SWEET MAY-TIDE
"I come, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song;
Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth,
By the winds which tell of the violet's birth,
By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,
By the green leaves opening as I pass."
—F. HEMANS.
THE month of May had come—a real typical May; not one of our modern
snarling specimens, which perhaps our forefathers knew as well as
ourselves, but which, of course, no poet or historian ever wrote
down on the "deathless page" of literature. A bright blaze of spring
sunshine streamed upon the stiff row of trees in the green enclosure of
Bourne Street, and made its way through the draped lace curtains of No.
9, where ingenuity had been hard at work to transform a most ordinary
little drawing-room into a finished and aesthetic gem. It had to be
done cheaply; but that matters less where clever fingers and cultivated
taste have sway. Grange furniture was present—not Grange drawing-room
furniture, which would have been far too large, but dainty small tables
and pretty chairs, selected from all parts of the big house. Fulvia had
combined tints gracefully, had put up brackets, had spent hours over
finishing touches, had acted throughout as guiding spirit. If she could
win a smile from Nigel for his mother's sake, she was content. She
would have slaved herself to death for that reward.
A worn outline of cheek was visible now, as if the last few weeks had
left their mark. The sunshine which lit up her ruddy head showed this
plainly. She was on the music stool, sewing hard at an antimacassar.
They had not long been in the house, and nobody had yet grown used to
its smallness. Anice fretted, and Daisy talked viciously of "kicking
down those dreadful walls," and Mrs. Browning was sweetly resigned
and sad. Fulvia alone did not care. She was sorry for others, not for
herself. The one thing in life she cared for was pleasing Nigel; and
having him, she had all she wanted.
Fulvia could not entirely make him out. She was always trying to do so,
yet always feeling that something lay below, which she could not reach.
He was in many respects an altered being; himself, yet different. The
light-heartedness, the sparkle, the fun, were gone. A "grave young man"
strangers now called him; old-looking for his years, quiet, handsome,
manly; one to be liked and esteemed; but to his own people, changed.
Friends said how acutely he had felt his father's death, and how
creditable the feeling was to him; also many supposed the lost wealth
and lowered prospects to weigh upon him a good deal. Fulvia ascribed
his seriousness to the unhappy secret about his father and her money.
She made it her aim to cause him to forget, and yet she knew he never
could forget. She would not let herself think of Ethel. He had enough
pressing on him to render that additional cause needless.
Ethel had not crossed Fulvia's path since the latter was engaged. There
had been a singular break in the intercourse between Ethel Elvey and
the Brownings, coming about naturally. Ethel caught a bad cold the
evening in the cemetery, and was a prisoner for many days after. She
could not shake off the cold, and seemed unaccountably poorly, her
parents thought. Then the younger boys had slight scarlatina, which
made quarantine needful. Ethel nursed the boys, and ended by having
it herself, not severely, though she was much pulled down. Dr. Duncan
talked of a want of rallying power, and sent her to the sea for a month
with the convalescent boys. When she came back, pale and weak still, an
opportune invitation arrived from a kind old friend living under the
shadow of Snowdon.
Certain difficulties existed; but Ethel showed an unwonted eagerness
to be absent, and Dr. Duncan was strongly in favour of it. Mr. Elvey
took the matter in hand, over-rode all objections, told Ethel to go,
and desired her to stay as long as she could. Perhaps he suspected
her trouble in some degree. He had surprised her once shedding very
bitter tears, after Nigel's engagement had become known, and Ethel had
clung to him for comfort, secure of no worrying questions being asked.
Mr. Elvey was not far-sighted about such matters, but he had keenness
enough to put two and two together when the twos were very plainly
written.
So Ethel went to Wales, and stayed long away, and Nigel had never once
seen or spoken with her since their sorrowful farewell. Better so for
them both.
Mrs. Browning watched him anxiously these weeks. Somehow she was more
strongly alive to the change in him than was Fulvia, perhaps because
Fulvia would not let herself see. Mrs. Browning did see. She had a
constant feeling that this Nigel was not altogether her Nigel, her boy!
She had nothing to complain of definitely. He was very good to her,
as to Fulvia; carefully attentive to them both; but the old sunshine
was wanting. Life seemed with him to have grown into an embodiment
of severe duty, unrelieved by pleasure. There was no relaxing. He
worked hard, read hard, walked a certain amount daily, went through a
steady routine; but nothing was done lightly. He had never shown so
little inclination for talk. Except in the evenings, he was chiefly
away, and in the evenings, he always had a book. If Mrs. Browning or
Fulvia showed a wish for conversation, he responded kindly, but with a
manifest effort, and it never lasted long.
Mrs. Browning craved for his old look, his old smile,—craved at times
with a passionate longing. She did not know how to give up her former
Nigel.
There is no love on earth like a mother's love: no love so pure, so
lasting, so unselfish; no love which comes so near the love of God
Himself,—though infinitely distant from it. As everything human varies,
so in different natures the quality of even this varies; and Mrs.
Browning's was not, perhaps, of the very highest type of mother-love.
She did love her children intensely, but in some measure it was for and
in herself. Yet when a test time came, the reality of her love would
lift her superior to her ordinary self; and such a test time had come
now. She know that Nigel was not happy, and she was far too true a
mother to rest in that knowledge. Worse still, she knew that she had
had a hand in bringing on the present condition of things, and that she
might not lift a finger to undo what she had wrought. This knowledge
weighed upon her heavily.
Thus, when the sunny month of May came, there were clouds as well as
sunshine in the sky of No. 9 Bourne Street.
Fulvia was alone, but Daisy presently came in with a whisk and a rush,
upsetting two small chairs.
"Daisy!"
"There's no room for anything here."
"The more need to carry one's limbs discreetly! I wish you would help
me with these antimacassars. I want to get them done before lunch."
"Why? There must be lots of old ones good enough."
"I want to put out these. It will be a change. Nigel admired the
muslin."
"Well, I hope I shall never be engaged!" declared Daisy. "Since you
went and got engaged to Nigel, you haven't had one single idea apart
from him."
Fulvia did not take the trouble to contradict her.
"And there's that story I'm reading! Oh, bother! If I'm to sew, I must
wash my hands."
"You need not be an hour over the wash-handstand. Do be quick."
Daisy stood still. "Ethel has come home," she said.
"Ethel Elvey?"
"Yes. I met her just now."
"Is she all right again?"
"I don't know. I didn't ask. She looks—as if—" and a pause.
"As if—?"
"I don't know. I shouldn't think she was well."
Fulvia had ceased to sew, and was gently pricking her finger with the
needle.
"She has been a long time away."
"Heaps of time. I never knew her do such a thing before. And staying
with one old maiden lady all the while. It must have been awfully slow.
She says she's going to be awfully busy at home now—lots of parish
work. I shall go and see her. I like Ethel."
"She is nice enough."
"Nigel used to be awfully fond of Ethel. He never speaks of her now."
"Are you going to help me with this work, Daisy?"
Daisy sauntered away, and Fulvia sat idly, with bent head, thinking. A
sound made her glance up, and Nigel stood in front.
Fulvia sprang to meet him, with exclamation and glow of delight, her
whole face changing. "But what has brought you home now? Is anything
wrong?"
"Nothing much. I have a stupid headache—" running hit fingers through
his hair,—"and Mr. Bramble has let me off. The figures were all turning
into live creatures. Will you come for a walk with me?"
"Oh yes!" Fulvia was ready to leave anything. She could never hesitate
about a request of Nigel's. "You are sure you are not ill?"—for he
looked unusually pale. Then a jealous fear darted into her mind: had he
seen Ethel? She could not put the question, but Daisy ran in and asked
it for her.
"Going out, Fulvia? And you in such a hurry to have things done! But
I shan't work at them if you are out. And Nigel home so early! Oh I
say, Nigel, only think! Ethel has come home at last. They couldn't do
without her any longer. I met her just now, and I dare say you did too."
"No; I met Malcolm on my way to the Bank, and he told me."
Nigel said no more.
Fulvia could only wonder silently—was that the cause of his sudden
indisposition? He had been well enough in the morning.
They had their walk, and Nigel talked more than usual, exerting himself
to be agreeable; but Fulvia was conscious of effort, even of strain, on
his part. She scolded herself for fancies, yet the impression remained.
Ethel did not come quickly to call, as Fulvia expected; neither did
Nigel seem in haste to go to the Rectory. Daisy went, and found Ethel
out. Days passed, and, beyond the one encounter, none of the Brownings
had seen her. Bourne Street was a good way off from Church Square.
Nothing had been seen or heard of Mr. Carden-Cox for weeks. Except
that he sat in his usual seat at church, and was occasionally to be
perceived walking or driving along a busy street, he might, so far as
the Brownings were concerned, have dropped out of existence altogether.
"I detest family quarrels," Nigel said more than once. "But what is to
be done? It is his place to take the first step."
"He will never do that," Fulvia answered decisively each time. "He will
never forgive the madre for ordering him off."
Fulvia was wrong. People are perpetually doing just the things that
their friends do not expect of them, and it was so in this case.
On Saturdays Nigel always came home early. Lunch was deferred till
a little after two o'clock, that he might be present; and in the
afternoon it was the regular thing for him and Fulvia to take a country
walk together. Sometimes he would relax from his gravity, and be more
like the Nigel of old days, not indeed so sunny as then, yet more
easy and natural than at other times. Fulvia was very happy on these
occasions. She would cast care to the winds, feeling that she had all
she could desire.
No, not quite all. For, during these early weeks of her engagement,
there came to Fulvia a growing sense of a want in her life, a want
which did not exist in Nigel's life. She had not so definitely felt the
lack before. A consciousness crept slowly over her of being at a lower
level, possessing lower aims, acting from lower principles, than Nigel.
Sometimes she could almost rejoice in this, could revel in looking up
to him as to a superior being. That was only woman-like. But, on the
other hand, a woman does wish to be a true companion to the man who
chooses her, a help fitted for him; and sometimes her heart sank with
the knowledge that she was not so fitted, that there were matters upon
which she could offer him no true response.
Now and then he would say a few words which gave her a sudden glimpse
of depths beyond her ken. She could not follow him into them, and
she could not there act what she did not feel. In slighter everyday
affairs, Fulvia might disguise her feelings, might wear an occasional
mask, but in religious matters she was strictly honest.
She always knew on these occasions that her answers repelled him, threw
him back into himself. She always felt, with a jealous pang, "Ethel
would have gone with him where I cannot." And though she dreaded such
embarrassing moments, yet she was grieved to the heart when they came
more seldom; for she knew that Nigel was learning not to turn to her
for sympathy in his deepest interests. Reserved they both were, and he
actually had not known before that such turning would be vain. Fulvia's
very grief and jealousy drove her to more thought about religion,
though as yet it was only for Nigel's sake. Other teaching than this
was needed.
A succession of fine Saturdays had meant a succession of long rambles
for the two, when at length one came which could be described only as
consisting of one continuous pelt. Rain began early, and went on all
the morning in a dogged and resolute fashion, with good promise of
doing the same during many hours to come. At luncheon a note arrived
for Fulvia, which she read and gave to Nigel, with an involuntary "Oh,
I can't!" It was as follows:—
"DEAR FULVIA,—Will you spend the afternoon of to-day with a lonely old
man? I have been thoroughly out of sorts lately, and I want a few words
with you.
"This nonsense has gone on long enough. You ought to know, all of you,
by this time, that my bark is worse than my bite. Manufacture any sort
of pretty message that you like from me to the madre, and pray get
things right somehow. I can't manage without you and Nigel. Besides, I
am going to make a fresh will, and you may help me.
"A fly shall call for you at a quarter to three precisely. Mind you
come.—Your affectionate uncle,
"A. C.-C."
"What am I to do? To-day! I can't go," said Fulvia, dismayed.
"You cannot set this aside," Nigel replied at once.
"But to-day—your one afternoon at home?"
"I don't think that matters. We could not walk in such rain. And even
if we could, to make peace with Mr. Carden-Cox ought to come first."
Did he care? Not, certainly, as she did. Fulvia saw this with a sharp
pang, yet Nigel's manner was not cold or careless. He only spoke with
quiet resolution, as of an unquestionable duty.
"If uncle Arthur had but chosen some other day!"
"He has not. I think you must not refuse."
Fulvia yielded to his decision.
At "a quarter to three precisely" a closed fly appeared, and she was
ready. She looked wistfully at Nigel as he held open the front door,
then stood under the porch putting up an umbrella.
"It doesn't matter so much to you, of course," she murmured, "but I am
disappointed! I shall feel cross with uncle all the afternoon."
"No, you will not. It would make mischief. A good deal may depend upon
you to-day."
"Why? How?"
"His will, if you must have it put in plain terms."
"Oh, money! I hate money!"
Nigel's expression was curious. He sheltered her across the pavement,
and handed her into the fly, wearing that look still.
Fulvia wondered what it meant. She said penitently, "I'll be good. It
won't do to think only of myself!"—and was rewarded by a smile.
Then Nigel stepped into the house, and as the fly was about to start,
Daisy rushed out bareheaded into the rain.
"Fulvie!"
"Daisy, come back! You will be soaked," said Nigel.
Daisy disregarded him. "Fulvie," she cried, "may I arrange your new
jewel-case for you? It's such a beauty, and you have never begun to use
it."
Fulvia heard with preoccupied ears, hardly taking in the sense of
Daisy's request.
"If you like. Anything! I don't care."
"And your keys?"
"Keys?"
"Your own bunch?"
"Oh, I left them—somewhere. In my dressing-table drawer, I think."
Nigel pulled Daisy into the shelter of the porch, and Fulvia was gone.
Daisy danced from one foot to the other.
"What fun!" she said, chuckling. "Fulvia looks as dismal as if she
never would see you again. Just for one afternoon! Well, I don't mind
now about the rain. I've something nice to do."
Daisy had noted that morning the handsome silver-mounted dressing-box,
Mr. Carden-Cox's birthday gift, standing on the side-table in
Fulvia's room—not the little back room, but the pleasant front one,
for Nigel had settled that point. Beside the new box was the shabby
old dressing-case, and Daisy, having used curious fingers and eyes,
discovered that the latter was locked, the former unlocked and empty.
Thereupon she conceived the idea of emptying the old box into the
now, as a pleasant rainy-day occupation. Daisy was not sensitive as
to associations, or she might have shrunk, as Fulvia had shrunk, from
bringing forward the gift connected with so sorrowful a day as Fulvia's
twenty-first birthday.
And Fulvia, at the moment of being asked, did not recall association
past, did not realise what Daisy meant, or to what "jewel-case" she
alluded. If Daisy had called it a "dressing-case," she might have
listened with quicker perception; but "jewel-case" was not one of
Fulvia's words. She heard a request vaguely, and granted it, never
thinking what the request meant. Her mind was wrapped up in the thought
of having to leave Nigel for hours on his only free afternoon.
More than this, she had no vivid recollection of the crumpled
half-sheet hidden away in the old dressing-case. The matter of the four
postscripts had sunk of late into the background. Since all cessation
of intercourse with Mr. Carden-Cox nothing had occurred to call it
up. Fulvia had reached a standpoint far removed from the hopes and
fears of those days. The lost half-sheet was nothing to her now. She
could not have told why it, remained still in her box, except that the
all-absorbing events of the last few months had almost driven it out of
her mind. Perhaps a dim expectation existed below of some day making
a confession, and restoring the paper to its rightful owner. But not
yet,—oh, not yet!
Yes, she had reached a stand beyond those hopes and fears. Nigel was
hers, and she was his. She had indeed her anxieties and dreads, but
they were different in kind, and as yet the joy of devoting herself
to him outweighed all troubles. In the main she did not, would not,
doubt his love, though at times she was nervously disposed to weigh the
amount of it against her own for him.
Every one, who has watched with care, can tell how strangely things
which were once of vivid importance may slip into the background of
memory, unaccountably failing to spring up just when one would most
expect that they should. Daisy's sudden question, called out in haste
through the pouring rain, brought no recollections to Fulvia of the
crumpled half-sheet. She was entirely absorbed with Mr. Carden-Cox's
provoking unreasonableness in taking her from Nigel on this particular
day. And oh, if Nigel had but cared more! That, after all, was the real
pain!