Sue, A Little Heroine

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"Maybe," said Agnes; then after a pause she added, "Or maybe I won't. I
'ates yer Methody sort o' weak-minded folks. That's the worst o' you,
Connie; you're real weak-minded, for all ye're so purty, what wid yer
'prays' an' yer Woice, indeed!"

"Hark! it's sounding now," said Connie.

She raised her little delicate hand, and turned her head to listen. The
splendid notes filled the air. Connie murmured something under her
breath.

"I know wot Giles 'ud say 'bout the Woice to-night," she murmured.

But Agnes burst into a loud laugh.

"My word!" she said. "You 're talkin' o' Big Ben. Well, you be a
caution."

"_He that shall endure_," whispered Connie; and then a curious hidden
sunshine seemed to come out and radiate her small face. She folded her
hands. The impatience faded from her eyes. She sat still and quiet.

"Wot hever's the matter with yer?" asked Agnes.

"Naught as yer can understand, Aggie."

"Let's get tea," said Agnes. She started up and made vigorous
preparations. Soon the tea was served and placed upon the little
centre-table. It was an excellent tea, with shrimps and
bread-and-butter, and cake and jam. Agnes ate enormously, but Connie was
not as hungry as usual.

"Prime, I call it!" said Agnes. "My word! to think of gettin' all this
and not workin' a bit for it! You be in luck, Connie Harris--you be in
luck."

When the meal was over, and Agnes had washed up and made the place tidy,
she announced her intention of going to sleep.

"I'm dead-tired," she said, "and swallerin' sech a fillin' meal have
made me drowsy. But I ha' the key in my pocket, so don't you be trying
that little gime o'running away."

Agnes slept, and snored in her sleep, and Connie restlessly walked to
the window and looked out. When Big Ben sounded again her eyes filled
with tears. She had never spent such a long and dismal evening in her
life.

Mammy Warren did not return home until between ten and eleven o'clock.
Immediately on her arrival, Agnes took her departure. Mammy Warren then
locked the door, and having provided herself with a stiff glass of
whisky-and-water, desired Connie to hurry off to bed.

"Yer'll be losing yer purty sleep," she said, "and then where'll yer
be?"

The next day Connie again walked abroad with Mrs. Warren. Once more she
was dressed in the dark-blue costume, with her golden hair hanging in a
great fleece down her back. But when she made her appearance without
the little blue handkerchief, Mrs. Warren sent her back for it.

"I know wot I'm about," she said. "The blue in the 'andkercher'll add to
the blue in yer eyes. Pop it on, gel, and be quick."

Connie obeyed.

"I don't--want to," she said.

"And _w'y_ don't yer?"

The woman's voice was very fierce.

"I'm somehow sort o' feared."

"Take that for bein' sort o' feared," said Mrs. Warren; and she hit the
child so fierce a blow on the arm that Connie cried out from the pain.

Poor Connie was a very timorous creature, however, and the effect of the
blow was to make her meek and subservient. The blue handkerchief was
tied on and arranged to Mrs. Warren's satisfaction, and they both went
out into the open air.

They went by 'bus to quite a different part of the town on this
occasion, and Mrs. Warren again assured her little companion that she
had a great deal of shopping to get through.

"That is why I wear this cloak," she said; "I ha' bags fastened inside
to hold the things as I buy."

Once again they got into a crowd, and once again Connie was desired to
walk on a little way in front, and once again people turned to look at
the slim, fair child with her beautiful face and lovely hair. Once more
they entered several shops, and invariably chose the most crowded
parts--so crowded that Mrs. Warren whispered to Connie:

"We must wait till our turn, honey. We must ha' patience, dearie."

They had patience. Mrs. Warren did absolutely purchase half-a-dozen very
coarse pocket-handkerchiefs, keeping Connie close to her all the time.
One of these she straightway presented to the girl, saying in a loud
voice as she did so to the attendant:

"I'm out with the purty dear to give her exercise. I am her nurse. She
mustn't walk too far. No, thank you, mum, I'll carry the 'andkerchers
'ome myself; I won't trouble yer to send them to Portland
Mansions.--Now, come along, my dear; we mustn't waste our time in this
'ot shop. We must be hout, taking of our exercise."

They walked a very, very long way that morning, and Mrs. Warren,
contrary to her yesterday's plan, did now and then expend a few pence.
Whenever she did so she drew the shop people's attention to Connie,
speaking of her as her charge, and a "dear, delicate young lydy," and
begging of the people to be quick, as "'ot air" was so bad for the dear
child; and invariably she refused to allow a parcel to be sent to
Portland Mansions, saying that she preferred to carry it. At last,
however, she seemed to think that Connie had had sufficient exercise,
and they went home from the corner of Tottenham Court Road on the top of
a 'bus.

On their way Connie turned innocently to her companion and said:

"Why ever did yer say as we lived in Portland Mansions?" But a sharp
pinch on the girl's arm silenced her, and she felt more nervous and
frightened than ever.

The moment they got home, Mrs. Warren again returned to her bedroom, and
came back neatly dressed in a black and yellow silk, with a keen
appreciation of roast pork and apple sauce, which had been preparing in
the oven all the morning. Connie too was hungry.

When the meal came to an end Mrs. Warren said:

"More like a lydy you grows each minute. But, my dear, I must thank yer
nivver to open yer mouth when you're out, for yer ain't got the accent.
Yer must niver do it until yer has acquired the rightful accent."

"Was that why yer pinched me so 'ard when I axed why yer spoke o'
Portland Mansions?" asked Connie.

Mrs. Warren burst into a loud laugh.

"Course it were," she said. "Don't yer nivver do nothing o' that sort
agin."

"But we don't live in Portland Mansions. Why did yer say so?" asked
Connie.

"Ax no questions and yer'll be told no lies," was Mrs. Warren's
response.

She accompanied this apparently innocent speech with a look out of her
fierce black eyes which caused poor Connie's heart to sink into her
shoes. After a minute Mrs. Warren said:

"To-morrer's Saturday; we'll go out a bit in the morning, and then we'll
take train into the country. I promised yer a jaunt, and yer shall 'ave
it. I'm thinking a lot o' yer, my dear, and 'ow I can best help such a
beautiful young gel. Yer accent must be 'tended to, and the best way to
manage that is for you to have a refoined sort o' companion. Ronald is
that sort. We'll go and fetch 'im 'ome to-morrer."

"Whoever is Ronald?" asked Connie. "Do tell me, please," she added in an
interested voice, "for Agnes spoke of him yesterday."

"You wait till yer see," said Mrs. Warren. She nodded good-humoredly.

The rest of the day passed very much like the day before. It was again
intensely dull to poor Connie. She had nothing whatever to do but to
feed and sit still. Again Mrs. Warren slept until tea-time. Then Agnes
made her appearance, and Mrs. Warren went out in a tight-fitting coat,
and with a leather bag in her hand. Agnes made tea and scolded Connie;
and Connie grumbled and cried, and begged and begged to be given back
her liberty.

Mrs. Warren returned a little later than the night before. Agnes went
away; Mrs. Warren drank whisky-and-water, and Connie was sent to bed.
Oh, it was a miserable night! And would her own people ever find her?
Would Sue be satisfied that Connie was not quite lost? And would Father
John look for her? Dear, kind, splendid Father John! What would she not
give to hear his magnificent voice as he preached to the people once
again? Would not her own father search heaven and earth to find his only
child? He was so good to Connie when he was not drunk--so proud of her,
too, so glad when she kissed him so anxious to do the best he could for
her! Would he give her up for ever? "Oh dear, dear!" thought the poor
child, "if it was not for the Woice I believe I'd go mad; but the
Woice--it holds me up. I'm 'appy enough w'en I 'ears it. Oh, little
Giles, thank yer for telling me o' the wonnerful Woice!"

CHAPTER IX.

A TRIP INTO THE COUNTRY.

Saturday dawned a very bright and beautiful day. Mrs. Warren got up
early, and Connie also rose, feeling somehow or other that she was going
to have a pleasanter time than she had yet enjoyed since her
imprisonment. Oh yes, she was quite certain now that she was imprisoned;
but for what object it was impossible for her even to guess.

Mrs. Warren bustled out quite an hour earlier than usual. She did not go
far on this occasion. She seemed a little anxious, and once or twice, to
Connie's amazement, dodged down a back street as though she were afraid.
Her red face turned quite pale when she did this, and she clutched
Connie's arm and said in a faltering voice:

"I'm tuk with a stitch in my side! Oh, my poor, dear young lydy, I'm
afeered as I won't be able to take yer for a long walk this blessed
morning."

But when Connie, later on, inquired after the stitch, she was told to
mind her own business, and she began to think that Mrs. Warren had
pretended.

They reached Waterloo at quite an early hour, and there they took
third-class tickets to a part of the country about thirty miles from
London. It took them over an hour to get down, and during that time
Connie sat by the window wrapped in contemplation. For the first time
she saw green grass and hills and running water, and although it was
midwinter she saw trees which seemed to her too magnificent and glorious
for words. Her eyes shone with happiness, and she almost forgot Mrs.
Warren's existence. At last they reached the little wayside station to
which Mrs. Warren had taken tickets. They got out, and walked down a
winding country lane.

"Is this real, real country?" asked Connie.

"Yus--too real for me."

"Oh ma'am, it's bootiful! But I dunna see the flowers."

"Flowers don't grow in the winter, silly."

"Don't they? I thought for sure I'd see 'em a-blowin' and a-growin'. Yer
said so--yer mind."

"Well, so yer wull, come springtime, ef ye're a good gel. Now, I want to
talk wid yer wery serious-like."

"Oh ma'am, don't!" said poor Connie.

"None o' yer 'dont's' wid me! You ha' got to be very thankful to me for
all I'm a-doin' for yer--feedin yer, and cockerin' yer up, and makin' a
fuss o' yer, and brushing out yer 'air, and giving yer blue ties, and
boots, and gloves."

"Oh ma'am, yes," said Connie; "and I'm wery much obleeged--I am,
truly--but I'd rayther a sight rayther, go 'ome to father; I would,
ma'am."

"Wot little gels 'ud like isn't wot little gels 'ull get," said Mrs.
Warren. "You come to me of yer own free will, and 'avin' come, yer'll
stay. Ef yer makes a fuss, or lets out to anybody that yer don't like
it, I've a little room in my house--a room widdout no light and no
winder, and so far away from any other room that yer might scream
yerself sick and no one 'ud 'ear. Into that room yer goes ef yer makes
trouble. And now, listen."

Mrs. Warren gripped Connie's arm so tight that the poor child had to
suppress a scream.

"I know wot ye're been saying to Agnes--a-grumblin' and a-grumblin' to
Agnes, instead o' down on yer knees and thankin' the Almighty that
yer've found Mammy Warren. I know all about it: Yer'll stop that--d'yer
'ear--d'yer 'ear?"

"Yus, ma'am," said Connie.

"Do yer, promise?"

"Yus, ma'am," said the poor child again.

"I'll see as yer keeps it--yer little good-for-nothing beggar maid as
I'm a-pamperin' of! Don't I work for yer, and toil for yer? And am I to
have naught but grumbles for my pains? Yer won't like that room--an'
it's there!"

"I won't grumble," said Connie, terrified, and not daring to do anything
but propitiate her tyrant.

Mrs. Warren's manner altered.

"Wull," she said, "I ha' brought yer down all this long way to 'ave a
plain talk, and I guess we 'ave 'ad it. You please me, and I'll do my
dooty by you; but don't please me, and there ain't a gel in the whole of
Lunnon'll be more misrubble than you. Don't think as yer'll git aw'y,
for yer won't--no, not a bit o' it. And now I've something else to say.
There's a young boy as we're goin' to see to-day. 'Is name is Ronald;
he's a special friend o' mine. I ha' had that boy a-wisiting o' me afore
now, but he were took bad with a sort of fever. My word! din't I nurse
him--the best o' good things didn't I give 'im! But his narves went
wrong, and I sent him into the country for change of hair. He's all
right now. He's a very purty boy, same as you're a purty gel, and I'm
goin' to bring him back to be a companion for yer."

"Oh ma'am!"

"Yus," said Mrs. Warren. "Yer'll like that, won't yer?"

"Oh yus, ma'am."

"Wull, now--we'll be calling at the cottage in a few minutes, and wot I
want yer to do is to have a talk with that yer boy. Ye're to tell him as
I'm wonnerful good; ye're to tell him the sort o' things I does for yer.
The poor boy--he got a notion in his head w'en he had the fever--that
I--I--Mammy Warren--wor cruel to him. You tell him as there ain't a word
o' truth in it, for a kinder or more motherly body never lived. Ef yer
don't tell him that, I'll soon find out; an' there's the room without
winders an' without light real 'andy. Now--do yer promise?"

These words were accompanied by a violent shake.

"Do yer promise?"

"Yus, I promise," said Connie, turning white.

Mrs. Warren had an extraordinary capacity for changing her voice and
manner, even the expression of her face. While she had been extracting
two promises from poor Connie, she looked like the most awful, wicked
old woman that the worst parts of London could produce; but when on two
points Connie had faithfully promised to yield to her wishes, she
immediately altered her tactics, and became as genial and affectionate
and pleasant as she had been the reverse a few minutes back.

"I believes yer," she said, "and you're a real nice child, and there
won't be any one in the 'ole of Lunnun 'appier than you as long as yer
take the part of poor old Mammy Warren. Now then, yere's the cottage,
and soon we'll see the little man. He'll be a nice companion for yer,
Connie, and yer'll like that, won't you?"

"Oh yes, ma'am," said Connie.

She was not a London child for nothing. She had known a good deal of its
ups and downs, although nothing quite so terrible as her present
position had ever entered into her mind. But she saw clearly enough that
the only chance of deliverance for her, and perhaps for the poor little
boy, was to carry out Mammy Warren's injunctions and to keep her promise
to the letter. Accordingly, when Mrs. Warren's knock at the cottage door
was answered by a kind-looking, pale-faced woman, Connie raised her
bright blue eyes to the woman's face and listened with deep interest
when Mrs. Warren inquired how the poor little boy was.

"Is it Ronald?" said the woman, whose name was Mrs. Cricket. "He's ever
so much better; he's taken kindly to his food, and is out in the woods
now at the back of the house playing all by himself."

"In the woods is he, now?" said Mrs. Warren. "Well, I ha' come to fetch
him 'ome."

"Oh ma'am, I don't think he's as strong as all that."

"I ha' come to fetch him 'ome by the wishes of his parients," said Mrs.
Warren. "I suppose," she added, "there's no doubt in yer moind that I
'_ave_ come from the parients of the boy?"

"Oh no, ma'am--none, o' course. Will you come in, and I'll fetch him?"

"Is he quite right in the 'ead now?" said Mrs. Warren as she and Connie
followed Mrs. Cricket into the cottage.

"He's better," said that good woman.

"No talk o' dark rooms and nasty nightmares and cruel old women? All
those things quite forgot?" asked Mrs. Warren.

"He ain't spoke o' them lately."

"Well then, he's cured; he's quite fit to come 'ome. This young lydy is
a r'lation o' hisn. I ha' brought her down to see 'im, and we'll all
travel back to town together.--You might go and find him, my dear," said
Mrs. Warren, turning to Connie, and meanwhile putting her finger to her
lips when Mrs. Cricket's back was turned in order to enjoin silence on
the girl.

"You run out into the woods, my purty, and find the dear little boy and
bring him back here as fast as yer like."

"Yes, missy," said Mrs. Cricket, opening the back door of the cottage,
"you run out, straight up that path, and you'll find little Ronald."

Connie obeyed. She was glad to be alone in order to collect her
thoughts. A wild idea of running away even now presented itself to her.
But looking back, she perceived that Mrs. Warren had seated herself by
the kitchen window and had her bold eyes fixed on her retreating little
figure. No chance of running away. She must trust to luck, and for the
present she must carry out Mrs. Warren's instructions.

Presently she came up to the object of her search--an exceedingly
pretty, dark-haired boy of about ten years of age. His face was pale,
his features regular, his eyes very large, brown, and soft, like rich
brown velvet. He did not pay much attention to Connie, but went on
laying out a pile of horse-chestnuts which he had gathered in rows on
the ground.

"Be your name Ronald?" said Connie, coming up to him.

He looked at her, then sprang to his feet, and politely took off his
little cap.

"Yes, my name is Ronald Harvey."

"I ha' come to fetch yer," said Connie.

"What for?" asked the boy.

"It's Mammy Warren," said Connie in a low tone.

"What?" asked the child.

His face, always pale, now turned ghastly white.

"She's such a nice woman," said Connie.

She sat down by Ronald.

"Show me these purty balls," she said. "Wot be they?"

"Chestnuts," said the boy. "Did you ever see them before? That was not
true what you said about--about----"

"Yus," said Connie, "it is true. I'm a little gel stayin' with her now,
and you--I want you to come back with me. She's real, real kind is Mammy
Warren."

The boy put his hand up to his forehead.

"You seem a nice girl," he said, "and you look like--like a lady, only
you don't talk the way ladies talk. I'm a gentleman. My father was an
officer in the army, and my darling mother died, and--and something
happened--I don't know what--but I was very, very, very ill. There was
an awful time first, and there seemed to be a woman called Mammy Warren
mixed up in the time and----"

"Oh, you had fever," said Connie, "and you--you pictured things to
yourself in the fever. But 'tain't true," she added earnestly. "I'm wid
her, an' she's real, real, wonnerful kind."

"You wouldn't tell a lie, would you, girl?" said the boy.

Connie bit her lip hard.

"No," she said then in a choked voice.

"I wonder if it's true," said the boy. "It seems to me it was much more
than the fever, but I can't--I can't _quite_ remember."

"She is very kind," echoed Connie.

"Children, come along in," said a cheerful voice at that moment; and
Connie, raising her eyes, saw the sturdy form of Mrs. Warren advancing
up the path to meet her.

"She was terrible cruel in my time," said Ronald, glancing at the same
figure. "I don't want to go back."

"Oh, do--do come back, for my sake!" whispered Connie.

He turned and looked into the beautiful little face.

"Boys have to be good," he said then, "and--and brave. My father was a
very brave man." Then he struggled to his feet.

"Well, Ronald," said Mrs. Warren, "and 'ow may yer be, my dear little
boy? This is Connie, a cousin o' yourn. Wot playmates you two wull be!
Ye're both comin' back with me to my nice 'ome this wery arfternoon. And
now Mrs. Cricket 'as got a meal for us all and then yer little things'll
be packed, Ronald, and I'll carry 'em--for in course yer nurse ought to
carry yer clothes, my boy. We'll get off to the train as fast as ever we
can arter we've had our meal. Now, children, foller me back to the
cottage."

Mrs. Warren sailed on in front. Connie and Ronald followed after, hand
in hand. There was quite a splendid color in Connie's pale cheeks now,
for all of a sudden she saw a reason for her present life. She had got
to protect Ronald, who was so much younger than herself. She would
protect him with her very life if necessary.

CHAPTER X.

THE RETURN TO LONDON.

Mrs. Warren made a very hearty meal. She swallowed down cup after cup of
strong coffee, and ate great hunches of thick bread-and-butter, and
called out to the children not to shirk their food.

But, try as they would, neither Connie nor Ronald had much appetite.
Connie, in spite of herself, could not help casting anxious glances at
the little boy, and whenever she did so she found that Mrs. Warren had
fixed her with her bold black eyes. It seemed to Connie that Mrs.
Warren's eyes said quite as plainly as though her lips had spoken:

"I'll keep my word; there's the room with no winder and no light in
it--yer'll find yerself in there ef yer don't look purty sharp."

But notwithstanding the threatening expression of Mrs. Warren's eyes,
Connie could not restrain all sign of feeling. Ronald, on the other
hand, appeared quite bright. He devoted himself to Connie, helping her
in the most gentlemanly way to the good things which Mrs. Cricket had
provided.

"The apple jam is very nice," he said. "I watched Mrs. Cricket make
it.--Didn't I, Mrs. Cricket?"

"That you did, my little love," said the good woman. "And I give you a
little saucer of it all hot and tasty for your tea, didn't I, my little
love?"

"Oh yes," replied Ronald; "and didn't I like it, just!"

"Jam's wery bad for little boys," said Mrs. Warren at this juncture.
"Jam guvs little boys fever an' shockin' cruel dreams. It's
bread-and-butter as little boys should heat, and sometimes bread without
butter in case they should turn bilious."

"Oh no, ma'am, begging your pardon," here interrupted Mrs. Cricket; "I
haven't found it so with dear little Master Ronald. You tell his
parients, please, ma'am, that it's milk as he wants--lots and lots of
country milk--and--and a chop now and then, and chicken if it's young
and tender. That was 'ow I pulled 'im round.--Wasn't it, Ronald, my
dear?"

"Yes," said Ronald in his gentlemanly way. "You were very good indeed,
Mrs. Cricket."

"Perhaps," interrupted Mrs. Warren, drawing herself up to her full
height, which was by no means great, and pursing her lips, "yer'll 'ave
the goodness, Mrs. Cricket, to put on a piece o' paper the exact diet
yer like to horder for this yere boy. I'm a busy woman," said Mrs.
Warren, "and I can't keep it in my 'ead. It's chuckens an' chops an'
new-laid heggs--yer did say new-laid heggs at thruppence each didn't
yer, Mrs. Cricket?--an' the richest an' best milk, mostly cream, I take
it."

"I said nothing about new-laid eggs," said Mrs. Cricket, who was
exceedingly exact and orderly in her mind; "but now, as you 'ave
mentioned them, they'd come in very 'andy. But I certain did speak of
the other things, and I'll write 'em down ef yer like."

"Do," said Mrs. Warren, "and I'll mention 'em to the child's parients
w'en I see 'em."

But at this juncture something startling happened, for Ronald, white as
a sheet, rose.

"Has my father come back?" he asked. "Have you heard from him? Are you
taking me to him?"

Mrs. Warren gazed full at Ronald, and, quick as thought, she adopted his
idea. Here would be a way--a delightful way--of getting the boy back to
her dreadful house.

"Now, ain't I good?" she said. "Don't I know wot a dear little boy
wants? Yus, my love, ye're soon to be in the harms of yer dear parient."

"But you said both parients," interrupted Mrs. Cricket.

Mrs. Warren put up her finger to her lips. She had got the boy in her
arms, and he found himself most unwillingly folded to her ample breast.

"Ain't one enough at a time?" was her most dubious remark. "And now
then, Ronald, hurry up with yer things, for Connie and me, we must be
hoff. We could leave yer behind, ef yer so wished it, but Lunnun 'ud be
a much more convenient place for yer to meet yer father."

"Oh I'll go, I'll go!" said Ronald. "My darling, darling father! Oh, I
did think I'd never see him again! And he's quite well, Mrs. Warren?"

"In splendid, splendid health," said Mrs. Warren. "Niver did I lay eyes
on so 'andsome a man."

"And I'll see him to-night?" said Ronald.

"Yus--ef ye're quick."

Then Ronald darted into the next room, and Mrs. Cricket followed him,
and Connie and Mrs. Warren faced each other. Mrs. Warren began to laugh
immoderately.

"Young and tender chuckens," she said, "an' chops an' new-laid heggs an'
milk. Wotever's the matter with yer, Connie?"

Connie answered timidly that she though Ronald a dear little boy, and
very pretty, and that she hoped that he would soon get strong with the
nourishing food that Mrs. Warren was going to give him. But here that
worthy woman winked in so mysterious and awful a manner that poor Connie
felt as though she had received an electric shock. After a time she
spoke again.

"I'm so glad about his father!" she said. "His father was a hofficer in
the harmy. Will he really see him to-night, Mrs. Warren?"

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