THE "EVENING MOON" CONTINUES ITS ACCOUNT OF THE TRAGEDY, AND
DESCRIBES THE SHAMEFUL PART ENACTED BY MR. FREDERICK HOLDFAST IN
HIS FATHER'S HOUSE.
When a man of Mr. Holdfast's age and wealth marries, for love, a lady
thirty years younger than himself, his friends generally regard him with
pity, and predict that the day must arrive when he will awake from his
infatuated dream. "Warm-blooded May and cold-blooded December," say
Mrs. Grundy and her family; "what can be expected?" They are much more
uncharitable towards the lady, if she happen to be poor, as in such
cases she is almost certain to be. It is not possible for her to awake
from her dream, for she is judged as having been very wide awake, and
as having entrapped the poor man with wiles most artfully designed and
carried out, fooling the doting old lover to the top of his bent, her
eyes and heart set upon nothing but his money.
The judgment is too often correct. Beauty sacrificing itself at the
altar of Mammon is no new subject for writer or painter whose satires
are drawn from truth and nature. But an arrow tipped with these feathers
of false feeling, and aimed at Mr. Holdfast and his lovely bride, would
have fallen short of its mark. Their match, despite the disparity of
age, was in the best sense of the word a love-match. On Mr. Holdfast's
side there could be no doubt of it; and as little doubt could there be
of a creature so guileless as Lydia Wilson, who had been brought up in
the most delightful ignorance of the value of money.
"We loved each other to the last," says the innocent and much-wronged
widow. "To have saved my dear husband's life I would have sacrificed my
own--willingly, joyfully have sacrificed it!"
By what strange roads, then, had so fair a commencement been conducted
to so foul and tragic an end?
Reference has already been made to Mr. Holdfast's son Frederick, and the
sketch we have given of his character will be a sufficient indication
of the kind of man he was. We speak of him in the past tense, for he is
dead.
Shortly after Mr. Holdfast's second marriage, he communicated to his
son the news of his having chosen a beautiful and amiable woman as a
companion. In his letter the father expressed a hope that his son, who
had already done so much to wound a father's heart, would not add to
his misconduct by behaving other than dutifully and respectfully to his
second mother. The son wrote back that he had no second mother, and
would acknowledge none; but that he would soon be in London to embrace
his father and shake hands with his father's wife. Attention is directed
to the terms of this expression of feeling. His father he would embrace,
his father's wife he would shake hands with. To one he would exhibit
affection, to the other coldness. There was here at once struck the
keynote to many strange family events (in one of which the affections
were made to play a monstrous part), leading, there is reason to
believe, to the untimely death of a father who sinned only on the side
of indulgence and love.
"I had, from the first," said the widow of the murdered man, "a
mysterious foreboding about Frederick Holdfast. Do not ask me to account
for it, for it is out of my power. I am a creature of feeling and fancy,
but I am seldom wrong. I sometimes shudder when I pass a stranger in the
street, and I know--something whispers within me--that that stranger has
committed a crime, or is about to commit a crime. I sometimes feel glad
when I meet a person for the first time, as I have met you"--(she was
addressing our Reporter)--"and then I know that that person is an
honourable man, and that I can confide in him. I had a foreboding for
ill when I first heard the name of Mr. Frederick Holdfast. I shuddered
and turned as cold as ice; and that was even before I knew that his
father and he were not upon friendly terms. I tried to shake off the
feeling, asking myself how was it possible there could be any real
wickedness in the son of a man so noble as my dear lost husband? Alas!
I have lived to discover that my foreboding of evil was but too true!"
Mr. Frederick Holdfast came to London, and made the acquaintance of his
stepmother. He had rooms in his father's house, but his habits were very
irregular. He seldom dined with his father and his father's wife, as
he insisted upon calling her: he would not accompany them to ball or
party--for, from the date of his second marriage, Mr. Holdfast led a new
and happier life. He gave balls and parties at home, of which his wife
was the queen of beauty; he went into society; the gloom which had been
habitual with him departed from his heart. But the son would not share
this happiness; he was the thorn in the side of the newly-married
couple. We continue the narrative in the widow's words.
"I did everything in my power," she said, with touching plaintiveness,
"to reconcile father and son. I made excuses for Frederick. I said,
'Perhaps Frederick is in debt; it troubles him; you are rich.' There
was no occasion for me to say another word to such a generous gentleman
as my husband. The very next day he told me that he had had a serious
conversation with Frederick, who had confessed to him that he was deeply
in debt. How much? Thousands. He showed me a list, but I scarcely looked
at it. 'Shall I pay these debts?' my husband asked. 'Of course,' I
replied; 'pay them immediately, and fill Frederick's pockets with
money.' 'I have done that very thing,' said Mr. Holdfast, 'a dozen times
already, and he has always promised me he would reform.' 'Never mind,' I
said, 'perhaps he will keep his word this time. Pay his debts once more,
and let us all live happily together.' That was my only wish--that we
should all be friends, and that Frederick should have no excuse to
reproach me for having married his father. The debts were paid, and Mr.
Holdfast brought his son to me, and said to him 'Frederick, you have to
thank this angel'--(pray, pray do not think I am saying a word that is
not true! My husband was only too kind to me, and loved me so much that
he would often pay me extravagant compliments)--'You have to thank this
angel,' said Mr. Holdfast to his son, 'for what has been done this day.
You can now hold up your head with honour. Let bye-gones be bye-gones.
Kiss Mrs. Holdfast, and promise to turn over a new leaf.' I held out my
cheek to him, and he looked at me coldly and turned away. I was scarlet
with shame. Was it not enough to rouse a woman's animosity?--such
treatment! But it did not rouse mine--no; I still hoped that things
would come right. Mr. Holdfast did not relate to me the particulars of
the interview between himself and his son, and I did not inquire. Why
should I pry into a young man's secrets? And what right had I to do
anything but try and make peace between my husband and my husband's
son? Frederick had been wild, but so have plenty of other college men.
Many of them have turned out well afterwards; I have heard of some who
were very bad young men, and afterwards became Judges and Members of
Parliament. Why should not Frederick do the same--why should he not
reform, and become a Judge or a Member of Parliament? My great wish
was that Mr. Holdfast should keep his son with him, and that Frederick
should marry some good girl, and settle down. I had tried to bring it
about. I had given parties, and had invited pretty girls; but Frederick
seldom made his appearance at my assemblies, and when he did, stopped
only for a few minutes. On the very evening of the day upon which my
husband, at my intercession, paid Frederick's debts, I had a ball at my
house. Is it wrong to be fond of parties and dancing? If it is, you will
blame me very much, for I am very fond of dancing. With a good partner I
could waltz all night, and not feel tired. Mr. Holdfast did not dance,
but he had no objection to my enjoying myself in this way. On the
contrary, he encouraged it. He would sit down to his whist, and when
the ball was over I would tell him all the foolish things my partners
had said to me. Well, on this night we were to have a grand ball, and I
very much wished Frederick to be present, for I wanted to introduce him
to some pretty girls I had invited. But in the morning he had insulted
me, and had refused to kiss me as a sign of reconciliation. Upon
thinking it over I said to myself that perhaps he did not think it
proper to kiss me, because I was young and----well, not exactly
bad-looking. I was always trying to make excuses for him in my mind.
Though there could really be no harm in kissing one's mother--do you
believe there is?--even if your mother _is_ younger than yourself! If
_I_ were a young man, _I_ should have no objection! So I determined to
ask Frederick to come to my ball, and bind him to it. He was to dine
with us, and, for a wonder, he did not disappoint us. Over dinner I
said, 'Frederick, I should like you very, very particularly to come to
my ball to-night.' Contrary to his usual custom of pleading an excuse
of another engagement--it was generally to meet some friend at his
club--he said, quite readily, 'I will come.' I was surprised. 'You have
promised before,' I said, 'but you have almost always disappointed me. I
shall take your promise now as a gentleman's promise, and shall expect
you to keep it. And you must not only come; you must stop and dance.' He
replied, without the slightest hesitation, 'I will come, and I will stop
and dance.' 'Now,' I said, so glad at his amiability, 'I will make it
hard for you to forget. Here is my programme. You may dance two dances
with me. I am sure you would not keep a lady waiting. Behave to me as
you would to any other lady in society.' I gave him my card, and he
wrote upon it, and handed it back to me. I did not look to see the
dances he had engaged; I was too pleased at my success. His father,
also, was very much pleased, and our dinner on this evening was the
pleasantest we had ever enjoyed together. Three hours later, my guests
began to arrive. While I was dressing, one of my maids brought in the
loveliest bouquet I had ever seen. From Mr. Holdfast? No. From his son,
Frederick. Was not that a sign of perfect reconciliation, and had I
not every reason to be happy? O, if I had known! I would have cast the
flowers to the ground, and have trodden them under my feet! But we can
never tell, can we, what is going to happen to us? I dressed, and went
down to the ball room. I wore a pale blue silk, with flounces of lace,
caught up here and there with forget-me-nots, and I had pearls in my
hair. Mr. Holdfast said I looked bewitching. I was in the best of
spirits, and felt sure that this was going to be one of the happiest
evenings in my life. How shall I tell you what happened? I am ashamed
and horrified when I think of it! But it was not my fault, and I did
everything I could to lead Frederick away from his dreadful, sinful
infatuation."
Our Reporter himself takes up the narrative, and relates what followed
in his own words. The beautiful widow was overcome by shame at the
revelation she had to make, and it was only by considerate and skilful
persuasion that our representative was able to elicit from her the full
particulars of what she rightly called a dreadful, sinful infatuation.
The ball was a perfect success; there were many beautiful women among
the guests, but the most beautiful of all was the hostess herself. A
gentleman asked her to dance, and she handed him her card.
"How annoying!" he exclaimed. "You are engaged for every waltz."
"No," she replied, "only for two."
"But look," said the gentleman.
She glanced at her card, and found that Frederick had placed his name
against every one of the six waltzes comprised in the programme.
"The foolish fellow!" she cried, "I promised him two, and he has
appropriated six!"
"In that case," observed the gentleman, "as you are much too precious to
be monopolised, I may take the liberty of erasing Mr. Frederick
Holdfast's name from one waltz at least, and writing my own in its
place."
"Yes," said Mrs. Holdfast, "I will promise you one."
Just as the gentleman had made the alteration in the card Frederick came
up, and protested against being deprived of the waltz.
"You made me promise to stop and dance," he said, "and I will dance with
no other lady in the room but you."
"Why," said Mrs. Holdfast, "there are fifty pretty girls here, who will
be delighted to dance with you."
"I have no eyes for any lady but yourself," he said, offering her his
arm. "You wear the crown of beauty."
Surprised as she was at this sudden change in him, it was so much better
than the systematically cold manner in which he had hitherto treated
her, that she humoured him and was quite disposed to yield to his
caprices. He told her during the evening that he was jealous of any
person dancing with her but himself; he paid her a thousand compliments;
he was most devoted in his attentions.
"Frederick is a changed man," she said to her husband, when he came from
the whist to inquire how she was enjoying herself; "he has been the most
attentive of cavaliers."
Mr. Holdfast expressed his satisfaction to his son.
"You have commenced your new leaf well, Frederick," he said; "I hope you
will go on as you have begun."
"I intend to do so, sir," replied Frederick.
Had Mr. Holdfast understood the exact meaning of these words, his
advice to his son would have been of a precisely opposite nature, and
on that very night the severance of father and son would have been
complete.
The evening progressed; music, pretty women, gallant men, brilliant
lights, flowers, a sumptuous supper, a fascinating and charming hostess,
formed the sum of general happiness. The ball was spoken of as the
most successful of the season. In an interval between the dances Mrs.
Holdfast found herself alone with Frederick in a conservatory. She had
a difficulty in fastening one of the buttons of her glove. Frederick
offered his assistance; she held out her white arm; his fingers trembled
as he clumsily essayed to fasten the button.
"You seem agitated," she said to him, with a smile.
"I have behaved to you like a brute," he muttered.
"Don't think of the past," she said sweetly, "we commence from this
night."
"It will be the commencement of heaven or hell to me!" he said, in a
voice almost indistinct, with contrition as she supposed. "My father
was right in calling you an angel. When I reflect upon my conduct this
morning I can't help thinking I must have been mad. To refuse to kiss
a beautiful woman like you! Let me kiss you now, in token of my
repentance."
She offered him her cheek, and he seized her in his arms, and kissed her
lips.
"I love you! I love you!" he whispered, and before she could release
herself he had kissed her a dozen times. "That will make amends for my
rudeness this morning," he said, as he rushed from her presence.
She scarcely knew what to think; she was bewildered by his strange
behaviour, but she was too pure-minded to put any but an innocent
construction upon it. Poor lady! she had had no experience of that kind
of man in whose eyes a woman's good name is a thing to trifle with and
destroy, and who afterwards exults in the misery he has brought upon an
unsuspecting, confiding heart. She lived to learn the bitter lesson. Too
soon did she learn it! Too soon did the horrible truth force itself upon
her soul that her husband's son loved her, or professed to love her--and
that he was using all his artifices to prevail upon her to accept him
as her secret lover. At first she refused to credit it; she had read of
such things, but had never believed they could exist. To the pure all
things are pure, and so for a time she cast away the suspicion which
intruded itself that the heart of this young man could harbour such
treachery towards a father too ready to forgive the errors which stain
a man's name with dishonour. Her position was most perplexing. Instead
of absenting himself from home, Frederick was unremitting in his
attendance upon her. When he came down to breakfast in the morning he
kissed her, but never before his father. When he went out of the house
he kissed her--but his father never saw the embrace. In private, when no
one else was by, he called her "Lydia," or "dear Lydia"; when his father
or strangers were present, he addressed her as Mrs. Holdfast. He was so
subtle in his devices that he wove around her and himself a chain of
secrecy which caused her the greatest misery. She was no match for him.
He was a man of the world; she, a young and innocent girl brought, for
the first time, face to face with deliberate villainy. Her position
was rendered the more embarrassing by the pleasure which Frederick's
outward conduct afforded her husband. He expressed his pleasure to her
frequently. "Our union," he said to her, "has brought happiness to me in
more ways than one. Frederick has reformed; he is all I wish him to be;
and I owe it to you that I can look forward now with satisfaction to his
future." How could she undeceive the fond father? She contemplated with
shudders the effect of the revelation it was in her power to make. Could
she not in some way avoid the exposure? Could she not bring the son to a
true sense of his shameful and unmanly conduct? She would try--she would
try; innocence and a good intent would give her strength and courage.
She was not aware of the difficulty of the task she had set herself.
In its execution private interviews between Frederick and herself were
necessary, and she had to solicit them. The eagerness with which he
acceded to her request to speak with him in the absence of her husband
should have been a warning to her--but she saw nothing but the possible
success of a worthy design which was to save her husband from bitter
grief. She spoke to Frederick seriously; she endeavoured to show him
not only the wickedness but the folly of his passion for her; she told
him that she loved his father, and that if he did not conquer his mad
infatuation for her, an exposure must ensue which would cover him with
shame. And the result of her endeavour to bring the young man to reason
was a declaration on his part, repeated again and again, that he loved
her more than ever. He had the cunning to hint to her that she was
already compromised, and that she could not defend herself successfully
against an imputation of guilt. Appearances were all against her; the
very interviews which she herself had planned and solicited were proofs
against her. These infamous arguments convinced her of the hopelessness
of her task, and with grief she relinquished it. She had no alternative
but to appeal for protection to her husband. We doubt whether in the
annals of social life a more delicate and painful situation could be
found.
She faced her duty bravely. She had full confidence in the honour and
justice of her husband, and her confidence was not misplaced. Suffering
most deeply himself, he pitied her for the suffering she experienced
in being the innocent cause of what could not fail to be a life-long
separation between himself and his son. "You have done your duty," he
said, "and I will do mine. I am not only your husband and lover; I
am your protector." He called his son to him and they were closeted
together for hours. What passed between them, the wife never knew. Upon
that subject husband and wife maintained perfect silence. At the end
of the interview Frederick Holdfast left his father's house, never to
return. The echo of the banished son's footsteps still lingered in Lydia
Holdfast's ears when her husband called her into his study. His pale
face showed traces of deep suffering. Upon the writing table was a small
Bible, with silver clasps.
"Lydia," said Mr. Holdfast, "this Bible was given to me by my first
wife. Two children she bore me--first, the man who has but now left
my house, and will not enter it again; then a girl, who died before
she could prattle. It were better that my son had so died, but it
was otherwise willed. In this Bible I wrote the record of my first
marriage--my own name, the maiden name of my wife, the church in which
we were married, and the date. It is here; and beneath it the record of
my marriage with you. Upon a separate page I wrote the date of the birth
of my son Frederick; beneath it, that of my second child, Alice, dead.
That page is no longer in the sacred Book. I have torn it out and
destroyed it; and as from this Bible I tore the record of my son's
birth, so from my life I have torn and destroyed his existence. He lives
no longer for me. I have now no child; I have only you!" He paused
awhile, and continued. "It is I, it seems," he said, pathetically, "who
have to turn over a new leaf. With the exception of yourself--my first
consideration--there is but one engrossing subject in my mind; the
honour of my name. I must watch carefully that it is not dragged in
the mud. From such a man as my son has grown into--heaven knows by
what means, for neither from myself nor from his mother can he have
inherited his base qualities--I am not safe for a moment. Between to-day
and the past, let there be a door fast closed, which neither you nor I
will ever attempt to open."
Then this man, whose nature must have been very noble, kissed his young
wife, and asked that she would not disturb him for the remainder of
the day. "Only one person," he said, "is to be admitted to see me--my
lawyer." In the course of the afternoon that gentleman presented
himself, and did not leave until late in the night. His business is
explained by the date of a codicil to Mr. Holdfast's will, whereby the
son is disinherited, and Mr. Holdfast's entire fortune--amounting to not
less than one hundred thousand pounds--is left unreservedly to his wife.
To avoid the tittle-tattle of the world, and the scandal which any open
admission of social disturbances would be sure to give rise to, Mr.
Holdfast insisted that his wife should mingle freely in the gaieties
of society. She would have preferred to have devoted herself to her
husband, and to have endeavoured, by wifely care and affection, to
soften the blow which had fallen upon him. But he would not allow her to
sacrifice herself. "My best happiness," he said, "is to know that you
are enjoying yourself." Therefore she went more frequently into society,
and fêted its members in her own house with princely liberality. When
people asked after Mr. Holdfast's son, the answer--dictated by the
father himself--was that he had gone abroad on a tour. It appeared,
indeed, that the compact between father and son was that the young man
should leave England. In this respect he kept his word. He went to
America, and his father soon received news of him. His career in the
States was disgraceful and dissipated; he seemed to have lost all
control over himself, and his only desire appeared to be to vex his
father's heart, and dishonour his father's name. Events so shaped
themselves that the father's presence was necessary in America to
personally explain to the heads of firms with whom he had for years
transacted an extensive business, the character of the son who, by
misrepresentations, was compromising his credit. When he communicated
to his wife his intention of leaving her for a short time, she begged
him not to go, or, if it were imperative that the journey should be
undertaken, to allow her to accompany him. To this request he would not
consent; he would not subject her to the discomfort of the voyage; and
he pointed out to her that her presence might be a hindrance instead of
a help to him.
"Not only," he said, "must I set myself right with my agents in America,
but I must see my son. I will make one last appeal to him--I will speak
to him in the name of his dead mother! It is my duty, and I will perform
it. The wretched man, hearing of my arrival, may fly from the cities
in which it is necessary that I shall present myself. I must follow
him until we are once more face to face. Cannot you see that I must be
alone, and entirely free, to bring my mission to a successful issue."
Mournfully, she was compelled to confess that he was right, and that it
was imperative his movements should not be hampered. She bade him an
affectionate farewell, little dreaming, as he drove away from the house,
that she had received his last kiss.
He wrote regularly--from Queenstown, from ship-board, from New York. His
letters were filled with expressions of affection; of his business he
merely said, from time to time, that matters were not so serious as they
were represented to be. As he had suspected, his son flew before him,
and, resolute in his intention of having a last interview with him, he
followed the young man from city to city, from State to State. Weeks,
months were occupied in this pursuit, and it happened, on more than one
occasion, that Mrs. Holdfast was a considerable time without a letter
from her husband. She wrote to him again and again, entreating him to
give up the pursuit and come home, but strong as was his affection for
her, she could not shake his resolve. In one of his letters he hinted
that his son was not alone--that he was in company with a woman of more
than doubtful character; in another that this woman, having deserted the
misguided young man, had appealed to Mr. Holdfast himself for assistance
to enable her to return to England. "I did not refuse her," he wrote; "I
was only too happy to break the connection between her and Frederick. I
supplied her with money, and by the time you receive this she is most
probably in her native land." Actions such as this denoted the kindness
of his heart, and there is no doubt, had his son thrown himself at his
father's feet, and, admitting the errors of the past, promised amendment
in the future, that Mr. Holdfast would have helped him to commence a new
and better career. Mr. Holdfast spoke of this in his letters. "There are
other lands than England and America," he said, "where a man may build
up a name that shall be honoured, and live a life of usefulness and
happiness. In one of the Australian colonies, or in New Zealand, he may
work out his repentance, under conditions which offer almost a certainty
of a bright and honourable future."
This was the father's aim--a wise and merciful design, altogether too
good in its intentions for the man it was to benefit.
At length a letter arrived conveying the intelligence that Mr. Holdfast
had tracked his son to Minnesota, one of the Western States of America,
and was journeying onward in pursuit of him. This letter was not in Mr.
Holdfast's writing; it was written by a stranger, at his dictation, and
a satisfactory explanation of this circumstance was given. "Although I
am wearied in spirit," it said, "and sometimes feel that but for you I
would give up the world and its trials with thankfulness, I am not
really ill. My right hand has been wounded by the shutting of the door
of a railroad car, and I am unable to use it. For this reason you must
not feel uneasy if you do not hear from me for some time. I do not care
to entrust, even to a stranger, the particulars of my private troubles.
Good bye, and God bless you! Be happy!" These tender words were the last
she ever received from him. When she read them she was oppressed by an
ominous foreboding, and a voice within her whispered: "You will never
see him more!" But for one thrilling circumstance, nothing in the world
could have prevented her from taking instant passage to America to nurse
and comfort her dear husband. She was about to become a mother. Now,
indeed, she could not risk the perils of the voyage and the feverish
travelling in the States. Another and a dearer life claimed her care and
love.
Within a week of the receipt of this last letter she learnt, from a
newspaper forwarded to her from a small town in Minnesota, that her
husband's quest was over. On the banks of the laughing waters of
Minne-haha the dead body of a stranger was found. He had not met his
death by drowning; from marks upon the body it was certain that he had
been killed--most likely in a drunken brawl. A gentleman travelling
through the district identified the body as that of Frederick Holdfast,
with whom he was well acquainted in Oxford. The occurrence excited
no comment, and simply supplied the text for an ordinary newspaper
paragraph. The body was buried, and in that distant part of the world
the man was soon forgotten. Thus was ended the shameful life of
Frederick Holdfast, a young man to whom fortune held out a liberal hand,
and whose career was marred by a lack of moral control.
Shocked as Mrs. Holdfast was by the tragic news, she could not but feel
happy in the thought of the calmer future which lay before her. "My
husband will soon be home!" she thought, and her heart beat with glad
anticipation.
_END OF VOLUME I._
Transcriber's note
Words in italics have been surrounded by _underscores_ and small
capitals have been changed to all capitals.
Punctuation errors have been corrected silently. Also the
following corrections have been made, on page
12 "could'nt" changed to "couldn't" (So of course it couldn't have
been)
19 "facination" changed to "fascination" (with a horrible
fascination)
187 "And" changed to "and" (raised their voices, and I wasn't awake)
211 "writhin" changed to "writhing" (Mrs. Bailey writhing in bed)
247 "But" changed to "but" (feeling and fancy, but I am seldom
wrong)
257 "herelf" changed to "herself" (how she was enjoying herself;)
257 "have" added (his advice to his son would have been).
Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistent
spelling and hyphenation.