CHAPTER XIV.THE SEARCH.
When Connie had been suddenly dragged with extreme force from the preacher's side, he had darted after her, and would have been knocked down himself, and perhaps killed, if the neighbor who had accosted him had not also gone astep or two into the dark alley and dragged him back by main force.
"You don't go down there, Father John," he said—"not without two or three big men, as big as myself. That you don't—I'll keep you back, Father John by all the strength in my body; for if you go down you'll be killed, and then what use will yer be to the poor little gel?"
Father John acknowledged the justice of this. A crowd of men and women had gathered round, as they always did in those parts at the slightest disturbance. Father John recognized many of them, and soon formed a little body of strong men and women. The policemen also came to their aid. They searched the blind alley, going into every house. In short, they did not leave a stone unturned to recover poor Connie; but, alas! all in vain.
Father John was at least glad that he had not gone to visit Sue and Giles. He could not bear to bring them such terrible tidings as that poor Connie had come home and had been kidnapped again.
"We'll get her," said the policeman. "There are lots of thieves about here; but as we've unearthed that dreadful character, Mother Warren, we'll quickly get the rest of the gang. Don't you be afraid, Father John; the child will be in your hands before the day is out."
Nevertheless, Father John spent a sleepless night, and early—very early—in the morning he started off to visit Peter Harris. Peter had slept all night. In the morning he awoke with a headache, and with a queer feeling that something very bad had happened.
When Father John entered his room he gazed at him with bloodshot eyes.
"Wottever is it?" he said. "I had a dream—I must be mistook, of course, but I thought Connie had come back."
"Well," said Father John very gravely, "and so she did come back."
"Wot?" asked the father. He sat up on the bed where he had thrown himself, and pushed back his rough hair.
"I have some very sad news for you, Harris. Will you wash first and have a bit of breakfast, or shall I tell you now?"
"Get out with you!" said the man. "Will I wash and have a bit o' breakfast? Tell me about my child, an' be quick!"
All the latent tenderness in that fierce heart had reawakened.
"Connie back?" said the man. "Purty little Connie? You don't niver say so! But where be she? Wherever is my little gel?"
"You ask God where she is," said the preacher in a very solemn voice. "She's nowhere to be found. She came here, and you—you turned her away, Peter Harris."
"I did wot?" said Harris.
"You turned her off—yes, she came to me, poor child. You had taken too much and didn't know what you were doing."
The man's face was ghastly pale.
"What do yer mean?" he said.
"You took too much, and you were cruel to your child. She came to me in bitter grief. I did what I could to soothe her; I assured her that I know you well, and that you'd be all right and quite ready to welcome her home in the morning."
"Well, and so I be. Welcome my lass home? There ain't naught I wouldn't do for her; the best that can be got is for my Connie. Oh, my dear, sweet little gel! It's the fatted calf she'll 'ave—the Prodigal didn't have a bigger welcome."
"But she is no prodigal. She was sinned against; she didn't sin. Doubtless she did wrong to be discontented. She was never very strong, perhaps, either in mind or body, and she got under bad influence. She was often afraid to go home, Peter Harris, because of you; for you were so savage to her when you took, as you call it, a drop too much. I'll tell you another time her story, for there is not a moment now to spare; you must get up and help to find her."
Peter Harris sprang to his feet just as though an electric force had pulled him to that position.
"Find her?" he said. "But she were here—here! Where be she? Wot did yer do with her, Father John?"
"I didn't dare to bring her back here last night, and she could not stay with me. I was taking her to Giles and Sue when——"
"Man—speak!"
Harris had caught the preacher by his shoulder. Father John staggered for a minute, and then spoke gently,
"As we were passing a blind alley some one snatched her from me, right into the pitch darkness. I followed, but was pulled back myself. As soon as possible we formed a party and went to search for her, aided by the police; but she has vanished. It is your duty now to help to find her. The police have great hopes that they have got a clue, but nothing is certain. Beyond doubt the child is in danger. Wake up, Harris. Think no more of that horrible poison that is killing you, body and soul, and do your utmost to find your lost child."
"God in heaven help me!" said the miserable man. "Lost—you say? And she come 'ere—and I turned her off? Oh, my little Connie!"
"Keep up your courage, man; there's not a minute of time to spend in vain regrets. You must help the police. You know nearly all the byways and blind alleys of this part of London. You can give valuable information; come at once."
A minute or two later the two men went out together.
CHAPTER XV.CONCENTRATION OF PURPOSE.
While these dreadful things were happening to Connie, Sue rose with the dawn, rubbed her sleepy eyes until they opened broad and wide, and went with all youthful vigor and goodwill about her daily tasks.
First she had to light the fire and prepare Giles's breakfast; then to eat her own and tidy up the room; then, having kissed Giles, who still slept, and left all in readiness for him when he awoke, she started for her long walk from Westminster to St. Paul's Churchyard. She must be at her place of employment by eight o'clock, and Sue was never known to be late. With her bright face, smooth, well-kept hair, and neat clothes, she made a pleasing contrast to most of the girls who worked at Messrs. Cheadle's cheap sewing.
Sue possessed in her character two elements of success in life. She had directness of aim and concentration of purpose.
No one thought the little workgirl's aims very high; no one ever paused to consider her purpose either high or noble; but Sue swerved not from aim or purpose, either to the right hand or to the left.
She was the bread-winner in the small family. That was her present manifest duty. And some day she would take Giles away to live in the country. That was her ambition. Every thought she had to spare from her machine-work and her many heavy duties went to this far-off, grand result. At night she pictured it; as she walked to and from her place of work she dwelt upon it.
Some day she and Giles would have a cottage in the country together. Very vague were Sue's ideas of what country life was like. She had never once been in the country; she had never seen green fields, nor smelt, as they grow fresh in the hedges, wild flowers. She imagined that flowers grew either in bunches, as they were sold in Convent Garden, or singly in pots. It never entered into her wildest dreams that the ground could be carpeted with the soft sheen of bluebells or the summer snow of wood anemones, or that the hedge banks could hold great clusters of starry primroses. No, Sue had never seen the place where she and Giles would live together when they were old. She pictured it like the town, only clean—very clean—with the possibility of procuring eggs really fresh and milk really pure, and of perhaps now and then getting a bunch of flowers for Giles without spending many pence on them.
People would have called it a poor dream, for Sue had no knowledge to guide her, and absolutely no imagination to fill in details; but, all the same, it was golden in its influence on the young girl, imparting resolution to her face and purposeto her eyes, and encircling her round, in her young and defenseless womanhood, as a guardian angel spreading his wings about her.
She walked along to-day brightly as usual. The day was a cold one, but Sue was in good spirits.
She was in good time at her place, and sat down instantly to her work.
A girl sat by her side. Her name was Mary Jones. She was a weakly girl, who coughed long and often as she worked.
"I must soon give up, Sue," she panted between slight pauses in her work. "This 'ere big machine seems to tear me hall to bits, like; and then I gets so hot, and when we is turned out in the middle o' the day the cold seems to strike so dreadful bitter yere;" and she pressed her hand to her sunken chest.
"'Tis goin' to snow, too, sure as sure, to-day," answered Sue. "Don't you think as you could jest keep back to-day, Mary Jones? Maybe you mightn't be seen, and I'd try hard to fetch you in something hot when we comes back."
"Ye're real good, and I'll just mak' shift to stay in," replied Mary Jones. But then the manager came round, and the girls could say no more for the present.
At twelve o'clock, be the weather what it might, all had to turn out for half an hour. This, which seemed a hardship, was absolutely necessary for the proper ventilation of the room; but the delicate girls felt the hardship terribly, and as many of them could not afford to go to a restaurant, there was nothing for them but to wander about the streets. At the hour of release to-day it still snowed fast, but Sue with considerable cleverness, had managed to hide Mary Jones in the warm room, and now ran fast through the blinding and bitter cold to see where she could get something hot and nourishing to bring back to her. Her own dinner, consisting of a hunch of dry bread and dripping, could be eaten in the pauses of her work. Her object now was to provide for the sick girl.
She ran fast, for she knew a shop where delicious penny pies were to be had, and it was quite possible to demolish penny pies unnoticed in the large workroom. The shop, however, in question was some way off, and Sue had no time to spare. She had nearly reached it, and had already in imagination clasped the warm pies in her cold hands, when, suddenly turning a corner, she came face to face with Harris. Harris was walking along moodily, apparently lost in thought. When he saw Sue, however, he started, and took hold of her arm roughly.
"Sue," he said, "does you know as Connie came back last night?"
"Connie?" cried Sue. Her face turned pale and then red again in eagerness. "Then God 'ave heard our prayers!" she exclaimed with great fervor. "Oh! won't my little Giles be glad?"
"You listen to the end," said the man. He still kept his hand on her shoulder, not caring whether it hurt her or not.
"She come back, my purty, purty little gel, but I 'ad tuk too much, and I were rough on her and I bid her be gone, and she went. She went to Father John;'ewere kind to her, and 'e were taking her to you, w'en some willain—I don't know 'oo—caught her by the arm and pulled her down a dark alley, and she ain't been seen since. Wottever is to be done? I'm near mad about her—my pore little gel. And to think that I—Ishould ha' turned her aw'y!"
Sue listened with great consternation to this terrible tale. She forgot all about poor Mary Jones and the penny pie which she hoped to smuggle into the workroom for her dinner. She forgot everything in all the world but the fact that Connie had come and gone again, and that Peter Harris was full of the most awful despair and agony about her.
"I'm fit to die o' grief," said the man. "I dunno wot to do. The perlice is lookin' for her 'igh an' low, and—— Oh Sue, I am near off my 'ead!"
Sue thought for a minute.
"Is Father John looking for her too?" she said.
"W'y, yus—of course he be. I'm to meet the perlice again this afternoon, an' we'll—we'll make a rare fuss."
"Yer'll find her, in course," said Sue. "W'y, there ain't a doubt," she continued.
"Wot do yer mean by that?"
"There couldn't be a doubt," continued the girl; "for God, who brought her back to us all, 'ull help yer if yer ax 'Im."
"Do yer believe that, Sue?"
"Sartin sure I do—I couldn't live if I didn't."
"You're a queer un," said Harris, he felt a strange sort of comfort in the rough little girl's presence. It seemed to him in a sort of fashion that there was truth in her words. She was very wise—wiser than most. He had always respected her.
"You're a queer, sensible gel," he said then—"not like most. I am inclined to believe yer. I'm glad I met yer; you were always Connie's friend."
"Oh yus," said Sue; "I love her jest as though she were my real sister."
"An' yer do think as she'll come back again?"
"I'm sartin sure of it."
"Turn and walk with me a bit, Sue. I were near mad w'en I met yer, but somehow you ha' given me a scrap o' hope."
"Mr. Harris," said Sue, all of a sudden, "you were cruel to Connie last night; but w'en she comes back again you'll be different, won't yer?"
"I tuk the pledge this morning," said Harris in a gloomy voice.
"Then in course you'll be different. It were w'en yer tuk too much that you were queer. W'en you're like you are now you're a wery kind man."
"Be I, Sue?" said Harris. He looked down at the small girl. "No one else, unless it be pore Connie, iver called me a kind man."
"And I tell yer wot," continued Sue—"ef ye're sure she'll come back—as sure as I am—she——"
"Then I am sure," said Harris. "I'm as sure as there's a sky above us. There now!"
"And a God above us," said Sue.
The man was silent.
"In that case," continued Sue, "let's do our wery best. Let's 'ave iverything nice w'en she comes 'ome. Let's 'ave a feast for her, an' let me 'elp yer."
"Yer mean that yer'll come along to my room an' put things in order?" said Harris.
"Yes; and oh, Mr. Harris! couldn't yer take her a little bit of a present?"
"Right you are, wench," he said. Harris's whole face lit up. "Thatbea good thought!" He clapped Sue with violence on the shoulder. "Right you be! An' I know wot she've set 'er silly little 'eart on—w'y, a ring—a purty ring with a stone in it; and 'ere's a shop—the wery kind for our purpose. Let's come in—you an' me—and get her one this wery instant minute."
The two entered the shop. A drawer of rings was brought for Harris to select from. He presently chose a little ring, very fine, and with a tiny turquoise as decoration. He felt sure that this would fit Connie's finger, and laying down his only sovereign on the counter, waited for the change. Sue had gone a little away from him, to gaze in open-eyed wonder at the many trinkets exhibited for sale. Notwithstanding her excitement about Connie, she was too completely a woman not to be attracted by finery of all sorts; and here were scarves and laces and brooches and earrings—in short, that miscellaneous array of female decorations so fascinating to the taste of girls like Sue. In this absorbing moment she forgot even Connie.
In the meantime, in this brief instant while Sue was so occupied, the man who served turned his back to get his change from another drawer. He did this leaving the box with the rings on the counter. In the corner of this same box, hidden partly away under some cotton-wool, lay two lockets, one of great value, being gold, set with brilliants. In this instant, quick as thought, Harris put in his hand, and taking the diamond locket, slipped it into his pocket. He then received his change, and he and Sue left the shop together.
He noticed, however, as he walked out that the shopman was missing the locket. His theft could not remain undiscovered. Another instant and he would be arrested and the locket found on his person. He had scarcely time for the most rapid thought—certainly no time for any sense of justice to visit his not too fine conscience. The only instinct alive in him in that brief and trying moment was that ofself-preservation. He must preserve himself, and the means lay close at hand. He gave Sue a little push as though he had stumbled against her, and then, while the girl's attention was otherwise occupied, he transferred the locket from his own pocket to hers, and with a hasty nod, dashed down a side-street which lay close by.
Rather wondering at his sudden exit, Sue went on. Until now she had forgotten Mary Jones. She remembered her with compunction. She also knew that she had scarcely time to get the penny pies and go back to Cheapside within the half-hour. If she ran, however, she might accomplish this feat. Sue was very strong, and could run as fast as any girl; she put wings to her feet, and went panting down the street. In the midst of this headlong career, however, she was violently arrested. She heard the cry of "Stop thief!" behind her, and glancing back, saw two men, accompanied by some boys, in full pursuit. Too astonished and frightened to consider the improbability of their pursuing her, she ran harder than ever. She felt horrified, and dreaded their rudeness should they reach her. Down side-streets and across byways she dashed, the crowd in pursuit increasing each moment. At last she found that she had run full-tilt into the arms of a policeman, who spread them out to detain her.
"What's the matter, girl? Who are you running away from?"
"Oh, hide me—hide me!" said poor Sue. "They are calling out 'Stop thief!' and running after me so hard."
Before the policeman could even reply, the owner of the pawnshop had come up.
"You may arrest that girl, policeman," he said roughly. "She and a man were in my shop just now, and one or other of 'em stole a valuable diamond locket from me."
"What a shame! I didn't touch it!" said Sue. "I never touched a thing as worn't my own in hall my life!"
"No doubt, my dear," said the policeman; "but of course you won't object to be searched?"
"No, of course," said Sue; "you may search me as much as you like—you won't get no stolen goods 'bout me;" and she raised her head fearlessly and proudly. The crowd who had now thickly collected, and who, as all crowds do, admired pluck, were beginning to applaud, and no doubt the tide was turning in Sue's favor, when the policeman, putting his hand into her pocket, drew out the diamond locket. An instant's breathless silence followed this discovery, followed quickly by some groans and hisses from the bystanders.
"Oh, but ain't she a hardened one!" two or three remarked; and all pressed close to watch the result.
Sue had turned very white—so white that the policeman put his hand on her shoulder, thinking she was going to faint.
"She is innocent," said in his heart of hearts this experienced functionary; but he further added, "It will go hard for her to prove it—poor lass!"
Aloud he said:
"I've got to take you to the lock-up, my girl; for you must say how you 'appened to come by that 'ere little trinket. The quieter you come, and the less you talk, the easier it 'ull go wid you."
"I have nothink to say," answered Sue. "I can't—can't see it at all. But I'll go wid yer," she added. She did not asseverate any more, nor even say she was innocent. She walked away by the policeman's side, the crowd still following, and the owner of the pawnshop—having recovered his property, and given his address to the policeman—returned to his place of business.
Sue walked on, feeling stunned; her thought just now was how very much poor Mary Jones would miss her penny pies.
CHAPTER XVI.PICKLES.
The lock-up to which the policeman wanted to convey Sue was at some little distance. With his hand on her shoulder, they walked along, the crowd still following. They turned down more than one by-street, and chose all the short cuts that Constable Z could remember. One of these happened to be a very narrow passage, and a place of decidedly ill repute. The policeman, however, still holding his terrified charge, walked down it, and the crowd followed after. In the very middle of this passage—for it was little more—they were met by a mob even greater than themselves. These people were shouting, vociferating, waving frantic hands, and all pointing upwards. The policeman raised his eyes and saw that the cause of this uproar was a house on fire. It was a very tall, narrow house, and all the top of it was completely enveloped in flames. From one window, from which escape seemed impossible—for the flames almost surrounded it—a man leaned out, imploring some one to save him. The height from the ground was too great for him to jump down, and no fire-escape was yet in sight.
Policeman Z was as kind-hearted a man as ever lived. In the excitement of such a moment he absolutely forgot Sue. He rushed into the crowd, scattering them right and left, and sent those who had not absolutely lost their heads flying for the fire-escape and the engines. They all arrived soon after, and the man, who was the only person in the burning part of the house, was brought in safety to the ground.
In the midst of the shouting, eager crowd Sue stood, forgetting herself, as perhaps every one else there did also, in such intense excitement. Scarcely, however, had the rescued man reached the ground when she felt herself violently pulled from behind—indeed, not only pulled, but dragged so strongly thatshe almost lost her feet. She attempted to scream, but a hand was instantly placed over her mouth, and she found herself running helplessly, and against her will, down a narrow passage which flanked one side of the burning house; beyond this into a small backyard; then through another house into another yard; and so on until she entered a small, very dirty room. This room was full of unknown condiments in jars and pots, some queer stuffed figures in fancy-dresses, some wigs and curls of false hair, and several masks, false noses, etc., etc. Sue, entering this room, was pushed instantly into a large arm-chair, whereupon her captor came and stood before her. He was a lad of about her own size, and perhaps a year or two younger. He had a round, freckled face, the lightest blue eyes, and the reddest, most upright shock of hair she had ever seen. He put his arms akimbo and gazed hard at Sue, and so motionless became his perfectly round orbs that Sue thought he had been turned into stone. Suddenly, however, he winked, and said in a shrill, cheerful tone:
"Well, then, plucky 'un, 'ow does yer find yerself now?"
Not any number of shocks could quite deprive Sue of her common-sense. She had not an idea of what had become of her. Was this another and a rougher way of taking her to the lock-up? Was this queer boy friend or foe?
"Be yer agen me, boy?" she said.
"Agen yer! Well, the ingratitude! Ha'n't I jest rescued yer from the hands o' that 'ere nipper?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Sue; and the relieved tension of her poor, terrified little heart found vent in two big tears which rose to her eyes.
The red-haired boy balanced himself on one toe in order to survey those tears more carefully.
"Well," he said at length, in a tone in which there was a ludicrous mingling of wonder and contempt—"well, ye're a queer un fur a plucky un—a wery queer un. Crying! My eyes! Ain't yer hin luck not to be in prison, and ain't that a subject for rejoicing? I don't cry when I'm in luck; but then, thank goodness! I'm not a gel. Lor'! they're queer cattle, gels are—wery queer, the best o' 'em. But they're as they're made, poor things! We can't expect much from such weakness. But now look you here, you gel—look up at me, full and solemn in the face, and say if ye're hinnercent in the matter o' that 'ere locket. If yer can say quite solemn and straightforward as yer his innercent, why, I'll help yer; but if yer is guilty—and, mark me, I can tell by yer heyes ef ye're talking the truth—I can do naught, fur I'm never the party to harbor guilty folks. Now speak the truth, full and solemn; be yer hinnercent?"
Here the red-haired boy got down on his knees and brought his eyes within a few inches of Sue's eyes.
"Be yer hinnercent?" he repeated.
"Yes," answered Sue, "I'm quite, quite hinnercent; yer can believe me or not as yer pleases. I'm quite hinnercent, and Iwon't cry no more ef yer dislikes it. I wor never reckoned a cry-baby."
"Good!" said the boy; "I b'lieves yer. And now jest tell me the whole story. I come hup jest when the perleeceman and the pawnbroker were a-gripping yer. Lor'! I could a' twisted out o' their hands heasy enough; but then, to be thankful agen, I ain't a gel."
"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 callsdeep; 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 tome. 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 looksweryuncommon; but still, ef yer have a fancy for the name, so be it. Itwillbe 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, sittingdown 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 hisbig 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.