Sue, A Little Heroine

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"Yer've no time to faint, ma'am," said Agnes. "'Ere--let me slap yer on
the back."

She gave two resounding whacks on Mrs. Warren's stout back, which caused
that woman to heave a couple of profound sighs and then to recover her
presence of mind.

She and Agnes then retired into her bedroom, where drawers were hastily
opened, and much commotion was heard by the two prettily dressed and
waiting children. In another minute or two Agnes came out alone.

"Wull," she said, "and 'ow be you, Connie?"

"I am all right," said Connie. "Where's Mammy Warren?"

"She's tuk bad, and won't want yer to go out a-walkin' with her to-day.
Oh my! oh my! how spry we be! It 'minds me o' the old song, 'As
Willikins were a-walkin' wid his Dinah one day.'"

"Agnes," said Connie, "I'm certain sure as there's some'ut wrong."

"Be yer now?" said Agnes. "Wull then, ye're mistook. Wot could be wrong?
Ye're a very queer and suspicious gel, Connie Harris--the most
suspicious as I hever see'd. Ye're just for all the world the most
selfish gel as could be found in the whole o' Lunnun. Pore Mammy Warren
was told of the sudden death of her sister, and that's all the sympathy
you guvs her. Wery different she behaves to you and Ronald. 'Hagnes,'
says she, 'tike those pore children for a run,' says she, 'and bring
them 'ome safe in time for dinner,' says she, 'an' give 'em some roast
mutton for dinner, poor darlin's,' says Mammy Warren; and then she falls
to cryin', and 'Oh, my sister!' she says, and 'Oh, poor Georgina!' she
sobs. Now then, the pair of yer--out we goes, and I'll go wid yer."

Quick as thought Agnes accomplished her purpose, and the two prettily
dressed children--Connie with her hair down her back, Ronald looking
like a little prince--found themselves in the street. But if the two
children thought that they had the slightest chance of running away they
were terribly mistaken, for Agnes proved even a sharper taskmistress
than Mrs. Warren. She seemed to Connie to have suddenly got quite old
and very cruel and determined. She walked the children here, and she
walked them there. They peered into shop windows and got into crowds,
but they did no shopping that morning. Connie was rather glad of that,
and now she was so accustomed to being stared at that she hardly took
any notice; while as to Ronald, his sweet brown eyes looked full up into
the face of every gentleman who passed, in the faint hope of discovering
his father again.

It seemed to Connie that they were out longer than usual; but at last
they did come back. Then, to their great surprise, they found the door
of Mammy Warren's sitting-room wide opened.

"My word! 'ow can this 'ave 'appened?" said Agnes.

They all went in, and Agnes went straight to the bedroom. She came out
presently, wearing a very grave face, and told the children that she
greatly feared poor Mammy Warren had gone off her head with grief--that
there wasn't a sign of her in the bedroom, nor anywhere in the house.

"And she's took her things, too," said Agnes. "Wull, now--wull, I must
go and search for her. Yer dinner's in the oven, children, and I'll come
back to see 'ow yer be sometime to-night, p'rhaps."

"Wull Mammy Warren come back to-night?" asked Connie.

"I don't know--maybe the poor soul is in the river by now. She wor took
wery bad, thinkin' of her sister, Georgina. I'll lock yer in, of course,
children, and yer can eat yer dinner and think o' yer mercies."

CHAPTER XII.

LEFT ALONE.

When Agnes went out the two children stared at each other.

"Connie," said Ronald, "I wish you'd tell me the real, real truth."

But Connie was trembling very much. "Don't yer ax me," she said. She
suddenly burst into tears. "I am so dreadfully frightened," she cried.
"I don't think I ever wor so frightened in all my life before. You're
not half so frightened as I am, Ronald."

"Of course not," said Ronald, "for I am a boy, you see, and I'll be a
man by-and-by. Besides, I have to think of father--father would have
gone through anything. Once he was in a shipwreck. The ship was really
wrecked, and a great many of the passengers were drowned. Father told me
all about it, but it was from a friend of father's that I learned
afterwards how splendid he was, saving--oh, heaps of people! It was that
night," continued Ronald, sitting down by the fire as he spoke, his eyes
glowing with a great thought, and his little face all lit up by the
fire-light--"it was that night that he first found out how much he
loved mother; for mother was in a great big Atlantic liner, and it was
father who saved her life. Afterwards they were married to each other,
and afterwards I came to them--God sent me, you know."

"Yus," said Connie.

She dried her eyes.

"Go on talking, Ronald," she said. "I never met a boy like you. I
thought there were no one like Giles, but it seems to me some'ow that
you're a bit better--you're so wonnerful, wonnerful brave, and 'ave such
a cunnin' way of talkin'. I s'pose that's 'cos you--you're a little
gen'leman, Ronald."

Ronald made no answer to this. After a minute he said:

"There's no thanks to me to be brave--that is, when I'm brave it's all
on account of father, and 'Like father, like son.' Mother used to teach
me that proverb when I was very small. Shall I tell you other things
that father did?"

"Oh yus, please," said Connie.

"He saved some people once in a great big fire. No one else had courage
to go in, but he wasn't afraid of anything. And another time he saved a
man on the field of battle. He got his V. C. for that."

"Wotever's a V. C.?" inquired Connie.

"Oh," said Ronald, "don't you even know that? How very ignorant you are,
dear Connie. A V. C.--why, it's better to be a Victoria Cross man than
to be the greatest noble in the land. Even the King couldn't be more
than a Victoria Cross man."

"Still, I don't understand," said Connie.

"It's an honor," said Ronald, "that's given for a very, very brave deed.
Father had it; when he comes back he'll show you his Victoria Cross;
then you'll know."

"Do yer think as he'll come soon?" asked Connie.

"He may come to-day," said Ronald--"or he may not," he added, with a
profound sigh.

The little boy had been talking with great excitement, but now the color
faded from his cheeks and he coughed a little. He had coughed more or
less since that dreadful day when Mrs. Warren had taken him out in the
snowstorm. He was always rather a delicate child, and after his bad
fever he was not fit to encounter such misery and hardship.

"Connie," he said after a time, "it's the worst of all dreadful things,
isn't it, to pretend that you are what you aren't?"

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

"Well, it's this way. You praise me for being brave. I am not brave
always; I am very frightened sometimes. I am very terribly frightened
now, dear Connie."

"Oh Ronald!" said Connie, "if you're frightened hall's hup."

"Let me tell you," said Ronald. He laid his little, thin hand on the
girl's arm. "It's about father. Do you think, Connie, that Mammy Warren
could have invented that story about him?"

"I dunno," said Connie.

"But what do you think, Connie? Tell me just what you think."

"Tell me what you think, Ronald."

"I am afraid to think," said the child. "At first I believed it, just as
though father had spoken himself to me. I thought for sure and certain
he'd be waiting for me here. I didn't think for a single moment that
he'd be the sort of father that would come and stand outside in the
landing and go away again just because I wasn't here. For, you see, I am
his own little boy; I am all he has got. I know father so well, I don't
believe he could do that kind of thing."

"Oh, but you can't say," answered Connie. "Certain sure, it seemed as
though Agnes spoke the truth."

"I thought that too; only father's a very refined sort of man, and he'd
never, never chuck Mrs. Warren under the chin."

"Agnes might have invented that part," said poor Connie. But in her
heart of hearts she had long ago given up all hope of Ronald's father
coming to fetch him.

"She might," said Ronald; "that is quite true; and he might have had to
go to the country--perhaps to rescue some one in great danger. He is the
sort who are always doing that. That's quite, quite likely, for it would
be in keeping with father's way. And he'd like me, of course, to be
unselfish, and never to make a fuss--he hated boys who made a fuss. Oh
yes, I did believe it; and on Saturday night and on Sunday, when Big Ben
talked to us, it seemed that it was mother telling me that father would
soon be with me. But a whole week has gone and he hasn't come. Why, it's
Saturday night again, Connie. I've been back again in this house for a
whole week now, and father has never, never come."

"Maybe he'll come to-night," said Connie.

"I don't think so; somehow I'd sort of feel it in my bones if he was
coming back."

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

"Oh, I'd be springy-like and jumpy about. But I'm not. I feel--oh, so lazy
and so--so tired! and a little bit--yes, a greatbit--frightened--terribly
frightened."

"You must cheer up, Ronald," said Connie. Then she added, "I wish we
could get out o' this. I wish I could pick the lock and get aw'y."

"Oh, I wish you could, Connie," said the child. "Couldn't you try?"

"I'm a'most afeered to go into Mammy Warren's room," said Connie; "for
ef she did come back and see me any time, she'd punish me awful; but
p'r'aps I might find tools for picking the lock in her room."

"Oh, do let's try!" said Ronald.

Connie half-rose, then sat down again.

"It's me that's the coward now," she said.

"Oh, how so, Connie?"

"'Cos," said Connie, "there's that dark room with no winder--'tain't a
dream, Ronald."

"I thought it wasn't," said Ronald, turning white.

"No--it's there," said Connie, "and I'm afeered o' it."

Ronald sat very still for a minute then. He was thinking hard. He was
only a little boy of ten years old, but he was a very plucky one. He
looked at Connie, who although a little older than he, was very slight
and small for her age.

"Connie," he said, "if you and I are ever to make our escape we must not
be frightened. Even the dark closet won't frighten me now. _I_ am going
into Mrs. Warren's room."

"Oh Ronald! Are you? Dare you?"

"Yes, I dare. Father did worse things than that--why should I be
afraid?"

"You'd win the V. C., Ronald, wouldn't you, now?"

Ronald smiled.

"Not for such a little, little thing. But perhaps some day," he said;
and his eyes looked very bright. "Connie, if we can unpick the lock and
get the door open, where shall we go?"

"We'll go," said Connie in a brisk voice, "back to Father John as fast
as ever we can."

"Father John," said Ronald--"who is he?"

"I told you, Ronnie--I told you about him."

"I forgot for a minute," said Ronald. "You mean the street preacher."

"Yus," said Connie. "'E'll save us. There's no fear o' Mammy Warren
getting to us ever again ef he takes us in 'and."

Ronald smiled.

"The only thing I'm afraid of is this," he said--"that if it's true
about father, he may come here and find me gone."

"Let's leave a note for him," said Connie then. "Let's put it on the
table. If Mammy Warren should come back she'll find the note, but that
won't do any harm, for she knows Father John, and she's awful afeered of
him, 'cos she said as much, so she'd never follow us there."

"The very thing!" said Ronald. "Let's get some paper. Will you write the
note, Connie?"

The children poked round in the sitting-room, and found a sheet of very
thin paper, and an old pen, and a penny bottle of ink. Ronald dictated,
and Connie wrote:

"DEAR FATHER,--I've waited here for a week. I am trying to be very
brave. Connie's an awful nice girl. We've picked the lock here, father,
and we've gone to Father John, in Adam Street. Please come quick, for
your little boy is so very hungry for you. Come quick, darling
father.--Your little waiting boy, RONALD."

"That'll bring him," said Ronald. "We'll put it on the table."

Connie had written her letter badly, and there were several blots; but
still a feat was accomplished. Her cheeks were bright with excitement
now.

"What shall I put outside?" she asked--"on the envelope, I mean."

Ronald thought for a minute; then he said in a slow and impressive
voice:

"To Major Harvey, V. C., from Ronald."

"Nobody can mistake who it's meant for," said Ronald.

"Here's a bit of sealing-wax," said Connie. "Let's seal it."

They did so, Connie stamping the seal with a penny thimble which she
took out of her pocket.

"And now," said Ronald, pulling himself up, "all is ready, and I am
going into Mammy Warren's room to try and find tools for picking the
lock."

"I'm a-goin' with yer," said Connie.

"Oh Connie, that is brave of you."

"No," said Connie, "it 'ud be real cowardly to let yer go alone."

Hand in hand the two children crossed the ugly sitting-room, and opened
the door which led into that mysterious apartment known as Mammy
Warren's room. It certainly was a very strange-looking place. There was
no bed to be seen anywhere, which in itself was surprising. But Connie
explained to Ronald that the huge wooden wardrobe was doubtless a
press-bed which let down at night.

"She'd keep all kinds of things at the back of the bed," said the
practical Connie, who had seen several similar arrangements in the
houses of the poor.

This room, however, although ugly and dark--very dark--seemed to be
suspiciously bare. The children had turned on the gas--for evening had
already arrived--and they could see with great distinctness.

Mammy Warren owned the upper part of this tenement-house, and no one
ever came up the creaking stairs except to visit her. The children
therefore knew that if there was a footstep they would be in danger.
Connie, however, assured Ronald that she could put out the light and be
innocently seated by the fire if Mammy Warren did arrive unexpectedly.

All was silence, however, on the creaking stairs, and they were able to
resume their search. The chest of drawers stood with all its drawers
open and each one of them empty. No sort of tool could the children
find. The yellow and black silk dress had disappeared, but the
disreputable old beggar's clothes hung on the peg behind the door. There
was also a very ancient bonnet, which was hung by its strings over the
dress. Otherwise there was not a scrap of anything whatever in the room
except the press bedstead, which the children could not possibly open,
and the empty chest of drawers.

"But here," said Connie, "is a door. P'rhaps it's a cupboard door."

"Let's try if it will open," said Ronald.

He turned the handle. The door shot back with a spring, and the boy's
face turned pale.

"The dark closet!" said Connie. "The dark, dark room without a winder!"

Ronald caught hold of Connie's hand and squeezed it tightly. After a
minute he said in a husky voice:

"Come away."

Connie shut the mysterious closet door. The children turned out the gas
in Mammy Warren's bedroom, and went back to the sitting-room. Here they
crouched down, pale and trembling, before the fire.

"Don't, Ronnie--don't," said Connie.

"Hold me very tight, Connie," said the little boy.

She did so, pressing him to her heart and kissing his little face. After
a minute tears came to his eyes, and he said in a sturdy tone:

"Now I am better. It was wrong of me to be so frightened."

"Hark--there's the Woice!" said Connie.

They sat very still while Big Ben proclaimed the hour of nine.

"What does he say?" asked Ronald, turning round and looking at Connie.

"I know," said Connie, a light on her pretty face. "Father John preached
on it once. I know wot Big Ben's a-sayin' of to-night."

"Tell me," said Ronald.

"_He that shall endure_," said Connie. "Yes, Connie," repeated
Ronald--"'He that shall endure'----"

"_To the end_," said Connie, "_shall be saved_," she added.

"Oh Connie!" cried the boy. "Do you really, really think so?"

"Father John says it, and Father John couldn't tell a lie," continued
the girl. "He says that is one of God's promises, and God never made a
mistake. 'He that shall endure to the end--shall be saved.'"

"Then," said Ronald, "if _we_ endure _we_ shall be saved."

"Yes," replied Connie.

"You're not frightened, then?"

"Not after that," said Connie.

"How can you tell that _was_ what Big Ben said?"

"'Eard him," said Connie.

She unclasped Ronald's arms from her neck and stood up.

"I'm better," she said; "I'm not frightened no more. Sometimes it's 'ard
to endure--Father John says it is. But ''E that _shall_ endure to the
end'--to the _end_--he made a great p'int o' that--'shall be saved.'"

"Then _we'll_ be saved," said Ronald.

"Yus," answered Connie.

She looked down at the little boy. The boy was gazing into the fire and
smiling. Connie put on some fresh lumps of coal, and the fire broke into
a cheerful blaze. It did not matter at all to the good coal whether it
burned out its heart in an attic or a palace; wherever it was put to do
its duty, it did it. Now gay little flames and cheerful bursts of
bubbling gas rendered even the hideous room bright.

"W'y, it's long past tea!" said Connie. "I'll put on the kettle and
we'll have our tea, Ronald. Maybe Aggie'll be back in a minute, and
maybe she'd like a cup o' tea."

Connie put on the kettle, and then went to the cupboard to get out the
provisions. These were exceedingly short. There was little more than a
heel of very stale bread, and no butter, and only a scrape of jam; but
there was a little tea in the bottom of the tea-canister, and a little
coarse brown sugar in a cup.

Connie laid the table quite cheerfully.

"We'll toast the bread," she said. "Tea and toast is famous food."

She got an old, bent toasting-fork, and she and Ronald laughed and even
joked a little as they browned the stale bread until it was quite crisp
and tempting-looking.

"I'd ever so much rather have this tea than a great, big, grand one with
Mammy Warren," said Connie.

"Yes, Connie," said the boy; "so would I."

They had no milk with their tea, but that was, after all but a small
circumstance. They scraped out the jam-pot and spread its contents on
the hot toast, and contrived to enjoy the slender meal to the utmost.

Ronald said nothing about breakfast the next morning; he doubtless did
not even give it a thought. But Connie remembered it well, although she
took care not to allude to it.

Ten o'clock struck, and still Agnes did not appear. Eleven, twelve--and
no sign either of Mammy Warren or the girl.

"Shall we go to bed?" said Ronald.

"Let's bring our beds and lay 'em on the floor," said Connie, "in this
room. Some'ow I don't think as Mammy Warren 'ull come back to-night. She
wouldn't 'ave tuk all her things ef she meant to come; would she,
Ronald?"

"I don't know," said Ronald. He was very sleepy, for the hour was
terribly late for so young a child to be awake.

After a little reflection Connie decided only to drag his bed into the
front room. She could lie on the floor by his side, wrapped up in a
blanket. The fire was built up with the last scrap of coal in the hod,
and then Ronald lay down without undressing. Connie begged of him to
take off his clothes, but he said to her:

"Maybe father'll come in the middle of the night. I somehow feel as if
something must happen to-night, and I don't want not to be ready."

Connie therefore only removed his shoes. She tucked the blankets round
him, and said, "Good-night, Ronnie."

"What is that verse?" asked Ronald again. "'He that shall endure to the
end'----"

"'Shall be saved,'" finished Connie.

When she came to these words she noticed that little Ronald was sound
asleep. Connie changed her mind about lying down. She sat on the floor
by the boy's side, laid her head on the pillow close to his, and also
dropped asleep.

Big Ben called out the hour but the children slept. Perhaps the Voice
spoke to them in their dreams, for they smiled now and then. Doubtless
they were far away in those dreams from the dreadful attic, from the
influence of a most cruel woman, from hunger and cold. The fire burned
to a fine red glow, and then cooled down and grew gray and full of
ashes, and eventually went out. For it had burned its heart out trying
to help the children; and without a heart, even fire cannot keep alive.

But the two children slept on, although Ronald now stirred uneasily and
coughed in his sleep. It seemed to Connie that she also was oppressed by
something, as though a great and terrible nightmare were sitting on her
chest. Ronald coughed louder and opened his eyes.

"Connie, Connie--where are we?" he cried.

Connie sat up with a stare.

"I be stiff," she began, "and--and cold. Wotever's the hour? Bide a bit,
Ronald, and I'll find the matches and turn on the gas."

"What's the matter with the room?" said Ronald.

"I don't know nothing," said Connie.

"My eyes smart," said Ronald, "and I can't breathe."

"I feel queer too," said Connie. "I won't be a second finding out,
though. You lie quiet."

She groped about, found a match-box, which still contained a few
matches, struck a light, and applied it to the gas, which was at full
pressure now, and roared out, making a great flame.

"W'y, the room's full o' smoke," said Connie. "Wottever can it be?"

Ronald sat up in bed, opening his eyes.

"Where does it come from?" he said. "The fire is out."

Just then Big Ben proclaimed the hour of three.

"He that shall endure," thought Connie. "To the end," darted through
Ronald's mind; and just then both children heard an unmistakable and
awful roar. Was it the roar of human voices or the roar of something
else--a devouring and awful element? Connie turned white. Now, if ever,
was the time to be brave.

"I'll open the winder and look out," she said.

She sprang towards it and, with a great effort, pushed it half up. The
moment she did so, the noise from without came louder, and the noise
from within was more deafening.

"Fire! fire!" shouted a multitude of people from below in the street;
and "Fire! fire!" cried the frenzied inhabitants of the old
tenement-house. Connie and Ronald were on the top story. Connie went
back to Ronald.

"The house is on fire, Ronnie!" she said. "But we mustn't be frightened,
either of us; we must think of the grand verse, and of what Big Ben
said. Big Ben's an angel, you mind; Giles knows all about that."

"Oh yes," said Ronald, his teeth chattering; for the draught from the
open window, although it relieved his breathing, made him intensely
cold. "It's a beautiful verse, isn't it, Connie?" he continued.

"Yus," said Connie. "Let's get to the winder, Ronnie dear. We'll call
out. There are people down in the street. The fire-engines 'ull be on in
a minute; we'll be saved, in course."

"Oh, of course," said Ronnie. He staggered to the floor, and put his
feet into his shoes. "A good thing I wasn't undressed," he said.

"Yus," said Connie. "Now, let's get to the winder."

The children staggered there. The smoke was getting more dense; the room
was filling faster and faster with the horrible, blinding, suffocating
thing. But at the window there was relief. Connie put out her head for a
minute, and then quickly drew it back.

"There's flames burstin' out o' the winders," she said. "I wish as the
firemen 'ud come."

The children clung to one another. Just then, above the roar of the
flames and the screams of the people, something else was distinctly
audible. The fast approach of horses; the gallant figures of men in
brass helmets: the brave firemen--members of the noblest brigade in the
world--were on the spot.

"It's hall right," said Connie. "They've come. Don't yer be a bit
frightened, Ronnie; we'll soon be out o' this. You ax Giles w'en you see
him wot _'e_ thinks o' firemen. '_Es_ father were one. Oh, there's no
fear now that they've come!"

She pressed close to the window and put out her head and shoulders.
Ronald did likewise. The men out in the street were acting promptly. The
hose were brought to bear on the increasing flames. But all to no
purpose; the house was past saving. Was any one within?

"No," said a woman down in the crowd; "hevery soul is out, even to my
last biby--bless him!"

She gave a hysterical cry, and sat down on a neighboring doorstep.

But the firemen of the London Brigade are very careful to ascertain for
themselves whether there is any likelihood of loss of life.

"Has any one come down from the top floor?" asked a tall young man. He
had a splendid figure--broad, square shoulders, and a light and athletic
frame--which showed at once that he was the very best possible sort of
fireman.

Just then the flames burst out more brightly than ever, and Connie, with
her fair hair surrounding her little face, and Ronald clinging to her
hand, were both distinctly seen.

"My God!" cried the firemen, "there are children up there. Put the
escape up at once--don't lose an instant--I am going up to them."

"You can't; it's certain death," said one or two. Several other voices
were also raised in expostulation. But if any one in that crowd supposed
that they were going to turn George Anderson, the bravest fireman in
London, from his purpose, they were mistaken.

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