The Project Gutenberg eBook ofNigel BrowningThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Nigel BrowningAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: January 13, 2025 [eBook #75102]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1898*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIGEL BROWNING ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Nigel BrowningAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: January 13, 2025 [eBook #75102]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1898
Title: Nigel Browning
Author: Agnes Giberne
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: January 13, 2025 [eBook #75102]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John F. Shaw and Co, 1898
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NIGEL BROWNING ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
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"I will send Dr. Duncan at once.""Thanks," Nigel answered, again examininghis father with anxious eyes.
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"LIFE-TANGLES," "WON AT LAST," ETC. ETC.
LONDON
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. FROM ROUND THE WORLD
II. THE DAUGHTERS OF THE HOUSE
III. ETHEL
IV. FULVIA'S RESOLVE
V. IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT
VI. DRAGGING HOURS
VII. TO GO, OR NOT TO GO?
VIII. FIRE AND WATER
IX. WHISPERINGS
X. TOM'S SPECIMENS
XI. "THE WORLD FORGETTING"
XII. NOTA BENE!
XIII. "WILL NEVER MARRY HER!"
XIV. SOMETHING WRONG—BUT WHAT?
XV. FULVIA'S EXPECTATIONS
XVI. ANTIQUITIES
XVII. HE AND SHE
XVIII. AGED TWENTY-ONE
XIX. THE MONEY!
XX. AN UTTER TANGLE
XXI. COMPOUND UMBELS AND BLUE EYES
XXII. THE BREAKING STORM
XXIII. A STRANGE INTERVIEW
XXIV. WOULD SHE? COULD SHE?
XXV. SWEET MAY-TIDE
XXVI. THE LOST "N. B."
XXVII. IN SUDDEN PERIL
XXVIII. THOU OR I!
XXIX. BORNE DOWNWARD
XXX. NOT I, BUT THOU
XXXI. NIGEL'S LOVE
NIGEL BROWNING
FROM ROUND THE WORLD
"But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks!"• • • • • • • •"It is my lady: Oh it is my love!Oh that she knew she were!"—Romeo and Juliet.
"HERE, I want this luggage taken—Hallo, Pollard! You're the man for me."
"Mr. Nigel Browning!" ejaculated the porter addressed, a huge individual six feet three in height, and massive in frame, with a large face, resplendently good-humoured. He had been heaving great trunks and packing-cases out of the van, tossing one upon another, as a girl might heap together a pile of band-boxes. Now the train passed on groaning dismally after the fashion of these modern behemoths; and the platform crowd began to disperse.
It was past nine o'clock on a chilly autumn evening: not the kind of evening which might tempt anybody to linger under the flaring gas-lights, dimmed by fogginess.
Pollard, in full career across the platform, brought up his truck with a jerk on hearing his own name, then plucked at his cap with an air of delight.
"Mr. Nigel Browning!" he exclaimed.
"To be sure. Whom else would you take me for? Shake hands, Pollard. I've been round the world since I saw you last."
The man's hard palm closed with a grip round the fingers held out to him.
"And you ain't changed, Mr. Nigel. No need for to ask that, though. If you was, you wouldn't be a-shaking hands with me here, like to old days. And the niggers ain't got hold of you, nor none of they cannibals neither."
"Why, no—I've not been enjoying very largely the society of cannibals."
"Well, sir, you've come back anyway a deal stouter and stronger than you was—not as you're stout yet, so to speak, but you was thin and no mistake when you went away. And I do see a difference. I don't know as you ain't taller too."
"Taller after twenty! That would be against all rule. However, I certainly did depart a scarecrow, so perhaps it's admissible to turn up a Hercules. All well at home, Pollard?—Wife and chicks, eh?"
"Yes, sir, thank you. Naught but the old woman's rheumatiz for to grumble at—and she do say it takes a deal o' patience to carry that about with a body."
"I don't doubt it, poor thing. And all right at the Grange?"
"Yes, sir—so as I've heard. Save and except Mr. Browning's the same as usual, sir. Which in course you knows."
"Ah—yes," the two syllables being divided by a thoughtful break. Manner and voice had till this moment been marked by a frank joyousness, boy-like yet manly, but now there came a touch of gravity into Nigel's face. He stood for three seconds gazing across the rails into a misty distance, lost in cogitation; then roused himself.
"You will have the trunks up soon. I must be off."
"All right, sir."
Leaving his ticket with the collector, Nigel passed into the street. He went onwards in a swift steadfast manner; vigour and decision being apparent in every motion of the alert well-proportioned figure.
It did not surprise Nigel that nobody was at the station to meet him after his year of absence, wherein he had travelled literally "round the world." He had not expected to arrive till next morning, but finding an earlier train than he had hoped for "within catch," the temptation to surprise his home-folks had proved irresistible.
Newton Bury had been his home through life, and every wall and window in this busy High Street was familiar to him. Shops were shut, and people from within were airing themselves on the pavements after a hard day's work. Nigel saw many a well-known face as he went by, but he had no wish to be delayed, and it was easy to avoid recognition in the broken light of gas-lamps placed by no means too near together.
Leaving High Street and Broad Street, he hesitated one moment at the foot of some stone steps leading upward. This was the short-cut between station and home; for Newton Bury was a town built partly upon hills; and the Grange stood high. But a certain attraction drew him along the main thoroughfare.
"After all, it's not ten minutes' difference; and I should like one glimpse," he said to himself.
"Hallo! What next? Have a care, young fellow."
Nigel certainly was going at express speed, when on turning a sharp corner, he barely escaped collision with a short and round-shouldered individual of advanced age, wearing a fur-bordered greatcoat almost down to the heels, and a Glengarry cap, from beneath which flowed thick locks of snow-white hair. Two black eyes, bright as beads, flashed a glance of indignant remonstrance, and the high-pitched voice, petulant in tone, was unmistakable.
"Mr. Carden-Cox. I beg your pardon. How do you do?" Nigel put out his hand in greeting.
The other stared haughtily. "Eh! who are you?"
"Don't you know me?"
"No, sir. I have not that pleasure," with an aggrieved sound.
"I'm Nigel—just come home."
"Young Browning. Humph."
It was dull and damp, the fogginess having deepened, and this no doubt was partly the reason why Nigel had so nearly run the old gentleman down, added to that old gentleman's perverse habit of walking on the wrong side of the pavement. But Mr. Carden-Cox had plainly no intention of allowing his movements to be influenced by weather. He pulled off one of his gloves, fished laboriously for a double eye-glass, adjusted the same carefully on the bridge of his nose, and retreated to the neighbourhood of the nearest lamp, beckoning Nigel to follow.
"Here, let me see. Nigel Browning! I declare I shouldn't have known the lad."
"Am I so altered?"
"Altered! There's not an inch of you the same."
This was absurd, and Nigel smiled.
"What are you after here—eh?"
"Going home. Just arrived. They don't expect me till to-morrow, so it's to be a surprise."
"Why on earth didn't you take the steps? Missed them in the dark? That's not like you. Some folks do go mooning about with their eyes in the stars; but I thought you were practical."
"I didn't miss the steps. I came this way by choice."
"Hey? What for?"
"A fancy of mine. I must be off, or my luggage will arrive first."
"Not if you keep up the pace you were going just now." Mr. Carden-Cox paused to survey Nigel all over, from head to foot, as if gauging his value. "Yes—you've filled out—expanded—developed—twice the man you were! But there's something about you which I don't quite understand. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon."
Nigel did not fail to keep up his former pace, even to accelerate it. If he wished to arrive before his luggage, he really had no time to lose, for Pollard would not be guilty of delay. And instead of following the bend to the right which Pollard would follow, Nigel soon shot away to the left, through a dark lane, with high walls on both sides, and a fringe of tall trees from enclosed gardens peeping over the wall-tops.
This lane led direct into a large square, chiefly composed of old-fashioned red-brick houses, each varying in shape and size from its neighbours. At the entrance to the square, where three short posts barred the way to vehicles, Nigel paused to look.
That was what he had come for: to indulge himself in a look.
The square was rightly named "Church Square," for its centre was occupied by a venerable edifice, parts of which, including the square solid tower, were at least seven hundred years old. Generation after generation of English churchmen, through century after century, had met for worship within those aged walls. They had outlived countless historical tides and storms, and still stood there, rock-like and calm, always the same, in themselves a silent yet speaking history of ages past. Where Nigel stood, he could distinguish two flying buttresses, and two nearer side-windows, pointed yet somewhat broad. What he could not see he could imagine; for every inch of the structure was familiar and dear to him.
At one corner of the square, that to Nigel's left, a red-brick house stood alone, not placed in line like the rest, but occupying a small garden, wherein flourished an abundance of shrubs, but few flowers; for the Rev. Launcelot Elvey, Vicar of Newton Bury, with a cure of six thousand souls, and a stipend of two hundred and eighty pounds a year, had little money to spare for luxuries. What he could spare from absolute home necessaries went to the Parish.
Nigel had not meant to advance one step farther than this entrance to the square, where the three posts stood side by side. He cast one glance towards the central building; then his eyes went to the Vicarage.
It was very near; within a stone's throw. He could distinctly see the two small windows of the little drawing-room, a queer-shaped room, as he knew, all corners and crevices with furniture old enough to be picturesque, and old enough also to be shabby. Lights were lighted within, and blinds were drawn. As Nigel gazed, the shadow of a girlish figure was thrown with clear outline upon one of the blinds. Ethel—of course!
He had not intended to go a step nearer, but the pull was strong. That soft shade upon the blind had set all his pulses throbbing. The year's absence had made no difference at all—unless the difference that Ethel was dearer to him than ever—and the longing for one glimpse of her face became overwhelming. His luggage might arrive first; his home-folks might be perplexed, worried, perhaps hurt that he could put them second to anybody,—yes, he knew all this, but for three seconds nothing seemed of the smallest importance, except the glimpse for which he craved.
Nigel left the posts and went quickly towards the Vicarage; a few steps bringing him within the garden gate. At the same moment somebody drew up one of the blinds, and opened wide the window.
Ethel herself! He could see in strong relief against the light within, her slim prettily-rounded figure, could hear the soft happy tones which had always seemed to him to have a ripple of music running through them.
"Mother, we'll let in a breath of air just for a minute. It is so mild to-night. Lance, is that somebody in the garden?"
Nigel almost uttered the word—"Ethel!" Almost, but not quite. It was leaving his lips, when he caught it back. Once within that room, how could he tear himself away?
There were reasons why it might be better not. With an effort Nigel turned and walked out of the gate. And as he went, he found himself face to face with somebody coming in—a large loosely-built man in a greatcoat, walking with the tired stoop in head and shoulders often born of a hard day's work. The light of the nearest lamp fell upon a rugged face, full of the beauty of goodness.
"Anything wanted?" asked the Vicar.
Mr. Elvey never by any chance passed a human being who might "want" something of him.
"No—thanks," Nigel answered dutifully, hoping but not wishing to pass on.
"I know that voice!" said the Vicar.
THE DAUGHTERS OF THE HOUSE
"There are briars besetting every path,Which call for patient care."—A. L. WARING.
"FULVIE—"
"Anice, my dear, allow me to remark that the way to get work done is not to sit in a brown study for exactly half-an-hour."
"Half-an-hour!"
"A metaphorical one, of course. How many stitches have you put into that leaf since dinner?"
"I don't know—but—I can't imagine why Nigel didn't settle to come home to-night."
"No train, he says."
"But there is a train."
"He thought there was not."
"Daisy found one directly she looked—just at the right time."
"Daisy's a clever young woman. Daisy isn't Nigel, however."
"No—" and a pause, Anice leaning back dreamily. "No. But I have been wondering—what if Nigel did know of the train, only perhaps he wanted a night in London."
"Why shouldn't he have said so, then? You little wretch, to suspect him of deceit."
"Oh no—only perhaps he might have been glad of the excuse. I mean, he might have made the mistake first, and then not have cared to change. He might have been afraid that we should mind his not hurrying home, if he did stay."
Fulvia stamped her foot. "Anice, you put me out of patience. But you are all alike! You none of you understand Nigel—never did, and never will, I suppose. You needn't stare at me so reproachfully, for it is true. Now do get on with that unfortunate leaf. What shade do you mean to use next?"
Three girls—Mr. Browning's two daughters, Anice and Daisy, and his ward, Fulvia Rolfe—sat alone in the Grange drawing-room. Lamps and candles dotted about the large room gave a pleasant light; curtains were drawn, and a fire blazed.
Daisy, the younger girl, huddled into a sofa-corner, with a book which absorbed all her attention, was round-faced and plump, with a clever full brow and innocent lips. Though close upon sixteen, she was childish still, alike in manner and in the almost infantile simplicity of her thick white frock. Anice, nearly three years older, wore a white dress likewise, but of thinner texture and more elaborate make, and while undoubtedly a pretty girl, with delicate features and changeful colouring, her face not only lacked force but had a look of marked self-occupation, sufficient to spoil the fairest outline. Daisy's contented brown eyes contained better promise for the future; and people were apt to grow early tired of Anice.
Fulvia Rolfe presented a contrast to the sisters. Some two years the senior of Anice, she was not so tall as the latter, nor so stout as Daisy; and the first idea commonly received about her was of a sturdy vigour of body and mind. Though by no means beautiful, since her face was rather flat, with a retrousse nose, and eyes which had an odd eastern slant in the manner of their setting, she yet possessed a certain power of attraction. Those same light grey eyes were full of sparkle; the lips were expressive; the abundant red-brown hair was skilfully arranged; the figure, though not slight, was particularly good; and the hands, if neither small nor especially white, were well formed and soft.
"Which shade?" Anice repeated vacantly. "I don't know. One of these four, I suppose."
"If a tablecloth is worth making at all, it is worth making not hideous. Let me see the greens. Impossible to choose in this light. You will have to leave it till to-morrow. Where is the madre all this time?" For Fulvia Rolfe, left early an orphan, and unable to recollect her own parents, had fallen into a mode of calling Mrs. and Mr. Browning by the titles of "madre" and "padre." The mode was copied, not seldom, by their own children.
"She went to the study. Padre wanted her, I believe. It is one of his bad days, and I suppose he couldn't stand all of us."
Fulvia's lips took a naughty set. "And so, because he is a little bad, we are all to be very sad."
"Father isn't well." Anice looked reproachful.
"He's not bound to be utterly doleful too, my dear."
"Madre said he was so depressed."
"Of course. Exactly what I mean. I never can quite see why one is to act as a wet blanket to all one's friends merely because one feels poorly or out of spirits. I'm not talking about padre in particular. The sort of thing is common enough. But I wonder when one is to exercise self-control if not when it goes against the grain. There's no merit in cheerfulness when one feels lively."
"I don't know what you mean, but you ought not to speak so of padre."
"I'm laying down a broad axiom—not applying it. No, of course you don't understand. Nobody understands anybody in this house. If one expects to be understood, one is disappointed. Hark! Is that the study door opening? . . . Yes, I thought so. Here comes the madre—doesn't she look sweet? And actually!—Absolutely!—The padre too!"
The lady, entering first, was slender in figure and graceful in movement, with regular features, and the softest dark eyes imaginable, full of wistful tenderness. She wore an evening dress of black velvet, trimmed with old lace, and her little hands hung carelessly, like snowflakes, against the sombre background. Though forty-five in age, no streaks of grey showed yet in the brown hair, upon which a light lace cap rested; and pretty as Anice unquestionably was, the daughter's prettiness paled before the mother's rare beauty.
Behind Mrs. Browning came her husband. There was nothing of the invalid about him apparent at first sight. A dignified middle-aged man; solid, but not corpulent in build; with grey hair, fast thinning, agreeable manners, and a face which did not lack its modicum of good looks—this was Mr. Browning. A keen observer would have noted a tired look about the brow—a good brow like Daisy's—and a restless dissatisfaction almost amounting to apprehension in the eyes; but Fulvia was the only keen observer present, and people in general were apt to pass over these little signs. Mr. Browning was a favourite in society. "A delightful man" was the verdict passed on him by a considerable circle of Newton Bury ladies.
The entrance of these two caused a general stir. Daisy sat in a less huddled position, and Fulvia drew forward an easy-chair for Mrs. Browning, while Anice changed her own seat to one nearer her father, as he took possession of the unused sofa-corner beside Daisy, and heaved a sigh.
"We thought you meant to forsake us altogether this evening," Fulvia remarked to Mrs. Browning.
"No, dear. Padre is so unwell to-day—he has that pain again, and it depresses him," was the under-toned answer. "But he promised to come in for a little while. It is better for him, I am sure—less dull."
"Better for you too."
"I don't think that matters. I wish anything could be done to touch this sad depression," as again, in response to some words of Anice, sounded the heavy sigh. "We have been talking about a little trip abroad. Perhaps it might do him good."
"When? Not before Christmas?"
"Yes, I think so. He seems to wish it."
Others were listening besides Fulvia, and a chorus of exclamations sounded. "Now, mother!" "Go abroad before Christmas!" "How about Nigel?" this was Fulvia's voice.
"Mother, you don't really mean it?" from Anice.
"Why, mother!" Daisy's rounded eyes suiting the tone of her second utterance. "You must have forgotten about Fulvia's birthday—Fulvia's coming of age."
"Hush, hush!" Mrs. Browning said nervously. She did not in the least know why her husband disliked any allusion to Fulvia's twenty-first birthday, but she knew that he did dislike it. His sudden movement was not lost upon her.
Daisy was of a persistent nature, not easily silenced. "But, mother, you know the 21st of December is Fulvia's birthday; and we meant to have all sorts of fun. If once we go abroad, we shall never get back in time. I know we shan't."
"Madre said nothing about our going, Daisy."
"Well, then, that will be worse still. Horridly dull to keep your twenty-first birthday without father and mother."
"Daisy, do hold your tongue. You are worrying the madre," whispered Fulvia.
"Why?" in a return whisper of astonishment.
"I haven't a notion. The fact is patent enough. Do let things go."
Daisy subsided, and for two minutes nobody spoke. Then a peal sounded at the front door.
Anice's lips parted, and her cheeks flushed. She almost said "Nigel!"
"Nonsense," Fulvia replied to the motion of her lips. "Not to-night."
But Simms came in. Simms was one of those unexceptionable modern men-servants who always have their wits about them, and who never can be startled. Simms prided himself on a perfect command of feature and of manner. Whatever happened, he seemed to have known it beforehand, to have been at that moment expecting it. In his usual style of composed confidence he entered, and as calmly as if announcing dinner, he said—
"Pollard from the station, sir, with Mr. Nigel's luggage."
"Mr. Nigel come!" cried Daisy, springing up. "No, Miss."
"Not come!" echoed other voices.
"No, ma'am. Pollard saw Mr. Nigel at the station, and expected him to be here first. But Mr. Nigel has not arrived."
"Strange," Mr. Browning said.
"Buying himself a new necktie by the way," suggested Fulvia, and Daisy's laugh sounded.
But Mrs. Browning and Anice exchanged looks, their faces falling.
ETHEL
"There is none like her, none."—TENNYSON.
"I KNOW that voice. Why—it's—"
Mr. Elvey did not finish the sentence. He caught Nigel's hand within two muscular palms, and nearly wrung it off.
"I didn't expect to be found out. Yes, I'm back. But you mustn't keep me, Mr. Elvey. How are you all? How is—Ethel?"
"Ethel's all right. The best girl that ever lived, if an old father has a right to say so. Come and see for yourself. There she is at the open window. My wife and all of them inside. How is she? Oh, much the same as always—very ailing, poor dear. Never knows what it is to be really well. But come, come along. Not keep you indeed! Rubbish and nonsense!" cried the Rector joyously, forgetting all about his own fatigue, and allowing Nigel no loophole for explanation. "Why, we were talking of you only an hour ago, wondering if the year of travel would alter you much. Has it? I can't see here. Come along—come!"
"I really ought not, I am afraid," protested Nigel, feeling as if the silken pull of Ethel's near presence, together with the Rector's grasp of his arm, were overcoming all his powers of resolution. "My baggage has gone home, and they will be expecting me."
"Well, well—we won't keep you three minutes. One shake hands all round. Why, what brought you here, if it wasn't for that? Ethel, Ethel!—Gilbert—Ralph—Lance—My dear!—" this meant his wife—"I've found an old friend in the garden, and he's trying to elope. Guess who! Open the door—somebody!"
They were almost under the window by this time, and Mr. Elvey did not need to raise his tones; indeed, the full impressive voice was used enough to making itself heard, and no barrier of glass intervened.
"What does he mean?" they heard Ethel ask merrily.
And in another moment she stood at the open hall door scanning the outside darkness.
She was plainly visible herself under the hall light. Nigel knew in a moment that the face which he had carried with him through his wanderings was unchanged—only a little developed, a little ripened, "prettier than ever," he told himself. Yet people in general did not count Ethel pretty. She had to be known intimately to be admired; and after all "pretty" was not the right word.
She wore an old dress, much older than anybody would have guessed from its appearance, since Ethel's fingers were gifted in the art of renovation. The shape of her face was that "short oval" which novelists are now so careful to distinguish from the unlovely "long oval." Brown hair was massed on the top of her head, straying over the brow, and brown fringes subdued the sparkling sunny eyes. The features could not be called good, and it was commonly a pale face, with none of Anice's quick changes of hue. Nigel, however, could never think that anything was wanting in that direction. He would not have had a line or a tint altered.
He had not spoken of his love to any human being. With all Nigel's frankness, there were reserve-depths below. He could not readily talk of the things which he felt most intensely. Some people no doubt can; but Nigel could not.
Whether others had guessed his secret before he left home, he had no means of knowing. Sometimes he thought that his mother had; and sometimes also he felt sure that his trip round the world had been arranged for him, not only on account of his health, but in reference to this. He had a strong impression that Mr. Browning had desired for him the test of a year's separation from Ethel. But these ideas he kept to himself. The year's separation had been lived through, and had made no difference. Ethel was dearer to him than ever.
"Father, did you say somebody was come? Who is it? Oh!—Nigel!!"
The lighting up of her face was worth seeing; and the little gasp of joy between those two words was worth hearing. Nobody thought anything of her delight; for had not she and Nigel been close friends from childhood? And was it not natural?
But to Nigel, this moment made up for all the long months of absence. He held her hand tightly for three seconds, how tightly he did not know; and the touch of those little fingers scattered to the winds all his previous resolutions. He stepped into the house.
"Nigel himself! Yes, I found him outside the garden gate. Actually protesting that he had come for a look, and didn't mean to be seen. Here, Lance, my boy, help me off with this coat. That's it. Come, Nigel, come and be inspected. My dear, I've brought an old friend, but you'll hardly recognise him. Eh?"
Mrs. Elvey, knitting slowly in an easy-chair, was a contrast to her sunny-tempered husband and daughter. Her face offered as good a specimen of the bony "long oval" as Ethel's of the shorter and more rounded type; and there was about it a somewhat unhappy look of self-pity and of discontented invalidism. No doubt she was not strong and often did suffer much. But no doubt also many in Mrs. Elvey's place would have been brighter, braver, less of a weight upon others' spirits, more ready to respond to others' interests. She welcomed Nigel kindly, but with the limp and listless air of one who really had so many trials of her own that she could not be expected to care much whom she did or did not see.
"Hardly up to the mark to-day you see—tired-out, poor dear!" explained the Rector, himself a hard-worked and often weary man; but he was counted strong, and few gave him a word of sympathy on that score. He looked solicitously at his wife and then turned to the young man. "Come; I must see what has been the effect upon you of it all—Japan, Timbuctoo, and the rest! Eh, Ethel? Is he the better or the worse?"
"Pollard thinks it a matter for congratulation that I have not become food for cannibals," laughed Nigel.
He was standing on the rug—a young fellow of good height and muscular make, a wonderful development from the overgrown reedy youth who had gone away more than twelve months earlier. The sickly white complexion of those days had given place to a healthy tan; and the face was strong, bright, good-looking. The eyes showed penetration and thought; the mouth spoke of firmness; the nose had that indefinable line, seen in side-face, which almost invariably denotes a sweet temper.
"He'll do," thought Mr. Elvey, after a moment's survey. "Successful experiment!"
"But you didn't go to the South Sea Islands," Ethel said, in answer to Nigel's last remark, while the three boys, varying in ages from sixteen to thirteen, stood admiringly round the returned traveller.
"No, we had not time. I should have liked it. But I didn't want to be longer away."
"And now—College?" asked Mr. Elvey.
"I hope so. After Christmas."
"And then?"
"If my father is willing, the Bar."
"He knows your wish."
"Has known it for years. I never could understand the reasons for his hesitation."
Mr. Elvey might have answered, "Nor anybody else," but did not.
"Well, you have both had time for consideration, and you have time still, for the matter of that. No need to decide yet."
"I would rather work through college with a definite aim."
A movement of assent answered him. "You know, of course, that Malcolm is ordained to the curacy of St. Peter's."
"Yes. Capital for you all having him within reach."
Nigel could hardly take his eyes off Ethel. He knew that it was time for him to say good-bye; yet he lingered, craving a few words with her first. Mr. Elvey soon turned to speak to his wife, and Nigel seized the opportunity, moving to Ethel's side.
"I must not stay; they will be expecting me at home, and wondering why I don't come," he said. "It's desperately hard to go so soon, but if I don't—"
"Yes. Oh, don't wait," she said at once; "we shall see you again very soon."
Nigel's face changed. He had not expected this. Was she so indifferent?
"I'm afraid I must," he repeated; yet he did not stir. Ethel's presence was like a fascination, holding him to the spot against his will, or rather enchaining his very will, so that for the time nothing else seemed to have weight. "I can't tell you what it is to me to come back again—here," he said softly. "It is like—"
"Like old days, isn't it?" she responded gaily. "You always were just one of our boys, you know,—in and out when you liked. We shall expect the same again."
"Will you? Don't you think I might come too often?"
Poor Nigel! He was in such desperate earnest; while Ethel, through her very delight at the return of her old friend, was brimming over with fun.
"I won't venture to say that! Anybody might come too often, perhaps. I'm a desperately busy person, and never have a moment to spare. But of course you'll pay us a polite call now and then?"
"Yes," Nigel answered seriously.
"And if I'm out, you can leave your card."
"Yes."
"A month or six weeks later somebody is sure to find time to return your call."
"Yes," was all Nigel could say. He knew that it was utterly absurd to take this bantering for anything beyond banter; but how could he help it?
Then a moment's pause, and Ethel looked at the clock.
"Nigel, I don't want to seem unkind," she said; "but, do you know, I really almost think you ought not to stay any longer—if you haven't seen your home-people yet."
This finished Nigel off! Ethel wished him to go! Ethel thought him wrong to have come! His face did not fall into a vexed or doleful set, but it grew exceedingly grave, and all sparkle was gone. He did not question her judgment. Of course she was right, entirely right; and all along he had known himself to be acting with no great wisdom. Still he did feel acutely that if the meeting with him had been to Ethel what the meeting with Ethel was to him, she could not so cheerfully have proposed to shorten the interview.
Could she not? That was the question!
Nigel had no doubt at all about the impossibility. A grey cloud had swept over his sky, blotting out his hopes. Yet he acted at once upon her suggestion, for if Ethel wished him to go, nothing else could keep him.
"Yes, certainly—good-bye," he said, holding out his hand.
"You don't mind my saying it? I'm only thinking of your mother."
Oh no; he did not mind, if "minding" meant being angry. He could honestly reply with a "No." Ethel was "only thinking" of his mother, and he had been "only thinking" of Ethel. That made the difference.
"No, you are right; I ought not to have forgotten," he said vaguely, though he had not quite forgotten; and in another minute he was walking swiftly homewards through the streets.
But how different everything looked! The shadow which had fallen upon himself seemed to envelop the whole town.
It was late when Nigel reached the Grange door. He stood outside for a moment, lost in thought; his hand upon the bell, but not pulling it. The deep tones of St. Stephen's clock were booming out ten strokes in slow succession, and the bass notes of the Grange hall clock seemed trying to overtake church time.
Nigel heard both without heeding. "What would they say at home?" pressed now as a question of importance, though it had not seemed important when he was with Ethel. Then he had no need to ring, for Daisy flung the door open, and, as the French would say, "precipitated herself" upon him.
"Nigel! O Nigel, I knew it was you! You dearest of old fellows! It's delicious to have you back! But why didn't you come straight from the station? What have you been doing all this time? Father has gone to bed, and mother and Anice are in such a way!" The last few words were whispered.
"Did they mind?" asked Nigel. "Why, Daisy, you are a young lady!"—as he kissed the fresh round cheek.
"Don't! I hate to be called a 'young lady.' Nigel; come in—do! What makes you stand and dream? You dear old fellow! It's awfully jolly to see you again. Oh come along—make haste! Fancy waiting to take off your coat after a whole long year away! I was watching at the staircase window, and I saw you in the garden; but nobody else knows."
She pulled him across the hall and into the drawing-room, bursting open the door with a crash of sound which would have seriously disturbed Mr. Browning had he been present.
"Daisy! Daisy!" expostulated Fulvia.
"It's Nigel!" cried Daisy.
"At last!" murmured Anice.
Nigel's first move was to his mother's side. She had risen with a startled look on his entrance, her large eyes wide-open; but the response to his greeting was scarcely what might have been expected. His arms were round her, while her arms hung limply against the velvet dress, and the cheek which she offered to him was cold and white.
"Mother, you are not well!" he exclaimed when—the short round of brotherly kisses over—he came to her again.
Fulvia took stand as a sister in the household. She had wondered a little, privately, whether after this long break he would greet her precisely as in their boy and girl days; but it seemed that the idea of a change had never occurred to him.
"I am sure you are not well," repeated Nigel.
"Mother has been so worried waiting for you."
It was Anice who said this. Nobody but tactless Anice, not even the impulsive Daisy, would have said the words. Indignant fire shot from Fulvia's eyes; and Nigel stood looking down upon his mother's face, beautiful even when fixed and colourless, with an air grieved, and yet absent. He could not shake off the cloud which he had carried away from the Rectory.
"I am sorry to have worried you," he said. "Pollard was quick, and I have been longer than I meant."
"You found the train after all," Fulvia observed.
"Yes, at the last moment."
"How about meals? Have you had anything to eat?"
"Yes, thanks; as much as I want."
"You are sure?" his mother said in her low voice. She had scarcely spoken hitherto.
"Quite."
He drew a chair near to Mrs. Browning and sat down, holding still the hand which he had taken a second time.
She was dearly beloved by all her children, and by none more than by Nigel; so dearly that they could scarcely see a fault in her. The exacting nature of her love for them, above all for her only son, did imply a fault somewhere, only they could not see it. If Nigel saw, he would not acknowledge the fact to others; and if Fulvia saw, she would not acknowledge it even to herself. At least, she had not done so hitherto.
"It was mother!" they all said. And "mother" had ever been in that household the embodiment of all that was lovely and lovable. If something of delusion existed, the very delusion was beautiful. And if Mrs. Browning had her faults—as who has not?—she was the best of wives, the most devoted of mothers, the fairest and sweetest of women. Nobody could see her and not admire; nobody could know her and not love.
There was a curious constraint upon them all this evening; not least upon Nigel, and this perplexed Fulvia. Mrs. Browning's look she understood well; too well! Had any one except Nigel been in question, Fulvia would have been the first to spring up in defence of the "madre's" sensitiveness. The grieved curve of those gentle lips made her very heart ache; and in her heart Fulvia counted that Nigel had done wrongly, for it was a household axiom, without an allowed exception, that nobody might ever do or say aught which should distress the beloved "madre." But how could she blame him just returned from a long year of absence?
She could not make out Nigel's look. He did not appear to be touched, as she would have expected, by Mrs. Browning's manner. He hardly seemed to be aware that he had caused displeasure; if displeasure is the right word. The dark eyes had, indeed, trouble in them, but also they told of thoughts far away. She and Daisy made conversation, Nigel responding with forced attention; and presently that too faded. Fulvia could almost have believed that he had forgotten his present position, so still was the manner, so absorbed the downcast gaze. Mrs. Browning drew her hand away, and the movement was not noticed.
"What are you dreaming about?" Daisy burst out at length, bringing Nigel back, with something of a start, to the consciousness of his immediate surroundings. "What are you thinking of?"
"Perhaps your first word was the more correct—dreaming, not thinking. Don't things seem rather like a dream to you this evening?"
"No, they don't. It's all sober reality. And you are your substantial self; not half so much of a wraith as when you went away. Is he, Fulvia? There!—" with a mischievous pinch of his arm—"that's the proper test. It's genuine, you see. If you can make yourself wince, you may be quite sure you're not dreaming. I've tried to pinch myself in a dream, and it doesn't hurt. Do you know, you're most wonderfully altered, Nigel—bigger and broader, and as brown as a berry. And actually growing a moustache! And I think you are going to be handsome."
"Daisy, if you take to personalities, I shall have to give you a lesson."
"Do, please! I like lessons!"
Nigel laughed, but he did not seem inclined to carry out his threat by active measures. "How has my father been lately?" he asked next. "Not well to-day?"
"Very far from it," Mrs. Browning murmured.
"Nothing definitely wrong?"
"Yes; weakness and depression; and the old pain about the heart, worse than it used to be. He will not have advice; says it is only neuralgia, and nothing can be done. But he ought to consult a London physician. One never can be sure. I have tried in vain to persuade him."
"Perhaps he will listen to me. And you, too—you are not just as you ought to be," Nigel said affectionately.
"I! Oh, that is nothing. I never expect to feel strong."
Then Anice's voice was heard again. "But, Nigel, what can have made you so late? Why didn't you come straight from the station?"
"Anice is a self-appointed Inquisitress-General," interposed Fulvia. "Did you meet anybody by the way?"
"I nearly ran down Mr. Carden-Cox."
"He wouldn't forgive anybody else; but you are a privileged person—you may do what you like. Was he much delighted?" asked Fulvia, while Anice could be heard complaining—"I don't see why you should call me that. I don't see why Nigel shouldn't tell us."
"If he was, he showed it in characteristic style," said Nigel.
"Where did you see him?"
"In George Street."
"George Street! But what could have taken you there?" exclaimed Anice. "Didn't you come up the steps?"
"Inquisitress," whispered Fulvia simultaneously with Nigel's—
"No."
"But why?"
"Really, Anice; if he had a fancy to go round, I don't see that it is our business."
"No—only—after a whole year away, I should have thought he would have chosen the quickest way home."
"Would, could, might, and ought are often mistaken," asserted Fulvia.
"Fulvia is right. I had a fancy to go round," said Nigel, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to say no more. But an explanation was expected; his call at the Rectory was sure to become known; he disliked needless mysteries, and his habitual openness won the day. With scarcely a break, he went on—"A fancy to look at old haunts by gaslight. I walked some distance."
"Which way?" asked the persistent Anice.
"By Church Square."
"To the Elveys'?" Mrs. Browning bit her lip nervously.
"Not intending to see them, mother. It was as I say—a fancy to take a look. I fully meant to be here as soon as Pollard; but I met Mr. Elvey, and he persuaded me to go in for five minutes."
Fulvia's brows were knitted, yet she laughed. "I don't see why you should not. The Elveys always were great cronies of yours."
"No—only—one would have thought," murmured Anice. "Yes, of course they are old friends. Only—to put them before us—"
"You goose!" exclaimed Fulvia angrily. "As if there were any putting before or behind in the question! I don't see, for my part, how Nigel could well help going in, when Mr. Elvey met him. How can you be so absurd!"
Anice's eyes filled with ready tears, and she gazed dolorously on the carpet; yet distressed as she might be at Fulvia's blame, her distress did not prevent a renewed faint mutter of—"Before his mother and sisters!"
Nigel took the matter into his own hands. He looked straight at Anice, speaking with a readiness and decision which impressed them all. They knew from that moment that the brother who had gone away a boy had come back a man.
"You are unjust, Anice. I have told you that I had no idea of calling at the Rectory. Surely that is enough. Why must you make a mountain of a molehill?"
Anice sighed plaintively, as if to declare that she was silenced but not convinced; and Mrs. Browning said nothing.
"Do you think my father would like to see me now?" Nigel asked.
FULVIA'S RESOLVE
"Be thou still!Vainly all thy words are spoken;Till the word of God hath brokenLife's dark mysteries—good or ill—Be thou still!"—Shadow of the Rock.
THIS caused a move. Nigel vanished, not to return for some time, and when he did, Fulvia thought he looked anxious. But nothing was said, and nobody asked what he thought of Mr. Browning.
Prayers over, the younger girls retired, and Mrs. Browning prepared to follow. Something in the constrained tone of her "Good-night," drew from Nigel an apologetic—"You didn't really mind so much, mother?"
The muscles of her white throat worked visibly, her voice failing when she tried to speak.
Fulvia brought forward a glass of water.
"Take some of this," she said, adding in a whisper, "Don't give way, madre; it will worry him."
The words had less effect than Fulvia intended. Mrs. Browning turned from her, and broke into one grieved utterance—"Nigel, my own boy! Don't leave off loving me!"
"My dear mother! As if that were possible!"
Young men are not perhaps as a rule peculiarly tolerant of needless hysterics; but Nigel was patient, holding her in his strong arms, and trying to soothe the real though unfounded sorrow.
Fulvia would not let the little scene continue. "It was too bad," she murmured, "just after his coming home!" And then she blamed herself for blaming the sweet madre; but none the less she separated the two, insisted on water being taken, laughed, joked, and saw Mrs. Browning off to her room.
"I'll be back directly," she said to Nigel; and in five minutes or less she returned. As she expected, he was in the drawing-room still, standing on the rug, with folded arms and eyes intent.
"Are you very tired?" she asked abruptly, beginning to fold some of the work which lay about. "Tidying up" was a task which somehow always devolved on Fulvia Rolfe. One marked Browning characteristic was disorderliness in small matters; while Fulvia could never endure to see anything left out of its rightful place.
"No, I believe not. It is late," he said, rousing himself again with a manifest effort.
"You have not heard any bad news to-day?"
"Is there bad news to be heard?"
"Not that I'm aware of. You look as if you had something on your mind. That made me ask. But the botherations this evening are enough to account for it—nearly! If only people had a little common-sense, and wouldn't manufacture troubles to order. However, you will not think that nobody is glad to see you back."
Nigel laughed.
"Of course—you know what it is all worth. How did the padre's condition strike you? Was he in bed?"
"No. I can't judge so soon. It seems to me that he ought to have advice."
"If only for the sake of his own peace of mind, not to speak of the madre's. He doesn't look ill, at all events. You thought he did! Odd! I should have said he was the picture of health. Then perhaps you will encourage his going abroad."
Nigel had not heard of the scheme, and she enlightened him.
"Of course there is no real difficulty—except the expense. Somehow, padre is always and for ever talking now about expenses—why, I can't imagine. And except also for family traditions connected with twenty-first birthdays. We made such a fuss about yours before you left, that the girls have had it in their heads ever since to make a fuss about mine."
"Heiresses usually expect something of a stir on those occasions."
"Do they? I am not sure that I care. Yes; perhaps I do. I should like to give a big dinner to the poor, and to have all our friends here as well. We have talked it over many a time. But whether padre would stand the excitement—! Well, December is nearly a month away still. Nigel, do you know at all the amount that is to come to me? I have never been told definitely. Padre hates business talk."
"About forty thousand, I believe."
"So much! I thought it was twenty or thirty thousand."
"It was to be as much as forty by this time, certainly,—by the time you are of age."
"I believe I heard—part was to accumulate at compound interest. But padre was to use some of the interest."
"Yes; through your minority. That was the arrangement made by your father."
"Then my coming of age will be a loss to him. Is that why he dislikes any mention of it?"
"I hope not!"
"Why? People don't like losing part of the income they are accustomed to. But of course I shall let him have any amount still that he wants, only keeping enough for my own clothes. What do I want with more?"
"When you set up a separate establishment—"
"Nonsense. As if—"
"At all events, don't pledge yourself. Promise nothing till you see your way."
She was conscious of his new manliness, of the change from boy to man. He was only a year older than herself; and twelve months earlier the difference had seemed to be on the other side. Now he had outstripped her; and with a sense of pleasure she knew that she might begin to look up to him, to appeal to his judgment. But nobody could have guessed those thoughts to be passing through Fulvia's mind, as she stood near the fire, winding a ball of worsted, while the light fell on her reddish, fluffy hair and plain though piquant face.
"You to advise that?"
"Why not?"
"I thought—well, you might yourselves be the losers. Why should I not hand it all over to padre as it comes in? I don't know what on earth to do with such a lot of money."
"You can't hand over the responsibility."
"No, perhaps not. I wish one could transfer responsibilities sometimes; but I don't see after all why one should not—in a sense. I mean, that might be the right use for the money; and then the question of spending would come upon padre."
She swept up some remnants of patchwork, Daisy's leavings, from a side-table, put straight a few books, closed the open piano, and came back to the rug. Nigel's face had fallen again into a thoughtful set. Fulvia, gave him a good look unobserved, for he was gazing into the fire.
"I see you haven't lost your old trick of day-dreams. Has anything teased you at the Rectory? Ethel—did you see Ethel?"
Fulvia could not have told what made her ask the question. She had never thought of Ethel in connection with Nigel. Malcolm Elvey was Nigel's particular friend, and it followed as a matter of course that Nigel should see much of all the Elvey family. But Ethel—why, Ethel was merely a bright, useful girl, on frank and easy terms with Nigel. The very intimacy between the two had always been so simple and natural, so little talked about by either, as almost to exclude from the minds of lookers-on a thought of anything beyond. Fulvia was not, and never had been, greatly in love with the Elveys as a family. She liked Mr. Elvey, but not Mrs. Elvey; and she did not care for Ethel. Her first utterance of the name on this occasion was involuntary. Something in Nigel's face arrested her attention, however, and she at once asked, "Did you see Ethel?"
"Yes."
"Was she glad to have you back?"
"I did not ask her."
"She might have shown it without being asked."
Fulvia's eyes could equally well look soft and kind, or hard and cold. The latter expression came into them now.
"I had a pleasant welcome, of course."
"From Ethel?"
"Yes, from Ethel."
"But not all that you expected?"
"Yes—"
"Then what did Ethel say or do?"
Nigel had reached his utmost limit of endurance for one evening.
"Somebody else seems taking up with the inquisitorial line now," he said, not so lightly as he wished.
"Are you going to bed?"
She gave him a searching glance, then held out her hand, keeping her head well back.
"Good-night," came abruptly. "So Ethel does stand first, as Anice said,—before mother and sisters!"
"If you wish to make mischief—" began Nigel.
"I'm not going to make mischief. Don't you know me better? Such things have to be, of course; and I always find them out before anybody else. You are getting to the correct age for the epidemic; but you may trust me not to speak. I'm not anxious to break the madre's heart sooner than need be. I don't mean that she would object to Ethel more than to anybody else—particularly—so you need not look at me like that. It's the fact of anybody that will be the rub; and of course you can't be expected to live a life of celibacy on her account. Ethel is a nice enough girl—at least, I suppose so. I never feel that I know her; but that may be my own fault. However, it is time we should both be in bed, so good-night."
She allowed no opportunity for another brotherly salutation, but retreated with a mocking smile. "Go and dream of Ethel; only don't look doleful," she said. Then she mounted deliberately the shallow oak stairs, warbling a ditty by the way till her room was reached, and the door was locked. Warbling ceased when she found herself alone.
Fulvia turned on the gas jet over the dressing-table and pulled out a supply of hairpins, letting down her hair. It rippled over her shoulders, reaching her waist, and sparkling where the light touched it. Fulvia stood gazing at her own reflection with folded arms, bare below the elbows.
"No; I am not beautiful—not even pretty," she murmured. "But is Ethel?"
Another pause, during which she gazed steadily.
"So that is to be it—after all these years! I would have done anything—given anything—for him. Forty thousand!—That is nothing where one loves. He did not know why I was glad to hear that it was so much—for his sake, not mine. Little thinking then—and only a minute later—But Ethel has nothing to give him. She can mend his glove—laugh at him, perhaps, as I have heard her do. I could not laugh at Nigel—" forgetting that she had just done so. "At anybody else—not Nigel. Will Ethel understand him? Does anybody fully—except—? Oh, I think I could have made him happy!"
Then the consciousness swept over her of what she was saying, of what she was allowing to herself, and with it came a rush of angry blood, suffusing her whole face. She turned sharply away, and walked to and fro, her hands locked together.
"Shame! Nonsense! Rubbish! That I should be the first to think—I!—And he, of course, has never given a thought to me! Why should he? Why should I expect it? Nigel will never marry for money! Should I like him if he could? . . . And if I have not seen, I might have seen. He and Ethel! Why, it has been so for years! He would do for her years ago what he would not do for me. I never could think why, but I know now. If I had not been infatuated, I should have seen all along. Does the madre see? Is that why she minded so much? . . . No, I don't love Ethel. I don't care for her. I don't half like her. She rubs me up the wrong way, somehow. Has it been this? . . . Poor madre! Every one will pity her, and nobody will pity me! Hush—I will not have that come up! Unwomanly!—Contemptible—to give one's love where it is not wanted." Fulvia stamped her foot. "Nobody shall ever guess my folly! Anything rather than betray myself! Nigel—how Nigel would despise me, if he knew! And how I despise myself!"
She stood again before the glass, noting the flush which remained.
"No wonder; I may well be ashamed. It is too weak—too foolish! But I will hide it! Stamp it down! Hold up my head!" And she flung back her abundant hair with a proud gesture. "If love can die, mine shall be killed. Nobody shall see! Nobody shall know! I see how!—I'll laugh at Nigel—tease him—make myself as disagreeable as I can! . . . No, no, that might be read. And why must I pain him? He will have worries enough among them all. No, no, I'll follow a nobler line—more womanly. That at least remains. If I cannot be happy, he may be. I'll give him sympathy, and help it forward. I'll smooth things down for him, as I know I can—more than any other human being. I shall not be misunderstood then—shall not be understood, I mean! What nonsense I am talking! . . . Yes, that will do! He shall think I am glad—delighted. He shall owe some of his happiness to me. And she—I will try to love Ethel—will try to make her see better what Nigel is. And if he is happy—really happy—should I not be happy too, knowing it? But, oh—"
One moment Fulvia stood upright, smiling triumphantly at her own reflection. The next, an irresistible stab came, and tears burst forth in a deluge. She dropped to the ground, rather than threw herself down, hid her face upon those same folded arms now laid against a chair, and shook with smothered weeping, all the more intense because smothered.
Fulvia had never cried easily. From earliest childhood it had taken a great deal to bring tears—unlike Anice, who had a supply always ready to hand for the slightest call. But with Fulvia, when once the flow began, it was as difficult to check as it had been difficult to start. She could weep on to an almost indefinite extent; until, indeed, bodily exhaustion should put an end to the paroxysm.
Fulvia was strong, however, and bodily exhaustion was long in coming. Again and again she strove to master herself, almost with success; again and again a return wave mastered her. From the moment that she collapsed, something not far from two hours passed before she could lift her head. When she again stood before the glass she had grown sick with agitation. Her face was blistered; and the eyes had almost vanished beneath their swollen lids.
"This must be the last time," she said aloud, resolutely. "I will not give way again."
But what if she were overcome by some sudden strain? A new dread of her own weakness assailed Fulvia, who had never felt herself weak before.
"It shall not be!" she muttered. "I will not give way! I will not! Any woman can be strong who chooses. I will be strong! I will not betray myself—whatever happens."
She began at length to make ready for going to bed, in a mechanical fashion, plaiting loosely her long hair to keep it out of her eyes, noting the lateness of the hour. Not far from two o'clock!
"What would the madre think of me? But they shall not know. I must look like myself to-morrow. If only I can sleep!"
Late though it was, she read a few verses from her Bible; a perfunctory matter commonly; and not less so now than usual. She could not have told five minutes afterwards what she had read.
Then she knelt down, leaning against the back of a chair, with a feeling of utter weariness. What did it matter whether she prayed or not? What did anything matter? Fulvia had prayed seldom hitherto—really prayed. There had been no especial connection between her morning and evening "saying" of prayers, and the everyday life lived between.
Now, as usual, she only murmured a few unmeaning phrases, and when she rose no help had come, for she had not sought it. In her trouble she turned to self only, resting on her own strength of will. Fulvia was a girl of steady principle and of noble impulses; but as yet she had never given over the guidance of her barque to the hand of the Master-Pilot. There was danger of its being swept to and fro out of the right course, by wind and wave, against her will.
"Yes, that will do," she said, before putting out her light. "Nigel shall be happy, at all events. I always have said that if one really cares for another, one can wish nothing so much as his happiness. Well, I have to prove it now. Nobody shall ever guess! That has to be crushed down—crushed!" And she clenched her teeth. "I will be mistress of myself. And if I have any power to smooth things for him and Ethel, I will do it."
The resolution was praiseworthy; but would she have strength to carry it out?