FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).
During the 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 evident intention 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
been detected 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 the blackleg. "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 shadow of 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--not on 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 time you 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
explanation presented 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, without
friends, 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, we will 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, "Rest content. 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 be too 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 not discover 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 it was 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
for my 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. A round-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; they were 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 maid as 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 too serious. 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
you _are_ good! 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 Sydney saw, 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 to a 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 know why 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, but
I 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 refused
ever 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."
[Decoration]