Great Porter Square: A Mystery. Volume 2. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

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СКАЧАТЬ a wide and general sympathy to be expressed for this most unfortunate lady.

      We now come to other considerations of the affair. The gentleman who was murdered was a gentleman of wealth and position in society. He loved his wife; between them there had never been the slightest difference; they were in complete accord in their views of the conduct of the unhappy young man at whose door, indirectly, the primary guilt of the tragedy may be laid. The reason why Mr. Holdfast did not write to his wife for so long a period is partly explained by the account he gives, in his last letter to her, of the injury he received in his right hand. We say partly, because, a little further on, our readers will perceive that this reason will not hold good up to the day of his death. Most positively it may be accepted that the deepest and strongest motives existed for his endeavour to keep the circumstance of his being in London from the knowledge of his wife. Could these motives be discovered – could any light be thrown upon them – a distinct point would be established from which the murderer might be tracked. Our Reporter put several questions to Mrs. Holdfast.

      “Is it an absolute certainty that Frederick Holdfast is dead?” he asked.

      She gazed at him in wonderment. “Who can doubt it?” she exclaimed. “There is my husband’s letter, saying he had traced his son to Minnesota, and was journeying after him. There is the account in the newspaper of the death of the misguided young man in a small town in Minnesota. The editor of the newspaper, knowing nothing whatever of any of us, could scarcely have invented such a paragraph – though we know they do put strange things in the American papers; but this, unhappily, is too near the truth.”

      “Certainly,” said our Reporter, “the presumption would be a wild one – but it is possible; and I seldom shut my mind to a possibility.”

      Mrs. Holdfast was very agitated. “It is not possible – it is not possible!” she cried, repeating the asseveration with vehemence. “It would be too horrible to contemplate!”

      “What would be too horrible to contemplate?”

      “That he followed his father to London” —

      She paused, overcome by emotion. Our Reporter took up the cue. “And murdered him?” he asked.

      “Yes,” answered the lovely widow, in a low tone, “and murdered him! I would not believe it – no, I would not believe it! Bad and wicked as he is, he could not be guilty of a crime so horrible. And, after all, it was partly my fault. Why did I not grow up into the likeness of an ugly old witch – ?”

      She paused again, and smiled. There is in this lovely lady so much animation and vitality, so much pure love of life, so much sunlight, that they overcome her against her will, and break out in the midst of the gloomiest fits of melancholy and depression. Hers is a happy, joyous, and impulsive nature, and the blow that has fallen upon her is all the more cruel because of her innate brightness and gaiety of disposition. But it is merciful, also, that she is thus gifted. She might not otherwise have sufficient strength to bear up against her affliction.

      “We will, then,” said our Reporter, “dismiss the possibility – which I confess is scarcely to be indulged in even by such a man as myself. As to your being beautiful, a rose might as reasonably complain that nature had invested it with grace of form and loveliness of colour.” Mrs. Holdfast blushed at this compliment. “You are right in saying that such an idea as Frederick Holdfast being alive is too horrible to contemplate. The American newspaper says that his body was identified by a gentleman who knew him in Oxford, and who happened to be travelling through the State of Minnesota. It is a strange coincidence – nothing more – that on the precise day on which Frederick Holdfast ended his career, a friend should have been travelling in that distant State, and should have given a name to the dead stranger who was found near the laughing waters of Minnie-ha-ha.”

      Mrs. Holdfast replied with a sweet smile. “Yes, it is a strange coincidence; but young gentlemen now-a-days have numbers of acquaintances, hundreds I should say. And everybody travels now – people think nothing of going to America or Canada. It is just packing up their Gladstone bag, and off they go, as happy as you please. I couldn’t do it. I hate the sea; I hate everything that makes me uncomfortable. I love pleasure. Strange, isn’t it, for me, a country girl, to be so fond of life and gaiety, and dancing and theatres? But we can’t help our natures, can we? I would if I could, for you must think me a dreadful, dreadful creature for talking in this way just after my husband has been brutally killed! Don’t think ill of me – don’t! It is not my fault, and I am suffering dreadfully, dreadfully, though I do let my light heart run away with me!”

      “How can I think ill of you?” said our Reporter; “you are child and woman in one.”

      “Really!” she cried, looking up into his face with a beaming smile. “Are you really, really in earnest?”

      “You may believe me,” replied our Reporter, “for my errand here is not a personal one, but in pursuance of my professional duties; and although you charm me out of myself, I must be faithful.”

      “Ah,” said Mrs. Holdfast, “that is the way of you men. So stern, and strict, and proper, that you never forget yourself. It is because you are strong, and wise – but you miss a great deal – yes, indeed, indeed you do! It would spoil the sunshine if one stopped while one was enjoying the light and warmth, to ask why, and what, and wherefore. Don’t you think it would? Such a volatile, impressionable creature as Lydia Holdfast does not stop to do such a wise and foolish thing – we can be both wise and foolish in a breath, let me tell you. No; I enjoy, and am happy, without wanting to know why. There! I am showing myself to you, as if you were my oldest friend. You would not do the same by me. You are steadier, and wiser, and not half so happy – no, not half, not half so happy! O, I wish I had been born a man!”

      Amused, and, as he had declared to her, charmed out of himself, our Reporter said, somewhat jocosely,

      “Why, what would you have done if you had been born a man instead of a woman?”

      “I am afraid,” she said, in a half-whisper, and with her finger on her lips, as though enjoining him not to betray her, “I am afraid I should have been a dreadful rake.”

      Our Reporter resisted the beguilement of the current into which the conversation had drifted, although he would have been entitled to much excuse had he dallied a little in this vein with the charming and child-like woman.

      “You forget your child,” he said; “had you been born a man – ”

      Before he could complete the sentence, Mrs. Holdfast rushed out of the room, and in a few moments returned with the child in her arms. She sat in a rocking chair, and fondled the boy-baby, and kissed him, and sang to him. It was a picture of perfect and beautiful motherhood.

      “Forget my child!” she murmured. “Forget my baby! You must either be mad or insincere to say such a thing. Ask the darling’s forgiveness immediately.”

      “I do,” said our Reporter, kissing the baby, “and yours. You have proved yourself a true woman. But my time is getting short, and I have already trespassed too long upon yours. Let us continue the conversation about Mr. Holdfast.”

      She instantly became serious, and with the baby in her arms, said, “Yes! Well!”

      “The landlady of the house,” continued our Reporter, “in which he lodged has declared that he had but one visitor – a lady, closely veiled.”

      “So I have read in the papers,” said Mrs. Holdfast. “Is nothing known about her – where she came from, where she went to, whether she was a lady or a common woman?”

      “Nothing СКАЧАТЬ