CHAPTER XIV

SOMETHING WRONG—BUT WHAT?

"I do not greatly care to be deceived."—SHAKESPEARE.

"O mad mistake, With repentance in its wake."—JEAN INGELOW.

"FULVIA!" Nigel said in surprise.

She was creeping downstairs, step by step, evidently uncertain as to the extent of her own powers. Nigel walked to the mat at the foot of the flight, and stood there looking up, while Fulvia came to a pause four steps above, resting and looking down. Her face broke into a smile, half mischievous, half apologetic; and then the smile vanished, for it gained no response. His features were set and pale, even stern.

"Don't be angry," she said. "I shall collapse if you are. It's as much as I can do to manage the descent."

"What made you leave your room?"

"What made me? My own naughty will, I suppose. Nobody else's, certainly. Madre is out shopping with the girls, so I thought I would use my opportunity. I'm tired of seclusion."

"Have you your doctor's leave?"

"I didn't ask it. He has not been yet. Besides, if one is bent on one's own way, it's no use to court forbiddal."

"I don't think you are right."

"Perhaps not; but you needn't look so awfully solemn. What is the matter?"

She came down the last steps in tremulous style, laughing at herself, and put a hand on his arm.

"Anything gone wrong? Have you seen Mr. Carden-Cox?"

"Yes. Where are you going?"

"I'm bent on a talk with the padre; but I must rest for five minutes first. Yes, please help me."

Nigel responded without words, and she crossed the hall into the morning-room, dropping on the nearest chair with a vanquished look.

"I didn't know a few days in one's bedroom could make one so horribly weak. I feel just like a teetotum, ready to go down. What are you thinking about?"

Weak as she felt, her eyes scanned him with their usual penetration, and Nigel could not stand it. He turned abruptly, and walked into the bow-window, taking a book from the table, and making believe to read it. Fulvia might think him ill-tempered if she liked. He was not able to endure being questioned.

Fulvia made no further attempt at the moment. "Poor boy!" she said to herself, and a softened look came into her face. She was accustomed of old to think of him as a boy, and to count herself a little older in mind, a little better able to manage things for him as well as for herself than he was; and she had not yet shaken off the old habit of thought.

But when he came back from the bow-window, holding his open book in one hand, it was no boy's face that met her glance. He was very pale; and the compression of the lips, the bent brows, were unmistakably those of a man.

"Has Mr. Carden-Cox been saying anything to worry you?" she asked.

She had no business to ask the question, and she knew it, even before saying the words; but at the moment the temptation was too strong. And at once Fulvia knew that she had lost ground with him. She had done the very thing for which she lately had so blamed Anice—had catechised where she held no right to catechise.

Nigel was silent, but his gravity held now a tinge of displeasure.

Fulvia had far too much tact to persevere in a mistake.

"I beg your pardon," she said. "It was rude of me. Of course I ought not to expect an answer." Yet she did expect, and was disappointed that none came.

"Did you say you wished to speak to my father?" inquired Nigel, after a pause.

"Yes. I'll go to the study. He is there, isn't be? One can so seldom get hold of him alone—I mean, without madre. I don't mean you." She paused and looked at him earnestly. "Am I forgiven?"

"For what?"

"You know. Meddling in your concerns."

"Sisters are supposed to be at liberty to say what they like," Nigel replied, smiling; but it was not his usual smile.

"And brothers, too," Fulvia added, while the word "sisters" fell upon her coldly. Did he mean it? Or was he speaking without thought?

She seemed so tottering that Nigel had no choice but to offer her again the use of his left arm, when she left the room.

"Absurd!" she said, with a laugh, as she accepted it. "I, who am always strong! But I shall be all right in a day or two."

"I doubt if you are so robust as you profess to be. I told the girls so one day."

"Oh yes, Daisy informed me." Then the remainder of Daisy's report rushed into Fulvia's mind, and Nigel glanced in surprise at her flushed face. It was very evident to Fulvia that his own recollections of what he had said brought no self-conscious feelings. "Just after you first came home," Fulvia added, with an effort.

Nigel paused for a moment outside the study door. "Yes; I thought the girls wanted a hint. You mustn't let them put upon you too much. It is not right."

"What isn't?"

"Their making use of you upon all occasions to save themselves trouble. Anice is desperately lazy, and Daisy follows in her wake. You must not let them put upon you."

"I don't see why. I like doing things for people."

"Yes, that is your kindness. But it is not necessary or right. If you were their own sister—"

"I thought you called me so just now."

"That is just it. We call you so, but in reality you are Fulvia Rolfe, the heiress, not even a distant relative of ours."

"I don't see what difference the heiress-ship makes. I owe more to madre and padre and all of you, than the biggest fortune in England could ever repay. And nobody could call my few thousands a fortune. Just, enough to be comfortable on. Yes; please open the door."

"Fulvia, my dear! This is unexpected," Mr. Browning said, rising with his melancholy air and habitual sigh. "I was told that you could not come downstairs for two or three days yet. I am glad to see you looking so well."

Mr. Browning was in the way of counting everybody well except himself. Like Anice, he desired always to have a monopoly of ill-health. Fulvia's colour might, however, have deceived keener eyes than his.

"Sit down, my dear, and tell me all about yourself. Yes, there; that is a comfortable chair. I am only pretty well—only so-so—not at all up to the mark. You wished to speak to me? Yes, certainly, anything except business. I am not equal to business yet; sometimes I doubt if I ever shall be again. Don't go, Nigel."

"I will come again presently," Nigel began.

But Mr. Browning repeated, "No, don't go, pray don't go!"

And Fulvia added, "Yes, please stay. I have nothing to say which you may not hear."

Rather reluctantly Nigel remained, leaning against the mantelpiece, not far from where Fulvia sat.

She did not look her best this morning. Ill-health was unbecoming to Fulvia, as indeed it is to most people. Her hair was not so well-dressed as usual, being a little awry; her eyes were heavy; her complexion was flushed in patches.

Nigel compared her with a mental picture of Ethel—fresh dainty, delicately pale, sunny-eyed—and he thought—but one hardly needs to say what he thought. Fulvia, was dear to him as the adopted sister of his whole life; but she was not Ethel; she could not be Ethel.

"Your mother has gone out with the girls," Mr. Browning said in a pathetic and dejected tone. "I quite urged her doing so, though not equal to the exertion myself. She is the better, I feel sure, for an occasional turn in the open air. Well, Fulvia, what had you to say, my dear?—if it is not business. I am not in a condition for business just now."

"I am afraid it verges on business," said Fulvia.

Mr. Browning put up one hand, as if to ward off an enemy; yet she continued, "About my money—"

Mr. Browning's face grew perceptibly paler, and the apprehensive look in his eyes increased. He was not commonly wanting in colour, though it could hardly be called a healthy tint. Now a wan hue crept over his features, and he held one hand to his side. "I cannot, indeed," he said; "I am not equal—"

"But this is not business to try you—not accounts or calculations. I don't want to bother you with anything disagreeable—lawyer's business, I mean. I only want to say a few words. You know I shall be twenty-one very soon—on the 21st of next month—and December is nearly here."

"So soon!" Those two words had the sound of a groan.

"Yes, very soon. But that need not be any worry to you—need it? If the thought of a fuss on the day is a trouble, we'll give it up, and have no fuss. I don't care in the least, and I will speak to uncle Arthur. What I wanted to say to you is about the money that will be mine then—forty thousand pounds or thereabouts, is it not? I think Nigel said forty thousand. I suppose I shall have full control of it, or at least of the interest. I have been reckoning up, and the interest would amount to something like fifteen hundred a year, would it not?—more, perhaps. I don't know much about such matters, practically. Fifteen hundred a year of my own would—"

Fulvia stopped short, staring; for an extraordinary pallor had crept over Mr. Browning's face, and the lips were blue. His hand was pressed to his side still, and he leant back with half-closed eyes, is if overcome. But overcome by what? Not, surely, by what Fulvia was saying.

"Padre, dear, am I really worrying you? I am so sorry. Indeed, I only want to say a few words, which I think may be a comfort. Won't you believe it, and listen for a moment?"

"Not quite equal—" Mr. Browning tried again to murmur. "Another time—another time."

"Only, if you are bothered, would it not be best now?" She left her seat, and went to his side as she spoke. "It seems a pity to put off. I can't think why you should mind so much my speaking, for indeed I only wished to say that things must go on very much the same as before. Look at me, padre, and try to smile. Won't that be the pleasantest plan? You have always used a part of my income, over since I came to live with you; and you must use it still. I wouldn't deprive you of a penny that you are accustomed to have. Why, it is your due! what else could you expect? I don't know how much it has been—do you, Nigel? About half, you think? But it ought to be more. If you had a thousand a year, padre, the five hundred remaining would be a great deal more than I should ever care to spend. So you see how easily everything can be arranged! Will not that make it all right?"

There was no answer except a groan.

Fulvia knelt down by his side, looking into his face with a softer and sweeter expression than Nigel could recall having seen in her before—though she could be very sweet at times.

"Poor dear padre! I am so sorry. What wicked thing did you suppose I was going to say? But you understand now, don't you?—That my coming of age will make no manner of difference. Except, of course, that I shall have the control of perhaps four or five hundred a year, instead of my dress allowance, and that you will have more—not less—than before! We won't have fusses, or parties, or lawyers, or congratulations, until you are well again. And you will be good, and will see Dr. Duncan, so as to get well quickly. Will that do? Do you mind my having said so much? For, after all, I am your child, am I not? And I couldn't possibly be so still on any other terms. Just think how much I owe to you and madre! Does this put things smooth and straight?"

Mr. Browning burst into tears.

Such a thing had not been known in the Grange annals! Some men, contrary to common theory, do cry very easily—as easily as some women; but Mr. Browning was not of their number. Even under the pressure of a great sorrow, he would not be known in public to shed a tear. He must have been thoroughly unnerved before he could thus breakdown before his son and Fulvia.

Fulvia was so startled as to become white. It was like having the house come down to see Mr. Browning burst into womanly tears, his face hidden, his chest and shoulders heaving. She gave a glance of ghastly astonishment at Nigel, and had no glance in response, for Nigel was watching his father intently with a pair of pained and troubled eyes. What was to be done or said next? Fulvia, kneeling there, began to shake all over.

"Padre!" she said, in a tone of expostulation. And then she did the worst thing possible, gave way to tears herself. Perhaps her own "rainy season" was hardly at an end yet. "Oh, what is the matter? What does it mean?" she cried.

"I think—I think, perhaps—I had better see—James Duncan," panted Mr. Browning.

He sat up, or rather leant forward, grasping an arm of the chair with either hand, and drawing difficult breaths, almost like sobs. The natural colour had not come back to his lips; and even Fulvia, inexperienced in illness, noted something strange in his look.

"James Duncan!" he gasped once more.

At the same instant, opportunely, a man's step sounded on the gravel path outside, and Nigel saw Dr. Duncan pass the window. Come, of course, to visit his patient, Fulvia; supposed to be a prisoner in her own room all this while.

"He is here," Nigel said.

Fulvia stood up. "That had better be first," she said, aware that delay might cause a reversal of Mr. Browning's resolution, and not at all conscious how great was the present need. "I will send Dr. Duncan at once."

"Thanks," Nigel answered, again examining his father with anxious eyes, perplexed what to think of it all. The gasps of oppression grew worse, yet somehow neither Fulvia nor Nigel was alarmed. It was not the fashion at the Grange to be alarmed on the score of Mr. Browning's health; only to show a gentle solicitude. He talked too much about himself to induce anxiety. People grew used to it, and were kindly pitying, but not afraid.

Nigel was far more troubled about the possible reasons for Mr. Browning's agitation as to Fulvia's money, and his dread of Fulvia's approaching birthday. Nervousness alone might lie at the bottom, but nervousness seemed a hardly sufficient explanation.

Fulvia thought nothing further of the matter than that it was "one of poor padre's fancies, which had to be humoured"; while Nigel, man-like, weighed cause and effect, finding the cause inadequate to the effect. He did not know what else might lie behind; but from the moment of his father's breakdown into tears, he distinctly foresaw "something wrong."

Fulvia went out hastily, and met Dr. Duncan in the hall, pulling off his greatcoat.

"Downstairs!" he said with an accent of surprise, not of approval. "Is that wise?"

"I don't know."

"Who gave you leave?"

"I took it."

Dr. Duncan laughed. "Fulvia Rolfe all over!" he said. He had known her from infancy. "I am not sure that the plan has answered," and there was a critical look.

"I don't know; it doesn't matter. Please go to the study first; yes, padre! He will see you now, and—and if we put off—oh, you understand. Nigel is there; and he doesn't seem right."

"Nigel?"

"No, padre, padre. I don't see why. I had to say something about my birthday, and he couldn't stand it. He seems—I don't know how—not like himself. He actually—cried." She brought out the word in shamefaced style. "Do go quickly."

"Somebody else needs attention," said Dr. Duncan, who never could be pressed into a hurry.

"I—oh no—only I was silly, And it upset me too. But please afterwards tell me how padre really is, and if anything is wrong."

Dr. Duncan disappeared within the study door, and Nigel did not come out as she expected.

Fulvia went across to the morning-room, and sat within the open door, keeping watch.

The watch lasted a good while. She could bear nothing at first. Hardly a sound came from the study—unless—was that Mr. Browning? Fulvia fancied she caught a slight moan. Then stillness again, except at intervals a word or so Dr. Duncan's voice, suppressed, and not as usual, cheerful. Fulvia did not know what to make of it. She had expected a continuous murmur of talk—Dr. Duncan asking questions, Mr. Browning answering. Was that the key of the study door turned? Then they were afraid that she or Mrs. Browning might walk in, and interrupt the conference? But what harm if either had?

Fulvia's solitude was invaded suddenly by the return of Mrs. Browning and the girls, accompanied by Mr. Carden-Cox, who had picked them up, or been picked up by them, somewhere in the town. Fulvia, wondered what he had come for, since to her knowledge Nigel had called on Mr. Carden-Cox since breakfast. But when she saw him, nothing was farther from her thoughts than that which occupied the whole foreground of Mr. Carden-Cox's mind—the fourth postscript.

"Fulvia!" was the astonished cry, as she came forward into the hall.

Patchy flushes had faded during her vigil, and she looked haggard.

"Fulvia downstairs! My dear, how wrong of you!" Mrs. Browning added.

"It will not hurt me, madre; and one good has come of it, dear," Fulvia said, kissing Mrs. Browning. "Padre is seeing Dr. Duncan."

"My husband! Then he is—"

"Oh, it is nothing; really nothing," Fulvia could reply honestly in her ignorance. "Only I stupidly said something about my money—something I knew he really would like, and he was a little fussed and upset by it. And then he consented to see Dr. Duncan, and Dr. Duncan turned up in the very nick of time. So now they are having a proper consultation, and they ought not to be interrupted."

"You think not? But I—"

"No, indeed, madre; not even you. I would leave them to have it out, if I were you," pleaded Fulvia, taking Mrs. Browning's hands in a detaining grasp. "I would, indeed. If you go in, padre is morally certain to try to seem better or worse than he is; it doesn't matter which. I'm not speaking unkindly. You know what I mean. He won't be natural, because he will be imagining what you may think, and trying to meet it. Besides, they don't want anybody just now, for I heard the door locked. Do come into the morning-room and wait a little."

"How long has James been with my husband?"

Fulvia did not choose to know. She had a shrewd suspicion that the interview had already lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour; but she was not going to say as much to Mrs. Browning. And by resolutely refraining from a glance towards the hall clock, she was able to answer, "I don't exactly know. I should not think he could be much longer. Come, madre."

Mrs. Browning yielded, as every one in the house did more or less yield, to Fulvia's authority, when she chose to exert it. And they adjourned to the morning-room, leaving the door open by a kind of tacit agreement, in readiness to capture Dr. Duncan when he should appear. Fulvia said nothing as to Nigel's presence within the study.

Mr. Carden-Cox was "splitting" to introduce his own subject, finding each moment's delay insufferable, and Daisy, who had already heard the tale, came to his help.

"Fulvie, what do you think?" she cried, lounging against a sofa arm. "Fulvie! Do you know, one of Mr. Carden-Cox's postscripts has actually vanished! Nobody knows what has become of it."

Had Fulvia guessed what might be coming, she would not have placed herself in her present position, facing the window, with the light falling full upon her, Mrs. Browning by her side, Mr. Carden-Cox and the two girls exactly in her front. But it would not do to make an instant move. Something would be suspected. She braced herself for the encounter with a strong effort, comforted by a certainty that Mr. Carden-Cox would be vague in his notions. His first words seemed to lend support to this theory.

"Stupid thing, wasn't it?—Yes, I couldn't have believed it of myself. Eh, Fulvia! Fancy the old uncle mixing up a lot of postscripts, and sending them all wrong! Putting 'N.B.' in place of 'P.S.'! Fudge! Wouldn't have believed it of myself, if somebody else had told the tale. However—however—however—"

He paused, looking hard at Fulvia. She leant back in her chair, and returned the gaze with an air of indifference. Fulvia had considerable power of acting on occasions, when strung up to the mark.

"Doesn't look guilty," muttered Mr. Carden-Cox.

The words sent a slight shock through every nerve, yet she did not visibly wince.

"I wonder if—" she began, looking towards the hall.

"No, no; no hurry—not yet; you said yourself, better wait. Interviews shouldn't be interrupted—important interviews. Duncan knows what he is about; doesn't want our advice. Eh? Sit still. What's the matter?" with a suspicious glance, which brought her instantly to quiescence.

She let one hand drop upon the other, and waited.

"I say, Fulvie, do you know anything of these precious postscripts?"

"Anything!" Fulvia repeated calmly, with a lift of her eyebrows. "I know that you must have been in a very mixed state of mind when you sent them off."

"Tut, tut! Do you know anything of the missing one?"

Fulvia could not, with all her will, prevent a fluttering blush. It deepened slowly. "I did not even know that one had been missed," she said, carefully truthful thus far.

"Of course it has. Now, you needn't keep staring towards the study. Time enough for that when Duncan comes out. Just listen to me. Daisy understands, and I want you to understand. I wrote four letters, and put them out in order on my desk; and I wrote four postscripts, putting one inside each envelope. Mind one into each! I'm as sure of that as I am of—well, of anything!" a particular simile failing him. "One postscript into each envelope, taking them in a regular succession. By some extraordinary fatality I put the wrong postscripts into the wrong envelopes. Can't imagine how. Never was guilty of such an absurdity in my life before. However, there it is! Each went to the wrong individual. Three have turned up, and the fourth hasn't!"

"Very odd!" said Fulvia.

"Odd! It's inexplicable."

"Things do disappear unaccountably sometimes."

"No doubt. But just listen. It's as plain as a pikestaff, if you'll give your mind to it for a minute. The postscripts went two and two, so to speak, in a double exchange. Ethel's and Daisy's were exchanged. Daisy sent hers to Ethel, and Ethel returned the other to me. Either plan open, of course. That's Ethel and Daisy disposed of. You and Nigel remain. You see! Now your postscript went to Nigel, and was returned to you. The fair inference is that Nigel's went to you, and that you ought to have returned it to him. Eh? You see, eh?"

Fulvia had not expected this. She had reckoned on a good deal of confusion. Mr. Carden-Cox was growing excited, but his recollections were clear. Fulvia kept perfectly still, conscious of an internal trembling, yet conscious that it did not show. One cheek burnt and the other was white, as she remarked—

"Inferences are often great nonsense."

"Tut, tut!" once more. "I don't want any beating about the bush. You girls are queer creatures; no knowing what you'll do next, or why you do it. Tell me plainly, did you have Nigel's postscript, or did you not? Eh?"

Fulvia had known that the question must come. She had seen it approaching, as an inevitable thing, even while trying to stave it off. Her mind was not so much in a state of turmoil as in a state of blank, unable to think. She did not reason upon the right and wrong of the question. Wrong-doing had landed her in this difficulty; and the one way out of it seemed to her too hard to be taken. In that moment she had the choice. The straightforward and painful path lay one way; the crooked and seemingly easy path lay the other way.

If she had but taken the right path, regardless of consequences! At the worst, the consequences of well-doing, even when painful, can never be so hard to bear as the consequences of ill-doing. But to Fulvia it almost appeared that she had no choice. The upward step was in her eyes so entirely impossible that the other step became a necessity.

Perhaps in a certain sense it was almost impossible. Fulvia stood alone at the junction of these two paths, unaided, unadvised. She might have had Heavenly counsel, Heavenly strength; but she did not ask for them. What wonder that by herself she was weak—the weaker for having been already overcome? All through the dialogue she had not made up her mind what to do. She had only allowed herself to drift; and nothing is more certain to bring a vessel to disaster than leaving it to drift.

When Mr. Carden-Cox put the direct question, "Did you have Nigel's postscript?" a curious hardness came over her, the hardness of desperation. She looked straight at Mr. Carden-Cox, neither blushing nor trembling, and replied—

"No."

"Not any postscript?"

"No."

"Quite sure?"

"Yes."

"It couldn't have remained in the envelope unknown to you."

Fulvia was tempted to catch at the suggestion, but Daisy spoke promptly—

"Oh no; it wasn't there, I'm sure. I found the envelope on the floor, when Fulvie was in bed; and I looked to see that it was empty."

Fulvia kept silence.

"Well, it's a very odd state of things, I must say—very odd indeed—very odd. That is all! Most extraordinary," said Mr. Carden-Cox.

To Fulvia's intense relief the study door opened. At first she only felt relief, to have the ordeal over. The sense of grief and humiliation at her own fall would come surely, but more slowly.