"Of course I did and at last you are a wise girl. Now then. This is your home for a while. We're going to look after you. No harm can come to you here."
"I could bring me money back from Mr. Felberg."
"You can forget Mr. Felberg. You're going to be here while we put our heads together and come up with something. You're not going back, Fanny, not again."
Frances was a wonderful woman. I have said that many times, I suppose, and will continue to say it. I imagine that Timothy and I were rather sentimental in our approach; we wanted to fuss over Fanny, to make much of her, to compensate for the terrible life she had; but Frances was different —brisk and business-like. I could see that was what Fanny needed. She would despise our attitude. To her it would seem "soft."
Frances said: "We'll get you out of those clothes ... fast. We'll get Mrs. Hope to put them on the fire. We'll find something for you. And a good bath is what you need and your hair thoroughly washed. Then we'll give you something to do, eh? What are you good at, Fanny? You'd like to help in the kitchen. There are lots of things to be done there."
I could see that that was the way to treat her.
Timothy and I were amazed. We saw Fanny change overnight. The frightened waif became a self-important person. Fanny belonged to the streets. There was nothing soft about Fanny. Her stepfather must have been an ogre to have frightened one of her spirit. She was a cockney— shrewd, quick-witted, full of what Mrs. Penlock would have called "sauce" or "lip."
She adored Frances, looking upon her as some superior being. For Timothy and me she had a certain affectionate contempt, but she thought we were "soft." "Nobs," she called us, which meant that we spoke differently and acted in a manner unlike that of the people she had known before she came to the Mission. For some reason we had been born into soft living and we lacked the knowledge of how to protect ourselves. We had got by because we had never had to face up to what to her was real life. I am sure she felt we were in need of her protection rather than she was of ours.
But our special place in her affections was due to the fact that when she had decided to come to the Mission we were the first ones she had seen and I do believe that we had somehow persuaded her to wait for Frances and that was at the root of her affection.
Frances was a special person. Born a "nob" she was for all her fancy voice and high-class ways one of them.
Fanny changed the Mission for us. She was the first one we looked for when we arrived. She would give us that rather casual greeting and smile secretly as though we amused her.
Timothy and I talked of her a great deal when we were alone and wondered what Frances would decide about her future. Frances had said that, so far, she was unprepared to make a decision.
"The girl's still frightened of that terrible man," she said. "She's aggressive, isn't she? I know what that means. She's telling herself she's strong. She's got to be because somewhere in her mind she is afraid she is not finished with him yet. She is trying to tell herself she can stand up to him. She must never go back."
"Good Heavens, no," said Timothy.
"It's risky. I suppose he's legally in the place of father. He will know where she is. He'd guess. I've tried to get her away from them before ... We'll have to watch for him. I expected to hear from the mother. Strange I haven't."
"Do you mean she will try to get her back?" I asked.
"She wouldn't want to. She knows it's best for the girl to get away. But he wants the pennies she earns. He can get drunk at the gin shop on Fanny's few pennies. There is something else. The mother hinted ... You know what I mean."
"You did mention it," said Timothy quietly.
"I've got to stop that. These people are capable of descending to the very depths of depravity. Their lives are so empty. They go to the bottle and then they lose all sense of decency. You get someone like Billings ... no sense ... no morals ... nothing. I'm sorry for him in a way. I don't know what his life has been. How can one judge? But I know, I've got to keep Fanny here. I'll find something for her soon. I'd like to get her into a nice home. She'd make a good parlormaid ... with training. But just now she isn't ready. I want her to stay here for a while."
"She'll stay. She adores you," I said.
"I hope she will. I can't hold her against her will ... yet I want to fight for her."
"Why should she want to go?"
"Who knows what Fanny thinks? She has this feeling that she has to protect her mother. That's what has kept her in this wretched hovel so long. I should have had her here weeks ago. Well, at the moment I'm holding everything as it is ... It all depends on what happens. You two have done a good job with her. She's quite fond of you."
"I think she despises us sometimes. She thinks we're soft."
"That's her way. She's fond of you all right. And she trusts you. That means a lot with Fanny."
As the weeks passed the change in Fanny was miraculous. She did odd jobs about the Mission. Frances gave her a small wage which she hoarded with delight. I believe she felt she was rich. Her hair, now that it was washed, was glossy and fell in soft curls about her face; her small dark eyes were clear and alert; they darted everywhere as though she were afraid she was going to miss something; her skin had lost that pasty look and although she was still pale she looked far from unhealthy. I gave her a ribbon for her hair. She treasured it and said she would save it for Sundays.
Timothy and I looked upon her as our protégée. We talked of her constantly; we watched her progress, marveling. One day we went out and bought a dress for her. When we brought it back to the Mission she stared at us in amazement.
"It's not for me," she said. "It can't be."
We assured her it was.
"I ain't never had nothing like that in my life before," she said.
"Well, it's time you did," Timothy told her.
She looked at us and said, "Well, I dunno ... You two ... I reckon you are a pair of old softies."
That was thanks enough.
One of the jobs which gave her most pleasure was to go to the market and buy provisions for the Mission. This had been one of the tasks allotted to Timothy and me and we had always enjoyed it. She accompanied us once or twice and was scornful of our achievement.
"Tell you what," she said when we returned to the Mission. "They see you two coming and up goes the price."
"Surely not," I said.
She looked at me derisively. "You don't know nothing," she said.
She told Frances that she could shop cheaper than we could and Frances, who was always eager to help Fanny prove herself, immediately complied with her request that she should do the shopping herself; and from that moment Fanny brought in the bargains. It was a great game to her.
"I got him to knock three farthings off that for you," she would announce proudly. We always marveled at her bargaining skills.
"You're saving us pounds, Fanny," Frances told her.
This state of affairs went on for three weeks and during that time Fanny emerged as herself.
Then one day, she disappeared.
She had dressed herself in her blue merino and tied the red ribbon in her hair, and gone off to the market as she did every morning.
At first we thought the shopping had taken her a little longer than usual and we were not unduly concerned; but as the time began to pass we grew anxious. Then we found the shopping bag which she usually took with her and with it the money she had been given to shop with; so we knew her departure was intentional.
Frances was bitterly disappointed.
"What did we do” I cried.
"I think it must be her mother," said Frances. "She's gone back to her."
"But the stepfather ..."
"Fanny is a girl who has a strong sense of right and wrong. She may have got that from her own father. You see, she takes the dress and the ribbon—they are hers. She has taken the wages she has earned; but she leaves the shopping money. How many girls in her position would have done that?"