Fan: Chapter 40
Chapter 40
Fan read the sketch, but her mind was too much occupied with all she had
just heard, in addition to the joy she felt at having recovered her
friend, to pay much attention to it. Moreover the increasing heat began
to oppress her; she marvelled that Constance, accustomed all her life to
the freedom and cool expanse of the country, should find it possible to
work in such an atmosphere and amidst such surroundings.
At length, Merton, who had been coughing a great deal while dressing,
came in assisted by his wife, but quite exhausted with the exertion of
walking from one room to the other; and after shaking hands with their
visitor he sunk into his easy-chair, not yet able to talk. She was
greatly shocked at the change in him; the once fine, marble-like face was
horribly wasted, so that the sharp unsightly bones looked as if they
would cut their way through the deadly dry parchment-yellow skin that
covered them; and the deep blue eyes now looked preternaturally large and
bright--all the brighter for the dark purple stains beneath them. He was
low indeed, nigh unto death perhaps; yet he did not appear cast down in
the least, but even while he sat breathing laboriously, still unable to
speak, the eyes had a pleased hopeful look as they rested on their
visitor's face. A smile, too, hovered about the corners of his mouth as
his glance wandered over her costume. For, in spite of feeling the heat a
great deal, she _looked_ cool in her light-hued summer dress, with
its dim blue pattern on a cream-coloured ground. The loose fashion in
which it was made, the tints, and light frosting of fine lace on neck and
sleeves, harmonised well with the grey tender eyes, the pure delicate
skin, and golden hair.
"You could not have chosen a fitter costume to visit us in," said Merton
at length. "I can hardly believe that you come to us from some other part
of this same foul, hot, dusty London. To my fever-parched fancy you seem
rather to have come from some distant unpolluted place, where green
leaves flutter in the wind and cast shadows on the ground; where crystal
showers fall, and the vision of the rainbow is sometimes seen."
Constance came to his side and bent over him.
"You must not be tyrannical, Connie," he said. "I really must talk. Even
a bird in prison sings its song after a fashion, and why not I?"
And seeing him so anxious to begin she made no further objection,
contenting herself with giving him a draught from his medicine bottle.
She had already told him Fan's story, and he had heard it with some
interest. He congratulated the girl on having found a brother in his old
school-fellow, Arthur Eden, and took some merit to himself for having
brought them together. But he did not make the remark that truth was
stranger than fiction. It was evident that he was impatient to get to
other more important matters.
"You have doubtless heard from my wife," he said, "that I have parted
company with those misguided people that call themselves socialists.
Well, Miss Affleck, the fact is--"
"Eden," corrected Constance with a smile. She was quietly moving about
the room in her list slippers, engaged in remoistening the hangings,
which had now grown dry and hot.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Eden. Yes, thanks--Fan; that will be better
still among such old friends as we are. What I wish to say is, that my
mind was never really carried away with their fantastical theories--their
dreams of a social condition where all men will be equally far removed
from want and excessive wealth. I could have told them at once that they
were overlooking the first and greatest law of organic nature, that the
stone which the builders despised would fall on them and grind them to
powder. At the same time my feelings were engaged on their side, I am
bound to confess; I did think it possible to educe some good out of this
general ferment and dissatisfaction with the conditions of life. For,
after all, this ferment--this great clamour and shouting and hurrying to
and fro--represents force--blind brute force, no doubt, like that of
waves dashing themselves to pieces on the rocks, or of the tempest let
loose on the world. A tempest unhappily without an angel to guide it; for
I look upon the would-be angels--the Burnses--Morrises--Champions--
Hyndmans--merely as so many crows, rooks, and jackdaws, who have
incontinently rushed in to swell the noise with their outrageous cawing,
and to be tossed and blown about, hither and thither, among the dust,
sticks, old newspapers, and pieces of rotten wood stirred up by the wind.
Good would have come of it if it had been possible to introduce a gleam
of sense and reason into the foggy brains of these wretched men. But that
was impossible. I am ashamed to have to confess that I ever believed it
possible--that I assumed, when planning their welfare, that they were not
absolutely irrational. I have not only thrown the whole thing up, but the
disgust, the revulsion of feeling I have experienced, has had the effect
of making me perfectly indifferent as to the ultimate fate of these
people. If some person were to come to me to-morrow to say that all the
East-enders, from Bishopsgate Street to Bow, had been seized with a kind
of frenzy, like that which from time to time takes possession of the
Norway marmots, or bandicoots, or whatever they are called--"
"Lemmings," said Constance.
"Yes, lemmings. Thanks, Connie, you are a perfect walking encyclop�dia.
And--like these Norway lemmings--had rushed into the Thames at Tilbury,
men, women, and children, and been drowned, I should say, 'I am very
pleased to hear it.' For to my mind these people are no more worthy of
being saved than a migrating horde of Norway rats, or than the Gadarene
swine that ran down the steep and were drowned in the sea."
Fan listened with astonishment, and turned to Constance, wondering what
would be the effect of such dreadful sentiments on her, and not without
recalling some of those "Idylls," inspired by a spirit so loving and
gentle and Christian. But she seemed to be paying little attention to the
matter of her husband's discourse, to be concerned only at the state of
his health.
"Merton, dear," she said, "if you talk so much at a stretch you will
bring on another fit of coughing."
"Ah, yes, thanks for reminding me. Let me have another sip of that
mixture. Then I shall speak of other more hopeful things. And the
sweetness of hope shall be like that rosy honey, rose-scented, to soften
my throat, made dry and harsh with barren themes. After all, Connie,
these troubles which have tried us so severely have only proved blessings
in disguise. Yes, Fan, we have been driven hither and thither about the
sea, encountering terrible storms, and sometimes fearing that our bark
was about to founder; but they have at last driven us into a haven more
sweet and restful than storm-tossed mariners ever entered before. And
looking back we can even feel grateful to the furious wind, and the
hateful dark blue wave that brought us to such a goal."
All this figurative language, which was like the prelude to a solemn
piece of music, gave Fan the idea that something of very great importance
was about to follow. But, alas! the mixture, and the rose-honey sweetness
of hope, failed to prevent the attack which Constance had feared, and he
coughed so long and so violently that Fan, after being a distressed
spectator for some time, grew positively alarmed. By-and-by, glancing at
her friend's face as she stood bending over the sufferer, holding his
bowed head between her palms, she concluded that it was no more than an
everyday attack, and that no fatal results need be feared. Relieved of
her apprehension, she began to think less of the husband and more of the
wife; for what resignation, what courage and strength she had shown since
her unhappy marriage, and what self-sacrificing devotion to her weak
unworthy life-partner! Or was it a mistake, she now asked herself, to
regard him as weak and unworthy? Had not Constance, with a finer insight
--her superior in this as in most things--seen the unapparent strength,
the secret hidden virtue, that was in him, and which would show itself
when the right time came? No, Fan could not believe that. Tom Starbrow
and the poor pale-faced curate in his rusty coat were true strong men,
and the woman that married either of them would not lean on a reed that
would break and pierce her to the quick; and Captain Horton was also a
strong man, although he had certainly been a very bad one. But this man,
in spite of his nimble brains and eloquent tongue, was weak and unstable,
hopelessly--fatally. The suffering and the poverty which had come to
these two, which in the wife's case only made the innate virtue of her
spirit to shine forth with starlike lustre, would make and could make no
difference to him. Words were nothing to Fan; not because of his words
had she forgiven Captain Horton his crime; and if Merton had spoken with
the eloquence of a Ruskin, or an angel, it would have had no effect on
her. She considered his life only, and it failed to satisfy her.
Recovered from his attack, Merton sat resting languidly in his chair, his
half-closed eyes looking straight before him.
"Ah, to lead men," he said, speaking in a low voice, with frequent
pauses, as if soliloquising. "Not higher in their sense--what they with
minds darkened with a miserable delusion call higher.... Up and still up,
and higher still, through ways that grow stonier, where vegetation
shrivels in the bleak winds, and animal life dies for lack of
nourishment. Will they find the Promised Land there, when their toil is
finished, when they have reached their journey's end? A vast plateau of
sand and rock; a Central Asian desert; a cavern blown in by icy winds for
only inn; a 'gaunt and taciturn host' to receive them; and at last, to
perform the last offices, the high-soaring vulture, and the wild wind
scattering dust and sleet on their bones.... Ah, to make them see--to
make them know!... Poor dumb brutish cattle, consumed with fever of
thirst, bellowing with rage, trampling each other down in a pen too small
to hold them! Ah, to show them the gate--the wide-open gate--to make them
lie down in green pastures, to lead them beside the still waters!...
Better for me, if I cannot lead, to leave them; to go away and dwell
alone! to seek in solitary places, as others have done, some wild bitter
root to heal their distemper; to come back with something in my hands;...
to consider by what symbols to address them; to send them from time to
time a message, to be scoffed at by most and heard with kindling hope by
those whose souls are not wholly darkened."
After a long silence he spoke again to ask his wife to get him a book
from his bedroom, which he had been reading that morning, to find in it
many sweet comforting things. She had been seated at some distance from
him, apparently paying no attention to his enigmatical words, but now
quickly put down her work and got the book for him from the next room.
"Thanks," he said, taking it. "Yes, here it is. I wish to read you this
passage, Connie: 'Now they began to go down the hill into the Valley of
Humiliation. It was a steep hill, and their way was slippery, but they
were very careful, so they got down pretty well. Then said Mr. Great-
heart, We need not be afraid in this Valley, for here is nothing to hurt
us, unless we procure it for ourselves. It is true that Christian did
here meet with Apollyon, with whom he also had a sore combat; but that
fray was the fruit of those slips that he got in his going down the hill;
for they that get slips there must look for combats here.' Do you see
what I mean, Connie?"
"Yes, dear," she replied, very quietly.
Then he continued, "'For the common people, when they hear that some
frightful thing has befallen such a one in such a place, are of an
opinion that that place is haunted with some foul fiend or evil spirit,
when, alas! it is for the fruit of their own doing that such things do
befall them there!' Listen, Connie: 'No disparagement to Christian, more
than to many others, whose hap and lot was his; for it is easier going up
than down this hill, and that can be said but of few hills in all these
parts of the world. But we will leave the good man, he is at rest, he
also had a brave victory over his enemy; let Him grant that dwelleth
above that we fare no worse, when we come to be tried, than he. But we
will come again to this Valley of Humiliation. It is fat ground, and, as
you see, consisteth much in meadows, and if a man was to come here in the
summer-time, as we do now, and if he also delighted himself in the sight
of his eyes, he might see that that would be delightful to him. Behold
how green this Valley is, also how beautiful with lilies. Some have also
wished that the next way to their Father's house were here, that they
might be no more troubled with hills and mountains to go over, but the
way is the way, and there is an end.
"'Now, as they were going along and talking, they espied a boy feeding
his father's sheep. The boy was in very mean clothes, but of a very fresh
and well-favoured countenance; and as he sat by himself he sang. Then
said the guide, Do you hear him? I will dare to say, that this boy lives
a merrier life, and wears more of that herb called heart's-ease in his
bosom, than he that is clad in silk and velvet. Here a man shall be free
from noise and the hurryings of this life. All states are full of noise
and confusion, only the Valley of Humiliation is that empty and solitary
place. Here a man shall not be so hindered in his contemplation, as in
other places he is apt to be. This is a valley that nobody walks in but
those that love a pilgrim's life; and I must tell you that in former
times men have met with angels here, have found pearls here, and here in
this place found the words of life.'"
He closed the book and swallowed some more of the mixture, which
Constance, standing at his side, had been holding in readiness for him.
Fan by this time had come to the conclusion that Merton had become
religious, although the scornful way in which he had spoken of the
inhabitants of East London scarcely seemed to favour such an idea. But
she knew that he had been reading from _The Pilgrim's Progress_, a
book which Mrs. Churton had put in her hands, and helped her to
understand. She did not know that he was putting an interpretation of his
own on the allegory which might have made the glorious Bedford tinker
clench his skeleton fist and hammer a loud "No--no!" on his mouldy
coffin-lid.
"Fan, my dear girl," he said, after a while, "I cannot expect you to
understand what I am talking about. You must be satisfied to wait many
days longer before it is all made plain. I have a thousand things to say
which will be said in good time. A thousand thousand things. Books to
write--volume following volume; so much to do for poor humanity that the
very thought of it would make my heart fail were it not for the great
faith that is in me. But the paper is still white, and the pen lies idle
waiting for this unnerved hand to gain strength to hold it. For you must
know that in my descent into this valley I have met with many a slip and
fall, and have suffered the consequences: Apollyon has come forth to bar
my way, and I have not done with him yet, nor he with me. I have answered
all his sophistical arguments, have resisted all his temptations, and it
has come to a life-and-death struggle between us. With what deadly fury
his thrusts and cuts are made, my poor wife will tell you. My days are
comparatively peaceful; I feel that I am near the green meadows,
beautiful with lilies, and can almost hear the singing of the light-
hearted shepherd-boy. But at night the shadows come again; the shouts and
vauntings of my adversary are heard; I can see his crimson eyeballs, full
of malignant rage, glaring at me. To drop metaphor, my dear girl, my
nights are simply hellish. But I shall conquer yet; my time will come.
Only, to me, a sufferer turning on his bed and wishing for the dawn, how
long the time delays its coming! If I could only feel the fresh breeze in
my lungs once more; if instead of this loathsome desert of squalid
streets and slums I could look on the cool green leafy earth again, and
listen to nature's sounds, bidding me be of good courage, then these dark
days would be shortened and the new and better life begin."
This was something easy to understand, even to Fan's poor intellect, and
she had begun to listen to his words attentively. Here was matter for her
practical mind to work upon, and her reply followed quick on his speech.
"It must be dreadful for you to remain here all through the hot weather,
Mr. Chance. I wish--I wish----" But at this moment the face of Constance,
who had drawn near and was bending over her husband's chair, caught her
eye, and she became silent, for the face had suddenly clouded at her
words.
"What were you going to say, Fan--what is it that you wish?" said Merton,
with a keener interest than he usually manifested in other people's
words.
"I wish that--that you and Constance would accompany me to some place a
little way out of town--not too far--where you would be out of this
dreadful heat and smoke, and stand----" She was about to add, stand a
better chance of recovery, but at this stage she broke off again and cast
down her eyes, fearing that she had offended her friend.
"Most willingly we will go with you, my dear girl, if you will only ask
us," said Merton, finding that she was unable to finish her speech.
"Oh, I should be so glad--so very glad!" returned Fan, in her excitement
and relief rising from her seat. "Dear Constance, what do you say?"
But the other did not answer at once. This sudden proposal had come on
her as a painful surprise. For the last few weeks she had, even in the
midst of anxiety and suffering, rejoiced that she was self-dependent at
last, and had proudly imagined that her strength and talents would now be
sufficient to keep them in health and in sickness. And now, alas! her
husband had eagerly clutched at this offer of outside help; and, most
galling of all, from the very girl who, a short time before when she was
poor and friendless, he had found not good enough to be his wife's
associate.
At length she raised her head and spoke, but there was a red flush on her
cheek, and a tone of pain, if not of displeasure, in her voice. "Fan,"
she said, "I am so sorry you have made us this offer. It is very, very
kind of you; but, dearest, we cannot, cannot accept it."
"And for what reason, Connie?" said her husband.
She looked down on his upturned face, and for a moment was sorely tempted
to stoop and whisper the true reason in his ear, to reply that it would
be dishonourable--a thing to be remembered after with a burning sense of
shame--to accept any good gift at the hands of this girl, who had been
thrown over and left by them without explanation or excuse a short time
before, only because circumstances had made her for a time their
inferior--their inferior, that is, according to a social code, which they
might very well have ignored in this case, since it related to a society
they had never been privileged to enter since their marriage, which knew
and cared nothing for them. But as she looked down, the yellow skin and
sunken cheek and the hollow glittering eyes that met her own made her
heart relent, and she could not say the cruel words. She kept silence for
a few moments, and then only said, "How can we go, Merton? We cannot move
without money, and besides, we have nothing fit to wear."
"Pshaw, Connie, do you put such trifles in the scale? Have you so little
faith in our future as to shrink from this small addition to our debt?
Fan, of course, knows our circumstances and just what we would require.
Why, a paltry two or three pounds would take us out of London; and as for
clothes--well, you know how much we raised on them--a few miserable
shillings. You are proud, I know, but you mustn't forget that Fan is
Arthur Eden's sister--my old school-fellow and familiar friend; and also
that she is your old pupil, and--as I have heard you say times without
number--the dearest friend you have on earth."
He did not see the effect of these words, and that her face had reddened
again with anger and shame, and a feeling that was almost like scorn.
Fan, seeing her distress, half-guessing its cause, went to her side and
put her arm round her.
"Constance dear," she said, "you only need a little help at first, and I
shall be very careful and economical, and some day, when things improve,
you shall repay me every shilling I spend now. Oh, you don't know how
hard it is for me to say this to you! For I know, Constance, that if our
places were changed you would wish to act as a sister to me, and--and you
will not let me be a sister to you."
The other kissed her and turned aside to hide her tears. Merton smiled,
and taking Fan's hand in his, stroked and caressed it.
"My dear girl," he said, "I cannot express to you all I feel now; but
away out of this stifling atmosphere, this nightmare of hot bricks and
slates and smoking chimney-pots, in some quiet little green retreat where
you will take us, I shall be able to speak of it. What a blessing this
visit you have made us will prove! It refreshed my soul only to see you;
with that clear loveliness on which the evil atmosphere and life of this
great city has left no mark or stain, and in this dress with its tender
tints and its perfume, you appeared like a messenger of returning peace
and hope from the great Mother we worship, and who is always calling to
us when we go astray and forget her. How appropriate, how natural, how
almost expected, this kind deed of yours then seems to me!"
Constance, seeing him so elated at the prospect of the change, made no
further objection, but waited Mr. Northcott's return before discussing
details. The curate when he at last appeared suggested that it would be
well to consult a young practitioner in the neighbourhood who had been
attending Merton; and in the end he went off to look for him. While he
was gone the two girls talked about the proposed removal in a quiet
practical way, and Merton, quite willing to leave the subject of ways and
means to his wife and her friend, took no part in the conversation. Then
the curate returned with the doctor's opinion, which was that the change
of air would be beneficial, if Merton could stand being removed; but that
the journey must be short and made easy: he suggested a well-covered van,
with a bed to lie on, and protected from draughts, as better than the
railroad.
Fan at once promised to find a van as well as a house near East London to
go to, and after she had prevailed on Constance to accept a loan of a few
pounds for necessary expenses, she set out with Mr. Northcott on her
return to the West End.