Nigel was confined to his room by a "severe feverish attack"—not surprising under the circumstances. Business talk in his presence was tabooed; and Fulvia said not a word elsewhere. Not a soul, beyond herself and Nigel, knew aught of the dying man's utterances, aught of the letter he had left, aught of the vanished wealth. Newton Bury never doubted that the Brownings would still be extremely well off.
In a general way Mr. Carden-Cox would very early have set himself to ferret out something, more especially when goaded on by previous suspicion. Mr. Carden-Cox, however, had not been to the Grange since the afternoon of Fulvia's birthday. He knew that others must blame him for Albert Browning's fatal attack of illness, and he could not endure to be blamed. Inwardly, he suffered sore remorse; outwardly, he would have defended his own conduct through thick and thin.
There was nothing for it but flight, and he did flee. Thirty-six hours after Albert Browning's death saw him in his old Burrside lodgings, in glum and miserable enjoyment of solitude. At the Grange his absence was scarcely regretted, for interviews must needs have been painful.
Mr. Carden-Cox did not return for the funeral, and Nigel could not be present—no small grief to Nigel's mother. He was unable to lift his head from the pillow when that day came. Mrs. Browning stayed with him, and the three girls went, as did many Newton Bury friends. Much sympathy had been shown to the Brownings in their trouble. The very idea of any possible slur upon the honoured name of Albert Browning had not so much as occurred to any one outside their immediate circle—if one includes in that circle Mr. Carden-Cox and Dr. James Duncan.
Albert Browning had left no will, had appointed no executors. All arrangements, therefore, devolved upon his son, to whom it was known he had left written directions or advice in the form of a letter. Mrs. Browning had not been told even so much as this. Arrangements had to wait until Nigel could give his mind to them.
So nearly another week passed after the funeral; and then Nigel came again into the stream of everyday life.
It was a changed life for him; and he was changed,—thinner, older, and with a careworn expression. The eyes had ceased to sparkle, a weight lay on the brow, and the lips had a sad resolute set. Mrs. Browning and Daisy had been his nurses; not that much actual nursing was needed. The occupation was good for Mrs. Browning, Fulvia said. Fulvia had not seen him for ten days; and, when he reappeared, she noted sorrowfully the alteration.
Sometimes she wondered, would he soon allude to those dying words of his father? She could not understand his manner. It was kind, grave, brotherly perhaps, certainly restrained. Yet at first Fulvia was not anxious.
He had so much on his mind; and it was natural that he should wait awhile. Decorum almost demanded delay, just for a time after the padre's death. So Fulvia told herself, and thought or tried to think. Moreover, though Nigel had not been seriously ill—not ill enough, that is to say, to cause real anxiety—he had suffered a good deal, and had distinctly lost flesh and vigour. He was hardly up to anything exciting yet. "Poor Nigel!" she breathed pityingly.
The three girls in their deep mourning were gathered round the drawing-room fire early one afternoon,—the second day since Nigel had come among them again. Fulvia's mourning matched that of the other two. She would not make a grain of difference, for she was one with them in their loss, though united by no tie of blood. The profound black set off well her ruddy hair and clear skin. She looked sad, trying to realise what was hard to believe—that not one fortnight had passed since the padre's death. To the imagination it was more like two months than two weeks. On the other hand it seemed strange that so many days could have elapsed while no one beyond herself and Nigel had an inkling of the true state of affairs; yet Fulvia herself had insisted on delay. Nigel would have spoken to his sisters two days earlier but for her entreaties.