CHAPTER X.
THE SPECIAL REPORTER OF THE "EVENING MOON" MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A LITTLE MATCH GIRL.
Pull the blue bell, and knock five times!
The request was not to be denied. That the small party who made it could_not_ "reach" was self-evident, for she was scarcely three feet and ahalf in height. But to say, "pull the blue bell" was one thing, and topull the blue bell was another. Our Reporter had pulled every bell onthe door, as he believed, and he looked in vain for a blue one.
"I don't see the blue bell, little girl," he said.
"Yes, yer do," replied the little girl, with audacious effrontery. "Notwhere yer looking! It's all by itself on the other side."
Our Reporter found the bell, "all by itself," on the left hand side ofthe door, where bells usually are not, and he pulled it, and knockedfive times slowly.
"That ain't right!" cried the little girl; her voice came as loud andshrill as if it proceeded from the throat of a canary. "Yer must knocklike a postman, and a little 'un in--rat-tat, rat-tat, tat!"
Our Reporter obeyed, fully expecting to be assaulted for kicking up sucha row so late in the night; but no one took any notice of him, and noone answered the ring and the knocks.
The little girl waited patiently, much more patiently than our Reporter,who rang and knocked again with the air of a man who was engaged in acontest and was getting the worst of it.
"Must I give it up?" he mentally asked himself, and answeringimmediately, "No, I will see Antony Cowlrick to-night, or I'll know thereason why." Then he looked down at the form of the little girl, andcalled, "Little girl!"
The little girl did not reply. She was leaning against the door-post ina state of perfect contentment. The particular house with which ourReporter might be said to be wrestling was in the shade; there was nolamp-post within twenty yards of it, and the night was dark.
"Little girl!" repeated our Reporter, in a louder voice.
Still no reply.
He leant down, and placed his hands on her shoulders. She did not move.He stooped lower, and looked into her face. She was fast asleep.
Even in the dark he saw how much she was to be pitied. Her poor wan facewas dirty, and traces of tears were on it; her hair hung in thick knotsover her forehead; her hands were begrimed; her clothes were rags; onher feet were a pair of what once were dancing shoes, and had twinkledin the ballet. They were half-a-dozen sizes too large for the littlefeet, and were tied to her ankles with pieces of twine. Their glory wasgone indeed, and, though they had once been satin, they were fit onlyfor the rag-bag or the dust-hole.
"Poor child!" sighed our Reporter. "It is easy to see what you aregrowing up into!"
He whispered in her ear, "Wake up, little one! I've knocked loud enoughto raise the dead, and no one answers. Wake up!"
As she made no movement, he shook her, gently and with tenderness,whereupon she murmured some words, but so indistinctly that he did notgather their import.
"Eh?" he said, placing his ear to her lips. "What did you say?"
"Two boxes a penny," she murmured. "Please buy a box!--starving motherat 'ome!"
A woman shuffled along the street, and stopped before the house, withthe supper beer in a brown jug. As she opened the door with thelatch-key, she glanced at the sleeping child.
"Why, it's little Fanny!" she cried.
"Who asked me," added our Reporter, "to pull the blue bell, and knockfive times?"
"Yes," observed the woman. "Third-floor back."
"The young woman," said our Reporter, taking up the cue, and slippingsixpence into the woman's hand--(when do our poor refuse alms?)--"theyoung woman in the third-floor back--is she at home?"
"Goodness only knows," replied the woman, who, having accepted themoney, felt that she must earn it; "she's that quiet, is Blanche, thatthere's no telling when she's in or when she's out."
"Let me see," said our Reporter, pretending to consider, "how long hasBlanche lived in the house?"
"About three months, I should say. Pretty, ain't she?"
"Very. Young, too, to be the mother of little Fanny here."
"Lord love you!" exclaimed the woman; "little Fanny's no relation ofher'n. She's a single woman is Blanche. I thought you was a friend."
"So I am. But this is the first time I've been here to see her."
"You're the first I've ever seen come after her."
"She has not many friends, then?"
"Not one that I know of."
"She has had an old friend with her to-day," said our Reporter, thinkinghe might by this question obtain some information of Antony Cowlrick.
"Has she? I'm glad to hear it. I've wondered a good deal about the girl,and so has all of us in the street. She don't mix with us free like. Notthat she ain't affable! But she keeps herself to herself. I must go innow," said the woman, with a giggle, "or my old man'll think I've runoff with somebody."
She entered the house, and our Reporter, with little Fanny asleep in hisarms, followed. On the first floor the woman vanished, and he pursuedhis way to the third. The stairs were in utter darkness, and he hadto exercise great care to save his shins and to avoid disturbing thelodgers in the house. In due time he reached the third floor, and strucka match. There were only two doors on the landing, and he saw at oncewhich of the two led to the back room. He knocked, and received noresponse; and then he tried the handle of the door. It gave way, and hewas in the room, in utter darkness.
"I beg your pardon," he said, addressing, as he believed, the occupant,"but as no one answered"----
He did not finish the sentence, for the stillness of the room affectedhim. His position was certainly a perplexing one. He listened for thebreathing of some person, but heard none.
"Antony Cowlrick," he thought, "have you been playing me a trick?"
He struck another match, and lit a candle which was on a small table.Then he looked around. The room was empty.
"Now," thought our Reporter, "if this is not the room in which AntonyCowlrick led me to expect he would receive me, and the tenant proper_him_self or _her_self should suddenly appear, I shall scarcely beprepared to offer a reasonable excuse for my intrusion."
No articles of clothing were in sight to enlighten him as to the sex ofthe tenant of this third-floor back. There was a bed in decent order,and he laid little Fanny upon it. Having done this, he noticed that foodwas on the table--the remains of a loaf cut in slices, with a scrapingof butter on them, a small quantity of tea screwed up in paper, and asaucer with about an ounce of brown sugar in it.
"Not exactly a Rothschild," mused our Reporter, "but quite as happyperhaps."
For our Reporter has his own views of things, and contends that morehappiness is to be found among the poor than among the rich.
Continuing his investigations, our Reporter was not long before he madean important discovery. Exactly in front of the slice of bread andbutter on the table was a chair, upon which the person who appeared tobe invited to the frugal supper would naturally sit, and exactly behindthe bread and butter was a piece of paper, set up on end, upon which waswritten:
"Dear little Fanny. Good-bye. If ever I am rich I will try and find you.Look on the mantelshelf."
There was a peculiarity in the writing. The letters forming the name"Fanny" were traced in large capital letters, such as a child who couldnot read fine writing might be able to spell; the rest was written insmall hand.
Our reporter argued the matter logically thus: The little girl asleep onthe bed could not read, but understood the large letters in which hername was written. The supper on the table was set out for her. Preparingto partake of it, her eyes would fall on the paper, and she would seeher name upon it. Curiosity to know what else was written would impelher to seek a lodger in the house--perhaps the landlady--who would readthe message aloud to her, and would look on the mantelshelf.
Why should not our Reporter himself read the message to little Fanny,and why should he not look on the mantelshelf?
He di
d the latter without further cogitation. Upon the mantelshelf hefound two unsealed envelopes, with writing on them. Each containedmoney.
One was addressed "For Fanny." It contained a shilling. On the other waswritten: "Mrs. Rogers, landlady. If a gentleman engaged upon a newspapercalls to see Blanche and a friend whom she met in Leicester Squareto-day, please give him the enclosed. Blanche is not coming back. Herrent is paid up to next Saturday. Good-bye."
He had not, then, entered the wrong apartment. This room had beenoccupied by Antony Cowlrick's fair friend, and the enclosure was for ourReporter.
He took it out; it was a sealed letter. He opened it, and read, as asovereign fell to the floor:--
"SIR,--I am enabled thus soon to repay you the sovereign you so generously lent me to-day. Had it been out of my power to do so to-night you would most probably have seen me as you expected. It is better as it is, for I have nothing to communicate which I desire to make public. I shall ever retain a lively sense of your kindness, and I depend upon the fulfilment of your promise not to write about me in your paper for three days. If you do not know what else to do with the money received by your paper in response to its appeal for subscriptions on my behalf, I can tell you. Give it to the poor.--Your faithful servant,
"ANTONY COWLRICK."
The handwriting was that of an educated man, and the mystery surroundingAntony Cowlrick was deepened by the last proceeding.
A voice from the bed aroused our Reporter from his meditations. LittleFanny was awake, and was calling for Blanche.
"Blanche is not in yet," said our Reporter. "Come and eat your supper."
The little girl struggled to her feet, and approached the table. Thecuriosity of our Reporter was strongly excited, and before giving Fannythe message and the shilling left for her by Blanche, he determined toquestion her. Thereupon the following colloquy ensued:--
Our Reporter: This _is_ your supper, Fanny.
Fanny (carefully spreading the brown sugar over her bread): Yes. Blanchenever forgits me.
Our Reporter: Sugar every night?
Fanny: Yes, I likes it.
Our Reporter: Blanche is not your mother?
Fanny (with her mouth full): Lor! No.
Our Reporter: Is she your aunt or your cousin?
Fanny: Lor! No. She ain't nothink to me but a---- a----
Our Reporter (prompting, seeing that Fanny was in a difficulty): Friend?
Fanny: More nor that. A brick!
Our Reporter: She is good to you?
Fanny: There ain't nobody like her.
Our Reporter: What are you?
Fanny (laughing): Wot am I? A gal.
Our Reporter: Do you go to school?
Fanny (with a cunning shake of her head): Ketch me at it!
Our Reporter: What do you do?
Fanny: I sells matches--two boxes a penny--and I falls asleep on purposein front of the Nacheral Gallery.
Our Reporter: The National Gallery. In Trafalgar Square, where thefountains are?
Fanny: That's the place--where the little man without legs plays theaccorgeon.
Our Reporter: Why do you fall asleep there?
Fanny (with a sad, wistful smile): That's mother's little game. Shemakes me.
Our Reporter: Mother's little game! Then you have a mother?
Fanny (shuddering): Raythur.
Our Reporter: Where does she live?
Fanny: At the pub round the corner, mostly--the Good Sir Mary Tun--tillthey turns her out.
Our Reporter: The Good Samaritan. But why does your mother make you fallasleep on purpose in front of the National Gallery?
Fanny: Don't yer see? It's a dodge. Mother gives me twelve boxes o'matches, and I've got to sell 'em. If I don't, I gits toko! Well, Idon't always sell 'em, though I try ever so 'ard. Then I falls downon the pavement up agin the wall, or I sets down on the church stepsoppersite, with the boxes o' matches in my 'and, and I goes to sleep.Pretends to, yer know; I'm wide awake all the time, I am. A lady andgent comin' from the theaytre, stops and looks at me. "Poor littlething!" _she_ ses. "Come along!" _he_ ses. Sometimes the lady won'tcome along, and she bends over, and puts 'er 'and on my shoulder. "Whydon't yer go 'ome?" she ses. "I can't, mem," I ses, "till I've sold mymatches." Then she gives me a copper, but don't take my matches; andother gents and ladies as stops to look gives me somethink--I've 'ad asmuch as a shillin' give me in a lump, more nor once. When they're gone,mother comes, and wrenches my 'and open, and takes the money, and ses,"Go to sleep agin you little warmint, or I'll break every bone in yerbody!" Then I shuts my eyes, and the game's played all over agin.
Our Reporter: Is your mother near you all the while, Fanny, that shecomes and takes the money from you?
Fanny: Lor! No! That would spoil the game. She's watchin' on the otherside of Trafalgar Square. She knows 'er book, does mother! Sometimes I'mso tired that I falls asleep in real earnest, and then I ketchesit--'ot!
Our Reporter: Does she beat you?
Fanny: Does she miss a chance?
The child hitches her shoulder out of her ragged frock, and ourReporter sees on the poor thin back, the bladebones of which stickup like knives, the marks of welts and bruises. There is room in ourliterature for another kind of book on "The Mothers of England" thanthat written by a celebrated authoress many years ago. Fanny's poorlittle back is black and blue, and when our Reporter, with gentlefinger, touches one of the bruises, the child quivers with pain.
Our Reporter: Altogether, Fanny, your life is not a rosy one?
Fanny: O, I 'ave lots of larks with the boys! And I've got some 'air.
Our Reporter (very much puzzled): Some what?
Fanny: Some 'air. I'll show yer.
She jumps from her chair, creeps under the bed, and emerges presently,her face flushed and excited, with something wrapped in a piece of oldnewspaper. She displays her treasure to our astonished Reporter. It isa chignon, apparently made of tow, which she fixes proudly on her head.The colour is many shades lighter than Fanny's own hair, which is apretty dark brown, but that is of the smallest consequence to the child,who evidently believes that the chignon makes a woman of fashion of her.
Fanny: I wears it on Sundays, when I goes to the Embankment. Motherdon't know I've got it. If she did, she'd take it from me, and wear it'erself. I say--ain't it splendid, the Embankment?
Our Reporter: It is a fine place, Fanny. So you have larks with theboys?
Fanny: Yes. We goes to the play on the sly. 'Tain't a month ago sinceBob the Swell comes and ses, "Fanny, wot do yer say to goin' and seein''Drink' at the Princesses? Give us a kiss, and I'll treat yer!" My! Iwas ready to jump out of my skin! He 'ad two other gals with 'im. Heses, ses Bob, "This is a lady's party. It's a wim of mine"--I don't knowwot he means by that, but he ses--"it's a wim of mine. I wos allus alady's man, wosn't I, Fan?" (And he is, a regular one!) "I've got threeyoung women to my own cheek, all a-growin' and a-blowin'! Let's trot."Wot a night we 'ad! He takes us to a 'Talian ice-shop in WilliersStreet, and we 'as penny ices, and then we goes to the Princesses--tothe best part of the theaytre, 'igh up, where you can look down onall the other people. 'Ave you seen 'Drink?' Prime--ain't it? But Ishouldn't like to be one o' them gals as throws pails of water over eachother. And when Coop-o falls from the scaffoldin'--ain't it nacheral! Ialmost cried my eyes out when he was 'aving dinner with 'is little gal.Then he gits the trembles, and goes on awful. I never seed one so bad asthat! When the play's over Bob takes us to a pub'----
Our Reporter (shocked): Fanny!
Fanny: Wot's the matter?
Our Reporter: You don't drink, I hope?
Fanny: Yes, I does--but not what Bob the Swell drinks. I likes waterwith raspberry jam in it, stirred up. I 'ad some white satin once, butit made me sick. That night Bob drinks beer, and the other gals too. Iwas genteel; I 'ad lemonade. I got a wollopin' when I got 'ome. Motherwas waitin' for me outside the Good Sir Mary Tun; I tried to dodge 'er,but it was no go; she caught me and give it me. "That'll te
ach yer," shesaid, "to leave your pore mother with a throat as dry as a salt 'erring,while you go gallivantin' about with a parcel of boys!" I didn't mind;it was worth the wollopin'.
Our Reporter: Now, let us talk about Blanche.
Fanny: Yes. 'Ow late she is to-night!
Our Reporter: Have you known her long, Fanny?
Fanny: Ever since she's bin 'ere.
Our Reporter: About three months?
Fanny: I can't count. It was a 'ot night--late, and I was cryin'; Icouldn't help it--I wos 'ungry, and mother 'ad been givin' it to me.Blanche comes up, and arks a lot of questions--just the same as you'vebeen doin'; then she brings me 'ome 'ere, and I've slept with 'er eversince.
Our Reporter: Does she work?
Fanny: I never seed 'er. She don't do nothink.
Our Reporter: And no one comes to see her?
Fanny: Not as I knows on. Look 'ere! You don't want to 'urt 'er, do you?
Our Reporter: No, Fanny. I would like to be a good friend to her, but Iam afraid she has put it out of my power. You would be sorry if she wentaway from you?
Fanny (slowly, after a pause): I don't know what I should do if she did.Are yer makin' game of me? Who are yer?
Our Reporter: A friend of yours, Fanny, if you like. Do you see thispaper? It was left for you.
Fanny: There's my name on it. I can read _that_. Wot else does it say?
Our Reporter: Listen. (He reads.) "Dear little Fanny. Good bye. If everI am rich I will try and find you. Look on the mantelshelf." You wereasleep, Fanny, and I looked on the mantel shelf. This was there for you.(He gives her the shilling.)
Fanny (turning the shilling over and over in her hand): I don't know wotit means. Please read it agin--the fust part.
Our Reporter (after reading the farewell again): It means, Fanny, thatBlanche is gone, and that if she is fortunate she will be kind to youby-and-bye.
Fanny's head sinks on the table, and her little body is shaken withsobs. In vain does our Reporter attempt to comfort her, and at length heis compelled to leave her alone in the humble room in which poor Fannyhas learnt a lesson of love which will abide with her, and, let us hope,will purify her days.
[Decoration]