The Woman in White (28 page)

On reflection, I still think I am right. The allusions in his
letter to the preparations made for the expedition to Central
America, all show that the leaders of it know it to be dangerous.
If the discovery of this makes me uneasy, what would it make HER?
It is bad enough to feel that his departure has deprived us of the
friend of all others to whose devotion we could trust in the hour
of need, if ever that hour comes and finds us helpless; but it is
far worse to know that he has gone from us to face the perils of a
bad climate, a wild country, and a disturbed population. Surely
it would be a cruel candour to tell Laura this, without a pressing
and a positive necessity for it?

I almost doubt whether I ought not to go a step farther, and burn
the letter at once, for fear of its one day falling into wrong
hands. It not only refers to Laura in terms which ought to remain
a secret for ever between the writer and me, but it reiterates his
suspicion—so obstinate, so unaccountable, and so alarming—that
he has been secretly watched since he left Limmeridge. He
declares that he saw the faces of the two strange men who followed
him about the streets of London, watching him among the crowd
which gathered at Liverpool to see the expedition embark, and he
positively asserts that he heard the name of Anne Catherick
pronounced behind him as he got into the boat. His own words are,
"These events have a meaning, these events must lead to a result.
The mystery of Anne Catherick is NOT cleared up yet. She may
never cross my path again, but if ever she crosses yours, make
better use of the opportunity, Miss Halcombe, than I made of it.
I speak on strong conviction—I entreat you to remember what I
say." These are his own expressions. There is no danger of my
forgetting them—my memory is only too ready to dwell on any words
of Hartright's that refer to Anne Catherick. But there is danger
in my keeping the letter. The merest accident might place it at
the mercy of strangers. I may fall ill—I may die. Better to
burn it at once, and have one anxiety the less.

It is burnt. The ashes of his farewell letter—the last he may
ever write to me—lie in a few black fragments on the hearth. Is
this the sad end to all that sad story? Oh, not the end—surely,
surely not the end already!

29th.—The preparations for the marriage have begun. The
dressmaker has come to receive her orders. Laura is perfectly
impassive, perfectly careless about the question of all others in
which a woman's personal interests are most closely bound up. She
has left it all to the dressmaker and to me. If poor Hartright
had been the baronet, and the husband of her father's choice, how
differently she would have behaved! How anxious and capricious she
would have been, and what a hard task the best of dressmakers
would have found it to please her!

30th.—We hear every day from Sir Percival. The last news is that
the alterations in his house will occupy from four to six months
before they can be properly completed. If painters, paperhangers,
and upholsterers could make happiness as well as splendour, I
should be interested about their proceedings in Laura's future
home. As it is, the only part of Sir Percival's last letter which
does not leave me as it found me, perfectly indifferent to all his
plans and projects, is the part which refers to the wedding tour.
He proposes, as Laura is delicate, and as the winter threatens to
be unusually severe, to take her to Rome, and to remain in Italy
until the early part of next summer. If this plan should not be
approved, he is equally ready, although he has no establishment of
his own in town, to spend the season in London, in the most
suitable furnished house that can be obtained for the purpose.

Putting myself and my own feelings entirely out of the question
(which it is my duty to do, and which I have done), I, for one,
have no doubt of the propriety of adopting the first of these
proposals. In either case a separation between Laura and me is
inevitable. It will be a longer separation, in the event of their
going abroad, than it would be in the event of their remaining in
London—but we must set against this disadvantage the benefit to
Laura, on the other side, of passing the winter in a mild climate,
and more than that, the immense assistance in raising her spirits,
and reconciling her to her new existence, which the mere wonder
and excitement of travelling for the first time in her life in the
most interesting country in the world, must surely afford. She is
not of a disposition to find resources in the conventional
gaieties and excitements of London. They would only make the
first oppression of this lamentable marriage fall the heavier on
her. I dread the beginning of her new life more than words can
tell, but I see some hope for her if she travels—none if she
remains at home.

It is strange to look back at this latest entry in my journal, and
to find that I am writing of the marriage and the parting with
Laura, as people write of a settled thing. It seems so cold and
so unfeeling to be looking at the future already in this cruelly
composed way. But what other way is possible, now that the time
is drawing so near? Before another month is over our heads she
will be HIS Laura instead of mine! HIS Laura! I am as little able
to realise the idea which those two words convey—my mind feels
almost as dulled and stunned by it—as if writing of her marriage
were like writing of her death.

December 1st.—A sad, sad day—a day that I have no heart to
describe at any length. After weakly putting it off last night, I
was obliged to speak to her this morning of Sir Percival's
proposal about the wedding tour.

In the full conviction that I should be with her wherever she
went, the poor child—for a child she is still in many things—was
almost happy at the prospect of seeing the wonders of Florence and
Rome and Naples. It nearly broke my heart to dispel her delusion,
and to bring her face to face with the hard truth. I was obliged
to tell her that no man tolerates a rival—not even a woman rival—
in his wife's affections, when he first marries, whatever he may
do afterwards. I was obliged to warn her that my chance of living
with her permanently under her own roof, depended entirely on my
not arousing Sir Percival's jealousy and distrust by standing
between them at the beginning of their marriage, in the position
of the chosen depositary of his wife's closest secrets. Drop by
drop I poured the profaning bitterness of this world's wisdom into
that pure heart and that innocent mind, while every higher and
better feeling within me recoiled from my miserable task. It is
over now. She has learnt her hard, her inevitable lesson. The
simple illusions of her girlhood are gone, and my hand has
stripped them off. Better mine than his—that is all my
consolation—better mine than his.

So the first proposal is the proposal accepted. They are to go to
Italy, and I am to arrange, with Sir Percival's permission, for
meeting them and staying with them when they return to England.
In other words, I am to ask a personal favour, for the first time
in my life, and to ask it of the man of all others to whom I least
desire to owe a serious obligation of any kind. Well! I think I
could do even more than that, for Laura's sake.

2nd.—On looking back, I find myself always referring to Sir
Percival in disparaging terms. In the turn affairs have now
taken. I must and will root out my prejudice against him, I
cannot think how it first got into my mind. It certainly never
existed in former times.

Is it Laura's reluctance to become his wife that has set me
against him? Have Hartright's perfectly intelligible prejudices
infected me without my suspecting their influence? Does that
letter of Anne Catherick's still leave a lurking distrust in my
mind, in spite of Sir Percival's explanation, and of the proof in
my possession of the truth of it? I cannot account for the state
of my own feelings; the one thing I am certain of is, that it is
my duty—doubly my duty now—not to wrong Sir Percival by unjustly
distrusting him. If it has got to be a habit with me always to
write of him in the same unfavourable manner, I must and will
break myself of this unworthy tendency, even though the effort
should force me to close the pages of my journal till the marriage
is over! I am seriously dissatisfied with myself—I will write no
more to-day.

December 16th.—A whole fortnight has passed, and I have not once
opened these pages. I have been long enough away from my journal
to come back to it with a healthier and better mind, I hope, so
far as Sir Percival is concerned.

There is not much to record of the past two weeks. The dresses
are almost all finished, and the new travelling trunks have been
sent here from London. Poor dear Laura hardly leaves me for a
moment all day, and last night, when neither of us could sleep,
she came and crept into my bed to talk to me there. "I shall lose
you so soon, Marian," she said; "I must make the most of you while
I can."

They are to be married at Limmeridge Church, and thank Heaven, not
one of the neighbours is to be invited to the ceremony. The only
visitor will be our old friend, Mr. Arnold, who is to come from
Polesdean to give Laura away, her uncle being far too delicate to
trust himself outside the door in such inclement weather as we now
have. If I were not determined, from this day forth, to see
nothing but the bright side of our prospects, the melancholy
absence of any male relative of Laura's, at the most important
moment of her life, would make me very gloomy and very distrustful
of the future. But I have done with gloom and distrust—that is
to say, I have done with writing about either the one or the other
in this journal.

Sir Percival is to arrive to-morrow. He offered, in case we
wished to treat him on terms of rigid etiquette, to write and ask
our clergyman to grant him the hospitality of the rectory, during
the short period of his sojourn at Limmeridge, before the
marriage. Under the circumstances, neither Mr. Fairlie nor I
thought it at all necessary for us to trouble ourselves about
attending to trifling forms and ceremonies. In our wild moorland
country, and in this great lonely house, we may well claim to be
beyond the reach of the trivial conventionalities which hamper
people in other places. I wrote to Sir Percival to thank him for
his polite offer, and to beg that he would occupy his old rooms,
just as usual, at Limmeridge House.

17th.—He arrived to-day, looking, as I thought, a little worn and
anxious, but still talking and laughing like a man in the best
possible spirits. He brought with him some really beautiful
presents in jewellery, which Laura received with her best grace,
and, outwardly at least, with perfect self-possession. The only
sign I can detect of the struggle it must cost her to preserve
appearances at this trying time, expresses itself in a sudden
unwillingness, on her part, ever to be left alone. Instead of
retreating to her own room, as usual, she seems to dread going
there. When I went upstairs to-day, after lunch, to put on my
bonnet for a walk, she volunteered to join me, and again, before
dinner, she threw the door open between our two rooms, so that we
might talk to each other while we were dressing. "Keep me always
doing something," she said; "keep me always in company with
somebody. Don't let me think—that is all I ask now, Marian—
don't let me think."

This sad change in her only increases her attractions for Sir
Percival. He interprets it, I can see, to his own advantage.
There is a feverish flush in her cheeks, a feverish brightness in
her eyes, which he welcomes as the return of her beauty and the
recovery of her spirits. She talked to-day at dinner with a
gaiety and carelessness so false, so shockingly out of her
character, that I secretly longed to silence her and take her
away. Sir Percival's delight and surprise appeared to be beyond
all expression. The anxiety which I had noticed on his face when
he arrived totally disappeared from it, and he looked, even to my
eyes, a good ten years younger than he really is.

There can be no doubt—though some strange perversity prevents me
from seeing it myself—there can be no doubt that Laura's future
husband is a very handsome man. Regular features form a personal
advantage to begin with—and he has them. Bright brown eyes,
either in man or woman, are a great attraction—and he has them.
Even baldness, when it is only baldness over the forehead (as in
his case), is rather becoming than not in a man, for it heightens
the head and adds to the intelligence of the face. Grace and ease
of movement, untiring animation of manner, ready, pliant,
conversational powers—all these are unquestionable merits, and
all these he certainly possesses. Surely Mr. Gilmore, ignorant as
he is of Laura's secret, was not to blame for feeling surprised
that she should repent of her marriage engagement? Any one else in
his place would have shared our good old friend's opinion. If I
were asked, at this moment, to say plainly what defects I have
discovered in Sir Percival, I could only point out two. One, his
incessant restlessness and excitability—which may be caused,
naturally enough, by unusual energy of character. The other, his
short, sharp, ill-tempered manner of speaking to the servants—
which may be only a bad habit after all. No, I cannot dispute it,
and I will not dispute it—Sir Percival is a very handsome and a
very agreeable man. There! I have written it down at last, and I
am glad it's over.

18th.—Feeling weary and depressed this morning, I left Laura with
Mrs. Vesey, and went out alone for one of my brisk midday walks,
which I have discontinued too much of late. I took the dry airy
road over the moor that leads to Todd's Corner. After having been
out half an hour, I was excessively surprised to see Sir Percival
approaching me from the direction of the farm. He was walking
rapidly, swinging his stick, his head erect as usual, and his
shooting jacket flying open in the wind. When we met he did not
wait for me to ask any questions—he told me at once that he had
been to the farm to inquire if Mr. or Mrs. Todd had received any
tidings, since his last visit to Limmeridge, of Anne Catherick.