XI (2/2)

von Wilkie Collins

So, let’s continue. He wasn’t foolish enough to push me to the brink of desperation. He knew I wasn’t the kind of woman you could easily corner, and wisely chose to calm me down with promises for the future.

He said I deserved some reward for the service I had provided him, and a bit of compensation for what I had endured. Generous scoundrel that he was, he offered me a substantial yearly allowance, paid quarterly, but with two conditions. First, I had to keep quiet—both for my sake and his. Second, I couldn’t leave Welmingham without informing him first and waiting for his permission. In my own neighborhood, no virtuous friends would lure me into dangerous gossip at the tea table. He would always know where to find me. That second condition was tough, but I accepted it.

What else could I do? I was left helpless, facing the prospect of a child on the way. Should I throw myself on the mercy of my runaway husband, the very man who had spread rumors about me? I would rather die first. Besides, the allowance was generous. I had a better income, a better home, and nicer carpets than half the women who looked down their noses at me. In our area, the dress of virtue was cotton print, while I wore silk.

So, I accepted his terms and made the best of them, fighting my battle with my respectable neighbors on their own turf, eventually winning, as you witnessed. How I kept his secret (and mine) through all those years, and whether my late daughter, Anne, ever truly came to know my secret—those are questions I’m sure you’re eager to have answered. Well! My gratitude won’t deny you anything. I’ll turn the page and give you the answer right away. But first, you must forgive me for expressing surprise at your interest in my late daughter. It’s quite baffling to me. If your curiosity stems from a desire for details about her early life, I must direct you to Mrs. Clements, who knows far more than I do. Please understand, I never claimed to be overly fond of my late daughter. She was a constant source of worry for me, and she was always a bit slow-witted. You appreciate honesty, and I hope this satisfies you.

There’s no need to burden you with too many personal details from those past times. It’s enough to say that I upheld my end of the bargain, enjoying my comfortable income in return, paid quarterly.

Now and then, I managed to escape and change my surroundings for a little while, always asking permission from my lord and master first, and usually receiving it. As I mentioned, he wasn’t foolish enough to push me too hard, and he could count on my discretion for my own sake, if not his. One of my longest trips away was to Limmeridge to care for a half-sister who was dying. She was said to have saved some money, and I thought it wise to look after my own interests, just in case anything happened to jeopardize my allowance. However, as it turned out, my efforts were in vain; I received nothing because there was nothing to be had.

I took Anne with me to the north, occasionally indulging my whims about my child and feeling a twinge of jealousy over Mrs. Clements’ influence on her. I never liked Mrs. Clements. She was a dull, spiritless woman—what you might call a born drudge—and I sometimes took pleasure in annoying her by taking Anne away. Not knowing what else to do with my girl while I nursed in Cumberland, I enrolled her in a school at Limmeridge. The lady of the manor, Mrs. Fairlie (a remarkably plain woman who had managed to marry one of the handsomest men in England), amused me greatly by taking a strong liking to my girl. The result was that Anne learned nothing at school and was spoiled at Limmeridge House. Among the many whims they instilled in her, they convinced her to always wear white. Since I disliked white and preferred colors, I was determined to change that nonsense as soon as we returned home.

It’s strange to think about, but my daughter was determined to stand her ground against me. Once she had an idea fixed in her mind, she was as stubborn as a mule. We had some intense arguments, and Mrs. Clements, not wanting to witness our disputes, offered to take Anne to live with her in London. I would have accepted her offer, but Mrs. Clements had taken my daughter’s side about her insistence on dressing in white. I was adamant that Anne should not wear white, and my dislike for Mrs. Clements grew even stronger for siding against me. So, I firmly said no, and I meant it. As a result, my daughter stayed with me, which led to our first serious argument about the Secret.

This incident happened long after the events I had just described. I had settled into the new town for years, working hard to overcome my bad reputation and slowly earning the respect of the local community. Having my daughter with me helped a lot; her innocence and her love for white dresses drew some sympathy from the townspeople. I decided to stop opposing her favorite whim because I knew that some of that sympathy would eventually come my way. And it did. I can trace my getting one of the two best pews in the church back to that time, along with the clergyman’s first polite nod in my direction.

So, with everything settled, I received a letter one morning from that highborn gentleman (now deceased) in response to my note, which I had sent according to our agreement, letting him know I wanted to leave town for a change of scenery.

He must have been in a particularly foul mood when he read my letter because he replied with such rude and insulting language that I completely lost my temper. In front of my daughter, I called him “a low impostor” and threatened that I could ruin him for life if I chose to reveal his Secret. I regretted my outburst immediately, especially when I saw the look on my daughter’s face, filled with curiosity and concern. I quickly ordered her out of the room until I could calm down.

Reflecting on my foolishness afterward was not pleasant. Anne had been acting more erratic than usual that year, and the thought of her possibly repeating my words around town—especially mentioning his name—terrified me. My worst fears about myself and what he might do didn’t prepare me for what actually happened the very next day.

Without any warning, he showed up at the house.

His first words, delivered in a surly tone, made it clear he regretted his rude response to my letter. He had come in a foul mood, trying to fix things before it was too late. I had kept my daughter close after the previous day’s incident, so when he saw her in the room, he ordered her to leave. They had never gotten along, and he took out his bad mood on her instead of me.

“Leave us,” he said, glancing back at her. She hesitated, clearly unwilling to go. “Do you hear me?” he shouted. “Get out of the room.” “You need to speak to me respectfully,” she shot back, her face flushing. “Get rid of the idiot,” he said, looking at me. That word “idiot” struck a nerve with her, and before I could intervene, she stepped forward, furious. “You’d better apologize right now,” she demanded, “or I’ll make it worse for you. I can ruin you for life if I choose to reveal your Secret.”

Those were my own words, repeated verbatim from the day before, and spoken in front of him as if they had come from her. He stood there, speechless and pale as a ghost, while I hurriedly pushed her out of the room. When he finally regained his composure—

No! I’m too respectable to repeat what he said when he collected himself. My pen belongs to a member of the rector’s congregation, and I subscribe to the “Wednesday Lectures on Justification by Faith”—how could I possibly write anything vulgar? Just imagine the furious, swearing rage of the lowest scoundrel in England, and let’s move on quickly to how it all ended.

As you might have guessed by now, it ended with him insisting on securing his own safety by locking her away.

I tried to make things right. I told him that she had simply repeated, like a parrot, the words she’d heard me say, and that she didn’t know any details at all because I hadn’t shared any. I explained that she had pretended, out of spite against him, to know things she truly didn’t—that she only wanted to threaten him and provoke him for speaking to her as he had just done. My unfortunate words had given her the chance to create the trouble she was looking for. I pointed out her other strange behaviors and referred to his own experiences with the quirks of half-witted people, but it was all in vain—he wouldn’t believe me, even on my oath. He was absolutely convinced I had revealed the entire Secret. In short, he would hear nothing but the idea of locking her away.

Given these circumstances, I did what I felt was right as a mother. “No pauper asylum,” I insisted. “I won’t have her placed in a pauper asylum. A private establishment, if you please. I have my feelings as a mother and my reputation to uphold in this town, and I will accept nothing less than a private facility that my respectable neighbors would choose for their own afflicted relatives.” Those were my exact words. It’s comforting to know that I did my duty. Although I was never particularly fond of my late daughter, I took pride in her. Thanks to my firmness and resolve, no stain of poverty ever touched MY child.

Once I had made my point—which was easier to do given the options available with private asylums—I couldn’t deny that there were certain benefits to having her confined. For one, she received excellent care—being treated, as I made sure to mention around town, like a lady. For another, she was kept away from Welmingham, where she might have sparked suspicion and inquiries by repeating my careless words.

The only downside to putting her under restraint was minor. We simply turned her empty boast about knowing the Secret into a fixed delusion. Initially, she had spoken out of sheer spite against the man who had offended her, but she was clever enough to realize she had genuinely frightened him. She was sharp enough to figure out that HE was involved in her confinement. As a result, she erupted into a frenzy of rage against him. When she arrived at the asylum, the first thing she said to the nurses, once they had calmed her down, was that she was locked away for knowing his Secret and that she intended to speak up and ruin him when the time was right.

She might have said the same thing to you when you foolishly helped her escape. I heard she certainly said it to the unfortunate woman who married our sweet-tempered, nameless gentleman who recently passed away. If either you or that unfortunate lady had pressed my daughter for details and insisted she explain what she really meant, you would have seen her lose all her self-importance in an instant, becoming vacant, restless, and confused. You would have discovered that I’m only stating the plain truth here. She knew there was a Secret—she knew who was involved—she knew who would suffer if it became known—and beyond that, despite any airs of importance she may have put on or any crazy boasting she indulged in with strangers, she never knew more for the rest of her life.

Have I satisfied your curiosity? I’ve certainly gone to great lengths to do so. There’s really nothing else I need to tell you about myself or my daughter. My worst responsibilities regarding her were all behind me once she was secured in the asylum. I was given a form letter to write, explaining the circumstances of her confinement, in response to Miss Halcombe, who was curious about the matter and must have heard plenty of lies about me from a certain source well-practiced in telling them. I also did what I could to track down my runaway daughter and prevent her from causing trouble by making inquiries in the neighborhood where she was falsely reported to have been seen. But these, and other trivial matters like them, are of little interest to you after what you’ve already heard.

So far, I’ve written in the friendliest possible spirit. But I can’t close this letter without adding a serious word of warning and reproach directed at you.

During our last conversation, you had the audacity to question my late daughter’s parentage on her father’s side, as if there was any doubt about it. That was not only inappropriate but also incredibly unmanly of you. If we meet again, I want you to remember that I won’t tolerate any attacks on my reputation. The moral climate of Welmingham—something my friend the rector often talks about—must remain untainted by any loose talk.

If you dare to question whether my husband was Anne’s father, you are insulting me in the most offensive way. If you’ve felt, or still feel, an inappropriate curiosity about this matter, I strongly advise you to put it to rest immediately. Whatever may happen after this life, I assure you that your curiosity will never be satisfied while I’m still here.

After what I’ve just said, I trust you understand the need to apologize. If you do, I will gladly accept it. Should you wish for a second meeting, I will extend an invitation for tea. My situation allows me to do so—not that anything has changed for the worse since our last encounter. As I mentioned before, I’ve always lived well within my means, and over the past twenty years, I’ve saved enough to ensure my comfort for the rest of my life. I have no plans to leave Welmingham; there are still a few small advantages I hope to gain in town. The clergyman acknowledges me, as you witnessed. He’s married, but his wife isn’t quite as polite. I intend to join the Dorcas Society, and my goal is to make the clergyman’s wife acknowledge me next.

If you choose to join me for tea, please understand that our conversation must remain strictly on general topics. Any attempt to reference this letter will be pointless—I refuse to acknowledge having written it. While the evidence may have been lost in the fire, I prefer to err on the side of caution.

For this reason, I haven’t mentioned any names or included a signature. The handwriting is deliberately disguised, and I plan to deliver this letter myself, ensuring that there’s no way to trace it back to my home. You have no reason to complain about these precautions, as they don’t affect the information I’m sharing, especially considering the special consideration you’ve earned from me. My tea is served at half-past five, and my buttered toast won’t wait for anyone.

THE STORY CONTINUED BY WALTER HARTRIGHT