With the gentleman who employed me, or with his family, I could not become familiar; there was nothing in common between us. With you it was different; I was interested in you, and soon learned that you lived with a sick mother, of whom you were the sole support, and that you were a lady. There is no need for me to dwell upon the commencement and continuation of a friendship, which began in respect and mutual esteem, and ended in love. You were poor; I was comparatively rich; and I am afraid my dear, that during the first few weeks I led you to believe that my circumstances were better than they really were. That is the usual effect produced by an extravagant nature. I paid court to you, and we engaged ourselves to each other. Then I began to take a more serious view of life. I had a dear one to work for; there was no prospect open to me in England; and the mystery in which I was compelled to shroud myself, coupled with the fact that London and other places in my native country were closed to me, caused me to turn my thoughts to America. In that new land I could make a home for you; in that new land, with but moderate good fortune, we might settle and live a happy life. Your mother and yourself were contented with the plan, and encouraged me in it. So I threw up my situation, bade you good-bye, and left for the wonderful country which one day is to rule the world. Before my departure I wrote to my father. Except upon the envelope I did not address him by his name. I simply told him that I was quitting England, that I had kept and would keep my oath, and that if he desired to write to me at any time he could send his letter to the New York Post Office.
You are acquainted with the worldly result of my visit to America; you know that I was not successful. Unable to obtain profitable employment in New York, I went to Philadelphia, Baltimore, Washington, and some smaller towns and cities. It was my misfortune that I could not quickly assimilate myself with the new ways and modes of American life, and my ill-luck sprang more from myself than from the land in which I wished to establish myself. I was absent from New York for nearly five months. In despair I returned to it, and my first visit was paid to the General Post Office. Your letters were sent to me from time to time in accordance with the directions I gave you when I wrote to you, and were sent to the name of Frederick Maitland. It was almost with an air of guilt that I inquired at the New York Post Office whether there were any letters for Frederick Holdfast. I had no expectation of receiving any, and I was therefore astonished when three were handed to me. They were in the handwriting of my father. I did not tell you at the time, but it is a fact that I was in a desperate condition. My clothes were shabby, my pockets were empty. My joy and agitation at the receipt of these three letters were very great. I had never ceased to love my father, and tears rushed to my eyes at the sight of his handwriting. I knew, which he did not at the time we parted, that we were both the victims of a clever, scheming, beautiful woman. Would these letters lead to a reconciliation? I tore them open. They bore one address, an hotel in New York. Then my father was in America! The last letter, however, was dated two months back. Quickly I made myself acquainted with the contents.
They were all written in the same strain. My father had come to America to see me. The refrain was as follows: “I am distressed and unhappy. Come to me at once.” What had happened? Had he discovered the treachery of the woman who had parted us, and was anxious for a reconciliation with me? Yes, surely the latter; I could not mistake the tone of his communications, although they commenced with “My son,” instead of “My dear Son.” Explanations between us were necessary, and then all would be right. Eagerly I sought the hotel from which the letters were addressed, and easily found it. I inquired for Mr. Holdfast; he was not in the hotel; his name was known, and the books were consulted. He had left the hotel six weeks before. “Has he gone to another hotel?” I asked. The manager replied that Mr. Holdfast had informed him that while he was in New York he should stop at no other hotel. “He seemed,” said the manager, “to be anxiously expecting a friend who never came, for he was very particular in obtaining a description of every gentleman who called during his absence. He is not in New York at present, you may be sure of that.” I asked if it were likely I could obtain information of him at any other place in the city, but the hotel manager could not give me an address at which I could make an inquiry. Disheartened I turned away, and wandered disconsolately through the city. I sauntered through Broadway, in the direction of the City Hall and Wall Street, and paused before the Herald Office, outside of which a copy of the paper was posted. I ran my eye down the columns, and lingered over the “Personals,” in the vague hope that I should see my name there. I did not see my name, but a mist came into my eyes, and my heart beat violently as I saw an advertisement to which the initials F. H. were attached. F. H.—Frederick Holdfast. My own name! The advertisement was for me, and read thus: “F. H.—Follow me immediately to Chicago. Inquire at the Brigg’s House.” From that advertisement I inferred that my father was in Chicago, and that, if I could start for that city at once, I should meet him. But my pockets, as I have said, were empty. Between twenty and thirty dollars were required to carry me to Chicago, which I could reach in thirty-six hours. I had no money, but I had a souvenir of Sydney’s, a ring which he gave me in our happy days, and which I had inwardly vowed never to part with. However, there was no help for it now; it must go. I should be able to redeem it by-and-bye; so I pawned it for thirty dollars, and took the night train to Chicago. How happy I was! Not only the coming reconciliation with my father, but, after that, the certainty of being able to provide a home for you, cheered my heart. Then I could assume my own name; my father would speak the words which would remove from my conscience the obligation of the sacred oath I had sworn. I scarcely slept or ate on the weary journey, my impatience was so great. But long before we reached the end of our journey we were appalled by news of a dreadful nature. Chicago was in flames. At every stage the intelligence became more alarming. The flames were spreading, not from house to house, but from street to street; the entire city was on fire. And the Brigg’s House and my father? God forgive me! So selfish are we in our troubles and in our joys, that I thought of no other house but the Brigg’s House, of no other human being but my father. The news travelled so fast towards us, as we travelled towards the conflagration, that I soon learned that the street in which Brigg’s House was situated had caught, and that every building in it was burnt to the ground. “Any lives lost?” “Thousands!” An exaggeration, as we afterwards found, but we did not stop to doubt; instead of lessening the extent of the calamity, our fears exaggerated it. O, how I prayed and prayed! It was a dreadful time, and it was almost a relief when the evidence of our own senses was enlisted in confirmation of the news. The skies in the distance were lurid red, and imagination added to the terror of the knowledge that families were being ruined, hopes destroyed, ambitions blasted, and hearts tortured in the flames reflected in the clouds. Our train stopped, and miles of fire lay within our sight.
[CHAPTER XXIX.]
FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT (CONCLUDED).
Under these circumstances the obstacles before me became almost insurmountable. The residents of the burning city were in a state of the wildest confusion, and my anxious inquiries for my father were fruitless; I could obtain no news of him; not a person to whom I spoke, not even those connected with the hotel, could inform me whether a gentleman named Holdfast, or one answering to my description of him, had stopped at the Briggs’ House.
I was perplexed how to act, but an idea that it would be well for me to remain upon the spot, on the chance that I might yet learn something of my father, caused me to resolve not to leave Chicago for awhile. To this resolution I was pledged by my necessities. I was penniless, and to return immediately to New York was a matter of impossibility.