en Armadale
and Miss Milroy to force me into early rising to-morrow morning. Am
I trying, for the hundredth time, to see my way clearly into the
future--trying, in my present state of fatigue, to be the quick-witted
woman I once was, before all these anxieties came together and
overpowered me? or am I perversely afraid of my bed when I want it most?
I don't know; I am tired and miserable; I am looking wretchedly haggard
and old. With a little encouragement, I might be fool enough to burst
out crying. Luckily, there is no one to encourage me. What sort of a
night is it, I wonder?

"A cloudy night, with the moon showing at intervals, and the wind
rising. I can just hear it moaning among the ins and outs of the
unfinished cottages at the end of the street. My nerves must be a little
shaken, I think. I was startled just now by a shadow on the wall. It was
only after a moment or two that I mustered sense enough to notice where
the candle was, and to see that the shadow was my own.

"Shadows remind me of Midwinter; or, if the shadows don't, something
else does. I must have another look at his letter, and then I will
positively go to bed.

"I shall end in getting fond of him. If I remain much longer in this
lonely uncertain state--so irresolute, so unlike my usual self--I shall
end in getting fond of him. What madness! As if _I_ could ever be really
fond of a man again!

"Suppose I took one of my sudden resolutions, and married him. Poor as
he is, he would give me a name and a position if I became his wife. Let
me see how the name--his own name--would look, if I really did consent
to it for mine.

"'Mrs. Armadale!' Pretty.

"'Mrs. Allan Armadale!' Prettier still.

"My nerves _must_ be shaken. Here is my own handwriting startling me
now! It is so strange; it is enough to startle anybody. The similarity
in the two names never struck me in this light before. Marry which of
the two I might, my name would, of course, be the same. I should have
been Mrs. Armadale, if I had married the light-haired Allan at the great
house. And I can be Mrs. Armadale still, if I marry the dark-haired
Allan in London. It's almost maddening to write it down--to feel that
something ought to come of it--and to find nothing come.

"How _can_ anything come of it? If I did go to London, and marry him
(as of course I must marry him) under his real name, would he let me
be known by it afterward? With all his reasons for concealing his real
name, he