CHAPTER XIII

"WILL NEVER MARRY HER!"

"He jests at scars that never felt a wound."—SHAKESPEARE.

"ETHEL, just look at that blind. It hangs all crookedly."

"Yes, mother."

"Now you have pulled it too much the other way. You do things in such a hurry."

Ethel gave a slow pull this time, cheerily, though her mother's tone was depressing. Mrs. Elvey could not be called ill-tempered, but she was given to complaining moods, and such moods were trying to those about her.

"Something must be wrong with the oil we are using now. The lamp has a most disagreeable smell."

"Father noticed it yesterday evening. I'll go to the shop and speak about it to-morrow."

"Yes, do; it is enough to make one positively ill."

"Shall I take away the lamp and light candles?"

"Oh no, that would be extravagant; I must just bear it. What has become of everybody this evening? The house seems so dull."

"Father is writing in the study, and the boys are at their prep. still. Lance wants me to help him presently."

"Then, pray, go; don't mind about me. Lance must not lose his place in his classes on any account. Do go at once, Ethel."

Mrs. Elvey spoke in an injured tone, as if it were unkind of Ethel to leave her; but this was so usual a state of things that Ethel hardly noticed the manner. She folded up her work, and sped into the hall just as the postman dropped a letter into the box.

"For me," she said, taking it out. "From Mr. Carden-Cox. About the magic-lantern, of course. I am glad he has answered quickly. Well, Lance," as the boy ran past, "do you want me?"

"Not for five minutes," Lance answered.

The boys did their "prep." in the little old schoolroom. Ethel turned into the dining-room to read her letter, standing under the gas, which had been left alight. The remains of the evening meal, a dinner-tea, were on the table still. Post arrived at the Rectory somewhat later than at the Grange, Church Square coming at the end of a certain "beat."

She went through the sheet first, amused at the amount of talk about nothing; then came to the postscript, with a little laugh at the "N.B." Puzzlement followed quickly. "What did I say about Nigel? I can't remember. What does he mean? 'Not to trouble my head'—well, but I don't. 'Such matters!'—I can't understand. 'Nigel to marry some day'—yes, very likely; anybody might suppose that."

A pink spot found its way to her cheek. Did Mr. Carden-Cox imagine that she was running after Nigel, and wish to administer a friendly warning? Impossible, surely!—and yet—"He is so odd! He might mean it," faltered Ethel, glad that nobody was present to remark her looks. "But I should not have expected it from him."

She read on slowly, bewildered still. "Fulvia calling for Nigel at night—" quite natural after the shock she had had. But could Mr. Carden-Cox really suppose that she, Ethel, would tell Nigel, even if she had known the fact? What was it that Mr. Browning and Mr. Carden-Cox wanted for Nigel? And who was this "other good girl"?

"Fulvia, no doubt," thought Ethel. "'It wouldn't do!' What wouldn't do? 'Nigel marry in opposition to his father!'—No, indeed; nothing less likely." But what had made Mr. Carden-Cox write all this to Ethel? Was he demented?

Suddenly, at the end, understanding came in a flood. One moment she was smiling under the gas-burner in amused perplexity; the next instant she saw the whole as with a flash of lightning.

This postscript was to Daisy Browning, not to herself. She, Ethel Elvey, and not Fulvia Rolfe, was "the other girl," whom Nigel might never marry—whom, indeed, he had no wish to marry.

Ethel did not give the sheet another glance. There was no need, for she knew it all by heart. More especially those words, "Nigel will never marry her!" were stamped upon her memory. They seemed to settle the matter finally.

She stood quietly; her eyes fixed on the opposite wall; but she could not see or think. No tears came, only a numb sensation, reaching down to her finger-tips; and, indeed, those little fingers were all at once strangely cold.

"I say, Ethel—Eth-el!" called Lance imperiously.

"Coming!" cried Ethel.

She folded the half-sheet, and thrust it into her pocket, absolutely forgetting at the moment that it was not her own. "O Nigel, Nigel!" a voice within her heart was wailing sadly; and as she crossed the hall towards the schoolroom, he entered by the front door.

"Ethel, I'm just come to bring—"

He paused a moment to pull off his glove, and grasp her hand. Ethel's fingers lay in his, not returning the pressure. He looked so bright, so pleased to be there. For one moment she could have believed it all a bad dream. But those words were with her still—he would never marry her! He did not really wish it! Not really! No; why should he? He was only her old kind affectionate playfellow; and she had to be the same to him, expecting nothing beyond, and taking care that nobody should think she could expect anything beyond. That last item was the difficulty—how to guard her own position, and yet not to give him pain. At the present moment such a line of conduct was not even possible. She had to give him pain; and at the very moment that her fingers touched his, the grave shadow which she so well know, and which she never could see without a heartache, crept over his eyes.

"I'm come to bring part of your letter from Mr. Carden-Cox, posted to Daisy. He scorns to have been in a state of confusion. There was a postscript for Fulvia sent to me, and Daisy received this, which she says is yours. Daisy read it before she discovered the blunder, and she wants me to apologise."

"Thanks," Ethel replied, taking the envelope. She did not look straight at him, after her wont, but leant against the wall, pale, and even a little breathless, as if she had been running uphill. It flashed across her mind that, if she followed Daisy's example, she would send to Daisy by Nigel the postscript which she had herself received. "But I cannot—cannot!" she cried to herself. "Impossible! I will send it back to Mr. Carden-Cox."

Nigel stood gazing at Ethel, with a face of grieved surprise. He could not make her out.

"You don't mind, I hope. Daisy did not find that it was meant for you till the end. Of course she will tell nobody what she has read."

"Mind! Oh no! Mr. Carden-Cox's letters are not so very important—commonly."

"It is not half-past seven yet. May I come in for a few minutes? We don't dine till eight," said Nigel, sorely chilled by her manner, yet hoping against hope that it might mean nothing.

"Yes, of course. My mother is in the drawing-room."

"And you will come too?"

"I can't. Lance wants me; and I have to write a note for the post."

"Just for a minute! The post doesn't go till eight."

"Our pillar is emptied a quarter before; and Lance—"

"Can't Lance wait?"

"No; I have to help with his lessons."

Dead silence for a moment.

"Is anything wrong?" Nigel asked.

Ethel lifted her eyes, giving him a calm return glance. She would not for the world have betrayed herself. "I ought to go to Lance."

"And that is all?"

Ethel could not answer in the affirmative. Silence was her response.

"Good-night," Nigel said seriously, holding out his left hand. "No, I think I will not come in this evening. There isn't really much time—only, if I could have seen a little of you—But some other day must do instead. I suppose I may tell Daisy that you do not mind very much."

"About the postscript? Oh no!"

Then Nigel was gone, and Ethel still leant against the wall, with downcast eyes, feeling as if all the sunshine of her life had gone with him.

The schoolroom door opened, and Lance's head popped out.

"I say, Eth—Hallo, there you are!" lowering his voice from a shout.

"I'll come in a minute, Lance. I must write just one line to catch the post."

"That's what girls are always doing," retorted Lance. "I suppose 'just one line' means just ten pages. Well, mind you're quick, for I'm at a standstill, and you promised to come ages ago."

Lance retreated, and Ethel went quickly to the dining-room side-table, where she first opened and read the postscript sent on by Daisy. Had it come alone, it would not have meant very much; she could have afforded then to smile at it; but following close upon the other, it brought a renewed pang.

Ethel sat for a few minutes thinking, and then she dashed off, with small hesitation—

"DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—The enclosed half-sheet came to me by mistake. I am very sorry that I stupidly read it through before finding out that it was meant for somebody else. I send it to you instead of to Daisy, because I would rather no one should know that I have seen it.

"Thanks for your letter to me, and for giving leave about the magic-lantern.

"Fulvia is very nice; and I am glad you think he is going to be so happy.—In haste, yours sincerely,

"ETHEL ELVEY."

The last paragraph was not written without a struggle, but pride insisted. Something had to be said or done to put her into a right position—to convince Mr. Carden-Cox that, at all events, she was not seeking Nigel.

In another minute the letter was ready. Ethel caught up a shawl, threw it over her head, and ran out of the front door, through the garden, across the road, to the red pillar-box, careless of pattering rain.

Then the envelope was beyond recall; and Ethel came slowly back, wondering if she had done wisely.

"If one could only be always sure!" she muttered within the door, shaking off a little shower. "And if only I need not hurt him!"

With an effort she braced herself up, tossed aside the shawl, and entered the schoolroom.

"You've kept me waiting a jolly time, and no mistake," averred Lance. "Just see, Ethel, how in the world am I to make out all this French gibberish?"

Ethel sat down for an hour of patient work, going steadily into such explanations as Lance needed, and making herself very clear. But all the while she never ceased to see a pair of dark eyes, full of pain at the touch of her cold fingers.

Did he care? Yes, no doubt; they were such old friends. Only that—only friends! Nothing else could ever be, for Nigel did not wish it.

Ethel's note to Mr. Carden-Cox, with its enclosure, left Newton Bury on Tuesday evening, just too late for the post Ethel had meant to catch; this fact not having been discovered by her. Consequently the note did not reach Burrside until the midday post, one half-hour after Mr. Carden-Cox had, under a sudden impulse, quitted his blissful solitude for the cares of Newton Bury.

Mrs. Simmons was out when the note arrived, and the little lodging-house maid put it thoughtlessly on a side-table, saying nothing to anybody. There it lay till late the same evening, when Mrs. Simmons came across it, at once instituting inquiries.

"And been there this whole day, and not a soul knowing!" exclaimed Mrs. Simmons. "And Mr. Carden-Cox that particular about his letters, as he'd be fit to cut your head off if the post was five minutes behind-hand, and you knowing of it, Betsy Jane, and never paying no heed! You're the trouble of my life, and that's what you are, never thinking nor caring! And you'll put on your hat this minute, and go straight off to the post, you will, for all it's too late, for I wouldn't keep that there hemberlope in this house another hour, no, not if I was paid for it, and Mr. Carden-Cox so mortial particular!"

Betsy Jane was not likely to pay Mrs. Simmons out of her small earnings, neither did she attempt to defend herself. She only drooped her lower lip, half deplorably, half in sullenness, and endured the harangue: for after all, what could she have pleaded except forgetfulness? And everybody agrees with everybody that to forget is no excuse at all, because one never ought to forget. Betsy Jane put on her hat, of course, and went to the post; and the poor little note wandered off once more missing again the evening post, and again arriving not far from midday.

The return of Mr. Carden-Cox had become known, and Nigel had speedily found his way to Mr. Carden-Cox's house. When Ethel's note, with half-a-dozen other epistles, was handed to Mr. Carden-Cox on a silver waiter, Nigel was seated opposite to him, speaking.

Mr. Carden-Cox took the letters, and turned them over dreamily, while he listened.

"Humph—ha—yes—just so," he assented. "Yes, I see—no doubt—sent them all wrong. Yes; not at all like me, eh? I am a most methodical individual generally."

So he was, perhaps, in certain lines and in certain moods; but, like most people who attempt to analyse themselves, he made no allowance for oppositions in his own nature.

"Methodical," repeated Mr. Carden-Cox, holding Ethel's note, and tapping it gently. "Yes, now I think of it, I had placed the four letters in a row upon my desk—in a row, as I always do, following the order in which I write. It seemed hardly needful to examine the addresses. I may have done so cursorily, but only cursorily—not with especial care. I was sure of the order in which the letters lay; yes, I can recall that now. Yours first, to the left; then Fulvia's. I noted that, coupling you and Fulvia together, you see—ha!—then Ethel's, and lastly Daisy's. No mistake about the matter; no mistake possible, in fact. Extraordinary that the postscripts should have become disarranged. I don't see for my part how they could have done so. Still—facts are stubborn. You are sure that it was as you state?"

"Perfectly."

"Well, I don't understand—I don't understand at all." Mr. Carden-Cox rubbed his hair till it stood on end. "Four envelopes, four letters, four postscripts—yours, Fulvia's, Ethel's, and Daisy's. That was the precise order. I could take my oath in a court of justice as to the way in which they were placed. Extraordinary! Did you say I wrote 'N.B.' instead of 'P.S.'? Comical rather! Never did such a thing in my life before. Must have been thinking too much about you, my dear fellow—you and my dear Fulvia! Nothing unusual in that perhaps. I suppose you and Fulvia—Well, well; yes, and then—to be sure! 'N.B.' on all four postscripts, you say?"

"I know nothing about the four. Fulvia's postscript came to me, and I sent it to her at once, unread. Ethel's came to Daisy, and was read by mistake."

"And the other two: Daisy's and yours?"

"There were no others."

"I beg your pardon. There were two others. Four altogether. One to each."

"Then the other two were not posted. You will most likely find them in your desk."

"I shall most likely do nothing of the sort. The other two were posted." Mr. Carden-Cox was growing irate. "My recollections are perfectly clear. I can distinctly recall putting the four postscripts into the four envelopes, one into each. I tell you I could declare this on oath, in a court of justice. It is a matter of absolute certainty. If the first two went wrong, the third and fourth went wrong also. But somebody has got them—somebody has. No possibility of a mistake there. Ethel and Fulvia have had a postscript each, and not their own postscripts, since you and Daisy received those."

"I saw Ethel within half-an-hour of getting your letter; and the post must have been in at the Rectory. She would surely have told me if there had been a postscript for anybody at home."

"Hallo! This is the girl's own handwriting!" Mr. Carden-Cox was gazing at the note he held.

"Ethel's!"

"Ethel Elvey's, of course. Humph! Why, here it is!" Mr. Carden-Cox held up the half-sheet with his own handwriting.

"Sent back to you, instead of sent on to Daisy," Nigel said quietly; but he had again the chilled sensation. Why had Ethel said nothing to him?—If, indeed, it had arrived when he called.

Mr. Carden-Cox was not commonly supposed to be wanting in reticence; on the contrary, some counted him "a great deal too reserved." But here again there were curious oppositions in his character; and like many reserved people he was capable of running to the other extreme. Being over-excited, he ran now to the other extreme, and forthwith read aloud Ethel's note.

"I don't understand. Who is 'he'?" asked Nigel.

Mr. Carden-Cox glanced at the paragraph again, and burst into an uncomfortable laugh.

"Ha! ha, ha! The girl's a thorough woman, and no mistake! Uses adjectives—pronouns, I mean—without an antecedent. That's the way to express it, I believe. Rather long since I went through Lindley Murray; but antecedents are important things, very important. 'He'! Ha, ha! As if there wasn't another 'he' in the world. But girls never think! I shall have a little fun with Miss Ethel about this. She'll appreciate the joke. Well, well, I'm glad she approves. You and she were always good friends, but—eh? what?"

Nigel was trying to edge in a question.

"Eh? Oh, only a little jest of mine in the postscript to herself, about a certain knight rescuing his faire ladye from fire and water. No, by the way, that wasn't to her; I'm forgetting—but something tantamount—you and Fulvia, you know."

"You seem rather fond of coupling my name with Fulvia's."

"Old habit of mine, my dear boy. Always did couple you together, and probably always shall. Why, now, you know yourself that nobody can take precisely the place with you that Fulvia takes—eh?"

"Perhaps not precisely; but that does not mean—"

"No; just so; it doesn't mean more, than it does mean. It only means that you are on the high-road to—No, you needn't deny it. You needn't attempt to deny anything. We are willing to wait; your father and I. Merely a matter of time, of course. But you see Ethel approves, quite approves—glad to think you are going to be so happy. Yes, certainly—in reference to that—to you and Fulvia. Good, sensible girl, Ethel Elvey. Much too sensible to expect—well, of course, she expects nothing; never did expect. You and she are good friends, no doubt; always will be. But that would never have done; never! Serious reasons against it; and your father would not consent. Entirely out of the question. Fulvia 'very nice,' &c. Might have said a little more, when she was about it. Mind, you mustn't let out that you have heard this note. She doesn't wish it to be known—about her seeing the postscript. There!" and Mr. Carden-Cox chucked his now useless half-sheet into the fire. "Daisy must go without."

Nigel was silent.

"Three of the postscripts accounted for," said Mr. Carden-Cox. He began to reckon upon the ends of his fingers. "Fulvie's, Daisy's, Ethel's. Fulvia's sent to you; Daisy's to Ethel; Ethel's to Daisy. That's it, eh? Yes, I see; plain as a pikestaff. Ethel's and Daisy's were exchanged. Then yours and Fulvia's were exchanged too. Fulvia's to you; yours, of course, to Fulvia. What is the girl after not to give it up?"

"Fulvia has not received it."

"She has, I assure you. Must. Positively must. I put a postscript into each one of the four envelopes, and here is the only one not accounted for. Fulvia has yours to a dead certainty."

"It is the most extraordinary thing to accuse a lady of! Fulvia would have told at once. Why not?"

"That's right. I like to put you up in her defence. It positively does one good. My dear fellow, I don't accuse her of anything. I don't know why she has not passed the postscript on. Women's reasons are not easy to fathom. Fulvia trustworthy. Yes, no doubt. Like the rest of her sex. Acts upon impulse, and never thinks of consequences. Probably put it away in a drawer, and forgot all about it; as likely as not! Anything possible to a woman. I'll ask her when we meet; or you can put the question meantime. 'Rather not!' Too much of a coward, eh? But never mind; you just leave it to me. I'll bring her to book."

Nigel managed at last to get away. He was very sore at heart, longing for quiet, that he might think over Ethel's note, which had been a sharp blow.

He walked homeward swiftly, after his usual direct fashion, only not as usual taking in all about him, with glances to right and left as he went. His eyes were steadily downcast, and certain friends found themselves unconsciously passed by.

"Young Browning in a state of meditation!" one acquaintance remarked.

And a lady of sensitive temper was offended to be overlooked.

While another of more robust mental make had leisure from herself to wonder if that nice young fellow were in trouble. His arm was in a sling still; but "it wasn't that," she said, and she said rightly.

Nigel had long known the wish of Mr. Carden-Cox's heart about himself and Fulvia. He had hitherto ignored the idea, ridden over it, or laughed at it, as the case might be. Even the knowledge that his father was much bent upon the same could only cause regrets.

But Ethel—if Ethel approved and was glad, this, indeed, made all the difference. For if Ethel could wish him to marry Fulvia, then it must have been that she could not and would not marry him herself. Life would be changed for Nigel, if things were so.

No steel blade could have cut more deeply than the closing sentence of Ethel's little note to Mr. Carden-Cox. Glad to think he was going to be so happy! Glad to believe that he would marry Fulvia! Nigel's heart sank.

The mere fact that she was able calmly to write such words to Mr. Carden-Cox seemed to him conclusive. He did not feel that he could have done it in her place, if he had cared one tithe as much as he cared now!

Of course not. But he was a man, and she was a woman. In his estimate of things, he forgot to allow for this fact.

Then her manner to him, when he had seen her last, the sudden coldness and indifference! Was it that she had just read by mistake the postscript meant for Daisy, whatever the postscript might have contained? Something undoubtedly had aroused her to the sense of a certain need to show Nigel that he must not think of her.

Tom Elvey!

Yes, that was it, no doubt. That was at the bottom of the tangle. Fulvia's words on the steam-yacht had been almost driven out of Nigel's mind by succeeding events, and by his first meeting afterward with Ethel; but now they returned in full strength.

Ethel had been so pleased and thankful, after the adventure, showing perhaps under excitement more warmth than she felt on consideration to be right. Probably she feared to mislead Nigel. As his friend and old playmate she would rejoice in his escape—perhaps also for Fulvia's sake, if she held the notion about him and Fulvia—but it was very evident that she wished Nigel now to understand the moderate nature of her feelings.

Tom Elvey, to wit!

Nigel sighed as he entered the Grange gates. Nobody was at hand to hear.