I deserved some reward (he was kind enough to say) for the service I had done him, and some compensation (he was so obliging as to add) for what I had suffered.  He was quite willing—­generous scoundrel!—­to make me a handsome yearly allowance, payable quarterly, on two conditions.  First, I was to hold my tongue—­in my own interests as well as in his.  Secondly, I was not to stir away from Welmingham without first letting him know, and waiting till I had obtained his permission.  In my own neighbourhood, no virtuous female friends would tempt me into dangerous gossiping at the tea-table.  In my own neighbourhood, he would always know where to find me.  A hard condition, that second one—­but I accepted it.

What else was I to do?  I was left helpless, with the prospect of a coming incumbrance in the shape of a child.  What else was I to do?  Cast myself on the mercy of my runaway idiot of a husband who had raised the scandal against me?  I would have died first.  Besides, the allowance was a handsome one.  I had a better income, a better house over my head, better carpets on my floors, than half the women who turned up the whites of their eyes at the sight of me.  The dress of Virtue, in our parts, was cotton print.  I had silk.

So I accepted the conditions he offered me, and made the best of them, and fought my battle with my respectable neighbours on their own ground, and won it in course of time—­as you saw yourself.  How I kept his Secret (and mine) through all the years that have passed from that time to this, and whether my late daughter, Anne, ever really crept into my confidence, and got the keeping of the Secret too—­are questions, I dare say, to which you are curious to find an answer.  Well! my gratitude refuses you nothing.  I will turn to a fresh page and give you the answer immediately.  But you must excuse one thing—­you must excuse my beginning, Mr. Hartright, with an expression of surprise at the interest which you appear to have felt in my late daughter.  It is quite unaccountable to me.  If that interest makes you anxious for any particulars of her early life, I must refer you to Mrs. Clements, who knows more of the subject than I do.  Pray understand that I do not profess to have been at all over-fond of my late daughter.  She was a worry to me from first to last, with the additional disadvantage of being always weak in the head.  You like candour, and I hope this satisfies you.

There is no need to trouble you with many personal particulars relating to those past times.  It will be enough to say that I observed the terms of the bargain on my side, and that I enjoyed my comfortable income in return, paid quarterly.