Faith Moore (0:00)

Hello and welcome to Storytime for Grown Ups. I'm Faith Moore and this season we're reading the Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. Each episode I'll read a few chapters from the book, pausing from time to time to give brief explanations so it's easier to follow along. It's like an audiobook with built in notes. So brew a pot of tea, find a cozy chair and settle in. It's story time. Welcome back. So I'm not in my cozy chair. I don't have a cozy chair for recording. I wish I did, but I record in a closet in my apartment. But I do have my pot of tea this time. I don't always, but I'm recording during my younger son's nap time today. And I always have a lovely cup of tea when he goes for his nap. And I have this wonderful little teapot. It's like a teapot for one. It makes three teacups worth of tea. I mean an actual teacup on a saucer. And I have that during nap time. And so here I am with you. It's nap time. I have a little pot of tea. I have a lovely little china saucer and a teacup with tea in it. And I'm happy to be here with you drinking tea wherever you are and whatever you're doing, whether you're in a closet or somewhere else. I hope that this podcast, this time, right now, when we are together in this way, can be your cozy chair, can be your cup of tea. So thank you, thank, thank you for spending this time with me. I'm always so grateful that you're here and I always love to be with you in this way. So let's dive right in. Last time we read Heart rights narrative chapters 11 through 12. Today we're going to read heart rights narrative chapter 13. I have three short and amazing questions for you today and we're going to get into that video very, very soon. Before we do, just a couple of quick reminders. One is don't forget we're having our first ever storytime tea time on Thursday, January 30th at 8pm Eastern. If you want to join us, it's like a voice chat where I and you will get to talk together. If you'd like to be a part of that or a part of our online community in general, go into the Show Notes, click on the link and you can learn more about how to become a member and how to join that tea time that's coming up very soon if you haven't already. And you're enjoying the show. I would love it if you would consider just tapping those five stars. It's right there in your podcast player. Wherever you're listening, there's a place where you can. You just see a bunch of five empty stars and you just tap the fifth one and that rates the show five stars. And that's a really great way for other people to find the show. The more 5 star ratings a show has, the more likely it is it's going to show up in somebody's podcast player as like another podcast you might like or something like that. I don't actually understand how this algorithm works, but I've been told this is how we do things. So Please give it 5 stars if you're enjoying it. And if you have a couple of extra seconds, please leave a positive review in your podcast player as well. Those things really help the show to reach more people. And of course, the best thing you can do is just text a link to the show to a friend or a family member or a colleague or whoever that you think might like it. You can just copy a link to a specific episode you think they might like, or you can link to the whole show and just send them that link and it'll take them right to the landing page of the show on your podcast player. So those are really great ways too. And I know you guys are doing that. And I tell because people will write to me and they will say, oh, a friend of mine texted me a link to this show and now I really love it. So thank you, thank you for doing that. And please keep doing that or start doing it if you haven't already. And speaking of writing to me, the last thing I want to just remind you of is how to do that. You go to my website, faithkmoore.com and you click on Contact. Or if you're in your podcast player already, you just scroll down into the show notes and you click on the link there and it takes you right to that contact page. And while you're there, you can check out the other links that are there. We've got lots of fun things going on. All right, so let's do a recap. As I said last time, we read Heart rate's narrative chapters 11 through 12. So let's have a recap of that then. I've got these three questions and then we'll move on to the chapter. So here is the recap. All right, so where we left off. The letter that Laura received two episodes ago turns out to have been an anonymous letter that tells of a dream that the writer had that Laura's fiance, Sir Percival Glyde, a bad man. And the letter writer warns Laura that she shouldn't marry him. And this of course, has very much upset Laura. So Marian comes to Walter to ask his advice because there's no man of the house who can act like the man of the house because Mr. Fairley isn't any help. So Walter feels that Sir Percival is the baronet that the woman in white told him about, the one that she was afraid of. But he knows it's unlikely that he actually is. It's just that he's a baronet from the same part of the country where Anne Catherick comes from. And also Walter sort of automatically dislikes him because he's going to marry the woman that he loves. So Walter immediately feels that the letter must be written by Anne Catherick, the woman in white. But he doesn't tell Marian this because he's pretty sure that it's just his own kind of speculation. Instead, Marian and Walter try to find the person who delivered the letter, but no one in the town knows anything about it. And so as a last resort, they go and ask the schoolteacher. But when they get to the school, they find that the teacher is reprimanding his students because they believe, apparently in ghosts. And one student in particular says that he saw the ghost of Mrs. Fairley. So Mrs. Fairley is Marian and Laura's mother. And this child says that he saw Mrs. Fairlie's ghost standing by Mrs. Fairlie's grave. So then Walter tells Marian that he thinks the letter is from Anne Catherick and that Anne Catherick is the person who was standing at the grave and that the boy just mistook her for a ghost because she was dressed all in white. So Walter decides he's going to come back at night and watch the grave to see if Anne Catherick returns. So that's where we left him, in the graveyard as night is falling. Okay, so as I say, I have three related questions today. The first one comes from Hannah R. Hannah says, okay, things are heating up in the story. I loved listening to the little investigation that Walter and Marian are pursuing. The next one comes from Ashley Moulton. Ashley writes, Ms. Fairley is treated almost like a child in they do everything in secret, probably so that they won't upset her tender feelings. Meanwhile, she's just at home stewing about everything and she's the one that will be most affected by whatever they find out. It's a little maddening. And the last one comes from Sarah Nall. Sarah writes, this most recent episode left me feeling a little sad. The poignant setting and the feeling that no matter what happens, someone is going to be heartbroken or harmed in some way left me unexpectedly reluctant to see the story to its conclusion. The melancholy of sweet Miss Fairley and Walter's impossible love story is so sad, I cannot see how it can end in anything other than a tragedy. Okay, so what I love about the chapters that we read last time is the way that it, like, suddenly turns into a very overt detective story. Like, suddenly, Walter and Marian are detectives, tracking down clues and following leads and interviewing people and everything. And it's sort of like, wait, what? Where did that come from? But it's great. And we can see Wilkie Collins sort of inventing the detective novel as he goes, which we know he would eventually do later with his book the Moonstone. So we're suddenly within a framework that we're probably pretty familiar with. Right. A mystery has presented itself. Who wrote the anonymous letter to Laura? And Walter and Marian have transformed into the private eyes who are going to track down some answers. And they go about it just like detectives in a detective story, following a series of leads and ending up with a hypothesis. Right. First, they try to track down the old woman who delivered the letter so they can question her about who wrote it. That's a dead end. But then the boy's ghost story in the school leads them to the graveyard. Walter sees the grave has been half cleaned. He speaks to the old woman, finds out it wasn't the usual guy who cleans the graves. So he decides to stake out the graveyard at night and catch whoever it was that was there. And based on everything that they've heard and the letter itself, their guess is that the person who wrote the letter is Anne Catherick. It's like a detective story in miniature. But of course, this is only one tiny piece of a puzzle that we can't even see the full picture of. Right. It's kind of like we have all these jigsaw pieces now, but we don't have the puzzle box to show us what we're building. But we do have this little tiny piece, like a corner section or something. The big picture is whatever the crime is that the frame story told us about. And now we've put little piece that maybe led up to it. Right. Laura has received an anonymous letter warning her against marrying Sir Percival. Walter and Marian think the writer of the letter is Anne Catherick, which leads Walter at Least to suspect that Ser Percival Glyde is the baronet that Anne Catherick is afraid of for some reason. Which begs the question, why is Anne afraid of Sir Percival? And also, is she justified? Walter is inclined to hate Sir Percival because Sir Percival is the man who gets to marry Laura. And Walter loves Laura and wishes he could mar her himself. That's not a good reason to believe the anonymous letter. Right? So Walter is biased. Here. Marian tells Walter that Sir Percival is a good man and she's never heard anything bad about his character. Marian actually knows Sir Percival and she has no reason to hate him. So that seems, at this point, like better evidence. But of course, Walter is our narrator, so it's hard not to see Sir Percival the way he does. So now a new question has presented. Is Sir Percival a good guy or a bad guy? Which is really masterful on Wilkie Collins's part. And it adds to the fun for us because now we are primed and ready to observe Sir Percival when he shows up into the story, right? We are going to be watching him like a hawk and asking ourselves, who are you, Ser Percival Glyde? Are you a friend or a foe? Are you the villain of our story? Or are you a good and upstanding man who just happens to be marrying the woman our Narrat Eater loves? Which is a really fun challenge for us, I think. But what are the stakes? Why do we care if Anne Catherick is right or not? Why do we care if Sir Percival is good or bad? Well, it's because of Laura, right? And this brings me to Ashley and Sarah's questions. So, for better or worse, Laura is essentially this sort of angelic Victorian heroine. She's like Jane Bennett from Pride and Prejudice, if you've read that or listened to it with us. She's the Victorian ideal of feminine grace and beauty and kindness and love. At least that's how she's been presented to us so far by our current narrator, Walter. And the mystery and the danger that is starting to bubble up to the surface of the story, it all seems to be kind of coalescing around Laura, right? Laura is the one with the strange resemblance to Anne Catherick. Laura is the one who is doomed to marry a man she doesn't love. Laura is the one who's received this strange anonymous letter warning her that her fiance is evil. All the weird stuff that's going on is kind of gathering around Laura as if she's like the focal point of all the weirdness. So, in essence, Laura is currently at least our damsel in distress, whatever the danger is, that thing that we're kind of looking all around for, that's going to drop on our heads from some direction we haven't figured out yet. Whatever that danger is, it seems like it's going to happen to Laura. And you might react to this, as Ashley does, by wondering if Laura really is this sort of childish woman who can't do anything for herself or handle knowing things that everyone else knows. And that might be an interesting question to keep in mind. Or you might react to this as Sarah does, by kind of dropping into the doomed romance of it all and worrying for Laura as she's being presented to us as someone who needs help and needs rescuing. And that's really valid, too, because that's certainly who she is, as far as we can tell from what we've been told. But I also think it's helpful to think of Laura at this point as the damsel in distress. She's good and pure and true, and it's possible that she is in danger. And I think we can all agree that that's bad. It's bad that a good, pure, true person that our narrator is in love with might be in danger. Which casts Walter as our hero, right? He's trying to figure out whether there actually is a danger, what that danger is, and then, presumably to save her from it, if there's anything to save her from. And Marian then is cast as his sidekick, right? Remember, this is a world in which women had very little power. The major decisions of their lives and their ability to take action, all of that was largely decided and orchestrated by the men around them. Fathers, guardians, husbands, even brothers sometimes. Marian is consistently described as being more masculine than other women, right. Or like chafing against the rules or constraints of her femininity. And that doesn't mean that she feels like she is a man or something, just means that, unlike Laura, she has a sort of lively interest in the world and a protective instinct. But when she realizes that her sister might be in danger, the first thing she does is go looking for a man, because she has to. Any decisions or investigations or actions that might need to happen can really only be practically accomplished by a man. And I mean, we can feel as people in 2025 that this isn't fair or that it's wrong or whatever, but that's sort of irrelevant because this story is taking place in the world of Victorian England. And in the world of Victorian England, this is the way it was. And Wilkie Collins has never been to 2025. So we can forgive him for not knowing what it's like for women now. Right. So Marian has what Collins is describing as a sort of male instinct to protect Laura and to do something about this letter, to figure out who sent it and why. But she can't do it on her own. And this is where something really important gets revealed, which is that there actually isn't a man in Laura's life that she can definitively trust to help her in a crisis. Right. Mr. Fairley is her guardian, so it should be him. But he's a kind of sorry excuse for a man. Every decision he makes is going to just be in service of not bothering him. Mr. Fairley. Marian says that their clergyman is useless and the neighbors are kind of uninterested. There is this lawyer who's on his way to the house who seems like he might actually be helpful. He's known the family for years, and his job seems to be to protect Laura legally from any kind of funny business in terms of her inheritance and things like that when she gets married. But he's not available until tomorrow. So there's literally no one who can help Marian except Walter, who doesn't really have anything to do with their family. But of course, Walter is incredibly invested in Laura's safety and happiness, so he is a very helpful friend for Marian at this point. But like we were saying before, he's also biased against Sir Percival, so we can't necessarily trust his opinion. And he's also about to leave. He's going back to London and he's going to have to do it before Sir Percival shows up. That's the whole point of why he's leaving. So Laura is about to lose the hero of her story, Right? She's about to be in the house with a man who might be a perfectly upstanding guy who will make a good husband for her, but he also might be a villain of, like, biblical proportions. Right. If the letter is to be believed and Walter won't be there to protect her, and Marian won't be able to do anything to protect her, even though she'll want to. Maybe this lawyer guy will be there, but we have no idea at this point if we can trust that guy or not. So for now, we are relying on Walter's detective skills and also on Anne Catherick, who may or may not show up at the graveyard and who also may or may not be completely insane. So as Hannah rightly says in her letter, things are heating up. And as Sarah points out in her letter, the situation as it stands is sort of poignant, sort of melancholy. And there is a tinge of the supernatural, right? The biblical tone of the anonymous letter, the sense of prophecy and dreams, the little boy talking about a ghost, the fact that Walter is currently in a graveyard. It's all just a little spooky, just a little strange. There's just a little shiver of unease, of dread running under all of this. And that's delightfully good fun as far as I'm concerned, right? So let's get back to Walter. He's set up in this graveyard. He's waiting for the woman in white. Don't forget to write to me. I want to know what you're thinking. I want to know all of your thoughts right now. I want to know your questions. I want to know your comments. What does this all bring up for you? What do you think as we go along? Faithkmoore.com and click on contact. All right, let's get started with hartright's narrative. Chapter 13 of the Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. It's story time. 13. The exposed situation of the churchyard had obliged me to be cautious in choosing the position that I was to occupy. The main entrance to the church was on the side next to the burial ground, and the door was screened by a porch walled in on either side. After some little hesitation caused by natural reluctance to conceal myself, indispensable as that concealment was to the object in view, I had resolved on entering the porch, a loophole window was pierced in each of its side walls. Through one of these windows I could see Mrs. Fairlie's grave. The other looked towards the stone quarry in which the sexton's cottage was built before me. Fronting the porch entrance was a patch of bare burial ground, a line of low stone wall, and a strip of lonely brown hill with the sunset clouds sailing heavily over it before the strong, steady wind. No living creature was visible or audible. No bird flew by me. No dog barked from the sexton's cottage. The pauses in the dull beating of the surf were filled up by the dreary rustling of the dwarf trees near the grave and the cold, faint bubble of the brook over its stony bed. A dreary scene and a dreary hour. My spirits sank fast as I counted out the minutes of the evening in my hiding place under the church porch. It was not twilight yet. The light of the setting sun still lingered in the heavens, and little more than the first half hour of my solitary watch had elapsed. When I heard Footsteps and a voice. The footsteps were approaching from the other side of the church, and the voice was a woman's. Don't you fret, my dear, about the letter, said the voice. I gave it to the lad, quite safe. And the lad, he took it from me without a word. He went his way and I went mine, and not a living soul followed me afterwards, that I'll warrant. These words strung up my attention to a pitch of expectation that was almost painful. There was a pause of silence, but the footsteps still advanced. In another moment two persons, both women, passed within my range of view from the porch window. They were walking straight towards the grave, and therefore they had their backs turned towards me. One of the women was dressed in a bonnet and shawl. The other wore a long traveling cloak of a dark blue color with the hood drawn over her head. A few inches of her gown were visible below the cloak. My heart beat fast as I noted the color. It was white. After advancing about half way between the church and the grave, they stopped and the woman in the cloak turned her head towards her companion. But her side face, which a bonnet might now have allowed me to see, was hidden by the heavy projecting edge of the hood. Mind you keep that comfortable, warm cloak on, said the same voice, which I had already heard the voice of the woman in the shawl. Mrs. Todd is right about your looking too particular yesterday, all in white. I'll walk about a little while you're here. Churchyards not being at all in my way, whatever they may be in yours. Finish what you want to do before I come back, and let us be sure and get home again before night. With those words she turned about and, retracing her steps, advanced with her face towards me. It was the face of an elderly woman, brown, rugged and healthy, with nothing dishonest or suspicious in the look of it. Close to the church she stopped to pull her shawl closer round her. Queer, she said to herself, always queer with her whims and her ways ever since I can remember her. Harmless though. As harmless, poor soul, as a little child. She sighed, looked about the burial ground, nervously shook her head as if the dreary prospect by no means pleased her, and disappeared round the corner of the church. I doubted for a moment whether I ought to follow and speak to her or not. My intense anxiety to find myself face to face with her companion helped me to decide in the negative. So Walter wants to speak to this old woman and find out who she is, but he wants to find out what's going on with Anne Catherick. Even more so, he stays where he is to watch her. I could ensure seeing the woman in the shawl by waiting near the churchyard until she came back, although it seemed more than doubtful whether she could give me the information of which I was in search. The person who had delivered the letter was of little consequence. The person who had written it was the one center of interest and the one source of information, and that person, I now felt convinced, was before me in the churchyard. While these ideas were passing through my mind, I saw the woman in the cloak approach close to the grave and stand looking at it for a little while. She then glanced all round her and, taking a white linen cloth or handkerchief from under her cloak, turned aside towards the brook. The little stream ran into the churchyard under a tiny archway in the bottom of the wall and ran out again after a winding course of a few dozen yards under a similar opening. She dipped the cloth in the water and returned to the grave. I saw her kiss the white cross, then kneel down before the inscription and apply her wet cloth to the cleansing of it. After considering how I could show myself with the least possible chance of frightening her, I resolved to cross the wall before me, to skirt round it outside, and to enter the churchyard again by the stile near the grave, in order that she might see me as I approached. She was so absorbed over her employment that she did not hear me coming until I had stepped over the stile. Then she looked up, started to her feet with a faint cry, and stood facing me in speechless and motionless terror. Don't be frightened, I said. Surely you remember me. I stopped while I spoke, then advanced a few steps gently, then stopped again, again, and so approached by little and little till I was close to her. If there had been any doubt still left in my mind, it must have been now set at rest there, speaking affrightedly for itself. There was the same face confronting me over Mrs. Fairlie's grave which had first looked into mine on the high road by night. You remember me, I said. We met very late, and I helped you to find the way to London. Surely you have not forgotten that? Her features relaxed and she drew a heavy breath of relief. I saw the new life of recognition stirring slowly under the deathlike stillness which fear had set on her face. Don't attempt to speak to me just yet, I went on. Take time to recover yourself. Take time to feel quite certain that I am a friend. You are very kind to me, she murmured, as kind now as you were. Then she stopped, and I kept silence on my side. I was not granting time for composure to her only. I was gaining time also for myself. Under the wan, wild evening light, that woman and I were met together again. A grave between us, the dead about us, the lonesome hills closing us round on every side. The time, the place, the circumstances under which we now stood face to face in the evening stillness of that dreary valley. The lifelong interests which might hang suspended on the next chance words that passed between us, the sense that for aught I knew to the contrary, the whole future of Laura Fairlie's life might be determined for good or for evil, by my winning or losing. The confidence of the forlorn creature who stood trembling by her mother's grave all threatened to shake the steadiness and the self control on which every inch of the progress I might yet make now depended. I tried hard, as I felt this, to possess myself of all my resources. I did my utmost to turn the few moments for reflection to the best account. Are you calmer now? I said as soon as I thought it time to speak again. Can you talk to me without feeling frightened and without forgetting that I am a friend? How did you come here? She asked without noticing what I had just said to her. Don't you remember my telling you when we last met that I was going to Cumberland? I have been in Cumberland ever since. I have been staying all the time at Limmeridge House. At Limmeridge House. Her pale face brightened as she repeated the words, her wandering eyes fixed on me with a sudden interest. Ah, how happy you must have been, she said, looking at me eagerly. Without a shadow of its former distrust left in her expression. I took advantage of her newly aroused confidence in me to observe her face with an attention and a curiosity which I had hitherto restrained myself from showing for caution's sake. I looked at her with my mind full of that other lovely face which had so ominously recalled her to my memory on the terrace by moonlight. So he's comparing Anne's face to Laura's face. I had seen Anne Catherick's likeness in Miss Fairlie. I now saw Miss Fairlie's likeness in Anne Catherick. Saw it all the more clearly because the points of dissimilarity between the two were presented to me, as well as the points of resemblance. In the general outline of the countenance and general proportion of the features, in the color of the hair and in the little nervous uncertainty about the lips, in the height and size of the figure and the carriage of the head and body, the likeness appeared Even more startling than I had ever felt it to be yet. But there the resemblance ended and the dissimilarity in details began. The delicate beauty of Miss Fairlie's complexion, the transparent clearness of her eyes, the smooth purity of her skin, the tender bloom of colour on her lips were all missing from the worn, weary face that was now turned towards mine. Although I hated myself even for thinking such a thing. Still, while I looked at the woman before me, the idea would force itself into my mind that one sad change in the future was all that was wanting to make the likeness complete, which I now saw to be so imperfect in detail. If ever sorrow and suffering set their profaning marks on the youth and beauty of Miss Fairlie's face, then and then only Anne Catherick and she would be the twin sisters of chance resemblance, the living reflections of one another. I shuddered at the thought. There was something horrible in the blind, unreasoning distrust of the future which the mere passage of it through my mind seemed to imply. It was a welcome interruption to be roused by feeling. Anne Catherick's hand laid on my shoulder. The touch was as stealthy and as sudden as that other touch which had petrified me from head to foot on the night when we first met. You are looking at me and you are thinking of something, she said with her strange, breathless rapidity of utterance. What is it? Nothing extraordinary, I answered. I was only wondering how you came here. I came with a friend who is very good to me. I have only been here two days. And you found your way to this place yesterday. How do you know that? I only guessed it. She turned from me and knelt down before the inscription once more. Where should I go if not here? She said. The friend who was better than a mother to me is the only friend I have to visit at Limmeridge. Oh, it makes my heart ache to see a stain on her tomb. It ought to be kept white as snow for her sake. I was tempted to begin cleaning it yesterday, and I can't help coming back to go on with it to day. Is there anything wrong in that? I hope not. Surely nothing can be wrong that I do for Mrs. Fairlie's sake. The old, grateful sense of her benefactress's kindness was evidently the ruling idea still in the poor creature's mind, the narrow mind which had but too plainly opened to no other lasting impression since that first impression of her younger and happier days. So Anne Catherick is delayed in some way. She's what they would have called at the time. Simple. And her guiding thought is that Mrs. Fairlie was kind to her. It's the most important thing in her life. Even now. I saw that my best chance of winning her confidence lay in encouraging her to proceed with the artless employment which she had come into the burial ground to pursue. She resumed it at once on my telling her she might do so, touching the hard marble as tenderly as if it had been a sentient thing, and whispering the words of the inscription to herself over and over again, as if the lost days of her girlhood had returned and she was patiently learning her lesson once more at Mrs. Fairlie's knees. Should you wonder very much, I said, preparing the way as cautiously as I could for the questions that were to come. If I owned that. It is a satisfaction to me as well as a surprise to see you here. I felt very uneasy about you after you left me in the cab. She looked up quickly and suspiciously. Uneasy, she repeated. Why? A strange thing happened after we parted that night. Two men overtook me in a chaise. They did not see where I was standing, but they stopped near me and spoke to a policeman on the other side of the way. She instantly suspended her employment. The hand holding the damp cloth with which she had been cleaning the inscription dropped to her side. The other hand grasped the marble cross at the head of the grave. Her face turned towards me slowly, with the blank look of terror set rigidly on it. Once more I went on at all hazards. It was too late now to draw back. The two men spoke to the policeman, I said, and asked him if he had seen you. He had not seen you. And then one of the men spoke again and said you had escaped from his asylum. She sprang to her feet as if my last words had set the pursuers on her track. Stop and hear the end. I cried. Stop, and you shall know how I befriended you. A word from me would have told the men which way you had gone, and I never spoke that word. I helped your escape. I made it safe and certain. Think. Try to think. Try to understand what I tell you. My manner seemed to influence her more than my words. She made an effort to grasp the new idea. Her hands shifted the damp cloth hesitatingly from one to the other, exactly as they had shifted the little traveling bag on the night when I first saw her. Slowly, the purpose of my words seemed to force its way through the confusion and agitation of her mind. Slowly her features relaxed and her eyes looked at me with their expression gaining in curiosity. What it was fast losing in fear you don't think I ought to be back in the asylum, do you? She said. Certainly not. I am glad you escaped from it. I am glad I helped you. Yes. Yes, you did help me. Indeed, you helped me at the hard part. She went on a little vacantly. It was easy to escape, or I should not have got away. They never suspected me as they suspected the others. I was so quiet and so obedient and so easily frightened. The finding London was the hard part. And there you helped me. Did I thank you at the time. I thank you now very kindly. Was the asylum far from where you met me? Come, show that you believe me to be your friend and tell me where it was. She mentioned the place. A private asylum, as its situation informed me. A private asylum not very far from the spot where I had seen her. And then, with evident suspicion of the use to which I might put her answer, anxiously repeated her former inquiry. You don't think I ought to be taken back, do you? Once again I am glad you escaped. I am glad you prospered well after you left me, I answered. You said you had a friend in London to go to. Did you find that friend? Yes. It was very late, but there was a girl up at needlework in the house, and she helped me to rouse Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is my friend. A good, kind woman. But not like Mrs. Fairlie. Ah, no. Nobody is like Mrs. Fairlie. Is Mrs. Clements an old friend of yours? Have you known her a long time? Yes. She was a neighbour of ours once at home in Hampshire and liked me and took care of me when I was a little girl. Years ago, when she went away from us, she wrote down in my prayer book for me where she was going to live in London. And she said, if you are ever in trouble, Anne, come to me. I have no husband alive to say me nay and no children to look after, and I will take care of you. Kind words, were they not? I suppose I remember them because they were kind. It's little enough to remember. Besides, little enough. Little enough. Had you no father or mother to take care of you? Father? I never saw him. I never heard Mother speak of him. Father? Ah, dear. He is dead, I suppose. And your mother? I don't get on well with her. We are a trouble and a fear to each other. A trouble and a fear to each other. At those words, the suspicion crossed my mind for the first time that her mother might be the person who had placed her under restraint. Meaning he thinks maybe it was Anne's mother that put her in the asylum. Asylum? Don't ask me about Mother, she went on. I'd rather talk of Mrs. Clements. Mrs. Clements is like you. She doesn't think that I ought to be back in the asylum, and she is as glad as you are that I escaped from it. She cried over my misfortune and said it must be kept a secret from everybody. Her misfortune? In what sense was she using that word? In a sense which might explain her motive in writing the anonymous letter. In a sense which might show it to be the too common and too customary motive that has led many a woman to interpose anonymous hindrances to the marriage of the man who has ruined her. So Walter is wondering if Ser Percival Glyde had some kind of sexual relationship with Anne Catherick, maybe even a forced one, and if that's why Anne is trying to stop Laura from marrying him. I resolved to attempt the clearing up of this doubt before more words passed between us on either side. What misfortune? I asked. The misfortune of my being. Shut up, she answered with every appearance of feeling surprised at my question. What other misfortune could there be? I determined to persist as delicately and forbearingly as possible. It was of very great importance that I should be absolutely sure of every step in the investigation which I now gained in advance. There is another misfortune, I said, to which a woman may be liable and by which she may suffer lifelong sorrow and shame. What is it? She asked eagerly. The misfortune of believing too innocently in her own virtue and in the faith and honor of the man she loves, I answered. She looked up at me with the artless bewilderment of a child. Not the slightest confusion or change of colour, not the faintest trace of any secret consciousness of shame struggling to the surface appeared in her face, that face which betrayed every other emotion with such transparent clearness. No words that ever were spoken could have assured me, as her look and manner now assured me, that the motive which I had assigned for her writing the letter and sending it to Miss Fairlie was plainly and distinctly the wrong one. So it's clear that Anne hasn't had any kind of sexual relationship with Sir Percival. That doubt, at any rate, was now set at rest, but the very removal of it opened a new prospect of uncertainty. The letter, as I knew from positive testimony, pointed at Sir Percival Glyde, though it did not name him. She must have had some strong motive, originating in some deep sense of injury, for secretly denouncing him to Miss Fairlie in such terms as she had employed. And that motive was unquestionably not to be traced to the loss of her innocence and her character. Whatever wrong he might have inflicted on her was not of that nature. Of what nature could it be? I don't understand you, she said after evidently trying hard and trying in vain to discover the meaning of the words I had last said to her. Never mind, I answered. Let us go on with what we were talking about. Tell me how long you have stayed with Mrs. Clements in London and how you came here. How long, she repeated. I stayed with Mrs. Clements till we both came to this place two days ago. You are living in the village, then, I said. It is strange I should not have heard of you, though you have only been here two days. No, no, not in the village. Three miles away, at a farm. Do you know the farm? They call it Todd's Corner. I remembered the place perfectly. We had often passed by it in our drives. It was one of the oldest farms in the neighborhood, Situated in a solitary sheltered spot inland at the junction of Two Hills. They are relations of Mrs. Clement's at Todd's Corner, she went on, and they had often asked her to go and see them. She said she would go and take me with her for the quiet and the fresh air. It was very kind, was it not? I would have gone anywhere to be quiet and safe and out of the way. But when I heard that Tod's Corner was near Limmeridge, oh, I was so happy. I would have walked all the way barefoot to get there and see the schools and the village and Limmeridge house again. They are very good people at Tod's Corner. I hope I shall stay there a long time. There is only one thing I don't like about them and don't like about Mrs. Clements. What is it? They will tease me about dressing all in white. They say it looks so particular. How did they know? Mrs. Fairlie knew best. Mrs. Fairlie would never have made me wear this ugly blue cloak. Ah, she was fond of white in her lifetime. And here is white stone above her grave, and I am making it whiter for her sake. She often wore white herself, and she always dressed her little daughter in white. Is Miss Fairlie well and happy? Does she wear white now as she used when she was a girl? Her voice sank when she put the questions about Ms. Fairlie. And she turned her head farther and farther away from me. I thought I detected in the alteration of her manner an uneasy consciousness of the risk she had run in sending the anonymous letter. And I instantly determined so to frame my answer as to surprise her into owning it. Miss Fairlie was not very well or very happy this morning, I said. She murmured a few words, but they were spoken so confusedly and in such a low tone that I could not even guess at what they meant. Did you ask me why Ms. Fairlie was neither well nor happy this morning? I continued. No, she said quickly and eagerly. Oh, no, I never asked that. I will tell you without your asking, I went on. Miss Fairlie has received your letter. She had been down on her knees for some little time past, carefully removing the last weather stains left about the inscription. While we were speaking together, the first sentence of the words I had just addressed to her made her pause in her occupation and turn slowly, without rising from her knees so as to face me. Me. The second sentence literally petrified her. The cloth she had been holding dropped from her hands. Her lips fell apart. All the little color that there was naturally in her face left it in an instant. How do you know? She said faintly. Who showed it to you? The blood rushed back into her face, rushed overwhelmingly. As the sense rushed upon her mind that her own words had betrayed her. She struck her hands together in despair. I never wrote it, she gasped affrightedly. I know nothing about it. Yes, I said. You wrote it and you know about it. It was wrong to send such a letter. It was wrong to frighten Miss Fairlie. If you had anything to say that it was right and necessary for her to hear, you should have gone yourself to Limmeridge House. You should have spoken to the young lady with your own lips. She crouched down over the flat stone of the grave till her face was hidden on it and made no reply. Miss Fairlie will be as good and kind to you as her mother was. If you mean well, I went on, Miss Fairlie will keep your secret and not let you come to any harm. Will you see her to morrow at the farm? Will you meet her in the garden at Limmeridge House? Oh, if I could die and be hidden and at rest with you. Her lips murmured the words close on the gravestone, murmured them in tones of passionate endearment to the dead remains beneath. You know how I love your child for your sake. Oh, Mrs. Fairlie, Mrs. Fairlie, tell me how to save her. Be my darling and my mother once more and tell me what to do for the best. I heard her lips kissing the stone. I saw her hands beating on it passionately. The sound and the sight deeply affected me. I stooped down and took the poor helpless hands tenderly in mine and tried to soothe her. It was useless. She snatched her hands from me and never moved her face from the stone. Seeing the urgent necessity of quieting her at any hazard and by all means, I appealed to the only anxiety that she appeared to feel in connection with, with me and with my opinion of her, the anxiety to convince me of her fitness to be mistress of her own actions. Come, come, I said gently. Try to compose yourself, or you will make me alter my opinion of you. Don't let me think that the person who put you in the asylum might have had some excuse. The next words died away on my lips. The instant I risked that chance reference to the person who had put her in the asylum, she sprang up on her knees. A most extraordinary and startling change passed over her. Her face, at all ordinary times, so touching to look at in its nervous sensitiveness, weakness and uncertainty, became suddenly darkened by an expression of maniacally intense hatred and fear, which communicated a wild, unnatural force to every feature. Her eyes dilated in the dim evening light like the eyes of a wild animal. She caught up the cloth that had fallen at her side as if it had been a living creature that she could kill, and crushed it in both her hands with such convulsive strength that the few drops of moisture left in it trickled down on the stone beneath her. Talk of something else, she said, whispering through her teeth. I shall lose myself if you talk of that. Every vestige of the gentler thoughts which had filled her mind hardly a minute since since seemed to be swept from it. Now it was evident that the impression left by Mrs. Fairlie's kindness was not, as I had supposed, the only strong impression on her memory. With the grateful remembrance of her school days at Limmeridge, there existed the vindictive remembrance of the wrong inflicted on her by her confinement in the asylum. Who had done that wrong? Could it really be her mother? It was hard to give up pursuing the inquiry to that final point, but I forced myself to abandon all idea of continuing it. Seeing her as I saw her now, it would have been cruel to think of anything but the necessity and the humanity of restoring her composure. I will talk of nothing to distress you, I said soothingly. You want something, she answered sharply and suspiciously. Don't look at me like that. Speak to me. Tell me what you want. I only want you to quiet yourself. And when you are calmer to think over what I have said said. She paused, twisted the cloth in her hands backwards and forwards and whispered to herself. What is it? He said. She turned again towards Me and shook her head impatiently. Why don't you help me? She asked with angry suddenness. Yes, yes, I said. I will help you. And you will soon remember. I ask you to see Miss Fairlie to morrow and to tell her the truth about the letter. Ah, Miss Fairlie. Fairlie Fairly. The mere utterance of the loved, familiar name seemed to quiet her. Her face softened and grew like itself again. You need have no fear of Ms. Fairlie, I continued, and no fear of getting into trouble through the letter. She knows so much about it already that you will have no difficulty in telling her all. There can be little necessity for concealment where there is hardly anything left to conceal. You mention no names in the letter, but Ms. Fairlie knows that the person you write of is Sir Percival Glyde. The instant I pronounced that name she started to her feet and a scream burst from her that rang through the churchyard and made my heart leap in me with the terror of it. The dark deformity of the expression which had just left her face lowered on it once more with doubled and trebled intensity. The shriek at the name, the reiterated look of hatred and fear that instantly followed told all. Not even a last doubt now remained. Her mother was guiltless of imprisoning her in the asylum. A man had shut her up, and that man was Sir Percival Glyde. The scream had reached other ears than mine. On one side I heard the door of the sexton's cottage open. On the other I heard the voice of her companion, the woman in the shawl, the woman whom she had spoken of as Mrs. Clements. I'm coming, I'm coming. Cried the voice from behind the clump of dwarf trees. In a moment more Mrs. Clements hurried into view. Who are you? She cried, facing me resolutely as she set her foot on the stile. How dare you frighten a poor helpless woman like that? She was at Anne Catherick's side and had put one arm round her before I could answer. What is it, my dear? She said. What has he done to you? Nothing, the poor creature answered. Nothing. I am only frightened. Mrs. Clements turned on me with a fearless indignation, for which I respected her. I should be heartily ashamed of myself if I deserved that angry look, I said. But I do not deserve it. I have unfortunately startled her. Without intending it, this is not the first time she has seen me. Ask her yourself, and she will tell you that I am incapable of willingly harming her or any woman. I spoke distinctly so that Anne Catherick might hear and understand me. And I saw that the words and their meaning had reached her. Yes, yes, she said. He was good to me once. He helped me. She whispered the rest into her friend's ear. Strange indeed, said Mrs. Clements with a look of perplexity. It makes all the difference, though. I am sorry I spoke so rough to you, sir. But you must own that appearances looked suspicious to a stranger. It's more my fault than yours for humouring her whims and letting her be alone in such a place as this. Come, my dear. Come home now. I thought the good woman looked a little uneasy at the prospect of the walk back, and I offered to go with them until they were both within sight of home. Mrs. Clements thanked me civilly and declined. She said they were sure to meet some of the farm labourers as soon as they got to the moor. Try to forgive me, I said when Anne Catherick took her friend's arm to go away. Innocent as I had been of any intention to terrify and agitate her, my heart smote me as I looked at the poor, pale, frightened face. I will try, she answered, but you know too much. I'm afraid you'll always frighten me now. Mrs. Clements glanced at me and shook her head pityingly. Good night, sir, she said. You couldn't help it, I know. But I wish it was me you had frightened and not her. They moved away a few steps. I thought they had left me, but Anne suddenly stopped and separated herself from her friend. Wait a little, she said. I must say goodbye. She returned to the grave, rested both hands tenderly on the marble cross and kissed it. I am better now, she sighed, looking up at me quietly. I forgive you. She joined her companion again and they left the burial ground. I saw them stop near the church and speak to the sexton's wife who had come from the cottage and had waited, watching us from a distance. Then they went on again up the path that led to the moor. I looked after Anne Catherick as she disappeared, till all trace of her had faded in the twilight, looked as anxiously and sorrowfully as if that was the last I was to see in this weary world of the woman in white. Thank you so much for listening. I'd love to know what you thought of the chapters. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify? Did something particularly interest you? Please go to my website, faithkmore.com, click on Contact and send me your questions and thoughts. Or you can click on the link in the show Notes to contact me. I'll feature one or two of your entries at the start of the next episode. Speaking of links, don't forget to take a look at the other links in the show notes. You can learn more about me, check out our merch store, or pick up one of my books. Before I go, I'd like to ask a quick favor. This is an independent podcast. It's produced, recorded, and marketed by me, so I need your help. Spread the word about the show by posting about it on social media or texting a link to your friends. Subscribe, tap those five stars and leave a positive review wherever you're listening. If you are able to support the show financially, there's a link in the show notes to make a donation. I would really, really appreciate it. Alright everyone, story time is over. To be continued.