THE MONEY!
"I do not ask, O Lord, that life may be
A pleasant road;
I do not ask that Thou would'st take from me
Aught of its load;
I do not ask that flowers should always spring
Beneath my feet;
I know too well the poison and the sting
Of things too sweet;
For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead—
Lead me aright;
Though strength should falter, and though heart
should bleed,
Through Peace to Light."—A. A. PROCTER.
STRANGE to say—or others thought it strange—Nigel was more knocked down
by the blow than almost any one.
This did not show itself at first. He was the mainstay of them all
during the first hours of that grievous day—undertaking to break
the news to his mother, to comfort his sisters, to make needful
arrangements. He went to and fro, pale and serious, even severe in
his self-repression; and every one said how much he felt his father's
death; but no one guessed the racking misery of doubt below as to
Fulvia and that father's dying words.
The position in which Nigel found himself was indeed almost
intolerable. Whether justly or no, he felt that he was in some measure
to blame for it. True, he had been debarred from open speech to Mr.
Browning; but, knowing whereto things tended, why had he not at least
spoken out to Fulvia, about Ethel? He hated himself now for what might
have been a cruel silence. When he thought of Fulvia's face, at the
moment that her hand was placed in his by Mr. Browning, his heart sank
as if leaden-weighted; and he felt like a bird caught in the toils.
All through the hours of that endless morning the struggle went on.
What Mr. Browning had meant or had not meant?—What he was to do, or not
to do?—What he could say or could not say?—How he might free himself,
and yet spare Fulvia?—These questions racked his brain incessantly,
while he sat with his mother or saw to things that had to be done,
never thinking of rest for himself, only longing unbearably to find out
the worst as to his father's affairs—and Fulvia's! This last became in
time the leading desire, so engrossing his attention that everything
else was done as a steppingstone to that end.
Mrs. Browning bore the shock wonderfully, so others said. She wept
indeed much, showing all due natural grief, and clinging to Nigel for
support; still she could find comfort in talking to Nigel about her
husband. Not to anybody else, only to Nigel; and she never guessed how
he shrank from it, craving to escape. The more keenly he felt, the less
he could speak; also it was difficult to satisfy her with sufficient
details of that last hour, while ignoring what had passed about Fulvia
and himself. There seemed so little to tell, and she longed for more.
It was not till midday that he had a chance of a quiet time in the
study.
All the long morning since Mr. Browning's death he had not once seen
Fulvia. Half shyly, half unconsciously, she had kept out of his way,
longing for, yet dreading, the moment when they should come together;
and by no means unconsciously Nigel had seconded these efforts. He
did not come to breakfast, only having a cup of tea in his mother's
room; and when breakfast was over, Fulvia went out with Daisy, about
mourning, which could not be put off. She would not trouble Mrs.
Browning, but ordered everything that might be required, not sparing
expense. Why should she? If Mrs. Browning should be short of money,
there was Fulvia's money! She could always fall back upon that.
Coming in from the shops Fulvia found herself overpoweringly tired and
sleepy. Nigel was still with Mrs. Browning, and no one seemed to need
her. Anice noted her condition—it was a rare event for Anice to notice
anybody's condition except her own—and advised repose. Fulvia meekly
followed the counsel, and went to bed.
She did not expect to sleep, of course; but sleep she did, peacefully
as an infant, never waking till nearly four o'clock in the afternoon of
that strange sad day—most strange indeed, but not altogether sad, to
Fulvia. Yet she grieved sincerely over her "padre's" death.
How vexed she felt when she awoke—vexed to have slept so long, and
vexed yet more to feel refreshed and buoyant; absolutely hungry too! So
heartless under the circumstances!
Going down into the darkened drawing-room, she found Anice crying over
the fire; and the tea-tray just brought in.
"O Fulvie!" Anice started up to cling to the elder girl. "I have wanted
you so, but Nigel said you were not to be disturbed. He said you must
sleep as long as you could."
"I had no idea of forgetting myself so long. Stupid of me!" and there
was a tingling blush at the mention of Nigel's name. "How is madre? Has
Nigel had any rest himself?"
"No, he wouldn't. Mother is in her arm-chair just now, and Daisy with
her. Nigel was there ever so long, all the morning off and on, till
twelve o'clock; and then his head was aching, and mother wanted him to
go into the garden for a turn, but he went to the study instead. He has
been there ever since, except just a few minutes at lunch; and then
he couldn't eat, and hardly said a word. He only said he had papers
to look through, and he told us you were not to be called. Mother
wants him, I believe. But Daisy doesn't mind being with mother, and I
can't, you know—" pitifully. "I think Daisy and Nigel are so wonderful,
keeping up, and—Won't you have some tea?"
Fulvia was ashamed of her own hunger. "Yes," she said, and helped
herself, hoping Anice would not see how much she could eat. Anice
dallied with a cup of tea, sobbing and talking by turns.
"Daisy is so strong," she said self-excusingly, "and I am not. I never
could do things like other people. If I could I would stay with mother,
but—when she cries so and says—Oh, I don't know how to bear it."
"My, dear, it is not a question of strength, but of will," said Fulvia.
"People can do a good deal more, commonly, than they think they can,
if only they would make up their minds to it, and manage to forget
themselves."
Anice was hurt, of course, by the home-truth, and wept anew.
Then Daisy entered, with red eyes and broken breath. "Mother sent me,"
she said. "Is Fulvie up? Mother wants Nigel so, and I promised to tell
him."
"Anice can tell him. Sit down, Daisy, and have some tea. You have done
your share."
Anice complied reluctantly. She did not like being sent on errands.
"He is coming," she said, on her return. "But I don't think he is
pleased. He had a lot of papers out, and he stopped to put them away."
"Did you tell him I was here?" Fulvia could not resist putting the
question.
"No, he didn't ask."
The study door was heard to open and shut. Fulvia wished she could have
controlled the rush of blood to her face. An impulse came over her to
escape, yet she sat still. And when Nigel entered, there were no signs
of a corresponding agitation on his part. He looked paler, sterner,
older, than she could have imagined possible.
Fulvia asked timidly, "Will you have some tea?"
"Thanks."
Fulvia brought it herself: and it remained untouched. Glances were
exchanged by the three girls; and Daisy spoke in response to a sign
from Fulvia—"Nigel, the tea is getting cold. Won't you take some now?"
Nigel roused himself to comply; but after a few sips the cup was pushed
aside, and he seemed overpowered by grief and weariness.
Fulvia told herself that she ought not to wonder; yet she did wonder.
She had expected a word from him, or a look—and she had neither. But
perhaps such expectations were unreasonable. It was very soon—only
a few hours since his father's death; and Nigel had always been an
affectionate son. She signed to the girls to say no more; and for ten
minutes the clock ticked in unbroken silence.
Nigel spoke at last without stirring—
"Did you say my mother wanted me?"
Daisy's "Yes" and Fulvia's "No" came together. Daisy showed surprise.
"No," repeated Fulvia; "not when she knows how you are."
"I don't wish her to know."
Fulvia could not take upon herself to answer. She could only look again
towards Daisy, and Daisy made response—
"Nigel was up all night, and he has had no rest. Everybody has rested
except Nigel."
Nigel paid no heed, and another five minutes passed. Then he stood up,
and without a word moved towards the door.
"Fulvie, do go too," begged Daisy. "Nobody can manage so well as you;
and I'm sure he isn't fit."
Fulvia obeyed the suggestion, thrusting her own reluctance into the
background. She counted Nigel too worn out to care what she or anybody
might do; and certainly it was desirable that the interview should not
be prolonged.
But how to shorten it was the question. Mrs. Browning, absorbed in her
own grief, did not notice anything unusual in his look. He sat down
close beside her, leaning his head against the back of her chair out
of sight; so, after the first minute she had no chance to observe.
Mrs. Browning welcomed him tenderly, bidding Fulvia also remain, which
settled the perplexity of the latter how to act.
Then came a long low monotone, broken by sobs, all about Albert
Browning, her husband—his character, his goodness, his devotion to wife
and children, together with details of his suffering state during weeks
past, and conjectures as to the cause of his long depression, varied by
soft reverent utterances regarding his present rest, the contrast of
his present peace, and how they must not grieve for him too much.
It was all very sweet; just like gentle Mrs. Browning. She was a very
embodiment of sweet gentleness, sitting there, with her little nervous
snowflakes of hands clasped together, and her lovely eyes wide-open,
sometimes filling with great tears; but also it was very trying to
other people. Fulvia began to wonder how much longer it was to go on.
She grew impatient, even while most stirred by those reverent and
resigned utterances in the madre's dear tones. Any amount for herself
would have been endurable; but she was enduring for Nigel also. He was
quiet enough, even impassive, only saying a word now and then when
needful; still, Fulvia had a very good notion of what the interview was
to him. In a general way she would not have allowed it to last five
minutes. Now, however, she was under constraint; afraid of taking a
wrong step. If Nigel should not like her to interfere!
There came a moment at length when he could bear no more. Mrs. Browning
was saying something in her sorrowful voice about—"Your dear father's
money anxieties. Always so scrupulously exact and honourable—so
distressed if—"
Nigel's sudden movement stopped her. It was a start forward to an
upright position, as if from some intolerable sting of pain, and he
pushed the hair from his forehead, with a restless gesture.
Fulvia could restrain herself no longer.
"Madre, dear, I think one of us had better be with you now—Daisy or I.
Nigel is so tired."
"Nigel tired! Are you, my dear? Yes, of course—why did I not see
sooner? Do make him rest. I don't want anybody here. Never mind about
me. I am of no consequence. How could I be so thoughtless?"
"Not thoughtless, indeed," Nigel said, as she broke into a flood of
tears. "Fulvia did not mean—"
"Oh, I know—I understand. Everybody is kind. But now he is gone I am so
desolate. I have nobody but you—nobody to lean upon. Nigel, my own boy,
say you will not leave me! Say you will never, never leave me."
She clung to him, pleading; and Fulvia felt that in the abstract
nothing could be more touching than the poor widow's turning to her boy
for comfort. In the particular it was—No, Fulvia would not let herself
look on another side of the question.
"Mother, you are my charge now," Nigel said with a manly self-control.
He would not bind himself with rash promises; but he would assume to
the full the responsibility which had fallen upon him.
Mrs. Browning wept on, and clung to him faster; and Nigel waited with
dull patience. He might have waited thus another half-hour, but for
Fulvia. She hardly knew how she managed to end the scene; yet she did
manage it.
Nigel followed her out of the room in a mechanical fashion, and stood
outside in the gas-lit passage, leaning against an old carved press, as
if energy for another step had failed him.
Fulvia struck a match, and lighted a candle. "Nigel, you are dead-beat.
You will go to bed now." There was no immediate answer. Fulvia cast one
or two wistful glances at his face, which might have gained years in
age during the last few hours.
"No," he said. "I must speak to you first."
A swift electric shock darted through Fulvia's frame. Speak to her!
Speak about what? She could put only one interpretation on the words.
The girls' boudoir was close at hand, just across the passage. Nigel
had always been free of entrance there, and he turned to go in. Fulvia
followed with the candle, which she placed upon the mantelpiece, and
Nigel stood facing her.
"I have something to tell you," he said. "It has only come to my
knowledge to-day. About your money—"
"My money! Oh!" Fulvia came a step nearer, both relieved and
disappointed. "I can wait about that!"
"I cannot!"
"There is no hurry—no need yet! As if I cared!"
"You will care. It is no good news."
"The more need to put off. We have had trouble enough to-day. Must we
think of money so soon—when we have only just lost him? I would rather
wait, far rather. And you are not well!"
"I cannot rest till I have told you."
"Well—" she answered reluctantly, "if it is a relief to you, of
course—only please get it over as fast as you can."
Fulvia paused; and she could see that he was striving to speak,
striving and unable. "Oh don't! Pray don't!" she begged piteously. "If
you would but wait!"
"I have found out—" he tried to say, and the voice was so husky as to
be inarticulate. A resolute effort conquered this. He grasped the chair
again with both hands, and spoke in a distinct tone: "I have found out
what my father meant."
"Meant!—When?"
"When he begged your pardon."
"I don't care what you have found out. I don't care what he meant. I
will not hear it now," cried Fulvia passionately. "What do you think I
am made of?—Talking of money, money, to me to-day! To-day of all days!
I can't bear it, and you can't either! Please leave off!"
"No use. You must hear soon; and the sooner the better. I can't stand
not telling you." There was a touch of appeal in the words, almost as
if he craved her help. At the moment she hardly noticed it. "I have
been looking at papers," he went on.
"Then you ought not! It was wrong, so soon! I don't care what you have
found. The money isn't so much as uncle Arthur fancies, I suppose.
What if it is not? What do I care? He has done harm enough with his
meddling. He shall have no voice in my affairs now. I shall never be
able to forgive him for—yesterday!" She had to pause and think before
saying "yesterday." Her twenty-first birthday seemed so long ago.
"He was not to blame—wilfully."
"He was to blame! He knew better, or he ought to have known. But never
mind that now. I only want you to say what must be said, and have done
with it."
"I cannot give full particulars yet. There has been—no time.
My father's affairs are—have been for years—in a state of
complication—embarrassment. How much so I have never guessed. The crash
must have come in—in any case. It has been staved off by—by means of—"
Then a break. "Ruin to us all!" followed abruptly.
"To—us all!" She laid a slight stress on the pronoun.
"Yes."
"I don't think I understand."
Nigel was again hardly able to speak, and drops stood thickly like
beads over his forehead.
Fulvia felt bewildered. Ruin to them all! Did that mean—to her? Was she
included? In her wildest dreams this had somehow never come up as a
possibility. Her money had always in imagination remained secure, only
perhaps a little diminished from the Carden-Cox estimate. Her money had
always been waiting to supply deficiencies for other people.
She said again, "I don't understand." It was not in human nature at
that moment to insist on hearing no more. "Ruin to whom?" she asked.
"Absolute ruin to us! Hardly less to you."
"And—my forty thousand pounds—are—"
"Gone!"
He said the one word clearly as before; then a change of mood
overmastered him; he sat down and covered his face with both hands.
What wonder? His father not ten hours dead!—and already to have found
out that father in a course of action which must cover his name with
dishonour.
Trust betrayed! Trust money appropriated! A heavier blow could scarcely
have fallen upon the children of Albert Browning, brought up to regard
him with loving reverence.
Fulvia could not look on unmoved. Tears rushed to her eyes. She forgot
the uncertainty of her own position, forgot how words and acts might
be misconstrued. They were boy and girl again—brother and sister—he as
he used to be, a little the younger in character, turning to her for
guidance, and she—"Nigel, I can't bear you to feel it so!" she cried
with a sob, coming to his side, and then she sat down, leaning towards
him. "What does the money matter to me, except that I wanted to help
you all? It is worse for you, of course—worse to know—But he did not
mean it! He never meant it! It has been some accident—something he
could not help. We will never think a hard thought of him, or hear a
hard word said. Somebody else was to blame; not dear padre—always so
good and kind to me. Only don't mind—don't distress yourself—please
don't think anything of it."
The nobility of the girl could not but strike home to Nigel, not only
with a sense of admiration, but with a rush of new pain. It made his
position with respect to her only the more difficult. Yet, trying to
rally, he said—
"All that we can do—" and there was a break. "Everything that we have
is yours, until—"
"Nonsense! How can you talk such nonsense?" cried Fulvia. "Everything
I ever had is yours—madre's, I mean!" And she blushed vividly; but the
blush passed as she went on—"After all, how can we know? How can we be
sure? It is so soon. Things may not be so bad. You cannot have looked
into matters fully yet. Don't you think there may be some mistake?"
He lifted his face and looked straight at Fulvia.
"No; there was a letter for me."
"A letter—from—"
"My father."
"Where?"
"In his desk."
"Addressed to you?"
"Yes—to be opened—after—"
"And—telling you about—"
"About—what I have told you."
"Not saying how it happened?"
"Yes. It has been the work of years. Embarrassments always increasing.
Borrowing from—yours—to stave off this and that—meaning to repay,
and never able. Speculating, failing, getting deeper and deeper
into trouble; always hoping things would right themselves somehow,
until—until—"
"Yes, until—"
"A very heavy loss, just after I left home—failure of a speculation,
from which he had hoped everything. I think that was his death-blow. He
faced the truth then: realised for the first time how things were, and
how near your coming of age was. It has been one long misery since. He
could never make up his mind to speak."
"Poor padre! Better if he had. But madre must not know it now."
"She must. We have no choice."
"Why?"
"Life will be changed to us all. Everything will have to be given up."
"Not the Grange! Not college for you!"
"Everything."
"Oh, I am so sorry. I do mind that."
Fulvia sat looking at him, tears in her eyes.
"But madre need not know," she repeated. "Madre must not know—all. Not
that he was to blame, I mean—if he was to blame. Only that there have
been losses, and that we shall all be poor together. You must not let
her think anybody can find fault with him. It would almost kill her."
Nigel's face was hidden again. How could he say that other thing which
had to be said? How put matters right between this noble-hearted
girl and himself? Tell her first that her guardian—his father!—had
recklessly made away with her money committed to his trust!—then tell
her that the dying words of Albert Browning were false; that he loved
another, and could not make up to her for the loss, could not offer
himself in place of her wealth—even though he had too good reason to
fear that she cared for him as for no other human being!
All the day through Nigel had been struggling, fighting, praying for
strength—had been striving to bring himself to the pitch requisite for
those words, so hard to be spoken. At the beginning of this interview
he had believed himself to be capable of them. But now—!
Something about his "brotherly" feeling for Fulvia; something about his
sense of responsibility in having to provide for her, as for his other
sisters; something about what might have been soon between him and
Ethel if this crash had not come, altering his whole outlook; something
which should kindly, gently, let her see the truth.
Yes, he had thought all this beforehand, had shaped the very phrases.
But now that the moment had arrived for saying the words, he could not
say them.
Things were changed indeed for him during the last twelve hours. How
could he ask Ethel to wait during interminable years, while he set
himself to the task of supporting his widowed mother and sisters, and
of paying back at least a portion of Fulvia's lost money? Whether he
could ever repay the whole might be doubted; but Nigel felt that it
would be his aim.
Unless he married Fulvia! There would be no question of repayment then!
Whatever he possessed she would possess.
If he did not marry her, then he would have to toil the more to place
her in a position of comfort. If she were doubly wronged, he would have
doubly to make up to her.
Either way, he saw his way hopelessly cut off from Ethel!
Was it his bounden duty to marry Fulvia as things stood? A father's
dying wish has power; and Fulvia had too clearly shown her heart's
desire. Could he, and might he, escape from the tangle? One moment he
felt that he had no choice: another moment, that to become Fulvia's
husband was an utter impossibility.
If the latter—if he could not and would not ask her to be his wife—then
she ought in justice to learn quickly how matters stood. Delay would
be cruel to her, and would, in fact, bind him. But to tell her at this
moment—how could he? To inflict another blow close upon the first—and
Nigel knew that it would be a blow! To reveal the bitter truth—and
Nigel was aware that it must be an unspeakably bitter truth! How could
he so meet her noble self-forgetfulness in ignoring her own loss,
thinking only of his grief? Theoretically, immediate speech might be
best. Practically, it was impossible. Nigel could not say the words he
had purposed. His parched lips refused to utter them.
At another time he might have felt and acted differently. He was
suffering now severely from the strain of twenty-four hours past.
Vigour of mind and vigour of body were at a low ebb, and the power
of decision was almost gone. He could only let things drift. He was
turning faint with the inward struggle, and his head throbbed almost
beyond endurance. The moment for speaking went by.
Fulvia, watching him with her kind troubled eyes, saw the physical pain
and read little beyond, for she had not the clue.
"Poor Nigel!" she said compassionately, and the next thing that he knew
was the feeling of something wet and cool and refreshing upon his hot
brow.
Nigel could not protest or refuse. He could only give himself over into
her capable care-taking hands; too ill for more speech, yet all the
while dimly conscious of a certain sense of possession in the touch of
those same hands. Was it consciousness or fancy? Nigel did not know.
It might have been either. He was obviously in no condition for the
careful weighing of evidence.
One thought only was clear—one little sentence from Ethel's paper—
"To sacrifice self, as an habitual law, in each sudden call to action."
It haunted him for hours, together with Ethel's face.