At the last moment, when all the preparations were complete, Miss
Starbrow determined to accompany Fan to her new home, and, after
dropping her there, to pay a long-promised visit before leaving England
to an old friend of her girlhood, who was now married and living at
Salisbury. Eyethorne took her some distance out of her way; and at the
small country station where they alighted, which was two and a half
miles from the village, she found from the time-table that her interview
with the Churtons would have to be a short one, as there was only one
train which would take her to Salisbury so as to arrive there at a
reasonably early hour in the evening. At the station they took a fly,
and the drive to Eyethorne brought before Fan's eyes a succession of
charming scenes--green hills, broad meadows yellow with buttercups, deep
shady lanes, and old farm-houses. The spring had been cold and backward;
but since the beginning of May there had been days of warm sunshine with
occasional gentle rains, and the trees, both shade and fruit, had all at
once rushed into leaf and perfect bloom. Such vivid and tender greens as
the foliage showed, such a wealth of blossom on every side, such sweet
fragrance filling the warm air, Fan had never imagined; and yet how her
prophetic heart 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,
at some distance, a broad belt of wood, the hills on one hand and green
meadowland on the other. Five minutes after leaving the village they
drew up at the gate of Wood End House, which was at some distance back
from the road almost hidden from sight by the hedge and trees, and was
approached by a short avenue of elms. Arrived at the house, they were
received by Mr. and Mrs. Churton, and ushered into a small drawing-room
on the ground floor; a room which, with its heavy-looking, old-fashioned
furniture, 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
she seemed very gentle and motherly, and greeted Fan with a kindliness
in her voice and manner which served in a great measure to remove
the girl's nervousness 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 any way, nor she like him. He was small, with a narrow forehead,
irregular face and projecting under-lip, which made him ugly. His eyes
were of that common no-colour type, and might or might not have been
pigmented, and classifiable as brown or blue--Dr. Broca himself would
not have been able to decide. But the absence of any definite colour
was of less account than the lack of any expression, good or bad. One
wondered, on seeing his face, how he could be a retired barrister,
unless it meant merely that in the days of his youth he had made some
vague and feeble efforts at entering such a profession, ending in
nothing. Possibly he was himself conscious that his face lacked a
quality found in others, and failed to inspire respect and confidence;
for he had a trick of ostentatiously clearing his throat, and looking
round and speaking in a deliberate and somewhat consequential manner,
as if by these little arts to counterbalance the weakness in the
expression. His whole get-up also suggested the same thought--could
anyone believe the jewel to be missing from a casket so elaborately
chased? His grey hair was brushed sprucely up on each side of his head,
the ends of the locks forming a supplementary pair of ears above the
crown. He was scrupulously dressed in black cloth and spotless linen,
with a very large standing-up collar. In manner he was gushingly amiable
and polite towards Miss Starbrow, and as he stood bowing and smiling and
twirling the cord of his gold-rimmed glasses about his finger, he talked
freely to that lady of the lovely weather, the beauty of the country,
the pleasures of the spring season, and in fact of everything except the
business which had brought her there. Presently she cut short his flow
of inconsequent talk by remarking that 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 fly
arrive. No doubt, she added a little nervously, Miss Starbrow would like
to see and converse with Miss Affleck's future teacher and companion.
“Oh, no, not at all!” promptly replied the other, with the habitual
curling of the lip. “I came to-day by the merest chance, as everything
had been arranged by correspondence, and I am quite satisfied that Miss
Affleck will be in good hands.” At which Mr. Churton bowed, and turning
bestowed a fatherly smile on Fan. “It is not at all necessary for me to
see Miss Churton,” continued Miss Starbrow, “but there is one thing I
wish to speak to you about, which I omitted to mention in my letters to
you.”
Mr. and Mrs. Churton were all attention, but before the other had begun
to speak Miss Churton came in, her hat on, and with a sunshade in one
hand and a book in the other.
“Here is my daughter,” said the mother. “Constance, Miss Starbrow and
Miss Affleck.”
Miss Churton advanced to the first lady, but did not give her hand as
she had meant to do; for the moment she appeared in the room and her
name was mentioned a cloud had come over the visitor's face, and she
merely bowed distantly without stirring from her seat.
For the real Miss Churton offered a wonderful contrast to that portrait
of her which the other had drawn from her imagination. She might
almost be called tall, her height being little less than that of the
dark-browed lady who sat before her, regarding her with cold critical
eyes; but in figure she was much slimmer, and her light-coloured dress,
which was unfashionable in make, was pretty and became her. She was, in
fact, only twenty-two years old. There were no lines of deep thought on
her pure white forehead when she removed her hat; and no dimness from
much reading of books in her clear hazel eyes, which seemed to Fan the
most beautiful eyes she had ever seen, so much sweet sympathy did they
show, and so much confidence did they inspire. In colour she was very
rich, her skin being of that tender brown one occasionally sees in the
face of a young lady in the country, which seems to tell of a pleasant
leisurely life in woods and fields; while her abundant hair was of a
tawny brown tint with bronze reflections. She was very beautiful, and
when, turning from Miss Starbrow, she advanced to Fan and gave her hand,
the girl almost trembled with the new keen sensation of pleasure she
experienced. Miss Churton was so different from that unlovely mental
picture of her! She imagined for a moment, poor girl, that Mary would
show her feelings of relief and pleasure; but she quickly perceived that
something had brought a sudden cloud over Mary's face, and it troubled
her, and she wondered what it meant.
Before Miss Churton had finished welcoming Fan, Miss Starbrow, looking
at her 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 few
minutes, 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 grassy
lawn, beyond which were the garden and orchard. After crossing the lawn
and going a little way among the shrubs and flowers they came in sight
of a large apple-tree white with blossoms.
“Oh, can we go as far as that tree?” asked the girl after a little
delighted exclamation at the sight. When they reached the tree she went
under it and gazed up into the beautiful flowery cloud with wide-open
eyes, 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 know
that there was any place in the world so beautiful as this! I should
like to stay here for ever!”
“But have you never been in the country before?” said the other with
some surprise.
“Yes. Only once, for a few days, years ago. But it was not like this. It
was very beautiful in Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, but this--”
She could find no words to express her feeling; she could only stand
gazing up, and touching the white and pink clustering blossoms with her
finger-tips, as if they were living things to be gently caressed. “Oh,
it is 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 had suddenly remembered that Miss Starbrow had warned
her never to speak of her past life.
Miss Churton smiled slightly, but with a strange tenderness in her eyes
as she watched the girl's face.
“I hope we shall get on well together, and that you will like me a
little,” she said.
“Oh, yes, I know I shall like you if--if you will not think me very
stupid. I know so little, and you know so much. Must you always call me
Miss Affleck?”
“Not if you would prefer me to call you Frances. I should like that
better.”
“That would seem so strange, Miss Churton. I have always been called
Fan.”
Just then the others were seen coming out to the garden, and Miss
Churton and Fan went back to meet them. Mr. Churton, polite and
bare-headed, hovered about his visitor, smiling, gesticulating,
chattering, while she answered only in monosyllables, and was
blacker-browed than ever. Mrs. Churton, silent and pale, walked at her
side, turning from time to time a troubled look at the dark proud face,
and wondering what its stormy expression might mean.
“Fan,” said Miss Starbrow, without even a glance at the lady at Fan's
side, “my time is nearly up, and I wish to have three or four minutes
alone with you before saying good-bye.”
The others at once withdrew, going back to the house, while Miss
Starbrow sat down on a garden bench and drew the girl to her side.
“Well, my child, 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 to
say something very serious to you. You know, my girl, that when I took
you out of such a sad, miserable life to make you happy, I said that
it was not from charity, and because I loved my fellow-creatures or the
poor better than others; but solely because I wanted you to love me, and
your affection was all the payment I ever expected or expect. But now I
foresee 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
cannot give your heart to two persons; that if you give your whole heart
to this lady you think so beautiful and so kind, and who will be paid
for her kindness, 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
I understand.”
“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 beautiful
and kind she may be; or, rather, I shall not be satisfied with what
is over 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 to find out what I mean. But I warn you, Fan, that if ever
you transfer the affection you have felt for me to this woman, or this
girl, then you shall cease to be anything to me. You shall be no more to
me than you were before I first saw you and felt a strange wish to take
you to my heart; when you were in rags and half-starved, and without one
friend in the world.”
The tears started to the girl's eyes, and she threw her arms round the
other's neck. “Oh, Mary, nothing, nothing will ever make me love you
less! Will you not believe me, Mary?”
“Yes, dear Fan, don't cry. Good-bye, my darling. Write to me at least
once 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 you
unchanged in heart, but with an improved mind and a little colour in
your dear pale face.”
After Miss Starbrow's departure Fan was shown to her room, where her
luggage had already been taken by the one indoor servant, a staid,
middle-aged woman. It was a light, prettily furnished apartment on the
first floor, with a large window looking on to the garden at the back.
There were flowers on the dressing-table--Miss Churton had placed them
there, she thought--and the warm fragrant air coming in at the open
window seemed to bring nature strangely near to her. Looking away,
where the trees did not intercept the view, it was all green
country--gently-sloping hills, and the long Eyethorne wood, and
rich meadow-land, where sleepy-looking cows stood in groups or waded
knee-deep in the pasture. It was like an earthly paradise to her senses,
but just now her mind was clouded with a great distress. Mary's strange
words to her, and the warning that she would be cast out of Mary's
heart, that it would be again with her as it had been before entering
into this new life of beautiful scenes and sweet thoughts and feelings,
if she allowed herself to love her new teacher and companion, filled
her with apprehension. She sat by the window looking out, but with a
dismayed expression in her young eyes; and then she remembered how Mary,
in a sudden tempest of rage, had once struck her, and how her heart had
almost burst with grief at that unjust blow; and now it seemed to her
that Mary's words if not her hand had dealt her a second blow, which was
no less unjust; and covering her face with her hands she cried silently
to herself. Then she remembered how quickly Mary had repented and had
made amends, loving her more tenderly after having ill-treated her in
her anger. It consoled her to think that Mary had so great an affection
for her; and perhaps, she thought, the warning was necessary; perhaps if
she allowed her heart to have its way, and to give all that this lovely
and loving girl seemed to ask, Mary would be less to her than she had
been. She resolved that she would strive religiously to obey Mary's
wishes, that she would keep a watch over herself, and not allow any such
tender feelings as she had experienced in the garden to overcome her
again. She would be Miss Churton's pupil, but not the intimate, loving
friend and companion she had hoped to be after first seeing her.
While Fan sat by herself, occupied with her little private trouble,
which did not seem little to her, downstairs in the small drawing-room
there was another trouble.
“Before you go up to your room I wish to speak to you, Constance,” said
her mother.
Miss Churton stood swinging her straw hat by its ribbon, silently
waiting to hear the rest.
“All right, Jane,” said Mr. Churton to his wife. “I am just going to run
up 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, and
Constance 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, I
think I really must be going. I have been kept in all day, you know, and
should like to take a little--ahem--constitutional.”
“Yes, Nathaniel, I have no doubt you would. But consider me a little in
this. I have succeeded in getting this girl, and you know how much the
money will be to us. Do you think it too much to keep away from your
favourite haunt in the village for a single day?”
“Oh, come, come, Jane. It's all right, my dear. I'm sure Miss Starbrow
was greatly pleased at everything. You can settle all the rest with
Constance. I think she's quite intelligent enough to understand the
matter without my presence.” And here Mr. Churton gave vent to a slight
inward chuckle.
“I insist on your staying here, Nathaniel. You know how little regard
our daughter has for my wishes or commands; and as Miss Starbrow has
spoken to us both, you cannot do less than remain to corroborate what I
have to tell Constance.”
Her daughter reddened at this speech, but remained silent.
“Well, well, my dear, if you will only come to the point!” he exclaimed
impatiently.
“Constance, will you give me your attention?” said her mother, turning
to her.
“Yes, mother, I am attending.”
“Miss Starbrow has informed us that Miss Affleck, although of gentle
birth on her father's side, was unhappily left to be brought up in a
very poor quarter of London, among people of a low class. She has had
little instruction, except that of the Board School, and never had the
advantage of associating with those of a better class until this lady
rescued her from her unfortunate surroundings. She is of a singularly
sweet, confiding disposition, Miss Starbrow says, and has many other
good qualities which only require a suitable atmosphere to be developed.
Miss Starbrow will value at its proper worth the instruction you will
give her; and as to subjects, she has added nothing to what she had
written to us, except that she does not wish you to force any study on
the girl to which she may show a disinclination, but rather to find
out for yourself any natural aptitude she may possess. And what she
particularly requests of us is, that no questions shall be put to her
and no reference made to her early life in London. She wishes the girl
to forget, if possible, her suffering 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 say
something to me about her early life in London when we were in the
garden, and then checked herself. I dare say Miss Starbrow has told her
not to speak of it.”
“Then I suppose you had already begun to press her with questions about
it?” quickly returned Mrs. Churton.
“No; she spoke quite spontaneously. The flowers, the garden, the beauty
of the country, so strangely different to her former surroundings--that
suggested what she said, I think.”
Her mother looked unconvinced. “Will you remember, Constance, that it
is Miss Starbrow's wish that such subjects are not to be brought up and
encouraged in your conversations with Miss Affleck? I cannot command
you. It would be idle to expect obedience to any command of mine from
you. I can only appeal to your interest, or whatever it is you now
regard as your higher law.”
“I have always obeyed you, mother,” returned Miss Churton with warmth.
“I shall, as a matter of course, respect Miss Starbrow's and your wishes
in this instance. You know that you can trust me, or ought to know, and
there 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 disobedience
to me! Unhappy girl that you are, you disobey your God and Creator, and
are in rebellion against Him--how little a thing then must disobedience
to 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 opinions
and 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; and it seems strange that the girl's coming should be made the
occasion for one, for I had hoped that her presence in the house would
have made my life more bearable.”
“You refer to Miss Affleck's coming,” said her mother, without stopping
to reply to anything else, “and I am glad of it, for it serves to remind
me that I have not yet told you my wishes with regard to your future
intercourse with her.”
At this point Mr. Churton, unnoticed by his wife, stole quietly to the
door, 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 promise you at once that I shall say nothing to cause you any
uneasiness, or to make any further mention of the subject necessary.”
“No, Constance, I have a sacred duty to perform, and our respective
relations towards Miss Affleck must be made thoroughly clear, once for
all.”
“Why should you wish to make it clear after telling me that you cannot
trust me to obey your wishes, or even to speak the truth? Mother, I
shall not listen to you any longer!”
“You _shall_ listen to me!” exclaimed the other; and rising and hurrying
past her daughter, she closed the door and stood before it as if to
prevent escape.
Miss Churton made no reply; she walked to a chair, and sitting down
dropped her hat on the floor and covered her face with her hands. How
sad she looked in that attitude, how weary of the vain conflict, and how
despondent! For a little while there was silence in the room, but the
girl's bowed head moved with her convulsive breathing, and there was a
low sound presently as of suppressed sobbing.
“Would to God the tears you are shedding came from a contrite and
repentant heart,” said the mother, with a tremor in her voice. “But they
are only rebellious and passing drops, and I know that your stony heart
is untouched.”
Miss Churton raised her pale face, and brushed her tears away with an
angry gesture. “Forgive me, mother, for such an exhibition of weakness.
I sometimes forget that you have ceased to love me. Please say what you
wish, 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's tears and bitter words had given her keen pain. “Constance,
you would not say that I do not love you if you could see into my heart.
God knows how much I love you; if it were not so I should have ceased to
strive with you 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, and pierceth even to the dividing of the bones and
marrow, can ever rouse you to a sense of your great sin and fearful
peril. I know it all only too well. I shall say no more about it. But I
must speak to you further about this young girl, who has been entrusted
to my care. When I replied to the advertisement respecting her, I
thought too much about our worldly affairs and the importance of this
money to us in our position, and without sufficiently reflecting on the
danger of bringing a girl at so impressible an age under your influence.
The responsibility rests with me, and I cannot help having some very sad
apprehensions. Wait, Constance, you must let me finish. I have settled
what to do, and I have Miss Starbrow's authority to take on myself the
guidance of the girl in all spiritual matters. I spoke to her about it,
and regret to have to say that she seems absolutely indifferent about
religion. I was deeply shocked 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. Miss Starbrow seemed very haughty and repellent in her
manner, and declined, almost rudely, to discuss the subject of religious
teaching with me, but would leave it entirely to me, she said, to teach
the girl what I liked about such things. It is terrible to me to think
how much it may and will be in your power to write on the mind of one so
young and ignorant, and who has been brought up without God. Constance,
I will not attempt to command, I will ask you to promise not to say
things to her to destroy the effect of my teaching, and of the religious
influence I shall bring to bear on her. I am ready to go down on my
knees to you, my daughter, to implore you, by whatever you may yet hold
dear and sacred, not to bring so terrible a grief on me as the loss of
this young soul would be. For into my charge she has been committed, and
from me her Maker and Father will require her at the last day!”
“There is no occasion for you to go on your knees to me, mother. I
repeat that I will obey your wishes in everything. Surely you must know
that, however we may differ about speculative matters, I am not
immoral, and that you can trust me. And oh, mother, let us live in peace
together. It is so unspeakably bitter to have these constant dissensions
between us. I will not complain that you have been the cause of so much
unhappiness to me, and made me a person to be avoided by the few people
we know, if only--if only you will treat me kindly.”
“My poor girl, do you not know that it is more bitter to me, a
thousand times, 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
of Christ, putting away your pride of mind, your philosophy and critical
spirit; promise that you will read one chapter--one verse even--every
day, and read it with a prayer in your heart that the Spirit who
inspired it will open your eyes and enable you to see the truth.”
“No, mother, I cannot promise you that, even to save myself from greater
unhappiness than you have caused me. It is so hard to have to go over
the old ground again and again.”
“I have, I hope, made you understand my wishes,” returned her mother
coldly. “You can go to your room, Constance.”
The other rose and walked to the door, where she stood hesitating for
a few moments, glancing back at her mother; but Mrs. Churton's face had
grown cold and irresponsive, and finally Constance, with a sigh, left
the room and went slowly up the stairs.