George left her, and before he died—­she could see herself, as she looked back, keeping Sir William firmly at a distance, resenting those friendly caressing ways, which others accepted—­which she too now accepted, so meekly, so abominably!  She thought of his weekly comings and goings, as they were now; how, in greeting and good-bye, he would hold her hands, both of them, in his; how once or twice he had raised them to his lips.  And it had begun to seem quite natural to her, wretch that she was; because he pitied her, because he was so good to her—­and so much older, nearly twenty years.  He was her brother and dear friend, and she the little sister whom he cherished, who sympathised with all he did, and would listen as long as he pleased, while he talked of everything that filled his mind—­the war news, his work, his books, his companions; or would sit by, watching breathlessly while his skilful hand put down some broad ‘note’ of colour or light, generally on a page of her own sketch-book.

Ah, but it must end—­it must end!  And she must tell him to-night.

Then she fell to thinking of how it was she had been so blind for so long; and was now in this tumult of change.  One moment, and she was still the Nelly of yesterday, cheerful, patient, comforted by the love of her friends; and the next, she had become this poor, helpless thing, struggling with her conscience, her guilty conscience, and her sorrow.  How had it happened?  There was something uncanny, miraculous in it.  But anyway, there, in a flash it stood revealed—­her treason to George—­her unkindness to Willy.

For she would never marry him—­never!  She simply felt herself an unfaithful wife—­a disloyal friend.

* * * * *

The November day passed on, cloudless, to its red setting over the Coniston fells.  Wetherlam stood black against the barred scarlet of the west, and all the valleys lay veiled in a blue and purple mist, traversed by rays of light, wherever a break in the mountain wall let the sunset through.  The beautiful winter twilight had just begun, when Nelly heard the step she waited for outside.

She did not run to the window to greet him as she generally did.  She sat still, by the fire, her knitting on her knee.  Her black dress was very black, with the plainest white ruffle at her throat.  She looked very small and pitiful.  Perhaps she meant to look it!  The weak in dealing with the strong have always that instinctive resource.

‘How jolly to find you alone!’ said Farrell joyously, as he entered the room.  ‘I thought Miss Bridget was due.’  He put down the books with which he had come laden and approached her with outstretched hands.  ’I say!—­you don’t look well!’ His look, suddenly sobered, examined her.

‘Oh yes, I am quite well.  Bridget comes to-night.’

She hurriedly withdrew herself, and he sat down opposite her, holding some chilly fingers to the blaze, surveying her all the time.