He shook his head, and he thought he saw a look of pain gather on her face.
“I am sorry,” she said, faintly, “for I must tell you myself.”
“Tell me what, Enid?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible.
She did not answer at once, but after a while she raised her weak hand and passed it over his brow.
“Nugent,” she faltered, her tones a little clearer, “I want you to give me a promise, dear.”
“Need you ask for one?” he answered, pressing her hand to his lips, then clasping it firmly within his own.
“I want you to be a friend to Margery; she has no one, and I love her. Nugent, my darling, do not look at me like that—there is no hope. Oh, don’t cry, my own dear brother! Listen! I have deceived you”—her voice grew fainter—“I have been growing weaker and weaker every day. This is the finish.”
The earl had sunk upon his knees; his face was almost hidden. Lady Enid’s hand, wandering over his hair, touched his eyes—they were wet with tears.
“Don’t, don’t! Oh, Nugent, you break my heart!”
He was up again in an instant, his grief repressed by an iron will.