“Suppose I do mean to write to him again,” I said at last.  “What then, Laura?”

Her cheek grew burning hot against my neck, and her arms trembled and tightened round me.

“Don’t tell him about the twenty-second,” she whispered.  “Promise, Marian—­pray promise you will not even mention my name to him when you write next.”

I gave the promise.  No words can say how sorrowfully I gave it.  She instantly took her arm from my waist, walked away to the window, and stood looking out with her back to me.  After a moment she spoke once more, but without turning round, without allowing me to catch the smallest glimpse of her face.

“Are you going to my uncle’s room?” she asked.  “Will you say that I consent to whatever arrangement he may think best?  Never mind leaving me, Marian.  I shall be better alone for a little while.”

I went out.  If, as soon as I got into the passage, I could have transported Mr. Fairlie and Sir Percival Glyde to the uttermost ends of the earth by lifting one of my fingers, that finger would have been raised without an instant’s hesitation.  For once my unhappy temper now stood my friend.  I should have broken down altogether and burst into a violent fit of crying, if my tears had not been all burnt up in the heat of my anger.  As it was, I dashed into Mr. Fairlie’s room—­called to him as harshly as possible, “Laura consents to the twenty-second”—­and dashed out again without waiting for a word of answer.  I banged the door after me, and I hope I shattered Mr. Fairlie’s nervous system for the rest of the day.

28th.—­This morning I read poor Hartright’s farewell letter over again, a doubt having crossed my mind since yesterday, whether I am acting wisely in concealing the fact of his departure from Laura.

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