Fan: Chapter 31
Chapter 31
A fortnight went by. Fan, occupied in her shop and happy enough, except
once when she encountered the grisly manager's terrible eyes on her: then
she trembled and glanced down at her dress, fearing that it had looked
rusty or out of shape to him; for in that establishment a heavy fine or
else dismissal would be the lot of any girl who failed to look well-
dressed. Constance, for the most part sitting solitary at home, trying in
vain to write something that would meet the views of some editor. Merton,
busy running about, full to overflowing of all the things he intended
doing. Eden, doing nothing: only thinking, which, in his case at all
events, was "but an idle waste of thought." So inactive was he at this
period, and so much tobacco did he consume to assist his mental
processes, that he grew languid and pale. His friends remarked that he
was looking seedy. This made him angry--very angry for so slight a cause;
and he thought that of all the intolerable things that have to be put up
with this was the worst--that people should remark to a man that he is
looking seedy, when the seediness is in the soul, and the cause of it a
secret of which he is ashamed.
At the end of the fortnight he became convinced that his feeling for the
delicate girl with the pathetic grey eyes was no passing fancy, but a
passion that stirred him as he had never been stirred before, and he
resolved to possess her in spite of the fact that he had met her in his
friend's house.
"Let the great river bear me to the main," he said; although bad, he was
too honest to quote the other line, feeling that he had not striven
against the stream.
Having got so far, he began to consider what the first step was to be in
this enterprise of great pith and moment. For although the insanity of
passionate desire possessed him, he was not going to spoil his chances by
acting in a hurry, or doing anything without the most careful
consideration. The desire to see her again was very insistent, and by
strolling up the street in which she lived in the evening he might easily
have met her, by chance as it were, returning from her shop, but he would
not do that. An enterprise of this kind seemed to him like one of those
puzzle-games in which if a right move is made at first the game may be
won, however many blundering moves may follow; but if the first move is
wrong, then by no possible skill and care can the desired end be reached.
He recalled their conversation about novels, and remembered the titles of
five popular works he had mentioned which Miss Affleck had not read.
These works he ordered in the six-shilling form, and then spent the best
part of a day cutting the leaves and knocking the books about to give
them the appearance of having been used. He also wrote his name in them,
in each case with some old date; and finally, to make the deception
complete, spilt a little ink over the cover of one volume, dropped some
cigar-ash between the leaves of a second, and concealed a couple of old
foreign letters on thin paper in a third. Then he tied them up together
and sent them to her by a messenger with the following letter:
DEAR MISS AFFLECK,
I have just been looking through my bookshelves, and was pleased to find
that I had some of the novels we spoke about the other evening, which, if
I remember rightly, you said that you had not read. It was lucky I had so
many, as my friends have a habit of carrying off my books and forgetting
to return them. If you will accept the loan of them, do not be in a hurry
to return them; they will be safer in your keeping than in mine, and one
or two, I think, are almost worth a second perusal.
I must not let slip this opportunity, as another might not occur for a
long time, of saying something about our friends at Norland Square. I saw
Merton the day after meeting you, but not since; nor have I heard from
him. I know now that he lost his appointment at the Foreign Office
through his own folly, and that most of his friends have dropped him. I
do honestly think that Mrs. Chance has made a terrible mistake; I pity
her very much. But things may not after all turn out altogether badly,
and if Merton has any good in him he ought to show it now, when he has
such a woman as your friend for a wife and companion. At all events, I
have made up my mind--and this is another secret, Miss Affleck--to forget
all about the past and do what I can to assist him. Not only for auld
lang syne, for we were great friends at school, but also for his wife's
sake. My only fear is that he will keep out of my sight, but perhaps I am
doing him an injustice in thinking so. But as you will continue to see
your friend, may I ask you to let me know should they at any time be in
very straitened circumstances, or in any trouble, or should they go away
from Norland Square? I do hope you will be able to promise me this.
Believe me, dear Miss Affleck,
Yours sincerely,
ARTHUR EDEN.
To this letter, the writing of which, it is only right to say, actually
caused Mr. Eden to blush once or twice, Fan at once replied, thanking him
for the parcel of books. "I must also thank you," the letter said, "for
telling me to keep them so long, as there is so much to read in them, and
my reading time is only when I am at leisure in the evening. I shall take
great care of them, as I think from their look that you like to keep your
books very clean." In answer to the second part of his letter she wrote:
"I scarcely know what to reply to what you say about the Chances.
Constance and I are such great friends that I am almost ashamed to
discuss her affairs with anyone else, as I am sure that she would be very
much hurt if she knew it. And yet I must promise to do what you ask. I do
not think it would be right to refuse after what you have said, and I am
very glad that Mr. Chance has one kind friend left in you."
Eden was well satisfied at the result of his first move. There would have
to be a great many more moves before the pretty game ended, but he now
had good reason to hope for a happy ending.
She had accepted his offer of his friendship, the loan of his books, and
had written him a letter which he liked so much that he read it several
times. It was a sunshiny April morning, and after breakfasting he went
out for a stroll, feeling a strange lightness of heart--a sensation like
that which a good man experiences after an exercise of benevolence. And
the feeling actually did take the form of benevolence, and no single pair
of hungry wistful eyes met his in vain during that morning's walk until
he had expended the whole of his small change. "Poor wretches!" he
thought, "I couldn't have imagined there was so much misery and
starvation about." His heart was overflowing with happiness and love for
the entire human race. "After all," he continued, "I don't think I'm half
as bad as that impudent conscience of mine sometimes tries to make out. I
know lots of fellows who sink any amount of money in betting and other
things and never think to give sixpence to a beggar. Of course no one can
be perfect, everyone _must_ have some vice. But I don't quite look
on mine as a vice. Some wise man has called it an amiable weakness--
that's about as good a description as we can have."
Passing along a quiet street where the houses were separated from the
pavement by gardens and stone balustrades, he noticed a black cat seated
on the top of a pillar, its head thrown far back, and its wide-open eyes,
looking like balls of yellow fire, fixed on a sparrow perched high above
on the topmost twig of a tall slender tree. "Puss, puss," said Eden,
speaking to the animal almost unconsciously, and without pausing in his
walk. Down instantly leapt the cat, inside the wall, and dashing through
the shrubbery, shot ahead of him, and springing on to the balustrade
thrust its head forward to catch a passing caress. He touched the soft
black head with his fingers, and passed on with a little laugh. "An
instance of the magical effect of kindness," he soliloquised. "That cat
sees more enemies than friends among the passers-by--the boy whose soul
delights in persecuting a strange cat, and the young man with that most
insolent and aggressive little beast a fox-terrier at his heels. And yet
quick as lightning it understood the tone I spoke to it in, although the
voice was strange, and shot past me and came out just for a pat on the
head. A very sagacious cat; and yet I really felt no particular kindness
towards it; the tone was only assumed. Its statuesque figure attracted
me, as it sat there like a cat carved out of ebony, with two fiery
splendid gems for eyes. I admired the beauty of the thing, that was all.
And as with cats so it is with women. Let them once think that you are
kind, and you have a great advantage. You may do almost anything after
that; your kindness covers it all.... What an impudent juggler, and what
an outrageous fibber, this confounded conscience is! I may not have felt
any great kindness for black pussy when I spoke to her, but between that
and carrying her home under my coat to vivisect her at leisure there is a
vast difference. If I am ever unkind in act or word or deed to that sweet
girl--no, the idea is too absurd! I can feel nothing but kindness for
her, and if I felt convinced that I could not make her happy, then I
would resign her at once, hard as that would be."
That same evening Eden received a second letter from Fan, but very short,
enclosing the two foreign letters, which she had just found in one of his
books. This was only what he had expected. He replied, also briefly,
thanking her for sending the letters, and for the promise she had given,
and there for the moment he allowed the affair to rest.
Meanwhile Fan was every day expecting an invitation to Norland Square,
and she was deeply disappointed and surprised when a whole week passed
with no letter from Constance. Then a long letter came, which troubled
her a good deal, for she was not asked to go to Norland Square, and no
meeting was arranged, but, on the contrary, she was left to infer that
there would be no meeting for some time to come. A photograph and a
postal order for five shillings were enclosed in the letter, and about
these Constance wrote: "I send you the photo you have so often expressed
a wish to have, and I think you ought to feel flattered, for I have not
been taken before since I was fifteen years old; I don't like the
operation. I think it flatters me, and Merton says that it does not do me
justice, so that it cannot be quite like me, but it will serve well
enough to refresh your memory of me when we are separated for any length
of time. But it is so painful to me to think of losing sight of you
altogether that I have no heart to say more about that just now. Only I
_must_ have your photo: I cannot wait long for it, and you must
forgive me, dearest Fan, for sending the money to have it taken at once.
I know, dear, that you cannot very well afford to spend money on
pictures, even of yourself, and so please don't be vexed with me, but do
as I wish; for since I cannot have you always near me I wish at least to
have your counterfeit presentment. I should like it cabinet size if you
can get it for the money, if not I must have a small vignette, and I hope
you will go to a good man and have it well done, and above all that you
will send it soon."
There was much more in the letter; a sweeter Fan had never received from
her friend, so much affection did it express; but it also expressed
sadness, and the vague hints of probable changes to come, and a long
separation in it, mystified and troubled her.
Before many days the photograph, which cost half-a-guinea, was finished
and sent to Constance, with a letter in which Fan begged her friend to
appoint a day for them to meet.
In the meantime at Norland Square Merton was preparing for a fresh change
in his life, and as usual with a light heart; but in this instance his
wife for the first time had taken the lead. After breakfast one morning
he was getting ready to go to Fleet Street to the office of a journal
there, when Constance asked if she might go with him.
"Yes, dear, certainly, if you wish to see a little of the life and bustle
of London."
"I haven't seen much of London yet, and I should so like to have a little
peep at the East End we hear and read so much about just now. Can't you
manage, after your business is finished at the office, to go with me
there on a little exploring expedition?"
"That's not a bad idea," he returned. "But I shall be lost in that
wilderness, and not know which way to go and what to look for."
"Then I shall be your guide," she said with a smile. "I've been studying
the map, and reading a book about that part of London, and have marked
out a route for us to follow."
"All right, Connie, get ready as soon as you like, and we'll have a day
of adventures in the East."
And as Constance had dressed herself with a view to the journey, she had
only to put on her hat and gloves, and they started at once, taking an
omnibus in the Uxbridge Road to Chancery Lane. From Fleet Street they
went on to Whitechapel, where their travels in a strange region were to
begin. Constance wished in the first place to get some idea of the extent
of that vast district so strangely called East _End,_ as if it
formed but a small part of the great city. The population and number of
tenements, and of miles of streets, were mere rows of figures on a page,
and no help to the mind. Only by seeing it all would she be able to form
any conception of it: she saw a great deal of it in the course of the day
from the tops of omnibuses, and travelled for hours in those long
thoroughfares that seemed to stretch away into infinitude, so that one
finds it hard to believe that nature lies beyond, and fields where
flowers bloom, and last night's dew lies on the untrodden grass. Nor was
she satisfied with only seeing it, or a part of it, in this hasty
superficial way; at various points they left the thoroughfare to stroll
about the streets, and in some of the streets they visited, which were
better than those inhabited by the very poor, Constance entered several
of the houses on the old pretext of seeking lodgings, and made many
minute inquiries about the cost of living from the women she talked with.
It was seven o'clock in the evening when they got home; and after dining
Merton lit a cigar and stretched himself out on the sofa of their
sitting-room to recover from his fatigue. His wife was also too tired to
do anything, and settled herself near him in the easy-chair.
"Well, Connie," he said with a smile, "what is to be the outcome of the
day's adventures? Of course you had an object in dragging one through
that desert desolate."
"Yes, I had," she answered with a glance at his face. "Can you guess it?"
"Perhaps I can. But let me hear it. I shall be so sorry if I have to nip
your scheme in the bud."
"I think, Merton, it would be a good plan for us to go and live there for
a time. It is better to move about a little and see some of the things
that are going on in this world of London. I am getting a little tired of
the monotony here; besides, just now when we are so poor it would be a
great advantage. I found out to-day that we can get better rooms than
these for about half the sum we are paying. Provisions and everything we
require are also much cheaper there."
"Yes, dear, that may be, but you forget that the man who aspires to rise
in London must have an address he is not ashamed of. Norland Square is a
poor enough place, but there is at any rate a W. after it. I fancy it
would be very bad economy in the end, just to save a few shillings a
week, to go where there would be an E."
"I don't quite agree with you, Merton. When we have friends to correspond
with and to visit us, then we can think more about where we live; I have
no desire to settle permanently or for any long time in the east
district. But I have not yet told you the principal reason I have for
wishing to go and live in that part of London for a few months--weeks if
you like."
"Well, what is it?"
"I think it will be a great advantage to you, Merton. You will be able to
see and hear for yourself. You speak about East End socialism in the
papers you are writing, but you speak of it, as others do, in a vague
way, as a thing contemptible and yet dangerous to civilisation, or which
might develop into something dangerous. It strikes me that something is
to be gained by studying it more closely, but just now you are dependent
on others for your facts."
"And you think I could see things better than others?" he said, not ill
pleased.
"You can at all events see them with your own eyes, and that will be
better than looking at them through other people's spectacles. Besides,
it is a period of rapid transitions, and the picture painted yesterday,
however faithful to nature the artist may have been, no longer represents
things as they exist to-day."
"You are right there."
"And if you go to the East End with the avowed object of studying certain
phenomena and ascertaining certain facts for yourself, to use in your
articles, I don't think that your residence there would prejudice you in
any way."
"No, of course not. Why, the thing is done every day by well-known men--
brilliant writers some of them--men who are run after by Mr. Knowles. It
is a good idea, Connie, and I am glad you suggested it. The spread of
socialism in London is a grand subject. Of course I know all about the
arguments of the wretched crew of demagogues engaged in this propaganda.
I could easily, to quote De Quincey's words, 'bray their fungous heads to
powder with a lady's fan, and throttle them between heaven and earth with
my finger and thumb.' But we want to know just how far their doctrines,
or whatever they call their crack-brained fantasies, have taken root in
the minds of the people, and what the minds are like, and what the
outcome of it all is to be. If we go to the East End, and I don't see why
we shouldn't, as soon as we find ourselves settled there I shall begin to
go about a great deal among the people, and attend the meetings of the
social democrats, and listen to the wild words of their orators, and note
the effect of what they say on their hearers What do you say, Connie?"
"I shall be ready to pack up and follow you any day, Merton. And I think
that I might assist you a little; at all events I shall try, and go about
among the women and listen to what they say while you are listening to
the men."
Merton was delighted. "You have a prophetic soul, Connie," he said, "and
I shall be as much astonished as yourself if something grand doesn't come
of this. A great thing in my favour is that I can generally manage to get
at the pith of a thing, while most people can do nothing but sniff in a
hopeless sort of way at the rind. Of course you have noticed that in me,
Connie. I sometimes regret that I am not a barrister, for I possess the
qualities that lead to success in that profession. At the same time it is
a profession that has a very narrowing effect on the mind--the issues are
really in most cases so paltry. Your barrister never can be a statesman;
he has looked at things so closely, to study the little details, that his
eagle vision has changed into the short sight of the owl. And, by the
way, now I think of it, I must have a little brandy in to-night to drink
success to our new scheme."
"Do you really need brandy, Merton? I thought--"
"Yes, I really do--to-night. I feel so thoroughly knocked up, Connie; and
now my brain is in such a state of activity that a little brandy will
have no more effect than so much water. Do you know, it is an ascertained
fact in science that alcohol taken when you are active--either physically
or mentally active--does not go off nor remain in the tissues, but is
oxygenised and becomes food. Besides this, I fancy, will be about the
last bottle I shall allow myself, I know that you are a Sir Wilfred
Lawsonite, and I am determined to respect all your little prepossessions.
Not that you have much to thank me for in this case, for I really care
very little about strong waters."
He rang the bell, and gave the servant-girl six shillings to get a bottle
of Hennessy's brandy. With that bottle of brandy looking very conspicuous
on the table, and her husband more talkative and in need of her
companionship than ever, Constance could not go away to her room, as she
would have liked to do, to be alone with that dull pain at her heart--the
sorrow and sense of shame--or perhaps to forget it in sleep. She sat on
with him into the small hours, while that oxygenising process was going
on, listening, smiling at the right time, entering into all his plans,
and even assisting him to find a startling title for the series of
brilliant articles on the true condition of the East End, about which all
London would no doubt soon be talking.