me that my sister is in that man's power and in
that man's house, with her own consent. My
horror of him is such, that nothing Sir Percival
could say, and no letters my uncle could write,
would induce me, it I had only my own feelings
to consult, to eat, drink, or sleep under his roof.
But my misery of suspense about Marian gives
me the courage to follow her anywhere— to
follow her even into Count Fosco's house."

I thought it right, at this point, to mention
that Miss Halcombe had already gone on to
Cumberland, according to Sir Percival's account
of the matter.

"I am afraid to believe it!" answered her
ladyship.   "I am afraid she is still in that
man's house.   If I am wrong— if she has really
gone on to Limmeridge— I am resolved I will
not sleep to-morrow night under Count Fosco's
roof. My dearest friend in the world, next to
my sister, lives near London.  You have heard
me, you have heard Miss Halcombe, speak of
Mrs. Vesey? I mean to write, and propose to
sleep at her house.   I don't know how I shall
get there— I don't know how I shall avoid the
Count— but to that refuge I will escape in some
way, if my sister has gone to Cumberland.   All
I ask of you to do, is to see yourself that my
letter to Mrs. Vesey goes to London to-night, as
certainly as Sir Percival's letter goes to Count
Fosco.   I have reasons for not trusting the
post-bag down stairs.  Will you keep my secret,
and help me in this? it is the last favour,
perhaps, that I shall ever ask of you."

I hesitated— I thought it all very strange— I
almost feared that her ladyship's mind had been
a little affected by recent anxiety and suffering.
At my own risk, however, I ended by giving my
consent. If the letter had been addressed to a
stranger, or to any one but a lady so well known
to me by report as Mrs. Vesey, I might have
refused. I thank God— looking to what happened
afterwards— I thank God I never thwarted
that wish, or any other, which Lady Glyde
expressed to me, on the last day of her residence
at Blackwater Park.

The letter was written, and given into my
hands. I myself put it into the post-box in the
village, that evening.

We saw nothing more of Sir Percival for the
rest of the day. I slept, by Lady Glyde's own
desire, in the next room to hers, with the door
open between us.  There was something so
strange and dreadful in the loneliness and
emptiness of the house, that I was glad, on my
side, to have a companion near me.  Her
ladyship sat up late, reading letters and burning
them, and emptying her drawers and cabinets of
little things she prized, as if she never expected
to return to Blackwater Park.  Her sleep was
sadly disturbed when she at last went to bed:
she cried out in it, several times— once, so loud
that she woke herself. Whatever her dreams
were, she did not think fit to communicate them
to me. Perhaps, in my situation, I had no
right to expect that she should do so.  It
matters little, now.  I was sorry for her— I was
indeed heartily sorry for her all the same.

The next day was fine and sunny. Sir
Percival came up, after breakfast, to tell us that
the chaise would be at the door at a quarter to
twelve; the train to London stopping at our
station, at twenty minutes after.   He informed
Lady Glyde that he was obliged to go out, but
added that he hoped to be back before she left.
If any unforeseen accident delayed him, I was
to accompany her to the station, and to take
special care that she was in time for the train.
Sir Percival communicated these directions very
hastily; walking, here and there, about the
room all the time. Her ladyship looked attentively
after him, wherever he went. He never
once looked at her in return.

She only spoke when he had done; and then
she stopped him as he approached the door, by
holding out her hand.

"I shall see you no more," she said, in a
very marked manner.   " This is our parting—
our parting, it may be for ever. Will you try
to forgive me, Percival, as heartily as I forgive
you?"

His face turned of an awful whiteness all
over; and great beads of perspiration broke out
on his bald forehead.   " I shall come back," he
said— and made for the door, as hastily as if his
wife's farewell words had frightened him out of
the room.

I had never liked Sir Percival— but the manner
in which he left Lady Glyde made me feel
ashamed of having eaten his bread and lived in
his service.  I thought of saying a few comforting
and Christian words to the poor lady; but
there was something in her face, as she looked
after her husband when the door closed on him,
that made me alter my mind and keep silence.

At the time named, the chaise drew up at the
gates.  Her ladyship was right— Sir Percival
never came back.  I waited for him till the last
moment— and waited in vain.

No positive responsibility lay on my shoulders;
and yet, I did not feel easy in my mind. " It is
of your own free will,"  I said, as the chaise
drove through the lodge-gates, " that your
ladyship goes to London?"

" I will go anywhere," she answered, " to
end the dreadful suspense that I am suffering at
this moment."

She had made me feel almost as anxious and
as uncertain about Miss Halcombe as she felt
herself.  I presumed to ask her to write me a
line, if all went well in London.  She answered,
"Most willingly, Mrs. Michelson."  " We all
have our crosses to bear, my lady," I said, seeing
her silent and thoughtful, after she had
promised to write. She made no reply: she
seemed to be too much wrapped up in her own
thoughts to attend to me. " I fear your ladyship
rested badly last night," I remarked, after
waiting a little.  " Yes," she said;  " I was
terribly disturbed by dreams."  "Indeed, my
lady?"  I thought she was going to tell me her
dreams ; but no, when she spoke next it was
only to ask a question. " You posted the letter
to Mrs. Vesey with vour own hands?"  " Yes,
my lady."  "Did Sir Percival say, yesterday,