A STRANGE INTERVIEW
"When we two partedIn silence and tears."—BYRON.
WHEN Ethel left Tom, she really was angry with him. Such rudeness to speak of her "caring too much" for anybody! What business was it of Tom's whom she liked or did not like? And to call Nigel "that fellow"! Perhaps this little insult to Nigel rankled the most.
Ethel's anger was never bitter in kind, or long lasting, and annoyance soon gave way to amusement. Poor old Tom! After all, he had not meant any harm; and he did not know Nigel; but how Tom could ever have thought such a thing possible was the marvel. Leave all she loved in England, and go to Australia with only Tom and Tom's herbaria!
"Oh, never!" said Ethel to herself. She repeated the word energetically, half aloud, as she passed through the square—"Never!" and a passerby turned to look at her, smiling. Ethel did not see; she went quickly, without any particular aim, towards the river.
It was a tempting afternoon for a stroll, balmy and soft—one of those mild grey days, with occasional gleams of sunshine, which do sometimes intrude themselves into an English winter. They are not exactly invigorating days, and enthusiastic skaters are wont to abuse them; but to haters of cold they come as a cheery foretaste of spring.
Gleams of sunshine were at an end when Ethel started; still, she had a spell of daylight and twilight ahead, long enough for a brisk walk, by way of shaking off recollections of Tom. When dusk should fall, she would look in at a friend's house for a cup of tea—one of the numerous single ladies "of the usual age" abundant in Newton Bury. It would never do to go home till after five. Mrs. Elvey was upstairs with neuralgia; and a fresh tête-à-tête with Tom so soon was not to be thought of.
"If mother doesn't come down, he must manage for himself for once," thought Ethel.
Along the river-bank was the one "country walk" within easy distance of the Rectory. Some ten or fifteen minutes at a quick pace, going down stream, brought one to a region where buildings were scarce. Newton Bury ended abruptly in this direction. The other way, up stream, there were gentlemen's houses and gardens, reaching far; for that was the "west-end" of the town. Towards the south, working-men's quarters predominated; but the old Parish Church of St. Stephen's, in its venerable square, lay towards the north-east, very near country lanes and fields, in a poor but quiet part—the oldest part of Newton Bury.
Ethel did not keep long to the river-side. An impulse seized her to visit the cemetery—a natural impulse under the circumstances, her thoughts being constantly bent upon the Brownings and their trouble. She had not been to the cemetery since the day of the funeral. There would be just time enough for her to get there and back before dark. The idea no sooner occurred to Ethel than she acted upon it, quitting the towing-path, and making a short-cut straight to her destination.
The cemetery, though outside the town, was not far-off. It was a singularly pretty place, more like a large garden or a small park than a burial-ground, with soft grassy slopes, abundance of trees, and masses of evergreens. In fine weather the cemetery was a favourite resort of people living at this end of Newton Bury.
Ethel reached the large gates, and went through, passing at a rapid pace towards the quiet corner which the Brownings would now hold dear—which would also be dear to Ethel, for Nigel's sake. She found the place somewhat lonely, and darker than she had expected, under the shadows of the great yew trees. The black branches had an eerie look. Once Ethel almost turned back, thinking it had grown too late for her to be there alone; but she changed her mind, and went on. She had a dislike to giving up a definite intention; and, after all, nobody was here except herself—nobody was likely to be here.
The low mound loomed suddenly upon her gaze, almost solitary upon a triangular patch of grass, which on one side was bounded by a fringe of trees, their bare boughs making a lace-like pattern against the sky. Ethel saw so much, then she slackened her pace, and faltered; for she was not alone.
Though she did not at once tell herself whose solitude she had invaded, she knew well—knew instantly. The position might be unwonted, but the outline of the shoulders was unmistakable. He was a little way off from the new mound, seated on the only other tombstone near—a flat stone with a recumbent cross upon it—and his head was bent forward, resting on his hands. The attitude was one of intense trouble; but he remained quiet. Ethel had never seen Nigel in that position before; yet she recognised him, despite the gloom.
She did not know whether perhaps she ought to go away; only it seemed impossible to leave him thus. So she went forward gently, and stood beside the mound, her heart very full for his sake. Two or three minutes passed; and she stirred, touching a loose stone with her foot. It rolled over, and the slight rattle caused him to lift his head.
"Ethel!"
They had not met since Fulvia's birthday—since the morning after their interview in the vestry. Life had seemed then very fair, and full of promise for them both. Now all was changed; but how much changed, how dark the sky had grown, Ethel did not yet know. She came forward when he stood up, and put her hand into his, only intent on showing her sympathy.
"Thanks; I knew you would feel for us," he said.
The misery of his face was almost too much for Ethel; she had great difficulty in controlling herself. "I didn't know you were so ill still," she faltered.
"Ill! No, I don't think so." He spoke as if hardly knowing what he said, and motioned Ethel to the seat he had quitted. She took it obediently, without question; and he sat down beside her. "I have been wishing for a few words with you," he went on.
"If I could be a comfort—any comfort! I know how much you must feel his death; the loss of—"
"If that were all!" Nigel spoke with despairing calmness, and Ethel looked at him in amazement.
"That—all!" she repeated. "Did you mean—?"
Nigel made no answer. He seemed to be gazing at the faint light visible still through bare trees. For more than half-an-hour he had sat here alone, trying to unravel the perplexities of his position, striving in vain after definite thought. He had come to the cemetery from the Grange drawing-room, straight and fast as walking could bring him, not so much to be near his father's grave as to be away from people, beyond reach of human eyes. One thing alone was clear—that speak with Ethel he must, this very day if possible, and before he could or would give any decisive answer to his mother and to Mr. Carden-Cox. He did not count himself free, for he had distinctly sought Ethel hitherto.
Now, indeed, he could not ask her to be his. Apart from all questions of marrying Fulvia, he could not rightly ask Ethel to wait for him, under the circumstances. So he told himself; and yet he felt that, but for this terrible complication, he would have hoped—she might have waited.
Still, she had a right to know how things were. He could not simply draw back, holding his peace, and seeking her no longer. She must understand; and he would explain—nay, more, he would ask her advice. She had so clear a sense of right and wrong, so calm a judgment, so firm a habit of self-denial, that she would be able to see clearly what he had lost the power to distinguish, from physical and mental strain.
All this he had resolved to put before Ethel, picturing even the words to be used. But now that she had suddenly appeared, now that she was seated by his side, he found his lips sealed; for it came over him with a rush of new realisation what he was purposing to do.
Give her up—and for ever! Give her up—for the sake of Fulvia! Could he? The old sense arose vividly, which he always had with Ethel, that nothing in life was worth consideration apart from her! Part with her for ever! Had it been a question of waiting, he would have resolved to wait in hope—to wait for years, if that needed to be!—but to cut himself off from her hopelessly was another matter. Yet if he did not—and the reverse side of the picture arose: a picture of his father's name publicly dishonoured, of his mother broken-hearted, of the wronged Fulvia wronged anew!
"I don't know how to bear to see you like this!" Ethel said sorrowfully.
And her voice unsealed his lips. He knew that he must not let the opportunity pass of speaking openly. Such another might not occur.
"What did I say just now?" he asked. "Something, was it not, that surprised you?"
"I thought you did not quite mean what you said. About your trouble; and—'if that were all!'"
"Yes, I meant it. There is worse than you know."
"Will you tell me what? You always do tell—us things," she said, in a gentle voice. The "us" came after a pause. She had almost said "me"; and it would have been true.
Ethel wondered if he were going to speak, he waited so long; but she too waited, and presently he began.
"We have lost almost everything. The Grange cannot be our home any longer. A small house—somewhere; and I—my mother and sisters will be dependent on me."
"Yes." It was a quiet grave monosyllable. As if on second thoughts, she added, "That will be a great trouble to you all."
"Not the worst yet! Fulvia's money is gone!"
"Gone! Where?"
Nigel made a movement of his hand towards the new mound. "He is—there! One cannot speak against him—now! It is a miserable tale. This is only for yourself—not to go further. He did not intend, of course, to injure any one—Fulvia least of all—if that is any excuse. I can't see that it is. As my mother says, no one ever does intend. But—we can't judge. I don't feel as if I could face his side of the matter; only to think of what has to be done. There will be something left—not much. I shall be a clerk at the Bank on £200 a year."
"I see," said Ethel gently. She grew more pale than usual, and there was a curious sense of constriction at her heart, as if a tight band impeded its beating; for she knew what all this meant. "Yes, I see; but you will make your way. Perhaps even—Does Fulvia mind very much?"
Nigel could speak more freely now. Once started, he had power to continue, and he even found speech a relief. He seldom felt it so with any one else, but with Ethel he did. Her silent sympathy drew him on. He told her of his father's death; of the dying words spoken to Fulvia and himself; of the hand placed in his; giving details that he had not given even to his mother, only omitting the look of joy on Fulvia's face, which had haunted him ever since. Nigel went through all this in a low monotonous voice, as to a well-tried friend, and Ethel read it so. When he spoke of Fulvia's disinterestedness, she detected a weariness of tone, a want of enthusiasm. He praised her, and was grateful; but the words of praise were measured.
Ethel listened patiently, shivering a little. It was dusk by this time, and the grass under their feet was wet. A cemetery is not a warm or cheerful place late on a January afternoon; and Ethel might well be excused for shivering, with the gravestones lying coldly around, while a little tomb of buried girlish hopes was being made in her own girlish heart. It was no wonder that she shivered and looked white. For she understood well whereto all this tended; even before Nigel went on to speak of Mr. Carden-Cox's condition of silence, and of his mother's distress. She understood—first, that he would not be free to marry her; secondly, that he would be called upon to marry some one else.
These details took time in the telling, however briefly expressed. No needless words were used; but they did not come fast. While Nigel talked, it never occurred to Ethel that the afternoon was passing fast, that daylight was waning.
He came at length to a pause. Now she understood the position of affairs. He had not mentioned, had not directly alluded to, his love for her; but Ethel knew it,—had never known it more surely than in this hour. He had left nothing else out, except the one item of Fulvia's too evident feeling for him; and Ethel could supply this item from her own knowledge. She, too, had noted with observant eyes, since a certain clue had been supplied by a certain mis-sent postscript.
As she listened to Nigel, one sentence of that postscript flashed up, with all the force of a prophecy coming true: "Nigel will never marry her!"
"Never! Never!" echoed the silent graves and the silent trees. "Never! Never!" The words repeated themselves in Ethel's brain, and twined in and out of the straggling yew branches. "Nigel will never marry her!" Mr. Carden-Cox was taking care to bring his own prophecy to pass.
The story was ended, and Nigel's monotonous voice changed. It grew hoarse and troubled as he said—
"Ethel, tell me what I ought to do."
Ethel woke up from a maze; and as she woke, a dream of long years died a quiet death. She saw it die while she sat there, saw it fade away, and another dream arise, grey-toned, of a long lonely life, apart from one whom she loved best. Yet no tears threatened, no agitation came. She was so full of thought for Nigel, so grieved for him, that self-pity had as yet no place. Perhaps she was a little stunned by the unexpected blow—as one is apt to be, at first.
"Tell me," he repeated; "I want your advice. Must I do this thing?"
"Must you marry Fulvia?"
"Yes." Unconsciously, he caught in his, the hand lying on her knee. "Tell me what you think I ought to do!" he pleaded. "No one else can help me."
Ethel drew her hand away, but so slowly that he could not be pained.
"I think you feel sure yourself already," she said in a soft still voice. "It is hard for one to see clearly for another. If I were in your place—"
"Yes, that is what I want. If you were in my place, how should you feel?"
Another break. Ethel noted the growing darkness. She was so composed as even to draw out her watch.
"No, I cannot see the time;" and she put it away again. "But it must be getting late. I think we ought to go home."
Did she wish to avoid giving an opinion? She stood up, and Nigel did the same. They had to go cautiously over the uneven grass, and along the narrow path bordered by yew trees; but the broader path beyond was straight and level, with more light. Nigel said then again—
"Yes. If you were in my place—"
"It is so difficult to be sure. I am trying to see things rightly for you—from your standpoint. But one little touch either way makes all the difference; and I cannot know the whole as you do."
"Tell me, so far as you can, at least. If you were in my place—"
"I think I might perhaps feel, as you do, that I ought—perhaps even that I must!" There was again the sense of tightness at Ethel's heart, though no sign of it appeared in her voice. "I mean, I might feel that I must do all I could to repay Fulvia, and to spare my—to spare Mrs. Browning. That would be your side of the matter—to feel bound—perhaps to try—if—" Nigel could not see the gloved hands wrung together, and she went on, scarcely faltering, only hesitating for words; yet somehow he understood. "To feel bound—" she repeated, "to try if—to offer to Fulvia—But if I were in Fulvia's place, there would be a difference. Nothing could seem to me more dreadful than—to—"
"Than to—marry me!" He said it seriously.
"No—no—than to marry anybody who did not really mean it—wish it; to be asked out of duty by one who—" and a pause—"one who did not care for me—as I cared."
"If you were Fulvia, you would think I ought to hold back—not to offer?" Ethel's calmness was calming him; her apparent strength was strengthening him. "You would think me wrong to speak, unless—"
"I should think you ought to be quite open, quite plain with me. Not pretend to care more than you did—if—but I don't think you could pretend; you could only keep from saying much. And that might deceive her. I could not bear to be deceived, if I were Fulvia. I would like to know how you really felt. I should wish you to speak out."
"Even supposing—supposing you cared a little for me?"
"Yes; even supposing that!" Ethel knew that Fulvia did care, more than a little, and she was sure from Nigel's tone that he knew it too. She believed that Mr. Carden-Cox's anxiety to bring about the engagement lay also in a knowledge of this fact.
"Yes," Ethel repeated firmly. "I think it would be worse, if one cared for somebody very much, to marry him, and then to find out that he had only proposed because he thought it right. Much worse than if one did not care for him at all. I don't think I could ever bear it—ever forgive him. It would be wronging Fulvia—cruelly. Oh it is always, always, best to be quite true, quite outspoken. I am sure it is. If you feel that you ought to propose, then you are right to propose. But you would not be right if you allowed Fulvia to think that you cared for her more than you do care. If it is only—only duty—she ought to understand."
How strange it seemed to Ethel that he should come and ask her this—ask her, as it were, to sign away her own happiness! Ethel's was an intensely conscientious nature. She would never turn aside from what was right merely because it gave her pain. Nigel had put this question before her as a question of right and wrong, and she could do what not one woman in a thousand is capable of: she could view it dispassionately, weighing the absolute right and absolute wrong without reference to her own desires. If Nigel had not known her to be capable of so much, he could not have come to her for help. He came, not because he loved, though he did love, but because he entirely trusted her.
Fulvia's was a fine nature, yet Fulvia could not emulate Ethel here. Self would have swayed her decision; but it did not sway Ethel's. At the moment she did not even see a certain hope involved in her advice, a hope which flashed quickly upon Nigel. Although she felt in the abstract that she could not herself marry a man who should propose to her from motives of duty, she had not the smallest doubt that Fulvia would accept.
"That might be a way out of the difficulty," Nigel said, speaking as if involuntarily. Ethel did not at once understand. "But would it be—honest—right? Would it not be a mere farce? To ask her, and tell her I do not wish it! Would it not be adding insult to injury—almost cruel?"
"No, I think not. I mean, I think the other might be more cruel. Of course it depends, everything depends, on how you do it. But you would not be cruel; you would not say an unkind word. I suppose you would not need to say much? Only just to let her know that it is not all wish—that it is partly duty—that you will learn to feel as you ought even if—if you don't quite yet."
There was a sound like a little gasp.
"I suppose one may conquer, always, in such a case, if one ought," continued Ethel, with a dim smile, and the tightness at her heart again. "Only I do think Fulvia ought to know just so much. Sooner or later she must, and it would be worse after—after marriage. If she goes into it, she should go with her eyes open; not wait to find out later—too late."
They were leaving the cemetery now, passing out into the broad road. It was too dark for the narrow path by the river, and they had to keep to the road, which was much deserted at so late an hour. They walked on quietly, slowly; for Nigel seemed as if he could hardly drag himself along. During some minutes neither spoke, and then his excessive weariness dawned upon Ethel. She said—
"You must go the shortest way."
"When I have seen you home—perhaps."
"I would rather you should not. I am all right when we get to the houses."
Nigel made no answer, and she knew that he did not mean to yield. She knew it more certainly when they reached a little gate leading to a field, for he paused and held it open.
"This way?" Ethel asked, knowing that it would lead them to the kitchen garden behind the Rectory.
Nigel said "Yes," and she could not remonstrate. She could only let him have his will, this once. They would have to speak that mournful word, "good-bye," very soon—such a good-bye as they had never yet said one to the other.
It was damp, slushy and dark, going through the meadow. Ethel's foot slipped, and Nigel drew her hand within his arm.
"I can get on—I am all right," she said, not so steadily as hitherto, for something in his touch unnerved her. He made no reply; and she would not draw her hand away—would not risk adding to his pain.
Something told her that he had reached almost the outer limit of endurance; and the consciousness of this, with the continued silence, had a curious effect upon her. She began to tremble—to wish she might escape. She thought of many things to say, one after another—things to comfort him. For somehow Ethel knew, and could not help knowing, that this death of her hopes was the death of his also. But one thing would not do, and another she could not trust her voice to utter; and so they went on in silence.
The silence grew at last too oppressive, and Ethel tried to break it.
"Must things be settled soon about your leaving the Grange?"
But he had no answer whatever; and then she knew that Nigel did not speak because he could not.
Three of these small dark fields had to be crossed, surrounded by houses and gardens, but in themselves lonely and deserted. They reached the gate of the kitchen garden, still in silence. The Rectory windows shone with varied lights. Nigel paused beside the gate, and Ethel forced herself to say steadily—
"Thank you for coming so far. I shall be all right now. Good-bye."
She put out her hand, and he held it in a passionate clasp. There was a struggle, but no words would come. Ethel stood still, tears running down her cheeks. What could she do or say to comfort him?
"Ethel!—Ethel! My love!" broke out at length.
"No—no—you must not say that! Don't say any more!"
"Ethel—!" came hoarsely again, despite her entreaty; and she could feel the shaking of the gate against which he leant.
"No—no—" she repeated. "Not now—not any more. I must not let you say what you will be sorry for by-and-by. Don't—please! I think I am glad we have had this talk, because—because I shall understand. We will never speak of it again. By-and-by we shall be—friends—like other people."
There was a negative movement on his part.
"Yes—I think so. You have to do what is right—about—and we will be brave—we shall be helped. Doesn't God always help, if—if one wills to do right? Perhaps a little hard for you—for us—at first, but that won't last. It will be all right."
Ethel could not bear much more. She had kept up well so far; but reaction was at hand. The interview had to be ended; and the sooner the better.
"I must not stay!" she said. And then, without warning, unexpectedly, she broke down. "Nigel—let me go!" she sobbed.
Nigel mastered himself for her sake. "I have been wrong—unkind!" he said. "It has been too much for you."
"Oh no; only I can't bear to see you so unhappy. Please—please let me go."
"I shall see you again soon. This isn't really—" and a falter. "Yes, we will be—friends."
Then he wrung her hand once more, and was lost in the darkness—not to return to the Grange till late at night. He had to fight his battle out alone.
But Ethel could have no such relief. Ten minutes of bitter weeping she did allow herself in the lonely garden. Then she was obliged to hasten home, to wash away traces of tears, to evade family inquiries, to elude Tom's troublesome solicitude, to spend a cheerful evening—no easy task under the circumstances.
WOULD SHE? COULD SHE?
"It may be hard to gain, and stillTo keep a lowly steadfast heart;Yet he who loses has to fillA harder and a truer part."—A. A. PROCTER.
"FULVIA!"
"Yes."
"There is a house in Bourne Street—"
"Yes." Fulvia spoke curtly, looking up from her work with hard grey eyes. She was alone in the morning-room, and it was Saturday.
"I want you to come and see. It might do."
"Bourne Street!"
"Not a bad part."
"Highly respectable, and the quintessence of dulness! Well, your miseries won't last long there, which is one comfort. You will all die of ennui before six months are over."
"We!" Nigel tried to laugh. "Are you to be the sole survivor? Superior to such influences, I suppose."
"I shall be superior through absence. There are a whole lot of advertisements for governesses to-day. I shall answer three of them."
"You will not!"
"That depends—I am of age."
"You do not think what it would be to us—to me—knowing what had driven you to it."
Even this did not touch Fulvia. She gave a dry little laugh. "I am very much disposed to please myself in the matter—irrespective of other people. Why should I not—if I choose? Poky houses are not to my taste; and I am sick of Newton Bury."
"And of everybody in Newton Bury?"
"If you like—yes. Are we to start on the expedition now?"
Nigel stood thinking, his brows drawn together.
Fulvia studied him in a succession of slight glances.
This was Saturday—the last day allowed by Mr. Carden-Cox for Nigel's decision, the third since his parting interview with Ethel. No one knew of that interview. He had said nothing about it. Why, indeed, should he? His late return at night, after prayers, had given umbrage to his home-folks; the more, since he offered no explanation, and permitted no questioning. Even his mother ventured to say little, save in manner; and an attempt on the part of Daisy was quashed at once.
They knew he had not been to the Rectory, had not, in fact, dined anywhere; and that was all. It was all, at least, until this morning, when a report reached Fulvia of somebody having seen him walking with Ethel Elvey, after dusk, on the road near the river. She said not a word of the report; but it stung her sharply.
None of them knew or guessed of the interview in the cemetery, the parting with Ethel, the long hours after of wrestling and bitter battling. He had walked far under a starlit sky, forgetting physical weariness, braving out his conflict with no human help. There is better than human help for such times, and Nigel knew whither to turn.
He had come off conqueror. The path he had to tread was plainly marked, and he would tread it manfully. Self had to be sacrificed, and he would sacrifice it resolutely. Ethel had to be given up, and he would give her up completely. He was no longer in doubt as to his rightful course.
But he could not act at once—could not turn without a break from Ethel to Fulvia. He had put off speaking until this last day allowed by Mr. Carden-Cox, being meantime very busy with money matters, lawyers, arrangements,—so busy that his home-people saw little of him. Better this, than too much leisure for thought.
Occupied as he was, others noted a difference in him, a something unusual, not to be defined. Daisy questioned Fulvia, "What was the matter with Nigel?" and received a sharp reply. Yet Fulvia asked the same herself.
This morning she asked a further question. What could it all mean? Had Ethel refused him? Refused—because of his lost wealth! Fulvia's heart bounded at the thought. She would not have done so in Ethel's place. Certainly he had not the look of one who has gained his heart's desire. Rather, it was the look of one bracing himself to the endurance of trouble and difficulty. If he had asked Ethel, and she had accepted him, would he wear such a look? Yet they had been out together after dark—walking a lonely road. What could it mean but a proposal on his part, and acceptance or refusal on hers?
"Have I been mad not to see?" she thought, seated alone in the morning-room, work in hand. "Why have I not understood? But Ethel will have him sooner or later. She will not hold out long. And I—I cannot stay to see! I am glad my money is gone. That will be my excuse to run away. I could not live here, looking on. I shall be a governess."
Then she heard Nigel saying "Fulvia," and looked up, to answer, "Yes."
"Are we to start on the expedition now?" she said at length, rising. "I am ready, if you wish it. Daisy had better come as well."
Nigel assented absently, and Fulvia left the room. Coming back, she wore a look of vexation.
"Daisy has gone out, no one knows where, and Anice declines. She says she can't."
"Anice's 'can't' is equivalent to 'won't.' I don't think it matters. The decision will rest with you."
"Why should it?"
"You are the eldest daughter, are you not?"
Fulvia shrugged her shoulders slightly, but in words she raised no objection. Fifteen minutes' quick walk brought them to No. 9 Bourne Street, hardly a word being uttered by the way.
As Fulvia had said, it was a respectable locality. The houses were of white stucco, with neat porches and balconies, and tidy oblong gardens behind. A narrow strip of enclosed grass, with small trees, occupied the centre of the street from one end to the other. Beside the porch was one window: and two windows above were capped by yet two others.
A cosy little house, no doubt, containing possibilities of comfort. But after the Grange—ah, there was the rub? Everything in this world is comparative! What one man counts to be luxury, because of what went before, another counts to be beggarliness, from the same cause.
Nigel had the key, and he let Fulvia in, following her. They tramped steadily over the interior, from bottom to top, hearing the echo of their own feet on the bare boards. Reaching again the front ground-floor room, when all had been inspected, Nigel said—
"Well?"
"Is this the best we can afford?"
"Forty pounds a year, not counting taxes. I dare not go beyond that. If things did not promise to be a degree better than we thought at first, we could not venture on so much."
"Madre will not like an upstairs drawing-room."
"I'm afraid there are a groat many things that she will not like."
"There will be a study for you."
"Behind this? Why not make it a morning-room for everybody?"
"No; a study, of course. You will be the breadwinner, and your needs must be considered first. A study for you is a necessity. Madre must have the bedroom on the next floor,—behind the drawing-room. She will have Daisy to sleep with her permanently, I hope; and there is the dressing room for Daisy to use. Anice can have the little half-way room jutting out at the back; and you—if you don't mind—the one over it. Then there will be the top front bedroom for friends. We can make it look very pretty."
"I thought of that room for you."
"There are two behind. One will be for the maids—we are not to keep more than two maids, are we?—And the smaller can be mine."
"That corner room, with no fireplace? Nonsense!"
"It will do well enough, when I am at home. If you like, you can treat me as a visitor, and put me in the spare room. Governesses don't get a superabundance of holidays, so there will be no real difficulty."
Fulvia seated herself on an empty chest, left in the middle of the room, with the air of having settled everything. Nigel stood gravely in front.
"You do not really suppose I shall consent to that scheme?"
Her eyes sparkled.
"I may choose to act with nobody's consent except my own."
"It would not be right."
"People differ in their views of 'right'!"
"Fulvia—" he said, in a different tone.
"Yes."
He had gone over the possible scene fifty times in imagination. He had pictured himself as saying that or this in careful kind words, hinting, indeed, at the true state of his own feelings, yet so as not to shock or grieve her. But he had not once pictured himself as coming out suddenly, in desperation, with the bald request—
"Fulvia, will you be my wife?"
It was not a well-selected place for an offer of marriage. The room was absolutely empty, with the exception of their two selves and the box on which Fulvia sat. Everybody knows how dreary is the impression made by an absolutely empty room. Streaks of paint disfigured the blindless and curtainless window, which glared dismally on the pair. Fulvia had torn her dress walking downstairs, and her crape had gathered dust by the way. Nigel's own shoulders were whitened by contact with the pantry wall. No whit of what Mrs. Duncan called "poetical glamour" existed to enhance the occasion. All was bare and cold.
A pause followed Nigel's abrupt proposal of marriage.
Fulvia gazed fixedly down. She did not flush now, but grew pale.
"Is it because Ethel has refused him, and he turns to me as a pis aller?" she asked herself.
As she made no answer, he spoke again, not without agitation—
"I have not much to give you. It is not as things have been—but I would do my utmost—would strive to repay something of what you have lost. I would devote my life to that. I will, if you will let me."
Still no reply.
"It seems early to speak—in the midst of all our trouble, I mean. I should have waited a little longer. But if you are bent on this governess plan—and—" with a break—"I am not allowed to put off. Mr. Carden-Cox has made my speaking at once the condition of his silence."
"I see!"—calmly. "And that is your reason!" Tears gathered on the downcast lashes, yet she forced a laugh. "Yes, I understand. It is most praiseworthy! For the madre's sake, no doubt!" Then she looked up, straight and hard, into his face. "A convenient arrangement for managing uncle Arthur!"
Nigel was stung deeply by her tone, and Fulvia saw it. "If I say 'No'—what then?" she asked mockingly. "Will you have done your duty in uncle Arthur's eyes?"
He turned away, and went to the window, while Fulvia sat still, thinking. She did not know what to say next. Dismiss him!—no, that she could not. Recall him!—no, that she would not.
Nigel came back presently, unrecalled. He looked depressed and spiritless.
"I do not wish you to misunderstand me, Fulvia. I have no wish to profess more than I feel. It is best to be open in such cases. You have always been a great deal to me—more, perhaps, than you yourself knew. But—there has been another hope. I have had to give that up. It is at an end now."
He spoke without a falter, without any of the usual signs of strong feeling, and Fulvia was deceived by his calmness at the very moment when he was endeavouring to undeceive her.
"That is over; and I am ready to pledge myself to you for life—to endeavour to repay all! And if—if anything is wanting in my love for you, I will do my utmost to learn—to conquer—I think you understand! Will you have me?"
Fulvia gave him one more glance, and dropped her eyes. Could she accept him, knowing herself to have been only second? For a moment there came an impulse to fling aside the offered devotion, which fell so far short of the love she gave to him. But this impulse bent before a stronger impulse in the other direction. Whatever he had once felt for Ethel, the composure with which he spoke of giving her up seemed to tell of no absorbing affection now. If she said "No," he might turn again to Ethel. Could Fulvia endure that? Once his, might she not hope in time to win his whole heart?
Besides, there was the question of Mr. Browning's name—of the secret to be kept on the madre's account. She tried to believe that this pressed her on; that for the sake of others she ought not to refuse Nigel. Silence lasted long; then slowly, silently, with a strange rush of warmth and chill, of joy and sorrow, of hope and dread, Fulvia placed her hand in his.
SWEET MAY-TIDE
"I come, I come! ye have called me long,I come o'er the mountains with light and song;Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,By the green leaves opening as I pass."—F. HEMANS.
THE month of May had come—a real typical May; not one of our modern snarling specimens, which perhaps our forefathers knew as well as ourselves, but which, of course, no poet or historian ever wrote down on the "deathless page" of literature. A bright blaze of spring sunshine streamed upon the stiff row of trees in the green enclosure of Bourne Street, and made its way through the draped lace curtains of No. 9, where ingenuity had been hard at work to transform a most ordinary little drawing-room into a finished and aesthetic gem. It had to be done cheaply; but that matters less where clever fingers and cultivated taste have sway. Grange furniture was present—not Grange drawing-room furniture, which would have been far too large, but dainty small tables and pretty chairs, selected from all parts of the big house. Fulvia had combined tints gracefully, had put up brackets, had spent hours over finishing touches, had acted throughout as guiding spirit. If she could win a smile from Nigel for his mother's sake, she was content. She would have slaved herself to death for that reward.
A worn outline of cheek was visible now, as if the last few weeks had left their mark. The sunshine which lit up her ruddy head showed this plainly. She was on the music stool, sewing hard at an antimacassar. They had not long been in the house, and nobody had yet grown used to its smallness. Anice fretted, and Daisy talked viciously of "kicking down those dreadful walls," and Mrs. Browning was sweetly resigned and sad. Fulvia alone did not care. She was sorry for others, not for herself. The one thing in life she cared for was pleasing Nigel; and having him, she had all she wanted.
Fulvia could not entirely make him out. She was always trying to do so, yet always feeling that something lay below, which she could not reach. He was in many respects an altered being; himself, yet different. The light-heartedness, the sparkle, the fun, were gone. A "grave young man" strangers now called him; old-looking for his years, quiet, handsome, manly; one to be liked and esteemed; but to his own people, changed. Friends said how acutely he had felt his father's death, and how creditable the feeling was to him; also many supposed the lost wealth and lowered prospects to weigh upon him a good deal. Fulvia ascribed his seriousness to the unhappy secret about his father and her money. She made it her aim to cause him to forget, and yet she knew he never could forget. She would not let herself think of Ethel. He had enough pressing on him to render that additional cause needless.
Ethel had not crossed Fulvia's path since the latter was engaged. There had been a singular break in the intercourse between Ethel Elvey and the Brownings, coming about naturally. Ethel caught a bad cold the evening in the cemetery, and was a prisoner for many days after. She could not shake off the cold, and seemed unaccountably poorly, her parents thought. Then the younger boys had slight scarlatina, which made quarantine needful. Ethel nursed the boys, and ended by having it herself, not severely, though she was much pulled down. Dr. Duncan talked of a want of rallying power, and sent her to the sea for a month with the convalescent boys. When she came back, pale and weak still, an opportune invitation arrived from a kind old friend living under the shadow of Snowdon.
Certain difficulties existed; but Ethel showed an unwonted eagerness to be absent, and Dr. Duncan was strongly in favour of it. Mr. Elvey took the matter in hand, over-rode all objections, told Ethel to go, and desired her to stay as long as she could. Perhaps he suspected her trouble in some degree. He had surprised her once shedding very bitter tears, after Nigel's engagement had become known, and Ethel had clung to him for comfort, secure of no worrying questions being asked. Mr. Elvey was not far-sighted about such matters, but he had keenness enough to put two and two together when the twos were very plainly written.
So Ethel went to Wales, and stayed long away, and Nigel had never once seen or spoken with her since their sorrowful farewell. Better so for them both.
Mrs. Browning watched him anxiously these weeks. Somehow she was more strongly alive to the change in him than was Fulvia, perhaps because Fulvia would not let herself see. Mrs. Browning did see. She had a constant feeling that this Nigel was not altogether her Nigel, her boy!
She had nothing to complain of definitely. He was very good to her, as to Fulvia; carefully attentive to them both; but the old sunshine was wanting. Life seemed with him to have grown into an embodiment of severe duty, unrelieved by pleasure. There was no relaxing. He worked hard, read hard, walked a certain amount daily, went through a steady routine; but nothing was done lightly. He had never shown so little inclination for talk. Except in the evenings, he was chiefly away, and in the evenings, he always had a book. If Mrs. Browning or Fulvia showed a wish for conversation, he responded kindly, but with a manifest effort, and it never lasted long.
Mrs. Browning craved for his old look, his old smile,—craved at times with a passionate longing. She did not know how to give up her former Nigel.
There is no love on earth like a mother's love: no love so pure, so lasting, so unselfish; no love which comes so near the love of God Himself,—though infinitely distant from it. As everything human varies, so in different natures the quality of even this varies; and Mrs. Browning's was not, perhaps, of the very highest type of mother-love. She did love her children intensely, but in some measure it was for and in herself. Yet when a test time came, the reality of her love would lift her superior to her ordinary self; and such a test time had come now. She know that Nigel was not happy, and she was far too true a mother to rest in that knowledge. Worse still, she knew that she had had a hand in bringing on the present condition of things, and that she might not lift a finger to undo what she had wrought. This knowledge weighed upon her heavily.
Thus, when the sunny month of May came, there were clouds as well as sunshine in the sky of No. 9 Bourne Street.
Fulvia was alone, but Daisy presently came in with a whisk and a rush, upsetting two small chairs.
"Daisy!"
"There's no room for anything here."
"The more need to carry one's limbs discreetly! I wish you would help me with these antimacassars. I want to get them done before lunch."
"Why? There must be lots of old ones good enough."
"I want to put out these. It will be a change. Nigel admired the muslin."
"Well, I hope I shall never be engaged!" declared Daisy. "Since you went and got engaged to Nigel, you haven't had one single idea apart from him."
Fulvia did not take the trouble to contradict her.
"And there's that story I'm reading! Oh, bother! If I'm to sew, I must wash my hands."
"You need not be an hour over the wash-handstand. Do be quick."
Daisy stood still. "Ethel has come home," she said.
"Ethel Elvey?"
"Yes. I met her just now."
"Is she all right again?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask. She looks—as if—" and a pause.
"As if—?"
"I don't know. I shouldn't think she was well."
Fulvia had ceased to sew, and was gently pricking her finger with the needle.
"She has been a long time away."
"Heaps of time. I never knew her do such a thing before. And staying with one old maiden lady all the while. It must have been awfully slow. She says she's going to be awfully busy at home now—lots of parish work. I shall go and see her. I like Ethel."
"She is nice enough."
"Nigel used to be awfully fond of Ethel. He never speaks of her now."
"Are you going to help me with this work, Daisy?"
Daisy sauntered away, and Fulvia sat idly, with bent head, thinking. A sound made her glance up, and Nigel stood in front.
Fulvia sprang to meet him, with exclamation and glow of delight, her whole face changing. "But what has brought you home now? Is anything wrong?"
"Nothing much. I have a stupid headache—" running hit fingers through his hair,—"and Mr. Bramble has let me off. The figures were all turning into live creatures. Will you come for a walk with me?"
"Oh yes!" Fulvia was ready to leave anything. She could never hesitate about a request of Nigel's. "You are sure you are not ill?"—for he looked unusually pale. Then a jealous fear darted into her mind: had he seen Ethel? She could not put the question, but Daisy ran in and asked it for her.
"Going out, Fulvia? And you in such a hurry to have things done! But I shan't work at them if you are out. And Nigel home so early! Oh I say, Nigel, only think! Ethel has come home at last. They couldn't do without her any longer. I met her just now, and I dare say you did too."
"No; I met Malcolm on my way to the Bank, and he told me."
Nigel said no more.
Fulvia could only wonder silently—was that the cause of his sudden indisposition? He had been well enough in the morning.
They had their walk, and Nigel talked more than usual, exerting himself to be agreeable; but Fulvia was conscious of effort, even of strain, on his part. She scolded herself for fancies, yet the impression remained.
Ethel did not come quickly to call, as Fulvia expected; neither did Nigel seem in haste to go to the Rectory. Daisy went, and found Ethel out. Days passed, and, beyond the one encounter, none of the Brownings had seen her. Bourne Street was a good way off from Church Square.
Nothing had been seen or heard of Mr. Carden-Cox for weeks. Except that he sat in his usual seat at church, and was occasionally to be perceived walking or driving along a busy street, he might, so far as the Brownings were concerned, have dropped out of existence altogether.
"I detest family quarrels," Nigel said more than once. "But what is to be done? It is his place to take the first step."
"He will never do that," Fulvia answered decisively each time. "He will never forgive the madre for ordering him off."
Fulvia was wrong. People are perpetually doing just the things that their friends do not expect of them, and it was so in this case.
On Saturdays Nigel always came home early. Lunch was deferred till a little after two o'clock, that he might be present; and in the afternoon it was the regular thing for him and Fulvia to take a country walk together. Sometimes he would relax from his gravity, and be more like the Nigel of old days, not indeed so sunny as then, yet more easy and natural than at other times. Fulvia was very happy on these occasions. She would cast care to the winds, feeling that she had all she could desire.
No, not quite all. For, during these early weeks of her engagement, there came to Fulvia a growing sense of a want in her life, a want which did not exist in Nigel's life. She had not so definitely felt the lack before. A consciousness crept slowly over her of being at a lower level, possessing lower aims, acting from lower principles, than Nigel. Sometimes she could almost rejoice in this, could revel in looking up to him as to a superior being. That was only woman-like. But, on the other hand, a woman does wish to be a true companion to the man who chooses her, a help fitted for him; and sometimes her heart sank with the knowledge that she was not so fitted, that there were matters upon which she could offer him no true response.
Now and then he would say a few words which gave her a sudden glimpse of depths beyond her ken. She could not follow him into them, and she could not there act what she did not feel. In slighter everyday affairs, Fulvia might disguise her feelings, might wear an occasional mask, but in religious matters she was strictly honest.
She always knew on these occasions that her answers repelled him, threw him back into himself. She always felt, with a jealous pang, "Ethel would have gone with him where I cannot." And though she dreaded such embarrassing moments, yet she was grieved to the heart when they came more seldom; for she knew that Nigel was learning not to turn to her for sympathy in his deepest interests. Reserved they both were, and he actually had not known before that such turning would be vain. Fulvia's very grief and jealousy drove her to more thought about religion, though as yet it was only for Nigel's sake. Other teaching than this was needed.
A succession of fine Saturdays had meant a succession of long rambles for the two, when at length one came which could be described only as consisting of one continuous pelt. Rain began early, and went on all the morning in a dogged and resolute fashion, with good promise of doing the same during many hours to come. At luncheon a note arrived for Fulvia, which she read and gave to Nigel, with an involuntary "Oh, I can't!" It was as follows:—
"DEAR FULVIA,—Will you spend the afternoon of to-day with a lonely old man? I have been thoroughly out of sorts lately, and I want a few words with you."This nonsense has gone on long enough. You ought to know, all of you, by this time, that my bark is worse than my bite. Manufacture any sort of pretty message that you like from me to the madre, and pray get things right somehow. I can't manage without you and Nigel. Besides, I am going to make a fresh will, and you may help me."A fly shall call for you at a quarter to three precisely. Mind you come.—Your affectionate uncle,"A. C.-C."
"What am I to do? To-day! I can't go," said Fulvia, dismayed.
"You cannot set this aside," Nigel replied at once.
"But to-day—your one afternoon at home?"
"I don't think that matters. We could not walk in such rain. And even if we could, to make peace with Mr. Carden-Cox ought to come first."
Did he care? Not, certainly, as she did. Fulvia saw this with a sharp pang, yet Nigel's manner was not cold or careless. He only spoke with quiet resolution, as of an unquestionable duty.
"If uncle Arthur had but chosen some other day!"
"He has not. I think you must not refuse."
Fulvia yielded to his decision.
At "a quarter to three precisely" a closed fly appeared, and she was ready. She looked wistfully at Nigel as he held open the front door, then stood under the porch putting up an umbrella.
"It doesn't matter so much to you, of course," she murmured, "but I am disappointed! I shall feel cross with uncle all the afternoon."
"No, you will not. It would make mischief. A good deal may depend upon you to-day."
"Why? How?"
"His will, if you must have it put in plain terms."
"Oh, money! I hate money!"
Nigel's expression was curious. He sheltered her across the pavement, and handed her into the fly, wearing that look still.
Fulvia wondered what it meant. She said penitently, "I'll be good. It won't do to think only of myself!"—and was rewarded by a smile.
Then Nigel stepped into the house, and as the fly was about to start, Daisy rushed out bareheaded into the rain.
"Fulvie!"
"Daisy, come back! You will be soaked," said Nigel.
Daisy disregarded him. "Fulvie," she cried, "may I arrange your new jewel-case for you? It's such a beauty, and you have never begun to use it."
Fulvia heard with preoccupied ears, hardly taking in the sense of Daisy's request.
"If you like. Anything! I don't care."
"And your keys?"
"Keys?"
"Your own bunch?"
"Oh, I left them—somewhere. In my dressing-table drawer, I think."
Nigel pulled Daisy into the shelter of the porch, and Fulvia was gone.
Daisy danced from one foot to the other.
"What fun!" she said, chuckling. "Fulvia looks as dismal as if she never would see you again. Just for one afternoon! Well, I don't mind now about the rain. I've something nice to do."
Daisy had noted that morning the handsome silver-mounted dressing-box, Mr. Carden-Cox's birthday gift, standing on the side-table in Fulvia's room—not the little back room, but the pleasant front one, for Nigel had settled that point. Beside the new box was the shabby old dressing-case, and Daisy, having used curious fingers and eyes, discovered that the latter was locked, the former unlocked and empty. Thereupon she conceived the idea of emptying the old box into the now, as a pleasant rainy-day occupation. Daisy was not sensitive as to associations, or she might have shrunk, as Fulvia had shrunk, from bringing forward the gift connected with so sorrowful a day as Fulvia's twenty-first birthday.
And Fulvia, at the moment of being asked, did not recall association past, did not realise what Daisy meant, or to what "jewel-case" she alluded. If Daisy had called it a "dressing-case," she might have listened with quicker perception; but "jewel-case" was not one of Fulvia's words. She heard a request vaguely, and granted it, never thinking what the request meant. Her mind was wrapped up in the thought of having to leave Nigel for hours on his only free afternoon.
More than this, she had no vivid recollection of the crumpled half-sheet hidden away in the old dressing-case. The matter of the four postscripts had sunk of late into the background. Since all cessation of intercourse with Mr. Carden-Cox nothing had occurred to call it up. Fulvia had reached a standpoint far removed from the hopes and fears of those days. The lost half-sheet was nothing to her now. She could not have told why it, remained still in her box, except that the all-absorbing events of the last few months had almost driven it out of her mind. Perhaps a dim expectation existed below of some day making a confession, and restoring the paper to its rightful owner. But not yet,—oh, not yet!
Yes, she had reached a stand beyond those hopes and fears. Nigel was hers, and she was his. She had indeed her anxieties and dreads, but they were different in kind, and as yet the joy of devoting herself to him outweighed all troubles. In the main she did not, would not, doubt his love, though at times she was nervously disposed to weigh the amount of it against her own for him.
Every one, who has watched with care, can tell how strangely things which were once of vivid importance may slip into the background of memory, unaccountably failing to spring up just when one would most expect that they should. Daisy's sudden question, called out in haste through the pouring rain, brought no recollections to Fulvia of the crumpled half-sheet. She was entirely absorbed with Mr. Carden-Cox's provoking unreasonableness in taking her from Nigel on this particular day. And oh, if Nigel had but cared more! That, after all, was the real pain!
THE LOST "N.B."
"A pen—to register: a key—That winds through secret wards:Are well assigned to memoryBy allegoric bards."—WORDSWORTH.
"WHERE are you going to sit?" demanded Daisy of Nigel.
"In the study for the present. Why?"
"May I come too? I won't disturb you, or be a bother. Do let me."
Nigel would have preferred an hour or two alone, but he hesitated to refuse, looking in Daisy's beseeching eyes. She was a very devoted younger sister, and had not had much of his company of late.
"If you like," he replied. "But why?"
"I'm going to do something that madre ought not to see; and anywhere else she might pounce down upon me."
"Pounce" was not precisely the correct word for Mrs. Browning's slow and graceful movements; but girls of Daisy's age are not exact in their use of language.
"I want to clear out Fulvia's old jewel-case, and put all her things into the new one—the one Mr. Carden-Cox gave her, you know. I don't see why that nice box shouldn't be used. It wasn't its fault that Mr. Carden-Cox behaved as he did. And I dare say he would be awfully vexed if he knew she had not begun to use it. And he is sure to ask, now that we are to see him again. Besides, Fulvia once said she would give her old one to me when she had another, and I want to have it. But it might upset mother to see Fulvia's birthday present, so I thought I would bring it to the study."
"Why not manage affairs in Fulvia's room?"
"Oh, I'd rather be with you!" coaxed Daisy. "Madre won't come. She'll think you are busy."
"So I mean to be. Well, if you like."
Daisy established herself with much satisfaction at one end of the table, placing side by side the handsome empty box and the shabby full one. She had found the keys without difficulty.
Nigel made himself comfortable in the arm-chair with a book. He had letters to write, but "they could wait," he said.
Daisy did not strictly keep to her promise of "not disturbing" Nigel, if that meant not speaking; but perhaps Nigel was not disturbed. He listened to her remarks, and answered, laying down his book; and this naturally encouraged chatter on her part.
"Fulvia has such a lot of nice rings. I wish I had a quarter as many. But she says she doesn't care for any of them, except her engagement ring, and the locket you gave her last birthday. I do like this sapphire. It's grand. And her diamond brooch; doesn't it flash? I should like to have a diamond pin to wear in my hair—just one huge blazing diamond that would flash all across the room. What are you thinking about?"
"Wondering if you will ever be anything but a child."
"Not till I'm an old maid," promptly responded Daisy. "But is it childish to like diamonds?"
"That depends on the mode of liking—and the manner of expression."
"Oh, well, I can't help it. People must take me as I am. There, now things begin to look jolly. I hope Fulvia will keep to my arrangement. The pink cotton-wool is pretty, isn't it?—under silver and pearl. See, I've made quite a bed of it in one place for the silver Maltese brooches, and the gold filigree things are opposite. You won't need to buy lots of jewellery when you are married, because your wife will have enough."
"That's fortunate, since I shall not have lots of spare money."
"Yes; isn't it a pity Fulvia won't be rich? Now, I'll put the chains into this tray. Nigel—" with one of her sudden flights into a new region—"have you seen Ethel Elvey yet?"
"No."
"I thought you might. You did call one day, didn't you? Anice said you had, and she said you found everybody out. But Ethel does look so altered, you can't think!"
"How!"
"I don't know. You'll see. Her face seems to have shrunk, and her eyes have grown so big. She laughed and talked just as she always does, but somehow—I thought—I don't exactly know what, only she didn't seem like herself. Malcolm told me yesterday that she has not been well for ever so long. She has never quite got over that bad cold, and the fever coming after it. At least Malcolm seemed to think it was that. Poor Ethel! I am so sorry."
Nigel pushed his chair farther back, thereby putting his face into shade. Daisy was too intent upon her occupation to notice him.
"I thought you'd like to know, because you and Ethel always were such friends. It seemed funny that she had not been to see us; but Malcolm says she gets so easily tired she really can't walk far, most days. That's not like Ethel. Now I have done both trays. The old box is quite empty, so Fulvia may as well let me have it. There's only the place in the lid for the looking-glass; nothing else, of course. Just a piece of crumpled paper, written all over! Why, it must be part of a letter, and in Mr. Carden-Cox's handwriting. How comical of Fulvia to keep it here! I dare say she tucked it away in a hurry, and then forgot all about what she had done."
"Did what?" Nigel asked dreamily.
"This! Look; it is part of a letter. Funny of Fulvia. I think I'll see what it is about? 'N.B.—One line more. My dear fellow, you do not really mean—' Oh! Oh, I say! Oh, Nigel! Oh!"
"What's the matter now?"
Daisy's eyes were round; her mouth was open. She could only articulate, "Oh, I say!"
"Daisy, pray explain yourself. Don't be idiotic!"
"It's the lost postscript."
"Nonsense!"
"But it is! It must be! Look; it is, really! Half a sheet, and Mr. Carden-Cox's handwriting, and it begins, 'N.B.,' and it says, 'My dear fellow.' Look! That can't be Fulvia. And none of the other three was to a 'fellow.' Ethel's and Fulvia's and mine were found. I know mine was, because Mr. Carden-Cox let it out, though he made a secret of it at first—I wonder why! But yours was never found, and Mr. Carden-Cox has always declared it must have gone to Fulvia. He said she had put it away somewhere, and forgotten. But I don't see how she could forget—do you? Fulvia said she had never had it, you know."
Daisy held the half-sheet before Nigel's eyes.
"It's yours. I shall tell Fulvia. How could she be so stupid?"
Nigel received the paper from Daisy's hand, but looked at her instead of it.
"Where did you find this?"
"In Fulvia's old dressing-box, hidden away behind the glass. Didn't you hear me say so?"
"No. What business had you to examine it?"
Daisy was disconcerted.
"I—don't know. I thought I would read a word or two. I didn't think it was anything, really, till I saw 'N.B.' and 'fellow.'"
"Another time you will act more honourably if you don't look at all."
"But Fulvia gave me leave to turn out her box. She did really, Nigel, and she didn't say there were secrets."
Nigel was silent. He folded the half-sheet, unread, and put it into his pocket. The next remark was—
"Daisy, you are not to say a word about this."
"Not tell Fulvia?"
"No. You are not to tell any one."
"Not even Mr. Carden-Cox?"
"Certainly not."
"But won't you tell him."
"No."
"Won't you speak to Fulvia?"
"That is for me to decide, not you. I forbid you to say one word! Mind!—I mean it!"
"Of course I'll do what you wish," said Daisy reluctantly. "Only Mr. Carden-Cox would have liked to know."
"It doesn't matter what Mr. Carden-Cox would or would not like. You are to keep the thing to yourself."
Daisy gazed at him dubiously.
"Do you think—are you—?" she faltered. "Are you angry? Poor Fulvia! I do wish I hadn't fished that stupid postscript out! After all this time! I do wish I had not said a word to you."
"Nothing is gained in the end by concealment."
"No—poor Fulvia!—" applying the axiom to another, instead of herself. "I wish she had spoken out. But perhaps she was afraid. She gets so frightened now of doing anything you may not like. I never know Fulvia could be a coward till lately. Are you very angry?"
"I am—" and a pause—"disappointed in Fulvia. I could not have thought it possible."
"But I don't believe she meant to do wrong. Perhaps she forgot. Oh, don't be vexed; because it is my fault."
"What! The finding of this?"
"Yes. If only I had not told!" Daisy actually burst into tears.
"There is no fault so far as you are concerned," Nigel said quietly. "The finding was accidental. The hiding could not have been. But I don't wish to discuss Fulvia's conduct with you, Daisy. I trust you not to let it go any further. Now you can take these boxes away, and leave me alone."
"But—if Fulvia asks—?"
"She will not. If she should, you may refer her to me."
Daisy gave him a frightened look of acquiescence, and caught up the empty box.
Nigel carried the heavy full one upstairs for her, and then he disappeared into the study.
"If only I had not found it! I wish I hadn't!" sighed Daisy.
Mr. Carden-Cox did not look particularly ill, but he proclaimed himself so, and required much pity. Fulvia gave him some expression of it, to the best of her power, while her thoughts wandered constantly to Nigel. The first hour of talk was aimless. Then Mr. Carden-Cox arrived at the point, with a jerk.
"So your madre allowed you to come! Didn't forbid it!"
"No."
"You made up a decent message from me, I hope."
"I told her you wanted me to do so."
"Humph! And she said—"
"Madre supposed that to be meant for an apology."
"Humph!" again. "Well, when she wants me she can send word."
"She is willing to see you now. You cannot expect more," Fulvia retorted with spirit.
"That's your opinion! A chit of a girl like you! But you were brought up among them. However—enough about that. I'm going to have my will made."
"Yes."
"Leaving all I have to you."
Fulvia was silent.
"May be more, may be less, than folks expect. That's neither here nor there. Not much use to expect gratitude in this world," pursued Mr. Carden-Cox, with a moralising air. "If I did—but I don't! Do your duty, and never mind what is said. That's my axiom!" It might be his axiom, but it was not his rule of action, as Fulvia could have told him. "My duty is plain now. If your fortune had come to you intact, you wouldn't have needed my pittance. Ha! Things are different, and I mean to make a difference."
"Where would your pittance have gone then?"
"Half to you—half to Nigel."
"Pray let it stand so, uncle Arthur. If you change at all, leave all to Nigel."