To Fan's mind there was no note of warning in that little vague
complimentary speech, and she thought nothing at all about it. It is
quite impossible for a man to talk all day without saying meaningless
if not foolish things, unless he happens to be a very solemn prig who
carefully considers his words and lays them down like dominoes; and Eden
was not that. His naturalness was his great charm, and she judged his
feelings from her own; his simple transparent kindliness was enough to
account for all his attentions to her. After that day at the Zoological
Gardens she met him on other Sundays and Saturday afternoons, and also
received some letters from him, and more books, all like the first in a
wonderfully clean and well-kept condition.
One summer day Eden went to the City, a very unusual thing for him to
do, and while making his way towards Cheapside through the hurrying
crowd of pedestrians filling the narrow thoroughfare of St. Paul's
Churchyard, he all at once came face to face with the long-lost Merton
Chance. Involuntarily both started and stopped short on coming together.
It was impossible to avoid speaking, which would have happened if
they had recognised each other at a suitable distance. “Eden, is it
possible!” “Chance, how glad I am to see you!” were the words they
exclaimed at the same moment, as they clasped hands with fictitious
warmth; and then, to avoid the crowd, Merton drew his friend aside
through one of the open gates into the cathedral garden.
“Just back again from a trip to the Hindoo Koosh or the Mountains of the
Moon, I suppose?” cried Merton with overflowing gaiety.
“I have not been out of London as it happens,” said Eden. “As you might
have known if you had sent me your address. I wrote to you at Norland
Square several weeks ago, asking you to lunch with me one day at the
club, and the letter was returned through the Dead Letter Office, marked
'Gone away--no address.'”
“Ah, yes, I forgot to send you my new address at the time, and ever
since moving I have been so overwhelmed with work and a hundred other
things that I have really had no time to write. I have been anxiously
looking forward to a few hours of leisure to make up all arrears of the
kind.”
“Well, then, as it is nearly two o'clock perhaps you will lunch with me
to-day. Is there any place close by where we can get something to eat
and drink? I am all at sea when I get as far east as this.”
“Thanks,” said Merton, with a laugh. “That just reminds me that I have
had nothing except a cup of tea since seven o'clock this morning. Too
busy even to remember such a thing as food. Yes, there's the Cathedral
Hotel, where you can get anything to eat from locusts and wild honey to
a stalled ox. By the way, since you know so little about East London,
let me take you a little further east; then you will be able to boast
some day that you stood on the volcano and looked down into its seething
crater just before the great eruption. Of course I mean that you will be
able to make that boast if you happen to survive the eruption.”
If Eden had little taste for ordinary enthusiasm, he had still less
for downright madness, and he hastily begged his friend to defer the
volcanic question until after luncheon. Merton's language surprised him,
it seemed so wildly irrational, and uttered with so much seriousness. In
his appearance also there were signs of degeneracy: he was thin and pale
and rather shabbily dressed, and wore a broad-brimmed rusty black felt
hat, which he frequently pulled off only to twist it into some new
disreputable shape and thrust it on again. Over a black half-unbuttoned
waistcoat he wore only a light covert coat, which had long seen its
best days; his boots were innocent of polish. Eden noticed all that, and
remembering that his friend had once been quite as fastidious about his
dress as himself, he was a little shocked at his appearance.
In a few minutes they were seated at a table where they were served with
an excellent luncheon, with plenty of variety in it, although it did not
include locusts and wild honey. Rather oddly, Merton appeared to have
leisure enough to make the most of it; he studied the menu with the
interest of a professed _gourmet_, freely advised Eden what to eat, and
partook of at least half a dozen different dishes himself. Nor was
he sparing of the wine; and after adjourning to the smoking-room, and
lighting the fragrant Havannah his friend had given him, he declined
coffee but ordered a second bottle of six-shilling claret.
“It rather surprises me to see a travelled fellow like you, Eden,
drinking English-made coffee,” he said. “For my part, until the French
can send it to us as they make it, bottled, I intend to stick to their
light wines.”
All this amused Eden; he liked it better than the wild talk about
impending eruptions, and began to feel rather pleased that he had met
Merton after all. Still, he could not help experiencing some curiosity
about his mysterious friend's way of life; and in spite of prudence he
led the way to this dangerous topic.
“Just look at this, Eden; this will show you what I am doing. You Pall
Mall gentlemen are living in a fool's paradise--excuse me for putting
it so bluntly--but personally you are my friend, although in our ways
of thought we are as far as the poles asunder.” He had taken a newspaper
from his pocket, a small sheet of coarse paper printed with bad type,
and turning and refolding it he handed it to his friend. The article to
which Eden's attention was drawn was headed “A Last Word,” and occupied
three columns, and at the foot appeared the name of Merton Chance.
“I see; but surely you don't expect me to read this now?” said Eden.
“Your last word is a very long one.”
“No, you can put the paper in your pocket to read at your leisure. I
think it will have the effect of opening your eyes, Eden. That you may
escape the wrath to come is my devout wish.”
“Thanks. So you have gone in for the Salvation Army business?” And he
glanced at the title of the paper, but it was not the _War Cry_. _The
Time Has Come_ was the name of the sheet he held in his hand, to which
Merton Chance had the honour to be a contributor.
“No, Eden,” said the other, with a look on his face of such deep and
serious meaning as to be almost tragic. “This is not the war cry you
imagine, but it is a war cry nevertheless. You can shut your ears to
it, if you feel so minded, and persuade yourself that there is no war in
preparation. The streets of London are full of soldiers, but then they
wear no red jackets, and carry no banners, and you needn't know that
they are soldiers at all. You can safely let them march on, since they
march without blare of trumpets and beat of drums.”
“All right, Chance, I'll have a shot at it before going to bed
to-night”; and he was again about to thrust the paper into his pocket,
feeling that he was getting tired of this kind of talk.
“Wait a moment, Eden,” said the other. “I'm afraid you do not quite know
yet what the matter is all about. Allow me to look at the paper again.”
Taking it, he found and asked his friend to read a rather long editorial
paragraph.
This was all about the trumpet-tongued Merton Chance, congratulating
the League on the accession to its ranks of so able a fighter with the
pen--one who was only too ready to handle other weapons in their cause.
It spoke of all he had nobly abandoned--social position, Government
appointment, etc.--to cast in his lot with theirs; his brilliant and
impassioned oratory, pitiless logic, with more in the same strain.
“I presume this is a socialistic print,” said Eden, after reading the
paragraph. “Well, I can't say I congratulate you on your new--departure.
Still, it is something to be thought well of by those you are working
with, and you can't complain that your editor has not laid it on thick
enough in this passage.”
Merton's brows contracted; he did not like this speech, and before
replying swallowed a glass of claret.
“Eden,” he returned, “this is too serious a matter for a jest. But I
do not think that anything is to be gained by discussing it. I should
certainly gain nothing by informing you that everyone has a right to
live, since a certain number of human beings must give up living, or, in
other words, live like dogs, in order that you may have something beyond
the mere necessaries of life--something to make your existence pleasant.
This only I will say. If you are one of those who persistently shut
their eyes to the fact that a change has come, that it will no longer be
as it has been, then all I have to say is, My friend, I have warned you,
and here we part company.”
“But not,” thought Eden, “before you have finished your second bottle of
claret.” He only said, “I really never had any taste for politics,” and
then added, “You have not said, Chance, whether your wife is with you in
this new--departure?”
“My wife,” said Merton, somewhat loftily, “is always with me.” But more
than that he did not say about his domestic affairs; nor did he even
think to give his address before they separated.
Eden did not fail to write to Fan, telling her that he had seen and
talked with Merton, and asking her to meet him at the Marble Arch on
the next Sunday morning, when he would be able to tell her all that had
passed between his friend and himself. She replied on the following day,
promising to meet him, in one of her characteristic letters, which he
always read over a great many times and admired very much, and which
nevertheless had always had the effect of irritating him a little and
making his hope for a time look pale. They were so transparently simple
and straightforward, and expressed so openly the friendly feelings she
had for him.
“What does she expect, what does she imagine, what does she think in
her own heart?” he said, as he sat holding her letter in his hand. “She
can't surely think that I am going to make a shop-girl my wife, and if
she doesn't hope for that, why has she consented to correspond with me,
to receive the books I send her, and to meet me so frequently? Or does
she believe that this is purely a platonic feeling between us--a mere
friendship such as one man has for another? I don't think so. Platonic
love is purely a delusion of the male mind. Women are colder than we
are, but instinctively they know the character of our feelings better
than we do ourselves. She must know that I love her. And yet she
consents to meet me, and she is, I am sure, a very pure-hearted girl.
How are these seeming contradictions to be reconciled? A philosopher has
said that the mind of a child is a clean sheet of paper on which you may
write what you like. I believe that some women have the power of
keeping their minds in that clean-sheet-of-paper condition for their own
advantage. You may write what you like on the paper, but only after you
have paid for the privilege. Of course, this view takes a good deal of
the romance out of life; but I have to deal with facts as I find them,
and women as a rule are not romantic. At all events, I have come to the
conclusion that Miss Affleck is capable of looking at this thing in
a calm practical way. She will be my friend as long as I am hers; she
loses nothing by it, but gains a little. She will also give me her whole
heart if I ask for it, but not until I have given her something better
than the passion, which may not last, in return. A poor girl, without
friends or relations, and with nothing in prospect but a life of dull
drudgery--perhaps I am willing to give her more, far more, than she
dreams or hopes.”
So ran _his_ dream; and yet when she met him on the Sunday morning with
a smile on her lips and a look of gladness in her eyes, and when he
listened to her voice again, he was troubled with some fresh doubts
about the correctness of his sheet-of-paper theory.
They walked about a little, and then sat for some time in the shade near
the Grosvenor Gate, while Eden told her everything that Merton had said,
and then made her read Merton's “Last Word” in the socialistic paper.
Then he went over the article, explaining the whole subject to her and
pointing out the writer's errors, which, he said, could only deceive
the very ignorant; but he did not inform her that he had spent two days
working up the subject, all for her benefit. She was made to see that
Merton was wrong in what he said, and that Mr. Eden had a very powerful
intellect; but she confessed ingenuously that she found the subject a
difficult and wearisome one. The intellectual errors of Merton were as
nothing to her compared with the unkindness of her friend in keeping out
of her sight when all the time she was living close by in London. Eden
was secretly glad that she took this view of the matter; from the first
he had felt that a reunion of the girls was the one thing he had
to fear; and now Fan was compelled to believe that her friend had
deliberately thrown her off, and did not wish even to hear from her.
“Miss Affleck--Fan--may I call you Fan?” he said, and having won her
consent, he continued, “I need not tell you again how much I sympathise
with you, but from the first I saw what you only clearly see now, for
you were not willing to believe that of your friend before. Do you
remember when you first lost her that I begged you to regard me as a
friend? You said that no man could take the place of Constance in your
heart. I did not say anything, but I felt, Fan, that you did not know
what a man's friendship can be. I hoped that you would know it some day;
I hope the day will come when you will be able to say from your heart
that my friendship has been something to you.”
“It has been a great deal to me, Mr. Eden; I should have said so long
ago if I had thought it necessary.”
“It was not necessary, Fan, but it is very pleasant to hear it from your
lips. Will you not call me Arthur?”
She consented to call him Arthur, and then he proposed a trip to Kew
Gardens.
“It will be too late if you go home to get your dinner first,” he said.
“If you don't mind we will just have a snack when we get there to keep
up our strength. Or let us have it here at once, and then we can give
all our time to the flowers when we get there. They are looking their
best just now.”
She consented, and they adjourned to an hotel close by, where the
“snack” developed into a very elaborate luncheon; and when they slipped
out again a brougham, which Eden had meanwhile ordered, was waiting at
the door to take them.
The drive down, and rambles about the flower-beds, and visit to the
tropical house, gave Fan great pleasure; and then Eden confessed that he
always found the beauty of Kew, or at all events the flowery portion of
it, a little cloying; he preferred that further part where trees grew,
and the grass was longer, with an occasional weed in it, and where
Nature didn't quite look as if an army of horticultural Truefitts were
everlastingly clipping at her wild tresses with their scissors
and rubbing pomatum and brilliantine on her green leaves. To that
comparatively incult part they accordingly directed their steps, and
found a pleasant resting-place on a green slope with great trees behind
them and others but small and scattered before, and through the light
foliage of which they could see the gleam of the Thames, while the
plash of oars and the hum of talk and laughter from the waterway came
distinctly to their ears. But just on that spot they seemed to have the
Gardens to themselves, no other visitors being within sight. The day was
warm and the turf dry, but for fear of moisture Eden spread his light
covert coat for Fan to sit on, and then stretched himself out by her
side.
“In this position I can watch your face,” he said. “Usually when we
are sitting or standing together I only half see your eyes. They hide
themselves under those shady lashes like violets under their leaves. Now
I can look straight up into them and read all their secrets.”
“I shouldn't like you to do that--I mean to look steadily at my eyes.”
“Why not, Fan; is it not a pleasant thing to have a friend look into
one's eyes?”
“Yes, just for a moment, but not--” and then she came to a stop.
“Perhaps you are right,” he said after a while, finding she did not
continue. “I wonder if I can guess what was in your mind just then? Was
it that our eyes reveal all they are capable of revealing at a glance,
in an instant; that at a glance we see all that we wish to see; but that
they do not and cannot reveal our inner self, the hidden things of the
soul; and that when our eyes are gazed steadily at it looks like an
attempt to pierce to that secret part of us?”
“Yes, I think that is so.”
“And yet I think that friends that love and trust each other ought
not to have that uncomfortable feeling. Why should you have it, for
instance, in a case where your friend freely opens his heart to you, and
tells you every thought and feeling he has about you? For instance, if
I were to open my heart to you now and tell you all that is in it--every
thought and every wish?”
She glanced at him and her lips moved, but she did not speak, and after
a little he continued:
“Listen, Fan, and you shall hear it all. In the first place there is
the desire to see you contented and happy. The desire brings the thought
that happiness results from the possession of certain things, which, in
your case, fate has put out of your reach. Your future is uncertain, and
in the event of a serious illness or an accident, you might at any time
be deprived of your only means of subsistence; so that to free you from
that anxiety about the future which makes perfect happiness impossible,
a fixed income sufficient for anything and settled on you for life would
be required. And now, Fan, may I tell you how I should like to act to
put these thoughts and feelings about you into practice?”
“How?” said Fan, glancing for a moment with some curiosity at his face.
“This is what I should do--how gladly! I should invest a sum of money
for your benefit, and appoint trustees who would pay you the interest
every year as long as you lived. I should also buy a pretty little house
in some nice neighbourhood, like this one of Kew, for instance, and have
it beautifully decorated and furnished, and make you a present of it,
so that you would have your own home. If you wished to study music
or painting, or any other art or subject, I should employ masters to
instruct you. And I should also give you books, and jewels, and dresses,
and go with you to plays and concerts, and take you abroad to see other
countries more beautiful than ours.”
Here he paused as if expecting some reply, but she spoke no word; she
only glanced for a moment at his upturned face with a look of wonder and
trouble in her eyes.
Then he continued, “And in return for all that, Fan, and for my
love--the love I have felt for you since I saw you on that evening at
Norland Square--I should only ask you to be my friend still, but with a
sweeter, closer, more precious friendship than you have hitherto had for
me.”
Again she glanced at him, but only for an instant; for a few moments
more she continued silent, deeply troubled, then with face still
averted, pressed her hand on the ground to assist her in rising; but he
caught her by the wrist and detained her.
“Have you nothing to say to me, Fan?” he asked.
“Only that I wish to stand up, Arthur, if you will let me.”
She spoke so quietly, in a tone so like her usual one, using his
Christian name too, that he looked searchingly at her, not yet knowing
how his words had affected her. Her cheeks were flushed, but she was
evidently not angry, only a little excited perhaps at his declaration.
Her manner only served to raise his hopes.
“Then let me assist you,” he said, springing lightly to his feet, and
drawing her up. But before she could steady herself his arms were round
her waist, and she was drawn and held firmly against his breast while he
kissed her two or three times on the cheek.
After freeing herself from his embrace, still silent, she walked
hurriedly away; then Eden, snatching up his coat from the grass, ran
after her and was quickly at her side.
“Dearest Fan, are you angry with me that you refuse to speak?” he said,
seizing her hand.
“I have nothing to say, Mr. Eden. Will you release my hand, as I wish to
go home?”
“I must go back to town with you, Fan,” he returned. “I will release
your hand if you will sit down on this bench and let me speak to you. We
must not part in this way.”
After a few moments' hesitation she sat down, still keeping her face
averted from him. Then he dropped her hand and sat down near her. His
hopes were fast vanishing, and he was not only deeply disappointed but
angry; and with these feelings there mingled some remorse, he now began
to think that he had surprised and pained her. Never had she seemed more
sweet and desirable than now, when he had tempted her and she had turned
silently away.
“For heaven's sake don't be so angry with me, Fan,” he said at
length. “It is not just. I could not help loving you; and if you have
old-fashioned ideas about such things, and can't agree to my proposals,
why can't we agree to differ, and not make matters worse by quarrelling?
My only wish, goodness knows, was to make you happy; there is no
sacrifice I would not gladly make for your sake, for I do love you, Fan,
with all my heart.”
She listened quietly, but every sentence he uttered only had the effect
of widening the distance between them. Her only answer was, “I wish to
go home now--will you let me go by myself?”
But he caught her hand again when she attempted to rise, and forced her
to remain on the seat.
“No, Fan, you must not go before you have answered me,” he returned, his
face darkening with anger. “You have no right to treat me in this way.
What have I said to stir up such a tempest?”
“There is no tempest, Mr. Eden. What can I say to you except that we
have both been mistaken? I was wrong to meet you, but I did not know--it
did not seem wrong. That was my mistake.”
Her voice was low and trembled a little, and there was still no note of
anger in it. It touched his heart, and yet he could not help being angry
with her for destroying his hopes, and it was with some bitterness that
he replied:
“You have told me your mistake; now what was mine?”
“That you know already.”
“Yes, I know it; but I do not know what you imagine. I may be able to
show you yet that you are too harsh with me.”
After an interval of silence she answered:
“Mr. Eden, I believe you have heard the story of my origin from Mr.
Chance. I suppose that he knows what I came from. No doubt he thought
it right to separate his wife from me for the same reason that made you
think that you could buy me with money, just as you could buy anything
else you might wish to have. You would not have made such a proposal to
one in your own class, though she might be an orphan and friendless and
obliged to work for her living.”
“You are altogether mistaken,” he returned warmly. “I know absolutely
nothing of your origin, and if I had known all about it that would not
have had the slightest effect. Gentle birth or not, I should have made
the same proposal; and if you imagine that ladies do not often receive
and accept such proposals, you know little of what goes on in the world.
But you must not think for a moment that I ever tried to find out your
history from Merton. I put one question to him about you, and one only.
Let me tell you what it was, and the answer he gave me. I asked him
where you came from, or what your people were, and gave him a reason
for my question, which was that the surname of Affleck had a peculiar
interest for me. There was nothing wrong in that, I think? He said that
you were an orphan, that the lady you lived with, not liking your own
name, gave you the name of Affleck, solely because it took her fancy, or
was uncommon, not because you had any relations of that name.”
“He did not know, I suppose, that it was my mother's name,” said Fan.
But the moment she had spoken it flashed across her mind that by that
incautious speech she had revealed the secret of her birth, and her face
crimsoned with shame and confusion.
But the other did not notice it; and without raising his eyes from the
ground he returned--“Your mother's name--what was her name?”
“Margaret Affleck,” she answered; and thinking that it was not too late
to repair the mistake she had made, and preserve her secret, she added,
“That was her maiden name, and when the lady I lived with heard it, she
preferred to call me by it because she did not like my right name.”
“And what was your father's name?”
“I cannot answer any more questions, Mr. Eden,” she returned, after an
interval of silence. “It cannot matter to you in the least. Perhaps you
say truly that it would have made no difference to you if I had come of
a good family. That does not make me less unhappy, or alter my opinion
of you. My only wish now is to go away, and to be left alone by you.”
He continued silently prodding at the turf with his stick, his eyes
fixed on the ground. She was nervous and anxious to make her escape,
and could not help glancing frequently at his face, so strange in its
unaccustomed gloom and look of abstraction. Suddenly he lifted his eyes
to hers and said:
“And if I refuse to leave you alone, Fan?”
“Must I, then, go away altogether?” she returned with keen distress.
“Will you be so cruel as to hunt me out of the place where I earn my
bread? I have no one to protect me, Mr. Eden--surely you will not carry
out such a threat, and force me to hide myself in some distant place!”
“Do you think you could hide yourself where I would not find you, Fan?”
he answered, looking up with a strange gleam in his eyes and a smile on
his lips.
She did not reply, although his words troubled her strangely. After a
while he added:
“No, Fan; you need not fear any persecution from me. You are just as
safe in your shop in Regent Street, where you earn your bread, as you
would be at the Antipodes.”
“Thank you,” she returned. “Will you let me go home now?”
“We must go back together as we came,” he said.
“I am sorry you think we must go back together. Is it only to annoy me?”
“Why should you think that, my girl?” he said, but in an indifferent
tone, and still sullenly prodding at the ground with his stick. After a
time he continued, “I don't want to lose sight of you just yet, Fan,
or to think when we part it will be for ever. If you knew how heavy my
heart is you would not be so bitter against me. Perhaps before we
get back to town you will have kinder thoughts. When you remember the
pleasant hours we have spent together you will perhaps be able to give
me your hand and say that you are my friend still.”
Up to this moment she had felt only the pain of her wound and the desire
to escape and hide herself from his sight; but his last words had the
effect of kindling her anger--the anger which took so long to kindle,
and which now, as on one or two former occasions, suddenly took complete
possession of her and instantly drove out every other feeling. Her face
had all at once grown white, and starting to her feet, she stood facing
him.
“Mr. Eden,” she said, her words coming rapidly, with passion, from her
lips, “do you wish me to say more than I have said? Would you like to
know what I think of you?”
“Yes; what do you think of me, Fan? I think it would be rather
interesting to hear.”
“I think you have acted very treacherously all along. I believe that
from the first you have had it in your mind to--to make me this offer,
but you have never let me suspect such a thing. Your kindness and
interest in the Chances--it was all put on. I believe you are incapable
of an unselfish feeling. Your love I detest, and every word you have
spoken since you told me of it has only made me think worse of you. You
thought you could buy me, and if your heart is heavy it is only because
you have not succeeded--because I will not sell myself. I dare say you
have plenty of money, but if you had ten times as much you couldn't buy
a better opinion of you than I have given. My only wish is never to see
you again. I wish I could forget you! I detest you! I detest you!”
Not one word did he reply; nor had he listened to her excited words
with any show of interest; but his eyes continued cast down, and the
expression of his face was still dark and strangely abstracted.
For some moments she remained standing before him, still white and
trembling with the strength of her emotions; then turning, she walked
away through the trees. He did not follow her this time; and when, still
fearing, she cast back one hurried glance at him from a considerable
distance, he was sitting motionless in the same attitude, with eyes
fixed on the ground before him.