Sue, A Little Heroine

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"Very, very much," said the child, "if Mammy Warren doesn't come to
fetch me."

"Very well: I will endeavor to get her address. Perhaps Connie could
tell me."

"Oh! perhaps she could," said Ronald; "for _I_ couldn't. I haven't a
notion where she lived, except that it was far in the country, and the
cottage was _teeny_--just two rooms, you know--and there was a pretty
wood outside, and the horse-chestnuts lying on the ground."

"But now, Ronald, I want you to go farther back. Tell me of things that
happened when--when your mother was alive."

"I--I'll try," said the boy.

"Go on, dear--tell me all you can."

"It's very difficult," said Ronald. "I remember little bits, and then I
forget little bits."

"I don't want you to worry yourself, dear; but can you recall anybody
ever calling to see your mother--anybody who might be a relation of
yours?"

"There was the old gentleman, of course," said Ronald.

"Who, dear?"

"He was very old, and he wore glasses, and his hair was white. He most
times made mother cry, so I--I used to be sorry when he came."

"Can you recall his name?"

"Mother used to call him Uncle Stephen; but he was not her relation--he
was father's. I think he always scolded mother; she used to look
dreadfully bad after he was gone. I don't want to see _him_ again."

"But he may have had a kind heart."

"Oh, I don't know," said Ronald. "I don't want to see him again."

"Do you think, by chance, that his name was Harvey?"

"I don't know. I think he in a sort of way belonged to father."

"Then," said Mrs. Anderson, "I guess that his name was Harvey. Now, I
won't question you any more, Ronald. You may sit up and play with your
bricks."

Ronald played happily enough, and Mrs. Anderson, after thinking for a
few minutes, wrote out an advertisement. The advertisement ran as
follows:

"If a gentleman who was called Uncle Stephen by a little boy, son of the
late Major Harvey, who was supposed to have been killed in action at
Ladysmith on ----, would wish to know anything of the same boy, he can
get full particulars from Mrs. Anderson, 12 Carlyle Terrace,
Westminster."

This advertisement was put into the _Times_, the _Standard_, the
_Telegraph_, and in fact, into all the daily newspapers. It appeared
once, and Mrs. Anderson sat--as she expressed it--with her heart in her
mouth for a whole day. But nothing happened: nobody came to inquire;
there was no letter on the subject of the little son of brave Major
Harvey. On the second day of the advertisement Mrs. Anderson felt a
great relief in her heart.

"After I have advertised for a whole week," she said to herself, "I
shall, I think, have done my duty, and perhaps I shall be allowed to
keep the dear child."

She had looked, and felt, very sad on the first day of the
advertisement, but on the second day she was more cheerful, and
suggested to Ronald that Connie should come and have tea with him.

Ronald was delighted, and clapped his hands in glee. Mrs. Anderson wrote
a little note to Connie, slightly blaming her for not coming to see her,
but begging her to call that afternoon and have tea with Ronald. Connie
was greatly delighted when she got the letter.

"May I go, Giles? Do yer mind?" she asked.

"In course not," answered Giles. "Why should I mind? Yer'll dress
yerself in yer wery best, Connie, and I'll like well to look at yer
afore yer goes out, an' w'en yer comes back."

So Connie put on her dark-blue costume once more, and brushed out her
mane of golden hair and let it hang down her back; for she knew that
Ronald would scarcely recognize her deprived of this ornament. Then,
having left his tea all ready for Giles, she ran quickly in the
direction of Mrs. Anderson's house.

She arrived there at four o'clock in the afternoon, to see a little face
pressed up close to the pane of glass, and eager eyes watching for her.
When she appeared on the steps little hands began to clap, and there was
an eager rush of footsteps and then Ronald himself opened the door.

"Oh Connie, Connie!" he said, "come in--do, do come in!"

"How be yer, Ronald?" asked Connie.

"I'm as well as well can be, and I'm happy, too. Mrs. Anderson is just a
beautiful old lady, and so very good to me! But come and tell me all
about yourself. You and I are to have tea all alone in this room. We
will have fun. Why, Connie dear, how lovely you look!"

Connie told Ronald that he also looked lovely, and the two children sat
down side by side, while Ronald related the little bit of his story
which had transpired since Connie saw him last.

"I was very ill," he said, "for a bit, and silly, and--and cowardly. But
a wonderful man came to see me, and he talked--oh, so beautifully!--and
then I got better; and Mrs. Anderson has been more than good to me--no
one was ever so good to me before except father. She tells me, Connie,
that I must not keep looking out for father; for if he can come he will,
and if he can't I've just got to wait with patience. The street
preacher, too, talked about patience. It's a little bit hard to be very
patient, isn't it, Connie?"

"Yus," said Connie.

"Oh! and, Connie, some day perhaps you and I may go and stay with Mrs.
Cricket in the country, and Mrs. Anderson is going to send her money for
the chickens and fresh eggs and things. But I can't remember where the
country is--can you, Connie?"

"We got out at a plice called Eastborough, an' the cottage wor a ivy
cottage down a lane."

"Ivy Cottage--of course!" said Ronald. "How stupid of me to have
forgotten! Now it's all right, and dear Mrs. Cricket will get her
money."

When Ronald had told all his story Connie told all hers. In especial she
told about Giles, and about poor Sue, who had vanished just as suddenly
and completely as she (Connie) and Ronald himself on a certain day had
disappeared from their friends.

"It's very, very queer," said Ronald. "Connie," he added, "I want to see
that little boy. Can't you take me back to him now--can't you?"

"Yus," said Connie, "I could; but would it be right?"

"We'll ask Mrs. Anderson," said Ronald, "I'm certain sure she won't
mind. You know the way there; you won't let yourself be kidnapped any
more, will you, Connie?"

"No," said Connie.

Then tea was brought in, and the children enjoyed it. But Ronald could
think of nothing but Giles and his earnest desire to see him. Once again
he begged and implored of Connie to take him, just to sit for a few
minutes by the little cripple's side, and Connie again said that Mrs.
Anderson ought to know.

It was just at that moment that a cab drew up at the door, and out of
the cab there stepped a white-headed old man, who came ponderously up
the steps, leaning on a gold-headed stick. He rang the bell with a loud
peal. Ronald began to listen.

"Who can it be?" he said. He ran to the window, and looking out, saw the
cab waiting; but he missed the sight of the old gentleman, whom
doubtless he would have recognized; and the neat little parlor-maid went
to open the door, and then the labored steps were heard in the hall, and
the drawing-room door was opened and shut, and there was silence.

"A visitor for my dear new aunty," said Ronald. "I always call her my
aunty, and she likes it very much. Oh Connie, do take me just to see
Giles! I know it isn't wrong, and I should be quite safe with you."

"First of all," said Connie, "we'll ring the bell and ask if we may
speak to Mrs. Anderson for a minute."

"Very well," said Ronald; "only I 'spect she's busy with the person who
has called."

Anne came to answer the children's summons, and told them that her
mistress was particularly engaged and could not be disturbed.

"That's all right," answered Ronald; "you can go away now, please. You
needn't take the tea-things just for a bit. You can go away, please,
Anne."

Anne, who was devoted to Ronald, thought that the children wanted to
play together, and left them alone in the little parlor. The light was
growing dim, and Connie poked the fire into a blaze.

"I ought to be goin' back," she said. "Giles 'ull want me. I'll come
another day, Ronald, and Mrs. Anderson'll let me bring yer back to Giles
then."

"No, no--to-day," said Ronald--"to-day--to-night--this minute. It isn't
wrong. I must see him. You'll take me to see him, and then you'll bring
me back, won't you, Connie?"

"W'y, yus," said Connie. "I s'pose it ain't wrong; but you can't do more
nor set down in the room for about five minutes, Ronald, for yer'll 'ave
to get back 'ere quite early, you know."

Ronald, delighted at any sort of consent on the part of his little
friend, rushed upstairs to fetch his velvet cap and his little overcoat.
But he forgot, and so did Connie, all about the thin house-shoes he was
wearing. Soon he had slipped into the coat, and cramming the cap on his
head and looking up at Connie with a gay laugh, said:

"Now we'll come."

They were in the hall, and had just opened the hall door, when suddenly
that of the drawing-room was opened, and the old man, who helped himself
along with a stick, came out. Ronald looked back and caught sight of
him; but Ronald himself being in shadow, the old man did not notice him.
The old man then spoke in a loud voice:

"It is all settled, then, and I will call to-morrow morning at ten
o'clock to fetch back the boy. Have him ready. And now, good-day to you,
madam."

But the old gentleman suddenly stopped as he uttered these words, for
the hall door was slammed by some one else with violence, and Ronald
turned a white face up to Connie.

"It's himself--it's Uncle Stephen. He made mother cry and cry. I won't
go back to him. I won't be his boy. Hide me--hide me, Connie!"

Connie herself felt very much frightened.

"Come along 'ome with me," she said. "He can't get yer at my 'ome. Don't
shrink like that, Ronald. Be a man, dear Ronald."

The children got back to Connie's rooms without any special adventure.
There Giles was waiting with that peaceful look on his face which seemed
more or less to quiet every one who came in his way. He smiled all over
his little face when he saw Connie, and then his eyes grew big and
surprised as he noticed the small boy who kept her company.

"Why are yer back so soon, Connie?" he said. "I warn't not one little
bit lonesome. And 'oo's he?" said Giles.

"This is my dear little friend Ronald," said Connie.

"And I wanted to see you awful bad," said Ronald, running up to Giles,
flinging his cap on the floor, and kneeling down by him. "I have thought
of you--oh, so much! It was you, you know, who taught me to endure to
the end. Did Connie tell you about that?"

"Yes," said Giles, "she told me."

Ronald looked up at Connie. Giles watched the two, and then he held out
his little hand and touched Ronald's.

"You're wery brave," he said. "You had a brave father."

"He is a V. C. man. He's coming to see me one day," said Ronald.

"I know," said Giles. "It's real supporting to 'ave a brave father. I
have one too."

"Have you?" said Ronald. "And is he coming to see you one day?"

"No--I'm goin' to 'im. Don't let's talk about it now."

Ronald sat down on the side of Giles's crimson and gold bed, and glanced
round the room. Connie lit a paraffin lamp and put it on the table. In
his first excitement at seeing Giles, Ronald forgot the mad terror which
had awakened in him at the sound of Uncle Stephen's voice. But now he
remembered.

"I have come to stay," he remarked emphatically.

"Oh no, Ronald, you can't," exclaimed Connie.

"I am not going back," exclaimed Ronald. "Giles, I needn't, need I?
There's a dreadful man coming to-morrow, and he's going to take me away
from my darling aunty. I won't go. I'll hide here with you, Giles."

"Will yer?" said Giles. "That 'ull be real pain to yer aunty, won't it?"

"Real pain?" said Ronald. "But Connie can tell her. Connie needn't say
where I am. She can just tell that I heard Uncle Stephen's voice, and
that I am hiding. I can't go back, can I, Giles--can I?"

"Dunno," said Giles; but a wistful expression came into his face.

"Why do you look like that?" asked Ronald.

"Sometimes one 'as to do things one can't do," was Giles's next rather
difficult remark.

"But this is really silly," said Ronald, "for we can do the things we
can do."

"Course not--not by ourselves," said Giles. "But if we're to endure to
the end, why, 'E'll help."

"You remind me of that awful fire," said Ronald.

He jumped up and walked across the room. His eyes were dim; his heart
was beating with great rapidity, for he was still weak and had gone
through much. Oh, that cruel, cruel old man who had made his mother cry
so often! He thought upon him with a growing terror.

Connie looked at Ronald, and then she glanced at Giles and her eyes said
to Giles:

"Help me all you can about Ronald." Then Giles called her to him.

"Leave Ronald with me for a bit," he said. "Go back and tell Mrs.
Anderson; but leave little Ronald with me."

Connie immediately went out; but Ronald was so absorbed in trying to
quiet his beating heart, and in trying to recover his courage, that he
did not even know when she closed the door after her.

Connie ran as quickly as she could all the way to Carlyle Terrace. There
she rang a loud peal at the front door. It was Mrs. Anderson herself who
opened it to her.

"Oh Connie!" said the widow, "thank God! Have you brought news of
Ronald? What _has_ happened, Connie--what _has_ happened?"

Connie immediately entered the house.

"May I speak to yer, ma'am?" she said.

"Certainly; but where is the boy?"

"He's quite safe, ma'am--he's with Giles."

"Why did he go out? He did very wrong."

"I did wrong too," said Connie. "I tuk him. He's frightened, ma'am.
Ronnie's rare and frightened. He heered wot the old gentleman said."

"How could he hear?" said Mrs. Anderson.

Connie told.

"'Tain't true, ma'am, is it?" said Connie. "Yer wouldn't niver, niver,
let little Ronald go away?"

"Yes, but I must. I am very sad. I wish I needn't send him; but the
gentleman who called to-day is his father's uncle, and his nearest
relation in the world. Connie, you must bring Ronald home. I will go
with you myself to fetch him."

"Oh, ma'am," said Connie, beginning to sob, "it 'ull break his 'eart."

"No, Connie," answered Mrs. Anderson. "Hearts like Ronald's--brave and
true and faithful--don't break; they endure. Besides that, the old
gentleman--Mr. Harvey--will not be unkind to him; I am certain of that."

So Connie and Mrs. Anderson returned side by side to the house where
Giles and Ronald were waiting for them.

When they entered they saw a picture which Mrs. Anderson could never
forget: the dying boy, with his radiant face, lying on the bed
half-supported by pillows, the crimson and gold coverlet making a
wonderful patch of color; and Ronald, the tears still wet on his cheeks,
but his eyes very bright, his lips firm, his whole attitude that of a
soldier's child.

The moment he saw Mrs. Anderson he went up to her.

"I am ashamed," he said. "Giles has told me the son of a V. C. man
should not be a coward. It is all right--I am going back."

Mrs. Anderson pressed the boy's hand.

"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me, Ronald," she said. Then she turned
and talked a little longer to Giles. She saw how weak the child was, and
knew, with a woman's perception, what a very little time longer he had
to live in this old world.

"My sister's in the country, ma'am," said Giles in his brightest manner.
"She's looking for a little house for her an' me--two winders in our
room--that's wot Sue an' me thought we 'ud like--and iverythink wery
purty. Sue may be back any day. She's takin' a good bit of a time
a-lookin' for the 'ouse; but she'll find it, an' then I'll go there."

"But are you strong enough to be moved, Giles?" inquired Mrs. Anderson.

"Yus," said Giles in his confident tone, "quite strong enough. I want to
see the country, and to live in it for a spell, afore I go right 'ome to
the best Country of all. Sue's lookin' out; she'll be back--oh, any day,
for she knows the time's short."

"Giles," said Connie, "you're too tired to talk any more."

She gave the boy some of his restorative medicine, and Ronald went up
and kissed him. "Don't forget," said Giles, "brave fathers----"

"Not me!" answered Ronald. "Brave fathers for ever!" Then Ronald went
away.

Mrs. Anderson took his hand and led him back to the house. She did not
scold him for going out with Connie. She did not mean to reproach him at
all; he had made a great victory; she felt proud of him. When supper had
come to an end she called the boy to her:

"Ronald dear, I wish to say something. If you were a coward to-day, so
was I."

"You--my aunt?" said Ronald. "Oh no--no!"

"Yes. I didn't want to part with you."

Ronald shivered.

"Won't you ever see me any more?"

"I hope so. Mr. Harvey was very kind."

"Is his name Harvey--same as mine?"

"Yes, darling; he is your father's uncle, and your father lived with him
in his old place in Somersetshire when he was a boy. He loved your
father. He'll tell you lots of stories about him."

"About when does he expect father home?" asked Ronald.

"He doesn't know. Perhaps, Ronald--perhaps--never."

But here Ronald gave himself a little shake.

"I know father's coming back," he said--"feel it in my bones."

There was silence then between the woman and the boy. After a long time
Ronald spoke:

"He made mother cry, all the same."

"He told me about that. He wasn't really unkind to her. I, on the whole,
like him, Ronald, and I think you can do a lot for him--I think your
father would wish it."

"Would he?" said Ronald, his eyes sparkling.

"I think so. I expect God wants you to help him. He's a hard old man
because he has no one to love him, but he did care for your father."

Ronald flung his arms round Mrs. Anderson's neck and kissed her.

That night it must be owned that he slept badly; and early--very
early--in the morning he awoke.

"Times is pretty bad," thought the boy to himself; "and there's lots o'
battles round. But oh, Giles! brave fathers for ever! You and me won't
disgrace our fathers, will we, Giles?"

Then he got up and dressed himself, and went downstairs and waited until
Mrs. Anderson arrived. As soon as she entered the room he said one word
to her--"When?"

"Ten o'clock," said Mrs. Anderson. It was eight o'clock then.

"Two hours more," said Ronald.

During those two hours he was very busy. He packed his bricks, and
helped Mrs. Anderson to put his very scanty wardrobe into a very tiny
trunk. The time went by. Ten o'clock struck, and, sharp to the minute, a
cab drew up at the door.

Out of the cab the old gentleman stepped. He entered the hall. He was a
very fussy old man, and did not want a young child to live in the house
with him. He expected, too, that Mrs. Harvey's boy--he had undoubtedly a
great contempt for poor young Harvey--would be a miserable, dwindled,
wretched sort of creature. But, lo and behold! a little chap with head
well thrown back, his eyes bright and lips brave, stepped up to him.

"Here I am, Uncle Stephen. I am Ronald. How do you do?"

"Bless my soul!" said the old man. "Let me look at you."

He drew the boy round so as to get the light on his face.

"'Pon my word!" he said, "you are not the sort of little chap I
expected. You're uncommon like your father."

Ronald flushed with pride. Mr. Harvey came into the parlor and had a
little talk with Mrs. Anderson.

"I am indeed indebted to you, madam," he said. "This boy is so
surprisingly like my nephew that I could almost fancy the years had gone
back and I was teaching the little chap to take his first gallop.--Your
father was game on a horse, my lad."

"Yes, sir," said Ronald, nodding his head. "'Spect so, sir," he added.
The old gentleman chucked him under the chin and uttered a laugh.

"Well, boy, we must be going," he said. "We mustn't keep your kind
friend. You will let me know, madam, for what I am indebted to you."

"For nothing, sir," said Mrs. Anderson. A crimson color rushed into her
face. "It has been a labor of love to help this dear little fellow. I
could take no money; you mustn't even mention it, sir."

"Well, madam--well--I respect your proper pride, and anything I can
do---- By the way--eh, Ronald?--there's no saying, but I might invite
your friend down to the country.--Do you know Somersetshire, madam?"

"I used to know it very well when I was a girl. My people lived in
Somersetshire."

"Then perhaps you will come and pay us a visit, and see Ronald after he
has learned the full use of the saddle and bridle--eh, Ronald?"

"Oh--aunty! Will you come?" said Ronald.

"I will, darling.--I should like it very much indeed, Mr. Harvey; it is
most kind of you to ask me."

"But please--please," said Ronald, who had suddenly lost all his fear,
"may Connie come, too?"

"Who's Connie?"

"My special friend and sister."

"Ho, ho!" said the old man. "I must hear more about her. Can make no
rash promises. But all right, little chap; I'll do what I can for you.
Now, if you had taken after---- Well, never mind--I won't say anything to
hurt you."

"And, please," said Ronald suddenly, "of course you wouldn't pay my
aunty, for the things she did can't be paid for. But poor Mrs.
Cricket--aunty, I know her address. The place in the country is called
Eastborough; and it's Ivy Cottage, aunty; and--she was good to me----"

"Yes," said Mrs. Anderson, "you'll let me explain, please, Mr. Harvey.
This dear little boy spent a month at Mrs. Cricket's, and she was never
paid a penny."

"She ought to be paid," said Ronald. "Course, when father returns he'll
pay you back again. But she ought to get it, for there was real new-laid
eggs, and the chickens were so tender."

"'Pon my word," said the old gentleman, "you're a queer boy! I guess
you've got the true Harvey blood in you. Never neglect a friend--eh? And
never owe a penny. Well now, madam, will you see to this? And what
amount of money ought I to give you for the woman?"

Mrs. Anderson named what she thought would be a correct sum, and
immediately afterwards the old gentleman produced the money from his
waistcoat pocket.

It was a hard moment for Ronald when he said good-bye, but after he got
into the cab he could not help feeling both surprised and elated. He
could not help staring and staring at the old gentleman.

"Was it your photograph," he said at last, "that my father kept in his
dressing-room?"

"I expect so," said the old gentleman.

"It's surprising," said Ronald, "how I forget. But now I remember. He
loved you--he used to talk to me about you. He said it was you taught
him first to be brave."

"Bless him--bless him!" said the old gentleman.

His voice got a little raspy; it is certain that his eyes were a little
dim.

"Perhaps," said Ronald--he had a marvelous way of comprehending the
situation--"but for you he would not have been a V. C. man."

"God bless you! It was in himself--he had the noblest heart, the
grandest nature! There, boy! don't upset me. 'Pon my word! I hated the
thought of having you---- And I hated going to you," said Ronald;
"but----"

The old face looked into the young face, and the young face looked into
the old face, and then they both laughed.

Before they reached the old gentleman's hotel Ronald had so far advanced
to a friendly footing that he had peered into the contents of the old
man's pocket, had pulled out his watch, had applied it to his ear, and
had even gone the amazing length of demanding one for himself.

CHAPTER XXVI.

TWO CUPS OF COFFEE.

When Harris parted from Giles and Connie--on the very same day that
Connie had gone to tea with Ronald, on the very same day that Ronald had
visited Giles--he was as troubled and miserable as man could be. There
was but one brave thing for him to do--he ought to confess his sin.

Where Sue could be he had not the faintest idea. Why was she absent? It
was days now since she had left her home--Sue, of all people--Sue, with
a little delicate brother like Giles. It was unlike her to go. There
could be but one reason. Harris had taken means to ascertain whether
poor Sue had been up before the magistrates. He knew enough about the
law, and about crime generally, to know that she would be taken up for
theft to Bow Street; but beyond doubt she had never gone there. Where in
all the world could she be? Harris was by no means sufficiently sorry to
give himself up for conscience's sake; but he was in a state of
nervousness and great distress of mind.

As he walked down a side-street, his hands in his pockets, his rough fur
cap--which he generally wore slouched--well off his eyes, he was
suddenly accosted by a red-haired boy, who looked at him with a very
innocent face and inquired meekly "ef he were lookin' for a job."

"None o' yer sauce, youngster," said Harris, passing on.

"I don't mean the least sauce in life, master," said the red-haired boy,
still in the most humble and gentle tone. "I only thought ef we were
goin' in the same direction we might p'rhaps cheer each other up."

"You're a likely youngster, you ere," he said, looking down at him with
the grimmest of smiles.

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