Sue, A Little Heroine

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"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.

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."

CHAPTER XX.

CAUGHT AGAIN.

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, and 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:

"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."

"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 was there. But even Freckles had to depart, and Connie
presently found herself alone with the chief.

He stood by the hearth, looking taller and more exactly like a fine
gentleman, and Connie was more and more reassured about him.

"Please, sir----" she began.

"Stop!" he interrupted.

"Mayn't I speak, sir?"

"No--not now. For God's sake don't plead with me; I can't stand that."

"Why, sir?"

But Connie, as she looked up, saw an expression about that mouth and
that jaw which frightened her, and frightened her so badly that all the
agony she had undergone in Mammy Warren's house seemed as nothing in
comparison. The next minute, however, the cruel look had departed.
Simeon Stylites drew a chair forward, dropped into it, bent low, and
looked into Connie's eyes.

"Allow me," he said; and he put his hand very gently under her chin, and
raised her little face and looked at it.

"Who's your father?" he asked.

"Peter Harris."

"Trade?"

"Blacksmith, sir."

"Where do you live?"

"Adam Street, sir; and----"

"Hush! Only answer my questions."

Stylites removed his hand from under the girl's chin, and Connie felt a
blush of pain sweeping over her face.

"How long were you with that woman Warren?"

"Dunno, sir."

"What do you mean by answering me like that?"

"Can't 'elp it, sir. Tuk a fright there--bad fire--can't remember,
please, sir."

"Never mind; it doesn't matter. Stand up; I want to look at your hair."

Connie did so. Simeon took great masses of the golden, beautiful hair
between his slender fingers. He allowed it to ripple through them. He
felt its weight and examined its quality.

"Sit down again," he said.

"Yus, sir."

"You're exactly the young girl I want for my profession."

"Please, sir----"

"Hush!"

"Yus, sir."

"I repeat--and I wish you to listen--that in my profession you would
rise to eminence. You haven't an idea what it is like, have you?"

"No--I mean I'm not sure----"

"You had better keep in ignorance, for it won't be really necessary for
you to understand."

"Oh, sir."

"Not really necessary."

Connie looked up into the stern and very strange face.

"But you miss a good deal," said Stylites--"yes, a very great deal. Tell
me, for instance, how you employed your time before you entered Mrs.
Warren's establishment."

"I did machine-work, sir."

"I guessed as much--or perhaps Coppenger told me. Machine-work--attic
work?--Shop?"

"Yus, sir--in Cheapside, sir--a workshop for cheap clothing, sir."

"Did you like it?"

"No, sir."

"I should think not. Let me look at your hand."

He took one of Connie's hands and examined it carefully.

"Little, tapering fingers," he said, "spoiled by work. They could be
made very white, very soft and beautiful. Have you ever considered what
a truly fascinating thing a girl's hand is?"

Connie shook her head.

"You'd know it if you stayed with me. I should dress you in silk and
satins, and give you big hats with feathers, and lovely silk stockings
and charming shoes."

"To wear in this 'ere kitchen, sir?"

"Oh no, you wouldn't live in this kitchen; you would be in a beautiful
house with other ladies and gentlemen. _You would_ like that, wouldn't
you?"

"Yus, sir--ef I might 'ave Ronald and Giles and father and Father John,
and p'rhaps Mrs. Anderson and Mr. George Anderson, along o' me."

"But in that beautiful house you wouldn't have Mr. and Mrs. Anderson,
nor your father, nor that canting street preacher, nor the children
you've just mentioned. It's just possible you might have the boy Ronald,
but even that is problematical--you'd have to give up the rest."

"Then, sir," said Connie, "I rayther not go, please."

"Do you think that matters?" said Stylites.

"Wot, sir?"

"That you'd rather not go?"

"I dunno, sir."

"It doesn't matter one whit. Children who come here aren't asked what
they'd rather or rather not do, girl--they've got to do what _I_ order."

The voice came out, not loud, but sharp and incisive, as though a knife
were cutting something.

"Yus, sir--yus, sir."

"Connie"--the man's whole tone altered--"what will you give me if I let
you go?" "Oh, sir----"

"I want you to give me something very big, I've taken great trouble to
secure you. You're the sort of little girl I want; you would be very
useful to me. You have come in here--it is true you haven't the least
idea where this house is--but you've come in, and you've seen me, and
you've discovered the name which these low people call me. Of course,
you can understand that my real name is not Simeon Stylites--I have a
very different name; and my home isn't here--I have a very different
home. I would take you there, and treat you well, and afterwards perhaps
send you to another home. You should never know want, and no one would
be unkind to you. You would be as a daughter to me, and I am a lonely
man."

"Oh, sir--sir!" said poor Connie, "I--I like you, sir--I'm not
afeered--no, not much afeered--but if you 'ud only let the others
come----"

"That I cannot do, girl. If you choose to belong to me you must give up
the others."

"_Ef_ I choose, sir--may I choose?"

"Yes--on a condition."

The man who called himself Simeon Stylites looked at the girl with a
queer, hungry expression in his eyes.

"I wanted you very badly indeed," he said; "and I was not in the least
prepared to be sentimental. But I had a little sister like you. She died
when she was rather younger than you. I loved her, and she loved me. I
was quite a good man then, and a gentleman----"

"Oh, sir--ye're that now."

"No, girl--I am not. There are things that a gentleman would do which I
would _not_ do, and there are things which no gentleman would do which I
do. I have passed the line; nevertheless, the outward tokens remain; and
I live--well, child, I want for nothing. My profession is very
lucrative--very."

Connie did not understand half the words of this strange, queer man,
with a terribly stern and yet terribly pathetic voice.

"When I saw you this morning," said Stylites, "I knew at once it was no
go. You were like the little Eleanor whom alone in all the world I ever
truly loved. You are too young to be told my story, or I would tell it
to you."

"Oh, sir," said Connie, "I'd real like to comfort yer."

"You can't do that, and I won't spoil the life of any child with such a
look of my little Eleanor. I am going to give you back your liberty--on
a condition."

"Wot's that?" said Connie.

"That you never breathe to mortal what happened to you from the time you
left your friend, the street preacher, last night, until the time when
you found yourself at liberty and outside that same court. Wild horses
mustn't drag it from you; detectives must do their utmost in vain. I am
willing to do a good deal for you, girl, solely and entirely because of
that chance likeness. But I won't have _my_ profession and _my_ chances
in life imperilled. Do you promise?"

"Sir, I'll niver,--niver tell."

"You must promise more strongly than that--the others must be
witnesses."

"Oh, sir--oh, sir! you must trust me. Don't call the others in; let me
promise to you, yer lone self, an' I will keep my word."

The strange man with the strange eyes looked long for a full minute into
Connie's face.

"I could have been good to you," he said, "and what I had to offer was
not altogether contemptible. But it somehow wouldn't have fitted in with
my memory of Eleanor, who went back to God at eleven years of age, very
pure in heart, and just like a little child. 'Of such is the Kingdom of
Heaven.' Those are the words which mark her little grave in a distant
part of the country. If you will follow in her steps, and be pure and
good in heart and life, you may meet my Eleanor in another world. And
perhaps you may be able to tell her that I--a man given over to extreme
wickedness--did one kind deed for her sake when I gave you back to your
friends."

"Sir----"

"Not another word. I am a man of moods, and I might recant what I have
just said."

Simeon Stylites sounded a little gong on the table. Agnes came hurriedly
in.

"Fetch this child's hat and jacket," said the great man imperatively.

Agnes brought them.

"Be I to take her out, sir?" she said.

"No. And listen. This child isn't for us; let her alone in future.--Are
you ready, Connie?"

"Yus, sir."

Simeon Stylites put on the most gentlemanly overcoat and a well-brushed
silk hat, and he took a neat stick in his hand and went boldly out of
the house. As soon as ever he got outside he saw a hansom, and beckoned
the driver. He and Connie got in.

They went for a long drive, and Stylites dismissed the hansom in a
distant part of the town.

"You wouldn't know your way back again?" he said to the girl.

"No, sir; an' ef I knew I wouldn't tell."

"Well, then--good-bye."

"Good-bye, sir."

"Yes, good-bye. Walk down this street till you come to the end. Here's a
shilling--you'll get a hansom; ask a policeman to put you in. From there
go home again, and forget that you ever saw or heard of Simeon
Stylites."

CHAPTER XXI.

SAFE HOME AT LAST.

When Harris parted from Sue he ran quickly in his cowardly flight. He
did not stay his fleet steps until he had gained a very quiet street.
Then, knowing that he was now quite safe, he exchanged his running for a
rapid walk. He suddenly remembered that he was to meet the detectives,
who were moving heaven and earth to get Connie back for him, not later
than three o'clock.

They were to meet by appointment in a certain street, and the hour of
rendezvous was quickly approaching. He got there in good time; but what
was his amazement to see, not only the two detectives--ordinary-looking
men in plain clothes--but also the street preacher?

The street preacher came up to him eagerly. The detectives also followed
close.

"Harris," said Atkins, "you can thank God on your knees--your child is
safe at home."

"Wot?" said Harris.

In that instant something sharp as a sword went through his heart. Oh,
what a mean, terrible, horrible wretch he was! What a cowardly deed he
had just committed! And yet God was kind, and had given him back his
child.

"Connie is in your room, waiting for you," said Atkins. "I went in not
an hour ago, hoping to find you, and there she was."

"It's very queer," said Detective Z. "You should have been there also,
and have questioned the girl. There isn't the least doubt that she could
give the most valuable information, but she won't utter a word--not a
word."

"Won't she, now?" said Harris. "Perhaps not to you, but she wull, quick
enough, to her own father."

The entire party then turned in the direction of Harris's rooms. They
went up the stairs, and Harris flung the door wide. A little, slight
girl, in the identical same dark-blue dress which Harris had bought for
her with such pride not many weeks ago, was standing near the fire.
Already her womanly influences had been at work.

The fire burned brightly. The room was tidy. The girl herself was
waiting--expectation, fear, longing, all expressed in her sensitive
face.

"Father!" she cried as Harris--brutal, red of face, self-reproachful, at
once the most miserable and the gladdest man on earth--almost staggered
into the room.

He took the slim little creature into his arms, gave her a few fierce,
passionate kisses; then saying, "It is good to have yer back, wench,"
pushed her from him with unnecessary violence. He sank into a seat,
trembling all over. The two detectives marked his agitation and were
full of compassion for him. How deeply he loved his child, they felt.
But Father John read deeper below the surface.

The man was in a very queer state. Had anything happened? He knew Harris
well. At such a moment as this, if all were right, he would not be so
overcome.

The detectives began to question Connie.

"We want to ask you a few questions, my dear," said Constable Z. "Who
dragged you into that court last night?"

"I won't say," answered Connie.

"You won't say? But you know."

"I won't say nothing," said Connie.

"That is blamed nonsense!" cried Harris, suddenly rousing himself.
"Yer've got to say--yer've got to make a clean breast of it. Wot's up?
Speak!"

"I wouldn't be here, father," said Connie, "'ef I'd not promised most
faithfully not _iver_ to tell, and I won't iver, iver, iver tell, not to
anybody in all the world."

There was a decidedly new quality in the girl's voice.

"I wouldn't do it for nobody," continued Connie. She drew herself up,
and looked taller; her eyes were shining. The detectives glanced at each
other.

"If you was put in the witness-box, missy," said one, "yer'd have to
break that promise o' yourn, whoever you made it to, or you'ud know what
contempt of the law meant."

"But I am not in the witness-box," said Connie, her tone suddenly
becoming gay. "It was awful kind of people to look for me, but they
might ha' looked for ever and niver found me again. I'm 'ere now quite
safe, and nothing 'as 'appened at all, and I'm niver goin' to tell.
Please, Father John, _you_ won't ask me?"

"No, my child," said Father John. "You have made a promise, perhaps a
rash one, but I should be the last to counsel you to break it."

Nothing more could be gained from Connie at present; and by-and-by
Father John and the two detectives left her alone with Harris. When the
door closed behind the three men a timid expression came into Connie's
gentle eyes. Beyond doubt her father was sober, but he looked very
queer--fearfully red in the face, nervous, trembling, bad in his temper.
Connie had seen him in many moods, but this particular mood she had
never witnessed in him before. He must really love her. He knew nothing
about that terrible time last night when he had turned her away. Then he
did not know what he was doing.

Connie was the last to bear him malice for what--like many other little
girls of her class--she considered he could not help. Most of the
children in the courts and streets around had fathers who drank. It
seemed to Connie and to the other children that this was a necessary
part of fathers--that they all took what was not good for them, and were
exceedingly unpleasant under its influence.

She stood now by the window, and Harris sank into a chair. Then he got
up restlessly.

"I be goin' out for a bit, lass," he said. "You stay 'ere."

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