Sue, A Little Heroine

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But now he kicked his legs impatiently and said to himself that it was
enough to provoke the best-natured boy in the universe. After all his
trouble, all his hard thoughts and anxious reflections, here was this
tiresome Cinderella refusing to be set free. He had, as he expressed it,
nailed his man; he had put the noose round him, and all he had to do was
to tighten it, and Sue would be free and Harris sent to prison. But
without Sue's aid he could not do this, and Sue most emphatically
to-night had refused his aid. She would go to prison herself, but she
would not betray Harris. What did the girl mean? What was this cowardly
Harris to her that she should risk so much and suffer so sorely for his
sake? How she had dreaded prison! How very, very grateful she had been
to him for saving her! But now she was willing to go there, willing to
bear the unmerited punishment, the lifelong disgrace. Why? Pickles,
think hard as he would, could get no answer to solve this difficulty.
True, she had said she had something in her mind which would lighten the
prison fare and the prison life. What was it? Pickles could stand it no
longer; he must go and consult his mother. He ran downstairs. Mrs. Price
had not yet gone to bed. Pickles sat down beside her by the fire, and
laid his curly red head in her lap.

"Mother," he said, "this 'ere detective's foiled at last."

"What's up now, Jamie, boy?" asked the mother.

Pickles told her. He described how he had all but brought the crime home
to Harris; how he had proved to Sue that Harris was the guilty party;
but that now Sue, after all his tremendous trouble, had refused to
identify him. She would go to prison, she said; she would not tell on
Harris. "I don't understand it one bit, mother," he said in conclusion.

"But I do, Jamie, my boy," answered Mrs. Price, tears filling her kind
eyes. "I understand it very well. It means just this--that Sue, dear
child, is very noble."

Pickles opened his eyes very wide.

"Then, mother," he began, "Cinderella is----" and then he stopped.

"Your Cinderella, whom you rescued, is a real little heroine, Jamie; but
she must not go to prison. We must do something for her. She has been
with me for a whole month now, and I never came across a more upright
little soul. You surely have not been frightening her with the base idea
that we would give her up, my boy?"

Pickles colored and hung his head.

"I own, mother," he said, "that I did put a little bit of the torture
screw to bear on Sue. I didn't mean really as she should go to prison;
but I thought as a small dose of fright might make her tell on that
Harris. I do think that Peter Harris is about the meanest character I
ever come across, and I'd like _him_ to go to prison wery well indeed,
mother dear."

"If he's guilty, believe me he's not a very happy man, my lad. My own
feeling is that 'tis best to leave all punishment to the God against
whom we sin. But about Sue? She must not sleep with the notion that
she's to go to prison. I have a great mind to go to her now."

"Oh! but, mother, mayn't I tell her my own self? 'Twas I as rescued her.
She's my own Cinderella, after all, mother dear; and I'd real enjoy
telling her. She's asleep hours ago now, mother."

"Well, lad, see and have it out with the child before you go to work in
the morning, and then I'll have a talk with her afterwards."

CHAPTER XXXI.

A STERN RESOLVE.

But Sue was not asleep. She had quite made up her mind now as to her
line of action. There was no longer even a particle of lingering doubt
in her brave little soul; she was innocent, but as the sin which was
committed must be punished, she would bear the punishment; she would go
to prison instead of Harris. Prison would not be so bad if she went
there innocent.

Yes, Sue would certainly go to Prison. The next day she would consult
Mrs. Price, and take the proper steps to deliver herself up to the
police. She would go to the pawnbroker's shop and say to him, "I am the
little girl in whose pocket you found that lovely diamond locket. I am
very sorry I hid from you so long, but now I have come back, and you can
send for the police. I will promise not to run away again when they are
taking me to prison."

This was Sue's resolve, but first she intended to do something else. It
was because of this something else that she lay awake now; it was
because of this almost passionate longing and desire that she lay with
her eyes wide open. She was going to put on her disguise once more; just
once again, before she was put in prison, she would wander free and
unrestrained into the streets. But she must do this very, very early in
the morning, and she feared that if she closed her eyes she would sleep
over the right time.

It was now March, and the days were lengthening. She rose before the
dawn, put on again some portion of the remarkable costume she had worn
the day before, and went out. Yes, she was going to prison. She was most
likely going to prison that very day. But before she was locked up she
would visit Harris's house. She would steal into his rooms to take one
look--one long last look for how many weary months--at Giles. She knew
the ways of this tenement house well. She had nothing to do but walk up
the stairs and lift the latch of Harris's room and go in. Some of the
neighbors locked their room doors at night. But Susan remembered with
satisfaction that Harris never did so. It was quite dark when she set
off, for she knew she had a very long walk from Great Anvill Street to
Westminster.

CHAPTER XXXII.

AN UNEXPECTED ACCIDENT.

By dint asking her way more than once, of some of the very policemen
whom she dreaded, Sue found herself at last in the old, well-remembered
neighborhood. She passed the door of the house where her mother had died
and where she had been so happy with Giles, and went on quickly to the
other house where Connie and Harris lived. The house door stood open, as
was its wont. Sue mounted the stairs; with trembling hands she lifted
the latch of Harris's room. Yes, as she had trusted, it was only on the
latch. She stooped down, unfastened her shoes, and took them off; then
she stole into the room. There were two bedrooms, besides a
sitting-room, in Harris's portion of the house. In one of the bedrooms
slept Harris, in the other his daughter, and in the little sitting-room
lay the lame boy. Thus Sue found herself at once in the presence of her
little brother. Her heart beat high. How easily she had accomplished her
purpose! How good God was to her! Stealing over on tiptoes, she knelt
down by Giles. There was scarcely any light as yet; but a little
streamed in from the badly curtained window. This little had sought out
Giles, and lingered lovingly round his delicate face and graceful head;
he looked ethereal with this first soft light kissing him. Sue bent down
very close indeed. She dared not breathe on his face. She scarcely dared
draw her own breath in her fear of waking him; but she took his gentle
image more firmly than ever into her heart of hearts: it was to cheer
her and comfort her during long, long months of prison life.

As she bent over him in an ecstasy of love and longing, Giles stirred.
Instantly Sue hid herself behind a curtain: here she could see without
being seen.

The lame boy stirred again and opened his eyes. He looked peaceful;
perhaps he had had a happy dream.

"I think Sue 'ull soon now have found that cottage in the country," he
said aloud. Then he turned over and, still smiling, went to sleep again.

Sue's eyes filled with tears. But the light was getting stronger; any
moment Harris might rise. Though she would go to prison for Harris, yet
she felt that she could not bring herself to meet him. Yes, she must go
away with an added weight in her poor, faithful little heart. She stole
downstairs, and out into the street. Yes, it was very hard to bear the
sight of Giles, to hear those longing words from the lips of Giles, and
yet go away to meet unjust punishment for perhaps two long years.

Still, it never entered into Sue's head to go back from her resolve, or
to save herself by betraying another.

Her head was very full of Bible lore, and she compared herself now to
one of those three young men who had gone into a fiery furnace for the
cause of right and duty.

"Jesus Christ wor with them, jest as He'll be with me," she said to
herself as she crossed Westminster Bridge. Yes, brave little girl, you
were to go through a fiery furnace, but not the one you thought was
being prepared for you.

Sue's trouble, swift and terrible, but in an unlooked-for form, was on
her even now. Just as she had got over the bridge, and was about to
cross a very wide thoroughfare, some lumbering wagons came thundering
up. They turned sharp round a corner, and the poor child, weak and giddy
from her morning's most unwonted exertion, suddenly found herself
turning faint. She was in the middle of the crossing, the wagons were
upon her, but she could not run. She had scarcely time to throw up her
arms, to utter one piercing cry of terror, before she was thrown to the
ground. She had a horrible sensation of her life being crushed out of
her, of every bone being broken; then followed peace and
unconsciousness.

One of the wagons had gone partly over her; one leg was broken. She was
carried to the accident ward at St. Thomas's Hospital close by.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A POINTED QUESTION.

Neither had Mrs. Price slept well. All night long she either had fitful
and broken dreams, in which her small guest, Sue, constantly figured; or
she lay with her eyes open, thinking of her. She was surprised at the
child's resolve. She recognized an heroic soul under that plain and
girlish exterior.

In the morning she got up rather earlier than usual, and instead of
going directly downstairs, as was her custom, she went up to Sue's
attic. She had promised her eccentric young son to allow him to tell his
own tale in his own way; but she meant to comfort Sue with some
specially loving and kind greeting. Having a true lady's heart, she knew
how to give Sue a very cheering word, and she went upstairs with that
heart full.

Of course there was no Sue in the little chamber. The bed had been lain
in, but was now cold and unoccupied. Mrs. Price went downstairs,
considerably puzzled and disturbed. She sent for Pickles and told him.

She was full of fear at Sue's disappearance, and told the heedless boy
that she blamed him.

"You did wrong, my lad--you did very wrong," she said. "You gave the
poor thing to understand that she was to be put in prison, and now
doubtless she has gone to deliver herself up."

"No, mother. She only went out to have a little exercise. Cinderella
'ull be back in an hour or so," answered the boy.

But he did not speak with his usual assurance and raillery. The fact
was, the calculations in his shrewd little brain were upset by Sue's
disappearance. He felt disturbed, perplexed, and annoyed.

His mother being really displeased with him was a novel experience to
Pickles. She blamed herself much for having allowed him his own way in
this matter, and the moment breakfast was over, went out to the nearest
police-station to relate Sue's story.

Pickles stayed in until noon; then he also went out. He had cheered
himself until this hour with the hope that Sue had only gone out for a
walk. Notwithstanding all the improbabilities of his poor, frightened
Cinderella venturing to show herself in the street, he had clung firmly
to this idea; but when the neighboring clock struck twelve he was
obliged to abandon it. He was obliged to admit to his own little puzzled
heart that it was on no ordinary walk that Sue had gone. Remorse now
seized him in full measure. He could not bear the house; he must vent
his feelings in exercise. For the first time in his sunny and healthy
young life he walked along the streets a defeated and unhappy boy.

Suddenly, however, a thought occurred to him. He stood still when it
flashed across his fertile brain. Then, with a cheerful shout, which
caused the passers-by to turn their heads and smile, he set off running
as fast as his feet would carry him.

Hope would never be long absent from his horizon, and once again he was
following it joyfully.

He was on his way now to Harris's house. He meant to pay pretty Connie a
visit, and when with her he would put to her a pointed question.

It was nearly three o'clock when he reached Westminster. A few minutes
later he found himself on the landing outside Connie's rooms. Here,
however, he was again a little puzzled, for he wanted to see Connie and
not to see Giles. Taking a long time about it, he managed to set the
closed door ajar. He looked in. Connie and Giles were both within.
Connie was mending her father's socks; Giles was reading aloud to her.
Neither of them had noticed the slight creaking noise he had made in
opening the door. He ventured on a very slight cough.

This sound was heard; the reading ceased.

"Come in," said Connie.

This he must not do. He waited an instant, then creaked the door again.

"Dear, dear! I made certain I had shut that door," said Connie.

At this she rose unsuspiciously. "Jest wait a minute, Giles dear. I
didn't catch that last bit."

She ran to the door to put it to. Pickles placed his foot in her way.

The obstacle caused her to look into the passage. There a boy, very red
by nature, and with his natural color now much intensified by hard
running, stood awaiting her.

He pointed to the door, put his finger to his lips, then rushed down the
first flight of stairs, where he turned round, and beckoned to her to
follow him.

"I'll be back in a minute, Giles," said Connie. She had ready wit enough
to perceive at a glance that Pickles had something to say to her which
he did not wish Giles to hear.

Closing the door behind her, she ran downstairs. Pickles could have
hugged her in his gratitude.

"Ain't you a perfect duck of a darlin'?" he said, gazing hard and full
into her face.

"What do you want me for, Pickles?" asked Connie.

"Fur one or two things of much private importance. First, tell me, how
is the little lame chap as is fretting fur his sister wot is kept in the
country?"

"He is not so well, Pickles; he is not so well as he was. Pickles, I
don't believe that story about Sue being in the country."

"You don't believe me when I opens my lips to give utterance to the
words of gospel truth!" replied Pickles. But his red face grew a shade
redder, and his full, bold gaze was not quite so steady as usual. "Why,
surely, Pickles, _you_ ain't going to be troubled wid nerves!" he said
to himself.

Connie, watching anxiously, entreated in her softest tones: "Dear
Pickles, you might trust me. I should like to know, and I won't tell
Giles."

"Ay, ay, that's a woman's curiosity; but the misfortune is as it can't
be gratified. No, Connie. You are as rare and pretty a bit of woman as
hiver I clapped heyes on. But fur hall that you ain't going to come
hover this yere boy. When I tells you, Connie, that Sue is hin the
country, please believe as she _his_ in that year health-giving place.
When 'tis conwenient fur me to confide in you farther, why, I'll do it.
That time ain't at present. In the meantime, ef you want to real help
them who ere in difficulty, you will let me know widout any more wasting
o' precious time where yer father, Peter Harris, is working to-day."

"Oh Pickles! wot do you want wid him?"

"Nothink to hurt you, pretty one. Now, will you speak?

"He's at Messrs ---- in ---- Street," replied Connie.

"Thank yer; and now I'm off. Ef you'll listen to the words o' solemn
wisdom, and be guided in that same, you'll not mention this stolen
interview to little Giles--bless the little chap! You keep up his heart,
Connie. As soon as hiver this yer young man can manage it, Sue shall
come home. Lor', now! ain't the world strange and difficult to live in?
Wot 'ull bring joy to one 'ull give pain to t'other, but the cause o'
right must win the day. Well, good-bye, Connie. I'll wery like look in
soon again."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

PICKLES TO THE FORE AGAIN.

Connie went back to Giles, and Pickles, having obtained the information
which he desired, sped as fast as his feet could carry him down the
street. Once more his spirits were high, and hope was before him.

"I may save you, you most obstinate and tiresome Cinderella," he said to
himself. "But oh, _wot_ a mistake gels are! Why hever those weak and
misguided beings was allowed to be is a puzzlement too great fur me."

But though Pickles talked even to himself in this light and careless
vein, there was (and he knew it) a pain in his heart--a pain joined to
an admiration for Sue, which would have made him willing to fight to the
very death in her behalf.

The day, however, had been spent while he was rushing about, and by the
time he reached the place where Connie had directed him to seek her
father, the workmen were putting by their tools and preparing to go
home.

Pickles followed Harris down the street. Harris was talking to and
walking with one of his fellow-workmen, and Pickles did not care to
accost him except when he was alone.

At the corner, however, of the next street the two parted; and then the
boy, putting his face into grave and serious order, ran lightly after
Harris. When he addressed him his very voice trembled.

"Mr. Harris, I see'd you coming out of that yer shop. I'm in much
perplexity and trouble in my mind, and I thought the sight of you and a
talk wid you might maybe set me up."

"You thought wrong, then," said Harris, replying in his gruffest voice,
"for I'm in a mortal bit of a hurry, and I'm in no humor to listen to no
chaff, so get away."

"Oh, Mr. Harris! I'll endeavor to run by yer side for a minute or two.
Mr. Harris, wot does yer think? That little Sue wot I tolled yer
on--why, she has discovered who the guilty party is. She have found out
who really stole the locket and put it into her pocket."

"She have!" said Harris. He was so astonished and taken by surprise that
he now stood still. He stood quite still, gazing helplessly at Pickles,
while his weather-beaten face grew pale.

"'Tis gospel truth as I'm telling yer," continued Pickles, fixing his
own light-blue eyes full on his victim. "Sue knows hall about it--the
whole thing; the great and awful meanness have been made plain to her.
Yes, she knows all, Sue does; but, Mr. Harris----"

"Yes; wot have I to say to this tale? I'm in a hurry--tearing hurry--I
tell yer."

"Yes, Mr. Harris; I won't keep yer. Sue knows, but Sue, she won't
betray. I know who did it," she said, "but I won't tell on him. He lent
me a shilling once. He is kind to my little brother wot is lame. I know
wot he did, but I won't never tell, I'll go to prison 'stead of he."

Harris's color had returned. He now walked so fast that Pickles had to
run to keep up with him. Suddenly, seeing a passing omnibus, he hailed
it, and in a second was on the roof. He did not glance at Pickles. In
reply to his tale he had not answered by a single word.

CHAPTER XXXV.

THE WINGS ARE GROWING.

Connie went back to Giles, sat down by him, and he resumed his reading.
He was going through the _Pilgrim's Progress_ to her, reading short
sentences at a time, for his voice was too low and weak to enable him to
exert himself for long at a time.

"Connie, wot were that as I read last?"

Connie colored.

"You weren't listening," said Giles reproachfully. "It wor a most
beautiful bit. But you didn't hear me, Connie."

"I wor thinking o' something else jest then," owned Connie. "I'll listen
now wid hall my might, dear Giles."

"Ah! but I'm tired now," said Giles; "and besides, I want to talk 'bout
something else, Connie."

"Well."

"Sue have been a whole month in the country to-day--rayther more than a
month. I don't understand it at all. I never thought as she could stay
so long away from me. I suppose 'tis hall right, and cottages such as we
want do take a powerful long time to find. It has been a long
time--wery, wery long--but have I been patient 'bout Sue all this long
time, Connie?"

"Yes, indeed, dear Giles."

"Oh! I'm glad, fur I've tried to be. Then, Connie, wot I'm thinking is
that ef Sue don't soon come back--ef she don't soon find that 'ere
cottage--why, I won't want it, Connie. Sue 'ull come back and find
me--gone."

"Gone!" echoed Connie. "Do you mean dead? Oh Giles! you're not ill
enough to die."

"Yes, Connie, I think I am. I'm so real desperate weak sometimes that I
don't like even to move a finger. I used to be hungry, too, but now I
never cares to eat. Besides, Connie dear----"

"Yes, Giles," answered Connie.

"Those wings that I told you of--why, I often seem to feel them flutter
inside of me. I told you before, Connie, that when they was full grown,
why, I'd fly away. I think they are growing wery fast. I'll want no
cottage in the country now. I'm going away to a much better place, ain't
I, Connie?"

"Oh! but, Giles, I don't want to think that--I don't want to," answered
Connie, the tears raining down her cheeks.

"'Tis real good fur me, though, Connie. I used to pine sore fur the
country; but it have come hover me lately that in winter it 'ud be
dull--scarcely any flowers, and no birds singing, nor nothink. Now, in
heaven there's no winter. 'A land o' pure delight,' the hymn calls it,
'and never-withering flowers.' So you see, Connie, heaven must be a
sight better than the country, and of course I'd rayther go there; only
I'm thinking as 'tis sech a pity 'bout Sue."

"Yes, I wish as Sue was home," said Connie.

"Connie dear, couldn't we send her a message to come straight home to me
now? I'm so feared as she'll fret real hard ef she comes wid news of
that cottage and finds me gone."

"I'll look fur her; I will find her," said Connie with sudden energy.
Then she rose and drew down the blinds.

"I'll find Sue ef I can, Giles; and now you will go to sleep."

"Will you sing to me? When you sing, and I drop off to sleep listening,
I allers dream arterwards of heaven."

"What shall I sing?"

"'There is a land of pure delight.'"

CHAPTER XXXVI.

A CRISIS.

Connie went downstairs and stood in the doorway. She had gone through a
good deal during these last adventurous weeks, and although still it
seemed to those who knew her that Connie had quite the prettiest face in
all the world, it was slightly haggard now for a girl of fourteen years,
and a little of its soft plumpness had left it.

Connie had never looked more absolutely pathetic than she did at this
moment, for her heart was full of sorrow for Giles and of anxiety with
regard to Sue. She would keep her promise to the little boy--she would
find Sue.

As she stood and thought, some of the roughest neighbors passed by,
looked at the child, were about to speak, and then went on. She was
quite in her shabby, workaday dress; there was nothing to rouse jealousy
about her clothes; and the "gel" seemed in trouble. The neighbors
guessed the reason. It was all little Giles. Little Giles was soon
"goin' aw'y."

"It do seem crool," they said one to the other, "an' that sister o' his
nowhere to be found."

Just then, who should enter the house but kind Dr. Deane. He stopped
when he saw Connie.

"I am going up to Giles," he said. "How is the little chap?"

"Worse--much worse," said Connie, the tears gathering in her eyes.

"No news of his sister, I suppose?"

"No, sir--none."

"I am sorry for that--they were such a very attached pair. I'll run up
and see the boy, and bring you word what I think about him."

The doctor was absent about a quarter of an hour. While he was away
Connie never moved, but stood up leaning against the door-post, puzzling
her brains to think out an almost impossible problem. When the doctor
reappeared she did not even ask how Giles was. Kind Dr. Deane looked at
her; his face was wonderfully grave. After a minute he said:

"I think, Connie, I'd find that little sister as quickly as I could. The
boy is very, very weak. If there is one desire now in his heart,
however, it is just to see Sue once more."

"I ha' give him my word," said Connie. "I'm goin' to find Sue ef--ef I
never see Giles agin."

"But you mustn't leave him for long," said the doctor. "Have you no plan
in your head? You cannot find a girl who is lost as Sue is lost in this
great London without some clue."

"I ain't got any clue," said Connie, "but I'll try and find Pickles."

"Whoever is Pickles?" asked the doctor.

"'E knows--I'm sartin sure," said Connie. "I'll try and find him, and
then----"

"Well, don't leave Giles alone. Is there a neighbor who would sit with
him?"

"I won't leave him alone," said Connie.

The doctor then went away. Connie was about to return to Giles, if only
for a few minutes, when, as though in answer to an unspoken prayer, the
red-headed Pickles appeared in sight. His hair was on end; his face was
pale; he was consumed with anxiety; in short, he did not seem to be the
same gay-hearted Pickles whom Connie had last met with. When he saw
Connie, however, the sight of that sweet and sad face seemed to pull him
together.

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