“Alfred,” said Grace, raising her head quickly at these words. “The sun is going down. You have not forgotten what I am to know before it sets.”
“You are to know the truth of Marion’s history, my love,” he answered.
“All the truth,” she said, imploringly. “Nothing veiled from me, any more. That was the promise. Was it not?”
“Before the sun went down on Marion’s birth-day. And you see it, Alfred? It is sinking fast.”
He put his arm about her waist; and, looking steadily into her eyes, rejoined,
“That truth is not reserved so long for me to tell, dear Grace. It is to come from other lips.”
“From other lips!” she faintly echoed.
“Yes. I know your constant heart, I know how brave you are, I know that to you a word of preparation is enough. You have said, truly, that the time is come. It is. Tell me that you have present fortitude to bear a trial—a surprise—a shock: and the messenger is waiting at the gate.”
“What messenger?” she said. “And what intelligence does he bring?”