Sue, A Little Heroine Part 5

"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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 Sat.u.r.day. 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 s.h.i.+llin'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.

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 constoos.h.i.+onul 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.

CHAPTER VII.

SHOPPING.

Connie slept without dreams that night, and in the morning awoke with a start. What was the matter? Was she late? It was dreadful to be late at the doors of that cruel factory. Those who were late were docked of their pay.

Peter Harris was always very angry when his daughter did not bring in her full earnings on Sat.u.r.day night. Connie cried out, "Father, father!"

and then sat up in bed and pushed her golden hair back from her little face. What was the matter? Where was she? Why, what a pretty room! There was scarcely any light yet, and she could not see the different articles of furniture very distinctly, but it certainly seemed to her that she was in a most elegant apartment. Her room at home was--oh, so bare! just a very poor trundle-bed, and a little deal chest of drawers with a tiny looking-gla.s.s on top, and one broken chair to stand by her bedside. This was all.

But her present room had a carpet on the floor, and there were pictures hanging on the walls, and there were curtains to the windows, and the little bed on which she lay was covered with a gay counterpane--soft--almost as soft as silk.

Where could she be? It took her almost a minute to get back the memory of last night. Then she shuddered with the most curious feeling of mingled ecstasy and pain. She was not going to the factory to-day. She was not going to work at that horrid sewing-machine. She was not to meet Sue. She was not to be choked by the horrid air. She, Connie, had got a new situation, and Mrs. Warren was a very nice woman, although she was so fat and her dress was so loud that even Connie's untrained taste could not approve of it.

Just then a voice called to her:

"Get up, my dear; I'll have a cosy breakfast ready for yer by the time yer've put yourself tidily into yer clothes."

"Yes," thought Connie to herself, "I've done well to come. Agnes is right. I wonder what she'll say when she comes to tea this evening. I wonder if she met father. I do 'ope as father won't find me. I'd real like to stay on here for a bit; it's much, much nicer than the cruel sort of life I 'ave to home."

Connie dressed by the light which was now coming in more strongly through the window. Mrs. Warren pushed a can of hot water inside the door, and the girl washed with a strange, unwonted sense of luxury. She had no dress but the dark-blue, and she was therefore forced to put it on.

When she had completed her toilet she entered the sitting-room. Mrs.

Warren, in her morning _deshabille_, looked a more unpleasing object than ever. Her hair was in tight curl-papers, and she wore a very loose and very dirty dressing-gown, which was made of a sort of pattern chintz, and gave her the effect of being a huge pyramid of coa.r.s.e, faded flowers.

There was coffee, however, which smelled very good, on the hearth, and there was some toast and bacon, and some bread, b.u.t.ter, and jam. Connie and Mrs. Warren made a good meal, and then Mrs. Warren began to talk of the day's programme.

"I have a lot of shopping to do this morning," she said, "and we'll go out not later than ten o'clock sharp. It's wonderful wot a lot o' things I has to buy. There's sales on now, too, and we'll go to some of 'em.

Maybe I'll get yer a bit o' ribbon--you're fond o' blue ribbon, I take it. Well, maybe I'll get it for yer--there's no saying. Anyhow, we'll walk down the streets, and wot shops we don't go into we'll press our noses against the panes o' gla.s.s and stare in. Now then, my dear, yer don't s'pose that I'll allow you to come out walking with the likes o'