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.84
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 that85 some 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.86
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."
