Sue, A Little Heroine, L. T. Meade [the best ebook reader for android txt] 📗
- Author: L. T. Meade
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He stood by the hearth, looking taller and more exactly like a fine gentleman, and Connie was more and more reassured about him.
"Please, sir——" she began.
"Stop!" he interrupted.
"Mayn't I speak, sir?"
"No—not now. For God's sake don't plead with me; I can't stand that."
"Why, sir?"
But Connie, as she looked up, saw an expression about that mouth and that jaw which frightened her, and frightened her so badly that all the agony she had undergone in Mammy Warren's house seemed as nothing in comparison. The next minute, however, the cruel look had departed. Simeon Stylites drew a chair forward, dropped into it, bent low, and looked into Connie's eyes.
"Allow me," he said; and he put his hand very gently under her chin, and raised her little face and looked at it.
"Who's your father?" he asked.
"Peter Harris."
"Trade?"
"Blacksmith, sir."
"Where do you live?"
"Adam Street, sir; and——"
"Hush! Only answer my questions."
Stylites removed his hand from under the girl's chin, and Connie felt a blush of pain sweeping over her face.
"How long were you with that woman Warren?"
"Dunno, sir."
"What do you mean by answering me like that?"
"Can't 'elp it, sir. Tuk a fright there—bad fire—can't remember, please, sir."
"Never mind; it doesn't matter. Stand up; I want to look at your hair."
Connie did so. Simeon took great masses of the golden, beautiful hair between his slender fingers. He allowed it to ripple through them. He felt its weight and examined its quality.
"Sit down again," he said.91
"Yus, sir."
"You're exactly the young girl I want for my profession."
"Please, sir——"
"Hush!"
"Yus, sir."
"I repeat—and I wish you to listen—that in my profession you would rise to eminence. You haven't an idea what it is like, have you?"
"No—I mean I'm not sure——"
"You had better keep in ignorance, for it won't be really necessary for you to understand."
"Oh, sir."
"Not really necessary."
Connie looked up into the stern and very strange face.
"But you miss a good deal," said Stylites—"yes, a very great deal. Tell me, for instance, how you employed your time before you entered Mrs. Warren's establishment."
"I did machine-work, sir."
"I guessed as much—or perhaps Coppenger told me. Machine-work—attic work?—Shop?"
"Yus, sir—in Cheapside, sir—a workshop for cheap clothing, sir."
"Did you like it?"
"No, sir."
"I should think not. Let me look at your hand."
He took one of Connie's hands and examined it carefully.
"Little, tapering fingers," he said, "spoiled by work. They could be made very white, very soft and beautiful. Have you ever considered what a truly fascinating thing a girl's hand is?"
Connie shook her head.
"You'd know it if you stayed with me. I should dress you in silk and satins, and give you big hats with feathers, and lovely silk stockings and charming shoes."
"To wear in this 'ere kitchen, sir?"
"Oh no, you wouldn't live in this kitchen; you would be in a beautiful house with other ladies and gentlemen. You would like that, wouldn't you?"
"Yus, sir—ef I might 'ave Ronald and Giles and father and Father John, and p'rhaps Mrs. Anderson and Mr. George Anderson, along o' me."
"But in that beautiful house you wouldn't have Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, nor your father, nor that canting street preacher, nor the children you've just mentioned. It's just possible you might have the boy Ronald, but even that is problematical—you'd have to give up the rest."
"Then, sir," said Connie, "I rayther not go, please."
"Do you think that matters?" said Stylites.
"Wot, sir?"
"That you'd rather not go?"
"I dunno, sir."
"It doesn't matter one whit. Children who come here92 aren't asked what they'd rather or rather not do, girl—they've got to do what I order."
The voice came out, not loud, but sharp and incisive, as though a knife were cutting something.
"Yus, sir—yus, sir."
"Connie"—the man's whole tone altered—"what will you give me if I let you go?" "Oh, sir——"
"I want you to give me something very big, I've taken great trouble to secure you. You're the sort of little girl I want; you would be very useful to me. You have come in here—it is true you haven't the least idea where this house is—but you've come in, and you've seen me, and you've discovered the name which these low people call me. Of course, you can understand that my real name is not Simeon Stylites—I have a very different name; and my home isn't here—I have a very different home. I would take you there, and treat you well, and afterwards perhaps send you to another home. You should never know want, and no one would be unkind to you. You would be as a daughter to me, and I am a lonely man."
"Oh, sir—sir!" said poor Connie, "I—I like you, sir—I'm not afeered—no, not much afeered—but if you 'ud only let the others come——"
"That I cannot do, girl. If you choose to belong to me you must give up the others."
"Ef I choose, sir—may I choose?"
"Yes—on a condition."
The man who called himself Simeon Stylites looked at the girl with a queer, hungry expression in his eyes.
"I wanted you very badly indeed," he said; "and I was not in the least prepared to be sentimental. But I had a little sister like you. She died when she was rather younger than you. I loved her, and she loved me. I was quite a good man then, and a gentleman——"
"Oh, sir—ye're that now."
"No, girl—I am not. There are things that a gentleman would do which I would not do, and there are things which no gentleman would do which I do. I have passed the line; nevertheless, the outward tokens remain; and I live—well, child, I want for nothing. My profession is very lucrative—very."
Connie did not understand half the words of this strange, queer man, with a terribly stern and yet terribly pathetic voice.
"When I saw you this morning," said Stylites, "I knew at once it was no go. You were like the little Eleanor whom alone in all the world I ever truly loved. You are too young to be told my story, or I would tell it to you."
"Oh, sir," said Connie, "I'd real like to comfort yer."
"You can't do that, and I won't spoil the life of any child with such a look of my little Eleanor. I am going to give you back your liberty—on a condition."93
"Wot's that?" said Connie.
"That you never breathe to mortal what happened to you from the time you left your friend, the street preacher, last night, until the time when you found yourself at liberty and outside that same court. Wild horses mustn't drag it from you; detectives must do their utmost in vain. I am willing to do a good deal for you, girl, solely and entirely because of that chance likeness. But I won't have my profession and my chances in life imperilled. Do you promise?"
"Sir, I'll niver,—niver tell."
"You must promise more strongly than that—the others must be witnesses."
"Oh, sir—oh, sir! you must trust me. Don't call the others in; let me promise to you, yer lone self, an' I will keep my word."
The strange man with the strange eyes looked long for a full minute into Connie's face.
"I could have been good to you," he said, "and what I had to offer was not altogether contemptible. But it somehow wouldn't have fitted in with my memory of Eleanor, who went back to God at eleven years of age, very pure in heart, and just like a little child. 'Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.' Those are the words which mark her little grave in a distant part of the country. If you will follow in her steps, and be pure and good in heart and life, you may meet my Eleanor in another world. And perhaps you may be able to tell her that I—a man given over to extreme wickedness—did one kind deed for her sake when I gave you back to your friends."
"Sir——"
"Not another word. I am a man of moods, and I might recant what I have just said."
Simeon Stylites sounded a little gong on the table. Agnes came hurriedly in.
"Fetch this child's hat and jacket," said the great man imperatively.
Agnes brought them.
"Be I to take her out, sir?" she said.
"No. And listen. This child isn't for us; let her alone in future.—Are you ready, Connie?"
"Yus, sir."
Simeon Stylites put on the most gentlemanly overcoat and a well-brushed silk hat, and he took a neat stick in his hand and went boldly out of the house. As soon as ever he got outside he saw a hansom, and beckoned the driver. He and Connie got in.
They went for a long drive, and Stylites dismissed the hansom in a distant part of the town.
"You wouldn't know your way back again?" he said to the girl.
"No, sir; an' ef I knew I wouldn't tell."
"Well, then—good-bye."
"Good-bye, sir."
"Yes, good-bye. Walk down this street till you come to the end. Here's a shilling—you'll get a hansom; ask a policeman to put you in. From there go home again, and forget that you ever saw or heard of Simeon Stylites."
When Harris parted from Sue he ran quickly in his cowardly flight. He did not stay his fleet steps until he had gained a very quiet street. Then, knowing that he was now quite safe, he exchanged his running for a rapid walk. He suddenly remembered that he was to meet the detectives, who were moving heaven and earth to get Connie back for him, not later than three o'clock.
They were to meet by appointment in a certain street, and the hour of rendezvous was quickly approaching. He got there in good time; but what was his amazement to see, not only the two detectives—ordinary-looking men in plain clothes—but also the street preacher?
The street preacher came up to him eagerly. The detectives also followed close.
"Harris," said Atkins, "you can thank God on your knees—your child is safe at home."
"Wot?" said Harris.
In that instant something sharp as a sword went through his heart. Oh, what a mean, terrible, horrible wretch he was! What a cowardly deed he had just committed! And yet God was kind, and had given him back his child.
"Connie is in your room, waiting for you," said Atkins. "I went in not an hour ago, hoping to find you, and there she was."
"It's very queer," said Detective Z. "You should have been there also, and have questioned the girl. There isn't the least doubt that she could give the most valuable information, but she won't utter a word—not a word."
"Won't she, now?" said Harris. "Perhaps not to you, but she wull, quick enough, to her own father."
The entire party then turned in the direction of Harris's rooms. They went up the stairs, and Harris flung the door wide. A little, slight girl, in the identical same dark-blue dress which Harris had bought for her with such pride not many weeks ago, was standing near the fire. Already her womanly influences had been at work.
The fire burned brightly. The room was tidy. The girl herself was waiting—expectation, fear, longing, all expressed in her sensitive face.
"Father!" she cried as Harris—brutal, red of face, self-reproachful, at once the most miserable and the gladdest man on earth—almost staggered into the room.95
He took the slim little creature into his arms, gave her a few fierce, passionate kisses; then saying, "It is good to have yer back, wench," pushed her from him with unnecessary violence. He sank into a seat, trembling all over. The two detectives marked his agitation and were full of compassion for him. How deeply he loved his child, they felt. But Father John read deeper below the surface.
The man was in a very queer state. Had anything happened? He knew Harris well. At such a moment as this, if all were right, he would not be so overcome.
The detectives began to question Connie.
"We want to ask you a few questions, my dear," said Constable Z. "Who dragged you into that court last night?"
"I won't say," answered Connie.
"You won't say? But you know."
"I won't say nothing," said Connie.
"That is blamed nonsense!" cried Harris, suddenly rousing himself. "Yer've got to say—yer've got to make a clean breast of it. Wot's up? Speak!"
"I wouldn't be here, father," said Connie, "'ef I'd not promised most faithfully not iver to tell, and I won't iver, iver, iver tell, not to anybody in all the world."
There was a decidedly new quality in the girl's voice.
"I wouldn't do it for nobody," continued Connie. She drew herself up, and looked taller; her eyes were shining. The detectives glanced at each other.
"If you was put in the witness-box, missy," said one, "yer'd have to break that promise
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