III

by Wilkie Collins

Four months passed. April arrived—the month of spring, the month of transformation.

Time had flowed gently since winter in our new home. I had made good use of my long days, expanding my work opportunities and securing our livelihood. With the weight of anxiety lifted, Marian’s spirits began to rise, and her natural energy started to re-emerge, bringing back some of the freedom and vigor she once had.

More adaptable than her sister, Laura showed clearer signs of recovery from the healing effects of her new life. The tired, worn look that had aged her prematurely was fading, and the expression that had once been her greatest charm was returning. My careful observations revealed only one serious consequence of the conspiracy that had once threatened her sanity and her life: she had lost all memory of the time between her departure from Blackwater Park and our reunion in the burial ground at Limmeridge Church. At the slightest mention of that period, she would change, trembling, her words becoming confused, her memory wandering helplessly as it had before. Here, and only here, the past left deep scars—too deep to be erased.

In every other aspect, she was recovering so well that on her brightest days, she sometimes looked and spoke like the Laura I had known. This happy change naturally affected us both. From the depths of our long silence, the cherished memories of our past life in Cumberland began to resurface, all of them intertwined with our love.

Gradually, our daily interactions became awkward. The affectionate words that had flowed so easily during her times of sorrow now felt strange on my lips. In those moments when my fear of losing her was strongest, I had always kissed her goodnight and greeted her with a kiss in the morning. But now, it felt as if that gesture had vanished from our lives. Our hands trembled when they met, and we rarely held each other’s gaze when Marian was around. Conversations often faltered when we were alone. A simple brush of our hands made my heart race like it used to at Limmeridge House, and I could see the familiar blush blooming on her cheeks, as if we were back in the Cumberland Hills, playing our old roles of master and pupil. She often fell into long silences, lost in thought, and denied she had been thinking when Marian asked. I caught myself one day neglecting my work, lost in the little watercolor portrait I had painted of her in the summer house where we first met—just as I used to neglect Mr. Fairlie’s drawings to daydream over that same likeness when it was freshly completed. Despite the changes in our circumstances, the bond we had shared in those golden days of our early companionship felt revived with the resurgence of our love. It was as if time had swept us back to the familiar shores of our early hopes.

To any other woman, I could have spoken the decisive words I hesitated to say to her. The helplessness of her situation—her dependence on my gentle kindness—my fear of inadvertently touching on some hidden sensitivity that I might not recognize—these thoughts kept me silent, filled with self-doubt. Yet, I knew that we could not remain in this restrained state; our relationship needed to evolve in a more defined way, and it was up to me to acknowledge that need for change.

The more I contemplated our situation, the more daunting the prospect of altering it seemed, especially since our domestic life had remained undisturbed since winter. I couldn’t explain the sudden urge I felt, but I became convinced that a change of scenery, a break in the monotony of our lives, might create the right conditions for me to speak and make it easier for Laura and Marian to hear.

With this in mind, I suggested one morning that we all deserved a little holiday and a change of scenery. After some discussion, we decided to spend a fortnight at the seaside.

The next day, we left Fulham and headed to a quiet town on the south coast. At this early time of year, we were the only visitors there. The cliffs, the beach, and the trails inland were all delightfully empty, which suited us perfectly. The air was mild, and the views over the hills, woods, and downs were beautifully illuminated by the shifting light and shadows of April. The restless sea crashed against the shore beneath our windows, as if it too was awakening to the warmth and freshness of spring.

I felt it was important to consult Marian before I spoke to Laura, and to follow her guidance afterward.

On the third day after our arrival, I found the right moment to speak to Marian alone. The instant our eyes met, her sharp intuition sensed my thoughts before I could voice them. With her usual energy and directness, she spoke first.

“You’re thinking about that topic we discussed the evening you returned from Hampshire,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up for a while now. There has to be a change in our little household, Walter; we can’t continue like this much longer. I see it as clearly as you do, just as clearly as Laura sees it, even if she hasn’t said anything. It’s strange how the old days in Cumberland seem to have returned! You and I are together again, and once more, the only thing that truly matters to us is Laura. I could almost believe we’re in the summer-house at Limmeridge, and those waves outside are crashing on our shore.”

“I followed your advice back then,” I replied, “and now, Marian, I trust your judgment even more. I’ll rely on it again.”

She squeezed my hand in response. I could tell that my mention of the past had deeply affected her. We sat together by the window, and as I spoke and she listened, we gazed at the sunlight sparkling on the vast sea.

“Whatever happens with this honesty between us,” I said, “whether it turns out well or poorly for me, Laura’s well-being will always be my priority. When we leave this place, no matter the circumstances, my determination to extract a confession from Count Fosco—something I failed to get from his accomplice—will return with me to London, just as surely as I will. We can’t predict how that man might react if I confront him; we only know, from his own words and actions, that he’s capable of striking at me through Laura without a moment’s hesitation or remorse. In our current situation, I have no legitimate claim on her that society or the law recognizes to help me stand against him and protect her. This puts me at a serious disadvantage. If I’m to fight for our cause against the Count, confident in Laura’s safety, I must fight for my wife. Do you agree with that, Marian?”

“To every word,” she replied.

“I won’t plead from my own heart,” I continued. “I won’t appeal to the love that has endured all changes and shocks. I’ll base my justification for thinking of her and speaking of her as my wife solely on what I’ve just said. If the chance to force a confession from the Count is, as I believe, our last opportunity to publicly affirm Laura’s existence, then the least selfish reason I can offer for our marriage is one we both recognize. But I might be wrong in my belief—there may be other ways to achieve our goal that are less uncertain and less dangerous. I’ve searched my mind for those alternatives, but I haven’t found any. Have you?”

“No. I’ve thought about it too, and come up empty.”

“I think it’s safe to say,” I continued, “that you’ve been grappling with the same questions I have about this complicated situation. Should we take her back to Limmeridge now that she seems to be herself again? Can we rely on the villagers or the schoolchildren to recognize her? Should we put her handwriting to the test?

Let’s say we do. If she’s recognized and her handwriting is confirmed, what would that really prove? Would it be enough to convince Mr. Fairlie and get her back to Limmeridge House, despite her aunt’s claims, the medical certificate, the funeral, and the inscription on her tombstone? No. All we could hope for is to cast serious doubt on the assertion of her death, a doubt that only a legal inquiry could resolve.

Let’s assume we had enough money to pursue this inquiry through every step. Let’s assume Mr. Fairlie could be reasoned with, that we could disprove the false testimonies from the Count and his wife, and that no one could mistake Laura for Anne Catherick or claim the handwriting was a clever forgery. These are all pretty far-fetched assumptions, but let’s set them aside for now.

What would be the first thing Laura would face regarding this conspiracy? We know all too well what would happen: she hasn’t regained her memory of what happened in London. Whether we examine her privately or publicly, she wouldn’t be able to support her own case. If you don’t see this as clearly as I do, Marian, then we should head to Limmeridge and try our luck tomorrow.”

“I do see it, Walter. Even if we had the funds to cover all the legal fees, even if we ultimately succeeded, the delays would be unbearable. The constant uncertainty, after everything we’ve already endured, would be devastating. You’re right about the futility of going to Limmeridge. I just wish I could be as confident as you are about trying that last chance with the Count. Is it really a chance?”

“Absolutely. It’s our best shot at uncovering the true date of Laura’s trip to London. Without going back to the reasons I shared with you earlier, I still firmly believe there’s a discrepancy between that date and the date on the death certificate. That’s the weak spot in the entire conspiracy—it would fall apart if we attack it there, and the means to do so are in the Count’s hands. If I can wrestle that information from him, we’ll have achieved our goal. If I fail, then the injustice Laura has suffered will never be righted in this world.”

“Are you afraid of failing, Walter?”

“I can’t allow myself to expect success, and that’s why I’m being so straightforward with you. In my heart, I know Laura’s hopes for the future are at their lowest point. I understand that her fortune is gone, and the last chance to restore her place in society lies with her worst enemy, a man who is currently untouchable and may remain so indefinitely. With everything worldly stripped from her, with no real prospect of reclaiming her status, and with only the uncertain future her husband can offer, the poor drawing master can finally open his heart. In her days of prosperity, Marian, I was just the teacher guiding her hand; now, in her time of adversity, I ask for that hand as my wife’s.”

Marian looked at me with warmth in her eyes—I couldn’t say anything more. My heart was heavy, and my lips trembled. I felt myself on the verge of appealing to her sympathy. I stood to leave the room, but she rose at the same moment, gently placed her hand on my shoulder, and stopped me.

“Walter!” she said. “I once separated you both for your own good and for hers. Stay here, my brother!—wait, my dearest friend, until Laura arrives and tells you what I’ve done now!”

For the first time since that farewell morning at Limmeridge, she kissed my forehead. A tear fell onto my face as she pressed her lips to me. She turned quickly, gestured to the chair I had just vacated, and left the room.

I sat alone by the window, waiting through what felt like the most intense moment of my life. My mind was blank, overwhelmed by a painful awareness of everything around me. The sun blazed brightly, and the white sea birds darting in the distance seemed to dance right in front of me. The sound of the waves crashing on the beach roared in my ears like thunder.

Then the door opened, and Laura walked in by herself. Just like that morning at Limmeridge House when we said goodbye, she approached me slowly, her steps heavy with sorrow and uncertainty. But now, she moved with a joyful urgency, her face glowing with happiness.

Without thinking, her arms wrapped around me, and her soft lips found mine. “My darling!” she whispered, “Can we finally admit that we love each other?” She nestled against me, a look of pure contentment on her face. “Oh,” she said, her voice bright with innocence, “I’m so happy at last!”

Ten days later, our happiness grew even deeper. We were married.