"I think—I think, perhaps—I had better see—James Duncan," panted Mr. Browning.
He sat up, or rather leant forward, grasping an arm of the chair with either hand, and drawing difficult breaths, almost like sobs. The natural colour had not come back to his lips; and even Fulvia, inexperienced in illness, noted something strange in his look.
"James Duncan!" he gasped once more.
At the same instant, opportunely, a man's step sounded on the gravel path outside, and Nigel saw Dr. Duncan pass the window. Come, of course, to visit his patient, Fulvia; supposed to be a prisoner in her own room all this while.
"He is here," Nigel said.
Fulvia stood up. "That had better be first," she said, aware that delay might cause a reversal of Mr. Browning's resolution, and not at all conscious how great was the present need. "I will send Dr. Duncan at once."
"Thanks," Nigel answered, again examining his father with anxious eyes, perplexed what to think of it all. The gasps of oppression grew worse, yet somehow neither Fulvia nor Nigel was alarmed. It was not the fashion at the Grange to be alarmed on the score of Mr. Browning's health; only to show a gentle solicitude. He talked too much about himself to induce anxiety. People grew used to it, and were kindly pitying, but not afraid.
Nigel was far more troubled about the possible reasons for Mr. Browning's agitation as to Fulvia's money, and his dread of Fulvia's approaching birthday. Nervousness alone might lie at the bottom, but nervousness seemed a hardly sufficient explanation.
Fulvia thought nothing further of the matter than that it was "one of poor padre's fancies, which had to be humoured"; while Nigel, man-like, weighed cause and effect, finding the cause inadequate to the effect. He did not know what else might lie behind; but from the moment of his father's breakdown into tears, he distinctly foresaw "something wrong."
Fulvia went out hastily, and met Dr. Duncan in the hall, pulling off his greatcoat.