CHAPTER XVII

HE AND SHE

"Such is the bliss of souls serene, When they have sworn, and steadfast mean, Counting the cost, in all to espy Their God, in all themselves deny.

"Oh could we learn that sacrifice, What lights would all around us rise! How would our hearts with wisdom talk Along life's dullest, dreariest walk!"

* * * * *

"Seek we no more; content with these, Let present rapture, comfort, ease, As Heaven shall bid them, come and go— The secret this of rest below."—_Christian Year._

THE afternoon before Fulvia's birthday!

All the morning snow fell; and when lunch was over, it grow into a storm—flakes whirling thickly, clouds low, ground white, wind gusty and strong. The girls congratulated themselves on having bought Fulvia's presents in good time.

Mr. Browning was in the lowest depths of depression and misery. It was hard to look upon him unmoved. Dr. Duncan had been to see how he was that morning, and had spoken of the need for mental repose.

"If this went on—" he said significantly.

But who was to give the mental repose? How were they to minister to this mind diseased? Mr. Browning was like a hunted creature, shrinking before some terrible shadow, from which he might not escape. He could not rest, could not read, could not stay in one place, could not bear the presence of others, could not endure to be alone. His face was shrunken, the lips were blue, the eyes were filled with a nameless apprehension; yet what he feared none knew, and none dared ask.

Not a word was spoken in his hearing of the morrow, and not a word spoke he. He knew the date, however; and they all knew that he knew it. "Fulvia's birthday" was written in each line of his haggard cheek and brow.

Fulvia sat with him for a while, trying to be cheery, but finding cheeriness no easy matter in the face of his persistent melancholy. If she laughed, he could only groan. Mrs. Browning had a brief respite while she was there, for which all were grateful. Soon, however, Mr. Browning demanded once more his patient wife, and would be content with no other companion.

Nigel alone went out. "It was no weather for girls," he said, when Daisy begged to accompany him. He plodded through the heavy snow, all the way to Mr. Carden-Cox's house, and there sat over the fire with the old bachelor, hearing much vague talk about nothing in particular, intermixed with dark and dim hints about the morrow.

At first Nigel hardly noticed those. He was unwontedly depressed, feeling the strain of the last few weeks, and little disposed to speak. Then a passing phrase recalled Daisy's warning as to the lawyer, and in a moment Nigel was himself. He had actually come to settle this matter, and had almost lost sight of it in anxious thought about Ethel.

"I say, Nigel, that's all very well, my dear fellow," remonstrated Mr. Carden-Cox, when a judicious question had drawn from him a statement of his intentions, and Nigel had represented the peril to Mr. Browning of the proposed action. "I say, that's all very well. I've a sincere regard for your father's health—indubitably—don't wish to do him any harm. Still, right's right and wrong's wrong, and the girl is my own flesh and blood. She must have her due."

"Of course—"

"And everything ought to be clear and ship-shape at once."

"As soon as possible."

"To-morrow, I say."

"That is the question. As soon as possible," repeated Nigel.

"If your father doesn't bring his lawyer forward, I shall bring mine forward—that's all."

"It would be a serious step in his present state. Not that I see what you and your lawyer could do without Fulvia's consent—short of going to law."

"Stuff and nonsense! Going to law! I merely wish to know how things stand. There's nobody else to see that the girl has her rights."

"Except—!"

"Eh! What? Yourself! Yes, yes, to be sure—if you'll assume the responsibility. But I'll not have the question shirked."

"It shall not be."

"Well, if you say so!" in a mollified tone. "I've no faith in your father's business capacities; but yours are different. Yes; I trust you," pointedly. "Who are your father's lawyers just now? He has been given to changing."

"Brown & Berridge, I believe. He has not much to do with lawyers."

"Dare say not! That's the worst of leaving a man irresponsible. Nobody knows anything about it. Brown and Berridge! Where?"

"London."

"Humph!"

"Will you leave the responsibility of Fulvia's money to me?" asked Nigel, in a resolute, abrupt tone.

"Yes; when you are settled to be her husband!"

Nigel's colour rose. "That is not likely," he said.

"But, I say—you like the girl?"

"Yes."

"What more is wanted?"

Nigel's laugh had no ring in it. "A good deal more," he said. "One may 'like' a great many people."

"You know the sort of liking I mean. And you know that you don't like 'a great many people' as you like Fulvia."

"Perhaps not."

"Then what on earth keeps you back? It's your father's wish—it's my wish—and you care for her! What more do you want, eh? That Fulvia should 'like' you, I suppose! No fear about her! Daisy says—"

This was too much, and Nigel started up.

"Come, come; don't be excited. Lover-like, but unnecessary," laughed Mr. Carden-Cox. "I'll not betray confidences. Can't you see for yourself? Sit down."

Nigel remained standing.

"When I speak of undertaking responsibility for Fulvia, I mean it simply as her brother. Nothing else is possible."

"For you, or for her? Which? Ha, ha! Well, so be it just now. I'll leave the matter in your hands, for—let us say, for a few weeks. Concession enough, that! Why, bless me, if Browning doesn't hand over the money to the girl this week, he's defrauding her—nothing short of defrauding her. And if he can't bear to have the subject mentioned, how is anything to be arranged, eh? Talk of health! It is a matter of conscience, not of health. Well, well, sit down, my dear fellow, and I'll not say anything more about it just now."

Nigel obeyed.

And Mr. Carden-Cox, to escape from the engrossing subject of Fulvia's money, turned to the scarcely less engrossing subject of "the four N.B.'s."

He was always able to talk of them for any length of time. He could not get over the mystery, could not forgive himself the blunder, could not rest without solving the riddle of the lost half-sheet. Postscripts haunted him night and day. He was like an ardent devotee of conundrums—unable to enjoy life till he should find a clue to the puzzle.

Nigel had to listen to a new and profuse statement of all the details, wound up by a graphic description of his questions put to Fulvia, and of her emphatic denial.

"Said plainly enough she hadn't received yours—hadn't received any postscript at all, in fact. What do you think?"

"It settles the matter, of course, once for all." Nigel spoke with a touch of impatience, for he was tired of the subject.

"Unsettles the matter, you mean. Why, now, I have told you a dozen times at least—"

"Quite true," thought Nigel, with an inward groan.

"That there were four envelopes and four postscripts, and that I put one postscript into each envelope. Now, under those circumstances, how could Fulvia have failed to get one?"

"She evidently did fail."

"But I say, my dear fellow, she could not!"

"You meant to put in the four. Whether you did so is another question. I suppose we all make mistakes sometimes. And Fulvia's word—"

"A lady's word! Pshaw!"

Nigel was coldly silent.

"I don't suppose the girl means to deceive. She has blundered somehow. But as for my not putting in that postscript—! Of course it may have dropped out,—been stolen, or lost, or burnt, or—"

"It seems to me a very insignificant matter."

"Insignificant!" Mr. Carden-Cox was scandalised. His correspondence to be counted "insignificant"! He could scarcely believe his own ears.

"Oh, very well; if the thing isn't of sufficient importance to claim your attention, I have no more to say. I should have thought—but it doesn't signify. You young fellows think such an amount of yourselves; nothing else is worth a glance. I should have thought that the question of my truthfulness being impugned was of some weight even in your eyes; but no, that is quite insignificant. Fulvia is to be believed, of course; and I—I may look to myself."

Then a twinkle broke into the anger. "Well, well,—after all, any amount of infatuation is allowed to young lovers. I ought not to be surprised. All perfectly natural, just as it should be. Fulvia is a good girl—wonderfully good to everybody; wouldn't say what wasn't true. Dare say you are right enough there. Shouldn't wonder if she burnt the paper, unknowingly. Women are capable of anything. Most inscrutable creatures!"

Nigel would not risk further discussion by further opposition. He knew well that nothing he could say would alter Mr. Carden-Cox's determined linking of his name with Fulvia's; and presently he managed to escape, feeling that the lawyer peril was deferred for a time. Why peril should exist in connection with a lawyer, Nigel was only able to conjecture.

Once more he was buffeting the wind, which had risen much. No use to open an umbrella; he could not have held it up. He pulled his cap low, bent his head, and fought his way steadily through the gale. Yet he did not turn homeward. A thirst had come over him for another glimpse of Ethel. She would surely be at home after dark, this stormy afternoon, and he turned his steps towards Church Square.

When almost close to the Rectory gate, he saw in the lamplight a slight cloaked figure run out.

"Ethel!" passed his lips, but he was not heard.

She crossed the road, battling her way with difficulty, and he followed, overtaking her at the vestry door, where three stops led upwards. As she mounted them, a gust of snow-laden wind swirled round the corner, carrying her off her feet. She threw out both hands with a little cry, as if gasping for support; and before she could go down, Nigel had her.

"Oh, thanks!" she gasped, conscious of the friendly clutch, not in the least recognising her deliverer.

The short struggle had rendered her breathless, and he held her still while helping to open the door. So far he said nothing, and Ethel made no inquiry. It was pitch-dark. She could not see his outline, and she believed the helping hand, which had saved her from a fall, to be the sexton's. That the sexton should be just then on the spot was at least not more unlikely than that anybody else should.

Nigel went inside with her, and shut the door, while Ethel struck a light. In one corner of the vestry lay a heap of holly.

"How kind of you to be so quick!" she said gratefully, turning to her companion. "I thought I was—Nigel!—"

Ethel was completely taken by surprise. Her face coloured up for once brilliantly, and a light shone in her eyes. Nobody was at hand who could misconstrue her manner—nobody except Nigel himself. At the moment, somehow, she did not fear him. His appearance was so unexpected; she had not time to think of Mr. Carden-Cox or Fulvia, so had not leisure to shape her welcome. There was a ring of gladness in the utterance of his name which brought to Nigel's mind their first meeting after his year of absence, and made his heart spring with hope.

"I thought I might find you in to-day," he said. "Such weather! And then I saw you coming here."

"So you came too?"

"Yes, I came too. It was you I wanted to see," pointedly. "Not—" and a pause.

"I only ran over just to do a little of this—" Ethel glanced at the holly. "We always start it rather early; and if the snow keeps on, I can't depend upon all my helpers. So I thought I would begin a piece of wreathing. But I am afraid it was not really that—not only that, I mean," looking up at Nigel with the old half-roguish frankness. "I was so tired of poor old Tom."

"Were you?" Nigel's whole frame was in a glow.

"Yes, only you must not tell anybody. I wouldn't hurt his feelings for the world. But I really could not stand it any longer. Always those dreadful herbariums and specimens and Latin names. He is content with nothing short of five syllables and what Lance calls 'a Latin sneeze' at the end."

"A sneeze!"

"Papaveraceœ!" instanced Ethel, with a mischievous transposition of the last syllable into an imitation of the catarrhic "tshyee!"

"But—" when they had had a laugh—"it isn't as if Tom knew a great deal, and could teach one what is worth knowing. That would be different. Tom only looks upon the world as a great museum of curiosities; and all he cares for is to get up a little imitation museum of 'specimens,' pegged down in rows. And surely this beautiful world means a great deal more than that—a great great deal more," Ethel went on, warming with her subject. "Sometimes I get so cross, I should like to peg down Tom himself as a dried 'specimen of the modern scientific young man.' But that wouldn't be fair; for a really scientific man, who knows about things, not only about names, is different from poor old Tom. And I suppose it is not his fault that he can't see below the surface."

If "poor old Tom" had but heard! At this very moment he was seated beside Mrs. Elvey, complacently and ponderously giving forth his views on the "intelligence" of Ethel. "Such a nice unassuming girl, and so ready to be taught!" quoth unsuspecting Tom.

"Of course I have the chief part of it all," pursued Ethel, resting one hand upon the vestry table, and smiling still. "My father and Malcolm are very busy just now—extra busy; and I can't let them be teased. And mother only cares to talk to Tom now and then; and the boys detest him. It has been such a day, none of us could get out much; and I thought at last I must have half-an-hour's peace. So I slipped away without telling Tom, and here I am. But I didn't come for nonsense," she said, with dropped voice and sudden soberness. "I almost forgot where we were—seeing you, and—It was just that I wanted a little quiet, to think about Christmas, and—and the kind of life one ought to lead."

A look showed appreciation. "Couldn't I help you with the holly?"

"I don't know—thanks. I can hardly stay long enough to make it worth while. I shall have helpers to-morrow."

Ethel was waking up to the fact that it would not do for her to remain here, after dark, alone with Nigel. It would not quite do, old friend and playfellow though he was.

"There is poor Tom, you know," said Ethel, the light fading out of her eyes. She had so enjoyed this little bout of unrestrained talk, and now she began to wonder at her own unrestraint.

But Tom's sting was gone. "Poor fellow! Shall we go and have a lesson from him together in Latin terminations?" Nigel asked joyously.

"Is Mr. Browning better to-night?" inquired Ethel, struck with the light-hearted manner.

"No; I'm afraid not. I can never tell you about him now, you are always so busy. Couldn't you sit down for five minutes?"

"I don't think I ought."

Ethel leant against the table, grave again, and a little anxious. Had she gone too far, shown too much pleasure at seeing Nigel? Had she not broken through her own resolution?

If Mr. Carden-Cox knew—Ethel's breath came quickly at the thought! Nigel seemed so pleased to see her again like herself; but, of course, that meant nothing—there was Fulvia in the background, and it would not do for her to study Nigel's feelings. He might wish her to be still on the old frank playmate terms, but it could not be; the time had come for a change, and he must grow used to it. Just for a few minutes everything had felt so natural, so like past days; and now she would have to be careful again, to rein herself in. It was hard, but it had to be done. Whether or no Nigel understood, she must be firm. Ethel did not hear her own sigh.

Nigel stood in front, upright and broad-shouldered, streaked still with half-melted snow; and his dark eyes were bent upon Ethel with their most earnest look. She could not fathom the look, or know why it sent so strange a thrill through her.

"I think we ought to go home," she said.

Then a question came, not in his usual voice. "Ethel, what is the matter?"

"Is—anything?" she asked, with an audacious attempt at a smile.

"Yes."

Ethel found her lips quivering, and she straightened herself, resolute not to give way. "Oh, just the common worries of life."

"I wish I could bear them for you."

"That wouldn't be fair, You have enough of your own;" and she laughed huskily, biting those unruly lips.

Nigel was silent again, thinking. He could not yet make up his mind whether or no to say more. To detain her, he drew from his pocket-book a little folded paper.

"I don't know whether you will care to have this. I promised to make a copy," he said.

"A copy of—"

"Don't you remember the extracts I carried off? I don't want to part with them—" a pause, followed by an emphatic "ever!" and another pause. "But I have had this copy by me to give to you; only there has been no chance."

Ethel said only "Thanks!" as she received it.

"You don't mind my keeping the other?"

"Oh no—not if—I like you to have it."

"And I like you to have this. I read it through pretty nearly every day."

Ethel mentally determined to do the same.

"That fourth quotation always seems to me an exact description of—you."

She started. As he spoke her mind had leapt ahead of the words, putting "Fulvia" at the end.

"Oh no!" she said again. "If you knew me—"

"I think I do; better than I know any one else in the world. And, Ethel, I am trying to make it my rule of life, just as I know you do. Yes, I know, because I can see. But one doesn't find the rule easy to follow." He opened the folded page in Ethel's hand, not taking it from her, and read: "'To sacrifice self as an habitual law in each sudden call to action; to take more and more secretly the lowest place; to move amid constant distractions and above them undisturbedly—' as you do, and as I don't."

"I am not like that, indeed, indeed," Ethel murmured.

"I think you are. But never mind; it is what we both want to be. I suppose one never would sacrifice one's self in a great matter, if it had not first become 'the law' in small everyday things."

"My father says every small choice between right and wrong is a rehearsal for some greater choice to follow. One can understand that. But I ought to go home."

"Are you in such a hurry?"

"No; not a hurry, only—"

"Only you think you ought. I believe 'ought' governs every inch of your life."

"It ought," Ethel said involuntarily. She was moving towards the door, and with a sudden impulse she lifted her eyes again, smiling. "At all events, I have not come here for nothing. I'm afraid I talked nonsense at first; but you have given me a thought for Christmas."

"What thought?"—though he knew.

"Just that—self-sacrifice in little things. Great things don't come in my way; but there is no end to the little opportunities. Now we have to turn out the gas and grope to the door."

"One word!" Nigel's voice was husky, and Ethel looked at him in wonder. "We don't often get a chance of a few minutes together, like this. Ethel, you won't mind if I ask a question. Has there been something wrong lately? Something I have done to—I won't say to vex you, but—don't you know what I mean?"

"No, nothing. I mean—I was not vexed."

"But there has been something. I thought it was Tom Elvey."

"Oh no, indeed!" with energy.

"I have been afraid, till the last few minutes. Was it anything I said or did?"

"No! Oh no!"

"Or something somebody else said? Mr. Carden-Cox!" with a sudden recollection of the postscripts.

"Please don't ask any more. It doesn't matter in the least. Nothing matters—now!" said Ethel. The colour rushed into her cheeks. "I only mean—please never think again that I could be vexed—"

"With me," Nigel concluded for her. Then in a quiet tone he added: "No, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters—now!"

Ethel turned off the gas in a great hurry, but not before he caught the flash of an answering glance, brighter than she knew it to be. Then they found their way to the door, and were out in the whirling gale. Ethel had to cling to his strong arm for support; and it came over her how easy life would be, thus clinging. She heard one question spoken by the way, spoken in the midst of their struggle, as the snow drifted in their faces—"Ethel, can you trust me?"

"Yes!" she answered at once, not asking what he meant.

"Even if—" and the sentence was not finished. Perhaps he hardly knew what he wished to say.

"Yes!" came with stronger emphasis. And she never once thought of the postscript about Fulvia, till she was at home, and Nigel was gone.

But the recollection made no difference. She echoed her own "Yes!" joyously in the solitude of her own room. Trust him? Yes!!