Sue, A Little Heroine
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L. T. Meade >> Sue, A Little Heroine
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"Bless yer!" said Giles, with a weak laugh, "I ha' had my breakfast an
hour and a half ago--yer father guv it to me. He be a wery kind man."
"My father guv you your breakfast?" said Connie.
She felt that wonders would never cease. Never before had Harris been
known to think of any one but himself.
"Set down by me, Connie; you can't do naught for your breakfast until
the kettle boils. I'll tell yer now w'ere Sue is."
"Where?" asked Connie. "Oh Giles! have yer heard of her?"
"Course I 'ave--I mean, it's all as clear as clear can be. It's only
that Sue 'ave more money than she told me 'bout, and that she's a-tryin'
to give me my 'eart's desire."
"Your 'eart's desire, Giles?"
"Yus--her an' me 'ave always 'ad our dream; and dear Sue--she's a-makin'
it come to pass, that's all. It's as plain as plain can be. She's a-gone
to the country."
"To the country? Oh no, Giles; I don't think so. Wottever 'ud take her
to the country at this time o' year?"
"It's there she be," said Giles. "She knew as I wanted dreadful to 'ear
wot it were like, an' she 'ave gone. Oh Connie, you went to the country;
but she didn't guess that. She ha' gone--dear Sue 'ave--to find out all
for herself; an' she thought it 'ud be a rare bit of a s'prise for me. I
must make the most of it w'en I see her, and ax her about the flowers
and everything. She's sartin to be back to-day. Maybe, too, she could
get work at plain sewin' in the country; an' she an' me could live in a
little cottage, an' see the sun in the sky, and 'ear the birds a
singin'. It's a'most like 'eaven to think of the country--ain't it,
Connie?"
"Yus," said Connie, "the country's beautiful; but wicked people come out
o' Lunnon to it, an' then it's sad. An' there's no flowers a-growin' in
the fields and 'edges in the winter, Giles--an' there's no birds
a-singin'."
"Oh! but that 'ull come back," said Giles. "You can eat yer breakfast
now, Connie, an' then arter that we'll talk more about the country. You
_ain't_ goin' to work to-day--be you, Connie?"
"Oh no," said Connie; "I ha' lost that place, an' I dunno w'ere to find
another. But there's no hurry," she added, "and I like best now to be
along o' you."
Connie then ate her breakfast, and Giles lay with his eyes closed and a
smile of contentment on his face.
In the course of the morning there came an unlooked-for visitor.
A funny-looking, red-haired boy entered the room. Seeing Giles asleep,
he held up his finger warningly to Connie, and stealing on tiptoe until
he got opposite to her, he sat down on the floor.
"Wull, an' wottever do yer want?" asked Connie.
"Hush!" said the red-haired boy.
He pointed to Giles. This action on the part of a total stranger seemed
so absurd to Connie that she burst out laughing. The red-haired boy
never smiled. He continued to fix his round, light-blue eyes on her face
with imperturbable gravity.
"Wull," he exclaimed under his breath, "ef she ain't more of a
Cinderella than t' other! Oh, wouldn't the Prince give _her_ the glass
slipper! Poor, poor Cinderella at 'ome! _you've_ no chance now. Ain't
she jest lovely! I call her hangelic! My word! I could stare at that
'ere beauteous face for hiver."
As these thoughts crept up to the fertile brain of Pickles his lips
moved and he nodded his head, so that Connie really began to think he
was bewitched.
"Wottever do you want?" she whispered; and, fortunately for them both,
at that juncture Giles stirred and opened his eyes.
"That's right!" cried Pickles. "Now I can let off the safety-valve!"
He gave a sigh of relief.
"Whoever's he?" asked Giles, looking from the red-faced boy to Connie.
But before she had time to reply, Pickles sprang to his feet, made a
somersault up and down the room, then stood with his arms akimbo just in
front of Giles.
"I'm glad as you hintroduced the word 'he,' young un; hotherwise, from
the looks of yer both, you seems to liken me to a monster. Yer want to
know who's _he_? He's a boy--a full-grown human boy--something like
yerself, only not so flabby by a long chalk."
"But wot did you want? and wot's yer name, boy?" said Connie, who could
not help laughing again.
"Ah!" said Pickles, "now ye're comin' to the p'int o' bein' sensible,
young 'oman. I thought at first you could only drop hangelic speeches,
an' that you 'ailed from the hangel spheres; but now I see ye're a
gel--oh, quite the very purtiest I hiver laid heyes on. Now, as I've
spoke my true mind, I'll hanswer yer questions in a discreet an' pious
manner. My name is Pickles--Pickles, at yer sarvice."
"I never heered such a name in all my life," said Connie.
"Wery like not. I were christened by the proper name o' James; but no
James as ever walked 'ud hold me--it didn't fit no w'y; an' Pickles did.
So Pickles I am, an' Pickles I'll be to the end o' the chapter. Now, as
to wot I wants--w'y; I wants a talk with that mealy-faced chap wot looks
as if I'd heat him up alive."
"No, I don't," said Giles. "I were only thinking as you 'ad the wery
reddest 'air I iver see'd in my life."
"Personal remarks air considered ill-mannered, young man. And let me
tell yer as my hair's my special glory. But now to business. You can't
know, I guess, wot I wants yer for."
"No, I can't," said Giles.
"That's rum; and I to tike the trouble not only to wisit yer own most
respectable mansion, but to foller yer 'ere in the true sperrit of
kindness."
"Ye're wery good; but I can't guess wot ye're up to," answered Giles.
"Dear, dear! the silliness o' folks! Now, w'en a stranger seeks yer
hout, isn't it safe to s'pose as he brings news?"
"Wull, yes."
"Next clue--shall I 'elp yer a bit? You 'asn't, so to speak, lost
something lately--thimble, or a pair of scissors, or something o' that
sort?"
"Oh, it's Sue! It's my darling Sue;" exclaimed Giles, a light breaking
all over his face. "'As yer brought news of Sue, boy?"
"Be Sue a thimble, scissors, or a gel?"
"Oh! a gel, in course--my own dear, dear, only sister."
"A little, fat, podgy kind o' woman-gel, wid a fine crop o' freckles and
sandy hair?"
"Yes, yes; that's she. I have bin waiting fur her hall night. Where is
she? Please, please, Pickles, where is she?"
"Well, can't yer guess? Where 'ud she be likely ter be? She worn't a
wandering sort o' gel, as neglected her home duties, wor she?"
"Oh no! she never stayed out in hall her life afore."
"She worn't, so to speak, a gel as wor given to pilfer, and might be tuk
to cool herself in the lock-up."
"Never--never! Sue 'ud sooner die than take wot worn't her own; and I
wish I wor strong enough to punch yer head fur thinkin' sech a thing,"
said Giles, his face now crimson with indignation.
"Well, softly, softly, young un; I didn't say as she _did_ pilfer. I
think that 'ere podgy gel as honest as the day. But now, can't yer guess
where she his?"
"Oh yes! I can guess wery well," answered Giles, his face softening
down. "I guessed long ago--didn't I, Connie?"
"Well, now, wot hever did yer guess?" asked Pickles, in some amazement.
"Oh! there wor but one thing to guess. There were one dream as Sue and I
were halways dreaming, and she have gone off widout me at last, to see
wot it wor like. She'll be back hany moment, arter she have seen and
found hout hall she could. Sue have gone to the country, Pickles."
"Oh, my heyes! to the country!" exclaimed Pickles. His face grew
crimson, and he was obliged to leave his seat and walk to the window,
where he remained with his back to the others for nearly a minute, and
where he indulged in some smothered mirth.
When he turned round, however, he was as grave as a judge.
"You _are_ clever," he said to Giles.
"I'm right, ain't I?" asked Giles.
"In course; you're always as right as a trivet."
"Oh, I'm so glad! And does she find it wery beautiful?"
"Scrumptious! fairy-like! scrumptious!"
"Oh, how happy I am! And when 'ull she be back?"
"Well, that's the part as may moderate your raptures; she can't exactly
tell when. She sent me to tell yer as she don't exactly know. It may be
to-morrow; or, agen, it mayn't be fur a week, or even more. She's hever
so sorry, and she sends yer a whole pocketful o' love, but she can't
tell when she'll get back."
"But what is she stayin fur?"
"Oh! my heyes! wot is she staying fur? You wants ter live in a cottage
in the country, don't yer?"
"Why, yes, that's hour dream."
"Well, ha'n't she to find hout wot the price o' them are? Ha'n't she,
stoo-pid?"
"I s'pose so. Is that what she's staying fur?"
Pickles nodded.
"You don't never tell no lies, do you, boy?"
"I! Wot do yer take me fur? You can b'lieve me or not as yer pleases."
"Oh! I do b'lieve yer. Will yer take a message back to Sue?"
"Why, in course."
"Tell her to have two rooms in the cottage, and plenty o' flowers hall
round, and a big winder where I can look hout at the stars when I can't
sleep o' nights."
"Yes, I'll tell her faithful. Hanythink else?"
"Tell her as I love to think as she's in the country, but to come back
as fast as she can; and give--give her my wery best love. And you
wouldn't like to give her a kiss fur me?"
"Oh! my heye! yere's a rum go. Fancy me a-kissing Cind--I means Sue. No,
young un, I hasn't the wery least hobjection in life. I'll give her two
resounding smacks the wery minute as I sees her. Lor'! it will be fine
fun. Now, good-bye. I'll come and see yer soon agen.--Good-bye, my
beauty. I only wishes as it wor _you_ I wor axed ter kiss.--Good-bye,
Giles. I'll remember wot yer said 'bout that 'ere cottage."
"Be sure as the winders is big enough fur me to see the stars," called
out Giles after him.
CHAPTER XXIII.
AMATEUR DETECTIVE.
Mrs. Price had been blessed by nature with two sons, each as different
in manners, disposition, appearance, and tastes as the poles. William,
aged twenty, was dark, quiet-looking, with a grave and kind face. In
disposition he was as fine a fellow as ever breathed, thoughtful for
others, good to all, doing his duty because he loved and feared both God
and his mother. He was very reserved, and seldom spoke, but when he did
give utterance to his thoughts they were to the point and worth
listening to. Mrs. Price was often heard to say that the mere presence
of her elder son in the room gave her a sense of repose, that she felt
that she had some one to lean on--which in truth she had.
James, her second and younger son, had not one of his brother's
characteristics; he had no gentle courtesies, no quiet ways. Except when
asleep, he was never known to be still for a moment. One glance at his
fiery head, at his comical face, would show plainly that he was a very
imp of mischief. He was kind-hearted--he would not willingly injure the
smallest living thing--but his wild, ungovernable spirit, his sense of
the ludicrous in all and every circumstance, made him sometimes do
unintentional harm, and his mother had some difficulty in getting him
out of the scrapes into which he was always putting himself. No work he
had ever done had so delighted the boyish heart of James Price, _alias_
Pickles, as the capture of Sue from the hands of the police. The whole
story had a certain flavor about it which would be sure to captivate
such a nature as his. Sue was innocent; he was quite certain of that.
But then, as certainly some one else was guilty. Here, then, was a work
after his own heart; he would find out who the guilty party was. He had
a great deal of the detective about him; indeed, he had almost resolved
to join that body when he was grown-up.
He had brought Sue to his mother; and his mother, too, believing in the
girl's innocence, was yet much puzzled how to advise her or what to do
with her. Sue, being thoroughly drilled and frightened into such a
course by Pickles, had declared that nothing would induce her to go
home; for that if she did she would certainly be taken to prison, and
found guilty of a crime of which she was quite innocent. Mrs. Price,
too, felt that she could not counsel Sue to go back, though the agony of
the poor girl, when she thought of Giles waiting and longing for her,
was sad to witness.
To comfort her a little, Pickles went to see Giles, being warned by Sue
on no account to tell him the truth, which would, she said, absolutely
and at once break his heart.
Pickles, winking profoundly, told her to leave it to him. He went, and
Giles himself supplied him with an idea on which he was not slow to
work. Giles was fully persuaded that Sue was in the country, and might
not return for some days. He seemed more pleased than otherwise that she
should be so employed. Pickles was so delighted with his own success
that he danced a kind of hornpipe all the way home.
He found Sue by herself and very disconsolate, for Mrs. Price had gone
out on some errands.
The first thing he did was to go up to her and give her two very fierce
salutes, one on her brow, the other on the point of her chin.
"There, now," he said; "that 'ere little tender brother sent yer them."
"Oh Pickles! how is he? Is he wery cut up?" asked poor Cinderella,
raising a tearful face.
"Cut up? Not a bit o' him! Why, he's quite perky; he think as you has
gone to the country."
"Oh Pickles! how hever could he?"
"Well, listen, and I'll tell yer."
Pickles here related his whole interview, not forgetting to reproduce in
full all his own clever speeches, and his intense admiration for Connie.
"I'd do a great deal fur _you_, Cinderella," he said in conclusion; "fur
though ye're as ordinary a woman as I hiver met, yet still yer belongs
to the species, and I has a weakness fur the species; but oh, lor'! ef
it had been that 'ere Connie, why, I'd have a'most spilt my life-blood
fur that hangelic creature."
"Well, yer see, it wor only me," said Sue, not a little piqued.
"Yes, it wor only you. But now, wot do you think of it all?"
"Oh! I'm wery glad and thankful that Giles is wid Connie. He wor halways
fond of Connie, and I'm real pleased as he thinks as I'm gone to the
country--that 'ull satisfy him ef hanythink will, fur he have sech a
longing fur it, poor feller! But oh, Pickles! I do hope as you didn't
tell him no lies, to make him so keen upon it."
"No--not I. I only nodded and made-believe as he wor clever. No, I wor
careful o' the utterances o' the tongue, which is an unruly member."
"Well, I'm glad," said Sue. "I only hope as it ain't wrong to deceive
him."
"No, it ain't a bit wrong; don't you go a fussing about nothink. But now
you have got to listen to me, fur I have got something most serious to
talk over."
"I'll listen," replied Sue.
"Good! And wot little bit o' brain you have you may stick inter the
listening, too, fur you will presently have to think a deal."
"Wery well," answered Sue, who had long ago come to consider Pickles the
greatest oracle she had ever seen.
Pickles planted himself on his knees in front of her, and having placed
one hand firmly on each leg, bent forward until he brought himself into
what he considered a telling position with regard to her face.
"Ef yer want to unearth a secret, stare 'em well right inter the heyes,"
was one of his detective principles.
"Now, Cinderella," he began, "you say as ye're hinnercent o' that 'ere
theft?"
"You know I am," answered Sue.
"And yet that 'ere wauluable trinket wor found in yer pocket."
"Well, I can't help that."
"I'm afraid yer can't, Cinderella; and a wery ugly business it is fur
yer; it 'ud bring yer in guilty in hany court wot hiver."
"I know that, Pickles--I know that only too well; that's why I'm here."
"An' you must stay yere until ye're proved hinnercent."
"Yes."
"Well, that may be awkward--not fur us, but fur poor, little tender
Giles. He thinks as ye're gone to the country, and I give him to
understand as yer would not be back fur maybe a day or two. But he's
hall on a quiver fur yer to come back now; he's hall on a tremble to
know wot the country is like. He says ye're to get a cottage as have a
big winder in it, fur he wants to see the stars o' nights. Now, I think
by the looks o' Giles as he'll fade away wery quick ef yer don't come
back soon."
"Oh, I know it--I know it!" said Sue. "What shall I do? Ef I do go back
I shall be tuk ter prison. Oh! oh! oh!" and she began to weep.
"Don't cry, you silly! Cryin' never mended no broken bones. You dry your
eyes and listen when the oracle speaks."
"I will," said Sue, endeavoring to check her sobs.
"Well then, yer hinnercence must be proved. The way to prove yer
hinnercence is to find hout _who_ put that 'ere trinket in yer pocket."
"Oh Pickles! I don't--I don't think hany one could be so wicked."
"Bless yer, gel! yer hasn't gone about and seen life like me. 'Tis a
wicked world, Cinderella. Some one put that locket in yer pocket; ef it
worn't yerself, it wor another."
"I don't know why hany one should do it," said Sue.
"You leave that to me. The reason is a mystery; the person wot did it is
a mystery; it remains fur this yere child"--giving his breast a great
slap--"to unravel them both. Now, Cinderella, wot kind o' man wor that
'ere Peter Harris wot went wid yer to the shop?"
"He wor a wery rough kind o' man," said Sue, "and he often drank. He wor
in trouble jest then 'bout Connie. Connie is his daughter. She wor away
fur a bit, and had come back, and he wanted to give her a ring, and, as
I telled yer, we went inter the shop to buy her one."
"And had that 'ere Harris much money?"
"He didn't say as he hadn't; he gave a sovereign to pay fur the ring."
"Don't yer think, Cinderella, as it wor _he_ put the locket in your
pocket?"
"Indeed I don't," answered Sue, in great indignation. "He wor a bit
rough, and used to drink a good deal, but I never heerd mortal say as he
worn't as honest a man as ever stepped. Besides, Pickles, he wor a
friend to me, and I wor a friend to Connie, and even ef he wished to do
something so desperate wicked he couldn't, fur I wor at the other side
o' the shop a'most."
"All the same," replied Pickles, shaking his fiery head, "I believe as
he did it. 'Tis a desperate big mystery, but I means to clear it hup, so
you leave it ter me, Cinderella."
CHAPTER XXIV.
MOTHER AND SON.
That night Mrs. Price and her younger son had a conversation.
"I do not want to send her away, Jamie," she said when they had
discoursed with much interest for some time. "She shall and must stay
here for the present; but it cannot go on always, for what would the
poor little brother do? If Cinderella is the bread-winner, and Cinderella
can earn no bread, the poor little fellow will starve."
James Price, _alias_ Pickles, was looking very sober, even thoughtful.
"It tuk a deal o' time to save hup, and 'tis rare and comforting to
reflect on having it--but there's my half-crown," he said.
"Bless you, my laddie! it will help a trifle, but half-a-crown won't
feed the smallest eater for long."
"Then, mother, you know I allow no one ter dictate ter me but you. Wot's
to be done? Ere we to betray the hinnercent?"
"No, my lad--no. I confess I am sorely puzzled."
"But I ain't," said Pickles, who had knowingly brought his mother round
to make this confession. "I ain't puzzled the least bit in life, fur I
_know_ who is the real thief."
"Now, Jamie, what do you mean?"
"Mother, it were the man as went with Cinderella inter the shop; it wor
he wot stole the locket and then put it inter her pocket. I don't know
how he did it, nor why he did it, but I do know that _did_ do it."
"Oh! my dear boy, in your love of mystery you are allowing your
imagination to run away with you. I do not think any one would be so
wicked."
"Never you mind, mother; take it on trust as there's that much
wickedness in this yer world. Be thankful ye're hout o' the way o'
hearing o' what's disgusting to dwell on, but this yere is a mystery as
must be cleared hup. How do you s'pose, mother, as the locket did get
inter Cinderella's pocket?"
"It may have slipped in as she stood by the counter."
"Oh, come, mother! that 'ud go down wid no jury as hiver walked. No, no;
b'lieve me as 'tis as I say; and wot's more, 'tis my business to prove
the truth o' my thoughts. There's a mystery, but James Price, _alias_
Pickles, 'ull unravel it. You keep Cinderella fur a week yere, mother,
and I'll engage as the guilty party confesses by the end o' that time."
"I will keep the little girl as long as is necessary, Pickles. But do be
careful. Do not allow your vivid imagination to make you unjust to
others."
"You leave it ter me, mother. You jest promise faithful to keep
Cinderella fur a bit, and I'll do the rest."
"Yes, Jamie," said Mrs. Price, "I certainly will make that promise."
"That's a brick o' a mother. And now I'm off to bed, fur there's nothing
like sleep when the brain is much exercised, as mine is at present."
CHAPTER XXV.
ABOUT RONALD.
While poor Harris was trying to soothe the agonies of his conscience by
being specially and extra good to Giles, and while Giles, who under
Connie's care was recovering a certain measure of strength, and poor
little Sue was still acting the part of Cinderella with Pickles as her
champion, another child who plays an important part in this story was
gradually recovering health and strength.
When Ronald was well enough, to come downstairs, and then to walk across
Mrs. Anderson's pretty little parlor, and on a certain fine day to go
out with her for a walk, the good lady thought it was full time to make
inquiries with regard to his relations.
She questioned her son George on the subject, and this gallant young
fireman gave her what advice he could.
"No, don't employ detectives, mother," said George. "Somehow I hate the
whole lot of them. Keep Ronald as long as you want to; he's a dear
little chap, and a gentleman by birth, and he loves you too."
"I want to keep him, George; the child is the greatest delight and
comfort to me. He is very unlike other children--very sensitive and
delicate. But I do think that if he has relations they ought to know of
his whereabouts."
"You have questioned him, of course, on the matter," said George
Anderson.
"No--not much; he hasn't been strong enough. I think, too, the severe
illness he has undergone, and the terrible frights he has been subject
to, have to a certain extent affected his mind; and beyond the fact that
he is always looking for his father, and hoping that his father may walk
in, he never talks about the old days."
"Well, mother," said George, "I must be off now; duty time is close at
hand." As he spoke he rose from the seat by the fire which he had been
enjoying in his mother's room.
"Of course, there is little doubt that Major Harvey is dead; but you
could call at the War Office and inquire, mother, couldn't you?"
"Yes, I could and will; and I won't employ detectives, my boy. You may
be certain of one thing--that I don't want to part with the child."
The next day after breakfast, Mrs. Anderson felt that it was time to
question Ronald with regard to his past life.
"You are quite well now, Ronald," she said.
"Yes," said Ronald, "ever so strong. I feel brave, too," he added; "it
would take a very great deal to frighten me now. A soldier's boy should
be brave," he continued, that pleading, pathetic look coming into his
dark eyes, which gave such a special charm to his little face.
"This soldier's boy is very brave," said Mrs. Anderson, patting his
little hand, as the child stood close to her.
"My father was a V. C., ma'am," remarked Ronald in a soft tone.
"You're very proud of that, Ronald--you have good reason to be," said
his friend. "But now, dear, I seriously want to ask you a few questions.
You have told me about Connie, and about some of your dreadful life with
Mammy Warren. I am anxious that you should try to forget all these
terrible things as much as possible."
"Oh! but, please, I never could forget dear Connie."
"I don't want you to forget her. I have been planning a delightful
surprise for you with regard to her. But other things you can forget."
"There's another person I don't want to forget," said Ronald; "that is
the good woman in the country who gave me delicious new-laid eggs and
chops and chicken. Mrs. Cricket was her name. I used to think of _The
Cricket on the Hearth_ often when I was looking at her. She was very
like one, you know--such a cosy, purring sort of woman."
"How long were you with her, Ronald?"
"I don't remember going to her," said Ronald, shaking his head; "but
perhaps I was too ill. But I do remember being with her, and the little
path in the wood, and how I gradually got better, and how she petted me.
And I remember Connie coming down the path looking like an angel; but
Connie was the only bright thing for me to think about that dreadful
day. But oh, please--please, Mrs. Anderson! poor Mrs. Cricket! Father
hasn't come back, you know--he is coming, of course, but he hasn't come
yet--and no one has paid Mrs. Cricket!"
"No one has paid her, dear?"
"Nobody at all. Mammy Warren said to her that father would pay her, but
I know now it must have been all a lie."
"I am very much afraid it was," said Mrs. Anderson. "That Mammy Warren
was a dreadful woman. Well, Ronald, I must try and get Mrs. Cricket's
address, and we'll send her some money; and some day perhaps--there's no
saying when--you may be able to go back to her. Would you like to see
her again?"
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