Chapter 42 - Page 2

had come from some other
person, even a stranger, instead of from me, it would not have given the
same feeling. That it should give her pain was a surprise to me, and has
puzzled me a great deal, because I know that Constance loves me as much
as she ever did, and that she would gladly do as much and more for me if
it were in her power at any time. Perhaps she thinks, poor Constance,
that when she and her husband suddenly went away from Netting Hill and
left no address, and never wrote to me again, although she knew that I
had no other friend in London at that time, that she had treated me
badly. Once or twice, since we have been together here, she has mentioned
that going away, so sadly, almost with tears, speaking as if
circumstances had compelled her to act unkindly, but without giving any
explanation. I do not believe, I cannot believe, she left me in that way
of her own will; I can only guess the reason, but shall probably never
really know; but I feel that this has brought a shadow into our
friendship, and that while we are as dear as ever to each other, we both
feel that there is something that keeps us apart."

Another letter spoke more particularly of Merton: "I am sure you would
like to know what I think of him now, after living under the same roof
for the first time, and seeing so much of him every day. I cannot say
what I think of him. As a rule he is out in the garden after eleven
o'clock; and then he sends Constance away. 'You have had enough of me
now,' he says, 'and if I wish to talk, I can talk to Fan--she is a good
listener.' This reminds me of one thing which is a continual vexation to
me. He does not seem to appreciate her properly. He does not believe, I
think, that she has any talent, or, at any rate, anything worthy of being
called talent compared with his own. Just fancy, she is usually up all
night, fearing to sleep lest he should need something; and then when he
comes out, and is made comfortable on the garden-seat, he tells her to go
and have an hour if she likes at her 'idyllic pastimes,' as he calls her
writing; and if he mentions her literary work at all, he speaks of it
just as another person would of a little piece of crochet-work or
netting, or something of that sort.

"After she goes in he talks to me, for an hour sometimes, and when it is
over I always feel that I am very little wiser, and what he has said
comes back to me in such an indistinct or disconnected way that it would
be impossible for me to set it down on paper. I do wish, Mary, that you
could come and sit next to me--invisible to him, I mean--and listen for
half an hour, and then tell me what it all means."

Mary laughed. "Tell you, sweet simple child? I wish Fan, that you could