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Victorian London - Publications - Social Investigation/Journalism - The Great Army of London Poor, by The River-side Visitor [Thomas Wright], [1882] - Chapter 2 - Fairy Armstrong
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[-31-]
II.
FAIRY ARMSTRONG.
IT was in connection with one of the annual treats of my
district Ragged School that I first saw and came to feel an interest in the
child who lives sadly but lovingly in my memory as "Fairy" Armstrong.
She was indeed "a winsome wee thing"; a sweet-faced, gentle-voiced,
blue-eyed, golden-haired little creature whom to see was for most people to
love. A child whose loveliness, gentleness, and helplessness it might have been
thought would have disarmed even that cupidity which seeks to make gain by
children regardless of the physical suffering or moral injury that may be
inflicted upon them - a dastardly, fiendish cupidity by which Fairy Armstrong
suffered sorely. Poor Fairy! Thy fate was indeed a hard one; and yet not so
utterly hard as that of many another child whose martyrdom has passed unnoticed.
Thou didst at least know something of human sympathy and pity in the worst of
thy evil days, and bad known some happy days ere the evil one fell upon
thee; while thousands of others have known nothing but suffering from their
birth upwards, and have alike lived and died unpitied and unknown. My heart [-32-]
is full as I think of thy fate, and as I recall the story of thy life to
tell it here,-
"My eyes are dim with childish
tears,
My heart is
idly stirred,
For the same sounds are in my ears,
Which in
those days I heard."
It was upon one of the occasions when it fell to me to give
out the treat tickets to the Sunday-school scholars that I first noticed Fairy
Armstrong. I say noticed, for as at that time she had been five weeks at
the school, I had of course seen the little creature before, but it was only now
that she attracted any special interest. There was always a considerable influx
of scholars as the time for the treat approached. That the rush to the schools
at this season was dictated by the wisdom of the serpent the managers did not
need to be told, and they met it with something of the same wisdom. They had no
hard-and-fast line, no fixed degree of regularity or given number of weeks'
attendances that gave a right to the treat. Well-behaved children
attending regularly all the year round felt morally certain of being bidden to
the feast, but all others were designedly left in what was considered to be a
wholesome state of doubt until the treat tickets were given out about a week
before the day. The faces of the children upon the occasions of these
distributions were a study, and it was while observing them upon the particular
occasion to which I refer, that I was struck with that of Fairy Armstrong. On
many a young face beside hers there were signs of a struggle between hope [-33-]
and doubt, but on no other face was it so plainly or painfully visible as
upon hers; no other face struck me as so expressive. While yet some half-dozen
children from her, as, list and tickets in hand, I passed along the row in which
she stood, I caught her bright blue eyes fixed intently upon me, and saw that
she was flushed and panting with excitement. As I came nearer to her, her
excitement increased until, by the time I reached her side, her cheeks were all
aflame. Her name was not on the list, and the instant I had passed her,
her face grew suddenly pale, her head drooped, and though she bit her lips and
struggled to "be hard," two great tears welled into her eyes. But, as
I was pleased to notice, she did not mutter or grumble, or assume an injured or
defiant air, as was the wont of the disappointed. Favouritism in dealing with
children is, I know, a bad thing; but I am afraid that some little degree of it
is natural. I knew that I was "favouring" Fairy Armstrong, and that it
was wrong to do so, but I felt that I must do it.
When I had finished I went back to the governess, and,
indicating Fairy Armstrong by a motion of the head, asked-
"Who is that little girl?"
"Her name is Annie Armstrong," answered the
governess, "though I generally hear the other children calling her
'Fairy.'"
"Well, she is a fairy-like little creature," I
said, glancing towards her as I spoke.
"Yes, she certainly is a pretty child," agreed the
[-34-] governess, with a smile; "still I should hardly think the
name had been bestowed upon heron that ground alone. Here, Smith," she went
on, beckoning to one of the scholars. "Why do you other children call
Armstrong 'Fairy'?"
"Which I don't call her it more'n others," answered
the girl, who evidently had an idea that she had been called up to be
reprimanded.
"I don't suppose you do," said the governess;
"but why do you call her so at all?"
"Well, 'cos she's one on 'em, I s'pose," was the to
me unintelligible reply.
"I don't know what you mean. One what?" urged the
governess.
"One fairy, or whatever you calls 'em, in the pantermine,
you know, all in white, and as if they wos in the air like. My brother Bill took
me last year, and I seed her myself."
"Oh, and that is why you call her Fairy."
"Yes, and some calls her 'Paper Wings,' and some
'Spangles.' She gets called all sorts of names, but not spiteful uns, like some
is called; none on us means no harm to her; we like her, and she don't
mind."
"Poor little thing!" I said, referring to Fairy,
when the other girl had gone back to her class, "she seems sadly cut up at
not getting a ticket; I can't help feeling sorry for her, and if it was a matter
of payment I would willingly pay for her."
I was feeling my way, but the governess making no response, I
was constrained to speak plainly.
[-35-] "Come," I said,
"let me intercede for her; if it is not altogether against law and
precedent, you might give her a ticket."
"I have to be very careful in such matters," she
answered; "still the point is discretional, and as she has been a very good
little girl while she has been here, I'll see what I can do. Armstrong, come
here," and when Fairy was nearer she asked, "How long have you come to
Sunday-school?"
"This makes the sixth Sunday, please," she
answered.
"And you came on purpose to get a ticket for the treat!
At any rate, that was what you thought most about, wasn't it now?" she went
on, softening her question a little on seeing that the child remained silent.
This time she paused firmly for a reply, and at length Fairy
stammered out-
"Yes, governess."
"And now that you haven't got a ticket you won't come to
school any more, eh ?"
"Yes, I will, governess," she answered; "I
like school." And now she spoke steadily enough, and, raising her head,
looked the governess in the face. "I will, indeed," she added
earnestly, after a moment's pause, seeing that the other remained silent.
"I believe you will," said the governess, laying
her hand kindly upon the child's head; "you are a good girl, Annie. Always
tell the truth as you have done to-day. I would have known that it was the
thought of getting a ticket that had brought you here, even if you [-36-]
had said it was not. If you had denied it I would have thought you a
story-telling girl; now I know you are a truthful one - and you shall have a
ticket.
The revulsion of feeling which this announcement produced was
almost too much for Fairy; it put her beyond speaking her thanks, but the
fervent expression of delight and gratitude that overspread her countenance was
a thing to remember - and treasure.
On the day of the treat I kept an especial look-out for
Fairy. She was one of the first to arrive at the school, and came radiant in
smiles - and red ribbons. Her dress was clean and comfortable, but it could
certainly not have been described as neat. Most people, even without knowing
that she had been upon the stage, would have been disposed to pronounce it
stagey. Her well-worn frock of dead white muslin was low-necked and
short-skirted, her stockings too were white, and she wore a pair of shiny
"sandal" shoes; all the rest of her seemed red. There were red bows at
her shoes, a red bow at her breast, her waist was encircled, and her hat heavily
trimmed, with red ribbon; she had a little red worsted shawl over her left arm,
and the paper flag that she carried - it was a custom with the children to
provide themselves with small paper flags on these occasions - was also red.
"Here you are then, Annie," I said, as she took her
place in the class; "why you are a regular little Red Riding Hood."
She looked puzzled for a moment, and then, her face [-37-]
brightening, she answered with a volubility arising out of her state of
excitement- "Oh, I know, sir! the little girl in the story ; dad's told me
about it; he knows lots of stories. We had the ribbon by us," she went on,
glancing down at her shoe bows, "and dad said I should wear it; he likes me
to look nice."
Her faith in "dad's" taste and in "dad"
generally was evidently unbounded, and as it was not for me to say anything
reflecting upon the correctness of his taste, I passed on to other children,
leaving Fairy proud and happy in her too-liberal adornment of red.
The treat-ground this year was a lovely common some sixteen
miles south-west of London; and here Fairy enjoyed herself with a thoroughness
and abandon that was specially noticeable even in a scene in which hearty
enjoyment was the prevailing feature. She raced on the grass, flitted about
flower-gathering among the underwood, led mimic battles in which the combatants
lightly pelted each other with fir cones, and, conspicuous by her red ribbons,
skipped and danced about in all directions in wild exuberance of spirits-
"Turning to mirth all things of
earth
As only
childhood can."
She was nine years old, the governess informed me, in reply to a question,
and she was little for her age; but when tea-time came she was quite motherly in
helping to [-38-] look after the younger children,
and was most unselfish in giving way to others.
In preparing for the return journey she showed the same
spirit, "making room" for others time after time, until in the end she
found herself squeezed in a corner of the van in most uncomfortable fashion.
Seeing this, I lifted her out of that vehicle and took her beside myself on the
driver's seat of another van. She was quite tired out, and we were scarcely
under weigh on the homeward ride when, nestling close to my side, she fell fast
asleep. The season was far enough advanced for the evenings to be slightly
chilly; and, seeing that she had fallen asleep, the driver good-naturedly
brought a rug out of his box and put it over her. I knew this driver as a
"hand" of the gentleman who had lent the van, knew that he was a
decent labouring man, living in the neighbourhood, and, noticing the fatherly
tenderness with which he "tucked" the wrapper round Fairy, I asked
him-
"Do you know her?"
"Well, like most others living in our neighbourhood, I
know her in a general way."
"What are her people?" was my next question.
"Well, there's only two on em as 1 know of;" he
answered, " her father as she lives with, and her grandmother - Mother
Dreadful as they call her - as I expect would like Fairy to live with her,
though it would be a bad job for her if she did."
"Is the old woman a bad one, then ?"
"And no mistake!" answered the driver, giving his
[-39-] whip a flick by way of emphasis; "she ain't called Mother
Dreadful for nothink. I should say she was a bad un! If there's ever a
worse I should just like to see 'em, or rather I shouldn't like to see em. She
must have missed her turn when hearts was a-given out. I never raised a finger
agen a woman in my life, and I wouldn't, and in a general way I would be for
knocking down any one as I saw doing it; but for all that I think a good dose of
this" - shaking his whip - "is what would suit Mother Dreadful's
complaint, and when I think of her I almost feel as if I could give it
her."
"What is she?" I asked.
"She calls herself a minder," was the answer.
"A minder!" I echoed. "What's that?"
"Well, a real minder," he replied, "is a woman
as bakes charge of children for the day while their mothers are out at work; but
the minding is only a blind with Dreadful, her place is a regular young beggars'
opera."
Again I was rather at a loss as to my companion's exact
meaning.
"A beggars' opera?" I said.
"Yes; trains young beggars," exclaimed the driver;
"mostly singing ones, though she has all sorts. Bless you, sir, people
would hardly believe there could be such things if they didn't see em with their
own eyes as I've done. Why, I've seen her with a dozen children round her,
teaching em to sing their beggin' songs, just as you might be teaching a class
in school their ymns. That wouldn't matter so much; it's the way as she [-40-]
knocks the poor little creatures about, and starves 'em, that's the black thing
agen her."
"But as I understood you just now, this little girl does
not live with her," I said.
"No; but she'd like her to," he responded.
"She thinks the father don't make enough out of her, and she has tried it
on to get her away from him; but though he's a bit soft on most things, he held
fast there. There's no mistake about him loving his daughter."
"What is the father?" I asked.
"Well, that's just as you like to name him,"
replied our companion. "You could call him a musician, or a teacher of
music, or a husker, which is what he really is. He's got a card with 'Music
Lessons Given' stuck in his window, though I never heard of any one going to him
for lessons - not but what I dare say he could give em, for he can play on
a'most anythink. He plays about the piers and in steamboat bands in summer, and
in winter at the sing-songs and hops about our neighbourhood-the public-house
concerts and balls, you know."
"And does he take this little girl with him to such
places?" I asked.
"Not to the hops or sing-songs, he don't," answered
my companion; "and he won't neither, though he's had offers to do it as
would have tempted many a man. Fairy can sing and dance, and then she could be
put as from 'The Theatre Royal;' and I know the landlord of the
'Help-me-through-the-World' offered him fifteen shillings a week to let her
appear at his Saturday and [-41-] Monday concerts,
but the ole man wouldn't. And that's what crabs Mother Dreadful so much. I've
seen her almost a crying with vexation, saying as how the child was a ready-made
fortune to anybody as had sense."
When the vans reached the school there was a crowd of the
parents waiting about, and Fairy, after one rapid glance at them, joyously
exclaimed-
"There's dad! There's dad!"
Dad kissed his hand to her, and began to work his way
forward; a tall, thin, round-shouldered man, with remarkably long arms and a
shambling gait; middle-aged, with iron-grey hair, worn long and in limp
ringlets. He had a shrinking, nervous expression in his eye, and a naturally
cadaverous face made strikingly so by a bluish-black tinge on the cheeks arising
from constant shaving. The children in the van had to get out at the back, so
that he alone among the parents stood at the driver's end, and I had a good look
at him, though a brief one, for Fairy, bidding me a hasty good night, called
out, "Catch, dad!" and then sprang fearlessly into his arms.
He kissed her as he caught her, and putting her gently on her
feet, wrapped round her a shawl that he had brought. Taking her hand, they
started homewards, Fairy skipping at a pace that put him to the trot to keep up
with her.
On the Sunday following the treat there was, as usual, a
large falling off in the attendance at the school; but Fairy, as I was glad to
see, was not among the absentees. [-42-] On that
and the two following Sundays she was duly in attendance; on the fourth Sunday,
however, I missed her, and again on the fifth, and I was reluctantly coming to
class her with the backsliders, when I received a letter of explanation from her
father, dated from Margate, and stating that it was his practice to take Annie
to the seaside for a few weeks every year; that this year he had gone away in a
hurry, and his child had been so put out at not having been able to tell her
Sunday-school teachers that she was going, that at last yielding to her
importunities he had written to explain, though he "dare sayed" we
cared very little about it.
Happening to meet my van-driving friend a day or two later, I
mentioned the receipt of this letter to him, and speaking of Armstrong, observed
"he appears to be a person of some education, and speaks of taking the
child to the sea-side every year. Has he any means?" I asked.
"Oh, no!" exclaimed the man. "It's the other
way about, as you may say. Instead of him having means to take her to the
sea-side, it's taking her to the sea-side as gets him the means. His holidays
pays its own expenses and something to the good. They go busking about to hotels
and on the sands, him playing and her singing and going round collecting; and
that's a bit of a draw, mind you, as there's plenty'll give to a pretty little
girl as wouldn't give to a rusty-looking old feller like 'im. Their sea-side
trip and the pantermime season are their best times."
[-43-] "But I thought you
said he didn't take her about with him," I observed.
"Not to public-houses, he don't," was the answer;
"but he does out of doors sometimes, and I think she likes it; at any rate
she don't dislike, or she wouldn't be at it; I know he'd rather starve
than force her to a thing like that."
Now, I had not so hard an opinion of the wandering- musician
class as I know many good people have - principally, I think, because I had a
considerable knowledge of the class. Still, I knew very well that, making all
due allowances, it was not a profession in which any one taking a friendly
interest would like to see a child brought up - especially a girl. And as I had
come to take a very friendly interest in Fairy Armstrong, I decided, even at the
risk of being considered meddlesome, to attempt to bring about her withdrawal
from such a profession. With this purpose in view, I waited upon her father a
few days after his return, some three weeks later than the date of his letter.
He occupied a couple of rooms in a quiet by-street mostly inhabited by
respectable labourers and their families, and I easily picked out his apartment
by means of the card announcing "Music Lessons," of which the
van-driver had made mention. I had selected a wet morning as being a likely time
to find him in, and I was doubly fortunate on this point, as I found not only
that he was at home, but that Fairy, whose presence would have been a check upon
a conversation respecting herself, was out, having gone to a neighbour's house.
[-44-] Armstrong himself opened
the door, and greeted me with a coldly uttered, "What may be your pleasure,
sir? But on my mentioning my name, and that I had come to speak to him about his
daughter, his face instantly brightened, and, asking me to come in, he led the
way to his living-room. It was a clean, cosey little room, but - rare fault in
my district - looked crowdedly furnished - an appearance, however, that was due
not to any unusual quantity of ordinary household furniture, but to the presence
in the room of a large, old-fashioned piano. Over the piano hung a couple of
violins, a cornet-a-piston, and three flutes; coloured frontispieces from
popular pieces of music were pasted about the walls by way of pictures, and a
pile of sheet music had to be placed on the floor to free a chair for my use.
Apart from the musical signs and tokens, the outfitting of the room was
commonplace enough, with the exception perhaps of a large-sized, finely
executed, and nicely coloured photographic portrait of Fairy in stage costume,
which, in a heavy, gilt frame, occupied the place of honour over the
mantelpiece.
"I hope you have not come to complain of Annie,"
said Armstrong, rather nervously, when he had taken a seat.
"Oh, no, anything but that," I answered. "We
are all very fond of her at school, and feel an interest in her welfare, and -
and - in fact, that is what I have come to speak about."
The subject I had come to broach was a delicate one, [-45-]
and now that I was face to face with the father I was at a loss as to how
I should come to it, my consciousness of good-will in the matter
notwithstanding.
"The fact is, Mr. Armstrong," I said, " I take
so warm an interest in your little daughter that, coupled with what I have heard
of your affection for her, it has emboldened me to come here, and in all
kindliness put it to you as a matter for consideration whether the career to
which she is now growing up is well calculated to promote her welfare."
His face flushed as I finished speaking, and for some seconds
he sat in silence, nervously twitching his fingers, then, in a voice made husky
by the endeavour to keep it steady under strong emotion he answered-
"You need not put that to me, sir, as a matter
for consideration; I have considered it times out of number - considered it till
both heart and brain have ached - considered it tearfully and prayerfully, and I
hope, though it would tear my heart-strings to part with her, unselfishly."
"And what conclusion have you arrived at?" I asked
looking at him in surprise.
"Well, you see, she is still as she is and what she
is," was his enigmatical answer.
"From the tone in which you speak, I can scarcely
believe that you think that the best career for her," I said.
"Well, I hardly know," he answered slowly;
"the best is rather wide term; there's many things must go
[-46-] to the making up of any best, and it may have many meanings. I do
think that as she is constituted, and as things have come to be between her and
me, it is the happiest career she could have for the present, at any
rate. In any other she would have to be separated from me, and that, though I
say it, would break her heart - would make her miserable anywhere. There
is a wandering strain in both of us. I have known better days, as the phrase
runs, but always more or less wandering ones. My father was the manager of a
provincial theatrical company, with which he 'worked' an extensive circuit.
Sometimes he kept his brougham; at others, had to keep us without Sunday's
dinner to pay the Saturday-night salaries of his company. On an average,
however, he was pretty well to do, and he always managed to keep up an
appearance, and through all to give me a good education. When I grew up I was
furbisher of plays to the company. In my day I have written what by courtesy
were called original dramas; I have acted, I have arranged music for, and been
'musical director' of, a large theatre; and if I had only had what some call
'push' and others 'cheek' in my composition, I might have got on in the world.
As it was, I came down in the world. From being musical director of a large
theatre, I came down to being second fiddle in a small one,
and so on down to what I am now - a busker. It was when I was about midway in my
downward career that I met with my wife, who was in the ballet at a minor
suburban theatre, where I was in the orchestra. As you may have heard, [-47-]
she was the daughter of the woman they call Mother Dreadful hereabout;
but she had none of her mother's evil disposition in her. She was a simple,
kind-hearted creature, and things might have gone differently with Annie if she
had lived. But she died when her child was only a year old, and I was as both
father and mother to Annie till she was old enough to understand, and then we
grew to be companions. Believe me, sir, to separate would be to injure us - her
as well as me. I once read some lines that I always remember as being - to my
thinking - specially applicable to the relations between my daughter and me, or
the notion of making us other than we are. They run -
'For the slender beech and the
sapling oak
That grow by
the shadowy rill
You may cut down both at a single
stroke,
You may cut
down which you will;
But this you must know, that, as long
as they grow,
Whatever
change may be,
You never can teach either oak or
beech
To be aught
but a greenwood tree.'"
To find in the inhabitant of some very humble homes the
follower of some very poorly paid employment, a thoughtful, well-educated person
who had "known better days," was a common enough experience with me;
still I felt surprised at finding what manner of man Fairy Armstrong's father
was, and had been, and I listened to him with a sensation of wonder as well as
of interest. For the moment I scarcely knew how to reply, and so mere1y
observed-
[-48-] "But your daughter
is very young."
"She is, sir," he assented; "but, whether for
good or ill, I believe you'll find that she is a twig that has received its
bent. There is one thing, I think, I am entitled to say," he went on,
opening the door of the inner room, and beckoning me forward as he spoke,
"and that is, that she is neither uncomfortable nor neglected. This is her
nest."
Following the sweep of his hand, I glanced around the little
inner room, which was, upon the whole, bright, cheery, and cosey - such a room
as but few children indeed of the poorer working classes could have had to
themselves. The little bed had a snow-white coverlet and hangings, and scattered
about were pieces of cheap childish finery, picture books, and even toys; while
from the open window came a welcome perfume from a number of carefully tended
pot-flowers standing on the window-sill, and enclosed by a neatly-painted lath
railing.
"That is her own room," Armstrong went on, when I
had finished my survey; "as yet she has never known what it is to want a
meal, and very rarely known what it is to hear a cross word from me; and so far
as I can I look to her moral and religious training, and shield her from all
evil influences."
"Well, I was pleased to see that the child was so well
cared for," I said, "and I did not doubt his affection for her, but -
but -" and here I broke down.
"Don't think I would stand in the way of my child, [-49-]
sir," he said earnestly. "I am only anxious for her happiness -
and I'll leave it to her. I give you my word that she shall have no hint from me
of the object of your call here, and I will trust to your honour as a gentleman
not to use any undue persuasion with her, and with that understood, you can try
her on the subject the first time you see her. If you find her willing to leave
her present mode of life, if you find her even not unwilling, I will do anything
I can to help you."
This arrangement was the only one to which I could come in
the end.. Such as it was, I proceeded to carry it out at the earliest
opportunity: but the alarmed manner and scared look exhibited by Fairy on my
merely hinting at the possibility of her being separated from her father, were
sufficient to cause me to desist in my attempt.
"I knew it would be so," said the father, speaking
to me a day or two later on meeting me in the street. "You see it would make
her as well as me unhappy to part us. Not, mark you, sir, that I say she
wouldn't give up her present way of life, if that was all; it's our
companionship that is the pull. When I am gone, the case will be different; and
I will go all the happier now, for knowing that there is at least one person in
the world who takes an interest in her. She'll still be young enough to train
for something else; for I'm not long for this world." He spoke with a
coolness that was astonishing, considering the nature of his remarks; but making
no comment upon that point, I merely observed-
[-50-] "How long we may be
for this world is a thing that none of us can know."
"I mean nothing irreverent, sir," he answered;
"that of course is only my impression, but I have grounds for it. I have
felt for years past that whatever of stamina I may have had has been
diminishing. My chest has failed me so that for a year past I have had to give
up wind instruments altogether, and now I habitually feel sick and shaky as I go
about in the daytime, and exhausted when I get home at night. I am pretty near
worn out, and as I am not in a position to lie by or nurse myself; I must die in
harness."
I scarcely knew what to answer to this, and while I was
hesitating he resumed-
"If my fear, or feelings, or whatever it is, should prove
true, would you still be willing to befriend my child?"
"More willing then than even I am now," I replied.
"God bless you!" he exclaimed fervently, by way of
answer; and as he spoke he grasped my hand, and then hastily walked away, though
not before I had caught a glimpse of the tears that he sought to hide.
Looking at his bowed and wasted figure as he passed down the
street, I could not help acknowledging to myself that there was in all
likelihood a good deal of truth in what he had said about his being a worn-out
man. But as this thought passed through my mind little did I think that for him
the end was so near as in the event it proved to be. Three months later he was
dead. The "outing" season was drawing to a close, and he had [-51-]
been working very hard as a member of bands accompanying or hanging on to
excursion parties. On one of these excursions he had got wet, and going about in
his damp clothes for many hours afterward, had caught a severe cold. He had been
strongly advised to nurse it, but saying that he must make a little money
for "wintering" on, he persevered in going out day after day, and the
result was fatal in the end. One night, in the midst of a paroxysm of coughing,
he fell from his chair, and the people in the lower part of the house rushing
up, on hearing Fairy's screams, found him insensible, and blood gushing from the
mouth. He had ruptured important blood vessels; and the next day Fairy was an
orphan.
I heard of the death within a few hours of its taking place,
and immediately hastened to the house, where the first discovery I made was that
Mother Dreadful had already "come down like a wolf on the fold." I
need scarcely say that I was deeply chagrined but feeling that I must accept
the situation, I did so with the best grace I could muster.
"Where is the child?" I asked civilly.
"In her own room, pore little dear, a sobbin' her 'art
out a'most," she drawled out in a whining tone that was palpably "put
on." "It's so sudden, yer see, but I dessay she'll be better
presently; I've been a cheerin' of her up all I can."
"Don't you think it would be well for me to take
her away for a while?" I said; "I know a lady that would take
charge of her till something could be arranged for her."
[-52-] "Well, thanking you
kindly, sir, I think I'd rayther take care of her myself," she answered, a
covert sneer underlying her lachrymose tone. "I think her own grandmother
is the fittest person to have charge of her."
I saw that any attempt at persuasion would be useless, and so
assuming a sterner tone, I said-
"Now, look here, Mrs. -, this is neither a time nor
place for wrangling, but I must be plain. I don't think you are the
fittest person to have charge of this child; but, remember this, if you do
persist in keeping her with you, you shall be well watched."
"I can stand being watched," she replied, now
sneering undisguisedly; "I know what my rights are, and what yours aren't,
and I don't care that for you or any of yer sort," snapping her fingers
contemptuously.
I did see that she was watched in respect to her conduct
towards Fairy, but I could hear of no attempt on her part to deal harshly with
her. Finding, however, that at the end of three weeks she did not return to
Sunday-school, I determined upon bearding the lion in her den, and accordingly
proceeded to Mother Dreadful's residence.
"And what might you want?" was the greeting
with which she met me on the doorstep.
"I wanted to know why Annie Armstrong did not attend
Sunday-school now."
"Just because I ain't goin' to let her attend a school
where her mind II be poisoned agen me - that's why," she retorted
defiantly.
"That's nonsense," I said impatiently.
[-53-] "It's what I'm going
to stick to, any way," she answered, in the same tone. "As I told you
before, I knows my rights, and I intend to stand by 'em. I wouldn't spoil her,
like her fool of a father, but I'm doing what's right by her; you can speak to
her, if you like."
"By herself?" I questioned.
"Oh yes," she answered; "I'll take a turn up
the street while you see her; I know you can't stand to take her away."
Accepting this offer, I entered the house, where I found
Fairy looking very thin and grief-stricken and still mourning with
heart-breaking intensity for her lost "dad." But while the sorrowful
expression of her young face was pitiful to see, she was comfortably clad in mourning,
and had no complaint to make of hard living or ill-usage, but spoke of
"grandmother" being very good to her.
I could point to nothing substantial to justify suspicion,
and my work at this time taking me into another part of my district, and giving
me many other people and things to think about, Fairy Armstrong was
comparatively forgotten.
But, as events proved, she was destined to be but too soon
brought under my notice again. Some three months after my last-mentioned
interview with her, on a sloppy, foggy, miserable Saturday night in December I
was surprised by a visit from my van-driver friend. He looked strongly excited
and mysterious withal, and his [-54-] greeting was
in keeping with the expression of his face.
"Look here, sir," he broke out, "come with me,
and ast no questions; the thing as I shall take you to see will explain
itself."
"Can't you tell me what it is?" I asked.
"Well, of course I could," he
answered, "but I'd rather not. An hour's telling wouldn't bring it home to
you half as strong as a minute's seeing. You may take my word for it, sir, that
when you have seen it, you'll say that seeing it first, without hearing
about it, was out-and-out the best way."
I could see that he had set his heart on having his own way
in the matter; and so, waiving the point, set out with him. He kept a little
ahead, with a view, as I took it. of avoiding questions on my part; and, after
about ten minutes' walk, stopped in front of a large corner public-house known
as the "Help-me-through-the-World."
"Are we going in here?" I asked.
"Yes, up into the sing-song room," he answered, and
entering the house as he spoke, left nothing for me but to follow.
A description of a London sing-song would not be without a
certain grim interest, but there is neither space nor necessity to give the
description here. Suffice it to say that the large room was crowded with a
rough, noisy, more or less drunken audience, and reeked with the fumes of rankly
strong tobacco and cheap cigars. I [-55-] entered
at a favourable moment; for the audience being engaged in roaring a
chorus, I was able to take a seat unobserved.
It was a last verse they were chorusing, and the retiring
singer was succeeded by a father bringing on two tiny children, whom he put
through a number of violent contortions. Then ensued a pause and buzz of
expectation, until the chairman rose and announced that Fairy Armstrong, of the
Theatre Royal, would now make her first appearance as a juvenile character
singer and dancer.
This announcement was received with enthusiastic approbation,
which found vent in the hammering of pewter pots upon tables. Under cover of
this, my companion whispered-
"There, now, the murder's out! That's Mother Dreadful's
doings. It was to bring her to this that she pretended to be so kind to her.
Look here, sir, I'd sooner see a little girl of mine laid in her grave than
brought on to that stage. I say nothing agen the poor things as gets their liven
in such places, God help 'em, they've most likely been drove to it, or never
known anything better; but you see for yourself what sort come here."
"But what do you want me to do?" I whispered.
"Do!" he exclaimed, in the same low but energetic
tone. "Why, if you really care for her, as I think you do, save her from
this. Though her poor old father let her go with other children on the theatre
stage, he'd [-56-] have rather seen her dead at his
feet than brought here to perform - he knew what it meant."
At this point the hammering and shouting suddenly ceased, and
Fairy, clad in ballet costume, skipped lightly on to the stage, and gracefully
acknowledged the round of applause with which she was received. Then she raised
her head, gave a quick glance round the room and at the upturned faces, and
instantly - as, watching her intently, I could see - turned pale and faltered.
My companion also noticed this, for, clutching my arm, he
whispered-
"There, do you see that? the light has broke in on her;
you may depend she didn't know the sort of place she was being brought to."
Before I could make any reply, all was uproar and confusion,
for Fairy, after standing stock-still for a minute, gave a hysterical scream,
and, covering her face with her hands, rushed from the stage. Amid all the noise
in front of the stage, I could hear angry voices behind it; and, without a
moment's further hesitation, I pushed my way up, and boldly opening a side door,
found myself in the little apartment which served the performers as
waiting-room. Fairy was in the centre of an excited group, consisting of
performers, waiters, the landlord, and Mother Dreadful. The last-named personage
was grasping Fairy tightly by the shoulder, and trying to induce her to sip at
some brandy which she held in a glass. Fairy's face being towards the door, she
was the first to recognise me, and shaking herself free from her [-57-]
grandmother's grasp, she sprang to my side, and seizing my hand,
exclaimed-
"Oh, teacher, take me away; take me away from here,
please." For, though I was not her teacher, she had always addressed me by
that title since the day on which I had got her the "treat" ticket.
Before I could make any answer beyond what was conveyed by a
pressure of the hand, the grandmother, her face all aflame with passion, broke
out-
"So it's you as has put her up to this, is it? It's a
plant, eh?"
"Look here, Mrs. ----," I returned, "if I had
known of this sooner, I would have interfered to prevent the child's being here
at all, as now I shall interfere to prevent her being brought here again."
"And how will you prevent it?" she asked,
with a sneer.
"Not by any appeal to you, certainly," was my
answer, "but I warn the landlord that if he persists in being a party to
the dragging of this child here against her will, I will do all that I can to
get his license taken from him."
The landlord protested that he would have nothing further to
do with the affair; that he had been misled by Mother Dreadful, and "done
out" of three pounds, which he had let her have in advance.
Hearing the landlord speak in this way, Mother Dreadful,
shrugging her shoulders, and glancing significantly at me, observed-
[-58-] "Ah, well, if she
won't work at this sort of thing, she must at something else. I can't keep her
in idleness."
"You needn't keep her at all," I said; "I am
willing to take her off your hands."
"But I'm not quite willing to let you."
"Then you had better take care how you treat her,"
I said.
"That is just what I will do," she answered.
"I know my book."
As there was nothing more to be done under the circumstances,
I left the house, but with a mind full of forebodings for poor Fairy.
On the life of the child for a space of three months
following, I will not dwell. It would profit nothing to speak of her termagant
grandmother's cunning cruelty to her, or my feelings at finding myself impotent
to prevent it. She "knew her book," as she phrased it. She did not
thrash Fairy, or starve her, nor did she make her do anything that was not done
by scores of other children in the neighbourhood; and yet it is not too much to
say that she was killing her by inches. In the cold, wet winter weather, poor
little Fairy, her spirit utterly broken, was sent out step-cleaning, the result
being that she caught severe colds, that her hands were chapped, her feet
chilblained, and herself altogether miserable - and I could do very little to
alleviate her sufferings, for the law, as she managed to keep within the letter
of it, was upon the side of Mother Dreadful.
Such was the position of affairs when one dark and [-59-]
bitterly cold night in March, returning from the opposite side of the
river in a small boat, I landed at the waterman's stairs of my district.
"A black night," I observed, in passing, to the man
in charge of the stairs.
"It is," he replied; " I wish it wasn't, for
I'm trying to keep a bright look-out."
"Expecting anything particular up the river, then?"
I questioned.
"No; it's on shore here I want to keep my eye," he
answered. "There's some poor girl dodging about here in sad trouble; and
young as she is, I do believe she means to make a plunge of it. I've heard her
sobbing and moaning; but when I try to go near her she scuds away and hides, and
I don't like to go far in case she should give me the slip and get down the
steps. Whist!" he went on, suddenly dropping his voice, and laying his hand
upon my shoulder, "there she comes, you'll see her in half a minute; she'll
come into the light of that lamp."
I turned my gaze towards the spot he indicated, and presently
made out coming slowly forward, and peering anxiously about her - Fairy
Armstrong.
In my surprise I blurted out her name, whereupon the man at
my side, slapping his thigh, exclaimed,-
"Bless me, so it is! To think as I shouldn't a known
her. Here I dessay I've been putting myself in a sweat for nothink; it's most
likely as she's just been a-looking Out for you. Were you expecting of
her?"
[-60-] "No," I
replied; "but if she had been inquiring for me she would be told I was over
the water." Without waiting to say more I hastened up the stairs, and the
instant I came into the light Fairy rushed up to me, and, throwing herself
sobbing into my arms, exclaimed,-
"O teacher, teacher! take me with you; I daren't go back
to grandmother again!"
Then, as well as her grief would let her, she told her story.
Her hands were so sore that she could not clean steps, and she had gone home on
the previous day without having earned anything. But the grandmother had sent
her out again this morning, telling her that, if she returned again without
money, see would "lick her within an inch of her life." Fairy. had
attempted to clean one set of steps, but the pain of her hands was so great that
she had been compelled to desist, and, being again without money, feared to
venture home, believing that her grandmother would do as she said.
As in heart-broken accents she poured out her tale, I
resolved that I would defy Mother Dreadful, and chance her carrying out her
oft-repeated threat of "lawing" me. Having found her acomfortable
shelter for the night, on the following day I arranged with a benevolent lady
that Fairy should be taken into her house; should be nursed there till she was
strong again, and then brought in to be an assistant-nursemaid - always
supposing that we succeeded in keeping Mother Dreadful at bay, as, happily, we
were able to do, for though she came storming to the house and renewed her
threats of "lawing," she took no [-61-] action
in the matter, probably seeing that she had as much to fear as we had from any
appeal to law.
But alas for poor Fairy! Though she was lovingly nursed, she
was destined never to be "strong again. The hardship she had gone through
had been too much for her delicate constitution. The doctor called in to attend
her could not say that she was suffering from any specific complaint. She simply
faded away. She, as well as those around her, knew for weeks before she died
that she was dying. And in a simple child like but still confident and
happy way, she was prepared to go. She spoke calmly, and with all the
unquestioning faith of a child, of meeting her "dear Saviour," of
being with the angels, and seeing "dad" again. She had a natural love
of music, and her greatest delight towards the last was when the lady of the
house would play over the air, while she (Fairy) murmured a verse or two of a
favourite hymn of our Sunday-school scholars-
"I know I'm weak and sinful,
But Jesus
will forgive;
For many little children
Have gone to
heaven to live.
Dear Saviour, when I languish,
And lay me
down to die,
Oh! send a shining angel
To bear me to
the sky.
Oh, there I'll be an angel,
And with the
angels stand,
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within
my hand;
[-62-] And
there before my Saviour,
So glorious
and so bright,
I'll wake the heavenly music,
And praise
Him day and night."
When the end came it was peace. Painlessly, and with a smile
on her lips, she passed away. By the kindness of friends who had become
interested in her, she was laid in the same grave as her father; so that of the
poor broken-down busker and his child it might, with very little stretch of
poetical license, be said that they "were lovely and pleasant in their
lives, and in their deaths they were not divided."