FANNY.
A MONTH elapsed from the evening on which Ellen brought home the baby,
and the police had failed to find out anything about it. And the baby
had not been sent to the workhouse. During this month the tall sergeant
had called once or twice to say that he was doing all he could, and at
the end of the month he came again.
"This is a bad business," he said, looking at the pretty child in
Ellen's arms. "You can't be expected to keep him for ever, ma'am."
Poor Ellen! Her heart sank terribly.
"I suppose I must take him to the workhouse," went on Sergeant Boxer.
And to Ellen's great relief Hannah replied—
"No, sergeant; I can do better for him than that. A lady has offered to
place him in Armine's Trust, where he'll be well-educated. She's abroad
at present, but I can write to her any day. However, we'll wait another
month first, if you think there's any chance?"
"Well, not much, ma'am. I suppose that, after all, though he is such
a fine child, he's no more than any other London waif. If he was the
child of well-to-do folk, we should have heard of his parents by this
time."
"He's not a common child," said Hannah; "at least, I feel sure of it,
and so does Dr. Jephson."
"And so do I," said Ellen, gazing fondly at the child.
"Oh, but 'you' think he's an angel, Ellen! I believe you're expecting
his wings to grow. But when we got him, he was so well fed, and so
clean-looking—I mean so white and smooth, you know—that I'm sure he
doesn't come of people like the old woman who left him with Ellen."
"No," said the sergeant, "better than that, I grant you. But he's as
fat and as white now as he was then; and so he always would if he
belonged to you."
"Yes; but 'tis not people like me that make a bundle of their baby and
make a present of it to the first person that is innocent enough to
take it."
"There's something in that, surely. Well, I'll keep you informed,
ma'am."
"Then you'd better begin by getting some information, sergeant.
Good-bye. Ellen, we'll keep the child till Mrs. Anstruther comes home.
'Tis no doubt a loss of time for you, but you're young, and you don't
begrudge it."
"Oh no, the little darling! How he does grow! I wish we knew his name;
we can't go on calling him Baby for ever."
"No, we must have a name for him. It was in Princess Street you found
him; however, we can't call him Princess. No, but we'll call him
Prince. Jack Prince—Jack's a fine name for a boy. There now, Baby,
I've given you a name, and truly I hope you'll soon bear your own name
again, you poor unfort'nate mite."
Ellen did not much admire the name, but she soon became quite fond
of it. Privately, she called the child Prince Jack instead of Jack
Prince, which gave her a good deal of satisfaction. And he was to go to
Armine's Trust when Mrs. Anstruther could get him admitted—so Hannah
told Mrs. Collins, who told every one else. But I am afraid that in her
secret heart, Hannah knew by this time that he would never leave her
care except to return to his real home, if that day ever came.
Reckoning that Jack was six months old when he first came to Wellington
Row, he was a year old when the next remarkable event took place there.
It was then April, and Mrs. Anstruther was on her way home. Miss
Mildred, who had written several times to Hannah during the winter
about Mrs. Anstruther's health, wrote now that they were to be in
London for a few days, but that they would probably spend the summer
quietly in the country. For, though really much better, Mrs. Anstruther
was not equal to London during the season.
Ellen was out one day, and Hannah was in the parlour, busy with her
needle, and watching Jack, who was crawling about on the floor,
making the painful discovery that the legs of chairs and tables were
hard compared with his head—a fact which everybody must discover for
himself. He did not cry when he bumped himself—he sat up and scolded.
Presently there was a knock at the door, a very hesitating knock.
And Hannah remarked aloud, "A beggar, I expect," as she rose to open
the door.
But she perceived at once that it was no beggar, though the woman who
had knocked was shabbily, even insufficiently, dressed, considering
that though the sun was warm, the wind was sharp enough. Poor as was
her dress, she wore a thick new veil.
"Haven't you a little boy here, ma'am?" she said, and as she spoke she
put out her hand and steadied herself against the door-post.
"I have. What do you want with me?" Hannah said shortly; for she
thought the stranger was not quite sober.
"I'm told you have a child here, and I think I can tell you who he is."
But though Hannah heard this, she took no notice of the words, welcome
as they ought to have been to her. Instead of that, she suddenly laid
her hand on the woman's shoulder, saying—
"Surely I know your voice—let me see who you are," and she attempted to
raise the thick veil.
The other resisted this, and in her agitation, she nearly fell.
Hannah caught her and drew her into the passage, where there was a
narrow bench against the wall. On this bench the stranger sank down.
The parlour door was open, and Jack was standing proudly by a chair—a
new accomplishment, of which he justly thought a good deal.
"Yes, there he is; that's the child, I'd know him anywhere. Oh, thank
God! I shall not die with that on my conscience."
"You're my sister Fanny!" cried Hannah, excitedly. "Baby or no baby,
you're my little Fanny."
The woman rose hurriedly, pushing back her veil, and Hannah decided
that she had made a great mistake—this was not her pretty blooming
Fanny. Yet it was Fanny, but sorely changed. She laid her cold,
trembling hands in Hannah's, and said—
"It's Hannah! Oh, Hannah, then I'm not altogether deserted. You were
always good to me, always kind; you'll take care of me, even if you
blame me."
"Take care of you! Ay, will I, Fanny, blame or no blame. What is it?
Fanny, what ails you?"
"I'm—I'm going to faint," the shadowy creature said brokenly. And she
did faint, though Hannah held her and did not let her fall.
The little boy, much interested, lost his balance, and sat down with
that disconcerting suddenness to which beginners in the art of walking
are subject.
Hannah lifted her sister—far too easy to lift was poor Fanny—into the
parlour, fanned her, got water for her, but could not recall her to
consciousness.
Meantime, Jack perceived that the hall door was open, a precious
opportunity for which the enterprising creature had been longing all
day. He set off on hands and knees at a marvellous pace, and was soon
out on the pavement, crawling away happily, with little gurgles and
crows of pure delight.
Very fortunately, Ellen was coming home by this time, and espied him.
Snatching him up in spite of kicks and struggles, she flew to the open
door and rushed in, crying—
"Mrs. Rule dear, what do you think? I found Jack out in the street!"
"Oh, Ellen, I want you; come here. Set him down and run for Dr.
Jephson; this is my sister Fanny, and I'm afraid she's very ill."
"Oh, is she dead? Yes, I'll run." And run she did, though, after Jack's
late excursion, she judged it better to carry him with her.
Dr. Jephson was soon on the spot. He succeeded in reviving poor Fanny,
but she did not seem quite herself. She moaned and clung to Hannah,
taking no notice of anything, even of the child. They took her upstairs
and laid her in Hannah's bed; Ellen brought up a cup of tea, and when
she had taken it, she fell asleep.
"She's in a terribly exhausted state, Mrs. Rule, and I'm afraid she's
very ill. Now, may I ask, how did you pick her up? And are you going to
add her to your family, ma'am?"
"Why, doctor, she's my sister—my only sister," whispered Hannah. "She's
a deal younger than me, and she was in service in Wales, and there
she married: his name is Owen Morgan, and he was a groom in the same
service. After a while, he left it and took Fanny away. Mother and I
had our fears that he had been behaving ill; for a time she wrote, and
then she left off, and by the time I got frightened about her—you see,
mother died just then—I could get no tidings of her. I never heard
of her since, and was sure she was dead, and to-day she knocked at
my door. She was not seeking me; she did not know me, but I knew her
voice. Then she fainted."
"But if she did not know that you lived here, what brought her to your
house?" asked the doctor, who all this time was watching the sleeping
woman narrowly.
"Come downstairs, and I'll tell you."
"You will not awake her easily; you can tell us here."
"No, no, come down; I will come back to her soon. Dear heart, how thin
she is."
"Go on, Mrs. Rule," said the doctor; "I'll follow in a moment."
When Ellen and Hannah had disappeared, he went close to the bed and
bent down, laying his ear to poor Fanny's chest.
"Ah, I was thinking so," said he to himself; and he followed the others
downstairs.
"Shut the door, Ellen. I wouldn't tell you up there for fear you'd
cry out. For what do you think? It was about Jack she came. She said,
before I knew her, that she can tell me who he is."
Ellen grew very pale.
"Did she tell you?" asked the doctor.
"No; I knew her voice, you see. But, when she saw Jack, she said, 'Yes,
that's the child.'"
"Well, this is one of the strangest things I ever heard of! Now,
ma'am, if your—when your sister wakes up, get her to tell you all
without delay. It is my duty to tell you that she's very ill; so ill
that I don't like to undertake her case myself. If you were willing,
she'd be better in St. Anne's hospital; Dr. L'Estrange is very clever
about—heart disease."
"My poor Fanny! But people often live for years with heart disease. I
may keep her a bit—just to—"
But something in his face made her pause.
"It is not common heart disease, Mrs. Rule. I may be wrong, you know."
Hannah sat down, and absently took the child up in her arms.
"You're not often wrong, doctor, but I'll tell you what I'll do. I know
Dr. L'Estrange a little, I've met him at Mrs. Cartwright's. He's one of
the kindest men you ever knew. I'll just go to St. Anne's this minute
and ask him to come here to see Fanny. I'd like to feel I'd done all I
could, even if it's of no use."
"And, you know, I may be quite wrong," the doctor said.
"Ellen, you will watch her, and keep Jack quiet. If she wakes, give her
some of the beef-tea we made for Mrs. Mason—just a teacup full. I'll
get back as soon as I can."
"If she wakes, Miss Ellen, let me know," said Dr. Jephson. "I'll tell
the old pensioner who is always about here to keep near your door. If
she seems quite herself, I'll take down her account of the boy."
Ellen, who seemed half stupefied, made no answer.
"You understand, don't you, Ellen? It may be of great importance to our
little Jack."
"I understand," said Ellen.
Hannah went to get ready, and was soon gone on her errand.
She was delayed some time at St. Anne's, for the doctor was busy. But
when she saw him at last, he said he would be with her at four o'clock;
he had an appointment which would occupy him until then. Hannah hurried
home.
She found Ellen at the door, looking very much frightened.
"Is she awake, Ellen?"
"No, but somehow I got frightened. She does not seem in a right kind of
sleep now. I was sending for Dr. Jephson—the man is gone for him."
Hannah hurried upstairs.
"You tried to give her the beef-tea, I see."
"Yes. She opened her eyes and I got it ready at once, but she took
none. She did not seem to waken really."
"You should have sent for Dr. Jephson."
"So I did—it was only just now."
"Fanny! Fanny dear! Wake up—Ellen, this is no sleep."
"Here's Dr. Jephson."
It was then past three o'clock; Dr. Jephson tried everything he could
think of, but could not rouse the poor worn out woman.
Dr. L'Estrange came punctually. But, after a brief examination, he
said—"I am very sorry, Mrs. Rule. I can do nothing for her."
"Sir," said Hannah, "she knows who our little Jack is—that little
fellow over there. It was to seek him she came. If she might only tell
me that! For she seemed so anxious."
"She may wake up and know you. I will wait as long as I can—we may be
able to give her strength to speak."
He wrote a few words and gave the paper to Jephson.
"Send me that at once," he said. He sat down and waited.
Ellen brought up the medicine he had ordered, and then took the baby
off her bed, where he lay asleep, carried him to the stairs, where she
sat down and rocked him in her arms.
Presently Fanny opened her eyes and looked up at her sister.
"Hannah, 'tis all in the letter."
"Try to take this," said Dr. L'Estrange, gently.
"I'm past that. I can't take it."
"It is useless, Mrs. Rule."
"I wouldn't torment her now for fifty babies," said Hannah, kneeling by
the bed, holding the thin hand in hers.
"'Tis written in the letter. 'Tis all there. Now I've found the child,
I'm glad to go. Always kind to me, Hannah! Ah, he's been a cruel man to
me—twice—but tell him I forgave him, and if I disobeyed him, I couldn't
help it. Yes, hold my hand, Hannah—for I'm passing."
"Pass peacefully, my dear. You're going home."
And with a sob, and a fluttering sigh, poor Fanny Morgan was gone.
Hannah hid her face and cried. Ellen got up and stole downstairs with
the child. Dr. L'Estrange waited until Hannah raised her head, and
looked at him.
"I must go, Mrs. Rule."
Hannah got up and took out her purse.
"No, no—I was of no use, you know. Indeed, from what you told me,
I feared I should find it so. By-and-by you will like to know that
nothing could have prolonged her life—I mean, since she came to you.
She was dying, and you did all that could be done for her."
"And she's gone to a better home, sir. Fanny was a very good girl.
Whatever we learn about Jack, I'm certain the fault was Morgan's, not
hers. Fanny always tried to do right. She was a good Christian, when
I was hard and cold. She's had a hard life with a bad husband, and if
wrong was done, Owen Morgan did it, not our Fanny."
"Shall you require help, Mrs. Rule? Can I send any one to you?"
"No, sir, thank you. Ellen will give me what help I need."
But in this, Hannah found that she was mistaken, for nothing she could
say could persuade Ellen to enter the room again, until poor Fanny's
body had been carried away. She became hysterical, and was really in no
state to be reasoned with.
Mrs. Collins came and gave all the help that Hannah wanted. And when
all was arranged, Hannah made a careful search for the letter of which
Fanny had spoken, and which Hannah thought would be found in the pocket
of the thin, shabby dress. But all she found there was a purse with a
very little money in it, and the most diligent search failed to bring
to light a scrap of writing of any kind.
"'Tis very strange, Ellen, I can find no letter."
"Very strange," echoed Ellen.
"Poor little Jack, 'tis very sad for him. I've just one hope left."
"Hope—what hope?" asked Ellen, quickly.
"The letter most likely was to the child's parents, and 'twas written
before she found him. So she may have posted it before she came here.
If so, there'll be something in the papers about it. Poor little
fellow—it seems so sad to be so near knowing all, and yet to miss it—my
poor girl was so anxious, too."
"Jack's very well off where he is," Ellen said, "and it can make no
difference to your sister now."
"No, I suppose not. But her heart was set on putting it right. She
spoke of blame, but I'm sure she did nothing to be blamed of her own
free will. I do hope it will all come out, for her sake."
"You don't love Jack as I do, or you'd be glad to keep him."
"I wasn't thinking of myself at all, but of Fanny, and of Jack's
mother, if she's alive. Indeed, I know I should miss the little rogue
now."
"I wish we had never seen him," Ellen said bitterly.
"Never seen him!" repeated Hannah, surprised.
"If he's to be taken away. It's not fair—when we love him so."
"Ellen, dear child, don't allow yourself to talk like that. Jack was
brought to us, to take care of and to keep safe, and it has been a
great pleasure to us. But the two of us put together can't love him as
his mother does, and it will be a blessed thing to give him back to
her, as healthy and pretty as when we first got him."
Ellen got up and left the room.
On the day of the funeral, Mrs. Collins came to No. 3, and offered
to take care of Jack, so that Ellen might go with Hannah. But Ellen
refused to go, begging piteously that she might be left at home.
"Well, Mrs. Rule, I think it don't look well for you to go alone; and
as my dress is black, me being a widow these many years, I'll go with
you if you like, though funerals is a thing I have no liking for."
"I shall be glad if you'll come," Hannah said. "You've been real kind,
Mrs. Collins."
So Mrs. Collins climbed into the mourning-coach, and, I suspect,
enjoyed herself, though she remarked afterwards, that Hannah cried all
the time.
"Most dispiriting, though I more than once reminded her that, after
all, when the poor thing couldn't have recovered, it was a blessing
that the very handsome funeral was the only expense she had to go to.
Doctors and medicine are so dear."
When she reached home, Hannah went up to her room to put off her new
black bonnet and shawl. To her surprise, she found that Ellen had been
busy during her absence in moving the furniture of the attic in which
they slept. Some time ago Hannah had said that, when summer came, they
ought to put Ellen's bed into the second attic room, till now only used
as a place for hanging up clothes; for she thought that three people in
so small a room were too many, even though one was only a baby. Ellen
had been unwilling to make the move, as she was a light sleeper, and
somewhat nervous at night. Now, she had moved her bed into the second
room, and also baby's cradle—he had a real cradle now, having outgrown
the basket. Ellen had also made such changes in the arrangement of the
original bedroom as were possible with its scanty furniture.
"The poor child," thought Hannah; "now, she fancied I would forget
sooner if the room was not quite the same. But I'll keep Jack, for
she'd never get a wink of sleep if she had him, and I don't mind."
To her astonishment, when she said all this to Ellen, the girl burst
into tears.
"Don't thank me," she said; "and let me have baby at night! Do, Mrs.
Rule dear."
"I can't indeed, honey. Growing girls must have their nights' rest, and
you'd get none with Jack on your mind."
Ellen begged hard to have Jack, but Hannah was firm.
"That's enough now, Ellen. You're upset, and not quite yourself, or
you'd know I am right. If it is that you think you'll be nervous alone,
we'll leave the door between the two rooms open."
But Ellen did not leave the door open. Hannah suspected that she did
not sleep well, for she looked white and weary, and grew somewhat lazy,
seeming to care for nothing but sitting with Jack in her arms. And
ungrateful Jack was always stiffening his small person, and slipping
down on the floor to creep about.
"I don't think Ellen is well," Hannah said to Mrs. Collins. "If
'twasn't for the child, I'd send her to the country for a bit; she's
nervous, and 'twould rouse her up."
"Then I'd rouse her with a good shaking," said the ancient Collins,
briskly, with a knowing nod. "The notion of a—well, you know, she 'is'
only a charity foundling—setting up to be nervous!"
"What good would a shaking do?" said Hannah.
"Oh, hire a carriage and give her carriage exercise, if you like, Mrs.
Rule. You'll spoil her teetotally, I know that!"
"Mrs. Anstruther will be home soon; I'll have her advice about Ellen."
"I thought Mrs. Anstruther had nothing to do with Ellen," Mrs. Collins
said sharply.
"Oh, she'll advise me. I never knew the thing yet that Mrs. Anstruther
couldn't put her mind to, and advise for the best. She has more sense
than most."
"If she has, she'll just approve of a good shaking, and perhaps a slap
on the face," replied Mrs. Collins, with conviction.
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