Chapter 43

A couple of days after the funeral Fan, accompanied by her friend,
returned to London, and the rooms she had occupied in Quebec Street.
Fortunately for her young lodger's peace of mind, now less inclined for
delicate feeding than ever, Mrs. Fay had gone off on her annual holiday.
Not that her health required change of air, nor because she took any
delight in the sublime and beautiful as seen in the ocean and nature
generally, but because it was a great pleasure to her to taste of many
strange dishes, and criticise mentally and gloat over the abominable
messes which other lodging--and boarding-house keepers are accustomed to
put before their unhappy guests. And as the woman left in charge of the
establishment knew not Francatelli, and never rose above the rude
simplicity of "plain" cookery--depressing word!--and was only too glad
when nothing was required beyond the homely familiar chop, with a
vegetable spoiled in the usual way, dinner at Quebec Street, if no longer
a pleasure, was not a burden.

That strange quietude, tearless and repellent, concerning which Fan had
spoken in her letter, still had possession of Constance. But it was not
the quietude experienced by the overwrought spirit when the struggle is
over, and the reaction comes--the healing apathy which nature sometimes
gives to the afflicted. It was not that, nor anything like it. The
struggle had been prolonged and severe; he was gone in whom all her hopes
and affections had been centred, and life seemed colourless without him;
but she knew that it would not always be so, that the time would come
when she would again take pleasure in her work, when the applause of
other lips than those now cold would seem sweet to her. The quietude was
only on the surface; under it smouldered a sullen fire of rebellion and
animosity against God and man, because Merton had perished and had not
lived to justify his existence; and if the thought ever entered her soul
--and how often it was there to torture her!--that the world had judged
him rightly and she falsely, it only served to increase her secret
bitterness.

When spoken to by those around her, she would converse, unsmilingly,
neither sad nor cheerful, with but slight interest in the subject
started; it was plain to see that she preferred to be left alone, even by
her two dearest friends, Fan and the curate, who had attended the funeral
and had come afterwards two or three times to see her. After a few days
Fan had proposed moving to town, and Constance had at once consented. In
her present frame of mind the solitude of London seemed preferable to
that of the country. For two or three days Fan almost feared that the
move had been a mistake; for now Constance spent more time than ever in
silence