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 not
return to tea when the three ladies met again; for now, according to
that proverb of the Peninsula which says “Tell me who you are with, and
I will tell you who you are,” Fan had ceased to belong to the extensive
genus Young Person, and might only be classified as Young Lady, at all
events for so long as she remained on a footing of equality under the
Churton roof-tree.
There was not much conversation. Miss Churton was rather pale and
subdued in manner, speaking little. Fan was shy and ill at ease at this
her first meal in the house. Mrs. Churton alone seemed inclined to
talk, and looked serene and cheerful; but whether the late scene in the
drawing-room had been more transient in its effects in her case, or her
self-command was greater, she alone knew. After tea they all went out
to sit in the garden for an hour; Miss Churton taking a book with her,
which, however, she allowed to rest unread on her lap. Her mother had
some knitting, which occupied her fingers while she talked to Fan. The
girl, she perceived, was not yet feeling at home with them, and she
tried to overcome her diffidence by keeping up an easy flow of talk
which required no answer from 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 them
unannounced. He shook hands with the Churtons, and then with Fan, to
whom he was introduced as Mr. Northcott. A large and rather somewhat
rough-looking young man was Mr. Northcott, in a clerical coat, for he
was curate of the church at Eyethorne. His head was large, and the hair
and a short somewhat disorderly beard and moustache brown in colour; the
eyes were blue, deep-set, and habitually down-cast, and had a trick of
looking suddenly up at anyone speaking to him. His nose was irregular,
his mouth too heavy, and there was that general appearance of ruggedness
about him which one usually takes as an outward sign of the stuff that
makes the successful emigrant. To find him a curate going round among
the ladies in a little rural parish in England seemed strange. He had
as little of that professional sleekness of skin and all-for-the-best
placidity of manner one expects to see in a clergyman of the Established
Church as Mr. Churton had of that confident, all-knowing, self-assured
look one would like to see in a barrister's countenance before
entrusting him with a brief.
He at once entered into conversation with Mrs. Churton, replying to some
question she put to him; and presently Fan began to listen with deep
interest, for they were discussing the unhappy affairs of one of the
Eyethorne poor--a bad man who was always getting drunk, fighting with
his wife, and leaving his children to starve. The curate, however, did
not seem deeply interested in the subject, and glanced not infrequently
at Miss Churton, who had resumed her reading; but it was plain to see
that she gave only a divided attention to her book.
Mrs. Churton was at length summoned to the house about some domestic
matter; then, after a short silence, the curate began a fresh
conversation with her daughter. He did not speak to her of parish
affairs and of persons, but of books, of things of the mind, and it
seemed that his heart was more in talk of this description. Or possibly
the person rather than the subject interested him. Miss Churton was
living under a cloud in her village, which was old-fashioned and pious;
to be friendly with her was not fashionable; he alone, albeit a curate,
wished not to be in the fashion. He even had the courage to approach
personal questions.
“Fan, I know what you are thinking of,” said Miss Churton, turning
to the girl. “It is that you would like to go and caress the flowers
again--you are such a flower-lover. Would you like to go and explore the
orchard by yourself?”
Fan thanked her gladly, and going from them, soon disappeared among the
trees.
“You live in too small a place, too remote from the world, and old-world
in character, to be allowed to live your own life in peace,” said the
curate, at a later stage of the conversation. “Your set here is composed
of barely half a dozen families, and they take their cue from the
vicarage. In London, in any large town, one is allowed to think what
one likes without the neighbours troubling their heads about it. Do you
know, Miss Churton, it is strange to me that with your acquirements and
talent you do not seek a wider and more congenial field.”
She smiled. “You must forgive me, Mr. Northcott, for having included you
among the troublers of my peace. It gives me a strange pleasure to tell
you this; it makes me strong to feel that I have your friendship and
sympathy.”
“You certainly have that, Miss Churton.”
“Thank you. I must tell you why I remain here. I am entirely dependent
on my 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 good
position in a young ladies' school.”
“It would be difficult. But apart from that, I shrink from entering
a profession which would absorb my whole time and faculties, and from
which I should probably find myself powerless to break away. I have
dreams and hopes of other things--foolish perhaps--time will show; but I
am not in a hurry to find a position, to become a crystal. And I wish
to live for myself as well as for others. I have now undertaken to teach
Miss Affleck, who will remain one year at least with us. I am glad that
this has given me an excuse for remaining where I am. I do not wish my
departure 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
a little sympathy serves to revive my courage. Do you remember that
passage in Bacon, 'Mark what a courage a dog will put on when sustained
by a nature higher than its own'? That is how it is with us women--those
of the strong-minded tribe excepted; man is to us a kind of _melior
natura_, without whose sustaining aid we degenerate into abject
cowards.”
A red flush came into Mr. Northcott's dull-hued cheeks. “I presume you
are joking, Miss Churton; but if--”
“No, not joking,” she quickly returned; “although I perhaps did not mean
as much as I said. But I wish I could show my gratitude for the comfort
you 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
to church 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 to
influence your mind in any way. I am not such a conceited ass as to
imagine anything of the sort. My motive for making the request was quite
independent of any such considerations. My experience is that those who
lose faith in Christianity do not recover it. I speak, of course, of
people 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.
You used occasionally to come to church, so that it can't be scruples
of conscience that keep you away. As a rule, in London we always have a
very fair sprinkling of agnostics in a congregation, and sometimes more
than a sprinkling.”
“I am not an agnostic, Mr. Northcott, if I know what that word means.
But let that pass. In London the church-goer is in very many cases a
stranger to the preacher; if he hears hard things spoken in the pulpit
of those who have no creed, he does not take it as a personal attack.
I absented myself from our church because the vicar in his sermon
on unbelief preached against _me_. He said that those who rejected
Christianity had no right to enter a church; that by doing so they
insulted God and man; and that their only motive was to parade their
bitter scornful infidelity before the world, and that they cherish a
malignant hatred towards the faith which they have cast off, and much
more in the same strain. 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 say that what they saw gave them great pleasure. For a
stronger nature than my own was not sustaining me then, but all were
against me, and the agony of shame I suffered I shall never forget. I
could only shut my eyes and try to keep still; but I felt that all the
blood in my veins had rushed to my face and brain, and that my blood was
like fire. I seemed to be able to see myself fiery red--redder than the
setting sun--in the midst of all those shadowed faces that were watching
me. I have hated that man since, much as it distresses me to have such a
feeling against any fellow-creature.”
“I remember the circumstance,” said the curate, his face darkening. “I
do not agree with my vicar about some things, and he had no warrant for
what he said in the teachings of his Master. Since you have recalled
this incident to my mind, Miss Churton, I can only apologise for having
asked you to come on Sunday.”
“I think I was wrong to let that sermon influence me so much,” she
returned. “I feel ashamed of keeping my resentment so long. Mr.
Northcott, I will promise to go on Sunday evening, unless something
happens to prevent me.”
He thanked her warmly. “Whatever your philosophical beliefs may be, Miss
Churton, you have the true Christian spirit,” he said--saying perhaps
too much. “I am glad for your sake that Miss Affleck has come to reside
with you. Your life will be less lonely.”
“Tell me, what do you think of her?”
“She has a rare delicate loveliness, and there is something
indescribable in her eyes which seemed to reveal her whole past life to
me. Do you know, Miss Churton, I often believe I have a strange faculty
of reading people'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 the
village, and his ill-treatment of his miserable children, I caught sight
of 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.
I seemed to know in some mysterious way that she was an only child--the
child, I believe, of a widowed father, who doted on her, and surrounded
her with every luxury wealth could purchase, and permitted no breath of
the 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 a
mysterious faculty. It is one common enough, and very innocent. The girl
was 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 gracious
she had been to him, how happy he was to have won her confidence, how
sweet the tender music of her voice had seemed when she had freely
told him 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
sympathy with an unbeliever had led him almost to the point of speaking
evil of dignities--of his vicar, to wit, who paid him seventy pounds a
year for his services. That was about all Mr. Northcott had to live on;
and yet--oh, folly!--a declaration of love, an offer of marriage, had
been trembling on his lips throughout all that long conversation.
Miss Churton hurried off in search of Fan, surprised that she had kept
out of sight so long; and as she walked through the orchard, looking
for her 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 of contention and bitterness! Fan saw her coming--saw even at a
distance in her bright face the reflection of a heartfelt gladness. But
the girl did not move to meet her, nor did she watch her coming with
responsive gladness; she stood motionless, her pale face seen in profile
against the green cloud of a horse-chestnut tree that drooped its broad
leaves to touch and mingle with the grass at her very feet. It seemed
strange to Constance as she drew near, still glad, and yet with
lingering footsteps so that the sight might be the longer enjoyed, that
her pupil should have come at that precise period of the day to stand
there motionless at that particular spot; that this pale city girl in
her civilised dress should have in her appearance at that moment no
suggestion of artificiality, but should seem a something natural and
unadulterated as flowering tree and grass and sunshine, a part of
nature, in absolute and perfect harmony with it. The point to which Fan
had wandered was a little beyond the orchard, close to an old sunk fence
or ha-ha separating it from the field beyond. The turf at her feet was
white with innumerable daisies, and the only tree at that spot was the
great chestnut beside which she stood, and against which, in her
white dress and with her pallid face, she looked so strangely pure, so
flower-like and yet ethereal, as if sprung from the daisies whitening
the turf around her, and retaining something of their flower-like
character, yet unsubstantial--a beautiful form that might at any 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 gold of
buttercups; and in the centre of the field stood a group of four or five
majestic elm-trees; the sinking sun was now directly behind them, and
shining level through the foliage filled the spaces between the leaves
with a red light, which looked like misty fire. On the vast expanse of
heaven there was no cloud; only low down in the east and south-east,
near the horizon, there were pale vague shadows, which in another
half-hour's time would take the rounded form of clouds, deepening to
pearly grey and flushing red and purple in the setting beams. From the
elms and fields, from the orchard, from other trees and fields further
away, came up the songs of innumerable birds, making the whole air ring
and quiver with the delicate music; so many notes, so various in tone
and volume, had the effect of waves and wavelets and ripples, rising and
running and intersecting each other at all angles, forming an intricate
pattern, as it were, a network of sweetest melody. Loud and close at
hand were heard the lusty notes of thrush and blackbird, chaffinch and
blackcap; and from these there was a gradation of sounds, down to the
faint lispings of the more tender melodists singing at a distance,
reaching the sense like voices mysterious and spiritualised from some
far unseen world. And at intervals came the fluting cry of the cuckoo,
again and again repeated, so aerial, yet with such a passionate depth in
it, as if the Spirit of Nature itself had become embodied, and from some
leafy hiding-place cried aloud with mystic lips.
Listening to that rare melody Fan had stood for a long time, her heart
feeling almost oppressed with the infinite sweetness of nature; so
motionless that the yellow skippers and small blue-winged butterflies
fluttered round her in play, and at intervals alighting on her dress,
sat with spread wings, looking like strange yellow and blue gems on the
snow-white drapery. Her mind was troubled at Miss Churton's approach;
for it now seemed to her that human affection and sympathy were more to
her than they had ever been; that a touch, a word, a look almost, would
be sufficient to overcome her and make her fall from her loyalty to
Mary. Even when the other was standing by her side, curiously regarding
her still pale face, she made no sign, but after one troubled glance
remained with eyes cast down.
“Are you not tired of being alone with nature yet, Fan?” said Miss
Churton, 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. But
she spoke in a slow mechanical way, and seemed to the other strangely
cold and irresponsive; she shivered a little, too, when the caressing
hand 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 here
until--until--” then her inability to express her thoughts confused her
and she became silent.
“Yes, Fan, until--” said the other, taking her hand. But the hand she
took 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 a
strange 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
a very wise girl indeed. It is a feeling that we all have at times; and
some day when we read the poets together you will find that they often
speak of it. Keats says of the music of the nightingale that it makes
his heart ache to hear it, but he does not know why it aches any more
than we do. 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
we have in nature we cannot analyse. How can anything in nature know
our heart like a fellow-being--the sun, and wind, and trees, and singing
birds? Yet it all seems to come in love to us--so great a love that
we can hardly bear it. The sun and wind seem to touch us lovingly; the
earth and sky seem to look on us with an affection deeper than man's--a
meaning which we cannot fathom. But, oh, Fan, it is foolish and idle of
me to try to 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 and
hearing, _until--until_--and then stopped, perhaps you wished to say
that you could remain here until you understood it all, and knew the
meaning of that mysterious pain in your heart?”
“Yes--I think I felt that”; and glancing up she met the other's eyes
full on her own, so dark and full of affection, and with a mistiness
rising in their clear depths. She was sorely tempted then to put her
arms about her teacher's neck; the struggle was too much for her; she
trembled, and covering her face with her hands burst into tears.
“Dearest Fan, you must not cry,” said Miss Churton, tenderly caressing
her; but there was no response, only that slight shivering of the frame
once more, as if it pained her to be caressed, and she wondered at
the girl's mood, which was so unlike that of the morning. A painful
suspicion crossed her mind. Had her mother, in her anxiety about Fan's
spiritual welfare, already taken the girl into her confidence, as she
had taken others, or dropped some word of warning to prejudice her mind?
Had she told 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 female form for the purpose of instructing her? No, it could
not be; there had been no opportunity for private conversation yet; and
it was also hateful to her to think so hardly of her mother. But she
made no further attempt just then to win her pupil's heart, and in a
short time they returned to the house together.