CHAPTER III

ETHEL

"There is none like her, none."—TENNYSON.

"I KNOW that voice. Why—it's—"

Mr. Elvey did not finish the sentence. He caught Nigel's hand within two muscular palms, and nearly wrung it off.

"I didn't expect to be found out. Yes, I'm back. But you mustn't keep me, Mr. Elvey. How are you all? How is—Ethel?"

"Ethel's all right. The best girl that ever lived, if an old father has a right to say so. Come and see for yourself. There she is at the open window. My wife and all of them inside. How is she? Oh, much the same as always—very ailing, poor dear. Never knows what it is to be really well. But come, come along. Not keep you indeed! Rubbish and nonsense!" cried the Rector joyously, forgetting all about his own fatigue, and allowing Nigel no loophole for explanation. "Why, we were talking of you only an hour ago, wondering if the year of travel would alter you much. Has it? I can't see here. Come along—come!"

"I really ought not, I am afraid," protested Nigel, feeling as if the silken pull of Ethel's near presence, together with the Rector's grasp of his arm, were overcoming all his powers of resolution. "My baggage has gone home, and they will be expecting me."

"Well, well—we won't keep you three minutes. One shake hands all round. Why, what brought you here, if it wasn't for that? Ethel, Ethel!—Gilbert—Ralph—Lance—My dear!—" this meant his wife—"I've found an old friend in the garden, and he's trying to elope. Guess who! Open the door—somebody!"

They were almost under the window by this time, and Mr. Elvey did not need to raise his tones; indeed, the full impressive voice was used enough to making itself heard, and no barrier of glass intervened.

"What does he mean?" they heard Ethel ask merrily.

And in another moment she stood at the open hall door scanning the outside darkness.

She was plainly visible herself under the hall light. Nigel knew in a moment that the face which he had carried with him through his wanderings was unchanged—only a little developed, a little ripened, "prettier than ever," he told himself. Yet people in general did not count Ethel pretty. She had to be known intimately to be admired; and after all "pretty" was not the right word.

She wore an old dress, much older than anybody would have guessed from its appearance, since Ethel's fingers were gifted in the art of renovation. The shape of her face was that "short oval" which novelists are now so careful to distinguish from the unlovely "long oval." Brown hair was massed on the top of her head, straying over the brow, and brown fringes subdued the sparkling sunny eyes. The features could not be called good, and it was commonly a pale face, with none of Anice's quick changes of hue. Nigel, however, could never think that anything was wanting in that direction. He would not have had a line or a tint altered.

He had not spoken of his love to any human being. With all Nigel's frankness, there were reserve-depths below. He could not readily talk of the things which he felt most intensely. Some people no doubt can; but Nigel could not.

Whether others had guessed his secret before he left home, he had no means of knowing. Sometimes he thought that his mother had; and sometimes also he felt sure that his trip round the world had been arranged for him, not only on account of his health, but in reference to this. He had a strong impression that Mr. Browning had desired for him the test of a year's separation from Ethel. But these ideas he kept to himself. The year's separation had been lived through, and had made no difference. Ethel was dearer to him than ever.

"Father, did you say somebody was come? Who is it? Oh!—Nigel!!"

The lighting up of her face was worth seeing; and the little gasp of joy between those two words was worth hearing. Nobody thought anything of her delight; for had not she and Nigel been close friends from childhood? And was it not natural?

But to Nigel, this moment made up for all the long months of absence. He held her hand tightly for three seconds, how tightly he did not know; and the touch of those little fingers scattered to the winds all his previous resolutions. He stepped into the house.

"Nigel himself! Yes, I found him outside the garden gate. Actually protesting that he had come for a look, and didn't mean to be seen. Here, Lance, my boy, help me off with this coat. That's it. Come, Nigel, come and be inspected. My dear, I've brought an old friend, but you'll hardly recognise him. Eh?"

Mrs. Elvey, knitting slowly in an easy-chair, was a contrast to her sunny-tempered husband and daughter. Her face offered as good a specimen of the bony "long oval" as Ethel's of the shorter and more rounded type; and there was about it a somewhat unhappy look of self-pity and of discontented invalidism. No doubt she was not strong and often did suffer much. But no doubt also many in Mrs. Elvey's place would have been brighter, braver, less of a weight upon others' spirits, more ready to respond to others' interests. She welcomed Nigel kindly, but with the limp and listless air of one who really had so many trials of her own that she could not be expected to care much whom she did or did not see.

"Hardly up to the mark to-day you see—tired-out, poor dear!" explained the Rector, himself a hard-worked and often weary man; but he was counted strong, and few gave him a word of sympathy on that score. He looked solicitously at his wife and then turned to the young man. "Come; I must see what has been the effect upon you of it all—Japan, Timbuctoo, and the rest! Eh, Ethel? Is he the better or the worse?"

"Pollard thinks it a matter for congratulation that I have not become food for cannibals," laughed Nigel.

He was standing on the rug—a young fellow of good height and muscular make, a wonderful development from the overgrown reedy youth who had gone away more than twelve months earlier. The sickly white complexion of those days had given place to a healthy tan; and the face was strong, bright, good-looking. The eyes showed penetration and thought; the mouth spoke of firmness; the nose had that indefinable line, seen in side-face, which almost invariably denotes a sweet temper.

"He'll do," thought Mr. Elvey, after a moment's survey. "Successful experiment!"

"But you didn't go to the South Sea Islands," Ethel said, in answer to Nigel's last remark, while the three boys, varying in ages from sixteen to thirteen, stood admiringly round the returned traveller.

"No, we had not time. I should have liked it. But I didn't want to be longer away."

"And now—College?" asked Mr. Elvey.

"I hope so. After Christmas."

"And then?"

"If my father is willing, the Bar."

"He knows your wish."

"Has known it for years. I never could understand the reasons for his hesitation."

Mr. Elvey might have answered, "Nor anybody else," but did not.

"Well, you have both had time for consideration, and you have time still, for the matter of that. No need to decide yet."

"I would rather work through college with a definite aim."

A movement of assent answered him. "You know, of course, that Malcolm is ordained to the curacy of St. Peter's."

"Yes. Capital for you all having him within reach."

Nigel could hardly take his eyes off Ethel. He knew that it was time for him to say good-bye; yet he lingered, craving a few words with her first. Mr. Elvey soon turned to speak to his wife, and Nigel seized the opportunity, moving to Ethel's side.

"I must not stay; they will be expecting me at home, and wondering why I don't come," he said. "It's desperately hard to go so soon, but if I don't—"

"Yes. Oh, don't wait," she said at once; "we shall see you again very soon."

Nigel's face changed. He had not expected this. Was she so indifferent?

"I'm afraid I must," he repeated; yet he did not stir. Ethel's presence was like a fascination, holding him to the spot against his will, or rather enchaining his very will, so that for the time nothing else seemed to have weight. "I can't tell you what it is to me to come back again—here," he said softly. "It is like—"

"Like old days, isn't it?" she responded gaily. "You always were just one of our boys, you know,—in and out when you liked. We shall expect the same again."

"Will you? Don't you think I might come too often?"

Poor Nigel! He was in such desperate earnest; while Ethel, through her very delight at the return of her old friend, was brimming over with fun.

"I won't venture to say that! Anybody might come too often, perhaps. I'm a desperately busy person, and never have a moment to spare. But of course you'll pay us a polite call now and then?"

"Yes," Nigel answered seriously.

"And if I'm out, you can leave your card."

"Yes."

"A month or six weeks later somebody is sure to find time to return your call."

"Yes," was all Nigel could say. He knew that it was utterly absurd to take this bantering for anything beyond banter; but how could he help it?

Then a moment's pause, and Ethel looked at the clock.

"Nigel, I don't want to seem unkind," she said; "but, do you know, I really almost think you ought not to stay any longer—if you haven't seen your home-people yet."

This finished Nigel off! Ethel wished him to go! Ethel thought him wrong to have come! His face did not fall into a vexed or doleful set, but it grew exceedingly grave, and all sparkle was gone. He did not question her judgment. Of course she was right, entirely right; and all along he had known himself to be acting with no great wisdom. Still he did feel acutely that if the meeting with him had been to Ethel what the meeting with Ethel was to him, she could not so cheerfully have proposed to shorten the interview.

Could she not? That was the question!

Nigel had no doubt at all about the impossibility. A grey cloud had swept over his sky, blotting out his hopes. Yet he acted at once upon her suggestion, for if Ethel wished him to go, nothing else could keep him.

"Yes, certainly—good-bye," he said, holding out his hand.

"You don't mind my saying it? I'm only thinking of your mother."

Oh no; he did not mind, if "minding" meant being angry. He could honestly reply with a "No." Ethel was "only thinking" of his mother, and he had been "only thinking" of Ethel. That made the difference.

"No, you are right; I ought not to have forgotten," he said vaguely, though he had not quite forgotten; and in another minute he was walking swiftly homewards through the streets.

But how different everything looked! The shadow which had fallen upon himself seemed to envelop the whole town.

It was late when Nigel reached the Grange door. He stood outside for a moment, lost in thought; his hand upon the bell, but not pulling it. The deep tones of St. Stephen's clock were booming out ten strokes in slow succession, and the bass notes of the Grange hall clock seemed trying to overtake church time.

Nigel heard both without heeding. "What would they say at home?" pressed now as a question of importance, though it had not seemed important when he was with Ethel. Then he had no need to ring, for Daisy flung the door open, and, as the French would say, "precipitated herself" upon him.

"Nigel! O Nigel, I knew it was you! You dearest of old fellows! It's delicious to have you back! But why didn't you come straight from the station? What have you been doing all this time? Father has gone to bed, and mother and Anice are in such a way!" The last few words were whispered.

"Did they mind?" asked Nigel. "Why, Daisy, you are a young lady!"—as he kissed the fresh round cheek.

"Don't! I hate to be called a 'young lady.' Nigel; come in—do! What makes you stand and dream? You dear old fellow! It's awfully jolly to see you again. Oh come along—make haste! Fancy waiting to take off your coat after a whole long year away! I was watching at the staircase window, and I saw you in the garden; but nobody else knows."

She pulled him across the hall and into the drawing-room, bursting open the door with a crash of sound which would have seriously disturbed Mr. Browning had he been present.

"Daisy! Daisy!" expostulated Fulvia.

"It's Nigel!" cried Daisy.

"At last!" murmured Anice.

Nigel's first move was to his mother's side. She had risen with a startled look on his entrance, her large eyes wide-open; but the response to his greeting was scarcely what might have been expected. His arms were round her, while her arms hung limply against the velvet dress, and the cheek which she offered to him was cold and white.

"Mother, you are not well!" he exclaimed when—the short round of brotherly kisses over—he came to her again.

Fulvia took stand as a sister in the household. She had wondered a little, privately, whether after this long break he would greet her precisely as in their boy and girl days; but it seemed that the idea of a change had never occurred to him.

"I am sure you are not well," repeated Nigel.

"Mother has been so worried waiting for you."

It was Anice who said this. Nobody but tactless Anice, not even the impulsive Daisy, would have said the words. Indignant fire shot from Fulvia's eyes; and Nigel stood looking down upon his mother's face, beautiful even when fixed and colourless, with an air grieved, and yet absent. He could not shake off the cloud which he had carried away from the Rectory.

"I am sorry to have worried you," he said. "Pollard was quick, and I have been longer than I meant."

"You found the train after all," Fulvia observed.

"Yes, at the last moment."

"How about meals? Have you had anything to eat?"

"Yes, thanks; as much as I want."

"You are sure?" his mother said in her low voice. She had scarcely spoken hitherto.

"Quite."

He drew a chair near to Mrs. Browning and sat down, holding still the hand which he had taken a second time.

She was dearly beloved by all her children, and by none more than by Nigel; so dearly that they could scarcely see a fault in her. The exacting nature of her love for them, above all for her only son, did imply a fault somewhere, only they could not see it. If Nigel saw, he would not acknowledge the fact to others; and if Fulvia saw, she would not acknowledge it even to herself. At least, she had not done so hitherto.

"It was mother!" they all said. And "mother" had ever been in that household the embodiment of all that was lovely and lovable. If something of delusion existed, the very delusion was beautiful. And if Mrs. Browning had her faults—as who has not?—she was the best of wives, the most devoted of mothers, the fairest and sweetest of women. Nobody could see her and not admire; nobody could know her and not love.

There was a curious constraint upon them all this evening; not least upon Nigel, and this perplexed Fulvia. Mrs. Browning's look she understood well; too well! Had any one except Nigel been in question, Fulvia would have been the first to spring up in defence of the "madre's" sensitiveness. The grieved curve of those gentle lips made her very heart ache; and in her heart Fulvia counted that Nigel had done wrongly, for it was a household axiom, without an allowed exception, that nobody might ever do or say aught which should distress the beloved "madre." But how could she blame him just returned from a long year of absence?

She could not make out Nigel's look. He did not appear to be touched, as she would have expected, by Mrs. Browning's manner. He hardly seemed to be aware that he had caused displeasure; if displeasure is the right word. The dark eyes had, indeed, trouble in them, but also they told of thoughts far away. She and Daisy made conversation, Nigel responding with forced attention; and presently that too faded. Fulvia could almost have believed that he had forgotten his present position, so still was the manner, so absorbed the downcast gaze. Mrs. Browning drew her hand away, and the movement was not noticed.

"What are you dreaming about?" Daisy burst out at length, bringing Nigel back, with something of a start, to the consciousness of his immediate surroundings. "What are you thinking of?"

"Perhaps your first word was the more correct—dreaming, not thinking. Don't things seem rather like a dream to you this evening?"

"No, they don't. It's all sober reality. And you are your substantial self; not half so much of a wraith as when you went away. Is he, Fulvia? There!—" with a mischievous pinch of his arm—"that's the proper test. It's genuine, you see. If you can make yourself wince, you may be quite sure you're not dreaming. I've tried to pinch myself in a dream, and it doesn't hurt. Do you know, you're most wonderfully altered, Nigel—bigger and broader, and as brown as a berry. And actually growing a moustache! And I think you are going to be handsome."

"Daisy, if you take to personalities, I shall have to give you a lesson."

"Do, please! I like lessons!"

Nigel laughed, but he did not seem inclined to carry out his threat by active measures. "How has my father been lately?" he asked next. "Not well to-day?"

"Very far from it," Mrs. Browning murmured.

"Nothing definitely wrong?"

"Yes; weakness and depression; and the old pain about the heart, worse than it used to be. He will not have advice; says it is only neuralgia, and nothing can be done. But he ought to consult a London physician. One never can be sure. I have tried in vain to persuade him."

"Perhaps he will listen to me. And you, too—you are not just as you ought to be," Nigel said affectionately.

"I! Oh, that is nothing. I never expect to feel strong."

Then Anice's voice was heard again. "But, Nigel, what can have made you so late? Why didn't you come straight from the station?"

"Anice is a self-appointed Inquisitress-General," interposed Fulvia. "Did you meet anybody by the way?"

"I nearly ran down Mr. Carden-Cox."

"He wouldn't forgive anybody else; but you are a privileged person—you may do what you like. Was he much delighted?" asked Fulvia, while Anice could be heard complaining—"I don't see why you should call me that. I don't see why Nigel shouldn't tell us."

"If he was, he showed it in characteristic style," said Nigel.

"Where did you see him?"

"In George Street."

"George Street! But what could have taken you there?" exclaimed Anice. "Didn't you come up the steps?"

"Inquisitress," whispered Fulvia simultaneously with Nigel's—

"No."

"But why?"

"Really, Anice; if he had a fancy to go round, I don't see that it is our business."

"No—only—after a whole year away, I should have thought he would have chosen the quickest way home."

"Would, could, might, and ought are often mistaken," asserted Fulvia.

"Fulvia is right. I had a fancy to go round," said Nigel, and for a moment he was strongly tempted to say no more. But an explanation was expected; his call at the Rectory was sure to become known; he disliked needless mysteries, and his habitual openness won the day. With scarcely a break, he went on—"A fancy to look at old haunts by gaslight. I walked some distance."

"Which way?" asked the persistent Anice.

"By Church Square."

"To the Elveys'?" Mrs. Browning bit her lip nervously.

"Not intending to see them, mother. It was as I say—a fancy to take a look. I fully meant to be here as soon as Pollard; but I met Mr. Elvey, and he persuaded me to go in for five minutes."

Fulvia's brows were knitted, yet she laughed. "I don't see why you should not. The Elveys always were great cronies of yours."

"No—only—one would have thought," murmured Anice. "Yes, of course they are old friends. Only—to put them before us—"

"You goose!" exclaimed Fulvia angrily. "As if there were any putting before or behind in the question! I don't see, for my part, how Nigel could well help going in, when Mr. Elvey met him. How can you be so absurd!"

Anice's eyes filled with ready tears, and she gazed dolorously on the carpet; yet distressed as she might be at Fulvia's blame, her distress did not prevent a renewed faint mutter of—"Before his mother and sisters!"

Nigel took the matter into his own hands. He looked straight at Anice, speaking with a readiness and decision which impressed them all. They knew from that moment that the brother who had gone away a boy had come back a man.

"You are unjust, Anice. I have told you that I had no idea of calling at the Rectory. Surely that is enough. Why must you make a mountain of a molehill?"

Anice sighed plaintively, as if to declare that she was silenced but not convinced; and Mrs. Browning said nothing.

"Do you think my father would like to see me now?" Nigel asked.