Fanny Dennison. A novel

Chapter I

The Lodge of Knockfield Had was the earliest home I can remember. It was not my birth-place, but I came to live at it when very young, along with my widowed mother. My father died when I was not more than a year old ; consequently, of him I have not the slightest recodection. Through the misty dreariness of my early childhood, some incidents stand out with life like distinctness. Writing now after the lapse of many years, after having passed through a VOL. I. B varied existence, I can stdl recal with ease events and persons connected with my youthful history. Never shall I forget my mother's face and figure. I can almost fancy that I see her now in her dark dress and white frilled muslin cap, sitting in her high-backed chair beside the fire, working indefatigably at her needle; or I can fancy that I hear her sweet low voice singing to me some nursery badad, or else repeating to me some of the fascinating fairy stories of which she possessed an ample store.

I loved my mother fondly, and wed she deserved my love ; I should have been ungrateful indeed if her deep tenderness for me had not excited some corresponding feehng on my side. My mother was dependant on her own industry for the means of living. She had to support both herself and me by manual labour : and various were her avocations. Some times she knitted, sometimes she sewed, but her chief occupation was that of washing. She made sufficient money by her tod to live with comfort and respectabdity. She had no rent to pay, and thus her expenditure being restricted nearly to food and clothing, her earnings were quite sufficient to satisfy her wants as well as mine, in both particulars. My mother's health was far from good. Often have I seen her quite exhausted by a few hours' labour. I was too young to give her any assistance, and indeed had I been able to be of use to her, I fear I should have been little disposed to make a tender of my services.

I could not bear confinement in the house ; my whole delight was in rambling with Frisk my dog. He was my inseparable playfedow and companion ; between my mother and him my heart was shared. I was indifferent to the existence of any other being but those two. My mother spoiled me certainly. No matter what my dehnquencies were, she never punished or reproved me. Ad that she did when I trans gressed was to look extremely sad ; but as I loved her dearly, her saddened countenance always made me feel repentant and ashamed, for a short time at least, afterwards. B I was so heedless, and so giddy, that I could not be trusted to perform the most trivial busi ness. If the bread that was set upon the griddle to bake was committed for a short time to my care, Frisk was always sure to attract my attention from it ; the result of which neglect on my part, was to render the bread so burnt that it was quite uneatable.

My proceedings as a messenger were equady disgraceful ; with always a firm intention on setting out of performing my duties properly, and executing them without delay, the sight of some bird or butterfly would often make me forget the mis sion on which I was sent, and line me off, in a wild chase, in a different direction from that I ought to have gone. I was quite a gipsy in my tastes and feelings. I moped and pined if I was kept at home. Anxious as my mother was about my safety, she could not find it in her heart to make me unhappy by circumscribing the hberty I enjoyed. Heedless as I was in many things, I could be safely trusted to preserve myself from danger or from harm. I never met with any accident during my rambles with my dog through the woods of Knockfield. Frisk and I were always sure to return quite safe, even after a very protracted absence from the Lodge ; and then, when I would ted my mother about all that I had done, and Frisk had done, she would smde at my delight, and forget to chide me for the anxiety I had caused.

These were very happy days — so happy that when I still recal them, then remembrance sends a glow of pleasure through my veins ; but the time soon came when a cloud descended on my young life, and involved it in deep gloom. When I was about seven years old, my mother's health, which for some time had been very delicate, began entirely to give way. She got a short and constant cough, which troubled her exceedingly. Pale and thin as she was before, she became stdl more so now. She complained also of suffering sometimes from a violent pain in her chest, and her breathing became short and laboured. She had to give up entirely her laundress business — she could not stand the work, and in consequence she was obhged to apply herself more closely to needle-work than formerly. Mrs. Parker, the housekeeper at Knockfield Had, was very kind to us.

She sent my mother different little delicacies which were beyond her power to procure ; but neither soup, beef-tea, nor jedy, seemed to do her any good. Her adments stdl increased tid in six months' time she was so weak and worn that she could scarcely leave her bed. No more pleasant rambles now for me and Frisk; no more pleasant saunters through Knockfield woods. The summer sun shone most invitingly, but I could only enjoy its brightness by looking at it through the latticed window's of the Lodge. My mother was so id that I could not leave her for any time alone ; though she often told me to go out and take a strod, I could not bear to do so, for fear she might be requiring something when I was away. Much as I loved to ramble through the woods, I loved my mother more ; and so, though Frisk often wagged his tail and looked at me most wistfully, I said : " No, no, Frisk we can't go out — we must stay at home."

One morning, after a very restless night, my mother said to me she wished me to go to Knockfield Had, and ted Mrs. Parker she wanted much to see her. I went, and did my errand. Mrs. Parker accompanied me back immediately. I did not go with her into my mother's room, but sat down in the kitchen near the bed-room door, which lay ajar. Some words that Mrs. Parker had said to me about my mother being very ill had frightened me exceedingly. I scarcely knew what I feared, but I had a feeling of deep depression and a haunting consciousness of trouble weighing upon my mind. In vain Frisk sought my notice, I did not heed him ; I was listening to the feeble tones and faltering words which through the half-open door I could faintly distinguish issuing from my mother's hps. I heard her tell Mrs. Parker that she had not many days to live, and that she would be glad to leave the world, if it were not on her child's account.

She said, too, that her darling Fanny would be left a destitute orphan, without a friend or relative to look after or provide for her ; and then I knew, by her broken voice and audible sobs, that she was weeping. I cried too. A dim consciousness of my impending loss overpowered me. I clasped my arms about Frisk's neck, and my hot tears fell upon his face. I remembered how my mother had told me that some day she hoped to join my father in heaven, and now I felt the time she spoke of was approaching. The deep grief of childhood has not its equal ; short as its sorrow generally is, its bitterness is intense. Stid weeping violently, with my arms around Frisk's neck, and my face buried in his curly hair, I did not hear Mrs. Parker's step beside me. It was not till she touched my head and said, " Fanny," in a low, kind voice, that I became conscious of her presence.

I then looked up, and as I did so, she signed me to fodow her to the door. I obeyed the signal. There was a little rustic seat outside the house, to which she led the way ; and sitting down upon it, she took me on her knee. Parting my hair upon my forehead, and putting my long disordered curls back from my face, she kissed me kindly, and looked at me with an ah of tender commiseration. She did not ask me why I cried, she guessed most probably the reason of my tears ; but after having said, " Poor chdd, poor Fanny 1" several times, she began to talk to me of Frisk, to divert my thoughts into their accustomed channel. Her kindly artifice succeeded. My tears soon ceased to flow, and before she left me I had become quite composed. I had always slept in my mother's bed, and even when she had become so id, I still continued to sleep there.

It was against my mother's wish that latterly I had done so, for she wanted to get a bed made up for me in the adjoining room, so that her restlessness and coughing at night should not disturb me; but to this arrangement I would not consent, and begged so hard to be allowed to con tinue where I was, that she yielded to my wishes. On the night succeeding Mrs. Parker's visit, 1 scarcely slept at all, for the words that I had heard that day seemed to be constantly sounding in my ears ; and sometimes when I had faden into a slight doze, I would start up suddenly, and tremble violently with fear — but fear of what, I could hardly ted. Death was a mysterious word I could scarcely com prehend. What it was like, I did not know. I only felt it was something terrible in its nature. It seemed to me that as long as my mother was beside me I was safe from the dreaded evil.

I had a kind of vague idea that if she died, she would vanish that instant from my sight. She had often pointed to the skies, and had told me that the heaven lay there to which she hoped to go when dead; and remembering this, I touched my mother often gently during that long night, to convince myself that death had not taken her from me. As morning hght appeared, my terror and uneasiness decreased. My mother lay so quietly beside me, that I was convinced she was a great deal better. She had not given a cough for many hours, nor had she turned herself restlessly from side to side, as was of late her usual habit. Comforted by this reflection, my fears gave way to a sense of weariness and safety I fed fast asleep — I must have slept for several hours, for imme diately after I awoke, the kitchen clock struck ten.

It being then two hours past my usual time of rising, I hastdy got up, and seeing that my mother was stdl asleep, I cautiously and noiselessly glided out of bed. I was dehghted to think that she had had such a long and tranqud sleep ; I was quite sure that she would be a great deal better for it on awaking. I fixed the curtain that hung down over the window, so as to exclude the hght as much as possible. Then with a joyful heart I left the room, and went into the kitchen to have all in readiness for my mother's breakfast, as soon as her long sleep should terminate. I made Up the fire, and sitting down beside it on my little stool, I kept listening attentively to catch the slightest sound that might occur in the adjoining room. But after spending a full hour in this manner, and stid hearing nothing, I rose up from my seat and quietly stole into the darkened room.

The sleeper was precisely in the same position as I had left her, her face turned towards the wad, and one arm extended outside the bed-clothes. I stood for some minutes beside the bed ; but seeing that my presence was not required, I stole out of the room again as quietly as I entered, rejoicing stdl, though wondering at my mother's long, deep, quiet slumber. Once more I sat down again beside the fire, and there I remained for a considerable time, tdl I heard a hand applied to the latch of the outside door; I got up hastdy from my seat, to caution the visitor not to speak loud or to make -a noise ; and advancing to the door, I reached it just as Mrs. Parker had entered within the porch. " Hush," I said, in a low tone, " she is sleeping stid ; she has had such a long and quiet sleep, I'm sure she must be better.

She hasn't coughed either for these many hours, nor stirred at all ; she'd awake a great deal better." " You say that she hasn't coughed or stirred for many hours," said Mrs. Parker, with an anxious expression of countenance I could not understand, for I thought my news would have given her pleasure. " That's very odd. I must go in and see her." " Don't make a noise and waken her," I said, earnestly. " No, no," she said ; " I'd not," and walking softly, she entered the adjoining chamber. I fodowed her at a httle distance, and watched her every movement closely. She first went up, and stood beside the bed without moving; and then she leant forward, and bent down her head in the direction of my mother's face. Immediately after that, I heard a slight exclamation from her hps ; and then suddenly changing her posture, she retreated from the bed, and, advancing towards the window, puded back the curtains, which intercepted the en trance of the hght.

She then approached the bed again — to which the bright sunshine now had free access — and stooping down her head more closely than before, she placed her hand upon the stdl quiet sleeper's wrist ; and thus continued for about the space of half a minute. Then suddenly turning round, she looked at me ; and as she did so, her eyes fided with tears. My old fears came back upon me ; I could not stir or speak. I trembled ad over, and stood as if rooted to the floor. There was something wrong, I saw plainly from Mrs. Parker's looks. My mother was not better then, as I supposed. Her strange quietness must have proceeded from some other cause. What was it? Before I could codecs my thoughts to think upon the matter, Mrs. Parker advanced towards me ; and, taking me gently by the hand, led me from the bed room to the kitchen.

Then sitting down upon my mother's high-backed chair, she took me upon her knee, and said to me, in tones which to this day I remember wed : " Fanny, your mother's dead !"

Chapter II

My mother's funeral took place the second day after her death. I recodect wed how I begged and entreated of the men, who carried out her coffin from the house, to let it stay there longer. I recodect my agony when I saw the gates shut behind the hearse, and lost sight of it entirely. It was not tid then that I fudy rea lized my desolate situation. As long as even my mother's lifeless body lay in the house, I felt not utterly abandoned. Even to see her closed eyes, and unchanging features, vvas better than to look upon the vacant bed where she had been. Old Sarah Grainger, who had been sent to stay with me during the two preceding days, did her best to comfort and console me ; but her efforts were entirely in vain. I would not listen to her ; but retreating to my favourite corner, cried and sobbed so bitterly, that at last being quite exhausted I could cry and sob no more.

I was sitting in quite a stupified state when Mrs. Parker entered the Lodge. She had been always very kind to me. And next to my mother, I loved her better than any one in the world ; but instead of getting up to meet her, as I usuady did, I sat stdl on my seat, feeling as if I cared for no one thing or person now. Even Frisk lay quite unnoticed at my feet. The only wish I had was to die, and join my mother. That was the only feeling or idea I seemed to be capable of entertaining. My natural buoyant spirits and vivacity were quite gone. Mrs. Parker did not take any notice of me at first, but approaching Sarah Grainger, told her to put up my clothes into a little box or VOL. I. C bundle, as she was going to take me to the Had. " To live there, Marm ?" said Sarah, with an expression of surprise.

" Yes ; what's to become of the poor thing else?" said Mrs. Parker, in a very low-toned voice, as if she wished that her remark should not reach my ears. " Her mother's only brother, Roger Hicks, has sent me word he won't be bothered with the chdd ; and says that the poor-house is the proper place for her. As for her father's relatives, he being a stranger in the country, they are not known ; and no application for assistance can be made to them. But to the poor-house, I was determined that Fanny should not go ; so casting up in my mind what I could do for her, I determined on asking Mrs. Staunton to let me keep her in the Hall for a few months at least, until I could make out some way of living for her. Mrs. Staunton gave me leave to do so; and so I'll take her with me this evening to the Hall."

"It's very kind of you, I'm sure," said Sarah. " I promised Widow Dennison to see that Fanny wasn't turned adrift upon the world ; and the poor-house, Sarah, it would be a shock ing place to send such a child as Fanny to. No, httle as I can do for her, I'll try and save her from such a home." - I had listened attentivelyto every word that passed, but I vvas not in a state of mind to ap preciate Mrs. Parker's kindness. I did not wish to leave my present home ; I loved the Lodge, and disliked extremely Knockfield Hall, from its dud gloomy look and darkened walls; I was also afraid of Mrs. Staunton, whose cold stately manners fided my mind with awe. Thus, when Mrs. Parker came to sit down beside me I vvas not inclined to speak to or look up at her, for tear she would inform me of what I did not wish to hear.

But when she said " Fanny," in her soft kind voice, in a voice which I thought resembled my dear mother's, I rose up, and flinging my arms about her neck, I burst into a violent flood of tears. c She waited for a few minutes tid I was a little composed, and then she said to me : " Fanny dear, wouldn't you like to come and live with me." " I'd rather stay here," I faltered out. " Stay here ; and who would live with you Fanny ? you could not stay here by yourself." I had forgotten that, and for a moment I was staggered by the objection ; but immediately I exclaimed in an undaunted tone : " Frisk wid live with me here." Mrs. Parker gave a smde at my reply, and then said to me with a very serious countenance : " You are too young, Fanny, to live by your self, even though you have the company of your dog.

You must either come with me to-day, or go with Sarah Grainger to-morrow to her house ; for there are strangers to you coming very shortly to live here. Now, Fanny, I'd give you a little time to think about the matter," and kissing me, she rose up from her scat, and, whilst giving Sarah some directions, she left me for a short space of time to my own reflec tions. I soon made up my mind upon the subject ; since I should be compeded to leave the Lodge, I infinitely preferred kind Mrs. Parker to cross Sarah Grainger ; and though I thought with a kind of dread of taking up my residence at Knockfield Hall, I resolved to go there as a sad alternative : so when Mrs. Parker said to me "Wed, Fanny, have you made your choice?" I said as firmly as I could, " I'd go with you ;" and I put my hand in her's. But a severer trial awaited me on leaving the Lodge than I had thought of; as Frisk saw me going out with my bonnet on, he fodowed, capering about, barking, and wagging his tad in a transport of delight, as was his usual practice when he expected to accompany me upon some rambling expedition.

I had never thought of being separated from my dog, and so when Mrs. Parker said to me : " Fanny, you can't take Frisk with you." I looked at her with an expression of wonder and dismay. " Mrs. Staunton don't like dogs," she added, " but I'd see to get Frisk wed cared for." " Oh, please let Frisk go with me," I sobbed out bitterly. " I would, dear, if I could ; but I can't, Fanny," she replied, with a mingled expression of firmness and kindness in her voice and manner, which made a deep impression on my mind. " Mrs. Staunton," she continued, " is very kind to let you live at all in Knockfield Hall ; you should feel very grateful to her, in deed ; and besides, Fanny, when I ask you to leave Frisk behind, I am sure you would not wish to get me into trouble by refusing to do what I ask, for Mrs. Staunton would be very angry indeed if she knew that I adowed a dog to come inside the house."

Petted and indulged as I had been, I was far from being an obstinate, self-wdled, or unrea sonable chdd. The appeal, therefore, which Mrs. Parker had addressed to me was successful in its results. Feeling that it would be very wrong for me to do anything to vex or to bring into trouble so kind a friend, I resolved to submit myself to her decision, and I said to her as wed as my tears would let me, and with the consciousness of making a heroical sacrifice : " I'll send Frisk home." The kind smde on Mrs. Parker's face as I said these words almost repaid me for the effort I had made, and she waited for me untd I had put my arms around Frisk's neck and kissed repeatedly his curly head. Then releasing the dog from my warm embraces, I said to him in as firm a tone as I could assume, " Frisk, go home."

But Frisk did not understand me, or perhaps rather did not choose to do so, for he continued immovable, licking my hand, and looking up in my face with a most beseeching ah. " Frisk, go home," I said again, with a stid more painful effort, for the dog's wistful look had smote me to the heart. The dog re treated a few steps backwards, and then lying down upon the ground gave a most piteous whine. "Frisk, go home," I said once more in a scarcely audible voice, and the dog rose up slowly and with another melancholy whine pro ceeded towards the Lodge. A complete change now took place in my whole course of life, and it was very long before I got reconcded to the alteration. The first day which I passed in my new abode, I wed remember how miserable I was, and how the thought of running off to the Lodge again presented itself most forcibly to my mind.

The housekeeper's room was low and dark, and looked out merely upon a smad flagged court-yard to which no one ever came. I felt almost as if I could not breathe, sur rounded by wads on every side, and I feared to venture into the strange halls and passages, by myself, from some undefinable dread ; only for that I am sure I would have left the house, and stolen off to the Lodge, for the sight of which and Frisk again, I longed excessively. The abrupt and total severance of .all my former ties in life, had a prostrating effect upon my mind. My mother, my home, my dog, ad lost at once, were calamities of an over whelming nature to me ; and many a sleepless night I spent in the Had, thinking with regret of scenes and incidents connected with my former happy life. But the first day I passed in my new home I never shad forget.

Though I have gone through many trying scenes, and have experienced many sorrows, I think that day stands out in bold relief from ad its unhappy suc cessors, as one of pre-eminent wretchedness. I remember on that morning sitting down with Mrs. Parker in her room, and being only able to drink a cup of mdk for breakfast. I felt an absolute distaste for food, and though Mrs. Parker tried to coax me on to eat, by offer ing me some dainties, I could not swaflow a morsel. Then after breakfast Mrs. Parker left me to myself, to perform the duties of her office, and when she was away I felt inclined to do nothing but to sit down and cry. There were no books nor pictures in the room, nothing that could engage my fancy, nothing to interest or amuse me. For two long hours I had no companion, but a large clock which ticked with a monotonous loudness in the corner.

I know not what I should have done but for its presence there, for it had the look to me of an old friend, resembling as it did an old clock at home. At last in utter weariness of spirit I lay down upon the floor and slept, until Mrs. Parker coming in awoke me. " Fanny," she said, " I want to take you to see Mrs. Staunton. Come here, tid I settle your dress and hair." My hah, indeed, did require settling for it was ad tossed, and in disorder. "Now," she said, "listen to what I am going to say ; Mrs. Staunton is a very par ticular lady, and you must take care to make her a nice low courtesy, and to answer her as civdly as you can. Don't be afraid, nor hang back behind me, nor fasten yourself to my side. It is very important for you that Mrs. Staunton should be pleased with your appearance and manners, so try to behave your best."

This address did not answer its intended effect. I felt thoroughly frightened and un comfortable at the idea of being brought into the presence of Mrs. Staunton. I was naturady a shy child amongst strangers, and of Mrs. Staunton in particular, I had an especial dread. Two or three times I had seen her in the Lodge, and then her tad person, stern countenance, and stately manner, made me creep away to hide myself from her observation behind the door. Recodecting ad this, I fodowed Mrs. Parker with a trembling heart down stahs, and through the passage which led to the drawing-room door. " Remember Fanny," she said to me with a warning look, as she turned the handle of the door, and opening it she took my reluctant hand in her's and advanced with me towards a large arm-chair in which the lady of the mansion sat.

If I had been frightened at seeing Mrs. Staunton at the Lodge, I was ten times more so now. The very aspect of the room itself would have been sufficient to make me nervous, for the dim light that came through the heavy curtained windows of the large room was reflected back by several large mirrors on the wrads. The multiplication of my own and my companion's figure I could not under stand. It seemed to me that the room was fud of people walking about in ad directions, and by the time that Mrs. Parker had brought me opposite to Mrs. Staunton's chair, I was in a state of extreme nervousness and agita tion. Mrs. Staunton was engaged in reading, and did not seem conscious of our presence until Mrs. Parker said : " I beg your pardon, Ma'am, for interrupting you, but I've brought little Fanny Dennison here according to your wishes," " Oh, the widow's chdd," said Mrs. Staunton marking her book and laying it down on the table, " I remember you spoke to me about her this morning."

Then taking off her spectacles she looked at me attentively. " Bring her more nearly opposite the win dow," she said, " I cannot see her properly — there, that will do." And there I stood pale and trembling, with my eyes cast down while her stern gaze was fixed upon my face. " Look up, chdd," she said : " what are you afraid of?" I could neither raise my eyes nor speak. I had forgotten all my previous teaching, and I shrunk back close to Mrs. Parker's side. " Fanny, dear," said Mrs. Parker, " look up at Mrs. Staunton, and ted her how very grateful you are to her for her kindness in letting you five here." I could not obey her orders. I felt as if it was beyond my power to look at Mrs. Staunton even for an instant, and as to speak ing to her, that was, in my opinion, still less practicable.