The Woman in White (94 page)

It was past five o'clock in the afternoon before I returned from
the performance of these duties. When I got back Anne Catherick
was dead. Dead on the 25th, and Lady Glyde was not to arrive in
London till the 26th!

I was stunned. Meditate on that. Fosco stunned!

It was too late to retrace our steps. Before my return the doctor
had officiously undertaken to save me all trouble by registering
the death, on the date when it happened, with his own hand. My
grand scheme, unassailable hitherto, had its weak place now—no
efforts on my part could alter the fatal event of the 25th. I
turned manfully to the future. Percival's interests and mine
being still at stake, nothing was left but to play the game
through to the end. I recalled my impenetrable calm—and played
it.

On the morning of the 26th Percival's letter reached me,
announcing his wife's arrival by the midday train. Madame Rubelle
also wrote to say she would follow in the evening. I started in
the fly, leaving the false Lady Glyde dead in the house, to
receive the true Lady Glyde on her arrival by the railway at three
o'clock. Hidden under the seat of the carriage, I carried with me
all the clothes Anne Catherick had worn on coming into my house—
they were destined to assist the resurrection of the woman who was
dead in the person of the woman who was living. What a situation!
I suggest it to the rising romance writers of England. I offer
it, as totally new, to the worn-out dramatists of France.

Lady Glyde was at the station. There was great crowding and
confusion, and more delay than I liked (in case any of her friends
had happened to be on the spot), in reclaiming her luggage. Her
first questions, as we drove off, implored me to tell her news of
her sister. I invented news of the most pacifying kind, assuring
her that she was about to see her sister at my house. My house,
on this occasion only, was in the neighbourhood of Leicester
Square, and was in the occupation of Monsieur Rubelle, who
received us in the hall.

I took my visitor upstairs into a back room, the two medical
gentlemen being there in waiting on the floor beneath to see the
patient, and to give me their certificates. After quieting Lady
Glyde by the necessary assurances about her sister, I introduced
my friends separately to her presence. They performed the
formalities of the occasion briefly, intelligently,
conscientiously. I entered the room again as soon as they had
left it, and at once precipitated events by a reference of the
alarming kind to "Miss Halcombe's" state of health.

Results followed as I had anticipated. Lady Glyde became
frightened, and turned faint. For the second time, and the last,
I called Science to my assistance. A medicated glass of water and
a medicated bottle of smelling-salts relieved her of all further
embarrassment and alarm. Additional applications later in the
evening procured her the 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.

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.