”Rochester.“
“That is your husband’s handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Now think for a moment of his act as regards yourself. He sent me, a stranger, home, never thinking a thought about you.”
Her breath choked back.
“As for me,” went on Jones, “from the very first moment I saw you, I have thought of you and your welfare. I told my story for your sake, so that things might be cleared up, and they put me in an asylum for my pains. I escaped, I am here, and for your sake I am saying all this. Does it give me pleasure to show you your husband’s character? I would sooner cut off my right hand, but that would not help you. You have got to know, else I cannot possibly get out of this. Read these.”
He handed her the Plinlimon letters.
She read them carefully. Whilst she was doing so, he sat down and waited.
“These were written two years ago,” said she in a sad voice, as she folded them together, “a year after we were married.”
It was the tone of her voice that did it—as she handed the letters back to him, she saw that his eyes were filled with tears.