The next day I did not attempt to get up; it seemed to me that Edward's absence, and his last words, had taken from me all energy--all power of thinking or acting. It was as a dream that I could not shake off, though at the same time I felt all its dreadful reality. I dared not stir in body or in spirit; the quiet of a sick-room--the silence around me--the exclusion of light and noise--harmonised with the extraordinary state in which I was. Strange delusions haunted me; I often saw figures pass and repass before my bed; and when it was Edward's form that I discerned, I held my breath, and prayed that the illusion might last. But sometimes they were dreadful; the visions I had--the voices I heard! I dare not think of them now; for the night is coming--my room is dark--my sight is weak--and my brain is on fire. * * * * On the third morning after Edward's departure a letter was brought to me. The direction was in his handwriting, and a mist obscured my sight. I pressed it to my heart, and closed my eyes for an instant. _Now_, I should know all. _Now_, I should know my sentence. Alice's rival--Henry's accomplice--I stood condemned by my own heart; and as I broke the seal of Edward's letter, I felt as if I should read my death-warrant. EDWARD'S LETTER. "CALAIS, _Saturday_. "This is the first time I have written to you since our marriage. This is better for yourself and for me, and makes it easier to write now in the way in which henceforward we must act and feel towards each other. I will not upbraid you. God has visited upon me the sin of my heart, and I pray to Him that yours may never find you out. To save you from the last step in guilt, and all its misery, is now my only object.