Nigel made no answer. He seemed to be gazing at the faint light visible still through bare trees. For more than half-an-hour he had sat here alone, trying to unravel the perplexities of his position, striving in vain after definite thought. He had come to the cemetery from the Grange drawing-room, straight and fast as walking could bring him, not so much to be near his father's grave as to be away from people, beyond reach of human eyes. One thing alone was clear—that speak with Ethel he must, this very day if possible, and before he could or would give any decisive answer to his mother and to Mr. Carden-Cox. He did not count himself free, for he had distinctly sought Ethel hitherto.
Now, indeed, he could not ask her to be his. Apart from all questions of marrying Fulvia, he could not rightly ask Ethel to wait for him, under the circumstances. So he told himself; and yet he felt that, but for this terrible complication, he would have hoped—she might have waited.
Still, she had a right to know how things were. He could not simply draw back, holding his peace, and seeking her no longer. She must understand; and he would explain—nay, more, he would ask her advice. She had so clear a sense of right and wrong, so calm a judgment, so firm a habit of self-denial, that she would be able to see clearly what he had lost the power to distinguish, from physical and mental strain.
All this he had resolved to put before Ethel, picturing even the words to be used. But now that she had suddenly appeared, now that she was seated by his side, he found his lips sealed; for it came over him with a rush of new realisation what he was purposing to do.
Give her up—and for ever! Give her up—for the sake of Fulvia! Could he? The old sense arose vividly, which he always had with Ethel, that nothing in life was worth consideration apart from her! Part with her for ever! Had it been a question of waiting, he would have resolved to wait in hope—to wait for years, if that needed to be!—but to cut himself off from her hopelessly was another matter. Yet if he did not—and the reverse side of the picture arose: a picture of his father's name publicly dishonoured, of his mother broken-hearted, of the wronged Fulvia wronged anew!
"I don't know how to bear to see you like this!" Ethel said sorrowfully.
And her voice unsealed his lips. He knew that he must not let the opportunity pass of speaking openly. Such another might not occur.
"What did I say just now?" he asked. "Something, was it not, that surprised you?"
"I thought you did not quite mean what you said. About your trouble; and—'if that were all!'"
"Yes, I meant it. There is worse than you know."