Sue, A Little Heroine by L. T. Meade (the mitten read aloud txt) 📗

the wonnerful thoughts he have, too. Poetry ain't in it. Be yer fond o' poetry yerself, Agnes?"

"I fond o' poetry?" almost screamed Agnes. "Not I! That is, I never heerd it—don't know wot it's like. I ha' no time to think o' poetry. I'm near mad sometimes fidgeting and17 fretting how to get myself a smart 'at, an' a stylish jacket, an' a skirt that hangs with a sort o' swing about it. But you, now—you never think on yer clothes."

"Oh yes, but I do," said Connie; "and I ha' got a wery pwitty new dress now as father guv me not a fortnight back; and w'en father don't drink he's wery fond o' me, an' he bought this dress at the pawnshop."

"Lor', now, did he?" said Agnes. "Wot sort be it, Connie?"

"Dark blue, with blue velvet on it. It looks wery stylish."

"You'd look like a lydy in that sort o' dress," said Agnes. "You've the face of a lydy—that any one can see."

"Have I?" said Connie. She put up her somewhat roughened hand to her smooth little cheeks.

"Yes, you 'ave; and wot I say is this—yer face is yer fortoon. Now, look yer 'ere. We'll stand at this corner till the Westminster 'bus comes up, and then we'll take a penn'orth each, and that'll get us wery near 'ome. Yer don't think as yer father'll be 'ome to-night, Connie?"

"'Tain't likely," replied Connie; "'e seldom comes in until it's time for 'im to go to bed."

"Well then, that's all right. When we get to Westminster, you skid down Adam Street until yer get to yer diggin's; an' then hup you goes and changes yer dress. Into the very genteel dark-blue costoom you gets, and down you comes to yer 'umble servant wot is waitin' for yer below stairs."

This programme was followed out in all its entirety by Connie. The omnibus set the girls down not far from her home. Connie soon reached her room. No father there, no fire in the grate. She turned on the gas and looked around her.

The room was quite a good one, of fair size, and the furniture was not bad of its sort. Peter Harris himself slept on a trundle-bed in the sitting-room, but Connie had a little room all to herself just beyond. Here she kept her small bits of finery, and in especial the lovely new costume which her father had given her.

She was not long in slipping off her working-clothes. Then she washed her face and hands, and brushed back her soft, glistening, pale-golden hair, and put on the dark-blue dress, and her little blue velvet cap to match, and—little guessing how lovely she appeared in this dress, which simply transformed the pretty child into one of quite another rank of life—she ran quickly downstairs.

A young man of the name of Anderson, whom she knew very slightly, was passing by. He belonged to the Fire Brigade, and was one of the best and bravest firemen in London. He had a pair of great, broad shoulders, and a very kind face. It looked almost as refined as Connie's own.

Anderson gave her a glance, puzzled and wondering. He felt half-inclined to speak, but she hurried by him, and the next minute Agnes gripped her arm.

"My word, ain't you fine!" said that young lady. "You18 be a gel to be proud of! Won't yer do fine, jest! Now then, come along, and let's be quick."

Connie followed her companion. They went down several side-streets, and took several short cuts. They passed through the roughest and worst part of the purlieus at the back of Westminster. At last they entered a broader thoroughfare, and there Agnes stopped.

"Why, yer never be livin' here?" asked Connie.

"No, I bean't. You'll come to my 'ome afterwards. I want to take yer to see a lydy as maybe'll take a fancy to yer."

"Oh!" said Connie, feeling both excited and full of wonder.

The girls entered a side passage, and presently Connie, to her astonishment, found herself going upwards—up and up and up—in a lift. The lift went up as far as it would go. The girls got out. Agnes went first, and Connie followed. They walked down the passage, and Agnes gave a very neat double knock on the door, which looked like an ordinary front door to a house.

The door was opened by a woman rather loudly dressed, but with a handsome face.

"How do you do, Mrs. Warren?" said Agnes. "I ha' brought the young lydy I spoke to yer about. Shall us both come in?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," said Mrs. Warren.

She stood aside, and Connie, still following her companion, found herself at the other side of the neat door. The place inside was bright with electric light, and the stout, showily dressed lady, going first, conducted the girls into a room which Agnes afterwards spoke of as the dining-room. The lady sat down in a very comfortable arm-chair, crossed her legs, and desired Connie to come forward and show herself.

"Take off yer 'at," she said.

Connie did so.

"You're rather pretty."

Connie was silent.

"I want," said the stout woman, "a pretty gel, something like you, to come and sit with me from ten to two o'clock hevery day. Yer dooties'll be quite light, and I'll give yer lots o' pretty clothes and good wages."

"But what'll I have to do?" asked Connie.

"Jest to sit with me an' keep me company; I'm lonesome here all by myself."

Connie looked puzzled.

"You ask wot wages yer'll get," said Agnes, poking Connie on the arm. Connie's blue eyes looked up. The showy lady was gazing at her very intently.

"I'll give yer five shillin's a week," she said, "and yer keep, and some carst-off clothes—my own—now and again; and ef that bean't a bargain, I don't know wot be."

Connie was silent.

"You 'ad best close with it," said Agnes. "It's a charnce19 once in a 'undred. Yer'll be very 'appy with Mrs. Warren—her's a real lydy."

"Yes, that I be," said Mrs. Warren. "I come of a very hold family. My ancestors come hover with William the Conqueror."

Connie did not seem impressed by this fact.

"Will yer come or will yer not?" said Mrs. Warren. "I'll take yer jaunts, too—I forgot to mention that. Often on a fine Saturday, you an' me—we'll go to the country together. You don't know 'ow fine that 'ull be. We'll go to the country and we'll 'ave a spree. Did yer never see the country?"

"No," said Connie, in a slow voice, "but I ha' dreamt of it."

"She's the sort, ma'am," interrupted Agnes, "wot dreams the queerest things. She's hall for poetry and flowers and sech like. She's not matter-o'-fack like me."

"Jest the sort I want," said Mrs. Warren. "I—I loves poetry. You shall read it aloud to me, my gel—or, better still, I'll read it to you. An' as to flowers—why, yer shall pluck 'em yer own self, an' yer'll see 'em a-blowin' an' a-growin', yer own self. We'll go to the country next Saturday. There, now—ain't that fine?"

Connie looked puzzled. There certainly was a great attraction at the thought of going into the country. She hated the machine-work. But, all the same, somehow or other she did not like Mrs. Warren.

"I'll think o' it and let yer know," she said.

But when she uttered these words the stately dressed and over-fine lady changed her manner.

"There's no thinking now," she said. "You're 'ere, and yer'll stay. You go out arter you ha' been at my house? You refuse my goodness? Not a bit o' it! Yer'll stay."

"Oh, yes, Connie," said Agnes in a soothing tone.

"But I don't want to stay," said Connie, now thoroughly frightened. "I want to go—and to go at once. Let me go, ma'am; I—I don't like yer!"

Poor Connie made a rush for the door, but Agnes flew after her and clasped her round the waist.

"Yer be a silly!" she said. "Yer jest stay with her for one week."

"But I—I must go and tell father," said poor Connie.

"You needn't—I'll go an' tell him. Don't yer get into such a fright. Don't, for goodness' sake! Why, think of five shillin's a week, and jaunts into the country, and beautiful food, and poetry read aloud to yer, and hall the rest!"

"I has most select poetry here," said Mrs. Warren. "Did yer never yere of a man called Tennyson? An' did yer never read that most touching story of the consumptive gel called the 'May Queen'? 'Ef ye're wakin' call me hearly, call me hearly, mother dear.' I'll read yer that. It's the most beauteous thing."

"It sounds lovely," said Connie.20

She was always arrested by the slightest thing which touched her keen fancy and rich imagination.

"And you 'ates the machines," said Agnes.

"Oh yes, I 'ates the machines," cried Connie. Then she added after a pause: "I'm 'ere, and I'll stay for one week. But I must go back first to get some o' my bits o' duds, and to tell father. You'd best let me go, ma'am; I won't be long away."

"But I can't do that," said Mrs. Warren; "it's a sight too late for a young, purty gel like you to be out. Agnes, now, can go and tell yer father, and bring wot clothes yer want to-morrow.—Agnes, yer'll do that, won't yer?"

"Yes—that I will."

"They'll never let me stay," said Connie, reflecting on this fact with some satisfaction.

"We won't ax him, my dear," said Mrs. Warren.

"I must go, really, now," said Agnes. "You're all right, Connie; you're made. You'll be a fine lydy from this day out. And I'll come and see yer.—W'en may I come, Mrs. Warren?"

"To-morrer evenin'," said Mrs. Warren. "You and Connie may have tea together to-morrer evenin', for I'm goin' out with some friends to the thayertre."

Poor Connie never quite knew how it happened, but somehow she found herself as wax in the strong hands of Mrs. Warren. Connie, it is true, gave a frightened cry when she heard Agnes shut the hall door behind her, and she felt positive that she had done exceedingly wrong. But Mrs. Warren really seemed kind, although Connie could not but wish that she was not quite so stout, and that her face was not of such an ugly brick red.

She gave the girl a nice supper, and talked to her all the time about the lovely life she would have there.

"Ef I takes to yer I'll maybe hadopt yer as my own daughter, my dear," she said. "You're a wery purty gel. And may I ax how old you are, my love?"

Connie answered that she was fourteen, and Mrs. Warren remarked that she was small for her age and looked younger. She showed the girl her own smart clothing, and tried the effect of her bit of fur round Connie's delicate throat.

"There," she said; "you can keep it. It's only rabbit; I can't afford no dearer. But yer'll look real foine in it when we goes out for our constooshionul to-morrow morning."

Connie was really touched and delighted with the present of the fur. She got very sleepy, too, after supper—more sleepy than she had ever felt in her life—and when Mrs. Warren suggested that her new little handmaid should retire early to bed, the girl was only too glad to obey.