The Woman in White (27 page)

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 bride-groom, 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?

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 heart-burnings 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 my uncle's room?" she asked. "Will you say that
I consent to whatever arrangement he may think best? Never mind
leaving me, Marian. I shall be better alone for a little while."

I went out. If, as soon as I got into the passage, I could have
transported Mr. Fairlie and Sir Percival Glyde to the uttermost
ends of the earth by lifting one of my fingers, that finger would
have been raised without an instant's hesitation. For once my
unhappy temper now stood my friend. I should have broken down
altogether and burst into a violent fit of crying, if my tears had
not been all burnt up in the heat of my anger. As it was, I
dashed into Mr. Fairlie's room—called to him as harshly as
possible, "Laura consents to the twenty-second"—and dashed out
again without waiting for a word of answer. I banged the door
after me, and I hope I shattered Mr. Fairlie's nervous system for
the rest of the day.

28th.—This morning I read poor Hartright's farewell letter over
again, a doubt having crossed my mind since yesterday, whether I
am acting wisely in concealing the fact of his departure from
Laura.