III

by Wilkie Collins

Summer and autumn slipped by after I returned from Paris, bringing no notable changes. We lived simply and quietly, and my steady income was enough to cover our needs.

In February of the new year, our first child arrived—a son. My mother, sister, and Mrs. Vesey joined us for a small christening celebration, with Mrs. Clements there to help my wife. Marian was our boy’s godmother, while Pesca and Mr. Gilmore (acting as proxy) were his godfathers. I should mention that when Mr. Gilmore returned to us a year later, he helped shape these pages at my request by writing the Narrative that appears early in the story under his name. Although it comes first in order, it was the last I received in terms of time.

The only significant event left to recount happened when our little Walter was six months old.

I was sent to Ireland to create sketches for upcoming illustrations for the newspaper I worked for. I was away for nearly two weeks, keeping in touch with my wife and Marian, except for the last three days when my schedule was too unpredictable to receive any letters. I traveled back at night, and when I arrived home in the morning, I was shocked to find no one there. Laura, Marian, and the baby had left the house the day before my return.

A note from my wife, handed to me by the servant, only deepened my surprise. It informed me that they had gone to Limmeridge House. Marian had insisted on no written explanations; I was urged to follow them as soon as I got back—complete clarity awaited me in Cumberland—and I was instructed not to worry in the meantime. That was all the note said. It was still early enough to catch the morning train, and I reached Limmeridge House that afternoon.

My wife and Marian were upstairs. To my astonishment, they had settled in the little room that had once been my studio when I worked on Mr. Fairlie’s drawings. Marian sat in the very chair I used to occupy, with the baby happily sucking on his coral in her lap, while Laura stood by the familiar drawing table I had used so often, the little album I had filled for her open in front of her.

“What on earth brought you here?” I asked. “Does Mr. Fairlie know—?”

Marian cut off my question. “Mr. Fairlie is dead,” she said. He had suffered a stroke and never recovered. Mr. Kyrle had informed them of his passing and advised them to come to Limmeridge House immediately.

A vague sense of a significant change began to settle in my mind. Laura spoke before I could fully grasp it. She moved closer to me, eager to see the surprise still on my face.

“My darling Walter,” she said, “must we really explain our boldness in coming here? I’m afraid I can only do that by breaking our rule and referring to the past.”

“There’s no need for that,” Marian interjected. “We can be just as clear, and much more interesting, by looking to the future.” She stood up, holding the child who was kicking and cooing in her arms. “Do you know who this is, Walter?” she asked, bright tears of happiness welling in her eyes.

“Even my confusion has its limits,” I replied. “I think I can still claim to know my own child.”

“Child!” she exclaimed, her old playful spirit shining through. “Do you really speak so casually about one of the landed gentry of England? Do you realize, as I present this illustrious baby to you, in whose presence you stand? Apparently not! Let me introduce two important figures: Mr. Walter Hartright—THE HEIR OF LIMMERIDGE.”

With those words, she sealed it. My pen falters as I write this. The long, joyful effort of many months has come to an end. Marian has been the guiding light of our lives—let her conclude our story.