Chapter 36 Sue, A Little Heroine by L. T. Meade
A CRISIS
Connie went downstairs and stood in the doorway. She had gone through a good deal during these last adventurous weeks, and although still it seemed to those who knew her that Connie had quite the prettiest face in all the world, it was slightly haggard now for a girl of fourteen years, and a little of its soft plumpness had left it.
Connie had never looked more absolutely pathetic than she did at this moment, for her heart was full of sorrow for Giles and of anxiety with regard to Sue. She would keep her promise to the little boy—she would find Sue.
As she stood and thought, some of the roughest neighbors passed by, looked at the child, were about to speak, and then went on. She was quite in her shabby, workaday dress; there was nothing to rouse jealousy about her clothes; and the "gel" seemed in trouble. The neighbors guessed the reason. It was all little Giles. Little Giles was soon "goin' aw'y."
"It do seem crool," they said one to the other, "an' that sister o' his nowhere to be found."
Just then, who should enter the house but kind Dr. Deane. He stopped when he saw Connie.
"I am going up to Giles," he said. "How is the little chap?"
"Worse—much worse," said Connie, the tears gathering in her eyes.
"No news of his sister, I suppose?"
"No, sir—none."
"I am sorry for that—they were such a very attached pair. I'll run up and see the boy, and bring you word what I think about him."
The doctor was absent about a quarter of an hour. While he was away Connie never moved, but stood up leaning against the door-post, puzzling her brains to think out an almost impossible problem. When the doctor reappeared she did not even ask how Giles was. Kind Dr. Deane looked at her; his face was wonderfully grave. After a minute he said:
"I think, Connie, I'd find that little sister as quickly as I could. The boy is very, very weak. If there is one desire now in his heart, however, it is just to see Sue once more."
"I ha' give him my word," said Connie. "I'm goin' to find Sue ef—ef I never see Giles agin."
"But you mustn't leave him for long," said the doctor. "Have you no plan in your head? You cannot find a girl who is lost as Sue is lost in this great London without some clue."
"I ain't got any clue," said Connie, "but I'll try and find Pickles."
"Whoever is Pickles?" asked the doctor.
"'E knows—I'm sartin sure," said Connie. "I'll try and find him, and then——"
"Well, don't leave Giles alone. Is there a neighbor who would sit with him?"
"I won't leave him alone," said Connie.
The doctor then went away. Connie was about to return to Giles, if only for a few minutes, when, as though in answer to an unspoken prayer, the red-headed Pickles appeared in sight. His hair was on end; his face was pale; he was consumed with anxiety; in short, he did not seem to be the same gay-hearted Pickles whom Connie had last met with. When he saw Connie, however, the sight of that sweet and sad face seemed to pull him together.
"Now must I give her a blow, or must I not?" thought Pickles to himself. "It do seem 'ard. There's naught, a'most, I wouldn't do for pore Cinderella; but w'en I have to plant a dart in the breast of that 'ere most beauteous crittur, I feels as it's bitter 'ard. W'y, she 'ud make me a most captiwatin' wife some day. Now, Pickles, my boy, wot have you got in the 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.
"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? Then 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."
"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:
"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, 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 to side with pain.
Sue's little bed was the fifth from the door, and Sue was lying on her back, listening intently, for Big Ben would soon proclaim the hour. She did not turn her head when the nurse and the two who were seeking her entered the ward; but by-and-by a voice, not Big Ben's, sounded on her ear, and Connie flung herself by her side and covered her hand with kisses.
"You don't think, Sue, do yer," said Connie, "that us could stop seekin' yer until we found yer?"
Sue gave a startled cry.
"Connie—Connie! Oh Connie! 'ow is Giles?"
"'E wants yer more than anything in all the world."
"Then he—he's—still alive?"
"Yus, he's still alive; but he wants yer. He thought you was in the country, gettin' pretty rooms for you and him. But oh, Sue! he's goin' to a more beautiful country now."
Sue didn't cry. She was about to say something, when Harris bent forward.
"God in 'eaven bless yer!" he said in a husky voice. "God in 'eaven give back yer strength for that noble deed yer ha' done for me an' mine! But it's all at an end now, Susan—all at an end—for I myself 'ave tuk the matter in 'and, an' hall you 'as to do is to get well as fast as ever yer can for the sake o' Giles."
"You mustn't excite her any more to-night," said the nurse then, coming forward; "seeing," she added, "that you have given the poor little thing relief. You can come again to-morrow; but now she must stay quiet."
Late as the hour was when Harris and Connie left St. Thomas's Hospital, Harris turned to Connie.
"I've some'ut to do—and to-night. Shall I take yer 'ome first, or wull yer come with me?"
"Oh, I will come with you, father," said Connie.
"Wull then, come along."
They walked far—almost as far as Cheapside. Connie could not imagine why her father was taking her into a certain dingy street, and why he suddenly stopped at a door which had not yet been shut for the night.
"I thought as there were a chance of findin' him up," he said. "Come right in, gel."
Connie entered, and the next minute Harris was addressing the pawnbroker from whom he had stolen the locket.
"I 'ave a word to say with you," he remarked; and then he related the circumstances of that day, several weeks ago now.
"But we found it," said the pawnbroker, "in the pocket of the young gel."
"It was I as put it there," said Harris. "It was I—the meanest wretch on 'arth. But I've come to my senses at last. You can lock me up ef yer like. I'll stay 'ere; I won't even leave the shop ef yer want to deliver the real thief over to justice."
The pawnbroker stared at the man; then he looked at Connie. There is no saying what he might have done; but Connie's face, with its pleading expression, was enough to disarm any one.
"The fact is," he began "this sort o' thing ought to be punished, or however could poor folks live? But it's a queer thing. When the young gel vanished, as it seemed, into the depths of the 'arth, and I 'ad got my property back, I tuk no further trouble. In course, now that you 'ave delivered yerself up, it seems a'most fair that the law should take its course."
"That's wot I think," said Harris. "Make a short job of it, man. Call in a constable; 'e can take me to Bow Street to-night."
"No 'urry, man," said the pawnbroker. "I want yer to tell me some'ut more. Is that other little party alive or dead? It seems to me as though the 'arth must 'ave swallered her up."
"I will tell you," said Connie; and she did relate Sue's story—as much as she knew of it—and with such pathos that even that pawnbroker, one of the hardest of men, felt a queer softness about his heart.
"Wull," he said—"wull, it's a queer world! To think o' that child plannin' things out like that! And ef she ad come to me, I might ha' believed her, too. Wull now, she be a fine little crittur. An' s'pose"—he glanced at Harris—"I don't prosecute you, there's no call, to my way o' thinkin'. And the fact is, I'm too busy to be long out of the shop. Don't you steal no more, neighbor. You ha' got off dirt-cheap this time, but don't you steal no more."