“Have I not more than enough? Do you wish to make me believe that you do not understand my character?”
“No; I do understand it, and if you were poor like me, or I were rich like you— But even then there would be an obstacle hard to surmount. Your son is but a few years older than myself—he might be my brother. I should be ashamed to look him in the face. He would say I married you for your money. Before the wedding day, were he to say a word to me, were he to give one look, to touch my pride, I would run away, and you would never, never find me. Ah! let us say good-bye—let us shake hands and part! It is best so. Then I shall never have anything to reproach myself with. Then I should not be made to suffer from the remarks of envious people that I tricked you into a marriage with a penniless, friendless girl!”
“As God is my judge,” he cried, “you shall be my wife, and no other man’s! I will not let you escape me! And to make matters sure, we will give neither my son—who would bring my name to shame—nor envious people the power to say a word to hurt your feelings. We will be married privately, by the registrar. Leave all to me. I look upon you as my wife from this day. Place your hand in mine, and say you will marry me, or I will never more believe in woman’s truth.”
His impetuosity carried the day—he spoke with the fire of a young man of twenty-five. She placed her hand in his, and said,
“I am yours.”
Three weeks afterwards, Lydia Wilson became Mr. Holdfast’s wife, and his son Frederick was in ignorance that he had married again. The date of the marriage was exactly two years to the day before the fatal night upon which Mr. Holdfast was found murdered in No. 119 Great Porter Square.
