Constance did not reply immediately to Fan's letter, which came to her
with the photograph, but first completed her preparations for leaving
Notting Hill. A visit from her friend was what she most feared, and the
thought of the overwhelming confusion she would feel in the presence of
the guileless girl, and of further and still more painful duplicity on
her part, had the effect of hastening her movements. Before Merton's
enthusiasm had had time to burn itself out--that great blaze which had
nothing but a bundle of wood-shavings to sustain it--they were ready to
depart. But the letter must be written--that sad farewell letter which
for ever or for a long period of time would put an end to their sweet
intercourse; and it was with a heavy heart that Constance set herself to
the task. She herself had gone into the shop to seek an engagement for
her friend, and had been pleased at the result--it had not made a shadow
of difference between them; now, when she thought that she was about to
cast the girl off, although in obedience to her husband's wishes, for
this very thing, her cheeks were on fire with shame, her heart filled
with grief. Brave and honest though she was, she could not in this
instance bear to tell the plain truth. They were hurriedly leaving
Norland Square, she said; they were going away--she did not say how far,
but left the other to infer that it was to a great distance. In their
new home they would be engaged in work which would occupy all their
time, all their thoughts, so that even their correspondence would have
to be suspended.
Their separation would be for a long time--she could not say how long,
but the thought of it filled her with grief, and she had not the courage
to meet Fan to say good-bye. Such partings between dear friends were so
unspeakably sad! There was much more in the letter, and the writer said
all she could to soften the unkind blow she was constrained to inflict.
But when Fan read it, after recovering from her first astonishment, her
heart sank within her. For now it seemed that her second friend,
not less dearly loved than the first, was also lost. A keen sense of
loneliness and desolation came over her, which sadly recalled to her
mind the days when she had wandered homeless and hungry through the
streets of Paddington, and again, long afterwards, when she had been
treacherously enticed away from Dawson Place.
Not until two days after receiving this letter, which she had read a
hundred times and sadly pondered over during the interval, did she
write to Arthur Eden; she could delay writing no longer, since she had
promised to let him know if anything happened at Norland Square. She
wrote briefly, and the reply came very soon.
MY DEAR MISS AFFLECK,
I am much concerned at what you tell me, and fear that Merton has got
into serious trouble. He is not deserving of much pity, I am afraid, but
I do feel sorry for his wife. That she should not have given you her new
address is a curious circumstance, as you say, and a rather disagreeable
one. I can understand their hiding themselves from a creditor, or
any other obnoxious person, but to hide themselves from you seems a
senseless proceeding. However, don't let us judge them too hastily. I
shall send off a note at once to Merton, addressed to Norland Square,
asking him to lunch with me at my club on Saturday next. No doubt he has
left an address with his landlady where letters are to be forwarded, and
if he is out of town, as you imagine, there will be time to get a reply
before Saturday; but I am sure he has not left London, and that I shall
see him. He knows that he has nothing to fear from me, and when he
learns that I am willing to assist him he will perhaps tell me what
the trouble is. Of course I shall not tell him that I have been in
communication with you. Will you be so good as to meet me in the
Regent's Park--near the Portland Road Station entrance--at eleven
o'clock next Sunday? and I shall then let you hear the result.
Yours very sincerely,
ARTHUR EDEN.
It was with a little shock of pleasure that Fan read this letter, so
ready had the writer been to show his sympathy, and so perfectly in
accord were their thoughts; and if these new benevolent designs of Mr.
Eden were to succeed, then how great a satisfaction it would always be
to her to think that she had been instrumental, in a secret humble
way, in her friend's deliverance from trouble! She thought it a little
strange that Mr. Eden should wish to tell her the news he would have by
word of mouth instead of by letter; but the prospect of a meeting
was not unpleasant. On the contrary, it consoled her to know that the
disappearance of Constance had not cast her wholly off from that freer,
sweeter, larger life she had known at Dawson Place and at Eyethorne,
which had made her so happy. A link with it still existed in this
new friendship; and although Arthur Eden could not take the place of
Constance in her heart, from among his own sex fate could not have
selected a more perfect friend for her. The link was a slender one, and
in the future there would probably be no meetings and few letters, but
in spite of that he was and always would be very much to her. With
these thoughts occupying her mind she wrote thanking him for his ready
response to her letter, and promising to meet him on the ensuing Sunday.
When the day at length arrived she set out at half-past ten to keep the
appointment, with many misgivings, not however because she, a pretty
unprotected shop-girl, was going to meet a young gentleman, but solely
on account of the weather. All night and at intervals during the morning
there had been torrents of rain, and though the rain had ceased now the
sky still looked dark and threatening. Unfortunately her one umbrella
was getting shabby, and matched badly with hat, gloves, shoes and dress,
all of which were satisfactory. Mr. Eden, she imagined, judging from his
appearance, was a little fastidious about such things, and in the end
she determined to risk going without the umbrella. When she passed
Portland Road Station, and the sky widened to her sight in the open
space, there were signs of coming fair weather to cheer her; the
fresh breeze felt dry to the skin, the clouds flew swiftly by, and at
intervals the sun appeared, not fiery and dazzling, but like a silver
shield suspended above, rayless and white as the moon, and after
throwing its chastened light over the wet world for a few moments the
flying vapours would again obscure it. She was early, but had scarcely
entered the park before Mr. Eden joined her. The pleasure which shone
in his eyes when he advanced to greet her made her think that he was the
bearer of welcome news; he divined as much, and hastened to undeceive
her.
“I know that you are anxious to hear the result of my inquiries,” he
said, “but you must prepare for a disappointment, Miss Affleck.”
“You have something bad to tell me?”
“No, I have nothing to tell. My letter to Merton was returned to me on
Friday through the dead letter post. They've gone and left no address.
To make quite sure, I went to Norland Square yesterday to see the
landlady, and she says that they left ten days ago, and that Mr. Chance
told her that he had written to all his correspondents to give them his
new address, and that if any letter came for him or his wife she was to
return it to the postman. Of course she does not know where they have
gone.”
Fan was deeply disappointed, and still conversing on this one subject,
they continued walking for an hour about the park, keeping to the paths.
“You must not distress yourself, Miss Affleck,” said her companion. “The
thing is no greater a mystery now than it was a week ago, and you must
have arrived at the conclusion as long ago as that, that the Chances
wished to sever their connection with you.”
“Do you think that, Mr. Eden--do you think that Constance really wishes
to break off with me? It would be so unlike her.” There were tears in
her voice if not in her eyes as she spoke.
He did not answer her question at once. They were now close to the
southern entrance to the Zoological Gardens.
“Let's go in through this gate,” he said. “In there we shall be able to
find shelter if it rains.” He had tickets of admission in his pocket,
and passing the stile Fan found herself in that incongruous wild animal
world set in the midst of a world of humanity. A profusion of flowers
met her gaze on every side, but she looked beyond the variegated beds,
blossoming shrubs, and grass-plats sprinkled with patches of gay colour,
to the huge unfamiliar animal forms of which she caught occasional
glimpses in the distance. For she had never entered the Gardens before,
this being the one great sight in London which Mary and her brother
Tom had forgotten to show her. And since her return to town she had
not ventured to go there alone, although living so near to the Regent's
Park. Walking there on Sundays, when there was no admission to the
public, she had often paused to listen with a feeling of wonder to
the strange sounds that issued from the enchanted enclosure--piercing
screams of eagles and of cranes; the muffled thunder of lions, mingled
with sharp yells from other felines; and wolf-howls so dismal and long
that they might have been wafted to her all the way from Oonalaska's
shore.
Mr. Eden appeared not to notice the curious glances as he paced
thoughtfully by her side, and presently he recalled her to the subject
they had been discussing.
“Miss Affleck,” he said, “has there been any disagreement, or have you
heard any word from Merton or Mrs. Chance which might have led you to
think that they contemplated breaking off their acquaintance with you?”
In answer she told him about the letter from Constance asking for her
photograph.
“Where did you have your picture taken?” he asked somewhat irrelevantly.
Fan told him, and as he said nothing she added, “But why do you ask
that, Mr. Eden?”
He could not tell her that he intended going to the photographer, whose
name he had just heard, to secure a copy of her picture for his own
pleasure, and so he answered:
“It merely occurred to me to ask just to know whether you had gone by
chance to one of the good men I could have recommended. It is evident
that when Mrs. Chance wrote to you in that way she had already planned
this separation. Whatever her motives may have been, it is certainly
hard on you; and I scarcely need assure you, Miss Affleck, that you have
my heartfelt sympathy.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Eden,” she returned, scarcely able to repress
the tears that rose to her eyes.
After an interval of silence he said:
“If you still wish to find out their address, the quickest way would be
to write to your friend's home. Merton told me that you lived for a year
with his wife's people in Hampshire or Dorset.”
“Yes, in Wiltshire. But I know that Constance has not corresponded with
her mother since her marriage. Perhaps you are right in what you said,
Mr. Eden, that they wish--not to know me any longer.”
He turned away from the wistful, questioning look in her eyes, and only
remarked, “I shall find it hard to forgive them this.”
“But I can't believe that Constance would do anything unkind,” she
replied, somewhat illogically.
“No. But Constance is not herself--her real self now, she is Merton's
wife.”
“Then you think that Constance--yes, perhaps you are right”; and then in
a pathetic tone she added, “I have no friend now.”
“Do not say that, Miss Affleck! Do you not remember that on the occasion
of our first meeting you promised to regard me as a friend?”
“Yes, I do, and I feel very grateful for your kindness to me. When I
said that I meant a lady friend.... That is such a different kind of
friendship. And--and you could never be like one of the two friends I
have lost.”
“Two, Miss Affleck! I did not know that you had had the misfortune to
lose more than one.”
“The first was the lady I lived with in London before I went to the
Churtons'.”
“Oh, yes, I see what you mean. It was a great loss to you in one sense,
but of course you couldn't have the same feeling about her as in the
case of Mrs. Chance. She was, I understand, a toothless old hag, more
than half-crazy--”
“Half-crazy! Toothless! Old! What do you mean, Mr. Eden? She is young
and beautiful, and though I am nothing to her now I love her still with
all my heart.”
He looked at her with the utmost surprise, and then burst into a laugh.
“Forgive me for laughing, Miss Affleck,” he said. “But I remember now it
was Merton who described her to me as a made-up old lady who ought to
be in an asylum. How stupid of me to believe anything that fellow ever
says, even when he has no motive for being untruthful!”
Fan also laughed, she could not help laughing in spite of the intense
indignation she felt against Mary's rejected suitor for libelling her in
such an infamous manner.
“Do you know that it is beginning to rain?” he said, holding his
umbrella over her head. “We must go in there and wait until it pauses.”
It was one o'clock, and the refreshment rooms had just opened. Fan was
conducted into the glittering dining-saloon, and was persuaded to join
her companion in a rather sumptuous luncheon, and to drink a glass of
champagne.
Occasional showers prevented them leaving for some time, and it was
nearly four o'clock when they finally left the Gardens, Fan again
staring curiously round her.
“Mr. Eden,” she asked, pointing to a large, blue, cow-like creature,
with goat's horns and a hump, “will you tell me what that animal is?”
“I am not sure quite that I can,” he replied with a slight laugh. “Its
name is as outlandish as itself--gnu, or yak, or perhaps Jamrach.”
The reply was not very satisfactory, and she felt a little disappointed
that he did not turn aside to let her look at it, or at any of the other
strange beasts and birds near them; but just after leaving he remarked
in a casual way:
“I suppose you are quite familiar with the Gardens, Miss Affleck?”
“Oh, no, I have never been in them before to-day.”
“Really! Then how sorry I am that I did not know sooner! We might have
gone in and seen the lions, and monkeys, while it was raining. However,
we could not have seen very much to-day, and if you can manage to come
next Sunday I shall be so glad to show you everything.” Seeing that she
hesitated, he added, “I shall make some inquiries during the week, and
may have something to tell you next Sunday if you will come.”
That won her consent, and after seeing her to her own door, Eden went on
his way rejoicing, for so far the gods he had once spoken of had shown
themselves favourable.
During the week that followed Fan thought often enough of her friend's
mysterious conduct towards her; but the remembrance of Mr. Eden's
sympathy lightened the pain considerably, and as the time of that second
meeting, which was to be more pleasant even than the first, drew near,
she began to think less of Constance and more of Arthur Eden. She smiled
to herself when she remembered certain things she had heard about
the danger to young girls in her position in life resulting from the
plausible attentions of idle pleasure-seekers like Mr. Eden; for in his
case there could be no danger. His soul was without guile. She had made
his acquaintance in his own friend's house, and it was not in her nature
to suspect evil designs which did not appear in a person's manner and
conversation. If he had been her brother--that ideal brother whose
kindness is un-mixed with contempt for so poor a creature as a
sister--his manner could not have been more free from any suggestion of
a feeling too warm in character. Walking home with her from the park
he had spoken with some melancholy of the changes which the end of the
London season--happily not yet near--must always bring. He still
had thoughts of going abroad, but it saddened him to think that when
returning after a long absence he would be sure to miss some friendly
faces--hers perhaps among others. And all the words he had spoken on
this subject, in his tender musical voice, were treasured in her memory.
He was more to her, far more, she thought, than she could ever be to
him. Only for a time would he remember her face, his life was so full,
his friends so many, but she would not forget, and the pleasant hours
she now spent in his company would shine bright in memory in future
years.
When the eagerly-wished Sunday at last arrived, the spring weather was
perfect. Even London on that morning had the softest of blue skies above
it, with far-up ethereal clouds, white as angels' wings, a brilliant
sunshine, and a breeze elastic yet warm, laden with the perfume of lilac
and may. Fan smiled at her own image in the glass, pleased to think that
she looked well in her new spring hat and dress; and at ten o'clock,
when Mr. Eden met her at the appointed place, and regarded her with
keen critical eyes as she advanced to him under her light sunshade, his
satisfaction was not unmingled with a secret pang, a sudden “conscience
fit,” which, however, did not last long. The fashionable tide did not
just then set very strongly towards the Gardens on Sundays, but he felt
with some pride that he could safely appear anywhere in London with Miss
Affleck at his side, and although his friends would not know her, they
would never suspect that in her he had picked up one of the “lower
orders.”
While walking across the park they conversed once more about their
vanished friends. Eden had no news to tell, but still cherished hopes
of being able to discover their retreat. When they were once inside the
Gardens, Fan soon forgot everything except the pleasure of the moment.
She could not have had a better guide than her companion, for beside
a fair knowledge of wild animal life, he had the pleasant faculty of
seeing things in a humorous light. And above everything, he knew his
way about, and could show her many little mysterious things, hidden away
behind jealously-guarded doors, of which he had the keys, and pretty
bird performances and amusing mammalian comedies, all of which are
missed by the casual visitor. The laughing jackasses laughed their
loudest, almost frightening her with their weird cachinnatory chorus;
and the laughing hyæna screamed his sepulchral ha-ha-ha's so that he
was heard all the way to Primrose Hill. Pelicans, penguins, darters and
seals captured and swallowed scores of swift slippery fishes for her
pleasure. She was taken to visit the “baby” in its private apartment,
and saw him at close quarters, not without fear and shrinking, for
the baby was as big as a house--the leviathan of the ancients, as some
think. Into its vast open mouth she dropped a bun, which was like giving
a grain of rice to a hungry human giant. Then she was made to take a
large armful of green clover and thrust it into the same yawning red
cavern; and having done so she started quickly back for fear of being
swallowed alive along with the grass. Mr. Eden spent a small fortune on
buns, nuts, and bon-bons for the animals, and she fed everything, from
the biggest elephant and the most tree-like giraffe to the smallest
harvest mouse. But it was most curious with an eagle they looked at.
“Give it a bun,” said Eden.
“You shall not laugh at my ignorance this time,” said Fan. “I _know_
that eagles eat nothing but flesh.”
“Quite right,” said he, “but if you will offer it a bun he will gladly
eat it.” And as he persisted, she, still incredulous, offered the bun,
which the eagle seized in his crooked claws, and devoured with immense
zest. Fan was amazed, and Eden said triumphantly, “There, I told you
so.”
Long afterwards she was alone one day in the Gardens, and going to the
eagle's cage, and feeling satisfied that no one was looking, offered
a bun to an eagle. The bird only stared into her face with its fierce
eyes, as much as to say, “Do you take me for a monkey, or what? You are
making a great mistake, young woman.” It happened that someone _did_ see
her--a rude man, who burst into a loud laugh; and Fan walked away with
crimson cheeks, and the mystery remained unexplained. Perhaps someone
has compassionately enlightened her since.
In the snake-house a brilliant green tree-snake of extraordinary length
was taken from its box by the keeper, and Eden wound it twice round
her waist; and looking down on that living, coiling, grass-green
sash, knowing that it was a serpent, and yet would do her no harm, she
experienced a sensation of creepy delight which was very novel, and
curious, and mixed. The kangaroos were a curious people, resembling
small donkeys with crocodile tails, sitting erect on their haunches, and
moving about with a waltzing hop, which was both graceful and comical.
One of them, oddly enough, had a window in the middle of its stomach
out of which a baby kangaroo put its long-eared head and stared at them,
then popped it in again and shut the window. The secretary-bird proved
himself a grand actor; he marched round his cage, bowed two or three
times to Fan, then performed the maddest dance imaginable, leaping
and pounding the floor with his iron feet, just to show how he broke a
serpent's back in South Africa.
From the monkey-house and its perpetual infinitely varied pantomime they
were conducted into a secret silent chamber, where an interesting event
had recently occurred, and Mrs. Monkey, who was very aristocratic and
exclusive, received only a few privileged guests. They found her
sitting up in bed and nursing an infant that looked exceedingly ancient,
although the keeper solemnly assured Fan that it was only three
days old. Mrs. Monkey gravely shook hands with her visitors, and
condescendingly accepted a bon-bon, which she ate with great dignity,
and an assumption of not caring much about it.
“Don't you think, Miss Affleck,” said Eden, sinking his voice, “that you
ought to say something complimentary--that the little darling looks like
its mamma, for instance, even if you can't call it pretty?”
Fan laughed merrily, whereat Mrs. Monkey flew into a rage, and seemed
so inclined to commit an assault on her visitors, that they were glad to
make a hasty retreat.
In the blithe open air Fan observed, when she had recovered her gravity:
“How good the keepers are to take so much trouble to show us things!”
“Thanks to you,” he replied, hypocritically. “If I had come alone they
wouldn't have troubled to show _me_ things.”
Then they roused the nocturnal animals from their slumbers in the
straw--the wingless apteryx, like a little armless man with a very long
nose; the huge misshapen earthy-looking ant-bear, and those four-footed
Rip Van Winkles, the quaint, rusty, blear-eyed armadillos. But the giant
ant-eater was the most wonderful, for he walked on his knuckles, and
strode majestically about, for all the world like a mammalian peacock,
exhibiting his great tail. They also saw his tongue, like a yard of
pink ribbon drawn out by an invisible hand from the tip of his long
cucumber-shaped head. In the parrot-house the shrieking of a thousand
parrots and cockatoos, all trying to shriek each other down, drove them
quickly out.
“I am sorry my nerves are not stronger, but really I can't stand it, Mr.
Eden,” said Fan, apologetically.
He laughed. “It's a great row, but not a very sublime one,” he answered.
“By-and-by we shall hear something better.” And by-and-by they were in
the great lion-house, where the prisoner kings and nobles are, barred
and tawny and striped and spotted, and with flaming yellow eyes. They
were all striding up and down, raging with hunger, for it was near the
feeding-time; and suddenly a lion roared, and then others roared; and
royal tigers, and jaguars, and pumas, and cheetahs, and leopards joined
in with shrieks and with yells, and the awful chorus of the feline
giants grew louder, like the continuous roar of near thunder, until the
whole vast building shook and the solid earth seemed to tremble beneath
them. And Fan also trembled and grew white with fear, and implored her
companion to take her out. If she had shouted her loudest he could not
have heard a sound, but he saw her lips moving, and her pallor, and
led her out; yet no sooner was she out than she wished to return, so
wonderful and so glorious did it seem to stand amidst that awful tempest
of sound!
Thus passed Fan's day, seeing much of animal life, and with welcome
intervals of rest, when they had a nice little dinner in the refreshment
rooms, or sat for an hour on the shady lawn, where Mr. Eden smoked his
cigar, and related some of his adventures in distant lands.
“You have given me so much pleasure, Mr. Eden--I have spent a very happy
day,” said Fan, on their walk back to her humble lodgings.
“And I, Miss Affleck?”
“You know it all so well; it could not be so much to you,” she returned.
“Have I not been happy then?”
“Yes, I think you have,” she answered. “But you were happy principally
because you were giving pleasure to someone else.”
“I think,” he said, without directly answering her words, “that when I
am far from England again, and see things that are as unfamiliar to me
as this has been to you, which people come from the ends of the earth
to look at, it will all seem very dull and insipid to me when I remember
the pleasure I have had to-day.”
For many days past he had in imagination been saying a thousand pretty
and passionate things to Fan--rehearsing little speeches suitable for
every occasion.
And now this little laborious round-about speech, about going abroad,
the pleasures of memory, and the rest of it, which might mean anything
or nothing, was the only speech he could make. And she did not reply to
it.
“Perhaps,” thought Eden, as he walked away after leaving her at her
door, “she understood the feeling, but waited to hear it expressed a
little more clearly.” Time would show, but it struck him on this evening
that he had made little progress since the first meeting at Norland
Square, and he thought with little satisfaction of his neglected
opportunities, or, as he called them, his sins of omission.