Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 3

  CHAPTER XLII.

  MR. HOLDFAST'S DIARY.

  Tuesday, _1st July_.--I am once more in London, after a long absenceand much wandering in America, where I sought in vain for my dear son,Frederick, the son I wronged and thrust from my house. Bitterly have Irepented of my error, and bitterly am I punished for it.

  Almost at the last moment, in New York, a hope of success was held outto me. Returning to my hotel there from New Orleans, in which city,from information conveyed to me in a letter from a stranger, I hopedto find Frederick, I was informed that a gentleman had called to seeme. The description given to me of this gentleman--who, the managerof the hotel informed me, appeared to be in by no means prosperouscircumstances--left no doubt in my mind that it was my son. He had,then, received the letters I sent to him, directed to the New YorkPost-office, and had at once sought me out. Unhappy chance that causedme to be absent when he called! I must have been a thousand miles awayat the time, following a false scent supplied by a stranger. It hasoccurred to me within these last few days, during my voyage home, thatan enemy may have been at work in America to prevent a meeting betweenme and my son. There is no meanness, no wickedness, no baseness, towhich the wretched woman who calls me husband, and her paramour, wouldnot stoop. And for the cunning necessary to keep me and my son apartfrom each other, have I not had sufficient proof that they are capableof it? Strange that the suspicion did not occur to me in America! Nowthat--perhaps too late--it presents itself, it comes upon me withsingular force. The letter, written to me by a stranger, which droveme so far from New York on a fruitless errand, was not the only oneI received conveying to me, gratuitously, information which retardedinstead of assisting me in my purpose. They were all in differenthandwriting, it is true, but may they not have been written by one man?Even were it otherwise, there is as little difficulty in New York asthere is in London in obtaining agents to assist in the carrying out ofany villainous design. But now my mind is set upon this suspicion ofsystematic deceit, I am of the opinion that but one enemy was engagedin it, and that that enemy is the scoundrel Pelham, my wretched wife'saccomplice. If it be so, he must have followed me to America, andwatched my movements, cunningly misdirecting them when he deemed itnecessary. Working against such an enemy is working in the dark. It ismy unhappy fate that, alone, I have not the courage to publicly proclaimmy disgrace. I should die under the shame of it. With my son by my sideI might be able, were no other way open for a settlement, to nervemyself to any effort he might advise. Without him I am powerless, andindeed, were a public exposure forced upon me--were I certain that by noother possible means could I rid myself of this infamous woman--my son'sevidence would be necessary to complete the case against her. But beforethis terrible necessity is made clear to me, every means must be adoptedto settle the unhappy affair in a private manner. Never again could Ihold up my head and meet the gaze of my fellow-man were I to hear myname and the shameful secrets of my home shouted out in the streets byhawkers of public news. My life would be blasted indeed were I to see mydishonour publicly proclaimed in the newspaper bills that are displayedat every railway station in the kingdom. Ah, then the son who renouncedmy name, driven to it by my folly, my incredulousness, my injustice,might deem himself fortunate that he had done so before it was draggedinto the gutters, and covered with ignominy!

  I waited impatiently in my New York hotel for my son to make a secondcall, but to my great disappointment he did not again appear. Myletters, which he must have received, were brief, but they explainedmy anxiety to see him and to be reconciled with him. He could not havefollowed me to New Orleans, for I had taken the precaution so to arrangemy route as not to afford any stranger a clue to my destination. In thisI was actuated by my overpowering desire to keep my family affairs frompublic gaze--a more difficult matter in America, where the newspaperinterviewer appears to be ubiquitous, than it is in any other countryin the world. On the twelfth day of my last stay in the hotel, exactlythree weeks ago, I received news which determined me to returnimmediately to England. The news was startling and overwhelming, andadded another shame to that which was already weighing me down. Mywife had given birth to a child. This child is not mine. Imperative,therefore, was the necessity of bringing the shameful matter to an endwithout delay. I took passage to Liverpool in the "Germanic," and beforeI left New York I placed in the hands of the manager of the hotel aletter for my son, to be given to him privately, in case he should call.The letter contained bank notes for L200 and a sight draft for L500,payable to bearer, and was to the effect that Frederick was to followme home by the earliest possible opportunity. I instructed him in theletter to take his passage to Liverpool, and on his arrival there toinquire at the post office for a letter, which I intended should enablehim to come to me at once. It is because these proceedings have, up tothe present time, not led to a successful result, and because of thesuspicion that has obtained a firm hold in my mind of some cunningunderhand plotting to prevent my son from meeting me, that I think itbest to keep a record of what has been done and of what is likely totake place.

  The "Germanic" made a rapid passage, and on the day of my arrival inLiverpool I wrote and sent to the post-office a letter for my son,telling him to come to the Adelphi Hotel, where I awaited him. Iremained in Liverpool six days, in the hope of seeing my son, and myhope has not been fulfilled. Then I came on to London, travelling by anight train. Determining that my presence in the City shall be knownonly to my son and my wife, at least for a few days, which time I shallemploy in the endeavour to come to a private arrangement with the womanwho has dishonoured me, I looked about for a lodging in a neighbourhoodwhere it is likely the movements of a stranger may not be subjected tocurious inquiry. Within half-a-mile from the railway terminus is GreatPorter Square, quiet and retired; it appears to be the very locality Idesire. The houses in this quiet square are mostly lodging-houses, thelandlords and landladies of which are more anxious about their rent thanabout the characters of their tenants. In such a neighbourhood men andwomen are doubtless in the habit of coming and going, of appearing anddisappearing, without exciting curiosity. Cards of rooms to let were ina great many windows, and I selected a house, No. 119, and found, uponinquiry, that I could have a bed-room on the first-floor, or one on thesecond. I took the bedroom on the first-floor, which is at the back ofthe house, and the landlady informed me that by the end of the week Icould have the adjoining room, the windows of which front the Square, asthe present occupant had given notice to leave. But the back room willprobably suit my purpose for a while. I avoided giving the landlady myname by paying her a month's rent in advance, with which she appearsperfectly satisfied.

  The moment I took possession of my room I wrote two letters, one to myson at the Liverpool post-office, the other to my wife. In my letter toFrederick I simply said that I am to be found for a few days at No. 119,Great Porter Square, and I desired him to hasten to me at once, withoutcommunicating with any person. I have in my previous letters impressedupon him the importance of secrecy. My letter to my wife also containedmy address. I told her that I have arrived in London and that I amwilling to come to an arrangement with her which will no doubt satisfyher, and which will keep our affairs from scandal-mongers. I requestedher to call upon me at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. Until thathour, therefore, I have nothing to do. The time will hang heavily, andmy only relief is in this diary.

  I cannot read; I cannot sleep. Not alone the shamefulness of myposition, but the injustice I inflicted upon my son, weighs upon myspirits. If he were with me all would be as well with me as it ispossible to be. If he were here, and I could ask his forgiveness, andthus absolve him from the solemn oath I compelled him to take, I shouldfeel strong once more, and equal to the awful crisis. In spirit now, myson, I ask your forgiveness most humbly. The sufferings I inflicted uponyou are, I well know--for certain qualities in my nature are implantedin yours--irremediable; but all that a repentant father can do I willdo. Forgive me, Frederick, for my blindness. I have wronged not onlyyou, but th
e memory of your dear mother. It appears to me as if my madact in allying myself with a creature so base has cast even upon herpure soul a shadow of dishonour.

  * * * * *

  _Wednesday, 2nd July._--She has been here, and is gone. Our interviewwas a long one, and I apply myself now to a description of what passedbetween us, setting down simply that which is important to the momentousissue before me. It is the only way in which I can relieve the tedium ofthe dull, weary hours I am condemned to pass alone.

  She came into the room, closely veiled, and stood with her back againstthe closed door. She was calm and self-possessed. I trembled so that Icould scarcely stand.

  "Who am I?" she asked.

  I heard the question with amazement, not at the words, but at the joyoustone in which it was asked. I did not answer, and she threw up herveil, and looked at me with eyes and face sparkling with animation anddelight. It was as though she was playing a part in a masquerade. Neverhad I seen her look so well. No trace of anxiety or disquietude wasobservable in her. She was the very picture of joyous health and beauty,an embodiment of apparent innocence and peace of mind. But in my eyesshe was no longer beautiful; I saw her soul through the mask shepresents to the world, and I knew that it was corrupt and vile.

  She advanced to me with her arms stretched forward to embrace me, but Imotioned her back sternly, and she stood still and looked at me with asmile on her lips.

  "What!" she exclaimed. "After this long absence, to refuse to kiss me!Ah, you are trying me, I see. You have not the heart to say you do notlove me!"

  I pointed to the door, and said:

  "It will be best for both of us that our interview shall not beinterrupted. In such houses as this the servants have an awkward habitof sometimes opening the doors unawares."

  She took the hint, and locked the door.

  "Now, my dear," she said, removing her hat and cloak, "we are quitealone--quite, quite alone! You see I am not afraid of you. I thoughtyou were only playing with my feelings when you refused to embrace me.What, you will not kiss me even now? You have indeed grown cold andhard-hearted. You were not so once, in the sweet days, not so longago, of our first acquaintanceship. And how old you have grown--quitehaggard! My dear, gentlemen should not run away from their wives. Thisshould be a lesson to you. I hope it will be--with all my heart I hopeit will be; indeed, indeed I do! Oh, how I have suffered while you havebeen away! And never to send me a letter--not a single line to relievemy anxiety. It was cruel of you--too, too cruel! I have had the mosthorrible dreams of you. I dreamt you were ill, and I could not get toyou--that you were in danger, and I could not help you--that you weredead, without as much as saying good-bye to your fond, faithful wife! Itwas horrible, horrible! Really, my dear, it would be a proper punishmentif I refused ever to speak another word to you."

  "Have you done with your trifling?" I asked.

  "Trifling!" she cried. "You have been absent from me and your home formonths, without sending me one message of affection, and now that youreturn to London suddenly, and take up your lodging in a mean house likethis, and I am pouring my heart out at your feet, you call it trifling!Take care, my dear--you may try my patience too far!"

  "You may try mine too far," I retorted. "Cast aside, if it is possible,your false airs and affectations, and let us talk as business people ina business way."

  "It is for business, then," she said, still smiling in my face, "and notfor love, you summoned me here?"

  "There is no question of love between us," I replied, and was about toproceed when she interrupted me.

  "You will force me to be as cold and hard-hearted as yourself. The lasttime we were together--alone, as we are now--yes, alone, for you darednot, you dare not, speak in the presence of a third party as you spoketo me then!--you brought against me a number of false accusations, andvowed that you would never live with me again. If I had been a man Iwould have killed you--do you hear? I would have killed you, and thewords you addressed to me should have been the last you would ever havespoken. But you took advantage of my weakness, and you insulted me as nowoman in the world was ever insulted. Is it to insult me again that youhave sent for me now to meet you here alone?"

  It pleased me that she should adopt this tone. I could cope with herbetter when she showed me her true nature. "It is not of the past thatI wish to speak," I said, calmly, "it is of the future."

  "But the past must be spoken of," she rejoined vehemently, "and shallbe."

  "If you are determined, it must be so. You will find me very forbearing.My only wish is to put an end to this miserable business for once andfor ever!"

  "To put an end to _me_, perhaps," she cried, thrusting her face close tomine in contemptuous defiance, "for once and for ever!"

  "At all events," I said, "so far as my own life is concerned. I wish toshut you out from my life from this time forth."

  "How do you propose to do that?" she asked.

  "By paying you for it," I replied, shortly.

  "You will have to bid high."

  "I am prepared to bid high."

  "There is not only the question of living," she said, with a dark look,"there is the question of a woman's feelings to be considered. Youbrought against me a charge of unfaithfulness--you accused me of being avile woman, of low character and low morals. Do you still believe it?"

  "I still believe it," I replied.

  "How brutally manly it is of you to be so plain and concise! I can thankyou, at least, for your frankness, liar as you are! You accused me oftrumping up a designing untrue story of my life when I first met you,for the purpose of winning your sympathy. Do you still believe it?"

  "I still believe it."

  "How can I thank you? I know how I could repay you if I were a man. Itis fortunate for you that I am not. You accused me of setting a snarefor your son, who knew the true particulars of my life, you said, andwho wished to remove the shame I had brought upon your name. My memoryis not bad, is it? Do you still believe all this?"

  "I still believe it!"

  I think if she could have stabbed or poisoned me, and caused me to dieat that moment, she would not have spared me.

  "Of course," she said, "you have seen your son."

  "To my grief," I replied, "I have not. I should be happier if I couldsee him and ask his forgiveness for the injustice I have done him."

  "The injustice you have done him through me?"

  "Yes, through you."

  "It is curious, too, that you have not met him," she said, and I noticedthat she was secretly watching my face as she spoke: "you are such agood business man, and you went to America and remained there so long inthe hope of finding him."

  "How do you know that?" I inquired. "How do you know, indeed, that Ihave been in America all the time I have been absent from England?"

  My questions warned her that she had made a mistake.

  "People will talk," she said; "you don't suppose that I have kept mymouth closed, or that other persons have kept theirs, for months,because you took it into your head to run away from me. Upon my word, Iwas advised by friends to go to a magistrate, and lay the case beforehim."

  "You are as good in business matters as I am; in some matters better.You followed your own advice instead of the advice of others, and youdid not go to a magistrate. I know your reason."

  "What was my reason?"

  "That you, like myself, have no wish to drag our private affairs beforethe public. Once in the courts you will find it difficult to escapethem; to lay your life and character bare to official gaze would notsuit you. No, I know how far I am compromised, and I know how far youwill go."

  "You think you know."

  "I am sure I know."

  All at once she changed her tone. "I am bound to give way to you," shesaid, with an assumption of humility, "for you are my husband. I have nowish to irritate you, or to unsettle your mind more than it is alreadyunsettled. There are women who, for less than you have said, for lessthan you have done, would have
put you into a private madhouse. Thedelusions you have been under are very serious to me, but I will bearthem as long as I can. If I were to tell any official, any doctor, that,returning home after a long absence, you never once inquired for yourchild, born during your absence, it would be a sufficient proof of yourinsanity."

  "I heard in New York that you had a child," I said, "and it brought mehome earlier than I had intended."

  "Kind, thoughtful husband," she murmured, vindictively.

  "I would have avoided the subject," I said; "I would avoid it now.Shameless woman! Not upon the head of an innocent child, of whom I amnot the father, do I desire to visit the sin of the mother. It wouldhave become you better--if any suggestion that is good and modest inwoman could occur to you--to have omitted all mention of your child.Listen now to me with your best attention. In the course I am adopting Iam prompted by but one desire--to avoid the shame which publicity wouldbring upon me. For that reason have I kept my return home a secret fromevery person but yourself with whom I am acquainted in London; for thatreason I have taken this lodging in an obscure locality, so that I mayconfer the more privately with you, and endeavour to bring you to a truesense of your position. Publicity will bring shame to me; it will bringbeggary to you--absolute beggary. Let that fact sink into your mind;ponder well over it; and while you think of it let this declarationwhich I am about to make have its due weight. If you drive me to theextremity of forcing you into a public court, and the case be decidedagainst you, as it must, no persuasion or entreaty shall induce me toassist you to the value of a shilling in your future. You will have todepend absolutely upon yourself and your vile associate for your meansof living. You compel me to hold out this threat, which, under othercircumstances, I should deem unmanly and inhuman."

  "It _is_ unmanly and inhuman," she said. "Why do you hold out such athreat?"

  "Because, as I have said, it is the only means I can adopt to bring youto a proper understanding of your position. Shame you could bear, foryou have already borne it, and it has not touched your fatal beauty."Her vain nature could not but be gratified at this admission, and shebestowed upon me a radiant smile. "But poverty, if I have the slightestknowledge of your character, you could not bear. It would be thebitterest punishment with which you could be visited."

  "I can almost imagine," she said, with a keen glance at me, "that youhave been taking a lesson out of your son's book. You tell me you havenot seen him. Is it the truth?"

  "It is the truth. I am dealing plainly and honestly with you."

  "You are a true Christian," she said, with a sneer; "good for evil--andsuch good for such evil! Yet there is something unchristianlike in yourthreat, too. You would thrust me into the streets?"

  "As you made me thrust my son. As heaven is my judge, I would do it, inthe cause of justice!"

  "That is one side of your mind; there is another. Suppose I pleadguilty; suppose I fall upon my knees before you and confess my sin. Mysin! My sins! For they are so many--O, so many!" She said this with atheatrical air, and then spoke in a soberer tone. "That is a proper modeof confession for such a woman as you believe me to be. But withouttrying to impose upon you, suppose I admit, without any attempt atromance or deceit--for those acts are played out now, are they not? andwe come to a winding-up of the plot--suppose I am wicked, and guilty ofevery charge you bring against me. What would you require me to do?"

  "First to leave my house, taking with you all that belongs to you--yourtrinkets, dresses, and ornaments--to leave my house, and never enter itagain as long as you live."

  "But if I died, I might haunt you," she said, with a laugh, "though Iassure you I have no intention of dying for a good many years yet. Andthen?"

  "To renounce my name--adopt any other you please, it matters not to me,but mine you shall no longer bear."

  "Really," she said, "the similarity between your conditions and those ofyour son is very wonderful. It is hardly possible to believe you havenot been conspiring--but of course it would not become me to doubt theword of so honourable a gentleman. And then?"

  "To leave the country for good."

  "Another coincidence. I was almost inclined myself to suggest it to you.And in payment of these sacrifices, what do you offer?"

  "An income of twelve hundred pounds a year, secured, to be paidregularly and faithfully to you so long as you do not violate theconditions of the agreement."

  "Secured by deed?"

  "Yes, in the manner most agreeable to you. Do you consent?"

  "What!" she exclaimed. "In a moment! No, indeed, I must have time toponder, to let the facts sink into my mind, as you said. It is not only_your_ life, _your_ honour, and _your_ welfare that are concerned. Itaffects me more than it does you, for I am young, and have a long lifebefore me; you are old, and will soon be in your grave. I hope you haveno intention of cheating the law, and marrying again. I can stand agreat deal, but not that. I am a jealous woman, and really loved you fora few days. You loved me, too, or you lied to me most wickedly. Is thereany other woman you wish to serve as you have served me?"

  "If I were free, I should never marry again."

  "My dear," she said, in her lightest tone, "it is a wise resolve. Onlythe young should marry. When I am as old as you I shall enter a convent,and repent, and become good. Till then, I must continue to be wicked.How long do you give me to decide between the two things you haveoffered me?"

  "What time do you require?"

  "To-day is Wednesday. Two days--that will be Friday. But Friday issuch an unlucky day, and I am so unfortunate! On Saturday--shall itbe Saturday? Will you give me till then? Have pity on me! You will notrefuse me so short a time as three days, in which I am to decide myfate?"

  The words, written down, bear an entirely different construction fromthat in which she employed them. Her voice was a voice of mockery, andupon her lips was the same pleasant smile with which, I have no doubt,she would have killed me where I stood had it been in her power.

  "Let it be Saturday," I said.

  "I will come then," she said sweetly, "and see once more the gentleman Iswore to love, honour, and obey. Thank you, so much! Will you not kissme, even now? Will you not as much as shake hands with me? Cruel! If Ihad known you better, when you begged me to be your wife, I should havehesitated; I should not have trusted my future to the hands of such aman. I had my doubts; I said, 'He is too old, he cannot understand ayoung heart like mine.' Ah, if I had listened to the voice of prudence!But when was a woman in love prudent? I may arrange my hair at yourlooking glass, may I not? I am your wife, although you hate me. Thankyou once more. What a pretty glass--and what a sweet room! I could livehere with you for ever, if you loved and cared to have me. But it cannever be, can it? You have found me out. O, how dreadful it is to befound out! Worse for a woman than for a man--a thousand, thousand timesworse! My hair has grown longer since I last saw you--don't you thinkso? And thicker. Feel it. No? How miserable you are! Did you ever reallylove me, I wonder? If I were a man, and loved a woman as pretty as Iam--you can't deny that I _am_ pretty; when I walk through the streetswith my veil up, nine men out of ten stop and turn to look at me; that'swhy I wear my veil down. A married woman! They should be ashamed ofthemselves. But what can a pretty woman do? What was I saying? O, Iremember. If I were a man, and loved a woman as good-looking as I am, Iwould go through fire and water for her. I would, indeed! What a womanwants is love, devotion--perfect devotion--and liberty to do whatevershe likes. That is all. Else what does a woman marry for? To be a slave?You say you will never marry again. Nor will I--you shall not outdo me ingenerosity. I may love, but I will never marry--never, never! You menare either fools or something worse--and women, too, are fools when theysell themselves for money, as I did, and tie themselves to creatures whocan't appreciate them. I don't mean you, my dear. No--you are too soft,and yielding, and honourable. More women would be happy if there weremore men in the world like you. See how happy you have made me--seewhat you have brought me to!"

  She sank upon a ch
air, and covered her face with her hands, and Isaw tears stealing between her fingers--but I saw, also, that she waswatching my face all the while to note the effect her words had upon me.I did not interrupt her in her speech. I stood quietly observing her,and wondering within myself whether there were many women like her, andwhether other men were suffering as I was suffering. All the while shewas talking she was arranging her hair, and displaying it to the bestadvantage. Heaven knows how old she is, but as she stood before me,turning occasionally, looking at me through the masses of fair hairwhich fell around her face, she did not appear to be more than eighteen.Her beauty, her appeals, the tender modulations of her voice, producedno other effect upon me than that of wonder and disgust. I did not allowthis feeling to be seen; the stake at issue was too momentous for me,by a sign, to jeopardise the end I was working for. Presently she rose,and completed the arrangements of her hair, which she had purposelyprolonged. Then, before putting on her hat and cloak, she asked me for aglass of wine. I had none, and I gave her a glass of water; she tastedit, and threw the rest away, saying:

  "My dear, you should drink wine. It is good for old men; it isnourishing."

  Still I did not speak, and as if to compel me, she asked,

  "Do they not know your name in this house?"

  "They do not," I replied.

  "Do you intend them to know it?"

  "I intend them not to know it. You can, of course, frustrate myintention if you will."

  "I do not wish. I thought you desired to keep it secret, and therefore,when I knocked at the door and it was opened, I did not ask for you byname, I simply asked if a gentleman was in who had taken a lodging hereyesterday. The servant answered that he was, and directed me to yourroom. She did not even see my face. You see how I am endeavouring tofall in with all your wishes--anticipating them, even. But I love amystery dearly. Good day, my dear. Till Saturday. I will be here,punctually at twelve. Shall I kiss baby for you? No? You areincorrigible."

  And with nods and pleasant smiles she left me, pulling her veil closeover her face.

  [Decoration]