Charles Dickens.] ALL THE YEAR ROUND. [January 28, 1860.]  311

apology for not joining us at breakfast. He
had taken an early cup of coffee in his own room,
and he was still engaged there in writing letters.
At eleven o'clock, if that hour was convenient,
he would do himself the honour of waiting on
Miss Fairlie and Miss Halcombe.

My eyes were on Laura's face while the mes-
sage was being delivered. I had found her un-
accountably quiet and composed on going into
her room in the morning; and so she remained
all through breakfast. Even when we were
sitting together on the sofa in her room, waiting
for Sir Percival, she still preserved her self-
control.

"Don't be afraid of me, Marian," was all she
said: " I may forget myself with an old friend
like Mr. Gilmore, or with a dear sister like you;
but I will not forget myself with Sir Percival
Clyde."

I looked at her, and listened to her in silent
surprise. Through all the years of our close
intimacy, this passive force in her character had
been hidden from me—hidden even from herself,
till love found it, and suffering called it forth.

As the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven,
Sir Percival knocked at the door, and came in.
There was suppressed anxiety and agitation in
every line of his face. The dry, sharp cough,
which teases him at most times, seemed to be
troubling him more incessantly than ever. He
sat down opposite to us at the table; and Laura
remained by me. I looked attentively at them
both, and he was the palest of the two.

He said a few unimportant words, with a
visible effort to preserve his customary ease of
manner. But his voice was not to be steadied,
and the restless uneasiness in his eyes was not
to be concealed. He must have felt this him-
self; for he stopped in the middle of a sentence,
and gave up even the attempt to hide his em-
barrassment any longer.

There was just one moment of dead silence
before Laura addressed him.

"I wish to speak to you, Sir Percival," she
said, " on a subject that is very important to us
both. My sister is here, because her presence
helps me, and gives me confidence. She has not
suggested one word of what I am going to say:
I speak from my own thoughts, not from hers.
I am sure you will be kind enough to understand
that, before I go any farther?"

Sir Percival bowed. She had proceeded thus
far, with perfect outward tranquillity, and per-
fect propriety of manner. She looked at him,
and he looked at her. They seemed, at the out-
set at least, resolved to understand one another
plainly.

"I have heard from Marian," she went on,
"that I have only to claim my release from our
engagement, to obtain that release from you.
It was forbearing and generous on your part,
Sir Percival, to send me such a message. It is
only doing you justice to say that I am grateful
for the offer; and I hope and believe that it is
only doing myself justice to tell you that I
decline to accept it."

His attentive face brightened and relaxed; he

seemed to breathe more freely. But I saw one
of his feet, softly, quietly, incessantly beating on
the carpet under the table; and I felt that he
was secretly as anxious as ever.

"I have not forgotten," she said, " that you
asked my father's permission before you honoured
me with a proposal of marriage. Perhaps, you
have not forgotten, either, what I said when I
consented to our engagement? I ventured to
tell you that my father's influence and advice
had mainly decided me to give you my promise.
I was guided by my father, because I had always
found him the truest of all advisers, the best and
fondest of all protectors and friends. I have
lost him now; I have only his memory to love;
but my faith in that dear dead friend has never
been shaken. I believe, at this moment, as truly
as I ever believed, that he knew what was best,
and that his hopes and wishes ought to be my
hopes and wishes too."

Her voice trembled, for the first time. Her
restless fingers stole their way into my lap, and
held fast by one of my hands. There was an-
other moment of silence; and then Sir Percival
spoke.

"May I ask," he said, " if I have ever proved
myself unworthy of the trust, which it has been
hitherto my greatest honour and greatest hap-
piness to possess?"

"I have found nothing in your conduct to
blame," she answered. "You have always
treated me with the same delicacy and the same
forbearance. You have deserved my trust; and,
what is of far more importance in my estimation,
you have deserved my father's trust, out of
which mine grew. You have given me no ex-
cuse, even if I had wanted to find one, for ask-
ing to be released from my pledge. What I
have said so far, has been spoken with the wish
to acknowledge my whole obligation to you.
My regard for that obligation, my regard for my
father's memory, and my regard for my own pro-
mise, all forbid me to set the example, on my
side, of withdrawing from our present position.
The breaking of our engagement must be en-
tirely your wish and your act, Sir Percival—
not mine."

The uneasy beating of his foot suddenly stop-
ped; and he leaned forward eagerly across the
table.

"My act?" he said. " What reason can there
be, on my side, for withdrawing?"

I heard her breath quickening; I felt her
hand growing cold. In spite of what she had
said to me, when we were alone, I began to be
afraid of her. I was wrong.

"A reason that it is very hard to tell you,"
she answered. "There is a change in me, Sir
Percival—a change which is serious enough to
justify you, to yourself and to me, in breaking
off our engagement."

His face turned so pale again, that even his
lips lost their colour. He raised the arm which,
lay on the table; turned a little away in his
chair; and supported his head on his hand, so
that his profile only was presented to us.

"What change?" he asked.