Tom was crestfallen. He did not so much mind making a mistake here or there; but he could not endure being found out in a mistake.
"I suppose you are antiquarian as well as scientific," said Fulvia. "Ethel could give you some help as to antiquarian spots in the neighbourhood. She has more of a learning in that direction than towards science."
Tom was happily started anew. He forgot his discomfiture, took another seat, and expatiated upon Ethel's good points.
She was "a nice girl," he said—"a very nice sort of girl." Tom was too circumspect to call her "awfully nice," as Nigel would have done in his place; but he meant it plainly. "Really sensible, quite intelligent," continued Tom, with his superior air of approval. He enjoyed intercourse with a mind like hers; young, fresh, capable of assimilating others' knowledge, worth expending trouble upon. Tom spoke with an air of cousinly proprietorship, which might or might not be more than cousinly.
When at last the caller departed, Daisy burst out—"I can't bear that man! He isn't half good enough for Ethel!"
"Daisy, I want you for a walk," interposed Nigel.
And she rushed away to dress, Fulvia saying at the same moment, with a smile—
"Poor fellow! He is hopelessly far gone!"
Nigel made no answer.
And the silence lasted until Daisy pranced in, exclaiming, "The day after to-morrow is Fulvie's birthday."
"Be quiet, Daisy," ordered Fulvia. "Everybody knows that. It is not to be talked about."
"Mr. Carden-Cox talks," said Daisy. "He means to have a lawyer to look into your affairs. I know he does, because he told me so."
Daisy's voice was penetrating. She spoke in the open doorway of the morning-room, and the study door lay opposite. A faint groan came across after her speech.
"Daisy, will you hold your tongue? He shall do no such thing."
"But he will. He told me so. He says he's not going to have your interest sacrificed to everybody's nerves."
"Nigel!" Fulvia spoke in a tone of despairing appeal.
"I'll see to that. Mind, Daisy, it is not to go any farther. Do for once be discreet. Now are you ready? What's that?" touching her glove.
"Oh, only a hole. It split last time I went out."
"Couldn't you have mended it before now?"
"I suppose so—if I hadn't forgotten."
"Have you no other pair?"
"Yes, one other. Won't these do? Oh, bother; must I go all the way upstairs again?"
Nigel showed no signs of relenting, and Daisy's face certainly showed no annoyance.
She went off at full speed, and reappeared with two gloved hands spread out for inspection.
"That's better," Nigel said.
And they were off, Daisy asking in the garden—
"What did you want me to do?"
"Help me choose something for Fulvia's birthday."
"Ah, then I guessed! Father hasn't got anything this year."
"Never mind—my mother has. Fulvia will understand."
"Fulvia never gets vexed at that sort of thing. But it will be a horribly dull day. Such a pity! Mr. Carden-Cox is quite put out. He didn't mind so much a week or two ago, but now he says it is all nonsense, and he doesn't believe anything is the matter with my father. Nigel, why does he mind so about the day? I wish you would tell me."
"Nobody knows." After a pause Nigel said abruptly—
"What makes you think of Elvey marrying Ethel?"
"Everybody says it."
"Who?"
"Mr. Carden-Cox, and Fulvia, and the Brambles, and—oh, all sorts of people."
"Have you seen signs of it in Ethel herself?"
Nigel spoke quietly, and it was growing dusk.
But when Daisy looked up in answer, with a meditative "I don't know," she thought her brother oddly pale. "Why, Nigel!" she said, staring.
"What is the matter?"
"Why, you look—"
"Well?"
"Seedy."
"I'm not—thanks."
"Well, you look so. Is anything wrong?"
"Something is always wrong, when a lady can't answer a question."
"Oh, if you can make fun!" said Daisy, satisfied. "But I really thought for a moment that you minded something very much. What was it you wanted to know? Oh yes, about Ethel. I'm sure I can't tell. What sort of 'signs' do you mean? I never do see when people are in love, except when they get to the stupid stage, and by that time it isn't a secret at all. Ethel says she likes Tom, and Tom says Ethel is nice. And Ethel laughs at Tom. And Tom bores Ethel. At least, I should be bored in her place. But they spend lots of time together, so I suppose they got on pretty smoothly. Mr. Carden-Cox declares they will marry, and he is very glad it is Mr. Tom Elvey and not you, because he says that would never do."
"What would never do?"
"Why, you and Ethel! When you first came home, you were always going after Ethel, and Mr. Carden-Cox didn't like it, any more than mother did. He wants you to marry Fulvia, and he says the other is out of the question. He says there are reasons against it, and my father would never consent. And he says you care for Fulvia more than for anybody else in the world. Do you?" asked innocent Daisy. "More than mother?"
Nigel's temper was not very easily roused, but Daisy had said enough to rouse it now. The idea of Mr. Carden-Cox discussing him and his affairs in this cool fashion with his youngest sister was unbearable. Nigel could not trust himself to speak at once in answer. He was too angry to have control over his own voice. He only walked faster and faster, till Daisy could scarcely keep pace with him, and words on her part failed for lack of breath. Now and again she glanced up at his closed lips, first in wonder, then in fear.
"Are you vexed?" she panted at length. "I didn't mean—Nigel, how you race!"
Nigel slackened speed. "I did not know we were going so fast," he said. "Yes, of course I am vexed. Mr. Carden-Cox had no business to say anything of the sort to you. Remember, Daisy—not one word of this is to go a step farther—least of all to Fulvia. It is absurd rubbish, the whole of it—mere gossip."
"Mr. Carden-Cox!" exclaimed Daisy aghast.
"Mr. Carden-Cox or anybody. It doesn't matter who talks so. The whole is mere gossip. You understand? If you repeat a word, you may make no end of mischief."
"No, I won't; indeed I won't," said Daisy. "But, please don't tell Mr. Carden-Cox that I let out what he said."
HE AND SHE
"Such is the bliss of souls serene,When they have sworn, and steadfast mean,Counting the cost, in all to espyTheir God, in all themselves deny."Oh could we learn that sacrifice,What lights would all around us rise!How would our hearts with wisdom talkAlong life's dullest, dreariest walk!"* * * * *"Seek we no more; content with these,Let present rapture, comfort, ease,As Heaven shall bid them, come and go—The secret this of rest below."—Christian Year.
THE afternoon before Fulvia's birthday!
All the morning snow fell; and when lunch was over, it grow into a storm—flakes whirling thickly, clouds low, ground white, wind gusty and strong. The girls congratulated themselves on having bought Fulvia's presents in good time.
Mr. Browning was in the lowest depths of depression and misery. It was hard to look upon him unmoved. Dr. Duncan had been to see how he was that morning, and had spoken of the need for mental repose.
"If this went on—" he said significantly.
But who was to give the mental repose? How were they to minister to this mind diseased? Mr. Browning was like a hunted creature, shrinking before some terrible shadow, from which he might not escape. He could not rest, could not read, could not stay in one place, could not bear the presence of others, could not endure to be alone. His face was shrunken, the lips were blue, the eyes were filled with a nameless apprehension; yet what he feared none knew, and none dared ask.
Not a word was spoken in his hearing of the morrow, and not a word spoke he. He knew the date, however; and they all knew that he knew it. "Fulvia's birthday" was written in each line of his haggard cheek and brow.
Fulvia sat with him for a while, trying to be cheery, but finding cheeriness no easy matter in the face of his persistent melancholy. If she laughed, he could only groan. Mrs. Browning had a brief respite while she was there, for which all were grateful. Soon, however, Mr. Browning demanded once more his patient wife, and would be content with no other companion.
Nigel alone went out. "It was no weather for girls," he said, when Daisy begged to accompany him. He plodded through the heavy snow, all the way to Mr. Carden-Cox's house, and there sat over the fire with the old bachelor, hearing much vague talk about nothing in particular, intermixed with dark and dim hints about the morrow.
At first Nigel hardly noticed those. He was unwontedly depressed, feeling the strain of the last few weeks, and little disposed to speak. Then a passing phrase recalled Daisy's warning as to the lawyer, and in a moment Nigel was himself. He had actually come to settle this matter, and had almost lost sight of it in anxious thought about Ethel.
"I say, Nigel, that's all very well, my dear fellow," remonstrated Mr. Carden-Cox, when a judicious question had drawn from him a statement of his intentions, and Nigel had represented the peril to Mr. Browning of the proposed action. "I say, that's all very well. I've a sincere regard for your father's health—indubitably—don't wish to do him any harm. Still, right's right and wrong's wrong, and the girl is my own flesh and blood. She must have her due."
"Of course—"
"And everything ought to be clear and ship-shape at once."
"As soon as possible."
"To-morrow, I say."
"That is the question. As soon as possible," repeated Nigel.
"If your father doesn't bring his lawyer forward, I shall bring mine forward—that's all."
"It would be a serious step in his present state. Not that I see what you and your lawyer could do without Fulvia's consent—short of going to law."
"Stuff and nonsense! Going to law! I merely wish to know how things stand. There's nobody else to see that the girl has her rights."
"Except—!"
"Eh! What? Yourself! Yes, yes, to be sure—if you'll assume the responsibility. But I'll not have the question shirked."
"It shall not be."
"Well, if you say so!" in a mollified tone. "I've no faith in your father's business capacities; but yours are different. Yes; I trust you," pointedly. "Who are your father's lawyers just now? He has been given to changing."
"Brown & Berridge, I believe. He has not much to do with lawyers."
"Dare say not! That's the worst of leaving a man irresponsible. Nobody knows anything about it. Brown and Berridge! Where?"
"London."
"Humph!"
"Will you leave the responsibility of Fulvia's money to me?" asked Nigel, in a resolute, abrupt tone.
"Yes; when you are settled to be her husband!"
Nigel's colour rose. "That is not likely," he said.
"But, I say—you like the girl?"
"Yes."
"What more is wanted?"
Nigel's laugh had no ring in it. "A good deal more," he said. "One may 'like' a great many people."
"You know the sort of liking I mean. And you know that you don't like 'a great many people' as you like Fulvia."
"Perhaps not."
"Then what on earth keeps you back? It's your father's wish—it's my wish—and you care for her! What more do you want, eh? That Fulvia should 'like' you, I suppose! No fear about her! Daisy says—"
This was too much, and Nigel started up.
"Come, come; don't be excited. Lover-like, but unnecessary," laughed Mr. Carden-Cox. "I'll not betray confidences. Can't you see for yourself? Sit down."
Nigel remained standing.
"When I speak of undertaking responsibility for Fulvia, I mean it simply as her brother. Nothing else is possible."
"For you, or for her? Which? Ha, ha! Well, so be it just now. I'll leave the matter in your hands, for—let us say, for a few weeks. Concession enough, that! Why, bless me, if Browning doesn't hand over the money to the girl this week, he's defrauding her—nothing short of defrauding her. And if he can't bear to have the subject mentioned, how is anything to be arranged, eh? Talk of health! It is a matter of conscience, not of health. Well, well, sit down, my dear fellow, and I'll not say anything more about it just now."
Nigel obeyed.
And Mr. Carden-Cox, to escape from the engrossing subject of Fulvia's money, turned to the scarcely less engrossing subject of "the four N.B.'s."
He was always able to talk of them for any length of time. He could not get over the mystery, could not forgive himself the blunder, could not rest without solving the riddle of the lost half-sheet. Postscripts haunted him night and day. He was like an ardent devotee of conundrums—unable to enjoy life till he should find a clue to the puzzle.
Nigel had to listen to a new and profuse statement of all the details, wound up by a graphic description of his questions put to Fulvia, and of her emphatic denial.
"Said plainly enough she hadn't received yours—hadn't received any postscript at all, in fact. What do you think?"
"It settles the matter, of course, once for all." Nigel spoke with a touch of impatience, for he was tired of the subject.
"Unsettles the matter, you mean. Why, now, I have told you a dozen times at least—"
"Quite true," thought Nigel, with an inward groan.
"That there were four envelopes and four postscripts, and that I put one postscript into each envelope. Now, under those circumstances, how could Fulvia have failed to get one?"
"She evidently did fail."
"But I say, my dear fellow, she could not!"
"You meant to put in the four. Whether you did so is another question. I suppose we all make mistakes sometimes. And Fulvia's word—"
"A lady's word! Pshaw!"
Nigel was coldly silent.
"I don't suppose the girl means to deceive. She has blundered somehow. But as for my not putting in that postscript—! Of course it may have dropped out,—been stolen, or lost, or burnt, or—"
"It seems to me a very insignificant matter."
"Insignificant!" Mr. Carden-Cox was scandalised. His correspondence to be counted "insignificant"! He could scarcely believe his own ears.
"Oh, very well; if the thing isn't of sufficient importance to claim your attention, I have no more to say. I should have thought—but it doesn't signify. You young fellows think such an amount of yourselves; nothing else is worth a glance. I should have thought that the question of my truthfulness being impugned was of some weight even in your eyes; but no, that is quite insignificant. Fulvia is to be believed, of course; and I—I may look to myself."
Then a twinkle broke into the anger. "Well, well,—after all, any amount of infatuation is allowed to young lovers. I ought not to be surprised. All perfectly natural, just as it should be. Fulvia is a good girl—wonderfully good to everybody; wouldn't say what wasn't true. Dare say you are right enough there. Shouldn't wonder if she burnt the paper, unknowingly. Women are capable of anything. Most inscrutable creatures!"
Nigel would not risk further discussion by further opposition. He knew well that nothing he could say would alter Mr. Carden-Cox's determined linking of his name with Fulvia's; and presently he managed to escape, feeling that the lawyer peril was deferred for a time. Why peril should exist in connection with a lawyer, Nigel was only able to conjecture.
Once more he was buffeting the wind, which had risen much. No use to open an umbrella; he could not have held it up. He pulled his cap low, bent his head, and fought his way steadily through the gale. Yet he did not turn homeward. A thirst had come over him for another glimpse of Ethel. She would surely be at home after dark, this stormy afternoon, and he turned his steps towards Church Square.
When almost close to the Rectory gate, he saw in the lamplight a slight cloaked figure run out.
"Ethel!" passed his lips, but he was not heard.
She crossed the road, battling her way with difficulty, and he followed, overtaking her at the vestry door, where three stops led upwards. As she mounted them, a gust of snow-laden wind swirled round the corner, carrying her off her feet. She threw out both hands with a little cry, as if gasping for support; and before she could go down, Nigel had her.
"Oh, thanks!" she gasped, conscious of the friendly clutch, not in the least recognising her deliverer.
The short struggle had rendered her breathless, and he held her still while helping to open the door. So far he said nothing, and Ethel made no inquiry. It was pitch-dark. She could not see his outline, and she believed the helping hand, which had saved her from a fall, to be the sexton's. That the sexton should be just then on the spot was at least not more unlikely than that anybody else should.
Nigel went inside with her, and shut the door, while Ethel struck a light. In one corner of the vestry lay a heap of holly.
"How kind of you to be so quick!" she said gratefully, turning to her companion. "I thought I was—Nigel!—"
Ethel was completely taken by surprise. Her face coloured up for once brilliantly, and a light shone in her eyes. Nobody was at hand who could misconstrue her manner—nobody except Nigel himself. At the moment, somehow, she did not fear him. His appearance was so unexpected; she had not time to think of Mr. Carden-Cox or Fulvia, so had not leisure to shape her welcome. There was a ring of gladness in the utterance of his name which brought to Nigel's mind their first meeting after his year of absence, and made his heart spring with hope.
"I thought I might find you in to-day," he said. "Such weather! And then I saw you coming here."
"So you came too?"
"Yes, I came too. It was you I wanted to see," pointedly. "Not—" and a pause.
"I only ran over just to do a little of this—" Ethel glanced at the holly. "We always start it rather early; and if the snow keeps on, I can't depend upon all my helpers. So I thought I would begin a piece of wreathing. But I am afraid it was not really that—not only that, I mean," looking up at Nigel with the old half-roguish frankness. "I was so tired of poor old Tom."
"Were you?" Nigel's whole frame was in a glow.
"Yes, only you must not tell anybody. I wouldn't hurt his feelings for the world. But I really could not stand it any longer. Always those dreadful herbariums and specimens and Latin names. He is content with nothing short of five syllables and what Lance calls 'a Latin sneeze' at the end."
"A sneeze!"
"Papaveraceœ!" instanced Ethel, with a mischievous transposition of the last syllable into an imitation of the catarrhic "tshyee!"
"But—" when they had had a laugh—"it isn't as if Tom knew a great deal, and could teach one what is worth knowing. That would be different. Tom only looks upon the world as a great museum of curiosities; and all he cares for is to get up a little imitation museum of 'specimens,' pegged down in rows. And surely this beautiful world means a great deal more than that—a great great deal more," Ethel went on, warming with her subject. "Sometimes I get so cross, I should like to peg down Tom himself as a dried 'specimen of the modern scientific young man.' But that wouldn't be fair; for a really scientific man, who knows about things, not only about names, is different from poor old Tom. And I suppose it is not his fault that he can't see below the surface."
If "poor old Tom" had but heard! At this very moment he was seated beside Mrs. Elvey, complacently and ponderously giving forth his views on the "intelligence" of Ethel. "Such a nice unassuming girl, and so ready to be taught!" quoth unsuspecting Tom.
"Of course I have the chief part of it all," pursued Ethel, resting one hand upon the vestry table, and smiling still. "My father and Malcolm are very busy just now—extra busy; and I can't let them be teased. And mother only cares to talk to Tom now and then; and the boys detest him. It has been such a day, none of us could get out much; and I thought at last I must have half-an-hour's peace. So I slipped away without telling Tom, and here I am. But I didn't come for nonsense," she said, with dropped voice and sudden soberness. "I almost forgot where we were—seeing you, and—It was just that I wanted a little quiet, to think about Christmas, and—and the kind of life one ought to lead."
A look showed appreciation. "Couldn't I help you with the holly?"
"I don't know—thanks. I can hardly stay long enough to make it worth while. I shall have helpers to-morrow."
Ethel was waking up to the fact that it would not do for her to remain here, after dark, alone with Nigel. It would not quite do, old friend and playfellow though he was.
"There is poor Tom, you know," said Ethel, the light fading out of her eyes. She had so enjoyed this little bout of unrestrained talk, and now she began to wonder at her own unrestraint.
But Tom's sting was gone. "Poor fellow! Shall we go and have a lesson from him together in Latin terminations?" Nigel asked joyously.
"Is Mr. Browning better to-night?" inquired Ethel, struck with the light-hearted manner.
"No; I'm afraid not. I can never tell you about him now, you are always so busy. Couldn't you sit down for five minutes?"
"I don't think I ought."
Ethel leant against the table, grave again, and a little anxious. Had she gone too far, shown too much pleasure at seeing Nigel? Had she not broken through her own resolution?
If Mr. Carden-Cox knew—Ethel's breath came quickly at the thought! Nigel seemed so pleased to see her again like herself; but, of course, that meant nothing—there was Fulvia in the background, and it would not do for her to study Nigel's feelings. He might wish her to be still on the old frank playmate terms, but it could not be; the time had come for a change, and he must grow used to it. Just for a few minutes everything had felt so natural, so like past days; and now she would have to be careful again, to rein herself in. It was hard, but it had to be done. Whether or no Nigel understood, she must be firm. Ethel did not hear her own sigh.
Nigel stood in front, upright and broad-shouldered, streaked still with half-melted snow; and his dark eyes were bent upon Ethel with their most earnest look. She could not fathom the look, or know why it sent so strange a thrill through her.
"I think we ought to go home," she said.
Then a question came, not in his usual voice. "Ethel, what is the matter?"
"Is—anything?" she asked, with an audacious attempt at a smile.
"Yes."
Ethel found her lips quivering, and she straightened herself, resolute not to give way. "Oh, just the common worries of life."
"I wish I could bear them for you."
"That wouldn't be fair, You have enough of your own;" and she laughed huskily, biting those unruly lips.
Nigel was silent again, thinking. He could not yet make up his mind whether or no to say more. To detain her, he drew from his pocket-book a little folded paper.
"I don't know whether you will care to have this. I promised to make a copy," he said.
"A copy of—"
"Don't you remember the extracts I carried off? I don't want to part with them—" a pause, followed by an emphatic "ever!" and another pause. "But I have had this copy by me to give to you; only there has been no chance."
Ethel said only "Thanks!" as she received it.
"You don't mind my keeping the other?"
"Oh no—not if—I like you to have it."
"And I like you to have this. I read it through pretty nearly every day."
Ethel mentally determined to do the same.
"That fourth quotation always seems to me an exact description of—you."
She started. As he spoke her mind had leapt ahead of the words, putting "Fulvia" at the end.
"Oh no!" she said again. "If you knew me—"
"I think I do; better than I know any one else in the world. And, Ethel, I am trying to make it my rule of life, just as I know you do. Yes, I know, because I can see. But one doesn't find the rule easy to follow." He opened the folded page in Ethel's hand, not taking it from her, and read: "'To sacrifice self as an habitual law in each sudden call to action; to take more and more secretly the lowest place; to move amid constant distractions and above them undisturbedly—' as you do, and as I don't."
"I am not like that, indeed, indeed," Ethel murmured.
"I think you are. But never mind; it is what we both want to be. I suppose one never would sacrifice one's self in a great matter, if it had not first become 'the law' in small everyday things."
"My father says every small choice between right and wrong is a rehearsal for some greater choice to follow. One can understand that. But I ought to go home."
"Are you in such a hurry?"
"No; not a hurry, only—"
"Only you think you ought. I believe 'ought' governs every inch of your life."
"It ought," Ethel said involuntarily. She was moving towards the door, and with a sudden impulse she lifted her eyes again, smiling. "At all events, I have not come here for nothing. I'm afraid I talked nonsense at first; but you have given me a thought for Christmas."
"What thought?"—though he knew.
"Just that—self-sacrifice in little things. Great things don't come in my way; but there is no end to the little opportunities. Now we have to turn out the gas and grope to the door."
"One word!" Nigel's voice was husky, and Ethel looked at him in wonder. "We don't often get a chance of a few minutes together, like this. Ethel, you won't mind if I ask a question. Has there been something wrong lately? Something I have done to—I won't say to vex you, but—don't you know what I mean?"
"No, nothing. I mean—I was not vexed."
"But there has been something. I thought it was Tom Elvey."
"Oh no, indeed!" with energy.
"I have been afraid, till the last few minutes. Was it anything I said or did?"
"No! Oh no!"
"Or something somebody else said? Mr. Carden-Cox!" with a sudden recollection of the postscripts.
"Please don't ask any more. It doesn't matter in the least. Nothing matters—now!" said Ethel. The colour rushed into her cheeks. "I only mean—please never think again that I could be vexed—"
"With me," Nigel concluded for her. Then in a quiet tone he added: "No, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters—now!"
Ethel turned off the gas in a great hurry, but not before he caught the flash of an answering glance, brighter than she knew it to be. Then they found their way to the door, and were out in the whirling gale. Ethel had to cling to his strong arm for support; and it came over her how easy life would be, thus clinging. She heard one question spoken by the way, spoken in the midst of their struggle, as the snow drifted in their faces—"Ethel, can you trust me?"
"Yes!" she answered at once, not asking what he meant.
"Even if—" and the sentence was not finished. Perhaps he hardly knew what he wished to say.
"Yes!" came with stronger emphasis. And she never once thought of the postscript about Fulvia, till she was at home, and Nigel was gone.
But the recollection made no difference. She echoed her own "Yes!" joyously in the solitude of her own room. Trust him? Yes!!
AGED TWENTY-ONE
"In that hour of deep contrition,He beheld, with clearer vision,Through all outward show and fashion,Justice, the Avenger, rise."All the pomp of earth had vanished,Falsehood and deceit were banished,Reason spake more loud than passion,And the truth wore no disguise."—LONGFELLOW.
HALF of Fulvia's twenty-first birthday was over, and she had not yet seen Mr. Browning.
It had been a most uneventful day thus far. Fulvia had presents from all in the house, except Mr. Browning. Nigel gave her a gold locket; Ethel sent a dainty basket arrangement of holly and ferns; old school friends wrote letters; but nothing had occurred to mark the fact that on this day Fulvia Rolfe would, or should, come into possession of some forty or fifty thousand pounds.
She had not even donned a better dress for the occasion, which was a Grange fashion on birthdays. Mr. Browning would remark the change, Fulvia thought.
After all, the dress she wore daily could not have been improved upon. It was a fine navy-blue cloth, fitting perfectly. She did add lace ruffles and the new locket, and she dressed her hair with extra particularity. Care bestowed upon that mass of reddish-golden-brown was always repaid. Fulvia looked well, almost handsome. She was conscious of the fact, and conscious that Nigel noticed it with brotherly interest—only Fulvia unhappily did not count the interest to be brotherly.
Nigel liked his sisters to look their best; and a little earlier he would have told Fulvia, without hesitation, as one of the three, that she had turned herself out successfully for the occasion. He was growing cautious now, however, and so he said nothing, not guessing that she saw the thought in his face, and misconstrued the silence.
He was in higher spirits than he had been for many weeks, nobody guessing why. Nobody knew of the interview in the vestry. Even the knowledge of his father's state could not depress him, this first morning after the lifting of his own heavy cloud, though it did keep down, to a moderate pitch, the spirits which would otherwise have been wild. He had his dreamy spells, too; going over and over in mind the words which had passed between him and Ethel, wondering whether he had taken it too much for granted that she might care for him, and whether he had said enough to be understood, but always coming round to a glad remembrance of the last emphatic "Yes! Yes!"
The sunshine in his eyes perplexed Fulvia; he had been so grave lately. Then she made up her mind that her birthday was the cause; he wanted to please her by making it a cheerful day. Fulvia responded to the supposed wish with all her heart. There had not been such an amount of fun in the breakfast-room for many a week, as on that morning of December 21st.
Snow had ceased falling, and a slow thaw had set in, rendering the streets slushy, while the air was full of cold moisture. Fulvia and Daisy braved the weather in a brisk morning walk; Anice remaining indoors as a matter of course. Fulvia had hoped for Nigel's company, and was disappointed, for he vanished. Where he went he did not say, and Fulvia had learned not to question him; she was not one who needed the same lesson twice over.
At luncheon, he looked sunnier than ever; yet Mr. Browning was still in complete retirement. None but his wife had spoken to him.
More oddly, Mr. Carden-Cox had not appeared, and this perplexed everybody.
"Why, he always gives Fulvia something nice," protested the aggrieved Daisy, desiring excitement. "Surely he won't forget! And doesn't father mean to speak to Fulvia? So odd! On her birthday! As if she were in disgrace!"
"He will do as he chooses," Fulvia answered.
It was getting on for the time of afternoon tea; and the aspect of the Newton Bury atmosphere, through glass panes, was not inviting. Nigel had been upstairs since lunch, supposed to be reading; and the three girls were spending their afternoon over the drawing-room fire, having indulged themselves into a state of easy-chair inertia.
Even Fulvia was not proof against the lazy mood—until Nigel appeared. She brightened up then, and replied to Daisy's complaints with her usual elastic air.
"Of course he will. Everybody does," said Daisy. "But I don't see that people ought. I think he ought to come out of his den for just a little while. Nigel! What have you got? Chestnuts! How lovely! We'll have some fun now!"
Plainly this was Nigel's object. He was a very boy again in the next half-hour, helping Daisy to balance chestnuts on the hot bars, watching for the critical moment of "done enough and not too much," using Daisy's fingers in pretence, and scorching his own in reality. He and Daisy were down on the rug together, and shouts of laughter sounded, when Mrs. Browning came with her soft lagging step and sweet graciousness.
"I have persuaded your father to take a cup of tea with us here," she said to the group. "He is very sad to-day, but he liked to hear your merry voices, and indeed he proposed it himself. It is such weather, we shall have no callers."
"Don't stop laughing, pray, when he appears," whispered Fulvia; and they did not, but the real ring of mirth was gone.
Mr. Browning's heavy steps and down-drawn mouth-comers were not provocative of fun. He looked both ill and wretched.
Fulvia was the first to spring up in welcome. She gave him a daughterly kiss, made him sit in the chair she had occupied, chatted about weather and chestnuts, tried to make it seem that nothing was further from her thoughts than the remembrance of her own age.
Mr. Browning seemed relieved, and he even smiled dimly at one or two of Nigel's sallies.
"Hallo, Daisy! That fellow's rolling! He'll be gone!"
"Oh! Oh! I'm burning my fingers. What shall I do? He's done for—black as a coal."
"Never mind; we've plenty more! You are getting your face a most awful colour, my dear. Look at Anice."
"Anice has a complexion, and I've none. Can't take care of what I haven't got. I say—what are you after? Is that for me? Thanks. And Fulvie would like another. Don't you care for chestnuts, father?"
"No, dear," mournfully.
Tea came in, and was dispensed by Fulvia; in the midst of which operation a fly drove up to the front door.
Daisy capered to the window, and peeped out.
"Oh, it is Mr. Carden-Cox! With a huge parcel! Here he comes! Fulvie's birthday, of course," cried thoughtless Daisy. "How jolly! I said he was sure to come."
"You little goose!" breathed Nigel.
And "Daisy!" Fulvia uttered impatiently.
But the culprit heard neither.
"He's coming!" she exclaimed again.
And Mr. Browning put his hand to his side, as the door opened to a rustle of brown paper.
Mr. Carden-Cox carried the parcel—a big one, as Daisy had said. He was in one of his excited states—that could be seen at once. Fulvia rose to greet and silence him, but found herself powerless. She might as well have tried to stem a rivulet with her hand. By going forward she only absorbed the whole of his attention, and rendered him unconscious of Mr. Browning's presence.
"How d'you do, Fulvia? How d'you do, my dear? Many happy returns of the day! I wish you all manner of good things through life: health to enjoy your money, and wisdom to use it. I've brought you a little remembrance—sort of thing a lady of property ought to have, hey! A dressing-case, nothing more; don't expect too much. But it's a tidy concern, I flatter myself—tidy little concern, good of its kind. Here, have off the wrappings. What's the matter? You look as if it would bite you. Eh? what do you say? Couldn't get what I wanted in Newton Bury, so sent to London for this, and it has only just arrived. Shameful delay! Couldn't think what to do this morning, when it hadn't come. Telegraphed to London, and found it had gone off all right, so went to the station, and there it was. Abominable carelessness! I'll write a complaint to headquarters. However, here it is at last, just in time; birthday not over yet, eh? Got one of a good solid kind—see—silver fittings and the rest—here—"
Fulvia was trying to thank and to check him, in vain.
"Yes, yes, yes, I understand—pretty, of course. Had a nice day—plenty of presents, eh? Don't at all like nothing more to be done to mark your coming of age. Don't at all like it, my dear! Can't be helped, but—Well!" in a loud whisper—"Had any business talk yet—statements as to your finances? You've got a right to that. Necessary, you know. Don't you let him put things off! I meant to call a lawyer, but Nigel wouldn't let me—said he'd take the responsibility. Ha! Makes you blush, that, doesn't it, child? But of course you've had a statement—know how things stand—fifty thousand, eh? Ought not to be less by now, properly handled. How's Browning to-day? Oh! Ah!" as a faint groan reached his hearing. "Oh! Ah! I didn't see! How d'you do? Quite well? Como to congratulate my niece on attaining her majority—lady of fortune, hey?"
No efforts could stop him thus far. When Mr. Carden-Cox was resolved to have his say, he commonly did have it.
Fulvia clutched in vain with two eager hands, thanking, entreating, doing her best to entice him from the room.
Nigel in vain drew near, signing caution; and the younger girls looked aghast, in vain.
Mr. Carden-Cox saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, except that he had certain utterances to make, and that he chose to make them.
Albert Browning offered no response to the greeting of Mr. Carden-Cox. He stood up slowly, breathing hard, and leaning on his wife's shoulder,—a frail support, yet firm through force of will,—and Nigel went quickly to give more efficient help.
Mr. Carden-Cox spoke again, but again had no answer. Albert Browning's head was resolutely turned away; and the three went out of a farther door.
"Offended! Eh? But I say, Fulvie, my dear, you have a right to know—a right to ask! Your money—"
"Oh, how could you!" cried Fulvia in distress. "We were so happy all together, and you have quite spoilt the day. How could you come and say such things?"
Mr. Browning was not taken ill there and then, as everybody feared—everybody except Mr. Carden-Cox, who showed dire offence at Fulvia's remonstrance, and required a large amount of polite attention to win his pardon. Being a man who never avowed himself in the wrong, he naturally could not stand blame.
No particular ill-effects were apparent that evening from the unwished-for agitation. Mr. Browning even came to the drawing-room after dinner, and exerted himself to a certain degree of melancholy cheerfulness. He was particularly affectionate to Fulvia, calling her "my dearest child" repeatedly. Still no allusion was made to Fulvia's affairs.
"He is better than I expected," Nigel remarked late in the evening to Fulvia, others having disappeared. Fulvia usually remained five minutes later than the rest of the party, clearing away odds and ends. "Seems none the worse for Mr. Carden-Cox."
"I was afraid he would be."
"At the moment—yes."
"I am glad the day is over," Fulvia said with an accent of relief.
"Not very satisfactorily over, for you."
"Why?"
"You ought, at least, to have had what Mr. Carden-Cox calls 'a statement.'"
"Time enough. I am in no hurry. The money is there all right; and when padre is up to business, he will make as many statements as you like."
Was the money "there all right"? Mr. Carden-Cox's suspicions had infected Nigel; yet Nigel would not let himself doubt. Mr. Browning's nerves might account for anything.
"I really believe padre is stronger already, in fact. He would not have borne this so well a month ago. But I am glad, very glad, that the day is over. It has been a strain upon us all, looking forward. Now things can go on just as they always do."
"You are the most unselfish of beings!" Nigel said involuntarily. Then, when he saw her look—the heightening colour and dropped eyelids—he was vexed with himself for the unguarded remark.
"I don't know about unselfishness; I seem to be so completely one of you all, that what affects you affects me."
Nigel could have replied, "Is not that the very essence of unselfishness?"—but he would not risk it. He saw that she was disappointed at his silence, and the light in her face faded.
"At all events, I know somebody else is relieved too," she said in her usual tone. "Confess! You have been dreadfully worried lately; and to-day—well, you are not depressed."
"Chestnuts and nonsense! That doesn't mean much. One gets a fit of high spirits sometimes unreasonably."
"I must be off to bed. Good-night," she said, and the tone was flat.
Nigel never offered to kiss her now, of course. He had not since the first day of his return. She moved away, and he sat long, thinking—dreaming rather—not of Fulvia, but of Ethel.
In the early morning there came a sudden alarm. Mr. Browning was ill. A severe attack of pain and breathlessness came on, like in kind to the short attack he had had before, when only Nigel and Dr. Duncan were present, but worse in degree. He had been in danger then, and had rallied quickly. Now there was no real rally; only a slight occasional improvement, followed by a worse relapse.
Dr. Duncan, summoned hastily, could do little, for remedies failed to touch the evil.
"He will not stand this long," Dr. Duncan said in a low voice to Nigel. "Yes—great danger. I doubt if he will last through the day."
The suffering and oppression increased, till it was hard to look on unmoved. Mr. Browning could not lie down, could not endure to be in bed. He sat up in his easy-chair, leaning forward, his face livid, his eyes full of helpless affectionate appeal, which went to their very hearts.
Mrs. Browning, worn out by long previous strain, broke down under the distress of seeing him thus. She had to be taken to another room, and was there tended by Daisy, who at such a time could rise out of her childishness, and be useful. Anice was absent from the sick-room of course; poor weak-natured Anice, always fleeing, unwomanlike, from aught that aroused a feeling of discomfort.
But Fulvia never left Mr. Browning, and he could scarcely endure to have Nigel out of his sight. It fell to those two to watch side by side through many long hours of that trying day—trying to both, but most so to Nigel. For Fulvia was in her element, and Nigel's presence meant rest to her; while the sight of what Mr. Browning had to bear racked Nigel's powers of endurance to the utmost. He did not give in; and Fulvia, herself absolutely unwearied in the necessities of her position and in the comfort of having him there, did not realise the severity of the tax upon one unused to sick-rooms.
About three o'clock in the afternoon Dr. Duncan came in. He said little beyond giving needful directions, and promising to return soon—"in a couple of hours or so." Fulvia thought his look not hopeful.
"Have you seen madre?" she asked.
"Yes; she tried to get up and fainted. I have ordered her to bed. She can do no more."
Soon after, unexpectedly, Mr. Browning dropped asleep, leaning forward on a pillow, his forehead against a chair-back. Fulvia had knelt at his right hand a few minutes earlier, and she remained fixed in that position, not daring to stir. Nigel had taken a seat not a yard distant where he had been off and on through the day. A glance of hope was exchanged between the two, and Fulvia, noting Nigel's wearied look, signed to him to leave the room, but the sign was disregarded. Neither of them stirred.
Twenty minutes of repose: surely this meant recovery. Fulvia's face grew bright, Nigel's less harassed. The sufferer seemed peaceful, and breathed more easily, not struggling.
Then he woke, and the first words were, "Nigel! Call Nigel."
"I am here, father." Nigel rose and came nearer, glad to have stayed.
"My dear, dear boy!" Mr. Browning said feebly.
"A little better?" Nigel asked.
"I don't know. Just at this moment—perhaps—" He looked from one to the other in a wistful troubled fashion, strangely, too, as if gazing from a distance. "Something I had to say," he murmured. "If I were not so—so weak—"
"You must not talk, padre," said Fulvia.
A great agony came into his face, changing its very form.
"Fulvie, forgive—forgive," he groaned.
"Don't, padre—oh don't," she cried. "Don't think—don't worry yourself; only get well, for madre's sake."
"No, no; you do not know," he panted. "It was not—was not—intention."
"What was not intention?" Nigel asked, before Fulvia could speak.
And a moan was the answer.
"This must not go on." Fulvia spoke in a clear voice. "Padre, listen—don't be distressed. I forgive anything—everything—no matter what—if there is anything to forgive. And you are to feel happy—you understand? Not to worry yourself. Things will be all right."
"No, no. Wronged! Wronged!"
They could hardly catch what he said. Then, with more distinct utterance—
"My dear child! My own dear child! No—not intention—folly and weakness—not wilful. HE will forgive—I think—I trust—but—the misery and loss—"
"Nigel, stop him! He must not," whispered Fulvia. "Padre dear, don't! Don't!" she went on aloud. "You will be worse. Can't you rest now?"
"Forgiveness," he panted.
"Yes, oh yes—don't ask again!"
But a solemn sound came into Mr. Browning's voice as he went on, "Forgiveness with Thee—Thee!—That Thou mayest be feared! My God, Thou knowest have repented—bitterly—most bitterly!"
A sob interrupted the words. With a sudden effort, he took Fulvia's left hand and placed it in Nigel's right hand.
"We owe her much," he said.
Then the troubled eyes turned to Fulvia.
"He will make up to you—my child—for everything! You will be his own—his own! But for that, how—how could I bear it? Nigel, I charge you—never—"
Utterance failed. It was an embarrassing moment for both; worse for Nigel, however, than for Fulvia, since she believed Mr. Browning to have only given expression to Nigel's desire.
During two seconds her hand lay where it had been put, and she did not look at Nigel. A flush rose to her very brow; the downcast eyes brightened; the lips parted with joy. Nigel saw, and his heart died within him. What was he to do? How could he explain?—Yet how could he not explain?
Strange to say, she did not miss the response which she might have expected. At the first instant, when her hand touched his, and he little dreamt what was coming, Nigel's fingers had closed with a slight, kind grasp, merely as an expression of gratitude. Then, as he heard, he saw his mistake.
Something had to be said, but what? That was the question. Nigel could not answer it. He was almost stunned. Yet he would have said something—anything—the first words which should spring—but there came an ominous sound, hardly a groan, hardly a gasp. Fulvia's glad colour faded, and she snatched her hand away to give the needed support, thereby releasing Nigel.
For Mr. Browning was dropping forward, lower and lower, breathless, voiceless, changed in look.
Nothing could be done. There was no time to summon Dr. Duncan, no time to warn his wife. Even as Fulvia started to Mr. Browning's help, all was over.
THE MONEY!
"I do not ask, O Lord, that life may beA pleasant road;I do not ask that Thou would'st take from meAught of its load;I do not ask that flowers should always springBeneath my feet;I know too well the poison and the stingOf things too sweet;For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead—Lead me aright;Though strength should falter, and though heartshould bleed,Through Peace to Light."—A. A. PROCTER.
STRANGE to say—or others thought it strange—Nigel was more knocked down by the blow than almost any one.
This did not show itself at first. He was the mainstay of them all during the first hours of that grievous day—undertaking to break the news to his mother, to comfort his sisters, to make needful arrangements. He went to and fro, pale and serious, even severe in his self-repression; and every one said how much he felt his father's death; but no one guessed the racking misery of doubt below as to Fulvia and that father's dying words.
The position in which Nigel found himself was indeed almost intolerable. Whether justly or no, he felt that he was in some measure to blame for it. True, he had been debarred from open speech to Mr. Browning; but, knowing whereto things tended, why had he not at least spoken out to Fulvia, about Ethel? He hated himself now for what might have been a cruel silence. When he thought of Fulvia's face, at the moment that her hand was placed in his by Mr. Browning, his heart sank as if leaden-weighted; and he felt like a bird caught in the toils.
All through the hours of that endless morning the struggle went on. What Mr. Browning had meant or had not meant?—What he was to do, or not to do?—What he could say or could not say?—How he might free himself, and yet spare Fulvia?—These questions racked his brain incessantly, while he sat with his mother or saw to things that had to be done, never thinking of rest for himself, only longing unbearably to find out the worst as to his father's affairs—and Fulvia's! This last became in time the leading desire, so engrossing his attention that everything else was done as a steppingstone to that end.
Mrs. Browning bore the shock wonderfully, so others said. She wept indeed much, showing all due natural grief, and clinging to Nigel for support; still she could find comfort in talking to Nigel about her husband. Not to anybody else, only to Nigel; and she never guessed how he shrank from it, craving to escape. The more keenly he felt, the less he could speak; also it was difficult to satisfy her with sufficient details of that last hour, while ignoring what had passed about Fulvia and himself. There seemed so little to tell, and she longed for more.
It was not till midday that he had a chance of a quiet time in the study.
All the long morning since Mr. Browning's death he had not once seen Fulvia. Half shyly, half unconsciously, she had kept out of his way, longing for, yet dreading, the moment when they should come together; and by no means unconsciously Nigel had seconded these efforts. He did not come to breakfast, only having a cup of tea in his mother's room; and when breakfast was over, Fulvia went out with Daisy, about mourning, which could not be put off. She would not trouble Mrs. Browning, but ordered everything that might be required, not sparing expense. Why should she? If Mrs. Browning should be short of money, there was Fulvia's money! She could always fall back upon that.
Coming in from the shops Fulvia found herself overpoweringly tired and sleepy. Nigel was still with Mrs. Browning, and no one seemed to need her. Anice noted her condition—it was a rare event for Anice to notice anybody's condition except her own—and advised repose. Fulvia meekly followed the counsel, and went to bed.
She did not expect to sleep, of course; but sleep she did, peacefully as an infant, never waking till nearly four o'clock in the afternoon of that strange sad day—most strange indeed, but not altogether sad, to Fulvia. Yet she grieved sincerely over her "padre's" death.
How vexed she felt when she awoke—vexed to have slept so long, and vexed yet more to feel refreshed and buoyant; absolutely hungry too! So heartless under the circumstances!
Going down into the darkened drawing-room, she found Anice crying over the fire; and the tea-tray just brought in.
"O Fulvie!" Anice started up to cling to the elder girl. "I have wanted you so, but Nigel said you were not to be disturbed. He said you must sleep as long as you could."
"I had no idea of forgetting myself so long. Stupid of me!" and there was a tingling blush at the mention of Nigel's name. "How is madre? Has Nigel had any rest himself?"
"No, he wouldn't. Mother is in her arm-chair just now, and Daisy with her. Nigel was there ever so long, all the morning off and on, till twelve o'clock; and then his head was aching, and mother wanted him to go into the garden for a turn, but he went to the study instead. He has been there ever since, except just a few minutes at lunch; and then he couldn't eat, and hardly said a word. He only said he had papers to look through, and he told us you were not to be called. Mother wants him, I believe. But Daisy doesn't mind being with mother, and I can't, you know—" pitifully. "I think Daisy and Nigel are so wonderful, keeping up, and—Won't you have some tea?"
Fulvia was ashamed of her own hunger. "Yes," she said, and helped herself, hoping Anice would not see how much she could eat. Anice dallied with a cup of tea, sobbing and talking by turns.
"Daisy is so strong," she said self-excusingly, "and I am not. I never could do things like other people. If I could I would stay with mother, but—when she cries so and says—Oh, I don't know how to bear it."
"My, dear, it is not a question of strength, but of will," said Fulvia. "People can do a good deal more, commonly, than they think they can, if only they would make up their minds to it, and manage to forget themselves."
Anice was hurt, of course, by the home-truth, and wept anew.
Then Daisy entered, with red eyes and broken breath. "Mother sent me," she said. "Is Fulvie up? Mother wants Nigel so, and I promised to tell him."
"Anice can tell him. Sit down, Daisy, and have some tea. You have done your share."
Anice complied reluctantly. She did not like being sent on errands.
"He is coming," she said, on her return. "But I don't think he is pleased. He had a lot of papers out, and he stopped to put them away."
"Did you tell him I was here?" Fulvia could not resist putting the question.
"No, he didn't ask."
The study door was heard to open and shut. Fulvia wished she could have controlled the rush of blood to her face. An impulse came over her to escape, yet she sat still. And when Nigel entered, there were no signs of a corresponding agitation on his part. He looked paler, sterner, older, than she could have imagined possible.
Fulvia asked timidly, "Will you have some tea?"
"Thanks."
Fulvia brought it herself: and it remained untouched. Glances were exchanged by the three girls; and Daisy spoke in response to a sign from Fulvia—"Nigel, the tea is getting cold. Won't you take some now?"
Nigel roused himself to comply; but after a few sips the cup was pushed aside, and he seemed overpowered by grief and weariness.
Fulvia told herself that she ought not to wonder; yet she did wonder. She had expected a word from him, or a look—and she had neither. But perhaps such expectations were unreasonable. It was very soon—only a few hours since his father's death; and Nigel had always been an affectionate son. She signed to the girls to say no more; and for ten minutes the clock ticked in unbroken silence.
Nigel spoke at last without stirring—
"Did you say my mother wanted me?"
Daisy's "Yes" and Fulvia's "No" came together. Daisy showed surprise.
"No," repeated Fulvia; "not when she knows how you are."
"I don't wish her to know."
Fulvia could not take upon herself to answer. She could only look again towards Daisy, and Daisy made response—
"Nigel was up all night, and he has had no rest. Everybody has rested except Nigel."
Nigel paid no heed, and another five minutes passed. Then he stood up, and without a word moved towards the door.
"Fulvie, do go too," begged Daisy. "Nobody can manage so well as you; and I'm sure he isn't fit."
Fulvia obeyed the suggestion, thrusting her own reluctance into the background. She counted Nigel too worn out to care what she or anybody might do; and certainly it was desirable that the interview should not be prolonged.
But how to shorten it was the question. Mrs. Browning, absorbed in her own grief, did not notice anything unusual in his look. He sat down close beside her, leaning his head against the back of her chair out of sight; so, after the first minute she had no chance to observe. Mrs. Browning welcomed him tenderly, bidding Fulvia also remain, which settled the perplexity of the latter how to act.
Then came a long low monotone, broken by sobs, all about Albert Browning, her husband—his character, his goodness, his devotion to wife and children, together with details of his suffering state during weeks past, and conjectures as to the cause of his long depression, varied by soft reverent utterances regarding his present rest, the contrast of his present peace, and how they must not grieve for him too much.
It was all very sweet; just like gentle Mrs. Browning. She was a very embodiment of sweet gentleness, sitting there, with her little nervous snowflakes of hands clasped together, and her lovely eyes wide-open, sometimes filling with great tears; but also it was very trying to other people. Fulvia began to wonder how much longer it was to go on. She grew impatient, even while most stirred by those reverent and resigned utterances in the madre's dear tones. Any amount for herself would have been endurable; but she was enduring for Nigel also. He was quiet enough, even impassive, only saying a word now and then when needful; still, Fulvia had a very good notion of what the interview was to him. In a general way she would not have allowed it to last five minutes. Now, however, she was under constraint; afraid of taking a wrong step. If Nigel should not like her to interfere!
There came a moment at length when he could bear no more. Mrs. Browning was saying something in her sorrowful voice about—"Your dear father's money anxieties. Always so scrupulously exact and honourable—so distressed if—"
Nigel's sudden movement stopped her. It was a start forward to an upright position, as if from some intolerable sting of pain, and he pushed the hair from his forehead, with a restless gesture.
Fulvia could restrain herself no longer.
"Madre, dear, I think one of us had better be with you now—Daisy or I. Nigel is so tired."
"Nigel tired! Are you, my dear? Yes, of course—why did I not see sooner? Do make him rest. I don't want anybody here. Never mind about me. I am of no consequence. How could I be so thoughtless?"
"Not thoughtless, indeed," Nigel said, as she broke into a flood of tears. "Fulvia did not mean—"
"Oh, I know—I understand. Everybody is kind. But now he is gone I am so desolate. I have nobody but you—nobody to lean upon. Nigel, my own boy, say you will not leave me! Say you will never, never leave me."
She clung to him, pleading; and Fulvia felt that in the abstract nothing could be more touching than the poor widow's turning to her boy for comfort. In the particular it was—No, Fulvia would not let herself look on another side of the question.
"Mother, you are my charge now," Nigel said with a manly self-control. He would not bind himself with rash promises; but he would assume to the full the responsibility which had fallen upon him.
Mrs. Browning wept on, and clung to him faster; and Nigel waited with dull patience. He might have waited thus another half-hour, but for Fulvia. She hardly knew how she managed to end the scene; yet she did manage it.
Nigel followed her out of the room in a mechanical fashion, and stood outside in the gas-lit passage, leaning against an old carved press, as if energy for another step had failed him.
Fulvia struck a match, and lighted a candle. "Nigel, you are dead-beat. You will go to bed now." There was no immediate answer. Fulvia cast one or two wistful glances at his face, which might have gained years in age during the last few hours.
"No," he said. "I must speak to you first."
A swift electric shock darted through Fulvia's frame. Speak to her! Speak about what? She could put only one interpretation on the words.
The girls' boudoir was close at hand, just across the passage. Nigel had always been free of entrance there, and he turned to go in. Fulvia followed with the candle, which she placed upon the mantelpiece, and Nigel stood facing her.
"I have something to tell you," he said. "It has only come to my knowledge to-day. About your money—"
"My money! Oh!" Fulvia came a step nearer, both relieved and disappointed. "I can wait about that!"
"I cannot!"
"There is no hurry—no need yet! As if I cared!"
"You will care. It is no good news."
"The more need to put off. We have had trouble enough to-day. Must we think of money so soon—when we have only just lost him? I would rather wait, far rather. And you are not well!"
"I cannot rest till I have told you."
"Well—" she answered reluctantly, "if it is a relief to you, of course—only please get it over as fast as you can."
Fulvia paused; and she could see that he was striving to speak, striving and unable. "Oh don't! Pray don't!" she begged piteously. "If you would but wait!"
"I have found out—" he tried to say, and the voice was so husky as to be inarticulate. A resolute effort conquered this. He grasped the chair again with both hands, and spoke in a distinct tone: "I have found out what my father meant."
"Meant!—When?"
"When he begged your pardon."
"I don't care what you have found out. I don't care what he meant. I will not hear it now," cried Fulvia passionately. "What do you think I am made of?—Talking of money, money, to me to-day! To-day of all days! I can't bear it, and you can't either! Please leave off!"
"No use. You must hear soon; and the sooner the better. I can't stand not telling you." There was a touch of appeal in the words, almost as if he craved her help. At the moment she hardly noticed it. "I have been looking at papers," he went on.
"Then you ought not! It was wrong, so soon! I don't care what you have found. The money isn't so much as uncle Arthur fancies, I suppose. What if it is not? What do I care? He has done harm enough with his meddling. He shall have no voice in my affairs now. I shall never be able to forgive him for—yesterday!" She had to pause and think before saying "yesterday." Her twenty-first birthday seemed so long ago.
"He was not to blame—wilfully."
"He was to blame! He knew better, or he ought to have known. But never mind that now. I only want you to say what must be said, and have done with it."
"I cannot give full particulars yet. There has been—no time. My father's affairs are—have been for years—in a state of complication—embarrassment. How much so I have never guessed. The crash must have come in—in any case. It has been staved off by—by means of—" Then a break. "Ruin to us all!" followed abruptly.
"To—us all!" She laid a slight stress on the pronoun.
"Yes."
"I don't think I understand."
Nigel was again hardly able to speak, and drops stood thickly like beads over his forehead.
Fulvia felt bewildered. Ruin to them all! Did that mean—to her? Was she included? In her wildest dreams this had somehow never come up as a possibility. Her money had always in imagination remained secure, only perhaps a little diminished from the Carden-Cox estimate. Her money had always been waiting to supply deficiencies for other people.
She said again, "I don't understand." It was not in human nature at that moment to insist on hearing no more. "Ruin to whom?" she asked.
"Absolute ruin to us! Hardly less to you."
"And—my forty thousand pounds—are—"
"Gone!"
He said the one word clearly as before; then a change of mood overmastered him; he sat down and covered his face with both hands.
What wonder? His father not ten hours dead!—and already to have found out that father in a course of action which must cover his name with dishonour.
Trust betrayed! Trust money appropriated! A heavier blow could scarcely have fallen upon the children of Albert Browning, brought up to regard him with loving reverence.
Fulvia could not look on unmoved. Tears rushed to her eyes. She forgot the uncertainty of her own position, forgot how words and acts might be misconstrued. They were boy and girl again—brother and sister—he as he used to be, a little the younger in character, turning to her for guidance, and she—"Nigel, I can't bear you to feel it so!" she cried with a sob, coming to his side, and then she sat down, leaning towards him. "What does the money matter to me, except that I wanted to help you all? It is worse for you, of course—worse to know—But he did not mean it! He never meant it! It has been some accident—something he could not help. We will never think a hard thought of him, or hear a hard word said. Somebody else was to blame; not dear padre—always so good and kind to me. Only don't mind—don't distress yourself—please don't think anything of it."