Fan

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Next day, after moving into their new quarters, Constance wrote her
letter, addressing it to the Foreign Office, posting it herself in the
nearest pillar-box, and then settled herself down to wait the result. It
was weary waiting, she found, when the next morning's post brought her no
answer, and when the whole day passed and no Merton came, and no message.
She was restless and anxious, and in a feverish state of anxiety, fearing
she knew not what; but outwardly she bore herself calmly; and remembering
with some resentment still how little her engagement had seemed to
rejoice her friend, she proudly held her peace. But she would not leave
the house, for the lover might come at any moment, and it would not do to
be out of the way when he arrived. She remained indoors, pretending to be
much occupied with her writing, while Fan went out for long walks alone.
The next day passed in like manner, the two friends less in harmony and
less together than ever; and when still another morning came and brought
no letter, Fan began to feel extremely unhappy in her mind, for now the
long-continued strain was beginning to tell on her friend, robbing her
cheeks of their rich colour, and filling her hazel eyes with a great
unexpressed trouble. But on that day about three o'clock, while Constance
sat at her window, which commanded a view of the street, she saw a
hansom-cab arrive at the door, and the welcome form of her lover spring
rapidly out and run up the steps. He had come to her at last! But why had
he left her so long to suffer? She heard his steps bounding up the
stairs, and stood trembling with excitement, her hand pressed to her
wildly-beating heart. One glance at his face was enough to show her that
her fears had been idle, that her lover's heart had not changed towards
her; the next moment she was in his arms, feeling for the first time his
kisses on her lips. After the excitement of meeting was over,
explanations followed, and Merton informed her that he had only just
received her letter, and greatly blamed himself for not having sent her
his new address immediately after having left the Foreign Office.

"Left the Foreign Office! Do you mean for good?" asked Constance in a
kind of dismay.

"I hope for good," he replied, smiling at her serious face. "The
uncongenial work I had to do there has chafed me for a long time. It
interfered with the real and serious business of my life, and I threw it
up with a light heart. I must be absolutely free and master of my own
time before I can do, and do well, the work for which I am fitted."

"But, dear Merton, you told me that your work was so light there, and
that the salary you had relieved you from all anxiety, and left you free
to follow the bent of your own mind in literary work."

"Did I? That was one of my foolish speeches then. However light any work
may be, if it occupies you during the best hours of the day, it must to
some extent take the freshness out of you. And to look at the matter in a
practical way, I consider that I am a great gainer, since by resigning a
salary of L250 a year I put myself in a position to make five hundred. I
hope before very long to make a thousand."

His news had given a considerable shock to Constance, but he seemed so
confident of success, laughing gaily at her doubts, that in a little
while he succeeded in raising her spirits, and she began to believe that
this exceedingly clever young man had really done a wise thing in
throwing up an appointment which would have secured him against actual
want for the whole term of his life.

After a while she ventured to speak of her own plans and hopes. He
listened with a slight smile.

"I have not the slightest doubt that you could make your living in that
way," he said; "for how many do it who are not nearly so gifted as you
are! But, Connie, if I understand you rightly, you wish to begin making
money at once, and that is scarcely possible, as you have not been
doggedly working away for years to make yourself known and useful to
editors and publishers."

He then went very fully into this question, and concluded with a comical
description of the magazine editor as a very unhappy spider, against
whose huge geometric web there beats a continuous rain of dipterous
insects of every known variety, besides innumerable nondescripts. The
poor spider, unable to eat and digest more than about half a dozen to a
dozen flies every month, was forced to spend his whole time cutting and
dropping his useless captures from the web. As a rule Merton did not talk
in this strain: the editors had cut away too many of his own nondescript
dipterous contributions to their webs for him to love them; but for some
mysterious reason it suited him just now to take the side of the enemy in
the old quarrel of author _versus_ editor.

"Do you think then that I have made a mistake in coming to London?" she
asked despondingly.

He smiled and drew her closer to him. "Connie, dear, I am exceedingly
glad you did come, for there is no going back, you say; and now that you
are here there is only one thing to do to smooth the path for us, and
that is--to consent to marry me at once."

This did not accord with her wishes at all. To consent would be to
confess herself beaten, and that dream of coming to London and keeping
herself, for a time at all events, by means of her own work, had been so
long and so fondly cherished, and she wished so much to be allowed to
make the trial. But he pleaded so eloquently that in the end he overcame
her reluctance.

"I will promise to do what you wish," she said, "if after you have
thought it over for a few days you should still continue in the same
mind. But, Merton, I hope you will not think me too careful and anxious
if I ask you whether it does not seem imprudent, when you have just given
up your salary and are only beginning to work at something different, to
marry a penniless girl? You have told me that you have no money, and that
you cannot look to your relations for any assistance."

"By no money I simply meant no fortune. Of course we could not get
married without funds, and just now I have a couple of hundreds standing
to my credit in the bank. If we are careful, and content to begin married
life in apartments, we need not spend any more than I am spending now by
myself."

He omitted to say that this money was all that was left of a legacy of
L500 which had come to him from an aunt, and that he had been spending it
pretty freely. His words only gave the impression that he knew the value
of money, and was not one to act without careful consideration.

They were still discussing this point when Fan came in, and after shaking
hands with their visitor sat down in her hat and jacket. Merton, after
expressing his regret that she had lost her protectress, proceeded to
make some remarks about Miss Starbrow's eccentric temper. Nothing which
that lady did, he said, surprised him in the least. Fan sat with eyes
cast down; she looked pale and fatigued, and her face clouded at his
words; then murmuring some excuse, she rose and went to her bedroom.

"I must warn you, Merton," said Constance, "that Fan can't endure to hear
anything said in dispraise of Miss Starbrow. I have discovered that it is
the one subject about which she is capable of losing her temper and
quarrelling with her best friend."

"Is that so?" he returned, laughingly. "Then she must be as eccentric as
Miss Starbrow herself. But what does the poor girl intend doing--she must
do something to live, I suppose?"

Constance told him all about Fan's projects. "Why do you smile?" she
said. "You do not approve, I suppose?"

"You are mistaken, Connie. I neither approve nor disapprove. She does not
ask us to shape her future life for her, and we owe her thanks for that."

"Yes, but still you are a little shocked that she has not set her mind on
something a little higher."

"Not at all. On the contrary. It is really disgusting to find how many
there are who take 'Excelsior' for their motto. In a vast majority of
cases they get killed by falling over a precipice, or smothered in the
snow, or crawl back to the lower levels to go through life as frost-
bitten, crippled, pitiful objects. You can see scores of these would-be
climbers any day in the streets of London, and know them by their faces.
If you are not a real Whymper it is better not to be in the crowd of
foolish beings who imagine themselves Whympers, but to rest content, like
Fan, in the valley below. I am very glad not to be asked for advice, but
if you ask my opinion I can say, judging from what I have seen of Fan,
that I believe she has made a wise choice. Her capabilities and
appearance would make her a very nice shop-girl."

"Oh, you have too poor an opinion of her!" exclaimed Constance.
Nevertheless she could not help thinking that he was perhaps right. It
was very pleasant to listen to him, this eloquent lover of hers, to see
how

With a Reaumur's skill his curious mind
Classed the insect tribes of human kind.

It was impossible to doubt that _he_, at any rate, would know very
well where to set his foot on those perilous heights to which he aspired.

Later in the evening the lovers went out for a walk, from which Constance
came home looking very bright and happy. The girls slept together, and
after going to bed that night there was a curious little scene between
them, in which Fan's part was a very passive one. "Darling, we have
talked so little since we have been here," said Constance, putting her
arm round her friend, "and now I have got so many things to say to you."
And as Fan seemed anxious to hear her story, she began to talk first
about Merton's wish for an early marriage, but before long she discovered
that her companion had fallen asleep. Then she withdrew her arm and
turned away disgusted, all the story of her happiness untold. "I verily
believe," she said to herself, "that I have credited Fan with a great
deal more sensibility than she possesses. To drop asleep like a plough-
boy the moment I begin to talk to her--how little she cares about my
affairs! I think Merton must be right in what he said about her. She is
very keen and wideawake about her shop, and seems to think and care for
nothing else." Much more she thought in her vexation, and then glanced
back at the face at her side, so white and pure and still, framed in its
unbound golden hair, so peaceful and yet with a shade of sadness mingling
with its peacefulness; and having looked, she could not withdraw her
eyes. "How beautiful she looks," said Constance, relenting a little. And
then, "Poor child, she must have overtired herself to-day.... And perhaps
it is not strange that she has shown herself so cold about my engagement.
She thinks that Merton is taking me away from her. She is grieving
secretly at the thought of losing me, as she lost her bitter, cruel-
hearted Mary. Oh, dearest, I am not so fantastical as that woman, and you
shall never lose me. Married or single, rich or poor, and wherever you
may be, in or out of a shop, my soul shall cleave to you as it did at
Eyethorne, and I shall love you as I love no other woman--always,
always." And bending she lightly kissed the still white face; but Fan
slept soundly and the light kiss disturbed her not.

CHAPTER XXVII

The next few days were devoted to sightseeing under Merton's guidance,
and a better-informed cicerone they could not well have had. The little
cloud between the girls had quite passed away; and Fan, who was not
always abnormally drowsy after dark, listened to her friend's story and
entered into all her plans. Then a visit to the National Gallery was
arranged for a day when Merton would only have a few hours of the
afternoon to spare: he was now devoting his energies to the business of
climbing. At three o'clock they were to meet at Piccadilly Circus, but
the girls were early on the scene, as they wished to have an hour first
in Regent Street. To unaccustomed country eyes the art treasures
displayed in the shop-windows there are as much to be admired as the
canvases in Trafalgar Square. They passed a large drapery establishment
with swinging doors standing open, and the sight of the rich interior
seemed to have a fascinating effect on Fan. She lingered behind her
companion, gazing wistfully in--a poor, empty-handed peri at the gates of
Paradise. Long room succeeded long room, until they appeared to melt away
in the dim distance; the floors were covered with a soft carpet of a dull
green tint, and here and there were polished red counters, and on every
side were displayed dresses and mantles artistically arranged, and
textures of all kinds and in all soft beautiful colours. Within a few
ladies were visible, moving about, or seated; but it was the hour of
luncheon, when little shopping was done, and the young ladies of the
establishment, the assistants, seemed to have little to occupy them. They
were very fine-looking girls, all dressed alike in black, but their
dresses were better in cut and material than shop-girls usually wear,
even in the most fashionable establishments. At length Fan withdrew her
longing eyes, and turned away, remarking with a sigh, "Oh, how I should
like to be in such a place!"

"Should you?" said Constance. "Well, let's go in and ask if there is a
vacancy. You must make a beginning, you know."

"But, Constance, we can't do that! I don't know how to begin, but I'm
sure you can't get a place by going into a grand shop and asking in that
way."

"Possibly not; but there's no harm in asking. Come, and I'll be
spokesman, and take all the dreadful consequences on my own head. Come,
Fan."

And in she walked, boldly enough, and after a moment's hesitation the
other followed. When they had proceeded a dozen or twenty steps a young
man, a shop-walker, came treading softly to them, and with profoundest
respect in his manner, and in a voice trained to speak so low that at a
distance of about twenty-five inches it would have been inaudible, begged
to know to which department he could have the pleasure of directing them.
He was a very good-looking, or perhaps it would be more correct to say a
very _beautiful_ young man, with raven-black hair, glossy and
curled, and parted down the middle of his shapely head, and a beautiful
small moustache to match. His eyes were also dark and fine, and all his
features regular. His figure was as perfect as his face; many a wealthy
man, made ugly by that mocker Nature, would have gladly given half his
inheritance in exchange for such a physique; and his coat of finest cloth
fitted him to perfection, and had evidently been built by some tailor as
celebrated for his coats as Morris for his wall-papers, and Leighton for
his pictures of ethereal women.

Constance, a little surprised at being obsequiously addressed by so
exquisite a person, stated the object of their visit. He looked
surprised, and, losing his obsequiousness, replied that he was not aware
that an assistant had been advertised for. She explained that they had
seen no advertisement, but had merely come in to inquire, as her friend
wished to get a situation in a shop. He smiled at her innocence--he even
smiled superciliously--and, with no deference left in his manner, told
them shortly that they had made a great mistake, and was about to show
them out, when, wonderful to relate, all at once a great change came over
his beautiful countenance, and he stood rooted to the spot, cringing,
confused, crimson to the roots of his raven ringlets. His sudden collapse
had been caused by the sight of a pair of cold, keen grey eyes, with an
expression almost ferocious in them, fixed on his face. They belonged to
an elderly man with a short grizzly beard and podgy nose; a short,
square, ugly man, who had drawn near unperceived with cat-like steps, and
was attentively listening to the shop-walker's words, and marking his
manner. He was the manager.

"I am sorry I made a mistake," said Constance a little stiffly, and
turned to go.

The young man made no reply. The manager, still keeping his basilisk eyes
on him, nodded sharply, as if to say, "Go and have your head taken off."
Then he turned to the girls.

"One moment, young ladies," he said. "Kindly step this way, and let me
know just what you want."

They followed him into a small private office, where he placed chairs for
them, and then allowed Constance to repeat what he had already heard, and
to add a few particulars about Fan's history. He appeared to be paying
but little attention to what she said; while she spoke he was keenly
studying their faces--first hers, then Fan's.

"There is no vacancy at present," he replied at length. "Besides, when
there is one, which is not often, we usually have the names of several
applicants who are only waiting to be engaged by us. We have always
plenty to choose from, and of course select the one that offers the
greatest advantages--experience, for instance; and you say that your
friend has no experience. The fact is," he continued, expanding still
more, "our house is so well known that scores of young ladies would be
glad at any moment to throw up the places they have in other
establishments to be taken on here."

Constance rose from her seat.

"It was hardly necessary," she said, with some dignity, "to bring us
into your private office to tell us all this, since we already knew that
we had made a mistake in coming."

"Wait a minute," he returned, with a grim smile. "Please sit down again.
I understand that it is for your friend and not for yourself. Well, I
find it hard to say--" and here with keenly critical eyes he looked first
at her, then at Fan, making little nods and motions with his head, and
moving his lips as if very earnestly talking to himself. "All I can say
is this," he continued, "if this young lady is willing to come for a
month without pay to learn the business, and afterwards, should she suit
us, to remain at a salary of eighteen shillings a week and her board for
the first six months, why, then I might be willing to engage her. You can
give a reference, I suppose?"

Both girls were fairly astonished at the sudden turn the affair had
taken, and could scarcely credit their own senses, so illogically did
this keen grim man seem to act. They did not know his motive.

Not to make a secret of a very simple matter, he thought a great deal
more than most men in his way of life about personal appearance. He made
it an object to have only assistants with fine figures and pretty faces,
with the added advantage of a pleasing manner. When he discovered that
these two young ladies with graceful figures and refined, beautiful
faces had not come into the shop to purchase anything, but in quest of an
engagement for one of them, he instantly resolved not to let slip so good
an opportunity of adding to his collection of fair women. It was not that
he had any soft spot in his heart with regard to pretty women: so long as
his assistants did their duty, he treated them all with the strictest
impartiality, blonde or brunette, grave or gay, and was somewhat stern in
his manner towards them, and had an eagle's eye to detect their faults,
which were never allowed to go unpunished. He worshipped nothing but his
shop, and he had pretty girls in it for the same reason that he had
Adonises for shop-walkers, artistically-dressed windows, and an
aristocratic-looking old commissionaire at the door--namely, to make it
more attractive.

It is true that some great dames, with thin lips, oblique noses, green
complexions, and clay-coloured eyes, hate to be served by a damsel
wearing that effulgent unbought crown of beauty which makes all other
crowns seem such pitiful tinsel gewgaws to the sick soul. That was one
disadvantage, but it was greatly overweighed by a general preference for
beauty over ugliness. The flower-girl with beautiful eyes stands a better
chance than her squinting sister of selling a penny bunch of violets to
the next passer-by. If a girl ceased to look ornamental, however
intelligent or trustworthy she might be, he got rid of her at once
without scruple. His seeming hesitation when he spoke to the girls before
making his offer was due simply to the fact that he was mentally occupied
in comparing them together. Both so perfect in figure, face, manner
--which would he have taken if he had had the choice given him?

For some moments he half regretted that it was not the more developed,
richer-coloured girl with the bronzed tresses who had aspired to join his
staff. Then he shook his head: that exquisite brown tint would not last
for ever in the shade, and the bearing was also just a shade too proud.
He considered the other, with the slimmer figure, the far more delicate
skin, the more eloquent eyes, and he concluded that he had got the best
of the pair.

"I should so like to come," said Fan, for they were both waiting for her
to speak, "but am afraid that I can give no reference."

"Oh, Fan, surely you can!" said the other.

"I have no friend but you, Constance; I could not write to Mary now."

The other considered a little.

"Oh, yes; there is Mr. Northcott," she said, then turning to the manager
asked, "Will the name of a clergyman in the country place where Miss
Affleck has spent the last year be sufficient?"

"Yes, that will do very well," he said, giving her pencil and paper to
write the name and address. Then he asked a few questions about Fan's
attainments, and seemed pleased to hear that she had learnt dressmaking
and embroidery. "So much the better," he said. "You can come to-morrow to
receive instructions about your dress, and to hear when your attendance
will begin. The hours are from half-past eight to half-past six.
Saturdays we close at two. You have breakfast when you come in, dinner at
twelve or one, tea at four. You must find your own lodgings, and it will
be better not to get them too far away."

"May I ask you not to write about Miss Affleck until to-morrow?"
Constance said. "I must write to-day first to Mr. Northcott to inform
him. He will be a little surprised, I suppose, that Miss Affleck is going
into a shop, but he will tell you all about her disposition, and"--with a
pause and a hot blush--"her respectability."

He smiled again grimly.

"I have no doubt that Miss Affleck is a lady by birth," he said. "But do
not run away with the idea that she is doing anything peculiar. There are
several daughters of gentlemen in our house, as she will probably
discover when she comes to associate with them."

"I am glad," said Constance, rising to go.

He was turning the paper with the address on in his hand. "You need not
trouble to write to this gentleman," he said. "I shall not write to him.
If you are fairly intelligent, Miss Affleck, and anxious to do your best,
you will do very well, I dare say. References are of little use to me; I
prefer to use my own judgment. But you must understand clearly that for
every dereliction there is a fine, which is deducted from the salary. A
printed copy of the rules will be given you. And you may be discharged at
a moment's notice at any time."

"Only for some grave fault, I suppose?" said Constance.

"Not necessarily," he returned.

"That seems hard."

"I do not trouble myself about that. The business is of more consequence
than any individual in it," he replied; and then walked to the door with
them and bowed them out with some ceremony.

For the rest of the day Fan was in a state of bewilderment at her own
great good fortune; for this engagement meant so much to her. That
horrible phantom, the fear of abject poverty, would follow her no more.
With L20 in hand and all Mary's presents, and eighteen shillings a week
in prospect, she considered herself rich; and with her evenings, her
Sundays and holidays to spend how she liked, and Constance always near,
how happy she would be! But why, when crowds of experienced girls were
waiting and anxiously wishing to get into this establishment, had she,
utterly ignorant of business, been taken in this sudden off-hand way? It
was a mystery to her, and a mystery also to the clever Constance, and to
the still more clever Merton when he was told about it. Unknowingly she
had submitted herself to a competitive examination in which useless
knowledge was not considered, and in which those who possessed pretty
faces and fine figures scored the most marks. After this she was scarcely
in the right frame to appreciate the works of art they went on to see.
That long interior in Regent Street, with its costly goods and pretty
elegantly-dressed girls, and perfumed glossy shop-walker, and ugly
bristling fierce-eyed manager, continually floated before her mental
vision, even when she looked on the most celebrated canvases--even on
those painted by Turner.

These same celebrated pieces startled Constance somewhat, although she
had come prepared by a childlike faith in Ruskin's infallibility to
worship them. She was, however, too frank to attempt to conceal her real
impressions, and then Merton consolingly informed her that no person
could appreciate a Turner before seeing it many times. One's first
impression is, that over this canvas the artist has dashed a bucket of
soap-suds, and over that a pot of red and yellow ochre. Well, after all,
what was a snowstorm but a bucket of soap-suds on a big scale! Call it
suds, a mad smudge, anything you like, but it was a miracle of art all
the same if it produced the effect aimed at, and gave one some idea of
that darkness and whiteness, and rush and mad mingling of elements, and
sublime confusion of nature.

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