Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "I will send Dr. Duncan at once."
"Thanks," Nigel answered, again examining his father with anxious eyes.]
Nigel Browning
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"LIFE-TANGLES," "WON AT LAST," ETC. ETC.
LONDON
JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.
48 PATERNOSTER ROW
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. FROM ROUND THE WORLD
II. THE DAUGHTERS OF THE HOUSE
III. ETHEL
IV. FULVIA'S RESOLVE
V. IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT
VI. DRAGGING HOURS
VII. TO GO, OR NOT TO GO?
VIII. FIRE AND WATER
IX. WHISPERINGS
X. TOM'S SPECIMENS
XI. "THE WORLD FORGETTING"
XII. NOTA BENE!
XIII. "WILL NEVER MARRY HER!"
XIV. SOMETHING WRONG—BUT WHAT?
XV. FULVIA'S EXPECTATIONS
XVI. ANTIQUITIES
XVII. HE AND SHE
XVIII. AGED TWENTY-ONE
XIX. THE MONEY!
XX. AN UTTER TANGLE
XXI. COMPOUND UMBELS AND BLUE EYES
XXII. THE BREAKING STORM
XXIII. A STRANGE INTERVIEW
XXIV. WOULD SHE? COULD SHE?
XXV. SWEET MAY-TIDE
XXVI. THE LOST "N. B."
XXVII. IN SUDDEN PERIL
XXVIII. THOU OR I!
XXIX. BORNE DOWNWARD
XXX. NOT I, BUT THOU
XXXI. NIGEL'S LOVE
NIGEL BROWNING
CHAPTER I
FROM ROUND THE WORLD
"But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks!"
• • • • • • • •
"It is my lady: Oh it is my love!
Oh that she knew she were!"—_Romeo and Juliet._
"HERE, I want this luggage taken—Hallo, Pollard! You're the man for me."
"Mr. Nigel Browning!" ejaculated the porter addressed, a huge
individual six feet three in height, and massive in frame, with a large
face, resplendently good-humoured. He had been heaving great trunks and
packing-cases out of the van, tossing one upon another, as a girl might
heap together a pile of band-boxes. Now the train passed on groaning
dismally after the fashion of these modern behemoths; and the platform
crowd began to disperse.
It was past nine o'clock on a chilly autumn evening: not the kind
of evening which might tempt anybody to linger under the flaring
gas-lights, dimmed by fogginess.
Pollard, in full career across the platform, brought up his truck with
a jerk on hearing his own name, then plucked at his cap with an air of
delight.
"Mr. Nigel Browning!" he exclaimed.
"To be sure. Whom else would you take me for? Shake hands, Pollard.
I've been round the world since I saw you last."
The man's hard palm closed with a grip round the fingers held out to
him.
"And you ain't changed, Mr. Nigel. No need for to ask that, though.
If you was, you wouldn't be a-shaking hands with me here, like to old
days. And the niggers ain't got hold of you, nor none of they cannibals
neither."
"Why, no—I've not been enjoying very largely the society of cannibals."
"Well, sir, you've come back anyway a deal stouter and stronger than
you was—not as you're stout yet, so to speak, but you was thin and no
mistake when you went away. And I do see a difference. I don't know as
you ain't taller too."
"Taller after twenty! That would be against all rule. However, I
certainly did depart a scarecrow, so perhaps it's admissible to turn up
a Hercules. All well at home, Pollard?—Wife and chicks, eh?"
"Yes, sir, thank you. Naught but the old woman's rheumatiz for to
grumble at—and she do say it takes a deal o' patience to carry that
about with a body."
"I don't doubt it, poor thing. And all right at the Grange?"
"Yes, sir—so as I've heard. Save and except Mr. Browning's the same as
usual, sir. Which in course you knows."
"Ah—yes," the two syllables being divided by a thoughtful break. Manner
and voice had till this moment been marked by a frank joyousness,
boy-like yet manly, but now there came a touch of gravity into Nigel's
face. He stood for three seconds gazing across the rails into a misty
distance, lost in cogitation; then roused himself.
"You will have the trunks up soon. I must be off."
"All right, sir."
Leaving his ticket with the collector, Nigel passed into the street.
He went onwards in a swift steadfast manner; vigour and decision being
apparent in every motion of the alert well-proportioned figure.
It did not surprise Nigel that nobody was at the station to meet him
after his year of absence, wherein he had travelled literally "round
the world." He had not expected to arrive till next morning, but
finding an earlier train than he had hoped for "within catch," the
temptation to surprise his home-folks had proved irresistible.
Newton Bury had been his home through life, and every wall and window
in this busy High Street was familiar to him. Shops were shut, and
people from within were airing themselves on the pavements after a hard
day's work. Nigel saw many a well-known face as he went by, but he had
no wish to be delayed, and it was easy to avoid recognition in the
broken light of gas-lamps placed by no means too near together.
Leaving High Street and Broad Street, he hesitated one moment at the
foot of some stone steps leading upward. This was the short-cut between
station and home; for Newton Bury was a town built partly upon hills;
and the Grange stood high. But a certain attraction drew him along the
main thoroughfare.
"After all, it's not ten minutes' difference; and I should like one
glimpse," he said to himself.
"Hallo! What next? Have a care, young fellow."
Nigel certainly was going at express speed, when on turning a sharp
corner, he barely escaped collision with a short and round-shouldered
individual of advanced age, wearing a fur-bordered greatcoat almost
down to the heels, and a Glengarry cap, from beneath which flowed thick
locks of snow-white hair. Two black eyes, bright as beads, flashed a
glance of indignant remonstrance, and the high-pitched voice, petulant
in tone, was unmistakable.
"Mr. Carden-Cox. I beg your pardon. How do you do?" Nigel put out his
hand in greeting.
The other stared haughtily. "Eh! who are you?"
"Don't you know me?"
"No, sir. I have not that pleasure," with an aggrieved sound.
"I'm Nigel—just come home."
"Young Browning. Humph."
It was dull and damp, the fogginess having deepened, and this no doubt
was partly the reason why Nigel had so nearly run the old gentleman
down, added to that old gentleman's perverse habit of walking on the
wrong side of the pavement. But Mr. Carden-Cox had plainly no intention
of allowing his movements to be influenced by weather. He pulled off
one of his gloves, fished laboriously for a double eye-glass, adjusted
the same carefully on the bridge of his nose, and retreated to the
neighbourhood of the nearest lamp, beckoning Nigel to follow.
"Here, let me see. Nigel Browning! I declare I shouldn't have known the
lad."
"Am I so altered?"
"Altered! There's not an inch of you the same."
This was absurd, and Nigel smiled.
"What are you after here—eh?"
"Going home. Just arrived. They don't expect me till to-morrow, so it's
to be a surprise."
"Why on earth didn't you take the steps? Missed them in the dark?
That's not like you. Some folks do go mooning about with their eyes in
the stars; but I thought you were practical."
"I didn't miss the steps. I came this way by choice."
"Hey? What for?"
"A fancy of mine. I must be off, or my luggage will arrive first."
"Not if you keep up the pace you were going just now." Mr. Carden-Cox
paused to survey Nigel all over, from head to foot, as if gauging his
value. "Yes—you've filled out—expanded—developed—twice the man you
were! But there's something about you which I don't quite understand.
Good-bye. We shall meet again soon."
Nigel did not fail to keep up his former pace, even to accelerate
it. If he wished to arrive before his luggage, he really had no time
to lose, for Pollard would not be guilty of delay. And instead of
following the bend to the right which Pollard would follow, Nigel soon
shot away to the left, through a dark lane, with high walls on both
sides, and a fringe of tall trees from enclosed gardens peeping over
the wall-tops.
This lane led direct into a large square, chiefly composed of
old-fashioned red-brick houses, each varying in shape and size from
its neighbours. At the entrance to the square, where three short posts
barred the way to vehicles, Nigel paused to look.
That was what he had come for: to indulge himself in a look.
The square was rightly named "Church Square," for its centre was
occupied by a venerable edifice, parts of which, including the square
solid tower, were at least seven hundred years old. Generation after
generation of English churchmen, through century after century, had
met for worship within those aged walls. They had outlived countless
historical tides and storms, and still stood there, rock-like and calm,
always the same, in themselves a silent yet speaking history of ages
past. Where Nigel stood, he could distinguish two flying buttresses,
and two nearer side-windows, pointed yet somewhat broad. What he could
not see he could imagine; for every inch of the structure was familiar
and dear to him.
At one corner of the square, that to Nigel's left, a red-brick house
stood alone, not placed in line like the rest, but occupying a small
garden, wherein flourished an abundance of shrubs, but few flowers;
for the Rev. Launcelot Elvey, Vicar of Newton Bury, with a cure of
six thousand souls, and a stipend of two hundred and eighty pounds a
year, had little money to spare for luxuries. What he could spare from
absolute home necessaries went to the Parish.
Nigel had not meant to advance one step farther than this entrance
to the square, where the three posts stood side by side. He cast one
glance towards the central building; then his eyes went to the Vicarage.
It was very near; within a stone's throw. He could distinctly see the
two small windows of the little drawing-room, a queer-shaped room,
as he knew, all corners and crevices with furniture old enough to be
picturesque, and old enough also to be shabby. Lights were lighted
within, and blinds were drawn. As Nigel gazed, the shadow of a girlish
figure was thrown with clear outline upon one of the blinds. Ethel—of
course!
He had not intended to go a step nearer, but the pull was strong. That
soft shade upon the blind had set all his pulses throbbing. The year's
absence had made no difference at all—unless the difference that Ethel
was dearer to him than ever—and the longing for one glimpse of her face
became overwhelming. His luggage might arrive first; his home-folks
might be perplexed, worried, perhaps hurt that he could put them second
to anybody,—yes, he knew all this, but for three seconds nothing seemed
of the smallest importance, except the glimpse for which he craved.
Nigel left the posts and went quickly towards the Vicarage; a few steps
bringing him within the garden gate. At the same moment somebody drew
up one of the blinds, and opened wide the window.
Ethel herself! He could see in strong relief against the light within,
her slim prettily-rounded figure, could hear the soft happy tones which
had always seemed to him to have a ripple of music running through them.
"Mother, we'll let in a breath of air just for a minute. It is so mild
to-night. Lance, is that somebody in the garden?"
Nigel almost uttered the word—"Ethel!" Almost, but not quite. It was
leaving his lips, when he caught it back. Once within that room, how
could he tear himself away?
There were reasons why it might be better not. With an effort Nigel
turned and walked out of the gate. And as he went, he found himself
face to face with somebody coming in—a large loosely-built man in a
greatcoat, walking with the tired stoop in head and shoulders often
born of a hard day's work. The light of the nearest lamp fell upon a
rugged face, full of the beauty of goodness.
"Anything wanted?" asked the Vicar.
Mr. Elvey never by any chance passed a human being who might "want"
something of him.
"No—thanks," Nigel answered dutifully, hoping but not wishing to pass
on.
"I know that voice!" said the Vicar.