The Woman in White
The whole force of my intelligence was now directed to the finding of
Anne Catherick. Our money affairs, important as they were, admitted of
delay—but the necessity of discovering the woman admitted of none. I
only knew her by description, as presenting an extraordinary personal
resemblance to Lady Glyde. The statement of this curious fact—intended
merely to assist me in identifying the person of whom we were in
search—when coupled with the additional information that Anne Catherick
had escaped from a mad-house, started the first immense conception
in my mind, which subsequently led to such amazing results. That
conception involved nothing less than the complete transformation of
two separate identities. Lady Glyde and Anne Catherick were to change
names, places, and destinies, the one with the other—the prodigious
consequences contemplated by the change being the gain of thirty
thousand pounds, and the eternal preservation of Sir Percival’s secret.
My instincts (which seldom err) suggested to me, on reviewing the
circumstances, that our invisible Anne would, sooner or later, return
to the boat-house at the Blackwater lake. There I posted myself,
previously mentioning to Mrs. Michelson, the housekeeper, that I might
be found when wanted, immersed in study, in that solitary place. It is
my rule never to make unnecessary mysteries, and never to set people
suspecting me for want of a little seasonable candour on my part. Mrs.
Michelson believed in me from first to last. This ladylike person
(widow of a Protestant priest) overflowed with faith. Touched by such
superfluity of simple confidence in a woman of her mature years, I
opened the ample reservoirs of my nature and absorbed it all.
I was rewarded for posting myself sentinel at the lake by the
appearance—not of Anne Catherick herself, but of the person in charge
of her. This individual also overflowed with simple faith, which I
absorbed in myself, as in the case already mentioned. I leave her to
describe the circumstances (if she has not done so already) under which
she introduced me to the object of her maternal care. When I first
saw Anne Catherick she was asleep. I was electrified by the likeness
between this unhappy woman and Lady Glyde. The details of the grand
scheme which had suggested themselves in outline only, up to that
period, occurred to me, in all their masterly combination, at the sight
of the sleeping face. At the same time, my heart, always accessible to
tender influences, dissolved in tears at the spectacle of suffering
before me. I instantly set myself to impart relief. In other words, I
provided the necessary stimulant for strengthening Anne Catherick to
perform the journey to London.
The best years of my life have been passed in the ardent study of
medical and chemical science. Chemistry especially has always had
irresistible attractions for me from the enormous, the illimitable
power which the knowledge of it confers. Chemists—I assert it
emphatically—might sway, if they pleased, the destinies of humanity.
Let me explain this before I go further.
Mind, they say, rules the world. But what rules the mind? The body
(follow me closely here) lies at the mercy of the most omnipotent
of all potentates—the Chemist. Give me—Fosco—chemistry; and when
Shakespeare has conceived Hamlet, and sits down to execute the
conception—with a few grains of powder dropped into his daily food, I
will reduce his mind, by the action of his body, till his pen pours
out the most abject drivel that has ever degraded paper. Under similar
circumstances, revive me the illustrious Newton. I guarantee that
when he sees the apple fall he shall EAT IT, instead of discovering
the principle of gravitation. Nero’s dinner shall transform Nero
into the mildest of men before he has done digesting it, and the
morning draught of Alexander the Great shall make Alexander run for
his life at the first sight of the enemy the same afternoon. On my
sacred word of honour it is lucky for Society that modern chemists
are, by incomprehensible good fortune, the most harmless of mankind.
The mass are worthy fathers of families, who keep shops. The few are
philosophers besotted with admiration for the sound of their own
lecturing voices, visionaries who waste their lives on fantastic
impossibilities, or quacks whose ambition soars no higher than our
corns. Thus Society escapes, and the illimitable power of Chemistry
remains the slave of the most superficial and the most insignificant
ends.
Why this outburst? Why this withering eloquence?
Because my conduct has been misrepresented, because my motives have
been misunderstood. It has been assumed that I used my vast chemical
resources against Anne Catherick, and that I would have used them if
I could against the magnificent Marian herself. Odious insinuations
both! All my interests were concerned (as will be seen presently)
in the preservation of Anne Catherick’s life. All my anxieties were
concentrated on Marian’s rescue from the hands of the licensed
imbecile who attended her, and who found my advice confirmed from
first to last by the physician from London. On two occasions only—both
equally harmless to the individual on whom I practised—did I summon
to myself the assistance of chemical knowledge. On the first of the
two, after following Marian to the inn at Blackwater (studying, behind
a convenient waggon which hid me from her, the poetry of motion,
as embodied in her walk), I availed myself of the services of my
invaluable wife, to copy one and to intercept the other of two letters
which my adored enemy had entrusted to a discarded maid. In this case,
the letters being in the bosom of the girl’s dress, Madame Fosco
could only open them, read them, perform her instructions, seal them,
and put them back again by scientific assistance—which assistance I
rendered in a half-ounce bottle. The second occasion, when the same
means were employed, was the occasion (to which I shall soon refer) of
Lady Glyde’s arrival in London. Never at any other time was I indebted
to my Art as distinguished from myself. To all other emergencies
and complications my natural capacity for grappling, single-handed,
with circumstances, was invariably equal. I affirm the all-pervading
intelligence of that capacity. At the expense of the Chemist I
vindicate the Man.
Respect this outburst of generous indignation. It has inexpressibly
relieved me. En route! Let us proceed.
Having suggested to Mrs. Clement (or Clements, I am not sure which)
that the best method of keeping Anne out of Percival’s reach was
to remove her to London—having found that my proposal was eagerly
received, and having appointed a day to meet the travellers at the
station and to see them leave it, I was at liberty to return to the
house and to confront the difficulties which still remained to be met.
My first proceeding was to avail myself of the sublime devotion of my
wife. I had arranged with Mrs. Clements that she should communicate
her London address, in Anne’s interests, to Lady Glyde. But this was
not enough. Designing persons in my absence might shake the simple
confidence of Mrs. Clements, and she might not write after all. Who
could I find capable of travelling to London by the train she travelled
by, and of privately seeing her home? I asked myself this question. The
conjugal part of me immediately answered—Madame Fosco.
After deciding on my wife’s mission to London, I arranged that the
journey should serve a double purpose. A nurse for the suffering
Marian, equally devoted to the patient and to myself, was a necessity
of my position. One of the most eminently confidential and capable
women in existence was by good fortune at my disposal. I refer to that
respectable matron, Madame Rubelle, to whom I addressed a letter, at
her residence in London, by the hands of my wife.
On the appointed day Mrs. Clements and Anne Catherick met me at the
station. I politely saw them off, I politely saw Madame Fosco off by
the same train. The last thing at night my wife returned to Blackwater,
having followed her instructions with the most unimpeachable accuracy.
She was accompanied by Madame Rubelle, and she brought me the London
address of Mrs. Clements. After-events proved this last precaution to
have been unnecessary. Mrs. Clements punctually informed Lady Glyde of
her place of abode. With a wary eye on future emergencies, I kept the
letter.
The same day I had a brief interview with the doctor, at which I
protested, in the sacred interests of humanity, against his treatment
of Marian’s case. He was insolent, as all ignorant people are. I showed
no resentment, I deferred quarrelling with him till it was necessary
to quarrel to some purpose. My next proceeding was to leave Blackwater
myself. I had my London residence to take in anticipation of coming
events. I had also a little business of the domestic sort to transact
with Mr. Frederick Fairlie. I found the house I wanted in St. John’s
Wood. I found Mr. Fairlie at Limmeridge, Cumberland.
My own private familiarity with the nature of Marian’s correspondence
had previously informed me that she had written to Mr. Fairlie,
proposing, as a relief to Lady Glyde’s matrimonial embarrassments,
to take her on a visit to her uncle in Cumberland. This letter I had
wisely allowed to reach its destination, feeling at the time that it
could do no harm, and might do good. I now presented myself before Mr.
Fairlie to support Marian’s own proposal—with certain modifications
which, happily for the success of my plans, were rendered really
inevitable by her illness. It was necessary that Lady Glyde should
leave Blackwater alone, by her uncle’s invitation, and that she should
rest a night on the journey at her aunt’s house (the house I had in St.
John’s Wood) by her uncle’s express advice. To achieve these results,
and to secure a note of invitation which could be shown to Lady Glyde,
were the objects of my visit to Mr. Fairlie. When I have mentioned that
this gentleman was equally feeble in mind and body, and that I let
loose the whole force of my character on him, I have said enough. I
came, saw, and conquered Fairlie.
On my return to Blackwater Park (with the letter of invitation) I found
that the doctor’s imbecile treatment of Marian’s case had led to the
most alarming results. The fever had turned to typhus. Lady Glyde, on
the day of my return, tried to force herself into the room to nurse her
sister. She and I had no affinities of sympathy—she had committed the
unpardonable outrage on my sensibilities of calling me a spy—she was
a stumbling-block in my way and in Percival’s—but, for all that, my
magnanimity forbade me to put her in danger of infection with my own
hand. At the same time I offered no hindrance to her putting herself
in danger. If she had succeeded in doing so, the intricate knot which
I was slowly and patiently operating on might perhaps have been cut by
circumstances. As it was, the doctor interfered and she was kept out of
the room.
I had myself previously recommended sending for advice to London. This
course had been now taken. The physician, on his arrival, confirmed
my view of the case. The crisis was serious. But we had hope of our
charming patient on the fifth day from the appearance of the typhus. I
was only once absent from Blackwater at this time—when I went to London
by the morning train to make the final arrangements at my house in St.
John’s Wood, to assure myself by private inquiry that Mrs. Clements
had not moved, and to settle one or two little preliminary matters
with the husband of Madame Rubelle. I returned at night. Five days
afterwards the physician pronounced our interesting Marian to be out of
all danger, and to be in need of nothing but careful nursing. This was