These details took time in the telling, however briefly expressed. No needless words were used; but they did not come fast. While Nigel talked, it never occurred to Ethel that the afternoon was passing fast, that daylight was waning.
He came at length to a pause. Now she understood the position of affairs. He had not mentioned, had not directly alluded to, his love for her; but Ethel knew it,—had never known it more surely than in this hour. He had left nothing else out, except the one item of Fulvia's too evident feeling for him; and Ethel could supply this item from her own knowledge. She, too, had noted with observant eyes, since a certain clue had been supplied by a certain mis-sent postscript.
As she listened to Nigel, one sentence of that postscript flashed up, with all the force of a prophecy coming true: "Nigel will never marry her!"
"Never! Never!" echoed the silent graves and the silent trees. "Never! Never!" The words repeated themselves in Ethel's brain, and twined in and out of the straggling yew branches. "Nigel will never marry her!" Mr. Carden-Cox was taking care to bring his own prophecy to pass.
The story was ended, and Nigel's monotonous voice changed. It grew hoarse and troubled as he said—
"Ethel, tell me what I ought to do."
Ethel woke up from a maze; and as she woke, a dream of long years died a quiet death. She saw it die while she sat there, saw it fade away, and another dream arise, grey-toned, of a long lonely life, apart from one whom she loved best. Yet no tears threatened, no agitation came. She was so full of thought for Nigel, so grieved for him, that self-pity had as yet no place. Perhaps she was a little stunned by the unexpected blow—as one is apt to be, at first.
"Tell me," he repeated; "I want your advice. Must I do this thing?"
"Must you marry Fulvia?"
"Yes." Unconsciously, he caught in his, the hand lying on her knee. "Tell me what you think I ought to do!" he pleaded. "No one else can help me."