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.