In the eye of reason and of law, in the estimation of relatives and friends, according to every received formality of civilised society, “Laura, Lady Glyde,” lay buried with her mother in Limmeridge churchyard.  Torn in her own lifetime from the list of the living, the daughter of Philip Fairlie and the wife of Percival Glyde might still exist for her sister, might still exist for me, but to all the world besides she was dead.  Dead to her uncle, who had renounced her; dead to the servants of the house, who had failed to recognise her; dead to the persons in authority, who had transmitted her fortune to her husband and her aunt; dead to my mother and my sister, who believed me to be the dupe of an adventuress and the victim of a fraud; socially, morally, legally—­ dead.

And yet alive!  Alive in poverty and in hiding.  Alive, with the poor drawing-master to fight her battle, and to win the way back for her to her place in the world of living beings.

Did no suspicion, excited by my own knowledge of Anne Catherick’s resemblance to her, cross my mind, when her face was first revealed to me?  Not the shadow of a suspicion, from the moment when she lifted her veil by the side of the inscription which recorded her death.

Before the sun of that day had set, before the last glimpse of the home which was closed against her had passed from our view, the farewell words I spoke, when we parted at Limmeridge House, had been recalled by both of us—­repeated by me, recognised by her.  “If ever the time comes, when the devotion of my whole heart and soul and strength will give you a moment’s happiness, or spare you a moment’s sorrow, will you try to remember the poor drawing-master who has taught you?” She, who now remembered so little of the trouble and terror of a later time, remembered those words, and laid her poor head innocently and trustingly on the bosom of the man who had spoken them.  In that moment, when she called me by my name, when she said, “They have tried to make me forget everything, Walter, but I remember Marian, and I remember you”—­in that moment, I, who had long since given her my love, gave her my life, and thanked God that it was mine to bestow on her.  Yes! the time had come.  From thousands on thousands of miles away—­through forest and wilderness, where companions stronger than I had fallen by my side, through peril of death thrice renewed, and thrice escaped, the Hand that leads men on the dark road to the future had led me to meet that time.  Forlorn and disowned, sorely tried and sadly changed—­her beauty faded, her mind clouded—­robbed of her station in the world, of her place among living creatures—­the devotion I had promised, the devotion of my whole heart and soul and strength, might be laid blamelessly now at those dear feet.  In the right of her calamity, in the right of her friendlessness, she was mine at last!  Mine to support, to protect, to cherish, to restore.  Mine to love and honour as father and brother both.  Mine to vindicate through all risks and all sacrifices—­through the hopeless struggle against Rank and Power, through the long fight with armed deceit and fortified Success, through the waste of my reputation, through the loss of my friends, through the hazard of my life.