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.