Fle. Poor fellow! poor fellow!
Hol. Fifteen years dragged its weary time away, when one day I received a letter without an address—it was from Martha. She had doubtless written it on her deathbed. Her seducer, after having taken her to France and Italy, and dissipated time amidst their pleasures, had abandoned her. She dared not return to me. “Pardon me,” said she, “I have been bitterly punished. As for your daughter—”
Fle. Well, your daughter?
Hol. It was the greatest blow of all, but it must be told. “As for your daughter, I know not where she is, but you will easily recognize her if you recall my form and features. Such as I was when you first saw and loved me, such is your child to-day—the same face, the same look, the same voice.” I uttered a cry of joy. My child lives—I shall see her once again.
Fle. Why, this is stranger than fiction.
Hol. I traversed the town in the hope of meeting her—resorted to every public place. I was repulsed from every door—my inquiries were laughed at; but jeers and insults could not stay me. I peered into each coach and cab, watched at the door of every ball, waited by the entrance of all the theatres—everywhere. I stared in every woman’s face that passed. One day I heard a voice, the voice of Martha: a woman appeared—the form of Martha. “Constance,” said some one. The woman turned—the face of Martha. Constance—it was the name of my child!
Fle. She!
Hol. Yes, I saw her again next day. Not a day passes without my seeing her.
Fle. And you have not thrown yourself in her arms? You have not made yourself known to her?