IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT
"Rather, steel thy melting heartTo act the martyr's sternest part,To watch with firm unshrinking eyeThy darling visions as they die,Till all bright hopes and hues of dayHave 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.
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."
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.
FIRE AND WATER
"Willows whiten, aspens quiver,Little breezes dusk and shiverThro' the wave that runs for everBy 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.