NOT I, BUT THOU
"Be satisfied that, in order to accomplish all that God would have done there is in one sense but very little to do . . . It is simply a question of yielding up our will; of going cheerfully from day to day whithersoever God may lead us."—FÉNÉLON."Thou who canst love us, though Thou read us true."—Christian Year.
SEVEN long weeks had run their course since the day when Fulvia and Ethel fell into the river. Much may happen in seven weeks! And it seemed to Fulvia that much had happened, all within the four walls of her own room, which for six weeks she never left. But more had taken place than she yet knew.
She had been very ill—so ill as to lie at death's door. The shock, the fright, the chill, the exposure in wet clothes—these, preceded and accompanied by great agitation, would have been enough to break anybody down. Even Fulvia's vigorous constitution was not proof against so severe a strain.
That constitution stood her in good stead, however, when the tide turned and she began to recover. Her improvement was steady, with few drawbacks.
Ethel had been ill too, and Fulvia knew it. Not desperately ill, like herself; but laid low with a bad feverish cold, and kept low indefinitely by weakness from which she could not rally. Fulvia, asked after her daily, and could find out no more.
Fulvia was intensely desirous for Ethel's recovery. She could never forget the moment when Ethel had slipped away from the bough, as it seemed to certain death, that Fulvia might be saved. Nothing in Fulvia's life had made a stronger impression on her mind. She was penetrated through and through with a sense of Ethel's nobility of character. She thought of it awake, talked of it asleep, raved of it in delirium; and if Fulvia had not often prayed before, she prayed now—constantly, passionately—that Ethel might become well—not for her own sake, but for Nigel's sake! For side by side with Ethel's white face, floating away on the river, as Fulvia saw it perpetually, was Nigel's face, worn and hollow-eyed, as he had come back from the rescue of Ethel.
During seven weeks she had not seen Nigel. Once, when she was at her worst, he had nearly been called into the sick-room, in the hope that his face might soothe her restless excitement; but Fulvia, overhearing, had cried out against the suggestion. She was so much worse for the bare idea, that no one thought of proposing it again.
Mrs. Browning learnt some sharp lessons watching by the sick girl. It was difficult to fathom the meaning of her rapid unconscious utterances; but one thing at least was plain—that Fulvia had been, and was, terribly unhappy. The engagement which Mrs. Browning and her husband, as well as Mr. Carden-Cox, had been so anxious to bring about, was not a success. Nigel's spiritless gravity had long been in itself a silent rebuke; and Fulvia's broken mournful complaints struck even more keenly home; since their wish to press matters forward had been, at least in a measure, for Fulvia's sake.
Better far, for all concerned, if they had been content to leave uncertainties in the hands of One who sees the end from the beginning. We are all too apt to think that we can arrange the lives of those around us: and our meddling often only mars what we would fain set right. Mrs. Browning knew this at last; and the gentle woman grieved sorely, though in silence, over her past mistakes. But at least she did not make the fresh mistake of interfering anew.
Fulvia had now been allowed for several days to go downstairs, and had even had a short drive or two; nevertheless, she had not yet seen Nigel. He had left home a fortnight earlier, a holiday being kindly arranged for him by Mr. Bramble, that he might try to shake off the unconquerable lassitude which for weeks had weighed him down. Every one thought him looking ill, and this had come to Fulvia's ears, though she asked few questions, and, indeed, seldom spoke of him voluntarily.
The fortnight of absence being over on this day, exactly seven weeks after the accident, Nigel was expected home. Fulvia sat alone in the study, awaiting his arrival.
She looked better in health than might have been expected; which is often the case after a severe illness, with its necessary rest, and petting, and feeding up. Friends are always surprised; but it constantly so happens. Fulvia's complexion was clearer, her eyes were brighter, her cheeks were even a little plumper, than two months ago.
Yet she had gone through much suffering, mental as well as physical, and she had come out changed. The gold had been purified in the furnace. Life itself was altered for Fulvia thenceforward.
Self's happiness had been her chief aim through past years, side by side, indeed, with kindly thought for others, yet always holding its position. It had seemed to her impossible to live without the thing she craved,—without Nigel.
Now a higher and nobler view of life had dawned. The thought of self-sacrifice, as a great joy in life, had come.
Once before she had had a glimpse: once, many months earlier, when she had resolved to put aside thoughts of self, and to help forward the happiness of him whom she loved, irrespective of her own desires. That feeble resolution had gone down like a reed before the hurricane rush of strong temptation. She had seen the possible nobleness, but she had not lived it.
Now matters were different. Ethel's act of self-devotion had led her upwards to something far above—infinitely beyond. Fulvia had gained in this illness new knowledge of ONE whose life and death were pure self-sacrifice, who had not lived to Himself, but to God and for men. That which had been a story to her before was at last reality. A fresh and wonderful light was shed upon everything.
Slowly, dawning like daylight, the light came. Fulvia was in no haste. She waited to see more, submitting like a little child. To such an attitude of waiting the needed lessons are always sent.
Two clear thoughts gradually rose into prominence, the first embracing the second, the second springing from the first.
Christ had given Rig life for her! Could she do less than devote her life unto Him?
That was the first and greater thought.
Ethel had been willing to die for Fulvia! Could not Fulvia voluntarily give up her heart's desire for Ethel?
That was the second and lesser thought.
The first was the easier of acceptance. The second, which of necessity followed, caused hard battling. But gradually Fulvia's resolution was taken.
She was thinking over this resolution as she sat in the study, facing her future, trying, not without success, to be glad in Nigel's coming happiness.
"For he will be happy!" she murmured. "And I may love him still—as his sister. We were brother and sister so many years. Just going back to the old order of things. It will not be so hard now—perhaps—now I can love Ethel too."
There was a stir of arrival at the front door. Fulvia sat still, trembling. She was not strong yet, though she looked well. She had said that she would see Nigel alone, and the others had acquiesced; only Daisy asked her mother curiously, "I wonder why?"
"My dear, don't ask. Say nothing," Mrs. Browning answered sadly.
Some little delay took place. Fulvia could hear voices—Nigel's sounding cheerful. She locked her hands together, resolute to be calm. Then Nigel came into the room.
"They told me I should find you here," he said.
Fulvia had not resolved how to act, had not been able to decide. Now a sudden impulse came: and when he entered, she rose slowly, holding out her hand.
"Am I not to have a kiss, Fulvia?" he asked in his kindest tone.
He looked much better for the change, brighter than she had seen him for some time.
"If you like—as my brother!" she said distinctly, though her heart beat almost to suffocation.
His glance was of perplexity—more perplexity than distress, Fulvia knew. She withdrew her hand, and sat down, and Nigel did not give the kiss permitted on those terms. He stood gazing at her, intensely serious.
"Has your holiday done you good?" she asked after a pause.
"Yes. I do not understand. Has anything happened to annoy you? What can you mean?"
"What I said—simply."
"I don't understand."
She held the arm of her chair fast. "Only—that we are brother and sister again. Reversion to the old order of things."
Dead silence followed. Nigel was motionless, leaning against the mantelpiece, his lips compressed, his whole face so grieved that she could not help the spring of a faint hope. What if, after all, she were mistaken?
"I do not understand," he said, for the third time. "There must be a cause. Either you have grown tired of me, or something has vexed you. Not—surely!—poor Mr. Carden-Cox's will? That would not be like you. Of course my share is entirely yours—would be, I mean, if—" and he hesitated. "Until this moment I have supposed that money coming to you and to me meant the same thing."
It was Fulvia's turn to look bewildered.
"Uncle Arthur's will!" she said. "Has he made a new one? He did talk of it, and I begged him not; but why should I mind?"
"Then they have not told you?"
"No one has told me anything. I have scarcely heard his name mentioned. It has seemed strange—sometimes."
Nigel was silent, and she cast an anxious glance.
"Is something wrong? Has anything happened? I have a right to know, surely. It will not hurt me now."
"You were not told before I left; but I fancied that by this time—I ought to have asked first—"
"Tell me now. What is it?"
"He was taken suddenly."
"Uncle Arthur dead?"
Nigel made a sound of assent, and Fulvia's eyes filled with tears. She was almost glad to have something about which she might lawfully show sorrow.
"Poor uncle! How sad! And not long ill, you say?"
"No; it was an acute attack. I saw him the evening before, seemingly well, but distressed about you. The next day he was gone."
"Poor uncle!" sighed Fulvia.
Yet her mind at once reverted to the present question, the present pain, which dwarfed all lesser troubles. Nigel thought that her pensive look meant grief for Mr. Carden-Cox. His own attention was very much divided. He could not for a moment forget Fulvia's words of greeting; and after all, however kind to them, Mr. Carden-Cox was not a man to win great love.
"Strange,—the last time he saw me, he talked of making a new will," Fulvia remarked dreamily, forgetting that she had said the same before. "And I never went to see him again. I wish I had gone."
"The new will was not finished."
"So much the better."
"It will come to the same thing."
"No; the old will left half to you. I am glad it is so."
"Half the income—not half the personal effects. The house and all it contains will be yours."
"Was his income—? How much was it?"
"Over a thousand a year. No one supposed him to have that amount. Of course you have—would have a right to the whole."
"Certainly not. You will keep your five hundred a year, and I shall keep mine: enough, and more than enough, for me."
A rap sounded at the door, and Daisy's voice cried:
"Aren't you both coming? We want you."
Nigel went to the door, and opened it.
"No, not yet," he said. "Pray leave us quiet."
Daisy fled.
And Nigel came back, to ask once more—
"Fulvia, what did you mean just now?"
"I meant what I said," Fulvia answered low: "that it will be better for us to be brother and sister again, as we used to be."
"But—why?"
"Must I say why?"
She was the more composed of the two. She had had her struggle beforehand, and was mistress of herself, while Nigel, taken by surprise, was visibly agitated.
He sat down in front of her, leaning forward; and as he faced Fulvia, she noted a strange gleam in his eyes.
A wonder crossed her mind! Did this mean distress, or was it a sense of possible relief, even of joy?
"Yes; I have had no idea all these weeks—But you are changed! What has happened?"
"Not the will," she said. "You could not really suppose it to be that. I am only glad he did not make a new one."
"Then—what?"
Fulvia answered by a single word, soft and clear, "Ethel!"
Nigel did not move, and his eyes were on Fulvia still.
"What does this mean? Have I given you cause—?"
"No," she interrupted; "you have fought hard. I know it, and I don't blame you—I don't indeed. You have been open and true. And I accepted you, knowing—if not, I ought to have known—for you were true. But—"
"You cannot trust me?"
"If either of us says that, I am the one to say it to you."
"No; You do not trust me," he said, with marked displeasure.
Yet, under the displeasure, under the gravity, the trouble, the suppressed emotion, Fulvia knew that there lay the dawn of a new hope, of an old dead hope revived, so radiant that he dared not look at it. She knew this as distinctly as if she could have seen into his heart.
"I think," she said firmly, though with unsteady lips, "that you and I are better as brother and sister. It is wiser for both of us. I do trust you. I know that you are true; and you would be true to me. You would give me all that is in your power to give. But I should expect more than you are able to give; and if I never had it, I should be miserable—we should both be miserable. You have tried hard, and you would try—to the end. You see, I do not doubt you. But think how far-off that end might lie! And your heart's love is for Ethel, not for me."
No direct answer came to this. Nigel sprang up, and paced the room with restless steps. Fulvia knew that he was troubled, but not sorrow-stricken, not in the least danger of being heart-broken. She could watch his face safely as he walked, for he did not look once towards her. It was worried and grieved, nothing more.
"I have seen—I could not help seeing—" she went on, after he returned to his seat. "That last day especially, before my illness, when you came back from thinking Ethel drowned! I am not fancying—one does fancy such things! You love Ethel, and Ethel loves you, and I have kept you apart! Padre did not mean to be cruel when he was dying, but he was cruel. He had better have left us alone. People do such foolish things sometimes, don't they? I did not know till lately how Ethel has cared; at least, I was not sure. But that day—when she thought herself near to death—one could not mistake her look when she spoke of you! I have thought a great deal in my illness. And I know that I must do this. I know that I cannot keep you two apart, just for my own sake."
Nigel spoke at last in resolute voice, breathing hard, "This does not touch the real question. I have devoted my life to you."
"In payment of my £40,000!" she said, with an odd sorrowful smile. "No; that would be over-payment—or worse than no payment, if we were not happy. And it does touch the real question; for if I will not have you—"
"But if you are promised to me, Fulvia?"
Fulvia lifted her eyes, which had drooped. A light shone in them, "If you wished it—wished to hold me to my word," she said. "Promised; yes! But you cannot claim my promise, if you cannot give the love I have a right to ask! Yes, you love me as a brother. Is that enough? Nigel, you are very true, and I may trust you. I do trust you—utterly! Tell me in plain words—don't be afraid to speak out, only tell me—do you love me or Ethel best?"
Nigel made no response.
"Tell me! I will know! One word only! Ethel—or Fulvia! Which is it? Which is dearest to you?"
Still he did not speak. Fulvia leant forward, searching his face.
"Ethel—or me! Which?"
"Is there need for this? Is it right?" asked Nigel slowly. "Can you not trust me, when I say that my life shall be yours?"
"I would trust you for the life, but not for the love," she said. "You can promise the one; you cannot promise the other. Only love of a kind, at least, a poorer sort. Think—have pity!—Could you marry one who loved another more? Can you ask it of me? Yes, I was willing once—madly willing; but I have learnt better. Now that my eyes are opened, would you force it upon me still? And all from a mistaken notion of honour? You see, I understand. Would you have me sacrifice your happiness and Ethel's, for the sake of a happiness which would not be mine? How could it be? If you can say that you love me most—first—best of all—then I will still be yours! If not—! Tell me—truly—do you love Ethel or me? Which most?"
Nigel spoke the one word at last, as if it were dragged from him, his voice husky, and even faint, "Ethel!"
Fulvia said nothing. She could not have been taken by surprise, yet the shock overcame her. Perhaps she had never entirely given up hope till now.
Nigel was the first to speak.
"Fulvie, you would have it!" he said gently. "But you were wrong to ask me. It was not needed. The love for Ethel is such an old love, it cannot die in a day—cannot change, I mean, into—But indeed I have not thought of Ethel in that light lately, only as—We should have become friends—no more! I believe that one can conquer—may conquer! I would have fought it out, God helping me."
Fulvia held out her hand, and Nigel grasped it, repeating, "Why did you insist? It was cruel to yourself and me. I think you ought to know how dear you are to—even though—Why could you not let things alone? I would have conquered!"
"And all the time you and Ethel breaking your hearts for one another," Fulvia struggled to say.
"No—if it was right—and indeed I would have given you no cause—"
"Oh no! You have been so good to me always!"
"I will be again. Cannot we forget all this?"
Fulvia mastered her voice, and even forced a smile. "Yes," she said; "we will forget it all—the whole, from first to last. You shall be good to me still, only not so! We are brother and sister again, and you are free. I know I am right. It will be right for us both,—for all of us. By-and-by we shall be thankful that things did not go too far. I shall find some work in life worth doing. It is best so—indeed it is. Why must you look unhappy? I will try to be a good sister to you—both."
"You make me feel how grievously I have failed."
"No; it is not failure. It is only—I think we can say more another day. I am not—so very strong yet." Fulvia knew that she could bear no more. "Will you please tell madre and the girls—tell them it is my doing? I am going upstairs now, for a little rest. Nobody need come."
She gave him a farewell glance, and passed away, before he could detain her. Once locked in her own room, the knowledge of what she had done overcame her utterly. But by the time Mrs. Browning begged for entrance, she was herself again.
"Fulvia, my dear, what is this? What does this mean?" Mrs. Browning asked in great distress.
Fulvia threw her arms round the gentle woman, hiding her blistered face.
"It only means, dear madre, that I am your own child again—Nigel's sister! We needn't talk much about it, need we? Only please help me to be good and brave. I know I am right, and you know it too! We must think of—Nigel's happiness—must we not? Mother, help me to be brave!" sobbed Fulvia.
NIGEL'S LOVE
"Then He gave her peace,—Because her heart had learned to rest on Him—His perfect peace . . .. . . And so it was that sheWho looked on life and death with hate and fear,Saw in her life a happy pilgrimageOn toward a better country, which she soughtWith longing." —S. J. STONE.
ETHEL was lying on the couch in the Rectory dining-room. She could not sit up for any length of time. There was nothing radically wrong, Dr. Duncan said; but he did not like this persistent weakness. She seemed to have no rallying power.
"Nothing radically wrong—yet," he said; "but if any mischief should set in, things would go hardly with her." Sometimes he added—"If one could find a new interest—anything to rouse her!"
The question was, what interest? Change of scene had already been tried, and the slender Elvey purse would not submit to unlimited drains.
"I don't want to go away again. I only want to be quiet," Ethel had said, smiling, that very morning.
But she looked thin, and the white lids drooped wearily over the tired blue eyes, though it was yet early in the day. Her slender hands, after a vain attempt at work, were resting languidly one over the other.
"Ethel, my dear, here is somebody come to see you," Mr. Elvey's cheery voice said at the door.
"Come in, please," Ethel answered, not moving. She had often received callers lying down of late.
Mr. Elvey vanished, and Ethel could hear him speaking: "Yes, yes; she'll be delighted. Does her good to see fresh faces. She looks sadly to-day, poor child! I'm afraid I must be off, but do stay with her as long as you can."
Then to Ethel's astonishment, Fulvia Rolfe walked in—Fulvia Rolfe, cheerful and composed, apparently well in health, and handsomely dressed. She had taken particular pains with herself that morning.
Fulvia, had no notion of acting the "love-lorn damsel," with careless attire and dishevelled locks, for people to gossip about. Even before Anice and Daisy, the previous evening, she had carried matters with a high hand, resolutely making it appear that she and Nigel separated with equal willingness. It was "much better so," she answered lightly to any manner of condolence. She would release Nigel, but she would not submit to be pitied. If her eyes were a little heavy with midnight tears, who could wonder, after so severe an illness?
"Don't move—" and Fulvia bent for a kiss. "I have come to thank you."
"There is nothing to thank for!"
"One does not generally count it 'nothing' to have one's life saved—especially at the risk of—"
"Please don't say any more!"
"Well, if it distresses you; but I shall never forget! How is the wrist?"
"Oh, nearly well."
"And you are so poorly still." Fulvia took a seat as she spoke.
"I don't know—only tired."
"Always tired?"
"Yes. It doesn't matter. I can't get strong, somehow."
"So they tell me. You want change."
"I would rather stay at home."
"You want change," repeated Fulvia. "Ethel, will you say 'yes' to a plan I have in my head?"
"I—don't know."
"I have Nigel's consent. To-morrow I am leaving home with Daisy. We go first to the seaside for a week—to poor uncle Arthur's favourite lodgings. After that we hope to spend some time in an old Scotch farm. The farmer's wife was once a maid in our house. She is an excellent creature and will take good care of us; and she has three or four comfortable rooms, which will be at our service. Dr. Duncan wants me to have change, and our going there has been planned for some days. Starting to-morrow for a week at Burrside first is a new notion. And I want you to come with us."
Ethel was silent, her eyes open and sad.
"It will not be any expense to you—if you don't mind my saying so. Perhaps you know that I have come into a little money lately, since my uncle's death. He left what he had between Nigel and me—part to each, I mean,—" rather hurriedly; "so you need not scruple."
"You are very good," faltered Ethel. "But I don't think I can go."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I think not."
"Why?"
Ethel made no answer. Her colour fluttered.
"I have something else to tell you. It is all over between Nigel and me."
Fulvia spoke steadily.
Ethel gave her one dazzled glance.
"We decided yesterday that it would be right. Things are best so," said Fulvia, with resolute self-repression. She shook out her handsome mantle carelessly.
"Not—really!"
"Yes. I have felt for some time that it must be. Especially since—" Fulvia paused. She could not trust herself to say anything, but only some things, and she would not venture where she was not sure. "It is not a quarrel. It is simply that we both know this to be best. We shall always be a very affectionate brother and sister, no doubt,—" with a forced laugh,—"but that is all! If other people had not had their fingers in the pie, things would never have gone so far."
Fulvia's manner altered. She leant over the couch, laying her gloved hand on Ethel's.
"It has been a mistake," she said very low; "and we have found out our mistake. I know now how Nigel loves you—and I know that you are worthy of his love. Don't answer me—only listen! Nigel has tried hard to conquer, because—well, because he thought it right. He fancied that it was his duty to repay what I had lost—to repay it in that way. And for a little while I—thought the plan would do. I thought we might rub on together comfortably! But it will not answer. I am glad we have found out our mistake in time."
There was a pause. Ethel did not speak.
"He will not come to you directly. He thinks it would seem like a slight to me. That might not matter; but perhaps people would count him fickle, not understanding. So there has to be a gap—between the two. But I told him I should come and tell you how things are; and I think he was glad, though he would not consent. I did not ask his consent, for I had made up my mind. Ethel—do you at all know what you are to him?"
Ethel's fingers pressed Fulvia's. That was her only answer.
"Yes—I was sure you must. And—am I wrong in thinking that he is as much to you? You need not say a word—only you can tell me if I am mistaken. I should like to be able to say to him—no, not from you—only from what I know. Am I taking it all too much for granted?"
Another little break.
"Nigel must ask for himself, of course; I have no right. But—I am not afraid for him. I understand. And now—meantime—till he can—will you come away with me for a few weeks? I want you to be strong again; and I want to stop some of the Newton Bury gossip. And I want—I want you to learn to love me. For by-and-by—"
Fulvia's voice failed.
"I will do anything you wish," whispered Ethel.
Neither girl could see the other's face. Perhaps it was well,—so full was the one of trembling joy, so grey the other with pain.
* * * * * * *
During full three months the girls were absent, spending their time in the old farm, under the shadow of Scotch mountains.
Ethel and Daisy had never known a happier three months. If Fulvia suffered much, as suffer she undoubtedly did, she was outwardly only cheerful. Ethel became convinced, as Fulvia wished her to be, that Fulvia did not really care—never had really cared for Nigel further than with a sisterly affection. Fulvia knew that Nigel would never undeceive Ethel in this particular, even when he should be her husband.
They were not engaged yet. They did not even correspond yet. But in a manner each was sure of the other.
Ethel at least could have no doubts, and the sunshine of her face was a sight to do others good. Nigel's spirits might be more variable; but Fulvia gathered from his letters to Daisy, and from those of Anice to herself, that he by no means showed habitual depression.
"I was right—quite right!" she repeated often to herself.
Sometimes she could hardly bear to look forward,—the prospect ahead seemed so empty. She could only go on, step by step, praying for strength.
On other days she could bear to plan for the future, to picture herself with Mrs. Browning and the girls living in Mr. Carden-Cox's pretty house, which was now her own.
At first she tried to grow used to the idea of Nigel and Ethel at No. 9 Bourne Street, but this dream gave way to another. Why should not Nigel go to college, fulfilling at last his old desire, and study for the Bar?
One day Nigel wrote to her about Mr. Carden-Cox's money: a frank, brotherly note. He wished her to possess the whole.
Fulvia's answer was decisive.
"Never speak of such a thing to me again," she wrote. "I will not consent. I will not have it so. If you say any more, you will insult and grieve me more than I can tell. I shall have nearly seven hundred a year of my own, and a house rent free; and if that is not enough, I don't deserve to have any at all."Besides, I have set my heart upon a different life for you than that of a clerk in Newton Bury Bank."Why should not you go to the University, and carry out the old programme? You are fitted for the Bar. Uncle Arthur always said so. Even if you should marry soon, that would be no real hindrance; only it would have to be Cambridge—not Oxford."I have set my heart upon this, and I think you will not disappoint me. Madre and the girls are to come and live with me; and Daisy and I will make ourselves useful to Mr. Elvey in the parish. Then, if you like to let No. 9, furnished, that would be a little addition to your income."Write just one line to say that you will not disappoint your affectionate sister,"FULVIA."
The "one line" came by return of post.
"MY DEAR FULVIA,—Words can never say what I owe to you. It seems that you are determined to heap coals of fire upon our heads,—upon mine especially."You shall have your will. I can only submit to your generosity. I would say much more if I knew how to say it; but perhaps you will understand.—Ever your affectionate and grateful N. B."
* * * * * * *
Three months ended, the travellers returned.
It was a drizzling autumn afternoon, much like that on which Nigel had come home from his year of travel.
As the train stopped, Nigel's face appeared. Fulvia had known that it must be so, and she had schooled herself to meet him composedly. One throb her heart gave, but she smiled a quiet greeting. Ethel was very still. Nigel's eyes went to her face in a swift flash.
"How many trunks?" he asked.
"Pollard is there. Daisy and I will see that he has them all right," said Fulvia, turning away.
Nigel was left by Ethel's side, for the moment practically alone with her. Nobody else was near, for few people had come by this train. It was growing very dusk. He took her hand into his warm clasp.
"Ethel, are you well again?"
"Oh, quite. And Fulvia has been so good to me,—so very good and loving."
"I don't wonder," he said involuntarily, yet the next moment he did wonder, knowing all. But he could hardly think of even Fulvia yet, standing by Ethel, knowing that at last she might be his own. "Just one look!" he pleaded.
The blue eyes glanced up, arch and sweet.
"It is your own self," he said. He had waited patiently all these weeks, but now he felt that he could wait no longer. Another hour of uncertainty would be unbearable. Confident as he might feel at times, he had never really put the question to her; and it broke from him in this moment of meeting.
"Ethel, tell me!" he said huskily. "There is nothing now to keep us apart. Tell me—dearest—will you have me?"
"Yes!" she whispered. The same brief answer which she had given once before, on a certain wintry afternoon, to a somewhat different question of his; and it meant a plenitude of trust and joy.
Then Mr. Elvey hurried up, just too late for the train's arrival; and Daisy sauntered back from the luggage. Fulvia, following, gave one glance at the two faces, and lifted quizzical eyebrows.
"Already!" she murmured. "You are a prompt man! But of course—it is a mere matter of form!"
"Fulvie, I can never thank you enough," Nigel said earnestly the same evening. "Never!"
"For what?" she asked.
"For—everything!"
"Don't try! I hate thanks! All I want is to hear of your first brief! How do you think Ethel is looking?"
"Not the same girl that went away. How much I owe to you!"
"Not the same? But she is the girl you wanted," said Fulvia, lightly.
Nigel broke into his old laugh. He could not help it; and even he was beginning to think despite the past, that Fulvia did not greatly care. She had been so cheery and full of fun all the hours since reaching home.
A smile came in response; then Fulvia went to her own room, to stand long at the window, star-gazing. Drizzle and fog had vanished, leaving a clear sky; and she had much to think about.
"Better so!" she said aloud. "How happy they are! After all, one's own happiness is not the chief thing! I shall be helped—and by-and-by it will grow easier. I will be brave; I will be glad for them!"
THE END