IV (2/2)

von Wilkie Collins

“Please believe me,” he replied earnestly, resting his hand on the table as he turned back to us. The tension that had once clouded his expression had lifted, revealing a face filled with eagerness and a deep, anxious anticipation for her next words.

“I want you to know that I’m not speaking out of selfishness,” she said. “If you choose to leave me, Sir Percival, after what you’ve just heard, it won’t be to marry someone else. It will mean I remain single for the rest of my life. My feelings for you have existed only in my mind. They can’t go any further. No words have been exchanged—” She paused, searching for the right way to express herself, her momentary confusion revealing the sadness of the situation. “No words have been exchanged,” she continued, gathering her resolve, “between me and the person I’m referring to for the first and last time in your presence, about my feelings for him or his feelings for me—no words ever can be exchanged—neither of us is likely to meet again. I sincerely ask you to let this be enough and to trust me when I say what I’ve just told you is the truth. It’s the truth that I believe my promised husband deserves to know, even at the cost of my own feelings. I trust in his generosity to forgive me and in his honor to keep my secret.”

“Both of those trusts are sacred to me,” he said, “and I will honor them.”

After he spoke, he paused, looking at her as if he were waiting for more.

“I’ve said all I need to say,” she replied quietly. “I’ve said more than enough to justify you in ending our engagement.”

“You’ve said more than enough,” he countered, “to make it my greatest desire to KEEP the engagement.” With that, he stood up and took a few steps closer to where she sat.

She flinched, a faint cry of surprise escaping her lips. Every word she had spoken had unwittingly revealed her purity and sincerity to a man who understood the immense value of a genuine woman. Her noble conduct had, in a way, sabotaged all the hopes she had placed in it. I had feared this moment from the beginning. I would have intervened if she had given me the slightest chance. Now, even after the damage was done, I waited for a word from Sir Percival that would allow me to defend her.

“You’ve left it to ME, Miss Fairlie, to release you,” he continued. “I’m not heartless enough to let go of a woman who has just proven herself to be the noblest of her kind.”

He spoke with such warmth and passion, yet with perfect delicacy, that she lifted her head, her cheeks flushing slightly, and looked at him with newfound spirit.

“No!” she said firmly. “I would be the most miserable of women if I married someone without loving him.”

“Can’t she learn to love in the future,” he asked, “if the one purpose of her husband’s life is to earn it?”

“Never!” she replied. “If you insist on keeping our engagement, I may be your true and faithful wife, Sir Percival—but I will never be your loving wife, if I know my own heart!”

She looked so strikingly beautiful as she declared those brave words that no man could have hardened his heart against her. I struggled to feel that Sir Percival was at fault and to voice it, but my empathy for her made it impossible.

“I gratefully accept your honesty and integrity,” he said. “What you can offer is worth more to me than anything I could hope for from any other woman.”

Her left hand still held mine, while her right hung limply at her side. He gently lifted it to his lips, more of a touch than a kiss, bowed to me, and then, with perfect grace and discretion, left the room without a word.

She remained still and silent after he was gone, sitting beside me, her eyes fixed on the ground. I realized it would be pointless to speak, so I wrapped my arm around her and held her close in silence. We stayed like that for what felt like an eternity—so long that I grew uneasy and softly spoke to her, hoping to spark a change.

The sound of my voice seemed to jolt her back to reality. She suddenly pulled away from me and stood up.

“I must accept this, Marian, as best as I can,” she said. “My new life has its difficult responsibilities, and one of them starts today.”

As she spoke, she walked to a side table by the window where her sketching materials lay. She gathered them carefully and placed them in a drawer of her cabinet. Locking it, she brought the key to me.

“I must part with everything that reminds me of him,” she said. “Keep the key wherever you like—I will never need it again.”

Before I could say anything, she had turned away to her bookshelf and picked up the album filled with Walter Hartright’s drawings. She paused for a moment, holding the little book tenderly in her hands, then lifted it to her lips and kissed it.

“Oh, Laura! Laura!” I said, my voice heavy with sorrow, not anger or reproach.

“It’s the last time, Marian,” she pleaded. “I’m saying goodbye for good.”

She placed the book on the table and pulled out the comb that held her hair in place. It cascaded down her back and shoulders, flowing well past her waist. She separated one long, thin lock from the rest, cut it off, and carefully pinned it in a circle on the first blank page of the album. As soon as it was secured, she closed the book quickly and handed it to me.

“You write to him, and he writes to you,” she said. “As long as I’m alive, if he asks about me, always tell him I’m well, and never say I’m unhappy. Don’t upset him, Marian, please don’t upset him for my sake. If I die first, promise me you’ll give him this little book of his drawings, with my hair in it. Once I’m gone, there’s no harm in telling him I placed it there myself. And say—oh, Marian, please say for me what I can never say for myself—say I loved him!”

She threw her arms around my neck and whispered those last words in my ear with such passionate joy that it nearly broke my heart. All the restraint she had held onto shattered in that moment of tenderness. She pulled away from me with a sudden intensity and collapsed onto the sofa, overcome with sobs and tears that shook her entire body.

I tried in vain to comfort her and reason with her—she was beyond consolation, beyond reason. It marked the sorrowful end of our memorable day. When her fit finally subsided, she was too drained to speak. She dozed off in the afternoon, and I tucked the book of drawings away so she wouldn’t see it when she woke. My face was calm, despite the turmoil in my heart, when she opened her eyes and looked at me. We didn’t mention the distressing conversation from the morning. Sir Percival’s name went unspoken, and neither of us brought up Walter Hartright for the rest of the day.

On the 10th, noticing that she seemed composed and like her usual self, I broached the painful topic from yesterday. I implored her to let me speak to Sir Percival and Mr. Fairlie more directly about this unfortunate marriage. She gently but firmly interrupted my protests.

“I left yesterday to decide,” she said. “And yesterday has decided. It’s too late to go back.”

This afternoon, Sir Percival spoke to me about what had happened in Laura’s room. He assured me that the extraordinary trust she had placed in him had sparked a deep conviction of her innocence and integrity in his mind. He claimed he hadn’t felt even a moment’s jealousy, either while he was with her or afterward when he had stepped away. He lamented the unfortunate attachment that had hindered his progress in winning her esteem, but he firmly believed it had remained unacknowledged in the past, and would continue to be so in the future, regardless of any changes in circumstances. This was his unwavering belief, and the strongest proof he could offer was that he felt no curiosity about whether the attachment was recent or who it was directed toward. His complete confidence in Miss Fairlie made him content with what she had chosen to share, and he was genuinely free of any anxiety to know more.

He paused after saying this and looked at me. I was acutely aware of my unreasonable bias against him—of my unworthy suspicion that he might be waiting for me to impulsively answer the very questions he had just claimed he wouldn’t ask. So, I avoided that part of the conversation, feeling a bit flustered. Yet, I was determined not to miss any chance to advocate for Laura, so I boldly told him that I regretted his generosity hadn’t pushed him to withdraw from the engagement entirely.

Once again, he caught me off guard by not trying to defend himself. Instead, he simply asked me to consider the difference between allowing Miss Fairlie to walk away from him, which was merely a matter of submission, and forcing himself to give her up, which would be like asking him to kill his own hopes. The way she had acted the day before had only deepened the unwavering love and admiration he had felt for two long years. From that moment on, he was powerless to fight against those feelings. I had no choice but to see him as weak, selfish, and unfeeling towards the very woman he idolized, while he had to accept my judgment as best he could. He posed a question that lingered in my mind: could her future as a single woman, suffering under an unacknowledged attachment, really promise her a brighter life than being married to a man who worshipped her? In the latter scenario, there was at least a glimmer of hope, however faint, while in the former, as she had shown, there was none at all.

I replied to him—not because I had anything truly persuasive to say, but because, as a woman, I felt compelled to respond. It was painfully clear that Laura's actions the day before had given him an opportunity, and he had chosen to take it. I sensed this then, and I feel it just as strongly now, as I write these words in my own room. The only hope I cling to is that his motives genuinely stem from the overwhelming strength of his feelings for Laura.

Before I close my diary for the night, I must note that today I reached out to two of my mother’s old friends in London on behalf of poor Hartright—both influential men. If they can help him, I’m sure they will. Aside from Laura, I’ve never been more anxious about anyone than I am about Walter. Everything that has happened since he left us has only intensified my regard and sympathy for him. I hope I’m doing the right thing by trying to help him find work abroad—I sincerely hope it leads to a positive outcome.

11th.—Sir Percival had a meeting with Mr. Fairlie, and I was summoned to join them.

When I arrived, I found Mr. Fairlie visibly relieved at the thought of the “family worry” (as he referred to his niece’s marriage) finally being resolved. I didn’t feel the need to share my own opinion at that moment, but when he lazily suggested that they should decide on the wedding date next, in line with Sir Percival’s wishes, I seized the opportunity to strongly protest against rushing Laura’s decision. Sir Percival quickly assured me that he understood my concerns and wanted me to know that the proposal hadn’t come from him. Mr. Fairlie leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and declared that we both honored human nature, before repeating his suggestion as if neither of us had spoken against it. I ended up flatly refusing to bring up the topic with Laura unless she mentioned it first. After making that declaration, I left the room. Sir Percival looked genuinely embarrassed and distressed, while Mr. Fairlie stretched out his legs on his velvet footstool and said, “Dear Marian! How I envy your strong nerves! Don’t slam the door!”

When I reached Laura’s room, I found out she had been asking for me, and Mrs. Vesey had told her I was with Mr. Fairlie. She immediately wanted to know what I had been needed for, and I recounted everything that had happened, not bothering to hide my irritation and frustration. Her response shocked and distressed me—it was the last thing I expected to hear.

“My uncle is right,” she said. “I’ve caused enough trouble and anxiety for you and everyone around me. Let me not cause any more, Marian—let Sir Percival decide.”

I protested passionately, but nothing I said could sway her.

“I am bound to my engagement,” she replied. “I’ve severed ties with my old life. The inevitable day will come, whether I delay it or not. No, Marian! Once again, my uncle is right. I’ve caused enough trouble and anxiety, and I won’t cause any more.”

She used to be so flexible, but now she was rigid in her resignation—I might even say in her despair. As much as I love her, I would have felt less pain if she had been in a state of agitation—it was so unlike her to be so cold and unresponsive as I saw her now.

12th.—At breakfast, Sir Percival asked me some questions about Laura that left me no choice but to tell him what she had said.

While we were talking, she came down to join us. She was just as unnaturally composed in Sir Percival’s presence as she had been in mine. After breakfast, he managed to steal a few private moments with her in a nook by one of the windows. Their conversation lasted no more than two or three minutes, and when they parted, she left the room with Mrs. Vesey, while Sir Percival approached me. He told me he had asked her to keep her right to choose the date of their marriage at her discretion. In response, she had simply acknowledged his request and asked him to communicate his wishes to Miss Halcombe.

I can hardly bring myself to write more. In this instance, as in every other, Sir Percival has achieved his goal with remarkable self-satisfaction, despite everything I say or do. His desires remain unchanged, just as they were when he first arrived. Laura, having resigned herself to the unavoidable sacrifice of the marriage, remains as coldly hopeless and enduring as ever. In letting go of the small mementos that reminded her of Hartright, it feels as if she has also let go of all her tenderness and sensitivity. It’s only three in the afternoon as I write this, and Sir Percival has already left us, caught up in the eager excitement of a bridegroom preparing for his bride’s arrival at his home in Hampshire. Unless something extraordinary happens to stop it, they will be married exactly when he wants—before the year ends. My fingers burn as I write it!

13th.—I spent a sleepless night, anxious about Laura. By morning, I resolved to see if a change of scenery could help her. Surely she can’t remain in this state of numbness if I take her away from Limmeridge and surround her with the friendly faces of old acquaintances? After some thought, I decided to write to the Arnolds in Yorkshire. They are simple, kind-hearted, and welcoming people, and she has known them since childhood. Once I dropped the letter in the post, I told her what I had done. It would have been a relief if she had shown some spirit to resist, but instead, she simply said, “I’ll go anywhere with you, Marian. I suppose you’re right—I suppose the change will do me good.”

14th.—I wrote to Mr. Gilmore, letting him know that there was a real chance this miserable marriage would happen, and I mentioned my idea of trying a change of scenery for Laura. I didn’t have the heart to go into details. There will be time for that as we get closer to the end of the year.

15th.—I received three letters today. The first was from the Arnolds, filled with excitement at the prospect of seeing Laura and me. The second was from one of the gentlemen I contacted on Walter Hartright’s behalf, informing me that he had found a way to fulfill my request. The third was from Walter himself, expressing his heartfelt thanks for giving him a chance to leave his home, his country, and his friends. It seems a private expedition to excavate the ruins of Central America is about to set sail from Liverpool. The draughtsman originally assigned to the trip has backed out at the last minute, and Walter is stepping in to take his place. He’ll be committed for at least six months from the time they land in Honduras, and possibly a year more if the excavations go well and the funding holds up. His letter ends with a promise to send me a farewell note when they’re all on board the ship and the pilot leaves them. I can only hope and pray that we’re both making the right choices in this matter. It feels like such a serious step for him that just thinking about it is startling. Yet, in his unfortunate situation, how can I expect him to stay home?

16th.—The carriage is at the door. Laura and I are setting out today for our visit to the Arnolds.

POLESDEAN LODGE, YORKSHIRE.

23rd.—A week in this new environment and among these kind-hearted people has done her some good, though not as much as I had hoped. I’ve decided to extend our stay for at least another week. There’s no point in returning to Limmeridge until it’s absolutely necessary.

24th.—Sad news arrived in this morning’s post. The expedition to Central America set sail on the twenty-first. We’ve lost a true friend—Walter Hartright has left England.

25th.—Sad news yesterday—ominous news today. Sir Percival Glyde has written to Mr. Fairlie, and Mr. Fairlie has written to Laura and me, summoning us back to Limmeridge immediately.

What could this mean? Has the date for the marriage been set in our absence?