"I thought the amount was to be £40,000."
"Fifty, if a penny!" Mr. Carden-Cox was very positive. "Might have grown to sixty under good management. Ought to have done so, too!"
Dr. Duncan shook hands with both, and the subject dropped.
As Fulvia's birthday drew near, an indescribable cloud lay upon the house; felt by all, owned by few. Every thought of merry-making had been given up. Mr. Browning was markedly worse; indeed, it seemed as if, from the hour of admitting himself to be ill enough for medical advice, he had gone steadily down-hill.
Or it might be the approach of the birthday. Nobody dared mention the day to him. Nobody dared allude to the coming of age. "Fulvie's money" were words tabooed in his presence. All knew—even Daisy—that agitation might mean death. What could they do, but put possibilities of agitation far away? Fulvia, was foremost in this aim, never forgiving herself the mistake which she had made, in forcing upon him the subject of her own affairs.
Despite all efforts to the contrary, the burden upon Mr. Browning grew heavier, the dire apprehension in his eyes became more marked. Every day he noted the flight of time; often, on asking or hearing the day of the month, with an audible groan. It was "like somebody looking forward to his own execution—so odd!" Daisy said with girlish impatience.
There could not at this time be a doubt about his eager desire to throw Nigel and Fulvia together. Whether Mr. Carden-Cox had suggested the idea to Mr. Browning, or whether it were his own thought, either way he began from the day of his severe attack to press things forward. "Fulvia and Nigel;" "That dear girl and my boy;" "That noble girl and you, Nigel," were phrases ever on his lips.
The wish was an old wish; but it seemed to have suddenly sprung from a torpid to an active condition. Mr. Browning could not leave it alone. He was always harping on it, making nervous little allusions, talking about Nigel to Fulvia, discussing Fulvia with Nigel, weighing possibilities in the hearing of his wife. He watched the two whenever they were together, anxiously, pitifully, as if craving some sign of that which he wanted. Nobody who saw all this could doubt the private touch of Mr. Carden-Cox's finger.
Fulvia neither helped nor hindered. She was too proud to help, too deeply attached to Nigel to hinder. Her aim was to hold an even course, inclining to neither side; and she was well again in health, which perhaps made self-control easier.
Yet not all her self-control could prevent the quick blush, ready to spring on the least provocation. A meaning word or look from Mr. Browning was always enough to bring it. Nigel saw, of course—he could not help seeing—and he found himself in no easy position. Between gratitude to Fulvia for her generosity and dread of injuring his father, he had sometimes a nightmare sense of being dragged into that from which he utterly shrank.