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 the generous, impulsive nature of the woman
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 of
the first questions put to Laura herself on the
subject of the conspiracy. We know only too