CHAPTER VI

DRAGGING HOURS

"Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day." —SHAKESPEARE.

"WHAT has become of Nigel?"

It seemed to Fulvia that the world never would stop tormenting her with this question. First, Daisy popped in to put it; then Mr. Browning, with heavy step and dejected mien, did the same; afterward, Anice appeared, loitered about, and discussed its bearings; lastly, Mrs. Browning glided through the doorway, and desired information. When Fulvia counted the catechising at an end, Daisy began over again.

Fulvia was always the person asked; for people had a way of appealing to her rather than to anybody else. She was practical and clear-headed, apt to remember little details which others were apt to forget, and as a rule she did not mind trouble. But this afternoon she did mind. While Anice and Daisy were on the move, unable to settle down in the excitement of Nigel's return, Fulvia never stirred from the easy-chair where after lunch she had taken refuge. Restlessness had had its swing with her through the night-hours, and had been finished off by a long walk in the morning. Now the weather had grown dismal and drizzling, and she sat persistently over her crewel-work.

Usually Fulvia was a rapid and beautiful worker, yet advance to-day seemed slow. While anybody was present, her needle went in and out like clockwork.

"How you can!" Daisy exclaimed, "and Nigel only just come back?"

Fulvia smiled, and worked on. But when alone, she dropped the work on her knee, holding it in readiness for another start so soon as the door-handle should turn, and laid her head against the chair-back for indulgence in a dream. Violent weeping always left Fulvia in a state of reactionary inertia. She had not cried for—how many years was it? She could recall the last time, and the long stupid exhaustion following. That had been a case of childish naughtiness; but Mrs. Browning had petted and cared for her. Nobody thought of petting as needed now.

The afternoon was wearing away. Fulvia had never before known so long a stretch of night and day. It seemed more like twenty-four weeks than twenty-four hours since yesterday's light chatting between herself and the other girls about Nigel's return.

Was the whole of life to be dragged through in the same fashion? Fulvia asked this wearily, forgetting that the sharpest pain does in time lose something of its acuteness. She had known little hitherto of any pain; and endurance is not easy. Fulvia felt like a tired-out child; as if it would have been the greatest comfort to lay her head on somebody's knee, and have another good cry.

Nobody knew, of course, how tears were threatening the whole day. That had been the way with Fulvia from her cradle. She might pass through a year, or any number of years, without the smallest breakdown—always bright and even-spirited; but if once the sluices were forced open, she had to battle for days to regain her usual standing, and a word might overcome her.

"Fulvia Rolfe does not often cry, but when she does, she goes in for a regular rainy season," an old gentleman had once said.

The last "rainy season" lay so far back, however, that the possibility of its recurrence was forgotten.

Such a "rainy season" was on her now, only nobody supposed the fact—nobody saw anything unusual. The girls could only think of Nigel; and Nigel, at lunch, would only talk and laugh with Daisy, not seeming to notice Fulvia at all. Soon after two he had gone out, and now, at nearly six, he was still absent.

"What has become of Nigel?"

Daisy asked this again, bouncing the door open, banging it to in her childish fashion, and dancing across the room. Daisy's dancing was not sylph-like, and the room vibrated to her steps.

Fulvia could have cried out sharply, "Oh, don't!" but she did not, because Daisy would at once have inquired—"Why?" The fire was blazing, and she took up her work.

"Why don't you have lights? You'll hurt your eyes."

"Simms came, but I sent him away. This looked pleasanter."

"I can't imagine what makes Nigel stay out such a time; can you? Mother is getting into a worry. He couldn't be the whole afternoon with Mr. Carden-Cox, you know, or at the Rectory either. Fulvie, what did make you say that at breakfast-time about his going again to the Rectory?"

"I made myself."

"Well, but why? When you know mother can't bear him to go!"

Fulvia was silent, and Daisy's childish eyes scanned her. They were clever eyes, only undeveloped.

"Fulvie, why does mother dislike the Elveys? I think they are so nice."

"She doesn't."

"Yes, she does."

"No, it is not dislike. You are talking nonsense."

"Well then, she doesn't like Nigel to like them so much."

"Go and get something to do."

"I've done lots—heaps. I don't want to be busy now. Why does mother mind? Is it only because she wants him all to herself? Mother never does like any of us to be too fond of anybody—outside people, I mean. You may just as well answer me, because I can't possibly help seeing things, and I am not a baby."

"I think you are; a creature in long clothes. Daisy, get along, and leave me in peace."

"Why? You're not really working; you are just making believe. I believe you like to sit and think about Nigel's being at home again."

The words stung—how sharply innocent Daisy little dreamed.

"And I believe Nigel's at the Rectory, and you know it."

"No, I don't."

"I don't see why he shouldn't—except for madre. Poor darling madre! I'll never like anybody out of the house, I'm quite determined, except just a moderate little amount. But I suppose Nigel must have friends. Anyhow, he's the dearest old fellow alive—isn't he?"

Fulvia was silent.

"He's grown so jolly and handsome! I do like a big, strong brother; don't you?"

Silence still. Fulvia was pricking her work dreamily with the needle.

"Fulvie, you always used to praise Nigel more than anybody. Why don't you answer?"

"It is unnecessary now. He is able-bodied, and can look to himself."

"How funny you are! Well, Nigel praises you. He told Anice and me, before lunch—after we came in, and you went upstairs—he told us we didn't make half enough of you. And he said—"

Daisy paused to examine the fringe nailed round a small table. Fulvia's heart beat fast.

"How funny! Here's a spot of candle grease. I wonder how it came?"

"He said—what?"

"Oh, about you—what was I telling? I forget now. It is too bad of him to stay away such a time."

"What do you mean by 'not making enough' of me?" demanded Fulvia. She could not resist putting the question.

"Nigel said it, not I. He said a lot more. Oh, he only meant—what was it?—let me see—he only meant you were such a dear, jolly old thing, always doing something for somebody; and he said we let you do too much. Do we? Anice was put out—didn't you see at lunch? That was why she wouldn't eat, and why Nigel and I talked so, for fear mother should notice. Nigel gave us a regular lecture, I can tell you. Anice said you were so strong, it didn't matter; and Nigel said he wasn't so sure about that—only you were unselfish, and never thought of your own wishes—and he said it did matter, because you were not our own sister, and we had no business to make a Cinderella of you. Anice was quite cross. And then Nigel said—No, I wasn't to repeat that. I'm forgetting. He told me not."

"Not to repeat what?"

"Only about what he said—it was about you, so I mustn't. But I really didn't know before how much Nigel cared for you. Somehow, I always thought he liked Ethel best, after mother and Anice and me. I expect Anice was jealous. Well, there's no harm in repeating one thing Nigel said, and that was that he had never seen anybody like you anywhere."

Fulvia could not speak for a moment. A wild hope sprang up, and her heart beat faster, faster, in thick throbs, so hard and loud that she thought Daisy must surely hear. How foolish! How absurd! She, who prided herself on being always equable and composed—she to be palpitating like this at the words of a mere child, which might mean absolutely nothing! And yet—yet—what if she had misunderstood matters the evening before? Could it be possible? Had she made too much of a word, a look? Had Nigel no such feeling for Ethel as she had taken for granted? After all, how little had passed between them! How easily Nigel might have misunderstood her thought, and she might have misread his!

"Anice hates being lectured, you know," Daisy went on. "But I don't mind it—at least, not from some people; not from dear old Nigel. Well, I don't mean to tell you one scrap more, because he said I mustn't. But, really and truly, I never meant to let you do too much. It always seemed natural that you should do things. Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Daisy ran away, not waiting for an answer.

And Fulvia sat in a dream, hardly thinking, only letting herself listen to a whisper of hope. What if—after all—? She was trembling with the sudden joy—unnerved—till suddenly Nigel entered the room; and then Fulvia was calm.

"Fulvia going in for blind man's holiday! That is something new."

"Daisy has been here chattering, making me waste my time; quite in despair at your absence."

"I didn't intend to be so long. One can't always help it. Everybody expects to hear everything—" apologetically. "And then—"

"Yes?" Fulvia said, looking up. She noted something of trouble, and asked, "Did you see Ethel and Malcolm?"

"No; only Mrs. Elvey."

"Disappointing for you."

"Yes. Fulvia—"

Now it was coming. Would he confess to her his love for Ethel?—Ask for help? He glanced round at the door to see if anybody might be there to hear. He had something confidential to say evidently. The pause he made occupied a mere fraction of a second, but Fulvia had time for distinct thought and conjecture, and her heart sank.

"Fulvia, have you thought my father ill lately?"

Then the troubled look was not for Ethel. He was only anxious about Mr. Browning, and in his anxiety, he turned to Fulvia. The throbbing came back, all over her, from head to foot; yet it was in her most natural voice that she answered—

"Padre ill! No. He is nervous about himself, and I fancy he has worries."

"Mr. Carden-Cox spoke to me. He seems to have a notion that things are not right."

"Mr. Carden-Cox! Why, he is always telling padre how well he looks."

"That was not his style to-day. He wanted me to insist on Dr. Duncan, or a London opinion."

"Odd! Mr. Carden-Cox isn't generally a weathercock."

"Hush—don't say any more now. Another time! Here comes Daisy."