keeping time to it cheerfully, with the nosegay
in her hand. I am sincerely thankful to say,
that was the last I saw of Mrs. Rubelle.

When I went into the room, Miss Halcombe
was asleep. I looked at her anxiously, as she
lay in the dismal, high, old-fashioned bed. She
was certainly not in any respect altered for the
worse, since I had seen her last. She had not
been neglected, I am bound to admit, in any
way that I could perceive. The room was
dreary, and dusty, and dark; but the window
(looking on a solitary court-yard at the back of
the house) was opened to let in the fresh air,
and all that could be done to make the place
comfortable had been done. The whole cruelty
of Sir Percival's deception had fallen on poor
Lady Glyde. The only ill-usage which either
he or Mrs. Rubelle had inflicted on Miss
Halcombe, consisted, so far as I could see, in the
first offence of hiding her away.

I stole back, leaving the sick lady still peacefully
asleep, to give the gardener instructions
about bringing the doctor. I begged the man,
after he had taken Mrs. Rubelle to the station,
to drive round by Mr. Dawson's, and leave a
message, in my name, asking him to call and
see me. I knew he would come on my account,
and I knew he would remain when he found
Count Fosco had left the house.

In due course of time, the gardener returned,
and said that he had driven round by Mr.
Dawson's residence, after leaving Mrs. Rubelle
at the station. The doctor sent me word that
he was poorly in health himself, but that he
would call, if possible, the next morning.

Having delivered his message, the gardener
was about to withdraw, but I stopped him to
request that he would come back before dark,
and sit up, that night, in one of the empty
bedrooms, so as to be within call, in case I wanted
him. He understood readily enough my
unwillingness to be left alone all night, in the
most desolate part of that desolate house,
and we arranged that he should come in
between eight and nine. He came punctually;
and I found cause to be thankful that I had
adopted the precaution of calling him in.
Before midnight, Sir Percival's strange temper
broke out in the most violent and most
alarming manner; and if the gardener had not
been on the spot to pacify him on the
instant, I am afraid to think what might have
happened.

Almost all the afternoon and evening, he had
been walking about the house and grounds in
an unsettled, excitable manner; having, in all
probability, as I thought, taken an excessive
quantity of wine at his solitary dinner.
However that may be, I heard his voice calling loudly
and angrily, in the new wing of the house, as I
was taking a turn backwards and forwards along
the gallery, the last thing at night. The
gardener immediately ran down to him; and I
closed the door of communication, to keep the
alarm, if possible, from reaching Miss Halcombe's
ears. It was full half an hour before the
gardener came back. He declared that his master
was quite out of his senses—not through the
excitement of drink, as I had supposed, but
through a kind of panic or frenzy of mind, for
which it was impossible to account. He had
found Sir Percival walking backwards and
forwards by himself in the hall; swearing, with
every appearance of the most violent passion,
that he would not stop another minute alone in
such a dungeon as his own house, and that he
would take the first stage of his journey
immediately, in the middle of the night. The
gardener, on approaching him, had been hunted
out, with oaths and threats, to get the horse
and chaise ready instantly. In a quarter of an
hour Sir Percival had joined him in the yard,
had jumped into the chaise, and, lashing the
horse into a gallop, had driven himself away,
with his face as pale as ashes in the moonlight.
The gardener had heard him shouting and
cursing at the lodge-keeper to get up and open
the gate—had heard the wheels roll furiously
on again, in the still night, when the gate was
unlocked—and knew no more.

The next day, or a day or two after, I
forget which, the chaise was brought back
from Knowlesbury, our nearest town, by the
ostler at the old inn. Sir Percival had stopped
there, and had afterwards left by the train—
for what destination the man could not tell. I
never received any further information, either
from himself, or from any one else, of Sir
Percival's proceedings; and I am not even aware,
at this moment, whether he is in England or
out of it. He and I have not met, since he
drove away, like an escaped criminal, from his
own house; and it is my fervent hope and
prayer that we may never meet again.

My own part of this sad family story is now
drawing to an end.

I have been informed that the particulars of
Miss Halcombe's waking, and of what passed
between us when she found me sitting by
her bedside, are not material to the purpose
which is to be answered by the present narrative.
It will be sufficient for me to say, in
this place, that she was not herself conscious of
the means adopted to remove her from the
inhabited to the uninhabited part of the house.
She was in a deep sleep at the time, whether
naturally or artificially produced she could not
say. In my absence at Torquay, and in the
absence of all the resident servants, except
Margaret Porcher (who was perpetually eating,
drinking, or sleeping when she was not at work),
the secret transfer of Miss Halcombe from one
part of the house to the other was no doubt
easily performed. Mrs. Rubelle (as I
discovered for myself, in looking about the room)
had provisions, and all other necessaries,
together with the means of heating water, broth,
and so on, without kindling a fire, placed at her
disposal during the few days of her imprisonment
with the sick lady. She had declined to
answer the questions which Miss Halcombe
naturally put; but had not, in other respects,
treated her with unkindness or neglect. The