His anxiety about the secret journey which he
was to take that day, revived by the Count's
words, was now evidently disputing possession of
his mind with his anxiety to obtain Laura's
signature. He considered for a little while; and
then got up from his chair.

"It is easy to argue me down," he said,
"when I have no time to answer you. I will
take your advice, Fosco—not because I want it,
or believe in it, but because I can't stop here any
longer." He paused, and looked round darkly at
his wife. "If you don't give me your signature
when I come back to-morrow——!" The rest
was lost in the noise of his opening the bookcase
cupboard again, and locking up the parchment
once more. He took his hat and gloves
off the table, and made for the door. Laura
and I drew back to let him pass. "Remember
to-morrow!" he said to his wife; and went out.

We waited to give him time to cross the hall,
and drive away. The Count approached us
while we were standing near the door.

"You have just seen Percival at his worst,
Miss Halcombe," he said. "As his old friend,
I am sorry for him and ashamed of him. As
his old friend, I promise you that he shall not
break out to-morrow in the same disgraceful
manner in which he has broken out to-day."

Laura had taken my arm while he was speaking,
and she pressed it significantly when he had
done. It would have been a hard trial to any
woman to stand by and see the office of apologist
for her husband's misconduct quietly assumed
by his male friend in her own house—and it was
a hard trial to her. I thanked the Count civilly,
and led her out. Yes! I thanked him: for I
felt already, with a sense of inexpressible
helplessness and humiliation, that it was either his
interest or his caprice to make sure of my
continuing to reside at Blackwater Park; and I
knew, after Sir Percival's conduct to me, that
without the support of the Count's influence, I
could not hope to remain there. His influence,
the influence of all others that I dreaded most,
was actually the one tie which now held me to
Laura in the hour of her utmost need!

We heard the wheels of the dog-cart crashing
on the gravel of the drive, as we came out
into the hall. Sir Percival had started on his
journey.

"Where is he going to, Marian?" Laura
whispered. "Every fresh thing he does, seems
to terrify me about the future. Have you any
suspicions?"

After what she had undergone that morning,
I was unwilling to tell her my suspicions.

"How should I know his secrets," I said,
evasively.

"I wonder if the housekeeper knows?" she
persisted.

"Certainly not," I replied. "She must be
quite as ignorant as we are."

Laura shook her head doubtfully.

"Did you not hear from the housekeeper that
there was a report of Anne Catherick having
been seen in this neighbourhood? Don't you
think he may have gone away to look for her?"

"I would rather compose myself, Laura, by
not thinking about it, at all; and, after what
has happened, you had better follow my example.
Come into my room, and rest and quiet yourself
a little."

We sat down together close to the window,
and let the fragrant summer air breathe over our
faces.

"I am ashamed to look at you, Marian," she
said, "after what you submitted to down stairs,
for my sake. Oh, my own love, I am almost
heart-broken, when I think of it! But I will
try to make it up to you—I will indeed!"

"Hush! hush!" I replied; "don't talk so.
What is the trifling mortification of my pride
compared to the dreadful sacrifice of your
happiness?"

"You heard what he said to me?" she went
on, quickly and vehemently. "You heard the
words—but you don't know what they meant—
you don't know why I threw down the pen and
turned my back on him." She rose in sudden
agitation, and walked about the room. "I
have kept many things from your knowledge,
Marian, for fear of distressing you, and making
you unhappy at the outset of our new lives.
You don't know how he has used me. And yet,
you ought to know, for you saw how he used
me to-day. You heard him sneer at my
presuming to be scrupulous; you heard him say I
had made a virtue of necessity in marrying
him." She sat down again; her face flushed
deeply, and her hands twisted and twined
together in her lap. "I can't tell you about it,
now," she said; "I shall burst out crying if I
tell you now—later, Marian, when I am more
sure of myself. My poor head aches, darling—
aches, aches, aches. Where is your smelling-
bottle? Let me talk to you about yourself. I
wish I had given him my signature, for your sake.
Shall I give it to him, to-morrow? I would
rather compromise myself than compromise you.
After your taking my part against him, he will
lay all the blame on you, if I refuse again. What
shall we do? Oh, for a friend to help us and
advise us!—a friend we could really trust!"

She sighed bitterly. I saw in her face that
she was thinking of Hartright—saw it the more
plainly because her last words had set me thinking
of him, too. In six months only from her
marriage, we wanted the faithful service he had
offered to us in his farewell words. How little
I once thought that we should ever want it at
all!

"We must do what we can to help ourselves,"
I said. "Let us try to talk it over calmly,
Laura—let us do all in our power to decide for
the best."

Putting what she knew of her husband's
embarrassments, and what I had heard of his
conversation with the lawyer, together, we
arrived necessarily at the conclusion that the
parchment in the library had been drawn up for
the purpose of borrowing money, and that
Laura's signature was absolutely necessary to
fit it for the attainment of Sir Percival's object.

The second question, concerning the nature