"Lady Glyde's" death, recorded on the inscription
in the churchyard (the 28th of July); and
confirmed its correctness by producing the
doctor's certificate. I then read them Sir Percival's
letter announcing his wife's intended journey
from Hampshire to London on the 29th, and
dated from Blackwater on the 28th—the very
day when the certificate asserted her decease in
St. John's Wood. I next showed that she had
actually taken that journey, by the personal
testimony of the driver of the fly; and I proved
that she had performed it on the day appointed
in her husband's letter, by the evidence of the
order-book at the livery stables. Marian, at my
request, next added her own statement of the
meeting between Laura and herself at the
madhouse, and of her sister's escape. After which,
I closed the proceedings by informing the
persons present of Sir Percival's death, and of my
marriage.

Mr. Kyrle rose, when I resumed my seat, and
declared, as the legal adviser of the family, that
my case was proved by the plainest evidence he
had ever heard in his life. As he spoke those
words, I put my arm round Laura, and raised
her so that she was plainly visible to every one
in the room. "Are you all of the same opinion?"
I asked, advancing towards them a few steps,
and pointing to my wife.

The effect of the question was electrical. Far
down at the lower end of the room, one of the
oldest tenants on the estate, started to his feet,
and led the rest with him in an instant. I see
the man now, with his honest brown face and
his iron-grey hair, mounted on the window-seat,
waving his heavy riding-whip frantically over his
head, and leading the cheers. "There she is
alive and hearty—God bless her! Gi' it tongue,
lads! Gi' it tongue!" The shout that answered
him, reiterated again and again, was the sweetest
music I ever heard. The labourers in the village
and the boys from the school, assembled on the
lawn, caught up the cheering and echoed it back
on us. The farmers' wives clustered round Laura,
and struggled which should be first to shake
hands with her, and to implore her, with the
tears pouring over their own cheeks, to bear up
bravely and not to cry. She was so completely
overwhelmed, that I was obliged to take her
from them, and carry her to the door. There I
gave her into Marian's care—Marian, who had
never failed us yet, whose courageous self-control
did not fail us now. Left by myself at the
door, I invited all the persons present (after
thanking them in Laura's name and mine) to
follow me to the churchyard, and see the false
inscription struck off the tombstone with their
own eyes.

They all left the house, and all joined the
throng of villagers collected round the grave,
where the statuary's man was wailing for us.
In a breathless silence, the first sharp stroke of
the steel sounded on the marble. Not a voice
was heard; not a soul moved, till those three
words "Laura, Lady Glyde," had vanished
from sight. Then, there was a great heave of
relief among the crowd, as if they felt that the
last fetters of the conspiracy had been struck
off Laura herself—and the assembly slowly
withdrew. It was late in the day before the
whole inscription was erased. One line only
was afterwards engraved in its place: "Anne
Catherick, July 28th, 1850."

I returned to Limmeridge House early enough
in the evening to take leave of Mr. Kyrle. He,
and his clerk, and the driver of the fly, went
back to London by the night train. On their
departure, an insolent message was delivered to
me from Mr. Fairlie—who had been carried
from the room in a shattered condition, when
the first outbreak of cheering answered my
appeal to the tenantry. The message conveyed to
us "Mr. Fairlie's best congratulations," and
requested to know whether  "we contemplated
stopping in the house." I sent back word that
the only object for which we had entered his
doors was accomplished; that I contemplated
stopping in no man's house but my own; and
that Mr. Fairlie need not entertain the slightest
apprehension of ever seeing us, or hearing from
us again. We went back to our friends at the
farm, to rest that night; and the next morning
—escorted to the station, with the heartiest
enthusiasm and good will, by the whole village
and by all the farmers in the neighbourhood—
we returned to London.

As our view of the Cumberland hills faded
in the distance, I thought of the first
disheartening circumstances under which the long
struggle that was now past and over had been
pursued. It was strange to look back and to
see, now, that the poverty which had denied us
all hope of assistance, had been the indirect
means of our success, by forcing me to act for
myself. If we had been rich enough to find
legal help, what would have been the result?
The gain (on Mr. Kyrle's own showing) would
have been more than doubtful; the loss—judging
by the plain test of events as they had
really happened—certain. The Law would
never have obtained me my interview with Mrs.
Catherick. The Law would never have made
Pesca the means of forcing a confession from
the Count.

II.

Two more events remain to be added to the
chain, before it reaches fairly from the outset of
the story to the close.

While our new sense of freedom from the
long oppression of the past was still strange
to us, I was sent for by the friend who had
given me my first employment in wood
engraving, to receive from him a fresh testimony
of his regard for my welfare. He had been
commissioned by his employers to go to Paris,
and to examine for them a French discovery
in the practical application of his Art, the
merits of which they were anxious to ascertain.
His own engagements had not allowed
him leisure time to undertake the errand; and
he had most kindly suggested that it should be
transferred to me. I could have no hesitation
in thankfully accepting the offer; for if I
acquitted myself of my commission as I hoped I