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.