Sue, A Little Heroine

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"Any one who would rather die than neglect a duty has, to my mind, the
same spirit," answered the man. "But now, lad, run home, for I must be
off."

"Oh, father, you are going to that place where the wonderful new
machinery is, and you said I might look at it. May I come?"

The father hesitated, finally yielded, and the two went on together. But
together they were never to come back.

That very day, with the summer sun shining, and all the birds in the
country far away singing for joy, there came a message for the brave
father. He was suddenly, in the full prime of his manly vigor, to leave
off doing God's work down here, doubtless to take it up with nobler
powers above. A fireman literally works with his life in his hands. He
may have to resign it at any moment at the call of duty. This
trumpet-call, which he had never neglected, came now for Giles Mason.

A fire broke out in the house where little Giles watched with keen
intelligence the new machinery. The machinery was destroyed, the child
lamed for life, and the brave father, in trying to rescue him and
others, was so injured by falling stones and pieces of woodwork that he
only lived a few hours.

The two were laid side by side in the hospital to which they were
carried.

"Father," said the little one, nestling close to the injured and dying
man, "I think people _can_ be martyrs now!"

But the father was past words, though he heard the child, for he smiled
and pointed upwards. The smile and the action were so significant, and
reminded the child so exactly of the angel who guards the Martyrs'
Monument, that ever afterwards he associated his brave father with those
heroes and heroines of whom the sacred writer says that "the world is
not worthy."

CHAPTER IV.

SOLITARY HOURS.

Giles was kept in the hospital for many weeks, even months. All that
could be done was done for him; but the little, active feet were never
to walk again, and the spine was so injured that he could not even sit
upright. When all that could be done had been done and failed, the boy
was sent back to his broken-down and widowed mother.

Mrs. Mason had removed from the comfortable home where she lived during
her husband's lifetime to the attic in a back street of Westminster,
where she finally died. She took in washing for a livelihood, and Sue,
now twelve years old, was already an accomplished little machinist.[1]

They were both too busy to have time to grieve, and at night were too
utterly worn-out not to sleep soundly. They were kind to Giles lying on
his sick-bed; they both loved him dearly, but they neither saw, nor even
tried to understand, the hunger of grief and longing which filled his
poor little mind.

His terrible loss, his own most terrible injuries, had developed in the
boy all that sensitive nerve organism which can render life so miserable
to its possessor. To hear his beloved father's name mentioned was a
torture to him; and yet his mother and Sue spoke of it with what seemed
to the boy reckless indifference day after day. Two things, however,
comforted him--one the memory of the angel figure over the Martyrs'
Monument at Smithfield, the other the deep notes of Big Ben. His father,
too, had been a martyr, and that angel stood there to signify his
victory as well as the victory of those others who withstood the torture
by fire; and Big Ben, with its solemn, vibrating notes, seemed to his
vivid imagination like that same angel speaking.

Though an active, restless boy before his illness, he became now very
patient. He would lie on his back, not reading, for he had forgotten
what little his father taught him, but apparently lost in thought, from
morning to night. His mother was often obliged to leave him alone, but
he never murmured at his long, solitary hours; indeed, had there been
any one by to listen to all the words he said to himself at these times,
they would have believed that the boy enjoyed them.

Thus three years passed away. In those three years all the beauty had
left little Giles's face; all the brightness had fled from his eyes; he
was now a confirmed invalid, white and drawn and pinched. Then his poor,
tired-out mother died. She had worked uncomplainingly, but far beyond
her strength, until suddenly she sickened and in a few days was dead.
Giles, however, while losing a mother, had gained a friend. John Atkins
read the sensitive heart of the boy like a book. He came to see him
daily, and soon completed the reading-lessons which his father had
begun. As soon as the boy could read he was no longer unhappy. His sad
and troubled mind need no longer feed on itself; he read what wise and
great men thought, for Atkins supplied him with books. Atkins's books,
it is true, were mostly of a theological nature, but once he brought him
a battered Shakespeare; and Sue also, when cash was a little flush,
found an old volume of the _Arabian Nights_ on a book-stall. These two
latter treasures gave great food to the active imagination of little
Giles.

FOOTNOTE

[1] In July 1877 arrangements were made to provide for the families of
firemen who were killed in the performance of their duty, but nothing
was done for them before that date.

CHAPTER V.

EAGER WORDS.

When John Atkins was quite young he was well-to-do. His father and
mother had kept a good shop, and not only earned money for their needs
but were able to put by sufficient for a rainy day. John was always a
small and delicate child, and as he grew older he developed disease of
the spine, which not only gave him a deformed appearance but made him
slightly lame. Nevertheless, he was an eager little scholar, and his
father was able to send him to a good school. The boy worked hard, and
eagerly read and learned all that came in his way.

Thus life was rather pleasant than otherwise with John Atkins up to his
fifteenth year, but about then there came misfortunes. The investment
into which his father had put all his hard-won earnings was worthless;
the money was lost. This was bad enough, but there was worse to follow.
Not only had the money disappeared, but the poor man's heart was broken.
He ceased to attend to his business; his customers left him to go
elsewhere; his wife died suddenly, and he himself quickly followed her
to the grave.

After these misfortunes John Atkins had a bad illness himself. He grew
better after a time, took to cobbling as a trade, and earned enough to
support himself. How he came to take up street preaching, and in
consequence to be much beloved by his neighbors, happened simply enough.

On a certain Sunday evening he was walking home from the church where he
attended, his heart all aglow with the passionate words of the preacher
he had been listening to. The preacher had made Bunyan the subject of
his discourse, and the author of the _Pilgrim's Progress_ was at that
time the hero of all heroes in the mind of Atkins. He was thinking of
his wonderful pilgrimage as he hurried home. He walked on. Suddenly,
turning a corner, he knocked up against a man, who, half-reeling, came
full-tilt against him.

"Aye, Peter," he said, knowing the man, and perceiving that he was far
too tipsy to get to his home with safety, "I'll just walk home with you,
mate. I've got an apple in my pocket for the little wench."

The man made no objection, and they walked on. At the next corner they
saw a crowd, all listening eagerly to the words of a large, red-faced
man who, mounted on a chair, addressed them. On the burning, glowing
heart of John Atkins fell the following terrible words:

"For there be no God, and there be nothing before us but to die as the
beasts die. Let us get our fill of pleasure and the like of that,
neighbors, for there ain't nothing beyond the grave."

"It's a lie!" roared Atkins.

The words had stung him like so many fiery serpents. He rushed into the
midst of the crowd; he forgot Peter Harris; he sprang on to the chair
which the other man in his astonishment had vacated, and poured out a
whole string of eager, passionate words. At that moment he discovered
that he had a wonderful gift. There was the message in his heart which
God had put there, and he was able to deliver it. His words were
powerful. The crowd, who had listened without any great excitement to
the unbeliever, came close now to the man of God, applauding him loudly.
Atkins spoke of the Fatherhood of God and of His love.

"Ain't that other a coward?" said two or three rough voices when Atkins
ceased to speak. "And he comes here talking them lies every Sunday
night," said one poor woman. "Come you again, master, and tell us the
blessed truth."

This decided Atkins. He went to his parish clergyman, an overworked and
badly paid man, and told him the incident. He also spoke of his own
resolve. He would go to these sheep who acknowledged no Shepherd, and
tell them as best he could of a Father, a Home, a Hope. The clergyman
could not but accept the services of this fervent city missionary.

"Get them to church if you can," he said.

"Aye, if I can," answered Atkins; "but I will compel them to enter the
Church above--that is the main thing."

Soon he began to know almost all the poor folks who crowded to hear him.
In their troubles he was with them; when joy came he heard first about
it, and rejoiced most of all; and many a poor face of a tired woman or
worn-out man, or even a little child, looking into his, grew brighter in
the presence of death.

CHAPTER VI.

DIFFERENT SORT OF WORK.

Connie was a very pretty girl. She was between thirteen and fourteen
years of age, and very small and delicate-looking. Her hair was of a
pale, soft gold; her eyes were blue; she had a delicate complexion, pink
and white--almost like a china figure, Sue said; Giles compared her to
an angel. Connie was in the same trade that Sue earned her bread by; she
also was a machinist in a large warehouse in the City. All day long she
worked at the sewing-machine, going home with Sue night after night,
glad of Sue's sturdy support, for Connie was much more timid than her
companion.

Connie was the apple of Harris's eye, his only child. He did everything
he could for her; he lived for her. If any one could make him good,
Connie could; but she was sadly timid; she dreaded the terrible moments
when he returned home, having taken more than was good for him. At these
times she would slink away to visit Giles and Sue, and on more than one
occasion she had spent the night with the pair rather than return to her
angry father. Some months, however, before this story begins, a terrible
misfortune had come to Peter Harris. He had come home on a certain
evening worse than usual from the effects of drink. Connie happened to
be in. She had dressed herself with her usual exquisite neatness. She
always kept the place ship-shape. The hearth was always tidily swept.
She managed her father's earnings, which were quite considerable, and
the wretched man could have had good food and a comfortable home, and
been happy as the day was long, if only the craze for drink had not
seized him.

Connie was very fond of finery, and she was now trimming a pretty hat to
wear on the following Sunday. Not long ago she had made a new friend, a
girl at the warehouse of the name of Agnes Coppenger. Agnes was older
than Connie. She was the kind of girl who had a great admiration for
beauty, and when she saw that people turned to look at pretty Connie
with her sweet, refined face and delicate ways, she hoped that by having
such a pleasant companion she also might come in for her share of
admiration. She therefore began to make much of Connie. She praised her
beauty, and invited her to her own home. There Connie made companions
who were not nearly such desirable ones as Sue and Giles.

She began to neglect Sue and Giles, and to spend more and more of her
time with Agnes.

On a certain day when the two girls were working over their
sewing-machines, the whir of the numerous machines filling the great
warehouse, Agnes turned to Connie.

"When we go out at morning break I 'ave a word to say to yer."

Connie's eyes brightened.

"You walk with me," whispered Agnes again.

An overseer came round. Talking was forbidden in the great room, and the
girls went on with their mechanical employment, turning out long seam
after long seam of delicate stitches. The fluff from the work seemed to
smother Connie that morning. She had inherited her mother's delicacy.
She coughed once or twice. There was a longing within her to get away
from this dismal, this unhealthy life. She felt somehow, down deep in
her heart, that she was meant for better things. The child was by nature
almost a poet. She could have worshiped a lovely flower. As to the
country, what her feelings would have been could she have seen it almost
baffles description.

Now, Sue, working steadily away at her machine a little farther down the
room, had none of these sensations. Provided that Sue could earn enough
money to keep Giles going, that was all she asked of life. She was as
matter-of-fact as a young girl could be; and as to pining for what she
had not got, it never once entered her head.

At twelve o'clock there was a break of half-an-hour. The machinists were
then turned out of the building. It did not matter what sort of day it
was, whether the sun shone with its summer intensity, or whether the
snow fell in thick flakes--whatever the condition of the outside world,
out all the working women had to go. None could skulk behind; all had to
seek the open air.

Connie coughed now as the bitter blast blew against her cheeks.

"Isn't it cold?" she said.

She expected to see Agnes by her side, but it was Sue she addressed.

"I've got a penny for pease-pudding to-day," said Sue. "Will you come
and have a slice, Connie? Or do yer want somethin' better? Your father,
Peter Harris, can let yer have more than a penny for yer dinner."

"Oh, yes," answered Connie; "'tain't the money--I 'aven't got not a bit
of happetite, not for nothing; but I want to say a word to Agnes
Coppenger, and I don't see her."

"Here I be," said Agnes, coming up at that moment. "Come right along,
Connie; I've got a treat for yer."

The last words were uttered in a low whisper, and Sue, finding she was
not wanted, went off in another direction. She gave little sighs as she
did so. What was wrong with pretty Connie, and why did she not go with
her? It had been her custom to slip her hand inside Sue's sturdy arm.
During the half-hour interval, the girls used to repair together to the
nearest cheap restaurant, there to secure what nourishing food their
means permitted. They used to chatter to one another, exchanging full
confidences, and loving each other very much.

But for some time now Connie had only thought of Agnes Coppenger, and
Sue felt out in the cold.

"Can't be helped," she said to herself; "but if I am not mistook, Agnes
is a bad un, and the less poor Connie sees of her the better."

Sue entered the restaurant, which was now packed full of factory girls,
and she asked eagerly for her penn'orth of pease-pudding.

Meanwhile Connie and Agnes were very differently employed. When the two
girls found themselves alone, Agnes looked full at Connie and said:

"I'm going to treat yer."

"Oh, no, you ain't," said Connie, who was proud enough in her way.

"Yes, but I be," said Agnes; "I ha' lots o' money, bless yer! Here,
we'll come in here."

An A.B.C. shop stood invitingly open just across the road. Connie had
always looked at these places of refreshment with open-eyed admiration,
and with the sort of sensation which one would have if one stood at the
gates of Paradise. To enter any place so gorgeous as an A.B.C., to be
able to sit down and have one's tea or coffee or any other refreshment
at one of those little white marble tables, seemed to her a degree of
refinement scarcely to be thought about. The A.B.C. was a sort of
forbidden fruit to Connie, but Agnes had been there before, and Agnes
had described the delight of the place.

"The quality come in 'ere," said Agnes, "an' they horders all sorts o'
things, from mutton-chops to poached heggs. I am goin' in to-day, and so
be you."

"Oh, no," said Connie, "you can't afford it."

"That's my lookout," answered Agnes. "I've half-a-crown in my pocket,
and ef I choose to have a good filling meal, and ef I choose that you
shall have one too, why, that is my lookout."

As Agnes spoke she pulled her companion through the swinging door, and a
minute later the two young girls had a little table between them, not
far from the door. Agnes called in a lofty voice to one of the
waitresses.

"Coffee for two," she said, "and rolls and butter and poached heggs; and
see as the heggs is well done, and the toast buttered fine and thick.
Now then, look spruce, won't yer?"

The waitress went off to attend to Agnes's requirements. Agnes sat back
in her chair with a sort of lofty, fine-lady air which greatly impressed
poor Connie. By-and-by the coffee, the rolls and butter, and the poached
eggs appeared. A little slip of paper with the price of the meal was
laid close to Agnes's plate, and she proceeded to help her companion to
the good viands.

"It's this sort of meal you want hevery day," she said. "Now then, eat
as hard as ever you can, and while you're eating let me talk, for
there's a deal to say, and we must be back in that factory afore we can
half do justice to our wittles."

Connie sipped her coffee, and looked hard at her companion.

"What is it?" she asked suddenly. "What's all the fuss, Agnes? Why be
you so chuff to poor Sue, and whatever 'ave you got to say?"

"This," said Agnes. "You're sick o' machine-work, ain't you?"

"Oh, that I be!" said Connie, stretching her arms a little, and
suppressing a yawn. "It seems to get on my narves, like. I am that
miserable when I'm turning that horrid handle and pressing that treadle
up and down, up and down, as no words can say. I 'spect it's the hair so
full of fluff an' things, too; some'ow I lose my happetite for my
or'nary feed when I'm working at that 'orrid machine."

"I don't feel it that way," said Agnes in a lofty tone. "But then, _I_
am wery strong. I can heat like anything, whatever I'm a-doing of.
There, Connie; don't waste the good food. Drink up yer corffee, and
don't lose a scrap o' that poached egg, for ef yer do it 'ud be sinful
waste. Well, now, let me speak. I know quite a different sort o' work
that you an' me can both do, and ef you'll come with me this evening I
can tell yer all about it."

"What sort of work?" asked Connie.

"Beautiful, refined--the sort as you love. But I am not going to tell
yer ef yer give me away."

"What do you mean by that, Agnes?"

"I means wot I say--I'll tell yer to-night ef yer'll come 'ome with me."

"Yer mean that I'm to spend all the evening with yer?" asked Connie.

"Yes--that's about it. _You_ are to come 'ome with me, and we'll talk.
Why, bless yer! with that drinkin' father o' yourn, wot do you want all
alone by yer lonesome? You give me a promise. And now I must pay hup,
and we'll be off."

"I'll come, o' course," said Connie after brief reflection. "Why
shouldn't I?" she added. "There's naught to keep me to home."

The girls left the A.B.C. shop and returned to their work.

Whir! whir! went the big machines. The young heads were bent over their
accustomed toil; the hands on the face of the great clock which Connie
so often looked at went on their way. Slowly--very slowly--the time
sped. Would that long day ever come to an end?

The machinists' hours were from eight o'clock in the morning to six in
the evening. Sometimes, when there were extra lots of ready-made clothes
to be produced, they were kept till seven or even eight o'clock. But for
this extra work there was a small extra pay, so that few of them really
minded. But Connie dreaded extra hours extremely. She was not really
dependent on the work, although Peter would have been very angry with
his girl had she idled her time. She herself, too, preferred doing this
to doing nothing. But to-night, of all nights, she was most impatient to
get away with Agnes in order to discover what that fascinating young
person's secret was.

She looked impatiently at the clock; so much so that Agnes herself, as
she watched her eyes, chuckled now and then.

"She'll be an easy prey," thought Agnes Coppenger. "I'll soon get 'er
into my power."

At six o'clock there was no further delay; no extra work was required,
and the machinists poured into the sloppy, dark, and dreary streets.

"Come along now, quickly," said Agnes. "Don't wait for Sue; Sue has
nothing to do with you from this time out."

"Oh dear! oh dear!" said Connie. "But I don't want to give up Sue and
Giles. You ha' never seen little Giles Mason?"

"No," replied Agnes, "and don't want to. Wot be Giles to me?"

"Oh," said Connie, "ef yer saw 'im yer couldn't but love 'im. He's the
wery prettiest little fellow that yer ever clapped yer two eyes on--with
'is delicate face an' 'is big brown eyes--and the wonnerful thoughts he
have, too. Poetry ain't in it. Be yer fond o' poetry yerself, Agnes?"

"I fond o' poetry?" almost screamed Agnes. "Not I! That is, I never
heerd it--don't know wot it's like. I ha' no time to think o' poetry.
I'm near mad sometimes fidgeting and fretting how to get myself a smart
'at, an' a stylish jacket, an' a skirt that hangs with a sort o' swing
about it. But you, now--you never think on yer clothes."

"Oh yes, but I do," said Connie; "and I ha' got a wery pwitty new dress
now as father guv me not a fortnight back; and w'en father don't drink
he's wery fond o' me, an' he bought this dress at the pawnshop."

"Lor', now, did he?" said Agnes. "Wot sort be it, Connie?"

"Dark blue, with blue velvet on it. It looks wery stylish."

"You'd look like a lydy in that sort o' dress," said Agnes. "You've the
face of a lydy--that any one can see."

"Have I?" said Connie. She put up her somewhat roughened hand to her
smooth little cheeks.

"Yes, you 'ave; and wot I say is this--yer face is yer fortoon. Now,
look yer 'ere. We'll stand at this corner till the Westminster 'bus
comes up, and then we'll take a penn'orth each, and that'll get us wery
near 'ome. Yer don't think as yer father'll be 'ome to-night, Connie?"

"'Tain't likely," replied Connie; "'e seldom comes in until it's time
for 'im to go to bed."

"Well then, that's all right. When we get to Westminster, you skid down
Adam Street until yer get to yer diggin's; an' then hup you goes and
changes yer dress. Into the very genteel dark-blue costoom you gets, and
down you comes to yer 'umble servant wot is waitin' for yer below
stairs."

This programme was followed out in all its entirety by Connie. The
omnibus set the girls down not far from her home. Connie soon reached
her room. No father there, no fire in the grate. She turned on the gas
and looked around her.

The room was quite a good one, of fair size, and the furniture was not
bad of its sort. Peter Harris himself slept on a trundle-bed in the
sitting-room, but Connie had a little room all to herself just beyond.
Here she kept her small bits of finery, and in especial the lovely new
costume which her father had given her.

She was not long in slipping off her working-clothes. Then she washed
her face and hands, and brushed back her soft, glistening, pale-golden
hair, and put on the dark-blue dress, and her little blue velvet cap to
match, and--little guessing how lovely she appeared in this dress, which
simply transformed the pretty child into one of quite another rank of
life--she ran quickly downstairs.

A young man of the name of Anderson, whom she knew very slightly, was
passing by. He belonged to the Fire Brigade, and was one of the best and
bravest firemen in London. He had a pair of great, broad shoulders, and
a very kind face. It looked almost as refined as Connie's own.

Anderson gave her a glance, puzzled and wondering. He felt half-inclined
to speak, but she hurried by him, and the next minute Agnes gripped her
arm.

"My word, ain't you fine!" said that young lady. "You _be_ a gel to be
proud of! Won't yer do fine, jest! Now then, come along, and let's be
quick."

Connie followed her companion. They went down several side-streets, and
took several short cuts. They passed through the roughest and worst part
of the purlieus at the back of Westminster. At last they entered a
broader thoroughfare, and there Agnes stopped.

"Why, yer never be livin' here?" asked Connie.

"No, I bean't. You'll come to my 'ome afterwards. I want to take yer to
see a lydy as maybe'll take a fancy to yer."

"Oh!" said Connie, feeling both excited and full of wonder.

The girls entered a side passage, and presently Connie, to her
astonishment, found herself going upwards--up and up and up--in a lift.
The lift went up as far as it would go. The girls got out. Agnes went
first, and Connie followed. They walked down the passage, and Agnes gave
a very neat double knock on the door, which looked like an ordinary
front door to a house.

The door was opened by a woman rather loudly dressed, but with a
handsome face.

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