“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.