"Nigel was up all night, and he has had no rest. Everybody has rested except Nigel."
Nigel paid no heed, and another five minutes passed. Then he stood up, and without a word moved towards the door.
"Fulvie, do go too," begged Daisy. "Nobody can manage so well as you; and I'm sure he isn't fit."
Fulvia obeyed the suggestion, thrusting her own reluctance into the background. She counted Nigel too worn out to care what she or anybody might do; and certainly it was desirable that the interview should not be prolonged.
But how to shorten it was the question. Mrs. Browning, absorbed in her own grief, did not notice anything unusual in his look. He sat down close beside her, leaning his head against the back of her chair out of sight; so, after the first minute she had no chance to observe. Mrs. Browning welcomed him tenderly, bidding Fulvia also remain, which settled the perplexity of the latter how to act.
Then came a long low monotone, broken by sobs, all about Albert Browning, her husband—his character, his goodness, his devotion to wife and children, together with details of his suffering state during weeks past, and conjectures as to the cause of his long depression, varied by soft reverent utterances regarding his present rest, the contrast of his present peace, and how they must not grieve for him too much.
It was all very sweet; just like gentle Mrs. Browning. She was a very embodiment of sweet gentleness, sitting there, with her little nervous snowflakes of hands clasped together, and her lovely eyes wide-open, sometimes filling with great tears; but also it was very trying to other people. Fulvia began to wonder how much longer it was to go on. She grew impatient, even while most stirred by those reverent and resigned utterances in the madre's dear tones. Any amount for herself would have been endurable; but she was enduring for Nigel also. He was quiet enough, even impassive, only saying a word now and then when needful; still, Fulvia had a very good notion of what the interview was to him. In a general way she would not have allowed it to last five minutes. Now, however, she was under constraint; afraid of taking a wrong step. If Nigel should not like her to interfere!
There came a moment at length when he could bear no more. Mrs. Browning was saying something in her sorrowful voice about—"Your dear father's money anxieties. Always so scrupulously exact and honourable—so distressed if—"
Nigel's sudden movement stopped her. It was a start forward to an upright position, as if from some intolerable sting of pain, and he pushed the hair from his forehead, with a restless gesture.
Fulvia could restrain herself no longer.