THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.

CHAPTER XXIV.—A DEATH-BLOW.

I stood for a few moments watching my strange new acquaintance, rapidly widening the distance between us, then turned thoughtfully homewards again. The story I had just heard had given me something to think of besides my own happiness. Although poor Nancy might be a little too ready to rebel, how hard things had been for her! How much did I, and all women blessed as I, owe to such as Nancy. Well, there would be Philip to help me by-and-by. Surely we two might be able to do something, I thought, my cheeks uncomfortably hot with the consciousness that the existence I had been dreaming of savoured too much of ease and sunshine for two people who professed to desire the highest life. Robert Wentworth would tell me that, and so of course would Philip; and I was glad also to realise, as I did just then, that continued ease and sunshine would pall quite as much upon me as upon either of them. 'I was not to the manner born.'

I had reached the stile, and was absently stepping down on the other side of it, as I afterwards found, stepping so wide of the lower step as to involve an ignominious descent, when I was gently lifted on to terra firma by two strong arms.

'What makes you so careless to-night?' said Robert Wentworth.

'It was stupid,' I replied, realising the position; and adding: 'In truth, my thoughts were wool-gathering; and I had forgotten where I was.'

'Rather an awkward moment for forgetting where you were; wasn't it?'

'No; yes—yes; of course it was stupid,' I repeated.

'You are not generally so ready to plead guilty as that,' he replied smilingly. 'What makes you so preternaturally meek to-night? Have you just come off second-best in a wordy war with old Jemmy Rodgers?' Bending down to get a better look into my face, he went on with quite another tone and manner: 'What has happened, Mary?'

'Happened?' I repeated, hesitatingly. But why should I not tell him? I presently asked myself. He knew that Philip was expected, and that we were to be married; he knew that I loved Philip; and why should I any longer act like a foolish girl about it? So after a moment or two, I went on: 'That which you asked to be allowed to speak of in three months may be spoken now, if you will.'

'Now!' As he echoed the word, bending to look at me again, I noticed a swift change of expression in his face—an eager, startled, yet not altogether assured look.

'Yes; I have had a letter this evening, telling me that Philip expected to be able to sail within a week or so of sending it, and he may be here any time during the next month.'

'Philip!'

'Mr Dallas you know. We are to be married.'

He was silent; and after waiting a moment for a reply which came not, I grew a little conscious of the awkwardness of talking about my lover to him, and not the more pleased with him for making me feel so. A little confusedly, I murmured something about having hoped that they would be friends; so many Philip had known must be scattered and lost to him during his long absence, and he was a man of all others to appreciate a friend.

Nettled by his continued silence, I went on: 'If I have expected too much, you yourself are a little to blame for my doing so. You have always made me feel that I might expect something more from you than from other people.'

I saw his hand tighten on the bar of the stile it rested on with a pressure which made the veins look like cords. He threw up his head, and seemed to take counsel with the stars. Was it the pale moonlight which made him look so white and rigid? Had I offended him? What was it? Then arose a new and terrible fear in my mind. Had I misunderstood him—had he misunderstood me—all this time? Had I unwittingly led him to believe me a free woman, and—— Was it possible that he loved me—Robert Wentworth?

Deeply pained as well as ashamed, had I not always believed and asserted that such complications are not brought about by single-minded women? I bowed my head, covering my face with my trembling hands in the bitterness of humiliation. My love for Philip had made all men seem as brothers to me, and it had never for a moment entered my head that my bearing towards them might be misconstrued. Then it must be remembered I was not like a young and attractive girl; nor had I been accustomed to receive lover-like attention. Bewildered and miserable—God forgive me if I had wronged Robert Wentworth in my blindness—I was confusedly trying to recollect what I had last said, so that I might be able to add a few words which would serve as an excuse for leaving him not too abruptly, when he at length spoke. Clear and firm his voice sounded in the stillness, though the words came slowly: 'You have not expected too much, Mary.' I could not say a word; and in my anxiety for him, still lingered. 'You have not expected too much,' he gently repeated. Then seeing that was not enough, he added, in the same low measured tone: 'God helping me, I will be your husband's friend, Mary.'

I put out my hands, involuntarily clasping them together. I think he interpreted the gesture aright. With the old grave smile, he said: 'You must not forget you have a brother as well as a husband, you know.'

'I will not; God bless you, Robert!'—laying my hand for a moment on his.

He waved his hand, and without a word turned away. I tried to gather comfort from his quiet tone; tried to persuade myself that it was but a passing fancy for me, which he would very quickly get over, now he knew the truth; using all sorts of arguments to quiet my conscience. But in my inmost heart I knew that Robert Wentworth was not the man to be shaken in that way merely by a passing fancy. Beyond measure depressed and dissatisfied with myself, I slowly and wearily made my way back towards the cottage again. Ah me! how changed was the aspect of things already! How different this still grayness, to the couleur de rose in which I had read Philip's letter, and how different was my mental state! Was I the same person who only an hour or so previously had been telling herself that her happiness was almost too great to be borne? All my pretty pictures of the future, in which Lilian and Robert Wentworth had figured so charmingly, were destroyed. I had fully intended to take Lilian and dear old Mrs Tipper into my confidence respecting Philip's expected arrival and my future prospects, as soon as I reached the cottage; but how could I do so now? How could I talk about Philip as he ought to be talked about, with the remembrance of that set white face upturned in the moonlight, fresh upon me! Impossible! My heart sank at the bare thought of parading my love just then. It would be like dancing over a grave.

I could better turn my thoughts upon poor Nancy than upon my coming marriage, just now. I found Lilian and her aunt at a loss to know what had become of me, and it was some little relief to be able to talk about my adventure with Nancy.

They were full of interest and sympathy, entering into my feelings upon the subject at once, and only differing from me about my allowing her to return to the Home, thinking that this was too much to expect from her. But I still thought that it was her best course; and it did me a little good to argue