NOT I, BUT THOU
"Be satisfied that, in order to accomplish all that God would have
done there is in one sense but very little to do . . . It is simply a
question of yielding up our will; of going cheerfully from day to day
whithersoever God may lead us."—FÉNÉLON.
"Thou who canst love us, though Thou read us true."—_Christian Year._
SEVEN long weeks had run their course since the day when Fulvia and
Ethel fell into the river. Much may happen in seven weeks! And it
seemed to Fulvia that much had happened, all within the four walls of
her own room, which for six weeks she never left. But more had taken
place than she yet knew.
She had been very ill—so ill as to lie at death's door. The shock, the
fright, the chill, the exposure in wet clothes—these, preceded and
accompanied by great agitation, would have been enough to break anybody
down. Even Fulvia's vigorous constitution was not proof against so
severe a strain.
That constitution stood her in good stead, however, when the tide
turned and she began to recover. Her improvement was steady, with few
drawbacks.
Ethel had been ill too, and Fulvia knew it. Not desperately ill,
like herself; but laid low with a bad feverish cold, and kept low
indefinitely by weakness from which she could not rally. Fulvia, asked
after her daily, and could find out no more.
Fulvia was intensely desirous for Ethel's recovery. She could never
forget the moment when Ethel had slipped away from the bough, as
it seemed to certain death, that Fulvia might be saved. Nothing in
Fulvia's life had made a stronger impression on her mind. She was
penetrated through and through with a sense of Ethel's nobility of
character. She thought of it awake, talked of it asleep, raved of it
in delirium; and if Fulvia had not often prayed before, she prayed
now—constantly, passionately—that Ethel might become well—not for her
own sake, but for Nigel's sake! For side by side with Ethel's white
face, floating away on the river, as Fulvia saw it perpetually, was
Nigel's face, worn and hollow-eyed, as he had come back from the rescue
of Ethel.
During seven weeks she had not seen Nigel. Once, when she was at her
worst, he had nearly been called into the sick-room, in the hope that
his face might soothe her restless excitement; but Fulvia, overhearing,
had cried out against the suggestion. She was so much worse for the
bare idea, that no one thought of proposing it again.
Mrs. Browning learnt some sharp lessons watching by the sick girl.
It was difficult to fathom the meaning of her rapid unconscious
utterances; but one thing at least was plain—that Fulvia had been,
and was, terribly unhappy. The engagement which Mrs. Browning and her
husband, as well as Mr. Carden-Cox, had been so anxious to bring about,
was not a success. Nigel's spiritless gravity had long been in itself a
silent rebuke; and Fulvia's broken mournful complaints struck even more
keenly home; since their wish to press matters forward had been, at
least in a measure, for Fulvia's sake.
Better far, for all concerned, if they had been content to leave
uncertainties in the hands of One who sees the end from the beginning.
We are all too apt to think that we can arrange the lives of those
around us: and our meddling often only mars what we would fain set
right. Mrs. Browning knew this at last; and the gentle woman grieved
sorely, though in silence, over her past mistakes. But at least she did
not make the fresh mistake of interfering anew.
Fulvia had now been allowed for several days to go downstairs, and
had even had a short drive or two; nevertheless, she had not yet seen
Nigel. He had left home a fortnight earlier, a holiday being kindly
arranged for him by Mr. Bramble, that he might try to shake off the
unconquerable lassitude which for weeks had weighed him down. Every one
thought him looking ill, and this had come to Fulvia's ears, though she
asked few questions, and, indeed, seldom spoke of him voluntarily.
The fortnight of absence being over on this day, exactly seven weeks
after the accident, Nigel was expected home. Fulvia sat alone in the
study, awaiting his arrival.
She looked better in health than might have been expected; which
is often the case after a severe illness, with its necessary rest,
and petting, and feeding up. Friends are always surprised; but it
constantly so happens. Fulvia's complexion was clearer, her eyes were
brighter, her cheeks were even a little plumper, than two months ago.
Yet she had gone through much suffering, mental as well as physical,
and she had come out changed. The gold had been purified in the
furnace. Life itself was altered for Fulvia thenceforward.
Self's happiness had been her chief aim through past years, side by
side, indeed, with kindly thought for others, yet always holding its
position. It had seemed to her impossible to live without the thing she
craved,—without Nigel.
Now a higher and nobler view of life had dawned. The thought of
self-sacrifice, as a great joy in life, had come.
Once before she had had a glimpse: once, many months earlier, when she
had resolved to put aside thoughts of self, and to help forward the
happiness of him whom she loved, irrespective of her own desires. That
feeble resolution had gone down like a reed before the hurricane rush
of strong temptation. She had seen the possible nobleness, but she had
not lived it.
Now matters were different. Ethel's act of self-devotion had led her
upwards to something far above—infinitely beyond. Fulvia had gained
in this illness new knowledge of ONE whose life and death were pure
self-sacrifice, who had not lived to Himself, but to God and for men.
That which had been a story to her before was at last reality. A fresh
and wonderful light was shed upon everything.
Slowly, dawning like daylight, the light came. Fulvia was in no haste.
She waited to see more, submitting like a little child. To such an
attitude of waiting the needed lessons are always sent.
Two clear thoughts gradually rose into prominence, the first embracing
the second, the second springing from the first.
Christ had given Rig life for her! Could she do less than devote her
life unto Him?
That was the first and greater thought.
Ethel had been willing to die for Fulvia! Could not Fulvia voluntarily
give up her heart's desire for Ethel?
That was the second and lesser thought.
The first was the easier of acceptance. The second, which of necessity
followed, caused hard battling. But gradually Fulvia's resolution was
taken.
She was thinking over this resolution as she sat in the study, facing
her future, trying, not without success, to be glad in Nigel's coming
happiness.
"For he will be happy!" she murmured. "And I may love him still—as his
sister. We were brother and sister so many years. Just going back to
the old order of things. It will not be so hard now—perhaps—now I can
love Ethel too."
There was a stir of arrival at the front door. Fulvia sat still,
trembling. She was not strong yet, though she looked well. She had said
that she would see Nigel alone, and the others had acquiesced; only
Daisy asked her mother curiously, "I wonder why?"
"My dear, don't ask. Say nothing," Mrs. Browning answered sadly.
Some little delay took place. Fulvia could hear voices—Nigel's sounding
cheerful. She locked her hands together, resolute to be calm. Then
Nigel came into the room.
"They told me I should find you here," he said.
Fulvia had not resolved how to act, had not been able to decide. Now a
sudden impulse came: and when he entered, she rose slowly, holding out
her hand.
"Am I not to have a kiss, Fulvia?" he asked in his kindest tone.
He looked much better for the change, brighter than she had seen him
for some time.
"If you like—as my brother!" she said distinctly, though her heart beat
almost to suffocation.
His glance was of perplexity—more perplexity than distress, Fulvia
knew. She withdrew her hand, and sat down, and Nigel did not give
the kiss permitted on those terms. He stood gazing at her, intensely
serious.
"Has your holiday done you good?" she asked after a pause.
"Yes. I do not understand. Has anything happened to annoy you? What can
you mean?"
"What I said—simply."
"I don't understand."
She held the arm of her chair fast. "Only—that we are brother and
sister again. Reversion to the old order of things."
Dead silence followed. Nigel was motionless, leaning against the
mantelpiece, his lips compressed, his whole face so grieved that she
could not help the spring of a faint hope. What if, after all, she were
mistaken?
"I do not understand," he said, for the third time. "There must be a
cause. Either you have grown tired of me, or something has vexed you.
Not—surely!—poor Mr. Carden-Cox's will? That would not be like you.
Of course my share is entirely yours—would be, I mean, if—" and he
hesitated. "Until this moment I have supposed that money coming to you
and to me meant the same thing."
It was Fulvia's turn to look bewildered.
"Uncle Arthur's will!" she said. "Has he made a new one? He did talk of
it, and I begged him not; but why should I mind?"
"Then they have not told you?"
"No one has told me anything. I have scarcely heard his name mentioned.
It has seemed strange—sometimes."
Nigel was silent, and she cast an anxious glance.
"Is something wrong? Has anything happened? I have a right to know,
surely. It will not hurt me now."
"You were not told before I left; but I fancied that by this time—I
ought to have asked first—"
"Tell me now. What is it?"
"He was taken suddenly."
"Uncle Arthur dead?"
Nigel made a sound of assent, and Fulvia's eyes filled with tears. She
was almost glad to have something about which she might lawfully show
sorrow.
"Poor uncle! How sad! And not long ill, you say?"
"No; it was an acute attack. I saw him the evening before, seemingly
well, but distressed about you. The next day he was gone."
"Poor uncle!" sighed Fulvia.
Yet her mind at once reverted to the present question, the present
pain, which dwarfed all lesser troubles. Nigel thought that her pensive
look meant grief for Mr. Carden-Cox. His own attention was very much
divided. He could not for a moment forget Fulvia's words of greeting;
and after all, however kind to them, Mr. Carden-Cox was not a man to
win great love.
"Strange,—the last time he saw me, he talked of making a new will,"
Fulvia remarked dreamily, forgetting that she had said the same before.
"And I never went to see him again. I wish I had gone."
"The new will was not finished."
"So much the better."
"It will come to the same thing."
"No; the old will left half to you. I am glad it is so."
"Half the income—not half the personal effects. The house and all it
contains will be yours."
"Was his income—? How much was it?"
"Over a thousand a year. No one supposed him to have that amount. Of
course you have—would have a right to the whole."
"Certainly not. You will keep your five hundred a year, and I shall
keep mine: enough, and more than enough, for me."
A rap sounded at the door, and Daisy's voice cried:
"Aren't you both coming? We want you."
Nigel went to the door, and opened it.
"No, not yet," he said. "Pray leave us quiet."
Daisy fled.
And Nigel came back, to ask once more—
"Fulvia, what did you mean just now?"
"I meant what I said," Fulvia answered low: "that it will be better for
us to be brother and sister again, as we used to be."
"But—why?"
"Must I say why?"
She was the more composed of the two. She had had her struggle
beforehand, and was mistress of herself, while Nigel, taken by
surprise, was visibly agitated.
He sat down in front of her, leaning forward; and as he faced Fulvia,
she noted a strange gleam in his eyes.
A wonder crossed her mind! Did this mean distress, or was it a sense of
possible relief, even of joy?
"Yes; I have had no idea all these weeks—But you are changed! What has
happened?"
"Not the will," she said. "You could not really suppose it to be that.
I am only glad he did not make a new one."
"Then—what?"
Fulvia answered by a single word, soft and clear, "Ethel!"
Nigel did not move, and his eyes were on Fulvia still.
"What does this mean? Have I given you cause—?"
"No," she interrupted; "you have fought hard. I know it, and I don't
blame you—I don't indeed. You have been open and true. And I accepted
you, knowing—if not, I ought to have known—for you were true. But—"
"You cannot trust me?"
"If either of us says that, I am the one to say it to you."
"No; You do not trust me," he said, with marked displeasure.
Yet, under the displeasure, under the gravity, the trouble, the
suppressed emotion, Fulvia knew that there lay the dawn of a new hope,
of an old dead hope revived, so radiant that he dared not look at it.
She knew this as distinctly as if she could have seen into his heart.
"I think," she said firmly, though with unsteady lips, "that you and
I are better as brother and sister. It is wiser for both of us. I do
trust you. I know that you are true; and you would be true to me. You
would give me all that is in your power to give. But I should expect
more than you are able to give; and if I never had it, I should be
miserable—we should both be miserable. You have tried hard, and you
would try—to the end. You see, I do not doubt you. But think how
far-off that end might lie! And your heart's love is for Ethel, not for
me."
No direct answer came to this. Nigel sprang up, and paced the room
with restless steps. Fulvia knew that he was troubled, but not
sorrow-stricken, not in the least danger of being heart-broken. She
could watch his face safely as he walked, for he did not look once
towards her. It was worried and grieved, nothing more.
"I have seen—I could not help seeing—" she went on, after he returned
to his seat. "That last day especially, before my illness, when you
came back from thinking Ethel drowned! I am not fancying—one does fancy
such things! You love Ethel, and Ethel loves you, and I have kept you
apart! Padre did not mean to be cruel when he was dying, but he was
cruel. He had better have left us alone. People do such foolish things
sometimes, don't they? I did not know till lately how Ethel has cared;
at least, I was not sure. But that day—when she thought herself near
to death—one could not mistake her look when she spoke of you! I have
thought a great deal in my illness. And I know that I must do this. I
know that I cannot keep you two apart, just for my own sake."
Nigel spoke at last in resolute voice, breathing hard, "This does not
touch the real question. I have devoted my life to you."
"In payment of my £40,000!" she said, with an odd sorrowful smile. "No;
that would be over-payment—or worse than no payment, if we were not
happy. And it does touch the real question; for if I will not have you—"
"But if you are promised to me, Fulvia?"
Fulvia lifted her eyes, which had drooped. A light shone in them, "If
you wished it—wished to hold me to my word," she said. "Promised; yes!
But you cannot claim my promise, if you cannot give the love I have a
right to ask! Yes, you love me as a brother. Is that enough? Nigel, you
are very true, and I may trust you. I do trust you—utterly! Tell me in
plain words—don't be afraid to speak out, only tell me—do you love me
or Ethel best?"
Nigel made no response.
"Tell me! I will know! One word only! Ethel—or Fulvia! Which is it?
Which is dearest to you?"
Still he did not speak. Fulvia leant forward, searching his face.
"Ethel—or me! Which?"
"Is there need for this? Is it right?" asked Nigel slowly. "Can you not
trust me, when I say that my life shall be yours?"
"I would trust you for the life, but not for the love," she said. "You
can promise the one; you cannot promise the other. Only love of a kind,
at least, a poorer sort. Think—have pity!—Could you marry one who loved
another more? Can you ask it of me? Yes, I was willing once—madly
willing; but I have learnt better. Now that my eyes are opened, would
you force it upon me still? And all from a mistaken notion of honour?
You see, I understand. Would you have me sacrifice your happiness and
Ethel's, for the sake of a happiness which would not be mine? How could
it be? If you can say that you love me most—first—best of all—then I
will still be yours! If not—! Tell me—truly—do you love Ethel or me?
Which most?"
Nigel spoke the one word at last, as if it were dragged from him, his
voice husky, and even faint, "Ethel!"
Fulvia said nothing. She could not have been taken by surprise, yet the
shock overcame her. Perhaps she had never entirely given up hope till
now.
Nigel was the first to speak.
"Fulvie, you would have it!" he said gently. "But you were wrong to
ask me. It was not needed. The love for Ethel is such an old love, it
cannot die in a day—cannot change, I mean, into—But indeed I have not
thought of Ethel in that light lately, only as—We should have become
friends—no more! I believe that one can conquer—may conquer! I would
have fought it out, God helping me."
Fulvia held out her hand, and Nigel grasped it, repeating, "Why did you
insist? It was cruel to yourself and me. I think you ought to know how
dear you are to—even though—Why could you not let things alone? I would
have conquered!"
"And all the time you and Ethel breaking your hearts for one another,"
Fulvia struggled to say.
"No—if it was right—and indeed I would have given you no cause—"
"Oh no! You have been so good to me always!"
"I will be again. Cannot we forget all this?"
Fulvia mastered her voice, and even forced a smile. "Yes," she said;
"we will forget it all—the whole, from first to last. You shall be good
to me still, only not so! We are brother and sister again, and you are
free. I know I am right. It will be right for us both,—for all of us.
By-and-by we shall be thankful that things did not go too far. I shall
find some work in life worth doing. It is best so—indeed it is. Why
must you look unhappy? I will try to be a good sister to you—both."
"You make me feel how grievously I have failed."
"No; it is not failure. It is only—I think we can say more another day.
I am not—so very strong yet." Fulvia knew that she could bear no more.
"Will you please tell madre and the girls—tell them it is my doing? I
am going upstairs now, for a little rest. Nobody need come."
She gave him a farewell glance, and passed away, before he could
detain her. Once locked in her own room, the knowledge of what she had
done overcame her utterly. But by the time Mrs. Browning begged for
entrance, she was herself again.
"Fulvia, my dear, what is this? What does this mean?" Mrs. Browning
asked in great distress.
Fulvia threw her arms round the gentle woman, hiding her blistered face.
"It only means, dear madre, that I am your own child again—Nigel's
sister! We needn't talk much about it, need we? Only please help me
to be good and brave. I know I am right, and you know it too! We must
think of—Nigel's happiness—must we not? Mother, help me to be brave!"
sobbed Fulvia.