Sue, A Little Heroine
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L. T. Meade >> Sue, A Little Heroine
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"There's no good twitting me wid being a gel," interrupted Sue; "gels
have their use in creation same as boys, and I guess as they're often
the pluckier o' the two."
"Gels pluckier! Well, I like that. However, I will say as you stood
game. I guessed as you wor hinnercent then. And now jest tell me the
story."
"It wor this way," began Sue, whose color and courage were beginning to
return. Then she told her tale, suppressing carefully all tears, for she
was anxious to propitiate the red-haired boy. She could not, however,
keep back the indignation from her innocent young voice; and this
indignation, being a sure sign in his mind of pluckiness, greatly
delighted her companion.
"'Tis the jolliest shame I ever heard tell on in all my life," he said
in conclusion; but though he said this he chuckled, and seemed to enjoy
himself immensely. "Now then," he added, "there's no doubt at all as
ye're hinnercent. I know that as clear--I feels as sartin on that
p'int--as tho' I wor reading the secrets of my own heart. But 'tis jest
equal sartin as a magistrate 'ud bring you hin guilty. He'd say--and
think hisself mighty wise, too--'You had the locket, so in course yer
tuk the locket, and so yer must be punished.' Then you'd be tuk from the
lock-up to the House o' Correction, where you'd 'ave solitary
confinement, most like, to teach you never to do so no more."
"'Ow long 'ud they keep me there?" asked Sue. "'Ow long 'ud they be
wicked enough to keep me there fur what I never did?"
"Well, as it wor a first offence, and you but young, they might make it
a matter of no longer than a year, or maybe eighteen months. But then,
agen, they'd 'ave to consider as it wor diamonds as you tuk. They gems
is so waluable that in course you must be punished according. Yes,
considerin' as it wor diamonds, Sue, I would say as you got off cheap
wid two years."
"You talk jest as tho' I had done it," said Sue angrily, "when you know
perfect well as I'm quite hinnercent."
"Well, don't be touchy. I'm only considerin' what the judge 'ud say. I
ain't the judge. Yes, you'd 'ave two years. But, lor'! it don't much
matter wot time you 'ad, for you'd never be no good arter."
"Wot do you mean now?" asked Sue.
"I mean as you'd never get no 'ployment, nor be able to hold up yer
head. Who, I'd like to know, 'ud employ a prison lass--and what else 'ud
you be?"
Here Sue, disregarding her companion's dislike to tears, broke down
utterly, and exclaimed through her sobs:
"Oh! poor Giles--poor, poor Giles! It 'ull kill my little Giles. Oh! I
didn't think as Lord Jesus could give me sech big stones to walk hover."
"Now ye're gettin' complicated," exclaimed the red-haired boy. "I make
'lowance fur yer tears--ye're but a gel, and I allow as the picture's
dark--but who hever is Giles? And where are the stones? Ye're setting
still this 'ere minute, and I guess as the arm-chair in which I placed
yer, though none o' the newest, be better than a stone."
"Giles is my brother," said Sue; "and the stones--well, the stones is
'phorical, ef yer knows wot that means."
"Bless us, no! I'm sure I don't. But tell about Giles."
So Sue wiped her eyes again and went back a little further in her
life-story.
"It is complicated," said her companion when she paused--"a lame
brother, poor chap, and you the support. Well, well! the more reason as
you should keep out o' prison. Now, Sue, this is wot I calls _deep_;
jest keep still fur a bit, and let me put on my considerin' cap."
The red-haired boy seated himself on the floor, thrust his two hands
into his shock of hair, and stared very hard and very straight before
him. In this position he was perfectly motionless for about the space of
half a minute; then, jumping up, he came again very close to Sue.
"Be yer willin' to take the adwice of a person a deal wiser nor
yourself? Look me full in the heyes and answer clear on that p'int."
"Yes, I'm sure I am," said Sue, in as humble a spirit as the most
exalted teacher could desire.
"Good!" said the red-haired boy, giving his thigh a great clap. "Then
you've got to hearken to _me_. Sue, there's nothink in life fur you but
to hide."
"To hide!" said Sue.
"Yes. You must on no 'count whatever let the perleece find yer. We must
get to discover the guilty party, and the guilty party must confess; but
in the meanwhile yer must hide. There must be no smell o' the prison
'bout yer, Sue."
"Oh! but--but--boy--I don't know yer name."
"Pickles," said the red-haired boy, giving his head a bob. "Pickles, at
yer sarvice."
"Well, then, Pickles," continued Sue, "if I go and hide, what 'ull
become o' Giles?"
"And what 'ull come o' him ef yer go ter prison--yer goose? Now, jest
yer listen to the words o' wisdom. You mustn't go back to Giles, fur as
sure as you do the perleece 'ull have you. That would break that little
tender brother's heart. No, no, leave Giles ter me; you must hide, Sue."
"But where, and fur how long?" asked Sue.
"Ah! now ye're comin' sensible, and axin' refreshin' questions. Where?
Leave the where to me. How long? Leave the how long ter me."
"Oh Pickles! ye're real good," sobbed Sue; "and ef yer'll only promise
as Giles won't die, and that he won't break his heart wid frettin', why,
I'll leave it ter you--I'll leave it all ter you."
"And yer couldn't--search the world over--leave it to a safer person,"
said Pickles. "So now that's a bargain--I'll take care on Giles."
CHAPTER XVII.
CINDERELLA.
"The first thing to be considered, Sue," said Pickles, as he seated
himself on the floor by her side, "is the disguise. The disguise must be
wot I consider deep."
"Wot hever does yer mean now?" asked Sue.
"Why, yer Silly, yer don't s'pose as yer can go hout and about as you
are now? Why, the perleece 'ud have yer. Don't yer s'pose as yer'll be
advertised?"
"I dunno heven wot that his," said Sue.
"Oh! my heyes, ain't yer green! Well, it 'ull be, say, like this.
There'll be by hall the perleece-stations placards hup, all writ hout in
big print: 'Gel missing--plain gel, rayther stout, rayther short, wid
round moon-shaped face, heyes small, mouth big, hair----"
"There! you needn't go on," said Sue, who, though by no means vain,
scarcely relished this description. "I know wot yer mean, and I don't
want ter be twitted with not being beautiful. I'd rayther be beautiful
by a long way. I s'pose, as the disguise is ter change me, will it make
me beautiful? I'd like that."
Pickles roared. "Well, I never!" he said. "We'll try. Let me see; I must
study yer fur a bit. Hair wot's called sandy now--changed ter black.
Heyebrows; no heyebrows in 'ticlar--mark 'em hout strong. Mouth:
couldn't sew hup the mouth in the corners. No, Sue, I'm feared as I
never can't make no pictur' of yer. But now to be serious. We must set
to work, and we has no time ter spare, fur hold Fryin-pan 'ull come
home, and there'll be the mischief to pay ef he finds us yere."
"Who's he?" asked Sue.
"Who? Why, the owner of this yer shop. I'm in his employ. I'm wot's
called his steady right-hand man. See, Sue, yere's a pair o' scissors;
get yer hair down and clip away, and I'll get ready the dye."
Pickles now set to work in earnest, and proved himself by no means an
unskilled workman. In a wonderfully short space of time Sue's long,
neutral-tinted hair was changed to a very short crop of the darkest hue.
Her eyebrows were also touched up, and as her eyelashes happened to be
dark, the effect was not quite so inharmonious as might have been
feared. Pickles was in ecstasies, and declared that "Not a policeman in
London 'ud know her." He then dived into an inner room in the funny
little shop, and returned with an old blue petticoat and a faded red
jersey. These Sue had to exchange for her own neat but sober frock.
"Ye're perfect," said Pickles, dancing round her. "Yer looks hangelic.
Now fur the name."
"The name?" said Sue. "Must I 'ave a new name too?"
"In course yer must; nothink must let the name o' Sue pass yer lips.
Now, mind, that slip o' the tongue might prove fatal."
"Wery well," said Sue in a resigned voice of great trouble.
"Yer needn't be so down on yer luck. I don't myself think anythink o'
the name o' Sue; 'tis what I considers low and common. Now, wot's yer
favorite character? Say in acting, now."
"There's no character hin all the world as I hadmires like Cinderella,"
said Sue.
"Oh, my heyes, Cinderella, of hall people! Worn't Cinderella wot might
'ave bin called beautiful? Dressed shabby, no doubt, and wid
hard-hearted sisters--but hadn't she small feet, now? Well, Sue, I don't
say as ye're remarkable fur them special features b'in' small, nor is
yer looks _wery_ uncommon; but still, ef yer have a fancy for the name,
so be it. It _will_ be fun thinkin' of the beautiful, small-footed
Cinderella and looking at you. But so much the better, so come along,
Cinderella, fur Fryin'-pan 'ull catch us ef we don't make haste."
"Where are we to go?" asked the poor little newly made Cinderella, with
a piteous face.
"Now, yer needn't look like that. None but cheerful folks goes down wid
me. Where are yer to go to? Why, to mother, of course--where else?"
"Oh, have you got a mother?" asked Sue.
"Well, wot next? 'Ow did I happen ter be born? Yes, I has a mother, and
the wery best little woman in the world--so come along."
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE METROPOLITAN FIRE BRIGADE.
Pickles and Sue had to go a long way before they reached the destination
of "the best little woman in the world." They walked along by-streets
and all kinds of queer places, and presently reached a part of London
where Sue had never been before. They passed whole streets of
warehouses, and came then to poor-looking dwelling-houses, but all of an
immense height, and very old and dirty. It was the back slums of
Westminster over again, but it was a Westminster severed as far as one
pole is from another to Sue.
"We does a roaring trade yere," said Pickles, looking around him with
the air of a proprietor well satisfied with his property.
"Wot in?" asked Sue.
"Wot hin? Well, that may surprise yer. Hin fire, of course."
"Wot do yer mean?" asked Sue.
"Wot does I mean? I mean as we deals in that 'ere rampagious helement.
We belongs to the great London Fire Brigade. That his, my brother Will
does; and I have a cousin wot thinks hisself no end of a swell, and he's
beginning his drill. Do you suppose, you goose, as I'd have acted as I
did, wid that 'ere remarkable coolness jest now, when the fire wor
burning, and the man wor on the wery brink of destruction, ef fire had
not bin, so to speak, my native hair? But now, here we are at last, so
come along hup to mother!"
Taking Sue's hand, Pickles dragged her up flight after flight of stairs,
until they reached the top of one of the very tall, dirty houses. Here
he suddenly flung open a door, and pushing Sue in, sang out:
"Mother, yere I be! And let me introduce to you Cinderella. Her sisters
have bin that unkind and mean as cannot be told, and she have taken
refuge wid us until the Prince comes to tie on the glass slipper."
No doubt Pickles' mother was thoroughly accustomed to him, for she did
not smile at all, but coming gravely forward, took Sue's two hands in
hers, and looking into her face, and seeing something of the great
trouble there, said in a soft, kind tone:
"Sit down, my dear--sit down. If I can help you I will."
"Oh, you can help her real fine, mother!" said Pickles, beginning to
dance a hornpipe round them both. "And I said as you were the wery best
little 'oman in all the world, and that you would do hall you could."
"So I will, my lad; only now do let the poor dear speak for herself."
But Sue did not. There are limits beyond which fortitude will not go,
and those limits were most suddenly reached by the poor child. Her
morning's early rising, her long walk to her place of business, her hard
work when she got there; then her hurried run for the sick girl's lunch,
her cruel betrayal, her very startling capture by Pickles; the fact that
her hair had been cut off, her clothes changed, her very name altered,
until she herself felt that she must really be somebody else, and not
the Sue whom Giles loved.
All these things she had borne with tolerable calmness; but now (for Sue
was really starving) the warm room, the bright fire--above all, the kind
face that bent over her, the gentle voice that asked to hear her
tale--proved too much. She put up her toil-worn hands to her face and
burst into such sobs as strong people give way to in agony.
Mrs. Price beckoned to Pickles to go away, and then, sitting down by
Sue's side, she waited until the overloaded heart should have become a
little quieted; then she said:
"And now, my dear, you will tell me the story."
Sue did tell it--told it all--Mrs. Price sitting by and holding her
hands, and absolutely not speaking a single word.
"You believes me, marm?" said Sue at last.
Mrs. Price looked in the girl's eyes and answered simply:
"Yes, poor lamb, I quite believe you. And now I am going to get you some
supper."
She made Sue lie back in the easy-chair by the fire, and drawing out a
little round table, laid a white cloth upon it.
Sue's mind, by this time partly relieved of its load, was able to take
in its novel surroundings. The house might be very tall and very dirty,
but this room at least was clean. Floor, walls, furniture--all reflected
a due and most judicious use of soap and water; and the woman moving
about with gentle, deft fingers, arranging now this and now that, was
quite different from any woman Sue had ever seen before. She was a
widow, and wore a widow's cap and a perfectly plain black dress, but she
had a white handkerchief pinned neatly over her shoulders, so that she
looked half-widow, half-nun.
She was tall and slender, with very beautiful dark eyes. Sue did not
know whether to think her the very gravest person she had ever seen or
the very brightest. Her face was thoughtful and sweet; perhaps when in
repose it was sad, but she never looked at a human being without a
certain expression coming into her eyes which said louder and plainer
than words, "I love you."
This expression gave the hungry and poor who came in contact with her
glance many a heart-thrill, and it is not too much to say they were
seldom disappointed of the sympathy which the look in those dark and
lovely eyes gave them reason to hope for.
Mrs. Price now laid the tea-things, giving the poor little shorn and
transformed Cinderella sitting by the hearth so many expressive glances
that she began to feel quite a heavenly peace stealing over her. "Worn't
Jesus real good to bring me yere?" was her mental comment. She had
scarcely made it before two young men came in.
These young men were dressed in the uniform of the London Fire Brigade.
They looked dusty, and the taller of the two was covered with smoke and
dirt.
"Mother," he said as he tossed his helmet on the table. "I've been
worked almost to death. You have supper ready, I hope."
"Yes, yes, my lad--a nice little piece of boiled pork, smoking hot, and
pease-pudding and potatoes. I am glad you've brought George with you. He
is kindly welcome, as he knows."
"As he knows very well," answered George, with a smile.
He touched the woman's shoulder for an instant with his big hand. Then
the two young men went into the next room to have a wash before supper.
"William is coming on fine," said George, when they returned, looking at
the other fireman--"though you did disobey orders, William, and are safe
to get a reprimand.--Fancy, Mrs. Price! this brave son of yours,
returning from his day's drill, must needs see a fire and rush into it,
all against orders--ay, and save a poor chap's life--before any one
could prevent him."
It may be as well to explain here that each man who wishes to join the
Metropolitan Fire Brigade must first have served some time at sea; also,
before a man is allowed to attend a fire he must be thoroughly
trained--in other words, he must attend drill. There's a drill class
belonging to each station. It is under the charge of an instructor and
two assistant instructors. Each man, on appointment, joins this class,
and learns the use of all the different appliances required for the
extinction of fire.
William Price had not quite completed his eight weeks' drill.
"Yes, it was a ticklish piece of work," continued Anderson. "The poor
chap he rescued was surrounded by flames. Then, too, the street was so
narrow and the crowd so great that the whole matter is simply wonderful;
but that policeman who kept order was a fine fellow."
"Why, it worn't never the fire as we come from jest now!" here burst
from Sue.
"Hush--hush, Cinderella!" said Pickles, who had come back, giving her a
push under the table. "It 'ud be more suitable to yer present sitiwation
ef yer didn't talk. In course it wor that same fire. Why, it wor that
deed o' bravery done by my own nearest o' kin as incited me to hact as I
did by you."
"Whoever is the girl?" said Price, noticing poor Sue for the first time.
"Cinderella's the name of this 'ere misfortunate maiden," replied
Pickles; "an' yer ax no more questions, Bill, an' yer'll get no stories
told."
"I must go, Mrs. Price," said Anderson; "but I'll be back again as soon
as possible."
"Tell me first, George," said the widow, "how your mother is."
"I haven't been to see her for a few days, but she wrote to say that
both the children who were rescued from the fire a few days back are
doing fairly well. The boy was bad at first, but is now recovering."
"Ah! that was a brave deed," said Price in a voice of the greatest
admiration.
"And did she tell you the names of the poor little critters?"
"She did. Connie was the name of one----"
"Connie?" cried Sue, springing to her feet.
"Sit down, Cinderella, and keep yourself quiet," cried Pickles.
George Anderson gave the queer little girl who went by this name a
puzzled glance.
"Yes," he said briefly, "Connie was the name of one, and Ronald the name
of the other. I never saw a more beautiful little creature in all the
world than Connie."
"That's _'er_!" broke from Sue's irrepressible lips.
CHAPTER XIX.
A SAINTLY LADY.
When so many strange things were happening, we may be sure that Father
John was not idle. He had hoped much from Peter Harris's knowledge of
the byways and dens and alleys of Westminster. But although Peter was
accompanied by the sharpest detectives that Scotland Yard could provide,
not the slightest clue to Connie's whereabouts could be obtained. The
man was to meet more detectives again that same afternoon, and meanwhile
a sudden gleam of hope darted through Father John's brain.
What a fool he had been not to think of it before! How glad he was now
that he had insisted on getting the name and address of the brave
fireman deliverer from Connie on the previous night!
He went straight now to the house in Carlyle Terrace. He stopped at No.
12. There he rang the bell and inquired if Mrs. Anderson were within.
Mrs. Anderson was the last woman in the world to refuse to see any one,
whether rich or poor, who called upon her. Even impostors had a kindly
greeting from this saintly lady; for, as she was fond of saying to
herself, "If I can't give help, I can at least bestow pity."
Mrs. Anderson was no fool, however, and she could generally read in
their faces the true story of a man or woman who came to her. More often
than not the story was a sad one, and the chance visitor was in need of
help and sympathy. When this was not the case, she was able to explain
very fully to the person who had called upon her what she thought of
deceit and dishonest means of gaining a livelihood; and that person, as
a rule, went away very much ashamed, and in some cases determined to
turn over a new leaf. When this really happened Mrs. Anderson was the
first to help to get the individual who had come to her into respectable
employment.
She was by no means rich, but nearly every penny of her money was spent
on others; her own wants were of the simplest. The house she lived in
belonged to her son, who, although a gentleman by birth, had long ago
selected his profession--that of a fireman in the London Fire Brigade.
He had a passion for his calling, and would not change it for the
richest and most luxurious life in the world.
Now Mrs. Anderson came downstairs to interview Father John. Father John
stood up, holding his hat in his hand. He always wore a black
frock-coat; his hair hung long over his shoulders; his forehead was
lofty; his expressive and marvelously beautiful gray eyes lit up his
rugged and otherwise plain face. It was but to look at this man to know
that he was absolutely impervious to flattery, and did not mind in the
least what others thought about him. His very slight but perceptible
deformity gave to his eyes that pathetic look which deformed people so
often possess.
The moment Mrs. Anderson entered the room she recognized him.
"Why," she said in a joyful tone, "is it true that I have the honor of
speaking to the great street preacher?"
"Not great, madam," said Father John--"quite a simple individual; but my
blessed Father in heaven has given me strength to deliver now and then a
message to poor and sorrowful people."
"Sit down, won't you?" said Mrs. Anderson.
Father John did immediately take a chair. Mrs. Anderson did likewise.
"Now," said the widow, "what can I do for you?"
"I will tell you, madam. Her father and I are in great trouble about the
child----"
"What child?" asked Mrs. Anderson. "You surely don't mean little Connie
Harris? I have been nervous at her not reappearing to-day. At her own
express wish, she went to visit her father last night. I would have sent
some one with her, but she wouldn't hear of it, assuring me that she had
been about by herself in the London streets as long as she could
remember; but she has not returned."
"No, madam?"
Over Father John's face there passed a quick emotion. Then this last
hope must be given up.
"You have news of her?" said Mrs. Anderson.
"I have, and very bad news."
Father John then related his story.
"Oh, why--why did I let her go?" said Mrs. Anderson.
"Don't blame yourself dear lady; the person to blame is the miserable
father who would not receive his lost child when she returned to him."
"Oh, poor little girl!" said Mrs. Anderson. "Such a sweet child, too,
and so very beautiful!"
"Her beauty is her danger," said Father John.
"What do you mean?"
"She told me her story, as doubtless she has told it to you."
"She has," said Mrs. Anderson.
"There is not the least doubt," continued the street preacher, "that
that notorious thief, Mrs. Warren, used the child to attract people from
herself when she was stealing their goods. Mrs. Warren is one of the
most noted pickpockets in London. She has been captured, but I greatly
fear that some other members of the gang have kidnapped the child once
more."
"What can be done?" said Mrs. Anderson. "I wish my son were here. I know
he would help."
"Ah, madam," said Father John, "how proud you must be of such a son! I
think I would rather belong to his profession than any other in all the
world--yes, I believe I would rather belong to it than to my own; for
when you can rescue the body of a man from the cruel and tormenting
flames, you have a rare chance of getting at his soul."
"My son is a Christian as well as a gentleman," said Mrs. Anderson. "He
would feel with you in every word you have uttered, Father John. I will
send him a message and ask him if he can meet you here later on
to-night."
"I shall be very pleased to come; and I will if I can," said Father
John. "But," he added, "my time is scarcely ever my own--I am the
servant of my people."
"Your congregation?" said Mrs. Anderson.
"Yes, madam; all sorts and conditions of men. I have no parish; still, I
consider myself God's priest to deliver His message to sorrowful people
who might not receive it from an ordained clergyman."
Mrs. Anderson was silent. Father John's eyes seemed to glow. He was
looking back on many experiences. After a minute he said:
"The consolation is this: 'He that shall endure to the end--shall be
saved.'"
"How very strange that you should speak of that!" said Mrs. Anderson.
"Why so, madam? Don't you believe it?"
"Oh, indeed I do! But I'll tell you why I think it strange. There is a
little boy--the child who was also rescued from the fire--in my house.
He was very ill at first; he is now better, but not well enough to leave
his bedroom. I was anxious about him for a time, but he is, I thank God,
recovering. Now, this child went on murmuring that text during his
delirium--a strange one to fall from the lips of so young a child."
"Indeed, yes, madam. I am most deeply interested. I am glad you have
mentioned the little boy. Connie told me about him last night. I am
sorry that in my anxiety for her I forgot him."
"You could never forget little Ronald if you were to see him," said Mrs.
Anderson. "I don't think I ever saw quite so sweet a child. His
patience, his courage, and I think I ought to add his faith, are
marvelous."
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