"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.
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.
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.
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.