The Story Continued by Marian Halcombe, in Extracts from Her Diary

“While we were at Polesdean,” she said, “you had a letter, Marian⁠—” Her altered tone⁠—the abrupt manner in which she looked away from me and hid her face on my shoulder⁠—the hesitation which silenced her before she had completed her question, all told me, but too plainly, to whom the half-expressed inquiry pointed. “I thought, Laura, that you and I were never to refer to him again,” I said gently. “You had a letter from him?” she persisted. “Yes,” I replied, “if you must know it.” “Do you mean to write to him again?” I hesitated. I had been afraid to tell her of his absence from England, or of the manner in which my exertions to serve his new hopes and projects had connected me with his departure. What answer could I make? He was gone where no letters could reach him for months, perhaps for years, to come. “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.”