Nigel Browning

"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."