The nobility of the girl could not but strike home to Nigel, not only with a sense of admiration, but with a rush of new pain. It made his position with respect to her only the more difficult. Yet, trying to rally, he said—
"All that we can do—" and there was a break. "Everything that we have is yours, until—"
"Nonsense! How can you talk such nonsense?" cried Fulvia. "Everything I ever had is yours—madre's, I mean!" And she blushed vividly; but the blush passed as she went on—"After all, how can we know? How can we be sure? It is so soon. Things may not be so bad. You cannot have looked into matters fully yet. Don't you think there may be some mistake?"
He lifted his face and looked straight at Fulvia.
"No; there was a letter for me."
"A letter—from—"
"My father."
"Where?"
"In his desk."
"Addressed to you?"
"Yes—to be opened—after—"
"And—telling you about—"
"About—what I have told you."
"Not saying how it happened?"
"Yes. It has been the work of years. Embarrassments always increasing. Borrowing from—yours—to stave off this and that—meaning to repay, and never able. Speculating, failing, getting deeper and deeper into trouble; always hoping things would right themselves somehow, until—until—"
"Yes, until—"
"A very heavy loss, just after I left home—failure of a speculation, from which he had hoped everything. I think that was his death-blow. He faced the truth then: realised for the first time how things were, and how near your coming of age was. It has been one long misery since. He could never make up his mind to speak."
"Poor padre! Better if he had. But madre must not know it now."
"She must. We have no choice."
"Why?"
"Life will be changed to us all. Everything will have to be given up."
"Not the Grange! Not college for you!"
"Everything."
"Oh, I am so sorry. I do mind that."
Fulvia sat looking at him, tears in her eyes.
"But madre need not know," she repeated. "Madre must not know—all. Not that he was to blame, I mean—if he was to blame. Only that there have been losses, and that we shall all be poor together. You must not let her think anybody can find fault with him. It would almost kill her."
Nigel's face was hidden again. How could he say that other thing which had to be said? How put matters right between this noble-hearted girl and himself? Tell her first that her guardian—his father!—had recklessly made away with her money committed to his trust!—then tell her that the dying words of Albert Browning were false; that he loved another, and could not make up to her for the loss, could not offer himself in place of her wealth—even though he had too good reason to fear that she cared for him as for no other human being!
All the day through Nigel had been struggling, fighting, praying for strength—had been striving to bring himself to the pitch requisite for those words, so hard to be spoken. At the beginning of this interview he had believed himself to be capable of them. But now—!
Something about his "brotherly" feeling for Fulvia; something about his sense of responsibility in having to provide for her, as for his other sisters; something about what might have been soon between him and Ethel if this crash had not come, altering his whole outlook; something which should kindly, gently, let her see the truth.
Yes, he had thought all this beforehand, had shaped the very phrases. But now that the moment had arrived for saying the words, he could not say them.
Things were changed indeed for him during the last twelve hours. How could he ask Ethel to wait during interminable years, while he set himself to the task of supporting his widowed mother and sisters, and of paying back at least a portion of Fulvia's lost money? Whether he could ever repay the whole might be doubted; but Nigel felt that it would be his aim.
Unless he married Fulvia! There would be no question of repayment then! Whatever he possessed she would possess.
If he did not marry her, then he would have to toil the more to place her in a position of comfort. If she were doubly wronged, he would have doubly to make up to her.
Either way, he saw his way hopelessly cut off from Ethel!
Was it his bounden duty to marry Fulvia as things stood? A father's dying wish has power; and Fulvia had too clearly shown her heart's desire. Could he, and might he, escape from the tangle? One moment he felt that he had no choice: another moment, that to become Fulvia's husband was an utter impossibility.
If the latter—if he could not and would not ask her to be his wife—then she ought in justice to learn quickly how matters stood. Delay would be cruel to her, and would, in fact, bind him. But to tell her at this moment—how could he? To inflict another blow close upon the first—and Nigel knew that it would be a blow! To reveal the bitter truth—and Nigel was aware that it must be an unspeakably bitter truth! How could he so meet her noble self-forgetfulness in ignoring her own loss, thinking only of his grief? Theoretically, immediate speech might be best. Practically, it was impossible. Nigel could not say the words he had purposed. His parched lips refused to utter them.
At another time he might have felt and acted differently. He was suffering now severely from the strain of twenty-four hours past. Vigour of mind and vigour of body were at a low ebb, and the power of decision was almost gone. He could only let things drift. He was turning faint with the inward struggle, and his head throbbed almost beyond endurance. The moment for speaking went by.
Fulvia, watching him with her kind troubled eyes, saw the physical pain and read little beyond, for she had not the clue.
"Poor Nigel!" she said compassionately, and the next thing that he knew was the feeling of something wet and cool and refreshing upon his hot brow.
Nigel could not protest or refuse. He could only give himself over into her capable care-taking hands; too ill for more speech, yet all the while dimly conscious of a certain sense of possession in the touch of those same hands. Was it consciousness or fancy? Nigel did not know. It might have been either. He was obviously in no condition for the careful weighing of evidence.
One thought only was clear—one little sentence from Ethel's paper—
"To sacrifice self, as an habitual law, in each sudden call to action."
It haunted him for hours, together with Ethel's face.
AN UTTER TANGLE
"O life, O death, O world, O time,O grave, where all things flow,'Tis yours to make our lot sublime,With your great weight of woe."—TRENCH.
DAYS passed, and nobody yet knew the state of family affairs.
Nigel was confined to his room by a "severe feverish attack"—not surprising under the circumstances. Business talk in his presence was tabooed; and Fulvia said not a word elsewhere. Not a soul, beyond herself and Nigel, knew aught of the dying man's utterances, aught of the letter he had left, aught of the vanished wealth. Newton Bury never doubted that the Brownings would still be extremely well off.
In a general way Mr. Carden-Cox would very early have set himself to ferret out something, more especially when goaded on by previous suspicion. Mr. Carden-Cox, however, had not been to the Grange since the afternoon of Fulvia's birthday. He knew that others must blame him for Albert Browning's fatal attack of illness, and he could not endure to be blamed. Inwardly, he suffered sore remorse; outwardly, he would have defended his own conduct through thick and thin.
There was nothing for it but flight, and he did flee. Thirty-six hours after Albert Browning's death saw him in his old Burrside lodgings, in glum and miserable enjoyment of solitude. At the Grange his absence was scarcely regretted, for interviews must needs have been painful.
Mr. Carden-Cox did not return for the funeral, and Nigel could not be present—no small grief to Nigel's mother. He was unable to lift his head from the pillow when that day came. Mrs. Browning stayed with him, and the three girls went, as did many Newton Bury friends. Much sympathy had been shown to the Brownings in their trouble. The very idea of any possible slur upon the honoured name of Albert Browning had not so much as occurred to any one outside their immediate circle—if one includes in that circle Mr. Carden-Cox and Dr. James Duncan.
Albert Browning had left no will, had appointed no executors. All arrangements, therefore, devolved upon his son, to whom it was known he had left written directions or advice in the form of a letter. Mrs. Browning had not been told even so much as this. Arrangements had to wait until Nigel could give his mind to them.
So nearly another week passed after the funeral; and then Nigel came again into the stream of everyday life.
It was a changed life for him; and he was changed,—thinner, older, and with a careworn expression. The eyes had ceased to sparkle, a weight lay on the brow, and the lips had a sad resolute set. Mrs. Browning and Daisy had been his nurses; not that much actual nursing was needed. The occupation was good for Mrs. Browning, Fulvia said. Fulvia had not seen him for ten days; and, when he reappeared, she noted sorrowfully the alteration.
Sometimes she wondered, would he soon allude to those dying words of his father? She could not understand his manner. It was kind, grave, brotherly perhaps, certainly restrained. Yet at first Fulvia was not anxious.
He had so much on his mind; and it was natural that he should wait awhile. Decorum almost demanded delay, just for a time after the padre's death. So Fulvia told herself, and thought or tried to think. Moreover, though Nigel had not been seriously ill—not ill enough, that is to say, to cause real anxiety—he had suffered a good deal, and had distinctly lost flesh and vigour. He was hardly up to anything exciting yet. "Poor Nigel!" she breathed pityingly.
The three girls in their deep mourning were gathered round the drawing-room fire early one afternoon,—the second day since Nigel had come among them again. Fulvia's mourning matched that of the other two. She would not make a grain of difference, for she was one with them in their loss, though united by no tie of blood. The profound black set off well her ruddy hair and clear skin. She looked sad, trying to realise what was hard to believe—that not one fortnight had passed since the padre's death. To the imagination it was more like two months than two weeks. On the other hand it seemed strange that so many days could have elapsed while no one beyond herself and Nigel had an inkling of the true state of affairs; yet Fulvia herself had insisted on delay. Nigel would have spoken to his sisters two days earlier but for her entreaties.
"Mother was asleep when I went in just now," Daisy said.
"My dear, let her sleep. It is the best thing she can do. And if she wakes, keep her away from here."
"Why?"
"I think—I am not sure—but I shrewdly suspect that uncle Carden-Cox may come in for a talk. He is at home again. Madre could not stand that."
"I couldn't," sighed Anice.
"You will have to stand it, and a great deal besides. We must all three be brave, and keep up for madre's sake—and—"
"And for Nigel's," added Daisy unsuspectingly.
Fulvia flushed.
"Yes. He has a great deal resting on him, and he will have hard work. Anice—Daisy—I want you both to promise me to be good and thoughtful—not to seem vexed and unhappy, whatever happens. Above all, don't let yourselves blame padre."
"Why should we blame him?" asked Daisy.
"Never mind. You will know everything soon enough—too soon for my wishes. Promise me not to think about yourselves, but only about madre, and how you can best help Nigel. We have to bear what comes; but the way of bearing makes all the difference in the world."
"I'll try, of course."
"And Anice?"
"Yes—" faintly; "but what shall we have to bear?"
Fulvia was silent.
"Will Mr. Carden-Cox come exactly at tea-time, like last time?" asked Daisy, with a choke in her voice. "I hope he won't; but he is so odd, one never can tell. Shall I take mother's tea to her? And Nigel's? He has been hours and hours over those papers."
"What papers?" inquired Anice.
"I don't know; father's, I think—" in a lower tone. "All the morning, and now ever since lunch. He ought not, ought he, Fulvia? I should think he would be ill again if he does so much. Why, he has only been downstairs twice before to-day, and only for a little while."
"Has anybody been to him?"
"Yes; I went—when was it? Nearly an hour ago. I asked if he wouldn't come for a walk with me. But he seemed vexed, and said he was too busy, and couldn't be disturbed. So of course I can't try a second time."
"Anice could."
"I'd rather not. You can, if you like. You are always trying to put things off upon me," said injured Anice.
Fulvia hesitated; then she went, tapping lightly at the study door. There was no answer, and she opened it.
Papers lay over the table, letters and account-books mingled with other documents. Fulvia bestowed upon them a cursory glance. Nigel sat as if reading, the fingers of his right hand pushed up into his hair; but Fulvia knew that at the moment of her entrance he was thinking, not reading. The eyes slowly lifted had a faraway look. She closed the door, coming to the other side of the table.
"This is too soon," she said. "You are not well yet, and you ought to wait a few days."
"Time to speak out," was his reply.
"Not yet. Think of poor madre! It will break her heart. If only we could keep the worst from her!"
"Impossible!" Nigel spoke firmly, yet with a sound of weariness.
"At least she need not be told now?"
"I don't know. I must have things in train."
"And get yourself into bad health again, like old days. Is that wise?"
"No fear!"
"Must you begin so soon? I can't see the need."
"We have no means of paying our way. Everything has to be given up."
"How have we paid our way hitherto?"
"We?"—bitterly. "With your money."
"But if that is all gone—"
"Nearly."
"Nigel, I am very stupid; I can't quite grasp things. If poor padre had not been taken, how should we have paid our way then?"
"As we were doing, I suppose, till the whole was gone, and a crash became inevitable. The only difference would have been a little longer delay, and nothing left to anybody, instead of the pittance left now. I don't believe he fully realised how things were. There was always a vague hope that difficulties would right themselves."
"No reason for the hope?"
"None that I can see."
"Do you mind telling me how much the 'pittance' really will be? I don't want to tease you—" wistfully—"but if I could be any help—"
"You have every right to know."
"I don't ask it as a right; but are things so desperate?"
"So far as I can make out, when all claims have been met, there may be some three hundred a year left."
"Of madre's?"
"Yours."
"And how much of yours—hers and yours?"
"There can be nothing of ours, in strict justice, till your claims are satisfied."
"Nigel!" she exclaimed indignantly. "What do you take me for?"
"I am talking of justice, not of your wishes."
"I don't care what you mean; it is cruel to speak so. As if I—and it is untrue. The three hundred a year will be ours if you like—not mine, but all of ours together."
"Half of it is yours exclusively. The other half is my mother's marriage settlement; but she will feel as I do, that you have a right to—"
"Will you stop? I won't hear it! How can you say such things?" cried Fulvia. "Do you want to put separation between us? Am I to be cut off from you all by this trouble. May I not even live with madre still?"
For it came across her, as she stood there, that no allusion had yet been made to those dying words, to the clasped hands by Albert Browning's side. If Nigel had felt as she felt, he would surely, before this, have made some sign—have broken into some speech. She had been silent perforce; he was not bound. Her whole being was wrapped up in Nigel; while he—if she should find that he did not care for her, how could she endure it? Did he care? Sudden dread crept over Fulvia. Would it be anything to him if she went away from the home, and was one of them no longer? A chill came with the dread, and she sat down, because she could not stand. A changed sound found its way into her voice; as she repeated, "May I not even live with madre still?"
Nigel looked up with a momentary expression of surprise.
"Yes, certainly. What could make you think—" he began, and then broke off, to add simply, "Why not?"
"You are the master of the house! It is for you to decide—for you to decide now." Fulvia did not know that she had said the words twice, or that a sound of pain had crept into them. She only meant to speak coldly. "That might be one of the 'changes' necessary;" and there was a hard little laugh.
"For you to decide!" struck home. It brought to Nigel's mind vividly, as was already present in hers, the scene by the side of Albert Browning, just before he died. Nigel heard again the laboured breath, the faltering accents—"He will make up to you, my child, for everything! You will be his own! Nigel, I charge you, never—" and then the hand put into his, and the glow on Fulvia's face! All this came back to Nigel in an instant, not quickening his pulses as it quickened Fulvia's. One glimpse of Ethel would have set them beating fast, but not these, recollections. They only brought a sense of weight and strain, of weariness and perplexity. One thing alone was distinct—that he could and would take no hasty steps. Till he had seen Ethel, he must leave all else in suspense. The very thought brought relief. She would help him! She, with her clear sense of duty, her practised spirit of self-denial, would guide him to the knowledge of what he ought to do.
Fulvia spoke in a tone of compunction, which yet was not soft—
"I don't want to worry you. After all, we can settle nothing yet. Sometimes I think I will go out as governess."
"Never!"
"Why not? I have some capabilities. What do you propose to do?"
"Let or sell the Grange as soon as possible. Go into a small house, and got rid of all superfluous furniture. Dismiss most of the servants. Retrench in every possible way."
"And land yourself in a brain fever, by way of saving expense."
Nigel was in no mood for light words.
"What will you do yourself?" asked Fulvia, having no response.
"The Bank."
"So I feared. But I thought you were expected to—what was it?—take shares, or invest money in the Bank, or some such thing, in order that you might in time become partner?"
"I can't do it now."
"They will have you—without?"
"Yes. It will make a difference in my standing, of course."
"Are you going to see Mr. Bramble?"
"I have written to him, and have had an answer."
"Already?" She noted the independence and resolution. "Nigel, will you grant me one favour? Let me tell the girls and madre as much as is necessary,—and uncle Arthur too. Let me do it."
Nigel would not accept the generous offer. He was bent upon not sparing himself. Fulvia had suffered enough already through him and his; he would not lay upon her a feather's weight in addition. When she pleaded, he said "No" again, and followed her to the drawing-room, with an evident intention to speak without further delay. There were the two girls still, and there was Mr. Carden-Cox, who had not waited for the tea-hour, but had come, as Fulvia foretold.
COMPOUND UMBELS AND BLUE EYES
"A man must serve his time to every tradeSave censure—critics all are ready-made.Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote,With just enough of learning to misquote;A mind well-skilled to find or forge a fault:A turn for punning—call it Attic salt."
"ONE of the Umbelliferæ," said Tom.
He stood watching Ethel, as she painted a flower upon a wooden panel, his head being inclined to one side. It was not long before Mr. Carden-Cox's call at the Grange that same afternoon.
Ethel had a gift in the flower-painting line; but this was not done so well as usual. Ethel's fingers were nervous, not quite obedient. She had taken to her paints as a refuge from Tom, and there was no getting away from him. He followed her even into her pet sanctum, the little lumber-room, where, as she would have said, she "did her messes." It was no use to suggest his being elsewhere. Tom's mild good-humour was impervious to the broadest hints. Ethel felt for once uncontrollably cross in her satiety of Tom's talk; yet she tried to be patient. In a few days he would be gone.
"One of the Umbelliferæ," repeated Tom, finding his information disregarded. "Umbel-bearing. Umbel—from the same source, so to speak, as 'umbrella'—spreading outward from the centre. This little flower is a simple umbel; but there are compound umbels also—umbels of umbels,—you understand?"
"Oh yes. Like a lot of sunshades branching out of one umbrella."
The illustration was so new, that Tom had to give it serious consideration.
"Yes—" came slowly, at length. "I do not know that your idea is—altogether inappropriate. No, perhaps not—on the whole. As an instance of compound umbels, we have—a—"
"An umbrella shop."
"I am afraid that you would be pushing the—the simile—too far." Tom was perfectly serious. "As a matter of fact, an umbrella can never be other than a simple umbel—ha, ha!" Tom could always laugh at his own jokes, though never at those of other people. "Ha, ha! Yes, an umbrella is undoubtedly a simple umbel But in Nature we have compound umbels, as, for instance, the hemlock, the parsley, the—"
Tom paused, and Ethel was silent.
"You are making too much of a curve. That stalk does not bend in reality," said Tom, who looked upon the said stalk from a different standpoint, and failed to allow for the fact. He know about as much in respect of painting as the Rectory cat. A row of "flower-heads," with stalks as stiff as pokers in parallel lines below, would have seemed to him the correct thing.
"Nature deals in curves. When she doesn't, it is a mistake, and art has to put her right," declared Ethel sententiously; for when dealing with a sententious man, one has sometimes to pay him in his own coin.
Tom undertook to prove her mistaken, and Ethel listened with wandering thoughts to his laboured disquisition. It was hard to attend enough to prevent his discovering her absence. Her heart was at the Grange, for the last fortnight had been a severe trial of her fortitude, and each day added to the trial.
She had not seen or spoken with Nigel since his father's death; and one or two brief interviews with Daisy had been unsatisfactory. Ethel was not intimate with the Browning family as a whole, only with Nigel as Malcolm's friend—not to speak of his being her own friend!—and in a less degree with Daisy. She had always a distinct consciousness of being avoided by Fulvia. Her own feelings would have carried her daily to the Grange, if only as an expression of her intense sympathy with them all, if only to learn how Nigel was: but this could not be; and certainly neither Mrs. Browning nor Fulvia would have welcomed any such expression of solicitude from a member of the Elvey family, albeit they were most polite to Mr. Elvey, who had paid more than one visit to the widow. Ethel had to stay at home, and to wait for such information as came by her father and Malcolm, or filtered through less direct channels. She seized any scrap of news with avidity, yet her hunger was not satisfied.
"Now, these are instances of straight lines in Nature, which I venture to think you will hardly disparage," said Tom.
Ethel woke up to the fact that "these instances" had been thrown away upon her. She had travelled to the Grange while he discoursed, forgetting even to paint, and sitting, with suspended brush, in an attitude of absorption, which Tom took for devoted attention to himself. He was much gratified naturally!
"Oh yes,—Oh no, I mean," she said hastily. Alarmed lest he should catechise her on what he had said, she began to paint again in vehement style, and Tom's attention strayed back to the "flower-head" expanding under her touch.
"I have not yet introduced you to the Umbelliferous Family," he observed, by way of a ponderous joke. "This is not a bad opportunity, while you are actually engaged in taking the likeness of a member of that family—Ha! Ha!" Tom stopped to laugh complacently, and Ethel felt like throwing her brush at him. "You are fairly acquainted already with the family characteristics of the Ranunculaceæ, the Papaveraceæ, the Onagraceæ, the Myrtaceæ, the Violaceæ, the Cucurbitaceæ, the Malvaceæ, the—"
"Seven sneezes," murmured Ethel. It really did seem as if Tom were laboriously selecting all those tribes which rejoiced in this particular sound at the end of their names.
"I beg your pardon. Did you speak?" asked unsuspecting Tom.
"Oh, nothing. Please go on."
"I was about to say, you are already acquainted fairly well with the characteristics of these and other tribes. But the Umbelliferæ are, I believe, new to you. Umbelliferæ—umbel-bearing. One principal characteristic—the ovary inferior. You should remember this. Fruit dry and hard—not juicy. I think you comprehend now what the ovary is."
"The ovary?" Ethel was away at the Grange once more.
"The ovary. I believe you understand what is signified by the ovary of a flower," repeated indulgent Tom.
Ethel looked up vacantly, then sighed.
"Tom, I am busy. I can't be bothered with ovaries and things to-day," she said. "I have so much to do, and those long names are detestable."
Tom's face fell. He was thunderstruck. Never till this moment had Ethel allowed such a remark to escape. "I thought—I hoped—you had learnt to appreciate—" he faltered.
"I have tried—really I have—and I can't. I shall never appreciate putting beautiful things into stiff rows, and giving them long names. It isn't in me," said Ethel, her tone half petulant, half apologetic. "You must try your hand on somebody else."
"But,—" protested dismayed Tom. "But—" and he could say no more. After all these weeks of careful instruction, it was too much. Tom's whole course of thought was turned upside down by it. He found himself saying, with displeasure, "I imagined that you were a girl of sense."
"Oh no! Not botanical sense, Tom." Then she was afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she looked up penitently. "Tom, you mustn't mind me. I'm worried, and it's of no consequence. Another day I'll try to listen. If only you will leave me in peace this afternoon, I'll be good afterwards, and I'll learn all about those horrid umbels. I will, really."
Tom did not know what to make of her. He was more won than ever—fascinated, in fact, though Ethel had not the smallest wish to fascinate him. At the same time he was desperately disappointed to find that her "listening" was a matter of "trying." He had flattered himself that she listened because she could not help it: because his speech was of such engrossing interest that she could not turn away.
He objected very much to the girlish expression, "those horrid umbels"; but the girlish eyes were too much for him. In the general upsetting of Tom's ideas, one alone kept its equilibrium, and grew more definite. Umbels or no umbels, science or no science, Tom liked Ethel, and he wanted her for his own. She had grown necessary to him these weeks. Existence could not be the same to Tom, if he were bereft of the occupation of watching Ethel. Her deft fingers enchained his masculine intellect. It came over him now, almost as a new idea, that in a few days this occupation would cease.
Not that he wished to go. He could have remained at the Rectory for an indefinite period, so far as his own wishes were concerned. A gentle intimation had been made to him, however, that the spare room would be required for another visitor after a certain date; so Tom had no choice.
By-and-by he would be returning to Australia, hopelessly out of reach of Ethel, and far beyond the touch of those little fingers, which had somehow become inextricably entwined in Tom's mind with the dried herbarium specimens, for the gumming in of which they were so admirably adapted. What success might not Tom achieve with Ethel as his coadjutor?
Ethel little dreamt that her momentary tartness was bringing him to a most undesirable point.
Tom to yield to sudden impulse! Tom to be betrayed into ill-considered action! The thing was incredible. Tom had had floating ideas of how he would one day address himself to Mr. and Mrs. Elvey on the subject of marriage. He had planned a careful exposition of his prospects and intentions, such as might win the consent of Ethel's parents. He had pictured the circumspect choice of a suitable time and place in which to open his heart to Ethel, the clothing of his ideas in well-selected language, perhaps even the making of one or two apt quotations, conned beforehand for the occasion, for Ethel loved poetry.
All this Tom had proposed to himself. And that all this should go to the winds, that Tom should precipitately have the matter out with Ethel herself, saying no word to her father or mother,—who could have thought it? Not Tom, certainly, and not Ethel!
Never in Ethel's life had she been more astonished than by Tom's next utterance, after her pettish remark about "those horrid umbels." The pause following was long enough for Ethel to lose herself anew in thought, to forget Tom and painting, umbels and botany. Suddenly her attention was arrested by a shaky voice of genuine emotion—
"It's no good, you know, Ethel! I can't help it. I can't go off, and—and leave things like this. I'm going back to Australia, you know, before long, and you'll—you'll—you'll come with me, won't you? Say you will, Ethel! I can't get along without you, and that's the truth."
Was there ever a more unscientific "specimen" of a proposal?
Tom seized Ethel's hand, and held it as in a vice.
Ethel's eyes opened widely, and stared at him in blank-bewilderment.
"Tom!"
"Just say you will, and it'll be all right," pleaded Tom, discarding long words and Latin terminations with shameless promptitude. Somehow, neither long words nor Latin terminations lend themselves to love-making, or to the expression of strong feeling; and Tom's feeling for Ethel was strong of its kind. "Just say you will," reiterated Tom. "I'll do my very best to make you happy, I will indeed!" and his grasp tightened.
Ethel could not have released herself by struggling, and she did not try. She looked straight at Tom, and said, "Please let go!"
Tom dropped the hand as if it had been a hot potato, and Ethel rubbed it.
"You hurt me!" she said. "But it doesn't matter; only you must not do that again. And please understand that I don't want any more nonsense. We are cousins and friends, that is all. We never can be anything else—never!"
Tom began to beg. Tom began to implore. It was not nonsense, but sense. He meant fully all that he had said. If Ethel would only consent, he would be the happiest man living.
"Oh no, you would not. We should both be wretched. I could not make you happy, and you could not make me happy."
"Why not?" Tom demanded fiercely. He was unhappy, and therefore fierce. At this moment he felt that Ethel was worth more than all the world could offer beside. He would have sacrificed even his herbaria to win her! Who then might say that he could not make Ethel happy?
"We are not made for one another," Ethel asserted. "Our tastes are different, and our ways. It would be a perpetual rub and fret."
"Why should it?" insisted Tom. "Husbands and wives don't always like the same things." He was right enough there, no doubt.
"No, I suppose not. But they ought to be able to agree to differ, able to go their own separate paths in peace. It doesn't sound like a cheerful arrangement exactly, but it is what has to be in a great many cases." She spoke soberly, as if familiar with various phases of matrimonial life. "And you know that is what you and I never could do. You would never leave me in peace."
Tom broke in to assure her that he would. He would do anything, everything. There was nothing under the sun that Tom would not do to please Ethel.
"Yes, that is all very kind," said Ethel, smiling. "But one has to look forward, and when a lover becomes a husband, things are not exactly the same. Everybody says so, and I have seen it. You might mean to leave me in peace, but you wouldn't be able. It is not your way. You would never be happy unless I could like what you liked, and then I should be cross, and you would be vexed."
Tom was indignant. As if Ethel ever was cross! As if he ever could be vexed—with her!
"Oh, I can be desperately cross; and I assure you, Tom, you would very soon be vexed with me. Scientific specimens are all very well for a month, but you don't know how I should detest them if it were always!"
"I believe you have other reasons," declared Tom, with no small annoyance. "It's inconceivable that you should refuse me for nothing but this."
"I don't say I have no other reasons. Of course I have. But isn't one enough?" asked Ethel cheerfully.
"No; one isn't enough!" said wrathful Tom. "One isn't enough, especially when that one's not the true one! I believe you care a great deal too much for that fellow at the Grange."
Ethel's face flamed into anger, and she stood up to leave the room.
"Tom, if you are going to be rude, I have done with you. I didn't wish to hurt your feelings more than was needed; but as you are determined to have another reason, it's easy enough to give. I don't care an atom for you, and I never shall care! I don't want ever to see anything more of you at all."
Tom was crushed. He had done the business now, and no mistake. The proverbial dove flying in his face would not have amazed him more than this indignant outburst. He did not dare to follow Ethel; but presently he heard a step running downstairs, and when he looked out of the window, there was Ethel in the garden, dressed as for a walk.
Where could she be going? Darkness fell early these wintry afternoons. It would soon be dusk.
Tom saw nothing of Ethel for hours afterward. Nobody seemed to know where she had betaken herself. "In the parish, of course," everybody said, when Tom went about asking questions. At five-o'clock tea she did not become visible. Tom felt sufficiently punished; yet he began to count Ethel's absence almost a compliment. It seemed to clothe him with a certain fictitious importance.
THE BREAKING STORM
"For life is one long sleep,O'er which in gusts do sweepVisions of heaven;The body but a closed lid,By which the real world is hidFrom the spirit slumbering dark below;And all our earthly strife and woe,Tossings in slumber to and fro;And all we know of heaven and lightIn visions of the day or nightTo us is given."—Author of "Schönberg-Cotta Family."
FOR Mr. Carden-Cox to have a disturbed equanimity meant talk. Whatever he felt flowed outward in the natural vent of talk. This is usually supposed to be a feminine characteristic, but some men inherit it largely from their mothers, and Mr. Carden-Cox possessed it in perfection. The more his feelings were stirred, the more he had to say.
This was the style of thing:—
"Your mother resting—asleep! Best for her, much best. Well, girls, how are you? Pretty well, eh? Poor things—sad, very—most trying time. Everybody feels for you all—nice feeling expressed—and—Well, my dear boy, how are you? Not very robust yet? Grown thinner, I declare. Oh, it won't do for you to fret; no use at all. Nothing gained by fretting. What has to be, has to be. I tell everybody it is wrong to fret—tempting Providence!"
It was true that Mr. Carden-Cox did tell everybody this, and some people were apt to ask responsively behind his back whether it was right to "sulk," which was the Newton Bury term for Mr. Carden-Cox's occasional retreats from society.
"Quite wrong," repeated Mr. Carden-Cox. "Trouble has to be borne. 'Man is born to trouble.' Poor Browning—poor fellow—your poor father, I mean," stumbling awkwardly over the different modes of expression. "Yes, it's most unfortunate—sad, I mean. But you've got to think, all of you, that he is no doubt spared something worse—heart disease—might have suffered severely if he had lived. I'm sure nobody could have thought—but one ought to think! Wonder we don't understand more the uncertainties of life. Seems always to take us by surprise. 'In midst of life we are in death;' but it is very astonishing."
Anice cried quietly, with subdued sniffles, as he talked, and Daisy looked indignant, while Fulvia's eyes wore a defensive expression. Nigel appeared not to be listening.
"You've all got to buckle to now, and get things arranged for your poor mother, eh, girls? Must think of her comfort. Nigel will be going to college by-and-by, so you'll have to be her dependence. What of your poor father's affairs, Nigel? Looked into things yet? Some little embarrassments, I suppose. Nothing serious, or we should have heard; everybody would have heard."
"Nobody has heard anything yet."
Mr. Carden-Cox peered at him inquisitively. "Then there is something, hey?"
"We must give up the Grange."
Daisy burst into a round-mouthed "Oh!" Anice uttered a little shriek.
"Give up—the Grange!"
"Let or sell, whichever we can. There will not be enough money to keep the place going. We must find a small low-rented house somewhere, and do our best to live economically."
Mr. Carden-Cox screwed up his lips, emitting a tiny whistle.
"And—college—"
"Is out of the question. I shall be at the Bank."
"In what capacity?"
"Clerk."
"You—a clerk!"
"On £200 a year. But for friendship and kindness I should have had to begin with less than half as much."
There was no falter in Nigel's voice thus far.
"But, I say!" broke in Mr. Carden-Cox. "I say! What about Fulvia?"
"If I don't go out as governess, I shall be useful at home," said Fulvia. A touch of hardness was visible in her manner.
"You—go—out—as—governess!" Mr. Carden-Cox could hardly give utterance to the words.
"Fulvia is talking nonsense. That will not be." Nigel spoke resolutely, but Fulvia could see what the interview was to him.
"I don't know who is to prevent, if I choose."
"I do. It will not be permitted."
"Permitted! I should just—think—not!" gasped Mr. Carden-Cox. "Fulvia Rolfe to go—out—as—governess! And pray, what of Fulvia Rolfe's fifty thousand pounds? Eh? What of my niece's fifty thousand pounds? I am her uncle, remember! Her only near relative, remember! I have a right to know, to demand! What of Fulvia's money, entrusted to—to—to—your father?"
Mr. Carden-Cox was in a towering passion, too much of a passion for lucid speech. He already saw what he had to expect, and he nearly foamed at the mouth.
"Fulvia's money!" he reiterated. "Fulvia's fifty—thousand—pounds! Eh? Eh? Eh? What of that, eh? Where is it?"
One word would have been sufficient answer, just the little word "Gone!" Nigel could not say it. His self-command was not equal to the strain. To have to confess this of his dead father before Mr. Carden-Cox, before the wronged Fulvia, before Albert Browning's own daughters, was too much. There was a parting of the lips, and an effort to speak, but no sound came, and the lips closed again with rigid pressure, as if he were hardly able to endure himself.
Fulvia had meant to remain in the background, but the sight of Nigel's distress overpowered her, and she started forward impulsively.
"Nigel, don't! I wish you would not! Do leave me to tell. Uncle, you are not to worry Nigel and all the rest of us about that wretched money: I will not have you do it. I am of age now. It is in my hands, not yours. And I choose to have nothing separate. I am madre's child, just like Anice or Daisy. Madre has had terrible losses, and I am ready to work for her as I would for my own mother. I will not have them all bothered and plagued, just when they have so much to bear."
"And your fifty thousand pounds, child! Fifty thousand, mind you! Not a penny less!"
"You don't know anything about it. How should you? It is not fifty thousand, and I don't believe there ever was half that. Some of it is gone—I don't care how much—and it is nobody's concern except mine. If padre used some, he had a right, and I won't hear anybody say he had not. He was my father," cried the generous girl, ready to say anything in her hot defence. "And he meant to repay; of course he meant to repay; he would have repaid if he had lived."
"Father use Fulvia's money!" uttered Daisy.
"Daisy, will you hold your tongue? Have you no eyes? Can't you see? Nigel can't bear it—nobody can bear it. Why must you all try to make the worst of everything? Things can't be helped now—now he is gone! He never meant it—he told me so when he was dying. I will not hear hard words said of him. I tell you we will all have everything together, and I don't mean to allow a single word more about my money."
"Community of goods, in fact!" growled Mr. Carden-Cox. "That's all very fine, but—you mean—" he looked from her to Nigel and back again—"you mean, in fact—as I might have guessed—that your money is lost—flung away—squandered—stolen! Ay, stolen! Nothing more nor less than stolen! And that man—Browning!—Let me alone, girl," as Fulvia distractedly clutched his wrist—"Let me alone. I'll have my say. That man, Albert Browning, trusted by your poor father as the very soul of honour—he was a scoundrel! A mean pitiful scoundrel! A miserable base SCOUNDREL!"
Mr. Carden-Cox was beside himself with wrath, or he would hardly have gone so far.
Fulvia turned to Nigel in an agony.
"Nigel! Stop him!" she implored.
Nigel himself could not endure this. He had already started up, ashen white.
"Retract your words or leave the house," he said hoarsely.
And before Mr. Carden-Cox could reply, Daisy burst into a terrified exclamation:—
"Mother! Look at mother!"
Mrs. Browning was in the room. How long she had been there no one could tell. When Daisy first saw her she stood near the door, perfectly still, like a living image of wax in her deep mourning, one hand hanging carelessly over the other on a background of crape, the dark eyes wide-open and fixed. But Daisy's words aroused her, and she came forward.
"Clemence! If I'd guessed—" groaned Mr. Carden-Cox.
He advanced, holding out his hand in a half apologetic manner, muttering something like "regret."
Mrs. Browning gazed beyond and through him. She swept past slowly, and came among her children, laying a hand on Nigel's arm.
"What is it all about?" she asked in her sweet low voice. "I do not understand. Some one can open the door for Mr. Carden-Cox."
Mr. Carden-Cox absolutely went, there and then, without a word of self-excuse, opening the door for himself, bowing to the decision of that fair woman as he would have bowed to the decision of no other human being.
Fulvia gathered her wits together, and rushed after him to the front door.
"One word—one word!" she said. "Hear me, uncle—I will be heard," as he was turning away. "You must listen. This is not to be known—not to be spread abroad. No one is to know it except ourselves."
Mr. Carden-Cox's face was dark with wrath. He had obeyed Clemence Browning, but he would not easily forgive either her dismissal or his own submission.
"Atrocious!" was the one word he uttered. Then he shook off Fulvia's hand. "Let me go, girl! I've done with you all! An ungrateful crew! After all these years—to be turned away like a tramp! Ordered off by her!"
"It is not ingratitude! You know it is not! You know you were wrong! You know a wife could not hear such words of her husband! And, whatever you think, the matter is not to go any farther. It must not—shall not! What is the good? What would be the use—now?"
"That may be as I choose," said Mr. Carden-Cox. A sudden consciousness of power brought coolness to him. He held the family secret, and he was not bound.
"If you do—if you tell—" cried Fulvia. "Uncle, you must understand! If you make this known, I will never speak to you again. I declare I will not. And what is the use?" she went on passionately. "The money is gone, and talking will not bring it back. Have you no pity for those who are left? He is dead, and you cannot touch him—only his name. That will hurt them, not him. If he were wrong—ever so wrong—what then? I don't believe he understood; but if he did, why are they to suffer? Do you want to kill madre? I could not have thought you so hard, so cruel! I thought you cared for us all."
Mr. Carden-Cox stood still, looking at her.
"Child, you don't understand," he said at length. "Women never do! You think fifty thousand pounds a toy, to be tossed from hand to hand." He was composed now, not less angry, but able to feel a certain admiration for Fulvia's generosity. "Not one woman in a thousand knows the meaning of a 'trust.' You don't!"
Another pause. Was he relenting?
"I shall not set foot in this house again. That is, not until Clemente requests it. She will not; and I shall not come. Best settle the matter now. Send Nigel here at once. I will wait for him. Yes, you may go."
"You will keep our secret?"
"Send Nigel, and be quick," was the answer.
Fulvia obeyed. What else could she do?
Nigel came, stern and silent.
The two men stood together in the open doorway, no one else within hearing.
"Fulvia wishes this matter hushed up. It rests with me, of course, whether or no. If I choose, I can drag the whole matter to light of day."
Nigel merely said, "Yes."
"You acknowledge my right—"
"Your power."
"Well, well, let it be so. My power, if you choose. As Fulvia's uncle I have the right, unquestionably. I have asked to speak with you, as I am not likely to call again in a hurry."
"Without making an apology you hardly could."
"Pshaw! As if I had not known you all long enough! But as for this—Fulvia says that to spread the thing abroad would punish the living, not the dead."
"Yes."
"You think the same? Don't know that I see it so. A man's good name is not supposed to lose its value, even after his death. However, my chief care is for Fulvia's interests. Are you willing to make up to her what she has lost?"
"If repayment is ever in my power—"
"Repayment! Bosh! Fifty thousand pounds are not made in a day. By the time Fulvia is an old woman, perhaps—and what good would the money be to her then? No, no; you have it in your power to recoup her now—now! Will you do it or no? That is the question."
Nigel was silent; understanding only too well.
"Mind, my line of action depends on your decision. If you are to be Fulvia's husband, I may safely leave her interests in your hands. If not, I shall see to them myself."
"In what way?"
"Whichever way I choose. I shall have the matter openly looked into."
"You have no thought for my mother in that case." Nigel spoke in a measured, icy voice.
Mr. Carden-Cox could verily have answered "No." He was only angry with Clemente Browning just then.
"I have thought for my niece," he said. "That is more to the purpose."
Another break took place—Nigel looking on the ground, Mr. Carden-Cox looking at Nigel. At any other time he would have felt for Nigel, but now he felt only for himself. His self-love had been deeply wounded, and all other sensations were lost in this.
"Well?"
"You do not expect an instant decision, I suppose."
"Instant! After these weeks! Then you had not made up your mind yet!"
"To do what?"
"Marry Fulvia."
"I have not made up my mind to propose to her. A lady is usually supposed to have a voice in the matter." Nigel was not given to satire, but at the moment it was a relief.
"Of course, of course. If Fulvia said no, that would not be your fault. She won't, though," muttered Mr. Carden-Cox. Aloud, he went on: "You understand the alternative. Fulvia, as your fiancée, may demand what amount of secrecy she pleases, for the family of her future husband. I shall not, in that case, oppose her. Fulvia, standing alone, will be a different matter. I shall feel it my duty to take action on her behalf."
"To blazon our private affairs abroad!" Nigel spoke bitterly. It was not wise, neither was it surprising.
Mr. Carden-Cox shrugged his shoulders.
"Fulvia's private affairs, made known, may unquestionably drag yours to the forefront. It is only under one condition that I promise to shelter your father's name. People will begin to talk—have begun already. You can take—say, to the end of the week for consideration. Then, if I do not hear—"
"I understand."
"You can send me a line; or come and see me. Whichever you choose. But, remember, my mind is made up. Nothing can alter it."
Mr. Carden-Cox was gone, and Nigel went back to the drawing-room.
The past scene appeared to have had a curiously bracing effect on Mrs. Browning. The languor and sadness of the last fortnight were thrown off. Her children had never seen her look so young and fair and dignified as she did, standing in their midst, when Nigel returned from the front door. Nothing, or next to nothing, had been yet said; they had waited for him.
Mrs. Browning laid one hand again on his arm, as if for support, though she had not the look of one needing support. A soft rose flushed her cheek, lending a light to the eyes.
"Has he apologised? Will he be silent?" asked Fulvia.
Nigel answered only the first question. "Mr. Carden-Cox is not given to apologies."
"But—this time—surely—"
"What does it all mean?" Mrs. Browning inquired.
"It means—oh, it means that Uncle Arthur has behaved shamefully, madre. I used to think him a good man, and I'll never call him so again. But you must not mind—you must never remember what he said. He was in a passion; and words spoken in a passion are worth nothing. Promise me to forget—promise me not to believe—"
"My dear Fulvia! I believe anything against my dear husband!"
"No, no! I might have known that you would not—could not!"
"But I should like to know what led Mr. Carden-Cox to behave in such an extraordinary way. If you would all leave me with Nigel."
"He magnifies and distorts everything!" Fulvia broke in. "Madre, dear, we need not mind him. We will never listen to a single word breathed against the dear kind padre. Never!"
Fulvia was overdoing her part. She glanced in vain towards Nigel, hoping to be seconded; but his face was rigidly irresponsive.
"Mr. Carden-Cox said—" began Daisy.
"Uncle Arthur knows nothing about things—nothing more than we have told him. Daisy, do be sensible; do be kind; don't rake up worries," whispered Fulvia energetically. "It is of no use—none whatever. Nothing can be altered now by any amount of talk."
"But your money?"
"Hsh—sh!"
"I wish to know what it all means," said Mrs. Browning in her calm voice. "There is no need to whisper. I must, of course, be told everything. Anice and Daisy can leave us for a little while." As the door closed behind them, she continued: "Fulvia knows more than the girls."
"A little more, perhaps. We will talk over everything some day soon—you and I, madre. Only not to-day! It is too soon. Nigel ought not to have all this thrust upon him till he is stronger."
"No?" The word was not acquiescent. In her own fashion Mrs. Browning could be graciously wilful. She moved in front of her son, looking up at him. "Yes—tired, I am afraid—but a few minutes will be enough. I must understand how things really are. It is not possible that any one could seriously accuse my dear husband of—carelessness in—"
"Mr. Carden-Cox always speaks before he thinks."
"Yes, he does that! But what did he mean by saying that all your money had been—stolen? Is it really lost? Has somebody run away?—In a bank or an office?"—with truly feminine vagueness.
"I don't know that anybody has—exactly," faltered Fulvia.
"Then it was not true about your money being—stolen, my dear?"
"No; not true. It is a wicked falsehood, madre. There has been no such thing as stealing. You are never to think of that word again. It has been just a question of mistakes. Nobody could help things being as they are, and no one is to blame. There have been losses, of course. Money will go, sometimes; everybody knows that it will. A great deal of yours and of mine, too, is gone. Poor padre's health, you know—how could he keep accounts or attend to business?—and so things have got wrong. It wouldn't matter so much, only we have to leave the Grange, and to live in a small house; and that will grieve you. It does seem hard for you; but nothing else signifies. I can't think why troubles should come as they do, on the very people who deserve them least."
"They come as God wills, Fulvie. I would not choose to be without them. But there are different kinds of trouble. I think I could bear anything, as long as—" and a quiver. "It would kill me to hear things said—said against him! Anything but that."
"But you will not—you shall not! Nobody shall dare!" cried Fulvia. "If only Mr. Carden-Cox will hold his tongue, nobody else will speak. Nobody has known how much I was to have. Nigel, why don't you help me to comfort madre?" Then she regretted her words.
Mrs. Browning's eyes again searched wistfully her son's face. A strange look crept into her eyes as she gazed—a look of hidden affright. Yet she turned with a faint smile to Fulvia.
"My dear, will you go to the girls for a little while? If you do not mind!—I wish to speak to Nigel alone."
Fulvia could not but obey; and when she was gone, the look of affright came back, hidden no longer. It blanched Mrs. Browning's cheeks, and widened the mournful eyes.
"I must know—now!" she said, in an undertone. "Not when others were here, but now we are alone. What does it all mean?"
He did not speak, and the look of terror increased.
"It cannot be Albert—my husband!" she said. "He could not have called him that—with reason! But what did he mean? Not blame to my dear Albert?"
"If only you would not ask, mother!"
"I must ask; I must know. Only you can tell me. Yes, sit down, if you like. I am so sorry. This worry is bad for you, and makes your head ache, does it not? But how can I wait? I have only you now—no one else!" She took a seat beside him, and put back the hair from his brow with her cold fingers and her sweet motherly air. "It is hard, I know—everything coming upon you; and you are so good to me. Only—think!—he is my husband!" She did not say "was." "He is my husband, and I have the first right to know all. Tell me plainly, is he—was he—has he been in any way to blame?"
"He will be blamed," Nigel said hoarsely.
"Why should he?"
"Fulvia's money—"
"Yes,—Fulvia's money—?"
"It has been—used."
"How?"
"Different ways."
"You don't know how?"
"He always hoped to repay; he did not intend—"
"You mean—he had not enough of his own, and he used—But—but—that—surely—!" She thrilled with horror, like a wounded creature. "That! My husband! But, Nigel! It was not—honourable—honest!"
Nigel's lips hardly formed the word "No!" He forced himself to add: "My father did not intend—"
"How do you know he did not intend? What do you mean by intending'? He knew what he did; he must have known."
"I don't think he realised—fully."
"Do people ever?" she asked, with positive scorn. "Isn't that always the way—borrowing, and meaning to repay?" Then she dropped her head, and broke into a low wail: "Albert—my husband!"
Nigel had no comfort to offer. He could only wait in silence; and soon the question came again—
"How do you know what he intended and did not intend?"
"He said it to Fulvia, dying, and asked her pardon."
"And I not told! I ought to have been told. Did he say any more that I have not heard?"
"He asked me to repay Fulvia—to—"
"Yes; tell me his words—every word."
Nigel could not; she was expecting too much. He made an effort, and failed; then drew an envelope from his pocket, and gave it to her. "From my father to me," he said huskily. "I found it—afterwards." He did not watch his mother while she read, but sat with his right hand pressed across brow and eyes.
"Yes," she said, in a slow, quiet voice, when she reached the end; and a long breath of sorrow was woven into the word.
Then a pause.
"Has Fulvia seen this?"
"No."
"Or—any one?"
"No."
"He never told me—never let me suspect—But Fulvia, knows?"
"Yes."
"We must shelter his name, his dear name, at any cost."
"Fulvia does not wish it to be known." Nigel spoke without stirring. "But—"
"It must not be known; his name must be guarded. It would break my heart! If this becomes known, I shall—die," she whispered. "I could never look any one in the face again. It would be—fearful!"
She laid her hand on his—ice-cold, both hers and his. "Nigel, help me; tell me what can be done. It will kill me if this becomes known. Think of all Newton Bury talking—talking of—him! I could not bear it!" and there was a terrible sob. "What can we do? Fulvia does not wish—but will—will Mr. Carden-Cox keep silence?"
"Yes, if—"
Nigel caught himself up; he had not meant to say so much.
"If? Has he made a condition?"
"He will do nothing till I write or see him again."
"No; but 'if'—you said 'if.' Did you mean nothing? You must tell me all. I cannot bear the thought of its being known. It would be too—too fearful—now he is gene! He cannot defend himself. And people are so hard; they would judge him cruelly. I wish you would look at me—not hide your eyes. Why do you? I feel so alone;" with another deep sob. "And no one but you can help me. If you would only speak out—only hide nothing! I think I have a right to be told—I, your mother!"
His chivalry could not disregard the appeal of her bitter distress, and of her lonely widowhood. He was all that she had left—all she could lean upon. Wisely or unwisely, he came to the resolution to speak out. Perhaps he was in despair of escape; perhaps—though he did not guess this till later—he had a faint hope of finding her on his side. He knew the jealousy of her love for him; and he did not allow for concomitant circumstances.
"Mr. Carden-Cox will not speak—if I should marry Fulvia," he said.
"Fulvia!" Mrs. Browning looked wonderingly at the set joyless face, not the face of an expectant lover speaking of his love. "If you marry Fulvia!"
"That is his wish."
"Fulvia! And it was my dear husband's wish! He spoke so often; but I thought—I was afraid—"
"Mother, I said 'if.' It is not to be spoken about. If I ask her—"
"And you will! Oh, you will! He wished it so much!"
Nigel made no reply.
She gazed with anxious questioning.
"And if you do not—if you do not—will Mr. Carden-Cox keep our secret?"
"He says—not."
"Nigel; and you can hesitate!"
No answer again.
"Hesitate! When it means that. No, no—impossible! You are only playing with my fears. And caring for Fulvia as you do! It is not as if she were nothing to you; she—the most unselfish, the noblest—Yes, I know you had another fancy once. But what of that? Everybody has a boyish fancy first, which has to be given up. And that could not be; it never could have been! He would not have consented; and now he is gone, how could I? Oh no! I have always had objections—strong objections. But we need not talk of that now. We have only to think of our dear Fulvia—my child already! I don't know if you will like me to say it, but there cannot be much doubt, if you speak, what Fulvia's answer will be. She has shown at times so plainly—not meaning it, of course—has shown what she feels. If you could have seen her, as I have, always on the watch for you, always thinking of your comfort—her happiness depending on your very look. It is not a thing that one can be mistaken about!"
"Mother, you are saying all this to me!—And if I should not ask her?" Nigel said in a low tone.
It was his nearest approach to a rebuke with Mrs. Browning. He would not have heard the words from any one else.
"You will ask her! I know you will. I have not a doubt. Think, if you did not; think of the misery, the terrible misery to us all—your father's dear name dragged in the mire—trampled upon. The very thought half kills me!" And indeed a ghastly look came into her face. "I could not bear it! I could never endure it! Promise, oh, promise me, for his sake, my Nigel—promise to shelter him—all of us! Only promise!" she implored.