FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT.
Theextraordinary story which has appeared in the columns of theEvening Moon, and the dreadful intelligence it conveys to me of the murder of my dear father, render it imperatively necessary that I should place upon permanent record certain particulars and incidents relating to my career which will incontestibly prove that the Romance in Real Life which is now being inserted in every newspaper in the kingdom is an infamous fabrication. I am impelled to this course by two strong reasons. First,—Because I wish to clear myself in the eyes of the woman I love, from whom I have concealed my real name and position. Second,—Because life is so uncertain that I might not be ableto do to-morrow what it is in my power to do to-day. I pledge myself, in the name of my dear mother, whose memory I revere, that I will set down here nothing but the truth—that I will not strive to win pity or grace by the faintest glossing of any particulars in which I may not appear to advantage—that I will not swerve by a hair’s breadth from my honest intention to speak of the matters treated herein in a plain, unvarnished style. The dear one who will be the first to peruse these lines is as precious to me as ever woman was to man, but I will not retain her love by subterfuge or pretence, although it would break my heart to lose it. To her I am known as Frederick Maitland. To a number of persons I am—in connection with the murder of my father—known as Antony Cowlrick. My true name is Frederick Holdfast.
Between myself and my father existed—until shortly after he married a second wife—feelingsof respect and affection. During my boyhood his love for me was exhibited in every tender form which occurs to the mind of an affectionate father, and I entertained for him a love as sincere as his own. The death of my mother affected him powerfully. Their married life had been a happy one, and they lived in harmony. My mother was a woman with no ambition but that of making those around her happy. She compassed her ambition, the entire depth and scope of which was bounded by the word Home. After her death my father, never a man of much animation and conversation, became even quieter and more reserved in manner, but I am convinced his love for me was not lessened. He was a man of strong determination, and he had schooled himself to keep his passions and emotions in complete control. He was intense in his likes and dislikes—unobtrusively chivalrous and charitable—disposed to go to extremes in matters of feeling—thorough in friendship as in enmity—just in his dealings—and seldom, if ever, forgiving where his confidence was betrayed, or wherehe believed himself to be deceived. Such a man is apt to form wrong judgments—as my father did; to receive false impressions—as my father did; to be much deceived by cunning—as my father was. But if he was hasty to condemn, he was eager to make atonement when he discovered himself to be in the wrong. Then it was that the chivalry of his nature asserted itself.
He was a successful merchant, and was proud of his successes, and proud also that his money was made by fair and honourable means. He said to me once, “I would rather see you compelled to gain a living by sweeping a road than that it should come to my knowledge that you have been guilty of a dishonourable action.” I was his only child, and he had his views with respect to my future. He wished me to enter public life, and he gave me an education to fit me for it. While I was at Oxford he made me a handsome allowance, and once, when I found myself in debtthere, he did not demur to settling them for me. Only once did this occur, and when my debts were discharged, he said, “I have increased your allowance, Frederick; it could not have been liberal enough, as you contracted debts you were unable to pay.” He named the amount of my increased allowance, and asked me if it was sufficient. I replied that it was, and then he told me that he considered it a dishonourable act for a man to consciously contract an obligation he did not see his way to meet out of his own resources. “The scrape you got into with your creditors was an error,” he said; “you did not sufficiently consider. You are wiser now, and what was an error in the past would be dishonourable in the future.” I never had occasion to ask him to pay my debts again. I lived not only within my allowance, but I saved out of it—a fortunate circumstance, as I afterwards found. The result was obtained without my being penurious, or depriving myself of any of the pleasures of living indulgedin by my friends and companions. I was not a purist; I was fond of pleasure, and I have no doubt I did many foolish things; but no sin lies at my door. I was never false to a friend, and I never betrayed a woman.
Among my friends was a young man named Sydney Campbell. He is not living now, and nothing restrains me from speaking of him candidly and honestly. He was a man of brilliant parts, brilliant in scholarship, in debate, in social accomplishments. He affected to be a fop, and would assume an effeminacy which became him well—as everything became him which he assumed. He was as brave as a lion, and a master of fence; lavishly prodigal with his money, and ready, at any moment, for any extravagance, and especially for any extravagance which would serve to hide the real nobility of his nature. He would hob-a-nob with the lowest and vilest, saying, “Human nature is much of a muchness; why give ourselves airs? I am convinced I should have made an admirable pickpocket.” ButSydney Campbell was never guilty of a meanness.
He was the admiration of our set, and we made him the fashion. Though he affected to disdain popularity he was proud of the position we assigned to him, and he played us many extravagant tricks. He led us into no danger of which he did not court the lion’s share, and he held out now and then an example of kindness to those in need of kindness which was productive of nothing but good. It would be to some men most difficult to reconcile with each other the amazing inconsistencies of his actions; now profound, now frivolous, now scholar-like and dignified, now boisterous and unrestrained; but I knew more of his inner nature than most of his acquaintances, and I learnt to love as well as admire him. He had large ideality, and a fund of animal spirits which he sometimes found it impossible to control; he had large veneration, and a sense of the ridiculous so strong that he would laugh with tears in his eyes and tenderness in his heart. I am particularin my description of him, because I want you to thoroughly understand him, and because it was he who brought me into acquaintanceship with the woman who has made me taste something worse than the bitterness of death.
FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).
I donot propose in this statement to refer to any incidents in Sydney Campbell’s career which are not in some way connected with my own story. At a future time I will tell you more concerning him, and you will then be better able to do him justice. What I am about to narrate may tend to lower him in your eyes, and what follows may tend to lower me; but I am bound to speak the truth, without fear or favour. It is well, my dear, that to minds as pure as yours the veil is not removed from the lives even of the men to whom is given a full measure of respect and love. They are scarcely ever worthy of the feelings they have inspired. They show you only the fairer part of themselves; the grosser ishidden. The excuse that can be offered for them is that they are surrounded by dangerous temptations, and are not strong enough to set down pleasure’s cup untasted, though shame and dishonour are mixed in it.
A great social event was to take place. A ball was to be given in aid of a charity inaugurated by a Princess, and the intention being to make this ball thoroughly exclusive and fashionable, a committee of ladies was appointed to attend to the distribution of tickets. Although the tickets were set at a high price, they were sent out in the form of invitations, and each ticket bore the name of the lady or gentleman who was considered worthy of admission. Extraordinary care was taken to prevent the introduction of any person upon whose reputation there was the slightest stain. Some few ladies and gentlemen of high standing applied for privilege tickets for friends, and obtained them upon the guarantee that they would only be used in favour of persons of irreproachablecharacter. Among those who succeeded in obtaining a privilege ticket from the Committee was Sydney Campbell.
I, with others of our set, was present at the ball. The Princess, assisted by a bevy of ladies of title, received the guests, who were presented with much ceremony. A royal Prince honoured the assembly, which was one of the most brilliant I have attended. In the midst of the gaiety Sydney Campbell, accompanied by a lady, made his appearance. They were presented to the Princess, and passed into the ball room. I was not near enough to hear the announcement of the names, and I was first made aware of Sydney’s presence by the remarks of persons standing around me. The beauty of the lady who accompanied Sydney had already excited attention, and the men were speaking of her in terms of admiration.
“Who is she?” was asked.
“Miss Campbell,” was the answer; “Sydney’s sister.”
The reply came upon me as a surprise.Sydney and I were confidential friends, and were in the habit of speaking freely to each other. Not only was I ignorant of his intention to attend the ball, but on the previous day he had informed me that his family were on their way to Nice. He had but one sister, whose portrait I had seen in his rooms. With some misgivings, I hastened after him to obtain a view of his companion. She was young, beautiful, and most exquisitely dressed, and although she had been in the ball room but a very few minutes, had already become a centre of attraction. She bore not the slightest resemblance to Sydney’s sister.
I was oppressed by a feeling of uneasiness. With Sydney’s daring and erratic moods I was well acquainted, but I felt that if in this instance he was playing a trick, it would go hard with him should it be discovered. My desire was to speak to Sydney upon the subject, and if my suspicions were correct, to give him a word of friendly advice. But the matter was a delicate one, and Sydney wasquick to take offence and to resent an affront. I determined, therefore, to wait awhile, and observe what was going on. I had upon my programme two or three engagements to dance, and so much interested was I in Sydney’s proceedings that I did not add to them.
Fully two hours elapsed before I obtained my opportunity to converse with Sydney. Our eyes had met in the course of a dance in which we were both engaged, and we had exchanged smiles. In the meantime matters had progressed. Sydney’s fair companion was the rage. The men begged for an introduction, and surrounded her; on every side I heard them speaking of her beauty and fascinating ways, and one said, in my hearing:
“By gad! she is the most delightful creature I ever danced with.”
It was not the words, but the tone in which they were spoken, which jarred upon my ears. It was such as the speaker would not have adopted to a lady. My observation led me toanother unpleasant impression. Sydney’s fair companion appeared to be an utter stranger to the ladies present at the ball. Not only did they seem not to know her, but they seemed to avoid her. After patient waiting, my opportunity came, and Sydney and I were side by side.
“At last!” he exclaimed. “I have been waiting to speak to you all the evening.”
“My case exactly,” I rejoined. “Anything particular to communicate, Sydney?”
“I hardly know,” he said. “O, yes—there is something. How is it you have not asked for an introduction to the most beautiful woman in the room?”
“To your sister?” I asked, in a meaning tone.
“Yes,” he replied with a light laugh, “to my sister.”
“She did not go to Nice, then,” I said.
“Who said she did not?” he asked, and instantly corrected himself. “Ah, I am forgetful. I remember now I told you mypeople were going there. Yes—they are in Nice by this time, no doubt.”
His eyes met mine; they sparkled with mischief, but in their light I saw an expression of mingled tenderness and defiance which puzzled me.
“You have done a daring thing, Sydney,” I said.
“Is that unlike me?”
“No; but in this case you may have overlooked certain considerations. Where is the young lady at the present moment?”
He pointed to the head of the room.
“There—dancing with the Prince. Come, old man, don’t look so grave. She is as good as the best of them, and better than most. Do I not know them?—these smug matrons and affected damsels, who present themselves to you as though they had been brought up on virtue and water, and who are as free from taint of wickedness as Diana was when she popped upon Endymion unaware. Chaste Diana! What a parody! Pretty creatures, Fred, these modern ones—but sly, sir, devilishsly! Do I not know them, with their airs and affectations and false assumptions of superior virtue? That is it—assume it if you have it not—which I always thought dishonest, unmanly advice on Hamlet’s part. But now and then—very rarely, old man!—comes a nineteenth century Diogenes, in white tie and swallow-tail, who holds a magic mirror to pretended modesty’s face, and sees beneath. What is the use of living, if one has not the courage of his opinions? And I have mine, and will stand by them—to the death! So I tell you again, Fred, there is no lady in these rooms of whom she is not the equal. If you want to understand what life really is, old man, you must get behind the scenes.”
“Can one man set the world right?” I asked.
“He can do a man’s work towards it, and if he shirk it when it presents itself, let him rot in the gutter.”
I drew him from the room, for he was excited, and was attracting attention. When we were alone, I said,
“Sydney, what impelled you to introduce a lady into this assembly under a false name?”
“A woman’s curiosity,” he replied, “and a man’s promise. It had to be done, the promise being given. Fred, I exact no pledge from you. We speak as man to man, and I know you are not likely to fall away from me. I hate the soft current in which fashion lolls, and simpers, and lies—it palls upon the taste, and I do not intend to become its slave. I choose the more dangerous haven—sweetly dangerous, Fred—in which honesty and innocence (allied, of course, with natural human desires and promptings) find some sort of resting-place. It is a rocky haven, you say, and timid feet are bleeding there; but the bold can tread the path with safety. If you could see what underlies the mask of mock modesty, as from a distance it views its higher nature, you would see a yearning to share in the danger and the pleasure which honest daring ensures.”
It is not in my power to recall the exact words spoken by Sydney Campbell at this andsubsequent conversations; all I can do is to endeavour to convey to you an idea of the kind of man he was, so that you may the better comprehend what kind of a woman she was who held him in her toils. Sydney continued:
“She wished so much to be here to-night! She has no parents and no family; she is absolutely alone in the world—or would be, but for me. Wait, old man; you shall know more of her, and you will be satisfied. It happened in this way. I was gasconading, I suppose—talking in heroics—flinging my words to the winds, and making a fool of myself generally. Then came up the subject of the ball. You know that the whole city has been ringing with it for a month past, and that a thousand women are in despair because they could not obtain an introduction. I dilated upon it, scornfully perhaps. A Prince was to be here—a Princess too. ‘And you are as good,’ said I to her, ‘as any Princess in the kingdom.’ ‘I hope I am,’ she answered softly—she has a voice of music, Fred—‘Ihope I am, but I could not gain admission to the ball.’ I fired up. ‘Do you wish to go?’ ‘Do I wish to go?’ she echoed. ‘To dance with a Prince, perhaps! Am I a woman?’ A field of adventure was opened up to me. ‘You shall go,’ I said. ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked eagerly. ‘It is a promise,’ I replied. After that there was but one thing left for me to do—to fulfil my promise, at any risk, at any hazard. Ihavefulfilled it, and I am content. It is like stolen fruit, old man—that is what she said to me. A very human creature, Fred, and a child at heart. And Grace is dancing with a Prince, and everybody is happy.”
“Child as she is,” I remarked, “she must be possessed of great courage to venture thus into a den of lionesses.”
“You mistake her,” said Sydney. “It is I who sustain her. She told me as much a few minutes since, and whispered that if I were not here she would run away. A certain kind of courage she must possess, however; liken it to the courage of a modest and beautifulwild flower which dares to hold up its head in the midst of its bolder and more showy sisters.”
I saw that he was in love with her, and I hinted it to him. He replied frankly,
“If I do not love her, love itself is a delusion.”
I asked him who she was, and he replied,
“A daughter of Eve, and therefore the equal of a queen.”
This was the substance of our conversation, which lasted for about half an hour, and at the end of it we entered the ballroom. During our absence a change had taken place in the aspect of affairs. I was not the only person who had seen the portrait of Sydney’s sister, and who failed to recognise its living presentment in the lady he had introduced. Grace was dancing, and certain dowagers were watching her with suspicious eyes. Sydney observed this, and laughingly ascribed it to jealousy.
“If Grace were an ugly woman,” he said, “they would not be up in arms against her.Grace is no match for these experienced tacticians; I will soon change their frowns into smiles.”
It was no vain boast; the charm of his manner was very great, and few persons could resist it. Perhaps he recognised, with all his daring, the danger of an open scandal, and saw, further, that the lady whose champion he was would be made to suffer in the unequal contest. To avert such a catastrophe he brought to bear all his tact and all his grace of manner with the leaders of fashion. He flattered and fooled them; he parried their artful questions; he danced and flirted with their daughters; and the consequence was that at four o’clock in the morning he escorted his beautiful companion in triumph from the ball.
The following evening Sydney came uninvited to my rooms, and asked me to accompany him to Grace’s house.
“She intends to be angry with you,” he said, “because you did not ask her to dance last night.”
“She was well supplied with partners,” I replied; “she could have had three for every dance, it appeared to me.”
I was curious to ascertain the real position of affairs, and Sydney and I rode to a pretty little cottage in the suburbs, which Grace occupied, with a duenna in the place of a mother.
Now let me describe, as well as I can, in what relation Grace and my friend, Sydney Campbell, stood to each other. And before doing so it is necessary, for the proper understanding of what will be presently narrated, that I should inform you that, as I knew this woman by no other name than Grace, she knew me by no other name than Frederick.
I never understood exactly how their acquaintanceship commenced. Grace, Sydney told me, was companion to a lady in moderate circumstances, who treated the girl more like an animal than a human being. Some quixotic adventure took Sydney to the house of this lady, and shortly afterwards Grace left her situation, and found herself, friendless, uponthe world. Sydney stepped in, and out of the chivalry of his nature proposed that he should take a house for her in the suburbs, where, with an elderly lady for a companion, she could live in comfort. She accepted his offer, and at the time of the ball they had known each other for between three and four months. In the eyes of the world, therefore, Grace was living under Sydney Campbell’s protection. But, as surely as I am now writing plain truths in plain words, so surely am I convinced that the intimacy between the two was perfectly innocent, and that Sydney treated and regarded Grace with such love and respect as he would have bestowed on a beloved sister. It was not as a sister he loved her, but there was no guilt in their association. To believe this of most men would have been difficult—to believe it of Sydney Campbell was easy enough to one who knew him as I knew him. None the less, however, would the verdict of the world have been condemnatory of them. I pointed this out to Sydney.
“It matters little,” he said. “I can besufficiently happy under the ban of those whose opinions I despise.”
“But it affects the lady,” I said, “more deeply than it affects you.”
“Ignorance is bliss,” he replied. “She is not likely to hear the calumny. If any man or woman insults her, I shall know how to act.”
“You have thought of the future, Sydney,” I said.
“Scarcely,” he said; “sufficient for the day is the good thereof. I love her—she loves me—that is happiness enough for the present. One day we shall marry—that is certain. But there are obstacles in the way.”
“On whose side?” I asked.
“On both. My obstacle is this: I could not marry, without a certainty of being able to maintain her as a lady. I am dependent upon my father, and he has his crotchets. I shall overcome them, but it will take time. I do not believe in love in a cottage for a man with tastes and habits such as mine; and if my father were to turn his back upon me, Ishould be in a perplexing position. However, I have little doubt as to my being able to guide our boat into safe waters. But there is an obstacle on Grace’s side. I am about to impart a secret to you. Her life has been most unfortunate; she has been most cruelly served, and most cruelly betrayed. Would you believe that when she was sixteen years of age, she was entrapped into a marriage with a scoundrel—entrapped by her own father, who is now dead? This husband, whom she hated, deserted her, and having fled to India, in consequence of serious involvements in this country, died there. News of his death, placing it almost beyond a doubt, reached her, but she did not take the trouble to verify it, having resolved never again to marry and to entrust her life and future into another man’s keeping. No wonder, poor child! But now that I have won her love, and that in all honour only one course is open to us, it has resolved itself into a necessity that an official certificate of his death should be in our hands before we can link our livestogether. I have but one more remark to make, and then, having confided in you as I have confided in no other man, we need never touch upon these topics again. It is that, having given this girl my love, and having won hers, no slander that human being can utter can touch her to her hurt in my mind or in my heart. You know me too well to suppose that I can be made to swerve where I have placed my faith, and love, and trust—and these are in her keeping.”
He was right. I knew him, as he said, too well to believe, or to be made to believe, that human agency outside himself could shake his faith in her. Only the evidence of his own senses (and even of that he would make himself sure in all its collateral bearings) could ever turn him against the woman to whom he gave all that was noblest and brightest in a bright and noble nature. But soon after I became acquainted with her I distrusted her. That which was hidden from him was plain to me. I saw clearly she was playing upon him, and loved him no morethan we love a tool that is useful to us. The knowledge made my position as his friend, almost as his brother (for I loved him with a brother’s love) very difficult to sustain. A painful and delicate duty was before me, and I resolved to perform it with as much wisdom as I could bring to my aid. I had a cunning and clever mind to work against in the mind of this woman, and I played a cunning part. It was in the cause of friendship, as sacred to me as love. When the troubles which surround your life and mine, my dear, are at an end—when light is thrown upon the terrible mystery which surrounds my father’s death—when I can present myself once more to the world in the name which is rightly mine—when my father’s murderer is brought to justice, and I am clear from suspicion—I shall prove to you that I am not only your lover, and, as I hope to be, your husband, but that I am your friend. Friendship and love combined are as much as we can hope for in this world or in the next.
When Grace first occupied the cottage—Icall it so, although really it was a roomy house, surrounded by a beautiful garden—which Sydney took for her, she professed to be contented with the occasional visits of her benefactor and lover. In speaking of her now I speak of her as I know her, not as I suspected her to be during our early acquaintanceship. She was ignorant of the character of the man who had stepped forward to help her in her distress, and time was required to gauge him and to develop what plans she desired to work out. Therefore, for the first two months all went along smoothly. Then came the ball, and the excitement attending it. After a storm comes a calm, but Grace was not the kind of woman to be contented to pass her days without adventure. She had, as she believed, probed her lover’s nature to its uttermost depth, and with winning cards in her hands she commenced to play her game. She said she was dull and wanted company.
“What kind of company?” said Sydney.
“Any kind you please,” she replied. “Iknow nobody. Your own friends will be welcome to me.”
I was the first he introduced, and in a short time a dozen or so of our set made her cottage a common place of resort. Men must have something to amuse themselves with, and she supplied it in the shape of cards. Night after night we assembled in her cottage, and drank, and smoked, and gambled. She was a charming hostess, and some paid her court in a light way. No harm came of it; she knew, or believed she knew, how far she could go with such a man as Sydney, and none of his friends received encouragement of a nature which was likely to disturb him. Others beside myself did not give their hostess credit for more virtue than she possessed, but it was no business of theirs, and they did not interfere between Sydney and his lady. So he was allowed to live for a time in his fool’s paradise. He was an inveterate gambler, and he could not resist cards, or dice, or any game of chance. Playing almost always with the odds against him,you will understand how it was that he lost, nine times out of ten.
Among the frequenters of the cottage was a young man, a mere lad, who really was infatuated with his hostess, and was not sufficiently experienced to cut the strings of the net she threw around him. I will call the young man Adolph; he lives, and I hope has grown wiser. The tragedy of which he was a witness should have produced upon him an impression sufficiently strong to banish folly from his life, even though he lived to a hundred years. Sydney rather encouraged the passion of this lad for Grace. I knew that she told Sydney that he was like a brother who had died young, and that her statement was sufficient to make him believe that her liking for the lad sprang from this cause. Therefore Adolph was privileged, and treated with the familiarity of a brother, and became the envied of those who, if they dared, would have entered the lists with Sydney for the favour of their charming hostess.
In our gambling tournaments we did not stop at cards and dice; roulette was introduced, and very soon became the favourite game. One night, Adolph asked to be allowed to introduce a friend, a cousin, who happened to be in the neighbourhood, and found time hang heavily on his hands.
“A dozen if you like,” said Sydney, heartily, tapping the lad’s cheek—“if you can gain permission from our Queen.”
It was a habit with Sydney, when he referred to Grace in our company, to speak of her as “Our Queen,” and we often addressed her as “Your Majesty.”
“I am not sure,” said Grace, “whether we shall allow strangers to be introduced.”
She looked at Adolph; he coloured and stammered.
“This gentleman is not a stranger; he is my cousin.”
“Do you vouch for him?” asked Grace, playfully.
“Of course I do,” replied the lad.
“Can he afford to pay. If he loses, willyou pay his losses, if he cannot?” asked the most experienced gambler in our set—a man who generally won.
This time Adolph looked at Grace; she returned his look with a smile, which seemed to say, “Well? Do you not know your lesson?” But only by me was this smile properly understood.
“I am answerable for him,” cried Adolph.
“Enough said!” exclaimed Sydney. “Tell your cousin to bring plenty of money with him. I have lost a fortune, and must get it back from some one. Who will take the bank at roulette? I have a system which will win me at least a thou. to-night.”
But Sydney’s system failed somehow, and instead of winning a thousand, he lost two.
The next night Adolph’s cousin was introduced. His name was Pelham. I cannot say what impression he produced upon others; I can only speak of the impression he produced upon me. I looked at him and said mentally, “This man is no gentleman;” and then again,“Of all the men I have ever met, this man is the one I would be the least disposed to trust.” But he was cordially welcomed, because he was Adolph’s friend and cousin. Our hostess paid him but slight attention, and this increased my suspicion of him.
The following incidents occurred on this night. We were assembled round the roulette table. Mr. Pelham was the only one among us who was not backing a colour, or a number, orpaireorimpaire, ormanqueorpasse.
“Do you not play?” I asked. I was sitting next to him.
“I am trying to understand the game,” he replied.
“Have you never been in Monaco?” I enquired.
“Never,” he said.
I explained the points in the game to him, but he did not appear to take any interest in it.
“What game do you play?” I asked.
“Cribbage,” he replied, “or ecartè, or allfours, or euchre, or poker. I have been in America.”
I proposed ecartè to him, and we sat down to a modest game. I offered to play for high stakes; he declined; and at the end of an hour I had won some fifteen pounds of him. Then we rose from our table, and watched the roulette players; but I was more employed in watching him than the turning of the wheel. He threw an occasional sovereign down, almost chancing where it fell, and he lost with a good grace. Others were staking their tens and fifties. Fifty was the limit; but he never exceeded his sovereign.
“It is enough to lose at a time,” he said.
In the course of the night I calculated that he had lost about fifty pounds. He was one of the first to leave, and he scarcely touched ‘our Queen’s’ hand as he bade her good night, and asked permission to come again. A permission graciously given.
Now, the suspicion I had entertained towards him lessened when I considered how he had conducted himself, and but for a chanceremark made by Sydney, and the incidents that followed, I should have accused myself of injustice.
“We approve of Mr. Pelham,” said Sydney to Adolph; “have you any more cousins?”
The lad with a doubtful expression in his face looked at Grace, and as it seemed to me, taking his cue from her, replied,
“No more.”
“Put a little spirit in him,” cried Sydney, clapping Adolph on the shoulder. “Tell him we can fill his pockets, or empty them. Faint heart never won fair lady yet.”
I call this, Incident Number One.
Again:
We had all bidden our hostess good night. Sydney and I stood at the street door, lighting fresh cigars. Adolph had lingered behind.
“One moment, Sydney,” I said; “I must go and fetch that boy.”
I re-entered the house, softly and suddenly. Adolph and Grace were standing at the end of the passage, in the dark.
“Did I do my lesson well?” I heard Adolph ask in a low tone.
“Perfectly,” said Grace, “and I owe you anything you ask for.”
“A kiss, then!” cried the lad, eagerly.
The reward was given.
“Adolph!” I cried; “we are waiting for you.”
Adolph came towards me, and Grace, darting into a room, appeared with a light in her hand. Adolph’s face was scarlet; his eyes were moist and bright.
“The foolish lad,” said Grace to me, with perfect self-possession; “I gave him a kiss, and he blushes like a girl. Do you hear, Sydney?”
“I hear,” said Sydney with a gay laugh. “I am not jealous of Adolph. Good night, dear.”
I call this, Incident Number Two.
Again:
On our way home I asked Sydney if Grace had obtained the certificate of the death of her first husband. He replied that she hadnot. There was no doubt that he was dead, but Circumlocution and Red-tapeism stopped the way.
“We shall get it presently,” he said, “and then our course will be clear.”
He spoke in an anxious tone. I suspected the cause. He was thinking of his losses at the gaming table, which by this time amounted to over ten thousand pounds. Every man among us held his I O U’s.
“Luck must turn, Fred,” he said.
“I hope it will!” I replied, “with all my heart.”
“And if it does not,” he murmured, “I shall have Grace!”
I pitied him, with all my heart; but I dared not undeceive him.
FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).
Atthis time Sydney began to feel the effects of his temerity in introducing Grace to the ball. Certain rumours and whispers affecting Grace’s character and Sydney’s connection with her, caused the lady patronesses of the ball to institute inquiries, and the consequence was that Sydney was quietly but firmly banished from society. Houses which he was in the habit of visiting were closed against him; mothers who had held out a welcome hand to him now frigidly returned his bow or openly cut him; fathers—bound to an outward show of morality—turned their backs upon him or affected not to see him; marriageable young ladies, with whom, as an unengaged man, he had hitherto been an adorable being, looked any way butin his direction when they met in the thoroughfares. When Sydney became aware of this alteration in his social standing, he tested it to its fullest extent, and having quite convinced himself, proclaimed open defiance.
“War to the knife,” he said.
He carried the war into the enemy’s quarters. He appeared with Grace upon every public occasion that presented itself. In the theatre he engaged the best and most conspicuous seats, and sat by the side of Grace with Society’s eyes full upon him. It did not help his cause that Grace was invariably the most beautifully-dressed lady in the assembly, and that her brightness and animation attracted general admiration.
Adolph espoused Grace’s cause with complete disregard of consequences; his cousin, Mr. Pelham, however, held aloof, and simply bowed to her in public.
“Adolph is very fond of Grace,” I said to Sydney.
“She is fond of him, too,” respondedSydney. “What of that? He is but a boy!”
It struck me as strange that, out of Grace’s house, Adolph and Mr. Pelham scarcely ever spoke to each other; as cousins they should have been more intimate. But this circumstance helped to strengthen my suspicions, and to render me more keenly watchful of the course of events. Before long Mr. Pelham became an adept at roulette; the first night he spent at Grace’s house was the only night on which he lost. Good luck ranged itself on his side, and he generally departed with a comfortable sum in his possession. True, it was represented principally by I. O. U.’s., but with the exception of Sydney there was not one of us who could not afford immediately to pay his losses. For my own part I did not lose; I even won a little; I played for small stakes, and Mr. Pelham, winning so largely from others, did not grudge paying me, without commenting on my caution or timidity. He now always acted as banker at roulette; taking his seat at the head of thetable with the accustomed air of a professional; never making a mistake in paying or receiving. His aptitude was wonderful. Sydney’s losses grew larger and larger, and the more he lost the more recklessly he betted. Mr. Pelham was soon his principal creditor, and held the largest portion of his paper.
One day, when I was out riding, my horse cast a shoe. The accident happened within a couple of hundred yards of Grace’s cottage. There was a blacksmith near, and it occurred to me to leave my horse with the blacksmith, and drop in upon Grace for a bit of lunch.
Upon my summons at the door being answered, I was informed that Grace was not at home. Having a little time to spare, I strolled about the country lanes, and came suddenly upon a lady and gentleman conversing together. Their backs were towards me, but I recognised them instantly. The lady was Grace, and the gentleman Mr. Pelham. They were conversing earnestly, and I should have retired immediately had itnot been for the first few words which reached my ears. They were spoken by Mr. Pelham, who said:
“It is time to gather in the harvest. We must get your fool of a lover to stump up. Here is a list of his I O U’s—in all, more than fourteen thousand pounds. We shall be able to cut a dash, my girl. We’ll go to Monaco again, and this time we’ll break the bank.”
“I’m agreeable,” replied Grace; “I am tired of this life, and I don’t think I could keep up my part much longer. Sydney is all very well, but he is too lackadaisical.”
“I should think he is, for such as you, Grace,” said Mr. Pelham; “too goody-goody, eh, my girl? You want a man with a spice of the devil in him. But he has suited our turn, and you have played your part well. Give me some praise. Haven’t I been magnanimous in trusting you with him—haven’t I been confiding? You wouldn’t get many lovers like me—trusting you out of their sight, without ever a shadow ofsuspicion. Then there’s our young pigeon, Adolph——”
“A child!” cried Grace.
“Quite old enough,” retorted Mr. Pelham, “for me to twist his neck for him if I had any doubts of you. But I haven’t, my girl. It is not only love, but interest, that binds us together.”
They passed on out of my sight without having perceived me. I was astounded, not by the discovery, but by the coarse, brutal nature of the plot in which Sydney’s honour was sacrificed. This woman, Grace, was a worthless schemer and a deliberate cheat. The man, Mr. Pelham, was a blackleg and a ruffian. O, that such a nature as my friend Sydney’s should have been so played upon! That such a noble heart as his should have been so basely betrayed! Here was my difficulty. It was the very nobility and generosity of his nature that would cause him openly to break with me if I attempted to open his eyes to the treachery, backed only by the imperfect testimony Icould bring forward. His first step would be to rush to Grace, and inform her of my accusation, and once upon their guard, this man and this woman would weave their net about him too cunningly and cleverly to allow him an opportunity to break through its meshes. Whom could I enlist to aid me? I had an intimate friend whose assistance I would have asked, and he would freely have given it, but he was absent from Oxford. I could think of but one ally, a dangerous friend to enlist because of his inexperience and of his feelings towards Grace. But I determined to risk it. I spoke to Adolph.
“Adolph,” I said, “can we two speak together in perfect confidence, as man to man?”
“Yes,” replied the lad, colouring, “in perfect confidence. I hope you are not going to lecture me about Grace.”
“Why should I lecture you about her?” I asked, glad at this clearing of the ground. “You are fond of her, I know, but that is a matter of the heart. You would do nothingdishonourable, nor would you be a party to dishonour.”
“No, indeed,” he cried, and went no further.
His face was scarlet; I knew in what way his conscience was pricked.
“We all make mistakes,” I said, half gaily; I did not wish to frighten him by an over-display of seriousness; “the best as well as the worst of us; the oldest as well as the youngest of us. We have a good many dreams in life, Adolph, to which we cling in earnestness and true faith, and when we awake from them and our suffering is over, we smile at ourselves for our credulity. You are dreaming such a dream now, and if I rouse you from it I do so for a good purpose, and out of consideration for another as well as for yourself. Tell me—why did you introduce Mr. Pelham into Grace’s house as your cousin? You are silent. Shall I answer for you? It was because Grace herself asked you to do so.”
“Yes,” said Adolph, “she asked me, and I did it.”
“Are you satisfied with yourself for having done so?” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“I will tell you why,” I said. “You never saw Mr. Pelham until he made his appearance on that unfortunate evening, and you have discovered, as we have all discovered, that he is not a gentleman.”
“He is Grace’s friend,” said Adolph.
“Does that speak in her favour, or in his? Think over certain events, Adolph. Mr. Pelham, a stranger to all of us, is the friend of this lady. But if you will remember, upon his first visits, she and he scarcely spoke to each other, and when they meet in public the recognition that passes between them is so slight as to be remarkable. There is something suspicious in this, which even you, infatuated as you are, will recognise. Whom would you choose for your friend, Mr. Pelham or Sydney Campbell? In whose company would you rather be seen—whose hand wouldyou rather shake—to whose honour would you rather trust your honour?”
“To Sydney Campbell,” said Adolph. “There is no choice between them. Sydney is a gentleman. Mr. Pelham is a ——”
He did not complete the sentence; I supplied the omission. “Mr. Pelham is a blackleg. You start! Before you are many days older I will prove it to you; if I do not, I will submit to any penalty you may inflict upon me.”
He puckered his brows. “You are not the only one,” he said, biting his lips, “who has spoken against him.”
“There are others, then, whose suspicions have been aroused?”
“Yes, Mr. ——” (mentioning the most accomplished card-player in our set) “says that he palms the cards or has the devil’s luck.”
“The proof of either in any man would be sufficient to make him unfit company for gentlemen, for honourable men who play fair. Adolph, remember, you are responsible for him.” The lad winced. “There is but one manly course before you—to clear the characterof this man, or to expose him. If we are doing him an injustice in our estimate of him, there can be no exposure; he will come out of the fire unscathed. If we succeed in proving our suspicions unfounded, you will be clear. And even then I should advise you to make a clean breast of it. Subterfuge and deceit, my dear lad, are not gentlemen’s weapons. When we strike a man, we strike him in the face—we do not stab in the back.”
“What will Grace say?” murmured Adolph.
“Whatcanshe say? In the case of an exposure, it is you who have been wronged, not she. She knew the character of the man whom she induced you to introduce as your cousin—to you he was utterly unknown. You had never set eyes on him before that evening. As you are answerable to us, so is she answerable to you. And if she reproach you unreasonably, ask her—prepare for a shock, Adolph; I am going to give you one straight from the shoulder—ask her whether less than three lovers at a time will not content her.”
“Mr. Holdfast,” cried Adolph, drawinghimself up, “I request an explanation of your words.”
“You shall have it, Adolph. First and foremost, is not Sydney Campbell, your friend and mine, is he not Grace’s accepted lover? You shrink; why? Because you also, in some sense, are her accepted lover. Men have eyes, Adolph, and you cannot be so simple as to suppose you have escaped observation. I ask you for no confession, but many of us have seen and remarked upon your infatuation. Now, say that Grace has encouraged you. Is that honest on her part towards Sydney? Say that you have made love to her secretly, led on by the force of your passion, and perhaps a little by her—is that honest onyourpart towards Sydney? It strikes me, if the case be as I have represented it, that Sydney is much wronged by the young lad in whom he places full confidence, and by the lady to whom he has given his love. Come, Adolph, if I have cut deep, it is out of friendship. It is an ugly business, my lad, and I can find no justification for it. But the worst part of theunhappy story remains to be disclosed. Sydney Campbell is this lady’s lover, and she encourages him; you are this lady’s lover, and she encourages you; Mr. Pelham is this lady’s lover, and she is his. You may well turn pale. She brings this blackleg lover of hers into the house—into Sydney’s house—under false colours. On my oath, Adolph, I am speaking the truth when I speak of Grace as Mr. Pelham’s lover. She playsyouinto his hands—but you are subsidiary in the affair, my lad. The big stake lies with our friend Sydney. She playshiminto this blackleg’s hands, and sullies the reputation and breaks the heart of as high-minded a gentleman as you and I can hope to meet again in life!”
I had spoken earnestly, and I saw that I had produced the impression I desired. Then I related to Adolph all that I knew, and having driven conviction home to him, we made a solemn compact to do our best to open Sydney’s eyes to the infamous scheme of which he was the victim. Adolph was to act implicitly under my instructions; I rememberhow troubled he was when he left me, and I judged it well that he should be left to himself in his suffering. Poor lad! It was his first experience in human treachery, and he suffered the more that his heart was confiding and tender.
On this evening it was that Sydney, in my company, lashed himself into a furious state of indignation at a slight that had been put upon Grace in his hearing. It occurred in a club, and Sidney, with a violent display of temper, defended Grace, and attacked the character of the gentleman who had uttered a simple word or two to Grace’s disparagement. Sydney was not content with attacking the character of the gentleman; he attacked the lady members of the gentleman’s family, with whom he had once been intimate, and called them a parcel of scheming, jealous jades, who could not believe in purity because they did not themselves possess it. He exceeded the bounds of moderation, it must be confessed, and a scene ensued that was not soon forgotten.
“The injustice of the world,” cried Sydney to me, “is enough to drive an earnest man mad—as I have no doubt it has driven many. That gentleman and his mother and sisters would lower their false faces to the ground before Lady this and Lady that”—he mentioned the names of the ladies, but it is unnecessary to set them down here—“who are wealthy and highly connected, but who are not fit to tie the shoe-strings of my poor persecuted Grace, nor the shoe-strings of any girl who has a spark of virtue in her. You have seen Grace times enough now, Fred, to be able to appreciate her purity, her modesty, her innocence, at their proper worth. There lives not on earth a woman more worthy the love and esteem of man!”
Then he broke out into a rhapsody of extravagant adoration which would have amazed me had I not been acquainted with the intense chivalry of his nature. The more Grace was vilified, the more stoutly would he stand by her; the stronger the detraction, the stronger his love. It was not while he was in such ahumour as this that I could commence to play the part of an honest Iago.
“By heavens!” he cried, flourishing a letter; “here is my father also coming forward to strike a feeble woman, whose only armour is her virtue. In this letter he expresses his sorrow at the intelligence which has reached him that I am getting myself talked about in connection with a woman of disgraceful character. The honour of his name is in my keeping, he says, and he looks to me to do nothing to tarnish it. Nor will I. To stand up, as I am standing up, against the world, in defence of virtue, purity, and innocence, can but reflect honour on the highest, and so I have told him. Look you, Fred; I know what I am staking in this matter. I am staking my life, and my heart, and all that is precious to my better nature; and the prize is worth it.”
We adjourned to Grace’s house, where Sydney paid Grace the most delicate attention; it was as though he felt that he owed her reparation for the ill opinion ofthe world. It was an eventful night; Sydney proposed to take the bank at roulette, and it appeared as if his luck had really turned. He won back all the I O U’s he had given us, and his only creditor was Mr. Pelham, who had won or lost but a small sum. Sydney twitted him for the smallness of his stakes, and Mr. Pelham, seemingly stung by the sarcasm, plunged heavily. By mutual consent the limit was increased, and the battle between the two became so exciting that the other players round the table staked but trifling amounts, their attention being engrossed by the dangerous duel. Fortune being in the balance, now Sydney won, now Mr. Pelham; but presently Mr. Pelham, with the air of a man who intended to win all or lose all, threw a hundred pounds I O U upon a number. Sydney looked grave for a moment, and then, with a careless toss of the head, turned the wheel. The number did not turn up, and Sydney won the hundred; all felt relieved, for if the number Mr. Pelham backed had come up,it would have cost Sydney thirty-five hundred pounds in one coup.
“Again?” asked Mr. Pelham, tauntingly.
“Again,” assented Sydney, with a scornful laugh.
Mr. Pelham threw down upon a number another of Sydney’s I O U for a hundred, and again Sydney won. This occurred five or six times in succession until Sydney cried,
“Double it, if you wish!”
Mr. Pelham accepted the challenge; but now he appeared to play with greater deliberation. He placed two hundred pounds each on numbers 5 and 24, exactly opposite zero. I looked at Grace; she was leaning over the table, watching the duel with eager eyes, and I could see that her whole soul was in the game. Round and round went the wheel, and we all followed the progress of the marble with the most intense interest. The ball fell into 28, and Sydney won.
“I shall stick to my numbers,” said Mr. Pelham, staking similar amounts upon the same two numbers. This time zero appeared,and Sydney swept the board. Again the two numbers were backed for the high stakes, and now the marble rolled into number 24.
“There’s nothing like constancy,” cried Mr. Pelham.
Sydney, with a steady hand, wrote out an I O U for seven thousand pounds, and threw it over to Mr. Pelham.
Once more the same numbers were backed, and the devil sent the marble rolling back for the second time into number 24.
“Always back the last number and the last colour,” cried Mr. Pelham.
“For a novice, Pelham,” remarked one of our party, “you play exceedingly well.”
The slight sneer which accompanied the remark was not lost upon us, but Mr. Pelham did not appear to notice it. I believe at that moment there was not a man in the room who would not have been made happy by the opportunity of picking a quarrel with him.
“There is nothing difficult to learn in it,” said Mr. Pelham; “even such a poor playeras myself may happen to be favoured by fortune.”
Sydney, meanwhile, had written another I O U for seven thousand pounds; he handed it to Mr. Pelham, saying,
“You will give me my revenge?”
“Most certainly,” replied Mr. Pelham. “Now?”
“No,” said Sydney, “to-morrow night. You hold a great deal of my paper?”
Mr. Pelham produced his pocket-book, and added up some figures.
“Something under twenty thousand,” said Mr. Pelham.
Sydney nodded gravely, and not rising from his seat, twirled the wheel carelessly, and apparently in deep thought. Roulette, however, was over for the night, and the men broke up into small parties, some playing hazard, some unlimited loo. I alone remained with Sydney by the wheel. As carelessly as himself, I threw the marble in as he turned the wheel. He gave me an intelligent glance, and we continued our idle game for a coupleof dozen turns of the wheel. Numbers 5 or 24 came up on average about once in every six turns. Sydney rose from the table, and in such a manner as not to attract attention I examined the wheel. It did not occupy me long to discover that it had been tampered with. The spaces between the two numbers Mr. Pelham had backed were wider than those which divided the other numbers, and the circumstance of numbers 5 and 24 being opposite Zero gave the backer an immense advantage. The chances in his favour were increased by another discovery I made. Where these two lucky numbers were situated there was a deeper bevel than in any other part of the circle. I ascertained this both by sight and touch. There was no further doubt in my mind as to the character of Mr. Pelham, nor, indeed, as to the character of Grace. The wheel could not have been tampered with had they not been in collusion.
Before we broke up, a little private conversation took place between the two men.
Mr. Pelham put a question to Sydney, and Sydney replied,
“Certainly. Give yourself no anxiety.”
Then he drew me aside, and asked me if I could let him have a hundred pounds.
“It is for Grace,” he said, “she is short of money; and so am I,” he added with a laugh.
I gave him the money, and we broke up for the night.
Sydney and I walked home in company, excusing ourselves from the others. It was a fine night, and we lit our cigars, and walked on for a while in silence, which Sydney was the first to break.
“I wanted your company badly,” he said; “my mind is troubled.”
“I am your friend, Sydney,” I said.
He returned the pressure of my hand. “Thank you, Fred. My mind is troubled about Mr. Pelham. There is no reason why he should not win from me as easily as, with luck on my side, I might win from him. But I am not satisfied. It appears to me that thenumbers he backed and won upon were the numbers he intended to back and win upon. If so, it denotes design. How does it strike you?”
“With you as banker, I will back numbers 5 and 24,” I replied, “and will undertake to win a fortune of you in an hour or two. Always supposing that the wheel is the same as it was to-night.”
“It struck me as strange,” he said thoughtfully; “until to-night my suspicions have not been excited. Had any of you won my money, I should have thought less of it. You were trying the wheel as I turned it, after play was over. Confirm or destroy the impression on my mind.”
“I must confirm it. The numbers Mr. Pelham backed have been tampered with.”
“Are you certain?”
“Most certain.”
He lit a fresh cigar, and threw away the old one.
“These things are not done without human agency, Fred.”
“Indeed not. Very skilful hands have been at work upon that wheel. Were it not that I desire not to risk your friendship, Sydney, which I value highly, I should impart something to you concerning Mr. Pelham which has come to my knowledge.”
He did not reply for a few moments, and then he said, “We tremble on the brink sometimes, but it is only cowards who fly. How beautiful the night is, Fred! The world is very lovely—the stars to me are living things. Even now, when I seem to feel that Fate has something horrible in store for me, they whisper peace into my soul. Ah, friend of mine! that a man’s hope, and heart, and holiest wish should be at the mercy of a rickster! It is sad and laughable. This flower in my coat was given to me by Grace; it is dead.” He made a motion as if he would fling it from him, but he restrained himself, and crushing it in his hand, put it into his breast pocket. As I looked at him with loving pity, he put his handkerchief to his mouth, and drew it away, stained with blood.
“Sydney!” I cried, in alarm.
“It is nothing,” he said; “I have been spitting blood for a long time past. Now tell me what has come to your knowledge respecting Mr. Pelham. Do not fear—you will not risk my friendship, upon which you place far too high a value.”
I said simply, “He is not Adolph’s cousin.”
“How do you know that?”
“From Adolph himself; he and I have been speaking to each other in confidence.”
“What was the lad’s motive in introducing Mr. Pelham to us with a falsehood?”
“He did so by desire of Grace.”
“Then Grace must have been acquainted with Mr. Pelham.”
“It naturally follows, to the mind of one who does not wilfully blind himself to inexorable fact. Sydney, let us walk back in the direction of Grace’s house. It is a whim of mine, and will do no harm.”
“It can do no good.”
“Sydney,” I said impressively, “as surelyas we are now walking side by side conversing on a theme which is bringing torture to your heart, so surely do I know what I dare not impart to you. Come, humour me.”
I turned him gently towards Grace’s house, and we walked to the well-known spot. It was an hour since we parted from her, but there was no sign of repose in the house. The windows of the sitting-room were lit up from within, and I drew Sydney close enough to them to hear the sound of laughter—the laughter of a man and a woman.
“For God’s sake,” said Sydney, “let us get away from this place!”
He ran so swiftly from me towards the town that it was long before I came up to him, and then I found him with a deathly-white face, and a heart palpitating wildly from mental and physical exhaustion. I assisted him home, and we parted without exchanging another word on the subject. All that he said was,
“To-morrow night I am to have my revenge. You will come to the cottage?”
It was tacitly understood that the night was to be devoted to a gambling duel between Sydney and Mr. Pelham, and expectation was on every face. Grace looked bewitching, and exhibited more than usual tenderness towards Sydney, and he, on his part, was never more attentive and devoted in his conduct towards her than he was on this evening. He was a singularly handsome man, and the contrast between him and his opponent was very marked. Mr. Pelham, who was the last to arrive, was cool and collected enough, but he was inferior to Sydney in polish and gentlemanly bearing. The first hour was passed in badinage and lively conversation, and then roulette was proposed. Sydney laughingly shook his head.
“Roulette will be too slow for Mr. Pelham and myself,” he said. “We must have a more direct trial of skill. I propose, Mr. Pelham, a duel with the dice.”
“Dice be it,” said Mr. Pelham, and the two men sat down to Hazard. They played low at first, but this was only to whet the appetite,and within an hour the stakes became higher than had ever been played for in that house. In the course of the play, Sydney said to his opponent,
“I have promised to settle up with you in a few days, Mr. Pelham, should you rise a winner, and you may depend upon my keeping my word. Mr. Pelham, gentlemen, is called abroad, and I must not remain his debtor. Men of honour know what is due to each other; if I win from Mr. Pelham to-night I shall expect him to pay me. It seems as if good fortune were on my side.”
It really appeared to be so, and we all rejoiced. During a couple of hours’ play Sydney had won from Mr. Pelham between six and seven thousand pounds. Both men were playing with coolness and judgment, but even when Mr. Pelham was the setter, good luck remained with Sydney. For a great part of these two hours Grace remained by the side of the players, and when she moved away Sydney called her back, saying that she gave him luck. By midnight Sydney hadwon back over fifteen thousand pounds, and then an adjournment for supper was called. All but Sydney and Mr. Pelham responded to the invitation; they were too deeply interested in their duel to rise from their table, and thus it happened that they were left for a time with no witness but Adolph, who said he could not eat. When we returned from the supper table they had changed their game. They were playing now with three dice, the highest throw for varying sums, from a hundred to a thousand pounds. Sydney’s good luck appeared to have deserted him; he was now losing heavily. He cried out to us not to crowd round the table.
“Do you think we are playing for life and death?” he exclaimed, with a wild laugh. “Come, Mr. Pelham, two thousand on this throw!”
With glittering eyes and teeth firmly set, Mr. Pelham assented, and won.
“Five thousand!” cried Sydney, and threw fourteen. “Ten to one in hundreds you do not beat it.”
“Done!” said Mr. Pelham, and threw sixteen.
“You must be most unfortunate in your love affairs, Mr. Pelham,” said Sydney. “How do we stand now?”
Mr. Pelham passed over to his opponent a sheet of paper with figures on it.
“Twenty-four thousand,” cried Sydney. “Enough to set up a house in Belgravia. I am weary of this work. One throw for the last—double or quits. Your last chance, and mine. Done?”
“Done!” said Mr. Pelham, with white lips.
Every man in the room suspended his game, and rose to witness this mad play.
“I protest!” said Sydney, turning almost savagely upon his friends. “Go to your tables, and concern yourself with your own counters. We can settle our affair without witnesses. Grace, a glass of champagne.”
He drank three glasses in succession, and said to Mr. Pelham, with only myself and Adolph standing by the small table,