"Nigel!" she exclaimed indignantly. "What do you take me for?"
"I am talking of justice, not of your wishes."
"I don't care what you mean; it is cruel to speak so. As if I—and it is untrue. The three hundred a year will be ours if you like—not mine, but all of ours together."
"Half of it is yours exclusively. The other half is my mother's marriage settlement; but she will feel as I do, that you have a right to—"
"Will you stop? I won't hear it! How can you say such things?" cried Fulvia. "Do you want to put separation between us? Am I to be cut off from you all by this trouble. May I not even live with madre still?"
For it came across her, as she stood there, that no allusion had yet been made to those dying words, to the clasped hands by Albert Browning's side. If Nigel had felt as she felt, he would surely, before this, have made some sign—have broken into some speech. She had been silent perforce; he was not bound. Her whole being was wrapped up in Nigel; while he—if she should find that he did not care for her, how could she endure it? Did he care? Sudden dread crept over Fulvia. Would it be anything to him if she went away from the home, and was one of them no longer? A chill came with the dread, and she sat down, because she could not stand. A changed sound found its way into her voice; as she repeated, "May I not even live with madre still?"
Nigel looked up with a momentary expression of surprise.
"Yes, certainly. What could make you think—" he began, and then broke off, to add simply, "Why not?"
"You are the master of the house! It is for you to decide—for you to decide now." Fulvia did not know that she had said the words twice, or that a sound of pain had crept into them. She only meant to speak coldly. "That might be one of the 'changes' necessary;" and there was a hard little laugh.
"For you to decide!" struck home. It brought to Nigel's mind vividly, as was already present in hers, the scene by the side of Albert Browning, just before he died. Nigel heard again the laboured breath, the faltering accents—"He will make up to you, my child, for everything! You will be his own! Nigel, I charge you, never—" and then the hand put into his, and the glow on Fulvia's face! All this came back to Nigel in an instant, not quickening his pulses as it quickened Fulvia's. One glimpse of Ethel would have set them beating fast, but not these, recollections. They only brought a sense of weight and strain, of weariness and perplexity. One thing alone was distinct—that he could and would take no hasty steps. Till he had seen Ethel, he must leave all else in suspense. The very thought brought relief. She would help him! She, with her clear sense of duty, her practised spirit of self-denial, would guide him to the knowledge of what he ought to do.