Mr. Carden-Cox laughed.
"Why not? It comes to the same thing."
"Would, if you were married. Ceremony hasn't taken place yet!"
A chill shot through Fulvia at the implied suggestion.
"I would much rather that there should be no alteration," she repeated.
"And I would rather that there should be. I know what young men are—and girls too! No, no! You've lost enough already through the Brownings—through that scoun—Well, well, no need to say more. But I'll secure this to you, hard and fast. Don't mean to lose another day. Why, who knows?" demanded Mr. Carden-Cox, with a lively air. "Not one of us may be alive a week hence!"
"Your money will not do me much good in that case."
He laughed again, and asked, "When is the wedding to take place?"
"I don't know. Nobody knows. How can you ask—now? Our trouble so new, still! And people cannot marry upon nothing."
"I'll have a talk with Nigel. Don't like affairs dragging on interminably. Sure to end by getting tired of one another."
Fulvia could have burst into tears; for there was an underlying consciousness which gave a keen edge to his words, but she only said, "A happy lookout for married life!"
"Oh, after you're married, it's different. Comes as a matter of course, then, to put up with what can't be helped. Tied together, and no escape, so no use to struggle. Well, I'll have a talk with Nigel, now we're in smooth waters again. See if I can't bring it about. Wouldn't need much additional, to set a young couple going."
"Uncle, please leave things alone; please do not interfere. Nigel will not like it."
"Not like it! Fudge! He may do without liking. Not like it, indeed. As if he didn't know me by this time! Don't be so squeamish, child; and don't take to looking cross. It doesn't suit you. I didn't ask your advice; don't need anybody's advice. We'll let that matter drop. I say—nothing ever come to light all these weeks about the lost postscript?"
"The lost postscript?" She spoke bewilderedly. The abrupt change of ideas brought a moment's confusion.
"Nigel's postscript—the fourth 'N.B.,' you know—ha, ha!—Sent to you and never found! Nothing heard of it all these weeks, hey?"
A vision of the past flashed up. Instantly Fulvia saw the crumpled slip of paper, hidden away in her dressing-box. Daisy's parting request was clear, with all that it involved.
Fulvia actually sprang to her feet, aghast. By this time, four o'clock, Daisy might have found the concealed paper; and outspoken childish Daisy would of a certainty proclaim her "find" to the household. Nigel would hear of it! Already he might have heard; already the thing might be done past recall. And if not yet, could Fulvia reach home in time to stop its being done? She stood with dilated eyes, terror-struck. Mr. Carden-Cox put up his eye-glass, and examined her curiously.
"Eh! What now! Sit down. Postscript found? Come, confess!"
Fulvia controlled herself to meet his gaze; but she could not control the startled hurry of her voice.
"Something—I have remembered," she said rapidly. "Something I ought to have done before leaving home it has just come to me. I must go at once."
Fulvia did not mean to make any untrue statement. She scarcely knew what she said! And that which she wished she had done was, definitely, to have forbidden Daisy's meddling with her box.
"Nonsense, child. Sit down and be quiet. Something you ought to have done! What do you mean? What ought you to have done?"
His black eyes examined her, with a look of suspicion.
"It doesn't matter what. I must go home. I am going home."
"The fly will be here at half-past five. You will have tea with me first, of course. This 'something' must be of mighty importance. Fulvia Rolfe is not a girl to be disturbed about nothing! Has it to do with the lost postscript, hey?"
A natural question, since his mention of the postscript had been the seeming cause of her sudden fright. She was so unnerved by the shock she had received, that his suggestion renewed her trembling. She was obliged to sit down, even while she reiterated, "I must go! I can't stay! I must get home at once!" For she might still be in time.
"Stuff and nonsense!" Mr. Carden-Cox spoke angrily. "The girl is demented. Fact is, it's one of two things. Either you are tired of being here, and you want to get off the rest of the time, or you are deceiving me about the postscript, and can't stand being questioned. I believe it's that."
Fulvia seized on the first suggestion.
"I am not tired of being with you, but I can't endure to be away from Nigel all Saturday afternoon," she said. The assertion was true enough, though this had now ceased to be her prominent feeling. "Any other day I should not mind, but Saturday—Saturday is his only free afternoon. Uncle, do let me go. I will come another time, and stay as long as you like. Monday, Tuesday, any day; only not Saturday. I always have him then."
Mr. Carden-Cox grunted out a laugh, not ill pleased.
"You're a pair of model lovers!" he growled. "Well, have things your own way. But the fly is not ordered till 5.30."
"Oh, I don't mind rain; I never catch cold. It will not take me long to get home. And any other day—"
She did not finish her sentence, and could hardly wait to say good-bye.
Mr. Carden-Cox seemed in doubt whether to be amused or vexed by her precipitate flight. He lent her an umbrella, and apologised for the lack of a lady's waterproof. Fulvia had come in her best black walking-dress, which would suffer from pelting rain. But what did she care? What did anything matter, in comparison with getting home?
The distance had never seemed so great, and Fulvia had never traversed it at such speed. She would not let herself think by the way. Distracting possibilities presented themselves, and Fulvia refused to look at them. Her arrival at home, dripping and forlorn, with flushed face and bespattered skirt, was greeted by a triple exclamation from Mrs. Browning and the girls, "Fulvia! Already!"
"Yes; I didn't want to stay any longer. Uncle let me off. Where is Nigel?"
Fulvia dropped into the nearest chair, and Anice cried out at the contact of her wet clothes with the furniture. Fulvia did not care for that; but she did care for the curious questioning look in Daisy's eyes, fixed upon herself.
"Why didn't he send you home in a fly?" asked Anice.
"I did not want to wait. Where is Nigel?"
"Downstairs."
"Not in the study; I have been there."
"Then he must have gone out. I heard the front door open and shut."
Fulvia rose, and dragged herself upstairs without another word. There, on the chest of drawers, stood, as before, her two boxes. She tried both with trembling fingers.
Too late! The new box was locked, the old one unlocked and empty! Daisy had done her work.
Hoping still against hope, Fulvia loosened the looking-glass in the lid, and peeped behind it. No crumpled paper was there. She snatched her keys from the table drawer, and opened the other box, to see if perchance Daisy had passed on the postscript with the trinkets. Daisy's neat arrangements were tossed into reckless disorder in the search. But Fulvia looked in vain; the half-sheet had vanished.
Too late! All her hurry and toil for nothing. And Nigel had gone out? Had Daisy given him the paper? Sick with fear, Fulvia removed her wet things, dressed herself in dry clothes, and smoothed her ruffled hair. Then, on shaking limbs, she crept down to the study to await Nigel's return, like a culprit awaiting judgment.
Daisy did not come to her. Anice found out where Fulvia was, and wanted Daisy to bring her thence, but Daisy flatly refused to act messenger. She did not wish to be questioned by Fulvia.
She needed not to fear. Fulvia was in too abject a state to question anybody. The long-buried wrongdoing, almost forgotten by herself, had found her out sharply. She saw her own action once again, as at first, with Nigel's eyes, and she was overwhelmed with shame. Would Nigel cast her off for this? Would he be glad to avail himself of the excuse?
Anice before long brought a summons to afternoon tea, and Fulvia, refused to go.
"I want to wait for Nigel here. I am tired," she said. "Somebody can bring me a cup, or I can go without. I don't want to be bothered."
The maid brought a cup, since Daisy would not. The laziness of the latter was unaccountable in the eyes of Mrs. Browning and Anice, for Daisy did not usually shirk trouble, like indolent Anice. But she offered no explanation, only she would not go.
Fulvia stayed on in the study alone, leaning back in Nigel's easy-chair, with his open book beside her, the picture of mingled misery and self-condemnation.
From a quarter to five till a quarter to seven she waited, the longest two hours that Fulvia had ever known. Nobody came near her for a while. Then Mrs. Browning appeared, and wanted to know what was wrong. Fulvia evaded her inquiries with a forced smile; she could see that Mrs. Browning knew nothing of the postscript. But Daisy—why did not Daisy appear, as on any other occasion Daisy's resolute avoidance of Fulvia spoke palpably.
The front door opened at length, and Nigel came in. His hair was wet and plastered, his coat damp; even a greatcoat had not served to shelter him from the driving rain. For a moment he did not see Fulvia; then their eyes met.
Fulvia knew at once that he knew, and he saw that she was aware of what he knew. She hold out both hands, and said, "Nigel! Speak!"
"I did not expect you to be home so soon."
"No—I—could not bear it. I wanted to come back—to you. Nigel, say something!"
"What do you wish me to say?"
"Will you forgive? I see that you have heard. Daisy has found the paper. It was cowardice. I never thought at first—but—and after—how could I speak?"
Nigel placed the little sheet in her hand.
"It is yours, not mine," she said.
"Daisy told me so. I have not read it. Daisy had no business to make the discovery. But since she did—"
Fulvia gave the half-sheet to him, not lifting her eyes. She knew then that he was reading; and presently she heard him tear it across.
"Will you forgive?" she whispered once more.
"Yes, of course."
"You mean—I don't understand."
"I mean that there is nothing for it but to take things in that way," he said gravely, after slight hesitation. "I could not have thought it quite possible of you; but—"
"But you will not feel differently about me. You will trust—still. Say you will forget—you will trust me still."
"That must depend. I will not speak of it. One can hardly promise to forget. It is not feeling angry; don't misunderstand. But this sort of thing gives rather a shake to one's confidence. How am I to know in the future—?"
"Nigel! Think what a lesson to me it has been!"
"Yes, I hope so."
"But—" She sobbed aloud, with the longing for something more. "Oh, say one kind word!"
"I think you are hardly reasonable," he said seriously. "It is not a question of forgiveness at all. What I mind is not the thing itself, but that you could do such a thing. That is what I could not have believed. I have always felt, whatever else might be wanting, that was not wanting. I could trust you, absolutely. And now—"
Fulvia could not speak.
Both were silent for a minute or two.
"We need never allude to this again," he said at length; and he went away, leaving her alone.
Fulvia dragged herself to her own room, locked the door, and gave way to a paroxysm of weeping. She could not appear at dinner; could not show herself again that night.
IN SUDDEN PERIL
"When the dimpled water slippeth,Full of laughter, on its way,And her wing the wagtail dippeth,Running by the brink at play;When the poplar leaves atrembleTurn their edges to the light,And the far-up clouds resembleVeils of gauze most clear and white."* * * * * *"Though the heart be not attending,Having sorrows of her own,Through the fields and fallows winding,It is sad to walk alone."—JEAN INGELOW.
FULVIA'S storm was over, but grey weather remained. No further words passed about the discovered postscript. Mr. Carden-Cox was not told. Daisy never referred to the subject.
There was a slight difference in Nigel's manner from that day; not visible to lookers-on, and not intentional, but patent to Fulvia. She could not help knowing that she had sunk in his estimation: that the position she held with respect to him was altered. Not only had she yielded to the first temptation, but there had been long-persistent deceit, silence, and untruth.
Nigel knew the whole now; and Fulvia quailed before what she felt to be his view of the matter. His very silence was eloquent. He asked no explanations, because no explanations could touch the main fact. Nothing that Fulvia could say might raise her quite to her old position. He did not mean to show any change of manner towards her; yet a change existed. During the days following, he undoubtedly held a little aloof, and was more wrapped up in his own concerns, not appealing often for Fulvia's sympathy.
Fulvia was at times oppressed by a belief that he would have been willing to break off the engagement, had he not been bound by his own promise, by the family wronging of Fulvia, by his father's dying words. She felt that this was the rift which might widen into parting, this the beginning of real unhappiness to her. Hitherto she had had doubts and questionings, but in the main she had been content. Now she knew that duty was the bond which held him to her. In truth, the shock of this discovery about Fulvia had sent Nigel back with a rebound to his old exclusive trust in Ethel; for Ethel could never have acted thus.
He had been growing more used to his shackles, more able to think calmly of life with Fulvia, more ready to depend upon Fulvia for companionship and interest. Now all was altered. Fulvia knew it, and she knew that she had only herself to blame.
But she could not resolve to give him up; oven though she had come to the belief that Nigel himself was willing to part. That which would have been the more dignified step was to her impossible. Fulvia did not know how to live without Nigel. If he gave her up, pride might step in to her aid. To take the initiative herself required a different kind of resolution; and Fulvia had it not.
Through the week following that unhappy day she was perpetually looking forward to the next Saturday afternoon. She built her hopes on the quiet tête-à-tête walk, wherein she might be able to break through this barrier, to win her way back to him again. She did not know exactly what to say or how to say it; but she was resolved to lead him to the subject of the postscript, to explain how, after the first wrong step, she had been entangled by her fears in a crooked path, to appeal to his pity, to make out somehow a better case for herself.
Saturday came, and at breakfast Nigel said, "I am afraid I shall not be much in to-day."
Fulvia gave him a startled look.
"Where are you going?" asked Daisy.
"Malcolm and I talk of a row on the river."
"That will be jolly! You have not been on the river for ever so long. Only you two? Will Ethel go?"
"No."
"When do you start?" Fulvia inquired, trying to speak indifferently.
"Half-past two or three."
"And you will be home—?"
"I don't know when. Not till late in the afternoon."
He did not seem to think she could object, and Fulvia would show no annoyance. Indeed, her feeling was far deeper than annoyance.
Daisy offered herself as a companion in Nigel's absence; but Fulvia could stand no companionship. She wanted to be alone; and to sit indoors was impossible. Daisy's offer was evaded; and somewhat later Fulvia slipped out of the house, unseen, for a solitary ramble.
Nigel had spoken of going down the river, and Fulvia made her way to the towing-path, following the same direction, not with any expectation of seeing him. She meant to be at home in time for his return.
It was a beautiful afternoon, very different from the preceding Saturday. A blaze of sunshine lit up all around, but could not chase away the shadows in Fulvia's heart.
"Will he ever feel the same for me again?" she asked herself drearily. "How could Daisy be so cruel as to tell him? But she did not mean to be cruel. She does not understand."
Fulvia would not be unjust, even in her pain; and she had noticed Daisy's air of anxious kindness this week, a manner as of one trying to make up for some wrong done to another.
Fulvia walked slowly, for there was no need to hasten. She could be as long as she liked.
The towing-path which she had chosen was the same which Ethel had chosen one wintry afternoon, some months before. Only, the surroundings now were of green trees and golden sunshine, and of water reflecting a summer sky.
Somebody was walking in front of Fulvia when she passed round the next river-bend—a slight girl, in a grey dress, with a shady hat, and movements so languid that they seemed to speak of ill-health. Fulvia did not pay any particular regard to her, being preoccupied. They were nearing a lock, and the girl paused to lean against one of the great gate-handles, as if for rest, turning towards Fulvia with the action. Fulvia saw her plainly then: saw a fragile-looking creature, with a delicate colourless face, and large blue eyes, dreamy and sad. She noticed the brown hair straying over the white brow, and noted even the thinness of the ungloved right hand, yet all without recognition, partly no doubt because she was herself so absorbed in thought.
But a flash of recognition came to the other face.
"How do you do, Fulvia?"
"Ethel!" Fulvia could hardly believe her own senses. At the first moment an impatient throb shook her frame; for Ethel was Fulvia's dread. Thought for the altered girl before her followed quickly. "Ethel! I did not know you! Have you been ill?"
"Not ill lately. Not very well, I suppose. I don't get up much strength somehow. Is it not a perfect day?"
Fulvia stood still. She did not want a companion—Ethel Elvey least of all! Still she could not at once pass on. She was not personally fond of Ethel, and never had been; but their acquaintance dated from infant days, and Fulvia was kind-hearted. It was impossible not to pause, in view of Ethel's changed look.
"Daisy said something—" she began, and broke off. "I know you had scarlatina; but that is so long ago."
"Ages—isn't it?" Ethel said, smiling. "And I have been an immense time in the country since, doing nothing. Yes, in North Wales. Snowdon is so beautiful. There is nothing in the world like mountains. They seem to bring one nearer heaven?'
"Are you talking poetically?"
"Am I? No; I don't think so."
"Did you go up Snowdon?"
"Once, on pony back. I did not try it a second time."
"Has looking on a mountain from below the same effect?"
"What effect?"
"Bringing you—what you said just now."
"Yes." Ethel did not explain her meaning. She went on in a quiet and natural tone—"How is Nigel? I have not seen him yet."
"He is all right. He has gone boating with Malcolm."
"Up the river?"
"No, down."
"I was not sure. Malcolm did not say, but I fancied they would go up."
"No; Nigel told me. Are you going home now?"
"Not yet, perhaps; but I must rest for a few minutes, and I am in a mood for loitering to-day. Don't wait, if you would rather go fast," said Ethel, with a recollection of Fulvia's energetic ways. She smiled again that curious smile, sunny, yet sad.
Fulvia had not walked fast, but she at once decided to do so. Rather bluntly and awkwardly, though seldom disposed to awkwardness, she said good-bye, and went on.
She kept up a good pace till well out of sight. "Has Ethel cared too much?" she asked, thinking over the brief interview. "Bright enough; but is it natural brightness? Nigel and she have always been friends. Could Nigel have made her hope, and then have left her? No, that would not be like Nigel."
Fulvia, felt sure of this, still Ethel might have hoped without reason. Fulvia pitied Ethel, thinking what might have been Ethel's happiness, but for certain circumstances; and then she pitied herself, recurring to the present trouble. Her step soon slackened under its weight.
Presently she reached a bridge. The towing-path thereafter continued on the other side of the river, but Fulvia did not cross. She made her way along the broken bank, where no path existed, wishing to get out of sight, if Ethel should follow so far.
A snug spot near the water on a steep slope presented itself. There were shrubs and trees on either side, enough to shelter from observation, or so Fulvia thought. She edged herself downward cautiously, and when comfortably placed, with one aged piece of jutting tree-root for her seat, and another for her footstool, she found that the retreat she had chosen was not invisible either from the bridge or the opposite bank; but after all it did not matter! Ethel would not invade her solitude.
Time passed, Fulvia did not know how. She had not looked at her watch since leaving home. It was a relief to be alone, beyond reach of questioning eyes, and she could safely allow herself here to sink into a mood of melancholy, for nobody was at hand to note how she looked. Once in such a mood it was hard to rouse herself out of it. She felt like sitting on indefinitely, letting her mind drift as leaves drifted past in the stream below.
Would Nigel ever quite get over this affair of the postscript? Fulvia could not be content with mere forgiveness; she wanted to be reinstated in his good opinion. That good opinion had always been hers, and she could not endure to lose it. Would he ever again have his old complete confidence in her?
"Whatever else might be wanting, that was not wanting." So Nigel had said, "Whatever else—" then he, too, had been conscious of a want, either in himself or in Fulvia. Only it had not been want of trust. He had trusted her entirely, and now his trust was shaken.
If aught else be lacking between brother and sister, between friend and friend, between husband and wife, while there is perfect trust, there cannot be misery. It is hardly possible that perfect trust should exist without growing love; but trust must stand upon a firm foundation; it can only exist where such a foundation is found. He who trusts must know from practical experience that the one whom he trusts is trustworthy. And whatever else is present, if trust fails everything fails; there is then no firm ground to stand upon; love sinks at once to a lower level.
Fulvia's own hand had cut away this firm ground from beneath her feet. In the main she was, as Nigel had always counted her, truthful and honourable; but one failure long persisted in had undone what went before. She might indeed never so fail again; but how could Nigel know? Where one cannot trust, there can be no security of happiness. He might be kind to any extent, but how could he rest upon her word?
"If only I had not done it! If one could but undo the past! And it did me no good. Things would have come about just the same! . . . If I had destroyed the paper! But would that have been enough? It might have been known some day; or I might have felt that I must tell! If only I had not done it!"
Round and round the circle of regrets she travelled; and when at length a sound aroused her, she was startled to find how quickly the afternoon was passing.
Unless she made haste, Nigel might reach home before her. That would never do! And what if he and Malcolm should at any moment row by, detecting her on the bank? Fulvia had liked to follow in his steps; but she did not wish to meet him, since he had not asked her to do so.
There was indeed no time to lose, if she would avoid the possibility, still more if she would ensure being the first to arrive at home. Fulvia sprang up, somewhat carelessly in her haste, and found the ground giving way beneath.
Late spring frosts had loosened the soil, heavy rains since had carried on the work of disintegration, and Fulvia's weight bestowed the finishing touch. A complete landslip on a tiny scale seemed to be taking place. She struggled round to a kneeling position, and strove to find her feet; but in vain. The earth was sliding, and she was sliding with it.
Fulvia resisted fiercely, clutching at grass, weeds, rotten roots, anything within reach; but everything in turn failed. Screaming was not her natural mode of expression, unless under a very severe shock, and she kept her self-command, making no outcry, though keenly aware of her predicament. The steep bank ended abruptly in a natural upright wall of clay, the stiff clay being surmounted by a layer of more friable earth—that which was now yielding. Close underneath flowed the stream, shelving at once into deep water, deeper now than usual from spring rains.
"How stupid!" gasped Fulvia, and in another moment she found herself on the verge, kneeling, with her back to the river, her feet actually hanging over the bank, soft soil threatening each instant to slip anew with her weight, both hands clutching at an infant shrub growing near, and the gentle "swish" of the water close below.
"Hold on! I'm coming!" a clear, girlish voice rang out from the bridge.
THOU OR I!
"What's brave, what's noble,Let's do it, after the high Roman fashion."—SHAKESPEARE.
ETHEL ELVEY had been standing on the bridge, unconscious of any human creature's presence, when Fulvia's movement drew her attention.
"I shall be in! Make haste!" cried Fulvia. The baby shrub might at any moment prove false to her trust, and nothing then could hold her back from the threatened bath. Fulvia had no idea how deep the water might be. She had never learnt to swim. Still, she did not lose her collectedness; and with a vivid sense of alarm was mingled a sense of her absurd position. "I am glad Nigel is not here to see!" flashed through her mind, and then, "But he would have me up directly! What can Ethel do?"
She dared not attempt to climb alone—dared not stir. The slightest movement might precipitate her downwards.
Not many yards lower one big bough of a large tree curved over the stream, actually dipping its leaves and twigs into the running water. Fulvia cast a sidelong glance at this bough. If it had but been nearer! The thought occurred to her that, should she fall in before Ethel could arrive, she might reach and cling to the said bough. It looked strong, extending so far out that the current would probably carry her within grasp of its extremity. Fulvia was able to consider so much while waiting. She resolved to keep cool, not to be flurried.
Ethel uttered the one encouraging cry, and then rushed round at her utmost speed to the bank above Fulvia. The question was, how to proceed when there? She heard Fulvia calling, "Take care! The ground will give way!" And she knew that it would not do to follow in Fulvia's steps.
After one moment for observation, Ethel fixed her hopes upon a slender ash, growing slightly to one side of the position which Fulvia had occupied. She had been unused to exertion lately, and already she found herself panting for breath, with a sense of failing power. But there could be no delay. At any instant Fulvia's support might fail.
"Oh, make haste!" implored Fulvia, as Ethel sprang downwards quickly, yet with caution. "Make haste!" It seemed impossible to hold on longer; and, surely, the little shrub was coming up by the roots.
The branch on which Ethel had fixed her hopes proved to be out of reach—almost, perhaps not quite, if she had breath and strength to spring. She made a hurried attempt, once, twice, in vain; and then her heart was throbbing so furiously that everything around grew hazy, and she was compelled to pause, leaning against the tree.
"Ethel! Ethel!" cried Fulvia.
Ethel collected her energies, and made one supreme effort, throwing all the strength she had into it, and very nearly losing her own balance. This time she did not fail; the bough was in her clasp. If only she had not felt so weak and dizzy—but there was no time to think of her own sensations.
"Ethel!" shrieked Fulvia hoarsely; for again the earth seemed to be sinking under her.
She held on desperately—how, she did not know; and she grew terrified, losing her collectedness.
Ethel, clinging to the tough ash branch, sprang fearlessly down the bank, bending forward with outstretched right hand. Fulvia's came to meet it, and the two met in a firm grip.
Success so far; but in the same moment the ground beneath Fulvia broke away, and Fulvia hung over the brink, depending alone on Ethel. The sudden pull drew Ethel from where she had stood, and she slid down the yielding bank towards the verge.
Perhaps the ash branch might have borne them both, had Ethel's strength been equal to her share of the task; which it was not. The weight of both girls rested now mainly upon Ethel's slender left hand, and the strain was terrible.
For two or three seconds she set her teeth, and held on desperately; but that could not last. She was turning faint; specks danced before her eyes, and Fulvia's voice was unheard. The drag upon her wrist tore the muscles, and the agony became unbearable. Another moment, and the released branch sprang back to its old position, while the two girls rolled helplessly over into deep water, each clinging to the other with unconscious force.
This was Fulvia's second involuntary bath in the river! Last time the water had been her friend, saving her from a deadlier peril; now it was her foe, endangering life.
* * * * * * *
Fulvia's presence of mind forsook her at the moment of the plunge into cold water, and she forgot the low hanging bough; but happily the stream fulfilled her hope. As the two girls rose, still together, Fulvia flung out her arm against something firm, and in a moment she had fast hold.
"Cling! Cling!" she gasped, so soon as speech became possible. She dashed the water out of her eyes, and cast a look round. "Ethel, Ethel, cling; we are safe now!"
Ethel had uttered no sound. Her eyes were half shut; her lips had grown blue. It was not easy to make her transfer her grasp of Fulvia to the friendly bough. They were so near its extremity that the wonder was they had not been swept past it by the current. Ethel inevitably would have been, since she was outermost, but for her instinctive grip of Fulvia.
Fulvia, as she seized the bough, drew Ethel nearer; and the gentle force of the stream rather tended now to wash them against it than to carry them away. But they could feel no ground for their feet; and though the water buoyed them up, it was very cold—far colder than Fulvia would have expected.
She gazed about in eager quest for help, and could see no one. While they could cling, they were, as she had said, safe. The question was, how long the power of each would last?
To get to shore unaided was not possible. Even if they could have attempted to work themselves along by the side of the bough, passing hand over hand—an easy matter to a boy, though by no means easy to a girl—it would have been useless. The branch soon curved upwards out of reach, and unless they could climb into the tree, which was out of the question, they would have to cross unaided a space of deep water, which was equally out of the question.
Moreover, Fulvia had serious doubts as to the strength of their support. She did not think it would stand any severe strain. The branch, as a whole, was less stout than it had appeared at a little distance: there were signs about it of age, and of something approaching to rottenness, and higher up, half-way to the bank, she could actually see a slight split, as if the part on which they depended had begun to break off. It might only have begun with the pull of their sudden weight, as Fulvia was swept against it.
She found herself watching that visible split in the wood with fascinated eyes, composed enough to speculate how soon it would widen, yet with terror below.
They could do nothing except cling and cry for help. Fulvia called and called again, without result. Ethel made no such attempt. She seemed just conscious, just able to clutch the bough with one hand, the other being under water out of sight; but no words had yet passed her lips, and the look of exhaustion alarmed Fulvia.
"I don't see or hear anybody. Some one must surely pass soon. Ethel, are you faint? You look so pale. Don't let go!" This companionship in misfortune drew them together, and she felt that Ethel was in peril for her sake. "Don't let anything make you! Can't you hold with both hands?"
"I can't—"
"Why not? Have you hurt yourself?"
"I think—my wrist—"
"Yes; what is it?"
"Only—twisted—"
"Was that why you had to give way? Is the pain very bad?"
"Yes." The monosyllable did for both questions.
Fulvia had one arm over the bough by this time. She quitted her grip of it with the other, and grasped Ethel's dress instead.
"That will help you, will it not?" she said. "Now you cannot go. Ethel, be brave; do try to hope. Somebody is sure to come soon. You must not let yourself faint. This can't last long."
It could not indeed, in another sense, as Fulvia well knew. Their position was rapidly becoming most serious. Her own powers lessened fast, and Ethel drooped more each minute. Now and again it seemed to Fulvia that the clasp of those thin fingers was loosening. She held Ethel tightly, alternately imploring her to keep up, and shouting for aid; but still no one came, and it was impossible that Fulvia should long support Ethel as well as herself.
A new terror arose. Ominous creaks sounded, slight at first, then more distinct; and Fulvia, watching with wide-open eyes, felt certain that the crack above had begun to widen. In a few minutes the whole bough would split off. This was the finishing touch to her misery. Once more Fulvia's composure failed her as terror rose high, and she screamed again for help, in a voice sharpened by fear.
Either the creaks or that new sound in Fulvia's voice aroused Ethel from her semi-trance. The eyes, dim and unseeing a minute earlier, grew clear, and she said distinctly, "It is giving way."
Fulvia broke into despairing sobs. "Ethel, Ethel, what shall we do? Why does no one come? It is cruel—cruel. Must we be drowned? I can't die! I cannot—cannot leave Nigel!"
"Poor Fulvia!" Ethel's faint tones were full of pity. "But if God calls?" she murmured.
Fulvia shut her eyes, and tried to cry for help, for pardon, before it should be too late; but she could not think, could not fix her mind. In days of safety she had not drawn near to God, and now, in the hour of danger, she felt Him far away. The dazzle of the water was all around, even when her eyes were shut; and the stream gently swayed her; and the creaks grew louder, more frequent. She heard Ethel speaking again, "Don't hold me! Let go!"
"Why?" Fulvia involuntarily loosened her hold on Ethel as she spoke.
"It will not bear us both."
"The bough! Breaking!"
"Yes. Don't be startled. I think you will be all right. I think I ought!"—and there was a quiet smile. "Tell Nigel why. And—oh, Fulvie!" with a passion of longing in the blue eyes—"be very, very good to him!"
Then she unclasped the clinging fingers, which held her to the bough, and fell off. The strained support ceased to creak with the lessened weight, and Ethel's slight form was borne away, carried round the next bond in the river.
A piercing scream burst from Fulvia. She had cried for help before with all her force, but this cry rang far and wide, with a shrill intensity unequalled hitherto. No second cry followed it; voice failed in a convulsion of sobs. Fulvia had not dreamt what Ethel's words meant.
The Bramble family had organised a small expedition that afternoon to a certain Roman encampment some miles down the river. The encampment consisted only of a few stony heaps, well grown over; but a charming wood stood hard by, and Newton Bury people made the most of their one little lion.
Mr. Bramble was there, middle-aged, good-humoured, a degree pompous, and willing to be amused; Mrs. Bramble, plump and complacent; Rose Bramble, and two young lady-cousins of Rose. Only the Duncans went, beside themselves, and for a wonder Dr. Duncan, in addition to his wife and daughter, was of the party. He could seldom find leisure for any such relaxation. Two open carriages bore the eight, and Baldwin Bramble preceded them on his bicycle.
Having enjoyed afternoon tea in the wood, the merry party drove homewards. Dr. Duncan's presence had been secured only through a promise of early return; consequently they stayed a shorter time than was usual with excursion parties. Baldwin, on his bicycle, speedily shot ahead of the more lumbering vehicles. He reached the neighbourhood of the spot where was Fulvia, a short time before she thought of moving. The carriage road lay not far from the river, though not within sight.
Baldwin had begun to find solitude uninteresting. He resolved to wait for the carriages, and to restrain his ardour for a while to match their pace. Leaning his bicycle against a grassy bank by the roadside, he passed through a gate and sat down under a hedge, intent upon his favourite solace. To his disgust, he found that he had mislaid his match-box. Cigars being useless, only one recourse remained to the disappointed young man. He fell sound asleep.
Ethel's voice and Fulvia's cries, in the succession of events which followed, failed to disturb Baldwin's peaceful slumbers. He had an uncomfortable dream or two, but he slept on. Then Fulvia's wild shriek, when Ethel left the bough, effected that which all previous cries had failed to effect. Baldwin awoke, with the echo of her scream still ringing in his ears.
He was not a rapid young man at any time, either in understanding or in doing; but as he sat up, it dawned upon him that somebody was in distress somewhere.
"What's the matter now? Bother!" he said aloud.
Had anybody else been at hand to take the initiative, Baldwin would doubtless have remained quiescent, since he never troubled himself to act unnecessarily. No one except himself appearing to be within call, he made his way towards the river. Where water is at hand, and an appeal for help is heard, one naturally connects the two together.
Baldwin had not far to go. Sobbing wails in a woman's voice guided and quickened his steps. He was soon looking downward upon the low bough, to which a girl clung, her hat off, her face and hands above water, her tones and gestures expressive of urgent appeal for help.
"Hallo!" exclaimed Baldwin.
The question was, how to get at her? Nigel, in Baldwin's place, would probably have taken a header into the river, without hesitation; but Baldwin was not so impulsive. He was a tolerably capable young man when moved by a sufficient motive, and the dire need of the lady below was evident; still, he had on a brand-new bicycling costume, never worn till that day; and not everybody is willing, without consideration, to sacrifice a brand-new suit of clothes.
It was plain that the lady saw him, and was calling out eager entreaties, broken by sobs. Baldwin paid small regard to what she said. Rescue was of course what she wanted; and the difficulty was how to rescue her without getting wet himself. He reluctantly came to the conclusion that the knickerbockers at least must submit to a ducking.
The road was entirely out of sight; but Baldwin was not afraid of the two carriages going by. He knew that the sight of his bicycle would bring them to a halt.
For two seconds Baldwin debated whether to climb down the bough to Fulvia. He decided against that mode, doubting whether the bough would bear his additional weight, and feeling sure that he could not get the young lady to land by any such means.
"Yes, yes; I'm coming," he called, with cheerful deliberation, as he pulled off his coat. The girl seemed in a desperate hurry, he thought. She was urging something passionately, with hysterical vehemence, but he could not distinguish a word.
Where Fulvia and Ethel had fallen in, the bank was steep. Here, below the tree, it sloped gradually into the river, and Baldwin waded several steps with caution.
"Hallo!" he exclaimed, stopping short, when the stream rose above his waist. "I say! If it isn't—! Why, it is—Miss Rolfe!"
"Save Ethel!" sobbed Fulvia incoherently.
"I wouldn't be so frightened—I really wouldn't, Miss Rolfe," expostulated Baldwin, in a tone of concern. "See, now, couldn't you manage to pull yourself along the bough towards me, just a yard or two?—It's no earthly use speaking to her; she won't hear a word," muttered the young man. "Nothing for it but to swim. I say," raising his voice, "don't you grab me, Miss Rolfe. We don't want to go under together." He had vivid recollections of her conduct on a former occasion, when he had not been the rescuing party.
A few strokes carried him across the intervening space, and he laid one hand upon the low lying branch. It snapped away like tinder, and he made a vehement snatch at Fulvia, just in time, as she was going with it.
"Hallo!" he once more ejaculated.
Fulvia gasped, and struggled. Baldwin held her dexterously at arm's length, and struck out for the bank, which he reached somewhat lower down. He sprang out, helped her up, and gave himself a shake. The knickerbockers were done for.
Streaming with water, breathless and stupefied, Fulvia sank to the ground; but as her gasps lessened, sense and speech returned.
"Don't mind me!—Oh, don't mind me!" she implored. "Ethel has gone down—drowning—the river—Oh, go and save her!"
"Hallo! You don't say there's another?"
Fulvia, almost shrieked in answer, "Yes!—Yes!—Ethel—Ethel Elvey!" Would he never understand?
"Bramble, what's all this? Fulvia!" exclaimed Dr. Duncan, arriving on the scene.
"She'd better drive home. Just got her out of the river. Yes—nice, isn't it?" with a rueful glance at his boots. "I don't think she knows what she's saying—" in an undertone, confidentially. "That's rubbish, you know, about Miss Elvey."
"No! No! No! He will not understand," cried Fulvia. "We fell in together—Ethel and I—and she has gone down—down the river! The branch was breaking, and she let go! Oh, save her!"
Dr. Duncan turned sharply to Baldwin. "Send her home in one carriage at once," he said. "Keep the other, and come after me."
Then he was off at full speed, losing not a moment, active as a boy in his movements, quickly out of sight.
"Oh, go—go too!—Never mind me!" urged Fulvia.
"I've got to see you off first. Dr. Duncan will do all that can be done," said Baldwin, feeling little doubt that the rescue of Ethel, if not already accomplished, must come too late. "You'll catch your death of cold, if you don't hurry."
"No, no! You must leave me and go!" implored Fulvia; but she implored in vain—Baldwin would not so much as listen. He half led, half dragged her over the rough ground, till the road was reached, where the two open carriages waited.
A chorus of exclamations greeted Baldwin and his dripping companion. He singled out Mrs. Duncan, and explained tersely how things stood. "Miss Rolfe was to drive home at once," he said; "Dr. Duncan ordered it. The other carriage had better wait." In an undertone Baldwin added, "Don't you let her put off. She's half frantic already, and if Miss Elvey—you know what I mean."
Mrs. Duncan did know too well. She wrapped warm shawls round the shivering girl, and despatched her without delay, under the charge of Mrs. Bramble and the two cousins, Rose Bramble taking to the coach box. Better all of them out of the way, thought Mrs. Duncan, regretting only that Annibel could not go also. Fulvia hysterically begged to be allowed to wait; but, like Baldwin, Mrs. Duncan would not listen.
"My dear, it is as much as your life is worth," she said; and she gave parting directions to the others. "Tell Mrs. Browning and Daisy that Fulvia must take off all her wet things, and get into bed as fast as possible, and have something hot to drink."
BORNE DOWNWARD
"Farewell, oh dream of mine!I dare not stay;The hour is come, and timeWill not delay:Pleasant and dear to meWilt thou remain;No future hourBrings thee again."—A. A. PROCTER.
"HASN'T been a bad day for a row," observed Malcolm.
"No."
"Well, now we have tried it once, we'll try it again. You used to be such a one for boating. Grown tired of it lately?"
"No."
"You've not gone in for it!"
"No."
"I would sometimes, if I were you. 'All work and no play,' you know—"
"Yes."
"What's the matter to-day?"
This question came abruptly. The friends had been together since half-past two, and the above is a fair sample of the conversation which had taken place.
"Nothing," Nigel said—adding, "at least nothing in particular."
"Only everything in general. That's as bad."
"No. It's all right."
"Sure? You seem out of sorts somehow."
Nigel rowed on in silence. The lithe muscular figure found evident pleasure in the exertion, moving with careless ease. There was no lack of good health apparent in the bronze face; but the immovable gravity differed much from Nigel's old light-heartedness. Malcolm noticed it more than usually this day. He had started in high spirits himself, ready for any amount of gaiety, and he found scant response. No answering fun was to be got out of his serious companion.
"What's the matter, old fellow?" he inquired again. "I don't want to be a bother, but really one can't help noticing. What are you thinking about?"
"Varieties," was the answer.
"When are you coming to see us again?"
"I don't know. Some day, perhaps."
"You are busy now, of course. Still, if Ethel didn't know you so well she might be affronted." Malcolm spoke thoughtlessly, and the next moment was vexed with himself. He did not understand the exact position of affairs. Nigel's engagement to Fulvia, after years of apparent devotion to Ethel, had been a sore perplexity to him; but he did not know that there were reasons for Nigel's action which had not been told to him, yet which Ethel counted to have weight; and he had strong trust in his friend. Moreover, he could see, as every one could see, that Nigel was not happy. Malcolm's private belief was that Nigel cared too little for Fulvia, too much for Ethel; therefore, he regretted his own hasty words.
"How is Ethel?" asked Nigel, speaking with a manifest effort.
"Not so strong as she ought to be. We hoped more from Wales."
The two rowed on again, more slowly than before; or rather Nigel rowed, Malcolm having taken to steering. Nigel was buried in thought.
"We shall have to think of a change to some more bracing place, if she doesn't look up soon," observed Malcolm. "I don't like to see her as she is now."
A shrill scream rang out suddenly.
"What's that?" burst from both.
"Where from?" exclaimed Malcolm.
"Ahead!" And Nigel worked at the oars with vigour.
"Sure? I thought—"
"Yes! Listen!" But no second cry followed the first.
"Nigel, you didn't know that voice? I had a fancy—"
Nigel uttered one word, "Fulvia." He had lost colour, but he spoke calmly, redoubling his exertions. The boat shot swiftly up stream.
"Let me take an oar." Malcolm started half up, but Nigel's answer was imperative—
"No; keep still. Can't wait for that."
Malcolm submitted. He knew that he could not rival these strokes, and he could better be on the lookout where he was. They swept round a slight bend, and then a cry escaped Malcolm.
"Ha! See there!"
"Where? What?"
"Some one in the water! A woman!"
"Make for her—straight."
Nigel did not even glance round. "Fulvia!" was in the minds of both, and Nigel was deeply moved; for whatever she might or might not be to him, his love for her was of its kind thoroughly genuine.
"It may not be—her," Malcolm uttered. "Take care; not so fast. Now—slacken! Now—here."
Nigel looked, drew in his oars, and sprang up, always the first to act. Malcolm kept his seat, balancing the boat, as Nigel leant over and caught something, drawing it nearer—caught a girlish dress.
Then they both saw—
A still face, pure as alabaster, the eyes closed, the brown hair matted and streaming, the lips peacefully parted!
"Ethel! Oh my God!" broke from Nigel.
"Ethel!" Malcolm echoed hoarsely.
No other sound passed Nigel's lips. He grew pale, but there was no loss of control over himself. With steady balancing, aided by Malcolm, he drew up the slight heavy figure, held in one half-instant in his arms, gazing, then laid it gently down.
"Nigel, she can't—can't have been in long. She must have fallen just now. That scream," Malcolm said with difficulty.
Nigel made no reply in words. He gave Malcolm one glance, caught up the oars, pointed to the bank, and rowed with fierce energy.
A possible landing-place was near, and in less than two minutes they were there. The boat's keel no sooner grounded than Nigel dropped his oars, lifted Ethel once more in his arms, and sprang ashore. He seemed to have unnatural strength. Every movement was rapid and light, as if he did not feel her weight.
"The Parsonage?" Malcolm said, and Nigel made a gesture of assent. He had at once remembered the little hamlet Church of Buryfield, not ten minutes distant, with its liliputian Parsonage and gentle elderly Incumbent. "Let me help. You can't carry her all the way."
"No;" and Nigel strode on at a frantic pace, his face ghastly. Malcolm kept pace by his side.
"She can't be gone. It can't be too late. She was in so short a time," urged Malcolm. "Don't give up hope." He almost lost sight of his own fear and grief in view of his friend's distress, which yet he could not understand. Nigel had not worn that look when they believed the scream to be Fulvia's,—as indeed it was. The idea that Fulvia, not Ethel, had screamed, and that Fulvia too was in danger, did not occur to either of them.
Mr. Dacres was at home. He knew the young men slightly, and had seen Ethel before. This sudden incursion must have been a trial to an unmarried man, advanced in years; but he met it bravely, summoning at once his capable housekeeper to see what could be done. Hot water, hot flannels, anything they might need, were at their service. The gardener was sent, rushing at his utmost speed, to summon Dr. Duncan, or any doctor who could be found, from Newton Bury, for this hamlet did not own a medical man. Little dreamt any of them that Dr. Duncan was even then within a few minutes' walk, hurrying along the bank in search of Ethel.
Malcolm knew something, at least in theory, of what had to be done in such an emergency. The housekeeper and a girl who worked under her were willing enough to follow his directions. They removed Ethel's wet clothes, wrapping her in warm blankets before the kitchen fire, with vigorous rubbing. Nigel and Malcolm waited in the passage while these things were done; and then, as all efforts failed, they stole back into the kitchen, Malcolm to assist in rubbing, Nigel to watch the still face with despairing eyes.
Dr. Duncan could not come yet. Half-an-hour more was the shortest time possible. But as they said and thought this, the door opened, and James Duncan walked in.
No needless words were spoken. Dr. Duncan bent over Ethel, listening to the heart, feeling the pulse, lifting the eyelids to look into the eyes. Then his glance fell upon Nigel's face, and a slight change crept into his calmness, as if he had seen something unexpected.
"Not dead," he pronounced.
"Thank God!" Malcolm said fervently.
No answering sound came from Nigel, and the doctor's glance fell on him again.
"We are too many here. The less the better. Yes, go for a little while—" to Malcolm. Then in a lower voice, "Take that poor fellow into another room."
"But there is hope?"
"I trust so. We have no time to lose. Now, Mrs. Willis—"
Malcolm did not wait for more. He had complete faith in Duncan's skill and kindness. Mr. Dacres lingered, while Malcolm slipped an arm through Nigel's, and drew him from the kitchen regions into the clergyman's little study.
"Cheer up," he said gravely. "It will not be so bad, Nigel,—thank God. Dr. Duncan does not fear the worst. Cheer up, my dear fellow; we may hope now."
Nigel had never broken quite down through all the pain and grief of past months; but he broke down now. His face was hidden, bowed low on his crossed arms, and the whole frame shook. No sobs were audible, yet Malcolm knew what it meant. He drew the bolt softly, for none but himself might see this; and he could only look on in silence, with eyes full of tears, till the worst was over.
Mrs. Browning and Daisy were inadequate to the management of Fulvia, when Fulvia chose to take the bit between her teeth. It was all very well for Mrs. Duncan to send directions that Fulvia ought to go to bed. Mrs. Bramble delivered the message faithfully, but Fulvia refused to obey.
"How cam, I, till I know about Ethel?" she asked. "Take care of myself when Ethel is perhaps—oh, if they had only let me stay to hear! It was cruel to hurry me away. But Nigel will soon be at home, and he can find out. I must stay downstairs till Nigel comes. Not good for me! What does that matter? What do I care? I only want to know if Ethel is safe."
She built her hopes upon Nigel's return, which seemed to be unaccountably delayed. Meantime she had consented to change her soaked clothing, and to dispose of what Daisy called "a hot drink." Then, as she shivered incessantly, despite her warm shawl, a fire was lighted in the study, and Fulvia cowered over it.
Daisy offered to go to the Rectory for news, but Fulvia would not consent. "They may not have heard," she said, shuddering. "If Ethel is safe, it would be brutal to frighten Mrs. Elvey without need. And if—if the worst has happened, they will hear soon enough—too soon. Why should one be in a hurry to bring misery to people! It is hard enough to bear one's own wretchedness."
Suspense in her present mood found relief in speech. Fulvia talked incessantly, going over every detail of the day's adventures, enlarging with feverish admiration on Ethel's self-devotion. She did not shed tears, but she could not be silent or turn to another subject. Her limbs were aching, her face and head burning. Mrs. Browning listened uneasily, trying in vain to soothe her. Agreement or opposition alike made her worse. Anice was upstairs, keeping aloof, as usual, from uncomfortableness, and Daisy watched at the dining-room window, coming from time to time with the report, "No news and nobody,"—always to be ordered back by Fulvia to her post of observation.
"Nigel will be here directly. He must," Fulvia said on one of these occasions. "Let me know the moment you see him. No, I won't have you do anything. Only wait." Then she recurred to the grievous refrain: "If Ethel is drowned, I shall never forgive myself. It will have been all through me. I shall never look any one in the face again."
At last!—the sound of wheels! Daisy flew in. "Some one has come," she cried. "Cousin Jamie, and—I'm not sure, but I think I had a glimpse of Nigel."
Fulvia kept her seat, trembling violently. She did not grow pale, but the flush deepened, spreading to her brow. "Call them here—quick," she said. "If not, I will go out. Quick!"
Daisy obeyed to the best of her power.
Dr. Duncan came in first, looking as if the events of the last two hours had told upon him. Nigel followed,—not the Nigel who had left home after lunch, but white, worn, heavy-eyed, as he had been after his father's death.
Fulvia's wandering gaze concentrated itself on him, while he stood, resting one arm on the back of a chair, apparently not even seeing her.
"Then—Ethel is gone!" she said, gasping. "It was too late? And I—I—the cause!"
She turned her burning face away, and wrung her hands together, breaking into a wail of distress, like a child, and then she found Dr. Duncan's hand upon her arm.
"Hush! You are over-excited. Ethel is better."
"Not dead! But Nigel looks—" Fulvia broke off. "He looks—! Was Ethel saved? She—went down the river,—" with a bewildered glance round. "I can't explain. I feel so strange! Is this the way people go out of their minds?"—and there was a short laugh. "Feel my hand; I am all on fire. But think—think of Ethel! The branch was breaking, and she let go—for my sake! And she is not drowned. I thought she must be drowned. Not drowned, you say? You are sure—quite sure?"
"Yes." Until then Fulvia's rapid utterances allowed no space for reply. "Perfectly sure."
"How do you know? Have you seen her? Has Nigel?"
"Malcolm and Nigel were coming up the river in their boat—just in time."
"And she is—not the worse?"
"She will suffer, of course; but we were able—mercifully—to bring her round."
"She will get over it—will get well? Promise me!"
"I trust so, in time. We have taken her home, and my wife will stay there all night. I have come now to see you."
"I! Oh, that does not matter. What does anything signify about me? If you will save Ethel—people love Ethel, you know. And for Nigel's sake! It doesn't matter about me! Why don't you go back to Ethel? She ought not to be left. She might die; and if she did, Nigel would die too. Look! Can't you see?"
"Fulvia, you are wrong! You must not give way like this," said Dr. Duncan in a low voice.
"Why not? I may do as I like. Who cares?"
She turned petulantly from him, and with uneven steps walked across to Nigel.
Dr. Duncan would not follow her. He sent Daisy from the room, on some slight pretext, and at once set himself to engross Mrs. Browning's attention.
Fulvia cared little, in her then mood, whether or no she was observed. She stood in front of Nigel, who had remained silent since his first entrance, and her intent gaze caused a slight movement, as if he shrunk from it—or from her.
"Have you been so frightened about Ethel?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Not about—?"
Nigel understood. "I did not know of your danger too, Fulvia, till—" he said in a low voice, and then he faltered, as if scarcely knowing how to continue.
"Yes—till when?"
"Jamie told me—half-an-hour ago, I believe—I am not sure."
"No; that was a secondary matter," said Fulvia. Her face hardened, and her tone grew harsh. "If you had known us both to be drowning, would you have left Ethel to come to me?"
Nigel attempted no answer.
"Nigel—look at me!" she said sharply—even imperiously, as she had before spoken to Daisy. "Look at me, and answer. Why should you be afraid? Would you have left Ethel to come to me?"
Even these words did not rouse him. He made an effort to respond, but the heavy eyes seemed almost unable to lift themselves. Fulvia had seen him like this once before. Her mood changed with curious suddenness, as Fulvia's moods were wont to change. The hardness vanished, and pity took its place.
"You are done up," she said. "Was it the thought that Ethel was drowned?"
Nigel was silent.
"And I—you did not think of me—"
"I did not know—"
"Was I cruel to ask that question just now?" Fulvia inquired, almost whispering the words.
Dr. Duncan and Mrs. Browning passed out of the room, leaving them alone.
"Yes, I was cruel," she went on. "You cannot help it. You have tried so hard. I know that well. But till to-day I have not known Ethel—the noble girl that she is! I have dared to think her ordinary. Have you heard how things happened? You ought to hear!"
"Not all—"
"No,—I might guess Ethel would not tell. I slipped first, and she came to my help, and we fell in together. She could not hold me up, though she tried. Then we clung to the bough, and it was giving way. I was frightened, but Ethel did not seem afraid. She and I are so different. We could not be sure if the bough would last, and Ethel let go to save me, and went down the river. If I had guessed in time, I would have held her fast; but how could I guess? That was the last I saw of Ethel. It was grand of her—more than I could have done in her place. I shall never forget her face, the moment that she let go—never! I shall always know what Ethel is."
Nigel said nothing, and not a feature of his face changed. Fulvia watched him closely, knowing that he would not show what he might have shown.
"Is Ethel always like that?"
"Yes—always."
"And you have known it?"
"Yes—" still lower.
"I think you ought to lie down," said Fulvia abruptly. "I have not seen you so for a long while—not since padre's death." Then she looked round, to find Dr. Duncan by her side. "Nigel is ill," she said with a shudder.
"Not ill, only overstrained. I am more afraid for you," said Dr. Duncan. "Why did you not go to bed at once?"
"Oh, I could not—how could I? But I will now. Everything feels so strange!" and she laughed drearily. "I can't get clear in my head. You are sure that Ethel is not drowned? Nigel could not seem more unhappy if she were. You are not deceiving me?"
"Have I ever deceived you yet?"
"No!" Fulvia said at once. A look came into her eyes which Dr. Duncan could not fathom. "If you had, I should never trust you again, should I? Whatever you said or did, I should always—always—feel that you might be deceiving me again."
Nigel glanced at her, and Fulvia met his eyes, breaking into a laugh.
"Oh, I feel so strange," she said.
Dr. Duncan shook her hand gently, as if to rouse her.
"Don't talk so Fulvia. This has been too much for you. The sooner you are in bed the better."
"Yes. I have nothing to stay up for now. But Ethel will get well. You are sure—sure?"
"I trust so."
"She must! For Nigel's sake! It will kill him if she dies! Yes, I am going! Make Nigel rest, please. Will you see Ethel again to-night?"
"Yes; and I shall look in again to see how you are, afterwards. Go straight to bed now. Daisy is waiting for you."
"Thanks. Good-bye," said Fulvia. She passed out of the room, without even a glance towards Nigel.
His eyes and Dr. Duncan's met, each questioning the other; while Fulvia dragged herself upstairs.