Fan: Chapter 27
Chapter 27
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 �20 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.
"But my trouble is," objected Constance, "that, the effect does
_not_ seem right--that it is not really like nature."
"No, certainly not. Nature is nature, and you cannot create another
nature in imitation of it, any more than you can comprehend infinity.
This is only art, the highest thing, in this particular direction, which
the poor little creature man has been able to attain. You have doubtless
heard the story of the old lady who said to the painter of these scenes,
'Oh, Mr. Turner, I never saw such lights and colours in nature as you
paint!' 'No, don't you wish you could?' replied the artist. Now the old
lady was perfectly right. You cannot put white quivering tropical heat on
a canvas, but Turner dashes unnatural vermilion over his scene and the
picture is not ridiculous; the effect of noonday heat is somehow
produced. Look at those sunsets! In one sense they are failures, every
one of them; but what a splendid audacity the man had, and what a genius,
to attempt to portray nature in those special moments when it shines with
a glory that seems unearthly, and not to have failed more signally!
Failures they are, but nobler works than other men's successes. You are
perfectly right, Connie, but when you look at a great picture do not
forget to remember that art is long and life short. That is what the old
lady didn't know, and what Turner should have told her instead of making
that contemptuous speech."
Constance was comforted, and continued to listen delightedly as he led
them from room to room, pointing out the most famous pictures and
expatiating on their beauties.
From the Gallery they went to Marshall's in the Strand and drank tea;
then Merton put them in an Underground train at Charing Cross and said
goodbye, being prevented by an engagement from seeing them home. He had
put them into a compartment of a first-class carriage which was empty,
but after the train had started the door was opened, and in jumped two
young gentlemen, almost tumbling against the girls in their hurry.
"Just saved it!" exclaimed one, throwing himself with a laugh into the
seat.
"It was a close shave," said the other. "Did you see that young fellow
standing near the edge of the platform? I caught him on the side and sent
him spinning like a top."
"Why, that was Chance--didn't you know him? I was in too much of a hurry
even to give the poor devil a nod."
"Good gracious, was that Chance--that madman that threw up his clerkship
at the F.O.!"
"No, he didn't," his friend replied. "That's what _he_ says, but the
truth is he got mixed up in a disreputable affair and had to resign. No
doubt he has been going to the 'demnition bow-bows,' as Mr. Mantalini
says, but he wasn't so mad as to throw away his bread just to have the
pleasure of starving. He hasn't a ha'penny."
"Well, _I_ don't care," said the other with a laugh, and then went
on to talk of other things.
During this colloquy Fan had glanced frequently at her companion, but
Constance, who had grown deathly pale, kept her face averted and her eyes
fixed on the window, as if some wide prospect, and not the rayless
darkness of the tunnel, had been before them. From their station they
walked rapidly and in silence home, and when inside, Constance spoke for
the first time, and in a tone of studied indifference.
"So much going about has given me a headache, Fan," she said. "I shall
lie down in my room and have a little sleep, and don't call me, please,
when you have supper. I am sorry to leave you alone all the evening, but
you will have something pleasant to think about as you have been so
successful to-day."
She was about to move away, when Fan came to her side and caught her
hand.
"Don't go just yet, dear Constance," she said. "Why do you try to--shut
me out of your heart? Oh, if you knew how much--how very much I feel for
you!"
"What about?" said the other a little sharply, and drawing herself back.
"What about! We are both thinking of the same thing."
"Yes, very likely, but what of that? Is it such a great thing that you
need to distress yourself so much about it?"
"How can I help being distressed at such a thing; it has changed
everything, and will make you so unhappy. You know that you can't marry
Mr. Chance now after he has deceived you in that way."
"Can't marry Mr. Chance!" exclaimed Constance, putting her friend from
her. "Do you imagine that the wretched malicious gossip of those two men
in the train will have the slightest effect on me! What a mistake you are
making!"
"But you know it is true," returned Fan with strange simplicity; and this
imprudent speech quickly brought on her a tempest of anger. When the
heart is burdened with a great anguish which cannot be expressed there is
nothing like a burst of passion to relieve it. Tear-shedding is a weak
ineffectual remedy compared with this burning counter-irritant of the
mind.
"I do not know that it is true!" she exclaimed. "What right have you to
say such a thing, as if you knew Merton so well, and had weighed him in
an infallible balance and found him wanting! I have heard nothing but
malicious tittle-tattle, a falsehood beneath contempt, set afloat by some
enemy of Merton's. If I could have thought it true for one moment I
should never cease to despise myself. Have you forgotten how you blazed
out against me for speaking my mind about Miss Starbrow when she cast you
off? Yet you did not know her as I know Merton, and how paltry a thing is
the feeling you have for her compared with that which I have for my
future husband! What does it matter to me what they said?--I know him
better. But you have been prejudiced against him from the beginning, for
no other reason but because I loved him. Nothing but selfishness was at
the bottom of that feeling. You imagined that marriage would put an end
to our friendship, and thought nothing about my happiness, but only of
your own."
"Do you believe that of me, Constance?" said Fan, greatly distressed.
"Ah, I remember when we had that trouble about Mary's letter at
Eyethorne, you said that you had not known me until that day. You do not
know me now if you think that your happiness is nothing to me--if you
think that it is less to me than my own."
Her words, her look, the tone of her voice touched Constance to the
heart.
"Oh, Fan, why then do you provoke me to say harsh things?" and then,
turning aside, burst into a passion of weeping and sobs which shook her
whole frame. But when the sobs were exhausted she recovered her serenity:
those violent remedies--anger and tears--had not failed of their
beneficent effect on her mind.
On the following day she seemed even cheerful, as if the whole painful
matter had been forgotten. Merton, at all events, seemed to detect no
change in her when he came to take her to the park in the afternoon. Only
to Fan there appeared a shadow in the clear hazel eyes, and a note of
trouble in the voice which had not been there before.
In a short time after this incident Fan was taken into the great Regent
Street establishment, and had her mind very fully occupied with her new
duties. One afternoon at the end of her first week the manager came up
and spoke to her.
"Are you living with friends?" he said.
"I am living with Miss Churton--the lady who came here with me," she
replied. "But she is going to be married soon, and I must find another
place nearer Regent Street."
"Ah, this then will perhaps be a help to you," and he handed her a card.
"That is the address of a woman who keeps a very quiet respectable
lodging-house. We have known her for years, and if she has a vacancy you
could not do better than go to her."
She thanked him, and took the card gladly. That little act of
thoughtfulness made her feel very happy, and believe that he had a kind
heart in spite of his stern despotic manner. To continue in that belief,
however, required faith on her part, which is the evidence of things not
seen, for he did not go out of his way again to show her any kindness.
Next day being Sunday, the girls were able to go together to see the
lodging-house, which was in Charlotte Street in Marylebone, and found the
landlady, Mrs. Grierson, a very fat and good-tempered woman. She took
them to the top floor to show the only vacant room she had; it was fairly
large for a top room, and plainly and decently furnished, and the rent
asked was six-and-sixpence a week. But the good woman was so favourably
impressed with Fan's appearance, and so touched at the flattering
recommendation given by the manager, that at once, and before they had
said a word, she reduced the price to five shillings, and then said that
she would be glad to let it to the young lady for four-and-sixpence a
week. The room was taken there and then, and a few days later the friends
separated, one to settle down in her lonely lodging, the other to be
quietly married at a registry office, without relation or friend to
witness the ceremony; after which the newly-married couple went away to
spend their honeymoon at a distance from London.