A fortnight went by. Fan, occupied in her shop and happy enough, except
once when she encountered the grisly manager's terrible eyes on her:
then she trembled and glanced down at her dress, fearing that it had
looked rusty or out of shape to him; for in that establishment a heavy
fine or else dismissal would be the lot of any girl who failed to look
well-dressed. Constance, for the most part sitting solitary at home,
trying in vain to write something that would meet the views of some
editor. Merton, busy running about, full to overflowing of all the
things he intended doing. Eden, doing nothing: only thinking, which, in
his case at all events, was “but an idle waste of thought.” So inactive
was he at this period, and so much tobacco did he consume to assist his
mental processes, that he grew languid and pale. His friends remarked
that he was looking seedy. This made him angry--very angry for so slight
a cause; and he thought that of all the intolerable things that have to
be put up with this was the worst--that people should remark to a man
that he is looking seedy, when the seediness is in the soul, and the
cause of it a secret of which he is ashamed.
At the end of the fortnight he became convinced that his feeling for the
delicate girl with the pathetic grey eyes was no passing fancy, but a
passion that stirred him as he had never been stirred before, and he
resolved to possess her in spite of the fact that he had met her in his
friend's house.
“Let the great river bear me to the main,” he said; although bad, he
was too honest to quote the other line, feeling that he had not striven
against the stream.
Having got so far, he began to consider what the first step was to be in
this enterprise of great pith and moment. For although the insanity of
passionate desire possessed him, he was not going to spoil his chances
by acting in a hurry, or doing anything without the most careful
consideration. The desire to see her again was very insistent, and
by strolling up the street in which she lived in the evening he might
easily have met her, by chance as it were, returning from her shop, but
he would not do that. An enterprise of this kind seemed to him like one
of those puzzle-games in which if a right move is made at first the game
may be won, however many blundering moves may follow; but if the first
move is wrong, then by no possible skill and care can the desired end be
reached.
He recalled their conversation about novels, and remembered the titles
of five popular works he had mentioned which Miss Affleck had not read.
These works he ordered in the six-shilling form, and then spent the best
part of a day cutting the leaves and knocking the books about to give
them the appearance of having been used. He also wrote his name in them,
in each case with some old date; and finally, to make the deception
complete, spilt a little ink over the cover of one volume, dropped some
cigar-ash between the leaves of a second, and concealed a couple of old
foreign letters on thin paper in a third. Then he tied them up together
and sent them to her by a messenger with the following letter:
DEAR MISS AFFLECK,
I have just been looking through my bookshelves, and was pleased to find
that I had some of the novels we spoke about the other evening, which,
if I remember rightly, you said that you had not read. It was lucky I
had so many, as my friends have a habit of carrying off my books and
forgetting to return them. If you will accept the loan of them, do not
be in a hurry to return them; they will be safer in your keeping than in
mine, and one or two, I think, are almost worth a second perusal.
I must not let slip this opportunity, as another might not occur for a
long time, of saying something about our friends at Norland Square. I
saw Merton the day after meeting you, but not since; nor have I heard
from him. I know now that he lost his appointment at the Foreign Office
through his own folly, and that most of his friends have dropped him. I
do honestly think that Mrs. Chance has made a terrible mistake; I pity
her very much. But things may not after all turn out altogether badly,
and if Merton has any good in him he ought to show it now, when he has
such a woman as your friend for a wife and companion. At all events,
I have made up my mind--and this is another secret, Miss Affleck--to
forget all about the past and do what I can to assist him. Not only for
auld lang syne, for we were great friends at school, but also for his
wife's sake. My only fear is that he will keep out of my sight, but
perhaps I am doing him an injustice in thinking so. But as you will
continue to see your friend, may I ask you to let me know should they
at any time be in very straitened circumstances, or in any trouble, or
should they go away from Norland Square? I do hope you will be able to
promise me this.
Believe me, dear Miss Affleck,
Yours sincerely,
ARTHUR EDEN.
To this letter, the writing of which, it is only right to say, actually
caused Mr. Eden to blush once or twice, Fan at once replied, thanking
him for the parcel of books. “I must also thank you,” the letter said,
“for telling me to keep them so long, as there is so much to read in
them, and my reading time is only when I am at leisure in the evening. I
shall take great care of them, as I think from their look that you like
to keep your books very clean.” In answer to the second part of his
letter she wrote: “I scarcely know what to reply to what you say about
the Chances. Constance and I are such great friends that I am almost
ashamed to discuss her affairs with anyone else, as I am sure that she
would be very much hurt if she knew it. And yet I must promise to do
what you ask. I do not think it would be right to refuse after what you
have said, and I am very glad that Mr. Chance has one kind friend left
in you.”
Eden was well satisfied at the result of his first move. There would
have to be a great many more moves before the pretty game ended, but he
now had good reason to hope for a happy ending.
She had accepted his offer of his friendship, the loan of his books, and
had written him a letter which he liked so much that he read it several
times. It was a sunshiny April morning, and after breakfasting he went
out for a stroll, feeling a strange lightness of heart--a sensation like
that which a good man experiences after an exercise of benevolence. And
the feeling actually did take the form of benevolence, and no single
pair of hungry wistful eyes met his in vain during that morning's walk
until he had expended the whole of his small change. “Poor wretches!”
he thought, “I couldn't have imagined there was so much misery and
starvation about.” His heart was overflowing with happiness and love
for the entire human race. “After all,” he continued, “I don't think I'm
half as bad as that impudent conscience of mine sometimes tries to make
out. I know lots of fellows who sink any amount of money in betting and
other things and never think to give sixpence to a beggar. Of course no
one can be perfect, everyone _must_ have some vice. But I don't
quite look on mine as a vice. Some wise man has called it an amiable
weakness--that's about as good a description as we can have.”
Passing along a quiet street where the houses were separated from the
pavement by gardens and stone balustrades, he noticed a black cat seated
on the top of a pillar, its head thrown far back, and its wide-open
eyes, looking like balls of yellow fire, fixed on a sparrow perched high
above on the topmost twig of a tall slender tree. “Puss, puss,” said
Eden, speaking to the animal almost unconsciously, and without pausing
in his walk. Down instantly leapt the cat, inside the wall, and dashing
through the shrubbery, shot ahead of him, and springing on to the
balustrade thrust its head forward to catch a passing caress. He touched
the soft black head with his fingers, and passed on with a little laugh.
“An instance of the magical effect of kindness,” he soliloquised. “That
cat sees more enemies than friends among the passers-by--the boy whose
soul delights in persecuting a strange cat, and the young man with that
most insolent and aggressive little beast a fox-terrier at his heels.
And yet quick as lightning it understood the tone I spoke to it in,
although the voice was strange, and shot past me and came out just for
a pat on the head. A very sagacious cat; and yet I really felt
no particular kindness towards it; the tone was only assumed. Its
statuesque figure attracted me, as it sat there like a cat carved out
of ebony, with two fiery splendid gems for eyes. I admired the beauty of
the thing, that was all. And as with cats so it is with women. Let them
once think that you are kind, and you have a great advantage. You may
do almost anything after that; your kindness covers it all.... What
an impudent juggler, and what an outrageous fibber, this confounded
conscience is! I may not have felt any great kindness for black pussy
when I spoke to her, but between that and carrying her home under my
coat to vivisect her at leisure there is a vast difference. If I am ever
unkind in act or word or deed to that sweet girl--no, the idea is too
absurd! I can feel nothing but kindness for her, and if I felt convinced
that I could not make her happy, then I would resign her at once, hard
as that would be.”
That same evening Eden received a second letter from Fan, but very
short, enclosing the two foreign letters, which she had just found in
one of his books. This was only what he had expected. He replied, also
briefly, thanking her for sending the letters, and for the promise she
had given, and there for the moment he allowed the affair to rest.
Meanwhile Fan was every day expecting an invitation to Norland Square,
and she was deeply disappointed and surprised when a whole week passed
with no letter from Constance. Then a long letter came, which troubled
her a good deal, for she was not asked to go to Norland Square, and no
meeting was arranged, but, on the contrary, she was left to infer that
there would be no meeting for some time to come. A photograph and a
postal order for five shillings were enclosed in the letter, and about
these Constance wrote: “I send you the photo you have so often expressed
a wish to have, and I think you ought to feel flattered, for I have
not been taken before since I was fifteen years old; I don't like the
operation. I think it flatters me, and Merton says that it does not do
me justice, so that it cannot be quite like me, but it will serve well
enough to refresh your memory of me when we are separated for any length
of time. But it is so painful to me to think of losing sight of you
altogether that I have no heart to say more about that just now. Only I
_must_ have your photo: I cannot wait long for it, and you must forgive
me, dearest Fan, for sending the money to have it taken at once. I know,
dear, that you cannot very well afford to spend money on pictures, even
of yourself, and so please don't be vexed with me, but do as I wish;
for since I cannot have you always near me I wish at least to have your
counterfeit presentment. I should like it cabinet size if you can get it
for the money, if not I must have a small vignette, and I hope you will
go to a good man and have it well done, and above all that you will send
it soon.”
There was much more in the letter; a sweeter Fan had never received
from her friend, so much affection did it express; but it also expressed
sadness, and the vague hints of probable changes to come, and a long
separation in it, mystified and troubled her.
Before many days the photograph, which cost half-a-guinea, was finished
and sent to Constance, with a letter in which Fan begged her friend to
appoint a day for them to meet.
In the meantime at Norland Square Merton was preparing for a fresh
change in his life, and as usual with a light heart; but in this
instance his wife for the first time had taken the lead. After breakfast
one morning he was getting ready to go to Fleet Street to the office of
a journal there, when Constance asked if she might go with him.
“Yes, dear, certainly, if you wish to see a little of the life and
bustle of London.”
“I haven't seen much of London yet, and I should so like to have a
little peep at the East End we hear and read so much about just now.
Can't you manage, after your business is finished at the office, to go
with me there on a little exploring expedition?”
“That's not a bad idea,” he returned. “But I shall be lost in that
wilderness, and not know which way to go and what to look for.”
“Then I shall be your guide,” she said with a smile. “I've been studying
the map, and reading a book about that part of London, and have marked
out a route for us to follow.”
“All right, Connie, get ready as soon as you like, and we'll have a day
of adventures in the East.”
And as Constance had dressed herself with a view to the journey, she had
only to put on her hat and gloves, and they started at once, taking an
omnibus in the Uxbridge Road to Chancery Lane. From Fleet Street they
went on to Whitechapel, where their travels in a strange region were
to begin. Constance wished in the first place to get some idea of the
extent of that vast district so strangely called East _End,_ as if it
formed but a small part of the great city. The population and number of
tenements, and of miles of streets, were mere rows of figures on a page,
and no help to the mind. Only by seeing it all would she be able to form
any conception of it: she saw a great deal of it in the course of the
day from the tops of omnibuses, and travelled for hours in those long
thoroughfares that seemed to stretch away into infinitude, so that
one finds it hard to believe that nature lies beyond, and fields where
flowers bloom, and last night's dew lies on the untrodden grass. Nor
was she satisfied with only seeing it, or a part of it, in this hasty
superficial way; at various points they left the thoroughfare to stroll
about the streets, and in some of the streets they visited, which were
better than those inhabited by the very poor, Constance entered several
of the houses on the old pretext of seeking lodgings, and made many
minute inquiries about the cost of living from the women she talked
with.
It was seven o'clock in the evening when they got home; and after
dining Merton lit a cigar and stretched himself out on the sofa of their
sitting-room to recover from his fatigue. His wife was also too tired to
do anything, and settled herself near him in the easy-chair.
“Well, Connie,” he said with a smile, “what is to be the outcome of the
day's adventures? Of course you had an object in dragging one through
that desert desolate.”
“Yes, I had,” she answered with a glance at his face. “Can you guess
it?”
“Perhaps I can. But let me hear it. I shall be so sorry if I have to nip
your scheme in the bud.”
“I think, Merton, it would be a good plan for us to go and live there
for a time. It is better to move about a little and see some of the
things that are going on in this world of London. I am getting a little
tired of the monotony here; besides, just now when we are so poor it
would be a great advantage. I found out to-day that we can get better
rooms than these for about half the sum we are paying. Provisions and
everything we require are also much cheaper there.”
“Yes, dear, that may be, but you forget that the man who aspires to rise
in London must have an address he is not ashamed of. Norland Square is
a poor enough place, but there is at any rate a W. after it. I fancy
it would be very bad economy in the end, just to save a few shillings a
week, to go where there would be an E.”
“I don't quite agree with you, Merton. When we have friends to
correspond with and to visit us, then we can think more about where we
live; I have no desire to settle permanently or for any long time in the
east district. But I have not yet told you the principal reason I
have for wishing to go and live in that part of London for a few
months--weeks if you like.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I think it will be a great advantage to you, Merton. You will be able
to see and hear for yourself. You speak about East End socialism in the
papers you are writing, but you speak of it, as others do, in a vague
way, as a thing contemptible and yet dangerous to civilisation, or which
might develop into something dangerous. It strikes me that something is
to be gained by studying it more closely, but just now you are dependent
on others for your facts.”
“And you think I could see things better than others?” he said, not ill
pleased.
“You can at all events see them with your own eyes, and that will be
better than looking at them through other people's spectacles. Besides,
it is a period of rapid transitions, and the picture painted yesterday,
however faithful to nature the artist may have been, no longer
represents things as they exist to-day.”
“You are right there.”
“And if you go to the East End with the avowed object of studying
certain phenomena and ascertaining certain facts for yourself, to use in
your articles, I don't think that your residence there would prejudice
you in any way.”
“No, of course not. Why, the thing is done every day by well-known
men--brilliant writers some of them--men who are run after by Mr.
Knowles. It is a good idea, Connie, and I am glad you suggested it. The
spread of socialism in London is a grand subject. Of course I know all
about the arguments of the wretched crew of demagogues engaged in this
propaganda. I could easily, to quote De Quincey's words, 'bray their
fungous heads to powder with a lady's fan, and throttle them between
heaven and earth with my finger and thumb.' But we want to know just
how far their doctrines, or whatever they call their crack-brained
fantasies, have taken root in the minds of the people, and what the
minds are like, and what the outcome of it all is to be. If we go to the
East End, and I don't see why we shouldn't, as soon as we find ourselves
settled there I shall begin to go about a great deal among the people,
and attend the meetings of the social democrats, and listen to the wild
words of their orators, and note the effect of what they say on their
hearers What do you say, Connie?”
“I shall be ready to pack up and follow you any day, Merton. And I think
that I might assist you a little; at all events I shall try, and
go about among the women and listen to what they say while you are
listening to the men.”
Merton was delighted. “You have a prophetic soul, Connie,” he said, “and
I shall be as much astonished as yourself if something grand doesn't
come of this. A great thing in my favour is that I can generally manage
to get at the pith of a thing, while most people can do nothing but
sniff in a hopeless sort of way at the rind. Of course you have noticed
that in me, Connie. I sometimes regret that I am not a barrister, for
I possess the qualities that lead to success in that profession. At the
same time it is a profession that has a very narrowing effect on the
mind--the issues are really in most cases so paltry. Your barrister
never can be a statesman; he has looked at things so closely, to study
the little details, that his eagle vision has changed into the short
sight of the owl. And, by the way, now I think of it, I must have a
little brandy in to-night to drink success to our new scheme.”
“Do you really need brandy, Merton? I thought--”
“Yes, I really do--to-night. I feel so thoroughly knocked up, Connie;
and now my brain is in such a state of activity that a little brandy
will have no more effect than so much water. Do you know, it is
an ascertained fact in science that alcohol taken when you are
active--either physically or mentally active--does not go off nor remain
in the tissues, but is oxygenised and becomes food. Besides this, I
fancy, will be about the last bottle I shall allow myself, I know that
you are a Sir Wilfred Lawsonite, and I am determined to respect all your
little prepossessions. Not that you have much to thank me for in this
case, for I really care very little about strong waters.”
He rang the bell, and gave the servant-girl six shillings to get a
bottle of Hennessy's brandy. With that bottle of brandy looking very
conspicuous on the table, and her husband more talkative and in need of
her companionship than ever, Constance could not go away to her room,
as she would have liked to do, to be alone with that dull pain at her
heart--the sorrow and sense of shame--or perhaps to forget it in sleep.
She sat on with him into the small hours, while that oxygenising process
was going on, listening, smiling at the right time, entering into all
his plans, and even assisting him to find a startling title for the
series of brilliant articles on the true condition of the East End,
about which all London would no doubt soon be talking.