“I do see it, Walter.  Even if we had the means of paying all the law expenses, even if we succeeded in the end, the delays would be unendurable, the perpetual suspense, after what we have suffered already, would be heartbreaking.  You are right about the hopelessness of going to Limmeridge.  I wish I could feel sure that you are right also in determining to try that last chance with the Count.  Is it a chance at all?”

“Beyond a doubt, Yes.  It is the chance of recovering the lost date of Laura’s journey to London.  Without returning to the reasons I gave you some time since, I am still as firmly persuaded as ever that there is a discrepancy between the date of that journey and the date on the certificate of death.  There lies the weak point of the whole conspiracy—­it crumbles to pieces if we attack it in that way, and the means of attacking it are in possession of the Count.  If I succeed in wresting them from him, the object of your life and mine is fulfilled.  If I fail, the wrong that Laura has suffered will, in this world, never be redressed.”

“Do you fear failure yourself, Walter?”

“I dare not anticipate success, and for that very reason, Marian, I speak openly and plainly as I have spoken now.  In my heart and my conscience I can say it, Laura’s hopes for the future are at their lowest ebb.  I know that her fortune is gone—­I know that the last chance of restoring her to her place in the world lies at the mercy of her worst enemy, of a man who is now absolutely unassailable, and who may remain unassailable to the end.  With every worldly advantage gone from her, with all prospect of recovering her rank and station more than doubtful, with no clearer future before her than the future which her husband can provide, the poor drawing-master may harmlessly open his heart at last.  In the days of her prosperity, Marian, I was only the teacher who guided her hand—­I ask for it, in her adversity, as the hand of my wife!”

Marian’s eyes met mine affectionately—­I could say no more.  My heart was full, my lips were trembling.  In spite of myself I was in danger of appealing to her pity.  I got up to leave the room.  She rose at the same moment, laid her hand gently on my shoulder, and stopped me.

“Walter!” she said, “I once parted you both, for your good and for hers.  Wait here, my brother!—­wait, my dearest, best friend, till Laura comes, and tells you what I have done now!”

For the first time since the farewell morning at Limmeridge she touched my forehead with her lips.  A tear dropped on my face as she kissed me.  She turned quickly, pointed to the chair from which I had risen, and left the room.

I sat down alone at the window to wait through the crisis of my life.  My mind in that breathless interval felt like a total blank.  I was conscious of nothing but a painful intensity of all familiar perceptions.  The sun grew blinding bright, the white sea birds chasing each other far beyond me seemed to be flitting before my face, the mellow murmur of the waves on the beach was like thunder in my ears.