Chapter 28

For several months after that hasty and somewhat inauspicious marriage--
"unsanctified," Mrs. Churton would have said--it seemed as if the course
of events had effectually parted the two girls, and that their close
friendship was destined to be less a reality than a memory, so seldom
were they able to meet. From their honeymoon the Chances came back to
London only to settle down at Putney for the remainder of the warm
season; and this was far from Marylebone, and Fan was only able to go
there occasionally on a Sunday. But in September they moved to Chelsea,
and for a few weeks the friends met more often, and Constance frequently
called at the Regent Street shop to see and speak with Fan for two or
three minutes. This, however, did not last. Suddenly the Chances moved
again, this time to a country town over fifty miles from London. Merton
had made the discovery that journalism and not literature was his proper
vocation, and had been taken on the staff of a country weekly newspaper,
of which he hoped one day to be editor. The girls were now further apart
than ever, and for months there was no meeting. But during all this time
they corresponded, scarcely a week passing without an exchange of
letters, and this correspondence was at this period the greatest pleasure
in Fan's life. For Constance, next to Mary, who was lost to her, was the
being she loved most on earth; nor did she feel love only. She was filled
with gratitude because her friend, although married to such a soul-
filling person as Merton Chance, was not forgetful of her humble
existence, but constantly thought of her and sent her long delightful
letters, and was always wishing and hoping to be near her again. And yet,
strange contradiction! in her heart of hearts she greatly pitied her
friend. Sometimes Constance would write glowing accounts of her husband's
triumphs--an article accepted perhaps, a flattering letter from a
magazine editor, a favourable notice in a newspaper, or some new scheme
which would bring them fame and fortune. But if she had written to say
that Merton actually had become famous, that all England was ringing with
his praise, that publishers and editors were running after him with blank
cheques in their hands, imploring him to give them a book, an article,
she would still have pitied her friend. For that was Fan's nature. When a
thing once entered into her mind there was no getting it out again. Mary
to others might be a fantastical woman, heartless, a fiend incarnate if
they liked, but the simple faith in her goodness, the old idolatrous
affection still ruled in her heart. The thoughts and feelings which had
swayed her in childhood swayed her still; and the gospel of the carpenter
Cawood was the only gospel she knew. And as to