Sue, A Little Heroine, L. T. Meade [the best ebook reader for android txt] 📗

The second hymn was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, who brought a bottle of medicine and a large basket. The contents of the basket were laid on the table—a little crisp loaf of new bread, a pat of fresh butter, half a pound of tea, a small can of milk, a pound of sugar, half-a-dozen new-laid eggs, and a chicken roasted whole, also a bottle of port-wine.

"Now then," said Connie, "look, Giles—look!"

The messenger took away the basket. Even Giles was roused to the semblance of appetite by the sight of the tempting food. Connie quickly made tea, boiled an egg, and brought them with fresh bread-and-butter to the child. He ate a little; then he looked up at her.

"You must eat, too, Connie. Why, you be white and tired!"

Connie did not refuse. She made a small meal, and then, opening the bottle of wine with a little corkscrew which had also been sent, kept the precious liquid in readiness to give to Giles should he feel faint.

Eleven o'clock rang out in Big Ben's great and solemn voice. Connie was very much startled when she heard the great notes; but, to her surprise, Giles did not take any notice. He lay happy, with an expression on his face which showed that his thoughts were far away.

"Connie," he said after a minute, "be yer really meanin' to spend the night with me?"

"Oh yus," said Connie, "ef yer'll 'ave me."

"You've to think of your father, Connie—he may come102 back. He may miss yer. Yer ought to go back and see him, and leave him a message."

"I were thinking that," said Connie; "and I won't be long. I'll come straight over here the very minute I can, and ef Sue has returned——"

"Sue won't come back—not yet," said Giles.

"Why, Giles—how do you know?"

"Jesus Christ told me jest now through the Woice o' Big Ben," said the boy.

"Oh Giles—wot?"

"'E said, 'Castin' all your care on God, for He careth for you.' I ha' done it, and I'm not frettin' no more. Sue's all right; God's a-takin' care of her. I don't fret for Sue now, no more than I fretted for you. But run along and tell your father, and come back." Connie went.

At this hour of night the slums of Westminster are not the nicest place in the world for so pretty a girl to be out. Connie, too, was known by several people, and although in her old clothes, and with her hair fastened round her head, she did not look nearly so striking as when Mammy Warren had used her as a decoy-duck in order to pursue her pickpocket propensities, yet still her little face was altogether on a different plane from the ordinary slum children.

"W'y, Connie," said a rough woman, "come along into my den an' tell us yer story."

"Is it Connie Harris?" screamed another. "W'y, gel, w'ere hever were yer hall this time? A nice hue and cry yer made! Stop 'ere this minute and tell us w'ere yer ha' been."

"I can't," said Connie. "Giles is bad, and Sue ain't come 'ome. I want jest to see father, and then to go back to Giles. Don't keep me, neighbors."

Now, these rough people—the roughest and the worst, perhaps, in the land—had some gleams of good in them; and little Giles was a person whom every one had a soft word for.

"A pore little cripple!" said the woman who had first spoken.—"Get you along at once, Connie; he's in."

"I be sorry as the cripple's bad, and Sue not returned," cried another. "I 'ope Sue's not kidnapped too. It's awful w'en folks come to kidnappin' one's kids."

While the women were talking Connie made her escape, and soon entered her father's room. She gave a start at once of pleasure and apprehension when she saw him there. Was he drunk? Would he again turn her out into the street? She didn't know—she feared. Peter Harris, however, was sober. That had happened in one short day which, it seemed to him, made it quite impossible for him ever to drink again.

He looked at Connie with a strange nervousness.

"Wull," he said, "you be late! And 'ow's Giles?"

He did not dare to ask for Sue. His hope—for he had a hope—was that Sue had come back without ever discovering the locket which he had transferred to her pocket. In that case he might somehow manage to get it away again without103 her knowing anything whatever with regard to his vile conduct. If God was good enough for that, why, then indeed He was a good God, and Harris would follow Him to his dying day. He would go to the preacher and tell him that henceforth he meant to be a religious, church-going man, and that never again would a drop of drink pass his lips. He had spent an afternoon and evening in the most frightful remorse, but up to the present he had not the most remote intention of saving Sue at his own expense. If only she had escaped unsuspected, then indeed he would be good; but if it were otherwise he felt that the very devils of hell might enter into his heart.

"'Ow's Giles? 'Ow did he take yer comin' 'ome again, wench?"

"Oh father," said Connie, panting slightly, and causing the man to gaze at her with wide-open, bloodshot eyes, "Giles is wery, wery bad—I 'ad to send for the doctor. 'E come, and 'e said—ah! 'e said as 'ow little Giles 'ud soon be leavin' us. I can't—can't speak on it!"

Connie sat down and covered her face with her hands. Harris drew a breath at once of relief and suspicion. He was sorry, of course, for little Giles; but then, the kid couldn't live, and he had nothing to do with his death. It was Sue he was thinking about. Of course Sue was there, or Connie would have mentioned the fact of her not having returned home.

Connie wept on, overcome by the strange emotions and experiences through which she had so lately passed.

"Connie," said her father at last, when he could bear the suspense no longer, "Sue must be in great takin'—poor Sue!"

"But, father," said Connie, suddenly suppressing her tears, "that's the most dreadful part of all—Sue ain't there!"

"Not there? Not to 'ome?" thundered Harris.

"No, father—she ha' niver come back. It's goin' on for twelve o'clock—an' Giles expected her soon arter six! She ain't come back, 'ave Sue. Wottever is to be done, father?"

Harris walked to the fire and poked it into a fierce blaze. Then he turned his back on Connie, and began to fumble with his neck-tie, tightening it and putting it in order.

"Father," said Connie.

"Wull?"

"Wot are we to do 'bout Sue?"

"She'll be back come mornin'."

"Father," said Connie again, "may I go and spend the night 'long o' Giles? He's too weakly to be left."

"No," said Harris; "I won't leave yer out o' my sight. Ef there's kidnappin' about an' it looks uncommon like it—you stay safe within these four walls."

"But Giles—Giles?" said Connie.

"I'll fetch Giles 'ere."

"Father! So late?"

"Yus—why not? Ef there's kidnappin' about, there's niver104 any sayin' w'en Sue may be back. I'll go and fetch him now, and you can get that sofy ready for him; he can sleep on it. There—I'm off! Sue—God knows wot's come o' Sue; but Giles, e' sha'n't want."

Harris opened the door, went out, and shut it again with a bang. Connie waited within the room. She was trembling with a strange mixture of fear and joy. How strange her father was—and yet he was good too! He was not drunk to-night. That was wonderful. It was sweet of him to think of bringing Giles to Connie's home, where Connie could look after him and give him the best food, and perhaps save his life. Children as inexperienced as Connie are apt to take a cheerful view even when things are at their lowest. Connie instantly imagined that Giles in his new and far more luxurious surroundings would quickly recover.

She began eagerly to prepare a place for him. She dragged a mattress from her own bed, and managed to put it on the sofa; then she unlocked a trunk which always stood in the sitting-room; she knew where to find the key. This trunk had belonged to her mother, and contained some of that mother's clothing, and also other things.

Connie selected from its depths a pair of thin and very fine linen sheets. These she aired by the fire, and laid them over the mattress when they were quite warm. There was a blanket, white and light and very warm, which was also placed over the linen sheets; and a