On the Tuesday I sent in the altered settlement, which practically disinherited the very persons whom Miss Fairlie’s own lips had informed me she was most anxious to benefit.  I had no choice.  Another lawyer would have drawn up the deed if I had refused to undertake it.

My task is done.  My personal share in the events of the family story extends no farther than the point which I have just reached.  Other pens than mine will describe the strange circumstances which are now shortly to follow.  Seriously and sorrowfully I close this brief record.  Seriously and sorrowfully I repeat here the parting words that I spoke at Limmeridge House:—­No daughter of mine should have been married to any man alive under such a settlement as I was compelled to make for Laura Fairlie.

The End of Mr. Gilmore’s Narrative.

THE STORY CONTINUED BY MARIAN HALCOMBE (in Extracts from her Diary)

Limmeridge house, Nov. 8.[1]

[1] The passages omitted, here and elsewhere, in Miss Halcombe’s Diary are only those which bear no reference to Miss Fairlie or to any of the persons with whom she is associated in these pages.

This morning Mr. Gilmore left us.

His interview with Laura had evidently grieved and surprised him more than he liked to confess.  I felt afraid, from his look and manner when we parted, that she might have inadvertently betrayed to him the real secret of her depression and my anxiety.  This doubt grew on me so, after he had gone, that I declined riding out with Sir Percival, and went up to Laura’s room instead.

I have been sadly distrustful of myself, in this difficult and lamentable matter, ever since I found out my own ignorance of the strength of Laura’s unhappy attachment.  I ought to have known that the delicacy and forbearance and sense of honour which drew me to poor Hartright, and made me so sincerely admire and respect him, were just the qualities to appeal most irresistibly to Laura’s natural sensitiveness and natural generosity of nature.  And yet, until she opened her heart to me of her own accord, I had no suspicion that this new feeling had taken root so deeply.  I once thought time and care might remove it.  I now fear that it will remain with her and alter her for life.  The discovery that I have committed such an error in judgment as this makes me hesitate about everything else.  I hesitate about Sir Percival, in the face of the plainest proofs.  I hesitate even in speaking to Laura.  On this very morning I doubted, with my hand on the door, whether I should ask her the questions I had come to put, or not.

When I went into her room I found her walking up and down in great impatience.  She looked flushed and excited, and she came forward at once, and spoke to me before I could open my lips.

“I wanted you,” she said.  “Come and sit down on the sofa with me.  Marian!  I can bear this no longer—­I must and will end it.”