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 kindhearted 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 Sir Percival are not to have it all their own way.”
She sighed bitterly, and still held my dress.
“No!” she said faintly. “Too late, Marian, too late!”
“Not a minute too late,” I retorted. “The question of time is OUR question — and trust me, Laura, to take a woman’s full advantage of it.”
I unclasped her hand from my gown while I spoke; but she slipped both her arms round my waist at the same moment, and held me more effectually than ever.
“It will only involve us in more trouble and more confusion,” she said. “It will set you and my uncle at variance, and bring Sir Percival here again with fresh causes of complaint — ”
“So much the better!” I cried out passionately. “Who cares for his causes of complaint? Are you to break your heart to set his mind at ease? No man under heaven deserves these sacrifices from us women. Men! They are the enemies of our innocence and our peace — they drag us away from our parents’ love and our sisters’ friendship — they take us body and soul to themselves, and fasten our helpless lives to theirs as they chain up a dog to his kennel. And what does the best of them give us in return? Let me go, Laura — I’m mad when I think of it!”
The tears — miserable, weak, women’s tears of vexation and rage — started to my eyes. She smiled sadly, and put her handkerchief over my face to hide for me the betrayal of my own weakness — the weakness of all others which she knew that I most despised.
“Oh, Marian!” she said. “You crying! Think what you would say to me, if the places were changed, and if those tears were mine. All your love and courage and devotion will not alter what must happen, sooner or later. Let my uncle have his way. Let us have no more troubles and heartburnings that any sacrifice of mine can prevent. Say you will live with me, Marian, when I am married — and say no more.”
But I did say more. I forced back the contemptible tears that were no relief to ME, and that only distressed HER, and reasoned and pleaded as calmly as I could. It was of no avail. She made me twice repeat the promise to live with her when she was married, and then suddenly asked a question which turned my sorrow and my sympathy for her into a new direction.
“While we were at Polesdean,” she said, “you had a letter, Marian — — ”
Her altered tone — the abrupt manner in which she looked away from me and hid her face on my shoulder — the hesitation which silenced her before she had completed her question, all told me, but too plainly, to whom the half-expressed inquiry pointed.
“I thought, Laura, that you and I were never to refer to him again,” I said gently.
“You had a letter from him?” she persisted.
“Yes,” I replied, “if you must know it.”
“Do you mean to write to him again?”
I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of his absence from England, or of the manner in which my exertions to serve his new hopes and projects had connected me with his departure. What answer could I make? He was gone where no letters could reach him for months, perhaps for years, to come.
“Suppose I do mean to write to him again,” I said at last. “What then, Laura?”
Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck, and her arms trembled and tightened round me.
“Don’t tell him about THE TWENTY-SECOND,” she whispered. “Promise, Marian — pray promise you will not even mention my name to him when you write next.”
I gave the promise. No words can say how sorrowfully I gave it. She instantly took her arm from my waist, walked away to the window, and stood looking out with her back to me. After a moment she spoke once more, but without turning round, without allowing me to catch the smallest glimpse of her face.
“Are you going to