The Woman in White
inestimable blessing of a good night’s rest. Madame Rubelle arrived
in time to preside at Lady Glyde’s toilet. Her own clothes were taken
away from her at night, and Anne Catherick’s were put on her in the—
morning, with the strictest regard to propriety, by the matronly hands
of the good Rubelle. Throughout the day I kept our patient in a state
of partially-suspended consciousness, until the dexterous assistance
of my medical friends enabled me to procure the necessary order rather
earlier than I had ventured to hope. That evening (the evening of the
27th) Madame Rubelle and I took our revived “Anne Catherick” to the
Asylum. She was received with great surprise, but without suspicion,
thanks to the order and certificates, to Percival’s letter, to the
likeness, to the clothes, and to the patient’s own confused mental
condition at the time. I returned at once to assist Madame Fosco in
the preparations for the burial of the False “Lady Glyde,” having the
clothes and luggage of the true “Lady Glyde” in my possession. They
were afterwards sent to Cumberland by the conveyance which was used for
the funeral. I attended the funeral, with becoming dignity, attired in
the deepest mourning.
My narrative of these remarkable events, written under equally
remarkable circumstances, closes here. The minor precautions which I
observed in communicating with Limmeridge House are already known—so
is the magnificent success of my enterprise—so are the solid pecuniary
results which followed it. I have to assert, with the whole force
of my conviction, that the one weak place in my scheme would never
have been found out if the one weak place in my heart had not been
discovered first. Nothing but my fatal admiration for Marian restrained
me from stepping in to my own rescue when she effected her sister’s
escape. I ran the risk, and trusted in the complete destruction of
Lady Glyde’s identity. If either Marian or Mr. Hartright attempted to
assert that identity, they would publicly expose themselves to the
imputation of sustaining a rank deception, they would be distrusted
and discredited accordingly, and they would therefore be powerless to
place my interests or Percival’s secret in jeopardy. I committed one
error in trusting myself to such a blindfold calculation of chances as
this. I committed another when Percival had paid the penalty of his
own obstinacy and violence, by granting Lady Glyde a second reprieve
from the mad-house, and allowing Mr. Hartright a second chance of
escaping me. In brief, Fosco, at this serious crisis, was untrue to
himself. Deplorable and uncharacteristic fault! Behold the cause, in
my heart—behold, in the image of Marian Halcombe, the first and last
weakness of Fosco’s life!
At the ripe age of sixty, I make this unparalleled confession. Youths!
I invoke your sympathy. Maidens! I claim your tears.
A word more, and the attention of the reader (concentrated breathlessly
on myself) shall be released.
My own mental insight informs me that three inevitable questions will
be asked here by persons of inquiring minds. They shall be stated—they
shall be answered.
First question. What is the secret of Madame Fosco’s unhesitating
devotion of herself to the fulfilment of my boldest wishes, to the
furtherance of my deepest plans? I might answer this by simply
referring to my own character, and by asking, in my turn, Where, in the
history of the world, has a man of my order ever been found without a
woman in the background self-immolated on the altar of his life? But I
remember that I am writing in England, I remember that I was married in
England, and I ask if a woman’s marriage obligations in this country
provide for her private opinion of her husband’s principles? No! They
charge her unreservedly to love, honour, and obey him. That is exactly
what my wife has done. I stand here on a supreme moral elevation, and
I loftily assert her accurate performance of her conjugal duties.
Silence, Calumny! Your sympathy, Wives of England, for Madame Fosco!
Second question. If Anne Catherick had not died when she did, what
should I have done? I should, in that case, have assisted worn-out
Nature in finding permanent repose. I should have opened the doors
of the Prison of Life, and have extended to the captive (incurably
afflicted in mind and body both) a happy release.
Third question. On a calm revision of all the circumstances—Is my
conduct worthy of any serious blame? Most emphatically, No! Have I
not carefully avoided exposing myself to the odium of committing
unnecessary crime? With my vast resources in chemistry, I might have
taken Lady Glyde’s life. At immense personal sacrifice I followed the
dictates of my own ingenuity, my own humanity, my own caution, and
took her identity instead. Judge me by what I might have done. How
comparatively innocent! how indirectly virtuous I appear in what I
really did!
I announced on beginning it that this narrative would be a remarkable
document. It has entirely answered my expectations. Receive these
fervid lines—my last legacy to the country I leave for ever. They are
worthy of the occasion, and worthy of
FOSCO.
THE STORY CONCLUDED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT
I
When I closed the last leaf of the Count’s manuscript the half-hour
during which I had engaged to remain at Forest Road had expired.
Monsieur Rubelle looked at his watch and bowed. I rose immediately,
and left the agent in possession of the empty house. I never saw him
again—I never heard more of him or of his wife. Out of the dark byways
of villainy and deceit they had crawled across our path—into the same
byways they crawled back secretly and were lost.
In a quarter of an hour after leaving Forest Road I was at home again.
But few words sufficed to tell Laura and Marian how my desperate
venture had ended, and what the next event in our lives was likely to
be. I left all details to be described later in the day, and hastened
back to St. John’s Wood, to see the person of whom Count Fosco had
ordered the fly, when he went to meet Laura at the station.
The address in my possession led me to some “livery stables,” about a
quarter of a mile distant from Forest Road. The proprietor proved to be
a civil and respectable man. When I explained that an important family
matter obliged me to ask him to refer to his books for the purpose of
ascertaining a date with which the record of his business transactions
might supply me, he offered no objection to granting my request. The
book was produced, and there, under the date of “July 26th, 1850,” the
order was entered in these words—
“Brougham to Count Fosco, 5 Forest Road. Two o’clock. (John Owen).”
I found on inquiry that the name of “John Owen,” attached to the entry,
referred to the man who had been employed to drive the fly. He was then
at work in the stable-yard, and was sent for to see me at my request.
“Do you remember driving a gentleman, in the month of July last, from
Number Five Forest Road to the Waterloo Bridge station?” I asked.
“Well, sir,” said the man, “I can’t exactly say I do.”
“Perhaps you remember the gentleman himself? Can you call to mind
driving a foreigner last summer—a tall gentleman and remarkably fat?”
The man’s face brightened directly. “I remember him, sir! The fattest
gentleman as ever I see, and the heaviest customer as ever I drove.
Yes, yes—I call him to mind, sir! We DID go to the station, and it WAS
from Forest Road. There was a parrot, or summat like it, screeching
in the window. The gentleman was in a mortal hurry about the lady’s
luggage, and he gave me a handsome present for looking sharp and
getting the boxes.”
Getting the boxes! I recollected immediately that Laura’s own account
of herself on her arrival in London described her luggage as being
collected for her by some person whom Count Fosco brought with him to
the station. This was the man.
“Did you see the lady?” I asked. “What did she look like? Was she young
or old?”
“Well, sir, what with the hurry and the crowd of people pushing about,
I can’t rightly say what the lady looked like. I can’t call nothing to
mind about her that I know of excepting her name.”
“You remember her name?”
“Yes, sir. Her name was Lady Glyde.”
“How do you come to remember that, when you have forgotten what she
looked like?”
The man smiled, and shifted his feet in some little embarrassment.
“Why, to tell you the truth, sir,” he said, “I hadn’t been long married
at that time, and my wife’s name, before she changed it for mine,
was the same as the lady’s—meaning the name of Glyde, sir. The lady
mentioned it herself. ‘Is your name on your boxes, ma’am?’ says I.
‘Yes,’ says she, ‘my name is on my luggage—it is Lady Glyde.’ ‘Come!’ I
says to myself, ‘I’ve a bad head for gentlefolks’ names in general—but
THIS one comes like an old friend, at any rate.’ I can’t say nothing
about the time, sir, it might be nigh on a year ago, or it mightn’t.
But I can swear to the stout gentleman, and swear to the lady’s name.”
There was no need that he should remember the time—the date was
positively established by his master’s order-book. I felt at once that
the means were now in my power of striking down the whole conspiracy at
a blow with the irresistible weapon of plain fact. Without a moment’s
hesitation, I took the proprietor of the livery stables aside and told
him what the real importance was of the evidence of his order-book and
the evidence of his driver. An arrangement to compensate him for the
temporary loss of the man’s services was easily made, and a copy of the
entry in the book was taken by myself, and certified as true by the
master’s own signature. I left the livery stables, having settled that
John Owen was to hold himself at my disposal for the next three days,
or for a longer period if necessity required it.
I now had in my possession all the papers that I wanted—the district
registrar’s own copy of the certificate of death, and Sir Percival’s
dated letter to the Count, being safe in my pocket-book.
With this written evidence about me, and with the coachman’s answers
fresh in my memory, I next turned my steps, for the first time since
the beginning of all my inquiries, in the direction of Mr. Kyrle’s
office. One of my objects in paying him this second visit was,
necessarily, to tell him what I had done. The other was to warn him
of my resolution to take my wife to Limmeridge the next morning, and
to have her publicly received and recognised in her uncle’s house. I
left it to Mr. Kyrle to decide under these circumstances, and in Mr.
Gilmore’s absence, whether he was or was not bound, as the family
solicitor, to be present on that occasion in the family interests.
I will say nothing of Mr. Kyrle’s amazement, or of the terms in which
he expressed his opinion of my conduct from the first stage of the
investigation to the last. It is only necessary to mention that he at
once decided on accompanying us to Cumberland.
We started the next morning by the early train. Laura, Marian, Mr.
Kyrle, and myself in one carriage, and John Owen, with a clerk from Mr.
Kyrle’s office, occupying places in another. On reaching the Limmeridge
station we went first to the farmhouse at Todd’s Corner. It was my
firm determination that Laura should not enter her uncle’s house till
she appeared there publicly recognised as his niece. I left Marian to
settle the question of accommodation with Mrs. Todd, as soon as the
good woman had recovered from the bewilderment of hearing what our
errand was in Cumberland, and I arranged with her husband that John
Owen was to be committed to the ready hospitality of the farm-servants.
These preliminaries completed, Mr. Kyrle and I set forth together for
Limmeridge House.