CHAPTER XXIV

WOULD SHE? COULD SHE?

"It may be hard to gain, and still To keep a lowly steadfast heart; Yet he who loses has to fill A harder and a truer part."—A. A. PROCTER.

"FULVIA!"

"Yes."

"There is a house in Bourne Street—"

"Yes." Fulvia spoke curtly, looking up from her work with hard grey eyes. She was alone in the morning-room, and it was Saturday.

"I want you to come and see. It might do."

"Bourne Street!"

"Not a bad part."

"Highly respectable, and the quintessence of dulness! Well, your miseries won't last long there, which is one comfort. You will all die of ennui before six months are over."

"We!" Nigel tried to laugh. "Are you to be the sole survivor? Superior to such influences, I suppose."

"I shall be superior through absence. There are a whole lot of advertisements for governesses to-day. I shall answer three of them."

"You will not!"

"That depends—I am of age."

"You do not think what it would be to us—to me—knowing what had driven you to it."

Even this did not touch Fulvia. She gave a dry little laugh. "I am very much disposed to please myself in the matter—irrespective of other people. Why should I not—if I choose? Poky houses are not to my taste; and I am sick of Newton Bury."

"And of everybody in Newton Bury?"

"If you like—yes. Are we to start on the expedition now?"

Nigel stood thinking, his brows drawn together.

Fulvia studied him in a succession of slight glances.

This was Saturday—the last day allowed by Mr. Carden-Cox for Nigel's decision, the third since his parting interview with Ethel. No one knew of that interview. He had said nothing about it. Why, indeed, should he? His late return at night, after prayers, had given umbrage to his home-folks; the more, since he offered no explanation, and permitted no questioning. Even his mother ventured to say little, save in manner; and an attempt on the part of Daisy was quashed at once.

They knew he had not been to the Rectory, had not, in fact, dined anywhere; and that was all. It was all, at least, until this morning, when a report reached Fulvia of somebody having seen him walking with Ethel Elvey, after dusk, on the road near the river. She said not a word of the report; but it stung her sharply.

None of them knew or guessed of the interview in the cemetery, the parting with Ethel, the long hours after of wrestling and bitter battling. He had walked far under a starlit sky, forgetting physical weariness, braving out his conflict with no human help. There is better than human help for such times, and Nigel knew whither to turn.

He had come off conqueror. The path he had to tread was plainly marked, and he would tread it manfully. Self had to be sacrificed, and he would sacrifice it resolutely. Ethel had to be given up, and he would give her up completely. He was no longer in doubt as to his rightful course.

But he could not act at once—could not turn without a break from Ethel to Fulvia. He had put off speaking until this last day allowed by Mr. Carden-Cox, being meantime very busy with money matters, lawyers, arrangements,—so busy that his home-people saw little of him. Better this, than too much leisure for thought.

Occupied as he was, others noted a difference in him, a something unusual, not to be defined. Daisy questioned Fulvia, "What was the matter with Nigel?" and received a sharp reply. Yet Fulvia asked the same herself.

This morning she asked a further question. What could it all mean? Had Ethel refused him? Refused—because of his lost wealth! Fulvia's heart bounded at the thought. She would not have done so in Ethel's place. Certainly he had not the look of one who has gained his heart's desire. Rather, it was the look of one bracing himself to the endurance of trouble and difficulty. If he had asked Ethel, and she had accepted him, would he wear such a look? Yet they had been out together after dark—walking a lonely road. What could it mean but a proposal on his part, and acceptance or refusal on hers?

"Have I been mad not to see?" she thought, seated alone in the morning-room, work in hand. "Why have I not understood? But Ethel will have him sooner or later. She will not hold out long. And I—I cannot stay to see! I am glad my money is gone. That will be my excuse to run away. I could not live here, looking on. I shall be a governess."

Then she heard Nigel saying "Fulvia," and looked up, to answer, "Yes."

"Are we to start on the expedition now?" she said at length, rising. "I am ready, if you wish it. Daisy had better come as well."

Nigel assented absently, and Fulvia left the room. Coming back, she wore a look of vexation.

"Daisy has gone out, no one knows where, and Anice declines. She says she can't."

"Anice's 'can't' is equivalent to 'won't.' I don't think it matters. The decision will rest with you."

"Why should it?"

"You are the eldest daughter, are you not?"

Fulvia shrugged her shoulders slightly, but in words she raised no objection. Fifteen minutes' quick walk brought them to No. 9 Bourne Street, hardly a word being uttered by the way.

As Fulvia had said, it was a respectable locality. The houses were of white stucco, with neat porches and balconies, and tidy oblong gardens behind. A narrow strip of enclosed grass, with small trees, occupied the centre of the street from one end to the other. Beside the porch was one window: and two windows above were capped by yet two others.

A cosy little house, no doubt, containing possibilities of comfort. But after the Grange—ah, there was the rub? Everything in this world is comparative! What one man counts to be luxury, because of what went before, another counts to be beggarliness, from the same cause.

Nigel had the key, and he let Fulvia in, following her. They tramped steadily over the interior, from bottom to top, hearing the echo of their own feet on the bare boards. Reaching again the front ground-floor room, when all had been inspected, Nigel said—

"Well?"

"Is this the best we can afford?"

"Forty pounds a year, not counting taxes. I dare not go beyond that. If things did not promise to be a degree better than we thought at first, we could not venture on so much."

"Madre will not like an upstairs drawing-room."

"I'm afraid there are a groat many things that she will not like."

"There will be a study for you."

"Behind this? Why not make it a morning-room for everybody?"

"No; a study, of course. You will be the breadwinner, and your needs must be considered first. A study for you is a necessity. Madre must have the bedroom on the next floor,—behind the drawing-room. She will have Daisy to sleep with her permanently, I hope; and there is the dressing room for Daisy to use. Anice can have the little half-way room jutting out at the back; and you—if you don't mind—the one over it. Then there will be the top front bedroom for friends. We can make it look very pretty."

"I thought of that room for you."

"There are two behind. One will be for the maids—we are not to keep more than two maids, are we?—And the smaller can be mine."

"That corner room, with no fireplace? Nonsense!"

"It will do well enough, when I am at home. If you like, you can treat me as a visitor, and put me in the spare room. Governesses don't get a superabundance of holidays, so there will be no real difficulty."

Fulvia seated herself on an empty chest, left in the middle of the room, with the air of having settled everything. Nigel stood gravely in front.

"You do not really suppose I shall consent to that scheme?"

Her eyes sparkled.

"I may choose to act with nobody's consent except my own."

"It would not be right."

"People differ in their views of 'right'!"

"Fulvia—" he said, in a different tone.

"Yes."

He had gone over the possible scene fifty times in imagination. He had pictured himself as saying that or this in careful kind words, hinting, indeed, at the true state of his own feelings, yet so as not to shock or grieve her. But he had not once pictured himself as coming out suddenly, in desperation, with the bald request—

"Fulvia, will you be my wife?"

It was not a well-selected place for an offer of marriage. The room was absolutely empty, with the exception of their two selves and the box on which Fulvia sat. Everybody knows how dreary is the impression made by an absolutely empty room. Streaks of paint disfigured the blindless and curtainless window, which glared dismally on the pair. Fulvia had torn her dress walking downstairs, and her crape had gathered dust by the way. Nigel's own shoulders were whitened by contact with the pantry wall. No whit of what Mrs. Duncan called "poetical glamour" existed to enhance the occasion. All was bare and cold.

A pause followed Nigel's abrupt proposal of marriage.

Fulvia gazed fixedly down. She did not flush now, but grew pale.

"Is it because Ethel has refused him, and he turns to me as a pis aller?" she asked herself.

As she made no answer, he spoke again, not without agitation—

"I have not much to give you. It is not as things have been—but I would do my utmost—would strive to repay something of what you have lost. I would devote my life to that. I will, if you will let me."

Still no reply.

"It seems early to speak—in the midst of all our trouble, I mean. I should have waited a little longer. But if you are bent on this governess plan—and—" with a break—"I am not allowed to put off. Mr. Carden-Cox has made my speaking at once the condition of his silence."

"I see!"—calmly. "And that is your reason!" Tears gathered on the downcast lashes, yet she forced a laugh. "Yes, I understand. It is most praiseworthy! For the madre's sake, no doubt!" Then she looked up, straight and hard, into his face. "A convenient arrangement for managing uncle Arthur!"

Nigel was stung deeply by her tone, and Fulvia saw it. "If I say 'No'—what then?" she asked mockingly. "Will you have done your duty in uncle Arthur's eyes?"

He turned away, and went to the window, while Fulvia sat still, thinking. She did not know what to say next. Dismiss him!—no, that she could not. Recall him!—no, that she would not.

Nigel came back presently, unrecalled. He looked depressed and spiritless.

"I do not wish you to misunderstand me, Fulvia. I have no wish to profess more than I feel. It is best to be open in such cases. You have always been a great deal to me—more, perhaps, than you yourself knew. But—there has been another hope. I have had to give that up. It is at an end now."

He spoke without a falter, without any of the usual signs of strong feeling, and Fulvia was deceived by his calmness at the very moment when he was endeavouring to undeceive her.

"That is over; and I am ready to pledge myself to you for life—to endeavour to repay all! And if—if anything is wanting in my love for you, I will do my utmost to learn—to conquer—I think you understand! Will you have me?"

Fulvia gave him one more glance, and dropped her eyes. Could she accept him, knowing herself to have been only second? For a moment there came an impulse to fling aside the offered devotion, which fell so far short of the love she gave to him. But this impulse bent before a stronger impulse in the other direction. Whatever he had once felt for Ethel, the composure with which he spoke of giving her up seemed to tell of no absorbing affection now. If she said "No," he might turn again to Ethel. Could Fulvia endure that? Once his, might she not hope in time to win his whole heart?

Besides, there was the question of Mr. Browning's name—of the secret to be kept on the madre's account. She tried to believe that this pressed her on; that for the sake of others she ought not to refuse Nigel. Silence lasted long; then slowly, silently, with a strange rush of warmth and chill, of joy and sorrow, of hope and dread, Fulvia placed her hand in his.