Four months elapsed. April came—the month of spring—the month of change.
The course of time had flowed through the interval since the winter
peacefully and happily in our new home. I had turned my long leisure
to good account, had largely increased my sources of employment, and
had placed our means of subsistence on surer grounds. Freed from the
suspense and the anxiety which had tried her so sorely and hung over
her so long, Marian’s spirits rallied, and her natural energy of
character began to assert itself again, with something, if not all, of
the freedom and the vigour of former times.
More pliable under change than her sister, Laura showed more plainly
the progress made by the healing influences of her new life. The worn
and wasted look which had prematurely aged her face was fast leaving
it, and the expression which had been the first of its charms in past
days was the first of its beauties that now returned. My closest
observations of her detected but one serious result of the conspiracy
which had once threatened her reason and her life. Her memory of
events, from the period of her leaving Blackwater Park to the period
of our meeting in the burial-ground of Limmeridge Church, was lost
beyond all hope of recovery. At the slightest reference to that time
she changed and trembled still, her words became confused, her memory
wandered and lost itself as helplessly as ever. Here, and here only,
the traces of the past lay deep—too deep to be effaced.
In all else she was now so far on the way to recovery that, on her
best and brightest days, she sometimes looked and spoke like the Laura
of old times. The happy change wrought its natural result in us both.
From their long slumber, on her side and on mine, those imperishable
memories of our past life in Cumberland now awoke, which were one and
all alike, the memories of our love.
Gradually and insensibly our daily relations towards each other became
constrained. The fond words which I had spoken to her so naturally,
in the days of her sorrow and her suffering, faltered strangely on my
lips. In the time when my dread of losing her was most present to my
mind, I had always kissed her when she left me at night and when she
met me in the morning. The kiss seemed now to have dropped between
us—to be lost out of our lives. Our hands began to tremble again when
they met. We hardly ever looked long at one another out of Marian’s
presence. The talk often flagged between us when we were alone. When
I touched her by accident I felt my heart beating fast, as it used to
beat at Limmeridge House—I saw the lovely answering flush glowing again
in her cheeks, as if we were back among the Cumberland Hills in our
past characters of master and pupil once more. She had long intervals
of silence and thoughtfulness, and denied she had been thinking when
Marian asked her the question. I surprised myself one day neglecting my
work to dream over the little water-colour portrait of her which I had
taken in the summer-house where we first met—just as I used to neglect
Mr. Fairlie’s drawings to dream over the same likeness when it was
newly finished in the bygone time. Changed as all the circumstances now
were, our position towards each other in the golden days of our first
companionship seemed to be revived with the revival of our love. It was
as if Time had drifted us back on the wreck of our early hopes to the
old familiar shore!
To any other woman I could have spoken the decisive words which I still
hesitated to speak to HER. The utter helplessness of her position—her
friendless dependence on all the forbearing gentleness that I could
show her—my fear of touching too soon some secret sensitiveness
in her which my instinct as a man might not have been fine enough
to discover—these considerations, and others like them, kept me
self-distrustfully silent. And yet I knew that the restraint on both
sides must be ended, that the relations in which we stood towards one
another must be altered in some settled manner for the future, and that
it rested with me, in the first instance, to recognise the necessity
for a change.
The more I thought of our position, the harder the attempt to alter
it appeared, while the domestic conditions on which we three had been
living together since the winter remained undisturbed. I cannot account
for the capricious state of mind in which this feeling originated, but
the idea nevertheless possessed me that some previous change of place
and circumstances, some sudden break in the quiet monotony of our
lives, so managed as to vary the home aspect under which we had been
accustomed to see each other, might prepare the way for me to speak,
and might make it easier and less embarrassing for Laura and Marian to
hear.
With this purpose in view, I said, one morning, that I thought we
had all earned a little holiday and a change of scene. After some
consideration, it was decided that we should go for a fortnight to the
sea-side.
On the next day we left Fulham for a quiet town on the south coast. At
that early season of the year we were the only visitors in the place.
The cliffs, the beach, and the walks inland were all in the solitary
condition which was most welcome to us. The air was mild—the prospects
over hill and wood and down were beautifully varied by the shifting
April light and shade, and the restless sea leapt under our windows, as
if it felt, like the land, the glow and freshness of spring.
I owed it to Marian to consult her before I spoke to Laura, and to be
guided afterwards by her advice.
On the third day from our arrival I found a fit opportunity of speaking
to her alone. The moment we looked at one another, her quick instinct
detected the thought in my mind before I could give it expression. With
her customary energy and directness she spoke at once, and spoke first.
“You are thinking of that subject which was mentioned between us on
the evening of your return from Hampshire,” she said. “I have been
expecting you to allude to it for some time past. There must be a
change in our little household, Walter, we cannot go on much longer as
we are now. I see it as plainly as you do—as plainly as Laura sees it,
though she says nothing. How strangely the old times in Cumberland seem
to have come back! You and I are together again, and the one subject of
interest between us is Laura once more. I could almost fancy that this
room is the summer-house at Limmeridge, and that those waves beyond us
are beating on our sea-shore.”
“I was guided by your advice in those past days,” I said, “and now,
Marian, with reliance tenfold greater I will be guided by it again.”
She answered by pressing my hand. I saw that she was deeply touched by
my reference to the past. We sat together near the window, and while I
spoke and she listened, we looked at the glory of the sunlight shining
on the majesty of the sea.
“Whatever comes of this confidence between us,” I said, “whether it
ends happily or sorrowfully for ME, Laura’s interests will still be
the interests of my life. When we leave this place, on whatever terms
we leave it, my determination to wrest from Count Fosco the confession
which I failed to obtain from his accomplice, goes back with me to
London, as certainly as I go back myself. Neither you nor I can tell
how that man may turn on me, if I bring him to bay; we only know, by
his own words and actions, that he is capable of striking at me through
Laura, without a moment’s hesitation, or a moment’s remorse. In our
present position I have no claim on her which society sanctions, which
the law allows, to strengthen me in resisting him, and in protecting
HER. This places me at a serious disadvantage. If I am to fight our
cause with the Count, strong in the consciousness of Laura’s safety, I
must fight it for my Wife. Do you agree to that, Marian, so far?”
“To every word of it,” she answered.
“I will not plead out of my own heart,” I went on; “I will not appeal
to the love which has survived all changes and all shocks—I will rest
my only vindication of myself for thinking of her, and speaking of
her as my wife, on what I have just said. If the chance of forcing a
confession from the Count is, as I believe it to be, the last chance
left of publicly establishing the fact of Laura’s existence, the least
selfish reason that I can advance for our marriage is recognised by
us both. But I may be wrong in my conviction—other means of achieving
our purpose may be in our power, which are less uncertain and less
dangerous. I have searched anxiously, in my own mind, for those means,
and I have not found them. Have you?”
“No. I have thought about it too, and thought in vain.”
“In all likelihood,” I continued, “the same questions have occurred
to you, in considering this difficult subject, which have occurred to
me. Ought we to return with her to Limmeridge, now that she is like
herself again, and trust to the recognition of her by the people of
the village, or by the children at the school? Ought we to appeal to
the practical test of her handwriting? Suppose we did so. Suppose
the recognition of her obtained, and the identity of the handwriting
established. Would success in both those cases do more than supply
an excellent foundation for a trial in a court of law? Would the
recognition and the handwriting prove her identity to Mr. Fairlie and
take her back to Limmeridge House, against the evidence of her aunt,
against the evidence of the medical certificate, against the fact of
the funeral and the fact of the inscription on the tomb? No! We could
only hope to succeed in throwing a serious doubt on the assertion of
her death, a doubt which nothing short of a legal inquiry can settle.
I will assume that we possess (what we have certainly not got) money
enough to carry this inquiry on through all its stages. I will assume
that Mr. Fairlie’s prejudices might be reasoned away—that the false
testimony of the Count and his wife, and all the rest of the false
testimony, might be confuted—that the recognition could not possibly
be ascribed to a mistake between Laura and Anne Catherick, or the
handwriting be declared by our enemies to be a clever fraud—all these
are assumptions which, more or less, set plain probabilities at
defiance; but let them pass—and let us ask ourselves what would be the
first consequence or the first questions put to Laura herself on the
subject of the conspiracy. We know only too well what the consequence
would be, for we know that she has never recovered her memory of what
happened to her in London. Examine her privately, or examine her
publicly, she is utterly incapable of assisting the assertion of her
own case. If you don’t see this, Marian, as plainly as I see it, we
will go to Limmeridge and try the experiment to-morrow.”
“I DO see it, Walter. Even if we had the means of paying all the
law expenses, even if we succeeded in the end, the delays would be
unendurable, the perpetual suspense, after what we have suffered
already, would be heartbreaking. You are right about the hopelessness
of going to Limmeridge. I wish I could feel sure that you are right
also in determining to try that last chance with the Count. IS it a
chance at all?”
“Beyond a doubt, Yes. It is the chance of recovering the lost date of
Laura’s journey to London. Without returning to the reasons I gave
you some time since, I am still as firmly persuaded as ever that
there is a discrepancy between the date of that journey and the date
on the certificate of death. There lies the weak point of the whole
conspiracy—it crumbles to pieces if we attack it in that way, and the
means of attacking it are in possession of the Count. If I succeed in
wresting them from him, the object of your life and mine is fulfilled.
If I fail, the wrong that Laura has suffered will, in this world, never
be redressed.”
“Do you fear failure yourself, Walter?”
“I dare not anticipate success, and for that very reason, Marian, I
speak openly and plainly as I have spoken now. In my heart and my
conscience I can say it, Laura’s hopes for the future are at their
lowest ebb. I know that her fortune is gone—I know that the last chance
of restoring her to her place in the world lies at the mercy of her
worst enemy, of a man who is now absolutely unassailable, and who may
remain unassailable to the end. With every worldly advantage gone from
her, with all prospect of recovering her rank and station more than
doubtful, with no clearer future before her than the future which her
husband can provide, the poor drawing-master may harmlessly open his
heart at last. In the days of her prosperity, Marian, I was only the
teacher who guided her hand—I ask for it, in her adversity, as the hand
of my wife!”
Marian’s eyes met mine affectionately—I could say no more. My heart was
full, my lips were trembling. In spite of myself I was in danger of
appealing to her pity. I got up to leave the room. She rose at the same
moment, laid her hand gently on my shoulder, and stopped me.
“Walter!” she said, “I once parted you both, for your good and for
hers. Wait here, my brother!—wait, my dearest, best friend, till Laura
comes, and tells you what I have done now!”
For the first time since the farewell morning at Limmeridge she touched
my forehead with her lips. A tear dropped on my face as she kissed me.
She turned quickly, pointed to the chair from which I had risen, and
left the room.
I sat down alone at the window to wait through the crisis of my
life. My mind in that breathless interval felt like a total blank.
I was conscious of nothing but a painful intensity of all familiar
perceptions. The sun grew blinding bright, the white sea birds chasing
each other far beyond me seemed to be flitting before my face, the
mellow murmur of the waves on the beach was like thunder in my ears.
The door opened, and Laura came in alone. So she had entered the
breakfast-room at Limmeridge House on the morning when we parted.
Slowly and falteringly, in sorrow and in hesitation, she had once
approached me. Now she came with the haste of happiness in her feet,
with the light of happiness radiant in her face. Of their own accord
those dear arms clasped themselves round me, of their own accord the
sweet lips came to meet mine. “My darling!” she whispered, “we may own
we love each other now?” Her head nestled with a tender contentedness
on my bosom. “Oh,” she said innocently, “I am so happy at last!”
Ten days later we were happier still. We were married.