MR. HOLDFAST'S DIARY.
Tuesday, _1st July_.--I am once more in London, after a long absence
and 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 I
repented of my error, and bitterly am I punished for it.
Almost at the last moment, in New York, a hope of success was held out
to me. Returning to my hotel there from New Orleans, in which city,
from information conveyed to me in a letter from a stranger, I hoped
to find Frederick, I was informed that a gentleman had called to see
me. The description given to me of this gentleman--who, the manager
of the hotel informed me, appeared to be in by no means prosperous
circumstances--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 York
Post-office, and had at once sought me out. Unhappy chance that caused
me to be absent when he called! I must have been a thousand miles away
at the time, following a false scent supplied by a stranger. It has
occurred to me within these last few days, during my voyage home, that
an enemy may have been at work in America to prevent a meeting between
me and my son. There is no meanness, no wickedness, no baseness, to
which the wretched woman who calls me husband, and her paramour, would
not stoop. And for the cunning necessary to keep me and my son apart
from each other, have I not had sufficient proof that they are capable
of it? Strange that the suspicion did not occur to me in America! Now
that--perhaps too late--it presents itself, it comes upon me with
singular force. The letter, written to me by a stranger, which drove
me so far from New York on a fruitless errand, was not the only one
I received conveying to me, gratuitously, information which retarded
instead of assisting me in my purpose. They were all in different
handwriting, 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 as
there is in London in obtaining agents to assist in the carrying out of
any villainous design. But now my mind is set upon this suspicion of
systematic deceit, I am of the opinion that but one enemy was engaged
in it, and that that enemy is the scoundrel Pelham, my wretched wife's
accomplice. If it be so, he must have followed me to America, and
watched my movements, cunningly misdirecting them when he deemed it
necessary. Working against such an enemy is working in the dark. It is
my unhappy fate that, alone, I have not the courage to publicly proclaim
my disgrace. I should die under the shame of it. With my son by my side
I might be able, were no other way open for a settlement, to nerve
myself to any effort he might advise. Without him I am powerless, and
indeed, were a public exposure forced upon me--were I certain that by no
other possible means could I rid myself of this infamous woman--my son's
evidence would be necessary to complete the case against her. But before
this terrible necessity is made clear to me, every means must be adopted
to settle the unhappy affair in a private manner. Never again could I
hold up my head and meet the gaze of my fellow-man were I to hear my
name and the shameful secrets of my home shouted out in the streets by
hawkers of public news. My life would be blasted indeed were I to see my
dishonour publicly proclaimed in the newspaper bills that are displayed
at every railway station in the kingdom. Ah, then the son who renounced
my name, driven to it by my folly, my incredulousness, my injustice,
might deem himself fortunate that he had done so before it was dragged
into the gutters, and covered with ignominy!
I waited impatiently in my New York hotel for my son to make a second
call, but to my great disappointment he did not again appear. My
letters, which he must have received, were brief, but they explained
my anxiety to see him and to be reconciled with him. He could not have
followed me to New Orleans, for I had taken the precaution so to arrange
my route as not to afford any stranger a clue to my destination. In this
I was actuated by my overpowering desire to keep my family affairs from
public gaze--a more difficult matter in America, where the newspaper
interviewer appears to be ubiquitous, than it is in any other country
in the world. On the twelfth day of my last stay in the hotel, exactly
three weeks ago, I received news which determined me to return
immediately to England. The news was startling and overwhelming, and
added another shame to that which was already weighing me down. My
wife had given birth to a child. This child is not mine. Imperative,
therefore, was the necessity of bringing the shameful matter to an end
without delay. I took passage to Liverpool in the "Germanic," and before
I left New York I placed in the hands of the manager of the hotel a
letter for my son, to be given to him privately, in case he should call.
The letter contained bank notes for £200 and a sight draft for £500,
payable to bearer, and was to the effect that Frederick was to follow
me home by the earliest possible opportunity. I instructed him in the
letter to take his passage to Liverpool, and on his arrival there to
inquire at the post office for a letter, which I intended should enable
him to come to me at once. It is because these proceedings have, up to
the present time, not led to a successful result, and because of the
suspicion that has obtained a firm hold in my mind of some cunning
underhand plotting to prevent my son from meeting me, that I think it
best to keep a record of what has been done and of what is likely to
take place.
The "Germanic" made a rapid passage, and on the day of my arrival in
Liverpool 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. I
remained in Liverpool six days, in the hope of seeing my son, and my
hope has not been fulfilled. Then I came on to London, travelling by a
night train. Determining that my presence in the City shall be known
only to my son and my wife, at least for a few days, which time I shall
employ in the endeavour to come to a private arrangement with the woman
who has dishonoured me, I looked about for a lodging in a neighbourhood
where it is likely the movements of a stranger may not be subjected to
curious inquiry. Within half-a-mile from the railway terminus is Great
Porter Square, quiet and retired; it appears to be the very locality I
desire. The houses in this quiet square are mostly lodging-houses, the
landlords and landladies of which are more anxious about their rent than
about the characters of their tenants. In such a neighbourhood men and
women are doubtless in the habit of coming and going, of appearing and
disappearing, without exciting curiosity. Cards of rooms to let were in
a great many windows, and I selected a house, No. 119, and found, upon
inquiry, that I could have a bed-room on the first-floor, or one on the
second. I took the bedroom on the first-floor, which is at the back of
the house, and the landlady informed me that by the end of the week I
could have the adjoining room, the windows of which front the Square, as
the present occupant had given notice to leave. But the back room will
probably suit my purpose for a while. I avoided giving the landlady my
name by paying her a month's rent in advance, with which she appears
perfectly satisfied.
The moment I took possession of my room I wrote two letters, one to my
son at the Liverpool post-office, the other to my wife. In my letter to
Frederick 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, without
communicating with any person. I have in my previous letters impressed
upon him the importance of secrecy. My letter to my wife also contained
my address. I told her that I have arrived in London and that I am
willing to come to an arrangement with her which will no doubt satisfy
her, and which will keep our affairs from scandal-mongers. I requested
her to call upon me at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning. Until that
hour, therefore, I have nothing to do. The time will hang heavily, and
my only relief is in this diary.
I cannot read; I cannot sleep. Not alone the shamefulness of my
position, but the injustice I inflicted upon my son, weighs upon my
spirits. If he were with me all would be as well with me as it is
possible to be. If he were here, and I could ask his forgiveness, and
thus absolve him from the solemn oath I compelled him to take, I should
feel strong once more, and equal to the awful crisis. In spirit now, my
son, I ask your forgiveness most humbly. The sufferings I inflicted upon
you are, I well know--for certain qualities in my nature are implanted
in yours--irremediable; but all that a repentant father can do I will
do. Forgive me, Frederick, for my blindness. I have wronged not only
you, but the memory of your dear mother. It appears to me as if my mad
act in allying myself with a creature so base has cast even upon her
pure soul a shadow of dishonour.
* * * * *
_Wednesday, 2nd July._--She has been here, and is gone. Our interview
was a long one, and I apply myself now to a description of what passed
between us, setting down simply that which is important to the momentous
issue before me. It is the only way in which I can relieve the tedium of
the dull, weary hours I am condemned to pass alone.
She came into the room, closely veiled, and stood with her back against
the closed door. She was calm and self-possessed. I trembled so that I
could scarcely stand.
"Who am I?" she asked.
I heard the question with amazement, not at the words, but at the joyous
tone in which it was asked. I did not answer, and she threw up her
veil, and looked at me with eyes and face sparkling with animation and
delight. It was as though she was playing a part in a masquerade. Never
had I seen her look so well. No trace of anxiety or disquietude was
observable in her. She was the very picture of joyous health and beauty,
an embodiment of apparent innocence and peace of mind. But in my eyes
she was no longer beautiful; I saw her soul through the mask she
presents 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 I
motioned her back sternly, and she stood still and looked at me with a
smile 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 not
love me!"
I pointed to the door, and said:
"It will be best for both of us that our interview shall not be
interrupted. In such houses as this the servants have an awkward habit
of 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 quite
alone--quite, quite alone! You see I am not afraid of you. I thought
you 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 and
hard-hearted. You were not so once, in the sweet days, not so long
ago, of our first acquaintanceship. And how old you have grown--quite
haggard! My dear, gentlemen should not run away from their wives. This
should be a lesson to you. I hope it will be--with all my heart I hope
it will be; indeed, indeed I do! Oh, how I have suffered while you have
been away! And never to send me a letter--not a single line to relieve
my anxiety. It was cruel of you--too, too cruel! I have had the most
horrible dreams of you. I dreamt you were ill, and I could not get to
you--that you were in danger, and I could not help you--that you were
dead, without as much as saying good-bye to your fond, faithful wife! It
was horrible, horrible! Really, my dear, it would be a proper punishment
if 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 for
months, without sending me one message of affection, and now that you
return to London suddenly, and take up your lodging in a mean house like
this, 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 in
a business way."
"It is for business, then," she said, still smiling in my face, "and not
for love, you summoned me here?"
"There is no question of love between us," I replied, and was about to
proceed when she interrupted me.
"You will force me to be as cold and hard-hearted as yourself. The last
time we were together--alone, as we are now--yes, alone, for you dared
not, you dare not, speak in the presence of a third party as you spoke
to me then!--you brought against me a number of false accusations, and
vowed that you would never live with me again. If I had been a man I
would have killed you--do you hear? I would have killed you, and the
words you addressed to me should have been the last you would ever have
spoken. But you took advantage of my weakness, and you insulted me as no
woman in the world was ever insulted. Is it to insult me again that you
have sent for me now to meet you here alone?"
It pleased me that she should adopt this tone. I could cope with her
better when she showed me her true nature. "It is not of the past that
I wish to speak," I said, calmly, "it is of the future."
"But the past must be spoken of," she rejoined vehemently, "and shall
be."
"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 and
for ever!"
"To put an end to _me_, perhaps," she cried, thrusting her face close to
mine in contemptuous defiance, "for once and for ever!"
"At all events," I said, "so far as my own life is concerned. I wish to
shut 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. You
brought against me a charge of unfaithfulness--you accused me of being a
vile 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 thank
you, at least, for your frankness, liar as you are! You accused me of
trumping 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. It
is fortunate for you that I am not. You accused me of setting a snare
for your son, who knew the true particulars of my life, you said, and
who wished to remove the shame I had brought upon your name. My memory
is 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 die
at 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 could
see 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 noticed
that she was secretly watching my face as she spoke: "you are such a
good business man, and you went to America and remained there so long in
the hope of finding him."
"How do you know that?" I inquired. "How do you know, indeed, that I
have 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 my
mouth 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, I
was advised by friends to go to a magistrate, and lay the case before
him."
"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 you
did 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 before
the public. Once in the courts you will find it difficult to escape
them; to lay your life and character bare to official gaze would not
suit you. No, I know how far I am compromised, and I know how far you
will 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," she
said, with an assumption of humility, "for you are my husband. I have no
wish to irritate you, or to unsettle your mind more than it is already
unsettled. There are women who, for less than you have said, for less
than you have done, would have put you into a private madhouse. The
delusions you have been under are very serious to me, but I will bear
them 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 your
child, born during your absence, it would be a sufficient proof of your
insanity."
"I heard in New York that you had a child," I said, "and it brought me
home 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 am
not the father, do I desire to visit the sin of the mother. It would
have become you better--if any suggestion that is good and modest in
woman 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 I
am prompted by but one desire--to avoid the shame which publicity would
bring upon me. For that reason have I kept my return home a secret from
every person but yourself with whom I am acquainted in London; for that
reason I have taken this lodging in an obscure locality, so that I may
confer the more privately with you, and endeavour to bring you to a true
sense of your position. Publicity will bring shame to me; it will bring
beggary to you--absolute beggary. Let that fact sink into your mind;
ponder well over it; and while you think of it let this declaration
which I am about to make have its due weight. If you drive me to the
extremity of forcing you into a public court, and the case be decided
against you, as it must, no persuasion or entreaty shall induce me to
assist you to the value of a shilling in your future. You will have to
depend absolutely upon yourself and your vile associate for your means
of living. You compel me to hold out this threat, which, under other
circumstances, I should deem unmanly and inhuman."
"It _is_ unmanly and inhuman," she said. "Why do you hold out such a
threat?"
"Because, as I have said, it is the only means I can adopt to bring you
to a proper understanding of your position. Shame you could bear, for
you have already borne it, and it has not touched your fatal beauty."
Her vain nature could not but be gratified at this admission, and she
bestowed upon me a radiant smile. "But poverty, if I have the slightest
knowledge of your character, you could not bear. It would be the
bitterest punishment with which you could be visited."
"I can almost imagine," she said, with a keen glance at me, "that you
have been taking a lesson out of your son's book. You tell me you have
not 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--and
such good for such evil! Yet there is something unchristianlike in your
threat, too. You would thrust me into the streets?"
"As you made me thrust my son. As heaven is my judge, I would do it, in
the cause of justice!"
"That is one side of your mind; there is another. Suppose I plead
guilty; suppose I fall upon my knees before you and confess my sin. My
sin! My sins! For they are so many--O, so many!" She said this with a
theatrical air, and then spoke in a soberer tone. "That is a proper mode
of confession for such a woman as you believe me to be. But without
trying to impose upon you, suppose I admit, without any attempt at
romance or deceit--for those acts are played out now, are they not? and
we come to a winding-up of the plot--suppose I am wicked, and guilty of
every 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--your
trinkets, dresses, and ornaments--to leave my house, and never enter it
again as long as you live."
"But if I died, I might haunt you," she said, with a laugh, "though I
assure you I have no intention of dying for a good many years yet. And
then?"
"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 of
your son is very wonderful. It is hardly possible to believe you have
not been conspiring--but of course it would not become me to doubt the
word 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 paid
regularly and faithfully to you so long as you do not violate the
conditions 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 to
ponder, 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. It
affects me more than it does you, for I am young, and have a long life
before me; you are old, and will soon be in your grave. I hope you have
no intention of cheating the law, and marrying again. I can stand a
great deal, but not that. I am a jealous woman, and really loved you for
a few days. You loved me, too, or you lied to me most wickedly. Is there
any 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. Only
the 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 have
offered me?"
"What time do you require?"
"To-day is Wednesday. Two days--that will be Friday. But Friday is
such an unlucky day, and I am so unfortunate! On Saturday--shall it
be Saturday? Will you give me till then? Have pity on me! You will not
refuse me so short a time as three days, in which I am to decide my
fate?"
The words, written down, bear an entirely different construction from
that in which she employed them. Her voice was a voice of mockery, and
upon 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 I
swore to love, honour, and obey. Thank you, so much! Will you not kiss
me, even now? Will you not as much as shake hands with me? Cruel! If I
had known you better, when you begged me to be your wife, I should have
hesitated; I should not have trusted my future to the hands of such a
man. I had my doubts; I said, 'He is too old, he cannot understand a
young 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 your
looking glass, may I not? I am your wife, although you hate me. Thank
you once more. What a pretty glass--and what a sweet room! I could live
here with you for ever, if you loved and cared to have me. But it can
never be, can it? You have found me out. O, how dreadful it is to be
found out! Worse for a woman than for a man--a thousand, thousand times
worse! My hair has grown longer since I last saw you--don't you think
so? And thicker. Feel it. No? How miserable you are! Did you ever really
love me, I wonder? If I were a man, and loved a woman as pretty as I
am--you can't deny that I _am_ pretty; when I walk through the streets
with my veil up, nine men out of ten stop and turn to look at me; that's
why I wear my veil down. A married woman! They should be ashamed of
themselves. But what can a pretty woman do? What was I saying? O, I
remember. If I were a man, and loved a woman as good-looking as I am, I
would go through fire and water for her. I would, indeed! What a woman
wants is love, devotion--perfect devotion--and liberty to do whatever
she 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 in
generosity. I may love, but I will never marry--never, never! You men
are either fools or something worse--and women, too, are fools when they
sell themselves for money, as I did, and tie themselves to creatures who
can'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 were
more men in the world like you. See how happy you have made me--see
what you have brought me to!"
She sank upon a chair, and covered her face with her hands, and I
saw tears stealing between her fingers--but I saw, also, that she was
watching 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, and
whether other men were suffering as I was suffering. All the while she
was talking she was arranging her hair, and displaying it to the best
advantage. Heaven knows how old she is, but as she stood before me,
turning occasionally, looking at me through the masses of fair hair
which fell around her face, she did not appear to be more than eighteen.
Her beauty, her appeals, the tender modulations of her voice, produced
no other effect upon me than that of wonder and disgust. I did not allow
this 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 purposely
prolonged. Then, before putting on her hat and cloak, she asked me for a
glass of wine. I had none, and I gave her a glass of water; she tasted
it, and threw the rest away, saying:
"My dear, you should drink wine. It is good for old men; it is
nourishing."
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 my
intention 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 by
name, I simply asked if a gentleman was in who had taken a lodging here
yesterday. The servant answered that he was, and directed me to your
room. She did not even see my face. You see how I am endeavouring to
fall in with all your wishes--anticipating them, even. But I love a
mystery dearly. Good day, my dear. Till Saturday. I will be here,
punctually at twelve. Shall I kiss baby for you? No? You are
incorrigible."
And with nods and pleasant smiles she left me, pulling her veil close
over her face.
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