It was damp, slushy and dark, going through the meadow. Ethel's foot slipped, and Nigel drew her hand within his arm.
"I can get on—I am all right," she said, not so steadily as hitherto, for something in his touch unnerved her. He made no reply; and she would not draw her hand away—would not risk adding to his pain.
Something told her that he had reached almost the outer limit of endurance; and the consciousness of this, with the continued silence, had a curious effect upon her. She began to tremble—to wish she might escape. She thought of many things to say, one after another—things to comfort him. For somehow Ethel knew, and could not help knowing, that this death of her hopes was the death of his also. But one thing would not do, and another she could not trust her voice to utter; and so they went on in silence.
The silence grew at last too oppressive, and Ethel tried to break it.
"Must things be settled soon about your leaving the Grange?"
But he had no answer whatever; and then she knew that Nigel did not speak because he could not.
Three of these small dark fields had to be crossed, surrounded by houses and gardens, but in themselves lonely and deserted. They reached the gate of the kitchen garden, still in silence. The Rectory windows shone with varied lights. Nigel paused beside the gate, and Ethel forced herself to say steadily—
"Thank you for coming so far. I shall be all right now. Good-bye."
She put out her hand, and he held it in a passionate clasp. There was a struggle, but no words would come. Ethel stood still, tears running down her cheeks. What could she do or say to comfort him?
"Ethel!—Ethel! My love!" broke out at length.