Nigel Browning

By Agnes Giberne

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Title: Nigel Browning

Author: Agnes Giberne

Release date: January 13, 2025 [eBook #75102]

Language: English

Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1898


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIGEL BROWNING ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: "I will send Dr. Duncan at once."
 "Thanks," Nigel answered, again examining his father with anxious eyes.]



                            Nigel Browning


                                  BY
                            AGNES GIBERNE


                              AUTHOR OF

              "LIFE-TANGLES," "WON AT LAST," ETC. ETC.



                               LONDON
                        JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
                         48 PATERNOSTER ROW



                             CONTENTS

CHAP.

     I. FROM ROUND THE WORLD

    II. THE DAUGHTERS OF THE HOUSE

   III. ETHEL

    IV. FULVIA'S RESOLVE

     V. IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT

    VI. DRAGGING HOURS

   VII. TO GO, OR NOT TO GO?

  VIII. FIRE AND WATER

    IX. WHISPERINGS

     X. TOM'S SPECIMENS

    XI. "THE WORLD FORGETTING"

   XII. NOTA BENE!

  XIII. "WILL NEVER MARRY HER!"

   XIV. SOMETHING WRONG—BUT WHAT?

    XV. FULVIA'S EXPECTATIONS

   XVI. ANTIQUITIES

  XVII. HE AND SHE

 XVIII. AGED TWENTY-ONE

   XIX. THE MONEY!

    XX. AN UTTER TANGLE

   XXI. COMPOUND UMBELS AND BLUE EYES

  XXII. THE BREAKING STORM

 XXIII. A STRANGE INTERVIEW

  XXIV. WOULD SHE? COULD SHE?

   XXV. SWEET MAY-TIDE

  XXVI. THE LOST "N. B."

 XXVII. IN SUDDEN PERIL

XXVIII. THOU OR I!

  XXIX. BORNE DOWNWARD

   XXX. NOT I, BUT THOU

  XXXI. NIGEL'S LOVE



                            NIGEL BROWNING

CHAPTER I

FROM ROUND THE WORLD

   "But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks!"

     •      •      •      •      •      •      •      •

   "It is my lady: Oh it is my love!
    Oh that she knew she were!"—_Romeo and Juliet._

"HERE, I want this luggage taken—Hallo, Pollard! You're the man for me."

"Mr. Nigel Browning!" ejaculated the porter addressed, a huge
individual six feet three in height, and massive in frame, with a large
face, resplendently good-humoured. He had been heaving great trunks and
packing-cases out of the van, tossing one upon another, as a girl might
heap together a pile of band-boxes. Now the train passed on groaning
dismally after the fashion of these modern behemoths; and the platform
crowd began to disperse.

It was past nine o'clock on a chilly autumn evening: not the kind
of evening which might tempt anybody to linger under the flaring
gas-lights, dimmed by fogginess.

Pollard, in full career across the platform, brought up his truck with
a jerk on hearing his own name, then plucked at his cap with an air of
delight.

"Mr. Nigel Browning!" he exclaimed.

"To be sure. Whom else would you take me for? Shake hands, Pollard.
I've been round the world since I saw you last."

The man's hard palm closed with a grip round the fingers held out to
him.

"And you ain't changed, Mr. Nigel. No need for to ask that, though.
If you was, you wouldn't be a-shaking hands with me here, like to old
days. And the niggers ain't got hold of you, nor none of they cannibals
neither."

"Why, no—I've not been enjoying very largely the society of cannibals."

"Well, sir, you've come back anyway a deal stouter and stronger than
you was—not as you're stout yet, so to speak, but you was thin and no
mistake when you went away. And I do see a difference. I don't know as
you ain't taller too."

"Taller after twenty! That would be against all rule. However, I
certainly did depart a scarecrow, so perhaps it's admissible to turn up
a Hercules. All well at home, Pollard?—Wife and chicks, eh?"

"Yes, sir, thank you. Naught but the old woman's rheumatiz for to
grumble at—and she do say it takes a deal o' patience to carry that
about with a body."

"I don't doubt it, poor thing. And all right at the Grange?"

"Yes, sir—so as I've heard. Save and except Mr. Browning's the same as
usual, sir. Which in course you knows."

"Ah—yes," the two syllables being divided by a thoughtful break. Manner
and voice had till this moment been marked by a frank joyousness,
boy-like yet manly, but now there came a touch of gravity into Nigel's
face. He stood for three seconds gazing across the rails into a misty
distance, lost in cogitation; then roused himself.

"You will have the trunks up soon. I must be off."

"All right, sir."

Leaving his ticket with the collector, Nigel passed into the street.
He went onwards in a swift steadfast manner; vigour and decision being
apparent in every motion of the alert well-proportioned figure.

It did not surprise Nigel that nobody was at the station to meet him
after his year of absence, wherein he had travelled literally "round
the world." He had not expected to arrive till next morning, but
finding an earlier train than he had hoped for "within catch," the
temptation to surprise his home-folks had proved irresistible.

Newton Bury had been his home through life, and every wall and window
in this busy High Street was familiar to him. Shops were shut, and
people from within were airing themselves on the pavements after a hard
day's work. Nigel saw many a well-known face as he went by, but he had
no wish to be delayed, and it was easy to avoid recognition in the
broken light of gas-lamps placed by no means too near together.

Leaving High Street and Broad Street, he hesitated one moment at the
foot of some stone steps leading upward. This was the short-cut between
station and home; for Newton Bury was a town built partly upon hills;
and the Grange stood high. But a certain attraction drew him along the
main thoroughfare.

"After all, it's not ten minutes' difference; and I should like one
glimpse," he said to himself.

"Hallo! What next? Have a care, young fellow."

Nigel certainly was going at express speed, when on turning a sharp
corner, he barely escaped collision with a short and round-shouldered
individual of advanced age, wearing a fur-bordered greatcoat almost
down to the heels, and a Glengarry cap, from beneath which flowed thick
locks of snow-white hair. Two black eyes, bright as beads, flashed a
glance of indignant remonstrance, and the high-pitched voice, petulant
in tone, was unmistakable.

"Mr. Carden-Cox. I beg your pardon. How do you do?" Nigel put out his
hand in greeting.

The other stared haughtily. "Eh! who are you?"

"Don't you know me?"

"No, sir. I have not that pleasure," with an aggrieved sound.

"I'm Nigel—just come home."

"Young Browning. Humph."

It was dull and damp, the fogginess having deepened, and this no doubt
was partly the reason why Nigel had so nearly run the old gentleman
down, added to that old gentleman's perverse habit of walking on the
wrong side of the pavement. But Mr. Carden-Cox had plainly no intention
of allowing his movements to be influenced by weather. He pulled off
one of his gloves, fished laboriously for a double eye-glass, adjusted
the same carefully on the bridge of his nose, and retreated to the
neighbourhood of the nearest lamp, beckoning Nigel to follow.

"Here, let me see. Nigel Browning! I declare I shouldn't have known the
lad."

"Am I so altered?"

"Altered! There's not an inch of you the same."

This was absurd, and Nigel smiled.

"What are you after here—eh?"

"Going home. Just arrived. They don't expect me till to-morrow, so it's
to be a surprise."

"Why on earth didn't you take the steps? Missed them in the dark?
That's not like you. Some folks do go mooning about with their eyes in
the stars; but I thought you were practical."

"I didn't miss the steps. I came this way by choice."

"Hey? What for?"

"A fancy of mine. I must be off, or my luggage will arrive first."

"Not if you keep up the pace you were going just now." Mr. Carden-Cox
paused to survey Nigel all over, from head to foot, as if gauging his
value. "Yes—you've filled out—expanded—developed—twice the man you
were! But there's something about you which I don't quite understand.
Good-bye. We shall meet again soon."

Nigel did not fail to keep up his former pace, even to accelerate
it. If he wished to arrive before his luggage, he really had no time
to lose, for Pollard would not be guilty of delay. And instead of
following the bend to the right which Pollard would follow, Nigel soon
shot away to the left, through a dark lane, with high walls on both
sides, and a fringe of tall trees from enclosed gardens peeping over
the wall-tops.

This lane led direct into a large square, chiefly composed of
old-fashioned red-brick houses, each varying in shape and size from
its neighbours. At the entrance to the square, where three short posts
barred the way to vehicles, Nigel paused to look.

That was what he had come for: to indulge himself in a look.

The square was rightly named "Church Square," for its centre was
occupied by a venerable edifice, parts of which, including the square
solid tower, were at least seven hundred years old. Generation after
generation of English churchmen, through century after century, had
met for worship within those aged walls. They had outlived countless
historical tides and storms, and still stood there, rock-like and calm,
always the same, in themselves a silent yet speaking history of ages
past. Where Nigel stood, he could distinguish two flying buttresses,
and two nearer side-windows, pointed yet somewhat broad. What he could
not see he could imagine; for every inch of the structure was familiar
and dear to him.

At one corner of the square, that to Nigel's left, a red-brick house
stood alone, not placed in line like the rest, but occupying a small
garden, wherein flourished an abundance of shrubs, but few flowers;
for the Rev. Launcelot Elvey, Vicar of Newton Bury, with a cure of
six thousand souls, and a stipend of two hundred and eighty pounds a
year, had little money to spare for luxuries. What he could spare from
absolute home necessaries went to the Parish.

Nigel had not meant to advance one step farther than this entrance
to the square, where the three posts stood side by side. He cast one
glance towards the central building; then his eyes went to the Vicarage.

It was very near; within a stone's throw. He could distinctly see the
two small windows of the little drawing-room, a queer-shaped room,
as he knew, all corners and crevices with furniture old enough to be
picturesque, and old enough also to be shabby. Lights were lighted
within, and blinds were drawn. As Nigel gazed, the shadow of a girlish
figure was thrown with clear outline upon one of the blinds. Ethel—of
course!

He had not intended to go a step nearer, but the pull was strong. That
soft shade upon the blind had set all his pulses throbbing. The year's
absence had made no difference at all—unless the difference that Ethel
was dearer to him than ever—and the longing for one glimpse of her face
became overwhelming. His luggage might arrive first; his home-folks
might be perplexed, worried, perhaps hurt that he could put them second
to anybody,—yes, he knew all this, but for three seconds nothing seemed
of the smallest importance, except the glimpse for which he craved.

Nigel left the posts and went quickly towards the Vicarage; a few steps
bringing him within the garden gate. At the same moment somebody drew
up one of the blinds, and opened wide the window.

Ethel herself! He could see in strong relief against the light within,
her slim prettily-rounded figure, could hear the soft happy tones which
had always seemed to him to have a ripple of music running through them.

"Mother, we'll let in a breath of air just for a minute. It is so mild
to-night. Lance, is that somebody in the garden?"

Nigel almost uttered the word—"Ethel!" Almost, but not quite. It was
leaving his lips, when he caught it back. Once within that room, how
could he tear himself away?

There were reasons why it might be better not. With an effort Nigel
turned and walked out of the gate. And as he went, he found himself
face to face with somebody coming in—a large loosely-built man in a
greatcoat, walking with the tired stoop in head and shoulders often
born of a hard day's work. The light of the nearest lamp fell upon a
rugged face, full of the beauty of goodness.

"Anything wanted?" asked the Vicar.

Mr. Elvey never by any chance passed a human being who might "want"
something of him.

"No—thanks," Nigel answered dutifully, hoping but not wishing to pass
on.

"I know that voice!" said the Vicar.



CHAPTER II

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE HOUSE

   "There are briars besetting every path,
      Which call for patient care."—A. L. WARING.

"FULVIE—"

"Anice, my dear, allow me to remark that the way to get work done is
not to sit in a brown study for exactly half-an-hour."

"Half-an-hour!"

"A metaphorical one, of course. How many stitches have you put into
that leaf since dinner?"

"I don't know—but—I can't imagine why Nigel didn't settle to come home
to-night."

"No train, he says."

"But there is a train."

"He thought there was not."

"Daisy found one directly she looked—just at the right time."

"Daisy's a clever young woman. Daisy isn't Nigel, however."

"No—" and a pause, Anice leaning back dreamily. "No. But I have been
wondering—what if Nigel did know of the train, only perhaps he wanted a
night in London."

"Why shouldn't he have said so, then? You little wretch, to suspect him
of deceit."

"Oh no—only perhaps he might have been glad of the excuse. I mean, he
might have made the mistake first, and then not have cared to change.
He might have been afraid that we should mind his not hurrying home, if
he did stay."

Fulvia stamped her foot. "Anice, you put me out of patience. But you
are all alike! You none of you understand Nigel—never did, and never
will, I suppose. You needn't stare at me so reproachfully, for it is
true. Now do get on with that unfortunate leaf. What shade do you mean
to use next?"

Three girls—Mr. Browning's two daughters, Anice and Daisy, and his
ward, Fulvia Rolfe—sat alone in the Grange drawing-room. Lamps and
candles dotted about the large room gave a pleasant light; curtains
were drawn, and a fire blazed.

Daisy, the younger girl, huddled into a sofa-corner, with a book
which absorbed all her attention, was round-faced and plump, with a
clever full brow and innocent lips. Though close upon sixteen, she was
childish still, alike in manner and in the almost infantile simplicity
of her thick white frock. Anice, nearly three years older, wore a white
dress likewise, but of thinner texture and more elaborate make, and
while undoubtedly a pretty girl, with delicate features and changeful
colouring, her face not only lacked force but had a look of marked
self-occupation, sufficient to spoil the fairest outline. Daisy's
contented brown eyes contained better promise for the future; and
people were apt to grow early tired of Anice.

Fulvia Rolfe presented a contrast to the sisters. Some two years the
senior of Anice, she was not so tall as the latter, nor so stout as
Daisy; and the first idea commonly received about her was of a sturdy
vigour of body and mind. Though by no means beautiful, since her face
was rather flat, with a retrousse nose, and eyes which had an odd
eastern slant in the manner of their setting, she yet possessed a
certain power of attraction. Those same light grey eyes were full of
sparkle; the lips were expressive; the abundant red-brown hair was
skilfully arranged; the figure, though not slight, was particularly
good; and the hands, if neither small nor especially white, were well
formed and soft.

"Which shade?" Anice repeated vacantly. "I don't know. One of these
four, I suppose."

"If a tablecloth is worth making at all, it is worth making not
hideous. Let me see the greens. Impossible to choose in this light.
You will have to leave it till to-morrow. Where is the madre all this
time?" For Fulvia Rolfe, left early an orphan, and unable to recollect
her own parents, had fallen into a mode of calling Mrs. and Mr.
Browning by the titles of "madre" and "padre." The mode was copied, not
seldom, by their own children.

"She went to the study. Padre wanted her, I believe. It is one of his
bad days, and I suppose he couldn't stand all of us."

Fulvia's lips took a naughty set. "And so, because he is a little bad,
we are all to be very sad."

"Father isn't well." Anice looked reproachful.

"He's not bound to be utterly doleful too, my dear."

"Madre said he was so depressed."

"Of course. Exactly what I mean. I never can quite see why one is to
act as a wet blanket to all one's friends merely because one feels
poorly or out of spirits. I'm not talking about padre in particular.
The sort of thing is common enough. But I wonder when one is to
exercise self-control if not when it goes against the grain. There's no
merit in cheerfulness when one feels lively."

"I don't know what you mean, but you ought not to speak so of padre."

"I'm laying down a broad axiom—not applying it. No, of course you don't
understand. Nobody understands anybody in this house. If one expects
to be understood, one is disappointed. Hark! Is that the study door
opening? . . . Yes, I thought so. Here comes the madre—doesn't she look
sweet? And actually!—Absolutely!—The padre too!"

The lady, entering first, was slender in figure and graceful in
movement, with regular features, and the softest dark eyes imaginable,
full of wistful tenderness. She wore an evening dress of black velvet,
trimmed with old lace, and her little hands hung carelessly, like
snowflakes, against the sombre background. Though forty-five in age,
no streaks of grey showed yet in the brown hair, upon which a light
lace cap rested; and pretty as Anice unquestionably was, the daughter's
prettiness paled before the mother's rare beauty.

Behind Mrs. Browning came her husband. There was nothing of the invalid
about him apparent at first sight. A dignified middle-aged man; solid,
but not corpulent in build; with grey hair, fast thinning, agreeable
manners, and a face which did not lack its modicum of good looks—this
was Mr. Browning. A keen observer would have noted a tired look about
the brow—a good brow like Daisy's—and a restless dissatisfaction almost
amounting to apprehension in the eyes; but Fulvia was the only keen
observer present, and people in general were apt to pass over these
little signs. Mr. Browning was a favourite in society. "A delightful
man" was the verdict passed on him by a considerable circle of Newton
Bury ladies.

The entrance of these two caused a general stir. Daisy sat in a less
huddled position, and Fulvia drew forward an easy-chair for Mrs.
Browning, while Anice changed her own seat to one nearer her father, as
he took possession of the unused sofa-corner beside Daisy, and heaved a
sigh.

"We thought you meant to forsake us altogether this evening," Fulvia
remarked to Mrs. Browning.

"No, dear. Padre is so unwell to-day—he has that pain again, and it
depresses him," was the under-toned answer. "But he promised to come in
for a little while. It is better for him, I am sure—less dull."

"Better for you too."

"I don't think that matters. I wish anything could be done to touch
this sad depression," as again, in response to some words of Anice,
sounded the heavy sigh. "We have been talking about a little trip
abroad. Perhaps it might do him good."

"When? Not before Christmas?"

"Yes, I think so. He seems to wish it."

Others were listening besides Fulvia, and a chorus of exclamations
sounded. "Now, mother!" "Go abroad before Christmas!" "How about
Nigel?" this was Fulvia's voice.

"Mother, you don't really mean it?" from Anice.

"Why, mother!" Daisy's rounded eyes suiting the tone of her second
utterance. "You must have forgotten about Fulvia's birthday—Fulvia's
coming of age."

"Hush, hush!" Mrs. Browning said nervously. She did not in the least
know why her husband disliked any allusion to Fulvia's twenty-first
birthday, but she knew that he did dislike it. His sudden movement was
not lost upon her.

Daisy was of a persistent nature, not easily silenced. "But, mother,
you know the 21st of December is Fulvia's birthday; and we meant to
have all sorts of fun. If once we go abroad, we shall never get back in
time. I know we shan't."

"Madre said nothing about our going, Daisy."

"Well, then, that will be worse still. Horridly dull to keep your
twenty-first birthday without father and mother."

"Daisy, do hold your tongue. You are worrying the madre," whispered
Fulvia.

"Why?" in a return whisper of astonishment.

"I haven't a notion. The fact is patent enough. Do let things go."

Daisy subsided, and for two minutes nobody spoke. Then a peal sounded
at the front door.

Anice's lips parted, and her cheeks flushed. She almost said "Nigel!"

"Nonsense," Fulvia replied to the motion of her lips. "Not to-night."

But Simms came in. Simms was one of those unexceptionable modern
men-servants who always have their wits about them, and who never can
be startled. Simms prided himself on a perfect command of feature and
of manner. Whatever happened, he seemed to have known it beforehand, to
have been at that moment expecting it. In his usual style of composed
confidence he entered, and as calmly as if announcing dinner, he said—

"Pollard from the station, sir, with Mr. Nigel's luggage."

"Mr. Nigel come!" cried Daisy, springing up. "No, Miss."

"Not come!" echoed other voices.

"No, ma'am. Pollard saw Mr. Nigel at the station, and expected him to
be here first. But Mr. Nigel has not arrived."

"Strange," Mr. Browning said.

"Buying himself a new necktie by the way," suggested Fulvia, and
Daisy's laugh sounded.

But Mrs. Browning and Anice exchanged looks, their faces falling.



CHAPTER III

ETHEL

   "There is none like her, none."—TENNYSON.

"I KNOW that voice. Why—it's—"

Mr. Elvey did not finish the sentence. He caught Nigel's hand within
two muscular palms, and nearly wrung it off.

"I didn't expect to be found out. Yes, I'm back. But you mustn't keep
me, Mr. Elvey. How are you all? How is—Ethel?"

"Ethel's all right. The best girl that ever lived, if an old father has
a right to say so. Come and see for yourself. There she is at the open
window. My wife and all of them inside. How is she? Oh, much the same
as always—very ailing, poor dear. Never knows what it is to be really
well. But come, come along. Not keep you indeed! Rubbish and nonsense!"
cried the Rector joyously, forgetting all about his own fatigue, and
allowing Nigel no loophole for explanation. "Why, we were talking of
you only an hour ago, wondering if the year of travel would alter you
much. Has it? I can't see here. Come along—come!"

"I really ought not, I am afraid," protested Nigel, feeling as if the
silken pull of Ethel's near presence, together with the Rector's grasp
of his arm, were overcoming all his powers of resolution. "My baggage
has gone home, and they will be expecting me."

"Well, well—we won't keep you three minutes. One shake hands all
round. Why, what brought you here, if it wasn't for that? Ethel,
Ethel!—Gilbert—Ralph—Lance—My dear!—" this meant his wife—"I've found
an old friend in the garden, and he's trying to elope. Guess who! Open
the door—somebody!"

They were almost under the window by this time, and Mr. Elvey did not
need to raise his tones; indeed, the full impressive voice was used
enough to making itself heard, and no barrier of glass intervened.

"What does he mean?" they heard Ethel ask merrily.

And in another moment she stood at the open hall door scanning the
outside darkness.

She was plainly visible herself under the hall light. Nigel knew in
a moment that the face which he had carried with him through his
wanderings was unchanged—only a little developed, a little ripened,
"prettier than ever," he told himself. Yet people in general did not
count Ethel pretty. She had to be known intimately to be admired; and
after all "pretty" was not the right word.

She wore an old dress, much older than anybody would have guessed
from its appearance, since Ethel's fingers were gifted in the art of
renovation. The shape of her face was that "short oval" which novelists
are now so careful to distinguish from the unlovely "long oval." Brown
hair was massed on the top of her head, straying over the brow, and
brown fringes subdued the sparkling sunny eyes. The features could not
be called good, and it was commonly a pale face, with none of Anice's
quick changes of hue. Nigel, however, could never think that anything
was wanting in that direction. He would not have had a line or a tint
altered.

He had not spoken of his love to any human being. With all Nigel's
frankness, there were reserve-depths below. He could not readily talk
of the things which he felt most intensely. Some people no doubt can;
but Nigel could not.

Whether others had guessed his secret before he left home, he had
no means of knowing. Sometimes he thought that his mother had; and
sometimes also he felt sure that his trip round the world had been
arranged for him, not only on account of his health, but in reference
to this. He had a strong impression that Mr. Browning had desired for
him the test of a year's separation from Ethel. But these ideas he kept
to himself. The year's separation had been lived through, and had made
no difference. Ethel was dearer to him than ever.

"Father, did you say somebody was come? Who is it? Oh!—Nigel!!"

The lighting up of her face was worth seeing; and the little gasp of
joy between those two words was worth hearing. Nobody thought anything
of her delight; for had not she and Nigel been close friends from
childhood? And was it not natural?

But to Nigel, this moment made up for all the long months of absence.
He held her hand tightly for three seconds, how tightly he did not
know; and the touch of those little fingers scattered to the winds all
his previous resolutions. He stepped into the house.

"Nigel himself! Yes, I found him outside the garden gate. Actually
protesting that he had come for a look, and didn't mean to be seen.
Here, Lance, my boy, help me off with this coat. That's it. Come,
Nigel, come and be inspected. My dear, I've brought an old friend, but
you'll hardly recognise him. Eh?"

Mrs. Elvey, knitting slowly in an easy-chair, was a contrast to
her sunny-tempered husband and daughter. Her face offered as good
a specimen of the bony "long oval" as Ethel's of the shorter and
more rounded type; and there was about it a somewhat unhappy look of
self-pity and of discontented invalidism. No doubt she was not strong
and often did suffer much. But no doubt also many in Mrs. Elvey's
place would have been brighter, braver, less of a weight upon others'
spirits, more ready to respond to others' interests. She welcomed Nigel
kindly, but with the limp and listless air of one who really had so
many trials of her own that she could not be expected to care much whom
she did or did not see.

"Hardly up to the mark to-day you see—tired-out, poor dear!" explained
the Rector, himself a hard-worked and often weary man; but he was
counted strong, and few gave him a word of sympathy on that score.
He looked solicitously at his wife and then turned to the young man.
"Come; I must see what has been the effect upon you of it all—Japan,
Timbuctoo, and the rest! Eh, Ethel? Is he the better or the worse?"

"Pollard thinks it a matter for congratulation that I have not become
food for cannibals," laughed Nigel.

He was standing on the rug—a young fellow of good height and muscular
make, a wonderful development from the overgrown reedy youth who had
gone away more than twelve months earlier. The sickly white complexion
of those days had given place to a healthy tan; and the face was
strong, bright, good-looking. The eyes showed penetration and thought;
the mouth spoke of firmness; the nose had that indefinable line, seen
in side-face, which almost invariably denotes a sweet temper.

"He'll do," thought Mr. Elvey, after a moment's survey. "Successful
experiment!"

"But you didn't go to the South Sea Islands," Ethel said, in answer to
Nigel's last remark, while the three boys, varying in ages from sixteen
to thirteen, stood admiringly round the returned traveller.

"No, we had not time. I should have liked it. But I didn't want to be
longer away."

"And now—College?" asked Mr. Elvey.

"I hope so. After Christmas."

"And then?"

"If my father is willing, the Bar."

"He knows your wish."

"Has known it for years. I never could understand the reasons for his
hesitation."

Mr. Elvey might have answered, "Nor anybody else," but did not.

"Well, you have both had time for consideration, and you have time
still, for the matter of that. No need to decide yet."

"I would rather work through college with a definite aim."

A movement of assent answered him. "You know, of course, that Malcolm
is ordained to the curacy of St. Peter's."

"Yes. Capital for you all having him within reach."

Nigel could hardly take his eyes off Ethel. He knew that it was time
for him to say good-bye; yet he lingered, craving a few words with her
first. Mr. Elvey soon turned to speak to his wife, and Nigel seized the
opportunity, moving to Ethel's side.

"I must not stay; they will be expecting me at home, and wondering why
I don't come," he said. "It's desperately hard to go so soon, but if I
don't—"

"Yes. Oh, don't wait," she said at once; "we shall see you again very
soon."

Nigel's face changed. He had not expected this. Was she so indifferent?

"I'm afraid I must," he repeated; yet he did not stir. Ethel's presence
was like a fascination, holding him to the spot against his will, or
rather enchaining his very will, so that for the time nothing else
seemed to have weight. "I can't tell you what it is to me to come back
again—here," he said softly. "It is like—"

"Like old days, isn't it?" she responded gaily. "You always were just
one of our boys, you know,—in and out when you liked. We shall expect
the same again."

"Will you? Don't you think I might come too often?"

Poor Nigel! He was in such desperate earnest; while Ethel, through her
very delight at the return of her old friend, was brimming over with
fun.

"I won't venture to say that! Anybody might come too often, perhaps.
I'm a desperately busy person, and never have a moment to spare. But of
course you'll pay us a polite call now and then?"

"Yes," Nigel answered seriously.

"And if I'm out, you can leave your card."

"Yes."

"A month or six weeks later somebody is sure to find time to return
your call."

"Yes," was all Nigel could say. He knew that it was utterly absurd to
take this bantering for anything beyond banter; but how could he help
it?

Then a moment's pause, and Ethel looked at the clock.

"Nigel, I don't want to seem unkind," she said; "but, do you know, I
really almost think you ought not to stay any longer—if you haven't
seen your home-people yet."

This finished Nigel off! Ethel wished him to go! Ethel thought him
wrong to have come! His face did not fall into a vexed or doleful set,
but it grew exceedingly grave, and all sparkle was gone. He did not
question her judgment. Of course she was right, entirely right; and all
along he had known himself to be acting with no great wisdom. Still he
did feel acutely that if the meeting with him had been to Ethel what
the meeting with Ethel was to him, she could not so cheerfully have
proposed to shorten the interview.

Could she not? That was the question!

Nigel had no doubt at all about the impossibility. A grey cloud had
swept over his sky, blotting out his hopes. Yet he acted at once upon
her suggestion, for if Ethel wished him to go, nothing else could keep
him.

"Yes, certainly—good-bye," he said, holding out his hand.

"You don't mind my saying it? I'm only thinking of your mother."

Oh no; he did not mind, if "minding" meant being angry. He could
honestly reply with a "No." Ethel was "only thinking" of his mother,
and he had been "only thinking" of Ethel. That made the difference.

"No, you are right; I ought not to have forgotten," he said vaguely,
though he had not quite forgotten; and in another minute he was walking
swiftly homewards through the streets.

But how different everything looked! The shadow which had fallen upon
himself seemed to envelop the whole town.

It was late when Nigel reached the Grange door. He stood outside for a
moment, lost in thought; his hand upon the bell, but not pulling it.
The deep tones of St. Stephen's clock were booming out ten strokes in
slow succession, and the bass notes of the Grange hall clock seemed
trying to overtake church time.

Nigel heard both without heeding. "What would they say at home?"
pressed now as a question of importance, though it had not seemed
important when he was with Ethel. Then he had no need to ring, for
Daisy flung the door open, and, as the French would say, "precipitated
herself" upon him.

"Nigel! O Nigel, I knew it was you! You dearest of old fellows! It's
delicious to have you back! But why didn't you come straight from the
station? What have you been doing all this time? Father has gone to
bed, and mother and Anice are in such a way!" The last few words were
whispered.

"Did they mind?" asked Nigel. "Why, Daisy, you are a young lady!"—as he
kissed the fresh round cheek.

"Don't! I hate to be called a 'young lady.' Nigel; come in—do! What
makes you stand and dream? You dear old fellow! It's awfully jolly to
see you again. Oh come along—make haste! Fancy waiting to take off your
coat after a whole long year away! I was watching at the staircase
window, and I saw you in the garden; but nobody else knows."

She pulled him across the hall and into the drawing-room, bursting open
the door with a crash of sound which would have seriously disturbed Mr.
Browning had he been present.

"Daisy! Daisy!" expostulated Fulvia.

"It's Nigel!" cried Daisy.

"At last!" murmured Anice.

Nigel's first move was to his mother's side. She had risen with a
startled look on his entrance, her large eyes wide-open; but the
response to his greeting was scarcely what might have been expected.
His arms were round her, while her arms hung limply against the velvet
dress, and the cheek which she offered to him was cold and white.

"Mother, you are not well!" he exclaimed when—the short round of
brotherly kisses over—he came to her again.

Fulvia took stand as a sister in the household. She had wondered a
little, privately, whether after this long break he would greet her
precisely as in their boy and girl days; but it seemed that the idea of
a change had never occurred to him.

"I am sure you are not well," repeated Nigel.

"Mother has been so worried waiting for you."

It was Anice who said this. Nobody but tactless Anice, not even the
impulsive Daisy, would have said the words. Indignant fire shot from
Fulvia's eyes; and Nigel stood looking down upon his mother's face,
beautiful even when fixed and colourless, with an air grieved, and yet
absent. He could not shake off the cloud which he had carried away from
the Rectory.

"I am sorry to have worried you," he said. "Pollard was quick, and I
have been longer than I meant."

"You found the train after all," Fulvia observed.

"Yes, at the last moment."

"How about meals? Have you had anything to eat?"

"Yes, thanks; as much as I want."

"You are sure?" his mother said in her low voice. She had scarcely
spoken hitherto.

"Quite."

He drew a chair near to Mrs. Browning and sat down, holding still the
hand which he had taken a second time.

She was dearly beloved by all her children, and by none more than by
Nigel; so dearly that they could scarcely see a fault in her. The
exacting nature of her love for them, above all for her only son, did
imply a fault somewhere, only they could not see it. If Nigel saw, he
would not acknowledge the fact to others; and if Fulvia saw, she would
not acknowledge it even to herself. At least, she had not done so
hitherto.

"It was mother!" they all said. And "mother" had ever been in that
household the embodiment of all that was lovely and lovable. If
something of delusion existed, the very delusion was beautiful. And if
Mrs. Browning had her faults—as who has not?—she was the best of wives,
the most devoted of mothers, the fairest and sweetest of women. Nobody
could see her and not admire; nobody could know her and not love.

There was a curious constraint upon them all this evening; not
least upon Nigel, and this perplexed Fulvia. Mrs. Browning's look
she understood well; too well! Had any one except Nigel been in
question, Fulvia would have been the first to spring up in defence of
the "madre's" sensitiveness. The grieved curve of those gentle lips
made her very heart ache; and in her heart Fulvia counted that Nigel
had done wrongly, for it was a household axiom, without an allowed
exception, that nobody might ever do or say aught which should distress
the beloved "madre." But how could she blame him just returned from a
long year of absence?

She could not make out Nigel's look. He did not appear to be touched,
as she would have expected, by Mrs. Browning's manner. He hardly seemed
to be aware that he had caused displeasure; if displeasure is the right
word. The dark eyes had, indeed, trouble in them, but also they told of
thoughts far away. She and Daisy made conversation, Nigel responding
with forced attention; and presently that too faded. Fulvia could
almost have believed that he had forgotten his present position, so
still was the manner, so absorbed the downcast gaze. Mrs. Browning drew
her hand away, and the movement was not noticed.

"What are you dreaming about?" Daisy burst out at length, bringing
Nigel back, with something of a start, to the consciousness of his
immediate surroundings. "What are you thinking of?"

"Perhaps your first word was the more correct—dreaming, not thinking.
Don't things seem rather like a dream to you this evening?"

"No, they don't. It's all sober reality. And you are your substantial
self; not half so much of a wraith as when you went away. Is he,
Fulvia? There!—" with a mischievous pinch of his arm—"that's the proper
test. It's genuine, you see. If you can make yourself wince, you may be
quite sure you're not dreaming. I've tried to pinch myself in a dream,
and it doesn't hurt. Do you know, you're most wonderfully altered,
Nigel—bigger and broader, and as brown as a berry. And actually growing
a moustache! And I think you are going to be handsome."

"Daisy, if you take to personalities, I shall have to give you a
lesson."

"Do, please! I like lessons!"

Nigel laughed, but he did not seem inclined to carry out his threat by
active measures. "How has my father been lately?" he asked next. "Not
well to-day?"

"Very far from it," Mrs. Browning murmured.

"Nothing definitely wrong?"

"Yes; weakness and depression; and the old pain about the heart, worse
than it used to be. He will not have advice; says it is only neuralgia,
and nothing can be done. But he ought to consult a London physician.
One never can be sure. I have tried in vain to persuade him."

"Perhaps he will listen to me. And you, too—you are not just as you
ought to be," Nigel said affectionately.

"I! Oh, that is nothing. I never expect to feel strong."

Then Anice's voice was heard again. "But, Nigel, what can have made you
so late? Why didn't you come straight from the station?"

"Anice is a self-appointed Inquisitress-General," interposed Fulvia.
"Did you meet anybody by the way?"

"I nearly ran down Mr. Carden-Cox."

"He wouldn't forgive anybody else; but you are a privileged person—you
may do what you like. Was he much delighted?" asked Fulvia, while Anice
could be heard complaining—"I don't see why you should call me that. I
don't see why Nigel shouldn't tell us."

"If he was, he showed it in characteristic style," said Nigel.

"Where did you see him?"

"In George Street."

"George Street! But what could have taken you there?" exclaimed Anice.
"Didn't you come up the steps?"

"Inquisitress," whispered Fulvia simultaneously with Nigel's—

"No."

"But why?"

"Really, Anice; if he had a fancy to go round, I don't see that it is
our business."

"No—only—after a whole year away, I should have thought he would have
chosen the quickest way home."

"Would, could, might, and ought are often mistaken," asserted Fulvia.

"Fulvia is right. I had a fancy to go round," said Nigel, and for a
moment he was strongly tempted to say no more. But an explanation
was expected; his call at the Rectory was sure to become known; he
disliked needless mysteries, and his habitual openness won the day.
With scarcely a break, he went on—"A fancy to look at old haunts by
gaslight. I walked some distance."

"Which way?" asked the persistent Anice.

"By Church Square."

"To the Elveys'?" Mrs. Browning bit her lip nervously.

"Not intending to see them, mother. It was as I say—a fancy to take a
look. I fully meant to be here as soon as Pollard; but I met Mr. Elvey,
and he persuaded me to go in for five minutes."

Fulvia's brows were knitted, yet she laughed. "I don't see why you
should not. The Elveys always were great cronies of yours."

"No—only—one would have thought," murmured Anice. "Yes, of course they
are old friends. Only—to put them before us—"

"You goose!" exclaimed Fulvia angrily. "As if there were any putting
before or behind in the question! I don't see, for my part, how Nigel
could well help going in, when Mr. Elvey met him. How can you be so
absurd!"

Anice's eyes filled with ready tears, and she gazed dolorously on the
carpet; yet distressed as she might be at Fulvia's blame, her distress
did not prevent a renewed faint mutter of—"Before his mother and
sisters!"

Nigel took the matter into his own hands. He looked straight at Anice,
speaking with a readiness and decision which impressed them all. They
knew from that moment that the brother who had gone away a boy had come
back a man.

"You are unjust, Anice. I have told you that I had no idea of calling
at the Rectory. Surely that is enough. Why must you make a mountain of
a molehill?"

Anice sighed plaintively, as if to declare that she was silenced but
not convinced; and Mrs. Browning said nothing.

"Do you think my father would like to see me now?" Nigel asked.



CHAPTER IV

FULVIA'S RESOLVE

              "Be thou still!
   Vainly all thy words are spoken;
   Till the word of God hath broken
   Life's dark mysteries—good or ill—
          Be thou still!"—_Shadow of the Rock._

THIS caused a move. Nigel vanished, not to return for some time, and
when he did, Fulvia thought he looked anxious. But nothing was said,
and nobody asked what he thought of Mr. Browning.

Prayers over, the younger girls retired, and Mrs. Browning prepared to
follow. Something in the constrained tone of her "Good-night," drew
from Nigel an apologetic—"You didn't really mind so much, mother?"

The muscles of her white throat worked visibly, her voice failing when
she tried to speak.

Fulvia brought forward a glass of water.

"Take some of this," she said, adding in a whisper, "Don't give way,
madre; it will worry him."

The words had less effect than Fulvia intended. Mrs. Browning turned
from her, and broke into one grieved utterance—"Nigel, my own boy!
Don't leave off loving me!"

"My dear mother! As if that were possible!"

Young men are not perhaps as a rule peculiarly tolerant of needless
hysterics; but Nigel was patient, holding her in his strong arms, and
trying to soothe the real though unfounded sorrow.

Fulvia would not let the little scene continue. "It was too bad," she
murmured, "just after his coming home!" And then she blamed herself
for blaming the sweet madre; but none the less she separated the two,
insisted on water being taken, laughed, joked, and saw Mrs. Browning
off to her room.

"I'll be back directly," she said to Nigel; and in five minutes or
less she returned. As she expected, he was in the drawing-room still,
standing on the rug, with folded arms and eyes intent.

"Are you very tired?" she asked abruptly, beginning to fold some of
the work which lay about. "Tidying up" was a task which somehow always
devolved on Fulvia Rolfe. One marked Browning characteristic was
disorderliness in small matters; while Fulvia could never endure to see
anything left out of its rightful place.

"No, I believe not. It is late," he said, rousing himself again with a
manifest effort.

"You have not heard any bad news to-day?"

"Is there bad news to be heard?"

"Not that I'm aware of. You look as if you had something on your mind.
That made me ask. But the botherations this evening are enough to
account for it—nearly! If only people had a little common-sense, and
wouldn't manufacture troubles to order. However, you will not think
that nobody is glad to see you back."

Nigel laughed.

"Of course—you know what it is all worth. How did the padre's condition
strike you? Was he in bed?"

"No. I can't judge so soon. It seems to me that he ought to have
advice."

"If only for the sake of his own peace of mind, not to speak of the
madre's. He doesn't look ill, at all events. You thought he did! Odd!
I should have said he was the picture of health. Then perhaps you will
encourage his going abroad."

Nigel had not heard of the scheme, and she enlightened him.

"Of course there is no real difficulty—except the expense. Somehow,
padre is always and for ever talking now about expenses—why, I
can't imagine. And except also for family traditions connected with
twenty-first birthdays. We made such a fuss about yours before you
left, that the girls have had it in their heads ever since to make a
fuss about mine."

"Heiresses usually expect something of a stir on those occasions."

"Do they? I am not sure that I care. Yes; perhaps I do. I should like
to give a big dinner to the poor, and to have all our friends here as
well. We have talked it over many a time. But whether padre would stand
the excitement—! Well, December is nearly a month away still. Nigel,
do you know at all the amount that is to come to me? I have never been
told definitely. Padre hates business talk."

"About forty thousand, I believe."

"So much! I thought it was twenty or thirty thousand."

"It was to be as much as forty by this time, certainly,—by the time you
are of age."

"I believe I heard—part was to accumulate at compound interest. But
padre was to use some of the interest."

"Yes; through your minority. That was the arrangement made by your
father."

"Then my coming of age will be a loss to him. Is that why he dislikes
any mention of it?"

"I hope not!"

"Why? People don't like losing part of the income they are accustomed
to. But of course I shall let him have any amount still that he wants,
only keeping enough for my own clothes. What do I want with more?"

"When you set up a separate establishment—"

"Nonsense. As if—"

"At all events, don't pledge yourself. Promise nothing till you see
your way."

She was conscious of his new manliness, of the change from boy to man.
He was only a year older than herself; and twelve months earlier the
difference had seemed to be on the other side. Now he had outstripped
her; and with a sense of pleasure she knew that she might begin to look
up to him, to appeal to his judgment. But nobody could have guessed
those thoughts to be passing through Fulvia's mind, as she stood near
the fire, winding a ball of worsted, while the light fell on her
reddish, fluffy hair and plain though piquant face.

"You to advise that?"

"Why not?"

"I thought—well, you might yourselves be the losers. Why should I not
hand it all over to padre as it comes in? I don't know what on earth to
do with such a lot of money."

"You can't hand over the responsibility."

"No, perhaps not. I wish one could transfer responsibilities sometimes;
but I don't see after all why one should not—in a sense. I mean, that
might be the right use for the money; and then the question of spending
would come upon padre."

She swept up some remnants of patchwork, Daisy's leavings, from a
side-table, put straight a few books, closed the open piano, and came
back to the rug. Nigel's face had fallen again into a thoughtful set.
Fulvia, gave him a good look unobserved, for he was gazing into the
fire.

"I see you haven't lost your old trick of day-dreams. Has anything
teased you at the Rectory? Ethel—did you see Ethel?"

Fulvia could not have told what made her ask the question. She had
never thought of Ethel in connection with Nigel. Malcolm Elvey was
Nigel's particular friend, and it followed as a matter of course that
Nigel should see much of all the Elvey family. But Ethel—why, Ethel was
merely a bright, useful girl, on frank and easy terms with Nigel. The
very intimacy between the two had always been so simple and natural, so
little talked about by either, as almost to exclude from the minds of
lookers-on a thought of anything beyond. Fulvia was not, and never had
been, greatly in love with the Elveys as a family. She liked Mr. Elvey,
but not Mrs. Elvey; and she did not care for Ethel. Her first utterance
of the name on this occasion was involuntary. Something in Nigel's face
arrested her attention, however, and she at once asked, "Did you see
Ethel?"

"Yes."

"Was she glad to have you back?"

"I did not ask her."

"She might have shown it without being asked."

Fulvia's eyes could equally well look soft and kind, or hard and cold.
The latter expression came into them now.

"I had a pleasant welcome, of course."

"From Ethel?"

"Yes, from Ethel."

"But not all that you expected?"

"Yes—"

"Then what did Ethel say or do?"

Nigel had reached his utmost limit of endurance for one evening.

"Somebody else seems taking up with the inquisitorial line now," he
said, not so lightly as he wished.

"Are you going to bed?"

She gave him a searching glance, then held out her hand, keeping her
head well back.

"Good-night," came abruptly. "So Ethel does stand first, as Anice
said,—before mother and sisters!"

"If you wish to make mischief—" began Nigel.

"I'm not going to make mischief. Don't you know me better? Such things
have to be, of course; and I always find them out before anybody else.
You are getting to the correct age for the epidemic; but you may trust
me not to speak. I'm not anxious to break the madre's heart sooner
than need be. I don't mean that she would object to Ethel more than to
anybody else—particularly—so you need not look at me like that. It's
the fact of anybody that will be the rub; and of course you can't be
expected to live a life of celibacy on her account. Ethel is a nice
enough girl—at least, I suppose so. I never feel that I know her; but
that may be my own fault. However, it is time we should both be in bed,
so good-night."

She allowed no opportunity for another brotherly salutation, but
retreated with a mocking smile. "Go and dream of Ethel; only don't
look doleful," she said. Then she mounted deliberately the shallow oak
stairs, warbling a ditty by the way till her room was reached, and the
door was locked. Warbling ceased when she found herself alone.

Fulvia turned on the gas jet over the dressing-table and pulled out
a supply of hairpins, letting down her hair. It rippled over her
shoulders, reaching her waist, and sparkling where the light touched
it. Fulvia stood gazing at her own reflection with folded arms, bare
below the elbows.

"No; I am not beautiful—not even pretty," she murmured. "But is Ethel?"

Another pause, during which she gazed steadily.

"So that is to be it—after all these years! I would have done
anything—given anything—for him. Forty thousand!—That is nothing where
one loves. He did not know why I was glad to hear that it was so
much—for his sake, not mine. Little thinking then—and only a minute
later—But Ethel has nothing to give him. She can mend his glove—laugh
at him, perhaps, as I have heard her do. I could not laugh at Nigel—"
forgetting that she had just done so. "At anybody else—not Nigel. Will
Ethel understand him? Does anybody fully—except—? Oh, I think I could
have made him happy!"

Then the consciousness swept over her of what she was saying, of what
she was allowing to herself, and with it came a rush of angry blood,
suffusing her whole face. She turned sharply away, and walked to and
fro, her hands locked together.

"Shame! Nonsense! Rubbish! That I should be the first to think—I!—And
he, of course, has never given a thought to me! Why should he? Why
should I expect it? Nigel will never marry for money! Should I like
him if he could? . . . And if I have not seen, I might have seen. He
and Ethel! Why, it has been so for years! He would do for her years
ago what he would not do for me. I never could think why, but I know
now. If I had not been infatuated, I should have seen all along. Does
the madre see? Is that why she minded so much? . . . No, I don't love
Ethel. I don't care for her. I don't half like her. She rubs me up the
wrong way, somehow. Has it been this? . . . Poor madre! Every one will
pity her, and nobody will pity me! Hush—I will not have that come up!
Unwomanly!—Contemptible—to give one's love where it is not wanted."
Fulvia stamped her foot. "Nobody shall ever guess my folly! Anything
rather than betray myself! Nigel—how Nigel would despise me, if he
knew! And how I despise myself!"

She stood again before the glass, noting the flush which remained.

"No wonder; I may well be ashamed. It is too weak—too foolish! But
I will hide it! Stamp it down! Hold up my head!" And she flung back
her abundant hair with a proud gesture. "If love can die, mine shall
be killed. Nobody shall see! Nobody shall know! I see how!—I'll
laugh at Nigel—tease him—make myself as disagreeable as I can! . . .
No, no, that might be read. And why must I pain him? He will have
worries enough among them all. No, no, I'll follow a nobler line—more
womanly. That at least remains. If I cannot be happy, he may be. I'll
give him sympathy, and help it forward. I'll smooth things down for
him, as I know I can—more than any other human being. I shall not be
misunderstood then—shall not be understood, I mean! What nonsense I am
talking! . . . Yes, that will do! He shall think I am glad—delighted.
He shall owe some of his happiness to me. And she—I will try to love
Ethel—will try to make her see better what Nigel is. And if he is
happy—really happy—should I not be happy too, knowing it? But, oh—"

One moment Fulvia stood upright, smiling triumphantly at her own
reflection. The next, an irresistible stab came, and tears burst forth
in a deluge. She dropped to the ground, rather than threw herself down,
hid her face upon those same folded arms now laid against a chair, and
shook with smothered weeping, all the more intense because smothered.

Fulvia had never cried easily. From earliest childhood it had taken a
great deal to bring tears—unlike Anice, who had a supply always ready
to hand for the slightest call. But with Fulvia, when once the flow
began, it was as difficult to check as it had been difficult to start.
She could weep on to an almost indefinite extent; until, indeed, bodily
exhaustion should put an end to the paroxysm.

Fulvia was strong, however, and bodily exhaustion was long in coming.
Again and again she strove to master herself, almost with success;
again and again a return wave mastered her. From the moment that she
collapsed, something not far from two hours passed before she could
lift her head. When she again stood before the glass she had grown
sick with agitation. Her face was blistered; and the eyes had almost
vanished beneath their swollen lids.

"This must be the last time," she said aloud, resolutely. "I will not
give way again."

But what if she were overcome by some sudden strain? A new dread of her
own weakness assailed Fulvia, who had never felt herself weak before.

"It shall not be!" she muttered. "I will not give way! I will not! Any
woman can be strong who chooses. I will be strong! I will not betray
myself—whatever happens."

She began at length to make ready for going to bed, in a mechanical
fashion, plaiting loosely her long hair to keep it out of her eyes,
noting the lateness of the hour. Not far from two o'clock!

"What would the madre think of me? But they shall not know. I must look
like myself to-morrow. If only I can sleep!"

Late though it was, she read a few verses from her Bible; a perfunctory
matter commonly; and not less so now than usual. She could not have
told five minutes afterwards what she had read.

Then she knelt down, leaning against the back of a chair, with a
feeling of utter weariness. What did it matter whether she prayed or
not? What did anything matter? Fulvia had prayed seldom hitherto—really
prayed. There had been no especial connection between her morning and
evening "saying" of prayers, and the everyday life lived between.

Now, as usual, she only murmured a few unmeaning phrases, and when
she rose no help had come, for she had not sought it. In her trouble
she turned to self only, resting on her own strength of will. Fulvia
was a girl of steady principle and of noble impulses; but as yet she
had never given over the guidance of her barque to the hand of the
Master-Pilot. There was danger of its being swept to and fro out of the
right course, by wind and wave, against her will.

"Yes, that will do," she said, before putting out her light. "Nigel
shall be happy, at all events. I always have said that if one really
cares for another, one can wish nothing so much as his happiness. Well,
I have to prove it now. Nobody shall ever guess! That has to be crushed
down—crushed!" And she clenched her teeth. "I will be mistress of
myself. And if I have any power to smooth things for him and Ethel, I
will do it."

The resolution was praiseworthy; but would she have strength to carry
it out?



CHAPTER V

IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT

   "Rather, steel thy melting heart
    To act the martyr's sternest part,
    To watch with firm unshrinking eye
    Thy darling visions as they die,
    Till all bright hopes and hues of day
    Have faded into twilight grey."—_Christian Year._

"WHAT is Nigel going to do with himself to-day?" asked Daisy next
morning.

Breakfast—supposed to begin at nine, seldom in reality before
half-past—was nearly over. People had dropped in at intervals till all
were present except Mr. Browning. Fulvia, for a marvel, had been one
of the last instead of the first to appear, and she had to endure some
banter from Daisy, replying thereto with spirit.

It had seemed to Fulvia before coming downstairs that her pale cheeks,
and the dark shades under her eyes, must surely be remarked upon. But
nobody seemed to see anything unusual. Fulvia had always been strong,
and was almost always well. Nobody expected her to be otherwise, and
people in general are not, observant. Mrs. Browning was absorbed in
thought about her husband, and the girls were absorbed in attentions to
Nigel, while Nigel laughed and joked with them, and Fulvia knew that
his mind was away at the Rectory. She could see "Ethel" written on
every line of his face; and she knew that he was not noticing her at
all.

In one sense it might be a relief that none should observe more keenly,
for the part she had to act became easier thereby.

Yet human nature is curiously "mixed" in its ways, always wanting
what it does not possess. Fulvia missed the very solicitude which she
most desired to avoid. It seemed hard that nobody should offer a word
of kindness; that not a human being should care to hear how she had
lain awake the whole night. For what? That none might learn; and if
inquiries had come, Fulvia must have repelled them; but since they did
not come, she craved a sympathising word. The sick sense of weariness
was on her still; long hours of tossing to and fro had not meant rest;
and breakfast was a mere sham. She could eat nothing; but nobody saw.
Fulvia might do as she liked so long as other people's needs were
attended to.

So she told herself bitterly while pouring out unlimited cups of tea
behind the silver urn. Breakfast was always a lengthy meal at the
Grange. Everybody waited for everybody else, since all were expected to
be present at family prayers afterwards. Fulvia had wandered away into
a little dreamland of her own when she was recalled by Daisy's question—

"What is Nigel going to do with himself to-day?"

"Varieties," Nigel answered.

"Mother wants you to go and see Mr. Carden-Cox." This was Anice's
remark. If Anice desired a thing herself she was sure to quote Mrs.
Browning.

"I shall have to see Mr. Carden-Cox soon, of course."

"Nigel, if you go this morning, I wish you'd take me," cried Daisy.
"His study is so delicious, and he always gives one something nice."

"To eat?"

"No—nonsense. A book, or a picture, or something."

"He is said to spoil children."

"Well—and I'm a child—not a young lady! Do take me."

"Nonsense, Daisy. Nigel can't be saddled with a pair of sisters all day
long," interposed Fulvia, foreseeing a like request from Anice.

"You don't call me a 'pair,' do you? Besides, what's the harm? Nigel
has been more than a year away, and we do want to see something of
him. You don't care, of course. He isn't your brother," pursued Daisy,
unconscious of giving pain. "Nigel has nothing to do except amuse
himself. Nobody will expect to see him. The Elveys won't, because he
has been there; and other people don't matter, except Mr. Carden-Cox."

"Nigel has not seen Malcolm yet."

Nigel looked up at Fulvia in gratitude; and he did not at once look
away. His eyes studied her gravely for two or three seconds; and Fulvia
knew at once that she might have, but must not allow, the word of
sympathy for which she had been craving.

"Malcolm—no. But—" Daisy began.

"You know that he is Curate at St. Peter's now, of course," Fulvia said
cheerfully, smiling at Nigel.

His eyes were on her still, in a kind gaze—exactly the frank concerned
gaze which a brother might bestow on a sister, and, as she knew, not at
all the kind of gaze that he would have bestowed upon Ethel under like
circumstances. But the kindness was marked; and Fulvia found herself
tingling with a rush of feeling. She saw that he was about to speak.
This would never do. She was lifting a full breakfast-cup to pass
across the table, and the next moment it had dropped from her hand,
causing a crash of broken china, and deluging the white tablecloth. So
neatly was the thing done that even Nigel did not at once suspect its
non-accidental nature.

"How stupid of me! I must be demented!" exclaimed Fulvia, starting
up. "And I have always prided myself on never letting anything fall.
I shall begin to think my fingers are growing buttery at last." She
rang the bell, and came back to stand over the swamped table, laughing.
"What a horrible mess! I hope nobody wants any more tea, for the teapot
is pretty well emptied. Oh, we were just speaking about Malcolm. You
know that he is going to live at home for a time, don't you?"

Nigel seemed to be lost in a brown study. "Yes—the last letters
from home told me," he said, when a pause drew his attention to the
question. "I don't see why he should not. St. Peter's is near to St.
Stephen's."

But his eyes went again to Fulvia inquiringly.

"The best thing in the world for them all, I should say," she remarked
in a light tone. "Ethel seemed delighted with the plan. There was
talk of lodgings for him at first, I believe, but that is given
up—naturally. By-the-bye, I wonder if you thought Ethel improved in
looks. Mr. Carden-Cox declares she has grown quite pretty. I never
do think her that, but she has pretty manners—and after all, it is a
matter of opinion. Almost everybody is thought handsome by somebody.
However, you could hardly tell in a few minutes. Of course you will be
going there again to-day, to see Malcolm."

Mrs. Browning did not like this, neither did Anice, and Daisy's brown
eyes were round as saucers. Fulvia could see the faces of all three,
without looking at any of them; her senses being doubly acute this
morning. The last words had been hard to utter smilingly, and again she
was aware of Nigel's attention. It was almost more than she could bear,
meaning to her so much, yet in itself so little. The tingling sensation
came back, and with it a choking in her throat. She had just power to
say—

"Well, if you all like to sit round an ocean of spilt tea, pray do! It
is too damp an outlook for my taste. Simms doesn't seem inclined to
appear, so perhaps—And there is tea all down my dress! What a bother!
It will be ruined if I am not quick. I must see to it at once."

Then she was gone, passing swiftly upstairs to her own room, and Nigel
asked as the door closed, "What is the matter with Fulvia?"

"Fulvia! Why, Nigel—what should be the matter? Nothing is, of course.
Nothing is ever the matter with Fulvia," declared Daisy. "Why should
you think anything was? She has only made a fine mess."

"She doesn't seem to be herself."

"I don't think anything is wrong," said Anice.

Nigel made no answer, but he resolved to use his own eyesight. Mrs.
Browning could think of nobody except her husband; and Daisy was a mere
child; and Anice, like many quasi-invalids, objected to others besides
herself being counted deserving of attention on the score of health.
Her father's condition she had to put up with; but Fulvia and Daisy
were always to be strong, and she was always to be the one cared for.
In fact, Anice liked a monopoly of delicate health.

"Fulvia is not as she used to be," Nigel said to himself; and though
she came to prayers in a few minutes, wearing an extra cheerful air, he
did not alter his opinion. If she were not unwell, she was in trouble.
He could not resolve which it might be.


Mr. Carden-Cox sat in his study, late that afternoon, before a blazing
fire, lost in cogitation.

It was a comfortable room, containing everything that might be desired
by a bachelor of moderate means. Nobody counted Mr. Carden-Cox wealthy,
but everybody knew that he had enough to "get on upon."

In his mode of living he was neither lavish nor stingy. He gave away a
good deal; but always after his own fashion—which means that he refused
everybody's requests for money, yet did a good many unknown kindnesses.
He was an eccentric man; something of an enigma to people generally.
Nobody could ever guess beforehand, with certainty, what Mr. Carden-Cox
would do, or how he would do it.

He had never been married. This fact everybody knew, while few could
tell the wherefore. Perhaps two or three, among his acquaintances,
looking back nearly a quarter of a century, might speak of the time
when Arthur Carden-Cox, then close upon forty in age, had showed signs
of being "touched" by the rare charms of that wonderfully fair young
creature, Clemence Duncan. But few had thought much of it. All men who
came within her range were fascinated, without effort on her part. The
question was not, whether she would marry Albert Browning or Arthur
Carden-Cox, but upon which among a dozen ardent suitors her choice
would fall. Arthur Carden-Cox had not seemed by any means the most
ardent; and when Clemence Duncan became Mrs. Browning, others were more
pitied.

However, those others had comforted themselves, sooner or later
recovering; and all of them, now living, were middle-aged men, married
and with families. Arthur Carden-Cox alone had made no further effort
to find a wife. He had been long and late falling in love; and once in
he could not easily fall out again.

Perhaps Mrs. Browning guessed what the true cause might be of his
lonely life. But she never spoke of it. If he had proposed to her, she
told the fact to no one. Other people counted him only "an odd old
bachelor"; and this explained everything.

It was inevitable that he should be intimate at the Grange, since,
though not related to the Brownings themselves, he was uncle to Mr.
Browning's ward, Fulvia Rolfe.

Fulvia's mother had been half-sister to Arthur Carden-Cox; and Fulvia's
father, John Rolfe, had been an old and intimate friend of Mr.
Browning. John Rolfe and Arthur Carden-Cox had not been on very happy
terms, owing to a quarrel over the marriage settlements of John's wife:
but John Rolfe had reposed the most unbounded confidence in Albert
Browning. When Rolfe died, shortly after the death of his wife, he
was found to have appointed Albert Browning his sole executor, sole
guardian of his infant child, sole trustee of the fortune which was to
be hers.

A strange thing to do, many said; and Mr. Carden-Cox doubtless felt
himself slighted. Albert Browning at first seemed to shrink from the
responsibility, even though it meant advantage to himself, since by the
terms of the will, he was expressly allowed to use a certain share of
the interest, until Fulvia should be of age. He accepted the charge,
however; and he and his young wife adopted the little Fulvia as their
own, Thenceforth she grew up like one of the Browning family, taking
her stand as Nigel's companion, and as the eldest of his sisters. She
could recall no other home.

Mr. Cardon-Cox's position at the Grange was curious, like himself.
Sometimes he was in and out every day; sometimes he would not go near
the house for weeks together. To a certain extent he was a privileged
being there, able to do and say what he chose; yet he never seemed
entirely at his ease; and he and Mr. Browning were by no means on
affectionate terms. Each civilly slighted the other, though they never
quarrelled. Towards Mrs. Browning, Mr. Carden-Cox was ceremoniously
polite. He could not to this day quite forgive her for having preferred
somebody else to himself; nevertheless they were good friends.

With the three girls he was not unlike a fairy godfather, treating them
to divers gifts and pleasures, making no great distinctions between
the three, though Fulvia was his niece, and would doubtless inherit
whatever he possessed. If he had a special pet, that pet seemed to be
Daisy.

The girls were, however, secondary in his estimation. Nigel was the
real delight of the old man's heart.

For at sixty-three Mr. Carden-Cox was already an old man; older in
divers respects than many a vigorous contemporary of seventy-five.

His cogitations that afternoon were about Nigel. As he sat, nursing one
leg over the other, his hands clasped round the upper knee, his small
figure bent forward, his features wrapt in gravity, he thought only of
Nigel. Much of the love which Mr. Carden-Cox had once lavished upon
Nigel's mother was lavished now upon Nigel; but Nigel did not guess
this, or suppose himself to be more than "rather a favourite." As few
had divined the strength of Arthur Carden-Cox's devotion in past days,
so few divined it now. He was not at all in the habit of wearing his
heart upon his sleeve, for anybody to peek at. There were plenty of
daws in Newton Bury, ready to perform that office, if he would have
allowed them.

It was a disappointment that Nigel had not yet come. All day Mr.
Carden-Cox had stayed in for the chance—or, as he viewed it, for
the certainty—of a call. "What could the boy be about?" he asked
repeatedly, as the hours went by; and two ruts deepened in his forehead.

Somebody tapped, and the door opened, Mr. Carden-Cox looking up
sharply, secure of Nigel; but "Dr. Duncan" was announced instead.

Dr. James Duncan, first cousin to Mrs. Browning, and leading medical
man in Newton Bury, knew himself to be at the moment unwelcome; and he
bore the knowledge cheerfully. He understood Mr. Carden-Cox too well,
besides being too large-hearted a man, to take offence lightly. That
sort of thing—"that sort of nonsense," he would have called it—he left
to smaller natures.

Though younger than Clemence Duncan, James Duncan had once upon a time
been in the ranks of her admirers. Like Arthur Carden-Cox, he had found
Albert Browning preferred to himself. Unlike Arthur Carden-Cox, he had
wisely consoled himself in later years with somebody else.

Mr. Carden-Cox, disgusted with Nigel's non-appearance, would not rise,
and Dr. Duncan did not sit down. He stood upon the rug, hat in hand,
opposite the small man in the easy-chair; himself of good medium
height, and well made, though disposed to thinness. He had a frank
English face, not critically handsome, but very like that of Nigel.
Placed side by side, the two might have passed for father and son.

"Well?" growled Mr. Carden-Cox.

"Have I interrupted anything of importance?" asked Dr. Duncan, in a
voice which matched his face—frank and well-modulated.

"No, no. It doesn't matter. I'm only on the lookout for that young
fellow. By-the-bye, have you seen him yet?" and Mr. Carden-Cox grew
lively. "Don't know who I mean! oh? Haven't you heard he is come? Why,
your former patient, of course—Nigel. You won't have much to say to him
now in that capacity. He's transmogrified. Looks ten times the man I
ever expected."

"I'm glad to hear it—very glad. I had hopes."

"Yes; you were right after all, I didn't half believe in the scheme
before he went, but you were right. And you've not seem him?"

"No. Clemente told me he was expected soon—which day I had forgotten. I
have been rather overwhelmed this week."

"Seen nobody but a lot of sick folk, I suppose. That's the way with you
doctors. Horribly dull life. But I say, Duncan, there's some mistake.
I didn't send for you. It's a blunder. I'm all right—never felt
better—don't need any physic—haven't an ache or a pain."

The other smiled. He had a pleasant smile, like Nigel's—hardly so
brilliant, but also not so evanescent. The play of it lingered longer
round his lips.

"No; I came for a word with you about somebody's health. Not your own."

"Nigel, to wit?"

"I have not seen Nigel. You say he is all right."

"Looked so, when I saw him in the dark—by lamplight, I mean. Well,
what's wrong? Some old woman wanting a red cloak to cure 'rheumatiz'?"

"Not at this moment."

"An old man then?"

"Browning is not exactly old."

"Browning! Hey! Why, what's wrong there?"

"I can say nothing in my medical capacity. Put that out of sight, if
you please."

"Can't, man, unless you put yourself out of sight."

"I am speaking simply as their relative—as Clemence's cousin."

"Ay? Well, what about him—speaking as an ordinary individual, not as a
doctor?"

"He ought to consult a London physician."

"Why not consult you?"

"We have put that possibility aside. He has not asked my advice, and I
cannot thrust it upon him."

"Rubbish!" muttered Mr. Carden-Cox.

Dr. Duncan continuing, unchecked—

"But advice he ought to have. If he would rather not come to me, let
him go to London by all means."

"Why should he not go to you?"

"Can't say! The fact is patent."

"And you don't think him in good health? Why, I should have said—Why,
he came in here last week, looking positively robust. Fads and fancies
enough, I dare say, but as for being ill—"

"Looks are deceptive sometimes."

"Except to the initiated, I suppose. You don't mean that anything is
seriously wrong?"

"I can't speak with authority. I have not examined the case. All I say
is—as anybody might say—that he ought not to go on without advice."

"And if he does?"

Dr. Duncan was silent.

"But I say, now—look here! What do you expect me to do? Why don't you
speak to Mrs. Browning?"

"Because, if she could not persuade him, I should have alarmed her to
no purpose. You have influence with them."

"Perhaps—yes."

"Your opinion will not frighten her as mine would—even while they may
act upon it."

"I told Browning last week that he seemed in splendid condition. Am I
to eat my own words so soon?"—ruefully.

"What did he say?"

"Oh, sighed, and declared he 'suffered' a good deal, couldn't sleep,
and so forth! All a case of masculine nerves, I thought. What! Going
already?"

"I must! I'll leave the matter with you."

"But I say—stop!—what about this notion of going abroad? I believe the
girls don't know it yet. Browning broached it to me. Why, he has always
hated travelling."

"He should consult a physician before deciding."

"What do you suppose to be the matter with him?"

Dr. Duncan buttoned his glove.

"Eh what's wrong with the man?"

"I can say nothing definite. He is not as he should be. Good-bye."

"But, hallo—I say!" And Mr. Carden-Cox sprang up. "Am I to quote you?"

Dr. Duncan looked down from his superior height, smiling again. "No,"
he said, and vanished.

"Knew he meant that," growled Mr. Carden-Cox, dropping back into the
easy-chair. "Extraordinary! Browning ill! Browning! I should have said
he was as jolly and well-to-do a man as any alive. But Duncan doesn't
speak without reason. Well, I must obey orders, I suppose. What next?
Hey? Yes—come in! Nigel this time?"

The two shook hands quietly, and fell into a talk. Nobody would have
guessed, looking on, how long they had been apart, nor how much the
reunion meant to the elder man.

Nigel's brightness of manner was a little forced. He had been again to
the Rectory, and both Malcolm and Ethel were out. Only Mrs. Elvey had
received him; and Mrs. Elvey was not a reviving person.



CHAPTER VI

DRAGGING HOURS

                          "Come what come may,
   Time and the hour runs through the roughest day."
                                          —SHAKESPEARE.

"WHAT has become of Nigel?"

It seemed to Fulvia that the world never would stop tormenting her with
this question. First, Daisy popped in to put it; then Mr. Browning,
with heavy step and dejected mien, did the same; afterward, Anice
appeared, loitered about, and discussed its bearings; lastly, Mrs.
Browning glided through the doorway, and desired information. When
Fulvia counted the catechising at an end, Daisy began over again.

Fulvia was always the person asked; for people had a way of appealing
to her rather than to anybody else. She was practical and clear-headed,
apt to remember little details which others were apt to forget, and
as a rule she did not mind trouble. But this afternoon she did mind.
While Anice and Daisy were on the move, unable to settle down in the
excitement of Nigel's return, Fulvia never stirred from the easy-chair
where after lunch she had taken refuge. Restlessness had had its swing
with her through the night-hours, and had been finished off by a long
walk in the morning. Now the weather had grown dismal and drizzling,
and she sat persistently over her crewel-work.

Usually Fulvia was a rapid and beautiful worker, yet advance to-day
seemed slow. While anybody was present, her needle went in and out like
clockwork.

"How you can!" Daisy exclaimed, "and Nigel only just come back?"

Fulvia smiled, and worked on. But when alone, she dropped the work on
her knee, holding it in readiness for another start so soon as the
door-handle should turn, and laid her head against the chair-back for
indulgence in a dream. Violent weeping always left Fulvia in a state of
reactionary inertia. She had not cried for—how many years was it? She
could recall the last time, and the long stupid exhaustion following.
That had been a case of childish naughtiness; but Mrs. Browning had
petted and cared for her. Nobody thought of petting as needed now.

The afternoon was wearing away. Fulvia had never before known so long
a stretch of night and day. It seemed more like twenty-four weeks than
twenty-four hours since yesterday's light chatting between herself and
the other girls about Nigel's return.

Was the whole of life to be dragged through in the same fashion? Fulvia
asked this wearily, forgetting that the sharpest pain does in time lose
something of its acuteness. She had known little hitherto of any pain;
and endurance is not easy. Fulvia felt like a tired-out child; as if
it would have been the greatest comfort to lay her head on somebody's
knee, and have another good cry.

Nobody knew, of course, how tears were threatening the whole day. That
had been the way with Fulvia from her cradle. She might pass through
a year, or any number of years, without the smallest breakdown—always
bright and even-spirited; but if once the sluices were forced open, she
had to battle for days to regain her usual standing, and a word might
overcome her.

"Fulvia Rolfe does not often cry, but when she does, she goes in for a
regular rainy season," an old gentleman had once said.

The last "rainy season" lay so far back, however, that the possibility
of its recurrence was forgotten.

Such a "rainy season" was on her now, only nobody supposed the
fact—nobody saw anything unusual. The girls could only think of Nigel;
and Nigel, at lunch, would only talk and laugh with Daisy, not seeming
to notice Fulvia at all. Soon after two he had gone out, and now, at
nearly six, he was still absent.

"What has become of Nigel?"

Daisy asked this again, bouncing the door open, banging it to in her
childish fashion, and dancing across the room. Daisy's dancing was not
sylph-like, and the room vibrated to her steps.

Fulvia could have cried out sharply, "Oh, don't!" but she did not,
because Daisy would at once have inquired—"Why?" The fire was blazing,
and she took up her work.

"Why don't you have lights? You'll hurt your eyes."

"Simms came, but I sent him away. This looked pleasanter."

"I can't imagine what makes Nigel stay out such a time; can you? Mother
is getting into a worry. He couldn't be the whole afternoon with Mr.
Carden-Cox, you know, or at the Rectory either. Fulvie, what did make
you say that at breakfast-time about his going again to the Rectory?"

"I made myself."

"Well, but why? When you know mother can't bear him to go!"

Fulvia was silent, and Daisy's childish eyes scanned her. They were
clever eyes, only undeveloped.

"Fulvie, why does mother dislike the Elveys? I think they are so nice."

"She doesn't."

"Yes, she does."

"No, it is not dislike. You are talking nonsense."

"Well then, she doesn't like Nigel to like them so much."

"Go and get something to do."

"I've done lots—heaps. I don't want to be busy now. Why does mother
mind? Is it only because she wants him all to herself? Mother never
does like any of us to be too fond of anybody—outside people, I mean.
You may just as well answer me, because I can't possibly help seeing
things, and I am not a baby."

"I think you are; a creature in long clothes. Daisy, get along, and
leave me in peace."

"Why? You're not really working; you are just making believe. I believe
you like to sit and think about Nigel's being at home again."

The words stung—how sharply innocent Daisy little dreamed.

"And I believe Nigel's at the Rectory, and you know it."

"No, I don't."

"I don't see why he shouldn't—except for madre. Poor darling madre!
I'll never like anybody out of the house, I'm quite determined, except
just a moderate little amount. But I suppose Nigel must have friends.
Anyhow, he's the dearest old fellow alive—isn't he?"

Fulvia was silent.

"He's grown so jolly and handsome! I do like a big, strong brother;
don't you?"

Silence still. Fulvia was pricking her work dreamily with the needle.

"Fulvie, you always used to praise Nigel more than anybody. Why don't
you answer?"

"It is unnecessary now. He is able-bodied, and can look to himself."

"How funny you are! Well, Nigel praises you. He told Anice and me,
before lunch—after we came in, and you went upstairs—he told us we
didn't make half enough of you. And he said—"

Daisy paused to examine the fringe nailed round a small table. Fulvia's
heart beat fast.

"How funny! Here's a spot of candle grease. I wonder how it came?"

"He said—what?"

"Oh, about you—what was I telling? I forget now. It is too bad of him
to stay away such a time."

"What do you mean by 'not making enough' of me?" demanded Fulvia. She
could not resist putting the question.

"Nigel said it, not I. He said a lot more. Oh, he only meant—what was
it?—let me see—he only meant you were such a dear, jolly old thing,
always doing something for somebody; and he said we let you do too
much. Do we? Anice was put out—didn't you see at lunch? That was why
she wouldn't eat, and why Nigel and I talked so, for fear mother should
notice. Nigel gave us a regular lecture, I can tell you. Anice said
you were so strong, it didn't matter; and Nigel said he wasn't so sure
about that—only you were unselfish, and never thought of your own
wishes—and he said it did matter, because you were not our own sister,
and we had no business to make a Cinderella of you. Anice was quite
cross. And then Nigel said—No, I wasn't to repeat that. I'm forgetting.
He told me not."

"Not to repeat what?"

"Only about what he said—it was about you, so I mustn't. But I really
didn't know before how much Nigel cared for you. Somehow, I always
thought he liked Ethel best, after mother and Anice and me. I expect
Anice was jealous. Well, there's no harm in repeating one thing Nigel
said, and that was that he had never seen anybody like you anywhere."

Fulvia could not speak for a moment. A wild hope sprang up, and her
heart beat faster, faster, in thick throbs, so hard and loud that
she thought Daisy must surely hear. How foolish! How absurd! She,
who prided herself on being always equable and composed—she to be
palpitating like this at the words of a mere child, which might mean
absolutely nothing! And yet—yet—what if she had misunderstood matters
the evening before? Could it be possible? Had she made too much of a
word, a look? Had Nigel no such feeling for Ethel as she had taken for
granted? After all, how little had passed between them! How easily
Nigel might have misunderstood her thought, and she might have misread
his!

"Anice hates being lectured, you know," Daisy went on. "But I don't
mind it—at least, not from some people; not from dear old Nigel. Well,
I don't mean to tell you one scrap more, because he said I mustn't.
But, really and truly, I never meant to let you do too much. It always
seemed natural that you should do things. Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Daisy ran away, not waiting for an answer.

And Fulvia sat in a dream, hardly thinking, only letting herself listen
to a whisper of hope. What if—after all—? She was trembling with the
sudden joy—unnerved—till suddenly Nigel entered the room; and then
Fulvia was calm.

"Fulvia going in for blind man's holiday! That is something new."

"Daisy has been here chattering, making me waste my time; quite in
despair at your absence."

"I didn't intend to be so long. One can't always help it. Everybody
expects to hear everything—" apologetically. "And then—"

"Yes?" Fulvia said, looking up. She noted something of trouble, and
asked, "Did you see Ethel and Malcolm?"

"No; only Mrs. Elvey."

"Disappointing for you."

"Yes. Fulvia—"

Now it was coming. Would he confess to her his love for Ethel?—Ask for
help? He glanced round at the door to see if anybody might be there to
hear. He had something confidential to say evidently. The pause he made
occupied a mere fraction of a second, but Fulvia had time for distinct
thought and conjecture, and her heart sank.

"Fulvia, have you thought my father ill lately?"

Then the troubled look was not for Ethel. He was only anxious about Mr.
Browning, and in his anxiety, he turned to Fulvia. The throbbing came
back, all over her, from head to foot; yet it was in her most natural
voice that she answered—

"Padre ill! No. He is nervous about himself, and I fancy he has
worries."

"Mr. Carden-Cox spoke to me. He seems to have a notion that things are
not right."

"Mr. Carden-Cox! Why, he is always telling padre how well he looks."

"That was not his style to-day. He wanted me to insist on Dr. Duncan,
or a London opinion."

"Odd! Mr. Carden-Cox isn't generally a weathercock."

"Hush—don't say any more now. Another time! Here comes Daisy."



CHAPTER VII

TO GO, OR NOT TO GO

   "God counts as nothing that which is most brilliant in the eyes of
men. What He would have in us is purity of intention, an ever-ready
yielding of our will; and these are more safely, and at the same time
more truly, proved in common than in extraordinary matters. Sometimes
we care more for a trifle than for some object of importance; and there
may be more difficulty in giving up an amusement, than bestowing a
large sum in charity."—FÉNÉLON.

THROUGH the lower part of Newton Bury ran a river, much used by the
inhabitants. Newton Bury was to some extent a manufacturing town,
and manufacturing people are apt to congregate about a stream—not to
the increase of its loveliness. But higher up, before coming within
sight of wharves or mills, the river was exceedingly pretty, with
varied banks, wooded heights at a short distance, and abundant willow
growths, diversified by clay strata. Here gentlemen who lived in the
neighbourhood did a good deal of boating; and young fellows like Nigel
were especially addicted to the amusement. As a dreamy boy, Nigel had
counted no recreation equal to that of rowing up or down the stream
on a summer day, with or without a companion. Some said he preferred
the "without" to the "with"; though Nigel himself, while agreeing
generally, always made a mental reservation in favour of Ethel.

He was not now especially given to dreaming; but the old taste for
boating survived.

Mr. Carden-Cox owned a trim rowing-boat, which it was tacitly
understood that Nigel might always use. His garden, a long and narrow
slip, "ugly but useful" the owner said, sloped down a steep hillside
to the very water's edge, and ended in a small boat-house beside some
steps. A good many gentlemen's houses followed this plan with their
gardens, thereabouts; but the Grange stood on the next hill, with part
of the town between it and the river-side.

A small steam-launch existed in Newton Bury for hiring purposes; and
Mr. Carden-Cox, in his delight at his favourite's return, thought of
the steam-launch. The second day after Nigel's arrival proved mild and
sunny, almost like an April day; certainly not like November. Newton
Bury boasted a clear atmosphere, despite its tall chimneys, and a
Londoner would scarcely have recognised this as a November day at all,
unless by the mistiness of far-off hollows. Even the Newton Bury people
said they had seldom seen the like.

"In honour of Nigel!" Mr. Carden-Cox averred, looking out of the
window before breakfast; and he immediately determined to "set going
something" which might please "the boy." Why not an excursion up the
river in the steam-launch?

"Capital! Nothing could be better!" Mr. Carden-Cox rubbed his hands
jubilantly; and breakfast had to wait, growing cold, while he
despatched a messenger to secure the launch. That settled, he gave
sundry orders as to provisions, and wrote a note to the Grange,
commanding the presence of "Nigel and all three girls" at an appointed
hour. If Mr. and Mrs. Browning would honour him with their company, so
much the better. Meanwhile, he desired to see Nigel.

"Hurrah!" Daisy cried, when the note was read aloud; the Grange
breakfast being still in process of consumption. Mr. Carden-Cox was on
principle an early man.

Nigel started off at once for Mr. Carden-Cox's house, and found that
gentleman in a fluster of nervous excitement.

"You see, there was no time to lose," he said, buttonholing the young
man with agitated fingers. "Another such day is not to be expected.
It's an effort to one of my years; but I dare say I shall not be the
worse. I shall put off all responsibility on you. Of course you and the
girls will come—eh?—Yes, I thought so. Mr. and Mrs. Browning, if they
can—well, you'll see nearer the time. We don't start till a quarter to
twelve. Must allow some time for preparations. I thought we would take
our lunch soon after twelve, before getting to the prettiest part of
the river; and then have early afternoon tea, coming down again. Mind,
everybody takes wraps. It's warm—marvellous for November; but the river
air is apt to be chilly. Of course we shall be in before dark. How
is your father to-day? Seen Duncan yet? No, I supposed not. He never
hurries himself. I'm asking Duncan, by-the-bye, but of course he'll not
come. And the Elveys."

Nigel's face lighted up.

"Yes, I knew you'd like that. Great chums of yours. I don't dislike
young Elvey; and Ethel is a sensible sort of a girl. I sent a note
early, and promised to send for an answer. You wouldn't mind being my
messenger, perhaps?"

Mind it! Nigel was delighted. He went at railway speed down the hill
towards Church Square, now and then exchanging a nod and smile with
some old acquaintance, rich or poor. Passing the short posts which
admitted foot-passengers into the square, he encountered a young man,
half a head shorter than himself, slim and compact, clerical in attire,
with a soft wide-awake crushed low over the forehead, a thin, hatchet
face, and sharp features. Fast as Nigel walked, the other walked faster
still.

"Hallo, Nigel!"

"Hallo, Malcolm!"

That was their British greeting after a year's separation. They were
great friends none the less; though not from similarity.

"Coming?" asked Nigel.

"Where?"

"Steam-launch."

"Haven't heard a word of it."

"Mr. Carden-Cox. Excursion up the river for lunch and fun. All of you
invited. You must come, old fellow."

Malcolm Elvey was a business-like individual, and his friends learnt
brevity in dealing with him.

"What time?"

"Start at a quarter to twelve, and back before dark."

"I don't mind if I do. Yes, I think I can. I've had a racking headache
for two days, and that might rid me of it."

"And the rest of you?"

"I wish you may get my father—no hope, I'm afraid. Ethel, yes—you must
insist upon that. She has so little pleasure. Most likely the note is
there, not opened. I can't go back with you, but you'll find Ethel."

"Mind you are at the bottom of Mr. Carden-Cox's garden—11.40 sharp!"

"All right. I'll come: if nothing prevents."

Nigel went on to the Rectory, and after a moment's hesitation entered
by the front door without ringing, as of old. Why not?

Nobody was in the hall; so he went to the dining-room, and found nobody
there either. Ethel's workbasket stood open on the table, and a pair
of socks with big holes lay beside it, while the little silver thimble
had dropped to the floor. Nigel lifted and placed it on the table, then
he walked to the rug, and saw upon the mantelpiece a note addressed to
"Miss Elvey" in Mr. Carden-Cox's handwriting. But the note had not been
opened.

"What a shame! It ought to have been given to her."

Nigel did not realise that the two young Rectory maids, having all
the work of the house on their hands, were glad to spare themselves
needless runs up and down stairs; indeed, they had instructions so to
do. At the Grange maids were plentiful, with scarcely enough work to
keep them out of mischief.

Ethel had been upstairs when the note came, so the cook laid it on the
mantelpiece. Later she forgot to mention it to Ethel, or to say that an
answer would be called for.

"I wonder if she will come," thought Nigel.

He went to the bookcase and stood there gazing. A good many aged
volumes of sermons, bound in venerable calf, helped to fill the
shelves. No doubt their continued existence was owing mainly to their
calf attire; since nobody ever read them. Also many modern specimens of
boys' books could be seen, in coats of faded red or blue. Nigel knew
these well. He had been a book-devourer in boyhood, and had borrowed
every readable volume from his friends.

Ethel did not appear, and he pulled out one or two, smiling at the
tremendous boyish adventures depicted in the illustrations, and
handling them kindly as old friends.

A plain black volume, pushed half in among the rest, fell to the
ground; and a sheet of paper fluttered out. Ethel's handwriting!
The heading was "Extracts," and Nigel read what followed without
compunction.

                                I.

   "There is something more awful in happiness than in sorrow, the latter
being earthly and finite, the former composed of the substance and
texture of Eternity, so that spirits still embodied may well tremble at
it." ¹

                                II.

   "The great cure to be wrought in us is the cure of self-will, that we
may learn self-resignation; and all God various dealings with us have
this one end in view." ²

   ¹ N. Hawthorne.       ² R. Suckling.

                               III.

   "Unloving words are meant to make us gentle, and delays teach patience,
and care teaches faith, and press of business makes us look out for
minutes to give to God, and disappointment is a special messenger to
summon our thoughts to heaven." ¹

                                IV.

   "To strive each day to do the wonted service more perfectly; to infuse
and maintain in every detail a purer motive; to master each impulse,
and bring each thought under a holier discipline; to be blameless in
word; to sacrifice self, as an habitual law, in each sudden call to
action; to take more and more secretly the lowest place; to move amid
constant distractions, and above them, undisturbedly; to be content to
do nothing that attracts notice, but to do it always for the greater
glory of God." ²

                                V.

   "Go forth then with boldness to suffer, as your Lord has suffered
before you; endeavour to embrace with calmness, and even with
joyfulness, the pain or the sorrow which he brings you, and which is
but doubled by the lingering will, the timid withdrawal." ³

   ¹ E. M. Sewell.       ² T. T. Carter.       ³ Skeflington.

This was all; but at the close was written in small letters: "Ethel:
November: Sunday evening."

"Why, Nigel, how do you do? I wasn't told that you were here."

Nigel woke up from abstraction and shook hands.

"This is yours," he said. "I found it, and—read the sentences. Do you
mind?"

Ethel coloured faintly. "Oh, I could not think where it was gone. I was
reading 'Voices of Comfort' to mother, and I had a fancy afterwards to
copy out those few pieces. How stupid of me to leave it about!"

She held out her hand, and Nigel said, "I suppose I mustn't ask to keep
the paper."

"Why—you don't want it?"

"Yes."

"I don't mind, of course—only—"

"Then I may. I'll make another copy for you."

"I don't really need it—only—it was just a fancy, you know."

"Yes. Were you feeling particularly cheerful on Sunday evening?"

Ethel looked up, smiling. "Now, why must you ask that?"

"I should like to know. I don't trace the connection between all the
extracts."

"Perhaps I'll tell you some day. Not this morning. I have not time."

"And I am taking up your time. But I don't seem to have seen anything
of you yet."

"No. And I didn't mean—only it would be a long talk to go into those
extracts. And I have everything to see to. But I don't mind saying—no,
I wasn't very cheerful on Sunday evening. I wanted to go to church, and
I couldn't be spared. Mother was poorly, and everything seemed awry,
and I found myself on the edge of grumbles. So I looked out something
to do me good."

"Perhaps it will do me good too. Ethel, your mother will spare you
to-day."

"What for?"

He handed her Mr. Carden-Cox's note.

Ethel read it with a flush of delight. "Oh, that would be nice! That
would be delightful!" Then a shade of doubt came. "But I am afraid I
can't."

"But you must—you must indeed," urged Nigel, almost in despair. "We
shall not have another day like this all the winter. Mrs. Elvey will
say you must."

"No; she will say I may if I like. That makes all the difference."

"Your father—"

"He is gone out, and he won't be back till one o'clock. It doesn't
matter. Even if he said that I might, I don't think I could feel that I
ought."

"But if things could be arranged somehow—if it is only possible! Do
just try—for my sake, won't you? Tell Mrs. Elvey that I want it, and
remind her how long I have been away. Do see if it can't be done."

"I'll speak to my mother," Ethel said, and vanished.

Nigel waited with the best patience he could muster till she came
quickly in, her step so light and her face so sunny that he said
joyfully, "That's right! I knew you could."

"No, I can't," Ethel answered, smiling. "It won't do."

"But—!" Nigel would have found it hard to say which dismayed him most,
the fact that she could not go, or the fact that she should care so
little.

"Mother can't spare me. It is one of her bad days, and if I am not here
everything is sure to go wrong. You see, it isn't as if there were
anybody else. The boys are no good, and I must be at hand."

"It is too bad! I did hope—Malcolm is coming, and he told me you could.
Don't you think you might? Malcolm said you must."

"Malcolm doesn't understand. I would really, if I could," she said,
with so ultra-cheerful an air that Nigel ought to have seen through
it. If she had not resolutely kept her back to the light, he must have
noticed a suspicious reddening of her eyes. "I would if I could, but
I don't see how. Mother would let me go, of course, if I pressed for
it; but how can I when I know I can't be spared? My father will be out
almost all day; and there is a cousin coming down for the night from
London—you don't know him, I think. It's the Australian cousin Tom.
He's such a nice fellow, and he will be here before lunch. We were with
him in the summer, down in Devonshire, staying at my uncle's house,
when he was there too. He would feel neglected, I am afraid, with my
father out, and all of us away, and my mother poorly. It would not be
right. Don't say anything to Malcolm, please; or he will wish he had
stayed at home. And he ought not; he ought to go. He works so hard; and
a few hours on the river will do him no end of good. And I am quite
well, and don't need it."

Nigel had grown silent, as she talked gaily on. "Then I must tell Mr.
Carden-Cox only to expect Malcolm," he said at length.

"I'm afraid so. It is tiresome—" ("Only tiresome! Is that all?" thought
Nigel)—"very tiresome that I can't go; but things will sometimes
decline to fit in. They seem to 'go perwerse,' as old nurse used to
say. I hope you will all enjoy yourselves immensely. You must tell me
about it afterwards."

"I hope you will too—at home," Nigel said with a great effort. He did
not hope anything of the kind, really. This "Australian cousin Tom,"
who was "such a nice fellow," weighed upon him like an incubus.

"I am sure to do that. One always can enjoy one's self, one way or
another," said Ethel merrily. "And as I shall not have the refreshment
of the river, I shall have the refreshment of Tom's talk. He's full of
ideas, and he has some fun in him too. I wish you and he could meet,
but he only stays one night. By-and-by I hope he will pay us a long
visit. Must you go? Well, please don't say a word to Malcolm to spoil
his day. He doesn't know about Tom arriving before lunch, Mother only
told me just now that she had heard it. We didn't expect Tom till late;
but you see that makes a difference. I couldn't possibly be away—could
I?"

"No; I see."

"You'll come in again some day soon, I dare say, for a proper
reasonable call. You know how glad we all are to see you always."

Nigel did not care about "we all." He wanted Ethel individually to be
glad. But he only said "good-bye" seriously, and went.

Ethel watched him through the window, till he was out of sight. Then
she turned to the table and took up her work, but had to put it down
again, for three or four large tears would have their way at last, and
everything was deluged in a watery mist.

"How silly! Oh I wish I could go! But I know I am right. It would have
been such a delight—the river and Nigel and all! There, I mustn't
let myself think. Mother mustn't guess how I mind. I'm glad Nigel
didn't see. It would have spoilt his day, if he had thought me much
disappointed, and now they will all be as merry as kittens. Oh how I
wish I didn't so desperately love my own way. There's nothing in the
world I should like so much—such a lovely day, and all of them there,
and—and only poor good-natured old Tom at home, instead! Yes, of course
he has some fun in him, but such slow fun!

"Did Nigel mind very much? I hope not—I don't want his pleasure to be
spoilt—and yet I shouldn't like him not to care at all. But I suppose
he did, a little. When he looks so preternaturally grave it always
means that he is vexed or worried. Oh if I could have been with them
to-day! There now—I'm going in for discontent again. I think I'll run
out and feed the chickens the first thing. It's easier to manage one's
self out in the open air. And then I have any amount to get through
before Tom comes, with his endless talk about Australia. The sock shall
wait," concluded Ethel cheerily.

If her eyes were still moist, she left the room singing.



CHAPTER VIII

FIRE AND WATER

   "Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
    Little breezes dusk and shiver
    Thro' the wave that runs for ever
    By the island and the river."—TENNYSON.

   "Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
    Of moving accidents by flood and field,
    Of hair-breadth 'scapes."—SHAKESPEARE.

"YOU don't mean to say you are going in a washing summer dress! Fulvie!
And this—November!" exclaimed Daisy, with rounded eyes.

"It is the prettiest dress I have." Fulvia spoke composedly, looking at
herself in the pier-glass. The colour of her costume, dark navy-blue,
with portions of a lighter shade, was suitable for any season; and the
material though really a washing fabric, did not look like it. Fulvia
knew this to be a becoming dress. It had been made in particularly
graceful style by a London dressmaker, and fitted beautifully, showing
her figure to the best advantage; while the colour harmonised well with
her reddish hair. Several people had assured her that in this dress she
looked "quite handsome."

Some impulse came over her to don it, when making ready for the boat
trip; she could hardly have told why. Of course the real wish was a
desire to look well in Nigel's eyes, and of course this was the last
admission she would have made even to herself. But she obeyed the
impulse. Then Daisy came in, and remonstrated.

"Nobody would take it for a summer dress, and I like the coolness. It
is so warm this morning—quite oppressive. I feel as if I could hardly
breathe. Besides, I don't mind if this gets splashed. My nice serge
might be spoilt."

"Why don't you put on your old brown thing? Mr. Carden-Cox wouldn't
care."

"I detest myself in that brown. It makes me hideous."

"Well, what matter? Nobody would mind. There 'll be nobody to see, who
signifies; only Nigel and a few others."

"I should mind. I like to look respectable."

"You'll take cold."

"As if I ever did! Besides, I have plenty underneath the dress to keep
me warm."

"Then you'll wear your fur cloak, I suppose?"

"No; I shall take the cloak but I couldn't endure the weight of it all
day. I mean to wear this," as she lifted a "half-season" jacket of thin
cloth; which was tailor-made and fitted like a glove.

"I think you are crazy," declared Daisy. "Why Anice and I are going in
serge dresses, and our thickest winter jackets."

"Quite right to be prudent. Anice can't take too many warm wraps."

She had to undergo another ordeal of criticism downstairs on her lack
of wisdom, but it was too late then to change, even had she been
willing, and they were speedily off.

Fulvia was the prominent person in the boat that day. Mr. Carden-Cox
being host, his niece fell naturally into the position more or less of
hostess. Mr. Carden-Cox might make a favourite of Daisy, but he paid
due honour to the eldest girl, and he never failed to acknowledge the
family tie between himself and her. She was indeed almost the sole
relative left to him.

Mr. and Mrs. Browning were not present. Mr. Browning proved
unpersuadable; and as a matter of course Mrs. Browning stayed at home
with him. Dr. Duncan failed to accompany his genial wife, and his
pretty fifteen-years-old daughter, Annibel, Daisy's great chum. The
particular friend of Anice, Rose Bramble, and Rose's brother, Baldwyn,
were of the party. Fulvia had no great chums, or particular friends.
She always said she could not find anybody who suited her.

Malcolm Elvey appeared at the last moment, racing at headlong speed
down the garden, just when all hope of him was given up, and Mr.
Carden-Cox had actually given the word of command to cast off. The
garden ended in a steep wall, which was level with the path on one
side, and went sheer down into deep water on the other side, and was
broken by the flight of steps and small boat-house. A narrow space
divided the steam-launch from the wall, and Malcolm sprang lightly
across. He had been an agile schoolboy not long before.

"Just in time!" Nigel said.

"I couldn't get here sooner. Impossible," panted Malcolm.

Some of the party were in high spirits; not all. Baldwyn Bramble, who
went in for being witty, made jokes without end, for the benefit of the
girls. He rather admired Anice, but found Daisy's retorts sometimes
too sharp to be agreeable. Malcolm threw off the cares of parish work,
and entered with zest into all that went on. Before luncheon, through
luncheon, and after luncheon, as they still steamed up the river,
silence had no chance of reigning for the shortest space, and the
pretty banks rang with bursts of laughter.

Nigel could not get into the full swing of fun. Though joining
sufficiently to prevent remark, he was unable to shake off the
recollection of Ethel at home gaily talking to the "Australian cousin
Tom," and pleased to be there rather than on the river. If only he had
seen her a little grieved and disappointed, he could have borne her
absence bettor. As it was, he felt that he was not making way with
Ethel. Things were different from what they once had been. The old
frankness and freedom, the complete trust and understanding between
them, seemed to be lacking. He loved Ethel more than ever, but he could
not at all tell how much she cared for him.

She did care for him, of course, in a measure. "We all," as she had
told him, were always ready to give him a welcome; but Nigel craved far
more.

Ethel had grown older now, and so had he. Perhaps she wished him to
feel that things were and must be a little different, that the boy
and girl friendship had to be transposed into something more calm
and distant. He wanted it transposed himself, but by no means into
something more distant.

And here was Tom—a nice fellow, full of fun and full of talk. Ethel
had plainly seen a good deal of him; and who could tell what manner of
impression he had made upon her? How bright she had looked at the very
thought of seeing Tom a few hours earlier than had been expected! And
how little she had cared about losing the boat excursion with himself!

Nigel had seldom felt less full of fun and talk than this afternoon.
He had great difficulty in keeping up to the mark at all. Ethel was
never out of his mind. He managed pretty well at lunch, and for a while
after; but presently he left other folks alone, standing to gaze at
the wooded heights, in apparent admiration of their beauty, while he
was really looking in imagination at the Rectory drawing-room, hearing
Tom's amusing conversation, and Ethel's bright response. If somebody
had asked him suddenly whether his eyes were fixed upon turf or trees,
he could not have told.

Fulvia alone saw all this, noted every turn of expression, and
was aware of his struggle against what Ethel would have called
"preternatural gravity." Fulvia was not fully herself to-day. She had
not yet recovered from that tearful night-watch, and the "rainy season"
lasted still, fitfully; though no traces of tears were visible beyond
a general softening of the face. Hope aided in the softening. She saw
Nigel's gravity, but she did not ascribe it to Ethel. He had taken
Ethel's absence so quietly, hardly uttering a word of regret. No; it
was not Ethel. He was only anxious about his father, good affectionate
son that he always had been; and he could not shake off the weight.

Nigel was undoubtedly a good son, an affectionate son; and he did feel
disturbed about his father's possible condition. Mr. Carden-Cox's
warning had been strong enough to cause uneasiness. But the load upon
him to-day arose from another cause; the real pain was for Ethel. If
Ethel could have come, he would have been the most joyous of the party;
if Ethel had spoken out her disappointment, he could still have been
cheerful. Now every joke was an effort.

Fulvia did not read the truth; perhaps because she would not. Nigel's
composure about Ethel's absence had stirred her to the core. She could
no more shake off for a moment the consciousness of his presence than
he could shake off the consciousness of Ethel's absence; yet she
showed it no more than he did. If Nigel drew a step nearer, her heart
beat thickly, as it had taken to doing these last few days; but none
could have guessed the fact. Though really by no means well, she was
looking her best. Excitement and feverish warmth lent a flush to her
cheeks; and the slight heaviness of her eyelids gave to the eyes a rare
softness. Now and then she caught Nigel's glance; and after lunch Daisy
whispered in passing, "Do you know, Nigel says you have grown pretty
this year?"

Fulvia only laughed in response. She grew warmer still; and while other
people were glad to don wraps, she pulled off even her cloth jacket,
becoming a central figure, daintily attired.

Nigel presently underwent some banter for his abstracted gaze at the
hills, and to escape it, he came to her side.

She was sitting apart from the rest; and again her heart gave so fierce
a throb that she could hardly believe he would not hear. "Stupid! What
has come over me?" she demanded angrily of herself, while looking up,
and saying—

"How thoroughly Malcolm is enjoying himself."

"He has earned a few hours' rest if anybody ever did."

"And he looks better for it already. When do we turn?"

"Soon, I believe. The girls have been begging for another half-hour."

"You will be glad to get back. After going round the world, a trip like
this must seem hardly worth the trouble."

"I don't think—" Nigel began and paused.

"Isn't that it? But you certainly are a degree flat to-day—are you not?"

He made no immediate response, seeming to consider what to say.

And suddenly, without premeditation, Fulvia found herself remarking,
"So Ethel could not come."

"No," Nigel said slowly.

"Very disappointing for her."

"Yes."

"Mrs. Elvey not well, you told us. But surely she might have spared
Ethel."

"Perhaps—yes—but that was not the only reason. A cousin was expected to
lunch."

"Which cousin? A young lady?"

"No—the one from Australia."

"Mr. Tom Elvey?"

"His name is Tom, certainly."

"I remember. He has been here once before; and they saw a good deal of
him last summer. Yes; he seemed rather—"

Fulvia did not finish her sentence.

"Yes. You know something of him?"

"Not much. Ethel talked about him to us. I believe he has made plenty
of money out there. Perhaps he has come home for a wife."

"A wife would not be hard to find; if he is not particular as to the
description," Nigel said, with a short laugh.

"He need not look far," Fulvia spoke, with more meaning in her tone
than she was aware.

"Do you think there is anything between him and Ethel?"

Was this indifference—or was it—? Fulvia did not frame the question.
She gave one swift glance at his face, noting its gravity. Like a flash
came the thought of her midnight resolution to "smooth the way" for him
and Ethel; to put self aside, and only to be happy in the knowledge
that others were so.

But with this recollection came also a sharp temptation. Why was she
to do anything of the kind? Why need she act? Why not let things take
their course? How could she tell whether Nigel did really care for
Ethel? In any case, why must she help the thing on? Nay, if she could
hinder it by a touch, why not? Hardly all this in words, for there
was but a pause of two seconds; but the temptation was powerful, and
Fulvia's resolution had been only her own. No panoply of heaven's
armour shielded her.

"What should make you suppose so?" she asked in an undertone, matching
his.

"I don't suppose. I asked what you thought."

"Oh, perhaps—did she seem very much delighted at the idea of seeing him
again?" Fulvia had an abundant share of feminine perception, and she
knew, only too well, how and where to strike. Yet to give pain to Nigel
was to give pain to herself, and her heart smote her as she saw his
look. Then the look vanished, and she would not believe, or at least
admit, that it had existed.

"I thought her pleased."

"One often is pleased to see a cousin, of course; at least, I should
imagine so. I don't speak from experience, having no cousins. But
really I can't pretend to know much about this Mr. Tom Elvey. Ethel
seemed to have enjoyed his society on the whole, last summer—at least
she talked about him a good deal afterwards. I don't suppose it has
come to anything—yet! One never can tell what may be."

Fulvia spoke in a deliberate and careless tone. Not a word that she
uttered was untrue; nevertheless, she hated herself for saying what she
did, saying just so much and so little. A few more words would have
made all the difference. She might have told how Ethel, while talking
truly "a good deal" about this cousin, had laughed at his slowness,
at his ponderous jokes, at his love of bestowing information upon
everybody. Not unkindly, but in a way which effectually barred any
notion of an attachment between the two.

Fulvia could recall how the Elvey boys had voted Tom "a bore"; and how
Ethel had said, "Poor fellow! Don't be too hard on him. He does his
best."

But Fulvia said no more. Even while she despised herself for it, she
was silent; trying to believe that her silence could make no real
difference. She was at liberty to jest if she liked. Nigel might find
out when he chose exactly how matters really stood. Besides, who could
tell what might happen? Many a girl ends by marrying the man whom at
first she criticised. If Nigel cared, he had but to ask.

Nigel's next remark was in a different tone. "I must try to bring about
that interview between my father and Jamie in a day or two." Dr. Duncan
was commonly known at the Grange as "Jamie" or "Cousin Jamie."

"Have you said anything to padre yet?"

"Yes; a little. I fancy he will give way."

"You don't suppose him to be really ill, do you? Not seriously?"

"One can't tell. Don't mention this again, but I saw Duncan yesterday
afternoon, and pressed for an opinion. He confessed he had seen for
some time that my father was very much out of health, and he thought
the matter ought not to be left. He would not say anything more
definite."

"And that is why you are so grave to-day?"

The answer was evasive. "One can't help being uneasy. Jamie is not
a man to look on the dismal side without some reason. Things may be
better than he expects; but I don't understand my father's state,
mental or bodily. He seems to take depressed views all round. Did you
know that he objected to Oxford for me?"

"No!"

"Doesn't like the expense."

"But, Nigel—why, what absurdity! As if that had not been settled years
ago!"

"He says he cannot afford it. Don't tell the girls."

"No—" with a glow of pleasure at his confidence. "But what can padre
mean?"

"That is all he says—too much expense—and the Bar too uncertain. He
talks of an appointment at the Bank."

"Newton Bury Bank! Nonsense! A clerk on a three-logged stool, under Mr.
Bramble!"

"He says it might lead to partnership and wealth."

"Wealth! What does that matter? You will have enough of your own.
Besides, the Bar would lead to wealth too, if you were successful; and
you would be successful. I know you would."

"Not so soon."

"But that is the very thing that does not matter when you have plenty
to live upon meantime. You can afford to wait. Padre has not to provide
for a dozen boys. You, the only son, surely ought to be free to choose.
It must be a fit of the dumps. Don't let him decide on anything in
a hurry. Cannot you talk matters over with Uncle Arthur? Anyhow, do
keep padre from acting till he gets over this mood. Too much expense!
I never heard anything so absurd in my life. Did he explain what he
meant?"

"He spoke of 'embarrassments.'"

"To be sure, he always is talking now of expenses, but still—Nigel!" As
a thought struck her, "Is it because I am coming of age? That will make
no difference. Of course he will go on having just the same, so long
as I live at the Grange. Not right! Yes, it is right. Any other plan
would not be right. I can assure you, I will only stay on those terms.
I should have told him long ago, only I have never liked to assume that
it would not be so as a matter of course. But I'll take care to tell
him now."

Nigel muttered something about "Generous!"

"It is not generosity. It is the merest common justice. Do you think he
has been worrying about that? You could not give up college—it would be
too terrible a disappointment, when your mind has been set on it all
these years. And the Bar! Why, Uncle Arthur always declares you are
just made for a special pleader. You don't fritter yourself away in
energetic talk about nothing, but when anything does stir you, there's
no mistake about it. Fancy coming down from that to a country bank!
Perhaps padre will be brighter after seeing Dr. Duncan. We must wait a
few days; and I'll manage to have a talk with him."

It was gladness to Fulvia to learn this fresh cause for his depression.
Anything rather than Ethel!

Nigel presently strolled away again, and she saw him laughing with
Malcolm, more heartily than since they had started. The joke, whatever
it was, seemed infectious; and the merriment became general. Fulvia
rose and moved to a seat nearer, where she could hear what went on.

Baldwyn Bramble had been smoking a cigar, and had tossed away the still
lighted end—overboard, he believed, but it had fallen short, dropping
on the deck almost under the chair which Fulvia now took. Nobody saw it
fall there except Daisy, and Daisy forgot the fact in a second. The red
end smouldered still, and when Fulvia sat down, her dress rested upon
it. Had she worn a woollen fabric, no harm might have resulted; but a
washing summer fabric is a different matter.

Fulvia noted the strong scent, but she was unconscious of her peril.

Mr. Bramble presently walked to the farther end of the launch, and
Malcolm disappeared behind the funnel. Nigel was talking to Mrs.
Duncan, Annibel, and Daisy, beyond hearing. Only Anice and Rose
remained near where Fulvia sat. Fulvia had lost the joke after all.

"What were you laughing at just now?" she asked.

"Oh, just something Mr. Elvey said," Rose answered. "What was it,
Anice? I couldn't quite understand, only everybody laughed, and so—"

"And so you did too!" Fulvia spoke with a touch of disdain. She counted
Rose an inane specimen of giggling young ladyhood.

"Well, of course, I couldn't keep out of it," explained Rose. "It looks
so stupid to sit with a solemn face when other people are laughing."

"Why didn't you ask?"

"Oh!—Ask for a joke to be explained! That is more stupid still. Baldwyn
always says a joke never bears being repeated. Besides, one looks so
silly, not to understand at once."

"I wonder whether 'to be' or 'to look' is the worst," murmured Fulvia.

Rose's density was proof against this, or she might have been offended.
"Anice can tell you," she said.

No, Anice could not. Anice, like Rose, had laughed because others
laughed, not because she divined the joke. Fulvia shrugged her
shoulders, and was mute.

Some seconds, or some two or three minutes, might have passed—Fulvia
could not afterwards recall which—when she became conscious of a
peculiar odour, not only the scent of the cigar but a distinct smell
of burning. Then she was vaguely aware of a blue smoke. She had gone
back in thought to Nigel's future, and was cogitating deeply, so deeply
that though physical consciousness was awake, her mind did not at once
respond.

An impulse to escape from the girls' chatter came over her, and she
stood up, moving a few steps away from her sheltered seat, into the
breeze; the very worst thing she could have done, had she only known it.

Strange, this idea of Mr. Browning's about Nigel! Could his affairs
really be under serious embarrassment? If it were so—Well, in any case,
Fulvia would have ample means of her own. A sense of joy shot through
her, at the thought of becoming a family benefactor. Would Nigel be
willing? Yes, surely—if he still viewed her as sister! What more
natural? Besides, he need not know. She would find out from "padre"
the real state of affairs, and would insist upon putting everything
straight. She had, or at least in a few weeks she would have, both the
power and the right. Nobody then might say her nay, if she chose to
give away any part of her possessions. Nothing should or must stand in
the way of Nigel's going to college. She knew how he was bent upon it.
Of course—that was why he looked so sad. Not Ethel; only this. So what
she had said about Ethel did not matter. This was the real trouble; and
how delightful to think that her hand might remove it!

"Fulvie! Fulvie!! O Fulvie!—Your dress is on fire!! Oh!!"

Anice's shriek reached slowly her absorbed mind at first bringing
bewilderment. Then she was aware of smoke, smell, heat, and she sprang
forward to get some woollen wrap; but the movement brought her yet more
fully into the fresh breeze. In the tenth of a second the fanned flame
ran greedily up her skirt, and swept round her, licking with fierce
touch the bare skin of her hand, and rising to scorch her face.

Fulvia's scream was agonising. She had been always known as a girl of
much presence of mind, by no means given to crying out; but she was
taken by surprise, and unnerved. Anice and Rose fled at once, in fear
for themselves, calling to others to help. Fulvia never forgot that
moment, the brief yet prolonged horror, the anguish of isolation. It
was as if everybody had forsaken her; none would dare to approach; and
she was left face to face with awful peril, face to face with death.

"Nigel!" was the one word which broke from her in hoarse appeal. She
could not think, could not recall what ought to be done. She could only
rush forward, throwing out her hands in agony. And then, instantly, she
saw Nigel's face close at hand.

Shouts and cries were sounding. "A shawl! A rug! I say—throw her down!
Have her flat!"

Malcolm was flying along the deck. But Nigel had reached her before
the first hoarse shriek of his name came to an end; and he did not
hesitate. As he sprang forward, he grasped Fulvia firmly, dragged her
to the side of the vessel, and with one clear leap went over, Fulvia in
his arms. There was a flash of red flame, followed by a heavy splash,
and the two sank out of sight.



CHAPTER IX

WHISPERINGS

            "For ebbing resolution ne'er returns,
   But falls still further from its former shore."—HORNE.

"STOP! Stop! Put her about! Stop, I say!" roared Mr. Carden-Cox in a
state of desperation which rendered him almost incapable of speech. He
strode wildly about, while Anice and Rose continued to shriek, Daisy
seemed turned to stone, and Malcolm flung off his coat.

But the two heads almost instantly rose, and Nigel shouted, "All right."

"I'm coming," cried Malcolm.

"No, no—only a rope!"

"A rope—a rope—hoy! Hey!—A rope, I say!—Put her about—stop—a rope!"
spluttered Mr. Carden-Cox, seizing Malcolm's arm, and holding on like a
vice, not in the least aware of what he did.

"I say! Let me go," expostulated Malcolm; "She'll be too much for him."

In response to which Mr. Carden-Cox tightened his grasp, reiterating—

"A rope! A rope!—Hoy!—A rope, I say! Put her about! Stop!"

The engines had been at once reversed, but the boat was going up
stream, and some seconds had to elapse before actual movement in the
opposite direction could begin. The current was pretty strong, carrying
Nigel and his charge downward, despite his best efforts. Nigel was not
a little impeded by his clothes. He had not waited even to throw off
his coat; and Fulvia hung as a dead weight, seeming to be stunned by
the double shock.

Then sense returned, and in a moment she was clinging to him with a
convulsive grasp which threatened to sink them both.

"Let go, Fulvia!" He spoke in a sharp, clear voice. "Don't hold me!
I'll take care of you."

Fulvia gasped for breath. They were almost under water; and though for
an instant she obeyed, her hands clutched at him wildly again.

"Fulvie dear, you must not! Let go! You will drown us both. Keep still,
and trust me."

He had done the business now. She clenched her hands together, and left
herself to him like a log. That "Fulvie dear" settled the matter; yet
the words meant nothing. Nigel hardly even knew what he had said. It
was merely the instinctive recurrence at a critical moment to the old
childish terms. Fulvia had always been his sister, "every inch as much
as Anice or Daisy," he would have said. Nigel had never thought of her
in any other light. But Fulvia could not realise this; for she did not
think of Nigel as of a brother.

Nigel could keep himself afloat now, and hold up Fulvia, till the boat
steamed near, and a rope was flung. The open loop fell upon them, and
in another minute both were hauled in, and helped upward.

Fulvia; again scarcely conscious, was laid flat on the deck, streaming
with water, her face white, her hair loose in heavy dripping masses.
It had been much singed, and part of her skirt was reduced almost to
tinder, yet her skin had escaped marvellously. One hand and arm only
were scorched to any painful degree.

Her first words were a murmured, "It smarts so!" but the next moment
she added, "Never mind. I'm not really hurt."

"Thanks to this dear brave boy," Mr. Carden-Cox said huskily. "I
declare, I never saw anything finer."

"It was the natural thing to do," Nigel asserted.

A hurried consultation took place. They were more than two hours
distant by boat from Newton Bury; the steamer contained no change of
clothes; and the minute cabin afforded no facilities for drying. Five
minutes lower down the river lay a village, large enough to own a
good landing-place and a respectable inn; and Mrs. Duncan counselled
a stoppage there. Two or three hours in wet clothes on a November
afternoon were not to be thought of.

The suggestion was speedily carried out. Anice, crying helplessly
still, was left on board with the Brambles and Annibel; but Mrs. Duncan
and Mr. Carden-Cox, Daisy and Malcolm, accompanied the soaked pair.
Fulvia had by this time so far rallied that she insisted on walking
from the river-bank to the inn, a matter of two hundred yards; and she
even achieved two or three hysterical laughs by the way at her own
deplorable appearance. Nigel looked rather white round the lips, as if
chilled by his bath; but he seemed to have sprung suddenly into a fit
of high spirits, saying the most ridiculous things he could think of,
and sending Daisy into convulsions of laughter.

The inn reached, rooms were secured, big fires were ordered, and the
sympathies of the portly landlady, Mrs. Brice, were enlisted.

The good woman could only hold up her plump hands at first, with
dismayed utterances of—"My!" and "I never did!" But orders for hot
water and big fires received speedy attention.

Mrs. Brice's own clothes would, as Daisy said, have "folded twice round
Fulvia, with something to spare." She had, however, a daughter, and a
neat brown dress belonging to the latter was speedily produced, not
more than three inches too large at the waist.

Nigel fared equally well at the hands of the landlady's son. And while
these changes of apparel were taking place, Mr. Carden-Cox found
consolation in ordering a solid afternoon tea, inclusive of eggs and
meat.

"For they'll need to be warmed up after their ducking," he said, as
Daisy bounced in. "Everybody will be the better for something hot.
Well, child, how is Fulvie?"

"She is getting on—only feels shivery and queer; but I should think a
cup of coffee would put her right. Isn't it strange?—A lot of Fulvie's
hair is all frizzled up with the fire, and yet her face isn't touched;
not even the eyelashes burnt."

"Can't think how on earth the thing happened."

"Oh, it was Mr. Bramble, I know. I saw his cigar-end drop there, when
he threw it away; and then I forgot all about it, we were having such a
lot of fun. I wish I hadn't!"

Mr. Carden-Cox shook his head mutely. If any one but his favourite
Daisy had been speaking, he would have read her a homily on
thoughtlessness.

"Yes, I know—it was dreadfully stupid," Daisy said, her eyes filling.
"I can't think how I could. But when Mr. Bramble tried to make out that
it was a spark from the engine, I had to bite my lips not to speak.
Wasn't it horrid of him not to help, but only to stand staring? Of
course everybody couldn't jump into the river—needn't, at least—but he
might have wanted to help. Malcolm was only one second behind Nigel;
and he would have been in too, if you hadn't kept him back."

"I keep him back! Tut, tut, child! He didn't go in because it was not
necessary."

Daisy's brown eyes opened to their widest extent. "Oh, I say, how
unfair! Poor Malcolm! When you tugged at him with all your might and
main, and wouldn't let go."

A dim recollection of facts came across Mr. Carden-Cox. "Well, well—it
doesn't matter now," he said. "Malcolm would have acted if Nigel had
not."

"And Anice and Rose ran away. I think that was so cowardly," said
Daisy, with the stern condemnation of sixteen. "If I had been near, I
would have made Fulvie lie down, and have tried to put out the fire.
But the first thing I knew was the screaming, and then I saw the
blaze, and Nigel going across with such a leap. And I felt so odd—as
if somehow I couldn't stir for Just a moment—and then it was all done.
Shall I tell Fulvie to come before the tea gets cold?"

Mr. Carden-Cox offered no objection.

And outside the door Daisy was met by a subdued—"I say!"

"Nigel, how comical you do look!"

"Narrow as to the shoulders, and baggy as to the waist. Not quite a
perfect fit—but I'm glad to be dry again. I say, Daisy—"

"Fulvia's better, and we're all going to have lots of tea, and to be
jolly."

"So I hear. We ought to be back on the boat soon. It will get awfully
cold on the river for Anice. I say, Daisy—just listen one moment. I
want you to do something for me."

"Oh, what?"

"If I am asked to cut bread or carve meat, will you act the energetic
younger sister and do it instead? Mr. Carden-Cox means us to go in for
substantials."

"Yes, of course. But why? What do you mean? Are you tired?"

"No—only I managed to scorch my hands. Nothing of consequence—I'll
see to them by-and-by, but I don't want a fuss now. It would upset
Fulvie—don't you see?"

"Oh,—do show me!"

"No, nonsense—hands off, Daisy!" as she pulled in vain at his
coat-sleeve. "Don't!" and he spoke with unwonted sharpness, catching
his breath.

Daisy stared. "Did I hurt? Was it that?"

"Never mind—it is nothing to signify. I won't have a word said; only I
just want your help, like a good child, about the cutting and carving.
Malcolm knows; and you and he, between you, can keep it from Fulvie."

"I'll be sure," Daisy answered, a sound like a gulp accompanying the
words.

"That's right. You've been as plucky as possible, not giving in. Yes,
I saw, of course—didn't you think I should? It's so much more sensible
to take things cheerfully. What earthly good would it do, if we all sat
down and howled?"

Daisy gave his arm a great squeeze of assent, delighted to find her
efforts appreciated. She did not know what the squeeze meant to him,
and he forbore even to wince.

Somewhat later, Fulvia sat dreamily in an arm-chair, close to the
parlour fender. She could not get warm, despite a roaring fire and a
thick shawl. Icy chills chased one another persistently through her
frame, even to the extent of chattering teeth; and she was overpowered
by weakness. She could not for a moment shake off the remembrance of
that terrible tongue of flame wrapping itself round her, followed
by the plunge into cold water, the struggle for breath, the deadly
fright; then Nigel's face, as it had first come to her in the moment
of hopeless horror, and Nigel's voice as it had spoken a minute later,
"Fulvie dear! Fulvie dear!" Memory refused to carry her beyond those
two words.

Fulvia made an effort to lift her weighted eyelids that she might
glance towards Nigel. How sunshiny he looked, seated between Daisy
and Malcolm, merrily avowing himself "lazy," and letting Daisy cut
supplies of bread-and-butter for everybody, himself included! Was he so
bright because he had saved her life? Anybody might rejoice to save any
follow-creature from a terrible death; but was she no more than "any
fellow-creature" to him? And Ethel was not present. He had not seen
Ethel for hours. That look could not mean "Ethel"!

What had made him speak so in the water? "Fulvie dear" was not his
usual style. As a little boy he had been addicted to the mode of
address; but for years she had not heard the expression. Could it
be that the sudden peril to her had drawn his deeper feeling to the
surface?

Fulvia hardly shaped these questions into words. She felt them, rather
than said them even to herself, as she sat by the fire, apart from the
rest, silent and unable to enter into all that went on. The shock of
that moment's horror was on her still; and her faculties were benumbed.
She drank some hot tea, but could not eat; and she was unaware how
anxiously others watched.

Drowsiness presently had her in its grasp; not growing into actual
sleep, at least for a while, but slowly enchaining her as with weights
of lead. The sound of voices lessened till she could only hear an
occasional whisper. There was a barricade like a stone wall between her
and the outer world. Thought went on dimly within, uncontrollable by
any effort of her own; and more dimly still she was aware of movements
and utterances on the other side of the wall. Now and again a few words
were clear.

"I told you so! It is exhaustion. She must have her sleep out, poor
girl!"

Fulvia knew Mrs. Duncan's tones, and could have smiled to think that
she was not asleep, had not the exertion of a smile been too great. She
was capable only of passive endurance.

"Ethel—Nigel—my resolution." A voice within the enclosing walls said
this.

"Oh no—no—no!" sighed Fulvia; but the very sigh was internal. Outwardly
she seemed to be in profound slumber; and soon the seeming became
reality.

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

"Plucky! Yes." The words stole in upon Fulvia with a subtle power;
and she divined at once of whom they were spoken. "Never should have
guessed anything was wrong."

"But Daisy had found it out."

"No, he asked her to cut the loaf at tea—didn't want Fulvia to know.
Thoughtful of the lad! She was upset enough already, poor thing. I say,
Mrs. Duncan—" Mr. Carden-Cox lowered his voice to almost a whisper—"I
say, Mrs. Duncan, what do you think? Anything likely in that quarter?"

Fulvia heard a little snap of his fingers. The idea that she ought not
to listen never occurred to her. She was hardly out of dreamland yet;
and body and mind were so stupefied that movement seemed impossible.

"Nigel and Fulvia! No!"

"Why not?—eh?" with a sound of disappointment. "Why should they?"

"Why should they like one another? Nothing more natural. Always
together from childhood."

"That's the very thing! Intimacy doesn't end as a rule in a real
attachment. People get to know each other too well. Half the marriages
that take place never would take place if the husband and wife were
better acquainted beforehand. A hazy uncertainty is more favourable to
love-making."

"Nonsense!"

"It's sense, I am afraid. Intimacy is apt to do away with the poetical
glamour."

"Poetical rubbish!" in a whisper of high disdain. "I beg your pardon,
but really—! The fact is, his father wants this, and I want it. First
time Browning and I have ever wished the same thing. Couldn't be
anything more suitable from every point of view."

"Unless from Nigel's own. He will choose for himself, you may be sure?
If you had said 'Nigel and Ethel!'"

"Ethel Elvey! No, no. That won't do. Good girl, and immense favourite
of mine, but not a penny will come to her. No—no, that won't do at all."

"Nigel will hardly marry for money."

"Nobody ever does. He may chance to fall in love with the girl who has
money."

"I doubt it."

"Well, all I have to say is that Nigel will not marry Ethel Elvey!"

"Nobody can tell yet."

"He will not, my good lady!" Mr. Carden-Cox was always strengthened in
his opinion by opposition. "You mark my words! He may or may not marry
Fulvia. He will not marry Ethel."

Fulvia was wide awake now; stupefied no longer; her head burning, her
blood coursing wildly. She knew she ought to speak, but how could
she?—How betray that she had heard so much?

"However," pursued Mr. Carden-Cox, as if dismissing the subject,
"however, I was telling you about Nigel's hurts."

"Much burnt, you say?"

"Right palm a mass of blisters, chafed by the rope. Couldn't think what
made him sit through tea-time, doing nothing! Not like Nigel! Daisy
wouldn't have told—little monkey—but he betrayed himself getting on
board. Stumbled and grasped at something, and I saw his face. I should
never have guessed otherwise. Anice wailed, of course; and Daisy was
most womanful—actually had had the sense to take with her some rag and
linseed oil. She did up the hand as nattily as could be. There's some
stuff in that girl, I do believe. Hallo!"

For Fulvia sat up, asking, "Is Nigel hurt?"

"My dear, are you just awake?" said Mrs. Duncan, coming near. "Better
for the rest, I hope. You need not worry yourself about Nigel. He
scorched his hand; that is all. They have gone home in the boat, and we
are to follow in a fly as soon as you can start. Would you like to get
ready now?"

"The sooner the better! How lazy I have been!"



CHAPTER X

TOM'S SPECIMENS

   "The languages, especially the dead,
      The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,
    The arts, at least all such as could be said
      To be the most remote from common use."

"VERY pretty," said Ethel, gaping furtively behind one hand, as she
gazed upon the open page of Tom Elvey's beloved companion, a neat
herbarium of dried flowers and leaves. The cover of the volume was
dark brown, the pages were light brown, and most of the gummed-down
specimens were of a more or less dirty brown. Tom handled his treasure
affectionately, and Ethel viewed each new page with outward politeness
and inward wonder. That anybody should care for dead brown leaves, when
living green ones were to be had, was a mystery to her.

"Yes, very pretty," she repeated, smothering a second yawn, as Tom
waited for appreciation. What would Nigel be doing just then? Ah,
coming homeward, of course, for the afternoon was growing old.

"At least, I mean that it must have been pretty once," continued
truthful Ethel. "What is that on the next page? Edelweiss—is it really?
I like the edelweiss. Yes, that does bear drying. How nice!"

"It is a first-rate specimen," said Tom.

"Did you gather it yourself?"

"On the Matterhorn—no, I mean on the Jungfrau. I never put any specimen
into this herbarium which I have not procured with my own hands."

"I see—so it becomes a sort of record of your wanderings," said Ethel.
"And you really are a mountain-climber?"

"Not to any perilous extent. I went for this specimen."

"And turned back as soon as you had got it!"

Tom's "yes" was innocent. He did not understand Ethel's tone.

"Of course I could have bought a specimen; but that would not have been
the same thing."

"Like bagging partridges," suggested Ethel, wanting a flash of some
sort to relieve the dead level of talk.

But though Tom could sometimes originate slow fun, he never could
respond to anybody else's fun; and his look of blank inquiry made it
needful for her to explain.

"I mean, you would only count the partridges which you had shot
yourself; not what—But perhaps you don't shoot."

"I have been after kangaroos—once," said Tom.

Ethel gave a private glance towards the clock, taking care that Tom
should not see. She was bent upon making this a pleasant visit to
him, not letting him see how very much she would have preferred to be
somewhere else. Some girls would have been glum and flat under the
circumstances; but Ethel was not. She exerted herself to be bright,
made Tom tell her all about the one kangaroo hunt which had been a
leading event in his existence, and when he came back to the inevitable
herbarium she submitted without a sigh to be lectured upon "the
Australian flora."

Tom was quite a botanist in a small way; and he dearly liked to air
his knowledge before a good listener. Ethel loved flowers intensely,
yet she was no botanist. She made friends of her plants, studied their
ways, and was delighted to know how they grow, how they bore flowers,
what manner of soil suited them, whether they preferred heat or cold,
sunshine or shade. But she detested classifications and Latin names,
and would have nought to do with what Lance irreverently termed "Tom's
genuses and specieses." She cared not one rap whether a blossom had
stamens which adhered to the corolla or sprang from the calyx; whether
the anthers opened inwards or outwards; whether the petals were in
multiples of twos or of threes.

The Elveys were not as a family scientifically inclined, and Ethel's
tastes had never been cultivated in that direction. Tom, on the other
hand, delighted in rolling off his tongue this or that lengthy Linnean
"—andria," or Natural History "—aceæ"; and Ethel submitted with the
utmost sweetness.

Tom was charmed. He thought Ethel one of the most agreeable girls he
had ever seen. She was immensely improved, he thought—"really quite
intelligent, and capable of growing into a well-informed young woman,
with proper supervision." Who so fitted to give the needed supervision
as Tom himself? He began to think that a long visit at the Rectory
would be no bad plan. Something had been said about it. Yes, he would
accept the invitation; and then he could take Ethel's higher education
in hand. Mr. Elvey was a very able man, no doubt, a man indeed of
considerable attainments, but "classical—merely classical": Tom decided
pityingly. Ethel would never gain any scientific bias from her father.

So it was full time that Tom should step forward and bestir himself,
with perhaps a view to future possibilities. Who could tell what might
come of it? Tom was young still, under thirty, and not bad-looking,
though of awkward make. He would be a well-to-do man out in Australia
one of these days. Even now he could afford to enjoy life, and to
indulge himself in an occasional bout of sight-seeing—more correctly,
of specimen-hunting.

In due time he would require a wife to look after him, to sew on his
buttons, to pour out his tea, to attend generally to his needs. Tom
had come to England with the vague idea of finding a wife before he
went back. He began to wonder whether Ethel might not do. Those dainty
little fingers of hers would be invaluable for arranging dried flowers
upon the pages of his herbariums. Tom's own fingers being thick, and
by no means dainty in action, there was the more need that he should
choose a wife to supply his own deficiencies.

Thus a new thought grow into existence, as the afternoon waned—a
short afternoon to Tom, though a long one to Ethel. But Tom's mental
processes were always slow; and he gave no sign of what was brewing.

Mrs. Elvey made her appearance downstairs for a space, and Tom regaled
her with sumptuous descriptions of the eucalyptus. Mrs. Elvey sighed,
and said "How nice!" to everything.

By-and-by she vanished, and again Ethel found it difficult to hide her
recurring yawns. Mr. Elvey had a succession of engagements all day,
therefore he could not give help; and the boys always fled from Tom, in
dread of Tom's perpetual outpour of "information."

So Ethel had nothing in the way of assistance from others, and talk
began to flag irresistibly. They had gone through the herbarium from
end to end. They had done any amount of Australian kangaroos and
plants. Ethel had shown Tom everything in the house worth seeing.
She had taken him round the garden for a stroll, and had proposed
"a good ramble," which Tom to her disappointment had declined. His
bodily action was like his mental action, somewhat slow; and though he
could walk any amount with an object—in search of a "specimen," for
instance—he scorned exercise for the sake of exercise. Ethel loved it,
and she thought it would be so much easier to get on out-of-doors than
indoors; if only Tom would have consented. Would the afternoon never
end? Was Malcolm ever coming back?

A step at last! Ethel sprang up, with a word of excuse, and flew to the
front door.

No, not Malcolm, but her father! Mr. Elvey looked, down with a stirred
expression, and said, "Well—" a long breath following. "Have you heard?"

"No, what? O father—not an accident!"

"Nothing serious, though it might have been. Why, Ethel—child—I did not
mean to frighten you. They are all right—safe at home—and Malcolm will
be here presently. Fulvia's dress caught fire, and she would have been
badly burnt but for Nigel. He was splendidly prompt—caught Fulvia in
his arms, and went straight over into the river. Mr. Carden-Cox says it
was the finest thing he ever saw. Capital fellow, isn't he?"

The light of pride shone through Ethel's eyes, even while they were
brimming with tears. "Not hurt?" she managed to say.

"Fulvia hardly at all, only shaken and scorched. Nigel's right hand
has suffered a good deal. Duncan says he will have to wear a sling for
some days. Nobody knew a word about it for ever so long: he didn't want
to distress Fulvia. I'm not sure that he did not show greater pluck
there than in saving her. Difference of doing a thing when one is under
excitement, and when one is cool, you know. We shall have to make much
of him after this. Why, child!—"

Ethel's face dropped against the shoulder of his greatcoat.

"Father—if he had been—"

"Had been badly hurt? But he was not, nor she either—thank God! Come,
cheer up."

He patted her arm, and Ethel clung to him more closely. Somebody was
passing through the garden, and Mr. Elvey smiled but said nothing till
the somebody came close; then only, "It is about you. Never mind.
She'll be herself in a minute."

"I thought I would call, for fear of any exaggerated story getting
round," said Nigel, his voice brighter than usual, as he stood with his
arm in a sling, looking at Ethel. She lifted a pair of wet cheeks.

"I'm going in to see Tom. You can reassure her yourself," cheerily
observed Mr. Elvey, who, being the most innocent of men, never
suspected anybody of growing up or wishing to marry. Ethel and Nigel
were "the children" to him still. But as he turned away, his grasp fell
upon the young man's shoulder, and "God bless you!" went with it.

"I'm not the worse, really. It is nothing—not worth your caring about,"
Nigel said to Ethel, though the fact of her so caring was worth a great
deal to him. "Come here for a minute—won't you?" and he opened the
dining-room door. "It was a shock, I dare say, to hear about Fulvia.
Things might have been serious if we had not had the river so near; but
I don't think she will suffer, after a good night's rest."

"Yes—Fulvia. Oh yes," murmured Ethel, trying to recover herself.
"Yes—but it must have been danger—"

"Would have been, without the river—for Fulvia, I mean. Not for me. In
the water—no. I am a good swimmer. Even if she had pulled me under,
there were plenty at hand to help. Malcolm was wild for a bath."

"I wish I had been there."

"It's a good thing you were not. That was the first moment I could be
glad we had left you at home. I shouldn't have liked you to be looking
on. You might not have been so discreet as Anice and her friend."

"Why, what did they do?"

"The better part of valour! Most wise, others being at hand to help.
I'm not sure that you would have been sensible enough to run away."

"Nobody can tell till the moment comes; I think I should have seen that
you were hurt."

"Yes—you always see everything. But one didn't want Fulvia to be more
upset than she was. How have you got on at home—with—?"

"Oh, very well. We've done lots of botany." Ethel's face lighted up
with fun, and Nigel thought it was with a recollection of enjoyment. He
suddenly remembered Tom Elvey, and Fulvia's words about Tom.

Then, before the two could arrive at an understanding, Lance dashed
in, shouting a string of inquiries about the day's adventure; and the
little tête-à-tête was over.



CHAPTER XI

"THE WORLD FORGETTING"

   "'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat,
     To peep at such a world; to see the stir
     Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
     To hear the roar she sends through all her gates,
     At a safe distance, where the dying sound
     Falls, a soft murmur, on the uninjured ear.
     Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
     The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
     To some secure and more than mortal height,
     That liberates and exempts me from them all."
                                            —COWPER.

AT the mouth of the river upon which Newton Bury was built, and an
hour or more distant by train from Newton Bury, was a certain small
town, Burrside by name, the pet watering-place of the Newton Bury
people. In summer, Burrside was gay with brass bands, and well-dressed
promenaders; in summer therefore it was contemptuously eschewed by Mr.
Carden-Cox. But in winter, when nobody went to Burrside, when it was
transformed into an Arabia Deserta of empty lodgings and unfrequented
streets, then Mr. Carden-Cox was given to betaking himself thither for
a week or a fortnight of blissful quiet—"the world forgetting, by the
world forgot."

It is not at all disagreeable to be forgotten by the world for a few
days, just when one happens to be in the right mood. Not that Mr.
Carden-Cox ever did forget the world of human beings to which he
belonged, or ever really believed that the said world forgot him; but
he thought he did, which came to much the same thing.

On such occasions, he found it agreeable to hug his solitude, to
muse over the peculiarities of his own nature, to admire his own
individuality of taste in thus fleeing the world, and to picture
what friends might be saying about his absence. A curious mode of
"forgetting the world"; but few people carry out their theories
consistently.

One or two weeks ended, Mr. Carden-Cox's gregarious side was wont to
come uppermost. By that time he had usually had enough of solitude,
and was glad to return to his circle of acquaintances, finding a new
pleasure in relating to them his Burrside experiences. Some of the said
acquaintances privately called this return "coming out of his sulks,"
and nothing could persuade those unreasonable people that he had not
fled in a huff. But nobody ever ventured to hint to himself that such
an interpretation of his lofty communing with Nature was a possibility.

Just before the steam-boat excursion, and indeed before the day of
Nigel's arrival was known, Mr. Carden-Cox had decided on a trip to
Burrside. He and one of the Churchwardens had had a "tiff" on the
subject of certain Church funds, and Mr. Carden-Cox had come off worst
in the encounter. The said Churchwarden was a good man, albeit somewhat
blunt; and Mr. Carden-Cox was not always in the right; but as an
immediate result of the affair, he grew tired of the Newton Bury world,
and resolved to flee.

Nigel's arrival altered the complexion of things, and slew his desire
for solitude. However, Mr. Carden-Cox disliked to change his plans; it
looked "unsettled" to do so, and he counted "unsettledness" tantamount
to weakness. So he merely deferred the trip for a few days, and then
vanished. Nobody saw him later than the morning after the steam-yacht
excursion.

Once at Burrside, he liked the change, as usual, after a fashion.
Banishment from the conventional round of commonplaces was in theory
agreeable to him; and the Burrside natives, if commonplace, were not
conventional. Mr. Carden-Cox found their simplicity delightful. He
never grew weary of the old sailor on the shore, who knew Nigel and
could talk of Nigel by the hour together; and his landlady from the
same cause was a perpetual pleasure. The landlady, a highly respectable
woman, looked upon him with a touch of compassionate interest, as "not
quite all right there!" But this he could not guess, and she did her
best for his comfort.

Mr. Carden-Cox was a man greatly addicted to letter-writing. He had
not much to do besides, except to take care of himself, and to sit
in judgment upon others—an employment in which he was a proficient.
Idleness was abhorrent to him, and enforced work hardly less so, while
letter-writing exactly suited his nervous nature and dilettante tastes.
He could begin and leave off when he liked, could write as much or
as little on any one subject as he chose, could be secure against
interruption and opposition, at least till he had said his say; could
expatiate to any extent on his own feelings; and above all, could
indulge in a comfortable belief in the overcrowded state of his time.
Let him write as many letters as he would, there were always more
which might be written; and until Mr. Carden-Cox should achieve the
impossible horizon-chase of "no further demands" in the correspondence
line, he was enough pressed with business to be able to grumble. What
true Englishman could want more?

"My letters are legion—legion!" he groaned complacently, surveying the
pile beside his breakfast-plate, three mornings after his arrival at
Burrside.

"Legion!" he repeated, looking at his landlady for sympathy, as she
placed a covered dish upon the table; for even in the enjoyment of
solitude somebody to be appealed to is necessary, and he had nobody
else.

Mrs. Simmons was commonplace enough, being of no particular age, and
having no particular features; but she was not, for all that, without
her own individuality.

"Legion!" reiterated Mr. Carden-Cox. "How would you like to have all
these to answer?" He lifted the pile as he spoke, weighing it in both
hands, with a deprecating and mournful smile. He would by no means have
liked not "to have all these to answer"; but none the less, he pitied
himself.

Mrs. Simmons smoothed down a corner of the tablecloth, which had "got
rucked up," as she expressed it. "I'm sure I don't know how ever I
should get through 'em, sir, what with the dusting and cooking," she
said.

"Cooking! Ah!—" Mr. Carden-Cox answered with mild benignity.

He knew enough about cooking to believe that a joint would "do" itself,
if left before the fire, and that a pudding could be tossed together in
five minutes. It seemed absurd to think that dusting or cooking could
hinder correspondence, though he would not hurt Mrs. Simmons's feelings
by suggesting that she over-estimated her vocation.

"Ah!—" he repeated. "Yes. No doubt. But the Penny Post is a great
burden, a great burden. You and I can hardly be thankful enough that in
our young days no Penny Post existed. We were spared that trouble."

Mrs. Simmons might be of no particular age, but she was not so old as
Mr. Carden-Cox; and naturally she resented being placed on his level.

"Indeed, sir, I don't pretend to be able to go back to them days," she
said with emphasis. "And I don't say but what the Penny Post has got
its good points; not but what it's got its bad points too. As my father
was used to say; for he did live in the times when there wasn't none."

"Everything in life has its advantages and its disadvantages," Mr.
Carden-Cox said, looking at her with his bright eyes, as he weighed the
postal delivery still. "The question in any particular case is—which
overbalances the other? Do the advantages more than compensate for the
disadvantages, or vice versa? You perceive? Sometimes there seems to be
a complete balance of forces—an equilibrium—the scale will not incline
either way."

"No, sir," assented Mrs. Simmons, anxious to escape before she should
find herself in a mental quagmire.

"Nothing then remains but to hold one's opinion in abeyance, till one
side or the other sinks. You understand?"

"To be sure, sir!" Mrs. Simmons answered, with a heartiness which might
almost have meant comprehension. "Poor gentleman!" she was saying to
herself. "No, he isn't quite all right there; but I've got to humour
him."

"You are a sensible woman; a very sensible woman, Mrs. Simmons," Mr.
Carden-Cox stated approvingly. "It is a relief to find one of your sex
who can listen to logic, without argumentative opposition."

Mrs. Simmons liked this. "My mother was a sensible woman, sir," she
averred, delaying her flight.

"Probably. Like mother, like daughter. But about the Penny Post—that
would be a case in point." Mrs. Simmons backed. "The advantages and
disadvantages being about equal, one could neither wish to have it done
away, nor—" Mr. Carden-Cox paused to examine the handwriting of the
uppermost envelope, "nor—I was about to say—"

Mrs. Simmons was gone, and Mr. Carden-Cox never finished his sentence.

He sighed, sat down, enjoyed a cutlet and a cup of coffee, then applied
himself slowly to the day's business. As a rule, he delved from top to
bottom of the pile with exemplary orderliness; but this morning his
weighing process had shaken out a thick envelope, addressed in Daisy's
childish handwriting, which proved irresistible. Mr. Carden-Cox drew
out the sheet, propped it against the toast-rack, and began to read his
favourite's effusion.

   "MY DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—Fulvie wants me to answer your note, and to
tell you all about everybody, as she isn't well enough. She's not ill,
I suppose, but she is awfully seedy somehow—hasn't been out of her
room since the boat day. Cousin Jamie says it is the chill and the
shock. And mother is worried, and father is depressed, and Nigel's hand
doesn't get on; so we are in a sort of hospital state.

   "Fulvia and Nigel want padre very much to consult cousin Jamie about
himself, and he won't. At least he says 'some day, perhaps,' and he
keeps putting it off. He is talking again about going abroad, and I
can't think what for. It is such a stupid time of the year for going
abroad—nothing to see or do. We think he wants to escape Fulvie's
birthday, but why should he? Of course we must give up making a fuss,
if he isn't well and doesn't like it. At least Fulvie says so.

   "I slept in Fulvie's room last night, because she seemed to need
somebody, and she did nothing but talk and ramble about all sorts of
nonsense, and call out to Nigel to help her. I suppose she fancied she
was burning or drowning, by the things she said.

   "I believe she thinks herself worse than she really is; for last night
she seized hold of me, and said, 'Daisy, if I die, tell Nigel—' and
then she went off into a mutter. I said, 'You're not going to die;
nonsense, Fulvie, it is just a cold!' But she did not hear me, and
began again, 'Tell Nigel, he and Ethel—he and Ethel—' and then she
burst out crying, and she did cry so! I asked her what she meant about
Nigel and Ethel, and Fulvie said, 'Oh, when he marries Ethel—and when
I'm dead!' I couldn't get her to say anything more that was rational,
except, 'Nobody knows—nobody must know,' and she sobbed herself off
into a sort of stupid state, not like sleep.

   "This morning I told her what she had said, and she wouldn't believe
me. She was angry, and she asked how I could be so ridiculous. Then she
said I had been dreaming, and she made me promise not to tell madre, or
Nigel, or cousin Jamie. Of course we don't tell anything to padre, and
Anice is no good; but I'm sure somebody ought to know the sort of state
she is in, and so I thought I would tell you, because we always tell
you nearly everything in our house. Only please don't let out that I
have said so much.

   "I wonder if Nigel ever will marry Ethel. Don't you? I like Ethel very
much. He is always going there, and trying to see her; but Ethel has
so much to do that I don't believe he very often succeeds, and then
he looks melancholy. And mother is so unhappy whenever he goes. I do
wish mother didn't mind everything so much. I mean to give up minding
things, and to take everything just as it comes. And I don't mean ever
to worry mother by caring too much for anybody. But I don't think Nigel
notices how she feels, exactly as he used to do.

   "I meant to tell you lots more, but there is no time, and I must stop.
Mother wants me for something.—Ever yours affectionately,

                     "DAISY BROWNING."

Mr. Carden-Cox sat for ten minutes in a brown study. Then he rang
for the removal of the breakfast things, and turned over the pile
of letters remaining. Among them, he found a short note from Nigel,
written with the left hand, and a few lines from Ethel.

   "DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—Can you give me the name of that law-book which
you mentioned on the boat? I want to read it. Excuse this scrawl.

   "Fulvia seems poorly still—cannot leave her room.—Ever yours,

                        "N. B."


   "DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—Could you possibly let my father have your
magic-lantern next week? It is asking a great deal at short notice, but
he wants to get up the Infants' Treat earlier than was intended, and we
have so little time to arrange anything.

   "We are very sorry Fulvia is so ill. Of course you hear all about
everything, or else I would tell you more. Nigel seems rather anxious
about her, but I do not know that anybody else is. His hand is bad
still.—Believe me, yours sincerely,

                        "ETHEL ELVEY."

In answer to these Mr. Carden-Cox wrote, with great deliberation, three
letters, and also a fourth to Fulvia. By inserting a good deal of
chit-chat, he managed to fill up exactly one sheet to each, signing his
name at the bottom of the fourth page.

Then he fell into a state of flurry, and scribbled four postscripts on
four additional half-sheets. His state of mind was shown by the fact
that, instead of writing P.S. at the top of each half-sheet, he wrote
N.B., not discovering his own blunder. After all, the one was as good
as the other, though unusual. He thrust the postscripts into the four
stamped and addressed envelopes, paying small heed to the addresses,
and hurried to the post-box round a near corner. Not unnaturally, each
postscript went to a wrong destination.



CHAPTER XII

NOTA BENE!

   "It is sometimes a very trifle from whence great temptations proceed.
And whilst I think myself somewhat safe, when I least expect it, I find
myself sometimes overcome with a small blast."—THOMAS À KEMPIS.

THESE were the postscripts, indited by Mr. Carden-Cox upon four
half-sheets, in his state of mental flurry, and thrust into the wrong
envelopes.

   _To Nigel: sent by mistake to Fulvia._

   "N.B.—One line more. My dear fellow, you do not really mean to go
in for law before Christmas!—just home from your world-tour. Most
exemplary, of course; but is it necessary? I do not wish to act the
part of an old hinderer in suggesting delay, still—nobody has seen you
yet, and everybody wants to hear everything that you have done. After
Christmas you will be going, no doubt, to Oxford; and later on will
come the crucial question as to your career—the Bar or no! I say yes;
but your father says no; and after all the decision must rest with him.
Happily there is time enough. Meanwhile we have to think of Fulvia's
twenty-first birthday. I want to make something of that affair, if your
father will let us. He seems strangely averse.

   "Are you sure that your mind is free at this moment for law studies?
Well, well, I must not inquire too closely. But I can tell you, if that
comes about, the dearest hopes of your father and of myself will be
fulfilled. I have set my heart upon it, ever since you and the little
Fulvia trotted about hand-in-hand, in your frocks and knickerbockers.
You two always suited each other. And not to speak of Fulvia's money,
which is a consideration, for undoubtedly your father's embarrassments
have increased—not to speak of that, for you are not one to marry for
money, Fulvia will be a good wife, true and unselfish. I shall not soon
forget your leap into the river, with Fulvia in your arms. It seemed
to me a happy augury for the future. Was it not so to you? One knows
well enough how you feel—how you must feel—for the good girl whom you
rescued—but not all young fellows have such an opportunity of putting
their feelings into action. She is a good girl, and you are a good boy;
and I wish you both happiness, with all my heart—you and her together."


   _To Daisy: sent by mistake to Ethel._

   "N.B.—One word more. As for what you say about Nigel, that is all
nonsense. Don't trouble your little head; what do you know of such
matters? He will marry no doubt some day, but not in that direction.
So Fulvia is very poorly, and rambles at night. Yes, I dare say; it
was a shock to her, of course. Mind, Nigel must not know how she calls
for him. Won't do to hinder matters by pressing them on. Young men
like to be let alone, and not interfered with. But you are a sensible
and womanly girl, and I don't mind saying to you that that is what
his father and I most want for him. I have the greatest esteem for
the other good girl; and she is an uncommonly good girl; but all the
same it wouldn't do. Wouldn't do for a moment. Nigel will never marry
her, unless in direct opposition to his father; and he is not that
sort, you know. Nor does he really wish it, though there may once have
been a passing fancy. Fulvia is made for him. Mind—all this in strict
confidence. Not a word to any one; least of all to E. E. You are a good
little Daisy, and I trust you."


   _To Ethel: sent by mistake to Daisy._

   "N.B.—I am sorry, by-the-bye, to hear such poor accounts of Fulvia.
But I hope she will soon pick up again. She must feel gratified by
the manner of her rescue. Devotion could scarcely have been more
plainly shown. She and that boy have always been much one to another.
I have often hoped that the 'much' would grow into more. In fact, his
father and I quite agree on that point—about the only point, between
ourselves, on which Browning and I ever did agree. This in confidence.
You are enough of a friend to Nigel to be able to rejoice in the
prospect of his happy future. Tell Mr. Elvey I am delighted that he
should use my magic-lantern as often as he likes."


   _To Fulvia: sent by mistake to Nigel._

   "N.B.—One word more to my dear Fulvia. I am sorry to hear that your
faithful knight has not yet regained the use of his hand. But never
mind! He will count it worth his while. What brave knight ever yet
shrank from fire or water for the sake of his faire ladye? Well, I must
not joke you; but it is easy to guess how he feels—good boy!"


The four letters with their ill-fitting postscripts reached Newton
Bury that same evening, being faithfully delivered according to their
several addresses; three at the Grange, one at the Rectory.

"A perfect cartload from Mr. Carden-Cox," Nigel remarked. He read his
own sheet quickly through, wondering how any sensible and intellectual
man could manage to say so little, in so many words. If it had been
a woman, or even a brainless man—but Mr. Carden-Cox was not a woman,
nor was he brainless. Nigel then turned to the postscript, with a
preliminary laugh at the N.B., and a final pause at the sixth word.

"Hallo! This is not for me? Here, Daisy," folding the half-sheet and
tossing it towards her, "it is Fulvia's, not mine!"

Daisy was screwing up her big childish forehead in perplexity. "How
funny!" she commented aloud, over her half-sheet. "He doesn't write
like that to me generally. Why, I declare—if it isn't to Ethel!"

"What?"

"Mr. Carden-Cox has sent me a wrong piece. It's to Ethel, not to me. A
sort of postscript. How stupid!—And I never guessed till I got to the
end. Yes, I read it, of course. How could I tell? It might have been
all in answer to my letter, only it's not exactly how he always writes.
Speaking of padre as 'Browning' and—"

"Stop you've no business to repeat a word. It was not meant for your
eyes."

"No; to be sure. Well, we must send it on to Ethel, I suppose."

"Put it up in an envelope. I'll take it at once, and explain."

Daisy obeyed with promptitude. Nobody else was present to remonstrate.
Mr. and Mrs. Browning were in the study, and Anice was with Fulvia.
Dinner would not be until eight o'clock; and it was now only a few
minutes after seven.

"That is Fulvia's. You had better carry it upstairs. Don't forget,"
Nigel said, indicating the folded half-sheet, as Daisy handed to him a
closed envelope, addressed "Miss Elvey."

"Yes, I will—I mean, I won't forget. Tell Ethel I'm very sorry I read
hers. How odd of Mr. Carden-Cox! Why didn't he take more care? Perhaps
there's a half-sheet to you, sent to Fulvia by mistake."

"No; Anice would have brought it down by this time."

Nigel was pulling on his greatcoat, when the study door opened, and
Mrs. Browning glided out. "It is raining fast. Where are you going?"
she asked.

"To rectify a blunder."

"Mother—Mr. Carden-Cox has made such a mistake," exclaimed Daisy,
hanging over the balusters. "He has sent part of a letter to me which
ought to have gone to Ethel, and another part to Nigel which is meant
for Fulvia. Isn't it queer? Just as if he had got all the letters mixed
up in a jumble. I'm taking Fulvia hers, and Nigel is taking Ethel's."

A shadow fell upon Mrs. Browning's face. "Always the Rectory!" she said.

"I shall not be long, mother."

She retreated into the study, and Nigel went off—something of the
shadow falling on him; he could hardly have defined how or why.


Fulvia's letter had gone straight to her, on its first arrival. She was
seated in her bedroom, by the fire, wearing a pale blue dressing-gown.
The reddish hair, knotted lightly behind, fell low in masses. Though
not ill enough to stay in bed all day, she was by no means well enough
to be about the house. She looked thin and flushed.

Anice was leaving the room to get a book, at the moment of the maid's
entry with the letter, and Fulvia said, "Don't hurry, I am all right."

"I don't mean to be long," Anice replied.

But Fulvia was alone when she opened the envelope. Out of it dropped
the sheet and also the half-sheet, both closely covered by Mr.
Carden-Cox's minute and precise handwriting.

Some impulse made Fulvia turn first to the half-sheet; and in a moment
she saw that it was not intended for herself. She glanced at the
sheet—yes, that began all right, "My dear Fulvia;" but this had "My
dear fellow."

Fulvia read on, notwithstanding. A kind of fascination seemed to hold
her eyes to the page. It was fascination which might have been, and
ought to have been, resisted. Conscience cried loudly, yet she did not
resist. She read on straight and fast to the end.

A gleam came to her eyes, and a glow to her cheeks. For some seconds
she had only one distinct sense—that of an overwhelming joy. Nothing
else could matter now—now—if Nigel and she were to be one! The wish
of his father!—The wish of Mr. Carden-Cox!—The desire of Nigel
himself!—What then could hinder?

But upon this came a rush of yet more overwhelming shame at her own
action, seen in imagination with Nigel's eyes. The shame bowed her
forward, till her face rested upon her knees, and the flush of joy
deepened into a fixed burning of brow and cheeks. What had she done?
What had she been about? Nigel's letter!—But she could not let Nigel
have it! He must never know that her eyes had read those words—Oh,
never! Cold chills shot through her at the very thought.

Anice was coming back. Fulvia heard the approaching steps, and dire
need brought composure. She thrust the half-sheet deep into a pocket
of her dressing-gown, pushed away the candle that her face might be in
shade, and began quietly to read her own letter.

"From Mr. Carden-Cox?" asked Anice, recognising the cramped hand.
"Anything particular?"

"Nothing much. Just chit-chat! He seems getting tired of Burrside
already."

"He always does in a day or two."

"Or a week or two."

Unobservant Anice noticed nothing unusual in Fulvia's shaking hands or
crimson face; but the next moment Daisy rushed in.

"Oh, did I make a noise? I'm sorry. I quite forgot. Why, Fulvie—what
a colour you are! As red as beetroot! Cousin Jamie would say you were
feverish."

"Nonsense. What have you there?"

"Only a postscript from Mr. Carden-Cox for you. It went to Nigel by
mistake. I can't imagine what Mr. Carden-Cox has been about. He sent
another to me instead of to Ethel. You haven't one too, I suppose,
meant for somebody else? Only that sheet—" as Fulvia pointed to the one
lying on her knee. "Fulvie! I say! I'm sure you are not so well this
evening. What is the matter? Anything Mr. Carden-Cox has said? I shall
have to call madre. Why, your hands are like fire, and beating as if
they were alive. I can feel them."

Fulvia snatched the said hands petulantly away.

"Nonsense! Don't. I wish you would not tease. I will not have a word
said to madre, and I only want to be quiet. There is such an amount of
talk and bustle, and my head is wild."

Daisy grew gentle. "I'm sorry. We won't talk any more," she said in a
penitent voice. "Fulvie, if you just get into bed, I'll only help you
and not say a word. Please do."

Fulvia leant back, and shut her eyes.

"I can't yet. I have to finish my letter—and I want a little peace. Go
and dress for dinner first—both of you."

"And then—" Daisy said.

"Yes, then perhaps. I'll see. Only go now, and don't say a word to
worry madre."

The girls took her at her word, retiring softly, and Fulvia found
herself alone; safe for a while, she knew, since neither Anice nor
Daisy could ever dress in less than half-an-hour, the one from innate
slowness, the other from lack of method.

Fulvia's hands beating! She could have told Daisy that she was beating
all over; the clang of a hard pulsation echoing through every nerve and
fibre of her body. "Am I going to be ill? I feel like it," she asked
of herself; and then aloud, with a laugh—"Nonsense! There are nerves
enough in the family already. I'll not sport them!"

Then she glanced through Mr. Carden-Cox's chit-chat sheet, only to find
nothing in it worth attention, and read her own postscript. Thereupon
came again the thrill of joy, followed by shame.

"What would Nigel think? How could I? Tell him!—Oh, I can never
confess! He must never know! To read it—all the time knowing it was not
meant for me. I! Why I have always prided myself on never stooping to
anything mean—and now, this! What could have come over me that moment?
I must have been demented. How I could! Yes, it was temptation of
course—but why did I give way?"

Yet she drew the half-sheet from her pocket, and her eyes fell upon it
anew. "No harm now! I have read the whole—I can't help having read it,"
she murmured. Then, with a renewed rush of self-contempt, she caught
her glance away, crumpled up the piece of paper, and actually flung
it upon the fire. At the last instant she recoiled, and as the little
crushed ball of paper fell upon a surface of unburnt black coal, her
fingers snatched it off. Impossible yet to destroy those words, so full
of light and hope for her. She would not read them again, but she would
keep them; just for a few days.

Fulvia crossed the room with trembling steps, smoothing the crumpled
half-sheet as she went. She unlocked her dressing-box, slipped the
paper behind the little looking-glass which had its nest within the
lid, and re-locked the box.

Once more in her easy-chair, she could only lean back and think, with
a mixture of delight and despondency. As minutes went on, the latter
predominated.

If Nigel should ever know—should over guess what she had done! Fulvia
felt that she could sink into the earth with shame. She could picture
so well his look, could foretell what he would think and say. Suppose
Mr. Carden-Cox were to recall that he had sent the postscript to
Fulvia? Suppose she should be questioned. What would she say, and how
might she shield herself?

"I will not speak untruths, and I will not tell!" she resolved aloud,
clasping her hands. The two resolves might prove incompatible,—but she
would not face that possibility.

Why had she not, when Anice was returning, dropped the half-sheet on
the floor, then picked it up as a discovery and sent it straight to
Nigel by Anice? This suggestion came up; Fulvia's brow was dyed anew at
the idea of such deception. Yet—she almost regretted that she had not
thought of it in time!

By the half-hour's end, when Daisy returned, it was as much as Fulvia
could do to creep into bed. No wonder that the night following was one
of feverish unrest. Daisy had little sleep, though not easily kept
awake, for Fulvia rambled incessantly in a half-awake, half-unconscious
style.

Strange to say, she kept sealed lips throughout as to the crumpled
half-sheet locked up in her dressing-case. Once there was a passionate
cry, "O Nigel, forgive me!"

And Daisy sat up in bed, staring with round eyes of astonishment. But
no more followed, and Fulvia seemed to be asleep, so Daisy lay down
again.

"I'm glad I told Mr. Carden-Cox, though," commented Daisy. "Somebody
ought to know how she goes on, most certainly!"



CHAPTER XIII

"WILL NEVER MARRY HER!"

   "He jests at scars that never felt a wound."—SHAKESPEARE.

"ETHEL, just look at that blind. It hangs all crookedly."

"Yes, mother."

"Now you have pulled it too much the other way. You do things in such a
hurry."

Ethel gave a slow pull this time, cheerily, though her mother's tone
was depressing. Mrs. Elvey could not be called ill-tempered, but she
was given to complaining moods, and such moods were trying to those
about her.

"Something must be wrong with the oil we are using now. The lamp has a
most disagreeable smell."

"Father noticed it yesterday evening. I'll go to the shop and speak
about it to-morrow."

"Yes, do; it is enough to make one positively ill."

"Shall I take away the lamp and light candles?"

"Oh no, that would be extravagant; I must just bear it. What has become
of everybody this evening? The house seems so dull."

"Father is writing in the study, and the boys are at their prep. still.
Lance wants me to help him presently."

"Then, pray, go; don't mind about me. Lance must not lose his place in
his classes on any account. Do go at once, Ethel."

Mrs. Elvey spoke in an injured tone, as if it were unkind of Ethel to
leave her; but this was so usual a state of things that Ethel hardly
noticed the manner. She folded up her work, and sped into the hall just
as the postman dropped a letter into the box.

"For me," she said, taking it out. "From Mr. Carden-Cox. About the
magic-lantern, of course. I am glad he has answered quickly. Well,
Lance," as the boy ran past, "do you want me?"

"Not for five minutes," Lance answered.

The boys did their "prep." in the little old schoolroom. Ethel turned
into the dining-room to read her letter, standing under the gas, which
had been left alight. The remains of the evening meal, a dinner-tea,
were on the table still. Post arrived at the Rectory somewhat later
than at the Grange, Church Square coming at the end of a certain "beat."

She went through the sheet first, amused at the amount of talk about
nothing; then came to the postscript, with a little laugh at the
"N.B." Puzzlement followed quickly. "What did I say about Nigel? I
can't remember. What does he mean? 'Not to trouble my head'—well, but
I don't. 'Such matters!'—I can't understand. 'Nigel to marry some
day'—yes, very likely; anybody might suppose that."

A pink spot found its way to her cheek. Did Mr. Carden-Cox imagine that
she was running after Nigel, and wish to administer a friendly warning?
Impossible, surely!—and yet—"He is so odd! He might mean it," faltered
Ethel, glad that nobody was present to remark her looks. "But I should
not have expected it from him."

She read on slowly, bewildered still. "Fulvia calling for Nigel at
night—" quite natural after the shock she had had. But could Mr.
Carden-Cox really suppose that she, Ethel, would tell Nigel, even
if she had known the fact? What was it that Mr. Browning and Mr.
Carden-Cox wanted for Nigel? And who was this "other good girl"?

"Fulvia, no doubt," thought Ethel. "'It wouldn't do!' What wouldn't do?
'Nigel marry in opposition to his father!'—No, indeed; nothing less
likely." But what had made Mr. Carden-Cox write all this to Ethel? Was
he demented?

Suddenly, at the end, understanding came in a flood. One moment she was
smiling under the gas-burner in amused perplexity; the next instant she
saw the whole as with a flash of lightning.

This postscript was to Daisy Browning, not to herself. She, Ethel
Elvey, and not Fulvia Rolfe, was "the other girl," whom Nigel might
never marry—whom, indeed, he had no wish to marry.

Ethel did not give the sheet another glance. There was no need, for she
knew it all by heart. More especially those words, "Nigel will never
marry her!" were stamped upon her memory. They seemed to settle the
matter finally.

She stood quietly; her eyes fixed on the opposite wall; but she could
not see or think. No tears came, only a numb sensation, reaching down
to her finger-tips; and, indeed, those little fingers were all at once
strangely cold.

"I say, Ethel—Eth-el!" called Lance imperiously.

"Coming!" cried Ethel.

She folded the half-sheet, and thrust it into her pocket, absolutely
forgetting at the moment that it was not her own. "O Nigel, Nigel!" a
voice within her heart was wailing sadly; and as she crossed the hall
towards the schoolroom, he entered by the front door.

"Ethel, I'm just come to bring—"

He paused a moment to pull off his glove, and grasp her hand. Ethel's
fingers lay in his, not returning the pressure. He looked so bright,
so pleased to be there. For one moment she could have believed it all
a bad dream. But those words were with her still—he would never marry
her! He did not really wish it! Not really! No; why should he? He
was only her old kind affectionate playfellow; and she had to be the
same to him, expecting nothing beyond, and taking care that nobody
should think she could expect anything beyond. That last item was the
difficulty—how to guard her own position, and yet not to give him pain.
At the present moment such a line of conduct was not even possible. She
had to give him pain; and at the very moment that her fingers touched
his, the grave shadow which she so well know, and which she never could
see without a heartache, crept over his eyes.

"I'm come to bring part of your letter from Mr. Carden-Cox, posted to
Daisy. He scorns to have been in a state of confusion. There was a
postscript for Fulvia sent to me, and Daisy received this, which she
says is yours. Daisy read it before she discovered the blunder, and she
wants me to apologise."

"Thanks," Ethel replied, taking the envelope. She did not look straight
at him, after her wont, but leant against the wall, pale, and even a
little breathless, as if she had been running uphill. It flashed across
her mind that, if she followed Daisy's example, she would send to
Daisy by Nigel the postscript which she had herself received. "But I
cannot—cannot!" she cried to herself. "Impossible! I will send it back
to Mr. Carden-Cox."

Nigel stood gazing at Ethel, with a face of grieved surprise. He could
not make her out.

"You don't mind, I hope. Daisy did not find that it was meant for you
till the end. Of course she will tell nobody what she has read."

"Mind! Oh no! Mr. Carden-Cox's letters are not so very
important—commonly."

"It is not half-past seven yet. May I come in for a few minutes? We
don't dine till eight," said Nigel, sorely chilled by her manner, yet
hoping against hope that it might mean nothing.

"Yes, of course. My mother is in the drawing-room."

"And you will come too?"

"I can't. Lance wants me; and I have to write a note for the post."

"Just for a minute! The post doesn't go till eight."

"Our pillar is emptied a quarter before; and Lance—"

"Can't Lance wait?"

"No; I have to help with his lessons."

Dead silence for a moment.

"Is anything wrong?" Nigel asked.

Ethel lifted her eyes, giving him a calm return glance. She would not
for the world have betrayed herself. "I ought to go to Lance."

"And that is all?"

Ethel could not answer in the affirmative. Silence was her response.

"Good-night," Nigel said seriously, holding out his left hand. "No,
I think I will not come in this evening. There isn't really much
time—only, if I could have seen a little of you—But some other day must
do instead. I suppose I may tell Daisy that you do not mind very much."

"About the postscript? Oh no!"

Then Nigel was gone, and Ethel still leant against the wall, with
downcast eyes, feeling as if all the sunshine of her life had gone with
him.

The schoolroom door opened, and Lance's head popped out.

"I say, Eth—Hallo, there you are!" lowering his voice from a shout.

"I'll come in a minute, Lance. I must write just one line to catch the
post."

"That's what girls are always doing," retorted Lance. "I suppose 'just
one line' means just ten pages. Well, mind you're quick, for I'm at a
standstill, and you promised to come ages ago."

Lance retreated, and Ethel went quickly to the dining-room side-table,
where she first opened and read the postscript sent on by Daisy. Had it
come alone, it would not have meant very much; she could have afforded
then to smile at it; but following close upon the other, it brought a
renewed pang.

Ethel sat for a few minutes thinking, and then she dashed off, with
small hesitation—

   "DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—The enclosed half-sheet came to me by mistake.
I am very sorry that I stupidly read it through before finding out that
it was meant for somebody else. I send it to you instead of to Daisy,
because I would rather no one should know that I have seen it.

   "Thanks for your letter to me, and for giving leave about the
magic-lantern.

   "Fulvia is very nice; and I am glad you think he is going to be so
happy.—In haste, yours sincerely,

                        "ETHEL ELVEY."

The last paragraph was not written without a struggle, but pride
insisted. Something had to be said or done to put her into a right
position—to convince Mr. Carden-Cox that, at all events, she was not
seeking Nigel.

In another minute the letter was ready. Ethel caught up a shawl, threw
it over her head, and ran out of the front door, through the garden,
across the road, to the red pillar-box, careless of pattering rain.

Then the envelope was beyond recall; and Ethel came slowly back,
wondering if she had done wisely.

"If one could only be always sure!" she muttered within the door,
shaking off a little shower. "And if only I need not hurt him!"

With an effort she braced herself up, tossed aside the shawl, and
entered the schoolroom.

"You've kept me waiting a jolly time, and no mistake," averred Lance.
"Just see, Ethel, how in the world am I to make out all this French
gibberish?"

Ethel sat down for an hour of patient work, going steadily into such
explanations as Lance needed, and making herself very clear. But all
the while she never ceased to see a pair of dark eyes, full of pain at
the touch of her cold fingers.

Did he care? Yes, no doubt; they were such old friends. Only that—only
friends! Nothing else could ever be, for Nigel did not wish it.


Ethel's note to Mr. Carden-Cox, with its enclosure, left Newton Bury on
Tuesday evening, just too late for the post Ethel had meant to catch;
this fact not having been discovered by her. Consequently the note
did not reach Burrside until the midday post, one half-hour after Mr.
Carden-Cox had, under a sudden impulse, quitted his blissful solitude
for the cares of Newton Bury.

Mrs. Simmons was out when the note arrived, and the little
lodging-house maid put it thoughtlessly on a side-table, saying nothing
to anybody. There it lay till late the same evening, when Mrs. Simmons
came across it, at once instituting inquiries.

"And been there this whole day, and not a soul knowing!" exclaimed Mrs.
Simmons. "And Mr. Carden-Cox that particular about his letters, as he'd
be fit to cut your head off if the post was five minutes behind-hand,
and you knowing of it, Betsy Jane, and never paying no heed! You're the
trouble of my life, and that's what you are, never thinking nor caring!
And you'll put on your hat this minute, and go straight off to the
post, you will, for all it's too late, for I wouldn't keep that there
hemberlope in this house another hour, no, not if I was paid for it,
and Mr. Carden-Cox so mortial particular!"

Betsy Jane was not likely to pay Mrs. Simmons out of her small
earnings, neither did she attempt to defend herself. She only drooped
her lower lip, half deplorably, half in sullenness, and endured
the harangue: for after all, what could she have pleaded except
forgetfulness? And everybody agrees with everybody that to forget is no
excuse at all, because one never ought to forget. Betsy Jane put on her
hat, of course, and went to the post; and the poor little note wandered
off once more missing again the evening post, and again arriving not
far from midday.

The return of Mr. Carden-Cox had become known, and Nigel had speedily
found his way to Mr. Carden-Cox's house. When Ethel's note, with
half-a-dozen other epistles, was handed to Mr. Carden-Cox on a silver
waiter, Nigel was seated opposite to him, speaking.

Mr. Carden-Cox took the letters, and turned them over dreamily, while
he listened.

"Humph—ha—yes—just so," he assented. "Yes, I see—no doubt—sent them all
wrong. Yes; not at all like me, eh? I am a most methodical individual
generally."

So he was, perhaps, in certain lines and in certain moods; but, like
most people who attempt to analyse themselves, he made no allowance for
oppositions in his own nature.

"Methodical," repeated Mr. Carden-Cox, holding Ethel's note, and
tapping it gently. "Yes, now I think of it, I had placed the four
letters in a row upon my desk—in a row, as I always do, following
the order in which I write. It seemed hardly needful to examine the
addresses. I may have done so cursorily, but only cursorily—not with
especial care. I was sure of the order in which the letters lay;
yes, I can recall that now. Yours first, to the left; then Fulvia's.
I noted that, coupling you and Fulvia together, you see—ha!—then
Ethel's, and lastly Daisy's. No mistake about the matter; no mistake
possible, in fact. Extraordinary that the postscripts should have
become disarranged. I don't see for my part how they could have done
so. Still—facts are stubborn. You are sure that it was as you state?"

"Perfectly."

"Well, I don't understand—I don't understand at all." Mr. Carden-Cox
rubbed his hair till it stood on end. "Four envelopes, four letters,
four postscripts—yours, Fulvia's, Ethel's, and Daisy's. That was the
precise order. I could take my oath in a court of justice as to the way
in which they were placed. Extraordinary! Did you say I wrote 'N.B.'
instead of 'P.S.'? Comical rather! Never did such a thing in my life
before. Must have been thinking too much about you, my dear fellow—you
and my dear Fulvia! Nothing unusual in that perhaps. I suppose you
and Fulvia—Well, well; yes, and then—to be sure! 'N.B.' on all four
postscripts, you say?"

"I know nothing about the four. Fulvia's postscript came to me, and I
sent it to her at once, unread. Ethel's came to Daisy, and was read by
mistake."

"And the other two: Daisy's and yours?"

"There were no others."

"I beg your pardon. There were two others. Four altogether. One to
each."

"Then the other two were not posted. You will most likely find them in
your desk."

"I shall most likely do nothing of the sort. The other two were
posted." Mr. Carden-Cox was growing irate. "My recollections are
perfectly clear. I can distinctly recall putting the four postscripts
into the four envelopes, one into each. I tell you I could declare this
on oath, in a court of justice. It is a matter of absolute certainty.
If the first two went wrong, the third and fourth went wrong also.
But somebody has got them—somebody has. No possibility of a mistake
there. Ethel and Fulvia have had a postscript each, and not their own
postscripts, since you and Daisy received those."

"I saw Ethel within half-an-hour of getting your letter; and the post
must have been in at the Rectory. She would surely have told me if
there had been a postscript for anybody at home."

"Hallo! This is the girl's own handwriting!" Mr. Carden-Cox was gazing
at the note he held.

"Ethel's!"

"Ethel Elvey's, of course. Humph! Why, here it is!" Mr. Carden-Cox held
up the half-sheet with his own handwriting.

"Sent back to you, instead of sent on to Daisy," Nigel said quietly;
but he had again the chilled sensation. Why had Ethel said nothing to
him?—If, indeed, it had arrived when he called.

Mr. Carden-Cox was not commonly supposed to be wanting in reticence; on
the contrary, some counted him "a great deal too reserved." But here
again there were curious oppositions in his character; and like many
reserved people he was capable of running to the other extreme. Being
over-excited, he ran now to the other extreme, and forthwith read aloud
Ethel's note.

"I don't understand. Who is 'he'?" asked Nigel.

Mr. Carden-Cox glanced at the paragraph again, and burst into an
uncomfortable laugh.

"Ha! ha, ha! The girl's a thorough woman, and no mistake! Uses
adjectives—pronouns, I mean—without an antecedent. That's the way to
express it, I believe. Rather long since I went through Lindley Murray;
but antecedents are important things, very important. 'He'! Ha, ha! As
if there wasn't another 'he' in the world. But girls never think! I
shall have a little fun with Miss Ethel about this. She'll appreciate
the joke. Well, well, I'm glad she approves. You and she were always
good friends, but—eh? what?"

Nigel was trying to edge in a question.

"Eh? Oh, only a little jest of mine in the postscript to herself,
about a certain knight rescuing his faire ladye from fire and water.
No, by the way, that wasn't to her; I'm forgetting—but something
tantamount—you and Fulvia, you know."

"You seem rather fond of coupling my name with Fulvia's."

"Old habit of mine, my dear boy. Always did couple you together, and
probably always shall. Why, now, you know yourself that nobody can take
precisely the place with you that Fulvia takes—eh?"

"Perhaps not precisely; but that does not mean—"

"No; just so; it doesn't mean more, than it does mean. It only means
that you are on the high-road to—No, you needn't deny it. You needn't
attempt to deny anything. We are willing to wait; your father and I.
Merely a matter of time, of course. But you see Ethel approves, quite
approves—glad to think you are going to be so happy. Yes, certainly—in
reference to that—to you and Fulvia. Good, sensible girl, Ethel Elvey.
Much too sensible to expect—well, of course, she expects nothing; never
did expect. You and she are good friends, no doubt; always will be. But
that would never have done; never! Serious reasons against it; and your
father would not consent. Entirely out of the question. Fulvia 'very
nice,' &c. Might have said a little more, when she was about it. Mind,
you mustn't let out that you have heard this note. She doesn't wish it
to be known—about her seeing the postscript. There!" and Mr. Carden-Cox
chucked his now useless half-sheet into the fire. "Daisy must go
without."

Nigel was silent.

"Three of the postscripts accounted for," said Mr. Carden-Cox. He began
to reckon upon the ends of his fingers. "Fulvie's, Daisy's, Ethel's.
Fulvia's sent to you; Daisy's to Ethel; Ethel's to Daisy. That's
it, eh? Yes, I see; plain as a pikestaff. Ethel's and Daisy's were
exchanged. Then yours and Fulvia's were exchanged too. Fulvia's to you;
yours, of course, to Fulvia. What is the girl after not to give it up?"

"Fulvia has not received it."

"She has, I assure you. Must. Positively must. I put a postscript into
each one of the four envelopes, and here is the only one not accounted
for. Fulvia has yours to a dead certainty."

"It is the most extraordinary thing to accuse a lady of! Fulvia would
have told at once. Why not?"

"That's right. I like to put you up in her defence. It positively does
one good. My dear fellow, I don't accuse her of anything. I don't know
why she has not passed the postscript on. Women's reasons are not easy
to fathom. Fulvia trustworthy. Yes, no doubt. Like the rest of her sex.
Acts upon impulse, and never thinks of consequences. Probably put it
away in a drawer, and forgot all about it; as likely as not! Anything
possible to a woman. I'll ask her when we meet; or you can put the
question meantime. 'Rather not!' Too much of a coward, eh? But never
mind; you just leave it to me. I'll bring her to book."

Nigel managed at last to get away. He was very sore at heart, longing
for quiet, that he might think over Ethel's note, which had been a
sharp blow.

He walked homeward swiftly, after his usual direct fashion, only not
as usual taking in all about him, with glances to right and left as
he went. His eyes were steadily downcast, and certain friends found
themselves unconsciously passed by.

"Young Browning in a state of meditation!" one acquaintance remarked.

And a lady of sensitive temper was offended to be overlooked.

While another of more robust mental make had leisure from herself to
wonder if that nice young fellow were in trouble. His arm was in a
sling still; but "it wasn't that," she said, and she said rightly.

Nigel had long known the wish of Mr. Carden-Cox's heart about himself
and Fulvia. He had hitherto ignored the idea, ridden over it, or
laughed at it, as the case might be. Even the knowledge that his father
was much bent upon the same could only cause regrets.

But Ethel—if Ethel approved and was glad, this, indeed, made all the
difference. For if Ethel could wish him to marry Fulvia, then it must
have been that she could not and would not marry him herself. Life
would be changed for Nigel, if things were so.

No steel blade could have cut more deeply than the closing sentence of
Ethel's little note to Mr. Carden-Cox. Glad to think he was going to
be so happy! Glad to believe that he would marry Fulvia! Nigel's heart
sank.

The mere fact that she was able calmly to write such words to Mr.
Carden-Cox seemed to him conclusive. He did not feel that he could have
done it in her place, if he had cared one tithe as much as he cared now!

Of course not. But he was a man, and she was a woman. In his estimate
of things, he forgot to allow for this fact.

Then her manner to him, when he had seen her last, the sudden
coldness and indifference! Was it that she had just read by mistake
the postscript meant for Daisy, whatever the postscript might have
contained? Something undoubtedly had aroused her to the sense of a
certain need to show Nigel that he must not think of her.

Tom Elvey!

Yes, that was it, no doubt. That was at the bottom of the tangle.
Fulvia's words on the steam-yacht had been almost driven out of Nigel's
mind by succeeding events, and by his first meeting afterward with
Ethel; but now they returned in full strength.

Ethel had been so pleased and thankful, after the adventure, showing
perhaps under excitement more warmth than she felt on consideration
to be right. Probably she feared to mislead Nigel. As his friend and
old playmate she would rejoice in his escape—perhaps also for Fulvia's
sake, if she held the notion about him and Fulvia—but it was very
evident that she wished Nigel now to understand the moderate nature of
her feelings.

Tom Elvey, to wit!

Nigel sighed as he entered the Grange gates. Nobody was at hand to hear.



CHAPTER XIV

SOMETHING WRONG—BUT WHAT?

   "I do not greatly care to be deceived."—SHAKESPEARE.

              "O mad mistake,
      With repentance in its wake."—JEAN INGELOW.

"FULVIA!" Nigel said in surprise.

She was creeping downstairs, step by step, evidently uncertain as to
the extent of her own powers. Nigel walked to the mat at the foot of
the flight, and stood there looking up, while Fulvia came to a pause
four steps above, resting and looking down. Her face broke into a
smile, half mischievous, half apologetic; and then the smile vanished,
for it gained no response. His features were set and pale, even stern.

"Don't be angry," she said. "I shall collapse if you are. It's as much
as I can do to manage the descent."

"What made you leave your room?"

"What made me? My own naughty will, I suppose. Nobody else's,
certainly. Madre is out shopping with the girls, so I thought I would
use my opportunity. I'm tired of seclusion."

"Have you your doctor's leave?"

"I didn't ask it. He has not been yet. Besides, if one is bent on one's
own way, it's no use to court forbiddal."

"I don't think you are right."

"Perhaps not; but you needn't look so awfully solemn. What is the
matter?"

She came down the last steps in tremulous style, laughing at herself,
and put a hand on his arm.

"Anything gone wrong? Have you seen Mr. Carden-Cox?"

"Yes. Where are you going?"

"I'm bent on a talk with the padre; but I must rest for five minutes
first. Yes, please help me."

Nigel responded without words, and she crossed the hall into the
morning-room, dropping on the nearest chair with a vanquished look.

"I didn't know a few days in one's bedroom could make one so horribly
weak. I feel just like a teetotum, ready to go down. What are you
thinking about?"

Weak as she felt, her eyes scanned him with their usual penetration,
and Nigel could not stand it. He turned abruptly, and walked into the
bow-window, taking a book from the table, and making believe to read
it. Fulvia might think him ill-tempered if she liked. He was not able
to endure being questioned.

Fulvia made no further attempt at the moment. "Poor boy!" she said to
herself, and a softened look came into her face. She was accustomed
of old to think of him as a boy, and to count herself a little older
in mind, a little better able to manage things for him as well as for
herself than he was; and she had not yet shaken off the old habit of
thought.

But when he came back from the bow-window, holding his open book in one
hand, it was no boy's face that met her glance. He was very pale; and
the compression of the lips, the bent brows, were unmistakably those of
a man.

"Has Mr. Carden-Cox been saying anything to worry you?" she asked.

She had no business to ask the question, and she knew it, even before
saying the words; but at the moment the temptation was too strong. And
at once Fulvia knew that she had lost ground with him. She had done
the very thing for which she lately had so blamed Anice—had catechised
where she held no right to catechise.

Nigel was silent, but his gravity held now a tinge of displeasure.

Fulvia had far too much tact to persevere in a mistake.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "It was rude of me. Of course I ought
not to expect an answer." Yet she did expect, and was disappointed that
none came.

"Did you say you wished to speak to my father?" inquired Nigel, after a
pause.

"Yes. I'll go to the study. He is there, isn't be? One can so seldom
get hold of him alone—I mean, without madre. I don't mean you." She
paused and looked at him earnestly. "Am I forgiven?"

"For what?"

"You know. Meddling in your concerns."

"Sisters are supposed to be at liberty to say what they like," Nigel
replied, smiling; but it was not his usual smile.

"And brothers, too," Fulvia added, while the word "sisters" fell upon
her coldly. Did he mean it? Or was he speaking without thought?

She seemed so tottering that Nigel had no choice but to offer her again
the use of his left arm, when she left the room.

"Absurd!" she said, with a laugh, as she accepted it. "I, who am always
strong! But I shall be all right in a day or two."

"I doubt if you are so robust as you profess to be. I told the girls so
one day."

"Oh yes, Daisy informed me." Then the remainder of Daisy's report
rushed into Fulvia's mind, and Nigel glanced in surprise at her flushed
face. It was very evident to Fulvia that his own recollections of what
he had said brought no self-conscious feelings. "Just after you first
came home," Fulvia added, with an effort.

Nigel paused for a moment outside the study door. "Yes; I thought the
girls wanted a hint. You mustn't let them put upon you too much. It is
not right."

"What isn't?"

"Their making use of you upon all occasions to save themselves trouble.
Anice is desperately lazy, and Daisy follows in her wake. You must not
let them put upon you."

"I don't see why. I like doing things for people."

"Yes, that is your kindness. But it is not necessary or right. If you
were their own sister—"

"I thought you called me so just now."

"That is just it. We call you so, but in reality you are Fulvia Rolfe,
the heiress, not even a distant relative of ours."

"I don't see what difference the heiress-ship makes. I owe more to
madre and padre and all of you, than the biggest fortune in England
could ever repay. And nobody could call my few thousands a fortune.
Just, enough to be comfortable on. Yes; please open the door."

"Fulvia, my dear! This is unexpected," Mr. Browning said, rising with
his melancholy air and habitual sigh. "I was told that you could not
come downstairs for two or three days yet. I am glad to see you looking
so well."

Mr. Browning was in the way of counting everybody well except himself.
Like Anice, he desired always to have a monopoly of ill-health.
Fulvia's colour might, however, have deceived keener eyes than his.

"Sit down, my dear, and tell me all about yourself. Yes, there; that is
a comfortable chair. I am only pretty well—only so-so—not at all up to
the mark. You wished to speak to me? Yes, certainly, anything except
business. I am not equal to business yet; sometimes I doubt if I ever
shall be again. Don't go, Nigel."

"I will come again presently," Nigel began.

But Mr. Browning repeated, "No, don't go, pray don't go!"

And Fulvia added, "Yes, please stay. I have nothing to say which you
may not hear."

Rather reluctantly Nigel remained, leaning against the mantelpiece, not
far from where Fulvia sat.

She did not look her best this morning. Ill-health was unbecoming
to Fulvia, as indeed it is to most people. Her hair was not so
well-dressed as usual, being a little awry; her eyes were heavy; her
complexion was flushed in patches.

Nigel compared her with a mental picture of Ethel—fresh dainty,
delicately pale, sunny-eyed—and he thought—but one hardly needs to say
what he thought. Fulvia, was dear to him as the adopted sister of his
whole life; but she was not Ethel; she could not be Ethel.

"Your mother has gone out with the girls," Mr. Browning said in a
pathetic and dejected tone. "I quite urged her doing so, though not
equal to the exertion myself. She is the better, I feel sure, for an
occasional turn in the open air. Well, Fulvia, what had you to say, my
dear?—if it is not business. I am not in a condition for business just
now."

"I am afraid it verges on business," said Fulvia.

Mr. Browning put up one hand, as if to ward off an enemy; yet she
continued, "About my money—"

Mr. Browning's face grew perceptibly paler, and the apprehensive look
in his eyes increased. He was not commonly wanting in colour, though
it could hardly be called a healthy tint. Now a wan hue crept over his
features, and he held one hand to his side. "I cannot, indeed," he
said; "I am not equal—"

"But this is not business to try you—not accounts or calculations. I
don't want to bother you with anything disagreeable—lawyer's business,
I mean. I only want to say a few words. You know I shall be twenty-one
very soon—on the 21st of next month—and December is nearly here."

"So soon!" Those two words had the sound of a groan.

"Yes, very soon. But that need not be any worry to you—need it? If the
thought of a fuss on the day is a trouble, we'll give it up, and have
no fuss. I don't care in the least, and I will speak to uncle Arthur.
What I wanted to say to you is about the money that will be mine
then—forty thousand pounds or thereabouts, is it not? I think Nigel
said forty thousand. I suppose I shall have full control of it, or at
least of the interest. I have been reckoning up, and the interest would
amount to something like fifteen hundred a year, would it not?—more,
perhaps. I don't know much about such matters, practically. Fifteen
hundred a year of my own would—"

Fulvia stopped short, staring; for an extraordinary pallor had crept
over Mr. Browning's face, and the lips were blue. His hand was pressed
to his side still, and he leant back with half-closed eyes, is if
overcome. But overcome by what? Not, surely, by what Fulvia was saying.

"Padre, dear, am I really worrying you? I am so sorry. Indeed, I only
want to say a few words, which I think may be a comfort. Won't you
believe it, and listen for a moment?"

"Not quite equal—" Mr. Browning tried again to murmur. "Another
time—another time."

"Only, if you are bothered, would it not be best now?" She left her
seat, and went to his side as she spoke. "It seems a pity to put off.
I can't think why you should mind so much my speaking, for indeed I
only wished to say that things must go on very much the same as before.
Look at me, padre, and try to smile. Won't that be the pleasantest
plan? You have always used a part of my income, over since I came to
live with you; and you must use it still. I wouldn't deprive you of a
penny that you are accustomed to have. Why, it is your due! what else
could you expect? I don't know how much it has been—do you, Nigel?
About half, you think? But it ought to be more. If you had a thousand a
year, padre, the five hundred remaining would be a great deal more than
I should ever care to spend. So you see how easily everything can be
arranged! Will not that make it all right?"

There was no answer except a groan.

Fulvia knelt down by his side, looking into his face with a softer
and sweeter expression than Nigel could recall having seen in her
before—though she could be very sweet at times.

"Poor dear padre! I am so sorry. What wicked thing did you suppose I
was going to say? But you understand now, don't you?—That my coming of
age will make no manner of difference. Except, of course, that I shall
have the control of perhaps four or five hundred a year, instead of my
dress allowance, and that you will have more—not less—than before! We
won't have fusses, or parties, or lawyers, or congratulations, until
you are well again. And you will be good, and will see Dr. Duncan,
so as to get well quickly. Will that do? Do you mind my having said
so much? For, after all, I am your child, am I not? And I couldn't
possibly be so still on any other terms. Just think how much I owe to
you and madre! Does this put things smooth and straight?"

Mr. Browning burst into tears.

Such a thing had not been known in the Grange annals! Some men,
contrary to common theory, do cry very easily—as easily as some women;
but Mr. Browning was not of their number. Even under the pressure of a
great sorrow, he would not be known in public to shed a tear. He must
have been thoroughly unnerved before he could thus breakdown before his
son and Fulvia.

Fulvia was so startled as to become white. It was like having the
house come down to see Mr. Browning burst into womanly tears, his face
hidden, his chest and shoulders heaving. She gave a glance of ghastly
astonishment at Nigel, and had no glance in response, for Nigel was
watching his father intently with a pair of pained and troubled eyes.
What was to be done or said next? Fulvia, kneeling there, began to
shake all over.

"Padre!" she said, in a tone of expostulation. And then she did the
worst thing possible, gave way to tears herself. Perhaps her own "rainy
season" was hardly at an end yet. "Oh, what is the matter? What does it
mean?" she cried.

"I think—I think, perhaps—I had better see—James Duncan," panted Mr.
Browning.

He sat up, or rather leant forward, grasping an arm of the chair
with either hand, and drawing difficult breaths, almost like sobs.
The natural colour had not come back to his lips; and even Fulvia,
inexperienced in illness, noted something strange in his look.

"James Duncan!" he gasped once more.

At the same instant, opportunely, a man's step sounded on the gravel
path outside, and Nigel saw Dr. Duncan pass the window. Come, of
course, to visit his patient, Fulvia; supposed to be a prisoner in her
own room all this while.

"He is here," Nigel said.

Fulvia stood up. "That had better be first," she said, aware that delay
might cause a reversal of Mr. Browning's resolution, and not at all
conscious how great was the present need. "I will send Dr. Duncan at
once."

"Thanks," Nigel answered, again examining his father with anxious
eyes, perplexed what to think of it all. The gasps of oppression grew
worse, yet somehow neither Fulvia nor Nigel was alarmed. It was not
the fashion at the Grange to be alarmed on the score of Mr. Browning's
health; only to show a gentle solicitude. He talked too much about
himself to induce anxiety. People grew used to it, and were kindly
pitying, but not afraid.

Nigel was far more troubled about the possible reasons for Mr.
Browning's agitation as to Fulvia's money, and his dread of Fulvia's
approaching birthday. Nervousness alone might lie at the bottom, but
nervousness seemed a hardly sufficient explanation.

Fulvia thought nothing further of the matter than that it was "one of
poor padre's fancies, which had to be humoured"; while Nigel, man-like,
weighed cause and effect, finding the cause inadequate to the effect.
He did not know what else might lie behind; but from the moment of his
father's breakdown into tears, he distinctly foresaw "something wrong."

Fulvia went out hastily, and met Dr. Duncan in the hall, pulling off
his greatcoat.

"Downstairs!" he said with an accent of surprise, not of approval. "Is
that wise?"

"I don't know."

"Who gave you leave?"

"I took it."

Dr. Duncan laughed. "Fulvia Rolfe all over!" he said. He had known her
from infancy. "I am not sure that the plan has answered," and there was
a critical look.

"I don't know; it doesn't matter. Please go to the study first; yes,
padre! He will see you now, and—and if we put off—oh, you understand.
Nigel is there; and he doesn't seem right."

"Nigel?"

"No, padre, padre. I don't see why. I had to say something about my
birthday, and he couldn't stand it. He seems—I don't know how—not like
himself. He actually—cried." She brought out the word in shamefaced
style. "Do go quickly."

"Somebody else needs attention," said Dr. Duncan, who never could be
pressed into a hurry.

"I—oh no—only I was silly, And it upset me too. But please afterwards
tell me how padre really is, and if anything is wrong."

Dr. Duncan disappeared within the study door, and Nigel did not come
out as she expected.

Fulvia went across to the morning-room, and sat within the open door,
keeping watch.

The watch lasted a good while. She could bear nothing at first.
Hardly a sound came from the study—unless—was that Mr. Browning?
Fulvia fancied she caught a slight moan. Then stillness again, except
at intervals a word or so Dr. Duncan's voice, suppressed, and not
as usual, cheerful. Fulvia did not know what to make of it. She had
expected a continuous murmur of talk—Dr. Duncan asking questions, Mr.
Browning answering. Was that the key of the study door turned? Then
they were afraid that she or Mrs. Browning might walk in, and interrupt
the conference? But what harm if either had?

Fulvia's solitude was invaded suddenly by the return of Mrs. Browning
and the girls, accompanied by Mr. Carden-Cox, who had picked them up,
or been picked up by them, somewhere in the town. Fulvia, wondered
what he had come for, since to her knowledge Nigel had called on Mr.
Carden-Cox since breakfast. But when she saw him, nothing was farther
from her thoughts than that which occupied the whole foreground of Mr.
Carden-Cox's mind—the fourth postscript.

"Fulvia!" was the astonished cry, as she came forward into the hall.

Patchy flushes had faded during her vigil, and she looked haggard.

"Fulvia downstairs! My dear, how wrong of you!" Mrs. Browning added.

"It will not hurt me, madre; and one good has come of it, dear," Fulvia
said, kissing Mrs. Browning. "Padre is seeing Dr. Duncan."

"My husband! Then he is—"

"Oh, it is nothing; really nothing," Fulvia could reply honestly in her
ignorance. "Only I stupidly said something about my money—something I
knew he really would like, and he was a little fussed and upset by it.
And then he consented to see Dr. Duncan, and Dr. Duncan turned up in
the very nick of time. So now they are having a proper consultation,
and they ought not to be interrupted."

"You think not? But I—"

"No, indeed, madre; not even you. I would leave them to have it out,
if I were you," pleaded Fulvia, taking Mrs. Browning's hands in a
detaining grasp. "I would, indeed. If you go in, padre is morally
certain to try to seem better or worse than he is; it doesn't matter
which. I'm not speaking unkindly. You know what I mean. He won't be
natural, because he will be imagining what you may think, and trying
to meet it. Besides, they don't want anybody just now, for I heard the
door locked. Do come into the morning-room and wait a little."

"How long has James been with my husband?"

Fulvia did not choose to know. She had a shrewd suspicion that the
interview had already lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour; but
she was not going to say as much to Mrs. Browning. And by resolutely
refraining from a glance towards the hall clock, she was able to
answer, "I don't exactly know. I should not think he could be much
longer. Come, madre."

Mrs. Browning yielded, as every one in the house did more or less
yield, to Fulvia's authority, when she chose to exert it. And they
adjourned to the morning-room, leaving the door open by a kind of tacit
agreement, in readiness to capture Dr. Duncan when he should appear.
Fulvia said nothing as to Nigel's presence within the study.

Mr. Carden-Cox was "splitting" to introduce his own subject, finding
each moment's delay insufferable, and Daisy, who had already heard the
tale, came to his help.

"Fulvie, what do you think?" she cried, lounging against a sofa arm.
"Fulvie! Do you know, one of Mr. Carden-Cox's postscripts has actually
vanished! Nobody knows what has become of it."

Had Fulvia guessed what might be coming, she would not have placed
herself in her present position, facing the window, with the light
falling full upon her, Mrs. Browning by her side, Mr. Carden-Cox and
the two girls exactly in her front. But it would not do to make an
instant move. Something would be suspected. She braced herself for
the encounter with a strong effort, comforted by a certainty that Mr.
Carden-Cox would be vague in his notions. His first words seemed to
lend support to this theory.

"Stupid thing, wasn't it?—Yes, I couldn't have believed it of myself.
Eh, Fulvia! Fancy the old uncle mixing up a lot of postscripts, and
sending them all wrong! Putting 'N.B.' in place of 'P.S.'! Fudge!
Wouldn't have believed it of myself, if somebody else had told the
tale. However—however—however—"

He paused, looking hard at Fulvia. She leant back in her chair, and
returned the gaze with an air of indifference. Fulvia had considerable
power of acting on occasions, when strung up to the mark.

"Doesn't look guilty," muttered Mr. Carden-Cox.

The words sent a slight shock through every nerve, yet she did not
visibly wince.

"I wonder if—" she began, looking towards the hall.

"No, no; no hurry—not yet; you said yourself, better wait. Interviews
shouldn't be interrupted—important interviews. Duncan knows what he is
about; doesn't want our advice. Eh? Sit still. What's the matter?" with
a suspicious glance, which brought her instantly to quiescence.

She let one hand drop upon the other, and waited.

"I say, Fulvie, do you know anything of these precious postscripts?"

"Anything!" Fulvia repeated calmly, with a lift of her eyebrows. "I
know that you must have been in a very mixed state of mind when you
sent them off."

"Tut, tut! Do you know anything of the missing one?"

Fulvia could not, with all her will, prevent a fluttering blush. It
deepened slowly. "I did not even know that one had been missed," she
said, carefully truthful thus far.

"Of course it has. Now, you needn't keep staring towards the study.
Time enough for that when Duncan comes out. Just listen to me. Daisy
understands, and I want you to understand. I wrote four letters, and
put them out in order on my desk; and I wrote four postscripts, putting
one inside each envelope. Mind one into each! I'm as sure of that as
I am of—well, of anything!" a particular simile failing him. "One
postscript into each envelope, taking them in a regular succession. By
some extraordinary fatality I put the wrong postscripts into the wrong
envelopes. Can't imagine how. Never was guilty of such an absurdity
in my life before. However, there it is! Each went to the wrong
individual. Three have turned up, and the fourth hasn't!"

"Very odd!" said Fulvia.

"Odd! It's inexplicable."

"Things do disappear unaccountably sometimes."

"No doubt. But just listen. It's as plain as a pikestaff, if you'll
give your mind to it for a minute. The postscripts went two and two,
so to speak, in a double exchange. Ethel's and Daisy's were exchanged.
Daisy sent hers to Ethel, and Ethel returned the other to me. Either
plan open, of course. That's Ethel and Daisy disposed of. You and Nigel
remain. You see! Now your postscript went to Nigel, and was returned to
you. The fair inference is that Nigel's went to you, and that you ought
to have returned it to him. Eh? You see, eh?"

Fulvia had not expected this. She had reckoned on a good deal of
confusion. Mr. Carden-Cox was growing excited, but his recollections
were clear. Fulvia kept perfectly still, conscious of an internal
trembling, yet conscious that it did not show. One cheek burnt and the
other was white, as she remarked—

"Inferences are often great nonsense."

"Tut, tut!" once more. "I don't want any beating about the bush. You
girls are queer creatures; no knowing what you'll do next, or why you
do it. Tell me plainly, did you have Nigel's postscript, or did you
not? Eh?"

Fulvia had known that the question must come. She had seen it
approaching, as an inevitable thing, even while trying to stave it off.
Her mind was not so much in a state of turmoil as in a state of blank,
unable to think. She did not reason upon the right and wrong of the
question. Wrong-doing had landed her in this difficulty; and the one
way out of it seemed to her too hard to be taken. In that moment she
had the choice. The straightforward and painful path lay one way; the
crooked and seemingly easy path lay the other way.

If she had but taken the right path, regardless of consequences! At the
worst, the consequences of well-doing, even when painful, can never
be so hard to bear as the consequences of ill-doing. But to Fulvia it
almost appeared that she had no choice. The upward step was in her eyes
so entirely impossible that the other step became a necessity.

Perhaps in a certain sense it was almost impossible. Fulvia stood alone
at the junction of these two paths, unaided, unadvised. She might have
had Heavenly counsel, Heavenly strength; but she did not ask for them.
What wonder that by herself she was weak—the weaker for having been
already overcome? All through the dialogue she had not made up her mind
what to do. She had only allowed herself to drift; and nothing is more
certain to bring a vessel to disaster than leaving it to drift.

When Mr. Carden-Cox put the direct question, "Did you have Nigel's
postscript?" a curious hardness came over her, the hardness of
desperation. She looked straight at Mr. Carden-Cox, neither blushing
nor trembling, and replied—

"No."

"Not any postscript?"

"No."

"Quite sure?"

"Yes."

"It couldn't have remained in the envelope unknown to you."

Fulvia was tempted to catch at the suggestion, but Daisy spoke promptly—

"Oh no; it wasn't there, I'm sure. I found the envelope on the floor,
when Fulvie was in bed; and I looked to see that it was empty."

Fulvia kept silence.

"Well, it's a very odd state of things, I must say—very odd indeed—very
odd. That is all! Most extraordinary," said Mr. Carden-Cox.

To Fulvia's intense relief the study door opened. At first she
only felt relief, to have the ordeal over. The sense of grief and
humiliation at her own fall would come surely, but more slowly.



CHAPTER XV

FULVIA'S EXPECTATIONS

   "About my monies."—SHAKESPEARE.

   "Occasions make not a man frail, but show what he is."—THOMAS À KEMPIS.

"I SHOULD have no objection whatever to a second opinion. It would be
as well—better, perhaps. But I am afraid there can be no doubt about
the matter. It is pronounced heart-complaint," said Dr. Duncan.

He had broken his tidings as gently as possible. Mrs. Browning and
Fulvia, Mr. Carden-Cox and Nigel, were all present. Dr. Duncan would
have preferred to see Nigel alone, but he was allowed no choice. Mrs.
Browning insisted on hearing the whole that he had to say; Fulvia
remained as a matter of course; and everybody knew better than to speak
of banishing Mr. Carden-Cox.

Mrs. Browning listened calmly to her cousin's statement; pale, but not
overcome. Fanciful worries would bring tears quickly, while in a great
trouble she could be brave. Perhaps things proved to be no worse than
she had long suspected.

Fulvia was the more openly distressed. It came out gradually that Mr.
Browning had been very ill after she had left the study.

"A sharp attack," Dr. Duncan called it—sharp enough, they found, to
mean actual peril to life. He might have passed away there and then,
during his wife's absence, with no previous warning.

"I can never leave him again," Mrs. Browning said, her dark eyes full
of meek resolution.

But the cause of the "attack"? It was Fulvia who pressed this question,
and she insisted on being told. Could it have been simply the little
agitation of being reminded about her birthday? Of hearing what she had
to say about her money? Impossible. Why, he had no reason whatever to
mind her speaking. Dr. Duncan evaded the question at first, and Fulvia
would not permit the evasion. Was that, or was it not, the cause? She
would have yea or nay from him.

And Dr. Duncan was a truthful man. He might try to avoid giving an
answer; but if he gave one, it would be true. He said at length—

"There may have been more involved in the subject than you could know.
Almost any agitation might be sufficient."

"Sufficient to bring on a really dangerous attack, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"But—do you mean—you don't mean that at any time he may have it?"

"Yes."

"From just a little mistake; letting him talk of what excites him?"

"Yes; or rather, forcing him to do so. He will keep clear of agitating
subjects, if he is allowed. He will keep clear of them instinctively.
Mind, you insist upon all this from me;" and there was a touch of
reproach. "I would rather have given a general warning only."

"But we would rather know the whole—every inch of it," cried Fulvia.
She was for once the excited member.

Mrs. Browning remained pale and still; Nigel as still, and even paler
than his mother; Mr. Carden-Cox bewildered and fidgety, yet silent.

"We would much rather be told everything," repeated Fulvia. "Not padre,
of course, he is too nervous; and not the girls—but we four. It is only
right. Now we shall know how to act."

"Yes, it is far better," Mrs. Browning murmured. Her cold hand crept
into Nigel's, and received comforting pressure, though he said nothing.
Nigel could not easily speak under strong feeling. "But I think I am
glad we did not know sooner," she went on, with almost a smile; "until
my boy came home."

Dr. Duncan glanced from her to Nigel, with a look which the latter was
quick to interpret.

"You have heard what Jamie has to say, and now you will go to my
father," Nigel said, rising. "Fulvia too. He is better, and will be
looking out for you both."

Mrs. Browning obeyed his touch, as if grateful for direction; and
Fulvia did not resist, though she cast a reproachful glance at Nigel,
which he disregarded.

"I was sorry to have to say so much before Mrs. Browning," Dr. Duncan
was observing to Mr. Carden-Cox, when Nigel came back from the door;
"but Fulvia allows one little choice."

"Fulvia is a woman of character," said Mr. Carden-Cox.

"Fulvia is a girl who likes to have her own way," responded Dr. Duncan.
"That may or may not go with character."

"Fulvia was wrong," Nigel added. He stood facing Dr. Duncan, his hand
on the back of a chair. "I suppose—" and there was a break; "I suppose
it is—hopeless?"

"As to the final outcome of the illness? I am afraid so. Not hopeless
as to prolongation of life. Absolute recovery may be impossible, but
these cases often last on indefinitely."

"With care—"

"Yes; that is essential."

"What kind of care?"

"I have told you already, in a measure. A quiet life, free from
exertion and anxiety; if he can have this—"

"One would say he had it already."

The negative movement of Dr. Duncan's head was decided.

"My father is naturally inclined to worry himself about unimportant
things, perhaps; but—"

"He must not worry himself. Every kind of worry must be kept at a
distance. His own instinct will tell him often what to avoid; and that
instinct must be obeyed. Fulvia did wrongly this morning, forcing upon
him a subject from which he shrank. She might not know any reason for
his shrinking; but he knew that he could not bear it, and we have seen
the result."

"You can give us no hope that by-and-by he may be in a better state
than now?"

"Yes, very possibly. He has been brought to his present state by long
pressure of worry. No doubt about that," in reply to Nigel's surprised
look. "Your father has gone about for months under a heavy burden."

"Since when?"

"Soon after you left England, if not before. I think I was particularly
struck with it about last Christmas. He has had a look of trouble more
or less for years; but not to the same extent. For months he has been
like one under a heavy cloud, unable to rise above it."

"What cloud?" Nigel seemed bewildered.

"That is the question."

"One would say there was hardly a man in Newton Bury with less to worry
him than Browning has," remarked Mr. Carden-Cox. "But—"

The "but" was significant. Dr. Duncan cleared his throat, and looked at
Nigel, who was studying them both.

"I am not sure that you do not know more about the matter than I do,"
said Nigel. "I have been away for a year, you see, and before that—"

"It did not exist to the same extent before that."

"If it had, I might not have seen."

"No; you had not reached an observant age. But since you returned—"

"I have noticed worry and uneasiness—a burden or cloud, as you say. My
father never seems at rest. There is a kind of unhappy looking forward,
expecting trouble to come." Nigel spoke slowly, weighing his words.
"Now and then I have fancied it to be connected with money. Fulvia
says he is always talking of expenses, and the fact that he objects to
college for me—"

"Fudge!" said Mr. Carden-Cox.

"I should have thought my father's income equal to that strain,
certainly. He made no difficulty about my trip."

"I took care that he should not."

Nigel failed to catch the muttered sentence.

"Of course he has had the use of Fulvia's money, to some extent; and he
may have been looking forward to losing—"

Nigel stopped short. There was an odd click of Mr. Carden-Cox's tongue
against the roof of his mouth.

"The fact is, nobody knows much about that," said Mr. Carden-Cox, as
if addressing himself: "Browning has been entirely irresponsible to
anybody all along—everything left in his hands—absurd arrangement;
putting temptation in a man's path. May be all right, or may not be.
No ill intentions, of course; means to do his best; but what about
business qualities? Hey? Well, well; I've kept my own counsel hitherto,
and I mean to keep it—till—Fact is, everybody must know everything
soon. Twenty-first of next month! Why on earth has Browning a mortal
horror of that day?"

Neither of the two spoke. Nigel's face had become rigid, and a
defensive glow shone in his eyes.

"I don't wish to suspect—nobody has any business to suspect. Everything
may be all right and above board. But I confess there are signs which
stagger one. Something queer about the way he won't have Fulvia's money
alluded to in his hearing! Why shouldn't he? Mind you, I wouldn't say
this to Clemence or the girls for anything you could mention. But Nigel
and you—Nigel ought to be awake."

"He is my father!"

"That doesn't alter facts, my dear boy. Don't look angry, but just
listen. Here is Browning, been sole trustee and guardian for nearly
twenty years, with absolute control of the child's money, and—mark you,
her father didn't know this, and I didn't till lately—and, with his
own affairs in a state of embarrassment all along! There's the rub! If
it wasn't for his present condition of mind, I wouldn't suspect him of
imprudence, even now. Imprudence, mind you, no deliberate wrong. He's
not capable of that. He is capable of imprudence; and he is capable
of speculation. Whether with his own or Fulvia's money, I don't know.
Nobody knows, except Browning himself. Done everything with the best
intentions, no doubt; but if a man dabbles in that sort of thing, why,
he's apt to get his fingers burnt."

"Why should you suppose him to have speculated?"

"I don't suppose—I know. He began it ten years ago. Had success of
course, now and then, and was flush of cash for a while. So much the
worse; just tempting him on. Talk of economy began after that. Haven't
an idea how far things went, but so much I do know. Then this last
year, as Duncan says, life a burden to him; something obviously wrong."

Dr. Duncan had not said so precisely, but he let the inaccuracy pass,
beginning to draw on his gloves.

"Fact is—" Mr. Carden-Cox wanted to say something more, and began to
fall into a hurry. "Fact is, that has been my theory for some time—as
to Fulvia! He thinks it would make up to her if—You believe I'm talking
nonsense," with a nervous laugh, meeting Nigel's glance, "but I'm not.
Tell you, I can see through a stone wall quicker than some folks. Eh?
It's many a year since I first set my heart on something—Nigel knows
what; but Browning and I don't commonly hit on the same object. Well,
for once we have. Don't believe he would, if it wasn't for something
he know must come out. Can't say what, of course. All guess-work. But,
suppose now, suppose Fulvia's £50,000 to have been clipped a little by
injudicious speculation, say, down to half the amount! Wouldn't be a
bad stroke, eh? To throw in a husband for the remainder."

"Said husband valued at £25,000!" remarked Dr. Duncan dryly;
nevertheless he did not like this style of talk.

And Nigel said coldly—

"I thought the amount was to be £40,000."

"Fifty, if a penny!" Mr. Carden-Cox was very positive. "Might have
grown to sixty under good management. Ought to have done so, too!"

Dr. Duncan shook hands with both, and the subject dropped.


As Fulvia's birthday drew near, an indescribable cloud lay upon the
house; felt by all, owned by few. Every thought of merry-making had
been given up. Mr. Browning was markedly worse; indeed, it seemed as
if, from the hour of admitting himself to be ill enough for medical
advice, he had gone steadily down-hill.

Or it might be the approach of the birthday. Nobody dared mention the
day to him. Nobody dared allude to the coming of age. "Fulvie's money"
were words tabooed in his presence. All knew—even Daisy—that agitation
might mean death. What could they do, but put possibilities of
agitation far away? Fulvia, was foremost in this aim, never forgiving
herself the mistake which she had made, in forcing upon him the subject
of her own affairs.

Despite all efforts to the contrary, the burden upon Mr. Browning grew
heavier, the dire apprehension in his eyes became more marked. Every
day he noted the flight of time; often, on asking or hearing the day of
the month, with an audible groan. It was "like somebody looking forward
to his own execution—so odd!" Daisy said with girlish impatience.

There could not at this time be a doubt about his eager desire to throw
Nigel and Fulvia together. Whether Mr. Carden-Cox had suggested the
idea to Mr. Browning, or whether it were his own thought, either way
he began from the day of his severe attack to press things forward.
"Fulvia and Nigel;" "That dear girl and my boy;" "That noble girl and
you, Nigel," were phrases ever on his lips.

The wish was an old wish; but it seemed to have suddenly sprung from
a torpid to an active condition. Mr. Browning could not leave it
alone. He was always harping on it, making nervous little allusions,
talking about Nigel to Fulvia, discussing Fulvia with Nigel, weighing
possibilities in the hearing of his wife. He watched the two whenever
they were together, anxiously, pitifully, as if craving some sign of
that which he wanted. Nobody who saw all this could doubt the private
touch of Mr. Carden-Cox's finger.

Fulvia neither helped nor hindered. She was too proud to help, too
deeply attached to Nigel to hinder. Her aim was to hold an even course,
inclining to neither side; and she was well again in health, which
perhaps made self-control easier.

Yet not all her self-control could prevent the quick blush, ready
to spring on the least provocation. A meaning word or look from Mr.
Browning was always enough to bring it. Nigel saw, of course—he could
not help seeing—and he found himself in no easy position. Between
gratitude to Fulvia for her generosity and dread of injuring his
father, he had sometimes a nightmare sense of being dragged into that
from which he utterly shrank.

He was very careful, very watchful over himself, most desirous not
to be betrayed into any rash word or act, equally anxious to avoid
distressing his father and to avoid giving the least handle to the
notion that he sought Fulvia. But he was young still, and naturally
impulsive. He was not much given to putting his deeper feelings into
words, but neither was he given to artificial concealment of them.
Fulvia could be artificial at times, for a purpose; Nigel could not.
Whatever else he might be, he was always natural.

It was natural to him to be kind and affectionate towards Fulvia.
He and she were, and ever had been, on such easy terms, that he
continually found himself saying or doing something which made the
telltale blood leap to her face. This might not have meant so much
with some girls; but Fulvia was not addicted to blushing, commonly;
and Nigel knew it. When he caught himself in such a mistake, he pulled
up instantly. But the mischief was usually done first; though how much
"done," he never guessed. He was too transparent to allow for her
non-transparency. If she made him uneasy by a vivid flush one minute,
she made him easy by her careless indifference the next; and he did not
discriminate between that which was real and that which was put on.

The question of college was still in abeyance, for Mr. Browning could
endure no discussion. He alluded once or twice, in his most nervous
manner, to the opening at the Bank, but shrank from any decision.
There was "no hurry—an answer was not required till after Christmas;
Mr. Bramble was quite willing to wait," he said. "By-and-by, when I am
stronger—perhaps—anyhow, we cannot spare you yet, my dear boy!"

Nigel acquiesced with a resolute patience, which he would not once
have shown. For he was eager, and longed to enter upon a career.
Past ill-health had thrown him back; and the year abroad had meant
further delay. Most young men of his own age were already launched
on some definite line of life; and Nigel was keenly conscious of the
difference. He wanted to waste no more time; to be hard at work as soon
as possible, with a settled aim ahead.

Though he patiently bore the continued uncertainty as to his future, he
did not the less feel it; and but for the greater trouble about Ethel,
he would have felt it much more.

In that direction, hopelessness increased. He could not get hold
of her, could not bear down the barrier of her changed manner. Not
that she was unkind or uninterested; not that he could have defined
what was wrong. Only ever since the Postscript affair, she had been
different—never entirely at her ease. She seemed to be always slipping
out of his reach; always too busy to give him any time; and when they
were together there was an indescribable something which rose like a
barrier and kept them apart.

Ethel did not mean it to be so. She had not the smallest intention
of repelling Nigel. She was only startled by Mr. Carden-Cox's
insinuations, dismayed at the idea that any one could suppose her
capable of wishing to marry Nigel if he did not wish to marry her, bent
upon setting things straight; and in her efforts she went farther than
was needful. Where she meant to be only kind and pleasant, but not too
warm, she was distinctly distant and cold.

Nigel then was hurt and grave; and this told upon Ethel, adding to her
constraint. It was very hard to give him pain; and she knew that her
changed manner did pain him sorely; yet how could it be helped? She
dared not allow herself to meet him in the old style, for fear of what
others might think. The pain reacted sharply upon herself: and those
were sorrowful weeks to Ethel. She had often a severe struggle to keep
up some appearance of cheerfulness.

Fulvia's watchful eyes noted the difference in Ethel's bearing towards
Nigel, and in Nigel's towards Ethel; and her heart beat often with a
wild joy. For she thought she understood. She believed that Nigel was
at last awake to the fact that Ethel was not and could not be more to
him than the sister of his friend. She believed that Nigel was willing
to have things so; and that she—she herself—Fulvia would hide her face
at this point, clasping her hands in an ecstasy of delight, so intense
as to be almost unbearable. What would life be to her without Nigel?
But these reasonings were never allowed to have sway except when Fulvia
was alone; never, if any one were present to mark her look.

So a month went by, and the tangle grew, and Fulvia's birthday came
near. There had been no more talk of the Continent for Mr. Browning. He
was in no state for travelling. Neither had preparations been made for
any merry-makings on the day itself; everybody seeming to be anxious
only that it should be allowed to slip past as uneventfully as possible.

"But I'll have a lawyer to look into things for the girl, or my name's
not Carden-Cox!" the owner of that name muttered from time to time,
choosing Daisy for his confidante.



CHAPTER XVI

ANTIQUITIES

   "A little learning is a dangerous thing:
    Drink deep: or taste not the Pierian spring."

       *       *       *       *       *       *

   "Words are like leaves; and where they most abound,
    Much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found."—POPE.

WITHIN two days of Fulvia's birthday, Daisy came sliding downstairs,
leaning her whole weight upon the balusters, and ending with a
ponderous leap of five steps at the bottom. She was addicted still to
such little amusements when nobody was at hand to cry, "Oh!" Perhaps
a certain sense of propriety, despite her objection to young-ladyism,
made her dislike witnesses; and it was particularly provoking, when she
rallied from her leap, to find Mr. Tom Elvey in the hall, pensively
regarding her. He had a way of putting his head on one side when
interested, and it was a good deal tilted at this moment.

"Oh, it's Mr. Elvey!" said Daisy, recovering herself and assuming a
wooden air. "Have you come to see Nigel?"

"I—yes—I certainly came—to call," announced Tom. "Your brother was so
good as to call upon me, I believe, the last time I was here."

"He left his card." Daisy objected to Tom Elvey; and she was a
downright young woman, priding herself on showing what she felt; so she
folded her arms foot-man fashion, and held her chin stiffly.

"True—yes—just so," assented Tom, studying Daisy with the mild wonder
that he might have bestowed upon an infant kangaroo. She was quite a
new "specimen" of humanity; rare in his experience. Tom thought her
rather pretty, but her curt manner was perplexing. That it should
spring from dislike to himself never entered into Tom's calculations.
Tom had been accustomed to appreciation; and he expected it.

"Yes," responded Daisy, more shortly still, wondering how he had found
his way in. Possibly her glance from him to the door was readable, for
Tom said apologetically, "I am afraid it was a liberty—rather. I—in
fact, I—I could not make anybody hear. The bell was not answered, so I
thought I had better open for myself?"

"What could the servants be about?" demanded Daisy.

She marched before Tom into the morning-room, where Fulvia sat painting
flowers upon a screen, and Nigel stood, gloves in hand. Daisy had seen
him enter a minute earlier, peeping over the balusters on her way down.
She had no business to bring Mr. Elvey to this retreat, as she knew
well enough; only she did not pause to think.

"Where is Daisy? I want her," Nigel was saying when Daisy flung the
door open.

"Here's Mr. Elvey come to call on Nigel," quoth Daisy, still with
lifted chin and injured voice.

Fulvia did not get up. She shot one indignant glance at the culprit,
then held out a hand streaked with paint.

"Daisy ought to have taken you to the drawing-room," she said. "We
don't keep this in trim for callers."

Tom assured her that it was a charming room—delightful, natural,
unsophisticated. He seemed bent upon using all the adjectives he
could find. Nigel's greeting was polite, but not of the most cordial
description; for it might be that this fellow was to carry off his
dearest hope before his eyes. He could not be warm.

Tom seemed blissfully unconscious of any lack of welcome. He deposited
his hat on one chair, and sat down upon another, into an open box of
paints.

Fulvia uttered a warning word too late, and Daisy shrieked, then
collapsed into a convulsion of laughter.

Tom got up, looking mildly at the box, which had suffered dilapidation
from his weight, and walked to the chimney-piece. He could not better
have displayed the streaky state of his own coat, one glimpse of which
in rear sent the younger girl into a fresh paroxysm.

"Daisy!" Nigel said, under his breath, in displeasure. "Daisy!!"

Daisy hid her face behind the nearest window-curtain, and only an
occasional choke was audible.

Tom's smile was benignity itself.

"I have a sister about her age, I should say," he observed. "A very
merry age!"

Choke again.

"This room seems to be a receptacle for curiosities," meditated Tom,
poking a little object on the mantelpiece with his awkward fingers. "I
thought this was—a—but I see you have an elephant's tooth there, quite
a good specimen; yes, killed no doubt in your travels?" He looked at
Nigel.

"It has lain on that shelf for thirty years, I believe," Nigel answered.

"Not on that shelf! In the house, if you like," murmured Fulvia.

Nigel laughed; he had spoken absently.

"An Indian elephant, no doubt," Tom said, regarding the specimen
critically. "I believe the—a—the molar tusks of the African elephant
are—a—somewhat differently formed." Tom was not sure of his ground, but
he had to keep up his character for learning.

"And the grinders?" asked Fulvia.

Tom was alarmed. Here might be a modern bluestocking of great
attainments, before whom he must be cautious. He had not seen much of
Fulvia hitherto, for she was not what Daisy called "addicted to the
Elveys." But he had heard her spoken of as "out of the common," and her
frizzly reddish-golden head looked "clever" in Tom's estimation.

"Yes, just so—a—the grinders," hesitated Tom, wondering whether
"molar" had been the right word to use. It had come to mind so pat
for the occasion as to be irresistible; but his specimen-hunting
hitherto had not included elephant's teeth, and Tom resolved to adopt
a safe vagueness before Fulvia. "The grinders—just so," he repeated.
"By-the-bye, you have some curious weapons here. This odd attempt at a
sword—abortive, rather!—must belong to a—a—rather early date."

"Pleistocene Period?" suggested Fulvia, playing with her brush.

Daisy exploded anew, and was again called to order by Nigel.

Tom tried to recall the exact position of the Pleistocene Period, and
failed, not having read up his geology of late. "I—a—I should say—not
far removed from the Stone Age," he said, pouncing on a happy thought.

"Wouldn't it rather be the Tin Age?" asked Fulvia, with lifted
eyebrows, not yet looking towards him.

How like a girl! No lady of learning, evidently. Tom hastened to
explain, greatly relieved. There had been a famous Stone Age, and a
Bronze Age, and an Iron Age, but no Tin Age. He enlarged upon the fact
geologically, if hazily, for Fulvia's information.

"I suppose every country has had its Stone Age sooner or later," said
Fulvia at length. "The Malay Stone Age must have been very recent, but
not the British. Which weapon are you speaking of? That thing!—" as if
she had not known it all the while—"Why, Nigel made it for a charade
ten years ago—King Hal's sword of State, was it not? Hardly so antique
as the British Stone Age, I'm afraid. The fact is, it was buried
underground in the tool-house for an indefinite time, and was found
again by accident, which gave it a history, and explains its ancient
appearance. One certainly might take it for an antediluvian implement
of war," she added indulgently.

Tom was crestfallen. He did not so much mind making a mistake here or
there; but he could not endure being found out in a mistake.

"I suppose you are antiquarian as well as scientific," said Fulvia.
"Ethel could give you some help as to antiquarian spots in the
neighbourhood. She has more of a learning in that direction than
towards science."

Tom was happily started anew. He forgot his discomfiture, took another
seat, and expatiated upon Ethel's good points.

She was "a nice girl," he said—"a very nice sort of girl." Tom was
too circumspect to call her "awfully nice," as Nigel would have
done in his place; but he meant it plainly. "Really sensible, quite
intelligent," continued Tom, with his superior air of approval. He
enjoyed intercourse with a mind like hers; young, fresh, capable of
assimilating others' knowledge, worth expending trouble upon. Tom spoke
with an air of cousinly proprietorship, which might or might not be
more than cousinly.

When at last the caller departed, Daisy burst out—"I can't bear that
man! He isn't half good enough for Ethel!"

"Daisy, I want you for a walk," interposed Nigel.

And she rushed away to dress, Fulvia saying at the same moment, with a
smile—

"Poor fellow! He is hopelessly far gone!"

Nigel made no answer.

And the silence lasted until Daisy pranced in, exclaiming, "The day
after to-morrow is Fulvie's birthday."

"Be quiet, Daisy," ordered Fulvia. "Everybody knows that. It is not to
be talked about."

"Mr. Carden-Cox talks," said Daisy. "He means to have a lawyer to look
into your affairs. I know he does, because he told me so."

Daisy's voice was penetrating. She spoke in the open doorway of the
morning-room, and the study door lay opposite. A faint groan came
across after her speech.

"Daisy, will you hold your tongue? He shall do no such thing."

"But he will. He told me so. He says he's not going to have your
interest sacrificed to everybody's nerves."

"Nigel!" Fulvia spoke in a tone of despairing appeal.

"I'll see to that. Mind, Daisy, it is not to go any farther. Do for
once be discreet. Now are you ready? What's that?" touching her glove.

"Oh, only a hole. It split last time I went out."

"Couldn't you have mended it before now?"

"I suppose so—if I hadn't forgotten."

"Have you no other pair?"

"Yes, one other. Won't these do? Oh, bother; must I go all the way
upstairs again?"

Nigel showed no signs of relenting, and Daisy's face certainly showed
no annoyance.

She went off at full speed, and reappeared with two gloved hands spread
out for inspection.

"That's better," Nigel said.

And they were off, Daisy asking in the garden—

"What did you want me to do?"

"Help me choose something for Fulvia's birthday."

"Ah, then I guessed! Father hasn't got anything this year."

"Never mind—my mother has. Fulvia will understand."

"Fulvia never gets vexed at that sort of thing. But it will be a
horribly dull day. Such a pity! Mr. Carden-Cox is quite put out. He
didn't mind so much a week or two ago, but now he says it is all
nonsense, and he doesn't believe anything is the matter with my father.
Nigel, why does he mind so about the day? I wish you would tell me."

"Nobody knows." After a pause Nigel said abruptly—

"What makes you think of Elvey marrying Ethel?"

"Everybody says it."

"Who?"

"Mr. Carden-Cox, and Fulvia, and the Brambles, and—oh, all sorts of
people."

"Have you seen signs of it in Ethel herself?"

Nigel spoke quietly, and it was growing dusk.

But when Daisy looked up in answer, with a meditative "I don't know,"
she thought her brother oddly pale. "Why, Nigel!" she said, staring.

"What is the matter?"

"Why, you look—"

"Well?"

"Seedy."

"I'm not—thanks."

"Well, you look so. Is anything wrong?"

"Something is always wrong, when a lady can't answer a question."

"Oh, if you can make fun!" said Daisy, satisfied. "But I really thought
for a moment that you minded something very much. What was it you
wanted to know? Oh yes, about Ethel. I'm sure I can't tell. What sort
of 'signs' do you mean? I never do see when people are in love, except
when they get to the stupid stage, and by that time it isn't a secret
at all. Ethel says she likes Tom, and Tom says Ethel is nice. And Ethel
laughs at Tom. And Tom bores Ethel. At least, I should be bored in her
place. But they spend lots of time together, so I suppose they got on
pretty smoothly. Mr. Carden-Cox declares they will marry, and he is
very glad it is Mr. Tom Elvey and not you, because he says that would
never do."

"What would never do?"

"Why, you and Ethel! When you first came home, you were always going
after Ethel, and Mr. Carden-Cox didn't like it, any more than mother
did. He wants you to marry Fulvia, and he says the other is out of the
question. He says there are reasons against it, and my father would
never consent. And he says you care for Fulvia more than for anybody
else in the world. Do you?" asked innocent Daisy. "More than mother?"

Nigel's temper was not very easily roused, but Daisy had said enough to
rouse it now. The idea of Mr. Carden-Cox discussing him and his affairs
in this cool fashion with his youngest sister was unbearable. Nigel
could not trust himself to speak at once in answer. He was too angry to
have control over his own voice. He only walked faster and faster, till
Daisy could scarcely keep pace with him, and words on her part failed
for lack of breath. Now and again she glanced up at his closed lips,
first in wonder, then in fear.

"Are you vexed?" she panted at length. "I didn't mean—Nigel, how you
race!"

Nigel slackened speed. "I did not know we were going so fast," he said.
"Yes, of course I am vexed. Mr. Carden-Cox had no business to say
anything of the sort to you. Remember, Daisy—not one word of this is
to go a step farther—least of all to Fulvia. It is absurd rubbish, the
whole of it—mere gossip."

"Mr. Carden-Cox!" exclaimed Daisy aghast.

"Mr. Carden-Cox or anybody. It doesn't matter who talks so. The whole
is mere gossip. You understand? If you repeat a word, you may make no
end of mischief."

"No, I won't; indeed I won't," said Daisy. "But, please don't tell Mr.
Carden-Cox that I let out what he said."



CHAPTER XVII

HE AND SHE

   "Such is the bliss of souls serene,
    When they have sworn, and steadfast mean,
    Counting the cost, in all to espy
    Their God, in all themselves deny.

   "Oh could we learn that sacrifice,
    What lights would all around us rise!
    How would our hearts with wisdom talk
    Along life's dullest, dreariest walk!"

       *       *       *       *       *

   "Seek we no more; content with these,
    Let present rapture, comfort, ease,
    As Heaven shall bid them, come and go—
    The secret this of rest below."—_Christian Year._

THE afternoon before Fulvia's birthday!

All the morning snow fell; and when lunch was over, it grow into a
storm—flakes whirling thickly, clouds low, ground white, wind gusty and
strong. The girls congratulated themselves on having bought Fulvia's
presents in good time.

Mr. Browning was in the lowest depths of depression and misery. It was
hard to look upon him unmoved. Dr. Duncan had been to see how he was
that morning, and had spoken of the need for mental repose.

"If this went on—" he said significantly.

But who was to give the mental repose? How were they to minister to
this mind diseased? Mr. Browning was like a hunted creature, shrinking
before some terrible shadow, from which he might not escape. He could
not rest, could not read, could not stay in one place, could not bear
the presence of others, could not endure to be alone. His face was
shrunken, the lips were blue, the eyes were filled with a nameless
apprehension; yet what he feared none knew, and none dared ask.

Not a word was spoken in his hearing of the morrow, and not a word
spoke he. He knew the date, however; and they all knew that he knew it.
"Fulvia's birthday" was written in each line of his haggard cheek and
brow.

Fulvia sat with him for a while, trying to be cheery, but finding
cheeriness no easy matter in the face of his persistent melancholy. If
she laughed, he could only groan. Mrs. Browning had a brief respite
while she was there, for which all were grateful. Soon, however, Mr.
Browning demanded once more his patient wife, and would be content with
no other companion.

Nigel alone went out. "It was no weather for girls," he said, when
Daisy begged to accompany him. He plodded through the heavy snow, all
the way to Mr. Carden-Cox's house, and there sat over the fire with
the old bachelor, hearing much vague talk about nothing in particular,
intermixed with dark and dim hints about the morrow.

At first Nigel hardly noticed those. He was unwontedly depressed,
feeling the strain of the last few weeks, and little disposed to speak.
Then a passing phrase recalled Daisy's warning as to the lawyer, and in
a moment Nigel was himself. He had actually come to settle this matter,
and had almost lost sight of it in anxious thought about Ethel.

"I say, Nigel, that's all very well, my dear fellow," remonstrated Mr.
Carden-Cox, when a judicious question had drawn from him a statement
of his intentions, and Nigel had represented the peril to Mr. Browning
of the proposed action. "I say, that's all very well. I've a sincere
regard for your father's health—indubitably—don't wish to do him any
harm. Still, right's right and wrong's wrong, and the girl is my own
flesh and blood. She must have her due."

"Of course—"

"And everything ought to be clear and ship-shape at once."

"As soon as possible."

"To-morrow, I say."

"That is the question. As soon as possible," repeated Nigel.

"If your father doesn't bring his lawyer forward, I shall bring mine
forward—that's all."

"It would be a serious step in his present state. Not that I see what
you and your lawyer could do without Fulvia's consent—short of going to
law."

"Stuff and nonsense! Going to law! I merely wish to know how things
stand. There's nobody else to see that the girl has her rights."

"Except—!"

"Eh! What? Yourself! Yes, yes, to be sure—if you'll assume the
responsibility. But I'll not have the question shirked."

"It shall not be."

"Well, if you say so!" in a mollified tone. "I've no faith in your
father's business capacities; but yours are different. Yes; I trust
you," pointedly. "Who are your father's lawyers just now? He has been
given to changing."

"Brown & Berridge, I believe. He has not much to do with lawyers."

"Dare say not! That's the worst of leaving a man irresponsible. Nobody
knows anything about it. Brown and Berridge! Where?"

"London."

"Humph!"

"Will you leave the responsibility of Fulvia's money to me?" asked
Nigel, in a resolute, abrupt tone.

"Yes; when you are settled to be her husband!"

Nigel's colour rose. "That is not likely," he said.

"But, I say—you like the girl?"

"Yes."

"What more is wanted?"

Nigel's laugh had no ring in it. "A good deal more," he said. "One may
'like' a great many people."

"You know the sort of liking I mean. And you know that you don't like
'a great many people' as you like Fulvia."

"Perhaps not."

"Then what on earth keeps you back? It's your father's wish—it's my
wish—and you care for her! What more do you want, eh? That Fulvia
should 'like' you, I suppose! No fear about her! Daisy says—"

This was too much, and Nigel started up.

"Come, come; don't be excited. Lover-like, but unnecessary," laughed
Mr. Carden-Cox. "I'll not betray confidences. Can't you see for
yourself? Sit down."

Nigel remained standing.

"When I speak of undertaking responsibility for Fulvia, I mean it
simply as her brother. Nothing else is possible."

"For you, or for her? Which? Ha, ha! Well, so be it just now. I'll
leave the matter in your hands, for—let us say, for a few weeks.
Concession enough, that! Why, bless me, if Browning doesn't hand over
the money to the girl this week, he's defrauding her—nothing short of
defrauding her. And if he can't bear to have the subject mentioned,
how is anything to be arranged, eh? Talk of health! It is a matter of
conscience, not of health. Well, well, sit down, my dear fellow, and
I'll not say anything more about it just now."

Nigel obeyed.

And Mr. Carden-Cox, to escape from the engrossing subject of Fulvia's
money, turned to the scarcely less engrossing subject of "the four
N.B.'s."

He was always able to talk of them for any length of time. He could
not get over the mystery, could not forgive himself the blunder,
could not rest without solving the riddle of the lost half-sheet.
Postscripts haunted him night and day. He was like an ardent devotee
of conundrums—unable to enjoy life till he should find a clue to the
puzzle.

Nigel had to listen to a new and profuse statement of all the details,
wound up by a graphic description of his questions put to Fulvia, and
of her emphatic denial.

"Said plainly enough she hadn't received yours—hadn't received any
postscript at all, in fact. What do you think?"

"It settles the matter, of course, once for all." Nigel spoke with a
touch of impatience, for he was tired of the subject.

"Unsettles the matter, you mean. Why, now, I have told you a dozen
times at least—"

"Quite true," thought Nigel, with an inward groan.

"That there were four envelopes and four postscripts, and that I put
one postscript into each envelope. Now, under those circumstances, how
could Fulvia have failed to get one?"

"She evidently did fail."

"But I say, my dear fellow, she could not!"

"You meant to put in the four. Whether you did so is another question.
I suppose we all make mistakes sometimes. And Fulvia's word—"

"A lady's word! Pshaw!"

Nigel was coldly silent.

"I don't suppose the girl means to deceive. She has blundered somehow.
But as for my not putting in that postscript—! Of course it may have
dropped out,—been stolen, or lost, or burnt, or—"

"It seems to me a very insignificant matter."

"Insignificant!" Mr. Carden-Cox was scandalised. His correspondence to
be counted "insignificant"! He could scarcely believe his own ears.

"Oh, very well; if the thing isn't of sufficient importance to claim
your attention, I have no more to say. I should have thought—but it
doesn't signify. You young fellows think such an amount of yourselves;
nothing else is worth a glance. I should have thought that the question
of my truthfulness being impugned was of some weight even in your eyes;
but no, that is quite insignificant. Fulvia is to be believed, of
course; and I—I may look to myself."

Then a twinkle broke into the anger. "Well, well,—after all, any
amount of infatuation is allowed to young lovers. I ought not to be
surprised. All perfectly natural, just as it should be. Fulvia is a
good girl—wonderfully good to everybody; wouldn't say what wasn't true.
Dare say you are right enough there. Shouldn't wonder if she burnt the
paper, unknowingly. Women are capable of anything. Most inscrutable
creatures!"

Nigel would not risk further discussion by further opposition. He knew
well that nothing he could say would alter Mr. Carden-Cox's determined
linking of his name with Fulvia's; and presently he managed to escape,
feeling that the lawyer peril was deferred for a time. Why peril should
exist in connection with a lawyer, Nigel was only able to conjecture.

Once more he was buffeting the wind, which had risen much. No use to
open an umbrella; he could not have held it up. He pulled his cap low,
bent his head, and fought his way steadily through the gale. Yet he did
not turn homeward. A thirst had come over him for another glimpse of
Ethel. She would surely be at home after dark, this stormy afternoon,
and he turned his steps towards Church Square.

When almost close to the Rectory gate, he saw in the lamplight a slight
cloaked figure run out.

"Ethel!" passed his lips, but he was not heard.

She crossed the road, battling her way with difficulty, and he
followed, overtaking her at the vestry door, where three stops led
upwards. As she mounted them, a gust of snow-laden wind swirled round
the corner, carrying her off her feet. She threw out both hands with a
little cry, as if gasping for support; and before she could go down,
Nigel had her.

"Oh, thanks!" she gasped, conscious of the friendly clutch, not in the
least recognising her deliverer.

The short struggle had rendered her breathless, and he held her still
while helping to open the door. So far he said nothing, and Ethel made
no inquiry. It was pitch-dark. She could not see his outline, and she
believed the helping hand, which had saved her from a fall, to be the
sexton's. That the sexton should be just then on the spot was at least
not more unlikely than that anybody else should.

Nigel went inside with her, and shut the door, while Ethel struck a
light. In one corner of the vestry lay a heap of holly.

"How kind of you to be so quick!" she said gratefully, turning to her
companion. "I thought I was—Nigel!—"

Ethel was completely taken by surprise. Her face coloured up for
once brilliantly, and a light shone in her eyes. Nobody was at hand
who could misconstrue her manner—nobody except Nigel himself. At
the moment, somehow, she did not fear him. His appearance was so
unexpected; she had not time to think of Mr. Carden-Cox or Fulvia, so
had not leisure to shape her welcome. There was a ring of gladness in
the utterance of his name which brought to Nigel's mind their first
meeting after his year of absence, and made his heart spring with hope.

"I thought I might find you in to-day," he said. "Such weather! And
then I saw you coming here."

"So you came too?"

"Yes, I came too. It was you I wanted to see," pointedly. "Not—" and a
pause.

"I only ran over just to do a little of this—" Ethel glanced at the
holly. "We always start it rather early; and if the snow keeps on, I
can't depend upon all my helpers. So I thought I would begin a piece
of wreathing. But I am afraid it was not really that—not only that, I
mean," looking up at Nigel with the old half-roguish frankness. "I was
so tired of poor old Tom."

"Were you?" Nigel's whole frame was in a glow.

"Yes, only you must not tell anybody. I wouldn't hurt his feelings for
the world. But I really could not stand it any longer. Always those
dreadful herbariums and specimens and Latin names. He is content with
nothing short of five syllables and what Lance calls 'a Latin sneeze'
at the end."

"A sneeze!"

"Papaveraceœ!" instanced Ethel, with a mischievous transposition of the
last syllable into an imitation of the catarrhic "tshyee!"

"But—" when they had had a laugh—"it isn't as if Tom knew a great deal,
and could teach one what is worth knowing. That would be different. Tom
only looks upon the world as a great museum of curiosities; and all
he cares for is to get up a little imitation museum of 'specimens,'
pegged down in rows. And surely this beautiful world means a great deal
more than that—a great great deal more," Ethel went on, warming with
her subject. "Sometimes I get so cross, I should like to peg down Tom
himself as a dried 'specimen of the modern scientific young man.' But
that wouldn't be fair; for a really scientific man, who knows about
things, not only about names, is different from poor old Tom. And I
suppose it is not his fault that he can't see below the surface."

If "poor old Tom" had but heard! At this very moment he was seated
beside Mrs. Elvey, complacently and ponderously giving forth his views
on the "intelligence" of Ethel. "Such a nice unassuming girl, and so
ready to be taught!" quoth unsuspecting Tom.

"Of course I have the chief part of it all," pursued Ethel, resting one
hand upon the vestry table, and smiling still. "My father and Malcolm
are very busy just now—extra busy; and I can't let them be teased. And
mother only cares to talk to Tom now and then; and the boys detest him.
It has been such a day, none of us could get out much; and I thought
at last I must have half-an-hour's peace. So I slipped away without
telling Tom, and here I am. But I didn't come for nonsense," she said,
with dropped voice and sudden soberness. "I almost forgot where we
were—seeing you, and—It was just that I wanted a little quiet, to think
about Christmas, and—and the kind of life one ought to lead."

A look showed appreciation. "Couldn't I help you with the holly?"

"I don't know—thanks. I can hardly stay long enough to make it worth
while. I shall have helpers to-morrow."

Ethel was waking up to the fact that it would not do for her to remain
here, after dark, alone with Nigel. It would not quite do, old friend
and playfellow though he was.

"There is poor Tom, you know," said Ethel, the light fading out of her
eyes. She had so enjoyed this little bout of unrestrained talk, and now
she began to wonder at her own unrestraint.

But Tom's sting was gone. "Poor fellow! Shall we go and have a lesson
from him together in Latin terminations?" Nigel asked joyously.

"Is Mr. Browning better to-night?" inquired Ethel, struck with the
light-hearted manner.

"No; I'm afraid not. I can never tell you about him now, you are always
so busy. Couldn't you sit down for five minutes?"

"I don't think I ought."

Ethel leant against the table, grave again, and a little anxious. Had
she gone too far, shown too much pleasure at seeing Nigel? Had she not
broken through her own resolution?

If Mr. Carden-Cox knew—Ethel's breath came quickly at the thought!
Nigel seemed so pleased to see her again like herself; but, of course,
that meant nothing—there was Fulvia in the background, and it would not
do for her to study Nigel's feelings. He might wish her to be still
on the old frank playmate terms, but it could not be; the time had
come for a change, and he must grow used to it. Just for a few minutes
everything had felt so natural, so like past days; and now she would
have to be careful again, to rein herself in. It was hard, but it had
to be done. Whether or no Nigel understood, she must be firm. Ethel did
not hear her own sigh.

Nigel stood in front, upright and broad-shouldered, streaked still with
half-melted snow; and his dark eyes were bent upon Ethel with their
most earnest look. She could not fathom the look, or know why it sent
so strange a thrill through her.

"I think we ought to go home," she said.

Then a question came, not in his usual voice. "Ethel, what is the
matter?"

"Is—anything?" she asked, with an audacious attempt at a smile.

"Yes."

Ethel found her lips quivering, and she straightened herself, resolute
not to give way. "Oh, just the common worries of life."

"I wish I could bear them for you."

"That wouldn't be fair, You have enough of your own;" and she laughed
huskily, biting those unruly lips.

Nigel was silent again, thinking. He could not yet make up his mind
whether or no to say more. To detain her, he drew from his pocket-book
a little folded paper.

"I don't know whether you will care to have this. I promised to make a
copy," he said.

"A copy of—"

"Don't you remember the extracts I carried off? I don't want to part
with them—" a pause, followed by an emphatic "ever!" and another pause.
"But I have had this copy by me to give to you; only there has been no
chance."

Ethel said only "Thanks!" as she received it.

"You don't mind my keeping the other?"

"Oh no—not if—I like you to have it."

"And I like you to have this. I read it through pretty nearly every
day."

Ethel mentally determined to do the same.

"That fourth quotation always seems to me an exact description of—you."

She started. As he spoke her mind had leapt ahead of the words, putting
"Fulvia" at the end.

"Oh no!" she said again. "If you knew me—"

"I think I do; better than I know any one else in the world. And,
Ethel, I am trying to make it my rule of life, just as I know you do.
Yes, I know, because I can see. But one doesn't find the rule easy to
follow." He opened the folded page in Ethel's hand, not taking it from
her, and read: "'To sacrifice self as an habitual law in each sudden
call to action; to take more and more secretly the lowest place; to
move amid constant distractions and above them undisturbedly—' as you
do, and as I don't."

"I am not like that, indeed, indeed," Ethel murmured.

"I think you are. But never mind; it is what we both want to be. I
suppose one never would sacrifice one's self in a great matter, if it
had not first become 'the law' in small everyday things."

"My father says every small choice between right and wrong is a
rehearsal for some greater choice to follow. One can understand that.
But I ought to go home."

"Are you in such a hurry?"

"No; not a hurry, only—"

"Only you think you ought. I believe 'ought' governs every inch of your
life."

"It ought," Ethel said involuntarily. She was moving towards the door,
and with a sudden impulse she lifted her eyes again, smiling. "At all
events, I have not come here for nothing. I'm afraid I talked nonsense
at first; but you have given me a thought for Christmas."

"What thought?"—though he knew.

"Just that—self-sacrifice in little things. Great things don't come in
my way; but there is no end to the little opportunities. Now we have to
turn out the gas and grope to the door."

"One word!" Nigel's voice was husky, and Ethel looked at him in wonder.
"We don't often get a chance of a few minutes together, like this.
Ethel, you won't mind if I ask a question. Has there been something
wrong lately? Something I have done to—I won't say to vex you,
but—don't you know what I mean?"

"No, nothing. I mean—I was not vexed."

"But there has been something. I thought it was Tom Elvey."

"Oh no, indeed!" with energy.

"I have been afraid, till the last few minutes. Was it anything I said
or did?"

"No! Oh no!"

"Or something somebody else said? Mr. Carden-Cox!" with a sudden
recollection of the postscripts.

"Please don't ask any more. It doesn't matter in the least. Nothing
matters—now!" said Ethel. The colour rushed into her cheeks. "I only
mean—please never think again that I could be vexed—"

"With me," Nigel concluded for her. Then in a quiet tone he added: "No,
it doesn't matter. Nothing matters—now!"

Ethel turned off the gas in a great hurry, but not before he caught the
flash of an answering glance, brighter than she knew it to be. Then
they found their way to the door, and were out in the whirling gale.
Ethel had to cling to his strong arm for support; and it came over her
how easy life would be, thus clinging. She heard one question spoken by
the way, spoken in the midst of their struggle, as the snow drifted in
their faces—"Ethel, can you trust me?"

"Yes!" she answered at once, not asking what he meant.

"Even if—" and the sentence was not finished. Perhaps he hardly knew
what he wished to say.

"Yes!" came with stronger emphasis. And she never once thought of the
postscript about Fulvia, till she was at home, and Nigel was gone.

But the recollection made no difference. She echoed her own "Yes!"
joyously in the solitude of her own room. Trust him? Yes!!



CHAPTER XVIII

AGED TWENTY-ONE

   "In that hour of deep contrition,
    He beheld, with clearer vision,
    Through all outward show and fashion,
      Justice, the Avenger, rise.

   "All the pomp of earth had vanished,
    Falsehood and deceit were banished,
    Reason spake more loud than passion,
      And the truth wore no disguise."
                                 —LONGFELLOW.

HALF of Fulvia's twenty-first birthday was over, and she had not yet
seen Mr. Browning.

It had been a most uneventful day thus far. Fulvia had presents from
all in the house, except Mr. Browning. Nigel gave her a gold locket;
Ethel sent a dainty basket arrangement of holly and ferns; old school
friends wrote letters; but nothing had occurred to mark the fact that
on this day Fulvia Rolfe would, or should, come into possession of some
forty or fifty thousand pounds.

She had not even donned a better dress for the occasion, which was a
Grange fashion on birthdays. Mr. Browning would remark the change,
Fulvia thought.

After all, the dress she wore daily could not have been improved
upon. It was a fine navy-blue cloth, fitting perfectly. She did add
lace ruffles and the new locket, and she dressed her hair with extra
particularity. Care bestowed upon that mass of reddish-golden-brown was
always repaid. Fulvia looked well, almost handsome. She was conscious
of the fact, and conscious that Nigel noticed it with brotherly
interest—only Fulvia unhappily did not count the interest to be
brotherly.

Nigel liked his sisters to look their best; and a little earlier he
would have told Fulvia, without hesitation, as one of the three, that
she had turned herself out successfully for the occasion. He was
growing cautious now, however, and so he said nothing, not guessing
that she saw the thought in his face, and misconstrued the silence.

He was in higher spirits than he had been for many weeks, nobody
guessing why. Nobody knew of the interview in the vestry. Even the
knowledge of his father's state could not depress him, this first
morning after the lifting of his own heavy cloud, though it did keep
down, to a moderate pitch, the spirits which would otherwise have been
wild. He had his dreamy spells, too; going over and over in mind the
words which had passed between him and Ethel, wondering whether he had
taken it too much for granted that she might care for him, and whether
he had said enough to be understood, but always coming round to a glad
remembrance of the last emphatic "Yes! Yes!"

The sunshine in his eyes perplexed Fulvia; he had been so grave lately.
Then she made up her mind that her birthday was the cause; he wanted
to please her by making it a cheerful day. Fulvia responded to the
supposed wish with all her heart. There had not been such an amount
of fun in the breakfast-room for many a week, as on that morning of
December 21st.

Snow had ceased falling, and a slow thaw had set in, rendering the
streets slushy, while the air was full of cold moisture. Fulvia and
Daisy braved the weather in a brisk morning walk; Anice remaining
indoors as a matter of course. Fulvia had hoped for Nigel's company,
and was disappointed, for he vanished. Where he went he did not say,
and Fulvia had learned not to question him; she was not one who needed
the same lesson twice over.

At luncheon, he looked sunnier than ever; yet Mr. Browning was still in
complete retirement. None but his wife had spoken to him.

More oddly, Mr. Carden-Cox had not appeared, and this perplexed
everybody.

"Why, he always gives Fulvia something nice," protested the aggrieved
Daisy, desiring excitement. "Surely he won't forget! And doesn't father
mean to speak to Fulvia? So odd! On her birthday! As if she were in
disgrace!"

"He will do as he chooses," Fulvia answered.

It was getting on for the time of afternoon tea; and the aspect of the
Newton Bury atmosphere, through glass panes, was not inviting. Nigel
had been upstairs since lunch, supposed to be reading; and the three
girls were spending their afternoon over the drawing-room fire, having
indulged themselves into a state of easy-chair inertia.

Even Fulvia was not proof against the lazy mood—until Nigel appeared.
She brightened up then, and replied to Daisy's complaints with her
usual elastic air.

"Of course he will. Everybody does," said Daisy. "But I don't see that
people ought. I think he ought to come out of his den for just a little
while. Nigel! What have you got? Chestnuts! How lovely! We'll have some
fun now!"

Plainly this was Nigel's object. He was a very boy again in the
next half-hour, helping Daisy to balance chestnuts on the hot bars,
watching for the critical moment of "done enough and not too much,"
using Daisy's fingers in pretence, and scorching his own in reality.
He and Daisy were down on the rug together, and shouts of laughter
sounded, when Mrs. Browning came with her soft lagging step and sweet
graciousness.

"I have persuaded your father to take a cup of tea with us here," she
said to the group. "He is very sad to-day, but he liked to hear your
merry voices, and indeed he proposed it himself. It is such weather, we
shall have no callers."

"Don't stop laughing, pray, when he appears," whispered Fulvia; and
they did not, but the real ring of mirth was gone.

Mr. Browning's heavy steps and down-drawn mouth-comers were not
provocative of fun. He looked both ill and wretched.

Fulvia was the first to spring up in welcome. She gave him a daughterly
kiss, made him sit in the chair she had occupied, chatted about weather
and chestnuts, tried to make it seem that nothing was further from her
thoughts than the remembrance of her own age.

Mr. Browning seemed relieved, and he even smiled dimly at one or two of
Nigel's sallies.

"Hallo, Daisy! That fellow's rolling! He'll be gone!"

"Oh! Oh! I'm burning my fingers. What shall I do? He's done for—black
as a coal."

"Never mind; we've plenty more! You are getting your face a most awful
colour, my dear. Look at Anice."

"Anice has a complexion, and I've none. Can't take care of what I
haven't got. I say—what are you after? Is that for me? Thanks. And
Fulvie would like another. Don't you care for chestnuts, father?"

"No, dear," mournfully.

Tea came in, and was dispensed by Fulvia; in the midst of which
operation a fly drove up to the front door.

Daisy capered to the window, and peeped out.

"Oh, it is Mr. Carden-Cox! With a huge parcel! Here he comes! Fulvie's
birthday, of course," cried thoughtless Daisy. "How jolly! I said he
was sure to come."

"You little goose!" breathed Nigel.

And "Daisy!" Fulvia uttered impatiently.

But the culprit heard neither.

"He's coming!" she exclaimed again.

And Mr. Browning put his hand to his side, as the door opened to a
rustle of brown paper.

Mr. Carden-Cox carried the parcel—a big one, as Daisy had said. He was
in one of his excited states—that could be seen at once. Fulvia rose to
greet and silence him, but found herself powerless. She might as well
have tried to stem a rivulet with her hand. By going forward she only
absorbed the whole of his attention, and rendered him unconscious of
Mr. Browning's presence.

"How d'you do, Fulvia? How d'you do, my dear? Many happy returns of
the day! I wish you all manner of good things through life: health
to enjoy your money, and wisdom to use it. I've brought you a little
remembrance—sort of thing a lady of property ought to have, hey! A
dressing-case, nothing more; don't expect too much. But it's a tidy
concern, I flatter myself—tidy little concern, good of its kind. Here,
have off the wrappings. What's the matter? You look as if it would bite
you. Eh? what do you say? Couldn't get what I wanted in Newton Bury,
so sent to London for this, and it has only just arrived. Shameful
delay! Couldn't think what to do this morning, when it hadn't come.
Telegraphed to London, and found it had gone off all right, so went to
the station, and there it was. Abominable carelessness! I'll write a
complaint to headquarters. However, here it is at last, just in time;
birthday not over yet, eh? Got one of a good solid kind—see—silver
fittings and the rest—here—"

Fulvia was trying to thank and to check him, in vain.

"Yes, yes, yes, I understand—pretty, of course. Had a nice day—plenty
of presents, eh? Don't at all like nothing more to be done to mark
your coming of age. Don't at all like it, my dear! Can't be helped,
but—Well!" in a loud whisper—"Had any business talk yet—statements as
to your finances? You've got a right to that. Necessary, you know.
Don't you let him put things off! I meant to call a lawyer, but Nigel
wouldn't let me—said he'd take the responsibility. Ha! Makes you blush,
that, doesn't it, child? But of course you've had a statement—know how
things stand—fifty thousand, eh? Ought not to be less by now, properly
handled. How's Browning to-day? Oh! Ah!" as a faint groan reached his
hearing. "Oh! Ah! I didn't see! How d'you do? Quite well? Como to
congratulate my niece on attaining her majority—lady of fortune, hey?"

No efforts could stop him thus far. When Mr. Carden-Cox was resolved to
have his say, he commonly did have it.

Fulvia clutched in vain with two eager hands, thanking, entreating,
doing her best to entice him from the room.

Nigel in vain drew near, signing caution; and the younger girls looked
aghast, in vain.

Mr. Carden-Cox saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, except that he
had certain utterances to make, and that he chose to make them.

Albert Browning offered no response to the greeting of Mr. Carden-Cox.
He stood up slowly, breathing hard, and leaning on his wife's
shoulder,—a frail support, yet firm through force of will,—and Nigel
went quickly to give more efficient help.

Mr. Carden-Cox spoke again, but again had no answer. Albert Browning's
head was resolutely turned away; and the three went out of a farther
door.

"Offended! Eh? But I say, Fulvie, my dear, you have a right to know—a
right to ask! Your money—"

"Oh, how could you!" cried Fulvia in distress. "We were so happy all
together, and you have quite spoilt the day. How could you come and say
such things?"


Mr. Browning was not taken ill there and then, as everybody
feared—everybody except Mr. Carden-Cox, who showed dire offence at
Fulvia's remonstrance, and required a large amount of polite attention
to win his pardon. Being a man who never avowed himself in the wrong,
he naturally could not stand blame.

No particular ill-effects were apparent that evening from the
unwished-for agitation. Mr. Browning even came to the drawing-room
after dinner, and exerted himself to a certain degree of melancholy
cheerfulness. He was particularly affectionate to Fulvia, calling her
"my dearest child" repeatedly. Still no allusion was made to Fulvia's
affairs.

"He is better than I expected," Nigel remarked late in the evening to
Fulvia, others having disappeared. Fulvia usually remained five minutes
later than the rest of the party, clearing away odds and ends. "Seems
none the worse for Mr. Carden-Cox."

"I was afraid he would be."

"At the moment—yes."

"I am glad the day is over," Fulvia said with an accent of relief.

"Not very satisfactorily over, for you."

"Why?"

"You ought, at least, to have had what Mr. Carden-Cox calls 'a
statement.'"

"Time enough. I am in no hurry. The money is there all right; and when
padre is up to business, he will make as many statements as you like."

Was the money "there all right"? Mr. Carden-Cox's suspicions had
infected Nigel; yet Nigel would not let himself doubt. Mr. Browning's
nerves might account for anything.

"I really believe padre is stronger already, in fact. He would not have
borne this so well a month ago. But I am glad, very glad, that the day
is over. It has been a strain upon us all, looking forward. Now things
can go on just as they always do."

"You are the most unselfish of beings!" Nigel said involuntarily. Then,
when he saw her look—the heightening colour and dropped eyelids—he was
vexed with himself for the unguarded remark.

"I don't know about unselfishness; I seem to be so completely one of
you all, that what affects you affects me."

Nigel could have replied, "Is not that the very essence of
unselfishness?"—but he would not risk it. He saw that she was
disappointed at his silence, and the light in her face faded.

"At all events, I know somebody else is relieved too," she said in her
usual tone. "Confess! You have been dreadfully worried lately; and
to-day—well, you are not depressed."

"Chestnuts and nonsense! That doesn't mean much. One gets a fit of high
spirits sometimes unreasonably."

"I must be off to bed. Good-night," she said, and the tone was flat.

Nigel never offered to kiss her now, of course. He had not since
the first day of his return. She moved away, and he sat long,
thinking—dreaming rather—not of Fulvia, but of Ethel.

In the early morning there came a sudden alarm. Mr. Browning was ill.
A severe attack of pain and breathlessness came on, like in kind to
the short attack he had had before, when only Nigel and Dr. Duncan
were present, but worse in degree. He had been in danger then, and had
rallied quickly. Now there was no real rally; only a slight occasional
improvement, followed by a worse relapse.

Dr. Duncan, summoned hastily, could do little, for remedies failed to
touch the evil.

"He will not stand this long," Dr. Duncan said in a low voice to Nigel.
"Yes—great danger. I doubt if he will last through the day."

The suffering and oppression increased, till it was hard to look on
unmoved. Mr. Browning could not lie down, could not endure to be in
bed. He sat up in his easy-chair, leaning forward, his face livid, his
eyes full of helpless affectionate appeal, which went to their very
hearts.

Mrs. Browning, worn out by long previous strain, broke down under the
distress of seeing him thus. She had to be taken to another room, and
was there tended by Daisy, who at such a time could rise out of her
childishness, and be useful. Anice was absent from the sick-room of
course; poor weak-natured Anice, always fleeing, unwomanlike, from
aught that aroused a feeling of discomfort.

But Fulvia never left Mr. Browning, and he could scarcely endure to
have Nigel out of his sight. It fell to those two to watch side by side
through many long hours of that trying day—trying to both, but most so
to Nigel. For Fulvia was in her element, and Nigel's presence meant
rest to her; while the sight of what Mr. Browning had to bear racked
Nigel's powers of endurance to the utmost. He did not give in; and
Fulvia, herself absolutely unwearied in the necessities of her position
and in the comfort of having him there, did not realise the severity of
the tax upon one unused to sick-rooms.

About three o'clock in the afternoon Dr. Duncan came in. He said little
beyond giving needful directions, and promising to return soon—"in a
couple of hours or so." Fulvia thought his look not hopeful.

"Have you seen madre?" she asked.

"Yes; she tried to get up and fainted. I have ordered her to bed. She
can do no more."

Soon after, unexpectedly, Mr. Browning dropped asleep, leaning forward
on a pillow, his forehead against a chair-back. Fulvia had knelt at
his right hand a few minutes earlier, and she remained fixed in that
position, not daring to stir. Nigel had taken a seat not a yard distant
where he had been off and on through the day. A glance of hope was
exchanged between the two, and Fulvia, noting Nigel's wearied look,
signed to him to leave the room, but the sign was disregarded. Neither
of them stirred.

Twenty minutes of repose: surely this meant recovery. Fulvia's face
grew bright, Nigel's less harassed. The sufferer seemed peaceful, and
breathed more easily, not struggling.

Then he woke, and the first words were, "Nigel! Call Nigel."

"I am here, father." Nigel rose and came nearer, glad to have stayed.

"My dear, dear boy!" Mr. Browning said feebly.

"A little better?" Nigel asked.

"I don't know. Just at this moment—perhaps—" He looked from one to the
other in a wistful troubled fashion, strangely, too, as if gazing from
a distance. "Something I had to say," he murmured. "If I were not so—so
weak—"

"You must not talk, padre," said Fulvia.

A great agony came into his face, changing its very form.

"Fulvie, forgive—forgive," he groaned.

"Don't, padre—oh don't," she cried. "Don't think—don't worry yourself;
only get well, for madre's sake."

"No, no; you do not know," he panted. "It was not—was not—intention."

"What was not intention?" Nigel asked, before Fulvia could speak.

And a moan was the answer.

"This must not go on." Fulvia spoke in a clear voice. "Padre,
listen—don't be distressed. I forgive anything—everything—no matter
what—if there is anything to forgive. And you are to feel happy—you
understand? Not to worry yourself. Things will be all right."

"No, no. Wronged! Wronged!"

They could hardly catch what he said. Then, with more distinct
utterance—

"My dear child! My own dear child! No—not intention—folly and
weakness—not wilful. HE will forgive—I think—I trust—but—the misery and
loss—"

"Nigel, stop him! He must not," whispered Fulvia. "Padre dear, don't!
Don't!" she went on aloud. "You will be worse. Can't you rest now?"

"Forgiveness," he panted.

"Yes, oh yes—don't ask again!"

But a solemn sound came into Mr. Browning's voice as he went on,
"Forgiveness with Thee—Thee!—That Thou mayest be feared! My God, Thou
knowest have repented—bitterly—most bitterly!"

A sob interrupted the words. With a sudden effort, he took Fulvia's
left hand and placed it in Nigel's right hand.

"We owe her much," he said.

Then the troubled eyes turned to Fulvia.

"He will make up to you—my child—for everything! You will be his
own—his own! But for that, how—how could I bear it? Nigel, I charge
you—never—"

Utterance failed. It was an embarrassing moment for both; worse for
Nigel, however, than for Fulvia, since she believed Mr. Browning to
have only given expression to Nigel's desire.

During two seconds her hand lay where it had been put, and she did
not look at Nigel. A flush rose to her very brow; the downcast eyes
brightened; the lips parted with joy. Nigel saw, and his heart died
within him. What was he to do? How could he explain?—Yet how could he
not explain?

Strange to say, she did not miss the response which she might have
expected. At the first instant, when her hand touched his, and he
little dreamt what was coming, Nigel's fingers had closed with a
slight, kind grasp, merely as an expression of gratitude. Then, as he
heard, he saw his mistake.

Something had to be said, but what? That was the question. Nigel
could not answer it. He was almost stunned. Yet he would have said
something—anything—the first words which should spring—but there came
an ominous sound, hardly a groan, hardly a gasp. Fulvia's glad colour
faded, and she snatched her hand away to give the needed support,
thereby releasing Nigel.

For Mr. Browning was dropping forward, lower and lower, breathless,
voiceless, changed in look.

Nothing could be done. There was no time to summon Dr. Duncan, no time
to warn his wife. Even as Fulvia started to Mr. Browning's help, all
was over.



CHAPTER XIX

THE MONEY!

   "I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be
          A pleasant road;
    I do not ask that Thou would'st take from me
          Aught of its load;
    I do not ask that flowers should always spring
          Beneath my feet;
    I know too well the poison and the sting
          Of things too sweet;
    For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead—
          Lead me aright;
    Though strength should falter, and though heart
              should bleed,
         Through Peace to Light."—A. A. PROCTER.

STRANGE to say—or others thought it strange—Nigel was more knocked down
by the blow than almost any one.

This did not show itself at first. He was the mainstay of them all
during the first hours of that grievous day—undertaking to break
the news to his mother, to comfort his sisters, to make needful
arrangements. He went to and fro, pale and serious, even severe in
his self-repression; and every one said how much he felt his father's
death; but no one guessed the racking misery of doubt below as to
Fulvia and that father's dying words.

The position in which Nigel found himself was indeed almost
intolerable. Whether justly or no, he felt that he was in some measure
to blame for it. True, he had been debarred from open speech to Mr.
Browning; but, knowing whereto things tended, why had he not at least
spoken out to Fulvia, about Ethel? He hated himself now for what might
have been a cruel silence. When he thought of Fulvia's face, at the
moment that her hand was placed in his by Mr. Browning, his heart sank
as if leaden-weighted; and he felt like a bird caught in the toils.

All through the hours of that endless morning the struggle went on.
What Mr. Browning had meant or had not meant?—What he was to do, or not
to do?—What he could say or could not say?—How he might free himself,
and yet spare Fulvia?—These questions racked his brain incessantly,
while he sat with his mother or saw to things that had to be done,
never thinking of rest for himself, only longing unbearably to find out
the worst as to his father's affairs—and Fulvia's! This last became in
time the leading desire, so engrossing his attention that everything
else was done as a steppingstone to that end.

Mrs. Browning bore the shock wonderfully, so others said. She wept
indeed much, showing all due natural grief, and clinging to Nigel for
support; still she could find comfort in talking to Nigel about her
husband. Not to anybody else, only to Nigel; and she never guessed how
he shrank from it, craving to escape. The more keenly he felt, the less
he could speak; also it was difficult to satisfy her with sufficient
details of that last hour, while ignoring what had passed about Fulvia
and himself. There seemed so little to tell, and she longed for more.

It was not till midday that he had a chance of a quiet time in the
study.

All the long morning since Mr. Browning's death he had not once seen
Fulvia. Half shyly, half unconsciously, she had kept out of his way,
longing for, yet dreading, the moment when they should come together;
and by no means unconsciously Nigel had seconded these efforts. He
did not come to breakfast, only having a cup of tea in his mother's
room; and when breakfast was over, Fulvia went out with Daisy, about
mourning, which could not be put off. She would not trouble Mrs.
Browning, but ordered everything that might be required, not sparing
expense. Why should she? If Mrs. Browning should be short of money,
there was Fulvia's money! She could always fall back upon that.

Coming in from the shops Fulvia found herself overpoweringly tired and
sleepy. Nigel was still with Mrs. Browning, and no one seemed to need
her. Anice noted her condition—it was a rare event for Anice to notice
anybody's condition except her own—and advised repose. Fulvia meekly
followed the counsel, and went to bed.

She did not expect to sleep, of course; but sleep she did, peacefully
as an infant, never waking till nearly four o'clock in the afternoon of
that strange sad day—most strange indeed, but not altogether sad, to
Fulvia. Yet she grieved sincerely over her "padre's" death.

How vexed she felt when she awoke—vexed to have slept so long, and
vexed yet more to feel refreshed and buoyant; absolutely hungry too! So
heartless under the circumstances!

Going down into the darkened drawing-room, she found Anice crying over
the fire; and the tea-tray just brought in.

"O Fulvie!" Anice started up to cling to the elder girl. "I have wanted
you so, but Nigel said you were not to be disturbed. He said you must
sleep as long as you could."

"I had no idea of forgetting myself so long. Stupid of me!" and there
was a tingling blush at the mention of Nigel's name. "How is madre? Has
Nigel had any rest himself?"

"No, he wouldn't. Mother is in her arm-chair just now, and Daisy with
her. Nigel was there ever so long, all the morning off and on, till
twelve o'clock; and then his head was aching, and mother wanted him to
go into the garden for a turn, but he went to the study instead. He has
been there ever since, except just a few minutes at lunch; and then
he couldn't eat, and hardly said a word. He only said he had papers
to look through, and he told us you were not to be called. Mother
wants him, I believe. But Daisy doesn't mind being with mother, and I
can't, you know—" pitifully. "I think Daisy and Nigel are so wonderful,
keeping up, and—Won't you have some tea?"

Fulvia was ashamed of her own hunger. "Yes," she said, and helped
herself, hoping Anice would not see how much she could eat. Anice
dallied with a cup of tea, sobbing and talking by turns.

"Daisy is so strong," she said self-excusingly, "and I am not. I never
could do things like other people. If I could I would stay with mother,
but—when she cries so and says—Oh, I don't know how to bear it."

"My, dear, it is not a question of strength, but of will," said Fulvia.
"People can do a good deal more, commonly, than they think they can,
if only they would make up their minds to it, and manage to forget
themselves."

Anice was hurt, of course, by the home-truth, and wept anew.

Then Daisy entered, with red eyes and broken breath. "Mother sent me,"
she said. "Is Fulvie up? Mother wants Nigel so, and I promised to tell
him."

"Anice can tell him. Sit down, Daisy, and have some tea. You have done
your share."

Anice complied reluctantly. She did not like being sent on errands.

"He is coming," she said, on her return. "But I don't think he is
pleased. He had a lot of papers out, and he stopped to put them away."

"Did you tell him I was here?" Fulvia could not resist putting the
question.

"No, he didn't ask."

The study door was heard to open and shut. Fulvia wished she could have
controlled the rush of blood to her face. An impulse came over her to
escape, yet she sat still. And when Nigel entered, there were no signs
of a corresponding agitation on his part. He looked paler, sterner,
older, than she could have imagined possible.

Fulvia asked timidly, "Will you have some tea?"

"Thanks."

Fulvia brought it herself: and it remained untouched. Glances were
exchanged by the three girls; and Daisy spoke in response to a sign
from Fulvia—"Nigel, the tea is getting cold. Won't you take some now?"

Nigel roused himself to comply; but after a few sips the cup was pushed
aside, and he seemed overpowered by grief and weariness.

Fulvia told herself that she ought not to wonder; yet she did wonder.
She had expected a word from him, or a look—and she had neither. But
perhaps such expectations were unreasonable. It was very soon—only
a few hours since his father's death; and Nigel had always been an
affectionate son. She signed to the girls to say no more; and for ten
minutes the clock ticked in unbroken silence.

Nigel spoke at last without stirring—

"Did you say my mother wanted me?"

Daisy's "Yes" and Fulvia's "No" came together. Daisy showed surprise.

"No," repeated Fulvia; "not when she knows how you are."

"I don't wish her to know."

Fulvia could not take upon herself to answer. She could only look again
towards Daisy, and Daisy made response—

"Nigel was up all night, and he has had no rest. Everybody has rested
except Nigel."

Nigel paid no heed, and another five minutes passed. Then he stood up,
and without a word moved towards the door.

"Fulvie, do go too," begged Daisy. "Nobody can manage so well as you;
and I'm sure he isn't fit."

Fulvia obeyed the suggestion, thrusting her own reluctance into the
background. She counted Nigel too worn out to care what she or anybody
might do; and certainly it was desirable that the interview should not
be prolonged.

But how to shorten it was the question. Mrs. Browning, absorbed in her
own grief, did not notice anything unusual in his look. He sat down
close beside her, leaning his head against the back of her chair out
of sight; so, after the first minute she had no chance to observe.
Mrs. Browning welcomed him tenderly, bidding Fulvia also remain, which
settled the perplexity of the latter how to act.

Then came a long low monotone, broken by sobs, all about Albert
Browning, her husband—his character, his goodness, his devotion to wife
and children, together with details of his suffering state during weeks
past, and conjectures as to the cause of his long depression, varied by
soft reverent utterances regarding his present rest, the contrast of
his present peace, and how they must not grieve for him too much.

It was all very sweet; just like gentle Mrs. Browning. She was a very
embodiment of sweet gentleness, sitting there, with her little nervous
snowflakes of hands clasped together, and her lovely eyes wide-open,
sometimes filling with great tears; but also it was very trying to
other people. Fulvia began to wonder how much longer it was to go on.
She grew impatient, even while most stirred by those reverent and
resigned utterances in the madre's dear tones. Any amount for herself
would have been endurable; but she was enduring for Nigel also. He was
quiet enough, even impassive, only saying a word now and then when
needful; still, Fulvia had a very good notion of what the interview was
to him. In a general way she would not have allowed it to last five
minutes. Now, however, she was under constraint; afraid of taking a
wrong step. If Nigel should not like her to interfere!

There came a moment at length when he could bear no more. Mrs. Browning
was saying something in her sorrowful voice about—"Your dear father's
money anxieties. Always so scrupulously exact and honourable—so
distressed if—"

Nigel's sudden movement stopped her. It was a start forward to an
upright position, as if from some intolerable sting of pain, and he
pushed the hair from his forehead, with a restless gesture.

Fulvia could restrain herself no longer.

"Madre, dear, I think one of us had better be with you now—Daisy or I.
Nigel is so tired."

"Nigel tired! Are you, my dear? Yes, of course—why did I not see
sooner? Do make him rest. I don't want anybody here. Never mind about
me. I am of no consequence. How could I be so thoughtless?"

"Not thoughtless, indeed," Nigel said, as she broke into a flood of
tears. "Fulvia did not mean—"

"Oh, I know—I understand. Everybody is kind. But now he is gone I am so
desolate. I have nobody but you—nobody to lean upon. Nigel, my own boy,
say you will not leave me! Say you will never, never leave me."

She clung to him, pleading; and Fulvia felt that in the abstract
nothing could be more touching than the poor widow's turning to her boy
for comfort. In the particular it was—No, Fulvia would not let herself
look on another side of the question.

"Mother, you are my charge now," Nigel said with a manly self-control.
He would not bind himself with rash promises; but he would assume to
the full the responsibility which had fallen upon him.

Mrs. Browning wept on, and clung to him faster; and Nigel waited with
dull patience. He might have waited thus another half-hour, but for
Fulvia. She hardly knew how she managed to end the scene; yet she did
manage it.

Nigel followed her out of the room in a mechanical fashion, and stood
outside in the gas-lit passage, leaning against an old carved press, as
if energy for another step had failed him.

Fulvia struck a match, and lighted a candle. "Nigel, you are dead-beat.
You will go to bed now." There was no immediate answer. Fulvia cast one
or two wistful glances at his face, which might have gained years in
age during the last few hours.

"No," he said. "I must speak to you first."

A swift electric shock darted through Fulvia's frame. Speak to her!
Speak about what? She could put only one interpretation on the words.

The girls' boudoir was close at hand, just across the passage. Nigel
had always been free of entrance there, and he turned to go in. Fulvia
followed with the candle, which she placed upon the mantelpiece, and
Nigel stood facing her.

"I have something to tell you," he said. "It has only come to my
knowledge to-day. About your money—"

"My money! Oh!" Fulvia came a step nearer, both relieved and
disappointed. "I can wait about that!"

"I cannot!"

"There is no hurry—no need yet! As if I cared!"

"You will care. It is no good news."

"The more need to put off. We have had trouble enough to-day. Must we
think of money so soon—when we have only just lost him? I would rather
wait, far rather. And you are not well!"

"I cannot rest till I have told you."

"Well—" she answered reluctantly, "if it is a relief to you, of
course—only please get it over as fast as you can."

Fulvia paused; and she could see that he was striving to speak,
striving and unable. "Oh don't! Pray don't!" she begged piteously. "If
you would but wait!"

"I have found out—" he tried to say, and the voice was so husky as to
be inarticulate. A resolute effort conquered this. He grasped the chair
again with both hands, and spoke in a distinct tone: "I have found out
what my father meant."

"Meant!—When?"

"When he begged your pardon."

"I don't care what you have found out. I don't care what he meant. I
will not hear it now," cried Fulvia passionately. "What do you think I
am made of?—Talking of money, money, to me to-day! To-day of all days!
I can't bear it, and you can't either! Please leave off!"

"No use. You must hear soon; and the sooner the better. I can't stand
not telling you." There was a touch of appeal in the words, almost as
if he craved her help. At the moment she hardly noticed it. "I have
been looking at papers," he went on.

"Then you ought not! It was wrong, so soon! I don't care what you have
found. The money isn't so much as uncle Arthur fancies, I suppose.
What if it is not? What do I care? He has done harm enough with his
meddling. He shall have no voice in my affairs now. I shall never be
able to forgive him for—yesterday!" She had to pause and think before
saying "yesterday." Her twenty-first birthday seemed so long ago.

"He was not to blame—wilfully."

"He was to blame! He knew better, or he ought to have known. But never
mind that now. I only want you to say what must be said, and have done
with it."

"I cannot give full particulars yet. There has been—no time.
My father's affairs are—have been for years—in a state of
complication—embarrassment. How much so I have never guessed. The crash
must have come in—in any case. It has been staved off by—by means of—"
Then a break. "Ruin to us all!" followed abruptly.

"To—us all!" She laid a slight stress on the pronoun.

"Yes."

"I don't think I understand."

Nigel was again hardly able to speak, and drops stood thickly like
beads over his forehead.

Fulvia felt bewildered. Ruin to them all! Did that mean—to her? Was she
included? In her wildest dreams this had somehow never come up as a
possibility. Her money had always in imagination remained secure, only
perhaps a little diminished from the Carden-Cox estimate. Her money had
always been waiting to supply deficiencies for other people.

She said again, "I don't understand." It was not in human nature at
that moment to insist on hearing no more. "Ruin to whom?" she asked.

"Absolute ruin to us! Hardly less to you."

"And—my forty thousand pounds—are—"

"Gone!"

He said the one word clearly as before; then a change of mood
overmastered him; he sat down and covered his face with both hands.

What wonder? His father not ten hours dead!—and already to have found
out that father in a course of action which must cover his name with
dishonour.

Trust betrayed! Trust money appropriated! A heavier blow could scarcely
have fallen upon the children of Albert Browning, brought up to regard
him with loving reverence.

Fulvia could not look on unmoved. Tears rushed to her eyes. She forgot
the uncertainty of her own position, forgot how words and acts might
be misconstrued. They were boy and girl again—brother and sister—he as
he used to be, a little the younger in character, turning to her for
guidance, and she—"Nigel, I can't bear you to feel it so!" she cried
with a sob, coming to his side, and then she sat down, leaning towards
him. "What does the money matter to me, except that I wanted to help
you all? It is worse for you, of course—worse to know—But he did not
mean it! He never meant it! It has been some accident—something he
could not help. We will never think a hard thought of him, or hear a
hard word said. Somebody else was to blame; not dear padre—always so
good and kind to me. Only don't mind—don't distress yourself—please
don't think anything of it."

The nobility of the girl could not but strike home to Nigel, not only
with a sense of admiration, but with a rush of new pain. It made his
position with respect to her only the more difficult. Yet, trying to
rally, he said—

"All that we can do—" and there was a break. "Everything that we have
is yours, until—"

"Nonsense! How can you talk such nonsense?" cried Fulvia. "Everything
I ever had is yours—madre's, I mean!" And she blushed vividly; but the
blush passed as she went on—"After all, how can we know? How can we be
sure? It is so soon. Things may not be so bad. You cannot have looked
into matters fully yet. Don't you think there may be some mistake?"

He lifted his face and looked straight at Fulvia.

"No; there was a letter for me."

"A letter—from—"

"My father."

"Where?"

"In his desk."

"Addressed to you?"

"Yes—to be opened—after—"

"And—telling you about—"

"About—what I have told you."

"Not saying how it happened?"

"Yes. It has been the work of years. Embarrassments always increasing.
Borrowing from—yours—to stave off this and that—meaning to repay,
and never able. Speculating, failing, getting deeper and deeper
into trouble; always hoping things would right themselves somehow,
until—until—"

"Yes, until—"

"A very heavy loss, just after I left home—failure of a speculation,
from which he had hoped everything. I think that was his death-blow. He
faced the truth then: realised for the first time how things were, and
how near your coming of age was. It has been one long misery since. He
could never make up his mind to speak."

"Poor padre! Better if he had. But madre must not know it now."

"She must. We have no choice."

"Why?"

"Life will be changed to us all. Everything will have to be given up."

"Not the Grange! Not college for you!"

"Everything."

"Oh, I am so sorry. I do mind that."

Fulvia sat looking at him, tears in her eyes.

"But madre need not know," she repeated. "Madre must not know—all. Not
that he was to blame, I mean—if he was to blame. Only that there have
been losses, and that we shall all be poor together. You must not let
her think anybody can find fault with him. It would almost kill her."

Nigel's face was hidden again. How could he say that other thing which
had to be said? How put matters right between this noble-hearted
girl and himself? Tell her first that her guardian—his father!—had
recklessly made away with her money committed to his trust!—then tell
her that the dying words of Albert Browning were false; that he loved
another, and could not make up to her for the loss, could not offer
himself in place of her wealth—even though he had too good reason to
fear that she cared for him as for no other human being!

All the day through Nigel had been struggling, fighting, praying for
strength—had been striving to bring himself to the pitch requisite for
those words, so hard to be spoken. At the beginning of this interview
he had believed himself to be capable of them. But now—!

Something about his "brotherly" feeling for Fulvia; something about his
sense of responsibility in having to provide for her, as for his other
sisters; something about what might have been soon between him and
Ethel if this crash had not come, altering his whole outlook; something
which should kindly, gently, let her see the truth.

Yes, he had thought all this beforehand, had shaped the very phrases.
But now that the moment had arrived for saying the words, he could not
say them.

Things were changed indeed for him during the last twelve hours. How
could he ask Ethel to wait during interminable years, while he set
himself to the task of supporting his widowed mother and sisters, and
of paying back at least a portion of Fulvia's lost money? Whether he
could ever repay the whole might be doubted; but Nigel felt that it
would be his aim.

Unless he married Fulvia! There would be no question of repayment then!
Whatever he possessed she would possess.

If he did not marry her, then he would have to toil the more to place
her in a position of comfort. If she were doubly wronged, he would have
doubly to make up to her.

Either way, he saw his way hopelessly cut off from Ethel!

Was it his bounden duty to marry Fulvia as things stood? A father's
dying wish has power; and Fulvia had too clearly shown her heart's
desire. Could he, and might he, escape from the tangle? One moment he
felt that he had no choice: another moment, that to become Fulvia's
husband was an utter impossibility.

If the latter—if he could not and would not ask her to be his wife—then
she ought in justice to learn quickly how matters stood. Delay would
be cruel to her, and would, in fact, bind him. But to tell her at this
moment—how could he? To inflict another blow close upon the first—and
Nigel knew that it would be a blow! To reveal the bitter truth—and
Nigel was aware that it must be an unspeakably bitter truth! How could
he so meet her noble self-forgetfulness in ignoring her own loss,
thinking only of his grief? Theoretically, immediate speech might be
best. Practically, it was impossible. Nigel could not say the words he
had purposed. His parched lips refused to utter them.

At another time he might have felt and acted differently. He was
suffering now severely from the strain of twenty-four hours past.
Vigour of mind and vigour of body were at a low ebb, and the power
of decision was almost gone. He could only let things drift. He was
turning faint with the inward struggle, and his head throbbed almost
beyond endurance. The moment for speaking went by.

Fulvia, watching him with her kind troubled eyes, saw the physical pain
and read little beyond, for she had not the clue.

"Poor Nigel!" she said compassionately, and the next thing that he knew
was the feeling of something wet and cool and refreshing upon his hot
brow.

Nigel could not protest or refuse. He could only give himself over into
her capable care-taking hands; too ill for more speech, yet all the
while dimly conscious of a certain sense of possession in the touch of
those same hands. Was it consciousness or fancy? Nigel did not know.
It might have been either. He was obviously in no condition for the
careful weighing of evidence.

One thought only was clear—one little sentence from Ethel's paper—

"To sacrifice self, as an habitual law, in each sudden call to action."

It haunted him for hours, together with Ethel's face.



CHAPTER XX

AN UTTER TANGLE

   "O life, O death, O world, O time,
      O grave, where all things flow,
   'Tis yours to make our lot sublime,
      With your great weight of woe."—TRENCH.

DAYS passed, and nobody yet knew the state of family affairs.

Nigel was confined to his room by a "severe feverish attack"—not
surprising under the circumstances. Business talk in his presence was
tabooed; and Fulvia said not a word elsewhere. Not a soul, beyond
herself and Nigel, knew aught of the dying man's utterances, aught of
the letter he had left, aught of the vanished wealth. Newton Bury never
doubted that the Brownings would still be extremely well off.

In a general way Mr. Carden-Cox would very early have set himself
to ferret out something, more especially when goaded on by previous
suspicion. Mr. Carden-Cox, however, had not been to the Grange since
the afternoon of Fulvia's birthday. He knew that others must blame him
for Albert Browning's fatal attack of illness, and he could not endure
to be blamed. Inwardly, he suffered sore remorse; outwardly, he would
have defended his own conduct through thick and thin.

There was nothing for it but flight, and he did flee. Thirty-six hours
after Albert Browning's death saw him in his old Burrside lodgings, in
glum and miserable enjoyment of solitude. At the Grange his absence was
scarcely regretted, for interviews must needs have been painful.

Mr. Carden-Cox did not return for the funeral, and Nigel could not be
present—no small grief to Nigel's mother. He was unable to lift his
head from the pillow when that day came. Mrs. Browning stayed with
him, and the three girls went, as did many Newton Bury friends. Much
sympathy had been shown to the Brownings in their trouble. The very
idea of any possible slur upon the honoured name of Albert Browning had
not so much as occurred to any one outside their immediate circle—if
one includes in that circle Mr. Carden-Cox and Dr. James Duncan.

Albert Browning had left no will, had appointed no executors. All
arrangements, therefore, devolved upon his son, to whom it was known
he had left written directions or advice in the form of a letter. Mrs.
Browning had not been told even so much as this. Arrangements had to
wait until Nigel could give his mind to them.

So nearly another week passed after the funeral; and then Nigel came
again into the stream of everyday life.

It was a changed life for him; and he was changed,—thinner, older, and
with a careworn expression. The eyes had ceased to sparkle, a weight
lay on the brow, and the lips had a sad resolute set. Mrs. Browning and
Daisy had been his nurses; not that much actual nursing was needed. The
occupation was good for Mrs. Browning, Fulvia said. Fulvia had not seen
him for ten days; and, when he reappeared, she noted sorrowfully the
alteration.

Sometimes she wondered, would he soon allude to those dying words of
his father? She could not understand his manner. It was kind, grave,
brotherly perhaps, certainly restrained. Yet at first Fulvia was not
anxious.

He had so much on his mind; and it was natural that he should wait
awhile. Decorum almost demanded delay, just for a time after the
padre's death. So Fulvia told herself, and thought or tried to think.
Moreover, though Nigel had not been seriously ill—not ill enough, that
is to say, to cause real anxiety—he had suffered a good deal, and had
distinctly lost flesh and vigour. He was hardly up to anything exciting
yet. "Poor Nigel!" she breathed pityingly.

The three girls in their deep mourning were gathered round the
drawing-room fire early one afternoon,—the second day since Nigel had
come among them again. Fulvia's mourning matched that of the other two.
She would not make a grain of difference, for she was one with them
in their loss, though united by no tie of blood. The profound black
set off well her ruddy hair and clear skin. She looked sad, trying to
realise what was hard to believe—that not one fortnight had passed
since the padre's death. To the imagination it was more like two months
than two weeks. On the other hand it seemed strange that so many days
could have elapsed while no one beyond herself and Nigel had an inkling
of the true state of affairs; yet Fulvia herself had insisted on delay.
Nigel would have spoken to his sisters two days earlier but for her
entreaties.

"Mother was asleep when I went in just now," Daisy said.

"My dear, let her sleep. It is the best thing she can do. And if she
wakes, keep her away from here."

"Why?"

"I think—I am not sure—but I shrewdly suspect that uncle Carden-Cox may
come in for a talk. He is at home again. Madre could not stand that."

"I couldn't," sighed Anice.

"You will have to stand it, and a great deal besides. We must all three
be brave, and keep up for madre's sake—and—"

"And for Nigel's," added Daisy unsuspectingly.

Fulvia flushed.

"Yes. He has a great deal resting on him, and he will have hard work.
Anice—Daisy—I want you both to promise me to be good and thoughtful—not
to seem vexed and unhappy, whatever happens. Above all, don't let
yourselves blame padre."

"Why should we blame him?" asked Daisy.

"Never mind. You will know everything soon enough—too soon for my
wishes. Promise me not to think about yourselves, but only about madre,
and how you can best help Nigel. We have to bear what comes; but the
way of bearing makes all the difference in the world."

"I'll try, of course."

"And Anice?"

"Yes—" faintly; "but what shall we have to bear?"

Fulvia was silent.

"Will Mr. Carden-Cox come exactly at tea-time, like last time?" asked
Daisy, with a choke in her voice. "I hope he won't; but he is so odd,
one never can tell. Shall I take mother's tea to her? And Nigel's? He
has been hours and hours over those papers."

"What papers?" inquired Anice.

"I don't know; father's, I think—" in a lower tone. "All the morning,
and now ever since lunch. He ought not, ought he, Fulvia? I should
think he would be ill again if he does so much. Why, he has only been
downstairs twice before to-day, and only for a little while."

"Has anybody been to him?"

"Yes; I went—when was it? Nearly an hour ago. I asked if he wouldn't
come for a walk with me. But he seemed vexed, and said he was too busy,
and couldn't be disturbed. So of course I can't try a second time."

"Anice could."

"I'd rather not. You can, if you like. You are always trying to put
things off upon me," said injured Anice.

Fulvia hesitated; then she went, tapping lightly at the study door.
There was no answer, and she opened it.

Papers lay over the table, letters and account-books mingled with other
documents. Fulvia bestowed upon them a cursory glance. Nigel sat as if
reading, the fingers of his right hand pushed up into his hair; but
Fulvia knew that at the moment of her entrance he was thinking, not
reading. The eyes slowly lifted had a faraway look. She closed the
door, coming to the other side of the table.

"This is too soon," she said. "You are not well yet, and you ought to
wait a few days."

"Time to speak out," was his reply.

"Not yet. Think of poor madre! It will break her heart. If only we
could keep the worst from her!"

"Impossible!" Nigel spoke firmly, yet with a sound of weariness.

"At least she need not be told now?"

"I don't know. I must have things in train."

"And get yourself into bad health again, like old days. Is that wise?"

"No fear!"

"Must you begin so soon? I can't see the need."

"We have no means of paying our way. Everything has to be given up."

"How have we paid our way hitherto?"

"We?"—bitterly. "With your money."

"But if that is all gone—"

"Nearly."

"Nigel, I am very stupid; I can't quite grasp things. If poor padre had
not been taken, how should we have paid our way then?"

"As we were doing, I suppose, till the whole was gone, and a crash
became inevitable. The only difference would have been a little longer
delay, and nothing left to anybody, instead of the pittance left now.
I don't believe he fully realised how things were. There was always a
vague hope that difficulties would right themselves."

"No reason for the hope?"

"None that I can see."

"Do you mind telling me how much the 'pittance' really will be? I don't
want to tease you—" wistfully—"but if I could be any help—"

"You have every right to know."

"I don't ask it as a right; but are things so desperate?"

"So far as I can make out, when all claims have been met, there may be
some three hundred a year left."

"Of madre's?"

"Yours."

"And how much of yours—hers and yours?"

"There can be nothing of ours, in strict justice, till your claims are
satisfied."

"Nigel!" she exclaimed indignantly. "What do you take me for?"

"I am talking of justice, not of your wishes."

"I don't care what you mean; it is cruel to speak so. As if I—and it is
untrue. The three hundred a year will be ours if you like—not mine, but
all of ours together."

"Half of it is yours exclusively. The other half is my mother's
marriage settlement; but she will feel as I do, that you have a right
to—"

"Will you stop? I won't hear it! How can you say such things?" cried
Fulvia. "Do you want to put separation between us? Am I to be cut off
from you all by this trouble. May I not even live with madre still?"

For it came across her, as she stood there, that no allusion had
yet been made to those dying words, to the clasped hands by Albert
Browning's side. If Nigel had felt as she felt, he would surely, before
this, have made some sign—have broken into some speech. She had been
silent perforce; he was not bound. Her whole being was wrapped up in
Nigel; while he—if she should find that he did not care for her, how
could she endure it? Did he care? Sudden dread crept over Fulvia. Would
it be anything to him if she went away from the home, and was one of
them no longer? A chill came with the dread, and she sat down, because
she could not stand. A changed sound found its way into her voice; as
she repeated, "May I not even live with madre still?"

Nigel looked up with a momentary expression of surprise.

"Yes, certainly. What could make you think—" he began, and then broke
off, to add simply, "Why not?"

"You are the master of the house! It is for you to decide—for you to
decide now." Fulvia did not know that she had said the words twice,
or that a sound of pain had crept into them. She only meant to speak
coldly. "That might be one of the 'changes' necessary;" and there was a
hard little laugh.

"For you to decide!" struck home. It brought to Nigel's mind
vividly, as was already present in hers, the scene by the side of
Albert Browning, just before he died. Nigel heard again the laboured
breath, the faltering accents—"He will make up to you, my child, for
everything! You will be his own! Nigel, I charge you, never—" and then
the hand put into his, and the glow on Fulvia's face! All this came
back to Nigel in an instant, not quickening his pulses as it quickened
Fulvia's. One glimpse of Ethel would have set them beating fast, but
not these, recollections. They only brought a sense of weight and
strain, of weariness and perplexity. One thing alone was distinct—that
he could and would take no hasty steps. Till he had seen Ethel, he must
leave all else in suspense. The very thought brought relief. She would
help him! She, with her clear sense of duty, her practised spirit of
self-denial, would guide him to the knowledge of what he ought to do.

Fulvia spoke in a tone of compunction, which yet was not soft—

"I don't want to worry you. After all, we can settle nothing yet.
Sometimes I think I will go out as governess."

"Never!"

"Why not? I have some capabilities. What do you propose to do?"

"Let or sell the Grange as soon as possible. Go into a small house, and
got rid of all superfluous furniture. Dismiss most of the servants.
Retrench in every possible way."

"And land yourself in a brain fever, by way of saving expense."

Nigel was in no mood for light words.

"What will you do yourself?" asked Fulvia, having no response.

"The Bank."

"So I feared. But I thought you were expected to—what was it?—take
shares, or invest money in the Bank, or some such thing, in order that
you might in time become partner?"

"I can't do it now."

"They will have you—without?"

"Yes. It will make a difference in my standing, of course."

"Are you going to see Mr. Bramble?"

"I have written to him, and have had an answer."

"Already?" She noted the independence and resolution. "Nigel, will you
grant me one favour? Let me tell the girls and madre as much as is
necessary,—and uncle Arthur too. Let me do it."

Nigel would not accept the generous offer. He was bent upon not sparing
himself. Fulvia had suffered enough already through him and his;
he would not lay upon her a feather's weight in addition. When she
pleaded, he said "No" again, and followed her to the drawing-room, with
an evident intention to speak without further delay. There were the two
girls still, and there was Mr. Carden-Cox, who had not waited for the
tea-hour, but had come, as Fulvia foretold.



CHAPTER XXI

COMPOUND UMBELS AND BLUE EYES

   "A man must serve his time to every trade
    Save censure—critics all are ready-made.
    Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote,
    With just enough of learning to misquote;
    A mind well-skilled to find or forge a fault:
    A turn for punning—call it Attic salt."

"ONE of the Umbelliferæ," said Tom.

He stood watching Ethel, as she painted a flower upon a wooden panel,
his head being inclined to one side. It was not long before Mr.
Carden-Cox's call at the Grange that same afternoon.

Ethel had a gift in the flower-painting line; but this was not done so
well as usual. Ethel's fingers were nervous, not quite obedient. She
had taken to her paints as a refuge from Tom, and there was no getting
away from him. He followed her even into her pet sanctum, the little
lumber-room, where, as she would have said, she "did her messes." It
was no use to suggest his being elsewhere. Tom's mild good-humour was
impervious to the broadest hints. Ethel felt for once uncontrollably
cross in her satiety of Tom's talk; yet she tried to be patient. In a
few days he would be gone.

"One of the Umbelliferæ," repeated Tom, finding his information
disregarded. "Umbel-bearing. Umbel—from the same source, so to speak,
as 'umbrella'—spreading outward from the centre. This little flower
is a simple umbel; but there are compound umbels also—umbels of
umbels,—you understand?"

"Oh yes. Like a lot of sunshades branching out of one umbrella."

The illustration was so new, that Tom had to give it serious
consideration.

"Yes—" came slowly, at length. "I do not know that your idea
is—altogether inappropriate. No, perhaps not—on the whole. As an
instance of compound umbels, we have—a—"

"An umbrella shop."

"I am afraid that you would be pushing the—the simile—too far." Tom was
perfectly serious. "As a matter of fact, an umbrella can never be other
than a simple umbel—ha, ha!" Tom could always laugh at his own jokes,
though never at those of other people. "Ha, ha! Yes, an umbrella is
undoubtedly a simple umbel But in Nature we have compound umbels, as,
for instance, the hemlock, the parsley, the—"

Tom paused, and Ethel was silent.

"You are making too much of a curve. That stalk does not bend in
reality," said Tom, who looked upon the said stalk from a different
standpoint, and failed to allow for the fact. He know about as much in
respect of painting as the Rectory cat. A row of "flower-heads," with
stalks as stiff as pokers in parallel lines below, would have seemed to
him the correct thing.

"Nature deals in curves. When she doesn't, it is a mistake, and art has
to put her right," declared Ethel sententiously; for when dealing with
a sententious man, one has sometimes to pay him in his own coin.

Tom undertook to prove her mistaken, and Ethel listened with wandering
thoughts to his laboured disquisition. It was hard to attend enough to
prevent his discovering her absence. Her heart was at the Grange, for
the last fortnight had been a severe trial of her fortitude, and each
day added to the trial.

She had not seen or spoken with Nigel since his father's death; and
one or two brief interviews with Daisy had been unsatisfactory. Ethel
was not intimate with the Browning family as a whole, only with Nigel
as Malcolm's friend—not to speak of his being her own friend!—and in
a less degree with Daisy. She had always a distinct consciousness of
being avoided by Fulvia. Her own feelings would have carried her daily
to the Grange, if only as an expression of her intense sympathy with
them all, if only to learn how Nigel was: but this could not be; and
certainly neither Mrs. Browning nor Fulvia would have welcomed any such
expression of solicitude from a member of the Elvey family, albeit they
were most polite to Mr. Elvey, who had paid more than one visit to the
widow. Ethel had to stay at home, and to wait for such information
as came by her father and Malcolm, or filtered through less direct
channels. She seized any scrap of news with avidity, yet her hunger was
not satisfied.

"Now, these are instances of straight lines in Nature, which I venture
to think you will hardly disparage," said Tom.

Ethel woke up to the fact that "these instances" had been thrown
away upon her. She had travelled to the Grange while he discoursed,
forgetting even to paint, and sitting, with suspended brush, in an
attitude of absorption, which Tom took for devoted attention to
himself. He was much gratified naturally!

"Oh yes,—Oh no, I mean," she said hastily. Alarmed lest he should
catechise her on what he had said, she began to paint again in vehement
style, and Tom's attention strayed back to the "flower-head" expanding
under her touch.

"I have not yet introduced you to the Umbelliferous Family," he
observed, by way of a ponderous joke. "This is not a bad opportunity,
while you are actually engaged in taking the likeness of a member of
that family—Ha! Ha!" Tom stopped to laugh complacently, and Ethel felt
like throwing her brush at him. "You are fairly acquainted already with
the family characteristics of the Ranunculaceæ, the Papaveraceæ, the
Onagraceæ, the Myrtaceæ, the Violaceæ, the Cucurbitaceæ, the Malvaceæ,
the—"

"Seven sneezes," murmured Ethel. It really did seem as if Tom were
laboriously selecting all those tribes which rejoiced in this
particular sound at the end of their names.

"I beg your pardon. Did you speak?" asked unsuspecting Tom.

"Oh, nothing. Please go on."

"I was about to say, you are already acquainted fairly well with
the characteristics of these and other tribes. But the Umbelliferæ
are, I believe, new to you. Umbelliferæ—umbel-bearing. One principal
characteristic—the ovary inferior. You should remember this. Fruit dry
and hard—not juicy. I think you comprehend now what the ovary is."

"The ovary?" Ethel was away at the Grange once more.

"The ovary. I believe you understand what is signified by the ovary of
a flower," repeated indulgent Tom.

Ethel looked up vacantly, then sighed.

"Tom, I am busy. I can't be bothered with ovaries and things to-day,"
she said. "I have so much to do, and those long names are detestable."

Tom's face fell. He was thunderstruck. Never till this moment had Ethel
allowed such a remark to escape. "I thought—I hoped—you had learnt to
appreciate—" he faltered.

"I have tried—really I have—and I can't. I shall never appreciate
putting beautiful things into stiff rows, and giving them long names.
It isn't in me," said Ethel, her tone half petulant, half apologetic.
"You must try your hand on somebody else."

"But,—" protested dismayed Tom. "But—" and he could say no more. After
all these weeks of careful instruction, it was too much. Tom's whole
course of thought was turned upside down by it. He found himself
saying, with displeasure, "I imagined that you were a girl of sense."

"Oh no! Not botanical sense, Tom." Then she was afraid she had hurt
his feelings, and she looked up penitently. "Tom, you mustn't mind
me. I'm worried, and it's of no consequence. Another day I'll try to
listen. If only you will leave me in peace this afternoon, I'll be
good afterwards, and I'll learn all about those horrid umbels. I will,
really."

Tom did not know what to make of her. He was more won than
ever—fascinated, in fact, though Ethel had not the smallest wish to
fascinate him. At the same time he was desperately disappointed to find
that her "listening" was a matter of "trying." He had flattered himself
that she listened because she could not help it: because his speech was
of such engrossing interest that she could not turn away.

He objected very much to the girlish expression, "those horrid umbels";
but the girlish eyes were too much for him. In the general upsetting of
Tom's ideas, one alone kept its equilibrium, and grew more definite.
Umbels or no umbels, science or no science, Tom liked Ethel, and he
wanted her for his own. She had grown necessary to him these weeks.
Existence could not be the same to Tom, if he were bereft of the
occupation of watching Ethel. Her deft fingers enchained his masculine
intellect. It came over him now, almost as a new idea, that in a few
days this occupation would cease.

Not that he wished to go. He could have remained at the Rectory for an
indefinite period, so far as his own wishes were concerned. A gentle
intimation had been made to him, however, that the spare room would be
required for another visitor after a certain date; so Tom had no choice.

By-and-by he would be returning to Australia, hopelessly out of reach
of Ethel, and far beyond the touch of those little fingers, which had
somehow become inextricably entwined in Tom's mind with the dried
herbarium specimens, for the gumming in of which they were so admirably
adapted. What success might not Tom achieve with Ethel as his coadjutor?

Ethel little dreamt that her momentary tartness was bringing him to a
most undesirable point.

Tom to yield to sudden impulse! Tom to be betrayed into ill-considered
action! The thing was incredible. Tom had had floating ideas of how
he would one day address himself to Mr. and Mrs. Elvey on the subject
of marriage. He had planned a careful exposition of his prospects and
intentions, such as might win the consent of Ethel's parents. He had
pictured the circumspect choice of a suitable time and place in which
to open his heart to Ethel, the clothing of his ideas in well-selected
language, perhaps even the making of one or two apt quotations, conned
beforehand for the occasion, for Ethel loved poetry.

All this Tom had proposed to himself. And that all this should go to
the winds, that Tom should precipitately have the matter out with Ethel
herself, saying no word to her father or mother,—who could have thought
it? Not Tom, certainly, and not Ethel!

Never in Ethel's life had she been more astonished than by Tom's next
utterance, after her pettish remark about "those horrid umbels." The
pause following was long enough for Ethel to lose herself anew in
thought, to forget Tom and painting, umbels and botany. Suddenly her
attention was arrested by a shaky voice of genuine emotion—

"It's no good, you know, Ethel! I can't help it. I can't go off,
and—and leave things like this. I'm going back to Australia, you know,
before long, and you'll—you'll—you'll come with me, won't you? Say you
will, Ethel! I can't get along without you, and that's the truth."

Was there ever a more unscientific "specimen" of a proposal?

Tom seized Ethel's hand, and held it as in a vice.

Ethel's eyes opened widely, and stared at him in blank-bewilderment.

"Tom!"

"Just say you will, and it'll be all right," pleaded Tom, discarding
long words and Latin terminations with shameless promptitude.
Somehow, neither long words nor Latin terminations lend themselves to
love-making, or to the expression of strong feeling; and Tom's feeling
for Ethel was strong of its kind. "Just say you will," reiterated Tom.
"I'll do my very best to make you happy, I will indeed!" and his grasp
tightened.

Ethel could not have released herself by struggling, and she did not
try. She looked straight at Tom, and said, "Please let go!"

Tom dropped the hand as if it had been a hot potato, and Ethel rubbed
it.

"You hurt me!" she said. "But it doesn't matter; only you must not do
that again. And please understand that I don't want any more nonsense.
We are cousins and friends, that is all. We never can be anything
else—never!"

Tom began to beg. Tom began to implore. It was not nonsense, but sense.
He meant fully all that he had said. If Ethel would only consent, he
would be the happiest man living.

"Oh no, you would not. We should both be wretched. I could not make you
happy, and you could not make me happy."

"Why not?" Tom demanded fiercely. He was unhappy, and therefore fierce.
At this moment he felt that Ethel was worth more than all the world
could offer beside. He would have sacrificed even his herbaria to win
her! Who then might say that he could not make Ethel happy?

"We are not made for one another," Ethel asserted. "Our tastes are
different, and our ways. It would be a perpetual rub and fret."

"Why should it?" insisted Tom. "Husbands and wives don't always like
the same things." He was right enough there, no doubt.

"No, I suppose not. But they ought to be able to agree to differ,
able to go their own separate paths in peace. It doesn't sound like
a cheerful arrangement exactly, but it is what has to be in a great
many cases." She spoke soberly, as if familiar with various phases of
matrimonial life. "And you know that is what you and I never could do.
You would never leave me in peace."

Tom broke in to assure her that he would. He would do anything,
everything. There was nothing under the sun that Tom would not do to
please Ethel.

"Yes, that is all very kind," said Ethel, smiling. "But one has to look
forward, and when a lover becomes a husband, things are not exactly the
same. Everybody says so, and I have seen it. You might mean to leave
me in peace, but you wouldn't be able. It is not your way. You would
never be happy unless I could like what you liked, and then I should be
cross, and you would be vexed."

Tom was indignant. As if Ethel ever was cross! As if he ever could be
vexed—with her!

"Oh, I can be desperately cross; and I assure you, Tom, you would very
soon be vexed with me. Scientific specimens are all very well for a
month, but you don't know how I should detest them if it were always!"

"I believe you have other reasons," declared Tom, with no small
annoyance. "It's inconceivable that you should refuse me for nothing
but this."

"I don't say I have no other reasons. Of course I have. But isn't one
enough?" asked Ethel cheerfully.

"No; one isn't enough!" said wrathful Tom. "One isn't enough,
especially when that one's not the true one! I believe you care a great
deal too much for that fellow at the Grange."

Ethel's face flamed into anger, and she stood up to leave the room.

"Tom, if you are going to be rude, I have done with you. I didn't wish
to hurt your feelings more than was needed; but as you are determined
to have another reason, it's easy enough to give. I don't care an atom
for you, and I never shall care! I don't want ever to see anything more
of you at all."

Tom was crushed. He had done the business now, and no mistake. The
proverbial dove flying in his face would not have amazed him more than
this indignant outburst. He did not dare to follow Ethel; but presently
he heard a step running downstairs, and when he looked out of the
window, there was Ethel in the garden, dressed as for a walk.

Where could she be going? Darkness fell early these wintry afternoons.
It would soon be dusk.

Tom saw nothing of Ethel for hours afterward. Nobody seemed to know
where she had betaken herself. "In the parish, of course," everybody
said, when Tom went about asking questions. At five-o'clock tea she did
not become visible. Tom felt sufficiently punished; yet he began to
count Ethel's absence almost a compliment. It seemed to clothe him with
a certain fictitious importance.



CHAPTER XXII

THE BREAKING STORM

   "For life is one long sleep,
    O'er which in gusts do sweep
      Visions of heaven;
    The body but a closed lid,
    By which the real world is hid
    From the spirit slumbering dark below;
    And all our earthly strife and woe,
    Tossings in slumber to and fro;
    And all we know of heaven and light
    In visions of the day or night
      To us is given."
               —_Author of "Schönberg-Cotta Family."_

FOR Mr. Carden-Cox to have a disturbed equanimity meant talk. Whatever
he felt flowed outward in the natural vent of talk. This is usually
supposed to be a feminine characteristic, but some men inherit it
largely from their mothers, and Mr. Carden-Cox possessed it in
perfection. The more his feelings were stirred, the more he had to say.

This was the style of thing:—

"Your mother resting—asleep! Best for her, much best. Well, girls,
how are you? Pretty well, eh? Poor things—sad, very—most trying time.
Everybody feels for you all—nice feeling expressed—and—Well, my dear
boy, how are you? Not very robust yet? Grown thinner, I declare.
Oh, it won't do for you to fret; no use at all. Nothing gained by
fretting. What has to be, has to be. I tell everybody it is wrong to
fret—tempting Providence!"

It was true that Mr. Carden-Cox did tell everybody this, and some
people were apt to ask responsively behind his back whether it was
right to "sulk," which was the Newton Bury term for Mr. Carden-Cox's
occasional retreats from society.

"Quite wrong," repeated Mr. Carden-Cox. "Trouble has to be borne.
'Man is born to trouble.' Poor Browning—poor fellow—your poor father,
I mean," stumbling awkwardly over the different modes of expression.
"Yes, it's most unfortunate—sad, I mean. But you've got to think, all
of you, that he is no doubt spared something worse—heart disease—might
have suffered severely if he had lived. I'm sure nobody could have
thought—but one ought to think! Wonder we don't understand more the
uncertainties of life. Seems always to take us by surprise. 'In midst
of life we are in death;' but it is very astonishing."

Anice cried quietly, with subdued sniffles, as he talked, and Daisy
looked indignant, while Fulvia's eyes wore a defensive expression.
Nigel appeared not to be listening.

"You've all got to buckle to now, and get things arranged for your
poor mother, eh, girls? Must think of her comfort. Nigel will be going
to college by-and-by, so you'll have to be her dependence. What of
your poor father's affairs, Nigel? Looked into things yet? Some little
embarrassments, I suppose. Nothing serious, or we should have heard;
everybody would have heard."

"Nobody has heard anything yet."

Mr. Carden-Cox peered at him inquisitively. "Then there is something,
hey?"

"We must give up the Grange."

Daisy burst into a round-mouthed "Oh!" Anice uttered a little shriek.

"Give up—the Grange!"

"Let or sell, whichever we can. There will not be enough money to keep
the place going. We must find a small low-rented house somewhere, and
do our best to live economically."

Mr. Carden-Cox screwed up his lips, emitting a tiny whistle.

"And—college—"

"Is out of the question. I shall be at the Bank."

"In what capacity?"

"Clerk."

"You—a clerk!"

"On £200 a year. But for friendship and kindness I should have had to
begin with less than half as much."

There was no falter in Nigel's voice thus far.

"But, I say!" broke in Mr. Carden-Cox. "I say! What about Fulvia?"

"If I don't go out as governess, I shall be useful at home," said
Fulvia. A touch of hardness was visible in her manner.

"You—go—out—as—governess!" Mr. Carden-Cox could hardly give utterance
to the words.

"Fulvia is talking nonsense. That will not be." Nigel spoke resolutely,
but Fulvia could see what the interview was to him.

"I don't know who is to prevent, if I choose."

"I do. It will not be permitted."

"Permitted! I should just—think—not!" gasped Mr. Carden-Cox. "Fulvia
Rolfe to go—out—as—governess! And pray, what of Fulvia Rolfe's fifty
thousand pounds? Eh? What of my niece's fifty thousand pounds? I am
her uncle, remember! Her only near relative, remember! I have a right
to know, to demand! What of Fulvia's money, entrusted to—to—to—your
father?"

Mr. Carden-Cox was in a towering passion, too much of a passion for
lucid speech. He already saw what he had to expect, and he nearly
foamed at the mouth.

"Fulvia's money!" he reiterated. "Fulvia's fifty—thousand—pounds! Eh?
Eh? Eh? What of that, eh? Where is it?"

One word would have been sufficient answer, just the little word
"Gone!" Nigel could not say it. His self-command was not equal to
the strain. To have to confess this of his dead father before Mr.
Carden-Cox, before the wronged Fulvia, before Albert Browning's own
daughters, was too much. There was a parting of the lips, and an effort
to speak, but no sound came, and the lips closed again with rigid
pressure, as if he were hardly able to endure himself.

Fulvia had meant to remain in the background, but the sight of Nigel's
distress overpowered her, and she started forward impulsively.

"Nigel, don't! I wish you would not! Do leave me to tell. Uncle, you
are not to worry Nigel and all the rest of us about that wretched
money: I will not have you do it. I am of age now. It is in my hands,
not yours. And I choose to have nothing separate. I am madre's child,
just like Anice or Daisy. Madre has had terrible losses, and I am ready
to work for her as I would for my own mother. I will not have them all
bothered and plagued, just when they have so much to bear."

"And your fifty thousand pounds, child! Fifty thousand, mind you! Not a
penny less!"

"You don't know anything about it. How should you? It is not fifty
thousand, and I don't believe there ever was half that. Some of it is
gone—I don't care how much—and it is nobody's concern except mine. If
padre used some, he had a right, and I won't hear anybody say he had
not. He was my father," cried the generous girl, ready to say anything
in her hot defence. "And he meant to repay; of course he meant to
repay; he would have repaid if he had lived."

"Father use Fulvia's money!" uttered Daisy.

"Daisy, will you hold your tongue? Have you no eyes? Can't you see?
Nigel can't bear it—nobody can bear it. Why must you all try to make
the worst of everything? Things can't be helped now—now he is gone! He
never meant it—he told me so when he was dying. I will not hear hard
words said of him. I tell you we will all have everything together, and
I don't mean to allow a single word more about my money."

"Community of goods, in fact!" growled Mr. Carden-Cox. "That's all very
fine, but—you mean—" he looked from her to Nigel and back again—"you
mean, in fact—as I might have guessed—that your money is lost—flung
away—squandered—stolen! Ay, stolen! Nothing more nor less than stolen!
And that man—Browning!—Let me alone, girl," as Fulvia distractedly
clutched his wrist—"Let me alone. I'll have my say. That man, Albert
Browning, trusted by your poor father as the very soul of honour—he was
a scoundrel! A mean pitiful scoundrel! A miserable base SCOUNDREL!"

Mr. Carden-Cox was beside himself with wrath, or he would hardly have
gone so far.

Fulvia turned to Nigel in an agony.

"Nigel! Stop him!" she implored.

Nigel himself could not endure this. He had already started up, ashen
white.

"Retract your words or leave the house," he said hoarsely.

And before Mr. Carden-Cox could reply, Daisy burst into a terrified
exclamation:—

"Mother! Look at mother!"

Mrs. Browning was in the room. How long she had been there no one could
tell. When Daisy first saw her she stood near the door, perfectly
still, like a living image of wax in her deep mourning, one hand
hanging carelessly over the other on a background of crape, the dark
eyes wide-open and fixed. But Daisy's words aroused her, and she came
forward.

"Clemence! If I'd guessed—" groaned Mr. Carden-Cox.

He advanced, holding out his hand in a half apologetic manner,
muttering something like "regret."

Mrs. Browning gazed beyond and through him. She swept past slowly, and
came among her children, laying a hand on Nigel's arm.

"What is it all about?" she asked in her sweet low voice. "I do not
understand. Some one can open the door for Mr. Carden-Cox."

Mr. Carden-Cox absolutely went, there and then, without a word of
self-excuse, opening the door for himself, bowing to the decision of
that fair woman as he would have bowed to the decision of no other
human being.

Fulvia gathered her wits together, and rushed after him to the front
door.

"One word—one word!" she said. "Hear me, uncle—I will be heard," as he
was turning away. "You must listen. This is not to be known—not to be
spread abroad. No one is to know it except ourselves."

Mr. Carden-Cox's face was dark with wrath. He had obeyed Clemence
Browning, but he would not easily forgive either her dismissal or his
own submission.

"Atrocious!" was the one word he uttered. Then he shook off Fulvia's
hand. "Let me go, girl! I've done with you all! An ungrateful crew!
After all these years—to be turned away like a tramp! Ordered off by
her!"

"It is not ingratitude! You know it is not! You know you were wrong!
You know a wife could not hear such words of her husband! And, whatever
you think, the matter is not to go any farther. It must not—shall not!
What is the good? What would be the use—now?"

"That may be as I choose," said Mr. Carden-Cox. A sudden consciousness
of power brought coolness to him. He held the family secret, and he was
not bound.

"If you do—if you tell—" cried Fulvia. "Uncle, you must understand!
If you make this known, I will never speak to you again. I declare I
will not. And what is the use?" she went on passionately. "The money is
gone, and talking will not bring it back. Have you no pity for those
who are left? He is dead, and you cannot touch him—only his name. That
will hurt them, not him. If he were wrong—ever so wrong—what then? I
don't believe he understood; but if he did, why are they to suffer? Do
you want to kill madre? I could not have thought you so hard, so cruel!
I thought you cared for us all."

Mr. Carden-Cox stood still, looking at her.

"Child, you don't understand," he said at length. "Women never do! You
think fifty thousand pounds a toy, to be tossed from hand to hand." He
was composed now, not less angry, but able to feel a certain admiration
for Fulvia's generosity. "Not one woman in a thousand knows the meaning
of a 'trust.' You don't!"

Another pause. Was he relenting?

"I shall not set foot in this house again. That is, not until Clemente
requests it. She will not; and I shall not come. Best settle the matter
now. Send Nigel here at once. I will wait for him. Yes, you may go."

"You will keep our secret?"

"Send Nigel, and be quick," was the answer.

Fulvia obeyed. What else could she do?

Nigel came, stern and silent.

The two men stood together in the open doorway, no one else within
hearing.

"Fulvia wishes this matter hushed up. It rests with me, of course,
whether or no. If I choose, I can drag the whole matter to light of
day."

Nigel merely said, "Yes."

"You acknowledge my right—"

"Your power."

"Well, well, let it be so. My power, if you choose. As Fulvia's uncle I
have the right, unquestionably. I have asked to speak with you, as I am
not likely to call again in a hurry."

"Without making an apology you hardly could."

"Pshaw! As if I had not known you all long enough! But as for
this—Fulvia says that to spread the thing abroad would punish the
living, not the dead."

"Yes."

"You think the same? Don't know that I see it so. A man's good name is
not supposed to lose its value, even after his death. However, my chief
care is for Fulvia's interests. Are you willing to make up to her what
she has lost?"

"If repayment is ever in my power—"

"Repayment! Bosh! Fifty thousand pounds are not made in a day. By the
time Fulvia is an old woman, perhaps—and what good would the money be
to her then? No, no; you have it in your power to recoup her now—now!
Will you do it or no? That is the question."

Nigel was silent; understanding only too well.

"Mind, my line of action depends on your decision. If you are to be
Fulvia's husband, I may safely leave her interests in your hands. If
not, I shall see to them myself."

"In what way?"

"Whichever way I choose. I shall have the matter openly looked into."

"You have no thought for my mother in that case." Nigel spoke in a
measured, icy voice.

Mr. Carden-Cox could verily have answered "No." He was only angry with
Clemente Browning just then.

"I have thought for my niece," he said. "That is more to the purpose."

Another break took place—Nigel looking on the ground, Mr. Carden-Cox
looking at Nigel. At any other time he would have felt for Nigel, but
now he felt only for himself. His self-love had been deeply wounded,
and all other sensations were lost in this.

"Well?"

"You do not expect an instant decision, I suppose."

"Instant! After these weeks! Then you had not made up your mind yet!"

"To do what?"

"Marry Fulvia."

"I have not made up my mind to propose to her. A lady is usually
supposed to have a voice in the matter." Nigel was not given to satire,
but at the moment it was a relief.

"Of course, of course. If Fulvia said no, that would not be your fault.
She won't, though," muttered Mr. Carden-Cox. Aloud, he went on: "You
understand the alternative. Fulvia, as your fiancée, may demand what
amount of secrecy she pleases, for the family of her future husband. I
shall not, in that case, oppose her. Fulvia, standing alone, will be a
different matter. I shall feel it my duty to take action on her behalf."

"To blazon our private affairs abroad!" Nigel spoke bitterly. It was
not wise, neither was it surprising.

Mr. Carden-Cox shrugged his shoulders.

"Fulvia's private affairs, made known, may unquestionably drag yours to
the forefront. It is only under one condition that I promise to shelter
your father's name. People will begin to talk—have begun already. You
can take—say, to the end of the week for consideration. Then, if I do
not hear—"

"I understand."

"You can send me a line; or come and see me. Whichever you choose. But,
remember, my mind is made up. Nothing can alter it."

Mr. Carden-Cox was gone, and Nigel went back to the drawing-room.


The past scene appeared to have had a curiously bracing effect on
Mrs. Browning. The languor and sadness of the last fortnight were
thrown off. Her children had never seen her look so young and fair and
dignified as she did, standing in their midst, when Nigel returned from
the front door. Nothing, or next to nothing, had been yet said; they
had waited for him.

Mrs. Browning laid one hand again on his arm, as if for support, though
she had not the look of one needing support. A soft rose flushed her
cheek, lending a light to the eyes.

"Has he apologised? Will he be silent?" asked Fulvia.

Nigel answered only the first question. "Mr. Carden-Cox is not given to
apologies."

"But—this time—surely—"

"What does it all mean?" Mrs. Browning inquired.

"It means—oh, it means that Uncle Arthur has behaved shamefully, madre.
I used to think him a good man, and I'll never call him so again. But
you must not mind—you must never remember what he said. He was in a
passion; and words spoken in a passion are worth nothing. Promise me to
forget—promise me not to believe—"

"My dear Fulvia! I believe anything against my dear husband!"

"No, no! I might have known that you would not—could not!"

"But I should like to know what led Mr. Carden-Cox to behave in such an
extraordinary way. If you would all leave me with Nigel."

"He magnifies and distorts everything!" Fulvia broke in. "Madre, dear,
we need not mind him. We will never listen to a single word breathed
against the dear kind padre. Never!"

Fulvia was overdoing her part. She glanced in vain towards Nigel,
hoping to be seconded; but his face was rigidly irresponsive.

"Mr. Carden-Cox said—" began Daisy.

"Uncle Arthur knows nothing about things—nothing more than we have
told him. Daisy, do be sensible; do be kind; don't rake up worries,"
whispered Fulvia energetically. "It is of no use—none whatever. Nothing
can be altered now by any amount of talk."

"But your money?"

"Hsh—sh!"

"I wish to know what it all means," said Mrs. Browning in her calm
voice. "There is no need to whisper. I must, of course, be told
everything. Anice and Daisy can leave us for a little while." As the
door closed behind them, she continued: "Fulvia knows more than the
girls."

"A little more, perhaps. We will talk over everything some day soon—you
and I, madre. Only not to-day! It is too soon. Nigel ought not to have
all this thrust upon him till he is stronger."

"No?" The word was not acquiescent. In her own fashion Mrs. Browning
could be graciously wilful. She moved in front of her son, looking up
at him. "Yes—tired, I am afraid—but a few minutes will be enough. I
must understand how things really are. It is not possible that any one
could seriously accuse my dear husband of—carelessness in—"

"Mr. Carden-Cox always speaks before he thinks."

"Yes, he does that! But what did he mean by saying that all your money
had been—stolen? Is it really lost? Has somebody run away?—In a bank or
an office?"—with truly feminine vagueness.

"I don't know that anybody has—exactly," faltered Fulvia.

"Then it was not true about your money being—stolen, my dear?"

"No; not true. It is a wicked falsehood, madre. There has been no such
thing as stealing. You are never to think of that word again. It has
been just a question of mistakes. Nobody could help things being as
they are, and no one is to blame. There have been losses, of course.
Money will go, sometimes; everybody knows that it will. A great deal
of yours and of mine, too, is gone. Poor padre's health, you know—how
could he keep accounts or attend to business?—and so things have got
wrong. It wouldn't matter so much, only we have to leave the Grange,
and to live in a small house; and that will grieve you. It does seem
hard for you; but nothing else signifies. I can't think why troubles
should come as they do, on the very people who deserve them least."

"They come as God wills, Fulvie. I would not choose to be without
them. But there are different kinds of trouble. I think I could bear
anything, as long as—" and a quiver. "It would kill me to hear things
said—said against him! Anything but that."

"But you will not—you shall not! Nobody shall dare!" cried Fulvia.
"If only Mr. Carden-Cox will hold his tongue, nobody else will speak.
Nobody has known how much I was to have. Nigel, why don't you help me
to comfort madre?" Then she regretted her words.

Mrs. Browning's eyes again searched wistfully her son's face. A strange
look crept into her eyes as she gazed—a look of hidden affright. Yet
she turned with a faint smile to Fulvia.

"My dear, will you go to the girls for a little while? If you do not
mind!—I wish to speak to Nigel alone."

Fulvia could not but obey; and when she was gone, the look of affright
came back, hidden no longer. It blanched Mrs. Browning's cheeks, and
widened the mournful eyes.

"I must know—now!" she said, in an undertone. "Not when others were
here, but now we are alone. What does it all mean?"

He did not speak, and the look of terror increased.

"It cannot be Albert—my husband!" she said. "He could not have called
him that—with reason! But what did he mean? Not blame to my dear
Albert?"

"If only you would not ask, mother!"

"I must ask; I must know. Only you can tell me. Yes, sit down, if
you like. I am so sorry. This worry is bad for you, and makes your
head ache, does it not? But how can I wait? I have only you now—no
one else!" She took a seat beside him, and put back the hair from
his brow with her cold fingers and her sweet motherly air. "It is
hard, I know—everything coming upon you; and you are so good to me.
Only—think!—he is my husband!" She did not say "was." "He is my
husband, and I have the first right to know all. Tell me plainly, is
he—was he—has he been in any way to blame?"

"He will be blamed," Nigel said hoarsely.

"Why should he?"

"Fulvia's money—"

"Yes,—Fulvia's money—?"

"It has been—used."

"How?"

"Different ways."

"You don't know how?"

"He always hoped to repay; he did not intend—"

"You mean—he had not enough of his own, and he
used—But—but—that—surely—!" She thrilled with horror, like a wounded
creature. "That! My husband! But, Nigel! It was not—honourable—honest!"

Nigel's lips hardly formed the word "No!" He forced himself to add: "My
father did not intend—"

"How do you know he did not intend? What do you mean by intending'? He
knew what he did; he must have known."

"I don't think he realised—fully."

"Do people ever?" she asked, with positive scorn. "Isn't that always
the way—borrowing, and meaning to repay?" Then she dropped her head,
and broke into a low wail: "Albert—my husband!"

Nigel had no comfort to offer. He could only wait in silence; and soon
the question came again—

"How do you know what he intended and did not intend?"

"He said it to Fulvia, dying, and asked her pardon."

"And I not told! I ought to have been told. Did he say any more that I
have not heard?"

"He asked me to repay Fulvia—to—"

"Yes; tell me his words—every word."

Nigel could not; she was expecting too much. He made an effort, and
failed; then drew an envelope from his pocket, and gave it to her.
"From my father to me," he said huskily. "I found it—afterwards." He
did not watch his mother while she read, but sat with his right hand
pressed across brow and eyes.

"Yes," she said, in a slow, quiet voice, when she reached the end; and
a long breath of sorrow was woven into the word.

Then a pause.

"Has Fulvia seen this?"

"No."

"Or—any one?"

"No."

"He never told me—never let me suspect—But Fulvia, knows?"

"Yes."

"We must shelter his name, his dear name, at any cost."

"Fulvia does not wish it to be known." Nigel spoke without stirring.
"But—"

"It must not be known; his name must be guarded. It would break my
heart! If this becomes known, I shall—die," she whispered. "I could
never look any one in the face again. It would be—fearful!"

She laid her hand on his—ice-cold, both hers and his. "Nigel, help me;
tell me what can be done. It will kill me if this becomes known. Think
of all Newton Bury talking—talking of—him! I could not bear it!" and
there was a terrible sob. "What can we do? Fulvia does not wish—but
will—will Mr. Carden-Cox keep silence?"

"Yes, if—"

Nigel caught himself up; he had not meant to say so much.

"If? Has he made a condition?"

"He will do nothing till I write or see him again."

"No; but 'if'—you said 'if.' Did you mean nothing? You must tell me
all. I cannot bear the thought of its being known. It would be too—too
fearful—now he is gene! He cannot defend himself. And people are so
hard; they would judge him cruelly. I wish you would look at me—not
hide your eyes. Why do you? I feel so alone;" with another deep sob.
"And no one but you can help me. If you would only speak out—only hide
nothing! I think I have a right to be told—I, your mother!"

His chivalry could not disregard the appeal of her bitter distress, and
of her lonely widowhood. He was all that she had left—all she could
lean upon. Wisely or unwisely, he came to the resolution to speak out.
Perhaps he was in despair of escape; perhaps—though he did not guess
this till later—he had a faint hope of finding her on his side. He knew
the jealousy of her love for him; and he did not allow for concomitant
circumstances.

"Mr. Carden-Cox will not speak—if I should marry Fulvia," he said.

"Fulvia!" Mrs. Browning looked wonderingly at the set joyless face,
not the face of an expectant lover speaking of his love. "If you marry
Fulvia!"

"That is his wish."

"Fulvia! And it was my dear husband's wish! He spoke so often; but I
thought—I was afraid—"

"Mother, I said 'if.' It is not to be spoken about. If I ask her—"

"And you will! Oh, you will! He wished it so much!"

Nigel made no reply.

She gazed with anxious questioning.

"And if you do not—if you do not—will Mr. Carden-Cox keep our secret?"

"He says—not."

"Nigel; and you can hesitate!"

No answer again.

"Hesitate! When it means that. No, no—impossible! You are only playing
with my fears. And caring for Fulvia as you do! It is not as if she
were nothing to you; she—the most unselfish, the noblest—Yes, I know
you had another fancy once. But what of that? Everybody has a boyish
fancy first, which has to be given up. And that could not be; it never
could have been! He would not have consented; and now he is gone, how
could I? Oh no! I have always had objections—strong objections. But we
need not talk of that now. We have only to think of our dear Fulvia—my
child already! I don't know if you will like me to say it, but there
cannot be much doubt, if you speak, what Fulvia's answer will be. She
has shown at times so plainly—not meaning it, of course—has shown what
she feels. If you could have seen her, as I have, always on the watch
for you, always thinking of your comfort—her happiness depending on
your very look. It is not a thing that one can be mistaken about!"

"Mother, you are saying all this to me!—And if I should not ask her?"
Nigel said in a low tone.

It was his nearest approach to a rebuke with Mrs. Browning. He would
not have heard the words from any one else.

"You will ask her! I know you will. I have not a doubt. Think, if
you did not; think of the misery, the terrible misery to us all—your
father's dear name dragged in the mire—trampled upon. The very thought
half kills me!" And indeed a ghastly look came into her face. "I could
not bear it! I could never endure it! Promise, oh, promise me, for his
sake, my Nigel—promise to shelter him—all of us! Only promise!" she
implored.



CHAPTER XXIII

A STRANGE INTERVIEW

   "When we two parted
    In silence and tears."—BYRON.

WHEN Ethel left Tom, she really was angry with him. Such rudeness to
speak of her "caring too much" for anybody! What business was it of
Tom's whom she liked or did not like? And to call Nigel "that fellow"!
Perhaps this little insult to Nigel rankled the most.

Ethel's anger was never bitter in kind, or long lasting, and annoyance
soon gave way to amusement. Poor old Tom! After all, he had not meant
any harm; and he did not know Nigel; but how Tom could ever have
thought such a thing possible was the marvel. Leave all she loved in
England, and go to Australia with only Tom and Tom's herbaria!

"Oh, never!" said Ethel to herself. She repeated the word
energetically, half aloud, as she passed through the square—"Never!"
and a passerby turned to look at her, smiling. Ethel did not see; she
went quickly, without any particular aim, towards the river.

It was a tempting afternoon for a stroll, balmy and soft—one of those
mild grey days, with occasional gleams of sunshine, which do sometimes
intrude themselves into an English winter. They are not exactly
invigorating days, and enthusiastic skaters are wont to abuse them; but
to haters of cold they come as a cheery foretaste of spring.

Gleams of sunshine were at an end when Ethel started; still, she had
a spell of daylight and twilight ahead, long enough for a brisk walk,
by way of shaking off recollections of Tom. When dusk should fall,
she would look in at a friend's house for a cup of tea—one of the
numerous single ladies "of the usual age" abundant in Newton Bury. It
would never do to go home till after five. Mrs. Elvey was upstairs
with neuralgia; and a fresh tête-à-tête with Tom so soon was not to be
thought of.

"If mother doesn't come down, he must manage for himself for once,"
thought Ethel.

Along the river-bank was the one "country walk" within easy distance of
the Rectory. Some ten or fifteen minutes at a quick pace, going down
stream, brought one to a region where buildings were scarce. Newton
Bury ended abruptly in this direction. The other way, up stream, there
were gentlemen's houses and gardens, reaching far; for that was the
"west-end" of the town. Towards the south, working-men's quarters
predominated; but the old Parish Church of St. Stephen's, in its
venerable square, lay towards the north-east, very near country lanes
and fields, in a poor but quiet part—the oldest part of Newton Bury.

Ethel did not keep long to the river-side. An impulse seized her to
visit the cemetery—a natural impulse under the circumstances, her
thoughts being constantly bent upon the Brownings and their trouble.
She had not been to the cemetery since the day of the funeral. There
would be just time enough for her to get there and back before dark.
The idea no sooner occurred to Ethel than she acted upon it, quitting
the towing-path, and making a short-cut straight to her destination.

The cemetery, though outside the town, was not far-off. It was a
singularly pretty place, more like a large garden or a small park than
a burial-ground, with soft grassy slopes, abundance of trees, and
masses of evergreens. In fine weather the cemetery was a favourite
resort of people living at this end of Newton Bury.

Ethel reached the large gates, and went through, passing at a rapid
pace towards the quiet corner which the Brownings would now hold
dear—which would also be dear to Ethel, for Nigel's sake. She found
the place somewhat lonely, and darker than she had expected, under the
shadows of the great yew trees. The black branches had an eerie look.
Once Ethel almost turned back, thinking it had grown too late for her
to be there alone; but she changed her mind, and went on. She had a
dislike to giving up a definite intention; and, after all, nobody was
here except herself—nobody was likely to be here.

The low mound loomed suddenly upon her gaze, almost solitary upon a
triangular patch of grass, which on one side was bounded by a fringe of
trees, their bare boughs making a lace-like pattern against the sky.
Ethel saw so much, then she slackened her pace, and faltered; for she
was not alone.

Though she did not at once tell herself whose solitude she had invaded,
she knew well—knew instantly. The position might be unwonted, but the
outline of the shoulders was unmistakable. He was a little way off from
the new mound, seated on the only other tombstone near—a flat stone
with a recumbent cross upon it—and his head was bent forward, resting
on his hands. The attitude was one of intense trouble; but he remained
quiet. Ethel had never seen Nigel in that position before; yet she
recognised him, despite the gloom.

She did not know whether perhaps she ought to go away; only it seemed
impossible to leave him thus. So she went forward gently, and stood
beside the mound, her heart very full for his sake. Two or three
minutes passed; and she stirred, touching a loose stone with her foot.
It rolled over, and the slight rattle caused him to lift his head.

"Ethel!"

They had not met since Fulvia's birthday—since the morning after their
interview in the vestry. Life had seemed then very fair, and full of
promise for them both. Now all was changed; but how much changed, how
dark the sky had grown, Ethel did not yet know. She came forward when
he stood up, and put her hand into his, only intent on showing her
sympathy.

"Thanks; I knew you would feel for us," he said.

The misery of his face was almost too much for Ethel; she had great
difficulty in controlling herself. "I didn't know you were so ill
still," she faltered.

"Ill! No, I don't think so." He spoke as if hardly knowing what he
said, and motioned Ethel to the seat he had quitted. She took it
obediently, without question; and he sat down beside her. "I have been
wishing for a few words with you," he went on.

"If I could be a comfort—any comfort! I know how much you must feel his
death; the loss of—"

"If that were all!" Nigel spoke with despairing calmness, and Ethel
looked at him in amazement.

"That—all!" she repeated. "Did you mean—?"

Nigel made no answer. He seemed to be gazing at the faint light visible
still through bare trees. For more than half-an-hour he had sat here
alone, trying to unravel the perplexities of his position, striving
in vain after definite thought. He had come to the cemetery from the
Grange drawing-room, straight and fast as walking could bring him, not
so much to be near his father's grave as to be away from people, beyond
reach of human eyes. One thing alone was clear—that speak with Ethel he
must, this very day if possible, and before he could or would give any
decisive answer to his mother and to Mr. Carden-Cox. He did not count
himself free, for he had distinctly sought Ethel hitherto.

Now, indeed, he could not ask her to be his. Apart from all questions
of marrying Fulvia, he could not rightly ask Ethel to wait for him,
under the circumstances. So he told himself; and yet he felt that, but
for this terrible complication, he would have hoped—she might have
waited.

Still, she had a right to know how things were. He could not simply
draw back, holding his peace, and seeking her no longer. She must
understand; and he would explain—nay, more, he would ask her advice.
She had so clear a sense of right and wrong, so calm a judgment, so
firm a habit of self-denial, that she would be able to see clearly what
he had lost the power to distinguish, from physical and mental strain.

All this he had resolved to put before Ethel, picturing even the words
to be used. But now that she had suddenly appeared, now that she was
seated by his side, he found his lips sealed; for it came over him with
a rush of new realisation what he was purposing to do.

Give her up—and for ever! Give her up—for the sake of Fulvia! Could
he? The old sense arose vividly, which he always had with Ethel,
that nothing in life was worth consideration apart from her! Part
with her for ever! Had it been a question of waiting, he would have
resolved to wait in hope—to wait for years, if that needed to be!—but
to cut himself off from her hopelessly was another matter. Yet if he
did not—and the reverse side of the picture arose: a picture of his
father's name publicly dishonoured, of his mother broken-hearted, of
the wronged Fulvia wronged anew!

"I don't know how to bear to see you like this!" Ethel said sorrowfully.

And her voice unsealed his lips. He knew that he must not let the
opportunity pass of speaking openly. Such another might not occur.

"What did I say just now?" he asked. "Something, was it not, that
surprised you?"

"I thought you did not quite mean what you said. About your trouble;
and—'if that were all!'"

"Yes, I meant it. There is worse than you know."

"Will you tell me what? You always do tell—us things," she said, in a
gentle voice. The "us" came after a pause. She had almost said "me";
and it would have been true.

Ethel wondered if he were going to speak, he waited so long; but she
too waited, and presently he began.

"We have lost almost everything. The Grange cannot be our home any
longer. A small house—somewhere; and I—my mother and sisters will be
dependent on me."

"Yes." It was a quiet grave monosyllable. As if on second thoughts, she
added, "That will be a great trouble to you all."

"Not the worst yet! Fulvia's money is gone!"

"Gone! Where?"

Nigel made a movement of his hand towards the new mound. "He is—there!
One cannot speak against him—now! It is a miserable tale. This is only
for yourself—not to go further. He did not intend, of course, to injure
any one—Fulvia least of all—if that is any excuse. I can't see that it
is. As my mother says, no one ever does intend. But—we can't judge. I
don't feel as if I could face his side of the matter; only to think of
what has to be done. There will be something left—not much. I shall be
a clerk at the Bank on £200 a year."

"I see," said Ethel gently. She grew more pale than usual, and there
was a curious sense of constriction at her heart, as if a tight band
impeded its beating; for she knew what all this meant. "Yes, I see; but
you will make your way. Perhaps even—Does Fulvia mind very much?"

Nigel could speak more freely now. Once started, he had power to
continue, and he even found speech a relief. He seldom felt it so
with any one else, but with Ethel he did. Her silent sympathy drew
him on. He told her of his father's death; of the dying words spoken
to Fulvia and himself; of the hand placed in his; giving details that
he had not given even to his mother, only omitting the look of joy on
Fulvia's face, which had haunted him ever since. Nigel went through all
this in a low monotonous voice, as to a well-tried friend, and Ethel
read it so. When he spoke of Fulvia's disinterestedness, she detected
a weariness of tone, a want of enthusiasm. He praised her, and was
grateful; but the words of praise were measured.

Ethel listened patiently, shivering a little. It was dusk by this time,
and the grass under their feet was wet. A cemetery is not a warm or
cheerful place late on a January afternoon; and Ethel might well be
excused for shivering, with the gravestones lying coldly around, while
a little tomb of buried girlish hopes was being made in her own girlish
heart. It was no wonder that she shivered and looked white. For she
understood well whereto all this tended; even before Nigel went on to
speak of Mr. Carden-Cox's condition of silence, and of his mother's
distress. She understood—first, that he would not be free to marry her;
secondly, that he would be called upon to marry some one else.

These details took time in the telling, however briefly expressed.
No needless words were used; but they did not come fast. While Nigel
talked, it never occurred to Ethel that the afternoon was passing fast,
that daylight was waning.

He came at length to a pause. Now she understood the position of
affairs. He had not mentioned, had not directly alluded to, his love
for her; but Ethel knew it,—had never known it more surely than in this
hour. He had left nothing else out, except the one item of Fulvia's too
evident feeling for him; and Ethel could supply this item from her own
knowledge. She, too, had noted with observant eyes, since a certain
clue had been supplied by a certain mis-sent postscript.

As she listened to Nigel, one sentence of that postscript flashed up,
with all the force of a prophecy coming true: "Nigel will never marry
her!"

"Never! Never!" echoed the silent graves and the silent trees. "Never!
Never!" The words repeated themselves in Ethel's brain, and twined in
and out of the straggling yew branches. "Nigel will never marry her!"
Mr. Carden-Cox was taking care to bring his own prophecy to pass.

The story was ended, and Nigel's monotonous voice changed. It grew
hoarse and troubled as he said—

"Ethel, tell me what I ought to do."


Ethel woke up from a maze; and as she woke, a dream of long years died
a quiet death. She saw it die while she sat there, saw it fade away,
and another dream arise, grey-toned, of a long lonely life, apart
from one whom she loved best. Yet no tears threatened, no agitation
came. She was so full of thought for Nigel, so grieved for him, that
self-pity had as yet no place. Perhaps she was a little stunned by the
unexpected blow—as one is apt to be, at first.

"Tell me," he repeated; "I want your advice. Must I do this thing?"

"Must you marry Fulvia?"

"Yes." Unconsciously, he caught in his, the hand lying on her knee.
"Tell me what you think I ought to do!" he pleaded. "No one else can
help me."

Ethel drew her hand away, but so slowly that he could not be pained.

"I think you feel sure yourself already," she said in a soft still
voice. "It is hard for one to see clearly for another. If I were in
your place—"

"Yes, that is what I want. If you were in my place, how should you
feel?"

Another break. Ethel noted the growing darkness. She was so composed as
even to draw out her watch.

"No, I cannot see the time;" and she put it away again. "But it must be
getting late. I think we ought to go home."

Did she wish to avoid giving an opinion? She stood up, and Nigel did
the same. They had to go cautiously over the uneven grass, and along
the narrow path bordered by yew trees; but the broader path beyond was
straight and level, with more light. Nigel said then again—

"Yes. If you were in my place—"

"It is so difficult to be sure. I am trying to see things rightly for
you—from your standpoint. But one little touch either way makes all the
difference; and I cannot know the whole as you do."

"Tell me, so far as you can, at least. If you were in my place—"

"I think I might perhaps feel, as you do, that I ought—perhaps even
that I must!" There was again the sense of tightness at Ethel's heart,
though no sign of it appeared in her voice. "I mean, I might feel that
I must do all I could to repay Fulvia, and to spare my—to spare Mrs.
Browning. That would be your side of the matter—to feel bound—perhaps
to try—if—" Nigel could not see the gloved hands wrung together, and
she went on, scarcely faltering, only hesitating for words; yet somehow
he understood. "To feel bound—" she repeated, "to try if—to offer to
Fulvia—But if I were in Fulvia's place, there would be a difference.
Nothing could seem to me more dreadful than—to—"

"Than to—marry me!" He said it seriously.

"No—no—than to marry anybody who did not really mean it—wish it; to be
asked out of duty by one who—" and a pause—"one who did not care for
me—as I cared."

"If you were Fulvia, you would think I ought to hold back—not to
offer?" Ethel's calmness was calming him; her apparent strength was
strengthening him. "You would think me wrong to speak, unless—"

"I should think you ought to be quite open, quite plain with me. Not
pretend to care more than you did—if—but I don't think you could
pretend; you could only keep from saying much. And that might deceive
her. I could not bear to be deceived, if I were Fulvia. I would like to
know how you really felt. I should wish you to speak out."

"Even supposing—supposing you cared a little for me?"

"Yes; even supposing that!" Ethel knew that Fulvia did care, more than
a little, and she was sure from Nigel's tone that he knew it too. She
believed that Mr. Carden-Cox's anxiety to bring about the engagement
lay also in a knowledge of this fact.

"Yes," Ethel repeated firmly. "I think it would be worse, if one cared
for somebody very much, to marry him, and then to find out that he
had only proposed because he thought it right. Much worse than if one
did not care for him at all. I don't think I could ever bear it—ever
forgive him. It would be wronging Fulvia—cruelly. Oh it is always,
always, best to be quite true, quite outspoken. I am sure it is. If
you feel that you ought to propose, then you are right to propose. But
you would not be right if you allowed Fulvia to think that you cared
for her more than you do care. If it is only—only duty—she ought to
understand."

How strange it seemed to Ethel that he should come and ask her
this—ask her, as it were, to sign away her own happiness! Ethel's was
an intensely conscientious nature. She would never turn aside from
what was right merely because it gave her pain. Nigel had put this
question before her as a question of right and wrong, and she could
do what not one woman in a thousand is capable of: she could view it
dispassionately, weighing the absolute right and absolute wrong without
reference to her own desires. If Nigel had not known her to be capable
of so much, he could not have come to her for help. He came, not
because he loved, though he did love, but because he entirely trusted
her.

Fulvia's was a fine nature, yet Fulvia could not emulate Ethel here.
Self would have swayed her decision; but it did not sway Ethel's. At
the moment she did not even see a certain hope involved in her advice,
a hope which flashed quickly upon Nigel. Although she felt in the
abstract that she could not herself marry a man who should propose to
her from motives of duty, she had not the smallest doubt that Fulvia
would accept.

"That might be a way out of the difficulty," Nigel said, speaking as
if involuntarily. Ethel did not at once understand. "But would it
be—honest—right? Would it not be a mere farce? To ask her, and tell her
I do not wish it! Would it not be adding insult to injury—almost cruel?"

"No, I think not. I mean, I think the other might be more cruel. Of
course it depends, everything depends, on how you do it. But you would
not be cruel; you would not say an unkind word. I suppose you would
not need to say much? Only just to let her know that it is not all
wish—that it is partly duty—that you will learn to feel as you ought
even if—if you don't quite yet."

There was a sound like a little gasp.

"I suppose one may conquer, always, in such a case, if one ought,"
continued Ethel, with a dim smile, and the tightness at her heart
again. "Only I do think Fulvia ought to know just so much. Sooner or
later she must, and it would be worse after—after marriage. If she
goes into it, she should go with her eyes open; not wait to find out
later—too late."

They were leaving the cemetery now, passing out into the broad road. It
was too dark for the narrow path by the river, and they had to keep to
the road, which was much deserted at so late an hour. They walked on
quietly, slowly; for Nigel seemed as if he could hardly drag himself
along. During some minutes neither spoke, and then his excessive
weariness dawned upon Ethel. She said—

"You must go the shortest way."

"When I have seen you home—perhaps."

"I would rather you should not. I am all right when we get to the
houses."

Nigel made no answer, and she knew that he did not mean to yield. She
knew it more certainly when they reached a little gate leading to a
field, for he paused and held it open.

"This way?" Ethel asked, knowing that it would lead them to the kitchen
garden behind the Rectory.

Nigel said "Yes," and she could not remonstrate. She could only let him
have his will, this once. They would have to speak that mournful word,
"good-bye," very soon—such a good-bye as they had never yet said one to
the other.

It was damp, slushy and dark, going through the meadow. Ethel's foot
slipped, and Nigel drew her hand within his arm.

"I can get on—I am all right," she said, not so steadily as hitherto,
for something in his touch unnerved her. He made no reply; and she
would not draw her hand away—would not risk adding to his pain.

Something told her that he had reached almost the outer limit of
endurance; and the consciousness of this, with the continued silence,
had a curious effect upon her. She began to tremble—to wish she might
escape. She thought of many things to say, one after another—things to
comfort him. For somehow Ethel knew, and could not help knowing, that
this death of her hopes was the death of his also. But one thing would
not do, and another she could not trust her voice to utter; and so they
went on in silence.

The silence grew at last too oppressive, and Ethel tried to break it.

"Must things be settled soon about your leaving the Grange?"

But he had no answer whatever; and then she knew that Nigel did not
speak because he could not.

Three of these small dark fields had to be crossed, surrounded by
houses and gardens, but in themselves lonely and deserted. They reached
the gate of the kitchen garden, still in silence. The Rectory windows
shone with varied lights. Nigel paused beside the gate, and Ethel
forced herself to say steadily—

"Thank you for coming so far. I shall be all right now. Good-bye."

She put out her hand, and he held it in a passionate clasp. There was
a struggle, but no words would come. Ethel stood still, tears running
down her cheeks. What could she do or say to comfort him?

"Ethel!—Ethel! My love!" broke out at length.

"No—no—you must not say that! Don't say any more!"

"Ethel—!" came hoarsely again, despite her entreaty; and she could feel
the shaking of the gate against which he leant.

"No—no—" she repeated. "Not now—not any more. I must not let you say
what you will be sorry for by-and-by. Don't—please! I think I am glad
we have had this talk, because—because I shall understand. We will
never speak of it again. By-and-by we shall be—friends—like other
people."

There was a negative movement on his part.

"Yes—I think so. You have to do what is right—about—and we will be
brave—we shall be helped. Doesn't God always help, if—if one wills to
do right? Perhaps a little hard for you—for us—at first, but that won't
last. It will be all right."

Ethel could not bear much more. She had kept up well so far; but
reaction was at hand. The interview had to be ended; and the sooner the
better.

"I must not stay!" she said. And then, without warning, unexpectedly,
she broke down. "Nigel—let me go!" she sobbed.

Nigel mastered himself for her sake. "I have been wrong—unkind!" he
said. "It has been too much for you."

"Oh no; only I can't bear to see you so unhappy. Please—please let me
go."

"I shall see you again soon. This isn't really—" and a falter. "Yes, we
will be—friends."

Then he wrung her hand once more, and was lost in the darkness—not to
return to the Grange till late at night. He had to fight his battle out
alone.

But Ethel could have no such relief. Ten minutes of bitter weeping she
did allow herself in the lonely garden. Then she was obliged to hasten
home, to wash away traces of tears, to evade family inquiries, to elude
Tom's troublesome solicitude, to spend a cheerful evening—no easy task
under the circumstances.



CHAPTER XXIV

WOULD SHE? COULD SHE?

   "It may be hard to gain, and still
      To keep a lowly steadfast heart;
    Yet he who loses has to fill
      A harder and a truer part."—A. A. PROCTER.

"FULVIA!"

"Yes."

"There is a house in Bourne Street—"

"Yes." Fulvia spoke curtly, looking up from her work with hard grey
eyes. She was alone in the morning-room, and it was Saturday.

"I want you to come and see. It might do."

"Bourne Street!"

"Not a bad part."

"Highly respectable, and the quintessence of dulness! Well, your
miseries won't last long there, which is one comfort. You will all die
of ennui before six months are over."

"We!" Nigel tried to laugh. "Are you to be the sole survivor? Superior
to such influences, I suppose."

"I shall be superior through absence. There are a whole lot of
advertisements for governesses to-day. I shall answer three of them."

"You will not!"

"That depends—I am of age."

"You do not think what it would be to us—to me—knowing what had driven
you to it."

Even this did not touch Fulvia. She gave a dry little laugh. "I am very
much disposed to please myself in the matter—irrespective of other
people. Why should I not—if I choose? Poky houses are not to my taste;
and I am sick of Newton Bury."

"And of everybody in Newton Bury?"

"If you like—yes. Are we to start on the expedition now?"

Nigel stood thinking, his brows drawn together.

Fulvia studied him in a succession of slight glances.

This was Saturday—the last day allowed by Mr. Carden-Cox for Nigel's
decision, the third since his parting interview with Ethel. No one knew
of that interview. He had said nothing about it. Why, indeed, should
he? His late return at night, after prayers, had given umbrage to his
home-folks; the more, since he offered no explanation, and permitted no
questioning. Even his mother ventured to say little, save in manner;
and an attempt on the part of Daisy was quashed at once.

They knew he had not been to the Rectory, had not, in fact, dined
anywhere; and that was all. It was all, at least, until this morning,
when a report reached Fulvia of somebody having seen him walking with
Ethel Elvey, after dusk, on the road near the river. She said not a
word of the report; but it stung her sharply.

None of them knew or guessed of the interview in the cemetery, the
parting with Ethel, the long hours after of wrestling and bitter
battling. He had walked far under a starlit sky, forgetting physical
weariness, braving out his conflict with no human help. There is better
than human help for such times, and Nigel knew whither to turn.

He had come off conqueror. The path he had to tread was plainly marked,
and he would tread it manfully. Self had to be sacrificed, and he would
sacrifice it resolutely. Ethel had to be given up, and he would give
her up completely. He was no longer in doubt as to his rightful course.

But he could not act at once—could not turn without a break from Ethel
to Fulvia. He had put off speaking until this last day allowed by Mr.
Carden-Cox, being meantime very busy with money matters, lawyers,
arrangements,—so busy that his home-people saw little of him. Better
this, than too much leisure for thought.

Occupied as he was, others noted a difference in him, a something
unusual, not to be defined. Daisy questioned Fulvia, "What was the
matter with Nigel?" and received a sharp reply. Yet Fulvia asked the
same herself.

This morning she asked a further question. What could it all mean? Had
Ethel refused him? Refused—because of his lost wealth! Fulvia's heart
bounded at the thought. She would not have done so in Ethel's place.
Certainly he had not the look of one who has gained his heart's desire.
Rather, it was the look of one bracing himself to the endurance of
trouble and difficulty. If he had asked Ethel, and she had accepted
him, would he wear such a look? Yet they had been out together after
dark—walking a lonely road. What could it mean but a proposal on his
part, and acceptance or refusal on hers?

"Have I been mad not to see?" she thought, seated alone in the
morning-room, work in hand. "Why have I not understood? But Ethel will
have him sooner or later. She will not hold out long. And I—I cannot
stay to see! I am glad my money is gone. That will be my excuse to run
away. I could not live here, looking on. I shall be a governess."

Then she heard Nigel saying "Fulvia," and looked up, to answer, "Yes."

"Are we to start on the expedition now?" she said at length, rising. "I
am ready, if you wish it. Daisy had better come as well."

Nigel assented absently, and Fulvia left the room. Coming back, she
wore a look of vexation.

"Daisy has gone out, no one knows where, and Anice declines. She says
she can't."

"Anice's 'can't' is equivalent to 'won't.' I don't think it matters.
The decision will rest with you."

"Why should it?"

"You are the eldest daughter, are you not?"

Fulvia shrugged her shoulders slightly, but in words she raised no
objection. Fifteen minutes' quick walk brought them to No. 9 Bourne
Street, hardly a word being uttered by the way.

As Fulvia had said, it was a respectable locality. The houses were of
white stucco, with neat porches and balconies, and tidy oblong gardens
behind. A narrow strip of enclosed grass, with small trees, occupied
the centre of the street from one end to the other. Beside the porch
was one window: and two windows above were capped by yet two others.

A cosy little house, no doubt, containing possibilities of comfort.
But after the Grange—ah, there was the rub? Everything in this world
is comparative! What one man counts to be luxury, because of what went
before, another counts to be beggarliness, from the same cause.

Nigel had the key, and he let Fulvia in, following her. They tramped
steadily over the interior, from bottom to top, hearing the echo
of their own feet on the bare boards. Reaching again the front
ground-floor room, when all had been inspected, Nigel said—

"Well?"

"Is this the best we can afford?"

"Forty pounds a year, not counting taxes. I dare not go beyond that. If
things did not promise to be a degree better than we thought at first,
we could not venture on so much."

"Madre will not like an upstairs drawing-room."

"I'm afraid there are a groat many things that she will not like."

"There will be a study for you."

"Behind this? Why not make it a morning-room for everybody?"

"No; a study, of course. You will be the breadwinner, and your needs
must be considered first. A study for you is a necessity. Madre must
have the bedroom on the next floor,—behind the drawing-room. She will
have Daisy to sleep with her permanently, I hope; and there is the
dressing room for Daisy to use. Anice can have the little half-way room
jutting out at the back; and you—if you don't mind—the one over it.
Then there will be the top front bedroom for friends. We can make it
look very pretty."

"I thought of that room for you."

"There are two behind. One will be for the maids—we are not to keep
more than two maids, are we?—And the smaller can be mine."

"That corner room, with no fireplace? Nonsense!"

"It will do well enough, when I am at home. If you like, you can treat
me as a visitor, and put me in the spare room. Governesses don't get a
superabundance of holidays, so there will be no real difficulty."

Fulvia seated herself on an empty chest, left in the middle of the
room, with the air of having settled everything. Nigel stood gravely in
front.

"You do not really suppose I shall consent to that scheme?"

Her eyes sparkled.

"I may choose to act with nobody's consent except my own."

"It would not be right."

"People differ in their views of 'right'!"

"Fulvia—" he said, in a different tone.

"Yes."

He had gone over the possible scene fifty times in imagination. He had
pictured himself as saying that or this in careful kind words, hinting,
indeed, at the true state of his own feelings, yet so as not to shock
or grieve her. But he had not once pictured himself as coming out
suddenly, in desperation, with the bald request—

"Fulvia, will you be my wife?"

It was not a well-selected place for an offer of marriage. The room was
absolutely empty, with the exception of their two selves and the box
on which Fulvia sat. Everybody knows how dreary is the impression made
by an absolutely empty room. Streaks of paint disfigured the blindless
and curtainless window, which glared dismally on the pair. Fulvia had
torn her dress walking downstairs, and her crape had gathered dust by
the way. Nigel's own shoulders were whitened by contact with the pantry
wall. No whit of what Mrs. Duncan called "poetical glamour" existed to
enhance the occasion. All was bare and cold.

A pause followed Nigel's abrupt proposal of marriage.

Fulvia gazed fixedly down. She did not flush now, but grew pale.

"Is it because Ethel has refused him, and he turns to me as a pis
aller?" she asked herself.

As she made no answer, he spoke again, not without agitation—

"I have not much to give you. It is not as things have been—but I would
do my utmost—would strive to repay something of what you have lost. I
would devote my life to that. I will, if you will let me."

Still no reply.

"It seems early to speak—in the midst of all our trouble, I mean.
I should have waited a little longer. But if you are bent on this
governess plan—and—" with a break—"I am not allowed to put off. Mr.
Carden-Cox has made my speaking at once the condition of his silence."

"I see!"—calmly. "And that is your reason!" Tears gathered on the
downcast lashes, yet she forced a laugh. "Yes, I understand. It is
most praiseworthy! For the madre's sake, no doubt!" Then she looked
up, straight and hard, into his face. "A convenient arrangement for
managing uncle Arthur!"

Nigel was stung deeply by her tone, and Fulvia saw it. "If I say
'No'—what then?" she asked mockingly. "Will you have done your duty in
uncle Arthur's eyes?"

He turned away, and went to the window, while Fulvia sat still,
thinking. She did not know what to say next. Dismiss him!—no, that she
could not. Recall him!—no, that she would not.

Nigel came back presently, unrecalled. He looked depressed and
spiritless.

"I do not wish you to misunderstand me, Fulvia. I have no wish to
profess more than I feel. It is best to be open in such cases. You have
always been a great deal to me—more, perhaps, than you yourself knew.
But—there has been another hope. I have had to give that up. It is at
an end now."

He spoke without a falter, without any of the usual signs of strong
feeling, and Fulvia was deceived by his calmness at the very moment
when he was endeavouring to undeceive her.

"That is over; and I am ready to pledge myself to you for life—to
endeavour to repay all! And if—if anything is wanting in my love for
you, I will do my utmost to learn—to conquer—I think you understand!
Will you have me?"

Fulvia gave him one more glance, and dropped her eyes. Could she accept
him, knowing herself to have been only second? For a moment there came
an impulse to fling aside the offered devotion, which fell so far short
of the love she gave to him. But this impulse bent before a stronger
impulse in the other direction. Whatever he had once felt for Ethel,
the composure with which he spoke of giving her up seemed to tell of
no absorbing affection now. If she said "No," he might turn again to
Ethel. Could Fulvia endure that? Once his, might she not hope in time
to win his whole heart?

Besides, there was the question of Mr. Browning's name—of the secret to
be kept on the madre's account. She tried to believe that this pressed
her on; that for the sake of others she ought not to refuse Nigel.
Silence lasted long; then slowly, silently, with a strange rush of
warmth and chill, of joy and sorrow, of hope and dread, Fulvia placed
her hand in his.



CHAPTER XXV

SWEET MAY-TIDE

   "I come, I come! ye have called me long,
    I come o'er the mountains with light and song;
    Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
    By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
    By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
    By the green leaves opening as I pass."
                                      —F. HEMANS.

THE month of May had come—a real typical May; not one of our modern
snarling specimens, which perhaps our forefathers knew as well as
ourselves, but which, of course, no poet or historian ever wrote
down on the "deathless page" of literature. A bright blaze of spring
sunshine streamed upon the stiff row of trees in the green enclosure of
Bourne Street, and made its way through the draped lace curtains of No.
9, where ingenuity had been hard at work to transform a most ordinary
little drawing-room into a finished and aesthetic gem. It had to be
done cheaply; but that matters less where clever fingers and cultivated
taste have sway. Grange furniture was present—not Grange drawing-room
furniture, which would have been far too large, but dainty small tables
and pretty chairs, selected from all parts of the big house. Fulvia had
combined tints gracefully, had put up brackets, had spent hours over
finishing touches, had acted throughout as guiding spirit. If she could
win a smile from Nigel for his mother's sake, she was content. She
would have slaved herself to death for that reward.

A worn outline of cheek was visible now, as if the last few weeks had
left their mark. The sunshine which lit up her ruddy head showed this
plainly. She was on the music stool, sewing hard at an antimacassar.
They had not long been in the house, and nobody had yet grown used to
its smallness. Anice fretted, and Daisy talked viciously of "kicking
down those dreadful walls," and Mrs. Browning was sweetly resigned
and sad. Fulvia alone did not care. She was sorry for others, not for
herself. The one thing in life she cared for was pleasing Nigel; and
having him, she had all she wanted.

Fulvia could not entirely make him out. She was always trying to do so,
yet always feeling that something lay below, which she could not reach.
He was in many respects an altered being; himself, yet different. The
light-heartedness, the sparkle, the fun, were gone. A "grave young man"
strangers now called him; old-looking for his years, quiet, handsome,
manly; one to be liked and esteemed; but to his own people, changed.
Friends said how acutely he had felt his father's death, and how
creditable the feeling was to him; also many supposed the lost wealth
and lowered prospects to weigh upon him a good deal. Fulvia ascribed
his seriousness to the unhappy secret about his father and her money.
She made it her aim to cause him to forget, and yet she knew he never
could forget. She would not let herself think of Ethel. He had enough
pressing on him to render that additional cause needless.

Ethel had not crossed Fulvia's path since the latter was engaged. There
had been a singular break in the intercourse between Ethel Elvey and
the Brownings, coming about naturally. Ethel caught a bad cold the
evening in the cemetery, and was a prisoner for many days after. She
could not shake off the cold, and seemed unaccountably poorly, her
parents thought. Then the younger boys had slight scarlatina, which
made quarantine needful. Ethel nursed the boys, and ended by having
it herself, not severely, though she was much pulled down. Dr. Duncan
talked of a want of rallying power, and sent her to the sea for a month
with the convalescent boys. When she came back, pale and weak still, an
opportune invitation arrived from a kind old friend living under the
shadow of Snowdon.

Certain difficulties existed; but Ethel showed an unwonted eagerness
to be absent, and Dr. Duncan was strongly in favour of it. Mr. Elvey
took the matter in hand, over-rode all objections, told Ethel to go,
and desired her to stay as long as she could. Perhaps he suspected
her trouble in some degree. He had surprised her once shedding very
bitter tears, after Nigel's engagement had become known, and Ethel had
clung to him for comfort, secure of no worrying questions being asked.
Mr. Elvey was not far-sighted about such matters, but he had keenness
enough to put two and two together when the twos were very plainly
written.

So Ethel went to Wales, and stayed long away, and Nigel had never once
seen or spoken with her since their sorrowful farewell. Better so for
them both.

Mrs. Browning watched him anxiously these weeks. Somehow she was more
strongly alive to the change in him than was Fulvia, perhaps because
Fulvia would not let herself see. Mrs. Browning did see. She had a
constant feeling that this Nigel was not altogether her Nigel, her boy!

She had nothing to complain of definitely. He was very good to her,
as to Fulvia; carefully attentive to them both; but the old sunshine
was wanting. Life seemed with him to have grown into an embodiment
of severe duty, unrelieved by pleasure. There was no relaxing. He
worked hard, read hard, walked a certain amount daily, went through a
steady routine; but nothing was done lightly. He had never shown so
little inclination for talk. Except in the evenings, he was chiefly
away, and in the evenings, he always had a book. If Mrs. Browning or
Fulvia showed a wish for conversation, he responded kindly, but with a
manifest effort, and it never lasted long.

Mrs. Browning craved for his old look, his old smile,—craved at times
with a passionate longing. She did not know how to give up her former
Nigel.

There is no love on earth like a mother's love: no love so pure, so
lasting, so unselfish; no love which comes so near the love of God
Himself,—though infinitely distant from it. As everything human varies,
so in different natures the quality of even this varies; and Mrs.
Browning's was not, perhaps, of the very highest type of mother-love.
She did love her children intensely, but in some measure it was for and
in herself. Yet when a test time came, the reality of her love would
lift her superior to her ordinary self; and such a test time had come
now. She know that Nigel was not happy, and she was far too true a
mother to rest in that knowledge. Worse still, she knew that she had
had a hand in bringing on the present condition of things, and that she
might not lift a finger to undo what she had wrought. This knowledge
weighed upon her heavily.

Thus, when the sunny month of May came, there were clouds as well as
sunshine in the sky of No. 9 Bourne Street.

Fulvia was alone, but Daisy presently came in with a whisk and a rush,
upsetting two small chairs.

"Daisy!"

"There's no room for anything here."

"The more need to carry one's limbs discreetly! I wish you would help
me with these antimacassars. I want to get them done before lunch."

"Why? There must be lots of old ones good enough."

"I want to put out these. It will be a change. Nigel admired the
muslin."

"Well, I hope I shall never be engaged!" declared Daisy. "Since you
went and got engaged to Nigel, you haven't had one single idea apart
from him."

Fulvia did not take the trouble to contradict her.

"And there's that story I'm reading! Oh, bother! If I'm to sew, I must
wash my hands."

"You need not be an hour over the wash-handstand. Do be quick."

Daisy stood still. "Ethel has come home," she said.

"Ethel Elvey?"

"Yes. I met her just now."

"Is she all right again?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask. She looks—as if—" and a pause.

"As if—?"

"I don't know. I shouldn't think she was well."

Fulvia had ceased to sew, and was gently pricking her finger with the
needle.

"She has been a long time away."

"Heaps of time. I never knew her do such a thing before. And staying
with one old maiden lady all the while. It must have been awfully slow.
She says she's going to be awfully busy at home now—lots of parish
work. I shall go and see her. I like Ethel."

"She is nice enough."

"Nigel used to be awfully fond of Ethel. He never speaks of her now."

"Are you going to help me with this work, Daisy?"

Daisy sauntered away, and Fulvia sat idly, with bent head, thinking. A
sound made her glance up, and Nigel stood in front.

Fulvia sprang to meet him, with exclamation and glow of delight, her
whole face changing. "But what has brought you home now? Is anything
wrong?"

"Nothing much. I have a stupid headache—" running hit fingers through
his hair,—"and Mr. Bramble has let me off. The figures were all turning
into live creatures. Will you come for a walk with me?"

"Oh yes!" Fulvia was ready to leave anything. She could never hesitate
about a request of Nigel's. "You are sure you are not ill?"—for he
looked unusually pale. Then a jealous fear darted into her mind: had he
seen Ethel? She could not put the question, but Daisy ran in and asked
it for her.

"Going out, Fulvia? And you in such a hurry to have things done! But
I shan't work at them if you are out. And Nigel home so early! Oh I
say, Nigel, only think! Ethel has come home at last. They couldn't do
without her any longer. I met her just now, and I dare say you did too."

"No; I met Malcolm on my way to the Bank, and he told me."

Nigel said no more.

Fulvia could only wonder silently—was that the cause of his sudden
indisposition? He had been well enough in the morning.

They had their walk, and Nigel talked more than usual, exerting himself
to be agreeable; but Fulvia was conscious of effort, even of strain, on
his part. She scolded herself for fancies, yet the impression remained.

Ethel did not come quickly to call, as Fulvia expected; neither did
Nigel seem in haste to go to the Rectory. Daisy went, and found Ethel
out. Days passed, and, beyond the one encounter, none of the Brownings
had seen her. Bourne Street was a good way off from Church Square.


Nothing had been seen or heard of Mr. Carden-Cox for weeks. Except
that he sat in his usual seat at church, and was occasionally to be
perceived walking or driving along a busy street, he might, so far as
the Brownings were concerned, have dropped out of existence altogether.

"I detest family quarrels," Nigel said more than once. "But what is to
be done? It is his place to take the first step."

"He will never do that," Fulvia answered decisively each time. "He will
never forgive the madre for ordering him off."

Fulvia was wrong. People are perpetually doing just the things that
their friends do not expect of them, and it was so in this case.

On Saturdays Nigel always came home early. Lunch was deferred till
a little after two o'clock, that he might be present; and in the
afternoon it was the regular thing for him and Fulvia to take a country
walk together. Sometimes he would relax from his gravity, and be more
like the Nigel of old days, not indeed so sunny as then, yet more
easy and natural than at other times. Fulvia was very happy on these
occasions. She would cast care to the winds, feeling that she had all
she could desire.

No, not quite all. For, during these early weeks of her engagement,
there came to Fulvia a growing sense of a want in her life, a want
which did not exist in Nigel's life. She had not so definitely felt the
lack before. A consciousness crept slowly over her of being at a lower
level, possessing lower aims, acting from lower principles, than Nigel.
Sometimes she could almost rejoice in this, could revel in looking up
to him as to a superior being. That was only woman-like. But, on the
other hand, a woman does wish to be a true companion to the man who
chooses her, a help fitted for him; and sometimes her heart sank with
the knowledge that she was not so fitted, that there were matters upon
which she could offer him no true response.

Now and then he would say a few words which gave her a sudden glimpse
of depths beyond her ken. She could not follow him into them, and
she could not there act what she did not feel. In slighter everyday
affairs, Fulvia might disguise her feelings, might wear an occasional
mask, but in religious matters she was strictly honest.

She always knew on these occasions that her answers repelled him, threw
him back into himself. She always felt, with a jealous pang, "Ethel
would have gone with him where I cannot." And though she dreaded such
embarrassing moments, yet she was grieved to the heart when they came
more seldom; for she knew that Nigel was learning not to turn to her
for sympathy in his deepest interests. Reserved they both were, and he
actually had not known before that such turning would be vain. Fulvia's
very grief and jealousy drove her to more thought about religion,
though as yet it was only for Nigel's sake. Other teaching than this
was needed.

A succession of fine Saturdays had meant a succession of long rambles
for the two, when at length one came which could be described only as
consisting of one continuous pelt. Rain began early, and went on all
the morning in a dogged and resolute fashion, with good promise of
doing the same during many hours to come. At luncheon a note arrived
for Fulvia, which she read and gave to Nigel, with an involuntary "Oh,
I can't!" It was as follows:—

   "DEAR FULVIA,—Will you spend the afternoon of to-day with a lonely old
man? I have been thoroughly out of sorts lately, and I want a few words
with you.

   "This nonsense has gone on long enough. You ought to know, all of you,
by this time, that my bark is worse than my bite. Manufacture any sort
of pretty message that you like from me to the madre, and pray get
things right somehow. I can't manage without you and Nigel. Besides, I
am going to make a fresh will, and you may help me.

   "A fly shall call for you at a quarter to three precisely. Mind you
come.—Your affectionate uncle,

                                                "A. C.-C."

"What am I to do? To-day! I can't go," said Fulvia, dismayed.

"You cannot set this aside," Nigel replied at once.

"But to-day—your one afternoon at home?"

"I don't think that matters. We could not walk in such rain. And even
if we could, to make peace with Mr. Carden-Cox ought to come first."

Did he care? Not, certainly, as she did. Fulvia saw this with a sharp
pang, yet Nigel's manner was not cold or careless. He only spoke with
quiet resolution, as of an unquestionable duty.

"If uncle Arthur had but chosen some other day!"

"He has not. I think you must not refuse."

Fulvia yielded to his decision.

At "a quarter to three precisely" a closed fly appeared, and she was
ready. She looked wistfully at Nigel as he held open the front door,
then stood under the porch putting up an umbrella.

"It doesn't matter so much to you, of course," she murmured, "but I am
disappointed! I shall feel cross with uncle all the afternoon."

"No, you will not. It would make mischief. A good deal may depend upon
you to-day."

"Why? How?"

"His will, if you must have it put in plain terms."

"Oh, money! I hate money!"

Nigel's expression was curious. He sheltered her across the pavement,
and handed her into the fly, wearing that look still.

Fulvia wondered what it meant. She said penitently, "I'll be good. It
won't do to think only of myself!"—and was rewarded by a smile.

Then Nigel stepped into the house, and as the fly was about to start,
Daisy rushed out bareheaded into the rain.

"Fulvie!"

"Daisy, come back! You will be soaked," said Nigel.

Daisy disregarded him. "Fulvie," she cried, "may I arrange your new
jewel-case for you? It's such a beauty, and you have never begun to use
it."

Fulvia heard with preoccupied ears, hardly taking in the sense of
Daisy's request.

"If you like. Anything! I don't care."

"And your keys?"

"Keys?"

"Your own bunch?"

"Oh, I left them—somewhere. In my dressing-table drawer, I think."

Nigel pulled Daisy into the shelter of the porch, and Fulvia was gone.

Daisy danced from one foot to the other.

"What fun!" she said, chuckling. "Fulvia looks as dismal as if she
never would see you again. Just for one afternoon! Well, I don't mind
now about the rain. I've something nice to do."

Daisy had noted that morning the handsome silver-mounted dressing-box,
Mr. Carden-Cox's birthday gift, standing on the side-table in
Fulvia's room—not the little back room, but the pleasant front one,
for Nigel had settled that point. Beside the new box was the shabby
old dressing-case, and Daisy, having used curious fingers and eyes,
discovered that the latter was locked, the former unlocked and empty.
Thereupon she conceived the idea of emptying the old box into the
now, as a pleasant rainy-day occupation. Daisy was not sensitive as
to associations, or she might have shrunk, as Fulvia had shrunk, from
bringing forward the gift connected with so sorrowful a day as Fulvia's
twenty-first birthday.

And Fulvia, at the moment of being asked, did not recall association
past, did not realise what Daisy meant, or to what "jewel-case" she
alluded. If Daisy had called it a "dressing-case," she might have
listened with quicker perception; but "jewel-case" was not one of
Fulvia's words. She heard a request vaguely, and granted it, never
thinking what the request meant. Her mind was wrapped up in the thought
of having to leave Nigel for hours on his only free afternoon.

More than this, she had no vivid recollection of the crumpled
half-sheet hidden away in the old dressing-case. The matter of the four
postscripts had sunk of late into the background. Since all cessation
of intercourse with Mr. Carden-Cox nothing had occurred to call it
up. Fulvia had reached a standpoint far removed from the hopes and
fears of those days. The lost half-sheet was nothing to her now. She
could not have told why it, remained still in her box, except that the
all-absorbing events of the last few months had almost driven it out of
her mind. Perhaps a dim expectation existed below of some day making
a confession, and restoring the paper to its rightful owner. But not
yet,—oh, not yet!

Yes, she had reached a stand beyond those hopes and fears. Nigel was
hers, and she was his. She had indeed her anxieties and dreads, but
they were different in kind, and as yet the joy of devoting herself
to him outweighed all troubles. In the main she did not, would not,
doubt his love, though at times she was nervously disposed to weigh the
amount of it against her own for him.

Every one, who has watched with care, can tell how strangely things
which were once of vivid importance may slip into the background of
memory, unaccountably failing to spring up just when one would most
expect that they should. Daisy's sudden question, called out in haste
through the pouring rain, brought no recollections to Fulvia of the
crumpled half-sheet. She was entirely absorbed with Mr. Carden-Cox's
provoking unreasonableness in taking her from Nigel on this particular
day. And oh, if Nigel had but cared more! That, after all, was the real
pain!



CHAPTER XXVI

THE LOST "N.B."

   "A pen—to register: a key—
      That winds through secret wards:
    Are well assigned to memory
      By allegoric bards."—WORDSWORTH.

"WHERE are you going to sit?" demanded Daisy of Nigel.

"In the study for the present. Why?"

"May I come too? I won't disturb you, or be a bother. Do let me."

Nigel would have preferred an hour or two alone, but he hesitated to
refuse, looking in Daisy's beseeching eyes. She was a very devoted
younger sister, and had not had much of his company of late.

"If you like," he replied. "But why?"

"I'm going to do something that madre ought not to see; and anywhere
else she might pounce down upon me."

"Pounce" was not precisely the correct word for Mrs. Browning's slow
and graceful movements; but girls of Daisy's age are not exact in their
use of language.

"I want to clear out Fulvia's old jewel-case, and put all her things
into the new one—the one Mr. Carden-Cox gave her, you know. I don't
see why that nice box shouldn't be used. It wasn't its fault that Mr.
Carden-Cox behaved as he did. And I dare say he would be awfully vexed
if he knew she had not begun to use it. And he is sure to ask, now that
we are to see him again. Besides, Fulvia once said she would give her
old one to me when she had another, and I want to have it. But it might
upset mother to see Fulvia's birthday present, so I thought I would
bring it to the study."

"Why not manage affairs in Fulvia's room?"

"Oh, I'd rather be with you!" coaxed Daisy. "Madre won't come. She'll
think you are busy."

"So I mean to be. Well, if you like."

Daisy established herself with much satisfaction at one end of the
table, placing side by side the handsome empty box and the shabby full
one. She had found the keys without difficulty.

Nigel made himself comfortable in the arm-chair with a book. He had
letters to write, but "they could wait," he said.

Daisy did not strictly keep to her promise of "not disturbing" Nigel,
if that meant not speaking; but perhaps Nigel was not disturbed. He
listened to her remarks, and answered, laying down his book; and this
naturally encouraged chatter on her part.

"Fulvia has such a lot of nice rings. I wish I had a quarter as many.
But she says she doesn't care for any of them, except her engagement
ring, and the locket you gave her last birthday. I do like this
sapphire. It's grand. And her diamond brooch; doesn't it flash? I
should like to have a diamond pin to wear in my hair—just one huge
blazing diamond that would flash all across the room. What are you
thinking about?"

"Wondering if you will ever be anything but a child."

"Not till I'm an old maid," promptly responded Daisy. "But is it
childish to like diamonds?"

"That depends on the mode of liking—and the manner of expression."

"Oh, well, I can't help it. People must take me as I am. There, now
things begin to look jolly. I hope Fulvia will keep to my arrangement.
The pink cotton-wool is pretty, isn't it?—under silver and pearl.
See, I've made quite a bed of it in one place for the silver Maltese
brooches, and the gold filigree things are opposite. You won't need to
buy lots of jewellery when you are married, because your wife will have
enough."

"That's fortunate, since I shall not have lots of spare money."

"Yes; isn't it a pity Fulvia won't be rich? Now, I'll put the chains
into this tray. Nigel—" with one of her sudden flights into a new
region—"have you seen Ethel Elvey yet?"

"No."

"I thought you might. You did call one day, didn't you? Anice said
you had, and she said you found everybody out. But Ethel does look so
altered, you can't think!"

"How!"

"I don't know. You'll see. Her face seems to have shrunk, and her eyes
have grown so big. She laughed and talked just as she always does, but
somehow—I thought—I don't exactly know what, only she didn't seem like
herself. Malcolm told me yesterday that she has not been well for ever
so long. She has never quite got over that bad cold, and the fever
coming after it. At least Malcolm seemed to think it was that. Poor
Ethel! I am so sorry."

Nigel pushed his chair farther back, thereby putting his face into
shade. Daisy was too intent upon her occupation to notice him.

"I thought you'd like to know, because you and Ethel always were such
friends. It seemed funny that she had not been to see us; but Malcolm
says she gets so easily tired she really can't walk far, most days.
That's not like Ethel. Now I have done both trays. The old box is quite
empty, so Fulvia may as well let me have it. There's only the place in
the lid for the looking-glass; nothing else, of course. Just a piece of
crumpled paper, written all over! Why, it must be part of a letter, and
in Mr. Carden-Cox's handwriting. How comical of Fulvia to keep it here!
I dare say she tucked it away in a hurry, and then forgot all about
what she had done."

"Did what?" Nigel asked dreamily.

"This! Look; it is part of a letter. Funny of Fulvia. I think I'll
see what it is about? 'N.B.—One line more. My dear fellow, you do not
really mean—' Oh! Oh, I say! Oh, Nigel! Oh!"

"What's the matter now?"

Daisy's eyes were round; her mouth was open. She could only articulate,
"Oh, I say!"

"Daisy, pray explain yourself. Don't be idiotic!"

"It's the lost postscript."

"Nonsense!"

"But it is! It must be! Look; it is, really! Half a sheet, and Mr.
Carden-Cox's handwriting, and it begins, 'N.B.,' and it says, 'My dear
fellow.' Look! That can't be Fulvia. And none of the other three was
to a 'fellow.' Ethel's and Fulvia's and mine were found. I know mine
was, because Mr. Carden-Cox let it out, though he made a secret of it
at first—I wonder why! But yours was never found, and Mr. Carden-Cox
has always declared it must have gone to Fulvia. He said she had put it
away somewhere, and forgotten. But I don't see how she could forget—do
you? Fulvia said she had never had it, you know."

Daisy held the half-sheet before Nigel's eyes.

"It's yours. I shall tell Fulvia. How could she be so stupid?"

Nigel received the paper from Daisy's hand, but looked at her instead
of it.

"Where did you find this?"

"In Fulvia's old dressing-box, hidden away behind the glass. Didn't you
hear me say so?"

"No. What business had you to examine it?"

Daisy was disconcerted.

"I—don't know. I thought I would read a word or two. I didn't think it
was anything, really, till I saw 'N.B.' and 'fellow.'"

"Another time you will act more honourably if you don't look at all."

"But Fulvia gave me leave to turn out her box. She did really, Nigel,
and she didn't say there were secrets."

Nigel was silent. He folded the half-sheet, unread, and put it into his
pocket. The next remark was—

"Daisy, you are not to say a word about this."

"Not tell Fulvia?"

"No. You are not to tell any one."

"Not even Mr. Carden-Cox?"

"Certainly not."

"But won't you tell him."

"No."

"Won't you speak to Fulvia?"

"That is for me to decide, not you. I forbid you to say one word!
Mind!—I mean it!"

"Of course I'll do what you wish," said Daisy reluctantly. "Only Mr.
Carden-Cox would have liked to know."

"It doesn't matter what Mr. Carden-Cox would or would not like. You are
to keep the thing to yourself."

Daisy gazed at him dubiously.

"Do you think—are you—?" she faltered. "Are you angry? Poor Fulvia!
I do wish I hadn't fished that stupid postscript out! After all this
time! I do wish I had not said a word to you."

"Nothing is gained in the end by concealment."

"No—poor Fulvia!—" applying the axiom to another, instead of herself.
"I wish she had spoken out. But perhaps she was afraid. She gets so
frightened now of doing anything you may not like. I never know Fulvia
could be a coward till lately. Are you very angry?"

"I am—" and a pause—"disappointed in Fulvia. I could not have thought
it possible."

"But I don't believe she meant to do wrong. Perhaps she forgot. Oh,
don't be vexed; because it is my fault."

"What! The finding of this?"

"Yes. If only I had not told!" Daisy actually burst into tears.

"There is no fault so far as you are concerned," Nigel said quietly.
"The finding was accidental. The hiding could not have been. But I
don't wish to discuss Fulvia's conduct with you, Daisy. I trust you not
to let it go any further. Now you can take these boxes away, and leave
me alone."

"But—if Fulvia asks—?"

"She will not. If she should, you may refer her to me."

Daisy gave him a frightened look of acquiescence, and caught up the
empty box.

Nigel carried the heavy full one upstairs for her, and then he
disappeared into the study.

"If only I had not found it! I wish I hadn't!" sighed Daisy.


Mr. Carden-Cox did not look particularly ill, but he proclaimed himself
so, and required much pity. Fulvia gave him some expression of it, to
the best of her power, while her thoughts wandered constantly to Nigel.
The first hour of talk was aimless. Then Mr. Carden-Cox arrived at the
point, with a jerk.

"So your madre allowed you to come! Didn't forbid it!"

"No."

"You made up a decent message from me, I hope."

"I told her you wanted me to do so."

"Humph! And she said—"

"Madre supposed that to be meant for an apology."

"Humph!" again. "Well, when she wants me she can send word."

"She is willing to see you now. You cannot expect more," Fulvia
retorted with spirit.

"That's your opinion! A chit of a girl like you! But you were brought
up among them. However—enough about that. I'm going to have my will
made."

"Yes."

"Leaving all I have to you."

Fulvia was silent.

"May be more, may be less, than folks expect. That's neither here nor
there. Not much use to expect gratitude in this world," pursued Mr.
Carden-Cox, with a moralising air. "If I did—but I don't! Do your duty,
and never mind what is said. That's my axiom!" It might be his axiom,
but it was not his rule of action, as Fulvia could have told him. "My
duty is plain now. If your fortune had come to you intact, you wouldn't
have needed my pittance. Ha! Things are different, and I mean to make a
difference."

"Where would your pittance have gone then?"

"Half to you—half to Nigel."

"Pray let it stand so, uncle Arthur. If you change at all, leave all to
Nigel."

Mr. Carden-Cox laughed.

"Why not? It comes to the same thing."

"Would, if you were married. Ceremony hasn't taken place yet!"

A chill shot through Fulvia at the implied suggestion.

"I would much rather that there should be no alteration," she repeated.

"And I would rather that there should be. I know what young men
are—and girls too! No, no! You've lost enough already through the
Brownings—through that scoun—Well, well, no need to say more. But I'll
secure this to you, hard and fast. Don't mean to lose another day. Why,
who knows?" demanded Mr. Carden-Cox, with a lively air. "Not one of us
may be alive a week hence!"

"Your money will not do me much good in that case."

He laughed again, and asked, "When is the wedding to take place?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows. How can you ask—now? Our trouble so new,
still! And people cannot marry upon nothing."

"I'll have a talk with Nigel. Don't like affairs dragging on
interminably. Sure to end by getting tired of one another."

Fulvia could have burst into tears; for there was an underlying
consciousness which gave a keen edge to his words, but she only said,
"A happy lookout for married life!"

"Oh, after you're married, it's different. Comes as a matter of course,
then, to put up with what can't be helped. Tied together, and no
escape, so no use to struggle. Well, I'll have a talk with Nigel, now
we're in smooth waters again. See if I can't bring it about. Wouldn't
need much additional, to set a young couple going."

"Uncle, please leave things alone; please do not interfere. Nigel will
not like it."

"Not like it! Fudge! He may do without liking. Not like it, indeed.
As if he didn't know me by this time! Don't be so squeamish, child;
and don't take to looking cross. It doesn't suit you. I didn't ask
your advice; don't need anybody's advice. We'll let that matter drop.
I say—nothing ever come to light all these weeks about the lost
postscript?"

"The lost postscript?" She spoke bewilderedly. The abrupt change of
ideas brought a moment's confusion.

"Nigel's postscript—the fourth 'N.B.,' you know—ha, ha!—Sent to you and
never found! Nothing heard of it all these weeks, hey?"

A vision of the past flashed up. Instantly Fulvia saw the crumpled slip
of paper, hidden away in her dressing-box. Daisy's parting request was
clear, with all that it involved.

Fulvia actually sprang to her feet, aghast. By this time, four o'clock,
Daisy might have found the concealed paper; and outspoken childish
Daisy would of a certainty proclaim her "find" to the household. Nigel
would hear of it! Already he might have heard; already the thing might
be done past recall. And if not yet, could Fulvia reach home in time to
stop its being done? She stood with dilated eyes, terror-struck. Mr.
Carden-Cox put up his eye-glass, and examined her curiously.

"Eh! What now! Sit down. Postscript found? Come, confess!"

Fulvia controlled herself to meet his gaze; but she could not control
the startled hurry of her voice.

"Something—I have remembered," she said rapidly. "Something I ought
to have done before leaving home it has just come to me. I must go at
once."

Fulvia did not mean to make any untrue statement. She scarcely knew
what she said! And that which she wished she had done was, definitely,
to have forbidden Daisy's meddling with her box.

"Nonsense, child. Sit down and be quiet. Something you ought to have
done! What do you mean? What ought you to have done?"

His black eyes examined her, with a look of suspicion.

"It doesn't matter what. I must go home. I am going home."

"The fly will be here at half-past five. You will have tea with me
first, of course. This 'something' must be of mighty importance. Fulvia
Rolfe is not a girl to be disturbed about nothing! Has it to do with
the lost postscript, hey?"

A natural question, since his mention of the postscript had been the
seeming cause of her sudden fright. She was so unnerved by the shock
she had received, that his suggestion renewed her trembling. She was
obliged to sit down, even while she reiterated, "I must go! I can't
stay! I must get home at once!" For she might still be in time.

"Stuff and nonsense!" Mr. Carden-Cox spoke angrily. "The girl is
demented. Fact is, it's one of two things. Either you are tired of
being here, and you want to get off the rest of the time, or you are
deceiving me about the postscript, and can't stand being questioned. I
believe it's that."

Fulvia seized on the first suggestion.

"I am not tired of being with you, but I can't endure to be away from
Nigel all Saturday afternoon," she said. The assertion was true enough,
though this had now ceased to be her prominent feeling. "Any other day
I should not mind, but Saturday—Saturday is his only free afternoon.
Uncle, do let me go. I will come another time, and stay as long as you
like. Monday, Tuesday, any day; only not Saturday. I always have him
then."

Mr. Carden-Cox grunted out a laugh, not ill pleased.

"You're a pair of model lovers!" he growled. "Well, have things your
own way. But the fly is not ordered till 5.30."

"Oh, I don't mind rain; I never catch cold. It will not take me long to
get home. And any other day—"

She did not finish her sentence, and could hardly wait to say good-bye.

Mr. Carden-Cox seemed in doubt whether to be amused or vexed by her
precipitate flight. He lent her an umbrella, and apologised for
the lack of a lady's waterproof. Fulvia had come in her best black
walking-dress, which would suffer from pelting rain. But what did she
care? What did anything matter, in comparison with getting home?

The distance had never seemed so great, and Fulvia had never traversed
it at such speed. She would not let herself think by the way.
Distracting possibilities presented themselves, and Fulvia refused to
look at them. Her arrival at home, dripping and forlorn, with flushed
face and bespattered skirt, was greeted by a triple exclamation from
Mrs. Browning and the girls, "Fulvia! Already!"

"Yes; I didn't want to stay any longer. Uncle let me off. Where is
Nigel?"

Fulvia dropped into the nearest chair, and Anice cried out at the
contact of her wet clothes with the furniture. Fulvia did not care for
that; but she did care for the curious questioning look in Daisy's
eyes, fixed upon herself.

"Why didn't he send you home in a fly?" asked Anice.

"I did not want to wait. Where is Nigel?"

"Downstairs."

"Not in the study; I have been there."

"Then he must have gone out. I heard the front door open and shut."

Fulvia rose, and dragged herself upstairs without another word. There,
on the chest of drawers, stood, as before, her two boxes. She tried
both with trembling fingers.

Too late! The new box was locked, the old one unlocked and empty! Daisy
had done her work.

Hoping still against hope, Fulvia loosened the looking-glass in the
lid, and peeped behind it. No crumpled paper was there. She snatched
her keys from the table drawer, and opened the other box, to see if
perchance Daisy had passed on the postscript with the trinkets. Daisy's
neat arrangements were tossed into reckless disorder in the search. But
Fulvia looked in vain; the half-sheet had vanished.

Too late! All her hurry and toil for nothing. And Nigel had gone out?
Had Daisy given him the paper? Sick with fear, Fulvia removed her wet
things, dressed herself in dry clothes, and smoothed her ruffled hair.
Then, on shaking limbs, she crept down to the study to await Nigel's
return, like a culprit awaiting judgment.

Daisy did not come to her. Anice found out where Fulvia was, and wanted
Daisy to bring her thence, but Daisy flatly refused to act messenger.
She did not wish to be questioned by Fulvia.

She needed not to fear. Fulvia was in too abject a state to question
anybody. The long-buried wrongdoing, almost forgotten by herself, had
found her out sharply. She saw her own action once again, as at first,
with Nigel's eyes, and she was overwhelmed with shame. Would Nigel cast
her off for this? Would he be glad to avail himself of the excuse?

Anice before long brought a summons to afternoon tea, and Fulvia,
refused to go.

"I want to wait for Nigel here. I am tired," she said. "Somebody can
bring me a cup, or I can go without. I don't want to be bothered."

The maid brought a cup, since Daisy would not. The laziness of the
latter was unaccountable in the eyes of Mrs. Browning and Anice, for
Daisy did not usually shirk trouble, like indolent Anice. But she
offered no explanation, only she would not go.

Fulvia stayed on in the study alone, leaning back in Nigel's
easy-chair, with his open book beside her, the picture of mingled
misery and self-condemnation.


From a quarter to five till a quarter to seven she waited, the longest
two hours that Fulvia had ever known. Nobody came near her for a while.
Then Mrs. Browning appeared, and wanted to know what was wrong. Fulvia
evaded her inquiries with a forced smile; she could see that Mrs.
Browning knew nothing of the postscript. But Daisy—why did not Daisy
appear, as on any other occasion Daisy's resolute avoidance of Fulvia
spoke palpably.

The front door opened at length, and Nigel came in. His hair was wet
and plastered, his coat damp; even a greatcoat had not served to
shelter him from the driving rain. For a moment he did not see Fulvia;
then their eyes met.

Fulvia knew at once that he knew, and he saw that she was aware of what
he knew. She hold out both hands, and said, "Nigel! Speak!"

"I did not expect you to be home so soon."

"No—I—could not bear it. I wanted to come back—to you. Nigel, say
something!"

"What do you wish me to say?"

"Will you forgive? I see that you have heard. Daisy has found the
paper. It was cowardice. I never thought at first—but—and after—how
could I speak?"

Nigel placed the little sheet in her hand.

"It is yours, not mine," she said.

"Daisy told me so. I have not read it. Daisy had no business to make
the discovery. But since she did—"

Fulvia gave the half-sheet to him, not lifting her eyes. She knew then
that he was reading; and presently she heard him tear it across.

"Will you forgive?" she whispered once more.

"Yes, of course."

"You mean—I don't understand."

"I mean that there is nothing for it but to take things in that way,"
he said gravely, after slight hesitation. "I could not have thought it
quite possible of you; but—"

"But you will not feel differently about me. You will trust—still. Say
you will forget—you will trust me still."

"That must depend. I will not speak of it. One can hardly promise to
forget. It is not feeling angry; don't misunderstand. But this sort of
thing gives rather a shake to one's confidence. How am I to know in the
future—?"

"Nigel! Think what a lesson to me it has been!"

"Yes, I hope so."

"But—" She sobbed aloud, with the longing for something more. "Oh, say
one kind word!"

"I think you are hardly reasonable," he said seriously. "It is not a
question of forgiveness at all. What I mind is not the thing itself,
but that you could do such a thing. That is what I could not have
believed. I have always felt, whatever else might be wanting, that was
not wanting. I could trust you, absolutely. And now—"

Fulvia could not speak.

Both were silent for a minute or two.

"We need never allude to this again," he said at length; and he went
away, leaving her alone.

Fulvia dragged herself to her own room, locked the door, and gave way
to a paroxysm of weeping. She could not appear at dinner; could not
show herself again that night.



CHAPTER XXVII

IN SUDDEN PERIL

   "When the dimpled water slippeth,
      Full of laughter, on its way,
    And her wing the wagtail dippeth,
      Running by the brink at play;
    When the poplar leaves atremble
      Turn their edges to the light,
    And the far-up clouds resemble
      Veils of gauze most clear and white."

       *       *       *       *       *       *

   "Though the heart be not attending,
      Having sorrows of her own,
    Through the fields and fallows winding,
      It is sad to walk alone."—JEAN INGELOW.

FULVIA'S storm was over, but grey weather remained. No further words
passed about the discovered postscript. Mr. Carden-Cox was not told.
Daisy never referred to the subject.

There was a slight difference in Nigel's manner from that day; not
visible to lookers-on, and not intentional, but patent to Fulvia. She
could not help knowing that she had sunk in his estimation: that the
position she held with respect to him was altered. Not only had she
yielded to the first temptation, but there had been long-persistent
deceit, silence, and untruth.

Nigel knew the whole now; and Fulvia quailed before what she felt
to be his view of the matter. His very silence was eloquent. He
asked no explanations, because no explanations could touch the main
fact. Nothing that Fulvia could say might raise her quite to her old
position. He did not mean to show any change of manner towards her;
yet a change existed. During the days following, he undoubtedly held
a little aloof, and was more wrapped up in his own concerns, not
appealing often for Fulvia's sympathy.

Fulvia was at times oppressed by a belief that he would have been
willing to break off the engagement, had he not been bound by his own
promise, by the family wronging of Fulvia, by his father's dying words.
She felt that this was the rift which might widen into parting, this
the beginning of real unhappiness to her. Hitherto she had had doubts
and questionings, but in the main she had been content. Now she knew
that duty was the bond which held him to her. In truth, the shock of
this discovery about Fulvia had sent Nigel back with a rebound to his
old exclusive trust in Ethel; for Ethel could never have acted thus.

He had been growing more used to his shackles, more able to think
calmly of life with Fulvia, more ready to depend upon Fulvia for
companionship and interest. Now all was altered. Fulvia knew it, and
she knew that she had only herself to blame.

But she could not resolve to give him up; oven though she had come to
the belief that Nigel himself was willing to part. That which would
have been the more dignified step was to her impossible. Fulvia did not
know how to live without Nigel. If he gave her up, pride might step in
to her aid. To take the initiative herself required a different kind of
resolution; and Fulvia had it not.

Through the week following that unhappy day she was perpetually looking
forward to the next Saturday afternoon. She built her hopes on the
quiet tête-à-tête walk, wherein she might be able to break through this
barrier, to win her way back to him again. She did not know exactly
what to say or how to say it; but she was resolved to lead him to the
subject of the postscript, to explain how, after the first wrong step,
she had been entangled by her fears in a crooked path, to appeal to his
pity, to make out somehow a better case for herself.

Saturday came, and at breakfast Nigel said, "I am afraid I shall not be
much in to-day."

Fulvia gave him a startled look.

"Where are you going?" asked Daisy.

"Malcolm and I talk of a row on the river."

"That will be jolly! You have not been on the river for ever so long.
Only you two? Will Ethel go?"

"No."

"When do you start?" Fulvia inquired, trying to speak indifferently.

"Half-past two or three."

"And you will be home—?"

"I don't know when. Not till late in the afternoon."

He did not seem to think she could object, and Fulvia would show no
annoyance. Indeed, her feeling was far deeper than annoyance.

Daisy offered herself as a companion in Nigel's absence; but Fulvia
could stand no companionship. She wanted to be alone; and to sit
indoors was impossible. Daisy's offer was evaded; and somewhat later
Fulvia slipped out of the house, unseen, for a solitary ramble.

Nigel had spoken of going down the river, and Fulvia made her way to
the towing-path, following the same direction, not with any expectation
of seeing him. She meant to be at home in time for his return.

It was a beautiful afternoon, very different from the preceding
Saturday. A blaze of sunshine lit up all around, but could not chase
away the shadows in Fulvia's heart.

"Will he ever feel the same for me again?" she asked herself drearily.
"How could Daisy be so cruel as to tell him? But she did not mean to be
cruel. She does not understand."

Fulvia would not be unjust, even in her pain; and she had noticed
Daisy's air of anxious kindness this week, a manner as of one trying to
make up for some wrong done to another.

Fulvia walked slowly, for there was no need to hasten. She could be as
long as she liked.

The towing-path which she had chosen was the same which Ethel had
chosen one wintry afternoon, some months before. Only, the surroundings
now were of green trees and golden sunshine, and of water reflecting a
summer sky.

Somebody was walking in front of Fulvia when she passed round the
next river-bend—a slight girl, in a grey dress, with a shady hat, and
movements so languid that they seemed to speak of ill-health. Fulvia
did not pay any particular regard to her, being preoccupied. They were
nearing a lock, and the girl paused to lean against one of the great
gate-handles, as if for rest, turning towards Fulvia with the action.
Fulvia saw her plainly then: saw a fragile-looking creature, with a
delicate colourless face, and large blue eyes, dreamy and sad. She
noticed the brown hair straying over the white brow, and noted even
the thinness of the ungloved right hand, yet all without recognition,
partly no doubt because she was herself so absorbed in thought.

But a flash of recognition came to the other face.

"How do you do, Fulvia?"

"Ethel!" Fulvia could hardly believe her own senses. At the first
moment an impatient throb shook her frame; for Ethel was Fulvia's
dread. Thought for the altered girl before her followed quickly.
"Ethel! I did not know you! Have you been ill?"

"Not ill lately. Not very well, I suppose. I don't get up much strength
somehow. Is it not a perfect day?"

Fulvia stood still. She did not want a companion—Ethel Elvey least of
all! Still she could not at once pass on. She was not personally fond
of Ethel, and never had been; but their acquaintance dated from infant
days, and Fulvia was kind-hearted. It was impossible not to pause, in
view of Ethel's changed look.

"Daisy said something—" she began, and broke off. "I know you had
scarlatina; but that is so long ago."

"Ages—isn't it?" Ethel said, smiling. "And I have been an immense time
in the country since, doing nothing. Yes, in North Wales. Snowdon is so
beautiful. There is nothing in the world like mountains. They seem to
bring one nearer heaven?'

"Are you talking poetically?"

"Am I? No; I don't think so."

"Did you go up Snowdon?"

"Once, on pony back. I did not try it a second time."

"Has looking on a mountain from below the same effect?"

"What effect?"

"Bringing you—what you said just now."

"Yes." Ethel did not explain her meaning. She went on in a quiet and
natural tone—"How is Nigel? I have not seen him yet."

"He is all right. He has gone boating with Malcolm."

"Up the river?"

"No, down."

"I was not sure. Malcolm did not say, but I fancied they would go up."

"No; Nigel told me. Are you going home now?"

"Not yet, perhaps; but I must rest for a few minutes, and I am in a
mood for loitering to-day. Don't wait, if you would rather go fast,"
said Ethel, with a recollection of Fulvia's energetic ways. She smiled
again that curious smile, sunny, yet sad.

Fulvia had not walked fast, but she at once decided to do so. Rather
bluntly and awkwardly, though seldom disposed to awkwardness, she said
good-bye, and went on.

She kept up a good pace till well out of sight. "Has Ethel cared too
much?" she asked, thinking over the brief interview. "Bright enough;
but is it natural brightness? Nigel and she have always been friends.
Could Nigel have made her hope, and then have left her? No, that would
not be like Nigel."

Fulvia, felt sure of this, still Ethel might have hoped without reason.
Fulvia pitied Ethel, thinking what might have been Ethel's happiness,
but for certain circumstances; and then she pitied herself, recurring
to the present trouble. Her step soon slackened under its weight.

Presently she reached a bridge. The towing-path thereafter continued
on the other side of the river, but Fulvia did not cross. She made her
way along the broken bank, where no path existed, wishing to get out of
sight, if Ethel should follow so far.

A snug spot near the water on a steep slope presented itself.
There were shrubs and trees on either side, enough to shelter from
observation, or so Fulvia thought. She edged herself downward
cautiously, and when comfortably placed, with one aged piece of jutting
tree-root for her seat, and another for her footstool, she found that
the retreat she had chosen was not invisible either from the bridge or
the opposite bank; but after all it did not matter! Ethel would not
invade her solitude.

Time passed, Fulvia did not know how. She had not looked at her watch
since leaving home. It was a relief to be alone, beyond reach of
questioning eyes, and she could safely allow herself here to sink into
a mood of melancholy, for nobody was at hand to note how she looked.
Once in such a mood it was hard to rouse herself out of it. She felt
like sitting on indefinitely, letting her mind drift as leaves drifted
past in the stream below.

Would Nigel ever quite get over this affair of the postscript? Fulvia
could not be content with mere forgiveness; she wanted to be reinstated
in his good opinion. That good opinion had always been hers, and she
could not endure to lose it. Would he ever again have his old complete
confidence in her?

"Whatever else might be wanting, that was not wanting." So Nigel had
said, "Whatever else—" then he, too, had been conscious of a want,
either in himself or in Fulvia. Only it had not been want of trust. He
had trusted her entirely, and now his trust was shaken.

If aught else be lacking between brother and sister, between friend and
friend, between husband and wife, while there is perfect trust, there
cannot be misery. It is hardly possible that perfect trust should exist
without growing love; but trust must stand upon a firm foundation;
it can only exist where such a foundation is found. He who trusts
must know from practical experience that the one whom he trusts is
trustworthy. And whatever else is present, if trust fails everything
fails; there is then no firm ground to stand upon; love sinks at once
to a lower level.

Fulvia's own hand had cut away this firm ground from beneath her feet.
In the main she was, as Nigel had always counted her, truthful and
honourable; but one failure long persisted in had undone what went
before. She might indeed never so fail again; but how could Nigel know?
Where one cannot trust, there can be no security of happiness. He might
be kind to any extent, but how could he rest upon her word?

"If only I had not done it! If one could but undo the past! And it did
me no good. Things would have come about just the same! . . . If I had
destroyed the paper! But would that have been enough? It might have
been known some day; or I might have felt that I must tell! If only I
had not done it!"

Round and round the circle of regrets she travelled; and when at length
a sound aroused her, she was startled to find how quickly the afternoon
was passing.

Unless she made haste, Nigel might reach home before her. That would
never do! And what if he and Malcolm should at any moment row by,
detecting her on the bank? Fulvia had liked to follow in his steps; but
she did not wish to meet him, since he had not asked her to do so.

There was indeed no time to lose, if she would avoid the possibility,
still more if she would ensure being the first to arrive at home.
Fulvia sprang up, somewhat carelessly in her haste, and found the
ground giving way beneath.

Late spring frosts had loosened the soil, heavy rains since had
carried on the work of disintegration, and Fulvia's weight bestowed
the finishing touch. A complete landslip on a tiny scale seemed to be
taking place. She struggled round to a kneeling position, and strove to
find her feet; but in vain. The earth was sliding, and she was sliding
with it.

Fulvia resisted fiercely, clutching at grass, weeds, rotten roots,
anything within reach; but everything in turn failed. Screaming was not
her natural mode of expression, unless under a very severe shock, and
she kept her self-command, making no outcry, though keenly aware of her
predicament. The steep bank ended abruptly in a natural upright wall
of clay, the stiff clay being surmounted by a layer of more friable
earth—that which was now yielding. Close underneath flowed the stream,
shelving at once into deep water, deeper now than usual from spring
rains.

"How stupid!" gasped Fulvia, and in another moment she found herself
on the verge, kneeling, with her back to the river, her feet actually
hanging over the bank, soft soil threatening each instant to slip anew
with her weight, both hands clutching at an infant shrub growing near,
and the gentle "swish" of the water close below.

"Hold on! I'm coming!" a clear, girlish voice rang out from the bridge.



CHAPTER XXVIII

THOU OR I!

        "What's brave, what's noble,
   Let's do it, after the high Roman fashion."
                                      —SHAKESPEARE.

ETHEL ELVEY had been standing on the bridge, unconscious of any human
creature's presence, when Fulvia's movement drew her attention.

"I shall be in! Make haste!" cried Fulvia. The baby shrub might at
any moment prove false to her trust, and nothing then could hold her
back from the threatened bath. Fulvia had no idea how deep the water
might be. She had never learnt to swim. Still, she did not lose her
collectedness; and with a vivid sense of alarm was mingled a sense of
her absurd position. "I am glad Nigel is not here to see!" flashed
through her mind, and then, "But he would have me up directly! What can
Ethel do?"

She dared not attempt to climb alone—dared not stir. The slightest
movement might precipitate her downwards.

Not many yards lower one big bough of a large tree curved over the
stream, actually dipping its leaves and twigs into the running water.
Fulvia cast a sidelong glance at this bough. If it had but been nearer!
The thought occurred to her that, should she fall in before Ethel could
arrive, she might reach and cling to the said bough. It looked strong,
extending so far out that the current would probably carry her within
grasp of its extremity. Fulvia was able to consider so much while
waiting. She resolved to keep cool, not to be flurried.

Ethel uttered the one encouraging cry, and then rushed round at her
utmost speed to the bank above Fulvia. The question was, how to proceed
when there? She heard Fulvia calling, "Take care! The ground will give
way!" And she knew that it would not do to follow in Fulvia's steps.

After one moment for observation, Ethel fixed her hopes upon a slender
ash, growing slightly to one side of the position which Fulvia had
occupied. She had been unused to exertion lately, and already she found
herself panting for breath, with a sense of failing power. But there
could be no delay. At any instant Fulvia's support might fail.

"Oh, make haste!" implored Fulvia, as Ethel sprang downwards quickly,
yet with caution. "Make haste!" It seemed impossible to hold on longer;
and, surely, the little shrub was coming up by the roots.

The branch on which Ethel had fixed her hopes proved to be out of
reach—almost, perhaps not quite, if she had breath and strength to
spring. She made a hurried attempt, once, twice, in vain; and then her
heart was throbbing so furiously that everything around grew hazy, and
she was compelled to pause, leaning against the tree.

"Ethel! Ethel!" cried Fulvia.

Ethel collected her energies, and made one supreme effort, throwing all
the strength she had into it, and very nearly losing her own balance.
This time she did not fail; the bough was in her clasp. If only she had
not felt so weak and dizzy—but there was no time to think of her own
sensations.

"Ethel!" shrieked Fulvia hoarsely; for again the earth seemed to be
sinking under her.

She held on desperately—how, she did not know; and she grew terrified,
losing her collectedness.

Ethel, clinging to the tough ash branch, sprang fearlessly down the
bank, bending forward with outstretched right hand. Fulvia's came to
meet it, and the two met in a firm grip.

Success so far; but in the same moment the ground beneath Fulvia broke
away, and Fulvia hung over the brink, depending alone on Ethel. The
sudden pull drew Ethel from where she had stood, and she slid down the
yielding bank towards the verge.

Perhaps the ash branch might have borne them both, had Ethel's strength
been equal to her share of the task; which it was not. The weight of
both girls rested now mainly upon Ethel's slender left hand, and the
strain was terrible.

For two or three seconds she set her teeth, and held on desperately;
but that could not last. She was turning faint; specks danced before
her eyes, and Fulvia's voice was unheard. The drag upon her wrist tore
the muscles, and the agony became unbearable. Another moment, and the
released branch sprang back to its old position, while the two girls
rolled helplessly over into deep water, each clinging to the other with
unconscious force.

This was Fulvia's second involuntary bath in the river! Last time the
water had been her friend, saving her from a deadlier peril; now it was
her foe, endangering life.

       *       *       *       *       *       *      *

Fulvia's presence of mind forsook her at the moment of the plunge
into cold water, and she forgot the low hanging bough; but happily
the stream fulfilled her hope. As the two girls rose, still together,
Fulvia flung out her arm against something firm, and in a moment she
had fast hold.

"Cling! Cling!" she gasped, so soon as speech became possible. She
dashed the water out of her eyes, and cast a look round. "Ethel, Ethel,
cling; we are safe now!"

Ethel had uttered no sound. Her eyes were half shut; her lips had grown
blue. It was not easy to make her transfer her grasp of Fulvia to the
friendly bough. They were so near its extremity that the wonder was
they had not been swept past it by the current. Ethel inevitably would
have been, since she was outermost, but for her instinctive grip of
Fulvia.

Fulvia, as she seized the bough, drew Ethel nearer; and the gentle
force of the stream rather tended now to wash them against it than to
carry them away. But they could feel no ground for their feet; and
though the water buoyed them up, it was very cold—far colder than
Fulvia would have expected.

She gazed about in eager quest for help, and could see no one. While
they could cling, they were, as she had said, safe. The question was,
how long the power of each would last?

To get to shore unaided was not possible. Even if they could have
attempted to work themselves along by the side of the bough, passing
hand over hand—an easy matter to a boy, though by no means easy to a
girl—it would have been useless. The branch soon curved upwards out of
reach, and unless they could climb into the tree, which was out of the
question, they would have to cross unaided a space of deep water, which
was equally out of the question.

Moreover, Fulvia had serious doubts as to the strength of their
support. She did not think it would stand any severe strain. The
branch, as a whole, was less stout than it had appeared at a little
distance: there were signs about it of age, and of something
approaching to rottenness, and higher up, half-way to the bank, she
could actually see a slight split, as if the part on which they
depended had begun to break off. It might only have begun with the pull
of their sudden weight, as Fulvia was swept against it.

She found herself watching that visible split in the wood with
fascinated eyes, composed enough to speculate how soon it would widen,
yet with terror below.

They could do nothing except cling and cry for help. Fulvia called and
called again, without result. Ethel made no such attempt. She seemed
just conscious, just able to clutch the bough with one hand, the other
being under water out of sight; but no words had yet passed her lips,
and the look of exhaustion alarmed Fulvia.

"I don't see or hear anybody. Some one must surely pass soon. Ethel,
are you faint? You look so pale. Don't let go!" This companionship in
misfortune drew them together, and she felt that Ethel was in peril for
her sake. "Don't let anything make you! Can't you hold with both hands?"

"I can't—"

"Why not? Have you hurt yourself?"

"I think—my wrist—"

"Yes; what is it?"

"Only—twisted—"

"Was that why you had to give way? Is the pain very bad?"

"Yes." The monosyllable did for both questions.

Fulvia had one arm over the bough by this time. She quitted her grip of
it with the other, and grasped Ethel's dress instead.

"That will help you, will it not?" she said. "Now you cannot go. Ethel,
be brave; do try to hope. Somebody is sure to come soon. You must not
let yourself faint. This can't last long."

It could not indeed, in another sense, as Fulvia well knew. Their
position was rapidly becoming most serious. Her own powers lessened
fast, and Ethel drooped more each minute. Now and again it seemed to
Fulvia that the clasp of those thin fingers was loosening. She held
Ethel tightly, alternately imploring her to keep up, and shouting for
aid; but still no one came, and it was impossible that Fulvia should
long support Ethel as well as herself.

A new terror arose. Ominous creaks sounded, slight at first, then more
distinct; and Fulvia, watching with wide-open eyes, felt certain that
the crack above had begun to widen. In a few minutes the whole bough
would split off. This was the finishing touch to her misery. Once more
Fulvia's composure failed her as terror rose high, and she screamed
again for help, in a voice sharpened by fear.

Either the creaks or that new sound in Fulvia's voice aroused Ethel
from her semi-trance. The eyes, dim and unseeing a minute earlier, grew
clear, and she said distinctly, "It is giving way."

Fulvia broke into despairing sobs. "Ethel, Ethel, what shall we do? Why
does no one come? It is cruel—cruel. Must we be drowned? I can't die! I
cannot—cannot leave Nigel!"

"Poor Fulvia!" Ethel's faint tones were full of pity. "But if God
calls?" she murmured.

Fulvia shut her eyes, and tried to cry for help, for pardon, before it
should be too late; but she could not think, could not fix her mind. In
days of safety she had not drawn near to God, and now, in the hour of
danger, she felt Him far away. The dazzle of the water was all around,
even when her eyes were shut; and the stream gently swayed her; and
the creaks grew louder, more frequent. She heard Ethel speaking again,
"Don't hold me! Let go!"

"Why?" Fulvia involuntarily loosened her hold on Ethel as she spoke.

"It will not bear us both."

"The bough! Breaking!"

"Yes. Don't be startled. I think you will be all right. I think I
ought!"—and there was a quiet smile. "Tell Nigel why. And—oh, Fulvie!"
with a passion of longing in the blue eyes—"be very, very good to him!"

Then she unclasped the clinging fingers, which held her to the bough,
and fell off. The strained support ceased to creak with the lessened
weight, and Ethel's slight form was borne away, carried round the next
bond in the river.

A piercing scream burst from Fulvia. She had cried for help before with
all her force, but this cry rang far and wide, with a shrill intensity
unequalled hitherto. No second cry followed it; voice failed in a
convulsion of sobs. Fulvia had not dreamt what Ethel's words meant.


The Bramble family had organised a small expedition that afternoon to
a certain Roman encampment some miles down the river. The encampment
consisted only of a few stony heaps, well grown over; but a charming
wood stood hard by, and Newton Bury people made the most of their one
little lion.

Mr. Bramble was there, middle-aged, good-humoured, a degree pompous,
and willing to be amused; Mrs. Bramble, plump and complacent; Rose
Bramble, and two young lady-cousins of Rose. Only the Duncans went,
beside themselves, and for a wonder Dr. Duncan, in addition to his wife
and daughter, was of the party. He could seldom find leisure for any
such relaxation. Two open carriages bore the eight, and Baldwin Bramble
preceded them on his bicycle.

Having enjoyed afternoon tea in the wood, the merry party drove
homewards. Dr. Duncan's presence had been secured only through a
promise of early return; consequently they stayed a shorter time than
was usual with excursion parties. Baldwin, on his bicycle, speedily
shot ahead of the more lumbering vehicles. He reached the neighbourhood
of the spot where was Fulvia, a short time before she thought of
moving. The carriage road lay not far from the river, though not within
sight.

Baldwin had begun to find solitude uninteresting. He resolved to wait
for the carriages, and to restrain his ardour for a while to match
their pace. Leaning his bicycle against a grassy bank by the roadside,
he passed through a gate and sat down under a hedge, intent upon his
favourite solace. To his disgust, he found that he had mislaid his
match-box. Cigars being useless, only one recourse remained to the
disappointed young man. He fell sound asleep.

Ethel's voice and Fulvia's cries, in the succession of events which
followed, failed to disturb Baldwin's peaceful slumbers. He had an
uncomfortable dream or two, but he slept on. Then Fulvia's wild shriek,
when Ethel left the bough, effected that which all previous cries had
failed to effect. Baldwin awoke, with the echo of her scream still
ringing in his ears.

He was not a rapid young man at any time, either in understanding or
in doing; but as he sat up, it dawned upon him that somebody was in
distress somewhere.

"What's the matter now? Bother!" he said aloud.

Had anybody else been at hand to take the initiative, Baldwin would
doubtless have remained quiescent, since he never troubled himself to
act unnecessarily. No one except himself appearing to be within call,
he made his way towards the river. Where water is at hand, and an
appeal for help is heard, one naturally connects the two together.

Baldwin had not far to go. Sobbing wails in a woman's voice guided and
quickened his steps. He was soon looking downward upon the low bough,
to which a girl clung, her hat off, her face and hands above water, her
tones and gestures expressive of urgent appeal for help.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Baldwin.

The question was, how to get at her? Nigel, in Baldwin's place, would
probably have taken a header into the river, without hesitation; but
Baldwin was not so impulsive. He was a tolerably capable young man when
moved by a sufficient motive, and the dire need of the lady below was
evident; still, he had on a brand-new bicycling costume, never worn
till that day; and not everybody is willing, without consideration, to
sacrifice a brand-new suit of clothes.

It was plain that the lady saw him, and was calling out eager
entreaties, broken by sobs. Baldwin paid small regard to what she said.
Rescue was of course what she wanted; and the difficulty was how to
rescue her without getting wet himself. He reluctantly came to the
conclusion that the knickerbockers at least must submit to a ducking.

The road was entirely out of sight; but Baldwin was not afraid of the
two carriages going by. He knew that the sight of his bicycle would
bring them to a halt.

For two seconds Baldwin debated whether to climb down the bough to
Fulvia. He decided against that mode, doubting whether the bough would
bear his additional weight, and feeling sure that he could not get the
young lady to land by any such means.

"Yes, yes; I'm coming," he called, with cheerful deliberation, as he
pulled off his coat. The girl seemed in a desperate hurry, he thought.
She was urging something passionately, with hysterical vehemence, but
he could not distinguish a word.

Where Fulvia and Ethel had fallen in, the bank was steep. Here, below
the tree, it sloped gradually into the river, and Baldwin waded several
steps with caution.

"Hallo!" he exclaimed, stopping short, when the stream rose above his
waist. "I say! If it isn't—! Why, it is—Miss Rolfe!"

"Save Ethel!" sobbed Fulvia incoherently.

"I wouldn't be so frightened—I really wouldn't, Miss Rolfe,"
expostulated Baldwin, in a tone of concern. "See, now, couldn't you
manage to pull yourself along the bough towards me, just a yard or
two?—It's no earthly use speaking to her; she won't hear a word,"
muttered the young man. "Nothing for it but to swim. I say," raising
his voice, "don't you grab me, Miss Rolfe. We don't want to go under
together." He had vivid recollections of her conduct on a former
occasion, when he had not been the rescuing party.

A few strokes carried him across the intervening space, and he laid one
hand upon the low lying branch. It snapped away like tinder, and he
made a vehement snatch at Fulvia, just in time, as she was going with
it.

"Hallo!" he once more ejaculated.

Fulvia gasped, and struggled. Baldwin held her dexterously at arm's
length, and struck out for the bank, which he reached somewhat lower
down. He sprang out, helped her up, and gave himself a shake. The
knickerbockers were done for.

Streaming with water, breathless and stupefied, Fulvia sank to the
ground; but as her gasps lessened, sense and speech returned.

"Don't mind me!—Oh, don't mind me!" she implored. "Ethel has gone
down—drowning—the river—Oh, go and save her!"

"Hallo! You don't say there's another?"

Fulvia, almost shrieked in answer, "Yes!—Yes!—Ethel—Ethel Elvey!" Would
he never understand?

"Bramble, what's all this? Fulvia!" exclaimed Dr. Duncan, arriving on
the scene.

"She'd better drive home. Just got her out of the river. Yes—nice,
isn't it?" with a rueful glance at his boots. "I don't think she knows
what she's saying—" in an undertone, confidentially. "That's rubbish,
you know, about Miss Elvey."

"No! No! No! He will not understand," cried Fulvia. "We fell in
together—Ethel and I—and she has gone down—down the river! The branch
was breaking, and she let go! Oh, save her!"

Dr. Duncan turned sharply to Baldwin. "Send her home in one carriage at
once," he said. "Keep the other, and come after me."

Then he was off at full speed, losing not a moment, active as a boy in
his movements, quickly out of sight.

"Oh, go—go too!—Never mind me!" urged Fulvia.

"I've got to see you off first. Dr. Duncan will do all that can be
done," said Baldwin, feeling little doubt that the rescue of Ethel, if
not already accomplished, must come too late. "You'll catch your death
of cold, if you don't hurry."

"No, no! You must leave me and go!" implored Fulvia; but she implored
in vain—Baldwin would not so much as listen. He half led, half dragged
her over the rough ground, till the road was reached, where the two
open carriages waited.

A chorus of exclamations greeted Baldwin and his dripping companion. He
singled out Mrs. Duncan, and explained tersely how things stood. "Miss
Rolfe was to drive home at once," he said; "Dr. Duncan ordered it. The
other carriage had better wait." In an undertone Baldwin added, "Don't
you let her put off. She's half frantic already, and if Miss Elvey—you
know what I mean."

Mrs. Duncan did know too well. She wrapped warm shawls round the
shivering girl, and despatched her without delay, under the charge of
Mrs. Bramble and the two cousins, Rose Bramble taking to the coach box.
Better all of them out of the way, thought Mrs. Duncan, regretting
only that Annibel could not go also. Fulvia hysterically begged to be
allowed to wait; but, like Baldwin, Mrs. Duncan would not listen.

"My dear, it is as much as your life is worth," she said; and she gave
parting directions to the others. "Tell Mrs. Browning and Daisy that
Fulvia must take off all her wet things, and get into bed as fast as
possible, and have something hot to drink."



CHAPTER XXIX

BORNE DOWNWARD

   "Farewell, oh dream of mine!
      I dare not stay;
    The hour is come, and time
      Will not delay:
    Pleasant and dear to me
      Wilt thou remain;
    No future hour
      Brings thee again."—A. A. PROCTER.

"HASN'T been a bad day for a row," observed Malcolm.

"No."

"Well, now we have tried it once, we'll try it again. You used to be
such a one for boating. Grown tired of it lately?"

"No."

"You've not gone in for it!"

"No."

"I would sometimes, if I were you. 'All work and no play,' you know—"

"Yes."

"What's the matter to-day?"

This question came abruptly. The friends had been together since
half-past two, and the above is a fair sample of the conversation which
had taken place.

"Nothing," Nigel said—adding, "at least nothing in particular."

"Only everything in general. That's as bad."

"No. It's all right."

"Sure? You seem out of sorts somehow."

Nigel rowed on in silence. The lithe muscular figure found evident
pleasure in the exertion, moving with careless ease. There was no lack
of good health apparent in the bronze face; but the immovable gravity
differed much from Nigel's old light-heartedness. Malcolm noticed it
more than usually this day. He had started in high spirits himself,
ready for any amount of gaiety, and he found scant response. No
answering fun was to be got out of his serious companion.

"What's the matter, old fellow?" he inquired again. "I don't want to
be a bother, but really one can't help noticing. What are you thinking
about?"

"Varieties," was the answer.

"When are you coming to see us again?"

"I don't know. Some day, perhaps."

"You are busy now, of course. Still, if Ethel didn't know you so well
she might be affronted." Malcolm spoke thoughtlessly, and the next
moment was vexed with himself. He did not understand the exact position
of affairs. Nigel's engagement to Fulvia, after years of apparent
devotion to Ethel, had been a sore perplexity to him; but he did not
know that there were reasons for Nigel's action which had not been told
to him, yet which Ethel counted to have weight; and he had strong trust
in his friend. Moreover, he could see, as every one could see, that
Nigel was not happy. Malcolm's private belief was that Nigel cared too
little for Fulvia, too much for Ethel; therefore, he regretted his own
hasty words.

"How is Ethel?" asked Nigel, speaking with a manifest effort.

"Not so strong as she ought to be. We hoped more from Wales."

The two rowed on again, more slowly than before; or rather Nigel rowed,
Malcolm having taken to steering. Nigel was buried in thought.

"We shall have to think of a change to some more bracing place, if she
doesn't look up soon," observed Malcolm. "I don't like to see her as
she is now."

A shrill scream rang out suddenly.

"What's that?" burst from both.

"Where from?" exclaimed Malcolm.

"Ahead!" And Nigel worked at the oars with vigour.

"Sure? I thought—"

"Yes! Listen!" But no second cry followed the first.

"Nigel, you didn't know that voice? I had a fancy—"

Nigel uttered one word, "Fulvia." He had lost colour, but he spoke
calmly, redoubling his exertions. The boat shot swiftly up stream.

"Let me take an oar." Malcolm started half up, but Nigel's answer was
imperative—

"No; keep still. Can't wait for that."

Malcolm submitted. He knew that he could not rival these strokes, and
he could better be on the lookout where he was. They swept round a
slight bend, and then a cry escaped Malcolm.

"Ha! See there!"

"Where? What?"

"Some one in the water! A woman!"

"Make for her—straight."

Nigel did not even glance round. "Fulvia!" was in the minds of both,
and Nigel was deeply moved; for whatever she might or might not be to
him, his love for her was of its kind thoroughly genuine.

"It may not be—her," Malcolm uttered. "Take care; not so fast.
Now—slacken! Now—here."

Nigel looked, drew in his oars, and sprang up, always the first to act.
Malcolm kept his seat, balancing the boat, as Nigel leant over and
caught something, drawing it nearer—caught a girlish dress.

Then they both saw—

A still face, pure as alabaster, the eyes closed, the brown hair matted
and streaming, the lips peacefully parted!

"Ethel! Oh my God!" broke from Nigel.

"Ethel!" Malcolm echoed hoarsely.

No other sound passed Nigel's lips. He grew pale, but there was no loss
of control over himself. With steady balancing, aided by Malcolm, he
drew up the slight heavy figure, held in one half-instant in his arms,
gazing, then laid it gently down.

"Nigel, she can't—can't have been in long. She must have fallen just
now. That scream," Malcolm said with difficulty.

Nigel made no reply in words. He gave Malcolm one glance, caught up the
oars, pointed to the bank, and rowed with fierce energy.

A possible landing-place was near, and in less than two minutes they
were there. The boat's keel no sooner grounded than Nigel dropped his
oars, lifted Ethel once more in his arms, and sprang ashore. He seemed
to have unnatural strength. Every movement was rapid and light, as if
he did not feel her weight.

"The Parsonage?" Malcolm said, and Nigel made a gesture of assent.
He had at once remembered the little hamlet Church of Buryfield, not
ten minutes distant, with its liliputian Parsonage and gentle elderly
Incumbent. "Let me help. You can't carry her all the way."

"No;" and Nigel strode on at a frantic pace, his face ghastly. Malcolm
kept pace by his side.

"She can't be gone. It can't be too late. She was in so short a time,"
urged Malcolm. "Don't give up hope." He almost lost sight of his own
fear and grief in view of his friend's distress, which yet he could not
understand. Nigel had not worn that look when they believed the scream
to be Fulvia's,—as indeed it was. The idea that Fulvia, not Ethel, had
screamed, and that Fulvia too was in danger, did not occur to either of
them.

Mr. Dacres was at home. He knew the young men slightly, and had seen
Ethel before. This sudden incursion must have been a trial to an
unmarried man, advanced in years; but he met it bravely, summoning at
once his capable housekeeper to see what could be done. Hot water, hot
flannels, anything they might need, were at their service. The gardener
was sent, rushing at his utmost speed, to summon Dr. Duncan, or any
doctor who could be found, from Newton Bury, for this hamlet did not
own a medical man. Little dreamt any of them that Dr. Duncan was even
then within a few minutes' walk, hurrying along the bank in search of
Ethel.

Malcolm knew something, at least in theory, of what had to be done in
such an emergency. The housekeeper and a girl who worked under her
were willing enough to follow his directions. They removed Ethel's wet
clothes, wrapping her in warm blankets before the kitchen fire, with
vigorous rubbing. Nigel and Malcolm waited in the passage while these
things were done; and then, as all efforts failed, they stole back into
the kitchen, Malcolm to assist in rubbing, Nigel to watch the still
face with despairing eyes.

Dr. Duncan could not come yet. Half-an-hour more was the shortest time
possible. But as they said and thought this, the door opened, and James
Duncan walked in.

No needless words were spoken. Dr. Duncan bent over Ethel, listening
to the heart, feeling the pulse, lifting the eyelids to look into the
eyes. Then his glance fell upon Nigel's face, and a slight change crept
into his calmness, as if he had seen something unexpected.

"Not dead," he pronounced.

"Thank God!" Malcolm said fervently.

No answering sound came from Nigel, and the doctor's glance fell on him
again.

"We are too many here. The less the better. Yes, go for a little
while—" to Malcolm. Then in a lower voice, "Take that poor fellow into
another room."

"But there is hope?"

"I trust so. We have no time to lose. Now, Mrs. Willis—"

Malcolm did not wait for more. He had complete faith in Duncan's skill
and kindness. Mr. Dacres lingered, while Malcolm slipped an arm through
Nigel's, and drew him from the kitchen regions into the clergyman's
little study.

"Cheer up," he said gravely. "It will not be so bad, Nigel,—thank God.
Dr. Duncan does not fear the worst. Cheer up, my dear fellow; we may
hope now."

Nigel had never broken quite down through all the pain and grief of
past months; but he broke down now. His face was hidden, bowed low on
his crossed arms, and the whole frame shook. No sobs were audible,
yet Malcolm knew what it meant. He drew the bolt softly, for none but
himself might see this; and he could only look on in silence, with eyes
full of tears, till the worst was over.


Mrs. Browning and Daisy were inadequate to the management of Fulvia,
when Fulvia chose to take the bit between her teeth. It was all very
well for Mrs. Duncan to send directions that Fulvia ought to go to bed.
Mrs. Bramble delivered the message faithfully, but Fulvia refused to
obey.

"How cam, I, till I know about Ethel?" she asked. "Take care of myself
when Ethel is perhaps—oh, if they had only let me stay to hear! It was
cruel to hurry me away. But Nigel will soon be at home, and he can find
out. I must stay downstairs till Nigel comes. Not good for me! What
does that matter? What do I care? I only want to know if Ethel is safe."

She built her hopes upon Nigel's return, which seemed to be
unaccountably delayed. Meantime she had consented to change her soaked
clothing, and to dispose of what Daisy called "a hot drink." Then, as
she shivered incessantly, despite her warm shawl, a fire was lighted in
the study, and Fulvia cowered over it.

Daisy offered to go to the Rectory for news, but Fulvia would not
consent. "They may not have heard," she said, shuddering. "If Ethel is
safe, it would be brutal to frighten Mrs. Elvey without need. And if—if
the worst has happened, they will hear soon enough—too soon. Why should
one be in a hurry to bring misery to people! It is hard enough to bear
one's own wretchedness."

Suspense in her present mood found relief in speech. Fulvia talked
incessantly, going over every detail of the day's adventures, enlarging
with feverish admiration on Ethel's self-devotion. She did not shed
tears, but she could not be silent or turn to another subject. Her
limbs were aching, her face and head burning. Mrs. Browning listened
uneasily, trying in vain to soothe her. Agreement or opposition alike
made her worse. Anice was upstairs, keeping aloof, as usual, from
uncomfortableness, and Daisy watched at the dining-room window, coming
from time to time with the report, "No news and nobody,"—always to be
ordered back by Fulvia to her post of observation.

"Nigel will be here directly. He must," Fulvia said on one of these
occasions. "Let me know the moment you see him. No, I won't have you do
anything. Only wait." Then she recurred to the grievous refrain: "If
Ethel is drowned, I shall never forgive myself. It will have been all
through me. I shall never look any one in the face again."

At last!—the sound of wheels! Daisy flew in. "Some one has come," she
cried. "Cousin Jamie, and—I'm not sure, but I think I had a glimpse of
Nigel."

Fulvia kept her seat, trembling violently. She did not grow pale, but
the flush deepened, spreading to her brow. "Call them here—quick," she
said. "If not, I will go out. Quick!"

Daisy obeyed to the best of her power.

Dr. Duncan came in first, looking as if the events of the last two
hours had told upon him. Nigel followed,—not the Nigel who had left
home after lunch, but white, worn, heavy-eyed, as he had been after his
father's death.

Fulvia's wandering gaze concentrated itself on him, while he stood,
resting one arm on the back of a chair, apparently not even seeing her.

"Then—Ethel is gone!" she said, gasping. "It was too late? And I—I—the
cause!"

She turned her burning face away, and wrung her hands together,
breaking into a wail of distress, like a child, and then she found Dr.
Duncan's hand upon her arm.

"Hush! You are over-excited. Ethel is better."

"Not dead! But Nigel looks—" Fulvia broke off. "He looks—! Was Ethel
saved? She—went down the river,—" with a bewildered glance round. "I
can't explain. I feel so strange! Is this the way people go out of
their minds?"—and there was a short laugh. "Feel my hand; I am all on
fire. But think—think of Ethel! The branch was breaking, and she let
go—for my sake! And she is not drowned. I thought she must be drowned.
Not drowned, you say? You are sure—quite sure?"

"Yes." Until then Fulvia's rapid utterances allowed no space for reply.
"Perfectly sure."

"How do you know? Have you seen her? Has Nigel?"

"Malcolm and Nigel were coming up the river in their boat—just in time."

"And she is—not the worse?"

"She will suffer, of course; but we were able—mercifully—to bring her
round."

"She will get over it—will get well? Promise me!"

"I trust so, in time. We have taken her home, and my wife will stay
there all night. I have come now to see you."

"I! Oh, that does not matter. What does anything signify about me? If
you will save Ethel—people love Ethel, you know. And for Nigel's sake!
It doesn't matter about me! Why don't you go back to Ethel? She ought
not to be left. She might die; and if she did, Nigel would die too.
Look! Can't you see?"

"Fulvia, you are wrong! You must not give way like this," said Dr.
Duncan in a low voice.

"Why not? I may do as I like. Who cares?"

She turned petulantly from him, and with uneven steps walked across to
Nigel.

Dr. Duncan would not follow her. He sent Daisy from the room, on some
slight pretext, and at once set himself to engross Mrs. Browning's
attention.

Fulvia cared little, in her then mood, whether or no she was observed.
She stood in front of Nigel, who had remained silent since his first
entrance, and her intent gaze caused a slight movement, as if he shrunk
from it—or from her.

"Have you been so frightened about Ethel?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Not about—?"

Nigel understood. "I did not know of your danger too, Fulvia, till—" he
said in a low voice, and then he faltered, as if scarcely knowing how
to continue.

"Yes—till when?"

"Jamie told me—half-an-hour ago, I believe—I am not sure."

"No; that was a secondary matter," said Fulvia. Her face hardened, and
her tone grew harsh. "If you had known us both to be drowning, would
you have left Ethel to come to me?"

Nigel attempted no answer.

"Nigel—look at me!" she said sharply—even imperiously, as she had
before spoken to Daisy. "Look at me, and answer. Why should you be
afraid? Would you have left Ethel to come to me?"

Even these words did not rouse him. He made an effort to respond, but
the heavy eyes seemed almost unable to lift themselves. Fulvia had seen
him like this once before. Her mood changed with curious suddenness,
as Fulvia's moods were wont to change. The hardness vanished, and pity
took its place.

"You are done up," she said. "Was it the thought that Ethel was
drowned?"

Nigel was silent.

"And I—you did not think of me—"

"I did not know—"

"Was I cruel to ask that question just now?" Fulvia inquired, almost
whispering the words.

Dr. Duncan and Mrs. Browning passed out of the room, leaving them alone.

"Yes, I was cruel," she went on. "You cannot help it. You have tried
so hard. I know that well. But till to-day I have not known Ethel—the
noble girl that she is! I have dared to think her ordinary. Have you
heard how things happened? You ought to hear!"

"Not all—"

"No,—I might guess Ethel would not tell. I slipped first, and she came
to my help, and we fell in together. She could not hold me up, though
she tried. Then we clung to the bough, and it was giving way. I was
frightened, but Ethel did not seem afraid. She and I are so different.
We could not be sure if the bough would last, and Ethel let go to save
me, and went down the river. If I had guessed in time, I would have
held her fast; but how could I guess? That was the last I saw of Ethel.
It was grand of her—more than I could have done in her place. I shall
never forget her face, the moment that she let go—never! I shall always
know what Ethel is."

Nigel said nothing, and not a feature of his face changed. Fulvia
watched him closely, knowing that he would not show what he might have
shown.

"Is Ethel always like that?"

"Yes—always."

"And you have known it?"

"Yes—" still lower.

"I think you ought to lie down," said Fulvia abruptly. "I have not
seen you so for a long while—not since padre's death." Then she looked
round, to find Dr. Duncan by her side. "Nigel is ill," she said with a
shudder.

"Not ill, only overstrained. I am more afraid for you," said Dr.
Duncan. "Why did you not go to bed at once?"

"Oh, I could not—how could I? But I will now. Everything feels so
strange!" and she laughed drearily. "I can't get clear in my head. You
are sure that Ethel is not drowned? Nigel could not seem more unhappy
if she were. You are not deceiving me?"

"Have I ever deceived you yet?"

"No!" Fulvia said at once. A look came into her eyes which Dr. Duncan
could not fathom. "If you had, I should never trust you again, should
I? Whatever you said or did, I should always—always—feel that you might
be deceiving me again."

Nigel glanced at her, and Fulvia met his eyes, breaking into a laugh.

"Oh, I feel so strange," she said.

Dr. Duncan shook her hand gently, as if to rouse her.

"Don't talk so Fulvia. This has been too much for you. The sooner you
are in bed the better."

"Yes. I have nothing to stay up for now. But Ethel will get well. You
are sure—sure?"

"I trust so."

"She must! For Nigel's sake! It will kill him if she dies! Yes, I am
going! Make Nigel rest, please. Will you see Ethel again to-night?"

"Yes; and I shall look in again to see how you are, afterwards. Go
straight to bed now. Daisy is waiting for you."

"Thanks. Good-bye," said Fulvia. She passed out of the room, without
even a glance towards Nigel.

His eyes and Dr. Duncan's met, each questioning the other; while Fulvia
dragged herself upstairs.



CHAPTER XXX

NOT I, BUT THOU

   "Be satisfied that, in order to accomplish all that God would have
done there is in one sense but very little to do . . . It is simply a
question of yielding up our will; of going cheerfully from day to day
whithersoever God may lead us."—FÉNÉLON.

   "Thou who canst love us, though Thou read us true."—_Christian Year._

SEVEN long weeks had run their course since the day when Fulvia and
Ethel fell into the river. Much may happen in seven weeks! And it
seemed to Fulvia that much had happened, all within the four walls of
her own room, which for six weeks she never left. But more had taken
place than she yet knew.

She had been very ill—so ill as to lie at death's door. The shock, the
fright, the chill, the exposure in wet clothes—these, preceded and
accompanied by great agitation, would have been enough to break anybody
down. Even Fulvia's vigorous constitution was not proof against so
severe a strain.

That constitution stood her in good stead, however, when the tide
turned and she began to recover. Her improvement was steady, with few
drawbacks.

Ethel had been ill too, and Fulvia knew it. Not desperately ill,
like herself; but laid low with a bad feverish cold, and kept low
indefinitely by weakness from which she could not rally. Fulvia, asked
after her daily, and could find out no more.

Fulvia was intensely desirous for Ethel's recovery. She could never
forget the moment when Ethel had slipped away from the bough, as
it seemed to certain death, that Fulvia might be saved. Nothing in
Fulvia's life had made a stronger impression on her mind. She was
penetrated through and through with a sense of Ethel's nobility of
character. She thought of it awake, talked of it asleep, raved of it
in delirium; and if Fulvia had not often prayed before, she prayed
now—constantly, passionately—that Ethel might become well—not for her
own sake, but for Nigel's sake! For side by side with Ethel's white
face, floating away on the river, as Fulvia saw it perpetually, was
Nigel's face, worn and hollow-eyed, as he had come back from the rescue
of Ethel.

During seven weeks she had not seen Nigel. Once, when she was at her
worst, he had nearly been called into the sick-room, in the hope that
his face might soothe her restless excitement; but Fulvia, overhearing,
had cried out against the suggestion. She was so much worse for the
bare idea, that no one thought of proposing it again.

Mrs. Browning learnt some sharp lessons watching by the sick girl.
It was difficult to fathom the meaning of her rapid unconscious
utterances; but one thing at least was plain—that Fulvia had been,
and was, terribly unhappy. The engagement which Mrs. Browning and her
husband, as well as Mr. Carden-Cox, had been so anxious to bring about,
was not a success. Nigel's spiritless gravity had long been in itself a
silent rebuke; and Fulvia's broken mournful complaints struck even more
keenly home; since their wish to press matters forward had been, at
least in a measure, for Fulvia's sake.

Better far, for all concerned, if they had been content to leave
uncertainties in the hands of One who sees the end from the beginning.
We are all too apt to think that we can arrange the lives of those
around us: and our meddling often only mars what we would fain set
right. Mrs. Browning knew this at last; and the gentle woman grieved
sorely, though in silence, over her past mistakes. But at least she did
not make the fresh mistake of interfering anew.

Fulvia had now been allowed for several days to go downstairs, and
had even had a short drive or two; nevertheless, she had not yet seen
Nigel. He had left home a fortnight earlier, a holiday being kindly
arranged for him by Mr. Bramble, that he might try to shake off the
unconquerable lassitude which for weeks had weighed him down. Every one
thought him looking ill, and this had come to Fulvia's ears, though she
asked few questions, and, indeed, seldom spoke of him voluntarily.

The fortnight of absence being over on this day, exactly seven weeks
after the accident, Nigel was expected home. Fulvia sat alone in the
study, awaiting his arrival.

She looked better in health than might have been expected; which
is often the case after a severe illness, with its necessary rest,
and petting, and feeding up. Friends are always surprised; but it
constantly so happens. Fulvia's complexion was clearer, her eyes were
brighter, her cheeks were even a little plumper, than two months ago.

Yet she had gone through much suffering, mental as well as physical,
and she had come out changed. The gold had been purified in the
furnace. Life itself was altered for Fulvia thenceforward.

Self's happiness had been her chief aim through past years, side by
side, indeed, with kindly thought for others, yet always holding its
position. It had seemed to her impossible to live without the thing she
craved,—without Nigel.

Now a higher and nobler view of life had dawned. The thought of
self-sacrifice, as a great joy in life, had come.

Once before she had had a glimpse: once, many months earlier, when she
had resolved to put aside thoughts of self, and to help forward the
happiness of him whom she loved, irrespective of her own desires. That
feeble resolution had gone down like a reed before the hurricane rush
of strong temptation. She had seen the possible nobleness, but she had
not lived it.

Now matters were different. Ethel's act of self-devotion had led her
upwards to something far above—infinitely beyond. Fulvia had gained
in this illness new knowledge of ONE whose life and death were pure
self-sacrifice, who had not lived to Himself, but to God and for men.
That which had been a story to her before was at last reality. A fresh
and wonderful light was shed upon everything.

Slowly, dawning like daylight, the light came. Fulvia was in no haste.
She waited to see more, submitting like a little child. To such an
attitude of waiting the needed lessons are always sent.

Two clear thoughts gradually rose into prominence, the first embracing
the second, the second springing from the first.

Christ had given Rig life for her! Could she do less than devote her
life unto Him?

That was the first and greater thought.

Ethel had been willing to die for Fulvia! Could not Fulvia voluntarily
give up her heart's desire for Ethel?

That was the second and lesser thought.

The first was the easier of acceptance. The second, which of necessity
followed, caused hard battling. But gradually Fulvia's resolution was
taken.

She was thinking over this resolution as she sat in the study, facing
her future, trying, not without success, to be glad in Nigel's coming
happiness.

"For he will be happy!" she murmured. "And I may love him still—as his
sister. We were brother and sister so many years. Just going back to
the old order of things. It will not be so hard now—perhaps—now I can
love Ethel too."

There was a stir of arrival at the front door. Fulvia sat still,
trembling. She was not strong yet, though she looked well. She had said
that she would see Nigel alone, and the others had acquiesced; only
Daisy asked her mother curiously, "I wonder why?"

"My dear, don't ask. Say nothing," Mrs. Browning answered sadly.

Some little delay took place. Fulvia could hear voices—Nigel's sounding
cheerful. She locked her hands together, resolute to be calm. Then
Nigel came into the room.

"They told me I should find you here," he said.

Fulvia had not resolved how to act, had not been able to decide. Now a
sudden impulse came: and when he entered, she rose slowly, holding out
her hand.

"Am I not to have a kiss, Fulvia?" he asked in his kindest tone.

He looked much better for the change, brighter than she had seen him
for some time.

"If you like—as my brother!" she said distinctly, though her heart beat
almost to suffocation.

His glance was of perplexity—more perplexity than distress, Fulvia
knew. She withdrew her hand, and sat down, and Nigel did not give
the kiss permitted on those terms. He stood gazing at her, intensely
serious.

"Has your holiday done you good?" she asked after a pause.

"Yes. I do not understand. Has anything happened to annoy you? What can
you mean?"

"What I said—simply."

"I don't understand."

She held the arm of her chair fast. "Only—that we are brother and
sister again. Reversion to the old order of things."

Dead silence followed. Nigel was motionless, leaning against the
mantelpiece, his lips compressed, his whole face so grieved that she
could not help the spring of a faint hope. What if, after all, she were
mistaken?

"I do not understand," he said, for the third time. "There must be a
cause. Either you have grown tired of me, or something has vexed you.
Not—surely!—poor Mr. Carden-Cox's will? That would not be like you.
Of course my share is entirely yours—would be, I mean, if—" and he
hesitated. "Until this moment I have supposed that money coming to you
and to me meant the same thing."

It was Fulvia's turn to look bewildered.

"Uncle Arthur's will!" she said. "Has he made a new one? He did talk of
it, and I begged him not; but why should I mind?"

"Then they have not told you?"

"No one has told me anything. I have scarcely heard his name mentioned.
It has seemed strange—sometimes."

Nigel was silent, and she cast an anxious glance.

"Is something wrong? Has anything happened? I have a right to know,
surely. It will not hurt me now."

"You were not told before I left; but I fancied that by this time—I
ought to have asked first—"

"Tell me now. What is it?"

"He was taken suddenly."

"Uncle Arthur dead?"

Nigel made a sound of assent, and Fulvia's eyes filled with tears. She
was almost glad to have something about which she might lawfully show
sorrow.

"Poor uncle! How sad! And not long ill, you say?"

"No; it was an acute attack. I saw him the evening before, seemingly
well, but distressed about you. The next day he was gone."

"Poor uncle!" sighed Fulvia.

Yet her mind at once reverted to the present question, the present
pain, which dwarfed all lesser troubles. Nigel thought that her pensive
look meant grief for Mr. Carden-Cox. His own attention was very much
divided. He could not for a moment forget Fulvia's words of greeting;
and after all, however kind to them, Mr. Carden-Cox was not a man to
win great love.

"Strange,—the last time he saw me, he talked of making a new will,"
Fulvia remarked dreamily, forgetting that she had said the same before.
"And I never went to see him again. I wish I had gone."

"The new will was not finished."

"So much the better."

"It will come to the same thing."

"No; the old will left half to you. I am glad it is so."

"Half the income—not half the personal effects. The house and all it
contains will be yours."

"Was his income—? How much was it?"

"Over a thousand a year. No one supposed him to have that amount. Of
course you have—would have a right to the whole."

"Certainly not. You will keep your five hundred a year, and I shall
keep mine: enough, and more than enough, for me."

A rap sounded at the door, and Daisy's voice cried:

"Aren't you both coming? We want you."

Nigel went to the door, and opened it.

"No, not yet," he said. "Pray leave us quiet."

Daisy fled.

And Nigel came back, to ask once more—

"Fulvia, what did you mean just now?"

"I meant what I said," Fulvia answered low: "that it will be better for
us to be brother and sister again, as we used to be."

"But—why?"

"Must I say why?"

She was the more composed of the two. She had had her struggle
beforehand, and was mistress of herself, while Nigel, taken by
surprise, was visibly agitated.

He sat down in front of her, leaning forward; and as he faced Fulvia,
she noted a strange gleam in his eyes.

A wonder crossed her mind! Did this mean distress, or was it a sense of
possible relief, even of joy?

"Yes; I have had no idea all these weeks—But you are changed! What has
happened?"

"Not the will," she said. "You could not really suppose it to be that.
I am only glad he did not make a new one."

"Then—what?"

Fulvia answered by a single word, soft and clear, "Ethel!"

Nigel did not move, and his eyes were on Fulvia still.

"What does this mean? Have I given you cause—?"

"No," she interrupted; "you have fought hard. I know it, and I don't
blame you—I don't indeed. You have been open and true. And I accepted
you, knowing—if not, I ought to have known—for you were true. But—"

"You cannot trust me?"

"If either of us says that, I am the one to say it to you."

"No; You do not trust me," he said, with marked displeasure.

Yet, under the displeasure, under the gravity, the trouble, the
suppressed emotion, Fulvia knew that there lay the dawn of a new hope,
of an old dead hope revived, so radiant that he dared not look at it.
She knew this as distinctly as if she could have seen into his heart.

"I think," she said firmly, though with unsteady lips, "that you and
I are better as brother and sister. It is wiser for both of us. I do
trust you. I know that you are true; and you would be true to me. You
would give me all that is in your power to give. But I should expect
more than you are able to give; and if I never had it, I should be
miserable—we should both be miserable. You have tried hard, and you
would try—to the end. You see, I do not doubt you. But think how
far-off that end might lie! And your heart's love is for Ethel, not for
me."

No direct answer came to this. Nigel sprang up, and paced the room
with restless steps. Fulvia knew that he was troubled, but not
sorrow-stricken, not in the least danger of being heart-broken. She
could watch his face safely as he walked, for he did not look once
towards her. It was worried and grieved, nothing more.

"I have seen—I could not help seeing—" she went on, after he returned
to his seat. "That last day especially, before my illness, when you
came back from thinking Ethel drowned! I am not fancying—one does fancy
such things! You love Ethel, and Ethel loves you, and I have kept you
apart! Padre did not mean to be cruel when he was dying, but he was
cruel. He had better have left us alone. People do such foolish things
sometimes, don't they? I did not know till lately how Ethel has cared;
at least, I was not sure. But that day—when she thought herself near
to death—one could not mistake her look when she spoke of you! I have
thought a great deal in my illness. And I know that I must do this. I
know that I cannot keep you two apart, just for my own sake."

Nigel spoke at last in resolute voice, breathing hard, "This does not
touch the real question. I have devoted my life to you."

"In payment of my £40,000!" she said, with an odd sorrowful smile. "No;
that would be over-payment—or worse than no payment, if we were not
happy. And it does touch the real question; for if I will not have you—"

"But if you are promised to me, Fulvia?"

Fulvia lifted her eyes, which had drooped. A light shone in them, "If
you wished it—wished to hold me to my word," she said. "Promised; yes!
But you cannot claim my promise, if you cannot give the love I have a
right to ask! Yes, you love me as a brother. Is that enough? Nigel, you
are very true, and I may trust you. I do trust you—utterly! Tell me in
plain words—don't be afraid to speak out, only tell me—do you love me
or Ethel best?"

Nigel made no response.

"Tell me! I will know! One word only! Ethel—or Fulvia! Which is it?
Which is dearest to you?"

Still he did not speak. Fulvia leant forward, searching his face.

"Ethel—or me! Which?"

"Is there need for this? Is it right?" asked Nigel slowly. "Can you not
trust me, when I say that my life shall be yours?"

"I would trust you for the life, but not for the love," she said. "You
can promise the one; you cannot promise the other. Only love of a kind,
at least, a poorer sort. Think—have pity!—Could you marry one who loved
another more? Can you ask it of me? Yes, I was willing once—madly
willing; but I have learnt better. Now that my eyes are opened, would
you force it upon me still? And all from a mistaken notion of honour?
You see, I understand. Would you have me sacrifice your happiness and
Ethel's, for the sake of a happiness which would not be mine? How could
it be? If you can say that you love me most—first—best of all—then I
will still be yours! If not—! Tell me—truly—do you love Ethel or me?
Which most?"

Nigel spoke the one word at last, as if it were dragged from him, his
voice husky, and even faint, "Ethel!"

Fulvia said nothing. She could not have been taken by surprise, yet the
shock overcame her. Perhaps she had never entirely given up hope till
now.

Nigel was the first to speak.

"Fulvie, you would have it!" he said gently. "But you were wrong to
ask me. It was not needed. The love for Ethel is such an old love, it
cannot die in a day—cannot change, I mean, into—But indeed I have not
thought of Ethel in that light lately, only as—We should have become
friends—no more! I believe that one can conquer—may conquer! I would
have fought it out, God helping me."

Fulvia held out her hand, and Nigel grasped it, repeating, "Why did you
insist? It was cruel to yourself and me. I think you ought to know how
dear you are to—even though—Why could you not let things alone? I would
have conquered!"

"And all the time you and Ethel breaking your hearts for one another,"
Fulvia struggled to say.

"No—if it was right—and indeed I would have given you no cause—"

"Oh no! You have been so good to me always!"

"I will be again. Cannot we forget all this?"

Fulvia mastered her voice, and even forced a smile. "Yes," she said;
"we will forget it all—the whole, from first to last. You shall be good
to me still, only not so! We are brother and sister again, and you are
free. I know I am right. It will be right for us both,—for all of us.
By-and-by we shall be thankful that things did not go too far. I shall
find some work in life worth doing. It is best so—indeed it is. Why
must you look unhappy? I will try to be a good sister to you—both."

"You make me feel how grievously I have failed."

"No; it is not failure. It is only—I think we can say more another day.
I am not—so very strong yet." Fulvia knew that she could bear no more.
"Will you please tell madre and the girls—tell them it is my doing? I
am going upstairs now, for a little rest. Nobody need come."

She gave him a farewell glance, and passed away, before he could
detain her. Once locked in her own room, the knowledge of what she had
done overcame her utterly. But by the time Mrs. Browning begged for
entrance, she was herself again.

"Fulvia, my dear, what is this? What does this mean?" Mrs. Browning
asked in great distress.

Fulvia threw her arms round the gentle woman, hiding her blistered face.

"It only means, dear madre, that I am your own child again—Nigel's
sister! We needn't talk much about it, need we? Only please help me
to be good and brave. I know I am right, and you know it too! We must
think of—Nigel's happiness—must we not? Mother, help me to be brave!"
sobbed Fulvia.



CHAPTER XXXI

NIGEL'S LOVE

       "Then He gave her peace,—
   Because her heart had learned to rest on Him—
   His perfect peace . . .
   . . . And so it was that she
   Who looked on life and death with hate and fear,
   Saw in her life a happy pilgrimage
   On toward a better country, which she sought
   With longing."                   —S. J. STONE.

ETHEL was lying on the couch in the Rectory dining-room. She could not
sit up for any length of time. There was nothing radically wrong, Dr.
Duncan said; but he did not like this persistent weakness. She seemed
to have no rallying power.

"Nothing radically wrong—yet," he said; "but if any mischief should set
in, things would go hardly with her." Sometimes he added—"If one could
find a new interest—anything to rouse her!"

The question was, what interest? Change of scene had already been
tried, and the slender Elvey purse would not submit to unlimited drains.

"I don't want to go away again. I only want to be quiet," Ethel had
said, smiling, that very morning.

But she looked thin, and the white lids drooped wearily over the tired
blue eyes, though it was yet early in the day. Her slender hands, after
a vain attempt at work, were resting languidly one over the other.

"Ethel, my dear, here is somebody come to see you," Mr. Elvey's cheery
voice said at the door.

"Come in, please," Ethel answered, not moving. She had often received
callers lying down of late.

Mr. Elvey vanished, and Ethel could hear him speaking: "Yes, yes;
she'll be delighted. Does her good to see fresh faces. She looks sadly
to-day, poor child! I'm afraid I must be off, but do stay with her as
long as you can."

Then to Ethel's astonishment, Fulvia Rolfe walked in—Fulvia Rolfe,
cheerful and composed, apparently well in health, and handsomely
dressed. She had taken particular pains with herself that morning.

Fulvia, had no notion of acting the "love-lorn damsel," with careless
attire and dishevelled locks, for people to gossip about. Even before
Anice and Daisy, the previous evening, she had carried matters with a
high hand, resolutely making it appear that she and Nigel separated
with equal willingness. It was "much better so," she answered lightly
to any manner of condolence. She would release Nigel, but she would
not submit to be pitied. If her eyes were a little heavy with midnight
tears, who could wonder, after so severe an illness?

"Don't move—" and Fulvia bent for a kiss. "I have come to thank you."

"There is nothing to thank for!"

"One does not generally count it 'nothing' to have one's life
saved—especially at the risk of—"

"Please don't say any more!"

"Well, if it distresses you; but I shall never forget! How is the
wrist?"

"Oh, nearly well."

"And you are so poorly still." Fulvia took a seat as she spoke.

"I don't know—only tired."

"Always tired?"

"Yes. It doesn't matter. I can't get strong, somehow."

"So they tell me. You want change."

"I would rather stay at home."

"You want change," repeated Fulvia. "Ethel, will you say 'yes' to a
plan I have in my head?"

"I—don't know."

"I have Nigel's consent. To-morrow I am leaving home with Daisy. We
go first to the seaside for a week—to poor uncle Arthur's favourite
lodgings. After that we hope to spend some time in an old Scotch farm.
The farmer's wife was once a maid in our house. She is an excellent
creature and will take good care of us; and she has three or four
comfortable rooms, which will be at our service. Dr. Duncan wants me
to have change, and our going there has been planned for some days.
Starting to-morrow for a week at Burrside first is a new notion. And I
want you to come with us."

Ethel was silent, her eyes open and sad.

"It will not be any expense to you—if you don't mind my saying so.
Perhaps you know that I have come into a little money lately, since my
uncle's death. He left what he had between Nigel and me—part to each, I
mean,—" rather hurriedly; "so you need not scruple."

"You are very good," faltered Ethel. "But I don't think I can go."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I think not."

"Why?"

Ethel made no answer. Her colour fluttered.

"I have something else to tell you. It is all over between Nigel and
me."

Fulvia spoke steadily.

Ethel gave her one dazzled glance.

"We decided yesterday that it would be right. Things are best so,"
said Fulvia, with resolute self-repression. She shook out her handsome
mantle carelessly.

"Not—really!"

"Yes. I have felt for some time that it must be. Especially since—"
Fulvia paused. She could not trust herself to say anything, but only
some things, and she would not venture where she was not sure. "It is
not a quarrel. It is simply that we both know this to be best. We shall
always be a very affectionate brother and sister, no doubt,—" with
a forced laugh,—"but that is all! If other people had not had their
fingers in the pie, things would never have gone so far."

Fulvia's manner altered. She leant over the couch, laying her gloved
hand on Ethel's.

"It has been a mistake," she said very low; "and we have found out our
mistake. I know now how Nigel loves you—and I know that you are worthy
of his love. Don't answer me—only listen! Nigel has tried hard to
conquer, because—well, because he thought it right. He fancied that it
was his duty to repay what I had lost—to repay it in that way. And for
a little while I—thought the plan would do. I thought we might rub on
together comfortably! But it will not answer. I am glad we have found
out our mistake in time."

There was a pause. Ethel did not speak.

"He will not come to you directly. He thinks it would seem like a
slight to me. That might not matter; but perhaps people would count him
fickle, not understanding. So there has to be a gap—between the two.
But I told him I should come and tell you how things are; and I think
he was glad, though he would not consent. I did not ask his consent,
for I had made up my mind. Ethel—do you at all know what you are to
him?"

Ethel's fingers pressed Fulvia's. That was her only answer.

"Yes—I was sure you must. And—am I wrong in thinking that he is as much
to you? You need not say a word—only you can tell me if I am mistaken.
I should like to be able to say to him—no, not from you—only from what
I know. Am I taking it all too much for granted?"

Another little break.

"Nigel must ask for himself, of course; I have no right. But—I am not
afraid for him. I understand. And now—meantime—till he can—will you
come away with me for a few weeks? I want you to be strong again; and I
want to stop some of the Newton Bury gossip. And I want—I want you to
learn to love me. For by-and-by—"

Fulvia's voice failed.

"I will do anything you wish," whispered Ethel.

Neither girl could see the other's face. Perhaps it was well,—so full
was the one of trembling joy, so grey the other with pain.

       *       *       *       *       *       *      *

During full three months the girls were absent, spending their time in
the old farm, under the shadow of Scotch mountains.

Ethel and Daisy had never known a happier three months. If Fulvia
suffered much, as suffer she undoubtedly did, she was outwardly only
cheerful. Ethel became convinced, as Fulvia wished her to be, that
Fulvia did not really care—never had really cared for Nigel further
than with a sisterly affection. Fulvia knew that Nigel would never
undeceive Ethel in this particular, even when he should be her husband.

They were not engaged yet. They did not even correspond yet. But in a
manner each was sure of the other.

Ethel at least could have no doubts, and the sunshine of her face was
a sight to do others good. Nigel's spirits might be more variable; but
Fulvia gathered from his letters to Daisy, and from those of Anice to
herself, that he by no means showed habitual depression.

"I was right—quite right!" she repeated often to herself.

Sometimes she could hardly bear to look forward,—the prospect ahead
seemed so empty. She could only go on, step by step, praying for
strength.

On other days she could bear to plan for the future, to picture herself
with Mrs. Browning and the girls living in Mr. Carden-Cox's pretty
house, which was now her own.

At first she tried to grow used to the idea of Nigel and Ethel at No. 9
Bourne Street, but this dream gave way to another. Why should not Nigel
go to college, fulfilling at last his old desire, and study for the Bar?

One day Nigel wrote to her about Mr. Carden-Cox's money: a frank,
brotherly note. He wished her to possess the whole.

Fulvia's answer was decisive.

   "Never speak of such a thing to me again," she wrote. "I will not
consent. I will not have it so. If you say any more, you will insult
and grieve me more than I can tell. I shall have nearly seven hundred
a year of my own, and a house rent free; and if that is not enough, I
don't deserve to have any at all.

   "Besides, I have set my heart upon a different life for you than that
of a clerk in Newton Bury Bank.

   "Why should not you go to the University, and carry out the old
programme? You are fitted for the Bar. Uncle Arthur always said so.
Even if you should marry soon, that would be no real hindrance; only it
would have to be Cambridge—not Oxford.

   "I have set my heart upon this, and I think you will not disappoint me.
Madre and the girls are to come and live with me; and Daisy and I will
make ourselves useful to Mr. Elvey in the parish. Then, if you like to
let No. 9, furnished, that would be a little addition to your income.

   "Write just one line to say that you will not disappoint your
affectionate sister,

                       "FULVIA."

The "one line" came by return of post.

   "MY DEAR FULVIA,—Words can never say what I owe to you. It seems that
you are determined to heap coals of fire upon our heads,—upon mine
especially.

   "You shall have your will. I can only submit to your generosity.
I would say much more if I knew how to say it; but perhaps you will
understand.—Ever your affectionate and grateful             N. B."

       *       *       *       *       *       *      *

Three months ended, the travellers returned.

It was a drizzling autumn afternoon, much like that on which Nigel had
come home from his year of travel.

As the train stopped, Nigel's face appeared. Fulvia had known that it
must be so, and she had schooled herself to meet him composedly. One
throb her heart gave, but she smiled a quiet greeting. Ethel was very
still. Nigel's eyes went to her face in a swift flash.

"How many trunks?" he asked.

"Pollard is there. Daisy and I will see that he has them all right,"
said Fulvia, turning away.

Nigel was left by Ethel's side, for the moment practically alone with
her. Nobody else was near, for few people had come by this train. It
was growing very dusk. He took her hand into his warm clasp.

"Ethel, are you well again?"

"Oh, quite. And Fulvia has been so good to me,—so very good and loving."

"I don't wonder," he said involuntarily, yet the next moment he did
wonder, knowing all. But he could hardly think of even Fulvia yet,
standing by Ethel, knowing that at last she might be his own. "Just one
look!" he pleaded.

The blue eyes glanced up, arch and sweet.

"It is your own self," he said. He had waited patiently all these
weeks, but now he felt that he could wait no longer. Another hour of
uncertainty would be unbearable. Confident as he might feel at times,
he had never really put the question to her; and it broke from him in
this moment of meeting.

"Ethel, tell me!" he said huskily. "There is nothing now to keep us
apart. Tell me—dearest—will you have me?"

"Yes!" she whispered. The same brief answer which she had given once
before, on a certain wintry afternoon, to a somewhat different question
of his; and it meant a plenitude of trust and joy.

Then Mr. Elvey hurried up, just too late for the train's arrival; and
Daisy sauntered back from the luggage. Fulvia, following, gave one
glance at the two faces, and lifted quizzical eyebrows.

"Already!" she murmured. "You are a prompt man! But of course—it is a
mere matter of form!"

"Fulvie, I can never thank you enough," Nigel said earnestly the same
evening. "Never!"

"For what?" she asked.

"For—everything!"

"Don't try! I hate thanks! All I want is to hear of your first brief!
How do you think Ethel is looking?"

"Not the same girl that went away. How much I owe to you!"

"Not the same? But she is the girl you wanted," said Fulvia, lightly.

Nigel broke into his old laugh. He could not help it; and even he was
beginning to think despite the past, that Fulvia did not greatly care.
She had been so cheery and full of fun all the hours since reaching
home.

A smile came in response; then Fulvia went to her own room, to stand
long at the window, star-gazing. Drizzle and fog had vanished, leaving
a clear sky; and she had much to think about.

"Better so!" she said aloud. "How happy they are! After all, one's own
happiness is not the chief thing! I shall be helped—and by-and-by it
will grow easier. I will be brave; I will be glad for them!"



                               THE END








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