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.
SUSAN HENCHARD
Her husband regarded the paper as if it were a window-pane through
which he saw for miles.
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