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The draughtsman who had been already appointed to accompany it has lost heart, and withdrawn at the eleventh hour, and Walter is to fill his place.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!"