"WILL NEVER MARRY HER!"
"He jests at scars that never felt a wound."—SHAKESPEARE.
"ETHEL, just look at that blind. It hangs all crookedly."
"Yes, mother."
"Now you have pulled it too much the other way. You do things in such a
hurry."
Ethel gave a slow pull this time, cheerily, though her mother's tone
was depressing. Mrs. Elvey could not be called ill-tempered, but she
was given to complaining moods, and such moods were trying to those
about her.
"Something must be wrong with the oil we are using now. The lamp has a
most disagreeable smell."
"Father noticed it yesterday evening. I'll go to the shop and speak
about it to-morrow."
"Yes, do; it is enough to make one positively ill."
"Shall I take away the lamp and light candles?"
"Oh no, that would be extravagant; I must just bear it. What has become
of everybody this evening? The house seems so dull."
"Father is writing in the study, and the boys are at their prep. still.
Lance wants me to help him presently."
"Then, pray, go; don't mind about me. Lance must not lose his place in
his classes on any account. Do go at once, Ethel."
Mrs. Elvey spoke in an injured tone, as if it were unkind of Ethel to
leave her; but this was so usual a state of things that Ethel hardly
noticed the manner. She folded up her work, and sped into the hall just
as the postman dropped a letter into the box.
"For me," she said, taking it out. "From Mr. Carden-Cox. About the
magic-lantern, of course. I am glad he has answered quickly. Well,
Lance," as the boy ran past, "do you want me?"
"Not for five minutes," Lance answered.
The boys did their "prep." in the little old schoolroom. Ethel turned
into the dining-room to read her letter, standing under the gas, which
had been left alight. The remains of the evening meal, a dinner-tea,
were on the table still. Post arrived at the Rectory somewhat later
than at the Grange, Church Square coming at the end of a certain "beat."
She went through the sheet first, amused at the amount of talk about
nothing; then came to the postscript, with a little laugh at the
"N.B." Puzzlement followed quickly. "What did I say about Nigel? I
can't remember. What does he mean? 'Not to trouble my head'—well, but
I don't. 'Such matters!'—I can't understand. 'Nigel to marry some
day'—yes, very likely; anybody might suppose that."
A pink spot found its way to her cheek. Did Mr. Carden-Cox imagine that
she was running after Nigel, and wish to administer a friendly warning?
Impossible, surely!—and yet—"He is so odd! He might mean it," faltered
Ethel, glad that nobody was present to remark her looks. "But I should
not have expected it from him."
She read on slowly, bewildered still. "Fulvia calling for Nigel at
night—" quite natural after the shock she had had. But could Mr.
Carden-Cox really suppose that she, Ethel, would tell Nigel, even
if she had known the fact? What was it that Mr. Browning and Mr.
Carden-Cox wanted for Nigel? And who was this "other good girl"?
"Fulvia, no doubt," thought Ethel. "'It wouldn't do!' What wouldn't do?
'Nigel marry in opposition to his father!'—No, indeed; nothing less
likely." But what had made Mr. Carden-Cox write all this to Ethel? Was
he demented?
Suddenly, at the end, understanding came in a flood. One moment she was
smiling under the gas-burner in amused perplexity; the next instant she
saw the whole as with a flash of lightning.
This postscript was to Daisy Browning, not to herself. She, Ethel
Elvey, and not Fulvia Rolfe, was "the other girl," whom Nigel might
never marry—whom, indeed, he had no wish to marry.
Ethel did not give the sheet another glance. There was no need, for she
knew it all by heart. More especially those words, "Nigel will never
marry her!" were stamped upon her memory. They seemed to settle the
matter finally.
She stood quietly; her eyes fixed on the opposite wall; but she could
not see or think. No tears came, only a numb sensation, reaching down
to her finger-tips; and, indeed, those little fingers were all at once
strangely cold.
"I say, Ethel—Eth-el!" called Lance imperiously.
"Coming!" cried Ethel.
She folded the half-sheet, and thrust it into her pocket, absolutely
forgetting at the moment that it was not her own. "O Nigel, Nigel!" a
voice within her heart was wailing sadly; and as she crossed the hall
towards the schoolroom, he entered by the front door.
"Ethel, I'm just come to bring—"
He paused a moment to pull off his glove, and grasp her hand. Ethel's
fingers lay in his, not returning the pressure. He looked so bright,
so pleased to be there. For one moment she could have believed it all
a bad dream. But those words were with her still—he would never marry
her! He did not really wish it! Not really! No; why should he? He
was only her old kind affectionate playfellow; and she had to be the
same to him, expecting nothing beyond, and taking care that nobody
should think she could expect anything beyond. That last item was the
difficulty—how to guard her own position, and yet not to give him pain.
At the present moment such a line of conduct was not even possible. She
had to give him pain; and at the very moment that her fingers touched
his, the grave shadow which she so well know, and which she never could
see without a heartache, crept over his eyes.
"I'm come to bring part of your letter from Mr. Carden-Cox, posted to
Daisy. He scorns to have been in a state of confusion. There was a
postscript for Fulvia sent to me, and Daisy received this, which she
says is yours. Daisy read it before she discovered the blunder, and she
wants me to apologise."
"Thanks," Ethel replied, taking the envelope. She did not look straight
at him, after her wont, but leant against the wall, pale, and even a
little breathless, as if she had been running uphill. It flashed across
her mind that, if she followed Daisy's example, she would send to
Daisy by Nigel the postscript which she had herself received. "But I
cannot—cannot!" she cried to herself. "Impossible! I will send it back
to Mr. Carden-Cox."
Nigel stood gazing at Ethel, with a face of grieved surprise. He could
not make her out.
"You don't mind, I hope. Daisy did not find that it was meant for you
till the end. Of course she will tell nobody what she has read."
"Mind! Oh no! Mr. Carden-Cox's letters are not so very
important—commonly."
"It is not half-past seven yet. May I come in for a few minutes? We
don't dine till eight," said Nigel, sorely chilled by her manner, yet
hoping against hope that it might mean nothing.
"Yes, of course. My mother is in the drawing-room."
"And you will come too?"
"I can't. Lance wants me; and I have to write a note for the post."
"Just for a minute! The post doesn't go till eight."
"Our pillar is emptied a quarter before; and Lance—"
"Can't Lance wait?"
"No; I have to help with his lessons."
Dead silence for a moment.
"Is anything wrong?" Nigel asked.
Ethel lifted her eyes, giving him a calm return glance. She would not
for the world have betrayed herself. "I ought to go to Lance."
"And that is all?"
Ethel could not answer in the affirmative. Silence was her response.
"Good-night," Nigel said seriously, holding out his left hand. "No,
I think I will not come in this evening. There isn't really much
time—only, if I could have seen a little of you—But some other day must
do instead. I suppose I may tell Daisy that you do not mind very much."
"About the postscript? Oh no!"
Then Nigel was gone, and Ethel still leant against the wall, with
downcast eyes, feeling as if all the sunshine of her life had gone with
him.
The schoolroom door opened, and Lance's head popped out.
"I say, Eth—Hallo, there you are!" lowering his voice from a shout.
"I'll come in a minute, Lance. I must write just one line to catch the
post."
"That's what girls are always doing," retorted Lance. "I suppose 'just
one line' means just ten pages. Well, mind you're quick, for I'm at a
standstill, and you promised to come ages ago."
Lance retreated, and Ethel went quickly to the dining-room side-table,
where she first opened and read the postscript sent on by Daisy. Had it
come alone, it would not have meant very much; she could have afforded
then to smile at it; but following close upon the other, it brought a
renewed pang.
Ethel sat for a few minutes thinking, and then she dashed off, with
small hesitation—
"DEAR MR. CARDEN-COX,—The enclosed half-sheet came to me by mistake.
I am very sorry that I stupidly read it through before finding out that
it was meant for somebody else. I send it to you instead of to Daisy,
because I would rather no one should know that I have seen it.
"Thanks for your letter to me, and for giving leave about the
magic-lantern.
"Fulvia is very nice; and I am glad you think he is going to be so
happy.—In haste, yours sincerely,
"ETHEL ELVEY."
The last paragraph was not written without a struggle, but pride
insisted. Something had to be said or done to put her into a right
position—to convince Mr. Carden-Cox that, at all events, she was not
seeking Nigel.
In another minute the letter was ready. Ethel caught up a shawl, threw
it over her head, and ran out of the front door, through the garden,
across the road, to the red pillar-box, careless of pattering rain.
Then the envelope was beyond recall; and Ethel came slowly back,
wondering if she had done wisely.
"If one could only be always sure!" she muttered within the door,
shaking off a little shower. "And if only I need not hurt him!"
With an effort she braced herself up, tossed aside the shawl, and
entered the schoolroom.
"You've kept me waiting a jolly time, and no mistake," averred Lance.
"Just see, Ethel, how in the world am I to make out all this French
gibberish?"
Ethel sat down for an hour of patient work, going steadily into such
explanations as Lance needed, and making herself very clear. But all
the while she never ceased to see a pair of dark eyes, full of pain at
the touch of her cold fingers.
Did he care? Yes, no doubt; they were such old friends. Only that—only
friends! Nothing else could ever be, for Nigel did not wish it.
Ethel's note to Mr. Carden-Cox, with its enclosure, left Newton Bury on
Tuesday evening, just too late for the post Ethel had meant to catch;
this fact not having been discovered by her. Consequently the note
did not reach Burrside until the midday post, one half-hour after Mr.
Carden-Cox had, under a sudden impulse, quitted his blissful solitude
for the cares of Newton Bury.
Mrs. Simmons was out when the note arrived, and the little
lodging-house maid put it thoughtlessly on a side-table, saying nothing
to anybody. There it lay till late the same evening, when Mrs. Simmons
came across it, at once instituting inquiries.
"And been there this whole day, and not a soul knowing!" exclaimed Mrs.
Simmons. "And Mr. Carden-Cox that particular about his letters, as he'd
be fit to cut your head off if the post was five minutes behind-hand,
and you knowing of it, Betsy Jane, and never paying no heed! You're the
trouble of my life, and that's what you are, never thinking nor caring!
And you'll put on your hat this minute, and go straight off to the
post, you will, for all it's too late, for I wouldn't keep that there
hemberlope in this house another hour, no, not if I was paid for it,
and Mr. Carden-Cox so mortial particular!"
Betsy Jane was not likely to pay Mrs. Simmons out of her small
earnings, neither did she attempt to defend herself. She only drooped
her lower lip, half deplorably, half in sullenness, and endured
the harangue: for after all, what could she have pleaded except
forgetfulness? And everybody agrees with everybody that to forget is no
excuse at all, because one never ought to forget. Betsy Jane put on her
hat, of course, and went to the post; and the poor little note wandered
off once more missing again the evening post, and again arriving not
far from midday.
The return of Mr. Carden-Cox had become known, and Nigel had speedily
found his way to Mr. Carden-Cox's house. When Ethel's note, with
half-a-dozen other epistles, was handed to Mr. Carden-Cox on a silver
waiter, Nigel was seated opposite to him, speaking.
Mr. Carden-Cox took the letters, and turned them over dreamily, while
he listened.
"Humph—ha—yes—just so," he assented. "Yes, I see—no doubt—sent them all
wrong. Yes; not at all like me, eh? I am a most methodical individual
generally."
So he was, perhaps, in certain lines and in certain moods; but, like
most people who attempt to analyse themselves, he made no allowance for
oppositions in his own nature.
"Methodical," repeated Mr. Carden-Cox, holding Ethel's note, and
tapping it gently. "Yes, now I think of it, I had placed the four
letters in a row upon my desk—in a row, as I always do, following
the order in which I write. It seemed hardly needful to examine the
addresses. I may have done so cursorily, but only cursorily—not with
especial care. I was sure of the order in which the letters lay;
yes, I can recall that now. Yours first, to the left; then Fulvia's.
I noted that, coupling you and Fulvia together, you see—ha!—then
Ethel's, and lastly Daisy's. No mistake about the matter; no mistake
possible, in fact. Extraordinary that the postscripts should have
become disarranged. I don't see for my part how they could have done
so. Still—facts are stubborn. You are sure that it was as you state?"
"Perfectly."
"Well, I don't understand—I don't understand at all." Mr. Carden-Cox
rubbed his hair till it stood on end. "Four envelopes, four letters,
four postscripts—yours, Fulvia's, Ethel's, and Daisy's. That was the
precise order. I could take my oath in a court of justice as to the way
in which they were placed. Extraordinary! Did you say I wrote 'N.B.'
instead of 'P.S.'? Comical rather! Never did such a thing in my life
before. Must have been thinking too much about you, my dear fellow—you
and my dear Fulvia! Nothing unusual in that perhaps. I suppose you
and Fulvia—Well, well; yes, and then—to be sure! 'N.B.' on all four
postscripts, you say?"
"I know nothing about the four. Fulvia's postscript came to me, and I
sent it to her at once, unread. Ethel's came to Daisy, and was read by
mistake."
"And the other two: Daisy's and yours?"
"There were no others."
"I beg your pardon. There were two others. Four altogether. One to
each."
"Then the other two were not posted. You will most likely find them in
your desk."
"I shall most likely do nothing of the sort. The other two were
posted." Mr. Carden-Cox was growing irate. "My recollections are
perfectly clear. I can distinctly recall putting the four postscripts
into the four envelopes, one into each. I tell you I could declare this
on oath, in a court of justice. It is a matter of absolute certainty.
If the first two went wrong, the third and fourth went wrong also.
But somebody has got them—somebody has. No possibility of a mistake
there. Ethel and Fulvia have had a postscript each, and not their own
postscripts, since you and Daisy received those."
"I saw Ethel within half-an-hour of getting your letter; and the post
must have been in at the Rectory. She would surely have told me if
there had been a postscript for anybody at home."
"Hallo! This is the girl's own handwriting!" Mr. Carden-Cox was gazing
at the note he held.
"Ethel's!"
"Ethel Elvey's, of course. Humph! Why, here it is!" Mr. Carden-Cox held
up the half-sheet with his own handwriting.
"Sent back to you, instead of sent on to Daisy," Nigel said quietly;
but he had again the chilled sensation. Why had Ethel said nothing to
him?—If, indeed, it had arrived when he called.
Mr. Carden-Cox was not commonly supposed to be wanting in reticence; on
the contrary, some counted him "a great deal too reserved." But here
again there were curious oppositions in his character; and like many
reserved people he was capable of running to the other extreme. Being
over-excited, he ran now to the other extreme, and forthwith read aloud
Ethel's note.
"I don't understand. Who is 'he'?" asked Nigel.
Mr. Carden-Cox glanced at the paragraph again, and burst into an
uncomfortable laugh.
"Ha! ha, ha! The girl's a thorough woman, and no mistake! Uses
adjectives—pronouns, I mean—without an antecedent. That's the way to
express it, I believe. Rather long since I went through Lindley Murray;
but antecedents are important things, very important. 'He'! Ha, ha! As
if there wasn't another 'he' in the world. But girls never think! I
shall have a little fun with Miss Ethel about this. She'll appreciate
the joke. Well, well, I'm glad she approves. You and she were always
good friends, but—eh? what?"
Nigel was trying to edge in a question.
"Eh? Oh, only a little jest of mine in the postscript to herself,
about a certain knight rescuing his faire ladye from fire and water.
No, by the way, that wasn't to her; I'm forgetting—but something
tantamount—you and Fulvia, you know."
"You seem rather fond of coupling my name with Fulvia's."
"Old habit of mine, my dear boy. Always did couple you together, and
probably always shall. Why, now, you know yourself that nobody can take
precisely the place with you that Fulvia takes—eh?"
"Perhaps not precisely; but that does not mean—"
"No; just so; it doesn't mean more, than it does mean. It only means
that you are on the high-road to—No, you needn't deny it. You needn't
attempt to deny anything. We are willing to wait; your father and I.
Merely a matter of time, of course. But you see Ethel approves, quite
approves—glad to think you are going to be so happy. Yes, certainly—in
reference to that—to you and Fulvia. Good, sensible girl, Ethel Elvey.
Much too sensible to expect—well, of course, she expects nothing; never
did expect. You and she are good friends, no doubt; always will be. But
that would never have done; never! Serious reasons against it; and your
father would not consent. Entirely out of the question. Fulvia 'very
nice,' &c. Might have said a little more, when she was about it. Mind,
you mustn't let out that you have heard this note. She doesn't wish it
to be known—about her seeing the postscript. There!" and Mr. Carden-Cox
chucked his now useless half-sheet into the fire. "Daisy must go
without."
Nigel was silent.
"Three of the postscripts accounted for," said Mr. Carden-Cox. He began
to reckon upon the ends of his fingers. "Fulvie's, Daisy's, Ethel's.
Fulvia's sent to you; Daisy's to Ethel; Ethel's to Daisy. That's
it, eh? Yes, I see; plain as a pikestaff. Ethel's and Daisy's were
exchanged. Then yours and Fulvia's were exchanged too. Fulvia's to you;
yours, of course, to Fulvia. What is the girl after not to give it up?"
"Fulvia has not received it."
"She has, I assure you. Must. Positively must. I put a postscript into
each one of the four envelopes, and here is the only one not accounted
for. Fulvia has yours to a dead certainty."
"It is the most extraordinary thing to accuse a lady of! Fulvia would
have told at once. Why not?"
"That's right. I like to put you up in her defence. It positively does
one good. My dear fellow, I don't accuse her of anything. I don't know
why she has not passed the postscript on. Women's reasons are not easy
to fathom. Fulvia trustworthy. Yes, no doubt. Like the rest of her sex.
Acts upon impulse, and never thinks of consequences. Probably put it
away in a drawer, and forgot all about it; as likely as not! Anything
possible to a woman. I'll ask her when we meet; or you can put the
question meantime. 'Rather not!' Too much of a coward, eh? But never
mind; you just leave it to me. I'll bring her to book."
Nigel managed at last to get away. He was very sore at heart, longing
for quiet, that he might think over Ethel's note, which had been a
sharp blow.
He walked homeward swiftly, after his usual direct fashion, only not
as usual taking in all about him, with glances to right and left as
he went. His eyes were steadily downcast, and certain friends found
themselves unconsciously passed by.
"Young Browning in a state of meditation!" one acquaintance remarked.
And a lady of sensitive temper was offended to be overlooked.
While another of more robust mental make had leisure from herself to
wonder if that nice young fellow were in trouble. His arm was in a
sling still; but "it wasn't that," she said, and she said rightly.
Nigel had long known the wish of Mr. Carden-Cox's heart about himself
and Fulvia. He had hitherto ignored the idea, ridden over it, or
laughed at it, as the case might be. Even the knowledge that his father
was much bent upon the same could only cause regrets.
But Ethel—if Ethel approved and was glad, this, indeed, made all the
difference. For if Ethel could wish him to marry Fulvia, then it must
have been that she could not and would not marry him herself. Life
would be changed for Nigel, if things were so.
No steel blade could have cut more deeply than the closing sentence of
Ethel's little note to Mr. Carden-Cox. Glad to think he was going to
be so happy! Glad to believe that he would marry Fulvia! Nigel's heart
sank.
The mere fact that she was able calmly to write such words to Mr.
Carden-Cox seemed to him conclusive. He did not feel that he could have
done it in her place, if he had cared one tithe as much as he cared now!
Of course not. But he was a man, and she was a woman. In his estimate
of things, he forgot to allow for this fact.
Then her manner to him, when he had seen her last, the sudden
coldness and indifference! Was it that she had just read by mistake
the postscript meant for Daisy, whatever the postscript might have
contained? Something undoubtedly had aroused her to the sense of a
certain need to show Nigel that he must not think of her.
Tom Elvey!
Yes, that was it, no doubt. That was at the bottom of the tangle.
Fulvia's words on the steam-yacht had been almost driven out of Nigel's
mind by succeeding events, and by his first meeting afterward with
Ethel; but now they returned in full strength.
Ethel had been so pleased and thankful, after the adventure, showing
perhaps under excitement more warmth than she felt on consideration
to be right. Probably she feared to mislead Nigel. As his friend and
old playmate she would rejoice in his escape—perhaps also for Fulvia's
sake, if she held the notion about him and Fulvia—but it was very
evident that she wished Nigel now to understand the moderate nature of
her feelings.
Tom Elvey, to wit!
Nigel sighed as he entered the Grange gates. Nobody was at hand to hear.