AGED TWENTY-ONE
"In that hour of deep contrition,
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,
Justice, the Avenger, rise.
"All the pomp of earth had vanished,
Falsehood and deceit were banished,
Reason spake more loud than passion,
And the truth wore no disguise."
—LONGFELLOW.
HALF of Fulvia's twenty-first birthday was over, and she had not yet
seen Mr. Browning.
It had been a most uneventful day thus far. Fulvia had presents from
all in the house, except Mr. Browning. Nigel gave her a gold locket;
Ethel sent a dainty basket arrangement of holly and ferns; old school
friends wrote letters; but nothing had occurred to mark the fact that
on this day Fulvia Rolfe would, or should, come into possession of some
forty or fifty thousand pounds.
She had not even donned a better dress for the occasion, which was a
Grange fashion on birthdays. Mr. Browning would remark the change,
Fulvia thought.
After all, the dress she wore daily could not have been improved
upon. It was a fine navy-blue cloth, fitting perfectly. She did add
lace ruffles and the new locket, and she dressed her hair with extra
particularity. Care bestowed upon that mass of reddish-golden-brown was
always repaid. Fulvia looked well, almost handsome. She was conscious
of the fact, and conscious that Nigel noticed it with brotherly
interest—only Fulvia unhappily did not count the interest to be
brotherly.
Nigel liked his sisters to look their best; and a little earlier he
would have told Fulvia, without hesitation, as one of the three, that
she had turned herself out successfully for the occasion. He was
growing cautious now, however, and so he said nothing, not guessing
that she saw the thought in his face, and misconstrued the silence.
He was in higher spirits than he had been for many weeks, nobody
guessing why. Nobody knew of the interview in the vestry. Even the
knowledge of his father's state could not depress him, this first
morning after the lifting of his own heavy cloud, though it did keep
down, to a moderate pitch, the spirits which would otherwise have been
wild. He had his dreamy spells, too; going over and over in mind the
words which had passed between him and Ethel, wondering whether he had
taken it too much for granted that she might care for him, and whether
he had said enough to be understood, but always coming round to a glad
remembrance of the last emphatic "Yes! Yes!"
The sunshine in his eyes perplexed Fulvia; he had been so grave lately.
Then she made up her mind that her birthday was the cause; he wanted
to please her by making it a cheerful day. Fulvia responded to the
supposed wish with all her heart. There had not been such an amount
of fun in the breakfast-room for many a week, as on that morning of
December 21st.
Snow had ceased falling, and a slow thaw had set in, rendering the
streets slushy, while the air was full of cold moisture. Fulvia and
Daisy braved the weather in a brisk morning walk; Anice remaining
indoors as a matter of course. Fulvia had hoped for Nigel's company,
and was disappointed, for he vanished. Where he went he did not say,
and Fulvia had learned not to question him; she was not one who needed
the same lesson twice over.
At luncheon, he looked sunnier than ever; yet Mr. Browning was still in
complete retirement. None but his wife had spoken to him.
More oddly, Mr. Carden-Cox had not appeared, and this perplexed
everybody.
"Why, he always gives Fulvia something nice," protested the aggrieved
Daisy, desiring excitement. "Surely he won't forget! And doesn't father
mean to speak to Fulvia? So odd! On her birthday! As if she were in
disgrace!"
"He will do as he chooses," Fulvia answered.
It was getting on for the time of afternoon tea; and the aspect of the
Newton Bury atmosphere, through glass panes, was not inviting. Nigel
had been upstairs since lunch, supposed to be reading; and the three
girls were spending their afternoon over the drawing-room fire, having
indulged themselves into a state of easy-chair inertia.
Even Fulvia was not proof against the lazy mood—until Nigel appeared.
She brightened up then, and replied to Daisy's complaints with her
usual elastic air.
"Of course he will. Everybody does," said Daisy. "But I don't see that
people ought. I think he ought to come out of his den for just a little
while. Nigel! What have you got? Chestnuts! How lovely! We'll have some
fun now!"
Plainly this was Nigel's object. He was a very boy again in the
next half-hour, helping Daisy to balance chestnuts on the hot bars,
watching for the critical moment of "done enough and not too much,"
using Daisy's fingers in pretence, and scorching his own in reality.
He and Daisy were down on the rug together, and shouts of laughter
sounded, when Mrs. Browning came with her soft lagging step and sweet
graciousness.
"I have persuaded your father to take a cup of tea with us here," she
said to the group. "He is very sad to-day, but he liked to hear your
merry voices, and indeed he proposed it himself. It is such weather, we
shall have no callers."
"Don't stop laughing, pray, when he appears," whispered Fulvia; and
they did not, but the real ring of mirth was gone.
Mr. Browning's heavy steps and down-drawn mouth-comers were not
provocative of fun. He looked both ill and wretched.
Fulvia was the first to spring up in welcome. She gave him a daughterly
kiss, made him sit in the chair she had occupied, chatted about weather
and chestnuts, tried to make it seem that nothing was further from her
thoughts than the remembrance of her own age.
Mr. Browning seemed relieved, and he even smiled dimly at one or two of
Nigel's sallies.
"Hallo, Daisy! That fellow's rolling! He'll be gone!"
"Oh! Oh! I'm burning my fingers. What shall I do? He's done for—black
as a coal."
"Never mind; we've plenty more! You are getting your face a most awful
colour, my dear. Look at Anice."
"Anice has a complexion, and I've none. Can't take care of what I
haven't got. I say—what are you after? Is that for me? Thanks. And
Fulvie would like another. Don't you care for chestnuts, father?"
"No, dear," mournfully.
Tea came in, and was dispensed by Fulvia; in the midst of which
operation a fly drove up to the front door.
Daisy capered to the window, and peeped out.
"Oh, it is Mr. Carden-Cox! With a huge parcel! Here he comes! Fulvie's
birthday, of course," cried thoughtless Daisy. "How jolly! I said he
was sure to come."
"You little goose!" breathed Nigel.
And "Daisy!" Fulvia uttered impatiently.
But the culprit heard neither.
"He's coming!" she exclaimed again.
And Mr. Browning put his hand to his side, as the door opened to a
rustle of brown paper.
Mr. Carden-Cox carried the parcel—a big one, as Daisy had said. He was
in one of his excited states—that could be seen at once. Fulvia rose to
greet and silence him, but found herself powerless. She might as well
have tried to stem a rivulet with her hand. By going forward she only
absorbed the whole of his attention, and rendered him unconscious of
Mr. Browning's presence.
"How d'you do, Fulvia? How d'you do, my dear? Many happy returns of
the day! I wish you all manner of good things through life: health
to enjoy your money, and wisdom to use it. I've brought you a little
remembrance—sort of thing a lady of property ought to have, hey! A
dressing-case, nothing more; don't expect too much. But it's a tidy
concern, I flatter myself—tidy little concern, good of its kind. Here,
have off the wrappings. What's the matter? You look as if it would bite
you. Eh? what do you say? Couldn't get what I wanted in Newton Bury,
so sent to London for this, and it has only just arrived. Shameful
delay! Couldn't think what to do this morning, when it hadn't come.
Telegraphed to London, and found it had gone off all right, so went to
the station, and there it was. Abominable carelessness! I'll write a
complaint to headquarters. However, here it is at last, just in time;
birthday not over yet, eh? Got one of a good solid kind—see—silver
fittings and the rest—here—"
Fulvia was trying to thank and to check him, in vain.
"Yes, yes, yes, I understand—pretty, of course. Had a nice day—plenty
of presents, eh? Don't at all like nothing more to be done to mark
your coming of age. Don't at all like it, my dear! Can't be helped,
but—Well!" in a loud whisper—"Had any business talk yet—statements as
to your finances? You've got a right to that. Necessary, you know.
Don't you let him put things off! I meant to call a lawyer, but Nigel
wouldn't let me—said he'd take the responsibility. Ha! Makes you blush,
that, doesn't it, child? But of course you've had a statement—know how
things stand—fifty thousand, eh? Ought not to be less by now, properly
handled. How's Browning to-day? Oh! Ah!" as a faint groan reached his
hearing. "Oh! Ah! I didn't see! How d'you do? Quite well? Como to
congratulate my niece on attaining her majority—lady of fortune, hey?"
No efforts could stop him thus far. When Mr. Carden-Cox was resolved to
have his say, he commonly did have it.
Fulvia clutched in vain with two eager hands, thanking, entreating,
doing her best to entice him from the room.
Nigel in vain drew near, signing caution; and the younger girls looked
aghast, in vain.
Mr. Carden-Cox saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, except that he
had certain utterances to make, and that he chose to make them.
Albert Browning offered no response to the greeting of Mr. Carden-Cox.
He stood up slowly, breathing hard, and leaning on his wife's
shoulder,—a frail support, yet firm through force of will,—and Nigel
went quickly to give more efficient help.
Mr. Carden-Cox spoke again, but again had no answer. Albert Browning's
head was resolutely turned away; and the three went out of a farther
door.
"Offended! Eh? But I say, Fulvie, my dear, you have a right to know—a
right to ask! Your money—"
"Oh, how could you!" cried Fulvia in distress. "We were so happy all
together, and you have quite spoilt the day. How could you come and say
such things?"
Mr. Browning was not taken ill there and then, as everybody
feared—everybody except Mr. Carden-Cox, who showed dire offence at
Fulvia's remonstrance, and required a large amount of polite attention
to win his pardon. Being a man who never avowed himself in the wrong,
he naturally could not stand blame.
No particular ill-effects were apparent that evening from the
unwished-for agitation. Mr. Browning even came to the drawing-room
after dinner, and exerted himself to a certain degree of melancholy
cheerfulness. He was particularly affectionate to Fulvia, calling her
"my dearest child" repeatedly. Still no allusion was made to Fulvia's
affairs.
"He is better than I expected," Nigel remarked late in the evening to
Fulvia, others having disappeared. Fulvia usually remained five minutes
later than the rest of the party, clearing away odds and ends. "Seems
none the worse for Mr. Carden-Cox."
"I was afraid he would be."
"At the moment—yes."
"I am glad the day is over," Fulvia said with an accent of relief.
"Not very satisfactorily over, for you."
"Why?"
"You ought, at least, to have had what Mr. Carden-Cox calls 'a
statement.'"
"Time enough. I am in no hurry. The money is there all right; and when
padre is up to business, he will make as many statements as you like."
Was the money "there all right"? Mr. Carden-Cox's suspicions had
infected Nigel; yet Nigel would not let himself doubt. Mr. Browning's
nerves might account for anything.
"I really believe padre is stronger already, in fact. He would not have
borne this so well a month ago. But I am glad, very glad, that the day
is over. It has been a strain upon us all, looking forward. Now things
can go on just as they always do."
"You are the most unselfish of beings!" Nigel said involuntarily. Then,
when he saw her look—the heightening colour and dropped eyelids—he was
vexed with himself for the unguarded remark.
"I don't know about unselfishness; I seem to be so completely one of
you all, that what affects you affects me."
Nigel could have replied, "Is not that the very essence of
unselfishness?"—but he would not risk it. He saw that she was
disappointed at his silence, and the light in her face faded.
"At all events, I know somebody else is relieved too," she said in her
usual tone. "Confess! You have been dreadfully worried lately; and
to-day—well, you are not depressed."
"Chestnuts and nonsense! That doesn't mean much. One gets a fit of high
spirits sometimes unreasonably."
"I must be off to bed. Good-night," she said, and the tone was flat.
Nigel never offered to kiss her now, of course. He had not since
the first day of his return. She moved away, and he sat long,
thinking—dreaming rather—not of Fulvia, but of Ethel.
In the early morning there came a sudden alarm. Mr. Browning was ill.
A severe attack of pain and breathlessness came on, like in kind to
the short attack he had had before, when only Nigel and Dr. Duncan
were present, but worse in degree. He had been in danger then, and had
rallied quickly. Now there was no real rally; only a slight occasional
improvement, followed by a worse relapse.
Dr. Duncan, summoned hastily, could do little, for remedies failed to
touch the evil.
"He will not stand this long," Dr. Duncan said in a low voice to Nigel.
"Yes—great danger. I doubt if he will last through the day."
The suffering and oppression increased, till it was hard to look on
unmoved. Mr. Browning could not lie down, could not endure to be in
bed. He sat up in his easy-chair, leaning forward, his face livid, his
eyes full of helpless affectionate appeal, which went to their very
hearts.
Mrs. Browning, worn out by long previous strain, broke down under the
distress of seeing him thus. She had to be taken to another room, and
was there tended by Daisy, who at such a time could rise out of her
childishness, and be useful. Anice was absent from the sick-room of
course; poor weak-natured Anice, always fleeing, unwomanlike, from
aught that aroused a feeling of discomfort.
But Fulvia never left Mr. Browning, and he could scarcely endure to
have Nigel out of his sight. It fell to those two to watch side by side
through many long hours of that trying day—trying to both, but most so
to Nigel. For Fulvia was in her element, and Nigel's presence meant
rest to her; while the sight of what Mr. Browning had to bear racked
Nigel's powers of endurance to the utmost. He did not give in; and
Fulvia, herself absolutely unwearied in the necessities of her position
and in the comfort of having him there, did not realise the severity of
the tax upon one unused to sick-rooms.
About three o'clock in the afternoon Dr. Duncan came in. He said little
beyond giving needful directions, and promising to return soon—"in a
couple of hours or so." Fulvia thought his look not hopeful.
"Have you seen madre?" she asked.
"Yes; she tried to get up and fainted. I have ordered her to bed. She
can do no more."
Soon after, unexpectedly, Mr. Browning dropped asleep, leaning forward
on a pillow, his forehead against a chair-back. Fulvia had knelt at
his right hand a few minutes earlier, and she remained fixed in that
position, not daring to stir. Nigel had taken a seat not a yard distant
where he had been off and on through the day. A glance of hope was
exchanged between the two, and Fulvia, noting Nigel's wearied look,
signed to him to leave the room, but the sign was disregarded. Neither
of them stirred.
Twenty minutes of repose: surely this meant recovery. Fulvia's face
grew bright, Nigel's less harassed. The sufferer seemed peaceful, and
breathed more easily, not struggling.
Then he woke, and the first words were, "Nigel! Call Nigel."
"I am here, father." Nigel rose and came nearer, glad to have stayed.
"My dear, dear boy!" Mr. Browning said feebly.
"A little better?" Nigel asked.
"I don't know. Just at this moment—perhaps—" He looked from one to the
other in a wistful troubled fashion, strangely, too, as if gazing from
a distance. "Something I had to say," he murmured. "If I were not so—so
weak—"
"You must not talk, padre," said Fulvia.
A great agony came into his face, changing its very form.
"Fulvie, forgive—forgive," he groaned.
"Don't, padre—oh don't," she cried. "Don't think—don't worry yourself;
only get well, for madre's sake."
"No, no; you do not know," he panted. "It was not—was not—intention."
"What was not intention?" Nigel asked, before Fulvia could speak.
And a moan was the answer.
"This must not go on." Fulvia spoke in a clear voice. "Padre,
listen—don't be distressed. I forgive anything—everything—no matter
what—if there is anything to forgive. And you are to feel happy—you
understand? Not to worry yourself. Things will be all right."
"No, no. Wronged! Wronged!"
They could hardly catch what he said. Then, with more distinct
utterance—
"My dear child! My own dear child! No—not intention—folly and
weakness—not wilful. HE will forgive—I think—I trust—but—the misery and
loss—"
"Nigel, stop him! He must not," whispered Fulvia. "Padre dear, don't!
Don't!" she went on aloud. "You will be worse. Can't you rest now?"
"Forgiveness," he panted.
"Yes, oh yes—don't ask again!"
But a solemn sound came into Mr. Browning's voice as he went on,
"Forgiveness with Thee—Thee!—That Thou mayest be feared! My God, Thou
knowest have repented—bitterly—most bitterly!"
A sob interrupted the words. With a sudden effort, he took Fulvia's
left hand and placed it in Nigel's right hand.
"We owe her much," he said.
Then the troubled eyes turned to Fulvia.
"He will make up to you—my child—for everything! You will be his
own—his own! But for that, how—how could I bear it? Nigel, I charge
you—never—"
Utterance failed. It was an embarrassing moment for both; worse for
Nigel, however, than for Fulvia, since she believed Mr. Browning to
have only given expression to Nigel's desire.
During two seconds her hand lay where it had been put, and she did
not look at Nigel. A flush rose to her very brow; the downcast eyes
brightened; the lips parted with joy. Nigel saw, and his heart died
within him. What was he to do? How could he explain?—Yet how could he
not explain?
Strange to say, she did not miss the response which she might have
expected. At the first instant, when her hand touched his, and he
little dreamt what was coming, Nigel's fingers had closed with a
slight, kind grasp, merely as an expression of gratitude. Then, as he
heard, he saw his mistake.
Something had to be said, but what? That was the question. Nigel
could not answer it. He was almost stunned. Yet he would have said
something—anything—the first words which should spring—but there came
an ominous sound, hardly a groan, hardly a gasp. Fulvia's glad colour
faded, and she snatched her hand away to give the needed support,
thereby releasing Nigel.
For Mr. Browning was dropping forward, lower and lower, breathless,
voiceless, changed in look.
Nothing could be done. There was no time to summon Dr. Duncan, no time
to warn his wife. Even as Fulvia started to Mr. Browning's help, all
was over.