"Engaged to Musgrave! engaged to Musgrave! engaged to Musgrave!" The words ring with a dull monotony of repetition through my brain. Poor Barbara! I think she would be surprised if she were to see my "_face of delight!_" CHAPTER XL. My eyes are fixed on the mouldings of the ceiling, while a jumble of thoughts mix and muddle themselves in my head. Was Brindley Wood a dream? or is this a dream? Surely one or other must be, and, if this is not a dream, what is it? Is it reality, is it truth? And, if it is, how on earth did any thing so monstrous ever come about? How did he dare to approach her? How could he know that I had not told her? Is it possible that he cares for her really?--that he cared for her all along?--that he only went mad for one wicked moment? Is he sorry? how soon shall I have to meet him? On what terms shall we be? Will Roger be undeceived at last? Will he believe me? As my thoughts fall upon him, he opens the door and enters. "Well, I am off, Nancy!" he says, speaking in his usual cool, friendly voice, to which I have now grown so accustomed that sometimes I could almost persuade myself that I had never known any lovinger terms; and standing with the door-handle in his hand. He rarely kisses me now; never upon any of these little temporary absences. We always part with polite, cold, verbal salutations. Then, with a sudden change of tone, approaching me as he speaks. "Is there any thing the matter? have you had bad news?" My eyes drop at length from the scroll and pomegranate flower border of the ceiling. I sit up, and, with an involuntary movement, put my hand over the open letter that lies in my lap. "I have had news," I answer, dubiously. "If it is any thing that you had rather not tell me!" he says, hastily, observing my stupid and unintentional gesture, and, I suppose, afraid that I am about to drift into a second series of lies--"please do not. I would not for worlds thrust myself on your confidence!" "It is no secret of mine," I answer, coldly, "everybody will know it immediately, I suppose: it is that Barbara--" I stop, as usual choked as I approach the abhorred theme. "Will you read the letter, please? that will be better!--yes--I had rather that you did--it will not take you long; yes, _all_ of it!" (seeing that he is holding the note in his hand and conscientiously looking away from it as if expecting limitation as to the amount he is to peruse). He complies. There is silence--an expectant silence on my part. It is not of long duration. Before ten seconds have elapsed the note has fallen from his hand; and, with an exclamation of the profoundest astonishment, he is looking with an expression of the most keenly questioning wonder at me. "To MUSGRAVE!"