And Uncle William,—poor, kind, deluded Uncle William! The tears, for the first time, welled into her eyes as she thought of him—so good and so deceived. She was powerless to help him. She could help herself, but him she could not help. She knew that from the first. Of course, nothing should induce her to remain here. She would flee to the uttermost parts of the earth, from this sink of iniquity, but she could not take him with her. She sat up; she tried to arrange her thoughts, her plan of action. And as her self-possession returned, the scheme by which she might escape undetected, and without fear of being followed, slowly formed and perfected itself.
The dawn had broken, and the stable clock struck four soon afterwards. The storm had swept away; in the east the pale gold sky was untroubled with clouds; the birds were twittering to each other in the thick-leaved boughs; a cock crowed from the poultry-yard. Elizabeth was completely dressed; she had been arranging some papers, and securing the few jewels which had been her mother's, about her person. She now looked at the time-table of trains. The first to London passed at eight, and it was half an hour's drive to the station. She had three hours before her. The post arrived at Farley very early, and as Elizabeth often rode soon after six on these summer mornings, she sometimes unlocked the bag herself. She determined that, in order to give a colour to her action, an imaginary letter should cause her to order the dog-cart, which was to take her and her maid to the station. The maid would, indeed, be worse than useless in the life she had resolved on
