Part 33 (1/2)

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 b.u.t.ter, 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 appet.i.te by the sight of the tempting food. Connie quickly made tea, boiled an egg, and brought them with fresh bread-and-b.u.t.ter to the child. He ate a little; then he looked up at her.

”You must eat, too, Connie. Why, you _be_ white 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 come back. 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 G.o.d, for He careth for you.' I ha'

done it, and I'm not frettin' no more. Sue's all right; G.o.d'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.