Fan
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Henry Harford >> Fan
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"Oh, Miss Churton, I have never disliked you! I like you very, very much
--I cannot say how much!" But even while this assurance sprang
spontaneously from her lips, she remembered Mary's warning words, and her
heart was secretly troubled, for that old danger which she had ceased to
fear had now unexpectedly returned.
"Do you really like me so much, Fan?" said Constance, taking the girl's
hand and holding it against her cheek. "I have thought as much sometimes
--I have almost been sure of it. But you fear me for some reason; you are
shy and reticent when with me, and out of lesson-time you avoid my
company. You imagine that it would be wrong to love me, or that if you
cannot help liking me you must hide the feeling in your heart."
It startled Fan to find that her companion was so well able to read her
thoughts, but she assented unhesitatingly to what the other had said.
This approach to confidence began to seem strangely sweet to her, all the
sweeter perhaps because so perilous; and that contact of her hand with
the other's soft warm cheek gave her an exquisite pleasure.
"And will you not tell me why you fear me?" asked Constance again.
"I should like you to know so much ... but perhaps it would not be right
for me to say it ... I wish I knew--I wish I knew."
"I know, Fan--I am perfectly sure that I know, and will save you the
trouble and pain of telling it. Shall I tell you? and then perhaps I
shall be able to convince you that you have no reason to be afraid of
me."
"I wish you would," eagerly returned Fan.
"My mother has prejudiced you against me, Fan. She imagines that if we
were intimate and friendly together my influence would be injurious, that
it would destroy the effect of the religious instruction she gives."
"I do not understand you," said Fan, looking unmistakably puzzled.
"No? And yet I thought it so plain. My mother has told you that I am not
religious--in _her_ way, that is--that I am not a Christian. She
does not know really; I do not go about telling people what I believe or
disbelieve, and prefer to say nothing about religion for fear of hurting
any person's feelings. But that is not her way, and through what she has
said at the vicarage, and elsewhere about me I am now looked upon as one
to be avoided. I see you are reading _The Pleasures of Hope_. Let me
have it. Do you see this passage with pencil-marks against it, and all
the words underscored?
"Ah me! the laurel wreath that Murder rears,
Blood-nursed, and watered by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the nightshade round the sceptic head.
"These words were marked for my benefit--this is what she thinks of me
--her own daughter--because I cannot agree with her in everything she
believes!" And here she flung the volume disdainfully on the grass. "When
I agreed to be your teacher I never imagined that such things would have
been put into your head. Her anxiety about your spiritual welfare made it
seem right in her eyes to do so, I suppose. But I should not have harmed
you, my dear girl, or interfered with your religion in any way; she might
have given me that much credit. When she knew how lonely my life was, and
how much your affection would have been to me, it was unkind of her to
set you also against me from the first."
All this came as a complete surprise on her listener, who now for the
first time began to understand the reason of the estrangement of mother
and daughter. But Constance was allowed to finish her speech without
interruption. She said more than she had meant to say, but her feelings
had carried her away, and when she finished it was with a half-suppressed
sob.
"Dear Miss Churton, I am so sorry you are unhappy," said Fan at length,
taking her hand. "I did not know you were not a Christian, nor why it was
that you and Mrs. Churton were always so cold to each other. But it would
have made no difference if I had known, because--I am not religious."
Constance looked at her.
"What do you mean by that, Fan?" she said. "It is my turn now, it seems,
to say that I do not understand you."
The other hesitated; then she remembered the carpenter's words, and began
a little doubtfully:
"I mean that I do not think that going to church and--reading the Bible,
and praying, and all that, make any difference. I think we can be good
without that--don't you, Miss Churton? I wish I could tell you better--it
seems so hard to say it. But Mrs. Churton never said anything to me about
you--in that way--I mean about your religion."
Constance listened to all this with the greatest surprise. That this very
simple-minded girl, impressible as soft wax as it seemed to her, should
think independently about such a subject as religion, and that she should
hold views so opposed to those which Mrs. Churton had for several months
been diligently instilling into her mind, seemed almost incredible. The
second statement was nearly as surprising, so sure had she been that her
suspicions were well-founded. "Then I have been very unjust to my mother
in this instance," she said, "and am very sorry I spoke so warmly about
older things which should be forgotten." After an interval of silence she
continued, withdrawing her hand from the other, "I can make no further
guess, Fan; and if you have any secret reason for keeping apart from me
you must forgive me for speaking to you and trying to win your
confidence."
Fan was more distressed than ever now, and the tears started to her eyes
as she felt that the distance was once more widening between them, and
that it all depended on herself whether she was to drink from this sweet
cup or set it down again scarcely tasted.
"I must tell you, Miss Churton," she said at length; and then, not
without much hesitation and difficulty, she explained Miss Starbrow's
views with regard to the impossibility of a woman, or of a girl like her,
loving more than one person, or having more than one friend.
Constance gave a laugh, which, however, she quickly checked.
"Dear Fan," she said, "does not your own heart tell you that it is all a
mistake? And if you feel that you do love me, do you not know from your
own experience, whether you hide the feeling or not, that your love for
others, and chiefly for so dear a friend as Miss Starbrow, remains just
as strong as before?"
Fan gladly answered in the affirmative.
"We are all liable to strange errors about different things, and Miss
Starbrow is certainly in error about this. Besides, my dear girl, we
can't always love or not love as we like; the feeling comes to us
spontaneously, like the wind that blows where it listeth. Be sure that we
are not such poor creatures that we cannot love more than one person at a
time. But Miss Starbrow is not singular in her opinion--if it is her
opinion. I have heard men say that although a man's large heart can
harbour many friendships, a woman is incapable of having more than one
friendship at any time. That is a man's opinion, and therefore it is not
strange that it should be a wrong one, since only a woman can know the
things of a woman. How strange that Miss Starbrow should have so mean an
opinion of her own sex!"
Fan then remembered something which she imagined might throw some light
on this dark subject. "I know," she said, "that she always prefers men to
women for friends. I have heard her say that she hates women."
Constance laughed again.
"She does not hate herself--that is impossible; and that she did not hate
you, Fan, is very evident. Don't you think that, intimate as you were
with Miss Starbrow, you did not always quite understand her way of
speaking, that you took her words too literally? You know now that she
did not really mean it when she spoke of hating women, and perhaps she
did not really mean what she said about your being unable to love more
than one person."
"Yes; I think you are right. I know that she does not always mean what
she says. I am sure you are right."
"And will you be my friend then, and love me a little?"
"You know that I love you dearly, and it makes me so happy to think that
we are friends. But tell me, dear Miss Churton--"
"If we are really friends now you must call me Constance."
"Oh, I shall like that best. Dear Constance, do you think when I write to
Mary that I must tell her all we have talked about?"
"No," said the other, after a moment's reflection. "It is not necessary,
and would not be fair to me, as we have been speaking about her. But you
must be just as open about everything, as I suppose it is your nature to
be, and conceal nothing about your feelings towards others. I do not
think for a moment that you will offend her by being good friends with
your teacher."
That assurance and advice removed the last shadow of anxiety from Fan's
mind, and after some more conversation they returned home, both feeling
very much happier than when they had started for this eventful walk.
CHAPTER XXII
Mrs. Churton was quickly made aware of the now in one sense improved
relations between the girls when they returned from their walk; and with
that new hope in her heart she was not displeased to see it, although its
suddenness startled her a little. She did not know until the following
morning how great the change was. She was an early riser, and hearing
voices and laughter in the garden while dressing, she looked out of the
window, and saw the girls walking in the path, Constance with an open
book in her hand, while Fan at her side had an arm affectionately thrown
over her teacher's shoulder. It was a pretty sight, but it troubled her;
she had not expected so close a friendship as that, which had made them
rise so long before their usual time for the pleasure of being together.
If, after all, a vain hope had deluded her, then there might be an
exceedingly sad end to her experiment. With deep anxiety and returning
jealousy she reflected that the simple-minded affectionate girl might
prove as wax in the hands of her clever godless daughter. But it was too
soon to intervene and try to undo her own work. She would watch and wait,
and hope still that the infinite beauty and preciousness of a childlike
faith would touch the stony heart that nothing had touched, and win back
the wandering feet to the ways of pleasantness.
From her watching nothing much resulted for some days, although she soon
began to suspect that Fan now wore a look of patience, almost of
weariness, whenever she was spoken to on religious subjects, that it
seemed a relief to her when the lesson was finished, and she could go
back to Constance. They were constantly together now, in and out of
doors, and the woods had become their daily haunt. And one day they met
with an adventure. Arriving about three o'clock at their favourite tree,
they saw a young man in a dark blue cycling costume lying on the grass
with his hands clasped behind his head, and gazing up into the leafy
depths above him. At the same moment he saw them, standing and hesitating
which way to turn; and in a moment he sprang to his feet. He was a
handsome young fellow, a little below the medium height, clean shaved,
with black hair and very dark blue eyes, which looked black; his features
were very fine, and his skin, although healthy-looking, colourless.
"I perceive that I am an intruder here," he said with a smile, and with
an admiring glance at Miss Churton's face.
"Oh, no," she returned, with heightened colour. "This wood is free to
all; we can soon find another spot for ourselves."
"But it is evident that you were coming to sit here," he said, still
smiling. "I suppose you have done so on former occasions, so that you
have acquired a kind of prescriptive right to this place. I am putting it
on very low grounds, you see," he added with a slight laugh, and raising
his cap was about to turn away; but just at that moment he glanced at
Fan, who had been standing a little further away, watching his face with
very great interest. He started, looked greatly surprised, then quickly
recovering his easy self-possessed manner, advanced and held out his hand
to her. "How do you do?" he said. "How strange to meet you here! You have
not forgotten me, I hope?"
Fan had taken his hand. "Oh, no, Mr. Chance," she returned, blushing a
little, "I remember you very well."
"I'm very glad you do. But I am ashamed to have to confess that though I
remember your Christian name very well I can't recall your surname. I
only remember that it is an uncommon one."
"My name is Affleck. But you only saw me once, and it is not strange you
should have forgotten it."
It was true that she had only seen him once; for in spite of the brave
words he had spoken to Miss Starbrow after she had rejected his offer of
marriage, he had never returned to her house. But Fan had heard first and
last a great deal about him, and Mary had even told her the story of that
early morning declaration, not without some scornful laughter.
Nevertheless at this distance from town it seemed very pleasant to see
him once more. It was like meeting an old acquaintance, and vividly
brought back her life in Dawson Place with Mary.
For some minutes he stood talking to her, asking after Miss Starbrow and
herself, and saying that since he left Bayswater he had greatly missed
those delightful evenings; but while he talked to Fan he glanced
frequently at the beautiful face of her companion. Once or twice their
eyes met, and Mr. Chance, judging from what he saw that he had made a
somewhat favourable impression, in his easy way, and with a little
apology, asked Fan to introduce him. This little ceremony over, they all
sat down on the grass and spent an hour very agreeably in conversation.
He told them that he was spending a month's holiday in a bicycle ramble
through the south-west of England, and had turned aside to see the
village of Eyethorne and its woods, which he had heard were worth a
visit. From local scenery the conversation passed by an easy transition
to artistic and literary subjects; in a very short time Fan ceased to
take any part in it, and was satisfied to listen to this new kind of duet
in which harmony of mind was substituted for that of melodious sound.
With a pleased wonder, which was almost like a sense of mystery, she
followed them in this rapid interchange of thoughts about things so
remote from every-day life. They mentioned a hundred names unknown to
her--of those who had lived in ancient times and had written poems in
many languages, and of artists whose works they had never seen and could
yet describe; and in all these far-off things they seemed as deeply
interested as Mrs. Churton was in her religion, her parish work, and her
housekeeping. How curious it was to note their familiarity with an
endless variety of subjects, so that one could not say anything without a
look of quick intelligence and ready sympathy from the other! How well
they seemed to know each other's minds! They were talking familiarly as
if they had been acquainted all their lives!
To Constance the pleasure was more real and far greater; for not only had
her unfortunate opinions concerning matters of faith separated her from
her few educated neighbours, but in that rustic and sleepy-minded spot
there were none among them, excepting the curate, who took any interest
in literary and philosophical questions. Her friends were not the people
she knew, but the authors whose works she purchased with shillings saved
out of the small quarterly allowance her mother made her for dress. These
were the people she really knew and loved, and their thoughts were of
infinitely deeper import to her than the sayings and doings of the men
and women of her little world. In such circumstances, how pleasant it was
to meet with this young stranger, engaging in his manner and attractive
in appearance, and to converse freely with him on the subjects that
constantly occupied her thoughts. There was a glow of happy excitement on
her face, her eyes shone, she laughed in a free glad way, as Fan had
never heard her laugh before; she was surprised at the extent of her own
knowledge--at that miracle of memory, when many fine thoughts, long
forgotten, and multitudes of strange facts, and glowing passages in verse
and prose, came back uncalled to her mind; and above all she was
surprised at a ready eloquence which she had never suspected herself
capable of.
Merton Chance had often conversed with clever and beautiful women, but
this country girl surprised him with the extent of her reading, her
vivacity and wit, and quick sympathy; and the more they talked the more
he admired her.
Then insensibly their conversation took a graver tone, and they passed to
other themes, which, to Constance at least, had a deeper and more
enduring interest. In all philosophical questions she could follow and
even go beyond him, although she didn't know it, and very soon they made
the discovery that towards the faith still professed by a large majority
of their fellow-beings their attitude was the same. Or so it appeared to
Constance. Christianity was one of the forms in which the universal
religious sentiment had found expression for a period among a large
portion of the human race. They were not agnostics, so they both
declared, and yet were contented to be called so by others, not yet
having invented a word better than this one of the materialistic
Professor Huxley to describe themselves by. They had moved onwards and
had left the creed of the Christian behind them, yet were confident that
the vast unbounded prospect before them would not always rest obscured
with clouds. But what the new thing was to be they knew not. Time would
reveal it. They were not left without something to cheer them--gleams of
a spiritual light which, although dim and transient, yet foretold the
perfect day. Like so many others among the choice spirits of the earth,
they turned their eyes this way and that, considering now the hard and
pitiless facts of biology and physics, now the new systems of philosophy,
that come like shadows and so depart, and now the vague thoughts, or
thoughts vaguely expressed, of those the careless world calls mystics and
wild-minded visionaries; and after it all they were fain to confess that
the waters have not yet abated; and that although for them there could be
no return to the ark, they were still without any rest for the soles of
their feet.
If, instead of that young ignorant girl, their listener had been a grey-
haired disillusioned man, he would have shaken his head, and perhaps
remarked that they were a couple of foolish dreamers, that the light
which inspired such splendid hopes was a light from the past--a dying
twilight left in their souls by that sun of faith which for them had set.
But there was nothing to disturb their pleasing self-complacency--no
mocking skeleton to spoil their rare intellectual feast.
Merton was not yet satisfied, he wished to go more fully into these great
subjects, and pressed her with more and more searching questions.
Constance, on her side, grew more reticent, and seemed troubled in her
mind, glancing occasionally into his face; and at length, dropping her
hand on Fan's, who still listened but without understanding, she said
that for reasons which could not be stated, which he would be able to
guess, further discussion had better be deferred.
He assented with a smile, and returning her look with quick intelligence.
The talk drifted into other channels, and at length they all rose to
their feet, but he did not go at once. He began to ask Fan about her
botanical studies, one of the subjects which Constance had taught her. He
had, he said, studied botany at school and was very fond of it. Presently
he became much interested in a plant, a creeper, hanging from a low shrub
about twenty-five or thirty yards from where they were standing, and Fan
at once started off to get a spray for him to see.
"I am very glad, Miss Churton, that our discussion is only to be
_deferred,"_ he said. "It has interested me more deeply than you can
imagine, and for various reasons I should be glad to go further with it."
She did not reply, although looking pleased at his words, and then he
continued:
"I cannot bear to think of leaving this place without seeing you again. I
wished for one thing--please don't think me very egotistical for saying
it--to tell you about some little papers I am writing, and one or two of
which have been printed in a periodical. I think the subject would
interest you. Will you think me very bold, Miss Churton, if I ask you to
let me call on you at your home?"
His request troubled her, and after a little hesitation she answered:
"I shall be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Chance, and perhaps if I tell
you why I can scarcely do what you ask you will not think hardly of me. I
cannot open my lips at home on the subject we have been discussing, and I
am looked on coldly here, in my own village, on account of my heterodox
opinions. My mother would receive you well, but she would think it wrong
in me to invite a sympathiser to the house."
"Then, Miss Churton, how lonely your life must be!"
"You must not think more about me, Mr. Chance."
"You are asking too much," he answered smiling, and the words brought a
blush to her cheek. "But I cannot bear to go away from Eyethorne without
seeing you once more. May I hope to meet you tomorrow in this place?"
"I cannot promise that. But if--no, I cannot say more now."
Fan was back with a spray of the plant, but he had somehow lost all
interest in it. That about his botany had all been pure fiction; but it
had served its purpose, and now, he regretfully remarked, his plant-lore,
he found, had completely faded from his mind. And after a little further
conversation he shook hands and left them.
CHAPTER XXIII
On their way home the conversation of the girls turned chiefly on their
encounter with Mr. Chance. Constance displayed an unusual amount of
feminine curiosity, and asked a great many questions about him. Fan had
nothing to tell, for she dared not tell what she knew. It was a
peculiarity of her character, that if she knew anything to a person's
disadvantage she was anxious to conceal it, as if it had been something
reflecting on herself; apart from this, she felt that Miss Starbrow's
description of Mr. Chance would not be what Miss Churton wished to hear.
For it was plain that Constance had been favourably impressed, and had
taken Merton at his own valuation, which was a high one. While she kept
silence it troubled her to think that one who had been despised and
ridiculed by Mary should be highly esteemed by Constance, since she now
loved (or worshipped) them both in an equal degree.
At the gate it all at once occurred to her to ask whether she should tell
Mrs. Churton about meeting Mr. Chance in the wood or not.
"You may tell her if you like," said the other after a little hesitation.
"He is a friend of Miss Starbrow's; it was only natural that we should
talk with him." Then she added, "I shall say nothing about it, simply
because mother and I never talk about anything. You needn't mention it
unless you care to, Fan. I really don't believe that mother would feel
any interest in the subject."
She reddened a little after speaking, knowing that she had been slightly
disingenuous. Fan understood from her face more than from her words what
she really wished.
"Then I shall not say anything, unless Mrs. Churton asks me about our
walk, and if we met anyone," she returned.
But nothing was asked and nothing told.
At dinner next day Constance heard that Fan was going out with Mrs.
Churton to visit a neighbour. A bright look came into her expressive
face, followed by a swift blush, but she said nothing, and after dinner
went back to her room. As soon as the others had left the house she began
to dress for a walk, paying a great deal more attention to herself at the
glass than she was accustomed to do. Her luxuriant brown hair was brushed
out and rearranged, her artful fingers allowing three or four small locks
to escape and lie unconfined on her forehead and temples. She studied her
face very closely, thinking a great deal about that peculiar shade of
colour which she saw there. But her own face was so familiar to her, how
could she tell what another would think of it, and whether to city eyes
that brown tint would not make it look less like the face of a Rosalind
than of an Audrey? With her dress she was altogether dissatisfied, and
there was nothing to give a touch of beauty to it but a poor flower--a
half-open rose--which she pinned on her bosom. Then she envied Fan her
beautiful watch and chain, the half-score of rings, bangles, and brooches
which Miss Starbrow had given her; and this reminded her of an ornament
she possessed, an old-fashioned gold brooch with an amethyst in it, and
which in the pride of philosophy she had looked on with a good deal of
contempt. Now the rose was flung away, and the despised jewel put in its
place. Taking her book and sunshade she finally left the house, and
turned her steps towards the wood. Scarcely had she left the gate behind
before a tumult of doubts and fears began to assail her. She was hurrying
away alone to the wood, glad to be alone, solely to meet Mr. Chance.
Would he not at once divine the reason of her strange readiness to obey
his wishes? Could she in her present agitated state, with her cheek full
of hot blushes, and her heart throbbing so that it almost choked her,
hide her secret from him? This thought frightened her and she slackened
her pace, and argued that it would be better not to go to the wood, not
to run the risk of such a self-betrayal and humiliation. But perhaps he
would not come after all to meet her, for no appointment had been made,
and no promise of any kind given--why should she be so anxious in her
mind about it? It gave her a pang to think that the meeting and
conversation which had been so important an event in her life were
perhaps very little to him, that they were perhaps fading out of his mind
already, and would soon be, like his botanical knowledge, altogether
forgotten. Perhaps he was even now on the road speeding away far from
Eyethorne on his bicycle. Then the fear that she might betray her secret
was overmastered by this new fear that she would never see him again,
that he had gone out of her life for ever; and she quickened her slow
steps once more, and at last gaining the wood, and coming to the spot
where she had parted from him, and not finding him there, her excitement
left her, and she sat down with a pang of bitter disappointment in her
heart.
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