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.