FREDERICK HOLDFAST MAKES THE DISCOVERY.
Frederick Holdfastslept until late in the morning. Awaking, he looked at his watch, which marked the hour of eleven. He did not begrudge the time spent in sleep. It had refreshed and strengthened him, and he knew it would not be prudent on his part to work during the day in any room in which he would run the risk of being observed by the neighbours. He had not been disturbed; when he awoke his revolver was in his hand, and perfect stillness reigned throughout the house.
In his state of mind inaction was a torture to him, and he could not content himself with sitting idly down. Imprisoned as it were, while daylight lasted, to the basement, intothe rooms in which passers-by in the Square above could not peer, he resolved to examine carefully every inch of the floor and walls in the kitchen and passage. The shutters of the area-windows were closed, and darkness prevailed. His lantern, therefore, served him in as good stead by day as it had done by night; he trimmed the lamp carefully, and prepared for what he had no hope would be anything but a fruitless task. He only undertook it, indeed, for the purpose of occupying the time during which he was shut out from the upper part of the house, to the windows in which there were no shutters. It comforted him to think that his dear girl was within a short distance of him; a few inches of wall separated them, and they were thinking of each other, praying for each other.
He commenced in the passage, tracking the marks of his father’s dying steps upon the floor, and of his hands upon the walls. Inclined as he was to the closest examination, his attention was arrested by a slight scratch upon the wall, which he found repeated, bothabove and below, wherever his father had rested his hand for support in his descent to the kitchen. The scratch was very slight, and was not to be found upon any part of the wall which the dying man had not touched with his hand. The fading stains within which these scratches were observable appeared to have been made by a clenched hand; the marks of the knuckles could be traced. The inference Frederick Holdfast drew from these signs was that his father had a distinct motive in keeping his hand closed, and that the hand held something he wanted to deposit in safe keeping before life left his poor wounded body. It was for this reason, then, Frederick argued, following out the train of thought, as much as for any other, that the mortally-wounded man had, in his death-agony, made his way to the kitchen, where he believed the servant was asleep. In her hands he would place the treasure his clenched hand guarded, and, that supreme effort accomplished, he would then be content to die, comforted by thethought that he left behind him a clue by which the innocent might be saved and the guilty punished. What was this treasure which had been so carefully guarded by a man who had but a few moments to live? He had been unable to place it in the safe possession of a friend to justice. Had it been found by one whose interest it was to conceal it, or had it escaped all eyes, to be discovered by the son he had unwittingly wronged? This last surmise was scarcely needed by Frederick to prompt him to search in every unlikely nook and cranny in the passage and stairs; but when he raised the light to the kitchen door, and saw there the fatal hand-mark, and with it the almost imperceptible scratch repeated, he knew that he had wasted his time, and that whatever it was his father had held in his hand he had carried into the kitchen with him. To this room, therefore, he confined his search, and after being occupied in it for hours—until, indeed, he heard the church clock strike five—was about to give it up in despair, when his eyes fell upon whatlooked like a small piece of metal, firmly imbedded in a crevice of the floor. It had evidently been trodden into the crevice by heavy boots, and it was with difficulty Frederick dug it out. It proved to be a key, small enough for a drawer in a desk.
Frederick immediately went into the passage to ascertain whether he was right in his idea that the scratches had been produced by this key, and holding it between his knuckles, as his father might have done, and placing his hand upon the wall, he was satisfied of its probability. It was not strange that an object so small had escaped the notice of the police or the people in the house. As the dying man fell to the ground, the key may have been struck out of his hand by the shock, and being at some distance from the body, had been trodden down into the crevice by the policeman’s feet. After that, nothing but such a minute examination as Frederick had carried out could have brought it to light.
Quick as his eager thought would allow him, Frederick followed his train of argumentin logical sequence. It was this key which his father wished to place in the servant’s hands before he died; it was this key which was to unravel the mystery of his life and death in No. 119 Great Porter Square. The drawer of the desk which the key would unlock contained the record which would make all things clear. It had been in the house; the furniture had not been removed; it was still in the house. But not in the room occupied by his father. If it were there, Pelham would have been certain to have found it. In that room every lock had been forced, every scrap of paper examined. No!—The document had been placed in another room for safety. The murdered man, acquainted with the character of the persons who had brought disgrace upon him, had taken the precaution to secure his written thoughts and wishes from their prying eyes. Mr. Pelham was working on a wrong scent; his labour had been thrown away. Frederick knew, from the inquiries of the detective in his employ, that the adjoiningroom to that his father had occupied—the room from which he had, on the previous night, watched the proceedings of his father’s murderer (for upon that point now Frederick was morally convinced)—had, during the last four days of his father’s tenancy, been vacant. What more likely than that this very room contained a drawer which the key would fit?
He trembled with eagerness, feeling that he was on the brink of discovery, and the shock of these mental revelations, which a few minutes would see verified, was so great that a faintness stole over his senses. Then he remembered that he had partaken of but little food during the day. He knew not what was before him in the night to come; he needed all his strength.
He sat down resolutely, curbing his impatience, and ate and drank his fill. When he had finished his meal, he felt that he had acted well and with prudence. He was ready now for any emergency, equal to any effort.
It was by this time dark, and he could move into the upper part of the house withcomparative safety. All day long the rain had been plashing into the area with a dismal sound; the dreariness of the weather and the dreariness of the house would have daunted any man who had not a serious purpose to sustain him. Frederick had held no further communication with the detective; during the day it was impracticable. But it had been arranged between them that when night came, the detective, if he had anything of importance to communicate, should drop a letter into the area, of course at such time and in such a way as should afford no chance of detection. Before going upstairs with his precious key, Frederick cautiously opened the door which led into the area, and saw that a small packet of brown paper had been dropped during the day. He picked it up and opened it; there was a stone inside, and round the stone a sheet of note paper, on which was written, in the detective’s handwriting:
“Mrs. H. has received to-day a large sum ofmoney. Her friend, Mr. P., was with her for nearly two hours. Upon leaving her house he drove to the City and cashed a cheque for fifteen hundred pounds. He was in high spirits. There is something in the wind; it looks as if they are making preparations to flit. Mrs. H. is getting together as much ready money as she can lay her hands on. I have no doubt she and Mr. P. have arranged to-day to go away together. Nothing further to say on that head. Your young lady friend in No. 118, Becky, is quite safe, but she looks anxious. On your account, I guess. Her little friend, Fanny, is a brick. We shall be on the watch all night in the Square. If you are in want of help, use your whistle.”
“Mrs. H. has received to-day a large sum ofmoney. Her friend, Mr. P., was with her for nearly two hours. Upon leaving her house he drove to the City and cashed a cheque for fifteen hundred pounds. He was in high spirits. There is something in the wind; it looks as if they are making preparations to flit. Mrs. H. is getting together as much ready money as she can lay her hands on. I have no doubt she and Mr. P. have arranged to-day to go away together. Nothing further to say on that head. Your young lady friend in No. 118, Becky, is quite safe, but she looks anxious. On your account, I guess. Her little friend, Fanny, is a brick. We shall be on the watch all night in the Square. If you are in want of help, use your whistle.”
Not being in want of help at present, Frederick destroyed the letter, and went upstairs to the first floor. Opening the door of the room his father had occupied, he saw that no person had entered it during the day; everything was as Pelham had left it early inthe morning. Frederick, by the light of his lantern, looked around for drawer or desk. A chest of drawers was there, unlocked and empty; a desk also, which had been broken open, and which the key he had found would not fit. As he left the room he saw, lying in a corner of the wall, a large key. It was the key of his father’s room. He put it in the lock, and it turned easily.
“Pelham would be astonished to-night,” he thought, “if, when he came, he found the door locked against him. But that would be putting him on his guard. I will open the trap for him instead of closing it. Murderer! Your hour is approaching!”
He unlocked the door, and put the key in his pocket, with no distinct intention, but with an idea that it might in some way prove useful. When in his thought the unspoken words came to his mind, “I will open the trap for him instead of closing it,” he had not the dimmest comprehension of their awful significance, or of the fearful manner in which they were to be verified.
He entered the adjoining room in which he had kept his long and painful watch on the previous night. In the room was a sideboard, and to this he first directed his attention. The key he had found in the kitchen was too small for either of the sideboards, and as they were locked, he forced them open. There was nothing inside but some mouldy biscuits and a couple of old-fashioned decanters, with dregs of wine in them. He felt about for secret drawers, but found none. A cupboard next attracted his attention, and he searched it carefully. It contained plates and wine glasses, a shell box and a shell caddy, with views of Margate on them. Both were open, and he discovered nothing on the shelves which was likely to bring his search to a successful issue. Before proceeding further he thought—in case Pelham should take it into his head to commence his work early on this which he declared should be his last night in No. 119—it would be well to replace the table which had fallen over when he stepped from it. He raised it carefully andreplaced it on its carved feet. It was a round table of Spanish mahogany, and was a contrast to the other furniture in the room, being old-fashioned and of ancient make. As he raised it, one of the lower surfaces upon which he placed his hand shifted slightly, and the thought flashed through his mind that there might be a drawer beneath. He stooped and looked upward, and saw that his impression was a correct one. A drawer was there, evidently intended as a secret drawer; it was locked. With trembling hands he tried the key. It fitted the lock, turned, and the drawer was open—and there, beneath his eyes, were some sheets of folio paper, upon which he recognised his dead father’s handwriting.
He drew forth the sheets and rapidly scanned them. They were in the form of a diary, and contained the record of his father’s last days, or perhaps his last hours. Tears filled his eyes as he gazed at the beloved memorial of a dear one, from whose heart he had been torn by the foulest treachery. Hedashed the tears away. No time now for grief; a sterner duty than that of mourning for the dead was before him. In his hands he held the vindication of his good name, and, he hoped, the means of bringing the guilty to punishment. He must to work at once, and read the words the dead had written for him. He went down to the kitchen, and, setting the door open so that no sound made in the house should escape his ears, commenced the perusal of his murdered father’s diary.
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 inby 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 NewYork 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 nervemyself 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 matterto 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 wroteand 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 appearingand 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 previousletters 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 whichit 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 suchhouses 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 youwere 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 tome, 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, Iwas 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 havedone, 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 promptedby 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.”
“Itisunmanly 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 unchristianlikein 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 onlyyourlife,yourhonour, andyourwelfare 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 bewicked. 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 Iampretty; when I walk through thestreets 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 youhave 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 wasworking 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 didnot 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.
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 whoworked 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, anddie 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. Shemustaccept 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 interviewwith 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 youhave 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, youmen! 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 sadrake 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,” andthen 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 Iplease, 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 thatrespectability 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 goodname, 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 mefirst! 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 yourchoosing. 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 educateand 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 themoney 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 argumentcould 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 inmy 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 thisdreadful 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 wifewith 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 timethis 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 objectionto 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 forour 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.