Chapter 43 - Page 2

and seclusion, never going out of the house, and remaining most
of the time in her own room. Even when they were together she would sit
silent and apathetic unless forced to talk; and the effect was that Fan
grew more and more reluctant to address her, although her heart was
overcharged with its unexpressed love and sympathy. Only once, a few days
after their return to town, did Constance give way to her poignant
feelings, and that was on the occasion of a visit from Mr. Northcott to
their rooms. She saw him reluctantly, and was strangely cold and
irresponsive in her manner, and as it quickly discouraged him when his
kindly efforts met with no appreciation, the conversation they had was
soon over. When taking his leave he spoke a few kind sympathetic words to
her, to which she made no reply, but her hand trembled in his, and she
averted her face. Not that she had tears to hide; on the contrary, it
seemed to Fan, who was watching her face, that the rising colour and
brightening eyes expressed something like resentment at the words he had
spoken. When he had gone she remained standing in the middle of the room,
but presently glancing up and encountering her friend's eyes fixed
wonderingly on her face, she turned away, and dropping into a chair burst
into a passion of tears.

Fan moved to her side. "Dear Constance," she said, putting a hand on the
other's shoulder, "it is better to cry than to be as you have been all
these days."

But Constance, mastering her sobs with a great effort, rose to her feet
and put her friend's hand aside.

"Do you think tears are a relief to me?" she said with bitterness. "You
are mistaken. They are caused by his words--his pretended grief and
sympathy with me for what he calls my great loss. But; I know that he
never understood and never appreciated my husband--I know that in his
heart of hearts he thinks, as _you_ think, Fan, that my loss is a
gain. I understood him as you and Harold never could. You knew only his
weakness, which he would have outgrown, not the hidden strength behind
it. I know what I have lost, and prefer to be left alone, and to hear no
condolences from anyone." Then, bursting into tears again, she left the
room.

This was unspeakably painful to Fan--chiefly because the words Constance
had spoken were true. They were cruel words to come from her friend's
lips, but she considered that they had been spoken hastily, in a sudden
passion of grief, and she felt no resentment, and only hoped that in time
kindlier feelings would prevail. Her manner lost nothing of its loving
gentleness, but she no longer tried to persuade Constance to go out with
her; it was best, she thought, to obey her wish and leave her alone.