'Josey.'
I untied the packet which Josey had enclosed, and found two letters in it--one, very bulky, in uncle Bryan's handwriting, the other written by Jessie. How my heart beat as I gazed at the latter! Both were addressed to my mother.
It was a fine clear night, and a sweet soft air was stirring--so sweet and soft that I was sitting at my work-table with the window open. Florry had gone to bed; my mother was asleep. I had always opened my mother's letters, and I reflected whether I was justified in opening these. After a little while I decided to read uncle Bryan's letter, for the reason that it would probably inform me where he was staying; in which case I should be able to rid myself of the responsibility of his business. Jessie's letter I would not read--at least for the present; she may have written in it what she might not wish me to see. I laid it aside, and unfastened the envelope of uncle Bryan's letter. It contained many sheets of manuscript, methodically arranged, some in uncle Bryan's handwriting, some in a writing which was strange to me. I give them in their order. The first was from uncle Bryan to my mother:
'Dear Emma,--I will not speak of my reasons for leaving you. Perhaps you may be able to guess them. I did it for the best. My absence may bring peace and happiness into your home, for it is yours. I relinquish all claim to it. When I tell you that I shall never return, you will know that I shall not set foot inside the shop again. I cannot have many years longer to live, and I shall do well enough, so do not give yourself any anxiety about me. I shall always be able to get my bread, and I shall wait patiently for death, and shall be grateful when it comes, but I shall do nothing to hasten it. Life has been a weary load to me, and I shall be glad to shake it off. This impatience would change to resignation and to gratitude, not for death, but for life, if it were possible for one thing to happen; but it is utterly, utterly impossible, and it is just and right that it should be out of my reach.
'I have a distinct purpose in writing to you, apart from any selfish words which fall from my pen. It is this: In telling you and my nephew the story of my life I threw blame upon my dead wife. I did worse than this--I slandered her memory. That I spoke what I believed is no excuse for me. I created for myself, out of my blindness and fatal imperiousness of self, a delusion and a lie which have embittered my life. I could bear this with calmness if the consequences had fallen only on myself; but I see now, when it is too late, how I have made others suffer. The bitterest punishment that could fall upon me would not serve to expiate my deadly sin. I do suffer bitterly, keenly, and my soul writhes from pain and shame.
'Can I speak more strongly? And yet these words are weak. Too late I see my folly and my crime. Many things that Christopher said to me were true. I humbly ask his forgiveness, and I humbly pray that the happiness he said I did my best to destroy may yet fall to his lot. If he will picture me an old man with a bleeding heart into whose life few rays of sunshine have passed, pleading to him, he may soften towards me. Perhaps he may believe that I loved him; if he does believe it, he will believe the truth.
'The letter I send with this is from my dead wife; it will explain itself. I received it at the same time the letter came to you from Jessie. Merely looking at her name upon paper, now that I have written it, deepens my anguish, my shame, and my remorse. It will never fall to my lot to ask her forgiveness, as I ask yours and your son's. I put myself in her place, and I know what her feelings are.
'Let Christopher read this and my wife's letter.
'Good-bye, Emma. For your unwavering kindness and gentleness to me, who have repaid you so badly, receive the humble heartfelt thanks of Bryan Carey.'
Then followed the letter from his wife.