Now and then I got away and changed the scene for a short time, always asking leave of my lord and master first, and generally getting it.  He was not, as I have already told you, fool enough to drive me too hard, and he could reasonably rely on my holding my tongue for my own sake, if not for his.  One of my longest trips away from home was the trip I took to Limmeridge to nurse a half-sister there, who was dying.  She was reported to have saved money, and I thought it as well (in case any accident happened to stop my allowance) to look after my own interests in that direction.  As things turned out, however, my pains were all thrown away, and I got nothing, because nothing was to be had.

I had taken Anne to the north with me, having my whims and fancies, occasionally, about my child, and getting, at such times, jealous of Mrs. Clements’ influence over her.  I never liked Mrs. Clements.  She was a poor, empty-headed, spiritless woman—­what you call a born drudge—­and I was now and then not averse to plaguing her by taking Anne away.  Not knowing what else to do with my girl while I was nursing in Cumberland, I put her to school at Limmeridge.  The lady of the manor, Mrs. Fairlie (a remarkably plain-looking woman, who had entrapped one of the handsomest men in England into marrying her), amused me wonderfully by taking a violent fancy to my girl.  The consequence was, she learnt nothing at school, and was petted and spoilt at Limmeridge House.  Among other whims and fancies which they taught her there, they put some nonsense into her head about always wearing white.  Hating white and liking colours myself, I determined to take the nonsense out of her head as soon as we got home again.

Strange to say, my daughter resolutely resisted me.  When she had got a notion once fixed in her mind she was, like other half-witted people, as obstinate as a mule in keeping it.  We quarrelled finely, and Mrs. Clements, not liking to see it, I suppose, offered to take Anne away to live in London with her.  I should have said Yes, if Mrs. Clements had not sided with my daughter about her dressing herself in white.  But being determined she should not dress herself in white, and disliking Mrs. Clements more than ever for taking part against me, I said No, and meant No, and stuck to No.  The consequence was, my daughter remained with me, and the consequence of that, in its turn, was the first serious quarrel that happened about the Secret.

The circumstance took place long after the time I have just been writing of.  I had been settled for years in the new town, and was steadily living down my bad character and slowly gaining ground among the respectable inhabitants.  It helped me forward greatly towards this object to have my daughter with me.  Her harmlessness and her fancy for dressing in white excited a certain amount of sympathy.  I left off opposing her favourite whim on that account, because some of the sympathy was sure, in course of time, to fall to my share.  Some of it did fall.  I date my getting a choice of the two best sittings to let in the church from that time, and I date the clergyman’s first bow from my getting the sittings.