yer guess where she his?"
"Oh yes! I can guess wery well," answered Giles, his face softening down. "I guessed long ago—didn't I, Connie?"
"Well, now, wot hever did yer guess?" asked Pickles, in some amazement.
"Oh! there wor but one thing to guess. There were one dream as Sue and I were halways dreaming, and she have gone off widout me at last, to see wot it wor like. She'll be back hany moment, arter she have seen and found hout hall she could. Sue have gone to the country, Pickles."
"Oh, my heyes! to the country!" exclaimed Pickles. His face grew crimson, and he was obliged to leave his seat and walk to the window, where he remained with his back to the others for nearly a minute, and where he indulged in some smothered mirth.
When he turned round, however, he was as grave as a judge.
"Youareclever," he said to Giles.
"I'm right, ain't I?" asked Giles.
"In course; you're always as right as a trivet."
"Oh, I'm so glad! And does she find it wery beautiful?"
"Scrumptious! fairy-like! scrumptious!"
"Oh, how happy I am! And when 'ull she be back?"
"Well, that's the part as may moderate your raptures; she can't exactly tell when. She sent me to tell yer as she don't exactly know. It may be to-morrow; or, agen, it mayn't be fur a week, or even more. She's hever so sorry, and she sends yer a whole pocketful o' love, but she can't tell when she'll get back."
"But what is she stayin fur?"
"Oh! my heyes! wot is she staying fur? You wants ter live in a cottage in the country, don't yer?"
"Why, yes, that's hour dream."
"Well, ha'n't she to find hout wot the price o' them are? Ha'n't she, stoo-pid?"
"I s'pose so. Is that what she's staying fur?"
Pickles nodded.
"You don't never tell no lies, do you, boy?"
"I! Wot do yer take me fur? You can b'lieve me or not as yer pleases."
"Oh! I do b'lieve yer. Will yer take a message back to Sue?"
"Why, in course."
"Tell her to have two rooms in the cottage, and plenty o' flowers hall round, and a big winder where I can look hout at the stars when I can't sleep o' nights."
"Yes, I'll tell her faithful. Hanythink else?"
"Tell her as I love to think as she's in the country, but to come back as fast as she can; and give—give her my wery best love. And you wouldn't like to give her a kiss fur me?"
"Oh! my heye! yere's a rum go. Fancy me a-kissing Cind—I means Sue. No, young un, I hasn't the wery least hobjection in life. I'll give her two resounding smacks the wery minute as I sees her. Lor'! it will be fine fun. Now, good-bye. I'll come and see yer soon agen.—Good-bye, my beauty. I only wishes as it woryouI wor axed ter kiss.—Good-bye, Giles. I'll remember wot yer said 'bout that 'ere cottage."
"Be sure as the winders is big enough fur me to see the stars," called out Giles after him.
CHAPTER XXIII.AMATEUR DETECTIVE.
Mrs. Price had been blessed by nature with two sons, each as different in manners, disposition, appearance, and tastes as the poles. William, aged twenty, was dark, quiet-looking, with a grave and kind face. In disposition he was as fine a fellow as ever breathed, thoughtful for others, good to all, doing his duty because he loved and feared both God and his mother. He was very reserved, and seldom spoke, but when he did give utterance to his thoughts they were to the point and worth listening to. Mrs. Price was often heard to say that the mere presence of her elder son in the room gave her a sense of repose, that she felt that she had some one to lean on—which in truth she had.
James, her second and younger son, had not one of his brother's characteristics; he had no gentle courtesies, no quiet ways. Except when asleep, he was never known to be still for a moment. One glance at his fiery head, at his comical face, would show plainly that he was a very imp of mischief. He was kind-hearted—he would not willingly injure the smallest living thing—but his wild, ungovernable spirit, his sense of the ludicrous in all and every circumstance, made him sometimes do unintentional harm, and his mother had some difficulty in getting him out of the scrapes into whichhe was always putting himself. No work he had ever done had so delighted the boyish heart of James Price,aliasPickles, as the capture of Sue from the hands of the police. The whole story had a certain flavor about it which would be sure to captivate such a nature as his. Sue was innocent; he was quite certain of that. But then, as certainly some one else was guilty. Here, then, was a work after his own heart; he would find out who the guilty party was. He had a great deal of the detective about him; indeed, he had almost resolved to join that body when he was grown-up.
He had brought Sue to his mother; and his mother, too, believing in the girl's innocence, was yet much puzzled how to advise her or what to do with her. Sue, being thoroughly drilled and frightened into such a course by Pickles, had declared that nothing would induce her to go home; for that if she did she would certainly be taken to prison, and found guilty of a crime of which she was quite innocent. Mrs. Price, too, felt that she could not counsel Sue to go back, though the agony of the poor girl, when she thought of Giles waiting and longing for her, was sad to witness.
To comfort her a little, Pickles went to see Giles, being warned by Sue on no account to tell him the truth, which would, she said, absolutely and at once break his heart.
Pickles, winking profoundly, told her to leave it to him. He went, and Giles himself supplied him with an idea on which he was not slow to work. Giles was fully persuaded that Sue was in the country, and might not return for some days. He seemed more pleased than otherwise that she should be so employed. Pickles was so delighted with his own success that he danced a kind of hornpipe all the way home.
He found Sue by herself and very disconsolate, for Mrs. Price had gone out on some errands.
The first thing he did was to go up to her and give her two very fierce salutes, one on her brow, the other on the point of her chin.
"There, now," he said; "that 'ere little tender brother sent yer them."
"Oh Pickles! how is he? Is he wery cut up?" asked poor Cinderella, raising a tearful face.
"Cut up? Not a bit o' him! Why, he's quite perky; he think as you has gone to the country."
"Oh Pickles! how hever could he?"
"Well, listen, and I'll tell yer."
Pickles here related his whole interview, not forgetting to reproduce in full all his own clever speeches, and his intense admiration for Connie.
"I'd do a great deal furyou, Cinderella," he said in conclusion; "fur though ye're as ordinary a woman as I hiver met, yet still yer belongs to the species, and I has a weakness fur the species; but oh, lor'! ef it had been that 'ere Connie, why, I'd have a'most spilt my life-blood fur that hangelic creature."
"Well, yer see, it wor only me," said Sue, not a little piqued.
"Yes, it wor only you. But now, wot do you think of it all?"
"Oh! I'm wery glad and thankful that Giles is wid Connie. He wor halways fond of Connie, and I'm real pleased as he thinks as I'm gone to the country—that 'ull satisfy him ef hanythink will, fur he have sech a longing fur it, poor feller! But oh, Pickles! I do hope as you didn't tell him no lies, to make him so keen upon it."
"No—not I. I only nodded and made-believe as he wor clever. No, I wor careful o' the utterances o' the tongue, which is an unruly member."
"Well, I'm glad," said Sue. "I only hope as it ain't wrong to deceive him."
"No, it ain't a bit wrong; don't you go a fussing about nothink. But now you have got to listen to me, fur I have got something most serious to talk over."
"I'll listen," replied Sue.
"Good! And wot little bit o' brain you have you may stick inter the listening, too, fur you will presently have to think a deal."
"Wery well," answered Sue, who had long ago come to consider Pickles the greatest oracle she had ever seen.
Pickles planted himself on his knees in front of her, and having placed one hand firmly on each leg, bent forward until he brought himself into what he considered a telling position with regard to her face.
"Ef yer want to unearth a secret, stare 'em well right inter the heyes," was one of his detective principles.
"Now, Cinderella," he began, "you say as ye're hinnercent o' that 'ere theft?"
"You know I am," answered Sue.
"And yet that 'ere wauluable trinket wor found in yer pocket."
"Well, I can't help that."
"I'm afraid yer can't, Cinderella; and a wery ugly business it is fur yer; it 'ud bring yer in guilty in hany court wot hiver."
"I know that, Pickles—I know that only too well; that's why I'm here."
"An' you must stay yere until ye're proved hinnercent."
"Yes."
"Well, that may be awkward—not fur us, but fur poor, little tender Giles. He thinks as ye're gone to the country, and I give him to understand as yer would not be back fur maybe a day or two. But he's hall on a quiver fur yer to come back now; he's hall on a tremble to know wot the country is like. He says ye're to get a cottage as have a big winder in it, fur he wants to see the stars o' nights. Now, I think by the looks o' Giles as he'll fade away wery quick ef yer don't come back soon."
"Oh, I know it—I know it!" said Sue. "What shall I do? Ef I do go back I shall be tuk ter prison. Oh! oh! oh!" and she began to weep.
"Don't cry, you silly! Cryin' never mended no broken bones. You dry your eyes and listen when the oracle speaks."
"I will," said Sue, endeavoring to check her sobs.
"Well then, yer hinnercence must be proved. The way to prove yer hinnercence is to find houtwhoput that 'ere trinket in yer pocket."
"Oh Pickles! I don't—I don't think hany one could be so wicked."
"Bless yer, gel! yer hasn't gone about and seen life like me. 'Tis a wicked world, Cinderella. Some one put that locket in yer pocket; ef it worn't yerself, it wor another."
"I don't know why hany one should do it," said Sue.
"You leave that to me. The reason is a mystery; the person wot did it is a mystery; it remains fur this yere child"—giving his breast a great slap—"to unravel them both. Now, Cinderella, wot kind o' man wor that 'ere Peter Harris wot went wid yer to the shop?"
"He wor a wery rough kind o' man," said Sue, "and he often drank. He wor in trouble jest then 'bout Connie. Connie is his daughter. She wor away fur a bit, and had come back, and he wanted to give her a ring, and, as I telled yer, we went inter the shop to buy her one."
"And had that 'ere Harris much money?"
"He didn't say as he hadn't; he gave a sovereign to pay fur the ring."
"Don't yer think, Cinderella, as it worheput the locket in your pocket?"
"Indeed I don't," answered Sue, in great indignation. "He wor a bit rough, and used to drink a good deal, but I never heerd mortal say as he worn't as honest a man as ever stepped. Besides, Pickles, he wor a friend to me, and I wor a friend to Connie, and even ef he wished to do something so desperate wicked he couldn't, fur I wor at the other side o' the shop a'most."
"All the same," replied Pickles, shaking his fiery head, "I believe as he did it. 'Tis a desperate big mystery, but I means to clear it hup, so you leave it ter me, Cinderella."
CHAPTER XXIV.MOTHER AND SON.
That night Mrs. Price and her younger son had a conversation.
"I do not want to send her away, Jamie," she said when they had discoursed with much interest for some time. "She shall and must stay here for the present; but it cannot go on always, for what would the poor little brother do? If Cinderella is the bread-winner, and Cinderella can earn no bread, the poor little fellow will starve."
James Price,aliasPickles, was looking very sober, even thoughtful.
"It tuk a deal o' time to save hup, and 'tis rare and comforting to reflect on having it—but there's my half-crown," he said.
"Bless you, my laddie! it will help a trifle, but half-a-crown won't feed the smallest eater for long."
"Then, mother, you know I allow no one ter dictate ter me but you. Wot's to be done? Ere we to betray the hinnercent?"
"No, my lad—no. I confess I am sorely puzzled."
"But I ain't," said Pickles, who had knowingly brought his mother round to make this confession. "I ain't puzzled the least bit in life, fur Iknowwho is the real thief."
"Now, Jamie, what do you mean?"
"Mother, it were the man as went with Cinderella inter the shop; it wor he wot stole the locket and then put it inter her pocket. I don't know how he did it, nor why he did it, but I do know thatdiddo it."
"Oh! my dear boy, in your love of mystery you are allowing your imagination to run away with you. I do not think any one would be so wicked."
"Never you mind, mother; take it on trust as there's that much wickedness in this yer world. Be thankful ye're hout o' the way o' hearing o' what's disgusting to dwell on, but this yere is a mystery as must be cleared hup. How do you s'pose, mother, as the locket did get inter Cinderella's pocket?"
"It may have slipped in as she stood by the counter."
"Oh, come, mother! that 'ud go down wid no jury as hiver walked. No, no; b'lieve me as 'tis as I say; and wot's more, 'tis my business to prove the truth o' my thoughts. There's a mystery, but James Price,aliasPickles, 'ull unravel it. You keep Cinderella fur a week yere, mother, and I'll engage as the guilty party confesses by the end o' that time."
"I will keep the little girl as long as is necessary, Pickles. But do be careful. Do not allow your vivid imagination to make you unjust to others."
"You leave it ter me, mother. You jest promise faithful to keep Cinderella fur a bit, and I'll do the rest."
"Yes, Jamie," said Mrs. Price, "I certainly will make that promise."
"That's a brick o' a mother. And now I'm off to bed, fur there's nothing like sleep when the brain is much exercised, as mine is at present."
CHAPTER XXV.ABOUT RONALD.
While poor Harris was trying to soothe the agonies of his conscience by being specially and extra good to Giles, and while Giles, who under Connie's care was recovering a certainmeasure of strength, and poor little Sue was still acting the part of Cinderella with Pickles as her champion, another child who plays an important part in this story was gradually recovering health and strength.
When Ronald was well enough, to come downstairs, and then to walk across Mrs. Anderson's pretty little parlor, and on a certain fine day to go out with her for a walk, the good lady thought it was full time to make inquiries with regard to his relations.
She questioned her son George on the subject, and this gallant young fireman gave her what advice he could.
"No, don't employ detectives, mother," said George. "Somehow I hate the whole lot of them. Keep Ronald as long as you want to; he's a dear little chap, and a gentleman by birth, and he loves you too."
"I want to keep him, George; the child is the greatest delight and comfort to me. He is very unlike other children—very sensitive and delicate. But I do think that if he has relations they ought to know of his whereabouts."
"You have questioned him, of course, on the matter," said George Anderson.
"No—not much; he hasn't been strong enough. I think, too, the severe illness he has undergone, and the terrible frights he has been subject to, have to a certain extent affected his mind; and beyond the fact that he is always looking for his father, and hoping that his father may walk in, he never talks about the old days."
"Well, mother," said George, "I must be off now; duty time is close at hand." As he spoke he rose from the seat by the fire which he had been enjoying in his mother's room.
"Of course, there is little doubt that Major Harvey is dead; but you could call at the War Office and inquire, mother, couldn't you?"
"Yes, I could and will; and I won't employ detectives, my boy. You may be certain of one thing—that I don't want to part with the child."
The next day after breakfast, Mrs. Anderson felt that it was time to question Ronald with regard to his past life.
"You are quite well now, Ronald," she said.
"Yes," said Ronald, "ever so strong. I feel brave, too," he added; "it would take a very great deal to frighten me now. A soldier's boy should be brave," he continued, that pleading, pathetic look coming into his dark eyes, which gave such a special charm to his little face.
"This soldier's boy is very brave," said Mrs. Anderson, patting his little hand, as the child stood close to her.
"My father was a V. C., ma'am," remarked Ronald in a soft tone.
"You're very proud of that, Ronald—you have good reason to be," said his friend. "But now, dear, I seriously want to ask you a few questions. You have told me about Connie, and about some of your dreadful life with Mammy Warren. I amanxious that you should try to forget all these terrible things as much as possible."
"Oh! but, please, I never could forget dear Connie."
"I don't want you to forget her. I have been planning a delightful surprise for you with regard to her. But other things you can forget."
"There's another person I don't want to forget," said Ronald; "that is the good woman in the country who gave me delicious new-laid eggs and chops and chicken. Mrs. Cricket was her name. I used to think ofThe Cricket on the Hearthoften when I was looking at her. She was very like one, you know—such a cosy, purring sort of woman."
"How long were you with her, Ronald?"
"I don't remember going to her," said Ronald, shaking his head; "but perhaps I was too ill. But I do remember being with her, and the little path in the wood, and how I gradually got better, and how she petted me. And I remember Connie coming down the path looking like an angel; but Connie was the only bright thing for me to think about that dreadful day. But oh, please—please, Mrs. Anderson! poor Mrs. Cricket! Father hasn't come back, you know—he is coming, of course, but he hasn't come yet—and no one has paid Mrs. Cricket!"
"No one has paid her, dear?"
"Nobody at all. Mammy Warren said to her that father would pay her, but I know now it must have been all a lie."
"I am very much afraid it was," said Mrs. Anderson. "That Mammy Warren was a dreadful woman. Well, Ronald, I must try and get Mrs. Cricket's address, and we'll send her some money; and some day perhaps—there's no saying when—you may be able to go back to her. Would you like to see her again?"
"Very, very much," said the child, "if Mammy Warren doesn't come to fetch me."
"Very well: I will endeavor to get her address. Perhaps Connie could tell me."
"Oh! perhaps she could," said Ronald; "forIcouldn't. I haven't a notion where she lived, except that it was far in the country, and the cottage wasteeny—just two rooms, you know—and there was a pretty wood outside, and the horse-chestnuts lying on the ground."
"But now, Ronald, I want you to go farther back. Tell me of things that happened when—when your mother was alive."
"I—I'll try," said the boy.
"Go on, dear—tell me all you can."
"It's very difficult," said Ronald. "I remember little bits, and then I forget little bits."
"I don't want you to worry yourself, dear; but can you recall anybody ever calling to see your mother—anybody who might be a relation of yours?"
"There was the old gentleman, of course," said Ronald.
"Who, dear?"
"He was very old, and he wore glasses, and his hair waswhite. He most times made mother cry, so I—I used to be sorry when he came."
"Can you recall his name?"
"Mother used to call him Uncle Stephen; but he was not her relation—he was father's. I think he always scolded mother; she used to look dreadfully bad after he was gone. I don't want to seehimagain."
"But he may have had a kind heart."
"Oh, I don't know," said Ronald. "I don't want to see him again."
"Do you think, by chance, that his name was Harvey?"
"I don't know. I think he in a sort of way belonged to father."
"Then," said Mrs. Anderson, "I guess that his name was Harvey. Now, I won't question you any more, Ronald. You may sit up and play with your bricks."
Ronald played happily enough, and Mrs. Anderson, after thinking for a few minutes, wrote out an advertisement. The advertisement ran as follows:
"If a gentleman who was called Uncle Stephen by a little boy, son of the late Major Harvey, who was supposed to have been killed in action at Ladysmith on ——, would wish to know anything of the same boy, he can get full particulars from Mrs. Anderson, 12 Carlyle Terrace, Westminster."
This advertisement was put into theTimes, theStandard, theTelegraph, and in fact, into all the daily newspapers. It appeared once, and Mrs. Anderson sat—as she expressed it—with her heart in her mouth for a whole day. But nothing happened: nobody came to inquire; there was no letter on the subject of the little son of brave Major Harvey. On the second day of the advertisement Mrs. Anderson felt a great relief in her heart.
"After I have advertised for a whole week," she said to herself, "I shall, I think, have done my duty, and perhaps I shall be allowed to keep the dear child."
She had looked, and felt, very sad on the first day of the advertisement, but on the second day she was more cheerful, and suggested to Ronald that Connie should come and have tea with him.
Ronald was delighted, and clapped his hands in glee. Mrs. Anderson wrote a little note to Connie, slightly blaming her for not coming to see her, but begging her to call that afternoon and have tea with Ronald. Connie was greatly delighted when she got the letter.
"May I go, Giles? Do yer mind?" she asked.
"In course not," answered Giles. "Why should I mind? Yer'll dress yerself in yer wery best, Connie, and I'll like well to look at yer afore yer goes out, an' w'en yer comes back."
So Connie put on her dark-blue costume once more, and brushed out her mane of golden hair and let it hang down her back; for she knew that Ronald would scarcely recognize her deprived of this ornament. Then, having left his tea allready for Giles, she ran quickly in the direction of Mrs. Anderson's house.
She arrived there at four o'clock in the afternoon, to see a little face pressed up close to the pane of glass, and eager eyes watching for her. When she appeared on the steps little hands began to clap, and there was an eager rush of footsteps and then Ronald himself opened the door.
"Oh Connie, Connie!" he said, "come in—do, do come in!"
"How be yer, Ronald?" asked Connie.
"I'm as well as well can be, and I'm happy, too. Mrs. Anderson is just a beautiful old lady, and so very good to me! But come and tell me all about yourself. You and I are to have tea all alone in this room. We will have fun. Why, Connie dear, how lovely you look!"
Connie told Ronald that he also looked lovely, and the two children sat down side by side, while Ronald related the little bit of his story which had transpired since Connie saw him last.
"I was very ill," he said, "for a bit, and silly, and—and cowardly. But a wonderful man came to see me, and he talked—oh, so beautifully!—and then I got better; and Mrs. Anderson has been more than good to me—no one was ever so good to me before except father. She tells me, Connie, that I must not keep looking out for father; for if he can come he will, and if he can't I've just got to wait with patience. The street preacher, too, talked about patience. It's a little bit hard to be very patient, isn't it, Connie?"
"Yus," said Connie.
"Oh! and, Connie, some day perhaps you and I may go and stay with Mrs. Cricket in the country, and Mrs. Anderson is going to send her money for the chickens and fresh eggs and things. But I can't remember where the country is—can you, Connie?"
"We got out at a plice called Eastborough, an' the cottage wor a ivy cottage down a lane."
"Ivy Cottage—of course!" said Ronald. "How stupid of me to have forgotten! Now it's all right, and dear Mrs. Cricket will get her money."
When Ronald had told all his story Connie told all hers. In especial she told about Giles, and about poor Sue, who had vanished just as suddenly and completely as she (Connie) and Ronald himself on a certain day had disappeared from their friends.
"It's very, very queer," said Ronald. "Connie," he added, "I want to see that little boy. Can't you take me back to him now—can't you?"
"Yus," said Connie, "I could; but would it be right?"
"We'll ask Mrs. Anderson," said Ronald, "I'm certain sure she won't mind. You know the way there; you won't let yourself be kidnapped any more, will you, Connie?"
"No," said Connie.
Then tea was brought in, and the children enjoyed it. ButRonald could think of nothing but Giles and his earnest desire to see him. Once again he begged and implored of Connie to take him, just to sit for a few minutes by the little cripple's side, and Connie again said that Mrs. Anderson ought to know.
It was just at that moment that a cab drew up at the door, and out of the cab there stepped a white-headed old man, who came ponderously up the steps, leaning on a gold-headed stick. He rang the bell with a loud peal. Ronald began to listen.
"Who can it be?" he said. He ran to the window, and looking out, saw the cab waiting; but he missed the sight of the old gentleman, whom doubtless he would have recognized; and the neat little parlor-maid went to open the door, and then the labored steps were heard in the hall, and the drawing-room door was opened and shut, and there was silence.
"A visitor for my dear new aunty," said Ronald. "I always call her my aunty, and she likes it very much. Oh Connie, do take me just to see Giles! I know it isn't wrong, and I should be quite safe with you."
"First of all," said Connie, "we'll ring the bell and ask if we may speak to Mrs. Anderson for a minute."
"Very well," said Ronald; "only I 'spect she's busy with the person who has called."
Anne came to answer the children's summons, and told them that her mistress was particularly engaged and could not be disturbed.
"That's all right," answered Ronald; "you can go away now, please. You needn't take the tea-things just for a bit. You can go away, please, Anne."
Anne, who was devoted to Ronald, thought that the children wanted to play together, and left them alone in the little parlor. The light was growing dim, and Connie poked the fire into a blaze.
"I ought to be goin' back," she said. "Giles 'ull want me. I'll come another day, Ronald, and Mrs. Anderson'll let me bring yer back to Giles then."
"No, no—to-day," said Ronald—"to-day—to-night—this minute. It isn't wrong. I must see him. You'll take me to see him, and then you'll bring me back, won't you, Connie?"
"W'y, yus," said Connie. "I s'pose it ain't wrong; but you can't do more nor set down in the room for about five minutes, Ronald, for yer'll 'ave to get back 'ere quite early, you know."
Ronald, delighted at any sort of consent on the part of his little friend, rushed upstairs to fetch his velvet cap and his little overcoat. But he forgot, and so did Connie, all about the thin house-shoes he was wearing. Soon he had slipped into the coat, and cramming the cap on his head and looking up at Connie with a gay laugh, said:
"Now we'll come."
They were in the hall, and had just opened the hall door,when suddenly that of the drawing-room was opened, and the old man, who helped himself along with a stick, came out. Ronald looked back and caught sight of him; but Ronald himself being in shadow, the old man did not notice him. The old man then spoke in a loud voice:
"It is all settled, then, and I will call to-morrow morning at ten o'clock to fetch back the boy. Have him ready. And now, good-day to you, madam."
But the old gentleman suddenly stopped as he uttered these words, for the hall door was slammed by some one else with violence, and Ronald turned a white face up to Connie.
"It's himself—it's Uncle Stephen. He made mother cry and cry. I won't go back to him. I won't be his boy. Hide me—hide me, Connie!"
Connie herself felt very much frightened.
"Come along 'ome with me," she said. "He can't get yer at my 'ome. Don't shrink like that, Ronald. Be a man, dear Ronald."
The children got back to Connie's rooms without any special adventure. There Giles was waiting with that peaceful look on his face which seemed more or less to quiet every one who came in his way. He smiled all over his little face when he saw Connie, and then his eyes grew big and surprised as he noticed the small boy who kept her company.
"Why are yer back so soon, Connie?" he said. "I warn't not one little bit lonesome. And 'oo's he?" said Giles.
"This is my dear little friend Ronald," said Connie.
"And I wanted to see you awful bad," said Ronald, running up to Giles, flinging his cap on the floor, and kneeling down by him. "I have thought of you—oh, so much! It was you, you know, who taught me to endure to the end. Did Connie tell you about that?"
"Yes," said Giles, "she told me."
Ronald looked up at Connie. Giles watched the two, and then he held out his little hand and touched Ronald's.
"You're wery brave," he said. "You had a brave father."
"He is a V. C. man. He's coming to see me one day," said Ronald.
"I know," said Giles. "It's real supporting to 'ave a brave father. I have one too."
"Have you?" said Ronald. "And is he coming to see you one day?"
"No—I'm goin' to 'im. Don't let's talk about it now."
Ronald sat down on the side of Giles's crimson and gold bed, and glanced round the room. Connie lit a paraffin lamp and put it on the table. In his first excitement at seeing Giles, Ronald forgot the mad terror which had awakened in him at the sound of Uncle Stephen's voice. But now he remembered.
"I have come to stay," he remarked emphatically.
"Oh no, Ronald, you can't," exclaimed Connie.
"I am not going back," exclaimed Ronald. "Giles, I needn't, need I? There's a dreadful man coming to-morrow, and he'sgoing to take me away from my darling aunty. I won't go. I'll hide here with you, Giles."
"Will yer?" said Giles. "That 'ull be real pain to yer aunty, won't it?"
"Real pain?" said Ronald. "But Connie can tell her. Connie needn't say where I am. She can just tell that I heard Uncle Stephen's voice, and that I am hiding. I can't go back, can I, Giles—can I?"
"Dunno," said Giles; but a wistful expression came into his face.
"Why do you look like that?" asked Ronald.
"Sometimes one 'as to do things one can't do," was Giles's next rather difficult remark.
"But this is really silly," said Ronald, "for we can do the things we can do."
"Course not—not by ourselves," said Giles. "But if we're to endure to the end, why, 'E'll help."
"You remind me of that awful fire," said Ronald.
He jumped up and walked across the room. His eyes were dim; his heart was beating with great rapidity, for he was still weak and had gone through much. Oh, that cruel, cruel old man who had made his mother cry so often! He thought upon him with a growing terror.
Connie looked at Ronald, and then she glanced at Giles and her eyes said to Giles:
"Help me all you can about Ronald." Then Giles called her to him.
"Leave Ronald with me for a bit," he said. "Go back and tell Mrs. Anderson; but leave little Ronald with me."
Connie immediately went out; but Ronald was so absorbed in trying to quiet his beating heart, and in trying to recover his courage, that he did not even know when she closed the door after her.
Connie ran as quickly as she could all the way to Carlyle Terrace. There she rang a loud peal at the front door. It was Mrs. Anderson herself who opened it to her.
"Oh Connie!" said the widow, "thank God! Have you brought news of Ronald? Whathashappened, Connie—whathashappened?"
Connie immediately entered the house.
"May I speak to yer, ma'am?" she said.
"Certainly; but where is the boy?"
"He's quite safe, ma'am—he's with Giles."
"Why did he go out? He did very wrong."
"I did wrong too," said Connie. "I tuk him. He's frightened, ma'am. Ronnie's rare and frightened. He heered wot the old gentleman said."
"How could he hear?" said Mrs. Anderson.
Connie told.
"'Tain't true, ma'am, is it?" said Connie. "Yer wouldn't niver, niver, let little Ronald go away?"
"Yes, but I must. I am very sad. I wish I needn't sendhim; but the gentleman who called to-day is his father's uncle, and his nearest relation in the world. Connie, you must bring Ronald home. I will go with you myself to fetch him."
"Oh, ma'am," said Connie, beginning to sob, "it 'ull break his 'eart."
"No, Connie," answered Mrs. Anderson. "Hearts like Ronald's—brave and true and faithful—don't break; they endure. Besides that, the old gentleman—Mr. Harvey—will not be unkind to him; I am certain of that."
So Connie and Mrs. Anderson returned side by side to the house where Giles and Ronald were waiting for them.
When they entered they saw a picture which Mrs. Anderson could never forget: the dying boy, with his radiant face, lying on the bed half-supported by pillows, the crimson and gold coverlet making a wonderful patch of color; and Ronald, the tears still wet on his cheeks, but his eyes very bright, his lips firm, his whole attitude that of a soldier's child.
The moment he saw Mrs. Anderson he went up to her.
"I am ashamed," he said. "Giles has told me the son of a V. C. man should not be a coward. It is all right—I am going back."
Mrs. Anderson pressed the boy's hand.
"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Ronald," she said. Then she turned and talked a little longer to Giles. She saw how weak the child was, and knew, with a woman's perception, what a very little time longer he had to live in this old world.
"My sister's in the country, ma'am," said Giles in his brightest manner. "She's looking for a little house for her an' me—two winders in our room—that's wot Sue an' me thought we 'ud like—and iverythink wery purty. Sue may be back any day. She's takin' a good bit of a time a-lookin' for the 'ouse; but she'll find it, an' then I'll go there."
"But are you strong enough to be moved, Giles?" inquired Mrs. Anderson.
"Yus," said Giles in his confident tone, "quite strong enough. I want to see the country, and to live in it for a spell, afore I go right 'ome to the best Country of all. Sue's lookin' out; she'll be back—oh, any day, for she knows the time's short."
"Giles," said Connie, "you're too tired to talk any more."
She gave the boy some of his restorative medicine, and Ronald went up and kissed him. "Don't forget," said Giles, "brave fathers——"
"Not me!" answered Ronald. "Brave fathers for ever!" Then Ronald went away.
Mrs. Anderson took his hand and led him back to the house. She did not scold him for going out with Connie. She did not mean to reproach him at all; he had made a great victory; she felt proud of him. When supper had come to an end she called the boy to her:
"Ronald dear, I wish to say something. If you were a coward to-day, so was I."
"You—my aunt?" said Ronald. "Oh no—no!"
"Yes. I didn't want to part with you."
Ronald shivered.
"Won't you ever see me any more?"
"I hope so. Mr. Harvey was very kind."
"Is his name Harvey—same as mine?"
"Yes, darling; he is your father's uncle, and your father lived with him in his old place in Somersetshire when he was a boy. He loved your father. He'll tell you lots of stories about him."
"About when does he expect father home?" asked Ronald.
"He doesn't know. Perhaps, Ronald—perhaps—never."
But here Ronald gave himself a little shake.
"I know father's coming back," he said—"feel it in my bones."
There was silence then between the woman and the boy. After a long time Ronald spoke:
"He made mother cry, all the same."
"He told me about that. He wasn't really unkind to her. I, on the whole, like him, Ronald, and I think you can do a lot for him—I think your father would wish it."
"Would he?" said Ronald, his eyes sparkling.
"I think so. I expect God wants you to help him. He's a hard old man because he has no one to love him, but he did care for your father."
Ronald flung his arms round Mrs. Anderson's neck and kissed her.
That night it must be owned that he slept badly; and early—very early—in the morning he awoke.
"Times is pretty bad," thought the boy to himself; "and there's lots o' battles round. But oh, Giles! brave fathers for ever! You and me won't disgrace our fathers, will we, Giles?"
Then he got up and dressed himself, and went downstairs and waited until Mrs. Anderson arrived. As soon as she entered the room he said one word to her—"When?"
"Ten o'clock," said Mrs. Anderson. It was eight o'clock then.
"Two hours more," said Ronald.
During those two hours he was very busy. He packed his bricks, and helped Mrs. Anderson to put his very scanty wardrobe into a very tiny trunk. The time went by. Ten o'clock struck, and, sharp to the minute, a cab drew up at the door.
Out of the cab the old gentleman stepped. He entered the hall. He was a very fussy old man, and did not want a young child to live in the house with him. He expected, too, that Mrs. Harvey's boy—he had undoubtedly a great contempt for poor young Harvey—would be a miserable, dwindled, wretched sort of creature. But, lo and behold! a little chapwith head well thrown back, his eyes bright and lips brave, stepped up to him.
"Here I am, Uncle Stephen. I am Ronald. How do you do?"
"Bless my soul!" said the old man. "Let me look at you."
He drew the boy round so as to get the light on his face.
"'Pon my word!" he said, "you are not the sort of little chap I expected. You're uncommon like your father."
Ronald flushed with pride. Mr. Harvey came into the parlor and had a little talk with Mrs. Anderson.
"I am indeed indebted to you, madam," he said. "This boy is so surprisingly like my nephew that I could almost fancy the years had gone back and I was teaching the little chap to take his first gallop.—Your father was game on a horse, my lad."
"Yes, sir," said Ronald, nodding his head. "'Spect so, sir," he added. The old gentleman chucked him under the chin and uttered a laugh.
"Well, boy, we must be going," he said. "We mustn't keep your kind friend. You will let me know, madam, for what I am indebted to you."
"For nothing, sir," said Mrs. Anderson. A crimson color rushed into her face. "It has been a labor of love to help this dear little fellow. I could take no money; you mustn't even mention it, sir."
"Well, madam—well—I respect your proper pride, and anything I can do—— By the way—eh, Ronald?—there's no saying, but I might invite your friend down to the country.—Do you know Somersetshire, madam?"
"I used to know it very well when I was a girl. My people lived in Somersetshire."
"Then perhaps you will come and pay us a visit, and see Ronald after he has learned the full use of the saddle and bridle—eh, Ronald?"
"Oh—aunty! Will you come?" said Ronald.
"I will, darling.—I should like it very much indeed, Mr. Harvey; it is most kind of you to ask me."
"But please—please," said Ronald, who had suddenly lost all his fear, "may Connie come, too?"
"Who's Connie?"
"My special friend and sister."
"Ho, ho!" said the old man. "I must hear more about her. Can make no rash promises. But all right, little chap; I'll do what I can for you. Now, if you had taken after—— Well, never mind—I won't say anything to hurt you."
"And, please," said Ronald suddenly, "of course you wouldn't pay my aunty, for the things she did can't be paid for. But poor Mrs. Cricket—aunty, I know her address. The place in the country is called Eastborough; and it's Ivy Cottage, aunty; and—she was good to me——"
"Yes," said Mrs. Anderson, "you'll let me explain, please, Mr. Harvey. This dear little boy spent a month at Mrs. Cricket's, and she was never paid a penny."
"She ought to be paid," said Ronald. "Course, when father returns he'll pay you back again. But she ought to get it, for there was real new-laid eggs, and the chickens were so tender."
"'Pon my word," said the old gentleman, "you're a queer boy! I guess you've got the true Harvey blood in you. Never neglect a friend—eh? And never owe a penny. Well now, madam, will you see to this? And what amount of money ought I to give you for the woman?"
Mrs. Anderson named what she thought would be a correct sum, and immediately afterwards the old gentleman produced the money from his waistcoat pocket.
It was a hard moment for Ronald when he said good-bye, but after he got into the cab he could not help feeling both surprised and elated. He could not help staring and staring at the old gentleman.
"Was it your photograph," he said at last, "that my father kept in his dressing-room?"
"I expect so," said the old gentleman.
"It's surprising," said Ronald, "how I forget. But now I remember. He loved you—he used to talk to me about you. He said it was you taught him first to be brave."
"Bless him—bless him!" said the old gentleman.
His voice got a little raspy; it is certain that his eyes were a little dim.
"Perhaps," said Ronald—he had a marvelous way of comprehending the situation—"but for you he would not have been a V. C. man."
"God bless you! It was in himself—he had the noblest heart, the grandest nature! There, boy! don't upset me. 'Pon my word! I hated the thought of having you—— And I hated going to you," said Ronald; "but——"
The old face looked into the young face, and the young face looked into the old face, and then they both laughed.
Before they reached the old gentleman's hotel Ronald had so far advanced to a friendly footing that he had peered into the contents of the old man's pocket, had pulled out his watch, had applied it to his ear, and had even gone the amazing length of demanding one for himself.