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 up-stairs today,
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; perfect good
breeding; 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, contemptuous 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 mid-day
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. and Mrs.
Todd had received any tidings, since his last
visit to Limmeridge, of Anne Catherick.

"You found, of course, that they had heard
nothing?" I said.