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 downstairs. 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