Putting myself and my own feelings entirely out of the question (which it is my duty to do, and which I have done), I, for one, have no doubt of the propriety of adopting the first of these proposals.  In either case a separation between Laura and me is inevitable.  It will be a longer separation, in the event of their going abroad, than it would be in the event of their remaining in London—­but we must set against this disadvantage the benefit to Laura, on the other side, of passing the winter in a mild climate, and more than that, the immense assistance in raising her spirits, and reconciling her to her new existence, which the mere wonder and excitement of travelling for the first time in her life in the most interesting country in the world, must surely afford.  She is not of a disposition to find resources in the conventional gaieties and excitements of London.  They would only make the first oppression of this lamentable marriage fall the heavier on her.  I dread the beginning of her new life more than words can tell, but I see some hope for her if she travels—­none if she remains at home.

It is strange to look back at this latest entry in my journal, and to find that I am writing of the marriage and the parting with Laura, as people write of a settled thing.  It seems so cold and so unfeeling to be looking at the future already in this cruelly composed way.  But what other way is possible, now that the time is drawing so near?  Before another month is over our heads she will be his Laura instead of mine!  His Laura!  I am as little able to realise the idea which those two words convey—­my mind feels almost as dulled and stunned by it—­as if writing of her marriage were like writing of her death.

December 1st.—­A sad, sad day—­a day that I have no heart to describe at any length.  After weakly putting it off last night, I was obliged to speak to her this morning of Sir Percival’s proposal about the wedding tour.

In the full conviction that I should be with her wherever she went, the poor child—­for a child she is still in many things—­was almost happy at the prospect of seeing the wonders of Florence and Rome and Naples.  It nearly broke my heart to dispel her delusion, and to bring her face to face with the hard truth.  I was obliged to tell her that no man tolerates a rival—­not even a woman rival—­ in his wife’s affections, when he first marries, whatever he may do afterwards.  I was obliged to warn her that my chance of living with her permanently under her own roof, depended entirely on my not arousing Sir Percival’s jealousy and distrust by standing between them at the beginning of their marriage, in the position of the chosen depositary of his wife’s closest secrets.  Drop by drop I poured the profaning bitterness of this world’s wisdom into that pure heart and that innocent mind, while every higher and better feeling within me recoiled from my miserable task.  It is over now.  She has learnt her hard, her inevitable lesson.  The simple illusions of her girlhood are gone, and my hand has stripped them off.  Better mine than his—­that is all my consolation—­better mine than his.