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.