Sue, A Little Heroine by L. T. Meade (autobiographies to read txt) 📕

back o' your 'ead? Is it in love you be—an' you not fourteen years of age? Oh, fie, Pickles! What would yer mother s'y ef she knew?"

Pickles slapped his hand with a mighty thump against his boyish breast.

"That's the w'y to treat nonsense," he said aloud. "Be'ave o' yerself, Pickles—fie for shame, Pickles! That 'ere beauteous maid is to be worshipped from afar—jest like a star. I do declare I'm turnin' po-ettical!"

"Pickles!" called Connie at this moment. "Stop!"

"Pickles be 'ere," replied the youth, drawing up before Connie and making a low bow.145

"Giles is worse, Pickles," said Connie, "an' wot's to be done?"

Pickles's round face grew grave.

"Is 'e wery bad?" he asked.

"So bad that he'll soon go up to God," said Connie. Her eyes filled with tears; they rolled down her cheeks.

"Bright as dimants they be," thought the boy as he watched her. "Precious tears! I could poetise 'bout them."

"Pickles," said Connie again, "I have made Giles a promise. He sha'n't die without seeing Sue. I'm sartin sure, Pickles, that you could take me to Sue now—I'm convinced 'bout it—and I want you to do it."

"Why do you think that?" asked Pickles.

"'Cos I do," said Connie. "'Cos of the way you've looked and the way you've spoken. Oh, dear Pickles, take me to her now; let me bring her back to little Giles to-night!"

Once again that terribly mournful expression, so foreign to Pickles's freckled face, flitted across it.

"There!" he said, giving himself a thump. "W'en I could I wouldn't, and now w'en I would I can't. I don't know where she be. She's lost—same as you were lost—w'ile back. She's disappeared, and none of us know nothink about her."

"Oh! is she really lost? How terrible that is!" said Connie.

"Yus, she's lost. P'r'aps there's one as could find her. Connie, I 'ate beyond all things on 'arth to fright yer or say an unkind thing to yer; but to me, Connie, you're a star that shines afar. Yer'll fergive the imperence of my poetry, but it's drawn from me by your beauty."

"Don't talk nonsense now, Pickles," said Connie. "Things are too serious. We must find Sue—I must keep my promise."

"Can you bear a bit o' pine?" said Pickles suddenly.

"Pain?" said Connie. "I've had a good deal lately. Yes, I think—I think I can bear it."

"Mind yer," said Pickles, "it's this w'y. I know w'y Sue left yer, and I know w'y she ain't come back. It's true she 'aven't give herself hup yet, although she guv me to understand as she were 'bout to go to prison."

"To prison?" said Connie, springing forward and putting her hand on Pickles's shoulder. "Sue—the most honest gel in all the world—go to prison?"

"Oh yes," said Pickles, "yer might call her honest; but w'en she goes into a pawnshop an' comes hout agin wid a golden dimant locket a-hid in her pocket, there are people as won't agree wid yer, an' that's the solemn truth, Connie."

Connie's face was very white.

"I don't believe it," she said.

"Yer don't?" cried Pickles. "But I were there at the time. But for me she would ha' been locked up long ago. But I tuk pity on her—'avin' my own suspicions. I hid her and disguised her. Wot do yer think I come 'ere for so often but jest to comfort the poor thing an' bring her news o' Giles? Then146 all of a suddn't my suspicions seemed confirmed. I guessed wot I see is workin' in your mind—that some one else done it an' putt the blame on 'er. Oh, I'm a born detective. I putt my wits in soak, an' soon I spotted the guilty party. Bless yer, Connie! ye're right—Sue be honest—honest as the day—noble, too—more nobler nor most folk. Pore Sue! Pore, plain Cinderella! Oh, my word! it's beauteous inside she be—an' you're beauteous outside. Outside beauty is captiwatin', but the hinner wears best."

"Go on," said Connie; "tell me wot else you 'ave in yer mind."

"It's this: yer may own up to it, an' there's no use beatin' about the bush. The guilty party wot stole the locket an' transferred it by sleight-of-'and to poor Sue is no less a person than yer own father, Connie Harris."

Connie fell back, deadly pale.

"No—no!" she said. "No—no! I am sartin sure 'tain't that way."

"Yus, but it be that way—I tell yer it be. You ax 'im yerself; there's no time for muddlin' and a-hidin' o' the truth. You ax the man hisself."

"Father!" said Connie. "Father!"

Harris, wrangling with another workman, was now seen approaching. When he perceived his daughter and Pickles, his first impulse was to dart away down a side-street; but Pickles, that most astute young detective, was too sharp for him.

"No," he said, rushing at the man and laying his hand on his shoulder. "Giles is bad, an' we can't find Sue no'ow, and yer must tell the truth."

Harris did not know why his heart thumped so heavily, and why a sort of wild terror came over him; but when Connie also joined Pickles, and raising her eyes to the rough man's face, said, "Be it true or be it lies, you are my own father and I'll niver turn agin yer," her words had a most startling effect.

Harris trembled from head to foot.

"S'y that agin, wench," he muttered.

"You're mine—I'll not turn agin yer," said Connie.

"Then why—wot 'ave I done to deserve a child like this? There, Pickles! you know—and you ha' told Connie—it's all the truth. There come a day w'en I wanted money, an' I were met by sore temptation. I tuk the dimant locket w'en the pawnbroker 'ad 'is back turned on me; but as I were leavin' the shop—Sue bein' by my side—I suddenly saw him pokin' his finger into the place where it had been. I knew it were all up. I managed to slip the locket into Sue's pocket, and made off. I ha' been near mad since—near mad since!"

"Small wonder!" said Pickles. "An' do yer know that she 'ad made up her mind to go to prison 'stead o' you?"

"You told me so," said Harris—"at least you told me that she was goin' to prison instead o' the guilty party."147

"Wull," said Pickles, "yer own 'eart told yer 'oo was the guilty party."

"That's true, youngster."

"Father," said Connie, "we can't find Sue anywhere, and Giles is dying, and we must get her, and you must help."

"Help?" said Harris. "Yes, I'll help. I won't leave a stone unturned. She wanted to save me, knowing the truth. Wull, I'll save and find her, knowin' the truth."

"I will come with you," said Connie. "I want to go wid yer; only wot am I to do with Giles?"

"Don't worrit 'bout him," said Pickles. "I'm 'ere to be o' sarvice to you, Miss Connie—and to you, sir, now as you 'ave come ter yer right mind."

"Then I will come with you, father," said Connie. "We'll both go together and find Sue."

As Pickles was entering the house he popped his head out again.

"I forgot to mention," he said, "as hinquiries o' the most strict and dertective character 'ave been institooted by yer 'umble sarvant for poor Cinderella—I mean Sue. They've led to no results. There's nothing now but one o' the hospitals."

It is very doubtful whether Pickles believed himself the clue he had unexpectedly given to Harris and Connie, but certain it is that they immediately began their investigations in those quarters. From one hospital to another they went, until at last they found Sue in bed in St. Thomas's Hospital—flushed, feverish, struggling still to hide her secret in order that when she was better she might save Peter Harris.

The poor child was rather worse than usual that evening, and the surgeon who had set her leg was slightly anxious at her feverish symptoms. He said to the nurse who was taking charge of the little girl:

"That child has a secret on her mind, and it is retarding her recovery. Do you know anything about her?"

"No, sir. It is very awkward," said the nurse, "but from the first she has refused to give her name, calling herself nothing but Cinderella."

"Well," said the doctor, "but Cinderella—she doesn't seem touched in the head?"

"Oh no," said the nurse; "it isn't that. She's the most sensible, patient child we have in the ward. But it's pitiful to see her when she thinks no one is listening. Nothing comforts her but to hear Big Ben strike. She always cheers up at that, and murmurs something below her breath which no one can catch."

"Well, nurse," said the doctor, "the very best thing would be to relieve her mind—to get her to tell you who her people are, and to confide any secret which troubles her to you."

"I will try," said the nurse.

She went upstairs after her interview with the doctor, and bending over Sue, took her hot hand and said gently:148

"I wish, little Cinderella, you would tell me something about yourself."

"There's naught to tell," said Sue.

"But—you'll forgive me—I am sure there is."

"Ef you was to ask me for ever, I wouldn't tell then," said Sue.

"Ah! I guessed—there is something."

"Yes—some'ut—but I can't bear it—the Woice in the air is so beautiful."

"What voice?" asked the nurse, who feared that her little patient would suddenly become delirious.

"It's Big Ben hisself is talkin' to me and to my darling, darling little brother."

"Oh! you have a little brother, Cinderella?"

"Yus, a cripple. But don't ask me no more. The Woice gives me strength, and I won't niver, niver tell."

"What does Big Ben say? I don't understand."

"No," said Sue; "and p'r'aps ye're not wanted to understand. It's for me and for him, poor darling, that Woice is a real comfort."

The nurse left her little charge a few minutes afterwards. But before she went off duty she spoke to the night nurse, and confessed that she was anxious about the child, who ought to be recovering, and certainly would but for this great weight of trouble on her mind.

All these things, which seemed in themselves unimportant, bore directly on immediate events; for when Connie and Harris arrived at St. Thomas's Hospital and made inquiries with regard to a little, freckled girl, with an honest face and sturdy figure, the hall porter went to communicate with one of the nurses, and the nurse he communicated with turned out to be the night nurse in the very ward where Sue was lying—so suffering, so ill and sorely tried.

Now, the nurse, instead of sending word that this was not the hour for visiting patients, took the trouble to go downstairs herself and to interview Connie and her father. Connie gave a faithful description of Sue, and then the nurse admitted that there was a little girl in the hospital who was now in the children's surgical ward. She had been brought in a day or two ago, having a broken leg, owing to a street accident. She was a very patient, good child, but there was something strange about her—nothing would induce her to tell her name.

"Then what do you call her?" asked Harris.

He was still full of inward tremors, for at that moment he was thinking that of all the sweet sights on earth, that sight would be little Sue's plain face.

"Have yer no name for the pore child?" he repeated.

"Yes," said the nurse. "She calls herself Cinderella."

"It's Sue! It's Sue herself father! God has led us to her—and it's Sue her very own self!"

Poor Connie, who had borne up during so many adventures,149 who had faced the worst steadfastly and without fear, broke down utterly now. She flung herself into her father's arms and sobbed.

"Hush, wench hush!" said the rough man. "I am willin' to do hall that is necessary.—Now then, nurse," he continued, "you see my gel—she's rather upset 'bout that pore Cinderella upstairs. But 'ave yer nothing else to say 'bout her?"

"She acts in a strange way," said the nurse. "The only thing that comforts her is the sound of Big Ben when he strikes the hour. And she did speak about a little cripple brother."

"Can us see her?" asked Connie just then.

"It is certainly against the rules, but—will you stay here for a few minutes and I'll speak to the ward superintendent?"

The nurse went upstairs. She soon returned.

"Sister Elizabeth has given you permission to come up and see the child for a few minutes. This, remember, is absolutely against the ordinary rules; but her case is exceptional, and if you can give her relief of mind, so much the better."

Then Connie and her father followed the nurse up the wide, clean stairs, and down the wide, spotless-looking corridors, until they softly entered a room where many children were lying, some asleep, some tossing from side