appearances described to me, as unreservedly as
others had accepted them; if I drew from them
the same superficial conclusion which Mr. Catherick
and all his neighbours had drawn—where
was the suggestion, in all that I had heard, of a
dangerous secret between Sir Percival and Mrs.
Catherick, which had been kept hidden from
that time to this?

And yet, in those stolen meetings, in those
familiar whisperings between the clerk's wife
and "the gentleman in mourning," the clue to
discovery existed beyond a doubt.

Was it possible that appearances, in this case,
had pointed one way, while the truth lay, all the
while, unsuspected, in another direction? Could
Mrs. Cathenck's assertion that she was the victim
of a dreadful mistake, by any possibility be
true? Or, assuming it to be false, could the
conclusion which associated Sir Percival with
her guilt have been founded in some
inconceivable error? Had Sir Percival, by any
chance, courted the suspicion that was wrong,
for the sake of diverting from himself some other
suspicion that might be right? Here, if I could
find it— here was the approach to the Secret,
hidden deep under the surface of the apparently
unpromising story which I had just heard.

My next questions were now directed to the
one object of ascertaining whether Mr. Catherick
had, or had not, arrived truly at the conviction
of his wife's misconduct. The answers I
received from Mrs Clements, left me in no doubt
whatever on that point. Mrs. Catherick had, on
the clearest evidence, compromised her reputation,
while a single woman, with some person
unknown; and had married to save her character.
It had been positively ascertained, by calculations
of time and place into which I need
not enter particularly, that the daughter who
bore her husband's name was not her husband's
child.

The next object of inquiry, whether it was
equally certain that Sir Percival must have been
the father of Anne, was beset by far greater
difficulties. I was in no position to try the
probabilities on one side or on the other, in this
instance, by any better test than the test of
personal resemblance.

"I suppose you often saw Sir Percival, when
he was in your village?" I said.

"Yes, sir— very often," replied Mrs. Clements.

"Did you ever observe that Anne was like
him?"

"She was not at all like him, sir."

"Was she like her mother, then?"

"Not like her mother, either, sir. Mrs.
Catherick was dark, and full in the face."

Not like her mother, and not like her (supposed)
father. I knew that the test by personal
resemblance was not to be implicitly trusted—
but, on the other hand, it was not to be altogether
rejected on that account. Was it possible
to strengthen the evidence, by discovering any
conclusive facts in relation to the lives of Mrs.
Catherick and Sir Percival, before they either of
them appeared at Old Welmingham? When I
asked my next questions, I put them with this
view.

"When Sir Percival first appeared in your
neighbourhood," I said, " did you hear where he
had come from last?"

"No, sir. Some said from Blackwater Park,
and some said from Scotland —but nobody
knew."

"Was Mrs. Catherick living in service at
Varneck Hall, immediately before her
marriage?"

"Yes, sir."

"And had she been long in her place?"

"Three or four years, sir; I am not quite
certain which."

"Did you ever hear the name of the gentleman
to whom Varneck Hall belonged at that
time?"

"Yes, sir. His name was Major Donthorne."

"Did Mr. Catherick, or did any one else you
knew, ever hear that Sir Percival was a friend
of Major Donthorne's, or ever see Sir Percival
in the neighbourhood of Varneck Hall?"

"Catherick never did, sir, that I can remember
—nor any one else, either, that I know of."

I noted down Major Donthorne's name and
address, on the chance that he might still be
alive, and that it might be useful, at some future
time, to apply to him. Meanwhile, the impression
on my mind was now decidedly adverse to
the opinion that Sir Percival was Anne's father,
and decidedly favourable to the conclusion that
the secret of his stolen interviews with Mrs.
Catherick was entirely unconnected with the
disgrace which the woman had inflicted on her
husband's good name. I could think of no further
inquiries which I might make to strengthen
this impression—I could only encourage Mrs.
Clements to speak next of Anne's early days,
and watch for any chance-suggestion which
might in this way offer itself to me.

"I have not heard yet," I said, " how the
poor child, born in all this sin and misery, came
to be trusted, Mrs. Clements, to your care."

"There was nobody else, sir, to take the little
helpless creature in hand," replied Mrs. Cle-
ments. " The wicked mother seemed to hate it
—as if the poor baby was in fault!— from the
day it was born. My heart was heavy for the
child; and I made the offer to bring it up as
tenderly as if it was my own."

"Did Anne remain entirely under your care,
from that time?"

"Not quite entirely, sir. Mrs. Catherick had
her whims and fancies about it, at times; and
used now and then to lay claim to the child, as
if she wanted to spite me for bringing it up.
But these fits of hers never lasted for long.
Poor little Anne was always returned to me,
and was always glad to get back though she
led but a gloomy life in my house, having no
playmates, like other children, to brighten her
up. Our longest separation was when her
mother took her to Limmeridge. Just at that
time, I lost my husband; and I felt it was as
well, in that miserable affliction, that Anne should