CHAPTER XXVII.
FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT (CONTINUED).
During the interval that elapsed between the acts of raising the boxfrom the table and throwing out the dice, my observation was drawn toGrace. She stood at a little distance from the men, bending forward,her eyes fixed upon the box, her lips parted, her hands clasped, and abright 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 theface, and he stepped towards Mr. Pelham, with the evident intention ofstriking him in return, when Sydney interposed.
"It was an accident," he said. "It is for me alone to settle thisaffair."
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. "Iwill trouble you for my bits of paper."
Mr. Pelham, with trembling fingers, opened his pocket-book. Hisagitation was very great, but I have never been able to decide whetherit 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 aphotograph of Grace. We all saw it, and I was not the only one whowaited 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 eyesrested upon Grace. She smiled wistfully, as a child might smile who hadbeen 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 acandle, calling out the sums, which two or three of the men pencilleddown.
"Is that all?" he demanded of Mr. Pelham, as the discomfited gamblerpaused.
"That is all," replied Mr. Pelham.
"Your sight or your memory is short," said Sydney. "I am not accountedan 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 clumsyscoundrel after all."
"You shall answer to me for this," said Mr. Pelham, with an attempt atbravado.
"I will consider," said Sydney, "whether it is necessary to chastiseyou. But not to-night, nor in this house. We must not forget that a ladyis present."
He bowed with exquisite politeness to Grace, and then addressed hisfriends.
"I requested you," he said, "to constitute yourselves a committee ofhonour, to examine the dice this person used against me. I ask younow to examine the roulette wheel, and to say whether there is anyindication that the numbers 5 and 24 have been tampered with."
The wheel was examined, and my suspicions were confirmed. Upon theverdict being given, Sydney said,
"The person to whom I lost fourteen thousand pounds last night uponnumber 24 must be accomplished in many ways; for it is only by breakinginto the house when its inmates were asleep that he could so skilfullyhave dealt with the wheel for his own purpose. I cannot congratulate youupon your cousin, Adolph."
The lad, with burning blushes, turned his face away, and Sydney,advancing courteously to Grace, offered her his hand. Wondering, andwith a look of mingled apprehension and admiration, she placed her handin his. He led her to Mr. Pelham's side.
"I made a bitter mistake," he said to the blackleg. "I believed myselfto 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 theface--"that she would follow me, and prove false to you, if I invitedher 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 toGrace, he said, "Rest content. You have broken my heart. Either I wasnot worthy of you, or you were not worthy of me. It matters not, nowthat our eyes are opened. Mr. Pelham, I was guilty of an error to-nightwhen I said you were unfortunate in your love affairs. Many men wouldenvy you. Come, gentlemen, enough of this. The play is over; drop thecurtain! 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 clearlyrecall it. There was a sudden movement, some passionately tender wordsfrom Grace, some furious ones from Mr. Pelham. I cannot say whetherthere was a struggle; my only clear remembrance is that, after a lapseof a few moments, during which we were all in a state of inexplicableexcitement and confusion, I saw Grace's arms round Sydney's neck, thatSydney, struggling to release himself, uttered a cry and slipped to theground, 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 thewoman who had betrayed him, and almost his last look was one of mingledhorror and anguish as she leant over him in affright. Thus ended thelife of my chivalrous, rash, and noble-hearted friend.
Such an affair as this could not be hushed up. There were an inquiryand an inquest, but there was no room for suspicion of foul play. Themedical evidence proved that Sydney died from the bursting of a bloodvessel; but in my mind there was no shadow of a doubt that Grace wasthe indirect cause of his death. In my eyes she was a murderess.
She disappeared from the place, and Mr. Pelham with her. I visited thecottage a fortnight after Sydney was buried. All the furniture had beenremoved, and the cottage was empty.
The tragic termination of this ill-fated connection produced a greatimpression upon many of our set. For myself I can say that it made memore permanently serious in my thoughts; from that time I have neverplayed 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 Ihad corresponded regularly, but I did not make him acquainted with thedetails of the story of Sydney's career. Incidentally, at the time ofSydney's death, I mentioned that I had lost a dear friend, and that wasall 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 andasked him if he was well. He replied in a very few words; he was quitewell, he said, but he was engaged in affairs so momentous and engrossingthat he could not find time to write at length. I surmised that hewas speculating largely, and I wrote to him telling him not to harasshimself by writing me long letters; all I wanted was to know that he wasin good health. For three or four months I heard from him but rarely;then, one day came a letter with the astonishing intelligence that hehad married again.
"You will be surprised at the news," wrote my father, "but I feel youwill rejoice when you know that this step, which I have taken almost insecret, will contribute to my happiness. Your second mother is a mostcharming young lady, and I am sure you will have a great affectionfor her. I shall presently ask you to come to London to make heracquaintance, when we can discuss another matter more important toyourself. It is time you commenced a career. Be assured of this--thatmy marriage will make no difference in your prospects."
I had no just cause for anger or uneasiness in the circumstance of myfather 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 fromthe tone of his letter that his heart was engaged. My father possessedsterling qualities, but I could not help confessing to myself that hewas 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 orinvited to the wedding? My father stood in no fear of me; he was a manwho stepped onward in his own path, and who had been all his life inthe habit of judging and deciding for himself. Thinking of him aloneI could find absolutely no reason why he should not have confided inme, but when my thoughts turned in the direction of the young lady anexplanation presented itself. That it was not complimentary to her mademe all the more anxious for my father. But upo
n deliberation I withheldmy final judgment until I had seen my mother-in-law. The invitation toLondon arrived, and I waited first upon my father in his city office. Hereceived me with abundant love; I had written him a letter, wishing himevery happiness, and it had given him great gratification. He confessedto me that it was not in accordance with his desire that I had not beeninformed of the engagement. "It was a young lady's whim," he said, "andI was bound in gallantry to yield."
"You are happy?" I asked, evading the point. The situation as betweenfather and son was particularly awkward to him, and my wish was to sethim as much as possible at his ease.
"I am very happy," he replied. "Let me anticipate your questions, andgive you some information about her. The young lady is poor and anorphan. Her name was Lydia Wilson. She was without family, withoutfriends, and without money. I made her acquaintance accidentally a fewmonths ago in the course of business, and was attracted to her. She wasin a dependent and cruel position, and I made her an offer of marriagewhich she accepted. There is no need for us to go into furtherparticulars. I thought much of you, and your manner of receiving thenews of this unexpected step has delighted me. All that remains for youto do is to make the acquaintance of a lady who I feel is too young tobe my wife, but who has done me infinite honour by assuming my name--whois too young to be a second mother to you, but whom you will finda charming and true friend. Numbers of persons will say that it isan imprudent step for a man of my age to marry a mere child; I mustconfess it is likely I should pass that judgment upon another man inmy position; but I was unable to resist her, and I am happy in theassurance 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 toher; she is anxiously awaiting us."
My father's wife was not visible when we reached home, and my fathertold me she was dressing, and would not come down till dinner was on thetable.
"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, butthere will be plenty of opportunities."
We both retired to dress for dinner, and upon my re-entering the roomthe guests were arriving--fifteen or sixteen of them. They were allstrangers to me, and as I was introduced to them by my father anuncomfortable impression forced itself upon me that they were notpersons who moved in the first class. There were two foreign noblemenamong them whose titles I doubted, and an American upon whoseshirt-front was stamped Shoddy. Scarcely a moment before dinner wasannounced, 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 timeto look into the lady's face until her hand was on my arm. When I didlook at her I uttered a smothered cry, for the woman I was escorting todinner was no other than Grace, through whose abominable treachery myfriend Sydney Campbell had met his death.
The shock of the discovery was so overwhelming that I lost myself-possession. I felt as if the scene on that dreadful night werebeing enacted over again, and as we moved onwards to the dining-room Irepeated the words uttered by Sydney to Grace, which had rang in my earsagain and again, "Rest content. You have broken my heart. Either I wasnot worthy of you, or you were not worthy of me. The play is over; dropthe 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 arevery clever, Frederick."
"They are words spoken by a dear friend," I said, "at a tragic period inhis life--a few moments, indeed, before he died."
"How shocking," she said, "to think of them now when you and I meet forthe 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 beenthinking for days, and days, and days, what I should call you. NotMr. Holdfast--that is my husband; nor Master Frederick." She laughedheartily at this notion. "No, it shall be Frederick. And you musn't callme mother; that would be too ridiculous. Nor madam; that would be toodistant. 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 littlecreature as me? I hope," she whispered, "you are not angry with me formarrying 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 hisnature is so great and noble that I would not for the world give him theslightest pain. He feels so deeply! I have found that out already, andhe is ready to make any sacrifice for me. We are both very, very happy!"
She had succeeded in making me more clearly understand the extraordinarydifficulty of my position. Whether she did this designedly or not wasnot so clear, for every word she spoke might have been spoken by asimple innocent woman, or by a woman who was playing a double part. Icould not discover whether she recognised me. She exhibited no sign ofit. During the dinner she was in the highest spirits, and my father'seyes followed her in admiration. Knowing his character, and seeing howdeeply he was enamoured of this false and fascinating woman, I trembledperhaps more than she did at the consequences of an exposure.
But was it possible, after all, that I could be mistaken? Were there twowomen so marvellously alike in their features, in manner, in the colourof their hair and eyes, and could it have been my fate to meet them inpositions so strange and close to me?
I observed her with the closest attention. Not a word, not a tone, not agesture, escaped me; and she, every now and then, apparently unconsciousof what was in my mind, addressed me and drew me into conversation inthe most artless manner. She demanded attention from me with the usuallicence of beauty, and later on in the evening my father, linking hisarm in mine, said,
"My mind is relieved of a great anxiety. I am glad you like Lydia; sheis delighted with you, and says she cannot look upon you with a mother'seyes. She will be your sister, she says, and the best friend you have inthe 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 daysafterwards devoted myself to the task of confirming or destroying thehorrible suspicion which haunted me. I saw enough to convince me, but Iwould make assurance doubly sure, and I laid a trap for her. I had inmy possession a photograph of Sydney, admirably executed and handsomelyframed, and I determined to bring it before her notice suddenly, andwhen she supposed herself to be alone. Winter was drawing near, and theweather was chilly. There were fires in every room. We were to go tothe theatre, she, my father, and I. Dressing quickly I went into ourordinary sitting-room, where a large fire was burning. I turned thegas low, placed the photograph on the table so that it was likely toattract observation, and threw myself into an arm chair in a cornerof the room which was in deep shadow. I heard the woman's step uponthe stairs, and presently she entered the room, and stood by thetable, fastening a glove. While thus employed, her eyes fell upon thephotograph. I could not see the expression on her face, but I saw hertake the picture in her hand and look at it for a moment; then shestepped swiftly to the fireplace, and kneeling down, gazed intently atthe photograph. For quite two minutes did she so kneel and gaze upon thepicture, 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 eyeswere 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--hereyes became calm.
"How should I recognise it?" she asked, in a measured tone. "It is theface of a gentleman I have never seen."
"It
is the face of my friend, my dear friend, Sydney Campbell," Ireplied, sternly, "who was slain by a heartless, wicked woman. I havenot told you his story yet, but perhaps you would scarcely care to hearit."
Her quick ears had caught the sound of my father's footsteps. She wentto the door, and drew him in with a caressing motion which brought alook of tenderness into his eyes. There was something of triumph in hervoice--triumph intended only for my understanding--as she said to herhusband,
"Here is a picture of Frederick's dearest friend, who met with--O! sucha dreadful death, through the heartlessness of a wicked woman! What didyou 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 allthe powers of my mind would be needed to save my father from shame anddishonour. But I had no idea of the scheme my father's wife had devisedfor my discomfiture, and no suspicion of it crossed my mind even whenmy father said to me, in the course of the night,
"Lydia is charmed with you, Frederick. She says no one in the world hasever been more attentive to her. She loves you with a sister's love. Soall things have turned out happily."
In this miserable way three weeks passed, without anything further beingsaid, either by her or myself, upon what was uppermost in our minds.Convinced that she was thoroughly on her guard against me, and convincedalso of the necessity of my obtaining some kind of evidence before Icould 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 willwrite the detective's words:
"The lady did not go in her carriage. She took a hansom, and drove fromone shop to another, first to Regent Street, then to Bayswater, then tothe Elephant and Castle. A round-about drive, but I did not lose sightof her. At the Elephant and Castle she went into Tarn's, paying thecabman, who drove off. I have his number and the number of every cab thelady engaged. When she came out of Tarn's, she looked about her, andwent into a confectioner's shop near at hand, where there were tablesfor ladies to sit at. There was nothing in that--she must have beenpretty tired by that time. Lemonade and cakes were brought to her, andshe made short work of them. There was nothing in that--the lady has asweet tooth; most ladies have; but I fancied that she looked up at theclock once or twice, a little impatiently. She finished her cakes, andcalled for more, and before she had time to get through the secondplateful, a man entered the shop, and in a careless way took his seatat the same table. As I walked up and down past the window--for itwouldn't have done for me to have stood still staring through it allthe time--I saw them talking together, friendly like. There was nothingout-of-the-way in their manner; they were talking quietly, as friendstalk. After about a quarter-of-an-hour of this, the man shook hands withher, and came out of the shop. Then, a minute or two afterwards, thelady came out of the shop. She walked about a hundred yards, called acab, drove to a jeweller's shop in Piccadilly, discharged the cab, cameout of the jeweller's shop, took another cab, and drove home. Perhapsyou can make something out of it. I can't."
"Is there nothing strange," I asked, "in a lady going into aconfectioner's shop at such a distance from home, and there meeting agentleman, with whom she remains conversing for a quarter of an hour?"
"There's nothing strange in it to me," replied the detective. "You don'tknow the goings-on of women, sir, nor the artfulness of them. Many alady will do more than that, just for the purpose of a harmless bit offlirtation; and they like it all the better because of the secresy andthe 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, wascarrying on an intrigue with her infamous lover. There was no time tolose. I must strike at once.
My first business was with the woman. If I could prevail upon herto take the initiative, and leave my father quietly without an openscandal--if I could induce her to set a price upon her absence from thecountry, I had no doubt that I could secure to her a sufficient sum toenable her to live in comfort, even in affluence, out of England. Then Iwould trust to time to heal my father's wounds. It was a cruel blow fora son to inflict upon his father, but it was not to be borne that thematter should be allowed to continue in its present shape. Not onlyshame and dishonour, but other evils might spring from it.
Within a few hours I struck the first blow. I asked her for aninterview. She called me into her boudoir. I should have preferred amore 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 thatday it must be where she wished. I presented myself, and closed the doorbehind me.
"Really!" she said, with her sweetest smile. "This is to be a very, veryprivate conversation! Hand me my smelling bottle, Frederick. Not thatone; 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 trifledwith."
"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 yourfather. 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. Triflewith 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 andexcitement. That is because I am young and not bad looking. What do youthink? 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 positivelysee the picture it contains. No? I must, indeed!--and then I will bequiet, and you shall talk. You have no idea what an obstinate littlecreature I am when I get an idea into my head, and if you don't let mesee the inside of that locket, I shall ring for my maid. Thank you. Nowyou _are_ good! It is empty, I declare. It is a pretty locket. You havegood taste."
There was no picture in the locket; it was worn on my chain fromharmless vanity. I had disengaged it from the chain, and she held it inher hand. Suddenly she turned her face close to mine, and said, in thesame 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, herwhole body trembled; tears filled her eyes, and she looked at me sopiteously that for a moment I doubted whether I was not sitting by theside of a helpless child instead of a heartless, cruel, wicked woman.
"For shame, to take advantage of a defenceless girl! You don't know thetrue story--you don't, you don't! What have you seen me do that you comehere, because I happen to have married your father, to threaten andfrighten 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 havebeen treated, and how I have suffered! Have you no pity? Even if Ihave committed an error through ignorance, should I not be allowed anopportunity to reform? Am I to be utterly abandoned--utterly lost? Andare you going to crush me, and send me wandering through the worldagain, with no one to love or sympathise with me? That portrait of minewhich was in Mr. Pelham's pocket-book, and which Sydney saw, was stolenfrom me, and what was written on the back was forged writing. If a manloves me, can I help it? It is nothing to do with me whether he is agentleman or a blackguard. Pelham loved me, and he was a cheat. Was thatmy fault? Have pity, have pity, and do not expose me!"
She had fallen on her knees, and had grasped my hands, which I couldnot release from her grasp, and as she poured out her piteous appeal Ideclare I could not then tell whether it was genuine or false. I knewthat, if this woman were acting, there is no actress on our stage whocould excel her. What a danger was here! Acting thus b
efore me, who wasarmed against her, how would she act in the presence of my father, whohad given her his heart? But soon after she had ceased to speak, mycalmer sense returned to me, and I seized the point it was necessary todrive 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 secretmeeting between you and your lover, Mr. Pelham. I can repeat, word forword, certain remarks made by you and by him which leave no doubt as tothe tie which bound you together. You liked a man with a spice of thedevil in him--my poor friend Sydney was too tame a lover for you. Do younot remember those words?"
"You listened," she exclaimed, scornfully, "and you call yourself agentleman!"
"I do not seek to save myself from your reproaches. The knowledgewas forced upon me, and I could neither advance nor retire withoutdiscovering myself, and so affording a scoundrel an opportunity ofescape. At that time Sydney was indebted to Mr. Pelham a large sum ofmoney, 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, afterleaving 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? Itis to convince you that you cannot hope to destroy the evidence it is inmy power to bring against you. I should have been content never to havemet you again after the death of my friend; I hoped that we had seen thelast of each other. But you have forced yourself into this house--youhave ensnared my father--and if you remain you will bring upon him amore terrible shock than now awaits him in the discharge of my duty."
"You are a clever enemy," she said; "so strong and relentless, anddetermined! How can I hope to contend with you? Yet I believe I coulddo so successfully, if you have told me all you know against me. Youoverheard a conversation between me and Pelham--what of that? You haveno witnesses. But will you not give me a chance? If, when you first metme, I was led into error by a scoundrel, who was exposed and disgracedin your presence, shall I be allowed no loophole through which I cancreep into a better kind of life? It is the way men treat women, butI might expect something better from you. You cannot unmake me yourfather's wife. I am that, in spite of you or a thousand sons. Why notlet 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 bea 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 himfrom 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 thecountry, never to return. I hope he is dead--with all my heart I hope heis 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. Iprayed 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 byappointment this very morning."
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