NIGEL'S LOVE
"Then He gave her peace,—
Because her heart had learned to rest on Him—
His perfect peace . . .
. . . And so it was that she
Who looked on life and death with hate and fear,
Saw in her life a happy pilgrimage
On toward a better country, which she sought
With longing." —S. J. STONE.
ETHEL was lying on the couch in the Rectory dining-room. She could not
sit up for any length of time. There was nothing radically wrong, Dr.
Duncan said; but he did not like this persistent weakness. She seemed
to have no rallying power.
"Nothing radically wrong—yet," he said; "but if any mischief should set
in, things would go hardly with her." Sometimes he added—"If one could
find a new interest—anything to rouse her!"
The question was, what interest? Change of scene had already been
tried, and the slender Elvey purse would not submit to unlimited drains.
"I don't want to go away again. I only want to be quiet," Ethel had
said, smiling, that very morning.
But she looked thin, and the white lids drooped wearily over the tired
blue eyes, though it was yet early in the day. Her slender hands, after
a vain attempt at work, were resting languidly one over the other.
"Ethel, my dear, here is somebody come to see you," Mr. Elvey's cheery
voice said at the door.
"Come in, please," Ethel answered, not moving. She had often received
callers lying down of late.
Mr. Elvey vanished, and Ethel could hear him speaking: "Yes, yes;
she'll be delighted. Does her good to see fresh faces. She looks sadly
to-day, poor child! I'm afraid I must be off, but do stay with her as
long as you can."
Then to Ethel's astonishment, Fulvia Rolfe walked in—Fulvia Rolfe,
cheerful and composed, apparently well in health, and handsomely
dressed. She had taken particular pains with herself that morning.
Fulvia, had no notion of acting the "love-lorn damsel," with careless
attire and dishevelled locks, for people to gossip about. Even before
Anice and Daisy, the previous evening, she had carried matters with a
high hand, resolutely making it appear that she and Nigel separated
with equal willingness. It was "much better so," she answered lightly
to any manner of condolence. She would release Nigel, but she would
not submit to be pitied. If her eyes were a little heavy with midnight
tears, who could wonder, after so severe an illness?
"Don't move—" and Fulvia bent for a kiss. "I have come to thank you."
"There is nothing to thank for!"
"One does not generally count it 'nothing' to have one's life
saved—especially at the risk of—"
"Please don't say any more!"
"Well, if it distresses you; but I shall never forget! How is the
wrist?"
"Oh, nearly well."
"And you are so poorly still." Fulvia took a seat as she spoke.
"I don't know—only tired."
"Always tired?"
"Yes. It doesn't matter. I can't get strong, somehow."
"So they tell me. You want change."
"I would rather stay at home."
"You want change," repeated Fulvia. "Ethel, will you say 'yes' to a
plan I have in my head?"
"I—don't know."
"I have Nigel's consent. To-morrow I am leaving home with Daisy. We
go first to the seaside for a week—to poor uncle Arthur's favourite
lodgings. After that we hope to spend some time in an old Scotch farm.
The farmer's wife was once a maid in our house. She is an excellent
creature and will take good care of us; and she has three or four
comfortable rooms, which will be at our service. Dr. Duncan wants me
to have change, and our going there has been planned for some days.
Starting to-morrow for a week at Burrside first is a new notion. And I
want you to come with us."
Ethel was silent, her eyes open and sad.
"It will not be any expense to you—if you don't mind my saying so.
Perhaps you know that I have come into a little money lately, since my
uncle's death. He left what he had between Nigel and me—part to each, I
mean,—" rather hurriedly; "so you need not scruple."
"You are very good," faltered Ethel. "But I don't think I can go."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I think not."
"Why?"
Ethel made no answer. Her colour fluttered.
"I have something else to tell you. It is all over between Nigel and
me."
Fulvia spoke steadily.
Ethel gave her one dazzled glance.
"We decided yesterday that it would be right. Things are best so,"
said Fulvia, with resolute self-repression. She shook out her handsome
mantle carelessly.
"Not—really!"
"Yes. I have felt for some time that it must be. Especially since—"
Fulvia paused. She could not trust herself to say anything, but only
some things, and she would not venture where she was not sure. "It is
not a quarrel. It is simply that we both know this to be best. We shall
always be a very affectionate brother and sister, no doubt,—" with
a forced laugh,—"but that is all! If other people had not had their
fingers in the pie, things would never have gone so far."
Fulvia's manner altered. She leant over the couch, laying her gloved
hand on Ethel's.
"It has been a mistake," she said very low; "and we have found out our
mistake. I know now how Nigel loves you—and I know that you are worthy
of his love. Don't answer me—only listen! Nigel has tried hard to
conquer, because—well, because he thought it right. He fancied that it
was his duty to repay what I had lost—to repay it in that way. And for
a little while I—thought the plan would do. I thought we might rub on
together comfortably! But it will not answer. I am glad we have found
out our mistake in time."
There was a pause. Ethel did not speak.
"He will not come to you directly. He thinks it would seem like a
slight to me. That might not matter; but perhaps people would count him
fickle, not understanding. So there has to be a gap—between the two.
But I told him I should come and tell you how things are; and I think
he was glad, though he would not consent. I did not ask his consent,
for I had made up my mind. Ethel—do you at all know what you are to
him?"
Ethel's fingers pressed Fulvia's. That was her only answer.
"Yes—I was sure you must. And—am I wrong in thinking that he is as much
to you? You need not say a word—only you can tell me if I am mistaken.
I should like to be able to say to him—no, not from you—only from what
I know. Am I taking it all too much for granted?"
Another little break.
"Nigel must ask for himself, of course; I have no right. But—I am not
afraid for him. I understand. And now—meantime—till he can—will you
come away with me for a few weeks? I want you to be strong again; and I
want to stop some of the Newton Bury gossip. And I want—I want you to
learn to love me. For by-and-by—"
Fulvia's voice failed.
"I will do anything you wish," whispered Ethel.
Neither girl could see the other's face. Perhaps it was well,—so full
was the one of trembling joy, so grey the other with pain.
* * * * * * *
During full three months the girls were absent, spending their time in
the old farm, under the shadow of Scotch mountains.
Ethel and Daisy had never known a happier three months. If Fulvia
suffered much, as suffer she undoubtedly did, she was outwardly only
cheerful. Ethel became convinced, as Fulvia wished her to be, that
Fulvia did not really care—never had really cared for Nigel further
than with a sisterly affection. Fulvia knew that Nigel would never
undeceive Ethel in this particular, even when he should be her husband.
They were not engaged yet. They did not even correspond yet. But in a
manner each was sure of the other.
Ethel at least could have no doubts, and the sunshine of her face was
a sight to do others good. Nigel's spirits might be more variable; but
Fulvia gathered from his letters to Daisy, and from those of Anice to
herself, that he by no means showed habitual depression.
"I was right—quite right!" she repeated often to herself.
Sometimes she could hardly bear to look forward,—the prospect ahead
seemed so empty. She could only go on, step by step, praying for
strength.
On other days she could bear to plan for the future, to picture herself
with Mrs. Browning and the girls living in Mr. Carden-Cox's pretty
house, which was now her own.
At first she tried to grow used to the idea of Nigel and Ethel at No. 9
Bourne Street, but this dream gave way to another. Why should not Nigel
go to college, fulfilling at last his old desire, and study for the Bar?
One day Nigel wrote to her about Mr. Carden-Cox's money: a frank,
brotherly note. He wished her to possess the whole.
Fulvia's answer was decisive.
"Never speak of such a thing to me again," she wrote. "I will not
consent. I will not have it so. If you say any more, you will insult
and grieve me more than I can tell. I shall have nearly seven hundred
a year of my own, and a house rent free; and if that is not enough, I
don't deserve to have any at all.
"Besides, I have set my heart upon a different life for you than that
of a clerk in Newton Bury Bank.
"Why should not you go to the University, and carry out the old
programme? You are fitted for the Bar. Uncle Arthur always said so.
Even if you should marry soon, that would be no real hindrance; only it
would have to be Cambridge—not Oxford.
"I have set my heart upon this, and I think you will not disappoint me.
Madre and the girls are to come and live with me; and Daisy and I will
make ourselves useful to Mr. Elvey in the parish. Then, if you like to
let No. 9, furnished, that would be a little addition to your income.
"Write just one line to say that you will not disappoint your
affectionate sister,
"FULVIA."
The "one line" came by return of post.
"MY DEAR FULVIA,—Words can never say what I owe to you. It seems that
you are determined to heap coals of fire upon our heads,—upon mine
especially.
"You shall have your will. I can only submit to your generosity.
I would say much more if I knew how to say it; but perhaps you will
understand.—Ever your affectionate and grateful N. B."
* * * * * * *
Three months ended, the travellers returned.
It was a drizzling autumn afternoon, much like that on which Nigel had
come home from his year of travel.
As the train stopped, Nigel's face appeared. Fulvia had known that it
must be so, and she had schooled herself to meet him composedly. One
throb her heart gave, but she smiled a quiet greeting. Ethel was very
still. Nigel's eyes went to her face in a swift flash.
"How many trunks?" he asked.
"Pollard is there. Daisy and I will see that he has them all right,"
said Fulvia, turning away.
Nigel was left by Ethel's side, for the moment practically alone with
her. Nobody else was near, for few people had come by this train. It
was growing very dusk. He took her hand into his warm clasp.
"Ethel, are you well again?"
"Oh, quite. And Fulvia has been so good to me,—so very good and loving."
"I don't wonder," he said involuntarily, yet the next moment he did
wonder, knowing all. But he could hardly think of even Fulvia yet,
standing by Ethel, knowing that at last she might be his own. "Just one
look!" he pleaded.
The blue eyes glanced up, arch and sweet.
"It is your own self," he said. He had waited patiently all these
weeks, but now he felt that he could wait no longer. Another hour of
uncertainty would be unbearable. Confident as he might feel at times,
he had never really put the question to her; and it broke from him in
this moment of meeting.
"Ethel, tell me!" he said huskily. "There is nothing now to keep us
apart. Tell me—dearest—will you have me?"
"Yes!" she whispered. The same brief answer which she had given once
before, on a certain wintry afternoon, to a somewhat different question
of his; and it meant a plenitude of trust and joy.
Then Mr. Elvey hurried up, just too late for the train's arrival; and
Daisy sauntered back from the luggage. Fulvia, following, gave one
glance at the two faces, and lifted quizzical eyebrows.
"Already!" she murmured. "You are a prompt man! But of course—it is a
mere matter of form!"
"Fulvie, I can never thank you enough," Nigel said earnestly the same
evening. "Never!"
"For what?" she asked.
"For—everything!"
"Don't try! I hate thanks! All I want is to hear of your first brief!
How do you think Ethel is looking?"
"Not the same girl that went away. How much I owe to you!"
"Not the same? But she is the girl you wanted," said Fulvia, lightly.
Nigel broke into his old laugh. He could not help it; and even he was
beginning to think despite the past, that Fulvia did not greatly care.
She had been so cheery and full of fun all the hours since reaching
home.
A smile came in response; then Fulvia went to her own room, to stand
long at the window, star-gazing. Drizzle and fog had vanished, leaving
a clear sky; and she had much to think about.
"Better so!" she said aloud. "How happy they are! After all, one's own
happiness is not the chief thing! I shall be helped—and by-and-by it
will grow easier. I will be brave; I will be glad for them!"
THE END