Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 2

  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).

  All the colour died out of her face, and I saw that I had frightenedher.

  "How do you know?" she asked, in a faint tone.

  "That is my secret," I replied. "It should be sufficient for you that Ido know, and that I have evidence at hand for a full exposure of yourproceedings."

  "Your own evidence will not be strong enough," she said. "Hating me asyou do, you can invent any wicked story you please--it does not requirea very clever man to do things of that kind. It has been done overand over again, and the question then is, whose word has the greatestinfluence? My husband will take my word against yours; I promise youthat."

  "I am aware of the power you have over him, and I am prepared."

  "In what way are you prepared?"

  "Shall I tell you how many cabs you took this morning, and theirnumbers?"

  "You cannot do it."

  "I can; and I can tell you, moreover, where you engaged and where youdischarged them; and what shops you went to and how long you were ineach. When I relate your wretched story to my father I shall be able toverify every detail of the accusation I shall bring against you."

  "You have had me watched!" she cried.

  "It was necessary. You are a clever woman." (Even in this terriblecrisis of her fate, the vanity of this creature, unparalleled inwickedness, asserted itself, and an expression of gratification passedinto her face as I called her a clever woman.) "My father's nature insome respects resembles Sydney's, and especially in its loyalty to loveand friendship. Upon Sydney no impression could be made against anyperson in whom he had confidence, unless the most distinct proof couldbe produced--the evidence of his own senses or of witnesses upon whom hecould implicitly rely. So would it be with my father. On my honour, youcan no longer live in this house. I cannot permit you for another day toimpose upon a gentleman whom I love and honour."

  She gazed at me in admiration. "How beautifully you speak! Your wordsare like knives--they cut into my heart. You have brought my guilt hometo me, O, how clearly! Yes, I _am_ guilty! I confess it! I yield; Icannot struggle with such a skilful enemy as you. O, if you knew whatrelief you have given me! I was so weary! I am glad you were not weak--Iam glad you had no pity upon me. I am sick of the deception I have beencompelled--yes, compelled!--to practice against a good man. And he isnot the only one--there have been others, miserable woman that I am. O,what an unhappy weary life mine has been! I have been driven and drivenby a villain who has preyed upon me since I was a child. Ah, if you knewthe whole truth, if I could lay bare my heart, you would not utterlycondemn me! You would say, 'Poor child! she has been more sinned againstthan sinning!' Are not those the words used to persons who have beeninnocently led into error? And they are true of me! If I have sinned Ihave been driven to it, and I have been sinned against--indeed, indeed Ihave! But I don't want to turn you in my favour. You must do your duty,and I must meet my punishment, now that everything is discovered. Itmight have been different with me if it had been my happiness to meeta man like you when I was young. I am young still--I look it, don't I?and it makes me feel all the more wicked. But I feel a hundred yearsold--quite a hundred--and O, so tired and worn out! I could have lookedup to you, I could have respected you, and you would have taught me whatwas right and what was wrong. But it was not to be--and it is too latenow, is it not? Yes, I see in your face that it is too late. What areyou going to do with me? You will not be too, too cruel? I am wicked, Ifeel--you have made me feel it, and I am so thankful to you! but unlessI make away with myself (and I am afraid to do that; I should be afraidto die)--unless I did that, which I should never have the courage to do,I shall live a good many years yet. My fate is in your hands. What areyou going to do with me?"

  I did not attempt to interrupt her, nor to stem her singularly-wordedappeal. "Your fate," I said, "is in your own hands, not in mine. I canshow you how you can avoid an open exposure, and secure for yourself anincome sufficiently large to live in comfort all your life."

  "Can you?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands. "O, how good you are!"

  "The line of action," I said, "I advise you to adopt is the best for allparties implicated in this miserable business, and is the most mercifulboth to you and my father."

  She interrupted me with, "Never, never, shall I be able to repay you. Itis almost as if you were a lawyer looking after my interests, and as ifI were one of your favourite clients. You cannot hate me, after all, oryou would never advise me as you are doing. What line of action--howbeautifully you express yourself; such language only comes to the goodand clever--what line of action do you advise me to adopt?"

  "First, I must ask you, as between ourselves, to enlighten me as toMr. Pelham. I know that you are still keeping up an intimacy with yourinfamous lover, but I must have it from your own lips."

  "So that you may not have cause to reproach yourself afterwards, if youshould happen to find out that I am not so bad as you believe me to be!Yes, I will confess; I will not attempt to deceive you. He still holdshis power over me, but you are not entirely right in the way you put it.You _are_ in calling him infamous, but you are wrong when you call himmy lover. I am not so bad as that; but I cannot escape from him. Why,"she said, and her voice sank to a whisper, "do you know that I haveto supply him with money, that he lives upon me, and that he has soentangled and deceived me that I should laugh if I were to see him lyingdead at my feet!"

  "What I require of you is this," I said, not attempting to follow herinto the currents to which her strange utterances would lead me. "Youwill write down a full confession of all matters relating to yourselfwhich affect the honour of my father. The confession must be full andcomplete, and you will place it in my hands, and leave the house, andwithin a week afterwards you will leave the country. You will pledgeyourself never to set foot again in England, and never to attempt tosee or speak with my father. In return I will secure to you an incomewhich shall be paid to you regularly, so long as you do not break theconditions of the contract."

  "How hard!" she said, plaintively. "I am so fond of England! There isno other country in the world worth living in. And I have grown soattached to this house! I am so happy here, so very, very happy! I mustthink a little--you will not mind, will you? And you will forgive me ifI say anything wrong! Even if there was what you call an open exposure,and your father were to believe every word you speak against me, I amstill his wife, and he would be compelled to make me an allowance. ThenI could live where I please. These things come to my mind, I suppose,because I have not a soul in the world to help me--not a soul, not afriend! Do you not see that I am speaking reasonably?"

  "I am not so sure," I said. "Were the affair made public, my fatherwould adopt his own course. He can be stern as well as tender, and werehis name dragged into the mud because of his connection with you, it ismost likely he would institute an inquiry which might bring to lightcircumstances which you would rather should be hidden both from hisknowledge and from the knowledge of the world. You know best about that;I am not so shallow-witted as to suppose that I am acquainted with allthe particulars of your career; but I am on the track, and the task ofdiscovery would not be difficult."

  "You are pitiless!" she cried. "Sydney Campbell would never have spokento me as you are speaking."

  "His nature was different from mine, but he was jealous of his honour,too. I wish to make the position very clear to you. Even were nothingworse than what is already known to be discovered against you, and myfather consented to make you an allowance--of which I am not at allsure--it would not be as large as that I am prepared to secure to you.That aspect of the matter is worth your consideration."

  "How much a year do you propose?" she asked, after a slight pause.

  "Not less than a thousand a year. I will undertake that my father shallmake you that, or even a larger allowance, upon the conditions I havestated."

  "In my confession am I to relate _all_ that passed between SydneyCampbell and m
yself? You think I did not love him. You are mistaken. Iloved him deeply, and had he lived he would soon have been at my feetagain."

  "You are to omit nothing," I said; "my father must know all."

  She looked at me so piteously that for a moment a doubt intruded itselfwhether there might not be circumstances in her history with which Iwas unacquainted which, instead of more strongly condemning her, mightentitle her to compassion; but too stern a duty was before me to allowthe doubt to remain.

  "You will give me a few hours to decide," she implored. "The shock is sosudden! I am at your mercy. Grant me a few hours' respite! You will not,you cannot refuse!"

  I had no intention of refusing, but as if overcome by her feelings, sheseized my hands and pressed them to her lips and her eyes, which werewet with tears. I was endeavouring to release myself when the dooropened, and her maid appeared.

  "What do you want--what do you want?" cried my father's wife, as sheflung herself from me. "How dare you come in without knocking!"

  "I knocked, madam," replied the maid, "but you could not have heard. Ithought you rang."

  "I did not ring. Leave the room."

  The maid retired, and we were once more alone.

  "I will give you to till to-morrow," I said, "and then there must be anend to this deception."

  "There shall be--there shall be!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how I thank you!But I will not wait till to-morrow. No--the sooner the blow is struck,the sooner my sufferings will be over. Your father is engaged out thisevening. He will not be home till eleven or twelve. At ten I will tellyou how I have decided--perhaps by that time I may have commenced myconfession. It is just--I see how just it is--that your father shall notremain another night in ignorance."

  "As you please," I said; "at ten to-night. Where shall I see you?"

  "Here," she replied. "I shall not be able to come down stairs. Mystrength is quite, quite gone."

  So it was decided, and I left her. I did not see my father during theday, and at ten o'clock I presented myself at her door, and knocked.There was no answer, and observing that the door was partly open Igently pushed it, and entered the room. My father's wife was sittingwith her back to me, reading. As she did not appear to be aware of mypresence, I called to her. She started to her feet, and turned to me.Then I saw, to my surprise, that her hair was hanging down, that herslippered feet were bare, and that she wore a loose dressing gown.

  "My God!" she screamed. "Why do you come to my room at such an hourin this unexpected manner?" And as she spoke she pulled the bellviolently.

  Failing to understand the meaning of her words, I stammered somethingabout an appointment, at which she laughed, then burst into tears,crying,

  "Spare me, oh spare me, and your father from the shame! Confess that youhave spoken under the influence of a horrible dream!"

  What other words she uttered I do not clearly remember; they referredvaguely to the proposition I had made to her, and in the midst of apassionate speech her maid entered the room. She ran to the maid,exclaiming,

  "Thank God you have come!" And then to me, "Leave the room instantly,and never let me look upon your face again! From my lips, this verynight, shall your father hear an account of all that has passed betweenyou and me!"

  The maid stood between me and her mistress, and I deemed it prudentto take my departure. I passed a sleepless night, thinking of theinexplicable conduct of this woman and of the shock the discovery of herinfamy would be to my father. I longed to be with him to console him andcomfort him, and I waited impatiently for daylight. At eight o'clock inthe morning I jumped from bed, glad that the weary night was over, andas I began to dress, I heard a tap at the door. I asked who was there,and was answered by a servant, who said that my father desired me to goto him in his study the moment I awoke. I sent word that I would comeimmediately, and dressing hastily I went to his room.

  He was standing, with a sterner look upon his face than I had ever seen.He was pale and haggard, and it was evident that his night had been assleepless as mine. I was advancing to him with a feeling of pity andsympathy, when he said,

  "Stand where you are. Do not move another step towards me."

  We stood, gazing upon each other in silence for a minute or two. Then Isaid,

  "You have not slept, sir."

  "I have not slept. When I left Mrs. Holdfast last night, I came to mystudy, and have been here all the night, waiting for daylight--and you."

  "You have heard bad news, sir," I said.

  "I have heard what I would have given my fortune and my life had neverbeen spoken. It is incredible that one whom I loved should bringdishonour upon my name and shame into my house!"

  Here I must pause for a moment or two. When I commenced this statementI had no idea that it would stretch out to its present length, and soanxious am I that it should reach you as early as possible that I willshorten the description of what remains to be told. Prepare to beshocked and amazed--as I myself was shocked and amazed at the revelationmade to me that morning in my father's study, on that last morning Iever spent in his house. You think you know the character of this womanwho plays with men's lives and honour as though they were toys to amusean idle hour. You do not yet comprehend the depths of infamy to whichsuch a nature as hers can descend. Nor did I until I left my father'shouse, never to return.

  She had, as she declared she would, made a confession to my fatherduring the night; it was not a confession of her own shameful life, butan invention so horrible as almost, at the time I heard it, to depriveme of the power of speech. She accused me of playing the lover toher; she described me as a profligate of the vilest kind. She made myfather believe that from the moment I saw her I filled her ears withprotestations and proposals which I should be ashamed to repeat to oneas pure and innocent as yourself. Day after day, hour after hour, shehad followed out the plan she had devised to shut me from my father'sheart and deprive me of his love, and so skilfully and artfully were allthe details guided by her wicked mind that, presented as they were tomy father with tears, and sobs, and tremblings, he could scarcely avoidbelieving in their truth. Twice on the previous day--so her storyran--had I forced myself into her private room; once in the morningwhen my father was in his city office, and again in the night when shewas about to retire to rest, and when I knew that my father was not inthe house. Unfortunately, as she said, for she would have preferredthat a scandal so shameful should have no chance of becoming public,her maid entered the room on both occasions, and witnessed portions ofthe scenes. In the morning, when her maid intruded herself, she haddismissed her, and thereafter implored me to leave her in peace. In theevening I was so violent that she had to seek protection from her maid.She called the maid, who corroborated her in every particular; and sheproduced other evidence against me in the shape of the locket I had wornon my chain. When she handed this locket to my father it contained aportrait of myself--a small head carefully cut from a photograph--andshe declared that I had forced the likeness upon her, and had insistedupon her wearing it. She said that she had endeavoured by every means inher power to wean me from my guilty passion; that a dozen times she hadbeen on the point of exposing me to her husband, but had always beenprevented by a feeling of tenderness for him and by a hope, which grewfainter and fainter every day, that I might awake from my folly; thatno woman had ever been subjected to such cruel persecution and had eversuffered so much as she had; and that, at length, unable to keep thehorrible secret to herself, she had resolved to impart it to herhusband, and throw herself upon his protection.

  Nor was this all. I had threatened, if she would not receive me as herlover, that I would bring the most shameful charges against her, and bythe aid of bribed assistants, whom I should call as witnesses, blast herreputation and ruin her happiness. The very words I had used to her inour interview on the previous day were repeated to me by my father,so artfully twisted as to render them powerless against herself andconclusive against me.

  From this brief description you will be able to form some idea
of theposition in which I was placed during this interview with my father. Iwas allowed no opportunity of defence. My father's wife had contrived torouse to its utmost pitch the chivalry of his nature in her behalf. Idoubt whether my father at that time would have received any evidence,however conclusive, against her, and whether, in the peculiar frame ofmind into which she had worked him he would not have accepted everyproof of her guilt as proof of her virtue.

  His recital of his wife's wrongs being at an end, he addressed himselfto me in terms so violent, so unfatherly, so unjust, that I lost myself-command. Such a scene as followed is rare, I hope, between fatherand son. He discarded me; he swore he would never look upon me as a son;would never think of me; would never receive me. He forbade me ever toaddress or refer to him; he banished me from his house and his heart; heflung money at me, as he would have done at a beggar; he was in everyway so insulting that my feelings as a man overcame my duty as a son;and we used such words to each other as men can scarcely ever forgetor forgive. To such extremes and opposites can a false woman drive menordinarily just, and kind, and temperate.

  The scene ended thus. I repudiated my father as he repudiated me; Itrampled his money under my feet; I told him that he would one day awakefrom his dream; and I swore that never, until he asked my forgiveness,would I use or acknowledge the name of Holdfast, which he, and not I,was dishonouring. He held me to my oath; in a fit of fury he produced aBible, and bade me repeat it. I did so solemnly, and I kissed the sacredBook. He threw the door open wide, and pointed sternly.

  "Go," he said. "I turn you from my house. You and I have done with eachother for ever."

  I went in silence, and as the sound of the shutting of the street doorfell upon my ears, I felt as if I had cut myself from myself. I walkedinto the streets a forlorn and lonely man, with no name, no past, nofriend. I did not meet any person who knew me; I called a cab, anddrove to a remote part of London, where I hired a room in a commonlodging-house. But I had not been there an hour before I discoveredmyself to be a mark for observation. My clothes, perhaps my manner,betrayed me. I left the house, and strolled into a railway station. Icould not feel myself safe until I was in a place where I was utterlyunknown and entirely free. Standing before a railway time-bill, thefirst name that attracted me was Exeter. The train was to start inhalf-an-hour, and I bought my ticket. Thus it was that, by a mereaccident, I journeyed to the town in which I was to meet and love you.On my way I decided upon the name I would assume. Frederick was commonenough, and I retained it; I added to it the name of Maitland. Onmy way, also, I reviewed my circumstances, and decided upon my planof action. I had in money, saved from my father's liberal allowancewhile I was at Oxford, nearly four hundred pounds. Business I did notunderstand, and was not fit for. I was competent to undertake the dutiesof a tutor. I determined to look out for such a situation, either inEngland or abroad, but on no account in any family likely to residein London or Oxford. In Exeter I employed myself, for a few weeks,in writing for the press. I obtained introduction to a gentleman whooccupied the position of editor of a small local newspaper, and him Iassisted. I did not ask for pay, nor did I receive any. I was glad ofany occupation to distract my thoughts. Through this friend I heard ofa situation likely to suit me. A gentleman wanted a tutor for his son,whose ill-health compelled him to be much at home. I applied for thesituation, and obtained it. In that family you were also employed, asmusic teacher, and thus you and I became acquainted.

  With the gentleman who employed me, or with his family, I could notbecome familiar; there was nothing in common between us. With you itwas different; I was interested in you, and soon learned that you livedwith a sick mother, of whom you were the sole support, and that youwere a lady. There is no need for me to dwell upon the commencement andcontinuation of a friendship, which began in respect and mutual esteem,and ended in love. You were poor; I was comparatively rich; and I amafraid my dear, that during the first few weeks I led you to believethat my circumstances were better than they really were. That is theusual effect produced by an extravagant nature. I paid court to you, andwe engaged ourselves to each other. Then I began to take a more seriousview of life. I had a dear one to work for; there was no prospect opento me in England; and the mystery in which I was compelled to shroudmyself, coupled with the fact that London and other places in my nativecountry were closed to me, caused me to turn my thoughts to America.In that new land I could make a home for you; in that new land, withbut moderate good fortune, we might settle and live a happy life. Yourmother and yourself were contented with the plan, and encouraged mein it. So I threw up my situation, bade you good-bye, and left forthe wonderful country which one day is to rule the world. Before mydeparture I wrote to my father. Except upon the envelope I did notaddress him by his name. I simply told him that I was quitting England,that I had kept and would keep my oath, and that if he desired to writeto me at any time he could send his letter to the New York Post Office.

  You are acquainted with the worldly result of my visit to America; youknow that I was not successful. Unable to obtain profitable employmentin New York, I went to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and somesmaller towns and cities. It was my misfortune that I could not quicklyassimilate myself with the new ways and modes of American life, and myill-luck sprang more from myself than from the land in which I wishedto establish myself. I was absent from New York for nearly five months.In despair I returned to it, and my first visit was paid to theGeneral Post Office. Your letters were sent to me from time to time inaccordance with the directions I gave you when I wrote to you, and weresent to the name of Frederick Maitland. It was almost with an air ofguilt that I inquired at the New York Post Office whether there were anyletters for Frederick Holdfast. I had no expectation of receiving any,and I was therefore astonished when three were handed to me. They werein the handwriting of my father. I did not tell you at the time, but itis a fact that I was in a desperate condition. My clothes were shabby,my pockets were empty. My joy and agitation at the receipt of thesethree letters were very great. I had never ceased to love my father, andtears rushed to my eyes at the sight of his handwriting. I knew, whichhe did not at the time we parted, that we were both the victims ofa clever, scheming, beautiful woman. Would these letters lead to areconciliation? I tore them open. They bore one address, an hotel inNew York. Then my father was in America! The last letter, however,was dated two months back. Quickly I made myself acquainted with thecontents.

  They were all written in the same strain. My father had come to Americato see me. The refrain was as follows: "I am distressed and unhappy.Come to me at once." What had happened? Had he discovered the treacheryof the woman who had parted us, and was anxious for a reconciliationwith me? Yes, surely the latter; I could not mistake the tone of hiscommunications, although they commenced with "My son," instead of "Mydear Son." Explanations between us were necessary, and then all would beright. Eagerly I sought the hotel from which the letters were addressed,and easily found it. I inquired for Mr. Holdfast; he was not in thehotel; his name was known, and the books were consulted. He had left thehotel six weeks before. "Has he gone to another hotel?" I asked. Themanager replied that Mr. Holdfast had informed him that while he wasin New York he should stop at no other hotel. "He seemed," said themanager, "to be anxiously expecting a friend who never came, for he wasvery particular in obtaining a description of every gentleman who calledduring his absence. He is not in New York at present, you may be sure ofthat." I asked if it were likely I could obtain information of him atany other place in the city, but the hotel manager could not give me anaddress at which I could make an inquiry. Disheartened I turned away,and wandered disconsolately through the city. I sauntered throughBroadway, in the direction of the City Hall and Wall Street, and pausedbefore the _Herald_ Office, outside of which a copy of the paperwas posted. I ran my eye down the columns, and lingered over the"Personals," in the vague hope that I should see my name there. Idid not see my name, but a mist came into my eyes, and my heart beatviolently as I saw an
advertisement to which the initials F. H. wereattached. F. H.--Frederick Holdfast. My own name! The advertisement wasfor me, and read thus: "F. H.--Follow me immediately to Chicago. Inquireat the Brigg's House." From that advertisement I inferred that my fatherwas in Chicago, and that, if I could start for that city at once, Ishould meet him. But my pockets, as I have said, were empty. Betweentwenty and thirty dollars were required to carry me to Chicago, which Icould reach in thirty-six hours. I had no money, but I had a souvenirof Sydney's, a ring which he gave me in our happy days, and which I hadinwardly vowed never to part with. However, there was no help for itnow; it must go. I should be able to redeem it by-and-bye; so I pawnedit for thirty dollars, and took the night train to Chicago. How happy Iwas! Not only the coming reconciliation with my father, but, after that,the certainty of being able to provide a home for you, cheered my heart.Then I could assume my own name; my father would speak the words whichwould remove from my conscience the obligation of the sacred oath I hadsworn. I scarcely slept or ate on the weary journey, my impatience wasso great. But long before we reached the end of our journey we wereappalled by news of a dreadful nature. Chicago was in flames. At everystage the intelligence became more alarming. The flames were spreading,not from house to house, but from street to street; the entire city wason fire. And the Brigg's House and my father? God forgive me! So selfishare we in our troubles and in our joys, that I thought of no other housebut the Brigg's House, of no other human being but my father. The newstravelled so fast towards us, as we travelled towards the conflagration,that I soon learned that the street in which Brigg's House was situatedhad caught, and that every building in it was burnt to the ground. "Anylives lost?" "Thousands!" An exaggeration, as we afterwards found,but we did not stop to doubt; instead of lessening the extent of thecalamity, our fears exaggerated it. O, how I prayed and prayed! It wasa dreadful time, and it was almost a relief when the evidence of ourown senses was enlisted in confirmation of the news. The skies in thedistance were lurid red, and imagination added to the terror of theknowledge that families were being ruined, hopes destroyed, ambitionsblasted, and hearts tortured in the flames reflected in the clouds. Ourtrain stopped, and miles of fire lay within our sight.

  [Decoration]