She may have said the same thing to you, when you thoughtlessly assisted her escape.  She certainly said it (as I heard last summer) to the unfortunate woman who married our sweet-tempered, nameless gentleman lately deceased.  If either you, or that unlucky lady, had questioned my daughter closely, and had insisted on her explaining what she really meant, you would have found her lose all her self-importance suddenly, and get vacant, and restless, and confused—­you would have discovered that I am writing nothing here but the plain truth.  She knew that there was a Secret—­she knew who was connected with it—­she knew who would suffer by its being known—­and beyond that, whatever airs of importance she may have given herself, whatever crazy boasting she may have indulged in with strangers, she never to her dying day knew more.

Have I satisfied your curiosity?  I have taken pains enough to satisfy it at any rate.  There is really nothing else I have to tell you about myself or my daughter.  My worst responsibilities, so far as she was concerned, were all over when she was secured in the Asylum.  I had a form of letter relating to the circumstances under which she was shut up, given me to write, in answer to one Miss Halcombe, who was curious in the matter, and who must have heard plenty of lies about me from a certain tongue well accustomed to the telling of the same.  And I did what I could afterwards to trace my runaway daughter, and prevent her from doing mischief by making inquiries myself in the neighbourhood where she was falsely reported to have been seen.  But these, and other trifles like them, are of little or no interest to you after what you have heard already.

So far, I have written in the friendliest possible spirit.  But I cannot close this letter without adding a word here of serious remonstrance and reproof, addressed to yourself.

In the course of your personal interview with me, you audaciously referred to my late daughter’s parentage on the father’s side, as if that parentage was a matter of doubt.  This was highly improper and very ungentlemanlike on your part!  If we see each other again, remember, if you please, that I will allow no liberties to be taken with my reputation, and that the moral atmosphere of Welmingham (to use a favourite expression of my friend the rector’s) must not be tainted by loose conversation of any kind.  If you allow yourself to doubt that my husband was Anne’s father, you personally insult me in the grossest manner.  If you have felt, and if you still continue to feel, an unhallowed curiosity on this subject, I recommend you, in your own interests, to check it at once, and for ever.  On this side of the grave, Mr. Hartright, whatever may happen on the other, that curiosity will never be gratified.