“His mother. That was when I came out of prison. I went home, of course, but I found the house let to strangers, and was told it had been so for two years. Then I went to his mother’s, and she would scarcely let me in, or speak to me. She has an awful hatred to me. At last she let me in, and told me he was dead.”
“And you believed it without further inquiry?”
“No, I didn’t believe it at all at first; but then she got out a certificate from the registrar and showed it to me. I read his name on it with my own eyes—Richard Hanford. If he isn’t dead, that name must have been forged. You’ll maybe have to take her for that. I shouldn’t be sorry at that, for she has caused me many an unhappy hour.”
Here was a case altogether uncommon. It is usual for injured persons, not the injurers, to seek our aid.
“You would like your husband to be put in prison too, if he is alive, and yet you fancy you love him?” I remarked. “It’s a queer kind of love which seeks a revengeful retaliation like that. I’ve seen women sunk in degradation of the deepest kind who would make the blush rise to your cheek.”
The crimson rose to her face there and then under the taunt.
“I don’t wish him any ill, but I am his wife, and he has deserted me and thrown me off, and I want you to find him. I want to try to do better, and live a different life. I want to deserve that he should love me; and I will not allow him to have the love of another while I am his wife.”
“I am afraid you have made some strange mistake,” I hastened to observe. “Your husband is probably dead, and beyond the reach of your love or your neglect. The gentleman you saw in a carriage possibly resembled him strongly—such cases often come under our notice. Mistaken identity? why, it’s as common as day. We had a woman here the other day who insisted upon us arresting a man whom she alleged was her husband, and she would not be convinced till he brought his father and mother and a whole host of relatives to prove that he was another man altogether, and had never been married in his life. And even supposing your husband were alive, how could you prevent him loving another? To retain a man’s love is even more difficult than to win it, and can never be done by running a knife into him, or throwing dishes at his head.”
“I did not do that; it was the drink did it,” she tearfully pleaded. “He said I would never be better till the grave closed over me. You heard him say so at the trial. But I think there’s a chance for me yet. It’s a dreadful struggle to keep away from drink, but I win the battle sometimes. No one knows what I have fought against; and I’m so poor, and despised, and wretched now that nobody cares to ask. If I were a black savage in a far off country, they’d send missionaries to me and give me every comfort and help; but I’m only a white savage living in Scotland; and I tell you I’m not mistaken about seeing my man. I could not be mistaken. I saw him alive and well in that carriage as sure as there’s a God in heaven.”
“How could a poor factory worker like him rise to such a position?” I incredulously remarked.