IN SUDDEN PERIL
"When the dimpled water slippeth,
Full of laughter, on its way,
And her wing the wagtail dippeth,
Running by the brink at play;
When the poplar leaves atremble
Turn their edges to the light,
And the far-up clouds resemble
Veils of gauze most clear and white."
* * * * * *
"Though the heart be not attending,
Having sorrows of her own,
Through the fields and fallows winding,
It is sad to walk alone."—JEAN INGELOW.
FULVIA'S storm was over, but grey weather remained. No further words
passed about the discovered postscript. Mr. Carden-Cox was not told.
Daisy never referred to the subject.
There was a slight difference in Nigel's manner from that day; not
visible to lookers-on, and not intentional, but patent to Fulvia. She
could not help knowing that she had sunk in his estimation: that the
position she held with respect to him was altered. Not only had she
yielded to the first temptation, but there had been long-persistent
deceit, silence, and untruth.
Nigel knew the whole now; and Fulvia quailed before what she felt
to be his view of the matter. His very silence was eloquent. He
asked no explanations, because no explanations could touch the main
fact. Nothing that Fulvia could say might raise her quite to her old
position. He did not mean to show any change of manner towards her;
yet a change existed. During the days following, he undoubtedly held
a little aloof, and was more wrapped up in his own concerns, not
appealing often for Fulvia's sympathy.
Fulvia was at times oppressed by a belief that he would have been
willing to break off the engagement, had he not been bound by his own
promise, by the family wronging of Fulvia, by his father's dying words.
She felt that this was the rift which might widen into parting, this
the beginning of real unhappiness to her. Hitherto she had had doubts
and questionings, but in the main she had been content. Now she knew
that duty was the bond which held him to her. In truth, the shock of
this discovery about Fulvia had sent Nigel back with a rebound to his
old exclusive trust in Ethel; for Ethel could never have acted thus.
He had been growing more used to his shackles, more able to think
calmly of life with Fulvia, more ready to depend upon Fulvia for
companionship and interest. Now all was altered. Fulvia knew it, and
she knew that she had only herself to blame.
But she could not resolve to give him up; oven though she had come to
the belief that Nigel himself was willing to part. That which would
have been the more dignified step was to her impossible. Fulvia did not
know how to live without Nigel. If he gave her up, pride might step in
to her aid. To take the initiative herself required a different kind of
resolution; and Fulvia had it not.
Through the week following that unhappy day she was perpetually looking
forward to the next Saturday afternoon. She built her hopes on the
quiet tête-à-tête walk, wherein she might be able to break through this
barrier, to win her way back to him again. She did not know exactly
what to say or how to say it; but she was resolved to lead him to the
subject of the postscript, to explain how, after the first wrong step,
she had been entangled by her fears in a crooked path, to appeal to his
pity, to make out somehow a better case for herself.
Saturday came, and at breakfast Nigel said, "I am afraid I shall not be
much in to-day."
Fulvia gave him a startled look.
"Where are you going?" asked Daisy.
"Malcolm and I talk of a row on the river."
"That will be jolly! You have not been on the river for ever so long.
Only you two? Will Ethel go?"
"No."
"When do you start?" Fulvia inquired, trying to speak indifferently.
"Half-past two or three."
"And you will be home—?"
"I don't know when. Not till late in the afternoon."
He did not seem to think she could object, and Fulvia would show no
annoyance. Indeed, her feeling was far deeper than annoyance.
Daisy offered herself as a companion in Nigel's absence; but Fulvia
could stand no companionship. She wanted to be alone; and to sit
indoors was impossible. Daisy's offer was evaded; and somewhat later
Fulvia slipped out of the house, unseen, for a solitary ramble.
Nigel had spoken of going down the river, and Fulvia made her way to
the towing-path, following the same direction, not with any expectation
of seeing him. She meant to be at home in time for his return.
It was a beautiful afternoon, very different from the preceding
Saturday. A blaze of sunshine lit up all around, but could not chase
away the shadows in Fulvia's heart.
"Will he ever feel the same for me again?" she asked herself drearily.
"How could Daisy be so cruel as to tell him? But she did not mean to be
cruel. She does not understand."
Fulvia would not be unjust, even in her pain; and she had noticed
Daisy's air of anxious kindness this week, a manner as of one trying to
make up for some wrong done to another.
Fulvia walked slowly, for there was no need to hasten. She could be as
long as she liked.
The towing-path which she had chosen was the same which Ethel had
chosen one wintry afternoon, some months before. Only, the surroundings
now were of green trees and golden sunshine, and of water reflecting a
summer sky.
Somebody was walking in front of Fulvia when she passed round the
next river-bend—a slight girl, in a grey dress, with a shady hat, and
movements so languid that they seemed to speak of ill-health. Fulvia
did not pay any particular regard to her, being preoccupied. They were
nearing a lock, and the girl paused to lean against one of the great
gate-handles, as if for rest, turning towards Fulvia with the action.
Fulvia saw her plainly then: saw a fragile-looking creature, with a
delicate colourless face, and large blue eyes, dreamy and sad. She
noticed the brown hair straying over the white brow, and noted even
the thinness of the ungloved right hand, yet all without recognition,
partly no doubt because she was herself so absorbed in thought.
But a flash of recognition came to the other face.
"How do you do, Fulvia?"
"Ethel!" Fulvia could hardly believe her own senses. At the first
moment an impatient throb shook her frame; for Ethel was Fulvia's
dread. Thought for the altered girl before her followed quickly.
"Ethel! I did not know you! Have you been ill?"
"Not ill lately. Not very well, I suppose. I don't get up much strength
somehow. Is it not a perfect day?"
Fulvia stood still. She did not want a companion—Ethel Elvey least of
all! Still she could not at once pass on. She was not personally fond
of Ethel, and never had been; but their acquaintance dated from infant
days, and Fulvia was kind-hearted. It was impossible not to pause, in
view of Ethel's changed look.
"Daisy said something—" she began, and broke off. "I know you had
scarlatina; but that is so long ago."
"Ages—isn't it?" Ethel said, smiling. "And I have been an immense time
in the country since, doing nothing. Yes, in North Wales. Snowdon is so
beautiful. There is nothing in the world like mountains. They seem to
bring one nearer heaven?'
"Are you talking poetically?"
"Am I? No; I don't think so."
"Did you go up Snowdon?"
"Once, on pony back. I did not try it a second time."
"Has looking on a mountain from below the same effect?"
"What effect?"
"Bringing you—what you said just now."
"Yes." Ethel did not explain her meaning. She went on in a quiet and
natural tone—"How is Nigel? I have not seen him yet."
"He is all right. He has gone boating with Malcolm."
"Up the river?"
"No, down."
"I was not sure. Malcolm did not say, but I fancied they would go up."
"No; Nigel told me. Are you going home now?"
"Not yet, perhaps; but I must rest for a few minutes, and I am in a
mood for loitering to-day. Don't wait, if you would rather go fast,"
said Ethel, with a recollection of Fulvia's energetic ways. She smiled
again that curious smile, sunny, yet sad.
Fulvia had not walked fast, but she at once decided to do so. Rather
bluntly and awkwardly, though seldom disposed to awkwardness, she said
good-bye, and went on.
She kept up a good pace till well out of sight. "Has Ethel cared too
much?" she asked, thinking over the brief interview. "Bright enough;
but is it natural brightness? Nigel and she have always been friends.
Could Nigel have made her hope, and then have left her? No, that would
not be like Nigel."
Fulvia, felt sure of this, still Ethel might have hoped without reason.
Fulvia pitied Ethel, thinking what might have been Ethel's happiness,
but for certain circumstances; and then she pitied herself, recurring
to the present trouble. Her step soon slackened under its weight.
Presently she reached a bridge. The towing-path thereafter continued
on the other side of the river, but Fulvia did not cross. She made her
way along the broken bank, where no path existed, wishing to get out of
sight, if Ethel should follow so far.
A snug spot near the water on a steep slope presented itself.
There were shrubs and trees on either side, enough to shelter from
observation, or so Fulvia thought. She edged herself downward
cautiously, and when comfortably placed, with one aged piece of jutting
tree-root for her seat, and another for her footstool, she found that
the retreat she had chosen was not invisible either from the bridge or
the opposite bank; but after all it did not matter! Ethel would not
invade her solitude.
Time passed, Fulvia did not know how. She had not looked at her watch
since leaving home. It was a relief to be alone, beyond reach of
questioning eyes, and she could safely allow herself here to sink into
a mood of melancholy, for nobody was at hand to note how she looked.
Once in such a mood it was hard to rouse herself out of it. She felt
like sitting on indefinitely, letting her mind drift as leaves drifted
past in the stream below.
Would Nigel ever quite get over this affair of the postscript? Fulvia
could not be content with mere forgiveness; she wanted to be reinstated
in his good opinion. That good opinion had always been hers, and she
could not endure to lose it. Would he ever again have his old complete
confidence in her?
"Whatever else might be wanting, that was not wanting." So Nigel had
said, "Whatever else—" then he, too, had been conscious of a want,
either in himself or in Fulvia. Only it had not been want of trust. He
had trusted her entirely, and now his trust was shaken.
If aught else be lacking between brother and sister, between friend and
friend, between husband and wife, while there is perfect trust, there
cannot be misery. It is hardly possible that perfect trust should exist
without growing love; but trust must stand upon a firm foundation;
it can only exist where such a foundation is found. He who trusts
must know from practical experience that the one whom he trusts is
trustworthy. And whatever else is present, if trust fails everything
fails; there is then no firm ground to stand upon; love sinks at once
to a lower level.
Fulvia's own hand had cut away this firm ground from beneath her feet.
In the main she was, as Nigel had always counted her, truthful and
honourable; but one failure long persisted in had undone what went
before. She might indeed never so fail again; but how could Nigel know?
Where one cannot trust, there can be no security of happiness. He might
be kind to any extent, but how could he rest upon her word?
"If only I had not done it! If one could but undo the past! And it did
me no good. Things would have come about just the same! . . . If I had
destroyed the paper! But would that have been enough? It might have
been known some day; or I might have felt that I must tell! If only I
had not done it!"
Round and round the circle of regrets she travelled; and when at length
a sound aroused her, she was startled to find how quickly the afternoon
was passing.
Unless she made haste, Nigel might reach home before her. That would
never do! And what if he and Malcolm should at any moment row by,
detecting her on the bank? Fulvia had liked to follow in his steps; but
she did not wish to meet him, since he had not asked her to do so.
There was indeed no time to lose, if she would avoid the possibility,
still more if she would ensure being the first to arrive at home.
Fulvia sprang up, somewhat carelessly in her haste, and found the
ground giving way beneath.
Late spring frosts had loosened the soil, heavy rains since had
carried on the work of disintegration, and Fulvia's weight bestowed
the finishing touch. A complete landslip on a tiny scale seemed to be
taking place. She struggled round to a kneeling position, and strove to
find her feet; but in vain. The earth was sliding, and she was sliding
with it.
Fulvia resisted fiercely, clutching at grass, weeds, rotten roots,
anything within reach; but everything in turn failed. Screaming was not
her natural mode of expression, unless under a very severe shock, and
she kept her self-command, making no outcry, though keenly aware of her
predicament. The steep bank ended abruptly in a natural upright wall
of clay, the stiff clay being surmounted by a layer of more friable
earth—that which was now yielding. Close underneath flowed the stream,
shelving at once into deep water, deeper now than usual from spring
rains.
"How stupid!" gasped Fulvia, and in another moment she found herself
on the verge, kneeling, with her back to the river, her feet actually
hanging over the bank, soft soil threatening each instant to slip anew
with her weight, both hands clutching at an infant shrub growing near,
and the gentle "swish" of the water close below.
"Hold on! I'm coming!" a clear, girlish voice rang out from the bridge.