‘But I could wish to receive one last letter from you, telling me what has befallen you, and where you have been during these three years, and sending me your blessing and your love, and a kiss. Therefore write to me at the —— Hotel, Leicester. Address me there by return of post, that I may receive the letter as I pass through that town. My beloved sister, farewell. Forgive me! Love me with the strength of your old sweet love.
‘Mary.’
I read this letter twice over, realising its full import. There then followed such a tumult of feelings in my mind that I cannot recollect even a little of my thoughts. I was struck to the heart by the knowledge that Mary had known me from the beginning, and had not spoken, and then horror fell upon me when I reflected that she had left her home; that she had as good as vowed never to be heard of until her death should come; that, despite her assurance, grief, misery, shame, homelessness, the remembrance of what she had lost, the fear of, as I could read in her letter, of what was yet to befall her, might tempt her to end her life!
I hastily rose, dressed myself, and went downstairs. Mrs. Lee had not yet left her bed. I took pen and paper, and wrote to Mary. I wrote page after page, for I had much to relate and also to implore, to persuade, and to command. On the top of the third or fourth sheet of paper I began to tell her that it was my unalterable resolution never to live with my husband, or speak of him, or think of him as my husband whilst she was living; and I was going on to say that I asked for nothing but my children, when it flashed upon me that if I told her I would never have anything more to do with my husband while she was alive, her love for me, her determination to reinstate me might cause her to take her life! so that by making a widower of my husband, so far as she was concerned, there could be no longer any excuse remaining to keep me away from my home. This fear I say flashed upon me, and I tore that part of the letter up, and went on writing till I had said all that was in my heart; but even as I addressed the envelope I seemed to feel that this letter, full as it was of love and piteous pleadings to her to return to her home, would be no more than as a wreath laid upon a grave, and that my sister and I would never meet again in this world.
I desired a servant to immediately post the letter, and then walked about the room, as was my habit when deeply agitated, waiting for the arrival of Mrs. Lee. She entered at last, kissed me, and looking at me affectionately, exclaimed: ‘You have heard from your sister, I am sure. The letter was brought to me in error, and I sent it immediately to you.’
I put it into her hand in silence. She read it through, and then said: ‘So she knew you, and yet made no sign! She must be a girl of great nobility of mind, of wonderful strength of character.’ She read the letter through again, and exclaimed: ‘And now, Agnes, you will return with your husband?’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘I cannot, and will not, think of him as my husband whilst my sister lives.’
She said much to dissuade me from this resolution, pointing out that great as might be my love for my sister, my husband must be first of all with me. Did I remember my marriage vows? Did I remember saying that I would forsake all others, and keep only to my husband? This was a vow solemnly uttered at the altar, and God was a witness to it, and I should be grievously sinning if I were false to that vow. I answered that I loved my husband, and that I remembered my marriage vows, but that my husband had married my sister, believing me dead, that she was his wife and must remain his wife. I asked for my children, I said; and when I had them—and here I broke into a passion of weeping, for God knows I spoke truly when I said that I loved my husband; and yet my love for my sister, my determination that she should not be dishonoured by my reappearing, after I was supposed dead, must certainly divorce me from my husband; and then there was the thought of my sister hiding for the remainder of her days alone, knowing no other happiness than such as would flow from the belief that I was happy—I say all these thoughts broke in upon me, and extinguished my speech in a passion of tears.