A fortnight later, one hot afternoon, Fan was reading beside the open
window of the dining-room. After dinner Mrs. Churton had given her _The
Pleasures of Hope_, in a slim old octavo volume, to read, and for the
last hour she had been poring over it. Greatly did she admire it, it
was so fine, so grand; but all that thunderous roll of rhetoric--the
whiskered Pandoors and the fierce Hussars, and Freedom's shriek when
Kosciusko fell, and flights of bickering comets through illimitable
space--a kind of celestial fireworks on a stupendous scale--and all
the realms of ether wrapped in flames--all this had produced a slight
headache, a confusion or giddiness, like that which is experienced by
a person looking down over a precipice, or when carried too high in a
swing.
Constance came down from her room with her hat on and a book in her
hand.
“Are you going for a walk, Constance?” asked her mother, who was also
sitting by the open window.
“Yes, only to the woods, where I can sit and read in the shade.”
Mrs. Churton glanced suspiciously at the book in her daughter's hand--a
thick volume bound in dark-green cloth. There was nothing in its
appearance to alarm anyone, but she did not like these thick green-bound
books that were never by any chance found lying about for one to see
what was in them. However, she only answered:
“Then I wish you would persuade Fan to go with you. She is looking pale,
it strikes me.”
“I shall be glad if Fan will go,” she answered, a slight accent of
surprise in her tone.
Fan ran up to get her hat and sunshade, and when she returned to them
her pallor and headache had well-nigh vanished at the prospect of an
afternoon spent in the shady woodland paradise. Mrs. Churton, with a
prayer in her heart, watched them going away together--two lovely girls;
it made her anxious when her eyes rested on the portly green volume her
daughter carried, but it struck her as a good augury when she noticed
that the younger girl in her white dress had _The Pleasures of Hope_ in
her hand.
For now a new thought, a hope that was very beautiful, had come into
Mrs. Churton's heart. All her life long she had had the delusion that
“spiritual pride” was her besetting sin; and against this imaginary
enemy she was perpetually fighting. And yet if some shining being had
come down to tell her that her prayers for others had been heard, that
all the worthless and vicious people she wished to carry to heaven with
her would be saved, and all of them, even the meanest, set above her
in that place where the first is last and the last first, joy at such
tidings would have slain her. She had as little spiritual pride as a
ladybird or an ant. Now the new thought had come into her mind that her
daughter would be saved; not in her way, nor by her means, but in a
way that would at the same time be a rebuke to her spiritual pride,
her impatience and bitterness of spirit, and zeal not according
to knowledge. Not she, but this young girl, herself so ignorant of
spiritual things a short time ago, would be the chosen instrument. She
remembered how the girl had taken to her from the first, but had not
taken to her daughter; how in spite of this distance between them, and
of her infidelity, her daughter had continued to love the girl--to Mrs.
Churton it was plain that she loved her--and to hunger for her love in
return. It was all providential and ordered by One
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, the
Christian's and the mother's love filling her eyes with tears. Up
till now it had been her secret aim to keep the girls as much apart
as possible out of school hours; now it seemed best to let them come
together; and on this August afternoon, as we have seen, she went so far
as to encourage a greater intimacy between them. Poor woman!
After they had entered the wood Fan began straying at short intervals
from the path to gather flowers and grasses, or to look more closely at
a butterfly at rest and sunning its open brightly-patterned wings.
“I think I shall sit down on the grass here to read,” said Constance at
length. “You can ramble about and gather flowers if you like, and you'll
know where to find me.”
They had now reached a spot to which Constance was in the habit of
resorting almost daily, where the ground was free from underwood, and
thickly carpeted with grass not yet wholly dry, and where an oak-tree
shaded a wide space with its low horizontal branches.
Fan thanked her, and dropping her book rambled off by herself, happy in
her flower-hunting, and forgetting all about the magnificent things
she had been reading. Two or three times she returned to the spot where
Constance sat reading, with her hands full of flowers and grasses, and
after depositing them on the turf went away to gather more. Finally
she sat down on the grass, took off her hat and gloves, and set to work
arranging her spoils. This took her a long time, and after making them
up two or three times in various ways she still seemed dissatisfied. At
length she tried a fresh plan, and discarding all the red, yellow, and
purple flowers, she made a loose bunch of the blue and white only,
using only those fine open grass-spears with hair-like stems and minute
flowers that look like mist on the grass. The effect this time was
very pretty, and when she had finished her work she sat for some time
admiring it, her head a little on one side and holding the bunch well
away from her. She did not know how beautiful she herself looked at that
moment, how the blue and white flowers and misty grasses had lent, as it
were, a new grace to her form and countenance--a flower-like expression
that was sweet to see. Looking up all at once she encountered her
companion's eyes fixed earnestly on her face. It was so unexpected that
it confused her a little, and she reddened and dropped her eyes.
“Forgive me, Fan, for watching your face,” said Constance. “When I
looked at you I wondered whether it would not be best to tell you what I
was thinking of--something about you.”
“About me? Will you tell me, Miss Churton?” returned Fan, a
half-suppressed eagerness in her voice, as if this approach to
confidence had fluttered her heart with pleasure.
“But if I tell you what was in my mind, Fan, I should have to finish by
asking you a question; and perhaps you would not like to be asked.”
“I think I can answer any question, Miss Churton, unless it is
about--how we lived at home before Miss Starbrow took me to live with
her. She wishes me not to speak of that, but to forget it.”
Constance listened with softening eyes, wondering what that sorrowful
past had been, which had left no trace on the sweet young face.
“I know that, Fan,” she replied, “and should be very sorry to question
you about such matters. It saddens me to think that your childhood was
unhappy, and if I could help you to forget that period of your life I
would gladly do so. The question I should have to ask would be about
something recent. Can you not guess what it is?”
“No, Miss Churton--at least I don't think I can. Will you not tell me?”
“You know that my life here is not a happy one.”
“Is it not? I am so sorry.”
“When I first saw you I imagined that it would be different, that your
coming would make me much better off. I had been wondering so much what
you were like, knowing that we should be so much together. When I at
length saw you it was with a shock of pleasure, for I saw more than I
had dared to hope. A first impression is almost infallible, I think, and
to this day I have never for a single moment doubted that the impression
I received was a right one. But I was greatly mistaken when I imagined
that in your friendship I should find compensation for the coldness of
others; for very soon you put a distance between us, as you know, and it
has lasted until now. That is what was passing through my mind a little
while ago when I watched your face; and now, Fan, can you tell me why
you took a dislike to me?”
“Oh, Miss Churton, I have never disliked you! I like you very, very
much--I cannot say how much!” But even while this assurance sprang
spontaneously from her lips, she remembered Mary's warning words, and
her heart was secretly troubled, for that old danger which she had
ceased to fear had now unexpectedly returned.
“Do you really like me so much, Fan?” said Constance, taking the
girl's hand and holding it against her cheek. “I have thought as much
sometimes--I have almost been sure of it. But you fear me for some
reason; you are shy and reticent when with me, and out of lesson-time
you avoid my company. You imagine that it would be wrong to love me,
or that if you cannot help liking me you must hide the feeling in your
heart.”
It startled Fan to find that her companion was so well able to read her
thoughts, but she assented unhesitatingly to what the other had said.
This approach to confidence began to seem strangely sweet to her, all
the sweeter perhaps because so perilous; and that contact of her hand
with the other's soft warm cheek gave her an exquisite pleasure.
“And will you not tell me why you fear me?” asked Constance again.
“I should like you to know so much ... but perhaps it would not be right
for me to say it ... I wish I knew--I wish I knew.”
“I know, Fan--I am perfectly sure that I know, and will save you the
trouble and pain of telling it. Shall I tell you? and then perhaps I
shall be able to convince you that you have no reason to be afraid of
me.”
“I wish you would,” eagerly returned Fan.
“My mother has prejudiced you against me, Fan. She imagines that if we
were intimate and friendly together my influence would be injurious,
that it would destroy the effect of the religious instruction she
gives.”
“I do not understand you,” said Fan, looking unmistakably puzzled.
“No? And yet I thought it so plain. My mother has told you that I am not
religious--in _her_ way, that is--that I am not a Christian. She does
not know really; I do not go about telling people what I believe or
disbelieve, and prefer to say nothing about religion for fear of hurting
any person's feelings. But that is not her way, and through what she has
said at the vicarage, and elsewhere about me I am now looked upon as
one to be avoided. I see you are reading _The Pleasures of Hope_. Let me
have it. Do you see this passage with pencil-marks against it, and all
the words underscored?
“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
she believes!” And here she flung the volume disdainfully on the grass.
“When I agreed to be your teacher I never imagined that such things
would have been put into your head. Her anxiety about your spiritual
welfare made it seem right in her eyes to do so, I suppose. But I should
not have harmed you, my dear girl, or interfered with your religion in
any way; she might have given me that much credit. When she knew how
lonely my life was, and how much your affection would have been to me,
it was unkind of her to set you also against me from the first.”
All this came as a complete surprise on her listener, who now for the
first time began to understand the reason of the estrangement of mother
and daughter. But Constance was allowed to finish her speech without
interruption. She said more than she had meant to say, but her
feelings had carried her away, and when she finished it was with a
half-suppressed sob.
“Dear Miss Churton, I am so sorry you are unhappy,” said Fan at length,
taking her hand. “I did not know you were not a Christian, nor why it
was that you and Mrs. Churton were always so cold to each other. But
it would have made no difference if I had known, because--I am not
religious.”
Constance looked at her.
“What do you mean by that, Fan?” she said. “It is my turn now, it seems,
to say that I do not understand you.”
The other hesitated; then she remembered the carpenter's words, and
began a little doubtfully:
“I mean that I do not think that going to church and--reading the Bible,
and praying, and all that, make any difference. I think we can be
good without that--don't you, Miss Churton? I wish I could tell you
better--it seems so hard to say it. But Mrs. Churton never said anything
to me about you--in that way--I mean about your religion.”
Constance listened to all this with the greatest surprise. That this
very simple-minded girl, impressible as soft wax as it seemed to her,
should think independently about such a subject as religion, and that
she should hold views so opposed to those which Mrs. Churton had for
several months been diligently instilling into her mind, seemed almost
incredible. The second statement was nearly as surprising, so sure had
she been that her suspicions were well-founded. “Then I have been very
unjust to my mother in this instance,” she said, “and am very sorry I
spoke so warmly about older things which should be forgotten.” After an
interval of silence she continued, withdrawing her hand from the other,
“I can make no further guess, Fan; and if you have any secret reason for
keeping apart from me you must forgive me for speaking to you and trying
to win your confidence.”
Fan was more distressed than ever now, and the tears started to her eyes
as she felt that the distance was once more widening between them, and
that it all depended on herself whether she was to drink from this sweet
cup or set it down again scarcely tasted.
“I must tell you, Miss Churton,” she said at length; and then, not
without much hesitation and difficulty, she explained Miss Starbrow's
views with regard to the impossibility of a woman, or of a girl like
her, loving more than one person, or having more than one friend.
Constance gave a laugh, which, however, she quickly checked.
“Dear Fan,” she said, “does not your own heart tell you that it is all a
mistake? And if you feel that you do love me, do you not know from your
own experience, whether you hide the feeling or not, that your love for
others, and chiefly for so dear a friend as Miss Starbrow, remains just
as strong as before?”
Fan gladly answered in the affirmative.
“We are all liable to strange errors about different things, and Miss
Starbrow is certainly in error about this. Besides, my dear girl,
we can't always love or not love as we like; the feeling comes to us
spontaneously, like the wind that blows where it listeth. Be sure that
we are not such poor creatures that we cannot love more than one person
at a time. But Miss Starbrow is not singular in her opinion--if it is
her opinion. I have heard men say that although a man's large heart can
harbour many friendships, a woman is incapable of having more than one
friendship at any time. That is a man's opinion, and therefore it is not
strange that it should be a wrong one, since only a woman can know the
things of a woman. How strange that Miss Starbrow should have so mean an
opinion of her own sex!”
Fan then remembered something which she imagined might throw some light
on this dark subject. “I know,” she said, “that she always prefers men
to women for friends. I have heard her say that she hates women.”
Constance laughed again.
“She does not hate herself--that is impossible; and that she did not
hate you, Fan, is very evident. Don't you think that, intimate as you
were with Miss Starbrow, you did not always quite understand her way of
speaking, that you took her words too literally? You know now that she
did not really mean it when she spoke of hating women, and perhaps she
did not really mean what she said about your being unable to love more
than one person.”
“Yes; I think you are right. I know that she does not always mean what
she says. I am sure you are right.”
“And will you be my friend then, and love me a little?”
“You know that I love you dearly, and it makes me so happy to think that
we are friends. But tell me, dear Miss Churton--”
“If we are really friends now you must call me Constance.”
“Oh, I shall like that best. Dear Constance, do you think when I write
to Mary that I must tell her all we have talked about?”
“No,” said the other, after a moment's reflection. “It is not necessary,
and would not be fair to me, as we have been speaking about her. But you
must be just as open about everything, as I suppose it is your nature
to be, and conceal nothing about your feelings towards others. I do not
think for a moment that you will offend her by being good friends with
your teacher.”
That assurance and advice removed the last shadow of anxiety from Fan's
mind, and after some more conversation they returned home, both feeling
very much happier than when they had started for this eventful walk.