Sue, A Little Heroine Part 29

"Never mind; it doesn't matter. Stand up; I want to look at your hair."

Connie did so. Simeon took great ma.s.ses 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.

"Yus, sir."

"You're exactly the young girl I want for my profession."

"Please, sir----"

"Hus.h.!.+"

"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 here 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 pa.s.sed 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."