Finally, those sentiments dictate the lines—­grateful, sympathetic, paternal lines—­which appear in this place.  I close the book.  My strict sense of propriety restores it (by the hands of my wife) to its place on the writer’s table.  Events are hurrying me away.  Circumstances are guiding me to serious issues.  Vast perspectives of success unroll themselves before my eyes.  I accomplish my destiny with a calmness which is terrible to myself.  Nothing but the homage of my admiration is my own.  I deposit it with respectful tenderness at the feet of Miss Halcombe.

I breathe my wishes for her recovery.

I condole with her on the inevitable failure of every plan that she has formed for her sister’s benefit.  At the same time, I entreat her to believe that the information which I have derived from her Diary will in no respect help me to contribute to that failure.  It simply confirms the plan of conduct which I had previously arranged.  I have to thank these pages for awakening the finest sensibilities in my nature—­nothing more.

To a person of similar sensibility this simple assertion will explain and excuse everything.

Miss Halcombe is a person of similar sensibility.

In that persuasion I sign myself,
                                    Fosco.

THE STORY CONTINUED BY FREDERICK FAIRLIE, ESQ., OF LIMMERIDGE HOUSE[2]

[2] The manner in which Mr. Fairlie’s Narrative and other Narratives that are shortly to follow it, were originally obtained, forms the subject of an explanation which will appear at a later period.

It is the grand misfortune of my life that nobody will let me alone.

Why—­I ask everybody—­why worry me?  Nobody answers that question, and nobody lets me alone.  Relatives, friends, and strangers all combine to annoy me.  What have I done?  I ask myself, I ask my servant, Louis, fifty times a day—­what have I done?  Neither of us can tell.  Most extraordinary!

The last annoyance that has assailed me is the annoyance of being called upon to write this Narrative.  Is a man in my state of nervous wretchedness capable of writing narratives?  When I put this extremely reasonable objection, I am told that certain very serious events relating to my niece have happened within my experience, and that I am the fit person to describe them on that account.  I am threatened if I fail to exert myself in the manner required, with consequences which I cannot so much as think of without perfect prostration.  There is really no need to threaten me.  Shattered by my miserable health and my family troubles, I am incapable of resistance.  If you insist, you take your unjust advantage of me, and I give way immediately.  I will endeavour to remember what I can (under protest), and to write what I can (also under protest), and what I can’t remember and can’t write, Louis must remember and write for me.  He is an ass, and I am an invalid, and we are likely to make all sorts of mistakes between us.  How humiliating!