Sue, A Little Heroine

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"That little angel face, and the face of the boy by her side!" he said
once or twice under his breath. And then up and up he went--up and
up--the children in the burning room (for the flames had broken out
behind them now) watching and watching. His fear was that they might
fall from their perilous position. But they had both crept out on to the
window-ledge.

"Courage, courage!" he shouted to them. "Hold tight--I'll be there in a
minute!"

"The window is so hot!" gasped Connie.

"Think--think of the Voice," whispered Ronald.

He closed his eyes. In another minute he would have been beyond all
earthly succor, and up in those beautiful realms where angels live, and
his mother would meet him. But this was not to be.

In less than an instant a firm hand rescued the two children from their
perilous position, and they were brought down to the ground uninjured.
Ronald fainted in that descent, but Connie kept her consciousness. They
were out of Mammy Warren's awful house. She had a queer sense as though
she had been delivered from a worse danger even than fire.

People crowded round, and presently the tall fireman came up.

"What is your name?" he said to Connie.

"Connie," she replied.

"Well, Connie," he answered, "it was the sight of your beautiful face in
the window that gave me courage to save yer. Now, do you want to have a
shelter for yourself and your little brother to-night?'

"Thank you, sir," said Connie. The man pulled a card--it looked just
like a gentleman's visiting card--out of his pocket.

"Will you take that," he said, "to No. 12 Carlyle Terrace? It's just
round the corner. Take your little brother with you. There are two bells
to the house. Look for the one that has the word 'Night' written under
it. It used to be a doctor's house, but there's no doctor there now. My
mother will understand--give her that card, and tell her what has
happened. Good night."

He turned away. It was some time before Connie and Ronald could get rid
of the many neighbors who volunteered help, and who regarded the two
pretty children as the hero and heroine of the hour. Offers of a
shake-down for the night, of a hasty meal, of a warm fire, came to
Connie from all sorts of people. But she had made up her mind to follow
out the directions of the tall fireman, and saying that she had friends
at No. 12 Carlyle Terrace, she and Ronald soon started off to go to the
address the fireman had given them.

They were both too excited to feel the effects of all they had gone
through at first, but when they reached the house, and Connie pressed
the button of the bell which had the word "Night" written under it, she
was trembling exceedingly.

"Why are we coming here?" asked Ronald.

"I dunno," said Connie. "Seems as though a hangel was with us all the
time."

"I expect so," answered Ronald in a very weak voice.

"And," continued Connie, "he's a-leadin' of us 'ere."

They had pressed the bell, and quickly--wonderfully quickly--they heard
steps running down the stairs; and the door was opened by a tall
woman--very tall and very thin--with a beautiful pale face and soft
motherly eyes.

"What is it?" she asked. "What is the matter? Oh, my poor little dears!
And how you smell of fire! Have you been in a fire?"

"Please, ma'am," said Connie, "be yer the mother o' Mr. George
Anderson--the bravest fireman, ma'am? He told me to give yer this card,
ma'am."

"I am Mrs. Anderson. Oh, of course, if he's sent you----"

"_'E_ saved us from the fire, ma'am," said Connie.

"Come in, you poor little things," said Mrs Anderson. She drew the
children in; she shut the door behind them. It seemed to Connie when
that door shut that it shut out sorrow and pain and hunger and cold; for
within the house there was warmth--not only warmth for frozen little
bodies, but for tired souls.

Mrs. Anderson was one of the most motherly women in London; and George,
her son, knew what he was about when he sent the children to her.

Soon they were revived with warm baths and with hot port-wine and water,
and very soon afterwards they were both lying in beds covered with linen
sheets that felt soft and fine as silk. But Mrs. Anderson sat by them
both while they slept, for she did not like the look on the boy's face,
and felt very much afraid of the shock for him.

"The little girl can stand more," she said to herself. "She's a
beautiful little creature, but she's a child of the people. She has been
accustomed to hardships all her life; but with the boy it's
different--he's a gentleman by birth. Something very cruel has happened
to him, poor little lad! and this seems to be the final straw."

Mrs. Anderson was a very wise woman, and her fears with regard to little
Ronald were all too quickly realized. By the morning the boy was in a
high state of fever. A doctor was summoned, and Mrs. Anderson herself
nursed him day and night. Connie begged to be allowed to remain, and her
request was granted.

"For the present you shall stay with me," said Mrs. Anderson. "I don't
know your story, nor the story of this little fellow, but I am
determined to save his life if I can."

"I can tell yer something," said Connie. "Little Ronald's a real
gent--_'e's_ the son of a hofficer in 'Is Majesty's harmy, an' the
hofficer's name is Major Harvey, V. C."

"What?" cried Mrs. Anderson. She started back in amazement. "Why, I knew
him and his wife," she said. "I know he was killed in South Africa, and
I know his dear wife died about a year ago. Why, I've been looking for
this child. Is your story quite true, little girl?"

"Yus, it's quite true," said Connie. "But tell me--do tell me--is his
father really dead?"

"I fear so. It is true that his death was not absolutely confirmed; but
he has been missing for over two years."

"Ma'am," said Connie, "wot do yer mean by his death not bein'
confirmed?"

"I mean this, little girl," said Mrs. Anderson--"that his body was never
found."

"Then he ain't dead," said Connie.

"What do you mean?"

"I feel it in my bones," said Connie, "same as Ronald felt it in his
bones. _'E_ ain't dead."

Mrs. Anderson laid her hand on the girl's pretty hair.

"I am getting in a real trained nurse to look after Ronald Harvey," she
said. "If he's the son of my old friend, more than ever is he my care
now; and you this evening, little Connie, shall tell me your story."

This Connie did. When she had described all that had occurred to her
during the last few weeks, Mrs. Anderson was so amazed that she could
hardly speak.

"My poor child!" she said. "You can't guess what terrible dangers you've
escaped. That dreadful woman was, without doubt, a member of a large
gang of burglars. Several have been arrested within the last day or two,
and I have no doubt we shall hear of her soon at the police courts."

"Burglars?" said Connie--"burglars? Them be thieves, bean't they?"

"Yes--thieves."

"But what could she do with us?" said Connie.

"She used you for her own purposes. While people were looking at you,
she was doubtless picking their pockets. Don't think any more about it,
dear, only be thankful that you have escaped. And now, don't you feel
very anxious about your father and your old friends?"

"Yus," said Connie. "I'd like to go home. I'd like them to know once for
all what happened."

"Would you like to go back to-night? You can return to me, you know. I
shall be up with Ronald until far into the night."

Connie rose swiftly.

"You're not afraid of the streets, my poor little child?"

"Oh no, ma'am. I'm only quite an ordinary girl. I ha' learnt my
lesson," continued Connie. "I were real discontent wid my life at the
factory, but I'll be discontent no more."

"You had a sharp lesson," said Mrs. Anderson. "I think God wants you to
be a particularly good and a particularly brave woman, or He wouldn't
have let you go through so much."

"Yes, ma'am," answered Connie; "and I'll try 'ard to be good and brave."

CHAPTER XIII.

PETER HARRIS.

While Connie was going through such strange adventures in Mammy Warren's
attic room, her father, Giles, and Sue, and dear Father John were nearly
distracted about her.

Peter Harris was a rough, fierce, unkempt individual. He was fond of
drink. He was not at all easily impressed by good things; but, as has
been said before, if he had one tender spot in his heart it was for
Connie. When he drank he was dreadfully unkind to his child; but in his
sober moments there was nothing he would not do for the pretty,
motherless girl.

As day after day passed without his seeing her, he got nearly frantic
with anxiety. At first he tried to make nothing of her disappearance,
saying that the girl had doubtless gone to visit some friends; but when
a few days went by and there were no tidings of her, and Sue assured him
that she not only never appeared now at the great warehouse in Cheapside
where they used to work together, but also that she had been seen last
with Agnes Coppenger, and that Agnes Coppenger had also disappeared from
her work at the sewing-machine, he began to fear that something bad had
happened.

Father John was consulted, and Father John advised the necessity of at
once acquainting the police. But although the police did their best,
they could get no trace whatever either of Agnes or of Connie.

Thus the days passed, and Connie's friends were very unhappy about her.
Her absence had a bad effect on Peter, who, from his state of grief and
uneasiness, had taken more and more consolation out of the gin-palace
which he was fond of frequenting. Every night now he came home tipsy,
and the neighbors were afraid to go near. Soon he began to abuse Connie,
to say unkind things about her, and to fly into a passion with any
neighbor who mentioned her name.

Giles shed silent tears for his old playmate, and even the voice of Big
Ben hardly comforted him, so much did he miss the genial companionship
of pretty Connie. But now at last the girl herself was going home. She
had no fear. She was full of a wild and yet terrible delight. How often
she had longed for her father! Connie had a great deal of imagination,
and during the dreadful time spent at Mother Warren's, and in especial
since Ronald had come, she began to compare her father with Ronald's,
and gradually but surely to forget the cruel and terrible scenes when
that father was drunk, and to think of him only in his best moments when
he kissed her and petted her and called her his dear little motherless
girl.

Oh, he would be glad to see her now! He would rejoice in her company.

Connie quickly found the old house in Adam Street, and ran up the
stairs. One or two people recognized her, and said, "Hullo, Con! you
back?" but being too busy with their struggle for life, did not show any
undue curiosity.

"Is my father in?" asked Connie of one.

The man said, "He be." And then he added, "Yer'd best be careful. He
ain't, to say, in his pleasantest mood to-night."

Connie reached the well-known landing. She turned the handle of the
door. It was locked. She heard some one moving within. Then a rough
voice said:

"Get out o' that!"

"It's me, father!" called Connie back. "It's Connie!"

"Don't want yer--get away!" said the voice.

Connie knelt down and called through the keyhole:

"It's me--I've 'ad a dreadful time--let me in."

"Go 'way--don't want yer--get out o' this!"

"Oh father--father!" called Connie. She began to sob. After all her
dreams, after all her longings, after all her cruel trials--to be
treated like this, and by her father! It seemed to shake her very belief
in fathers, even in the great Father of all.

"Please--please--I'm jest wanting yer awfu' bad!" she pleaded.

Her gentle and moving voice--that voice for which Peter Harris, when
sober and in his right mind, so starved to hear again--now acted upon
him in quite the opposite direction. He had not taken enough to make him
stupid, only enough to rouse his worst passions. He strode across the
room, flung the door wide, and lifting Connie from her knees, said to
her:

"Listen. You left me without rhyme or reason--not even a word or a
thought. I sorrowed for yer till I turned to 'ate yer! Now then, get out
o' this. I don't want yer, niver no more. Go down them stairs, unless
yer want me to push yer down. Go 'way--and be quick!"

There was a scowl on his angry face, a ferocious look in his eyes.
Connie turned quite gently, and without any apparent anger went
downstairs.

"Ah!" said a man in the street, "thought yer wouldn't stay long."

"He's wery bad," said Connie. She walked slowly, as though her heart
were bleeding, down Adam Street until she came to the house where Father
John Atkins lived.

It was a little house, much smaller than its neighbors. Father John's
room was on the ground floor. She knocked at the door. There was no
answer. She turned the handle: it yielded to her pressure. She went in,
sank down on the nearest chair, and covered her face with both her
hands.

She was trembling exceedingly. The shock of her father's treatment was
far greater than she could well bear in her present weak and
over-excited condition. She had gone through--oh, so much--so very much!
That awful time with Mammy Warren; her anxiety with regard to little
Ronald; and then that final, awful, never-to-be-forgotten day, that
night which was surely like no other night that had ever dawned on the
world--the noise of the gathering flames, the terrific roar they made
through the old building; the shouts of the people down below; the heat,
the smoke, the pain, the cruel, cruel fear; and then last but not
least--the deliverance!

When that gallant fireman appeared, it seemed to both Connie and Ronald
as though the gates of heaven had opened, and they had been taken
straight away from the pains of hell into the glories of the blest. But
all these things told on the nerves, and when Connie now had been turned
away from her father's door, she was absolutely unfit for such
treatment.

When she reached Father John's she was as weak and miserable a poor
little girl as could found anywhere in London.

"My dear! my dear!" said the kind voice--the sort of voice that always
thrilled the hearts of those who listened to him. A hand was laid on the
weeping girl's shoulder. "Look up," said the voice again. Then there was
a startled cry, an exclamation of the purest pleasure.

"Why Connie--my dear Connie--the good Lord has heard our prayers and has
sent you back again!"

"Don't matter," said Connie, sobbing on, quite impervious to the
kindness, quite unmoved by the sympathy. "There ain't no Father 'chart
'eaven," she continued. "I don't believe in 'Im no more. There ain't no
Father, and no Jesus Christ. Ef there were, my own father wouldn't treat
me so bitter cruel."

"Come, Connie," said the preacher, "you know quite well that you don't
mean those dreadful words. Sit down now by the cosy fire; sit in my own
little chair, and I'll talk to you, my child. Why, Connie, can't you
guess that we've been praying for you?"

"Don't matter," whispered Connie again.

The preacher looked at her attentively. He put his kind hand for a
minute on her forehead, and then, with that marvellous knowledge which
he possessed of the human heart and the human needs, he said nothing for
the time being. Connie was not fit to argue, and he knew she was
worn-out. He got her to sit in the old arm-chair, and to lay her golden
head against a soft cushion, and then he prepared coffee--strong
coffee--both for her and himself.

It was late, and he was deadly tired. He had been up all the night
before. It was his custom often to spend his nights in this fashion;
for, as he was fond of expressing it, the Divine Master seemed to have
more work for him to do at night than in the daytime.

"There are plenty of others to help in the daytime," thought Father
John, "but in the darkness the sin and the shame are past talking about.
If I can lift a burden from one heart, and help one poor suffering soul,
surely that is the best night's rest I can attain to."

Last night he had put a drunken woman to bed. He had found her on a
doorstep, and had managed, notwithstanding his small stature and slender
frame, to drag her upstairs. There her terrified children met him. He
managed to get them into a calm state of mind, and then induced them to
help him for all they were worth. The great, bulky woman was undressed
and put into bed. She slept, and snored loudly, and the children crowded
round. He made them also go to bed, and went away, promising to call in
the morning.

He did so. The woman was awake, conscious, and bitterly ashamed. He
spoke to her as he alone knew how, and, before he left, induced her to
go with him to take the pledge. He then gave her a little money out of
his slender earnings to get a meal for the children, and spent the rest
of the day trying to get fresh employment for her. She had been thrown
out of work by her misdemeanors; but Father John was a power, and more
than one lady promised to try Mrs. Simpkins once again. The little
preacher was, therefore, more tired than his wont. He bent over Connie.
She drank her coffee, and, soothed by his presence, became calmer
herself.

"Now then," he said, "you will tell me everything. Why did you run
away?"

"'Cos I were tired o' machine-work. But, oh, Father John! I niver, niver
meant to stay aw'y. I jest thought as I were to get a nice new
situation; I niver guessed as it 'ud be a prison." Connie then told her
story, with many gaps and pauses.

"You see," said Father John when she had finished, "that when you took
the management of your own life into your own hands you did a very
dangerous thing. God was guiding you, and you thought you could do
without Him. You have been punished."

"Yus," said Connie. "I'll niver be the same again."

"I hope, indeed, that you will not be the same. You have gone through
marvellous adventures, and but for God Himself you would not now be in
the world. It is not only your pain and misery that you have to
consider, but you have also to think of the pain and misery you
inflicted on others."

"No," said Connie defiantly, "that I won't do. I thought father 'ud
care, but he turned me from 'ome."

"He did care, Connie. I never knew any one so distracted. He cared so
terribly, and was so sore about you, that he took to drink to drown his
pain. In the morning, when he is sober, you will see what a welcome he
will give you."

"No," said Connie, shaking her head.

"But I say he will. He will help you, and he will be a father to you. I
will take you to him myself in the morning."

Connie did not say anything more. When she had finished her coffee, the
preacher suggested that he should take her to Sue and Giles. The girl
looked at him wildly. In telling her story, she had never mentioned the
name of the lady who had taken her in, nor the name of the brave fireman
who had befriended her. But now Father John boldly asked her for these
particulars. Her little face flushed and she looked up defiantly.

"I dunnut want to give 'em," she said.

"But I ask you for them, Connie," said the preacher.

Connie could no more withstand Father John's authoritative tone than she
could fly. After a minute's pause she did tell what she knew, and Father
John wrote Mrs. Anderson's address down in his note-book.

"Now then, Connie," he said, rising, "you're better. Sue and Giles will
be so glad to see you once more! Come, dear; let me take you to them."

Connie stood up. There was a curious, wild light in her eyes; but she
avoided looking at the street preacher, and he did not observe it. Had
he done so he would have been more careful.

The two went out into the street together. It was now getting really
late. The distance between the preacher's room and the humble lodgings
where Sue and Giles lived was no great way, but to reach the home of the
little Giles they had to pass some very ill-favored courts. At one of
these Connie suddenly saw a face she knew. She started, trembling, and
would have fled on had not a hand been raised to warning lips. The
preacher at that instant was stopped by a man who wanted to ask him a
question with regard to a child of his whom Father John was trying to
find employment for.

Before he knew what had happened, Connie's hand was dragged from his.
The girl uttered a slight cry, and the next minute was enveloped in the
darkness of one of the worst courts in the whole of London.

"Quiet--quiet!" said a voice. "Don't you let out one sound or you'll
niver speak no more. It's me--Agnes. I won't do yer no 'arm ef ye're
quiet. Come along with me now."

Connie went, for she could not do anything else. Her feelings were
absolutely confused. She did not know at that fearful moment whether she
was glad or sorry to be back with Agnes Coppenger again. She only felt a
sense of relief at having slipped away from Father John, and at having,
as she thought, parted from her own cruel father.

"Oh Agnes!" she whispered, "hide me; and don't--don't take me back to
Mammy Warren!"

"Bless yer!" said Agnes, "she's coped by the perlice. Mammy Warren's
awaiting her trial in the 'Ouse of Detention; yer won't be worried by
her no more."

"W'ere are yer taking me, then, Agnes?"

"'Ome--to my 'ouse, my dear."

"Yer'll promise to let me go in the morning?"

"Safe an' sure I will--that is, ef yer want to go."

Agnes was now walking so fast that Connie had the utmost difficulty in
keeping up with her. She seemed all the time to be dodging, getting into
shadows, avoiding lights, turning rapidly round corners, making the most
marvellous short cuts, until at last--at last--she reached a very tall
house, much taller than the one where Mammy Warren had lived. She made a
peculiar whistle when she got there. The door was opened by a boy of
about Connie's age.

"'Ere we be, Freckles," said Agnes; "and I ha' got the beautiful and
saintly Connie back again."

"Hurrah for saintly Connie!" cried Freckles.

The two girls were dragged in by a pair of strong hands, and Connie
found herself in utter darkness, descending some slippery stairs--into
what depths she had not the slightest idea.

"These are the cellars," said Agnes when at last a door was flung open,
and she found herself in a very poorly lit apartment with scarcely any
furniture. "You was in hattics before," continued Agnes; "now ye're in
the cellars. Yer didn't greatly take to kind Mammy Warren, but perhaps
yer'll like Simeon Stylites better. He's a rare good man is Simeon--wery
pious too. He sets afore him a saint o' the olden days, an' tries to
live accordin'. He ain't in yet, so yer can set down and take things
heasy."

Connie sat down.

"I'm that frightened!" she said. Agnes began to laugh.

"Sakes!" she exclaimed, "you ha' no cause. Simeon's a real feeling man,
and he's allers kind to pore gels, more particular ef they 'appen to be
purty."

Agnes now proceeded to light a fire in a huge, old-fashioned grate.
There seemed to be abundance of coal. She built the fire up high, and
when it roared up the chimney she desired Connie to draw near.

"You ain't got over yer fright yet," she began.

"Don't talk of it," said Connie.

"I guess as I won't--yer do look piquey. 'Ow's the other kid?"

"I dunno."

Agnes laughed and winked. After a minute she said,

"Yer needn't tell me. 'E's with Mrs. Anderson, mother o' the fireman.
The fireman--'e's a real 'andsome man--I can tike to that sort myself.
The kid's wery bad, he is. Wull, ef he dies it'll be a pity, for he 'ave
the makings in 'im of a first-rate perfessional."

"Perfessional?" said Connie.

"Yus--ef he lives 'e'll be one. Simeon Stylites 'ull see to that. You'll
be a perfessional, too. There's no use in these 'ere days bein' anything
of an amattur; yer must be a perfessional or yer can't earn yer bread."

"I don't understand," said Connie.

"Sakes! you be stupid. It's good to open yer heyes now. Wot do yer think
Mammy Warren wanted yer for?"

"I never could tell, only Mrs. Anderson said----"

"Yus--tell us wot she said. She's a torf--let's get _'er_ idees on the
subjeck."

"I won't tell yer," said Connie.

"Oh--_that's_ yer little gime! Wull--I don't keer--I'll tell yer from my
p'int o' view. Mammy Warren wanted yer--not for love--don't think no
sech thing--but jest 'cos she could make you a sort o' decoy-duck. W'ile
she was pickin' up many a good harvest, folks was a-starin' at you; an'
w'en the little boy were there too, w'y, they stared all the more. She
'ad the boy first, and he were a fine draw. But he tuk ill, an' then she
had to get some sort, an' I told her 'bout you, and 'ow purty you were,
an' wot golden 'air you 'ad. 'Her golden 'air was 'angin' down her
back,' I sung to her, an' she were tuk with the picter. Then I got yer
for her--you knows 'ow. Wull, pore Mammy Warren! she's in quad for the
present. But she'll come out agin none the worse; bless yer! they feeds
'em fine in quad now. Many a one as I know goes in reg'lar for the cold
weather. You see, we'n yer gets yer lodgin' an' yer food at Government
expense, it don't cost yer nothing, an' yer come out none the worse.
That's wot Mammy Warren 'ull do. But Simeon Stylites-'e's a man 'oo
prides himself on niver 'avin' been tuk yet. He'll teach yer 'ow to be a
perfessional. Now then--yer ain't frightened, be yer?"

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