“This is a moment to remember. Fortune!be kind! I throw first. Fifteen! I am a free man. Now, Mr. Pelham.”
“Sixteen!” said Mr. Pelham, raising his box.
The word had no sooner passed his lips than his wrist was seized with a grasp of iron by Sydney, and taking up this unrehearsed cue, I pinned the cheat to his chair. He uttered a cry of rage, but he could neither rise nor release his wrist from Sydney’s hold. This incident brought all the players to their feet.
“Gentlemen,” said Sydney, calmly, “this man and I have been playing for something more than money, but it is simply a question of honour in which money is involved that I ask you to decide. Here are my dice, and here my throw. There are Mr. Pelham’s dice, and there his throw. I call upon you to constitute yourselves a committee of honour, and examine the dice we each used in the last throw.”
They removed the dice, and discovered those used by Mr. Pelham to be loaded. Itwould have gone hard with him if Sydney had not interfered.
“Hold!” he cried. “Fair play for rogue and gentleman! Release him, Fred.” I released the blackleg, and he sat helpless in his chair, and glared at us. But he saw that his fate was in our hands, and he submitted. Sydney continued: “Mr. Pelham, these dice I have thrown with are fair dice, such as are used by gentlemen. My throw is fifteen. Take them, and throw against it. On my honour, if you beat my cast, I will endeavour to pay you what I owe you, despite the fact that the I O U’s you hold of mine have been unfairly won.”
The blackleg took the box, and rattled the dice in it, gazing upon us with a ghastly smile, and then deliberately replaced the box on the table, mouth upwards.
“What guarantee have I,” he asked, “that in the event of my throwing higher than fifteen, these gentlemen friends of yours will not set upon me, and murder me?”
“I answer for them,” replied Sydney; “it ismy honour that is concerned, not theirs, and they are, in some measure, guests in my house. You will be allowed to depart unmolested, and to-morrow I will receive you in my rooms, and endeavour to come to a settlement with you.”
“I take your word,” said the blackleg, and he raised the box from the table, and rattled the dice again.
FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).
Duringthe interval that elapsed between the acts of raising the box from the table and throwing out the dice, my observation was drawn to Grace. She stood at a little distance from the men, bending forward, her eyes fixed upon the box, her lips parted, her hands clasped, and a bright colour in her cheeks. She held her breath suspended, as it were, as though her fate hung upon the issue of the throw.
The dice rolled out of the box, and three single black dots lay exposed. Mr. Pelham had lost. He had thrown three aces.
He flung the box from him with a shocking oath. It struck a man in the face, and he stepped towards Mr. Pelham, with the evidentintention of striking him in return, when Sydney interposed.
“It was an accident,” he said. “It is for me alone to settle this affair.”
Grace did not move, but her eyes were now fixed upon Sydney.
“I owe you nothing in the shape of money,” said Sydney to Mr. Pelham. “I will trouble you for my bits of paper.”
Mr. Pelham, with trembling fingers, opened his pocket-book. His agitation was very great, but I have never been able to decide whether it was by accident or design that he pulled out, with Sydney’s I O U’s, a number of letters and papers, and with them a photograph. It was a photograph of Grace. We all saw it, and I was not the only one who waited apprehensively for Sydney’s next move.
He took up the picture; there was writing on the back, which he read. There was breathless silence in the room. For a moment Sydney’s eyes rested upon Grace. She smiled wistfully, as a child might smile who had beendetected in a trifling fault. Sydney did not respond to her smile. He handed the picture back to Mr. Pelham without a word.
Receiving his I O U’s he burnt them, one by one, in the flame of a candle, calling out the sums, which two or three of the men pencilled down.
“Is that all?” he demanded of Mr. Pelham, as the discomfited gambler paused.
“That is all,” replied Mr. Pelham.
“Your sight or your memory is short,” said Sydney. “I am not accounted an expert at figures, but you will find an I O U for three thousand, which you have overlooked. Ah! I was right, I see. You are but a clumsy scoundrel after all.”
“You shall answer to me for this,” said Mr. Pelham, with an attempt at bravado.
“I will consider,” said Sydney, “whether it is necessary to chastise you. But not to-night, nor in this house. We must not forget that a lady is present.”
He bowed with exquisite politeness to Grace, and then addressed his friends.
“I requested you,” he said, “to constitute yourselves a committee of honour, to examine the dice this person used against me. I ask you now to examine the roulette wheel, and to say whether there is any indication that the numbers 5 and 24 have been tampered with.”
The wheel was examined, and my suspicions were confirmed. Upon the verdict being given, Sydney said,
“The person to whom I lost fourteen thousand pounds last night upon number 24 must be accomplished in many ways; for it is only by breaking into the house when its inmates were asleep that he could so skilfully have dealt with the wheel for his own purpose. I cannot congratulate you upon your cousin, Adolph.”
The lad, with burning blushes, turned his face away, and Sydney, advancing courteously to Grace, offered her his hand. Wondering, and with a look of mingled apprehension and admiration, she placed her hand in his. He led her to Mr. Pelham’s side.
“I made a bitter mistake,” he said to theblackleg. “I believed myself to be the possessor of a jewel to which I had no claim. I resign her; although I believe at this moment”—and here he looked her direct in the face—“that she would follow me, and prove false to you, if I invited her by a word. I withstand the temptation; I will not rob you of her.”
“Sydney!” cried Grace, holding out her hands to him.
“Did I not tell you?” he asked of Mr. Pelham; and then, turning to Grace, he said, “Rest content. You have broken my heart. Either I was not worthy of you, or you were not worthy of me. It matters not, now that our eyes are opened. Mr. Pelham, I was guilty of an error to-night when I said you were unfortunate in your love affairs. Many men would envy you. Come, gentlemen, enough of this. The play is over; drop the curtain! Adolph, my lad, I am sorry for you, but it is the way of life.”
What followed was so bewildering and unexpected that I cannot clearly recall it.There was a sudden movement, some passionately tender words from Grace, some furious ones from Mr. Pelham. I cannot say whether there was a struggle; my only clear remembrance is that, after a lapse of a few moments, during which we were all in a state of inexplicable excitement and confusion, I saw Grace’s arms round Sydney’s neck, that Sydney, struggling to release himself, uttered a cry and slipped to the ground, with blood rushing from his mouth. He had broken a blood-vessel, and before a doctor arrived he was dead. He died in the presence of the woman who had betrayed him, and almost his last look was one of mingled horror and anguish as she leant over him in affright. Thus ended the life of my chivalrous, rash, and noble-hearted friend.
Such an affair as this could not be hushed up. There were an inquiry and an inquest, but there was no room for suspicion of foul play. The medical evidence proved that Sydney died from the bursting of a blood vessel; but in my mind there was no shadowof a doubt that Grace was the indirect cause of his death. In my eyes she was a murderess.
She disappeared from the place, and Mr. Pelham with her. I visited the cottage a fortnight after Sydney was buried. All the furniture had been removed, and the cottage was empty.
The tragic termination of this ill-fated connection produced a great impression upon many of our set. For myself I can say that it made me more permanently serious in my thoughts; from that time I have never played for money.
Before the occurrence of the events I have described my mother had died. Up to this time, and for a little while afterwards, my father and I had corresponded regularly, but I did not make him acquainted with the details of the story of Sydney’s career. Incidentally, at the time of Sydney’s death, I mentioned that I had lost a dear friend, and that was all my father knew of the affair.
A break occurred in our correspondence—noton my part; on my father’s. For three weeks or a month I did not hear from him, until I wrote and asked him if he was well. He replied in a very few words; he was quite well, he said, but he was engaged in affairs so momentous and engrossing that he could not find time to write at length. I surmised that he was speculating largely, and I wrote to him telling him not to harass himself by writing me long letters; all I wanted was to know that he was in good health. For three or four months I heard from him but rarely; then, one day came a letter with the astonishing intelligence that he had married again.
“You will be surprised at the news,” wrote my father, “but I feel you will rejoice when you know that this step, which I have taken almost in secret, will contribute to my happiness. Your second mother is a most charming young lady, and I am sure you will have a great affection for her. I shall presently ask you to come to London to make her acquaintance, when we can discuss another matter more important to yourself. It is timeyou commenced a career. Be assured of this—that my marriage will make no difference in your prospects.”
I had no just cause for anger or uneasiness in the circumstance of my father marrying again, but I was hurt at the secrecy of the proceeding. He spoke of his wife as “a charming young lady,” and it was clear from the tone of his letter that his heart was engaged. My father possessed sterling qualities, but I could not help confessing to myself that he was scarcely the kind of man to win the love of a charming young lady. Who was she, and why had I not been informed of the engagement or invited to the wedding? My father stood in no fear of me; he was a man who stepped onward in his own path, and who had been all his life in the habit of judging and deciding for himself. Thinking of him alone I could find absolutely no reason why he should not have confided in me, but when my thoughts turned in the direction of the young lady an explanationpresented itself. That it was not complimentary to her made me all the more anxious for my father. But upon deliberation I withheld my final judgment until I had seen my mother-in-law. The invitation to London arrived, and I waited first upon my father in his city office. He received me with abundant love; I had written him a letter, wishing him every happiness, and it had given him great gratification. He confessed to me that it was not in accordance with his desire that I had not been informed of the engagement. “It was a young lady’s whim,” he said, “and I was bound in gallantry to yield.”
“You are happy?” I asked, evading the point. The situation as between father and son was particularly awkward to him, and my wish was to set him as much as possible at his ease.
“I am very happy,” he replied. “Let me anticipate your questions, and give you some information about her. The young lady is poor and an orphan. Her name was Lydia Wilson. She was without family, withoutfriends, and without money. I made her acquaintance accidentally a few months ago in the course of business, and was attracted to her. She was in a dependent and cruel position, and I made her an offer of marriage which she accepted. There is no need for us to go into further particulars. I thought much of you, and your manner of receiving the news of this unexpected step has delighted me. All that remains for you to do is to make the acquaintance of a lady who I feel is too young to be my wife, but who has done me infinite honour by assuming my name—who is too young to be a second mother to you, but whom you will find a charming and true friend. Numbers of persons will say that it is an imprudent step for a man of my age to marry a mere child; I must confess it is likely I should pass that judgment upon another man in my position; but I was unable to resist her, and I am happy in the assurance that, despite the disparity in our ages, she loves me. You will find in her, Frederick, a singular mixture of simplicity, shrewdness, and innocence. And now, my dear boy, wewill go home to her; she is anxiously awaiting us.”
My father’s wife was not visible when we reached home, and my father told me she was dressing, and would not come down till dinner was on the table.
“I did not know,” he said, “that friends were to dine with us to-night. I should have liked the three of us to spend the evening together, but there will be plenty of opportunities.”
We both retired to dress for dinner, and upon my re-entering the room the guests were arriving—fifteen or sixteen of them. They were all strangers to me, and as I was introduced to them by my father an uncomfortable impression forced itself upon me that they were not persons who moved in the first class. There were two foreign noblemen among them whose titles I doubted, and an American upon whose shirt-front was stamped Shoddy. Scarcely a moment before dinner was announced, my father’s wife entered.
“Frederick,” said my father, “this is my wife. My dear, this is my son, of whom I have spoken so much.”
Then dinner was announced, and my father said:
“Frederick, you will take in Mrs. Holdfast.”
What with the ceremonious bow with which my father’s wife received me, and the bustle occasioned by the announcement of dinner, I had not time to look into the lady’s face until her hand was on my arm. When I did look at her I uttered a smothered cry, for the woman I was escorting to dinner was no other than Grace, through whose abominable treachery my friend Sydney Campbell had met his death.
The shock of the discovery was so overwhelming that I lost my self-possession. I felt as if the scene on that dreadful night were being enacted over again, and as we moved onwards to the dining-room I repeated the words uttered by Sydney to Grace, which had rang in my ears again and again, “Restcontent. You have broken my heart. Either I was not worthy of you, or you were not worthy of me. The play is over; drop the curtain!”
The voice of my father’s wife recalled me to myself.
“What strange words you are muttering!” she exclaimed, in a sweet voice. “Are they from a book you are writing? Mr. Holdfast tells me you are very clever, Frederick.”
“They are words spoken by a dear friend,” I said, “at a tragic period in his life—a few moments, indeed, before he died.”
“How shocking,” she said, “to think of them now when you and I meet for the first time! A dear friend of yours? You shall tell me all about it, Frederick. You do not mind my calling you Frederick, do you? I have been thinking for days, and days, and days, what I should call you. Not Mr. Holdfast—that is my husband; nor Master Frederick.” She laughed heartily at this notion. “No, it shall be Frederick. And you musn’t call me mother; that would betoo ridiculous. Nor madam; that would be too distant. You must call me Lydia.”
“It is a pretty name,” I said, summoning all my fortitude and composure; “is it your only one?”
“Of course it is,” she replied. “Is not one enough for such a little creature as me? I hope,” she whispered, “you are not angry with me for marrying your father. I could not help it, indeed, indeed I could not! He loved me so much—better even than he loves you, I believe, and his nature is so great and noble that I would not for the world give him the slightest pain. He feels so deeply! I have found that out already, and he is ready to make any sacrifice for me. We are both very, very happy!”
She had succeeded in making me more clearly understand the extraordinary difficulty of my position. Whether she did this designedly or not was not so clear, for every word she spoke might have been spoken by a simple innocent woman, or by a woman who was playing a double part. I could notdiscover whether she recognised me. She exhibited no sign of it. During the dinner she was in the highest spirits, and my father’s eyes followed her in admiration. Knowing his character, and seeing how deeply he was enamoured of this false and fascinating woman, I trembled perhaps more than she did at the consequences of an exposure.
But was it possible, after all, that I could be mistaken? Were there two women so marvellously alike in their features, in manner, in the colour of their hair and eyes, and could it have been my fate to meet them in positions so strange and close to me?
I observed her with the closest attention. Not a word, not a tone, not a gesture, escaped me; and she, every now and then, apparently unconscious of what was in my mind, addressed me and drew me into conversation in the most artless manner. She demanded attention from me with the usual licence of beauty, and later on in the evening my father, linking his arm in mine, said,
“My mind is relieved of a great anxiety. I am glad you like Lydia; she is delighted with you, and says she cannot look upon you with a mother’s eyes. She will be your sister, she says, and the best friend you have in the world. Our home will once more be happy, as in your mother’s days.”
I slept but little during the night, and the following day and for days afterwards devoted myself to the task of confirming or destroying the horrible suspicion which haunted me. I saw enough to convince me, but I would make assurance doubly sure, and I laid a trap for her. I had in my possession a photograph of Sydney, admirably executed and handsomely framed, and I determined to bring it before her notice suddenly, and when she supposed herself to be alone. Winter was drawing near, and the weather was chilly. There were fires in every room. We were to go to the theatre, she, my father, and I. Dressing quickly I went into our ordinary sitting-room, where a large fire was burning. I turned the gas low, placed the photograph on the table so that itwas likely to attract observation, and threw myself into an arm chair in a corner of the room which was in deep shadow. I heard the woman’s step upon the stairs, and presently she entered the room, and stood by the table, fastening a glove. While thus employed, her eyes fell upon the photograph. I could not see the expression on her face, but I saw her take the picture in her hand and look at it for a moment; then she stepped swiftly to the fireplace, and kneeling down, gazed intently at the photograph. For quite two minutes did she so kneel and gaze upon the picture, without stirring. I rose from my chair, and turned up the gas. She started to her feet, and confronted me; her face was white, her eyes were wild.
“You are interested in that picture,” I said; “you recognise it.”
The colour returned to her cheeks—it was as though she willed it—her eyes became calm.
“How should I recognise it?” she asked, in a measured tone. “It is the face of a gentleman I have never seen.”
“It is the face of my friend, my dear friend, Sydney Campbell,” I replied, sternly, “who was slain by a heartless, wicked woman. I have not told you his story yet, but perhaps you would scarcely care to hear it.”
Her quick ears had caught the sound of my father’s footsteps. She went to the door, and drew him in with a caressing motion which brought a look of tenderness into his eyes. There was something of triumph in her voice—triumph intended only for my understanding—as she said to her husband,
“Here is a picture of Frederick’s dearest friend, who met with—O! such a dreadful death, through the heartlessness of a wicked woman! What did you say his name was, Frederick?”
Forced to reply, I said, “Sydney Campbell.”
I saw that I had to do with a cunning and clever woman, and that all the powers of my mind would be needed to save my father from shame and dishonour. But I had no idea of the scheme my father’s wife had devised formy discomfiture, and no suspicion of it crossed my mind even when my father said to me, in the course of the night,
“Lydia is charmed with you, Frederick. She says no one in the world has ever been more attentive to her. She loves you with a sister’s love. So all things have turned out happily.”
In this miserable way three weeks passed, without anything further being said, either by her or myself, upon what was uppermost in our minds. Convinced that she was thoroughly on her guard against me, and convinced also of the necessity of my obtaining some kind of evidence before I could broach the subject to my father, I employed a private detective, who, at the end of these three weeks had something to report. The woman, it appears, went out shopping, and as nearly as I can remember I will write the detective’s words:
“The lady did not go in her carriage. She took a hansom, and drove from one shop to another, first to Regent Street, then to Bayswater, then to the Elephant and Castle. Around-about drive, but I did not lose sight of her. At the Elephant and Castle she went into Tarn’s, paying the cabman, who drove off. I have his number and the number of every cab the lady engaged. When she came out of Tarn’s, she looked about her, and went into a confectioner’s shop near at hand, where there were tables for ladies to sit at. There was nothing in that—she must have been pretty tired by that time. Lemonade and cakes were brought to her, and she made short work of them. There was nothing in that—the lady has a sweet tooth; most ladies have; but I fancied that she looked up at the clock once or twice, a little impatiently. She finished her cakes, and called for more, and before she had time to get through the second plateful, a man entered the shop, and in a careless way took his seat at the same table. As I walked up and down past the window—for it wouldn’t have done for me to have stood still staring through it all the time—I saw them talking together, friendly like. There was nothing out-of-the-way in their manner; theywere talking quietly, as friends talk. After about a quarter-of-an-hour of this, the man shook hands with her, and came out of the shop. Then, a minute or two afterwards, the lady came out of the shop. She walked about a hundred yards, called a cab, drove to a jeweller’s shop in Piccadilly, discharged the cab, came out of the jeweller’s shop, took another cab, and drove home. Perhaps you can make something out of it. I can’t.”
“Is there nothing strange,” I asked, “in a lady going into a confectioner’s shop at such a distance from home, and there meeting a gentleman, with whom she remains conversing for a quarter of an hour?”
“There’s nothing strange in it to me,” replied the detective. “You don’t know the goings-on of women, sir, nor the artfulness of them. Many a lady will do more than that, just for the purpose of a harmless bit of flirtation; and they like it all the better because of the secresy and the spice of danger. No, sir, I don’t see anything in it.”
“Describe the man to me,” I said.
He did so, and in the description he gave I recognised the scoundrel, Mr. Pelham. Even now this shameful woman, married to my father, was carrying on an intrigue with her infamous lover. There was no time to lose. I must strike at once.
My first business was with the woman. If I could prevail upon her to take the initiative, and leave my father quietly without an open scandal—if I could induce her to set a price upon her absence from the country, I had no doubt that I could secure to her a sufficient sum to enable her to live in comfort, even in affluence, out of England. Then I would trust to time to heal my father’s wounds. It was a cruel blow for a son to inflict upon his father, but it was not to be borne that the matter should be allowed to continue in its present shape. Not only shame and dishonour, but other evils might spring from it.
Within a few hours I struck the first blow. I asked her for an interview. She called me into her boudoir. I should have preferred a more open room, but she sent word by a maidas treacherous as herself, whom she doubtless paid well, that if I wished to speak to her on that day it must be where she wished. I presented myself, and closed the door behind me.
“Really!” she said, with her sweetest smile. “This is to be a very, very private conversation! Hand me my smelling bottle, Frederick. Not that one; the diamond and the turquoise one your father gave me yesterday. There are no bounds to my husband’s generosity.”
“It is a pity,” I said, “that such a nature as his should be trifled with.”
“It would be a thousand pities!” she replied. “Who would be so unkind! Not you, I am sure; your heart is too tender; you are too fond of your father. As for me, he knows my feelings for him. He is husband, friend, and father, all in one, to me. His exact words, I assure you. Trifle with such a man! No, indeed; it would be too cruel! Come and sit here, by my side, Frederick. If you refuse, I declare I will ring for my maid, and will not speak to you—no, not another word! Now you are good; but you look tooserious. I hate serious people. I love pleasure and excitement. That is because I am young and not bad looking. What do you think? You can’t say I am ugly. But perhaps you have no eyes for me; your heart is elsewhere—in that locket on your chain. I must positively see the picture it contains. No? I must, indeed!—and then I will be quiet, and you shall talk. You have no idea what an obstinate little creature I am when I get an idea into my head, and if you don’t let me see the inside of that locket, I shall ring for my maid. Thank you. Now youaregood! It is empty, I declare. It is a pretty locket. You have good taste.”
There was no picture in the locket; it was worn on my chain from harmless vanity. I had disengaged it from the chain, and she held it in her hand. Suddenly she turned her face close to mine, and said, in the same languid tone, but with a certain meaning in it,
“Well?”
“Grace,” I said, “shall I relate to you the story of Sydney Campbell?”
The directness of my attack frightened her. Her hands, her lips, her whole body trembled; tears filled her eyes, and she looked at me so piteously that for a moment I doubted whether I was not sitting by the side of a helpless child instead of a heartless, cruel, wicked woman.
“For shame, to take advantage of a defenceless girl! You don’t know the true story—you don’t, you don’t! What have you seen me do that you come here, because I happen to have married your father, to threaten and frighten me? What can you say against me? That I have been unfortunate. O, Frederick, you don’t know how unfortunate! You don’t know how I have been treated, and how I have suffered! Have you no pity? Even if I have committed an error through ignorance, should I not be allowed an opportunity to reform? Am I to be utterly abandoned—utterly lost? And are you going to crush me, and send me wandering through the world again, with no one to love or sympathise with me? That portrait of mine which was in Mr. Pelham’s pocket-book, and which Sydneysaw, was stolen from me, and what was written on the back was forged writing. If a man loves me, can I help it? It is nothing to do with me whether he is a gentleman or a blackguard. Pelham loved me, and he was a cheat. Was that my fault? Have pity, have pity, and do not expose me!”
She had fallen on her knees, and had grasped my hands, which I could not release from her grasp, and as she poured out her piteous appeal I declare I could not then tell whether it was genuine or false. I knew that, if this woman were acting, there is no actress on our stage who could excel her. What a danger was here! Acting thus before me, who was armed against her, how would she act in the presence of my father, who had given her his heart? But soon after she had ceased to speak, my calmer sense returned to me, and I seized the point it was necessary to drive home.
“You ask me,” I said, “what I can say against you? I can say this. Two days before Sydney died in your house, I was witness toa secret meeting between you and your lover, Mr. Pelham. I can repeat, word for word, certain remarks made by you and by him which leave no doubt as to the tie which bound you together. You liked a man with a spice of the devil in him—my poor friend Sydney was too tame a lover for you. Do you not remember those words?”
“You listened,” she exclaimed, scornfully, “and you call yourself a gentleman!”
“I do not seek to save myself from your reproaches. The knowledge was forced upon me, and I could neither advance nor retire without discovering myself, and so affording a scoundrel an opportunity of escape. At that time Sydney was indebted to Mr. Pelham a large sum of money, whether fairly won or not.”
“You did not tell Sydney?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“I did. More than that. The night before his death he and I, after leaving you, returned to your cottage and saw the lights, and heard Mr. Pelham’s laugh and yours. Do you knowwhy I tell you these things? It is to convince you that you cannot hope to destroy the evidence it is in my power to bring against you. I should have been content never to have met you again after the death of my friend; I hoped that we had seen the last of each other. But you have forced yourself into this house—you have ensnared my father—and if you remain you will bring upon him a more terrible shock than now awaits him in the discharge of my duty.”
“You are a clever enemy,” she said; “so strong and relentless, and determined! How can I hope to contend with you? Yet I believe I could do so successfully, if you have told me all you know against me. You overheard a conversation between me and Pelham—what of that? You have no witnesses. But will you not give me a chance? If, when you first met me, I was led into error by a scoundrel, who was exposed and disgraced in your presence, shall I be allowed no loophole through which I can creep into a better kind of life? It is the way men treat women, butI might expect something better from you. You cannot unmake me your father’s wife. I am that, in spite of you or a thousand sons. Why not let things remain as they are—why should not you and I be friends, only outwardly, if you like, to save your father from pain? Let it be a bargain between us—for his sake?”
She held out her hand to me; I did not touch it.
“Pain my father must bear,” I said; “but I will endeavour to save him from a deep disgrace.”
“I am not disgracing him now!” she cried. “Indeed, indeed I am not!”
I tried to what depths the nature of this woman would descend.
“When did you see Mr. Pelham last?” I asked.
“I have not seen him for months—for many, many months! He has left the country, never to return. I hope he is dead—with all my heart I hope he is dead! He is the cause of all my misery. I told him so, and refusedever to see him again. He was in despair, and he left me for ever. I prayed with thankfulness—on my knees I prayed—when he said good-bye! He is thousands of miles away.”
I gazed at her steadily. “It is not true,” I said; “you met him by appointment this very morning.”
FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).
Allthe colour died out of her face, and I saw that I had frightened her.
“How do you know?” she asked, in a faint tone.
“That is my secret,” I replied. “It should be sufficient for you that I do know, and that I have evidence at hand for a full exposure of your proceedings.”
“Your own evidence will not be strong enough,” she said. “Hating me as you do, you can invent any wicked story you please—it does not require a very clever man to do things of that kind. It has been done over and over again, and the question then is, whose word has the greatest influence? Myhusband will take my word against yours; I promise you that.”
“I am aware of the power you have over him, and I am prepared.”
“In what way are you prepared?”
“Shall I tell you how many cabs you took this morning, and their numbers?”
“You cannot do it.”
“I can; and I can tell you, moreover, where you engaged and where you discharged them; and what shops you went to and how long you were in each. When I relate your wretched story to my father I shall be able to verify every detail of the accusation I shall bring against you.”
“You have had me watched!” she cried.
“It was necessary. You are a clever woman.” (Even in this terrible crisis of her fate, the vanity of this creature, unparalleled in wickedness, asserted itself, and an expression of gratification passed into her face as I called her a clever woman.) “My father’s nature in some respects resembles Sydney’s, and especially in its loyalty to love andfriendship. Upon Sydney no impression could be made against any person in whom he had confidence, unless the most distinct proof could be produced—the evidence of his own senses or of witnesses upon whom he could implicitly rely. So would it be with my father. On my honour, you can no longer live in this house. I cannot permit you for another day to impose upon a gentleman whom I love and honour.”
She gazed at me in admiration. “How beautifully you speak! Your words are like knives—they cut into my heart. You have brought my guilt home to me, O, how clearly! Yes, Iamguilty! I confess it! I yield; I cannot struggle with such a skilful enemy as you. O, if you knew what relief you have given me! I was so weary! I am glad you were not weak—I am glad you had no pity upon me. I am sick of the deception I have been compelled—yes, compelled!—to practice against a good man. And he is not the only one—there have been others, miserable woman that I am. O, what an unhappy weary lifemine has been! I have been driven and driven by a villain who has preyed upon me since I was a child. Ah, if you knew the whole truth, if I could lay bare my heart, you would not utterly condemn me! You would say, ‘Poor child! she has been more sinned against than sinning!’ Are not those the words used to persons who have been innocently led into error? And they are true of me! If I have sinned I have been driven to it, and I have been sinned against—indeed, indeed I have! But I don’t want to turn you in my favour. You must do your duty, and I must meet my punishment, now that everything is discovered. It might have been different with me if it had been my happiness to meet a man like you when I was young. I am young still—I look it, don’t I? and it makes me feel all the more wicked. But I feel a hundred years old—quite a hundred—and O, so tired and worn out! I could have looked up to you, I could have respected you, and you would have taught me what was right and what was wrong. But it was not tobe—and it is too late now, is it not? Yes, I see in your face that it is too late. What are you going to do with me? You will not be too, too cruel? I am wicked, I feel—you have made me feel it, and I am so thankful to you! but unless I make away with myself (and I am afraid to do that; I should be afraid to die)—unless I did that, which I should never have the courage to do, I shall live a good many years yet. My fate is in your hands. What are you going to do with me?”
I did not attempt to interrupt her, nor to stem her singularly-worded appeal. “Your fate,” I said, “is in your own hands, not in mine. I can show you how you can avoid an open exposure, and secure for yourself an income sufficiently large to live in comfort all your life.”
“Can you?” she exclaimed, clasping her hands. “O, how good you are!”
“The line of action,” I said, “I advise you to adopt is the best for all parties implicated in this miserable business, and is the most merciful both to you and my father.”
She interrupted me with, “Never, never, shall I be able to repay you. It is almost as if you were a lawyer looking after my interests, and as if I were one of your favourite clients. You cannot hate me, after all, or you would never advise me as you are doing. What line of action—how beautifully you express yourself; such language only comes to the good and clever—what line of action do you advise me to adopt?”
“First, I must ask you, as between ourselves, to enlighten me as to Mr. Pelham. I know that you are still keeping up an intimacy with your infamous lover, but I must have it from your own lips.”
“So that you may not have cause to reproach yourself afterwards, if you should happen to find out that I am not so bad as you believe me to be! Yes, I will confess; I will not attempt to deceive you. He still holds his power over me, but you are not entirely right in the way you put it. Youarein calling him infamous, but you are wrong when you call him my lover. I amnot so bad as that; but I cannot escape from him. Why,” she said, and her voice sank to a whisper, “do you know that I have to supply him with money, that he lives upon me, and that he has so entangled and deceived me that I should laugh if I were to see him lying dead at my feet!”
“What I require of you is this,” I said, not attempting to follow her into the currents to which her strange utterances would lead me. “You will write down a full confession of all matters relating to yourself which affect the honour of my father. The confession must be full and complete, and you will place it in my hands, and leave the house, and within a week afterwards you will leave the country. You will pledge yourself never to set foot again in England, and never to attempt to see or speak with my father. In return I will secure to you an income which shall be paid to you regularly, so long as you do not break the conditions of the contract.”
“How hard!” she said, plaintively. “Iam so fond of England! There is no other country in the world worth living in. And I have grown so attached to this house! I am so happy here, so very, very happy! I must think a little—you will not mind, will you? And you will forgive me if I say anything wrong! Even if there was what you call an open exposure, and your father were to believe every word you speak against me, I am still his wife, and he would be compelled to make me an allowance. Then I could live where I please. These things come to my mind, I suppose, because I have not a soul in the world to help me—not a soul, not a friend! Do you not see that I am speaking reasonably?”
“I am not so sure,” I said. “Were the affair made public, my father would adopt his own course. He can be stern as well as tender, and were his name dragged into the mud because of his connection with you, it is most likely he would institute an inquiry which might bring to light circumstances which you would rather should be hiddenboth from his knowledge and from the knowledge of the world. You know best about that; I am not so shallow-witted as to suppose that I am acquainted with all the particulars of your career; but I am on the track, and the task of discovery would not be difficult.”
“You are pitiless!” she cried. “Sydney Campbell would never have spoken to me as you are speaking.”
“His nature was different from mine, but he was jealous of his honour, too. I wish to make the position very clear to you. Even were nothing worse than what is already known to be discovered against you, and my father consented to make you an allowance—of which I am not at all sure—it would not be as large as that I am prepared to secure to you. That aspect of the matter is worth your consideration.”
“How much a year do you propose?” she asked, after a slight pause.
“Not less than a thousand a year. I will undertake that my father shall make youthat, or even a larger allowance, upon the conditions I have stated.”
“In my confession am I to relateallthat passed between Sydney Campbell and myself? You think I did not love him. You are mistaken. I loved him deeply, and had he lived he would soon have been at my feet again.”
“You are to omit nothing,” I said; “my father must know all.”
She looked at me so piteously that for a moment a doubt intruded itself whether there might not be circumstances in her history with which I was unacquainted which, instead of more strongly condemning her, might entitle her to compassion; but too stern a duty was before me to allow the doubt to remain.
“You will give me a few hours to decide,” she implored. “The shock is so sudden! I am at your mercy. Grant me a few hours’ respite! You will not, you cannot refuse!”
I had no intention of refusing, but as if overcome by her feelings, she seized my handsand pressed them to her lips and her eyes, which were wet with tears. I was endeavouring to release myself when the door opened, and her maid appeared.
“What do you want—what do you want?” cried my father’s wife, as she flung herself from me. “How dare you come in without knocking!”
“I knocked, madam,” replied the maid, “but you could not have heard. I thought you rang.”
“I did not ring. Leave the room.”
The maid retired, and we were once more alone.
“I will give you to till to-morrow,” I said, “and then there must be an end to this deception.”
“There shall be—there shall be!” she exclaimed. “Oh, how I thank you! But I will not wait till to-morrow. No—the sooner the blow is struck, the sooner my sufferings will be over. Your father is engaged out this evening. He will not be home till eleven or twelve. At ten I will tell you how I havedecided—perhaps by that time I may have commenced my confession. It is just—I see how just it is—that your father shall not remain another night in ignorance.”
“As you please,” I said; “at ten to-night. Where shall I see you?”
“Here,” she replied. “I shall not be able to come down stairs. My strength is quite, quite gone.”
So it was decided, and I left her. I did not see my father during the day, and at ten o’clock I presented myself at her door, and knocked. There was no answer, and observing that the door was partly open I gently pushed it, and entered the room. My father’s wife was sitting with her back to me, reading. As she did not appear to be aware of my presence, I called to her. She started to her feet, and turned to me. Then I saw, to my surprise, that her hair was hanging down, that her slippered feet were bare, and that she wore a loose dressing gown.
“My God!” she screamed. “Why do you come to my room at such an hour in thisunexpected manner?” And as she spoke she pulled the bell violently.
Failing to understand the meaning of her words, I stammered something about an appointment, at which she laughed, then burst into tears, crying,
“Spare me, oh spare me, and your father from the shame! Confess that you have spoken under the influence of a horrible dream!”
What other words she uttered I do not clearly remember; they referred vaguely to the proposition I had made to her, and in the midst of a passionate speech her maid entered the room. She ran to the maid, exclaiming,
“Thank God you have come!” And then to me, “Leave the room instantly, and never let me look upon your face again! From my lips, this very night, shall your father hear an account of all that has passed between you and me!”
The maid stood between me and her mistress, and I deemed it prudent to take my departure. I passed a sleepless night, thinkingof the inexplicable conduct of this woman and of the shock the discovery of her infamy would be to my father. I longed to be with him to console him and comfort him, and I waited impatiently for daylight. At eight o’clock in the morning I jumped from bed, glad that the weary night was over, and as I began to dress, I heard a tap at the door. I asked who was there, and was answered by a servant, who said that my father desired me to go to him in his study the moment I awoke. I sent word that I would come immediately, and dressing hastily I went to his room.
He was standing, with a sterner look upon his face than I had ever seen. He was pale and haggard, and it was evident that his night had been as sleepless as mine. I was advancing to him with a feeling of pity and sympathy, when he said,
“Stand where you are. Do not move another step towards me.”
We stood, gazing upon each other in silence for a minute or two. Then I said,
“You have not slept, sir.”
“I have not slept. When I left Mrs. Holdfast last night, I came to my study, and have been here all the night, waiting for daylight—and you.”
“You have heard bad news, sir,” I said.
“I have heard what I would have given my fortune and my life had never been spoken. It is incredible that one whom I loved should bring dishonour upon my name and shame into my house!”
Here I must pause for a moment or two. When I commenced this statement I had no idea that it would stretch out to its present length, and so anxious am I that it should reach you as early as possible that I will shorten the description of what remains to be told. Prepare to be shocked and amazed—as I myself was shocked and amazed at the revelation made to me that morning in my father’s study, on that last morning I ever spent in his house. You think you know the character of this woman who plays with men’s lives and honour as though they were toys to amuse an idle hour. You do not yet comprehendthe depths of infamy to which such a nature as hers can descend. Nor did I until I left my father’s house, never to return.
She had, as she declared she would, made a confession to my father during the night; it was not a confession of her own shameful life, but an invention so horrible as almost, at the time I heard it, to deprive me of the power of speech. She accused me of playing the lover to her; she described me as a profligate of the vilest kind. She made my father believe that from the moment I saw her I filled her ears with protestations and proposals which I should be ashamed to repeat to one as pure and innocent as yourself. Day after day, hour after hour, she had followed out the plan she had devised to shut me from my father’s heart and deprive me of his love, and so skilfully and artfully were all the details guided by her wicked mind that, presented as they were to my father with tears, and sobs, and tremblings, he could scarcely avoid believing in their truth. Twice on the previous day—so her story ran—had I forced myselfinto her private room; once in the morning when my father was in his city office, and again in the night when she was about to retire to rest, and when I knew that my father was not in the house. Unfortunately, as she said, for she would have preferred that a scandal so shameful should have no chance of becoming public, her maid entered the room on both occasions, and witnessed portions of the scenes. In the morning, when her maid intruded herself, she had dismissed her, and thereafter implored me to leave her in peace. In the evening I was so violent that she had to seek protection from her maid. She called the maid, who corroborated her in every particular; and she produced other evidence against me in the shape of the locket I had worn on my chain. When she handed this locket to my father it contained a portrait of myself—a small head carefully cut from a photograph—and she declared that I had forced the likeness upon her, and had insisted upon her wearing it. She said that she had endeavoured by every means in her power towean me from my guilty passion; that a dozen times she had been on the point of exposing me to her husband, but had always been prevented by a feeling of tenderness for him and by a hope, which grew fainter and fainter every day, that I might awake from my folly; that no woman had ever been subjected to such cruel persecution and had ever suffered so much as she had; and that, at length, unable to keep the horrible secret to herself, she had resolved to impart it to her husband, and throw herself upon his protection.
Nor was this all. I had threatened, if she would not receive me as her lover, that I would bring the most shameful charges against her, and by the aid of bribed assistants, whom I should call as witnesses, blast her reputation and ruin her happiness. The very words I had used to her in our interview on the previous day were repeated to me by my father, so artfully twisted as to render them powerless against herself and conclusive against me.
From this brief description you will be ableto form some idea of the position in which I was placed during this interview with my father. I was allowed no opportunity of defence. My father’s wife had contrived to rouse to its utmost pitch the chivalry of his nature in her behalf. I doubt whether my father at that time would have received any evidence, however conclusive, against her, and whether, in the peculiar frame of mind into which she had worked him he would not have accepted every proof of her guilt as proof of her virtue.
His recital of his wife’s wrongs being at an end, he addressed himself to me in terms so violent, so unfatherly, so unjust, that I lost my self-command. Such a scene as followed is rare, I hope, between father and son. He discarded me; he swore he would never look upon me as a son; would never think of me; would never receive me. He forbade me ever to address or refer to him; he banished me from his house and his heart; he flung money at me, as he would have done at a beggar; he was in every way so insulting that my feelingsas a man overcame my duty as a son; and we used such words to each other as men can scarcely ever forget or forgive. To such extremes and opposites can a false woman drive men ordinarily just, and kind, and temperate.
The scene ended thus. I repudiated my father as he repudiated me; I trampled his money under my feet; I told him that he would one day awake from his dream; and I swore that never, until he asked my forgiveness, would I use or acknowledge the name of Holdfast, which he, and not I, was dishonouring. He held me to my oath; in a fit of fury he produced a Bible, and bade me repeat it. I did so solemnly, and I kissed the sacred Book. He threw the door open wide, and pointed sternly.
“Go,” he said. “I turn you from my house. You and I have done with each other for ever.”
I went in silence, and as the sound of the shutting of the street door fell upon my ears, I felt as if I had cut myself from myself. Iwalked into the streets a forlorn and lonely man, with no name, no past, no friend. I did not meet any person who knew me; I called a cab, and drove to a remote part of London, where I hired a room in a common lodging-house. But I had not been there an hour before I discovered myself to be a mark for observation. My clothes, perhaps my manner, betrayed me. I left the house, and strolled into a railway station. I could not feel myself safe until I was in a place where I was utterly unknown and entirely free. Standing before a railway time-bill, the first name that attracted me was Exeter. The train was to start in half-an-hour, and I bought my ticket. Thus it was that, by a mere accident, I journeyed to the town in which I was to meet and love you. On my way I decided upon the name I would assume. Frederick was common enough, and I retained it; I added to it the name of Maitland. On my way, also, I reviewed my circumstances, and decided upon my plan of action. I had in money, saved from my father’s liberal allowance while I wasat Oxford, nearly four hundred pounds. Business I did not understand, and was not fit for. I was competent to undertake the duties of a tutor. I determined to look out for such a situation, either in England or abroad, but on no account in any family likely to reside in London or Oxford. In Exeter I employed myself, for a few weeks, in writing for the press. I obtained introduction to a gentleman who occupied the position of editor of a small local newspaper, and him I assisted. I did not ask for pay, nor did I receive any. I was glad of any occupation to distract my thoughts. Through this friend I heard of a situation likely to suit me. A gentleman wanted a tutor for his son, whose ill-health compelled him to be much at home. I applied for the situation, and obtained it. In that family you were also employed, as music teacher, and thus you and I became acquainted.
With the gentleman who employed me, or with his family, I could not become familiar; there was nothing in commonbetween 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 Yorkfor 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. Themanager 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 theHeraldOffice, 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 whichthe 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 myown 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 notstop 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.