“Well, I’ll try you. But mind—you must keep my secrets. Do you know any person in London besides me?”
“Not a blessed soul!” replied Fanny. “And I’ll keep your secrets—you try me. O, I don’t believe there’s a kinder lady in the world than you are!”
“She’s an artful one,” said Fanny to me, as she gave me the particulars of this conversation, “but I’m an artfuller!”
Mrs. Holdfast is so extraordinarily vain that even this deserted child’s praise was agreeable to her.
“Be true to me,” said Mrs. Holdfast, “and I’ll make a lady of you. Are you fond of babies?”
To which Fanny replied that she doted on them. Mrs. Holdfast rang a bell, and desired the maid who answered it to take Fanny into the nursery.
“I’ll come up to you presently,” said Mrs. Holdfast.
Fanny went into the nursery, where she saw what she describes as the loveliest baby in the world, all dressed in laces and silks, “more like a beautiful wax doll,” said Fanny, “than anything else.” It was Mrs. Holdfast’s baby, the maid told Fanny, and her mistress doted on it.
“I’ve seen a good many babies and a good many mothers,” said the maid, “but I never saw a mother as fond of a baby as Mrs. Holdfast is of hers.”
Fanny’s account agrees with the maid’s words. When Mrs. Holdfast came into the nursery, and took her baby, and sat in a rocking chair, singing to the child, Fanny said it was very hard to believe that a woman like that could do anything wrong. If Fanny were not truthful and faithful to me, and would rather have her tongue cut out than deceive me, I should receive her version of this wonderful mother’s love with a great deal of suspicion. But there can be no doubt of its truth. I remember that the Reporter of the Evening Moon spoke of this, and that it won his admiration, as it could not fail to win the admiration of any person who did not know how wicked is the heart that beats in Mrs. Holdfast’s bosom. Can you reconcile it with your knowledge of her? I cannot. It does not raise the character of the woman in my eyes; it debases it.