Fan: Chapter 1
Chapter 1
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.