The Woman in White Wilkie Collins (bts books to read txt) 📖

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 forever. 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