THE BREAKING STORM
"For life is one long sleep,
O'er which in gusts do sweep
Visions of heaven;
The body but a closed lid,
By which the real world is hid
From the spirit slumbering dark below;
And all our earthly strife and woe,
Tossings in slumber to and fro;
And all we know of heaven and light
In visions of the day or night
To us is given."
—_Author of "Schönberg-Cotta Family."_
FOR Mr. Carden-Cox to have a disturbed equanimity meant talk. Whatever
he felt flowed outward in the natural vent of talk. This is usually
supposed to be a feminine characteristic, but some men inherit it
largely from their mothers, and Mr. Carden-Cox possessed it in
perfection. The more his feelings were stirred, the more he had to say.
This was the style of thing:—
"Your mother resting—asleep! Best for her, much best. Well, girls,
how are you? Pretty well, eh? Poor things—sad, very—most trying time.
Everybody feels for you all—nice feeling expressed—and—Well, my dear
boy, how are you? Not very robust yet? Grown thinner, I declare.
Oh, it won't do for you to fret; no use at all. Nothing gained by
fretting. What has to be, has to be. I tell everybody it is wrong to
fret—tempting Providence!"
It was true that Mr. Carden-Cox did tell everybody this, and some
people were apt to ask responsively behind his back whether it was
right to "sulk," which was the Newton Bury term for Mr. Carden-Cox's
occasional retreats from society.
"Quite wrong," repeated Mr. Carden-Cox. "Trouble has to be borne.
'Man is born to trouble.' Poor Browning—poor fellow—your poor father,
I mean," stumbling awkwardly over the different modes of expression.
"Yes, it's most unfortunate—sad, I mean. But you've got to think, all
of you, that he is no doubt spared something worse—heart disease—might
have suffered severely if he had lived. I'm sure nobody could have
thought—but one ought to think! Wonder we don't understand more the
uncertainties of life. Seems always to take us by surprise. 'In midst
of life we are in death;' but it is very astonishing."
Anice cried quietly, with subdued sniffles, as he talked, and Daisy
looked indignant, while Fulvia's eyes wore a defensive expression.
Nigel appeared not to be listening.
"You've all got to buckle to now, and get things arranged for your
poor mother, eh, girls? Must think of her comfort. Nigel will be going
to college by-and-by, so you'll have to be her dependence. What of
your poor father's affairs, Nigel? Looked into things yet? Some little
embarrassments, I suppose. Nothing serious, or we should have heard;
everybody would have heard."
"Nobody has heard anything yet."
Mr. Carden-Cox peered at him inquisitively. "Then there is something,
hey?"
"We must give up the Grange."
Daisy burst into a round-mouthed "Oh!" Anice uttered a little shriek.
"Give up—the Grange!"
"Let or sell, whichever we can. There will not be enough money to keep
the place going. We must find a small low-rented house somewhere, and
do our best to live economically."
Mr. Carden-Cox screwed up his lips, emitting a tiny whistle.
"And—college—"
"Is out of the question. I shall be at the Bank."
"In what capacity?"
"Clerk."
"You—a clerk!"
"On £200 a year. But for friendship and kindness I should have had to
begin with less than half as much."
There was no falter in Nigel's voice thus far.
"But, I say!" broke in Mr. Carden-Cox. "I say! What about Fulvia?"
"If I don't go out as governess, I shall be useful at home," said
Fulvia. A touch of hardness was visible in her manner.
"You—go—out—as—governess!" Mr. Carden-Cox could hardly give utterance
to the words.
"Fulvia is talking nonsense. That will not be." Nigel spoke resolutely,
but Fulvia could see what the interview was to him.
"I don't know who is to prevent, if I choose."
"I do. It will not be permitted."
"Permitted! I should just—think—not!" gasped Mr. Carden-Cox. "Fulvia
Rolfe to go—out—as—governess! And pray, what of Fulvia Rolfe's fifty
thousand pounds? Eh? What of my niece's fifty thousand pounds? I am
her uncle, remember! Her only near relative, remember! I have a right
to know, to demand! What of Fulvia's money, entrusted to—to—to—your
father?"
Mr. Carden-Cox was in a towering passion, too much of a passion for
lucid speech. He already saw what he had to expect, and he nearly
foamed at the mouth.
"Fulvia's money!" he reiterated. "Fulvia's fifty—thousand—pounds! Eh?
Eh? Eh? What of that, eh? Where is it?"
One word would have been sufficient answer, just the little word
"Gone!" Nigel could not say it. His self-command was not equal to
the strain. To have to confess this of his dead father before Mr.
Carden-Cox, before the wronged Fulvia, before Albert Browning's own
daughters, was too much. There was a parting of the lips, and an effort
to speak, but no sound came, and the lips closed again with rigid
pressure, as if he were hardly able to endure himself.
Fulvia had meant to remain in the background, but the sight of Nigel's
distress overpowered her, and she started forward impulsively.
"Nigel, don't! I wish you would not! Do leave me to tell. Uncle, you
are not to worry Nigel and all the rest of us about that wretched
money: I will not have you do it. I am of age now. It is in my hands,
not yours. And I choose to have nothing separate. I am madre's child,
just like Anice or Daisy. Madre has had terrible losses, and I am ready
to work for her as I would for my own mother. I will not have them all
bothered and plagued, just when they have so much to bear."
"And your fifty thousand pounds, child! Fifty thousand, mind you! Not a
penny less!"
"You don't know anything about it. How should you? It is not fifty
thousand, and I don't believe there ever was half that. Some of it is
gone—I don't care how much—and it is nobody's concern except mine. If
padre used some, he had a right, and I won't hear anybody say he had
not. He was my father," cried the generous girl, ready to say anything
in her hot defence. "And he meant to repay; of course he meant to
repay; he would have repaid if he had lived."
"Father use Fulvia's money!" uttered Daisy.
"Daisy, will you hold your tongue? Have you no eyes? Can't you see?
Nigel can't bear it—nobody can bear it. Why must you all try to make
the worst of everything? Things can't be helped now—now he is gone! He
never meant it—he told me so when he was dying. I will not hear hard
words said of him. I tell you we will all have everything together, and
I don't mean to allow a single word more about my money."
"Community of goods, in fact!" growled Mr. Carden-Cox. "That's all very
fine, but—you mean—" he looked from her to Nigel and back again—"you
mean, in fact—as I might have guessed—that your money is lost—flung
away—squandered—stolen! Ay, stolen! Nothing more nor less than stolen!
And that man—Browning!—Let me alone, girl," as Fulvia distractedly
clutched his wrist—"Let me alone. I'll have my say. That man, Albert
Browning, trusted by your poor father as the very soul of honour—he was
a scoundrel! A mean pitiful scoundrel! A miserable base SCOUNDREL!"
Mr. Carden-Cox was beside himself with wrath, or he would hardly have
gone so far.
Fulvia turned to Nigel in an agony.
"Nigel! Stop him!" she implored.
Nigel himself could not endure this. He had already started up, ashen
white.
"Retract your words or leave the house," he said hoarsely.
And before Mr. Carden-Cox could reply, Daisy burst into a terrified
exclamation:—
"Mother! Look at mother!"
Mrs. Browning was in the room. How long she had been there no one could
tell. When Daisy first saw her she stood near the door, perfectly
still, like a living image of wax in her deep mourning, one hand
hanging carelessly over the other on a background of crape, the dark
eyes wide-open and fixed. But Daisy's words aroused her, and she came
forward.
"Clemence! If I'd guessed—" groaned Mr. Carden-Cox.
He advanced, holding out his hand in a half apologetic manner,
muttering something like "regret."
Mrs. Browning gazed beyond and through him. She swept past slowly, and
came among her children, laying a hand on Nigel's arm.
"What is it all about?" she asked in her sweet low voice. "I do not
understand. Some one can open the door for Mr. Carden-Cox."
Mr. Carden-Cox absolutely went, there and then, without a word of
self-excuse, opening the door for himself, bowing to the decision of
that fair woman as he would have bowed to the decision of no other
human being.
Fulvia gathered her wits together, and rushed after him to the front
door.
"One word—one word!" she said. "Hear me, uncle—I will be heard," as he
was turning away. "You must listen. This is not to be known—not to be
spread abroad. No one is to know it except ourselves."
Mr. Carden-Cox's face was dark with wrath. He had obeyed Clemence
Browning, but he would not easily forgive either her dismissal or his
own submission.
"Atrocious!" was the one word he uttered. Then he shook off Fulvia's
hand. "Let me go, girl! I've done with you all! An ungrateful crew!
After all these years—to be turned away like a tramp! Ordered off by
her!"
"It is not ingratitude! You know it is not! You know you were wrong!
You know a wife could not hear such words of her husband! And, whatever
you think, the matter is not to go any farther. It must not—shall not!
What is the good? What would be the use—now?"
"That may be as I choose," said Mr. Carden-Cox. A sudden consciousness
of power brought coolness to him. He held the family secret, and he was
not bound.
"If you do—if you tell—" cried Fulvia. "Uncle, you must understand!
If you make this known, I will never speak to you again. I declare I
will not. And what is the use?" she went on passionately. "The money is
gone, and talking will not bring it back. Have you no pity for those
who are left? He is dead, and you cannot touch him—only his name. That
will hurt them, not him. If he were wrong—ever so wrong—what then? I
don't believe he understood; but if he did, why are they to suffer? Do
you want to kill madre? I could not have thought you so hard, so cruel!
I thought you cared for us all."
Mr. Carden-Cox stood still, looking at her.
"Child, you don't understand," he said at length. "Women never do! You
think fifty thousand pounds a toy, to be tossed from hand to hand." He
was composed now, not less angry, but able to feel a certain admiration
for Fulvia's generosity. "Not one woman in a thousand knows the meaning
of a 'trust.' You don't!"
Another pause. Was he relenting?
"I shall not set foot in this house again. That is, not until Clemente
requests it. She will not; and I shall not come. Best settle the matter
now. Send Nigel here at once. I will wait for him. Yes, you may go."
"You will keep our secret?"
"Send Nigel, and be quick," was the answer.
Fulvia obeyed. What else could she do?
Nigel came, stern and silent.
The two men stood together in the open doorway, no one else within
hearing.
"Fulvia wishes this matter hushed up. It rests with me, of course,
whether or no. If I choose, I can drag the whole matter to light of
day."
Nigel merely said, "Yes."
"You acknowledge my right—"
"Your power."
"Well, well, let it be so. My power, if you choose. As Fulvia's uncle I
have the right, unquestionably. I have asked to speak with you, as I am
not likely to call again in a hurry."
"Without making an apology you hardly could."
"Pshaw! As if I had not known you all long enough! But as for
this—Fulvia says that to spread the thing abroad would punish the
living, not the dead."
"Yes."
"You think the same? Don't know that I see it so. A man's good name is
not supposed to lose its value, even after his death. However, my chief
care is for Fulvia's interests. Are you willing to make up to her what
she has lost?"
"If repayment is ever in my power—"
"Repayment! Bosh! Fifty thousand pounds are not made in a day. By the
time Fulvia is an old woman, perhaps—and what good would the money be
to her then? No, no; you have it in your power to recoup her now—now!
Will you do it or no? That is the question."
Nigel was silent; understanding only too well.
"Mind, my line of action depends on your decision. If you are to be
Fulvia's husband, I may safely leave her interests in your hands. If
not, I shall see to them myself."
"In what way?"
"Whichever way I choose. I shall have the matter openly looked into."
"You have no thought for my mother in that case." Nigel spoke in a
measured, icy voice.
Mr. Carden-Cox could verily have answered "No." He was only angry with
Clemente Browning just then.
"I have thought for my niece," he said. "That is more to the purpose."
Another break took place—Nigel looking on the ground, Mr. Carden-Cox
looking at Nigel. At any other time he would have felt for Nigel, but
now he felt only for himself. His self-love had been deeply wounded,
and all other sensations were lost in this.
"Well?"
"You do not expect an instant decision, I suppose."
"Instant! After these weeks! Then you had not made up your mind yet!"
"To do what?"
"Marry Fulvia."
"I have not made up my mind to propose to her. A lady is usually
supposed to have a voice in the matter." Nigel was not given to satire,
but at the moment it was a relief.
"Of course, of course. If Fulvia said no, that would not be your fault.
She won't, though," muttered Mr. Carden-Cox. Aloud, he went on: "You
understand the alternative. Fulvia, as your fiancée, may demand what
amount of secrecy she pleases, for the family of her future husband. I
shall not, in that case, oppose her. Fulvia, standing alone, will be a
different matter. I shall feel it my duty to take action on her behalf."
"To blazon our private affairs abroad!" Nigel spoke bitterly. It was
not wise, neither was it surprising.
Mr. Carden-Cox shrugged his shoulders.
"Fulvia's private affairs, made known, may unquestionably drag yours to
the forefront. It is only under one condition that I promise to shelter
your father's name. People will begin to talk—have begun already. You
can take—say, to the end of the week for consideration. Then, if I do
not hear—"
"I understand."
"You can send me a line; or come and see me. Whichever you choose. But,
remember, my mind is made up. Nothing can alter it."
Mr. Carden-Cox was gone, and Nigel went back to the drawing-room.
The past scene appeared to have had a curiously bracing effect on
Mrs. Browning. The languor and sadness of the last fortnight were
thrown off. Her children had never seen her look so young and fair and
dignified as she did, standing in their midst, when Nigel returned from
the front door. Nothing, or next to nothing, had been yet said; they
had waited for him.
Mrs. Browning laid one hand again on his arm, as if for support, though
she had not the look of one needing support. A soft rose flushed her
cheek, lending a light to the eyes.
"Has he apologised? Will he be silent?" asked Fulvia.
Nigel answered only the first question. "Mr. Carden-Cox is not given to
apologies."
"But—this time—surely—"
"What does it all mean?" Mrs. Browning inquired.
"It means—oh, it means that Uncle Arthur has behaved shamefully, madre.
I used to think him a good man, and I'll never call him so again. But
you must not mind—you must never remember what he said. He was in a
passion; and words spoken in a passion are worth nothing. Promise me to
forget—promise me not to believe—"
"My dear Fulvia! I believe anything against my dear husband!"
"No, no! I might have known that you would not—could not!"
"But I should like to know what led Mr. Carden-Cox to behave in such an
extraordinary way. If you would all leave me with Nigel."
"He magnifies and distorts everything!" Fulvia broke in. "Madre, dear,
we need not mind him. We will never listen to a single word breathed
against the dear kind padre. Never!"
Fulvia was overdoing her part. She glanced in vain towards Nigel,
hoping to be seconded; but his face was rigidly irresponsive.
"Mr. Carden-Cox said—" began Daisy.
"Uncle Arthur knows nothing about things—nothing more than we have
told him. Daisy, do be sensible; do be kind; don't rake up worries,"
whispered Fulvia energetically. "It is of no use—none whatever. Nothing
can be altered now by any amount of talk."
"But your money?"
"Hsh—sh!"
"I wish to know what it all means," said Mrs. Browning in her calm
voice. "There is no need to whisper. I must, of course, be told
everything. Anice and Daisy can leave us for a little while." As the
door closed behind them, she continued: "Fulvia knows more than the
girls."
"A little more, perhaps. We will talk over everything some day soon—you
and I, madre. Only not to-day! It is too soon. Nigel ought not to have
all this thrust upon him till he is stronger."
"No?" The word was not acquiescent. In her own fashion Mrs. Browning
could be graciously wilful. She moved in front of her son, looking up
at him. "Yes—tired, I am afraid—but a few minutes will be enough. I
must understand how things really are. It is not possible that any one
could seriously accuse my dear husband of—carelessness in—"
"Mr. Carden-Cox always speaks before he thinks."
"Yes, he does that! But what did he mean by saying that all your money
had been—stolen? Is it really lost? Has somebody run away?—In a bank or
an office?"—with truly feminine vagueness.
"I don't know that anybody has—exactly," faltered Fulvia.
"Then it was not true about your money being—stolen, my dear?"
"No; not true. It is a wicked falsehood, madre. There has been no such
thing as stealing. You are never to think of that word again. It has
been just a question of mistakes. Nobody could help things being as
they are, and no one is to blame. There have been losses, of course.
Money will go, sometimes; everybody knows that it will. A great deal
of yours and of mine, too, is gone. Poor padre's health, you know—how
could he keep accounts or attend to business?—and so things have got
wrong. It wouldn't matter so much, only we have to leave the Grange,
and to live in a small house; and that will grieve you. It does seem
hard for you; but nothing else signifies. I can't think why troubles
should come as they do, on the very people who deserve them least."
"They come as God wills, Fulvie. I would not choose to be without
them. But there are different kinds of trouble. I think I could bear
anything, as long as—" and a quiver. "It would kill me to hear things
said—said against him! Anything but that."
"But you will not—you shall not! Nobody shall dare!" cried Fulvia.
"If only Mr. Carden-Cox will hold his tongue, nobody else will speak.
Nobody has known how much I was to have. Nigel, why don't you help me
to comfort madre?" Then she regretted her words.
Mrs. Browning's eyes again searched wistfully her son's face. A strange
look crept into her eyes as she gazed—a look of hidden affright. Yet
she turned with a faint smile to Fulvia.
"My dear, will you go to the girls for a little while? If you do not
mind!—I wish to speak to Nigel alone."
Fulvia could not but obey; and when she was gone, the look of affright
came back, hidden no longer. It blanched Mrs. Browning's cheeks, and
widened the mournful eyes.
"I must know—now!" she said, in an undertone. "Not when others were
here, but now we are alone. What does it all mean?"
He did not speak, and the look of terror increased.
"It cannot be Albert—my husband!" she said. "He could not have called
him that—with reason! But what did he mean? Not blame to my dear
Albert?"
"If only you would not ask, mother!"
"I must ask; I must know. Only you can tell me. Yes, sit down, if
you like. I am so sorry. This worry is bad for you, and makes your
head ache, does it not? But how can I wait? I have only you now—no
one else!" She took a seat beside him, and put back the hair from
his brow with her cold fingers and her sweet motherly air. "It is
hard, I know—everything coming upon you; and you are so good to me.
Only—think!—he is my husband!" She did not say "was." "He is my
husband, and I have the first right to know all. Tell me plainly, is
he—was he—has he been in any way to blame?"
"He will be blamed," Nigel said hoarsely.
"Why should he?"
"Fulvia's money—"
"Yes,—Fulvia's money—?"
"It has been—used."
"How?"
"Different ways."
"You don't know how?"
"He always hoped to repay; he did not intend—"
"You mean—he had not enough of his own, and he
used—But—but—that—surely—!" She thrilled with horror, like a wounded
creature. "That! My husband! But, Nigel! It was not—honourable—honest!"
Nigel's lips hardly formed the word "No!" He forced himself to add: "My
father did not intend—"
"How do you know he did not intend? What do you mean by intending'? He
knew what he did; he must have known."
"I don't think he realised—fully."
"Do people ever?" she asked, with positive scorn. "Isn't that always
the way—borrowing, and meaning to repay?" Then she dropped her head,
and broke into a low wail: "Albert—my husband!"
Nigel had no comfort to offer. He could only wait in silence; and soon
the question came again—
"How do you know what he intended and did not intend?"
"He said it to Fulvia, dying, and asked her pardon."
"And I not told! I ought to have been told. Did he say any more that I
have not heard?"
"He asked me to repay Fulvia—to—"
"Yes; tell me his words—every word."
Nigel could not; she was expecting too much. He made an effort, and
failed; then drew an envelope from his pocket, and gave it to her.
"From my father to me," he said huskily. "I found it—afterwards." He
did not watch his mother while she read, but sat with his right hand
pressed across brow and eyes.
"Yes," she said, in a slow, quiet voice, when she reached the end; and
a long breath of sorrow was woven into the word.
Then a pause.
"Has Fulvia seen this?"
"No."
"Or—any one?"
"No."
"He never told me—never let me suspect—But Fulvia, knows?"
"Yes."
"We must shelter his name, his dear name, at any cost."
"Fulvia does not wish it to be known." Nigel spoke without stirring.
"But—"
"It must not be known; his name must be guarded. It would break my
heart! If this becomes known, I shall—die," she whispered. "I could
never look any one in the face again. It would be—fearful!"
She laid her hand on his—ice-cold, both hers and his. "Nigel, help me;
tell me what can be done. It will kill me if this becomes known. Think
of all Newton Bury talking—talking of—him! I could not bear it!" and
there was a terrible sob. "What can we do? Fulvia does not wish—but
will—will Mr. Carden-Cox keep silence?"
"Yes, if—"
Nigel caught himself up; he had not meant to say so much.
"If? Has he made a condition?"
"He will do nothing till I write or see him again."
"No; but 'if'—you said 'if.' Did you mean nothing? You must tell me
all. I cannot bear the thought of its being known. It would be too—too
fearful—now he is gene! He cannot defend himself. And people are so
hard; they would judge him cruelly. I wish you would look at me—not
hide your eyes. Why do you? I feel so alone;" with another deep sob.
"And no one but you can help me. If you would only speak out—only hide
nothing! I think I have a right to be told—I, your mother!"
His chivalry could not disregard the appeal of her bitter distress, and
of her lonely widowhood. He was all that she had left—all she could
lean upon. Wisely or unwisely, he came to the resolution to speak out.
Perhaps he was in despair of escape; perhaps—though he did not guess
this till later—he had a faint hope of finding her on his side. He knew
the jealousy of her love for him; and he did not allow for concomitant
circumstances.
"Mr. Carden-Cox will not speak—if I should marry Fulvia," he said.
"Fulvia!" Mrs. Browning looked wonderingly at the set joyless face,
not the face of an expectant lover speaking of his love. "If you marry
Fulvia!"
"That is his wish."
"Fulvia! And it was my dear husband's wish! He spoke so often; but I
thought—I was afraid—"
"Mother, I said 'if.' It is not to be spoken about. If I ask her—"
"And you will! Oh, you will! He wished it so much!"
Nigel made no reply.
She gazed with anxious questioning.
"And if you do not—if you do not—will Mr. Carden-Cox keep our secret?"
"He says—not."
"Nigel; and you can hesitate!"
No answer again.
"Hesitate! When it means that. No, no—impossible! You are only playing
with my fears. And caring for Fulvia as you do! It is not as if she
were nothing to you; she—the most unselfish, the noblest—Yes, I know
you had another fancy once. But what of that? Everybody has a boyish
fancy first, which has to be given up. And that could not be; it never
could have been! He would not have consented; and now he is gone, how
could I? Oh no! I have always had objections—strong objections. But we
need not talk of that now. We have only to think of our dear Fulvia—my
child already! I don't know if you will like me to say it, but there
cannot be much doubt, if you speak, what Fulvia's answer will be. She
has shown at times so plainly—not meaning it, of course—has shown what
she feels. If you could have seen her, as I have, always on the watch
for you, always thinking of your comfort—her happiness depending on
your very look. It is not a thing that one can be mistaken about!"
"Mother, you are saying all this to me!—And if I should not ask her?"
Nigel said in a low tone.
It was his nearest approach to a rebuke with Mrs. Browning. He would
not have heard the words from any one else.
"You will ask her! I know you will. I have not a doubt. Think, if
you did not; think of the misery, the terrible misery to us all—your
father's dear name dragged in the mire—trampled upon. The very thought
half kills me!" And indeed a ghastly look came into her face. "I could
not bear it! I could never endure it! Promise, oh, promise me, for his
sake, my Nigel—promise to shelter him—all of us! Only promise!" she
implored.