Having given the letter to Anne, Hester Dethridge withdrew to her bedroom.

Geoffrey closed the door of the drawing-room, in which the candles were burning, and went into the dining-room, in which there was no light.  Leaving the door ajar, he waited to intercept his landlady on her way back to her supper in the kitchen.

Hester wearily secured her door, wearily lit the candles, wearily put the pen and ink on the table.  For some minutes after this she was compelled to sit down, and rally her strength and fetch her breath.  After a little she was able to remove her upper clothing.  This done she took the manuscript inscribed, “My Confession,” out of the secret pocket of her stays—­turned to the last leaf as before—­and wrote another entry, under the entry made on the previous night.

“This morning I gave him notice to quit, and offered him his money back if he wanted it.  He refuses to go.  He shall go to-morrow, or I will burn the place over his head.  All through to-day I have avoided him by keeping out of the house.  No rest to ease my mind, and no sleep to close my eyes.  I humbly bear my cross as long as my strength will let me.”

At those words the pen dropped from her fingers.  Her head nodded on her breast.  She roused herself with a start.  Sleep was the enemy she dreaded:  sleep brought dreams.

She unfastened the window-shutters and looked out at the night.  The peaceful moonlight was shining over the garden.  The clear depths of the night sky were soothing and beautiful to look at.  What!  Fading already? clouds? darkness?  No!  Nearly asleep once more.  She roused herself again, with a start.  There was the moonlight, and there was the garden as bright under it as ever.

Dreams or no dreams, it was useless to fight longer against the weariness that overpowered her.  She closed the shutters, and went back to the bed; and put her Confession in its customary place at night, under her pillow.

She looked round the room—­and shuddered.  Every corner of it was filled with the terrible memories of the past night.  She might wake from the torture of the dreams to find the terror of the Apparition watching at her bedside.  Was there no remedy? no blessed safeguard under which she might tranquilly resign herself to sleep?  A thought crossed her mind.  The good book—­the Bible.  If she slept with the Bible under her pillow, there was hope in the good book—­the hope of sleeping in peace.

It was not worth while to put on the gown and the stays which she had taken off.  Her shawl would cover her.  It was equally needless to take the candle.  The lower shutters would not be closed at that hour; and if they were, she could lay her hand on the Bible, in its place on the parlor book-shelf, in the dark.

She removed the Confession from under the pillow.  Not even for a minute could she prevail on herself to leave it in one room while she was away from it in another.  With the manuscript folded up, and hidden in her hand, she slowly descended the stairs again.  Her knees trembled under her.  She was obliged to hold by the banister, with the hand that was free.