The domestic position at the commencement of our residence at
Blackwater Park has been drawn with amazing accuracy, with profound
mental insight, by the hand of Marian herself. (Pass me the
intoxicating familiarity of mentioning this sublime creature by her
Christian name.) Accurate knowledge of the contents of her journal—to
which I obtained access by clandestine means, unspeakably precious
to me in the remembrance—warns my eager pen from topics which this
essentially exhaustive woman has already made her own.
The interests—interests, breathless and immense!—with which I am here
concerned, begin with the deplorable calamity of Marian’s illness.
The situation at this period was emphatically a serious one. Large
sums of money, due at a certain time, were wanted by Percival (I say
nothing of the modicum equally necessary to myself), and the one source
to look to for supplying them was the fortune of his wife, of which
not one farthing was at his disposal until her death. Bad so far, and
worse still farther on. My lamented friend had private troubles of
his own, into which the delicacy of my disinterested attachment to
him forbade me from inquiring too curiously. I knew nothing but that
a woman, named Anne Catherick, was hidden in the neighbourhood, that
she was in communication with Lady Glyde, and that the disclosure of
a secret, which would be the certain ruin of Percival, might be the
result. He had told me himself that he was a lost man, unless his wife
was silenced, and unless Anne Catherick was found. If he was a lost
man, what would become of our pecuniary interests? Courageous as I am
by nature, I absolutely trembled at the idea!
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
the time I had waited for. Now that medical attendance was no longer
indispensable, I played the first move in the game by asserting myself
against the doctor. He was one among many witnesses in my way whom it
was necessary to remove. A lively altercation between us (in which
Percival, previously instructed by me, refused to interfere) served the
purpose in view. I descended on the miserable man in an irresistible
avalanche of indignation, and swept him from the house.
The servants were the next encumbrances to get rid of. Again
I instructed Percival (whose moral courage required perpetual
stimulants), and Mrs. Michelson was amazed, one day, by hearing from
her master that the establishment was to be broken up. We cleared the
house of all the servants but one, who was kept for domestic purposes,
and whose lumpish stupidity we could trust to make no embarrassing
discoveries. When they were gone, nothing remained but to relieve
ourselves of Mrs. Michelson—a result which was easily achieved by
sending this amiable lady to find lodgings for her mistress at the
sea-side.
The circumstances were now exactly what they were required to be. Lady
Glyde was confined to her room by nervous illness, and the lumpish
housemaid (I forget her name) was shut up there at night in attendance
on her mistress. Marian, though fast recovering, still kept her bed,
with Mrs. Rubelle for nurse. No other living creatures but my wife,
myself, and Percival were in the house. With all the chances thus in
our favour I confronted the next emergency, and played the second move
in the game.
The object of the second move was to induce Lady Glyde to leave
Blackwater unaccompanied by her sister. Unless we could persuade her
that Marian had gone on to Cumberland first, there was no chance of
removing her, of her own free will, from the house. To produce this
necessary operation in her mind, we concealed our interesting invalid
in one of the uninhabited bedrooms at Blackwater. At the dead of
night Madame Fosco, Madame Rubelle, and myself (Percival not being
cool enough to be trusted) accomplished the concealment. The scene
was picturesque, mysterious, dramatic in the highest degree. By my
directions the bed had been made, in the morning, on a strong movable
framework of wood. We had only to lift the framework gently at the
head and foot, and to transport our patient where we pleased, without
disturbing herself or her bed. No chemical assistance was needed or
used in this case. Our interesting Marian lay in the deep repose of
convalescence. We placed the candles and opened the doors beforehand.
I, in right of my great personal strength, took the head of the
framework—my wife and Madame Rubelle took the foot. I bore my share
of that inestimably precious burden with a manly tenderness, with a
fatherly care. Where is the modern Rembrandt who could depict our
midnight procession? Alas for the Arts! alas for this most pictorial of
subjects! The modern Rembrandt is nowhere to be found.
The next morning my wife and I started for London, leaving Marian
secluded, in the uninhabited middle of the house, under care of Madame
Rubelle, who kindly consented to imprison herself with her patient for
two or three days. Before taking our departure I gave Percival Mr.
Fairlie’s letter of invitation to his niece (instructing her to sleep
on the journey to Cumberland at her aunt’s house), with directions to
show it to Lady Glyde on hearing from me. I also obtained from him the
address of the Asylum in which Anne Catherick had been confined, and a
letter to the proprietor, announcing to that gentleman the return of
his runaway patient to medical care.
I had arranged, at my last visit to the metropolis, to have our modest
domestic establishment ready to receive us when we arrived in London
by the early train. In consequence of this wise precaution, we were
enabled that same day to play the third move in the game—the getting
possession of Anne Catherick.
Dates are of importance here. I combine in myself the opposite
characteristics of a Man of Sentiment and a Man of Business. I have all
the dates at my fingers’ ends.
On Wednesday, the 24th of July 1850, I sent my wife in a cab to clear
Mrs. Clements out of the way, in the first place. A supposed message
from Lady Glyde in London was sufficient to obtain this result. Mrs.
Clements was taken away in the cab, and was left in the cab, while my
wife (on pretence of purchasing something at a shop) gave her the slip,
and returned to receive her expected visitor at our house in St. John’s
Wood. It is hardly necessary to add that the visitor had been described
to the servants as “Lady Glyde.”
In the meanwhile I had followed in another cab, with a note for Anne
Catherick, merely mentioning that Lady Glyde intended to keep Mrs.
Clements to spend the day with her, and that she was to join them under
care of the good gentleman waiting outside, who had already saved her
from discovery in Hampshire by Sir Percival. The “good gentleman”
sent in this note by a street boy, and paused for results a door or
two farther on. At the moment when Anne appeared at the house door
and closed it this excellent man had the cab door open ready for her,
absorbed her into the vehicle, and drove off.
(Pass me, here, one exclamation in parenthesis. How interesting this
is!)
On the way to Forest Road my companion showed no fear. I can be
paternal—no man more so—when I please, and I was intensely paternal on
this occasion. What titles I had to her confidence! I had compounded
the medicine which had done her good—I had warned her of her danger
from Sir Percival. Perhaps I trusted too implicitly to these
titles—perhaps I underrated the keenness of the lower instincts in
persons of weak intellect—it is certain that I neglected to prepare her
sufficiently for a disappointment on entering my house. When I took her
into the drawing-room—when she saw no one present but Madame Fosco,
who was a stranger to her—she exhibited the most violent agitation;
if she had scented danger in the air, as a dog scents the presence
of some creature unseen, her alarm could not have displayed itself
more suddenly and more causelessly. I interposed in vain. The fear
from which she was suffering I might have soothed, but the serious
heart-disease, under which she laboured, was beyond the reach of
all moral palliatives. To my unspeakable horror she was seized with
convulsions—a shock to the system, in her condition, which might have
laid her dead at any moment at our feet.
The nearest doctor was sent for, and was told that “Lady Glyde”
required his immediate services. To my infinite relief, he was a
capable man. I represented my visitor to him as a person of weak
intellect, and subject to delusions, and I arranged that no nurse but
my wife should watch in the sick-room. The unhappy woman was too ill,
however, to cause any anxiety about what she might say. The one dread
which now oppressed me was the dread that the false Lady Glyde might
die before the true Lady Glyde arrived in London.
I had written a note in the morning to Madame Rubelle, telling her to
join me at her husband’s house on the evening of Friday the 26th, with
another note to Percival, warning him to show his wife her uncle’s
letter of invitation, to assert that Marian had gone on before her,
and to despatch her to town by the midday train, on the 26th, also.
On reflection I had felt the necessity, in Anne Catherick’s state
of health, of precipitating events, and of having Lady Glyde at my
disposal earlier than I had originally contemplated. What fresh
directions, in the terrible uncertainty of my position, could I now
issue? I could do nothing but trust to chance and the doctor. My
emotions expressed themselves in pathetic apostrophes, which I was
just self-possessed enough to couple, in the hearing of other people,
with the name of “Lady Glyde.” In all other respects Fosco, on that
memorable day, was Fosco shrouded in total eclipse.
She passed a bad night, she awoke worn out, but later in the day she
revived amazingly. My elastic spirits revived with her. I could receive
no answers from Percival and Madame Rubelle till the morning of the
next day, the 26th. In anticipation of their following my directions,
which, accident apart, I knew they would do, I went to secure a fly to
fetch Lady Glyde from the railway, directing it to be at my house on
the 26th, at two o’clock. After seeing the order entered in the book,
I went on to arrange matters with Monsieur Rubelle. I also procured
the services of two gentlemen who could furnish me with the necessary
certificates of lunacy. One of them I knew personally—the other was
known to Monsieur Rubelle. Both were men whose vigorous minds soared
superior to narrow scruples—both were labouring under temporary
embarrassments—both believed in ME.
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!