Part 48 (1/2)
”Then I will come with you, father,” said Connie. ”We'll both go together and find Sue.”
As Pickles was entering the house he popped his head out again.
”I forgot to mention,” he said, ”as hinquiries o' the most strict and dertective character 'ave been inst.i.tooted by yer 'umble sarvant for poor Cinderella--I mean Sue. They've led to no results. There's nothing now but one o' the hospitals.”
It is very doubtful whether Pickles believed himself the clue he had unexpectedly given to Harris and Connie, but certain it is that they immediately began their investigations in those quarters. From one hospital to another they went, until at last they found Sue in bed in St. Thomas's Hospital--flushed, feverish, struggling still to hide her secret in order that when she was better she might save Peter Harris.
The poor child was rather worse than usual that evening, and the surgeon who had set her leg was slightly anxious at her feverish symptoms. He said to the nurse who was taking charge of the little girl:
”That child has a secret on her mind, and it is r.e.t.a.r.ding her recovery.
Do you know anything about her?”
”No, sir. It is very awkward,” said the nurse, ”but from the first she has refused to give her name, calling herself nothing but Cinderella.”
”Well,” said the doctor, ”but Cinderella--she doesn't seem touched in the head?”
”Oh no,” said the nurse; ”it isn't that. She's the most sensible, patient child we have in the ward. But it's pitiful to see her when she thinks no one is listening. Nothing comforts her but to hear Big Ben strike. She always cheers up at that, and murmurs something below her breath which no one can catch.”
”Well, nurse,” said the doctor, ”the very best thing would be to relieve her mind--to get her to tell you who her people are, and to confide any secret which troubles her to you.”
”I will try,” said the nurse.
She went upstairs after her interview with the doctor, and bending over Sue, took her hot hand and said gently:
”I wish, little Cinderella, you would tell me something about yourself.”
”There's naught to tell,” said Sue.
”But--you'll forgive me--I am sure there is.”
”Ef you was to ask me for ever, I wouldn't tell then,” said Sue.
”Ah! I guessed--there is something.”
”Yes--some'ut--but I can't bear it--the Woice in the air is so beautiful.”
”What voice?” asked the nurse, who feared that her little patient would suddenly become delirious.
”It's Big Ben hisself is talkin' to me and to my darling, darling little brother.”
”Oh! you have a little brother, Cinderella?”
”Yus, a cripple. But don't ask me no more. The Woice gives me strength, and I won't niver, niver tell.”
”What does Big Ben say? I don't understand.”
”No,” said Sue; ”and p'r'aps ye're not wanted to understand. It's for me and for him, poor darling, that Woice is a real comfort.”
The nurse left her little charge a few minutes afterwards. But before she went off duty she spoke to the night nurse, and confessed that she was anxious about the child, who ought to be recovering, and certainly would but for this great weight of trouble on her mind.