Sue, A Little Heroine

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"Will the sky fall?" was Mrs. Warren's ambiguous answer. "Once for all,
Connie, you ax no questions an' you'll be told no lies."

A very few moments afterwards Ronald came out of the little bedroom,
prepared for his journey. Mrs. Cricket cried when she parted with him,
but there were no tears in the boy's lovely eyes--he was all smiles and
excitement.

"I'll bring my own, own father down to see you, Mrs. Cricket," he said;
"maybe not to-morrow, but some day next week. For you've been very good
to me, darling Mrs. Cricket."

Then Mrs. Cricket kissed him and cried over him again, and the scene
might have been prolonged if Mrs. Warren had not caught the boy roughly
by the shoulder and pulled him away.

As they were marching down the tiny path which led from the cottage to
the high-road, Mrs. Cricket did venture to say in an anxious voice:

"I s'pose as Major Harvey'll pay me the little money as I spended on the
dear child?"

"That he will," said Mrs. Warren. "I'll see him to-night, most like, and
I'll be sure to mention the chuckens and the chops."

"Well then, good-bye again, darling," said Mrs. Cricket. Ronald blew a
kiss to her, and then, taking Connie's hand, they marched down the
high-road in the direction of the railway station, Mrs. Warren trotting
by their side, carrying the small bundle which contained Ronald's
clothes all tied up neatly in a blue check handkerchief.

"Yer'll be sure to tell yer father wot a good nurse I were to you,
Ronald," she remarked as they found themselves alone in a third-class
carriage.

"You're quite sure it _was_ only a dream?" said Ronald then very
earnestly.

"Wot do yer mean by that, chile?" inquired Mrs. Warren.

"I mean the dark room without any light, and the dreadful person
who--who--flogged me, and--the hunger."

"Poor little kid!" said Mrs. Warren. "Didn't he 'ave the fever, and
didn't Mammy Warren hold him in her arms, an', big boy that he be,
walked up and down the room wid him, and tried to soothe him w'en he
said them nasty lies? It wor a dream, my dear. W'y, Connie here can tell
yer 'ow good I am to 'er."

"Wery good," said Connie--"so good that there niver were no one better."

She tumbled out the words in desperation, and Mammy Warren gave her a
radiant smile, and poked her playfully in the ribs, and said that she
was quite the funniest gel she had ever come acrost. After this Connie
was quite silent until the little party found themselves at Waterloo.

Here they mounted to the top of a 'bus, and Ronald, trembling with
delight, clutched hold of Connie's hand.

"Stoop down," he said; "I want to whisper." Connie bent towards him. "Do
you think my father will be waiting for me when we get back to Mrs.
Warren's?"

"I don't know," was the only reply poor Connie could manage to give him.

At last the omnibus drive came to an end, and the trio walked the short
remaining distance to Mrs. Warren's rooms. Ronald almost tumbled
upstairs in his eagerness to get there first.

"Oh, how will he get in? I do hope he's not been waiting and gone away
again."

Mrs. Warren opened the door with her latch key. The room was dark, for
there was neither fire-light nor gas-light; but soon these deficiencies
were supplied, for Mrs. Warren was exceedingly fond of creature
comforts.

"I wonder when he'll come," said Ronald. He was standing by the table
and looking anxiously with his big brown eyes all round him. "I do
wonder when he'll come."

Mrs. Warren made no reply. She began to prepare supper. As she did so
there came a knock at the door. Mrs. Warren went to open it. She had an
eager conversation with some one who stood without, and then she and
Agnes entered the room together. Ronald evidently knew Agnes, for he
shrank away from her and regarded her arrival with the reverse of
pleasure.

"Wull--and 'ow yer?" said Agnes in a cheerful tone.

She chucked Ronald under the chin and remarked on his healthy
appearance.

"Wull," said Mrs. Warren, "yer can't blame the pore child for that,
seein' as he 'ave been cockered up on the best food in the
land--chuckens and chops, no less."

"Oh, dear me! how shockin' greedy you must be!" said Agnes. "I'm sure,
ma'am," she continued, turning to Mrs. Warren, "no one could desire
better than wot _you_ 'as to eat."

"I like my own food," said Mrs. Warren, "although it be simplicity
itself. There are two red 'errin's for supper to-night, and
bread-and-butter and tea, and a _little_ raspberry jam, and ef that
ain't enough for anybody's palate, I don't know----"

"My father, when he comes"--began Ronald, but here Mrs. Warren turned to
him.

"You're a manly boy, Ronald," she said, "and I know you'll tike wot I
'ave to say in a manly sperrit. Yer father have been called out o'
Lunnon, and won't be back for a day or two. He sent a message by Agnes
'ere. He don't know the exact day as he'll be back, but he'll come wery
soon."

"Yes," said Agnes, "I seen him."

"Where?" asked Ronald.

"In the street," said Agnes. "He come along 'ere an hour back. Ef you'd
been 'ome he might ha' took yer back with him; but w'en he found that
you was still in the country he wor that pleased 'is whole face seemed
to smile, and he said--said 'e, 'Dear Mammy Warren--I'd like to chuck
her under her chin.' Them was his wery words."

"I don't believe my father would say that sort of thing," answered
Ronald.

"Oh my!" said Agnes. "Highty-tighty! Don't yer go an' say as I tells
lies, young man----"

"An' it's the wery thing he would say," interrupted Mrs. Warren, "for a
plainer-spoken, more hagreeable man than the Major niver drew breath."

"He left yer a message," continued Agnes, "an' yer can tike it or leave
it--I don't care. Wot he said wor this. You're to obey Mammy Warren, an'
be wery grateful to her, an' do jest wot she tells yer until he comes
'ome. He'll be 'ome any day, an' he'll come an' fetch yer then, and the
more good yer be to Mammy Warren the better pleased he'll be."

Ronald sat down on a little stool. He had sat on that stool before. He
looked with dim eyes across the over-furnished, hot, and terribly ugly
room. That vision of delight which had buoyed him up all the way back to
London was not to be realized for a few days. He must bear with Mrs.
Warren for a few days. It did not enter into his head that the whole
story about his father was false from beginning to end. The present
disappointment was quite enough for so young a child to bear.

After this Mrs. Warren and Agnes conversed in semi-whispers, and
presently they retired into Mrs Warren's bedroom, and Connie and Ronald
were alone.

"I am glad yer've come 'ere, Ronald," said Connie.

"Yes," said Ronald. He pressed his little white hand against his
forehead.

"You're missing your father, I know," continued Connie, "Somehow I'm
a-missing o' mine."

"Have you a father, Connie?" asked the little boy.

"Yus--that I 'ave," said Connie. "Not a great, grand gentleman like
yourn, but a father for all that."

"Is your father in London?" asked the boy.

"Oh yes," answered Connie, "and not far from 'ere, nayther."

"Then why aren't you with him?" asked Ronald.

"'Cos I can't be," replied Connie in a low whisper.

"Hush!" said Ronald.

Just then the door opened and Agnes came out. Mrs. Warren followed her.
Mrs. Warren wore her usual tight-fitting jacket, but on this occasion
Agnes carried a leather bag, which seemed to be stuffed so full that it
was with difficulty it could be kept shut.

Mrs. Warren addressed the two children.

"I'm goin' to lock you two in," she said, "an' you'd best go to bed.
There's a little bed made up in your room, Connie, for Ronald to sleep
in; and as you're a deal older than that sweet little boy, you'll nurse
him off to sleep, jest as though he wor your real brother. Arter he's
asleep you can go to bed yerself, for there's nothing like early hours
for beauty sleep. You yere me, Connie? You know wot to do?"

"Yus," answered Connie. Her voice was almost cheerful. She was so truly
glad that Mrs. Warren was going out. When she heard the key turning in
the lock, and knew that she and Ronald were locked in all alone, she
scarcely seemed to mind, so glad was she of Ronald's company. Neither
child spoke to the other until the retreating footsteps of Mrs. Warren
and Agnes ceased to sound on the stairs.

Then Connie went up to Ronald, and kneeling down by him put her arms
round him and kissed him.

"You're very pretty," said the little boy, "although you don't talk
like a lady. But that doesn't matter," he added, "for you've got a
lady's heart."

"I love you, Ronald," was Connie's answer.

Ronald now put his own arms round Connie's neck and kissed her once or
twice on her peach-like cheek, and then they both sat down on the floor
and were happy for a few minutes in each other's company. After that
Ronald began to speak. He told Connie about his father and about his
mother. He did not cry at all, as most children would have done, when he
spoke of those he loved so dearly.

"Mother's dead nearly a year now," he said. "It was waiting for father
that killed her. Father went out to a dreadful war in South Africa, and
we heard that he was killed. Mother wouldn't believe it; she never did
believe it--never--and she taught me not to, and I never did. But, all
the same, it killed her."

"And then wot became of you?" asked Connie.

"I was taken here," replied Ronald. "That's three or four months ago
now. I remember quite well being out walking with my nurse. She wasn't
very nice, my nurse wasn't; but she was--oh, so good and kind compared
to--what--what happened afterwards! Darling mother was dead. They had
put her body in the grave, and the angels had got her soul. I didn't
like to think of the grave, but I did love to remember the angels. The
last thing mother said when she was dying was, 'Ronald, when your father
comes back, be sure you tell him that I never believed that he was
really dead.'"

"I promised her, and then she said again, 'And you'll never believe it
either, Ronald.' And I said that I never, never would, if it was a
thousand years. And then she kissed me and smiled; and I s'pose the
angels took her, for she never spoke any more."

"Well," said Connie, who did not want Ronald to dwell too long on this
very sad scene, "tell us 'bout the day you come 'ere."

"Mother was in her grave," said Ronald, "and there was no one who
thought very much about me; and my nurse--she was not half as kind as
when mother lived. One day she took me for a walk. We went a long, long
way, and presently she asked me to wait for her outside one of those
awful gin-palaces. She used to go in there sometimes, even when mother
was alive. Well, I waited and waited outside, but she never came out. I
was not a bit frightened at first, of course, for my father's boy
mustn't be a coward, must he, Connie?"

"No," answered Connie.

"But she didn't come out, and it got late, and people began to look at
me, and by-and-by Mammy Warren came out of the gin-palace. She was--oh,
so red in the face! and I thought I'd never seen so dreadfully stout a
woman. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, 'Wotever are you doing
here?' And I said, 'I'm waiting for my nurse, Hannah Waters.' And she
said, 'Oh, then, _you're_ the little boy!' And I stared at her, and she
said, 'Pooh Hannah's took bad, and she's asked me to take you home. Come
along at once, my dear.'

"I went with her. I wasn't a bit frightened--I had never been frightened
in all my life up to then. But she didn't take me home at all. She
brought me to this house. She was very kind to me at first, in a sort of
a way, and she told me that my relations had given me to her to look
after, and that I was to be her little boy for the present, and must do
just what she wanted."

"Well--and wot did she want?" asked Connie, trembling not a little.

"It wasn't so dreadful bad at first," continued Ronald. "She used to
take me out every day for long walks, and she made me look very nice;
and we went into shops, for she said she wanted to buy things, but I
don't think she ever did buy much. I used to be tired sometimes; we
walked such a very long way."

"And did she ever make you go a little, tiny bit in front of her?" said
Connie.

"Why, yes," replied Ronald. "But I rather liked that, for, you see, I'm
a gentleman, and she's not a lady."

"I wonder," said Connie, "ef she spoke of herself as your old nurse."

Ronald began to laugh.

"How clever of you to think of that, Connie! She always did; and
whenever she did buy things she said they were for me; and she used to
give--oh, tremendous grand addresses of where I lived."

"Portland Mansions, p'r'aps?" said Connie.

"Sometimes that, and sometimes other places; but of course the parcels
were never sent there; she always carried them herself."

"And she wore a big, big cloak, with pockets inside?" asked Connie.

"Yes, she did--she did."

"She does just the same with me now," said Connie. "I go out with her
every day, and we go into the big shops--into the most crowded
parts--and she doesn't buy much. I like that the best part of the day,
for all the rest of the time I have to stay here and do nothing."

"And so had I to stay in these rooms and do nothing," said Ronald. "But
I won't have to stay long now," he continued, "as my dear, dear father
has come home. Oh! I wish darling mother were alive, that she might feel
as happy as I do to-night."

"But tell me, Ronald," continued Connie, "how was it yer got the fever?"

"I don't quite remember that part," said the little boy. "All that part
was made up of dreams. There was a dreadful dream when I seemed to be
quite well, and when I said something before some one, and Mammy Warren
turned scarlet; and when I was alone she--she flogged me and put me
into a dark, dark room for--oh! it seemed like--for ever. And I had
nothing to eat, and I was so frightened--for she said there was a bogy
there--that I nearly died. I didn't like to be frightened, for it seemed
as though I couldn't be father's own son if I were afraid. But I was
afraid, Connie--I was. I'll have to tell darling father about it when I
see him; I'm sure he'll forgive me, more particular when he knows the
whole thing was only a fever dream--for there's not any room in this
house like that, is there, Connie."

"Yes, but there be," thought Connie. But she did not say so aloud.

That night Ronald slept as peacefully as though he were really back
again with his father. But Connie lay awake. Anxious as she had been
before Ronald's arrival, that state of things was nothing at all to her
present anxiety.

The next day was Sunday, and if it had not been for Big Ben the two poor
children would have had a most miserable time, for they were shut up in
Mrs. Warren's room from morning till night. In vain they begged to be
allowed to go out. Mrs. Warren said "No," and in so emphatic a manner
that they did not dare to ask her twice.

Agnes did not come at all to the house on Sunday, and Connie and Ronald
finally curled themselves up in the deep window-ledge, and Connie talked
and told Ronald all about her past life. In particular she told him
about Big Ben, and little Giles, and the wonderful, most wonderful
"Woice." After that the children had a sort of play together, in which
Ronald proved himself to be a most imaginative little person, for he
invented many fresh stories with regard to Big Ben, assuring Connie that
he was much more than a voice. He would not be at all surprised, he said
if Big Ben was not a great angel who came straight down from heaven
every hour to comfort the sorrowful people in Westminster. Ronald
thought it extremely likely that this wonderful angel knew his own
mother, and was on this special Sunday telling him to be a brave boy and
keep up his heart, for most certainly he would be safe back with his
father before another Sunday came.

"That's what he says," continued Ronald, "and that's what'll happen,
you'll see, Connie. And when darling father comes here you shall come
away too, for I won't leave you alone with Mammy Warren. She's not a
real kind person, is she, Connie?"

"Don't ax me," said Connie. Ronald looked up into her face.

"You can't tell a lie at all well," he said. "You're trying to make me
think that Mammy Warren's nice, but you're not doing it well, for I
don't believe you."

Then the big clock once again tolled the hour, and Ronald laughed with
glee.

"There's no doubt about it now," he said. "Father _is_ coming, and very,
very soon. Oh I am glad, and happy!"

During that Sunday the children had very little food, for Mrs. Warren
seemed all of a sudden to have changed her tactics. Whether it was the
fact that she was really angry at Mrs. Cricket's having fed the boy on
chicken and mutton-chops, no one could tell; but all he did have on that
eventful Sunday was weak tea, stale bread and butter, and a very little
jam.

Towards evening the two poor little creatures were really hungry.
By-and-by they clasped each other round the neck, and fell asleep in
each other's arms. It was in this condition--curled up near the
fire--that Mrs. Warren found them when she got home.

CHAPTER XI.

A NEW DEPARTURE.

With Monday morning, however, all things seemed to have altered. Mrs.
Warren was up spry and early. She called Connie to come and help her,
but she desired Ronald to lie in bed.

"It's a nasty day," she said; "there's sleet falling. We'll go out, of
course, for fresh air is good for children, but we must none of us wear
our best clothes."

"What do yer mean by that?" said Connie.

"Don't you go and ax me wot I mean; just do wot I tells yer. No
dark-blue dress for yer to-day, missy. I ha' got a old gownd as 'ull fit
yer fine."

Poor Connie trembled. Mrs. Warren went into her bedroom.

"'Ere, now," she said, "you put it on."

The old gown was certainly not at all nice. Its color was quite
indescribable. It was very ragged and torn, too, round the bottom of the
skirt. It dragged down in front so as almost to trip poor Connie when
she tried to walk, and was several inches too short in the back.

Mrs. Warren desired Connie to take off her dainty shoes and stockings,
and gave her some stockings with holes in them, and some very
disreputable shoes down at the heel. She made her pin across her chest a
little old shawl of an ugly pale pattern, and instead of allowing her to
wear her hair in a golden fleece down her back, she plaited it, and tied
it into a little bunch at the back of her head. She then put an old
bonnet on the child's head--a bonnet which must have once belonged to
quite an elderly woman--and tied it with strings in front. Connie felt
terribly ashamed of herself.

"I'm all in rags," she said, "jest as though I wor a beggar maid."

"I've a fancy that yer shall wear these 'ere clothes to-day," said Mrs.
Warren. "Yer've been a fine lydy too long; yer'll be a beggar maid
to-day. W'en I tell yer wot to do in the street, yer'll do it. You can
sing, I take it. Now then, you learn the words."

Mrs. Warren planted down before Connie the well-known words of "Home,
Sweet Home."

"I know this without learning it," said the girl.

"An' you 'as a good woice, I take it."

"Middlin'," replied Connie.

"Wull, sing it for me now."

Connie struck up the familiar words, and so frightened was she that in
real desperation she acquitted herself fairly well.

"You'll take a treble, an' the little boy 'ull do likewise, and I'll
take a fine, deep second. Ah! _I_ know 'ow to sing," said Mrs. Warren.

"You won't take little Ronald out on a dreadful sort o' day like this,"
said Connie.

"Wen I want yer adwice I'll ax fur it," said Mrs. Warren, with most
withering sarcasm.

Poor Connie felt her heart suddenly fit to burst. What new and dreadful
departure was this? Mrs. Warren now brought Ronald into the front room,
and there she arrayed him in garments of the poorest type, allowing his
little thin legs to be quite bare, and his very thin arms to show
through his ragged jacket. She posed, however, a little red cap on the
midst of his curly dark hair; and this cap most wonderfully became the
child, so that few people could pass him in the street without noticing
the sweetness of his angelic face. Then Mrs. Warren prepared herself for
the part she was to take. She went into her bedroom for the purpose, and
returned looking so exactly like a stout old beggar woman that the
children would scarcely have known her. She had covered her left eye
with a patch, and now only looked out on the world with her right one.
Her hair was knotted untidily under a frowsy old bonnet, and a very thin
shawl was bound across her ample breast.

"We'll do fine, I take it," she said to the children. "I am your mother,
my dears; you'll both 'old me by the 'and. Purtier little lambs couldn't
be seen than the two of yez. And ef poor, ugly Mammy Warren 'ave made
herself still uglier for yer sweet sakes, 'oo can but love 'er for the
ennoblin' deed? Wull, come along now, children; but first I'll build up
the fire, for we'll be 'ungry arter this 'ere job."

The fire was built up to Mrs. Warren's satisfaction, and the three went
downstairs. Ronald was quite speechless with shame--to go out like this,
to disgrace his brave father and his darling mother in this sort of
fashion, was pure torture to the boy; but Connie, in the thought of him
and the fear that he would take cold, almost forgot her own misery.

The three did not go anywhere by 'bus that day, but hurried down side
alleys and back streets until they got into the region of Piccadilly.
The children had not the least idea where they were. Suddenly, however,
they came to a pause outside a large hotel, and there Mrs. Warren struck
up the first note of "Home, Sweet Home."

She had timed everything well. The policeman was at the other end of his
beat, and she would not be molested for quite ten minutes. The
quavering, ugly notes of the old woman were well subdued, and Connie had
a really fine voice, and it rose high on the bitter air in sweet,
childish appeal and confidence. Ronald, too, was struck with a sudden
thought. That hotel was a sort of place where father used to live when
he was alive. Who could tell if his father himself might not have
returned, and might not be there, and might not hear him if he sang loud
enough and sweet enough?

The voice of the boy and the voice of the girl blended together, and
Mrs. Warren skilfully dropped hers so as not to spoil the harmony. The
people in the hotel were attracted by the sweet notes, and crowded to
the windows. Then Connie's face of purest beauty--Connie's face rendered
all the more pathetic by the old bonnet and the dreadful, tattered
dress--and Ronald with his head thrown back, his red cap held in his
hand, the white snow falling in flakes on his rich dark hair, made
between them a picture which would melt the hardest heart. Sixpences and
even shillings were showered from the windows, and as the last note of
"Home, Sweet Home" died away Mrs. Warren pocketed quite a considerable
harvest.

She and the children then moved on and did likewise before several other
large buildings, but they were not so successful again as they had been
with their first attempt. The police came back sooner than they were
expected. Ronald began to cough, too, and Connie's face looked blue with
cold. Mrs. Warren, however, was not disappointed. She spoke
encouragingly and protectingly to the children.

"Come 'ome, loveys," she said; "come 'ome, my little dears."

They did get home--or, rather, they got back to the dreadful house where
they were imprisoned--late in the afternoon, Ronald almost speechless
with cold and fatigue, Connie trembling also, and aching in every limb.

But now unwonted comforts awaited them. Mrs. Warren had no idea of
killing off these sources of wealth. She put Ronald into a hot bath, and
rubbed his limbs until they glowed, and then moved his little bed in
front of the fire and got him into it. Connie was also rubbed and dried
and desired to dispense with her beggar's toilet.

Afterwards there was quite a good dinner of roast pork with crackling
and apple sauce, and dreadful as their position was, both the poor
children enjoyed this meal as they had never enjoyed food before.

Thus a few days went by, the children going out every morning with Mrs.
Warren sometimes as beggar children, but sometimes again as children of
the well-to-do. These two programmes formed the most interesting part of
their little lives. For the rest of the day they sat huddled up
together, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, while each day a bigger
and bigger ache came into Ronald's heart. Why, oh why did not his father
come to fetch him?

But as all things come to an end, so the children's life in Mrs.
Warren's dreadful attics came to an abrupt conclusion.

One day, just as they were dressed to go out, there came a hurried knock
at the door. It seemed to Connie, who was very sharp and observant, that
Mrs. Warren did not much like the sound. She went to the door and,
before opening it, called out, "Who's there?"

"Agnes," was the reply; whereupon Mrs. Warren opened the door a few
inches, and Agnes squeezed in, immediately locking the door behind her.
She whispered something into Mrs. Warren's ear, which caused that good
woman to turn deadly white and stagger against the wall.

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