Your child died; she had another, and all went well. But a time
came--mind me, a time always does come. A time came--it was some while
after she and I and the child returned from America--when somebody she
had confided her history to, told her my claim to her was a mockery, and
made a jest of her belief in my right. After that she was never happy
with me. She pined and pined, and socked and sighed. She said she must
leave me, and then came the question of our child. Then a man advised
me how to act, and I did it, for I thought it was best. I left her
at Falmouth, and went off to sea. When I got to the other side of
the Atlantic there was a storm, and it was supposed that a lot of
us, including myself, had been washed overboard. I got ashore at
Newfoundland, and then I asked myself what I should do.
"'Since I'm here, here I'll bide,' I thought to myself; ''twill be most
kindness to her, now she's taken against me, to let her believe me lost,
for,' I thought, 'while she supposes us both alive she'll be miserable;
but if she thinks me dead she'll go back to him, and the child will have
a home.' I've never returned to this country till a month ago, and I
found that, as I supposed, she went to you, and my daughter with
her. They told me in Falmouth that Susan was dead. But my
Elizabeth-Jane--where is she?"
"Dead likewise," said Henchard doggedly.
Pages:
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420