Great Porter Square: A Mystery. Volume 3

“It is unmanly and inhuman,” she said. “Why do you hold out such a threat?”

“Because, as I have said, it is the only means I can adopt to bring you to a proper understanding of your position. Shame you could bear, for you have already borne it, and it has not touched your fatal beauty.” Her vain nature could not but be gratified at this admission, and she bestowed upon me a radiant smile. “But poverty, if I have the slightest knowledge of your character, you could not bear. It would be the bitterest punishment with which you could be visited.”

“I can almost imagine,” she said, with a keen glance at me, “that you have been taking a lesson out of your son’s book. You tell me you have not seen him. Is it the truth?”

“It is the truth. I am dealing plainly and honestly with you.”

“You are a true Christian,” she said, with a sneer; “good for evil – and such good for such evil! Yet there is something unchristianlike in your threat, too. You would thrust me into the streets?”

“As you made me thrust my son. As heaven is my judge, I would do it, in the cause of justice!”

“That is one side of your mind; there is another. Suppose I plead guilty; suppose I fall upon my knees before you and confess my sin. My sin! My sins! For they are so many – O, so many!” She said this with a theatrical air, and then spoke in a soberer tone. “That is a proper mode of confession for such a woman as you believe me to be. But without trying to impose upon you, suppose I admit, without any attempt at romance or deceit – for those acts are played out now, are they not? and we come to a winding-up of the plot – suppose I am wicked, and guilty of every charge you bring against me. What would you require me to do?”

“First to leave my house, taking with you all that belongs to you – your trinkets, dresses, and ornaments – to leave my house, and never enter it again as long as you live.”

“But if I died, I might haunt you,” she said, with a laugh, “though I assure you I have no intention of dying for a good many years yet. And then?”

“To renounce my name – adopt any other you please, it matters not to me, but mine you shall no longer bear.”

“Really,” she said, “the similarity between your conditions and those of your son is very wonderful. It is hardly possible to believe you have not been conspiring – but of course it would not become me to doubt the word of so honourable a gentleman. And then?”

“To leave the country for good.”

“Another coincidence. I was almost inclined myself to suggest it to you. And in payment of these sacrifices, what do you offer?”

“An income of twelve hundred pounds a year, secured, to be paid regularly and faithfully to you so long as you do not violate the conditions of the agreement.”

“Secured by deed?”

“Yes, in the manner most agreeable to you. Do you consent?”

“What!” she exclaimed. “In a moment! No, indeed, I must have time to ponder, to let the facts sink into my mind, as you said. It is not only your life, your honour, and your welfare that are concerned. It affects me more than it does you, for I am young, and have a long life before me; you are old, and will soon be in your grave. I hope you have no intention of cheating the law, and marrying again. I can stand a great deal, but not that. I am a jealous woman, and really loved you for a few days. You loved me, too, or you lied to me most wickedly. Is there any other woman you wish to serve as you have served me?”

“If I were free, I should never marry again.”

“My dear,” she said, in her lightest tone, “it is a wise resolve. Only the young should marry. When I am as old as you I shall enter a convent, and repent, and become good. Till then, I must continue to be wicked. How long do you give me to decide between the two things you have offered me?”

“What time do you require?”

“To-day is Wednesday. Two days – that will be Friday. But Friday is such an unlucky day, and I am so unfortunate! On Saturday – shall it be Saturday? Will you give me till then? Have pity on me! You will not refuse me so short a time as three days, in which I am to decide my fate?”

The words, written down, bear an entirely different construction from that in which she employed them. Her voice was a voice of mockery, and upon her lips was the same pleasant smile with which, I have no doubt, she would have killed me where I stood had it been in her power.

“Let it be Saturday,” I said.

“I will come then,” she said sweetly, “and see once more the gentleman I swore to love, honour, and obey. Thank you, so much! Will you not kiss me, even now? Will you not as much as shake hands with me? Cruel! If I had known you better, when you begged me to be your wife, I should have hesitated; I should not have trusted my future to the hands of such a man. I had my doubts; I said, ‘He is too old, he cannot understand a young heart like mine.’ Ah, if I had listened to the voice of prudence! But when was a woman in love prudent? I may arrange my hair at your looking glass, may I not? I am your wife, although you hate me. Thank you once more. What a pretty glass – and what a sweet room! I could live here with you for ever, if you loved and cared to have me. But it can never be, can it? You have found me out. O, how dreadful it is to be found out! Worse for a woman than for a man – a thousand, thousand times worse! My hair has grown longer since I last saw you – don’t you think so? And thicker. Feel it. No? How miserable you are! Did you ever really love me, I wonder? If I were a man, and loved a woman as pretty as I am – you can’t deny that I am pretty; when I walk through the streets with my veil up, nine men out of ten stop and turn to look at me; that’s why I wear my veil down. A married woman! They should be ashamed of themselves. But what can a pretty woman do? What was I saying? O, I remember. If I were a man, and loved a woman as good-looking as I am, I would go through fire and water for her. I would, indeed! What a woman wants is love, devotion – perfect devotion – and liberty to do whatever she likes. That is all. Else what does a woman marry for? To be a slave? You say you will never marry again. Nor will I – you shall not outdo me in generosity. I may love, but I will never marry – never, never! You men are either fools or something worse – and women, too, are fools when they sell themselves for money, as I did, and tie themselves to creatures who can’t appreciate them. I don’t mean you, my dear. No – you are too soft, and yielding, and honourable. More women would be happy if there were more men in the world like you. See how happy you have made me – see what you have brought me to!”

She sank upon a chair, and covered her face with her hands, and I saw tears stealing between her fingers – but I saw, also, that she was watching my face all the while to note the effect her words had upon me. I did not interrupt her in her speech. I stood quietly observing her, and wondering within myself whether there were many women like her, and whether other men were suffering as I was suffering. All the while she was talking she was arranging her hair, and displaying it to the best advantage. Heaven knows how old she is, but as she stood before me, turning occasionally, looking at me through the masses of fair hair which fell around her face, she did not appear to be more than eighteen. Her beauty, her appeals, the tender modulations of her voice, produced no other effect upon me than that of wonder and disgust. I did not allow this feeling to be seen; the stake at issue was too momentous for me, by a sign, to jeopardise the end I was working for. Presently she rose, and completed the arrangements of her hair, which she had purposely prolonged. Then, before putting on her hat and cloak, she asked me for a glass of wine. I had none, and I gave her a glass of water; she tasted it, and threw the rest away, saying:

“My dear, you should drink wine. It is good for old men; it is nourishing.”

Still I did not speak, and as if to compel me, she asked,

“Do they not know your name in this house?”

“They do not,” I replied.

“Do you intend them to know it?”

“I intend them not to know it. You can, of course, frustrate my intention if you will.”

“I do not wish. I thought you desired to keep it secret, and therefore, when I knocked at the door and it was opened, I did not ask for you by name, I simply asked if a gentleman was in who had taken a lodging here yesterday. The servant answered that he was, and directed me to your room. She did not even see my face. You see how I am endeavouring to fall in with all your wishes – anticipating them, even. But I love a mystery dearly. Good day, my dear. Till Saturday. I will be here, punctually at twelve. Shall I kiss baby for you? No? You are incorrigible.”

And with nods and pleasant smiles she left me, pulling her veil close over her face.

CHAPTER XLIII

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.”