FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).
I do not 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 is hidden.
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
irreproachable character. 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 was quick 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 to another 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 my people 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, devilish sly! 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 and subsequent 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--'I hope 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. I _have_ fulfilled 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 beautiful wild 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, upon the
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 be sufficiently 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, I should 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 lives together. 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 more than 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--I call 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. "I know 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, will you 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, or _paire_ or _impaire_, or _manque_ or
_passe_.
"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 all fours, 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 chance remark
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 had not. 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.
[Decoration]