Nigel Browning

BY

AGNES GIBERNE

AUTHOR OF

"LIFE-TANGLES," "WON AT LAST," ETC. ETC.

LONDON

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48 PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS

CHAP.

I. FROM ROUND THE WORLD

II. THE DAUGHTERS OF THE HOUSE

III. ETHEL

IV. FULVIA'S RESOLVE

V. IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT

VI. DRAGGING HOURS

VII. TO GO, OR NOT TO GO?

VIII. FIRE AND WATER

IX. WHISPERINGS

X. TOM'S SPECIMENS

XI. "THE WORLD FORGETTING"

XII. NOTA BENE!

XIII. "WILL NEVER MARRY HER!"

XIV. SOMETHING WRONG—BUT WHAT?

XV. FULVIA'S EXPECTATIONS

XVI. ANTIQUITIES

XVII. HE AND SHE

XVIII. AGED TWENTY-ONE

XIX. THE MONEY!

XX. AN UTTER TANGLE

XXI. COMPOUND UMBELS AND BLUE EYES

XXII. THE BREAKING STORM

XXIII. A STRANGE INTERVIEW

XXIV. WOULD SHE? COULD SHE?

XXV. SWEET MAY-TIDE

XXVI. THE LOST "N. B."

XXVII. IN SUDDEN PERIL

XXVIII. THOU OR I!

XXIX. BORNE DOWNWARD

XXX. NOT I, BUT THOU

XXXI. NIGEL'S LOVE

NIGEL BROWNING

CHAPTER I

FROM ROUND THE WORLD

"But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks!" • • • • • • • • "It is my lady: Oh it is my love! Oh that she knew she were!"—Romeo and Juliet.

"HERE, I want this luggage taken—Hallo, Pollard! You're the man for me."

"Mr. Nigel Browning!" ejaculated the porter addressed, a huge individual six feet three in height, and massive in frame, with a large face, resplendently good-humoured. He had been heaving great trunks and packing-cases out of the van, tossing one upon another, as a girl might heap together a pile of band-boxes. Now the train passed on groaning dismally after the fashion of these modern behemoths; and the platform crowd began to disperse.

It was past nine o'clock on a chilly autumn evening: not the kind of evening which might tempt anybody to linger under the flaring gas-lights, dimmed by fogginess.

Pollard, in full career across the platform, brought up his truck with a jerk on hearing his own name, then plucked at his cap with an air of delight.

"Mr. Nigel Browning!" he exclaimed.

"To be sure. Whom else would you take me for? Shake hands, Pollard. I've been round the world since I saw you last."

The man's hard palm closed with a grip round the fingers held out to him.

"And you ain't changed, Mr. Nigel. No need for to ask that, though. If you was, you wouldn't be a-shaking hands with me here, like to old days. And the niggers ain't got hold of you, nor none of they cannibals neither."

"Why, no—I've not been enjoying very largely the society of cannibals."

"Well, sir, you've come back anyway a deal stouter and stronger than you was—not as you're stout yet, so to speak, but you was thin and no mistake when you went away. And I do see a difference. I don't know as you ain't taller too."

"Taller after twenty! That would be against all rule. However, I certainly did depart a scarecrow, so perhaps it's admissible to turn up a Hercules. All well at home, Pollard?—Wife and chicks, eh?"

"Yes, sir, thank you. Naught but the old woman's rheumatiz for to grumble at—and she do say it takes a deal o' patience to carry that about with a body."

"I don't doubt it, poor thing. And all right at the Grange?"

"Yes, sir—so as I've heard. Save and except Mr. Browning's the same as usual, sir. Which in course you knows."

"Ah—yes," the two syllables being divided by a thoughtful break. Manner and voice had till this moment been marked by a frank joyousness, boy-like yet manly, but now there came a touch of gravity into Nigel's face. He stood for three seconds gazing across the rails into a misty distance, lost in cogitation; then roused himself.

"You will have the trunks up soon. I must be off."

"All right, sir."

Leaving his ticket with the collector, Nigel passed into the street. He went onwards in a swift steadfast manner; vigour and decision being apparent in every motion of the alert well-proportioned figure.

It did not surprise Nigel that nobody was at the station to meet him after his year of absence, wherein he had travelled literally "round the world." He had not expected to arrive till next morning, but finding an earlier train than he had hoped for "within catch," the temptation to surprise his home-folks had proved irresistible.

Newton Bury had been his home through life, and every wall and window in this busy High Street was familiar to him. Shops were shut, and people from within were airing themselves on the pavements after a hard day's work. Nigel saw many a well-known face as he went by, but he had no wish to be delayed, and it was easy to avoid recognition in the broken light of gas-lamps placed by no means too near together.

Leaving High Street and Broad Street, he hesitated one moment at the foot of some stone steps leading upward. This was the short-cut between station and home; for Newton Bury was a town built partly upon hills; and the Grange stood high. But a certain attraction drew him along the main thoroughfare.

"After all, it's not ten minutes' difference; and I should like one glimpse," he said to himself.

"Hallo! What next? Have a care, young fellow."

Nigel certainly was going at express speed, when on turning a sharp corner, he barely escaped collision with a short and round-shouldered individual of advanced age, wearing a fur-bordered greatcoat almost down to the heels, and a Glengarry cap, from beneath which flowed thick locks of snow-white hair. Two black eyes, bright as beads, flashed a glance of indignant remonstrance, and the high-pitched voice, petulant in tone, was unmistakable.

"Mr. Carden-Cox. I beg your pardon. How do you do?" Nigel put out his hand in greeting.

The other stared haughtily. "Eh! who are you?"

"Don't you know me?"

"No, sir. I have not that pleasure," with an aggrieved sound.

"I'm Nigel—just come home."

"Young Browning. Humph."

It was dull and damp, the fogginess having deepened, and this no doubt was partly the reason why Nigel had so nearly run the old gentleman down, added to that old gentleman's perverse habit of walking on the wrong side of the pavement. But Mr. Carden-Cox had plainly no intention of allowing his movements to be influenced by weather. He pulled off one of his gloves, fished laboriously for a double eye-glass, adjusted the same carefully on the bridge of his nose, and retreated to the neighbourhood of the nearest lamp, beckoning Nigel to follow.

"Here, let me see. Nigel Browning! I declare I shouldn't have known the lad."

"Am I so altered?"

"Altered! There's not an inch of you the same."

This was absurd, and Nigel smiled.

"What are you after here—eh?"

"Going home. Just arrived. They don't expect me till to-morrow, so it's to be a surprise."

"Why on earth didn't you take the steps? Missed them in the dark? That's not like you. Some folks do go mooning about with their eyes in the stars; but I thought you were practical."

"I didn't miss the steps. I came this way by choice."

"Hey? What for?"

"A fancy of mine. I must be off, or my luggage will arrive first."

"Not if you keep up the pace you were going just now." Mr. Carden-Cox paused to survey Nigel all over, from head to foot, as if gauging his value. "Yes—you've filled out—expanded—developed—twice the man you were! But there's something about you which I don't quite understand. Good-bye. We shall meet again soon."

Nigel did not fail to keep up his former pace, even to accelerate it. If he wished to arrive before his luggage, he really had no time to lose, for Pollard would not be guilty of delay. And instead of following the bend to the right which Pollard would follow, Nigel soon shot away to the left, through a dark lane, with high walls on both sides, and a fringe of tall trees from enclosed gardens peeping over the wall-tops.

This lane led direct into a large square, chiefly composed of old-fashioned red-brick houses, each varying in shape and size from its neighbours. At the entrance to the square, where three short posts barred the way to vehicles, Nigel paused to look.

That was what he had come for: to indulge himself in a look.

The square was rightly named "Church Square," for its centre was occupied by a venerable edifice, parts of which, including the square solid tower, were at least seven hundred years old. Generation after generation of English churchmen, through century after century, had met for worship within those aged walls. They had outlived countless historical tides and storms, and still stood there, rock-like and calm, always the same, in themselves a silent yet speaking history of ages past. Where Nigel stood, he could distinguish two flying buttresses, and two nearer side-windows, pointed yet somewhat broad. What he could not see he could imagine; for every inch of the structure was familiar and dear to him.

At one corner of the square, that to Nigel's left, a red-brick house stood alone, not placed in line like the rest, but occupying a small garden, wherein flourished an abundance of shrubs, but few flowers; for the Rev. Launcelot Elvey, Vicar of Newton Bury, with a cure of six thousand souls, and a stipend of two hundred and eighty pounds a year, had little money to spare for luxuries. What he could spare from absolute home necessaries went to the Parish.

Nigel had not meant to advance one step farther than this entrance to the square, where the three posts stood side by side. He cast one glance towards the central building; then his eyes went to the Vicarage.

It was very near; within a stone's throw. He could distinctly see the two small windows of the little drawing-room, a queer-shaped room, as he knew, all corners and crevices with furniture old enough to be picturesque, and old enough also to be shabby. Lights were lighted within, and blinds were drawn. As Nigel gazed, the shadow of a girlish figure was thrown with clear outline upon one of the blinds. Ethel—of course!

He had not intended to go a step nearer, but the pull was strong. That soft shade upon the blind had set all his pulses throbbing. The year's absence had made no difference at all—unless the difference that Ethel was dearer to him than ever—and the longing for one glimpse of her face became overwhelming. His luggage might arrive first; his home-folks might be perplexed, worried, perhaps hurt that he could put them second to anybody,—yes, he knew all this, but for three seconds nothing seemed of the smallest importance, except the glimpse for which he craved.

Nigel left the posts and went quickly towards the Vicarage; a few steps bringing him within the garden gate. At the same moment somebody drew up one of the blinds, and opened wide the window.

Ethel herself! He could see in strong relief against the light within, her slim prettily-rounded figure, could hear the soft happy tones which had always seemed to him to have a ripple of music running through them.

"Mother, we'll let in a breath of air just for a minute. It is so mild to-night. Lance, is that somebody in the garden?"

Nigel almost uttered the word—"Ethel!" Almost, but not quite. It was leaving his lips, when he caught it back. Once within that room, how could he tear himself away?

There were reasons why it might be better not. With an effort Nigel turned and walked out of the gate. And as he went, he found himself face to face with somebody coming in—a large loosely-built man in a greatcoat, walking with the tired stoop in head and shoulders often born of a hard day's work. The light of the nearest lamp fell upon a rugged face, full of the beauty of goodness.

"Anything wanted?" asked the Vicar.

Mr. Elvey never by any chance passed a human being who might "want" something of him.

"No—thanks," Nigel answered dutifully, hoping but not wishing to pass on.

"I know that voice!" said the Vicar.

CHAPTER II

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE HOUSE

"There are briars besetting every path, Which call for patient care."—A. L. WARING.

"FULVIE—"

"Anice, my dear, allow me to remark that the way to get work done is not to sit in a brown study for exactly half-an-hour."

"Half-an-hour!"

"A metaphorical one, of course. How many stitches have you put into that leaf since dinner?"

"I don't know—but—I can't imagine why Nigel didn't settle to come home to-night."

"No train, he says."

"But there is a train."

"He thought there was not."

"Daisy found one directly she looked—just at the right time."

"Daisy's a clever young woman. Daisy isn't Nigel, however."

"No—" and a pause, Anice leaning back dreamily. "No. But I have been wondering—what if Nigel did know of the train, only perhaps he wanted a night in London."

"Why shouldn't he have said so, then? You little wretch, to suspect him of deceit."

"Oh no—only perhaps he might have been glad of the excuse. I mean, he might have made the mistake first, and then not have cared to change. He might have been afraid that we should mind his not hurrying home, if he did stay."

Fulvia stamped her foot. "Anice, you put me out of patience. But you are all alike! You none of you understand Nigel—never did, and never will, I suppose. You needn't stare at me so reproachfully, for it is true. Now do get on with that unfortunate leaf. What shade do you mean to use next?"

Three girls—Mr. Browning's two daughters, Anice and Daisy, and his ward, Fulvia Rolfe—sat alone in the Grange drawing-room. Lamps and candles dotted about the large room gave a pleasant light; curtains were drawn, and a fire blazed.

Daisy, the younger girl, huddled into a sofa-corner, with a book which absorbed all her attention, was round-faced and plump, with a clever full brow and innocent lips. Though close upon sixteen, she was childish still, alike in manner and in the almost infantile simplicity of her thick white frock. Anice, nearly three years older, wore a white dress likewise, but of thinner texture and more elaborate make, and while undoubtedly a pretty girl, with delicate features and changeful colouring, her face not only lacked force but had a look of marked self-occupation, sufficient to spoil the fairest outline. Daisy's contented brown eyes contained better promise for the future; and people were apt to grow early tired of Anice.

Fulvia Rolfe presented a contrast to the sisters. Some two years the senior of Anice, she was not so tall as the latter, nor so stout as Daisy; and the first idea commonly received about her was of a sturdy vigour of body and mind. Though by no means beautiful, since her face was rather flat, with a retrousse nose, and eyes which had an odd eastern slant in the manner of their setting, she yet possessed a certain power of attraction. Those same light grey eyes were full of sparkle; the lips were expressive; the abundant red-brown hair was skilfully arranged; the figure, though not slight, was particularly good; and the hands, if neither small nor especially white, were well formed and soft.

"Which shade?" Anice repeated vacantly. "I don't know. One of these four, I suppose."

"If a tablecloth is worth making at all, it is worth making not hideous. Let me see the greens. Impossible to choose in this light. You will have to leave it till to-morrow. Where is the madre all this time?" For Fulvia Rolfe, left early an orphan, and unable to recollect her own parents, had fallen into a mode of calling Mrs. and Mr. Browning by the titles of "madre" and "padre." The mode was copied, not seldom, by their own children.

"She went to the study. Padre wanted her, I believe. It is one of his bad days, and I suppose he couldn't stand all of us."

Fulvia's lips took a naughty set. "And so, because he is a little bad, we are all to be very sad."

"Father isn't well." Anice looked reproachful.

"He's not bound to be utterly doleful too, my dear."

"Madre said he was so depressed."

"Of course. Exactly what I mean. I never can quite see why one is to act as a wet blanket to all one's friends merely because one feels poorly or out of spirits. I'm not talking about padre in particular. The sort of thing is common enough. But I wonder when one is to exercise self-control if not when it goes against the grain. There's no merit in cheerfulness when one feels lively."

"I don't know what you mean, but you ought not to speak so of padre."

"I'm laying down a broad axiom—not applying it. No, of course you don't understand. Nobody understands anybody in this house. If one expects to be understood, one is disappointed. Hark! Is that the study door opening? . . . Yes, I thought so. Here comes the madre—doesn't she look sweet? And actually!—Absolutely!—The padre too!"

The lady, entering first, was slender in figure and graceful in movement, with regular features, and the softest dark eyes imaginable, full of wistful tenderness. She wore an evening dress of black velvet, trimmed with old lace, and her little hands hung carelessly, like snowflakes, against the sombre background. Though forty-five in age, no streaks of grey showed yet in the brown hair, upon which a light lace cap rested; and pretty as Anice unquestionably was, the daughter's prettiness paled before the mother's rare beauty.

Behind Mrs. Browning came her husband. There was nothing of the invalid about him apparent at first sight. A dignified middle-aged man; solid, but not corpulent in build; with grey hair, fast thinning, agreeable manners, and a face which did not lack its modicum of good looks—this was Mr. Browning. A keen observer would have noted a tired look about the brow—a good brow like Daisy's—and a restless dissatisfaction almost amounting to apprehension in the eyes; but Fulvia was the only keen observer present, and people in general were apt to pass over these little signs. Mr. Browning was a favourite in society. "A delightful man" was the verdict passed on him by a considerable circle of Newton Bury ladies.

The entrance of these two caused a general stir. Daisy sat in a less huddled position, and Fulvia drew forward an easy-chair for Mrs. Browning, while Anice changed her own seat to one nearer her father, as he took possession of the unused sofa-corner beside Daisy, and heaved a sigh.

"We thought you meant to forsake us altogether this evening," Fulvia remarked to Mrs. Browning.

"No, dear. Padre is so unwell to-day—he has that pain again, and it depresses him," was the under-toned answer. "But he promised to come in for a little while. It is better for him, I am sure—less dull."

"Better for you too."

"I don't think that matters. I wish anything could be done to touch this sad depression," as again, in response to some words of Anice, sounded the heavy sigh. "We have been talking about a little trip abroad. Perhaps it might do him good."

"When? Not before Christmas?"

"Yes, I think so. He seems to wish it."

Others were listening besides Fulvia, and a chorus of exclamations sounded. "Now, mother!" "Go abroad before Christmas!" "How about Nigel?" this was Fulvia's voice.

"Mother, you don't really mean it?" from Anice.

"Why, mother!" Daisy's rounded eyes suiting the tone of her second utterance. "You must have forgotten about Fulvia's birthday—Fulvia's coming of age."

"Hush, hush!" Mrs. Browning said nervously. She did not in the least know why her husband disliked any allusion to Fulvia's twenty-first birthday, but she knew that he did dislike it. His sudden movement was not lost upon her.

Daisy was of a persistent nature, not easily silenced. "But, mother, you know the 21st of December is Fulvia's birthday; and we meant to have all sorts of fun. If once we go abroad, we shall never get back in time. I know we shan't."

"Madre said nothing about our going, Daisy."

"Well, then, that will be worse still. Horridly dull to keep your twenty-first birthday without father and mother."

"Daisy, do hold your tongue. You are worrying the madre," whispered Fulvia.

"Why?" in a return whisper of astonishment.

"I haven't a notion. The fact is patent enough. Do let things go."

Daisy subsided, and for two minutes nobody spoke. Then a peal sounded at the front door.

Anice's lips parted, and her cheeks flushed. She almost said "Nigel!"

"Nonsense," Fulvia replied to the motion of her lips. "Not to-night."