Among the other papers had been placed the contents
of his wife’s little desk, the keys of which
had been handed to him at her request. Here was
the letter addressed to him with the restriction, “Not
to be opened till Elizabeth-Jane’s
wedding-day.”
Mrs. Henchard, though more patient than her husband,
had been no practical hand at anything. In sealing
up the sheet, which was folded and tucked in without
an envelope, in the old-fashioned way, she had overlaid
the junction with a large mass of wax without the requisite
under-touch of the same. The seal had cracked,
and the letter was open. Henchard had no reason
to suppose the restriction one of serious weight,
and his feeling for his late wife had not been of the
nature of deep respect. “Some trifling
fancy or other of poor Susan’s, I suppose,”
he said; and without curiosity he allowed his eyes
to scan the letter:—
My dear Michael,—For the
good of all three of us I have kept one thing a secret
from you till now. I hope you will understand
why; I think you will; though perhaps you may not
forgive me. But, dear Michael, I have done it
for the best. I shall be in my grave when you
read this, and Elizabeth-Jane will have a home.
Don’t curse me Mike—think of how I
was situated. I can hardly write it, but here
it is. Elizabeth-Jane is not your Elizabeth-Jane—the
child who was in my arms when you sold me. No;
she died three months after that, and this living one
is my other husband’s. I christened her
by the same name we had given to the first, and she
filled up the ache I felt at the other’s loss.
Michael, I am dying, and I might have held my tongue;
but I could not. Tell her husband of this or
not, as you may judge; and forgive, if you can, a
woman you once deeply wronged, as she forgives you.
Her husband regarded the paper as if it were a window-pane
through which he saw for miles. His lips twitched,
and he seemed to compress his frame, as if to bear
better. His usual habit was not to consider whether
destiny were hard upon him or not—the shape
of his ideals in cases of affliction being simply
a moody “I am to suffer, I perceive.”
“This much scourging, then, it is for me.”
But now through his passionate head there stormed
this thought—that the blasting disclosure
was what he had deserved.
His wife’s extreme reluctance to have the girl’s
name altered from Newson to Henchard was now accounted
for fully. It furnished another illustration
of that honesty in dishonesty which had characterized
her in other things.
He remained unnerved and purposeless for near a couple
of hours; till he suddenly said, “Ah—I
wonder if it is true!”
He jumped up in an impulse, kicked off his slippers,
and went with a candle to the door of Elizabeth-Jane’s
room, where he put his ear to the keyhole and listened.
She was breathing profoundly. Henchard softly
turned the handle, entered, and shading the light,
approached the bedside. Gradually bringing the
light from behind a screening curtain he held it in
such a manner that it fell slantwise on her face without
shining on her eyes. He steadfastly regarded her
features.
