Benjamin Farjeon - Great Porter Square - A Mystery. Volume 2

IN the hope of her husband’s return, and looking forward with sweet mysterious delight to the moment when she would hold her baby to her breast, Mrs. Holdfast was a perfectly happy woman – a being to be envied. She had some cause for anxiety in the circumstance that she did not hear from her husband, but she consoled herself with the reflection that his last letter to her afforded a sufficient explanation of his silence. She mentally followed his movements as the days passed by. Some little time would be occupied in settling his son’s affairs; the young man most likely died in debt. Mr. Holdfast would not rest satisfied until he had ascertained the exact extent of his unhappy son’s liabilities, and had discharged them. With Frederick’s death must be cleared away the dishonour of his life.

“Now that he was dead,” said the widow, “I was ready to pity and forgive him.”

Her baby was born, and her husband had not returned. Day after day she looked for news of him, until she worked herself into a fever of anxiety. The result was that she became ill, and was ordered into the country for fresher air. But she could not rest. Her husband’s return appeared to be delayed beyond reasonable limits. Could anything have happened to him in the wild part of the world in which Frederick had met his death? She did not dream that in the tragedy which had occurred in the very heart of London, the murder in Great Porter Square, with which all the country was ringing, lay the answer to her fears. In her delicate state of health she avoided the excitement of the newspapers, and for weeks did not look at one. Thus, when her health was to some extent established, and she had returned to her house in London, she had no knowledge of the murder, and was in ignorance of the few particulars relating to it which the police had been enabled to bring to light. She knew nothing of the arrest of Antony Cowlrick, of the frequent adjournments at the police-court, and of the subsequent release of this man whose movements have been enveloped in so much mystery.

It happened during her illness that a friend, who witnessed the anxiety of her mind and sympathised with her, wrote to America for information concerning Mr. Holdfast, anticipating that the reply to his letter would enable him to communicate good news to her; and it also happened, most singularly, after a lapse of time, that it was to this very friend Mrs. Holdfast appealed for advice as to how she should act.

“I felt as if I was going mad,” are the widow’s words. “I could endure the terrible suspense no longer.”

She called upon her friend, not being aware that he had written to America on her behalf. On the table was a letter with the American post-mark on the envelope, and as her friend, in a hurried manner, rose to receive her, she observed that he placed his hand upon this letter, as though wishing to conceal it from her sight. But her quick eyes had already detected it.

“I did not know,” she said, after she had explained the motive of her visit, “that you had correspondence with America.”

He glanced at his hand, which still covered the letter, and his face became troubled.

“This,” he said, “is in answer to a special letter I sent to the States concerning Mr. Holdfast.”

“Ah,” she cried, “then I am interested in it!”

“Yes,” he replied, “you are interested in it.”

Her suspicions were aroused. “Is that the reason,” she asked, “why you seek to hide it from me?”

“I would not,” he replied, “increase your anxiety. Can you bear a great shock?”

“Anything – anything,” she cried, “rather than this terrible torture of silence and mystery!”

“I wrote to America,” then said her friend, “to an agent, requesting him to ascertain how and where your husband was. An hour before you entered the room I received his answer. It is here. It will be best to hide nothing from you. I will read what my correspondent says.” He opened the letter, and read: “I have made inquiries after Mr. Holdfast, and am informed, upon undoubted authority, that he left America for England some weeks ago.”

Mrs. Holdfast’s friend read this extract without comment, but Mrs. Holdfast did not appear to realize the true import of the information.

“Do you not understand?” asked her friend. “Mr. Holdfast, some weeks ago, left America for England.”

“Impossible,” said the bewildered woman; “if he were here – in England – I should not be with you at this moment, asking you to assist me to find him.”

Her friend was silent.

“Help me!” she implored. “Do you think he is here?”

“I am certain that he has left America,” was the reply.

A new fear assailed her. “Perhaps,” she whispered, “the ship he sailed in was wrecked.”

“That is not probable,” said her friend. “Mr. Holdfast, as a man of the world and a gentleman of means, undoubtedly took passage in a fast steamer. In all human probability your husband landed at Liverpool within nine or ten days of his departure from New York.”

“And then?” asked Mrs. Holdfast.

“Who can say what happened to him them? It is, of course, certain that his desire was to come to you without delay.”

“He would not have lingered an hour,” said Mrs. Holdfast. “An hour! He would not have lingered a moment. He would be only too eager, too anxious, to rejoin me. And there was another motive for his impatience – his child, whose face he has never seen, whose lips he has never kissed! Unhappy woman that I am!”

Her friend waited until she had somewhat mastered her grief, and then he asked her a question which opened up another channel for fear.

“Was your husband in the habit of carrying much money about with him?”

“A large sum; always a large sum. He often had as much as a thousand pounds in notes in his pocket-book.”

“It was injudicious.”

“He was most careless in money matters,” said Mrs. Holdfast; “he would open his pocket-book in the presence of strangers, recklessly and without thought. More than once I have said to him that I should not wonder if he was robbed of it one day. But even in that case – suppose he had incited some wretch’s cupidity; suppose he was robbed – it would not have prevented him from hastening to me and his child.”

“Do not imagine,” said her friend, “that in what I am about to say I desire to add to your difficulties and distress of mind. The length of time since you have heard from your husband – the fact that he left America and landed in England – make the case alarming. Your husband is not a man who would calmly submit to an outrage. Were an attempt made to rob him he would resist.”

“Indeed he would – at the hazard of his life.”

“You have put into words the fear which assails me.”

“But,” said Mrs. Holdfast, clinging to every argument against the horrible suspicion now engendered, “had anything of the kind happened, it would have been in the newspapers, and would have been brought to my ears.”

“There are such things,” said her friend, impressively, “as mysterious disappearances. Men have been robbed and murdered, and never more heard of. Men have left their homes, in the midst of crowded cities, intending to return within an hour, and have disappeared for ever.”

It is easier to imagine than to describe the state of Mrs. Holdfast’s mind at these words. They seemed, as she expressed it, “to drain her heart of hope.”