Next day the friends met at Eden's club, and after lunching they had
an hour's conversation in the smoking-room. But their characters of the
previous evening now seemed to be reversed--Eden talked and the other
listened. An inexplicable change had come over the loquacious man of
letters; he listened and seemed to be on his guard, drinking little, and
saying nothing about his plans and prospects. “Damn the fellow, I can't
make him out at all,” thought Eden, vexed that the other gave him no
opportunity of introducing the subject he had been thinking so much
about. He did not wish to introduce it himself, but in the end he was
compelled to do so.
“By the way, Merton, before I forget it,” he said at length, “tell me
about 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 finds
agreeable. 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, I
believe.” After an interval he added--“But I dare say you know as much
as I can tell you about her, as you walked home or part of the way home
with her 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 her
people came from, the Afflecks--”
“Oh, I can soon satisfy your curiosity on that point. That is really not
her name. She was adopted or something by a lady who took an interest
in her for some reason, or for no reason, and who thought proper to give
her that 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 of
names.”
“And how came the lady to call her Affleck?”
“A mere fancy for an uncommon name, I believe, and because Frances
Affleck sounded better than Frances Green or Black or anything she could
think of. Of course she didn't really adopt the girl at all, but she
brought her up and educated her.”
Eden was not yet satisfied with what he had heard, and as Merton seemed
inclined to drop the subject, which was not what he wanted, he remarked
tentatively:
“How curious then that Miss Affleck should now be compelled to make her
own living as a shop-assistant!”
“Oh, you got that out of her!” exclaimed Merton, in a tone of
undisguised annoyance.
“Don't say I got it out of her,” returned the other a little sharply.
“I did not question her about her affairs, of course. She gave me that
information quite spontaneously. I can't remember what it was that
brought 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.”
Then he continued--“Ah, yes, I remember now; we were talking about
books, and I asked her why she had not read all the popular novels I
mentioned, and then she explained her position.”
“Then,” said Merton, transferring his resentment to Fan, “I think it
would have shown better taste if she had been a little more reticent
with a stranger about her private affairs; more especially with one she
has met in my house. For she knows that she took to this life against
our wishes and advice, and that by so doing she has placed a great
distance between herself and Mrs. Chance.”
“Perhaps you are right. It is certainly a rare thing in England to see
a young lady in Miss Affleck's position so well suited in appearance and
manner to mix with those who are better placed.”
“Quite so. She was never intended for her present station in life.
And since you know what you do know about her through her own want of
discretion, you must let me explain how she comes to be a visitor in my
house, and received as a friend by my wife. My wife's father, a retired
barrister living on a small and not very productive estate of his own in
Wiltshire, consented to receive Miss Affleck to reside for a year in his
house, and during that time my wife gave her instruction. Unhappily the
lady who had made Miss Affleck her _protégée,_ and who happens to be
an extremely crotchety and violent-tempered woman, so full of fads
and fancies 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 and
painted wretches that hate to be thought over forty. Well, for some
unexplained reason,--probably because Miss Affleck was young and pretty
and attracted too much admiration--she quarrelled with the poor girl and
cast her off. It was a barbarous thing to do, and we would gladly have
given her a home, and my wife's mother also offered to help her. But
as she wished not to be dependent, Mrs. Chance was anxious to get her
a place as governess or school-teacher. The girl, however, who is
strangely obstinate, would not be persuaded, and eventually got this
situation for herself. This explains what you have heard, and what must
have surprised you very much. Out of pity for the girl, who had been
hardly treated, and because of my wife's affection for her, I have
allowed this thing to continue, and have not given her to understand
that by taking her own course in opposition to our wishes, she has cut
herself off from her friends.”
Eden, as we know, had become possessed of the idea that Merton would not
tell the truth if a lie could serve his purpose equally well, and he did
not therefore attach much importance to what he had heard. Nevertheless,
it pleased him. Merton was evidently ashamed at having a shop-girl
received as an equal by his wife, and would be glad, like the bewigged
and evil-tempered old woman he had spoken of, to cast her off. “His
house!” thought Eden contemptuously; “a couple of wretched rooms in the
shabby neighbourhood of Norland Square.”
“Well,” he said, rising and looking at his watch, “it is greatly to be
regretted that she did not follow your wife's advice, as there is no
question 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 in
his 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 a
charming girl, Chance, and--I met her at _your_ house. Unless I meet her
there on some future occasion, I do not suppose that I shall ever see
her again. She has chosen her own path in life, and I only hope that she
may not find it unpleasant.”
Then they shook hands and separated; Merton to attend to a little
business matter, then to go home to his wife, with some new things
to tell her. Eden's mental remark was, “I may see--I hope to see Miss
Affleck again, not once, but scores and hundreds of times; but I shall
not grieve much, my veracious and noble-minded friend, if I should never
again run against _you_ in Piccadilly or any other thoroughfare.”
From his visit to Eden, which, in different ways, had proved
satisfactory to 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 his convenience. He had brought a bottle of good wine with
him; for with fifty pounds in his pocket he could afford to be free for
once, and at table he made himself very entertaining.
“This has been a red-letter day,” he said, “and I shall finish it by
being as lazy as I like to be. I shouldn't care to sit down now to
work after such a good dinner. Rest and be thankful is my motto for the
moment, 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 was
finished, and then Constance played and sung a few of his favourite
pieces. But after the singing was over, and when she was doing a little
needlework, she noticed that he had grown strangely silent, and sat
staring into the fire with clouded face; and thinking that there was
perhaps something on his mind which he might like to speak about, she
put down her work and went to him.
“What is it, Merton, dear?” she said; “are there any dead flies in that
little pot of apothecary's ointment you brought home to-day?”
“No, not one--not even the proboscis of a fly has been left sticking in
it. 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
was not that; I was thinking of something different--something that has
vexed me 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
know when 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 speaking
of it just now, as I know how sensitive you are on that point, and
biased in her favour.”
“Biased in her favour, Merton? What is there wrong in her?--how can she
have vexed you?”
“She has done nothing intentionally to vex me. But, Connie, she is a
very ignorant girl, and I cannot help regretting very much that she was
here last 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
taught her as much as most young ladies are supposed to know; perhaps
more. But she is naturally ignorant of social matters, with an ignorance
that is born 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
has always been my opinion that she possesses a natural refinement, such
as one would expect from her appearance, and that there is a singular
charm in her manner. Perhaps you do not think me capable of forming a
right judgment about such things.”
“Don't say that, Connie; but you shall judge yourself whether I am right
or wrong in what I have said when you hear the facts. It appears that
Eden did not see her to the omnibus, but walked home with her last
evening. He spoke of her this morning, and though he assumed an
indifferent tone, it was plain to see that he was very much surprised
to find a shop-girl from Regent Street visiting and on terms of equality
with 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 told
him that herself, not in answer to any question from him, but simply
because she thought proper to explain who and what she was. She did not
think 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 a
gentleman of Mr. Eden's standing after meeting him in our house! To tell
you 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 dearest
friends are chosen from the shop-girl class, you will find it a rather
difficult matter to better your position in the world.'”
“I am very sorry you have been annoyed, Merton. But I could not very
well speak 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.
A far better plan would be to break off this unequal friendship, which
will only distress and be a hindrance to us in various ways, and would
have to come to an end some day.”
“Oh, Merton, that would be cruel to her and to me as well! Not only is
she 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
any other sordid suburb. The articles I am now engaged on cannot fail
to bring me into notice and give us a fair start in life; and you may be
sure, Connie, that society will very soon find out that you are one of
the gifted ones, both physically and mentally. It will not be suitable
for you to know one in Fan's position, and it will only be a kindness to
the girl if you quietly drop her now.”
Constance was not in the least affected by this glittering vision of the
future; she made no reply, but with eyes cast down and a face expressing
only pain she moved from his side, and sat down to her work once more.
To be deprived of her beloved friend, whose friendship was so much to
her in her solitary life, and whose place in her heart no other could
take, and for so slight a cause, seemed very hard and very strange. Why
did her husband consider her so little in this matter? This she asked
herself, and a suspicion which had floated vaguely in her mind before
began to take form. Was this slight cause the real cause of so harsh a
determination? Since he loved her, and was invariably kind and tender,
it seemed more like a pretext. She remembered that from the first he
had depreciated 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 grieve
her a little at first, but she is not unreasonable, and in a short time
she will come round to my opinion. The girl is well enough, but not a
fit associate for my wife, and it is better to get rid of-her now before
making new friends.”
At half-past ten o'clock Constance, still silent, took her candle and
went 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
the conclusion that the author was an ass. It happened that he knew
something about the author; he knew, for instance, that he was a married
man, and lived in a pretty house at Richmond, and gave garden-parties,
to which a great many well-known people went. Well, if this scribbler
could make enough 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
had risen from her bed after lying awake two or three hours, and came
in with a light wrapper over her nightdress, and her hair unbound on her
shoulders. “Is it not getting very late, Merton?” she asked.
“Connie, come here,” he said, regarding her with some surprise, and then
drawing 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, I
did not mean you to know it.”
“Why not, darling? I am very sorry that what I said about Fan distresses
you 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 felt
strongly inclined to conceal what was in my mind. Let me tell you what
it is; and will you, Merton, on your part, be as open with me and show
the same confidence in my love that I have in yours?”
“Assuredly I will, Connie. We shall never be happy if we hide anything
from each other.”
“Then, Merton, I must tell you that your readiness in resenting that
little fault of Fan's, and making it a cause for separating us, makes me
suspect 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 is
correct, is there anything in your past life you wished to keep from me
and 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
hesitate to tell you. If I had had any painful secret I should have told
it to you when I asked you to be my wife, and I am surprised that such
a suspicion should have entered your mind. But I am very glad that you
have told me of it. You shall send for Fan and question her yourself,
for I presume you have never done so before, and after that you will
perhaps cease to doubt me.”
“I do not doubt your word, Merton, and trust and believe that I never
shall doubt the truth of what you say. To question Fan about you--that I
could not do, even if the suspicion still lived, but it is over now, and
you must forgive me for having entertained it.”
“Perhaps it was not altogether strange, Connie, since you attach so
little importance to these distinctions. But they are very important
nevertheless, and in this keen struggle for life, and for something more
than 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 have
discovered after a while that this is an inconvenient friendship. I have
known it all along, but have not hitherto spoken about it for fear of
paining you. But do not distress yourself any more to-night, Connie; let
things remain as they are at present, if it is your wish.”
“My wish, Merton! My chief wish is never to do anything of which you
would disapprove. Do I need to remind you that I have never opposed
a wish of mine to yours? I could not let things remain as they are at
present while you think as you do. It will be a great grief to me to
lose Fan, but while you are in this mind I would not ask her to come and
see me 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
I have got over this little vexation, if I see any reason to change my
mind I shall let you know in good time.”
And so for the moment the matter ended; but two or three days passed,
and then two or three more, and Merton still kept silence on the
subject.