Chapter 47 - Page 2

had been a pleasant fortnight at Eyethorne; and during those
days of close intimacy in the Churtons' small house and out of doors, the
kindly feelings Mary and Constance had begun to experience towards each
other in London had ripened to a friendship so close that Fan might very
well have been made a little jealous at it if she had been that way
predisposed. She only felt that the highest object of her ambitions had
been gained, that her happiness was complete. There was nothing more to
be desired. The present was enough for her; if she thought of the future
at all it was only in a vague way, as she might think of the French coast
opposite, too far off to be visible, but where she would perhaps set her
foot in other years.

At Eyethorne many letters had come to them all. Letters from Arthur Eden,
who spoke of returning soon from Continental wanderings, and of coming
down to see his sister in the country. And from Captain Horton, also to
Fan, with one at last to Mary, begging them to allow him to come down
from London to spend a few days with them. And from Mr. Northcott to
Constance--letters full of friendliest feeling, no longer resented, and
of some speculative matter; for these two had discovered an infinite
number of deep questions that called for discussion. To those questions
that concerned the spirit and were of first importance, the first place
was given; but there were also worldly affairs to correspond about, for
Constance had sent her manuscript to the curate for his opinion, and he
had kept it some time to get another (more impartial) opinion, and now
wished to submit it to a publisher. He had also expressed the intention
of visiting Eyethorne shortly.

Eventually he came; he even preached once more in the old familiar pulpit
at the invitation of the vicar, who had not treated him too well. On the
Saturday evening before preaching, he said to Constance:

"Once I was eager to persuade you to come to church to hear me; will you
think it strange if I ask you _not_ to come on this occasion?"

"Why?" she returned, looking anxiously at him. "Do you mean that you are
going to make some allusion to--"

"No, Constance. But my discourse will be about my life at the East End of
London, and what I have seen there. I shall talk not of ancient things
but of the present--that sad present we both know. You can realise it all
so vividly--it will be painful to you."

"I had made up my mind to go. Thank you for warning me, but I shall go
all the same."

"I am glad."

"You must not jump to any conclusions, Harold," she said, glancing at
him.

"No," he replied, and went away with a shadow on his