VII

by Wilkie Collins

So far, the information I had gathered from Mrs. Clements—though it revealed facts I hadn’t known before—was only the beginning.

It was evident that the web of lies that had taken Anne Catherick to London and separated her from Mrs. Clements had been spun entirely by Count Fosco and the Countess. Whether either of them had acted in a way that could bring them under legal scrutiny was a question worth pondering later. But my immediate goal was to uncover Sir Percival’s secret, and Mrs. Clements hadn’t yet provided any clues that would help me achieve that. I realized I needed to prompt her to recall other times, people, and events beyond what she had been focused on, so when I spoke again, I did so with that aim in mind.

“I wish I could do something to help you through this terrible situation,” I said. “All I can offer is my heartfelt sympathy. If Anne had been your own child, Mrs. Clements, you couldn’t have shown her more kindness or made greater sacrifices for her.”

“There’s no great virtue in that, sir,” Mrs. Clements replied simply. “The poor girl was as good as my own child. I nursed her from infancy, raising her by hand—and it was no easy task. Losing her wouldn’t hurt so much if I hadn’t made her first little clothes and taught her to walk. I always believed she was sent to comfort me for never having children of my own. Now that she’s gone, all those old memories keep flooding back, and even at my age, I can’t help but cry for her—I truly can’t, sir!”

I paused to give Mrs. Clements a moment to gather herself. Was the light I had been searching for finally flickering in her memories of Anne’s early years?

“Did you know Mrs. Catherick before Anne was born?” I asked.

“Not for long, sir—only about four months. We spent a lot of time together during that period, but we were never very close.”

Her voice steadied as she spoke. Despite the painful nature of her memories, I noticed it seemed to ease her mind to reflect on the distant troubles of the past after focusing for so long on the intense sorrows of the present.

“Were you and Mrs. Catherick neighbors?” I encouraged her to continue.

“Yes, sir—neighbors in Old Welmingham.”

“OLD Welmingham? So there are two places with that name in Hampshire?”

“Well, sir, there used to be, more than twenty-three years ago. They built a new town about two miles away, near the river, and Old Welmingham, which was never much more than a village, eventually became deserted. The new town is what they now call Welmingham, but the old parish church still stands. It’s isolated, with the houses around it either torn down or fallen into ruin. I’ve witnessed some sad changes. It was a lovely, charming place in my time.”

“Did you live there before you got married, Mrs. Clements?”

“No, sir—I’m from Norfolk. It wasn’t my husband’s hometown either. He was from Grimsby, as I mentioned, and he did his apprenticeship there. But he had friends down south and heard about an opportunity, so he started a small business in Southampton. It wasn’t much, but he earned enough for a simple man to retire on, and we settled in Old Welmingham. I moved there with him when we got married. We weren’t young, but we were very happy together—happier than our neighbor, Mr. Catherick, was with his wife when they arrived in Old Welmingham a year or two later.”

“Did your husband know them before that?”

“It was with Catherick, sir—not his wife. She was a stranger to both of us. Some gentlemen had helped Catherick secure a position as a clerk at Welmingham church, which is why he moved to our neighborhood. He brought his newly married wife with him, and we later learned that she had been a lady’s maid for a family at Varneck Hall, near Southampton.

Catherick had a tough time convincing her to marry him because she held herself in high regard. He asked her repeatedly, but eventually gave up when he saw how stubborn she was about it. Ironically, once he stopped pursuing her, she changed her mind and approached him on her own, seemingly without any reason. My poor husband always said that was the moment Catherick should have taught her a lesson. But Catherick was too fond of her to do anything like that—he never put her in check, neither before nor after they married.

He was a passionate man, letting his feelings take him too far, one way or another, and he would have spoiled a better wife than Mrs. Catherick if a better woman had married him. I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, sir, but she was a heartless woman with a strong will—obsessed with foolish admiration and fancy clothes, showing little respect for Catherick, despite his kindness toward her. My husband suspected things would turn out badly when they first moved in, and he was right. Within just four months of their arrival, a terrible scandal erupted, leading to a miserable breakdown in their household. Both were at fault—I’m afraid they both contributed equally to the mess.

“You mean both husband and wife?”

“Oh, no, sir! I don’t mean Catherick—he was the one to be pitied. I meant his wife and the person—”

“And the person who caused the scandal?”

“Yes, sir. A gentleman born and raised, who should have set a better example. You know him, sir—and my poor dear Anne knew him all too well.”

“Sir Percival Glyde?”

“Yes, Sir Percival Glyde.”

My heart raced—I thought I was finally onto something. How little I knew then of the twists and turns that lay ahead!

“Did Sir Percival live in your neighborhood at that time?” I asked.

“No, sir. He came to us as a stranger. His father had recently passed away abroad. I remember he was in mourning. He stayed at the little inn by the river (they’ve since torn it down), where gentlemen used to come to fish. At first, he didn’t attract much attention; it was common for gentlemen to travel from all over England to fish in our river.”

“Did he arrive in the village before Anne was born?”

“Yes, sir. Anne was born in June of eighteen hundred and twenty-seven, and I believe he came at the end of April or the beginning of May.”

“A stranger to all of you? A stranger to Mrs. Catherick as well as to the other neighbors?”

“So, that’s what we thought at first,” Mrs. Clements said. “But when the scandal hit, no one believed they were just acquaintances. I remember it like it was yesterday. One night, Catherick came into our garden and woke us by tossing a handful of gravel at our window. I heard him pleading with my husband to come down and talk to him. They spent a long time together on the porch. When my husband finally came back upstairs, he was visibly shaken. He sat on the edge of the bed and said to me, ‘Lizzie! I always told you that woman was trouble. I always said she would come to a bad end, and I’m afraid that end has already arrived. Catherick found a stash of lace handkerchiefs, two beautiful rings, and a brand-new gold watch and chain hidden in his wife’s drawer—things that only a true lady should possess—and she won’t say how she got them.’

‘Does he think she stole them?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘Stealing would be bad enough, but it’s worse than that. She had no opportunity to steal such things, and she’s not the type to take them if she had the chance. They’re gifts, Lizzie—her initials are engraved inside the watch. And Catherick has seen her talking privately, behaving inappropriately for a married woman, with that gentleman in mourning, Sir Percival Glyde. Don’t say anything about this—I’ve calmed Catherick down for tonight. I told him to keep quiet and to watch and listen for a couple of days until he’s sure.’

‘I think you’re both mistaken,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to believe that Mrs. Catherick, as respectable as she is here, would get involved with a stranger like Sir Percival Glyde.’

‘But is he really a stranger to her?’ my husband countered. ‘You forget how Catherick’s wife ended up with him. She went to him willingly after refusing him over and over. There have been wicked women before her who have used honest men who loved them to save their reputations, and I’m afraid this Mrs. Catherick is as wicked as any of them. We’ll see,’ my husband said. ‘We’ll see soon enough.’ And just two days later, we did.”

Mrs. Clements paused for a moment before continuing. Even in that silence, I began to question whether the clue I thought I had found was truly leading me to the heart of the mystery that had haunted Sir Percival Glyde for so long. Was this typical tale of a man’s betrayal and a woman’s weakness really the key to a secret that had been his lifelong terror?

“Well, sir, Catherick took my husband’s advice and waited,” Mrs. Clements continued. “And as I mentioned, he didn’t have to wait long. On the second day, he caught his wife and Sir Percival whispering together, looking far too familiar, right by the church vestry. I suppose they thought that spot was the last place anyone would look for them, but there they were. Sir Percival, seemingly surprised and flustered, defended himself in such a guilty manner that poor Catherick—whose quick temper I’ve already mentioned—lost control and struck Sir Percival. He was no match for the man who had wronged him, and he was beaten mercilessly before the neighbors, who had rushed over after hearing the commotion, could intervene.

This all happened in the evening, and by nightfall, when my husband went to Catherick’s house, he had vanished without a trace. No one in the village ever saw him again. By that point, he knew all too well the vile reason his wife had married him, and he felt his misery and disgrace, especially after what had happened with Sir Percival, too deeply. The parish clergyman even placed an advertisement in the paper asking him to return, assuring him he wouldn’t lose his job or his friends. But Catherick had too much pride and spirit—some would say too much feeling—to face his neighbors again and try to live down the memory of his disgrace. My husband heard from him after he left England, and again later when he was settled and doing well in America. As far as I know, he’s alive there now, but none of us back home—especially his wicked wife—are ever likely to see him again.”

“What happened to Sir Percival?” I asked. “Did he stay in the area?”

“Not at all. The place was too hot for him. He was heard arguing with Mrs. Catherick the same night the scandal broke, and the next morning, he was gone.”

“And Mrs. Catherick? Surely she didn’t stay in the village among those who knew of her disgrace?”

“She did, indeed. She was tough enough and heartless enough to ignore what everyone around her thought. She told everyone, from the local priest on down, that she was the victim of a terrible mistake and that no amount of gossip would force her out of her home, as if she were some kind of criminal. Throughout my time, she lived in Old Welmingham, and even after I left, when the new town was being built and the respectable neighbors started moving in, she followed them, determined to live among them and scandalize them until her last breath. There she is now, and there she’ll stay, defiantly facing them all until she dies.”

“But how has she managed all these years?” I asked. “Was her husband able and willing to help her?”

“Both able and willing,” Mrs. Clements replied. “In the second letter he sent to my late husband, he mentioned that she had carried his name and lived in his home, and despite her wickedness, he wouldn’t let her starve like a beggar in the street. He could afford to give her a small allowance, which she could collect quarterly at a place in London.”

“Did she accept the allowance?”

“Not a penny of it. She said she would never owe Catherick anything, not even if she lived to be a hundred. And she has kept that promise ever since. When my dear husband passed away and left everything to me, Catherick’s letter came into my possession along with his other things. I told her to let me know if she ever needed help. ‘I’ll let all of England know I’m in need,’ she said, ‘before I ever tell Catherick or anyone connected to him. Take that as my answer, and you can give it to HIM if he writes again.’”

“Do you think she had any money of her own?”

“Very little, if any. It was said—quite truthfully, I’m afraid—that her means of living came from Sir Percival Glyde.”

After that last comment, I paused to reconsider everything I had just heard. While I had accepted the story so far, it was clear that I still hadn’t uncovered any direct or indirect approach to the Secret, and my quest had once again ended in a frustrating dead end.

However, there was one aspect of the narrative that made me question whether I should accept it without reservation, hinting at something deeper beneath the surface.

I couldn’t understand why the clerk’s guilty wife would choose to live out her life in the very place of her disgrace. Her claim that she had taken this unusual path to assert her innocence didn’t sit right with me. It seemed more likely that she wasn’t entirely free to make that choice, as she claimed. If that were the case, who had the power to compel her to stay in Welmingham? The most likely person would be the one providing her with the means to survive. She had refused help from her husband, had no substantial resources of her own, and was a friendless, disgraced woman—where else could she turn for assistance but to the very source that rumors suggested: Sir Percival Glyde?

Considering these points, and keeping in mind the one undeniable fact that Mrs. Catherick held the Secret, I easily concluded that it was in Sir Percival’s interest to keep her in Welmingham. Her reputation in that town ensured she would be isolated from any female neighbors, preventing her from speaking carelessly during casual conversations with curious friends. But what was the secret that needed to be hidden? It couldn’t be Sir Percival’s shameful connection to Mrs. Catherick’s disgrace; the neighbors were well aware of that. It also couldn’t be the suspicion that he was Anne’s father, since that was a rumor that had to exist in Welmingham. If I accepted the guilty appearances as uncritically as others had, if I drew the same superficial conclusions that Mr. Catherick and his neighbors had, where was the indication of a dangerous secret between Sir Percival and Mrs. Catherick that had remained hidden all this time?

Yet, in those secret meetings, in the hushed conversations between the clerk’s wife and “the gentleman in mourning,” the key to the mystery undoubtedly lay waiting to be uncovered.

Could it be that the surface appearances pointed one way while the truth lay hidden in another direction? Was it possible that Mrs. Catherick’s claim of being a victim of a terrible mistake was true? Or, if it wasn’t, could the assumption that linked Sir Percival to her guilt be based on some unimaginable error? Had Sir Percival, perhaps, invited the wrong kind of suspicion to deflect attention from something else that was true? Here—if I could uncover it—was the key to the secret, buried deep beneath the surface of the seemingly unremarkable story I had just heard.

My next questions focused on determining whether Mr. Catherick had genuinely come to believe in his wife’s wrongdoing. The answers I received from Mrs. Clements left me with no doubt. Mrs. Catherick had, without a doubt, compromised her reputation while still a single woman with an unknown man, and had married to protect her name. It had been clearly established, through careful calculations of time and place that I won’t detail here, that the daughter who carried her husband’s name was not his child.

The next question—whether it was equally certain that Sir Percival was Anne’s father—was much more complicated. I had no better way to assess the probabilities than through personal resemblance.

“I suppose you saw Sir Percival often when he was in your village?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, very often,” Mrs. Clements replied.

“Did you ever notice that Anne looked like him?”

“She didn’t look like him at all, sir.”

“Was she like her mother?”

“Not like her mother either, sir. Mrs. Catherick was dark and round-faced.”

Not like her mother and not like her supposed father. I realized that while personal resemblance wasn’t a foolproof test, it couldn’t be completely dismissed either. Was it possible to strengthen the evidence by uncovering any definitive facts about the lives of Mrs. Catherick and Sir Percival before they arrived in Old Welmingham? With this in mind, I framed my next questions.

“When Sir Percival first came to your area,” I asked, “did you hear where he had come from?”

“No, sir. Some said he came from Blackwater Park, others said Scotland—but nobody really knew.”

“Was Mrs. Catherick working at Varneck Hall right before her marriage?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And had she been there long?”

“Three or four years, sir; I’m not quite sure.”

“Do you remember the name of the gentleman who owned Varneck Hall at that time?”

“Yes, sir. His name was Major Donthorne.”

“Did Mr. Catherick or anyone else you knew ever hear that Sir Percival was a friend of Major Donthorne’s or see him near Varneck Hall?”

“Catherick never did, sir, as far as I can remember—nor did anyone else that I know of.”

I noted down Major Donthorne’s name and address, hoping he might still be alive and that I could reach out to him later. Meanwhile, my thoughts were leaning against the idea that Sir Percival was Anne’s father, and I was increasingly convinced that the secret of his clandestine meetings with Mrs. Catherick had nothing to do with the disgrace she had brought upon her husband’s name. I couldn’t think of any further questions that would solidify this impression, so I encouraged Mrs. Clements to share more about Anne’s early days, hoping for any hints that might arise.

“I haven’t yet heard,” I said, “how the poor child, born into such sin and misery, came to be entrusted to your care, Mrs. Clements.”

“There was no one else, sir, to take the little helpless creature in,” Mrs. Clements replied. “The wicked mother seemed to despise it—as if the poor baby was to blame!—from the moment it was born. My heart ached for the child, and I offered to raise it as tenderly as if it were my own.”

“Did Anne stay entirely under your care from that time?”

“Not entirely, sir. Mrs. Catherick had her moods and whims about the child, sometimes claiming her as if she wanted to get back at me for raising her. But those moments never lasted long. Poor little Anne was always returned to me, and she was always happy to come back—though her life in my house was rather bleak, without playmates like other children to lift her spirits. Our longest separation was when her mother took her to Limmeridge. At that time, I had just lost my husband, and I thought it best, in my grief, that Anne not be in the house. She was around ten or eleven then, slow with her lessons, poor thing, and not as cheerful as other kids—but she was as pretty a little girl as you could wish to see. I waited at home until her mother brought her back, and then I offered to take her with me to London. The truth is, sir, I couldn’t bear to stay in Old Welmingham after my husband’s death; the place felt so changed and so dreary to me.”

“Did Mrs. Catherick agree to your proposal?”

“No, sir. She returned from the north harder and more bitter than ever. People said she had to ask Sir Percival’s permission to go, to begin with, and that she only went to care for her dying sister at Limmeridge because the poor woman was rumored to have saved some money—the reality being she barely left enough to bury her. Those experiences may have soured Mrs. Catherick, but whatever the case, she wouldn’t allow me to take the child. It seemed she enjoyed distressing us both by keeping us apart. All I could do was give Anne my address and tell her privately that if she was ever in trouble, she should come to me. But years went by before she was able to come. I didn’t see her again, poor thing, until the night she escaped from the asylum.”

“Do you know, Mrs. Clements, why Sir Percival Glyde had her locked away?”

“I only know what Anne herself told me, sir. The poor girl used to wander around, lost in her thoughts. She said her mother had some secret of Sir Percival’s to keep and had let it slip to her long after I left Hampshire—and when Sir Percival found out she knew, he had her confined. But she could never tell me what it was when I asked. All she could say was that her mother could ruin Sir Percival if she wanted to. Mrs. Catherick might have revealed just that much and no more. I’m almost certain I would have heard the whole truth from Anne if she had really known it, as she claimed to, and as she likely believed she did, poor soul.”

This thought had crossed my mind more than once. I had already told Marian that I doubted whether Laura was truly on the verge of making any significant discovery when she and Anne Catherick were interrupted by Count Fosco at the boathouse. It was entirely in character for Anne’s mental state to assume she had complete knowledge of the secret based on nothing more than vague suspicions from hints her mother had carelessly dropped in her presence. Sir Percival’s guilty paranoia would, in that case, lead him to mistakenly believe that Anne knew everything from her mother, just as it later convinced him that his wife knew everything from Anne.

Time was slipping away, and the morning was passing. I began to doubt whether I would hear anything more from Mrs. Clements that would be useful to my purpose. I had already uncovered the local and family details about Mrs. Catherick that I had been searching for, and I had come to certain conclusions, entirely new to me, that could greatly assist in guiding my future actions. I stood to take my leave and to thank Mrs. Clements for her willingness to share information.

“I’m afraid you must think I’m very nosy,” I said. “I’ve troubled you with more questions than most people would have cared to answer.”

“You’re more than welcome, sir, to anything I can share,” Mrs. Clements replied. She paused and looked at me with a wistful expression. “But I do wish,” the poor woman said, “that you could tell me a little more about Anne. I thought I saw something in your face when you came in that suggested you might. You can’t imagine how hard it is not to know whether she’s alive or dead. I could bear it better if I were only certain. You said you never expected we would see her alive again. Do you know, sir—do you know for sure—that it has pleased God to take her?”

I couldn’t resist her plea; it would have been utterly mean and cruel of me to turn away from it.

“I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it,” I replied gently. “I’m certain in my own mind that her troubles in this world are over.”

The poor woman sank into her chair, hiding her face from me. “Oh, sir,” she said, “how do you know this? Who could have told you?”

“No one has told me, Mrs. Clements. But I have my reasons for being sure—reasons I promise to explain as soon as I can do so safely. I’m certain she wasn’t neglected in her final moments. I believe the heart condition she suffered from was the true cause of her death. Soon, you’ll feel as certain as I do—you’ll know that she’s resting in a quiet country churchyard, in a lovely, peaceful spot you might have chosen for her yourself.”

“Dead!” Mrs. Clements exclaimed. “Dead so young, and I’m left to hear it! I made her first little dresses. I taught her to walk. The first time she ever called me ‘Mother,’ it was to me—and now I’m here, and Anne is gone! Did you say, sir,” she continued, finally lowering her handkerchief and looking up at me, “did you say she had a proper burial? Was it the kind of funeral she would have had if she had really been my own child?”

I assured her it was. She seemed to take an unexpected pride in my response, finding a comfort in it that nothing else could provide. “It would have broken my heart,” she said simply, “if Anne hadn’t been buried nicely—but how do you know this, sir? Who told you?”

I urged her once more to wait until I could speak freely. “You’ll see me again,” I said. “I have a favor to ask when you’re feeling a bit more composed—perhaps in a day or two.”

“Don’t hold back on my account, sir,” Mrs. Clements replied. “Don’t worry about my tears if I can help you. If you have something to say, please say it now.”

“I just want to ask you one last question,” I said. “I need to know Mrs. Catherick’s address in Welmingham.”

My request startled Mrs. Clements so much that, for a moment, even the news of Anne’s death seemed to slip from her mind. Her tears stopped abruptly, and she stared at me in disbelief.

“For heaven’s sake, sir!” she exclaimed. “What do you want with Mrs. Catherick?”

“I need to know the secret behind her private meetings with Sir Percival Glyde. There’s more to what you’ve told me about that woman’s past and her relationship with him than you or anyone else in the neighborhood ever suspected. There’s a secret between those two that we don’t know, and I’m determined to find out what it is.”

“Think carefully about this, sir!” Mrs. Clements urged, rising with urgency and placing her hand on my arm. “She’s a terrible woman—you don’t know her like I do. Think it over.”

“I appreciate your warning, Mrs. Clements. But I’m resolved to see her, no matter what happens.”

Mrs. Clements looked at me with concern.

“I can see your mind is made up, sir,” she said. “I’ll give you the address.”

I jotted it down in my notebook and then took her hand to say goodbye.

“You’ll hear from me soon,” I promised. “You’ll know everything I’ve promised to tell you.”

Mrs. Clements sighed and shook her head, uncertain.

“Sometimes an old woman’s advice is worth heeding, sir,” she said. “Think carefully before you go to Welmingham.”