Fan: Chapter 19
Chapter 19
The Monday morning, to which Fan had been looking forward with
considerable apprehension, brought no new and frightful experience: she
was not caught up and instantly plunged fathoms down beyond her depth
into that great cold ocean of knowledge; on the contrary, Miss Churton
merely took her for a not unpleasant ramble along the margin--that old
familiar margin where she had been accustomed to stray and dabble and
paddle in the safe shallows. Miss Churton was only making herself
acquainted with her pupil's mind, finding out what roots of knowledge
already existed there on which to graft new branches; and we know that
the time Fan had spent in the Board School had not been wasted. Miss
Churton was not shocked nor disappointed as her mother had been: the girl
had made some progress, and what she had learnt had not been wholly
forgotten.
If this easy going over old ground was a relief to Fan, she experienced
another and even a greater relief in her teacher's manner towards her.
She was gentle, patient, unruffled, explaining things so clearly, so
forcibly, so fully, as they had never been explained before, so that
learning became almost a delight; but with it all there was not the
slightest approach to that strange tenderness in speech and manner which
Fan had expected and had greatly feared. Feared, because she felt now
that she could not have resisted it; and how strange it seemed that her
finest quality, her best virtue, had become in this instance her greatest
enemy, and had to be fought against, just as some fight against the evil
that is in them.
But Miss Churton never changed. That first morning when she had, so to
speak, looked over her pupil's mind, seeking to discover her natural
aptitudes, was a type of all the succeeding days when they were together
at their studies. The girl's fears were quickly allayed; while Mrs.
Churton more slowly and little by little got over her unjust suspicions.
And the result was that with the exception of little petulant or
passionate outbreaks on the part of Mr. Churton, mere tempests in a tea-
cup, a novel and very welcome peace reigned at Wood End House. Between
mother and daughter there was only one quarrel more--the last battle
fought at the end of a long war. For a few days after that evening when
Constance had accompanied her to church, the poor woman almost succeeded
in persuading herself that a long-desired change was coming, that the
quiet curate, who had all learning, ancient and modern, at his finger-
ends, had succeeded at last in touching her daughter's hard heart, and in
at least partially lifting the scales that darkened her eyes. For he was
always seeking her out, conversing with her, and it was evident to her
mind that he had set himself to bring back that wanderer to the fold. But
the very next Sunday brought a great disillusion. As usual her daughter
did not go to church in the morning, but when the bells were calling to
evening service, and she stood with Fan ready to leave the house, she
still lingered, looking very pale, her hands trembling a little with her
agitation, afraid to go out too soon lest Constance should also be
coming. With sinking heart she at last came out, but before walking a
dozen yards she left Fan and went back to the house, and going up to her
daughter's bedroom, tapped at the door.
Constance opened it at once; her hat was on, and she had a book in her
hand.
"Are you not coming to church with us, Constance?" said the mother,
speaking low as if to conceal the fact that her heart was beating fast.
"No mother, I am only going to the garden to read."
Mrs. Churton turned aside, and then stood for some moments in doubt.
There was such a repelling coldness in her daughter's voice, but it was
hard to have all her sweet hopes shattered again!
"Is it because I have expected it this evening, Constance, and have asked
you to go? Then how unkind you are to me! Last Sunday evening you went
unsolicited."
"You are mistaken," returned the other quietly. "I am not and never have
been unkind. All the unkindness and the enmity, open and secret, has been
on your side. That you know, mother. And I did not go unasked last
Sunday. Do you wish to know why I went?"
"Why did you go?"
"Only to please Mr. Northcott, and because he asked me. He knew, I
suppose, as well as I did myself, that it makes no difference, but I
could not do less than go when he wished it, when he is the only person
here who treats me unlike a Christian."
_"Unlike_ a Christian! Constance, what do you mean?"
"I mean that he has treated me kindly, as one human being should treat
another, however much they may differ about speculative matters."
"May God forgive you for your wicked words, Constance."
"Leave me, mother; Fan is waiting, and you will be late at church. I have
not interfered with you in any way about the girl. Teach her what you
like, make much of her, and let her be your daughter. In return I only
ask to be left alone with my own thoughts."
Then Mrs. Churton went down and joined Fan, deeply disappointed, wounded
to the core and surprised as well. For hitherto in all their contests
she, the mother, had been the aggressor, as she could not help confessing
to herself, while Constance had always been singularly placable and had
spoken but little, and that only in self-defence. Now her own gentle and
kind words had been met with a concentrated bitterness of resentment
which seemed altogether new and strange. "What," she asked herself, "was
the cause of it?" Was this mysterious poison of unbelief doing its work
and changing a heart naturally sweet and loving into a home of all dark
thoughts and evil passions? Her words had been blasphemous, and it was
horrible to reflect on the condition of this unhappy lost soul.
But these distressing thoughts did not continue long. Mr. Northcott
happened that evening to say a great deal about kindness and its effects
in his sermon; and Mrs. Churton, while she listened, again and again
recalled those words which her daughter had spoken, and which had seemed
so wild and unjust--"All the unkindness and the enmity, open and secret,
has been on your side." Had she in her inconsiderate zeal given any
reason for such a charge? For if Constance really believed such a thing
it would account for her excessive bitterness. Then she remembered how
Fan had been mysteriously won over to her own side; to herself the girl's
action had seemed mysterious, but doubtless it had not seemed so to
Constance; she had set it down to her mother's secret enmity; and though
that reproach had been undeserved, it was not strange that she had made
it.
In the evening when Miss Churton, who had recovered her placid manner,
said good-night and left the room, her mother rose and followed her out,
and called softly to her.
Constance came slowly down the stairs, looking a little surprised.
"Constance, forgive me if I have been unkind to you," said the mother,
with trembling voice.
"Yes, mother; and forgive me if I said too much this evening--I
_did_ say too much."
"I have already forgiven you," returned her mother; and then for a few
moments they remained standing together without speaking.
"Good-night, mother," said Constance at length, and offering her hand.
Her mother took it, and after a moment's hesitation drew the girl to her
and kissed her, after which they silently separated.
That mutual forgiveness and kiss signified that they were now both
willing to lay aside their vain dissensions, but nothing more. That it
would mark the beginning of a closer union and confidence between them
was not for a moment imagined. Mrs. Churton had been disturbed in her
mind; her conscience accused her of indiscretion, which had probably
given rise to painful suspicions; she could not do less than ask her
enemy's forgiveness. Constance, on her side, was ready to meet any
advance, since she only desired to be left in possession of the somewhat
melancholy peace her solitary life afforded her.
Meanwhile Fan was happily ignorant of the storm her coming to the house
had raised, and that these two ladies, both so dear to her, one loved
openly and the other secretly, had been fighting for her possession, and
that the battle was lost and won, one taking her as a lawful prize, while
the other had retired, defeated, but calmly, without complaint. Her new
life and surroundings--the noiseless uneventful days, each with its
little cares and occupations, and simple natural pleasures, the world of
verdure and melody of birds and wide expanse of sky--seemed strangely in
harmony with her spirit: it soon became familiar as if she had been born
to it; the town life, the streets she had known from infancy, had never
seemed so familiar, so closely joined to her life. And as the days and
weeks and months went by, her London life, when she recalled it, began to
seem immeasurably remote in time, or else unreal, like a dream or a story
heard long ago; and the people she had known were like imaginary people.
Only Mary seemed real and not remote--a link connecting that old and
shadowy past with the vivid living present.
Her mornings, from nine till one o'clock, were spent with her teacher,
and occasionally they went for a walk after dinner; but as a rule they
were not together during the last half of the day. After school hours
Miss Churton would hand over her pupil, not unwillingly, to her mother,
and, if the state of the weather did not prevent, she would go away alone
with her book to Eyethorne woods.
A strangely solitary and unsocial life, it seemed to Fan; and yet she
felt convinced in her mind that her teacher was warm-hearted, a lover of
her fellow-creatures, and glad to be with them; and that she should seem
so lonely and friendless, so apart even in her own home, puzzled her
greatly. A mystery, however, it was destined to remain for a long time;
for no word to enlighten her ever fell from Mrs. Churton's lips, who
seldom even mentioned her daughter's name, and never without a shade
coming over her face, as if the name suggested some painful thought. All
this troubled the girl's mind, but it was a slight trouble; and by-and-
by, when she had got over her first shyness towards strangers, she formed
fresh acquaintances, and found new interests and occupations which filled
her leisure time. Mrs. Churton often took her when going to call on the
few friends she had in the neighbourhood--friends who, for some
unexplained reason, seldom returned her visits. At the vicarage, where
they frequently went, Fan became acquainted with Mr. Long the vicar, a
large, grey-haired, mild-mannered man; and Mrs. Long, a round energetic
woman, with reddish cheeks and keen eyes; and the three Miss Longs, who
were not exactly good-looking nor exactly young. Before very long it was
discovered that she was clever with her needle, and, better still, that
she had learnt the beautiful art of embroidery at South Kensington, and
was fond of practising it. These talents were not permitted to lie folded
up in a napkin. A new altar-cloth was greatly needed, and there were
garments for the children of the very poor, and all sorts of things to be
made; it was arranged that she should spend two afternoons each week at
the vicarage assisting her new friends in their charitable work.
But more to her than these friends were the very poor, whose homes,
sometimes made wretched by want or sickness or intemperance, she visited
in Mrs. Churton's company. The lady of Wood End House was not without
faults, as we have seen; but they were chiefly faults of temper--and her
temper was very sorely tried. She could not forget her lost sons, nor
shut her eyes to her husband's worthlessness. But the passive resistance
her daughter always opposed to her efforts, her dogged adherence to a
resolution never to discuss religious questions or give a reason for her
unbelief, had a powerfully irritating, almost a maddening, effect on her,
and made her at times denunciatory and violent. Her daughter's motive for
keeping her lips closed was a noble one, only Mrs. Churton did not know
what it was. But she was conscious of her own failings, and never ceased
struggling to overcome them; and she was tolerant of faults in others,
except that one fatal fault of infidelity in her daughter, which was too
great, too terrible, to be contemplated with calm. In spite of these
small blemishes she was in every sense a Christian, whose religion was a
tremendous reality, and whose whole life was one unceasing and consistent
endeavour to follow in the footsteps of her Divine Master. To go about
doing good, to minister to the sick and suffering and comfort the
afflicted--that was like the breath of life to her; there was not a
cottage--hardly a room in a cottage--within the parish of Eyethorne where
her kindly face was not as familiar as that of any person outside of its
own little domestic circle. Mrs. Churton soon made the discovery that she
could not give Fan a greater happiness than to take her when making her
visits to the poor; to have the gentle girl she had learnt to love and
look on almost as a daughter with her was such a comfort and pleasure,
that she never failed to take her when it was practicable. At first Fan
was naturally stared at, a little rudely at times, and addressed in that
profoundly respectful manner the poor sometimes use to uninvited visitors
of a class higher than themselves, in which the words border on servility
while the tone suggests resentment. How inappropriate and even unnatural
this seemed to her! For these were her own people--the very poor, and all
the privations and sufferings peculiar to their condition were known to
her, and she had not outgrown her sympathy with them. Only she could not
tell them that, and it would have been a great mistake if she had done
so. For no one loves a deserter--a renegade; and a beggar-girl who
blossoms into a lady is to those who are beggars still a renegade of the
worst description. But the keen interest she manifested in her shy way in
their little domestic troubles and concerns, and above all her fondness
for little children, smoothed the way, and before long made her visits
welcome. She would kneel and take the staring youngster by its dirty
hand--so perfectly unconscious of its dirtiness, which seemed very
wonderful in one so dainty-looking--and start a little independent
child's gossip with it, away from Mrs. Churton and the elders of the
cottage. And she would win the little bucolic heart, and kiss its lips,
sweet and fragrant to her in spite of the dirt surrounding them; and by-
and-by the mother's sharp expression would soften when she met the tender
grey eyes; and thereafter there would be a new happiness when Fan
appeared, and if Mrs. Churton came without her, there would be sullen
looks from the little one, and inquiries from its mother after "your
beautiful young lady from London."
All this was inexpressibly grateful to Mrs. Churton, all the more
grateful when she noticed that these visits they made together to the
very poor seemed to have the effect of drawing the girl more and more to
her. To her mind, all this signified that her religious teachings were
sinking into the girl's heart, that her own lofty ideal was becoming
increasingly beautiful to that young mind.
But she was making a great mistake--one which is frequently made by those
who do not know how easily some Christian virtues and qualities are
simulated by the unregenerate. All the doctrinal religion she had
imparted to Fan remained on the surface, and had not, and, owing to some
defect in her or for some other cause, perhaps could not sink down to
become rooted in her heart. After Mrs. Churton had, as she imagined,
utterly and for ever smashed and pulverised all Fan's preconceived and
wildly erroneous ideas about right and wrong, the girl's mind for some
time had been in a state of chaos with regard to such matters. But
gradually, by means of a kind of spiritual chemistry, the original
elements of her peculiar system came together, and crystallised again in
the old form. Her mental attitude was not like that of the downright and
doggedly-conservative Jan Coggan, who scorned to turn his back on "his
own old ancient doctrines merely for the sake of getting to heaven."
There was nothing stubborn or downright in her disposition, and she was
hardly conscious of the change going on in her--the reversion to her own
past. She assented readily to everything she was told by so good a woman
as Mrs. Churton, and in a way she believed it all, and read her Bible and
several pious books besides, and got the whole catechism by heart. It was
all in her memory--many beautiful things, with others too dreadful to
think about; but it could not make her life any different, or supplant
her old simple beliefs, and she could never grasp the idea that a living
faith in all these things was absolutely essential, or that they were
really more than ornamental. Her lively sympathy for those of her own
class was the only reason for the pleasure she took in going among the
poor, and it also explained her natural unconstrained manner towards
them, which so quickly won their hearts. During these visits she often
recalled her own sad condition in that distant time when she lived in
Moon Street; thinking that it would have made a great difference if some
gracious lady had come to her there, with help in her hands and words of
comfort on her lips. It was this memory, this thought, which filled her
with love and reverence for her companion; it was gratitude for
friendship to the poor, but nothing loftier.
This was a quiet and uneventful period in Fan's life; a time of growth,
mental and physical, and of improvement; but as we have seen, the new
conditions she found herself in had not so far wrought any change in her
character. Those who knew her at Eyethorne, both gentle and simple, would
have been surprised to hear that she was not a lady by birth; in her soul
she was still the girl who had begged for pence in the Edgware Road, who
had run crying through the dark streets after the cab that conveyed her
drunken and fatally-injured mother to St. Mary's Hospital. Let them
disbelieve who know not Fan, who have never known one like her.