"I must ask; I must know. Only you can tell me. Yes, sit down, if you like. I am so sorry. This worry is bad for you, and makes your head ache, does it not? But how can I wait? I have only you now—no one else!" She took a seat beside him, and put back the hair from his brow with her cold fingers and her sweet motherly air. "It is hard, I know—everything coming upon you; and you are so good to me. Only—think!—he is my husband!" She did not say "was." "He is my husband, and I have the first right to know all. Tell me plainly, is he—was he—has he been in any way to blame?" "He will be blamed," Nigel said hoarsely. "Why should he?" "Fulvia's money—" "Yes,—Fulvia's money—?" "It has been—used." "How?" "Different ways." "You don't know how?" "He always hoped to repay; he did not intend—" "You mean—he had not enough of his own, and he used—But—but—that—surely—!" She thrilled with horror, like a wounded creature. "That! My husband! But, Nigel! It was not—honourable—honest!" Nigel's lips hardly formed the word "No!" He forced himself to add: "My father did not intend—" "How do you know he did not intend? What do you mean by intending'? He knew what he did; he must have known." "I don't think he realised—fully." "Do people ever?" she asked, with positive scorn. "Isn't that always the way—borrowing, and meaning to repay?" Then she dropped her head, and broke into a low wail: "Albert—my husband!" Nigel had no comfort to offer. He could only wait in silence; and soon the question came again— "How do you know what he intended and did not intend?" "He said it to Fulvia, dying, and asked her pardon." "And I not told! I ought to have been told. Did he say any more that I have not heard?" "He asked me to repay Fulvia—to—" "Yes; tell me his words—every word." Nigel could not; she was expecting too much. He made an effort, and failed; then drew an envelope from his pocket, and gave it to her. "From my father to me," he said huskily. "I found it—afterwards." He did not watch his mother while she read, but sat with his right hand pressed across brow and eyes. "Yes," she said, in a slow, quiet voice, when she reached the end; and a long breath of sorrow was woven into the word. Then a pause. "Has Fulvia seen this?" "No." "Or—any one?" "No." "He never told me—never let me suspect—But Fulvia, knows?" "Yes." "We must shelter his name, his dear name, at any cost." "Fulvia does not wish it to be known." Nigel spoke without stirring. "But—" "It must not be known; his name must be guarded. It would break my heart! If this becomes known, I shall—die," she whispered. "I could never look any one in the face again. It would be—fearful!"