CHAPTER XXIII

A STRANGE INTERVIEW

"When we two parted In silence and tears."—BYRON.

WHEN Ethel left Tom, she really was angry with him. Such rudeness to speak of her "caring too much" for anybody! What business was it of Tom's whom she liked or did not like? And to call Nigel "that fellow"! Perhaps this little insult to Nigel rankled the most.

Ethel's anger was never bitter in kind, or long lasting, and annoyance soon gave way to amusement. Poor old Tom! After all, he had not meant any harm; and he did not know Nigel; but how Tom could ever have thought such a thing possible was the marvel. Leave all she loved in England, and go to Australia with only Tom and Tom's herbaria!

"Oh, never!" said Ethel to herself. She repeated the word energetically, half aloud, as she passed through the square—"Never!" and a passerby turned to look at her, smiling. Ethel did not see; she went quickly, without any particular aim, towards the river.

It was a tempting afternoon for a stroll, balmy and soft—one of those mild grey days, with occasional gleams of sunshine, which do sometimes intrude themselves into an English winter. They are not exactly invigorating days, and enthusiastic skaters are wont to abuse them; but to haters of cold they come as a cheery foretaste of spring.

Gleams of sunshine were at an end when Ethel started; still, she had a spell of daylight and twilight ahead, long enough for a brisk walk, by way of shaking off recollections of Tom. When dusk should fall, she would look in at a friend's house for a cup of tea—one of the numerous single ladies "of the usual age" abundant in Newton Bury. It would never do to go home till after five. Mrs. Elvey was upstairs with neuralgia; and a fresh tête-à-tête with Tom so soon was not to be thought of.

"If mother doesn't come down, he must manage for himself for once," thought Ethel.

Along the river-bank was the one "country walk" within easy distance of the Rectory. Some ten or fifteen minutes at a quick pace, going down stream, brought one to a region where buildings were scarce. Newton Bury ended abruptly in this direction. The other way, up stream, there were gentlemen's houses and gardens, reaching far; for that was the "west-end" of the town. Towards the south, working-men's quarters predominated; but the old Parish Church of St. Stephen's, in its venerable square, lay towards the north-east, very near country lanes and fields, in a poor but quiet part—the oldest part of Newton Bury.

Ethel did not keep long to the river-side. An impulse seized her to visit the cemetery—a natural impulse under the circumstances, her thoughts being constantly bent upon the Brownings and their trouble. She had not been to the cemetery since the day of the funeral. There would be just time enough for her to get there and back before dark. The idea no sooner occurred to Ethel than she acted upon it, quitting the towing-path, and making a short-cut straight to her destination.

The cemetery, though outside the town, was not far-off. It was a singularly pretty place, more like a large garden or a small park than a burial-ground, with soft grassy slopes, abundance of trees, and masses of evergreens. In fine weather the cemetery was a favourite resort of people living at this end of Newton Bury.

Ethel reached the large gates, and went through, passing at a rapid pace towards the quiet corner which the Brownings would now hold dear—which would also be dear to Ethel, for Nigel's sake. She found the place somewhat lonely, and darker than she had expected, under the shadows of the great yew trees. The black branches had an eerie look. Once Ethel almost turned back, thinking it had grown too late for her to be there alone; but she changed her mind, and went on. She had a dislike to giving up a definite intention; and, after all, nobody was here except herself—nobody was likely to be here.

The low mound loomed suddenly upon her gaze, almost solitary upon a triangular patch of grass, which on one side was bounded by a fringe of trees, their bare boughs making a lace-like pattern against the sky. Ethel saw so much, then she slackened her pace, and faltered; for she was not alone.

Though she did not at once tell herself whose solitude she had invaded, she knew well—knew instantly. The position might be unwonted, but the outline of the shoulders was unmistakable. He was a little way off from the new mound, seated on the only other tombstone near—a flat stone with a recumbent cross upon it—and his head was bent forward, resting on his hands. The attitude was one of intense trouble; but he remained quiet. Ethel had never seen Nigel in that position before; yet she recognised him, despite the gloom.

She did not know whether perhaps she ought to go away; only it seemed impossible to leave him thus. So she went forward gently, and stood beside the mound, her heart very full for his sake. Two or three minutes passed; and she stirred, touching a loose stone with her foot. It rolled over, and the slight rattle caused him to lift his head.

"Ethel!"

They had not met since Fulvia's birthday—since the morning after their interview in the vestry. Life had seemed then very fair, and full of promise for them both. Now all was changed; but how much changed, how dark the sky had grown, Ethel did not yet know. She came forward when he stood up, and put her hand into his, only intent on showing her sympathy.

"Thanks; I knew you would feel for us," he said.

The misery of his face was almost too much for Ethel; she had great difficulty in controlling herself. "I didn't know you were so ill still," she faltered.

"Ill! No, I don't think so." He spoke as if hardly knowing what he said, and motioned Ethel to the seat he had quitted. She took it obediently, without question; and he sat down beside her. "I have been wishing for a few words with you," he went on.

"If I could be a comfort—any comfort! I know how much you must feel his death; the loss of—"

"If that were all!" Nigel spoke with despairing calmness, and Ethel looked at him in amazement.

"That—all!" she repeated. "Did you mean—?"

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."

"Will you tell me what? You always do tell—us things," she said, in a gentle voice. The "us" came after a pause. She had almost said "me"; and it would have been true.

Ethel wondered if he were going to speak, he waited so long; but she too waited, and presently he began.

"We have lost almost everything. The Grange cannot be our home any longer. A small house—somewhere; and I—my mother and sisters will be dependent on me."

"Yes." It was a quiet grave monosyllable. As if on second thoughts, she added, "That will be a great trouble to you all."

"Not the worst yet! Fulvia's money is gone!"

"Gone! Where?"

Nigel made a movement of his hand towards the new mound. "He is—there! One cannot speak against him—now! It is a miserable tale. This is only for yourself—not to go further. He did not intend, of course, to injure any one—Fulvia least of all—if that is any excuse. I can't see that it is. As my mother says, no one ever does intend. But—we can't judge. I don't feel as if I could face his side of the matter; only to think of what has to be done. There will be something left—not much. I shall be a clerk at the Bank on £200 a year."

"I see," said Ethel gently. She grew more pale than usual, and there was a curious sense of constriction at her heart, as if a tight band impeded its beating; for she knew what all this meant. "Yes, I see; but you will make your way. Perhaps even—Does Fulvia mind very much?"

Nigel could speak more freely now. Once started, he had power to continue, and he even found speech a relief. He seldom felt it so with any one else, but with Ethel he did. Her silent sympathy drew him on. He told her of his father's death; of the dying words spoken to Fulvia and himself; of the hand placed in his; giving details that he had not given even to his mother, only omitting the look of joy on Fulvia's face, which had haunted him ever since. Nigel went through all this in a low monotonous voice, as to a well-tried friend, and Ethel read it so. When he spoke of Fulvia's disinterestedness, she detected a weariness of tone, a want of enthusiasm. He praised her, and was grateful; but the words of praise were measured.

Ethel listened patiently, shivering a little. It was dusk by this time, and the grass under their feet was wet. A cemetery is not a warm or cheerful place late on a January afternoon; and Ethel might well be excused for shivering, with the gravestones lying coldly around, while a little tomb of buried girlish hopes was being made in her own girlish heart. It was no wonder that she shivered and looked white. For she understood well whereto all this tended; even before Nigel went on to speak of Mr. Carden-Cox's condition of silence, and of his mother's distress. She understood—first, that he would not be free to marry her; secondly, that he would be called upon to marry some one else.

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."

Ethel drew her hand away, but so slowly that he could not be pained.

"I think you feel sure yourself already," she said in a soft still voice. "It is hard for one to see clearly for another. If I were in your place—"

"Yes, that is what I want. If you were in my place, how should you feel?"

Another break. Ethel noted the growing darkness. She was so composed as even to draw out her watch.

"No, I cannot see the time;" and she put it away again. "But it must be getting late. I think we ought to go home."

Did she wish to avoid giving an opinion? She stood up, and Nigel did the same. They had to go cautiously over the uneven grass, and along the narrow path bordered by yew trees; but the broader path beyond was straight and level, with more light. Nigel said then again—

"Yes. If you were in my place—"

"It is so difficult to be sure. I am trying to see things rightly for you—from your standpoint. But one little touch either way makes all the difference; and I cannot know the whole as you do."

"Tell me, so far as you can, at least. If you were in my place—"

"I think I might perhaps feel, as you do, that I ought—perhaps even that I must!" There was again the sense of tightness at Ethel's heart, though no sign of it appeared in her voice. "I mean, I might feel that I must do all I could to repay Fulvia, and to spare my—to spare Mrs. Browning. That would be your side of the matter—to feel bound—perhaps to try—if—" Nigel could not see the gloved hands wrung together, and she went on, scarcely faltering, only hesitating for words; yet somehow he understood. "To feel bound—" she repeated, "to try if—to offer to Fulvia—But if I were in Fulvia's place, there would be a difference. Nothing could seem to me more dreadful than—to—"

"Than to—marry me!" He said it seriously.

"No—no—than to marry anybody who did not really mean it—wish it; to be asked out of duty by one who—" and a pause—"one who did not care for me—as I cared."

"If you were Fulvia, you would think I ought to hold back—not to offer?" Ethel's calmness was calming him; her apparent strength was strengthening him. "You would think me wrong to speak, unless—"

"I should think you ought to be quite open, quite plain with me. Not pretend to care more than you did—if—but I don't think you could pretend; you could only keep from saying much. And that might deceive her. I could not bear to be deceived, if I were Fulvia. I would like to know how you really felt. I should wish you to speak out."

"Even supposing—supposing you cared a little for me?"

"Yes; even supposing that!" Ethel knew that Fulvia did care, more than a little, and she was sure from Nigel's tone that he knew it too. She believed that Mr. Carden-Cox's anxiety to bring about the engagement lay also in a knowledge of this fact.

"Yes," Ethel repeated firmly. "I think it would be worse, if one cared for somebody very much, to marry him, and then to find out that he had only proposed because he thought it right. Much worse than if one did not care for him at all. I don't think I could ever bear it—ever forgive him. It would be wronging Fulvia—cruelly. Oh it is always, always, best to be quite true, quite outspoken. I am sure it is. If you feel that you ought to propose, then you are right to propose. But you would not be right if you allowed Fulvia to think that you cared for her more than you do care. If it is only—only duty—she ought to understand."

How strange it seemed to Ethel that he should come and ask her this—ask her, as it were, to sign away her own happiness! Ethel's was an intensely conscientious nature. She would never turn aside from what was right merely because it gave her pain. Nigel had put this question before her as a question of right and wrong, and she could do what not one woman in a thousand is capable of: she could view it dispassionately, weighing the absolute right and absolute wrong without reference to her own desires. If Nigel had not known her to be capable of so much, he could not have come to her for help. He came, not because he loved, though he did love, but because he entirely trusted her.

Fulvia's was a fine nature, yet Fulvia could not emulate Ethel here. Self would have swayed her decision; but it did not sway Ethel's. At the moment she did not even see a certain hope involved in her advice, a hope which flashed quickly upon Nigel. Although she felt in the abstract that she could not herself marry a man who should propose to her from motives of duty, she had not the smallest doubt that Fulvia would accept.

"That might be a way out of the difficulty," Nigel said, speaking as if involuntarily. Ethel did not at once understand. "But would it be—honest—right? Would it not be a mere farce? To ask her, and tell her I do not wish it! Would it not be adding insult to injury—almost cruel?"

"No, I think not. I mean, I think the other might be more cruel. Of course it depends, everything depends, on how you do it. But you would not be cruel; you would not say an unkind word. I suppose you would not need to say much? Only just to let her know that it is not all wish—that it is partly duty—that you will learn to feel as you ought even if—if you don't quite yet."

There was a sound like a little gasp.

"I suppose one may conquer, always, in such a case, if one ought," continued Ethel, with a dim smile, and the tightness at her heart again. "Only I do think Fulvia ought to know just so much. Sooner or later she must, and it would be worse after—after marriage. If she goes into it, she should go with her eyes open; not wait to find out later—too late."

They were leaving the cemetery now, passing out into the broad road. It was too dark for the narrow path by the river, and they had to keep to the road, which was much deserted at so late an hour. They walked on quietly, slowly; for Nigel seemed as if he could hardly drag himself along. During some minutes neither spoke, and then his excessive weariness dawned upon Ethel. She said—

"You must go the shortest way."

"When I have seen you home—perhaps."

"I would rather you should not. I am all right when we get to the houses."

Nigel made no answer, and she knew that he did not mean to yield. She knew it more certainly when they reached a little gate leading to a field, for he paused and held it open.

"This way?" Ethel asked, knowing that it would lead them to the kitchen garden behind the Rectory.

Nigel said "Yes," and she could not remonstrate. She could only let him have his will, this once. They would have to speak that mournful word, "good-bye," very soon—such a good-bye as they had never yet said one to the other.

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.

"No—no—you must not say that! Don't say any more!"

"Ethel—!" came hoarsely again, despite her entreaty; and she could feel the shaking of the gate against which he leant.

"No—no—" she repeated. "Not now—not any more. I must not let you say what you will be sorry for by-and-by. Don't—please! I think I am glad we have had this talk, because—because I shall understand. We will never speak of it again. By-and-by we shall be—friends—like other people."

There was a negative movement on his part.

"Yes—I think so. You have to do what is right—about—and we will be brave—we shall be helped. Doesn't God always help, if—if one wills to do right? Perhaps a little hard for you—for us—at first, but that won't last. It will be all right."

Ethel could not bear much more. She had kept up well so far; but reaction was at hand. The interview had to be ended; and the sooner the better.

"I must not stay!" she said. And then, without warning, unexpectedly, she broke down. "Nigel—let me go!" she sobbed.

Nigel mastered himself for her sake. "I have been wrong—unkind!" he said. "It has been too much for you."

"Oh no; only I can't bear to see you so unhappy. Please—please let me go."

"I shall see you again soon. This isn't really—" and a falter. "Yes, we will be—friends."

Then he wrung her hand once more, and was lost in the darkness—not to return to the Grange till late at night. He had to fight his battle out alone.

But Ethel could have no such relief. Ten minutes of bitter weeping she did allow herself in the lonely garden. Then she was obliged to hasten home, to wash away traces of tears, to evade family inquiries, to elude Tom's troublesome solicitude, to spend a cheerful evening—no easy task under the circumstances.