Sue, A Little Heroine

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"Yus, my mother says as I'm well grown for my hage," replied Pickles;
and then, keeping pace with the tall man, he began to whistle softly.

Harris returned to his interrupted thoughts, and soon forgot the small
boy, who had to run to keep up with his long strides. Suddenly the
little boy exclaimed in a shrill, eager treble:

"I say, mister!"

"Wot now, young 'un?"

"You ain't of a wery obleeging turn, be yer? You couldn't help me, now,
ter find a guilty party?"

"You seems a wery rum chap," said Harris rather crossly.

"I don't know nothink 'bout yer guilty parties. There, be off, can't
yer!"

"I'll be off in a twinkle, master. I ain't rum a bit; my mother allers
said as I wor a real quiet boy; but when my heart is full to bustin' it
seems a relief to talk to a body, and you, tho' yer puts on bein'
fierce, have a kind nature."

"Now, what hever do yer mean by that?"

"Master, you must furgive a wery timid and heasily repulsed boy; but it
ain't possible, even fur one so known to be frightened as me, to be
feared of yer. I reads yer kindness in yer heyes, master, and so I makes
bold to tell my tale o' woe."

"Well, tell away," said Harris, who could not help laughing and looking
a little less gruff than before.

"You wouldn't be inclined, now, that we should have hour talk hover a
pint of hot coffee? There's a heatin-house where the young man have took
down the shutters and is dusting away in a manner as his real
appetizing. I has fourpence in my pocket. You wouldn't mind my treating
yer, jest fer once, would yer?"

"Not in the least, youngster. I think it'll be a wery sensible use to
put yer money to, and a deal more prudent than spending it in marbles or
street plays."

"Master, my mother don't allow me to play at marbles, or to hindulge in
street wanities, so I has the money and can afford ter be generous. Now
let's enter. I smells the coffee a-grinding hup fur hour breakfasts
halready."

So Harris and Pickles went in to the eating-house, where in a moment or
two, over two steaming cups of excellent coffee, Pickles proceeded to
unburden himself of his story.

"It is only a few days agone, master, as the occurrence as distresses me
happened. I wor walking along a certain street wot shall be nameless. I
wor walking along bravely, as is my wont, and thinking of my mother,
when I see'd a young gel a-flying past me. She wor a wery short, stout
gel, and her legs they quite waggled as she ran. I never see'd a gel run
so wery hard afore, and I pricked hup my senses to guess wot it hall
meant. Soon wor the mystery explained. I heerd ahind of her the cry of
'Stop thief!' and a number of men and boys were a-giving of her chase. I
thought as I'd run wid 'em and see what it hall meant.

"Presently we shall come up wid the gel. There she wor in the arms of a
policeman. He wor a-clutching of her, and trying to find hout wot wor
the matter; but she wor so blown she couldn't speak fur a good bit. Then
hup comes a man wot said as he had a pawnshop, and that inter the
pawnshop had come a man and a gel ter buy a ring, and when they come
hout there wor a diamond locket missing. He said as either the gel or
the man 'ad tuk the locket; and as the man could not be found, he must
get the policeman to search the gel. The poor fat gel, she looked quite
scared, and said as she hadn't done it; but the nipper said as she must
be searched, and he put in his hand inter her pocket and drew hout the
diamond locket. She said as she had never put it there. But, in course,
it worn't ter be expected as they'd believe her, so she were tuk orf ter
prison. She wor tuk orf ter prison--I see'd her myself."

Here Pickles paused. Nothing could have been more refined and delicate
than the use he had made of his eyes during this narrative; only very
quick and fleeting glances did he bestow upon his companion.

When Harris at the commencement of his tale started and changed color,
Pickles dropped a piece of bread, and stayed under the table looking for
it until the man had quite recovered his composure. When his short story
had come to an end he paused; then he said, still without bestowing more
than the swiftest side-glance on Harris, "The poor fat gel were tuk orf
to the lock-hup. But 'tis borne bin on me, master--'tis borne him on me,
and I can't get no rest day nor night--as that yer gel were hinnercent.
I believe as she never tuk the locket, and I think that ef ye're as
kind-hearted as yer looks yer'll help me ter find that other guilty
party."

Harris rose to his feet.

"Don't be a fool, lad," he said angrily. "I have no time ter give ter
sech nonsense. I'm soory fur the gel, but ef she had the locket, of
course she tuk the locket. There! I can waste no time. I'll pay fur my
hown coffee. Good-morning."

"Good-morning, master, and thank yer. I'm glad as ye're sorry fur the
gel; she have a lame brother as must miss her, and her case 'ull go
heavy, I fear. It seems as it might be a good work ter find the guilty
party. I think as it wor the man as went with her inter the shop. I mean
ter attend the trial, and I'll mention, ef permitted, my suspicions. But
I won't keep yer longer. Sorry again as yer won't oblige me, I'll go
home now and consult my mother."

All the way back to Great Anvill Street, where Mrs. Price lived, Pickles
danced a hornpipe.

"I've nailed him at last," he said, chuckling and laughing and dancing
all in one breath. "Now to put on the torture screw until he confesses!
Oh Pickles, my boy, _wot_ a treasure you'll prove yerself in Scotland
Yard!"

CHAPTER XXVII.

DELAYED TRIAL.

It is quite true that Pickles had put on the torture screw. Harris felt
exceedingly uncomfortable as he walked home. It was a fact, then, that
Sue had been caught and put in prison. That disagreeable boy had seen it
all; he had witnessed her rapid flight; he had heard her protestations
of innocence; he had seen her carried off to prison. Sue, so good and
brave and honest, would be convicted of theft and would have to bear the
penalty of theft--of another's theft, not her own. What a foolish girl
she had been to run away! Of course, it made her guilt seem all the
plainer. There was not a loophole of escape for her. She was certain to
be found guilty; probably to-day she would be brought before the
magistrate and sentence pronounced upon her. He wondered what magistrate
would try her; how long her punishment would last. Had he dared he would
have attended her trial. But he did not dare. That red-haired boy--that
most unpleasant, impudent boy--would probably be there. There was no
saying what things he might say. He would probably appear as a witness,
and nothing would keep that giddy tongue of his quiet. What a very queer
boy he was, and how strange were his suspicions! When any one else in
all the world would have accepted Sue's guilt as beyond doubt or
question, he persisted in declaring her innocent. Nay, more than that,
he had even declared that the man who had gone with her into the shop
was the guilty person. Harris knew there was no proof against the man.
No one had seen him take the locket; no one had witnessed its transfer
into Sue's pocket. The man was safe enough. No one living could bring
his guilt home to him.

But stay a moment! A horrible fear came over him. Why did that boy speak
like that? He saw Sue running away. Perhaps he had seen more than that.
Perhaps he had come on the platform of events earlier in the narrative.
Harris felt the cold sweat starting to his forehead as it occurred to
him that that awful boy had reason for his talk--that he _knew_ to whom
he was speaking. When Harris took the locket he might have been
flattening his nose against the window-pane at the pawnbroker's; he
might have seen all that was taking place. What was to be done? He could
not confess, and yet if he didn't he was in horrible danger; his present
state was worse than any state he had been in before. Suppose Connie
ever found out his meanness, his wickedness.

Harris was very fond of Connie just then. He had suffered during her
absence. His home was pleasant to him--as pleasant as his guilty
conscience would permit during those days, for little Giles was like no
one else. Oh, could the awful moment ever come when Giles would look at
him with reproachful eyes--when Giles would turn away from him? The
miserable man felt that were such a time to arrive it would be almost as
bad as the knowledge that God Himself could not forgive him. He was
distracted, miserable; he must find a refuge from his guilty thoughts.

A public-house stood handy. He had not really taken too much for a long
time now--not since that terrible night when, owing to drink, he had
turned his child from his door. But he would forget his misery now in
drink.

"That dreadful boy!" he muttered--"that dreadful, dreadful boy, with
hair like a flame, and eyes that peered into you like gimlets!"

Harris passed through the great swing-doors. His good angel must almost
have disappeared at that moment.

Meanwhile Connie and Giles watched and waited in vain for Sue. She was
coming to-day--she was coming to-morrow. But the weary hours went by and
no Sue arrived; there was no message from her. Harris went oftener and
oftener to the public-house, and brought less and less of his wages
home, and Giles faded and faded, and Connie also looked very sad and
weary.

Once Connie said to Giles, when nearly a month had gone by:

"Yer'll 'ave to give up that notion 'bout the country, Giles, for
'tain't true."

"Yus, I believe I must give it up," said Giles.

"Ain't yer anxious now 'bout dear Sue?" asked Connie.

"Not wery," said Giles. "Ef she ain't in the country, the good Lord 'ave
her safe somewhere else--that's wot I'm a-thinkin' of. Father John said
to me we'en he come last as trials of this sort are good for me."

"You 'ave nothing but trials, poor Giles!" said Connie.

"Oh no," answered Giles; "I ha' lots o' blessings--you and Big Ben, the
beautiful Woice, you know. Connie, some'ow I think as my wings is
growin' wery fast. I think w'en they're full-grown----"

"Wot then?" asked Connie.

"Why, I'll fly away. I can't 'ardly believe as a poor little lame boy
like me could fly up higher than the stars, but that's wot 'ull 'appen.
I picter it wery often--me no longer tied down to my bed, but with
wings, flyin' about as strong as the angels. Only Father John says I'll
be higher than the angels, for I'll be one o' the ransomed o' the Lord.
I'll see Father John, too, an' you'll come after a bit, an' Sue 'ull
come. I can't fret no, I can't."

After this Connie went for the doctor, and the doctor said that the boy
was very ill--that he might linger a few weeks more, but his sufferings
were growing less, and that Connie's kind care was effecting wonders for
him.

The weeks went by. Harris grew accustomed to his sense of guilt, and Sue
to her captivity. Pickles was anxiously looking forward to a crisis.
Harris, after giving way to drink for several days, refrained again and
worked steadily. He brought in, in consequence, good wages, and Connie
and Giles wanted for nothing. It was the one salve to his conscience,
this making of Giles comfortable; otherwise, notwithstanding the
manifest amendment of his ways, he was scarcely happy. Indeed, Pickles
took care that he should not be so. In the most unlikely and unexpected
places this dreadful boy would dart upon him, and more and more certain
was Harris that he not only knew his secret, but had witnessed his
guilt. Harris would have fled miles from the boy, but the boy would not
be fled from. He acted as a perpetual blister on the man's already sore
conscience, and Harris almost hated him.

His first resolve to confide in Pickles and bribe him into silence had
long ago died away. He dared not even offer to bribe him; the perfectly
fearless and uncorrupt spirit which looked out of the eyes of the boy
would be, he knew, proof against all that he could do in the matter of
either rewards or punishments. No; all that Harris could do was to
maintain as imperturbable a spirit as possible while Pickles expatiated
upon the cruel fate of Sue. As far as he could dare question him, he
learned from Pickles that Sue had not been yet tried even before the
magistrate. He wondered greatly at this delay, and Pickles, who read his
wonder in his eyes, remarked lightly that the reason of this long
postponement was because the police were busy looking for the guilty
party.

"Whether they finds him or not," concluded Pickles, "it must come off
soon now, fur I'm told that the expense of keeping Sue is breaking that
'ere lock-hup. I 'spect as it 'ull be the finest bit o' a trial as have
been fur many a day. I means to be there. And you'll come, won't yer,
Mr. Harris?"

"I'm sick o' the subject," said Harris.

"Oh no, you ain't, Mr. Harris; you 'ave a wery quiet manner, as his only
wot his right and becoming, but I can see yer hinterest in yer heyes.
You can't keep that good-natured, human look out o' yer heyes, Mr.
Harris; nor can yer help a-starting when yer sees me a-coming. Oh no,
yer may say wot yer likes, but ye're real interested in that pore,
misfort'nit Sue, I _knows_; so you will come to her shameful trial,
won't yer?"

In despair, and fearing any other reply, Harris promised.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

CINDERELLA WOULD SHIELD THE REAL THIEF.

After one of these interviews Pickles went home and consulted Sue.

"Cinderella," he said, "am I to act as yer prince or not?"

"I dunno wot hever yer means, Pickles."

"Well, my beauty, 'tis jest this--the Prince rescued Cinderella from her
cruel sisters, and I want ter rescue you from the arms of justice. You
has a wery shameful accusation hanging over you, Cinderella; you is, in
short, hiding from the law. I can set yer free. Shall I?"

Sue's plump face had grown quite thin during the anxieties of the past
month, and now it scarcely lighted up as she answered Pickles:

"I want ter be set free, but I don't want ter be set free in your way."

"'Tis the only way, Cinderella. The man, Peter Harris, is the guilty
party. He tuk that 'ere locket; he put it in yer pocket. I don't know
how he did it, nor why he did it, but I do know that no one else did it.
I have jest come from him, and lor' bless yer! I have had him on the
torture hooks. I made-b'lieve as you were to be tried next week, and I
axed him to come to the trial. I could a'most see him shivering at the
bare thought, but fur hall that he did not dare but say he'd come. Now,
Cinderella, ef you were to allow me to manage it, and I wer to get you
and he face to face, why, he'd jest have to confess. I'd have a couple
o' witnesses handy, and we'd write it down wot he said, and you'd be set
free. I'd manage so to terrify him aforehand that he'd have ter
confess----"

"And then he'd be put in prison?" said Sue.

"Why, in course; and well he'd deserve it. He's the right party to go,
fur he's guilty. Yes, shameful guilty, too."

"He couldn't manage to run away and escape afterwards?"

Pickles laughed. "You think as I'd help him, maybe. Not a bit o' me! I
don't harbor no guilty parties, Cinderella, as I ha' told yer heaps and
heaps o' times. No, he's guilty, and he goes ter prison; there ain't
nothink hard in sending him ter prison."

"It ha' seemed ter me often lately, Pickles, as it must be harder to lie
in prison guilty than not guilty--you ha'nt, nothink ter trouble yer
mind ef yer ain't guilty."

"Well then, I s'pose, in that case, as yer'll give yerself hup."

"I'd a deal rayther be in hiding with yer, Pickles; but I don't feel as
ef I _could_ put Mr. Harris in prison."

"Then you must go yerself, fur this thing can't go on fur ever."

Sue looked frightened, and her commonplace gray eyes fell to the ground.
She took up the poker and began to trace a pattern on the floor: it was
as intricate as her own fate just now. She was a little heroine,
however, and her noble thoughts redeemed all plainness from her face
when at last she spoke:

"Once, Pickles, arter mother died we was brought down wery low. I had a
dreadful influenzy, and I couldn't nohow go to the machining, and we
were near starving. Mr. Harris lent me a shilling that time, and we
pulled through. Another time I couldn't meet the rent, and Connie, she
begged of her father, and he give me the money; and when I offerd it him
back again he wouldn't take it. He wor a rough man, but he had a kind
heart. When I were last at home he wor in a real dreadful trouble about
Connie--and I loved Connie better nor any one in hall the world, arter
Giles. Pickles, it 'ud break Connie's heart fur her father to be tuk to
prison. I don't know why he did that--ef he really did do it--but I
can't furget those two times as he wor good ter me, and hever since I
have come yere he have done heverything fur Giles. No, I couldn't send
Mr. Harris to prison. I couldn't rest heasy ef I thought o' him sent
there by me. I'd rayther lie there myself."

"Wery well, Cinderella; in course you've got ter choose, fur one or
other of yer must go to prison, as it is against hall common-sense as
you could stay hiding here fur ever. I hadmires yer rare consideration
fur that hardened man, Peter Harris. I can't understand it--no, not the
least bit in the world--but I hadmires it as I hadmires the top o' the
big mountain wot I could never climb, but jest contemplate solemnly from
below. I can understand better yer repugnance not to break the heart o'
that purty Connie. Most plain women is hard on their more lucky sisters,
and I hadmires you, Cinderella, fur rising superior to the wices of yer
sex; but wot I can't hunderstand--wot puzzles me--is yer sad failure in
sisterly love. There's that little brother; why, heven now he's pining
hal to nothing to see yer. Don't yer think as it 'ull break _his_ heart
ef yer is tuk ter prison? Why, ef yer could have seen him when he heerd
me even hint at sech a thing! He said as he wished as he could knock me
down."

The tears rapidly filled Sue's eyes. "Pickles," she said after a moment
of thought, "'tis a wonderful, wonderful puzzlement ter me. I can't
least of all break the heart of Giles. Giles wor left ter me by mother,
and I promised as I'd allers tend him real faithful; but wot I 'as bin
thinking is that ef yer must give me hup, and not hide me any longer,
and I must be locked hup fur a time, that perhaps we might manage as
Giles might still think as I wor in the country. Connie would be wery
good ter him, and Mr. Harris would support him jest as well as I could
have done. Giles, he's that innercent that he'd easily be made ter
believe as I could not help going away. He knows nothink o' life, little
Giles don't; he'd never, never guess as there were ought o' the prison
'bout me, and arter a time he'd get accustomed to doing widout me. I
think, Pickles, we might manage so as not to break Giles's heart, and
yet fur me to go ter prison."

"Then you really, really chooses to go ter prison, Cinderella?"

"I choose, Pickles, never to tell on Peter Harris--never, wot hever
happens. I don't want ter go to prison--not one bit--but ef I can't stay
hiding, why, I s'pose as I must."

"You can't stay hiding more than a day or two longer, Cinderella, and I
thinks as ye're a great fool;" and Pickles walked out of the room in
apparently high dudgeon.

CHAPTER XXIX.

A LITTLE HEROINE.

Two days afterwards it was Sunday. Pickles and his mother went to
church, but Sue did not accompany them. She had hitherto,
notwithstanding her disguise, been afraid to stir abroad. To-day,
however, when mother and son had departed, she ran eagerly up to the
tiny attic where she slept. In this attic was an old box without a lock.
Sue opened it in some perturbation. There were several articles of
wearing apparel in this box, all of a mothy and mouldy character. One by
one Cinderella pulled them out. First there was a purple silk dress. She
gazed at it with admiration. Yes; no one would ever recognize Sue in
silk. It would be delightful to put it on. She did so. The skirt was
much too long, but with the aid of a whole boxful of pins, she managed
to bundle it up round her waist. Then came a soft, many-colored Paisley
shawl. Would any one in all the world think of the little machinist if
she sallied forth in purple silk and Paisley shawl? Sue did not believe
it possible. She put on the shawl, and tied on her head an old-fashioned
bonnet, trimmed with many-colored ribbons. There was further, in the
wonderful box, an old remnant of gauze. This would act as a veil. Now,
indeed, she was completely disguised. She thought herself very grand,
and wondered had the Prince ever bought finer clothes for the real
Cinderella. She shut the box again, tripped downstairs, and out into the
street. She had not been out for a whole month now, and the fresh,
frosty air, even coming to her through the musty gauze, was very
refreshing. She walked quickly. She had an object in view. Very
purposeful was her careworn little face as she stepped briskly along.
She had a problem to solve. It was too weighty for her young shoulders;
she must get the advice of another. She meant to consult Father
John--not by words; no, not even with him would she dare confide her
secret. But he preached now both Sunday morning and Sunday evening. She
would stand with the crowd and listen to his sermon. Perhaps once again
there would be a message for her in it. She had not forgotten that last
sermon of his; and that last message sent to her from God by his lips
had been with her all through her month of captivity.

It had been a sad and anxious month for Sue, and now its crisis had
come, for the kind people who had protected her could do so no longer;
she could no longer eat their bread, nor accept the shelter of their
home. No; Sue quite agreed with Pickles that it would be impossible for
her to stay in hiding always. Better go forth at once and meet the worst
and have it over. She would be put in prison. Yes--that is, either she
or Peter Harris would be put in prison. Pickles had quite brought her
round to the belief that Harris was really the guilty party. He had done
a very, very dreadful thing. Sue could not understand why he had acted
so badly, so cruelly by her. Surely he was the right person to go to
prison; she could not bear his crime for him. But then, again, it would
be very like Jesus Christ if she did. It was wonderful how the thought
of the Great Example was before the mind of this simple, ignorant child
as she walked hastily on to meet the one who she believed would decide
her fate. To-morow, most likely, Pickles would come to her and ask for
her final decision. She must make up her mind to-day. She had a long way
to walk, and when she reached the street where Father John held his
weekly services the place was already crowded. The preacher had mounted
on his chair and had commenced his discourse. Sue heard one or two
people say, "Look at little Mother Hubbard." But others, again, admired
her costume, and out of respect for the rich silk dress, made way for
her to approach nearer to the preacher.

"Now, Lord Jesus, please do give me the right word," whispered Sue. Then
through her musty veil her eyes were fixed anxiously on Atkins. Was it
more than a coincidence? This was the sentence which fell upon the
expectant ear:

"My dear, dear brothers and sisters, 'tis a wonderfully happy thing to
be good. It gives a man rare courage. You, most of you, knew poor Bob
Daily. Well, he died this morning. He was not a scrap afraid. I was with
him, and he went away rejoicing. He knew he was going straight away to
Jesus--straight away to the arms of Jesus. He told me a queer thing
which had happened to him when he was a young man. He was falsely
accused of a crime which he had not done. He was put in prison. He had
to stay locked up for what he was innocent of for two years. He said he
guessed who had really done the crime, but he did not like to tell on
this man, who was much worse off than himself. He bore the punishment
for the guilty man, and he had his reward. All the time he was in prison
Jesus remained so close to him that He made his heart sing. He says that
he could look back on that part of his life as the very happiest time
that he had ever spent."

"I'm a bit faint-like," said Sue to her nearest neighbor. "Let me out,
please." The people made way for her, and for a moment or so she leant
against the nearest lamp-post. She did not hear another word of the
sermon. She did not need to. When she felt better she walked back to
Great Anvill Street.

* * * * *

That night, just before Pickles went to bed, Sue sought him.

"Pickles, I ha' made up my mind--I ha' made it up quite," she said.

"Well?" asked Pickles.

"You gave me three days, Pickles, and the time 'ull be up to-morrow.
Well, I'll go to prison 'stead o' Peter Harris. I ha' that in my mind
which 'ull make it come uncommon light ter me. I'll go to prison 'stead
o' he."

CHAPTER XXX.

WHAT WAS HARRIS TO HER?

Pickles went up to the very small room where he slept, threw himself on
his bed, and fell a-wondering. For the first time in his life he was
completely at sea. What _did_ Cinderella mean? For a whole month now she
had been his special charge. He had rescued her; he had kept her in the
safe shelter of his mother's house; he had been, he considered, very
kind indeed to Cinderella. What a fate she would have had but for him!
Sent to prison for a crime of which she was absolutely innocent, her
whole future disgraced, blighted, ruined! All the time while he had been
hunting up Harris, and bringing his ingenious little mind to bear down
the full weight of his crime upon the guilty man, he had thought that no
amount of gratitude on Cinderella's part--nay, even a whole lifetime of
devotion--could scarcely repay all she owed him.

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