The summer and autumn passed after my return from Paris, and brought no
changes with them which need be noticed here. We lived so simply and
quietly that the income which I was now steadily earning sufficed for
all our wants.
In the February of the new year our first child was born—a son.
My mother and sister and Mrs. Vesey were our guests at the little
christening party, and Mrs. Clements was present to assist my wife on
the same occasion. Marian was our boy’s godmother, and Pesca and Mr.
Gilmore (the latter acting by proxy) were his godfathers. I may add
here that when Mr. Gilmore returned to us a year later he assisted the
design of these pages, at my request, by writing the Narrative which
appears early in the story under his name, and which, though first
in order of precedence, was thus, in order of time, the last that I
received.
The only event in our lives which now remains to be recorded, occurred
when our little Walter was six months old.
At that time I was sent to Ireland to make sketches for certain
forthcoming illustrations in the newspaper to which I was attached.
I was away for nearly a fortnight, corresponding regularly with my
wife and Marian, except during the last three days of my absence,
when my movements were too uncertain to enable me to receive letters.
I performed the latter part of my journey back at night, and when I
reached home in the morning, to my utter astonishment there was no one
to receive me. Laura and Marian and the child had left the house on the
day before my return.
A note from my wife, which was given to me by the servant, only
increased my surprise, by informing me that they had gone to Limmeridge
House. Marian had prohibited any attempt at written explanations—I was
entreated to follow them the moment I came back—complete enlightenment
awaited me on my arrival in Cumberland—and I was forbidden to feel the
slightest anxiety in the meantime. There the note ended. It was still
early enough to catch the morning train. I reached Limmeridge House the
same afternoon.
My wife and Marian were both upstairs. They had established themselves
(by way of completing my amazement) in the little room which had been
once assigned to me for a studio, when I was employed on Mr. Fairlie’s
drawings. On the very chair which I used to occupy when I was at work
Marian was sitting now, with the child industriously sucking his
coral upon her lap—while Laura was standing by the well-remembered
drawing-table which I had so often used, with the little album that I
had filled for her in past times open under her hand.
“What in the name of heaven has brought you here?” I asked. “Does Mr.
Fairlie know——?”
Marian suspended the question on my lips by telling me that Mr. Fairlie
was dead. He had been struck by paralysis, and had never rallied after
the shock. Mr. Kyrle had informed them of his death, and had advised
them to proceed immediately to Limmeridge House.
Some dim perception of a great change dawned on my mind. Laura spoke
before I had quite realised it. She stole close to me to enjoy the
surprise which was still expressed in my face.
“My darling Walter,” she said, “must we really account for our boldness
in coming here? I am afraid, love, I can only explain it by breaking
through our rule, and referring to the past.”
“There is not the least necessity for doing anything of the kind,” said
Marian. “We can be just as explicit, and much more interesting, by
referring to the future.” She rose and held up the child kicking and
crowing in her arms. “Do you know who this is, Walter?” she asked, with
bright tears of happiness gathering in her eyes.
“Even MY bewilderment has its limits,” I replied. “I think I can still
answer for knowing my own child.”
“Child!” she exclaimed, with all her easy gaiety of old times. “Do you
talk in that familiar manner of one of the landed gentry of England?
Are you aware, when I present this illustrious baby to your notice,
in whose presence you stand? Evidently not! Let me make two eminent
personages known to one another: Mr. Walter Hartright—THE HEIR OF
LIMMERIDGE.”
So she spoke. In writing those last words, I have written all. The pen
falters in my hand. The long, happy labour of many months is over.
Marian was the good angel of our lives—let Marian end our Story.