Hol. Some one here! Oh! it’s you, sir? I should not like to have been surprised by any one but you.
Fle. What’s the matter with you, Mr. Holder?
Hol. You think me a little cracked, I dare say. You shall know all. I can confide in you. You are good.
Fle. Speak out, man, for really I cannot comprehend.
Hol. When I have told you, you will understand that I cannot go without one embrace. You will assist me to find a way. After that, I swear, by all that’s good, I will leave the place for ever.
Fle. Well! proceed.
Hol. My story is not long: Twenty years ago I was a tailor in Long Acre. I was not a fashionable tailor, but still I did a good trade, and made money. I met a young girl—she was pretty—very pretty. She lived alone with her father, an old chorus-singer, who was always drunk, at least he was never sober—and consequently Martha was very unhappy. I proposed marriage to her, and she accepted. For three years I was the happiest of men. I was passionately fond of my wife. I had a daughter whom I adored. My happiness was too great to last. About this time a young man often came to me, and ordered a variety of clothes which he never wore. On one occasion I observed him speak to my wife in a manner I thought rather strange. I mentioned it to Martha, and she said I must be mad. I loved her—and was silenced. Some few days after, this young man came again. I hear whisperings, then bursts of laughter. This time I asserted my position as a man and a husband. Martha replied in most unblushing terms. Next day I went out. When I returned, my house was empty, my home deserted. Martha had eloped with this young man, and taken my child with her.
Fle. The wretch!
Hol. Little by little my wounded pride effaced the image of Martha, but another memory clung to me; my daughter, the child I had danced on my knee, that I taught to lisp my name, this babe whose smile was sunshine to me, whose first word was like an angel’s whisper to my ear, she was lost to me for ever.