CHAPTER VII

TO GO, OR NOT TO GO

"God counts as nothing that which is most brilliant in the eyes of men. What He would have in us is purity of intention, an ever-ready yielding of our will; and these are more safely, and at the same time more truly, proved in common than in extraordinary matters. Sometimes we care more for a trifle than for some object of importance; and there may be more difficulty in giving up an amusement, than bestowing a large sum in charity."—FÉNÉLON.

THROUGH the lower part of Newton Bury ran a river, much used by the inhabitants. Newton Bury was to some extent a manufacturing town, and manufacturing people are apt to congregate about a stream—not to the increase of its loveliness. But higher up, before coming within sight of wharves or mills, the river was exceedingly pretty, with varied banks, wooded heights at a short distance, and abundant willow growths, diversified by clay strata. Here gentlemen who lived in the neighbourhood did a good deal of boating; and young fellows like Nigel were especially addicted to the amusement. As a dreamy boy, Nigel had counted no recreation equal to that of rowing up or down the stream on a summer day, with or without a companion. Some said he preferred the "without" to the "with"; though Nigel himself, while agreeing generally, always made a mental reservation in favour of Ethel.

He was not now especially given to dreaming; but the old taste for boating survived.

Mr. Carden-Cox owned a trim rowing-boat, which it was tacitly understood that Nigel might always use. His garden, a long and narrow slip, "ugly but useful" the owner said, sloped down a steep hillside to the very water's edge, and ended in a small boat-house beside some steps. A good many gentlemen's houses followed this plan with their gardens, thereabouts; but the Grange stood on the next hill, with part of the town between it and the river-side.

A small steam-launch existed in Newton Bury for hiring purposes; and Mr. Carden-Cox, in his delight at his favourite's return, thought of the steam-launch. The second day after Nigel's arrival proved mild and sunny, almost like an April day; certainly not like November. Newton Bury boasted a clear atmosphere, despite its tall chimneys, and a Londoner would scarcely have recognised this as a November day at all, unless by the mistiness of far-off hollows. Even the Newton Bury people said they had seldom seen the like.

"In honour of Nigel!" Mr. Carden-Cox averred, looking out of the window before breakfast; and he immediately determined to "set going something" which might please "the boy." Why not an excursion up the river in the steam-launch?

"Capital! Nothing could be better!" Mr. Carden-Cox rubbed his hands jubilantly; and breakfast had to wait, growing cold, while he despatched a messenger to secure the launch. That settled, he gave sundry orders as to provisions, and wrote a note to the Grange, commanding the presence of "Nigel and all three girls" at an appointed hour. If Mr. and Mrs. Browning would honour him with their company, so much the better. Meanwhile, he desired to see Nigel.

"Hurrah!" Daisy cried, when the note was read aloud; the Grange breakfast being still in process of consumption. Mr. Carden-Cox was on principle an early man.

Nigel started off at once for Mr. Carden-Cox's house, and found that gentleman in a fluster of nervous excitement.

"You see, there was no time to lose," he said, buttonholing the young man with agitated fingers. "Another such day is not to be expected. It's an effort to one of my years; but I dare say I shall not be the worse. I shall put off all responsibility on you. Of course you and the girls will come—eh?—Yes, I thought so. Mr. and Mrs. Browning, if they can—well, you'll see nearer the time. We don't start till a quarter to twelve. Must allow some time for preparations. I thought we would take our lunch soon after twelve, before getting to the prettiest part of the river; and then have early afternoon tea, coming down again. Mind, everybody takes wraps. It's warm—marvellous for November; but the river air is apt to be chilly. Of course we shall be in before dark. How is your father to-day? Seen Duncan yet? No, I supposed not. He never hurries himself. I'm asking Duncan, by-the-bye, but of course he'll not come. And the Elveys."

Nigel's face lighted up.

"Yes, I knew you'd like that. Great chums of yours. I don't dislike young Elvey; and Ethel is a sensible sort of a girl. I sent a note early, and promised to send for an answer. You wouldn't mind being my messenger, perhaps?"

Mind it! Nigel was delighted. He went at railway speed down the hill towards Church Square, now and then exchanging a nod and smile with some old acquaintance, rich or poor. Passing the short posts which admitted foot-passengers into the square, he encountered a young man, half a head shorter than himself, slim and compact, clerical in attire, with a soft wide-awake crushed low over the forehead, a thin, hatchet face, and sharp features. Fast as Nigel walked, the other walked faster still.

"Hallo, Nigel!"

"Hallo, Malcolm!"

That was their British greeting after a year's separation. They were great friends none the less; though not from similarity.

"Coming?" asked Nigel.

"Where?"

"Steam-launch."

"Haven't heard a word of it."

"Mr. Carden-Cox. Excursion up the river for lunch and fun. All of you invited. You must come, old fellow."

Malcolm Elvey was a business-like individual, and his friends learnt brevity in dealing with him.

"What time?"

"Start at a quarter to twelve, and back before dark."

"I don't mind if I do. Yes, I think I can. I've had a racking headache for two days, and that might rid me of it."

"And the rest of you?"

"I wish you may get my father—no hope, I'm afraid. Ethel, yes—you must insist upon that. She has so little pleasure. Most likely the note is there, not opened. I can't go back with you, but you'll find Ethel."

"Mind you are at the bottom of Mr. Carden-Cox's garden—11.40 sharp!"

"All right. I'll come: if nothing prevents."

Nigel went on to the Rectory, and after a moment's hesitation entered by the front door without ringing, as of old. Why not?

Nobody was in the hall; so he went to the dining-room, and found nobody there either. Ethel's workbasket stood open on the table, and a pair of socks with big holes lay beside it, while the little silver thimble had dropped to the floor. Nigel lifted and placed it on the table, then he walked to the rug, and saw upon the mantelpiece a note addressed to "Miss Elvey" in Mr. Carden-Cox's handwriting. But the note had not been opened.

"What a shame! It ought to have been given to her."

Nigel did not realise that the two young Rectory maids, having all the work of the house on their hands, were glad to spare themselves needless runs up and down stairs; indeed, they had instructions so to do. At the Grange maids were plentiful, with scarcely enough work to keep them out of mischief.

Ethel had been upstairs when the note came, so the cook laid it on the mantelpiece. Later she forgot to mention it to Ethel, or to say that an answer would be called for.

"I wonder if she will come," thought Nigel.

He went to the bookcase and stood there gazing. A good many aged volumes of sermons, bound in venerable calf, helped to fill the shelves. No doubt their continued existence was owing mainly to their calf attire; since nobody ever read them. Also many modern specimens of boys' books could be seen, in coats of faded red or blue. Nigel knew these well. He had been a book-devourer in boyhood, and had borrowed every readable volume from his friends.

Ethel did not appear, and he pulled out one or two, smiling at the tremendous boyish adventures depicted in the illustrations, and handling them kindly as old friends.

A plain black volume, pushed half in among the rest, fell to the ground; and a sheet of paper fluttered out. Ethel's handwriting! The heading was "Extracts," and Nigel read what followed without compunction.

I.

"There is something more awful in happiness than in sorrow, the latter being earthly and finite, the former composed of the substance and texture of Eternity, so that spirits still embodied may well tremble at it." ¹

II.

"The great cure to be wrought in us is the cure of self-will, that we may learn self-resignation; and all God various dealings with us have this one end in view." ²

¹ N. Hawthorne. ² R. Suckling.

III.

"Unloving words are meant to make us gentle, and delays teach patience, and care teaches faith, and press of business makes us look out for minutes to give to God, and disappointment is a special messenger to summon our thoughts to heaven." ¹

IV.

"To strive each day to do the wonted service more perfectly; to infuse and maintain in every detail a purer motive; to master each impulse, and bring each thought under a holier discipline; to be blameless in word; 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; to be content to do nothing that attracts notice, but to do it always for the greater glory of God." ²

V.

"Go forth then with boldness to suffer, as your Lord has suffered before you; endeavour to embrace with calmness, and even with joyfulness, the pain or the sorrow which he brings you, and which is but doubled by the lingering will, the timid withdrawal." ³

¹ E. M. Sewell. ² T. T. Carter. ³ Skeflington.

This was all; but at the close was written in small letters: "Ethel: November: Sunday evening."

"Why, Nigel, how do you do? I wasn't told that you were here."

Nigel woke up from abstraction and shook hands.

"This is yours," he said. "I found it, and—read the sentences. Do you mind?"

Ethel coloured faintly. "Oh, I could not think where it was gone. I was reading 'Voices of Comfort' to mother, and I had a fancy afterwards to copy out those few pieces. How stupid of me to leave it about!"

She held out her hand, and Nigel said, "I suppose I mustn't ask to keep the paper."

"Why—you don't want it?"

"Yes."

"I don't mind, of course—only—"

"Then I may. I'll make another copy for you."

"I don't really need it—only—it was just a fancy, you know."

"Yes. Were you feeling particularly cheerful on Sunday evening?"

Ethel looked up, smiling. "Now, why must you ask that?"

"I should like to know. I don't trace the connection between all the extracts."

"Perhaps I'll tell you some day. Not this morning. I have not time."

"And I am taking up your time. But I don't seem to have seen anything of you yet."

"No. And I didn't mean—only it would be a long talk to go into those extracts. And I have everything to see to. But I don't mind saying—no, I wasn't very cheerful on Sunday evening. I wanted to go to church, and I couldn't be spared. Mother was poorly, and everything seemed awry, and I found myself on the edge of grumbles. So I looked out something to do me good."

"Perhaps it will do me good too. Ethel, your mother will spare you to-day."

"What for?"

He handed her Mr. Carden-Cox's note.

Ethel read it with a flush of delight. "Oh, that would be nice! That would be delightful!" Then a shade of doubt came. "But I am afraid I can't."

"But you must—you must indeed," urged Nigel, almost in despair. "We shall not have another day like this all the winter. Mrs. Elvey will say you must."

"No; she will say I may if I like. That makes all the difference."

"Your father—"

"He is gone out, and he won't be back till one o'clock. It doesn't matter. Even if he said that I might, I don't think I could feel that I ought."

"But if things could be arranged somehow—if it is only possible! Do just try—for my sake, won't you? Tell Mrs. Elvey that I want it, and remind her how long I have been away. Do see if it can't be done."

"I'll speak to my mother," Ethel said, and vanished.

Nigel waited with the best patience he could muster till she came quickly in, her step so light and her face so sunny that he said joyfully, "That's right! I knew you could."

"No, I can't," Ethel answered, smiling. "It won't do."

"But—!" Nigel would have found it hard to say which dismayed him most, the fact that she could not go, or the fact that she should care so little.

"Mother can't spare me. It is one of her bad days, and if I am not here everything is sure to go wrong. You see, it isn't as if there were anybody else. The boys are no good, and I must be at hand."

"It is too bad! I did hope—Malcolm is coming, and he told me you could. Don't you think you might? Malcolm said you must."

"Malcolm doesn't understand. I would really, if I could," she said, with so ultra-cheerful an air that Nigel ought to have seen through it. If she had not resolutely kept her back to the light, he must have noticed a suspicious reddening of her eyes. "I would if I could, but I don't see how. Mother would let me go, of course, if I pressed for it; but how can I when I know I can't be spared? My father will be out almost all day; and there is a cousin coming down for the night from London—you don't know him, I think. It's the Australian cousin Tom. He's such a nice fellow, and he will be here before lunch. We were with him in the summer, down in Devonshire, staying at my uncle's house, when he was there too. He would feel neglected, I am afraid, with my father out, and all of us away, and my mother poorly. It would not be right. Don't say anything to Malcolm, please; or he will wish he had stayed at home. And he ought not; he ought to go. He works so hard; and a few hours on the river will do him no end of good. And I am quite well, and don't need it."

Nigel had grown silent, as she talked gaily on. "Then I must tell Mr. Carden-Cox only to expect Malcolm," he said at length.

"I'm afraid so. It is tiresome—" ("Only tiresome! Is that all?" thought Nigel)—"very tiresome that I can't go; but things will sometimes decline to fit in. They seem to 'go perwerse,' as old nurse used to say. I hope you will all enjoy yourselves immensely. You must tell me about it afterwards."

"I hope you will too—at home," Nigel said with a great effort. He did not hope anything of the kind, really. This "Australian cousin Tom," who was "such a nice fellow," weighed upon him like an incubus.

"I am sure to do that. One always can enjoy one's self, one way or another," said Ethel merrily. "And as I shall not have the refreshment of the river, I shall have the refreshment of Tom's talk. He's full of ideas, and he has some fun in him too. I wish you and he could meet, but he only stays one night. By-and-by I hope he will pay us a long visit. Must you go? Well, please don't say a word to Malcolm to spoil his day. He doesn't know about Tom arriving before lunch, Mother only told me just now that she had heard it. We didn't expect Tom till late; but you see that makes a difference. I couldn't possibly be away—could I?"

"No; I see."

"You'll come in again some day soon, I dare say, for a proper reasonable call. You know how glad we all are to see you always."

Nigel did not care about "we all." He wanted Ethel individually to be glad. But he only said "good-bye" seriously, and went.

Ethel watched him through the window, till he was out of sight. Then she turned to the table and took up her work, but had to put it down again, for three or four large tears would have their way at last, and everything was deluged in a watery mist.

"How silly! Oh I wish I could go! But I know I am right. It would have been such a delight—the river and Nigel and all! There, I mustn't let myself think. Mother mustn't guess how I mind. I'm glad Nigel didn't see. It would have spoilt his day, if he had thought me much disappointed, and now they will all be as merry as kittens. Oh how I wish I didn't so desperately love my own way. There's nothing in the world I should like so much—such a lovely day, and all of them there, and—and only poor good-natured old Tom at home, instead! Yes, of course he has some fun in him, but such slow fun!

"Did Nigel mind very much? I hope not—I don't want his pleasure to be spoilt—and yet I shouldn't like him not to care at all. But I suppose he did, a little. When he looks so preternaturally grave it always means that he is vexed or worried. Oh if I could have been with them to-day! There now—I'm going in for discontent again. I think I'll run out and feed the chickens the first thing. It's easier to manage one's self out in the open air. And then I have any amount to get through before Tom comes, with his endless talk about Australia. The sock shall wait," concluded Ethel cheerily.

If her eyes were still moist, she left the room singing.