One of the day-schools I went to for a brief while as a youngster was that of the Reverend Edmund—“Daddy” we called him. Dear old Daddy he was to every boy who ever knew him. To say that Daddy was good is to say nothing of him. He was good in a wise, broad way, which is very uncommon. So many people become inhuman and small when they become good. Daddy was both good and human. There is no use in being good, virtuous and honourable, if you have no heart and lack the sympathetic understanding of badness. Daddy understood all things both good and bad. He knew humanity as it really is; only himself he did not know; for he underestimated his own goodness and greatness. He was a curious mixture of childlike generosity and worldly knowingness, with a whimsical wit and a convincing smile.
After I grew up I used to visit him at very irregular intervals, to confess and give him news of myself. Years would sometimes pass between these visits, but I was always received as if I were still a boy, and expected. When ruin, mental, moral and financial, stared me in the face, I quite naturally turned to Daddy, knowing that he would understand, and show me the right way, if there was a way, out of my difficulties.
After a horrible night spent staring into darkness, cursing myself as a blind fool, and turning my position over and over in my mind, I rose early and made a morning call upon the dear old man. He saw me at once, although it was Sunday. I told him all the tale of my folly and recklessness, and where I had landed myself. I was absolutely frank with him, as I had always been. I felt relieved and hopeful, although my affairs were desperate, and I had no idea where I was to secure the money I required by Monday morning’s bank hour. While I told my tale the dear old man sat silent, in a big high-backed chair, his hands in his lap, his eyes half-closed, and his mouth tight shut. In his long shabby cassock buttoned down the front with numerous small black buttons, he was the picture of one of the old ascetics. When I had finished, his looks were stern, but I knew his soft heart, and could feel his sympathy, although he did not speak for over a minute.
“Ah, my son,” at last he said, “you should have known that you could not play that game, and I am really glad you have failed; there is nothing in that game but ashes in the mouth. Your failure is a greater gain than your success would have been. Now listen to me. How long is it since you have seen Sir John?”
“Sir John?” I asked in astonishment. (Sir John was my godfather.) When I was christened in old Trinity Church, he had stood for me, as the saying is. He was plain John at the time, and comparatively poor. While I was growing up from babyhood to childhood he was making money. As I grew from childhood to manhood he was making more money. While I was marrying and learning to be a father and a husband, he was still making money and being honoured by the Queen for his many philanthropies, which represented millions given to educational and public-spirited enterprises. I knew him as a peculiarly hard old bachelor, with a stony face which had a very chilling effect upon me. He was not of my kind in any way, shape or form. I was a fool. He was a wise man; and when Daddy asked me, “When did you last see Sir John?” the question seemed utterly inapropos.
“Why do you mention him?” I asked. “I could never go to him.”
“Yes, you could,” said Daddy, “and you must. He will help you if I say so.”
“You know him, Daddy?” I asked, surprised. “How do you come to know him?”
“Know him, my son, of course I know him. He is one of my best friends,” replied Daddy.
“That is most amazing, Daddy. How can it be? Sir John a friend of yours! He is so different from you, I cannot think of you together. He is a business man, a millionaire, and moreover an unbeliever. What can you and he be to each other?”