FAN

THE STORY OF A YOUNG GIRL'S LIFE

BY HENRY HARFORD

(W. H. HUDSON)

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NOTE

The novel _Fan_ was originally published in 1892, under the pseudonymof "Henry Harford. " It now makes its appearance under the name of W. H. Hudson for the first time. 

This edition is limited to 498 copies of which 450 copies are for sale. 

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CHAPTER I

A Misty evening in mid-October; a top room in one of the small dingyhouses on the north side of Moon Street, its floor partially covered withpieces of drugget carpet trodden into rags; for furniture, an iron bedplaced against the wall, a deal cupboard or wardrobe, a broken iron cotin a corner, a wooden box and three or four chairs, and a small squaredeal table; on the table one candle in a tin candlestick gave light tothe two occupants of the room. One of these a woman sitting in a listlessattitude before the grate, fireless now, although the evening was dampand chilly. She appeared strong, but just now was almost repulsive tolook at as she sat there in her dirty ill-fitting gown, with her feetthrust out before her, showing her broken muddy boots. Her features wereregular, even handsome; that, however, was little in her favour when setagainst the hard red colour of her skin, which told of habitualintemperance, and the expression, half sullen and half reckless, of herdark eyes, as she sat there staring into the empty grate. There were nowhite threads yet in her thick long hair that had once been black andglossy, unkempt now, like everything about her, with a dusky dead look init. 

On the cot in the corner rested or crouched a girl not yet fifteen yearsold, the woman's only child: she was trying to keep herself warm there, sitting close against the wall with her knees drawn up to enable her tocover herself, head included, with a shawl and an old quilt. Both weresilent: at intervals the girl would start up out of her wrappings andstare towards the door with a startled look on her face, apparentlylistening. From the street sounded the shrill animal-like cries ofchildren playing and quarrelling, and, further away, the low, dull, continuous roar of traffic in the Edgware Road. Then she would drop backagain, to crouch against the wall, drawing the quilt about her, andremain motionless until a step on the stair or the banging of a doorbelow would startle her once more. 

Meanwhile her mother maintained her silence and passive attitude, onlystirring when the light grew very dim; then she would turn half round, snuff the wick off with her fingers, and wipe them on her shabby dirtydress. 

At length the girl started up, throwing her quilt quite off, and remainedseated on the edge of her cot, the look of anxiety increasing everymoment on her thin pale face. In the matter of dress she seemed evenworse off than her mother, and wore an old tattered earth-coloured gown, which came down to within three or four inches of her ankles, showingunder it ragged stockings and shoes trodden down at heel, so much toolarge for her feet that they had evidently belonged to her mother. Shelooked tall for her years, but this was owing to her extreme thinness. Her arms were like sticks, and her sunken cheeks showed the bones of herface; but it was a pathetic face, both on account of the want and anxietyso plainly written on it and its promise of beauty. There was not aparticle of colour in it, even the thin lips were almost white, but theeyes were of the purest grey, shaded by long dark lashes; while her hair, hanging uneven and disordered to her shoulders, was of a pure goldenbrown. 

"Mother, he's coming!" said the girl. 

"Let him come!" returned the other, without looking up or stirring. 

Slowly the approaching footsteps came nearer, stumbling up the dark, narrow staircase; then the door was pushed open and a man entered--abroad-chested, broad-faced rough-looking man with stubbly whiskers, wearing the dress and rusty boots of a labourer. 

He drew a chair to the table and sat down in silence. Presently he turnedto his wife. 

"Well, what have you got to say?" he asked, in a somewhat unsteady voice. 

"Nothing, " she returned. "What have you got?"

"I've got tired of walking about for a job, and I want something to eatand drink, and that's what _I've_ got. "

"Then you'd better go where you can get it, " said she. "You can't findwork, but you can find drink, and you ain't sober now. "

For only answer he began whistling and drumming noisily on the table. Suddenly he paused and looked at her. 

"Ain't you done that charing job, then?" he asked with a grin. 

"Yes; and what's more, I got a florin and gave it to Mrs. Clark, " shereplied. 

"You blarsted fool! what did you do that for?"

"Because I'm not going to have my few sticks taken for rent and be turnedinto the street with my girl. That's what I did it for; and if you won'twork you'll starve, so don't you come to me for anything. "

Again he drummed noisily on the table, and hummed or tried to hum a tune. Presently he spoke again:

"What's Fan been a-doing, then?"

"You know fast enough; tramping about the streets to sell a box ofmatches. A nice thing!"

"How much did she get?"

To this question no answer was returned. 

"What did she get, I arsk you?" he repeated, getting up and putting hishand heavily on her shoulder. 

"Enough for bread, " she replied, shaking his hand off. 

"How much?" But as she refused to answer, he turned to the girl andrepeated in a threatening tone, "How much?"

She sat trembling, her eyes cast down, but silent. 

"I'll learn you to answer when you're spoken to, you damn barstard!" hesaid, approaching her with raised hand. 

"Don't you hit her, you brute!" exclaimed his wife, springing in suddenanger to her feet. 

"Oh, father, don't hit me--oh, please don't--I'll tell--I'll tell! I goteighteenpence, " cried the girl, shrinking back terrified. 

He turned and went back to his seat, grinning at his success in gettingat the truth. Presently he asked his wife if she had spent eighteenpencein bread. 

"No, I didn't. I got a haddock for morning, and two ounces of tea, and aloaf, and a bundle of wood, " she returned sullenly. 

After an interval of a couple of minutes he got up, went to the cupboard, and opened it. 

"There's the haddy right enough, " he said. "No great things--cost youthrippence, I s'pose. Tea tuppence-ha'penny, and that's fivepence-ha'penny, and a ha'penny for wood, and tuppence-ha'penny for a loaf makeseightpence-ha'penny. There's more'n ninepence over, Margy, and all I wantis a pint of beer and a screw. Threepence--come now. "

"I've nothing to give you, " she returned doggedly. 

"Then what did you do with it? How much gin did you drink--eh?"

"As much as I could get, " she answered defiantly. 

He looked at her, whistled and drummed, then got up and went out. 

"Mother, he's gone, " whispered Fan. 

"No such luck. He's only going to ask Mrs. Clark if I gave her theflorin. He won't be long you'll see. "

Very soon he did return and sat down again. "A pint and a screw, that'sall I want, " he said, as if speaking to himself, and there was no answer. Then he got up, put his hand on her shoulder, and almost shook her out ofher chair. "Don't you hear?" he shouted. 

"Let me alone, you drunken brute; I've got nothing, I tell you, " shereturned, and after watching his face a few moments settled down again. 

"All right, old woman, I'll leave you, " he said, dropping his hands. Butsuddenly changing his mind, he swung round and dealt her a heavy blow. 

She sprang up with a scream of anger and pain, and taking no notice ofFan's piteous cries and pleadings, rushed at him; they struggled togetherfor some moments, but the man was the strongest; very soon he flung herviolently from him, and reeling away to some distance, and unable torecover her balance, she finally fell heavily on to the floor. 

"Oh, mother, mother, he has killed you, " sobbed Fan, throwing herselfdown beside the fallen woman and trying to raise her head. 

"That I will, and you too, " remarked the man, going back to his seat. 

The woman, recovering from the shock, struggled to her feet and sat downagain on her chair. She was silent, looking now neither angry norfrightened, but seemed half-dazed, and bending forward a little shecovered her eyes with her hand. 

"Oh, mother, poor mother--are you hurt?" whispered Fan, trying to drawthe hand away to look into the bowed face. 

"You go back to your corner and leave your mother to me, " he said; andFan, after hesitating a few moments, rose and shrank away. 

Presently he got up again, and seizing his wife by the wrist, dragged herhand forcibly from her face. 

"Where's the coppers, you blarsted drunkard?" he shouted in her ear. "D'ye think to get off with the little crack on the crown I've giv' you?I'll do for you to-night if you won't hand over. "

"Oh, father, father!" cried the girl, starting up in an agony of terror. "Oh, have mercy and don't hit her, and I'll go out and try to getthreepence. Oh, father, there's nothing in the house!"

"Then go, and don't be long about it, " he said, going back to his seat. 

The mother roused herself at this. 

"You sha'n't stir a step to-night, Fan, " she said, but in a voice notaltogether resolute. "What'll come to you, going into the streets at thistime of night?"

"Something grand, like what's come to her mother, perhaps, " said he witha laugh. 

"Not a step, Fan, if I die for it, " retorted the mother, stung by hiswords. But the girl quickly and with trembling hands had already thruston her old shapeless hat, and wrapped her shawl about her; then she tooka couple of boxes of safety matches, old and greasy from long use, andmoved towards the door as her mother rose to prevent her from going out. 

"Oh, mother, let me go, " she pleaded. "It's best for all of us. It'llkill me to stay in. Let me go, mother; I sha'n't be long. "

Her mother still protested; but Fan, seeing her irresolution, slippedpast her and was out of the door in a moment. 

Once out of the house she ran swiftly along the dark sloppy street untilshe came to the wide thronged thoroughfare, bright with the flaring gasof the shops; then, after a few moments' hesitation, walked rapidlynorthwards. 

Even in that squalid street where she lived, those who knew Fan fromliving in the same house, or in one of those immediately adjoining it, considered it a disgraceful thing for her parents to send her outbegging; for that was what they called it, although the begging was madelawful by the match-selling pretext. To them it was a very flimsy one, since the cost of a dozen such boxes at any oil-shop in the Edgware Roadwas twopence-three-farthings--eleven farthings for twelve boxes of safetymatches! The London poor know how hard it is to live and pay their weeklyrent, and are accustomed to make every allowance for each other; andthose who sat in judgment on the Harrods--Fan's parents--were mostlypeople who were glad to make a shilling by almost any means; glad also, many of them, to get drunk occasionally when the state of the financesallowed it; also they regarded it as the natural and right thing to do torepair regularly every Monday morning to the pawnbroker's shop to pledgethe Sunday shoes and children's frocks, with perhaps a tool or two or apair of sheets and blankets not too dirty and ragged to tempt thecautious gentleman with the big nose. 

But they were not disreputable, they knew where to draw the line. Had Fanbeen a coarse-fibred girl with a ready insolent tongue and fond of horse-play, it would not have seemed so shocking; for such girls, and a largemajority of them are like that, seem fitted to fight their way in therough brutish world of the London streets; and if they fall and becomealtogether bad, that only strikes one as the almost inevitable result ofgirlhood passed in such conditions. That Fan was a shy, modest, prettygirl, with a delicate type of face not often seen among those of herclass, made the case look all the worse for those who sent her out, exposing her to almost certain ruin. 

Poor unhappy Fan knew what they thought, and to avoid exciting remarksshe always skulked away, concealing her little stock-in-trade beneath herdilapidated shawl, and only bringing it out when at a safe distance fromthe outspoken criticisms of Moon Street. Sometimes in fine weather hermorning expeditions were as far as Netting Hill, and as she frequentlyappeared at the same places at certain hours, a few individuals got toknow her; in some instances they had began by regarding the poordilapidated girl with a kind of resentment, a feeling which, after two orthree glances at her soft grey timid eyes, turned to pity; and from suchas these who were not political economists, when she was so lucky as tomeet them, she always got a penny, or a threepenny-bit, sometimes witheven a kind word added, which made the gift seem a great deal to her. From others she received many a sharp rebuke for her illicit way ofgetting a living; and these without a second look would pass on, littleknowing how keen a pang had been inflicted to make the poor shamefacedchild's lot still harder to bear. 

She had never been out so late before, and hurrying along the wetpavement, trembling lest she should run against some Moon Streetacquaintance, and stung with the thought of the miserable scene in storefor her should she be compelled to return empty-handed, she walked notless than half a mile before pausing. Then she drew forth the concealedmatches and began the piteous pleading--"Will you please buy a box ofmatches?" spoken in a low tremulous voice to each passer-by, unheeded bythose who were preoccupied with their own thoughts, by all others lookedscornfully at, until at last, tired and dispirited, she turned to retracethe long hopeless road. And now the thoughts of home became at every yardof the way more painful and even terrifying to her. What a misery to haveto face it--to have to think of it! But to run away and hide herself fromher parents, and escape for ever from her torturing apprehensions, neverentered her mind. She loved her poor drink-degraded mother; there was noone else for her to love, and where her mother was there must be her onlyhome. But the thought of her father was like a nightmare to her; even theremembrance of his often brutal treatment and language made her tremble. Father she had always called him, but for some months past, since he hadbeen idle, or out of work as he called it, he had become more and moreharsh towards her, not often addressing her without calling her"barstard, " usually with the addition of one of his pet expletives, profane or sanguineous. She had always feared and shrunk from him, regarding him as her enemy and the chief troubler of her peace; and hisevident dislike of her had greatly increased during her last year at theBoard School, when he had more than once been brought before a magistrateand fined for her non-attendance. When that time was over, and he was nolonger compelled by law to keep her at school, he had begun driving herout to beg in the streets, to make good what her "book-larning, " as hecontemptuously expressed it, had cost him. And the miserable wife hadallowed it, after some violent scenes and occasional protests, until theillegal pence brought in each day grew to be an expected thing, andformed now a constant cause of wrangling between husband and wife, eachtrying to secure the lion's share, only to spend it at the public-house. 

At last, without one penny of that small sum of threepence, which she hadmentally fixed on as the price of a domestic truce, she had got back towithin fifteen minutes' walk of Moon Street. Her anxiety had made hermore eager perhaps, and had given a strange tremor to her voice and madeher eyes more eloquent in their silent pathos, when two young men pushedby her, walking fast and conversing, but she did not let them passwithout repeating the oft-repeated words. 

"No, indeed, you little fraud!" exclaimed one of the young men; while hiscompanion, glancing back, looked curiously into her face. 

"Stop a moment, " he said to his friend. "Don't be afraid, I'm not goingto pay. But, I say, just look at her eyes--good eyes, aren't they?"

The other turned round laughing, and stared hard at her face. Fanreddened and dropped her eyes. Finally he took a penny from his pocketand held it up before her. "Take, " he said. She took the penny, thankinghim with a grateful glance, whereupon he laughed and turned away, remarking that he had got his money's worth. 

She was nearly back to her own street again before anyone else noticedher; then she met a very large important-looking gentleman, with a ladyat his side--a small, thin, meagre woman, with a dried yellow face, wearing spectacles. The lady stopped very deliberately before Fan, andscrutinised her face. 

"Come along, " said her husband or companion. "You are not going to stopto talk to that wretched little beggar, I hope. "

"Yes, I am, so please be quiet. --Now, my girl, are you not ashamed tocome out begging in the streets--do you not know that it is very wrong ofyou?"

"I'm not begging--I'm selling matches, " answered Fan sullenly, andlooking down. 

"You might have known that she'd say that, so come on, and don't wastemore time, " said the impatient gentleman. 

"Don't hurry me, Charles, " returned the lady. "You know perfectly wellthat I never bestow alms indiscriminately, so that you have nothing tofear. --Now, my girl, why do you come out selling matches, as you call it?It is only a pretext, because you really do not sell them, you know. Doyour parents send you out--are they so poor?"

Then Fan repeated the words she had been instructed to use on occasionslike the present, which she had repeated so often that they had lost allmeaning to her. "Father's out of work and mother's ill, and I came outbecause we're starving. "

"Just so, of course, what did you think she would say!" exclaimed the biggentleman. "Now I hope you are satisfied that I was right. "

"That's just where you are mistaken, Charles. You know that I never givewithout a thorough investigation beforehand, and I am now determined tolook narrowly into this case, if you will only let me go quietly on in myown way. --And now, my girl, " she continued, turning to Fan, "just tell mewhere you live, so that I can call on your mother when I have time, andperhaps assist her if it is as you say, and if I find that her case is adeserving one. "

Fan at once gave the address and her mother's name. 

"There now, Charles, " said the lady with a smile. "That is the test; yousee there is no deception here, and I think that I am able to distinguisha genuine case of distress when I meet with one. --Here is a penny, mygirl"--one penny after all this preamble!--"and I trust your poor motherwill find it a help to her. " And then with a smile and a nod she walkedoff, satisfied that she had observed all due precautions in investing herpenny, and that it would not be lost: for he who "giveth to the poorlendeth to the Lord, " but certainly not to all the London poor. Herhusband, with a less high opinion of her perspicacity, for he hadmuttered "Stuff and nonsense" in reply to her last remark, followed, pleased to have the business over. 

Fan remained standing still, undecided whether to go home or not, when toher surprise a big rough-looking workman, without stopping in his walk orspeaking to her, thrust a penny into her hand. That made up the requiredsum of threepence, and turning into Moon Street, she ran home as fast asthose ragged and loose old shoes would let her. 

The candle was still burning on the table, throwing its flickering yellowlight on her mother's form, still sitting in the same listless attitude, staring into the empty grate. The man was now lying on the bed, apparently asleep. 

On her entrance the mother started up, enjoining silence, and held outher hand for the money; but before she could take it her husband awokewith a snort. 

"Drop that!" he growled, tumbling himself hastily off the bed, and Fan, starting back in fear, stood still. He took the coppers roughly from her, cursing her for being so long away, then taking his clay-pipe from themantelpiece and putting on his old hat, swung out of the room; but aftergoing a few steps he groped his way back and looked in again. "Go to bed, Margy, " he said. "Sorry I hit you, but 'tain't much, and we must give andtake, you know. " And then with a nod and grin he shut the door and tookhimself off. 

Meanwhile Fan had gone to her corner and removed her old hat and kickedoff her muddy shoes, and now sat there watching her mother, who haddespondently settled in her chair again. 

"Go to bed, Fan--it's late enough, " she said. 

Instead of obeying her the girl came and knelt down by her side, takingone of her mother's listless hands in hers. 

"Mother"--she spoke in a low tone, but with a strange eagerness in hervoice--"let's run away together and leave him. "

"Don't talk nonsense, child! Where'd we go?"

"Oh, mother, let's go right away from London--right out into the country, far as we can, where he'll never find us, where we can sit on the grassunder the trees and rest. "

"And leave my sticks for him to drink up? Don't you think I'm such asilly. "

"Do--_do_ let's go, mother! It's worse and worse every day, and he'llkill us if we don't. "

"No fear. He'll knock us about a bit, but he don't want a rope round_his_ neck, you be sure. And he ain't so bad neither, when he's notin the drink. He's sorry he hit me now. "

"Oh, mother, I can't bear it! I hate him--I hate him; and he _isn't_my father, and he hates me, and he'll kill me some day when I come homewith nothing. "

"Who says he isn't your father--where did you hear that, Fan?"

"He calls me bastard every day, and I know what that means. Mother, _is_he my father?"

"The brute--no!"

"Then why did you marry him, mother? Oh, we could have been so happytogether!"

"Yes, Fan, I know that _now_, but I didn't know it then. I marriedhim three months before you was born, so that you'd be the child ofhonest parents. He had a hundred pounds with me, but it all went in ayear; and it's always been up and down, up and down with us ever since, but now it's nothing but down. "

"A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Fan in amazement "And who was my father?"

"Go to bed, Fan, and don't ask questions. I've been very foolish to sayso much. You are too young to understand such things. "

"But, mother, I do understand, and I want to know who my father is. Oh, do--do tell me!"

"What for?"

"Because when I know I'll go to him and tell him how--how _he_treats us, and ask him to help us to go away into the country where he'llnever find us any more. " Her mother laughed. "You're a brave girl ifyou'd do that, " she said, her face softening. "No, Fan, it can't bedone. "

"Oh, please tell me, and I'll do it. Why can't it be done, mother?"

"I can't tell you any more, child. Go to bed, and forget all about it. You hear bad things enough in the street, and it 'ud only put badnessinto your head to hear talk of such things. "

Fan's pleading eyes were fixed on her mother's face with a strangemeaning and earnestness in them; then she said:

"Mother, I hear bad things in the street every day, but they don't make_me_ bad. Oh, do tell me about my father, and why can't I go tohim?"

The unhappy woman looked down, and yet could hardly meet those greybeautiful eyes fixed so earnestly on her face. She hesitated, and passedher trembling fingers over Fan's disordered hair, and finally burst intotears. 

"Oh, Fan, I can't help it, " she said, half sobbing. "You have just hiseyes, and it brings it all back when I look into them. It was wicked ofme to go wrong, for I was brought up good and honest in the country; buthe was a gentleman, and kind and good to me, and not a working-man and adrunken brute like poor Joe. But I sha'n't ever see him again. I don'tknow where he is, and he wouldn't know me if he saw me; and perhaps he'sdead now. I loved him and he loved me, but we couldn't marry because hewas a gentleman and me only a servant-girl, and I think he had a wife. But I didn't care, because he was good to me and loved me, and he gave mea hundred pounds to get married, and I can't ever tell you his name, Fan, because I promised never to name him to anyone, and kissed the Book on itwhen he gave me the hundred pounds, and it would be wicked to tell now. And Joe, he wanted to marry me; he knew it all, and took the hundredpounds and said it would make no difference. He'd love you just the same, he said, and never throw it up to me; and that's why I married Joe. Oh, what a fool I was, to be sure! But it can't be helped now, and it's nouse saying more about it. Now go to bed, Fan, and forget all I've said toyou. "

Fan rose and went sorrowfully to her bed; but she did not forget, or tryto forget, what she had heard. It was sad to lose that hope of everseeing her father, but it was a secret joy to know that he had been kindand loving to her poor mother, and that he was a gentleman, and not onelike Joe Harrod; that thought kept her awake in her cold bed for a longtime--long after Joe and his wife were peacefully sleeping side by side. 

CHAPTER II

That troubled evening was followed by a quiet period, lasting fromWednesday to Saturday, during which there were no brawls indoors, and Fanwas free of the hateful task of going out to collect pence in thestreets. Joe had been offered a three or four days' job; he had acceptedit gratefully because it was only for three or four days, and for thatperiod he would be the sober, stolid, British workman. The pleasures ofthe pot-house would claim him on Saturday, when he would have money inhis pockets and the appetite that comes from abstention. 

On Saturday morning after he had left the house at six o'clock, Fanstarted up from her cot and came to her mother's side at the table. 

"Mother, may I go out to the fields to-day?" she asked. "I know if I gostraight along the Edgware Road I'll come to them soon. And I'll be homeearly. "

"No, Fan, don't you try it. It's too far and'll tire you, and you'd behungry and maybe get lost. "

"Can't I take some bread, mother? Do let me go! It will be so nice to seethe fields and trees, and they say it isn't far to walk. "

"You're not fit to be seen walking, Fan. Wait till you've got propershoes to your feet, and a dress to wear. Perhaps I'll git you one nextweek. "

"But if I wait I'll never go! He'll finish his work to-day and spend themoney, and on Monday he'll send me out just the same as before. "

And as she continued to plead, almost with tears, so intent was she onthis little outing, her mother at length gave her consent. She even gother scissors to cut off the ragged fringing from the girl's dress to makeher look more trim, and mended her torn shoes with needle and thread;then cut her a hunk of bread for her dinner. 

"I never see a girl so set on the country, " she said, when Fan was aboutto start, her thin pale face brightening with anticipation. "It's a longtramp up the Edgware Road, and not much to see when you git to thefields. "

There would be much to see, Fan thought, as she set out on herexpedition. She had secretly planned it in her mind, and had thoughtabout it by day and dreamed about it by night--how much there would be tosee!

But the way was long; so long that before she got out of London--out ofthat seemingly endless road with shops on either hand--she began to bevery tired. Then came that wide zone surrounding London, of uncompletedstreets and rows of houses partly occupied, separated by wide spaces withbrick-fields, market-gardens, and waste grounds. Here she might haveturned aside to rest in one of the numerous huge excavations, theirbottoms weedy and grass-grown, showing that they had been long abandoned;but this was not the country, the silent green woods and fields she hadcome so far to seek, and in spite of weariness she trudged determinedlyon. 

At first the day had promised to be fine; now a change came over it, thesky was overcast with grey clouds, and a keen wind from the north-westblew in her face and made her shiver with cold. Many times during thatlong walk she drew up beside some gate or wooden fence, and leanedagainst it, feeling almost too tired and dispirited to proceed further;but she could not sit down there to rest, for people were constantlypassing in traps, carts and carriages, and on foot, and not one passedwithout looking hard at her; and by-and-by, overcoming her weakness, shewould trudge on again, all the time wishing herself back in the miserableroom in Moon Street once more. 

At last she got beyond the builders' zone, into the country; from anelevated piece of ground over which the road passed she was able to seethe prospect for miles ahead, and the sight made her heart sink withinher. The few trees visible were bare of foliage, and the fields, shutwithin their brown ragged hedges, were mostly ploughed and black, and thegreen fields were as level as the ploughed, and there was no shelter fromthe cold wind, no sunshine on the pale damp sward. It was in the middleof October; the foliage and beauty of summer had long vanished; she hadseen the shed autumn leaves in Hyde Park many days ago, yet she hadwalked all the weary distance from Moon Street, cheered with the thoughtthat in the country it would be different, that there would still besunshine and shadow there, and green trees and flowers. It was useless togo on, and impossible in her weak exhausted condition to attempt toreturn at once. The only thing left for her to do was to creep aside andlie down under the shelter of some hedge, and get through the time in thebest way she could. Near the road, some distance ahead, there was anarrow lane with a rough thorny hedge on either side, and thither she nowwent in quest of a shelter of some kind from the rain which was beginningto fall. The lane was on the east side of the road, and under the hedgeon one hand there was an old ditch overgrown with grass and weeds; hereFan crouched down under a bush until the shower was over, then got outand walked on again. Presently she discovered a gap in the hedge largeenough to admit her body, and after peering cautiously through and seeingno person about, she got into the field. It was small, and the hedge allround shut out the view on every side; nevertheless it was a relief to bethere, safe out of sight of all men for a little while. She walked on, still keeping close to the hedge, until she came to a dwarf oak tree, with a deep hollow in the ground between its trunk and the hedge; thehollow was half filled with fallen dead leaves, and Fan, turning themwith her foot, found that under the surface they were dry, and this spotbeing the most tempting one she had yet seen, she coiled herself up inthe leafy bed to rest. And lying there in the shelter, after eating herbread, she very soon fell asleep, in spite of the cold. 

From her sleep, which lasted for some hours, she woke stiff and chilledto the marrow. It was late in the day, and the occasional watery gleamsthe sun shot through the grey clouds came from low down in the westernsky. She started up, and scarcely able at first to use her sore, crampedlimbs, set out on her return. She was hungry and thirsty and sore--sorealso in mind at her disappointment--and the gusty evening wind blewchill, and more than one shower of rain fell to wet her; but she reachedPaddington at last. In the Edgware Road the Saturday evening market wasin full progress when she passed, too tired and miserable to take anyinterest in the busy bustling scene. And by-and-by the dense movingcrowds, noise of bawling costermongers, and glare of gas and naphthatorches were left behind, when she reached the welcome gloom andcomparative quiet of her own squalid street. There was also welcome quietin the top room when she entered, for her parents were out. A remnant offire was in the grate, and the teapot had been left on the fender to keepwarm. Fan poured herself out some tea and drank it thirstily; thenhanging her dress over a chair to dry by the heat of the embers, andnestling into her rickety bed in the corner, she very quickly fellasleep. From her sleep she was at length roused by Mrs. Clark, thelandlady, who with her husband and children inhabited the ground-floor. 

"When did you come in, Fan?" she asked. 

"I think it was half-past seven, " said the girl. 

"Well, your mother went out earlier than that, and now it's half-pastten, and she not in yet. It's a shame for them always to stay out likethat when they've got a bit of money. I think you'd better go and see ifyou can find her, and make her come in. She went to buy the dinner, andlook for Joe in Crawford Street. That's where you'll find her, I'mthinking. "

Fan rose obediently, shivering with cold, her eyes still heavy withsleep, and putting on her damp things went out into the streets again. Ina few minutes she was in Crawford Street. It is long, narrow, crooked, and ill-paved; full of shops, but of a meaner description than those inthe adjacent thoroughfare, with a larger proportion of fishmongers, greengrocers, secondhand furniture and old clothes sellers. Here also wasa Saturday evening market, an overflow from the Edgware Road, composedchiefly of the poorer class of costermongers--the vendors of cheapdamaged fruits and vegetables, of haddock and herring, shell-fish, andrabbits, the skins dangling in clusters at each end of the barrow. Public-houses were numerous here; on the pavement before them groups ofmen were standing, pipe in mouth, idly talking; these were men who hadalready got rid of their week's earnings, or of that portion they hadreserved for their own pleasures, but were not yet prepared to go home, and so miss the chance of a last half-pint of beer from some passingstill solvent acquaintance. There were other larger groups and littlecrowds gathered round the street auctioneers, minstrels, quacks, andjugglers, whose presence in the busier thoroughfare was not tolerated bythe police. 

It was late now, and the money spending and getting nearly over;costermongers, some with half their goods still unsold, were leaving; thegroups were visibly thinning, the doors of the public-houses swinging toand fro less frequently. As Fan hurried anxiously along, she peepedcarefully through the clouded window-panes into the "public bar"department of each drinking place in search of her mother, and paused fora few moments whenever she came to a group of spectators gathered roundsome object of curiosity at a street corner. After satisfying herselfthat her mother was not in the crowd, she would remain for a few momentslooking on with the others. 

At one spot her attention was painfully held by a short, dark, misshapenman with no hands nor arms, but only the stump of an arm, with a sticktied to it. Before him on a rough stand was a board, with half a dozenthick metal wires stretched across it. Rapidly moving his one poor stump, he struck on the wires with his stick and so produced a succession ofsounds that roughly resembled a tune. Poor man, how she pitied him; howmuch more miserable seemed his life than hers! It was cold and damp, yetthe perspiration stood in great drops on his sallow, wasted face as heviolently wriggled his deformed body about, playing without hands on hisrude instrument--all to make a few pence to save himself from starvation, or from that living tomb into which, with a humanity more cruel thanNature's cruelty, we thrust the unfit ones away out of our sight! No onegave him anything for his music, and with a pang in her heart she hurriedaway on her quest. 

Not all the street scenes were ghastly or painful. She came to one crowd, ranged motionless and silent before a large, fat, dignified-looking man, in good broad-cloth garments, white tie, and wearing a fez; he was calmlysitting on a camp-stool, and held a small phial in one hand. Not a worddid he speak for a long time. At length one of the onlookers, a tipsyworking-man, becoming impatient, addressed him:

"Ain't you going to do nothing, mister? Here I've been a-waiting withthese other ladies and gentl'men more'n ten minutes, and you ain't donenothing yet, nor yet said nothing. "

The fat man placed a hand on his broad shirt-front, rolled up his eyes, and solemnly shook his head. 

"Fools, fools!" he said, as if speaking to himself. "But what does itmatter to me if they won't be saved--if they'd rather die of theircomplaints? In the East it's different, because I'm known there. I'vebeen to Constantinople, and Morocco, and everywhere. Let them ask theheathen what I have done for them. Do they think I cure them for the sakeof their dirty pence? No, no; those that like gold, and jewels, andelephants to ride on, can have it all in the East, and I came away fromthere. Because why? I care more for these. _I_ don't ask them what'sthe matter with them! Is there such a thing as a leper in this crowd? Letthem bring me a leper here, and I'll cure him for nothing, just to showthem what this medicine is. As for rheumatics, consumption, toothache, palpitations of the 'art--what you like, that's all nothing. One dropand it's gone. Sarsaparilla, and waters this, and pills that, what theygive their pence for, and expect it's going to do them good. Rubbish, Icall it. They buy it, as much as they can put in their insides, and diejust the same. This is different. Twenty years in the East, and this iswhat I got. Doctors! I laugh at such people. "

Here, with a superior smile, he cast down his eyes again and relapsedinto silence. 

No one laughed. Then Fan heard someone near her remark: "He has book-learning, that's what he has"; to which another voice replied, "Ah, youmay say it, and he has more'n that. "

Next to Fan stood a gaunt, aged woman, miserably dressed, and she, too, listened to these remarks; and presently she pushed her way to the wiseman of the East, and began, "Oh, sir, my heart's that bad--"

"Hush, hush! don't say another word, " he interrupted with a majestic waveof his hand. "You needn't tell me what you have. I saw it all before youspoke. "

He uncorked the phial. "One drop on your tongue will make you whole forever. Poor woman! poor woman! how much you have suffered. I know it all. Sixpence first, if you please. If you were rich I would say a hundredpounds; but you are poor, and your sixpence shall be more to you in theDay of Judgment than the hundred pounds of the rich man. "

With trembling fingers she brought out her money and counted outfivepence-halfpenny. 

"It's ahl I have, " she sorrowfully said, offering it to him. 

He shook his head, and she was about to retire when someone came forwardand placed a halfpenny in her hand. He took his fee, and then all pressedcloser round to watch with intense interest while a drop of brown liquidwas poured on to the poor woman's tongue, thrust far out so that none ofthat balsam of life should be lost. After witnessing this scene, Fanhurried on once more. 

At length, near Blandford Square, she came against a crowd so large thatnothing short of a fight, or the immediate prospect of one, could havecaused it to collect at that late hour. A temporary opening of the crowdenabled her to see into the middle of it, and there, in a small spacewhich had been made for them, two women stood defiantly facing eachother. The dim light from the windows of the public-house they had beendrinking in fell on their heads, and she instantly recognised them both:one was her mother, excited by alcohol and anger; the other a tall, pale-faced, but brawny-looking woman, known in the place as "Long 'Liza, " anoted brawler, once a neighbour of the Harrods in Moon Street, but nowjust out of prison and burning to pay off old scores. In vain Fanstruggled to reach her mother; the ring of people closed up again; shewas flung roughly back and no regard paid to her piteous appeals andsobs. 

It was anguish to her to have to stand there powerless on the outer edgeof the ring of people, to listen to the frantic words of the insult andchallenge of the two women and the cries and cheers of the excited crowd. But it was plain that a war of words was not enough to satisfy theonlookers, that they were bent on making the women come to blows. Thecrowd increased every moment; she was pushed further and further back, and in the hubbub could only catch portions of what the two furious womenwere saying. 

"No, you won't fight, you ----; that's not your way, but wait till one'sdown, and then. .. . And if you got six weeks with hard, it's a pity, Isay, as it wasn't six months. .. . But if I was a ---- blab like you Icould say worse things of you than you and your ---- Moon Street crew cansay of me any day. .. . And you'll out with it if you don't want your headknocked on the stones for nothing. .. . Not by you, you ----; I'm ready, ifyou want to try your strength with me, then we'll see whose head 'ull beknocked on the stones. .. . Yes, I'll fight you fast enough, but first. .. . If you'll have it, where's the girl you send into the streets to beg? Youand your man to git drunk on the coppers she gits! More too if you'd liketo hear it. .. . But you can't say more, nor that neither, you ----. .. . Smash my teeth, then! Who was her father, or did the poor fool marry youoff the streets when he was drunk?"

With a scream and a curse her antagonist sprang at her, and in a momentthey were striking and tearing at each other like a couple of enragedwild animals. With a burst of cheering the people pressed closer round, but after a few moments they interposed and forcibly pulled thecombatants apart. Not that there was any ruth in their hearts, anycompassionate desire to shield these two miserable women of their ownclass from their insane fury; their only fear was that the fighters wouldexhaust themselves too soon, encumbered as they were with their jacketsand shawls. Not one in the throng remembered that he had an old mother, apale-faced wife and little children at home, and sisters, working-girlsperhaps. For the working-man has a sporting instinct as well as hisbetters; he cannot gratify it by seeing stripped athletic men poundingeach other with their fists at Pelican Clubs; he has only the occasionalstreet fight to delight his soul, and the spectacle of two maddened womentearing each other is not one to be ungrateful for. 

Having pulled off their hats and stripped them to their corsets, theirfriends and backers released them with encouraging words and slaps on theback, just as dog-fighters set their dogs on each other. Again there wereyells and curses, tearing of hair and garments, and a blind, mad rain ofblows; until Long 'Liza, striking her foot on the curb, measured herlength on the stones, and instantly her adversary was down on her chest, pounding her face with clenched fists. 

Groans and shouts of protest arose from the onlookers, and then severalof them rushed in and dragged her off, after which the two women were seton their feet and encouraged to renew the fight. Round after round wasfought with unabated fury, invariably ending by one going down, to bestamped on, beaten, and kicked by her opponent until rescued by thespectators, who wished only to prolong the contest. But the last roundended more disastrously; locked in a close tussle, 'Liza exerted herwhole strength to lift her antagonist from the ground and hurl her down, and succeeded, falling heavily on her, then quickly disengaging herselfshe jumped on her as if with the object of trampling her life out, whenonce more the spectators rushed in and dragged her off, still strugglingand yelling with baffled rage. But the fallen woman could not be roused;the back of her head had struck the edge of the kerbstone; she wassenseless, and her loosened hair becoming saturated with fast-flowingblood. 

Fan, sobbing and pressing her hands together in anguish and terror, wasno longer kept back; as if by magic the crowd had dissipated, while halfa dozen men and women surrounded 'Liza and hurried her, still strugglingand cursing, from the ground. Fan was on her knees beside the fallenwoman, trying to raise her; but presently she was pushed roughly aside bytwo policemen who had just arrived on the scene. Of the crowd, numberingabout a hundred and fifty persons, only a dozen or twenty men stilllingered on the spot, and some of these assisted the policemen in raisingthe woman and bathing her head with cold water. Then, finding that shewas seriously injured, they put her into a four-wheeler and drove off toSt. Mary's Hospital. 

Left alone, Fan stood for a few moments not knowing what to do, then sheset off running after the cab, crying as she ran; but it went too fastfor her, and before she got to the end of Crawford Street it was out ofsight. Still she kept on, and at last, crossing Edgware Road, plungedinto a wilderness of narrow dark streets, still hoping to reach St. Mary's not long after the cab. But though well acquainted with thehospital, and all the streets leading to it, on this occasion she becamebewildered, and after wandering about for some time, and feeling utterlyworn-out with her long fatiguing day and the painful emotions she hadexperienced, she sat down on a doorstep in a lonely dark street, notknowing where she had got to. 

Then a poor woman came by and was able to direct her, and she hurried ononce more; but when close to the gate she met her father, who asked herin a surly tone what she did there at that late hour. He had witnessedthe whole fight to the end, only keeping well in the background to escapeobservation, and was just returning from the hospital when he met Fan. Hearing that she was going to see her mother, he ordered her home, sayingthat at the hospital they would admit no one at that hour, and that shemust go in the morning to inquire. Sick with grief and misery, shefollowed him back to Moon Street, which they reached at about half-pasttwelve. 

CHAPTER III

Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday passed sadly and slowly enough, and at fiveo'clock on the evening of the last day Fan was told at St. Mary's--thatMargaret Harrod was dead. During those three miserable days of suspenseshe had spent most of her time hanging about the doors of the hospital, going timidly at intervals to inquire, and to ask to be allowed to seeher mother. But her request was refused. Her mother was suffering fromconcussion of the brain, besides other serious injuries, and continuedunconscious; nothing was to be gained by seeing her. 

Without a word, without a tear, she turned away from the dreary gates andwalked slowly back to Moon Street; and at intervals on her homeward walkshe paused to gaze about her in a dazed way, like a person who hadwandered unknowingly into some distant place where everything wore astrange look. The old familiar streets and buildings were there, the bigshop-windows full of cheap ticketed goods, the cab-stand and thedrinking-fountain, the omnibuses and perpetual streams of' foot-passengers on the broad pavement. She knew it all so well, yet now itlooked so unfamiliar. She was a stranger, lost and alone there in thatplace and everywhere. She was walking there like one in a dream, fromwhich there would be no more waking to the old reality; no more beggingpence from careless passers-by in the street; no more shrinking away andhiding herself with an unutterable sense of shame and degradation fromthe sight of some neighbour or old school acquaintance; no more goingabout in terror of the persecution and foul language of the gangs ofgrown-up boys and girls that spent their evenings in horse-play in thestreets; no more going home to the one being she loved, and who lovedher, whose affection supplied the food for which her heart hungered. 

Arrived at her home, she did not go up as was her custom to her drearyroom at the top, but remained standing in the passage near the landlady'sdoor; and presently Mrs. Clark, coming out, discovered her there. 

"Well, Fan, how's mother now?" she asked in a kind voice. 

"She's dead, " returned Fan, hanging her head. 

"Dead! I thought it 'ud be that! Dear, dear! poor Margy, so strong as shewas only last Saturday, and dead! Poor Margy, poor dear--we was alwaysfriendly"--here she wiped away a tear--"as good a soul as ever breathed!_That_ she was, though she did die like that; but she never had achance, and went to the bad all on account of him. Dead, and he on thedrink--Lord only knows where he gits it--and lying there asleep in hisroom, and his poor wife dead at the hospital, and never thinking how he'sgoing to pay the rent. I've stood it long enough for poor Margy, poordear, because we was friends like, and she'd her troubles the same as me, but I ain't going to stand it from him. That I'll let him know fastenough; and now she's dead he can take himself off, and good riddance. But how're _you_ going to live--begging about the street? A big girllike you--I'm ashamed of such goings on, and ain't going to have it in myhouse. "

Fan shook her head: the slow tears were beginning to fall now. "I'd doanything for mother, " she said, with a half sob, "but she's dead, andI'll never beg more. "

"That's a good girl, Fan. But you always was a good girl, I must say, only they didn't do what's right by you. Now don't cry, poor dear, butrun up to your room and lie down; you're dead tired. "

"I can't go there any more, " murmured Fan, in a kind of despairing way. 

"And what are you going to do? He'll do nothing for you, but 'll onlymake you beg and abuse you. I know Joe Harrod, and only wish he'd got hishead broke instead of poor Margy. Ain't you got no relation you know ofto go to? She was country-bred, Margy was; she come from Norfolk, I oftenheard her say. "

"I've got no one, " murmured Fan. 

"Well, don't cry no more. Come in here; you look starved and tired todeath. When my man comes in you'll have tea with us, and I'll let yousleep in my room. But, Fan, if Joe won't keep you and goes off and leavesyou, you'll have to go into the House, because _I_ couldn't keepyou, if I wanted ever so. "

Fan followed her into her room on the ground-floor: there was a fire inthe grate, which threw a dim flickering light on the dusty-looking wallsand ceiling and the old shabby furniture, but it was very superior to theHarrods' bare apartment, and to the poor girl it seemed a perfect havenof rest. Retreating to a corner she sat down, and began slowly ponderingover the words the landlady had spoken. The "House" she had always beentaught to look on as a kind of prison where those who were unfit to live, and could not live, and yet would not die, were put away out of sight. For those who went to gaol for doing wrong there was hope; not so for thepenniless, friendless incapables who drifted or were dragged into thedreary refuge of the "House. " They might come out again when the weatherwas warm, and try to renew the struggle in which they had suffereddefeat; but their case would be then like that of the fighter who hasbeen felled to the earth, and staggers up, half stunned and blinded withblood, to renew the combat with an uninjured opponent. And yet the wordsshe had heard, while persistently remaining in her mind, did not impressher very much then. She was tired and dazed, and had nothing to live for, and was powerless to think and plan for herself: she was ready to gowherever she was bidden, and ask no questions and make no trouble. So shewent and sat down in a dark corner, without making any reply. With eyesclosed and her tired head resting against the wall, she remained for halfan hour in that impassive state, saying no word in answer to Mrs. Clark'soccasional remarks, as she moved about preparing the six o'clock meal. 

Then the husband came in, and being a silent man, said nothing when hiswife told him that Margaret was dead at the hospital. When she proceededto add that Joe would sell the sticks and go off, leaving Fan on theirhands, and that Fan would have to go to the House, he only nodded hishead and went on with his tea. 

Fan drank her tea and ate her bread-and-butter, and then once morereturned to her seat, and after some time she fell asleep, leaning herhead against the wall. She woke with a start two hours later to findherself alone in the room, but there was still some fire in the grate, and a candle burning on the table. The heavy steps of a man on the stairshad woke her, and she knew that Joe Harrod was coming down from his room. He came and knocked at the door. 

"Is Fan here?" he called huskily. "Where's the girl got to, I'd like toknow?"

She remained silent, shrinking back trembling in her corner; and afterwaiting a while and getting no answer he went grumbling away, andpresently she heard him go out at the street door. Then she sprang to herfeet, and stood for a while intently listening, with a terror and hatredof this man stronger than she had ever felt before urging her to fly andplace herself for ever beyond his reach. Somewhere in this great city shemight find a hiding-place; it was so vast; in all directions the greatthoroughfares stretched away into the infinite distance, bright all nightwith the flaring gas and filled with crowds of people and the noise oftraffic; and branching off from the thoroughfares there were streets, hundreds and thousands of streets, leading away into black silent lanesand quiet refuges, in the shadow of vast silent buildings, and arches, and gateways, where she might lie down and rest in safety. So strong onher was this sudden impulse to fly, that she would have acted on it hadnot Mrs. Clark returned at that moment to the room. 

"Come, Fan, I've made you up a bed in my room, and if he comes botheringfor you to-night, I'll soon send him about his business. Don't you fear, my girl. "

Fan followed her silently to the adjoining room, where a bed of rugs andblankets had been made for her on four or five chairs. For the presentshe felt safe; but she could not sleep much, even on a bed made luxuriousby warmth, for thinking of the morrow; and finally she resolved to slipaway in the morning and make her escape. 

At six o'clock next morning the Clarks were up, one to go to his work, the other to make him his breakfast. When they had left the bedroom Fanalso got up and dressed herself in all haste, and after waiting till sheheard the man leave the house, she went into the next room, and Mrs. Clark gave her some coffee and bread, and expressed surprise at seeingher up so early. Fan answered that she was going out to look forsomething to do. 

"It's not a bit of use, " said the other. "They won't look at you withthem things on. Just you stop in quiet, and I'll see he don't worry you;but by-and-by you'll have to go to the House, for Joe Harrod's not theman to take care of you. They'll feed you and give you decent clothes, and that's something; and perhaps they'll send you to some place wherethey take girls to learn them to be housemaids and kitchen-maids, andthings like that. Don't you go running about the streets, because it'llcome to no good, and I won't have it. "

Fan had intended to ask her to let her go out and try just once, and whenonce clear of the neighbourhood, to remain away, but Mrs. Clark hadspoken so sharply at the last, that she only hung her head and remainedsilent. 

But presently the opportunity came when the woman went away to look aftersome domestic matter, and Fan, stealing softly to the door, opened it, and finding no person in sight, made her escape in the direction ofNorfolk Crescent. Skirting the neighbourhood of squares and gardens andlarge houses, she soon reached Praed[035] Street, and then the HarrowRoad, along which she hurriedly walked; and when it began to grow lightand the shopkeepers were taking down their shutters, she had crossed theRegent's Canal, and found herself in a brick-and-mortar wildernessentirely unknown to her. 

Here she felt perfectly safe for the time, for the Clarks, she felt sure, would trouble themselves no further about her, for she was nothing tothem; and as for Joe Harrod, she had heard them say that he would becalled that day to identify his wife's body at the inquest, and give hisevidence about the way in which she had met her death. 

About these unknown streets Fan wandered for hours in an aimless kind ofway, not seeking work nor speaking to anyone; for the words Mrs. Clarkhad spoken about the uselessness of seeking employment dressed as she wasstill weighed on her mind and made her ashamed of addressing any person. Towards noon hunger and fatigue began to make her very faint; and by-and-by the short daylight would fail, and there would be no food and noshelter for the night. This thought spurred her into action. She wentinto a small side street of poor mean-looking houses and a few shopsscattered here and there among the private dwellings. Into one of these--a small oil-shop, where she saw a woman behind the counter--she at lastventured. 

"What for you?" said the woman, the moment she put her foot inside thedoor. 

"Please do you want a girl to help with work--"

"No, I don't want a girl, and don't know anyone as does, " said the womansharply; then turned away, not well pleased that this girl was no buyerof an honest bundle of wood, a ha'porth of treacle, or a half-ounce ofone-and-four tea; for out of the profits of such small transactions shehad to maintain herself and children. 

Fan went out; but by-and-by recovering a little courage, and urged byneed, she went into other shops, into all the shops in that mean littlestreet at last, but nobody wanted her, and in one or two instances shewas ordered out in sharp tones and followed by sharp eyes lest she shouldcarry off something concealed under her shawl. 

Then she wandered on again, and at length finding a quiet spot, she satdown to rest on a doorstep. The pale October sunshine which had been withher up till now deserted her; it was growing cold and grey, and at last, shivering and faint, she got up and walked aimlessly on once more, resolving to go into the next shop she should come to, and to speak tothe next woman she should see standing at her door, with the hope offinding someone at last to take her in and give her food and a place tolie down in. But on coming to the shop she would pass on; and when shesaw a woman standing outside her door, with keen hard eyes looking herfrom head to foot, she would drop her own and walk on; and at last, through very weariness, she began to lose that painful apprehension ofthe cold night spent out of doors; even her hunger seemed to leave her;she wanted only to sit down and fall asleep and remember no more. By-and-by she found herself again in the Harrow Road, but her brain wasconfused, so that she did not know whether she was going east or west. Itwas growing colder now and darker, and a grey mist was forming in theair, and she could find no shelter anywhere from the cold and mud andmist, and from the eyes of the passers-by that seemed to look sopitilessly at her. The sole of one of her shoes was worn through, and thecold flag-stones of the footway and the mud of the streets made her footnumb, so that she could scarcely lift it. Near Paddington Green--for shehad been for some time walking back towards the Edgware Road--she pausedat the entrance of a short narrow street, running up to the canal. It hada very squalid appearance, and a number of ragged children were runningabout shouting at their play in it, but it was better than thethoroughfare to rest in, and advancing a few yards, she paused on theedge of the pavement and leant against a lamp-post. A few of the dirtychildren came near and stared at her, then returned to their noisy sportswith the others. A little further on women were standing at their doorsexchanging remarks. Presently a thin sad-looking woman, in a rusty blackgown, carrying something wrapped in a piece of newspaper in her hand, came by from the thoroughfare. She paused near Fan, looked at her once ortwice, and said:

"What name be you looking for? The numbers is mostly rubbed off thedoors. Maybe they never had none. "

"I wasn't looking for anyone, " said Fan. 

"I thought you was, seeing you standing as if you didn't know where togo, like. "

Fan shook her head, feeling too tired to say anything. She had no friend, no one she knew even in these poor tenements, and only wished to rest alittle there out of sight of the passing people. The woman was stillstanding still, but not watching her. 

"Maybe you're waiting for someone?" she suggested. 

"No. "

"No? you're not. " And after a further interval she began studying thelittle loosely-wrapped parcel in her hand; and finally, with slowdeliberation, she unfolded it. It contained a bloater: she felt itcarefully as though to make sure that it had a soft roe, and then smeltit to make sure that it was good, after which she slowly wrapped it upagain. "Maybe you've no home to go to, " she remarked tentatively, lookingaway from Fan as if speaking to some imaginary person. 

"No, I haven't, " said Fan. 

"You don't look a bad 'un. P'r'aps they treated you badly and you ranaway. "

Fan nodded. 

"And you've no place to go to, and no money?"

"No. "

Again the woman's eyes wandered absently away; then she began studyingthe parcel, and appeared about to unfold it once more, then thoughtbetter of it, and at last said, still speaking in the same absentmournful tone: "I've got a room to myself up there, " indicating the upperend of the street. "You can come and sleep along with me, if you like. One bloater ain't much for two, but there's tea and bread, and that'll doyou good. "

"Thank you, I'll come, " said Fan, and moving along at her side theywalked about forty yards further on to an open door, before which stood adirty-looking woman with bare folded arms. She moved aside to let thempass, and going in they went up to a top room, small and dingy, furnishedwith a bed, a small deal table, one chair, and a deal box, which servedas a washing-stand. But there was a fire burning in the small grate, witha kettle on; and a cottage loaf, an earthenware teapot with half itsspout broken off, and one cup and saucer, also a good deal damaged, wereon the table, the poor woman having made all preparations for her teabefore going out to buy her bloater. 

"Take off your hat and sit here, " she said, drawing her one cane-bottomedchair near the fire. 

Fan obeyed, putting her hat on the bed, and then sat warming herself, tootired and sad to think of anything. 

Meanwhile her hostess took off her boots and began quietly moving aboutthe room, which was uncarpeted, finishing her preparations for tea. Theherring was put down to toast before the coals and the tea made; then shewent downstairs and returned with a second cup. Finally she drew thelittle table up to the bed, which would serve as a second seat. It wasall so strangely quiet there, with no sound except the kettle singing, and the hissing and sputtering of the toasting herring, that theunaccustomed silence had the effect of rousing the girl, and she glancedat the woman moving so noiselessly about the room. She was not yet pastmiddle age, but had the coarsened look and furrowed skin of one whose lotin life had been hard; her hair was thin and lustreless, sprinkled withgrey, and there was a faraway look of weary resignation in her dim blueeyes. Fan pitied her, and remembering that but for this poor woman'ssympathy she would have been still out in the cold streets, with noprospect of a shelter for the night, she bent down her face and began tocry quietly. 

The woman took no notice, but continued moving about in her subdued way, until all was ready, and then going to the window she stood there gazingout into the mist and darkness. Only when Fan had finished crying shecame back to the fireside, and they sat down to their tea. It was asilent meal, but when it was over, and the few things washed and putaway, she drew the deal box up to the fire and sat down by Fan. Then theytalked a little: Fan told her that her mother was just dead, that she washomeless and trying to find something to do for a living. The woman, onher side, said she worked at a laundry close by. "But they don't want nomore hands there, " she added, in a desponding way. "And you ain't fit forsuch work neither. You must try to find something for yourself to-morrow, and if you can't find nothing, which I don't think you will, come backand sleep with me. It don't cost much to give you tea, and I ain't owingany rent now, and it's company for me, so you needn't mind. "

After this short conversation they went to bed and to sleep, for theywere both tired. 

CHAPTER IV

The result of Fan's second day's search for employment proved no morepromising than the first. She wandered about the Westbourne Parkdistrict, going as far west as Ladbroke Grove Road, still avoiding thestreets, gardens, and squares of the larger houses. But she wasapparently not good enough for even the humbler class of dwellings, forno one would so much as ask her what she could do, or condescend to speakto her, except in one house, to which she had been directed by a woman ina greengrocer's shop; there she was scoffingly asked if she had a"character" and decent clothes to wear. 

When the woman who had given her shelter on the previous evening returnedat five o'clock from her work, she found Fan in Dudley Grove, for thatwas the beautiful name of the slum she lived in, standing, as before, beside the lamp-post; and after a few words of greeting took her to herroom. While preparing the tea she noticed the girl's weak and starvedcondition, for Fan had eaten nothing all day, and went out and presentlyreturned with a better supply of food--brawn, and salt butter, and abundle of water-cress--quite a variety. 

As on the evening before, they sat for a while by the small fire aftertheir meal, speaking a few words, and those not very hopeful ones, andthen presently they went to bed, and to sleep as soon as their headstouched the pillow. After their modest breakfast next morning the womansaid:

"Are you going back to your friends to-day?"

Fan glanced at her in sudden fear and cast down her eyes. 

"You was tired and had nothing to eat yesterday, and couldn't git nothingto do. Didn't it make you wish to go back to them again?"

"No, I'll not go back. I've no friends, " said Fan; and then she addedtimidly, "You don't want me to come back here no more?"

"Yes; you come back if you don't find nothing. The tea and bread ain'tmuch, and I don't mind it, and it's company to me to have you. "

And without more words they went out together, separating in the HarrowRoad. 

On this morning Fan took a different route, and going south soon foundherself in wide, clean streets, among very big stuccoed and paintedhouses. It was useless to seek for anything there, she thought, and yetpresently something happened in this place to put a new hope into herheart. It was very early, and at some of the houses the cooks or kitchen-maids were cleaning the doorsteps, and while passing one of these doorsshe was accosted by the woman and asked if she would clean the steps. Sheconsented gladly enough, and received a penny in payment. Then sheremembered that she had often seen poor girls, ill-dressed as herself, cleaning the steps of large houses, and had heard that the usual paymentwas one penny for the task. After walking about for some time she begantimidly ringing the area bells of houses where the steps had not yet beencleaned, and asking if a girl was wanted to do them. Almost invariablyshe was sent away with an emphatic "No!" from a servant angry at beingdisturbed; but twice again during that day she received a penny for step-cleaning, so that she had earned threepence. After midday, finding shecould get no more work, and feeling faint with hunger, she bought a pennyloaf, and going to a shelter facing the fountains in Kensington Gardens, made her modest dinner, and rested afterwards until it was time to returnto Dudley Grove. 

In the evening as she sat by the fire after tea she gave an account ofher success, and exhibited the two remaining pence, offering them to thepoor woman who had sheltered her. 

She only shook her head. "You'll maybe want something to eat to-morrow, "she said; and presently continued, "Step-cleaning ain't no good. There'stoo many at it. And you a growing girl, and always hungry, you'd starveat it. Saturdays is not bad, because there's many houses where they onlyclean the steps once a week, and they has a girl to do it. You might makesixpence or a shilling on a Saturday. But other days is bad. You can'tlive at it. There's nothing you can do to live. "

Fan was profoundly discouraged; but thinking over the subject, sheremembered that she had seen other girls out on the same quest as herselfthat day, and though all of them had a dirty draggled look, as wasnatural considering the nature of the work, some of them, at all events, looked well-fed, healthy, and not unhappy, and this had made her morehopeful. At last she said:

"If other girls get their living at it, why can't I? If I could makesixpence a day, couldn't I live on that?"

"No, nor yet on ninepence, nor yet on a shilling. You're a tall growinggirl, and you ain't strong, and you are hungry, and want your dinner inthe middle of the day; and if you don't get it, you'll be down ill, andthen what'll you do? You can't do it on sixpence, nor yet on a shilling, because you've got no home to go to, and must pay for a room; and no oneto find you clothes and shoes, you must buy them. Them girls you see arestronger than you, and have homes to go to, and don't go about like youto find steps to clean, but go to the houses they know, where they alwaysclean the steps. And they don't get only a penny; they get tuppence, andmake a shilling a day--some of them as knows many houses; and onSaturdays they make more'n three shillings. But you can't do it, becauseyou don't know nobody, and have no clothes and no home, and there's toomany before you. "

It looked as if this poor woman had worked at step-cleaning herself for aliving, she was so pessimistic about it, and appeared to be so veryfamiliar with the whole subject. People never believe that a fortune isto be made at any business in which they have been unsuccessfulthemselves. 

Fan was discouraged, but there was nothing else for her to do, and it washard for her to give up this one chance. 

"Won't you let me try just a few days?" she asked at length. 

"Yes, you can try; but it ain't no use, there's so many at it. In a fewdays your clothes'll be dropping off you, and then what'll you do? It'srough work, and not fit for a girl like you. I don't mind, because yourtea don't cost much, and it's company to have you here, as it ain't allgiving, but it's give-and-take like between us. "

The same dreary words were repeated evening after evening, when Fanreturned from her daily peregrinations; but still the poor girl hopedagainst hope, and clung desperately to the only occupation she had beenable to discover. It was a hard miserable life, and each succeeding dayonly seemed to bring her nearer to the disastrous end prophesied by themournful laundrywoman of Dudley Grove. How weary she often was withwalking hour after hour, sometimes feeling so famished that she couldhardly refrain from picking up the orange-peels from the street toappease the cruel pangs of hunger! And when she was more lucky and hadsteps to clean, then the wet and grime of the hearthstone made her poorgown more worn and soiled and evil-looking than ever, while her shoeswere in such a state that it was hard, by much mending every evening, tokeep them from falling to pieces. Every day seemed to bring her nearer tothe end, when she would be compelled to sit down and say "I can do nomore--I must starve"; yet with the little renewal of strength which theevening meal and drearily-expressed sympathy of her friend and thenight's rest would bring her, she would go forth each morning to wanderabout for another day. 

Ten or twelve days had gone by in this way, and acting on a littlepractical advice given by the poor laundrywoman, she had forsaken theneighbourhood of squares and big houses close to Hyde Park to go furtherafield into the district lying west of Westbourne Grove, where the houseswere smaller, and fewer servants were kept in them. 

About ten o'clock one morning she stopped before a house in Dawson Place, a wide clean street of pretty detached, moderate-sized houses, each witha garden in front and a larger garden and trees behind. The house had atrim well-kept appearance, and five or six broad white steps led up tothe front door, which was painted deep blue. Fan, looking critically atthe steps, could not make out whether they had been already cleaned ornot, so white and clean, yet dry, did they look. And the steps of all thehouses in Dawson Place had the same white look, so that there seemed nochance of anything for her to do there; but she felt tired already, andstood resting beside the area gate, not venturing to ring. 

By-and-by the front door opened and a lady came out and down the steps, and on reaching the pavement stood still and looked hard at Fan. She wastall, and had a round shapely figure, a well-developed bust, and lookedabout five-and-twenty years old. Fan thought her marvellously beautiful, but felt a little frightened in her presence, she was so tall andstately, and her face had such a frowning, haughty expression. Beautifulwomen-faces had always had a kind of fascination for her--the gentle, refined face, on which she would gaze with a secret intense pleasure, anda longing to hear some loving word addressed to herself from a sisterwith sweet lips, so strong that it was like a sharp pain at her heart. The proud masterful expression of this beautiful face affected herdifferently--she feared as well as admired. 

The lady was fashionably dressed, and wore a long dark blue velvetjacket, deeply trimmed with brown fur, and under the shadow of a ratherbroad fur hat her hair looked very black and glossy; her straighteyebrows were also black, and her eyes very dark, full and penetrating. Her skin was of that beautiful rich red colour not often seen in Londonladies, and more common in Ireland than in England. Her features werefine, the nose slightly aquiline, the red lips less full, and the mouthsmaller than is usual in faces of so luxuriant a type; a shapely, beautiful mouth, which would have been very sweet but for its trick oflooking scornful. 

"What do you want?" she said in a sharp imperative tone--just the toneone would have expected from so imperious-looking a dame. 

"Please, do you want the steps cleaned?" Fan asked very timidly. 

"No, of course not. What an absurd little goose you must be to ask such athing! Servants are kept for such a purpose. "

For a few moments Fan still remained standing there, her eyes cast down, then shyly glanced up at that richly-coloured beautiful face, andencountered the dark strong eyes intently watching her. 

"Yes, you may clean them, " said the lady. "When you have finished go downto the kitchen, and tell the cook to pay you and give you something toeat. " Then she walked away, but after going about a dozen yards, cameback and sharply rang the area-bell to bring out the cook, and repeatedthe order to her. 

"Very well, ma'am, " said the cook, wiping her hands on her apron; but shedid not return at once to her kitchen, for her mistress was stillstanding there watching Fan. 

"Never mind, cook, you needn't pay her, " said the lady, speaking again. "Let her wait in the kitchen till I return. I am going to the Grove, andshall be back in half an hour. "

Then she walked away, her head well up, and with that stately bird-likegait seen in some women. When Fan had finished the steps she went intothe kitchen, and the cook gave her some bread and cheese and a glass ofale, which revived her and made her more strong and hopeful than she hadfelt for many a day. Then she began to wonder what the fine lady wasgoing to say to her, and whether she would give her twopence instead ofthe usual penny. Or perhaps it was intended to present her with an oldgown or pair of boots. Such things had happened, she knew, and thethought that such a thing might happen again, and to her, made her heartbeat fast; and though it was so pleasant resting there in that brightwarm kitchen, she began to wish for the lady's return, so that hersuspense might end. And while she sat there occupied with her thoughts, the cook, a staid-looking woman of about forty--the usual age of theLondon cook--made up her fire and went about doing a variety of things, taking no notice of her guest. 

Then the housemaid came running down the stairs singing into the kitchen, dusting-brush and dust-pan in her hands--a pretty girl with dark merrybright eyes, and her brown hair worn frizzled on her forehead. 

"My!" she exclaimed, starting back at seeing Fan. And after surveying herfor some time with a mocking smile playing about the corners of herpretty ripe mouth, she said, "Is this one of your poor relations, Mrs. Topping?"

"No, Rosie; that she ain't. The missus gave her the steps to clean, andtold her to wait here till she got back. "

The maid burst into a ringing peal of laughter. "Fancy, Miss Starbrow!"she exclaimed. "Where do you come from?" she continued, addressing Fan. "Whitechapel? Seven Dials?"

Fan reddened with shame and anger, and refused to reply: stubborn silencewas her only shield against those who scoffed at her extreme poverty; andthat this pretty girl was mocking her she knew very well. Then the maidsat down and stared at her, and amused herself and fellow-servant withmalicious comments on Fan's dress. 

"May I ask you, miss, where you got that lovely hat?" she said. "FromMadame Elise? Why, of course, how could I ask! I assure you it is mostcharmingly becoming. I shall try to get one like it, but I'm afraid Ican't go beyond six guineas. And your shawl--a Cashmere, I see. A presentfrom her Majesty, no doubt. "

"Oh, do be quiet, Rosie; you'll kill me!" cried the cook, overcome withlaughter at such exquisite wit. But Rosie, seeing the effects of it, onlybecame more lively and satirical, until Fan, goaded beyond endurance, started up from her seat, determined to make her escape. Fortunately atthat moment the lady of the house returned, and the maid scampered off toopen the door to her. Soon she returned and dropped Fan a mockingcurtsey. "Please follow me this way, " she said. "Miss Starbrow regretsthat she has been detained so long, and is now quite ready to receiveyou. "

Fan followed her up the kitchen stairs to the hall, where Miss Starbrow, with her hat on as she had come in, stood waiting to see her. She lookedkeenly at the girl's flushed and tearful face, and turned to Rosie for anexplanation; but that lively damsel, foreseeing storms, had alreadyvanished up the stairs. 

"Has she been teasing you?" said the lady. "Well, never mind, don't thinkany more about it. She's an impudent hussy, I know--they all are, and onehas to put up with them. Now sit down here and tell me your name, andwhere you live, and all about yourself, and why you go out cleaning stepsfor a living. "

Then she also sat down and listened patiently, aiding with an occasionalquestion, while the girl in a timid, hesitating way related the principalevents in her unhappy life. 

"Poor girl!" was Miss Starbrow's comment when the narrative was finished. She had drawn off her glove and now took Fan's hand in hers. "How can youdo that hard rough work with such poor thin little hands?" she said. "Letme look at your eyes again--it is so strange that you should have sucheyes! You don't seem like a child of such people as your parents were. "

Fan glanced timidly at her again, her eyes brightening, a red colourflushing her pale cheeks, and her lips quivering. 

"You have an eloquent face--what do you wish to say?" asked the lady. 

Fan still hesitated. 

"Trust me, my poor girl, and I shall help you. Then is something in yourmind you would like to say. "

Then Fan, losing all fear, said:

_"He_ was not my father--the man that married mother. My father wasa gentleman, but I don't know his name. "

"I can very well believe it. Especially when I look at your eyes. "

"Mother said my eyes were just like my father's, " said Fan, with growingconfidence and a touch of pride. 

"Perhaps they are like his in one way, my poor girl, " said the other, alittle frown clouding her forehead. "In another way they are verydifferent, I should think. No one who ever did a cruel thing could havehad that expression in his eyes. "

After sitting in silence for some time, still with that frown on herbeautiful face, her eyes resting thoughtfully on the tessellated floor, she roused herself, and taking out her purse, gave Fan half-a-crown. 

"Go home now, " she said, "and come again to-morrow at the same hour. "

Fan went from the door with a novel sense of happiness filling her heart. At intervals she took out the half-crown from her pocket to look at it. What a great broad noble coin it looked to her eyes! It was old--nearlyseventy years old--and the lines on it were blurred, and yet it seemedwonderfully bright and beautiful to Fan; even the face of George theThird on it, which had never been called beautiful, now really seemed soto her. But very soon she ceased thinking about the half-crown and allthat it represented; it was not that which caused the strange happinessin her heart, but the gentle compassionate words that the proud-lookinglady had spoken to her. Never before had so sweet an experience come toher; how long it would live in her memory--the strange tender words, thekindly expression of the eyes, the touch of the soft white hand--torefresh her like wine in days of hunger and weariness!

It was early still in the day, and many hours before she could return toDudley Grove; and so she continued roaming about, and found anotherdoorstep to clean, and received threepence for cleaning it, to hersurprise. With the threepence she bought all the food she required. Thehalf-crown she would not break into; that must be shown to the poorwasher-woman just as she had received it. When the woman saw it in theevening she was very much astonished, and expressed the feeling, if it benot a contradiction to say so, by observing a long profound silence. Butlike the famous parrot she "thought the more, " and at length she gave itas her opinion that the lady intended taking Fan as a servant in herhouse. 

"Oh, do you really think so?" exclaimed Fan, becoming excited at theprospect of such happiness. And after a while she added, "Then I'll leaveyou the half-crown for all you've done for me. "

The poor woman would not listen to such a proposal; but next morning sheconsented to take charge of it, promising, if Fan should not return, touse it. 

CHAPTER V

Fan did not fail to be at Dawson Place at the time, or a little beforethe time, appointed. "Oh, I hope that girl won't open the door when Iring, " she said to herself, giving the door-bell a little hesitatingpull. But the summons was promptly answered by the undesirable person inquestion, and she greeted the visitor with a mocking curtsey. She hadlittle time, however, in which to make Fan miserable, for Miss Starbrowwas quickly on the scene, looking very gracious and very beautiful in adark red morning gown. 

"Come here and sit down, " she said, placing herself in one hall chair andmaking Fan take the other. "Now listen. Would you like to come and livehere as my servant? You are not fit for such a place, I know--at allevents, not at present; and I should not put you with the other servants, and upstairs you could do nothing. However that does not signify. Thething is this. If you would like to come and live with me you must stayhere now, and never go back to those places where you have lived, and tryif possible to forget all about them. "

"Oh yes, ma'am, I promise!" she replied, trembling with joy at the verythought of escaping from that life of bitter want and anxiety. 

"Very well, that's settled then. Come this way with me. "

She then led the way to a large bath-room, a few steps above thefirst-floor landing. 

"Now, " she said, "undress yourself, and put all your clothes and hat andshoes in a bundle in the corner--they are shocking to look at, and mustbe taken away--and give yourself a hot bath. See, I am turning on thewater for you. That will be enough. And stay in as long as you like, orcan, and try not only to wash off all the dirt on your skin, but allthought and recollection of Moon Street and Harrow Road and doorsteps, and all the foul evil things you have seen and heard in your life; andwhen you have washed all that off, Fan, and dried yourself, wrap thisshawl around you, and run into that open room you see facing the bath. "

Left to herself, Fan proceeded to obey the instructions she had received. It was a great luxury to be in that smooth enamelled basin, where shecould lie at full length and move her limbs freely about, experiencingthe delicious sensation of the hot water over her whole body at the sametime. 

In the dressing-room she found her mistress waiting for her. There wereclothes there ready for her, and now, for the first time in her life, shedressed herself in new, clean, sweet garments, over all a gown of a softgrey material, loose at the waist, and reaching nearly to the ankles--akind of "Maid Marian" costume. There were also black stockings and newshoes. Everything fitted well, although they had all been made the daybefore by guess in Westbourne Grove. 

Miss Starbrow made her stand in the middle of the room, and turned herround, while Fan glanced shyly at her own reflection in the tall cheval-glass, almost wondering "if this be I. "

"Yes, that will do well enough for the present, " said her mistress. "Butyour hair is all uneven, Fan, and such lovely hair to be spoilt bybarbarous neglect. Let me cut it even for you, and by-and-by we'll findout how to arrange it. Well, no; just now it looks best hanging loose onyour back. When it grows long again, we'll put it up. Now come here tothe light, and let me, see what you're like. Nearly fifteen years old, and pale and very thin, poor girl, which makes you look tall. Goldenhair, good features, and a very pure skin for a girl who has lived agrimy life. And your eyes--don't be afraid to show them, Fan. If you hadnot looked at me yesterday with those eyes, I should have thought no moreabout you. Long lashes. Eyes grey--yes, grey decidedly, though at timesthey look almost sapphire blue; but the pupils are so large--that isperhaps the secret of their pathetic expression. That will do. You thinkit strange, do you not, Fan? that I should take you into my house andclothe you--a poor homeless girl; for I don't suppose that you can doanything for me, and you will therefore only be an extra expense. A greatpiece of folly, my friends would probably say. But don't be afraid, Icare nothing for what others say. What I do, I do only to please myself, and not others. If I am disappointed in you, and find you different fromwhat I imagine, I shall not keep you, and there will be an end of it all. Now don't look so cast-down; I believe that you are at heart a good, pure, truthful girl. I think I can see that much in your eyes, Fan. Andthere is, after all, something you can do for me--something which few cando, or do so well, which will be sufficient payment for all I am doingfor you. "

"Oh, ma'am, will you please tell me what it is?" exclaimed Fan, her voicetrembling with eagerness. 

"Perhaps you will do it without my telling you, Fan. I shall leave you tothink about it and find out what it is for yourself. I must only tell youthis; I have not taken you into my house because I am charitable and likedoing good to the poor. I am not charitable, and care nothing about thepoor. I have taken you in for my own pleasure; and as I think well ofyou, I am going to trust you implicitly. You may stay in this room when Iam out, or go into the back room on this floor, where you can look out onthe garden, and amuse yourself with the books and pictures till I comeback. I am going out now, and at one o'clock Rosie will give you somedinner. Take no notice of her if she teases you. Mind me, and not theservants--they are nothing. "

Miss Starbrow then changed her dress and went out, leaving Fan to her owndevices, wondering what it was that she could do for her mistress, andfeeling a little trouble about the maid who would give her her dinner atone o'clock; and after a while she went to explore that apartment at theback Miss Starbrow had spoken of. It was a large room, nearly square, with cream-coloured walls and dark red dado, and a polished floor, partlycovered with a Turkish carpet; but there was very little furniture in it, and the atmosphere seemed chill and heavy, for it was the old unrenewedair of a room that was never used. On a large centre table a number ofartistic objects were lying together in a promiscuous jumble: Japaneseknick-knacks; an ivory card-case that had lost its cover, and a broken-bladed paper-knife; glove and collar and work-boxes of sandal-wood, mother-of-pearl, and papier-mâché, with broken hinges; faded fans andchipped paper-weights; gorgeous picture-books with loosened covers, and amagnificent portrait-album which had been deflowered and had nothing leftin it but the old and ugly, the commonplace middle-aged, and the vapidyoung; with many other things besides, all more or less defective. 

This round table seemed like an asylum and last resting-place of thingswhich had never been useful, and had ceased to be ornamental, which wereyet not quite bad enough to be thrown into the dust-bin. To Fan it was asort of South Kensington Museum, where she was permitted to handle thingsfreely, and for some time she continued inspecting these rich treasures, after which she once more began to glance round the room. Such a statelyroom, large enough to shelter two or three families, so richly decoratedwith its red and cream colours, yet silent and cold and dusty anduntenanted! On the mantelpiece of grey marble stood a large ornamentalclock, which ticked not and the hands of which were stationary, supportedon each side by bronzes--a stalwart warrior in a coat of mail in the actof drawing his sword, and a long-haired melancholy minstrel playing on aguitar. A few landscapes in oil were also hanging on the walls--representations of that ideal world of green shade and peace which was sooften in Fan's mind. Facing the fireplace stood a tall bookcase, andopening it she selected a book full of poetry and pictures, and took itto an old sofa, or couch, to read. The sofa was under the large window, which had panes of coloured glass, and remembering that Miss Starbrow hadtold her that it looked on to the garden, she got on to the sofa andpushed the heavy sash up. 

There was a good-sized garden without, and trees in it--poplar, lime, andthorn, now nearly leafless; but it was very pleasant to see them and tofeel the mild autumn air on her face, so pleasant that Fan thought nomore about her book. Ivy grew in abundance against the walls of thegarden, and there were laurel and other evergreen shrubs in it, and a fewChina asters--white, red, and purple--still blooming. No sound came toher at that quiet back window, except the loud glad chirruping of thesparrows that had their home there. How still and peaceful it seemed! Thepale October sunshine--pale, but never had sunshine seemed so divine, solike a glory shining on earth from the far heavenly throne--fell lightingup the dark leaves of ivy and laurel, stiff and green and motionless asif cut out of malachite, and the splendid red and purple shields of theasters; and filling the little dun-coloured birds with such joy thattheir loud chirping grew to a kind of ringing melody. 

Oh, that dark forsaken room in Moon Street, full of bitter memories ofmiserable years! Oh, poor dead mother lying for ever silent and cold inthe dark earth! Oh, poor world-weary woman in Dudley Grove, and all thecountless thousands that lived toiling, hungry, hopeless lives in squalidLondon tenements--why had she, Fan, been so favoured as to be carriedaway from it all into this sweet restful place? Why--why? Then, evenwhile she asked, wondering, thinking that it was all like a strangebeautiful dream, unable yet to realise it, suddenly as by inspiration themeaning of the words Miss Starbrow had spoken to her flashed into hermind; and the thought made her tremble, the blood rushed to her face, andshe felt her eyes growing dim with tears of joy. Was it true, could it betrue, that this proud, beautiful lady--how much more beautiful now toFan's mind than all other women!--really loved her, and that to be lovedwas all she desired in return? She was on her knees on the sofa, her armsresting on the window-sill, and forgetful now of the sunshine and leavesand flowers, and of the birds on the brown twigs talking together intheir glad ringing language, she closed her eyes and resigned herselfwholly to this delicious thought. 

"Oh, here you are, sly little cat! Who said you might come into thisroom?"

Fan, starting up in alarm, found herself confronted with the prettyhousemaid. But the pretty eyes were sparkling vindictively, the breathcoming short and quick, and the pretty face was white with resentment. 

"The lady told me to come here, " returned Fan, still a little frightened. 

"Oh, did she! and pray what else did she tell you? And don't lie, becauseI shall find you out if you do. "

Fan was silent. 

"You won't speak, you little sneak! When your mistress is out you mustmind _me_--do you hear? Go instantly and take your filthy rags tothe dust-bin, and ask cook for a bottle of carbolic acid to throw overthem. We don't want any of your nasty infectious fevers brought here, ifyou please. "

Fan hesitated a few moments, and then replied, "I'll only do what thelady tells me. "

"You'll only do what the lady tells you!" she repeated, with a mockingwhine. Then, in unconscious imitation of the scornful caterpillar in thewonderful story of Alice, she added, "You! And who are _you_! ShallI tell you what you are? A filthy, ragged little beggar picked out of thegutter, a sneaking area thief, put into the house for a spy! You vilecat, you! A starving mangy cur! Yes, I'll give you your dinner; I'll feedyou on swill and dog-biscuits, and that's better than you ever had inyour life. You, a diseased, pasty-faced little street-walker, too badeven for the slums, to keep you, to be dressed up and waited on byrespectable servants! How dare you come into this house! I'd like towring your miserable sick-chicken's neck for you!"

She was in a boiling rage, and stamped her foot and poured out her wordsso rapidly that they almost ran into each other; but Fan's whole previouslife had served to make her indifferent to hard words, however unjust, and the housemaid's torrent of abuse had not the least effect. 

Rosie, on her side, finding that her rage was wasted, sat down to recoverherself, and then began to jeer at her victim, criticising herappearance, and asking her for the cast-off garments--"for which yourla'ship will have no further use. " Finding that her ridicule was receivedin the same silent passive way, she became more demonstrative. "Somebody's been trimming you, " she said. "I s'pose Miss Starbrow wasyour barber--a nice thing for a lady! Well, I never! But there's onething she forgot. Here's a pair of scissors. Now, little sick monkey, sitstill while I trim your eyelashes. It'll be a great improvement, I'msure. Oh, you won't! Well, then I'll soon make you. " And putting the pairof small scissors between her lips, she seized Fan by the arms and triedto force her down on the sofa. Fan resisted silently and with all herstrength, but her strength was by no means equal to Rosie's, and after adesperate struggle she was overcome and thrown on to the couch. 

"Now, will you be quiet and let me trim you!" said the maid. 

"No. "

In speaking, Rosie had dropped the scissors from her mouth, and not beingable to use her hands occupied in holding her victim down, she could donothing worse than make faces, thrust out her tongue, and finally spit atFan. Then she thought of something better. "If you won't be quiet and letme trim you, " she said, "I'll pinch your arms till they're black andblue. "

No reply being given, she proceeded to carry out her threat, and Fan sether teeth together and turned her face away to hide the tears. At lengththe other, tired of the struggle, released her. Fan bared her arm, displaying a large discoloration, and moistened it with her mouth tosoothe the pain. She had a good deal of experience in bruises. "It'll beblack by-and-by, " she said, "and I'll show it to the lady when she comesback. "

"Oh, you'll show it to her, you little tell-tale sneak! Then I'll be evenwith you and put rat's-bane in your dinner. "

"Why don't you leave me alone, then?" said Fan. 

Rosie considered for some time, and finally said, "I'll leave you aloneif you'll tell me what you are here for--everything about yourself, mind, and no lies; and what Miss Starbrow is going to do with you. "

"I don't know, and I sha'n't say a word more, " returned Fan, whereuponRosie slapped her face and ran out of the room. 

In spite of the rough handling she had been subjected to, and the pain inher arm, Fan very soon recovered her composure. Her happiness was toogreat to be spoiled by so small a matter, and very soon she returned toher place at the open window and to her pleasant thoughts. 

About midday the maid came again bringing a tray. "Here's your food, starved puppy; lap it up, and may it choke you, " she said, and left theroom. 

After she had been gone a few minutes, Fan, beginning to feel hungry, went to the table, and found a plate of stewed meat and vegetables, withbread and cheese, and a glass of ale. But over it all Rosie had carefullysprinkled ashes, and had also dropped a few pinches into the ale, makingit thick and muddy. Now, although on any previous day of her hungryorphaned existence she would have wiped off the ashes and eaten the food, on this occasion she determined not to touch it. Her new surroundings anddress, and the thought that she was no longer without someone to care forher, had served to inspire in her a pride which was stronger than hunger. Presently she noticed that the door had a key to it, and in herindignation at the maid's persecution she ran and locked it, resolved tolet the dinner remain there untasted until Miss Starbrow should return. 

Presently Rosie came back, and finding the door locked, began knockingand calling. "Open, you cat!" she cried. "I must take the things down, now you've gobbled up your pig's food. Open, you spiteful little devil!"

"I haven't touched the dinner, and I sha'n't open the door till the ladycomes, " she answered, and would say no more. 

After a good deal more abuse, Rosie in despair went away; but presentlythe cook came up, and Fan opened to her. She had a second supply of foodand beer, without any ashes in it this time, and put it on the table. "Now, have your dinner, miss, " she said, with mock humility. She wastaking away the first tray, but at the door she paused and, looking back, said, "You won't say nothing to the missus, will you, miss?"

"If she'll let me be I'll not say anything, " said Fan. 

"Very well, miss, she won't trouble you no more. But, lors, she don'tmean no harm; it's only her little funny ways. " And having thus explainedand smoothed matters over, she went off to the kitchen. 

About five o'clock Miss Starbrow came in and found Fan still sitting bythe open window in the darkening room. 

"Why, my poor girl, you must be half frozen, " she said, coming to thesofa. 

But how little Fan felt the chill evening air, when she started up at thekind greeting, her eyes brightening and her face flushing with thatstrange new happiness now warming her blood and making her heart beatquick!

"Oh no, ma'am, I'm not a bit cold, " she said. 

The other pulled off her glove and touched the girl's cheek with herfingers. 

"Your skin feels cold enough, anyhow, " she returned. "Come into my room;it is warmer there. "

Fan followed into the adjoining large bedroom, where a bright fire wasburning in the grate; and Miss Starbrow, taking off her hat and cloak, sat down. After regarding the girl for some time in silence, she saidwith a little laugh, "What can I do with you, Fan?"

Fan was troubled at this, and glanced anxiously at the other's face, onlyto drop her eyes abashed again; but at last, plucking up a littlecourage, she said:

"Will you please let me do something in the house, ma'am?" And after afew moments she added, "I wish I could do something, and--and be yourservant. "

Miss Starbrow laughed again, and then frowned a little and sat silent forsome time. 

"The fact is, " she said at length, "now that you are here I don't quiteknow what to do with you. However, that doesn't signify. I took you formy own pleasure, and it doesn't make much difference to have you in thehouse, and if it did I shouldn't care. But you must look after yourselffor the present, as I have just got rid of one servant and there are onlytwo to do everything. They are anxious for me not to engage a third justnow, and prefer to do all the work themselves, which means, I suppose, that there will be more plunder to divide between them. "

"And can't I help, ma'am?" said Fan, whose last words had not yet beenanswered. 

"I fancy you would look out of place doing housework, " said MissStarbrow. "It strikes me that you are not suited for that sort of thing. If it hadn't been so, I shouldn't have noticed you. The only way in whichI should care to employ you would be as lady's-maid, and for that you areunfit. Perhaps I shall have you taught needlework and that kind of thingby-and-by, but I am not going to bother about it just now. For thepresent we must jog along just how we can, and you must try to makeyourself as happy as you can by yourself. "

Just then the housemaid came up with tea for her mistress. 

"Get me another cup--a large one, and some more bread-and-butter, " saidMiss Starbrow. 

"The young person's tea is in the back room, ma'am, " returned Rosie, witha tremor in her voice. 

Miss Starbrow looked at her, but without speaking; the maid instantlyretired to obey the order, and when she set the cup and plate of bread-and-butter on the tray her hand trembled, while her mistress, with aslight smile on her lips, watched her face, white with suppressed rage. 

After tea, during which Miss Starbrow had been strangely kind and gentleto the girl, she said:

"Perhaps you can help me take off my dress, Fan, and comb out my hair. "

This was strange work for Fan, but her intense desire to do something forher mistress partly compensated for her ignorance and awkwardness, andafter a little while she found that combing those long rich black tresseswas an easy and very delightful task. Miss Starbrow sat with eyes half-closed before the glass, only speaking once or twice to tell Fan not tohurry. 

"The longer you are with my hair the better I like it, " she said. 

Fan was only too glad to prolong the task; it was such a pleasure to feelthe hair of this woman who was now so much to her; if the glass had notbeen before them--the glass in which from time to time she saw the half-closed eyes studying her face--she would more than once have touched thedark tresses she held in her hand to her lips. 

Miss Starbrow, however, spoke no more to her, but finishing her dressingwent down to her seven o'clock dinner, leaving Fan alone by the fire. After dinner she came up again and sat by the bedroom fire in the darkroom. Then Rosie came up to her. 

"Captain Horton is in the drawing-room, ma'am, " she said. 

Miss Starbrow rose to go to her visitor. 

"You can stay where you are, Fan, until bed-time, " she said. "And by-and-by the maid will give you some supper in the back room. Is Rosie impudentto you--how has she been treating you to-day?"

Fan was filled with distress, remembering her promise, and cast down hereyes. 

"Very well, say nothing; that's the best way, Fan. Take no notice of whatanyone says to you. Servants are always vile, spiteful creatures, andwill act after their kind. Good-night, my girl, " and with that she wentdownstairs. 

Fan sat there for half an hour longer in the grateful twilight and warmthof that luxurious room, and then Rosie's voice startled her crying at thedoor:

"Doggie! doggie! come and have its supper. "

Fan got up and went to the next room, where her supper and a lighted lampwere on the centre table. Rosie followed her. 

"Can you tell the truth?" she said. 

"Yes, " returned Fan. 

"Well, then, have you told Miss Starbrow?"

"No. "

"Did she ask you anything?"

"Yes, and I didn't tell her. "

"Oh, how very kind!" said Rosie; and giving her a box on the ear, ran outof the room. 

Not much hurt, and not caring much, Fan sat down to her supper. Returningto the bedroom she heard the sound of the piano, and paused on thelanding to listen. Then a fine baritone voice began singing, and wassucceeded by a woman's voice, a rich contralto, for they were singing aduet; and voice following voice, and anon mingling in passionate harmony, the song floated out loud from the open door, and rose and seemed to fillthe whole house, while Fan stood there listening, trembling with joy atthe sound. 

The singing and playing continued for upwards of an hour, and Fan stillkept her place, until the maid came up with a candle to show her to herbedroom. They went up together to the next floor into a small neatly-furnished room which had been prepared for her. 

"Here's your room, " said Rosie, setting down the candle on the table, "and now I'm going to give you a good spanking before you go to bed. "

"If you touch me again I'll scream and tell Miss Starbrow everything, "said Fan, plucking up a spirit. 

Rosie shut and locked the door. "Now you can scream your loudest, cat, and she'll not hear a sound. "

For a few moments Fan did not know what to do to save herself; then allat once the memory of some old violent wrangle came to her aid, andspringing forward she blew out the candle and softly retreated to acorner of the room, where she remained silent and expectant. 

"You little wretch!" exclaimed the other. "Speak, or I'll kill you!" Butthere was no answer. For some time Rosie stumbled about until she foundthe door, and after some jeering words retreated downstairs, leaving Fanin the dark. 

She had defeated her enemy this time, and quickly locking the door, wentto bed without a light. 

CHAPTER VI

The next few days, although very sweet and full to Fan, were uneventful;then, early on a Wednesday evening, once more Miss Starbrow made her sitwith her at her bedroom fire and talked to her for a long time. 

"What did you tell me your name is?" she asked. 

"Frances Harrod. "

"I don't like it. I call it _horrid_. It was only your stepfather'sname according to your account, and I must find you a different one. Doyou know what your mother's name was--before she married, I mean?"

"Oh yes, ma'am; it was Margaret Affleck. "

"Affleck. It is not common and not ugly. Frances Affleck--that soundsbetter. Yes, that will do; your name, as long as you live with me, shallbe Affleck; you must not forget that. "

"No, ma'am, " Fan replied humbly. But she had some doubts, and after awhile said, "But can you change my name, ma'am?"

"Change your name! Why, of course I can. It is just as easy to do that asto give you a new dress; easier in fact. And what do you know, Fan? Whatdid they teach you at the Board School? Reading, I suppose; very well, take this book and read to me. "

She took the book, but felt strangely nervous at this unexpected call todisplay her accomplishments, and began hurriedly reading in a low voice. 

Miss Starbrow laughed. 

"I can't stand that, Fan, " she said. "You might be gabbling Dutch orHindustani. And you are running on without a single pause. Even a beehovering about the flowers has an occasional comma, or colon, or fullstop in its humming. Try once more, but not so fast and a little louder. "

The good-humoured tone in which she spoke served to reassure Fan; andknowing that she could do better, and getting over her nervousness, shebegan again, and this time Miss Starbrow let her finish the page. 

"You _can_ read, I find. Better, I think, than any of the maids Ihave had. You have a very nice expressive voice, and you will do betterwhen you read a book through from the beginning, and feel interested init. I shall let you read every day to me. What else did you learn--writing?"

"Yes, ma'am, I always got a high mark for that. And we had Scripturelessons, and grammar, and composition, and arithmetic, and geography; andwhen I was in the fifth form I had history and drawing. "

"History and drawing--well, what next, I wonder! That's what we are taxeda shilling in the pound for, to give education to a--well, never mind. But can you really draw, Fan? Here's pencil and paper, just drawsomething for me. "

"What shall I draw, ma'am?" she said, taking the pencil and feelingnervous again. 

"Oh, anything you like. "

Now it happened that her drawing lessons had always given her morepleasure than anything else at school, but owing to Joe Harrod's havingtaken her away as soon as he was allowed to do so, they had not continuedlong. Still, even in a short time she had made some progress; and evenafter leaving school she had continued to find a mournful pleasure indepicting leaf and flower forms. Left to choose her own subject, shenaturally began sketching a flower--a-rosebud, half-open, with leaves. 

"Don't hurry, Fan, as you did with your reading. The slower you are thebetter it will be, " said Miss Starbrow, taking up a volume and beginningto read, or pretending to read, for her eyes were on the face of the girlmost of the time. 

Fan, happily unconscious of the other's regard, gave eight or ten minutesto her drawing, and then Miss Starbrow took it in her hands to examineit. 

"This is really very well done, " she said, "but what in goodness' namedid they teach you drawing for!' What would be the use of it afterleaving school? Well, yes, it might be useful in one way. It astonishesme to think how you were trying to live, Fan. You were certainly not fitfor that hard rough work, and would have starved at it. You were made, body and mind, in a more delicate mould, and for something better. Ithink that with all you have learnt at school, and with your appearance, especially with those truthful eyes of yours and that sweet voice, youmight have got a place as nursery governess, to teach small children, orsomething of that sort. Why did you go starving about the streets, Fan?"

"But no one would take me with such clothes, ma'am. They wouldn't look atme or speak to me even in the little shops where I went to ask for work. "

Miss Starbrow uttered a curious little laugh. 

"What a strange thing it seems, " she said, "that a few shillings to buydecent clothes may alter a person's destiny. With the shillings--about asmany as the man of God pays for his sirloin--shelter from the weather andtemptations to evil, three meals a day, a long pleasant life, husband andchildren, perhaps, and at last--Heaven. And without them, rags andstarvation and the streets, and--well, this is a question for the mightyintellect of a man and a theologian, not for mine. I dare say you don'tknow what I'm talking about, Fan?"

"Not all, ma'am, but I think I understand a little. "

"Very little, I should think. Don't try to understand too much, my poorgirl. Perhaps before you are eighty, if you live so long, you willdiscover that you didn't even understand a little. Ah, Fan, you have beensadly cheated by destiny! Childhood without joy, and girlhood withouthope. I wish I could give you happiness to make up for it all, but Ican't be Providence to anyone. "

"Oh, ma'am, you have made me so happy!" exclaimed Fan, the tearsspringing to her eyes. 

Miss Starbrow frowned a little and turned her face aside. Then she said:

"Just because I fed and dressed and sheltered you, Fan--does happinesscome so easily to you?"

"Oh no, ma'am, not that--it isn't that, " with such keen distress that shecould scarcely speak without a sob. 

"How then have I made you happy? Will you not answer me? I took youbecause I believed that you would trust me, and always speak openly fromyour heart, and hide nothing. "

"Oh, ma'am, I'm afraid to say it. I was so happy because I thought--because--" and here she sunk her voice to a trembling whisper--"I thoughtthat you loved me. "

Miss Starbrow put her arm round the girl's waist and drew her against herknees. 

"Your instinct was not at fault, Fan, " she said in a caressing tone. "I_do_ love you, and loved you when I saw you in your rags, and itpained my heart when I told you to clean my doorsteps as if you had beenmy sister. No, not a sister, but something better and sweeter; my sistersI do not love at all. And do you know now what I meant, Fan, when I saidthat there was something you could do for me?"

"I think I know, " returned Fan, still troubled in her mind and anxious. "It was that made me feel so happy. I thought--that you wanted me to loveyou. "

"You are right, my dear girl; I think that I made no mistake when I tookyou in. "

On that evening Fan had tea with her mistress, and afterwards, earlierthan usual, was allowed to comb her hair out--a task which gave her thegreatest delight. Miss Starbrow then put on an evening dress, which Fannow saw for the first time, and was filled with wonder at its richnessand beauty. It was of saffron-coloured silk, trimmed with black lace; butshe wore no ornaments with it, except gold bracelets on her round shapelyarms. 

"What makes you stare so, Fan?" she said with a laugh, as she stoodsurveying herself in the tall glass, and fastening the bracelets on. 

"Oh, ma'am, you do look so beautiful in that dress! Are you going to thetheatre to-night?"

"No, Fan. On Wednesday evenings I always have a number of friends come into see me--all gentlemen. I have very few lady friends, and care verylittle for them. And, now I think of it, you can sit up to-night until Itell you to go to bed. "

"Yes, ma'am. "

Miss Starbrow was moving towards the door. Then she paused, and finallycame back and sat down again, and drew Fan against her knee as before. 

"Fan, " she said, "when you speak about me to others, and to me in thepresence of others, or of the servants, call me Miss Starbrow. I don'tlike to hear you call me ma'am, it wounds my ear. Do you understand?"

"Yes--Miss Starbrow. "

"But when we are alone together, as we are now, let me hear you call meMary. That's my Christian name, and I should like to hear you speak it. Will you remember?"

"Yes"; and then from her lips trembled the name "Mary. "

"It sounds very loving and sweet, " said the other, and, drawing the girlcloser, for the first time she kissed her. 

With the memory of those tender words and the blissful sensation left bythat unexpected kiss, Fan spent the evening alone, hearing, after hersupper, the arrival of visitors, and the sound of conversation andlaughter from the drawing-room, and then music and singing. Later in theevening the guests went to sup into the dining-room, and there theystayed playing cards until eleven o'clock or later, when she heard themleaving the house. 

They were not all gone, however; three of Miss Starbrow's intimatefriends still lingered, drinking whisky-and-water and talking. There wasCaptain Horton--captain by courtesy, since he was no longer in the army--a tall, fine-looking man, slightly horsy in his get-up, with a verylarge red moustache, reddish-brown hair, and keen blue eyes. He wore acut-away coat, and was standing on the hearthrug, his hands thrust intohis trousers pockets, and smiling as he talked to a young clericalgentleman near him--the Rev. Octavius Brown. The Rev. Octavius was curateof a neighbouring ritualistic church, but in his life he was not ascetic;he loved whisky-and-water not wisely but too well, and he waspassionately devoted to the noble game of Napoleon. Mr. Brown had justwon seven shillings, and was in very high spirits; for being poor he hada great dread of losing, and played carefully for very small stakes, andseldom won more than half-a-crown or three shillings. At some distancefrom them a young gentleman reclined in an easy-chair, smoking acigarette, and apparently not listening to their conversation. This wasMr. Merton Chance, clerk in the Foreign Office, and supposed by hisfriends to be extremely talented. He was rather slight but well-formed, alittle under the medium height, clean shaved, handsome, colourless asmarble, with black hair and dark blue eyes that looked black. 

Miss Starbrow, who had left the room a few minutes before, came in, andstanding by the table listened to the curate. 

"Miss Starbrow, " said he, appealing to her, "is it not hard? CaptainHorton either doubts my veracity or believes that I am only joking when Iassure him that what I have just told him is plain truth. "

"Well, let me hear the whole story, " she replied, "and I'll act asumpire. "

"I couldn't wish for a juster one--nor for a fairer, " he replied with aweak smile. "What I said was that I had once attended a dinner to theclergy in Yorkshire, at which there were sixteen of us present, and thesurnames of all were names of things--objects or offices or something--connected with a church. "

"Well, what were the names?"

"You see he remembers only one--a Mr. Church, " said Captain Horton. 

"No, pardon me. A Mr. Church, and a Mr. Bishop, and a Mr. Priest, and aMr. Cross, and--and oh, yes, Mr. Bell. "

"Five of your sixteen, " said Captain Horton, checking them off on hisfingers. 

"And a Mr. Graves, and a Mr. Sexton, and--and--of course, I can'tremember all the names now. Can you expect it, Miss Starbrow?"

"No, of course not; but you have only named seven. If you can rememberten I shall decide in your favour. "

"Thank you. There was a Mr. Church--"

"No, no, old man, we've had that already, " cried the Captain. 

"Mr. Tombs, " he continued, and fell again to thinking. 

"That makes eight, " said Miss Starbrow. "Cheer up, Mr. Brown, you'll soonremember two others. "

"Your own name makes nine, Mr. Brown, " broke in Mr. Chance, "only I can'tmake out what connection it has with a church. "

The other two laughed. 

"I'm afraid it looks very bad for you, " said Miss Starbrow. 

"No, no, Miss Starbrow, please don't think that. Wait a minute and let mesee if I can remember how that was, " said the poor curate. "I_think_ I said that all present at the table except myself--"

"No, there was no exception, " interrupted Captain Horton. "Now, if yousixteen fellows had been Catholic priests instead of in the EstablishedChurch, and you were Scarlett by name instead of Brown--"

"Don't say any more--please!" cried the curate, lifting his hand. "Youare going too far, Captain Horton. I like a little innocent fun wellenough, but I draw the line at sacred subjects. Let us drop the subject. "

"Oh, yes, of course, that's a good way of getting out of it. And as forjesting about sacred matters, I always understood that one couldn't provehis zeal for Protestantism better than by having a shot at the Romanbusiness. "

"I am happy to say that I do not class myself with Prots, " said thecurate, getting up from his chair very carefully, and then consulting hiswatch. "I must run away now--"

"You can't do it, " interrupted the Captain. 

Miss Starbrow laughed. "Don't go just yet, Mr. Brown, " she said. "I wishyou all to help me with your advice, or with an opinion at least. Youknow that I have taken in a young girl, and I have not yet decided whatto do with her. I shall call her down for you to see her, as you are allthree my very candid friends, and you shall tell me what you think of herappearance. "

She then opened the door and called Fan down, and the poor girl wasbrought into the neighbourhood of the three gentlemen, and stood witheyes cast down, her pale face reddening with shame to find herself thecentre of so much curiosity. 

Miss Starbrow glanced at the Captain, who was keenly studying Fan's face, as he stood before the fire, stroking his red moustache. 

"Well, if I'm to give a candid opinion, " he said, "all I can say is thatshe looks an underfed little monkey. "

"I think you are excessively rude!" returned Miss Starbrow, firing up. "She is too young to feel your words, perhaps, but they are nothing lessthan insulting to my judgment. "

"Oh, confound it, Pollie, you are always flying out at me! I dare sayshe's a good girl--she looks it, but if you want me to say that she'sgood-looking, I can't be such a hypocrite even to please you. "

Miss Starbrow flashed a keen glance at him, and then without replyingturned to Mr. Brown. 

"Really--honestly, Miss Starbrow, " he said, "you couldn't have selected amore charming-looking girl. But your judgment is always--well, just whatit should be; that goes without saying. "

She turned impatiently from him and looked at Mr. Chance, stillgracefully reclining in his chair. 

"Is my poor opinion really worth anything to you?" he said, and rising hewalked over to the girl and touched her hand, which made her start alittle. "I wish to see your eyes--won't you look at me?" He spoke verygently. 

Fan glanced up into his face for a moment. 

"Thank you--just what I thought, " said he, returning to his seat. 

"Well?" said Miss Starbrow. 

"Must I put it in words--those poor symbols?" he returned. "I know sowell that you can understand without them. "

"Perhaps I might if I tried very hard, but I choose not to try, " shereplied, with a slight toss of her head. 

"It is a pleasure to obey; but the poor girl looks nervous anduncomfortable, and would be so glad _not_ to hear my personalremarks. "

"Oh yes, it was thoughtless of me to keep her here--thanks for remindingme, " said Miss Starbrow, with a strange softening of her voice herfriends were not accustomed to hear. "Run up to your room, Fan, and go tobed. I'm sorry I've kept you up so late, poor child. "

And Fan, with a grateful look towards Mr. Chance, left the room gladlyenough. 

"When she first came into the room I wondered what had attracted you, "said Mr. Chance. "I concluded that it must be something under those longdrooping eyelashes, and when I looked there I found out the secret. "

"Intelligent eyes--very intelligent eyes--I noticed that also, " said Mr. Brown. 

"Oh no, heaven forbid--I did not mean anything of the kind, " said Mr. Chance. "Intelligence is a masculine quality which I do not love to seein a woman: it is suitable for us, like a rough skin and--moustachios, "with a glance at Captain Horton, and touching his own clean-shaven upperlip. "The more delicate female organism has something finer and higherthan intelligence, which however serves the same purpose--and otherpurposes besides. "

"I don't quite follow you, " said the curate, again preparing to take hisleave. "I dare say it's all plain enough to some minds, but--well, Mr. Chance, you'll forgive me for saying that when you talk that way I don'tknow whether I'm standing on my head or my heels. "

"Naturally, you wouldn't, " said Captain Horton, with a mocking smile. "But don't go yet, Brown; have some more whisky-and-water. "

"No, thanks, no more. I never exceed two or three glasses, you know. Thank you, my dear Miss Starbrow, for a most delightful evening. " Andafter shaking hands he made his way to the door, bestowing a kindly touchon each chair in passing, and appearing greatly relieved when he reachedthe hall. 

Captain Horton lit a cigarette and threw himself into an easy-chair. Mr. Chance lit another cigarette; if the other was an idle man, he (Chance)was in the Foreign Office, and privileged to sit up as late as he liked. 

"On the whole, " he said in a meditative way, "I am inclined to think thatBrown is a rather clever fellow. "

Miss Starbrow laughed: she was still standing. "You two appear to betaking it very quietly, " she said. "It is one o'clock--why will youcompel me to be rude?"

Then they started up, put on their coats, exchanged a few words at thedoor with their hostess, and walked down the street together. Presently ahansom came rattling along the quiet street. 

"Keb, sir?" came the inevitable question, in a tone sharp as a whip-crack, as the driver pulled up near the kerb. 

"Yes, two cabs, " said Captain Horton. "I'll toss you for the first, Chance"; and pulling out a florin he sent it spinning up and deftlycaught it as it fell. "Heads or tails?"

"Oh, take it yourself, and I'll find another. "

"No, no, fair play, " insisted the Captain. 

"Very well then, heads. "

"Tails!" cried the other, opening his hand. "Goodnight, old man, you'resure to find one in another minute. Oxford Terrace, " he cried to thedriver, jumping in. And the cabman, who had watched the proceedings withthe deep interest and approval of a true sporting man, shook the reins, flicked the horse's ears with his whip, clicked with his tongue, anddrove rapidly away. 

Left to himself, Mr. Chance sauntered on in no hurry to get home, andfinally stood still at a street corner, evidently pondering some matterof considerable import to him. "By heaven, I'm more than half resolved totry it!" he exclaimed at last. And after a little further reflection, headded, "And I shall--

 "He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who dares not put it to the touch To win or lose it all. "

Then he turned and walked deliberately back to Dawson Place: coming tothe house which he had lately quitted, he peered anxiously at windows anddoors, and presently caught sight of a faint reflection from burning gasor candle within on the fanlight over the street door, which, heconjectured, came from the open dining-room. 

"Fortune favours me, " he said to himself. "'Faint heart never won fairlady. ' A happy inspiration, I am beginning to think. Losing that tosswill perhaps result in my winning a higher stake. There's a good deal ofdash and devilry in that infernal blackguard Horton, and doubtless thatis why he has made some progress here. Well then, she ought to appreciatemy spirit in coming to her at this time of night, or morning, rather. There's a wild, primitive strain in her; she's not to be wooed and won inthe usual silly mawkish way. More like one of the old Sabine women, wholiked nothing better than being knocked down and dragged off by theirfuture lords. I suppose that a female of that antique type of mind can beknocked down and taken captive, as it were, with good vigorous words, just as formerly they were knocked down with the fist or the butt end ofa spear. "

His action was scarcely in keeping with the daring, resolute spirit ofhis language: instead of seizing the knocker and demanding admittancewith thunderous racket, he went cautiously up the steps, rapped softly onthe door with his knuckles, and then anxiously waited the result of hismodest summons. 

Miss Starbrow was in the dining-room, and heard the tapping. Her servantshad been in bed two hours; and after the departure of her late guests shehad turned off the gas at the chandelier, and was leaving the room, whenseeing a _Globe_, left by one of her visitors, she took it up toglance at the evening's news. Something she found in the paper interestedher, and she continued reading until that subdued knocking attracted herattention. Taking up her candle she went to the door and unfastened it, but without letting down the chain. Her visitor hurriedly whispered hisname, and asked to be admitted for a few minutes, as he had somethingvery important to communicate. 

She took down the chain and allowed him to come into the hall. "Why haveyou come back?" she demanded in some alarm. "Where is Captain Horton?--you left together. "

"He went home in the first cab we found. We tossed for it, and he won, for which I thank the gods. Then, acting on the impulse of the moment, Icame back to say something to you. A very unusual--very eccentric thingto do, no doubt. But when something involving great issues has to be doneor said, I think the best plan is _not_ to wait for a favourableopportunity. Don't you agree with me?"

"I don't understand you, Mr. Chance, and am therefore unable to agreewith you. I hope you are not going to keep me standing here much longer. "

"Not for a moment! But will you not let me come inside to say the fewwords I have to say?"

"Oh yes, you may come in, " she returned not very graciously, and leadingthe way to the dining-room, where decanters, tumblers, and cardsscattered about the table, seen by the dim light of one candle, gave it asomewhat disreputable appearance. "What do you wish to say to me?" sheasked a little impatiently, and seating herself. 

He took a chair near her. "You are a little unkind to hurry me in thisway, " he said, trying to smile, "since you compel me to put my request invery plain blunt language. However, that is perhaps the best plan. TwiceI have come to you intending to speak, and have been baffled by fate--"

"Then you might have written, or telegraphed, " she interrupted, "if thematter was so important. "

"Not very well, " he returned, growing very serious. "You know that aswell as I do. You must know, dear Miss Starbrow, that I have admired youfor a long time. Perhaps you also know that I love you. Miss Starbrow, will you be my wife and make me happy?"

"No, Mr. Chance, I cannot be your wife and make you happy. I must declineyour offer. "

Her cold, somewhat ironical tone from the first had prepared him for thisresult, and he returned almost too quickly, "Oh, I see, you are offendedwith me for coming to you at this hour. I must suffer the consequences ofmy mistake, and study to be more cautious and proper in the future. Ihave always regarded you as an unconventional woman. That, to my mind, isone of your greatest charms; and when I say that I say a good deal. Inever imagined that my coming to you like this would have prejudiced youagainst me. "

She gave a little laugh, but there was an ominous cloud on her face asshe answered: "You imagined it was the right thing to do to come at half-past one o'clock in the morning to offer me your hand! Your opinion of myconduct is not a subject I am the least interested in; but whether I amunconventional or not, I assure you, Mr. Chance, that I am not to bepushed or driven one step further than I choose to go. "

"I should never dream of attempting such a thing, Miss Starbrow. But itwould be useless to say much more; whatever line I take to-night onlymakes matters worse for me. But allow me to say one thing before biddingyou good-night. The annoyance you feel at the present moment will notlast. You have too much generosity, too much intellect, to allow it torest long in your bosom; and deeply as I feel this rebuff, I am not goingto be so weak as to let it darken and spoil my whole life. No, my hope istoo strong and too reasonable to be killed so easily. I shall come to youagain, and again, and again. For I know that with you for a wife andcompanion my life would be a happy one; and not happy only, for that isnot everything. An ambitious man looks to other greater and perhapsbetter things. "

The cloud was gone from her brows, and she sat regarding him as he spokewith a slight smile on her lips and a curious critical expression in hereyes. When he finished speaking she laughed and said, "But is _my_happiness of such little account--do you not propose to make _me_happy also, Mr. Chance?"

"No, " he returned, his face clouding, and dropping his eyes before hermocking gaze. "You shall not despise me. Single or married, you must makeyour own happiness or misery. You know that; why do you wish to make merepeat the wretched commonplaces that others use?"

"I'm glad you have so good an opinion of yourself, Mr. Chance, " shereplied. "I was vexed with you at first, but am not so now. To watch thechanges of your chameleon mind, not always successful in getting theright colour at the right moment, is just as good as a play. If youreally mean to come again and again I shall not object--it will amuse me. Only do not come at two o'clock in the morning; it might compromise me, and, unconventional as I am, I should not forgive you a second time. Buthonestly, Mr. Chance, I don't believe you will come again. You know nowthat I know you, and you are too wise to waste your energies on me. Ihope you will not give up visiting me--in the daytime. We admire eachother, and I have always had a friendly feeling for you. That is a realfeeling--not an artificial one like the love you spoke of. "

He rose to go. "Time will show whether it is an artificial feeling ornot, " he said; and after bidding good-night and hearing the door closeafter him, he walked away towards Westbourne Grove. He had gone from herpresence with a smile on his lips, but in the street it quickly vanishedfrom his face, and breaking into a rapid walk and clenching his fists, heexclaimed, between his set teeth, "Curse the jade!"

It was not a sufficient relief to his feelings, and yet he seemed unableto think of any other expression more suitable to the occasion, for aftergoing a little further, he repeated, "Curse the jade!"

Then he walked on slower and slower, and finally stopped, and turningtowards Dawson Place, he repeated for the third time, "Curse the jade!"

CHAPTER VII

Fan saw no more company after that evening, for which she was not sorry;but that had been a red-letter day to her--not soon, perhaps never, to beforgotten. 

Great as the human adaptiveness is at the age at which Fan then was, thatloving-kindness of her mistress--of one so proud and beautiful above allwomen, and, to the girl's humble ideas, so rich "beyond the dreams ofavarice"--retained its mysterious, almost incredible, character to hermind, and was a continual cause of wonder to her, and at times of ill-defined but anxious thought. For what had she--a poor, simple, ignorantuseless girl--to keep the affection of such a one as Miss Starbrow? Andas the days and weeks went by, that vague anxiety did not leave her; forthe more she saw of her mistress, the less did she seem like one of asteadfast mind, whose feelings would always remain the same. She wastouchy, passionate, variable in temper; and if her stormy periods wereshort-lived, she also had cold and sullen moods, which lasted long, andturned all her sweetness sour; and at such times Fan feared to approachher, but sat apart distressed and sorrowful. And yet, whatever her moodwas, she never spoke sharply to Fan, or seemed to grow weary of her. Andonce, during one of those precious half-hours, when they sat together atthe bedroom fire before dinner, when Miss Starbrow in a tender mood againdrew the girl to her side and kissed her, Fan, even while her heart wasoverflowing with happiness, allowed something of the fear that was mixedwith it to appear in her words. 

"Oh, Mary, if I could do something for you!" she murmured. "But I can donothing--I can only love you. I wish--I wish you would tell me what to doto--to keep your love!"

Miss Starbrow's face clouded. "Perhaps your heart is a prophetic one, Fan, " she said; "but you must not have those dismal forebodings, or ifthey will come, then pay as little heed to them as possible. Everythingchanges about us, and we change too--I suppose we can't help it. Let ustry to believe that we will always love each other. Our food is not lessgrateful to us because it is possible that at some future day we shallhave to go hungry. Oh, poor Fan, why should such thoughts trouble youryoung heart? Take the goods the gods give you, and do not repine becausewe are not angels in Heaven, with an eternity to enjoy ourselves in. Ilove you now, and find it sweet to love you, as I have never loved anyoneof my own sex before. Women, as a rule, I detest. You can do, and aredoing, more than you know for me. "

Fan did not understand it all; but something of it she did understand, and it had a reassuring effect on her mind. 

Her life at this period was a solitary one. After breakfast she would goout for a walk, usually to Kensington Gardens, and returning by way ofWestbourne Grove, to execute some small commissions for her mistress. Between dinner and tea the time was mostly spent in the back room on thefirst floor, which nobody else used; and when the weather permitted shesat with the window open, and read aloud to improve herself in the art, and practised writing and drawing, or read in some book Miss Starbrow hadrecommended to her. With all her time so agreeably filled she did notfeel her loneliness, and the life of ease and plenty soon began to tellon her appearance. Her skin became more pure and transparent, althoughnaturally pale; her eyes grew brighter, and could look glad as well assorrowful; her face lost its painfully bony look, and was rounder andsofter, and the straight lines and sharp angles of her girlish formchanged to graceful curves from day to day. Miss Starbrow, regarding herwith a curious and not untroubled smile, remarked:

"You are improving in your looks every day, Fan; by-and-by you will be abeautiful girl--and then!"

The attitude of the servants had not changed towards her, the cookcontinuing to observe a kind of neutrality which was scarcely benevolent, while the housemaid's animosity was still active; but it had ceased totrouble her very much. Since the evening on which Fan had baffled her byblowing out the candle, Rosie had not attempted to inflict corporalpunishment beyond an occasional pinch or slap, but contented herself bymocking and jeering, and sometimes spitting at her. 

Rosie is destined to disappear from the history of Fan's early life inthe first third of this volume; but before that time her malice bore verybitter fruit, and for that and other reasons her character is deservingof some description. 

She was decidedly pretty, short but well-shaped, with a small Englishslightly-upturned nose; small mouth with ripe red lips, which were neverstill except when she held them pressed with her sharp white teeth tomake them look redder and riper than ever. Her brown fluffy hair was wornshort like a boy's, and she looked not unlike a handsome high-spiritedboy, with brown eyes, mirthful and daring. She was extremely vivacious indisposition, and active--too active, in fact, for she got through herhousemaid's work so quickly that it left her many hours of each day inwhich to listen to the promptings of the demon of mischief. It was onlybecause she did her work so rapidly and so well that her mistress kepther on--"put up with her, " as she expressed it--in spite of her faults oftemper and tongue. But Rosie's heart was not in her work. She wasromantic and ambitious, and her shallow little brain was filled with athousand dreams of wonderful things to be. She was a constant andravenous reader of _Bow Bells_, the _London Journal_, and oneor two penny weeklies besides; and not satisfied with the half-hundredcolumns of microscopical letterpress they afforded her, she laid her busyhands on all the light literature left about by her mistress, and thoughtherself hardly treated because Miss Starbrow was a great reader of Frenchnovels. It was exceedingly tantalising to know that those yellow-coveredbooks were so well suited to her taste, and not be able to read them. Forsomeone had told her what nice books they were--someone with a big redmoustache, who was as fond of pretty red lips as a greedy school-boy isof ripe cherries. 

Many were the stolen interviews between the daring little housemaid andher gentleman lover; sometimes in the house itself, in a shaded part ofthe hall, or in one of the reception-rooms when a happy opportunityoffered--and opportunities always come to those who watch for them;sometimes out of doors in the shadow of convenient trees in theneighbouring quiet street and squares after dark. But Rosie was not tooreckless. There was a considerable amount of cunning in that small brainof hers, which prevented her from falling over the brink of the precipiceon the perilous edge of which she danced like a playful kid so airily. Itwas very nice and not too naughty to be cuddled and kissed by a handsomegentleman, with a big moustache, fine eyes, and baritone voice! but shewas not prepared to go further than that--just yet; only pretending thatby-and-by--perhaps; firing his heart with languishing sighs, the softunspoken "Ask me no more, for at a touch I yield"; and then she wouldslip from his arms, and run away to put by the little present of shamjewellery, and think it all very fine fun. They were amusing themselves. His serious love-making was for her mistress. She--Rosie--had a future--agreat splendid future, to which she must advance by slow degrees, step bystep, sometimes even losing ground a little--and much had been lost sincethat starved white kitten had come into the house. 

When Miss Starbrow, in a fit of anger, had dismissed her maid some monthsbefore, and then had accepted some little personal assistance in dressingfor the play, and at other times, from her housemaid, Rosie at onceimagined that she was winning her way to her mistress's heart, and hersilly dream was that she would eventually get promoted to the vacant anddesirable place of lady's-maid. The cast-off dresses, boots, pieces offinery, and many other things which would be her perquisites would be alittle fortune to her, and greatly excited her cupidity. But there wereother more important considerations: she would occupy a much higherposition in the social scale, and dress well, her hands and skin wouldgrow soft and white, and her appearance and conversation would be that ofa lady; for to be a lady's-maid is, of course, the nearest thing to beinga lady. And with her native charms, ambitious intriguing brain, whatmight she not rise to in time? and she had been so careful, and, sheimagined, had succeeded so well in ingratiating herself with hermistress; and by means of a few well-constructed lies had so filled MissStarbrow with disgust at the ordinary lady's-maid taken ready-made out ofa registry-office, that she had begun to look on the place almost as herown. She had quite overlooked the small fact that she was not qualifiedto fill it, and never would be. If she had proposed such an arrangement, Miss Starbrow would have laughed heartily, and sent the impudent minxaway with a flea in her ear; but she had not yet ventured to broach thesubject. 

Fan's coming into the house had not only filled her with the indignationnatural to one of her class and in her position at being compelled towait on a girl picked up half-starved in the streets; but when itappeared that her mistress meant to keep Fan and make much of her, thenher jealousy was aroused, and she displayed as much spite and malice asshe dared. She had not succeeded in frightening Fan into submission, andshe had not dared to invent lies about her; and unable to use her onlyweapon, she felt herself for the time powerless. On the other hand, itwas evident that Fan had made no complaints. 

"I'd like to catch the little beggar daring to tell tales of me!" sheexclaimed, clenching her vindictive little fists in a fury. But when hermistress gave her any commands about Fan's meals, or other matters, hertone was so sharp and peremptory, and her eyes so penetrating, that Rosieknew that the hatred she cherished in her heart was no secret. The voice, the look seemed to say plainly, as if it had been expressed in words, "One word and you go; and when you send to me for a character, you shallhave justice but no mercy. "

This was a terrible state of things for Rosie. There was nothing shecould do; and to sit still and wait was torture to one of her restless, energetic mind. When her mistress was out of the house she could givevent to her spite by getting into Fan's room and teasing her in every waythat her malice suggested. But Fan usually locked her out, and would noteven open the door to take in her dinner when it was brought; then Rosiewould wait until it was cold before leaving it on the landing. 

When Miss Starbrow was in the house, and had Fan with her to comb herhair or read to her, Rosie would hang about, listening at keyholes, tofind out how matters were progressing between "lady and lady's-maid. " Butnothing to give her any comfort was discovered. On the contrary, MissStarbrow showed no signs of becoming disgusted at her own disgracefulinfatuation, and seemed more friendly towards the girl than ever. Shetook her to the dressmaker at the West End, and had a very pretty, darkgreen walking-dress made for her, in which Fan looked prettier than ever. She also bought her a new stylish hat, a grey fur cape, and long gloves, besides giving her small pieces of jewellery, and so many things besidesthat poor Rosie was green with envy. Then, as a climax, she ordered in anew pretty iron bed for the girl, and had it put in her own room. 

"Fan will be so much warmer and more comfortable here than at the top ofthe house, " she remarked to Rosie, as if she too had a little malice inher disposition, and was able to take pleasure in sprinkling powder on araw sore. 

CHAPTER VIII

Not until the end of November did anything important occur to make abreak in Fan's happy, and on the whole peaceful, life in Dawson Place;then came an eventful day, which rudely reminded her that she was living, if not on, at any rate in the neighbourhood of a volcano. One morningthat was not wet nor foggy Miss Starbrow made up her mind to visit theWest End to do a little shopping, and, to the maid's unbounded disgust, she took Fan with her. An hour after breakfast they started in a hansomand drove to the Marble Arch, where they dismissed the cab. 

"Now, " said Miss Starbrow, who was in high spirits, "we'll walk to PeterRobinson's and afterwards to Piccadilly Circus, looking at all the shops, and then have lunch at the St. James's Restaurant; and walk home alongthe parks. It is so beautifully dry underfoot to-day. "

Fan was delighted with the prospect, and they proceeded along OxfordStreet. The thoroughfares about the Marble Arch had been familiar to herin the old days, and yet they seemed now to have a novel and infinitelymore attractive appearance--she did not know why. But the reason was verysimple. She was no longer a beggar, hungry, in rags, ashamed, and feelingthat she had no right to be there, but was herself a part of thatpleasant world of men and women and children. An old Moon Streetneighbour, seeing her now in her beautiful dress and with her sweetpeaceful face, would not have recognised her. 

At Peter Robinson's they spent about half an hour, Miss Starbrow makingsome purchases for herself, and, being in a generous mood, she alsoordered a few things for Fan. As they came out at the door they met a Mr. Mortimer, an old friend of Miss Starbrow's, elderly, but dandified in hisdress, and got up to look as youthful as possible. After warmly shakinghands with Miss Starbrow, and bowing to Fan, he accompanied them for somedistance up Regent Street. Fan walked a little ahead. Mr. Mortimer seemedvery much taken with her, and was most anxious to find out all about her, and to know how she came to be in Miss Starbrow's company. The answers hegot were short and not explicit; and whether he resented this, or merelytook a malicious pleasure in irritating his companion, whose character hewell knew, he continued speaking of Fan, protesting that he had not seena lovelier girl for a long time, and begging Miss Starbrow to note howeveryone--or every _man_, rather, since man only has eyes to see soexquisite a face--looked keenly at the girl in passing. 

"My dear Miss Starbrow, " he said, "I must congratulate you on your--ahem--late repentance. You know you were always a great woman-hater--a kind ofshe-misogynist, if such a form of expression is allowable. You must havechanged indeed before bringing that fresh charming young girl out withyou. " He angered her and she did not conceal it, because she could not, though knowing that he was studying to annoy her from motives of revenge. For this man, who was old enough to be her father, and had spent the lastdecade trying to pick up a woman with money to mend his broken fortunes--this watery-eyed, smirking old beau, who wrote himself down young, goingabout Regent Street on a cold November day without overcoat orspectacles--this man had had the audacity to propose marriage to her! Shehad sent him about his business with a burst of scorn, which shook hisold, battered moral constitution like a tempest of wind and thunder, andhe had not forgotten it. He chuckled at the successful result of hisattack, not caring to conceal his glee; but this meeting proved veryunfortunate for poor Fan. After dismissing her old lover with scantcourtesy, Miss Starbrow caught up with the girl, and they walked on insilence, looking at no shop-windows now. One glance at the dark angryface was enough to spoil Fan's pleasure for the day and to make hershrink within herself, wondering much as to what had caused so great andsudden a change. 

Arrived at Piccadilly Circus, Miss Starbrow called a cab. 

"Get in, Fan, " she said, speaking rather sharply. "I have a headache andam going home. "

The headache seemed so like a fit of anger that Fan did not venture tospeak one word of sympathy. 

After reaching home, Miss Starbrow, without saying a word, went to herroom. Fan ventured to follow her there. 

"I wish to be left alone for the rest of the day, " said her mistress. "Tell Rosie that I don't wish to be disturbed. After you have had yourdinner go down to the drawing-room and sit there by the fire with yourbook. And--stay, if anyone calls to see me, say that I have a headacheand do not wish to be disturbed. "

Fan went sorrowfully away and had her dinner, and was mocked by Rosiewhen she delivered the message, and then taking her book she went to thedrawing-room on the ground-floor. After she had been there half an hourshe heard a knock, and presently the door was opened and Captain Hortonwalked in. 

"What, alone, Miss Affleck! Tell me about Miss Starbrow, " he said, advancing and taking her hand. 

Fan explained that Miss Starbrow was lying down, suffering from aheadache, and did not wish to be disturbed. 

"I am sorry to hear it, " he said. "But I can sit here and have a littleconversation with you, Fan--your name is Fan, is it not?"

He sat down near the fire still keeping her hand in his, and when shetried gently to withdraw it, his grasp became firmer. His hand was verysoft, as is usual with men who play cards much--and well; and it heldtenaciously--again a characteristic of the card-playing hand. 

"Oh, please, sir, let me go!" she said. 

"Why, my dear child, don't you know it's the custom for a gentleman tohold a girl's hand in his when he talks to her? But you have always livedamong the very poor--have you not?--where they have different customs. Never mind, Fan, you will soon learn. Now look up, Fan, and let me seethose wonderful eyes of yours; yes, they are very pretty. You don't mindmy teaching you a little, do you, Fan, so that you will know how tobehave when you are with well-bred people?"

"No, sir; but please, sir, will you let me go?"

"Why, you foolish child, I am not going to hurt you. You don't take mefor a dentist, do you?" he continued, trying to make her laugh. But hissmile and the look in his eyes only frightened her. "Look here, Fan, Iwill teach you something else. Don't you know that it is the custom amongladies and gentlemen for a young girl to kiss a gentleman when he speakskindly to her?"

"No, " said Fan, reddening and trying again to free herself. 

"Don't be so foolish, child, or you will never learn how to behave. Doyou know that if you make a noise or fuss you'll disturb your mistressand she will be very angry with you. Come now, be a good dear littlegirl. "

And with gentle force he drew her between his knees and put his arm roundher. Fan, afraid to cry out, struggled vainly to get free; he held herfirmly and closely, and had just put his lips to her face when the doorswung open, and Miss Starbrow sailed like a tragedy-queen into the room, her head thrown back, her face white as marble and her eyes gleaming. 

The visitor instantly rose, while Fan, released from his grip, her facecrimson with shame, slunk away, trembling with apprehension. 

"Captain Horton, what is the meaning of this?" demanded the lady. 

"Why nothing--a mere trifle--a joke, Pollie. Your little girl doesn'tmind being kissed by a friend of the family--that's all. "

"Come here, Fan, " she said, in a tone of concentrated rage; and the girl, frightened and hesitating, approached her. "This is the way you behavethe moment my back is turned. You corrupt-minded little wretch! Takethat!" and with her open hand she struck the girl's face a cruel blow, with force enough to leave the red print of her fingers on the palecheek. 

Fan, covering her face with her hands, shrunk back against the wall, sobbing convulsively. 

"Oh, come, Pollie!" exclaimed Horton, "don't be so hard on the poormonkey--she's a mere child, you know, and didn't think any harm. "

Miss Starbrow made no reply, but standing motionless looked at him--watched his face with a fierce, dangerous gleam in her half-closed eyes. 

"Don't stand snivelling here, " she spoke, turning to Fan. "Go upinstantly to the back room, and stay there. I shall know how to trust agirl out of the slums another time. "

Crying bitterly she left the room, and her mistress shut the door afterher, remaining there with her lover. 

Fan found the window of the back room open, but she did not feel cold;and kneeling on the sofa, with her face resting on her hands, and stillcrying, she remained there for a long time. A little wintry sunshinerested on the garden, brightening the brown naked branches of the treesand the dark green leaves of ivy and shrub, and gladdening the sparrows. By-and-by the shortlived sunshine died away, and the sparrows left. Itwas strangely quiet in the house; distinctly she heard Miss Starbrow comeout of the drawing-room and up the stairs; she trembled a little then andfelt a little rebellious stirring in her heart, thinking that hermistress was coming up to her. But no, she went to her own room, andclosed the door. Then Rosie came in, stealing up to her on tiptoe, andcuriously peering into her face. 

"Oh I say--something's happened!" she exclaimed, and tripped joyfullyaway. Half an hour later she came up with some tea. 

"I've brought your la'ship a cup of tea. I'm sure it will do your headgood, " she said, advancing with mincing steps and affecting profoundsympathy in her tone. 

"Take it away--I shan't touch it!" returned Fan, becoming angry in hermisery. 

"Oh, but your la'ship's health is so important! Society will be sodistressed when it hears that your la'ship is unwell! I'll leave the cupin the window in case your la'ship--"

Fan pushed cup and saucer angrily away, and over they went, fallingoutside down to the area, where they struck with a loud crash and wereshivered to pieces. 

Rosie laughed and clapped her hands in glee. "Oh, I'm so glad you'vesmashed it!" she exclaimed. "I'll tell Miss Starbrow, and then you'llsee! That cup was the thing she valued most in the house. She bought itat a sale at Christie and Manson's and gave twenty-five guineas for it. Oh, how mad she'll be!"

Fan paid no heed to her words, knowing that there was no truth in them. While pushing it away she had noticed that it was an old kitchen cup, chipped and cracked and without a handle; the valuable curio had as afact been fished out of a heap of rubbish that morning by the maid, whothought that it would serve very well for "her la'ship's tea. "

Rosie got tired of tormenting her, and took herself off at last; thenanother hour went slowly by while it gradually grew dark; and as thelights faded her rebellious feelings left her, and she began to hope thatMiss Starbrow would soon call her or come to her. And at length, unableto bear the loneliness and suspense, she went to the bedroom door andsoftly knocked. There was no answer, and trying the door she found thatit was locked. She waited outside the door for about half an hour, andthen hearing her mistress moving in the room she tapped again, with thesame result as before. Then she went back despairingly to the back roomand her place beside the window. The night was starry and not very cold, and to protect herself from the night air she put on her fur cape. Hourafter hour she listened to the bells of St. Matthew's chiming thequarters, feeling a strange loneliness each time the chimes ceased; andthen, after a few minutes' time, beginning again to listen for the nextquarter. It was getting very late, and still no one came to her, not evenRosie with her supper, which she had made up her mind not to touch. Thenshe dropped her head on her hands, and cried quietly to herself. She hadso many thoughts, and each one seemed sadder than the last. For the greattumult in her soul was over now, and she could think about it all, and ofall the individuals who had treated her cruelly. She felt verydifferently towards them. Captain Horton she feared and hated, and wishedhim dead with all her heart; and Rosie she also hated, but not sointensely, for the maid's enmity had not injured her. Against Mary sheonly felt a great anger, but no hatred; for Mary had been so kind, soloving, and she could not forget that, and all the sweetness it had givenher life. Then she began to compare this new luxurious life in DawsonPlace to the old wretched life in Moon Street, which now seemed so farback in time; and it seemed strange to her that, in spite of the greatdifference, yet to-night she felt more unhappy than she had ever felt inthe old days. She remembered her poor degraded mother, who had neverturned against her, and cried quietly again, leaning her face on thewindow-sill. Then she had a thought which greatly perplexed her, and sheasked herself why it was in those old days, when hard words and unjustblows came to her, she only felt a fearful shrinking of the flesh, andwished like some poor hunted animal to fly away and hide herself from hertormentors, while now a spirit of resentment and rebellion was kindled inher and burnt in her heart with a strange fire. Was it wrong to feel likethat, to wish that those who made her suffer were dead? That was a hardquestion which Fan put to herself, and she could not answer it. 

Her long fast and the excitement she had experienced, with so many lonelyhours of suspense after it, began to tell on her and make her sleepy. Itwas eleven o'clock; she heard the servants going round to fasten doorsand turn off the gas, and finally they passed her landing on their way tobed. It was getting very cold, and giving up all hope of being called byher mistress, she closed the window and, with an old table-cover forcovering, coiled herself up on the sofa and went to sleep. 

When she woke it was with a start; her face had grown very cold, and shefelt a warm hand touching her cheek. The hand was quickly withdrawn whenshe woke, and looking round Fan saw someone seated by her, and althoughthere was only the starlight from the window in the dim room, she knewthat it was her mistress. She raised herself to a sitting position on thesofa, but without speaking. All her bitter, resentful feelings hadsuddenly rushed back to her heart. 

"Well, you have condescended to wake at last, " said Miss Starbrow. "Doyou know that it is nearly one o'clock in the morning?"

"No, " returned Fan. 

"No! well then, I say yes. It is nearly one o'clock. Do you intend tokeep me here waiting your pleasure all night, I wonder!"

"I don't want you to come here. I had no place to sleep because youlocked me out of your room. "

"And for an excellent reason, " said the other sharply. "How could I admityou into my room after the outrageous scene I witnessed downstairs! Youseem to think that you can behave just how you like in my house, and thatit will make no difference. "

Fan was silent. 

"Oh, very well, Miss Fan, if you have nothing to say for yourself!"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Say! I wonder at the question. I want you to tell me the truth, ofcourse. That is, if you can. How did it all happen--you must tell meeverything just as it occurred, without concealment or prevarication. "

Fan related the facts simply and clearly; she remembered every word theCaptain had spoken only too well. 

"I wish I knew whether you have told me the simple truth or not, " saidMiss Starbrow. 

"May God strike me dead if I'm not telling the truth!" said Fan. 

"There, that will do. A young lady is supposed to be able to answer aquestion with a simple yes or no, without swearing about it like a bargeeon the Regent's Canal. "

"Then why don't you believe me when I say yes and no, and--and why didn'tyou ask me before you struck me?"

"I shouldn't have struck you if I had not thought you were a little toblame. It is not likely. You ought to know that after all my kindness toyou--but I dare say that is all forgotten. I declare I have been treatedmost shamefully!" And here she dropped her face into her hands and begancrying. 

But the girl felt no softening of the heart; that strange fire was stillburning in her, and she could only think of the cruel words, the unjustblow. 

Miss Starbrow suddenly ceased her crying. "I thought that you, at anyrate, had a little gratitude and affection for me, " she said. "But ofcourse I was mistaken about that as I have been about everything else. Ifyou had the faintest spark of sympathy in you, you would show a littlefeeling, and--and ask me why I cry, or say something. "

For some moments Fan continued silent, then she moved and touched theother's hand, and said very softly, for now all her anger was meltingaway, "Why do you cry, Mary?"

"You know, Fan, because I love you, and am so sorry I struck you. What abrute I was to hurt you--a poor outcast and orphan, with no friend but mein the world. Forgive me, dear Fan, for treating you so cruelly!" Thenshe put her arms about the girl and kissed her, holding her close to herbreast. 

"Oh, Mary, dear, " said Fan, now also crying; "you didn't hurt me verymuch. I only felt it because--because it was you. "

"I know, Fan, and that's why I can't forgive myself. But I shall never, never hurt you again, for I know that you are truth itself, and that Ican trust you. And now let us go down and have some supper togetherbefore going to bed. I know you've had nothing since lunch, and Icouldn't touch a morsel, I was so troubled about that wretch of a man. Ithink I have been sitting here quite two hours waiting for you to wake. "

Together they went down to the dining-room, where a delicate littlesupper, such as Miss Starbrow loved to find on coming home from the play, was laid out for them. For the first time Fan sat at table with hermistress; another new experience was the taste of wine. She had a glassof Sauterne, and thought it very nice. 

CHAPTER IX

On the next morning, after a sharp frost, the sun shone brightly as inspring. Fan was up early and enjoyed her breakfast, notwithstanding thelate supper, and not in the least disturbed by the scornful words flungat her by the housemaid when she brought up the tray. After breakfastingshe went to Miss Starbrow's room, to find her still in bed and notinclined to get up. 

"Put on your dress and go for a walk in Kensington Gardens, " she said. "Ithink it is a fine day, for a wonder. You may stop out until one o'clock, if you like, and take my watch, so as to know the time. And if you wishto rest while out don't sit down on a bench, or you will be sure to havesomeone speak to you. According to the last census, or Registrar-General's report, or whatever it is, there are twenty thousand younggentlemen loafers in London, who spend their whole time hanging about theparks and public places trying to make the acquaintance of young girls. Sit on a chair by yourself when you are tired--you can always find achair even in winter--and give the chairman a penny when he comes toyou. "

"I haven't got a penny, Mary. But it doesn't matter; I'll not get tired. "

"Then I must give you a purse and some money, and you must never go outwithout it, and don't mind spending a little money now and then, andgiving away a penny when you feel inclined. Give me my writing desk andthe keys. "

She opened the desk and took out a small plush purse, then some silverand coppers to put in it, and finally a sovereign. 

"The silver you can use, the sovereign you must not change, but keep itin case you should require money when I am not with you. "

With all these fresh proofs of Mary's affection to make her happy, in herlovely new dress and hat, and the beautiful gold chain on her bosom, Fanwent out for her walk feeling as light-hearted as a linnet. It was thelast day of November, usually a dreary time in London, but never had theworld looked so bright and beautiful to Fan as on that morning; and asshe walked along with swift elastic tread she could hardly refrain frombursting bird-like into some natural joyous melody. Passing into theGardens at the Queen's Road entrance, she went along the Broad Walk tothe Round Pond, and then on to the Albert Memorial, shining with gold andbrilliant colours in the sun like some fairy edifice. Running up thesteps she walked round and round the sculptured base of the monument, studying the marble faces and reading the names, and above all admiringthe figures there--blind old Homer playing on his harp, with Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, and all the immortal sons of song, grouped about himlistening. But nothing to her mind equalled the great group of statuaryrepresenting Asia at one of the four corners, with that colossal calm-faced woman seated on an elephant in the centre. What a great majesticface, and yet how placid and sweet it looked, reminding her a little ofMary in her kindly moods. But this noble face was of marble, and neverchanged; Mary's changed every hour, so that the soft expression when itcame seemed doubly sweet. By-and-by she walked away towards the bridgeover the Serpentine, and in the narrow path, thickly bordered with treesand shrubs and late flowers, she stepped aside to make room for a lady topass, who held by the hand a little angel-faced, golden-haired child, dressed in a quaint pretty costume. The child stood still and looked upinto Fan's face, and then she also involuntarily stopped, so taken wasshe with the little thing's beauty. 

"Mammy, " said the child, pointing to Fan, "I'se like to tiss the prettylaly. "

"Well, my darling, perhaps the young lady will kiss you if you ask verynicely, " said the mother. 

"Oh, may I kiss her?" said Fan, reddening with pleasure, and quicklystooping she pressed her lips to the little cherub face. 

"I loves you--what's your name?" said the child. 

"No, darling, you must not ask questions. You've got your kiss and thatought to satisfy you"; and with a smile and nod to Fan she walked on. 

Fan pursued her walk to the Serpentine, with a new delicious sensation inher heart. It was so strange and sweet to be spoken to by a lady, astranger, and treated like an equal! And in the days that were not solong ago with what sad desire in her eyes had she looked at smilingbeautiful faces, like this lady's face, and no smile and no gentle wordhad been bestowed on her, and no glance that did not express pity orcontempt!

At the head of the Serpentine she stood for ten or fifteen minutes towatch the children and nursemaids feeding the swans and ducks. The swanswere very stately and graceful, the ducks very noisy and contentious, andit was great fun to see them squabbling over the crumbs of bread. Butafter leaving the waterside she came upon a scene among the great elmsand chestnuts close by which amused her still more. Some poor raggedchildren--three boys and a girl--were engaged in making a great heap ofthe old dead fallen leaves, gathering them in armfuls and bringing themto one spot. By-and-by the little girl came up with a fresh load, and asshe stooped to put it on the pile, the boys, who had all gathered round, pushed her over and covered her with a mass of old leaves; then, with ashout of laughter at their rough joke, they ran away. She struggled outand stood up half-choked with dust, her face covered with dirt, and dressand hair with the black half-rotten leaves. As soon as she got her breathshe burst out in a prolonged howl, while the big tears rushed out, makingchannels on her grimy cheeks. 

"Oh, poor little girl, don't cry, " said Fan, going up to her, but thechild only howled the louder. Then Fan remembered her money and Mary'swords, and taking out a penny she offered it to the little girl. Instantly the crying ceased, the child clutched the penny in her dirtylittle fist, then stared at Fan, then at the penny, and finally turnedand ran away as fast as she could run, past the fountains, out at thegate, and into the Bayswater Road. 

When she was quite out of sight Fan resumed her walk, laughing a little, but with misty eyes, for it was the first time in her life that she hadgiven a penny away, and it made her strangely happy. Before quitting theGardens, however, one little incident occurred to interfere with herpleasure. Close to the Broad Walk she suddenly encountered Captain Hortonwalking with a companion in the opposite direction. There was no time toturn aside in order to avoid him; when she recognised him he was watchingher face with a curious smile under his moustache which made her feel alittle uncomfortable; then, raising his hat, he passed her withoutspeaking. 

"You know that pretty girl?" she heard his friend ask, as she hurriedaway a little frightened towards the Queen's Road gate. 

Miss Starbrow appeared very much put out about this casual encounter inthe Gardens when Fan related the incidents of her walk. 

"I'll not walk there again, Mary, so as not to meet him, " said Fantimidly. 

"On the contrary, you shall walk there as often as you like--I had almostsaid whether you like it or not; and in the Grove, where you are stillmore likely to meet him. " She spoke angrily; but after a while added, "Hecouldn't well have done less than notice you when he met you, and I donot think you need be afraid of anything. It is not likely that he wouldaddress you. He put an altogether false complexion on that affairyesterday--a cowardly thing to do, and caused us both a great deal ofpain, and for that I shall never forgive him. Think no more about it, Fan. "

It was pretty plain, however, that she permitted herself to think moreabout it; for during the next few days she was by no means cheerful, while her moody fits and bursts of temper were more frequent than usual. Then, one Wednesday evening, when Fan assisted her in dressing to receiveher visitors, she seemed all at once to have recovered her spirits, andtalked to the girl and laughed in a merry light-hearted way. 

"Poor Fan, how dull it must always be for you on a Wednesday evening, sitting here so long by yourself, " she said. 

"Oh no, Mary, I always open the door and listen to the music; I like thesinging so much. "

"That reminds me, " said Miss Starbrow. "Who do you think is coming thisevening?"

"Captain Horton, " she answered promptly. 

Miss Starbrow laughed. "Yes; how quick you are at guessing. I must tellyou all about it; and do you know, Fan, I find it very delightful to havea dear trusty girl to talk to. I suppose you have noticed how cross Ihave been all these days. It was all on account of that man. He offendedme so much that day that I made up my mind never to speak to him again. But he is very sorry; besides, he looked on you as little more than achild, and really meant it only for a joke. And so I have half forgivenhim, and shall let him visit me again, but only on Wednesday eveningswhen there will be others. I shall not allow him to come whenever helikes, as he used to do. Fan was silent. Miss Starbrow, sitting beforethe glass, read the ill-concealed trouble in the girl's face reflectedthere. 

"Now don't be foolish, Fan, and think no more about it, " she said. "Youare very young--not nearly sixteen yet, and gentlemen look on girls ofthat age as scarcely more than children, and think it no harm to kissthem. He's a thoughtless fellow, and doesn't always do what is right, buthe certainly did not think any harm or he would not have acted that wayin my house. That's what he says, and I know very well when I hear thetruth. "

After finishing her hair, Miss Starbrow, not yet satisfied that she hadremoved all disagreeable impression, turned round and said, "Now, mysolemn-faced girl, why are you so silent? Are you going to be cross withme? Don't you think I know best what is right and believe what I tellyou?"

The tears came to the girl's eyes. "I do believe you know best, Mary, "she said, in a distressed voice. "Oh, please don't think that I am cross. I am so glad you like to talk to me. "

Miss Starbrow smiled and touched her cheek, and at length stooped andkissed her; and this little display of confidence and affection chasedaway the last remaining cloud, and made Fan perfectly happy. 

The partial forgiveness extended to Captain Horton did not have exactlythe results foretold. Miss Starbrow was fond of affirming that when hermind was once made up about anything it was not to be moved; but in thisaffair she had already yielded to persuasion, and had permitted theCaptain to visit her again; and by-and-by the second resolution alsoproved weak, and his visits were not confined to Wednesday evenings. Shehad struggled against her unworthy feeling for him, and knowing that itwas unworthy, that the strength she prided herself so much on wasweakness where he was concerned, she was dissatisfied in mind and angrywith herself for making these concessions. She really believed in thelove he professed for her, and did not think much the worse of him forbeing a man without income or occupation, and a gambler to boot; but shefeared that a marriage with him would only make her miserable, andbetween her love for him, which could not be concealed, and the fear thathe would eventually win her consent to be his wife, her mind was in aconstant state of anxiety and restlessness. The little indiscretion hehad been guilty of with Fan she had forgiven in her heart: that he hadactually conceived a fondness for this poor young girl she could notbelieve, for in that case he would have been very careful not to doanything to betray it to the woman he wished to marry; but though she hadforgiven him, she was resolved not to let him know it just yet, and socontinued to be a little distant and formal in her manner, never callinghim by his christian name, "Jack, " as formerly, and not allowing him tocall her "Pollie. "

All this was nothing to Fan, as she very rarely saw him, but on the fewoccasions when she accidentally met him, in the house or when outwalking, he always had that curious smile on his lips, and studied herface with a bold searching look in his eyes, which made her uncomfortableand even a little afraid. 

One day, about the middle of December, Miss Starbrow began to speak toher about her future. 

"You have improved wonderfully, Fan, since you first came, " she said, "but I fear that this kind of improvement will not be of much practicaluse, and my conscience is not quite satisfied about you. I have takenthis responsibility on myself, and must not go on shutting my eyes to it. Some day it will be necessary for you to go out into the world to earnyour own living; that is what we have got to think about. Remember thatyou can't have me always to take care of you; I might go abroad, or die, or get married, and then you would be left to your own resources. Youcouldn't make your living by simply looking pretty; you must be useful aswell as ornamental; and I have taught you nothing--teaching is not in myline. It would be a thousand pities if you were ever to sink down to theservant-girl level: we must think of something better than that. A younglady generally aspires to be a governess. But then she must knoweverything--music, drawing, French, German, Latin, mathematics, algebra;all that she must have at her finger-ends, and be able to gabblepolitical economy, science, and metaphysics to boot. All that is beyondyou--unattainable as the stars. But you needn't break your heart aboutit. She doesn't get much. Her wages are about equal to those of akitchen-maid, who can't spell, but only peel potatoes. And the morelearned she is, the more she is disliked and snubbed by her betters; andshe never marries, in spite of what the _Family Herald_ says, butgoes on toiling until she is fifty, and then retires to live alone onfifteen shillings a week in some cheap lodging for the remnant of herdreary life. No, poor Fan, you can't hope to be anything as grand as agoverness. "

Fan laughed a little: she had grown accustomed to and understood thishalf-serious mocking style of speech in which her mistress oftenindulged. 

"But, " she continued, "you might qualify yourself for some other kind ofemployment less magnificent, but still respectable, and even genteelenough. That of a nursery-governess, for instance; you are fond ofchildren, and could teach them their letters. Or you could be companionto a lady; some simple-minded, old-fashioned dame who stays at home, andwould not require you to know languages. Or, better still perhaps, youmight go into one of the large West End shops. I do not think it would bevery difficult for you to get a place of that kind, as your appearance isso much in your favour. I know that your ambition is not a very soaringone, and a few months ago you would not have ventured to dream of everbeing a young lady in a shop like Jay's or Peter Robinson's. Yet for sucha place you would not have to study for years and pass a stiffexamination, as a poor girl is obliged to do before she can make herliving by sitting behind a counter selling penny postage-stamps. Homelygirls can succeed there: for the fine shop a pretty face, an elegantfigure, and a pleasing lady-like manner are greatly prized--more than aknowledge of archaeology and the higher mathematics; and you possess allthese essentials to start with. But whether you are destined to go into ashop or private house, it is important that you should make a better useof your time just now, while you are with me, and learn something--dressmaking, let us say, and all kinds of needlework; then you will atleast be able to make your own clothes. "

"I should like to learn that very much, " said Fan eagerly. 

"Very well, you shall learn then. I have been making inquiries, and findthat there is a place in Regent Street, where for a moderate premium theydo really succeed in teaching girls such things in a short time. I shalltake you there to-morrow, and make all arrangements. "

Very soon after this conversation Fan commenced her new work of learningdressmaking, going every morning by omnibus to Regent Street, lunchingwhere she worked, and returning to Dawson Place at four o'clock. Afterthe preliminary difficulties, or rather strangeness inseparable from anew occupation, had been got over, she began to find her work veryagreeable. It was maintained by the teachers in the establishment she wasin that by means of their system even a stupid girl could be taught themystery of dressmaking in a little while. And Fan was not stupid, although she had an extremely modest opinion of her own abilities, andwas not regarded by others as remarkably intelligent; but she wasdiligent and painstaking, and above everything anxious to please hermistress, who had paid extra money to ensure pains being taken with her. So rapid was her progress, that before the end of January Miss Starbrowbought some inexpensive material, and allowed her to make herself acouple of dresses to wear in the house; and these first efforts resultedso well that a better stuff was got for a walking-dress. 

The winter had thus far proved a full and happy one to Fan; in Februaryshe was even more fully occupied, and, if possible, happier; for afterleaving the establishment in Regent Street, Miss Starbrow sent her to theschool of embroidery in South Kensington to take lessons in a new andstill more delightful art. But at the end of that month Fan unhappily, and from no fault of her own, fell into serious disgrace. She had gone tothe Exhibition Road with a sample of her work on the morning of a brightwindy day which promised to be dry; a little later Miss Starbrow alsowent out. Before noon the weather changed, and a heavy continuous rainbegan to fall. At one o'clock Miss Starbrow came home in a cab, and asshe went into the house it occurred to her to ask the maid if Fan had gotvery wet or had come in a cab. She knew that Fan had not taken anumbrella. 

"No, ma'am; she walked home, but didn't get wet. A young gentleman camewith her, and I s'pose he kept her dry with his umbrella. "

"A young gentleman--are you quite sure?"

"Yes, ma'am, quite sure, " she returned, indignant at having her sacredword doubted. "He was with her on the steps when I opened the door, andshook hands with her just like an old friend when he went away; and shewas quite dry. "

Miss Starbrow said no more. She knew that the servant, though no friendto Fan, would not have dared to invent a story of this kind, and resolvedto say nothing, but to wait for the girl to give her own account of thematter. 

Fan said nothing about it. On leaving the school of embroidery, seeinghow threatening the sky was, she was hurrying towards the park, when therain came down, and in a few moments she would have been wet through ifhelp had not come in the shape of an umbrella held over her head by anattentive young stranger. He kept at her side all the way across theGardens to Dawson Place, and Fan felt grateful for his kindness; sheconversed with him during the walk, and at the door she had not refusedto shake hands when he offered his. In ordinary circumstances, she wouldhave made haste to tell her mistress all about it, thinking no harm;unfortunately it happened that for some days Miss Starbrow had been inone of her worst moods, and during these sullen irritable periods Fanseldom spoke unless spoken to. 

When Miss Starbrow found the girl in her room on going there, she lookedkeenly and not too kindly at her, and imagined that poor Fan wore a lookof guilt on her face, whereas it was nothing but distress at her owncontinued ill-temper which she saw. 

"I shall give her till to-morrow to tell me, " thought the lady, "and ifshe says nothing, I shall conclude that she has made friends out of doorsand wishes to keep it from me. "

Fan knew nothing of what was passing in the other's mind; she only sawthat her mistress was even less gracious to her than she had been, andthought it best to keep out of her sight. For the rest of the day not oneword passed between them. 

Next morning Fan got ready to go to Kensington, but first came in to hermistress as was her custom. Miss Starbrow was also dressed in readinessto go out; she was sitting apparently waiting to speak to Fan beforeleaving the house. 

"Are you going out, Mary?" said Fan, a little timidly. 

"Yes, I am going out, " she returned coldly, and then seemed waiting forsomething more to be said. 

"May I go now?" said Fan. 

"No, " the other returned after some moments. "Change your dress again andstay at home to-day. " Presently she added, "You are learning a little toomuch in Exhibition Road--more, I fancy, than I bargained for. "

Fan was silent, not knowing what was meant. 

Then Miss Starbrow went out, but first she called the maid and told herto remove Fan's bed and toilet requisites out of her room into the backroom. 

Greatly distressed and perplexed at the unkind way she had been spokento, Fan changed her dress and sat down in the cold back room to do somework. After a while she heard a great noise as of furniture being draggedabout, and presently Rosie came in with the separate pieces of herdismantled bed. 

"What are you doing with my things?" exclaimed Fan in surprise. 

"Your things!" retorted Rosie, with scorn. "What your mistress told me todo, you cheeky little beggar! Your things indeed! 'Put a beggar onhorseback and he'll ride to the devil, ' and that's what Miss Starbrow'sbeginning to find out at last. And quite time, too! Embroidery! That'swhat you're going to wear perhaps when you're back in the slums you camefrom! I thought it wouldn't last!" And Rosie, banging the things about, pounding the mattress with clenched fist, and shaking the pillows like aterrier with a rat, kept up this strain of invective until she hadfinished her task, and then went off, well pleased to think that the dayof her triumph was not perhaps very far distant. 

On that day, however, Rosie herself was destined to experience greattrouble of mind, and an anxiety about her future even exceeding that ofFan, who was spending the long hours alone in that big, cold, firelessroom, grieving in her heart at the great change in her beloved mistress, and dropping many a tear on the embroidery in her hands. 

It was about three o'clock, and feeling her fingers quite stiff withcold, she determined to go quietly down to the drawing-room in the hopeof finding a fire lighted there so as to warm her hands. Miss Starbrowhad not returned, and the house was very still, and after standing a fewmoments on the landing, anxious not to rouse the maid and draw a freshvolley of abuse on herself, she went softly down the stairs, and openedthe drawing-room door. For a moment or two she stood motionless, and thenmuttering some incoherent apology turned and fled back to her room. Forthere, very much at his ease, sat Captain Horton, with Rosie on hisknees, her arms about his neck, and her lips either touching his or invery close proximity to them. 

Rosie slipped from her seat, and the Captain stood up, but the intruderhad seen and gone, and their movements were too late. 

"The spy! the cat!" snapped Rosie, grown suddenly pale with anger andapprehension. 

"It's very fine to abuse the girl, " said the Captain; "but it was allthrough your infernal carelessness. Why didn't you lock the door?"

"Oh, you're going to blame me! That's like a man. Perhaps you're in lovewith the cat. I s'pose you think she's pretty. "

"I'd like to twist her neck, and yours too, for a fool. If any troublecomes you will be to blame. "

"Say what you like, I don't care. There'll be trouble enough, you may besure. "

"Do you mean to say that she will dare to tell?"

"Tell! She'll only be too glad of the chance. She'll tell everything toMiss Starbrow, and she hates me and hates you like poison. It would bevery funny if she didn't tell. "

He walked about the room fuming. 

"It will be as bad for you as for me, " he said. 

"No, it won't. I can get another place, I s'pose. "

"Oh, yes; very fine, and be a wretched slavey all your life, if you likethat. You know very well that I have promised you two hundred pounds theday I marry your mistress. "

"Yes; because I'm not a fool, and you can't help yourself. Don't think_I_ want to marry you. Not me! Keep your love for Miss Starbrow, andmuch you'll get out of her!"

"You idiot!" he began; but seeing that she was half sobbing he said nomore, and continued walking about the room. Presently he came back toher. "It's no use quarrelling, " he said. "If anything can be done to getout of this infernal scrape it will only be by our acting together. Sincethis wretched Fan has been in the house, Miss Starbrow is harder thanever to get on with; and even if Fan holds her tongue about this--"

"She won't hold her tongue. "

"But even if she should, we'll never do any good while she has that girlto amuse herself with. You know perfectly well, Rosie, that if there isanyone I really love it is you; but then we've both of us got to do thebest we can for ourselves. I shall love you just the same after I ammarried, and if you still should like me, why then, Rosie, we might beable to enjoy ourselves very well. But if Fan tells at once what she sawjust now, then it will be all over with us--with you, at any rate. "

"She won't tell at once--not while her mistress is in her tantrums. Thelittle cat keeps out of her way then. Not to-day, and perhaps not to-morrow; and the day after I think Miss Starbrow's going to visit herfriends at Croydon. That's what she said; and if she goes, she'll be outall day. "

"Oh!" ejaculated the Captain; then rising he carefully closed and lockedthe door before continuing the conversation. They were both very muchinterested in it; but when it was at last over, and the Captain took hisdeparture, Rosie did not bounce away as usual with tumbled hair and merryflushed face. She left the drawing-room looking pale and a little scaredperhaps, and for the rest of the day was unusually silent and subdued. 

CHAPTER X

To Fan no comfort came that evening, and an hour after supper she went tobed to get warm, without seeing her mistress, who had returned to dinner. Next day she was no better off; she did not venture to ask whether shemight go out or not, or even to go to Miss Starbrow's room, but kept toher own cold apartment, working and grieving, and seeing no one exceptthe maid. Rosie came and went, but she was moody, or else afraid to useher tongue, and silent. On the following morning Miss Starbrow left thehouse at an early hour, and Fan resigned herself to yet another coldsolitary day. About eleven o'clock Rosie came running up in no littleexcitement with a telegram addressed to "Miss Affleck. " She took it, wondering a little at the change in the maid's manner, but not thinkingmuch about it, for she had never received a telegram before, and itstartled and troubled her to have one thrust into her hand. Rosie stoodby, anxiously waiting to hear its contents. 

"How long are you going to be about it?" she exclaimed. "Let me read itfor you. "

Fan held it back, and went on perusing it slowly. It was from MissStarbrow at Twickenham, and said: "Come to me here by train fromWestbourne Park Station. Bring two or three dresses and all you willrequire in my bag. Shall remain here several days. The housekeeper willmeet you at Twickenham Station. "

She allowed Rosie to read the message, and was told that Twickenham wasvery near London; that she must take a cab to get quickly to WestbournePark Station, so as not to keep Miss Starbrow waiting. Then, while Fanchanged her dress and got herself ready, the maid selected one of MissStarbrow's best bags and busied herself in folding up and packing as manyof Fan's things as she could cram into it. Then she ran out to call acab, leaving Fan again studying the telegram and feeling strangelyperplexed at being thus suddenly sent for by her mistress, who had goneout of the house without speaking one word to her. 

In a few minutes the cab was at the door, and Rosie officiously helpedthe girl in, handed her the bag, and told her to pay the cabman oneshilling. After it started she rushed excitedly into the road and stoppedit. 

"Oh, I forgot, Miss Fan, leave the telegram, you don't want it any more, "she said, coming to the side of the cab. 

Fan mechanically pulled the yellow envelope from her pocket and gave itto her without question, and was then driven off. But in her agitation atthe sudden summons she had thrust the missive and the cover separatelyinto her pocket, so that Rosie had after all only got the envelope. Itwas a little matter--a small oversight caused by hurry--but the resultwas important; in all probability Fan's whole after life would have beendifferent if she had not made that trivial mistake. 

She was quickly at the station, and after taking her ticket had only afew minutes to wait for a train; half an hour later she was at TwickenhamStation. As soon as the platform was clear of the other passengers whohad alighted, a respectably-dressed woman got up from one of the seatsand came up to Fan. "You are Miss Affleck, " she said, with a furtiveglance at the girl's face. "Miss Starbrow sent me to meet you. She isgoing to stay a few days with friends just outside of Twickenham. Willyou please come this way?"

She took the bag from Fan, then led the way not to, but round thevillage, and at some distance beyond it into a road with trees planted init and occasional garden-seats. They followed this road for about aquarter of a mile, then left it, and the villas and houses near it, andstruck across a wide field. Beyond it, in an open space, they came to anisolated terrace of small red-brick cottages. The cottages seemed newlybuilt and empty, and no person was moving about; nor had any road beenmade, but the houses stood on the wet clay, full of deep cart-wheel ruts, and strewn with broken bricks and builders' rubbish. In the middle of therow Fan noticed that one of the cottages was inhabited, apparently byvery poor people, for as she passed by with her guide, three or fourchildren and a woman, all wretchedly dressed, came out and staredcuriously at her. Then, to her surprise, her guide stopped at the lasthouse of the row, and opened the door with a latchkey. The windows wereall closed, and from the outside it looked uninhabited, and as they wentinto the narrow uncarpeted hall Fan began to experience some nervousfears. Why had her mistress, a rich woman, with a luxurious home of herown, come into this miserable suburban cottage? The door of a smallsquare room on the ground-floor was standing open, and looking into itshe saw that it contained a couple of chairs and a table, but no otherfurniture and no carpet. 

"Where's Miss Starbrow?" she asked, becoming alarmed. 

"Upstairs, waiting for you. This way, please"; and taking Fan by thehand, she attempted to lead her up the narrow uncarpeted stairs. Butsuddenly, with a cry of terror, the girl snatched herself free and rusheddown into the open room, and stood there panting, white and tremblingwith terror, her eyes dilated, like some wild animal that finds itselfcaught in a trap. 

"What ails you?" said the woman, quickly following her down. 

"Captain Horton is there--I saw him looking down!" said Fan, in aterrified whisper. "Oh, please let me out--let me out!"

"Why, what nonsense you are talking, to be sure! There's no CaptainHorton here, and what's more, I don't know who Captain Horton is. It wasMiss Starbrow you saw waiting for you on the landing. "

"No, no, no--let me out! let me out!" was Fan's only reply. 

The woman then made a dash at her, but the girl, now wild with fear, sprang quickly from her, and running round the room came to the window atthe front, and began madly pulling at the fastenings to open it. Thereshe was seized, but not to be conquered yet, for the sense of theterrible peril she was in gave her an unnatural strength, and strugglingstill to return to the window, her only way of escape, they presentlycame violently against it and shattered a pane of glass. At this momentthe woman, exerting her whole strength, succeeded in dragging her back tothe middle of the room; and Fan, finding that she was being overcome, burst forth in a succession of piercing screams, which had the effect ofquickly bringing Captain Horton on to the scene. 

"Oh, you've come at last! There--manage her yourself--the wild beast!"cried the woman, flinging the girl from her towards him. 

He caught her in his arms. "Will you stop screaming?" he shouted; but Fanonly screamed the louder. 

"Stop her--stop her quick, or we'll have those people and the policehere, " cried the woman, running to the window and peering out at thebroken pane to see if the noise had attracted their neighbours. 

He succeeded in getting one of his hands over her mouth, and stillkeeping her clasped firmly with the other arm, began drawing her towardsthe door. But not even yet was she wholly overcome; all the power whichhad been in her imprisoned arms and hands appeared suddenly to have goneinto the muscles of her jaws, and in a moment her sharp teeth had cut hishand to the bone. 

"Oh, curse the hell-cat!" he cried; and maddened with rage at the pain, he struck her from him, and her head coming violently in contact with thesharp edge of the table, she was thrown down senseless on the floor. Herforehead was deeply cut, and presently the blood began flowing over herstill, white face. 

The woman now became terrified in her turn. 

"You have killed her!" she cried. "Oh, Captain, you have killed her, andyou'll hang for it and make me hang too. Oh God! what's to be done now?"

"Hold your noise, you cursed fool!" exclaimed the other, in a rage. "Getsome cold water and dash it over her face. "

She obeyed quickly enough, and kneeling down washed the blood from thegirl's face and hair, and loosened her dress. But the fear that theywould be discovered unnerved her, her hands shook, and she kept onmoaning that the girl was dead, that they would be found out and triedfor murder. 

"She's not dead, I tell you--damn you for a fool!" exclaimed CaptainHorton, dashing the blood from his wounded hand and stamping on the floorin a rage. 

"She is! she is! There's not a spark of life in her that I can feel! Oh, what shall I do?"

He pushed her roughly aside and felt for the girl's pulse, and placed hishand over her heart, but was perhaps too much agitated himself to feelits feeble pulsations. 

"Good God, it can't be!" he said. "A girl can't be killed with a lightknock in falling like that. No, no, she'll come to presently and be allright. And we're safe enough--not a soul knows where she is. "

"Oh, don't you think that!" returned the woman, again kneeling down andchafing and slapping Fan's palms, and moistening her face. "The people atthe other house were all there watching us when I brought the girl in. They're curious about it, and maybe suspect something; and when thepoliceman comes round you may be sure they'll tell him, and they'll haveheard the screams too, and they'll be watching about now. Oh, what ablessed fool I was to have anything to do with it!"

Captain Horton began cursing her again; but just then Fan's bosom moved, she drew a long breath, and presently her eyes opened. 

They were watching her with a feeling of intense relief, thinking thatthey had now escaped from a great and terrible danger. Fan looked up intothe face of the woman bent over her, and gazed at her in a dazed kind ofway, not yet remembering where she was or what had befallen her. Then sheglanced at the man's face, a little distance off, shivered and closed hereyes, and in her stillness and extreme pallor seemed to have becomeinsensible again, although her white lips twitched at intervals. 

"Go away, for God's sake! Go to the other room--it kills her to see you!"said the woman, in an excited whisper. 

He moved away and slipped out at the door very quietly, but presentlycalled softly to the woman. 

"Here, make her swallow a little brandy, " he said, giving her a pocketflask. 

In about half an hour Fan had recovered so far that she could sit up in achair; but with her strength her distress and terror came back, andfeeling herself powerless she began to cry and beg to be let out. 

The woman went to the door and spoke softly to her companion. 

"It's all right now; she's getting over it. "

"It's all wrong, I tell you, " said the other with an oath, and in a toneof concentrated rage. "There are two of your neighbour's boys pryingabout in front and trying to peer through the window. For heaven's sakeget rid of her and let her go as soon as you can. "

She was about to return to Fan when he called her back. 

"Take her to the station yourself, " he said; and proceeded to give hersome directions which she promised to obey, after which she came back toFan, to find her at the window feebly struggling to unfasten the stiffcatch. 

"Don't you be afraid any more, my dear, " she said effusively. "I'll takeyou back to the station as soon as you're well enough to walk. You've hada fall against the table and hurt yourself a little, but you'll soon beall right. "

Fan looked at her and shrunk away as she approached, and then turned hereyes, dilating again with fear, towards the door. 

"He's gone, my dear, and won't come near you again, so don't you fear. Sit down quietly and I'll make you a cup of tea, and then you'll be ableto walk to the station. "

But Fan would not be reassured, and continued piteously begging the womanto let her out. 

"Very well, you shall go out; only take a little brandy first to give youstrength to walk. "

Fan thrust the flask away, and then putting her hand to her forehead, cried out:

"Oh, what's this on my head?"

"Only a bit of sticking-plaster where you hit yourself against the table, my dear. "

Then she smoothed out Fan's broken hat, and with a wet sponge cleaned thebloodstains from her gown, and finally opening the door and with the bagin her hand, she accompanied the girl out. 

Once in the cold keen air Fan began to recover strength and confidence, but she was still too weak to walk fast, and when they had got to thelong road where the benches were, she was compelled to sit down and restfor some time. 

"Where are you going after I leave you at the station?" asked the woman. 

"To London--to Westbourne Park. "

"And then?"

"I don't know--I can't think. Oh, please leave me here!"

"No, my dear, I'll see you in your train at the station. "

"Perhaps _he_'ll be there, " said Fan, in sudden fear. 

"Oh no, bless you, _he_ won't be there. He didn't mean any harm, don't you believe it. We were only going to shut you up in the house justfor a few days because Miss Starbrow wanted us to. "

"Miss Starbrow!"

"Why, yes; didn't you get her telegram telling you to come to Twickenhamto her, and that I'd meet you at the station?"

"Yes, I remember. Where is she?"

"The Lord knows, my dear. But it seems she's taken a great hatred to you, and can't abide you, and that's all I know. She came this morning withCaptain Horton, and they arranged it all together; and she telegraphedand then went away, and said she hated the very sight of your face; andhoped I'd keep you safe because she never wanted to see you again, andwas sorry she ever took you. "

"But why--why--what had I done?" moaned Fan, the tears coming to hereyes. 

"There's no knowing why, except that she's a cruel, wicked, bad woman. That's all I know about it. Where is the telegram--have you got it?"

Fan put her hand into her pocket and then drew it out again. 

"No, I haven't got it; I gave it to Rosie before I left--I remember nowshe asked me for it when I was in the cab. "

"That's all right; it doesn't matter a bit. But tell me, where are yougoing when you get back to London--back to Miss Starbrow?"

Fan looked at her, puzzled and surprised at the question. "But you sayshe sent for me to shut me up because she hated me, and never wished tosee me again. "

"Yes, my dear, that's quite right what I told you. But what are you goingto do in London? Where will you go to sleep to-night? Here's your bagyou'd forgotten all about; if you go and forget it you'll have no clothesto change; and perhaps you'll lose yourself in London, and when they askyou where you belong, you'll let them take you to Miss Starbrow's house. "

The woman in her anxiety was quite voluble; while Fan slowly turned itall over in her mind before replying. "My head is paining so, I wasforgetting. But I shan't lose my bag, and I'll find some place to sleepto-night. No, I'll never, never go back to Mary--to Miss Starbrow. "

"And you'll be able to take care of yourself?"

"Yes; will you let me go now?"

"Come then, I'll put you in your train with your bag; and don't you goand speak to anyone about what happened here, and then you'll be quitesafe. Let Miss Starbrow think you are shut up safe out of her sight, andthen she won't trouble herself about you. "

"There's no one I can speak to--I have no one, " said Fan, mournfully;after which they went on to the station, and she was put into her trainwith her bag, and about three o'clock in the afternoon arrived atWestbourne Park Station. 

There were clothes enough in her bag to last her for some time with thoseshe was wearing, and money in her purse--two or three shillings in smallchange and the sovereign which had been in her possession for severalmonths. Food and shelter could therefore be had, and she was not a poorgirl in rags now, but well dressed, so that she could go without fear orshame to any registry office to seek an engagement. These thoughts passedvaguely through her brain; her head seemed splitting, and she couldscarcely stand on her legs when she got out of the train at WestbournePark. It would be a dreadful thing if she were to fall down in thestreets, overcome with faintness, she thought, for then her bag and pursemight be stolen from her, or worse still, she might be taken back to thehouse of her cruel enemy. Clinging to her bag, she walked on as fast asshe could seeking for some humble street with rooms to let--some refugeto lie down in and rest her throbbing head. She passed through ColvilleGardens, scarcely knowing where she was; but the tall, gloomy, uglyhouses there were all too big for her; and she did not know that in someof them were refuges for poor girls--servants and governesses out ofplace--where for a few shillings a week she might have had board andlodging. Turning aside, she came into the long, narrow, crookedPortobello Road, full of grimy-looking shops, and after walking a littlefurther turned at last into a short street of small houses tenanted bypeople of the labourer class. 

At one of these houses she was shown a small furnished room by asuspicious-looking woman, who asked four-and-sixpence a week for it, including "hot water. " Fan agreed to take it for a week at that rent. Thepoor woman wanted the money, but seemed undecided. Presently she said, "You see, miss, it's like this, you haven't got no box, and ain't dressedlike one that lodges in these places, and--and I couldn't let you theroom without the money down. "

"Oh, I'll pay you now, " said Fan; and taking the sovereign from herpurse, asked the woman to get change. 

"Very well, miss; if you'll go downstairs, I'll put the room straight foryou. "

"Oh, I must lie down now, my head is aching so, " said Fan, feeling thatshe could no longer stand. 

"What ails you--are you going to be ill?"

"No, no; this morning I had a fall and struck my head and hurt it so--look, " and taking off her hat, she showed the plaster on her forehead. 

That satisfied the woman, who had only been thinking of fever and her ownlittle ones, who were more to her than any stranger, and her mannerbecame kind at once. She imagined that her lodger was a young lady whofor some reason had run away from her friends. Smoothing down thecoverlet, she went away to get change, closing the door after her, andthen, with a sigh of relief, Fan threw herself on to the poor bed. 

The pain she was in, and state of exhaustion after the violent emotionsand the rough handling she had experienced, prevented her from thinkingmuch of her miserable forlorn condition. She only wished for rest Yet shecould not rest, but turned her hot flushed face and throbbing head fromside to side, moaning with pain. By-and-by the woman came back with thechange and a very big cup of hot tea. 

"This'll do your head good, " she said. "Better drink it hot, miss; Ialways say there's nothing like a cup of tea for the headache. "

Fan took it gratefully and drank the whole of it, though it was roughertea than she had been accustomed to of late. And the woman proved a goodphysician; it had the effect of throwing her into a profuse perspiration, and before she had been alone for many minutes she fell asleep. 

She did not wake until past nine o'clock, and found a lighted candle onher table; her poor landlady had been up perhaps more than once to visither. She felt greatly refreshed; the danger, if there had been any, wasover now, but she was still drowsy--so drowsy that she longed to beasleep again; and she only got up to undress and go to bed in a moreregular way. The time to think had not come yet; sleep alone seemed sweetto her, and in its loving arms she would lie, for it seemed like one thatloved her always, like her poor dead mother who had never turned againsther and used her cruelly. Before she closed her heavy eyes the landladycame into her room again to see her, and Fan gave her a shilling to getsome tea and bread-and-butter for her breakfast next day. 

CHAPTER XI

When Fan awoke, physically well and refreshed by her long slumber, it hadbeen light some time, with such dim light as found entrance through theclouded panes of one small window. The day was gloomy, with a bitterlycold blustering east wind, which made the loose window-sashes rattle intheir frames, and blew the pungent smell of city smoke in at every crack. She sat up and looked round at the small cheerless apartment, with nofireplace, and for only furniture the bed she was lying on, one cane-chair over which her clothes were thrown, and a circular iron wash-stand, with yellow stone jug and ewer, and underneath a shelf for the soap dish. 

She shivered and dropped her head again on the pillow. Then, for thefirst time since that terrible experience of the previous day, she beganto realise her position, and to wonder greatly why she had been subjectedto such cruel treatment. The time had already come of which Mary had oncespoken prophetically, when they would be for ever separated, and shewould have to go out into the world unaided and fight her own battle. But, oh! why had not Mary spoken to her, and told her that she could nolonger keep her, and sent her away? For then there would still have beenaffection and gratitude in her heart for the woman who had done so muchfor her, and she would have looked forward with hope to a future meeting. Love and hope would have cheered her in her loneliness, and made herstrong in her efforts to live. But now all loving ties had been violentlysundered, now the separation was eternal. Even as death had divided herfrom her poor mother, this cruel deed had now put her for all time apartfrom the one friend she had possessed in the world. What had she done, what had she done to be treated so hardly? Had she not been faithful, loving her mistress with her whole heart? It was little to give in returnfor so much, but it was her all, and Mary had required nothing more fromher. It was not enough; Mary had grown tired of her at last. And nottired only: her loving-kindness had turned to wormwood and gall; the verysight of the girl she had rescued and cared for had become hateful toher, and her unjust hatred and anger had resulted in that cruel outrage. Now she understood the reason of that change in Mary, when she grewsilent and stern and repellent before that fatal morning when she wentaway to carry out her heartless scheme of revenge. But revenge for what?--and Fan could only moan again and again, "What had I done? what had Idone?" What had she ever done that she should not be loved and allowed tolive in peace and happiness--what had she done to her brutal stepfather, or to Captain Horton and to Rosie, that they should take pleasure intormenting her?

When the woman came in with the breakfast she found Fan lying sobbing onher pillow. 

"Oh, that's wrong to cry so, " she said, putting the tray on the table andcoming to the bedside. "Don't take on so, my poor young lady. Things'llcome right by-and-by. You'll write to your mother and father----"

"I've no mother and father, " said Fan, trying to repress her sobs. 

"Then you'll have brothers and sisters and friends. "

"No, I've got no one. I only had one friend, and she's turned against me, and I'm alone. I'm not a young lady; my mother was poorer than you, and Imust get something to do to make my living. "

This confession was a little shock to the woman, for it spoilt herromance, and the result was that her interest in her young lodgerdiminished considerably. 

"Well, it ain't no use taking on, all the same, " she said, in a tonesomewhat less deferential and kind than before. "And it's too bad a dayfor you to go out and look for anything. It's going to snow, I'mthinking; so you'd better have your breakfast in bed and stay in to-day. "

Fan took her advice and remained all day in her room, thinking only ofthe strange thing that had happened to her, of the misery of a life withno one to love. Mary's image remained persistently in her mind, while thebitter wind without made strange noises in the creaking zinc chimney-pots, and rattled the window and hurled furious handfuls of mingled dustand sleet against the panes. And yet she felt no anger in her heart;unspeakable grief and despair precluded anger, and again and again shecried, her whole frame convulsed with sobs, and the tears and sobsexhausted her body but brought no relief to her mind. 

Next day there was no wind, though it was still intensely cold, with adull grey cloud threatening snow over the whole sky; but it was time forher to be up and doing, and she went out to seek for employment. Shewandered about in a somewhat aimless way, until, in the Ladbroke GroveRoad, she found a servants' registry-office, and went in to apply for aplace as nursemaid or nursery-governess. Mary had once told her that shewas fit for such a place, and there was nothing else she could think of. A woman in the office took down her name and address, and promised tosend for her if she had any applications. She did not know of anyone inneed of a nursemaid or nursery-governess. "But you can call again to-morrow and inquire, " she added. 

On the following day she was advised to wait in the office so as to be onthe spot should anyone call to engage a girl. After waiting for somehours the woman began to question her, and finding that she had noknowledge of children, and had never been in service and could give noreferences, told her brusquely that she was giving a great deal ofunnecessary trouble, and that she need not come to the office again, asin the circumstances no lady would think of taking her. 

Fan returned to her lodgings very much cast down, and there being no oneelse to seek counsel from, told her troubles to her landlady. But thepoor woman had nothing very hopeful to say, and could only tell Fan ofanother registry-office in Notting Hill High Street, and advise her toapply there. 

This was a larger place, and after her name, address, and otherparticulars had been taken down in a book, she ventured to ask whetherher not having been in a place before, and being without a reference, would make it very difficult for her to get a situation; the woman of theoffice merely said, "One never knows. "

This was not very encouraging, but she was told that she could come everyday and sit as long as she liked in the waiting-room. There were alwaysseveral girls and women there--a row of them sitting chatting together onchairs ranged against the wall--house, parlour, and kitchen-maids out ofplaces; and a few others of a better description, modest-looking, well-dressed young women, who came and stood about for a few minutes and thenwent away again. Of the girls of this kind Fan alone remained patientlyat her post, taking no interest in the conversation of the others, anxious only to avoid their bold inquisitive looks and to keep herselfapart from them. Yet their conversation, to anyone wishing to knowsomething of the lights and shadows of downstair life, was instructiveand interesting enough. 

"Only seven days in your last place!"

"Oh, I say!"

"But what did you leave for?"

"Because she was a beast--my missus was; and what I told her was that itwas seven days too much. "

"You never did!"

"Oh, I say!"

"And what did she say?"

"Well, it was like this. I was a-doing of my hair in the kitchen with thecurling-iron, when down comes Miss Julia. 'Oh, you are frizzing yourhair!' she says. 'Yes, miss, ' I says, 'have you any objection?' I says. 'Ma won't let you have a fringe, ' she says. When I loses my temper, and Isays, 'Well, Miss Himperence, you can go and tell your ma that she canfind a servant as can do without a fringe. '"

"Oh, I say!" etc. , etc. , etc. 

They also made critical remarks on Fan's appearance, wondering what a"young lady" wanted among servants. She felt no pride at being taken fora lady; she had no feeling and no thought that gave her any pleasure, butonly a dull aching at the heart, only the wish in her mind to findsomething to do and save herself from utter destitution. 

For three days she continued to attend at the office, and beyond a short"Good morning" from the woman that kept it each day, not a word wasspoken to her. The third day was Saturday, when the office would closeearly; and after twelve o'clock, seeing that the others were all going, she too left, to spend the time as best she could until the followingMonday. The day was windless and bright, and full of the promise ofspring. Not feeling hungry she did not return to her lodgings, but wentfor a short walk in Kensington Gardens. Leaving the Broad Walk, she wentinto that secluded spot near the old farm-like buildings of KensingtonPalace and sat down on one of the seats among the yews and fir trees. Thenew gate facing Bayswater Hill has changed that spot now, making it morepublic, but it was very quiet on that day as she sat there by herself. Onthat beautiful spring morning her heart seemed strangely heavy, and herlife more lonely and desolate than ever. The memory of her loss came overher like a bitter flood, and covering her face with her hands she gavefree vent to her grief. There was no person near, no one to be attractedby her sobs. But one person was passing at some distance, and glancing inher direction through the trees, saw her, and stopped in her walk. It wasMiss Starbrow, and in the figure of the weeping girl she had recognisedFan. Her face darkened, and she walked on, but presently she stoppedagain, and stood irresolute, swinging the end of her sunshade over theyoung grass. At length she turned and walked slowly towards the girl, butFan was sobbing with covered face, and did not hear her steps andrustling dress. For some moments Miss Starbrow continued watching her, ascornful smile on her lips and a strange look in her eyes as of aslightly cruel feeling struggling against compassion. At length shespoke, startling Fan with her voice sounding so close to her. 

"Crying? Well, I am glad that your sin has found you out! Glad you havemet with some thief cleverer than yourself, who has stolen your booty, Isuppose, and left you penniless--a beggar as I found you! I admire yourcourage in coming here, but you needn't be afraid; I'll have mercy onyou. You have punished yourself more than I could punish you; and someday I shall perhaps see you again in rags, starving in the streets, andshall fling a penny to you. "

Fan had started at first with an instinctive fear--a vague apprehensionthat she would be seized and dragged away to be shut up and tortured asMiss Starbrow had desired. But suddenly this feeling gave place toanother, to a burning resentment experienced for the first time againstthis woman who had made her suffer so cruelly, and now came to taunt herand mock at her misery. It suffocated and made her dumb for a time. Thenshe burst out: "You wicked bad woman! You beast--you beast, how I hateyou! Oh, I wish God would strike you dead!"

"How dare you say such things to me, you ungrateful, shameless littlethief!"

"You liar--you beast of a liar!" exclaimed Fan, still torn with the ragethat possessed her. "Go away, you liar! Leave me, you wicked devil! Ihate you! I hate you!"

Miss Starbrow uttered a little scornful laugh. "You would have somereason to hate me if I were to shut you up for six months with hardlabour, " she answered, turning aside as if about to walk away. 

To shut her up for six months! Yes, that was what she had tried to dowith the assistance of a strong man and woman. And what other torturesand sufferings had she intended to inflict on her victim! It was too muchto be reminded of this. It turned her blood into liquid fire, andmaddened her brain; and struggling to find words to speak the rage thatovermastered her, suddenly, as if by a miracle, every evil term ofreproach, every profane and blasphemous expression of drunken brutishanger she had heard and shuddered at in the old days in Moon Street, flashed back into her mind, and she poured them out in a furious torrent, hurled them at her torturer; and then, exhausted, sunk back into herseat, and covering her face again, sobbed convulsively. 

Miss Starbrow's face turned crimson with shame, and she moved two orthree steps away; then she turned, and said in cold incisive tones:

"I see, Fan, that you have not forgotten all the nice things you learntbefore I took you out of the slums to shelter and feed and clothe you. This will be a lesson to me: I had not thought so meanly of the sufferingpoor as you make me think. They say that even dogs are grateful to thosethat feed them. And I did more than feed you, Fan. That's the last wordyou will ever hear from me. "

She was moving away, but Fan, stung by a reproach so cruelly unjust, started to her feet with a cry of passion. 

"Yes, I know you gave me these things--oh, I wish I could tear off thisdress you gave me! And this is the money you gave me--take it! I hateit!" And drawing her purse from her pocket, she flung it down at MissStarbrow's feet. Then, searching for something else to fling back to thedonor, she drew out that crumpled pink paper which had been all the timein her pocket. "And take this too--the wicked telegram you sent me. It isyours, like the money--take it, you bad, hateful woman!"

Miss Starbrow still remained standing near, watching her, and in spite ofher own great anger, she could not help feeling very much astonished atsuch an outburst of fury from a girl who had always seemed to her somild-spirited. She touched the crumpled piece of paper with her foot, then glanced back at the girl seated again with bowed head and coveredface. What had she meant by a telegram? Curiosity overcame the impulse towalk away, and stooping, she picked up the paper and smoothed it out andread, "From Miss Starbrow, Twickenham. To Miss Affleck, Dawson Place. "

She had not been to Twickenham, and had sent no telegram to Fan. Then sheread the message and turned the paper over, and read it again and again, glancing at intervals at the girl. Then she went up to her and put herhand on her shoulder. Fan started and shook the hand off, and raised hereyes wet with tears and red with weeping, but still full of anger. 

Miss Starbrow caught her by the arm. "Tell me what this means--thistelegram; when did you get it, and who gave it to you?" she said in sucha tone that the girl was compelled to obey. 

"You know when you sent it, " said Fan. 

"I never sent it! Oh, my God, can't you understand what I say? Answer--answer my question!"

"Rosie gave it to me. "

"And you went to Twickenham?"

"Yes. "

"And what happened?"

"And the woman you sent to meet me--"

"Hush! don't say that. Are you daft? Don't I tell you I never sent it. Tell me, tell me, or you'll drive me mad!"

Fan looked at her in astonishment. Could it be that it had never enteredinto Mary's heart to do this cruel thing? That raging tempest in herheart was fast subsiding. She began to collect her faculties. 

"The woman met me, " she continued, "and took me a long way from thestation to a little house. She tried to take me upstairs. She said youwere waiting for me, but I looked up and saw Captain Horton peeping overthe banisters--"

Miss Starbrow clenched her hands and uttered a little cry. Her face hadbecome white, and she turned away from the girl. Presently she sat down, and said in a strangely altered voice, "Tell me, Fan, did you take somejewels from my dressing-table--a brooch and three rings, and some otherthings?"

"I took nothing except what you--what the telegram said, and Rosie putthe things in a bag and got the cab for me. "

For a minute or two Miss Starbrow sat in silence, and then got up andsaid:

"Come, Fan. "

"Where?"

"Home with me to Dawson Place. " Then she added, "Must I tell you againthat I have done nothing to harm you? Do you not understand that it wasall a wicked horrible plot to get you away and destroy you, that thetelegram was a forgery, that the jewels were taken to make it appear thatyou had stolen them and run away during my absence from the house?"

Fan rose and followed her, and when they got to the Bayswater Road MissStarbrow called a cab. 

"Where is your bag--where did you sleep last night?" she asked; and whenFan had told her she said, "Tell the man to drive us there, " and got in. 

In a few minutes they arrived at her lodging, and Fan got out and went into get her bag. She did not owe anything for rent, having paid inadvance, but she gave the woman a shilling. 

"I knew I was right, " said the woman, who was now all smiles. "Bless you, miss, you ain't fit to make your own living like one of us. Well, I'mreal pleased your friends has found you. "

Fan got into the cab again, and they proceeded in silence to DawsonPlace. A small boy in buttons, who had only been engaged a day or twobefore, opened the door to them. They went up to the bedroom on the firstfloor. 

"Sit down, Fan, and rest yourself, " said Miss Starbrow, closing andlocking the door; then after moving about the room in an aimless way fora little while, she came and sat down near the girl. "Before you tell methis dreadful story, Fan, " she said, "I wish to ask you one thing more. One day last week when it was raining you came home from Kensington witha young man. Who was he--a friend of yours?"

"A friend of mine! oh no. I was hurrying back in the rain when he came upto me and held his umbrella over my head, and walked to the door with me. It was kind of him, I thought, because he was a stranger, and I had neverseen him before. "

"It was a small thing, but you usually tell me everything, and you didnot tell me this?"

"No, I was waiting to tell you that--and something else, and didn't tellyou because you seemed angry with me, and I was afraid to speak to you. "

"What was the something else you were going to tell me?"

Fan related the scene she had witnessed in the drawing-room. It hadseemed a great thing then, and had disturbed her very much, but now, after all she had recently gone through, it seemed a very trivial matter. 

To the other it did not appear so small a matter, to judge from her blacklooks. She got up and moved about the room again, and then once more satdown beside the girl. 

"Now tell me your own story--everything from the moment you got thetelegram up to our meeting in the Gardens. "

With half-averted face she listened, while the girl again began theinterrupted narration, and went on telling everything to the finish, wondering at times why Mary sat so silent with face averted, as if afraidto meet her eyes. But when she finished Mary turned and took her hand. 

"Poor Fan, " she said, "you have gone through a dreadful experience, andscarcely seem to understand even now what danger you were in. But therewill be time enough to talk of all this--to congratulate you on such afortunate escape; just now I have got to deal with that infamous wretchof a girl who still poisons the house with her presence. "

She rose and rung the bell sharply, and when the boy in buttons answeredit, she ordered him to send Rosie to her. 

"She's gone, " said he. 

"Gone! what do you mean--when did she go?"

"Just now, ma'am. She came up to speak to you when you came in, and thenshe got her box down and went away in a cab. "

Miss Starbrow then sent for the cook. "What does this mean about Rosie'sgoing?" she demanded of that person. "How came you to let her go withoutinforming me?"

"She came down and said she had had some words with you, and was going toleave because Miss Fan had been took back. "

"And the wretch has then got away with my jewellery! What else did shesay?"

"Nothing very good, ma'am. I'd rather not tell you. "

"Tell me at once when I order you. "

"I asked if she was going without her wages and a character, and she saidas you had paid her her wages, \and she didn't want a character, becauseshe didn't consider the house was respectable. "

Miss Starbrow sent her away and closed the door; presently she sat downat some distance from Fan, but spoke no word. Fan was in a low easy-chairnear the window, through which the sun was shining very brightly. Shelooked pale and languid, resting her cheek on her palm and never moving;only at intervals, when Miss Starbrow, with an exclamation of rage, wouldrise and take a few steps about the room and then drop into her seatagain, the girl would raise her eyes and glance at her. All the keensuffering, the strife, the bitterness of heart and anger were over, andthe reaction had come. It had all been a mistake; Mary had never dreamtof doing her harm: the whole trouble had been brought about by CaptainHorton and Rosie; but she remembered them with a strange indifference;the fire of anger had burnt itself out in her heart and could not berekindled. 

With the other it was different. It had been a great shock to her todiscover that the girl she had befriended, and loved as she had neverloved anyone of her own sex before, was so false, so unutterably base. For some little time she refused to believe it, and a horrible suspicionof foul play had crossed her mind. But the proofs stared her in the face, and she remembered that Fan had kept that acquaintance she had formedwith someone out of doors a secret. On returning to the house in theevening, she was told that shortly after she had gone out for the day aletter was brought addressed to Fan, and, when questioned, she hadrefused to tell Rosie who it was from. At one o'clock Rosie had gone upwith her dinner, and, missing her, had searched for her in all the rooms, and was then amazed to find that most of the girl's clothes had alsodisappeared. But she did not know that anything else had been taken. MissStarbrow missed some jewels she had put on her dressing-table, and on afurther search it was discovered that other valuables, and one of herbest travelling bags, were also gone. The astonishment and indignationdisplayed by the maid, who exclaimed that she had always considered Fan asly little hypocrite, helped perhaps to convince her mistress that thegirl had taken advantage of her absence to make her escape from thehouse. Miss Starbrow remembered how confused and guilty she had lookedfor two or three days before her flight, and came to the conclusion thatthe young friend out of doors, not being able to see Fan, had kept awatch on the house, and had cunningly arranged it all, and finally sentor left the letter instructing her where to meet him, also probablyadvising her what to take. 

But Miss Starbrow had not been entirely bound up in the girl: she hadother affections and interests in life, and great as the shock had beenand the succeeding anger, she had recovered her self-possession, and hadset herself to banish Fan from her remembrance. She was ashamed to lether servants and friends see how deeply she had been wounded by thelittle starving wretch she had compassionately rescued from the streets. Outwardly she did not appear much affected; and when Rosie, with well-feigned surprise, asked if the police were not to be employed to tracethe stolen articles and arrest the thief, she only laughed carelessly andreplied: "No; she has punished herself enough already, and the trinketshave no doubt been sold before now, and could not be traced. "

Rosie hurried away to hide the relief she felt, for she had beentrembling to think what might happen if some cunning detective were to beemployed to make investigations in the house. 

Now, however, when Mary began to recover from the amazement caused byFan's narrative, a dull rage took such complete possession of her that itleft no room for any other feeling. The girl sitting there with bent headseemed no more to her than some stranger who had just come in, and aboutwhom she knew and cared nothing. All that Fan had suffered was forgotten:she only thought of herself, of the outrage on her feelings, of the viletreachery of the man who had pretended to love her, whom she had lovedand had treated so kindly, helping him with money and in other ways, andforgiving him again and again when he had offended her. She could notrest or sit still when she thought of it, and she thought of itcontinually and of nothing else. She rose and paced the room, pausing atevery step, and turning herself from side to side, like some savageanimal, strong and lithe and full of deadly rage, but unable to spring, trapped and shut within iron bars. Her face had changed to a livid white, and looked hard and pitiless, and her eyes had a fixed stony stare likethose of a serpent. And at intervals, as she moved about the room, sheclenched her hands with such energy that the nails wounded her palms. Andfrom time to time her rage would rise to a kind of frenzy, and findexpression in a voice strangely harsh and unnatural, deeper than a man's, and then suddenly rising to a shrill piercing key that startled Fan andmade her tremble. Poor Fan! that little burst of transitory anger she hadexperienced in the Gardens seemed now only a pitifully weak exhibitioncompared with the black tempest raging in this strong, undisciplinedwoman's soul. 

"And I have loved him--loved that hell-hound! God! shall I ever cease todespise and loathe myself for sinking into such a depth of infamy! Never--never--until his viper head has been crushed under my heel! To strike!to crush! to torture! How?--have I no mind to think? Nothing can I do--nothing--nothing! Are there no means? Ah, how sweet to scorch the skinand make the handsome face loathsome to look at! To burn the eyes up intheir sockets--to shut up the soul for ever in thick blackness!. .. Oh, isthere no wise theologian who can prove to me that there is a hell, thathe will be chained there and tortured everlastingly! That would satisfyme--to remember it would be sweeter than Heaven. "

Suddenly she turned in a kind of fury on Fan, who had risen tremblingfrom her seat. "Sit down!" she said. "Hide your miserable white face frommy sight! You could have warned me in time, you could have saved me fromthis, and you failed to do it! Oh, I could strike you dead with my handfor your imbecile cowardice!. .. And he will escape me! To blast his name, to hold him up to public scorn and hatred, years of imprisonment in afelon's cell--all, all the suffering we can inflict on such a fiendishwretch seems weak and childish, and could give no comfort to my soul. Oh, it drives me mad to think of it--I shall go mad--I shall go mad!" Andshrieking, and with eyes that seemed starting from their sockets, shebegan madly tearing her hair and clothes. 

Fan had risen again, white and trembling at that awful sight; and unableto endure it longer, she sprang to the door, and crying out with terror, flew down to the kitchen. The cook returned with her, and on entering theroom they discovered their mistress in a mad fit of hysterics, shriekingwith laughter, and tearing her clothes off. The woman was strong, andseeing that prompt action was needed, seized her mistress in her arms andthrew her on to the couch, and held her there in spite of her franticstruggles. Assisted by Fan, she then emptied the contents of the toiletjug over her face and naked bosom, half drowning her; and after a whileMiss Starbrow ceased her struggles, and sank back gasping and halffainting on the cushion, her eyes closed and her face ghostly white. 

"You see, " said the cook to Fan, "she never had one before, and she's astrong one, and it's always worse for that sort when it do come. Lor', what a temper she must have been in to take on so!"

Between them they succeeded in undressing and placing her on her bed, where she lay for an hour in a half-conscious state; but later in the dayshe began to recover, and moved to the couch near the fire, while Fan satbeside her on the carpet, watching the face that looked so strange in itswhiteness and languor, and keeping the firelight from the half-closedeyes. 

"Oh, Fan, how weak I feel now--so weak!" she murmured. "And a littlewhile ago I felt so strong! If he had been present I could have torn theflesh from his bones. No tiger in the jungle maddened by the hunters hassuch strength as I felt in me then. And now it has all gone, and he hasescaped from me. Let him go. All the kindly feeling I had for him--allthe hopes for his future welfare, all my secret plans to aid him--theyare dead. But it was all so sudden. Was it to-day, Fan, that I saw yousitting in Kensington Gardens, crying by yourself, or a whole year ago?Poor Fan! poor Fan!"

The girl had hid her face against Mary's knee. 

"But why do you cry, my poor girl?"

"Oh, dear Mary, will you ever forgive me?" said Fan, half raising hertearful face. 

"Forgive you, Fan! For what?"

"For what I said to-day in the Gardens. Oh, why, why did I say suchdreadful things! Oh, I am so--so sorry--I am so sorry!"

"I remember now, but I had forgotten all about it. That was nothing, Fan--less than nothing. It was not you that spoke, but the demon of angerthat had possession of you. I forgive you freely for that, poor child, and shall never think of it again. But I shall never be able to feeltowards you as I did before. Never, Fan. "

"Mary, Mary, what have I done!"

"Nothing, child. It is not anything you have done, or that you have leftundone. But I took you into my house and into my heart, and only askedyou to love and trust me, and you forgot it all in a moment, and wereready to believe the worst of me. A stranger told you that I had secretlyplanned your destruction, and you at once believed it. How could you findit in your heart to believe such a thing of me--a thing so horrible, soimpossible?"

Fan, with her face hidden, continued crying. 

"But don't cry, Fan. You shall not suffer. If you could lose all faith inme, and think me such a demon of wickedness, you are not to blame. Youare not what I imagined, but only what nature made you. Where I thoughtyou strong you are weak, and it was my mistake. "

Suddenly Fan raised her eyes, wet with tears, and looked fixedly at theother's face; nor did she drop them when Mary's eyes, opening wide andexpressing a little surprise at the girl's courage, and a littleresentment, returned the look. 

"Mary, " she said, speaking in a voice which had recovered its firmness, "I loved you so much, and I had never done anything wrong, and--and yousaid you would always love and trust me because you knew that I wasgood. "

"Well, Fan?"

"And you believed what Rosie said about me, and that I was a thief, andhad taken your jewels and ran away. "

Mary cast down her eyes, and the corners of her mouth twitched as if witha slight smile. 

"That is true, " she said slowly. "You are right, Fan; you are not so pooras I thought, but can defend yourself with your tongue or your teeth, asoccasion requires. Perhaps my sin balances yours after all, and leaves usquits. Perhaps when I get over this trouble I shall love you as much asever--perhaps more. "

"And you are not angry with me now, Mary?"

"No, Fan, I was not angry with you: kiss me if you like. Only I feelvery, very tired--tired and sick of my life, and wish I could lie downand sleep and forget everything. "

CHAPTER XII

On the very next day Miss Starbrow was herself again apparently, and theold life was resumed just where it had been broken off. But althoughoutwardly things went on in the old way, and her mistress was not unkind, and she had her daily walk, her reading, sewing, and embroidery to fillher time, the girl soon perceived that something very precious to her hadbeen lost in the storm, and she looked and waited in vain for itsrecovery. In spite of those reassuring well-remembered words Mary hadspoken to her, the old tender affection and confidence, which had madetheir former relations seem so sweet, now seemed lost. Mary was notunkind, but that was all. She did not wish Fan to read to her, or giveher any assistance in dressing, or to remain long in her room, butpreferred to be left alone. When she spoke, her words and tone were notungentle, but she no longer wished to talk, and after a few minutes shewould send her away; and then Fan, sad at heart, would go to her ownroom--that large back room where her bed had been allowed to remain, andwhere she worked silent and solitary, sitting before her own fire. 

One day, just as she came in from her morning walk, a letter was left bythe postman, and Fan took it up to her mistress, glad always of an excuseto go to her--for now some excuse seemed necessary. 

Miss Starbrow, sitting moodily before her fire in her bedroom, took it;but the moment she looked at the writing she started as if a snake hadbitten her, and flung the letter into the fire. Then, while watching itblaze up, she suddenly exclaimed:

"I was a fool to burn it before first seeing what was in it!"

Before she finished speaking Fan darted her hand into the flame, andtossing the burning letter on the rug, stamped out the fire with herfoot. The envelope and the outer leaf of the letter were black andcharred, but the inner leaf, which was the part written on, had notsuffered. 

"Thanks, Fan; that was clever, " said Miss Starbrow, taking it; and thenproceeded to read it, holding it far from her face as if her eyesight hadsuddenly fallen into decay. 

 Dear Pollie [ran the letter], When I saw that girl back in your house I knew that it would be all over between us. It is a terrible thing for me to lose you in that way, but there is no help for it now; I know that you will not forgive me. But I don't wish you to think of me worse than I deserve. You know as well as I do that since you took Fan into the house you have changed towards me, and that without quite throwing me over you made it as uncomfortable for me as you could. As things did not improve, I became convinced that as long as you had her by you it would continue the same, so I resolved to get her out of the way. I partially succeeded, and she would have been kept safely shut up for a few days, and then sent to a distant part of the country, to be properly taken care of. That is the whole of my offence, and I am very sorry that my plan failed. Nothing more than that was intended; and if you have imagined anything more you have done me an injustice. I am bad enough, I suppose, but not so bad as that; and I hate and always have hated that girl, who has been my greatest enemy, though perhaps unintentionally. That is all I have to say, except that I shall never forget how different it once was--how kind you could be, and how happy you often made me before that miserable creature came between us. 

 Good-bye for ever, JACK. 

Miss Starbrow laughed bitterly. "There, Fan, read it, " she said. "It isall about you, and you deserve a reward for burning your fingers. Cowardand villain! why has he added this infamous lie to his other crimes? Ithas only made me hate and despise him more than ever. If he had had thecourage to confess everything, and even to boast of it, I should not havethought so meanly of him. "

The wound was bleeding afresh. Her face had grown pale, and under herblack scowling brows her eyes shone as if with the reflected firelight. But it was only the old implacable anger flashing out again. 

Fan, after reading the letter for herself, and dropping it with tremblingfingers on to the fire, turned to her mistress. Her face had also grownvery pale, and her eyes expressed a new and great trouble. 

"Why do you look at me like that?" exclaimed Miss Starbrow, seizing herby the arm. "Speak!"

Fan sank down on to her knees, and began stammeringly, "Oh, I can't bearto think--to think--"

"To think what?--Speak, I tell you!"

"_Did_ I come between you?--oh, Mary, are you sorry--"

"Hush!" and Miss Starbrow pushed her angrily from her. "Sorry! Never dareto say such a thing again! Oh, I don't know which is most hateful to me, his villainy or your whining imbecility. Leave me--go to your room, andnever come to me unless I call you. "

Fan went away, sad at heart, and cried by herself, fearing now that thesweet lost love would never again return to brighten her life. But afterthis passionate outburst Miss Starbrow was not less kind and gentle thanbefore. Once at least every day she would call Fan to her room and speaka few words to her, and then send her away. The few words would even becheerfully spoken, but with a fictitious kind of cheerfulness; under itall there was ever a troubled melancholy look; the clouds which hadreturned after the rain had not yet passed away. To Fan they were verymuch, those few daily words which served to keep her hope alive, whileher heart hungered for the love that was more than food to her. 

Even in her sleep this unsatisfied instinct of her nature and perpetualcraving made her dreams sad. But not always, for on more than oneoccasion she had a very strange sweet dream of Mary pressing her lips andwhispering some tender assurance to her; and this dream was so vivid, solike reality, that when she woke she seemed to feel still on face andhands the sensation of loving lips and other clasping hands, so that sheput out her hands to return the embrace. And one night from that dreamshe woke very suddenly, and saw a light in the room--the light of a smallshaded lamp moving away towards the door, and Mary, in a white wrapper, with her dark hair hanging unbound on her back, was carrying it. 

"Mary, Mary!" cried the girl, starting up in bed, and holding out herarms. 

The other turned, and for a little while stood looking at her; no ghostnor somnambulist was she in appearance, with those bright wakeful eyes, the curious smile that played about her lips, and the rich colour, perhaps from confusion or shame at being detected, surging back into herlately pale face. She did not refuse the girl's appeal, or try any longerto conceal her feelings. Setting the lamp down she came to the bedside, and taking Fan in her arms, held her in a long close embrace. When shehad finished caressing the girl she remained standing for some timesilent beside the bed, her eyes cast down as if in thought, and anexpression half melancholy but strangely tender and beautiful on herface. 

Presently she bent down over the girl again and spoke. 

"Don't fret, dearest, if I seem bad-tempered and strange. I love you justthe same; I have come here more than once to kiss you when you wereasleep. Do you remember how angry you made me when you asked if you hadcome between that man and me, and if I were sorry? You _did_ comebetween us, Fan, in a way that his wholly corrupt soul would neverunderstand. But you could not have done me a greater service than that--no, not if you had spilt your heart's blood for me. You have repaid mefor all that I have done, or ever can do for you, and have made me yourdebtor besides for the rest of my life. "

That midnight interview with her mistress had thereafter a very brightand beautiful place in Fan's memory, and still thinking of it she wouldsometimes lie awake for hours, wishing and hoping that Mary would come toher again in one of her tender moods. But it did not happen again; forMary was not one to recover quickly from such a wound as she hadsuffered, and she still brooded, wrapped up in her own thoughts, dreamingperhaps of revenge. And in the meantime bitter blustering March wore onto its end, the sun daily gaining power; and then, all at once, it wasApril, with sunshine and showers; and some heavenly angel passed by andtouched the brown old desolate elms in Kensington Gardens with tenderestgreen; and as by a miracle the baskets of the flower-girls in WestbourneGrove were filled to overflowing with spring flowers--pale primroses thatdie unmarried; and daffodils that come before the swallow dares, shininglike gold; and violets dim, but sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, orCytherea's breath. 

CHAPTER XIII

One afternoon, returning from Westbourne Grove, where she had been out tobuy flowers for the table, on coming into the hall, Fan was surprised tohear Miss Starbrow in the dining-room talking to a stranger, with acheerful ring in her voice, which had not been heard for many weeks. Shewas about to run upstairs to her room, when her mistress called out, "Isthat you, Fan? Come in here; I want you. "

Miss Starbrow and her visitor were sitting near the window. How changedshe looked, with her cheeks so full of rich red colour, and her dark eyessparkling with happy, almost joyous excitement! But she did not speakwhen Fan, blushing a little with shyness, advanced into the room andstood before them, her eyes cast down in a pretty confusion. Smiling, shewatched the girl's face, then the face of her guest, her eyes bright andmirthful glancing from one to the other. Fan, looking up, saw before hera tall broad-shouldered young man with good features, hair almost black;no beard, but whiskers and moustache, very dark brown; and, in strangecontrast, grey-blue eyes. Over these eyes, too light in colour to matchthe hair, the eyelids drooped a little, giving to them that partially-closed sleepy appearance which is often deceptive. Just now they werestudying the girl standing before him with very keen interest. A slendergirl, not quite sixteen years old, in a loose and broad-sleeved olive-green dress, and yellow scarf at the neck; brown straw hat trimmed withspring flowers; flowers also in her hand, yellow and white, and ferns, ina great loose bunch; and her golden hair hanging in a braid on her back. But the face must be imagined, white and delicate and indescribablylovely in its tender natural pallor. 

"Fan, " said Miss Starbrow at last, and speaking with a merry smile, "thisis my brother Tom, from Manchester, you have so often heard me speak of. Tom, this is Fan. "

"Well, " exclaimed Miss Starbrow, after he had shaken hands with Fan andsat down again, "what do you think of my little girl? You have heard allabout her, and now you have seen her, and I am waiting to hear youropinion. "

"Do you remember the old days at home, Mary, when we were all together?How you do remind me of them now!"

"Oh, bother the old days! You know how I hated them, and I--why don't youanswer my question, Tom?"

"That's just it, " he returned. "It was always the same: you always wantedan answer before the question was out of your mouth. Now, it was quitedifferent with the rest of us. "

"Yes, you were a slow lot. Do you remember Jacob?--it always took himfifteen minutes to say yes or no. There's an animal--I forget what it'scalled--rhinoceros or something--at the Zoo that always reminds me ofhim; he was so fearfully ponderous. "

"Yes, that's all very well, Mary, but I fancy he's more than doubled thefortune the gov'nor left him; so he has been ponderous to some purpose. "

"Has he? how? But what do I care! Tom, you'll drive me crazy--why can'tyou answer a simple question instead of going off into fifty otherthings?"

"Well, Mary, if you'll kindly explain which of all the questions you haveasked me during the last minute or two, I'll try my best. "

She frowned, made an impatient gesture, then laughed. 

"Go upstairs and take off your things, Fan, " she said. "Well?" shecontinued, turning to her brother again, and finding his eyes fixed onher face. "Do you tell me, Mary, that this white girl was born and bredin a London slum, that her drunken mother was killed in a street fight, and that she had no other life but that until you picked her up?"

"Yes. "

"Good God!"

"Can't you say _Mon Dieu_, Tom? Your north-country expressions soundrather shocking to London ears. "

He rose, and coming to her side put his arm about her and kissed hercheek very heartily. 

"You were always a good old girl, Mary, " he said, "and you are one still, in spite of your vagaries. "

"Thank you for your very equivocal compliments, " she returned, administering a slight box on his ear. "And now tell me what you think ofFan?"

"I'll tell you presently, if you have not guessed already; but I'd liketo know first what you are going to do with her. "

"I don't know; I can't bother about it just now. There's plenty of timeto think of that. Perhaps I'll make a lady's-maid of her, though itdoesn't seem quite the right thing to do. "

"No, it doesn't. Don't go and spoil what you have done by any such follyas that. "

"Do you want me to make a lady of her--or what?"

"A lady? Well that is a difficult question to answer; but I have heardthat sometimes ladies, like poets, are born, not made. At all events, itwould not be right, I fancy, to keep the girl here. It might give rise todisagreeable complications, as you always have a parcel of fellowshanging about you. "

Her face darkened with a frown. 

"Now, Mary, don't get into a tantrum; it is best for us to be frank. AndI say frankly that you never did a better thing in your life than whenyou took this girl into your house, if my judgment is worth anything. Myadvice is, send her away for a time--for a year or two, say. She isyoung, and would be better for a little more teaching. There are poorgentlefolks all over the country who are only too glad to take a girlwhen they can get one, and give her a pleasant home and instruction for amoderate sum. Find out some such place, and give her a year of it atleast; and then if you should have her back she would be more of acompanion for you, and, if not, she would be better able to earn her ownliving. Take my advice, Mary, and finish a good work properly. "

"A good work! You have nearly spoilt the effect of everything you said bythat word. I never have done and never will do good works. It is not mynature, Tom. What I have done for Fan is purely from selfish motives. Thefact is I fell in love with the girl, and my reward is in being loved byher and seeing her happy. It would be ridiculous to call thatbenevolence. "

He smiled and shook his head. "You can abuse yourself if you like, Mary;we came from Dissenters, and that's a fashion of theirs--"

"Cant and hypocrisy is a fashion of theirs, if you like, " sheinterrupted. "You are not going the right way about it if you wish me topay any attention to your advice. "

"Come, Mary, don't let us quarrel. I'll agree with you that we are all alot of selfish beggars; and I'll even confess that I have a selfishmotive in advising you to send the girl away to the country for a time. "

"What is your motive?" she asked. 

"Well, I hate going slap-dash into the middle of a thing without anypreface; I like to approach it in my own way. "

"Yes, I know; _your_ way of approaching a subject is to walk in acircle round it. But please dash into the middle of it for once. "

"Well, then, to tell you the plain truth, I am beginning to think thatmoney-getting is not the only thing in life--"

"What a discovery for a Manchester man to make! The millennium must havedawned at last on your smoky old town!"

He laughed at her words, but refused to go on with the subject. 

"I was only teasing you a little, " he said. "It gladdens me even to seeyou put yourself in a temper, Mary--it brings back old times when we werealways such good friends, and sometimes had such grand quarrels. "

Mary also laughed, and rang the bell for afternoon tea. She was curiousto hear about the "selfish motive, " but remembered the family failing, and forbore to press him. 

According to his own accounts, Mr. Tom Starbrow was up in town onbusiness; apparently the business was not of a very pressing nature, asmost of his time during the next few days was spent at Dawson Place, where he and his sister had endless conversations about old times. Thenhe would go with Fan to explore Whiteley's, which seemed to require agreat deal of exploring; and from these delightful rambles they wouldreturn laden with treasures--choice bon-bons, exotic flowers and hot-house grapes at five or six shillings a pound; quaint Japanese knick-knacks; books and pictures, and photographs of celebrated men--greatbeetle-browed philosophers, and men of blood and thunder; also of womenstill more celebrated, on and off the stage. Mr. Starbrow would havenothing sent; the whole fun of the thing, he assured Fan, was in carryingall their purchases home themselves; and so, laden with innumerable smallparcels, they would return chatting and laughing like the oldest and bestof friends, happy and light-hearted as children. 

At last one day Mr. Starbrow went back to the old subject. "Mary, mygirl, " he said, "have you thought over the advice I gave you about thiswhite child of yours?"

"No, certainly not; we were speaking of it when you broke off in themiddle of a sentence, if you remember. You can finish the sentence now ifyou like, but don't be in a hurry. "

"Well then, to come at once to the very pith of the whole matter, I thinkI've been sticking to the mill long enough--for the present. And it maycome to pass that some day I shall be married, and then----"

"Your second state will be worse than your first. "

"That will be according to how it turns out. I was only going to say thata married man finds it more difficult to do some things. "

"To flirt with pretty young girls, for instance?"

"No, no. But I haven't finished yet. I haven't even come to the matter atall. "

"Oh, you haven't! How strange!"

He smiled and was silent. 

"I hope, Tom, you'll marry a big strong woman. "

"Why, Mary?"

"Because you want an occasional good shaking. "

"You see, my difficulty is this, " he began again, without noticing thelast speech. "When I tell you what I want, I'm afraid you'll only laughat me and refuse my request. "

"It won't hurt you much, poor old Tom, if I do laugh. "

"No, perhaps not--I never thought of that. " Then he proceeded to explainthat he had made up his mind to spend two or three years in seeing theworld, or at all events that portion of it to be found outside ofEngland; and the first year he wished to spend on the Continent. Alone hefeared that he would have a miserable time of it; but if his sister wouldonly consent to accompany him, then he thought it would be mostenjoyable; for he would have her society, and her experience of travel, and knowledge of German and French, would also smooth the way. "Now, Mary, " he concluded--it had taken him half an hour to say this--"don'tsay No just yet. I know I shall be an awful weight for you to drag about, I'll be so helpless at hotels and stations and such places. But therewill perhaps be one advantage to you. I know you spend rather freely, andyour income is not too large, and I dare say you have exceeded it alittle. Now, if you will give a year to me, and have your house shut upor let in the meantime, there would be a year's income saved to put youstraight again. "

"That means, Tom, that you would pay all my expenses while we wereabroad?"

"Well, sis, I couldn't well take you away from your own life andpleasures and ask you to pay your own. That would be a strangely one-sided proposal to make. "

"I must take time to think about it. "

"That's a good girl. And, Mary, what would it cost to put this girl withsome family where she would have a pleasant home and be taught for ayear?"

"About sixty or seventy pounds, I suppose. Then there would be herclothing, and pocket-money, and incidental expenses--altogether a hundredpounds, I dare say. "

"And you would let me pay this also?"

"No indeed, Tom. Three or four months would be quite time enough to putme straight; and if I consent to go, it must be understood that there areto be no presents, and nothing except travelling expenses. "

"All right, Mary; you haven't consented yet definitely, but it is a greatrelief that you do not scout the idea, and tell me to go and buy a ticketat Ludgate Circus. "

"Well, no, I couldn't well say that, considering that you are the onlyone of the family who has treated me rightly, and that I care anythingabout. " She laughed a little, and presently continued: "I dare say theothers are all well enough in their way; they are all honest men, ofcourse, and someone says, 'An honest man's the noblest work of God. ' Formy part, I think it His poorest work. Fancy dull, slow old calculatingJacob being the noblest work of the Being that created--what shall Isay?--this violet, or--"

"Fan, " suggested her brother. 

"Yes, Fan if you like. By the way, Tom, before I forget to mention it, Ithink you are a little in love with Fan. "

Tom, taken off his guard, blushed hotly, which would not have mattered ifhis sister's keen eyes had not been watching his face. 

"What nonsense you talk!" he exclaimed a little too warmly. "In love witha child!"

"Yes, I know she's but a lassie yet, " replied his sister with a mockinglaugh. 

It was too much for his Starbrow temper, and taking up his hat he roseand marched angrily out of the room--angry as much with himself as withhis sister. But in a moment she was after him, and before he could openthe hall door her arms were round his neck. 

"Oh, Tom, you foolish fellow, can't you take a little joke good-humouredly?" she said. "I'm afraid our year on the Continent will be avery short one if you are going to be so touchy. "

"Then you will consent?" he said, glad to change the subject and befriendly again. 

And a day or two later she did finally consent to accompany him. Hisproposal had come at an opportune moment, when she was heartsore, andrestless, and anxious to escape from the painful memories andassociations of the past month. 

One of her first steps was to advertise in the papers for a home withtuition for a girl under sixteen, in a small family residing in a ruraldistrict in the west or south-west of England. The answers were to beaddressed to her newspaper agent, who was instructed not to forward themto her in driblets, but deliver them all together. 

Mr. Starbrow stayed another week in town, and during that time he wentsomewhere every day with his sister and Fan; they drove in the Park, wentto picture galleries, to morning concerts, and then, if not tired, to atheatre in the evening. It was consequently a very full week to Fan, whonow for the first time saw something of the hidden wonders and glories ofLondon. And she was happy; but this novel experience--the sight of allthat unimagined wealth of beauty--was even less to her than Mary'sperfect affection, which was now no longer capricious, bursting forth atrare intervals like sunshine out of a stormy sky. Then that week infairyland was over, and Tom Starbrow went back to Manchester to arrangehis affairs; but before going he presented Fan with a very beautifullady's watch and chain, the watch of chased gold with blue enamelledface. 

"I do not wish you to forget me, Fan, " he said, holding her hand in his, and looking into her young face smilingly, yet with a troubled expressionin his eyes, "and there is nothing like a watch to remind you of anabsent friend; sometimes it will even repeat his words if you listenattentively to its little ticking language. It is something like the sea-shell that whispers about the ocean waves when you hold it to your ear. "

That pretty little speech only served to make the gift seem more preciousto Fan; for she was not critical, and it did not sound in the leaststudied to her. It was delivered, however, when Mary was out of the room;when she returned and saw the watch, after congratulating the girl shethrew a laughing and somewhat mocking glance at her brother; for whichTom was prepared, and so he met it bravely, and did not blush or lose histemper. 

In due time the answers to the advertisement arrived--in a sack, for theynumbered about four hundred. 

"Oh, how will you ever be able to read them all!" exclaimed Fan, staringin a kind of dismay at the pile, where Miss Starbrow had emptied them onthe carpet. 

"I have no such mad intention, " said the other with a laugh, and turningthem over with her pretty slippered foot. "As a rule people that answeradvertisements--especially women--are fools. If you advertise for a pieceof old point lace, about a thousand people who have not got such a thingwill write to say that they will sell you wax flowers, old books, ostrichfeathers, odd numbers of _Myra's Journal_, or any rubbish they mayhave by them; I dare say that most of the writers of these letters arejust as wide of the mark. Sit here at my feet, Fan; and you shall openthe letters for me and read the addresses. No, not that way with yourfingers. If you stop to tear them to pieces, like a hungry cat tearingits meat, it will take too long. Use the paper-knife, and open themneatly and quickly. "

Fan began her task, and found scores of letters from the suburbs ofLondon and all parts of the kingdom, from Land's End to the north ofScotland; and in nine cases out of ten after reading the address hermistress would say, "Tear it twice across, and throw it into the basket, Fan. "

It seemed a pity to Fan to tear them up unread; for some were so long andso beautifully written, with pretty little crests at the top of the page;but Mary knew her own mind, and would not relent so far as even to lookat one of these wasted specimens of calligraphic art. In less than anhour's time the whole heap had been disposed of, with the exception offifteen or twenty letters selected for consideration on account of theiraddresses. These Miss Starbrow carefully went over, and finally selectingone she read it aloud to Fan. It was from a Mrs. Churton, an elderlylady, residing with her husband, a retired barrister, and her daughter, in their own house at a small place called Eyethorne, in Wiltshire. Sheoffered to take the girl into her house, treat her as her own child, andgive her instruction, for seventy pounds a year. The tuition would beundertaken by the daughter, who was well qualified for such a task, andcould teach languages--Latin, German, and French were mentioned; alsomathematics, geology, history, music, drawing, and a great many otherbranches of knowledge, both useful and ornamental. 

Fan listened to this part of the letter with a look of dismay on herface, which made Miss Starbrow laugh. 

"Why, my child, what more can you want?" she said. 

"Don't you think it a little too much, Mary?" she returned with somedistress, which made the other laugh again. 

"Well, my poor girl, you needn't study Greek and archaeology andlogarithms unless you feel inclined. But if you ever take a fancy forsuch subjects it will always be a comfort to know that you may dive downas deeply as you like without knocking your head on the bottom. I meanthat you will never get to know too much for Miss Churton, who knows morethan all the professors put together. "

"Do you think she will be nice?" said Fan, wandering from the subject. 

"Nice! That depends on your own taste. I fancy I can draw a picture ofwhat she is like. A tall thin lady of an uncertain age. Thin acrosshere"--placing her hands on her own shoulders. "And very flat here, "--touching her own well-developed bust. 

"But I should like to know about her face. "

"Should you? I'm afraid that it is not a very bright smiling face, thatit is rather yellow in colour, that the hair is rather dead-looking, ofthe door-mat tint, and smoothed flat down. The eyes are dim, no doubt, from much reading, and the nose long, straddled with a pair ofspectacles, and red at the end from dyspepsia and defective circulation. But never mind, Fan, you needn't look so cast down about it. Miss Churtonwill be your teacher, and I wish you joy, but you will have plenty oftime for play, and other things to think of besides study. When yourlessons are over you can chase butterflies and gather flowers if youlike. Luckily Miss Churton has not included botany and entomology in thelong list of her acquirements. "

Fan did not quite understand all this; her mistress was always mocking atsomething, she knew; she only asked if it was really in the country whereshe would live. 

Miss Starbrow took up the letter and read the remaining portion, whichcontained a description of Wood End House--the Churtons' residence--andits surroundings. The house, the writer said, was small, but pretty andcomfortable; and there was a nice garden and a large orchard with fruitin abundance. There were also some fields and meadows, her own property, let to neighbouring farmers. East of the house, and within fifteenminutes walk, was the old picturesque village of Eyethorne, sheltered bya range of grassy hills; also within a few minutes' walk began theextensive Eyethorne woods, celebrated for their beauty. 

Nothing could have been more charming than this, and the picture ofgarden and orchard, green meadows and hills and shady woods, almostreconciled Fan to the prospect of spending a whole year in the society ofan aged and probably ailing couple, and a lady of uncertain age, deeplylearned and of unprepossessing appearance--for she could not rid her mindof the imaginary portrait drawn by Mary. 

For some mysterious reason, or for no reason, Miss Starbrow resolved toclose at once with the Churtons; and as if fearing that her mind mightalter, she immediately tore up the other letters, although in some ofthem greater advantages had been held out, lower terms, and thecompanionship of girls of the same age as Fan. And in a very few days, after a little further correspondence, everything was settled to theentire satisfaction of everyone concerned, and it was arranged that Fanshould go down to Eyethorne on the 10th of May, which was now very near. 

"I shall have one good dress made for you, " said Miss Starbrow, "and youcan take the material to make a second for yourself; you are growing justnow, Fan. A nice dress for Sundays; down in the country most people go tochurch. And, by the way, Fan, have you ever been inside a church in yourlife?"

She seemed not to know how to answer this question, but at length spoke, a little timidly. "Not since I have lived with you, Mary. "

"Is that intended for a sarcasm, Fan? But never mind, I know what youmean. When you are at Eyethorne you must still bear that in mind, andeven if questioned about it, never speak of that old life in Moon Street. I suppose I must get you a prayer-book, and--show you how to use it. Butabout dress. Your body is very much more important than your soul, andhow to clothe it decently and prettily must be our first consideration. We must go to Whiteley's and select materials for half a dozen prettysummer dresses. Blue, I fancy, suits you best, but you can have othercolours as well. "

"Oh, Mary, " said the girl with strange eagerness, "will you let me chooseone myself? I have so long wished to wear white! May I have one whitedress?"

"White? You are so white yourself. Don't you think you look simple andinnocent enough as it is? But please yourself, Fan, you shall have asmany white dresses as you like. "

So overjoyed was Fan at having this long-cherished wish at last gratifiedthat, for the first time she had ever ventured to do such a thing, shethrew her arms round Mary's neck and kissed her. Then starting back alittle frightened, she exclaimed, "Mary, was it wrong for me to kiss youwithout being told?"

"No, dear, kiss me as often as you like. We have had a rather eventfulyear together, have we not? Clouds and storms and some pleasant sunshine. For these few remaining days there must be no clouds, but only perfectlove and peace. The parting will come quickly enough, and who knows--whoknows what changes another year will bring?"

CHAPTER XIV

At the last moment, when all the preparations were complete, MissStarbrow determined to accompany Fan to her new home, and, after droppingher there, to pay a long-promised visit before leaving England to an oldfriend of her girlhood, who was now married and living at Salisbury. Eyethorne took her some distance out of her way; and at the small countrystation where they alighted, which was two and a half miles from thevillage, she found from the time-table that her interview with theChurtons would have to be a short one, as there was only one train whichwould take her to Salisbury so as to arrive there at a reasonably earlyhour in the evening. At the station they took a fly, and the drive toEyethorne brought before Fan's eyes a succession of charming scenes--green hills, broad meadows yellow with buttercups, deep shady lanes, andold farm-houses. The spring had been cold and backward; but since thebeginning of May there had been days of warm sunshine with occasionalgentle rains, and the trees, both shade and fruit, had all at once rushedinto leaf and perfect bloom. Such vivid and tender greens as the foliageshowed, such a wealth of blossom on every side, such sweet fragrancefilling the warm air, Fan had never imagined; and yet how her propheticheart had longed for the sweet country!

A sudden turn of the road brought them in full sight of the village, sheltered on the east side by low green hills; and beyond the village, atsome distance, a broad belt of wood, the hills on one hand and greenmeadowland on the other. Five minutes after leaving the village they drewup at the gate of Wood End House, which was at some distance back fromthe road almost hidden from sight by the hedge and trees, and wasapproached by a short avenue of elms. Arrived at the house, they werereceived by Mr. And Mrs. Churton, and ushered into a small drawing-roomon the ground floor; a room which, with its heavy-looking, old-fashionedfurniture, seemed gloomy to them on coming in from the bright sunshine. Mrs. Churton was rather large, approaching stoutness in her figure, grey-haired with colourless face, and a somewhat anxious expression; but sheseemed very gentle and motherly, and greeted Fan with a kindliness in hervoice and manner which served in a great measure to remove the girl'snervousness on coming for the first time as an equal among gentlefolks. 

Mr. Churton had not, in a long married life, grown like his spouse in anyway, nor she like him. He was small, with a narrow forehead, irregularface and projecting under-lip, which made him ugly. His eyes were of thatcommon no-colour type, and might or might not have been pigmented, andclassifiable as brown or blue--Dr. Broca himself would not have been ableto decide. But the absence of any definite colour was of less accountthan the lack of any expression, good or bad. One wondered, on seeing hisface, how he could be a retired barrister, unless it meant merely that inthe days of his youth he had made some vague and feeble efforts atentering such a profession, ending in nothing. Possibly he was himselfconscious that his face lacked a quality found in others, and failed toinspire respect and confidence; for he had a trick of ostentatiouslyclearing his throat, and looking round and speaking in a deliberate andsomewhat consequential manner, as if by these little arts tocounterbalance the weakness in the expression. His whole get-up alsosuggested the same thought--could anyone believe the jewel to be missingfrom a casket so elaborately chased? His grey hair was brushed sprucelyup on each side of his head, the ends of the locks forming asupplementary pair of ears above the crown. He was scrupulously dressedin black cloth and spotless linen, with a very large standing-up collar. In manner he was gushingly amiable and polite towards Miss Starbrow, andas he stood bowing and smiling and twirling the cord of his gold-rimmedglasses about his finger, he talked freely to that lady of the lovelyweather, the beauty of the country, the pleasures of the spring season, and in fact of everything except the business which had brought herthere. Presently she cut short his flow of inconsequent talk by remarkingthat her time was short, and inquiring if Miss Churton were in. 

Mrs. Churton quickly replied that she was expecting her every moment;that she had gone out for a short walk, and had not perhaps seen the flyarrive. No doubt, she added a little nervously, Miss Starbrow would liketo see and converse with Miss Affleck's future teacher and companion. 

"Oh, no, not at all!" promptly replied the other, with the habitualcurling of the lip. "I came to-day by the merest chance, as everythinghad been arranged by correspondence, and I am quite satisfied that MissAffleck will be in good hands. " At which Mr. Churton bowed, and turningbestowed a fatherly smile on Fan. "It is not at all necessary for me tosee Miss Churton, " continued Miss Starbrow, "but there is one thing Iwish to speak to you about, which I omitted to mention in my letters toyou. "

Mr. And Mrs. Churton were all attention, but before the other had begunto speak Miss Churton came in, her hat on, and with a sunshade in onehand and a book in the other. 

"Here is my daughter, " said the mother. "Constance, Miss Starbrow andMiss Affleck. "

Miss Churton advanced to the first lady, but did not give her hand as shehad meant to do; for the moment she appeared in the room and her name wasmentioned a cloud had come over the visitor's face, and she merely boweddistantly without stirring from her seat. 

For the real Miss Churton offered a wonderful contrast to that portraitof her which the other had drawn from her imagination. She might almostbe called tall, her height being little less than that of the dark-browedlady who sat before her, regarding her with cold critical eyes; but infigure she was much slimmer, and her light-coloured dress, which wasunfashionable in make, was pretty and became her. She was, in fact, onlytwenty-two years old. There were no lines of deep thought on her purewhite forehead when she removed her hat; and no dimness from much readingof books in her clear hazel eyes, which seemed to Fan the most beautifuleyes she had ever seen, so much sweet sympathy did they show, and so muchconfidence did they inspire. In colour she was very rich, her skin beingof that tender brown one occasionally sees in the face of a young lady inthe country, which seems to tell of a pleasant leisurely life in woodsand fields; while her abundant hair was of a tawny brown tint with bronzereflections. She was very beautiful, and when, turning from MissStarbrow, she advanced to Fan and gave her hand, the girl almost trembledwith the new keen sensation of pleasure she experienced. Miss Churton wasso different from that unlovely mental picture of her! She imagined for amoment, poor girl, that Mary would show her feelings of relief andpleasure; but she quickly perceived that something had brought a suddencloud over Mary's face, and it troubled her, and she wondered what itmeant. 

Before Miss Churton had finished welcoming Fan, Miss Starbrow, looking ather watch and directly addressing the elder lady, said in a cold voice:

"I think it would be as well if Miss Affleck could leave us for a fewminutes, and I will then finish what I had begun to say. "

Miss Churton looked inquiringly at her, then turned again to Fan. 

"Will you come with me to the garden?" she said. 

Fan rose and followed her through a back door opening on to a grassylawn, beyond which were the garden and orchard. After crossing the lawnand going a little way among the shrubs and flowers they came in sight ofa large apple-tree white with blossoms. 

"Oh, can we go as far as that tree?" asked the girl after a littledelighted exclamation at the sight. When they reached the tree she wentunder it and gazed up into the beautiful flowery cloud with wide-openeyes, and lips half-parted with a smile of ineffable pleasure. 

Miss Churton stood by and silently watched her face for some moments. 

"Do you think you will like your new home, Miss Affleck?" she asked. 

"Oh, how lovely it all is--the flowers!" she exclaimed. "I didn't knowthat there was any place in the world so beautiful as this! I should liketo stay here for ever!"

"But have you never been in the country before?" said the other with somesurprise. 

"Yes. Only once, for a few days, years ago. But it was not like this. Itwas very beautiful in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, but this--"

She could find no words to express her feeling; she could only standgazing up, and touching the white and pink clustering blossoms with herfinger-tips, as if they were living things to be gently caressed. "Oh, itis so sweet, " she resumed. "I have always so wished to be in the country, but before Miss Starbrow took me to live with her, and before--they--mother died, we lived in a very poor street, and were always so poor and--" Then she reddened and cast down her eyes and was silent, for she hadsuddenly remembered that Miss Starbrow had warned her never to speak ofher past life. 

Miss Churton smiled slightly, but with a strange tenderness in her eyesas she watched the girl's face. 

"I hope we shall get on well together, and that you will like me alittle, " she said. 

"Oh, yes, I know I shall like you if--if you will not think me verystupid. I know so little, and you know so much. Must you always call meMiss Affleck?"

"Not if you would prefer me to call you Frances. I should like thatbetter. "

"That would seem so strange, Miss Churton. I have always been calledFan. "

Just then the others were seen coming out to the garden, and Miss Churtonand Fan went back to meet them. Mr. Churton, polite and bare-headed, hovered about his visitor, smiling, gesticulating, chattering, while sheanswered only in monosyllables, and was blacker-browed than ever. Mrs. Churton, silent and pale, walked at her side, turning from time to time atroubled look at the dark proud face, and wondering what its stormyexpression might mean. 

"Fan, " said Miss Starbrow, without even a glance at the lady at Fan'sside, "my time is nearly up, and I wish to have three or four minutesalone with you before saying good-bye. "

The others at once withdrew, going back to the house, while Miss Starbrowsat down on a garden bench and drew the girl to her side. "Well, mychild, what do you think of your new teacher?" she began. 

"I like her so much, Mary, I'm sure--I know she will be very kind to me;and is she not beautiful?"

"I am not going to talk about that, Fan. I haven't time. But I want tosay something very serious to you. You know, my girl, that when I tookyou out of such a sad, miserable life to make you happy, I said that itwas not from charity, and because I loved my fellow-creatures or the poorbetter than others; but solely because I wanted you to love me, and youraffection was all the payment I ever expected or expect. But now Iforesee that something will happen to make a change in you--"

"I can never change, or love you less than now, Mary!"

"So you imagine, but I can see further. Do you know, Fan, that you cannotgive your heart to two persons; that if you give your whole heart to thislady you think so beautiful and so kind, and who will be paid for herkindness, that her gain will be my loss?"

Fan, full of strange trouble, put her trembling hand on the other's hand. "Tell me how it will be your loss, Mary, " she said. "I don't think Iunderstand. "

"I was everything to you before, Fan. I don't want a divided affection, and I shall not share your affection with this woman, however beautifuland kind she may be; or, rather, I shall not be satisfied with what isover after you have begun to worship her. Your love is a kind of worship, Fan, and you cannot possibly have that feeling for more than one person, although you will find it easy enough to transfer it from one to another. If you do not quite understand me yet, you must think it over and try tofind out what I mean. But I warn you, Fan, that if ever you transfer theaffection you have felt for me to this woman, or this girl, then youshall cease to be anything to me. You shall be no more to me than youwere before I first saw you and felt a strange wish to take you to myheart; when you were in rags and half-starved, and without one friend inthe world. "

The tears started to the girl's eyes, and she threw her arms round theother's neck. "Oh, Mary, nothing, nothing will ever make me love youless! Will you not believe me, Mary?"

"Yes, dear Fan, don't cry. Good-bye, my darling. Write to me at leastonce every fortnight, and when you want money or anything let me know, and you shall have it. And when May comes round again let me see youunchanged in heart, but with an improved mind and a little colour in yourdear pale face. "

After Miss Starbrow's departure Fan was shown to her room, where herluggage had already been taken by the one indoor servant, a staid, middle-aged woman. It was a light, prettily furnished apartment on thefirst floor, with a large window looking on to the garden at the back. There were flowers on the dressing-table--Miss Churton had placed themthere, she thought--and the warm fragrant air coming in at the openwindow seemed to bring nature strangely near to her. Looking away, wherethe trees did not intercept the view, it was all green country--gently-sloping hills, and the long Eyethorne wood, and rich meadow-land, wheresleepy-looking cows stood in groups or waded knee-deep in the pasture. Itwas like an earthly paradise to her senses, but just now her mind wasclouded with a great distress. Mary's strange words to her, and thewarning that she would be cast out of Mary's heart, that it would beagain with her as it had been before entering into this new life ofbeautiful scenes and sweet thoughts and feelings, if she allowed herselfto love her new teacher and companion, filled her with apprehension. Shesat by the window looking out, but with a dismayed expression in heryoung eyes; and then she remembered how Mary, in a sudden tempest ofrage, had once struck her, and how her heart had almost burst with griefat that unjust blow; and now it seemed to her that Mary's words if nother hand had dealt her a second blow, which was no less unjust; andcovering her face with her hands she cried silently to herself. Then sheremembered how quickly Mary had repented and had made amends, loving hermore tenderly after having ill-treated her in her anger. It consoled herto think that Mary had so great an affection for her; and perhaps, shethought, the warning was necessary; perhaps if she allowed her heart tohave its way, and to give all that this lovely and loving girl seemed toask, Mary would be less to her than she had been. She resolved that shewould strive religiously to obey Mary's wishes, that she would keep awatch over herself, and not allow any such tender feelings as she hadexperienced in the garden to overcome her again. She would be MissChurton's pupil, but not the intimate, loving friend and companion shehad hoped to be after first seeing her. 

While Fan sat by herself, occupied with her little private trouble, whichdid not seem little to her, downstairs in the small drawing-room therewas another trouble. 

"Before you go up to your room I wish to speak to you, Constance, " saidher mother. 

Miss Churton stood swinging her straw hat by its ribbon, silently waitingto hear the rest. 

"All right, Jane, " said Mr. Churton to his wife. "I am just going to runup to the village for an hour. You don't require me any more, do you?"

"I think you should remain here until this matter is settled, andConstance is made clearly to understand what Miss Starbrow's wishes are. My wishes, which will be considered of less moment, I have no doubt, shall be stated afterwards. "

"Very well, my dear, I will do anything you like. At the same time, Ithink I really must be going. I have been kept in all day, you know, andshould like to take a little--ahem--constitutional. "

"Yes, Nathaniel, I have no doubt you would. But consider me a little inthis. I have succeeded in getting this girl, and you know how much themoney will be to us. Do you think it too much to keep away from yourfavourite haunt in the village for a single day?"

"Oh, come, come, Jane. It's all right, my dear. I'm sure Miss Starbrowwas greatly pleased at everything. You can settle all the rest withConstance. I think she's quite intelligent enough to understand thematter without my presence. " And here Mr. Churton gave vent to a slightinward chuckle. 

"I insist on your staying here, Nathaniel. You know how little regard ourdaughter has for my wishes or commands; and as Miss Starbrow has spokento us both, you cannot do less than remain to corroborate what I have totell Constance. "

Her daughter reddened at this speech, but remained silent. 

"Well, well, my dear, if you will only come to the point!" he exclaimedimpatiently. 

"Constance, will you give me your attention?" said her mother, turning toher. 

"Yes, mother, I am attending. "

"Miss Starbrow has informed us that Miss Affleck, although of gentlebirth on her father's side, was unhappily left to be brought up in a verypoor quarter of London, among people of a low class. She has had littleinstruction, except that of the Board School, and never had the advantageof associating with those of a better class until this lady rescued herfrom her unfortunate surroundings. She is of a singularly sweet, confiding disposition, Miss Starbrow says, and has many other goodqualities which only require a suitable atmosphere to be developed. MissStarbrow will value at its proper worth the instruction you will giveher; and as to subjects, she has added nothing to what she had written tous, except that she does not wish you to force any study on the girl towhich she may show a disinclination, but rather to find out for yourselfany natural aptitude she may possess. And what she particularly requestsof us is, that no questions shall be put to her and no reference made toher early life in London. She wishes the girl to forget, if possible, hersuffering and miserable childhood. "

"I shall be careful not to make any allusion to it, " replied the other, her face brightening with new interest. "Poor girl! She began to saysomething to me about her early life in London when we were in thegarden, and then checked herself. I dare say Miss Starbrow has told hernot to speak of it. "

"Then I suppose you had already begun to press her with questions aboutit?" quickly returned Mrs. Churton. 

"No; she spoke quite spontaneously. The flowers, the garden, the beautyof the country, so strangely different to her former surroundings--thatsuggested what she said, I think. "

Her mother looked unconvinced. "Will you remember, Constance, that it isMiss Starbrow's wish that such subjects are not to be brought up andencouraged in your conversations with Miss Affleck? I cannot command you. It would be idle to expect obedience to any command of mine from you. Ican only appeal to your interest, or whatever it is you now regard asyour higher law. "

"I have always obeyed you, mother, " returned Miss Churton with warmth. "Ishall, as a matter of course, respect Miss Starbrow's and your wishes inthis instance. You know that you can trust me, or ought to know, andthere is no occasion to insult me. "

"Insult you, Constance! How can you have the face to say such a thing, when you know that your whole life is one continual act of disobedienceto me! Unhappy girl that you are, you disobey your God and Creator, andare in rebellion against Him--how little a thing then must disobedienceto your mother seem!"

Miss Churton's face grew red and pale by turns. "Mother, " she replied, with a ring of pain in her voice, "I have always respected your opinionsand feelings, and shall continue to do so, and try my best to please you. But it is hard that I should have to suffer these unprovoked attacks; andit seems strange that the girl's coming should be made the occasion forone, for I had hoped that her presence in the house would have made mylife more bearable. "

"You refer to Miss Affleck's coming, " said her mother, without stoppingto reply to anything else, "and I am glad of it, for it serves to remindme that I have not yet told you my wishes with regard to your futureintercourse with her. "

At this point Mr. Churton, unnoticed by his wife, stole quietly to thedoor, and stepping cautiously out into the hall made his escape. 

"You need not trouble to explain your wishes, mother, " said Miss Churton, with flushing cheeks. "I can very well guess what they are, and I promiseyou at once that I shall say nothing to cause you any uneasiness, or tomake any further mention of the subject necessary. "

"No, Constance, I have a sacred duty to perform, and our respectiverelations towards Miss Affleck must be made thoroughly clear, once forall. "

"Why should you wish to make it clear after telling me that you cannottrust me to obey your wishes, or even to speak the truth? Mother, I shallnot listen to you any longer!"

"You _shall_ listen to me!" exclaimed the other; and rising andhurrying past her daughter, she closed the door and stood before it as ifto prevent escape. 

Miss Churton made no reply; she walked to a chair, and sitting downdropped her hat on the floor and covered her face with her hands. How sadshe looked in that attitude, how weary of the vain conflict, and howdespondent! For a little while there was silence in the room, but thegirl's bowed head moved with her convulsive breathing, and there was alow sound presently as of suppressed sobbing. 

"Would to God the tears you are shedding came from a contrite andrepentant heart, " said the mother, with a tremor in her voice. "But theyare only rebellious and passing drops, and I know that your stony heartis untouched. "

Miss Churton raised her pale face, and brushed her tears away with anangry gesture. "Forgive me, mother, for such an exhibition of weakness. Isometimes forget that you have ceased to love me. Please say what youwish, make things clear, add as many reproaches as you think necessary, and then let me go to my room. "

Mrs. Churton checked an angry reply which rose to her lips, and sat down. She too was growing tired of this unhappy conflict, and her daughter'stears and bitter words had given her keen pain. "Constance, you would notsay that I do not love you if you could see into my heart. God knows howmuch I love you; if it were not so I should have ceased to strive withyou before now. I know that it is in vain, that I can only beat the air, and that only that Spirit which is sharper than a two-edged sword, andpierceth even to the dividing of the bones and marrow, can ever rouse youto a sense of your great sin and fearful peril. I know it all only toowell. I shall say no more about it. But I must speak to you further aboutthis young girl, who has been entrusted to my care. When I replied to theadvertisement respecting her, I thought too much about our worldlyaffairs and the importance of this money to us in our position, andwithout sufficiently reflecting on the danger of bringing a girl at soimpressible an age under your influence. The responsibility rests withme, and I cannot help having some very sad apprehensions. Wait, Constance, you must let me finish. I have settled what to do, and I haveMiss Starbrow's authority to take on myself the guidance of the girl inall spiritual matters. I spoke to her about it, and regret to have to saythat she seems absolutely indifferent about religion. I was deeplyshocked to hear that Miss Affleck has never been taught to say a prayer, and, so far as Miss Starbrow knows, has never entered a church. MissStarbrow seemed very haughty and repellent in her manner, and declined, almost rudely, to discuss the subject of religious teaching with me, butwould leave it entirely to me, she said, to teach the girl what I likedabout such things. It is terrible to me to think how much it may and willbe in your power to write on the mind of one so young and ignorant, andwho has been brought up without God. Constance, I will not attempt tocommand, I will ask you to promise not to say things to her to destroythe effect of my teaching, and of the religious influence I shall bringto bear on her. I am ready to go down on my knees to you, my daughter, toimplore you, by whatever you may yet hold dear and sacred, not to bringso terrible a grief on me as the loss of this young soul would be. Forinto my charge she has been committed, and from me her Maker and Fatherwill require her at the last day!"

"There is no occasion for you to go on your knees to me, mother. I repeatthat I will obey your wishes in everything. Surely you must know that, however we may differ about speculative matters, I am not immoral, andthat you can trust me. And oh, mother, let us live in peace together. Itis so unspeakably bitter to have these constant dissensions between us. Iwill not complain that you have been the cause of so much unhappiness tome, and made me a person to be avoided by the few people we know, ifonly--if only you will treat me kindly. "

"My poor girl, do you not know that it is more bitter to me, a thousandtimes, than to you? Oh, Constance, will you promise me one thing?--promise me that you will go back to the Bible and read the words ofChrist, putting away your pride of mind, your philosophy and criticalspirit; promise that you will read one chapter--one verse even--everyday, and read it with a prayer in your heart that the Spirit who inspiredit will open your eyes and enable you to see the truth. "

"No, mother, I cannot promise you that, even to save myself from greaterunhappiness than you have caused me. It is so hard to have to go over theold ground again and again. "

"I have, I hope, made you understand my wishes, " returned her mothercoldly. "You can go to your room, Constance. "

The other rose and walked to the door, where she stood hesitating for afew moments, glancing back at her mother; but Mrs. Churton's face hadgrown cold and irresponsive, and finally Constance, with a sigh, left theroom and went slowly up the stairs. 

CHAPTER XV

For the rest of the day peace reigned at Wood End House. Mr. Churton, whose absence at mealtime was never made the subject of remark, did notreturn to tea when the three ladies met again; for now, according to thatproverb of the Peninsula which says "Tell me who you are with, and I willtell you who you are, " Fan had ceased to belong to the extensive genusYoung Person, and might only be classified as Young Lady, at all eventsfor so long as she remained on a footing of equality under the Churtonroof-tree. 

There was not much conversation. Miss Churton was rather pale and subduedin manner, speaking little. Fan was shy and ill at ease at this her firstmeal in the house. Mrs. Churton alone seemed inclined to talk, and lookedserene and cheerful; but whether the late scene in the drawing-room hadbeen more transient in its effects in her case, or her self-command wasgreater, she alone knew. After tea they all went out to sit in the gardenfor an hour; Miss Churton taking a book with her, which, however, sheallowed to rest unread on her lap. Her mother had some knitting, whichoccupied her fingers while she talked to Fan. The girl, she perceived, was not yet feeling at home with them, and she tried to overcome herdiffidence by keeping up an easy flow of talk which required no answerfrom the other, chiefly about their garden and its products--flowers, fruit, and vegetables. 

Presently they had a visitor, who came out across the lawn to themunannounced. He shook hands with the Churtons, and then with Fan, to whomhe was introduced as Mr. Northcott. A large and rather somewhat rough-looking young man was Mr. Northcott, in a clerical coat, for he wascurate of the church at Eyethorne. His head was large, and the hair and ashort somewhat disorderly beard and moustache brown in colour; the eyeswere blue, deep-set, and habitually down-cast, and had a trick of lookingsuddenly up at anyone speaking to him. His nose was irregular, his mouthtoo heavy, and there was that general appearance of ruggedness about himwhich one usually takes as an outward sign of the stuff that makes thesuccessful emigrant. To find him a curate going round among the ladies ina little rural parish in England seemed strange. He had as little of thatprofessional sleekness of skin and all-for-the-best placidity of mannerone expects to see in a clergyman of the Established Church as Mr. Churton had of that confident, all-knowing, self-assured look one wouldlike to see in a barrister's countenance before entrusting him with abrief. 

He at once entered into conversation with Mrs. Churton, replying to somequestion she put to him; and presently Fan began to listen with deepinterest, for they were discussing the unhappy affairs of one of theEyethorne poor--a bad man who was always getting drunk, fighting with hiswife, and leaving his children to starve. The curate, however, did notseem deeply interested in the subject, and glanced not infrequently atMiss Churton, who had resumed her reading; but it was plain to see thatshe gave only a divided attention to her book. 

Mrs. Churton was at length summoned to the house about some domesticmatter; then, after a short silence, the curate began a freshconversation with her daughter. He did not speak to her of parish affairsand of persons, but of books, of things of the mind, and it seemed thathis heart was more in talk of this description. Or possibly the personrather than the subject interested him. Miss Churton was living under acloud in her village, which was old-fashioned and pious; to be friendlywith her was not fashionable; he alone, albeit a curate, wished not to bein the fashion. He even had the courage to approach personal questions. 

"Fan, I know what you are thinking of, " said Miss Churton, turning to thegirl. "It is that you would like to go and caress the flowers again--youare such a flower-lover. Would you like to go and explore the orchard byyourself?"

Fan thanked her gladly, and going from them, soon disappeared among thetrees. 

"You live in too small a place, too remote from the world, and old-worldin character, to be allowed to live your own life in peace, " said thecurate, at a later stage of the conversation. "Your set here is composedof barely half a dozen families, and they take their cue from thevicarage. In London, in any large town, one is allowed to think what onelikes without the neighbours troubling their heads about it. Do you know, Miss Churton, it is strange to me that with your acquirements and talentyou do not seek a wider and more congenial field. "

She smiled. "You must forgive me, Mr. Northcott, for having included youamong the troublers of my peace. It gives me a strange pleasure to tellyou this; it makes me strong to feel that I have your friendship andsympathy. "

"You certainly have that, Miss Churton. "

"Thank you. I must tell you why I remain here. I am entirely dependent onmy parents just now, and shrink from beginning a second dependent life--as a governess, for instance. "

"There should be better things than that for you. You might get a goodposition in a young ladies' school. "

"It would be difficult. But apart from that, I shrink from entering aprofession which would absorb my whole time and faculties, and from whichI should probably find myself powerless to break away. I have dreams andhopes of other things--foolish perhaps--time will show; but I am not in ahurry to find a position, to become a crystal. And I wish to live formyself as well as for others. I have now undertaken to teach MissAffleck, who will remain one year at least with us. I am glad that thishas given me an excuse for remaining where I am. I do not wish mydeparture to look like running away. "

"I am glad that you have so brave a spirit. "

"I did not feel very brave to-day, " she replied, smiling sadly. "But alittle sympathy serves to revive my courage. Do you remember that passagein Bacon, 'Mark what a courage a dog will put on when sustained by anature higher than its own'? That is how it is with us women--those ofthe strong-minded tribe excepted; man is to us a kind of _meliornatura_, without whose sustaining aid we degenerate into abjectcowards. "

A red flush came into Mr. Northcott's dull-hued cheeks. "I presume youare joking, Miss Churton; but if--"

"No, not joking, " she quickly returned; "although I perhaps did not meanas much as I said. But I wish I could show my gratitude for the comfortyou give me--for upholding me with your stronger nature. "

"Do you, Miss Churton? Then I will be so bold as to make a request, although I am perhaps running the risk of offending you. Will you come tochurch next Sunday? I don't mean in the morning, but in the evening. Please don't think for a moment that I have any faith in my power toinfluence your mind in any way. I am not such a conceited ass as toimagine anything of the sort. My motive for making the request was quiteindependent of any such considerations. My experience is that those wholose faith in Christianity do not recover it. I speak, of course, ofpeople who know their own minds. "

"I know my own mind, Mr. Northcott. "

"No doubt; and for that very reason I am not afraid to ask you this. Youused occasionally to come to church, so that it can't be scruples ofconscience that keep you away. As a rule, in London we always have a veryfair sprinkling of agnostics in a congregation, and sometimes more than asprinkling. "

"I am not an agnostic, Mr. Northcott, if I know what that word means. Butlet that pass. In London the church-goer is in very many cases a strangerto the preacher; if he hears hard things spoken in the pulpit of thosewho have no creed, he does not take it as a personal attack. I absentedmyself from our church because the vicar in his sermon on unbeliefpreached against _me_. He said that those who rejected Christianityhad no right to enter a church; that by doing so they insulted God andman; and that their only motive was to parade their bitter scornfulinfidelity before the world, and that they cherish a malignant hatredtowards the faith which they have cast off, and much more in the samestrain. Every person in the congregation had his or her eyes fixed on me, to see how I liked it, knowing that it was meant for me; and I dare saythat what they saw gave them great pleasure. For a stronger nature thanmy own was not sustaining me then, but all were against me, and the agonyof shame I suffered I shall never forget. I could only shut my eyes andtry to keep still; but I felt that all the blood in my veins had rushedto my face and brain, and that my blood was like fire. I seemed to beable to see myself fiery red--redder than the setting sun--in the midstof all those shadowed faces that were watching me. I have hated that mansince, much as it distresses me to have such a feeling against anyfellow-creature. "

"I remember the circumstance, " said the curate, his face darkening. "I donot agree with my vicar about some things, and he had no warrant for whathe said in the teachings of his Master. Since you have recalled thisincident to my mind, Miss Churton, I can only apologise for having askedyou to come on Sunday. "

"I think I was wrong to let that sermon influence me so much, " shereturned. "I feel ashamed of keeping my resentment so long. Mr. Northcott, I will promise to go on Sunday evening, unless somethinghappens to prevent me. "

He thanked her warmly. "Whatever your philosophical beliefs may be, MissChurton, you have the true Christian spirit, " he said--saying perhaps toomuch. "I am glad for your sake that Miss Affleck has come to reside withyou. Your life will be less lonely. "

"Tell me, what do you think of her?"

"She has a rare delicate loveliness, and there is something indescribablein her eyes which seemed to reveal her whole past life to me. Do youknow, Miss Churton, I often believe I have a strange faculty of readingpeople's past history in the expression of their faces?"

"Tell me what you read?"

"When I was talking to your mother about that drunken ruffian in thevillage, and his ill-treatment of his miserable children, I caught sightof the girl's eyes fixed on me, wide open, expressing wonder and pain. She had never, I feel sure, even heard of such things as I spoke about. Iseemed to know in some mysterious way that she was an only child--thechild, I believe, of a widowed father, who doted on her, and surroundedher with every luxury wealth could purchase, and permitted no breath ofthe world's misery to reach her, lest it should make her unhappy. Now, tell me, have I prophesied truly?"

She smiled, but had no desire to laugh at his little delusion about amysterious faculty. It is one common enough, and very innocent. The girlwas an orphan, and that, she told him, was all she knew of her history. 

The curate went away with a feeling of strange elation; for how graciousshe had been to him, how happy he was to have won her confidence, howsweet the tender music of her voice had seemed when she had freely toldhim the secrets of her heart! Poor man! his human nature was a stumbling-block in his way. By-and-by he would have to reflect that his sympathywith an unbeliever had led him almost to the point of speaking evil ofdignities--of his vicar, to wit, who paid him seventy pounds a year forhis services. That was about all Mr. Northcott had to live on; and yet--oh, folly!--a declaration of love, an offer of marriage, had beentrembling on his lips throughout all that long conversation. 

Miss Churton hurried off in search of Fan, surprised that she had keptout of sight so long; and as she walked through the orchard, looking forher on this side and that, she also felt surprised at her own light-heartedness. For how strangely happy she felt after a morning so full ofcontention and bitterness! Fan saw her coming--saw even at a distance inher bright face the reflection of a heartfelt gladness. But the girl didnot move to meet her, nor did she watch her coming with responsivegladness; she stood motionless, her pale face seen in profile against thegreen cloud of a horse-chestnut tree that drooped its broad leaves totouch and mingle with the grass at her very feet. It seemed strange toConstance as she drew near, still glad, and yet with lingering footstepsso that the sight might be the longer enjoyed, that her pupil should havecome at that precise period of the day to stand there motionless at thatparticular spot; that this pale city girl in her civilised dress shouldhave in her appearance at that moment no suggestion of artificiality, butshould seem a something natural and unadulterated as flowering tree andgrass and sunshine, a part of nature, in absolute and perfect harmonywith it. The point to which Fan had wandered was a little beyond theorchard, close to an old sunk fence or ha-ha separating it from the fieldbeyond. The turf at her feet was white with innumerable daisies, and theonly tree at that spot was the great chestnut beside which she stood, andagainst which, in her white dress and with her pallid face, she looked sostrangely pure, so flower-like and yet ethereal, as if sprung from thedaisies whitening the turf around her, and retaining something of theirflower-like character, yet unsubstantial--a beautiful form that might atany moment change to mist and float away from sight. In the field beyond, where her eyes were resting, the lush grass was sprinkled with the goldof buttercups; and in the centre of the field stood a group of four orfive majestic elm-trees; the sinking sun was now directly behind them, and shining level through the foliage filled the spaces between theleaves with a red light, which looked like misty fire. On the vastexpanse of heaven there was no cloud; only low down in the east andsouth-east, near the horizon, there were pale vague shadows, which inanother half-hour's time would take the rounded form of clouds, deepeningto pearly grey and flushing red and purple in the setting beams. From theelms and fields, from the orchard, from other trees and fields furtheraway, came up the songs of innumerable birds, making the whole air ringand quiver with the delicate music; so many notes, so various in tone andvolume, had the effect of waves and wavelets and ripples, rising andrunning and intersecting each other at all angles, forming an intricatepattern, as it were, a network of sweetest melody. Loud and close at handwere heard the lusty notes of thrush and blackbird, chaffinch andblackcap; and from these there was a gradation of sounds, down to thefaint lispings of the more tender melodists singing at a distance, reaching the sense like voices mysterious and spiritualised from some farunseen world. And at intervals came the fluting cry of the cuckoo, againand again repeated, so aerial, yet with such a passionate depth in it, asif the Spirit of Nature itself had become embodied, and from some leafyhiding-place cried aloud with mystic lips. 

Listening to that rare melody Fan had stood for a long time, her heartfeeling almost oppressed with the infinite sweetness of nature; somotionless that the yellow skippers and small blue-winged butterfliesfluttered round her in play, and at intervals alighting on her dress, satwith spread wings, looking like strange yellow and blue gems on the snow-white drapery. Her mind was troubled at Miss Churton's approach; for itnow seemed to her that human affection and sympathy were more to her thanthey had ever been; that a touch, a word, a look almost, would besufficient to overcome her and make her fall from her loyalty to Mary. Even when the other was standing by her side, curiously regarding herstill pale face, she made no sign, but after one troubled glance remainedwith eyes cast down. 

"Are you not tired of being alone with nature yet, Fan?" said MissChurton, with a smile, and placing her hand on the girl's neck. 

"Oh no, Miss Churton; it is so--pleasant to be here!" she replied. Butshe spoke in a slow mechanical way, and seemed to the other strangelycold and irresponsive; she shivered a little, too, when the caressinghand touched her neck, as if the warm fingers had seemed icy cold. 

"Then you were not sorry to be left so long alone?"

"No--I could not feel tired. I think--I could have stayed alone hereuntil--until--" then her inability to express her thoughts confused herand she became silent. 

"Yes, Fan, until--" said the other, taking her hand. But the hand shetook rested cold and still in hers, and Fan was silent. 

At length, reddening a little, she said:

"Miss Churton, I cannot say what I feel. "

"Do you feel, Fan, that the sight of nature fills your heart with astrange new happiness, such as no pleasure in your London life ever gave, and at the same time a sadness for which you cannot imagine any cause?"

"Oh, do you feel that too, Miss Churton? Will you tell me what it is?"

The other smiled at the question. "If I could do that, Fan, I should be avery wise girl indeed. It is a feeling that we all have at times; andsome day when we read the poets together you will find that they oftenspeak of it. Keats says of the music of the nightingale that it makes hisheart ache to hear it, but he does not know why it aches any more than wedo. We can say what the feeling is which human love and sympathy give us--the touch of loving hands and lips, the words that are sweet to hear. This we can understand; but that mixed glad and melancholy feeling wehave in nature we cannot analyse. How can anything in nature know ourheart like a fellow-being--the sun, and wind, and trees, and singingbirds? Yet it all seems to come in love to us--so great a love that wecan hardly bear it. The sun and wind seem to touch us lovingly; the earthand sky seem to look on us with an affection deeper than man's--a meaningwhich we cannot fathom. But, oh, Fan, it is foolish and idle of me to tryto put what we feel into words! Don't you think so?"

"I think I feel what you say, Miss Churton. "

"And when you said just now that you could stand here alone, seeing andhearing, _until--until_--and then stopped, perhaps you wished to saythat you could remain here until you understood it all, and knew themeaning of that mysterious pain in your heart?"

"Yes--I think I felt that"; and glancing up she met the other's eyes fullon her own, so dark and full of affection, and with a mistiness rising intheir clear depths. She was sorely tempted then to put her arms about herteacher's neck; the struggle was too much for her; she trembled, andcovering her face with her hands burst into tears. 

"Dearest Fan, you must not cry, " said Miss Churton, tenderly caressingher; but there was no response, only that slight shivering of the frameonce more, as if it pained her to be caressed, and she wondered at thegirl's mood, which was so unlike that of the morning. A painful suspicioncrossed her mind. Had her mother, in her anxiety about Fan's spiritualwelfare, already taken the girl into her confidence, as she had takenothers, or dropped some word of warning to prejudice her mind? Had shetold this gentle human dove that she must learn the wisdom of the serpent_from_ a serpent--a kind of Lamia who had assumed a beautiful femaleform for the purpose of instructing her? No, it could not be; there hadbeen no opportunity for private conversation yet; and it was also hatefulto her to think so hardly of her mother. But she made no further attemptjust then to win her pupil's heart, and in a short time they returned tothe house together. 

CHAPTER XVI

Fan was up early next morning--the ringing concert of the orchard, sodifferent from the dull rumble of the streets, had chased away sleep, andall desire to sleep--and punctually at eight o'clock she came down tobreakfast. Mr. Churton alone was in the room, looking as usual intenselyrespectable in his open frock-coat, large collar, and well-brushed greyhair. He was standing before the open window looking out, humming orcroaking a little tune, and jingling his chain and seals by way ofaccompaniment. 

"Ha, my dear, looking fresh as a flower--_and_ as pretty!" he said, turning round and taking her hand; then, after two or three irresoluteglances at her face, he drew her towards him, and was about to imprint akiss on her forehead (let us hope), when, for some unaccountable reason, she shrank back from him and defeated his purpose. 

"Why, why, my dear child, you surely can't object to being kissed! Youmust look on me as--ahem--it is quite the custom here--surely, my dear--"

Just then Mrs. Churton entered the room, and her husband encountering herquick displeased look instantly dropped the girl's hand. 

"My dear, " he said, addressing his wife, "I have just been pointing outthe view from the windows to Miss Affleck, and telling her what charmingwalks there are in the neighbourhood. I think that as we are so near theend of the week it would be just as well to postpone all serious studiesuntil Monday morning and show our guest some of the beauties ofEyethorne. "

"Perhaps it would, Nathaniel, " she returned, with a slight asperity. "ButI should prefer it if you would leave all arrangements to me. "

"Certainly, my dear; it was merely a suggestion made on the spur of themoment. I am sure Miss Affleck will be charmed with the--the scenery, whenever it can conveniently be shown to her. "

His wife made no reply, but proceeded to open a Bible and read a fewverses, after which she made a short prayer--a ceremony which greatlysurprised Fan. The three then sat down to breakfast, Miss Churton not yethaving appeared. It was a moderately small table, nearly square, and eachperson had an entire side to himself. They were thus placed not too farapart and not too near. 

Presently Miss Churton appeared, not from her room but from an early walkin the garden, and bringing with her a small branch of May jewelled withred blossoms. She stood for a few moments on the threshold looking atFan, a very bright smile on her lips. How beautiful she looked to thegirl, more beautiful now than on the previous day, as if her face hadcaught something of the dewy freshness of earth and of the tender morningsunlight. Then she came in, walking round the table to Fan's side, andbidding her parents "Good morning, " but omitting the usual custom ofkissing father and mother. Stopping at the girl's side she stooped andtouched her forehead with her lips, then placed the branch of May by theside of her plate. 

"This is for you, " she said. "I know what a flower-worshipper you are. "

"Constance, you ought not to say that!" said her mother, reprovingly. 

"Why not?" said the other, going to her place and sitting down, a redflush on her face. "It is a common and very innocent expression, Ifancy. "

"That may be your opinion. The expression you use so lightly has only oneand a very solemn meaning for me. "

Fan glanced wonderingly from one to the other, then dropped her eyes onher flowers. In a vague way she began to see that her new friends did notexist in happy harmony together, and it surprised and troubled her. Thebright sunny look had gone from Miss Churton's face, and the mealproceeded almost in silence to the end. 

And yet father, mother, and daughter all felt that there was animprovement in their relations, that the restraint caused by the presenceof this shy, silent girl would make their morning and midday meetings atmeal-time less a burden than they had hitherto been. To Miss Churtonespecially that triangle of three persons, each repelling and repelled bythe two others, had often seemed almost intolerable. Husband and wife hadlong ceased to have one interest, one thought, one feeling in common;while the old affection between mother and daughter had now so large anelement of bitterness mingled with it that all its original sweetnessseemed lost. As for her degenerate, weak-minded, tippling father, MissChurton regarded him with studied indifference. She never spoke of him, and tried never to think of him when he was out of the way; when she sawhim, she looked through him at something beyond, as if he had no moresubstance than one of Ossian's ghosts, through whose form one might seethe twinkling of the stars. It was better, she wisely thought, to ignorehim, to forget his existence, than to be vexed with feelings of contemptand hostility. 

Mr. Churton, after finishing his breakfast, retired to his "study, " withthe air of a person who has letters to write. His study was really only agarret which his wife had fitted up as a comfortable smoking den, wherehe was privileged to blow the abhorrent tobacco-cloud with impunity, since the pestilent vapour flew away heavenwards from the open window;moreover, while smoking at home he was safe, and not fuddling his weakbrains and running up a long bill at the "King William" in the village. 

Miss Churton finished her coffee and rose from the table. 

"Constance, " said her mother, "I think that as it is Friday to-day itmight be as well to defer your lessons until Monday, and give MissAffleck a little time to look about her and get acquainted with her newhome. "

"If you think it best, mother, " she returned; and then after an intervaladded, "Have you formed any plans for to-day--I mean with reference toFan?"

"Why do you say Fan?"

"Because she asked me to do so, " returned the other a little coldly. 

Fan was again looking at them. When they spoke they were eitherconstrained and formal or offending each other. It was something tomarvel at, for towards herself they had shown such sweet kindliness intheir manner; and she had felt that if it were only lawful she could lovethem both dearly, as one loves mother and sister. 

With a little hesitation she turned to Mrs. Churton and said, "Will youplease call me Fan too? I like it so much better than Miss Affleck. "

"Yes, certainly, if you wish it, " said the lady, smiling on her. After awhile she continued--"Fan, my dear child, before we settle about how theday will be spent, I must tell you that we have arranged to share thetask of teaching you between us. " Her daughter looked at her surprised. "I mean, " she continued, correcting herself, "that it will be arranged inthat way. Did Miss Starbrow speak to you about it in the garden beforeshe left?"

Fan answered in the negative: she had a painfully vivid recollection ofwhat Miss Starbrow had said in the garden. 

"Well, this is to be the arrangement, which Miss Starbrow has sanctioned. There are several things for you to study, and Miss Churton willundertake them all except one. It will be for me to instruct you inreligion. "

Fan glanced at her with a somewhat startled expression in her eyes. 

"Do you not think you would like me to teach you?" asked Mrs. Churton, noticing the look. 

She answered that she would like it; then remembering certain words ofMary's, added a little doubtfully, "Mrs. Churton, Mary--I mean MissStarbrow--said she hoped I would not learn to be religious in thecountry. "

Mrs. Churton heard this with an expression of pain, then darted a quickglance at her daughter's face; but she did not see the smile of thescoffer there; it was a face which had grown cold and impassive, and sheknew why it was impassive, and was as much offended, perhaps, as if theexpected smile had met her sight. To Fan she answered:

"I am very sorry she said that. But you know, Fan, that we sometimes saythings without quite meaning them, or thinking that they will perhaps beremembered for a long time, and do harm. I am sure--at least I trust thatMiss Starbrow did not really mean that, because I spoke to her aboutgiving you instruction in religious subjects, and she consented, and leftit to me to do whatever I thought best. "

Fan wondered whether Mary "did not quite mean it" when she told her whatthe consequences would be if she allowed herself to love Miss Churton. No, alas! she must have meant that very seriously from the way she spoke. 

"You must not be afraid that we are going to make you study too much, Fan, " the lady continued; "that is not Miss Starbrow's wish. I shall onlygive you a short simple lesson every day, and try to explain it, so thatI hope you will find it both easy and pleasant to learn of me. And now, my dear girl, you shall choose for yourself to-day whether you will goout for a walk in the woods with Miss Churton, or remain with me and letme speak with you and explain what I wish you to learn. "

The proposed walk in the woods was a sore temptation; she would gladlyhave chosen that way of spending the morning, but the secret trouble inher heart caused by Mary's warning words made her shrink from theprospect of being alone with Miss Churton so soon again; and it onlyincreased the feeling to see her beautiful young teacher's eyes eagerlyfixed on her face. With that struggle still going on in her breast, andcompelled to make her choice, she said at length, "I think I should liketo stay with you, Mrs. Churton. "

The lady smiled and said she was glad. 

Miss Churton moved towards the door, then paused and spoke coldly: "Doyou wish me to understand, mother, that Miss Affleck is to devote hermornings to you, and that I shall only have the late hours to teach herin?"

"No, Constance; I am surprised that you should understand it in that way. Only for these two days Miss Affleck will be with me in the morning. Iknow very well that the early part of the day is the best time for study, when the intellect is fresh and clear; and when you begin teaching hershe will of course devote the morning to her lessons. "

After hearing this explanation her daughter left the room without morewords. In a few minutes she came down again with hat and gloves on, abook in her hand, and went away by herself, feeling far from happy in hermind. She had so confidently looked forward to a morning with her pupil, and had proposed to go somewhat further than she had ventured on theprevious evening in a study of her character. For it seemed to her atfirst so simple a character, so affectionate and clinging, reflectingitself so transparently in her expressive face, and making itself knownso clearly in her voice and manner. Then that mystifying change hadoccurred in the orchard, when her words had been eagerly listened to, andhad seemed to find an echo in the girl's heart, while her advances hadmet with no response, and her affectionate caresses had been shrunk from, as though they had given pain. Then the suspicion about her mother hadcome to disturb her mind; but she had been anxious not to judge hastilyand without sufficient cause, and had succeeded in putting it from her asan unworthy thought. Now it came back to her, and remained and rooteditself in her mind. Now she understood why her mother, with anostentatious pretence of fairness, even of generosity, towards herdaughter, had left it to Fan to decide whether she would walk in thewoods or spend the morning receiving religious instruction at home. Nowshe understood why Fan, a lover of flowers and of the singing of birds, had preferred the house and the irksome lessons. Her mother, in herfanatical zeal, had been too quick for her, and had prejudiced the girl'smind against her, acting with a meanness and treachery which filled herwith the greatest resentment and scorn. 

We know that her judgment was at fault; and her anger was perhapsunreasonable. _All_ anger is said to be unreasonable by some wisepeople, which makes one wonder why this absurd, perverse, and superfluousaffection was ever thrust into our souls. But the feeling in her wasnatural, for her mother had indirectly inflicted much unhappiness on heralready, in her mistaken efforts to do her good; and when we suffer aninjury from some unknown hand, we generally jump to the conclusion thatit comes from the enemy we wot of; and, very often, the surmise is acorrect one. She, Miss Churton, certainly regarded this thing as apersonal injury. She had anticipated much pleasure from the society ofher pupil, and after that first conversation in the garden had resolvedto win her love, and be to her friend and sister as well as teacher. Nowit seemed that the girl was to be nothing to her and everything to hermother, and naturally she was disappointed and angry. We have all seenwomen--some of them women who read books, listen to lectures, and eventake degrees, and must therefore be classed with rational beings--whowill cry out and weep, and only stop short of tearing their raiment andputting ashes on their heads, at the loss of a pet dog, or cat, orcanary; and Miss Churton had promised herself a greater pleasure from herintercourse with this girl, who had so won her heart with her paledelicate beauty and her feeling for nature, than it is possible for arational being to derive from the companionship of any dumb brute--evenof such a paragon among four-footed things as a toy-terrier, or pug, orgriffon. All through her walk in the shady woods, and when she sat in asequestered spot under her favourite tree with her book lying unread onher lap, she could only think of her mother's supposed treachery, and ofthat look of triumph on her face when Fan had decided to remain in thehouse with her--rejoicing, no doubt, at her daughter's defeat. All thisseemed hard to endure uncomplainingly; but she was strong and proud, andbefore quitting her sylvan retreat she resolved to submit quietly andwith a good grace to the new position of affairs, though brought about bysuch unworthy means. She would make no petulant complaints nor be sullen, nor drop any spiteful or scornful words to spoil her mother'ssatisfaction; nor would she make any overt attempts to supplant hermother in the girl's confidence, or to win even a share of her affection. She would hide her own pain, and faithfully perform the dry, laborioustask of instruction assigned her, unrelieved by any such feelings of apersonal kind, and looking for no reward beyond the approval of her ownconscience. It was impossible, she said to herself with bitterness, thatshe should ever stoop, even in self-defence, to use one of those weaponswhich were to be found in her mother's armoury--the little underhanddoings, hypocrisies, and whispered insinuations which her religionsanctified. 

CHAPTER XVII

That decision of Fan's to remain at home had really come with a littlesurprise on Mrs. Churton; for although it was what she had hoped, thehope had been a faint one, and the pleasure it gave her was therefore allthe greater. With this feeling another not altogether to her credit wasmingled--a certain satisfaction at finding her company preferred to thatof her daughter. For it could not be supposed that the girl experiencedjust then any eager desire after religious knowledge; she had justreported Miss Starbrow's scoffing words with such a curious simplicity, as if she looked on religion merely as a branch of learning, likemineralogy or astronomy, which was scarcely necessary to her, and mighttherefore very well be dispensed with. No, it was purely a matter ofpersonal preference; and Mrs. Churton, albeit loving and thinking well ofherself, as most people do, could not help finding it a little strange:for her daughter, notwithstanding that her mind was darkened by that evilspirit of unbelief, was outwardly a beautiful, engaging person, ready andeloquent of speech, and seemed in every way one who would easily win theunsuspecting regard of a simple-minded affectionate girl like Fan. It wasstrange and--_providential_. Yes, that explained the whole mystery, and so fully satisfied her religious mind that she was instantly relievedfrom the task of groping after any other cause. 

While these thoughts were passing through her mind they were standingtogether before the open window, following Miss Churton's form with theireyes, as she went away in the direction of Eyethorne woods. But Fan had avery different feeling; she recalled that interview of the last eveningin the orchard, the clear, tender eyes looking invitingly into hers, thetouch of a warm caressing hand, the words in which her own strangefeelings experienced for the first time had been so aptly described toher; and the thought gave her a dull pain--a vague sense of some greatblessing missed, of something which had promised to make her unspeakablyhappy passing from her life. 

It was some slight compensation that the scene of that first lesson inreligious doctrine she had expressed herself willing to receive was inthe garden, where they were soon comfortably seated under an acacia-tree;and that is a tree which does not shut out the heavenly gladness, likebeech and elm and lime, but rather tempers the sunshine with its looseairy foliage, making a half-brightness that is pleasanter than shade. 

By means of much gentle questioning, herself often suggesting theanswers, Mrs. Churton gradually drew from the girl an account of all sheknew and thought about sacred subjects. She was shocked and grieved todiscover that this young lady from the metropolis was in a state ofignorance with regard to such subjects that would have surprised her inany cottage child among the poor she was accustomed to visit in theneighbourhood. The names of the Creator and of the Saviour were certainlyfamiliar to Fan; from her earliest childhood she had heard them spokenwith frequency in her old Moon Street home. But that was all. Her motherhad taught her nothing--not even to lisp, when she was small, thechildish rhyme:

 Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. 

Her Scripture lessons at the Board School had powerfully impressed her, but in a confused and unpleasant way. Certain portions of the historicalnarrative affected her with their picturesque grandeur, and fragmentsremained in her memory; the Bible and religion generally came to beassociated in her mind with dire wrath, and war, and the shedding ofblood, with ruin of cities and tribulations without end. It wasprocessional--a great confused host covered with clouds of dust, shieldsand spears, and brass and scarlet, and noise of chariot-wheels andblowing of trumpets--an awful pageant fascinating and terrifying tocontemplate. And when she stood still, a little frightened, to see ahorde of Salvationists surge past her in the street, with discordantshouting and singing, waving of red flags and loud braying of brassinstruments, this seemed to her a kind of solemn representation of thoseancient and confused doings she had read about; beyond that it had nomeaning. Before her mother's death she had sometimes gone to St. Michael's Church on wet or cold or foggy winter evenings; for in betterweather it was always overcrowded, and the vergers--a kind of mitigatedpolicemen, Fan thought them--would hunt her away from the door. For inthose days she was so ragged and such a sad-looking object, and theydoubtless knew very well what motive she had in going there. She had gonethere only because it was warm and dry, and the decorations andvestments, the singing and the incense, were sweet to her senses; butwhat she had heard had not enlightened her. 

Mrs. Churton sighed. How unutterably sad it seemed to her that this girl, so lovely in her person, so sweet in disposition, with so pure and saint-like an expression, should be in this dark and heathenish condition! Butthere was infinite comfort in the thought that this precious soul to besaved had fallen into her hands, and not into those of some worldlinglike Miss Starbrow herself, or, worse still, of a downright freethinkerlike her own daughter. After having made her first survey of Fan's mind, finding nothing there except that queer farrago of Scripture lessonswhich had never been explained to her, and were now nearly forgotten, itseemed to Mrs. Churton that it was almost a blank with regard tospiritual things, like that proverbial clean sheet of paper on whichanything good or bad may be written. It troubled her somewhat, and thiswas the one cloud on that fair prospect, that her daughter would have somuch to do with Fan's mind. She was anxious to trust in her daughter'shonour, yet felt, with her belief concerning the weakness of any merelyhuman virtue, that it would scarcely be safe or right to trust her. Sheresolved to observe a middle course--to trust her, but not wholly, topray but to watch as well, lest the fowls of the air should come in herabsence and devour the sacred seed she was about to scatter. 

These, and many more reflections of a like kind, occurred to her whileshe was occupied in turning over that pitiful rubbish, composed of brokenfragments of knowledge, in the girl's mind; then she addressed herselffervently to the task of planting there the great elementary truth thatwe are all alike bad by nature, and that only by faith in the Son of Godwho died for our sins can we hope to save our souls alive. This wasunspeakably bewildering to Fan, for in a vague kind of way her neglectedmind had conceived a system of right and wrong of its own, which wasentirely independent of any narrative or set of doctrines, and did notconcern itself with the future of the soul. To her mind there were goodpeople and bad people, besides others she could not classify, in whom thetwo opposite qualities were blended, or who were of a neutral moral tint. The good were those who loved their fellow-creatures, especially theirrelations, and were kind to them in word and deed. The bad were those whogave pain to others by their brutality and selfishness, by untruthfulnessand deceit, and by speaking unkind and impure words. 

Now to be told that this was all a vain delusion, mere fancy, that shewas a child of sin, as unclean in the sight of Heaven as the worst personshe had ever known--a Joe Harrod or a Captain Horton, for instance--andthat God's anger would burn for ever against her unless she cast away herown filthy rags--Fan thought that these had been cast away a long timeago--and clothed herself with the divine righteousness--all thatbewildered and surprised her at first. But being patient and docile sheproved amenable to instruction, and as she unhesitatingly and at onceyielded up every point which her instructress told her was wrong, therewas nothing to hinder progress--if this rapid skimming along over thesurface of a subject can be so described. And as the lesson progressed itseemed to Mrs. Churton that her pupil took an ever-increasing interest init, that her mind became more and more receptive and her intelligencequicker. 

The girl's shyness wore off by degrees, her tremulous voice grew firmer, her pallid cheeks flushed with a colour tender as that of the wild almondblossom, and her eyes, bright with a new-born confidence, were liftedmore frequently to the other's face. Their hands touched often andlingered caressingly together, and when the elder lady smiled, aresponsive smile shone in the girl's raised eyes and played on herdelicately-moulded mouth--a smile that was like sunlight on clear water, revealing a nature so simple and candid; and deep down, trembling intolight, the crystalline soul which had come without flaw from its Maker'shands, and in the midst of evil had caught no stain to dim its perfectpurity. It seemed now to Mrs. Churton, as she expounded the sacreddoctrines which meant so much to her, that she had not known so great ahappiness since her daughter, white even to her lips at the thought ofthe cruel pain she was about to inflict, yet unable to conceal the truth, had come to her and said with trembling voice, "Mother, I no longerbelieve as you do. " For how much grief had the children God had given heralready caused her spirit! Two comely sons, her first and second-born, had after a time despised her teachings, and had grown up almost tomanhood only to bring shame and poverty on their home; and had thendrifted away beyond her ken to lose themselves in the wandering tribe ofne'er-do-wells in some distant colony. But her daughter had been left toher, the clear-minded thoughtful girl who would not be corrupted by theweakness and vices of a father, nor meet with such temptations as herbrothers had been powerless to resist; and in loving this dear girl withthe whole strength of her nature--this one child that was left to her tobe with her in time and eternity--she had found consolation, and had beenhappy, until that dark day had arrived, and she heard the words thatspoke to her heart

 A deeper sorrow Than the wail upon the dead. 

It is true that she still hoped against hope; that she loved her daughterwith passionate intensity, and clove to her, and was filled with a kindof terror at the thought of losing her, when Constance spoke, as shesometimes did, of leaving her home; but this love had no comfort, nosweetness, no joy in it, and it seemed to her more bitter than hate. Itshowed itself like hatred in her looks and words sometimes; for in spiteof all her efforts to bear this great trial with the meekness her DivineExemplar had taught, the bitter feeling would overcome her. "Mother, Iknow that you hate me!"--that was the reproach that was hardest to bearfrom her daughter's lips, the words that stung her to the quick. Foralthough untrue, she felt that they were deserved; so cold did her angerand unhappiness make her seem to this rebellious child, so harsh and sobitter! And sometimes the reproach seemed to have the strange power ofactually turning her love to the hatred she was charged with, and at suchtimes she could scarcely refrain from crying out in her overmasteringwrath to invoke a curse from the Almighty on her daughter's head, toreply that it was true, that she did hate her with a great hatred, butthat her hatred was as nothing compared to that of her God, who wouldpunish her for denying His existence with everlasting fire. Unable tohide her terrible agitation, she would fly to her room, her heartbursting with anguish, and casting herself on her knees cry out fordeliverance from such distracting thoughts. After one of these stormyperiods, followed by swift compunction, she would be able again to meetand speak to her daughter in a frame of mind which by contrast seemedstrangely meek and subdued. 

Now, sitting in the garden with Fan, all the old tender motherlyfeelings, and the love that had no pain in it, were coming back to her, and it was like the coming of spring after a long winter; and this girl, a stranger to her only yesterday, one who was altogether without thatknowledge which alone can make the soul beautiful, seemed already to havefilled the void in her heart. 

On the other side it seemed to Fan, as she looked up to meet the gravetender countenance bent towards her, that it grew every moment dearer toher sight, It was a comely face still: Miss Churton's beauty wasinherited from her mother--certainly not from her father. The featureswere regular, and perhaps that grey hair had once been golden, thoughtFan--and the face now pallid and lined with care full of rich colour. Imagination lends a powerful aid to affection. She had found someone tolove and was happy once more. For to her love was everything; "allthoughts, all feelings, all delights" were its ministers and "fed itssacred flame"; this was the secret motive ever inspiring her, and it wasimpossible for her to put any other, higher or lower, in its place. Notthat sweet sickness and rage of the heart which is also called love, andwhich so enriches life that we look with a kind of contemptuous pity onthose who have never experienced it, thinking that they have only a dimincomplete existence, and move through life ghost-like and sorrowfulamong their joyous brothers and sisters. Such a feeling had never yettouched or come near to her young heart; and her ignorance was so great, and the transition to her present life so recent, that she did not yetdistinguish between the different kinds of that feeling--that which waswholly gross and animal, seen in foul faces and whispered in her ears bypolluted lips, from which she had fled, trembling and terrified, throughthe dark lanes and streets of the City of Dreadful Night; and the samefeeling as it appears, sublimed and beautified, in the refined and thevirtuous. As yet she knew nothing about a beautiful love of that kind;but she had in the highest degree that purer, better affection which weprize as our most sacred possession, and even attribute to the immortals, since our earthly finite minds cannot conceive any more beautiful bonduniting them. It was this flame in her heart which had kept her like onealone, apart and unsoiled in the midst of squalor and vice, which hadmade her girlhood so unspeakably sad. Her soul had existed in a semi-starved condition on such affection as her miserable intemperate motherhad bestowed on her, and, for the rest, the sight of love in which shehad no part in some measure ministered to her wants and helped to sustainher. 

One of the memories of her dreary life in Moon Street, which remainedmost vividly impressed on her mind, was of a very poor family whose headwas an old man who mended broken-bottomed cane-chairs for a living; theothers being a daughter, a middle-aged woman whose husband had forsakenher, and her three children. The eldest child was a stolid-looking round-faced girl about thirteen years old, who had the care of the little oneswhile her mother was away at work in a laundry. This family lodged in ahouse adjoining the one in which Fan lived, and for several weeks afterthey came there she used to shrink away in fear from the old grandfatherwhenever she saw him going out in the morning and returning in theevening. He was a tall spare old man, sixty-five or seventy years old, with clothes worn almost to threads, a broad-brimmed old felt hat on hishead, and one of his knees stiff, so that he walked like a man with awooden leg. But he was erect as a soldier, and always walked swiftly, even when returning, tired no doubt, from a long day's wandering andburdened with his bundle of cane and three or four old broken chairs--hisday's harvest. But what a face was that old man's! He had long hair, almost white, a thin grey stern face with sharp aquiline features, and, set deep under his feather-like tufty eyebrows, blue eyes that lookedcold and keen as steel. If he had walked in Pall Mall, dressed like agentleman, the passer-by would have turned to look after him, andprobably said, "There goes a leader of men--a man of action--a fighter ofEngland's battles in some distant quarter of the globe. " But he was onlyan old gatherer of broken chairs, and got sixpence for each chair hemended, and lived on it; an indomitable old man who lived bravely andwould die bravely, albeit not on any burning plain or in any wildmountain pass, leading his men, but in a garret, where he would mend hislast broken chair, and look up unflinching in the Destroyer's face. Whenever he came stumping rapidly past, and turned that swift piercingeagle glance on Fan, she would shrink aside as if she felt the sting ofsleet or a gust of icy-cold wind on her face. That was at first. Afterwards she discovered that at a certain hour of the late afternoonthe eldest girl would come down and take up her station in the doorway towait his coming. When he appeared her eyes would sparkle and her wholeface kindle with a glad excitement, and hiding herself in the doorway, she would wait his arrival, then suddenly spring out to startle him witha joyous cry. The sight of this daily meeting had such a fascination forFan that she would always try to be there at the proper time to witnessit; and after it was over she would go about for hours feeling a kind ofreflected happiness in her heart at the love which gladdened these poorpeople's lives. 

Afterwards, in Dawson Place, Mary's affection for her had made herinexpressibly happy, in spite of some very serious troubles, and now, when Mary's last warning words had made any close friendship with MissChurton impossible, her heart turned readily to the mother. In this casethere had been no prohibition; Mary's jealousy had not gone so far asthat; Mrs. Churton was the one being in her new home to whom she couldcling without offence, and who could satisfy her soul with the food forwhich it hungered. 

They had been sitting together over two hours in the garden when Mrs. Churton at length rose from her seat. 

"I hope that I have not tired you--I hope that you have liked yourlesson, " she said, taking the girl's hand. 

"I have liked it so much, " answered Fan. "I like to be with you so much, because"--she hesitated a little and then finished--"because I think thatyou like me. "

"I like you very much, Fan, " she returned, and stooping, kissed her onthe forehead. "I can say that I love you dearly, although you have onlybeen with us since yesterday. And if you can love me, Fan, and regard meas a mother, it will be a great comfort to me and a great help to both ofus in our lessons. "

Fan caressed the hand which still retained hers, but at the same time shecast down her eyes, over which a little shade of anxiety had come. Shewas thinking, perhaps, that this relationship of mother and daughtermight not be an altogether desirable one. 

CHAPTER XVIII

On Sunday Fan accompanied Mr. And Mrs. Churton to morning service, andthought it strange that her teacher did not go with them. In the eveningthe party was differently composed, the master of the house havingabsented himself; then just as Mrs. Churton and Fan were starting, Constance joined them, prayer-book in hand. Mrs. Churton was surprised, but made no remark. Fan sat between mother and daughter, and Constance, taking her book, found the places for her; for Mary had failed after allto teach her how to use it. Mr. Northcott preached the sermon, and it wasa poor performance. He was not gifted with a good delivery, and his voicewas not of that moist mellifluous description, as of an organ fattened oncream, which is more than half the battle to the young cleric, certainlymore than passion and eloquence, and of the pulpit pulpity. There was arestless spirit in Mr. Northcott; he took a somewhat painful interest inquestions of the day, and in preaching was prone to leave his text, tocast it away as it were, and, taking up modern weapons, fight againstmodern sins, modern unbelief. 

 His piping took a troubled sound, Of storms that rage outside our happy ground; He could not wait their passing. 

But one who was over him could, and the piping was not pleasing to him, and scarcely intelligible to the drowsy villagers; and when in obedienceto his vicar's wish he went back to preach again of the Jews andJehovah's dealings with them, his sermons were no better and no worsethan those of other curates in other village pulpits. It was a sermon ofthis kind that Constance heard. If some old Eyethorner, dead these fiftyyears, had risen from his mouldy grave in the adjoining churchyard, andhad come in and listened, he would not have known that a great change hadcome, that the bright sea of faith that once girdled the earth hadwithdrawn. 

 Down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. 

He took his text from the Old Testament, and spoke of the captivity ofthe Israelites in Egypt. It was a dreary discourse, and through it allMiss Churton sat leaning back with eyes half closed, but whetherlistening to the preacher or attending to her own thoughts, there wasnothing in her face to show. 

When they came out into the pleasant evening air Mrs. Churton lingered alittle, as was her custom, to exchange a few words with some of herfriends, while Constance and Fan went slowly on for a short distance, andfinally moved aside from the path on to the green turf. Here presentlythe curate joined them. 

"I am glad you came, Miss Churton, " he spoke, pressing her hand. Andafter an interval of silence he added, "I hope I have not made you hateme for inflicting such a horribly dull discourse on you. "

"You should be the last person to say that, " she returned. "You mighteasily have made your sermon interesting--to _me_ I mean; but Ishould not have thought better of you if you had done so. "

"Thanks for that. I am sometimes troubled with the thought that I made amistake in going into the Church, and the doubt troubled me this eveningwhen I was in the pulpit--more than it has ever done before. "

She made no reply to this speech until Fan moved a few feet away to reada half-obliterated inscription she had been vainly studying for a minuteor two. Then she said, looking at him:

"I cannot imagine, Mr. Northcott, why you should select me to say thisto. "

"Can you not? And yet I have a fancy that it would not be so very hardfor you to find a reason. I have been accustomed to mix with people whoread and think and write, and to discuss things freely with them, and Icannot forget for a single hour of my waking life that the old order haschanged, and that we are drifting I know not whither. I do not wish toignore this in the pulpit, and yet to avoid offending I am compelled todo so--to withdraw myself from the vexed present and look only at ancientthings through ancient eyes. I know that you can understand and enterinto that feeling, Miss Churton--you alone, perhaps, of all who came tochurch this evening; is it too much to look for a little sympathy fromyou in such a case?"

She had listened with eyes cast down, slowly swinging the end of hersunshade over the green grass blades. 

"I do sympathise with you, Mr. Northcott, " she returned, "but at the sametime I scarcely think you ought to expect it, unless it be out ofgratitude for your kindness to me. "

"Gratitude! It hurts me to hear that word. I am glad, however, that yousympathise, but why ought I not to expect it? Will you tell me?"

"Yes, if it is necessary. I cannot pretend to respect your motives forignoring questions you consider so important, and which occupy yourthoughts so much. If your heart is really with the thinkers, and yourdesire to be in the middle of the fight, why do you rest here in theshade out of it all, explaining old parables to a set of sleepy villagerswho do not know that there is a battle, and have never heard ofEvolution?"

He listened with a flush on his cheeks, and there was trouble mingledwith the admiration his eyes expressed; but when she finished speaking hedropped them again. Before he could frame a reply Mrs. Churton joinedthem, whereupon he shook hands and left them, only remarking to Constancein a low voice, "I shall answer you when we meet again--we do thingsquietly in Eyethorne. "

On their way home Mrs. Churton made a few weak attempts to draw herdaughter into conversation, and was evidently curious to know what shehad been talking about so confidentially with the curate; but her effortsmet with little success and were soon given up. 

Mr. Churton met them on their arrival at the house. "What, Constance, youtoo! Well, well, wonders will never cease, " he cried, smiling and holdingup his hands with a great affectation of surprise. 

"Mr. Churton!" exclaimed his wife, rebuke in her look and tones. Then sheadded, "It would have been better if you had also gone with us. "

"My dear, I fully intended going. But there it is, man proposes and--ahem--I stayed talking with a friend until it was past the time. Mostunfortunate!" and finishing with a little inconsequent chuckle, he openedthe door for them to enter. 

He was extremely lively and talkative, and Mrs. Churton had somedifficulty in keeping him within the bounds of strict Sunday-eveningpropriety. At supper he became unmanageable. 

"What was the text this evening, Constance?" he suddenly asked _àpropos_ of nothing, and still inclined to make a little joke out ofher going to church. 

"I don't remember--I think it was from one of the prophets, " she returnedcoldly. 

"That's interesting to know, " he remarked, "but a little vague--just alittle vague. Perhaps Miss Affleck remembers better; she is no doubt amore regular church-goer, " and with a chuckle he looked at her. 

Fan was distressed at being asked, but Mrs. Churton came almost instantlyto her relief. "It is rather unfair to ask her, Nathaniel, " she said, with considerable severity in her voice. "The text was from Exodus--thetenth and eleventh verses of the sixteenth chapter. "

"Thanks--thanks, my dear. These tenths and elevenths and sixteenths aresomewhat confusing to one's memory, but you always remember them. Yet, ifmy memory does not play me false, that is a text which most young ladieswould remember. It refers, I think, to the Israelitish ladies making offwith the jewellery--always a most fascinating subject. "

"It does not, Nathaniel, " she said sharply. "And I wish you would reflectthat it is not quite in good taste to discuss sacred subjects in thislight tone before--a stranger. "

"My dear, you know very well that I am the last person to speak lightlyon such subjects. "

"I hope so. Let us say no more about it. "

"Very well, my dear; I'm quite willing to drop the subject. But, my dear, now that it occurs to me, why should I drop it? Why should you monopoliseevery subject connected with--with--ahem--our religious observances? Itstrikes me that you are a little unreasonable. "

His wife ignored this attack, and turning to Fan, remarked that theevening was so warm and lovely they might spend half an hour in thegarden after supper. 

"Yes, that will be charming, " said Mr. Churton. "We'll all go--Constancetoo, " he added, with a little vindictive cackle of laughter. "Don't bealarmed, my dear, I sha'n't smoke--pipes and religion strictlyprohibited. "

"Mr. Churton!" said his wife. 

"Yes, my dear. "

Constance rose from her seat. 

"Will you come with us, Constance?" said her mother. 

"Not this evening, mother. I wish to read a little in my room. " Afterbidding them good-night, she left the room. 

"Wise girl--strong-minded girl, knows her own mind, " muttered Mr. Churton, shaking his head, conscious, poor man, that he had anything buta strong mind, and that he didn't know it. 

His wife darted an angry look at him, but said nothing. 

"My dear, " he resumed. "On second thoughts I must ask to be excused. Ishall also retire to my room to read a little. "

"Very well, " she answered, evidently relieved. 

"I don't quite agree with you, my dear. I don't think it is very well. There's an old saying that you can choke a dog with pudding, and I fancywe have too much religion in this house, " and here becoming excited, hestruck the table with his fist. 

"Mr. Churton, I cannot listen to such talk!" said his wife, rising fromher seat. 

Fan also rose, a little startled at this domestic jangling, but notalarmed, for it was by no means of so formidable a character as that towhich she had been accustomed in the old days. 

"I will join you presently in the garden, Fan, " said Mrs. Churton, andthen, left alone with her husband, she proceeded to use strongermeasures; but the little man was in plain rebellion now, and from thegarden Fan could hear him banging the furniture about, and his voiceraised to a shrieky falsetto, making use of unparliamentary language. 

CHAPTER XIX

The Monday morning, to which Fan had been looking forward withconsiderable apprehension, brought no new and frightful experience: shewas not caught up and instantly plunged fathoms down beyond her depthinto that great cold ocean of knowledge; on the contrary, Miss Churtonmerely took her for a not unpleasant ramble along the margin--that oldfamiliar margin where she had been accustomed to stray and dabble andpaddle in the safe shallows. Miss Churton was only making herselfacquainted with her pupil's mind, finding out what roots of knowledgealready existed there on which to graft new branches; and we know thatthe time Fan had spent in the Board School had not been wasted. MissChurton was not shocked nor disappointed as her mother had been: the girlhad made some progress, and what she had learnt had not been whollyforgotten. 

If this easy going over old ground was a relief to Fan, she experiencedanother and even a greater relief in her teacher's manner towards her. She was gentle, patient, unruffled, explaining things so clearly, soforcibly, so fully, as they had never been explained before, so thatlearning became almost a delight; but with it all there was not theslightest approach to that strange tenderness in speech and manner whichFan had expected and had greatly feared. Feared, because she felt nowthat she could not have resisted it; and how strange it seemed that herfinest quality, her best virtue, had become in this instance her greatestenemy, and had to be fought against, just as some fight against the evilthat is in them. 

But Miss Churton never changed. That first morning when she had, so tospeak, looked over her pupil's mind, seeking to discover her naturalaptitudes, was a type of all the succeeding days when they were togetherat their studies. The girl's fears were quickly allayed; while Mrs. Churton more slowly and little by little got over her unjust suspicions. And the result was that with the exception of little petulant orpassionate outbreaks on the part of Mr. Churton, mere tempests in a tea-cup, a novel and very welcome peace reigned at Wood End House. Betweenmother and daughter there was only one quarrel more--the last battlefought at the end of a long war. For a few days after that evening whenConstance had accompanied her to church, the poor woman almost succeededin persuading herself that a long-desired change was coming, that thequiet curate, who had all learning, ancient and modern, at his finger-ends, had succeeded at last in touching her daughter's hard heart, and inat least partially lifting the scales that darkened her eyes. For he wasalways seeking her out, conversing with her, and it was evident to hermind that he had set himself to bring back that wanderer to the fold. Butthe very next Sunday brought a great disillusion. As usual her daughterdid not go to church in the morning, but when the bells were calling toevening service, and she stood with Fan ready to leave the house, shestill lingered, looking very pale, her hands trembling a little with heragitation, afraid to go out too soon lest Constance should also becoming. With sinking heart she at last came out, but before walking adozen yards she left Fan and went back to the house, and going up to herdaughter's bedroom, tapped at the door. 

Constance opened it at once; her hat was on, and she had a book in herhand. 

"Are you not coming to church with us, Constance?" said the mother, speaking low as if to conceal the fact that her heart was beating fast. 

"No mother, I am only going to the garden to read. "

Mrs. Churton turned aside, and then stood for some moments in doubt. There was such a repelling coldness in her daughter's voice, but it washard to have all her sweet hopes shattered again!

"Is it because I have expected it this evening, Constance, and have askedyou to go? Then how unkind you are to me! Last Sunday evening you wentunsolicited. "

"You are mistaken, " returned the other quietly. "I am not and never havebeen unkind. All the unkindness and the enmity, open and secret, has beenon your side. That you know, mother. And I did not go unasked lastSunday. Do you wish to know why I went?"

"Why did you go?"

"Only to please Mr. Northcott, and because he asked me. He knew, Isuppose, as well as I did myself, that it makes no difference, but Icould not do less than go when he wished it, when he is the only personhere who treats me unlike a Christian. "

_"Unlike_ a Christian! Constance, what do you mean?"

"I mean that he has treated me kindly, as one human being should treatanother, however much they may differ about speculative matters. "

"May God forgive you for your wicked words, Constance. "

"Leave me, mother; Fan is waiting, and you will be late at church. I havenot interfered with you in any way about the girl. Teach her what youlike, make much of her, and let her be your daughter. In return I onlyask to be left alone with my own thoughts. "

Then Mrs. Churton went down and joined Fan, deeply disappointed, woundedto the core and surprised as well. For hitherto in all their contestsshe, the mother, had been the aggressor, as she could not help confessingto herself, while Constance had always been singularly placable and hadspoken but little, and that only in self-defence. Now her own gentle andkind words had been met with a concentrated bitterness of resentmentwhich seemed altogether new and strange. "What, " she asked herself, "wasthe cause of it?" Was this mysterious poison of unbelief doing its workand changing a heart naturally sweet and loving into a home of all darkthoughts and evil passions? Her words had been blasphemous, and it washorrible to reflect on the condition of this unhappy lost soul. 

But these distressing thoughts did not continue long. Mr. Northcotthappened that evening to say a great deal about kindness and its effectsin his sermon; and Mrs. Churton, while she listened, again and againrecalled those words which her daughter had spoken, and which had seemedso wild and unjust--"All the unkindness and the enmity, open and secret, has been on your side. " Had she in her inconsiderate zeal given anyreason for such a charge? For if Constance really believed such a thingit would account for her excessive bitterness. Then she remembered howFan had been mysteriously won over to her own side; to herself the girl'saction had seemed mysterious, but doubtless it had not seemed so toConstance; she had set it down to her mother's secret enmity; and thoughthat reproach had been undeserved, it was not strange that she had madeit. 

In the evening when Miss Churton, who had recovered her placid manner, said good-night and left the room, her mother rose and followed her out, and called softly to her. 

Constance came slowly down the stairs, looking a little surprised. 

"Constance, forgive me if I have been unkind to you, " said the mother, with trembling voice. 

"Yes, mother; and forgive me if I said too much this evening--I_did_ say too much. "

"I have already forgiven you, " returned her mother; and then for a fewmoments they remained standing together without speaking. 

"Good-night, mother, " said Constance at length, and offering her hand. 

Her mother took it, and after a moment's hesitation drew the girl to herand kissed her, after which they silently separated. 

That mutual forgiveness and kiss signified that they were now bothwilling to lay aside their vain dissensions, but nothing more. That itwould mark the beginning of a closer union and confidence between themwas not for a moment imagined. Mrs. Churton had been disturbed in hermind; her conscience accused her of indiscretion, which had probablygiven rise to painful suspicions; she could not do less than ask herenemy's forgiveness. Constance, on her side, was ready to meet anyadvance, since she only desired to be left in possession of the somewhatmelancholy peace her solitary life afforded her. 

Meanwhile Fan was happily ignorant of the storm her coming to the househad raised, and that these two ladies, both so dear to her, one lovedopenly and the other secretly, had been fighting for her possession, andthat the battle was lost and won, one taking her as a lawful prize, whilethe other had retired, defeated, but calmly, without complaint. Her newlife and surroundings--the noiseless uneventful days, each with itslittle cares and occupations, and simple natural pleasures, the world ofverdure and melody of birds and wide expanse of sky--seemed strangely inharmony with her spirit: it soon became familiar as if she had been bornto it; the town life, the streets she had known from infancy, had neverseemed so familiar, so closely joined to her life. And as the days andweeks and months went by, her London life, when she recalled it, began toseem immeasurably remote in time, or else unreal, like a dream or a storyheard long ago; and the people she had known were like imaginary people. Only Mary seemed real and not remote--a link connecting that old andshadowy past with the vivid living present. 

Her mornings, from nine till one o'clock, were spent with her teacher, and occasionally they went for a walk after dinner; but as a rule theywere not together during the last half of the day. After school hoursMiss Churton would hand over her pupil, not unwillingly, to her mother, and, if the state of the weather did not prevent, she would go away alonewith her book to Eyethorne woods. 

A strangely solitary and unsocial life, it seemed to Fan; and yet shefelt convinced in her mind that her teacher was warm-hearted, a lover ofher fellow-creatures, and glad to be with them; and that she should seemso lonely and friendless, so apart even in her own home, puzzled hergreatly. A mystery, however, it was destined to remain for a long time;for no word to enlighten her ever fell from Mrs. Churton's lips, whoseldom even mentioned her daughter's name, and never without a shadecoming over her face, as if the name suggested some painful thought. Allthis troubled the girl's mind, but it was a slight trouble; and by-and-by, when she had got over her first shyness towards strangers, she formedfresh acquaintances, and found new interests and occupations which filledher leisure time. Mrs. Churton often took her when going to call on thefew friends she had in the neighbourhood--friends who, for someunexplained reason, seldom returned her visits. At the vicarage, wherethey frequently went, Fan became acquainted with Mr. Long the vicar, alarge, grey-haired, mild-mannered man; and Mrs. Long, a round energeticwoman, with reddish cheeks and keen eyes; and the three Miss Longs, whowere not exactly good-looking nor exactly young. Before very long it wasdiscovered that she was clever with her needle, and, better still, thatshe had learnt the beautiful art of embroidery at South Kensington, andwas fond of practising it. These talents were not permitted to lie foldedup in a napkin. A new altar-cloth was greatly needed, and there weregarments for the children of the very poor, and all sorts of things to bemade; it was arranged that she should spend two afternoons each week atthe vicarage assisting her new friends in their charitable work. 

But more to her than these friends were the very poor, whose homes, sometimes made wretched by want or sickness or intemperance, she visitedin Mrs. Churton's company. The lady of Wood End House was not withoutfaults, as we have seen; but they were chiefly faults of temper--and hertemper was very sorely tried. She could not forget her lost sons, norshut her eyes to her husband's worthlessness. But the passive resistanceher daughter always opposed to her efforts, her dogged adherence to aresolution never to discuss religious questions or give a reason for herunbelief, had a powerfully irritating, almost a maddening, effect on her, and made her at times denunciatory and violent. Her daughter's motive forkeeping her lips closed was a noble one, only Mrs. Churton did not knowwhat it was. But she was conscious of her own failings, and never ceasedstruggling to overcome them; and she was tolerant of faults in others, except that one fatal fault of infidelity in her daughter, which was toogreat, too terrible, to be contemplated with calm. In spite of thesesmall blemishes she was in every sense a Christian, whose religion was atremendous reality, and whose whole life was one unceasing and consistentendeavour to follow in the footsteps of her Divine Master. To go aboutdoing good, to minister to the sick and suffering and comfort theafflicted--that was like the breath of life to her; there was not acottage--hardly a room in a cottage--within the parish of Eyethorne whereher kindly face was not as familiar as that of any person outside of itsown little domestic circle. Mrs. Churton soon made the discovery that shecould not give Fan a greater happiness than to take her when making hervisits to the poor; to have the gentle girl she had learnt to love andlook on almost as a daughter with her was such a comfort and pleasure, that she never failed to take her when it was practicable. At first Fanwas naturally stared at, a little rudely at times, and addressed in thatprofoundly respectful manner the poor sometimes use to uninvited visitorsof a class higher than themselves, in which the words border on servilitywhile the tone suggests resentment. How inappropriate and even unnaturalthis seemed to her! For these were her own people--the very poor, and allthe privations and sufferings peculiar to their condition were known toher, and she had not outgrown her sympathy with them. Only she could nottell them that, and it would have been a great mistake if she had doneso. For no one loves a deserter--a renegade; and a beggar-girl whoblossoms into a lady is to those who are beggars still a renegade of theworst description. But the keen interest she manifested in her shy way intheir little domestic troubles and concerns, and above all her fondnessfor little children, smoothed the way, and before long made her visitswelcome. She would kneel and take the staring youngster by its dirtyhand--so perfectly unconscious of its dirtiness, which seemed verywonderful in one so dainty-looking--and start a little independentchild's gossip with it, away from Mrs. Churton and the elders of thecottage. And she would win the little bucolic heart, and kiss its lips, sweet and fragrant to her in spite of the dirt surrounding them; and by-and-by the mother's sharp expression would soften when she met the tendergrey eyes; and thereafter there would be a new happiness when Fanappeared, and if Mrs. Churton came without her, there would be sullenlooks from the little one, and inquiries from its mother after "yourbeautiful young lady from London. "

All this was inexpressibly grateful to Mrs. Churton, all the moregrateful when she noticed that these visits they made together to thevery poor seemed to have the effect of drawing the girl more and more toher. To her mind, all this signified that her religious teachings weresinking into the girl's heart, that her own lofty ideal was becomingincreasingly beautiful to that young mind. 

But she was making a great mistake--one which is frequently made by thosewho do not know how easily some Christian virtues and qualities aresimulated by the unregenerate. All the doctrinal religion she hadimparted to Fan remained on the surface, and had not, and, owing to somedefect in her or for some other cause, perhaps could not sink down tobecome rooted in her heart. After Mrs. Churton had, as she imagined, utterly and for ever smashed and pulverised all Fan's preconceived andwildly erroneous ideas about right and wrong, the girl's mind for sometime had been in a state of chaos with regard to such matters. Butgradually, by means of a kind of spiritual chemistry, the originalelements of her peculiar system came together, and crystallised again inthe old form. Her mental attitude was not like that of the downright anddoggedly-conservative Jan Coggan, who scorned to turn his back on "hisown old ancient doctrines merely for the sake of getting to heaven. "There was nothing stubborn or downright in her disposition, and she washardly conscious of the change going on in her--the reversion to her ownpast. She assented readily to everything she was told by so good a womanas Mrs. Churton, and in a way she believed it all, and read her Bible andseveral pious books besides, and got the whole catechism by heart. It wasall in her memory--many beautiful things, with others too dreadful tothink about; but it could not make her life any different, or supplanther old simple beliefs, and she could never grasp the idea that a livingfaith in all these things was absolutely essential, or that they werereally more than ornamental. Her lively sympathy for those of her ownclass was the only reason for the pleasure she took in going among thepoor, and it also explained her natural unconstrained manner towardsthem, which so quickly won their hearts. During these visits she oftenrecalled her own sad condition in that distant time when she lived inMoon Street; thinking that it would have made a great difference if somegracious lady had come to her there, with help in her hands and words ofcomfort on her lips. It was this memory, this thought, which filled herwith love and reverence for her companion; it was gratitude forfriendship to the poor, but nothing loftier. 

This was a quiet and uneventful period in Fan's life; a time of growth, mental and physical, and of improvement; but as we have seen, the newconditions she found herself in had not so far wrought any change in hercharacter. Those who knew her at Eyethorne, both gentle and simple, wouldhave been surprised to hear that she was not a lady by birth; in her soulshe was still the girl who had begged for pence in the Edgware Road, whohad run crying through the dark streets after the cab that conveyed herdrunken and fatally-injured mother to St. Mary's Hospital. Let themdisbelieve who know not Fan, who have never known one like her. 

CHAPTER XX

One afternoon in early August Fan accompanied Mrs. Churton on a visit tosome cottages on the further side of Eyethorne village; she went gladly, for they were going to see Mrs. Cawood, a young married woman with threechildren, and one of them, the eldest, a sharp little fellow, was herspecial favourite. Mrs. Cawood was a good-tempered industrious littlewoman; but her husband--Cawood the carpenter--was a thorn in Mrs. Churton's tender side. Not that he was a black sheep in the Eyethornefold; on the contrary, he was known to be temperate, a good husband andfather, and a clever industrious mechanic. But he was never seen atchurch; on Sundays he went fishing, being devoted to the gentle craft;and it was wrong, more so in him because of his good name than in manyanother. Mrs. Churton was anxious to point this out to him, butunfortunately could not see him; he was always out of the way when shecalled, no matter when the call was timed. "I wish you could get hold ofCawood, " had been said to her many times by the parson and his wife; butthere was no getting hold of him. The curate had also tried and failed. Once he had gone to him when he was engaged on some work, but thecarpenter had reminded him very pleasantly that there is a time foreverything, that carpentering and theology mixed badly together. 

But all things come to those who wait, and on this August afternoon theslippery carpenter was fairly caught, like one of his own silly fish; butwhether she succeeded in landing her prize or not remains to be told. Apparently he did not suspect that there were strangers in the cottage--some prearranged signal had failed to work, or someone had blundered;anyhow he walked unconcernedly into the room, and seemed greatlysurprised to find it occupied by two lady visitors. Mrs. Churton sat witha book in her hand, gently explaining some difficult point to his wife;while at some distance Fan was carrying on a whispered conversation withher little friend Billy. The child sprung up with such sudden violencethat he almost capsized her low chair, and rushing to his father embracedhis legs. With a glance at his wife, expressing mild reproach and aresolution to make the best of it, he saluted his visitors, thendeposited his bag of tools on the floor. 

Cawood was a Londoner, who had come down to do some work on a large housein the neighbourhood, and there "met his fate" in the person of a prettyEyethorne girl, whom he straightway married; then, finding that there wasroom for him, and good fishing to be had, he elected to stay in hiswife's village among her own people. He was a well-set-up man of aboutthirty-five, with that quiet, self-contained, thoughtful look in hiscountenance which is not infrequently seen in the London artisan--a faceexpressing firmness and intelligence, with a mixture of _bonhomie_, which made it a pleasant study. 

"I am glad you have come in, " said the visitor. "I have been wishing tosee you for a long time, but have not succeeded in finding you at home. "

"Thank you, ma'am; it's very kind of you to come and see my wife. Sheoften speaks of your visits. Also of the young lady's"; and here helooked at Fan with a pleasant smile. 

"Yes; your wife is very good. I knew her before you did, Mr. Cawood; Ihave held her in my arms when she was a baby, and have known her well uptill now when she is having babies of her own. "

"And very good things to have, ma'am--in moderation, " he remarked, with atwinkle in his eye. 

"And since she makes you so good a wife, don't you think you ought tocomply with her wishes in some things?"

"Why, yes, ma'am, certainly I ought; and what's more, I do. We get onamazingly well together, considering that we are man and wife, " and witha slight laugh he sat down. 

Mrs. Churton winced a little, thinking for the moment that he had made acovert allusion to the state of her own domestic relations; but after aglance at his open genial face, she dismissed the suspicion and returnedto the charge. 

"I know you are happy together, and it speaks well for both of you. Butwe do not see you at church, Mr. Cawood. Your wife has often promised meto beg you to go with her; if she has done so you have surely notcomplied in this case. "

"No, ma'am, no, not in that; but I think she understands how to look atit; and if she asks me to go with her, she knows that she is asking forsomething she doesn't expect to get. "

"But why? I want to know why you do not go to church. There are many ofus who try to live good lives, but we are told, and we know, that this isnot enough; that we cannot save ourselves, however hard we may try, butmust go to Him who gave Himself to save us, and who bade us assembletogether to worship Him. "

"Well, ma'am, if anyone feels like that, I think he is right to go tochurch. I do not object to my wife going; if it is a pleasure and comfortto her I am glad of it. I only say, let us all have the same liberty, andgo or not just as we please. "

"We all have it, Mr. Cawood. But if you believe that there is One whomade us, and is mindful of us, you must know that it is a good thing toobey His written word, and serve Him in the way He has told us. "

"I'm sorry I can't see my way to do as you wish. My wife has given me allyour messages, and the papers and tracts you've been so good as to leavefor me. But I haven't read them. I can't, because you see my mind's madeup about such things, and I don't see the advantage of unmaking itagain. "

Here was a stubborn man to deal with! His wife heard him quietly, as ifit were all familiar to her. Fan, on the other hand, listened with anexpression of intense interest. For this man answered not like theothers. He seemed to know his own mind, and did not instantly acquiescein what was said, and unhesitatingly make any promise that was asked ofhim. But how had he been able to make up his mind? and what to think andbelieve? That was what she wanted to know, and was waiting to hear. Mrs. Churton, glancing round on her small audience, encountered the girl'seager eyes fixed on her face; and she reflected that even if her wordsshould avail nothing so far as Cawood was concerned, their effect wouldnot be lost on others whose hearts were more open to instruction. Sheaddressed herself to her task once more, and her words were meant for Fanand for the carpenter's wife as well as for the carpenter. 

"I think, " she began, "that I can convince you that you are wrong. Therecannot be two rights about any question; and if what you think is right--that it is useless to attend church and trouble yourself in any way aboutyour eternal interests--then all the rest of us must be in the wrong. Isuppose you do not deny the truth of Christianity?"

"Since you put it in that way, I do not. "

"That makes it all the simpler for me. I know you to be an honest, temperate man, diligent in your work, and that you do all in your powerto make your home happy. Perhaps you imagine that this is enough. Itwould not be strange if you did, because it is precisely the mistake weare all most liable to fall into. What more is wanted of us? we say; weare not bad, like so many others; and so we are glad to put the wholequestion from us, and go on in our own easy way. Everything is smooth onthe surface, and this pleasant appearance of things lulls us intosecurity. But it is all a delusion, a false security, as we too oftendiscover only when death is near. Only then we begin to see how we haveneglected our opportunities, and despised the means of grace, and livedat enmity with God. For we have His word, which tells us that we are bornin sin, and do nothing pleasing in His sight unless we obey Him. There isno escape from this: either He is our guide in this our pilgrimage or Heis not. And if He is our guide, then it behoves us to reflect seriouslyon these things--to search the Scriptures, to worship in public, andhumbly seek instruction from our appointed teachers. "

This was only a small portion of what she said. Mrs. Churton wasexperienced in talk of this kind, and once fairly started she could runon indefinitely, like a horse cantering or a lark singing, with noperceptible effort and without fatigue. 

"I think, ma'am, you could not have put it plainer, " said the carpenter, who had sat through it all, with eyes cast down, in an attitude ofrespectful attention. "But if I can't go with you in this matter, thenprobably it wouldn't interest you to know what I hold and where I go?"

Now that was precisely what Fan wanted to know; again she lookedanxiously at Mrs. Churton, and it was a great relief when that ladyreplied:

"It will interest me very much to hear you state your views, Mr. Cawood. "

"Thank you, ma'am. I must tell you that I've attended more churches, andheard more good sermons, and read more books about different things, andheard more good lectures from those who spoke both for and againstreligion, than most working-men. In London it was all to be had fornothing; and being of an inquiring turn of mind, and thinking thatsomething would come of it all, I used my opportunities. And what was theresult? Why nothing at all--nothing came of it. The conclusion I arrivedat was, that if I could live for a thousand years it would be just thesame--nothing would come of it; so I just made up my mind to throw thewhole thing up. I don't want you to think that I ever turned againstreligion. I never did that; nor did I ever set up against those who saythat the Bible is only a mixture of history and fable. I did somethingquite different, and I can't agree with you when you say that we must beeither for or against. For here am I, neither for one thing nor theother. On one side are those who have the Bible in their hands, and tellus that it is an inspired book--God's word; on the other side are thosewho maintain that it is nothing of the sort; and when we ask what kind ofmen they are, and what kind of lives do they lead, we find that in bothcamps there are as good men as have ever lived, and along with theseothers bad and indifferent. And when we ask where the intelligence is, the answer is the same; it is on this side and on that. Now my place iswith neither side. I stand, so to speak, between the two camps, at anequal distance from both. Perhaps there is reason and truth on this sideand on that; but the question is too great for me to settle, when thewisest men can't agree about it. I have heard what they had to say to me, and finding that I did nothing but see-saw from one side to the other, and that I could never get to the heart of the thing, I thought it bestto give it all up, and give my mind to something else. "

Mrs. Churton remained silent for some time, her eyes cast down. She wasthinking of her daughter, wondering if her state of mind resembled thatof this man. But no; that careless temper in the presence of greatquestions and great mysteries would be impossible to one of her restlessintellect. She had chosen her side, and although she refused to speak shedoubtless cherished an active animosity against religion. 

"It grieves me to find you in this negative state, " she returned, "and Ican only hope and pray that you will not always continue in it. You donot deny the truth of Christianity, you say; but tell me, putting asideall that men say for and against our holy faith, and the arguments thathave pulled you this way and that, is there not something in your ownsoul that tells you that you are not here by chance, that there is anUnseen Power that gave us life, and that it is good for us, even here inthis short existence, if we do that which is pleasing to Him?"

"Yes, I feel that. It is the only guide I have, and I try my best tofollow it. But whether the Unseen Power sees us and reads all ourthoughts as Christians think, or only set things going, so to speak, ismore than I am able to say. I think we are free to do good or evil; andif there is a future life--and I hope there is--I don't think thatanyone will be made miserable in it because he didn't know things betterthan he could know them. That's the whole of my religion, Mrs. Churton, and I don't think it a bad one, on the whole--for myself I mean; for Idon't go about preaching it, and I don't ask others to think as I do. "

With a sigh she resigned the contest; and after a few more words bade himgood-bye, and went out with the carpenter's wife into the garden. 

Fan remained standing where she had risen, some colour in her cheeks, asmile of contentment playing about her lips. 

"Good-bye, Mr. Cawood, " she said; and after a moment's hesitation heldout her hand to him. 

He looked a little surprised. "My hand is not over-clean, miss, as yousee, " opening it with a comical look of regret on his face. "I've justcome in from work and haven't washed yet. "

"Oh, it's clean enough, " she said with a slight laugh, putting her smallwhite hand into his dusty palm. 

On her way home Mrs. Churton talked a good deal to her companion. Shewent over her discussion with the carpenter, repeating her own argumentswith much amplification; then passing to his, she pointed out theirweakness, and explained how that neutral state of mind is unworthy of arational being, and dangerous as well, since death might comeunexpectedly and give no time for repentance. 

Fan listened, readily assenting to everything; but in her heart she feltlike a bird newly escaped from captivity. That restful state she had beenhearing about, in which there was no perpetual distrust of self, vigilance, heart-searching, wrestling in prayer, looked infinitelyattractive, and suited her disposition and humble intellect. 

CHAPTER XXI

A fortnight later, one hot afternoon, Fan was reading beside the openwindow of the dining-room. After dinner Mrs. Churton had given her _ThePleasures of Hope_, in a slim old octavo volume, to read, and for thelast hour she had been poring over it. Greatly did she admire it, it wasso fine, so grand; but all that thunderous roll of rhetoric--thewhiskered Pandoors and the fierce Hussars, and Freedom's shriek whenKosciusko fell, and flights of bickering comets through illimitablespace--a kind of celestial fireworks on a stupendous scale--and all therealms of ether wrapped in flames--all this had produced a slightheadache, a confusion or giddiness, like that which is experienced by aperson looking down over a precipice, or when carried too high in aswing. 

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 alsositting 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--athick volume bound in dark-green cloth. There was nothing in itsappearance to alarm anyone, but she did not like these thick green-boundbooks that were never by any chance found lying about for one to see whatwas 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 ofsurprise in her tone. 

Fan ran up to get her hat and sunshade, and when she returned to them herpallor and headache had well-nigh vanished at the prospect of anafternoon spent in the shady woodland paradise. Mrs. Churton, with aprayer in her heart, watched them going away together--two lovely girls;it made her anxious when her eyes rested on the portly green volume herdaughter carried, but it struck her as a good augury when she noticedthat 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 enemyshe was perpetually fighting. And yet if some shining being had come downto tell her that her prayers for others had been heard, that all theworthless and vicious people she wished to carry to heaven with her wouldbe saved, and all of them, even the meanest, set above her in that placewhere the first is last and the last first, joy at such tidings wouldhave slain her. She had as little spiritual pride as a ladybird or anant. Now the new thought had come into her mind that her daughter wouldbe saved; not in her way, nor by her means, but in a way that would atthe same time be a rebuke to her spiritual pride, her impatience andbitterness of spirit, and zeal not according to knowledge. Not she, butthis young girl, herself so ignorant of spiritual things a short timeago, would be the chosen instrument. She remembered how the girl hadtaken to her from the first, but had not taken to her daughter; how inspite of this distance between them, and of her infidelity, her daughterhad continued to love the girl--to Mrs. Churton it was plain that sheloved her--and to hunger for her love in return. It was all providentialand ordered by One

 Who moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform. 

"Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings hast Thou ordained strength, "she murmured, praising God who had put this gladness in her heart, theChristian's and the mother's love filling her eyes with tears. Up tillnow it had been her secret aim to keep the girls as much apart aspossible out of school hours; now it seemed best to let them cometogether; and on this August afternoon, as we have seen, she went so faras to encourage a greater intimacy between them. Poor woman!

After they had entered the wood Fan began straying at short intervalsfrom the path to gather flowers and grasses, or to look more closely at abutterfly at rest and sunning its open brightly-patterned wings. 

"I think I shall sit down on the grass here to read, " said Constance atlength. "You can ramble about and gather flowers if you like, and you'llknow where to find me. "

They had now reached a spot to which Constance was in the habit ofresorting almost daily, where the ground was free from underwood, andthickly carpeted with grass not yet wholly dry, and where an oak-treeshaded a wide space with its low horizontal branches. 

Fan thanked her, and dropping her book rambled off by herself, happy inher flower-hunting, and forgetting all about the magnificent things shehad been reading. Two or three times she returned to the spot whereConstance sat reading, with her hands full of flowers and grasses, andafter depositing them on the turf went away to gather more. Finally shesat down on the grass, took off her hat and gloves, and set to workarranging her spoils. This took her a long time, and after making them uptwo or three times in various ways she still seemed dissatisfied. Atlength she tried a fresh plan, and discarding all the red, yellow, andpurple flowers, she made a loose bunch of the blue and white only, usingonly those fine open grass-spears with hair-like stems and minute flowersthat 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, herhead a little on one side and holding the bunch well away from her. Shedid not know how beautiful she herself looked at that moment, how theblue and white flowers and misty grasses had lent, as it were, a newgrace to her form and countenance--a flower-like expression that wassweet to see. Looking up all at once she encountered her companion's eyesfixed earnestly on her face. It was so unexpected that it confused her alittle, and she reddened and dropped her eyes. 

"Forgive me, Fan, for watching your face, " said Constance. "When I lookedat you I wondered whether it would not be best to tell you what I wasthinking 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 hadfluttered her heart with pleasure. 

"But if I tell you what was in my mind, Fan, I should have to finish byasking 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--howwe lived at home before Miss Starbrow took me to live with her. Shewishes me not to speak of that, but to forget it. "

Constance listened with softening eyes, wondering what that sorrowfulpast had been, which had left no trace on the sweet young face. 

"I know that, Fan, " she replied, "and should be very sorry to questionyou about such matters. It saddens me to think that your childhood wasunhappy, and if I could help you to forget that period of your life Iwould gladly do so. The question I should have to ask would be aboutsomething 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 yourcoming would make me much better off. I had been wondering so much whatyou were like, knowing that we should be so much together. When I atlength saw you it was with a shock of pleasure, for I saw more than I haddared to hope. A first impression is almost infallible, I think, and tothis day I have never for a single moment doubted that the impression Ireceived was a right one. But I was greatly mistaken when I imagined thatin 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 haslasted until now. That is what was passing through my mind a little whileago when I watched your face; and now, Fan, can you tell me why you tooka 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 sprangspontaneously from her lips, she remembered Mary's warning words, and herheart was secretly troubled, for that old danger which she had ceased tofear had now unexpectedly returned. 

"Do you really like me so much, Fan?" said Constance, taking the girl'shand 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 areshy and reticent when with me, and out of lesson-time you avoid mycompany. You imagine that it would be wrong to love me, or that if youcannot 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 herthoughts, but she assented unhesitatingly to what the other had said. This approach to confidence began to seem strangely sweet to her, all thesweeter perhaps because so perilous; and that contact of her hand withthe 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 rightfor 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 thetrouble and pain of telling it. Shall I tell you? and then perhaps Ishall be able to convince you that you have no reason to be afraid ofme. "

"I wish you would, " eagerly returned Fan. 

"My mother has prejudiced you against me, Fan. She imagines that if wewere intimate and friendly together my influence would be injurious, thatit 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 notreligious--in _her_ way, that is--that I am not a Christian. Shedoes not know really; I do not go about telling people what I believe ordisbelieve, and prefer to say nothing about religion for fear of hurtingany person's feelings. But that is not her way, and through what she hassaid at the vicarage, and elsewhere about me I am now looked upon as oneto be avoided. I see you are reading _The Pleasures of Hope_. Let mehave it. Do you see this passage with pencil-marks against it, and allthe words underscored?

 "Ah me! the laurel wreath that Murder rears, Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears, Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread, As waves the nightshade round the sceptic head. 

"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 shebelieves!" And here she flung the volume disdainfully on the grass. "WhenI agreed to be your teacher I never imagined that such things would havebeen put into your head. Her anxiety about your spiritual welfare made itseem right in her eyes to do so, I suppose. But I should not have harmedyou, my dear girl, or interfered with your religion in any way; she mighthave given me that much credit. When she knew how lonely my life was, andhow much your affection would have been to me, it was unkind of her toset you also against me from the first. "

All this came as a complete surprise on her listener, who now for thefirst time began to understand the reason of the estrangement of motherand daughter. But Constance was allowed to finish her speech withoutinterruption. She said more than she had meant to say, but her feelingshad carried her away, and when she finished it was with a half-suppressedsob. 

"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 wasthat you and Mrs. Churton were always so cold to each other. But it wouldhave 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 begana 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 goodwithout that--don't you, Miss Churton? I wish I could tell you better--itseems so hard to say it. But Mrs. Churton never said anything to me aboutyou--in that way--I mean about your religion. "

Constance listened to all this with the greatest surprise. That this verysimple-minded girl, impressible as soft wax as it seemed to her, shouldthink independently about such a subject as religion, and that she shouldhold views so opposed to those which Mrs. Churton had for several monthsbeen diligently instilling into her mind, seemed almost incredible. Thesecond statement was nearly as surprising, so sure had she been that hersuspicions were well-founded. "Then I have been very unjust to my motherin this instance, " she said, "and am very sorry I spoke so warmly aboutolder things which should be forgotten. " After an interval of silence shecontinued, withdrawing her hand from the other, "I can make no furtherguess, Fan; and if you have any secret reason for keeping apart from meyou must forgive me for speaking to you and trying to win yourconfidence. "

Fan was more distressed than ever now, and the tears started to her eyesas she felt that the distance was once more widening between them, andthat it all depended on herself whether she was to drink from this sweetcup or set it down again scarcely tasted. 

"I must tell you, Miss Churton, " she said at length; and then, notwithout much hesitation and difficulty, she explained Miss Starbrow'sviews 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 amistake? And if you feel that you do love me, do you not know from yourown experience, whether you hide the feeling or not, that your love forothers, and chiefly for so dear a friend as Miss Starbrow, remains justas strong as before?"

Fan gladly answered in the affirmative. 

"We are all liable to strange errors about different things, and MissStarbrow is certainly in error about this. Besides, my dear girl, wecan't always love or not love as we like; the feeling comes to usspontaneously, like the wind that blows where it listeth. Be sure that weare not such poor creatures that we cannot love more than one person at atime. But Miss Starbrow is not singular in her opinion--if it is heropinion. I have heard men say that although a man's large heart canharbour many friendships, a woman is incapable of having more than onefriendship at any time. That is a man's opinion, and therefore it is notstrange that it should be a wrong one, since only a woman can know thethings of a woman. How strange that Miss Starbrow should have so mean anopinion of her own sex!"

Fan then remembered something which she imagined might throw some lighton this dark subject. "I know, " she said, "that she always prefers men towomen 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 hateyou, Fan, is very evident. Don't you think that, intimate as you werewith Miss Starbrow, you did not always quite understand her way ofspeaking, that you took her words too literally? You know now that shedid not really mean it when she spoke of hating women, and perhaps shedid not really mean what she said about your being unable to love morethan one person. "

"Yes; I think you are right. I know that she does not always mean whatshe 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 thatwe 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 toMary 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 youmust be just as open about everything, as I suppose it is your nature tobe, and conceal nothing about your feelings towards others. I do notthink for a moment that you will offend her by being good friends withyour teacher. "

That assurance and advice removed the last shadow of anxiety from Fan'smind, and after some more conversation they returned home, both feelingvery much happier than when they had started for this eventful walk. 

CHAPTER XXII

Mrs. Churton was quickly made aware of the now in one sense improvedrelations between the girls when they returned from their walk; and withthat new hope in her heart she was not displeased to see it, although itssuddenness startled her a little. She did not know until the followingmorning how great the change was. She was an early riser, and hearingvoices and laughter in the garden while dressing, she looked out of thewindow, and saw the girls walking in the path, Constance with an openbook in her hand, while Fan at her side had an arm affectionately thrownover 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 themrise 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 anexceedingly sad end to her experiment. With deep anxiety and returningjealousy she reflected that the simple-minded affectionate girl mightprove as wax in the hands of her clever godless daughter. But it was toosoon 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 childlikefaith would touch the stony heart that nothing had touched, and win backthe wandering feet to the ways of pleasantness. 

From her watching nothing much resulted for some days, although she soonbegan to suspect that Fan now wore a look of patience, almost ofweariness, whenever she was spoken to on religious subjects, that itseemed a relief to her when the lesson was finished, and she could goback to Constance. They were constantly together now, in and out ofdoors, and the woods had become their daily haunt. And one day they metwith 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 grasswith his hands clasped behind his head, and gazing up into the leafydepths above him. At the same moment he saw them, standing and hesitatingwhich way to turn; and in a moment he sprang to his feet. He was ahandsome young fellow, a little below the medium height, clean shaved, with black hair and very dark blue eyes, which looked black; his featureswere very fine, and his skin, although healthy-looking, colourless. 

"I perceive that I am an intruder here, " he said with a smile, and withan admiring glance at Miss Churton's face. 

"Oh, no, " she returned, with heightened colour. "This wood is free toall; we can soon find another spot for ourselves. "

"But it is evident that you were coming to sit here, " he said, stillsmiling. "I suppose you have done so on former occasions, so that youhave acquired a kind of prescriptive right to this place. I am putting iton very low grounds, you see, " he added with a slight laugh, and raisinghis cap was about to turn away; but just at that moment he glanced atFan, who had been standing a little further away, watching his face withvery great interest. He started, looked greatly surprised, then quicklyrecovering his easy self-possessed manner, advanced and held out his handto her. "How do you do?" he said. "How strange to meet you here! You havenot forgotten me, I hope?"

Fan had taken his hand. "Oh, no, Mr. Chance, " she returned, blushing alittle, "I remember you very well. "

"I'm very glad you do. But I am ashamed to have to confess that though Iremember your Christian name very well I can't recall your surname. Ionly remember that it is an uncommon one. "

"My name is Affleck. But you only saw me once, and it is not strange youshould have forgotten it. "

It was true that she had only seen him once; for in spite of the bravewords he had spoken to Miss Starbrow after she had rejected his offer ofmarriage, he had never returned to her house. But Fan had heard first andlast a great deal about him, and Mary had even told her the story of thatearly morning declaration, not without some scornful laughter. Nevertheless at this distance from town it seemed very pleasant to seehim once more. It was like meeting an old acquaintance, and vividlybrought back her life in Dawson Place with Mary. 

For some minutes he stood talking to her, asking after Miss Starbrow andherself, and saying that since he left Bayswater he had greatly missedthose delightful evenings; but while he talked to Fan he glancedfrequently at the beautiful face of her companion. Once or twice theireyes met, and Mr. Chance, judging from what he saw that he had made asomewhat favourable impression, in his easy way, and with a littleapology, asked Fan to introduce him. This little ceremony over, they allsat 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 ramblethrough the south-west of England, and had turned aside to see thevillage of Eyethorne and its woods, which he had heard were worth avisit. From local scenery the conversation passed by an easy transitionto artistic and literary subjects; in a very short time Fan ceased totake any part in it, and was satisfied to listen to this new kind of duetin which harmony of mind was substituted for that of melodious sound. With a pleased wonder, which was almost like a sense of mystery, shefollowed them in this rapid interchange of thoughts about things soremote from every-day life. They mentioned a hundred names unknown toher--of those who had lived in ancient times and had written poems inmany languages, and of artists whose works they had never seen and couldyet describe; and in all these far-off things they seemed as deeplyinterested as Mrs. Churton was in her religion, her parish work, and herhousekeeping. How curious it was to note their familiarity with anendless variety of subjects, so that one could not say anything without alook of quick intelligence and ready sympathy from the other! How wellthey seemed to know each other's minds! They were talking familiarly asif they had been acquainted all their lives!

To Constance the pleasure was more real and far greater; for not only hadher unfortunate opinions concerning matters of faith separated her fromher few educated neighbours, but in that rustic and sleepy-minded spotthere were none among them, excepting the curate, who took any interestin literary and philosophical questions. Her friends were not the peopleshe knew, but the authors whose works she purchased with shillings savedout of the small quarterly allowance her mother made her for dress. Thesewere the people she really knew and loved, and their thoughts were ofinfinitely deeper import to her than the sayings and doings of the menand women of her little world. In such circumstances, how pleasant it wasto meet with this young stranger, engaging in his manner and attractivein appearance, and to converse freely with him on the subjects thatconstantly occupied her thoughts. There was a glow of happy excitement onher face, her eyes shone, she laughed in a free glad way, as Fan hadnever heard her laugh before; she was surprised at the extent of her ownknowledge--at that miracle of memory, when many fine thoughts, longforgotten, and multitudes of strange facts, and glowing passages in verseand prose, came back uncalled to her mind; and above all she wassurprised at a ready eloquence which she had never suspected herselfcapable of. 

Merton Chance had often conversed with clever and beautiful women, butthis country girl surprised him with the extent of her reading, hervivacity and wit, and quick sympathy; and the more they talked the morehe admired her. 

Then insensibly their conversation took a graver tone, and they passed toother themes, which, to Constance at least, had a deeper and moreenduring interest. In all philosophical questions she could follow andeven go beyond him, although she didn't know it, and very soon they madethe discovery that towards the faith still professed by a large majorityof their fellow-beings their attitude was the same. Or so it appeared toConstance. Christianity was one of the forms in which the universalreligious sentiment had found expression for a period among a largeportion of the human race. They were not agnostics, so they bothdeclared, and yet were contented to be called so by others, not yethaving invented a word better than this one of the materialisticProfessor Huxley to describe themselves by. They had moved onwards andhad left the creed of the Christian behind them, yet were confident thatthe vast unbounded prospect before them would not always rest obscuredwith clouds. But what the new thing was to be they knew not. Time wouldreveal it. They were not left without something to cheer them--gleams ofa spiritual light which, although dim and transient, yet foretold theperfect day. Like so many others among the choice spirits of the earth, they turned their eyes this way and that, considering now the hard andpitiless facts of biology and physics, now the new systems of philosophy, that come like shadows and so depart, and now the vague thoughts, orthoughts vaguely expressed, of those the careless world calls mystics andwild-minded visionaries; and after it all they were fain to confess thatthe waters have not yet abated; and that although for them there could beno return to the ark, they were still without any rest for the soles oftheir feet. 

If, instead of that young ignorant girl, their listener had been a grey-haired disillusioned man, he would have shaken his head, and perhapsremarked that they were a couple of foolish dreamers, that the lightwhich inspired such splendid hopes was a light from the past--a dyingtwilight left in their souls by that sun of faith which for them had set. But there was nothing to disturb their pleasing self-complacency--nomocking skeleton to spoil their rare intellectual feast. 

Merton was not yet satisfied, he wished to go more fully into these greatsubjects, and pressed her with more and more searching questions. Constance, on her side, grew more reticent, and seemed troubled in hermind, glancing occasionally into his face; and at length, dropping herhand on Fan's, who still listened but without understanding, she saidthat for reasons which could not be stated, which he would be able toguess, 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 totheir feet, but he did not go at once. He began to ask Fan about herbotanical studies, one of the subjects which Constance had taught her. Hehad, he said, studied botany at school and was very fond of it. Presentlyhe became much interested in a plant, a creeper, hanging from a low shrubabout twenty-five or thirty yards from where they were standing, and Fanat 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 canimagine, 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 hecontinued:

"I cannot bear to think of leaving this place without seeing you again. Iwished for one thing--please don't think me very egotistical for sayingit--to tell you about some little papers I am writing, and one or two ofwhich have been printed in a periodical. I think the subject wouldinterest you. Will you think me very bold, Miss Churton, if I ask you tolet 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 tellyou why I can scarcely do what you ask you will not think hardly of me. Icannot open my lips at home on the subject we have been discussing, and Iam looked on coldly here, in my own village, on account of my heterodoxopinions. My mother would receive you well, but she would think it wrongin 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 ablush to her cheek. "But I cannot bear to go away from Eyethorne withoutseeing 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 allinterest in it. That about his botany had all been pure fiction; but ithad served its purpose, and now, he regretfully remarked, his plant-lore, he found, had completely faded from his mind. And after a little furtherconversation he shook hands and left them. 

CHAPTER XXIII

On their way home the conversation of the girls turned chiefly on theirencounter with Mr. Chance. Constance displayed an unusual amount offeminine curiosity, and asked a great many questions about him. Fan hadnothing to tell, for she dared not tell what she knew. It was apeculiarity of her character, that if she knew anything to a person'sdisadvantage she was anxious to conceal it, as if it had been somethingreflecting on herself; apart from this, she felt that Miss Starbrow'sdescription of Mr. Chance would not be what Miss Churton wished to hear. For it was plain that Constance had been favourably impressed, and hadtaken Merton at his own valuation, which was a high one. While she keptsilence it troubled her to think that one who had been despised andridiculed by Mary should be highly esteemed by Constance, since she nowloved (or worshipped) them both in an equal degree. 

At the gate it all at once occurred to her to ask whether she should tellMrs. 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 shouldtalk with him. " Then she added, "I shall say nothing about it, simplybecause mother and I never talk about anything. You needn't mention itunless you care to, Fan. I really don't believe that mother would feelany interest in the subject. "

She reddened a little after speaking, knowing that she had been slightlydisingenuous. Fan understood from her face more than from her words whatshe really wished. 

"Then I shall not say anything, unless Mrs. Churton asks me about ourwalk, 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 expressiveface, followed by a swift blush, but she said nothing, and after dinnerwent back to her room. As soon as the others had left the house she beganto dress for a walk, paying a great deal more attention to herself at theglass than she was accustomed to do. Her luxuriant brown hair was brushedout and rearranged, her artful fingers allowing three or four small locksto escape and lie unconfined on her forehead and temples. She studied herface very closely, thinking a great deal about that peculiar shade ofcolour which she saw there. But her own face was so familiar to her, howcould she tell what another would think of it, and whether to city eyesthat brown tint would not make it look less like the face of a Rosalindthan of an Audrey? With her dress she was altogether dissatisfied, andthere was nothing to give a touch of beauty to it but a poor flower--ahalf-open rose--which she pinned on her bosom. Then she envied Fan herbeautiful watch and chain, the half-score of rings, bangles, and broocheswhich Miss Starbrow had given her; and this reminded her of an ornamentshe possessed, an old-fashioned gold brooch with an amethyst in it, andwhich in the pride of philosophy she had looked on with a good deal ofcontempt. Now the rose was flung away, and the despised jewel put in itsplace. Taking her book and sunshade she finally left the house, andturned her steps towards the wood. Scarcely had she left the gate behindbefore a tumult of doubts and fears began to assail her. She was hurryingaway 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 obeyhis wishes? Could she in her present agitated state, with her cheek fullof hot blushes, and her heart throbbing so that it almost choked her, hide her secret from him? This thought frightened her and she slackenedher pace, and argued that it would be better not to go to the wood, notto run the risk of such a self-betrayal and humiliation. But perhaps hewould 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 hermind about it? It gave her a pang to think that the meeting andconversation which had been so important an event in her life wereperhaps very little to him, that they were perhaps fading out of his mindalready, and would soon be, like his botanical knowledge, altogetherforgotten. Perhaps he was even now on the road speeding away far fromEyethorne on his bicycle. Then the fear that she might betray her secretwas 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 slowsteps once more, and at last gaining the wood, and coming to the spotwhere she had parted from him, and not finding him there, her excitementleft her, and she sat down with a pang of bitter disappointment in herheart. 

But before many minutes had gone by she heard approaching footsteps, andlooking up saw him coming towards her. The tell-tale blood rushed againto her cheeks and her heart throbbed wildly, but she bent her eyesresolutely 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 hadbeen for upwards of an hour on the spot waiting for her, his heart alsoagitated with hopes and fears. He had watched her coming with gladtriumphant feelings, and then, prudent and artful even in his moment oftriumph, had concealed himself from her to come on to the scene afterallowing her a little time to taste her disappointment. 

He was already standing before her and speaking, and then in a moment theoutward calm which she had been vainly striving to observe cameunexpectedly to her aid. She shook hands with him and explained why shewas 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 meetyou; our conversation yesterday gave me so much pleasure, and I wished somuch to hear about your literary work. After to-day I do not suppose thatwe shall ever meet again. "

"I sincerely hope we shall!" he returned, sitting down near her. "It isreally painful to think that you should be immured in this uncongenialplace with your tastes and--advantages. "

"Please do not pity my condition, Mr. Chance. I can endure it very wellfor a time, I hope; it is not my intention to stay here always, nor verymuch longer, and just now I am not altogether alone, as I have Fan toteach and for a companion. "

"She is a very charming girl, " he returned; "and I must tell you that shehas improved marvellously since I last saw her. Miss Starbrow has, Ithink, been singularly fortunate in having put her into your hands. "

"Thank you, " said Constance, with a quick glance at his face. Then sheadded, "I suppose you know Miss Starbrow very well?"

"Yes, " he returned with a slight smile, and she was curious to know whyhe smiled in that meaning way, but feared to ask. "But she is yourfriend, I suppose, and you know her as well as I do, " he added after awhile. 

"Oh no, she is a perfect stranger to me. We only saw her once for a fewminutes when she brought Fan down to us last May. "

"How strange! But I should have thought that Miss Affleck would have toldyou everything about her before now. "

"No; I never question Fan about her London life, and when left to herselfshe is a very reticent girl. "

"Really!" said he, not ill-pleased at this information. "But, MissChurton, how very natural that you should wish to know something aboutthis lady!"

She smiled without replying, but no reply was needed. He had beenstudying her face, and knew that she was curious to hear what he had tosay, and this interest in Miss Starbrow, he thought, was a very newfeeling, and rose entirely out of her interest in himself. 

He told her a great deal about the lady, without altogether omitting herlittle eccentricities, as he leniently called them, and her little faultsof temper; he paid a tribute to her generous, hospitable character, onlyshe was, he thought, just a little too hospitable, judging from thecurious specimens one met at her Wednesday evening gatherings. But he wasvery good-natured, and touched lightly on the disagreeable features inthe picture, or else kindly toned them down with a few skilful touches, producing the impression on his listener that he did not dislike MissStarbrow, but regarded her with a kind of amused curiosity. And that, infact, was precisely the impression he had wished to make, and he was wellpleased with himself when he saw how well he had succeeded. 

Afterwards they spoke of other things, and soon came to those literarytopics in which Miss Churton took so keen an interest. They talked longand earnestly, and Merton Chance neglected no opportunity of sayingpretty things with a subtle flattery in them at which the other was farfrom being displeased. 

"You draw your mental nutriment from a distance, " he said. "Being withoutsympathy 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 tothe 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 toaccept gratefully, some magazines containing contributions from his pen, also some books which he wished her to read. But he did not say anythingabout writing, he did not wish to show himself too eager to continue theacquaintance which chance had brought about: in his own mind, however, itwas already settled that there was to be a correspondence. 

CHAPTER XXIV

After Merton's departure from Eyethorne things drifted back to their oldstate at Wood End House, the slight change in Constance becoming less andless perceptible, until the time came when Fan began to think, with asecret feeling of relief, that the visitor had after all made only apassing 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 andperiodicals for Constance, and Fan remarked the glad excitement in herfriend's face when she carried her treasures away to her room, and hersubsequent silence on the subject. And after that Constance was againmuch occupied with her own thoughts, which, to judge from hercountenance, were happy ones; and Fan quickly came to the conclusion thatthe books and letter were from Merton. Mrs. Churton, who knew nothingabout this new acquaintance, imagined only that her daughter had suckedout all the impiety contained in the books she already possessed, and hadsent for a fresh supply. For, she argued, if there had been nothing wrongin the books Constance would have allowed her to read or see them. Shemade herself very unhappy over it, and was more incensed than everagainst her sinful daughter, but she said nothing, and only showed herdissatisfaction in her cold, distrustful manner. 

Another bitterness in her cup at this period was her inability to reviveFan's interest in sacred things, for she had begun to notice anincreasing indifference in the girl. All the religious teaching, overwhich she had spent so much time and labour, seemed to have failed of itseffect. She had planted, apparently in the most promising soil, and thevicar and the vicar's wife had watered, and God had not given theincrease. This was a new mystery which she could not understand, in spiteof much pondering over it, much praying for light, and many conversationson the subject with her religious friends. So sweet and good and pure-hearted and pliant a girl; but alas! alas! it was only that ephemeralfictitious kind of goodness which springs from temper or disposition, which has no value in the eyes of Heaven, cannot stand the shocks of timeand circumstance. It was not through any remissness of her own; she hadnever ceased her efforts, yet now after many months she was fain toconfess that this young girl, who had promised such great things, seemedfurther than at the beginning from that holiness which is not of theearth, and which delights only in the contemplation of heavenly things. She could see it now with what painful clearness! for her eyes in suchmatters were preternaturally sharp, like those of a sailor who hasfollowed the sea all his life with regard to atmospheric changes; nosooner would the lesson begin than all brightness would fade from thattoo expressive countenance, and the girl would listen with manifesteffort, striving to keep her attention from wandering, striving tounderstand and to respond; but there was no response from the heart, andin spite of striving her thoughts, her soul, were elsewhere, and her eyeswore a distant wistful look. And Mrs. Churton was hot-tempered; in allthe years of her self-discipline she had never been able to wring fromher heart that one drop of black blood; and sometimes when she talked toFan, and read and prayed with her, and noticed that impassive look comingover her face to quench its brightness like a cloud, her old enemy wouldget the best of her, and she would start up and hurriedly leave the roomwithout a word, lest it should betray her into passionate expression. 

"Yes, I have also noticed this in Miss Affleck, " the vicar said to herone day when she had been speaking to him on the subject. "She seemed atone time so docile, so teachable, so easy to be won, and now it isimpossible not to see that there is something at work neutralising allour 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 influenceof your daughter. "

"But my daughter has promised me and has given me her word of honour thatnothing has been said or will be said or done to alienate her pupil'smind from religious subjects. And we know, Mr. Long, that even those whoare without God may still be trusted to speak the truth--that they havethat 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 yourdaughter has deliberately set herself to undo your work and win her pupilto her own pernicious views. But is it possible for her, even if shewished it, to conceal them altogether from one who is not only her pupilbut her intimate friend and constant companion? Her whole life--thoughts, acts, words, and even looks--must be leavened with the evil leaven; howcan Miss Affleck live with her in that intimate way without catching someof that spirit from her? You know that so long as they were not thusintimate this girl was everything that could be desired, that from thetime they became close friends she began to change, and that religion isnow becoming as distasteful to her as it is to her teacher. "

Poor woman! she had gone for comfort and counsel to her pastor, and thiswas all she got. He was a good hater, and regarded Miss Churton with afeeling 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 themmine enemies. " As for separating two inseparable things, the sinner andthe sin (matter and an affection of matter), and loving one and hatingthe other, that was an intellectual feat altogether beyond his limitedpowers, although he considered it one which Mr. Northcott might be ableto accomplish. He had made it impossible for his enemy to do any injuryin the parish; she had been dropped by Eyethorne "society, " and she didnot go among the poor; but this was not enough to satisfy him, and thesermon he had preached against her, which drove her from the church, hadbeen deliberately prepared with the object of driving her from theparish. He had failed in his object, and now he was angry because hecould 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 Ido?" And as he refused to answer her, having said his last word, she roseand went home more unhappy than ever, more angry with Fan, and embitteredagainst her daughter; for that the vicar had truly shown her the reasonof her failure she could not doubt. 

They were both entirely wrong, although the mistake was a very naturalone, and, in the circumstances, almost unavoidable. Constance hadscrupulously observed the compact. Nothing could be further from her mindthan any desire to win others to her way of thinking. The religiousinstinct was strong in her, and could flourish without the support ofcreed or doctrine; at the same time she recognised the fact that inothers--in a very large majority of persons, perhaps--it is a frailcreeping plant that trails along the ground to perish trodden in the dustwithout extraneous support. 

Fan, on her side, had drifted into her present way of thinking, or notthinking, independently of her teacher, and entirely uninfluenced by her. At the beginning she responded readily to Mrs. Churton's motherlyteaching; but only because the teaching was motherly, and intimatelyassociated with those purely human feelings which were everything to her. Afterwards when others, who were strangers and not dear to her, began totake part in her instruction, then gradually these two things--human anddivine--separated themselves in her mind, and she clung to the one andlost her interest in the other. It was pleasant to go to church, to takepart in singing and praying with the others, and to sit with half-closedeyes among well-dressed people during sermon-time, and think of otherthings, chiefly of Mary and Constance. But when religion came to be morethan that, it began to oppress her like a vain show, and it was a reliefto escape from all thoughts on the subject. So low and so earthly, in onesense, was Fan's mind. While she was in this frame that visit to thecarpenter's cottage occurred, and the carpenter's words had taken astrong hold on her and could not be forgotten; for they fitted her caseso exactly, and seemed so clearly to express all that she had had in hermind, and all that it was necessary for her to have, that it had theeffect of making her spirit deaf to all other and higher teachings. Ifshe could have explained it all to Mrs. Churton it would have beenbetter, at all events for Constance, but she was incapable of such athing, even if she had possessed the courage, and so she kept silence, although she could see that her want of interest was distressing to herkind friend. 

Another great bitterness in Mrs. Churton's cup resulted from the conductof her irreclaimable husband. Even Fan, who had never regarded any livingsoul with contempt, had soon enough learned to experience such a feelingtowards this man. But it was a kindly contempt, for after repulsing himtwo or three times when he had attempted to conduct himself in toofatherly a manner, he had ceased to trouble her in any way. He was veryunobtrusive in the house, except at intervals, when he would rebelagainst his wife and say shocking things and screech at her. But whencold weather came, then poor Mr. Churton took an extra amount of alcoholfor warmth, and the spirit and cold combined brought on a variety ofailments which sometimes confined him for days to his bedroom. At suchtimes he would be deeply penitent, and beg his wife to sit with him andread the Bible, which she was always ready to do. Never again would heseek oblivion from pain in the cup that cheers, and, alas, inebriates, ordo anything to make his beloved wife grieve; thus would he protest, kissing her hand and shedding weak tears. But as soon as she had nursedhim back into better health he would seize the first opportunity when shewas out of the way to slip off "for a constitutional, " which wouldinvariably end at the inn in the High Street; and in the evening he wouldreturn quarrelsome and abusive, or else groaning and ready to take to bedagain. 

Mr. Northcott, who might have melted into thin air for all we have seenor heard of him lately, was also unhappy in his mind at this period. Heloved, and yet when it had almost seemed to him that he had not loved invain, partly from prudential motives and partly because his religionstood in the way of his desire, he had refrained from speaking. Now itseemed 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 hercould have wished, was not so sympathetic, not so near to him, asformerly. Nevertheless, he still sought her out at every opportunity, andengaged her in long conversations which led to nothing; for they barelytouched on the borders of those subjects which both felt most deeplyabout, and that other subject which he alone felt they never approached. His resolution had in some measure recovered its "native hue, " but toolate, alas! and at length one day his vicar took him to task about thisinconvenient friendship. 

"Mr. Northcott, " he said very unexpectedly at the end of a conversationthey had been having, "may I ask you whether you still hope to be able towin back Miss Churton to a more desirable frame of mind?"

The curate flushed a little, and glancing up encountered the suspiciouseyes 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 thatyour partiality for Miss Churton's society has been made the subject ofremark among the ladies in the neighbourhood. That your motives are ofthe highest I do not question; at the same time, if they aremisunderstood and if your efforts are futile, it would be prudent, Ifancy, not to let it appear that you prefer this lady's company to thatof others. "

This about motives did not sound quite sincere; but the vicar was suavein manner, stroking his curate very kindly with soft velvet hand, onlywaiting for some slight movement before unsheathing the sharp hiddenclaws. One word of protest and of indignant remonstrance would have beenenough; the reply was on his tongue, "Then, Mr. Northcott, I regret thatwe must part company. "

But he made no movement such as the other had expected, perhaps evendesired, for we are all cruel, even the best of us--so Bain says, andtherefore it must be true. On the contrary, he took it with strangemeekness--for which he did not fail afterwards to despise himself withhis whole heart--regretting that anything had been said, and thanking thevicar for telling him. Nevertheless he was very indignant at this gossipof "a set of malignant old scandal-mongers, " as he called the Eyethorneladies in his wrath, and bitterly resented the interference of the vicarin his affairs. Only the hopeless passion that preyed on him, which madethe prospect of a total separation from Miss Churton seem intolerable, kept him from severing his connection with Eyethorne. But after thatwarning he was more circumspect, and gave the ladies, old and young, lessreason for ill-natured remarks. 

All these troubles and griefs, real and imaginary, of which they wereindirectly the cause, affected the two young friends not at all. They didnot see these things, or saw them only dimly at a distance: they wereperfectly happy in each other, and almost invariably together both in andout of doors. The Eyethorne woods still attracted them almost daily; foralthough the trees were barren of leaves and desolate, the robin stillmade blithe music there, and the wren and thrush were sometimes heard, and even the mournful cawing of the rooks, and the weird melodies of thewind in the naked trees inspired their hearts with a mysterious gladness. And on days when the sun shone--the February days when winter "wears onits face a dream of spring"--they never tired of talking about how theywere going to spend their time out of doors during the coming vernal andsummer months. For that Fan would remain another year at Eyethorne wasnow looked upon as practically settled, since three-quarters of the firstyear had gone by and Miss Starbrow had said no word in her letters abouttaking her away. They were going to watch every opening leaf and everytender plant as it sprouted from the soil, and Fan was to learn thenames, vulgar and scientific, and the special beauty and fragrance, andall the secrets of "every herb that sips the dew. " And the birds werealso to be watched and listened to, and the peculiar melody of each kindnoted on its arrival from beyond the sea. 

One circumstance only interfered with Fan's happiness during the wintermonths. The letters she received from Mary, which came to her fromvarious continental addresses, were few and short, growing fewer andshorter as time went on, and contained no allusion to many things in thelong fortnightly epistles which, the girl imagined, required an answer. But one day, about the middle of March, when there had been no word forabout six weeks, and Fan had begun to feel a vague anxiety, a letter camefor her. It came while she was with Constance during study hours, andtaking 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, andwas well pleased to be left to read it by herself; and after reading andre-reading it, she continued sitting before the fire, the letter still inher hand and occupied with very pleasant thoughts. At length, glancing atthe clock, she was surprised to find that half an hour had gone by sinceFan 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, restingon her arms on the coverlid; but she did not move when the other enteredthe 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 towardsthe 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 sinceI returned to England, but there was nothing in them calling for animmediate 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 inLondon, or even in England at present, and have made up my mind to re-letthe house in Dawson Place--that is, if the present tenants should haveany 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 alsointends visiting Australia, China, and America. I am therefore quitealone now, and shall probably go over to France for a few months, perhapsto remain permanently abroad. 

But so far as you are concerned, it does not matter in the least whetherI go or stay, since I cannot take you back to live with me, or haveanything more to do with you. 

The clothes you have will, I dare say, last you some time longer, and Ihave 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 Isuppose 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--toprepare for your new life; and you can mention to Mrs. Churton that myagent will send her the money for the last quarter before your time atEyethorne expires. 

I suppose you do not require to be told the reason of the determination Ihave come to. You cannot have forgotten the fair warning I gave you whenwe parted, and you must know, Fan, if you know me at all, that when I saya 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 barbarouswoman!" 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, herkindling eyes and flushed cheeks showing that her grief and despondencehad all at once been swallowed up in some other feeling. 

"Give me the letter back, " she demanded, holding out her hand for it, andthen, when the other hesitated, astonished at her changed manner, snatched it from her hand, and began carefully smoothing and refoldingit, for Constance had crumpled it up in her indignation. 

"Fan, what has come over you? Are you going to quarrel with me becausethat 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 herbank-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, soutterly unexpected was this tempest of anger, and so strange in one whohad seemed incapable of any such violent feeling. 

"Very well, Fan, I shall leave you if you wish it, " she said at lengthwith some dignity, but in a pained voice. "I did not understand thisoutburst at first. I had almost lost sight of the fact that I am in asense to blame for your misfortune. I regret it very bitterly, but thatis no comfort to you, and it is only natural that you should begin tohate me now. "

"I do not hate you, Constance, " said Fan, recovering her usual tone, butstill speaking with a tremor in her voice. "Why do you say that?--it is acruel thing to say. Do you not know that it is false? I shall never blameyou for what has happened. You are not to blame. I have lost Mary, butshe is not what you say. You do not know her--what right have you to callher bad names? I would go away this moment and never see you again ratherthan 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 theprevious passionate outbreak. That the girl could be so just to her, sofree from the least trace of bitterness against her for having indirectlycaused that great unhappiness, and at the same time so keenly resent hersympathy, which she could not easily express without speaking indignantlyof Miss Starbrow--this seemed so strange, so almost incongruous andcontradictory, that if the case had not been so sad she would have burstinto a laugh. As it was she only burst into tears, and threw her armsround the girl's neck. 

"Darling Fan, " she said, "I understand you now--at last; and shall saynothing to wound your feelings again. But I hope--with all my heart Ihope that I shall one day meet this--meet Miss Starbrow, to have thesatisfaction of telling her--"

"Telling her what?" exclaimed Fan, the bright resentful red returning toher pale cheeks. 

"Of telling her what she has lost. That she never really knew you, andwhat an affection you had for her. "

There was no comfort in this to Fan. Her loss--the thought that she wouldnever see Mary again--surged back to her heart, and turning away, shewent back to her seat and covered her face again from the other's sight. 

CHAPTER XXV

After making her peace with Fan, there remained for Constance the heavytask of informing her mother. She found her engaged with her needle inthe dining-room. 

"Mother, " she began, "I have got something very unpleasant to tell you. Miss Starbrow has written to Fan, casting her off. She tells her toremain here until her year is up, and then to take care of herself, asshe, Miss Starbrow, will have nothing more to do with her. It is a cold, heartless letter; and what poor Fan is to do I don't know. "

Mrs. Churton made no reply for some time, but the news disturbed hergreatly. Much as she felt for Fan, she could not help thinking also ofher own sad case; for after the last quarter had come, with no word fromMiss Starbrow, she had taken it for granted that Fan was to stay anotheryear with her. And the money had been a great boon, enabling her to orderher house better, and even to pay off a few old accounts, and interest onthe mortgage which weighed so heavily on her little property. 

Constance, guessing what was passing in her mind, pitied her, but waitedwithout saying more for her to speak; and at length when she did speak itwas to put the question which Constance had been expecting with someapprehension. 

"What is Miss Starbrow's reason for casting Fan off?" she said. 

The other still considered a little before replying. 

"Mother, " she spoke at length, "will you read Miss Starbrow's letter foryourself? It is not very easy to see from it what she has to quarrel withFan about. Her reason is perhaps only an excuse, it seems so fantastical. You must judge for yourself. "

"I suppose you can tell me whether her quarrel with Fan--you say thatthere is a quarrel--is because the girl has been taught things shedisapproves. "

"No, nothing of the kind. She writes briefly, and, as I said, heartlessly. Not one word of affection for Fan or of regret at partingwith her, and no allusion to the subject of her studies with you or me. Not a word of thinks to us--"

"That I never expected, " said Mrs. Churton. "I could not look for such athing from a person of Miss Starbrow's description. A kind word ormessage from her would have surprised me very much. "

While she was speaking Fan had entered the room unnoticed. She was paleand looked sad, but calmer now, and the traces of tears had been washedaway. Her face flushed when she heard Mrs. Churton's words, and sheadvanced and stood so that they could not help seeing her. 

"Fan, I am deeply grieved to hear this, " said Mrs. Churton. "I cannottell you, my poor child, how much I feel this trouble that has come onyou so early in life. But before I can speak fully about it I must knowsomething more. I am in the dark yet--Constance has not told me why MissStarbrow has seen fit to act in such a way. Will you let me see herletter?" and with trembling fingers she began to wipe her glasses, whichhad grown dim. 

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Churton, but I cannot show you the letter. "

They both looked at her, Constance becoming more and more convinced thatthere was a strength in Fan's character which she had never suspected;while in Mrs. Churton anxiety and sorrow for a moment gave place to adifferent feeling. 

"You surprise me very much, Fan, " she returned. "I understand that youhave already shown the letter to Constance. "

"Yes, but I am sorry now. I did it without thinking, and I cannot show itagain. "

"Fan, what is the meaning of this? It is only right and natural that youshould confide in me about such a serious matter; and I cannot understandyour motives in refusing to let me see a letter the contents of which areknown to my daughter. "

"Mother, " said Constance, "I think I can guess her motives, which make itpainful for her to show the letter, and will explain what I think theyare. Fan, dear, will you leave us for a while, and let me tell mother whyMiss Starbrow will not take you back?"

"You can say what you like, Constance, because I can't prevent you, " saidFan, still speaking with that decision in her tone which seemed sostrange in her. "But I said I was sorry that I let you read Mary'sletter, and if you say anything about it, it will be against my wish. "

These words, although spoken in rebuke, were a relief to Constance, forhowever "fantastical" she might consider Miss Starbrow's motives to be, she very much doubted that her mother would take the same view; and sheknew that her mother, though entitled to know the whole matter, wouldnever ask her to reveal a secret of Fan's. 

But Mrs. Churton had not finished yet. "Fan, dear, come to me, " she said, and putting her arm about the girl's waist, drew her to her side. "Ithink I have cause to be offended with your treatment of me, but I shallnot be offended, because you are probably only doing what you think isright. But, dear child, you must allow me to judge for you in somethings, and I am convinced that you are making a great mistake. I havebeen a great deal to you during all these months that you have been withus, and since you received this letter I have become more to you. Youmust not imagine that in a little time, in another two months, we mustseparate; you are too young, too weak yet to go out into the world, toface its temptations and struggle for your own livelihood. I have been amother to you; look on me as a mother still, a natural protector, whosehome is your home also. It might very well be that Miss Starbrow'smotives for casting you off would be of no assistance to me in thefuture--I can hardly think that they could be; for I do not believe thatshe has any valid reason for treating you as she has done. Nor is it frommere curiosity that I ask you to show me her letter; but it is best thatyou should do so for various reasons, and chiefly because it will provethat you love me, and trust me, and are willing to be guided by me. "

The tears rose to Fan's eyes, her strange self-collected mood seemed tobe gone. "Dear Mrs. Churton, " she said, with trembling voice, "please--please don't think me ungrateful! . .. You have made me so happy . .. Oh, what can I do to show how much I love you . .. That I do trust you?"

The girl was conquered, so they thought, mother and daughter; andConstance, with a little internal sigh and a twinge of shame at hercowardice, waited to see the letter read and to save Fan the pain ofanswering the searching questions which her mother would be sure to ask. 

"Dear Fan, let me see the letter, " said Mrs. Churton. 

"Oh, dear Mrs. Churton, anything but that! I can't let you see it--I amso sorry! When Constance read it and began to speak angrily of Mary, Isaid to myself that no one should ever see it again. "

"Have you then destroyed it?"

"Oh, no, " she replied, involuntarily touching her bosom with her hand, "but I cannot show it. "

"Very well, Fan, let us say no more about it, " returned the other coldly, and withdrawing her arm from the girl's waist. And after a few moments ofpainful silence she rose and left the room. 

Fan looking up met her friend's eyes fixed on her face. "Do you thinkMrs. Churton is very angry with me, Constance?" she asked sadly. 

"I think that she is offended. And surprised too, I believe. " Then shecame nearer and took the girl's hand. "You have surprised me a greatdeal, I know. I am not yet quite sure that I understand your motives forrefusing to show the letter. Perhaps your only reason was that you wouldnot allow Miss Starbrow to be blamed at all--I am not questioning you. Inany case you make me feel ashamed of myself. You have made me feel such acoward, and--it was a poor spiteful thing to say that I would tear up thenotes and send them back to the giver. "

Fan made no reply, but stood with eyes cast down as if thinking ofsomething else; and before long she made some excuse to go to her room, where she spent the rest of the day shut up by herself. 

From that day a cloud rested on the ladies of Wood End House. Just whenNature called them to rejoice, when the sun laughed at the storm, and theblackbird fluted so loud in the orchard, and earth knew once more theglory of flowers, this great trouble had come on Fan, dimming the sweetvisible world with a mist of tears. The poverty and toil which she mustnow face meant so much to her; day and night, at all times, the thoughtof it forced itself on her--the perpetual toiling for a bare subsistence, for bread to satisfy the cravings of hunger; the mean narrow, sordid, weary life, day after day, with no hope, no dream of joy to come; andworse than all, the evil things which she had seen and heard and wereassociated in her mind with the thought of poverty, all the things whichmade her old life seem like a hideous nightmare to her! The sunshine andflowers and the fluting of the blackbird, that would soon flute no morefor her, could not drive this care from her heart; she was preoccupied, and silent, and sad, and Constance was sad from pure sympathy. Mrs. Churton, although still kind and even motherly in her manner, could nothelp showing that Fan's offence had not been forgotten; yet she loved thegirl so well that she could not but feel the deepest pity for her andanxiety about her future. And she even still hoped to win her confidence. 

"Fan, " she said one evening, when bidding her good-night, "you must notthink that what passed the other day between us makes any difference withregard to my plans about your future. What I said to you then still holdsgood, and my home while I have one is your home. "

Fan knew very well that she might not accept this offer; she knew thatthe Churtons were poor and burdened with debt; and that even if it hadnot been so, after taking up an independent position in opposition toMrs. Churton, she had no right to remain a day beyond the time for whichpayment had been made. All this in a faltering way she tried to explainto her kind friend, and Mrs. Churton confessed to herself that the girltook the right view. She made no further attempt to win her confidence orto make her change her mind; towards both Fan and her daughter shethereafter observed a somewhat cold and distant manner, grieving in herown heart, yearning over them in secret, but striving to hide it all fromtheir eyes. 

A fortnight after the receipt of Miss Starbrow's letter, one afternoonthe girls came in from their walk, and Constance, seeing her mother atwork in the dining-room, remained standing at the door until Fan wentupstairs. Then she went inside and sat down near her mother. Mrs. Churtonglanced at her with a swift startled glance, then bent her eyes on herwork again. But her heart fluttered in her breast, for she knew that shewas about to hear some new and perhaps painful thing. 

"Mother, " Constance began presently, "Fan has made up her mind to go backto London when her time is up with us. She is going to look for asituation. "

"A situation--what do you mean, Constance?"

"Her own idea is that she would like best to be a shop-girl in some largeLondon shop. "

"Then all I can say is that it is very shocking. Does the poor child knowwhat it means to be a shop-girl in a great city, where she has no home orfriends, where she will associate with ignorant and vulgar people, andworse perhaps, and be exposed to the most terrible temptations? But whatcan I say, Constance, that will have the slightest weight with either Fanor you?"

"I should like it very much better if Fan could do something different--if she could find some more ladylike occupation. But nothing will moveher. If she cannot get into a shop, she says that she must be a servant, because she must earn her own living, and she will not believe herselfcapable of anything higher. To be a shop-girl, or a nursery-governess, orfailing that a nursemaid, is as high as her ambition goes; and though Iam sorry that it must be so, I can't help admiring her independence andresolution. "

"I am glad that there is anything in it all to be admired; it only makesme sad, and just now I can say no more about it. I only hope that beforethe time comes she will think better of it. "

"I have something else to say to you, mother, " said Constance, after arather long interval of silence. "I have made up my mind to accompany Fanto London. "

"What do you mean, Constance?" the other asked, with a tremor in hervoice. 

"To live in London, I mean. It has long been my wish, and I am surely aswell able to earn my living now as I ever shall be. When Fan goes I shallnot be needed at home any longer. And we are not happy together, mother. "

"I know that, Constance; but you must put this idea of going to Londonout of your head. I cannot consent to it--I shall never consent to it. "

"Why not, mother?"

"Do not ask me. I cannot say--I scarcely know myself. I dare not think ofsuch a thing; it is too dreadful. You must not, you cannot go. Do notspeak of it again. "

The other's task was all the harder because she knew the reason of hermother's reluctance, and understood her feeling so well--the terriblegrief which only a mother can feel at the thought of an eternalseparation from her child. She rose to her feet, but instead of goingfrom the room remained standing, hesitating, twisting and untwisting herfingers together, and at length she moved to a chair close to her motherand sat down again. 

"I must tell you something else, mother, " she said. "I do not quitebelong to myself now, but to another; and if the man I have promised tomarry were to come for me to-morrow, or to send for me to go to him, Icould no longer remain with you. As it happens, we are not going to bemarried soon--not for a year at least, perhaps not for two. Before thattime comes I wish to know what it is to live by my own work. .. . He is aworker, working with his mind in London: I think it would be a goodpreparation for my future, that it would make me a better companion forhim, if I were also to work now and be independent. .. . If you can onlygive me a little money--enough to pay my expenses for a short time--a fewweeks in London, until I begin to make enough to keep myself!"

"And who is this person you speak of, Constance, of whose existence I nowhear for the first time?"

"I have been for some months in correspondence with him, but ourengagement is only recent, and that is why you have not heard of itbefore. He is a clerk in the Foreign Office, and from that you will knowthat he is a gentleman. He also employs his leisure time in literarywork. I can show you his photograph if you would like to see it, mother. "

"And have you, Constance, engaged yourself to a person you have not evenseen?"

"No, mother, I have of course seen him. "

"Where?"

"Here, in Eyethorne. Last August, when I was walking in the woods withFan, we met him, and he recognised Fan, whom he had met in London at MissStarbrow's house, and spoke to her. We had a long conversation on thatday, and I met him again and talked with him the next day, and after thatwe kept up the acquaintance by letter. "

"And you and Fan together met this man and never mentioned it to me! Letme ask you one question more, Constance. Is this person you are engagedto a Christian or an infidel?"

"Mother, it is not fair to put the question in that way. You call me aninfidel, but I am not an infidel--I do not call myself one. "

"Do not let us go into hair-splitting distinctions, Constance. I ask youagain this simple question--Is he a Christian?"

"Not in the way that you understand it. He is not a Christian. "

The other turned her face away, a little involuntary moan of painescaping her lips; and for the space of two or three minutes there wassilence between them, the daughter repenting that she had vainly givenher confidence, and the mother revolving all she had heard in her mind, her grief changing gradually into the old wrath and bitterness. And atlength she spoke. 

"I don't know why you have condescended to tell me of this engagement. Was it only to show me how utterly you put aside and despise a mother'sauthority--a mother's right to be consulted before taking so important astep? But that is the principle you have acted on all along--to ignoreand treat with silent contempt your mother's words and wishes. And youhave succeeded in making Fan as bad as yourself. I can see it all betternow. Your example, your teaching, has drawn her away from me, and I am aslittle to her now as to you. She would never have entered into thesesecret doings and plottings if you had not corrupted her. You have madeher what she is; take her and go where you like together, and ruinyourself in any way that pleases you best, for I have no longer anyinfluence over either of you. Only do not ask me to sanction what you do, or to give you any assistance. "

Constance rose and moved away, but before reaching the door she turnedand spoke. "Mother, I cannot pay any attention to such wild, unfoundedaccusations. If I must leave home without a shilling in my purse afterteaching Fan for a year, I can only say that you are treating me with thegreatest injustice, and that a stranger would have treated me better. "Then she left the room, and for several days after no word passed betweenmother and daughter. 

Nevertheless Mrs. Churton was keenly alive and deeply interested in allthat was passing around her. She noted that the hours of study were verymuch shortened now, and that the girls were continually together in thehouse, and from their bedroom sweepings and stray threads clinging totheir dresses, and the snipping sound of scissors, she judged that theywere busy with their preparations. Fan had gone back to her ancient buthappily not lost art of dressmaking, and was making Constance a dressfrom a piece of stuff which the latter had kept by her for some time. Mrs. Churton had continued hoping against hope, but the discovery thatthis garment was being made convinced her at last that her daughter'sresolution was not to be shaken, and that the dreaded separation was verynear. 

At length one morning, just after receiving a letter from London, andwhen only one week of Fan's time at Wood End House remained, she spoke toher daughter, calling her into her own room. 

"Constance, " she said, speaking in a constrained tone and with studiedwords, "I fully deserved your reproach the other day. I should not havelet you go from home without a shilling in your purse. I spoke hastily, in anger, that day, and I hope you will forgive me. Miss Starbrow's agenthas just sent the eighteen pounds for the last quarter; I cannot do lessthan hand it over to you, and only wish that I had it in my power to giveyou more. "

"Thank you, mother; but I would much rather that you kept part of it. Ido not require as much as that. "

"You will find it little enough--in London among strangers. We need notspeak any more about it, and you owe me no thanks. It is only right thatyou should have one quarter's money of the four I have received. " Afteran interval of silence, and when her daughter was about to leave theroom, she continued, "Before you go, Constance, let me ask a favour ofyou. If you are going away soon this will be our last conversation. "

"Our last! What favour, mother?"

"When you go, do so without coming to say goodbye to me. I do not feelvery strong, and--would prefer it if you went away quietly without anyleave-takings. "

"If that is your wish, mother, " she returned, and then remained standing, her face full of distress. Then she moved a little nearer and said, "Mother, if there is to be no good-bye, will you let me kiss you?"

Mrs. Churton's lips moved but made no sound. Constance after a moment'shesitation came nearer still, and bending forward kissed her cheek, notin a perfunctory way, but with a lingering, loving kiss; and after thekiss she still lingered close, so that the breath from her lips came warmand fragrant on the other's cold pale cheek. But her mother spoke noword, and remained cold and motionless as a statue, until with a slightsigh and lingering step the other left the room. Scarcely had she gonebefore the unhappy mother dropped on to a chair, and covering her facewith her hands began to shed tears. Why, why, she asked herself again andagain, had she not returned that loving kiss, and clasped her lostdaughter once more to her heart? Too late! too late! She had restrainedher heart and made herself cold as stone, and now that last caress, thatsweet consolation was lost for ever! Ah, if her cold cheek might keep forall the remaining days of her life the sensation of those warm caressinglips, of that warm sweet breath! But her bitter tears of regret were invain; that dread eternal parting was now practically over, and out of theinfinite depths of her love no last tender word had risen to her lips!

CHAPTER XXVI

In London once more! It was Fan's birth-place, the home she had knowncontinuously up till one short year ago; yet now on her return howstrange, how foreign to her soul, how even repelling it seemed! Thechange had come so unexpectedly and in such unhappy circumstances, andthe contrast was so great to that peaceful country life and all itssurroundings, which had corresponded so perfectly with her nature. ToConstance, who knew little of London except from reading, the contrastseemed equally great, but it affected her in a different and muchpleasanter way. To Fan town and town-life could be repelling because, owing to her past experiences, and to something in her mental character, she was able vividly to realise her present position. Even when thebrilliant May sun shone on her, and the streets and parks were throngedwith fashionable pleasure-seekers, and London looked not unbeautiful, sherealised it. For all that made town-life pleasant and desirable was nowbeyond her reach. It was sweet when Mary loved her and gave her a home;but in all this vast world of London there was no second Mary who wouldfind her and take her to her heart. Now she might sink into a state ofutter destitution, and she would be powerless to win help or sympathy, oreven a hearing, from any one of the countless thousands of fellow-creatures that would pass her in the streets, all engrossed with theirown affairs, so accustomed to the sight of want and suffering that itaffected them not at all. To find some work which she might be able todo, and for which the payment would be sufficient to provide her withfood, clothing, and shelter, was the most she could hope. She could dreamof no wonderful second deliverance in the long years of humble patientdrudgery that awaited her--no impossible good fortune passing over theheads of thousands as deserving as herself to light on hers and give anew joy and glory to her life. 

To Constance, with her more vigorous intellect and ardent imagination, nosuch dreary prospect could present itself. The thunderous noise andshifting panorama of the streets, the interminable desert of brickhouses, and even the smoke-laden atmosphere only served to exhilarate hermind. These things continually reminded her that she was now where shehad long wished to be, in the great intellectual laboratory, wherethousands of men and women once as unknown and poor as herself had made areputation. Not without great labour and pains certainly; but what othershad done she could do; and with health and energy, and a bundle ofcarefully-prepared manuscripts in her box to begin with, she could feelno serious anxiety about the future. 

During their second day in town they managed after much searching to findcheap furnished apartments--a bed and small sitting-room--on the secondfloor of a house in a monotonous street of yellow brick houses in themonotonous yellow brick wilderness of West Kensington. Their search forrooms would not have occupied them very long if Constance had been aseasily satisfied as her companion; but although in most of the placesthey visited she found the bedrooms "good enough, " wretched as they werecompared with her own fragrant and spotless bower at Wood End House, shewas not so readily pleased with the sitting-room. That, at all events, must not wear so mean and dingy a look as one usually has to put up withwhen the rent is only ten shillings a week; and beyond that sum they weredetermined not to go. The reason of this fastidiousness about a sitting-room presently appeared. Fan was told the secret of the engagement withMerton Chance; also that Merton was now for the first time about to beinformed of the step Constance had taken without first consulting him, and asked to visit her at her lodgings. Constance felt just a little hurtat the way her news was received, for Fan said little and seemedunsympathetic, almost as if her friend's happiness had been a matter ofindifference to her. 

Next day, after moving into their new quarters, Constance wrote herletter, addressing it to the Foreign Office, posting it herself in thenearest pillar-box, and then settled herself down to wait the result. Itwas weary waiting, she found, when the next morning's post brought her noanswer, and when the whole day passed and no Merton came, and no message. She was restless and anxious, and in a feverish state of anxiety, fearingshe knew not what; but outwardly she bore herself calmly; and rememberingwith some resentment still how little her engagement had seemed torejoice her friend, she proudly held her peace. But she would not leavethe house, for the lover might come at any moment, and it would not do tobe out of the way when he arrived. She remained indoors, pretending to bemuch occupied with her writing, while Fan went out for long walks alone. The next day passed in like manner, the two friends less in harmony andless together than ever; and when still another morning came and broughtno letter, Fan began to feel extremely unhappy in her mind, for now thelong-continued strain was beginning to tell on her friend, robbing hercheeks of their rich colour, and filling her hazel eyes with a greatunexpressed trouble. But on that day about three o'clock, while Constancesat at her window, which commanded a view of the street, she saw ahansom-cab arrive at the door, and the welcome form of her lover springrapidly out and run up the steps. He had come to her at last! But why hadhe left her so long to suffer? She heard his steps bounding up thestairs, and stood trembling with excitement, her hand pressed to herwildly-beating heart. One glance at his face was enough to show her thather fears had been idle, that her lover's heart had not changed towardsher; the next moment she was in his arms, feeling for the first time hiskisses on her lips. After the excitement of meeting was over, explanations followed, and Merton informed her that he had only justreceived her letter, and greatly blamed himself for not having sent herhis new address immediately after having left the Foreign Office. 

"Left the Foreign Office! Do you mean for good?" asked Constance in akind of dismay. 

"I hope for good, " he replied, smiling at her serious face. "Theuncongenial work I had to do there has chafed me for a long time. Itinterfered with the real and serious business of my life, and I threw itup with a light heart. I must be absolutely free and master of my owntime before I can do, and do well, the work for which I am fitted. "

"But, dear Merton, you told me that your work was so light there, andthat the salary you had relieved you from all anxiety, and left you freeto follow the bent of your own mind in literary work. "

"Did I? That was one of my foolish speeches then. However light any workmay be, if it occupies you during the best hours of the day, it must tosome extent take the freshness out of you. And to look at the matter in apractical way, I consider that I am a great gainer, since by resigning asalary of £250 a year I put myself in a position to make five hundred. Ihope before very long to make a thousand. "

His news had given a considerable shock to Constance, but he seemed soconfident of success, laughing gaily at her doubts, that in a littlewhile he succeeded in raising her spirits, and she began to believe thatthis exceedingly clever young man had really done a wise thing inthrowing up an appointment which would have secured him against actualwant for the whole term of his life. 

After a while she ventured to speak of her own plans and hopes. Helistened with a slight smile. 

"I have not the slightest doubt that you could make your living in thatway, " he said; "for how many do it who are not nearly so gifted as youare! But, Connie, if I understand you rightly, you wish to begin makingmoney at once, and that is scarcely possible, as you have not beendoggedly working away for years to make yourself known and useful toeditors and publishers. "

He then went very fully into this question, and concluded with a comicaldescription of the magazine editor as a very unhappy spider, againstwhose huge geometric web there beats a continuous rain of dipterousinsects of every known variety, besides innumerable nondescripts. Thepoor spider, unable to eat and digest more than about half a dozen to adozen flies every month, was forced to spend his whole time cutting anddropping his useless captures from the web. As a rule Merton did not talkin this strain: the editors had cut away too many of his own nondescriptdipterous contributions to their webs for him to love them; but for somemysterious reason it suited him just now to take the side of the enemy inthe old quarrel of author _versus_ editor. 

"Do you think then that I have made a mistake in coming to London?" sheasked despondingly. 

He smiled and drew her closer to him. "Connie, dear, I am exceedinglyglad you did come, for there is no going back, you say; and now that youare here there is only one thing to do to smooth the path for us, andthat is--to consent to marry me at once. "

This did not accord with her wishes at all. To consent would be toconfess herself beaten, and that dream of coming to London and keepingherself, for a time at all events, by means of her own work, had been solong and so fondly cherished, and she wished so much to be allowed tomake the trial. But he pleaded so eloquently that in the end he overcameher reluctance. 

"I will promise to do what you wish, " she said, "if after you havethought it over for a few days you should still continue in the samemind. But, Merton, I hope you will not think me too careful and anxiousif I ask you whether it does not seem imprudent, when you have just givenup your salary and are only beginning to work at something different, tomarry a penniless girl? You have told me that you have no money, and thatyou cannot look to your relations for any assistance. "

"By no money I simply meant no fortune. Of course we could not getmarried without funds, and just now I have a couple of hundreds standingto my credit in the bank. If we are careful, and content to begin marriedlife in apartments, we need not spend any more than I am spending now bymyself. "

He omitted to say that this money was all that was left of a legacy of£500 which had come to him from an aunt, and that he had been spending itpretty freely. His words only gave the impression that he knew the valueof money, and was not one to act without careful consideration. 

They were still discussing this point when Fan came in, and after shakinghands with their visitor sat down in her hat and jacket. Merton, afterexpressing his regret that she had lost her protectress, proceeded tomake some remarks about Miss Starbrow's eccentric temper. Nothing whichthat lady did, he said, surprised him in the least. Fan sat with eyescast down; she looked pale and fatigued, and her face clouded at hiswords; then murmuring some excuse, she rose and went to her bedroom. 

"I must warn you, Merton, " said Constance, "that Fan can't endure to hearanything said in dispraise of Miss Starbrow. I have discovered that it isthe one subject about which she is capable of losing her temper andquarrelling with her best friend. "

"Is that so?" he returned, laughingly. "Then she must be as eccentric asMiss Starbrow herself. But what does the poor girl intend doing--she mustdo something to live, I suppose?"

Constance told him all about Fan's projects. "Why do you smile?" shesaid. "You do not approve, I suppose?"

"You are mistaken, Connie. I neither approve nor disapprove. She does notask us to shape her future life for her, and we owe her thanks for that. "

"Yes, but still you are a little shocked that she has not set her mind onsomething a little higher. "

"Not at all. On the contrary. It is really disgusting to find how manythere are who take 'Excelsior' for their motto. In a vast majority ofcases they get killed by falling over a precipice, or smothered in thesnow, or crawl back to the lower levels to go through life as frost-bitten, crippled, pitiful objects. You can see scores of these would-beclimbers any day in the streets of London, and know them by their faces. If you are not a real Whymper it is better not to be in the crowd offoolish beings who imagine themselves Whympers, but to rest content, likeFan, in the valley below. I am very glad not to be asked for advice, butif you ask my opinion I can say, judging from what I have seen of Fan, that I believe she has made a wise choice. Her capabilities andappearance would make her a very nice shop-girl. "

"Oh, you have too poor an opinion of her!" exclaimed Constance. Nevertheless she could not help thinking that he was perhaps right. Itwas very pleasant to listen to him, this eloquent lover of hers, to seehow

 With a Réaumur's skill his curious mind Classed the insect tribes of human kind. 

It was impossible to doubt that _he_, at any rate, would know verywell where to set his foot on those perilous heights to which he aspired. 

Later in the evening the lovers went out for a walk, from which Constancecame home looking very bright and happy. The girls slept together, andafter going to bed that night there was a curious little scene betweenthem, in which Fan's part was a very passive one. "Darling, we havetalked so little since we have been here, " said Constance, putting herarm round her friend, "and now I have got so many things to say to you. "And as Fan seemed anxious to hear her story, she began to talk firstabout Merton's wish for an early marriage, but before long she discoveredthat her companion had fallen asleep. Then she withdrew her arm andturned away disgusted, all the story of her happiness untold. "I verilybelieve, " she said to herself, "that I have credited Fan with a greatdeal more sensibility than she possesses. To drop asleep like a plough-boy the moment I begin to talk to her--how little she cares about myaffairs! I think Merton must be right in what he said about her. She isvery keen and wideawake about her shop, and seems to think and care fornothing else. " Much more she thought in her vexation, and then glancedback at the face at her side, so white and pure and still, framed in itsunbound golden hair, so peaceful and yet with a shade of sadness minglingwith its peacefulness; and having looked, she could not withdraw hereyes. "How beautiful she looks, " said Constance, relenting a little. Andthen, "Poor child, she must have overtired herself to-day. .. . And perhapsit is not strange that she has shown herself so cold about my engagement. She thinks that Merton is taking me away from her. She is grievingsecretly at the thought of losing me, as she lost her bitter, cruel-hearted Mary. Oh, dearest, I am not so fantastical as that woman, and youshall never lose me. Married or single, rich or poor, and wherever youmay be, in or out of a shop, my soul shall cleave to you as it did atEyethorne, and I shall love you as I love no other woman--always, always. " And bending she lightly kissed the still white face; but Fanslept soundly and the light kiss disturbed her not. 

CHAPTER XXVII

The next few days were devoted to sightseeing under Merton's guidance, and a better-informed cicerone they could not well have had. The littlecloud between the girls had quite passed away; and Fan, who was notalways abnormally drowsy after dark, listened to her friend's story andentered into all her plans. Then a visit to the National Gallery wasarranged for a day when Merton would only have a few hours of theafternoon to spare: he was now devoting his energies to the business ofclimbing. At three o'clock they were to meet at Piccadilly Circus, butthe girls were early on the scene, as they wished to have an hour firstin Regent Street. To unaccustomed country eyes the art treasuresdisplayed in the shop-windows there are as much to be admired as thecanvases in Trafalgar Square. They passed a large drapery establishmentwith swinging doors standing open, and the sight of the rich interiorseemed to have a fascinating effect on Fan. She lingered behind hercompanion, gazing wistfully in--a poor, empty-handed peri at the gates ofParadise. Long room succeeded long room, until they appeared to melt awayin the dim distance; the floors were covered with a soft carpet of a dullgreen tint, and here and there were polished red counters, and on everyside were displayed dresses and mantles artistically arranged, andtextures of all kinds and in all soft beautiful colours. Within a fewladies were visible, moving about, or seated; but it was the hour ofluncheon, when little shopping was done, and the young ladies of theestablishment, the assistants, seemed to have little to occupy them. Theywere very fine-looking girls, all dressed alike in black, but theirdresses were better in cut and material than shop-girls usually wear, even in the most fashionable establishments. At length Fan withdrew herlonging eyes, and turned away, remarking with a sigh, "Oh, how I shouldlike to be in such a place!"

"Should you?" said Constance. "Well, let's go in and ask if there is avacancy. You must make a beginning, you know. "

"But, Constance, we can't do that! I don't know how to begin, but I'msure you can't get a place by going into a grand shop and asking in thatway. "

"Possibly not; but there's no harm in asking. Come, and I'll bespokesman, and take all the dreadful consequences on my own head. Come, Fan. "

And in she walked, boldly enough, and after a moment's hesitation theother followed. When they had proceeded a dozen or twenty steps a youngman, a shop-walker, came treading softly to them, and with profoundestrespect in his manner, and in a voice trained to speak so low that at adistance of about twenty-five inches it would have been inaudible, beggedto know to which department he could have the pleasure of directing them. He was a very good-looking, or perhaps it would be more correct to say avery _beautiful_ young man, with raven-black hair, glossy andcurled, and parted down the middle of his shapely head, and a beautifulsmall moustache to match. His eyes were also dark and fine, and all hisfeatures regular. His figure was as perfect as his face; many a wealthyman, made ugly by that mocker Nature, would have gladly given half hisinheritance in exchange for such a physique; and his coat of finest clothfitted him to perfection, and had evidently been built by some tailor ascelebrated for his coats as Morris for his wall-papers, and Leighton forhis pictures of ethereal women. 

Constance, a little surprised at being obsequiously addressed by soexquisite a person, stated the object of their visit. He lookedsurprised, and, losing his obsequiousness, replied that he was not awarethat an assistant had been advertised for. She explained that they hadseen no advertisement, but had merely come in to inquire, as her friendwished to get a situation in a shop. He smiled at her innocence--he evensmiled superciliously--and, with no deference left in his manner, toldthem shortly that they had made a great mistake, and was about to showthem out, when, wonderful to relate, all at once a great change came overhis beautiful countenance, and he stood rooted to the spot, cringing, confused, crimson to the roots of his raven ringlets. His sudden collapsehad been caused by the sight of a pair of cold, keen grey eyes, with anexpression almost ferocious in them, fixed on his face. They belonged toan elderly man with a short grizzly beard and podgy nose; a short, square, ugly man, who had drawn near unperceived with cat-like steps, andwas attentively listening to the shop-walker's words, and marking hismanner. He was the manager. 

"I am sorry I made a mistake, " said Constance a little stiffly, andturned to go. 

The young man made no reply. The manager, still keeping his basilisk eyeson him, nodded sharply, as if to say, "Go and have your head taken off. "Then he turned to the girls. 

"One moment, young ladies, " he said. "Kindly step this way, and let meknow just what you want. "

They followed him into a small private office, where he placed chairs forthem, and then allowed Constance to repeat what he had already heard, andto add a few particulars about Fan's history. He appeared to be payingbut little attention to what she said; while she spoke he was keenlystudying their faces--first hers, then Fan's. 

"There is no vacancy at present, " he replied at length. "Besides, whenthere is one, which is not often, we usually have the names of severalapplicants who are only waiting to be engaged by us. We have alwaysplenty to choose from, and of course select the one that offers thegreatest advantages--experience, for instance; and you say that yourfriend has no experience. The fact is, " he continued, expanding stillmore, "our house is so well known that scores of young ladies would beglad at any moment to throw up the places they have in otherestablishments to be taken on here. "

Constance rose from her seat. 

"It was hardly necessary, " she said, with some dignity, "to bring usinto your private office to tell us all this, since we already knew thatwe had made a mistake in coming. "

"Wait a minute, " he returned, with a grim smile. "Please sit down again. I understand that it is for your friend and not for yourself. Well, Ifind it hard to say--" and here with keenly critical eyes he looked firstat her, then at Fan, making little nods and motions with his head, andmoving his lips as if very earnestly talking to himself. "All I can sayis this, " he continued, "if this young lady is willing to come for amonth without pay to learn the business, and afterwards, should she suitus, to remain at a salary of eighteen shillings a week and her board forthe first six months, why, then I might be willing to engage her. You cangive a reference, I suppose?"

Both girls were fairly astonished at the sudden turn the affair hadtaken, and could scarcely credit their own senses, so illogically didthis keen grim man seem to act. They did not know his motive. 

Not to make a secret of a very simple matter, he thought a great dealmore than most men in his way of life about personal appearance. He madeit an object to have only assistants with fine figures and pretty faces, with the added advantage of a pleasing manner. When he discovered thatthese two young ladies with graceful figures and refined, beautifulfaces had not come into the shop to purchase anything, but in quest of anengagement for one of them, he instantly resolved not to let slip so goodan opportunity of adding to his collection of fair women. It was not thathe had any soft spot in his heart with regard to pretty women: so long ashis assistants did their duty, he treated them all with the strictestimpartiality, blonde or brunette, grave or gay, and was somewhat stern inhis manner towards them, and had an eagle's eye to detect their faults, which were never allowed to go unpunished. He worshipped nothing but hisshop, and he had pretty girls in it for the same reason that he hadAdonises for shop-walkers, artistically-dressed windows, and anaristocratic-looking old commissionaire at the door--namely, to make itmore attractive. 

It is true that some great dames, with thin lips, oblique noses, greencomplexions, and clay-coloured eyes, hate to be served by a damselwearing that effulgent unbought crown of beauty which makes all othercrowns seem such pitiful tinsel gewgaws to the sick soul. That was onedisadvantage, but it was greatly overweighed by a general preference forbeauty over ugliness. The flower-girl with beautiful eyes stands a betterchance than her squinting sister of selling a penny bunch of violets tothe next passer-by. If a girl ceased to look ornamental, howeverintelligent or trustworthy she might be, he got rid of her at oncewithout scruple. His seeming hesitation when he spoke to the girls beforemaking his offer was due simply to the fact that he was mentally occupiedin comparing them together. Both so perfect in figure, face, manner--which would he have taken if he had had the choice given him?

For some moments he half regretted that it was not the more developed, richer-coloured girl with the bronzed tresses who had aspired to join hisstaff. Then he shook his head: that exquisite brown tint would not lastfor ever in the shade, and the bearing was also just a shade too proud. He considered the other, with the slimmer figure, the far more delicateskin, the more eloquent eyes, and he concluded that he had got the bestof the pair. 

"I should so like to come, " said Fan, for they were both waiting for herto speak, "but am afraid that I can give no reference. "

"Oh, Fan, surely you can!" said the other. 

"I have no friend but you, Constance; I could not write to Mary now. "

The other considered a little. 

"Oh, yes; there is Mr. Northcott, " she said, then turning to the managerasked, "Will the name of a clergyman in the country place where MissAffleck has spent the last year be sufficient?"

"Yes, that will do very well, " he said, giving her pencil and paper towrite the name and address. Then he asked a few questions about Fan'sattainments, and seemed pleased to hear that she had learnt dressmakingand embroidery. "So much the better, " he said. "You can come to-morrow toreceive instructions about your dress, and to hear when your attendancewill begin. The hours are from half-past eight to half-past six. Saturdays we close at two. You have breakfast when you come in, dinner attwelve or one, tea at four. You must find your own lodgings, and it willbe better not to get them too far away. "

"May I ask you not to write about Miss Affleck until to-morrow?"Constance said. "I must write to-day first to Mr. Northcott to informhim. He will be a little surprised, I suppose, that Miss Affleck is goinginto a shop, but he will tell you all about her disposition, and"--with apause and a hot blush--"her respectability. "

He smiled again grimly. 

"I have no doubt that Miss Affleck is a lady by birth, " he said. "But donot run away with the idea that she is doing anything peculiar. There areseveral daughters of gentlemen in our house, as she will probablydiscover when she comes to associate with them. "

"I am glad, " said Constance, rising to go. 

He was turning the paper with the address on in his hand. "You need nottrouble to write to this gentleman, " he said. "I shall not write to him. If you are fairly intelligent, Miss Affleck, and anxious to do your best, you will do very well, I dare say. References are of little use to me; Iprefer to use my own judgment. But you must understand clearly that forevery dereliction there is a fine, which is deducted from the salary. Aprinted copy of the rules will be given you. And you may be discharged ata moment's notice at any time. "

"Only for some grave fault, I suppose?" said Constance. 

"Not necessarily, " he returned. 

"That seems hard. "

"I do not trouble myself about that. The business is of more consequencethan any individual in it, " he replied; and then walked to the door withthem and bowed them out with some ceremony. 

For the rest of the day Fan was in a state of bewilderment at her owngreat good fortune; for this engagement meant so much to her. Thathorrible phantom, the fear of abject poverty, would follow her no more. With £20 in hand and all Mary's presents, and eighteen shillings a weekin prospect, she considered herself rich; and with her evenings, herSundays and holidays to spend how she liked, and Constance always near, how happy she would be! But why, when crowds of experienced girls werewaiting and anxiously wishing to get into this establishment, had she, utterly ignorant of business, been taken in this sudden off-hand way? Itwas a mystery to her, and a mystery also to the clever Constance, and tothe still more clever Merton when he was told about it. Unknowingly shehad submitted herself to a competitive examination in which uselessknowledge was not considered, and in which those who possessed prettyfaces and fine figures scored the most marks. After this she was scarcelyin the right frame to appreciate the works of art they went on to see. That long interior in Regent Street, with its costly goods and prettyelegantly-dressed girls, and perfumed glossy shop-walker, and uglybristling fierce-eyed manager, continually floated before her mentalvision, even when she looked on the most celebrated canvases--even onthose painted by Turner. 

These same celebrated pieces startled Constance somewhat, although shehad come prepared by a childlike faith in Ruskin's infallibility toworship them. She was, however, too frank to attempt to conceal her realimpressions, and then Merton consolingly informed her that no personcould appreciate a Turner before seeing it many times. One's firstimpression is, that over this canvas the artist has dashed a bucket ofsoap-suds, and over that a pot of red and yellow ochre. Well, after all, what was a snowstorm but a bucket of soap-suds on a big scale! Call itsuds, a mad smudge, anything you like, but it was a miracle of art allthe same if it produced the effect aimed at, and gave one some idea ofthat darkness and whiteness, and rush and mad mingling of elements, andsublime confusion of nature. 

"But my trouble is, " objected Constance, "that, the effect does_not_ seem right--that it is not really like nature. "

"No, certainly not. Nature is nature, and you cannot create anothernature in imitation of it, any more than you can comprehend infinity. This is only art, the highest thing, in this particular direction, whichthe poor little creature man has been able to attain. You have doubtlessheard the story of the old lady who said to the painter of these scenes, 'Oh, Mr. Turner, I never saw such lights and colours in nature as youpaint!' 'No, don't you wish you could?' replied the artist. Now the oldlady was perfectly right. You cannot put white quivering tropical heat ona canvas, but Turner dashes unnatural vermilion over his scene and thepicture is not ridiculous; the effect of noonday heat is somehowproduced. Look at those sunsets! In one sense they are failures, everyone of them; but what a splendid audacity the man had, and what a genius, to attempt to portray nature in those special moments when it shines witha glory that seems unearthly, and not to have failed more signally!Failures they are, but nobler works than other men's successes. You areperfectly right, Connie, but when you look at a great picture do notforget to remember that art is long and life short. That is what the oldlady didn't know, and what Turner should have told her instead of makingthat contemptuous speech. "

Constance was comforted, and continued to listen delightedly as he ledthem from room to room, pointing out the most famous pictures andexpatiating on their beauties. 

From the Gallery they went to Marshall's in the Strand and drank tea;then Merton put them in an Underground train at Charing Cross and saidgoodbye, being prevented by an engagement from seeing them home. He hadput them into a compartment of a first-class carriage which was empty, but after the train had started the door was opened, and in jumped twoyoung gentlemen, almost tumbling against the girls in their hurry. 

"Just saved it!" exclaimed one, throwing himself with a laugh into theseat. 

"It was a close shave, " said the other. "Did you see that young fellowstanding near the edge of the platform? I caught him on the side and senthim spinning like a top. "

"Why, that was Chance--didn't you know him? I was in too much of a hurryeven to give the poor devil a nod. "

"Good gracious, was that Chance--that madman that threw up his clerkshipat the F. O. !"

"No, he didn't, " his friend replied. "That's what _he_ says, but thetruth is he got mixed up in a disreputable affair and had to resign. Nodoubt he has been going to the 'demnition bow-bows, ' as Mr. Mantalinisays, but he wasn't so mad as to throw away his bread just to have thepleasure of starving. He hasn't a ha'penny. "

"Well, _I_ don't care, " said the other with a laugh, and then wenton to talk of other things. 

During this colloquy Fan had glanced frequently at her companion, butConstance, who had grown deathly pale, kept her face averted and her eyesfixed on the window, as if some wide prospect, and not the raylessdarkness of the tunnel, had been before them. From their station theywalked rapidly and in silence home, and when inside, Constance spoke forthe first time, and in a tone of studied indifference. 

"So much going about has given me a headache, Fan, " she said. "I shalllie down in my room and have a little sleep, and don't call me, please, when you have supper. I am sorry to leave you alone all the evening, butyou will have something pleasant to think about as you have been sosuccessful to-day. "

She was about to move away, when Fan came to her side and caught herhand. 

"Don't go just yet, dear Constance, " she said. "Why do you try to--shutme out of your heart? Oh, if you knew how much--how very much I feel foryou!"

"What about?" said the other a little sharply, and drawing herself back. 

"What about! We are both thinking of the same thing. "

"Yes, very likely, but what of that? Is it such a great thing that youneed to distress yourself so much about it?"

"How can I help being distressed at such a thing; it has changedeverything, and will make you so unhappy. You know that you can't marryMr. Chance now after he has deceived you in that way. "

"Can't marry Mr. Chance!" exclaimed Constance, putting her friend fromher. "Do you imagine that the wretched malicious gossip of those two menin the train will have the slightest effect on me! What a mistake you aremaking!"

"But you know it is true, " returned Fan with strange simplicity; and thisimprudent speech quickly brought on her a tempest of anger. When theheart is burdened with a great anguish which cannot be expressed there isnothing like a burst of passion to relieve it. Tear-shedding is a weakineffectual remedy compared with this burning counter-irritant of themind. 

"I do not know that it is true!" she exclaimed. "What right have you tosay such a thing, as if you knew Merton so well, and had weighed him inan infallible balance and found him wanting! I have heard nothing butmalicious tittle-tattle, a falsehood beneath contempt, set afloat by someenemy of Merton's. If I could have thought it true for one moment Ishould never cease to despise myself. Have you forgotten how you blazedout against me for speaking my mind about Miss Starbrow when she cast youoff? Yet you did not know her as I know Merton, and how paltry a thing isthe feeling you have for her compared with that which I have for myfuture husband! What does it matter to me what they said?--I know himbetter. But you have been prejudiced against him from the beginning, forno other reason but because I loved him. Nothing but selfishness was atthe bottom of that feeling. You imagined that marriage would put an endto our friendship, and thought nothing about my happiness, but only ofyour own. "

"Do you believe that of me, Constance?" said Fan, greatly distressed. "Ah, I remember when we had that trouble about Mary's letter atEyethorne, you said that you had not known me until that day. You do notknow me now if you think that your happiness is nothing to me--if youthink that it is less to me than my own. "

Her words, her look, the tone of her voice touched Constance to theheart. 

"Oh, Fan, why then do you provoke me to say harsh things?" and then, turning aside, burst into a passion of weeping and sobs which shook herwhole frame. But when the sobs were exhausted she recovered her serenity:those violent remedies--anger and tears--had not failed of theirbeneficent effect on her mind. 

On the following day she seemed even cheerful, as if the whole painfulmatter had been forgotten. Merton, at all events, seemed to detect nochange in her when he came to take her to the park in the afternoon. Onlyto Fan there appeared a shadow in the clear hazel eyes, and a note oftrouble in the voice which had not been there before. 

In a short time after this incident Fan was taken into the great RegentStreet establishment, and had her mind very fully occupied with her newduties. One afternoon at the end of her first week the manager came upand spoke to her. 

"Are you living with friends?" he said. 

"I am living with Miss Churton--the lady who came here with me, " shereplied. "But she is going to be married soon, and I must find anotherplace nearer Regent Street. "

"Ah, this then will perhaps be a help to you, " and he handed her a card. "That is the address of a woman who keeps a very quiet respectablelodging-house. We have known her for years, and if she has a vacancy youcould not do better than go to her. "

She thanked him, and took the card gladly. That little act ofthoughtfulness made her feel very happy, and believe that he had a kindheart in spite of his stern despotic manner. To continue in that belief, however, required faith on her part, which is the evidence of things notseen, for he did not go out of his way again to show her any kindness. 

Next day being Sunday, the girls were able to go together to see thelodging-house, which was in Charlotte Street in Marylebone, and found thelandlady, Mrs. Grierson, a very fat and good-tempered woman. She tookthem to the top floor to show the only vacant room she had; it was fairlylarge for a top room, and plainly and decently furnished, and the rentasked was six-and-sixpence a week. But the good woman was so favourablyimpressed with Fan's appearance, and so touched at the flatteringrecommendation given by the manager, that at once, and before they hadsaid a word, she reduced the price to five shillings, and then said thatshe would be glad to let it to the young lady for four-and-sixpence aweek. The room was taken there and then, and a few days later the friendsseparated, one to settle down in her lonely lodging, the other to bequietly married at a registry office, without relation or friend towitness the ceremony; after which the newly-married couple went away tospend their honeymoon at a distance from London. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

For several months after that hasty and somewhat inauspicious marriage--"unsanctified, " Mrs. Churton would have said--it seemed as if the courseof events had effectually parted the two girls, and that their closefriendship was destined to be less a reality than a memory, so seldomwere they able to meet. From their honeymoon the Chances came back toLondon only to settle down at Putney for the remainder of the warmseason; and this was far from Marylebone, and Fan was only able to gothere occasionally on a Sunday. But in September they moved to Chelsea, and for a few weeks the friends met more often, and Constance frequentlycalled at the Regent Street shop to see and speak with Fan for two orthree minutes. This, however, did not last. Suddenly the Chances movedagain, this time to a country town over fifty miles from London. Mertonhad made the discovery that journalism and not literature was his propervocation, and had been taken on the staff of a country weekly newspaper, of which he hoped one day to be editor. The girls were now further apartthan ever, and for months there was no meeting. But during all this timethey corresponded, scarcely a week passing without an exchange ofletters, and this correspondence was at this period the greatest pleasurein Fan's life. For Constance, next to Mary, who was lost to her, was thebeing she loved most on earth; nor did she feel love only. She was filledwith gratitude because her friend, although married to such a soul-filling person as Merton Chance, was not forgetful of her humbleexistence, but constantly thought of her and sent her long delightfulletters, and was always wishing and hoping to be near her again. And yet, strange contradiction! in her heart of hearts she greatly pitied herfriend. Sometimes Constance would write glowing accounts of her husband'striumphs--an article accepted perhaps, a flattering letter from amagazine editor, a favourable notice in a newspaper, or some new schemewhich would bring them fame and fortune. But if she had written to saythat Merton actually had become famous, that all England was ringing withhis praise, that publishers and editors were running after him with blankcheques in their hands, imploring him to give them a book, an article, she would still have pitied her friend. For that was Fan's nature. When athing once entered into her mind there was no getting it out again. Maryto others might be a fantastical woman, heartless, a fiend incarnate ifthey liked, but the simple faith in her goodness, the old idolatrousaffection still ruled in her heart. The thoughts and feelings which hadswayed her in childhood swayed her still; and the gospel of the carpenterCawood was the only gospel she knew. And as to Merton, the contemptuousjudgment Mary had passed on him had become her judgment; the words shehad heard of him in the train were absolutely true; he had deceived hiswife with lies; he was weak and vain and fickle, one it was a disaster tolove and lean upon. Love, gratitude, and pity stirred her heart when shethought of Constance, and while the pity was kept secret the love wasfreely and frequently expressed, and from week to week she told the storyof her life to her sympathetic friend--all its little incidents, trials, and successes. 

There was little to break the monotony of her life out of business hoursat this period; and it was perhaps fortunate for her that she usuallycame home tired in the evening, wishing for rest rather than fordistraction. There was nothing in that part of London to make walkingattractive. The Regent's Park was close by, it is true, and thither shewas accustomed to go for a walk on Sundays, except when one or other ofher new acquaintances in the shop, living with her own people, invitedher to dinner or tea. But on weekdays, especially in winter, when thestreets were sloppy, and the atmosphere grey and damp, there was noinducement to take her out. In such conditions Marylebone is asdepressing a district as any in London. The streets have a dullmonotonous appearance, and the ancient unvenerable houses are grimy toblackness with the accumulation of soot on them. The inhabitants, especially in that portion of Marylebone where Fan lived, form a strangemixture. Artists, men of letters, sober tradesmen, artisans, daylabourers, students, shop-assistants, and foreigners--dynamiters, adventurers, and waiters waiting for places--may all be found living inone short street. Bohemianism, vice, respectability, wealth and poverty, are jumbled together as in no other district in London. The modest wife, coming out of her door at ten in the morning to do her marketing, meets, face to face, her next neighbour standing at _her_ door, a jug inher hand, waiting for some late milkman to pass--a slovenly dame in adressing-gown with half the buttons off, primrose-coloured hair loose onher back, and a porcelain complexion hastily dabbed on a yellowdissipated face. The Maryleboners (or -bonites) being a Happy Family, inthe menagerie sense, do not vex their souls about this condition ofthings; the well-fed and the hungry, the pure and the impure, are neartogether, but in soul they are just as far apart as elsewhere. 

Nevertheless, to a young girl like Fan, living alone, and beautiful tothe eye, the large amount of immorality around her was a serious trouble, and she never ventured out in the evening, even to go a short distance, without trepidation and a fast-beating heart, so strong was that oldloathing and horror the leering looks and insolent advances of dissolutemen inspired in her. And in no part of London are such men more numerous. When the shadows of evening fall their thoughts "lightly turn" to thetired shop-girl, just released from her long hours of standing andserving, and the surveillance perhaps of a tyrannical shop-walker whomakes her life a burden. Her cheap black dress, pale face, and wistfuleyes betray her. She is so tired, so hungry for a little recreation, something to give a little brightness and colour to her grey life, sounprotected and weak to resist--how easy to compass her destruction! Thelong evenings were lonely in her room, but it was safe there, and sittingbefore her fire writing to Constance, or thinking of her, and readingagain one of the small collection of books she had brought fromEyethorne, the hours would pass not too slowly. 

At length when the long cold season was drawing to an end, when the mudin the streets dried into fine dust for the mad March winds to whirlabout, and violets and daffodils were cheap enough for Fan to buy, andshe looked eagerly forward to walks in the grassy park at the end of eachday, during those long summer evenings when the sun hangs low and doesnot set, the glad tidings reached her that the Chances were coming backto London. Journalism, in a country town at all events, had proved afailure, and Merton, with some new scheme in his brain, was once moreabout to return to the great intellectual centre, which, he now said, heought never to have left. 

"Most men when they want something done, " he remarked, "have a vile wayof getting the wrong person to do it. Here have I been wasting my flowerson this bovine public--whole clusters every week to those who have nosense of smell and no eye for form and colour. What they want isensilage--a coarse fare suited to ruminants. "

A few days afterwards Constance wrote from Norland Square in Notting Hillasking Fan to visit her as soon as convenient. Fan got the letter on aSaturday morning, and when the shop closed at two she hastened home tochange her dress, and then started for Norland Square, where she arrivedabout half-past three o'clock. 

There is no greater happiness on earth, and we can imagine no greater inheaven, than that which is experienced by two loving friends on meetingagain after a long separation; that is, when the reunion has not been toolong delayed. If new interests and feelings have not obscured the old, ifTime has written no "strange defeatures" on the soul, and the imagetreasured by memory corresponds with the reality, then the communion ofheart with heart seems sweeter than it ever seemed before itsinterruption. And this happiness, this rapture of the soul which makeslife seem angelic for a season, the two friends now experienced in fullmeasure. For an hour they sat together, holding each other's hands, feeling a strange inexpressible pleasure in merely listening to the soundof each other's voices, noting the familiar tones, the old expressions, the rippling laughter so long unheard, and in gazing into each other'seyes, bright with the lustre of joy, and tender with love almost totears. 

"Fan, " said her friend, holding her a little away in order to see herbetter, "I have been distressing myself about you in vain. I could nothelp thinking that there would be one change after all this time, thatyour skin would lose that delicacy which makes you look so unfitted forwork of any kind. There would be, I thought, a little of that unwholesomepallor and the tired look one so often sees in girls who are confined inshops and have to stand all day on their feet. But you have the samefresh look and pure delicate skin; nothing alters you. I do believe thatyou will never change at all, however long you may live, and never growold. "

"Or clever and wise like you, " laughed the other. 

The result of Fan's inspection of her friend's face was not equallysatisfactory; for although Constance had not lost her rich colour norgrown thin, there was a look of trouble in the clear hazel eyes--theshadow which had first come there when the girls had overheard aconversation about Merton in the train, only the shadow was morepersistent now. 

"I expect Merton home at five, " she said, "and then we'll have tea. " Fannoticed that when she spoke of her husband that shadow of trouble did notgrow less. And by-and-by, putting her arm round the other's neck, shespoke. 

"Dearest Constance, shall I tell you one change I see in you? You areunhappy about something. Why will you not let me share your trouble? Wewere such dear friends always, ever since that day in the woods when youasked me why I disliked you. Must it be different now because you aremarried?"

"It must be a little different in some things, " she replied gravely, andaverting her eyes. "I love you as much as I ever did, and shall neverhave another friend like you in the world. But, Fan, a husband must havethe first place in a wife's heart, and no friend, however dear, can befully taken into their confidence. We are none of us quite happy, or haveeverything we desire in our lives; and the only difference now is that Ican't tell you quite all my little secret troubles, as I hope you willalways tell me yours until you marry. Do you not see that it must be so?"

"If it must be, Constance. But it seems hard, and--I am not sure that youare right. "

"I have, like everyone else, only my own feelings of what is right toguide me. And now let us talk of something else--of dear old Eyethorneagain. "

It was curious to note the change that had come over her mind with regardto Eyethorne; and how persistently she returned to the subject of herlife there, appearing to find a melancholy pleasure in dwelling on it. How she had despised its narrowness then--its stolid ignorances andprejudices, the dull, mean virtues on which it prided itself, themalicious gossip in which it took delight--and had chafed at the thoughtof her wasted years! Now all those things that had vexed her seemedtrivial and even unreal. She thought less of men and women and more ofnature, the wide earth, so tender and variable in its tints, yet sostable, the far-off dim horizon and infinite heaven, the procession ofthe seasons, the everlasting freshness and glory. It was all so sweet andpeaceful, and the years had not been wasted which had been spent indreaming. What beautiful dreams had kept her company there--dreams of thefuture, of all she would accomplish in life, of all life's possibilities!Oh no, not possibilities; for there was nothing in actual life tocorrespond with those imaginings. Not more unlike were those Turnercanvases, daubed over with dull earthy paint, to the mysterious shadowydepths, the crystal purity, the evanescent splendours of nature at mornand noon and eventide, than was this married London life to the life shehad figured in her dreams. That was the reality, the true life, and thisthat was called reality only a crude and base imitation. They were stilltalking of Eyethorne when Merton returned; but not alone, for he broughta friend with him, a young gentleman whom he introduced as Arthur Eden. He had not expected to find Fan with his wife, and a shade of annoyancepassed over his face when he saw her. But in a moment it was gone, andseizing her hand he greeted her with exaggerated cordiality. 

Constance welcomed her unexpected guest pleasantly, yet his comingdisturbed her a good deal; for they were poor, living in a poor way, their only sitting-room where they took their meals being small and mustyand mean-looking, with its rickety chairs and sofa covered with cheapwashed-out cretonne, its faded carpet and vulgar little gimcrackornaments on the mantelpiece. And this friend gave one the idea that herhusband had fallen from a somewhat better position in life than he wasnow in. There was an intangible something about him which showed him tobe one of those favoured children of destiny who are placed above theneed of a "career, " who dress well and live delicately, and have nothingto do in life but to extract all the sweetness there is in it. Very good-looking was this Mr. Eden, with an almost feminine beauty. Crisp brownhair, with a touch of chestnut in it, worn short and parted in themiddle; low forehead, straight, rather thin nose, refined mouth and finegrey eyes. The face did not lack intelligence, but the predominantexpression was indolent good-nature; it was colourless, and looked jadedand _blasé_ for one so young, his age being about twenty-four. Themost agreeable thing in him was his voice, which, although subdued, hadthat quality of tenderness and resonance more common in Italy than in ourmoist, thick-throated island; and it was pleasant to hear his light readylaugh, musical as a woman's. In his voice and easy quiet manner hecertainly contrasted very favourably with his friend. Merton was loud andincessant in his talk, and walked about and gesticulated, and spoke withan unnecessary emphasis, a sham earnestness, which more than once calledan anxious look to his wife's expressive face. 

"What do you think, Connie!" he cried. "In Piccadilly I ran against oldEden after not having seen him for over five years! I was never sooverjoyed at meeting anyone in my life! We were at school together atWinchester, you know, and then he went to Cambridge--lucky dog! And I--but what does it matter where I went?--to some wretched crammer, Isuppose. Since I lost sight of him he has been all over the world--India, Japan, America--no end of places, enjoying life and enlarging his mind, while I was wasting the best years of my life at that confounded ForeignOffice. "

"I shouldn't mind wasting the rest of _my_ life in it, " said hisfriend with a slight laugh. 

"Now just listen to me, " said Merton, squaring himself before the other, and prepared to launch out concerning the futility of life in the ForeignOffice; but Constance at that moment interposed to say that tea waswaiting. She had herself taken the tea-things from the general servant, who had brought them to the door, and was a slatternly girl, notpresentable. 

"I must tell you, Connie, " began Merton, as soon as they were seated, forhe had forgotten all about the other subject by this time, "that when Imet Eden this afternoon he at once agreed to accompany me home to makeyour acquaintance, and take pot-luck with us. Of course I have told himall about our present circumstances, that we are not settled yet, andliving in a kind of Bohemian fashion. "

Eden on his side made several attempts to converse with the ladies, butthey were not very successful, for Merton, although engaged in consumingcold mutton and pickles with great zest, would not allow them to wanderoff from his own affairs. 

"I have something grand to tell you, Arthur" he went on, not noticing hiswife's uncomfortable state of mind, and frequent glances in hisdirection. "You know all about what I am doing just now. Not bad stuff, Ibelieve. The editors who know me will take as much of it as I care togive them. But I am not going to settle down into a mere magazine writer, although just at present it serves my purpose to scatter a few papersabout among the periodicals. But in a short time I intend to make a newdeparture. I dare say it will rather astonish you to hear about it. "

His grand idea, he proceeded to say, was to write a story--the first of aseries--that would be no story at all in the ordinary sense, since itwould have no plot or plan or purpose of any kind. Nor would there beanalysis and description--nothing to skip, in fact. The people of hisbrain would do nothing and say nothing--at all events there would be nodialogue. The characters would be mere faint pencil-marks--something lessthan shadows. 

Tea was over by the time this subject was exhausted; Eden's curiosityabout his friend's projected novel, described so far by negatives only, had apparently subsided, for he managed to turn the conversation to someother subject; and presently Constance was persuaded to sit down to thepiano. She played under difficulties on the dismal old lodging-houseinstrument, but declined to sing, alleging a cold, of which there was noevidence. Merton turned the music for her, and for the first time hisfriend found an opportunity of exchanging a few words with Fan. Whenfirst introduced to her their eyes had met for a moment, and his hadbrightened with an expression of agreeable surprise; afterwards duringtea, when the flow of Merton's inconsequent chatter had made conversationimpossible, his eyes had wandered frequently to her face as if they foundit pleasant to rest there. 

"Mrs. Chance plays skilfully, " he said. "Merton is fortunate in such awife. "

"Yes; but I like her singing best. I am sorry she can't sing thisevening, as it is always such a treat to me to listen to her. "

"But you will sing presently, Miss Affleck, will you not? I have beenwaiting to ask you. "

"I neither sing nor play, Mr. Eden. In music, as in everything else thatrequires study and taste, I am a perfect contrast to my friend. "

"I fancy you are depreciating yourself too much. But it surprises me tohear that you don't sing. I always fancy that I can distinguish a musicalperson in a crowd, and you, in the expression of your face, in yourmovements, and most of all in your voice, seemed to reveal the musicalsoul. "

"Did you really imagine all that?" returned Fan, reddening a little. "Iam so sorry you were mistaken, for I do love music so much. " And then ashe said nothing, but continued regarding her with some curiosity, sheadded naïvely, "I'm afraid, Mr. Eden, that I have very little intellect. "

He laughed and answered, "You must let me judge for myself about that. "

Mr. Eden was musical himself, although his constitutional indolence hadprevented him from becoming a proficient in the art. Still, he could singa limited number of songs correctly, accompanying himself, and he washeard at his best in a room in which the four walls were not too farapart, as his voice lacked strength, while good in quality. 

About nine o'clock Fan came in from the next room with her hat and jacketon to say good-bye. Mr. Eden started up with alacrity and begged her tolet him see her home. 

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Eden, but you need not trouble, " she returned. "I amgoing to take an omnibus close by in the Uxbridge Road. "

"Then you must let me see you safely in it, " he said; and as he insistedthat it was time for him to go she could no longer refuse. The doorclosed behind them after many jocular words of farewell from Merton, andhusband and wife were left to finish their evening in privacy. 

"Is it far to your home?" asked Eden. 

"I live in Marylebone, " she replied, giving a rather wide address. 

"But is that too far to walk? I fancy I know where Marylebone is--northof Oxford Street. Will it tire you very much to walk?"

"Oh no, I love walking, but at night I couldn't walk that distance bymyself, and so must ride. "

"Then do let me see you home. You are an intimate friend of the Chances, and I am so anxious, now that I have met Merton, to hear something moreabout them. Perhaps you would not mind telling me what you know abouttheir life and prospects. "

"I will walk if you wish, Mr. Eden, " she returned after a moment'shesitation. "Mrs. Chance is my friend, and she was my teacher for a yearin the country, before she married. But I couldn't tell you anythingabout their prospects, I know so little. "

"Still, you know a great deal more about them than I do, and my onlymotive in seeking information is--well, not a bad one. I might be able togive them a little help in their struggles. It strikes me that Merton isnot going quite the right way to work to get on in life, and that hiswife is not too happy. Do you think I am right?"

And the conversation thus begun continued very nearly to the end of theirlong walk, Fan, little by little unfolding the story of her friend's lifein the country, of the journey to London, the sudden marriage; butconcerning Merton, his occupations and prospects, she could tell him nextto nothing, and her secret thoughts about him were not disclosed, inspite of many ingenious little attempts on her companion's part to pryinto her mind. 

"Miss Affleck, " he said at length, "I feel the greatest respect for yourmotives in concealing what you do from me, for I know there is more totell if you chose to tell it. But I am not blind; I can see a great dealfor myself. I fear that your friend has made a terrible mistake in tyingherself to Merton. At school he was considered a clever fellow, andafterwards when he got his clerkship, his friends--he had some friendsthen--would have backed him to win in the race of life. But he has fallenoff greatly since then. It is plain to see that he drinks, and he hasalso become an incorrigible liar--"

"Mr. Eden!" exclaimed Fan. 

"Do you imagine, Miss Affleck, that there is one atom of truth in all hesays about his interest with editors, and his forthcoming books, and therest? Do you think it really the truth that he was insane enough to throwup his clerkship at the Foreign Office which would have kept want fromhim, at all events, and from his wife?"

"I cannot say--I do not know, " answered Fan; then added, somewhatillogically, "But it is so very sad for Constance! I don't want to judgehim, I only want to hope. "

"I wish to hope too--and to help if I can. I have tried to help him to-day, but now I fear that I have made a mistake, and that his wife willnot thank me. "

"What have you done, Mr. Eden? Is it a secret, or something you can tellme?"

He did not answer at once; the question, although it pleased him, required a little rapid consideration. He had been greatly attracted byFan, and had observed her keenly all the evening, and had arrived at theconclusion that she was deeply attached to her friend Mrs. Chance, butwas by no means a believer in or an admirer of Mr. Chance. All thisprovided him with an excellent subject of conversation during their longwalk; for in some vague way he had formed the purpose of touching theheart-strings of this rare girl with grey pathetic eyes. Accordingly heaffected an interest, which he was far from feeling, in his friend'saffairs, expressing indignation at his conduct, and sympathy with hiswife, and everything he said found a ready echo in the girl's heart. Inthis way he had gone far towards winning her confidence, and establishinga kind of friendly feeling between them. That little tentative speechabout his mistake had produced the right effect and had made her anxious;it would serve his purpose best, he concluded, to satisfy her curiosity. 

"Perhaps I had no right to say what I did, " he answered at length, "as itis a secret. But I will tell it to you all the same, because I feel surethat I can trust you, and because we are both friends of the Chances andinterested in their welfare, and anxious about them. When I met Mertonto-day I was a little surprised at his manner and conversation, but inthe end I set it down to excitement at meeting with an old friend. I wasanxious not to believe that he had been drinking, and I did not know thatmost of the things he told me were rank falsehoods. He said that he wasdoing very well as a writer, and that he required fifty pounds to make upa sum to purchase an interest in a weekly paper, and asked me to lend itto him, which I did. I am now convinced that what he told me was not thetruth, and that in lending him fifty pounds I have gone the wrong wayabout helping him, and fear very much--please don't think me cynical forsaying it--that he will keep out of my sight as much as he can. I regretit for his wife's sake. He might have known that I could have helped himin other and better ways. "

Fan made no remark, and presently he continued:

"But let us talk of something else now. Are you fond of reading novels, Miss Affleck?--if it is not impertinent in me to speak on such a subjectjust after we have heard Merton's harangue on the subject. "

Of novels they accordingly talked for the next half-hour; but Fan, ratherto his surprise, had read very few of the books of the day about which hespoke. 

They were near the end of their walk now. 

"Let me say one thing more about our friends before we separate, " hesaid. "I do not believe that I shall see much of Merton now, as I saidbefore. But I shall be very anxious to know how they get on, and you ofcourse will know. Will you allow me to call at your house and see yousometimes?"

"That would be impossible, Mr. Eden. "

"Why?" he asked in surprise. 

"I must tell you, Mr. Eden--I wish Mr. Chance had told you to preventmistakes--that I am only a very poor girl. I am in a shop in RegentStreet, and have only one room in the house where I lodge. I have norelations in the world, and no friends except Constance. "

"Is that so?" he said, his tone betraying his surprise. And with thesurprise he felt was mingled disgust--disgust with himself for having sogreatly mistaken her position, and with Destiny for having placed her solow. But the disgust very quickly passed away, and was succeeded by adifferent feeling--one of satisfaction if not of positive elation. 

"This is my door, Mr. Eden, " said Fan, pausing before one of the dark, grimy-looking houses in the monotonous street they had entered. 

"I am sorry to part with you so soon, " he returned. "I do hope that weshall meet again some day, and I should be so glad, Miss Affleck, if infuture you could think that Mrs. Chance is not your only friend in theworld. Whether we are destined to meet or not again, I should so like youto think that I am also your friend. "

"Thank you, Mr. Eden, I shall be glad to think of you as a friend, " shereplied with simple frankness. 

That speech and the glance of shy pleasure which accompanied it almosttempted him to say more, but he hesitated, and finally concluded not togo further just then; and after opening the door for her with her humblelatchkey, he shook hands and said good-night. 

CHAPTER XXIX

Before leaving Fan at her own door Mr. Eden did not neglect to make amental note of the number, although to make it out was not easy owing tothe obscure veil that time, weather, and London smoke had thrown over thegilded figures. From Charlotte Street he walked slowly and thoughtfullyto his rooms in Albemarle Street. "I feel too tired to go anywhere to-night, " he said. "From the remotest wilds of Notting Hill to the easternboundaries of Marylebone--a long walk even with such a companion. Thatyoung person I took for a lady is an all-round fraud. That delicate styleof beauty is very deceptive; she would walk a camel off its legs. "

A fire was burning brightly in his sitting-room; and throwing himselfinto a comfortable easy-chair before it, he lit a cigar, and began tothink about things in general. 

He did not feel quite settled in his London rooms, which he had takenfurnished, and in which he had lived off and on for a period of eighteenmonths. He was always thinking of going abroad again to resume thewanderings which had been prematurely ended by the tidings of hisfather's death. But he was indolent, a lover of pleasure, with plenty ofmoney, and a year and a half had slipped insensibly by. There was no needto do things in a hurry, he said; his inclination was everything: when hehad a mind to travel he would travel, and when it suited his mood hewould rest at home. He did not care very much about anything. Histeachers had failed to make anything of him. 

His father, who had retired from the military profession rather early inlife, had wished him to go into the army; but he was not urgent, speakingto him less like a father to a son than a middle-aged gentleman to ayoung friend in whom he took a considerable interest, but who was his ownmaster. "It's all very well to say 'Go into the army, '" his son wouldanswer; "but I can't do it in the way you did, and I strongly object tothe competitive system. " And so the matter ended. 

It was perhaps in a great measure due to his easygoing, unambitiouscharacter that he had not taken actively to evil courses. The poet is nodoubt right when he says:

 Satan finds some mischief still For idle hands to do. 

But it is after all a small amount of mischief and of a somewhat milddescription compared with that which he inspires in the busy, pushing, energetic man. But in spite of his moral debility and his small sympathywith enthusiasms of any kind, he was much liked by those who knew him. Ina quiet way he was observant, and not without humour, which gave apleasant flavour to his conversation. Moreover he was good-tempered, evento those who bored him, slow to take offence, easily conciliated, neversupercilious, generous. 

"What has come to Merton?" he said. "Confound the fellow! I used to thinkhim so quiet, but now he would talk a donkey's hind-leg off. He's goingto the dogs, I think, and I'm sorry I met him. .. . No, not sorry, sincethrough meeting him I have made the acquaintance of that exquisitegirl. .. . If I know what it is to be in love--and do I not?--I fancy I ambeginning to feel the symptoms of that sweet sickness. I could not thinkof such a face and feel well. I must try to get her photo and have itenlarged; Mills could do a beautiful water-colour portrait from it. .. . Figure slim, and a most perfect complexion, with a colour delicate as theblush on the petals of some white flower. Nose straight enough and of theright size. It is possible to love, as I happen to know, women withinsignificant noses, but impossible not to feel some contempt for them atthe same time. Mouth--well, of a girl or woman, not a suckling--not thefacial disfigurement called a rose-bud mouth, which has as littleattraction for me as the Connemara or even the Zulu mouth. But howdescribe it, since the poets have not taught me? The painters managethese things better; but even their prince, Rossetti, has nothing on hiscanvases to compare with this delicate feature. Hair, golden-brown, verybright; for it does not lie like grass, beaten flat and sodden with rain;it is fluffy, loose, crisp, with little stray tresses on forehead, neck, and temples. About her eyes, those windows of the soul, I can only say--nothing. Something in their grey, mysterious depths haunts me like music. I don't know what it is. I have loved many a girl, from the northern witharsenic complexion, china-blue eyes, and canary-coloured hair, to thedivine image cut in ebony, as some one piously and prettily says, but Idoubt that I have felt quite in this way before. Yet she is not clever, as she says, and is only a poor shop-girl, her surname Affleck--thatquaint, plebeian name with its curious associations! I must not forget toask Merton to tell me her history. I shall certainly see him to-morrow, although perhaps for the last time. Fifty pounds should be enough to payfor the information I require. And that reminds me to ask myself aquestion--Is it my intention to follow up this adventure? She is a friendof Mrs. Chance, and since I met her at my friend's house, would it be aright thing to do? A nice question, but why bother my brains about it?One can't trust to appearances; but if she is what she looks no harm willcome to her. If she is like other girls of her class, not too pure andgood for human nature's daily food, then the result might be--not at allunpleasant. .. . Women, pretty girls even, are very cheap in England--adrug in the market, as any young man not positively a gorilla of uglinessmust know. It rather saddens me to think what I could do, without being aKing Solomon. But for this young girl who is not clever, and lodges inCharlotte Street, and goes every day to her shop, I think I could make afool of myself. And make her happy perhaps. She should have not only ashelter from the storm and the tempest, but everything her heart coulddesire. .. . And if the opportunity offers, why should I not make her happyin the way she might like? Is it bad to wish to possess a beautiful girl?I fancy I have that part of my nature by inheritance. My amiableprogenitor was, in this respect, something of a rascal, as someone saysof the pious Æneas. Only at last he became religious, and repented of allhis sins: the devil was sick, the devil a saint would be. .. . After all, if we are powerless to shape our own destinies, if what is to be will be, how idle to discuss such a question, to array conscience and inclinationagainst one another, like two sets of wooden marionettes made to advanceand retire by pulling at the strings! This battle in the brain, which maybe fought out till not an opponent is left alive on one side, all in thecourse of half an hour, is only a mock battle--a mere farce. The realbattle will be a bigger affair and last much longer, and a whole galaxyof gods will be looking down assisting now this side and now that--Chance, Time, Circumstance, and others too numerous to mention. This, then, is my conclusion--I am in the hands of destiny: _che sarasara_. "

When Merton, after bidding good-night to his guests at the street-door, returned to the sitting-room where he had left his wife he did not findher there; in the bedroom he discovered her with tear-stains on her face. 

The smile faded from his lips, he forgot the things he had come to say, and sitting down by her side he took her hand in his, but withoutspeaking. He knew why she had been crying. He loved his wife as much asit was in his power to love anyone after himself, and to some extent heappreciated her. He recognised in her a very pure and beautiful spirit, agreat depth of affection, and a clear, cultivated intellect, yet withoutany of that offensive pride and insolent scorn which so often accompaniesfreedom of thought in a woman and makes her contrast so badly with herold-fashioned Christian sister. He did not rate her powers very highly, not high enough in fact, so as to compensate for the excessive esteem inwhich he held his own; nevertheless she was to him a lovely, even agifted woman, and, what was more, she loved him and took him at his ownvaluation, and had linked her life with his when his fortunes were attheir lowest. He was always very tender with her, and had never yet, evenin his occasional moments of irritation and despondence, spoken an unkindword to her. During the evening he had not failed to notice that she wasill at ease, and he rightly divined that something in himself had beenthe cause; nor was he at a loss to guess what that something was. Yet hehad not allowed the thought to trouble him overmuch; at all events it hadmade no perceptible difference in his manner, his elation at the thoughtof the fifty pounds he was going to receive causing this little shadow toseem a very small matter. Now he was troubled by a feeling ofcompunction, and when he spoke at length it was in a gentle, pleadingtone. 

"Connie, " he said, "I needn't ask you why you have been crying. I haveoffended you so many times that I know the signs only too well. "

"That is a reproach I do not deserve, Merton, " she returned. 

"I am not reproaching you, dear, but myself for giving you pain. "

"Have I shown myself so hard to please, so ready to take offence, thatyou know the signs of disapproval so well?"

"No, Connie; on the contrary. But my eyes are quick to see disapproval, as yours are quick to see anything wrong in me. And I would not have itdifferent. " After a while he continued, a little anxiously, "Do you thinkour visitor--I mean Eden, for I care nothing about Fan--noticed any signsof--noticed what you did?"

"How can I tell, Merton? He looked a little tired, I thought. "

"Did he look tired? And yet I think I talked well. " She made no reply, and he continued, "Of course, Connie, you thought I seemed too excited--that I had been taking stimulants. Is it not so?"

"Yes, I thought that, " she replied, averting her eyes, and in a tone ofdeep pain. "Oh, Merton, is this going to continue until it grows into ahabit? It will break my heart!"

"My dear girl, you needn't imagine anything so terrible. You can trust meto keep my word. I shall become a total abstainer; not because alcoholhas now or ever can have any fatal attraction for me, but solely becauseyou wish it, Connie. I confess that to-day I came home unusually excited, but it was not because I had exceeded. It was because I had met with anunexpected stroke of good luck. When I met Eden to-day, and was tellinghim about my new career and my struggles as a beginner, he at once verykindly offered to lend me fifty pounds to assist me. "

"And are you going to borrow money from your friend?"

"I should not think of asking him for money; but when he offered me thissmall sum--for to him it _is_ small--I could not think of refusing. It would have been foolish when our funds are so low, and I shall soon bein a position to repay him. "

"And you took the money?"

"No, I am to have it to-morrow. I am going to meet him at his club. "

"I wish, Merton, that you could do without this fifty pounds, " she saidafter a while. "I see no prospect of repaying it, there is so littlecoming in. And I seem unable to help you in the least--my last manuscriptcame back to-day, declined like the others. I am afraid that thisborrowing will do us more harm than good. It is the way to lose yourfriends, I think, and the friendship of a man in Mr. Eden's positionshould be worth more to you than fifty pounds, even looking at the matterin a purely interested way. "

"You need not fear, Connie. Besides, even if you are right in what yousay, I should really prefer to have this little help than Eden'sfriendship. You see he is a mere butterfly, without any interest inthings of the mind, and it is not likely that he will be very much to usin our new life, which will be among intellectual and artistic people, Ihope. "

"With so poor an opinion of him I can't imagine how you can take hismoney and lay yourself under so great an obligation. "

"Pooh, Connie, the obligation will be very light indeed. In three or fourmonths the money will be repaid, and he will think as little about it ashe does of inviting me to lunch or giving me a good cigar. I shall alwaysbe friendly with him, and invite him sometimes to see us when we arecomfortably established; but he is not a man I should ever wish tograpple to my breast with hooks of steel. And so you see, wifie dear, youhave been making yourself unhappy without sufficient cause. And now won'tyou kiss and forgive me, and acknowledge that I am not so black as yourimagination painted me?"

She kissed him freely, and accepted as simple truth the explanation hehad given of his excited condition during the evening; nevertheless, shewas not quite happy in her mind. The return of that last manuscript--along article which had cost her much pains to write, and about which shehad been very hopeful--had made her sore, and he had paid no attention towhat she had said about it, and the words of sympathy and encouragementshe had looked for had not been spoken. Then it had jarred on her mind tohear her husband talk so disparagingly of the friend from whom he wasborrowing money. She had herself formed a better opinion of Mr. Eden'scharacter and capabilities. And about the borrowing, what he had said hadnot altered her mind; but it was her way whenever she disagreed with herhusband to reason and even plead with him, and if she then found, as shegenerally did, that he still adhered to his own view, to yield the pointand say no more about it. 

CHAPTER XXX

Next day the friends met at Eden's club, and after lunching they had anhour's conversation in the smoking-room. But their characters of theprevious evening now seemed to be reversed--Eden talked and the otherlistened. An inexplicable change had come over the loquacious man ofletters; he listened and seemed to be on his guard, drinking little, andsaying nothing about his plans and prospects. "Damn the fellow, I can'tmake him out at all, " thought Eden, vexed that the other gave him noopportunity of introducing the subject he had been thinking so muchabout. He did not wish to introduce it himself, but in the end he wascompelled to do so. 

"By the way, Merton, before I forget it, " he said at length, "tell meabout Miss Affleck, whom I met at your house last evening. "

Merton glanced at him and did not appear to be pleased at the question. "Oh, I see, " thought his friend, "the subject is not one that he findsagreeable. I must know why. "

"She is a friend of my wife's, but I have never seen much of her, "replied Merton. "She is an orphan, without money or expectations, Ibelieve. " After an interval he added--"But I dare say you know as much asI can tell you about her, as you walked home or part of the way home withher last evening. "

This of course was a mere guess on Merton's part. 

"Yes, I did, but I didn't question her, and I wanted to know where herpeople came from, the Afflecks--"

"Oh, I can soon satisfy your curiosity on that point. That is really nother name. She was adopted or something by a lady who took an interest inher for some reason, or for no reason, and who thought proper to give herthat name because Miss Affleck's real surname didn't please her. "

"What was her real name?"

"I can't remember. Barnes, or Thompson, or Wilkins--one of those sort ofnames. "

"And how came the lady to call her Affleck?"

"A mere fancy for an uncommon name, I believe, and because FrancesAffleck sounded better than Frances Green or Black or anything she couldthink of. Of course she didn't really adopt the girl at all, but shebrought her up and educated her. "

Eden was not yet satisfied with what he had heard, and as Merton seemedinclined to drop the subject, which was not what he wanted, he remarkedtentatively:

"How curious then that Miss Affleck should now be compelled to make herown living as a shop-assistant!"

"Oh, you got that out of her!" exclaimed Merton, in a tone of undisguisedannoyance. 

"Don't say I got it out of her, " returned the other a little sharply. "Idid not question her about her affairs, of course. She gave me thatinformation quite spontaneously. I can't remember what it was thatbrought the subject up. " Here he paused to reflect, remarking mentally, "This fellow is teaching me to be as great a liar as he is himself. " Thenhe continued--"Ah, yes, I remember now; we were talking about books, andI asked her why she had not read all the popular novels I mentioned, andthen she explained her position. "

"Then, " said Merton, transferring his resentment to Fan, "I think itwould have shown better taste if she had been a little more reticent witha stranger about her private affairs; more especially with one she hasmet in my house. For she knows that she took to this life against ourwishes and advice, and that by so doing she has placed a great distancebetween herself and Mrs. Chance. "

"Perhaps you are right. It is certainly a rare thing in England to see ayoung lady in Miss Affleck's position so well suited in appearance andmanner to mix with those who are better placed. "

"Quite so. She was never intended for her present station in life. Andsince you know what you do know about her through her own want ofdiscretion, you must let me explain how she comes to be a visitor in myhouse, and received as a friend by my wife. My wife's father, a retiredbarrister living on a small and not very productive estate of his own inWiltshire, consented to receive Miss Affleck to reside for a year in hishouse, and during that time my wife gave her instruction. Unhappily thelady who had made Miss Affleck her _protégée, _ and who happens to bean extremely crotchety and violent-tempered woman, so full of fads andfancies that she is more suited to be in a lunatic asylum than at large--"

"Old, I suppose?" remarked Eden, amused at this sudden flow of talk. 

"Old? Well, yes; getting on, I should say. One of those bewigged andpainted wretches that hate to be thought over forty. Well, for someunexplained reason, --probably because Miss Affleck was young and prettyand attracted too much admiration--she quarrelled with the poor girl andcast her off. It was a barbarous thing to do, and we would gladly havegiven her a home, and my wife's mother also offered to help her. But asshe wished not to be dependent, Mrs. Chance was anxious to get her aplace as governess or school-teacher. The girl, however, who is strangelyobstinate, would not be persuaded, and eventually got this situation forherself. This explains what you have heard, and what must have surprisedyou very much. Out of pity for the girl, who had been hardly treated, andbecause of my wife's affection for her, I have allowed this thing tocontinue, and have not given her to understand that by taking her owncourse in opposition to our wishes, she has cut herself off from herfriends. "

Eden, as we know, had become possessed of the idea that Merton would nottell the truth if a lie could serve his purpose equally well, and he didnot therefore attach much importance to what he had heard. Nevertheless, it pleased him. Merton was evidently ashamed at having a shop-girlreceived as an equal by his wife, and would be glad, like the bewiggedand evil-tempered old woman he had spoken of, to cast her off. "Hishouse!" thought Eden contemptuously; "a couple of wretched rooms in theshabby neighbourhood of Norland Square. "

"Well, " he said, rising and looking at his watch, "it is greatly to beregretted that she did not follow your wife's advice, as there is noquestion that she is too good for her present station in life. "

Merton also rose; the fifty pounds were in his pocket (and his I O U inhis friend's pocket), and there was nothing more to detain him. 

"You seem to have been very much attracted by her, " he said with a smile. "Perhaps you intend to cultivate her acquaintance. "

Eden smiled also, for his friend's eyes were on his face. "She is acharming girl, Chance, and--I met her at _your_ house. Unless I meether there on some future occasion, I do not suppose that I shall ever seeher again. She has chosen her own path in life, and I only hope that shemay not find it unpleasant. "

Then they shook hands and separated; Merton to attend to a littlebusiness matter, then to go home to his wife, with some new things totell her. Eden's mental remark was, "I may see--I hope to see MissAffleck again, not once, but scores and hundreds of times; but I shallnot grieve much, my veracious and noble-minded friend, if I should neveragain run against _you_ in Piccadilly or any other thoroughfare. "

From his visit to Eden, which, in different ways, had proved satisfactoryto both gentlemen, Merton returned at six o'clock to dine with his wife, their usual midday meal having been put off until that hour to suit hisconvenience. He had brought a bottle of good wine with him; for withfifty pounds in his pocket he could afford to be free for once, and attable he made himself very entertaining. 

"This has been a red-letter day, " he said, "and I shall finish it bybeing as lazy as I like to be. I shouldn't care to sit down now to workafter such a good dinner. Rest and be thankful is my motto for themoment, and perhaps by-and-by you will treat me to some of your music. Eden has rather a taste for music, and admires your playing greatly. "

He was very lively, and chattered on in this strain until the wine wasfinished, and then Constance played and sung a few of his favouritepieces. But after the singing was over, and when she was doing a littleneedlework, she noticed that he had grown strangely silent, and satstaring into the fire with clouded face; and thinking that there wasperhaps something on his mind which he might like to speak about, she putdown her work and went to him. 

"What is it, Merton, dear?" she said; "are there any dead flies in thatlittle pot of apothecary's ointment you brought home to-day?"

"No, not one--not even the proboscis of a fly has been left sticking init. By the way, here it is, all but five pounds which I had to change to-day. Take it, Connie, and stick to it like old boots. No, dear, it wasnot that; I was thinking of something different--something that has vexedme a little. When is your friend Fan coming again?"

"Fan! I don't know. We made no arrangement. I am to write to let her knowwhen to come. Has Fan anything to do with the vexation you speak of?"

"Yes, to some extent she has; but I really had no intention of speakingof it just now, as I know how sensitive you are on that point, and biasedin her favour. "

"Biased in her favour, Merton? What is there wrong in her?--how can shehave vexed you?"

"She has done nothing intentionally to vex me. But, Connie, she is a veryignorant girl, and I cannot help regretting very much that she was herelast evening when Eden came. "

"You are not very complimentary to me when you call her ignorant, Merton. "

"My dear girl, I don't mean ignorant in that sense. I dare say you taughther as much as most young ladies are supposed to know; perhaps more. Butshe is naturally ignorant of social matters, with an ignorance that isborn in her and quite invincible. "

"I am more puzzled than ever. I have taught her something--not very much, I confess, as I only had her for one year. But for the rest, it hasalways been my opinion that she possesses a natural refinement, such asone would expect from her appearance, and that there is a singular charmin her manner. Perhaps you do not think me capable of forming a rightjudgment about such things. "

"Don't say that, Connie; but you shall judge yourself whether I am rightor wrong in what I have said when you hear the facts. It appears thatEden did not see her to the omnibus, but walked home with her lastevening. He spoke of her this morning, and though he assumed anindifferent tone, it was plain to see that he was very much surprised tofind a shop-girl from Regent Street visiting and on terms of equalitywith my wife. "

Constance reddened. 

"How came your friend to know that she was a shopgirl in Regent Street?"

"That's just where the cause of vexation lies, " said Merton. "She toldhim that herself, not in answer to any question from him, but simplybecause she thought proper to explain who and what she was. She did notthink it was wrong, no doubt, but what can you do with such a person?Surely she must be ignorant to talk about her squalid affairs to agentleman of Mr. Eden's standing after meeting him in our house! To tellyou the truth, I think it was kind of Eden to mention the matter to me. It was as if he had said in so many words, 'If your visitors and dearestfriends are chosen from the shop-girl class, you will find it a ratherdifficult matter to better your position in the world. '"

"I am very sorry you have been annoyed, Merton. But I could not very wellspeak to Fan about it. She would imagine, and it would be very natural, that we were getting a little too fastidious. "

"You are right, she would, and I advise you to say nothing about it. Afar better plan would be to break off this unequal friendship, which willonly distress and be a hindrance to us in various ways, and would have tocome to an end some day. "

"Oh, Merton, that would be cruel to her and to me as well! Not only isshe my dearest friend, but she is really the only friend I have got. "

"Yes, I know; I have thought about that, but it will not be for long, Connie. You must not imagine that our life is to be spent in this or anyother sordid suburb. The articles I am now engaged on cannot fail tobring me into notice and give us a fair start in life; and you may besure, Connie, that society will very soon find out that you are one ofthe gifted ones, both physically and mentally. It will not be suitablefor you to know one in Fan's position, and it will only be a kindness tothe girl if you quietly drop her now. "

Constance was not in the least affected by this glittering vision of thefuture; she made no reply, but with eyes cast down and a face expressingonly pain she moved from his side, and sat down to her work once more. Tobe deprived of her beloved friend, whose friendship was so much to her inher solitary life, and whose place in her heart no other could take, andfor so slight a cause, seemed very hard and very strange. Why did herhusband consider her so little in this matter? This she asked herself, and a suspicion which had floated vaguely in her mind before began totake form. Was this slight cause the real cause of so harsh adetermination? Since he loved her, and was invariably kind and tender, itseemed more like a pretext. She remembered that from the first he haddepreciated Fan, and had sometimes shown irritation at her visiting them;did he fear that some disagreeable secret of his past life, known to Fan, might be betrayed by her? It was a painful suspicion and made her silent. 

Merton was also silent; to himself he said, "I knew that it would grieveher a little at first, but she is not unreasonable, and in a short timeshe will come round to my opinion. The girl is well enough, but not a fitassociate for my wife, and it is better to get rid of-her now beforemaking new friends. "

At half-past ten o'clock Constance, still silent, took her candle andwent to her bedroom, still with that secret trouble gnawing at her heart. 

Merton found a book and read until past twelve, and then came to theconclusion that the author was an ass. It happened that he knew somethingabout the author; he knew, for instance, that he was a married man, andlived in a pretty house at Richmond, and gave garden-parties, to which agreat many well-known people went. Well, if this scribbler could makeenough by his twaddling books to live in that style, what might not he, Merton, make?

His wife's entrance just then interrupted his pleasant thoughts. She hadrisen from her bed after lying awake two or three hours, and came in witha light wrapper over her nightdress, and her hair unbound on hershoulders. "Is it not getting very late, Merton?" she asked. 

"Connie, come here, " he said, regarding her with some surprise, and thendrawing her on to his knee. "My dear girl, you have been crying. "

"Yes, ever since I went to bed. But I didn't think you would notice, Idid not mean you to know it. "

"Why not, darling? I am very sorry that what I said about Fan distressesyou so much. But why should you hide any grief, little or great, from me, dearest?" he added, caressing her hair. 

"I have never hidden anything from you, Merton, only to-night I feltstrongly inclined to conceal what was in my mind. Let me tell you what itis; and will you, Merton, on your part, be as open with me and show thesame confidence in my love that I have in yours?"

"Assuredly I will, Connie. We shall never be happy if we hide anythingfrom each other. "

"Then, Merton, I must tell you that your readiness in resenting thatlittle fault of Fan's, and making it a cause for separating us, makes mesuspect that there is something behind it which you have kept from me. Tell me, Merton, and do not be afraid to tell me if my suspicion iscorrect, is there anything in your past life you wished to keep from meand which is known to Fan, and might come to my knowledge through her?"

"No, Connie, there is absolutely nothing in my past that I would hesitateto tell you. If I had had any painful secret I should have told it to youwhen I asked you to be my wife, and I am surprised that such a suspicionshould have entered your mind. But I am very glad that you have told meof it. You shall send for Fan and question her yourself, for I presumeyou have never done so before, and after that you will perhaps cease todoubt me. "

"I do not doubt your word, Merton, and trust and believe that I nevershall doubt the truth of what you say. To question Fan about you--that Icould not do, even if the suspicion still lived, but it is over now, andyou must forgive me for having entertained it. "

"Perhaps it was not altogether strange, Connie, since you attach solittle importance to these distinctions. But they are very importantnevertheless, and in this keen struggle for life, and for something morethan a bare subsistence, we cannot afford to hamper ourselves in any way. I am quite sure that, even if I had spoken no word, you would havediscovered after a while that this is an inconvenient friendship. I haveknown it all along, but have not hitherto spoken about it for fear ofpaining you. But do not distress yourself any more to-night, Connie; letthings remain as they are at present, if it is your wish. "

"My wish, Merton! My chief wish is never to do anything of which youwould disapprove. Do I need to remind you that I have never opposed awish of mine to yours? I could not let things remain as they are atpresent while you think as you do. It will be a great grief to me to loseFan, but while you are in this mind I would not ask her to come and seeme again, even if you were a thousand miles from home. "

"Then, dear wife, let us think it over for two or three days, and when Ihave got over this little vexation, if I see any reason to change my mindI shall let you know in good time. "

And so for the moment the matter ended; but two or three days passed, andthen two or three more, and Merton still kept silence on the subject. 

CHAPTER XXXI

A fortnight went by. Fan, occupied in her shop and happy enough, exceptonce when she encountered the grisly manager's terrible eyes on her: thenshe trembled and glanced down at her dress, fearing that it had lookedrusty or out of shape to him; for in that establishment a heavy fine orelse dismissal would be the lot of any girl who failed to look well-dressed. Constance, for the most part sitting solitary at home, trying invain to write something that would meet the views of some editor. Merton, busy running about, full to overflowing of all the things he intendeddoing. Eden, doing nothing: only thinking, which, in his case at allevents, was "but an idle waste of thought. " So inactive was he at thisperiod, and so much tobacco did he consume to assist his mentalprocesses, that he grew languid and pale. His friends remarked that hewas looking seedy. This made him angry--very angry for so slight a cause;and he thought that of all the intolerable things that have to be put upwith this was the worst--that people should remark to a man that he islooking seedy, when the seediness is in the soul, and the cause of it asecret of which he is ashamed. 

At the end of the fortnight he became convinced that his feeling for thedelicate girl with the pathetic grey eyes was no passing fancy, but apassion that stirred him as he had never been stirred before, and heresolved to possess her in spite of the fact that he had met her in hisfriend's house. 

"Let the great river bear me to the main, " he said; although bad, he wastoo honest to quote the other line, feeling that he had not strivenagainst the stream. 

Having got so far, he began to consider what the first step was to be inthis enterprise of great pith and moment. For although the insanity ofpassionate desire possessed him, he was not going to spoil his chances byacting in a hurry, or doing anything without the most carefulconsideration. The desire to see her again was very insistent, and bystrolling up the street in which she lived in the evening he might easilyhave met her, by chance as it were, returning from her shop, but he wouldnot do that. An enterprise of this kind seemed to him like one of thosepuzzle-games in which if a right move is made at first the game may bewon, however many blundering moves may follow; but if the first move iswrong, then by no possible skill and care can the desired end be reached. 

He recalled their conversation about novels, and remembered the titles offive popular works he had mentioned which Miss Affleck had not read. These works he ordered in the six-shilling form, and then spent the bestpart of a day cutting the leaves and knocking the books about to givethem the appearance of having been used. He also wrote his name in them, in each case with some old date; and finally, to make the deceptioncomplete, spilt a little ink over the cover of one volume, dropped somecigar-ash between the leaves of a second, and concealed a couple of oldforeign letters on thin paper in a third. Then he tied them up togetherand sent them to her by a messenger with the following letter:

DEAR MISS AFFLECK, I have just been looking through my bookshelves, and was pleased to findthat I had some of the novels we spoke about the other evening, which, ifI remember rightly, you said that you had not read. It was lucky I had somany, as my friends have a habit of carrying off my books and forgettingto return them. If you will accept the loan of them, do not be in a hurryto return them; they will be safer in your keeping than in mine, and oneor two, I think, are almost worth a second perusal. 

I must not let slip this opportunity, as another might not occur for along time, of saying something about our friends at Norland Square. I sawMerton the day after meeting you, but not since; nor have I heard fromhim. I know now that he lost his appointment at the Foreign Officethrough his own folly, and that most of his friends have dropped him. Ido honestly think that Mrs. Chance has made a terrible mistake; I pityher very much. But things may not after all turn out altogether badly, and if Merton has any good in him he ought to show it now, when he hassuch a woman as your friend for a wife and companion. At all events, Ihave made up my mind--and this is another secret, Miss Affleck--to forgetall about the past and do what I can to assist him. Not only for auldlang syne, for we were great friends at school, but also for his wife'ssake. My only fear is that he will keep out of my sight, but perhaps I amdoing him an injustice in thinking so. But as you will continue to seeyour friend, may I ask you to let me know should they at any time be invery straitened circumstances, or in any trouble, or should they go awayfrom Norland Square? I do hope you will be able to promise me this. 

Believe me, dear Miss Affleck, Yours sincerely, ARTHUR EDEN. 

To this letter, the writing of which, it is only right to say, actuallycaused Mr. Eden to blush once or twice, Fan at once replied, thanking himfor the parcel of books. "I must also thank you, " the letter said, "fortelling me to keep them so long, as there is so much to read in them, andmy reading time is only when I am at leisure in the evening. I shall takegreat care of them, as I think from their look that you like to keep yourbooks very clean. " In answer to the second part of his letter she wrote:"I scarcely know what to reply to what you say about the Chances. Constance and I are such great friends that I am almost ashamed todiscuss her affairs with anyone else, as I am sure that she would be verymuch hurt if she knew it. And yet I must promise to do what you ask. I donot think it would be right to refuse after what you have said, and I amvery glad that Mr. Chance has one kind friend left in you. "

Eden was well satisfied at the result of his first move. There would haveto be a great many more moves before the pretty game ended, but he nowhad good reason to hope for a happy ending. 

She had accepted his offer of his friendship, the loan of his books, andhad written him a letter which he liked so much that he read it severaltimes. It was a sunshiny April morning, and after breakfasting he wentout for a stroll, feeling a strange lightness of heart--a sensation likethat which a good man experiences after an exercise of benevolence. Andthe feeling actually did take the form of benevolence, and no single pairof hungry wistful eyes met his in vain during that morning's walk untilhe had expended the whole of his small change. "Poor wretches!" hethought, "I couldn't have imagined there was so much misery andstarvation about. " His heart was overflowing with happiness and love forthe entire human race. "After all, " he continued, "I don't think I'm halfas bad as that impudent conscience of mine sometimes tries to make out. Iknow lots of fellows who sink any amount of money in betting and otherthings and never think to give sixpence to a beggar. Of course no one canbe perfect, everyone _must_ have some vice. But I don't quite lookon mine as a vice. Some wise man has called it an amiable weakness--that's about as good a description as we can have. "

Passing along a quiet street where the houses were separated from thepavement by gardens and stone balustrades, he noticed a black cat seatedon the top of a pillar, its head thrown far back, and its wide-open eyes, looking like balls of yellow fire, fixed on a sparrow perched high aboveon the topmost twig of a tall slender tree. "Puss, puss, " said Eden, speaking to the animal almost unconsciously, and without pausing in hiswalk. Down instantly leapt the cat, inside the wall, and dashing throughthe shrubbery, shot ahead of him, and springing on to the balustradethrust its head forward to catch a passing caress. He touched the softblack head with his fingers, and passed on with a little laugh. "Aninstance of the magical effect of kindness, " he soliloquised. "That catsees more enemies than friends among the passers-by--the boy whose souldelights in persecuting a strange cat, and the young man with that mostinsolent and aggressive little beast a fox-terrier at his heels. And yetquick as lightning it understood the tone I spoke to it in, although thevoice was strange, and shot past me and came out just for a pat on thehead. A very sagacious cat; and yet I really felt no particular kindnesstowards it; the tone was only assumed. Its statuesque figure attractedme, as it sat there like a cat carved out of ebony, with two fierysplendid gems for eyes. I admired the beauty of the thing, that was all. And as with cats so it is with women. Let them once think that you arekind, and you have a great advantage. You may do almost anything afterthat; your kindness covers it all. .. . What an impudent juggler, and whatan outrageous fibber, this confounded conscience is! I may not have feltany great kindness for black pussy when I spoke to her, but between thatand carrying her home under my coat to vivisect her at leisure there is avast difference. If I am ever unkind in act or word or deed to that sweetgirl--no, the idea is too absurd! I can feel nothing but kindness forher, and if I felt convinced that I could not make her happy, then Iwould resign her at once, hard as that would be. "

That same evening Eden received a second letter from Fan, but very short, enclosing the two foreign letters, which she had just found in one of hisbooks. This was only what he had expected. He replied, also briefly, thanking her for sending the letters, and for the promise she had given, and there for the moment he allowed the affair to rest. 

Meanwhile Fan was every day expecting an invitation to Norland Square, and she was deeply disappointed and surprised when a whole week passedwith no letter from Constance. Then a long letter came, which troubledher a good deal, for she was not asked to go to Norland Square, and nomeeting was arranged, but, on the contrary, she was left to infer thatthere would be no meeting for some time to come. A photograph and apostal order for five shillings were enclosed in the letter, and aboutthese Constance wrote: "I send you the photo you have so often expresseda wish to have, and I think you ought to feel flattered, for I have notbeen taken before since I was fifteen years old; I don't like theoperation. I think it flatters me, and Merton says that it does not do mejustice, so that it cannot be quite like me, but it will serve wellenough to refresh your memory of me when we are separated for any lengthof time. But it is so painful to me to think of losing sight of youaltogether that I have no heart to say more about that just now. Only I_must_ have your photo: I cannot wait long for it, and you mustforgive me, dearest Fan, for sending the money to have it taken at once. I know, dear, that you cannot very well afford to spend money onpictures, even of yourself, and so please don't be vexed with me, but doas I wish; for since I cannot have you always near me I wish at least tohave your counterfeit presentment. I should like it cabinet size if youcan get it for the money, if not I must have a small vignette, and I hopeyou will go to a good man and have it well done, and above all that youwill send it soon. "

There was much more in the letter; a sweeter Fan had never received fromher friend, so much affection did it express; but it also expressedsadness, and the vague hints of probable changes to come, and a longseparation in it, mystified and troubled her. 

Before many days the photograph, which cost half-a-guinea, was finishedand sent to Constance, with a letter in which Fan begged her friend toappoint a day for them to meet. 

In the meantime at Norland Square Merton was preparing for a fresh changein his life, and as usual with a light heart; but in this instance hiswife for the first time had taken the lead. After breakfast one morninghe was getting ready to go to Fleet Street to the office of a journalthere, when Constance asked if she might go with him. 

"Yes, dear, certainly, if you wish to see a little of the life and bustleof London. "

"I haven't seen much of London yet, and I should so like to have a littlepeep at the East End we hear and read so much about just now. Can't youmanage, after your business is finished at the office, to go with methere on a little exploring expedition?"

"That's not a bad idea, " he returned. "But I shall be lost in thatwilderness, and not know which way to go and what to look for. "

"Then I shall be your guide, " she said with a smile. "I've been studyingthe map, and reading a book about that part of London, and have markedout a route for us to follow. "

"All right, Connie, get ready as soon as you like, and we'll have a dayof adventures in the East. "

And as Constance had dressed herself with a view to the journey, she hadonly to put on her hat and gloves, and they started at once, taking anomnibus in the Uxbridge Road to Chancery Lane. From Fleet Street theywent on to Whitechapel, where their travels in a strange region were tobegin. Constance wished in the first place to get some idea of the extentof that vast district so strangely called East _End, _ as if itformed but a small part of the great city. The population and number oftenements, and of miles of streets, were mere rows of figures on a page, and no help to the mind. Only by seeing it all would she be able to formany conception of it: she saw a great deal of it in the course of the dayfrom the tops of omnibuses, and travelled for hours in those longthoroughfares that seemed to stretch away into infinitude, so that onefinds it hard to believe that nature lies beyond, and fields whereflowers bloom, and last night's dew lies on the untrodden grass. Nor wasshe satisfied with only seeing it, or a part of it, in this hastysuperficial way; at various points they left the thoroughfare to strollabout the streets, and in some of the streets they visited, which werebetter than those inhabited by the very poor, Constance entered severalof the houses on the old pretext of seeking lodgings, and made manyminute inquiries about the cost of living from the women she talked with. 

It was seven o'clock in the evening when they got home; and after diningMerton lit a cigar and stretched himself out on the sofa of theirsitting-room to recover from his fatigue. His wife was also too tired todo anything, and settled herself near him in the easy-chair. 

"Well, Connie, " he said with a smile, "what is to be the outcome of theday's adventures? Of course you had an object in dragging one throughthat desert desolate. "

"Yes, I had, " she answered with a glance at his face. "Can you guess it?"

"Perhaps I can. But let me hear it. I shall be so sorry if I have to nipyour scheme in the bud. "

"I think, Merton, it would be a good plan for us to go and live there fora time. It is better to move about a little and see some of the thingsthat are going on in this world of London. I am getting a little tired ofthe monotony here; besides, just now when we are so poor it would be agreat advantage. I found out to-day that we can get better rooms thanthese for about half the sum we are paying. Provisions and everything werequire are also much cheaper there. "

"Yes, dear, that may be, but you forget that the man who aspires to risein London must have an address he is not ashamed of. Norland Square is apoor enough place, but there is at any rate a W. After it. I fancy itwould be very bad economy in the end, just to save a few shillings aweek, to go where there would be an E. "

"I don't quite agree with you, Merton. When we have friends to correspondwith and to visit us, then we can think more about where we live; I haveno desire to settle permanently or for any long time in the eastdistrict. But I have not yet told you the principal reason I have forwishing to go and live in that part of London for a few months--weeks ifyou like. "

"Well, what is it?"

"I think it will be a great advantage to you, Merton. You will be able tosee and hear for yourself. You speak about East End socialism in thepapers you are writing, but you speak of it, as others do, in a vagueway, as a thing contemptible and yet dangerous to civilisation, or whichmight develop into something dangerous. It strikes me that something isto be gained by studying it more closely, but just now you are dependenton others for your facts. "

"And you think I could see things better than others?" he said, not illpleased. 

"You can at all events see them with your own eyes, and that will bebetter than looking at them through other people's spectacles. Besides, it is a period of rapid transitions, and the picture painted yesterday, however faithful to nature the artist may have been, no longer representsthings as they exist to-day. "

"You are right there. "

"And if you go to the East End with the avowed object of studying certainphenomena and ascertaining certain facts for yourself, to use in yourarticles, I don't think that your residence there would prejudice you inany way. "

"No, of course not. Why, the thing is done every day by well-known men--brilliant writers some of them--men who are run after by Mr. Knowles. Itis a good idea, Connie, and I am glad you suggested it. The spread ofsocialism in London is a grand subject. Of course I know all about thearguments of the wretched crew of demagogues engaged in this propaganda. I could easily, to quote De Quincey's words, 'bray their fungous heads topowder with a lady's fan, and throttle them between heaven and earth withmy finger and thumb. ' But we want to know just how far their doctrines, or whatever they call their crack-brained fantasies, have taken root inthe minds of the people, and what the minds are like, and what theoutcome of it all is to be. If we go to the East End, and I don't see whywe shouldn't, as soon as we find ourselves settled there I shall begin togo about a great deal among the people, and attend the meetings of thesocial democrats, and listen to the wild words of their orators, and notethe effect of what they say on their hearers What do you say, Connie?"

"I shall be ready to pack up and follow you any day, Merton. And I thinkthat I might assist you a little; at all events I shall try, and go aboutamong the women and listen to what they say while you are listening tothe men. "

Merton was delighted. "You have a prophetic soul, Connie, " he said, "andI shall be as much astonished as yourself if something grand doesn't comeof this. A great thing in my favour is that I can generally manage to getat the pith of a thing, while most people can do nothing but sniff in ahopeless sort of way at the rind. Of course you have noticed that in me, Connie. I sometimes regret that I am not a barrister, for I possess thequalities that lead to success in that profession. At the same time it isa profession that has a very narrowing effect on the mind--the issues arereally in most cases so paltry. Your barrister never can be a statesman;he has looked at things so closely, to study the little details, that hiseagle vision has changed into the short sight of the owl. And, by theway, now I think of it, I must have a little brandy in to-night to drinksuccess to our new scheme. "

"Do you really need brandy, Merton? I thought--"

"Yes, I really do--to-night. I feel so thoroughly knocked up, Connie; andnow my brain is in such a state of activity that a little brandy willhave no more effect than so much water. Do you know, it is an ascertainedfact in science that alcohol taken when you are active--either physicallyor mentally active--does not go off nor remain in the tissues, but isoxygenised and becomes food. Besides this, I fancy, will be about thelast bottle I shall allow myself, I know that you are a Sir WilfredLawsonite, and I am determined to respect all your little prepossessions. Not that you have much to thank me for in this case, for I really carevery little about strong waters. "

He rang the bell, and gave the servant-girl six shillings to get a bottleof Hennessy's brandy. With that bottle of brandy looking very conspicuouson the table, and her husband more talkative and in need of hercompanionship than ever, Constance could not go away to her room, as shewould have liked to do, to be alone with that dull pain at her heart--thesorrow and sense of shame--or perhaps to forget it in sleep. She sat onwith him into the small hours, while that oxygenising process was goingon, listening, smiling at the right time, entering into all his plans, and even assisting him to find a startling title for the series ofbrilliant articles on the true condition of the East End, about which allLondon would no doubt soon be talking. 

CHAPTER XXXII

Constance did not reply immediately to Fan's letter, which came to herwith the photograph, but first completed her preparations for leavingNotting Hill. A visit from her friend was what she most feared, and thethought of the overwhelming confusion she would feel in the presence ofthe guileless girl, and of further and still more painful duplicity onher part, had the effect of hastening her movements. Before Merton'senthusiasm had had time to burn itself out--that great blaze which hadnothing but a bundle of wood-shavings to sustain it--they were ready todepart. But the letter must be written--that sad farewell letter whichfor ever or for a long period of time would put an end to their sweetintercourse; and it was with a heavy heart that Constance set herself tothe task. She herself had gone into the shop to seek an engagement forher friend, and had been pleased at the result--it had not made a shadowof difference between them; now, when she thought that she was about tocast the girl off, although in obedience to her husband's wishes, forthis very thing, her cheeks were on fire with shame, her heart filledwith grief. Brave and honest though she was, she could not in thisinstance bear to tell the plain truth. They were hurriedly leavingNorland Square, she said; they were going away--she did not say how far, but left the other to infer that it was to a great distance. In their newhome they would be engaged in work which would occupy all their time, alltheir thoughts, so that even their correspondence would have to besuspended. 

Their separation would be for a long time--she could not say how long, but the thought of it filled her with grief, and she had not the courageto meet Fan to say good-bye. Such partings between dear friends were sounspeakably sad! There was much more in the letter, and the writer saidall she could to soften the unkind blow she was constrained to inflict. But when Fan read it, after recovering from her first astonishment, herheart sank within her. For now it seemed that her second friend, not lessdearly loved than the first, was also lost. A keen sense of lonelinessand desolation came over her, which sadly recalled to her mind the dayswhen she had wandered homeless and hungry through the streets ofPaddington, and again, long afterwards, when she had been treacherouslyenticed away from Dawson Place. 

Not until two days after receiving this letter, which she had read ahundred times and sadly pondered over during the interval, did she writeto Arthur Eden; she could delay writing no longer, since she had promisedto let him know if anything happened at Norland Square. She wrotebriefly, and the reply came very soon. 

MY DEAR MISS AFFLECK, I am much concerned at what you tell me, and fear that Merton has gotinto serious trouble. He is not deserving of much pity, I am afraid, butI do feel sorry for his wife. That she should not have given you her newaddress is a curious circumstance, as you say, and a rather disagreeableone. I can understand their hiding themselves from a creditor, or anyother obnoxious person, but to hide themselves from you seems a senselessproceeding. However, don't let us judge them too hastily. I shall sendoff a note at once to Merton, addressed to Norland Square, asking him tolunch with me at my club on Saturday next. No doubt he has left anaddress with his landlady where letters are to be forwarded, and if he isout of town, as you imagine, there will be time to get a reply beforeSaturday; but I am sure he has not left London, and that I shall see him. He knows that he has nothing to fear from me, and when he learns that Iam willing to assist him he will perhaps tell me what the trouble is. Ofcourse I shall not tell him that I have been in communication with you. Will you be so good as to meet me in the Regent's Park--near the PortlandRoad Station entrance--at eleven o'clock next Sunday? and I shall thenlet you hear the result. 

Yours very sincerely, ARTHUR EDEN. 

It was with a little shock of pleasure that Fan read this letter, soready had the writer been to show his sympathy, and so perfectly inaccord were their thoughts; and if these new benevolent designs of Mr. Eden were to succeed, then how great a satisfaction it would always be toher to think that she had been instrumental, in a secret humble way, inher friend's deliverance from trouble! She thought it a little strangethat Mr. Eden should wish to tell her the news he would have by word ofmouth instead of by letter; but the prospect of a meeting was notunpleasant. On the contrary, it consoled her to know that thedisappearance of Constance had not cast her wholly off from that freer, sweeter, larger life she had known at Dawson Place and at Eyethorne, which had made her so happy. A link with it still existed in this newfriendship; and although Arthur Eden could not take the place ofConstance in her heart, from among his own sex fate could not haveselected a more perfect friend for her. The link was a slender one, andin the future there would probably be no meetings and few letters, but inspite of that he was and always would be very much to her. With thesethoughts occupying her mind she wrote thanking him for his ready responseto her letter, and promising to meet him on the ensuing Sunday. 

When the day at length arrived she set out at half-past ten to keep theappointment, with many misgivings, not however because she, a prettyunprotected shop-girl, was going to meet a young gentleman, but solely onaccount of the weather. All night and at intervals during the morningthere had been torrents of rain, and though the rain had ceased now thesky still looked dark and threatening. Unfortunately her one umbrella wasgetting shabby, and matched badly with hat, gloves, shoes and dress, allof which were satisfactory. Mr. Eden, she imagined, judging from hisappearance, was a little fastidious about such things, and in the end shedetermined to risk going without the umbrella. When she passed PortlandRoad Station, and the sky widened to her sight in the open space, therewere signs of coming fair weather to cheer her; the fresh breeze felt dryto the skin, the clouds flew swiftly by, and at intervals the sunappeared, not fiery and dazzling, but like a silver shield suspendedabove, rayless and white as the moon, and after throwing its chastenedlight over the wet world for a few moments the flying vapours would againobscure it. She was early, but had scarcely entered the park before Mr. Eden joined her. The pleasure which shone in his eyes when he advanced togreet her made her think that he was the bearer of welcome news; hedivined as much, and hastened to undeceive her. 

"I know that you are anxious to hear the result of my inquiries, " hesaid, "but you must prepare for a disappointment, Miss Affleck. "

"You have something bad to tell me?"

"No, I have nothing to tell. My letter to Merton was returned to me onFriday through the dead letter post. They've gone and left no address. Tomake quite sure, I went to Norland Square yesterday to see the landlady, and she says that they left ten days ago, and that Mr. Chance told herthat he had written to all his correspondents to give them his newaddress, and that if any letter came for him or his wife she was toreturn it to the postman. Of course she does not know where they havegone. "

Fan was deeply disappointed, and still conversing on this one subject, they continued walking for an hour about the park, keeping to the paths. 

"You must not distress yourself, Miss Affleck, " said her companion. "Thething is no greater a mystery now than it was a week ago, and you musthave arrived at the conclusion as long ago as that, that the Chanceswished to sever their connection with you. "

"Do you think that, Mr. Eden--do you think that Constance really wishesto break off with me? It would be so unlike her. " There were tears in hervoice if not in her eyes as she spoke. 

He did not answer her question at once. They were now close to thesouthern entrance to the Zoological Gardens. 

"Let's go in through this gate, " he said. "In there we shall be able tofind shelter if it rains. " He had tickets of admission in his pocket, andpassing the stile Fan found herself in that incongruous wild animal worldset in the midst of a world of humanity. A profusion of flowers met hergaze on every side, but she looked beyond the variegated beds, blossomingshrubs, and grass-plats sprinkled with patches of gay colour, to the hugeunfamiliar animal forms of which she caught occasional glimpses in thedistance. For she had never entered the Gardens before, this being theone great sight in London which Mary and her brother Tom had forgotten toshow her. And since her return to town she had not ventured to go therealone, although living so near to the Regent's Park. Walking there onSundays, when there was no admission to the public, she had often pausedto listen with a feeling of wonder to the strange sounds that issued fromthe enchanted enclosure--piercing screams of eagles and of cranes; themuffled thunder of lions, mingled with sharp yells from other felines;and wolf-howls so dismal and long that they might have been wafted to herall the way from Oonalaska's shore. 

Mr. Eden appeared not to notice the curious glances as he pacedthoughtfully by her side, and presently he recalled her to the subjectthey had been discussing. 

"Miss Affleck, " he said, "has there been any disagreement, or have youheard any word from Merton or Mrs. Chance which might have led you tothink that they contemplated breaking off their acquaintance with you?"

In answer she told him about the letter from Constance asking for herphotograph. 

"Where did you have your picture taken?" he asked somewhat irrelevantly. 

Fan told him, and as he said nothing she added, "But why do you ask that, Mr. Eden?"

He could not tell her that he intended going to the photographer, whosename he had just heard, to secure a copy of her picture for his ownpleasure, and so he answered:

"It merely occurred to me to ask just to know whether you had gone bychance to one of the good men I could have recommended. It is evidentthat when Mrs. Chance wrote to you in that way she had already plannedthis separation. Whatever her motives may have been, it is certainly hardon you; and I scarcely need assure you, Miss Affleck, that you have myheartfelt sympathy. "

"You are very kind, Mr. Eden, " she returned, scarcely able to repress thetears that rose to her eyes. 

After an interval of silence he said:

"If you still wish to find out their address, the quickest way would beto write to your friend's home. Merton told me that you lived for a yearwith his wife's people in Hampshire or Dorset. "

"Yes, in Wiltshire. But I know that Constance has not corresponded withher mother since her marriage. Perhaps you are right in what you said, Mr. Eden, that they wish--not to know me any longer. "

He turned away from the wistful, questioning look in her eyes, and onlyremarked, "I shall find it hard to forgive them this. "

"But I can't believe that Constance would do anything unkind, " shereplied, somewhat illogically. 

"No. But Constance is not herself--her real self now, she is Merton'swife. "

"Then you think that Constance--yes, perhaps you are right"; and then ina pathetic tone she added, "I have no friend now. "

"Do not say that, Miss Affleck! Do you not remember that on the occasionof our first meeting you promised to regard me as a friend?"

"Yes, I do, and I feel very grateful for your kindness to me. When I saidthat I meant a lady friend. .. . That is such a different kind offriendship. And--and you could never be like one of the two friends Ihave lost. "

"Two, Miss Affleck! I did not know that you had had the misfortune tolose more than one. "

"The first was the lady I lived with in London before I went to theChurtons'. "

"Oh, yes, I see what you mean. It was a great loss to you in one sense, but of course you couldn't have the same feeling about her as in the caseof Mrs. Chance. She was, I understand, a toothless old hag, more thanhalf-crazy--"

"Half-crazy! Toothless! Old! What do you mean, Mr. Eden? She is young andbeautiful, and though I am nothing to her now I love her still with allmy heart. "

He looked at her with the utmost surprise, and then burst into a laugh. 

"Forgive me for laughing, Miss Affleck, " he said. "But I remember now itwas Merton who described her to me as a made-up old lady who ought to bein an asylum. How stupid of me to believe anything that fellow ever says, even when he has no motive for being untruthful!"

Fan also laughed, she could not help laughing in spite of the intenseindignation she felt against Mary's rejected suitor for libelling her insuch an infamous manner. 

"Do you know that it is beginning to rain?" he said, holding his umbrellaover her head. "We must go in there and wait until it pauses. "

It was one o'clock, and the refreshment rooms had just opened. Fan wasconducted into the glittering dining-saloon, and was persuaded to joinher companion in a rather sumptuous luncheon, and to drink a glass ofchampagne. 

Occasional showers prevented them leaving for some time, and it wasnearly four o'clock when they finally left the Gardens, Fan again staringcuriously round her. 

"Mr. Eden, " she asked, pointing to a large, blue, cow-like creature, withgoat's horns and a hump, "will you tell me what that animal is?"

"I am not sure quite that I can, " he replied with a slight laugh. "Itsname is as outlandish as itself--gnu, or yak, or perhaps Jamrach. "

The reply was not very satisfactory, and she felt a little disappointedthat he did not turn aside to let her look at it, or at any of the otherstrange beasts and birds near them; but just after leaving he remarked ina casual way:

"I suppose you are quite familiar with the Gardens, Miss Affleck?"

"Oh, no, I have never been in them before to-day. "

"Really! Then how sorry I am that I did not know sooner! We might havegone in and seen the lions, and monkeys, while it was raining. However, we could not have seen very much to-day, and if you can manage to comenext Sunday I shall be so glad to show you everything. " Seeing that shehesitated, he added, "I shall make some inquiries during the week, andmay have something to tell you next Sunday if you will come. "

That won her consent, and after seeing her to her own door, Eden went onhis way rejoicing, for so far the gods he had once spoken of had shownthemselves favourable. 

During the week that followed Fan thought often enough of her friend'smysterious conduct towards her; but the remembrance of Mr. Eden'ssympathy lightened the pain considerably, and as the time of that secondmeeting, which was to be more pleasant even than the first, drew near, she began to think less of Constance and more of Arthur Eden. She smiledto herself when she remembered certain things she had heard about thedanger to young girls in her position in life resulting from theplausible attentions of idle pleasure-seekers like Mr. Eden; for in hiscase there could be no danger. His soul was without guile. She had madehis acquaintance in his own friend's house, and it was not in her natureto suspect evil designs which did not appear in a person's manner andconversation. If he had been her brother--that ideal brother whosekindness is un-mixed with contempt for so poor a creature as a sister--his manner could not have been more free from any suggestion of a feelingtoo warm in character. Walking home with her from the park he had spokenwith some melancholy of the changes which the end of the London season--happily not yet near--must always bring. He still had thoughts of goingabroad, but it saddened him to think that when returning after a longabsence he would be sure to miss some friendly faces--hers perhaps amongothers. And all the words he had spoken on this subject, in his tendermusical voice, were treasured in her memory. He was more to her, farmore, she thought, than she could ever be to him. Only for a time wouldhe remember her face, his life was so full, his friends so many, but shewould not forget, and the pleasant hours she now spent in his companywould shine bright in memory in future years. 

When the eagerly-wished Sunday at last arrived, the spring weather wasperfect. Even London on that morning had the softest of blue skies aboveit, with far-up ethereal clouds, white as angels' wings, a brilliantsunshine, and a breeze elastic yet warm, laden with the perfume of lilacand may. Fan smiled at her own image in the glass, pleased to think thatshe looked well in her new spring hat and dress; and at ten o'clock, whenMr. Eden met her at the appointed place, and regarded her with keencritical eyes as she advanced to him under her light sunshade, hissatisfaction was not unmingled with a secret pang, a sudden "consciencefit, " which, however, did not last long. The fashionable tide did notjust then set very strongly towards the Gardens on Sundays, but he feltwith some pride that he could safely appear anywhere in London with MissAffleck at his side, and although his friends would not know her, theywould never suspect that in her he had picked up one of the "lowerorders. "

While walking across the park they conversed once more about theirvanished friends. Eden had no news to tell, but still cherished hopes ofbeing able to discover their retreat. When they were once inside theGardens, Fan soon forgot everything except the pleasure of the moment. She could not have had a better guide than her companion, for beside afair knowledge of wild animal life, he had the pleasant faculty of seeingthings in a humorous light. And above everything, he knew his way about, and could show her many little mysterious things, hidden away behindjealously-guarded doors, of which he had the keys, and pretty birdperformances and amusing mammalian comedies, all of which are missed bythe casual visitor. The laughing jackasses laughed their loudest, almostfrightening her with their weird cachinnatory chorus; and the laughinghyæna screamed his sepulchral ha-ha-ha's so that he was heard all the wayto Primrose Hill. Pelicans, penguins, darters and seals captured andswallowed scores of swift slippery fishes for her pleasure. She was takento visit the "baby" in its private apartment, and saw him at closequarters, not without fear and shrinking, for the baby was as big as ahouse--the leviathan of the ancients, as some think. Into its vast openmouth she dropped a bun, which was like giving a grain of rice to ahungry human giant. Then she was made to take a large armful of greenclover and thrust it into the same yawning red cavern; and having done soshe started quickly back for fear of being swallowed alive along with thegrass. Mr. Eden spent a small fortune on buns, nuts, and bon-bons for theanimals, and she fed everything, from the biggest elephant and the mosttree-like giraffe to the smallest harvest mouse. But it was most curiouswith an eagle they looked at. 

"Give it a bun, " said Eden. 

"You shall not laugh at my ignorance this time, " said Fan. "I _know_that eagles eat nothing but flesh. "

"Quite right, " said he, "but if you will offer it a bun he will gladlyeat it. " And as he persisted, she, still incredulous, offered the bun, which the eagle seized in his crooked claws, and devoured with immensezest. Fan was amazed, and Eden said triumphantly, "There, I told you so. "

Long afterwards she was alone one day in the Gardens, and going to theeagle's cage, and feeling satisfied that no one was looking, offered abun to an eagle. The bird only stared into her face with its fierce eyes, as much as to say, "Do you take me for a monkey, or what? You are makinga great mistake, young woman. " It happened that someone _did_ seeher--a rude man, who burst into a loud laugh; and Fan walked away withcrimson cheeks, and the mystery remained unexplained. Perhaps someone hascompassionately enlightened her since. 

In the snake-house a brilliant green tree-snake of extraordinary lengthwas taken from its box by the keeper, and Eden wound it twice round herwaist; and looking down on that living, coiling, grass-green sash, knowing that it was a serpent, and yet would do her no harm, sheexperienced a sensation of creepy delight which was very novel, andcurious, and mixed. The kangaroos were a curious people, resembling smalldonkeys with crocodile tails, sitting erect on their haunches, and movingabout with a waltzing hop, which was both graceful and comical. One ofthem, oddly enough, had a window in the middle of its stomach out ofwhich a baby kangaroo put its long-eared head and stared at them, thenpopped it in again and shut the window. The secretary-bird proved himselfa grand actor; he marched round his cage, bowed two or three times toFan, then performed the maddest dance imaginable, leaping and poundingthe floor with his iron feet, just to show how he broke a serpent's backin South Africa. 

From the monkey-house and its perpetual infinitely varied pantomime theywere conducted into a secret silent chamber, where an interesting eventhad recently occurred, and Mrs. Monkey, who was very aristocratic andexclusive, received only a few privileged guests. They found her sittingup in bed and nursing an infant that looked exceedingly ancient, althoughthe keeper solemnly assured Fan that it was only three days old. Mrs. Monkey gravely shook hands with her visitors, and condescendinglyaccepted a bon-bon, which she ate with great dignity, and an assumptionof not caring much about it. 

"Don't you think, Miss Affleck, " said Eden, sinking his voice, "that youought to say something complimentary--that the little darling looks likeits mamma, for instance, even if you can't call it pretty?"

Fan laughed merrily, whereat Mrs. Monkey flew into a rage, and seemed soinclined to commit an assault on her visitors, that they were glad tomake a hasty retreat. 

In the blithe open air Fan observed, when she had recovered her gravity:

"How good the keepers are to take so much trouble to show us things!"

"Thanks to you, " he replied, hypocritically. "If I had come alone theywouldn't have troubled to show _me_ things. "

Then they roused the nocturnal animals from their slumbers in the straw--the wingless apteryx, like a little armless man with a very long nose;the huge misshapen earthy-looking ant-bear, and those four-footed Rip VanWinkles, the quaint, rusty, blear-eyed armadillos. But the giant ant-eater was the most wonderful, for he walked on his knuckles, and strodemajestically about, for all the world like a mammalian peacock, exhibiting his great tail. They also saw his tongue, like a yard of pinkribbon drawn out by an invisible hand from the tip of his long cucumber-shaped head. In the parrot-house the shrieking of a thousand parrots andcockatoos, all trying to shriek each other down, drove them quickly out. 

"I am sorry my nerves are not stronger, but really I can't stand it, Mr. Eden, " said Fan, apologetically. 

He laughed. "It's a great row, but not a very sublime one, " he answered. "By-and-by we shall hear something better. " And by-and-by they were inthe great lion-house, where the prisoner kings and nobles are, barred andtawny and striped and spotted, and with flaming yellow eyes. They wereall striding up and down, raging with hunger, for it was near thefeeding-time; and suddenly a lion roared, and then others roared; androyal tigers, and jaguars, and pumas, and cheetahs, and leopards joinedin with shrieks and with yells, and the awful chorus of the feline giantsgrew louder, like the continuous roar of near thunder, until the wholevast building shook and the solid earth seemed to tremble beneath them. And Fan also trembled and grew white with fear, and implored hercompanion to take her out. If she had shouted her loudest he could nothave heard a sound, but he saw her lips moving, and her pallor, and ledher out; yet no sooner was she out than she wished to return, sowonderful and so glorious did it seem to stand amidst that awful tempestof sound!

Thus passed Fan's day, seeing much of animal life, and with welcomeintervals of rest, when they had a nice little dinner in the refreshmentrooms, or sat for an hour on the shady lawn, where Mr. Eden smoked hiscigar, and related some of his adventures in distant lands. 

"You have given me so much pleasure, Mr. Eden--I have spent a very happyday, " said Fan, on their walk back to her humble lodgings. 

"And I, Miss Affleck?"

"You know it all so well; it could not be so much to you, " she returned. 

"Have I not been happy then?"

"Yes, I think you have, " she answered. "But you were happy principallybecause you were giving pleasure to someone else. "

"I think, " he said, without directly answering her words, "that when I amfar from England again, and see things that are as unfamiliar to me asthis has been to you, which people come from the ends of the earth tolook at, it will all seem very dull and insipid to me when I remember thepleasure I have had to-day. "

For many days past he had in imagination been saying a thousand prettyand passionate things to Fan--rehearsing little speeches suitable forevery occasion. 

And now this little laborious round-about speech, about going abroad, thepleasures of memory, and the rest of it, which might mean anything ornothing, was the only speech he could make. And she did not reply to it. 

"Perhaps, " thought Eden, as he walked away after leaving her at her door, "she understood the feeling, but waited to hear it expressed a littlemore clearly. " Time would show, but it struck him on this evening that hehad made little progress since the first meeting at Norland Square, andhe thought with little satisfaction of his neglected opportunities, or, as he called them, his sins of omission. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

To Fan's mind there was no note of warning in that little vaguecomplimentary speech, and she thought nothing at all about it. It isquite impossible for a man to talk all day without saying meaningless ifnot foolish things, unless he happens to be a very solemn prig whocarefully considers his words and lays them down like dominoes; and Edenwas not that. His naturalness was his great charm, and she judged hisfeelings from her own; his simple transparent kindliness was enough toaccount for all his attentions to her. After that day at the ZoologicalGardens she met him on other Sundays and Saturday afternoons, and alsoreceived some letters from him, and more books, all like the first in awonderfully clean and well-kept condition. 

One summer day Eden went to the City, a very unusual thing for him to do, and while making his way towards Cheapside through the hurrying crowd ofpedestrians filling the narrow thoroughfare of St. Paul's Churchyard, heall at once came face to face with the long-lost Merton Chance. Involuntarily both started and stopped short on coming together. It wasimpossible to avoid speaking, which would have happened if they hadrecognised each other at a suitable distance. "Eden, is it possible!""Chance, how glad I am to see you!" were the words they exclaimed at thesame moment, as they clasped hands with fictitious warmth; and then, toavoid the crowd, Merton drew his friend aside through one of the opengates into the cathedral garden. 

"Just back again from a trip to the Hindoo Koosh or the Mountains of theMoon, I suppose?" cried Merton with overflowing gaiety. 

"I have not been out of London as it happens, " said Eden. "As you mighthave known if you had sent me your address. I wrote to you at NorlandSquare several weeks ago, asking you to lunch with me one day at theclub, and the letter was returned through the Dead Letter Office, marked'Gone away--no address. '"

"Ah, yes, I forgot to send you my new address at the time, and ever sincemoving I have been so overwhelmed with work and a hundred other thingsthat I have really had no time to write. I have been anxiously lookingforward to a few hours of leisure to make up all arrears of the kind. "

"Well, then, as it is nearly two o'clock perhaps you will lunch with meto-day. Is there any place close by where we can get something to eat anddrink? I am all at sea when I get as far east as this. "

"Thanks, " said Merton, with a laugh. "That just reminds me that I havehad nothing except a cup of tea since seven o'clock this morning. Toobusy even to remember such a thing as food. Yes, there's the CathedralHotel, where you can get anything to eat from locusts and wild honey to astalled ox. By the way, since you know so little about East London, letme take you a little further east; then you will be able to boast someday that you stood on the volcano and looked down into its seethingcrater just before the great eruption. Of course I mean that you will beable to make that boast if you happen to survive the eruption. "

If Eden had little taste for ordinary enthusiasm, he had still less fordownright madness, and he hastily begged his friend to defer the volcanicquestion until after luncheon. Merton's language surprised him, it seemedso wildly irrational, and uttered with so much seriousness. In hisappearance also there were signs of degeneracy: he was thin and pale andrather shabbily dressed, and wore a broad-brimmed rusty black felt hat, which he frequently pulled off only to twist it into some newdisreputable shape and thrust it on again. Over a black half-unbuttonedwaistcoat he wore only a light covert coat, which had long seen its bestdays; his boots were innocent of polish. Eden noticed all that, andremembering that his friend had once been quite as fastidious about hisdress as himself, he was a little shocked at his appearance. 

In a few minutes they were seated at a table where they were served withan excellent luncheon, with plenty of variety in it, although it did notinclude locusts and wild honey. Rather oddly, Merton appeared to haveleisure enough to make the most of it; he studied the menu with theinterest of a professed _gourmet_, freely advised Eden what to eat, and partook of at least half a dozen different dishes himself. Nor was hesparing of the wine; and after adjourning to the smoking-room, andlighting the fragrant Havannah his friend had given him, he declinedcoffee but ordered a second bottle of six-shilling claret. 

"It rather surprises me to see a travelled fellow like you, Eden, drinking English-made coffee, " he said. "For my part, until the Frenchcan send it to us as they make it, bottled, I intend to stick to theirlight wines. "

All this amused Eden; he liked it better than the wild talk aboutimpending eruptions, and began to feel rather pleased that he had metMerton after all. Still, he could not help experiencing some curiosityabout his mysterious friend's way of life; and in spite of prudence heled the way to this dangerous topic. 

"Just look at this, Eden; this will show you what I am doing. You PallMall gentlemen are living in a fool's paradise--excuse me for putting itso bluntly--but personally you are my friend, although in our ways ofthought we are as far as the poles asunder. " He had taken a newspaperfrom his pocket, a small sheet of coarse paper printed with bad type, andturning and refolding it he handed it to his friend. The article to whichEden's attention was drawn was headed "A Last Word, " and occupied threecolumns, and at the foot appeared the name of Merton Chance. 

"I see; but surely you don't expect me to read this now?" said Eden. "Your last word is a very long one. "

"No, you can put the paper in your pocket to read at your leisure. Ithink it will have the effect of opening your eyes, Eden. That you mayescape the wrath to come is my devout wish. "

"Thanks. So you have gone in for the Salvation Army business?" And heglanced at the title of the paper, but it was not the _War Cry_. _The Time Has Come_ was the name of the sheet he held in his hand, to which Merton Chance had the honour to be a contributor. 

"No, Eden, " said the other, with a look on his face of such deep andserious meaning as to be almost tragic. "This is not the war cry youimagine, but it is a war cry nevertheless. You can shut your ears to it, if you feel so minded, and persuade yourself that there is no war inpreparation. The streets of London are full of soldiers, but then theywear no red jackets, and carry no banners, and you needn't know that theyare soldiers at all. You can safely let them march on, since they marchwithout blare of trumpets and beat of drums. "

"All right, Chance, I'll have a shot at it before going to bed to-night";and he was again about to thrust the paper into his pocket, feeling thathe was getting tired of this kind of talk. 

"Wait a moment, Eden, " said the other. "I'm afraid you do not quite knowyet what the matter is all about. Allow me to look at the paper again. "Taking it, he found and asked his friend to read a rather long editorialparagraph. 

This was all about the trumpet-tongued Merton Chance, congratulating theLeague on the accession to its ranks of so able a fighter with the pen--one who was only too ready to handle other weapons in their cause. Itspoke of all he had nobly abandoned--social position, Governmentappointment, etc. --to cast in his lot with theirs; his brilliant andimpassioned oratory, pitiless logic, with more in the same strain. 

"I presume this is a socialistic print, " said Eden, after reading theparagraph. "Well, I can't say I congratulate you on your new--departure. Still, it is something to be thought well of by those you are workingwith, and you can't complain that your editor has not laid it on thickenough in this passage. "

Merton's brows contracted; he did not like this speech, and beforereplying swallowed a glass of claret. 

"Eden, " he returned, "this is too serious a matter for a jest. But I donot think that anything is to be gained by discussing it. I shouldcertainly gain nothing by informing you that everyone has a right tolive, since a certain number of human beings must give up living, or, inother words, live like dogs, in order that you may have something beyondthe mere necessaries of life--something to make your existence pleasant. This only I will say. If you are one of those who persistently shut theireyes to the fact that a change has come, that it will no longer be as ithas been, then all I have to say is, My friend, I have warned you, andhere we part company. "

"But not, " thought Eden, "before you have finished your second bottle ofclaret. " He only said, "I really never had any taste for politics, " andthen added, "You have not said, Chance, whether your wife is with you inthis new--departure?"

"My wife, " said Merton, somewhat loftily, "is always with me. " But morethan that he did not say about his domestic affairs; nor did he eventhink to give his address before they separated. 

Eden did not fail to write to Fan, telling her that he had seen andtalked with Merton, and asking her to meet him at the Marble Arch on thenext Sunday morning, when he would be able to tell her all that hadpassed between his friend and himself. She replied on the following day, promising to meet him, in one of her characteristic letters, which healways read over a great many times and admired very much, and whichnevertheless had always had the effect of irritating him a little andmaking his hope for a time look pale. They were so transparently simpleand straightforward, and expressed so openly the friendly feelings shehad for him. 

"What does she expect, what does she imagine, what does she think in herown heart?" he said, as he sat holding her letter in his hand. "She can'tsurely think that I am going to make a shop-girl my wife, and if shedoesn't hope for that, why has she consented to correspond with me, toreceive the books I send her, and to meet me so frequently? Or does shebelieve that this is purely a platonic feeling between us--a merefriendship such as one man has for another? I don't think so. Platoniclove is purely a delusion of the male mind. Women are colder than we are, but instinctively they know the character of our feelings better than wedo ourselves. She must know that I love her. And yet she consents to meetme, and she is, I am sure, a very pure-hearted girl. How are theseseeming contradictions to be reconciled? A philosopher has said that themind of a child is a clean sheet of paper on which you may write what youlike. I believe that some women have the power of keeping their minds inthat clean-sheet-of-paper condition for their own advantage. You maywrite what you like on the paper, but only after you have paid for theprivilege. Of course, this view takes a good deal of the romance out oflife; but I have to deal with facts as I find them, and women as a ruleare not romantic. At all events, I have come to the conclusion that MissAffleck is capable of looking at this thing in a calm practical way. Shewill be my friend as long as I am hers; she loses nothing by it, butgains a little. She will also give me her whole heart if I ask for it, but not until I have given her something better than the passion, whichmay not last, in return. A poor girl, without friends or relations, andwith nothing in prospect but a life of dull drudgery--perhaps I amwilling to give her more, far more, than she dreams or hopes. "

So ran _his_ dream; and yet when she met him on the Sunday morningwith a smile on her lips and a look of gladness in her eyes, and when helistened to her voice again, he was troubled with some fresh doubts aboutthe correctness of his sheet-of-paper theory. 

They walked about a little, and then sat for some time in the shade nearthe Grosvenor Gate, while Eden told her everything that Merton had said, and then made her read Merton's "Last Word" in the socialistic paper. Then he went over the article, explaining the whole subject to her andpointing out the writer's errors, which, he said, could only deceive thevery ignorant; but he did not inform her that he had spent two daysworking up the subject, all for her benefit. She was made to see thatMerton was wrong in what he said, and that Mr. Eden had a very powerfulintellect; but she confessed ingenuously that she found the subject adifficult and wearisome one. The intellectual errors of Merton were asnothing to her compared with the unkindness of her friend in keeping outof her sight when all the time she was living close by in London. Edenwas secretly glad that she took this view of the matter; from the firsthe had felt that a reunion of the girls was the one thing he had to fear;and now Fan was compelled to believe that her friend had deliberatelythrown her off, and did not wish even to hear from her. 

"Miss Affleck--Fan--may I call you Fan?" he said, and having won herconsent, he continued, "I need not tell you again how much I sympathisewith you, but from the first I saw what you only clearly see now, for youwere not willing to believe that of your friend before. Do you rememberwhen you first lost her that I begged you to regard me as a friend? Yousaid that no man could take the place of Constance in your heart. I didnot say anything, but I felt, Fan, that you did not know what a man'sfriendship can be. I hoped that you would know it some day; I hope theday will come when you will be able to say from your heart that myfriendship has been something to you. "

"It has been a great deal to me, Mr. Eden; I should have said so long agoif I had thought it necessary. "

"It was not necessary, Fan, but it is very pleasant to hear it from yourlips. Will you not call me Arthur?"

She consented to call him Arthur, and then he proposed a trip to KewGardens. 

"It will be too late if you go home to get your dinner first, " he said. "If you don't mind we will just have a snack when we get there to keep upour strength. Or let us have it here at once, and then we can give allour time to the flowers when we get there. They are looking their bestjust now. "

She consented, and they adjourned to an hotel close by, where the "snack"developed into a very elaborate luncheon; and when they slipped out againa brougham, which Eden had meanwhile ordered, was waiting at the door totake them. 

The drive down, and rambles about the flower-beds, and visit to thetropical house, gave Fan great pleasure; and then Eden confessed that healways found the beauty of Kew, or at all events the flowery portion ofit, a little cloying; he preferred that further part where trees grew, and the grass was longer, with an occasional weed in it, and where Naturedidn't quite look as if an army of horticultural Truefitts wereeverlastingly clipping at her wild tresses with their scissors andrubbing pomatum and brilliantine on her green leaves. To thatcomparatively incult part they accordingly directed their steps, and found a pleasant resting-place on a green slope with great treesbehind them and others but small and scattered before, and through thelight foliage of which they could see the gleam of the Thames, while theplash of oars and the hum of talk and laughter from the waterway camedistinctly to their ears. But just on that spot they seemed to have theGardens to themselves, no other visitors being within sight. The day waswarm and the turf dry, but for fear of moisture Eden spread his lightcovert coat for Fan to sit on, and then stretched himself out by herside. 

"In this position I can watch your face, " he said. "Usually when we aresitting or standing together I only half see your eyes. They hidethemselves under those shady lashes like violets under their leaves. NowI can look straight up into them and read all their secrets. "

"I shouldn't like you to do that--I mean to look steadily at my eyes. "

"Why not, Fan; is it not a pleasant thing to have a friend look intoone's eyes?"

"Yes, just for a moment, but not--" and then she came to a stop. 

"Perhaps you are right, " he said after a while, finding she did notcontinue. "I wonder if I can guess what was in your mind just then? Wasit that our eyes reveal all they are capable of revealing at a glance, inan instant; that at a glance we see all that we wish to see; but thatthey do not and cannot reveal our inner self, the hidden things of thesoul; and that when our eyes are gazed steadily at it looks like anattempt to pierce to that secret part of us?"

"Yes, I think that is so. "

"And yet I think that friends that love and trust each other ought not tohave that uncomfortable feeling. Why should you have it, for instance, ina case where your friend freely opens his heart to you, and tells youevery thought and feeling he has about you? For instance, if I were toopen my heart to you now and tell you all that is in it--every thoughtand every wish?"

She glanced at him and her lips moved, but she did not speak, and after alittle he continued:

"Listen, Fan, and you shall hear it all. In the first place there is thedesire to see you contented and happy. The desire brings the thought thathappiness results from the possession of certain things, which, in yourcase, fate has put out of your reach. Your future is uncertain, and inthe event of a serious illness or an accident, you might at any time bedeprived of your only means of subsistence; so that to free you from thatanxiety about the future which makes perfect happiness impossible, afixed income sufficient for anything and settled on you for life would berequired. And now, Fan, may I tell you how I should like to act to putthese thoughts and feelings about you into practice?"

"How?" said Fan, glancing for a moment with some curiosity at his face. 

"This is what I should do--how gladly! I should invest a sum of money foryour benefit, and appoint trustees who would pay you the interest everyyear as long as you lived. I should also buy a pretty little house insome nice neighbourhood, like this one of Kew, for instance, and have itbeautifully decorated and furnished, and make you a present of it, sothat you would have your own home. If you wished to study music orpainting, or any other art or subject, I should employ masters toinstruct you. And I should also give you books, and jewels, and dresses, and go with you to plays and concerts, and take you abroad to see othercountries more beautiful than ours. "

Here he paused as if expecting some reply, but she spoke no word; sheonly glanced for a moment at his upturned face with a look of wonder andtrouble in her eyes. 

Then he continued, "And in return for all that, Fan. And for my love--thelove I have felt for you since I saw you on that evening at NorlandSquare--I should only ask you to be my friend still, but with a sweeter, closer, more precious friendship than you have hitherto had for me. "

Again she glanced at him, but only for an instant; for a few moments moreshe continued silent, deeply troubled, then with face still averted, pressed her hand on the ground to assist her in rising; but he caught herby the wrist and detained her. 

"Have you nothing to say to me, Fan?" he asked. 

"Only that I wish to stand up, Arthur, if you will let me. "

She spoke so quietly, in a tone so like her usual one, using hisChristian name too, that he looked searchingly at her, not yet knowinghow his words had affected her. Her cheeks were flushed, but she wasevidently not angry, only a little excited perhaps at his declaration. Her manner only served to raise his hopes. 

"Then let me assist you, " he said, springing lightly to his feet, anddrawing her up. But before she could steady herself his arms were roundher waist, and she was drawn and held firmly against his breast while hekissed her two or three times on the cheek. 

After freeing herself from his embrace, still silent, she walkedhurriedly away; then Eden, snatching up his coat from the grass, ranafter her and was quickly at her side. 

"Dearest Fan, are you angry with me that you refuse to speak?" he said, seizing her hand. 

"I have nothing to say, Mr. Eden. Will you release my hand, as I wish togo home?"

"I must go back to town with you, Fan, " he returned. "I will release yourhand if you will sit down on this bench and let me speak to you. We mustnot part in this way. "

After a few moments' hesitation she sat down, still keeping her faceaverted from him. Then he dropped her hand and sat down near her. Hishopes were fast vanishing, and he was not only deeply disappointed butangry; and with these feelings there mingled some remorse, he now beganto think that he had surprised and pained her. Never had she seemed moresweet and desirable than now, when he had tempted her and she had turnedsilently away. 

"For heaven's sake don't be so angry with me, Fan, " he said at length. "It is not just. I could not help loving you; and if you have old-fashioned ideas about such things, and can't agree to my proposals, whycan't we agree to differ, and not make matters worse by quarrelling? Myonly wish, goodness knows, was to make you happy; there is no sacrifice Iwould not gladly make for your sake, for I do love you, Fan, with all myheart. "

She listened quietly, but every sentence he uttered only had the effectof widening the distance between them. Her only answer was, "I wish to gohome now--will you let me go by myself?"

But he caught her hand again when she attempted to rise, and forced herto remain on the seat. 

"No, Fan, you must not go before you have answered me, " he returned, hisface darkening with anger. "You have no right to treat me in this way. What have I said to stir up such a tempest?"

"There is no tempest, Mr. Eden. What can I say to you except that we haveboth been mistaken? I was wrong to meet you, but I did not know--it didnot seem wrong. That was my mistake. "

Her voice was low and trembled a little, and there was still no note ofanger in it. It touched his heart, and yet he could not help being angrywith her for destroying his hopes, and it was with some bitterness thathe replied:

"You have told me your mistake; now what was mine?"

"That you know already. "

"Yes, I know it; but I do not know what you imagine. I may be able toshow you yet that you are too harsh with me. "

After an interval of silence she answered:

"Mr. Eden, I believe you have heard the story of my origin from Mr. Chance. I suppose that he knows what I came from. No doubt he thought itright to separate his wife from me for the same reason that made youthink that you could buy me with money, just as you could buy anythingelse you might wish to have. You would not have made such a proposal toone in your own class, though she might be an orphan and friendless andobliged to work for her living. "

"You are altogether mistaken, " he returned warmly. "I know absolutelynothing of your origin, and if I had known all about it that would nothave had the slightest effect. Gentle birth or not, I should have madethe same proposal; and if you imagine that ladies do not often receiveand accept such proposals, you know little of what goes on in the world. But you must not think for a moment that I ever tried to find out yourhistory from Merton. I put one question to him about you, and one only. Let me tell you what it was, and the answer he gave me. I asked him whereyou came from, or what your people were, and gave him a reason for myquestion, which was that the surname of Affleck had a peculiar interestfor me. There was nothing wrong in that, I think? He said that you werean orphan, that the lady you lived with, not liking your own name, gaveyou the name of Affleck, solely because it took her fancy, or wasuncommon, not because you had any relations of that name. "

"He did not know, I suppose, that it was my mother's name, " said Fan. 

But the moment she had spoken it flashed across her mind that by thatincautious speech she had revealed the secret of her birth, and her facecrimsoned with shame and confusion. 

But the other did not notice it; and without raising his eyes from theground he returned--"Your mother's name--what was her name?"

"Margaret Affleck, " she answered; and thinking that it was not too lateto repair the mistake she had made, and preserve her secret, she added, "That was her maiden name, and when the lady I lived with heard it, shepreferred to call me by it because she did not like my right name. "

"And what was your father's name?"

"I cannot answer any more questions, Mr. Eden, " she returned, after aninterval of silence. "It cannot matter to you in the least. Perhaps yousay truly that it would have made no difference to you if I had come of agood family. That does not make me less unhappy, or alter my opinion ofyou. My only wish now is to go away, and to be left alone by you. "

He continued silently prodding at the turf with his stick, his eyes fixedon the ground. She was nervous and anxious to make her escape, and couldnot help glancing frequently at his face, so strange in its unaccustomedgloom and look of abstraction. Suddenly he lifted his eyes to hers andsaid:

"And if I refuse to leave you alone, Fan?"

"Must I, then, go away altogether?" she returned with keen distress. "Will you be so cruel as to hunt me out of the place where I earn mybread? I have no one to protect me, Mr. Eden--surely you will not carryout such a threat, and force me to hide myself in some distant place!"

"Do you think you could hide yourself where I would not find you, Fan?"he answered, looking up with a strange gleam in his eyes and a smile onhis lips. 

She did not reply, although his words troubled her strangely. After awhile he added:

"No, Fan; you need not fear any persecution from me. You are just as safein your shop in Regent Street, where you earn your bread, as you would beat the Antipodes. "

"Thank you, " she returned. "Will you let me go home now?"

"We must go back together as we came, " he said. 

"I am sorry you think we must go back together. Is it only to annoy me?"

"Why should you think that, my girl?" he said, but in an indifferenttone, and still sullenly prodding at the ground with his stick. After atime he continued, "I don't want to lose sight of you just yet, Fan, orto think when we part it will be for ever. If you knew how heavy my heartis you would not be so bitter against me. Perhaps before we get back totown you will have kinder thoughts. When you remember the pleasant hourswe have spent together you will perhaps be able to give me your hand andsay that you are my friend still. "

Up to this moment she had felt only the pain of her wound and the desireto escape and hide herself from his sight; but his last words had theeffect of kindling her anger--the anger which took so long to kindle, andwhich now, as on one or two former occasions, suddenly took completepossession of her and instantly drove out every other feeling. Her facehad all at once grown white, and starting to her feet, she stood facinghim. 

"Mr. Eden, " she said, her words coming rapidly, with passion, from herlips, "do you wish me to say more than I have said? Would you like toknow what I think of you?"

"Yes; what do you think of me, Fan? I think it would be ratherinteresting to hear. "

"I think you have acted very treacherously all along. I believe that fromthe first you have had it in your mind to--to make me this offer, but youhave never let me suspect such a thing. Your kindness and interest in theChances--it was all put on. I believe you are incapable of an unselfishfeeling. Your love I detest, and every word you have spoken since youtold me of it has only made me think worse of you. You thought you couldbuy me, and if your heart is heavy it is only because you have notsucceeded--because I will not sell myself. I dare say you have plenty ofmoney, but if you had ten times as much you couldn't buy a better opinionof you than I have given. My only wish is never to see you again. I wishI could forget you! I detest you! I detest you!"

Not one word did he reply; nor had he listened to her excited words withany show of interest; but his eyes continued cast down, and theexpression of his face was still dark and strangely abstracted. 

For some moments she remained standing before him, still white andtrembling with the strength of her emotions; then turning, she walkedaway through the trees. He did not follow her this time; and when, stillfearing, she cast back one hurried glance at him from a considerabledistance, he was sitting motionless in the same attitude, with eyes fixedon the ground before him. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

With a mind agitated with a variety of emotions--her still activeresentment, grief at her loss, and a burning sense of shame at thethought that her too ready response to Eden's first advances had misledand tempted him--Fan set about destroying and putting from her allreminders of this last vanished friendship. 

She burnt the letters, and made up his books into a large package: therewere about fifteen volumes by this time, including one that she had beenreading with profound interest. She would never know the end of thattale--the pathetic history of a beautiful young girl, friendless likeherself in London; nor would she ever again see that book or hear itstitle spoken without experiencing a pain at her heart. The parcel wasaddressed in readiness to be sent off next morning, and there beingnothing more to occupy her hands, she sat down in her room, overcome witha feeling of utter loneliness. Why was she alone, without one person inall the world to care for her? Was it because of her poverty, her lowlyorigin, or because she was not clever? She had been called pretty sooften--Mary, Constance, all of them had said so much in praise of herbeauty; but how poor a thing this was if it could not bind a single soulto her, if all those who loved for a time parted lightly from her--thoseof her own sex; while the feeling that it inspired in men was one sheshrunk fearfully from. 

During the next few days she was ill at ease, and in constant fear ofsome action on Mr. Eden's part, dictated by passion or some other motive. But she saw and heard nothing of him; even the parcel of books was notacknowledged, and by Thursday she had almost convinced herself that hehad abandoned the pursuit. On the evening of that day, just after she hadgone up to her room at the top of the house, her heavy-footed landladywas heard toiling up after her, and coming into the room, she sank downpanting in a chair. 

"These stairs do try my heart, miss, " she said, "but you didn't hear mecall from my room when you came up. There's a gentleman waiting to seeyou in the parlour. I took him in there because he wouldn't go away untilhe had seen you. "

"Mr. Eden--oh, why has he come here to make me more unhappy?" thoughtFan, turning pale with apprehension. 

"He's that impatient, miss, you'd better go down soon. He's been ringingthe bell every five minutes to see if you'd come, and says you are verylate. " Then she got up and set out on her journey downstairs, but pausedat the door. "Oh, here's the gentleman's card--I quite forgot it. " Andplacing it on the table, she left the room. 

For some moments Fan stood hesitating, then without removing her hat, andwith a wildly-beating heart, moved to the door. As she did so she glancedat the card, and was astonished to find that it was not Arthur Eden's. The name on it was "Mr. Tytherleigh, " and beneath, in the left-handcorner, "Messrs. Travers, Enwright, and Travers, Solicitors, Lincoln'sInn Fields. "

Who was Mr. Tytherleigh? And what had she, a poor friendless girl, to dowith a firm of lawyers? Then it occurred to her that it was Arthur Edenafter all who wished to see her, and that he had sent her up this falsecard only to inveigle her into an interview. Her ideas about the code ofa gentleman were somewhat misty. It is true that Eden had taken advantageof her friendless position, and had lied to her, and worn a mask, anddeliberately planned to make her his mistress; but he would no more havetaken another man's name in order to see her than he would have picked apocket or sent a libellous post-card. Being ignorant of these finedistinctions, she went down to the little sitting-room on the groundfloor greatly fearing. Her visitor was standing at the window on theopposite side of the room, and turned round as she entered; a natty-looking man, middle-aged, with brown moustache, shrewd blue eyes, and agenial expression. 

"Miss Affleck?" he said, bowing and coming a few steps forward. 

"Yes, that is my name, " she returned, greatly relieved at finding astranger. 

"You look pale--not quite well, I fear. Will you sit down?" he said. Thenhe added with a smile, "I hope my visit has not alarmed you, MissAffleck? It is a very simple and harmless matter I have come to youabout. We--the firm of Travers and Co. --have been for a long time tryingto trace a person named Affleck, and hearing accidentally that a younglady of that name lodged here, I called to make a few inquiries. " Whilespeaking he had taken a newspaper--the _Standard_--from his pocket, and pointing out an advertisement in the second column of the first page, asked her to read it. 

She read as follows:

Margaret Affleck (maiden name). Messrs. Travers, Enwright, and Travers, Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, wish to communicate with this person, who was in service in London about sixteen years ago, and is supposed tohave married about that time. A reward will be given for any informationrelating to her. 

"That was my mother's name, " said Fan. 

"Then may I ask you, why did you not reply to this advertisement, which, you see, is upwards of three years old, and was inserted repeatedly inseveral papers?"

"I never saw it--I did not read the newspapers. But my mother has beendead a long time. I should not have answered this if I had seen it. "

"No? That sounds strange. Will you kindly tell me why you call yourselfby your mother's maiden name?"

She coloured and hesitated for some moments, and then returned, "I cannottell you that. If my mother was the Margaret Affleck you advertised for, and something has been left to her, or some relation wishes to trace her, it is too late now. She is dead, and it is nothing to me. "

This she said with some bitterness and a look of pain; he, meanwhile, closely studying her face. 

"Nothing to you, Miss Affleck? If money had been left to your mother, itwould, I imagine, be something to you, she being dead. As it happens--there is no legacy--no money--nothing left; but I think I know what youmean by saying that it would be of no advantage to you. "

"What do I mean?" she said, still led on to speak after resolving to sayno more. 

"You mean that your mother was never married. "

Her face flushed hotly, and she rose from her chair. Mr. Tytherleigh alsorose quickly from his seat, fearing that she was about to leave the roomwithout saying more. 

"Miss Affleck, " he said, "will you allow me to make a little explanationbefore asking you any more questions? I have said that there is no moneyleft to Margaret Affleck, but I can safely say that if you are thedaughter of that Margaret advertised for so long ago, you can losenothing by giving us any information you may possess. Certainly you canlose nothing by assisting us, but you might gain a great deal. Pleaselook again at this advertisement--'supposed to have married'--but_was_ your mother ever married?"

"Yes, she was, " answered Fan, a little reluctantly. "Her husband's namewas Joseph Harrod; but I do not know where he is. I left him years ago. "

"Nor do we want him. But tell me this, Miss Affleck, and please do not beoffended with me for asking so painful a question; but everything hingeson it. Are you the child of this Joseph Harrod--your mother's husband?"

She cast down her eyes. It was a hard question to answer; but the kindtone in which he had spoken had won her heart, for kindness was veryprecious to her just now, and quickly had its effect, in spite of herrecent sad experience. She could not help trusting him. "No, he was notmy father, " she answered. 

"And who was your father, Miss Affleck?"

"I do not know. "

"But do you know absolutely nothing about him--did your mother nevermention him to you? How do you come to know that Joseph Harrod was notyour father?"

"My mother told me. She said that my father was a gentleman, and--that Ilooked like him. She would not tell me his name, because she had taken anoath never to reveal it to anyone. "

He was watching her face as she spoke, her--eyes cast down. "One questionmore, Miss Affleck: do you happen to know where your mother was born?"

"She came from Norfolk. "

Mr. Tytherleigh rested an elbow on the table, and thrusting his fingersthrough his hair, stared down at the note-book in which he had beenwriting down her answers. "How strange--how very strange!" he remarked. Presently he added, "We must find out where you were baptised, MissAffleck; you do not know, I suppose?"

She could not tell him, and after some further conversation, and hearinga brief sketch of her life, her visitor rose to go. "Mr. Tytherleigh, "said Fan, "I remember something now I wish to tell you. One day, when Iwas about twelve years old, I went with mother to a street nearManchester Square, where she had some work, and on the way back toEdgware Road we passed a small curious old-looking church with achurchyard crowded thick with grave-stones. It was a very narrow street, and the grave-stones were close to the pavement, and I stopped to readthe words on one. Then mother said, 'That is the church I was married in, Fan, and where you were christened. ' But I do not know the name of thechurch, nor of the street it is in. "

Mr. Tytherleigh took down this information. "I shall soon find it, " hesaid; and promising to write or see her again in two or three days' time, he left her. 

She had not so long to wait. On the next day, after returning from RegentStreet, she was called down to see Mr. Tytherleigh once more. 

"Miss Affleck, " he said, advancing with a smile to meet her, "I am veryglad to be able to tell you that our inquiries have satisfied us that youare the daughter of the Margaret Affleck we advertised for. And I can nowadd that when we were seeking for your mother, or information of her, ourreal object was to find _you. _"

"To find me!" exclaimed Fan, starting up from her seat, a new hope in herheart. "Do you know then who my father is?"

_"Was_--yes. You have no father living. I did not wish to say toomuch yesterday, but from the moment I saw you and heard your voice, I wassatisfied that I had found the right person. "

"Is it then true that I resemble my father?"

"When I said that I was thinking less of your father than of yourfather's son. "

"Then I have a brother living!" she exclaimed excitedly, an expression onher face in which anxiety and a new glad hope were strangely blended. "Have I sisters too? Oh, how I have wished to have a sister! Can you tellme?" Then suddenly her face clouded, and dropping her voice, she said, "But they will not know me--they will be ashamed to own me. I shall neversee them--I shall be nothing to them!"

"No, Miss Affleck, you have no sisters. Your father, Colonel Eden, hadonly one son, Mr. Arthur Eden, whom you know. "

"Colonel Eden! Mr. Arthur Eden!" she repeated, with a strange bewilderedlook. "Is he my brother--Arthur--Arthur!" And while the words came like acry of anguish from her lips, she turned away, and with hands claspedbefore her, took a few uncertain steps across the room, then sinking onto the sofa, burst into a great passion of tears and sobs. 

Mr. Tytherleigh went to the window and stared at the limited view at theback; after a while he came to her side. "Miss Affleck, " he said, "Ifully believed when I came to see you that I had welcome news to tell. Iam sorry to see you so much distressed. "

Restraining her sobs she listened, and his words and tone of surpriseserved to rouse and alarm her, since such a display of emotion on herpart might make him suspect her secret--that hateful secret of ArthurEden's passion, which must be buried for ever. In the brief space of timewhich had passed since he had made his announcement, and that cry of painhad risen from her lips, a change had already taken place in herfeelings. All the bitter sense of injury and insult, and the anger mixedwith apprehension, had vanished; her mind had reverted to the conditionin which it had been before the experience at Kew Gardens; only thefeeling of affection had increased a hundred-fold. She remembered nowonly all that had seemed good in him, his sweet courteous manner, hisinnumerable acts and words of kindness, and the goodness was no longer amask and a sham, but a reality. For he was her brother, and the blood ofone father ran in their veins; and now that dark cloud, that evil dream, which had come between them, had passed away, and she could cast herselfon her knees before him to beg him to forgive and forget the cruel falsewords she had spoken to him in her anger, and take her to his heart. Butin the midst of all the tumult of thoughts and feelings stirring in her, there was the fear that he would now be ashamed of his base-born sisterand avoid her. 

"I am afraid that I have no cause to feel happy, " she returned at last. "Arthur Eden knows me so well, and if he had not felt ashamed of findinga sister in me, he would have come to me himself instead of sending astranger. But perhaps, " she added with fresh hope, "he does not know whatyou have told me?"

"Yes, he knows certainly, since it was he who discovered that you werethe daughter of a Margaret Affleck. I have been acting on hisinstructions, and told him to-day when I saw him that there was no doubtthat you were Colonel Eden's child. It was better, he thought, and Iagreed with him, that you should hear this from me. He is anxious to seeyou himself, and until you see him you must not allow such fancies todisturb you. He had no sooner made the discovery I have mentioned the daybefore yesterday--Wednesday--than he hastened to us to instruct us whatto do in the case. "

Wednesday! But he had heard about Margaret Affleck on Sunday--why had hekept silence all that time? She could not guess, but it seemed there hadbeen some delay, some hesitation, on his part. The thought sorelytroubled her, but she kept it to herself. "Do you think he will come tosee me this evening?" she asked, with some trouble in her voice. 

"He said to-morrow. And, by-the-bye, Miss Affleck, he asked me to saythat he hopes you will be in when he calls to see you. "

"But I must go to my place for the day. "

"About that, Mr. Eden thinks you had better not go yourself. I shallsee or write to your employer this evening to let him know that you willbe unable to attend to-morrow. "

"But I might lose my place then, " said Fan, surprised at the cool way inwhich Mr. Tytherleigh invited her to take a holiday, and thinking of whatthe grim and terrible manager would say. 

"I cannot say more, " he returned. "I have only stated Mr. Eden's wishes, and certainly think it would be better not to risk missing him by goingout tomorrow. In any case I shall see or communicate with your employer. "

He left her with an excited mind which kept her awake a greater part ofthe night, and next morning she resolved to do as she had been told andremain in all day, even at the risk of losing her situation. Then as thehours wore on and Arthur came not, her excitement increased until it waslike a fever in her veins, and made her lips dry, and burnt in her cheekslike fire. She could not read, nor work, nor sit still; nor could shetake any refreshment, with that gnawing hunger in her heart; but hourafter hour she moved about her narrow room until her knees trembled underher, and she was ready to sink down, overcome with despair that thebrother she had found and loved was ashamed to own her for a sister. Finally she set the door of her room open, and at every sound in thehouse she flew to the landing to listen; and at last, about five o'clock, on going for the hundredth time to the landing, she heard a visitor comeinto the hall and ask for "Miss Affleck. " She hurried down to the groundfloor, passing the servant girl who had admitted her brother and wasgoing up to call her. When she entered the sitting-room Eden was standingon the further side staring fixedly at a picture on the wall. It was apicture of a fashionable young lady of bygone days, taken out of one ofL. E. L. 's or Lady Blessington's _Beauty Books;_ she was representedwearing a shawl and flounced dress, and with a row of symmetrical curlson each side of her head--a thing to make one laugh and weep at the sametime, to think of the imbecility of the human mind of sixty years agothat found anything to admire in a face so utterly inane andlackadaisical. So absorbed was Eden in this work of art that he did notseem to hear the door open and his sister's steps on the worn carpet. 

"Arthur--at last!" she cried, advancing to him, all her sisterlyaffections and anxiety thrilling in her voice. 

He half turned towards her with a careless "How d'ye do, Fan?" and thenonce more became absorbed in contemplating the picture. 

Her first impulse on entering the room had been to throw her arms abouthis neck, but the momentary glimpse of his face she had caught when heturned to greet her arrested her steps. His face was deathly pale, andthere was an excited look in his eye which seemed strangely to contrastwith his light, indifferent tone. 

"A very fine picture that; I shouldn't mind having it if the owner caresto part with it, " he said at length, and then half turning again, regarded her out of the corners of his eyes. "Well, Fan, what do youthink of all this curious business?" he added, with a slight laugh. 

For how many hours she had been trying to picture this meeting in hermind, now imagining him tender and affectionate as she wished him to be, now cold or contemptuous or resentful; and in every case her heated brainhad suggested the very words he would use to her; but for this carelesstone, and the inexplicable look on his face, according so ill with histone, she was quite unprepared, and for some time she could make no replyto his words. 

"Arthur, " she spoke at last, "if you could have known how anxiously Ihave been waiting for you since yesterday, I think you would in mercyhave come a little sooner. "

"Well, no, Fan, I think not, " he returned, still careless. 

She advanced two or three steps nearer. 

"Have you then come at last only to confirm my worst fears? Tell me, Arthur--my brother! Are you sorry to have me for a sister?"

Again he laughed. 

"What a simple maiden you must be to ask such a question!" he said. "Sorry? Good God, I should think so! Sorry is no word for it. If Fatethought it necessary to thrust a sister on me I wish it had rather beensome yellow-skinned, sour old spinster, but not you. "

"Do you hate me then?" she exclaimed, misinterpreting his meaning in heragitation. "Oh what have I done to deserve such unhappiness? Have Ibrought it on myself by those cruel words I spoke to you when we lastmet?"

He had turned again towards her and was watching her face, but when shelooked at him his eyes dropped. 

"Yes, I remember your words, Fan, " he said. "You abused me at KewGardens, and you think I am having my revenge. You would remember me, yousaid, only to detest me. Am I less a monster now because I am yourrelation?"

"Arthur, forgive me--can you not say that you forgive me?" coming stillnearer, and putting out her hands pleadingly to him. 

His lips moved but made no sound; and she, urged on by that great cravingin her heart, at length stood by his side, but he averted his face fromher. 

"Arthur, " she spoke again in pleading tones, "will you not look at me?"Then, with sudden anguish, she added, "Have I lost everything you oncesaw in me to make you love me?" But he still made no sign; and growingbolder she put her arm round his neck. "Arthur, speak to me, " shepleaded. "It will break my heart if you cannot love me. "

All at once he looked her full in the face, and their eyes met in a longgaze, hers tender and pleading, his wild and excited. His lips had growndry and almost of the colour of his cheeks, and his breath seemed like aflame to her skin. "Arthur, will you refuse to love me, your sister?" shemurmured tenderly, drawing her arm more tightly about his neck until hisface was brought down to hers, then pressing her soft lips to his drymouth. 

He did not resist her caress, only a slight shiver passed through hisframe, and closing his eyes, he dropped his forehead on her shoulder. 

"Do you know what you are doing, Fan?" he murmured. "I have had such ahard fight, and now--my victory is turned to defeat! You ask me to loveyou; poor girl, it would be better if I scorned you and broke your heart!Darling, I love you--you cannot conceive how much. If you could--if onespark of this fire that burns my blood could drop into yours, then itwould be sweeter than heaven to live and die with you!"

He lifted his face again, and his lips sought hers, to cling long andpassionately to them, while he gathered her in his arms and drew heragainst his breast, closer and closer, until she could scarcely refrainfrom crying out with pain. Then suddenly he released her, almost flingingher from him, and walking to the sofa on the other side of the room, hesat down and buried his face in his hands. 

Fan remained standing where he had left her, too stunned and confused bythis violent outburst of passion to speak or move. At length he rose, andwithout a word, without even casting a look at her, left the room. Then, recovering possession of her faculties, she hurried out after him, but ongaining the hall found that he had already left the house. 

Not knowing what to think or fear, she went to her room and sat down. Themeeting to which she had looked forward so impatiently had come and wasover, and now she did not know whether to rejoice or to lament. For anhour she sat in her close hot room, unable to think clearly on thesubject, oppressed with a weak drowsy feeling she could not account for. At last she remembered that she had spent an anxious sleepless night, andhad taken no refreshment during the day, and rousing herself she wentdownstairs to ask the landlady to give her some tea. It refreshed her, and lying down without undressing on her bed, she fell into a deep sleep, from which she did not awake until about ten o'clock. Lying there, stilldrowsy, and again mentally going through that interview with Arthur, hereye was attracted by the white gleam of an envelope lying on the duskyfloor--a letter which the servant had thrust in under the door for her. It was from Arthur. 

MY DEAR SISTER [he wrote], I fear I have offended you more deeply thanever; I was scarcely sane when I saw you to-day. Try, for God's sake, toforget it. I am leaving London to-morrow for a few weeks, and trust thatwhen I return you will let me see you again; for until you assure me withyour own lips, Fan, that I am forgiven, the thought of my behaviour to-day will be a constant misery. And will you in the meantime let yourselfbe guided by Mr. Travers, who was our father's solicitor and friend, andwho can tell you what his last wishes about you were? Whatever you mayreceive from Mr. Travers will come to you, _not from me, _ but fromyour father. If Mr. Travers asks you to his house please go, and look onhim as your best friend. I believe that Mr. Tytherleigh intends callingon you to-morrow at one o'clock, and I think that he has already informedyour employer that it will not be convenient for you to attend again atRegent Street. 

Good-bye for a time, dear sister, and try, try to think as kindly as youcan of Your affectionate brother, ARTHUR EDEN. 

This letter had the effect of dissipating every sad and anxious thought, and Fan undressed and went to bed, only to lie awake thinking of herhappiness. Her heart was overflowing with love for her brother; for howgreat a comfort, a joy, it was to know that after all that had happenedhe was good and not bad! He was indeed more than good in the ordinarysense of the word, for what kindness and generosity and delicacy he haddisplayed towards her in his letter. So far did her leniency go that sheeven repeated his mad words, "Darling, I love you, you cannot conceivehow much, " again and again with a secret satisfaction; for how hard itwould have been if that passionate love he had felt for her, which onlythe discovery of their close relationship had made sinful, orinconvenient, had changed to aversion or cold indifference; and thiswould certainly have happened if Arthur Eden had not been so noble-mindeda person. 

When morning came she could not endure the thought that he was going awaywithout that assurance from her own lips of which he had spoken. Mr. Tytherleigh would call to see her at one o'clock, but there were three orfour long hours to get rid of before then, and in the end she dressedherself and went boldly to his apartments in Albemarle Street, where shearrived about eleven o'clock. 

The servant who answered her knock did not know whether she could see Mr. Eden, and summoned her mistress. 

"Mr. Eden has only been home about an hour, " said this lady, a littlestiffly. "He said he was going to sleep, and that he was not to bedisturbed on any account. "

"But he is going to leave town to-day, and I _must_ see him, "returned Fan. Then, with a blush brightening her cheeks, she added, "I amhis sister. "

"Why, miss, so you are!" exclaimed the woman astonished, and breaking outin smiles. "I never knew that Mr. Eden had a sister, but I might haveguessed it when I saw you, for you are his very image. I'll just go upand ask him if he can see you. "

Fan, in her impatience, followed her up into Eden's sitting-room on thefirst floor. At the further end of the room the woman rapped at the door. 

"What the devil do you want now? I told you not to disturb me, " wasshouted in no amiable voice from inside. 

Fan hurried to the door and called through the keyhole, "Arthur, I mustsee you before you leave town. "

"Oh, Fan, is that you? I really beg your pardon, " he replied. "All right;make yourself comfortable, and I'll be with you in five minutes. "

Fan, left alone, began an inspection of her brother's "den, " about whichshe had often heard him speak, and the first object which took herattention was a brown-paper parcel lying on a chair against the wall. Itwas the parcel of novels she had returned to him a few days before, notyet opened. But when she looked round for that large collection of books, about which he had spoken to her, she found it not, nor anything in theway of literature except half a dozen volumes lying on the table, bearingMudie's yellow labels on their covers. Near the chair on which the parcelwas lying a large picture rested on the carpet, leaning against the wall. A sheet of tissue paper covered it, which her curiosity prompted her toremove, and then how great was her surprise at being confronted with herown portrait, exquisitely done in water-colours, half the size of life, and in a very beautiful silver frame. How it got there was a mystery, butnot for one moment did she doubt that it was her own portrait; only itlooked, she thought, so much more beautiful than the reality. She hadnever worn her hair in that picturesque way, nor had she ever possessedan evening dress; yet she appeared in a lovely pale-blue dress, her neckand arms bare, a delicate cream-coloured lace shawl on one arm resting onher shoulder. 

She was still standing before it, smiling with secret pleasure, andblushing a little, when Eden, coming in, surprised her. 

"I see you have made a discovery, Fan, " he said. 

She turned quickly round, the bright colour suffusing her cheeks, andheld out her hand to him. He was pale and haggard, but the strangeexcited look had left his face, and he smiled pleasantly as he took herhand and touched her finger-tips to his lips. 

"Why did you come to me here?" he asked, beginning to move restlesslyabout the room. 

"To give you that assurance with my own lips you asked for--I could notlet you go away without it. Will you not kiss me, Arthur?"

"No, not now. Do sit down, Fan. I thought that you would only feel thegreatest aversion to me, yet here you are in my own den trying to--Youimagine, I suppose, that a man is a kind of moral barrel-organ, and thatwhen the tune he has been grinding out for a long time gets out of date, all he has got to do is to change the old cylinder for a new one andgrind out a fresh tune. Do you understand me, Fan?"

She considered his words for a little while and then answered, "Arthur, Ithink it will be better--if you will not avoid me--if you will believethat all my thoughts of you are pleasant thoughts. I do not think you canbe blamed for feeling towards me as you do. " She reddened and cast downher eyes, dimmed with tears, then continued, "It was only that chancediscovery that makes you think so badly of yourself. "

"You are strangely tolerant, " he said, sitting down near her. "Strangelyand sweetly rational--so lenient, that if I did not know you as well as Ido, I might imagine that your moral sense is rather misty. Your words, dear girl, make me sick of deceit and hypocrisy, and I shall not try tosee myself as you see me. I am worse than you imagine; if you knew allyou would not be so ready to invent excuses for me--you would not forgiveme. " Then he got up, and added, "But I am glad you came to see me, Fan;your visit has done me ever so much good. "

"Don't send me away so soon, Arthur, " she returned. "What is it that Icould not forgive? You should not say that before you put me to thetest. "

"Good heavens, Fan, do you wish me to do that? Well, perhaps that wouldbe best. I said that I was sick of deceit, and I ought to have thecourage of my opinions. Do you know that when Mr. Tytherleigh called tosee you, my lawyers had only just learnt the secret I had discoveredseveral days before?"

"Yes, I knew that. "

"But you don't know--you couldn't imagine why I kept back theinformation. "

"I thought that the delay was because I had offended you--I didn't thinkmuch about it. "

"Of course that was not the reason. "

"Then you must tell me, Arthur. "

"Must I tell you, dear sister? When you left me alone at Kew I askedmyself whether it would not be better to conceal what I had heard andmarry you. I don't know what madness possessed me. The instant you spokethe words that Margaret Affleck was your mother's name, I was convincedthat you were my half-sister--the mystery of something in you, which hadalways puzzled and baffled me, was made plain. Your voice at times waslike my father's voice, and perhaps like my own; and in your face andyour expression you are like my father's mother in a miniature of hertaken when she was a girl, and which I often used to see. And yet"--hepaused and turned his face from her, --"this very conviction that you wereso closely related to me made my feeling only stronger. Every scornfulword you uttered only made it stronger; it seemed to me that unless Ipossessed you my life would not be worth having. .. . Even my father'sdying wishes were nothing to me. .. . And for three days and nights. .. . Howcan you forgive me, Fan, when I had it in my heart to do such a thing?"

"But I should not have consented to marry you, " said Fan simply. 

"Consider, Fan; you, a poor friendless girl in London, with nothing tolook forward to. In a little while you would have recovered from youranger, and in the end, when you knew how great my love was, you wouldhave consented. For I knew that you liked me very much; and perhaps youloved me a little. "

"I did love you, Arthur, from the very first, but it was not that kind oflove. I know that I should never have felt it for you. I did not knowthat you were my brother, but I think that my heart must have known it. "

"Perhaps so, Fan; perhaps in hearts of such crystal purity as yours thereis some divine instinct which grosser natures are without. But you ignorethe point altogether. My crime was in the intention, and if it had provedas you think, my guilt would have been just as great. That is my sin, Fan; the thought was in my heart for days and nights, and though the daysand nights were horrible, I refused to part with my secret. "

"But, Arthur, you _did_ part with it in the end. No one compelledyou to give it up. "

"No, no one. I was afraid, I think, that some horrible thing would happento me--that I would perhaps go mad if I carried out my intention; and Iwas driven at last, not by conscience, but by servile fear to make aclean breast of it. "

"But, Arthur, " she persisted, in a voice of keen pain, "is there anydifference between conscience and what you call fear? I know that I wouldsometimes do wrong, and that fear prevents me. We have all good and badin us, and--the good overcame the bad in you. "

There was silence for some time between them, then Eden said, "Fan, whata strange girl you are! The whiteness of your soul is such that it haseven pained me to think of it; and now that I have shown you all theblackness of my own, and am sick of it myself, you look very calmly atit, and even try to persuade me that it is not black at all. The onething you have said which sounds artificial, and like a copy-book lesson, is that we all have good and bad in us. What is the bad in you, Fan--whatevil does it tempt you to do?"

This question seemed to disturb her greatly. 

"For one thing, " she said hesitatingly, and casting her eyes down, "Ialways hate those who injure me--and--and I am very unforgiving. "Then, raising her eyes, which looked as if the tears were near them, sheadded, "But, Arthur, please don't be offended with me if I say that Idon't think you are right to put such a question to me--just now. "

"No, dear, it isn't right. From me to you it is a brutal question, and Ishall not offend again. But to hear you talk of your unforgiving tempergives me a strange sensation--a desire to laugh and cry all at the sametime. " He looked at his watch. "I don't wish to drive you away, Fan, butpoor Mr. Tytherleigh will be at his wits' end if he misses you. "

"What is he going to see me about, Arthur?"

"I don't know at all. You are in Mr. Travers' hands. "

He was about to rise; but Fan, coming quickly to his side, stopped him. 

"Good-bye, Arthur--my darling brother, " she said, stooping and kissinghim quickly on his cheek, then on his lips. "May I take one thing awaywith me?"

"Your picture? Yes; you may take it if you like: that is to say, you maykeep it for a time. I shall not give it to you. "

"But it is mine--my own portrait, " said Fan, with a happy laugh. "ThoughI do not know by what magic you got it. "

"That's easily explained. When I heard where you had had your phototaken, I went and ordered a copy for myself. The negative had beenpreserved. Then I had it enlarged, and the water-colour taken from it. And there are your books, Fan--take them too. "

"I will take one, Arthur; I was just reading it when--" She did notfinish the sentence, but began hastily untying the parcel to get thebook, while her brother rang the bell, and ordered a cab "for Miss Eden. "

How strange--how sweet it sounded to her!

"Is that my name, Arthur?" she asked, turning to him with a look of gladsurprise. 

"Yes, until you change it; and, by the way, you had better order yourselfsome cards. "

A few minutes later and she was speeding northwards in a hansom, feelingthat the motion, so unlike that of the familiar lumbering omnibus, had awonderfully exhilarating effect on her. It was a pleasure she had nottasted since the time when she lived in London with Mary, and that nowseemed to her a whole decade ago. But never in those past days had shefaced the fresh elastic breeze in so daintily-built a cab, behind sofiery, swift-stepping a horse. Never had she felt so light-hearted. Fornow she was not alone in life, but had a brother to love; and he lovedher, and had shown her his heart--all the good and the evil that was init; and all the evil she could forgive, and was ready to forget, and itwas nothing to her. She was even glad to think that when he had firstseen her in that little shabby sitting-room in Norland Square it had beento love her. 

CHAPTER XXXV

Mr. Tytherleigh was already at her lodgings, and seeing her arrive, hehurried out to ask her not to alight. Mr. Travers, he said, wished her tomove into better apartments; he had a short list in his pocket, andoffered to go with her to choose a place. Fan readily consented, and whenhe had taken the picture into the house for her, he got into the cab, andthey drove off to the neighbourhood of Portman Square. In Quebec Streetthey found what they wanted--two spacious and prettily--furnished roomson a first floor in a house owned by a Mrs. Fay. A respectable woman, very attentive to her lodgers, Mr. Tytherleigh said, and known to Mr. Travers through a country client of his having used the house for severalyears. He also pronounced the terms very moderate, which rather surprisedFan, whose ideas about moderation were not the same as his. 

From Quebec Street they went to the London and Westminster Bank inStratford Place, where Fan was made to sign her name in a book; and asshe took the pen into her hand, not knowing what meaning to attach to allthese ceremonies, Mr. Tytherleigh, standing at her elbow, whisperedwarningly--"_Frances Eden_. " She smiled, and a little colour flushedher cheeks. Did he imagine that she had forgotten? that the name ofAffleck was anything more to her than a bit of floating thistledown, which had rested on her for a moment only to float away again, to becarried by some light wind into illimitable space, to be henceforth andfor ever less than nothing to her? After signing her new name a cheque-book was handed to her; then Mr. Tytherleigh instructed her in themysterious art of drawing a cheque, and as a beginning he showed her howto write one payable to self for twenty-five pounds; then after handingit over the counter and receiving five bank-notes for it, they left thebank and proceeded to a stationer's in Oxford Street, where Fan orderedher cards. 

Mr. Tytherleigh, as if reluctant to part from her, returned to CharlotteStreet in the cab at her side. During their ride back she began toexperience a curious sensation of dependence and helplessness. It wouldhave been very agreeable to her if this freer, sweeter life which she hadtasted formerly, and which was now hers once more, had come to her as agift from her brother; but he had distinctly told her that she hadnothing to thank him for, and only some very vague words about herfather's dying wishes had been spoken. Who then was she dependent on? Shehad not been consulted in any way; her employer had simply been told thatit would not be convenient for her to attend again at the place ofbusiness, and now she was sent to live alone in grand apartments, whereshe would have a cheque-book and some five-pound notes to amuse herselfwith. For upwards of a year she had been proud of her independence, ofher usefulness in the world, of the room she rented, and had made prettywith bits of embroidery and such art as she possessed, and now she couldnot help experiencing a little pang of regret at seeing all this takenfrom her--especially as she did not know who was taking it, or changingit for something else. 

These thoughts were occupying her mind when she was led into herlandlady's little sitting-room, and hoped that the lawyer or lawyer'sclerk had only come to explain it all to her. 

"I don't know when I shall see you again, Miss Eden, " he said; shenoticed that he and her brother had begun calling her Miss Eden on thesame day; "but if there is anything more I can do for you now I shall beglad. If I can assist you in moving to Quebec Street, for instance----"

"Oh no, thank you; all my luggage will go easily on a cab. Are you in ahurry to leave, Mr. Tytherleigh?"

"Oh no, Miss Eden, my time is at your disposal"; and he sat down again toawait her commands. 

"I should so like to ask you something, " she said. "For the last fewhours I have scarcely known what was happening to me, and I feel--alittle bewildered at being left alone with this cheque-book and money. And then, whose money is it, Mr. Tytherleigh--you can tell me that, Isuppose?"

"Why, I should say your own, Miss Eden, else--you could hardly have it tospend. "

"But how is it mine? I forgot to ask my brother today to explain somethings in a letter I had from him last night. He wishes me to be guidedby Mr. Travers, and says that what I receive does not come from him, butfrom my father. "

"Quite right, " said the other with confidence. 

"But, Mr. Tytherleigh, you told me some days ago that no money was leftto my mother or to anyone belonging to her. "

"Ah, yes, it does seem a little contradictory, Miss Eden. I was quitecorrect in what I told you, and--for the rest, you must of course takeyour brother's word. "

"Yes; but what am I to understand--can you not explain it all to me?"

"Scarcely, " he returned, with the regulation solicitor smile. "I think Ihave heard that Mr. Travers will see you himself before long. Perhaps hewill make it clear to you, for I confess that it must seem a littlepuzzling to you just now. "

"When shall I see Mr. Travers?"

"I cannot say. He is an elderly man, not very strong, and does not oftengo out of his way. In the meantime, I hope you will take my word for itthat it is all right, and that when you require money you will freely useyour cheque-book. "

And that was all the explanation she got from Mr. Tytherleigh. 

Fan, alone in her fine apartments, her occupation gone, found the timehang heavily on her hands. To read a little, embroider a little, walk alittle in Hyde Park each day, was all she could do until Mr. Traversshould come to her and explain everything and be her guide and friend. But the slow hours, the long hot days passed, and Mr. Travers stilldelayed his coming, until to her restless heart the leisure she enjoyedseemed a weariness and the freedom a delusion. Every day she spent moreand more time out of doors. At home the profound silence and seemingemptiness of the house served but to intensify her craving forcompanionship. Her landlady, who was her own cook, never entered intoconversation with her, and only came to her once or twice a day to askher what she would have to eat. But to Fan it was no pleasure to sit downto eat by herself, and for her midday meal she was satisfied to have amutton chop with a potato--that hideously monotonous mutton chop andpotato which so many millions of unimaginative Anglo-Saxons are contentto swallow on each recurring day. And Mrs. Fay, her landlady, had a soul;and her skill in cooking was her pride and glory. Cookery was to her whatpoetry and the worship of Humanity, and Esoteric Buddhism are to others;and from the time when she began life as a kitchen-maid in a small hotel, she had followed her art with singleness of purpose and unflagging zeal. She felt it as a kind of degradation to have a lodger in her house whowas satisfied to order a mutton chop and a potato day after day. It wasno wonder then that she grew more reticent and dark-browed and sullenevery day, and that she went about the house like a person perpetuallybrooding over some dark secret. Some awful midnight crime, perhaps--somebeautiful and unhappy young heiress, left in her charge, and smotheredwith a pillow for yellow gold, still haunting her in Quebec Street. Somight one have imagined; but it would have been a mistake, for the poorwoman was haunted by nothing more ghastly than the image of her lodger'smutton chop and potato. And at last she could endure it no longer, andspoke out. 

"I beg your pardon for saying it, Miss, " she said in an aggrieved tone, "but I think it very strange you can't order anything better for yourdinner. "

"It does very well for me, " said Fan innocently. "I never feel veryhungry when I'm alone. "

"No, miss; and no person would with nothing but a chop to sit down to. Iwas told by the gentleman from Mr. Travers' office that brought you herethat I was to do my best for you. But how can I do my best for you whenyou order me to do my worst?" Here she appeared almost at the point ofcrying. "It is not for me to say anything, but I consider, miss, thatyou're not doing yourself justice. I mean only with respect to eating anddrinking----" with a glance full of meaning at Fan's face, then at herdress. "About other things I haven't anything to say, because I don'tinterfere with what doesn't concern me. "

"But what can I do, Mrs. Fay?" said Fan distressed. "I have not beenaccustomed to order my meals, but to sit down without knowing what therewas to eat. And I like that way best. " Then, in a burst of despair, sheadded, "Can't you give me just whatever you like, without asking me?"

Mrs. Fay's brow cleared, and she smiled as Fan had not seen her smilebefore. 

"That I will, miss; and I don't think you'll have any reason to complainthat you left it to me. "

From that time Fan was compelled to fare delicately, and each day inplace of the simple quickly-eaten and soon-forgotten chop, there came toher table a soup with some new flavour, a bit of fish--salmon cutlets, ora couple of smelts, or dainty whitebait with lemon and brown bread-and-butter, or a red mullet in its white wrapper--and exquisitely-tastinglittle made dishes, and various sweets of unknown names. Nor was therewanting bright colour to relieve the monotony of white napery and pleasethe eye--wine, white and red, in small cut-glass decanters, and rose andamber-coloured wineglasses, and rich-hued fruits and flowers. Of all thedelicacies provided for her she tasted, yet never altogether free fromthe painful thought that while she was thus faring sumptuously, many ofher fellow-creatures were going about the streets hungry, even as she hadonce gone about wishing for a penny to buy a roll. Still, Mrs. Fay washappy now, and that was one advantage gained, although her lodger waspaying dearly for it with somebody's money. 

But here she drew the line, being quite determined not to spend any moneyon dress until Mr. Travers should come to her to relieve her doubts, andyet she knew very well that to be leading this easy idle life she wasvery poorly dressed. Many an hour she spent sitting in the shade in HydePark, watching the perpetual stream of fashionable people, on foot and incarriages--she the only unfashionable one there, the only one whoexchanged greetings and pleasant words with no friend or acquaintance. What then did it matter how meanly she dressed? she said to herself everyday, determined not to spend that mysterious money. Then one day a greattemptation--a new thought--assailed her, and she fell. She was passingMarshall and Snelgrove's, about twelve o'clock in the morning, when thebroad pavement is most thronged with shopping ladies and idlers of bothsexes, when out of the door there came a majestic-looking elderly lady, followed by two young ladies, her daughters, all very richly dressed. Seeing Fan, the first put out her hand and advanced smilingly to her. 

"My dear Miss Featherstonehaugh, " she exclaimed, "how strange that weshould meet here!"

"Oh, mamma, it is _not_ Miss Featherstonehaugh!" broke in one of theyoung ladies; and after surveying Fan from top to toe with a slightlysupercilious smile, she added, "How _could_ you make such amistake!"

"I beg your pardon, " said the old lady loftily, as if Fan had done hersome injury, and also surveying the girl, apparently surprised at herselffor mistaking this badly-dressed young woman for one of her own friends. 

Fan, arrested in her walk, had been standing motionless before them, andher eyes, instinctively following the direction of the lady's glance, travelled down her dress to her feet, where one of her walking-boots, oldand cracked, was projecting from her skirt. She reddened with shame andconfusion, and walked hurriedly on. What would her brother's feeling havebeen, she asked herself, if he had met her accidentally there and hadnoticed those shabby boots? and with all that money, which she had beentold to use freely, in her purse! A fashionable shoe-shop caught her eyeat that moment, and without a moment's hesitation she went in andpurchased a pair of the most expensive walking-shoes she could get, and asecond light pretty pair to wear in the house. That was only the first ofa series of purchases made that day. At one establishment she ordered awalking-dress to be made, a soft blue-grey, with cream-coloured satinvest; and at yet another a hat to match. And many other things wereadded, included a sunshade of a kind she admired very much, covered withcream-coloured lace. With a recklessness which was in strange contrast toher previous mood, she got rid of every shilling of her money in a fewhours, and then went boldly to the bank. Then her courage forsook her, and her face burned hotly, and her hand shook while she wrote out asecond cheque for twenty-five pounds. Not without fear and trembling didshe present it at the cashier's desk; but the clerk said not a word, nordid he look at her with a stern, shocked expression as if reproaching herfor such awful extravagance. On the contrary he smiled pleasantly, remarking that it was a warm day (which Fan knew), and then bowed, andsaid "Good-day" politely. 

The feeling of guilt as of having robbed the bank with which she leftStratford Place happily wore off in time; and when the grey dress wasfinished, and she found herself arrayed becomingly, the result made herhappy for a season. She surveyed her reflection in the tall pier-glass inher bedroom with strange interest--or not strange, perhaps--and thoughtwith a little feeling of triumph that the grand lady and her daughterswould not feel disgusted at their dimness of vision if they once moremistook her for their friend "Miss Featherstonehaugh. "

"Even Constance would perhaps think me good enough for a friend now, " shesaid, a little bitterly; and then remembering that she had no friend toshow herself to, she felt strongly inclined to sit down and cry. 

"Oh, how foolish I have been to spend so much on myself, when it doesn'tmatter in the least what I wear--until Arthur comes back!"

And Arthur was not coming back just now, for only after all her fineryhad been bought, on that very day she had received a letter from himdated from Southampton, telling her that he had joined a friend who wasabout to start for Norway in his yacht, and that he would be absent notless than two months. This was a sore disappointment, but a note from Mr. Travers accompanied Eden's letter, sent in the first place to Lincoln'sInn, which gave her something to expect and think about. The lawyer wroteto say that he would call to see her at twelve o'clock on the followingmorning. 

Fan, in her new dress, and with a slight flush caused by excitement, waswaiting for him when he arrived. He was a tall spare man, over seventyyears old, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, and hair and whiskersalmost white. He had an aquiline nose and a firm mouth and chin, and yetthe expression was far from severe, and under his broad, much-linedforehead the deep-set clear blue eyes looked kindly to the girl. When inrepose there was an expression of weariness on his grey face, and a far-off look in the eyes, like that of one who gazes on a distant prospectshrouded in mist or low-trailing clouds. He had thought and wrought much, and perhaps, unlike that stern-browed and dauntless old chair-mender thatFan remembered so well, he was growing tired of his long life-journey, and not unwilling to see the end when there would be rest. But whentalking or listening his face still showed animation, and was pleasant tolook upon. Fan remembered certain words of her brother's, and felt thateven if they had never been uttered, here was a man in whom she couldtrust implicitly. 

At first he did not say much, and after explaining the cause of his delayin visiting her, contented himself with listening and observing herquietly. At length, catching sight of the water-colour portrait of Fan, which was hanging on the wall, he got up from his seat and placed himselfbefore it. 

"It is a very beautiful picture, Miss Eden, " he said with a smile, as Fancame to his side. 

"Yes, I think it is, " she returned naïvely. "But that is the artist'swork. I never had a dress like that--I never had a dinner dress in mylife. It was taken from a photograph, and the painter has made a fancypicture of it. "

"It is very like you, Miss Eden--an excellent portrait, I think. Do younot know that you are beautiful?"

"No, I did not know--at least, I was not sure. But I am glad you thinkso. I should like very much to be beautiful. "

"Why?" he asked with a smile. 

"Because I am not clever, and perhaps it would not matter so much ifpeople thought me pretty. They might like me for that. "

He smiled again. "I do not know you very well yet, Miss Eden, but judgingfrom the little I have seen of you and what I have heard, I think youhave a great deal to make people like you. "

"Thank you, " she returned a little sadly, remembering how her dearestfriends had quickly grown tired of her. 

"How strange it is--how very strange!" he remarked after a while, repeating Mr. Tytherleigh's very words. "I can scarcely realise that I amhere talking to Colonel Eden's daughter. "

"Yes, it is very strange. That I should have got acquainted in thatchance way with my brother, and--" "That he should have fallen in lovewith his sister, " added Mr. Travers, as if speaking to himself ratherthan to her. 

She looked up with a startled expression, then suddenly became crimson tothe forehead and cast down her eyes. "Oh, I am so sorry--so sorry thatyou know, " she spoke in a low sad voice. "Why, why did Arthur tell youthat? No person knew except ourselves; and it would have been forgottenand buried, and now--now others know, and it will not be forgotten!"

"My dear Miss Eden, you must not think such a thing, " he returned. "Yoursecret is safe with me, but perhaps you did not know that. Do you knowthat your father and I were close friends? There was little that he keptfrom me, and I am glad that Arthur Eden has inherited his father's trustin me; and perhaps, Miss Eden, when you know me better, and have heardall I intend telling you about your father, you will have the samefeeling. But when I spoke of its being so strange, I was not thinkingabout you and Arthur becoming acquainted. That was strange, certainly, but it was no more than one of those coincidences which frequently occur, and which make people remark so often that truth is stranger thanfiction. "

"What were you thinking of then, Mr. Travers?" she asked, a littletimidly. 

"Are you not aware, Miss Eden, that your father never knew of yourexistence at all? That is the strangest part of the story. But I must notgo into that now. You shall hear it all before long. Would you not liketo see your father's portrait?"

"Oh yes, very much; but Arthur never told me that he had one. "

"I am not sure that he has one; but I possess a very fine portrait ofhim, in oils, by a good artist, which, I hope, will belong to yourbrother some day, for I do not wish to live for ever, Miss Eden. I shouldlike to show it you very much. And that leads me to one object of myvisit to-day. Mrs. Travers and I wish you to pay us a visit if you will. We live at Kingston, and should like you to stay with us a fortnight. "

Fan thanked him and accepted the invitation, and it was agreed that sheshould go to Kingston that day week. 

"I have found out one thing since I came to see you, Miss Eden, " he said, "and it is that you are singularly frank. One effect of that is to makeme wish to be frank with you. Now I am going to confess that I came todaywith some misgivings. I remembered, my dear child, the circumstances ofyour birth and bringing up, and could not help fearing that your brotherhad been a little blinded by his feelings, and had seen a little more inyou than you possessed. But I do not wonder now at what he said of you. If your father had lived till now I think that he would have been proudof his child, and yet he was a fastidious man. "

"Thank you, Mr. Travers; but you, perhaps, think all that because I am--because you think I am pretty. "

Mr. Travers smiled. "Well, your prettiness is a part of you--anappropriate part, I think, but only a part after all. You see I am notafraid of spoiling you. You are strangely like your father; in the shapeof your face, the colour of your eyes, and in your voice you are likehim. "

She was looking up at him, drinking in his words with eager pleasure. 

"I see that you like to hear about him, " he said, taking her hand. "Butall I have to tell you must be put off until we meet at Kingston. I amonly sorry that you will find no young people there. My sons anddaughters are all married and away. I have some grandchildren as old asyou are, and they are often with us, but at present Mrs. Travers isalone. "

After a few more words, he bade her good-bye and left her, and only afterhe had gone Fan remembered that she had intended to confess to him, amongother things, that she had been extravagant with somebody's money. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

The lawyer's visit had given her something to think of and to do;forthwith she began to prepare for her fortnight's stay at Kingston withmuch zeal and energy. It was a great deal to her to be able to lookforward to the companionship for a short time of even an elderly, perhapsvery dignified, lady, her loneliness did so weigh upon her. It had not soweighed before; she had had her daily occupations, the companionship ofher fellow-assistants, and had always felt tired and glad to rest in theevening. Now that this strange new life had come to her, that the dayswere empty yet her heart full, to be so completely cut off from herfellows and thrown back on herself, to have not one sympathetic friendamong all these multitudes around her, appeared unnatural, and made allthe good things she possessed seem almost a vanity and a delusion. 

Sitting in the shade in Hyde Park, she had begun to find a vague pleasurein recognising individuals she had seen and noticed on previous occasionsin the moving well-dressed crowd--the same tall spare military-lookinggentleman with the grey moustache; the same three slim pretty girls withgolden hair and dressed alike in grey and terra-cotta; the same two younggentlemen together, both wearing tight morning coats, silk hats, and tangloves, but in their faces so different! one colourless, thoughtful, witheyes bent down; the other burnt brown by tropical heats and looking soglad to be in London once more. Were they brothers, or dear friends, reunited after a long separation, with many strange experiences to tell?To see them again day after day was like seeing people she knew; it waspleasant and painful at the same time. But as the slow heavy days wenton, and after all her preparations were complete, and still other daysremained to be got through before she could leave London, thedissatisfied feeling grew in her until she thought that it would be a joyeven to meet that poor laundry-woman who had given her shelter at DudleyGrove, only to look once more into familiar friendly eyes. During thesedays the memory of Constance and Mary was persistently with her; forthese two had become associated together in her mind, as if the twodistinct periods of her life at Dawson Place and Eyethorne had been thesame, and she could not think of one without the other. She had loved andstill loved them both so much; they were both so beautiful and strong andproud in their different ways; and in their strength perhaps both hadalike despised her weak clinging nature, had grown tired of heraffection. And at last this perpetual want in her heart, this disquieting"passion of the past, " reached its culminating point, when, one day afterdinner, she went out for a short stroll in the park. 

The Row at that hot hour being forsaken, instead of crossing the park toseek her favourite resting-place, she turned into the fresh shade of theelms growing near its northern unfashionable side. She walked on untilthe fountains were passed and she was in the deeper shade of KensingtonGardens. She was standing on the very spot where she had watched threeragged little children playing together, heaping up the old dead brownleaves. The image of the little girl struggling up from the heap in whichher rude playfellows had thrown her, with tearful dusty face, and deadleaves clinging to her clothes and disordered hair, made Fan laugh, andthen in a moment she could scarcely keep back the tears. For now ahundred sweet memories rushed into her heart--her walks in the Gardens, all the little incidents, the early blissful days when she lived withMary; and so vividly was the past seen and realised, yet so immeasurablyfar did it seem to her and so irrecoverably lost, that the sweetness wasovermastered by the pain, and the pain was like anguish. And yet withthat feeling in her heart, so strong that it made her cheeks pallid andher steps languid, she went on to visit every spot associated in her mindwith some memory of that lost time. Under that very tree, one chillOctober day, she had given charity unasked to a pale-faced man, shiveringin thin clothes; and there too she had comforted a poor wild-hairedlittle boy whose stronger companions had robbed him of all the chestnut-burs and acorns he had gathered; and on this sacred spot a small angelicchild walking with its mamma had put up its arms and demanded a kiss. Even the Albert Memorial was not overlooked, but she went not there toadmire the splendour of colour and gold, and the procession of marble menof all ages and all lands, led by old Homer playing on his lyre. Shelooked only on the colossal woman seated on her elephant, ever gazingstraight before her, shading her eyes from the hot Asiatic sun with herhand, for that majestic face of marble, and the proud beautiful mouththat reminded her of Mary, had also memories for her. And at last herrambles brought her to the extreme end of the Gardens, to the oncesecluded grove between Kensington Palace and Bayswater Hill; for eventhat bitter spot among the yew and pine-trees must be visited now. Shefound the very seat where she had rested on that unhappy day in earlyspring, shortly after her adventure at Twickenham, when, as she thenimagined, her beloved friend and protector had so cruelly betrayed andabandoned her. How desolate and heart-broken she had felt, seated therealone on that morning in early spring, in that green dress which Mary hadgiven her--how she had sobbed there by herself, abandoned, unloved, alonein the world! And after all Mary had done her no wrong, and Mary herselfhad found her in that lonely place! The whole scene of their meeting rosewith a painful distinctness before her mind. In memory she heard againthe slight rustle of a dress, the tread of a light foot on a dead leafthat had startled her; she listened again to all the scornful cuttingwords that had the effect at last of waking such a strange frenzy of ragein her, a rage that was like insanity. And now how gladly would she havedismissed the rest, but the tyrant Memory would not let her be, she mustre-live it all again, and not one feeling, thought, or word be left out. Oh, why, why did she remember it all now--when, starting from her seat asif some demon had possessed her, she turned on her mocker with words suchas had never defiled her lips before, which she now shuddered to recall?Unable to shake these hateful memories off, and with face crimsoned withshame, she rose from the seat and hurriedly walked away towards BayswaterHill. Issuing from the Gardens she stood hesitating for some time, andfinally, as if unable to resist the strange impulse that was drawing her, she turned into St. Petersburg Place, looking long at each familiarbuilding--the fantastic, mosque-like red-brick synagogue; and just beyondit St. Sophia, the ugly Greek cathedral, yellow, squat, and ponderous;and midway between these two--a thing of beauty--St. Matthew's Church, grey and Gothic, with its slender soaring spire. In Pembridge Square shepaused to ask herself if it was not time to turn back. No, not yet, a fewsteps more would bring her to the old turning--that broad familiar wayonly as long as the width of two houses with their gardens, from whichshe might look for a few moments into that old beloved place where shehad lived with Mary. And having reached the opening, and even ventured afew paces into it, she thought, "No, not there, I must not go one stepfurther, for to see the dear old house would be too painful now. " Butagainst her will, and in spite of pain and the fear of greater pain, herfeet carried her on, slowly, step by step, and in another minute she waswalking on the broad clean pavement of Dawson Place. 

How familiar it looked, lovely and peaceful under the hot July sun; thedetached houses set well back from the road, still radiant as of old withflowers in the windows and gardens! It was strangely quiet, and only twopersons beside herself were walking there--a lady with a girl of ten ortwelve carrying a bunch of water-lilies in her hand, which she hadprobably just bought at Westbourne Grove. They passed her, talking andlaughing, and went into one of the houses; and after that it seemedstiller than ever. Only a sparrow burst out into blithe chirruping notes, which had a strangely joyous ring in them. And here where she hadexpected greater pain her pain was healed. Something from far, somethingmysterious, seemed to rest on that spot, to make it unlike all otherplaces within the great city. What was it--this calm which stilled herthrobbing heart; this touch of glory and subtle fragrance entering hersoul and turning all bitterness there to sweetness? Perhaps the shyspirit of life and loveliness, mother of men and of wild-flowers andgrasses, had come to it, bringing a whiter sunshine and the mysticsilence of her forests, and touching every flowery petal with herinvisible finger to make it burn like fire, and giving a ringing woodlandmusic to the sparrow's voice. 

In that brightness and silence she could walk there, thinking calmly ofthe vanished days. How real it all seemed--Mary, and her life with Mary:all the rest of her life seemed pale and dream-like in comparison, andthe images of all other men and women looked dim in her mind when shethought of the woman, sweet, strong, and passion-rocked, who had takenher to her heart. Slowly she walked along the pavement, looking at eachwell-known house as she passed, and when she reached the house where shehad lived, walking slower still, while her eyes rested lovingly, lingeringly on it. And as she passed it, both to leave it so soon, itoccurred to her that she could easily invent some innocent pretext forcalling. She would see the lady of the house to ask for Miss Starbrow'spresent address. Not that she would ever write to Mary again, even if theaddress were known, but it would be an excuse to go to the door with, tosee the interior once more--the shady tessellated hall, perhaps thedrawing-room. Turning in at the gate, she ascended the broad white steps, and their whiteness made her smile a little sadly, reminding her of theold dark days before Mary had been her friend. 

Her knock was answered by a neat-looking parlourmaid. 

"I called to see the lady of the house, " said Fan. "Is she in?"

"Yes, miss; will you please walk in, " and she led the way to the drawing-room. "What name shall I say, miss?" said the girl. 

Fan gave her a card, and then, left alone, sat down and began eagerlystudying the well-remembered room. There were ferns and blossoming plantsin large blue pots about the room, and some pictures, and a few chairsand knick-knacks she had never seen, and a new Persian carpet on thefloor; but everything else was unchanged. The grand piano was in the oldplace, open, with loose sheets of music lying on it, just as if Maryherself had been there practising an hour before. 

She was sitting with her back to the door, and did not hear it open. Theslight rustling sound of a dress caught her ear, and turning quickly, shebeheld Mary herself standing before her. It might have been onlyyesterday that Mary had spoken those cruel-kind words and left her intears at Eyethorne. For there was no change in her--in that strongbeautiful face, the raven hair and full dark eyes, the proud, sweetmouth--which Foley might have had for a model when he chiselled his"Asia"--and that red colour on her cheeks, richer and softer than everburned on sea-shell or flower. 

The instant that Fan turned she recognised her visitor, and remainedstanding motionless, holding the girl's card in her hand, her faceshowing the most utter astonishment. If a visitor from the other worldhad appeared to her she could not have looked more astonished. MeanwhileFan, forgetting everything else in the joy of seeing Mary again, hadstarted to her feet, and with a glad cry and outstretched arms movedtowards her. Then the other regained possession of her faculties; shedropped her hand to her side, the colour forsook her face, and it grewcold and hard as stone, while the old black look came to her brows. 

"Pray resume your seat, Miss Paradise--I beg your pardon, Miss----" hereshe consulted the card--"Miss Eden, " she finished, her lips curling. 

"Oh, I forgot about the card, " exclaimed Fan deeply distressed. "You arevexed with me because--because it looks as if I wished to take you bysurprise. Will you let me explain about my change of name?"

"You need not take that trouble, Miss--Eden. I have not the slightestinterest in the subject. I only desire to know the object of this visit. "

"My object was only to--to see the inside of the house again. I did notknow that you were living here now. I had invented an excuse for calling. But if I had know you were here--oh, if you knew how I have wished to seeyou!"

"I do not wish to know anything about it, Miss Eden. Have you socompletely forgotten the circumstances which led to our parting, and thewords I wrote to you on that occasion?"

"No, I have not forgotten, " said Fan despairingly; "but when I saw you Ithought--I hoped that the past would not be remembered--that you would beglad to see me again. "

"Then you made a great mistake, Miss Eden; and I hope this interview willserve to convince you, if you did not know it before, that I am not oneto change, that I never repent of what I do, or fail to be as good as myword. "

"Then I must go, " said Fan, scarcely able to keep back the tears thatwere gathering thick in her eyes. "But I am so sorry--so sorry! I wish--Iwish you could think differently about it and forgive me if I haveoffended you. "

"There is nothing to be gained by prolonging this conversation, which isnot pleasant to me, " returned the other haughtily, advancing to the bellto summon the servant. 

"Wait one moment--please don't ring yet, " cried Fan, hurrying forward, the tears now starting from her eyes. "Oh, Mary, will you not shake handswith me before I go?"

Miss Starbrow moved back a step or two and stared deliberately at herface, as if amazed and angered beyond measure at her persistence. And forsome moments they stood thus, not three feet apart, gazing into eachother's eyes, Fan's tearful, full of eloquent pleading, her hands stillheld out; and still the other delayed to speak the cutting words thattrembled on her lips. A change came over her scornful countenance; thecorners of her mouth twitched nervously, as if some sharp pang hadtouched her heart; the dark eyes grew misty, and in another moment Fanwas clasped to her breast. 

"Oh, Fan!--dearest Fan!--darling--you have beaten me again!" sheexclaimed spasmodically, half-sobbing. "Oh what a strange girl you are!. .. To come and--take me by storm like that! . .. And I was so determinednever to relent--never to go back from what I said. .. . But you have sweptit all away--all my resolutions--everything. Oh, Fan, can you ever, everforgive me for being such a brute? But I had to act in that way--therewas no help for it. I couldn't break my word--I never do. You know, Fan, that I never change. .. . Is it really you?--oh, I can't believe it--Ican't realise it--here in my own house! Let me look at your dear faceagain. "

And drawing back their heads they gazed into each other's faces oncemore, Fan crying and laughing by turns, while Mary, the strong woman, could do nothing but cry now. 

"The same dear grey eyes, but oh, how beautiful you have grown, " she wenton. "I shall never forgive myself--never cease to hate myself afterthis. And yet, dearest, what could I do? I had solemnly vowed never tospeak to you again if we met. I should have been a poor weak creature ifI hadn't--you must know that. And now--oh, how could I resist so long, and be so cruel? I know I'm very illogical, but--I hate it, there!--Imean logic--don't you?"

"I hardly know what it is, Mary, but if you hate it, so do I with all myheart. "

"That's a dear sensible girl. How sweet it is to hear that 'Mary' fromyour lips again! How often I have wished to hear it!--the wish has evenmade me cry. For I have never ceased to think of you and love you, Fan, even when I was determined never to speak to you again. But let meexplain something. Though you disobeyed me, Fan, and spoke so lightlyabout it, just as if you believed that you could do what you liked withme, I still might have overlooked it if it had not been for my brotherTom's interference. I was very much offended with you, and when we spokeof you I said that I intended giving you up, but I don't think I reallymeant it in my heart. But he put himself into a passion about it, andabused me, and called me a demon, and dared me to do what I threatened, and said that if I did he would never speak to me again. That settled itat once. To be talked to in that way by anyone--even by Tom--is more thanmy flesh and blood can stand. And so we parted--it was at Ravenna, an oldItalian city--and of course I did what I said, and from that day to thiswe have not exchanged a line, nor ever shall until he apologises for hiswords. That's how it happened, and what woman with any self-respect--would not _you_ have acted in the same way, Fan, in such a case?"

"No, Mary, I don't think so. But we are so different, you so strong and Iso weak. "

"Are you really weak? I am not so sure. You have taken me captive, at allevents. " And then her eyes suddenly growing misty again, she continued:"Fan, you have a strength which I never had, which, in the old days whenyou lived with me, used to remind me of Longfellow's little poem about ameek-eyed maid going through life with a lily in her hand, one touch ofwhich even gates of brass could not withstand. You will forgive me, Iknow, but tell me now from your heart, don't you think it was cruel--wicked of me to receive you as I did just now?"

"You wouldn't have been so hard with me, Mary, if you had known what Ifelt. All day long I have been thinking of you, and wishing--oh, how Iwished to see you again! And before coming here to see Dawson Place oncemore I went and sat down on that very seat in Kensington Gardens whereyou found me crying by myself on that day--do you remember?--and where--and where--oh, how I cried again only to think of it! How could I speakto you as I did--in that horrible way--when you had loved me so much!"

"Hush, Fan, for heaven's sake! You make me feel as if you had put yourhand down into me and had wound all the strings of my heart round yourfingers, and--I can't bear it. I think nothing of what you said in youranger, but only of my cruelty to you then and on other occasions. Oh, dolet's speak of something else. Look, there is your card on the floorwhere I dropped it. Why do you call yourself Miss Eden--how do you cometo be so well-dressed, and looking more like some delicately-nurturedpatrician's daughter than a poor girl? Do tell me your story now. "

And the story was told as they sat together by the open window in thepleasant room; and when they had drank tea at five o'clock, muchremaining yet to be told--much in spite of the gaps Fan saw fit to leavein her narrative--Mary said:

"Will you dine with me, Fan? You shall name the hour yourself if you willonly stay--seven, eight, nine if you like. "

"I shall only be too glad to stay for as long as you care to have me, "said Fan. 

"Then will you sleep here? I have a guest's room all ready, a lovelylittle room, only I think if you sleep there I shall sit by your bedsideall night. "

"Then if I stay I shall sleep with you, Mary, so as not to keep you up, "said Fan laughing. "Can I send a telegram to my landlady to say that Ishall not be home to-night?"

"Yes; after it gets cool we might walk to the post-office in the Grove tosend it. "

And thus it was agreed, and so much had they to say to each other thatnot until the morning light began to steal into their bedroom, todiscover them lying on one pillow, raven-black and golden tresses mingledtogether, did any drowsy feeling come to them. And even then at intervalsthey spoke. 

"Mary, " said Fan, after a rather long silence, "have you ever heard ofRosie since?"

"No; but I saw her once. I went to the Alhambra to see a ballet that wasadmired very much, and I recognised Rosie on the stage in spite of herpaint and ballet dress. I couldn't stay another moment after that. Ishould have left the theatre if--if--well, never mind. Don't speak again, Fan, we must go to sleep now. "

But another question was inevitable. "Just one word more, Mary; have younever heard of Captain Horton since?"

"Ah, I thought that was coming! Yes, once. Just about the time when Ireturned from abroad, I had a letter from my bankers to say that he--thatman--had paid a sum of money--about two hundred and thirty pounds--to myaccount. It was money I had lent him a long time before, and he had theaudacity to ask them to send him a receipt in my handwriting! I told themto send the man a receipt themselves, and to inform him from me that Iwas sorry he had paid the money, as it had reminded me of his hatefulexistence. "

After another interval Fan remarked, "I am glad he paid the money, Mary. "

"Why--do you think I couldn't afford to lose that? I would rather havelost it. "

"I wasn't thinking of the money. But it showed that he had some rightfeelings--that he was not altogether bad. "

"You should be the last person to say that, Fan. You should hate hismemory with all your heart. "

"I am so happy to be with you again, Mary; I feel that I cannot hateanyone, however wicked he may be. "

"Yes, you are like that Scotch minister who prayed for everything hecould think of in earth and heaven, and finally finished up by prayingfor the devil. But are you really so happy, dear Fan? Is your happinessquite complete--is there nothing wanting?"

"I should like very, very much to know where Constance is. "

"Well, judging from what you have told me, I should think she must bevery miserable indeed. They are very poor, no doubt, and in ordinarycircumstances poverty would perhaps not make her unhappy, for, beingintellectual, she would always have the beauty of her own intellect andthe stars to think about. "

"Do you really think that, Mary--that she is miserable?"

"I do indeed. When she, poor fool! married Merton Chance, she leant on areed, and it would be strange if it had not broken and pierced her to thequick. "

And after that there was silence, broken only by a sad sigh from Fan;which meant that she knew it and always had known it, but had gone onhoping against hope that the fragile reed would not break to pierce thatloved one. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

Nearly the whole of Fan's remaining time before going to Kingston waspassed at Dawson Place. Her happiness was perfect, like the sunshine shehad found resting on that dear spot on her return to it, pure, withoutstain of cloud. For into Mary's vexed heart something new seemed to havecome, something strange to her nature, a novel meekness, a sweetness thatdid not sour, so that their harmony continued unbroken to the end. And, oddly enough, or not oddly perhaps, since she was not "logical, " sheseemed now greatly to sympathise with Fan's growing anxiety about thelost Constance. Not one trace of the petty jealous feeling which hadcaused so much trouble in the past remained; she was heartily ashamed ofit now, and was filled with remorse when she recalled her former unkindand capricious behaviour. 

At length Fan went on her visit, not without a pang of regret at partingso soon again, even for a short time, from the friend she had recovered. She was anxious to hear that "strange story" about her father which thelawyer had promised to relate; apart from that, she did not anticipatemuch pleasure from her stay at Kingston. 

The Travers' house was at a little distance from the town, and stood wellback on the road, screened from sight by trees and a high brick wall. Itwas a large, low, old-fashioned, rambling house, purchased by its ownermany years before, when he had a numerous family with him, and requiredplenty of house-room; but its principal charm to Fan was the garden, covering about four acres of ground, well stocked with a great variety ofshrubs and flowers, and containing some trees of noble growth. 

Mrs. Travers was not many years younger than her husband; and yet she didnot look old, although her health was far from good, her more youthfulappearance being due to a false front of glossy chestnut-coloured hair, an occasional visit to the rouge-pot, and other artificial means used bycivilised ladies to mitigate the ravages of time. In other things alsoshe offered a striking contrast to her husband, being short and stout, orfat; she was also a dressy dame, and burdened her podgy fingers and broadbosom with too much gold and too many precious stones--yellow, blue, andred; and her silk dresses were also too bright-hued for a lady of heryears and figure. Her favourite strong blues and purples would havestruck painfully on the refined colour-sense of an aesthete. On the otherhand, to balance these pardonable defects, she was kind-hearted; not atall artificial in her manner and conversation, or unduly puffed up withher position, as one might have expected her to be from her appearance;and, to put her chief merit last, she reverenced her husband, andbelieved that in all things--except, perhaps, in those small matterssacred to femininity, which concerned her personal adornment--"he knewbest. " She was consequently prepared to extend a warm welcome to heryoung visitor, and, for her husband's sake, to do as much to make hervisit pleasant as if she had been the lawful daughter of her husband'slate friend and client, Colonel Eden. 

Nevertheless, after the days she had spent with Mary, Fan did not findMrs. Travers' society exhilarating. The lady had given up walking, excepta very little in the garden, but on most days she went out for carriageexercise in the morning, after Mr. Travers had gone to town. At twoo'clock the ladies would lunch, after which Fan would be alone until thefive o'clock tea, when her hostess would reappear in a gay dress, and alovely carmine bloom on her cheeks--the result of her refreshing noondayslumbers. After tea they would spend an hour together in the gardentalking and reading. Mrs. Travers, having bad eyesight, accepted Fan'soffer to read to her. She read nothing but periodicals--short socialsketches, smart paragraphs, jokes, and occasionally a tale, if veryshort, so that Fan found her task a very light one. She had _The World, Truth, The Whitehall Review, The Queen_ and _The Lady'sPictorial_ every week; and in the last-named paper Fan read out alittle sketch--one of a series called "Eastern Idylls"--which she likedbetter than anything else for its graceful style and delicate pathos. Somuch did it please her, that she looked up the back numbers of the paper, and read all the sketches in them, each relating some little domesticEast End incident or tale, pathetic or humorous, or both, with scenes andcharacters lightly drawn, yet with such skilful touches, and put soclearly before the mind, that it was impossible not to believe that thesepictures were from life. 

At half-past six Mr. Travers would return from town, and at seven theydined, sitting long at table; and afterwards, if there were friends, there would be a rubber of whist. It was a quiet almost sleepy existence, and Fan began to look forward with a little impatience to the end of herfortnight, when she would be able to return to her friend. For Mary'slast words had been, "I shall not leave London without you. " But shefirst wished to hear the "strange story" Mr. Travers had promised totell, but about which he had spoken no word since her arrival. Every dayshe was reminded of it, for in the dining-room was the portrait of herfather, painted, life-size, by a Royal Academician, and showing agentleman aged about thirty-five years, with a handsome oval face, greyeyes, thin straight nose, and hair and well-trimmed moustache and Vandykebeard of a deep golden brown, the moustache not altogether hiding thepleasant, somewhat voluptuous mouth. And it seemed to Fan when she lookedat it and the grey eyes gazed back into hers, and the pleasant lipsseemed to smile on her, that she had never seen among living men a morebeautiful and lovable face. 

The sixth day of her visit was Sunday. Mr. Travers breakfasted alone withher, his wife not having risen yet, and after breakfast he asked her ifshe wished to go to church. 

"Not unless you are going or wish me to go, " returned Fan. 

"Then, Miss Eden, let us stay at home, and have a morning to ourselves inthe garden. We have not yet had much time to talk, as I am generallyrather tired in the evenings. And besides, what I wish to talk to youabout is one of _my_ secrets, and it could not be mentioned beforeanother. "

They were out in the garden sitting in the shade, when he surprised herby saying, "Are you at all superstitious, Miss Eden?"

"I am not quite sure that I understand you, " replied Fan, with a littlehesitation. "Do you mean religious, Mr. Travers?"

"Well, no, not exactly. But superstition is undoubtedly a word of manymeanings, and some people give it a very wide one, as your questionimplies. I used the word in a more restricted sense--in the sense inwhich we say that believers in dreams, presentiments, and apparitions aresuperstitious. My belief was--I am not sure whether I can say _is_--that your father was infected with superstitions of this kind. But I musttell you the whole story, and then you will understand what I mean when Isay that it is a strange one. He was one of several children; and, by theway, that reminds me that--but let that pass. "

"Do you mean--have I--has my brother many relations--uncles, aunts, andcousins, Mr. Travers?" said Fan, a little eagerly. 

"Well, " he answered, smiling a little and stroking his chin, "yes. Yourhalf-brother's mother had two married sisters, both with large families;but I do not think that Mr. Arthur Eden is intimate with them. I think Ihave heard him say as much. "

Fan, noting that he cautiously confined himself to her brother'srelations on the mother's side, grew red, and secretly resolved never toask such a question again, even of Arthur. 

The other continued: "Being one of several children, and not the eldest, his income was a small one for a young man of rather expensive habits andin the army. He was in difficulties on several occasions, and it was atthat period that our acquaintance ripened into a very close friendship--as warm a friendship as can exist between two men living totallydifferent lives, moving in different social worlds, and with aconsiderable difference in their ages. 

"When about thirty-eight years old he married a lady with a considerablefortune, which was not in any way settled on herself, and consequentlybecame his. It was not a happy marriage, and after the birth of theirson--their only child--and Mrs. Eden not being in good health, she wentto live at Winchester, where she had relations and where her son waseducated; and for several years husband and wife lived apart. His wifedied about fourteen years after her marriage, and, I am glad to say, hewas with her during her last illness, but afterwards he returned to hisold life in London, and went very much into society. Finally his healthfailed; and when he discovered that his malady, although a slow, was anincurable one, his habits and disposition changed, and he grew morbid, Ithink--possibly from brooding too much on his condition. 

"Up to this time he had paid no attention to religion; now it became thesole subject of his thoughts. He attended a ritualistic church in theneighbourhood of Oxford Street, and gave up the house he had occupiedbefore, and took another only a few doors removed from the church, so asto be able to attend all the services, one of which was held daily at avery early hour of the morning. In this church, confession and penances, and other things in which the ritualists imitate the Roman Catholics, arein use, and the vicar, or priest as he is called, gained a greatinfluence over Colonel Eden's mind. 

"He had at this time entirely given up going into society, but hisintimacy with me, which had lasted so many years, continued to the end. Shortly before he died, and about three years and a half to four yearsago, he told me that he had had a strange dream, which he persisted inregarding as of the supernatural order. This dream came to him on threeconsecutive nights, and after several conversations with his priest andconfessor on the subject, and being encouraged by him in the belief thatit was something more than a mere wandering of the disordered fancy, heconsulted me about it. It was then that for the first time he told me thestory of Margaret Affleck, a girl in a humble position in life who hadengaged his affections some fourteen years before, and from whom he hadparted after a few months' acquaintance. He assured me that he had allbut forgotten this affair; that when parting from her he had given hersome money as a compensation for the trouble he had brought on her;while, on her side, she had told him that she would not be disgraced, butthat she would marry a young man in her own class, who was willing andanxious to take her. 

"At all events, during those fourteen years he had never seen nor heardanything of her. Then comes the dream. He dreamt that he was in thechurch for early matins, and that he heard a voice calling 'Father, father!' to him, and on looking round saw a poor girl in ragged clothes, and with a pale, exceedingly sad face, and that he had no sooner lookedon her than he knew that she was his child, and the child of MargaretAffleck. She was crying piteously, and wringing her hands and imploringhim to deliver her from her misery; and in his struggling efforts to goto her he woke. 

"This dream, as I said, returned to him night after night, and so preyedon his mind that he interpreted it as a command from some Superior Powerto seek out this lost child and save her. I tried my best to argue himout of his delusion, for I was convinced that it was nothing more; butseeing him so determined, and so fully persuaded in his own mind thatunless he made atonement his sins would not be forgiven, I gave way, andhad inquiries made in various directions. I advertised for MargaretAffleck; for I could not, of course, advertise for a child of whoseexistence there was not any evidence. But though we advertised a greatmany times both in the London and Norfolk papers--Colonel Eden rememberedthat the girl belonged to Norfolk--we could not find the right person. Colonel Eden, however, still clung to the belief that the daughter hebelieved in would eventually be found, and he even contemplated adding aclause to his will, in which everything was left unconditionally to hisson, to make provision for her. This intention was not carried out, butshortly before his death he told me that he had left a sealed letter forhis son, who was abroad at the time, informing him of the dream, orrevelation, and asking him to continue the search, and to providegenerously for the child when she should be found. He never for a momentseemed to doubt that she would be found; but his belief was that we wouldfind in her not, my dear girl, one like yourself--fresh and unsullied asthe flower in your hand, beautiful in spirit as in person. "

"What did he believe you would find? Will you please tell me, Mr. Travers?" said Fan, a tremor in her voice. 

"He believed when he had that dream that you were in the lowest depths ofpoverty--in misery, and exposed to all the dangers and temptations whichsurround a destitute young girl, motherless perhaps, and friendless, andhomeless, in London. Dear child, I cannot tell you all or what hefeared, " he finished, putting his hand lightly on her shoulder. 

There were tears in her eyes, and she averted her face to hide the rushof crimson to her cheeks. 

Mr. Travers continued: "The news of Colonel Eden's death reached Arthurin Mexico, and he came home at once. He showed me the letter I havementioned, and asked me to advise him what to do. But from the first hehad taken the same view of the matter which I had taken, and which Isuppose that ninety-nine men out of every hundred would take, and I mustsay that he did not do much to find the girl, nor was there anything tobe done after our advertisements had failed. The rest of the story youknow, Miss Eden. When I last saw your brother I told him that aftermaking your acquaintance, if I found you what he had painted, I should inall probability tell you this story, and he made no objection. I fear ithas given you pain, still it was best that you should know it. Andperhaps now you will not think that your brother was wrong in opening hisheart to me. "

"No, I think he was right, and I am very, very grateful to you fortelling me about my father. " After a while she continued: "But, Mr. Travers, I hardly know what to say about the dream. I have heard and readof such things, and--I was just what he imagined--just like the girl hesaw in his dream. And when my life was so miserable, if I had known whereto find him--if mother could have told me--I should have gone to him toask him to save me. But--how can I say it? Don't you think, Mr. Travers, that if dreams and warnings were sent to us--if good spirits could let usknow things in that way and tell us what to do, that it would happenoftener? . .. There are always so many in distress and danger, andsometimes so little is needed to save one--a few pence, a few kind words--and yet how many fall, how many die! Even in the Regent's Canal how manypoor women throw their lives away--and nothing saves them. .. . I am notglad to hear that it was a dream that first made my father wish to findmother--and me. I should have preferred to hear that he thought of her--of us, before he fell into such bad health, and when he was strong andhappy. .. . Do you think his dream was sent from heaven, Mr. Travers?"

"I am not prepared to express an opinion as to that, Miss Eden, " hereplied, with a grave smile. "But I have been listening to your wordswith great interest and a little surprise. Most young ladies, I fancy, would have been deeply impressed with such a narrative, and they wouldreadily and gladly have adopted the view that some supernatural agencyhad been concerned in the matter. You, strange to say, do not seem tolook on yourself as a special favourite of the powers above, and thinkthat others have as much right as yourself to be rescued miraculouslyfrom perils and sufferings. Well--you have not a romantic mind, MissEden. "

"No, I don't think I have--I have had the same thing said to me two orthree times before, " replied Fan naïvely. "But I wish you would tell memore about my father when he was healthy and happy. Was he really ashandsome as he looks in the portrait? It seems so life-like that when Iam looking at it I can hardly realise that he is not somewhere living onthe earth, that I shall never hold his hand and hear his voice. "

The old lawyer was quite ready to gratify her curiosity on the point, andtold her a great deal about her father's life. "There is one thing Iomitted to mention before, " he said at the end. "Your brother wouldgladly do anything in his power to make you happy; at the same time hewishes you to understand that in providing for you he is only carryingout his father's intentions, and that you will owe it to your father, andnot to him. "

"But I shall still feel the same gratitude to my brother, Mr. Travers. "

"Well, no harm can come of that, and--we cannot help our feelings. Justnow it is your brother's fancy to leave you in ignorance of the amount ofyour income, which I think you will find sufficient. For a year or so youhave as it were _carte blanche_ to do what you like in the way ofspending, and if you should exceed your income by fifty or a hundredpounds I don't think anything alarming will happen. And now, Miss Eden, is there nothing I can do for you? Nothing you would like to ask myadvice about?"

"Oh yes, thank you, there is one thing, " and she told him all about herfriend Constance, and her anxiety to find her. 

Mr. Travers made a note of the matter. "There will be no difficulty infinding them, " he said. "I shall have inquiries made to-morrow. I hope, "he added with a smile, "you are not going to become a convert to Mr. Merton Chance's doctrines. "

"Oh no, " she replied laughing. "My only wish is to find Mrs. Chance. Mrs. Churton once said, when she was a little vexed with me, that it was likepouring water on a duck's back to give me religious instruction. I amsure that if Mr. Chance ever speaks to me about his new beliefs I shallhave my feathers well oiled. "

Meanwhile Mrs. Travers had been keeping the luncheon back, and watchingthem engaged in that long conversation from her seat at the window. Thegood woman had been the wife of her husband for a great many years, butshe had not yet outlived that natural belief that a wife has to "knoweverything" her husband knows; and she had guessed that those two werediscussing secret matters which they had no intention of imparting toher. A woman has a faculty about such things which corresponds to scentin the terrier; the little mystery is there--the small rodent lurksbehind the wainscot; she is consumed with a desire to get at it--to worryits life out; and if it refuse to leave its hiding-place she cannot restand be satisfied. It was her nature; and though she asked no questions, knowing that her husband was not to be caught in that way, he did notfail to remark the slight frost which had fallen on her manner and herpolite and distant tone towards their guest. Well aware of the cause, andtoo old to be annoyed, it only gave him a little secret amusement. He hadwarned the girl, and that was enough. The little chill would pass off intime, and no harm would result. 

It did not pass off quickly, however, but lasted three or four days, during which time Mrs. Travers was somewhat distant in her manner, anddeclined Fan's offer to read to her; and Fan remarked the change, but wasat a loss to account for it. But one day, after lunch, when they rosefrom the table, she said, "Oh, Mrs. Travers, do you know that the_Pic_. Is in the drawing-room? I have been anxiously waiting sinceSaturday to know what the last 'Eastern Idyll' is about. "

"And why have you not read it, Miss Eden?" said the other, a littlestiffly. 

"I thought that you would perhaps let me read it to you--I did not wishto read it first. "

The good woman smiled and consented. Her sight was not good, and thesketches were always printed in a painfully small type; and besides, theyseemed different to her when the girl read them; her low musical voice, so clear and penetrating, yet pathetic, had seemed to interpret thewriter's feeling so well. And so the frost melted, and she became morekind and friendly than ever. 

Mr. Travers, much to his own surprise, failed to discover Fan's lostfriends. One thing he had done was to send a clerk to the office of thepaper with the singular title to ask for Mr. Chance's address. The answerhe received from a not over-polite gentleman he met there was, "We don'tknow nothing about Mr. Merton Chance in this horfice, and don't want to, nether. "

Mr. Travers had to confess that he could not find Merton Chance. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Before Fan's visit came to an end, the Travers gave a dinner to some oftheir Kingston friends and neighbours. The hour was seven, and all theguests, save one, arrived at the right time, and after fifteen minutes'grace had been allowed, Mrs. Travers discovered to her dismay that theywould sit down thirteen at table. She was superstitious, in therestricted sense in which her husband used the word, and was plainlydistressed. Two or three of the ladies, including Fan, who were in thesecret, were discussing this grave matter with her. 

"I shall not dine, Mrs. Travers; do please let me stop out!" said Fan. 

"No, my dear Miss Eden, I couldn't think of such a thing, " said Mrs. Travers. 

Then another lady offered to eat her dinner standing, for so long as theydid not sit down thirteen "it would be all right, " she said. But it wasone of those unfortunate remarks which sound personal, the obliging ladybeing very tall and slender, while her short and stout hostess did notlook much higher when standing than when seated. 

"It is really too bad of him!" was her sole remark. 

"Is he nice?" asked another lady. 

"Not very, I think, if he makes us sit down thirteen, and leaves MissEden with no one to take her in. But you can judge for yourself, for herehe is--I am _so_ glad!"

The late guest advancing to them was now shaking hands with his hostess, and apologising for being the last to arrive; while Fan, who had suddenlyturned very pale, shrank back as if anxious to avoid being seen by him. It was Captain Horton, not much changed in appearance, but thinner andsomewhat care-worn and jaded. Mrs. Travers at once proceeded to introducehim to Fan, and asked him to take her in to dinner, and being preoccupiedshe did not notice the girl's altered and painfully distressedappearance. He bowed and offered his arm, but he started perceptibly whenfirst glancing at her face. Fan, barely resting her fingers on hissleeve, moved on by his side, her eyes cast down, as they followed theother guests, both keeping silence. At the table, their neighbours oneither side being deeply engaged in conversation with their respectivepartners, Captain Horton found himself placed in an exceedingly tryingposition, but until he had finished his soup, which he ate but did nottaste, he made no attempt to speak. The name of Eden mystified him, andmore than once his eyes wandered to that portrait hanging on the wallopposite to where he was sitting, to find its grey eyes watching him; yethe had no doubt in his mind that the young lady by his side was the girlhe had known at Dawson Place as Fan Affleck. At length, to avoidattracting attention, he felt compelled to say something, and made somecommonplace remarks about the weather--its excessive heat and dryness; ithad not been so hot for years. "At noon in the City to-day, " he said, "the thermometer marked eighty-nine degrees in the shade. "

Fan's monosyllabic replies were scarcely audible; she was very pale, andkept her eyes religiously fixed on the table before her. At length sheventured to glance at him, and could not help noticing, in spite of herdistress, that he seemed as ill at ease as herself. He crumbled his breadto powder on the cloth, and when he raised his glass to drink, which hedid often enough to fill up the time, his hand shook so as almost tospill his wine. Seeing him so nervous, she began to experience a kind ofpity for him--some such complex feeling as a very humane person mighthave for a reptile he has been taught to loathe and fear when seeing itin pain--and at length surprised him by asking if he lived in Kingston. He replied that he usually spent the summer months there for the sake ofthe boating; and then, as if afraid that they would drop into silenceagain, he put the same question to her. Fan replied that she was onlystaying for a few days with her friends the Travers. A few vapid remarksabout Kingston and the river was all they could find to say after that, and it was an immense relief when the ladies at length rose and left theroom. 

Mrs. Travers led the way through the drawing-room to the garden, but whenall her guests, except Fan, who came last, had passed out, she came backto speak alone to the girl. 

"I am afraid you are not feeling well, my dear, " she said. "You look aspale as a ghost, and I noticed that you scarcely ate anything at dinner, and were very silent. 

"Please don't think anything of it, Mrs. Travers. I feel quite well now--perhaps it was the heat. "

"It _was_ hot, but it never seems like dinner unless we have the gaslighted and draw the curtains. "

"I suppose I must have seemed very stupid to--the gentleman who took mein, " remarked Fan. "Can you tell me something about him, Mrs. Travers? Ishe a friend of yours and Mr. Travers?"

"Are you really interested in him, Miss Eden?" said the other, with adisconcerting smile. 

The girl's face flushed painfully. After a little reflection she said:

"I was so silent at table, hardly answering a word when he spoke--perhapshe thought me very strange and shy. " She paused, blushing again at herown disingenuousness. "I must have felt nervous, or frightened, atsomething in him. Do you know him well--is he a bad man, Mrs. Travers?"

"My dear child, what a shocking thing to say--and of a gentleman you havescarcely spoken to! You shall hear his whole biography, since you are socurious about him. We have known him a long time: he is a nephew of anold friend of ours--Mr. George Horton, a stockbroker, very wealthy. Captain Horton had a small fortune left to him, but he ran through withit, and so--had to leave the army. He was a sporting man, and had themisfortune to lose; that, I think, is the worst that can be said of him. About two years ago he went to his uncle and begged to be taken on in theoffice; he was sick of an idle life, he said. His uncle did not believethat he would do any good in the City, but consented to give him a trial. Since then he has been as much absorbed in the business as if he had beenin it all his life. His uncle thinks him wonderfully clever, and I daresay will make him a partner in the firm before very long. And now, mydear Miss Eden, you must get rid of that fancy about him, because it iswrong; and later in the evening when you hear him sing--you are so fondof music!--you will like him as much as we do. "

After this little discourse the good woman took her station at a table inthe garden to pour out the coffee. 

But there was a tumult in the girl's heart, a strange feeling she couldnot analyse. It was not fear--she feared him no longer; nor hate, since, as she had said, her happiness had taken from her the power to hateanyone; yet it was strong as these, importunate, and its object was clearto her soul, but how to give it expression she knew not. 

The hum of conversation suddenly grew loud in the dining-room; thegentlemen had finished their wine, if not their discussion; they hadrisen, and were about to join the ladies in the garden. The impulse inher was so strong that it was an anguish, and she could not resist it. Coming to the side of her hostess, she spoke hesitatingly:

"Mrs. Travers, when they come out, I must talk to him--to Captain Horton, I mean, and--and try to do away with the bad impression I must have made. He must think me so shy and silent. Will it seem strange if I should askhim to go with me round the garden to see the roses?"

"Strange! no, indeed, " returned the other with a little laugh. "He willbe very glad to look at the roses with you, I should think. "

Fan kept her place by the table when the gentlemen came out. CaptainHorton's eyes studiously avoided her face. 

"Mrs. Travers, " he said, taking a cup of coffee from her hand, "I hopeyou will not think worse of me than you already do if I leave you atonce. Unfortunately for me, I have an appointment which must be kept. "

"Oh that is really too bad of you, " said the lady. "We were anticipatingso much pleasure from your singing this evening. And here is Miss Edenjust waiting to take you round the garden to show you our roses--perhapsyou can spare ten minutes to see them?"

He glanced at the girl's pale, troubled face. 

"I shall be very pleased to look at the roses with Miss Eden, " hereturned, setting down his cup with a somewhat unsteady hand. 

His voice, however, expressed no pleasure, but only surprise, and whilespeaking he anxiously consulted his watch. Fan came round to his side atonce, and together they moved towards the lower end of the grounds. 

"Do you admire flowers?" She spoke mechanically. 

"Yes, I do. "

After an interval she spoke again. 

"Mr. Travers takes great pride in his roses. They are very lovely. "

He made no reply. 

Then at last, in a kind of despair, she added:

"But it was not to show you the roses that I asked you to come with me. "

He inclined his head slightly, but said nothing. 

"You remember me--do you not?" she asked after a while. 

He considered the question for a few moments, then answered, "Yes, MissEden. "

"Perhaps it surprised you to hear me called by that name. It was myfather's name, and I have now taken it in obedience to my brother'swish. "

At this mention of father and brother he involuntarily glanced at herface--that same pure delicate face to which he had once brought soterrified a look and a pallor as of death. 

For some minutes more they paced the walks at the end of the garden insilence, he waiting for her to speak, she unable to say anything. 

"Allow me to remind you, " he said at length, looking again at his watch, "that I am a little pressed for time. I understood, or imagined, that youhad something to say to me--not about roses. "

"I am so sorry--I can say nothing, " she murmured in reply. Then after aninterval, with an effort, "But perhaps it will be the same if you knowwhat I came out for--if you can guess. "

"Perhaps I can guess only too well, " he returned bitterly. "You werekindly going to warn me that you intend bringing some damning accusationagainst me to the Travers. You need not have troubled yourself about it;you might have spared yourself, and me, the misery of this interview. Itsurprised me very much to meet you here, as I had no desire to cross yourpath. I shall not enter this house again, and Kingston will soon see thelast of me. It would have been better, I think--more maidenly, if youwill allow me to say so--to have met me as a perfect stranger and made nosign. "

"I could not do that, " she answered, with a ring of pain in her voice. "You speak angrily, and take it for granted that I am going to do yousome injury. Oh, what a mistake you are making! Nothing would ever induceme to breathe one word to the Travers, nor to anyone, of what I know ofyou. "

He looked surprised and relieved. "Then, in heaven's name, why not tryand forget all about it? You have friends and relations now, and seem tohave made the best of your opportunities. Is there anything to be gainedby stirring up the past?"

"I do not know. I thought so, but perhaps I was wrong. "

He looked at her again, openly, and with growing interest. He had hatedher memory, had cursed her a thousand times, for having come between himand the woman he wanted to marry; but it made a wonderful difference inhis feelings towards her just at present to find that she was not hisenemy. "Will you sit down here, Miss Eden, " he said, speaking now notonly without animosity but gently, "and let me hear what you wished tosay? I beg your pardon for the injustice I did you a minute ago, but I amstill in the dark as to your motive in seeking this interview. "

She sat down on a garden seat, under the shade of a wide-branching lime;he a little apart. But she could say nothing, albeit so much was in herheart, and her impulse had been so strong; so far as her power to expressthat strange emotion went, in the dark he would have to remain. She couldnot say to him--it was a feeling, not a thought--that her clear soul hadtaken some turbidness that was foreign to it from his; that when sheforgot the past and his existence it settled and left her pure again; shecould not say--the thought existed without form in her mind--that itwould have been better if he had never been born because he had offended;but that just because the offence had been against herself, something ofthe guilt seemed to attach itself to her, causing her to know remorse andshrink from herself; that it was somehow in his power--he havingperformed this miracle--to deliver her. 

From time to time her companion glanced at her pale face; he did notpress her to speak, he could see that she was powerless; but he wasthinking of many things, and it was borne in on him that if he couldbring about a change in her feelings towards him, it might be well forhim--not in any spiritual sense; he was only thinking of Mary and hispassion for her, which had never filled his heart until the moment ofthat separation which had promised to be eternal. In a vague way hecomprehended something of the feeling that was in the girl's heart; forit was plain that to be near him was unspeakably painful to her, and yet--strange contradiction!--she had now put herself in his way. He dropped afew tentative words that seemed to express regret for the past, and whenhe remarked that she listened eagerly, and waited for more, he knew thathe was on safe and profitable ground. Safe, and how easy to walk on! At amoment's notice he had accepted this new, apparently unsuitable part, andits strange passion at once grew familiar to him, and could be expressedeasily. Perhaps he even deceived himself, for a few minutes or for halfan hour while the process of deceiving another lasted, that he hadactually felt as he said--that his changed manner of life had resultedfrom this feeling. "If I have not known remorse, " he said, "I pity thepoor fellows who do. " And much more he said, speaking not fluently, butbrokenly, with intervals of silence, as if something that had longremained hidden had at last been wrung from him. 

All this time Fan had said nothing, nor did she speak when he hadfinished his story. Nor did he wish it; the strange trouble and pallorhad passed away, and there was a tender light in her eyes that was betterthan speech. 

They rose and moved slowly towards the house. The drawing-room waslighted, and the guests were now gathering there to listen to a lady atthe piano singing. They could hear her plainly enough, for her voice, said to be soprano, was exceedingly shrill, and she was singing, _Tellme, my heart_--a difficult thing, all flourishes, and she rendered itlike an automaton lark with its internal machinery gone wrong. 

"Shall we go in?" said Fan. 

"Yes, Miss Eden, if you wish; but don't you think we can hear this songbest where we are? I find it hard to ask you a question I have had in mymind for some minutes, but I must ask it. Are you still with MissStarbrow?"

"Oh, no; we separated a long time ago, and for very long--nearly eighteenmonths--I never heard from her. "

"I hope you will not think it an impertinent question; but--there musthave been some very serious reason to have kept you apart so long?"

"No, scarcely that. I have always felt the same towards her. She did somuch for me. It was only a misunderstanding. "

"And now?"

"Now I am so glad to say that it is all over, and that she is my dearestfriend. "

"And is she still living at Dawson Place--and single?"

"Yes. " But after a few moments she said, "You had one question more toask, Captain Horton, had you not?"

"Yes, " he returned. "You must know what it is. "

"But it is hard to answer. She mentioned your name once--lately; but herfeelings are just as bitter against you. "

"I could not expect it to be otherwise, " he returned, and they walked ontowards the house. 

Before they reached it Mrs. Travers appeared to them. "Still looking atthe roses?" she said with a laugh. "How fond of flowers you two must be!Can you spare us another ten minutes before keeping your appointment, Captain Horton, and sing us one of your songs?"

"As many as you like, Mrs. Travers, " he returned. "You see, after goingto see the roses it was too late to keep the appointment. And I am veryglad it was, for I have had a very pleasant conversation with Miss Eden, about flowers, and the beauties of Kingston, and of the Stock Exchange, and a dozen things besides. "

Fan, sitting a little apart and beside the open window, listened with astrange pleasure to that fine baritone voice which she now heard againafter so long a time, and wondered to herself whether it would ever againbe joined with Mary's in that rich harmony to which she had so oftenlistened standing on the stairs. 

It was nearly eleven o'clock before Captain Horton found an opportunityto speak to her again. "Miss Eden, " he said, dropping into a seat next toher, "I am anxious to say one--no, two things, before leaving you. One isthat I know that after this evening I shall be a happier man. The otheris this: if I should ever be able to serve you in any way--if you couldever bring yourself to ask my assistance in any way, it would give me agreat happiness. But perhaps it is a happiness I have no right toexpect. "

Before he had finished speaking her wish to find Constance, and Mr. Travers' failure, came to her mind, and she eagerly caught at his offer. 

"I am so glad you did not leave me before saying this, " she replied. "Youcan help me in something now, I think. "

"How glad I am to hear you say that, Miss Eden! I am entirely at yourservice; tell me what I can do for you. "

She told him about the marriage of his former friend, Merton Chance, withConstance, and about their disappearance, and her anxiety to find herfriend. 

Captain Horton, after hearing all the particulars, promised to write toher on her return to Quebec Street to let her know the result of theinquiries he would begin making on the morrow. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

Two days later Fan returned to her apartments, and shortly after arrivingthere received a letter from Captain Horton, giving her an account ofwhat he had been doing for her since their memorable meeting at Kingston. He had gone to work in a very systematic way, enlisting the services of anumber of clergymen and other philanthropic workers at the East End tomake inquiries for him; and it would be strange, he concluded, if theChances escaped being discovered, unless they had quitted that part ofLondon. 

A few days later, about the middle of August, came a second letter, whichmade Fan's heart leap with joy. Captain Horton had found out that theChances were living at Mile End, but did not know their address yet. Hehad come across a gentleman--a curate without a curacy, a kind ofChristian free-lance--who lived in that neighbourhood and knew thepersons sought for intimately, but declined to give their address or tosay anything about them; but he had consented to meet Miss Eden atCaptain Horton's office in the City and speak to her; and the meeting hadbeen arranged to take place at two o'clock on the following day. Fan tookcare to be at the office punctually at two. 

"Our friend has not yet arrived, " said Captain Horton, after giving her achair in the office, "but we can look for him soon, I think, as he didnot seem like a person who would fail to keep an engagement. He is a verygood fellow, I have heard, but seemed rather to resent being questionedabout his mysterious friends, and was very reticent. Ah, here he is. "

"Mr. Northcott!" exclaimed Fan, starting up with a face full of joy; forit was he, looking older, and with a pale, care-worn face, which, together with his somewhat rusty clerical coat and hat, seemed to showthat the world had not gone well with him since he had left Eyethorne. 

"Miss Affleck--if I had only imagined that it was you! How glad I am tomeet you once more! How glad Mrs. Chance will be to hear from you, " hesaid, taking her hand. 

"But I wish to see her, Mr. Northcott--I _must_ see her, " said Fan;and the curate at once offered to conduct her to her friend's home atMile End. 

Leaving the office, they took a cab and set out for their destination;but during the drive Fan had little chance of hearing any detailsconcerning her friend's life; for what with the noise of the streets andthe rattling of the cab, it was scarcely possible to hear a word; andwhenever there came a quieter interval the curate wished to hear how Fanhad passed her time, and why she had been addressed as Miss Eden. 

At length they got to their journey's end, the cab, for some reason, being dismissed at some distance from the house they had come to visit. It was one in a row of small, mean-looking tenements containing twofloors each, and facing other houses of the same description on theopposite side of the narrow macadamised road, which, with the loosestones and other rubbish in it, presented a dirty, ill-kept appearance. At the tenth or eleventh house in the row Mr. Northcott stopped andknocked lightly at the low front door, warped and blistered by the sunwhich poured its intolerable heat full upon it. 

A woman opened the door and greeted the curate with a smile; then castinga surprised look at his companion, stood aside to let them pass into thenarrow, dark, stuffy hallway. "He'll be sleeping just now, " said thewoman, pointing up the stairs. "You can just go quietly up. She'll bethere by herself doing of her writing. "

"We must go up softly then, " he said, turning to Fan. "Poor Chance isvery ill, and sleeps principally in the daytime. That's why I got rid ofthe cab some distance from the house. "

He led the way up the narrow creaking stairs to a door on the firstlanding standing partly open; before it hung a wet chintz curtain, preventing their seeing into the room. Her conductor tapped lightly onthe doorframe, and presently the wet curtain was moved aside byConstance, who greeted her visitor with a glad smile while giving him herhand, but the darkness of the small landing, which had no light fromabove, prevented her from seeing Fan for some moments. 

"Harold--at last!" she said, her hand still resting in his. "I havewaited two days for you; but I was resolved not to send the manuscripttill you had read it. " Then she caught sight of Fan, standing a littlebehind him, and started back, a look of the greatest astonishment cominginto her face. 

"I have brought you an old friend, Constance, " said the curate, steppingaside. 

"Fan--my darling Fan!" she exclaimed, but still in a subdued voice, andin a moment the two friends were locked in a long and close embrace. 

"Constance--what a change! Let me look at your dear face again. Oh, howunkind of you to keep your address from me all this time!"

The other raised her face, and for some moments they gazed into eachother's eyes, wet with tears. She was indeed changed; and that rich browntint, which had looked so beautiful, and made her so different fromothers, had quite faded from her pale thin face, so that she no longerlooked like the Constance Churton of the old days. Even her hair had beenaffected by trouble and bad health; it was combed out and hanging looseon her back, and Fan noticed that the fine bronze glint had gone out ofthe heavy brown tresses like joy or hope from a darkened life. She waswearing a very simple cotton wrapper, and though evidently made of thevery cheapest kind of stuff, it had faded almost white with manywashings. Altogether it was plain to see that the Chances were very poor;and yet the expression on her friend's altered face was not a despondingone. 

"You must forgive me for not writing, dearest Fan, " she said at length. "There would have been things to tell which could not be told withoutpain. It was wrong--cowardly in me to keep silence, I know. And itgrieved me to think that you too might be in trouble and want. " Then, after surveying Fan's costume for some moments, she added with a smile. "But that was a false fear, I hope. "

"Yes, dear. At any rate, for some time past I have had everything I couldwish for, and dear friends to care for me. But that is a very long story, Constance, and I am anxious to hear how your husband is. "

All this time the curate had been standing patiently by; he now took hisdeparture, after arranging to return to see Fan as far west as the Cityon her way home at six o'clock in the evening. 

Constance raised the wet curtain and led Fan into the sitting-room. Itwas small and mean enough, with a very low ceiling, dingy, discolouredwall-paper, and a few articles of furniture such as one sees in aworking-man's lodging. Near the front window stood a small deal table, onwhich were pens, ink, and a pile of closely-written sheets of paper, showing how Constance had been employed. The two doors--one by which theyhad entered, and another leading to the bedroom--also the window, wereopen, and before them all wet pieces of chintz were hanging. This wasdone to mitigate the intense heat, Constance explained; the sun shiningdirectly down on the slates made the low-roofed rooms like an oven, andthe quickly evaporating moisture created a momentary coolness. Merton wasasleep in the second room; his nights, she said, were so bad that hegenerally fell asleep during the day; he had not risen yet, and her wholestudy was to keep the rooms cool and quiet while he rested. 

Fan took off her hat and settled down to have a long talk with herfriend. 

"Fan, dear, " said the other, after returning from the bedroom to makesure that Merton still slept, "we must talk in as low a tone as possible, I mean without whispering. And we have so much to say to each other. "

"Yes, indeed; I am dying to hear all about your life since you vanishedfrom Notting Hill. "

"But, Fan, my curiosity about your life is still greater--and no wonder!I have been constantly thinking about you--crying, too, sometimes--imagining all sorts of painful things--that you were destitute andfriendless, perhaps, in this cruel London. And now here you are, I don'tknow how, like a vision of the West End, with that subtle perfume aboutyou, and looking more beautiful than I have ever seen you, except on thatone occasion; do you remember?--on that first evening in the orchard atdear old Eyethorne. Look at _my_ dress, Fan, my second best! But howmuch more did it astound me to hear Harold--I call Mr. Northcott by hisChristian name now--addressing you as _Miss Eden_ when he left. Whatdoes it all mean? If he had called you _Mrs. _ Eden I might haveguessed what wonderful things had happened to you. "

Fan was prepared for this. There were some things not to be revealed; sheremembered that Mary had looked into her very soul when she had heard thestrange story, and her quick apprehension and knowledge of human naturehad no doubt supplied the links that were missing in it. Now byanticipation she had prepared a narrative which would run smoothly, andbegan it without further delay; and for half an hour Constance listenedwith intense interest, only interrupting to bestow a kiss and whisper atender consoling word when her friend was at last compelled, withfaltering speech, to confess that she was no legitimate child of herfather. 

"Oh, Fan, I am so glad that this has happened to you. So much more gladthan if I had myself experienced some great good fortune. And yourbrother--oh, how nobly he has acted--how much you must love and admirehim! I remember that evening so well when you met him; I thought thenthat I had never seen anyone with so charming a manner. And there wassomething so melodious and sympathetic in his voice; how strange that itnever struck me as being like yours, and that he was like you in hiseyes, and so many things!"

"But tell me about yourself, Constance. "

"I could put it all in twenty words, but that would not be fair, andwould not satisfy you. Since our marriage we have simply been driftingdown the current, getting poorer and poorer, and also moving about fromplace to place--I mean since you lost sight of us. And at last it wasimpossible for us to go any lower, for we were destitute, and--it willshock you to hear it--obliged even to pledge our clothes to buy bread. "

"And you would not write to me, Constance, nor even to your mother! Iknow that, because I wrote to her to ask for your address, and shereplied that she did not know it, that I knew more about your movementsin London than she did. "

"I could not write to you, Fan, knowing that you barely had enough tokeep yourself, and that it would only have distressed you. Nor could Iwrite to them at home. Those poor fields they have to live on aremortgaged almost up to their value, and after paying interest they havelittle left for expenses in the house. Besides, Fan, we had alreadyreceived help from Mr. Eden and other friends, and it had proved worsethan useless. It only seemed to have the effect of making us less able tohelp ourselves. "

"And your husband--was he not earning something with his lecturing andthe articles he wrote?"

"Not with the lecturing, as you call it. With the articles, yes, but verylittle. They were political articles, you know, and were printed insocialistic papers, and not many of them were paid for. But after a whileall his enthusiasm died out; he could not go on with it, and was notprepared with anything else. He grew to hate the whole thing at last, andwas a little too candid with his former friends when he told them thatthey were a living proof of the judgment Carlyle had passed on hiscountrymen. It was hardly safe for him to walk about the streets amongthe people who had begun to expect great things from him. It is adreadful thing to say, but it is the simple truth, that our next movewould have been to the workhouse. And just then his illness began. He wasout all night and met with some accident; it was a pouring wet night, andhe was brought home in the morning bruised and injured, soaking wet, andthe result was a fever and cough, which turned to something likeconsumption. He has suffered terribly, and I have sometimes despaired ofhis life; but he is better now, I think--I hope. Only this dreadful heatwe are having keeps him so weak. You can't imagine how anxiously we arelooking forward to a change in the weather; the cool days will so refreshhim when they come. "

"But, Constance, you haven't told me yet how you escaped what you werefearing when he first fell ill. "

The other looked up, tears starting in her eyes, and a glow of warmcolour coming into her pale cheeks. "Oh, Fan, " she said, her voicetrembling with emotion, "have you not yet guessed who came to us in ourdarkest hour and saved us from worse things than we had already known?Yes; Mr. Northcott, a poor unemployed clergyman, without any privateincome, struggling for his own subsistence, and frequently in bad health;but no rich and powerful man could have given us such help and comfort. How can I tell it all to you? He found us out after we left NorlandSquare. He had left Eyethorne shortly after we did, but not before he hadheard from mother about my marriage, and my husband's name. He introducedhimself to Merton one evening at a socialistic meeting, and after that heoccasionally came to see us, and he and Merton had endless arguments, forhe was not a socialist. But they became great friends, and he was alwaystrying to persuade my husband to turn his talents to other things. Hewished Merton to try his hand at little descriptive and charactersketches, interspersed with incidents partly true and partly fictitious. He said that I would be able to help; and one day he related a littleincident, minutely describing the actors in it, and begged us to write itout in the way he suggested, but unfortunately the idea never took withMerton. He thought it too trivial; or else he could not work. So I triedmy hand alone at it; and Harold saw what I had done, and asked me torewrite it, and make some alterations which he suggested. Then he sent mea rough sketch he had written and asked me to work it up in the same wayas the first; and when I had finished it I sent him the two paperstogether. Shortly afterwards, when Merton was ill and I was at my wits'end, Harold came to say that he had sold the sketches to the editor ofthe _Lady's Pictorial_, who liked them so much that he wished tohave more from the same hand. Imagine how glad I was to get the chequeHarold had brought me! But about the other sketches asked for, I told himthat I could not write them because I had no materials. He had suppliedme with incidents, characters, and descriptions of localities for thefirst time, and I could not go about to find fresh matter for myself. Hesaid that he had thought of that, and that he was prepared to supply mewith as much material as I required. He would give me facts, and my fancywould do the rest. He only laughed at the idea that I would be suckinghis brains and depriving him of his own means of subsistence. He wasalways about among the poor, he said, and talking to people of alldescriptions, and hearing and seeing things well worth being told inprint, but he was without the special kind of talent and style of writingnecessary to give literary form to such matter. His tastes lay in otherdirections, and the only writing he could do was of a very differentkind. Then I gladly consented, and Merton was pleased also, and promisedto help; but--poor fellow--he has not had the strength to do anythingyet. "

"Oh, Constance, how glad I am to hear this. But is it not terribly tryingfor you to do so much work in this close hot room, and attend to yourhusband at the same time? And you get no proper rest at night, I suppose. Is it not making you ill?"

"No, dear; it comes easier every week, and has made me better, I think. The heat is very trying, I must say; and I can only write when Merton isasleep, generally in the early part of the day. But do you know, Fan, that in spite of our poverty and my great and constant anxiety aboutMerton's health, I feel some happiness in my heart now. If I possessed amorbid mind or conscience I should probably call myself heartless forbeing able to feel happiness at such a time--happiness and pride at mysuccess. But I am not morbid, thank goodness, or at war with my ownnature--with the better part of my nature, I might say. And it is sosweet--oh, Fan, how unutterably sweet it is, to feel that I am doingsomething for him and for myself, that my life is not being wasted, thatmy brains are beginning to bear fruit at last!"

"I wonder whether I have ever seen any of your sketches, Constance? Ihave read some things, and cried and laughed over them, in the_Pictorial_, called 'Eastern Idylls. '"

"Yes, Fan, that is the title of my sketches. How strange that you shouldhave seen them! How glad I am!"

Fan related the circumstances; then Constance paid another visit to thebedroom to listen to the invalid's breathing. Returning, she presentlyresumed, "Fan, is it not wonderful that we should experience suchgoodness from one who after all was no more than an acquaintance, and whohas so little of life's good things? He has never offered to help us evenwith one shilling in money, and that only shows his delicacy. Had he beenever so rich and given us help in money there would have been a sting init. And yet look how much more than money he gives us--how much time hespends, and what trouble he takes to keep me supplied with fresh matterfor my writings. I'm sure he goes about with eyes and ears open to all hesees and hears more for our sakes than for his own. Is it not wonderful, Fan?"

"Yes; it is very sweet, but not strange, I think, " said Fan, smiling; andafter reflecting a few moments she was just about to add: "He has alwaysloved you, since he knew you at Eyethorne, and he would do anything foryou. "

But at that moment Constance half turned her head to listen, and so theperilous words were not spoken. "Consideration like an angel came, " andbefore the other turned to her to resume the conversation, Fan lookedback on what she had just escaped with a feeling like that of the marinerwho sees the half-hidden rock only after he has safely passed it. 

They talked on for half an hour longer, when a low moan, followed by afit of coughing in the adjoining room, made Constance start up and go toher husband. She returned in a few minutes, but only to say that shewould be absent some time assisting Merton to dress; then giving Fan theproof of the last "Idyll" she had sent to the paper to read, she againleft the room. 

CHAPTER XL

Fan read the sketch, but her mind was too much occupied with all she hadjust heard, in addition to the joy she felt at having recovered herfriend, to pay much attention to it. Moreover the increasing heat beganto oppress her; she marvelled that Constance, accustomed all her life tothe freedom and cool expanse of the country, should find it possible towork in such an atmosphere and amidst such surroundings. 

At length, Merton, who had been coughing a great deal while dressing, came in assisted by his wife, but quite exhausted with the exertion ofwalking from one room to the other; and after shaking hands with theirvisitor he sunk into his easy-chair, not yet able to talk. She wasgreatly shocked at the change in him; the once fine, marble-like face washorribly wasted, so that the sharp unsightly bones looked as if theywould cut their way through the deadly dry parchment-yellow skin thatcovered them; and the deep blue eyes now looked preternaturally large andbright--all the brighter for the dark purple stains beneath them. He waslow indeed, nigh unto death perhaps; yet he did not appear cast down inthe least, but even while he sat breathing laboriously, still unable tospeak, the eyes had a pleased hopeful look as they rested on theirvisitor's face. A smile, too, hovered about the corners of his mouth ashis glance wandered over her costume. For, in spite of feeling the heat agreat deal, she _looked_ cool in her light-hued summer dress, withits dim blue pattern on a cream-coloured ground. The loose fashion inwhich it was made, the tints, and light frosting of fine lace on neck andsleeves, harmonised well with the grey tender eyes, the pure delicateskin, and golden hair. 

"You could not have chosen a fitter costume to visit us in, " said Mertonat length. "I can hardly believe that you come to us from some other partof this same foul, hot, dusty London. To my fever-parched fancy you seemrather to have come from some distant unpolluted place, where greenleaves flutter in the wind and cast shadows on the ground; where crystalshowers fall, and the vision of the rainbow is sometimes seen. "

Constance came to his side and bent over him. 

"You must not be tyrannical, Connie, " he said. "I really must talk. Evena bird in prison sings its song after a fashion, and why not I?"

And seeing him so anxious to begin she made no further objection, contenting herself with giving him a draught from his medicine bottle. She had already told him Fan's story, and he had heard it with someinterest. He congratulated the girl on having found a brother in his oldschool-fellow, Arthur Eden, and took some merit to himself for havingbrought them together. But he did not make the remark that truth wasstranger than fiction. It was evident that he was impatient to get toother more important matters. 

"You have doubtless heard from my wife, " he said, "that I have partedcompany with those misguided people that call themselves socialists. Well, Miss Affleck, the fact is--"

"Eden, " corrected Constance with a smile. She was quietly moving aboutthe room in her list slippers, engaged in remoistening the hangings, which had now grown dry and hot. 

"I beg your pardon, Miss Eden. Yes, thanks--Fan; that will be betterstill among such old friends as we are. What I wish to say is, that mymind was never really carried away with their fantastical theories--theirdreams of a social condition where all men will be equally far removedfrom want and excessive wealth. I could have told them at once that theywere overlooking the first and greatest law of organic nature, that thestone which the builders despised would fall on them and grind them topowder. At the same time my feelings were engaged on their side, I ambound to confess; I did think it possible to educe some good out of thisgeneral ferment and dissatisfaction with the conditions of life. For, after all, this ferment--this great clamour and shouting and hurrying toand fro--represents force--blind brute force, no doubt, like that ofwaves dashing themselves to pieces on the rocks, or of the tempest letloose on the world. A tempest unhappily without an angel to guide it; forI look upon the would-be angels--the Burnses--Morrises--Champions--Hyndmans--merely as so many crows, rooks, and jackdaws, who haveincontinently rushed in to swell the noise with their outrageous cawing, and to be tossed and blown about, hither and thither, among the dust, sticks, old newspapers, and pieces of rotten wood stirred up by the wind. Good would have come of it if it had been possible to introduce a gleamof sense and reason into the foggy brains of these wretched men. But thatwas impossible. I am ashamed to have to confess that I ever believed itpossible--that I assumed, when planning their welfare, that they were notabsolutely irrational. I have not only thrown the whole thing up, but thedisgust, the revulsion of feeling I have experienced, has had the effectof making me perfectly indifferent as to the ultimate fate of thesepeople. If some person were to come to me to-morrow to say that all theEast-enders, from Bishopsgate Street to Bow, had been seized with a kindof frenzy, like that which from time to time takes possession of theNorway marmots, or bandicoots, or whatever they are called--"

"Lemmings, " said Constance. 

"Yes, lemmings. Thanks, Connie, you are a perfect walking encyclopædia. And--like these Norway lemmings--had rushed into the Thames at Tilbury, men, women, and children, and been drowned, I should say, 'I am verypleased to hear it. ' For to my mind these people are no more worthy ofbeing saved than a migrating horde of Norway rats, or than the Gadareneswine that ran down the steep and were drowned in the sea. "

Fan listened with astonishment, and turned to Constance, wondering whatwould be the effect of such dreadful sentiments on her, and not withoutrecalling some of those "Idylls, " inspired by a spirit so loving andgentle and Christian. But she seemed to be paying little attention to thematter of her husband's discourse, to be concerned only at the state ofhis health. 

"Merton, dear, " she said, "if you talk so much at a stretch you willbring on another fit of coughing. "

"Ah, yes, thanks for reminding me. Let me have another sip of thatmixture. Then I shall speak of other more hopeful things. And thesweetness of hope shall be like that rosy honey, rose-scented, to softenmy throat, made dry and harsh with barren themes. After all, Connie, these troubles which have tried us so severely have only proved blessingsin disguise. Yes, Fan, we have been driven hither and thither about thesea, encountering terrible storms, and sometimes fearing that our barkwas about to founder; but they have at last driven us into a haven moresweet and restful than storm-tossed mariners ever entered before. Andlooking back we can even feel grateful to the furious wind, and thehateful dark blue wave that brought us to such a goal. "

All this figurative language, which was like the prelude to a solemnpiece of music, gave Fan the idea that something of very great importancewas about to follow. But, alas! the mixture, and the rose-honey sweetnessof hope, failed to prevent the attack which Constance had feared, and hecoughed so long and so violently that Fan, after being a distressedspectator for some time, grew positively alarmed. By-and-by, glancing ather friend's face as she stood bending over the sufferer, holding hisbowed head between her palms, she concluded that it was no more than aneveryday attack, and that no fatal results need be feared. Relieved ofher apprehension, she began to think less of the husband and more of thewife; for what resignation, what courage and strength she had shown sinceher unhappy marriage, and what self-sacrificing devotion to her weakunworthy life-partner! Or was it a mistake, she now asked herself, toregard him as weak and unworthy? Had not Constance, with a finer insight--her superior in this as in most things--seen the unapparent strength, the secret hidden virtue, that was in him, and which would show itselfwhen the right time came? No, Fan could not believe that. Tom Starbrowand the poor pale-faced curate in his rusty coat were true strong men, and the woman that married either of them would not lean on a reed thatwould break and pierce her to the quick; and Captain Horton was also astrong man, although he had certainly been a very bad one. But this man, in spite of his nimble brains and eloquent tongue, was weak and unstable, hopelessly--fatally. The suffering and the poverty which had come tothese two, which in the wife's case only made the innate virtue of herspirit to shine forth with starlike lustre, would make and could make nodifference to him. Words were nothing to Fan; not because of his wordshad she forgiven Captain Horton his crime; and if Merton had spoken withthe eloquence of a Ruskin, or an angel, it would have had no effect onher. She considered his life only, and it failed to satisfy her. 

Recovered from his attack, Merton sat resting languidly in his chair, hishalf-closed eyes looking straight before him. 

"Ah, to lead men, " he said, speaking in a low voice, with frequentpauses, as if soliloquising. "Not higher in their sense--what they withminds darkened with a miserable delusion call higher. .. . Up and still up, and higher still, through ways that grow stonier, where vegetationshrivels in the bleak winds, and animal life dies for lack ofnourishment. Will they find the Promised Land there, when their toil isfinished, when they have reached their journey's end? A vast plateau ofsand and rock; a Central Asian desert; a cavern blown in by icy winds foronly inn; a 'gaunt and taciturn host' to receive them; and at last, toperform the last offices, the high-soaring vulture, and the wild windscattering dust and sleet on their bones. .. . Ah, to make them see--tomake them know!. .. Poor dumb brutish cattle, consumed with fever ofthirst, bellowing with rage, trampling each other down in a pen too smallto hold them! Ah, to show them the gate--the wide-open gate--to make themlie down in green pastures, to lead them beside the still waters!. .. Better for me, if I cannot lead, to leave them; to go away and dwellalone! to seek in solitary places, as others have done, some wild bitterroot to heal their distemper; to come back with something in my hands;. .. To consider by what symbols to address them; to send them from time totime a message, to be scoffed at by most and heard with kindling hope bythose whose souls are not wholly darkened. "

After a long silence he spoke again to ask his wife to get him a bookfrom his bedroom, which he had been reading that morning, to find in itmany sweet comforting things. She had been seated at some distance fromhim, apparently paying no attention to his enigmatical words, but nowquickly put down her work and got the book for him from the next room. 

"Thanks, " he said, taking it. "Yes, here it is. I wish to read you thispassage, Connie: 'Now they began to go down the hill into the Valley ofHumiliation. It was a steep hill, and their way was slippery, but theywere very careful, so they got down pretty well. Then said Mr. Great-heart, We need not be afraid in this Valley, for here is nothing to hurtus, unless we procure it for ourselves. It is true that Christian didhere meet with Apollyon, with whom he also had a sore combat; but thatfray was the fruit of those slips that he got in his going down the hill;for they that get slips there must look for combats here. ' Do you seewhat I mean, Connie?"

"Yes, dear, " she replied, very quietly. 

Then he continued, "'For the common people, when they hear that somefrightful thing has befallen such a one in such a place, are of anopinion that that place is haunted with some foul fiend or evil spirit, when, alas! it is for the fruit of their own doing that such things dobefall them there!' Listen, Connie: 'No disparagement to Christian, morethan to many others, whose hap and lot was his; for it is easier going upthan down this hill, and that can be said but of few hills in all theseparts of the world. But we will leave the good man, he is at rest, healso had a brave victory over his enemy; let Him grant that dwellethabove that we fare no worse, when we come to be tried, than he. But wewill come again to this Valley of Humiliation. It is fat ground, and, asyou see, consisteth much in meadows, and if a man was to come here in thesummer-time, as we do now, and if he also delighted himself in the sightof his eyes, he might see that that would be delightful to him. Beholdhow green this Valley is, also how beautiful with lilies. Some have alsowished that the next way to their Father's house were here, that theymight be no more troubled with hills and mountains to go over, but theway is the way, and there is an end. 

"'Now, as they were going along and talking, they espied a boy feedinghis father's sheep. The boy was in very mean clothes, but of a very freshand well-favoured countenance; and as he sat by himself he sang. Thensaid the guide, Do you hear him? I will dare to say, that this boy livesa merrier life, and wears more of that herb called heart's-ease in hisbosom, than he that is clad in silk and velvet. Here a man shall be freefrom noise and the hurryings of this life. All states are full of noiseand confusion, only the Valley of Humiliation is that empty and solitaryplace. Here a man shall not be so hindered in his contemplation, as inother places he is apt to be. This is a valley that nobody walks in butthose that love a pilgrim's life; and I must tell you that in formertimes men have met with angels here, have found pearls here, and here inthis place found the words of life. '"

He closed the book and swallowed some more of the mixture, whichConstance, standing at his side, had been holding in readiness for him. 

Fan by this time had come to the conclusion that Merton had becomereligious, although the scornful way in which he had spoken of theinhabitants of East London scarcely seemed to favour such an idea. Butshe knew that he had been reading from _The Pilgrim's Progress_, abook which Mrs. Churton had put in her hands, and helped her tounderstand. She did not know that he was putting an interpretation of hisown on the allegory which might have made the glorious Bedford tinkerclench his skeleton fist and hammer a loud "No--no!" on his mouldycoffin-lid. 

"Fan, my dear girl, " he said, after a while, "I cannot expect you tounderstand what I am talking about. You must be satisfied to wait manydays longer before it is all made plain. I have a thousand things to saywhich will be said in good time. A thousand thousand things. Books towrite--volume following volume; so much to do for poor humanity that thevery thought of it would make my heart fail were it not for the greatfaith that is in me. But the paper is still white, and the pen lies idlewaiting for this unnerved hand to gain strength to hold it. For you mustknow that in my descent into this valley I have met with many a slip andfall, and have suffered the consequences: Apollyon has come forth to barmy way, and I have not done with him yet, nor he with me. I have answeredall his sophistical arguments, have resisted all his temptations, and ithas come to a life-and-death struggle between us. With what deadly furyhis thrusts and cuts are made, my poor wife will tell you. My days arecomparatively peaceful; I feel that I am near the green meadows, beautiful with lilies, and can almost hear the singing of the light-hearted shepherd-boy. But at night the shadows come again; the shouts andvauntings of my adversary are heard; I can see his crimson eyeballs, fullof malignant rage, glaring at me. To drop metaphor, my dear girl, mynights are simply hellish. But I shall conquer yet; my time will come. Only, to me, a sufferer turning on his bed and wishing for the dawn, howlong the time delays its coming! If I could only feel the fresh breeze inmy lungs once more; if instead of this loathsome desert of squalidstreets and slums I could look on the cool green leafy earth again, andlisten to nature's sounds, bidding me be of good courage, then these darkdays would be shortened and the new and better life begin. "

This was something easy to understand, even to Fan's poor intellect, andshe had begun to listen to his words attentively. Here was matter for herpractical mind to work upon, and her reply followed quick on his speech. "It must be dreadful for you to remain here all through the hot weather, Mr. Chance. I wish--I wish----" But at this moment the face of Constance, who had drawn near and was bending over her husband's chair, caught hereye, and she became silent, for the face had suddenly clouded at herwords. 

"What were you going to say, Fan--what is it that you wish?" said Merton, with a keener interest than he usually manifested in other people'swords. 

"I wish that--that you and Constance would accompany me to some place alittle way out of town--not too far--where you would be out of thisdreadful heat and smoke, and stand----" She was about to add, stand abetter chance of recovery, but at this stage she broke off again and castdown her eyes, fearing that she had offended her friend. 

"Most willingly we will go with you, my dear girl, if you will only askus, " said Merton, finding that she was unable to finish her speech. 

"Oh, I should be so glad--so very glad!" returned Fan, in her excitementand relief rising from her seat. "Dear Constance, what do you say?"

But the other did not answer at once. This sudden proposal had come onher as a painful surprise. For the last few weeks she had, even in themidst of anxiety and suffering, rejoiced that she was self-dependent atlast, and had proudly imagined that her strength and talents would now besufficient to keep them in health and in sickness. And now, alas! herhusband had eagerly clutched at this offer of outside help; and, mostgalling of all, from the very girl who, a short time before when she waspoor and friendless, he had found not good enough to be his wife'sassociate. 

At length she raised her head and spoke, but there was a red flush on hercheek, and a tone of pain, if not of displeasure, in her voice. "Fan, "she said, "I am so sorry you have made us this offer. It is very, verykind of you; but, dearest, we cannot, cannot accept it. "

"And for what reason, Connie?" said her husband. 

She looked down on his upturned face, and for a moment was sorely temptedto stoop and whisper the true reason in his ear, to reply that it wouldbe dishonourable--a thing to be remembered after with a burning sense ofshame--to accept any good gift at the hands of this girl, who had beenthrown over and left by them without explanation or excuse a short timebefore, only because circumstances had made her for a time theirinferior--their inferior, that is, according to a social code, which theymight very well have ignored in this case, since it related to a societythey had never been privileged to enter since their marriage, which knewand cared nothing for them. But as she looked down, the yellow skin andsunken cheek and the hollow glittering eyes that met her own made herheart relent, and she could not say the cruel words. She kept silence fora few moments, and then only said, "How can we go, Merton? We cannot movewithout money, and besides, we have nothing fit to wear. "

"Pshaw, Connie, do you put such trifles in the scale? Have you so littlefaith in our future as to shrink from this small addition to our debt?Fan, of course, knows our circumstances and just what we would require. Why, a paltry two or three pounds would take us out of London; and as forclothes--well, you know how much we raised on them--a few miserableshillings. You are proud, I know, but you mustn't forget that Fan isArthur Eden's sister--my old school-fellow and familiar friend; and alsothat she is your old pupil, and--as I have heard you say times withoutnumber--the dearest friend you have on earth. "

He did not see the effect of these words, and that her face had reddenedagain with anger and shame, and a feeling that was almost like scorn. Fan, seeing her distress, half-guessing its cause, went to her side andput her arm round her. 

"Constance dear, " she said, "you only need a little help at first, and Ishall be very careful and economical, and some day, when things improve, you shall repay me every shilling I spend now. Oh, you don't know howhard it is for me to say this to you! For I know, Constance, that if ourplaces were changed you would wish to act as a sister to me, and--and youwill not let me be a sister to you. "

The other kissed her and turned aside to hide her tears. Merton smiled, and taking Fan's hand in his, stroked and caressed it. 

"My dear girl, " he said, "I cannot express to you all I feel now; butaway out of this stifling atmosphere, this nightmare of hot bricks andslates and smoking chimney-pots, in some quiet little green retreat whereyou will take us, I shall be able to speak of it. What a blessing thisvisit you have made us will prove! It refreshed my soul only to see you;with that clear loveliness on which the evil atmosphere and life of thisgreat city has left no mark or stain, and in this dress with its tendertints and its perfume, you appeared like a messenger of returning peaceand hope from the great Mother we worship, and who is always calling tous when we go astray and forget her. How appropriate, how natural, howalmost expected, this kind deed of yours then seems to me!"

Constance, seeing him so elated at the prospect of the change, made nofurther objection, but waited Mr. Northcott's return before discussingdetails. The curate when he at last appeared suggested that it would bewell to consult a young practitioner in the neighbourhood who had beenattending Merton; and in the end he went off to look for him. While hewas gone the two girls talked about the proposed removal in a quietpractical way, and Merton, quite willing to leave the subject of ways andmeans to his wife and her friend, took no part in the conversation. Thenthe curate returned with the doctor's opinion, which was that the changeof air would be beneficial, if Merton could stand being removed; but thatthe journey must be short and made easy: he suggested a well-covered van, with a bed to lie on, and protected from draughts, as better than therailroad. 

Fan at once promised to find a van as well as a house near East London togo to, and after she had prevailed on Constance to accept a loan of a fewpounds for necessary expenses, she set out with Mr. Northcott on herreturn to the West End. 

CHAPTER XLI

Fan resolved to employ Captain Horton again, and as it was too late inthe day to see him at his office on her way home, she wrote that evening, asking him to find her a suitable house near East London, removed fromother houses, with garden and trees about it, and with two cool rooms forher friends on the ground floor, and a room for herself. She knew, shewrote, that she was putting him to great inconvenience, but felt surethat he would be glad to serve her. 

When the next day came she began to be sorely troubled in her mind; orrather the trouble which had been in it ever since her return fromKingston, and which she had tried not to think about, had to be faced, and it looked somewhat formidable. For she had not yet seen Mary, inspite of her promise made at their last parting to go to her immediatelyon her return from Kingston. But much had happened since their parting:she had met and had become friendly with the man that Mary hated with agreat hatred; and she feared that when she came to relate these things, which would have to be related, there would be a storm. But she could nolonger delay to encounter it, and Fan knew, better than most perhaps, howto bow her head and escape harm; and so, putting a bold face on it--though it was not a very bold face--she got into a cab about noon and hadherself driven to Dawson Place. 

Her friend received her in a strangely quiet way, with just a kiss whichwas not warm, a few commonplace words of welcome, and a smile which didnot linger long on her lips. 

"Why are you so cold, Mary?"

"Why are you shamefaced, Fan?"

"Am I shamefaced? I did not know. "

"Yes, and I can guess the reason. You did not keep your word to me, though you knew how anxious I was to see you at the end of your fortnightat Kingston; and the reason is that you have something on your mind whichyou fear to tell me--which you are ashamed to tell. "

"No, Mary, that is not so. I am not ashamed, but----"

"Oh yes, of course, I quite understand--_but!_"

"Dear Mary, if you will be a little patient with me you shall knoweverything I have to tell, and then you will know exactly why I didn'tcome to you the moment I got back to town. For the last two or three daysI have been in pursuit of the Chances, and have at last found them. "

"How did you find them?"

"It is a very long story, Mary, and someone you know and that you are notfriendly with is mixed up with it. I met him accidentally at Kingston, where there was a dinner-party and he was among the guests. Mrs. Traversintroduced him to me, and he took me in to dinner; and it was verypainful to me--to both of us; but after a time a thought came into myhead--Mary, listen to me, I can't tell you how it all came about--how Ifound Constance--without speaking of him. Don't you think it would bebetter to tell you everything, from my first chance meeting with him, andall that was said as well as I can remember it now?"

Miss Starbrow had listened quietly, with averted face, which Fan imaginedmust have grown very black; she was silent for some time, and at lastreplied:

"Fan, I can hardly credit my own senses when you talk in that calm wayabout a person who--of course I know who you mean. What are you made of, I wonder--are you merely a wax figure and not a human being at all? OnceI imagined that you loved me, but now I see what a delusion it was; onlythose who can hate are able to love, and you are as incapable of the oneas of the other. "

After delivering herself of this protest she half turned her back on herfriend, and for a time there was silence between them, and then Fanspoke. 

"Mary, you have not yet answered me; am I to tell you about it or not?"

"You can tell me what you like; I have no power to prevent you fromspeaking. But I give you a fair warning. I know, and it would be uselessto try to hide it, that you have great power over me, and that I couldmake any sacrifice, and do anything within reason for you, and be glad todo it. But if you go too far--if you attempt to work on my feelings aboutthis--this person, or try to make _me_ think that he is not--what Ithink him, I shall simply get up and walk out of the room. "

"You need not have said all that, Mary--I am not trying to work on yourfeelings. I simply wanted to tell you what happened, and--how _he_came to be mixed up with it. "

As the other did not reply, she began her story, and related what hadhappened at the Travers' dinner-party faithfully; although she was asunable now to give a reason for her own strange behaviour as she had beento answer Captain Horton when he had asked her what she had to say tohim. 

At length she paused. 

"Have you finished?" said Mary sharply, but the sharpness this time didnot have the true ring. 

"No. If your name was mentioned, Mary, must I omit that part?--because Iwish to tell you everything just as it happened. "

"You can tell me what you like so long as you observe my conditions. "

But when the story was all finished she only remarked, although speakingnow without any real or affected asperity:

"I am really sorry for your friend Mrs. Chance. I could not wish an enemya greater misfortune than to be tied for life to such a one as Merton. Poor country girl, ignorant of the world--what a terrible mistake shemade!"

She was in a much better temper now, willing to discuss the details ofthe expedition, to give her friend advice, and help with money if itshould be needed. Fan was surprised and delighted at the change in her, and at last they parted very pleasantly. 

"If you can find time before leaving town, Fan, come and say good-bye. Ishall be at home in the afternoon to-morrow and next day, and then youcan tell me all your arrangements. "

By the first post on the following morning she received a letter from theCaptain, who had taken a day from the office to look for a place, and hadsucceeded in finding a pleasant farm-house, within easy distance of MileEnd and about a mile from Edmonton, as rural a spot in appearance as onecould wish to be in. He had also exceeded his instructions by engaging acovered van, with easy springs, to convey the invalid to his new home. The letter contained full particulars, and concluded with an expressionof the sincere pleasure the writer felt at having received thisadditional proof of Miss Eden's friendly feelings towards him, and withthe hope that the change of air would benefit his poor old friend MertonChance. 

Fan replied at once, asking him to send the van next day at noon to MileEnd. Then she telegraphed to the people of the house to have the roomsready for them on the morrow, and also wrote to Constance to inform herof the arrangements that had been made; and the rest of the day was spentin preparing for her sojourn in the country. 

In the evening she went to Dawson Place to see and say good-bye to herfriend. Mary was at home, and glad to see her. 

"My dear Fan, " she said, embracing the girl, "I have had two or threecallers this evening, and was not at home to them only because I thoughtyou might turn up, and I wished to have you all to myself for a littlewhile before you leave. Goodness only knows when we shall meet again!"

"Why, Mary, are you thinking of going away for a long time? I hope not. "

"Well, I don't know what I'm thinking of. Of course it's very disgustingand unnatural to be in London at this time of the year; but the worst ofthe matter is, I had hoped to get you to go somewhere with me. But nowthis affair has completely thrown me out. Have you made yourarrangements?"

"Yes, I got the letter I expected this morning, and it explainseverything. You had better read it for yourself. "

Mary pushed the letter back with an indignant gesture. 

"Oh, very well, " returned Fan, not greatly disconcerted. "Then I supposeI can read it to you, as it tells just what arrangements have been made. "

The other frowned but said nothing, and Fan proceeded to read the letter. Mary made no remark on its contents; but when she went on to speak ofother things, there was no trace of displeasure in her voice. They weretogether until about ten o'clock, and then, after taking somerefreshment, Fan rose to go. But the parting was not to be a hurried one;her friend embraced and clung to her with more than her usual warmth. 

"Mary dear, " said Fan, bending back her head so as to look into herfriend's face, "you were very angry with me yesterday, but to-day--nowyou love me as much as you ever did. Is it not so?"

"Yes, Fan, I think I love you more to-night than ever. I know I cling toyou more and seem afraid to lose you from my sight. But you must not getany false ideas into your head. "

"To prevent that, Mary, you must tell me why you cling to me to-night?"

"Because--Fan, is it necessary that I should tell you something which Ihave a dim, vague idea that you already know? Is it known to you, deargirl, that in all our hearts there are things our lips refuse to speak, even to those who are nearest and dearest to our souls? Did you feelthat, Fan, when you came to me again, after so long a time, and told meall--_all_ that had befallen you since our parting?"

Fan reddened, but her lips remained closed. 

"That which my lips refuse to speak you cannot know, " continued Mary;"but there is another simple reason I can give you. I cling to youbecause you are going away to be with people I am not in sympathy with. As far as giving poor miserable Merton a chance to live, I dare say youare doing only what is right, but----"

Fan stopped her mouth. "You shall say no more, Mary. Long, long ago youthought that because I and Constance were friends I could not have thesame feeling I had had for you. Oh, what a mistake you made! Nothing, nothing could ever make you less dear to me. Even if you should breakwith me again and refuse to see me--"

"And that is what I fear, Fan; I really do fear it, when it is actuallyin your heart to get me to forgive things which it would be unnatural andshameful to forgive. I must warn you again, Fan, if you cannot pluck thatthought out of your heart, if I cannot have you without that man'sexistence being constantly brought to my mind, that there will be a fatalrupture between us, and that it will never be healed. "

Fan drew back a little and looked with a strange, questioning gaze intoher friend's face; but Mary, for once, instead of boldly meeting thelook, dropped her eyes and reddened a little. 

"There will never, never be any rupture, Mary. If you were to shut yourdoor against me, I would come and sit down on the doorstep, whichI once--"

"Be quiet!" exclaimed Mary, with sudden passion. "How can you have thecourage to speak of such things! The little consideration! If your memoryof the past is so faithful--so--so _unforgetting_, I dare say youcan remember only too well that I once--"

"You must be quiet now, " said Fan, stopping her friend's mouth with herhand for the second time, and with a strange little laugh that was halfsob. "I only remember, Mary darling, that I was homeless, hungry, inrags, and that you took me in, and were friend and sister and mother tome. Promise, promise that you will never quarrel with me. "

"Never, Fan--unless you, with your wild altruism, drive me to it. "

Fan went home, wondering all the way what her wild altruism was, ashamedof her ignorance. She looked in her dictionary, but it was an old cheapone, and the strange word was not in it. Perhaps Mary had coined it. Asto that she would consult Constance, who knew everything. 

CHAPTER XLII

Miss Starbrow did not leave London after all, but day followed day onlyto find her in the same unsettled mind as at first. Having no one else toquarrel with, she quarrelled with and mocked at herself. "I shall waittill the heats are over, " she said, "and then stay on to see the end ofthe November fogs; then I can go north to winter at Aberdeen or some suchdelightful place. " But these late London days, while her mind was in thisunsatisfactory state, studying to deceive itself, had one great pleasure--the letters which came at intervals of two or three days from her lovedfriend. Even to her eyes they looked beautiful. The girl of the period, when she writes to her friend, usually dips the handle of her sunshade ina basin of ink, and scrawls characters monstrous in size and form, aninsult to the paper-maker's art and shocking to man's aesthetic feelings. Now from the first Fan had spontaneously written a small hand, with fineweb-like lines and flourishes, which gave it a very curious and delicateappearance; for, unlike the sloping prim Italian hand, it was allirregular, and the longer curves and strokes crossed and recrossedthrough words above and beneath, so that, while easy enough to read, atfirst sight it looked less like writing than an intricate pattern on thepaper, as if a score of polar gnats had been figure-skating on thesurface with inked skates. To her complaint that she was not clever, notmusical, like other girls, Mary had once said:

"Ah, yes; all your cleverness and originality has gone into yourhandwriting. "

"It is such a comfort, such a pleasure, " said Fan in one of her letters, "to have you to write to and put Mary--Mary--Mary twenty times over in asingle letter, wondering whether it gives you the same pleasure to seeyour name written by me as you often say it is to hear it from my lips. Do you remember that when I promised to write everything you sneered andtold me not to forget to make the usual mental reservations? That is theway you always talk to me, Mary; but I make no reservation, I tell youeverything, really and truly--everything I see and hear and think. I knowvery well that Constance will never tell me any of her secrets--that shewill never open her heart to anyone, as one friend does to another, except her husband; so that it was quite safe for me to make you thatpromise. "

Again she wrote: "For some hidden reason Constance consented veryreluctantly to take Merton out of town, and I feel convinced that it wasnot on account of the risk there would be in moving him, nor because theywere too poor to move away from Mile End. There was some other reason, and I feel pretty sure that if the proposal had come from some otherperson, even a stranger, instead of from me, it would not have given thesame feeling. That it should give her pain was a surprise to me, and haspuzzled me a great deal, because I know that Constance loves me as muchas she ever did, and that she would gladly do as much and more for me ifit were in her power at any time. Perhaps she thinks, poor Constance, that when she and her husband suddenly went away from Netting Hill andleft no address, and never wrote to me again, although she knew that Ihad no other friend in London at that time, that she had treated mebadly. Once or twice, since we have been together here, she has mentionedthat going away, so sadly, almost with tears, speaking as ifcircumstances had compelled her to act unkindly, but without giving anyexplanation. I do not believe, I cannot believe, she left me in that wayof her own will; I can only guess the reason, but shall probably neverreally know; but I feel that this has brought a shadow into ourfriendship, and that while we are as dear as ever to each other, we bothfeel that there is something that keeps us apart. "

Another letter spoke more particularly of Merton: "I am sure you wouldlike to know what I think of him now, after living under the same rooffor the first time, and seeing so much of him every day. I cannot saywhat I think of him. As a rule he is out in the garden after eleveno'clock; and then he sends Constance away. 'You have had enough of menow, ' he says, 'and if I wish to talk, I can talk to Fan--she is a goodlistener. ' This reminds me of one thing which is a continual vexation tome. He does not seem to appreciate her properly. He does not believe, Ithink, that she has any talent, or, at any rate, anything worthy of beingcalled talent compared with his own. Just fancy, she is usually up allnight, fearing to sleep lest he should need something; and then when hecomes out, and is made comfortable on the garden-seat, he tells her to goand have an hour if she likes at her 'idyllic pastimes, ' as he calls herwriting; and if he mentions her literary work at all, he speaks of itjust as another person would of a little piece of crochet-work ornetting, or something of that sort. 

"After she goes in he talks to me, for an hour sometimes, and when it isover I always feel that I am very little wiser, and what he has saidcomes back to me in such an indistinct or disconnected way that it wouldbe impossible for me to set it down on paper. I do wish, Mary, that youcould come and sit next to me--invisible to him, I mean--and listen forhalf an hour, and then tell me what it all means. "

Mary laughed. "Tell you, sweet simple child? I wish Fan, that you couldcome here and sit down next to me for half an hour and read out a chapterfrom _Alice in Wonderland_, and then tell me what it all means. Itwas Sir Isaac Newton, I think, who said of poetry that it was a'beautiful kind of nonsense'; at all events, if he did not say it hethought it, being a scientific man. And that is the best description Ican give of Merton's talk. That's his merit, his one art, which he hascultivated and is proficient in. He reminds me of those street performerswho swallow match-boxes and tie themselves up with fifty knots and thenwriggle out of the rope, and keep a dozen plates, balls, and knives andforks all flying about at one time in the air. The mystery is how a womanlike his wife--who is certainly clever, judging from the sketches I haveread, and beautiful, as I have good reason to remember--should havethrown herself away on such a charlatan. Love is blind, they say, but Inever imagined it to be quite so blind as that!"

Here Miss Starbrow suddenly remembered the case of another woman, alsoclever and beautiful; and with a scornful glance at her own image in theglass, she remarked, "Thou fool, first pluck the beam out of thine owneye!"

Then she returned to the letter: "Another thing that seems strange to meis his cheerfulness, for he is really very bad, and Constance is in greatfear lest his cough should bring on consumption; and it is sometimes soviolent that it frightens me to hear it. Yet he is always so lively andeven gay, and sometimes laughs like a child at the things he sayshimself; and I sometimes know from the way Constance receives them thatthey can't be very amusing, for I do not often see the point myself. Hefirmly believes that he will soon throw his illness off, and that when heis well he will do great things. The world, he says, knows nothing of itsgreatest men, and he will be satisfied to be an obscurity, even alaughing-stock, for the next thirty or thirty-five years. But when he isold, and has a beard, like Darwin's, covering his breast and whiter thansnow, then his name will be great on the earth. Then it will be said thatof all leaders of men he is greatest; for whereas others led men into abarren wilderness without end, to be destroyed therein by dragons andmen-eating monsters, he led them back to that path which they in theirblind eager hurry had missed, and by which alone the Promised Land couldbe reached. 

"Perhaps you will think, Mary, from my telling you all this, that I ambeginning to change my mind about him, that I am beginning to think thatthere is something more in him than in others, and that it will all comeout some day. But it would be a mistake; what I have always thought Ithink still. "

"Sensible girl, " said Mary, putting the letter down with a smile. 

And thus did these two not infallible women, seeing that which appearedon the surface--empty quick--vanishing froth and iridescent bubbles--passjudgment on Merton Chance. 

One afternoon, coming in from a walk, Mary found a letter from Fan on thehall table, and taking it up was startled to see a superfluous black sealover the fastening. Guessing the news it contained, she carried it up toher bedroom before opening it. "It is all over, " the letter ran; "Mertondied this morning, and it was so unexpected, so terribly sudden; and Iwas with him at the last moment. How shall I tell you about it? It isanguish to think of it, and yet think of it I must, and of nothing else;and now at ten o'clock at night I feel that I cannot rest until I havedescribed it all to you, and imagined what you will feel and say to-morrow when you read my letter. 

"For the last two or three days he had seemed so much better; but thismorning after breakfasting he coughed violently for a long time, andseemed so shaken after it that we tried to persuade him not to go out. But he would not be persuaded; and it was such a lovely morning, he said, and would do him good; and he felt more hopeful and happy than ever--asure sign that he had reached the turning-point and was already on theway to recovery. So we came out, he leaning on our arms, to a garden-seatunder the trees at the end of a walk, quite near to the house. When hehad settled himself comfortably on the seat with some rugs and cushionswe had got with us, he said, 'Now, Connie, you can go back if you likeand leave me to talk to Fan. She is our guardian angel, and will watchover me, and keep away all ugly phantoms and crawling many-legged things--spiders, slugs, and caterpillars. And I shall repay her angelicguardianship with wise, instructive speech. '

"'But an angel looks for no instruction--no reward, ' said Constance. 

"'Not so, ' he replied. 'An angel is not above being taught even by acreature of earth. And in Fan there is one thing lacking, angel thoughshe be, and this I shall point out to her. I can find no mysticism inher: what she knows she knows, and with the unknowable, which may yet beknown, she concerns herself not. Who shall say of the seed I scatter thatit will not germinate in this fair garden without weeds and tares, andstrike root and blossom at last? For why should she not be a mystic likeothers?'

"Constance laughed and answered, 'Can an angel be a mystic?'

"'Yes, certainly, ' he said. 'An angel need not necessarily be a mystic, else Fan were no angel, but even to angels it adds something. It is notthat splendour of virtue and immortality which makes their faces shinelike lightning and gives whiteness to their raiment; but it is therainbow tint on their wings, the spiritual melody which they eternallymake, which the old masters symbolised by placing harps and diversstrange instruments in their hands--that melody which faintly rises evenfrom our own earthly hearts. '

"Constance smiled and looked at me--at the white dress I had on--shall Iever wear white again?--and answered that she had first liked me inwhite, and thought it suited me best, and would have to see the rainbowtints before saying that they would be an improvement. 

"Then she went back to the house, and from the end of the walk turnedround and gave us a smile, and Merton threw her a kiss. 

"Then he turned to me and said, 'Fan, do you hear that robin--that littlemystic robin-redbreast? Listen, he will sing again in less than twentyseconds. ' And almost before he had finished speaking, while I was lookingat him, a change came over him, and his face was of the colour of ashes;and he said, with a kind of moan and so low that I could scarcely catchthe last words, 'Oh, this is cruel, cruel!' And almost at the same momentthere came a rush of blood from his mouth, and he started forward andwould have fallen to the ground had I not caught him and held him in myarms. I called to Constance, over and over again, but she did not hearme--no one in the house heard me. Oh, how horrible it was--for I knewthat he was dying--to hear the sounds of the house, voices talking andthe maid singing, and a boy whistling not far off, and to call and calland not be heard! Then a dreadful faintness came over me, and I couldcall no more; I shivered like a leaf and closed my eyes, and my heartseemed to stand still, and still I held him, his head on my breast--heldhim so that he did not fall. Then at last I was able to call again, andsomeone must have heard, for in a few moments I saw Constance comingalong the walk running with all her speed, and the others following. ButI knew that he was already dead, for he had grown quite still, and hisclenched hand opened and dropped like a piece of lead on my knee. 

"After that I only remember that Constance was kneeling before him, calling out so pitifully, 'Oh, Merton, my darling, what is it? Merton, Merton, speak to me--speak to me--one word, only one word!' Then Ifainted. When I recovered my senses I was lying on a sofa in the house, with some of them round me doing what they could for me; and they told methat they had sent for a doctor, and that Merton was dead. 

"But how shall I tell you about Constance? I have done nothing but cryall day, partly from grief, and partly from a kind of nervous terrorwhich makes me imagine that I am still covered with those red stains, although I took off all my things, even my shoes and stockings, and madethe servant-girl take them away out of my sight. But she does not shed atear, and is so quiet, occupied all the time arranging everything aboutthe corpse. And there is such a still, desolate look on her face; hereyes seem to have lost all their sweetness; I am afraid to speak to her--afraid that if I should attempt to speak one word of comfort she wouldlook at me almost with hatred. This afternoon I was in the room wherethey have laid him, and he looked so different, younger, and his face somuch clearer than it has been looking, that it reminded me of the pastand of the first time I saw him, when he spoke so gently to me at DawsonPlace, and asked me to look up to show my eyes to him. I could notrestrain my sobs. And at last Constance said, 'Fan, if you go on in thisway you will make me cry for very sympathy. ' I could not bear it and leftthe room. It was so strange for her to say that! Perhaps I am wrong tothink it, but I almost believe from her tone and expression that all herlove for me has turned to bitterness because I, and not she, was with himat the end, and heard his last word, and held him in my arms when hedied. 

"She has refused to sleep in my room, and now that the whole house isquiet I am almost terrified at being alone, and to think that I mustspend the night by myself. I know that if I sleep I shall start up fromsome dreadful dream, that I shall feel something on my hands, after somany washings, and shall think of that last look on his ashen face, andhis last bitter words when he knew that the end had so suddenly come tohim. I wish, I wish, Mary, that I had you with me to-night, that I couldrest with your arms about me, to gain strength with your strength, foryou are so strong and brave, I so weak and cowardly. But I am alone in myroom, and can only try to persuade myself that you are thinking of me, that when you sleep you will be with me in your dreams. "

Having finished reading the letter, Mary covered her eyes with her handand cried to herself quietly for a while. Cried for despised MertonChance; and remembered, no longer with mocking laughter, some fragmentsof the "beautiful nonsense" which he had spoken to her in bygone days. For in that bright sunshine of the late summer, among the garden trees, the Black Angel had come without warning to him, and with one swiftstroke of his weapon had laid him, with all his dreams and delusions, inthe dust; and its tragic ending had given a new dignity, a touch ofmournful glory, and something of mystery, to the vain and wasted life. 

After a while, drying her eyes, she rose and went out again, and inWestbourne Grove ordered a wreath for Merton's coffin, and instructed theflorist to send it on the following day to the house of mourning. 

That mention of her first meeting with Merton in the girl's letter hadbrought up the past very vividly to Mary's mind; at night, afterpartially undressing, as she sat combing out her dark hair before theglass, she thought of the old days when Fan had combed it for her, and ofher strange mixed feelings, when she had loved the poor girl she hadrescued from misery, and had studied to hide the feeling, being ashamedof it, and at the same time had scorned herself for feeling shame--forbeing not different from others in spite of her better instincts andaffected independence of a social code meant for meaner slavish natures. How well she remembered that evening when Merton had amused her with hispretty paradoxes about women not being reasonable beings, and had comeback later to make her an offer of marriage; and how before going to bedshe had looked at herself in the glass, proud of her beauty and strengthand independence, and had laughed scornfully and said that to no MertonChance would she give her hand; but that to one who, although stainedwith vice, had strength of character, and loved her with a true and not asham love, she might one day give it. And thus thinking the blood rushedto her face and dyed it red; even her neck, shoulders, and bosom changedfrom ivory white to bright rose, and she turned away, startled andashamed at seeing her own shame so vividly imaged before her. And movingto the bedside, while all that rich colour faded away, she droppedlanguidly into a chair, and throwing her white arms over the coverlid, laid her cheek on them with a strange self-abandonment, "Do you call mestrong and brave, Fan?" she murmured sadly. "Ah, poor child, what amistake! I am the weak and cowardly one, since I dare not tell you thisshameful secret, and ask you to save me. Oh, how falsely I put it to youwhen I said that there are things in every heart which cannot be told, even to the nearest and dearest! when I hinted to you that you had nottold me _all_ the story of your acquaintance with Arthur Eden. Thatwhich you kept back was his secret as well as your. This is mine, onlymine, and I have no courage to tell you that you are only working myruin--that the heart you are trying to soften has no healthy hardness init. I shall never tell you. Only to one being in the whole world could Itell it--to my brother Tom. But to think of him is futile; for I shallkeep my word, and never address him again unless he first begs myforgiveness for insulting me at Ravenna, when he called me a demon. Never, never, and he will not do that, and there is no hope of help fromhim. You shall know the result of your work one day, Fan, and howplacable this heart is. And it will perhaps grieve you when you know thatyour own words, your own action, gave me back this sickness of the soul--this old disease which had still some living rootlet left in me when Ithought myself well and safe at last. How glad I shall be to see youagain, Fan! And you will not know that under that open healthy gladnessthere will be another gladness, secret and base. That I shall eagerlylisten again to hear the name my false lips forbade you to speak--to hearit spoken with some sweet word of praise. And in a little while I shallsink lower, and be glad to remember that my courage was so small; andlower still, and give, reluctantly and with many protests, theforgiveness which will prove to you--poor innocent child!--that I have avery noble spirit in me. How sweet it is to think of it, and how I loathemyself for the thought! And I know what the end will be. I shall gain mydesire, but my gain will be small and my loss too great to be measured. And then farewell to you, Fan, for ever; for I shall never have thecourage to look into your eyes again, and the pure soul that is in them. I shall be a coward still. Just as all that is weak and unworthy in memakes me a coward now, so whatever there is that is good in me will makeme a coward then. "

CHAPTER XLIII

A couple of days after the funeral Fan, accompanied by her friend, returned to London, and the rooms she had occupied in Quebec Street. Fortunately for her young lodger's peace of mind, now less inclined fordelicate feeding than ever, Mrs. Fay had gone off on her annual holiday. Not that her health required change of air, nor because she took anydelight in the sublime and beautiful as seen in the ocean and naturegenerally, but because it was a great pleasure to her to taste of manystrange dishes, and criticise mentally and gloat over the abominablemesses which other lodging--and boarding-house keepers are accustomed toput before their unhappy guests. And as the woman left in charge of theestablishment knew not Francatelli, and never rose above the rudesimplicity of "plain" cookery--depressing word!--and was only too gladwhen nothing was required beyond the homely familiar chop, with avegetable spoiled in the usual way, dinner at Quebec Street, if no longera pleasure, was not a burden. 

That strange quietude, tearless and repellent, concerning which Fan hadspoken in her letter, still had possession of Constance. But it was notthe quietude experienced by the overwrought spirit when the struggle isover, and the reaction comes--the healing apathy which nature sometimesgives to the afflicted. It was not that, nor anything like it. Thestruggle had been prolonged and severe; he was gone in whom all her hopesand affections had been centred, and life seemed colourless without him;but she knew that it would not always be so, that the time would comewhen she would again take pleasure in her work, when the applause ofother lips than those now cold would seem sweet to her. The quietude wasonly on the surface; under it smouldered a sullen fire of rebellion andanimosity against God and man, because Merton had perished and had notlived to justify his existence; and if the thought ever entered her soul--and how often it was there to torture her!--that the world had judgedhim rightly and she falsely, it only served to increase her secretbitterness. 

When spoken to by those around her, she would converse, unsmilingly, neither sad nor cheerful, with but slight interest in the subjectstarted; it was plain to see that she preferred to be left alone, even byher two dearest friends, Fan and the curate, who had attended the funeraland had come afterwards two or three times to see her. After a few daysFan had proposed moving to town, and Constance had at once consented. Inher present frame of mind the solitude of London seemed preferable tothat of the country. For two or three days Fan almost feared that themove had been a mistake; for now Constance spent more time than ever insilence and seclusion, never going out of the house, and remaining mostof the time in her own room. Even when they were together she would sitsilent and apathetic unless forced to talk; and the effect was that Fangrew more and more reluctant to address her, although her heart wasovercharged with its unexpressed love and sympathy. Only once, a few daysafter their return to town, did Constance give way to her poignantfeelings, and that was on the occasion of a visit from Mr. Northcott totheir rooms. She saw him reluctantly, and was strangely cold andirresponsive in her manner, and as it quickly discouraged him when hiskindly efforts met with no appreciation, the conversation they had wassoon over. When taking his leave he spoke a few kind sympathetic words toher, to which she made no reply, but her hand trembled in his, and sheaverted her face. Not that she had tears to hide; on the contrary, itseemed to Fan, who was watching her face, that the rising colour andbrightening eyes expressed something like resentment at the words he hadspoken. When he had gone she remained standing in the middle of the room, but presently glancing up and encountering her friend's eyes fixedwonderingly on her face, she turned away, and dropping into a chair burstinto a passion of tears. 

Fan moved to her side. "Dear Constance, " she said, putting a hand on theother's shoulder, "it is better to cry than to be as you have been allthese days. "

But Constance, mastering her sobs with a great effort, rose to her feetand put her friend's hand aside. 

"Do you think tears are a relief to me?" she said with bitterness. "Youare mistaken. They are caused by his words--his pretended grief andsympathy with me for what he calls my great loss. But; I know that henever understood and never appreciated my husband--I know that in hisheart of hearts he thinks, as _you_ think, Fan, that my loss is again. I understood him as you and Harold never could. You knew only hisweakness, which he would have outgrown, not the hidden strength behindit. I know what I have lost, and prefer to be left alone, and to hear nocondolences from anyone. " Then, bursting into tears again, she left theroom. 

This was unspeakably painful to Fan--chiefly because the words Constancehad spoken were true. They were cruel words to come from her friend'slips, but she considered that they had been spoken hastily, in a suddenpassion of grief, and she felt no resentment, and only hoped that in timekindlier feelings would prevail. Her manner lost nothing of its lovinggentleness, but she no longer tried to persuade Constance to go out withher; it was best, she thought, to obey her wish and leave her alone. Sheherself, loving exercise, and taking an inexhaustible delight in the lifeand movement of the streets, spent more time than ever out of doors. Herwalks almost invariably ended in Hyde Park, where she would sit and restfor half an hour under the grateful shade of the elms and limes; andthen, coming out into the Bayswater Road, she would stand irresolute, orwalk on for a little distance into Oxford Street, with downcast eyes andwith slower and slower steps. For at home there would be Constance, sitting solitary in her room and indisposed for any communion except thatwith her own sorrow-burdened heart; while on the other hand, within a fewminutes' drive, there was Dawson Place--bright with flowers and pleasantmemories--and above all, Mary, who was always glad to see her, and wouldperhaps be wishing for her and expecting her even now. And whileconsidering, hesitating, the welcome tingling "Keb!" uttered sharp andclear like the cry of some wild animal, would startle her. For thatprincipal league-long thoroughfare of London is "always peopled with agreat multitude of"--no, not "vanities, " certainly not! but loiteringhansoms, and cabby's sharp eye is quick to spot a person hesitating whereto go (and able to pay for a ride), as the trained rapacious eye of thehawk is to spy out a wounded or sickly bird. Then the swift wheels wouldbe drawn up in tempting proximity to the kerb, and after a moment'shesitation Fan would say "Dawson Place, " and step inside, and in lessthan twenty minutes she would be in her friend's arms. 

These flying improvised visits to her friend were very dear to her, andalways ended with the promise given to repeat the visit very soon--"perhaps to-morrow"; then she would hurry home, feeling a little guiltyat her own happiness while poor Constance was so lonely and so unhappy. 

But one day there seemed to be a change for the better. Constance talkedwith Fan, for some time, asking questions about Miss Starbrow, of thebooks she had been reading, and showing a return of interest in life. When she was about to leave the room Fan came to her side and put an armround her neck. 

"Constance, " she said, "I have been waiting anxiously to ask you when youare going to begin your sketches again? I think--I'm sure it would begood for you if you could write a little every day. "

Constance cast down her eyes and reflected for a few moments. 

"I could never take that up again, " she said. 

"I am so sorry, " was all that Fan could say in reply, and then the otherwithout more words left her. 

But in the evening she returned to the subject of her own accord. 

"Fan, dear, " she said, "I must ask your forgiveness for the way I haveacted towards you since we have been here together. It would not havebeen strange if you had resented it--if you had judged me ungrateful. Butyou never changed; your patience was so great. And now that he has goneyou are more to me than ever. Not only because you have acted towards melike a very dear sister, but also because you did that for him which Iwas powerless to do. Your taking us away out of that hot place made hislast days easier and more peaceful. And you were with him at the last, Fan. Now I can speak of that--I _must_ speak of it! Death seemedcruel to him, coming thus suddenly, when hope was so strong and the earthlooked so bright. And how cruel it has seemed to me--the chance that tookme from his side when that terrible moment was so near! How cruel thathis dying eyes should not have looked on me, that he should not have feltmy arms sustaining him! So hard has this seemed to me that I have thoughtlittle about you--of the agony of pain and suspense you suffered, of thestrength and courage which enabled you to sustain him and yourself untilit was all over. "

She was crying now, and ceased speaking. She had not told, nor would sheever tell, the chief cause of the bitterness she felt at thecircumstances attending her husband's death. It was because Fan, and noother, had been with him, sustaining him--Fan, who had always beendepreciated by him, and treated so hardly at the last; for she could notremember that he had treated any other human creature with so littlejustice. It had been hard to endure when the girl they had left, hidingthemselves from her, ashamed to know her, had found them in theirdepressed and suffering condition, only to heap coals of fire on theirheads. Hard to endure that her husband seemed to have forgotteneverything, and readily took every good thing from her hands, as if ithad been only his due. But that final scene among the garden trees hadseemed to her less like chance than the deliberately-planned action ofsome unseen power, that had followed them in all their wanderings, andhad led the meek spirit they had despised to their hiding-place, to giveit at last a full and perfect, yea, an angelic revenge. 

After a while, drying her eyes, she resumed:

"But I particularly wish to speak about what you said this morning. Icould not possibly go back to those East-End sketches of life--even thename of the paper I wrote them for is so painfully associated in my mindwith all that Merton and I went through. I was struggling so hard--oh, sohard to keep our heads above water, and seemed to be succeeding. I was sohopeful that better days were in store for us, and the end seemed to comeso suddenly . .. And my striving had been in vain . .. And the fight waslost. I know that I must rouse myself, that I have to work for a living, only just now I seem to have lost all desire to do anything, all energy. But I know, Fan, that this will not last. Grief for the dead does notendure long--never long enough. I must work, and there is nothing I shallever care to do for a living except literary work. I have felt and shallfeel again that a garret for shelter and dry bread for food would bedearer to me earned in that way than every comfort and luxury got by anyother means. During the last day or two, while I have been sitting bymyself, an idea has slowly been taking shape in my mind, which will makea fairly good story, I think, if properly worked out. But that will taketime, and just now I could not put pen to paper, even to save myself fromstarving. For a little longer, dear, I must be contented to live on yourcharity. "

"My charity, Constance! It was better a little while ago when you saidthat I had been like a very dear sister to you. But now you make me thinkthat you did not mean that, that there is some bitterness in your heartbecause you have accepted anything at my hands. "

"Darling, don't make that mistake. The word was not well-chosen. Let mesay your love, Fan--the love which has fed and sheltered my body, and hasdone so much to sustain my soul. "

And once more they kissed and were reconciled. From that day theimprovement for which Fan had been waiting began to show itself. Constance no longer seemed strange and unlike her former self; and she nolonger refused to go out for a walk every day. But she would not allowher walks with Fan to interfere with the latter's visits to MissStarbrow. "She must be more to you than I can ever be, " she would insist. "Well, dear, she cannot be _less_, and while she and you are in townit is only natural that you should be glad to see each other every day. "And so after a walk in the morning she would persuade Fan to go later inthe day to Dawson Place. 

One evening as they sat together talking before going to bed, Fan askedher friend if she had written to inform Mrs. Churton of Merton's death. 

"Yes, " replied Constance. "A few days after his death I wrote to mother;it was a short letter, and the first I have sent since I wrote to tellher that I was married. She replied, also very briefly, and coldly Ithink. She expressed the hope that my husband had left some provision forme, so that she knows nothing about how I am situated. "

After a while she spoke again. 

"How strange that you should have asked me this to-night, Fan! All day Ihave been thinking of home, and had made up my mind to say something toyou about it--something I wish to do, but I had not yet found courage tospeak. "

"Tell me now, Constance. "

"I think I ought to write again and tell mother just how I am left, andask her to let me go home for a few weeks or months. I have no wish to goand stay there permanently; but just now I think it would be best to goto her--that is, if she will have me. I think the quiet of the countrywould suit me, and that I might be able to start my writing there. And, Fan--you must not take offence at this--I do not think it would be rightto live on here entirely at your expense. But if I should find itimpossible to remain any time at home, perhaps I shall be glad to ask youto shelter me again on my return to town. "

She looked into Fan's eyes, but her apprehensions proved quitegroundless. 

"I am so glad you have thought of your home just now, " Fan replied. "Perhaps after all you have gone through it will be different with yourmother. But, Constance, may I go with you?"

"With me! And leave Miss Starbrow?"

"Yes, I must leave her for a little while. I was going to ask you to gowith me to the seaside for a few weeks, but it will be so much better atEyethorne. Perhaps Mrs. Churton still feels a little offended with me, but I hope she will not refuse to let me go with you--if you willconsent, I mean. "

"There is nothing that would please me better. I shall write at once andask her to receive us both, Fan. "

"If you will, Constance; but I must also write and ask her for myself. Icannot go to live on them, knowing that they are poor, and I must ask herto let me pay her a weekly sum. "

Constance reflected a little before answering. 

"Do you mind telling me, Fan, what you are going to offer to pay? Youmust know that I can only go as my mother's guest, that if you accompanyme you must not pay more than for one. "

"Yes, I know that. I think that if I ask her to take me for about twoguineas a week it will be very moderate. It costs me so much more now inLondon. And the money I am spending besides in cabs and finery--I amafraid, Constance, that I am degenerating because I have this money, andthat I am forgetting how many poor people are in actual want. "

The result of this conversation was that the two letters were written andsent off the following day. 

In the afternoon Fan went to Dawson Place, and Mary received her gladly, but had no sooner heard of the projected visit to Wiltshire than a changecame. 

"You knew very well, " she said, "that I wanted you to go with me to theseaside, or somewhere; and now that Mrs. Chance is going home you mighthave given a little of your time to me. But of course I was foolish toimagine that you would leave your friend for my society. "

"I can't very well leave her now, Mary--I scarcely think it would beright. "

"Of course it wouldn't, since you prefer to be with her, " interrupted theother. "I am never afraid to say that I do a thing because it pleases me, but you must call it duty, or by some other fine name. "

She got up and moved indignantly about the room, pushing a chair out ofher way. 

"I'm sorry you take it in that way, " said Fan. "I was going to ask you todo something to please me, but after what you said have--"

"Oh, that needn't deter you, " said Mary, tossing her head, but evidentlyinterested. "If it would be pleasing to you I would of course do it. Imean if it would be pleasing to _me_ as well. I am not quite socrazy as to do things for which I have no inclination solely to pleasesome other person. "

"Not even to please me--when we are such dear friends?"

"Certainly not, since our friendship is to be such a one-sided affair. IfI had any reason to suppose that you really cared as much for me as yousay, then everything that pleased you would please me, and I should notmind putting myself out in any way to serve you. Before I promiseanything I must know what you want. "

"Before I tell you, Mary, let me explain why I wish to go to Eyethorne. You know how Constance has been left, and that she is my guest. Well, Ihad meant to take her with me to the seaside for a few weeks when shesaid this about going home. It is the best thing she could do, but youknow from what I have told you before that she cannot count on muchsympathy from her parents, that she will perhaps be worse off under theirroof than if she were to go among strangers. If all she has gone throughsince her marriage should have no effect in softening Mrs. Churtontowards her, then her home will be a very sad place, and it is for thisreason I wish to accompany her, for it may be that she will want a friendto help her. Don't you think I am right, Mary?"

"You must not ask me, " said the other. "I shall not interfere withanything that concerns Mrs. Chance. She is your friend and not mine, andI would prefer not to hear anything about her. And now you can go on tothe other matter. "

"I can't very well do that, since it concerns Constance, and you forbidme to speak of her. "

"Oh, it concerns Constance!" exclaimed Mary, and half averting her faceto conceal the disappointment she felt. "Then I'm pretty sure that Ishall not be able to please you, Fan. But you may say what you like. "

Fan moved near to her--near enough to put her hand on the other's arm. 

"Mary, it seems very strange and unnatural that you two--you andConstance--should be dear to me, and that you should not also know andlove each other. "

"You are wasting your words, Fan. I shall never know her, and we shouldnot love each other. I have seen her once, and have no wish to see heragain. Oil and vinegar will not mix. "

"It is not a question of oil and vinegar, Mary, but of two women--"

"So much the worse--I hate women. "

"Two women, both beautiful, both clever, and yet so different! Which doyou think sweetest and most beautiful--rose or stephanotis?"

"Don't be a silly flatterer, Fan. _She_ is beautiful, I know, because I saw her; and I was not mistaken when I knew that her beautywould enslave you. "

"She _was_ beautiful, Mary, and I hope that she will be so again. Now she is only a wreck of the Constance you saw at Eyethorne. But morebeautiful than you she never was, Mary. "

"Flattery, flattery, flattery!"

"Which of those two flowers are you like, and which is she like? Let metell you what _I_ think. You are most like the rose, Mary--that isto me the sweetest and most beautiful of all flowers. "

Mary turned away, shaking the caressing hand off with a gesture of scorn. 

"And I, Mary, between two such flowers, what am I?" continued Fan. "Someone once called me a flower, but he must have been thinking of somepoor scentless thing--a daisy, perhaps. "

"Say a heart's-ease, Fan, " said Mary, turning round again to her friendwith a little laugh. 

"But I haven't finished yet. Both so proud and high-spirited, and yetwith such loving, tender hearts. "

"That is the most arrant nonsense, Fan. You must be a goose, or what isalmost as bad, a hypocrite, to say that I have any love or tenderness inme. I confess that I did once have a little affection for you, but thatis pretty well over now. "

Fan laughed incredulously, and put her arms round her friend's neck. 

"No, " said the other resolutely, "you are not going to wheedle me in thatway. I hate all women, I think, but especially those that have anyresemblance to me in character. "

"She is your exact opposite in everything, " said Fan boldly. "DarlingMary, say that you will see her just to please me. And if you can't likeher then, you needn't see her a second time. "

Mary wavered, and at length said:

"You can call with her, if you like, Fan. "

"No, Mary, I couldn't do that. You are both proud, but you are rich andshe is poor--too poor to dress well, but too proud to take a dress as apresent from me. "

"Then, Fan, I shall make no promise at all. I am not going out of my wayto cultivate the acquaintance of a person I care nothing about and do notwish to know merely to afford you a passing pleasure. " After a while sheadded, "At the same time it is just possible that some day, if the fancytakes me, I may call at your rooms. If I happen to be in thatneighbourhood, I mean. If I should not find you in so much the better, but you will not be able to say that I refused to do what you asked. Andnow let's talk of something else. "

The words had not sounded very gracious, but Fan was well satisfied, andlooked on her object as already gained. The discovery which she made, that she had a great deal of power over Mary, had moreover given her astrange happiness, exhilarating her like wine. 

CHAPTER XLIV

For the next two days Fan was continually on the tiptoe of expectation, shortening her walks for fear of missing Mary, and not going to DawsonPlace, and still her friend came not. On the third day she came aboutthree o'clock in the afternoon, when Fan by chance happened to be out. 

Miss Starbrow, on hearing at the door that Miss Eden was not at home, considered for a few moments, and then sent up her card to Constance, whowas greatly surprised to see it, for Fan had said nothing to make herexpect such a visit. She concluded that it was for Fan, and that MissStarbrow wished to wait or leave some message for her. In the sitting-room they met, Constance slightly nervous and looking pale in hermourning, and regarded each other with no little curiosity. 

"I am sorry Fan is out, " said Constance, "but if you do not mind waitingfor her she will perhaps come in soon. "

"I shall be glad to see her--she has forsaken me for the last few days. But I called to-day to see you, Mrs. Chance. "

Constance looked surprised. "Thank you, Miss Starbrow, it is very kind ofyou, " she answered quietly. 

There was a slight shadow on the other's face; she had come only toplease Fan, and was not at ease with this woman, who was a stranger toher, and perhaps resented her visit. Then she remembered that Constancehad become acquainted with Merton Chance only through Fan's having seenhim once at her house, reflecting with a feeling of mingled wonder andcompassion that through so trivial a circumstance this poor girl's lifehad been so darkly clouded. They had sat for some moments in silence whenMiss Starbrow, with a softened look in her eyes and in a gentler tone, spoke again. 

"We have met only once before, " she said, "and that is a long time ago, but I have heard so much of you from Fan that I cannot think of you as astranger, and the change I see in you reminds me strongly of all you havesuffered since. "

"Yes, I suppose I must seem greatly changed, " returned the other, notspeaking so coldly as at first. Then, with a searching glance at hervisitor's face, she added, "You knew my husband before I did, MissStarbrow. "

Ever since her marriage she had been haunted with the thought that therehad been something more than a mere acquaintance between Merton and thislady. Her husband himself had given her that suspicion by the disparagingway he had invariably spoken of her, and his desire to know everythingthat Fan had said about her. That Fan had never told her anything was noproof that there was nothing to tell, since the girl was strangely closeabout some things. 

"Yes, " returned Miss Starbrow, noting and perhaps rightly interpretingthe other's look. "He used occasionally to come to my house on Wednesdayevenings. I never saw him except at these little gatherings, but I likedhim very much and admired his talents. I was deeply shocked to hear ofhis death. "

Constance dropped her eyes, which had grown slightly dim. "Your wordssound sincere, " she returned. 

"That is a strange thing to say, I think, " returned Miss Starbrowquickly. "It is not my custom to be insincere. " And then her sincerityalmost compelled her to add, "But about your late husband I have said toomuch. " For that was what she felt, and it vexed her soul to have to utterpolite falsehoods. 

"I fear I did not express myself well, " apologised Constance. "But I havegrown a little morbid, perhaps, through knowing that the few friends Ihave, who knew my husband, had formed a somewhat disparaging and greatlymistaken opinion of him. I am sorry they knew him so little; but it isperhaps natural for us to think little of any man until he succeeds. WhatI meant to say was that your words did not sound as if they came onlyfrom your lips. "

"Perhaps you are a little morbid, Mrs. Chance--forgive me for saying it. For after all what does it matter what people say or think about any ofus? I dare say that if your husband had by chance invented a new button-hook or something, and had been paid fifty thousand pounds for thepatent, or if someone had died and left him a fortune, people would haveseen all the good that was in him and more. "

"Yes, I suppose so. And yet it seems a cynical view to take. I shouldlike to believe that it is not necessary to be wealthy, or famous, ordistinguished in any way above my fellows, in order to win hearts--tomake others know me as I know myself. "

"Perhaps the view I took was cynical, Mrs. Chance. At all events, withoutbeing either wealthy or famous, you have won at least one friend whoseems to know you well, and loves you with her whole heart. "

Again Constance looked searchingly at her, remembering that old jealousyof her visitor, and not quite sure that the words had not been spokenmerely to draw her out. And Mary guessed her thought and frowned again. 

"Yes, " quickly returned Constance, casting her suspicion away, "I have inFan a friend indeed. A sweeter, more candid and loving spirit it would beimpossible to find on earth. Not only does she greatly love, but there isalso in her a rare faculty of inspiring love in those she encounters. "

"Yes, I know that, " said Mary, thinking how much better she knew it thanthe other, and of the two distinct kinds of love it had been Fan'sfortune to inspire. 

"I blame myself greatly for having kept away from her for so long, "continued Constance. "But she is very tenacious. It has sometimes seemedstrange to me that one so impressionable and clinging as she is should beso unchangeable in her affections. "

"Yes, I think she is that. "

"You have reason to think it, Miss Starbrow. You have, and always havehad, the first place in her heart, and her feelings towards you havenever changed in the least from the first. "

"You wish to remind me that _my_ feelings have changed, and thatmore than once, " returned the other, with some slight asperity. 

"No, please do not imagine that, Miss Starbrow. But it is well that youshould know from me, since Fan will probably never tell it, that whenthat letter from you came to her at Eyethorne, the only anger shedisplayed was at hearing unkind words spoken of you. "

"But who spoke unkind words of me?"

"I did. "

"You are certainly frank, Mrs. Chance. "

"Am I too frank? I could not help telling you this; now that we have metagain my conscience would not let me keep silence. I spoke then hastily, angrily, and, I am glad now to be able to confess, unjustly. "

"That I cannot say, but I like you all the better for your frankness, andI hope that you will let me be your friend. "

Constance turned her face, smiling and flushed with pleasure at thewords; their eyes met, then their hands. 

When Fan returned shortly afterwards she found them sitting side by sideon the sofa, conversing like old and intimate friends, and it was a happymoment to her, as her heart had been long set on bringing them together. But she had little time to taste this new happiness; hardly had shekissed Mary and expressed her pleasure at seeing her, when the servantcame up with a visitor's card, and the visitor himself quickly followed, and almost before Fan had read the name, Captain Horton was in the room. Constance, as it happened, knew nothing about him except that he was afriend of Fan's, whom he had met formerly at Miss Starbrow's house, buthis sudden unexpected entrance had an almost paralysing effect on theother two. Fan advanced to meet him, but pale and agitated, and then Maryalso rose from her seat, her face becoming livid, and seizing Fan by thearm drew her back; while the visitor, the smile with which he had enteredgone from his face, stood still in the middle of the room, his eyes fixedon the white angry countenance before him. 

For days past, ever since Fan's return to London after Merton's funeral, Mary had been impatiently waiting to hear this man's name spoken again--to hear Fan say favourable things of him, and plead for pardon; andbecause the wished words had not been spoken, she had felt secretlyunhappy, and even vexed, with the girl for her silence. Again and againit had been on her lips to ask, "How are you getting on with thatcharming new friend of yours?" but for very shame she had held her peace. And now that the thing she had wished had come to her--that the man shehad secretly pined to see was in her presence--all that softness she hadlamented, or had pretended to herself to lament, was gone in one moment. For her first thought was that his coming at that moment had beenprearranged, that Fan had planned to bring about the reconciliation inher own way; and that was more than she could stand. In time thereconciliation would have come, but as she would have it, slowly, littleby little, and her forgiveness would be given reluctantly, not forcedfrom her as it were by violence. Now she could only remember thetreatment she had received at his hands--the insult, the outrage, and hisaudacity in thus coming on her by surprise stung and roused all thevirago in her. 

"Fan, I see it all now, " she exclaimed, her voice ringing clear andincisive. "I see through the hypocritical reason you had for asking me tocome here. But you will gain nothing by this mean trick to bring me andthat man together. It was a plot between you two, and the result will bea breach between us, and nothing more. "

Constance had also risen now, and was regarding them with undisguisedastonishment. 

"A plot, Mary! Oh, what a mistake you are making! I have not seen CaptainHorton for weeks, and had no idea that he meant to call on me here. Yourvisit was also unexpected, Mary, and it surprised me when I came in andfound you here a few minutes ago. "

"Then I have made a mistake--I have done you an injustice and must askyour forgiveness. But you know, Fan, what I feel about Captain Horton, and that it is impossible for me to remain for a moment under the sameroof with him, and you and Mrs. Chance must not think it strange if Ileave you now. "

"No, Miss Starbrow, you shall not cut your visit short on my account, "said the Captain, speaking for the first time and very quietly. "I didnot expect you here, and if my presence in the room for a few momentswould be so obnoxious to you I shall of course go away. "

"I am so sorry it has happened, " said Fan. 

But Miss Starbrow was not willing to let him depart before giving himanother taste of her resentment. "Did you imagine, sir, that yourpresence could be anything but obnoxious to me?" she retorted. "Did youthink I had forgotten?"

"No, not that, " he replied. 

"What then?" came the quick answer, the sharp tone cutting the senseslike a lash. 

He hesitated, glancing at her with troubled eyes, and then replied--"Ithought, Miss Starbrow, that when you heard that I was trying to livedown the past--trying very hard and not unsuccessfully as I imagined--itwould have made some difference in your feelings towards me. To win yourforgiveness for the wrong I did you has been the one motive I have hadfor all my strivings since I last saw you. That has been the goal I havehad before me--that only. Latterly I have hoped that Miss Eden, who hadas much reason to regard me with enmity as yourself, would be myintercessor with you. By a most unhappy chance we have met too soon, andI regret it, I cannot say how much; for you make the task I have setmyself seem so much harder than before that I almost despair. "

She made no reply, but after one keen glance at his face turned aside, and stood waiting impatiently, it seemed, for him to go. 

He then expressed his regrets to Fan for having come without firstwriting to ask her permission, and after shaking hands with her andbowing to Constance, turned away. As he moved across the floor Fan kepther eye fixed on Mary's face, and seemed at last about to make an appealto her, when Constance, standing by her side, and also observing Mary, touched her hand to restrain her. 

"Captain Horton, " spoke Mary, and he at once turned back from the doorand faced her. "You have come here to see Miss Eden, and I do not wish todrive you away before you have spoken to her. I suppose we can sit in thesame room for a few minutes longer. "

"Thank you, " he replied, and coming back took a seat at Fan's side. 

Mary on her part returned to the sofa and attempted to renew herinterrupted conversation with Constance. It was, however, a mostuncomfortable quartette, for Captain Horton gave only half his attentionto Fan, and seemed anxious not to lose any of Mary's low-spoken words;while Mary on her side listened as much or more to the other two as toConstance. In a few minutes the visitor rose to go, and after shakinghands a second time with Fan, turned towards the other ladies andincluded them both in a bow, when Constance stood up and held out herhand to him. As he advanced to her Mary also rose to her feet, as ifanxious to keep the hem of her dress out of his way, and stood withaverted face. From Constance, after he had shaken hands with her, heglanced at the other's face, still averted, which had grown so strangelywhite and still, and for a moment longer hesitated. Then the face turnedto him, and their eyes met, each trying as it were to fathom the other'sthought, and Mary's lips quivered, and putting out her hand she spokewith trembling voice--"Captain Horton--Jack--for Fan's sake--I forgiveyou. "

"God bless you for that, Mary, " he said in a low voice, taking her handand bending lower and lower until his lips touched her fingers. Nextmoment he was gone from the room. 

Mary dropped back on to the sofa, and covered her eyes with her hand:then Constance, seeing Fan approaching her, left the room. 

"Dear Mary, I am so glad, " said the girl, putting her hand on the other'sshoulder. 

But Mary started as if stung, and shook the hand off. "I don't want yourcaresses, " she said, after hastily glancing round the room to make surethat Constance was not in it. "I am not glad, I can assure you. I waswrong to say that you had plotted to get me to meet him; it was not theliteral truth, but I had good grounds to think it. All that has happenedhas been through your machinations. I should have gone on hating himalways if you had not worked on my feelings in that way. _You_ havemade me forgive that man, and I almost hate you for it. If the resultshould be something you little expect--if it brings an end to ourfriendship--you will only have yourself to thank for it. "

Fan looked hurt at the words, but made no reply. Mary sat for some timein sullen silence, and then rose to go. 

"I can't stay any longer, " she said. "I feel too much disgusted withmyself for having been such a fool to remain any longer with you. " Then, in a burst of passion, she added, "And that girl--Mrs. Chance--unless sheis as pitifully meek and lamb-like as yourself, what a contemptiblecreature she must think me! Of course you have told her the wholedelightful story. And she probably thinks that I am still--fond of him!It is horrible to think of it. For _your_ sake I forgave him, but Iwish I had died first. "

Fan caught her by the hand. "Mary, are you mad?" she exclaimed. "Oh, whata poor opinion you must have of me if you imagine that I have everwhispered a word to Constance about that affair. "

"Oh, you haven't!" said Mary beginning to smooth her ruffled plumes. "Well, I'm sorry I said it; but what explanations are you going to giveof this scene? It must have surprised her very much. "

"I shall simply tell her that you were deeply offended at something youhad heard about Captain Horton, and had resolved never to see him again--never to forgive him. "

"That's all very well about me; but he said in her hearing some rubbishabout you being his intercessor, and that he had been as much your enemyas mine. What will you say about that?"

"Nothing. I'm not a child, Mary, to be made to tell things I don't wishto speak about. But you don't know Constance, or you would not think hercapable of questioning me. "

"Then, dear Fan, I must ask you again to forgive me. I ought to haveknown you better than to fear such a thing for a moment. But, Fan, youmust make some allowance; it was so horrible trying to meet him in thatway, and--my anger got the better of me, and one is always unjust at suchtimes. They say, " she added with a little laugh, "that an angry woman'sinstinct is always to turn and rend somebody, and after he had gone I hadnobody but you to rend. "

Her temper had suddenly changed; she was smiling and gracious and bright-eyed, and full of rich colour again. 

"Then, Mary, you will stay a little longer and take tea with us?" saidFan quietly, but about forgiveness she said nothing. 

Just then Constance came back to the room. 

"Oh, Mrs. Chance, " said Mary, "I have been waiting to say good-bye toyou, and--to apologise to you for having made such a scene the first timewe have been together. I am really ashamed of myself, but Fan will tellyou"--glancing at the girl--"that I had only too good reason to be deeplyoffended with that--with Captain Horton. Fan wants me to stay to tea, butI will do so only on the condition that you both take tea with me atDawson Place to-morrow afternoon. "

Constance agreed gladly; Fan less gladly, which caused Mary to looksearchingly at her. During tea she continued in the same agreeabletemper, evidently anxious only to do away with the unpleasant impressionshe had made on Mrs. Chance by her disordered manner and language, whichhad contrasted badly with the Captain's quiet dignity. 

Finally, when she took her departure, Fan, still strangely quiet andgrave-eyed, accompanied her to the door. "Thank you so much for coming, Mary, " she said, a little coldly. They were standing in the hall, and theother attentively studied her face for some moments. 

"Are you still so deeply offended with me?" she said. "Can you notforgive me, Fan?"

"Not now, Mary, " the other returned, casting down her eyes. "I can'tforgive you just yet for treating me in that way--for saying such thingsto me. I shall try to forget it before to-morrow. "

Mary made no reply, nor did she move; and Fan, after waiting some time, looked at her, not as she had expected, to find her friend's eyes fixedon her own, but to see them cast down and full of tears. 

"I am sorry you are crying, dear Mary, " she said, with a slight tremor inher voice. "But--it can make no difference--I mean just now. I feel thatI cannot forgive you now. "

"How unfeeling you are, Fan! Do you remember what you said the othernight, that if I shut my door against you you would come and sit on thedoorstep?"

"Yes, I remember very well. "

"And it makes no difference?"

"No, not now. "

"And I have so often treated you badly--so badly, and you have alwaysbeen ready to forgive me. Shall I tell you all the wicked things I havedone for which you have forgiven me?"

"No, you need not tell me. When you have treated me unkindly I havealways felt that there was something to be said for you--that it was amistake, and that I was partly to blame. But this is different. You saida little while ago that you turned on me, when you were angry withsomeone else, simply because I happened to be there for you to rend. Thatis what I thought too. "

"If I were to go down on my knees to you, would you forgive me?" saidMary, with a slight smile, but still speaking with that unaccustomedmeekness. 

"No, I should turn round and leave you. I do not wish to be mocked at. "

Mary looked at her wonderingly. "Dear child, I am not mocking, heavenknows. Will you not kiss me good-bye?"

Fan kissed her readily, but with no warmth, and murmured, "Good-bye, Mary. "

And even after that the other still lingered a few moments in the hall, and then, glancing again at Fan's face and seeing no change, she openedthe door and passed out. 

CHAPTER XLV

Returned from her visit, Miss Starbrow appeared for a time to haverecovered her serenity, and proceeded to change her dress for dinner, softly humming an air to herself as she moved about the room. "Poor Fan, "she said, "how barbarous of me to treat her in that way--to say that Ialmost hated her! No wonder she refused to forgive me; but her resentmentwill not last long. And she does not know--she does not know. " And thensuddenly, all the colour fading from her cheeks again, she burst into apassion of weeping, violent as a tropical storm when the air has beenovercharged with electricity. It was quickly over, and she dressedherself, and went down to her solitary dinner. After sitting for a fewminutes at the table, playing with her spoon, she rose and ordered theservant to take the dinner away--she had no appetite. The lamps werelighted in the drawing-room, and for some time she moved about the floor, pausing at times to take up a novel she had been reading from the table, only to throw it down again. Then she would go to the piano, and withoutsitting down, touch the keys lightly. She was and she was not in a moodto play. She was not in voice, and could not sing. And at last she wentaway to a corner of the room which was most in shadow, and sat down on acouch, and covered her eyes with her hand to shut out the lamplight. "Ifhe knew how it is with me to-night he would certainly be here, " she said. "And then it would all be over soon. But he does not know--thank God!. .. Oh, what a fool I was to call him 'Jack'! That was the greatest mistake Imade. But there is no help for it now--he knows what I feel, and nothing, nothing can save me. Nothing, if he were to come now. I wish he wouldcome. If he knows that I am at his mercy why does he not come? No, hewill not come. He is satisfied; he has got so much to-day--so much morethan he had looked to get for a long time to come. He will wait quietlynow for fear of overdoing it. Until Christmas probably, and then he willsend a little gift, perhaps write me a letter. And that is so far off--three months and a half--time enough to breathe and think. "

Just then a visitor's knock sounded loud at the door, and she started toher feet, white and trembling with agitation. "Oh, my God! he has come--he has guessed!" she exclaimed, pressing her hand on her throbbingbreast. 

But it was a false alarm. The visitor proved to be a young gentlemannamed Theed, aged about twenty-one, who was devoted to music andsometimes sang duets with her. She would have none of his duets to-night. She scarcely smiled when receiving him, and would scarcely condescend totalk to him. She was in no mood for talking with this immature young man--this boy, who came with his prattle when she wished to be alone. It wasvery uncomfortable for him. 

"I hope you are not feeling unwell, Miss Starbrow, " he ventured toremark. 

"Feeling sick, the Americans say, " she corrected scornfully. "Do I lookit?"

"You look rather pale, I think, " he returned, a little frightened. 

"Do I?" glancing at the mirror. "Ah, yes, that is because I am out ofrouge. I only use one kind; it is sent to me from Paris, and I let it gettoo low before ordering a fresh supply. "

He laughed incredulously. 

Miss Starbrow looked offended. "Are you so shortsighted and so innocentas to imagine that the colour you generally see on my face is natural, Mr. Theed? What a vulgar blowzy person you must have thought me! If I hadsuch a colour naturally, I should of course use _blanc de perle_ orsomething to hide it. There is a considerable difference--even a veryyoung man might see it, I should think--between rouge and the crudeblazing red that nature daubs on a milkmaid's cheeks. "

He did not quite know how to take it, and changed the conversation, onlyto get snubbed and mystified in the same way about other things, until hewas made thoroughly miserable; and in watching his misery she experienceda secret savage kind of pleasure. 

No sooner had he gone than she sat down to the piano, and begansinging, song after song, as she had never sung before--English, German, French, Italian--songs of passion and of pain--Beethoven's_Kennst du das Land_, and Spohr's _Rose softly blooming_, andBlumenthal's _Old, Old Story_, and then _Il Segreto_ and _O mioFernando_ and _Stride la vampa_, and rising to heights she seldomattempted, _Modi ab modi_ and _Ab fors' è lui che l'anima_;pouring forth without restraint all the long-pent yearing of her heart, all the madness and misery of a desire which might be expressed in noother way; until outside in the street the passers-by slackened theirsteps and lingered before the windows, wondering at that strange storm ofmelody. And at last, as an appropriate ending to such a storm, DomencioThorner's _Se solitaria preghi la sera_--that perfect echo of theheart's most importunate feeling, and its fluctuatons, when plangentpassion sinks its voice like the sea, rocking itself to rest, and nearlyfinds forgetful calm; until suddenly the old pain revives--the pain thatcannot keep silence, the hunger of the heart, the everlasting sorrow--andswells again in great and greater waves of melody. 

There could be no other song after that. She shut the piano with a bang, which caused the servants standing close to the door outside to jump andsteal hurriedly away on tiptoe to the kitchen. 

Only ten o'clock! How was she to get through this longest evening of herlife? So early, but too late now to expect anyone; and as it grew laterthat faintness of her heart, that trembling of her knees, which had madeher hold on to a chair for support--that shadow which his expected cominghad cast on her heart--passed off, and she was so strong and so full ofenergy that it was a torture to her. 

Alone there, shut up in her drawing-room, what could she do with heroverflowing strength? She could have scaled the highest mountain in theworld, and carried Mr. Whymper up in her arms; and there was nothing todo but to read a novel, and then go to bed. She rose and angrily pushed achair or two out of the way to make a clear space, and then paced thefloor up and down, up and down, like some stately caged animal of thefeline kind, her lustrous eyes and dry pale lips showing the dull rage inher heart. When eleven struck she rang the bell violently for theservants to turn off the gas, and went to her room, slamming the doorsafter her. After partly undressing she sat pondering for some time, andthen rose suddenly with a little laugh, and got her writing-case and tookpaper and pen, and sat herself down to compose a letter. "Your time haspassed, Jack, " she said. "I shall never make that mistake again. No, Ishall not bide your time. I shall use the opportunity you have given me--poor fool!--and save myself. I shall write to Tom and confess my weaknessto him, and then all danger will be over. Poor old Tom, I deserved all hesaid and more, and can easily forgive him to-night. And then, CaptainJack, you can 'God-bless-you-for-that-Mary' me as much as you like, andshed virtuous tears, and toil on in the straight and narrow path untilyour red moustache turns white; and all the angels in heaven may rejoiceover your repentance if they like. _I_ shall not rejoice or haveanything more to do with you. " But though the pen was dashed spitefullyinto the ink many times, the ink dried from it again, and the letter wasnot written; and at last she flung the pen down and went to bed. 

There was no rest to be got there; she tossed and turned from side toside, and flung her arms about this way and that, and finding thebedclothes too oppressive kicked them off. At length the bedroom clocktold the hour of twelve in its slow soft musical language. And still shetossed and turned until it struck one. She rose and drew aside thewindow-curtains to let the pale starlight shine into the room, and thengoing back to bed sat propped up with the pillows. "Must I really waitall that time, " she said, "sitting still, eating my own heart--waitthrough half of September, October, November, December--only to put myneck under the yoke at last? Only to give myself meekly to one I shallnever look upon, even if I look on him every hour of every day to the endof my days, without remembering the past? without remembering to what adepth I have fallen--despising myself without recalling all the hatredand the loathing I have felt for my lord and master! Oh, what a poorweak, vile thing I am! No wonder I hate and despise women generally, knowing what I am myself--a woman! Yes, a very woman--the plaything, thecreature, the slave of a man! Let him only be a man and show his manhoodsomehow, by virtue or by vice, by god-like deeds or by crimes, be theyblack as night, and she _must_ be his slave. Yes, I know, 'Hell hasno fury like a woman scorned'; but did _he_ know, Congreve, orwhoever it was, what a poor contemptible thing that fury is? A littleoutburst of insanity, such as scores of miserable wretches experience anyday at Hanwell, and are strapped down, or thrust into a padded room, havecold water dashed over them, until the fit is passed. No doubt she willdo any mad thing while it lasts, things that no man would do, but it isquickly over, this contemptible short-lived fury; and then she is a womanagain, ready to drag herself through the mire for her tyrant, ready tokiss the brutal hand that has smitten her--to watch and wait and pine andpray for a smile from the lying bestial lips, as the humble Christianprays for heaven! A woman--oh, what a poor thing it is!"

The clock struck two. The sound started her, and changed the current ofher thoughts. "Even now it is not too late to write, " she said. "Thepillar-boxes are cleared at three o'clock, the letter would be re-postedto him to-morrow, and if he is in America he would get it in eight ornine days. " She got out of bed, lit a candle, and sat down again to herletter, and this time she succeeded in writing it, but it was not theletter she had meant to write. 

 MY DEAR TOM [the letter ran], --If you are willing to let bygones be bygones I shall be very glad. I told you when we parted that I would never speak to you again, but I of course meant not until you made some advance and expressed sorrow for what you said to me; but I have altered my mind now, as I have a perfect right to do. At the same time I wish you to understand that I do not acknowledge having been in the wrong. On the contrary, I still hold, and always shall, that no one has any right to assume airs or authority over me, and dictate to me as you did. I should not suffer it from a husband, if I ever do such a foolish thing as to marry, certainly not from a brother. The others always went on the idea that they could dictate to me with impunity, but I suppose they see their mistake now, when I will not have anything to do with them, and ignore them altogether. You were always different and took my part, I must say, and I have never forgotten it, and it was therefore very strange to have you assuming that lofty tone, and interfering in my private affairs. For that is what it comes to, Tom, however you may try to disguise it and make out that it was a different matter. I do not wish to be unfriendly with you, as if you were no better than the other Starbrows; and I should be so glad if it could be the same as it was before this unhappy quarrel. For though I will never be dictated to by anyone about _anything_, it is a very good and pleasant thing to have someone in the world who is not actuated by mercenary motives to love and trust and confide in. 

 If you have recovered from the unbrotherly temper you were in by this time, and have made the discovery that you were entirely to blame in that affair, and as unreasonable as even the best of men can't help being sometimes, I shall be very glad to see you on your return to England. 

 I hope you are enjoying your travels, and that you find the_Murracan_ language easier to understand, if not to speak, than the French or German; also I sincerely hope that one effect of your trip will be to make you detest the Yankees as heartily as I do. 

 Your loving Sister, Mary Starbrow. 

 P. S. --Do not delay to come to me when you arrive, as I am most anxious to consult you about something, and shall also have some news which you will perhaps be pleased to hear. You will probably find me at home in London. 

She had written the letter rapidly, and then, as if afraid of againchanging her mind about it, thrust it unread into the envelope, anddirected it to her brother's London agent, to be forwarded immediately. Then she went to the window and raised the sash to look out and listen. There was no sound at that hour except the occasional faintly-hearddistant rattling of a cab. Only half-past two! What should she do to passthe time before three o'clock? Smiling to herself she went back to thetable, and still pausing at intervals to listen, wrote a note to Fan. 

 Darling Fan, --I am so sorry--so very sorry that I grieved you to-day--I mean yesterday--with my unkind words, and again ask your forgiveness. I know that you will forgive me, dearest, and perhaps you forgave me before closing your eyes in sleep, for you must be sleeping now. But when I meet you to-morrow--I mean to-day--and see forgiveness in your sweet eyes, I shall be as glad as if I had hoped for no such sweet thing. Since I parted from you I have felt very unhappy about different things--too unhappy to sleep. It is now forty minutes past two, and if this letter is posted by three you will get it in the morning. I have my bedroom window open so as to hear if a policeman passes; but if one should not pass I will just slip an ulster over my nightdress and run to the pillar-box myself Good-night, darling--I mean good- morning. 

 MARY. 

 P. S. --It has been raining, I fancy, as the pavement looks wet, and it seems cold too; but as a little penance for my unkindness to you, I shall run to the post with bare feet. But be not alarmed, child; if inflammation of the lungs carries me off in three weeks' time I shall not be vexed with you, but shall look down smilingly from the sky, and select one of the prettiest stars there to drop it down on your forehead. 

That little penance was not required; before many minutes had elapsed theslow, measured, elephantine tread of the perambulating night-policemanwoke the sullen echoes of Dawson Place, and if there were any evil-doerslurking thereabouts, caused them to melt away into the dim shadows. Taking her letters, a candle, and a shilling which she had in readiness, Miss Starbrow ran down to the door, opened it softly and called the manto her, and gave him the letters to post and the shilling for himself. And then, feeling greatly relieved and very sleepy, she went back to bed, and tossed no more. 

CHAPTER XLVI

The unbroken greyness out of doors, and the gusty wind sending the deadcurled-up leaves whirling through the chilly air, or racing over thepavement of Dawson Place, made Miss Starbrow's dining-room look very warmand pleasant one morning early in the month of October. The fire burningbrightly in the grate, and the great white and yellow chrysanthemums inthe blue pot on the breakfast-table, spoke of autumn and coming cold; andthe fire and the misty flowers in their colours looked in harmony withthe lady's warm terra-cotta red dressing-gown, trimmed with slaty-greyvelvet; in harmony also with her face, so richly tinted and so soft inits expression, as she sat there leisurely sipping her coffee and readinga very long letter which the morning post had brought her. The letter wasas follows:

DEAR MARY, --We have now been here a whole week, and I have more totell you than I ever put in one letter before. Why do we always say thattime flies quickly when we are happy? I am happiest in the country, andyet the days here seem so much longer than in town; and I seem to havelived a whole month in one week, and yet it has been such an exceedinglyhappy one. How fresh and peaceful and _homelike_ it all seemed to mewhen we arrived! It was like coming back to my birthplace once more, andhaving all the sensations of a happy childhood returning to me. My _happy_childhood began so late!

But I must begin at the beginning and tell you everything. At first itwas a little distressing. In the house, I mean, for out of doors therecould be no change. You can't imagine how beautiful the woods look intheir brown and yellow foliage. And the poor people I used to visit allseemed so glad to see me again, and all called me "Miss Affleck, " whichmade it like old times. But Mrs. Churton received us almost as if we werestrangers, and I could see that she had not got over the unhappiness bothConstance and I had caused her. She was not unkind or cold, but she wasnot _motherly_; and while she studied to make us comfortable, shespoke little, and did not seem to take any interest in our affairs, andleft us very much to ourselves. It seemed so unnatural. And one morning, when we had been three days in the house, she was not well enough to goout after breakfast, and Constance offered to go and do something for herin the village. She consented a little stiffly, and when we were leftalone together I felt very uncomfortable, and at last sat down by her andtook her hand in mine. She looked surprised but said nothing, which madeit harder for me; but after a moment I got courage to say that it grievedme to see her looking so sad and ill, and that during all the time sinceI left Eyethorne I had never ceased to think of her and to remember thatshe had made me look on her as a mother. Then she began to cry; andafterwards we sat talking together for a long time--quite an hour, Ithink--and I told her all about our hard life in town, and she wasastonished and deeply pained to hear what Constance had gone through. Forshe knew nothing about it; she only knew that her daughter had marriedMerton and was a widow and poor. I am so glad I told her, though it madeher unhappy at first, because it has made such a difference. WhenConstance at last came in and found us still sitting there together, Mrs. Churton got up and put her arms round her and kissed her, but was unableto speak for crying. Since then she has been so different to both of us;and when she questioned me about spiritual things she seemed quitesurprised and pleased to find that I was not an infidel, and no worsethan when I was with her. I think that in her own heart she sets it downto Constance not having exerted herself to convert me, thinking, Isuppose, that it would have been very easy to have done so. There is noharm in her thinking that, only it is not true. Now she even speaks toConstance on such subjects, and tries to win her back to her old beliefs;and although Constance does not say much, for she knows how useless itwould be, she listens very quietly to everything, and without any sign ofimpatience. 

With so much to make me happy, will you think me very greedy anddiscontented if I say that I should like to be still happier? I confessthat there are several little, or big, things I still wish and hope forevery day, and without them I cannot feel altogether contented. I mustname two or three of them to you, but I am afraid to begin with the mostimportant. I must slowly work up to that at the end. Arthur has not yetreturned to England, and I am so anxious to see him again; but he saysnothing definite in his letters about returning. I have just had a letterfrom him, which I shall show you when I see you, for he speaks of you init. After all I have told him about you he must feel that he knows youvery well. 

Another thing. Since we have been here Constance has read me the firstchapters of the book she is writing. It is a very beautiful story, Ithink; but it will be her first book, and as her name is unknown, she isafraid that the publishers will not have it. That is one thing thattroubles me, for she says she must make her living by writing, and I amalmost as anxious as she is herself about it. 

Another thing is about you, Mary. Why, when we love each other so much--for you can't deny that you love me as much as I do you, and I know howmuch that is--why must we keep apart just now, when you can so easily getinto a train and come to me? To _us_ I should say, for I know howglad Constance would be to have you here. Dear Mary, will you come, ifonly for a fortnight--if only for a week? You remember that you wanted togo to the seaside or somewhere with me. Well, if you will come and joinus here we might afterwards all go to Sidmouth for a short (or long)stay; for you and I together would be able to persuade Constance to gowith us. My wish is so strong that it has made me believe you will come, and I have even spoken to Constance and Mrs. Churton about it, and theywould give you a nice room; and you would be my guest, Mary; and if youshould object to that, then you could pay Mrs. Churton for yourself. Ihave a great many other things to say to you, but shall not write them, in the hope that you will come to hear them from my lips. Only one thingI must mention, because it might vex you, and had therefore best bewritten. You must not think because I go back to the subject that I haveany doubt about Tom being in the wrong in that quarrel you told me about;but I must say again, Mary, that if he was in the wrong, it is for yourather than for him to make the first advance. I would rather peopleoffended me sometimes than not to have the pleasure of forgiving. Forgiveme, dearest Mary, for saying this; but I can say it better than another, since no one in the world knows so well as I do how good you are. 

And now, dearest Mary, good-bye, and come--come to your loving

FRANCES EDEN. 

She had read this letter once, and now while sipping her second cup ofcoffee was reading it again, when the door opened and Tom Starbrow walkedinto the room. 

"Good-morning, Mary, " he said, coming forward and coolly sitting down atsome distance from her. 

She had not heard him knock, and his sudden appearance made her start andthe colour forsake her cheeks; but in a moment she recovered hercomposure, and returned, "Good-morning, Tom, will you have somebreakfast?"

"No, thanks. I breakfasted quite early at Euston. I came up by a nighttrain, and might have been here an hour or two ago, but preferred to waituntil your usual getting-up hour. "

"I suppose you got my letter in America?"

"Yes, I am here in answer to your letter. "

"It was very good of you to come so soon, especially as it was entirelyabout my private affairs. "

"I could not know that, Mary. That high and mighty letter of yours toldme nothing except what I knew already--that I have a sister. In thepostscript you said you wished to consult me about something, and hadthings to tell me. Your letter reached me in Canada. I was just gettingready to return to New York, and had made up my mind to go to California;then down the Pacific coast to Chili, and from there over the Andes, andacross country to Buenos Ayres on the Atlantic side, and then by water toBrazil, and afterwards home. After getting your letter I came straight toEngland. "

"I should think that after coming all that distance you might at leasthave shaken hands with your sister. "

"No, Mary, the time to shake hands has not yet come; that you must knowvery well. You did not say in your letter what you had to tell me, butonly that you had _something_ to tell me; remembering what we partedin anger about, and knowing that you know how deeply I feel on thatsubject, I naturally concluded that you wished to see me about it. I donot wish to be trifled with. "

"I am not accustomed to trifle with you or with anyone, " retorted hissister with temper. "If your imagination is too lively, I am not to blamefor it. I asked you to come and see me on your return to England, not torush back in hot haste from America as if on a matter of life and death. It is quite a new thing for you to be so impetuous. "

"Is that all you have to say to me then--have you brought me here only totalk to me in the old strain?"

"I have--I _had_ a great many things to say to you, but was in nohurry to say them; and since you have come in this very uncomfortableframe of mind I think it best to hold my peace. My principal object inwriting was to show you that I did not wish to be unfriendly. "

He got up from his chair, looking deeply disappointed, even angry, andmoved restlessly about for a minute or two. Near the door he paused as ifin doubt whether to go away at once without more words or not. Finally hereturned and sat down again. "Mary, " he said, "you have not treated mewell; but I am now here in answer to your letter. Perhaps I was mistakenin its meaning, but I have no wish to make our quarrel worse than it is. Let me hear what you have to say to me; and if you require my advice orassistance, you shall certainly have it. If I cannot feel towards you asI did in the good old times, I shall, at any rate, not forget that youare my sister. "

"That's a good old sensible boy, " she returned, smiling. "But, Tom, before we begin talking I should like you to read this letter, which Iwas reading when you came in so suddenly. Probably you noticed that Itook what you said just now very meekly; well, that was the effect ofreading this letter, it is written in such a gentle soothing spirit. Ifyou will read it it might have the same quieting effect on your nerves asit did on mine. "

He took the letter without a smile, glanced at a sentence here and there, and looked at the name at the end. "Pooh!" he exclaimed, "do you reallywish me to wade through eight closely-written pages of this sort of stuff--the outpourings of a sentimental young lady? I see nothing in it exceptthe very eccentric handwriting, and the fact that this Frances Eden--girlor woman--doesn't put the gist of the matter into a postscript. "

"You needn't sneer. And you won't read it? Frances Eden is Fan. "

"Fan--your Fan! Fan Affleck! Is she married then?"

"No, only changed her name to Eden--it was her father's name. Give me theletter back. "

"Not till I have read it, " he calmly returned. "Mary, " he said at last, looking up, "this letter more than justifies what I have said to youdozens of times. No sweeter spirit ever existed. "

"All that about the outpourings of a sentimental girl or woman?"

"I could never have said that if I had read the letter. "

"And the eccentric writing--you admire that now, I suppose?"

"I do. I never saw more beautiful writing in my life. "

Mary laughed. 

"You needn't laugh, " he said. "If I were you I should feel more inclinedto cry. Tell me honestly now, from your heart, do you feel no remorsewhen you remember how you treated that girl--the girl who wrote you thisletter; that I first saw in this room, standing there in a green dresswith a great bunch of daffodils in her hand, and looking shyly at me fromunder those dark eyelashes? I thought then that I had never seen suchtender, beautiful eyes in my life. Come, Mary, don't be too proud toacknowledge that you acted very harshly--very unjustly. "

"No, Tom, I acted justly; she brought it on herself. But I did not actmercifully, and I will tell you why. When I threatened to cast her off Ispoke in anger--I had good reasons to be angry with her--but I should nothave done it; I should only have taken her away from those Churtonpeople, and kept her in London, or sent her elsewhere. But my wordsbrought that storm from you on my head, and that settled it; after that Icould not do less than what I had threatened to do. "

"If that is really so I am very sorry, " he said. "But all's well thatends well; only I must say, Mary, that it was unkind of you to receive meas you did and tease me so before telling me that you were incorrespondence with the girl once more. "

"You are making a great mistake, I only tease those I like; but as foryou, you have not even apologised to me yet, and I should not think ofbeing so friendly with you as to tease you. "

He laughed, and going to her side caught her in his strong arms andkissed her in spite of her resistance. 

The resistance had not been great, but presently she wiped the cheek hehad kissed, and said with a look of returning indignation, "I should nothave allowed you to kiss me if I had remembered that you have neverapologised for the insulting language you used to me at Ravenna, when youcalled me a demon. "

"Did I call you a demon at Ravenna?"

"Yes, you did. "

"Then, Mary, I am heartily ashamed of myself and beg your pardon now. There can be no justification, but at the same time--"

"You wish to justify yourself. "

"No, no, certainly not; but I was scarcely myself at that moment, and youcertainly did your best to vex me about Fan and other matters. "

"What do you mean by other matters?"

"You know that I am alluding to Mr. Yewdell, and the way you treated him. I could not have believed it of you. I began to think that I had themost--well, capricious woman in all Europe for a sister. "

"Poor man!"

"No, it is not poor man in this case, but poor woman. For youcontemptuously flung away the best chance of happiness that ever came toyou. I dare say that you have had offers in plenty--you have some money, and therefore of course you would get offers--but not from Yewdells. Thatcould not happen to you more than once in your life. A better-heartedfellow, a truer man--"

"Call him a Nature's nobleman at once and have done with it. "

"Yes, a Nature's nobleman; you couldn't have described him better. A manI should have been proud to call a brother, and who loved you not foryour miserable pelf, for that was nothing to him, but for yourself, andwith a good honest love. And he would have made you happy, Mary, not bygiving way to you as you might imagine from his unfailing good temper andgentleness, but by being your master. For that is what you want, Mary--aman that will rule you. And Yewdell was that sort of man, gentle butfirm--"

"Oh, do be original, Tom, and say something pretty about a steel handunder a silk glove. "

"Ah, well, you may scoff if you like, but perhaps you regret now that youwent so far with him. A mercenary man, or even a mean-spirited man, wouldhave put up with it perhaps, and followed you still. He respected himselftoo much to do that. He paid you the greatest compliment a man has it inhis power to pay a woman, and you did not know how to appreciate it. Youscorned him, and he turned away from you for ever. If you were to go tohim now, though you cast yourself on your knees before him, to ask him torenew that offer, he would look at you with stony eyes and pass on--"

"Stony fiddlesticks! That just shows, Tom, how well you know your ownsex. Why, Mr. Yewdell and I are the best friends in the world, and hewrites to me almost every week, and very nice letters, only too long, Ithink. "

Her brother stared at her and almost gasped with astonishment. 

"Well, I am surprised and glad, " he said, recovering his speech at last. "It was worth crossing the Atlantic only to hear this. "

"Don't make any mistake, Tom. I am no more in love with him now than whenwe were in Italy together. "

"All right, Mary. In future I shall do nothing but abuse him, and thenperhaps it will all come right in the end. And now about this letter fromFan. Will you go down to that place where she is staying?"

"I don't know, I should like to go. I have not yet made up my mind. "

"Do go, Mary; and then I might run down and put up for a day or two atthe 'Cow and Harrow, ' or whatever the local inn calls itself, to have astroll with you among those brown and yellow woods she writes about. "

She did not answer his words. He was standing on the hearthrug watchingher face, and noticed the change, the hesitancy and softness which hadcome over it. 

"You are fonder now than ever of this girl, " he said. "She draws you toher. Confess, Mary, that she has great influence over you, and that sheis doing you good. "

Her lips quivered a little, and she half averted her face. 

"Yes, she draws me to her, and I cannot resist her. But I don't knowabout her doing me good, unless it be a good of which evil may come. "

"What do you mean, Mary? There is something on your mind. Don't be afraidto confide in me. "

She got up and came to his side; she could not speak sitting there withhis eyes on her. 

"Do you remember the confession I made to you when we were at Naples?When you spoke to me about Yewdell, and I said that I never wished tomarry? I confessed that I had allowed myself to love a man, knowing himto be no good man. But in spite of reason I loved him, and did notbelieve him altogether bad--not too bad to be my husband. Then somethinghappened--I found out something about him which killed my love, orchanged it to hatred rather. I despised myself for having given him myheart, and was free again as if I had never seen him. I even thought thatI might some day love someone else, only that the time had not yet come. But what will you think of the sequel? I did not tell you when Idiscovered his true character that Fan was living with me, and knew thewhole affair--knew all that I knew--and that--she was very deeplyaffected by it. Now, since Fan and I have been thrown together once more, she has accidentally met this man again, and has persuaded herself thathe has repented of his evil courses, and she has forgiven him, and becomefriendly with him, and, what is worse, has set her heart on making meforgive him. "

"It is heavenly to forgive, Mary. "

"Yes, very likely; in _her_ case it might be right enough; she isonly acting according to her--"

"Fanlights, " interrupted her brother. "But to what does all this tend? Ifyou feel inclined to forgive this man his past sins you can do so, Isuppose, without throwing yourself into his arms. "

"The trouble is, Tom, that I can't separate the two things. No sooner didFan begin to speak to me again of him, telling me about his new changedlife, and insinuating that it would be a gracious and noble thing in meto forgive him, than all the old feeling came back to me. I have foughtagainst it with my whole strength, but what is reason against a feelinglike that! And then most unhappily I met him by chance, and--and I gavehim my hand and forgave him, and even called him by his Christian name asI had been accustomed to do. And now I feel that--I cannot resist him. "

"Good heavens, Mary, are you such a slave to a feeling as that! Who isthis man--what is he like, and how does he live?"

"He is a gentleman, and was in the army, but is now on the StockExchange, and winning his way, I hear, in the world. He is about thirty-five, tall, very good-looking--_I_ think; and he is also acultivated man, and has a very fine voice. Even before I had that feelingfor him I liked him more than any man I ever knew. Perhaps, " she addedwith a little anxious laugh, "the reason I loved him was because I knewthat--if I ever married him--he--would rule me. "

Her brother considered for some time. "I remember what you told me, Mary. You said that this man had proved himself a scoundrel, but you sometimesuse extravagant language. Now there are a great many bad things a man maydo, and yet not be hopelessly bad. Passion gets the mastery, the moralfeelings may for a time appear obliterated; but in time they revive--likethat feeling of yours; and one who has seemed a bad man may settle downat last into a rather good fellow. Confide in me, Mary--I will not judgeharshly. Let me hear the very worst you know of him. "

She shook her head, smiling a little. 

"You will not? Then how am I to help you, and why have you told me somuch?"

"My trouble is that you can't help me, Tom. My belief is that no man whois worth anything ever changes. His circumstances change and he adaptshimself to them, but that is all on the surface. Can you imagine your Mr. Yewdell something vile, degenerate, weak--a gambler, a noisy fool, abraggart, a tippler--"

"Good heavens, no!"

She laughed. "Nor can I imagine the man we are talking of a good man; norcan I believe that there is any change in him. If I had thought that--ifI had taken Fan's views, I should not have forgiven him. Then I shouldnot have been in danger. As it is--" She did not finish the sentence. 

"As it is you are in danger, and deliberately refuse to let me help you. "Then in a kind of despair, he added, "I know how headstrong you are, andthat the slightest show of opposition only makes matters worse--what_can_ I do?"

"Nothing, " she answered in a very low voice. "But, Tom, you must knowthat it was hard for me to write you that letter, and that it has beenharder still to make this confession. Can't you see what I mean? Well, Imean that I find it very refreshing to have a good talk with you. I hopeyou are not going to disappear into space again as soon as ourconversation is over. "

"No, " he returned with a slight laugh, and a glance at her downcast eyes, "I am an idle man just now, and intend making a long stay in London. "

CHAPTER XLVII

On the beach at Sidmouth, about noon one day in the last week ofNovember, a day of almost brilliant sunshine despite the season, with alight dry west wind crinkling the surface of the sea, Mary and Constance, with Fan between them, were seated on a heap of shingle sheltered fromthe wind by a sloping bank. Constance, with hands folded over the closedbook on her lap, sat idly gazing on the blue expanse of water, watchingthe white little wave-crests that formed only to vanish so quickly. Thequiet restful life she had experienced since Merton's death had had itseffect; her form had partially recovered its roundness, her facesomething of that rich brown tint that had given a peculiar character toher beauty; the melancholy in her tender eyes was no longer "o'erlaidwith black, " but was more like the clear dark of early morning that tellsof the passing of night and of the long day that is to be. She was likethe Constance of the old days at Eyethorne, and yet unlike; something hadbeen lost, something gained; for Nature, archaeologist and artist, iswiser than man in her restorations, restoring never on the old vanishedlines. She was changed, but unhappy experience had left no permanentbitterness in her heart, nor made her world-weary, nor cynical, nordiscontented; life's unutterable sadness had only served to deepen herlove and widen her sympathies. And this was pure gain, compensation forthe loss of that which had vanished and would not return--the virginfreshness when the tender early light is in the eye, and the lips aredewy, and no flower has yet perished in the heart. 

To Fan at her side, interested in her novel, yet glancing up from time totime to see what her friends were doing, and perhaps make a random guessat their thoughts, these weeks of country and seaside life with those sheloved had added a new brightness to her refined and delicate face. Theautumn sunshine had not embrowned the transparent skin, but the red ofthe lips seemed deeper, and the ethereal almond-blossom tint on thecheeks less uncertain. 

Mary was not reading, nor thinking apparently, but sat idly humming atune and picking up pebbles only to throw them from her. She appeared tohave no care at her heart, to be satisfied with the mere fact ofexistence while the sun shone as it did to-day, and wind and waters mademusic. That beautiful red colour that seldom failed her looked richerthan ever on her cheeks; her abundant black hair hung loose on her backto dry in the wind. For she was a great sea-bather, and while the wintrycold of the water repelled her companions, she enjoyed her daily swim, sometimes creating alarm by her boldness in going far out to battle withthe rough waves. 

First there had been a pleasant fortnight at Eyethorne; and during thosedays of close intimacy in the Churtons' small house and out of doors, thekindly feelings Mary and Constance had begun to experience towards eachother in London had ripened to a friendship so close that Fan might verywell have been made a little jealous at it if she had been that waypredisposed. She only felt that the highest object of her ambitions hadbeen gained, that her happiness was complete. There was nothing more tobe desired. The present was enough for her; if she thought of the futureat all it was only in a vague way, as she might think of the French coastopposite, too far off to be visible, but where she would perhaps set herfoot in other years. 

At Eyethorne many letters had come to them all. Letters from Arthur Eden, who spoke of returning soon from Continental wanderings, and of comingdown to see his sister in the country. And from Captain Horton, also toFan, with one at last to Mary, begging them to allow him to come downfrom London to spend a few days with them. And from Mr. Northcott toConstance--letters full of friendliest feeling, no longer resented, andof some speculative matter; for these two had discovered an infinitenumber of deep questions that called for discussion. To those questionsthat concerned the spirit and were of first importance, the first placewas given; but there were also worldly affairs to correspond about, forConstance had sent her manuscript to the curate for his opinion, and hehad kept it some time to get another (more impartial) opinion, and nowwished to submit it to a publisher. He had also expressed the intentionof visiting Eyethorne shortly. 

Eventually he came; he even preached once more in the old familiar pulpitat the invitation of the vicar, who had not treated him too well. On theSaturday evening before preaching, he said to Constance:

"Once I was eager to persuade you to come to church to hear me; will youthink it strange if I ask you _not_ to come on this occasion?"

"Why?" she returned, looking anxiously at him. "Do you mean that you aregoing to make some allusion to--"

"No, Constance. But my discourse will be about my life at the East End ofLondon, and what I have seen there. I shall talk not of ancient thingsbut of the present--that sad present we both know. You can realise it allso vividly--it will be painful to you. "

"I had made up my mind to go. Thank you for warning me, but I shall goall the same. "

"I am glad. "

"You must not jump to any conclusions, Harold, " she said, glancing athim. 

"No, " he replied, and went away with a shadow on his face that wasscarcely a shadow. 

After all, she was able to listen to his sermon with outward calm. But itwas a happiness to Mrs. Churton when Wood End House sent so large acontingent of worshippers to the village church, where the pew in whichshe had sat alone on so many Sundays--poor Mr. Churton's increasingailments having prevented him from accompanying her--was so well filled. Glancing about her, as was her custom, to note which of her poor werepresent and which absent, she was surprised to see the carpenter Cawood, with his wife and little ones, his eyes resting on the young girl at herside, and it made her glad to think that she had not perhaps angled invain for this catcher of silly fish. 

The curate had not been long in the village before Tom Starbrow appearedand established himself at the "Eyethorne Inn"; but most of his time wasspent at Wood End House, and in long drives and rambles with his sisterand Fan. Then had come the migration to Sidmouth, Tom and the curateaccompanying the ladies. Shortly afterwards Fan heard from her brother;he was back in London, and proposed running down to pay her a visit. Itwas a pleasant letter he wrote, and she had no fear of meeting him now;he had recovered from his madness, or, to put it another way, from afeeling that was not convenient. 

"Have you answered your brother yet?" said Mary, the morning afterArthur's letter had been received. "I am awfully anxious to see him. "

"No, not yet; I wish to ask you something first. Arthur says he will comedown as soon as he gets my reply. And--I should like Captain Horton tocome with him. "

"They are strangers to each other, I believe, " said Mary coldly. 

"Yes, I know, but my idea was to send a note to Captain Horton at thesame time, asking him to call on Arthur at his rooms, and arrange to comedown with him. But I must ask your consent first. "

"Why my consent? Your brother is coming at your invitation, and I supposeyou have the same right you exercise in his case to ask anyone you likewithout my permission. You may if you think proper invite all the peopleyou have ever met in London, and tell them to bring their relations andfriends with them. I am not the proprietor of Sidmouth. "

"But, Mary, the cases are so different. You know Captain Horton, andthough he is my friend, and I consider myself greatly in his debt--" Theother laughed scornfully. 

"Still, I should not think of asking him to come unless you were willingto meet him. "

"My knowing him makes no difference. I happen to be perfectlyindifferent, and care as little whether he comes or not as if he were anabsolute stranger. Less, in fact, for your brother is a stranger to me, and I am anxious to meet him. "

Fan reflected a little, then, with a smiling look and pleading tone, shesaid:

"If you are really quite indifferent about it, Mary, you will not refuseto let me couple your name with mine when I ask him to come down. Thatwould be nothing more than common politeness, I think. "

"Use my name? I shall consent to nothing of the sort!" But as she turnedto leave the room Fan caught her hand and pulled her back. 

"Don't go yet, Mary dear, " she said; "we have not yet quite settled whatto do. "

The other looked at her, a little frown on her forehead, a half-smile onher lips. 

"Very well, Fan, hear my last word, then take your own course. I quiteunderstand your wheedling ways, and I have so often given way that youhave come to think you can do just what you like with me. You have yet tolearn that when my mind is once made up about anything you might just aswell attempt to move the Monument as to move me. You shall not couple myname with yours; and if you are going to ask Captain Horton down here, Iadvise you, to prevent mistakes, to inform him that I distinctly refuseto join you in the invitation. "

Fan, without replying, sat down before her writing-case. The other pausedat the door, and after hesitating a few moments came back and put herhands on the girl's shoulder. 

"I know exactly what you are going to do, Fan, " she spoke, "for you areperfectly transparent, and I can read you like a book. You are going towrite one of your very simple candid letters to tell him what I havesaid, and then finish by asking him to come down with Mr. Eden. "

"Yes, that is what I am going to do. "

"Then, my dear girl, I should like to ask you a simple straightforwardquestion: What is your _motive_ in acting in this way?"

"My motive, Mary! Just now you said you could read me like a book; must Ibegin to think that you boast a little too much--or are you onlypretending to be ignorant?"

"You grow impertinent, Miss Eden, " said the other with a laugh. "But ifyour motive is what I imagine, then, thank goodness, your efforts arewasted. Listen to this. If, instead of being a young innocent girl, youwere an ancient, shrivelled-up, worldly-minded woman, with a dried-uppuff-ball full of blue dust for a heart, and a scheming brainmanufactured by Maskelyne and Cook; and if you had Captain Horton for ason, and had singled me out for his victim, you could not have done moreto put me in his power. "

Fan glanced into her face, then dropped her eyes and turned crimson. 

"Have I frightened the shy little innocent? Doesn't she like to have herwicked little plans exposed?" said the other mockingly. 

"Can you not read me better, Mary?" said Fan; but her face was still bentover her writing-case, nor would she say more, although the other stoodby waiting. 

Nor would Mary question her any further. She had said too much already, and shame made her silent. 

When Captain Horton read her letter one thing only surprised him--thereality and completeness of the forgiveness he had won from the girl, herfaith in his better nature, the single-hearted friendship she freely gavehim. He could never cease to be surprised at it. Mary's attitude, sofaithfully reported, did not surprise or discourage him; hers was a morecomplex nature: she had given him her hand, and he believed that in spiteof everything something of the old wayward passion still existed in herheart. The opportunity of meeting her again, where he might be with her agreat deal, was not to be neglected, and he did not greatly fear theresult. 

Two or three days later he arrived with Arthur Eden at Sidmouth, so thatthe party now numbered seven. It was a pleasant gathering, for Mary didnot quarrel with Fan for what she had done; nor was Tom Starbrowunfriendly towards his sister's lover; and as to Eden, he had grafted anew and better stock on that wild olive that had flourished sovigorously; and it thus came to pass that they spent an uncloudedfortnight together. But that is perhaps saying a little too much. Fourmen and three women, so that when they broke up there was one dame alwaysattended by two cavaliers: strange to say, Fan was always the favouredone. For some occult reason no one contested the curate's right to haveConstance all to himself on such occasions; for what right had he, areligious man, to monopolise this pretty infidel? Then, too, she was awidow, entitled by prescription to the largest share of attention;nevertheless, the curate was allowed to have her all to himself wheneverthe party broke up into couples and one inconvenient triplet. 

Arthur Eden was most inconsiderate. There were whispers and signs forthose who had ears to hear and eyes to see, but he chose not to see andhear. On all occasions when he found an opportunity or could make one, hetook possession of Miss Starbrow; while she, on her part, appearedwilling enough to be taken possession of by him. Their sudden liking toeach other seemed strange, considering the great difference in theirdispositions; but about the fact there was no mistake, they wereconstantly absent together on long drives and walks, exploring theadjacent country, lunching at distant rural villages, and coming home todinner glowing with health and happy as young lovers. 

And while these two were thus taken up with each other, and the curateand widow soberly paced the cliffs or sat on the beach discoursingtogether of lofty matters--of the mysteries of our being and the hungerof the spirit, and argued of fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute, wandering through eternity without lighting on any fresh discovery ofimportance in that extensive field--Fan not infrequently found herselftaking part in a somewhat monotonous trio, with the Captain, baritone, orbasso rather, for he was rather depressed in mind, and Tom, tenor, anartist who sang with feeling, but with insufficient control over hisvoice. 

And one day this gentle maiden, having got her brother all to herself, began "at him":

"I am very glad, Arthur, that you and Mary are such good friends. "

"I'm so glad that you are glad that I'm glad, " he returned airily, quoting Mallock. 

"At the same time--"

"Oh, yes, now you are going to say something to spoil it all, I suppose, "he interrupted. 

"I can't help thinking that it is not quite fair to the others to carryher off day after day--especially after she has not been with her brotherfor so long a time. "

"Ah, yes, her brother! Poor girl, I'm afraid you've been sadly bored. Wemust somehow manage to reshuffle the cards. Starbrow might have a turn atConstance, while you could try Northcott. Would that be better?"

"No, " she replied gravely, colouring a little, and with a troubled glanceat his face. "I am thinking principally of Mary and Captain Horton. Iknow that he would like to see a little more of her, and--I don't quitesee the justice of your monopolising her. "

"And why should I give way to Captain Horton, or to any man? That's notthe way to win a lady's favour. I understand that you look on MissStarbrow as a species of goddess; don't you think it would be a grandthing to be sister-in-law to one of the immortals?"

"She could not be more to me than she is; but that you have any feelingof _that_ kind for Mary, I don't believe, Arthur. "

"You are right, " he replied, with a laugh. "I am not sure that wooingMary would be an altogether pleasant process; but as a friend she is atreasure--the chummiest woman I ever came across. "

He did not tell her that the strongest bond between them was theirfeeling for Fan herself. He, on his part, felt that he could never besufficiently grateful to the woman who had rescued his half-sister fromsuch a depth of destitution and misery, and had protected and loved her;she, on hers, could not sufficiently admire him for the way in which hehad acted, in spite of social prejudices as strong almost as instincts, when he had once discovered a sister in the poor shop-girl. At differentperiods and in different ways they had both treated her badly; but thesomething of remorse they could not help feeling on that account onlyserved to increase their present love and care for her. 

At length, one day during one of their expeditions, Arthur spoke to Maryon a subject about which he had kept silence all along. Replying to aremark she had made about his resemblance to the girl, he said, "Everything I resemble her in is inherited from my grandmother on myfather's side. " Then he began to laugh. 

"I don't quite see where the laugh comes in, " said Mary, who had prickedup her ears at the mention of his grandmother, for she had been waitingto hear him say something about his relations. 

"No, but you would see it if you knew my aunt--my father's sister--andhad heard what passed between us about Fan. She is a widow, and lives inKensington with her two daughters--both pretty, clever girls, I think, though they are my cousins. Let me tell you about her. She is a dear goodcreature, and I am awfully fond of her; very religious too, but what theworld thinks and says, and what it will say, is as much to her as whather Bible says, although it would shock her very much to hear me say so. When I made the discovery that Fan was my half-sister, I told aunt allabout it. She was greatly troubled in her mind, and I suppose that hermental picture of the girl must have been rather a disagreeable one; butshe asked no questions on the point, and I gave her no information. Shesaid that it was right to provide for her, and so on, but that it wouldbe a great mistake to make her take the family name, or to bring herforward in any way. After a few days she wrote to me asking what I haddone or was going to do about it. I replied that Fan was my father'sdaughter, and as much to me as if we had been born of one mother as well, and that I had nothing more to say. Then I got letter after letter, reasoning with me about my quixotic ideas, and trying to convince me thatmy action would only result in spoiling the girl, and in creating acoldness between myself and relations. It was rather hard, because I amreally fond of my aunt and my cousins. My only answer to all her letterswas to give her an account of that dream or fancy of my father's; herreply was that that made no difference, that I would do the girl no goodby dragging her among people she was not fitted to associate with. 

"So the matter rested until my return to England, when I called to seeher. She was still anxious, and at once asked me if I had come round toher view. I said no. At last, finding that I was not to be moved, sheasked me to let her see the girl--she did not wish her daughters to seeher. I declined, and that brought us to a deadlock. She informed me thatthere was nothing more to be said, but she couldn't help saying more, andasked me what I intended doing about it. Nothing, I answered; since sherefused to countenance Fan, there was nothing I could do. Not quitesatisfied, she asked whether this disagreement between us would make anydifference. I said that it would make all the difference in the world. She was angry at that, but got over it by the time my visit came to anend, and she asked me very sweetly when I was going to see her again. Ilaughed, and said that after she had turned me, quixotic ideas and all, out of her house, I could not very well return. It distressed her verymuch; for she knows that I am not all softness, that I can sometimesstick to a resolution. Then at last came the question that should havecome first: What was this poor girl of the lower orders about whom I hadlost my reason like?

"Before finishing I must tell you something about that grandmother I havementioned. She was a gentle, lovely woman, just such a one as Fan incharacter, and her memory is almost worshipped by my aunt. And Fan isexactly like what she was when a girl. I knew that my aunt possessed anexquisite miniature portrait of her taken before her marriage, which Ihad not seen for a long time. I asked her to let me look at it, and oneof the girls went and fetched it. 'This, ' I said, 'allowing for thedifferent arrangement of the hair, might be a portrait of Fan; and incharacter, the resemblance is as great as in face. I believe that mygrandmother's soul has come back to earth. '

"'Arthur, I can't believe you!' she exclaimed. 'It is wicked of you tocompare this poor girl, the child of a person of the lower classes, to mymother--a most heavenly-minded woman!' I only laughed, and then theybegged me to show them a photograph of Fan. I hadn't one to show, but Igot back that picture you have heard about, and forwarded it toKensington. Now my aunt and cousins are most anxious to see the girl, andare rather vexed with me because I am taking my time about it. Now youknow, Mary, why I laughed. "

"My dear boy, " she said, putting her hand in his, "I thought well of youbefore, but better now; you have acted nobly. "

"Oh please don't say that. Besides--I think I am too old to be called aboy--especially by a girl. "

Mary laughed. "And you can tell me all this and keep it from Fan, when itwould make her so unutterably happy!"

"She will know it all in good time. It will be a pleasant little surprisewhen she is back in London. I have sent my aunt to confer with Mr. Travers, and his account of Fan has quite excited her. "

From all this it will be seen, that if Captain Horton feared Eden'srivalry, he imagined a vain thing. But it was natural that he should bedisquieted. His only season of pleasure was at the end of the day, when areunion took place; for then Mary would lay aside her coldness, and singduets with him and talk in the old familiar way. But his opportunity cameat last. 

Arthur took Fan to Exeter one morning to show her the cathedral, and atthe same time to pay a visit to an old school-fellow who had a curacythere. Tom Starbrow went with them, and they were absent all day. Constance occupied herself with her writing, and Mary would not leave thehouse alone, but towards evening they went out for a walk on the clifftogether, and there they were unexpectedly joined by Captain Horton andMr. Northcott, who had apparently been consoling each other. The curateand Constance had some literary matters to discuss, and presently driftedaway from the others. Then Mary's face lost its gaiety; even the richcolour faded from her cheeks; she was silent and distressed, then finallygrew cold and hard. 

"Shall we sit here and rest for a few minutes?" he said at length, asthey came to an old bench on the cliff overlooking the sea. 

"I am not tired, thank you. "

"But I am, Mary. Or at all events I have an uncomfortable sensation justnow, and should like to sit down if you don't mind. "

She sat down without reply, and began gazing seawards, still with thatcloud on her face. 

"May I speak to you now, Mary?"

"You may speak, but I warn you not to. "

"And if I speak of other things?"

"Then I shouldn't mind. "

"When you said you forgave me, did you in very truth forgive?"

"Yes. "

"And if I say no more now, will it be better for me afterwards?"

"No, I cannot say that. "

"Never?"

But she remained silent, still gazing seawards. 

"Will you not say?"

"I warned you not to speak. "

"But it is horrible--this silence and suspense. "

"We all have to bear horrible things--worse things than this. "

"I understand you. I believed you when you told me what you did just now--of the past. "

"What then?" she questioned, turning her eyes full on him for the firsttime. For a moment their eyes met; then his dropped and hers were againturned towards the sea. 

"Is it possible, Mary, for us to be together, for our eyes to meet, ourhands to touch, without a return of that feeling you once had for me--that was strong in you before some devil out of hell caused me to offendyou?"

"Quite possible--that is a short answer to a long speech. It does notseem quite fair to try and shuffle the responsibility of your actions onto some poor imaginary devil. "

"It was a mere figure of speech. Why should you allude to things that areforgiven?"

"You alluded to them yourself. You know that they cannot be forgotten. What do you expect? Let me also talk to you in figurative language. Ithappens sometimes that a tree is struck by lightning and killed in aninstant--leaf, branch, and root--killed and turned to dust and ashes. "

"And still there may be a living rootlet left in the soil, which willsprout and renew the dead tree in time. "

She glanced at him again and was silent. She had spoken falsely; thewords which she had spoken to herself on a former occasion, whenstruggling against the revival of the old feeling, he had now usedagainst her. 

"Will you tell me, Mary, that there is not one living rootlet left?"

She was silent for some moments; then, feeling the blood forsake hercheeks, replied deliberately, "Not one. Can I speak plainer?"

He, too, grew white as she spoke, and was silent for a while, then said, "Mary, has some new growth taken the place of the old roots, which yousay were killed and turned to ashes? There would be a hollow place wherethey existed--an emptiness which is hateful to Nature. "

"Still pounding away at the same metaphor!" she returned, trying withpoor success to speak in a mocking tone, and laughing in a strange, almost hysterical way. 

"Yes, still at the same metaphor, " he returned, with a keen glance at herface. Her tone, her strained laughter, something in her expression, toldhim that she had spoken falsely--that he might still hope. "You have notanswered my question, Mary. "

"You have no right to expect an answer, " she returned, angry at her ownweakness and his keenness in detecting it. "But I don't mind telling youthat no other growth has occupied that hollow empty place you described. "Her voice had recovered its steadiness, and growing bolder she added, "Idon't believe that Nature really hates hollow empty places, as you say--the world itself is hollow. Anyhow, it doesn't matter to me in the leastwhat she hates or likes: Nature is Nature, and I am I. "

"But answer me this: If you can suffer me, are not my chances equallygood with those of any other man?"

"Jack, I am getting heartily tired of this. Why do you keep on harkingback to the subject when I have spoken so plainly? Whether I shall everfeel towards any other man as I did towards you, to my sorrow, I cannotsay; but this I can say, even if that dead feeling I once had for youshould come to life again, it would avail you nothing. I shall say nomore--except one thing, which you had better know. I shall always befriendly, and shall never think about the past unless you yourself remindme of it, as you did just now. This much you owe to Fan. "

He took the proffered hand in his, and bending, touched his lips to it. Then they rose and walked on in silence--she grave, yet with a feeling oftriumph in her heart, for the feared moment had come, and she had notbeen weak, and the cup of shame had passed for ever from her lips; heprofoundly sad, for it had been revealed to him that the old feeling, inspite of her denial, was not wholly dead, and yet he knew that he hadlost her. 

Meanwhile that important literary matter was being discussed on anotherportion of the cliff by the curate and Constance. It referred to the taleshe had written, which he had submitted to a publisher, who had offered asmall sum for the copyright. The book, the publisher had said, wasmoderately good, but it formed only one volume; readers preferred theirnovels in three volumes, even if they had to put up with inferiorquality. Besides, there was always a considerable risk in bringing out abook by an unknown hand, with more in the same strain of explanation ofthe smallness of the sum offered for the manuscript. The price being sosmall, Constance was not strongly tempted to accept it. Then she wantedto get the manuscript back. The thought of appearing as a competitor forpublic favour in the novel-writing line began to produce a nervousness inher similar to the stage-fright of young actors on their firstappearance. She had not taken pains enough, and could improve the work byintroducing new and better scenes; she had imprudently said things sheought not to have said, and could imagine the reviewers (orthodox to aman) tearing her book to pieces in a fine rage, and scattering its leavesto the four winds of heaven. 

Mr. Northcott smiled at her fears. He maintained that the one fault ofthe book was that the style was too good--for a novel. It was not well, he said, to write too well. On the contrary, a certain roughness andcarelessness had their advantage, especially with critical readers, andserved to show the hand of the professed novelist who, sick or well, inthe spirit or not, fills his twenty-four or thirty-six quarto pages perdiem. A polished style, on the other hand, exhibited care and lookedamateurish. He had no very great opinion of this kind of writing, andadvised her to get rid of the delusion that when she wrote a novel shemade literature. To clinch the argument, he proceeded to put a series ofuncomfortable questions to her. Did she expect to live by novel-writing?How long would it take her to write three volumes? How long could shemaintain existence on the market price of a three-volume novel? It wasclear that, unless she was prepared to live on bread-and-cheese, shecould not afford to re-write anything. As for the reviewers, if theyfound her book tiresome, they would dismiss it in a couple of colourlessor perhaps contemptuous paragraphs; if they found it interesting, theywould recommend it; but about her religious opinions expressed in it theywould not think it necessary to say anything. 

When this matter had been settled, and she had agreed, albeit with somemisgivings, to accept the publisher's offer and let the book take itschance, they passed to other subjects. 

"I shall feel it most, " said Constance, referring to his intendeddeparture on the morrow. 

"These words, " he returned, "will be a comfort to me when I am back inLondon, after the peaceful days we have spent together. "

"You needed this holiday more than any of us, Harold. I am glad it hasgiven you fresh strength for your sad toiling life in town. "

"Not sad, Constance, so long as I have your sympathy. "

"You know that you always have that. It is little to give when I think ofall you were to me--to us, at that dark period of our life. " She turnedher face from him. 

"Do you call it little, Constance?" He spoke with an intensity of feelingthat made his voice tremble. "It is inexpressibly dear to me; it sweetensexistence; without it I know that my life would be dark indeed. "

"Dark, Harold! For me, and all who think with me, there is nothing toguide but the light of nature that cannot satisfy you--that you regard asa pale false light; it is not strange, therefore, that we make so much ofhuman sympathy and affection--that it sustains us. But if there is anyreality in that divine grace supposed to be given to those who are ableto believe in certain things, in spite of reason, then you are surelywrong in speaking as you do. "

Her earnestness, a something of bitterness imparted into her words, seemed strange, considering that as a rule she avoided discussions ofthis kind. Now she appeared eager for the fray; but it was a fictitiouseagerness, a great fear had come into her heart, and she was anxious toturn the current of his thoughts from personal and therefore dangeroussubjects. 

"I do not know--I cannot say, " he returned, evading the point. "I onlyknow that we are no longer like soldiers in opposing camps. Perhaps Ihave had some influence on you--everything we do and say must in somedegree affect those around us. I know that you have greatly changed me. Your words, and more than your words, the lesson of your life, has sunkinto my heart, and I cannot rebuke you. For though you have not Christ'sName on your lips, the spirit which gives to the Christian religion itsdeathless vitality is in your soul, and shines in your whole life. "

They walked on in silence, he overcome with deep feeling, she unable toreply, still apprehending danger. Then sinking his voice, he said:

"Your heart does not blame, do not let your reason blame me for thinkingso much of your sympathy. " After a while he went on, his voice stilllower and faltering, as if hope faltered--"Constance, you have done somuch for me. .. . You have made my life so much more to me than it was. .. . Will you do more still? . .. Will you let me think that the sympathy, theaffection you have so long felt for me, may in time ripen to anotherfeeling which will make us even more to each other than we are now?"

His voice had grown husky and had fallen almost to a whisper at the end. They were standing now, she pale and trembling, tears gathering in hereyes, her fingers clasped together before her. 

"Oh, I am to blame for this, " she spoke at last with passion. "But yourkindness was more to me than wine to the faint, and I believed--Iflattered myself that it was nothing more than Christian kindness, thatit never would, never could be more. I might have known--I might haveknown! Harold, if you knew the pain I suffer, you would try for my sakeas well as your own to put this thought from you. The power to feel asyou would wish has gone from me--it is dead and can never live again. Ah, why has this trouble come to divide us when our friendship was so sweet--so much to me!"

Every word she had spoken had pierced him; but at the end his spiritsuddenly shook off despondency, and he returned eagerly, "Constance, donot say that it will divide us. Nothing can ever change the feelings ofdeep esteem and affection I have had for you since I first knew you atEyethorne; nothing can make your sympathy less to me than it has been inthe past. Can you not forgive me for the pain I have caused you, andpromise that you will not be less my friend than you have been up tillnow?"

Strangely enough, the very declaration that her power to feel as hewished was dead, and could not live again, which might well have made hiscase seem hopeless, had served to inspire him with fresh hope; and whilebegging for a continuance of her friendship he had said to himself, "OnceI shilly-shallied, and was too late; now I have spoken too soon; but mytime will come, for so long as the heart beats its power to love cannotbe dead. "

She could not read his thoughts; his words relieved and made her glad, and she freely gave him her hand in token of continued friendship andintimacy, just about the time when Captain Horton, with no secret hope inhis heart, was touching his red moustache to Mary's wash-leather glove. 

CHAPTER XLVIII

"A Pebble for your thoughts, Constance, " said Mary, tossing one to herfeet. "But I can guess them--for so many sisters is there not onebrother?"

"Are you so sorry that they have all left us?" returned the other, smiling and coming back from the realms of fancy. 

"I'm sure _I_ am, " said Fan, looking up from her book. "It was sodelightful to have them with us at this distance from London. "

"But why at this distance from London?" objected Mary. "According tothat, our pleasure would have been greater if we had met them at theCanary Islands, and greater still at Honolulu or some spot in Tasmania. Imagine what it would be to meet them in one of the planets; but if themeeting were to take place in the furthest fixed star the delight wouldbe almost too much for us. At that distance, Sidmouth would seem littlefurther from London than Richmond or Croydon. "

Fan bent her eyes resolutely on her book. 

"You have not yet answered my question, Mary, " said Constance. 

"Nor you mine, which has the right of priority. But I am not a sticklerfor my rights. Listen, both of you, to a confession. I don't feel sorryat being left alone with you two, much as I have been amused, especiallyby Arthur, who has a merrier soul than his demure little sister. "

"Why will you call me _little_, Mary? I am five feet six inches anda half, and Arthur says that's as tall as a woman ought to be. "

"A sneer at me because I am two inches taller! What other disparagingthings did he say, I wonder?"

"You don't say that seriously, Mary--you are so seldom serious aboutanything! You know, I dare say, that he is always praising you. "

"That's pleasant to hear. But what did he say--can't you remembersomething?"

"Well, for one thing, he said you had a sense of humour--and that coversa multitude of sins. "

The others laughed. "_À propos_ of what did he pay me that prettycompliment?" asked Mary. 

Fan, reddening a little at being laughed at, returned somewhat defiantly, "He was comparing you to me--to your advantage, of course--and said thatI had no sense of humour. I answered that you were always mocking atsomething, and if that was what he meant by a sense of humour, I was verypleased to be without it. "

"Oh, traitress! it was you then who abused me behind my back. "

"And what about me?" asked Constance. "Did he say that I had any sense ofhumour?"

"I asked him that, " said Fan, not joining in the laugh. "He said thatwomen have a sense of humour of their own, quite different from man's;that it shows in their conversation, but can't be written. What they putin their books is a kind of imitation of man's humour, and very bad. Hesaid that George Eliot was a very mannish woman, but that even _her_humour made him melancholy. "

"Oh, then I shall be in very good company if I am so fortunate as to makethis clever young gentleman melancholy. "

"I quite agree with him, " said Mary, wishing to tease Constance. "As arule, there is something very depressing about a woman's writing when shewishes to be amusing. "

But the other would not be teased. "Do you know, Mary, " she said, returning to the first subject, "I was in hopes that you were going tomake a much more important confession. I'm sure we both expected it. "

"You must speak for yourself about a confession, " said Fan. "But I didfeel sorry to see how cast down poor Captain Horton looked before goingaway. "

"The more I see of him, " continued Constance, heedless of Mary'sdarkening brow, "the better I like him. He is the very type of what a manshould be--strong and independent, yet gentle, so patient when hispatience is tried. It was easy to see that he was not happy, and that thecause of it was the coldness of one Mary Starbrow. "

"Why not _your_ coldness, or Fan's coldness?" snapped the other. 

"I was not, and could not, be cold to him, and as to Fan----"

"Why, he was constantly with me; we were the best of friends, as you knowvery well, Mary. "

"So handsome too, and he has such a fine voice, " continued Constance. "Sometimes when he and Mary sang duets together, and when he seemed sograteful for her graciousness, I thought what a splendid couple theywould make. Didn't you think the same, Fan?"

"Yes, " she replied a little doubtfully. 

"Yes!" mocked Mary. "It would be a great pleasure to me to duck you inthe sea for slavishly echoing everything Constance says. "

"Thank you, Mary, but I'm not so fond of getting wet as you are, " saidFan, with a somewhat troubled smile. 

Constance went on pitilessly:

 Oh, he was the half part of a better man Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence Whose fullness of perfection was in him. 

"And pray what are you, Constance?" retorted the other. "A fair dividedexcellence or an excellence all by yourself, or what? If you findpleasure in contemplating a deep romantic attachment, think a little moreof Mr. Northcott. He is the type of a gentleman, if you like--brave andgentle, and without stain. And how was _he_ rewarded for hisdevotion? At all events he did not look quite like a conquering hero whenhe went away. "

Constance reddened. "He is everything you say, Mary--you can't say morein praise of him than he deserves; but you have no right to assume whatyou do, and if you can't keep such absurd fancies out of your head, Ithink you might refrain from expressing them. "

"But, Constance dear, what harm can there be in expressing them?" saidFan. "They are not absurd fancies any more than what you were saying justnow. I am quite sure that Mr. Northcott is very fond of you. "

"That is your opinion, Fan; but I would rather you found some othersubject of conversation. "

"No doubt, " said Mary, not disposed to let her off so easily; "but let mewarn you first that unless you treat Mr. Northcott better in future therewill be a split in the Cabinet, and Fan, I think, will be on my side. "

"I certainly shall, " said Fan. 

"In that case, " said Constance with dignity, "I shall try to bear it. "

"We'll boycott you, " said Mary. 

"And refuse to read your books, " said Fan. 

"And tell everyone that the creator of tender-hearted heroines isanything but tender-hearted herself. "

"This amuses you, Mary, " said Constance, "but you don't seem to reflectthat it gives me pain. "

"I'm sorry, Constance, if anything I have said has given you pain, " spokeFan. "At the same time I can't understand why it should: it must surelybe a good thing to be--loved by a good man. "

"Then, Fan, you must feel very happy, " retorted the other, suddenlychanging her tactics. 

"I don't know what you mean, Constance. "

"What sweet simplicity! Do you imagine that we are so blind, Fan, as notto see how devoted Mr. Starbrow is to you?"

The girl reddened and darted a look at Mary, who only smiled, observingstrict neutrality. 

"You are wrong, Constance, and most unkind to say such a thing. You sayit only to turn the conversation from yourself. No one noticed such athing; but about Mr. Northcott it was quite different--everybody saw it. "

"I beg you will not allude to that subject again. When I have distinctlytold you that it is annoying--that it is painful to me, you should have alittle more consideration. "

"This grows interesting, " broke in Mary. "The conspirators havequarrelled among themselves, and I shall now perhaps discover in whosebreast the evil thought was first hatched. "

The others were silent, a little abashed; Fan still blushing and agitatedafter her hot protest, fearing perhaps that it had failed of its effect. 

Mary went on: "Are we then to hear no more of these delightfulrevelations? Considering that the Mr. Starbrow whose name has beenbrought into the case happens to be my brother--"

She said no more, for just then Fan burst into tears. 

"Oh, you are unkind, both of you, to say such things, when you know--whenyou know--"

"That there is no truth in them?" interrupted Mary. "Then, my dear girl, why take it to heart?"

"You brought it on yourself, Fan, " said Constance. 

"No, Constance, it was all your doing. Even Mary never said a word tillyou began it. "

"_Even_ Mary--who is not as a rule responsible for her words, " saidthat lady vindictively. 

"I shall not stay here any longer, " exclaimed Fan, picking up her bookand attempting to rise. 

But the others put out their arms and prevented her. 

"Dear Fan, " said Constance, "let us say no more to vex each other; theremark I made was a very harmless one. And you forget, dear, that I amdifferent to you and Mary--that words about some things, though spoken injest, may hurt me very much. " After a while she continued hesitatingly--"I am sure that neither of you will return to the subject when you knowhow I feel about it. I shall never love again. To others my husband isdead, but not to me; his place can be taken by no other. "

Fan, who had recovered her composure, although still a little "tearyabout the lashes, " answered:

"And I am equally sure that I shall never want to--change my name. I haveArthur to love and--and to think of, and that will be enough to make mehappy. "

"And I shall get a cat, " said Mary, in a broken voice, and ostentatiouslywiping her eyes, "and devote myself to it, and love it with all thestrength of my ardent nature, and that will be enough to make _me_happy. I shall name it Constance Fan, out of compliment to you two, andfeed it on the most expensive canaries. Of course it will be a verybeautiful cat and very intelligent, with opinions of its own about thesense of humour and other deep questions. "

Constance looked offended, while Fan laughed uncomfortably. Mary wassatisfied; she had turned the tables on her persecutor and provoked alittle tempest to vary the monotony of life at the seaside. Withoutsaying more they got up and moved towards the town, it being near theirluncheon hour. Fan lagged behind reading, or pretending to read, as shewalked. 

"Oh, let's stay and see this race, " said Mary, pausing beside a bench onthe beach near an excited group of idlers, mostly boys, with one white-headed old man in the midst, who was arranging a racing contest betweenone youngster mounted on a small, sleepy-looking, longhaired donkey, andhis opponent, dirty as to his face and argumentative, seated on one ofthose archaeological curiosities commonly called "bone-shakers, " whichare occasionally to be seen at remote country places. But thepreliminaries were not easily settled, and Constance grew impatient. 

"I can't stay, " she said. "I have a letter to write before lunch. "

"All right, go on, " said Mary, "and I'll wait for that lazy-bones Fan. "

As soon as Constance had gone Fan quickened her steps. 

"Mary, " she spoke, coming to the other's side, "will you promise mesomething?"

"What is it, dear?" said her friend, looking into her face, surprised tosee how flushed it was. 

"I suppose that Constance was only joking when she said that to me; butpromise, Mary, that you will never speak to Mr. Starbrow about such athing?"

"Why?"

"Promise, Mary--do promise, " pleaded the girl. 

"But, Fan, I have already talked to him more than once on that samedreadful subject. "

"Oh, how could you do it, Mary! You had no right to speak to him of sucha thing. "

"You must not blame me, Fan. He spoke to me first about it. "

"He did! I can hardly believe it. Was it right of him to speak of such athing to you?"

"And not to you first, Fan? Poor Tom spoke to me because he was afraid tospeak to you--afraid that you had no such feeling for him as he wishedyou to have. He wanted sympathy and advice, and so the poor fellow cameto me. "

"And what did you say, Mary?"

"Of course I told him the simple truth about you. I said that you werecold and stern in disposition, very strong-minded and despotic; but thatat some future time, if he would wait patiently, you might perhapscondescend to make him happy and take him just for the pleasure ofpossessing a man to tyrannise over. "

Fan did not laugh nor reply. Her face was bent down, and when the otherstooped and looked into it, there were tears in her eyes. 

"Crying! Oh, you foolish, sensitive child! Was it true, then, that youdid not know--never even suspected that Tom loved you?"

"No; I think I have known it for some time. But it was so hard to hear itspoken of in that way. I have felt so sorry; I thought it would never benoticed--never be known--that he would see that it could never be, andforget it. Why did you say that to him, Mary--that some day I might feelas he wished? Don't you know that it can never be?"

"But why can't it be, Fan? You are so young, and your feelings maychange. And he is my brother--would you not like to have me for asister?"

"You _are_ my sister, Mary--more than a sister. If Arthur had hadsisters it would have made no difference. But about Tom, you must believeme, Mary; he is just like a brother to me, and I know I shall neverchange about that. "

"Ah, yes; we are all so wise about such things, " returned the other witha slight laugh, and then a long silence followed. 

There was excuse for it, for just then, the arguments about theconditions of the race had waxed loud, degenerating into mere clamour. Italmost looked as if the more excited ones were about to settle theirdifferences with their flourishing fists. But Mary was scarcely consciousof what was passing before her; she was mentally occupied recallingcertain things which she had heard two or three days ago; also things shehad seen without attention. Fan, Tom, and Arthur had told her about thatday spent in Exeter. At their destination their party had been increasedto four by Arthur's clerical friend, Frank Arnold. This young gentlemanhad acted as guide to the cathedral, and had also entertained them atluncheon, which proved a very magnificent repast to be given by a youngcurate in apartments. It was all a dull wretched affair, according toTom; the young fellow had never left off making himself agreeable to Fanuntil she had got into her carriage to return to Sidmouth. And yet Fanhad scarcely mentioned Mr. Arnold, only saying that she had passed ahappy day. How happy it must have been, thought Mary, a new light dawningon her mind, for the sparkle of it to have lasted so long!

"Shall you meet your brother's friend, Mr. Arnold, again?" she asked alittle suddenly. 

"I--I think so--yes, " returned Fan, a little confused. "He is coming toLondon next month, and will be a great deal with Arthur, and--of course Ishall see him. Why do you ask, Mary?"

But Mary was revolving many things in her mind, and kept silent. 

"What are you thinking about, Mary?" persisted the other. 

"Oh, about all kinds of things; mysteries, for instance, and about howlittle we know of what's going on in each other's minds. You are about astransparent a person as one could have, and yet half the time, now I cometo think of it, I don't seem to know what you would be at. A little whileago you joined with Constance in that attack on me. I am just askingmyself, 'Would it have been pleasant to you if Jack had gone awayyesterday happy and triumphant--if I had promised him my hand?'"

"Your hand, Mary--how can you ask such a question? How could you imaginesuch a thing?"

"Does it seem so dreadful a thing? Have you not worked on me to make meforgive and think well of him? You do not think his repentance all asham; you have forgotten the past, are his friend, and trust him. Do you, in spite of it all, still think evil of him and separate him from othermen? Was the thief on the cross who repented a less welcome guest at thatsupper he was invited to because of his evil deeds? And is this man, inwhose repentance you really believe, less a child of God than other men, that you make this strange distinction?"

The girl cast down her eyes and was silent for some time. 

"Mary, " she spoke at length, "I can't explain it, but I do feel thatthere is a difference--that it is not wrong to make such a distinction. It is in us already made, and we can't unmake it. I know that I feeleverything you have said about him, and I am very, very glad that you toohave forgiven him and are his friend. But it would have been horrible ifyou had felt for him again as you did once. "

Mary turned her face away, her eyes growing dim with tears of mingledpain and happiness; for how long it had taken her to read the soul thatwas so easy to read, so crystalline, and how much it would have helpedher if she could have understood it sooner! But now the shameful cup hadpassed for ever from her, and the loved girl at her side had neverdiscovered, never suspected, how near to her lips it had been. 

And while she stood thus, while Fan waited for her to turn her face, hardby there sounded a great clatter and rattling of the old ramshacklemachine, and pounding of the donkey's hoofs on the gravel, and vigorousthwacks from sticks and hands and hats on his rump by his backers, accompanied with much noise of cheering and shouting. 

"Oh, look; it is all over!" cried Mary. "What a shame to miss it afterall--what could we have been thinking about! Come, let's go and find outwho won. I shall give sixpence to the winner, just to encourage localsport. "

"And I, " said Fan, "shall give a shilling to the loser--to encourage--"In her haste she did not say what.