All the day through Nigel had been struggling, fighting, praying for strength—had been striving to bring himself to the pitch requisite for those words, so hard to be spoken. At the beginning of this interview he had believed himself to be capable of them. But now—!
Something about his "brotherly" feeling for Fulvia; something about his sense of responsibility in having to provide for her, as for his other sisters; something about what might have been soon between him and Ethel if this crash had not come, altering his whole outlook; something which should kindly, gently, let her see the truth.
Yes, he had thought all this beforehand, had shaped the very phrases. But now that the moment had arrived for saying the words, he could not say them.
Things were changed indeed for him during the last twelve hours. How could he ask Ethel to wait during interminable years, while he set himself to the task of supporting his widowed mother and sisters, and of paying back at least a portion of Fulvia's lost money? Whether he could ever repay the whole might be doubted; but Nigel felt that it would be his aim.
Unless he married Fulvia! There would be no question of repayment then! Whatever he possessed she would possess.
If he did not marry her, then he would have to toil the more to place her in a position of comfort. If she were doubly wronged, he would have doubly to make up to her.
Either way, he saw his way hopelessly cut off from Ethel!
Was it his bounden duty to marry Fulvia as things stood? A father's dying wish has power; and Fulvia had too clearly shown her heart's desire. Could he, and might he, escape from the tangle? One moment he felt that he had no choice: another moment, that to become Fulvia's husband was an utter impossibility.
If the latter—if he could not and would not ask her to be his wife—then she ought in justice to learn quickly how matters stood. Delay would be cruel to her, and would, in fact, bind him. But to tell her at this moment—how could he? To inflict another blow close upon the first—and Nigel knew that it would be a blow! To reveal the bitter truth—and Nigel was aware that it must be an unspeakably bitter truth! How could he so meet her noble self-forgetfulness in ignoring her own loss, thinking only of his grief? Theoretically, immediate speech might be best. Practically, it was impossible. Nigel could not say the words he had purposed. His parched lips refused to utter them.
At another time he might have felt and acted differently. He was suffering now severely from the strain of twenty-four hours past. Vigour of mind and vigour of body were at a low ebb, and the power of decision was almost gone. He could only let things drift. He was turning faint with the inward struggle, and his head throbbed almost beyond endurance. The moment for speaking went by.