FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).
All the colour died out of her face, and I saw that I had frightened
her.
"How do you know?" she asked, in a faint tone.
"That is my secret," I replied. "It should be sufficient for you that I
do know, and that I have evidence at hand for a full exposure of your
proceedings."
"Your own evidence will not be strong enough," she said. "Hating me as
you do, you can invent any wicked story you please--it does not require
a very clever man to do things of that kind. It has been done over
and over again, and the question then is, whose word has the greatest
influence? My husband will take my word against yours; I promise you
that."
"I am aware of the power you have over him, and I am prepared."
"In what way are you prepared?"
"Shall I tell you how many cabs you took this morning, and their
numbers?"
"You cannot do it."
"I can; and I can tell you, moreover, where you engaged and where you
discharged them; and what shops you went to and how long you were in
each. When I relate your wretched story to my father I shall be able to
verify every detail of the accusation I shall bring against you."
"You have had me watched!" she cried.
"It was necessary. You are a clever woman." (Even in this terrible
crisis of her fate, the vanity of this creature, unparalleled in
wickedness, asserted itself, and an expression of gratification passed
into her face as I called her a clever woman.) "My father's nature in
some respects resembles Sydney's, and especially in its loyalty to love
and friendship. Upon Sydney no impression could be made against any
person in whom he had confidence, unless the most distinct proof could
be produced--the evidence of his own senses or of witnesses upon whom he
could implicitly rely. So would it be with my father. On my honour, you
can no longer live in this house. I cannot permit you for another day to
impose upon a gentleman whom I love and honour."
She gazed at me in admiration. "How beautifully you speak! Your words
are like knives--they cut into my heart. You have brought my guilt home
to me, O, how clearly! Yes, I _am_ guilty! I confess it! I yield; I
cannot struggle with such a skilful enemy as you. O, if you knew what
relief you have given me! I was so weary! I am glad you were not weak--I
am glad you had no pity upon me. I am sick of the deception I have been
compelled--yes, compelled!--to practice against a good man. And he is
not the only one--there have been others, miserable woman that I am. O,
what an unhappy weary life mine has been! I have been driven and driven
by a villain who has preyed upon me since I was a child. Ah, if you knew
the whole truth, if I could lay bare my heart, you would not utterly
condemn me! You would say, 'Poor child! she has been more sinned against
than sinning!' Are not those the words used to persons who have been
innocently led into error? And they are true of me! If I have sinned I
have been driven to it, and I have been sinned against--indeed, indeed I
have! But I don't want to turn you in my favour. You must do your duty,
and I must meet my punishment, now that everything is discovered. It
might have been different with me if it had been my happiness to meet
a man like you when I was young. I am young still--I look it, don't I?
and it makes me feel all the more wicked. But I feel a hundred years
old--quite a hundred--and O, so tired and worn out! I could have looked
up to you, I could have respected you, and you would have taught me what
was right and what was wrong. But it was not to be--and it is too late
now, is it not? Yes, I see in your face that it is too late. What are
you going to do with me? You will not be too, too cruel? I am wicked, I
feel--you have made me feel it, and I am so thankful to you! but unless
I make away with myself (and I am afraid to do that; I should be afraid
to die)--unless I did that, which I should never have the courage to do,
I shall live a good many years yet. My fate is in your hands. What are
you going to do with me?"
I did not attempt to interrupt her, nor to stem her singularly-worded
appeal. "Your fate," I said, "is in your own hands, not in mine. I can
show you how you can avoid an open exposure, and secure for yourself an
income sufficiently large to live in comfort all your life."
"Can you?" she exclaimed, clasping her hands. "O, how good you are!"
"The line of action," I said, "I advise you to adopt is the best for all
parties implicated in this miserable business, and is the most merciful
both to you and my father."
She interrupted me with, "Never, never, shall I be able to repay you. It
is almost as if you were a lawyer looking after my interests, and as if
I were one of your favourite clients. You cannot hate me, after all, or
you would never advise me as you are doing. What line of action--how
beautifully you express yourself; such language only comes to the good
and clever--what line of action do you advise me to adopt?"
"First, I must ask you, as between ourselves, to enlighten me as to
Mr. Pelham. I know that you are still keeping up an intimacy with your
infamous lover, but I must have it from your own lips."
"So that you may not have cause to reproach yourself afterwards, if you
should happen to find out that I am not so bad as you believe me to be!
Yes, I will confess; I will not attempt to deceive you. He still holds
his power over me, but you are not entirely right in the way you put it.
You _are_ in calling him infamous, but you are wrong when you call him
my lover. I am not so bad as that; but I cannot escape from him. Why,"
she said, and her voice sank to a whisper, "do you know that I have
to supply him with money, that he lives upon me, and that he has so
entangled and deceived me that I should laugh if I were to see him lying
dead at my feet!"
"What I require of you is this," I said, not attempting to follow her
into the currents to which her strange utterances would lead me. "You
will write down a full confession of all matters relating to yourself
which affect the honour of my father. The confession must be full and
complete, and you will place it in my hands, and leave the house, and
within a week afterwards you will leave the country. You will pledge
yourself never to set foot again in England, and never to attempt to
see or speak with my father. In return I will secure to you an income
which shall be paid to you regularly, so long as you do not break the
conditions of the contract."
"How hard!" she said, plaintively. "I am so fond of England! There is
no other country in the world worth living in. And I have grown so
attached to this house! I am so happy here, so very, very happy! I must
think a little--you will not mind, will you? And you will forgive me if
I say anything wrong! Even if there was what you call an open exposure,
and your father were to believe every word you speak against me, I am
still his wife, and he would be compelled to make me an allowance. Then
I could live where I please. These things come to my mind, I suppose,
because I have not a soul in the world to help me--not a soul, not a
friend! Do you not see that I am speaking reasonably?"
"I am not so sure," I said. "Were the affair made public, my father
would adopt his own course. He can be stern as well as tender, and were
his name dragged into the mud because of his connection with you, it is
most likely he would institute an inquiry which might bring to light
circumstances which you would rather should be hidden both from his
knowledge and from the knowledge of the world. You know best about that;
I am not so shallow-witted as to suppose that I am acquainted with all
the particulars of your career; but I am on the track, and the task of
discovery would not be difficult."
"You are pitiless!" she cried. "Sydney Campbell would never have spoken
to me as you are speaking."
"His nature was different from mine, but he was jealous of his honour,
too. I wish to make the position very clear to you. Even were nothing
worse than what is already known to be discovered against you, and my
father consented to make you an allowance--of which I am not at all
sure--it would not be as large as that I am prepared to secure to you.
That aspect of the matter is worth your consideration."
"How much a year do you propose?" she asked, after a slight pause.
"Not less than a thousand a year. I will undertake that my father shall
make you that, or even a larger allowance, upon the conditions I have
stated."
"In my confession am I to relate _all_ that passed between Sydney
Campbell and myself? You think I did not love him. You are mistaken. I
loved him deeply, and had he lived he would soon have been at my feet
again."
"You are to omit nothing," I said; "my father must know all."
She looked at me so piteously that for a moment a doubt intruded itself
whether there might not be circumstances in her history with which I
was unacquainted which, instead of more strongly condemning her, might
entitle her to compassion; but too stern a duty was before me to allow
the doubt to remain.
"You will give me a few hours to decide," she implored. "The shock is so
sudden! I am at your mercy. Grant me a few hours' respite! You will not,
you cannot refuse!"
I had no intention of refusing, but as if overcome by her feelings, she
seized my hands and pressed them to her lips and her eyes, which were
wet with tears. I was endeavouring to release myself when the door
opened, and her maid appeared.
"What do you want--what do you want?" cried my father's wife, as she
flung herself from me. "How dare you come in without knocking!"
"I knocked, madam," replied the maid, "but you could not have heard. I
thought you rang."
"I did not ring. Leave the room."
The maid retired, and we were once more alone.
"I will give you to till to-morrow," I said, "and then there must be an
end to this deception."
"There shall be--there shall be!" she exclaimed. "Oh, how I thank you!
But I will not wait till to-morrow. No--the sooner the blow is struck,
the sooner my sufferings will be over. Your father is engaged out this
evening. He will not be home till eleven or twelve. At ten I will tell
you how I have decided--perhaps by that time I may have commenced my
confession. It is just--I see how just it is--that your father shall not
remain another night in ignorance."
"As you please," I said; "at ten to-night. Where shall I see you?"
"Here," she replied. "I shall not be able to come down stairs. My
strength is quite, quite gone."
So it was decided, and I left her. I did not see my father during the
day, and at ten o'clock I presented myself at her door, and knocked.
There was no answer, and observing that the door was partly open I
gently pushed it, and entered the room. My father's wife was sitting
with her back to me, reading. As she did not appear to be aware of my
presence, I called to her. She started to her feet, and turned to me.
Then I saw, to my surprise, that her hair was hanging down, that her
slippered feet were bare, and that she wore a loose dressing gown.
"My God!" she screamed. "Why do you come to my room at such an hour
in this unexpected manner?" And as she spoke she pulled the bell
violently.
Failing to understand the meaning of her words, I stammered something
about an appointment, at which she laughed, then burst into tears,
crying,
"Spare me, oh spare me, and your father from the shame! Confess that you
have spoken under the influence of a horrible dream!"
What other words she uttered I do not clearly remember; they referred
vaguely to the proposition I had made to her, and in the midst of a
passionate speech her maid entered the room. She ran to the maid,
exclaiming,
"Thank God you have come!" And then to me, "Leave the room instantly,
and never let me look upon your face again! From my lips, this very
night, shall your father hear an account of all that has passed between
you and me!"
The maid stood between me and her mistress, and I deemed it prudent
to take my departure. I passed a sleepless night, thinking of the
inexplicable conduct of this woman and of the shock the discovery of her
infamy would be to my father. I longed to be with him to console him and
comfort him, and I waited impatiently for daylight. At eight o'clock in
the morning I jumped from bed, glad that the weary night was over, and
as I began to dress, I heard a tap at the door. I asked who was there,
and was answered by a servant, who said that my father desired me to go
to him in his study the moment I awoke. I sent word that I would come
immediately, and dressing hastily I went to his room.
He was standing, with a sterner look upon his face than I had ever seen.
He was pale and haggard, and it was evident that his night had been as
sleepless as mine. I was advancing to him with a feeling of pity and
sympathy, when he said,
"Stand where you are. Do not move another step towards me."
We stood, gazing upon each other in silence for a minute or two. Then I
said,
"You have not slept, sir."
"I have not slept. When I left Mrs. Holdfast last night, I came to my
study, and have been here all the night, waiting for daylight--and you."
"You have heard bad news, sir," I said.
"I have heard what I would have given my fortune and my life had never
been spoken. It is incredible that one whom I loved should bring
dishonour upon my name and shame into my house!"
Here I must pause for a moment or two. When I commenced this statement
I had no idea that it would stretch out to its present length, and so
anxious am I that it should reach you as early as possible that I will
shorten the description of what remains to be told. Prepare to be
shocked and amazed--as I myself was shocked and amazed at the revelation
made to me that morning in my father's study, on that last morning I
ever spent in his house. You think you know the character of this woman
who plays with men's lives and honour as though they were toys to amuse
an idle hour. You do not yet comprehend the depths of infamy to which
such a nature as hers can descend. Nor did I until I left my father's
house, never to return.
She had, as she declared she would, made a confession to my father
during the night; it was not a confession of her own shameful life, but
an invention so horrible as almost, at the time I heard it, to deprive
me of the power of speech. She accused me of playing the lover to
her; she described me as a profligate of the vilest kind. She made my
father believe that from the moment I saw her I filled her ears with
protestations and proposals which I should be ashamed to repeat to one
as pure and innocent as yourself. Day after day, hour after hour, she
had followed out the plan she had devised to shut me from my father's
heart and deprive me of his love, and so skilfully and artfully were all
the details guided by her wicked mind that, presented as they were to
my father with tears, and sobs, and tremblings, he could scarcely avoid
believing in their truth. Twice on the previous day--so her story
ran--had I forced myself into her private room; once in the morning
when my father was in his city office, and again in the night when she
was about to retire to rest, and when I knew that my father was not in
the house. Unfortunately, as she said, for she would have preferred
that a scandal so shameful should have no chance of becoming public,
her maid entered the room on both occasions, and witnessed portions of
the scenes. In the morning, when her maid intruded herself, she had
dismissed her, and thereafter implored me to leave her in peace. In the
evening I was so violent that she had to seek protection from her maid.
She called the maid, who corroborated her in every particular; and she
produced other evidence against me in the shape of the locket I had worn
on my chain. When she handed this locket to my father it contained a
portrait of myself--a small head carefully cut from a photograph--and
she declared that I had forced the likeness upon her, and had insisted
upon her wearing it. She said that she had endeavoured by every means in
her power to wean me from my guilty passion; that a dozen times she had
been on the point of exposing me to her husband, but had always been
prevented by a feeling of tenderness for him and by a hope, which grew
fainter and fainter every day, that I might awake from my folly; that
no woman had ever been subjected to such cruel persecution and had ever
suffered so much as she had; and that, at length, unable to keep the
horrible secret to herself, she had resolved to impart it to her
husband, and throw herself upon his protection.
Nor was this all. I had threatened, if she would not receive me as her
lover, that I would bring the most shameful charges against her, and by
the aid of bribed assistants, whom I should call as witnesses, blast her
reputation and ruin her happiness. The very words I had used to her in
our interview on the previous day were repeated to me by my father,
so artfully twisted as to render them powerless against herself and
conclusive against me.
From this brief description you will be able to form some idea of the
position in which I was placed during this interview with my father. I
was allowed no opportunity of defence. My father's wife had contrived to
rouse to its utmost pitch the chivalry of his nature in her behalf. I
doubt whether my father at that time would have received any evidence,
however conclusive, against her, and whether, in the peculiar frame of
mind into which she had worked him he would not have accepted every
proof of her guilt as proof of her virtue.
His recital of his wife's wrongs being at an end, he addressed himself
to me in terms so violent, so unfatherly, so unjust, that I lost my
self-command. Such a scene as followed is rare, I hope, between father
and son. He discarded me; he swore he would never look upon me as a son;
would never think of me; would never receive me. He forbade me ever to
address or refer to him; he banished me from his house and his heart; he
flung money at me, as he would have done at a beggar; he was in every
way so insulting that my feelings as a man overcame my duty as a son;
and we used such words to each other as men can scarcely ever forget
or forgive. To such extremes and opposites can a false woman drive men
ordinarily just, and kind, and temperate.
The scene ended thus. I repudiated my father as he repudiated me; I
trampled his money under my feet; I told him that he would one day awake
from his dream; and I swore that never, until he asked my forgiveness,
would I use or acknowledge the name of Holdfast, which he, and not I,
was dishonouring. He held me to my oath; in a fit of fury he produced a
Bible, and bade me repeat it. I did so solemnly, and I kissed the sacred
Book. He threw the door open wide, and pointed sternly.
"Go," he said. "I turn you from my house. You and I have done with each
other for ever."
I went in silence, and as the sound of the shutting of the street door
fell upon my ears, I felt as if I had cut myself from myself. I walked
into the streets a forlorn and lonely man, with no name, no past, no
friend. I did not meet any person who knew me; I called a cab, and
drove to a remote part of London, where I hired a room in a common
lodging-house. But I had not been there an hour before I discovered
myself to be a mark for observation. My clothes, perhaps my manner,
betrayed me. I left the house, and strolled into a railway station. I
could not feel myself safe until I was in a place where I was utterly
unknown and entirely free. Standing before a railway time-bill, the
first name that attracted me was Exeter. The train was to start in
half-an-hour, and I bought my ticket. Thus it was that, by a mere
accident, I journeyed to the town in which I was to meet and love you.
On my way I decided upon the name I would assume. Frederick was common
enough, and I retained it; I added to it the name of Maitland. On
my way, also, I reviewed my circumstances, and decided upon my plan
of action. I had in money, saved from my father's liberal allowance
while I was at Oxford, nearly four hundred pounds. Business I did not
understand, and was not fit for. I was competent to undertake the duties
of a tutor. I determined to look out for such a situation, either in
England or abroad, but on no account in any family likely to reside
in London or Oxford. In Exeter I employed myself, for a few weeks,
in writing for the press. I obtained introduction to a gentleman who
occupied the position of editor of a small local newspaper, and him I
assisted. I did not ask for pay, nor did I receive any. I was glad of
any occupation to distract my thoughts. Through this friend I heard of
a situation likely to suit me. A gentleman wanted a tutor for his son,
whose ill-health compelled him to be much at home. I applied for the
situation, and obtained it. In that family you were also employed, as
music teacher, and thus you and I became acquainted.
With the gentleman who employed me, or with his family, I could not
become familiar; there was nothing in common between us. With you it
was different; I was interested in you, and soon learned that you lived
with a sick mother, of whom you were the sole support, and that you
were a lady. There is no need for me to dwell upon the commencement and
continuation of a friendship, which began in respect and mutual esteem,
and ended in love. You were poor; I was comparatively rich; and I am
afraid my dear, that during the first few weeks I led you to believe
that my circumstances were better than they really were. That is the
usual effect produced by an extravagant nature. I paid court to you, and
we engaged ourselves to each other. Then I began to take a more serious
view of life. I had a dear one to work for; there was no prospect open
to me in England; and the mystery in which I was compelled to shroud
myself, coupled with the fact that London and other places in my native
country were closed to me, caused me to turn my thoughts to America.
In that new land I could make a home for you; in that new land, with
but moderate good fortune, we might settle and live a happy life. Your
mother and yourself were contented with the plan, and encouraged me
in it. So I threw up my situation, bade you good-bye, and left for
the wonderful country which one day is to rule the world. Before my
departure I wrote to my father. Except upon the envelope I did not
address him by his name. I simply told him that I was quitting England,
that I had kept and would keep my oath, and that if he desired to write
to me at any time he could send his letter to the New York Post Office.
You are acquainted with the worldly result of my visit to America; you
know that I was not successful. Unable to obtain profitable employment
in New York, I went to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and some
smaller towns and cities. It was my misfortune that I could not quickly
assimilate myself with the new ways and modes of American life, and my
ill-luck sprang more from myself than from the land in which I wished
to establish myself. I was absent from New York for nearly five months.
In despair I returned to it, and my first visit was paid to the
General Post Office. Your letters were sent to me from time to time in
accordance with the directions I gave you when I wrote to you, and were
sent to the name of Frederick Maitland. It was almost with an air of
guilt that I inquired at the New York Post Office whether there were any
letters for Frederick Holdfast. I had no expectation of receiving any,
and I was therefore astonished when three were handed to me. They were
in the handwriting of my father. I did not tell you at the time, but it
is a fact that I was in a desperate condition. My clothes were shabby,
my pockets were empty. My joy and agitation at the receipt of these
three letters were very great. I had never ceased to love my father, and
tears rushed to my eyes at the sight of his handwriting. I knew, which
he did not at the time we parted, that we were both the victims of
a clever, scheming, beautiful woman. Would these letters lead to a
reconciliation? I tore them open. They bore one address, an hotel in
New York. Then my father was in America! The last letter, however,
was dated two months back. Quickly I made myself acquainted with the
contents.
They were all written in the same strain. My father had come to America
to see me. The refrain was as follows: "I am distressed and unhappy.
Come to me at once." What had happened? Had he discovered the treachery
of the woman who had parted us, and was anxious for a reconciliation
with me? Yes, surely the latter; I could not mistake the tone of his
communications, although they commenced with "My son," instead of "My
dear Son." Explanations between us were necessary, and then all would be
right. Eagerly I sought the hotel from which the letters were addressed,
and easily found it. I inquired for Mr. Holdfast; he was not in the
hotel; his name was known, and the books were consulted. He had left the
hotel six weeks before. "Has he gone to another hotel?" I asked. The
manager replied that Mr. Holdfast had informed him that while he was
in New York he should stop at no other hotel. "He seemed," said the
manager, "to be anxiously expecting a friend who never came, for he was
very particular in obtaining a description of every gentleman who called
during his absence. He is not in New York at present, you may be sure of
that." I asked if it were likely I could obtain information of him at
any other place in the city, but the hotel manager could not give me an
address at which I could make an inquiry. Disheartened I turned away,
and wandered disconsolately through the city. I sauntered through
Broadway, in the direction of the City Hall and Wall Street, and paused
before the _Herald_ Office, outside of which a copy of the paper
was posted. I ran my eye down the columns, and lingered over the
"Personals," in the vague hope that I should see my name there. I
did not see my name, but a mist came into my eyes, and my heart beat
violently as I saw an advertisement to which the initials F. H. were
attached. F. H.--Frederick Holdfast. My own name! The advertisement was
for me, and read thus: "F. H.--Follow me immediately to Chicago. Inquire
at the Brigg's House." From that advertisement I inferred that my father
was in Chicago, and that, if I could start for that city at once, I
should meet him. But my pockets, as I have said, were empty. Between
twenty and thirty dollars were required to carry me to Chicago, which I
could reach in thirty-six hours. I had no money, but I had a souvenir
of Sydney's, a ring which he gave me in our happy days, and which I had
inwardly vowed never to part with. However, there was no help for it
now; it must go. I should be able to redeem it by-and-bye; so I pawned
it for thirty dollars, and took the night train to Chicago. How happy I
was! Not only the coming reconciliation with my father, but, after that,
the certainty of being able to provide a home for you, cheered my heart.
Then I could assume my own name; my father would speak the words which
would remove from my conscience the obligation of the sacred oath I had
sworn. I scarcely slept or ate on the weary journey, my impatience was
so great. But long before we reached the end of our journey we were
appalled by news of a dreadful nature. Chicago was in flames. At every
stage the intelligence became more alarming. The flames were spreading,
not from house to house, but from street to street; the entire city was
on fire. And the Brigg's House and my father? God forgive me! So selfish
are we in our troubles and in our joys, that I thought of no other house
but the Brigg's House, of no other human being but my father. The news
travelled so fast towards us, as we travelled towards the conflagration,
that I soon learned that the street in which Brigg's House was situated
had caught, and that every building in it was burnt to the ground. "Any
lives lost?" "Thousands!" An exaggeration, as we afterwards found,
but we did not stop to doubt; instead of lessening the extent of the
calamity, our fears exaggerated it. O, how I prayed and prayed! It was
a dreadful time, and it was almost a relief when the evidence of our
own senses was enlisted in confirmation of the news. The skies in the
distance were lurid red, and imagination added to the terror of the
knowledge that families were being ruined, hopes destroyed, ambitions
blasted, and hearts tortured in the flames reflected in the clouds. Our
train stopped, and miles of fire lay within our sight.
[Decoration]