← catalogue

Fan : The Story of a Young Girl's Life

by W. H. Hudson · English · Gutenberg #7827 · 996,434 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Fan : The Story of a Young Girl's Life
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: Fan : The Story of a Young Girl's Life

Author: W. H. Hudson


        
Release date: April 1, 2005 [eBook #7827]
                Most recently updated: March 15, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7827

Credits: Text file produced by Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, and the Online
        Distributed Proofreading Team
        
        HTML file produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAN : THE STORY OF A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE ***




Produced by Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team








FAN

THE STORY OF A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE

By Henry Harford

(W.H. Hudson)




NOTE

The novel _Fan_ was originally published in 1892, under the pseudonym
of “Henry Harford.” It now makes its appearance under the name of W.H.
Hudson for the first time.

This edition is limited to 498 copies of which 450 copies are for sale.




CHAPTER I


A Misty evening in mid-October; a top room in one of the small dingy
houses on the north side of Moon Street, its floor partially covered
with pieces of drugget carpet trodden into rags; for furniture, an iron
bed placed against the wall, a deal cupboard or wardrobe, a broken iron
cot in a corner, a wooden box and three or four chairs, and a small
square deal table; on the table one candle in a tin candlestick gave
light to the two occupants of the room. One of these a woman sitting in
a listless attitude before the grate, fireless now, although the evening
was damp and chilly. She appeared strong, but just now was almost
repulsive to look at as she sat there in her dirty ill-fitting gown,
with her feet thrust out before her, showing her broken muddy boots. Her
features were regular, even handsome; that, however, was little in her
favour when set against the hard red colour of her skin, which told
of habitual intemperance, and the expression, half sullen and half
reckless, of her dark eyes, as she sat there staring into the empty
grate. There were no white threads yet in her thick long hair that had
once been black and glossy, unkempt now, like everything about her, with
a dusky dead look in it.

On the cot in the corner rested or crouched a girl not yet fifteen years
old, the woman's only child: she was trying to keep herself warm there,
sitting close against the wall with her knees drawn up to enable her to
cover herself, head included, with a shawl and an old quilt. Both were
silent: at intervals the girl would start up out of her wrappings and
stare towards the door with a startled look on her face, apparently
listening. From the street sounded the shrill animal-like cries of
children playing and quarrelling, and, further away, the low, dull,
continuous roar of traffic in the Edgware Road. Then she would drop
back again, to crouch against the wall, drawing the quilt about her,
and remain motionless until a step on the stair or the banging of a door
below would startle her once more.

Meanwhile her mother maintained her silence and passive attitude, only
stirring when the light grew very dim; then she would turn half round,
snuff the wick off with her fingers, and wipe them on her shabby dirty
dress.

At length the girl started up, throwing her quilt quite off, and
remained seated on the edge of her cot, the look of anxiety increasing
every moment on her thin pale face. In the matter of dress she seemed
even worse off than her mother, and wore an old tattered earth-coloured
gown, which came down to within three or four inches of her ankles,
showing under it ragged stockings and shoes trodden down at heel, so
much too large for her feet that they had evidently belonged to her
mother. She looked tall for her years, but this was owing to her extreme
thinness. Her arms were like sticks, and her sunken cheeks showed the
bones of her face; but it was a pathetic face, both on account of the
want and anxiety so plainly written on it and its promise of beauty.
There was not a particle of colour in it, even the thin lips were almost
white, but the eyes were of the purest grey, shaded by long dark lashes;
while her hair, hanging uneven and disordered to her shoulders, was of a
pure golden brown.

“Mother, he's coming!” said the girl.

“Let him come!” returned the other, without looking up or stirring.

Slowly the approaching footsteps came nearer, stumbling up the dark,
narrow staircase; then the door was pushed open and a man entered--a
broad-chested, broad-faced rough-looking man with stubbly whiskers,
wearing the dress and rusty boots of a labourer.

He drew a chair to the table and sat down in silence. Presently he
turned to his wife.

“Well, what have you got to say?” he asked, in a somewhat unsteady
voice.

“Nothing,” she returned. “What have you got?”

“I've got tired of walking about for a job, and I want something to eat
and drink, and that's what _I've_ got.”

“Then you'd better go where you can get it,” said she. “You can't find
work, but you can find drink, and you ain't sober now.”

For only answer he began whistling and drumming noisily on the table.
Suddenly he paused and looked at her.

“Ain't you done that charing job, then?” he asked with a grin.

“Yes; and what's more, I got a florin and gave it to Mrs. Clark,” she
replied.

“You blarsted fool! what did you do that for?”

“Because I'm not going to have my few sticks taken for rent and be
turned into the street with my girl. That's what I did it for; and if
you won't work you'll starve, so don't you come to me for anything.”

Again he drummed noisily on the table, and hummed or tried to hum a
tune. Presently he spoke again:

“What's Fan been a-doing, then?”

“You know fast enough; tramping about the streets to sell a box of
matches. A nice thing!”

“How much did she get?”

To this question no answer was returned.

“What did she get, I arsk you?” he repeated, getting up and putting his
hand heavily on her shoulder.

“Enough for bread,” she replied, shaking his hand off.

“How much?” But as she refused to answer, he turned to the girl and
repeated in a threatening tone, “How much?”

She sat trembling, her eyes cast down, but silent.

“I'll learn you to answer when you're spoken to, you damn barstard!” he
said, approaching her with raised hand.

“Don't you hit her, you brute!” exclaimed his wife, springing in sudden
anger to her feet.

“Oh, father, don't hit me--oh, please don't--I'll tell--I'll tell! I got
eighteenpence,” cried the girl, shrinking back terrified.

He turned and went back to his seat, grinning at his success in getting
at the truth. Presently he asked his wife if she had spent eighteenpence
in bread.

“No, I didn't. I got a haddock for morning, and two ounces of tea, and a
loaf, and a bundle of wood,” she returned sullenly.

After an interval of a couple of minutes he got up, went to the
cupboard, and opened it.

“There's the haddy right enough,” he said. “No great things--cost
you thrippence, I s'pose. Tea tuppence-ha'penny, and that's
fivepence-ha'penny, and a ha'penny for wood, and tuppence-ha'penny for
a loaf makes eightpence-ha'penny. There's more'n ninepence over, Margy,
and all I want is a pint of beer and a screw. Threepence--come now.”

“I've nothing to give you,” she returned doggedly.

“Then what did you do with it? How much gin did you drink--eh?”

“As much as I could get,” she answered defiantly.

He looked at her, whistled and drummed, then got up and went out.

“Mother, he's gone,” whispered Fan.

“No such luck. He's only going to ask Mrs. Clark if I gave her the
florin. He won't be long you'll see.”

Very soon he did return and sat down again. “A pint and a screw, that's
all I want,” he said, as if speaking to himself, and there was no
answer. Then he got up, put his hand on her shoulder, and almost shook
her out of her chair. “Don't you hear?” he shouted.

“Let me alone, you drunken brute; I've got nothing, I tell you,” she
returned, and after watching his face a few moments settled down again.

“All right, old woman, I'll leave you,” he said, dropping his hands. But
suddenly changing his mind, he swung round and dealt her a heavy blow.

She sprang up with a scream of anger and pain, and taking no notice
of Fan's piteous cries and pleadings, rushed at him; they struggled
together for some moments, but the man was the strongest; very soon he
flung her violently from him, and reeling away to some distance, and
unable to recover her balance, she finally fell heavily on to the floor.

“Oh, mother, mother, he has killed you,” sobbed Fan, throwing herself
down beside the fallen woman and trying to raise her head.

“That I will, and you too,” remarked the man, going back to his seat.

The woman, recovering from the shock, struggled to her feet and sat
down again on her chair. She was silent, looking now neither angry nor
frightened, but seemed half-dazed, and bending forward a little she
covered her eyes with her hand.

“Oh, mother, poor mother--are you hurt?” whispered Fan, trying to draw
the hand away to look into the bowed face.

“You go back to your corner and leave your mother to me,” he said; and
Fan, after hesitating a few moments, rose and shrank away.

Presently he got up again, and seizing his wife by the wrist, dragged
her hand forcibly from her face.

“Where's the coppers, you blarsted drunkard?” he shouted in her ear.
“D'ye think to get off with the little crack on the crown I've giv' you?
I'll do for you to-night if you won't hand over.”

“Oh, father, father!” cried the girl, starting up in an agony of terror.
“Oh, have mercy and don't hit her, and I'll go out and try to get
threepence. Oh, father, there's nothing in the house!”

“Then go, and don't be long about it,” he said, going back to his seat.

The mother roused herself at this.

“You sha'n't stir a step to-night, Fan,” she said, but in a voice not
altogether resolute. “What'll come to you, going into the streets at
this time of night?”

“Something grand, like what's come to her mother, perhaps,” said he with
a laugh.

“Not a step, Fan, if I die for it,” retorted the mother, stung by his
words. But the girl quickly and with trembling hands had already thrust
on her old shapeless hat, and wrapped her shawl about her; then she took
a couple of boxes of safety matches, old and greasy from long use, and
moved towards the door as her mother rose to prevent her from going out.

“Oh, mother, let me go,” she pleaded. “It's best for all of us. It'll
kill me to stay in. Let me go, mother; I sha'n't be long.”

Her mother still protested; but Fan, seeing her irresolution, slipped
past her and was out of the door in a moment.

Once out of the house she ran swiftly along the dark sloppy street until
she came to the wide thronged thoroughfare, bright with the flaring
gas of the shops; then, after a few moments' hesitation, walked rapidly
northwards.

Even in that squalid street where she lived, those who knew Fan from
living in the same house, or in one of those immediately adjoining
it, considered it a disgraceful thing for her parents to send her out
begging; for that was what they called it, although the begging was made
lawful by the match-selling pretext. To them it was a very flimsy one,
since the cost of a dozen such boxes at any oil-shop in the Edgware
Road was twopence-three-farthings--eleven farthings for twelve boxes
of safety matches! The London poor know how hard it is to live and pay
their weekly rent, and are accustomed to make every allowance for each
other; and those who sat in judgment on the Harrods--Fan's parents--were
mostly people who were glad to make a shilling by almost any means;
glad also, many of them, to get drunk occasionally when the state of
the finances allowed it; also they regarded it as the natural and right
thing to do to repair regularly every Monday morning to the pawnbroker's
shop to pledge the Sunday shoes and children's frocks, with perhaps a
tool or two or a pair of sheets and blankets not too dirty and ragged to
tempt the cautious gentleman with the big nose.

But they were not disreputable, they knew where to draw the line. Had
Fan been a coarse-fibred girl with a ready insolent tongue and fond of
horse-play, it would not have seemed so shocking; for such girls, and a
large majority of them are like that, seem fitted to fight their way
in the rough brutish world of the London streets; and if they fall and
become altogether bad, that only strikes one as the almost inevitable
result of girlhood passed in such conditions. That Fan was a shy,
modest, pretty girl, with a delicate type of face not often seen among
those of her class, made the case look all the worse for those who sent
her out, exposing her to almost certain ruin.

Poor unhappy Fan knew what they thought, and to avoid exciting remarks
she always skulked away, concealing her little stock-in-trade beneath
her dilapidated shawl, and only bringing it out when at a safe distance
from the outspoken criticisms of Moon Street. Sometimes in fine
weather her morning expeditions were as far as Netting Hill, and as
she frequently appeared at the same places at certain hours, a few
individuals got to know her; in some instances they had began by
regarding the poor dilapidated girl with a kind of resentment, a feeling
which, after two or three glances at her soft grey timid eyes, turned to
pity; and from such as these who were not political economists, when
she was so lucky as to meet them, she always got a penny, or a
threepenny-bit, sometimes with even a kind word added, which made the
gift seem a great deal to her. From others she received many a sharp
rebuke for her illicit way of getting a living; and these without a
second look would pass on, little knowing how keen a pang had been
inflicted to make the poor shamefaced child's lot still harder to bear.

She had never been out so late before, and hurrying along the wet
pavement, trembling lest she should run against some Moon Street
acquaintance, and stung with the thought of the miserable scene in store
for her should she be compelled to return empty-handed, she walked not
less than half a mile before pausing. Then she drew forth the concealed
matches and began the piteous pleading--“Will you please buy a box of
matches?” spoken in a low tremulous voice to each passer-by, unheeded by
those who were preoccupied with their own thoughts, by all others
looked scornfully at, until at last, tired and dispirited, she turned to
retrace the long hopeless road. And now the thoughts of home became at
every yard of the way more painful and even terrifying to her. What a
misery to have to face it--to have to think of it! But to run away and
hide herself from her parents, and escape for ever from her torturing
apprehensions, never entered her mind. She loved her poor drink-degraded
mother; there was no one else for her to love, and where her mother was
there must be her only home. But the thought of her father was like a
nightmare to her; even the remembrance of his often brutal treatment
and language made her tremble. Father she had always called him, but for
some months past, since he had been idle, or out of work as he called
it, he had become more and more harsh towards her, not often addressing
her without calling her “barstard,” usually with the addition of one of
his pet expletives, profane or sanguineous. She had always feared and
shrunk from him, regarding him as her enemy and the chief troubler of
her peace; and his evident dislike of her had greatly increased during
her last year at the Board School, when he had more than once been
brought before a magistrate and fined for her non-attendance. When that
time was over, and he was no longer compelled by law to keep her at
school, he had begun driving her out to beg in the streets, to make good
what her “book-larning,” as he contemptuously expressed it, had cost
him. And the miserable wife had allowed it, after some violent scenes
and occasional protests, until the illegal pence brought in each
day grew to be an expected thing, and formed now a constant cause of
wrangling between husband and wife, each trying to secure the lion's
share, only to spend it at the public-house.

At last, without one penny of that small sum of threepence, which she
had mentally fixed on as the price of a domestic truce, she had got back
to within fifteen minutes' walk of Moon Street. Her anxiety had made her
more eager perhaps, and had given a strange tremor to her voice and made
her eyes more eloquent in their silent pathos, when two young men pushed
by her, walking fast and conversing, but she did not let them pass
without repeating the oft-repeated words.

“No, indeed, you little fraud!” exclaimed one of the young men; while
his companion, glancing back, looked curiously into her face.

“Stop a moment,” he said to his friend. “Don't be afraid, I'm not going
to pay. But, I say, just look at her eyes--good eyes, aren't they?”

The other turned round laughing, and stared hard at her face. Fan
reddened and dropped her eyes. Finally he took a penny from his pocket
and held it up before her. “Take,” he said. She took the penny, thanking
him with a grateful glance, whereupon he laughed and turned away,
remarking that he had got his money's worth.

She was nearly back to her own street again before anyone else noticed
her; then she met a very large important-looking gentleman, with a lady
at his side--a small, thin, meagre woman, with a dried yellow face,
wearing spectacles. The lady stopped very deliberately before Fan, and
scrutinised her face.

“Come along,” said her husband or companion. “You are not going to stop
to talk to that wretched little beggar, I hope.”

“Yes, I am, so please be quiet.--Now, my girl, are you not ashamed to
come out begging in the streets--do you not know that it is very wrong
of you?”

“I'm not begging--I'm selling matches,” answered Fan sullenly, and
looking down.

“You might have known that she'd say that, so come on, and don't waste
more time,” said the impatient gentleman.

“Don't hurry me, Charles,” returned the lady. “You know perfectly well
that I never bestow alms indiscriminately, so that you have nothing to
fear.--Now, my girl, why do you come out selling matches, as you call
it? It is only a pretext, because you really do not sell them, you know.
Do your parents send you out--are they so poor?”

Then Fan repeated the words she had been instructed to use on occasions
like the present, which she had repeated so often that they had lost all
meaning to her. “Father's out of work and mother's ill, and I came out
because we're starving.”

“Just so, of course, what did you think she would say!” exclaimed the
big gentleman. “Now I hope you are satisfied that I was right.”

“That's just where you are mistaken, Charles. You know that I never give
without a thorough investigation beforehand, and I am now determined to
look narrowly into this case, if you will only let me go quietly on in
my own way.--And now, my girl,” she continued, turning to Fan, “just
tell me where you live, so that I can call on your mother when I have
time, and perhaps assist her if it is as you say, and if I find that her
case is a deserving one.”

Fan at once gave the address and her mother's name.

“There now, Charles,” said the lady with a smile. “That is the test;
you see there is no deception here, and I think that I am able to
distinguish a genuine case of distress when I meet with one.--Here is a
penny, my girl”--one penny after all this preamble!--“and I trust your
poor mother will find it a help to her.” And then with a smile and a nod
she walked off, satisfied that she had observed all due precautions in
investing her penny, and that it would not be lost: for he who “giveth
to the poor lendeth to the Lord,” but certainly not to all the London
poor. Her husband, with a less high opinion of her perspicacity, for he
had muttered “Stuff and nonsense” in reply to her last remark, followed,
pleased to have the business over.

Fan remained standing still, undecided whether to go home or not, when
to her surprise a big rough-looking workman, without stopping in his
walk or speaking to her, thrust a penny into her hand. That made up the
required sum of threepence, and turning into Moon Street, she ran home
as fast as those ragged and loose old shoes would let her.

The candle was still burning on the table, throwing its flickering
yellow light on her mother's form, still sitting in the same listless
attitude, staring into the empty grate. The man was now lying on the
bed, apparently asleep.

On her entrance the mother started up, enjoining silence, and held out
her hand for the money; but before she could take it her husband awoke
with a snort.

“Drop that!” he growled, tumbling himself hastily off the bed, and Fan,
starting back in fear, stood still. He took the coppers roughly from
her, cursing her for being so long away, then taking his clay-pipe from
the mantelpiece and putting on his old hat, swung out of the room; but
after going a few steps he groped his way back and looked in again. “Go
to bed, Margy,” he said. “Sorry I hit you, but 'tain't much, and we must
give and take, you know.” And then with a nod and grin he shut the door
and took himself off.

Meanwhile Fan had gone to her corner and removed her old hat and kicked
off her muddy shoes, and now sat there watching her mother, who had
despondently settled in her chair again.

“Go to bed, Fan--it's late enough,” she said.

Instead of obeying her the girl came and knelt down by her side, taking
one of her mother's listless hands in hers.

“Mother”--she spoke in a low tone, but with a strange eagerness in her
voice--“let's run away together and leave him.”

“Don't talk nonsense, child! Where'd we go?”

“Oh, mother, let's go right away from London--right out into the
country, far as we can, where he'll never find us, where we can sit on
the grass under the trees and rest.”

“And leave my sticks for him to drink up? Don't you think I'm such a
silly.”

“Do--_do_ let's go, mother! It's worse and worse every day, and he'll
kill us if we don't.”

“No fear. He'll knock us about a bit, but he don't want a rope round
_his_ neck, you be sure. And he ain't so bad neither, when he's not in
the drink. He's sorry he hit me now.”

“Oh, mother, I can't bear it! I hate him--I hate him; and he _isn't_
my father, and he hates me, and he'll kill me some day when I come home
with nothing.”

“Who says he isn't your father--where did you hear that, Fan?”

“He calls me bastard every day, and I know what that means. Mother, _is_
he my father?”

“The brute--no!”

“Then why did you marry him, mother? Oh, we could have been so happy
together!”

“Yes, Fan, I know that _now_, but I didn't know it then. I married him
three months before you was born, so that you'd be the child of honest
parents. He had a hundred pounds with me, but it all went in a year; and
it's always been up and down, up and down with us ever since, but now
it's nothing but down.”

“A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Fan in amazement “And who was my father?”

“Go to bed, Fan, and don't ask questions. I've been very foolish to say
so much. You are too young to understand such things.”

“But, mother, I do understand, and I want to know who my father is. Oh,
do--do tell me!”

“What for?”

“Because when I know I'll go to him and tell him how--how _he_ treats
us, and ask him to help us to go away into the country where he'll never
find us any more.” Her mother laughed. “You're a brave girl if you'd do
that,” she said, her face softening. “No, Fan, it can't be done.”

“Oh, please tell me, and I'll do it. Why can't it be done, mother?”

“I can't tell you any more, child. Go to bed, and forget all about it.
You hear bad things enough in the street, and it 'ud only put badness
into your head to hear talk of such things.”

Fan's pleading eyes were fixed on her mother's face with a strange
meaning and earnestness in them; then she said:

“Mother, I hear bad things in the street every day, but they don't make
_me_ bad. Oh, do tell me about my father, and why can't I go to him?”

The unhappy woman looked down, and yet could hardly meet those grey
beautiful eyes fixed so earnestly on her face. She hesitated, and passed
her trembling fingers over Fan's disordered hair, and finally burst into
tears.

“Oh, Fan, I can't help it,” she said, half sobbing. “You have just his
eyes, and it brings it all back when I look into them. It was wicked of
me to go wrong, for I was brought up good and honest in the country; but
he was a gentleman, and kind and good to me, and not a working-man and
a drunken brute like poor Joe. But I sha'n't ever see him again. I don't
know where he is, and he wouldn't know me if he saw me; and perhaps he's
dead now. I loved him and he loved me, but we couldn't marry because he
was a gentleman and me only a servant-girl, and I think he had a wife.
But I didn't care, because he was good to me and loved me, and he gave
me a hundred pounds to get married, and I can't ever tell you his name,
Fan, because I promised never to name him to anyone, and kissed the Book
on it when he gave me the hundred pounds, and it would be wicked to
tell now. And Joe, he wanted to marry me; he knew it all, and took the
hundred pounds and said it would make no difference. He'd love you just
the same, he said, and never throw it up to me; and that's why I married
Joe. Oh, what a fool I was, to be sure! But it can't be helped now, and
it's no use saying more about it. Now go to bed, Fan, and forget all
I've said to you.”

Fan rose and went sorrowfully to her bed; but she did not forget, or
try to forget, what she had heard. It was sad to lose that hope of ever
seeing her father, but it was a secret joy to know that he had been kind
and loving to her poor mother, and that he was a gentleman, and not one
like Joe Harrod; that thought kept her awake in her cold bed for a long
time--long after Joe and his wife were peacefully sleeping side by side.




CHAPTER II


That troubled evening was followed by a quiet period, lasting from
Wednesday to Saturday, during which there were no brawls indoors, and
Fan was free of the hateful task of going out to collect pence in the
streets. Joe had been offered a three or four days' job; he had accepted
it gratefully because it was only for three or four days, and for that
period he would be the sober, stolid, British workman. The pleasures of
the pot-house would claim him on Saturday, when he would have money in
his pockets and the appetite that comes from abstention.

On Saturday morning after he had left the house at six o'clock, Fan
started up from her cot and came to her mother's side at the table.

“Mother, may I go out to the fields to-day?” she asked. “I know if I go
straight along the Edgware Road I'll come to them soon. And I'll be home
early.”

“No, Fan, don't you try it. It's too far and'll tire you, and you'd be
hungry and maybe get lost.”

“Can't I take some bread, mother? Do let me go! It will be so nice to
see the fields and trees, and they say it isn't far to walk.”

“You're not fit to be seen walking, Fan. Wait till you've got proper
shoes to your feet, and a dress to wear. Perhaps I'll git you one next
week.”

“But if I wait I'll never go! He'll finish his work to-day and spend the
money, and on Monday he'll send me out just the same as before.”

And as she continued to plead, almost with tears, so intent was she on
this little outing, her mother at length gave her consent. She even got
her scissors to cut off the ragged fringing from the girl's dress to
make her look more trim, and mended her torn shoes with needle and
thread; then cut her a hunk of bread for her dinner.

“I never see a girl so set on the country,” she said, when Fan was about
to start, her thin pale face brightening with anticipation. “It's a
long tramp up the Edgware Road, and not much to see when you git to the
fields.”

There would be much to see, Fan thought, as she set out on her
expedition. She had secretly planned it in her mind, and had thought
about it by day and dreamed about it by night--how much there would be
to see!

But the way was long; so long that before she got out of London--out of
that seemingly endless road with shops on either hand--she began to be
very tired. Then came that wide zone surrounding London, of uncompleted
streets and rows of houses partly occupied, separated by wide spaces
with brick-fields, market-gardens, and waste grounds. Here she might
have turned aside to rest in one of the numerous huge excavations,
their bottoms weedy and grass-grown, showing that they had been long
abandoned; but this was not the country, the silent green woods and
fields she had come so far to seek, and in spite of weariness she
trudged determinedly on.

At first the day had promised to be fine; now a change came over it, the
sky was overcast with grey clouds, and a keen wind from the north-west
blew in her face and made her shiver with cold. Many times during that
long walk she drew up beside some gate or wooden fence, and leaned
against it, feeling almost too tired and dispirited to proceed further;
but she could not sit down there to rest, for people were constantly
passing in traps, carts and carriages, and on foot, and not one passed
without looking hard at her; and by-and-by, overcoming her weakness,
she would trudge on again, all the time wishing herself back in the
miserable room in Moon Street once more.

At last she got beyond the builders' zone, into the country; from an
elevated piece of ground over which the road passed she was able to see
the prospect for miles ahead, and the sight made her heart sink within
her. The few trees visible were bare of foliage, and the fields, shut
within their brown ragged hedges, were mostly ploughed and black, and
the green fields were as level as the ploughed, and there was no shelter
from the cold wind, no sunshine on the pale damp sward. It was in the
middle of October; the foliage and beauty of summer had long vanished;
she had seen the shed autumn leaves in Hyde Park many days ago, yet she
had walked all the weary distance from Moon Street, cheered with the
thought that in the country it would be different, that there would
still be sunshine and shadow there, and green trees and flowers. It
was useless to go on, and impossible in her weak exhausted condition
to attempt to return at once. The only thing left for her to do was
to creep aside and lie down under the shelter of some hedge, and get
through the time in the best way she could. Near the road, some distance
ahead, there was a narrow lane with a rough thorny hedge on either side,
and thither she now went in quest of a shelter of some kind from the
rain which was beginning to fall. The lane was on the east side of the
road, and under the hedge on one hand there was an old ditch overgrown
with grass and weeds; here Fan crouched down under a bush until the
shower was over, then got out and walked on again. Presently she
discovered a gap in the hedge large enough to admit her body, and after
peering cautiously through and seeing no person about, she got into the
field. It was small, and the hedge all round shut out the view on every
side; nevertheless it was a relief to be there, safe out of sight of all
men for a little while. She walked on, still keeping close to the hedge,
until she came to a dwarf oak tree, with a deep hollow in the ground
between its trunk and the hedge; the hollow was half filled with fallen
dead leaves, and Fan, turning them with her foot, found that under the
surface they were dry, and this spot being the most tempting one she
had yet seen, she coiled herself up in the leafy bed to rest. And lying
there in the shelter, after eating her bread, she very soon fell asleep,
in spite of the cold.

From her sleep, which lasted for some hours, she woke stiff and chilled
to the marrow. It was late in the day, and the occasional watery gleams
the sun shot through the grey clouds came from low down in the western
sky. She started up, and scarcely able at first to use her sore, cramped
limbs, set out on her return. She was hungry and thirsty and sore--sore
also in mind at her disappointment--and the gusty evening wind blew
chill, and more than one shower of rain fell to wet her; but she reached
Paddington at last. In the Edgware Road the Saturday evening market was
in full progress when she passed, too tired and miserable to take any
interest in the busy bustling scene. And by-and-by the dense moving
crowds, noise of bawling costermongers, and glare of gas and naphtha
torches were left behind, when she reached the welcome gloom and
comparative quiet of her own squalid street. There was also welcome
quiet in the top room when she entered, for her parents were out. A
remnant of fire was in the grate, and the teapot had been left on
the fender to keep warm. Fan poured herself out some tea and drank it
thirstily; then hanging her dress over a chair to dry by the heat of
the embers, and nestling into her rickety bed in the corner, she very
quickly fell asleep. From her sleep she was at length roused by Mrs.
Clark, the landlady, who with her husband and children inhabited the
ground-floor.

“When did you come in, Fan?” she asked.

“I think it was half-past seven,” said the girl.

“Well, your mother went out earlier than that, and now it's half-past
ten, and she not in yet. It's a shame for them always to stay out like
that when they've got a bit of money. I think you'd better go and see if
you can find her, and make her come in. She went to buy the dinner,
and look for Joe in Crawford Street. That's where you'll find her, I'm
thinking.”

Fan rose obediently, shivering with cold, her eyes still heavy with
sleep, and putting on her damp things went out into the streets again.
In a few minutes she was in Crawford Street. It is long, narrow,
crooked, and ill-paved; full of shops, but of a meaner description
than those in the adjacent thoroughfare, with a larger proportion of
fishmongers, greengrocers, secondhand furniture and old clothes sellers.
Here also was a Saturday evening market, an overflow from the Edgware
Road, composed chiefly of the poorer class of costermongers--the
vendors of cheap damaged fruits and vegetables, of haddock and herring,
shell-fish, and rabbits, the skins dangling in clusters at each end of
the barrow. Public-houses were numerous here; on the pavement before
them groups of men were standing, pipe in mouth, idly talking; these
were men who had already got rid of their week's earnings, or of that
portion they had reserved for their own pleasures, but were not yet
prepared to go home, and so miss the chance of a last half-pint of beer
from some passing still solvent acquaintance. There were other larger
groups and little crowds gathered round the street auctioneers,
minstrels, quacks, and jugglers, whose presence in the busier
thoroughfare was not tolerated by the police.

It was late now, and the money spending and getting nearly over;
costermongers, some with half their goods still unsold, were leaving;
the groups were visibly thinning, the doors of the public-houses
swinging to and fro less frequently. As Fan hurried anxiously along, she
peeped carefully through the clouded window-panes into the “public bar”
 department of each drinking place in search of her mother, and paused
for a few moments whenever she came to a group of spectators gathered
round some object of curiosity at a street corner. After satisfying
herself that her mother was not in the crowd, she would remain for a few
moments looking on with the others.

At one spot her attention was painfully held by a short, dark, misshapen
man with no hands nor arms, but only the stump of an arm, with a stick
tied to it. Before him on a rough stand was a board, with half a dozen
thick metal wires stretched across it. Rapidly moving his one poor
stump, he struck on the wires with his stick and so produced a
succession of sounds that roughly resembled a tune. Poor man, how she
pitied him; how much more miserable seemed his life than hers! It was
cold and damp, yet the perspiration stood in great drops on his sallow,
wasted face as he violently wriggled his deformed body about, playing
without hands on his rude instrument--all to make a few pence to save
himself from starvation, or from that living tomb into which, with a
humanity more cruel than Nature's cruelty, we thrust the unfit ones away
out of our sight! No one gave him anything for his music, and with a
pang in her heart she hurried away on her quest.

Not all the street scenes were ghastly or painful. She came to
one crowd, ranged motionless and silent before a large, fat,
dignified-looking man, in good broad-cloth garments, white tie, and
wearing a fez; he was calmly sitting on a camp-stool, and held a small
phial in one hand. Not a word did he speak for a long time. At length
one of the onlookers, a tipsy working-man, becoming impatient, addressed
him:

“Ain't you going to do nothing, mister? Here I've been a-waiting with
these other ladies and gentl'men more'n ten minutes, and you ain't done
nothing yet, nor yet said nothing.”

The fat man placed a hand on his broad shirt-front, rolled up his eyes,
and solemnly shook his head.

“Fools, fools!” he said, as if speaking to himself. “But what does
it matter to me if they won't be saved--if they'd rather die of their
complaints? In the East it's different, because I'm known there. I've
been to Constantinople, and Morocco, and everywhere. Let them ask the
heathen what I have done for them. Do they think I cure them for the
sake of their dirty pence? No, no; those that like gold, and jewels, and
elephants to ride on, can have it all in the East, and I came away from
there. Because why? I care more for these. _I_ don't ask them what's the
matter with them! Is there such a thing as a leper in this crowd? Let
them bring me a leper here, and I'll cure him for nothing, just to show
them what this medicine is. As for rheumatics, consumption, toothache,
palpitations of the 'art--what you like, that's all nothing. One drop
and it's gone. Sarsaparilla, and waters this, and pills that, what they
give their pence for, and expect it's going to do them good. Rubbish, I
call it. They buy it, as much as they can put in their insides, and die
just the same. This is different. Twenty years in the East, and this is
what I got. Doctors! I laugh at such people.”

Here, with a superior smile, he cast down his eyes again and relapsed
into silence.

No one laughed. Then Fan heard someone near her remark: “He has
book-learning, that's what he has”; to which another voice replied, “Ah,
you may say it, and he has more'n that.”

Next to Fan stood a gaunt, aged woman, miserably dressed, and she, too,
listened to these remarks; and presently she pushed her way to the wise
man of the East, and began, “Oh, sir, my heart's that bad--”

“Hush, hush! don't say another word,” he interrupted with a majestic
wave of his hand. “You needn't tell me what you have. I saw it all
before you spoke.”

He uncorked the phial. “One drop on your tongue will make you whole for
ever. Poor woman! poor woman! how much you have suffered. I know it all.
Sixpence first, if you please. If you were rich I would say a hundred
pounds; but you are poor, and your sixpence shall be more to you in the
Day of Judgment than the hundred pounds of the rich man.”

With trembling fingers she brought out her money and counted out
fivepence-halfpenny.

“It's ahl I have,” she sorrowfully said, offering it to him.

He shook his head, and she was about to retire when someone came forward
and placed a halfpenny in her hand. He took his fee, and then all
pressed closer round to watch with intense interest while a drop of
brown liquid was poured on to the poor woman's tongue, thrust far out so
that none of that balsam of life should be lost. After witnessing this
scene, Fan hurried on once more.

At length, near Blandford Square, she came against a crowd so large that
nothing short of a fight, or the immediate prospect of one, could have
caused it to collect at that late hour. A temporary opening of the crowd
enabled her to see into the middle of it, and there, in a small space
which had been made for them, two women stood defiantly facing each
other. The dim light from the windows of the public-house they had been
drinking in fell on their heads, and she instantly recognised them both:
one was her mother, excited by alcohol and anger; the other a tall,
pale-faced, but brawny-looking woman, known in the place as “Long
'Liza,” a noted brawler, once a neighbour of the Harrods in Moon Street,
but now just out of prison and burning to pay off old scores. In vain
Fan struggled to reach her mother; the ring of people closed up again;
she was flung roughly back and no regard paid to her piteous appeals and
sobs.

It was anguish to her to have to stand there powerless on the outer edge
of the ring of people, to listen to the frantic words of the insult
and challenge of the two women and the cries and cheers of the excited
crowd. But it was plain that a war of words was not enough to satisfy
the onlookers, that they were bent on making the women come to blows.
The crowd increased every moment; she was pushed further and further
back, and in the hubbub could only catch portions of what the two
furious women were saying.

“No, you won't fight, you ----; that's not your way, but wait till one's
down, and then.... And if you got six weeks with hard, it's a pity, I
say, as it wasn't six months.... But if I was a ---- blab like you I
could say worse things of you than you and your ---- Moon Street crew
can say of me any day.... And you'll out with it if you don't want your
head knocked on the stones for nothing.... Not by you, you ----; I'm
ready, if you want to try your strength with me, then we'll see whose
head 'ull be knocked on the stones.... Yes, I'll fight you fast enough,
but first.... If you'll have it, where's the girl you send into the
streets to beg? You and your man to git drunk on the coppers she gits!
More too if you'd like to hear it.... But you can't say more, nor that
neither, you ----.... Smash my teeth, then! Who was her father, or did
the poor fool marry you off the streets when he was drunk?”

With a scream and a curse her antagonist sprang at her, and in a moment
they were striking and tearing at each other like a couple of enraged
wild animals. With a burst of cheering the people pressed closer
round, but after a few moments they interposed and forcibly pulled
the combatants apart. Not that there was any ruth in their hearts, any
compassionate desire to shield these two miserable women of their own
class from their insane fury; their only fear was that the fighters
would exhaust themselves too soon, encumbered as they were with their
jackets and shawls. Not one in the throng remembered that he had an
old mother, a pale-faced wife and little children at home, and sisters,
working-girls perhaps. For the working-man has a sporting instinct as
well as his betters; he cannot gratify it by seeing stripped athletic
men pounding each other with their fists at Pelican Clubs; he has only
the occasional street fight to delight his soul, and the spectacle of
two maddened women tearing each other is not one to be ungrateful for.

Having pulled off their hats and stripped them to their corsets, their
friends and backers released them with encouraging words and slaps on
the back, just as dog-fighters set their dogs on each other. Again there
were yells and curses, tearing of hair and garments, and a blind, mad
rain of blows; until Long 'Liza, striking her foot on the curb, measured
her length on the stones, and instantly her adversary was down on her
chest, pounding her face with clenched fists.

Groans and shouts of protest arose from the onlookers, and then several
of them rushed in and dragged her off, after which the two women were
set on their feet and encouraged to renew the fight. Round after round
was fought with unabated fury, invariably ending by one going down, to
be stamped on, beaten, and kicked by her opponent until rescued by the
spectators, who wished only to prolong the contest. But the last round
ended more disastrously; locked in a close tussle, 'Liza exerted her
whole strength to lift her antagonist from the ground and hurl her down,
and succeeded, falling heavily on her, then quickly disengaging herself
she jumped on her as if with the object of trampling her life out, when
once more the spectators rushed in and dragged her off, still struggling
and yelling with baffled rage. But the fallen woman could not be roused;
the back of her head had struck the edge of the kerbstone; she was
senseless, and her loosened hair becoming saturated with fast-flowing
blood.

Fan, sobbing and pressing her hands together in anguish and terror, was
no longer kept back; as if by magic the crowd had dissipated, while half
a dozen men and women surrounded 'Liza and hurried her, still struggling
and cursing, from the ground. Fan was on her knees beside the fallen
woman, trying to raise her; but presently she was pushed roughly aside
by two policemen who had just arrived on the scene. Of the crowd,
numbering about a hundred and fifty persons, only a dozen or twenty men
still lingered on the spot, and some of these assisted the policemen in
raising the woman and bathing her head with cold water. Then, finding
that she was seriously injured, they put her into a four-wheeler and
drove off to St. Mary's Hospital.

Left alone, Fan stood for a few moments not knowing what to do, then she
set off running after the cab, crying as she ran; but it went too fast
for her, and before she got to the end of Crawford Street it was out of
sight. Still she kept on, and at last, crossing Edgware Road, plunged
into a wilderness of narrow dark streets, still hoping to reach St.
Mary's not long after the cab. But though well acquainted with the
hospital, and all the streets leading to it, on this occasion she became
bewildered, and after wandering about for some time, and feeling utterly
worn-out with her long fatiguing day and the painful emotions she had
experienced, she sat down on a doorstep in a lonely dark street, not
knowing where she had got to.

Then a poor woman came by and was able to direct her, and she hurried on
once more; but when close to the gate she met her father, who asked her
in a surly tone what she did there at that late hour. He had witnessed
the whole fight to the end, only keeping well in the background to
escape observation, and was just returning from the hospital when he met
Fan. Hearing that she was going to see her mother, he ordered her home,
saying that at the hospital they would admit no one at that hour, and
that she must go in the morning to inquire. Sick with grief and misery,
she followed him back to Moon Street, which they reached at about
half-past twelve.




CHAPTER III


Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday passed sadly and slowly enough, and at five
o'clock on the evening of the last day Fan was told at St. Mary's--that
Margaret Harrod was dead. During those three miserable days of suspense
she had spent most of her time hanging about the doors of the hospital,
going timidly at intervals to inquire, and to ask to be allowed to see
her mother. But her request was refused. Her mother was suffering from
concussion of the brain, besides other serious injuries, and continued
unconscious; nothing was to be gained by seeing her.

Without a word, without a tear, she turned away from the dreary gates
and walked slowly back to Moon Street; and at intervals on her homeward
walk she paused to gaze about her in a dazed way, like a person who had
wandered unknowingly into some distant place where everything wore a
strange look. The old familiar streets and buildings were there, the
big shop-windows full of cheap ticketed goods, the cab-stand and
the drinking-fountain, the omnibuses and perpetual streams of'
foot-passengers on the broad pavement. She knew it all so well, yet now
it looked so unfamiliar. She was a stranger, lost and alone there in
that place and everywhere. She was walking there like one in a dream,
from which there would be no more waking to the old reality; no more
begging pence from careless passers-by in the street; no more shrinking
away and hiding herself with an unutterable sense of shame and
degradation from the sight of some neighbour or old school acquaintance;
no more going about in terror of the persecution and foul language
of the gangs of grown-up boys and girls that spent their evenings in
horse-play in the streets; no more going home to the one being she
loved, and who loved her, whose affection supplied the food for which
her heart hungered.

Arrived at her home, she did not go up as was her custom to her
dreary room at the top, but remained standing in the passage near the
landlady's door; and presently Mrs. Clark, coming out, discovered her
there.

“Well, Fan, how's mother now?” she asked in a kind voice.

“She's dead,” returned Fan, hanging her head.

“Dead! I thought it 'ud be that! Dear, dear! poor Margy, so strong as
she was only last Saturday, and dead! Poor Margy, poor dear--we was
always friendly”--here she wiped away a tear--“as good a soul as ever
breathed! _That_ she was, though she did die like that; but she never
had a chance, and went to the bad all on account of him. Dead, and he on
the drink--Lord only knows where he gits it--and lying there asleep in
his room, and his poor wife dead at the hospital, and never thinking how
he's going to pay the rent. I've stood it long enough for poor Margy,
poor dear, because we was friends like, and she'd her troubles the same
as me, but I ain't going to stand it from him. That I'll let him know
fast enough; and now she's dead he can take himself off, and good
riddance. But how're _you_ going to live--begging about the street? A
big girl like you--I'm ashamed of such goings on, and ain't going to
have it in my house.”

Fan shook her head: the slow tears were beginning to fall now. “I'd do
anything for mother,” she said, with a half sob, “but she's dead, and
I'll never beg more.”

“That's a good girl, Fan. But you always was a good girl, I must say,
only they didn't do what's right by you. Now don't cry, poor dear, but
run up to your room and lie down; you're dead tired.”

“I can't go there any more,” murmured Fan, in a kind of despairing way.

“And what are you going to do? He'll do nothing for you, but 'll only
make you beg and abuse you. I know Joe Harrod, and only wish he'd got
his head broke instead of poor Margy. Ain't you got no relation you know
of to go to? She was country-bred, Margy was; she come from Norfolk, I
often heard her say.”

“I've got no one,” murmured Fan.

“Well, don't cry no more. Come in here; you look starved and tired to
death. When my man comes in you'll have tea with us, and I'll let you
sleep in my room. But, Fan, if Joe won't keep you and goes off and
leaves you, you'll have to go into the House, because _I_ couldn't keep
you, if I wanted ever so.”

Fan followed her into her room on the ground-floor: there was a fire in
the grate, which threw a dim flickering light on the dusty-looking walls
and ceiling and the old shabby furniture, but it was very superior to
the Harrods' bare apartment, and to the poor girl it seemed a perfect
haven of rest. Retreating to a corner she sat down, and began slowly
pondering over the words the landlady had spoken. The “House” she had
always been taught to look on as a kind of prison where those who were
unfit to live, and could not live, and yet would not die, were put away
out of sight. For those who went to gaol for doing wrong there was hope;
not so for the penniless, friendless incapables who drifted or were
dragged into the dreary refuge of the “House.” They might come out again
when the weather was warm, and try to renew the struggle in which they
had suffered defeat; but their case would be then like that of the
fighter who has been felled to the earth, and staggers up, half stunned
and blinded with blood, to renew the combat with an uninjured opponent.
And yet the words she had heard, while persistently remaining in her
mind, did not impress her very much then. She was tired and dazed,
and had nothing to live for, and was powerless to think and plan
for herself: she was ready to go wherever she was bidden, and ask
no questions and make no trouble. So she went and sat down in a dark
corner, without making any reply. With eyes closed and her tired
head resting against the wall, she remained for half an hour in that
impassive state, saying no word in answer to Mrs. Clark's occasional
remarks, as she moved about preparing the six o'clock meal.

Then the husband came in, and being a silent man, said nothing when his
wife told him that Margaret was dead at the hospital. When she proceeded
to add that Joe would sell the sticks and go off, leaving Fan on their
hands, and that Fan would have to go to the House, he only nodded his
head and went on with his tea.

Fan drank her tea and ate her bread-and-butter, and then once more
returned to her seat, and after some time she fell asleep, leaning her
head against the wall. She woke with a start two hours later to find
herself alone in the room, but there was still some fire in the grate,
and a candle burning on the table. The heavy steps of a man on the
stairs had woke her, and she knew that Joe Harrod was coming down from
his room. He came and knocked at the door.

“Is Fan here?” he called huskily. “Where's the girl got to, I'd like to
know?”

She remained silent, shrinking back trembling in her corner; and after
waiting a while and getting no answer he went grumbling away, and
presently she heard him go out at the street door. Then she sprang to
her feet, and stood for a while intently listening, with a terror and
hatred of this man stronger than she had ever felt before urging her to
fly and place herself for ever beyond his reach. Somewhere in this great
city she might find a hiding-place; it was so vast; in all directions
the great thoroughfares stretched away into the infinite distance,
bright all night with the flaring gas and filled with crowds of people
and the noise of traffic; and branching off from the thoroughfares there
were streets, hundreds and thousands of streets, leading away into black
silent lanes and quiet refuges, in the shadow of vast silent buildings,
and arches, and gateways, where she might lie down and rest in safety.
So strong on her was this sudden impulse to fly, that she would have
acted on it had not Mrs. Clark returned at that moment to the room.

“Come, Fan, I've made you up a bed in my room, and if he comes bothering
for you to-night, I'll soon send him about his business. Don't you fear,
my girl.”

Fan followed her silently to the adjoining room, where a bed of rugs and
blankets had been made for her on four or five chairs. For the present
she felt safe; but she could not sleep much, even on a bed made
luxurious by warmth, for thinking of the morrow; and finally she
resolved to slip away in the morning and make her escape.

At six o'clock next morning the Clarks were up, one to go to his work,
the other to make him his breakfast. When they had left the bedroom Fan
also got up and dressed herself in all haste, and after waiting till
she heard the man leave the house, she went into the next room, and Mrs.
Clark gave her some coffee and bread, and expressed surprise at seeing
her up so early. Fan answered that she was going out to look for
something to do.

“It's not a bit of use,” said the other. “They won't look at you with
them things on. Just you stop in quiet, and I'll see he don't worry you;
but by-and-by you'll have to go to the House, for Joe Harrod's not the
man to take care of you. They'll feed you and give you decent clothes,
and that's something; and perhaps they'll send you to some place where
they take girls to learn them to be housemaids and kitchen-maids, and
things like that. Don't you go running about the streets, because it'll
come to no good, and I won't have it.”

Fan had intended to ask her to let her go out and try just once, and
when once clear of the neighbourhood, to remain away, but Mrs. Clark had
spoken so sharply at the last, that she only hung her head and remained
silent.

But presently the opportunity came when the woman went away to look
after some domestic matter, and Fan, stealing softly to the door, opened
it, and finding no person in sight, made her escape in the direction of
Norfolk Crescent. Skirting the neighbourhood of squares and gardens and
large houses, she soon reached Praed{035} Street, and then the Harrow
Road, along which she hurriedly walked; and when it began to grow light
and the shopkeepers were taking down their shutters, she had crossed
the Regent's Canal, and found herself in a brick-and-mortar wilderness
entirely unknown to her.

Here she felt perfectly safe for the time, for the Clarks, she felt
sure, would trouble themselves no further about her, for she was nothing
to them; and as for Joe Harrod, she had heard them say that he would be
called that day to identify his wife's body at the inquest, and give his
evidence about the way in which she had met her death.

About these unknown streets Fan wandered for hours in an aimless kind of
way, not seeking work nor speaking to anyone; for the words Mrs. Clark
had spoken about the uselessness of seeking employment dressed as she
was still weighed on her mind and made her ashamed of addressing any
person. Towards noon hunger and fatigue began to make her very faint;
and by-and-by the short daylight would fail, and there would be no food
and no shelter for the night. This thought spurred her into action.
She went into a small side street of poor mean-looking houses and a few
shops scattered here and there among the private dwellings. Into one of
these--a small oil-shop, where she saw a woman behind the counter--she
at last ventured.

“What for you?” said the woman, the moment she put her foot inside the
door.

“Please do you want a girl to help with work--”

“No, I don't want a girl, and don't know anyone as does,” said the woman
sharply; then turned away, not well pleased that this girl was no buyer
of an honest bundle of wood, a ha'porth of treacle, or a half-ounce of
one-and-four tea; for out of the profits of such small transactions she
had to maintain herself and children.

Fan went out; but by-and-by recovering a little courage, and urged by
need, she went into other shops, into all the shops in that mean little
street at last, but nobody wanted her, and in one or two instances
she was ordered out in sharp tones and followed by sharp eyes lest she
should carry off something concealed under her shawl.

Then she wandered on again, and at length finding a quiet spot, she sat
down to rest on a doorstep. The pale October sunshine which had been
with her up till now deserted her; it was growing cold and grey, and at
last, shivering and faint, she got up and walked aimlessly on once more,
resolving to go into the next shop she should come to, and to speak to
the next woman she should see standing at her door, with the hope of
finding someone at last to take her in and give her food and a place to
lie down in. But on coming to the shop she would pass on; and when she
saw a woman standing outside her door, with keen hard eyes looking her
from head to foot, she would drop her own and walk on; and at last,
through very weariness, she began to lose that painful apprehension of
the cold night spent out of doors; even her hunger seemed to leave
her; she wanted only to sit down and fall asleep and remember no more.
By-and-by she found herself again in the Harrow Road, but her brain was
confused, so that she did not know whether she was going east or west.
It was growing colder now and darker, and a grey mist was forming in the
air, and she could find no shelter anywhere from the cold and mud
and mist, and from the eyes of the passers-by that seemed to look so
pitilessly at her. The sole of one of her shoes was worn through, and
the cold flag-stones of the footway and the mud of the streets made
her foot numb, so that she could scarcely lift it. Near Paddington
Green--for she had been for some time walking back towards the Edgware
Road--she paused at the entrance of a short narrow street, running up
to the canal. It had a very squalid appearance, and a number of ragged
children were running about shouting at their play in it, but it was
better than the thoroughfare to rest in, and advancing a few yards, she
paused on the edge of the pavement and leant against a lamp-post. A
few of the dirty children came near and stared at her, then returned
to their noisy sports with the others. A little further on women were
standing at their doors exchanging remarks. Presently a thin sad-looking
woman, in a rusty black gown, carrying something wrapped in a piece of
newspaper in her hand, came by from the thoroughfare. She paused near
Fan, looked at her once or twice, and said:

“What name be you looking for? The numbers is mostly rubbed off the
doors. Maybe they never had none.”

“I wasn't looking for anyone,” said Fan.

“I thought you was, seeing you standing as if you didn't know where to
go, like.”

Fan shook her head, feeling too tired to say anything. She had no
friend, no one she knew even in these poor tenements, and only wished
to rest a little there out of sight of the passing people. The woman was
still standing still, but not watching her.

“Maybe you're waiting for someone?” she suggested.

“No.”

“No? you're not.” And after a further interval she began studying
the little loosely-wrapped parcel in her hand; and finally, with slow
deliberation, she unfolded it. It contained a bloater: she felt it
carefully as though to make sure that it had a soft roe, and then smelt
it to make sure that it was good, after which she slowly wrapped it
up again. “Maybe you've no home to go to,” she remarked tentatively,
looking away from Fan as if speaking to some imaginary person.

“No, I haven't,” said Fan.

“You don't look a bad 'un. P'r'aps they treated you badly and you ran
away.”

Fan nodded.

“And you've no place to go to, and no money?”

“No.”

Again the woman's eyes wandered absently away; then she began studying
the parcel, and appeared about to unfold it once more, then thought
better of it, and at last said, still speaking in the same absent
mournful tone: “I've got a room to myself up there,” indicating the
upper end of the street. “You can come and sleep along with me, if you
like. One bloater ain't much for two, but there's tea and bread, and
that'll do you good.”

“Thank you, I'll come,” said Fan, and moving along at her side they
walked about forty yards further on to an open door, before which stood
a dirty-looking woman with bare folded arms. She moved aside to let
them pass, and going in they went up to a top room, small and dingy,
furnished with a bed, a small deal table, one chair, and a deal box,
which served as a washing-stand. But there was a fire burning in the
small grate, with a kettle on; and a cottage loaf, an earthenware teapot
with half its spout broken off, and one cup and saucer, also a good deal
damaged, were on the table, the poor woman having made all preparations
for her tea before going out to buy her bloater.

“Take off your hat and sit here,” she said, drawing her one
cane-bottomed chair near the fire.

Fan obeyed, putting her hat on the bed, and then sat warming herself,
too tired and sad to think of anything.

Meanwhile her hostess took off her boots and began quietly moving about
the room, which was uncarpeted, finishing her preparations for tea. The
herring was put down to toast before the coals and the tea made; then
she went downstairs and returned with a second cup. Finally she drew the
little table up to the bed, which would serve as a second seat. It was
all so strangely quiet there, with no sound except the kettle singing,
and the hissing and sputtering of the toasting herring, that the
unaccustomed silence had the effect of rousing the girl, and she glanced
at the woman moving so noiselessly about the room. She was not yet past
middle age, but had the coarsened look and furrowed skin of one whose
lot in life had been hard; her hair was thin and lustreless, sprinkled
with grey, and there was a faraway look of weary resignation in her
dim blue eyes. Fan pitied her, and remembering that but for this poor
woman's sympathy she would have been still out in the cold streets, with
no prospect of a shelter for the night, she bent down her face and began
to cry quietly.

The woman took no notice, but continued moving about in her subdued way,
until all was ready, and then going to the window she stood there gazing
out into the mist and darkness. Only when Fan had finished crying she
came back to the fireside, and they sat down to their tea. It was a
silent meal, but when it was over, and the few things washed and put
away, she drew the deal box up to the fire and sat down by Fan. Then
they talked a little: Fan told her that her mother was just dead, that
she was homeless and trying to find something to do for a living. The
woman, on her side, said she worked at a laundry close by. “But they
don't want no more hands there,” she added, in a desponding way. “And
you ain't fit for such work neither. You must try to find something for
yourself to-morrow, and if you can't find nothing, which I don't think
you will, come back and sleep with me. It don't cost much to give you
tea, and I ain't owing any rent now, and it's company for me, so you
needn't mind.”

After this short conversation they went to bed and to sleep, for they
were both tired.




CHAPTER IV


The result of Fan's second day's search for employment proved no
more promising than the first. She wandered about the Westbourne Park
district, going as far west as Ladbroke Grove Road, still avoiding
the streets, gardens, and squares of the larger houses. But she was
apparently not good enough for even the humbler class of dwellings,
for no one would so much as ask her what she could do, or condescend to
speak to her, except in one house, to which she had been directed by a
woman in a greengrocer's shop; there she was scoffingly asked if she had
a “character” and decent clothes to wear.

When the woman who had given her shelter on the previous evening
returned at five o'clock from her work, she found Fan in Dudley Grove,
for that was the beautiful name of the slum she lived in, standing, as
before, beside the lamp-post; and after a few words of greeting took
her to her room. While preparing the tea she noticed the girl's weak and
starved condition, for Fan had eaten nothing all day, and went out and
presently returned with a better supply of food--brawn, and salt butter,
and a bundle of water-cress--quite a variety.

As on the evening before, they sat for a while by the small fire after
their meal, speaking a few words, and those not very hopeful ones, and
then presently they went to bed, and to sleep as soon as their heads
touched the pillow. After their modest breakfast next morning the woman
said:

“Are you going back to your friends to-day?”

Fan glanced at her in sudden fear and cast down her eyes.

“You was tired and had nothing to eat yesterday, and couldn't git
nothing to do. Didn't it make you wish to go back to them again?”

“No, I'll not go back. I've no friends,” said Fan; and then she added
timidly, “You don't want me to come back here no more?”

“Yes; you come back if you don't find nothing. The tea and bread ain't
much, and I don't mind it, and it's company to me to have you.”

And without more words they went out together, separating in the Harrow
Road.

On this morning Fan took a different route, and going south soon found
herself in wide, clean streets, among very big stuccoed and painted
houses. It was useless to seek for anything there, she thought, and yet
presently something happened in this place to put a new hope into
her heart. It was very early, and at some of the houses the cooks or
kitchen-maids were cleaning the doorsteps, and while passing one of
these doors she was accosted by the woman and asked if she would clean
the steps. She consented gladly enough, and received a penny in payment.
Then she remembered that she had often seen poor girls, ill-dressed
as herself, cleaning the steps of large houses, and had heard that the
usual payment was one penny for the task. After walking about for some
time she began timidly ringing the area bells of houses where the steps
had not yet been cleaned, and asking if a girl was wanted to do them.
Almost invariably she was sent away with an emphatic “No!” from a
servant angry at being disturbed; but twice again during that day she
received a penny for step-cleaning, so that she had earned threepence.
After midday, finding she could get no more work, and feeling faint
with hunger, she bought a penny loaf, and going to a shelter facing
the fountains in Kensington Gardens, made her modest dinner, and rested
afterwards until it was time to return to Dudley Grove.

In the evening as she sat by the fire after tea she gave an account of
her success, and exhibited the two remaining pence, offering them to the
poor woman who had sheltered her.

She only shook her head. “You'll maybe want something to eat to-morrow,”
 she said; and presently continued, “Step-cleaning ain't no good. There's
too many at it. And you a growing girl, and always hungry, you'd starve
at it. Saturdays is not bad, because there's many houses where they only
clean the steps once a week, and they has a girl to do it. You might
make sixpence or a shilling on a Saturday. But other days is bad. You
can't live at it. There's nothing you can do to live.”

Fan was profoundly discouraged; but thinking over the subject, she
remembered that she had seen other girls out on the same quest as
herself that day, and though all of them had a dirty draggled look, as
was natural considering the nature of the work, some of them, at all
events, looked well-fed, healthy, and not unhappy, and this had made her
more hopeful. At last she said:

“If other girls get their living at it, why can't I? If I could make
sixpence a day, couldn't I live on that?”

“No, nor yet on ninepence, nor yet on a shilling. You're a tall growing
girl, and you ain't strong, and you are hungry, and want your dinner in
the middle of the day; and if you don't get it, you'll be down ill, and
then what'll you do? You can't do it on sixpence, nor yet on a shilling,
because you've got no home to go to, and must pay for a room; and no one
to find you clothes and shoes, you must buy them. Them girls you see are
stronger than you, and have homes to go to, and don't go about like
you to find steps to clean, but go to the houses they know, where
they always clean the steps. And they don't get only a penny; they get
tuppence, and make a shilling a day--some of them as knows many houses;
and on Saturdays they make more'n three shillings. But you can't do
it, because you don't know nobody, and have no clothes and no home, and
there's too many before you.”

It looked as if this poor woman had worked at step-cleaning herself for
a living, she was so pessimistic about it, and appeared to be so very
familiar with the whole subject. People never believe that a fortune
is to be made at any business in which they have been unsuccessful
themselves.

Fan was discouraged, but there was nothing else for her to do, and it
was hard for her to give up this one chance.

“Won't you let me try just a few days?” she asked at length.

“Yes, you can try; but it ain't no use, there's so many at it. In a few
days your clothes'll be dropping off you, and then what'll you do? It's
rough work, and not fit for a girl like you. I don't mind, because your
tea don't cost much, and it's company to have you here, as it ain't all
giving, but it's give-and-take like between us.”

The same dreary words were repeated evening after evening, when Fan
returned from her daily peregrinations; but still the poor girl hoped
against hope, and clung desperately to the only occupation she had been
able to discover. It was a hard miserable life, and each succeeding day
only seemed to bring her nearer to the disastrous end prophesied by
the mournful laundrywoman of Dudley Grove. How weary she often was with
walking hour after hour, sometimes feeling so famished that she could
hardly refrain from picking up the orange-peels from the street to
appease the cruel pangs of hunger! And when she was more lucky and had
steps to clean, then the wet and grime of the hearthstone made her poor
gown more worn and soiled and evil-looking than ever, while her shoes
were in such a state that it was hard, by much mending every evening, to
keep them from falling to pieces. Every day seemed to bring her nearer
to the end, when she would be compelled to sit down and say “I can do no
more--I must starve”; yet with the little renewal of strength which
the evening meal and drearily-expressed sympathy of her friend and the
night's rest would bring her, she would go forth each morning to wander
about for another day.

Ten or twelve days had gone by in this way, and acting on a little
practical advice given by the poor laundrywoman, she had forsaken the
neighbourhood of squares and big houses close to Hyde Park to go further
afield into the district lying west of Westbourne Grove, where the
houses were smaller, and fewer servants were kept in them.

About ten o'clock one morning she stopped before a house in Dawson
Place, a wide clean street of pretty detached, moderate-sized houses,
each with a garden in front and a larger garden and trees behind. The
house had a trim well-kept appearance, and five or six broad white steps
led up to the front door, which was painted deep blue. Fan, looking
critically at the steps, could not make out whether they had been
already cleaned or not, so white and clean, yet dry, did they look. And
the steps of all the houses in Dawson Place had the same white look,
so that there seemed no chance of anything for her to do there; but
she felt tired already, and stood resting beside the area gate, not
venturing to ring.

By-and-by the front door opened and a lady came out and down the steps,
and on reaching the pavement stood still and looked hard at Fan. She was
tall, and had a round shapely figure, a well-developed bust, and looked
about five-and-twenty years old. Fan thought her marvellously beautiful,
but felt a little frightened in her presence, she was so tall and
stately, and her face had such a frowning, haughty expression. Beautiful
women-faces had always had a kind of fascination for her--the gentle,
refined face, on which she would gaze with a secret intense pleasure,
and a longing to hear some loving word addressed to herself from a
sister with sweet lips, so strong that it was like a sharp pain at her
heart. The proud masterful expression of this beautiful face affected
her differently--she feared as well as admired.

The lady was fashionably dressed, and wore a long dark blue velvet
jacket, deeply trimmed with brown fur, and under the shadow of a rather
broad fur hat her hair looked very black and glossy; her straight
eyebrows were also black, and her eyes very dark, full and penetrating.
Her skin was of that beautiful rich red colour not often seen in London
ladies, and more common in Ireland than in England. Her features were
fine, the nose slightly aquiline, the red lips less full, and the
mouth smaller than is usual in faces of so luxuriant a type; a shapely,
beautiful mouth, which would have been very sweet but for its trick of
looking scornful.

“What do you want?” she said in a sharp imperative tone--just the tone
one would have expected from so imperious-looking a dame.

“Please, do you want the steps cleaned?” Fan asked very timidly.

“No, of course not. What an absurd little goose you must be to ask such
a thing! Servants are kept for such a purpose.”

For a few moments Fan still remained standing there, her eyes cast
down, then shyly glanced up at that richly-coloured beautiful face, and
encountered the dark strong eyes intently watching her.

“Yes, you may clean them,” said the lady. “When you have finished go
down to the kitchen, and tell the cook to pay you and give you something
to eat.” Then she walked away, but after going about a dozen yards, came
back and sharply rang the area-bell to bring out the cook, and repeated
the order to her.

“Very well, ma'am,” said the cook, wiping her hands on her apron; but
she did not return at once to her kitchen, for her mistress was still
standing there watching Fan.

“Never mind, cook, you needn't pay her,” said the lady, speaking again.
“Let her wait in the kitchen till I return. I am going to the Grove, and
shall be back in half an hour.”

Then she walked away, her head well up, and with that stately bird-like
gait seen in some women. When Fan had finished the steps she went into
the kitchen, and the cook gave her some bread and cheese and a glass of
ale, which revived her and made her more strong and hopeful than she
had felt for many a day. Then she began to wonder what the fine lady was
going to say to her, and whether she would give her twopence instead of
the usual penny. Or perhaps it was intended to present her with an
old gown or pair of boots. Such things had happened, she knew, and the
thought that such a thing might happen again, and to her, made her heart
beat fast; and though it was so pleasant resting there in that bright
warm kitchen, she began to wish for the lady's return, so that her
suspense might end. And while she sat there occupied with her thoughts,
the cook, a staid-looking woman of about forty--the usual age of the
London cook--made up her fire and went about doing a variety of things,
taking no notice of her guest.

Then the housemaid came running down the stairs singing into the
kitchen, dusting-brush and dust-pan in her hands--a pretty girl
with dark merry bright eyes, and her brown hair worn frizzled on her
forehead.

“My!” she exclaimed, starting back at seeing Fan. And after surveying
her for some time with a mocking smile playing about the corners of her
pretty ripe mouth, she said, “Is this one of your poor relations, Mrs.
Topping?”

“No, Rosie; that she ain't. The missus gave her the steps to clean, and
told her to wait here till she got back.”

The maid burst into a ringing peal of laughter. “Fancy, Miss Starbrow!”
 she exclaimed. “Where do you come from?” she continued, addressing Fan.
“Whitechapel? Seven Dials?”

Fan reddened with shame and anger, and refused to reply: stubborn
silence was her only shield against those who scoffed at her extreme
poverty; and that this pretty girl was mocking her she knew very
well. Then the maid sat down and stared at her, and amused herself and
fellow-servant with malicious comments on Fan's dress.

“May I ask you, miss, where you got that lovely hat?” she said. “From
Madame Elise? Why, of course, how could I ask! I assure you it is most
charmingly becoming. I shall try to get one like it, but I'm afraid
I can't go beyond six guineas. And your shawl--a Cashmere, I see. A
present from her Majesty, no doubt.”

“Oh, do be quiet, Rosie; you'll kill me!” cried the cook, overcome with
laughter at such exquisite wit. But Rosie, seeing the effects of
it, only became more lively and satirical, until Fan, goaded beyond
endurance, started up from her seat, determined to make her escape.
Fortunately at that moment the lady of the house returned, and the maid
scampered off to open the door to her. Soon she returned and dropped Fan
a mocking curtsey. “Please follow me this way,” she said. “Miss Starbrow
regrets that she has been detained so long, and is now quite ready to
receive you.”

Fan followed her up the kitchen stairs to the hall, where Miss Starbrow,
with her hat on as she had come in, stood waiting to see her. She looked
keenly at the girl's flushed and tearful face, and turned to Rosie for
an explanation; but that lively damsel, foreseeing storms, had already
vanished up the stairs.

“Has she been teasing you?” said the lady. “Well, never mind, don't
think any more about it. She's an impudent hussy, I know--they all are,
and one has to put up with them. Now sit down here and tell me your
name, and where you live, and all about yourself, and why you go out
cleaning steps for a living.”

Then she also sat down and listened patiently, aiding with an occasional
question, while the girl in a timid, hesitating way related the
principal events in her unhappy life.

“Poor girl!” was Miss Starbrow's comment when the narrative was
finished. She had drawn off her glove and now took Fan's hand in hers.
“How can you do that hard rough work with such poor thin little hands?”
 she said. “Let me look at your eyes again--it is so strange that you
should have such eyes! You don't seem like a child of such people as
your parents were.”

Fan glanced timidly at her again, her eyes brightening, a red colour
flushing her pale cheeks, and her lips quivering.

“You have an eloquent face--what do you wish to say?” asked the lady.

Fan still hesitated.

“Trust me, my poor girl, and I shall help you. Then is something in your
mind you would like to say.”

Then Fan, losing all fear, said:

_“He_ was not my father--the man that married mother. My father was a
gentleman, but I don't know his name.”

“I can very well believe it. Especially when I look at your eyes.”

“Mother said my eyes were just like my father's,” said Fan, with growing
confidence and a touch of pride.

“Perhaps they are like his in one way, my poor girl,” said the other,
a little frown clouding her forehead. “In another way they are very
different, I should think. No one who ever did a cruel thing could have
had that expression in his eyes.”

After sitting in silence for some time, still with that frown on her
beautiful face, her eyes resting thoughtfully on the tessellated floor,
she roused herself, and taking out her purse, gave Fan half-a-crown.

“Go home now,” she said, “and come again to-morrow at the same hour.”

Fan went from the door with a novel sense of happiness filling her
heart. At intervals she took out the half-crown from her pocket to
look at it. What a great broad noble coin it looked to her eyes! It was
old--nearly seventy years old--and the lines on it were blurred, and
yet it seemed wonderfully bright and beautiful to Fan; even the face
of George the Third on it, which had never been called beautiful, now
really seemed so to her. But very soon she ceased thinking about the
half-crown and all that it represented; it was not that which caused the
strange happiness in her heart, but the gentle compassionate words that
the proud-looking lady had spoken to her. Never before had so sweet
an experience come to her; how long it would live in her memory--the
strange tender words, the kindly expression of the eyes, the touch of
the soft white hand--to refresh her like wine in days of hunger and
weariness!

It was early still in the day, and many hours before she could return
to Dudley Grove; and so she continued roaming about, and found another
doorstep to clean, and received threepence for cleaning it, to her
surprise. With the threepence she bought all the food she required.
The half-crown she would not break into; that must be shown to the poor
washer-woman just as she had received it. When the woman saw it in the
evening she was very much astonished, and expressed the feeling, if it
be not a contradiction to say so, by observing a long profound silence.
But like the famous parrot she “thought the more,” and at length she
gave it as her opinion that the lady intended taking Fan as a servant in
her house.

“Oh, do you really think so?” exclaimed Fan, becoming excited at the
prospect of such happiness. And after a while she added, “Then I'll
leave you the half-crown for all you've done for me.”

The poor woman would not listen to such a proposal; but next morning she
consented to take charge of it, promising, if Fan should not return, to
use it.




CHAPTER V


Fan did not fail to be at Dawson Place at the time, or a little before
the time, appointed. “Oh, I hope that girl won't open the door when I
ring,” she said to herself, giving the door-bell a little hesitating
pull. But the summons was promptly answered by the undesirable person
in question, and she greeted the visitor with a mocking curtsey. She had
little time, however, in which to make Fan miserable, for Miss Starbrow
was quickly on the scene, looking very gracious and very beautiful in a
dark red morning gown.

“Come here and sit down,” she said, placing herself in one hall chair
and making Fan take the other. “Now listen. Would you like to come and
live here as my servant? You are not fit for such a place, I know--at
all events, not at present; and I should not put you with the other
servants, and upstairs you could do nothing. However that does not
signify. The thing is this. If you would like to come and live with me
you must stay here now, and never go back to those places where you have
lived, and try if possible to forget all about them.”

“Oh yes, ma'am, I promise!” she replied, trembling with joy at the very
thought of escaping from that life of bitter want and anxiety.

“Very well, that's settled then. Come this way with me.”

She then led the way to a large bath-room, a few steps above the
first-floor landing.

“Now,” she said, “undress yourself, and put all your clothes and hat and
shoes in a bundle in the corner--they are shocking to look at, and must
be taken away--and give yourself a hot bath. See, I am turning on the
water for you. That will be enough. And stay in as long as you like,
or can, and try not only to wash off all the dirt on your skin, but all
thought and recollection of Moon Street and Harrow Road and doorsteps,
and all the foul evil things you have seen and heard in your life; and
when you have washed all that off, Fan, and dried yourself, wrap this
shawl around you, and run into that open room you see facing the bath.”

Left to herself, Fan proceeded to obey the instructions she had
received. It was a great luxury to be in that smooth enamelled basin,
where she could lie at full length and move her limbs freely about,
experiencing the delicious sensation of the hot water over her whole
body at the same time.

In the dressing-room she found her mistress waiting for her. There were
clothes there ready for her, and now, for the first time in her life,
she dressed herself in new, clean, sweet garments, over all a gown of
a soft grey material, loose at the waist, and reaching nearly to the
ankles--a kind of “Maid Marian” costume. There were also black stockings
and new shoes. Everything fitted well, although they had all been made
the day before by guess in Westbourne Grove.

Miss Starbrow made her stand in the middle of the room, and turned
her round, while Fan glanced shyly at her own reflection in the tall
cheval-glass, almost wondering “if this be I.”

“Yes, that will do well enough for the present,” said her mistress.
“But your hair is all uneven, Fan, and such lovely hair to be spoilt by
barbarous neglect. Let me cut it even for you, and by-and-by we'll find
out how to arrange it. Well, no; just now it looks best hanging loose on
your back. When it grows long again, we'll put it up. Now come here to
the light, and let me, see what you're like. Nearly fifteen years old,
and pale and very thin, poor girl, which makes you look tall. Golden
hair, good features, and a very pure skin for a girl who has lived a
grimy life. And your eyes--don't be afraid to show them, Fan. If you
had not looked at me yesterday with those eyes, I should have thought no
more about you. Long lashes. Eyes grey--yes, grey decidedly, though at
times they look almost sapphire blue; but the pupils are so large--that
is perhaps the secret of their pathetic expression. That will do. You
think it strange, do you not, Fan? that I should take you into my house
and clothe you--a poor homeless girl; for I don't suppose that you can
do anything for me, and you will therefore only be an extra expense.
A great piece of folly, my friends would probably say. But don't be
afraid, I care nothing for what others say. What I do, I do only to
please myself, and not others. If I am disappointed in you, and find you
different from what I imagine, I shall not keep you, and there will be
an end of it all. Now don't look so cast-down; I believe that you are at
heart a good, pure, truthful girl. I think I can see that much in
your eyes, Fan. And there is, after all, something you can do for
me--something which few can do, or do so well, which will be sufficient
payment for all I am doing for you.”

“Oh, ma'am, will you please tell me what it is?” exclaimed Fan, her
voice trembling with eagerness.

“Perhaps you will do it without my telling you, Fan. I shall leave you
to think about it and find out what it is for yourself. I must only tell
you this; I have not taken you into my house because I am charitable and
like doing good to the poor. I am not charitable, and care nothing about
the poor. I have taken you in for my own pleasure; and as I think well
of you, I am going to trust you implicitly. You may stay in this room
when I am out, or go into the back room on this floor, where you can
look out on the garden, and amuse yourself with the books and pictures
till I come back. I am going out now, and at one o'clock Rosie will give
you some dinner. Take no notice of her if she teases you. Mind me, and
not the servants--they are nothing.”

Miss Starbrow then changed her dress and went out, leaving Fan to her
own devices, wondering what it was that she could do for her mistress,
and feeling a little trouble about the maid who would give her her
dinner at one o'clock; and after a while she went to explore that
apartment at the back Miss Starbrow had spoken of. It was a large
room, nearly square, with cream-coloured walls and dark red dado, and a
polished floor, partly covered with a Turkish carpet; but there was very
little furniture in it, and the atmosphere seemed chill and heavy, for
it was the old unrenewed air of a room that was never used. On a large
centre table a number of artistic objects were lying together in a
promiscuous jumble: Japanese knick-knacks; an ivory card-case that had
lost its cover, and a broken-bladed paper-knife; glove and collar and
work-boxes of sandal-wood, mother-of-pearl, and papier-mâché,
with broken hinges; faded fans and chipped paper-weights; gorgeous
picture-books with loosened covers, and a magnificent portrait-album
which had been deflowered and had nothing left in it but the old and
ugly, the commonplace middle-aged, and the vapid young; with many other
things besides, all more or less defective.

This round table seemed like an asylum and last resting-place of things
which had never been useful, and had ceased to be ornamental, which were
yet not quite bad enough to be thrown into the dust-bin. To Fan it was
a sort of South Kensington Museum, where she was permitted to handle
things freely, and for some time she continued inspecting these rich
treasures, after which she once more began to glance round the room.
Such a stately room, large enough to shelter two or three families, so
richly decorated with its red and cream colours, yet silent and cold and
dusty and untenanted! On the mantelpiece of grey marble stood a
large ornamental clock, which ticked not and the hands of which were
stationary, supported on each side by bronzes--a stalwart warrior in
a coat of mail in the act of drawing his sword, and a long-haired
melancholy minstrel playing on a guitar. A few landscapes in oil were
also hanging on the walls--representations of that ideal world of green
shade and peace which was so often in Fan's mind. Facing the fireplace
stood a tall bookcase, and opening it she selected a book full of poetry
and pictures, and took it to an old sofa, or couch, to read. The sofa
was under the large window, which had panes of coloured glass, and
remembering that Miss Starbrow had told her that it looked on to the
garden, she got on to the sofa and pushed the heavy sash up.

There was a good-sized garden without, and trees in it--poplar, lime,
and thorn, now nearly leafless; but it was very pleasant to see them and
to feel the mild autumn air on her face, so pleasant that Fan thought
no more about her book. Ivy grew in abundance against the walls of the
garden, and there were laurel and other evergreen shrubs in it, and a
few China asters--white, red, and purple--still blooming. No sound came
to her at that quiet back window, except the loud glad chirruping of the
sparrows that had their home there. How still and peaceful it seemed!
The pale October sunshine--pale, but never had sunshine seemed
so divine, so like a glory shining on earth from the far heavenly
throne--fell lighting up the dark leaves of ivy and laurel, stiff and
green and motionless as if cut out of malachite, and the splendid red
and purple shields of the asters; and filling the little dun-coloured
birds with such joy that their loud chirping grew to a kind of ringing
melody.

Oh, that dark forsaken room in Moon Street, full of bitter memories of
miserable years! Oh, poor dead mother lying for ever silent and cold in
the dark earth! Oh, poor world-weary woman in Dudley Grove, and all
the countless thousands that lived toiling, hungry, hopeless lives in
squalid London tenements--why had she, Fan, been so favoured as to be
carried away from it all into this sweet restful place? Why--why? Then,
even while she asked, wondering, thinking that it was all like a strange
beautiful dream, unable yet to realise it, suddenly as by inspiration
the meaning of the words Miss Starbrow had spoken to her flashed into
her mind; and the thought made her tremble, the blood rushed to her
face, and she felt her eyes growing dim with tears of joy. Was it
true, could it be true, that this proud, beautiful lady--how much more
beautiful now to Fan's mind than all other women!--really loved her, and
that to be loved was all she desired in return? She was on her knees on
the sofa, her arms resting on the window-sill, and forgetful now of the
sunshine and leaves and flowers, and of the birds on the brown twigs
talking together in their glad ringing language, she closed her eyes and
resigned herself wholly to this delicious thought.

“Oh, here you are, sly little cat! Who said you might come into this
room?”

Fan, starting up in alarm, found herself confronted with the pretty
housemaid. But the pretty eyes were sparkling vindictively, the breath
coming short and quick, and the pretty face was white with resentment.

“The lady told me to come here,” returned Fan, still a little
frightened.

“Oh, did she! and pray what else did she tell you? And don't lie,
because I shall find you out if you do.”

Fan was silent.

“You won't speak, you little sneak! When your mistress is out you must
mind _me_--do you hear? Go instantly and take your filthy rags to the
dust-bin, and ask cook for a bottle of carbolic acid to throw over them.
We don't want any of your nasty infectious fevers brought here, if you
please.”

Fan hesitated a few moments, and then replied, “I'll only do what the
lady tells me.”

“You'll only do what the lady tells you!” she repeated, with a mocking
whine. Then, in unconscious imitation of the scornful caterpillar in the
wonderful story of Alice, she added, “You! And who are _you_! Shall I
tell you what you are? A filthy, ragged little beggar picked out of the
gutter, a sneaking area thief, put into the house for a spy! You vile
cat, you! A starving mangy cur! Yes, I'll give you your dinner; I'll
feed you on swill and dog-biscuits, and that's better than you ever had
in your life. You, a diseased, pasty-faced little street-walker, too
bad even for the slums, to keep you, to be dressed up and waited on by
respectable servants! How dare you come into this house! I'd like to
wring your miserable sick-chicken's neck for you!”

She was in a boiling rage, and stamped her foot and poured out her
words so rapidly that they almost ran into each other; but Fan's whole
previous life had served to make her indifferent to hard words, however
unjust, and the housemaid's torrent of abuse had not the least effect.

Rosie, on her side, finding that her rage was wasted, sat down to
recover herself, and then began to jeer at her victim, criticising her
appearance, and asking her for the cast-off garments--“for which
your la'ship will have no further use.” Finding that her ridicule was
received in the same silent passive way, she became more demonstrative.
“Somebody's been trimming you,” she said. “I s'pose Miss Starbrow was
your barber--a nice thing for a lady! Well, I never! But there's one
thing she forgot. Here's a pair of scissors. Now, little sick monkey,
sit still while I trim your eyelashes. It'll be a great improvement,
I'm sure. Oh, you won't! Well, then I'll soon make you.” And putting the
pair of small scissors between her lips, she seized Fan by the arms and
tried to force her down on the sofa. Fan resisted silently and with all
her strength, but her strength was by no means equal to Rosie's, and
after a desperate struggle she was overcome and thrown on to the couch.

“Now, will you be quiet and let me trim you!” said the maid.

“No.”

In speaking, Rosie had dropped the scissors from her mouth, and not
being able to use her hands occupied in holding her victim down, she
could do nothing worse than make faces, thrust out her tongue, and
finally spit at Fan. Then she thought of something better. “If you won't
be quiet and let me trim you,” she said, “I'll pinch your arms till
they're black and blue.”

No reply being given, she proceeded to carry out her threat, and Fan set
her teeth together and turned her face away to hide the tears. At length
the other, tired of the struggle, released her. Fan bared her arm,
displaying a large discoloration, and moistened it with her mouth to
soothe the pain. She had a good deal of experience in bruises. “It'll be
black by-and-by,” she said, “and I'll show it to the lady when she comes
back.”

“Oh, you'll show it to her, you little tell-tale sneak! Then I'll be
even with you and put rat's-bane in your dinner.”

“Why don't you leave me alone, then?” said Fan.

Rosie considered for some time, and finally said, “I'll leave you alone
if you'll tell me what you are here for--everything about yourself,
mind, and no lies; and what Miss Starbrow is going to do with you.”

“I don't know, and I sha'n't say a word more,” returned Fan, whereupon
Rosie slapped her face and ran out of the room.

In spite of the rough handling she had been subjected to, and the pain
in her arm, Fan very soon recovered her composure. Her happiness was too
great to be spoiled by so small a matter, and very soon she returned to
her place at the open window and to her pleasant thoughts.

About midday the maid came again bringing a tray. “Here's your food,
starved puppy; lap it up, and may it choke you,” she said, and left the
room.

After she had been gone a few minutes, Fan, beginning to feel hungry,
went to the table, and found a plate of stewed meat and vegetables,
with bread and cheese, and a glass of ale. But over it all Rosie had
carefully sprinkled ashes, and had also dropped a few pinches into the
ale, making it thick and muddy. Now, although on any previous day of her
hungry orphaned existence she would have wiped off the ashes and eaten
the food, on this occasion she determined not to touch it. Her new
surroundings and dress, and the thought that she was no longer without
someone to care for her, had served to inspire in her a pride which was
stronger than hunger. Presently she noticed that the door had a key to
it, and in her indignation at the maid's persecution she ran and locked
it, resolved to let the dinner remain there untasted until Miss Starbrow
should return.

Presently Rosie came back, and finding the door locked, began knocking
and calling. “Open, you cat!” she cried. “I must take the things down,
now you've gobbled up your pig's food. Open, you spiteful little devil!”

“I haven't touched the dinner, and I sha'n't open the door till the lady
comes,” she answered, and would say no more.

After a good deal more abuse, Rosie in despair went away; but presently
the cook came up, and Fan opened to her. She had a second supply of food
and beer, without any ashes in it this time, and put it on the table.
“Now, have your dinner, miss,” she said, with mock humility. She was
taking away the first tray, but at the door she paused and, looking
back, said, “You won't say nothing to the missus, will you, miss?”

“If she'll let me be I'll not say anything,” said Fan.

“Very well, miss, she won't trouble you no more. But, lors, she
don't mean no harm; it's only her little funny ways.” And having thus
explained and smoothed matters over, she went off to the kitchen.

About five o'clock Miss Starbrow came in and found Fan still sitting by
the open window in the darkening room.

“Why, my poor girl, you must be half frozen,” she said, coming to the
sofa.

But how little Fan felt the chill evening air, when she started up at
the kind greeting, her eyes brightening and her face flushing with that
strange new happiness now warming her blood and making her heart beat
quick!

“Oh no, ma'am, I'm not a bit cold,” she said.

The other pulled off her glove and touched the girl's cheek with her
fingers.

“Your skin feels cold enough, anyhow,” she returned. “Come into my room;
it is warmer there.”

Fan followed into the adjoining large bedroom, where a bright fire was
burning in the grate; and Miss Starbrow, taking off her hat and cloak,
sat down. After regarding the girl for some time in silence, she said
with a little laugh, “What can I do with you, Fan?”

Fan was troubled at this, and glanced anxiously at the other's face,
only to drop her eyes abashed again; but at last, plucking up a little
courage, she said:

“Will you please let me do something in the house, ma'am?” And after a
few moments she added, “I wish I could do something, and--and be your
servant.”

Miss Starbrow laughed again, and then frowned a little and sat silent
for some time.

“The fact is,” she said at length, “now that you are here I don't quite
know what to do with you. However, that doesn't signify. I took you for
my own pleasure, and it doesn't make much difference to have you in the
house, and if it did I shouldn't care. But you must look after yourself
for the present, as I have just got rid of one servant and there are
only two to do everything. They are anxious for me not to engage a
third just now, and prefer to do all the work themselves, which means, I
suppose, that there will be more plunder to divide between them.”

“And can't I help, ma'am?” said Fan, whose last words had not yet been
answered.

“I fancy you would look out of place doing housework,” said Miss
Starbrow. “It strikes me that you are not suited for that sort of thing.
If it hadn't been so, I shouldn't have noticed you. The only way in
which I should care to employ you would be as lady's-maid, and for that
you are unfit. Perhaps I shall have you taught needlework and that kind
of thing by-and-by, but I am not going to bother about it just now. For
the present we must jog along just how we can, and you must try to make
yourself as happy as you can by yourself.”

Just then the housemaid came up with tea for her mistress.

“Get me another cup--a large one, and some more bread-and-butter,” said
Miss Starbrow.

“The young person's tea is in the back room, ma'am,” returned Rosie,
with a tremor in her voice.

Miss Starbrow looked at her, but without speaking; the maid instantly
retired to obey the order, and when she set the cup and plate of
bread-and-butter on the tray her hand trembled, while her mistress,
with a slight smile on her lips, watched her face, white with suppressed
rage.

After tea, during which Miss Starbrow had been strangely kind and gentle
to the girl, she said:

“Perhaps you can help me take off my dress, Fan, and comb out my hair.”

This was strange work for Fan, but her intense desire to do something
for her mistress partly compensated for her ignorance and awkwardness,
and after a little while she found that combing those long rich black
tresses was an easy and very delightful task. Miss Starbrow sat with
eyes half-closed before the glass, only speaking once or twice to tell
Fan not to hurry.

“The longer you are with my hair the better I like it,” she said.

Fan was only too glad to prolong the task; it was such a pleasure to
feel the hair of this woman who was now so much to her; if the glass had
not been before them--the glass in which from time to time she saw
the half-closed eyes studying her face--she would more than once have
touched the dark tresses she held in her hand to her lips.

Miss Starbrow, however, spoke no more to her, but finishing her dressing
went down to her seven o'clock dinner, leaving Fan alone by the fire.
After dinner she came up again and sat by the bedroom fire in the dark
room. Then Rosie came up to her.

“Captain Horton is in the drawing-room, ma'am,” she said.

Miss Starbrow rose to go to her visitor.

“You can stay where you are, Fan, until bed-time,” she said. “And
by-and-by the maid will give you some supper in the back room. Is Rosie
impudent to you--how has she been treating you to-day?”

Fan was filled with distress, remembering her promise, and cast down her
eyes.

“Very well, say nothing; that's the best way, Fan. Take no notice of
what anyone says to you. Servants are always vile, spiteful creatures,
and will act after their kind. Good-night, my girl,” and with that she
went downstairs.

Fan sat there for half an hour longer in the grateful twilight and
warmth of that luxurious room, and then Rosie's voice startled her
crying at the door:

“Doggie! doggie! come and have its supper.”

Fan got up and went to the next room, where her supper and a lighted
lamp were on the centre table. Rosie followed her.

“Can you tell the truth?” she said.

“Yes,” returned Fan.

“Well, then, have you told Miss Starbrow?”

“No.”

“Did she ask you anything?”

“Yes, and I didn't tell her.”

“Oh, how very kind!” said Rosie; and giving her a box on the ear, ran
out of the room.

Not much hurt, and not caring much, Fan sat down to her supper.
Returning to the bedroom she heard the sound of the piano, and paused on
the landing to listen. Then a fine baritone voice began singing, and was
succeeded by a woman's voice, a rich contralto, for they were singing
a duet; and voice following voice, and anon mingling in passionate
harmony, the song floated out loud from the open door, and rose and
seemed to fill the whole house, while Fan stood there listening,
trembling with joy at the sound.

The singing and playing continued for upwards of an hour, and Fan still
kept her place, until the maid came up with a candle to show her to
her bedroom. They went up together to the next floor into a small
neatly-furnished room which had been prepared for her.

“Here's your room,” said Rosie, setting down the candle on the table,
“and now I'm going to give you a good spanking before you go to bed.”

“If you touch me again I'll scream and tell Miss Starbrow everything,”
 said Fan, plucking up a spirit.

Rosie shut and locked the door. “Now you can scream your loudest, cat,
and she'll not hear a sound.”

For a few moments Fan did not know what to do to save herself; then
all at once the memory of some old violent wrangle came to her aid,
and springing forward she blew out the candle and softly retreated to a
corner of the room, where she remained silent and expectant.

“You little wretch!” exclaimed the other. “Speak, or I'll kill you!” But
there was no answer. For some time Rosie stumbled about until she found
the door, and after some jeering words retreated downstairs, leaving Fan
in the dark.

She had defeated her enemy this time, and quickly locking the door, went
to bed without a light.




CHAPTER VI


The next few days, although very sweet and full to Fan, were uneventful;
then, early on a Wednesday evening, once more Miss Starbrow made her sit
with her at her bedroom fire and talked to her for a long time.

“What did you tell me your name is?” she asked.

“Frances Harrod.”

“I don't like it. I call it _horrid_. It was only your stepfather's name
according to your account, and I must find you a different one. Do you
know what your mother's name was--before she married, I mean?”

“Oh yes, ma'am; it was Margaret Affleck.”

“Affleck. It is not common and not ugly. Frances Affleck--that sounds
better. Yes, that will do; your name, as long as you live with me, shall
be Affleck; you must not forget that.”

“No, ma'am,” Fan replied humbly. But she had some doubts, and after a
while said, “But can you change my name, ma'am?”

“Change your name! Why, of course I can. It is just as easy to do that
as to give you a new dress; easier in fact. And what do you know, Fan?
What did they teach you at the Board School? Reading, I suppose; very
well, take this book and read to me.”

She took the book, but felt strangely nervous at this unexpected call to
display her accomplishments, and began hurriedly reading in a low voice.

Miss Starbrow laughed.

“I can't stand that, Fan,” she said. “You might be gabbling Dutch or
Hindustani. And you are running on without a single pause. Even a bee
hovering about the flowers has an occasional comma, or colon, or
full stop in its humming. Try once more, but not so fast and a little
louder.”

The good-humoured tone in which she spoke served to reassure Fan; and
knowing that she could do better, and getting over her nervousness, she
began again, and this time Miss Starbrow let her finish the page.

“You _can_ read, I find. Better, I think, than any of the maids I have
had. You have a very nice expressive voice, and you will do better when
you read a book through from the beginning, and feel interested in it. I
shall let you read every day to me. What else did you learn--writing?”

“Yes, ma'am, I always got a high mark for that. And we had Scripture
lessons, and grammar, and composition, and arithmetic, and geography;
and when I was in the fifth form I had history and drawing.”

“History and drawing--well, what next, I wonder! That's what we are
taxed a shilling in the pound for, to give education to a--well, never
mind. But can you really draw, Fan? Here's pencil and paper, just draw
something for me.”

“What shall I draw, ma'am?” she said, taking the pencil and feeling
nervous again.

“Oh, anything you like.”

Now it happened that her drawing lessons had always given her more
pleasure than anything else at school, but owing to Joe Harrod's
having taken her away as soon as he was allowed to do so, they had not
continued long. Still, even in a short time she had made some progress;
and even after leaving school she had continued to find a mournful
pleasure in depicting leaf and flower forms. Left to choose her own
subject, she naturally began sketching a flower--a-rosebud, half-open,
with leaves.

“Don't hurry, Fan, as you did with your reading. The slower you are the
better it will be,” said Miss Starbrow, taking up a volume and beginning
to read, or pretending to read, for her eyes were on the face of the
girl most of the time.

Fan, happily unconscious of the other's regard, gave eight or ten
minutes to her drawing, and then Miss Starbrow took it in her hands to
examine it.

“This is really very well done,” she said, “but what in goodness' name
did they teach you drawing for!' What would be the use of it after
leaving school? Well, yes, it might be useful in one way. It astonishes
me to think how you were trying to live, Fan. You were certainly not fit
for that hard rough work, and would have starved at it. You were made,
body and mind, in a more delicate mould, and for something better. I
think that with all you have learnt at school, and with your appearance,
especially with those truthful eyes of yours and that sweet voice, you
might have got a place as nursery governess, to teach small children, or
something of that sort. Why did you go starving about the streets, Fan?”

“But no one would take me with such clothes, ma'am. They wouldn't look
at me or speak to me even in the little shops where I went to ask for
work.”

Miss Starbrow uttered a curious little laugh.

“What a strange thing it seems,” she said, “that a few shillings to buy
decent clothes may alter a person's destiny. With the shillings--about
as many as the man of God pays for his sirloin--shelter from the weather
and temptations to evil, three meals a day, a long pleasant life,
husband and children, perhaps, and at last--Heaven. And without them,
rags and starvation and the streets, and--well, this is a question for
the mighty intellect of a man and a theologian, not for mine. I dare say
you don't know what I'm talking about, Fan?”

“Not all, ma'am, but I think I understand a little.”

“Very little, I should think. Don't try to understand too much, my
poor girl. Perhaps before you are eighty, if you live so long, you will
discover that you didn't even understand a little. Ah, Fan, you have
been sadly cheated by destiny! Childhood without joy, and girlhood
without hope. I wish I could give you happiness to make up for it all,
but I can't be Providence to anyone.”

“Oh, ma'am, you have made me so happy!” exclaimed Fan, the tears
springing to her eyes.

Miss Starbrow frowned a little and turned her face aside. Then she said:

“Just because I fed and dressed and sheltered you, Fan--does happiness
come so easily to you?”

“Oh no, ma'am, not that--it isn't that,” with such keen distress that
she could scarcely speak without a sob.

“How then have I made you happy? Will you not answer me? I took you
because I believed that you would trust me, and always speak openly from
your heart, and hide nothing.”

“Oh, ma'am, I'm afraid to say it. I was so happy because I
thought--because--” and here she sunk her voice to a trembling
whisper--“I thought that you loved me.”

Miss Starbrow put her arm round the girl's waist and drew her against
her knees.

“Your instinct was not at fault, Fan,” she said in a caressing tone. “I
_do_ love you, and loved you when I saw you in your rags, and it pained
my heart when I told you to clean my doorsteps as if you had been my
sister. No, not a sister, but something better and sweeter; my sisters
I do not love at all. And do you know now what I meant, Fan, when I said
that there was something you could do for me?”

“I think I know,” returned Fan, still troubled in her mind and anxious.
“It was that made me feel so happy. I thought--that you wanted me to
love you.”

“You are right, my dear girl; I think that I made no mistake when I took
you in.”

On that evening Fan had tea with her mistress, and afterwards, earlier
than usual, was allowed to comb her hair out--a task which gave her the
greatest delight. Miss Starbrow then put on an evening dress, which Fan
now saw for the first time, and was filled with wonder at its richness
and beauty. It was of saffron-coloured silk, trimmed with black lace;
but she wore no ornaments with it, except gold bracelets on her round
shapely arms.

“What makes you stare so, Fan?” she said with a laugh, as she stood
surveying herself in the tall glass, and fastening the bracelets on.

“Oh, ma'am, you do look so beautiful in that dress! Are you going to the
theatre to-night?”

“No, Fan. On Wednesday evenings I always have a number of friends come
in to see me--all gentlemen. I have very few lady friends, and care very
little for them. And, now I think of it, you can sit up to-night until I
tell you to go to bed.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Miss Starbrow was moving towards the door. Then she paused, and finally
came back and sat down again, and drew Fan against her knee as before.

“Fan,” she said, “when you speak about me to others, and to me in the
presence of others, or of the servants, call me Miss Starbrow. I don't
like to hear you call me ma'am, it wounds my ear. Do you understand?”

“Yes--Miss Starbrow.”

“But when we are alone together, as we are now, let me hear you call me
Mary. That's my Christian name, and I should like to hear you speak it.
Will you remember?”

“Yes”; and then from her lips trembled the name “Mary.”

“It sounds very loving and sweet,” said the other, and, drawing the girl
closer, for the first time she kissed her.

With the memory of those tender words and the blissful sensation left
by that unexpected kiss, Fan spent the evening alone, hearing, after
her supper, the arrival of visitors, and the sound of conversation and
laughter from the drawing-room, and then music and singing. Later in
the evening the guests went to sup into the dining-room, and there they
stayed playing cards until eleven o'clock or later, when she heard them
leaving the house.

They were not all gone, however; three of Miss Starbrow's intimate
friends still lingered, drinking whisky-and-water and talking. There
was Captain Horton--captain by courtesy, since he was no longer in the
army--a tall, fine-looking man, slightly horsy in his get-up, with a
very large red moustache, reddish-brown hair, and keen blue eyes. He
wore a cut-away coat, and was standing on the hearthrug, his hands
thrust into his trousers pockets, and smiling as he talked to a young
clerical gentleman near him--the Rev. Octavius Brown. The Rev. Octavius
was curate of a neighbouring ritualistic church, but in his life he was
not ascetic; he loved whisky-and-water not wisely but too well, and he
was passionately devoted to the noble game of Napoleon. Mr. Brown had
just won seven shillings, and was in very high spirits; for being poor
he had a great dread of losing, and played carefully for very small
stakes, and seldom won more than half-a-crown or three shillings. At
some distance from them a young gentleman reclined in an easy-chair,
smoking a cigarette, and apparently not listening to their conversation.
This was Mr. Merton Chance, clerk in the Foreign Office, and supposed
by his friends to be extremely talented. He was rather slight but
well-formed, a little under the medium height, clean shaved, handsome,
colourless as marble, with black hair and dark blue eyes that looked
black.

Miss Starbrow, who had left the room a few minutes before, came in, and
standing by the table listened to the curate.

“Miss Starbrow,” said he, appealing to her, “is it not hard? Captain
Horton either doubts my veracity or believes that I am only joking when
I assure him that what I have just told him is plain truth.”

“Well, let me hear the whole story,” she replied, “and I'll act as
umpire.”

“I couldn't wish for a juster one--nor for a fairer,” he replied with
a weak smile. “What I said was that I had once attended a dinner to the
clergy in Yorkshire, at which there were sixteen of us present, and
the surnames of all were names of things--objects or offices or
something--connected with a church.”

“Well, what were the names?”

“You see he remembers only one--a Mr. Church,” said Captain Horton.

“No, pardon me. A Mr. Church, and a Mr. Bishop, and a Mr. Priest, and a
Mr. Cross, and--and oh, yes, Mr. Bell.”

“Five of your sixteen,” said Captain Horton, checking them off on his
fingers.

“And a Mr. Graves, and a Mr. Sexton, and--and--of course, I can't
remember all the names now. Can you expect it, Miss Starbrow?”

“No, of course not; but you have only named seven. If you can remember
ten I shall decide in your favour.”

“Thank you. There was a Mr. Church--”

“No, no, old man, we've had that already,” cried the Captain.

“Mr. Tombs,” he continued, and fell again to thinking.

“That makes eight,” said Miss Starbrow. “Cheer up, Mr. Brown, you'll
soon remember two others.”

“Your own name makes nine, Mr. Brown,” broke in Mr. Chance, “only I
can't make out what connection it has with a church.”

The other two laughed.

“I'm afraid it looks very bad for you,” said Miss Starbrow.

“No, no, Miss Starbrow, please don't think that. Wait a minute and let
me see if I can remember how that was,” said the poor curate. “I _think_
I said that all present at the table except myself--”

“No, there was no exception,” interrupted Captain Horton. “Now, if you
sixteen fellows had been Catholic priests instead of in the Established
Church, and you were Scarlett by name instead of Brown--”

“Don't say any more--please!” cried the curate, lifting his hand. “You
are going too far, Captain Horton. I like a little innocent fun
well enough, but I draw the line at sacred subjects. Let us drop the
subject.”

“Oh, yes, of course, that's a good way of getting out of it. And as
for jesting about sacred matters, I always understood that one couldn't
prove his zeal for Protestantism better than by having a shot at the
Roman business.”

“I am happy to say that I do not class myself with Prots,” said the
curate, getting up from his chair very carefully, and then consulting
his watch. “I must run away now--”

“You can't do it,” interrupted the Captain.

Miss Starbrow laughed. “Don't go just yet, Mr. Brown,” she said. “I wish
you all to help me with your advice, or with an opinion at least. You
know that I have taken in a young girl, and I have not yet decided what
to do with her. I shall call her down for you to see her, as you are all
three my very candid friends, and you shall tell me what you think of
her appearance.”

She then opened the door and called Fan down, and the poor girl was
brought into the neighbourhood of the three gentlemen, and stood with
eyes cast down, her pale face reddening with shame to find herself the
centre of so much curiosity.

Miss Starbrow glanced at the Captain, who was keenly studying Fan's
face, as he stood before the fire, stroking his red moustache.

“Well, if I'm to give a candid opinion,” he said, “all I can say is that
she looks an underfed little monkey.”

“I think you are excessively rude!” returned Miss Starbrow, firing up.
“She is too young to feel your words, perhaps, but they are nothing less
than insulting to my judgment.”

“Oh, confound it, Pollie, you are always flying out at me! I dare say
she's a good girl--she looks it, but if you want me to say that she's
good-looking, I can't be such a hypocrite even to please you.”

Miss Starbrow flashed a keen glance at him, and then without replying
turned to Mr. Brown.

“Really--honestly, Miss Starbrow,” he said, “you couldn't have selected
a more charming-looking girl. But your judgment is always--well, just
what it should be; that goes without saying.”

She turned impatiently from him and looked at Mr. Chance, still
gracefully reclining in his chair.

“Is my poor opinion really worth anything to you?” he said, and rising
he walked over to the girl and touched her hand, which made her start a
little. “I wish to see your eyes--won't you look at me?” He spoke very
gently.

Fan glanced up into his face for a moment.

“Thank you--just what I thought,” said he, returning to his seat.

“Well?” said Miss Starbrow.

“Must I put it in words--those poor symbols?” he returned. “I know so
well that you can understand without them.”

“Perhaps I might if I tried very hard, but I choose not to try,” she
replied, with a slight toss of her head.

“It is a pleasure to obey; but the poor girl looks nervous and
uncomfortable, and would be so glad _not_ to hear my personal remarks.”

“Oh yes, it was thoughtless of me to keep her here--thanks for reminding
me,” said Miss Starbrow, with a strange softening of her voice her
friends were not accustomed to hear. “Run up to your room, Fan, and go
to bed. I'm sorry I've kept you up so late, poor child.”

And Fan, with a grateful look towards Mr. Chance, left the room gladly
enough.

“When she first came into the room I wondered what had attracted you,”
 said Mr. Chance. “I concluded that it must be something under those long
drooping eyelashes, and when I looked there I found out the secret.”

“Intelligent eyes--very intelligent eyes--I noticed that also,” said Mr.
Brown.

“Oh no, heaven forbid--I did not mean anything of the kind,” said Mr.
Chance. “Intelligence is a masculine quality which I do not love to see
in a woman: it is suitable for us, like a rough skin and--moustachios,”
 with a glance at Captain Horton, and touching his own clean-shaven upper
lip. “The more delicate female organism has something finer and higher
than intelligence, which however serves the same purpose--and other
purposes besides.”

“I don't quite follow you,” said the curate, again preparing to take his
leave. “I dare say it's all plain enough to some minds, but--well, Mr.
Chance, you'll forgive me for saying that when you talk that way I don't
know whether I'm standing on my head or my heels.”

“Naturally, you wouldn't,” said Captain Horton, with a mocking smile.
“But don't go yet, Brown; have some more whisky-and-water.”

“No, thanks, no more. I never exceed two or three glasses, you know.
Thank you, my dear Miss Starbrow, for a most delightful evening.” And
after shaking hands he made his way to the door, bestowing a kindly
touch on each chair in passing, and appearing greatly relieved when he
reached the hall.

Captain Horton lit a cigarette and threw himself into an easy-chair. Mr.
Chance lit another cigarette; if the other was an idle man, he (Chance)
was in the Foreign Office, and privileged to sit up as late as he liked.

“On the whole,” he said in a meditative way, “I am inclined to think
that Brown is a rather clever fellow.”

Miss Starbrow laughed: she was still standing. “You two appear to be
taking it very quietly,” she said. “It is one o'clock--why will you
compel me to be rude?”

Then they started up, put on their coats, exchanged a few words at the
door with their hostess, and walked down the street together. Presently
a hansom came rattling along the quiet street.

“Keb, sir?” came the inevitable question, in a tone sharp as a
whip-crack, as the driver pulled up near the kerb.

“Yes, two cabs,” said Captain Horton. “I'll toss you for the first,
Chance”; and pulling out a florin he sent it spinning up and deftly
caught it as it fell. “Heads or tails?”

“Oh, take it yourself, and I'll find another.”

“No, no, fair play,” insisted the Captain.

“Very well then, heads.”

“Tails!” cried the other, opening his hand. “Goodnight, old man, you're
sure to find one in another minute. Oxford Terrace,” he cried to the
driver, jumping in. And the cabman, who had watched the proceedings with
the deep interest and approval of a true sporting man, shook the reins,
flicked the horse's ears with his whip, clicked with his tongue, and
drove rapidly away.

Left to himself, Mr. Chance sauntered on in no hurry to get home, and
finally stood still at a street corner, evidently pondering some matter
of considerable import to him. “By heaven, I'm more than half resolved
to try it!” he exclaimed at last. And after a little further reflection,
he added, “And I shall--

   “He either fears his fate too much,
      Or his deserts are small,
    Who dares not put it to the touch
      To win or lose it all.”

Then he turned and walked deliberately back to Dawson Place: coming to
the house which he had lately quitted, he peered anxiously at windows
and doors, and presently caught sight of a faint reflection from burning
gas or candle within on the fanlight over the street door, which, he
conjectured, came from the open dining-room.

“Fortune favours me,” he said to himself. “'Faint heart never won fair
lady.' A happy inspiration, I am beginning to think. Losing that toss
will perhaps result in my winning a higher stake. There's a good deal of
dash and devilry in that infernal blackguard Horton, and doubtless
that is why he has made some progress here. Well then, she ought to
appreciate my spirit in coming to her at this time of night, or morning,
rather. There's a wild, primitive strain in her; she's not to be wooed
and won in the usual silly mawkish way. More like one of the old Sabine
women, who liked nothing better than being knocked down and dragged off
by their future lords. I suppose that a female of that antique type
of mind can be knocked down and taken captive, as it were, with good
vigorous words, just as formerly they were knocked down with the fist or
the butt end of a spear.”

His action was scarcely in keeping with the daring, resolute spirit of
his language: instead of seizing the knocker and demanding admittance
with thunderous racket, he went cautiously up the steps, rapped softly
on the door with his knuckles, and then anxiously waited the result of
his modest summons.

Miss Starbrow was in the dining-room, and heard the tapping. Her
servants had been in bed two hours; and after the departure of her late
guests she had turned off the gas at the chandelier, and was leaving the
room, when seeing a _Globe_, left by one of her visitors, she took it
up to glance at the evening's news. Something she found in the paper
interested her, and she continued reading until that subdued knocking
attracted her attention. Taking up her candle she went to the door and
unfastened it, but without letting down the chain. Her visitor hurriedly
whispered his name, and asked to be admitted for a few minutes, as he
had something very important to communicate.

She took down the chain and allowed him to come into the hall. “Why
have you come back?” she demanded in some alarm. “Where is Captain
Horton?--you left together.”

“He went home in the first cab we found. We tossed for it, and he won,
for which I thank the gods. Then, acting on the impulse of the moment, I
came back to say something to you. A very unusual--very eccentric thing
to do, no doubt. But when something involving great issues has to be
done or said, I think the best plan is _not_ to wait for a favourable
opportunity. Don't you agree with me?”

“I don't understand you, Mr. Chance, and am therefore unable to agree
with you. I hope you are not going to keep me standing here much
longer.”

“Not for a moment! But will you not let me come inside to say the few
words I have to say?”

“Oh yes, you may come in,” she returned not very graciously, and
leading the way to the dining-room, where decanters, tumblers, and cards
scattered about the table, seen by the dim light of one candle, gave it
a somewhat disreputable appearance. “What do you wish to say to me?” she
asked a little impatiently, and seating herself.

He took a chair near her. “You are a little unkind to hurry me in this
way,” he said, trying to smile, “since you compel me to put my request
in very plain blunt language. However, that is perhaps the best plan.
Twice I have come to you intending to speak, and have been baffled by
fate--”

“Then you might have written, or telegraphed,” she interrupted, “if the
matter was so important.”

“Not very well,” he returned, growing very serious. “You know that as
well as I do. You must know, dear Miss Starbrow, that I have admired you
for a long time. Perhaps you also know that I love you. Miss Starbrow,
will you be my wife and make me happy?”

“No, Mr. Chance, I cannot be your wife and make you happy. I must
decline your offer.”

Her cold, somewhat ironical tone from the first had prepared him for
this result, and he returned almost too quickly, “Oh, I see, you are
offended with me for coming to you at this hour. I must suffer the
consequences of my mistake, and study to be more cautious and proper in
the future. I have always regarded you as an unconventional woman. That,
to my mind, is one of your greatest charms; and when I say that I say a
good deal. I never imagined that my coming to you like this would have
prejudiced you against me.”

She gave a little laugh, but there was an ominous cloud on her face
as she answered: “You imagined it was the right thing to do to come at
half-past one o'clock in the morning to offer me your hand! Your opinion
of my conduct is not a subject I am the least interested in; but whether
I am unconventional or not, I assure you, Mr. Chance, that I am not to
be pushed or driven one step further than I choose to go.”

“I should never dream of attempting such a thing, Miss Starbrow. But it
would be useless to say much more; whatever line I take to-night only
makes matters worse for me. But allow me to say one thing before bidding
you good-night. The annoyance you feel at the present moment will not
last. You have too much generosity, too much intellect, to allow it
to rest long in your bosom; and deeply as I feel this rebuff, I am not
going to be so weak as to let it darken and spoil my whole life. No, my
hope is too strong and too reasonable to be killed so easily. I shall
come to you again, and again, and again. For I know that with you for a
wife and companion my life would be a happy one; and not happy only,
for that is not everything. An ambitious man looks to other greater and
perhaps better things.”

The cloud was gone from her brows, and she sat regarding him as he spoke
with a slight smile on her lips and a curious critical expression in
her eyes. When he finished speaking she laughed and said, “But is _my_
happiness of such little account--do you not propose to make _me_ happy
also, Mr. Chance?”

“No,” he returned, his face clouding, and dropping his eyes before her
mocking gaze. “You shall not despise me. Single or married, you must
make your own happiness or misery. You know that; why do you wish to
make me repeat the wretched commonplaces that others use?”

“I'm glad you have so good an opinion of yourself, Mr. Chance,” she
replied. “I was vexed with you at first, but am not so now. To watch
the changes of your chameleon mind, not always successful in getting
the right colour at the right moment, is just as good as a play. If you
really mean to come again and again I shall not object--it will amuse
me. Only do not come at two o'clock in the morning; it might compromise
me, and, unconventional as I am, I should not forgive you a second time.
But honestly, Mr. Chance, I don't believe you will come again. You know
now that I know you, and you are too wise to waste your energies on me.
I hope you will not give up visiting me--in the daytime. We admire each
other, and I have always had a friendly feeling for you. That is a real
feeling--not an artificial one like the love you spoke of.”

He rose to go. “Time will show whether it is an artificial feeling or
not,” he said; and after bidding good-night and hearing the door close
after him, he walked away towards Westbourne Grove. He had gone from her
presence with a smile on his lips, but in the street it quickly vanished
from his face, and breaking into a rapid walk and clenching his fists,
he exclaimed, between his set teeth, “Curse the jade!”

It was not a sufficient relief to his feelings, and yet he seemed unable
to think of any other expression more suitable to the occasion, for
after going a little further, he repeated, “Curse the jade!”

Then he walked on slower and slower, and finally stopped, and turning
towards Dawson Place, he repeated for the third time, “Curse the jade!”




CHAPTER VII


Fan saw no more company after that evening, for which she was not sorry;
but that had been a red-letter day to her--not soon, perhaps never, to
be forgotten.

Great as the human adaptiveness is at the age at which Fan then was,
that loving-kindness of her mistress--of one so proud and beautiful
above all women, and, to the girl's humble ideas, so rich “beyond
the dreams of avarice”--retained its mysterious, almost incredible,
character to her mind, and was a continual cause of wonder to her, and
at times of ill-defined but anxious thought. For what had she--a poor,
simple, ignorant useless girl--to keep the affection of such a one as
Miss Starbrow? And as the days and weeks went by, that vague anxiety did
not leave her; for the more she saw of her mistress, the less did she
seem like one of a steadfast mind, whose feelings would always remain
the same. She was touchy, passionate, variable in temper; and if her
stormy periods were short-lived, she also had cold and sullen moods,
which lasted long, and turned all her sweetness sour; and at such times
Fan feared to approach her, but sat apart distressed and sorrowful. And
yet, whatever her mood was, she never spoke sharply to Fan, or seemed
to grow weary of her. And once, during one of those precious half-hours,
when they sat together at the bedroom fire before dinner, when Miss
Starbrow in a tender mood again drew the girl to her side and kissed
her, Fan, even while her heart was overflowing with happiness, allowed
something of the fear that was mixed with it to appear in her words.

“Oh, Mary, if I could do something for you!” she murmured. “But I can do
nothing--I can only love you. I wish--I wish you would tell me what to
do to--to keep your love!”

Miss Starbrow's face clouded. “Perhaps your heart is a prophetic one,
Fan,” she said; “but you must not have those dismal forebodings, or if
they will come, then pay as little heed to them as possible. Everything
changes about us, and we change too--I suppose we can't help it. Let us
try to believe that we will always love each other. Our food is not less
grateful to us because it is possible that at some future day we shall
have to go hungry. Oh, poor Fan, why should such thoughts trouble your
young heart? Take the goods the gods give you, and do not repine because
we are not angels in Heaven, with an eternity to enjoy ourselves in.
I love you now, and find it sweet to love you, as I have never loved
anyone of my own sex before. Women, as a rule, I detest. You can do, and
are doing, more than you know for me.”

Fan did not understand it all; but something of it she did understand,
and it had a reassuring effect on her mind.

Her life at this period was a solitary one. After breakfast she would go
out for a walk, usually to Kensington Gardens, and returning by way of
Westbourne Grove, to execute some small commissions for her mistress.
Between dinner and tea the time was mostly spent in the back room on the
first floor, which nobody else used; and when the weather permitted she
sat with the window open, and read aloud to improve herself in the art,
and practised writing and drawing, or read in some book Miss Starbrow
had recommended to her. With all her time so agreeably filled she did
not feel her loneliness, and the life of ease and plenty soon began
to tell on her appearance. Her skin became more pure and transparent,
although naturally pale; her eyes grew brighter, and could look glad
as well as sorrowful; her face lost its painfully bony look, and was
rounder and softer, and the straight lines and sharp angles of her
girlish form changed to graceful curves from day to day. Miss Starbrow,
regarding her with a curious and not untroubled smile, remarked:

“You are improving in your looks every day, Fan; by-and-by you will be a
beautiful girl--and then!”

The attitude of the servants had not changed towards her, the
cook continuing to observe a kind of neutrality which was scarcely
benevolent, while the housemaid's animosity was still active; but it
had ceased to trouble her very much. Since the evening on which Fan
had baffled her by blowing out the candle, Rosie had not attempted to
inflict corporal punishment beyond an occasional pinch or slap, but
contented herself by mocking and jeering, and sometimes spitting at her.

Rosie is destined to disappear from the history of Fan's early life in
the first third of this volume; but before that time her malice bore
very bitter fruit, and for that and other reasons her character is
deserving of some description.

She was decidedly pretty, short but well-shaped, with a small English
slightly-upturned nose; small mouth with ripe red lips, which were never
still except when she held them pressed with her sharp white teeth to
make them look redder and riper than ever. Her brown fluffy hair
was worn short like a boy's, and she looked not unlike a handsome
high-spirited boy, with brown eyes, mirthful and daring. She was
extremely vivacious in disposition, and active--too active, in fact, for
she got through her housemaid's work so quickly that it left her many
hours of each day in which to listen to the promptings of the demon of
mischief. It was only because she did her work so rapidly and so well
that her mistress kept her on--“put up with her,” as she expressed
it--in spite of her faults of temper and tongue. But Rosie's heart was
not in her work. She was romantic and ambitious, and her shallow little
brain was filled with a thousand dreams of wonderful things to be. She
was a constant and ravenous reader of _Bow Bells_, the _London Journal_,
and one or two penny weeklies besides; and not satisfied with the
half-hundred columns of microscopical letterpress they afforded her,
she laid her busy hands on all the light literature left about by her
mistress, and thought herself hardly treated because Miss Starbrow was
a great reader of French novels. It was exceedingly tantalising to know
that those yellow-covered books were so well suited to her taste, and
not be able to read them. For someone had told her what nice books they
were--someone with a big red moustache, who was as fond of pretty red
lips as a greedy school-boy is of ripe cherries.

Many were the stolen interviews between the daring little housemaid and
her gentleman lover; sometimes in the house itself, in a shaded part
of the hall, or in one of the reception-rooms when a happy opportunity
offered--and opportunities always come to those who watch for them;
sometimes out of doors in the shadow of convenient trees in the
neighbouring quiet street and squares after dark. But Rosie was not too
reckless. There was a considerable amount of cunning in that small
brain of hers, which prevented her from falling over the brink of the
precipice on the perilous edge of which she danced like a playful kid so
airily. It was very nice and not too naughty to be cuddled and kissed
by a handsome gentleman, with a big moustache, fine eyes, and baritone
voice! but she was not prepared to go further than that--just yet; only
pretending that by-and-by--perhaps; firing his heart with languishing
sighs, the soft unspoken “Ask me no more, for at a touch I yield”; and
then she would slip from his arms, and run away to put by the little
present of sham jewellery, and think it all very fine fun. They were
amusing themselves. His serious love-making was for her mistress.
She--Rosie--had a future--a great splendid future, to which she must
advance by slow degrees, step by step, sometimes even losing ground a
little--and much had been lost since that starved white kitten had come
into the house.

When Miss Starbrow, in a fit of anger, had dismissed her maid some
months before, and then had accepted some little personal assistance in
dressing for the play, and at other times, from her housemaid, Rosie at
once imagined that she was winning her way to her mistress's heart, and
her silly dream was that she would eventually get promoted to the vacant
and desirable place of lady's-maid. The cast-off dresses, boots, pieces
of finery, and many other things which would be her perquisites would
be a little fortune to her, and greatly excited her cupidity. But there
were other more important considerations: she would occupy a much higher
position in the social scale, and dress well, her hands and skin would
grow soft and white, and her appearance and conversation would be that
of a lady; for to be a lady's-maid is, of course, the nearest thing to
being a lady. And with her native charms, ambitious intriguing brain,
what might she not rise to in time? and she had been so careful, and,
she imagined, had succeeded so well in ingratiating herself with her
mistress; and by means of a few well-constructed lies had so filled Miss
Starbrow with disgust at the ordinary lady's-maid taken ready-made out
of a registry-office, that she had begun to look on the place almost
as her own. She had quite overlooked the small fact that she was not
qualified to fill it, and never would be. If she had proposed such an
arrangement, Miss Starbrow would have laughed heartily, and sent the
impudent minx away with a flea in her ear; but she had not yet ventured
to broach the subject.

Fan's coming into the house had not only filled her with the indignation
natural to one of her class and in her position at being compelled
to wait on a girl picked up half-starved in the streets; but when it
appeared that her mistress meant to keep Fan and make much of her, then
her jealousy was aroused, and she displayed as much spite and malice as
she dared. She had not succeeded in frightening Fan into submission, and
she had not dared to invent lies about her; and unable to use her only
weapon, she felt herself for the time powerless. On the other hand, it
was evident that Fan had made no complaints.

“I'd like to catch the little beggar daring to tell tales of me!” she
exclaimed, clenching her vindictive little fists in a fury. But when her
mistress gave her any commands about Fan's meals, or other matters,
her tone was so sharp and peremptory, and her eyes so penetrating, that
Rosie knew that the hatred she cherished in her heart was no secret. The
voice, the look seemed to say plainly, as if it had been expressed in
words, “One word and you go; and when you send to me for a character,
you shall have justice but no mercy.”

This was a terrible state of things for Rosie. There was nothing she
could do; and to sit still and wait was torture to one of her restless,
energetic mind. When her mistress was out of the house she could give
vent to her spite by getting into Fan's room and teasing her in every
way that her malice suggested. But Fan usually locked her out, and would
not even open the door to take in her dinner when it was brought; then
Rosie would wait until it was cold before leaving it on the landing.

When Miss Starbrow was in the house, and had Fan with her to comb her
hair or read to her, Rosie would hang about, listening at keyholes, to
find out how matters were progressing between “lady and lady's-maid.”
 But nothing to give her any comfort was discovered. On the contrary,
Miss Starbrow showed no signs of becoming disgusted at her own
disgraceful infatuation, and seemed more friendly towards the girl than
ever. She took her to the dressmaker at the West End, and had a very
pretty, dark green walking-dress made for her, in which Fan looked
prettier than ever. She also bought her a new stylish hat, a grey fur
cape, and long gloves, besides giving her small pieces of jewellery, and
so many things besides that poor Rosie was green with envy. Then, as a
climax, she ordered in a new pretty iron bed for the girl, and had it
put in her own room.

“Fan will be so much warmer and more comfortable here than at the top of
the house,” she remarked to Rosie, as if she too had a little malice in
her disposition, and was able to take pleasure in sprinkling powder on a
raw sore.




CHAPTER VIII


Not until the end of November did anything important occur to make a
break in Fan's happy, and on the whole peaceful, life in Dawson Place;
then came an eventful day, which rudely reminded her that she was
living, if not on, at any rate in the neighbourhood of a volcano. One
morning that was not wet nor foggy Miss Starbrow made up her mind to
visit the West End to do a little shopping, and, to the maid's unbounded
disgust, she took Fan with her. An hour after breakfast they started in
a hansom and drove to the Marble Arch, where they dismissed the cab.

“Now,” said Miss Starbrow, who was in high spirits, “we'll walk to
Peter Robinson's and afterwards to Piccadilly Circus, looking at all the
shops, and then have lunch at the St. James's Restaurant; and walk home
along the parks. It is so beautifully dry underfoot to-day.”

Fan was delighted with the prospect, and they proceeded along Oxford
Street. The thoroughfares about the Marble Arch had been familiar to her
in the old days, and yet they seemed now to have a novel and infinitely
more attractive appearance--she did not know why. But the reason was
very simple. She was no longer a beggar, hungry, in rags, ashamed, and
feeling that she had no right to be there, but was herself a part of
that pleasant world of men and women and children. An old Moon Street
neighbour, seeing her now in her beautiful dress and with her sweet
peaceful face, would not have recognised her.

At Peter Robinson's they spent about half an hour, Miss Starbrow making
some purchases for herself, and, being in a generous mood, she also
ordered a few things for Fan. As they came out at the door they met a
Mr. Mortimer, an old friend of Miss Starbrow's, elderly, but dandified
in his dress, and got up to look as youthful as possible. After warmly
shaking hands with Miss Starbrow, and bowing to Fan, he accompanied
them for some distance up Regent Street. Fan walked a little ahead. Mr.
Mortimer seemed very much taken with her, and was most anxious to find
out all about her, and to know how she came to be in Miss Starbrow's
company. The answers he got were short and not explicit; and whether
he resented this, or merely took a malicious pleasure in irritating his
companion, whose character he well knew, he continued speaking of Fan,
protesting that he had not seen a lovelier girl for a long time, and
begging Miss Starbrow to note how everyone--or every _man_, rather,
since man only has eyes to see so exquisite a face--looked keenly at the
girl in passing.

“My dear Miss Starbrow,” he said, “I must congratulate you on
your--ahem--late repentance. You know you were always a great
woman-hater--a kind of she-misogynist, if such a form of expression
is allowable. You must have changed indeed before bringing that fresh
charming young girl out with you.” He angered her and she did not
conceal it, because she could not, though knowing that he was studying
to annoy her from motives of revenge. For this man, who was old enough
to be her father, and had spent the last decade trying to pick up a
woman with money to mend his broken fortunes--this watery-eyed, smirking
old beau, who wrote himself down young, going about Regent Street on a
cold November day without overcoat or spectacles--this man had had the
audacity to propose marriage to her! She had sent him about his business
with a burst of scorn, which shook his old, battered moral constitution
like a tempest of wind and thunder, and he had not forgotten it. He
chuckled at the successful result of his attack, not caring to conceal
his glee; but this meeting proved very unfortunate for poor Fan. After
dismissing her old lover with scant courtesy, Miss Starbrow caught up
with the girl, and they walked on in silence, looking at no shop-windows
now. One glance at the dark angry face was enough to spoil Fan's
pleasure for the day and to make her shrink within herself, wondering
much as to what had caused so great and sudden a change.

Arrived at Piccadilly Circus, Miss Starbrow called a cab.

“Get in, Fan,” she said, speaking rather sharply. “I have a headache and
am going home.”

The headache seemed so like a fit of anger that Fan did not venture to
speak one word of sympathy.

After reaching home, Miss Starbrow, without saying a word, went to her
room. Fan ventured to follow her there.

“I wish to be left alone for the rest of the day,” said her mistress.
“Tell Rosie that I don't wish to be disturbed. After you have had your
dinner go down to the drawing-room and sit there by the fire with your
book. And--stay, if anyone calls to see me, say that I have a headache
and do not wish to be disturbed.”

Fan went sorrowfully away and had her dinner, and was mocked by Rosie
when she delivered the message, and then taking her book she went to the
drawing-room on the ground-floor. After she had been there half an hour
she heard a knock, and presently the door was opened and Captain Horton
walked in.

“What, alone, Miss Affleck! Tell me about Miss Starbrow,” he said,
advancing and taking her hand.

Fan explained that Miss Starbrow was lying down, suffering from a
headache, and did not wish to be disturbed.

“I am sorry to hear it,” he said. “But I can sit here and have a little
conversation with you, Fan--your name is Fan, is it not?”

He sat down near the fire still keeping her hand in his, and when she
tried gently to withdraw it, his grasp became firmer. His hand was very
soft, as is usual with men who play cards much--and well; and it held
tenaciously--again a characteristic of the card-playing hand.

“Oh, please, sir, let me go!” she said.

“Why, my dear child, don't you know it's the custom for a gentleman
to hold a girl's hand in his when he talks to her? But you have always
lived among the very poor--have you not?--where they have different
customs. Never mind, Fan, you will soon learn. Now look up, Fan, and
let me see those wonderful eyes of yours; yes, they are very pretty. You
don't mind my teaching you a little, do you, Fan, so that you will know
how to behave when you are with well-bred people?”

“No, sir; but please, sir, will you let me go?”

“Why, you foolish child, I am not going to hurt you. You don't take me
for a dentist, do you?” he continued, trying to make her laugh. But his
smile and the look in his eyes only frightened her. “Look here, Fan,
I will teach you something else. Don't you know that it is the custom
among ladies and gentlemen for a young girl to kiss a gentleman when he
speaks kindly to her?”

“No,” said Fan, reddening and trying again to free herself.

“Don't be so foolish, child, or you will never learn how to behave. Do
you know that if you make a noise or fuss you'll disturb your mistress
and she will be very angry with you. Come now, be a good dear little
girl.”

And with gentle force he drew her between his knees and put his arm
round her. Fan, afraid to cry out, struggled vainly to get free; he held
her firmly and closely, and had just put his lips to her face when the
door swung open, and Miss Starbrow sailed like a tragedy-queen into
the room, her head thrown back, her face white as marble and her eyes
gleaming.

The visitor instantly rose, while Fan, released from his grip, her face
crimson with shame, slunk away, trembling with apprehension.

“Captain Horton, what is the meaning of this?” demanded the lady.

“Why nothing--a mere trifle--a joke, Pollie. Your little girl doesn't
mind being kissed by a friend of the family--that's all.”

“Come here, Fan,” she said, in a tone of concentrated rage; and the
girl, frightened and hesitating, approached her. “This is the way you
behave the moment my back is turned. You corrupt-minded little wretch!
Take that!” and with her open hand she struck the girl's face a cruel
blow, with force enough to leave the red print of her fingers on the
pale cheek.

Fan, covering her face with her hands, shrunk back against the wall,
sobbing convulsively.

“Oh, come, Pollie!” exclaimed Horton, “don't be so hard on the poor
monkey--she's a mere child, you know, and didn't think any harm.”

Miss Starbrow made no reply, but standing motionless looked at
him--watched his face with a fierce, dangerous gleam in her half-closed
eyes.

“Don't stand snivelling here,” she spoke, turning to Fan. “Go up
instantly to the back room, and stay there. I shall know how to trust a
girl out of the slums another time.”

Crying bitterly she left the room, and her mistress shut the door after
her, remaining there with her lover.

Fan found the window of the back room open, but she did not feel cold;
and kneeling on the sofa, with her face resting on her hands, and still
crying, she remained there for a long time. A little wintry sunshine
rested on the garden, brightening the brown naked branches of the trees
and the dark green leaves of ivy and shrub, and gladdening the sparrows.
By-and-by the shortlived sunshine died away, and the sparrows left. It
was strangely quiet in the house; distinctly she heard Miss Starbrow
come out of the drawing-room and up the stairs; she trembled a little
then and felt a little rebellious stirring in her heart, thinking that
her mistress was coming up to her. But no, she went to her own room, and
closed the door. Then Rosie came in, stealing up to her on tiptoe, and
curiously peering into her face.

“Oh I say--something's happened!” she exclaimed, and tripped joyfully
away. Half an hour later she came up with some tea.

“I've brought your la'ship a cup of tea. I'm sure it will do your head
good,” she said, advancing with mincing steps and affecting profound
sympathy in her tone.

“Take it away--I shan't touch it!” returned Fan, becoming angry in her
misery.

“Oh, but your la'ship's health is so important! Society will be so
distressed when it hears that your la'ship is unwell! I'll leave the cup
in the window in case your la'ship--”

Fan pushed cup and saucer angrily away, and over they went, falling
outside down to the area, where they struck with a loud crash and were
shivered to pieces.

Rosie laughed and clapped her hands in glee. “Oh, I'm so glad you've
smashed it!” she exclaimed. “I'll tell Miss Starbrow, and then you'll
see! That cup was the thing she valued most in the house. She bought it
at a sale at Christie and Manson's and gave twenty-five guineas for it.
Oh, how mad she'll be!”

Fan paid no heed to her words, knowing that there was no truth in them.
While pushing it away she had noticed that it was an old kitchen cup,
chipped and cracked and without a handle; the valuable curio had as a
fact been fished out of a heap of rubbish that morning by the maid, who
thought that it would serve very well for “her la'ship's tea.”

Rosie got tired of tormenting her, and took herself off at last; then
another hour went slowly by while it gradually grew dark; and as the
lights faded her rebellious feelings left her, and she began to hope
that Miss Starbrow would soon call her or come to her. And at length,
unable to bear the loneliness and suspense, she went to the bedroom door
and softly knocked. There was no answer, and trying the door she found
that it was locked. She waited outside the door for about half an hour,
and then hearing her mistress moving in the room she tapped again, with
the same result as before. Then she went back despairingly to the back
room and her place beside the window. The night was starry and not very
cold, and to protect herself from the night air she put on her fur cape.
Hour after hour she listened to the bells of St. Matthew's chiming the
quarters, feeling a strange loneliness each time the chimes ceased; and
then, after a few minutes' time, beginning again to listen for the next
quarter. It was getting very late, and still no one came to her, not
even Rosie with her supper, which she had made up her mind not to touch.
Then she dropped her head on her hands, and cried quietly to herself.
She had so many thoughts, and each one seemed sadder than the last. For
the great tumult in her soul was over now, and she could think about it
all, and of all the individuals who had treated her cruelly. She felt
very differently towards them. Captain Horton she feared and hated, and
wished him dead with all her heart; and Rosie she also hated, but not so
intensely, for the maid's enmity had not injured her. Against Mary she
only felt a great anger, but no hatred; for Mary had been so kind, so
loving, and she could not forget that, and all the sweetness it had
given her life. Then she began to compare this new luxurious life in
Dawson Place to the old wretched life in Moon Street, which now seemed
so far back in time; and it seemed strange to her that, in spite of the
great difference, yet to-night she felt more unhappy than she had ever
felt in the old days. She remembered her poor degraded mother, who had
never turned against her, and cried quietly again, leaning her face on
the window-sill. Then she had a thought which greatly perplexed her,
and she asked herself why it was in those old days, when hard words
and unjust blows came to her, she only felt a fearful shrinking of the
flesh, and wished like some poor hunted animal to fly away and hide
herself from her tormentors, while now a spirit of resentment and
rebellion was kindled in her and burnt in her heart with a strange fire.
Was it wrong to feel like that, to wish that those who made her suffer
were dead? That was a hard question which Fan put to herself, and she
could not answer it.

Her long fast and the excitement she had experienced, with so many
lonely hours of suspense after it, began to tell on her and make her
sleepy. It was eleven o'clock; she heard the servants going round to
fasten doors and turn off the gas, and finally they passed her landing
on their way to bed. It was getting very cold, and giving up all hope
of being called by her mistress, she closed the window and, with an
old table-cover for covering, coiled herself up on the sofa and went to
sleep.

When she woke it was with a start; her face had grown very cold, and she
felt a warm hand touching her cheek. The hand was quickly withdrawn when
she woke, and looking round Fan saw someone seated by her, and although
there was only the starlight from the window in the dim room, she knew
that it was her mistress. She raised herself to a sitting position on
the sofa, but without speaking. All her bitter, resentful feelings had
suddenly rushed back to her heart.

“Well, you have condescended to wake at last,” said Miss Starbrow. “Do
you know that it is nearly one o'clock in the morning?”

“No,” returned Fan.

“No! well then, I say yes. It is nearly one o'clock. Do you intend to
keep me here waiting your pleasure all night, I wonder!”

“I don't want you to come here. I had no place to sleep because you
locked me out of your room.”

“And for an excellent reason,” said the other sharply. “How could
I admit you into my room after the outrageous scene I witnessed
downstairs! You seem to think that you can behave just how you like in
my house, and that it will make no difference.”

Fan was silent.

“Oh, very well, Miss Fan, if you have nothing to say for yourself!”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Say! I wonder at the question. I want you to tell me the truth, of
course. That is, if you can. How did it all happen--you must tell me
everything just as it occurred, without concealment or prevarication.”

Fan related the facts simply and clearly; she remembered every word the
Captain had spoken only too well.

“I wish I knew whether you have told me the simple truth or not,” said
Miss Starbrow.

“May God strike me dead if I'm not telling the truth!” said Fan.

“There, that will do. A young lady is supposed to be able to answer
a question with a simple yes or no, without swearing about it like a
bargee on the Regent's Canal.”

“Then why don't you believe me when I say yes and no, and--and why
didn't you ask me before you struck me?”

“I shouldn't have struck you if I had not thought you were a little to
blame. It is not likely. You ought to know that after all my kindness to
you--but I dare say that is all forgotten. I declare I have been treated
most shamefully!” And here she dropped her face into her hands and began
crying.

But the girl felt no softening of the heart; that strange fire was still
burning in her, and she could only think of the cruel words, the unjust
blow.

Miss Starbrow suddenly ceased her crying. “I thought that you, at any
rate, had a little gratitude and affection for me,” she said. “But of
course I was mistaken about that as I have been about everything else.
If you had the faintest spark of sympathy in you, you would show a
little feeling, and--and ask me why I cry, or say something.”

For some moments Fan continued silent, then she moved and touched the
other's hand, and said very softly, for now all her anger was melting
away, “Why do you cry, Mary?”

“You know, Fan, because I love you, and am so sorry I struck you. What
a brute I was to hurt you--a poor outcast and orphan, with no friend
but me in the world. Forgive me, dear Fan, for treating you so cruelly!”
 Then she put her arms about the girl and kissed her, holding her close
to her breast.

“Oh, Mary, dear,” said Fan, now also crying; “you didn't hurt me very
much. I only felt it because--because it was you.”

“I know, Fan, and that's why I can't forgive myself. But I shall never,
never hurt you again, for I know that you are truth itself, and that
I can trust you. And now let us go down and have some supper together
before going to bed. I know you've had nothing since lunch, and I
couldn't touch a morsel, I was so troubled about that wretch of a man. I
think I have been sitting here quite two hours waiting for you to wake.”

Together they went down to the dining-room, where a delicate little
supper, such as Miss Starbrow loved to find on coming home from the
play, was laid out for them. For the first time Fan sat at table with
her mistress; another new experience was the taste of wine. She had a
glass of Sauterne, and thought it very nice.




CHAPTER IX


On the next morning, after a sharp frost, the sun shone brightly as in
spring. Fan was up early and enjoyed her breakfast, notwithstanding the
late supper, and not in the least disturbed by the scornful words flung
at her by the housemaid when she brought up the tray. After breakfasting
she went to Miss Starbrow's room, to find her still in bed and not
inclined to get up.

“Put on your dress and go for a walk in Kensington Gardens,” she said.
“I think it is a fine day, for a wonder. You may stop out until one
o'clock, if you like, and take my watch, so as to know the time. And
if you wish to rest while out don't sit down on a bench, or you will
be sure to have someone speak to you. According to the last census, or
Registrar-General's report, or whatever it is, there are twenty thousand
young gentlemen loafers in London, who spend their whole time hanging
about the parks and public places trying to make the acquaintance of
young girls. Sit on a chair by yourself when you are tired--you can
always find a chair even in winter--and give the chairman a penny when
he comes to you.”

“I haven't got a penny, Mary. But it doesn't matter; I'll not get
tired.”

“Then I must give you a purse and some money, and you must never go out
without it, and don't mind spending a little money now and then, and
giving away a penny when you feel inclined. Give me my writing desk and
the keys.”

She opened the desk and took out a small plush purse, then some silver
and coppers to put in it, and finally a sovereign.

“The silver you can use, the sovereign you must not change, but keep it
in case you should require money when I am not with you.”

With all these fresh proofs of Mary's affection to make her happy, in
her lovely new dress and hat, and the beautiful gold chain on her bosom,
Fan went out for her walk feeling as light-hearted as a linnet. It was
the last day of November, usually a dreary time in London, but never had
the world looked so bright and beautiful to Fan as on that morning; and
as she walked along with swift elastic tread she could hardly refrain
from bursting bird-like into some natural joyous melody. Passing into
the Gardens at the Queen's Road entrance, she went along the Broad Walk
to the Round Pond, and then on to the Albert Memorial, shining with gold
and brilliant colours in the sun like some fairy edifice. Running up the
steps she walked round and round the sculptured base of the monument,
studying the marble faces and reading the names, and above all admiring
the figures there--blind old Homer playing on his harp, with Dante,
Shakespeare, Milton, and all the immortal sons of song, grouped about
him listening. But nothing to her mind equalled the great group of
statuary representing Asia at one of the four corners, with that
colossal calm-faced woman seated on an elephant in the centre. What a
great majestic face, and yet how placid and sweet it looked, reminding
her a little of Mary in her kindly moods. But this noble face was of
marble, and never changed; Mary's changed every hour, so that the soft
expression when it came seemed doubly sweet. By-and-by she walked away
towards the bridge over the Serpentine, and in the narrow path, thickly
bordered with trees and shrubs and late flowers, she stepped aside to
make room for a lady to pass, who held by the hand a little angel-faced,
golden-haired child, dressed in a quaint pretty costume. The child stood
still and looked up into Fan's face, and then she also involuntarily
stopped, so taken was she with the little thing's beauty.

“Mammy,” said the child, pointing to Fan, “I'se like to tiss the pretty
laly.”

“Well, my darling, perhaps the young lady will kiss you if you ask very
nicely,” said the mother.

“Oh, may I kiss her?” said Fan, reddening with pleasure, and quickly
stooping she pressed her lips to the little cherub face.

“I loves you--what's your name?” said the child.

“No, darling, you must not ask questions. You've got your kiss and that
ought to satisfy you”; and with a smile and nod to Fan she walked on.

Fan pursued her walk to the Serpentine, with a new delicious sensation
in her heart. It was so strange and sweet to be spoken to by a lady, a
stranger, and treated like an equal! And in the days that were not so
long ago with what sad desire in her eyes had she looked at smiling
beautiful faces, like this lady's face, and no smile and no gentle word
had been bestowed on her, and no glance that did not express pity or
contempt!

At the head of the Serpentine she stood for ten or fifteen minutes to
watch the children and nursemaids feeding the swans and ducks. The swans
were very stately and graceful, the ducks very noisy and contentious,
and it was great fun to see them squabbling over the crumbs of bread.
But after leaving the waterside she came upon a scene among the great
elms and chestnuts close by which amused her still more. Some poor
ragged children--three boys and a girl--were engaged in making a great
heap of the old dead fallen leaves, gathering them in armfuls and
bringing them to one spot. By-and-by the little girl came up with a
fresh load, and as she stooped to put it on the pile, the boys, who had
all gathered round, pushed her over and covered her with a mass of old
leaves; then, with a shout of laughter at their rough joke, they ran
away. She struggled out and stood up half-choked with dust, her face
covered with dirt, and dress and hair with the black half-rotten leaves.
As soon as she got her breath she burst out in a prolonged howl, while
the big tears rushed out, making channels on her grimy cheeks.

“Oh, poor little girl, don't cry,” said Fan, going up to her, but the
child only howled the louder. Then Fan remembered her money and Mary's
words, and taking out a penny she offered it to the little girl.
Instantly the crying ceased, the child clutched the penny in her dirty
little fist, then stared at Fan, then at the penny, and finally turned
and ran away as fast as she could run, past the fountains, out at the
gate, and into the Bayswater Road.

When she was quite out of sight Fan resumed her walk, laughing a little,
but with misty eyes, for it was the first time in her life that she had
given a penny away, and it made her strangely happy. Before quitting
the Gardens, however, one little incident occurred to interfere with
her pleasure. Close to the Broad Walk she suddenly encountered Captain
Horton walking with a companion in the opposite direction. There was no
time to turn aside in order to avoid him; when she recognised him he was
watching her face with a curious smile under his moustache which made
her feel a little uncomfortable; then, raising his hat, he passed her
without speaking.

“You know that pretty girl?” she heard his friend ask, as she hurried
away a little frightened towards the Queen's Road gate.

Miss Starbrow appeared very much put out about this casual encounter in
the Gardens when Fan related the incidents of her walk.

“I'll not walk there again, Mary, so as not to meet him,” said Fan
timidly.

“On the contrary, you shall walk there as often as you like--I had
almost said whether you like it or not; and in the Grove, where you are
still more likely to meet him.” She spoke angrily; but after a while
added, “He couldn't well have done less than notice you when he met you,
and I do not think you need be afraid of anything. It is not likely
that he would address you. He put an altogether false complexion on that
affair yesterday--a cowardly thing to do, and caused us both a great
deal of pain, and for that I shall never forgive him. Think no more
about it, Fan.”

It was pretty plain, however, that she permitted herself to think more
about it; for during the next few days she was by no means cheerful,
while her moody fits and bursts of temper were more frequent than
usual. Then, one Wednesday evening, when Fan assisted her in dressing
to receive her visitors, she seemed all at once to have recovered her
spirits, and talked to the girl and laughed in a merry light-hearted
way.

“Poor Fan, how dull it must always be for you on a Wednesday evening,
sitting here so long by yourself,” she said.

“Oh no, Mary, I always open the door and listen to the music; I like the
singing so much.”

“That reminds me,” said Miss Starbrow. “Who do you think is coming this
evening?”

“Captain Horton,” she answered promptly.

Miss Starbrow laughed. “Yes; how quick you are at guessing. I must tell
you all about it; and do you know, Fan, I find it very delightful to
have a dear trusty girl to talk to. I suppose you have noticed how
cross I have been all these days. It was all on account of that man. He
offended me so much that day that I made up my mind never to speak to
him again. But he is very sorry; besides, he looked on you as little
more than a child, and really meant it only for a joke. And so I
have half forgiven him, and shall let him visit me again, but only on
Wednesday evenings when there will be others. I shall not allow him to
come whenever he likes, as he used to do. Fan was silent. Miss Starbrow,
sitting before the glass, read the ill-concealed trouble in the girl's
face reflected there.

“Now don't be foolish, Fan, and think no more about it,” she said. “You
are very young--not nearly sixteen yet, and gentlemen look on girls of
that age as scarcely more than children, and think it no harm to kiss
them. He's a thoughtless fellow, and doesn't always do what is right,
but he certainly did not think any harm or he would not have acted that
way in my house. That's what he says, and I know very well when I hear
the truth.”

After finishing her hair, Miss Starbrow, not yet satisfied that she had
removed all disagreeable impression, turned round and said, “Now, my
solemn-faced girl, why are you so silent? Are you going to be cross with
me? Don't you think I know best what is right and believe what I tell
you?”

The tears came to the girl's eyes. “I do believe you know best, Mary,”
 she said, in a distressed voice. “Oh, please don't think that I am
cross. I am so glad you like to talk to me.”

Miss Starbrow smiled and touched her cheek, and at length stooped and
kissed her; and this little display of confidence and affection chased
away the last remaining cloud, and made Fan perfectly happy.

The partial forgiveness extended to Captain Horton did not have exactly
the results foretold. Miss Starbrow was fond of affirming that when her
mind was once made up about anything it was not to be moved; but in
this affair she had already yielded to persuasion, and had permitted
the Captain to visit her again; and by-and-by the second resolution also
proved weak, and his visits were not confined to Wednesday evenings. She
had struggled against her unworthy feeling for him, and knowing that
it was unworthy, that the strength she prided herself so much on was
weakness where he was concerned, she was dissatisfied in mind and angry
with herself for making these concessions. She really believed in the
love he professed for her, and did not think much the worse of him for
being a man without income or occupation, and a gambler to boot; but
she feared that a marriage with him would only make her miserable, and
between her love for him, which could not be concealed, and the fear
that he would eventually win her consent to be his wife, her mind was in
a constant state of anxiety and restlessness. The little indiscretion he
had been guilty of with Fan she had forgiven in her heart: that he had
actually conceived a fondness for this poor young girl she could not
believe, for in that case he would have been very careful not to do
anything to betray it to the woman he wished to marry; but though she
had forgiven him, she was resolved not to let him know it just yet,
and so continued to be a little distant and formal in her manner, never
calling him by his christian name, “Jack,” as formerly, and not allowing
him to call her “Pollie.”

All this was nothing to Fan, as she very rarely saw him, but on the
few occasions when she accidentally met him, in the house or when out
walking, he always had that curious smile on his lips, and studied
her face with a bold searching look in his eyes, which made her
uncomfortable and even a little afraid.

One day, about the middle of December, Miss Starbrow began to speak to
her about her future.

“You have improved wonderfully, Fan, since you first came,” she said,
“but I fear that this kind of improvement will not be of much practical
use, and my conscience is not quite satisfied about you. I have taken
this responsibility on myself, and must not go on shutting my eyes to
it. Some day it will be necessary for you to go out into the world to
earn your own living; that is what we have got to think about. Remember
that you can't have me always to take care of you; I might go abroad, or
die, or get married, and then you would be left to your own resources.
You couldn't make your living by simply looking pretty; you must be
useful as well as ornamental; and I have taught you nothing--teaching is
not in my line. It would be a thousand pities if you were ever to sink
down to the servant-girl level: we must think of something better than
that. A young lady generally aspires to be a governess. But then
she must know everything--music, drawing, French, German, Latin,
mathematics, algebra; all that she must have at her finger-ends, and be
able to gabble political economy, science, and metaphysics to boot. All
that is beyond you--unattainable as the stars. But you needn't break
your heart about it. She doesn't get much. Her wages are about equal to
those of a kitchen-maid, who can't spell, but only peel potatoes. And
the more learned she is, the more she is disliked and snubbed by her
betters; and she never marries, in spite of what the _Family Herald_
says, but goes on toiling until she is fifty, and then retires to live
alone on fifteen shillings a week in some cheap lodging for the remnant
of her dreary life. No, poor Fan, you can't hope to be anything as grand
as a governess.”

Fan laughed a little: she had grown accustomed to and understood
this half-serious mocking style of speech in which her mistress often
indulged.

“But,” she continued, “you might qualify yourself for some other kind
of employment less magnificent, but still respectable, and even genteel
enough. That of a nursery-governess, for instance; you are fond of
children, and could teach them their letters. Or you could be companion
to a lady; some simple-minded, old-fashioned dame who stays at home, and
would not require you to know languages. Or, better still perhaps, you
might go into one of the large West End shops. I do not think it
would be very difficult for you to get a place of that kind, as your
appearance is so much in your favour. I know that your ambition is not
a very soaring one, and a few months ago you would not have ventured
to dream of ever being a young lady in a shop like Jay's or Peter
Robinson's. Yet for such a place you would not have to study for years
and pass a stiff examination, as a poor girl is obliged to do before
she can make her living by sitting behind a counter selling penny
postage-stamps. Homely girls can succeed there: for the fine shop a
pretty face, an elegant figure, and a pleasing lady-like manner are
greatly prized--more than a knowledge of archaeology and the higher
mathematics; and you possess all these essentials to start with. But
whether you are destined to go into a shop or private house, it is
important that you should make a better use of your time just now, while
you are with me, and learn something--dressmaking, let us say, and all
kinds of needlework; then you will at least be able to make your own
clothes.”

“I should like to learn that very much,” said Fan eagerly.

“Very well, you shall learn then. I have been making inquiries, and find
that there is a place in Regent Street, where for a moderate premium
they do really succeed in teaching girls such things in a short time. I
shall take you there to-morrow, and make all arrangements.”

Very soon after this conversation Fan commenced her new work of learning
dressmaking, going every morning by omnibus to Regent Street, lunching
where she worked, and returning to Dawson Place at four o'clock. After
the preliminary difficulties, or rather strangeness inseparable from
a new occupation, had been got over, she began to find her work very
agreeable. It was maintained by the teachers in the establishment she
was in that by means of their system even a stupid girl could be taught
the mystery of dressmaking in a little while. And Fan was not stupid,
although she had an extremely modest opinion of her own abilities,
and was not regarded by others as remarkably intelligent; but she was
diligent and painstaking, and above everything anxious to please her
mistress, who had paid extra money to ensure pains being taken with her.
So rapid was her progress, that before the end of January Miss Starbrow
bought some inexpensive material, and allowed her to make herself a
couple of dresses to wear in the house; and these first efforts resulted
so well that a better stuff was got for a walking-dress.

The winter had thus far proved a full and happy one to Fan; in February
she was even more fully occupied, and, if possible, happier; for after
leaving the establishment in Regent Street, Miss Starbrow sent her to
the school of embroidery in South Kensington to take lessons in a
new and still more delightful art. But at the end of that month Fan
unhappily, and from no fault of her own, fell into serious disgrace. She
had gone to the Exhibition Road with a sample of her work on the morning
of a bright windy day which promised to be dry; a little later Miss
Starbrow also went out. Before noon the weather changed, and a heavy
continuous rain began to fall. At one o'clock Miss Starbrow came home in
a cab, and as she went into the house it occurred to her to ask the maid
if Fan had got very wet or had come in a cab. She knew that Fan had not
taken an umbrella.

“No, ma'am; she walked home, but didn't get wet. A young gentleman came
with her, and I s'pose he kept her dry with his umbrella.”

“A young gentleman--are you quite sure?”

“Yes, ma'am, quite sure,” she returned, indignant at having her sacred
word doubted. “He was with her on the steps when I opened the door, and
shook hands with her just like an old friend when he went away; and she
was quite dry.”

Miss Starbrow said no more. She knew that the servant, though no
friend to Fan, would not have dared to invent a story of this kind,
and resolved to say nothing, but to wait for the girl to give her own
account of the matter.

Fan said nothing about it. On leaving the school of embroidery, seeing
how threatening the sky was, she was hurrying towards the park, when the
rain came down, and in a few moments she would have been wet through if
help had not come in the shape of an umbrella held over her head by an
attentive young stranger. He kept at her side all the way across the
Gardens to Dawson Place, and Fan felt grateful for his kindness; she
conversed with him during the walk, and at the door she had not refused
to shake hands when he offered his. In ordinary circumstances, she would
have made haste to tell her mistress all about it, thinking no harm;
unfortunately it happened that for some days Miss Starbrow had been in
one of her worst moods, and during these sullen irritable periods Fan
seldom spoke unless spoken to.

When Miss Starbrow found the girl in her room on going there, she looked
keenly and not too kindly at her, and imagined that poor Fan wore a look
of guilt on her face, whereas it was nothing but distress at her own
continued ill-temper which she saw.

“I shall give her till to-morrow to tell me,” thought the lady, “and
if she says nothing, I shall conclude that she has made friends out of
doors and wishes to keep it from me.”

Fan knew nothing of what was passing in the other's mind; she only saw
that her mistress was even less gracious to her than she had been, and
thought it best to keep out of her sight. For the rest of the day not
one word passed between them.

Next morning Fan got ready to go to Kensington, but first came in to her
mistress as was her custom. Miss Starbrow was also dressed in readiness
to go out; she was sitting apparently waiting to speak to Fan before
leaving the house.

“Are you going out, Mary?” said Fan, a little timidly.

“Yes, I am going out,” she returned coldly, and then seemed waiting for
something more to be said.

“May I go now?” said Fan.

“No,” the other returned after some moments. “Change your dress again
and stay at home to-day.” Presently she added, “You are learning a
little too much in Exhibition Road--more, I fancy, than I bargained
for.”

Fan was silent, not knowing what was meant.

Then Miss Starbrow went out, but first she called the maid and told her
to remove Fan's bed and toilet requisites out of her room into the back
room.

Greatly distressed and perplexed at the unkind way she had been spoken
to, Fan changed her dress and sat down in the cold back room to do
some work. After a while she heard a great noise as of furniture being
dragged about, and presently Rosie came in with the separate pieces of
her dismantled bed.

“What are you doing with my things?” exclaimed Fan in surprise.

“Your things!” retorted Rosie, with scorn. “What your mistress told me
to do, you cheeky little beggar! Your things indeed! 'Put a beggar on
horseback and he'll ride to the devil,' and that's what Miss Starbrow's
beginning to find out at last. And quite time, too! Embroidery! That's
what you're going to wear perhaps when you're back in the slums you came
from! I thought it wouldn't last!” And Rosie, banging the things about,
pounding the mattress with clenched fist, and shaking the pillows like
a terrier with a rat, kept up this strain of invective until she had
finished her task, and then went off, well pleased to think that the day
of her triumph was not perhaps very far distant.

On that day, however, Rosie herself was destined to experience great
trouble of mind, and an anxiety about her future even exceeding that of
Fan, who was spending the long hours alone in that big, cold, fireless
room, grieving in her heart at the great change in her beloved mistress,
and dropping many a tear on the embroidery in her hands.

It was about three o'clock, and feeling her fingers quite stiff with
cold, she determined to go quietly down to the drawing-room in the hope
of finding a fire lighted there so as to warm her hands. Miss Starbrow
had not returned, and the house was very still, and after standing a few
moments on the landing, anxious not to rouse the maid and draw a fresh
volley of abuse on herself, she went softly down the stairs, and opened
the drawing-room door. For a moment or two she stood motionless, and
then muttering some incoherent apology turned and fled back to her room.
For there, very much at his ease, sat Captain Horton, with Rosie on his
knees, her arms about his neck, and her lips either touching his or in
very close proximity to them.

Rosie slipped from her seat, and the Captain stood up, but the intruder
had seen and gone, and their movements were too late.

“The spy! the cat!” snapped Rosie, grown suddenly pale with anger and
apprehension.

“It's very fine to abuse the girl,” said the Captain; “but it was all
through your infernal carelessness. Why didn't you lock the door?”

“Oh, you're going to blame me! That's like a man. Perhaps you're in love
with the cat. I s'pose you think she's pretty.”

“I'd like to twist her neck, and yours too, for a fool. If any trouble
comes you will be to blame.”

“Say what you like, I don't care. There'll be trouble enough, you may be
sure.”

“Do you mean to say that she will dare to tell?”

“Tell! She'll only be too glad of the chance. She'll tell everything to
Miss Starbrow, and she hates me and hates you like poison. It would be
very funny if she didn't tell.”

He walked about the room fuming.

“It will be as bad for you as for me,” he said.

“No, it won't. I can get another place, I s'pose.”

“Oh, yes; very fine, and be a wretched slavey all your life, if you like
that. You know very well that I have promised you two hundred pounds the
day I marry your mistress.”

“Yes; because I'm not a fool, and you can't help yourself. Don't think
_I_ want to marry you. Not me! Keep your love for Miss Starbrow, and
much you'll get out of her!”

“You idiot!” he began; but seeing that she was half sobbing he said no
more, and continued walking about the room. Presently he came back to
her. “It's no use quarrelling,” he said. “If anything can be done to
get out of this infernal scrape it will only be by our acting together.
Since this wretched Fan has been in the house, Miss Starbrow is harder
than ever to get on with; and even if Fan holds her tongue about this--”

“She won't hold her tongue.”

“But even if she should, we'll never do any good while she has that girl
to amuse herself with. You know perfectly well, Rosie, that if there is
anyone I really love it is you; but then we've both of us got to do the
best we can for ourselves. I shall love you just the same after I am
married, and if you still should like me, why then, Rosie, we might be
able to enjoy ourselves very well. But if Fan tells at once what she saw
just now, then it will be all over with us--with you, at any rate.”

“She won't tell at once--not while her mistress is in her tantrums.
The little cat keeps out of her way then. Not to-day, and perhaps not
to-morrow; and the day after I think Miss Starbrow's going to visit her
friends at Croydon. That's what she said; and if she goes, she'll be out
all day.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the Captain; then rising he carefully closed and locked
the door before continuing the conversation. They were both very much
interested in it; but when it was at last over, and the Captain took
his departure, Rosie did not bounce away as usual with tumbled hair and
merry flushed face. She left the drawing-room looking pale and a little
scared perhaps, and for the rest of the day was unusually silent and
subdued.




CHAPTER X


To Fan no comfort came that evening, and an hour after supper she went
to bed to get warm, without seeing her mistress, who had returned to
dinner. Next day she was no better off; she did not venture to ask
whether she might go out or not, or even to go to Miss Starbrow's room,
but kept to her own cold apartment, working and grieving, and seeing
no one except the maid. Rosie came and went, but she was moody, or else
afraid to use her tongue, and silent. On the following morning Miss
Starbrow left the house at an early hour, and Fan resigned herself to
yet another cold solitary day. About eleven o'clock Rosie came running
up in no little excitement with a telegram addressed to “Miss Affleck.”
 She took it, wondering a little at the change in the maid's manner,
but not thinking much about it, for she had never received a telegram
before, and it startled and troubled her to have one thrust into her
hand. Rosie stood by, anxiously waiting to hear its contents.

“How long are you going to be about it?” she exclaimed. “Let me read it
for you.”

Fan held it back, and went on perusing it slowly. It was from Miss
Starbrow at Twickenham, and said: “Come to me here by train from
Westbourne Park Station. Bring two or three dresses and all you will
require in my bag. Shall remain here several days. The housekeeper will
meet you at Twickenham Station.”

She allowed Rosie to read the message, and was told that Twickenham was
very near London; that she must take a cab to get quickly to Westbourne
Park Station, so as not to keep Miss Starbrow waiting. Then, while Fan
changed her dress and got herself ready, the maid selected one of Miss
Starbrow's best bags and busied herself in folding up and packing as
many of Fan's things as she could cram into it. Then she ran out to call
a cab, leaving Fan again studying the telegram and feeling strangely
perplexed at being thus suddenly sent for by her mistress, who had gone
out of the house without speaking one word to her.

In a few minutes the cab was at the door, and Rosie officiously helped
the girl in, handed her the bag, and told her to pay the cabman one
shilling. After it started she rushed excitedly into the road and
stopped it.

“Oh, I forgot, Miss Fan, leave the telegram, you don't want it any
more,” she said, coming to the side of the cab.

Fan mechanically pulled the yellow envelope from her pocket and gave it
to her without question, and was then driven off. But in her agitation
at the sudden summons she had thrust the missive and the cover
separately into her pocket, so that Rosie had after all only got the
envelope. It was a little matter--a small oversight caused by hurry--but
the result was important; in all probability Fan's whole after life
would have been different if she had not made that trivial mistake.

She was quickly at the station, and after taking her ticket had only
a few minutes to wait for a train; half an hour later she was at
Twickenham Station. As soon as the platform was clear of the other
passengers who had alighted, a respectably-dressed woman got up from one
of the seats and came up to Fan. “You are Miss Affleck,” she said, with
a furtive glance at the girl's face. “Miss Starbrow sent me to meet you.
She is going to stay a few days with friends just outside of Twickenham.
Will you please come this way?”

She took the bag from Fan, then led the way not to, but round the
village, and at some distance beyond it into a road with trees planted
in it and occasional garden-seats. They followed this road for about a
quarter of a mile, then left it, and the villas and houses near it, and
struck across a wide field. Beyond it, in an open space, they came to an
isolated terrace of small red-brick cottages. The cottages seemed newly
built and empty, and no person was moving about; nor had any road been
made, but the houses stood on the wet clay, full of deep cart-wheel
ruts, and strewn with broken bricks and builders' rubbish. In the
middle of the row Fan noticed that one of the cottages was inhabited,
apparently by very poor people, for as she passed by with her guide,
three or four children and a woman, all wretchedly dressed, came out and
stared curiously at her. Then, to her surprise, her guide stopped at the
last house of the row, and opened the door with a latchkey. The windows
were all closed, and from the outside it looked uninhabited, and as
they went into the narrow uncarpeted hall Fan began to experience some
nervous fears. Why had her mistress, a rich woman, with a luxurious home
of her own, come into this miserable suburban cottage? The door of a
small square room on the ground-floor was standing open, and looking
into it she saw that it contained a couple of chairs and a table, but no
other furniture and no carpet.

“Where's Miss Starbrow?” she asked, becoming alarmed.

“Upstairs, waiting for you. This way, please”; and taking Fan by the
hand, she attempted to lead her up the narrow uncarpeted stairs. But
suddenly, with a cry of terror, the girl snatched herself free and
rushed down into the open room, and stood there panting, white and
trembling with terror, her eyes dilated, like some wild animal that
finds itself caught in a trap.

“What ails you?” said the woman, quickly following her down.

“Captain Horton is there--I saw him looking down!” said Fan, in a
terrified whisper. “Oh, please let me out--let me out!”

“Why, what nonsense you are talking, to be sure! There's no Captain
Horton here, and what's more, I don't know who Captain Horton is. It was
Miss Starbrow you saw waiting for you on the landing.”

“No, no, no--let me out! let me out!” was Fan's only reply.

The woman then made a dash at her, but the girl, now wild with fear,
sprang quickly from her, and running round the room came to the window
at the front, and began madly pulling at the fastenings to open it.
There she was seized, but not to be conquered yet, for the sense of the
terrible peril she was in gave her an unnatural strength, and struggling
still to return to the window, her only way of escape, they presently
came violently against it and shattered a pane of glass. At this moment
the woman, exerting her whole strength, succeeded in dragging her back
to the middle of the room; and Fan, finding that she was being overcome,
burst forth in a succession of piercing screams, which had the effect of
quickly bringing Captain Horton on to the scene.

“Oh, you've come at last! There--manage her yourself--the wild beast!”
 cried the woman, flinging the girl from her towards him.

He caught her in his arms. “Will you stop screaming?” he shouted; but
Fan only screamed the louder.

“Stop her--stop her quick, or we'll have those people and the police
here,” cried the woman, running to the window and peering out at the
broken pane to see if the noise had attracted their neighbours.

He succeeded in getting one of his hands over her mouth, and still
keeping her clasped firmly with the other arm, began drawing her towards
the door. But not even yet was she wholly overcome; all the power which
had been in her imprisoned arms and hands appeared suddenly to have gone
into the muscles of her jaws, and in a moment her sharp teeth had cut
his hand to the bone.

“Oh, curse the hell-cat!” he cried; and maddened with rage at the pain,
he struck her from him, and her head coming violently in contact with
the sharp edge of the table, she was thrown down senseless on the floor.
Her forehead was deeply cut, and presently the blood began flowing over
her still, white face.

The woman now became terrified in her turn.

“You have killed her!” she cried. “Oh, Captain, you have killed her, and
you'll hang for it and make me hang too. Oh God! what's to be done now?”

“Hold your noise, you cursed fool!” exclaimed the other, in a rage. “Get
some cold water and dash it over her face.”

She obeyed quickly enough, and kneeling down washed the blood from the
girl's face and hair, and loosened her dress. But the

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/7827