CHAPTER II

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.