MR. HOLDFAST'S DIARY.
Thursday, _3rd July_.--No news of my son. I see by this morning's papers
that another vessel has arrived at Liverpool from New York. It left four
days after the "Germanic," so that, up to that time, Frederick could not
have called at the hotel for the letter and money waiting there for
him. I am growing seriously uneasy. He could not have mistaken my desire
for a reconciliation. What can have become of him? He was in poor
circumstances. Was he absolutely in want? If he is dead, his death lies
at my door. A heavy lot is mine. I shall never again know peace of mind
until I and Frederick clasp hands once more in love and friendship.
Perhaps the secret enemy in New York who worked against me--watching my
movements and in some mysterious way becoming acquainted with every step
I took--was working also against my son, watching him and misdirecting
him, as I was misdirected. It is not an unlikely supposition. As I was
sent in one direction in search of him, he may have been sent in another
in search of me. Thus have we been kept apart from each other. It is
certain that, shortly after he called at my hotel, he must have left New
York. My hope is, that nothing worse than poverty has befallen him. I am
appalled at the thought that he may have been made to disappear, and may
never more be heard of. It has been the fate of many a poor fellow in
that fevered city. I pray to God that my fears may not prove true.
The people in this house are very quiet. They do not appear to entertain
the slightest curiosity concerning me. I walk in and out as few times
as possible, and I have not met one of the lodgers face to face. A man
might live here for years in perfect obscurity, and die and be buried
without being recognised, if he pleased. There is no lonelier city in
the world than London.
What is my wife doing? Taking counsel of her accomplice, Pelham, and
debating with him whether she shall accept the terms I have offered her.
She _must_ accept them; she has no alternative but the alternative of
poverty and exposure. A life of pleasure is before her; it is all she
lives for, and the income she will receive from me will secure it.
But should she refuse? No, she will not refuse. With such a cool,
calculating villain as Pelham to counsel her, the risk of a public
exposure is small.
* * * * *
_Friday, 4th July._--The quietest of days. Since Wednesday I have not
exchanged a word with a human being. No one takes the slightest notice
of me as I walk in and out. Still no news of my son. To-morrow my wife
will be here, and there will be an end to my state of inaction.
* * * * *
_Saturday, 5th July._--The second interview with my wife has
terminated. She could have had no intention of putting me on my guard,
but she has done so, and on Monday I shall take a step which will
prevent injustice being done to my son, in case he is alive.
My wife came into my room, as on the last occasion, closely veiled, and
with spirits as animated.
"My love," she said, removing her hat and cloak, and throwing them on
the bed, "not a soul saw me. The servant girl, with her face as black as
coal, opened the door, and asked what I wanted. 'The gentleman on the
first floor,' I said, and pushed past her. And do you know I took the
precaution to disguise my voice. She wouldn't recognise me if she heard
me speak in my natural voice. I did this for your sake, my dear--you are
so anxious for secrecy. Am I not considerate? I don't mind being seen
and known, for I have nothing to conceal, but I must obey you. And how
have you been all this time? Well, I hope. How foolish you are to remain
cooped up in this miserable house when you have a comfortable home
waiting for you! I have expected you--upon my word I have; and your room
is ready for you, with a nice fire always burning, and your slippers,
placed right and left, just by your arm-chair. O, I know what a wife's
duty is. Let me prevail upon you. Come home with me now. I will not
reproach you--indeed I will not. I will be just as faithful and loving
as I have ever been."
She paused for my answer.
"You are wasting time," I said. "You know well that I shall never again
enter my house while you are there!"
"My dear," she said, tapping my arm lightly with a pearl fan I had given
her, "you cannot entirely deceive me. I have been thinking a great deal.
It is my belief you are a Don Juan. I had my suspicions when you first
made love to me--an old gentleman like you falling in love with a girl
like me, because I have a pretty face, and bright eyes, and a lovely
mouth. You were fond of kissing it once--O, you men, you men! Will
artless women ever be a match for you? I am afraid never, you speak so
softly, and promise so much. Yes, I have been thinking a great deal, and
I know all about it now. I know why you have been absent so long; I know
why you come unexpectedly to London, and hide yourself as you are doing;
I know why you will not enter your house while I am there."
She paused again, and half sullenly, half gaily, gave me to understand
that she expected me to challenge her knowledge.
"It is of no interest to me," I said, "but it may bring us nearer to our
real business if I ask you for information on these points."
"Why," she said, with an impudent laugh, "there is another lady in the
case, of course, who is to step into my shoes. It is useless denying it.
Old men are not to be trusted. Come, my dear, make a clean breast of it.
I won't scold you more than I can help. It is quite natural, though. I
have my feelings as a woman, and I warn your new fancy to keep out of my
path. You must have been a sad rake when you were young--almost as bad
as your son, who made love to me in the most shameful manner; to me, his
second mother."
I scorned to pursue the subject. Wilful, wicked, sinful and cunning, as
she was, I felt that to a certain extent it would be as well to let her
have her way with her tongue.
"When you have fully relieved your mind," I said coldly, "I am ready to
enter into the business matter which brings us together."
But she had not yet done.
"Fie!" she exclaimed. "Business--business--business! How often are you
going to use that word? Is love a business, then? You can tell me, for
you must have had hundreds of sad adventures. I have had very few as
yet, but there is time for plenty more. My dear, I positively refuse to
enter into our special little affair until you assure me there is no
other lady in the case."
Compelled to reply, I said, "There is none."
She mocked me with a deep sigh, saying, "You have taken a weight off my
heart," and then in a brisk tone, "And now, my dear, we will go into
matters." She drew her chair close to the table, and produced a dainty
little pocket-book, in which she consulted some slips of paper, a few
of them covered with figures. "You offer me," she said, "twelve hundred
pounds a year, upon conditions which will cover me with disgrace, and
make people point at me. Is that correct?"
"Not quite," I replied. "You have omitted that you are to live out of
England in any name you choose except the name of Holdfast. Your new
acquaintances will know nothing of your past life."
"It will be a miracle if it is hidden from them," she said, betraying a
method in her speech which proved that she had carefully rehearsed what
she came prepared to say. "I do not intend to live in a desert. If I am
driven by your cruelty from the country I love, and where, with money, a
lady may enjoy all the pleasures of life, I shall live on the Continent,
in France, Italy, Germany, where I please, but certainly where I can
best enjoy myself. English people travel everywhere, and I shall be sure
to drop across old acquaintances, or, at least, people who know me at
sight. My face is too pretty to be forgotten. Perhaps you will admit
that I cannot lose myself entirely, and that Lydia Holdfast, by whatever
name she goes, will always be Lydia Holdfast in the eyes of casual or
close acquaintances."
"I shall not relate my troubles to any one," I observed, as yet ignorant
of her intention in adopting this line of argument, "nor need you, if
you choose to preserve silence."
"Have you not already spoken of what has occurred?" she asked, with a
keen glance at me. "Have you not already selected confidants to whom you
have poured out false stories of your wrongs?"
"No man or woman in the world possesses my confidence. My griefs are
sacred."
"How poetical! But although we shall not talk, other people will. Men
and women are so charitable! They don't like scandal, and it hurts them
so much to rob even the most innocent woman of her character! No, no, my
love; I know the world better than to believe that. Not that I have ever
taken away a character, man or woman's, but then everybody is not like
me, artless, and simple, and inexperienced!" (No words of mine can
convey an idea of the impudent manner in which she thus lauded herself,
knowing the while and knowing that I knew, that she was speaking in
mockery. If she desired to irritate me by this exhibition of effrontery,
she failed. I preserved my composure throughout the entire scene. She
continued:) "So, my character would be completely taken away, and ladies
with whom I should wish to be on friendly terms would turn their backs
upon me. I should be thrown into the company of women who would not be
admitted into a decent house, and of men whose only aim would be to
pass their time agreeably and play upon my feelings. My dear, I am fond
of good society; I doat upon it; and it breaks my heart to think that
respectability would shrug its respectable shoulders at me. It is right
that I should put it plainly to you, is it not?"
"Go on," I said, "you have more to say, and have come prepared."
"Oh, yes, I am prepared, you see. I am obliged to consult my notes, my
poor little head is so weak. You remember how I used to suffer with it,
and how often you bathed it for me. Gold would not have been too good
for me to eat then, would it? A look would bring you at my feet; you
could not do enough for me; and now, I daresay, you would like to give
me a dose of poison. What courage I must have to shut myself in here
with you alone, where nobody knows either of us, and where you might
murder me, and run away without fear of discovery! It is the courage of
innocence, my dear. Where did I leave off just now? O, about my being
deprived of respectable society, and thrust into the company of
blackguards. And for this, and for giving up my beautiful home and
position and forfeiting my good name, you offer me twelve hundred
pounds a year. And you, worth millions!"
"You mistake. My business is broken up, and I am not so rich as you
suppose."
"You are a miser, my dear. You are worth at least ten thousand a year. I
do not forget what you told me when you honoured me with your love and
confidence. At least ten thousand, and I am to accept twelve hundred.
My darling husband, it is not enough. Wherever I live I shall require
an establishment. I have your daughter to bring up--the darlingest
little thing you ever saw! You shall not see her now if I can prevent
it--casting shame upon her, as you have done, before she has learnt to
say Mama! I will do my duty by her--a mother's duty, and a father's
duty as well, and I will bring her up to hate you. If you live long
enough you shall be made to feel it. And now, when she cannot speak for
herself, I am to stand like a tame cat, and see her robbed! She is to
be made a beggar. Such a beautiful girl as she will have to go in rags,
because the father who disowns her is a mean, stingy monster. I hope I
do not offend you, my dear, but the truth is the truth, and had best be
spoken. Yes, she will be beautiful--but beauty and beggary---- Well, we
know what becomes of that partnership. She shall not be compelled to
sell herself, as I did, to an old money-bag, with no heart, and you
shall not cheat her and me of what is due to us. No, my dear, I stand up
for my child, as every mother should."
"Tell me," I said, "in as few words as possible, what it is you want."
"I shall use," she replied, "as many words as I please. You would like
to rob me of my tongue as well as of my rights. What is it I want? An
establishment--money to provide a suitable home for your discarded
child."
"How much money."
"Three thousand pounds--not less."
"You shall have it; in addition to the annuity I have offered you."
"How generous you are! What a pity you were not a young man when you
met me first! We might really have got on very well together for a few
years, until you were tired of me or I was of you. Three thousand pounds
will be little enough to furnish with, but I must manage. Then there's
the house; and living abroad is so expensive. It is like going into
exile--the same as those dear French refugees. It will cost at least
three thousand a year; I can't see how it is to be done for less. And
to wait every quarter for the cheque to pay servants, and butchers, and
bakers, and dressmakers. No, my dear, it would be too harassing--it
would be the death of me. So I have consulted a friend--a lady
friend--you don't believe me? You think it's a gentleman friend. Well,
my dear, I shall not quarrel with you on that point. Say a gentleman
friend, then; I'm not particular. He has advised me not to place any
dependence on a man who has treated me as you have done. He is right. I
will not place dependence on you. I will not take your word, and I will
not be satisfied with a paper drawn up by a lawyer of your choosing.
Lawyers are rogues; they will do anything for money, and you are rich
enough to buy them. No, my darling husband, it must be a sum of money
down, and then we will say good bye, and agree never to kiss and be
friends. It would be as if we had never known each other."
Desirous to ascertain how far her cupidity had led her, or rather the
extent of the demand her associate Pelham had instructed her to make,
I pressed her to be quite explicit. With some show of timidity--for
the stake she was playing for was enormous--she wrote upon a leaf in
her pocket-book the sum for which she would agree to release me. It
was fifty thousand pounds. I tore the leaf in two and threw it into
the fireplace, with the simple word, "Impossible."
"Why impossible?" she asked, biting her lips, with a wicked look at me.
"It is more than half my fortune," I replied.
"I am entitled to more than half," she retorted. "I shall have your
child to educate and provide for, and a woman's expenses are larger
than a man's. Dress, amusements, nurses, governesses--there are a
thousand things to pay for which you would never dream of. What I ask
for is really moderate. You are lucky you have not to deal with some
women; they would not let you off so easily. Let me persuade you, my
dear. Put an end to all this worry, give me a cheque, and let us say
good-bye to each other."
"I shall put an end to it, if you compel me," I said, firmly, "in the
manner I have determined upon, in the event of your refusal to listen to
reason. In right and justice you are not entitled to a shilling; your
shameful life should properly meet its just punishment, and would, at
the hands of a man less weak--I will not say less merciful--than I.
The terms I have offered you are foolishly liberal, but I will adhere
to them, and am ready to bind myself to them, unless you drive me to
another course. I will give you the three thousand pounds you ask for
to set up and furnish a house, and I shall require proof that the money
is so expended. But as for any other large sum of money down, as you
express it, in lieu of the annuity I offer you, or any increase of that
annuity, receive from me the distinct assurance that under no possible
circumstances shall I consent to it. If I could find plainer and
stronger words to impress this upon you, I would do so, but I think you
understand me. The friend who is advising you is advising you to your
injury, and is mistaken in me. There is a point beyond which it is
dangerous to drive me, and if I once turn, you will find yourself a
beggar."
"You are growing bold, my love," she said.
"You are mistaken again," I said. "If I were bold, I should order you
immediately from this room. If I were bold, I should set the lawyers at
work without an hour's delay. But recrimination is useless, and can lead
to no good result. Why do you conduct yourself like an actress when we
two are alone, and there are no witnesses to be misled or deceived? We
know each other. No argument could convince you that I am anything but
a weak, old man, who in an unhappy moment entrusted his honour to one
who brought shame and misery to his heart and home, or could convince
me that you are a good and virtuous woman. Why, then, should we prolong
this interview? I made you a most generous offer. You asked me for three
days to consider it, and now you come, and for some purpose--not a wise
one, I judge--introduce propositions to which you can never induce me to
agree."
"I am fighting for my rights," she said sullenly, and I knew that I had
made an impression upon her. "You have ruined my life; I might have
married a richer man than you. Why did you spoil my chances? It would be
a million times better for me if you were dead, for then your property
would all be mine, instead of the miserable allowance you offer me."
She suddenly paused, conscious that she had made a mistake. It is likely
that she was apprised of her error by an expression in my face produced
by her words, for it is a fact that up to this moment I had forgotten
that I had made a Will by which everything I possessed was left to her,
solely and unconditionally. I had made this Will in haste, after I had
broken with my son, who at that time was my heir. It was a proof of my
confidence in the woman who betrayed me--one of those foolish acts of
which angry men are often guilty, done in haste, to be repented of in
leisure unless timefully atoned for. Thank God there is time to repair
this error!
I gave no expression to my thoughts; it was necessary to be careful
in the presence of such a woman as my wife. But so anxious was she
to assure herself of the exact position in which she stood that she
over-reached herself in her cunning.
"Have you made another Will?" she asked.
"No," I replied. "There is time before me; I am not yet quite
broken-down."
She breathed more freely, and said meekly, "Yes, there is time before
you in which you can dispossess me and my child. When this dreadful
dispute is over, I shall have no further claim upon you. Are you really
determined not to be a little more generous to me? Will you not give me
fifteen hundred a year?"
I was not to be deceived by her mock humility; heaven only knows what
was hidden beneath it.
"I am not to be moved," I said, "and there must be an end at once to
prevarication. Your answer must be 'yes,' or 'no,' and it must be given
quickly."
"To-day?" she asked.
"If not to-day, at least within the next three or four days," I replied.
"I will no longer be kept in a state of suspense."
She looked at me with a sad expression, which might have deceived
another man.
"On Wednesday, then," she said, "at two o'clock, I will give you my
final answer. It must be 'Yes,' of course, for you are strong and I am
weak, but I will wait till then. I am bound to consult my friend before
I commit myself."
All her gaiety appeared to have deserted her. In silence she put on her
hat and shawl, and bade me good morning, saying she would come at two
o'clock on Wednesday.
I mistrust her; I will delay no longer. On Monday I will draw out
another Will, making my son my heir, and in case of his not being
alive--which God forbid!--leaving my money to charitable purposes.
It is a relief to reflect that my anxiety regarding my wife will soon be
at an end. She cannot but consent to my proposal, and then I shall be
free from her for ever. Would to God I had never seen her!
* * * * *
_Sunday, 6th July._--This has been truly a Sabbath Day, a day of prayer,
to me, and has been passed in contemplation of my past life, and in
supplications for the future. If a man could but see the consequences of
his errors before he was committed to them, how much misery to himself,
how much injustice to others, would be avoided! It is almost incredible
that, blessed in the memory of a wife with a pure heart and mind, I
should have been led into a second marriage with such a woman as Lydia
Wilson. The fault was more mine than hers. She had led a life of shame
and duplicity, and it was not to be expected that the simple forming of
an acquaintanceship with me would change her character. I should have
been wiser, or at least more prudent. I ought certainly to have made an
inquiry into the truth or falsehood of the story she told me, or I might
have considered that the union of a man of my age with a woman of hers
could not be a happy one. It is too late now to repent of an act which
has brought its own just and bitter punishment. The only reparation I
can make is to endeavour to repair the evil consequences which have
ensued. The one aim of my life, after the settlement with my wife is
accomplished, will be to find my son. I will advertise for him in the
English and American newspapers, and this surely will bring me news of
him. But it may not be necessary; he may be with me any time this week.
If a father's prayers could bring him to my side he would be here at
this moment.
* * * * *
_Monday, 7th July._--I have been employed during a great part of the day
in preparing and writing a new Will. Not wishing to consult a lawyer and
so to make known my presence in London, and fearful also of delay, I
purchased at a stationer's shop, at some distance from Great Porter
Square, printed forms of Wills from which I drew out a testamentary
disposition of my property. This task occupied me until four o'clock
in the afternoon, and the next task was to obtain witnesses to my
signature. These could have been obtained in the house, but if I had
attempted it I should have destroyed my incognito. I went to the shop
of the stationer of whom I purchased the printed forms, and I returned
them to him, and made some small purchases, to the amount of a couple
of sovereigns. I then asked the shopkeeper whether he would have any
objection to witnessing my signature to a Will, and to allowing an
assistant who was serving in the shop also to witness it. He consented,
and I signed without giving him a clear opportunity of distinguishing my
name; the names of the witnesses followed, and the Will was complete. In
payment of the service rendered to me I left in the man's shop the goods
I had bought and paid for; I had no use for them.
The Will is before me now, and I have read it carefully over. Everything
appears to be stated in proper legal form, and I have no doubt that it
sets my last Will completely aside. What I have done myself without the
aid of lawyers has been simply a measure of precaution for the next few
days. Wednesday, I hope, will be the last day of my enforced retirement.
* * * * *
_Wednesday, 8th July._--It is now four o'clock. My wife entered my room
at one o'clock, an hour before that appointed for our meeting. I did
not hear her step on the stairs or in the passage, and not expecting her
I was looking over the Will I made yesterday and the pages of the diary
I have kept since I became a lodger in this house. As she entered,
suddenly and unexpectedly, I threw a newspaper over my writing, not
wishing to excite her suspicions or to arouse her curiosity; but, as I
soon discovered, I was not successful. She was in her usual gay mood,
and came in with smiles and bright looks.
"Well, my dear," she said, "here I am, punctual to the minute."
"You are an hour too early," I replied, "our appointment was for two
o'clock."
"One o'clock, my dear," she said, correcting me.
"It is immaterial," I said, "and if it bring our business to a speedier
conclusion, the mistake of an hour will be agreeable to me."
She nodded pleasantly, and, as in our previous interviews, took off her
hat and mantle, and placed them aside.
"You have been busy," she said, pointing to the newspaper which covered
my papers. "Are you writing a book?" I did not answer her, and she
continued, still preserving her light tone. "Make me your heroine, my
love, but do not be too hard to me. Say something good of me if you can.
You may say that, after all, I showed my good sense, and agreed to your
proposals."
"Am I to accept this as an acquiescence in the arrangement I have
proposed?"
"Yes, my dear; I have grown sensible. I give in to all your terms. I
will go away from England, and will never, never return. I will give up
the name of Holdfast; I will even forget the name of Lydia, and will go
out into the world a new woman. A better one, I hope. There is but one
thing I insist upon. Now that I have made up my mind, and that nothing
can alter it--nothing, my dear; I would not live with you again if you
were to entreat me on your knees--I want this business matter settled at
once, this very day."
"How can that be done?" I asked.
"Easily," she replied. "Draw up a paper for me to sign, and another for
you to sign. I will take them away with me, and will show them to my
lawyer. Yes, my love, I have consulted a lawyer, and he has advised me
to agree to all you propose. If he says the papers are properly drawn
out, I will come again to-night, at ten o'clock, and will bring my
lawyer with me, to see that they are regularly signed. I will keep
my agreement, and you will keep yours, and to-morrow morning I will
leave your house, and you can go home and take possession. Nobody but
ourselves will be the wiser, and your secret and mine will never be
known to the world."
"I am no lawyer," I said; "I do not know whether I can draw up the
agreement in legal form."
"Try, my love," she said; "you are fond of writing, and have had great
experience. You can put anything you please in the paper you wish me to
sign. You can make it, if you like, a confession from me that I have
been a faithless wife, and that my child is not yours. I will sign it.
That will suit you, will it not? And it will give you such a hold upon
me that, if I break my word, you can release yourself from me, without
ever paying me a shilling. That is fair, I am sure, and afterwards,
if you are not satisfied with the agreements, your lawyer can draw up
others more binding on both of us. I am so sick of you, my love, that
nothing else will satisfy me but an immediate break between us. Do I not
put myself entirely in your power? If you refuse now, I shall leave you
to take any steps against me you choose."
I considered a few moments, and then consented. To go to law, to sue for
a divorce, was a matter of months. The plan she proposed was all in my
favour, and it would leave me free to recommence immediately the search
for my son. I would draw up such a paper as would bind her beyond hope
of appeal, and all danger of publicity would be avoided.
"Who is your lawyer?" I asked.
She produced a letter from a lawyer in Buckingham Palace Road replying
to certain points she had submitted to him. I was satisfied, and said
that I would endeavour to draw up the agreements.
It was a work of time--of quite two hours--and while I was employed over
the papers she sat down before the piano in my room, which I had never
opened, and played the sweetest melodies with which she was familiar.
She betrayed no impatience; only once did she rise from the piano,
and disarranged the papers on the table, in pretended search of her
handkerchief.
"Quite an author," she remarked as her eyes fell upon the pages of my
diary, among which was my new Will.
Nothing of greater importance occurred. The agreements being ready, she
read them over slowly, and simply said:
"You have protected yourself, my love."
"I have stated the truth," I replied, "and your signature will verify
it."
She remained with me some short time after this, making frivolous
remarks, to which I returned but brief answers. Then she left me, on the
understanding that she would come to the house at ten o'clock to sign
the papers, which she took with her.
On reflection, I think it will be wise even now to be on my guard
against her. She saw the pages of my diary, and might have seen the
Will. I will put them out of her reach. The room next to this is empty,
and the door is unlocked. I will go and see if I can secrete them
there.... There is in that room, in an old-fashioned table, an empty
drawer which might easily escape observation. There is a small key in
the lock. I will deposit these pages at once in the drawer, where they
will be safe for a few hours.
My long agony is approaching its end. Impatiently I wait for the night.