I told him if those were all his objections I would soon remove them, and convince him that there was not the least room for any difficulty; for that, first, as for suspecting him, if ever I should do it, now is the time to suspect him, and not put the trust into his hands, and whenever I did suspect him, he could but throw it up then and refuse to go any further. Then, as to executors, I assured him I had no heirs, nor any relations in England, and I should alter my condition before I died, and then his trust and trouble should cease together, which, however, I had no prospect of yet; but I told him if I died as I was, it should be all his own, and he would deserve it by being so faithful to me as I was satisfied he would be.
He changed his countenance at this discourse, and asked me how I came to have so much goodwill for him; and, looking very much pleased, said he might very lawfully wish he was a single man for my sake. I smiled, and told him as he was not, my offer could have no design upon him in it, and to wish, as he did, was not to be allowed, ’twas criminal to his wife.
He told me I was wrong. “For,” says he, “madam, as I said before, I have a wife and no wife, and ’twould be no sin to me to wish her hanged, if that were all.” “I know nothing of your circumstances that way, sir,” said I; “but it cannot be innocent to wish your wife dead.” “I tell you,” says he again, “she is a wife and no wife; you don’t know what I am, or what she is.”
“That’s true,” said I; “sir, I do not know what you are, but I believe you to be an honest man, and that’s the cause of all my confidence in you.”
“Well, well,” says he, “and so I am, I hope, too. But I am something else too, madam; for,” says he, “to be plain with you, I am a cuckold, and she is a whore.” He spoke it in a kind of jest, but it was with such an awkward smile, that I perceived it was what struck very close to him, and he looked dismally when he said it.
“That alters the case indeed, sir,” said I, “as to that part you were speaking of; but a cuckold, you know, may be an honest man; it does not alter that case at all. Besides, I think,” said I, “since your wife is so dishonest to you, you are too honest to her to own her for your wife; but that,” said I, “is what I have nothing to do with.”
“Nay,” says he, “I do not think to clear my hands of her; for, to be plain with you, madam,” added he, “I am no contended cuckold neither: on the other hand, I assure you it provokes me the highest degree, but I can’t help myself; she that will be a whore, will be a whore.”
I waived the discourse and began to talk of my business; but I found he could not have done with it, so I let him alone, and he went on to tell me all the circumstances of his case, too long to relate here; particularly, that having been out of England some time before he came to the post he was in, she had had two children in the meantime by an officer of the army; and that when he came to England and, upon her submission, took her again, and maintained her very well, yet she ran away from him with a linen-draper’s apprentice, robbed him of what she could come at, and continued to live from him still. “So that, madam,” says he, “she is a whore not by necessity, which is the common bait of your sex, but by inclination, and for the sake of the vice.”
Well, I pitied him, and wished him well rid of her, and still would have talked of my business, but it would not do. At last he looks steadily at me. “Look you, madam,” says he, “you came to ask advice of me, and I will serve you as faithfully as if you were my own sister; but I must turn the tables, since you oblige me to do it, and are so friendly to me, and I think I must ask advice of you. Tell me, what must a poor abused fellow do with a whore? What can I do to do myself justice upon her?”
“Alas! sir,” says I, “ ’tis a case too nice for me to advise in, but it seems she has run away from you, so you are rid of her fairly; what can you desire more?” “Ay, she is gone indeed,” said he, “but I am not clear of her for all that.”
“That’s true,” says I; “she may indeed run you into debt, but the law has furnished you with methods to prevent that also; you may cry her down, as they call it.”
“No, no,” says he, “that is not the case neither; I have taken care of all that; ’tis not that part that I speak of, but I would be rid of her so that I might marry again.”
“Well, sir,” says I, “then you must divorce her. If you can prove what you say, you may certainly get that done, and then, I suppose, you are free.”
“That’s very tedious and expensive,” says he.
“Why,” says I, “if you can get any woman you like to take your word, I suppose your wife would not dispute the liberty with you that she takes herself.”
“Ay,” says he, “but ’twould be hard to bring an honest woman to do that; and for the other sort,” says he, “I have had enough
