ever. In three words—how glibly my pen
writes them!—in three words, I hate him.

21st. Have the anxieties of this anxious
time shaken me a little, at last? I have been
writing, for the last few days, in a tone of
levity which, Heaven knows, is far enough from
my heart, and which it has rather shocked me
to discover on looking back at the entries in my
journal.

Perhaps I may have caught the feverish
excitement of Laura's spirits, for the last week.
If so, the fit has already passed away from
me, and has left me in a very strange state of
mind. A persistent idea has been forcing itself
on my attention, ever since last night, that
something will yet happen to prevent the
marriage. What has produced this singular fancy?
Is it the indirect result of my apprehensions for
Laura's future? Or has it been unconsciously
suggested to me by the increasing restlessness
and agitation which I have certainly observed in
Sir Percival's manner, as the wedding-day draws
nearer and nearer? Impossible to say. I know
that I have the idea—surely the wildest idea,
under the circumstances, that ever entered a
woman's head?—but try as I may, I cannot
trace it back to its source.

22nd. Such a day of confusion and
wretchedness as I hope never to see again.

Kind Mrs. Vesey, whom we have all too much
overlooked and forgotten of late, innocently
caused us a sad morning to begin with. She
has been, for months past, secretly making a
warm Shetland shawl for her dear pupil—a
most beautiful and surprising piece of work to
be done by a woman at her age and with her
habits. The gift was presented this morning;
and poor warm-hearted Laura completely broke
down when the shawl was put proudly on her
shoulders by the loving old friend and guardian
of her motherless childhood. I was hardly
allowed time to quiet them both, or even to dry
my own eyes, when I was sent for by Mr.
Fairlie, to be favoured by a long recital of his
arrangements for the preservation of his own
tranquillity on the wedding-day.

"Dear Laura" was to receive his present—a
shabby ring, with her affectionate uncle's hair
for an ornament, instead of a precious stone, and
with a heartless French inscription, inside,
about congenial sentiments and eternal friendship
—"dear Laura" was to receive this tender
tribute from my hands immediately, so that she
might have plenty of time to recover from the
agitation produced by the gift, before she
appeared in Mr. Fairlie's presence. "Dear
Laura" was to pay him a little visit that evening,
and to be kind enough not to make a scene.
''Dear Laura" was to pay him another little
visit in her wedding dress, the next morning,
and to be kind enough, again, not to make a
scene. "Dear Laura" was to look in once
more, for the third time, before going away, but
without harrowing his feelings by saying when
she was going away, and without tears—"in the
name of pity, in the name of everything, dear
Marian, that is most affectionate and most
domestic and most delightfully and charmingly
self-composed, without tears!" I was so
exasperated by this miserable selfish trifling, at such
a time, that I should certainly have shocked
Mr. Fairlie by some of the hardest and rudest
truths he has ever heard in his life, if the arrival
of Mr. Arnold from Polesdean had not called
me away to new duties down stairs.

The rest of the day is indescribable. I
believe no one in the house really knew how it
passed. The confusion of small events, all
huddled together one on the other, bewildered
every one. There were dresses sent home, that
had been forgotten; there were trunks to be
packed and unpacked and packed again; there
were presents from friends far and near, friends
high and low. We were all needlessly hurried;
all nervously expectant of the morrow. Sir
Percival, especially, was too restless, now, to
remain five minutes together in the same place.
That short, sharp cough of his troubled him more
than ever. He was in and out of the house all
day long; and he seemed to grow so inquisitive,
on a sudden, that he questioned the very
strangers who came on small errands to the house.
Add to all this, the one perpetual thought, in
Laura's mind and mine, that we were to part
the next day, and the haunting dread,
unexpressed by either of us, and yet ever present
to both, that this deplorable marriage might
prove to be the one fatal error of her life and
the one hopeless sorrow of mine. For the first
time in all the years of our close and happy
intercourse we almost avoided looking each
other in the face; and we refrained, by common
consent, from speaking together in private,
through the whole evening. I can dwell on it
no longer. Whatever future sorrows may be
in store for me, I shall always look back on this
twenty-second of December as the most
comfortless and most miserable day of my life.

I am writing these lines in the solitude of
my own room, long after midnight; having just
come back from a stolen look at Laura in her
pretty little white bed—the bed she has occupied
since the days of her girlhood.

There she lay, unconscious that I was looking
at her—quiet, more quiet than I had dared to
hope, but not sleeping. The glimmer of the night-
light showed me that her eyes were only
partially closed: the traces of tears glistened between
her eyelids. My little keepsake—only a brooch
—lay on the table at her bedside, with her
prayer-book, and the miniature portrait of her
father which she takes with her wherever she
goes. I waited a moment, looking at her from
behind her pillow, as she lay beneath me, with
one arm and hand resting white on the white
coverlid, so still, so quietly breathing, that the
frill on her night-dress never moved—I waited
looking at her, as I have seen her thousands of
times, as I shall never see her again—and then
stole back to my room. My own love! with all
your wealth, and all your beauty, how friendless
you are! The one man who would give his