Yours respectfully,
Mrs. Lily Quinn.”
This blow, following close upon the death of my little boy, well nigh prostrated me. I saw that I was also to lose my wife. Only the Searcher of all hearts knows the depth of my affection for the mother of my child, since whose death she had seemed doubly dear to me. The thought of her had been, next to my newly found trust in an all-merciful Providence, my main-stay amid the misfortunes which had engulfed me; and when I had thought of my release from prison (and at what hour of the day did I not think of it?), I had looked forward to her affectionate companionship as the only refuge and solace of my earthly life.
I well knew on what grounds she would demand her divorce. The State of Indiana had branded me as a convict, and this was enough, in the eye of the law, to release her from a yoke which she had come to regard as galling. Defence was impossible. Nor did I hope to be able to move her heart by entreaty. Yet I could not forbear to write to her once again, even if only to say farewell. As this last letter of mine embodies my inmost feeling at the time, I venture to hope that the reader who has honored me with his interest up to this point of my narrative may pardon me if I transcribe it here. It ran as follows:
“Jeffersonville Penitentiary, May 13, 1888.
My Dear Wife:
I feel that I cannot say anything to do justice in this case. But as an act of justice to God and our child in heaven; to you in Chicago, to myself in the penitentiary, I will make this feeble effort.
I am alone in my little home—a cell of 6 by 8 feet,—suffering my own afflictions, and knowing it is far beyond my power to touch your strange heart in sympathy; after what you have done to one you once loved, and one who loves you still.
I do not blame you for trying to get my attorney to impart the sad information to me, for your own conscience’s sake. I know it was a hard trial to tell me what you have written, knowing I am innocent of the crime for which I am placed here.
You tell me you did it with your own free will. Let us not question the cause, but the effect. It is—that much we know. You say: “Heaven knows I pity you.” If this is what you call pity, Heaven forgive those who despise. You say, “I took you from a good home, and from a father and mother who love you.” You ask me to look deep into my heart; that I have done. Never did I forsake a friend while in trouble.