CHAPTER XII

NOTA BENE!

"It is sometimes a very trifle from whence great temptations proceed. And whilst I think myself somewhat safe, when I least expect it, I find myself sometimes overcome with a small blast."—THOMAS À KEMPIS.

THESE were the postscripts, indited by Mr. Carden-Cox upon four half-sheets, in his state of mental flurry, and thrust into the wrong envelopes.

_To Nigel: sent by mistake to Fulvia._

"N.B.—One line more. My dear fellow, you do not really mean to go in for law before Christmas!—just home from your world-tour. Most exemplary, of course; but is it necessary? I do not wish to act the part of an old hinderer in suggesting delay, still—nobody has seen you yet, and everybody wants to hear everything that you have done. After Christmas you will be going, no doubt, to Oxford; and later on will come the crucial question as to your career—the Bar or no! I say yes; but your father says no; and after all the decision must rest with him. Happily there is time enough. Meanwhile we have to think of Fulvia's twenty-first birthday. I want to make something of that affair, if your father will let us. He seems strangely averse.

"Are you sure that your mind is free at this moment for law studies? Well, well, I must not inquire too closely. But I can tell you, if that comes about, the dearest hopes of your father and of myself will be fulfilled. I have set my heart upon it, ever since you and the little Fulvia trotted about hand-in-hand, in your frocks and knickerbockers. You two always suited each other. And not to speak of Fulvia's money, which is a consideration, for undoubtedly your father's embarrassments have increased—not to speak of that, for you are not one to marry for money, Fulvia will be a good wife, true and unselfish. I shall not soon forget your leap into the river, with Fulvia in your arms. It seemed to me a happy augury for the future. Was it not so to you? One knows well enough how you feel—how you must feel—for the good girl whom you rescued—but not all young fellows have such an opportunity of putting their feelings into action. She is a good girl, and you are a good boy; and I wish you both happiness, with all my heart—you and her together."

_To Daisy: sent by mistake to Ethel._

"N.B.—One word more. As for what you say about Nigel, that is all nonsense. Don't trouble your little head; what do you know of such matters? He will marry no doubt some day, but not in that direction. So Fulvia is very poorly, and rambles at night. Yes, I dare say; it was a shock to her, of course. Mind, Nigel must not know how she calls for him. Won't do to hinder matters by pressing them on. Young men like to be let alone, and not interfered with. But you are a sensible and womanly girl, and I don't mind saying to you that that is what his father and I most want for him. I have the greatest esteem for the other good girl; and she is an uncommonly good girl; but all the same it wouldn't do. Wouldn't do for a moment. Nigel will never marry her, unless in direct opposition to his father; and he is not that sort, you know. Nor does he really wish it, though there may once have been a passing fancy. Fulvia is made for him. Mind—all this in strict confidence. Not a word to any one; least of all to E. E. You are a good little Daisy, and I trust you."

_To Ethel: sent by mistake to Daisy._

"N.B.—I am sorry, by-the-bye, to hear such poor accounts of Fulvia. But I hope she will soon pick up again. She must feel gratified by the manner of her rescue. Devotion could scarcely have been more plainly shown. She and that boy have always been much one to another. I have often hoped that the 'much' would grow into more. In fact, his father and I quite agree on that point—about the only point, between ourselves, on which Browning and I ever did agree. This in confidence. You are enough of a friend to Nigel to be able to rejoice in the prospect of his happy future. Tell Mr. Elvey I am delighted that he should use my magic-lantern as often as he likes."

_To Fulvia: sent by mistake to Nigel._

"N.B.—One word more to my dear Fulvia. I am sorry to hear that your faithful knight has not yet regained the use of his hand. But never mind! He will count it worth his while. What brave knight ever yet shrank from fire or water for the sake of his faire ladye? Well, I must not joke you; but it is easy to guess how he feels—good boy!"

The four letters with their ill-fitting postscripts reached Newton Bury that same evening, being faithfully delivered according to their several addresses; three at the Grange, one at the Rectory.

"A perfect cartload from Mr. Carden-Cox," Nigel remarked. He read his own sheet quickly through, wondering how any sensible and intellectual man could manage to say so little, in so many words. If it had been a woman, or even a brainless man—but Mr. Carden-Cox was not a woman, nor was he brainless. Nigel then turned to the postscript, with a preliminary laugh at the N.B., and a final pause at the sixth word.

"Hallo! This is not for me? Here, Daisy," folding the half-sheet and tossing it towards her, "it is Fulvia's, not mine!"

Daisy was screwing up her big childish forehead in perplexity. "How funny!" she commented aloud, over her half-sheet. "He doesn't write like that to me generally. Why, I declare—if it isn't to Ethel!"

"What?"

"Mr. Carden-Cox has sent me a wrong piece. It's to Ethel, not to me. A sort of postscript. How stupid!—And I never guessed till I got to the end. Yes, I read it, of course. How could I tell? It might have been all in answer to my letter, only it's not exactly how he always writes. Speaking of padre as 'Browning' and—"

"Stop you've no business to repeat a word. It was not meant for your eyes."

"No; to be sure. Well, we must send it on to Ethel, I suppose."

"Put it up in an envelope. I'll take it at once, and explain."

Daisy obeyed with promptitude. Nobody else was present to remonstrate. Mr. and Mrs. Browning were in the study, and Anice was with Fulvia. Dinner would not be until eight o'clock; and it was now only a few minutes after seven.

"That is Fulvia's. You had better carry it upstairs. Don't forget," Nigel said, indicating the folded half-sheet, as Daisy handed to him a closed envelope, addressed "Miss Elvey."

"Yes, I will—I mean, I won't forget. Tell Ethel I'm very sorry I read hers. How odd of Mr. Carden-Cox! Why didn't he take more care? Perhaps there's a half-sheet to you, sent to Fulvia by mistake."

"No; Anice would have brought it down by this time."

Nigel was pulling on his greatcoat, when the study door opened, and Mrs. Browning glided out. "It is raining fast. Where are you going?" she asked.

"To rectify a blunder."

"Mother—Mr. Carden-Cox has made such a mistake," exclaimed Daisy, hanging over the balusters. "He has sent part of a letter to me which ought to have gone to Ethel, and another part to Nigel which is meant for Fulvia. Isn't it queer? Just as if he had got all the letters mixed up in a jumble. I'm taking Fulvia hers, and Nigel is taking Ethel's."

A shadow fell upon Mrs. Browning's face. "Always the Rectory!" she said.

"I shall not be long, mother."

She retreated into the study, and Nigel went off—something of the shadow falling on him; he could hardly have defined how or why.

Fulvia's letter had gone straight to her, on its first arrival. She was seated in her bedroom, by the fire, wearing a pale blue dressing-gown. The reddish hair, knotted lightly behind, fell low in masses. Though not ill enough to stay in bed all day, she was by no means well enough to be about the house. She looked thin and flushed.

Anice was leaving the room to get a book, at the moment of the maid's entry with the letter, and Fulvia said, "Don't hurry, I am all right."

"I don't mean to be long," Anice replied.

But Fulvia was alone when she opened the envelope. Out of it dropped the sheet and also the half-sheet, both closely covered by Mr. Carden-Cox's minute and precise handwriting.

Some impulse made Fulvia turn first to the half-sheet; and in a moment she saw that it was not intended for herself. She glanced at the sheet—yes, that began all right, "My dear Fulvia;" but this had "My dear fellow."

Fulvia read on, notwithstanding. A kind of fascination seemed to hold her eyes to the page. It was fascination which might have been, and ought to have been, resisted. Conscience cried loudly, yet she did not resist. She read on straight and fast to the end.

A gleam came to her eyes, and a glow to her cheeks. For some seconds she had only one distinct sense—that of an overwhelming joy. Nothing else could matter now—now—if Nigel and she were to be one! The wish of his father!—The wish of Mr. Carden-Cox!—The desire of Nigel himself!—What then could hinder?

But upon this came a rush of yet more overwhelming shame at her own action, seen in imagination with Nigel's eyes. The shame bowed her forward, till her face rested upon her knees, and the flush of joy deepened into a fixed burning of brow and cheeks. What had she done? What had she been about? Nigel's letter!—But she could not let Nigel have it! He must never know that her eyes had read those words—Oh, never! Cold chills shot through her at the very thought.

Anice was coming back. Fulvia heard the approaching steps, and dire need brought composure. She thrust the half-sheet deep into a pocket of her dressing-gown, pushed away the candle that her face might be in shade, and began quietly to read her own letter.

"From Mr. Carden-Cox?" asked Anice, recognising the cramped hand. "Anything particular?"

"Nothing much. Just chit-chat! He seems getting tired of Burrside already."

"He always does in a day or two."

"Or a week or two."

Unobservant Anice noticed nothing unusual in Fulvia's shaking hands or crimson face; but the next moment Daisy rushed in.

"Oh, did I make a noise? I'm sorry. I quite forgot. Why, Fulvie—what a colour you are! As red as beetroot! Cousin Jamie would say you were feverish."

"Nonsense. What have you there?"

"Only a postscript from Mr. Carden-Cox for you. It went to Nigel by mistake. I can't imagine what Mr. Carden-Cox has been about. He sent another to me instead of to Ethel. You haven't one too, I suppose, meant for somebody else? Only that sheet—" as Fulvia pointed to the one lying on her knee. "Fulvie! I say! I'm sure you are not so well this evening. What is the matter? Anything Mr. Carden-Cox has said? I shall have to call madre. Why, your hands are like fire, and beating as if they were alive. I can feel them."

Fulvia snatched the said hands petulantly away.

"Nonsense! Don't. I wish you would not tease. I will not have a word said to madre, and I only want to be quiet. There is such an amount of talk and bustle, and my head is wild."

Daisy grew gentle. "I'm sorry. We won't talk any more," she said in a penitent voice. "Fulvie, if you just get into bed, I'll only help you and not say a word. Please do."

Fulvia leant back, and shut her eyes.

"I can't yet. I have to finish my letter—and I want a little peace. Go and dress for dinner first—both of you."

"And then—" Daisy said.

"Yes, then perhaps. I'll see. Only go now, and don't say a word to worry madre."

The girls took her at her word, retiring softly, and Fulvia found herself alone; safe for a while, she knew, since neither Anice nor Daisy could ever dress in less than half-an-hour, the one from innate slowness, the other from lack of method.

Fulvia's hands beating! She could have told Daisy that she was beating all over; the clang of a hard pulsation echoing through every nerve and fibre of her body. "Am I going to be ill? I feel like it," she asked of herself; and then aloud, with a laugh—"Nonsense! There are nerves enough in the family already. I'll not sport them!"

Then she glanced through Mr. Carden-Cox's chit-chat sheet, only to find nothing in it worth attention, and read her own postscript. Thereupon came again the thrill of joy, followed by shame.

"What would Nigel think? How could I? Tell him!—Oh, I can never confess! He must never know! To read it—all the time knowing it was not meant for me. I! Why I have always prided myself on never stooping to anything mean—and now, this! What could have come over me that moment? I must have been demented. How I could! Yes, it was temptation of course—but why did I give way?"

Yet she drew the half-sheet from her pocket, and her eyes fell upon it anew. "No harm now! I have read the whole—I can't help having read it," she murmured. Then, with a renewed rush of self-contempt, she caught her glance away, crumpled up the piece of paper, and actually flung it upon the fire. At the last instant she recoiled, and as the little crushed ball of paper fell upon a surface of unburnt black coal, her fingers snatched it off. Impossible yet to destroy those words, so full of light and hope for her. She would not read them again, but she would keep them; just for a few days.

Fulvia crossed the room with trembling steps, smoothing the crumpled half-sheet as she went. She unlocked her dressing-box, slipped the paper behind the little looking-glass which had its nest within the lid, and re-locked the box.

Once more in her easy-chair, she could only lean back and think, with a mixture of delight and despondency. As minutes went on, the latter predominated.

If Nigel should ever know—should over guess what she had done! Fulvia felt that she could sink into the earth with shame. She could picture so well his look, could foretell what he would think and say. Suppose Mr. Carden-Cox were to recall that he had sent the postscript to Fulvia? Suppose she should be questioned. What would she say, and how might she shield herself?

"I will not speak untruths, and I will not tell!" she resolved aloud, clasping her hands. The two resolves might prove incompatible,—but she would not face that possibility.

Why had she not, when Anice was returning, dropped the half-sheet on the floor, then picked it up as a discovery and sent it straight to Nigel by Anice? This suggestion came up; Fulvia's brow was dyed anew at the idea of such deception. Yet—she almost regretted that she had not thought of it in time!

By the half-hour's end, when Daisy returned, it was as much as Fulvia could do to creep into bed. No wonder that the night following was one of feverish unrest. Daisy had little sleep, though not easily kept awake, for Fulvia rambled incessantly in a half-awake, half-unconscious style.

Strange to say, she kept sealed lips throughout as to the crumpled half-sheet locked up in her dressing-case. Once there was a passionate cry, "O Nigel, forgive me!"

And Daisy sat up in bed, staring with round eyes of astonishment. But no more followed, and Fulvia seemed to be asleep, so Daisy lay down again.

"I'm glad I told Mr. Carden-Cox, though," commented Daisy. "Somebody ought to know how she goes on, most certainly!"