A fortnight later, one hot afternoon, Fan was reading beside the open window of the dining-room. After dinner Mrs. Churton had given her The Pleasures of Hope, in a slim old octavo volume, to read, and for the last hour she had been poring over it. Greatly did she admire it, it was so fine, so grand; but all that thunderous roll of rhetoric—the whiskered Pandoors and the fierce Hussars, and Freedom's shriek when Kosciusko fell, and flights of bickering comets through illimitable space—a kind of celestial fireworks on a stupendous scale—and all the realms of ether wrapped in flames—all this had produced a slight headache, a confusion or giddiness, like that which is experienced by a person looking down over a precipice, or when carried too high in a swing.
Constance came down from her room with her hat on and a book in her hand.
“Are you going for a walk, Constance?” asked her mother, who was also sitting by the open window.
“Yes, only to the woods, where I can sit and read in the shade.”
Mrs. Churton glanced suspiciously at the book in her daughter's hand—a thick volume bound in dark-green cloth. There was nothing in its appearance to alarm anyone, but she did not like these thick green-bound books that were never by any chance found lying about for one to see what was in them. However, she only answered:
“Then I wish you would persuade Fan to go with you. She is looking pale, it strikes me.”
“I shall be glad if Fan will go,” she answered, a slight accent of surprise in her tone.
Fan ran up to get her hat and sunshade, and when she returned to them her pallor and headache had well-nigh vanished at the prospect of an afternoon spent in the shady woodland paradise. Mrs. Churton, with a prayer in her heart, watched them going away together—two lovely girls; it made her anxious when her eyes rested on the portly green volume her daughter carried, but it struck her as a good augury when she noticed that the younger girl in her white dress had The Pleasures of Hope in her hand.
For now a new thought, a hope that was very beautiful, had come into Mrs. Churton's heart. All her life long she had had the delusion that “spiritual pride” was her besetting sin; and against this imaginary enemy she was perpetually fighting. And yet if some shining being had come down to tell her that her prayers for others had been heard, that all the worthless and vicious people she wished to carry to heaven with her would be saved, and all of them, even the meanest, set above her in that place where the first is last and the last first, joy at such tidings would have slain her. She had as little spiritual pride as a ladybird or an ant. Now the new thought had come into her mind that her daughter would be saved; not in her way, nor by her means, but in a way that would at the same time be a rebuke to her spiritual pride, her impatience and bitterness of spirit, and zeal not according to knowledge. Not she, but this young girl, herself so ignorant of spiritual things a short time ago, would be the chosen instrument. She remembered how the girl had taken to her from the first, but had not taken to her daughter; how in spite of this distance between them, and of her infidelity, her daughter had continued to love the girl—to Mrs. Churton it was plain that she loved her—and to hunger for her love in return. It was all providential and ordered by One
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained strength,” she murmured, praising God who had put this gladness in her heart, the Christian's and the mother's love filling her eyes with tears. Up till now it had been her secret aim to keep the girls as much apart as possible out of school hours; now it seemed best to let them come together; and on this August afternoon, as we have seen, she went so far as to encourage a greater intimacy between them. Poor woman!
After they had entered the wood Fan began straying at short intervals from the path to gather flowers and grasses, or to look more closely at a butterfly at rest and sunning its open brightly-patterned wings.
“I think I shall sit down on the grass here to read,” said Constance at length. “You can ramble about and gather flowers if you like, and you'll know where to find me.”
They had now reached a spot to which Constance was in the habit of resorting almost daily, where the ground was free from underwood, and thickly carpeted with grass not yet wholly dry, and where an oak-tree shaded a wide space with its low horizontal branches.
Fan thanked her, and dropping her book rambled off by herself, happy in her flower-hunting, and forgetting all about the magnificent things she had been reading. Two or three times she returned to the spot where Constance sat reading, with her hands full of flowers and grasses, and after depositing them on the turf went away to gather more. Finally she sat down on the grass, took off her hat and gloves, and set to work arranging her spoils. This took her a long time, and after making them up two or three times in various ways she still seemed dissatisfied. At length she tried a fresh plan, and discarding all the red, yellow, and purple flowers, she made a loose bunch of the blue and white only, using only those fine open grass-spears with hair-like stems and minute flowers that look like mist on the grass. The effect this time was very pretty, and when she had finished her work she sat for some time admiring it, her head a little on one side and holding the bunch well away from her. She did not know how beautiful she herself looked at that moment, how the blue and white flowers and misty grasses had lent, as it were, a new grace to her form and countenance—a flower-like expression that was sweet to see. Looking up all at once she encountered her companion's eyes fixed earnestly on her face. It was so unexpected that it confused her a little, and she reddened and dropped her eyes.
“Forgive me, Fan, for watching your face,” said Constance. “When I looked at you I wondered whether it would not be best to tell you what I was thinking of—something about you.”
“About me? Will you tell me, Miss Churton?” returned Fan, a half-suppressed eagerness in her voice, as if this approach to confidence had fluttered her heart with pleasure.
“But if I tell you what was in my mind, Fan, I should have to finish by asking you a question; and perhaps you would not like to be asked.”
“I think I can answer any question, Miss Churton, unless it is about—how we lived at home before Miss Starbrow took me to live with her. She wishes me not to speak of that, but to forget it.”
Constance listened with softening eyes, wondering what that sorrowful past had been, which had left no trace on the sweet young face.
“I know that, Fan,” she replied, “and should be very sorry to question you about such matters. It saddens me to think that your childhood was unhappy, and if I could help you to forget that period of your life I would gladly do so. The question I should have to ask would be about something recent. Can you not guess what it is?”
“No, Miss Churton—at least I don't think I can. Will you not tell me?”
“You know that my life here is not a happy one.”
“Is it not? I am so sorry.”
“When I first saw you I imagined that it would be different, that your coming would make me much better off. I had been wondering so much what you were like, knowing that we should be so much together. When I at length saw you it was with a shock of pleasure, for I saw more than I had dared to hope. A first impression is almost infallible, I think, and to this day I have never for a single moment doubted that the impression I received was a right one. But I was greatly mistaken when I imagined that in your friendship I should find compensation for the coldness of others; for very soon you put a distance between us, as you know, and it has lasted until now. That is what was passing through my mind a little while ago when I watched your face; and now, Fan, can you tell me why you took a dislike to me?”
“Oh, Miss Churton, I have never disliked you! I like you very, very much—I cannot say how much!” But even while this assurance sprang spontaneously from her lips, she remembered Mary's warning words, and her heart was secretly troubled, for that old danger which she had ceased to fear had now unexpectedly returned.
“Do you really like me so much, Fan?” said Constance, taking the girl's hand and holding it against her cheek. “I have thought as much sometimes—I have almost been sure of it. But you fear me for some reason; you are shy and reticent when with me, and out of lesson-time you avoid my company. You imagine that it would be wrong to love me, or that if you cannot help liking me you must hide the feeling in your heart.”
It startled Fan to find that her companion was so well able to read her thoughts, but she assented unhesitatingly to what the other had said. This approach to confidence began to seem strangely sweet to her, all the sweeter perhaps because so perilous; and that contact of her hand with the other's soft warm cheek gave her an exquisite pleasure.
“And will you not tell me why you fear me?” asked Constance again.
“I should like you to know so much ... but perhaps it would not be right for me to say it ... I wish I knew—I wish I knew.”
“I know, Fan—I am perfectly sure that I know, and will save you the trouble and pain of telling it. Shall I tell you? and then perhaps I shall be able to convince you that you have no reason to be afraid of me.”
“I wish you would,” eagerly returned Fan.
“My mother has prejudiced you against me, Fan. She imagines that if we were intimate and friendly together my influence would be injurious, that it would destroy the effect of the religious instruction she gives.”
“I do not understand you,” said Fan, looking unmistakably puzzled.
“No? And yet I thought it so plain. My mother has told you that I am not religious—in her way, that is—that I am not a Christian. She does not know really; I do not go about telling people what I believe or disbelieve, and prefer to say nothing about religion for fear of hurting any person's feelings. But that is not her way, and through what she has said at the vicarage, and elsewhere about me I am now looked upon as one to be avoided. I see you are reading The Pleasures of Hope. Let me have it. Do you see this passage with pencil-marks against it, and all the words underscored?
“These words were marked for my benefit—this is what she thinks of me—her own daughter—because I cannot agree with her in everything she believes!” And here she flung the volume disdainfully on the grass. “When I agreed to be your teacher I never imagined that such things would have been put into your head. Her anxiety about your spiritual welfare made it seem right in her eyes to do so, I suppose. But I should not have harmed you, my dear girl, or interfered with your religion in any way; she might have given me that much credit. When she knew how lonely my life was, and how much your affection would have been to me, it was unkind of her to set you also against me from the first.”
All this came as a complete surprise on her listener, who now for the first time began to understand the reason of the estrangement of mother and daughter. But Constance was allowed to finish her speech without interruption. She said more than she had meant to say, but her feelings had carried her away, and when she finished it was with a half-suppressed sob.
“Dear Miss Churton, I am so sorry you are unhappy,” said Fan at length, taking her hand. “I did not know you were not a Christian, nor why it was that you and Mrs. Churton were always so cold to each other. But it would have made no difference if I had known, because—I am not religious.”
Constance looked at her.
“What do you mean by that, Fan?” she said. “It is my turn now, it seems, to say that I do not understand you.”
The other hesitated; then she remembered the carpenter's words, and began a little doubtfully:
“I mean that I do not think that going to church and—reading the Bible, and praying, and all that, make any difference. I think we can be good without that—don't you, Miss Churton? I wish I could tell you better—it seems so hard to say it. But Mrs. Churton never said anything to me about you—in that way—I mean about your religion.”
Constance listened to all this with the greatest surprise. That this very simple-minded girl, impressible as soft wax as it seemed to her, should think independently about such a subject as religion, and that she should hold views so opposed to those which Mrs. Churton had for several months been diligently instilling into her mind, seemed almost incredible. The second statement was nearly as surprising, so sure had she been that her suspicions were well-founded. “Then I have been very unjust to my mother in this instance,” she said, “and am very sorry I spoke so warmly about older things which should be forgotten.” After an interval of silence she continued, withdrawing her hand from the other, “I can make no further guess, Fan; and if you have any secret reason for keeping apart from me you must forgive me for speaking to you and trying to win your confidence.”
Fan was more distressed than ever now, and the tears started to her eyes as she felt that the distance was once more widening between them, and that it all depended on herself whether she was to drink from this sweet cup or set it down again scarcely tasted.
“I must tell you, Miss Churton,” she said at length; and then, not without much hesitation and difficulty, she explained Miss Starbrow's views with regard to the impossibility of a woman, or of a girl like her, loving more than one person, or having more than one friend.
Constance gave a laugh, which, however, she quickly checked.
“Dear Fan,” she said, “does not your own heart tell you that it is all a mistake? And if you feel that you do love me, do you not know from your own experience, whether you hide the feeling or not, that your love for others, and chiefly for so dear a friend as Miss Starbrow, remains just as strong as before?”
Fan gladly answered in the affirmative.
“We are all liable to strange errors about different things, and Miss Starbrow is certainly in error about this. Besides, my dear girl, we can't always love or not love as we like; the feeling comes to us spontaneously, like the wind that blows where it listeth. Be sure that we are not such poor creatures that we cannot love more than one person at a time. But Miss Starbrow is not singular in her opinion—if it is her opinion. I have heard men say that although a man's large heart can harbour many friendships, a woman is incapable of having more than one friendship at any time. That is a man's opinion, and therefore it is not strange that it should be a wrong one, since only a woman can know the things of a woman. How strange that Miss Starbrow should have so mean an opinion of her own sex!”
Fan then remembered something which she imagined might throw some light on this dark subject. “I know,” she said, “that she always prefers men to women for friends. I have heard her say that she hates women.”
Constance laughed again.
“She does not hate herself—that is impossible; and that she did not hate you, Fan, is very evident. Don't you think that, intimate as you were with Miss Starbrow, you did not always quite understand her way of speaking, that you took her words too literally? You know now that she did not really mean it when she spoke of hating women, and perhaps she did not really mean what she said about your being unable to love more than one person.”
“Yes; I think you are right. I know that she does not always mean what she says. I am sure you are right.”
“And will you be my friend then, and love me a little?”
“You know that I love you dearly, and it makes me so happy to think that we are friends. But tell me, dear Miss Churton—”
“If we are really friends now you must call me Constance.”
“Oh, I shall like that best. Dear Constance, do you think when I write to Mary that I must tell her all we have talked about?”
“No,” said the other, after a moment's reflection. “It is not necessary, and would not be fair to me, as we have been speaking about her. But you must be just as open about everything, as I suppose it is your nature to be, and conceal nothing about your feelings towards others. I do not think for a moment that you will offend her by being good friends with your teacher.”
That assurance and advice removed the last shadow of anxiety from Fan's mind, and after some more conversation they returned home, both feeling very much happier than when they had started for this eventful walk.
Mrs. Churton was quickly made aware of the now in one sense improved relations between the girls when they returned from their walk; and with that new hope in her heart she was not displeased to see it, although its suddenness startled her a little. She did not know until the following morning how great the change was. She was an early riser, and hearing voices and laughter in the garden while dressing, she looked out of the window, and saw the girls walking in the path, Constance with an open book in her hand, while Fan at her side had an arm affectionately thrown over her teacher's shoulder. It was a pretty sight, but it troubled her; she had not expected so close a friendship as that, which had made them rise so long before their usual time for the pleasure of being together. If, after all, a vain hope had deluded her, then there might be an exceedingly sad end to her experiment. With deep anxiety and returning jealousy she reflected that the simple-minded affectionate girl might prove as wax in the hands of her clever godless daughter. But it was too soon to intervene and try to undo her own work. She would watch and wait, and hope still that the infinite beauty and preciousness of a childlike faith would touch the stony heart that nothing had touched, and win back the wandering feet to the ways of pleasantness.
From her watching nothing much resulted for some days, although she soon began to suspect that Fan now wore a look of patience, almost of weariness, whenever she was spoken to on religious subjects, that it seemed a relief to her when the lesson was finished, and she could go back to Constance. They were constantly together now, in and out of doors, and the woods had become their daily haunt. And one day they met with an adventure. Arriving about three o'clock at their favourite tree, they saw a young man in a dark blue cycling costume lying on the grass with his hands clasped behind his head, and gazing up into the leafy depths above him. At the same moment he saw them, standing and hesitating which way to turn; and in a moment he sprang to his feet. He was a handsome young fellow, a little below the medium height, clean shaved, with black hair and very dark blue eyes, which looked black; his features were very fine, and his skin, although healthy-looking, colourless.
“I perceive that I am an intruder here,” he said with a smile, and with an admiring glance at Miss Churton's face.
“Oh, no,” she returned, with heightened colour. “This wood is free to all; we can soon find another spot for ourselves.”
“But it is evident that you were coming to sit here,” he said, still smiling. “I suppose you have done so on former occasions, so that you have acquired a kind of prescriptive right to this place. I am putting it on very low grounds, you see,” he added with a slight laugh, and raising his cap was about to turn away; but just at that moment he glanced at Fan, who had been standing a little further away, watching his face with very great interest. He started, looked greatly surprised, then quickly recovering his easy self-possessed manner, advanced and held out his hand to her. “How do you do?” he said. “How strange to meet you here! You have not forgotten me, I hope?”
Fan had taken his hand. “Oh, no, Mr. Chance,” she returned, blushing a little, “I remember you very well.”
“I'm very glad you do. But I am ashamed to have to confess that though I remember your Christian name very well I can't recall your surname. I only remember that it is an uncommon one.”
“My name is Affleck. But you only saw me once, and it is not strange you should have forgotten it.”
It was true that she had only seen him once; for in spite of the brave words he had spoken to Miss Starbrow after she had rejected his offer of marriage, he had never returned to her house. But Fan had heard first and last a great deal about him, and Mary had even told her the story of that early morning declaration, not without some scornful laughter. Nevertheless at this distance from town it seemed very pleasant to see him once more. It was like meeting an old acquaintance, and vividly brought back her life in Dawson Place with Mary.
For some minutes he stood talking to her, asking after Miss Starbrow and herself, and saying that since he left Bayswater he had greatly missed those delightful evenings; but while he talked to Fan he glanced frequently at the beautiful face of her companion. Once or twice their eyes met, and Mr. Chance, judging from what he saw that he had made a somewhat favourable impression, in his easy way, and with a little apology, asked Fan to introduce him. This little ceremony over, they all sat down on the grass and spent an hour very agreeably in conversation. He told them that he was spending a month's holiday in a bicycle ramble through the south-west of England, and had turned aside to see the village of Eyethorne and its woods, which he had heard were worth a visit. From local scenery the conversation passed by an easy transition to artistic and literary subjects; in a very short time Fan ceased to take any part in it, and was satisfied to listen to this new kind of duet in which harmony of mind was substituted for that of melodious sound. With a pleased wonder, which was almost like a sense of mystery, she followed them in this rapid interchange of thoughts about things so remote from every-day life. They mentioned a hundred names unknown to her—of those who had lived in ancient times and had written poems in many languages, and of artists whose works they had never seen and could yet describe; and in all these far-off things they seemed as deeply interested as Mrs. Churton was in her religion, her parish work, and her housekeeping. How curious it was to note their familiarity with an endless variety of subjects, so that one could not say anything without a look of quick intelligence and ready sympathy from the other! How well they seemed to know each other's minds! They were talking familiarly as if they had been acquainted all their lives!
To Constance the pleasure was more real and far greater; for not only had her unfortunate opinions concerning matters of faith separated her from her few educated neighbours, but in that rustic and sleepy-minded spot there were none among them, excepting the curate, who took any interest in literary and philosophical questions. Her friends were not the people she knew, but the authors whose works she purchased with shillings saved out of the small quarterly allowance her mother made her for dress. These were the people she really knew and loved, and their thoughts were of infinitely deeper import to her than the sayings and doings of the men and women of her little world. In such circumstances, how pleasant it was to meet with this young stranger, engaging in his manner and attractive in appearance, and to converse freely with him on the subjects that constantly occupied her thoughts. There was a glow of happy excitement on her face, her eyes shone, she laughed in a free glad way, as Fan had never heard her laugh before; she was surprised at the extent of her own knowledge—at that miracle of memory, when many fine thoughts, long forgotten, and multitudes of strange facts, and glowing passages in verse and prose, came back uncalled to her mind; and above all she was surprised at a ready eloquence which she had never suspected herself capable of.
Merton Chance had often conversed with clever and beautiful women, but this country girl surprised him with the extent of her reading, her vivacity and wit, and quick sympathy; and the more they talked the more he admired her.
Then insensibly their conversation took a graver tone, and they passed to other themes, which, to Constance at least, had a deeper and more enduring interest. In all philosophical questions she could follow and even go beyond him, although she didn't know it, and very soon they made the discovery that towards the faith still professed by a large majority of their fellow-beings their attitude was the same. Or so it appeared to Constance. Christianity was one of the forms in which the universal religious sentiment had found expression for a period among a large portion of the human race. They were not agnostics, so they both declared, and yet were contented to be called so by others, not yet having invented a word better than this one of the materialistic Professor Huxley to describe themselves by. They had moved onwards and had left the creed of the Christian behind them, yet were confident that the vast unbounded prospect before them would not always rest obscured with clouds. But what the new thing was to be they knew not. Time would reveal it. They were not left without something to cheer them—gleams of a spiritual light which, although dim and transient, yet foretold the perfect day. Like so many others among the choice spirits of the earth, they turned their eyes this way and that, considering now the hard and pitiless facts of biology and physics, now the new systems of philosophy, that come like shadows and so depart, and now the vague thoughts, or thoughts vaguely expressed, of those the careless world calls mystics and wild-minded visionaries; and after it all they were fain to confess that the waters have not yet abated; and that although for them there could be no return to the ark, they were still without any rest for the soles of their feet.
If, instead of that young ignorant girl, their listener had been a grey-haired disillusioned man, he would have shaken his head, and perhaps remarked that they were a couple of foolish dreamers, that the light which inspired such splendid hopes was a light from the past—a dying twilight left in their souls by that sun of faith which for them had set. But there was nothing to disturb their pleasing self-complacency—no mocking skeleton to spoil their rare intellectual feast.
Merton was not yet satisfied, he wished to go more fully into these great subjects, and pressed her with more and more searching questions. Constance, on her side, grew more reticent, and seemed troubled in her mind, glancing occasionally into his face; and at length, dropping her hand on Fan's, who still listened but without understanding, she said that for reasons which could not be stated, which he would be able to guess, further discussion had better be deferred.
He assented with a smile, and returning her look with quick intelligence. The talk drifted into other channels, and at length they all rose to their feet, but he did not go at once. He began to ask Fan about her botanical studies, one of the subjects which Constance had taught her. He had, he said, studied botany at school and was very fond of it. Presently he became much interested in a plant, a creeper, hanging from a low shrub about twenty-five or thirty yards from where they were standing, and Fan at once started off to get a spray for him to see.
“I am very glad, Miss Churton, that our discussion is only to be deferred,” he said. “It has interested me more deeply than you can imagine, and for various reasons I should be glad to go further with it.”
She did not reply, although looking pleased at his words, and then he continued:
“I cannot bear to think of leaving this place without seeing you again. I wished for one thing—please don't think me very egotistical for saying it—to tell you about some little papers I am writing, and one or two of which have been printed in a periodical. I think the subject would interest you. Will you think me very bold, Miss Churton, if I ask you to let me call on you at your home?”
His request troubled her, and after a little hesitation she answered:
“I shall be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Chance, and perhaps if I tell you why I can scarcely do what you ask you will not think hardly of me. I cannot open my lips at home on the subject we have been discussing, and I am looked on coldly here, in my own village, on account of my heterodox opinions. My mother would receive you well, but she would think it wrong in me to invite a sympathiser to the house.”
“Then, Miss Churton, how lonely your life must be!”
“You must not think more about me, Mr. Chance.”
“You are asking too much,” he answered smiling, and the words brought a blush to her cheek. “But I cannot bear to go away from Eyethorne without seeing you once more. May I hope to meet you tomorrow in this place?”
“I cannot promise that. But if—no, I cannot say more now.”
Fan was back with a spray of the plant, but he had somehow lost all interest in it. That about his botany had all been pure fiction; but it had served its purpose, and now, he regretfully remarked, his plant-lore, he found, had completely faded from his mind. And after a little further conversation he shook hands and left them.
On their way home the conversation of the girls turned chiefly on their encounter with Mr. Chance. Constance displayed an unusual amount of feminine curiosity, and asked a great many questions about him. Fan had nothing to tell, for she dared not tell what she knew. It was a peculiarity of her character, that if she knew anything to a person's disadvantage she was anxious to conceal it, as if it had been something reflecting on herself; apart from this, she felt that Miss Starbrow's description of Mr. Chance would not be what Miss Churton wished to hear. For it was plain that Constance had been favourably impressed, and had taken Merton at his own valuation, which was a high one. While she kept silence it troubled her to think that one who had been despised and ridiculed by Mary should be highly esteemed by Constance, since she now loved (or worshipped) them both in an equal degree.
At the gate it all at once occurred to her to ask whether she should tell Mrs. Churton about meeting Mr. Chance in the wood or not.
“You may tell her if you like,” said the other after a little hesitation. “He is a friend of Miss Starbrow's; it was only natural that we should talk with him.” Then she added, “I shall say nothing about it, simply because mother and I never talk about anything. You needn't mention it unless you care to, Fan. I really don't believe that mother would feel any interest in the subject.”
She reddened a little after speaking, knowing that she had been slightly disingenuous. Fan understood from her face more than from her words what she really wished.
“Then I shall not say anything, unless Mrs. Churton asks me about our walk, and if we met anyone,” she returned.
But nothing was asked and nothing told.
At dinner next day Constance heard that Fan was going out with Mrs. Churton to visit a neighbour. A bright look came into her expressive face, followed by a swift blush, but she said nothing, and after dinner went back to her room. As soon as the others had left the house she began to dress for a walk, paying a great deal more attention to herself at the glass than she was accustomed to do. Her luxuriant brown hair was brushed out and rearranged, her artful fingers allowing three or four small locks to escape and lie unconfined on her forehead and temples. She studied her face very closely, thinking a great deal about that peculiar shade of colour which she saw there. But her own face was so familiar to her, how could she tell what another would think of it, and whether to city eyes that brown tint would not make it look less like the face of a Rosalind than of an Audrey? With her dress she was altogether dissatisfied, and there was nothing to give a touch of beauty to it but a poor flower—a half-open rose—which she pinned on her bosom. Then she envied Fan her beautiful watch and chain, the half-score of rings, bangles, and brooches which Miss Starbrow had given her; and this reminded her of an ornament she possessed, an old-fashioned gold brooch with an amethyst in it, and which in the pride of philosophy she had looked on with a good deal of contempt. Now the rose was flung away, and the despised jewel put in its place. Taking her book and sunshade she finally left the house, and turned her steps towards the wood. Scarcely had she left the gate behind before a tumult of doubts and fears began to assail her. She was hurrying away alone to the wood, glad to be alone, solely to meet Mr. Chance. Would he not at once divine the reason of her strange readiness to obey his wishes? Could she in her present agitated state, with her cheek full of hot blushes, and her heart throbbing so that it almost choked her, hide her secret from him? This thought frightened her and she slackened her pace, and argued that it would be better not to go to the wood, not to run the risk of such a self-betrayal and humiliation. But perhaps he would not come after all to meet her, for no appointment had been made, and no promise of any kind given—why should she be so anxious in her mind about it? It gave her a pang to think that the meeting and conversation which had been so important an event in her life were perhaps very little to him, that they were perhaps fading out of his mind already, and would soon be, like his botanical knowledge, altogether forgotten. Perhaps he was even now on the road speeding away far from Eyethorne on his bicycle. Then the fear that she might betray her secret was overmastered by this new fear that she would never see him again, that he had gone out of her life for ever; and she quickened her slow steps once more, and at last gaining the wood, and coming to the spot where she had parted from him, and not finding him there, her excitement left her, and she sat down with a pang of bitter disappointment in her heart.
But before many minutes had gone by she heard approaching footsteps, and looking up saw him coming towards her. The tell-tale blood rushed again to her cheeks and her heart throbbed wildly, but she bent her eyes resolutely on her book and pretended not to see his approach. Poor girl, so innocent of wiles! she did not know, she could not guess, that he had been for upwards of an hour on the spot waiting for her, his heart also agitated with hopes and fears. He had watched her coming with glad triumphant feelings, and then, prudent and artful even in his moment of triumph, had concealed himself from her to come on to the scene after allowing her a little time to taste her disappointment.
He was already standing before her and speaking, and then in a moment the outward calm which she had been vainly striving to observe came unexpectedly to her aid. She shook hands with him and explained why she was alone, and then, surprised at her own new courage, she added:
“I am glad that we have met again, Mr. Chance; I came here hoping to meet you; our conversation yesterday gave me so much pleasure, and I wished so much to hear about your literary work. After to-day I do not suppose that we shall ever meet again.”
“I sincerely hope we shall!” he returned, sitting down near her. “It is really painful to think that you should be immured in this uncongenial place with your tastes and—advantages.”
“Please do not pity my condition, Mr. Chance. I can endure it very well for a time, I hope; it is not my intention to stay here always, nor very much longer, and just now I am not altogether alone, as I have Fan to teach and for a companion.”
“She is a very charming girl,” he returned; “and I must tell you that she has improved marvellously since I last saw her. Miss Starbrow has, I think, been singularly fortunate in having put her into your hands.”
“Thank you,” said Constance, with a quick glance at his face. Then she added, “I suppose you know Miss Starbrow very well?”
“Yes,” he returned with a slight smile, and she was curious to know why he smiled in that meaning way, but feared to ask. “But she is your friend, I suppose, and you know her as well as I do,” he added after a while.
“Oh no, she is a perfect stranger to me. We only saw her once for a few minutes when she brought Fan down to us last May.”
“How strange! But I should have thought that Miss Affleck would have told you everything about her before now.”
“No; I never question Fan about her London life, and when left to herself she is a very reticent girl.”
“Really!” said he, not ill-pleased at this information. “But, Miss Churton, how very natural that you should wish to know something about this lady!”
She smiled without replying, but no reply was needed. He had been studying her face, and knew that she was curious to hear what he had to say, and this interest in Miss Starbrow, he thought, was a very new feeling, and rose entirely out of her interest in himself.
He told her a great deal about the lady, without altogether omitting her little eccentricities, as he leniently called them, and her little faults of temper; he paid a tribute to her generous, hospitable character, only she was, he thought, just a little too hospitable, judging from the curious specimens one met at her Wednesday evening gatherings. But he was very good-natured, and touched lightly on the disagreeable features in the picture, or else kindly toned them down with a few skilful touches, producing the impression on his listener that he did not dislike Miss Starbrow, but regarded her with a kind of amused curiosity. And that, in fact, was precisely the impression he had wished to make, and he was well pleased with himself when he saw how well he had succeeded.
Afterwards they spoke of other things, and soon came to those literary topics in which Miss Churton took so keen an interest. They talked long and earnestly, and Merton Chance neglected no opportunity of saying pretty things with a subtle flattery in them at which the other was far from being displeased.
“You draw your mental nutriment from a distance,” he said. “Being without sympathy from those around you, you are like a person in a diving-bell, shut in on all sides by a medium through which a current of life-preserving oxygen comes, but dark and cold and infinitely repelling to the spirit.”
It was true, and very pleasant to meet with appreciation. And finally, before he left her, he had promised to send, and she had promised to accept gratefully, some magazines containing contributions from his pen, also some books which he wished her to read. But he did not say anything about writing, he did not wish to show himself too eager to continue the acquaintance which chance had brought about: in his own mind, however, it was already settled that there was to be a correspondence.
After Merton's departure from Eyethorne things drifted back to their old state at Wood End House, the slight change in Constance becoming less and less perceptible, until the time came when Fan began to think, with a secret feeling of relief, that the visitor had after all made only a passing impression, which was already fading out of her teacher's mind. But by-and-by there came from London a letter and a packet of books and periodicals for Constance, and Fan remarked the glad excitement in her friend's face when she carried her treasures away to her room, and her subsequent silence on the subject. And after that Constance was again much occupied with her own thoughts, which, to judge from her countenance, were happy ones; and Fan quickly came to the conclusion that the books and letter were from Merton. Mrs. Churton, who knew nothing about this new acquaintance, imagined only that her daughter had sucked out all the impiety contained in the books she already possessed, and had sent for a fresh supply. For, she argued, if there had been nothing wrong in the books Constance would have allowed her to read or see them. She made herself very unhappy over it, and was more incensed than ever against her sinful daughter, but she said nothing, and only showed her dissatisfaction in her cold, distrustful manner.
Another bitterness in her cup at this period was her inability to revive Fan's interest in sacred things, for she had begun to notice an increasing indifference in the girl. All the religious teaching, over which she had spent so much time and labour, seemed to have failed of its effect. She had planted, apparently in the most promising soil, and the vicar and the vicar's wife had watered, and God had not given the increase. This was a new mystery which she could not understand, in spite of much pondering over it, much praying for light, and many conversations on the subject with her religious friends. So sweet and good and pure-hearted and pliant a girl; but alas! alas! it was only that ephemeral fictitious kind of goodness which springs from temper or disposition, which has no value in the eyes of Heaven, cannot stand the shocks of time and circumstance. It was not through any remissness of her own; she had never ceased her efforts, yet now after many months she was fain to confess that this young girl, who had promised such great things, seemed further than at the beginning from that holiness which is not of the earth, and which delights only in the contemplation of heavenly things. She could see it now with what painful clearness! for her eyes in such matters were preternaturally sharp, like those of a sailor who has followed the sea all his life with regard to atmospheric changes; no sooner would the lesson begin than all brightness would fade from that too expressive countenance, and the girl would listen with manifest effort, striving to keep her attention from wandering, striving to understand and to respond; but there was no response from the heart, and in spite of striving her thoughts, her soul, were elsewhere, and her eyes wore a distant wistful look. And Mrs. Churton was hot-tempered; in all the years of her self-discipline she had never been able to wring from her heart that one drop of black blood; and sometimes when she talked to Fan, and read and prayed with her, and noticed that impassive look coming over her face to quench its brightness like a cloud, her old enemy would get the best of her, and she would start up and hurriedly leave the room without a word, lest it should betray her into passionate expression.
“Yes, I have also noticed this in Miss Affleck,” the vicar said to her one day when she had been speaking to him on the subject. “She seemed at one time so docile, so teachable, so easy to be won, and now it is impossible not to see that there is something at work neutralising all our efforts and making her impervious to instruction. But, my dear Mrs. Churton, we know the reason of this; Miss Affleck is too young, too ignorant and impressible not to fall completely under the influence of your daughter.”
“But my daughter has promised me and has given me her word of honour that nothing has been said or will be said or done to alienate her pupil's mind from religious subjects. And we know, Mr. Long, that even those who are without God may still be trusted to speak the truth—that they have that natural morality written on their hearts of which St. Paul speaks.”
“Yes, that's all very well, and I don't say for a moment that your daughter has deliberately set herself to undo your work and win her pupil to her own pernicious views. But is it possible for her, even if she wished it, to conceal them altogether from one who is not only her pupil but her intimate friend and constant companion? Her whole life—thoughts, acts, words, and even looks—must be leavened with the evil leaven; how can Miss Affleck live with her in that intimate way without catching some of that spirit from her? You know that so long as they were not thus intimate this girl was everything that could be desired, that from the time they became close friends she began to change, and that religion is now becoming as distasteful to her as it is to her teacher.”
Poor woman! she had gone for comfort and counsel to her pastor, and this was all she got. He was a good hater, and regarded Miss Churton with a feeling that to his way of thinking was a holy one. “Do not I hate them, O Lord, that hate Thee? I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them mine enemies.” As for separating two inseparable things, the sinner and the sin (matter and an affection of matter), and loving one and hating the other, that was an intellectual feat altogether beyond his limited powers, although he considered it one which Mr. Northcott might be able to accomplish. He had made it impossible for his enemy to do any injury in the parish; she had been dropped by Eyethorne “society,” and she did not go among the poor; but this was not enough to satisfy him, and the sermon he had preached against her, which drove her from the church, had been deliberately prepared with the object of driving her from the parish. He had failed in his object, and now he was angry because he could not separate Fan from her, and, unjust and even cruel in his anger, he turned on the unhappy mother.
To his words Mrs. Churton could only reply, “What can I do—what can I do?” And as he refused to answer her, having said his last word, she rose and went home more unhappy than ever, more angry with Fan, and embittered against her daughter; for that the vicar had truly shown her the reason of her failure she could not doubt.
They were both entirely wrong, although the mistake was a very natural one, and, in the circumstances, almost unavoidable. Constance had scrupulously observed the compact. Nothing could be further from her mind than any desire to win others to her way of thinking. The religious instinct was strong in her, and could flourish without the support of creed or doctrine; at the same time she recognised the fact that in others—in a very large majority of persons, perhaps—it is a frail creeping plant that trails along the ground to perish trodden in the dust without extraneous support.
Fan, on her side, had drifted into her present way of thinking, or not thinking, independently of her teacher, and entirely uninfluenced by her. At the beginning she responded readily to Mrs. Churton's motherly teaching; but only because the teaching was motherly, and intimately associated with those purely human feelings which were everything to her. Afterwards when others, who were strangers and not dear to her, began to take part in her instruction, then gradually these two things—human and divine—separated themselves in her mind, and she clung to the one and lost her interest in the other. It was pleasant to go to church, to take part in singing and praying with the others, and to sit with half-closed eyes among well-dressed people during sermon-time, and think of other things, chiefly of Mary and Constance. But when religion came to be more than that, it began to oppress her like a vain show, and it was a relief to escape from all thoughts on the subject. So low and so earthly, in one sense, was Fan's mind. While she was in this frame that visit to the carpenter's cottage occurred, and the carpenter's words had taken a strong hold on her and could not be forgotten; for they fitted her case so exactly, and seemed so clearly to express all that she had had in her mind, and all that it was necessary for her to have, that it had the effect of making her spirit deaf to all other and higher teachings. If she could have explained it all to Mrs. Churton it would have been better, at all events for Constance, but she was incapable of such a thing, even if she had possessed the courage, and so she kept silence, although she could see that her want of interest was distressing to her kind friend.
Another great bitterness in Mrs. Churton's cup resulted from the conduct of her irreclaimable husband. Even Fan, who had never regarded any living soul with contempt, had soon enough learned to experience such a feeling towards this man. But it was a kindly contempt, for after repulsing him two or three times when he had attempted to conduct himself in too fatherly a manner, he had ceased to trouble her in any way. He was very unobtrusive in the house, except at intervals, when he would rebel against his wife and say shocking things and screech at her. But when cold weather came, then poor Mr. Churton took an extra amount of alcohol for warmth, and the spirit and cold combined brought on a variety of ailments which sometimes confined him for days to his bedroom. At such times he would be deeply penitent, and beg his wife to sit with him and read the Bible, which she was always ready to do. Never again would he seek oblivion from pain in the cup that cheers, and, alas, inebriates, or do anything to make his beloved wife grieve; thus would he protest, kissing her hand and shedding weak tears. But as soon as she had nursed him back into better health he would seize the first opportunity when she was out of the way to slip off “for a constitutional,” which would invariably end at the inn in the High Street; and in the evening he would return quarrelsome and abusive, or else groaning and ready to take to bed again.
Mr. Northcott, who might have melted into thin air for all we have seen or heard of him lately, was also unhappy in his mind at this period. He loved, and yet when it had almost seemed to him that he had not loved in vain, partly from prudential motives and partly because his religion stood in the way of his desire, he had refrained from speaking. Now it seemed to him that he had let his chance go by, and that Miss Churton, although still as friendly as any person not actually enamoured of her could have wished, was not so sympathetic, not so near to him, as formerly. Nevertheless, he still sought her out at every opportunity, and engaged her in long conversations which led to nothing; for they barely touched on the borders of those subjects which both felt most deeply about, and that other subject which he alone felt they never approached. His resolution had in some measure recovered its “native hue,” but too late, alas! and at length one day his vicar took him to task about this inconvenient friendship.
“Mr. Northcott,” he said very unexpectedly at the end of a conversation they had been having, “may I ask you whether you still hope to be able to win back Miss Churton to a more desirable frame of mind?”
The curate flushed a little, and glancing up encountered the suspicious eyes of his superior fixed on him.
“I regret that I am compelled to answer with a negative,” he returned.
“Then,” said the other, “you will not take it amiss if I warn you that your partiality for Miss Churton's society has been made the subject of remark among the ladies in the neighbourhood. That your motives are of the highest I do not question; at the same time, if they are misunderstood and if your efforts are futile, it would be prudent, I fancy, not to let it appear that you prefer this lady's company to that of others.”
This about motives did not sound quite sincere; but the vicar was suave in manner, stroking his curate very kindly with soft velvet hand, only waiting for some slight movement before unsheathing the sharp hidden claws. One word of protest and of indignant remonstrance would have been enough; the reply was on his tongue, “Then, Mr. Northcott, I regret that we must part company.”
But he made no movement such as the other had expected, perhaps even desired, for we are all cruel, even the best of us—so Bain says, and therefore it must be true. On the contrary, he took it with strange meekness—for which he did not fail afterwards to despise himself with his whole heart—regretting that anything had been said, and thanking the vicar for telling him. Nevertheless he was very indignant at this gossip of “a set of malignant old scandal-mongers,” as he called the Eyethorne ladies in his wrath, and bitterly resented the interference of the vicar in his affairs. Only the hopeless passion that preyed on him, which made the prospect of a total separation from Miss Churton seem intolerable, kept him from severing his connection with Eyethorne. But after that warning he was more circumspect, and gave the ladies, old and young, less reason for ill-natured remarks.
All these troubles and griefs, real and imaginary, of which they were indirectly the cause, affected the two young friends not at all. They did not see these things, or saw them only dimly at a distance: they were perfectly happy in each other, and almost invariably together both in and out of doors. The Eyethorne woods still attracted them almost daily; for although the trees were barren of leaves and desolate, the robin still made blithe music there, and the wren and thrush were sometimes heard, and even the mournful cawing of the rooks, and the weird melodies of the wind in the naked trees inspired their hearts with a mysterious gladness. And on days when the sun shone—the February days when winter “wears on its face a dream of spring”—they never tired of talking about how they were going to spend their time out of doors during the coming vernal and summer months. For that Fan would remain another year at Eyethorne was now looked upon as practically settled, since three-quarters of the first year had gone by and Miss Starbrow had said no word in her letters about taking her away. They were going to watch every opening leaf and every tender plant as it sprouted from the soil, and Fan was to learn the names, vulgar and scientific, and the special beauty and fragrance, and all the secrets of “every herb that sips the dew.” And the birds were also to be watched and listened to, and the peculiar melody of each kind noted on its arrival from beyond the sea.
One circumstance only interfered with Fan's happiness during the winter months. The letters she received from Mary, which came to her from various continental addresses, were few and short, growing fewer and shorter as time went on, and contained no allusion to many things in the long fortnightly epistles which, the girl imagined, required an answer. But one day, about the middle of March, when there had been no word for about six weeks, and Fan had begun to feel a vague anxiety, a letter came for her. It came while she was with Constance during study hours, and taking it she ran up to her own room to enjoy it in solitude.
Constance had also received a letter from London by the same post, and was well pleased to be left to read it by herself; and after reading and re-reading it, she continued sitting before the fire, the letter still in her hand and occupied with very pleasant thoughts. At length, glancing at the clock, she was surprised to find that half an hour had gone by since Fan left the room, and wondering at her delay, she went to look for her. Fan was sitting beside her bed, her cheek, wet with recent tears, resting on her arms on the coverlid; but she did not move when the other entered the room.
“Fan, dearest Fan, what have you heard?” exclaimed Constance in alarm.
For only reply the girl put a letter she was holding in her hand towards the other, and Constance, taking it, read as follows:
Brighton.
DEAR FAN,
Since I wrote last I have had several letters from you, one or two since I returned to England, but there was nothing in them calling for an immediate reply.
I do not wish you to answer this, or to write to me again at any time.
After so much travelling about I feel disinclined to settle down in London, or even in England at present, and have made up my mind to re-let the house in Dawson Place—that is, if the present tenants should have any wish to give it up.
My brother and I separated some time ago, and he has gone, or is going, to India, and will be away two or three years, as, I believe, he also intends visiting Australia, China, and America. I am therefore quite alone now, and shall probably go over to France for a few months, perhaps to remain permanently abroad.
But so far as you are concerned, it does not matter in the least whether I go or stay, since I cannot take you back to live with me, or have anything more to do with you.
The clothes you have will, I dare say, last you some time longer, and I have instructed my agent in London to send you a small sum of money (£25) to start you with. You must in future take care of yourself, and I suppose that with all the knowledge you have acquired from Miss Churton, you will be able to get a situation of some kind.
You have until the middle of next May—I forget the exact date—to prepare for your new life; and you can mention to Mrs. Churton that my agent will send her the money for the last quarter before your time at Eyethorne expires.
I suppose you do not require to be told the reason of the determination I have come to. You cannot have forgotten the fair warning I gave you when we parted, and you must know, Fan, if you know me at all, that when I say a thing I distinctly mean it.
You must take this as my very last word to you.
MARY STARBROW.
“Oh, what a cruel thing to do! What a heartless letter! What a barbarous woman!” cried Constance, tears of keenest distress starting to her eyes, as she hastened to Fan's side, holding out her hands.
But Fan would not be caressed; she started as if stung to her feet, her kindling eyes and flushed cheeks showing that her grief and despondence had all at once been swallowed up in some other feeling.
“Give me the letter back,” she demanded, holding out her hand for it, and then, when the other hesitated, astonished at her changed manner, snatched it from her hand, and began carefully smoothing and refolding it, for Constance had crumpled it up in her indignation.
“Fan, what has come over you? Are you going to quarrel with me because that unfeeling, purse-proud, half-mad woman has treated you so badly? Ah, poor Fan, to have been at the mercy of such a creature! I would tear her bank-notes into shreds and send them back to her agent—”
“Leave me!” screamed Fan at her, stamping on the floor in her rage.
Constance stood staring at her, mute and motionless with astonishment, so utterly unexpected was this tempest of anger, and so strange in one who had seemed incapable of any such violent feeling.
“Very well, Fan, I shall leave you if you wish it,” she said at length with some dignity, but in a pained voice. “I did not understand this outburst at first. I had almost lost sight of the fact that I am in a sense to blame for your misfortune. I regret it very bitterly, but that is no comfort to you, and it is only natural that you should begin to hate me now.”
“I do not hate you, Constance,” said Fan, recovering her usual tone, but still speaking with a tremor in her voice. “Why do you say that?—it is a cruel thing to say. Do you not know that it is false? I shall never blame you for what has happened. You are not to blame. I have lost Mary, but she is not what you say. You do not know her—what right have you to call her bad names? I would go away this moment and never see you again rather than hear you talk in that way of her, much as I love you.”
This speech explained the mystery, but it astonished her as much as the previous passionate outbreak. That the girl could be so just to her, so free from the least trace of bitterness against her for having indirectly caused that great unhappiness, and at the same time so keenly resent her sympathy, which she could not easily express without speaking indignantly of Miss Starbrow—this seemed so strange, so almost incongruous and contradictory, that if the case had not been so sad she would have burst into a laugh. As it was she only burst into tears, and threw her arms round the girl's neck.
“Darling Fan,” she said, “I understand you now—at last; and shall say nothing to wound your feelings again. But I hope—with all my heart I hope that I shall one day meet this—meet Miss Starbrow, to have the satisfaction of telling her—”
“Telling her what?” exclaimed Fan, the bright resentful red returning to her pale cheeks.
“Of telling her what she has lost. That she never really knew you, and what an affection you had for her.”
There was no comfort in this to Fan. Her loss—the thought that she would never see Mary again—surged back to her heart, and turning away, she went back to her seat and covered her face again from the other's sight.