Sue, A Little Heroine by L. T. Meade (the mitten read aloud txt) 📗
- Author: L. T. Meade
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"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."
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, and88 showed 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:89
"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."90
"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
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