Earl's Court top flat, to pick up lady and gentleman for number to be
given in Church Row Hampstead and call there ten-thirty and take home
as directed. Accordingly I went to Brantismore Gardens and told the
porter in the 'all--it was one of these 'ere flat places with a
porter in livery--that I was there to time waiting. 'E telephoned up
in the usual way. After a bit, lady and gentleman came out of the
house and I went to the door of the car as I usually do and held it
open. So far nothing out of the ornary. He was a gentleman in
evening dress, like most gentlemen; she'd got a wrap with fur, and
her hair, you know, was done up nice for an evening party with
something that sparkled. Quite the lady.'
"'And it was Fanny?' said Prue.
"Ernest struggled mutely with his subject for some moments. 'Not
yet, like,' he said.
"'You mean you didn't recognise her then?' said Matilda.
"'No. But she just looked up at me and seemed kind of to start and
got in. I saw her sort of leaning forward and looking at me as 'E
got in. Fact is, I didn't think much of it. I should have forgotten
all about it if it 'adn't been for afterwards. But when I took them
back something happened. I could see she was looking at me.... We
went first to one-oh-two Brantismore Gardens again and then he got
out and says to me, "Just wait a bit here," and then he helped her
out. It sort of seemed as though she was 'arf-inclined to speak to
me and then she didn't. But this time I thinks to myself: "I seen
you before, somewhere, my Lady." Oddly enough I never thought of
Fanny then at all. I got as near as thinking she was a bit like
'Arry 'ere. But it never entered my 'ead it might be Fanny.
Strordinary! They went up the steps to the door; one of these open
entrances it is to several flats, and seemed to have a moment's
confabulation under the light, looking towards me. Then they went on
up to the flat.'
"'You didn't know her even then?' said Prue.
"''E came down the steps quarternour after perhaps, looking
thoughtful. White wescoat, 'e 'ad, and coat over 'is arm. Gave me
an address near Sloane Street. Got out and produced his tip, rather
on the large side it was, and stood still kind of thoughtful. Seemed
inclined to speak and didn't know what to say. "I've an account at
the garage," 'e says, "you'll book the car," and then: "You're not my
usual driver," 'e says. "What's your name?" "Smith," I says.
"Ernest Smith?" he says. "Yes sir," I says, and it was only as I
drove off that I asked myself 'Ow the 'Ell--I reely beg your pardon,
Miss Good.'
"'Don't mind me,' said Matilda. 'Go on.'
"'Ow the Juice d'e know that my name was Ernest? I nearly 'it a taxi
at the corner of Sloane Square I was so took up puzzling over it.
And it was only about three o'clock in the morning, when I was lying
awake still puzzling over it, that it came into my 'ead----'
"Ernest assumed the manner of a narrator who opens out his
culminating surprise. '--that that young lady I'd been taken out
that evening was----'
"He paused before his climax.
"'Fenny,' whispered Prue.
"'Sister Fanny,' said Matilda Good.
"'Our Fanny,' said my mother.
"'_No less a person than Fanny!_' said my brother Ernest triumphantly
and looked round for the amazement proper to such a surprise.
"'I thought it was going to be Fenny,' said Prue.
'Was she painted up at all?' asked Matilda.
"'Not nearly so much painted as most of 'em are,' said my brother
Ernest. 'Pretty nearly everyone paints nowadays. Titled people.
Bishops' ladies. Widows. Everyone. She didn't strike me--well, as
belonging to the painted sort particularly, not in the least. Kind
of fresh and a little pale--like Fanny used to be.'
"'Was she dressed like a lady--quiet-like?'
"'Prosperous,' said Ernest. 'Reely prosperous. But nothing what you
might call extravagant.'
"'And the house you took 'em to--noisy? Singing and dancing and the
windows open?'
"'It was a perfectly respectable quiet sort of 'ouse. Blinds down
and no row whatever. A private 'ouse. The people who came to the
door to say good night might 'ave been any gentleman and any lady. I
see the butler. 'E came down to the car. 'E wasn't 'ired for the
evening. 'E was a _real_ butler. The other guests had a private
limousine with an oldish, careful sort of driver. Whadyou'd speak of
as nice people.''
"'Hardly what you might call being on the streets of London,' said
Matilda, turning to my mother. 'What was the gentleman like?'
"'I don't want to 'ear of 'im,' said my mother.
"'Dissipated sort of man about town--and a bit screwed?' asked
Matilda.
"''E was a lot soberer than most dinner fetches,' said Ernest. 'I
see that when 'e 'andled 'is money. Lots of 'em--oh! quite
'igh-class people get--'ow shall I say it?--just a little bit funny.
'Umerous like. Bit 'nnacurate with the door. _'E_ wasn't. That's
what I can't make out.... And then there's this letter.'
"Then there's this letter,' said Matilda. 'You better read it,
Martha.'
"'How did you get that letter?' asked my mother, not offering to
touch it. 'You don't mean to say she gave you a letter!'
"'It came last Thursday. By post. It was addressed to me, Ernest
Smith, Esq., at the Garage. It's a curious letter--asking about us.
I can't make 'ead or tail of the whole business. I been thinking
about it and thinking about it. Knowing 'ow set mother was about
Fanny--I 'esitated.'
"His voice died away.
"'Somebody,' said Matilda in the pause that followed, 'had better
read that letter.'
"She looked at my mother, smiled queerly with the corners of her
mouth down, and then held out her hand to Ernest."
§ 4
"It was Matilda who read that letter; my mother's aversion for it was
all too evident. I can still remember Matilda's large red face
thrust forward over the supper things and a little on one side so as
to bring the eye she was using into focus and get the best light from
the feeble little gas-bracket. Beside her was Prue, with a slack
curious face and a restive glance that went ever and again to my
mother's face, as a bandsman watches the conductor's baton. My
mother sat back with a defensive expression on her white face, and
Ernest was posed, wide and large, in a non-committal attitude,
ostentatiously unable to 'make 'ead or tail' of the affair.
"'Let's see,' said Matilda, and took a preliminary survey of the task
before her....
"'_My dear Ernie,_' she says....
"'_My dear Ernie:_
"'_It was wonderful seeing you again. I could hardly believe it was
you even after Mr.--Mr.---- _She's written it and thought better of
it and scratched it out again, Mr. Somebody--Mr. Blank--_had asked
your name. I was beginning to fear I'd lost you all. Where are you
living and how are you getting on? You know I went to France and
Italy for a holiday--lovely, lovely places--and when I came back I
slipped off at Cliffstone because I wanted to see you all again and
couldn't bear leaving you as I had done without a word._'
"'She should've thought of that before,' said my mother.
"'_She told me, Mrs. Bradley did, about poor father's accident and
death--the first I heard of it. I went to his grave in the cemetery
and had a good cry. I couldn't help it. Poor old Daddy! It was
cruel hard luck getting killed as he did. I put a lot of flowers on
his grave and arranged with Ropes the Nurseryman about having the
grass cut regularly._'
"'And 'im,' said my mother, 'lying there! 'E'd 've rather seen 'er
lying dead at 'is feet, 'e said, than 'ave 'er the fallen woman she
was. And she putting flowers over 'im. 'Nough to make 'im turn in
'is grave.'
"'But very likely he's come to think differently now, Martha,' said
Matilda soothingly. 'There's no knowing really, Martha. Perhaps in
heaven they aren't so anxious to see people dead at their feet.
Perhaps they get sort of kind up there. Let me see,--where was I?
Ah?--_grass cut regularly_.
"'_Nobody knew where mother and the rest of you were. Nobody had an
address. I went on to London very miserable, hating to have lost
you. Mrs. Burch said that mother and Prue and Morty had gone to
London to friends, but where she didn't know. And then behold! after
nearly two years, you bob up again! It's too good to be true. Where
are the others? Is Morty getting educated? Prue must be quite grown
up? I would love to see them again and help them if I can. Dear
Ernie, I do want you to tell mother and all of them that I am quite
safe and happy. I am being helped by a friend. The one you saw.
I'm not a bit fast or bad. I lead a very quiet life. I have my tiny
little flat here and I read a lot and get educated. I work quite
hard. I've passed an examination, Ernie, a university examination.
I've learnt a lot of French and Italian and some German and about
music. I've got a pianola and I'd love to play it to you or Morty.
He was always the one for music. Often and often I think of you.
Tell mother, show her this letter, and let me know soon about you all
and don't think unkind things of me. 'Member the good times we had,
Ernie, when we dressed up at Christmas and father didn't know us in
the shop, and how you made me a doll's house for my birthday. Oh!
and cheese pies, Ernie! Cheese pies!_'
"'What were cheese pies?' asked Matilda.
"'It was a sort of silly game we had--passing people. I forget
exactly. But it used to make us laugh--regular roll about we did.'
"'Then she gets back to you, Morty,' said Matilda,
"'_I'd love to help Morty if he still wants to be educated. I could
now. I could help him a lot. I suppose he's not a boy any longer.
Perhaps he's getting educated himself. Give him my love. Give
mother my love and tell her not to think too badly of me. Fanny._'
"'Fanny. Embossed address on her notepaper. That's all.'
"Matilda dropped the letter on the table. 'Well?' she said in a
voice that challenged my mother. 'Seems to me that the young woman
has struck one of the Right Sort--the one straight man in ten
thousand ... seems to have taken care of her almost more than an
ordinary husband might've done.... What'r you going to do about it,
Martha?'
"Matilda collected herself slowly from the table and leant back in
her chair, regarding my mother with an expression of faintly
malevolent irony."
§ 5
"I turned from Matilda's quizzical face to my mother's drawn
intentness.
"'Say what you like, Matilda, that girl is living in sin.'
"'Even that isn't absolutely proved,' said Matilda.
"'Why should 'E----?' my mother began and stopped.
"'There's such things as feats of generosity,' said Matilda.
'Still----'
"'No,' said my mother. 'We don't want 'er 'elp. I'd be ashamed to
take it. While she lives with that man----'
"'Apparently she doesn't. But go on.'
"'Stainted money,' said my mother. 'It's money she 'as from 'im.
It's the money of a Kep Woman.'
"Her anger kindled. 'I'd sooner die than touch 'er money.'
"Her sense of the situation found form and expression. 'She leaves
'er 'ome. She breaks 'er father's 'eart. Kills 'im, she does. 'E
was never the same man after she'd gone; never the same. She goes
off to shamelessness and luxury. She makes 'er own brother drive 'er
about to 'er shame.'
"'Hardly--_makes_,' protested Matilda.
"'Ow was _'E_ to avoid it? And then she writes this--this letter.
Impudent I call it. Impudent! Without a word of repentance--not a
single word of repentance. Does she 'ave the decency to say she's
ashamed of 'erself? Not a word. Owns she's still living with a
fancy man and means to go on doing it, glories in it. And offers us
'er kind assistance--us, what she's disgraced and shamed. Who was it
that made us leave Cherry Gardens to 'ide our 'eads from our
neighbours in London? _'Er_! And now she's to come 'ere in 'er
moty-car and come dancing down these steps, all dressed up and
painted, to say a kind word to poor mother. 'Aven't we suffered
enough about 'er without 'er coming 'ere to show 'erself off at us?
It's topsy-turvy. Why! if she come 'ere at all, which I doubt--if
she comes 'ere at all she ought to come in sackcloth and ashes and on
'er bended knees.'
"'She won't do that, Martha,' said Matilda Good.
"'Then let 'er keep away. We don't want the disgrace of 'er. She's
chosen 'er path and let 'er abide by it. But _'ere_! To come
_'ere_! 'Ow'r you going to explain it?'
"'_I'd_ explain it all right,' said Matilda unheeded.
"'Ow am _I_ going to explain it? And here's Prue! Here's this Mr.
Pettigrew she's met at the Week-day Evening Social and wants to bring
to tea! 'Ow's she going to explain 'er fine lady sister to 'im? Kep
Woman! Yes, Matilda, I say it. It's the name for it. That's what
she is. A Kep Woman! Nice thing to tell Mr. Pettigrew. 'Ere's my
sister, the Kep Woman! 'E'd be off in a jiffy. Shocked 'e'd be out
of 'is seven senses. 'Ow would Prue ever 'ave the face to go to the
Week-day Evening Social again after a show-up like that? And Ernie.
What's 'E going to say about it to the other chaps at the garage when
they throw it up at him that 'is sister's a Kep Woman?'
"'Don't you worry about _that_, mother,' said Ernest gently but
firmly. 'There's nobody ever throws anything up against me at the
garage anyhow--and there won't be. Nohow. Not unless 'E wants to
swaller 'is teeth.'
"'Well, there's 'Arry. 'E goes to 'is classes, and what if someone
gets 'old of it there? 'Is sister, a Kep Woman. They'd 'ardly let
'im go on working after such a disgrace.'
"'Oh I'd soon----' I began, following in my brother's wake. But
Matilda stopped me with a gesture. Her gesture swept round and held
my mother, who was indeed drawing near the end of what she had to say.
"'I can see, Martha,' said Matilda, 'just 'ow you feel about Fanny.
I suppose it's all natural. Of course, this letter----'
"She picked up the letter. She pursed her great mouth and waggled
her clumsy head slowly from side to side. 'For the life of me I
can't believe the girl who wrote this is a bad-hearted girl,' she
said. 'You're bitter with her, Martha. You're bitter.'
"'After all----' I began, but Matilda's hand stopped me again.
"'Bitter!' cried my mother. 'I _know_ 'er. She can put on that
in'cent air just as though nothing 'ad 'appened and try and make you
feel in the wrong----'
"Matilda ceased to waggle and began to nod. 'I see,' she said. 'I
see. But why should Fanny take the trouble to write this letter, if
she hadn't a real sort of affection for you all? As though she need
have bothered herself about the lot of you! You're no sort of help
to her. There's kindness in this letter, Martha, and something more
than kindness. Are you going to throw it back at her? Her and her
offers of help? Even if she doesn't crawl and repent as she ought to
do! Won't you even answer her letter?'
"'I won't be drawn into a correspondence with 'er,' said my mother.
'No! So long as she's a Kep Woman, she's no daughter of mine. I
wash my 'ands of 'er. And as for 'er 'Elp! 'Elp indeed! It's
'Umbug! If she'd wanted 'elp us she could have married Mr. Crosby,
as fair and honest a man as any woman could wish for.'
"'So that's _that_,' said Matilda Good conclusively.
"Abruptly she swivelled her great head round to Ernest. 'And what
are you going to do, Ernie? Are you for turning down Fanny? And
letting the cheese pies just drop into the mud of Oblivium, as the
saying goes, and be forgotten for ever and ever and ever?'
"Ernest sat back, put his hand in his trousers pocket and remained
thoughtful for some moments. 'It's orkward,' he said.
"Matilda offered him no assistance.
"'There's my Young Lady to consider,' said Ernest and flushed an
extreme scarlet.
"My mother turned her head sharply and looked at him. Ernest with a
stony expression did not look at my mother.
"'O--oh!' said Matilda. 'Here's something new. And who may your
Young Lady be, Ernie?'
"'Well, I 'adn't proposed to discuss 'er 'ere just yet. So never
mind what 'er name is. She's got a little millinery business. I'll
say that for 'er. And a cleverer, nicer girl never lived. We met at
a little dance. Nothing isn't fixed up yet beyond a sort of
engagement. There's been presents. Given 'er a ring and so forth.
But naturally I've never told 'er anything about Fanny. I 'aven't
discussed family affairs with 'er much, not so far. Knows we were in
business of some sort and 'ad losses and father died of an accident;
that's about all. But Fanny--Fanny's certainly going to be orkward
to explain. Not that I want to be 'ard on Fanny!'
"'I see,' said Matilda. She glanced a mute interrogation at Prue and
found her answer in Prue's face. Then she picked up the letter again
and read very distinctly: 'One hundred and two, Brantismore Gardens,
Earl's Court.' She read this address slowly as though she wanted to
print it on her memory. 'Top flat, you said it was, Ernie? ...'
"She turned to me. 'And what are you going to do, Harry, about all
this?'
"'I want to see Fanny for myself,' I said. 'I don't believe----'
"''Arry,' said my mother, 'now--once for all--I forbid you to go near
'er. I won't 'ave you corrupted.'
"'Don't forbid him, Martha,' said Matilda. 'It's no use forbidding
him. _Because he will_! Any boy with any heart and spunk in him
would go and see her after that letter. One hundred and two,
Brantismore Gardens, Earl's Court,'--she was very clear with the
address--'it's not very far from here.'
"'I forbid you to go near 'er, 'Arry,' my mother reiterated. And
then realising too late the full importance of Fanny's letter, she
picked it up. 'I won't 'ave this answered. I'll burn it as it
deserves. And forget about it. Banish it from my mind. There.'
"And then my mother stood up and making a curious noise in her throat
like the strangulation of a sob, she put Fanny's letter into the fire
and took the poker to thrust it into the glow and make it burn. We
all stared in silence as the letter curled up and darkened, burst
into a swift flame and became in an instant a writhing, agonised,
crackling, black cinder. Then she sat down again, remained still for
a moment, and then after a fierce struggle with her skirt-pocket
dragged out a poor, old, dirty pocket-handkerchief and began to
weep--at first quietly and then with a gathering passion. The rest
of us sat aghast at this explosion.
"'You mustn't go near Fanny, 'Arry; not if mother forbids,' said
Ernest at last, gently but firmly.
"Matilda looked at me in grim enquiry.
"'I _shall_,' I said, and was in a terror lest the unmanly tears
behind my eyes should overflow.
"''Arry!' cried my mother amidst her sobs. 'You'll break--you'll
break my heart! First Fanny! Then you.'
"'You see!' said Ernest.
"The storm of her weeping paused as though she waited to hear my
answer. My silly little face must have been very red by this time
and there was something wrong and uncontrollable about my voice, but
I said what I meant to say. 'I shall go to Fanny,' I said, 'and I
shall just ask her straight out whether she's leading a bad life.'
"'And suppose she is?' asked Matilda.
"'I shall reason with her,' I said. 'I shall do all I can to save
her. Yes--even if I have to find some work that will keep her....
She's my sister....'
"I wept for a moment or so. 'I can't help it, mother,' I sobbed. 'I
got to see Fanny!'
"I recovered my composure with an effort.
"'_So,_' said Matilda, regarding me, I thought, with rather more
irony and rather less admiration than I deserved. Then she turned to
my mother. 'I don't see that Harry can say fairer than that,' she
said. 'I think you'll have to let him see her after that. He'll do
all he can to save her, he says. Who knows? He might bring her to
repentance.'
"'More likely the other way about,' said my mother, wiping her eyes,
her brief storm of tears now over.
"'I can't 'elp feeling it's a mistake,' said Ernest, 'for 'Arry to go
and see 'er.'
"'Well, anyhow don't give it up because you've forgotten the address,
Harry,' said Matilda, 'or else you are done. Let it be your own
free-will and not forgetfulness, if you throw her over. One hundred
and two Brantismore Gardens, Earl's Court. You'd better write it
down.'
"'One hundred and two--Brantismore Gardens.'
"I went over to my books on the corner table to do as she advised
sternly and resolutely in a fair round hand on the fly-leaf of
Smith's _Principia Latina_."
§ 6
"My first visit to Fanny's flat was quite unlike any of the moving
scenes I acted in my mind before-hand. I went round about half-past
eight when shop was done on the evening next but one after Ernest's
revelation. The house seemed to me a very dignified one and I went
up a carpeted staircase to her flat. I rang the bell and she opened
the door herself.
"It was quite evident at once that the smiling young woman in the
doorway had expected to see someone else instead of the gawky youth
who stood before her, and that for some moments she had not the
slightest idea who I was. Her expression of radiant welcome changed
to a defensive coldness. 'What do you want, please?' she said to my
silent stare.
"She had altered very much. She had grown, though now I was taller
than she was, and her wavy brown hair was tied by a band of black
velvet with a brooch on one side of it, adorned with clear-cut stones
of some sort that shone and twinkled. Her face and lips had a warmer
colour than I remembered. And she was wearing a light soft
greenish-blue robe with loose sleeves; it gave glimpses of her pretty
neck and throat and revealed her white arms. She seemed a magically
delightful being, soft and luminous and sweet-scented and altogether
wonderful to a young barbarian out of the London streets. Her
delicacy overawed me. I cleared my throat. 'Fanny!' I said
hoarsely, 'don't you know me?'
"She knitted her pretty brows and then came her old delightful smile.
'Why! It's Harry!' she cried and drew me into the little hall and
hugged and kissed me. 'My little brother Harry, grown as big as I
am! How wonderful!'
"Then she went by me and shut the door and looked at me doubtfully.
'But why didn't you write to me first to say you were coming? Here
am I dying for a talk with you and here's a visitor who's coming to
see me. May come in at any moment. Now what am I to do? Let me
see!'
"The little hall in which we stood was bright with white paint and
pretty Japanese pictures. It had cupboards to hide away coats and
hats and an old oak chest. Several doors opened into it and two were
ajar. Through one I had a glimpse of a sofa and things set out for
coffee, and through the other I saw a long mirror and a
chintz-covered armchair. She seemed to hesitate between these two
rooms and then pushed me into the former one and shut the door behind
us.
"'You should have written to tell me you were coming,' she said.
'I'm dying to talk to you and here's someone coming who's dying to
talk to me. But never mind! let's talk all we can. How are you?
_Well_--I can see that. But are you getting educated? And mother,
how's mother? What's happened to Prue? And is Ernest as
hot-tempered as ever?'
"I attempted to tell her. I tried to give her an impression of
Matilda Good and to hint not too harshly at my mother's white
implacability. I began to tell her of my chemist's shop and how much
Latin and Chemistry I knew, and in the midst of it she darted away
from me and stood listening.
"It was the sound of a latch-key at the door.
"'My other visitor,' she said, hesitated a moment and was out of the
room, leaving me to study her furniture and the coffee machine that
bubbled on the table. She had left the door a little ajar and I
heard all too plainly the sound of a kiss and then a man's voice. I
thought it was rather a jolly voice.
'I'm tired, little Fanny; oh! I'm tired to death. This new paper is
the devil. We've started all wrong. But I shall pull it off. Gods!
if I hadn't this sweet pool of rest to plunge into, I'd go off my
head! I'd have nothing left to me but headlines. Take my coat;
there's a dear. I smell coffee.'
"I heard a movement as though Fanny had checked her visitor almost at
the door of the room I was in. I heard her say something very
quickly about a brother.
"'Oh, _Damn_!' said the man very heartily. 'Not another of 'em! How
many brothers have you got, Fanny? Send him away. I've only got an
hour altogether, my dear----'
"Then the door closed sharply--Fanny must have discovered it was
ajar--and the rest of the talk was inaudible.
"Fanny reappeared, a little flushed and bright-eyed and withal
demure. She had evidently been kissed again.
"'Harry,' she said, 'I hate to ask you to go and come again, but that
other visitor--I'd promised him first. Do you mind, Harry? I'm
longing for a good time with you, a good long talk. You get your
Sundays, Harry? Well, why not come here at three on Sunday when I'll
be quite alone and we'll have a regular good old tea? Do you mind,
Harry?'
"I said I didn't. In that flat ethical values seemed quite different
to what they were outside.