IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT
"Rather, steel thy melting heart
To act the martyr's sternest part,
To watch with firm unshrinking eye
Thy darling visions as they die,
Till all bright hopes and hues of day
Have faded into twilight grey."—_Christian Year._
"WHAT is Nigel going to do with himself to-day?" asked Daisy next
morning.
Breakfast—supposed to begin at nine, seldom in reality before
half-past—was nearly over. People had dropped in at intervals till all
were present except Mr. Browning. Fulvia, for a marvel, had been one
of the last instead of the first to appear, and she had to endure some
banter from Daisy, replying thereto with spirit.
It had seemed to Fulvia before coming downstairs that her pale cheeks,
and the dark shades under her eyes, must surely be remarked upon. But
nobody seemed to see anything unusual. Fulvia had always been strong,
and was almost always well. Nobody expected her to be otherwise, and
people in general are not, observant. Mrs. Browning was absorbed in
thought about her husband, and the girls were absorbed in attentions to
Nigel, while Nigel laughed and joked with them, and Fulvia knew that
his mind was away at the Rectory. She could see "Ethel" written on
every line of his face; and she knew that he was not noticing her at
all.
In one sense it might be a relief that none should observe more keenly,
for the part she had to act became easier thereby.
Yet human nature is curiously "mixed" in its ways, always wanting
what it does not possess. Fulvia missed the very solicitude which she
most desired to avoid. It seemed hard that nobody should offer a word
of kindness; that not a human being should care to hear how she had
lain awake the whole night. For what? That none might learn; and if
inquiries had come, Fulvia must have repelled them; but since they did
not come, she craved a sympathising word. The sick sense of weariness
was on her still; long hours of tossing to and fro had not meant rest;
and breakfast was a mere sham. She could eat nothing; but nobody saw.
Fulvia might do as she liked so long as other people's needs were
attended to.
So she told herself bitterly while pouring out unlimited cups of tea
behind the silver urn. Breakfast was always a lengthy meal at the
Grange. Everybody waited for everybody else, since all were expected to
be present at family prayers afterwards. Fulvia had wandered away into
a little dreamland of her own when she was recalled by Daisy's question—
"What is Nigel going to do with himself to-day?"
"Varieties," Nigel answered.
"Mother wants you to go and see Mr. Carden-Cox." This was Anice's
remark. If Anice desired a thing herself she was sure to quote Mrs.
Browning.
"I shall have to see Mr. Carden-Cox soon, of course."
"Nigel, if you go this morning, I wish you'd take me," cried Daisy.
"His study is so delicious, and he always gives one something nice."
"To eat?"
"No—nonsense. A book, or a picture, or something."
"He is said to spoil children."
"Well—and I'm a child—not a young lady! Do take me."
"Nonsense, Daisy. Nigel can't be saddled with a pair of sisters all day
long," interposed Fulvia, foreseeing a like request from Anice.
"You don't call me a 'pair,' do you? Besides, what's the harm? Nigel
has been more than a year away, and we do want to see something of
him. You don't care, of course. He isn't your brother," pursued Daisy,
unconscious of giving pain. "Nigel has nothing to do except amuse
himself. Nobody will expect to see him. The Elveys won't, because he
has been there; and other people don't matter, except Mr. Carden-Cox."
"Nigel has not seen Malcolm yet."
Nigel looked up at Fulvia in gratitude; and he did not at once look
away. His eyes studied her gravely for two or three seconds; and Fulvia
knew at once that she might have, but must not allow, the word of
sympathy for which she had been craving.
"Malcolm—no. But—" Daisy began.
"You know that he is Curate at St. Peter's now, of course," Fulvia said
cheerfully, smiling at Nigel.
His eyes were on her still, in a kind gaze—exactly the frank concerned
gaze which a brother might bestow on a sister, and, as she knew, not at
all the kind of gaze that he would have bestowed upon Ethel under like
circumstances. But the kindness was marked; and Fulvia found herself
tingling with a rush of feeling. She saw that he was about to speak.
This would never do. She was lifting a full breakfast-cup to pass
across the table, and the next moment it had dropped from her hand,
causing a crash of broken china, and deluging the white tablecloth. So
neatly was the thing done that even Nigel did not at once suspect its
non-accidental nature.
"How stupid of me! I must be demented!" exclaimed Fulvia, starting
up. "And I have always prided myself on never letting anything fall.
I shall begin to think my fingers are growing buttery at last." She
rang the bell, and came back to stand over the swamped table, laughing.
"What a horrible mess! I hope nobody wants any more tea, for the teapot
is pretty well emptied. Oh, we were just speaking about Malcolm. You
know that he is going to live at home for a time, don't you?"
Nigel seemed to be lost in a brown study. "Yes—the last letters
from home told me," he said, when a pause drew his attention to the
question. "I don't see why he should not. St. Peter's is near to St.
Stephen's."
But his eyes went again to Fulvia inquiringly.
"The best thing in the world for them all, I should say," she remarked
in a light tone. "Ethel seemed delighted with the plan. There was
talk of lodgings for him at first, I believe, but that is given
up—naturally. By-the-bye, I wonder if you thought Ethel improved in
looks. Mr. Carden-Cox declares she has grown quite pretty. I never
do think her that, but she has pretty manners—and after all, it is a
matter of opinion. Almost everybody is thought handsome by somebody.
However, you could hardly tell in a few minutes. Of course you will be
going there again to-day, to see Malcolm."
Mrs. Browning did not like this, neither did Anice, and Daisy's brown
eyes were round as saucers. Fulvia could see the faces of all three,
without looking at any of them; her senses being doubly acute this
morning. The last words had been hard to utter smilingly, and again she
was aware of Nigel's attention. It was almost more than she could bear,
meaning to her so much, yet in itself so little. The tingling sensation
came back, and with it a choking in her throat. She had just power to
say—
"Well, if you all like to sit round an ocean of spilt tea, pray do! It
is too damp an outlook for my taste. Simms doesn't seem inclined to
appear, so perhaps—And there is tea all down my dress! What a bother!
It will be ruined if I am not quick. I must see to it at once."
Then she was gone, passing swiftly upstairs to her own room, and Nigel
asked as the door closed, "What is the matter with Fulvia?"
"Fulvia! Why, Nigel—what should be the matter? Nothing is, of course.
Nothing is ever the matter with Fulvia," declared Daisy. "Why should
you think anything was? She has only made a fine mess."
"She doesn't seem to be herself."
"I don't think anything is wrong," said Anice.
Nigel made no answer, but he resolved to use his own eyesight. Mrs.
Browning could think of nobody except her husband; and Daisy was a mere
child; and Anice, like many quasi-invalids, objected to others besides
herself being counted deserving of attention on the score of health.
Her father's condition she had to put up with; but Fulvia and Daisy
were always to be strong, and she was always to be the one cared for.
In fact, Anice liked a monopoly of delicate health.
"Fulvia is not as she used to be," Nigel said to himself; and though
she came to prayers in a few minutes, wearing an extra cheerful air, he
did not alter his opinion. If she were not unwell, she was in trouble.
He could not resolve which it might be.
Mr. Carden-Cox sat in his study, late that afternoon, before a blazing
fire, lost in cogitation.
It was a comfortable room, containing everything that might be desired
by a bachelor of moderate means. Nobody counted Mr. Carden-Cox wealthy,
but everybody knew that he had enough to "get on upon."
In his mode of living he was neither lavish nor stingy. He gave away a
good deal; but always after his own fashion—which means that he refused
everybody's requests for money, yet did a good many unknown kindnesses.
He was an eccentric man; something of an enigma to people generally.
Nobody could ever guess beforehand, with certainty, what Mr. Carden-Cox
would do, or how he would do it.
He had never been married. This fact everybody knew, while few could
tell the wherefore. Perhaps two or three, among his acquaintances,
looking back nearly a quarter of a century, might speak of the time
when Arthur Carden-Cox, then close upon forty in age, had showed signs
of being "touched" by the rare charms of that wonderfully fair young
creature, Clemence Duncan. But few had thought much of it. All men who
came within her range were fascinated, without effort on her part. The
question was not, whether she would marry Albert Browning or Arthur
Carden-Cox, but upon which among a dozen ardent suitors her choice
would fall. Arthur Carden-Cox had not seemed by any means the most
ardent; and when Clemence Duncan became Mrs. Browning, others were more
pitied.
However, those others had comforted themselves, sooner or later
recovering; and all of them, now living, were middle-aged men, married
and with families. Arthur Carden-Cox alone had made no further effort
to find a wife. He had been long and late falling in love; and once in
he could not easily fall out again.
Perhaps Mrs. Browning guessed what the true cause might be of his
lonely life. But she never spoke of it. If he had proposed to her, she
told the fact to no one. Other people counted him only "an odd old
bachelor"; and this explained everything.
It was inevitable that he should be intimate at the Grange, since,
though not related to the Brownings themselves, he was uncle to Mr.
Browning's ward, Fulvia Rolfe.
Fulvia's mother had been half-sister to Arthur Carden-Cox; and Fulvia's
father, John Rolfe, had been an old and intimate friend of Mr.
Browning. John Rolfe and Arthur Carden-Cox had not been on very happy
terms, owing to a quarrel over the marriage settlements of John's wife:
but John Rolfe had reposed the most unbounded confidence in Albert
Browning. When Rolfe died, shortly after the death of his wife, he
was found to have appointed Albert Browning his sole executor, sole
guardian of his infant child, sole trustee of the fortune which was to
be hers.
A strange thing to do, many said; and Mr. Carden-Cox doubtless felt
himself slighted. Albert Browning at first seemed to shrink from the
responsibility, even though it meant advantage to himself, since by the
terms of the will, he was expressly allowed to use a certain share of
the interest, until Fulvia should be of age. He accepted the charge,
however; and he and his young wife adopted the little Fulvia as their
own, Thenceforth she grew up like one of the Browning family, taking
her stand as Nigel's companion, and as the eldest of his sisters. She
could recall no other home.
Mr. Cardon-Cox's position at the Grange was curious, like himself.
Sometimes he was in and out every day; sometimes he would not go near
the house for weeks together. To a certain extent he was a privileged
being there, able to do and say what he chose; yet he never seemed
entirely at his ease; and he and Mr. Browning were by no means on
affectionate terms. Each civilly slighted the other, though they never
quarrelled. Towards Mrs. Browning, Mr. Carden-Cox was ceremoniously
polite. He could not to this day quite forgive her for having preferred
somebody else to himself; nevertheless they were good friends.
With the three girls he was not unlike a fairy godfather, treating them
to divers gifts and pleasures, making no great distinctions between
the three, though Fulvia was his niece, and would doubtless inherit
whatever he possessed. If he had a special pet, that pet seemed to be
Daisy.
The girls were, however, secondary in his estimation. Nigel was the
real delight of the old man's heart.
For at sixty-three Mr. Carden-Cox was already an old man; older in
divers respects than many a vigorous contemporary of seventy-five.
His cogitations that afternoon were about Nigel. As he sat, nursing one
leg over the other, his hands clasped round the upper knee, his small
figure bent forward, his features wrapt in gravity, he thought only of
Nigel. Much of the love which Mr. Carden-Cox had once lavished upon
Nigel's mother was lavished now upon Nigel; but Nigel did not guess
this, or suppose himself to be more than "rather a favourite." As few
had divined the strength of Arthur Carden-Cox's devotion in past days,
so few divined it now. He was not at all in the habit of wearing his
heart upon his sleeve, for anybody to peek at. There were plenty of
daws in Newton Bury, ready to perform that office, if he would have
allowed them.
It was a disappointment that Nigel had not yet come. All day Mr.
Carden-Cox had stayed in for the chance—or, as he viewed it, for
the certainty—of a call. "What could the boy be about?" he asked
repeatedly, as the hours went by; and two ruts deepened in his forehead.
Somebody tapped, and the door opened, Mr. Carden-Cox looking up
sharply, secure of Nigel; but "Dr. Duncan" was announced instead.
Dr. James Duncan, first cousin to Mrs. Browning, and leading medical
man in Newton Bury, knew himself to be at the moment unwelcome; and he
bore the knowledge cheerfully. He understood Mr. Carden-Cox too well,
besides being too large-hearted a man, to take offence lightly. That
sort of thing—"that sort of nonsense," he would have called it—he left
to smaller natures.
Though younger than Clemence Duncan, James Duncan had once upon a time
been in the ranks of her admirers. Like Arthur Carden-Cox, he had found
Albert Browning preferred to himself. Unlike Arthur Carden-Cox, he had
wisely consoled himself in later years with somebody else.
Mr. Carden-Cox, disgusted with Nigel's non-appearance, would not rise,
and Dr. Duncan did not sit down. He stood upon the rug, hat in hand,
opposite the small man in the easy-chair; himself of good medium
height, and well made, though disposed to thinness. He had a frank
English face, not critically handsome, but very like that of Nigel.
Placed side by side, the two might have passed for father and son.
"Well?" growled Mr. Carden-Cox.
"Have I interrupted anything of importance?" asked Dr. Duncan, in a
voice which matched his face—frank and well-modulated.
"No, no. It doesn't matter. I'm only on the lookout for that young
fellow. By-the-bye, have you seen him yet?" and Mr. Carden-Cox grew
lively. "Don't know who I mean! oh? Haven't you heard he is come? Why,
your former patient, of course—Nigel. You won't have much to say to him
now in that capacity. He's transmogrified. Looks ten times the man I
ever expected."
"I'm glad to hear it—very glad. I had hopes."
"Yes; you were right after all, I didn't half believe in the scheme
before he went, but you were right. And you've not seem him?"
"No. Clemente told me he was expected soon—which day I had forgotten. I
have been rather overwhelmed this week."
"Seen nobody but a lot of sick folk, I suppose. That's the way with you
doctors. Horribly dull life. But I say, Duncan, there's some mistake.
I didn't send for you. It's a blunder. I'm all right—never felt
better—don't need any physic—haven't an ache or a pain."
The other smiled. He had a pleasant smile, like Nigel's—hardly so
brilliant, but also not so evanescent. The play of it lingered longer
round his lips.
"No; I came for a word with you about somebody's health. Not your own."
"Nigel, to wit?"
"I have not seen Nigel. You say he is all right."
"Looked so, when I saw him in the dark—by lamplight, I mean. Well,
what's wrong? Some old woman wanting a red cloak to cure 'rheumatiz'?"
"Not at this moment."
"An old man then?"
"Browning is not exactly old."
"Browning! Hey! Why, what's wrong there?"
"I can say nothing in my medical capacity. Put that out of sight, if
you please."
"Can't, man, unless you put yourself out of sight."
"I am speaking simply as their relative—as Clemence's cousin."
"Ay? Well, what about him—speaking as an ordinary individual, not as a
doctor?"
"He ought to consult a London physician."
"Why not consult you?"
"We have put that possibility aside. He has not asked my advice, and I
cannot thrust it upon him."
"Rubbish!" muttered Mr. Carden-Cox.
Dr. Duncan continuing, unchecked—
"But advice he ought to have. If he would rather not come to me, let
him go to London by all means."
"Why should he not go to you?"
"Can't say! The fact is patent."
"And you don't think him in good health? Why, I should have said—Why,
he came in here last week, looking positively robust. Fads and fancies
enough, I dare say, but as for being ill—"
"Looks are deceptive sometimes."
"Except to the initiated, I suppose. You don't mean that anything is
seriously wrong?"
"I can't speak with authority. I have not examined the case. All I say
is—as anybody might say—that he ought not to go on without advice."
"And if he does?"
Dr. Duncan was silent.
"But I say, now—look here! What do you expect me to do? Why don't you
speak to Mrs. Browning?"
"Because, if she could not persuade him, I should have alarmed her to
no purpose. You have influence with them."
"Perhaps—yes."
"Your opinion will not frighten her as mine would—even while they may
act upon it."
"I told Browning last week that he seemed in splendid condition. Am I
to eat my own words so soon?"—ruefully.
"What did he say?"
"Oh, sighed, and declared he 'suffered' a good deal, couldn't sleep,
and so forth! All a case of masculine nerves, I thought. What! Going
already?"
"I must! I'll leave the matter with you."
"But I say—stop!—what about this notion of going abroad? I believe the
girls don't know it yet. Browning broached it to me. Why, he has always
hated travelling."
"He should consult a physician before deciding."
"What do you suppose to be the matter with him?"
Dr. Duncan buttoned his glove.
"Eh what's wrong with the man?"
"I can say nothing definite. He is not as he should be. Good-bye."
"But, hallo—I say!" And Mr. Carden-Cox sprang up. "Am I to quote you?"
Dr. Duncan looked down from his superior height, smiling again. "No,"
he said, and vanished.
"Knew he meant that," growled Mr. Carden-Cox, dropping back into the
easy-chair. "Extraordinary! Browning ill! Browning! I should have said
he was as jolly and well-to-do a man as any alive. But Duncan doesn't
speak without reason. Well, I must obey orders, I suppose. What next?
Hey? Yes—come in! Nigel this time?"
The two shook hands quietly, and fell into a talk. Nobody would have
guessed, looking on, how long they had been apart, nor how much the
reunion meant to the elder man.
Nigel's brightness of manner was a little forced. He had been again to
the Rectory, and both Malcolm and Ethel were out. Only Mrs. Elvey had
received him; and Mrs. Elvey was not a reviving person.