Sue, A Little Heroine

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"How do you do, Mrs. Warren?" said Agnes. "I ha' brought the young lydy
I spoke to yer about. Shall us both come in?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Mrs. Warren.

She stood aside, and Connie, still following her companion, found
herself at the other side of the neat door. The place inside was bright
with electric light, and the stout, showily dressed lady, going first,
conducted the girls into a room which Agnes afterwards spoke of as the
dining-room. The lady sat down in a very comfortable arm-chair, crossed
her legs, and desired Connie to come forward and show herself.

"Take off yer 'at," she said.

Connie did so.

"You're rather pretty."

Connie was silent.

"I want," said the stout woman, "a pretty gel, something like you, to
come and sit with me from ten to two o'clock hevery day. Yer dooties'll
be quite light, and I'll give yer lots o' pretty clothes and good
wages."

"But what'll I have to do?" asked Connie.

"Jest to sit with me an' keep me company; I'm lonesome here all by
myself."

Connie looked puzzled.

"You ask wot wages yer'll get," said Agnes, poking Connie on the arm.
Connie's blue eyes looked up. The showy lady was gazing at her very
intently.

"I'll give yer five shillin's a week," she said, "and yer keep, and some
carst-off clothes--my own--now and again; and ef that bean't a bargain,
I don't know wot be."

Connie was silent.

"You 'ad best close with it," said Agnes. "It's a charnce once in a
'undred. Yer'll be very 'appy with Mrs. Warren--her's a real lydy."

"Yes, that I be," said Mrs. Warren. "I come of a very hold family. My
ancestors come hover with William the Conqueror."

Connie did not seem impressed by this fact.

"Will yer come or will yer not?" said Mrs. Warren. "I'll take yer
jaunts, too--I forgot to mention that. Often on a fine Saturday, you an'
me--we'll go to the country together. You don't know 'ow fine that 'ull
be. We'll go to the country and we'll 'ave a spree. Did yer never see
the country?"

"No," said Connie, in a slow voice, "but I ha' dreamt of it."

"She's the sort, ma'am," interrupted Agnes, "wot dreams the queerest
things. She's hall for poetry and flowers and sech like. She's not
matter-o'-fack like me."

"Jest the sort I want," said Mrs. Warren. "I--I loves poetry. You shall
read it aloud to me, my gel--or, better still, I'll read it to you. An'
as to flowers--why, yer shall pluck 'em yer own self, an' yer'll see 'em
a-blowin' an' a-growin', yer own self. We'll go to the country next
Saturday. There, now--ain't that fine?"

Connie looked puzzled. There certainly was a great attraction at the
thought of going into the country. She hated the machine-work. But, all
the same, somehow or other she did not like Mrs. Warren.

"I'll think o' it and let yer know," she said.

But when she uttered these words the stately dressed and over-fine lady
changed her manner.

"There's no thinking now," she said. "You're 'ere, and yer'll stay. You
go out arter you ha' been at my house? You refuse my goodness? Not a bit
o' it! Yer'll stay."

"Oh, yes, Connie," said Agnes in a soothing tone.

"But I don't want to stay," said Connie, now thoroughly frightened. "I
want to go--and to go at once. Let me go, ma'am; I--I don't like yer!"

Poor Connie made a rush for the door, but Agnes flew after her and
clasped her round the waist.

"Yer _be_ a silly!" she said. "Yer jest stay with her for one week."

"But I--I must go and tell father," said poor Connie.

"You needn't--I'll go an' tell him. Don't yer get into such a fright.
Don't, for goodness' sake! Why, think of five shillin's a week, and
jaunts into the country, and beautiful food, and poetry read aloud to
yer, and hall the rest!"

"I has most select poetry here," said Mrs. Warren. "Did yer never yere
of a man called Tennyson? An' did yer never read that most touching
story of the consumptive gel called the 'May Queen'? 'Ef ye're wakin'
call me hearly, call me hearly, mother dear.' I'll read yer that. It's
the most beauteous thing."

"It sounds lovely," said Connie.

She was always arrested by the slightest thing which touched her keen
fancy and rich imagination.

"And you 'ates the machines," said Agnes.

"Oh yes, I 'ates the machines," cried Connie. Then she added after a
pause: "I'm 'ere, and I'll stay for one week. But I must go back first
to get some o' my bits o' duds, and to tell father. You'd best let me
go, ma'am; I won't be long away."

"But I can't do that," said Mrs. Warren; "it's a sight too late for a
young, purty gel like you to be out. Agnes, now, can go and tell yer
father, and bring wot clothes yer want to-morrow.--Agnes, yer'll do
that, won't yer?"

"Yes--that I will."

"They'll never let me stay," said Connie, reflecting on this fact with
some satisfaction.

"We won't ax him, my dear," said Mrs. Warren.

"I must go, really, now," said Agnes. "You're all right, Connie; you're
made. You'll be a fine lydy from this day out. And I'll come and see
yer.--W'en may I come, Mrs. Warren?"

"To-morrer evenin'," said Mrs. Warren. "You and Connie may have tea
together to-morrer evenin', for I'm goin' out with some friends to the
thayertre."

Poor Connie never quite knew how it happened, but somehow she found
herself as wax in the strong hands of Mrs. Warren. Connie, it is true,
gave a frightened cry when she heard Agnes shut the hall door behind
her, and she felt positive that she had done exceedingly wrong. But Mrs.
Warren really seemed kind, although Connie could not but wish that she
was not quite so stout, and that her face was not of such an ugly brick
red.

She gave the girl a nice supper, and talked to her all the time about
the lovely life she would have there.

"Ef I takes to yer I'll maybe hadopt yer as my own daughter, my dear,"
she said. "You're a wery purty gel. And may I ax how old you are, my
love?"

Connie answered that she was fourteen, and Mrs. Warren remarked that she
was small for her age and looked younger. She showed the girl her own
smart clothing, and tried the effect of her bit of fur round Connie's
delicate throat.

"There," she said; "you can keep it. It's only rabbit; I can't afford no
dearer. But yer'll look real foine in it when we goes out for our
constooshionul to-morrow morning."

Connie was really touched and delighted with the present of the fur. She
got very sleepy, too, after supper--more sleepy than she had ever felt
in her life--and when Mrs. Warren suggested that her new little handmaid
should retire early to bed, the girl was only too glad to obey.

CHAPTER VII.

SHOPPING.

Connie slept without dreams that night, and in the morning awoke with a
start. What was the matter? Was she late? It was dreadful to be late at
the doors of that cruel factory. Those who were late were docked of
their pay.

Peter Harris was always very angry when his daughter did not bring in
her full earnings on Saturday night. Connie cried out, "Father, father!"
and then sat up in bed and pushed her golden hair back from her little
face. What was the matter? Where was she? Why, what a pretty room! There
was scarcely any light yet, and she could not see the different articles
of furniture very distinctly, but it certainly seemed to her that she
was in a most elegant apartment. Her room at home was--oh, so bare! just
a very poor trundle-bed, and a little deal chest of drawers with a tiny
looking-glass on top, and one broken chair to stand by her bedside. This
was all.

But her present room had a carpet on the floor, and there were
pictures hanging on the walls, and there were curtains to the
windows, and the little bed on which she lay was covered with a gay
counterpane--soft--almost as soft as silk.

Where could she be? It took her almost a minute to get back the memory
of last night. Then she shuddered with the most curious feeling of
mingled ecstasy and pain. She was not going to the factory to-day. She
was not going to work at that horrid sewing-machine. She was not to meet
Sue. She was not to be choked by the horrid air. She, Connie, had got a
new situation, and Mrs. Warren was a very nice woman, although she was
so fat and her dress was so loud that even Connie's untrained taste
could not approve of it.

Just then a voice called to her:

"Get up, my dear; I'll have a cosy breakfast ready for yer by the time
yer've put yourself tidily into yer clothes."

"Yes," thought Connie to herself, "I've done well to come. Agnes is
right. I wonder what she'll say when she comes to tea this evening. I
wonder if she met father. I do 'ope as father won't find me. I'd real
like to stay on here for a bit; it's much, much nicer than the cruel
sort of life I 'ave to home."

Connie dressed by the light which was now coming in more strongly
through the window. Mrs. Warren pushed a can of hot water inside the
door, and the girl washed with a strange, unwonted sense of luxury. She
had no dress but the dark-blue, and she was therefore forced to put it
on.

When she had completed her toilet she entered the sitting-room. Mrs.
Warren, in her morning _deshabille_, looked a more unpleasing object
than ever. Her hair was in tight curl-papers, and she wore a very loose
and very dirty dressing-gown, which was made of a sort of pattern
chintz, and gave her the effect of being a huge pyramid of coarse, faded
flowers.

There was coffee, however, which smelled very good, on the hearth, and
there was some toast and bacon, and some bread, butter, and jam. Connie
and Mrs. Warren made a good meal, and then Mrs. Warren began to talk of
the day's programme.

"I have a lot of shopping to do this morning," she said, "and we'll go
out not later than ten o'clock sharp. It's wonderful wot a lot o' things
I has to buy. There's sales on now, too, and we'll go to some of 'em.
Maybe I'll get yer a bit o' ribbon--you're fond o' blue ribbon, I take
it. Well, maybe I'll get it for yer--there's no saying. Anyhow, we'll
walk down the streets, and wot shops we don't go into we'll press our
noses against the panes o' glass and stare in. Now then, my dear, yer
don't s'pose that I'll allow you to come out walking with the likes o'
me with yer 'air down like that."

"Why, 'ow is it to be done?" said Connie. "I take it that it's
beautiful; I ha' done it more tidy than ever."

"But I don't want it tidy. Now then, you set down yere close to the
fire, so that you can toast yer toes, and I'll see to yer 'air."

Connie was forced to obey; more and more was she wax in the hands of her
new employer. Mrs. Warren quickly took the hair-pins out of Connie's
thick plait. She let it fall down to her waist, and then she unplaited
it and brushed out the shining waves of lovely hair, and then said, with
a smile of satisfaction:

"Now, I guess there won't be anybody prettier than you to walk abroad
to-day."

"But I can't," said Connie--"I don't ever wear my 'air like that; it's
only young lydies as does that."

"Well, ain't you a lydy, and ain't I a lydy? You're going out with one,
and yer'll wear yer 'air as I please."

Connie shivered; but presently the little dark-blue cap was placed over
the masses of golden hair, the gray fur was fastened round the slender
throat, and Connie marched out with Mrs. Warren.

Mrs. Warren's own dress was in all respects the reverse of her pretty
young companion's. It consisted of a very voluminous silk cloak, which
was lined with fur, and which gave the already stout woman a most portly
appearance. On her head she wore a bonnet covered with artificial
flowers, and she enveloped her hands in an enormous muff.

"Now, off we go," said Mrs. Warren. "You'll enjoy yerself, my purty."

It is quite true that Connie did--at least, at first. This was the time
of day when, with the exception of Sundays, she was always buried from
view in the ugly warehouse. She was unaccustomed to the morning
sunshine, and she was certainly unaccustomed to the handsome streets
where Mrs. Warren conducted her.

They walked on, and soon found themselves in crowded thoroughfares. At
last they stopped before the doors of a great shop, into which crowds of
people were going.

"Oh, what a pretty girl!" said Connie to her companion.

A young girl, very like Connie herself--so like as to make the
resemblance almost extraordinary--was entering the shop, accompanied by
an old gentleman who was supporting himself by the aid of a gold-headed
stick. The girl also had golden hair. She was dressed in dark blue, and
had gray fur round her neck. But above the fur there peeped out a little
pale-blue handkerchief made of very soft silk.

"That's purty," whispered Mrs. Warren to Connie. "Yer'd like a
'andkercher like that--yer shall 'ave one. Get on in front o' me; you're
slimmer nor me; I want to push into the shop."

Connie obeyed. As she passed the fair young girl, the girl seemed to
notice the extraordinary likeness between them, for she turned and
looked at Connie and smiled. She also said something to her companion,
who also stared at the girl. But stout Mrs. Warren poked Connie from
behind, and she had to push forward, and presently found herself in the
shop.

There it seemed to her that Mrs. Warren did very little buying. It is
true she stopped at several counters, always choosing those which were
most surrounded by customers; it is true she pulled things about, poking
at the goods offered for sale, and making complaints about them, but
always keeping Connie well to the fore.

A delicate color had sprung into the girl's cheeks, and almost every one
turned to look at her. The shopmen turned; the shopgirls gazed; the
customers forgot what they wanted in their amazement at Connie's beauty.
Her hair, in especial, was the subject of universal admiration--its
thickness, its length, its marvelous color. The girl herself was quite
unconscious of the admiration which her appearance produced, but Mrs.
Warren knew well what a valuable acquisition she had made in little
Connie.

When they left the shop she seemed to be in high good-humor. But, lo and
behold! a change had taken place in the outside world. The sun, so
bright and glorious, had hidden himself behind a murky yellow fog, which
was coming up each moment thicker and thicker from the river.

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Warren.

"Oh dear!" cried Connie too. "We won't get lost, will us, ma'am?"

"Lost?" cried Mrs. Warren, with a sniff. "Now, I call this fog the most
beautiful fortunation thing that could have 'appened. We'll have a real
jolly morning now, Connie. You come along o' me. There, child--walk a
bit in front. Why, ye're a real, real beauty. I feel sort of ashamed to
be walkin' with yer. Let folks think that you're out with yer nurse, my
pretty. Yes, let 'em think that, and that she's screening yer from
misfortun' wid her own ample person."

Thus Connie walked for several hours that day. In and out of crowded
thoroughfares the two perambulated. Into shops they went, and out again
they came. Everywhere Connie went first, and Mrs. Warren followed very
close behind.

At last the good lady said that she had done her morning's shopping.
Connie could not well recall what she had bought, and the pair trudged
soberly home.

When they got there Mrs. Warren went straight to her own bedroom, and
Connie sat down by the fire, feeling quite tired with so much exercise.
Presently Mrs. Warren came out again. She had changed her dress, and had
put on an ample satin gown of black with broad yellow stripes. She was
in high good-humor, and going up to Connie, gave her a resounding smack
on the cheek.

"Now," she said, "yer won't think 'ard of poor Mammy Warren. See wot
I've gone an' got an' bought for yer."

Connie turned quickly. A soft little blue handkerchief, delicately
folded in tissue-paper, was laid on the table by the girl.

"Why--why--that ain't for me!" said Connie.

"Yes, but it be! Why shouldn't it be for you? I saw yer lookin' at that
purty young lydy who was as like yer as two peas. I watched 'ow yer
stared at the blue 'andkercher, and 'ow yer sort o' longed for it."

"But indeed--indeed I didn't."

"Anyhow, here's another, and yer can have it, and wear it peeping out
among yer fur. I take it that yer blue 'andkercher'll take the cake."

"Then you've bought it for me?" said Connie.

"Yus--didn't I zay so?"

"But I never seen yer do it," said Connie.

"Seen me do it?" said Mrs. Warren, her eyes flashing with anger. "You
was too much taken up with yer own conceits, my gel--hevery one staring
at yer, 'cos poor old Mammy Warren 'ad made yer so beautiful. But though
you was full to the brim o' yourself, I warn't so selfish; I were
thinkin' o' you--and yere's yer 'andkercher."

Connie took up the handkerchief slowly. Strange as it may seem, it gave
her no pleasure. She said, "Thank you, Mrs. Warren," in a subdued voice,
and took it into her little bedroom.

Connie felt that she did not particularly want to wear the handkerchief.
She did not know why, but a trouble, the first of the many troubles she
was to undergo in the terrible society of Mrs. Warren, came over her.
She went back again and sat down by the fire. During the greater part of
the afternoon the stout woman slept. Connie watched her furtively. A
strong desire to get up and run away seized her. Could she not get out
of that house and go back to Sue and Giles? How happy she would feel in
Giles's bare little room! How she would enjoy talking with the child!
With what wonder they would both listen to Big Ben as he spoke in that
voice of his the number of the hours! Giles would make up fairy-tales
for Connie to listen to. How Connie did love the "wonnerful" things he
said about the big "Woice"! One day it was cheerful, another day sad,
another day very encouraging, another day full of that noble influence
which the child himself so largely exercised. At all times it was an
angel voice, speaking to mankind from high above this sordid world.

It helped Giles, and it helped Connie too. She sat by the fire in this
well-furnished room and looked anxiously towards the door. Once she got
up on tiptoe. She had almost reached the door, but had not quite done
so, when Mrs. Warren turned, gave a loud snore, and opened her eyes. She
did not speak when she saw Connie, but her eyes seemed to say briefly,
"Well, don't you go any farther"; and Connie turned back into her small
bedroom.

Sharp at four o'clock Mrs. Warren started up.

"Now then," she said, "I'm goin' to get the tea ready."

"Can I help you, ma'am?" asked Connie. "Shall I make you some toast,
ma'am?"

"Toast?" cried Mrs. Warren. "Toast? Do you think I'd allow yer to spile
yer purty face with the fire beatin' on it? Not a bit o' it! You set
down there--it's a foine lydy you be, and I ha' to take care of yer."

"But why should yer do that, ma'am? I ain't put into the world to do
naught. I ha' always worked 'ard--father wanted me to."

"Eh?" said Mrs. Warren. "But I'm yer father and mother both now, and I
don't want yer to."

"Don't yer?" said Connie.

She sank down and folded her hands in her lap.

"I must do summut to whiten them 'ands o' yours," said Mrs. Warren; "and
I'm goin' to get yer real purty stockings an' boots to wear. You must
look the real lydy--a real lydy wears neat boots and good gloves."

"But I ain't a lydy," said Connie; "an' wots more," she added, "I don't
want to be."

"You be a lydy," said Mrs. Warren; "the Halmighty made yer into one."

"I don't talk like one," said Connie.

"No; but then, yer needn't speak. Oh lor'! I suppose that's Agnes
a-poundin' at the door. Oh, stand back, child, and I'll go to her."

Mrs. Warren opened the door, and Agnes stepped in.

"I ha' took French leave," she said. "I dunno wot they'll say at the
factory, but yere I be. You promised, you know, Mrs. Warren, ma'am, as I
shouldn't 'ave naught to do with factory life, niver no more."

"You needn't," said Mrs. Warren. "I ha' a deal o' work for yer to get
through; but come along into my bedroom and we'll talk over things."

Mrs. Warren and Agnes disappeared into the bedroom of the former, Mrs.
Warren having first taken the precaution to lock the sitting-room door
and put the key into her pocket. Poor Connie felt more than ever that
she was a prisoner. More than ever did she long for the old life which
she had lived. Notwithstanding her father's drinking bouts,
notwithstanding his cruelty and neglect, the free life, the above-board
life--even the dull, dull factory life--were all as heaven compared to
this terrible, mysterious existence in Mrs. Warren's comfortable rooms.

CHAPTER VIII.

COMPARISONS.

Mrs. Warren and Agnes talked together for quite three quarters of an
hour. When they came out of the bedroom, Mrs. Warren was wearing a
tight-fitting cloth jacket, which made her look more enormous even than
the cloak had done. She had a small black bonnet on her head, over which
she had drawn a spotted net veil. Her hands were encased in decent black
gloves, her skirt was short, and her boots tidy. She carried in her hand
a fair-sized brown leather bag; and telling Connie that she was "goin'
out," and would be back when she saw her and not before, left the two
girls alone in the little sitting-room.

After she had shut the door behind her, Agnes went over to it, and
possessing herself of the key, slipped it into her pocket. Then she
stared hard at Connie.

"Well," she said, "an' 'ow do yer like it?"

"I don't like it at all," answered Connie, "I want to go--I will go. I'd
rayther a sight be back in the factory. Mrs. Warren--she frightens me."

"You be a silly," said Agnes. "You talk like that 'cos you knows no
better. Why, 'ere you are as cosy and well tended as gel could be. Look
at this room. Think on the soft chair you're sittin' upon; think on the
meals; think on yer bedroom; think on the beautiful walk you 'ad this
morning. My word! you be a silly! No work to do, and nothing whatever to
trouble yer, except to act the lydy. My word! ef _you're_ discontent,
the world'll come to an end. Wish I were in your shoes--that I do."

"Well, Agnes, get into them," said Connie. "I'm sure you're more than
welcome. I'm jest--jest pinin' for wot you thinks naught on. I want to
see Giles and Sue and--and--father. You git into my shoes--you like
it--I don't like it."

Agnes burst into a loud laugh.

"My word!" she said, "you're be a gel and a 'arf. Wouldn't I jest jump
at gettin' into your shoes if I could? But there! yer shoes don't fit
me, and that's the truth."

"Don't fit yer, don't they?" exclaimed Connie. "Wot do yer mean by
that?"

"Too small," said Agnes, sticking out her ugly foot in its broken
boot--"too genteel--too neat. No one could make a lydy o' me. Look at my
'ands." She spread out her coarse, stumpy fingers. "Look at my face.
Why, yere's a glass; let's stand side by side, an' then let's compare.
Big face; no nose to speak of; upper lip two inches long; mouth--slit
from ear to ear; freckles; eyes what the boys call pig's eyes; 'air
rough and coarse; figure stumpy. Now look at you. Face fair as a lily;
nose straight and small; mouth like a rosebud; eyes blue as the sky. No,
Connie, it can't be done; what with that face o' yourn, and that gold
'air o' yourn, you're a beauty hout and hout. Yer face is yer fortoon',
my purty maid."

"My face ain't my fortune."

"Things don't fit, Connie. You ha' got to stay yere--and be a fine lydy.
That's the way you works for yer livin'--I ha' to work in a different
sort."

"What sort? Oh, do tel me!"

"No; that's my secret. But I've spoke out plain with the old woman, and
I'm comin' yere Saturday night--not to stay, bless yer! no, but to do
hodd jobs for her; for one thing, to look arter you when she's out. I
'spect she'll get Ronald back now you ha' come."

"Ronald!" cried Connie. "Who's he?"

"Never you mind; you'll know when yer see of 'im."

"Then I'm a prisoner," said Connie--"that's what it means."

"Well, well! take it like that ef yer like. Ain't it natural that Mrs.
Warren should want yer to stay now she ha' got yer? When yer stays
willin'-like, as yer will all too soon, then yer'll 'ave yer liberty.
Hin an' out then yer may go as yer pleases; there'll be naught to
interfere. Yer'll jest do yer dooty then, and yer dooty'll be to please
old Mammy Warren."

"Has my father missed me?" asked Connie, who saw by this time that she
could not possibly cope with Agnes; if ever she was to effect her escape
from this horrible place, it must be by guile.

"'Ow is father?" she asked. "'Ave he missed me yet?"

"Know nothing 'bout him. Don't think he have, for the boys, Dick and
Hal, was 'ome when I come back. They 'ad no news for me at all."

"You saw Sue to-day?"

"Yus, I saw her, an' I kep' well away from her."

"Agnes," said Connie in a very pleading voice, "ef I must stay 'ere--an'
I don't know wot I ha' done to be treated like this--will yer take a
message from me to little Giles?"

"Wot sort?" asked Agnes.

"Tell 'im straight from me that I can't come to see 'im for a few days,
an' ax him to pray for me; an' tell him that I 'ears the Woice same as
he 'ears the Woice, and tell 'im as it real comforts me. Wull yer do
that, Agnes--wull yer, now?"

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