The Woman in White
ground she walked on? In the last case there was hope from time,
however slight it might be—in the first case, on her own showing, there
was no hope at all.
I answered him—more because my tongue is a woman’s, and must answer,
than because I had anything convincing to say. It was only too plain
that the course Laura had adopted the day before had offered him the
advantage if he chose to take it—and that he HAD chosen to take it.
I felt this at the time, and I feel it just as strongly now, while
I write these lines, in my own room. The one hope left is that his
motives really spring, as he says they do, from the irresistible
strength of his attachment to Laura.
Before I close my diary for to-night I must record that I wrote to-day,
in poor Hartright’s interest, to two of my mother’s old friends in
London—both men of influence and position. If they can do anything for
him, I am quite sure they will. Except Laura, I never was more anxious
about any one than I am now about Walter. All that has happened since
he left us has only increased my strong regard and sympathy for him.
I hope I am doing right in trying to help him to employment abroad—I
hope, most earnestly and anxiously, that it will end well.
11th.—Sir Percival had an interview with Mr. Fairlie, and I was sent
for to join them.
I found Mr. Fairlie greatly relieved at the prospect of the “family
worry” (as he was pleased to describe his niece’s marriage) being
settled at last. So far, I did not feel called on to say anything
to him about my own opinion, but when he proceeded, in his most
aggravatingly languid manner, to suggest that the time for the marriage
had better be settled next, in accordance with Sir Percival’s wishes,
I enjoyed the satisfaction of assailing Mr. Fairlie’s nerves with as
strong a protest against hurrying Laura’s decision as I could put into
words. Sir Percival immediately assured me that he felt the force of
my objection, and begged me to believe that the proposal had not been
made in consequence of any interference on his part. Mr. Fairlie leaned
back in his chair, closed his eyes, said we both of us did honour to
human nature, and then repeated his suggestion as coolly as if neither
Sir Percival nor I had said a word in opposition to it. It ended
in my flatly declining to mention the subject to Laura, unless she
first approached it of her own accord. I left the room at once after
making that declaration. Sir Percival looked seriously embarrassed
and distressed, Mr. Fairlie stretched out his lazy legs on his velvet
footstool, and said, “Dear Marian! how I envy you your robust nervous
system! Don’t bang the door!”
On going to Laura’s room I found that she had asked for me, and that
Mrs. Vesey had informed her that I was with Mr. Fairlie. She inquired
at once what I had been wanted for, and I told her all that had passed,
without attempting to conceal the vexation and annoyance that I really
felt. Her answer surprised and distressed me inexpressibly—it was the
very last reply that I should have expected her to make.
“My uncle is right,” she said. “I have caused trouble and anxiety
enough to you, and to all about me. Let me cause no more, Marian—let
Sir Percival decide.”
I remonstrated warmly, but nothing that I could say moved her.
“I am held to my engagement,” she replied; “I have broken with my old
life. The evil day will not come the less surely because I put it off.
No, Marian! once again my uncle is right. I have caused trouble enough
and anxiety enough, and I will cause no more.”
She used to be pliability itself, but she was now inflexibly passive
in her resignation—I might almost say in her despair. Dearly as I
love her, I should have been less pained if she had been violently
agitated—it was so shockingly unlike her natural character to see her
as cold and insensible as I saw her now.
12th.—Sir Percival put some questions to me at breakfast about Laura,
which left me no choice but to tell him what she had said.
While we were talking she herself came down and joined us. She was just
as unnaturally composed in Sir Percival’s presence as she had been in
mine. When breakfast was over he had an opportunity of saying a few
words to her privately, in a recess of one of the windows. They were
not more than two or three minutes together, and on their separating
she left the room with Mrs. Vesey, while Sir Percival came to me. He
said he had entreated her to favour him by maintaining her privilege of
fixing the time for the marriage at her own will and pleasure. In reply
she had merely expressed her acknowledgments, and had desired him to
mention what his wishes were to Miss Halcombe.
I have no patience to write more. In this instance, as in every
other, Sir Percival has carried his point with the utmost possible
credit to himself, in spite of everything that I can say or do. His
wishes are now, what they were, of course, when he first came here;
and Laura having resigned herself to the one inevitable sacrifice of
the marriage, remains as coldly hopeless and enduring as ever. In
parting with the little occupations and relics that reminded her of
Hartright, she seems to have parted with all her tenderness and all her
impressibility. It is only three o’clock in the afternoon while I write
these lines, and Sir Percival has left us already, in the happy hurry
of a bridegroom, to prepare for the bride’s reception at his house in
Hampshire. Unless some extraordinary event happens to prevent it they
will be married exactly at the time when he wished to be married—before
the end of the year. My very fingers burn as I write it!
13th.—A sleepless night, through uneasiness about Laura. Towards the
morning I came to a resolution to try what change of scene would
do to rouse her. She cannot surely remain in her present torpor of
insensibility, if I take her away from Limmeridge and surround her with
the pleasant faces of old friends? After some consideration I decided
on writing to the Arnolds, in Yorkshire. They are simple, kind-hearted,
hospitable people, and she has known them from her childhood. When I
had put the letter in the post-bag I told her what I had done. It would
have been a relief to me if she had shown the spirit to resist and
object. But no—she only said, “I will go anywhere with you, Marian. I
dare say you are right—I dare say the change will do me good.”
14th.—I wrote to Mr. Gilmore, informing him that there was really a
prospect of this miserable marriage taking place, and also mentioning
my idea of trying what change of scene would do for Laura. I had no
heart to go into particulars. Time enough for them when we get nearer
to the end of the year.
15th.—Three letters for me. The first, from the Arnolds, full of
delight at the prospect of seeing Laura and me. The second, from
one of the gentlemen to whom I wrote on Walter Hartright’s behalf,
informing me that he has been fortunate enough to find an opportunity
of complying with my request. The third, from Walter himself, thanking
me, poor fellow, in the warmest terms, for giving him an opportunity of
leaving his home, his country, and his friends. A private expedition
to make excavations among the ruined cities of Central America is,
it seems, about to sail from Liverpool. The draughtsman who had been
already appointed to accompany it has lost heart, and withdrawn at the
eleventh hour, and Walter is to fill his place. He is to be engaged
for six months certain, from the time of the landing in Honduras, and
for a year afterwards, if the excavations are successful, and if the
funds hold out. His letter ends with a promise to write me a farewell
line when they are all on board ship, and when the pilot leaves them.
I can only hope and pray earnestly that he and I are both acting in
this matter for the best. It seems such a serious step for him to take,
that the mere contemplation of it startles me. And yet, in his unhappy
position, how can I expect him or wish him to remain at home?
16th.—The carriage is at the door. Laura and I set out on our visit to
the Arnolds to-day.
POLESDEAN LODGE, YORKSHIRE.
23rd.—A week in these new scenes and among these kind-hearted people
has done her some good, though not so much as I had hoped. I have
resolved to prolong our stay for another week at least. It is useless
to go back to Limmeridge till there is an absolute necessity for our
return.
24th.—Sad news by this morning’s post. The expedition to Central
America sailed on the twenty-first. We have parted with a true man—we
have lost a faithful friend. Water Hartright has left England.
25th.—Sad news yesterday—ominous news to-day. Sir Percival Glyde has
written to Mr. Fairlie, and Mr. Fairlie has written to Laura and me, to
recall us to Limmeridge immediately.
What can this mean? Has the day for the marriage been fixed in our
absence?
II
LIMMERIDGE HOUSE.
November 27th.—My forebodings are realised. The marriage is fixed for
the twenty-second of December.
The day after we left for Polesdean Lodge Sir Percival wrote, it seems,
to Mr. Fairlie, to say that the necessary repairs and alterations in
his house in Hampshire would occupy a much longer time in completion
than he had originally anticipated. The proper estimates were to be
submitted to him as soon as possible, and it would greatly facilitate
his entering into definite arrangements with the workpeople, if
he could be informed of the exact period at which the wedding
ceremony might be expected to take place. He could then make all his
calculations in reference to time, besides writing the necessary
apologies to friends who had been engaged to visit him that winter, and
who could not, of course, be received when the house was in the hands
of the workmen.
To this letter Mr. Fairlie had replied by requesting Sir Percival
himself to suggest a day for the marriage, subject to Miss Fairlie’s
approval, which her guardian willingly undertook to do his best to
obtain. Sir Percival wrote back by the next post, and proposed (in
accordance with his own views and wishes from the first?) the latter
part of December—perhaps the twenty-second, or twenty-fourth, or any
other day that the lady and her guardian might prefer. The lady not
being at hand to speak for herself, her guardian had decided, in her
absence, on the earliest day mentioned—the twenty-second of December,
and had written to recall us to Limmeridge in consequence.
After explaining these particulars to me at a private interview
yesterday, Mr. Fairlie suggested, in his most amiable manner, that I
should open the necessary negotiations to-day. Feeling that resistance
was useless, unless I could first obtain Laura’s authority to make
it, I consented to speak to her, but declared, at the same time,
that I would on no consideration undertake to gain her consent to
Sir Percival’s wishes. Mr. Fairlie complimented me on my “excellent
conscience,” much as he would have complimented me, if he had been
out walking, on my “excellent constitution,” and seemed perfectly
satisfied, so far, with having simply shifted one more family
responsibility from his own shoulders to mine.
This morning I spoke to Laura as I had promised. The composure—I
may almost say, the insensibility—which she has so strangely and so
resolutely maintained ever since Sir Percival left us, was not proof
against the shock of the news I had to tell her. She turned pale and
trembled violently.
“Not so soon!” she pleaded. “Oh, Marian, not so soon!”
The slightest hint she could give was enough for me. I rose to leave
the room, and fight her battle for her at once with Mr. Fairlie.
Just as my hand was on the door, she caught fast hold of my dress and
stopped me.
“Let me go!” I said. “My tongue burns to tell your uncle that he and