“No, she is well.”
“It's the children, then?”
“No,” answered Pinney. “They are all right.”
“Then, in God's name, what is it?” demanded Lansing, unable to conceive what serious evil could have happened to him, if nothing had befallen his wife and babies.
“We can't keep it from him now,” said Pinney to his wife. “You 'll have to give him her letter.”
“Can't you tell me what it is? Why do you keep me in suspense?” asked Lansing, in a voice husky with a dread he knew not of what.
“I can't, man. Don't ask me!” groaned Finney. “It's better that you should read it.”
Mrs. Finney's face expressed an agony of compassion as, still half clutching it, she held out a letter to Lansing. “John, oh, John,” she sobbed; “remember, she's not to blame! She doesn't know.”
The letter, was in his wife's handwriting, addressed to Mrs. Pinney, and read as follows:—
You will be surprised by what I am going to tell you. You,
who know how I loved John, must have taken it for granted
that I would never marry again. Not that it could matter to
him. Too well I feel the gulf between the dead and living to
fancy that his peace could be troubled by any of the
weaknesses of mortal hearts. Indeed, he often used to tell
me that, if he died, he wanted me to marry again, if ever I
felt like doing so; but in those happy days I was always
sure that I should be taken first. It was he who was to go
first, though, and now it is for the sake of his children
that I am going to do what I never thought I could. I am
going to marry again. As they grow older and need more, I
find it impossible for me to support them, though I do not
mind how hard I work, and would wear my fingers to the bone
rather than take any other man's name after being John's
wife. But I cannot care for them as they should be cared
for. Johnny is now six, and ought to go to school, but I
cannot dress him decently enough to send him. Mary has
outgrown all her clothes, and I cannot get her more. Her
feet are too tender to go bare, and I cannot buy her shoes.
I get less and less sewing since the new dressmaker came to
the village, and soon shall have none. We live, oh so
plainly! For myself I should not care, but the children are
growing and need better food. They are John's children, and
for their sake I have brought myself to do what I never
could have done but for them. I have promised to marry Mr.
Whitcomb. I have not deceived him as to why alone I marry
him. He has promised to care for the children as his own,
and to send Johnny to college, for I know his father would
have wanted him to go. It will be a very quiet wedding, of
course. Mr. Whitcomb has had some cards printed to send to a
few friends, and I inclose one to you. I cannot say that I
wish you could be present, for it will be anything but a
joyful day to me. But when I meet John in heaven, he will
hold me to account for the children he left me, and this is
the only way by which I can provide for them. So long as it
is well with them, I ought not to care for myself.