After Merton's departure from Eyethorne things drifted back to their old
state at Wood End House, the slight change in Constance becoming less
and less perceptible, until the time came when Fan began to think, with
a secret feeling of relief, that the visitor had after all made only a
passing impression, which was already fading out of her teacher's mind.
But by-and-by there came from London a letter and a packet of books and
periodicals for Constance, and Fan remarked the glad excitement in her
friend's face when she carried her treasures away to her room, and her
subsequent silence on the subject. And after that Constance was
again much occupied with her own thoughts, which, to judge from her
countenance, were happy ones; and Fan quickly came to the conclusion
that the books and letter were from Merton. Mrs. Churton, who knew
nothing about this new acquaintance, imagined only that her daughter had
sucked out all the impiety contained in the books she already possessed,
and had sent for a fresh supply. For, she argued, if there had been
nothing wrong in the books Constance would have allowed her to read or
see them. She made herself very unhappy over it, and was more incensed
than ever against her sinful daughter, but she said nothing, and only
showed her dissatisfaction in her cold, distrustful manner.
Another bitterness in her cup at this period was her inability to
revive Fan's interest in sacred things, for she had begun to notice an
increasing indifference in the girl. All the religious teaching, over
which she had spent so much time and labour, seemed to have failed of
its effect. She had planted, apparently in the most promising soil, and
the vicar and the vicar's wife had watered, and God had not given the
increase. This was a new mystery which she could not understand, in
spite of much pondering over it, much praying for light, and many
conversations on the subject with her religious friends. So sweet and
good and pure-hearted and pliant a girl; but alas! alas! it was only
that ephemeral fictitious kind of goodness which springs from temper or
disposition, which has no value in the eyes of Heaven, cannot stand the
shocks of time and circumstance. It was not through any remissness of
her own; she had never ceased her efforts, yet now after many months she
was fain to confess that this young girl, who had promised such great
things, seemed further than at the beginning from that holiness which
is not of the earth, and which delights only in the contemplation of
heavenly things. She could see it now with what painful clearness! for
her eyes in such matters were preternaturally sharp, like those of a
sailor who has followed the sea all his life with regard to atmospheric
changes; no sooner would the lesson begin than all brightness would fade
from that too expressive countenance, and the girl would listen with
manifest effort, striving to keep her attention from wandering, striving
to understand and to respond; but there was no response from the heart,
and in spite of striving her thoughts, her soul, were elsewhere, and her
eyes wore a distant wistful look. And Mrs. Churton was hot-tempered; in
all the years of her self-discipline she had never been able to wring
from her heart that one drop of black blood; and sometimes when she
talked to Fan, and read and prayed with her, and noticed that impassive
look coming over her face to quench its brightness like a cloud, her old
enemy would get the best of her, and she would start up and hurriedly
leave the room without a word, lest it should betray her into passionate
expression.
“Yes, I have also noticed this in Miss Affleck,” the vicar said to her
one day when she had been speaking to him on the subject. “She seemed
at one time so docile, so teachable, so easy to be won, and now it is
impossible not to see that there is something at work neutralising all
our efforts and making her impervious to instruction. But, my dear Mrs.
Churton, we _know_ the reason of this; Miss Affleck is too young, too
ignorant and impressible not to fall completely under the influence of
your daughter.”
“But my daughter has promised me and has given me her word of honour
that nothing has been said or will be said or done to alienate her
pupil's mind from religious subjects. And we know, Mr. Long, that even
those who are without God may still be trusted to speak the truth--that
they have that natural morality written on their hearts of which St.
Paul speaks.”
“Yes, that's all very well, and I don't say for a moment that your
daughter has deliberately set herself to undo your work and win her
pupil to her own pernicious views. But is it possible for her, even if
she wished it, to conceal them altogether from one who is not only
her pupil but her intimate friend and constant companion? Her whole
life--thoughts, acts, words, and even looks--must be leavened with the
evil leaven; how can Miss Affleck live with her in that intimate way
without catching some of that spirit from her? You know that so long
as they were not thus intimate this girl was everything that could
be desired, that from the time they became close friends she began to
change, and that religion is now becoming as distasteful to her as it is
to her teacher.”
Poor woman! she had gone for comfort and counsel to her pastor, and this
was all she got. He was a good hater, and regarded Miss Churton with a
feeling that to his way of thinking was a holy one. “Do not I hate them,
O Lord, that hate Thee? I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them
mine enemies.” As for separating two inseparable things, the sinner and
the sin (matter and an affection of matter), and loving one and hating
the other, that was an intellectual feat altogether beyond his limited
powers, although he considered it one which Mr. Northcott might be able
to accomplish. He had made it impossible for his enemy to do any injury
in the parish; she had been dropped by Eyethorne “society,” and she did
not go among the poor; but this was not enough to satisfy him, and the
sermon he had preached against her, which drove her from the church,
had been deliberately prepared with the object of driving her from the
parish. He had failed in his object, and now he was angry because he
could not separate Fan from her, and, unjust and even cruel in his
anger, he turned on the unhappy mother.
To his words Mrs. Churton could only reply, “What can I do--what can
I do?” And as he refused to answer her, having said his last word, she
rose and went home more unhappy than ever, more angry with Fan, and
embittered against her daughter; for that the vicar had truly shown her
the reason of her failure she could not doubt.
They were both entirely wrong, although the mistake was a very natural
one, and, in the circumstances, almost unavoidable. Constance had
scrupulously observed the compact. Nothing could be further from her
mind than any desire to win others to her way of thinking. The religious
instinct was strong in her, and could flourish without the support of
creed or doctrine; at the same time she recognised the fact that in
others--in a very large majority of persons, perhaps--it is a frail
creeping plant that trails along the ground to perish trodden in the
dust without extraneous support.
Fan, on her side, had drifted into her present way of thinking, or not
thinking, independently of her teacher, and entirely uninfluenced by
her. At the beginning she responded readily to Mrs. Churton's motherly
teaching; but only because the teaching was motherly, and intimately
associated with those purely human feelings which were everything to
her. Afterwards when others, who were strangers and not dear to
her, began to take part in her instruction, then gradually these two
things--human and divine--separated themselves in her mind, and she
clung to the one and lost her interest in the other. It was pleasant to
go to church, to take part in singing and praying with the others,
and to sit with half-closed eyes among well-dressed people during
sermon-time, and think of other things, chiefly of Mary and Constance.
But when religion came to be more than that, it began to oppress her
like a vain show, and it was a relief to escape from all thoughts on the
subject. So low and so earthly, in one sense, was Fan's mind. While she
was in this frame that visit to the carpenter's cottage occurred, and
the carpenter's words had taken a strong hold on her and could not be
forgotten; for they fitted her case so exactly, and seemed so clearly to
express all that she had had in her mind, and all that it was necessary
for her to have, that it had the effect of making her spirit deaf to all
other and higher teachings. If she could have explained it all to Mrs.
Churton it would have been better, at all events for Constance, but she
was incapable of such a thing, even if she had possessed the courage,
and so she kept silence, although she could see that her want of
interest was distressing to her kind friend.
Another great bitterness in Mrs. Churton's cup resulted from the conduct
of her irreclaimable husband. Even Fan, who had never regarded any
living soul with contempt, had soon enough learned to experience such
a feeling towards this man. But it was a kindly contempt, for after
repulsing him two or three times when he had attempted to conduct
himself in too fatherly a manner, he had ceased to trouble her in any
way. He was very unobtrusive in the house, except at intervals, when he
would rebel against his wife and say shocking things and screech at her.
But when cold weather came, then poor Mr. Churton took an extra amount
of alcohol for warmth, and the spirit and cold combined brought on
a variety of ailments which sometimes confined him for days to his
bedroom. At such times he would be deeply penitent, and beg his wife to
sit with him and read the Bible, which she was always ready to do. Never
again would he seek oblivion from pain in the cup that cheers, and,
alas, inebriates, or do anything to make his beloved wife grieve; thus
would he protest, kissing her hand and shedding weak tears. But as soon
as she had nursed him back into better health he would seize the
first opportunity when she was out of the way to slip off “for a
constitutional,” which would invariably end at the inn in the High
Street; and in the evening he would return quarrelsome and abusive, or
else groaning and ready to take to bed again.
Mr. Northcott, who might have melted into thin air for all we have seen
or heard of him lately, was also unhappy in his mind at this period. He
loved, and yet when it had almost seemed to him that he had not loved
in vain, partly from prudential motives and partly because his religion
stood in the way of his desire, he had refrained from speaking. Now it
seemed to him that he had let his chance go by, and that Miss Churton,
although still as friendly as any person not actually enamoured of
her could have wished, was not so sympathetic, not so near to him, as
formerly. Nevertheless, he still sought her out at every opportunity,
and engaged her in long conversations which led to nothing; for they
barely touched on the borders of those subjects which both felt most
deeply about, and that other subject which he alone felt they never
approached. His resolution had in some measure recovered its “native
hue,” but too late, alas! and at length one day his vicar took him to
task about this inconvenient friendship.
“Mr. Northcott,” he said very unexpectedly at the end of a conversation
they had been having, “may I ask you whether you still hope to be able
to win back Miss Churton to a more desirable frame of mind?”
The curate flushed a little, and glancing up encountered the suspicious
eyes of his superior fixed on him.
“I regret that I am compelled to answer with a negative,” he returned.
“Then,” said the other, “you will not take it amiss if I warn you that
your partiality for Miss Churton's society has been made the subject of
remark among the ladies in the neighbourhood. That your motives are
of the highest I do not question; at the same time, if they are
misunderstood and if your efforts are futile, it would be prudent, I
fancy, not to let it appear that you prefer this lady's company to that
of others.”
This about motives did not sound quite sincere; but the vicar was suave
in manner, stroking his curate very kindly with soft velvet hand, only
waiting for some slight movement before unsheathing the sharp hidden
claws. One word of protest and of indignant remonstrance would have been
enough; the reply was on his tongue, “Then, Mr. Northcott, I regret that
we must part company.”
But he made no movement such as the other had expected, perhaps even
desired, for we are all cruel, even the best of us--so Bain says, and
therefore it must be true. On the contrary, he took it with strange
meekness--for which he did not fail afterwards to despise himself with
his whole heart--regretting that anything had been said, and thanking
the vicar for telling him. Nevertheless he was very indignant at this
gossip of “a set of malignant old scandal-mongers,” as he called the
Eyethorne ladies in his wrath, and bitterly resented the interference of
the vicar in his affairs. Only the hopeless passion that preyed on him,
which made the prospect of a total separation from Miss Churton seem
intolerable, kept him from severing his connection with Eyethorne. But
after that warning he was more circumspect, and gave the ladies, old and
young, less reason for ill-natured remarks.
All these troubles and griefs, real and imaginary, of which they were
indirectly the cause, affected the two young friends not at all. They
did not see these things, or saw them only dimly at a distance: they
were perfectly happy in each other, and almost invariably together both
in and out of doors. The Eyethorne woods still attracted them almost
daily; for although the trees were barren of leaves and desolate,
the robin still made blithe music there, and the wren and thrush were
sometimes heard, and even the mournful cawing of the rooks, and the
weird melodies of the wind in the naked trees inspired their hearts with
a mysterious gladness. And on days when the sun shone--the February days
when winter “wears on its face a dream of spring”--they never tired
of talking about how they were going to spend their time out of doors
during the coming vernal and summer months. For that Fan would remain
another year at Eyethorne was now looked upon as practically settled,
since three-quarters of the first year had gone by and Miss Starbrow had
said no word in her letters about taking her away. They were going to
watch every opening leaf and every tender plant as it sprouted from the
soil, and Fan was to learn the names, vulgar and scientific, and the
special beauty and fragrance, and all the secrets of “every herb that
sips the dew.” And the birds were also to be watched and listened to,
and the peculiar melody of each kind noted on its arrival from beyond
the sea.
One circumstance only interfered with Fan's happiness during the winter
months. The letters she received from Mary, which came to her from
various continental addresses, were few and short, growing fewer and
shorter as time went on, and contained no allusion to many things in the
long fortnightly epistles which, the girl imagined, required an answer.
But one day, about the middle of March, when there had been no word for
about six weeks, and Fan had begun to feel a vague anxiety, a letter
came for her. It came while she was with Constance during study hours,
and taking it she ran up to her own room to enjoy it in solitude.
Constance had also received a letter from London by the same post, and
was well pleased to be left to read it by herself; and after reading and
re-reading it, she continued sitting before the fire, the letter
still in her hand and occupied with very pleasant thoughts. At length,
glancing at the clock, she was surprised to find that half an hour had
gone by since Fan left the room, and wondering at her delay, she went to
look for her. Fan was sitting beside her bed, her cheek, wet with recent
tears, resting on her arms on the coverlid; but she did not move when
the other entered the room.
“Fan, dearest Fan, what have you heard?” exclaimed Constance in alarm.
For only reply the girl put a letter she was holding in her hand towards
the other, and Constance, taking it, read as follows:
_Brighton._
DEAR FAN,
Since I wrote last I have had several letters from you, one or two since
I returned to England, but there was nothing in them calling for an
immediate reply.
I do not wish you to answer this, or to write to me again at any time.
After so much travelling about I feel disinclined to settle down in
London, or even in England at present, and have made up my mind to
re-let the house in Dawson Place--that is, if the present tenants should
have any wish to give it up.
My brother and I separated some time ago, and he has gone, or is going,
to India, and will be away two or three years, as, I believe, he also
intends visiting Australia, China, and America. I am therefore quite
alone now, and shall probably go over to France for a few months,
perhaps to remain permanently abroad.
But so far as you are concerned, it does not matter in the least whether
I go or stay, since I cannot take you back to live with me, or have
anything more to do with you.
The clothes you have will, I dare say, last you some time longer, and
I have instructed my agent in London to send you a small sum of money
(£25) to start you with. You must in future take care of yourself, and I
suppose that with all the knowledge you have acquired from Miss Churton,
you will be able to get a situation of some kind.
You have until the middle of next May--I forget the exact date--to
prepare for your new life; and you can mention to Mrs. Churton that my
agent will send her the money for the last quarter before your time at
Eyethorne expires.
I suppose you do not require to be told the reason of the determination
I have come to. You cannot have forgotten the fair warning I gave you
when we parted, and you must know, Fan, if you know me at all, that when
I say a thing I distinctly mean it.
You must take this as my very last word to you.
MARY STARBROW.
“Oh, what a cruel thing to do! What a heartless letter! What a barbarous
woman!” cried Constance, tears of keenest distress starting to her eyes,
as she hastened to Fan's side, holding out her hands.
But Fan would not be caressed; she started as if stung to her feet, her
kindling eyes and flushed cheeks showing that her grief and despondence
had all at once been swallowed up in some other feeling.
“Give me the letter back,” she demanded, holding out her hand for it,
and then, when the other hesitated, astonished at her changed manner,
snatched it from her hand, and began carefully smoothing and refolding
it, for Constance had crumpled it up in her indignation.
“Fan, what has come over you? Are you going to quarrel with me because
that unfeeling, purse-proud, half-mad woman has treated you so badly?
Ah, poor Fan, to have been at the mercy of such a creature! I would tear
her bank-notes into shreds and send them back to her agent--”
“Leave me!” screamed Fan at her, stamping on the floor in her rage.
Constance stood staring at her, mute and motionless with astonishment,
so utterly unexpected was this tempest of anger, and so strange in one
who had seemed incapable of any such violent feeling.
“Very well, Fan, I shall leave you if you wish it,” she said at length
with some dignity, but in a pained voice. “I did not understand this
outburst at first. I had almost lost sight of the fact that I am in a
sense to blame for your misfortune. I regret it very bitterly, but that
is no comfort to you, and it is only natural that you should begin to
hate me now.”
“I do not hate you, Constance,” said Fan, recovering her usual tone, but
still speaking with a tremor in her voice. “Why do you say that?--it is
a cruel thing to say. Do you not know that it is false? I shall never
blame you for what has happened. You are not to blame. I have lost Mary,
but she is not what you say. You do not know her--what right have you to
call her bad names? I would go away this moment and never see you again
rather than hear you talk in that way of her, much as I love you.”
This speech explained the mystery, but it astonished her as much as the
previous passionate outbreak. That the girl could be so just to her,
so free from the least trace of bitterness against her for having
indirectly caused that great unhappiness, and at the same time so keenly
resent her sympathy, which she could not easily express without
speaking indignantly of Miss Starbrow--this seemed so strange, so almost
incongruous and contradictory, that if the case had not been so sad she
would have burst into a laugh. As it was she only burst into tears, and
threw her arms round the girl's neck.
“Darling Fan,” she said, “I understand you now--at last; and shall say
nothing to wound your feelings again. But I hope--with all my heart I
hope that I shall one day meet this--meet Miss Starbrow, to have the
satisfaction of telling her--”
“Telling her what?” exclaimed Fan, the bright resentful red returning to
her pale cheeks.
“Of telling her what she has lost. That she never really knew you, and
what an affection you had for her.”
There was no comfort in this to Fan. Her loss--the thought that she
would never see Mary again--surged back to her heart, and turning away,
she went back to her seat and covered her face again from the other's
sight.