AN UTTER TANGLE
"O life, O death, O world, O time,
O grave, where all things flow,
'Tis yours to make our lot sublime,
With your great weight of woe."—TRENCH.
DAYS passed, and nobody yet knew the state of family affairs.
Nigel was confined to his room by a "severe feverish attack"—not
surprising under the circumstances. Business talk in his presence was
tabooed; and Fulvia said not a word elsewhere. Not a soul, beyond
herself and Nigel, knew aught of the dying man's utterances, aught of
the letter he had left, aught of the vanished wealth. Newton Bury never
doubted that the Brownings would still be extremely well off.
In a general way Mr. Carden-Cox would very early have set himself
to ferret out something, more especially when goaded on by previous
suspicion. Mr. Carden-Cox, however, had not been to the Grange since
the afternoon of Fulvia's birthday. He knew that others must blame him
for Albert Browning's fatal attack of illness, and he could not endure
to be blamed. Inwardly, he suffered sore remorse; outwardly, he would
have defended his own conduct through thick and thin.
There was nothing for it but flight, and he did flee. Thirty-six hours
after Albert Browning's death saw him in his old Burrside lodgings, in
glum and miserable enjoyment of solitude. At the Grange his absence was
scarcely regretted, for interviews must needs have been painful.
Mr. Carden-Cox did not return for the funeral, and Nigel could not be
present—no small grief to Nigel's mother. He was unable to lift his
head from the pillow when that day came. Mrs. Browning stayed with
him, and the three girls went, as did many Newton Bury friends. Much
sympathy had been shown to the Brownings in their trouble. The very
idea of any possible slur upon the honoured name of Albert Browning had
not so much as occurred to any one outside their immediate circle—if
one includes in that circle Mr. Carden-Cox and Dr. James Duncan.
Albert Browning had left no will, had appointed no executors. All
arrangements, therefore, devolved upon his son, to whom it was known
he had left written directions or advice in the form of a letter. Mrs.
Browning had not been told even so much as this. Arrangements had to
wait until Nigel could give his mind to them.
So nearly another week passed after the funeral; and then Nigel came
again into the stream of everyday life.
It was a changed life for him; and he was changed,—thinner, older, and
with a careworn expression. The eyes had ceased to sparkle, a weight
lay on the brow, and the lips had a sad resolute set. Mrs. Browning and
Daisy had been his nurses; not that much actual nursing was needed. The
occupation was good for Mrs. Browning, Fulvia said. Fulvia had not seen
him for ten days; and, when he reappeared, she noted sorrowfully the
alteration.
Sometimes she wondered, would he soon allude to those dying words of
his father? She could not understand his manner. It was kind, grave,
brotherly perhaps, certainly restrained. Yet at first Fulvia was not
anxious.
He had so much on his mind; and it was natural that he should wait
awhile. Decorum almost demanded delay, just for a time after the
padre's death. So Fulvia told herself, and thought or tried to think.
Moreover, though Nigel had not been seriously ill—not ill enough, that
is to say, to cause real anxiety—he had suffered a good deal, and had
distinctly lost flesh and vigour. He was hardly up to anything exciting
yet. "Poor Nigel!" she breathed pityingly.
The three girls in their deep mourning were gathered round the
drawing-room fire early one afternoon,—the second day since Nigel had
come among them again. Fulvia's mourning matched that of the other two.
She would not make a grain of difference, for she was one with them
in their loss, though united by no tie of blood. The profound black
set off well her ruddy hair and clear skin. She looked sad, trying to
realise what was hard to believe—that not one fortnight had passed
since the padre's death. To the imagination it was more like two months
than two weeks. On the other hand it seemed strange that so many days
could have elapsed while no one beyond herself and Nigel had an inkling
of the true state of affairs; yet Fulvia herself had insisted on delay.
Nigel would have spoken to his sisters two days earlier but for her
entreaties.
"Mother was asleep when I went in just now," Daisy said.
"My dear, let her sleep. It is the best thing she can do. And if she
wakes, keep her away from here."
"Why?"
"I think—I am not sure—but I shrewdly suspect that uncle Carden-Cox may
come in for a talk. He is at home again. Madre could not stand that."
"I couldn't," sighed Anice.
"You will have to stand it, and a great deal besides. We must all three
be brave, and keep up for madre's sake—and—"
"And for Nigel's," added Daisy unsuspectingly.
Fulvia flushed.
"Yes. He has a great deal resting on him, and he will have hard work.
Anice—Daisy—I want you both to promise me to be good and thoughtful—not
to seem vexed and unhappy, whatever happens. Above all, don't let
yourselves blame padre."
"Why should we blame him?" asked Daisy.
"Never mind. You will know everything soon enough—too soon for my
wishes. Promise me not to think about yourselves, but only about madre,
and how you can best help Nigel. We have to bear what comes; but the
way of bearing makes all the difference in the world."
"I'll try, of course."
"And Anice?"
"Yes—" faintly; "but what shall we have to bear?"
Fulvia was silent.
"Will Mr. Carden-Cox come exactly at tea-time, like last time?" asked
Daisy, with a choke in her voice. "I hope he won't; but he is so odd,
one never can tell. Shall I take mother's tea to her? And Nigel's? He
has been hours and hours over those papers."
"What papers?" inquired Anice.
"I don't know; father's, I think—" in a lower tone. "All the morning,
and now ever since lunch. He ought not, ought he, Fulvia? I should
think he would be ill again if he does so much. Why, he has only been
downstairs twice before to-day, and only for a little while."
"Has anybody been to him?"
"Yes; I went—when was it? Nearly an hour ago. I asked if he wouldn't
come for a walk with me. But he seemed vexed, and said he was too busy,
and couldn't be disturbed. So of course I can't try a second time."
"Anice could."
"I'd rather not. You can, if you like. You are always trying to put
things off upon me," said injured Anice.
Fulvia hesitated; then she went, tapping lightly at the study door.
There was no answer, and she opened it.
Papers lay over the table, letters and account-books mingled with other
documents. Fulvia bestowed upon them a cursory glance. Nigel sat as if
reading, the fingers of his right hand pushed up into his hair; but
Fulvia knew that at the moment of her entrance he was thinking, not
reading. The eyes slowly lifted had a faraway look. She closed the
door, coming to the other side of the table.
"This is too soon," she said. "You are not well yet, and you ought to
wait a few days."
"Time to speak out," was his reply.
"Not yet. Think of poor madre! It will break her heart. If only we
could keep the worst from her!"
"Impossible!" Nigel spoke firmly, yet with a sound of weariness.
"At least she need not be told now?"
"I don't know. I must have things in train."
"And get yourself into bad health again, like old days. Is that wise?"
"No fear!"
"Must you begin so soon? I can't see the need."
"We have no means of paying our way. Everything has to be given up."
"How have we paid our way hitherto?"
"We?"—bitterly. "With your money."
"But if that is all gone—"
"Nearly."
"Nigel, I am very stupid; I can't quite grasp things. If poor padre had
not been taken, how should we have paid our way then?"
"As we were doing, I suppose, till the whole was gone, and a crash
became inevitable. The only difference would have been a little longer
delay, and nothing left to anybody, instead of the pittance left now.
I don't believe he fully realised how things were. There was always a
vague hope that difficulties would right themselves."
"No reason for the hope?"
"None that I can see."
"Do you mind telling me how much the 'pittance' really will be? I don't
want to tease you—" wistfully—"but if I could be any help—"
"You have every right to know."
"I don't ask it as a right; but are things so desperate?"
"So far as I can make out, when all claims have been met, there may be
some three hundred a year left."
"Of madre's?"
"Yours."
"And how much of yours—hers and yours?"
"There can be nothing of ours, in strict justice, till your claims are
satisfied."
"Nigel!" she exclaimed indignantly. "What do you take me for?"
"I am talking of justice, not of your wishes."
"I don't care what you mean; it is cruel to speak so. As if I—and it is
untrue. The three hundred a year will be ours if you like—not mine, but
all of ours together."
"Half of it is yours exclusively. The other half is my mother's
marriage settlement; but she will feel as I do, that you have a right
to—"
"Will you stop? I won't hear it! How can you say such things?" cried
Fulvia. "Do you want to put separation between us? Am I to be cut off
from you all by this trouble. May I not even live with madre still?"
For it came across her, as she stood there, that no allusion had
yet been made to those dying words, to the clasped hands by Albert
Browning's side. If Nigel had felt as she felt, he would surely, before
this, have made some sign—have broken into some speech. She had been
silent perforce; he was not bound. Her whole being was wrapped up in
Nigel; while he—if she should find that he did not care for her, how
could she endure it? Did he care? Sudden dread crept over Fulvia. Would
it be anything to him if she went away from the home, and was one of
them no longer? A chill came with the dread, and she sat down, because
she could not stand. A changed sound found its way into her voice; as
she repeated, "May I not even live with madre still?"
Nigel looked up with a momentary expression of surprise.
"Yes, certainly. What could make you think—" he began, and then broke
off, to add simply, "Why not?"
"You are the master of the house! It is for you to decide—for you to
decide now." Fulvia did not know that she had said the words twice,
or that a sound of pain had crept into them. She only meant to speak
coldly. "That might be one of the 'changes' necessary;" and there was a
hard little laugh.
"For you to decide!" struck home. It brought to Nigel's mind
vividly, as was already present in hers, the scene by the side of
Albert Browning, just before he died. Nigel heard again the laboured
breath, the faltering accents—"He will make up to you, my child, for
everything! You will be his own! Nigel, I charge you, never—" and then
the hand put into his, and the glow on Fulvia's face! All this came
back to Nigel in an instant, not quickening his pulses as it quickened
Fulvia's. One glimpse of Ethel would have set them beating fast, but
not these, recollections. They only brought a sense of weight and
strain, of weariness and perplexity. One thing alone was distinct—that
he could and would take no hasty steps. Till he had seen Ethel, he must
leave all else in suspense. The very thought brought relief. She would
help him! She, with her clear sense of duty, her practised spirit of
self-denial, would guide him to the knowledge of what he ought to do.
Fulvia spoke in a tone of compunction, which yet was not soft—
"I don't want to worry you. After all, we can settle nothing yet.
Sometimes I think I will go out as governess."
"Never!"
"Why not? I have some capabilities. What do you propose to do?"
"Let or sell the Grange as soon as possible. Go into a small house, and
got rid of all superfluous furniture. Dismiss most of the servants.
Retrench in every possible way."
"And land yourself in a brain fever, by way of saving expense."
Nigel was in no mood for light words.
"What will you do yourself?" asked Fulvia, having no response.
"The Bank."
"So I feared. But I thought you were expected to—what was it?—take
shares, or invest money in the Bank, or some such thing, in order that
you might in time become partner?"
"I can't do it now."
"They will have you—without?"
"Yes. It will make a difference in my standing, of course."
"Are you going to see Mr. Bramble?"
"I have written to him, and have had an answer."
"Already?" She noted the independence and resolution. "Nigel, will you
grant me one favour? Let me tell the girls and madre as much as is
necessary,—and uncle Arthur too. Let me do it."
Nigel would not accept the generous offer. He was bent upon not sparing
himself. Fulvia had suffered enough already through him and his;
he would not lay upon her a feather's weight in addition. When she
pleaded, he said "No" again, and followed her to the drawing-room, with
an evident intention to speak without further delay. There were the two
girls still, and there was Mr. Carden-Cox, who had not waited for the
tea-hour, but had come, as Fulvia foretold.