But my cup of sorrow was not yet full. The doctor I have mentioned was an unmarried man. He believed me to be a widow, as I had given out. I had no other resource than to speak this untruth. It was impossible for me to say that I was a helpless, unhappy woman, who had been deserted by her husband. To such a creature strangers show no mercy; they put their own construction on the story and judge accordingly--as you would judge, harshly, unfeelingly. I think I should not have cared so much for myself, but I had my darling to look to.
The doctor flattered me by saying that he saw I was a lady, and, in most respectful terms, he invited my confidence. He was most delicate and considerate, but I could not confide in him or any one; my cruel story and my cruel wrongs must be for ever locked in my breast. He did not press me when he saw that I was pained by his inquiries, but he paid me great attention, and by his kindness lightened my load. I did not place any serious construction upon his intentions, nor indeed did I think of them, for I was entirely wrapt up in my love for my darling child, who was growing every day more beautiful and more engaging. But when he asked me to be his wife, my eyes were opened. If I had been a free woman I would have accepted him, if only for the sake of providing a comfortable home for my child. As I was in chains, I refused him. He said he was a patient man, that he loved me very sincerely, and that he would wait. In the heavy catalogue of my sins that you have against me, place this new one--that this good man loved me. He continued his attentions, and they brought me into fresh disgrace. In the place I was living there were single ladies, and mothers who had daughters to marry, who entertained a hope that the doctor would choose from among them, and they were angry when they saw that I stood in their way. I do not know whom I have to thank for what followed, but gradually rumours got about to my discredit. I was not a widow; I was not a married woman; the name I went by was not my own. Women shrugged their shoulders when they met me; men stared at me insolently and familiarly. What had occurred in my native town when you deserted me was repeated here. I had no alternative but to fly from the place.
At that time my darling was nearly three years old, and the unkind creatures had attempted to drop poison even into her young and innocent mind. One day she asked me, in her pretty way, where her father was. 'You have none, my darling,' I said; 'he is dead.'
In the new place I found refuge in I made friends with a kind family, who grew very fond of my child--as none indeed could help doing. Her bright ways, her innocence, her artlessness, would win any heart not dead to human affection. If anything should happen to me, these friends will take care of my darling as long as they are able. I think it is likely that I shall not live long, and I have thought anxiously over the future of my darling until she arrives at an age when she may be able to protect and provide for herself. I have consulted with my new friends, and I have arranged everything to the best of my ability and judgment. I shall place in their hands a small box, which, in the event of my death and of their being unable to maintain my child (for they are poor people), is to be given to her with plain instructions. These instructions it will be necessary for me here to explain, first saying, however, that should these good friends be able to look after my child until she arrives at womanhood, there will be no necessity to give them to her. In that event, also, the box and its contents will be burnt. They have promised me faithfully, and I know they will keep their word.
If I am gone, and they are too poor to help my child, she will be, as I have been, without a friend. These good people have some idea of emigrating, if they can save sufficient money, and then my darling will be indeed helpless. They might take her with them, it may be said; but they may not have sufficient means. And then, again, it inflicts the most bitter pain upon me to think that my darling child should be taken thousands of miles from the spot where her mother's ashes are laid. She will be helpless, as I have said; but there is one upon whom she has a just claim--yourself. I wished her never to see you; I wished that you might never look upon her beautiful face, nor feel the charm of her presence. But I see no other way to secure a home for her. Should she be left without friends, she will come to you, a stranger, with a letter from me, who will even then be dead, asking you to give a home to a friendless child. She will bear a strange name, and will know you only as a stranger. Neither will you know her; it may be that you will see in her face some slight resemblance to the wife whose happiness you have destroyed, and it may be that you may place that resemblance to your dead wife's discredit. Do so, and bring another shame upon your soul.
How do I know where you live in London? It has been discovered for me, by means of a clue which my father obtained soon after your flight. When a mother is working for her child, she can do much. I have never seen London, but I know your address; and on the day that the friends I have made for my child find they can no longer provide for her, she will present herself at your door. Hard and unfeeling, cruel and unjust, as you are, I think you will not turn her from it.
In the small box which my friends will give to my darling child are three letters, numbered first, second, third. On the first letter is written, 'To be opened first, on your eighteenth birthday, before the other letters are touched. This is the sacred wish of your dead mother.' I copy this letter in this place, so that you may clearly understand what I have done:
'My darling Child,--I wish you to regard these written words as though they are spoken to you with my dying breath, and to obey them. If Mr. Bryan Carey has made your life happy, and if you are in the enjoyment of a happy home, destroy the second letter by fire, and hand him the third. If it is otherwise with you, and your life with him has been in any way unhappy, destroy the third letter by fire, as you would have done the second. Then seek some quiet place and read the second letter, and when you have read it, send it to Mr. Carey, and act as you think best for your welfare and happiness. That God will for ever bless and protect my darling is the prayer of your mother,
'Frances.'
The third letter contains a short account of my life since you left me, and the statement that Jessie is your daughter. It leaves it to your judgment to make the relationship known to her, or to let it remain a secret.