Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Sue, A Little Heroine by L. T. Meade (best way to read an ebook TXT) 📖
- Author: L. T. Meade
Book online «Sue, A Little Heroine by L. T. Meade (best way to read an ebook TXT) 📖». Author L. T. Meade
"What do you want me for, Pickles?" asked Connie.
"Fur one or two things of much private importance. First, tell me, how is the little lame chap as is fretting fur his sister wot is kept in the country?"
"He is not so well, Pickles; he is not so well as he was. Pickles, I don't believe that story about Sue being in the country."
"You don't believe me when I opens my lips to give utterance to the words of gospel truth!" replied Pickles. But his red face grew a shade redder, and his full, bold gaze was not quite so steady as usual. "Why, surely, Pickles, you ain't going to be troubled wid nerves!" he said to himself.
Connie, watching anxiously, entreated in her softest tones: "Dear Pickles, you might trust me. I should like to know, and I won't tell Giles."
"Ay, ay, that's a woman's curiosity; but the misfortune is as it can't be gratified. No, Connie. You are as rare and pretty a bit of woman as hiver I clapped heyes on. But fur hall that you ain't going to come hover this yere boy. When I tells you, Connie, that Sue is hin the country, please believe as she his in that year health-giving place. When 'tis conwenient fur me to confide in you farther, why, I'll do it. That time ain't at present. In the meantime, ef you want to real help them who ere in difficulty, you will let me know widout any more wasting o' precious time where yer father, Peter Harris, is working to-day."
"Oh Pickles! wot do you want wid him?"
"Nothink to hurt you, pretty one. Now, will you speak?
"He's at Messrs —— in —— Street," replied Connie.
"Thank yer; and now I'm off. Ef you'll listen to the words o' solemn wisdom, and be guided in that same, you'll not mention this stolen interview to little Giles—bless the little chap! You keep up his heart, Connie. As soon as hiver this yer young man can manage it, Sue shall come home. Lor', now! ain't the world strange and difficult to live in? Wot 'ull bring joy to one 'ull give pain to t'other, but the cause o' right must win the day. Well, good-bye, Connie. I'll wery like look in soon again."
Connie went back to Giles, and Pickles, having obtained the information which he desired, sped as fast as his feet could carry him down the street. Once more his spirits were high, and hope was before him.
"I may save you, you most obstinate and tiresome Cinderella," he said to himself. "But oh, wot a mistake gels are! Why hever those weak and misguided beings was allowed to be is a puzzlement too great fur me."
But though Pickles talked even to himself in this light and careless vein, there was (and he knew it) a pain in his heart—a pain joined to an admiration for Sue, which would have made him willing to fight to the very death in her behalf.
The day, however, had been spent while he was rushing about, and by the time he reached the place where Connie had directed him to seek her father, the workmen were putting by their tools and preparing to go home.
Pickles followed Harris down the street. Harris was talking to and walking with one of his fellow-workmen, and Pickles did not care to accost him except when he was alone.
At the corner, however, of the next street the two parted; and then the boy, putting his face into grave and serious order, ran lightly after Harris. When he addressed him his very voice trembled.
"Mr. Harris, I see'd you coming out of that yer shop. I'm in much perplexity and trouble in my mind, and I thought the sight of you and a talk wid you might maybe set me up."
"You thought wrong, then," said Harris, replying in his gruffest voice, "for I'm in a mortal bit of a hurry, and I'm in no humor to listen to no chaff, so get away."
"Oh, Mr. Harris! I'll endeavor to run by yer side for a minute or two. Mr. Harris, wot does yer think? That little Sue wot I tolled yer on—why, she has discovered who the guilty party is. She have found out who really stole the locket and put it into her pocket."
"She have!" said Harris. He was so astonished and taken by surprise that he now stood still. He stood quite still, gazing helplessly at Pickles, while his weather-beaten face grew pale.
"'Tis gospel truth as I'm telling yer," continued Pickles, fixing his own light-blue eyes full on his victim. "Sue knows hall about it—the whole thing; the great and awful meanness have been made plain to her. Yes, she knows all, Sue does; but, Mr. Harris——"
"Yes; wot have I to say to this tale? I'm in a hurry—tearing hurry—I tell yer."
"Yes, Mr. Harris; I won't keep yer. Sue knows, but Sue, she won't betray. I know who did it," she said, "but I won't tell on him. He lent me a shilling once. He is kind to my little brother wot is lame. I know wot he did, but I won't never tell, I'll go to prison 'stead of he."
Harris's color had returned. He now walked so fast that Pickles had to run to keep up with him. Suddenly, seeing a passing omnibus, he hailed it, and in a second was on the roof. He did not glance at Pickles. In reply to his tale he had not answered by a single word.
Connie went back to Giles, sat down by him, and he resumed his reading. He was going through the Pilgrim's Progress to her, reading short sentences at a time, for his voice was too low and weak to enable him to exert himself for long at a time.
"Connie, wot were that as I read last?"
Connie colored.
"You weren't listening," said Giles reproachfully. "It wor a most beautiful bit. But you didn't hear me, Connie."
"I wor thinking o' something else jest then," owned Connie. "I'll listen now wid hall my might, dear Giles."
"Ah! but I'm tired now," said Giles; "and besides, I want to talk 'bout something else, Connie."
"Well."
"Sue have been a whole month in the country to-day—rayther more than a month. I don't understand it at all. I never thought as she could stay so long away from me. I suppose 'tis hall right, and cottages such as we want do take a powerful long time to find. It has been a long time—wery, wery long—but have I been patient 'bout Sue all this long time, Connie?"
"Yes, indeed, dear Giles."
"Oh! I'm glad, fur I've tried to be. Then, Connie, wot I'm thinking is that ef Sue don't soon come back—ef she don't soon find that 'ere cottage—why, I won't want it, Connie. Sue 'ull come back and find me—gone."
"Gone!" echoed Connie. "Do you mean dead? Oh Giles! you're not ill enough to die."
"Yes, Connie, I think I am. I'm so real desperate weak sometimes that I don't like even to move a finger. I used to be hungry, too, but now I never cares to eat. Besides, Connie dear——"
"Yes, Giles," answered Connie.
"Those wings that I told you of—why, I often seem to feel them flutter inside of me. I told you before, Connie, that when they was full grown, why, I'd fly away. I think they are growing wery fast. I'll want no cottage in the country now. I'm going away to a much better place, ain't I, Connie?"
"Oh! but, Giles, I don't want to think that—I don't want to," answered Connie, the tears raining down her cheeks.
"'Tis real good fur me, though, Connie. I used to pine sore fur the country; but it have come hover me lately that in winter it 'ud be dull—scarcely any flowers, and no birds singing, nor nothink. Now, in heaven there's no winter. 'A land o' pure delight,' the hymn calls it, 'and never-withering flowers.' So you see, Connie, heaven must be a sight better than the country, and of course I'd rayther go there; only I'm thinking as 'tis sech a pity 'bout Sue."
"Yes, I wish as Sue was home," said Connie.
"Connie dear, couldn't we send her a message to come straight home to me now? I'm so feared as she'll fret real hard ef she comes wid news of that cottage and finds me gone."
"I'll look fur her; I will find her," said Connie with sudden energy. Then she rose and drew down the blinds.
"I'll find Sue ef I can, Giles; and now you will go to sleep."
"Will you sing to me? When you sing, and I drop off to sleep listening, I allers dream arterwards of heaven."
"What shall I sing?"
"'There is a land of pure delight.'"
Connie went downstairs and stood in the doorway. She had gone through a good deal during these last adventurous weeks, and although still it seemed to those who knew her that Connie had quite the prettiest face in all the world, it was slightly haggard now for a girl of fourteen years, and a little of its soft plumpness had left it.
Connie had never looked more absolutely pathetic than she did at this moment, for her heart was full of sorrow for Giles and of anxiety with regard to Sue. She would keep her promise to the little boy—she would find Sue.
As she stood and thought, some of the roughest neighbors passed by, looked at the child, were about to speak, and then went on. She was quite in her shabby, workaday dress; there was nothing to rouse jealousy about her clothes; and the "gel" seemed in trouble. The neighbors guessed the reason. It was all little Giles. Little Giles was soon "goin' aw'y."
"It do seem crool," they said one to the other, "an' that sister o' his nowhere to be found."
Just then, who should enter the house but kind Dr. Deane. He stopped when he saw Connie.
"I am going up to Giles," he said. "How is the little chap?"
"Worse—much worse," said Connie, the tears gathering in her eyes.
"No news of his sister, I suppose?"144
"No, sir—none."
"I am sorry for that—they were such a very attached pair. I'll run up and see the boy, and bring you word what I think about him."
The doctor was absent about a quarter of an hour. While he was away Connie never moved, but stood up leaning against the door-post, puzzling her brains to think out an almost impossible problem. When the doctor reappeared she did not even ask how Giles was. Kind Dr. Deane looked at her; his face was wonderfully grave. After a minute he said:
"I think, Connie, I'd find that little sister as quickly as I could. The boy is very, very weak. If there is one desire now in his heart, however, it is just to see Sue once more."
"I ha' give him my word," said Connie. "I'm goin' to find Sue ef—ef I never see Giles agin."
"But you mustn't leave him for long," said the doctor. "Have you no plan in your head? You cannot find a girl who is lost as Sue is lost in this great London without some clue."
"I ain't got any clue," said Connie, "but I'll try and find Pickles."
"Whoever is Pickles?" asked the doctor.
"'E knows—I'm sartin sure," said Connie. "I'll try and find him, and then——"
"Well, don't leave Giles alone. Is there a neighbor who would sit with him?"
"I won't leave him alone," said Connie.
The doctor then went away. Connie was about to return to Giles, if only for a few minutes, when, as though in answer to an unspoken prayer, the red-headed Pickles appeared in sight. His hair was on end; his face was pale; he was consumed with anxiety; in short, he did not seem to be the same gay-hearted Pickles whom Connie had last met with. When he saw Connie, however, the sight of that sweet and sad face seemed to pull him together.
"Now must I give her a blow, or must I not?" thought Pickles to himself. "It do seem 'ard. There's naught, a'most, I wouldn't do for pore Cinderella; but w'en I have to plant a dart in the breast of that 'ere most beauteous crittur, I feels as it's bitter 'ard. W'y, she 'ud make me a most captiwatin' wife some day. Now, Pickles, my boy, wot have you got in the
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