A STRANGE INTERVIEW
"When we two parted
In silence and tears."—BYRON.
WHEN Ethel left Tom, she really was angry with him. Such rudeness to
speak of her "caring too much" for anybody! What business was it of
Tom's whom she liked or did not like? And to call Nigel "that fellow"!
Perhaps this little insult to Nigel rankled the most.
Ethel's anger was never bitter in kind, or long lasting, and annoyance
soon gave way to amusement. Poor old Tom! After all, he had not meant
any harm; and he did not know Nigel; but how Tom could ever have
thought such a thing possible was the marvel. Leave all she loved in
England, and go to Australia with only Tom and Tom's herbaria!
"Oh, never!" said Ethel to herself. She repeated the word
energetically, half aloud, as she passed through the square—"Never!"
and a passerby turned to look at her, smiling. Ethel did not see; she
went quickly, without any particular aim, towards the river.
It was a tempting afternoon for a stroll, balmy and soft—one of those
mild grey days, with occasional gleams of sunshine, which do sometimes
intrude themselves into an English winter. They are not exactly
invigorating days, and enthusiastic skaters are wont to abuse them; but
to haters of cold they come as a cheery foretaste of spring.
Gleams of sunshine were at an end when Ethel started; still, she had
a spell of daylight and twilight ahead, long enough for a brisk walk,
by way of shaking off recollections of Tom. When dusk should fall,
she would look in at a friend's house for a cup of tea—one of the
numerous single ladies "of the usual age" abundant in Newton Bury. It
would never do to go home till after five. Mrs. Elvey was upstairs
with neuralgia; and a fresh tête-à-tête with Tom so soon was not to be
thought of.
"If mother doesn't come down, he must manage for himself for once,"
thought Ethel.
Along the river-bank was the one "country walk" within easy distance of
the Rectory. Some ten or fifteen minutes at a quick pace, going down
stream, brought one to a region where buildings were scarce. Newton
Bury ended abruptly in this direction. The other way, up stream, there
were gentlemen's houses and gardens, reaching far; for that was the
"west-end" of the town. Towards the south, working-men's quarters
predominated; but the old Parish Church of St. Stephen's, in its
venerable square, lay towards the north-east, very near country lanes
and fields, in a poor but quiet part—the oldest part of Newton Bury.
Ethel did not keep long to the river-side. An impulse seized her to
visit the cemetery—a natural impulse under the circumstances, her
thoughts being constantly bent upon the Brownings and their trouble.
She had not been to the cemetery since the day of the funeral. There
would be just time enough for her to get there and back before dark.
The idea no sooner occurred to Ethel than she acted upon it, quitting
the towing-path, and making a short-cut straight to her destination.
The cemetery, though outside the town, was not far-off. It was a
singularly pretty place, more like a large garden or a small park than
a burial-ground, with soft grassy slopes, abundance of trees, and
masses of evergreens. In fine weather the cemetery was a favourite
resort of people living at this end of Newton Bury.
Ethel reached the large gates, and went through, passing at a rapid
pace towards the quiet corner which the Brownings would now hold
dear—which would also be dear to Ethel, for Nigel's sake. She found
the place somewhat lonely, and darker than she had expected, under the
shadows of the great yew trees. The black branches had an eerie look.
Once Ethel almost turned back, thinking it had grown too late for her
to be there alone; but she changed her mind, and went on. She had a
dislike to giving up a definite intention; and, after all, nobody was
here except herself—nobody was likely to be here.
The low mound loomed suddenly upon her gaze, almost solitary upon a
triangular patch of grass, which on one side was bounded by a fringe of
trees, their bare boughs making a lace-like pattern against the sky.
Ethel saw so much, then she slackened her pace, and faltered; for she
was not alone.
Though she did not at once tell herself whose solitude she had invaded,
she knew well—knew instantly. The position might be unwonted, but the
outline of the shoulders was unmistakable. He was a little way off from
the new mound, seated on the only other tombstone near—a flat stone
with a recumbent cross upon it—and his head was bent forward, resting
on his hands. The attitude was one of intense trouble; but he remained
quiet. Ethel had never seen Nigel in that position before; yet she
recognised him, despite the gloom.
She did not know whether perhaps she ought to go away; only it seemed
impossible to leave him thus. So she went forward gently, and stood
beside the mound, her heart very full for his sake. Two or three
minutes passed; and she stirred, touching a loose stone with her foot.
It rolled over, and the slight rattle caused him to lift his head.
"Ethel!"
They had not met since Fulvia's birthday—since the morning after their
interview in the vestry. Life had seemed then very fair, and full of
promise for them both. Now all was changed; but how much changed, how
dark the sky had grown, Ethel did not yet know. She came forward when
he stood up, and put her hand into his, only intent on showing her
sympathy.
"Thanks; I knew you would feel for us," he said.
The misery of his face was almost too much for Ethel; she had great
difficulty in controlling herself. "I didn't know you were so ill
still," she faltered.
"Ill! No, I don't think so." He spoke as if hardly knowing what he
said, and motioned Ethel to the seat he had quitted. She took it
obediently, without question; and he sat down beside her. "I have been
wishing for a few words with you," he went on.
"If I could be a comfort—any comfort! I know how much you must feel his
death; the loss of—"
"If that were all!" Nigel spoke with despairing calmness, and Ethel
looked at him in amazement.
"That—all!" she repeated. "Did you mean—?"
Nigel made no answer. He seemed to be gazing at the faint light visible
still through bare trees. For more than half-an-hour he had sat here
alone, trying to unravel the perplexities of his position, striving
in vain after definite thought. He had come to the cemetery from the
Grange drawing-room, straight and fast as walking could bring him, not
so much to be near his father's grave as to be away from people, beyond
reach of human eyes. One thing alone was clear—that speak with Ethel he
must, this very day if possible, and before he could or would give any
decisive answer to his mother and to Mr. Carden-Cox. He did not count
himself free, for he had distinctly sought Ethel hitherto.
Now, indeed, he could not ask her to be his. Apart from all questions
of marrying Fulvia, he could not rightly ask Ethel to wait for him,
under the circumstances. So he told himself; and yet he felt that, but
for this terrible complication, he would have hoped—she might have
waited.
Still, she had a right to know how things were. He could not simply
draw back, holding his peace, and seeking her no longer. She must
understand; and he would explain—nay, more, he would ask her advice.
She had so clear a sense of right and wrong, so calm a judgment, so
firm a habit of self-denial, that she would be able to see clearly what
he had lost the power to distinguish, from physical and mental strain.
All this he had resolved to put before Ethel, picturing even the words
to be used. But now that she had suddenly appeared, now that she was
seated by his side, he found his lips sealed; for it came over him with
a rush of new realisation what he was purposing to do.
Give her up—and for ever! Give her up—for the sake of Fulvia! Could
he? The old sense arose vividly, which he always had with Ethel,
that nothing in life was worth consideration apart from her! Part
with her for ever! Had it been a question of waiting, he would have
resolved to wait in hope—to wait for years, if that needed to be!—but
to cut himself off from her hopelessly was another matter. Yet if he
did not—and the reverse side of the picture arose: a picture of his
father's name publicly dishonoured, of his mother broken-hearted, of
the wronged Fulvia wronged anew!
"I don't know how to bear to see you like this!" Ethel said sorrowfully.
And her voice unsealed his lips. He knew that he must not let the
opportunity pass of speaking openly. Such another might not occur.
"What did I say just now?" he asked. "Something, was it not, that
surprised you?"
"I thought you did not quite mean what you said. About your trouble;
and—'if that were all!'"
"Yes, I meant it. There is worse than you know."
"Will you tell me what? You always do tell—us things," she said, in a
gentle voice. The "us" came after a pause. She had almost said "me";
and it would have been true.
Ethel wondered if he were going to speak, he waited so long; but she
too waited, and presently he began.
"We have lost almost everything. The Grange cannot be our home any
longer. A small house—somewhere; and I—my mother and sisters will be
dependent on me."
"Yes." It was a quiet grave monosyllable. As if on second thoughts, she
added, "That will be a great trouble to you all."
"Not the worst yet! Fulvia's money is gone!"
"Gone! Where?"
Nigel made a movement of his hand towards the new mound. "He is—there!
One cannot speak against him—now! It is a miserable tale. This is only
for yourself—not to go further. He did not intend, of course, to injure
any one—Fulvia least of all—if that is any excuse. I can't see that it
is. As my mother says, no one ever does intend. But—we can't judge. I
don't feel as if I could face his side of the matter; only to think of
what has to be done. There will be something left—not much. I shall be
a clerk at the Bank on £200 a year."
"I see," said Ethel gently. She grew more pale than usual, and there
was a curious sense of constriction at her heart, as if a tight band
impeded its beating; for she knew what all this meant. "Yes, I see; but
you will make your way. Perhaps even—Does Fulvia mind very much?"
Nigel could speak more freely now. Once started, he had power to
continue, and he even found speech a relief. He seldom felt it so
with any one else, but with Ethel he did. Her silent sympathy drew
him on. He told her of his father's death; of the dying words spoken
to Fulvia and himself; of the hand placed in his; giving details that
he had not given even to his mother, only omitting the look of joy on
Fulvia's face, which had haunted him ever since. Nigel went through all
this in a low monotonous voice, as to a well-tried friend, and Ethel
read it so. When he spoke of Fulvia's disinterestedness, she detected
a weariness of tone, a want of enthusiasm. He praised her, and was
grateful; but the words of praise were measured.
Ethel listened patiently, shivering a little. It was dusk by this time,
and the grass under their feet was wet. A cemetery is not a warm or
cheerful place late on a January afternoon; and Ethel might well be
excused for shivering, with the gravestones lying coldly around, while
a little tomb of buried girlish hopes was being made in her own girlish
heart. It was no wonder that she shivered and looked white. For she
understood well whereto all this tended; even before Nigel went on to
speak of Mr. Carden-Cox's condition of silence, and of his mother's
distress. She understood—first, that he would not be free to marry her;
secondly, that he would be called upon to marry some one else.
These details took time in the telling, however briefly expressed.
No needless words were used; but they did not come fast. While Nigel
talked, it never occurred to Ethel that the afternoon was passing fast,
that daylight was waning.
He came at length to a pause. Now she understood the position of
affairs. He had not mentioned, had not directly alluded to, his love
for her; but Ethel knew it,—had never known it more surely than in this
hour. He had left nothing else out, except the one item of Fulvia's too
evident feeling for him; and Ethel could supply this item from her own
knowledge. She, too, had noted with observant eyes, since a certain
clue had been supplied by a certain mis-sent postscript.
As she listened to Nigel, one sentence of that postscript flashed up,
with all the force of a prophecy coming true: "Nigel will never marry
her!"
"Never! Never!" echoed the silent graves and the silent trees. "Never!
Never!" The words repeated themselves in Ethel's brain, and twined in
and out of the straggling yew branches. "Nigel will never marry her!"
Mr. Carden-Cox was taking care to bring his own prophecy to pass.
The story was ended, and Nigel's monotonous voice changed. It grew
hoarse and troubled as he said—
"Ethel, tell me what I ought to do."
Ethel woke up from a maze; and as she woke, a dream of long years died
a quiet death. She saw it die while she sat there, saw it fade away,
and another dream arise, grey-toned, of a long lonely life, apart
from one whom she loved best. Yet no tears threatened, no agitation
came. She was so full of thought for Nigel, so grieved for him, that
self-pity had as yet no place. Perhaps she was a little stunned by the
unexpected blow—as one is apt to be, at first.
"Tell me," he repeated; "I want your advice. Must I do this thing?"
"Must you marry Fulvia?"
"Yes." Unconsciously, he caught in his, the hand lying on her knee.
"Tell me what you think I ought to do!" he pleaded. "No one else can
help me."
Ethel drew her hand away, but so slowly that he could not be pained.
"I think you feel sure yourself already," she said in a soft still
voice. "It is hard for one to see clearly for another. If I were in
your place—"
"Yes, that is what I want. If you were in my place, how should you
feel?"
Another break. Ethel noted the growing darkness. She was so composed as
even to draw out her watch.
"No, I cannot see the time;" and she put it away again. "But it must be
getting late. I think we ought to go home."
Did she wish to avoid giving an opinion? She stood up, and Nigel did
the same. They had to go cautiously over the uneven grass, and along
the narrow path bordered by yew trees; but the broader path beyond was
straight and level, with more light. Nigel said then again—
"Yes. If you were in my place—"
"It is so difficult to be sure. I am trying to see things rightly for
you—from your standpoint. But one little touch either way makes all the
difference; and I cannot know the whole as you do."
"Tell me, so far as you can, at least. If you were in my place—"
"I think I might perhaps feel, as you do, that I ought—perhaps even
that I must!" There was again the sense of tightness at Ethel's heart,
though no sign of it appeared in her voice. "I mean, I might feel that
I must do all I could to repay Fulvia, and to spare my—to spare Mrs.
Browning. That would be your side of the matter—to feel bound—perhaps
to try—if—" Nigel could not see the gloved hands wrung together, and
she went on, scarcely faltering, only hesitating for words; yet somehow
he understood. "To feel bound—" she repeated, "to try if—to offer to
Fulvia—But if I were in Fulvia's place, there would be a difference.
Nothing could seem to me more dreadful than—to—"
"Than to—marry me!" He said it seriously.
"No—no—than to marry anybody who did not really mean it—wish it; to be
asked out of duty by one who—" and a pause—"one who did not care for
me—as I cared."
"If you were Fulvia, you would think I ought to hold back—not to
offer?" Ethel's calmness was calming him; her apparent strength was
strengthening him. "You would think me wrong to speak, unless—"
"I should think you ought to be quite open, quite plain with me. Not
pretend to care more than you did—if—but I don't think you could
pretend; you could only keep from saying much. And that might deceive
her. I could not bear to be deceived, if I were Fulvia. I would like to
know how you really felt. I should wish you to speak out."
"Even supposing—supposing you cared a little for me?"
"Yes; even supposing that!" Ethel knew that Fulvia did care, more than
a little, and she was sure from Nigel's tone that he knew it too. She
believed that Mr. Carden-Cox's anxiety to bring about the engagement
lay also in a knowledge of this fact.
"Yes," Ethel repeated firmly. "I think it would be worse, if one cared
for somebody very much, to marry him, and then to find out that he
had only proposed because he thought it right. Much worse than if one
did not care for him at all. I don't think I could ever bear it—ever
forgive him. It would be wronging Fulvia—cruelly. Oh it is always,
always, best to be quite true, quite outspoken. I am sure it is. If
you feel that you ought to propose, then you are right to propose. But
you would not be right if you allowed Fulvia to think that you cared
for her more than you do care. If it is only—only duty—she ought to
understand."
How strange it seemed to Ethel that he should come and ask her
this—ask her, as it were, to sign away her own happiness! Ethel's was
an intensely conscientious nature. She would never turn aside from
what was right merely because it gave her pain. Nigel had put this
question before her as a question of right and wrong, and she could
do what not one woman in a thousand is capable of: she could view it
dispassionately, weighing the absolute right and absolute wrong without
reference to her own desires. If Nigel had not known her to be capable
of so much, he could not have come to her for help. He came, not
because he loved, though he did love, but because he entirely trusted
her.
Fulvia's was a fine nature, yet Fulvia could not emulate Ethel here.
Self would have swayed her decision; but it did not sway Ethel's. At
the moment she did not even see a certain hope involved in her advice,
a hope which flashed quickly upon Nigel. Although she felt in the
abstract that she could not herself marry a man who should propose to
her from motives of duty, she had not the smallest doubt that Fulvia
would accept.
"That might be a way out of the difficulty," Nigel said, speaking as
if involuntarily. Ethel did not at once understand. "But would it
be—honest—right? Would it not be a mere farce? To ask her, and tell her
I do not wish it! Would it not be adding insult to injury—almost cruel?"
"No, I think not. I mean, I think the other might be more cruel. Of
course it depends, everything depends, on how you do it. But you would
not be cruel; you would not say an unkind word. I suppose you would
not need to say much? Only just to let her know that it is not all
wish—that it is partly duty—that you will learn to feel as you ought
even if—if you don't quite yet."
There was a sound like a little gasp.
"I suppose one may conquer, always, in such a case, if one ought,"
continued Ethel, with a dim smile, and the tightness at her heart
again. "Only I do think Fulvia ought to know just so much. Sooner or
later she must, and it would be worse after—after marriage. If she
goes into it, she should go with her eyes open; not wait to find out
later—too late."
They were leaving the cemetery now, passing out into the broad road. It
was too dark for the narrow path by the river, and they had to keep to
the road, which was much deserted at so late an hour. They walked on
quietly, slowly; for Nigel seemed as if he could hardly drag himself
along. During some minutes neither spoke, and then his excessive
weariness dawned upon Ethel. She said—
"You must go the shortest way."
"When I have seen you home—perhaps."
"I would rather you should not. I am all right when we get to the
houses."
Nigel made no answer, and she knew that he did not mean to yield. She
knew it more certainly when they reached a little gate leading to a
field, for he paused and held it open.
"This way?" Ethel asked, knowing that it would lead them to the kitchen
garden behind the Rectory.
Nigel said "Yes," and she could not remonstrate. She could only let him
have his will, this once. They would have to speak that mournful word,
"good-bye," very soon—such a good-bye as they had never yet said one to
the other.
It was damp, slushy and dark, going through the meadow. Ethel's foot
slipped, and Nigel drew her hand within his arm.
"I can get on—I am all right," she said, not so steadily as hitherto,
for something in his touch unnerved her. He made no reply; and she
would not draw her hand away—would not risk adding to his pain.
Something told her that he had reached almost the outer limit of
endurance; and the consciousness of this, with the continued silence,
had a curious effect upon her. She began to tremble—to wish she might
escape. She thought of many things to say, one after another—things to
comfort him. For somehow Ethel knew, and could not help knowing, that
this death of her hopes was the death of his also. But one thing would
not do, and another she could not trust her voice to utter; and so they
went on in silence.
The silence grew at last too oppressive, and Ethel tried to break it.
"Must things be settled soon about your leaving the Grange?"
But he had no answer whatever; and then she knew that Nigel did not
speak because he could not.
Three of these small dark fields had to be crossed, surrounded by
houses and gardens, but in themselves lonely and deserted. They reached
the gate of the kitchen garden, still in silence. The Rectory windows
shone with varied lights. Nigel paused beside the gate, and Ethel
forced herself to say steadily—
"Thank you for coming so far. I shall be all right now. Good-bye."
She put out her hand, and he held it in a passionate clasp. There was
a struggle, but no words would come. Ethel stood still, tears running
down her cheeks. What could she do or say to comfort him?
"Ethel!—Ethel! My love!" broke out at length.
"No—no—you must not say that! Don't say any more!"
"Ethel—!" came hoarsely again, despite her entreaty; and she could feel
the shaking of the gate against which he leant.
"No—no—" she repeated. "Not now—not any more. I must not let you say
what you will be sorry for by-and-by. Don't—please! I think I am glad
we have had this talk, because—because I shall understand. We will
never speak of it again. By-and-by we shall be—friends—like other
people."
There was a negative movement on his part.
"Yes—I think so. You have to do what is right—about—and we will be
brave—we shall be helped. Doesn't God always help, if—if one wills to
do right? Perhaps a little hard for you—for us—at first, but that won't
last. It will be all right."
Ethel could not bear much more. She had kept up well so far; but
reaction was at hand. The interview had to be ended; and the sooner the
better.
"I must not stay!" she said. And then, without warning, unexpectedly,
she broke down. "Nigel—let me go!" she sobbed.
Nigel mastered himself for her sake. "I have been wrong—unkind!" he
said. "It has been too much for you."
"Oh no; only I can't bear to see you so unhappy. Please—please let me
go."
"I shall see you again soon. This isn't really—" and a falter. "Yes, we
will be—friends."
Then he wrung her hand once more, and was lost in the darkness—not to
return to the Grange till late at night. He had to fight his battle out
alone.
But Ethel could have no such relief. Ten minutes of bitter weeping she
did allow herself in the lonely garden. Then she was obliged to hasten
home, to wash away traces of tears, to evade family inquiries, to elude
Tom's troublesome solicitude, to spend a cheerful evening—no easy task
under the circumstances.