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diff --git a/42906-8.txt b/42906-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 6c6c81c..0000000 --- a/42906-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5101 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Great Porter Square, v. 2, by Benjamin Leopold Farjeon - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Great Porter Square, v. 2 - A Mystery. - -Author: Benjamin Leopold Farjeon - -Release Date: June 10, 2013 [EBook #42906] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT PORTER SQUARE, V. 2 *** - - - - -Produced by eagkw, Robert Cicconetti and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - GREAT PORTER SQUARE: - A MYSTERY. - - BY - B. L. FARJEON, - _Author of "Grif," "London's Heart," "The House of White - Shadows," etc._ - - _IN THREE VOLUMES._ - VOLUME II. - - LONDON: - WARD AND DOWNEY, - 12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN. - 1885. - [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] - - - - - PRINTED BY - KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS: - AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - CHAP. PAGE - XX.--The "Evening Moon" concludes its narrative, and - affords a further insight into the child-like and - volatile character of Lydia Holdfast 1 - - XXI.--Richard Manx makes love to "sweet Becky" 31 - - XXII.--In which Becky gives way to her feelings, and renews - an old acquaintance 42 - - XXIII.--"Justice" sends a letter to the Editor of the - "Evening Moon" 62 - - XXIV.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement 88 - - XXV.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (continued) 96 - - XXVI.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (continued) 125 - - XXVII.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (continued) 158 - - XXVIII.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (continued) 189 - - XXIX.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (concluded) 219 - - XXX.--Becky's reply to her Lover's Statement 245 - - - - -GREAT PORTER SQUARE: - -A MYSTERY. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - - THE "EVENING MOON" CONCLUDES ITS NARRATIVE, AND AFFORDS A FURTHER - INSIGHT INTO THE CHILD-LIKE AND VOLATILE CHARACTER OF LYDIA - HOLDFAST. - - -In the hope of her husband's return, and looking forward with sweet -mysterious delight to the moment when she would hold her baby to her -breast, Mrs. Holdfast was a perfectly happy woman--a being to be envied. -She had some cause for anxiety in the circumstance that she did not hear -from her husband, but she consoled herself with the reflection that his -last letter to her afforded a sufficient explanation of his silence. -She mentally followed his movements as the days passed by. Some little -time would be occupied in settling his son's affairs; the young man most -likely died in debt. Mr. Holdfast would not rest satisfied until he -had ascertained the exact extent of his unhappy son's liabilities, and -had discharged them. With Frederick's death must be cleared away the -dishonour of his life. - -"Now that he was dead," said the widow, "I was ready to pity and forgive -him." - -Her baby was born, and her husband had not returned. Day after day -she looked for news of him, until she worked herself into a fever of -anxiety. The result was that she became ill, and was ordered into the -country for fresher air. But she could not rest. Her husband's return -appeared to be delayed beyond reasonable limits. Could anything have -happened to him in the wild part of the world in which Frederick had -met his death? She did not dream that in the tragedy which had occurred -in the very heart of London, the murder in Great Porter Square, with -which all the country was ringing, lay the answer to her fears. In her -delicate state of health she avoided the excitement of the newspapers, -and for weeks did not look at one. Thus, when her health was to some -extent established, and she had returned to her house in London, she had -no knowledge of the murder, and was in ignorance of the few particulars -relating to it which the police had been enabled to bring to light. -She knew nothing of the arrest of Antony Cowlrick, of the frequent -adjournments at the police-court, and of the subsequent release of this -man whose movements have been enveloped in so much mystery. - -It happened during her illness that a friend, who witnessed the anxiety -of her mind and sympathised with her, wrote to America for information -concerning Mr. Holdfast, anticipating that the reply to his letter would -enable him to communicate good news to her; and it also happened, most -singularly, after a lapse of time, that it was to this very friend Mrs. -Holdfast appealed for advice as to how she should act. - -"I felt as if I was going mad," are the widow's words. "I could endure -the terrible suspense no longer." - -She called upon her friend, not being aware that he had written to -America on her behalf. On the table was a letter with the American -post-mark on the envelope, and as her friend, in a hurried manner, rose -to receive her, she observed that he placed his hand upon this letter, -as though wishing to conceal it from her sight. But her quick eyes had -already detected it. - -"I did not know," she said, after she had explained the motive of her -visit, "that you had correspondence with America." - -He glanced at his hand, which still covered the letter, and his face -became troubled. - -"This," he said, "is in answer to a special letter I sent to the States -concerning Mr. Holdfast." - -"Ah," she cried, "then I am interested in it!" - -"Yes," he replied, "you are interested in it." - -Her suspicions were aroused. "Is that the reason," she asked, "why you -seek to hide it from me?" - -"I would not," he replied, "increase your anxiety. Can you bear a great -shock?" - -"Anything--anything," she cried, "rather than this terrible torture of -silence and mystery!" - -"I wrote to America," then said her friend, "to an agent, requesting him -to ascertain how and where your husband was. An hour before you entered -the room I received his answer. It is here. It will be best to hide -nothing from you. I will read what my correspondent says." He opened -the letter, and read: "I have made inquiries after Mr. Holdfast, and am -informed, upon undoubted authority, that he left America for England -some weeks ago." - -Mrs. Holdfast's friend read this extract without comment, but Mrs. -Holdfast did not appear to realize the true import of the information. - -"Do you not understand?" asked her friend. "Mr. Holdfast, some weeks -ago, left America for England." - -"Impossible," said the bewildered woman; "if he were here--in England--I -should not be with you at this moment, asking you to assist me to find -him." - -Her friend was silent. - -"Help me!" she implored. "Do you think he is here?" - -"I am certain that he has left America," was the reply. - -A new fear assailed her. "Perhaps," she whispered, "the ship he sailed -in was wrecked." - -"That is not probable," said her friend. "Mr. Holdfast, as a man of -the world and a gentleman of means, undoubtedly took passage in a fast -steamer. In all human probability your husband landed at Liverpool -within nine or ten days of his departure from New York." - -"And then?" asked Mrs. Holdfast. - -"Who can say what happened to him them? It is, of course, certain that -his desire was to come to you without delay." - -"He would not have lingered an hour," said Mrs. Holdfast. "An hour! -He would not have lingered a moment. He would be only too eager, -too anxious, to rejoin me. And there was another motive for his -impatience--his child, whose face he has never seen, whose lips he has -never kissed! Unhappy woman that I am!" - -Her friend waited until she had somewhat mastered her grief, and then he -asked her a question which opened up another channel for fear. - -"Was your husband in the habit of carrying much money about with him?" - -"A large sum; always a large sum. He often had as much as a thousand -pounds in notes in his pocket-book." - -"It was injudicious." - -"He was most careless in money matters," said Mrs. Holdfast; "he would -open his pocket-book in the presence of strangers, recklessly and -without thought. More than once I have said to him that I should not -wonder if he was robbed of it one day. But even in that case--suppose -he _had_ incited some wretch's cupidity; suppose he _was_ robbed--it -would not have prevented him from hastening to me and his child." - -"Do not imagine," said her friend, "that in what I am about to say I -desire to add to your difficulties and distress of mind. The length -of time since you have heard from your husband--the fact that he left -America and landed in England--make the case alarming. Your husband is -not a man who would calmly submit to an outrage. Were an attempt made to -rob him he would resist." - -"Indeed he would--at the hazard of his life." - -"You have put into words the fear which assails me." - -"But," said Mrs. Holdfast, clinging to every argument against the -horrible suspicion now engendered, "had anything of the kind happened, -it would have been in the newspapers, and would have been brought to my -ears." - -"There are such things," said her friend, impressively, "as mysterious -disappearances. Men have been robbed and murdered, and never more heard -of. Men have left their homes, in the midst of crowded cities, intending -to return within an hour, and have disappeared for ever." - -It is easier to imagine than to describe the state of Mrs. Holdfast's -mind at these words. They seemed, as she expressed it, "to drain her -heart of hope." - -"What would you advise me to do?" she asked, faintly. - -"To go at once to a lawyer," was the sensible answer, "and place the -matter in his hands. Not an hour is to be lost; and the lawyer you -consult should be one who is familiar with criminal cases. I have the -address of such a gentleman, and I should recommend you to drive to his -office immediately, and lay the whole case before him." - -Mrs. Holdfast took the advice given to her, and drove at once to the -lawyer who was recommended to her. He listened to her story, and allowed -her to tell it in her own way without interruption; and when she had -finished, he put a variety of questions to her, many of which appeared -to her trivial and unnecessary. Before she left the office the lawyer -said, - -"If your husband is in England, we will find him for you." - -With this small modicum of comfort she was fain to be satisfied; but as -she rode home she shuddered to think that she had seen on the lawyer's -lips the unspoken words, "dead or alive." That is what the lawyer meant -to express: "If your husband is in England, we will find him for you, -dead or alive." Another of his actions haunted her. At a certain point -of the conversation, the lawyer had paused, and upon a separate sheet of -paper had made the following memorandum--"Look up the murders. How about -the murder in Great Porter Square?" She was curious to see what it -was he had written with so serious an air, and she rose and looked at -the paper, and read the words. How dreadful they were! "Look up the -murders. How about the murder in Great Porter Square?" The appalling -significance of the memorandum filled her with terrible forbodings. - -But what were the particulars of the murder in Great Porter Square, of -which till now she had never heard, and what possible relation could -they bear to her? She could not wait for the lawyer; she had placed the -matter in his hands, but the issue at stake was too grave for her to sit -idly down and make no effort herself to reach the heart of the mystery. -That very evening she ascertained that in a certain house, No. 119 Great -Porter Square, a cruel murder had been committed, and that the murdered -man had not been identified. On the date of this murder she was in the -country, endeavouring by quietude to regain her health and peace of -mind; her baby at that time was nearly two months old, and for weeks -before the date and for weeks afterwards she had not read a newspaper. -Now that she learned that the murder might, even by the barest -possibility, afford a clue to the mystery in which she was involved, -she felt as if it would be criminal in her to sleep until she had made -herself fully acquainted with all the details of the dreadful deed. She -went from shop to shop, and purchased a number of newspapers containing -accounts of the discovery of the murder, and of the accusation brought -against Antony Cowlrick. When the lawyer called upon her the following -morning he found her deeply engaged in the study of these papers. He -made no remark, divining the motive for this painful duty. - -"I have not closed my eyes all night," she said to him plaintively. -"Where is Great Porter Square?" - -"My dear lady," he replied, "it is not necessary for you to know the -locality of this terrible crime. It will not help you to go there. -Remain quiet, and leave the matter with me. I have already done -something towards the clearing-up of the mystery. Do not agitate -yourself needlessly; you will require all your strength." - -He then asked her if she had a portrait of her husband. She had a -photograph, taken at her request the day before their marriage. - -"Mr. Holdfast was above these small vanities," she said, and suddenly -checked herself, crying, "Good God! What did I say? _Was_ above them! -_Is_ above them, I mean. He cannot be dead--he cannot, he cannot be -dead! I had to persuade him to have the picture taken. It is here--in -this locket." - -She gave her lawyer the locket, and he departed with it. When he called -upon her again in the evening, his manner was very grave and sad. - -"Did your husband make a will?" he asked. - -"Yes," she replied, "and gave it me in a sealed envelope. I have it -upstairs, in a safe, in which I keep my jewels. It is dated on the day -on which he forbade his son Frederick ever again to enter his house. -Would you like to see it?" - -"It will be as well," said the lawyer, "for you to place it in my care. -I shall not break the seal until the present inquiry is terminated. It -will be very soon--very soon. Are you strong enough to hear some bad -news, or will you wait till to-morrow? Yes, yes--it will be better to -wait till to-morrow. A good night's rest----" - -She interrupted him impetuously. It would be death to her to wait, she -declared, and she implored him to tell her the worst at once. Reluctant -as he was, he saw that it would be the wisest course, and he told her, -as tenderly and considerately as he could, that the portrait she had -given him exactly resembled the description of the man who was found -murdered in Great Porter Square. - -"To-morrow morning," he said, "we shall obtain the order to exhume the -body. A most harrowing and painful task awaits you. It will be necessary -for you to attend and state, to the best of your belief, whether the -body is that of your lost husband?" - -Our readers will guess how this painful inquiry terminated. Mr. Holdfast -bore upon his person certain marks which rendered identification an easy -task; a scar on his left wrist, which in his youth had been cut to the -bone; a broken tooth, and other signs, have placed beyond the shadow of -a doubt the fact that he is the man who took a room on the first floor -of No. 119 Great Porter Square, and was there ruthlessly and strangely -murdered on the night of the 10th of July. So far, therefore, the -mystery is cleared up. - -But the identification of the body of the murdered man as that of a -gentleman of great wealth, with a charming wife, and shortly after -the strange death of his son Frederick, who was the only person whose -life was likely to mar his happiness--the facts that this gentleman -arrived in London, and did not return immediately to his home; that he -proceeded, instead, to a common Square in a poor neighbourhood, and -engaged a room without giving his name; that during the few days he -lived there he received only one visitor, a lady who came and went -closely veiled--these facts have added new and interesting elements of -mystery to the shocking affair. Whether they will assist in bringing the -murderer to justice remains to be seen. - -Mrs. Holdfast has been and is most frank and open in her communications -to our Reporter, who, it will be presently seen, has not confined his -inquiries to this lady alone. In other circumstances it would have been -natural, on the part of Mrs. Holdfast, that she should have been less -communicative on the subject of the domestic trouble between herself and -Mr. Holdfast and his son; but as she justly observed, - -"Perhaps by and bye something may occur which will render it necessary -that I shall be examined. The murderer may be discovered--I shall pray, -day and night, that he or she may be arrested! In that case, I should -have to appear as a witness, and should have to tell all I know. Then -I might be asked why I concealed all these unhappy differences between -father and son. I should not know how to answer. No; I will conceal -nothing; then they can't blame me. And if it will only help, in the -smallest way, to discover the wretch who has killed the noblest -gentleman that ever lived, I shall be more than ever satisfied that I -have done what is right." - -We yield to this lady our fullest admiration for the courageous course -she has pursued. She has not studied her own feelings; she has laid -bare a story of domestic trouble and treachery as strange as the most -ingenious drama on the French stage could present--such a story as -Sardou or Octave Feulliet would revel in; and, without hesitation, she -has thrown aside all reserve, in the light of the great duty which -is before her, the duty of doing everything in her power to hunt the -murderer down, and avenge her husband's death. It is not many who would -have the moral courage thus to expose their wounds to public gaze, and -we are satisfied that our narrative will have the effect of causing a -wide and general sympathy to be expressed for this most unfortunate -lady. - -We now come to other considerations of the affair. The gentleman who was -murdered was a gentleman of wealth and position in society. He loved his -wife; between them there had never been the slightest difference; they -were in complete accord in their views of the conduct of the unhappy -young man at whose door, indirectly, the primary guilt of the tragedy -may be laid. The reason why Mr. Holdfast did not write to his wife for -so long a period is partly explained by the account he gives, in his -last letter to her, of the injury he received in his right hand. We -say partly, because, a little further on, our readers will perceive -that this reason will not hold good up to the day of his death. Most -positively it may be accepted that the deepest and strongest motives -existed for his endeavour to keep the circumstance of his being -in London from the knowledge of his wife. Could these motives be -discovered--could any light be thrown upon them--a distinct point would -be established from which the murderer might be tracked. Our Reporter -put several questions to Mrs. Holdfast. - -"Is it an absolute certainty that Frederick Holdfast is dead?" he asked. - -She gazed at him in wonderment. "Who can doubt it?" she exclaimed. -"There is my husband's letter, saying he had traced his son to -Minnesota, and was journeying after him. There is the account in the -newspaper of the death of the misguided young man in a small town in -Minnesota. The editor of the newspaper, knowing nothing whatever of -any of us, could scarcely have invented such a paragraph--though we -know they _do_ put strange things in the American papers; but this, -unhappily, is too near the truth." - -"Certainly," said our Reporter, "the presumption would be a wild -one--but it is possible; and I seldom shut my mind to a possibility." - -Mrs. Holdfast was very agitated. "It is _not_ possible--it is _not_ -possible!" she cried, repeating the asseveration with vehemence. "It -would be too horrible to contemplate!" - -"What would be too horrible to contemplate?" - -"That he followed his father to London"---- - -She paused, overcome by emotion. Our Reporter took up the cue. "And -murdered him?" he asked. - -"Yes," answered the lovely widow, in a low tone, "and murdered him! I -would not believe it--no, I would not believe it! Bad and wicked as he -is, he _could_ not be guilty of a crime so horrible. And, after all, it -was partly my fault. Why did I not grow up into the likeness of an ugly -old witch----?" - -She paused again, and smiled. There is in this lovely lady so much -animation and vitality, so much pure love of life, so much sunlight, -that they overcome her against her will, and break out in the midst -of the gloomiest fits of melancholy and depression. Hers is a happy, -joyous, and impulsive nature, and the blow that has fallen upon her -is all the more cruel because of her innate brightness and gaiety of -disposition. But it is merciful, also, that she is thus gifted. She -might not otherwise have sufficient strength to bear up against her -affliction. - -"We will, then," said our Reporter, "dismiss the possibility--which I -confess is scarcely to be indulged in even by such a man as myself. As -to your being beautiful, a rose might as reasonably complain that nature -had invested it with grace of form and loveliness of colour." Mrs. -Holdfast blushed at this compliment. "You are right in saying that -such an idea as Frederick Holdfast being alive is too horrible to -contemplate. The American newspaper says that his body was identified by -a gentleman who knew him in Oxford, and who happened to be travelling -through the State of Minnesota. It is a strange coincidence--nothing -more--that on the precise day on which Frederick Holdfast ended his -career, a friend should have been travelling in that distant State, and -should have given a name to the dead stranger who was found near the -laughing waters of Minnie-ha-ha." - -Mrs. Holdfast replied with a sweet smile. "Yes, it is a strange -coincidence; but young gentlemen now-a-days have numbers of -acquaintances, hundreds I should say. And everybody travels now--people -think nothing of going to America or Canada. It is just packing up their -Gladstone bag, and off they go, as happy as you please. _I_ couldn't do -it. I _hate_ the sea; I hate everything that makes me uncomfortable. I -love pleasure. Strange, isn't it, for me, a country girl, to be so fond -of life and gaiety, and dancing and theatres? But we can't help our -natures, can we? I would if I could, for you must think me a dreadful, -dreadful creature for talking in this way just after my husband has been -brutally killed! Don't think ill of me--don't! It is not my fault, and I -am suffering dreadfully, dreadfully, though I _do_ let my light heart -run away with me!" - -"How can I think ill of you?" said our Reporter; "you are child and -woman in one." - -"Really!" she cried, looking up into his face with a beaming smile. "Are -you really, really in earnest?" - -"You may believe me," replied our Reporter, "for my errand here is not a -personal one, but in pursuance of my professional duties; and although -you charm me out of myself, I must be faithful." - -"Ah," said Mrs. Holdfast, "that is the way of you men. So stern, and -strict, and proper, that you never forget yourself. It is because you -are strong, and wise--but you miss a great deal--yes, indeed, indeed you -do! It would spoil the sunshine if one stopped while one was enjoying -the light and warmth, to ask why, and what, and wherefore. Don't you -think it would? Such a volatile, impressionable creature as Lydia -Holdfast does not stop to do such a wise and foolish thing--we can be -both wise and foolish in a breath, let me tell you. No; I enjoy, and am -happy, without wanting to know why. There! I am showing myself to you, -as if you were my oldest friend. _You_ would not do the same by me. You -are steadier, and wiser, and not half so happy--no, not half, not half -so happy! O, I wish I had been born a man!" - -Amused, and, as he had declared to her, charmed out of himself, our -Reporter said, somewhat jocosely, - -"Why, what would you have done if you had been born a man instead of a -woman?" - -"I am afraid," she said, in a half-whisper, and with her finger on her -lips, as though enjoining him not to betray her, "I am afraid I should -have been a dreadful rake." - -Our Reporter resisted the beguilement of the current into which the -conversation had drifted, although he would have been entitled to much -excuse had he dallied a little in this vein with the charming and -child-like woman. - -"You forget your child," he said; "had you been born a man----" - -Before he could complete the sentence, Mrs. Holdfast rushed out of the -room, and in a few moments returned with the child in her arms. She sat -in a rocking chair, and fondled the boy-baby, and kissed him, and sang -to him. It was a picture of perfect and beautiful motherhood. - -"Forget my child!" she murmured. "Forget my baby! You must either be -mad or insincere to say such a thing. Ask the darling's forgiveness -immediately." - -"I do," said our Reporter, kissing the baby, "and yours. You have proved -yourself a true woman. But my time is getting short, and I have already -trespassed too long upon yours. Let us continue the conversation about -Mr. Holdfast." - -She instantly became serious, and with the baby in her arms, said, "Yes! -Well!" - -"The landlady of the house," continued our Reporter, "in which he lodged -has declared that he had but one visitor--a lady, closely veiled." - -"So I have read in the papers," said Mrs. Holdfast. "Is nothing known -about her--where she came from, where she went to, whether she was a -lady or a common woman?" - -"Nothing is known," he replied. - -"Are you sure?" - -"Quite sure, as far as my information goes. One person says that she was -tall, another that she was short; another that she was fair, another -that she was dark--though they all agree that she never raised her veil. -There is absolutely not a dependable clue upon which a person can work; -nothing reliable can be gathered from statements so conflicting. What I -wish to know is, whether you yourself have any suspicion?" - -She flushed with indignation. "You do not mean to ask me whether Mr. -Holdfast was enamoured of a woman with whom he made secret assignations? -You insult me. I thought better of you; I did not believe you capable of -harbouring such a suspicion against the dead?" - -"You mistake me," said our Reporter; "no such suspicion was in my mind. -My thoughts were travelling in a different direction, and I was curious -to ascertain whether what has occurred to my mind has occurred to -yours." - -"About this woman?" asked Mrs. Holdfast. - -"Yes, about this woman." - -"I did not wish to speak of it," said Mrs. Holdfast, after a pause, and -speaking with evident reluctance; "it is the one thing in this dreadful -affair I desired to keep to myself. I had a motive--yes; I did not want -to do anyone an injustice. But, what can a weak woman like myself do -when she is in the company of such a man as you? Nothing escapes you. It -seems to me as if you had studied every little incident in connection -with the murder of my poor husband for the purpose of bringing some one -in guilty; but you are better acquainted than I am with the wickedness -of people. You want to know what reason my husband had in taking a -common lodging in Great Porter Square instead of coming home at once to -me and his child. In my weak way I have thought it out. Shall I tell you -how I have worked it out in my mind?" - -"If you please." - -"Above everything else in the world," said Mrs. Holdfast, looking -tenderly at her baby lying in her lap, "even above his love for me, Mr. -Holdfast valued the honour of his name. There is nothing he would not -have sacrificed to preserve that unsullied. Well, then, after his son's -death he discovered something--who can say what?--which touched his -honour, and which needed skilful management to avoid public disgrace. -I can think of nothing else than that the woman, who was connected in -a disgraceful way with his son, had some sort of power over my poor -husband, and that he wished to purchase her silence before he presented -himself to me and our baby. He came home, and took the lodgings in Great -Porter Square. There this woman visited him, and there he met his death. -That is all I can think of. If I try to get any further, my mind gets -into a whirl. Now you know all; I have concealed nothing from you. It is -my firm belief that when you discover this woman everything else will be -discovered. But you will never discover her--never, never! And my poor -husband's death will never be avenged." - -"I will ask you but one more question," said our Reporter. "In what way -do you account for the circumstance of your husband not writing to you -after his return to London?" - -"Do you forget," asked Mrs. Holdfast, in return, "that he had injured -his hand, and that he did not wish to disclose his private affairs to a -stranger?" - -Here the interview terminated; and here, with the exception of the -statement of three facts, our narrative ends. - -Mrs. Holdfast is mistaken in her belief that her husband did not write -to her because he had injured his hand, and was unwilling to employ an -amanuensis. Our Reporter, after he left Mrs. Holdfast, had an interview -with the former landlady of 119 Great Porter Square, who has left the -house, and would under no consideration return to it. The landlady -states that, on three occasions, she entered Mr. Holdfast's room when -he was in it, and that on every occasion he was writing, and apparently -writing freely. It did not appear to her that his hand was injured in -the slightest degree. There was no bandage or plaister upon it, and he -did not complain. We are in a position also to declare that, at the -_post-mortem_ examination, no recent injury of the right hand was -perceptible. - -The whole of Mr. Holdfast's property has been left by him, in a properly -attested will, to his widow. When he made this will his son Frederick -was alive. Not a shilling, however, is left to the son. - -Mrs. Holdfast has offered a reward of five hundred pounds for the -discovery of the murderer of her husband. - -We have no doubt our readers will appreciate our enterprise in -presenting them with this circumstantial account of the latest phase of -the Great Porter Square Mystery. - -The question that now remains to be answered is--Where is Mr. Holdfast's -son? - -[Decoration] - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -RICHARD MANX MAKES LOVE TO "SWEET BECKY." - - -On the morning following the publication of the Supplement to the -_Evening Moon_, Becky had occasion to observe that her mistress, Mrs. -Preedy, was earnestly engaged in the perusal of a newspaper. A great -deal of house-work had to be done on this morning; there was a general -"cleaning-up;" floors and stairs to be scrubbed, chairs and tables to -be polished, and looking-glasses and windows to be cleaned; and as the -greater portion of this work fell to Becky's share, she was kept busily -employed until the afternoon. She was, therefore, in ignorance of the -publication of the statement in the _Evening Moon_, and her curiosity -was but languidly aroused by Mrs. Preedy's pre-occupation, until, by -mere chance, she caught sight of the heading, "The Murder in Great -Porter Square." She turned hot and cold, and her pulses quickened. - -"Is that something fresh about the murder next door?" she ventured to -ask. - -"Yes, Becky," replied Mrs. Preedy, but did not offer any explanation of -the contents. - -It was not Becky's cue to exhibit more than ordinary interest in the -matter, and she merely remarked, - -"I thought it might be something about the houses being haunted." - -She noted that the paper was the _Evening Moon_, and she determined to -purchase a copy before she went to bed. She did not until the afternoon -get an opportunity to leave the house, and even then, there was so -much to do, she had to leave it secretly, and without Mrs. Preedy's -knowledge. There was another reason for her desire to go out. She -expected a letter at the Charing Cross Post Office, and it was necessary -she should be there before five o'clock to receive it. Mrs. Preedy -generally took a half-hour's nap in the afternoon, and Becky's plan was -to slip out the moment her mistress fell asleep, and leave the house to -take care of itself. She felt the want of an ally at this juncture; the -impression that she was fated to unravel the mystery of the murder, and -thus clear the man she loved from suspicion, was becoming stronger; and -to accomplish this it was necessary that she should keep her present -situation. She needed help, and she could not take any person into her -confidence. - -During the day Becky noticed that a great many persons passed through -the Square, and stopped before the house. "Now that the houses are -haunted," she thought, "we shall be regularly besieged. But if they look -for a year they'll not see a ghost." - -At four o'clock in the afternoon Mrs. Preedy arranged herself -comfortably in an arm chair in her kitchen, and in a few moments was -asleep. Now was Becky's opportunity. She quietly slipped out of the -house by way of the basement, tying her hat strings as she mounted the -steps, and walked quickly in the direction of Charing Cross. She was so -intent upon her mission that she scarcely noticed the unusual number of -persons in the Square. At Charing Cross Post Office she received the -letter she expected. She did not stop to read it; she simply opened it -as she retraced her steps, and, glancing hurriedly through it, put it -into her pocket. She heard the boys calling out "_Hevenin' Moon_! More -about the murder in Great Porter Square! Wonderful discovery! Romance in -real life! A 'Underd Thousand Pounds!" and she stopped and purchased two -copies. Although she was animated by the liveliest curiosity, she did -not pause even to open the paper, she was so anxious to get back to the -house before Mrs. Preedy awoke. Shortly before turning into the Square, -she was overtaken, fast as she herself was walking, by their young man -lodger, Richard Manx. He touched her arm, and smiling pleasantly at her, -walked by her side. - -"My pretty one," he said, "your little feet walk fast." - -"I am in a hurry," she replied, her nostrils dilating at his touch; -but instantly remembering the part she was playing, she returned his -pleasant smile. - -"You have been--a--out while the amiable Mrs. Preedy sleeps." - -This observation warned her that Richard Manx knew more about the -household movements than she expected. "I have no fool to deal with," -she thought. "He shall have as much of my confidence as I choose to give -him; he will find me his match." - -"Yes," she said aloud, with a bright look; "but don't tell Mrs. Preedy; -she might be angry with me." - -"You speak," he said in a tone of lofty satisfaction, "to a gentleman." - -"I wanted to buy a ribbon," said Becky, artlessly, "and it isn't easy to -choose the exact colour one would like at night, so I thought I would -steal out, just as I am, while Mrs. Preedy took her nap." - -"Steal out--ah, yes, I understand--just as you are, charming!" - -"And now, although I couldn't match my ribbon--it was a very light pink -I wanted--I must get back quickly." - -All the while they were talking he was sucking and chewing a sweetmeat; -having disposed of it, he popped another into his mouth. - -"Quickly," he repeated, bending down, so that his face was on a level -with hers. "That is--a--soon. Will you?" - -This question was accompanied by the offer of a little packet of acid -drops, half of which he had already devoured. She took a couple with the -remark that she liked chocolate creams best. - -"You shall have some," he said, "to-morrow. I shall walk with you; I -myself am on my way to my small apartment. It is the--a--fashion for a -gentleman to offer a lady one of his arms. Honour me." - -He held out his arm, which she declined. - -"I am not a lady," she said demurely; "I am only a poor servant girl." - -"And I," he responded insinuatingly, "am a poor gentleman. Ah! If -I were--a--rich, I should say to you, accept this ring." He made a -motion as if offering her a ring. "Accept this--a--bracelet," with -corresponding action. "Or this dress. But I have not--a--money." He took -another acid drop. "It is a misfortune. But what can a poor devil do? -You do not--a--despise me because I am thus?" - -"Oh, no. I hope you will be rich one day." - -"It will happen," he said, in a quick, eager tone. "From my country"--he -waved his hands vaguely--"shall come what I wait for here. Then shall I -say to you, 'Becky'--pardon; I have heard the amiable Mrs. Preedy thus -call you--'Becky,' shall I say, 'be no longer a servant. Be a lady.' How -then, will you speak?" - -"I must not listen to you," replied Becky, coquettishly; "you foreign -gentlemen have such smooth tongues that they are enough to turn a poor -girl's head." They were now in Great Porter Square. "What a number of -people there are in the square," she said. - -"It is--a--remarkable, this murder. The man is--a--found." - -"What man?" cried Becky, excitedly. "The murderer!" - -"Ah, no. That is not yet. It is the dead man who is--what do you call -it?--discovered. That is it. He _was_ not known--he _is_ known. His name -has come to the light. Yesterday he was a beggar--to-day he is rich. -What, then? He is dead. His millions--in my country's money, sweet -Becky, veritably millions--shall not bring life into his bones. His -money is--a--here. _He_ is"--Richard Manx looked up at the sky--"Ah, he -is there! or"--he cast his eyes to the pavement--"there! We shall not -know till there comes a time. It is sad." - -"He was a rich gentleman, you say. What could have induced a rich man -to live in such a neighbourhood?" - -"In such a neighbourhood!" Richard Manx smiled, and shrugged his -shoulders. "Ah! he came here not to die, surely--no, to live. It would -have been well--for him--that he came not; but so it was. What should -induce him here? you ask of me. Becky, I shall ask of the air." He put -himself into the attitude of listening. "Ha! ha! I hear perhaps the -reason. There was a lady. Enough. We shall not betray more. I propose to -you a thought. I live in the amiable house of Mrs. Preedy. It is high, -my apartment. Wherefore? I am a poor gentleman--as yet. I am one morning -discovered--dead. Startle not yourself. It will not be--no, it will not -be; but I propose to you my thought. You would not be glad--you would -not laugh, if so it should be?" - -"It would be a shocking thing," said Becky, gravely. - -"It is well. I thank you--your face is sad, your eyes are not so bright. -Then when I am thus, as I have said--dead!--from my country comes what -I wait for here--money, also in millions. 'Ah,' says the amiable Mrs. -Preedy, 'what could induce'--your word is good--'what could induce one -who was rich to live in such a neighbourhood?' Observe me, Becky. I -place my hand, on my heart and say, 'There is a lady.' Ah, yes, though -you call yourself not so, I say, 'There is a lady.' I say no more. We -are at home. You are beautiful, and I--till for ever--am your devoted. -If it were not for so many people--I am discreet, Becky--I should kiss -your hand." - -And, indeed, the remark that he was discreet was proved by the change in -his manner, now that he and Becky were in closer contact with strangers; -the tenderness left his face, and observers at a distance would never -have guessed that he was making something very much like a declaration -of love to the girl. He opened the street door with his latch-key, and -went up to his garret, sucking his acid drops. Becky opened the little -gate and went down to her kitchen, where her mind was set at ease by -seeing Mrs. Preedy still asleep in her arm chair. - -Becky looked at her hand. It was a pretty hand and small, but the work -she had done lately rather detracted from its prettiness. There was -dirt on it, too, from the scrubbing and cleaning of the day. "He would -kiss my hand," she murmured. "I am afraid our innocent young man lodger -is a bit of a flirt. Be careful, young man. You are not in this house -without a motive; you are in danger if that motive touches the welfare -of the man I love!" - -This soliloquy, in which she indulged in the kitchen, might have been -of greater length had not Mrs. Preedy stirred in her sleep. The slight -movement was sufficient to wake her. - -"I do believe, Becky," she said, opening her eyes, "that I have -overslept myself." - -[Decoration] - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -IN WHICH BECKY GIVES WAY TO HER FEELINGS, AND RENEWS AN OLD -ACQUAINTANCE. - - -Great Porter Square had really been in a state of excitement the -whole of the day, almost equalling that which raged on the day of the -discovery of the murder. The strange revelation made in the columns of -the _Evening Moon_--whose account of the identification of the body of -the murdered man was presented in a form so attractive that edition -after edition was sold with amazing rapidity--invested the murder with -features romantic enough to engross general attention. There was love in -it, there was a beautiful and fascinating woman in it, there was a baby -in it, there were a hundred thousand pounds in it. The newsboys drove -a rare trade; it brought so much grist to their mill that, as they -jingled the copper and silver in their pockets, they sighed for another -murder as good to-morrow. - -The public-houses, also, throve wonderfully; their bars were crowded, -and the publicans rubbed their hands in glee. People from all parts of -London came to Great Porter Square to look at the deserted house. They -stared at the bricks, they stared at the street door, they stared at the -window. With a feeling of enjoyable awe, they peeped over and through -the iron railings which surrounded the basement. The downlook was not -inviting. The ironwork was covered with rust; the paint was peeling off -the doors and shutters; watchful spiders, ever ready for fresh murder, -lurked in the corners of their webs. There was nothing to be frightened -at in these natural signs of neglect and decay; but when a man cried -out, "There! there!" and pointed downwards, the people rushed from the -pavement into the road. They soon returned, and craned their heads and -necks to gaze upon the melancholy walls. Occasionally a man or a woman -ascended the three stone steps which led to the street door, and touched -the woodwork with open hand, as if the contact brought them closer to -the tragedy which had been enacted within. - -As night approached, the number of persons who made a point of passing -through the Square decreased; but up till ten o'clock there were always -about a dozen sightmongers lingering in the roadway before No. 119, and, -among these dozen, generally one who appeared to be acquainted with -the construction and disposition of the rooms, and who described the -particulars of the murder with gloating satisfaction. The police did not -interfere with them, the entertainment being one which a free people was -privileged to enjoy. - -During the whole of the evening Becky had not found time to read her -letter or the newspaper. "They'll burn a hole in my pocket, I am sure," -she thought, "if I keep them there much longer." But when the clock -struck ten a period was put to her state of suspense. - -"I've been in the 'ouse all day, Becky," said Mrs. Preedy; "and what -with the state of my feelings and the excitement in the Square, I'm -quite worn out. I shall run round to Mrs. Beale's for arf-an-hour; take -care of the place while I'm gone." - -Becky nodded, and the moment she heard the street-door close, she sat -down at the table, and pulled from her pocket the letter and the copies -of the _Evening Moon_. She read the letter first, kissing it as she drew -it from the envelope. It ran as follows:-- - - "MY DARLING GIRL,--Your letter has surprised and startled me, and I - do not know whether to be alarmed or pleased at the strange news it - contains. That you have placed yourself in a perilous position for - my sake would make it all the harder for me to bear should anything - happen to you. You would do anything, I know, rather than cause me - sorrow or add to my anxieties, and I am satisfied that the strange - fancy you have carried into execution sprang from a heart full of - love. I have reason to know how firm you can be in any task you - undertake, and I am not hopeful that I shall succeed in turning you - from your purpose. If, until I return to London, you still continue - in service, I implore you to be careful, to run no risk, and never - to forget that the whole happiness of my life is in your hands. - For if the mission upon which I am at present engaged should fail - (although filial love and duty will not allow me to relinquish it - until I see no possibility of bringing it to a successful issue), - the opportunity of our living happily together in another part of - the world will always be open to us. But first to perform a son's - duty, then to offer you a husband's love and care. All that a - man _can_ do shall be done to hasten the day on which I shall be - privileged to call you wife. - - "You have placed such trust and confidence in me, you have so firmly - relied upon my truth and honour, that I often reproach myself for - having kept from you some of the most important incidents in my - life. But I was pledged to secresy. I had given my solemn word - never to speak of certain matters without the sanction of my father. - Thus much you know, and you know, also, that I am now in search - of that father for whose mysterious disappearance I am unable to - account. When I find him he will release me from a vow I made to him - under the most painful and distressing circumstances; then I can - offer you the name which is my own, and which I renounced; then I - can unfold to you the sad and painful story of my life; then I can - hold up my head with honour once more, and take my place among - men--the place I lost. - - "You say that you have something to communicate to me which bears - upon the murder in Great Porter Square. It is, of course, of the - greatest importance to me that I should be cleared of the suspicion - which must still attach to me; the police have sharp eyes, and - although I gave a false name--as true however, as the charge brought - against me--it is quite possible that some person who was in the - Police Court might recognise me, and cause me fresh trouble. - Therefore I shall scarcely ever feel myself safe in the London - streets until the murderer is discovered and punished. But above - even this in importance I place the strange disappearance of my - father. To find him is my first and paramount desire. - - "The picture you have drawn of Mrs. Bailey, the bedridden old - lodger, and her deaf and nearly blind old sister, with the languid - linnet, and the moping bullfinch, is most amusing. I shall not be at - all surprised if, in your next letter, you inform me that the old - lady's mattress is stuffed with bank notes. - - "How highly I value your true womanly attempts to cheer and comfort - me! To read your letters is almost to hear you speak, you write so - feelingly and earnestly. My fullest love is yours, and yours only. - What a loving grateful heart, what willing hands can do, to make you - happy when the clouds have cleared, shall be done by me. Rely upon - me; have faith in me; and believe me to be, - - "Your faithful lover, - "FRED." - -Becky read the letter slowly, with smiles and tears; then kissed it -repeatedly, and placed it in the bosom of her dress. - -Before turning her attention to the newspaper she had bought in the -afternoon, she ran upstairs to Mrs. Bailey. The old woman was awake, -staring at her birds. She asked Becky to rub her side with the liniment, -and the girl--to whose heart Fred's affectionate letter had imparted -fresh happiness--did so in a blithe and cheerful manner. - -"You're better than a doctor, Becky," said the old woman, "a thousand -times better. I was as young and merry as you once--I was indeed. -Pretty--too--eh, Becky?" - -"That's to be seen," said Becky, rubbing away. "You have the remains -now." - -"Have I, Becky, have I--eh?" - -"Indeed you have--you're a good-looking old lady." - -A gleam of vanity and delight lit up the old creature's eyes for a -moment. - -"Am I, Becky--eh? You're a good girl--listen; I shall leave you -something in my will. I'm going to make one--by and bye, but I don't -want any lawyers. You shall do it for me. I can trust you, eh, Becky?" - -"Indeed you can," replied Becky, tucking the old woman in; "you feel -more comfortable now, don't you?" - -"Yes, your soft hands rub the pain away. But it comes again, Becky, it -comes again." - -"So will I, to rub it away again. I must go down now, I have so much to -do." She patted the old woman's shoulder, and reached the door, when she -stopped and asked, in a careless tone, - -"Have you heard any more mice to-night scratching at the wall in the -next house, Mrs. Bailey." - -"Not a sound, Becky. It's been as quiet as a churchyard." - -As she left the room, Becky heard the old woman mumbling to herself, -with the vanity of a child, - -"I was pretty once, and I've got the remains now. I'm a good-looking -old lady--a good-looking old lady--a good-looking old lady! Becky's a -clever girl--I won't forget her." - -As Becky descended to the kitchen, she heard a newsboy calling out a new -edition of the _Evening Moon_. Becky went to the street door and asked -the boy if there was anything fresh in the paper about the murder. - -"A lot," replied the boy; "I've only two copies left, and I thought I -could sell 'em in the Square." - -Becky bought the two copies, and the boy, whose only motive for coming -into the Square was to look at No. 119, refreshed himself by running up -and down the steps, and then, retreating to the garden railings, almost -stared his eyes out in the endeavour to see the ghost that haunted the -deserted house. - -Once more in the kitchen, Becky sat down, and with a methodical air, -opened last evening's paper, and read the "Romance in Real Life" which -had caused so much excitement. The writer of the narrative would have -been gratified had he witnessed the interest Becky took in his clever -manipulation of his facts. The most thrilling romance could not have -fascinated her as much as this story of to-day, formed as it was out of -what may be designated ordinary newspaper material. Not once did she -pause, but proceeded steadily on, column after column, every detail -being indelibly fixed upon her mind. Only when she came to the -concluding words did she raise her head, and become once more conscious -of her surroundings. - -She drew a long breath, and looked before her into the air, as though -endeavouring to obtain from invisible space some connecting links -between the new ideas formed by this romance in real life. The dominant -thought in her mind as she read the narrative was whether she would be -able to obtain from it any clue to connect Richard Manx with the murder. -Her desire lay in this direction, without reference to its justice or -injustice, and she would have felt better satisfied had such a clue -been supplied. But she was compelled to confess that, as far as her -knowledge of him went in their brief personal intercourse, he was not in -the remotest way connected with the crime. Say that this _was_ so--say -that he was as little implicated in it as she herself, what, then, was -his motive in making his way secretly into the room in which the murder -had been committed? Of the fact that he had done so, without having been -an eye-witness of it, Becky was morally convinced. What was his motive -for this proceeding? - -But Richard Manx did not entirely monopolise her thoughts. With the -threads of the story, as presented in the Supplement of the _Evening -Moon_, she wove possibilities which occasioned her great distress, for -in these possibilities she saw terrible trouble in the future. If there -was a grain of truth in them, she could not see how this trouble was to -be avoided. - -Of the name of the murdered man, Mr. Holdfast, she was utterly ignorant. -She had never heard of him, nor of Lydia Holdfast, his second wife, -who, living now, and mourning for the dead, had supplied the facts of -the case to the Special Reporter of the _Evening Moon_. - -"Had I been in her place," thought Becky, "I should, for very shame's -sake, if not out of consideration for the dead, have been less free with -my tongue. I would have run every risk rather than have allowed myself -to be the talking-stock of the whole country. Lydia Holdfast must be a -poor, weak creature. Can I do nothing, nothing?" - -Becky's lips quivered, and had she not been sustained by a high purpose, -she might have sought relief in tears. - -"Let me set down my thoughts in plain words," she said aloud. "I shall -then be able to judge more clearly." - -She produced pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the names: - -"Mr. Holdfast. - -"Lydia Holdfast. - -"Frederick Holdfast." - -She gazed at the names and said, - -"My lover's name is Frederick." - -It was as though the paper upon which she was writing represented a -human being, and spoke the words she wrote. - -She underlined the name "_Frederick_," saying, as she did so, "For -reasons which I shall one day learn, he has concealed his surname." - -The next words she wrote were: "Frederick Holdfast was educated in -Oxford." - -To which she replied, "_My_ Frederick was educated in Oxford." - -Then she wrote: "Between Frederick Holdfast and his father there was a -difference so serious that they quarrelled, and Frederick Holdfast left -his father's house." - -"My Frederick told me," said Becky aloud, "that he and his father were -separated because of a family difference. He could tell me no more, he -said, because of a vow he had made to his father. He has repeated this -in the letter I received from him this evening." - -Becky took the letter from her dress, kissed it, and replaced it in her -bosom. "I do not need this," she said, "to assure me of his worth and -truth." - -She proceeded with her task and wrote: "Frederick Holdfast went to -America. His father also went to America." - -And answered it with, "_My_ Frederick went to America, and his father -followed him." - -Upon the paper then she wrote: "Mr. Holdfast and his son Frederick both -returned to England." - -"As my Frederick and his father did," she said. - -And now Becky's fingers trembled. She was approaching the tragedy. She -traced the words, however, "From the day of his return to England until -yesterday nothing was heard of Mr. Holdfast; and there is no accounting -for his disappearance." - -"Frederick's father also has disappeared," she said, "and there is no -accounting for _his_ disappearance." - -These coincidences were so remarkable that they increased in strength -tenfold as Becky gazed upon the words she had written. And now she -calmly said, - -"If they are true, my Frederick is Frederick Holdfast. If they are true, -Frederick Holdfast is a villain." Her face flushed, her bosom rose and -fell. "A lie!" she cried. "My lover is the soul of honour and manliness! -He is either not Frederick Holdfast, or the story told in the newspaper -is a wicked, shameful fabrication. What kind of woman, then, is this -Lydia Holdfast, who sheds tears one moment and laughs the next?--who -one moment wrings her hands at the murder of her husband, and the next -declares that if she had been born a man she might have been a dreadful -rake? But Frederick Holdfast is dead; the American newspapers published -the circumstances of his death and the identification of his body. -Thousands of persons read that account, and believed in its truth, as -thousands of persons read and are reading this romance of real life, and -believe in its truth." Contempt and defiance were expressed in Becky's -voice as she touched the copy of the newspaper which had so profoundly -agitated her. "Yet both may be false, and if they are false----" -She paused for a few moments, and then continued: "Lydia Holdfast is -Frederick Holdfast's enemy. She believes him to be dead; there is no -doubt of that. But if he is alive, and in England, he is in peril--in -deadlier peril than my Frederick was, when, as Antony Cowlrick, he was -charged with the murder of an unknown man, and that man--as now is -proved--his own father. What did I call Lydia Holdfast just now? a poor -weak creature! Not she! An artful, designing, cruel woman, whose safety, -perhaps, lies in my Frederick's death. If, without the suspicions which -torture me, so near to the truth do they seem, it was necessary to -discover the murderer of the poor gentleman who met his death in the -next house, how much more imperative is it now that the mystery should -be unravelled! Assist me, Eternal God, to bring the truth to light, and -to punish the guilty!" - -She fell upon her knees, and with tears streaming down her face, prayed -for help from above to clear the man she loved from the shameful charges -brought against him by his father's wife. Her prayers comforted her, and -she rose in a calmer state of mind. "I must look upon this creature," -she thought, "upon this woman in name, who has invented the disgraceful -story. To match her cunning a woman's cunning is needed. Lydia Holdfast, -I declare myself your enemy!" - -A noise in the street attracted Becky's attention, and diverted her -thoughts. She hurried from her kitchen, and opened the street door. -Twenty or thirty persons were crowding round one, who was lying -insensible upon the pavement. They cried, "Give her air!" and pressed -more closely upon the helpless form. - -"A glass of water!" "Poor child!" "Go and fetch a little brandy!" "Fetch -a policeman!" "She's shamming!" "Starving, more likely!" "Starving? -she's got three boxes of matches in her hands!" "Well, you brute, she -can't eat matches!" - -These and other cries greeted Becky as she opened the door, and looked -out into the Square. - -"What's the matter?" she asked, striving to push her way into the crowd, -which did not willingly yield to her. - -It was a poor child, her clothes in rags, who had fainted on the -flagstones before the house. - -"She's coming to!" exclaimed a woman. - -The child opened her eyes. - -"What are you doing here?" asked a man, roughly. - -"I came to see the ghost!" replied the child, in a weak, pleading little -voice. - -The people laughed; they did not see the pathetic side of the picture. - -But the child's voice, faint as it was, reached Becky's heart. It was a -voice familiar to her. She pushed through the crowd vigorously, and bent -over the child. - -"Blanche!" screamed the child, bursting into hysterical sobs. "O, -Blanche! Blanche!" - -It was Fanny, the little match girl. - -"Hush, Fanny!" whispered Becky. "Hush my dear!" - -She raised the poor child in her arms, and a shudder of pain and -compassion escaped her as she felt how light the little body was. -Fanny's face was covered with tears, and through her tears she laughed, -and clung to Becky. - -"I know her," said Becky to the people, "I will take care of her." - -And kissing the thin, dirty face of the laughing, sobbing, clinging -child, Becky carried her into the house, and closed the street-door upon -the crowd. - -"Well, I'm blowed!" exclaimed the man who had distinguished himself by -his rough words. "If this 'ere ain't the rummiest Square in London!" - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -"JUSTICE" SENDS A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVENING MOON." - - -Closer and closer did the little match girl cling to Becky, as she was -carried through the dark passage and down the narrow stairs to the -kitchen. Then, and then only, did Becky clearly perceive how thin and -wan her humble little friend had grown. Fanny's dark eyes loomed out of -their sunken sockets like dusky moons, her cheeks had fallen in, her -lips were colourless; her clothes consisted of but two garments, a frock -and a petticoat, in rags. Becky's eyes overflowed as she contemplated -the piteous picture, and Fanny's eyes also became filled with tears--not -in pity for herself, but in sympathy with Becky. - -"O, Blanche, Blanche," she murmured, "I begun to be afeard I should -never see you agin." - -Becky touched Fanny's clothes and cheek pityingly, and said, - -"Has it been like this long, Fanny?" - -Fanny replied in a grave tone, "Since ever you went away, Blanche. My -luck turned then." - -"It has turned again, my dear," said Becky, with great compassion, "and -turned the right way. Make a wish." - -"A thick slice of bread and butter!" said Fanny, eagerly. - -"O, Fanny, are you hungry?" - -"I ain't 'ad nothink to eat to-day excep' a damaged apple I picked up in -Coving Garden." - -Before she finished the sentence Becky placed before her a thick slice -of bread and butter, and was busy cutting another. Fanny soon dispatched -them, and did not say "No" to a third slice. - -"Do you feel better, Fanny?" asked Becky. - -"Ever so much," replied Fanny, looking wistfully around. The kitchen was -warm, and the little beggar girl was thinking of the cold night outside. - -Becky noticed the look and knew what it meant. - -"No, Fanny," she thought, "you shall not go out in the cold to-night. -It is my belief you were sent to help me; it may be a lucky meeting for -both of us." - -"Fanny," she said aloud, "where's your mother?" - -"She's got three months," said Fanny, "and the magistrate sed he'd 'ave -give 'er six if he could." - -"Where are you going to sleep to-night?" - -"Blanche," said Fanny, with a quiver in her voice, "is there such a -thing as a coal-cellar 'ere?" - -"Why, Fanny?" - -"I'd like to sleep in it, if you don't mind." - -"I _do_ mind, Fanny. Yon can't sleep in the coal-cellar." - -Fanny sighed mournfully, and partly rose. "I can't stop 'ere, then, -Blanche?" - -"You shall if you like, Fanny, and you shall sleep with me." - -"O, Blanche!" cried Fanny, clasping her face with her dirty little -hands. The tears forced themselves between the thin, bony fingers. - -"Why, that looks as if you were sorry, Fanny!" - -"I'm cryin' for joy, Blanche. I should 'ave taken my 'ook to-night if it -'adn't been for you. When I fell down in a faint outside your door, I -thought I was goin' to die." - -"You shall not die, Fanny," said Becky; "you shall live, and grow into a -fine young woman. Listen to me, and don't forget a word I say to you. -You are sharp and clever, and I want you now to be sharper and cleverer -than ever you have been in your life before." Fanny nodded, and fixed -her eyes upon Becky's face. "I am a servant in this house; my mistress's -name is Mrs. Preedy; she is out gossiping, and I expect her back every -minute. If she comes in while I am talking, I shall bundle you into bed, -and you'll fall fast asleep. You understand?" - -"Yes." - -"I am not a real servant, but nobody is to know that but you and me. Put -your hand in mine, Fanny, and promise to be my friend, as I promise to -be yours. That's an honest squeeze, Fanny, and I know what it means. -It means that I can trust you thoroughly, and that you will do and say -everything exactly as I wish." - -"That's just what it _does_ mean, Blanche." - -"My name is not Blanche." - -"No?" - -"No. It's Becky." - -"I'm fly." - -"And never was anything else. The reason why I am a servant here is -because I have something very particular to do--and that also is a -secret between me and you. When it is done, I shall be a lady, and -perhaps I will take you as my little maid." - -"O, Becky! Becky!" exclaimed Fanny, overjoyed at the prospect. - -"I knew you were sharp and quick," said Becky. "You are a little cousin -of mine, if Mrs. Preedy asks you, and you have no mother or father. Give -me those matches. I throw them into the fire, one after another. What a -blaze they make! Your mother died last week, and you, knowing I was in -service here, came to ask me to help you. You never sold matches, -Fanny." - -"Never! I'll take my oath of it!" - -"That is all I shall say to-night, Fanny. I am tired, and I want to -think. Go into that room--it is my bedroom; here is a light. You will -see a nest of drawers in the room; open the top one, and take out a -clean nightdress; it will be too long and too large for you, but that -doesn't matter, does it? Give yourself a good wash, then pop into bed, -and go to sleep. To-morrow morning, before you are up, I shall buy you -some clothes. Poor little Fanny! Poor little Fanny!" The child had -fallen on her knees, and had bowed her face on Becky's lap. Her body -was shaken with sobs. "Now then, go, or Mrs. Preedy may come back before -you are a-bed." - -Fanny jumped to her feet, and kissing Becky's hands, took the candle, -and went into Becky's bedroom. - -Becky's attention, diverted for a while by this adventure, returned to -the subject which now almost solely occupied her mind. She had not yet -looked at the copies of the last _Evening Moon_ she had bought of the -newsboy in the Square an hour ago. She opened one of the papers, and -saw, in large type, the heading, "FREDERICK HOLDFAST," and beneath it -the following letter, addressed to the editor of the _Evening Moon_:-- - - "SIR,--I have read the thrilling Romance in Real Life which your - Special Reporter, in a style which does not speak highly for his - culture or good taste, has so temptingly dished up for your numerous - readers. It not only _reads_ like a romance, but, with reference to - one of the characters it introduces to a too curious public, it - _is_ a romance. The character I refer to is Frederick Holdfast, the - son of the ill-fated gentleman who was murdered in Great Porter - Square. That he is dead there appears to be no reason to doubt; and, - therefore, all the more reason why I, who knew him well and was his - friend, should step forward without hesitation to protest against - the charges brought against him in your columns. I declare most - earnestly that they are false. - - "Here, at once, I find myself in a difficulty. When I say that the - colours in which Frederick Holdfast is painted are false colours, - that the character given to him is a false character, and that the - charges brought against him are false charges, it appears as if I - myself were bringing an accusation against Mrs. Lydia Holdfast, a - lady with whom I have not the pleasure of being acquainted. I prefer - not to do this. I prefer to bring the accusation against your - Reporter, who must have allowed his zeal and enthusiasm to play - tricks with his judgment when he sat down to describe, in his - captivating manner, certain statements made to him by a lady in - distress. He was writing a romance--there was a villain in it (a - necessity); necessary, therefore, that this villain should be - painted in the blackest colours, to rival other villains in the - Penny Awfuls which obtain so strong a hold over young people among - our poorer classes. The parallel is not a fair one. The villains in - the Penny Awfuls are imaginary creatures; they live only in the - brains of the cheap novelist; to vilify them, to defame them, can - hurt the feelings, can do injury, to no living being. But the - villain your Reporter has depicted in his Romance of Real Life is a - man who lived, who was honoured, and who had at least one firm and - true friend in the person of him who is now tracing these lines. To - defame and vilify the dead is an act of the grossest injustice, and - of this injustice your Reporter is guilty. - - "I was at Oxford with Frederick Holdfast, and shared in his - pleasures and his studies. We were cronies. We had few secrets from - each other, and our close intimacy enabled me not only to gain an - insight into Frederick's character, but to form a just estimate of - it. And I solemnly declare that my dead friend was as guiltless of - the charges brought against him by Mrs. Holdfast and your Reporter - in his Oxford career as I believe him to be incapable of the - baseness imputed to him in his father's house in London. Of the - latter I can speak only from presumption. Of the former I can speak - with certainty, but my conviction in the one case is as strong as it - is in the other. - - "It is a monstrous falsehood to describe Frederick Holdfast's - 'career of dissipation' as being 'capped by degraded association - with degraded women.' His estimate of woman was high and lofty; he - was almost quixotic in the opinion he entertained of her purity, and - even when he felt himself compelled to condemn, there was invariably - apparent in his condemnation a touch of beautiful pity it was - an experience to meet with in this shrug-shoulder age, in which - cynicism and light words upon noble themes have become the fashion. - That he was free from faults I do not assert, but his errors had in - them nothing of that low kind of vice which your Reporter has so - glibly attached to his name. - - "I have already said I have not the pleasure of an acquaintance with - Mrs. Lydia Holdfast; neither was I acquainted with her murdered - husband, my dead friend's father. But I have heard Frederick speak - of his father, and always with respect and love. I can go further - than this. I have read letters which Mr. Holdfast in London wrote - to his son in Oxford, and I cannot recall a sentence or a word - which would imply that any difference existed between father and - son. These facts go far to prove the accusation I bring against - your Reporter of libelling the dead. He, in his turn, may find - justification for the picture he has drawn in the statements made to - him by Mrs. Lydia Holdfast. With this I have nothing to do; I leave - them to settle the matter between them. My duty is to vindicate the - honour of my friend, who cannot speak for himself. I ask you to - insert this letter, without abbreviation, in your columns, and I - ask those papers at a distance which have quoted from your Romance - in Real Life, to copy the letter, to prevent injustice to a dead - man's memory. I enclose my card, as a guarantee of good faith; but I - do not wish my name to be published. At the same time, should public - occasion demand it, I shall be ready to come forward and personally - substantiate the substance of this communication. - - "I am, Sir, yours obediently, - "JUSTICE." - -To this letter was appended an Editorial Note: - - "We insert our correspondent's letter, as he desires, without - abbreviation. His name, which at his request we withhold, is one - which is already becoming honourably known, and we see no reason to - doubt his honesty of intention, and his thorough belief in what - he writes. In the performance of our duties as Editor of this - newspaper, we are always ready to present our readers with both - sides of a question which has excited public interest. With these - differing views fairly and impartially placed before them, they can - form their own judgment. Upon the matter between 'Justice,' Mrs. - Holdfast, and our Special Reporter, we offer no opinion, but we - cannot refrain from drawing attention to one feature in the case - which has apparently escaped the notice of 'Justice.' By Mr. - Holdfast's will his only son, Frederick, is disinherited, and the - whole of the murdered man's property is left to his unhappy widow. - This is a sufficient answer to 'Justice's' disbelief in the - existence of any difference between Frederick Holdfast and his - father. 'Respect and love' would never impel a father to leave his - son a beggar.--EDITOR, 'EVENING MOON.'" - -Becky's eyes were bright with pleasure as she read the letter. "Bravo, -Justice," she thought; "you are worthy to be the friend of my Frederick. -I will thank you one day for your noble defence." - -Here Fanny, arrayed in Becky's nightdress, made her appearance from the -little bedroom. - -"Good night, Becky," she said. - -"Good night, my dear," said Becky, kissing the child. - -Fanny's face was clean, and her hair was nicely brushed; she did not -look now like a child of the gutter. - -"I feel all new, Becky--and so 'appy!" she said, with quivering lips. - -"That's right, dear," said Becky; "now tumble into bed. I hear Mrs. -Preedy opening the street door." - -Fanny flew back to the bedroom, and scrambling into bed, fell asleep -with a prayer in her mind that God would bless Becky for ever, and ever, -and ever, and send her everything in the world she wanted. - -Becky was prepared for her interview with Mrs. Preedy; her plan was -already formed. She put the newspapers out of sight, and when Mrs. -Preedy entered the kitchen she found Becky busy with her needle. - -"Still up, Becky!" exclaimed Mrs. Preedy. "You ought to 'ave been -a-bed." - -"I didn't like to go," said Becky, "till you came home; I wanted to -speak to you about something." - -"What is it?" cried Mrs. Preedy, for ever ready to take alarm. -"Nothink's 'appened in the 'ouse, I 'ope. Mrs. Bailey!"---- - -"Nothing has happened; it's about myself I want to speak." - -"I suppose you're going to give notice," said Mrs. Preedy, glaring at -Becky. - -"O, no; I'm satisfied with the place, and I'm sure no servant ever had a -kinder missis." Mrs. Preedy was mollified. "It's about my legacy and a -little cousin of mine." - -"O," said Mrs. Preedy, feeling no interest in the little cousin, but a -great deal in the legacy. "You may sit down, Becky." - -"Thank you, mum. I am to receive fifty pounds of my legacy to-morrow, -and I want you to take care of some of it." - -"I'll do it with pleasure, Becky." Mrs. Preedy was slightly bewildered -by the circumstance of having a servant with so much money at command; -it was an unprecedented experience. Of course she would take care of the -girl's money. - -"While you were out," said Becky, "there was a knock at the door, and -when I opened it I saw a little cousin of mine who has lost her mother, -and has no one in the world but me to look after her. She knew I was in -service here and she came to ask me to help her. I hope you will not -consider it a liberty, but I took her in, poor little thing, and perhaps -you'll let her sleep with me to-night." - -Mrs. Preedy stared at Becky. "Is she there?" she asked, pointing to the -servant's bedroom. - -"Yes, mum." - -Mrs. Preedy took a candle, and went into the room. Fanny was asleep, and -when Mrs. Preedy laid her hand on her, she moved, and murmured-- - -"Is that you, Becky?" - -Becky called out, "Yes, Fanny. Go to sleep again." - -"I thought," said Becky, upon Mrs. Preedy's return, "as my little cousin -has no home now, and as there is plenty of room in the house, that you -might let her remain here as a lodger." - -"As a lodger!" said Mrs. Preedy, in a tone of surprise and satisfaction. - -"Of course," continued Becky, "I couldn't ask you to let her stay here -for nothing, and as I have plenty of money I can afford to pay for her. -Then she can help me a bit now and then. She can live in the kitchen, -and sleep with me. I'll look after her, and nobody need know anything -about it but ourselves. I wouldn't mind eight or ten shillings a week." - -Mrs. Preedy, with more eagerness than she was in the habit of -exhibiting, agreed to Becky's proposition, and said they would split -the difference, and make it nine shillings a week for Fanny's board and -lodging. - -"And if you won't mind my mentioning it," said Becky, "if you are -pressed for a few pounds I should be glad to let you have it till the -lodgers come back to the house." - -This offer completed the conquest. Mrs. Preedy shook Becky by the hand, -and vowed that, from the moment she had entered her service, she had -looked upon her more as a daughter than as a domestic, and that she -was sure she and Becky and Fanny would get along famously together. So -gushing did she become that she offered Becky a glass of gin and water, -which Becky declined. A double knock at the street door startled them -both, and they went in company to answer it. A telegraph boy stood on -the step. - -"Does Becky live here?" he asked. - -"Yes," answered the two women. - -"A telegram," he said, holding out the buff-coloured envelope. - -Becky took it, and opened it in the kitchen. It was from "Fred" to -"Becky," and ran:--"I return to London by to-night's mail. Do not write -again until you see or hear from me." - -"Who is it from?" asked Mrs. Preedy unable to restrain her curiosity. -"What does it say?" - -"It's from my lawyer," replied Becky, without a blush, "and says I am to -receive a hundred pounds to-morrow instead of fifty." - -"You're in luck's way, Becky," said Mrs. Preedy. - -"That I am," said Becky. "Can I do anything more for you to-night?" - -"Nothing more, thank you," said Mrs. Preedy, very politely. "Good night, -Becky." - -"Good night, mum." - -Never in that house had such cordial relations as these existed between -mistress and "slavey." - -Becky slept but little. The strange revelations made in the columns of -the _Evening Moon_, the vindication of Frederick Holdfast's character by -an unknown friend, the appearance of Fanny, the expected return of her -lover, were events too stirring to admit of calm slumber. Her dreams -were as disturbed as her rest. She dreamt of her Frederick lying dead -on the banks of a distant river, and the man who had killed him was -bending over the body, rifling the pockets. The man raised his head; it -was Richard Manx, sucking his acid drops. "Ah, charming Becky," said the -man; "accept this ring--this bracelet--this dress. Your lover is dead. -I take his place. I am, for ever, your devoted." She fled from him, -and he followed her through her dreams, presenting himself in a hundred -fantastic ways. "Come," he said, "I will show you something pretty." He -seized her hand, and dragged her to a Court-house, in the witness-box of -which stood Lydia Holdfast, giving deadly evidence against Frederick, -who was also there, being tried for the murder of his father. "Let me -go!" cried Becky. "I can save him from that woman!" But Richard Manx -held her fast. "I am your lover, not he," he whispered; "you shall not -save him. He must die." She could not move, nor could she raise her -voice so that the people round about could hear her. The scene changed. -She and Frederick were together, in prison. "There is but one hope for -me," said Frederick; "even yet I may be saved. Track that woman," (and -here Lydia Holdfast appeared, smiling in triumph), "follow her, do not -allow her out of your sight. But be careful; she is as cunning as a fox, -and will slip through your fingers when you least expect it." Then she -and Lydia Holdfast alone played parts in the running commentary of her -dreams. "What do you want to find out," said Lydia Holdfast; "about me? -I am a simple creature--but you are much more simple. It is a battle -between us, for the life of a man, for the honour of a man. I accept. -If you were a thousand times cleverer than you are, you shall not save -him." Becky found herself with this woman in the most extraordinary -connections--on the stage of a theatre, where both were enacting -characters in the drama of the murder--by a dark river, lighted up -by lightning flashes--struggling in the midst of a closely-packed -crowd--following each other over the roofs of houses--and Lydia -Holdfast, in every fresh presentment, crying, "Well! Have you saved him -yet?" - -Becky awoke from these dreams in tears, and was glad she had Fanny in -bed with her. She rose early, and at eight o'clock went out to buy some -clothes for the child. When Fanny appeared before Mrs. Preedy in the -kitchen, she was a decent-looking, tidy little girl, with a world of -happiness in her face. She had found her friend, her angel friend, who -would never again desert her. She understood in some dim way that Becky -would call upon her for help in the secret which had caused her to -assume the disguise of a servant. "I 'ope it's somethink 'ard she wants -me to do," thought Fanny. She would like to show Becky what love and -gratitude could accomplish. - -"You're a nice looking little thing," said Mrs. Preedy, pinching Fanny's -cheek. - -At about eleven o'clock, Becky asked and received permission to "go to -the lawyer's" to receive her money. Before she left the house she said -to Fanny, - -"You don't forget what I said to you last night." - -"I couldn't if I tried," replied Fanny. - -"Mrs. Preedy is to know nothing. You understand, Fanny?" - -"Yes." - -"I shall be out for nearly an hour. If you hear a knock at the street -door run up and open it, and if a gentleman comes and asks for me, tell -him I shall be back before twelve." - -"I'll tell him, Becky." - -No person called, however; and Becky, returning, gave Mrs. Preedy forty -pounds to take care of. "That," she thought, "will enable me to keep in -this house as long as I choose to remain." - -All the day she waited for news of her lover. As the hours dragged on, -her state of suspense became most painful. In the early part of the -evening she received a note by the hands of a messenger. - -"My darling," it said, "I am in the deepest grief. A dreadful calamity -has overtaken me, and I must consider well and reflect before I move a -step. I think it best for me not to present myself in Great Porter -Square. You want to see me, I know, as I want to see you, but before we -meet it is necessary that you should read a Statement I am preparing for -you, and which will be in your hands late tonight. There must be no more -secrets between us. Believe me ever your devoted and unhappy lover." - -At eleven o'clock Becky received the "Statement." It was a thick packet, -on the outside of which was written: "For no other eyes but yours." When -the messenger arrived--he was a middle-aged man, with a shrewd face and -eye--Mrs. Preedy was out of the house, gossiping as usual with Mrs. -Beale, and confiding to her the wonderful news that she had a servant -who was very rich. Mrs. Beale gave Mrs. Preedy a bit of shrewd advice. -"Orfer to go into partnership with 'er, my dear," said Mrs. Beale, "and -take a 'ouse on the other side of the Square." Mrs. Preedy confessed it -was not half a bad idea. - -"I am to give this packet," said the messenger, "into the hands of a -young woman named Becky." - -"I am Becky," said the anxious girl. - -"The gentleman was very particular," continued the messenger, "and I am -to ask you if you expected it." - -"Yes, I expected it." - -"Then I was to ask you for the first letter of the gentleman's Christian -name." - -"F." - -"That is correct." And the man handed Becky the packet. - -"Where is the gentleman staying?" asked Becky, offering the man a -shilling. - -"No, thank you. I am well paid for what I am doing, and I was told -not to accept anything. 'Where is the gentleman staying?' I have no -instructions to answer the question. There is nothing else, I think. -Yes, there _is_ something else. Are you well?" - -"Quite well." - -"I am to say that? 'Quite well.'" - -"Yes, say 'Quite well, but very anxious.'" - -"Ah! 'Quite well, but very anxious.' Good night, miss." - -Then Becky went to her little bedroom, and lighting a candle, opened the -packet. Fanny was asleep, and Becky read until late in the night. - -[Decoration] - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT. - - -The extraordinary story which has appeared in the columns of the -_Evening Moon_, and the dreadful intelligence it conveys to me of the -murder of my dear father, render it imperatively necessary that I should -place upon permanent record certain particulars and incidents relating -to my career which will incontestibly prove that the Romance in Real -Life which is now being inserted in every newspaper in the kingdom is -an infamous fabrication. I am impelled to this course by two strong -reasons. First,--Because I wish to clear myself in the eyes of the -woman I love, from whom I have concealed my real name and position. -Second,--Because life is so uncertain that I might not be able to do -to-morrow what it is in my power to do to-day. I pledge myself, in the -name of my dear mother, whose memory I revere, that I will set down here -nothing but the truth--that I will not strive to win pity or grace by -the faintest glossing of any particulars in which I may not appear to -advantage--that I will not swerve by a hair's breadth from my honest -intention to speak of the matters treated herein in a plain, unvarnished -style. The dear one who will be the first to peruse these lines is as -precious to me as ever woman was to man, but I will not retain her love -by subterfuge or pretence, although it would break my heart to lose it. -To her I am known as Frederick Maitland. To a number of persons I am--in -connection with the murder of my father--known as Antony Cowlrick. My -true name is Frederick Holdfast. - -Between myself and my father existed--until shortly after he married a -second wife--feelings of respect and affection. During my boyhood his -love for me was exhibited in every tender form which occurs to the mind -of an affectionate father, and I entertained for him a love as sincere -as his own. The death of my mother affected him powerfully. Their -married life had been a happy one, and they lived in harmony. My mother -was a woman with no ambition but that of making those around her happy. -She compassed her ambition, the entire depth and scope of which was -bounded by the word Home. After her death my father, never a man of much -animation and conversation, became even quieter and more reserved in -manner, but I am convinced his love for me was not lessened. He was a -man of strong determination, and he had schooled himself to keep his -passions and emotions in complete control. He was intense in his likes -and dislikes--unobtrusively chivalrous and charitable--disposed to -go to extremes in matters of feeling--thorough in friendship as in -enmity--just in his dealings--and seldom, if ever, forgiving where his -confidence was betrayed, or where he believed himself to be deceived. -Such a man is apt to form wrong judgments--as my father did; to receive -false impressions--as my father did; to be much deceived by cunning--as -my father was. But if he was hasty to condemn, he was eager to make -atonement when he discovered himself to be in the wrong. Then it was -that the chivalry of his nature asserted itself. - -He was a successful merchant, and was proud of his successes, and proud -also that his money was made by fair and honourable means. He said to me -once, "I would rather see you compelled to gain a living by sweeping a -road than that it should come to my knowledge that you have been guilty -of a dishonourable action." I was his only child, and he had his views -with respect to my future. He wished me to enter public life, and he -gave me an education to fit me for it. While I was at Oxford he made -me a handsome allowance, and once, when I found myself in debt there, -he did not demur to settling them for me. Only once did this occur, -and when my debts were discharged, he said, "I have increased your -allowance, Frederick; it could not have been liberal enough, as you -contracted debts you were unable to pay." He named the amount of my -increased allowance, and asked me if it was sufficient. I replied that -it was, and then he told me that he considered it a dishonourable act -for a man to consciously contract an obligation he did not see his -way to meet out of his own resources. "The scrape you got into with -your creditors was an error," he said; "you did not sufficiently -consider. You are wiser now, and what was an error in the past would be -dishonourable in the future." I never had occasion to ask him to pay my -debts again. I lived not only within my allowance, but I saved out of -it--a fortunate circumstance, as I afterwards found. The result was -obtained without my being penurious, or depriving myself of any of the -pleasures of living indulged in by my friends and companions. I was not -a purist; I was fond of pleasure, and I have no doubt I did many foolish -things; but no sin lies at my door. I was never false to a friend, and I -never betrayed a woman. - -Among my friends was a young man named Sydney Campbell. He is not -living now, and nothing restrains me from speaking of him candidly and -honestly. He was a man of brilliant parts, brilliant in scholarship, in -debate, in social accomplishments. He affected to be a fop, and would -assume an effeminacy which became him well--as everything became him -which he assumed. He was as brave as a lion, and a master of fence; -lavishly prodigal with his money, and ready, at any moment, for any -extravagance, and especially for any extravagance which would serve -to hide the real nobility of his nature. He would hob-a-nob with the -lowest and vilest, saying, "Human nature is much of a muchness; why -give ourselves airs? I am convinced I should have made an admirable -pickpocket." But Sydney Campbell was never guilty of a meanness. - -He was the admiration of our set, and we made him the fashion. Though he -affected to disdain popularity he was proud of the position we assigned -to him, and he played us many extravagant tricks. He led us into no -danger of which he did not court the lion's share, and he held out now -and then an example of kindness to those in need of kindness which was -productive of nothing but good. It would be to some men most difficult -to reconcile with each other the amazing inconsistencies of his actions; -now profound, now frivolous, now scholar-like and dignified, now -boisterous and unrestrained; but I knew more of his inner nature than -most of his acquaintances, and I learnt to love as well as admire him. -He had large ideality, and a fund of animal spirits which he sometimes -found it impossible to control; he had large veneration, and a sense of -the ridiculous so strong that he would laugh with tears in his eyes -and tenderness in his heart. I am particular in my description of him, -because I want you to thoroughly understand him, and because it was he -who brought me into acquaintanceship with the woman who has made me -taste something worse than the bitterness of death. - -[Decoration] - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -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] - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT (CONTINUED). - - -At this time Sydney began to feel the effects of his temerity in -introducing Grace to the ball. Certain rumours and whispers affecting -Grace's character and Sydney's connection with her, caused the lady -patronesses of the ball to institute inquiries, and the consequence was -that Sydney was quietly but firmly banished from society. Houses which -he was in the habit of visiting were closed against him; mothers who had -held out a welcome hand to him now frigidly returned his bow or openly -cut him; fathers--bound to an outward show of morality--turned their -backs upon him or affected not to see him; marriageable young ladies, -with whom, as an unengaged man, he had hitherto been an adorable being, -looked any way but in his direction when they met in the thoroughfares. -When Sydney became aware of this alteration in his social standing, he -tested it to its fullest extent, and having quite convinced himself, -proclaimed open defiance. - -"War to the knife," he said. - -He carried the war into the enemy's quarters. He appeared with Grace -upon every public occasion that presented itself. In the theatre he -engaged the best and most conspicuous seats, and sat by the side of -Grace with Society's eyes full upon him. It did not help his cause that -Grace was invariably the most beautifully-dressed lady in the assembly, -and that her brightness and animation attracted general admiration. - -Adolph espoused Grace's cause with complete disregard of consequences; -his cousin, Mr. Pelham, however, held aloof, and simply bowed to her in -public. - -"Adolph is very fond of Grace," I said to Sydney. - -"She is fond of him, too," responded Sydney. "What of that? He is but a -boy!" - -It struck me as strange that, out of Grace's house, Adolph and Mr. -Pelham scarcely ever spoke to each other; as cousins they should have -been more intimate. But this circumstance helped to strengthen my -suspicions, and to render me more keenly watchful of the course of -events. Before long Mr. Pelham became an adept at roulette; the first -night he spent at Grace's house was the only night on which he lost. -Good luck ranged itself on his side, and he generally departed with a -comfortable sum in his possession. True, it was represented principally -by I. O. U.'s., but with the exception of Sydney there was not one of us -who could not afford immediately to pay his losses. For my own part I -did not lose; I even won a little; I played for small stakes, and Mr. -Pelham, winning so largely from others, did not grudge paying me, -without commenting on my caution or timidity. He now always acted as -banker at roulette; taking his seat at the head of the table with the -accustomed air of a professional; never making a mistake in paying or -receiving. His aptitude was wonderful. Sydney's losses grew larger and -larger, and the more he lost the more recklessly he betted. Mr. Pelham -was soon his principal creditor, and held the largest portion of his -paper. - -One day, when I was out riding, my horse cast a shoe. The accident -happened within a couple of hundred yards of Grace's cottage. There was -a blacksmith near, and it occurred to me to leave my horse with the -blacksmith, and drop in upon Grace for a bit of lunch. - -Upon my summons at the door being answered, I was informed that Grace -was not at home. Having a little time to spare, I strolled about the -country lanes, and came suddenly upon a lady and gentleman conversing -together. Their backs were towards me, but I recognised them instantly. -The lady was Grace, and the gentleman Mr. Pelham. They were conversing -earnestly, and I should have retired immediately had it not been for -the first few words which reached my ears. They were spoken by Mr. -Pelham, who said: - -"It is time to gather in the harvest. We must get your fool of a lover -to stump up. Here is a list of his I O U's--in all, more than fourteen -thousand pounds. We shall be able to cut a dash, my girl. We'll go to -Monaco again, and this time we'll break the bank." - -"I'm agreeable," replied Grace; "I am tired of this life, and I don't -think I could keep up my part much longer. Sydney is all very well, but -he is too lackadaisical." - -"I should think he is, for such as you, Grace," said Mr. Pelham; "too -goody-goody, eh, my girl? You want a man with a spice of the devil in -him. But he has suited our turn, and you have played your part well. -Give me some praise. Haven't I been magnanimous in trusting you with -him--haven't I been confiding? You wouldn't get many lovers like -me--trusting you out of their sight, without ever a shadow of -suspicion. Then there's our young pigeon, Adolph----" - -"A child!" cried Grace. - -"Quite old enough," retorted Mr. Pelham, "for me to twist his neck for -him if I had any doubts of you. But I haven't, my girl. It is not only -love, but interest, that binds us together." - -They passed on out of my sight without having perceived me. I was -astounded, not by the discovery, but by the coarse, brutal nature of the -plot in which Sydney's honour was sacrificed. This woman, Grace, was a -worthless schemer and a deliberate cheat. The man, Mr. Pelham, was a -blackleg and a ruffian. O, that such a nature as my friend Sydney's -should have been so played upon! That such a noble heart as his should -have been so basely betrayed! Here was my difficulty. It was the very -nobility and generosity of his nature that would cause him openly to -break with me if I attempted to open his eyes to the treachery, backed -only by the imperfect testimony I could bring forward. His first step -would be to rush to Grace, and inform her of my accusation, and once -upon their guard, this man and this woman would weave their net about -him too cunningly and cleverly to allow him an opportunity to break -through its meshes. Whom could I enlist to aid me? I had an intimate -friend whose assistance I would have asked, and he would freely have -given it, but he was absent from Oxford. I could think of but one ally, -a dangerous friend to enlist because of his inexperience and of his -feelings towards Grace. But I determined to risk it. I spoke to Adolph. - -"Adolph," I said, "can we two speak together in perfect confidence, as -man to man?" - -"Yes," replied the lad, colouring, "in perfect confidence. I hope you -are not going to lecture me about Grace." - -"Why should I lecture you about her?" I asked, glad at this clearing of -the ground. "You are fond of her, I know, but that is a matter of the -heart. You would do nothing dishonourable, nor would you be a party to -dishonour." - -"No, indeed," he cried, and went no further. - -His face was scarlet; I knew in what way his conscience was pricked. - -"We all make mistakes," I said, half gaily; I did not wish to frighten -him by an over-display of seriousness; "the best as well as the worst of -us; the oldest as well as the youngest of us. We have a good many dreams -in life, Adolph, to which we cling in earnestness and true faith, and -when we awake from them and our suffering is over, we smile at ourselves -for our credulity. You are dreaming such a dream now, and if I rouse you -from it I do so for a good purpose, and out of consideration for another -as well as for yourself. Tell me--why did you introduce Mr. Pelham into -Grace's house as your cousin? You are silent. Shall I answer for you? It -was because Grace herself asked you to do so." - -"Yes," said Adolph, "she asked me, and I did it." - -"Are you satisfied with yourself for having done so?" I asked. - -"No," he replied. - -"I will tell you why," I said. "You never saw Mr. Pelham until he made -his appearance on that unfortunate evening, and you have discovered, as -we have all discovered, that he is not a gentleman." - -"He is Grace's friend," said Adolph. - -"Does that speak in her favour, or in his? Think over certain events, -Adolph. Mr. Pelham, a stranger to all of us, is the friend of this lady. -But if you will remember, upon his first visits, she and he scarcely -spoke to each other, and when they meet in public the recognition that -passes between them is so slight as to be remarkable. There is something -suspicious in this, which even you, infatuated as you are, will -recognise. Whom would you choose for your friend, Mr. Pelham or Sydney -Campbell? In whose company would you rather be seen--whose hand would -you rather shake--to whose honour would you rather trust your honour?" - -"To Sydney Campbell," said Adolph. "There is no choice between them. -Sydney is a gentleman. Mr. Pelham is a ----" - -He did not complete the sentence; I supplied the omission. "Mr. Pelham -is a blackleg. You start! Before you are many days older I will prove it -to you; if I do not, I will submit to any penalty you may inflict upon -me." - -He puckered his brows. "You are not the only one," he said, biting his -lips, "who has spoken against him." - -"There are others, then, whose suspicions have been aroused?" - -"Yes, Mr. ----" (mentioning the most accomplished card-player in our -set) "says that he palms the cards or has the devil's luck." - -"The proof of either in any man would be sufficient to make him unfit -company for gentlemen, for honourable men who play fair. Adolph, -remember, you are responsible for him." The lad winced. "There is but -one manly course before you--to clear the character of this man, or to -expose him. If we are doing him an injustice in our estimate of him, -there can be no exposure; he will come out of the fire unscathed. If we -succeed in proving our suspicions unfounded, you will be clear. And even -then I should advise you to make a clean breast of it. Subterfuge and -deceit, my dear lad, are not gentlemen's weapons. When we strike a man, -we strike him in the face--we do not stab in the back." - -"What will Grace say?" murmured Adolph. - -"What _can_ she say? In the case of an exposure, it is you who have been -wronged, not she. She knew the character of the man whom she induced -you to introduce as your cousin--to you he was utterly unknown. You had -never set eyes on him before that evening. As you are answerable to us, -so is she answerable to you. And if she reproach you unreasonably, ask -her--prepare for a shock, Adolph; I am going to give you one straight -from the shoulder--ask her whether less than three lovers at a time will -not content her." - -"Mr. Holdfast," cried Adolph, drawing himself up, "I request an -explanation of your words." - -"You shall have it, Adolph. First and foremost, is not Sydney Campbell, -your friend and mine, is he not Grace's accepted lover? You shrink; why? -Because you also, in some sense, are her accepted lover. Men have eyes, -Adolph, and you cannot be so simple as to suppose you have escaped -observation. I ask you for no confession, but many of us have seen and -remarked upon your infatuation. Now, say that Grace has encouraged you. -Is that honest on her part towards Sydney? Say that you have made love -to her secretly, led on by the force of your passion, and perhaps a -little by her--is that honest on _your_ part towards Sydney? It strikes -me, if the case be as I have represented it, that Sydney is much wronged -by the young lad in whom he places full confidence, and by the lady to -whom he has given his love. Come, Adolph, if I have cut deep, it is -out of friendship. It is an ugly business, my lad, and I can find no -justification for it. But the worst part of the unhappy story remains -to be disclosed. Sydney Campbell is this lady's lover, and she -encourages him; you are this lady's lover, and she encourages you; Mr. -Pelham is this lady's lover, and she is his. You may well turn pale. -She brings this blackleg lover of hers into the house--into Sydney's -house--under false colours. On my oath, Adolph, I am speaking the truth -when I speak of Grace as Mr. Pelham's lover. She plays _you_ into his -hands--but you are subsidiary in the affair, my lad. The big stake lies -with our friend Sydney. She plays _him_ into this blackleg's hands, -and sullies the reputation and breaks the heart of as high-minded a -gentleman as you and I can hope to meet again in life!" - -I had spoken earnestly, and I saw that I had produced the impression I -desired. Then I related to Adolph all that I knew, and having driven -conviction home to him, we made a solemn compact to do our best to open -Sydney's eyes to the infamous scheme of which he was the victim. Adolph -was to act implicitly under my instructions; I remember how troubled -he was when he left me, and I judged it well that he should be left to -himself in his suffering. Poor lad! It was his first experience in human -treachery, and he suffered the more that his heart was confiding and -tender. - -On this evening it was that Sydney, in my company, lashed himself into a -furious state of indignation at a slight that had been put upon Grace in -his hearing. It occurred in a club, and Sidney, with a violent display -of temper, defended Grace, and attacked the character of the gentleman -who had uttered a simple word or two to Grace's disparagement. Sydney -was not content with attacking the character of the gentleman; he -attacked the lady members of the gentleman's family, with whom he had -once been intimate, and called them a parcel of scheming, jealous jades, -who could not believe in purity because they did not themselves possess -it. He exceeded the bounds of moderation, it must be confessed, and a -scene ensued that was not soon forgotten. - -"The injustice of the world," cried Sydney to me, "is enough to drive an -earnest man mad--as I have no doubt it has driven many. That gentleman -and his mother and sisters would lower their false faces to the ground -before Lady this and Lady that"--he mentioned the names of the ladies, -but it is unnecessary to set them down here--"who are wealthy and highly -connected, but who are not fit to tie the shoe-strings of my poor -persecuted Grace, nor the shoe-strings of any girl who has a spark of -virtue in her. You have seen Grace times enough now, Fred, to be able -to appreciate her purity, her modesty, her innocence, at their proper -worth. There lives not on earth a woman more worthy the love and esteem -of man!" - -Then he broke out into a rhapsody of extravagant adoration which would -have amazed me had I not been acquainted with the intense chivalry of -his nature. The more Grace was vilified, the more stoutly would he stand -by her; the stronger the detraction, the stronger his love. It was not -while he was in such a humour as this that I could commence to play the -part of an honest Iago. - -"By heavens!" he cried, flourishing a letter; "here is my father also -coming forward to strike a feeble woman, whose only armour is her -virtue. In this letter he expresses his sorrow at the intelligence which -has reached him that I am getting myself talked about in connection -with a woman of disgraceful character. The honour of his name is in my -keeping, he says, and he looks to me to do nothing to tarnish it. Nor -will I. To stand up, as I am standing up, against the world, in defence -of virtue, purity, and innocence, can but reflect honour on the highest, -and so I have told him. Look you, Fred; I know what I am staking in this -matter. I am staking my life, and my heart, and all that is precious to -my better nature; and the prize is worth it." - -We adjourned to Grace's house, where Sydney paid Grace the most delicate -attention; it was as though he felt that he owed her reparation for the -ill opinion of the world. It was an eventful night; Sydney proposed to -take the bank at roulette, and it appeared as if his luck had really -turned. He won back all the I O U's he had given us, and his only -creditor was Mr. Pelham, who had won or lost but a small sum. Sydney -twitted him for the smallness of his stakes, and Mr. Pelham, seemingly -stung by the sarcasm, plunged heavily. By mutual consent the limit -was increased, and the battle between the two became so exciting that -the other players round the table staked but trifling amounts, their -attention being engrossed by the dangerous duel. Fortune being in the -balance, now Sydney won, now Mr. Pelham; but presently Mr. Pelham, with -the air of a man who intended to win all or lose all, threw a hundred -pounds I O U upon a number. Sydney looked grave for a moment, and then, -with a careless toss of the head, turned the wheel. The number did not -turn up, and Sydney won the hundred; all felt relieved, for if the -number Mr. Pelham backed had come up, it would have cost Sydney -thirty-five hundred pounds in one coup. - -"Again?" asked Mr. Pelham, tauntingly. - -"Again," assented Sydney, with a scornful laugh. - -Mr. Pelham threw down upon a number another of Sydney's I O U for a -hundred, and again Sydney won. This occurred five or six times in -succession until Sydney cried, - -"Double it, if you wish!" - -Mr. Pelham accepted the challenge; but now he appeared to play with -greater deliberation. He placed two hundred pounds each on numbers 5 and -24, exactly opposite zero. I looked at Grace; she was leaning over the -table, watching the duel with eager eyes, and I could see that her -whole soul was in the game. Round and round went the wheel, and we all -followed the progress of the marble with the most intense interest. The -ball fell into 28, and Sydney won. - -"I shall stick to my numbers," said Mr. Pelham, staking similar amounts -upon the same two numbers. This time zero appeared, and Sydney swept -the board. Again the two numbers were backed for the high stakes, and -now the marble rolled into number 24. - -"There's nothing like constancy," cried Mr. Pelham. - -Sydney, with a steady hand, wrote out an I O U for seven thousand -pounds, and threw it over to Mr. Pelham. - -Once more the same numbers were backed, and the devil sent the marble -rolling back for the second time into number 24. - -"Always back the last number and the last colour," cried Mr. Pelham. - -"For a novice, Pelham," remarked one of our party, "you play exceedingly -well." - -The slight sneer which accompanied the remark was not lost upon us, but -Mr. Pelham did not appear to notice it. I believe at that moment there -was not a man in the room who would not have been made happy by the -opportunity of picking a quarrel with him. - -"There is nothing difficult to learn in it," said Mr. Pelham; "even such -a poor player as myself may happen to be favoured by fortune." - -Sydney, meanwhile, had written another I O U for seven thousand pounds; -he handed it to Mr. Pelham, saying, - -"You will give me my revenge?" - -"Most certainly," replied Mr. Pelham. "Now?" - -"No," said Sydney, "to-morrow night. You hold a great deal of my paper?" - -Mr. Pelham produced his pocket-book, and added up some figures. - -"Something under twenty thousand," said Mr. Pelham. - -Sydney nodded gravely, and not rising from his seat, twirled the wheel -carelessly, and apparently in deep thought. Roulette, however, was over -for the night, and the men broke up into small parties, some playing -hazard, some unlimited loo. I alone remained with Sydney by the wheel. -As carelessly as himself, I threw the marble in as he turned the wheel. -He gave me an intelligent glance, and we continued our idle game for a -couple of dozen turns of the wheel. Numbers 5 or 24 came up on average -about once in every six turns. Sydney rose from the table, and in such -a manner as not to attract attention I examined the wheel. It did not -occupy me long to discover that it had been tampered with. The spaces -between the two numbers Mr. Pelham had backed were wider than those -which divided the other numbers, and the circumstance of numbers 5 and -24 being opposite Zero gave the backer an immense advantage. The chances -in his favour were increased by another discovery I made. Where these -two lucky numbers were situated there was a deeper bevel than in any -other part of the circle. I ascertained this both by sight and touch. -There was no further doubt in my mind as to the character of Mr. Pelham, -nor, indeed, as to the character of Grace. The wheel could not have been -tampered with had they not been in collusion. - -Before we broke up, a little private conversation took place between the -two men. - -Mr. Pelham put a question to Sydney, and Sydney replied, - -"Certainly. Give yourself no anxiety." - -Then he drew me aside, and asked me if I could let him have a hundred -pounds. - -"It is for Grace," he said, "she is short of money; and so am I," he -added with a laugh. - -I gave him the money, and we broke up for the night. - -Sydney and I walked home in company, excusing ourselves from the others. -It was a fine night, and we lit our cigars, and walked on for a while in -silence, which Sydney was the first to break. - -"I wanted your company badly," he said; "my mind is troubled." - -"I am your friend, Sydney," I said. - -He returned the pressure of my hand. "Thank you, Fred. My mind is -troubled about Mr. Pelham. There is no reason why he should not win from -me as easily as, with luck on my side, I might win from him. But I am -not satisfied. It appears to me that the numbers he backed and won upon -were the numbers he intended to back and win upon. If so, it denotes -design. How does it strike you?" - -"With you as banker, I will back numbers 5 and 24," I replied, "and will -undertake to win a fortune of you in an hour or two. Always supposing -that the wheel is the same as it was to-night." - -"It struck me as strange," he said thoughtfully; "until to-night my -suspicions have not been excited. Had any of you won my money, I should -have thought less of it. You were trying the wheel as I turned it, after -play was over. Confirm or destroy the impression on my mind." - -"I must confirm it. The numbers Mr. Pelham backed have been tampered -with." - -"Are you certain?" - -"Most certain." - -He lit a fresh cigar, and threw away the old one. - -"These things are not done without human agency, Fred." - -"Indeed not. Very skilful hands have been at work upon that wheel. Were -it not that I desire not to risk your friendship, Sydney, which I value -highly, I should impart something to you concerning Mr. Pelham which has -come to my knowledge." - -He did not reply for a few moments, and then he said, "We tremble on the -brink sometimes, but it is only cowards who fly. How beautiful the night -is, Fred! The world is very lovely--the stars to me are living things. -Even now, when I seem to feel that Fate has something horrible in store -for me, they whisper peace into my soul. Ah, friend of mine! that a -man's hope, and heart, and holiest wish should be at the mercy of a -rickster! It is sad and laughable. This flower in my coat was given to -me by Grace; it is dead." He made a motion as if he would fling it from -him, but he restrained himself, and crushing it in his hand, put it -into his breast pocket. As I looked at him with loving pity, he put his -handkerchief to his mouth, and drew it away, stained with blood. - -"Sydney!" I cried, in alarm. - -"It is nothing," he said; "I have been spitting blood for a long time -past. Now tell me what has come to your knowledge respecting Mr. Pelham. -Do not fear--you will not risk my friendship, upon which you place far -too high a value." - -I said simply, "He is not Adolph's cousin." - -"How do you know that?" - -"From Adolph himself; he and I have been speaking to each other in -confidence." - -"What was the lad's motive in introducing Mr. Pelham to us with a -falsehood?" - -"He did so by desire of Grace." - -"Then Grace must have been acquainted with Mr. Pelham." - -"It naturally follows, to the mind of one who does not wilfully blind -himself to inexorable fact. Sydney, let us walk back in the direction of -Grace's house. It is a whim of mine, and will do no harm." - -"It can do no good." - -"Sydney," I said impressively, "as surely as we are now walking side by -side conversing on a theme which is bringing torture to your heart, so -surely do I know what I dare not impart to you. Come, humour me." - -I turned him gently towards Grace's house, and we walked to the -well-known spot. It was an hour since we parted from her, but there was -no sign of repose in the house. The windows of the sitting-room were lit -up from within, and I drew Sydney close enough to them to hear the sound -of laughter--the laughter of a man and a woman. - -"For God's sake," said Sydney, "let us get away from this place!" - -He ran so swiftly from me towards the town that it was long before I -came up to him, and then I found him with a deathly-white face, and a -heart palpitating wildly from mental and physical exhaustion. I assisted -him home, and we parted without exchanging another word on the subject. -All that he said was, - -"To-morrow night I am to have my revenge. You will come to the -cottage?" - -It was tacitly understood that the night was to be devoted to a gambling -duel between Sydney and Mr. Pelham, and expectation was on every face. -Grace looked bewitching, and exhibited more than usual tenderness -towards Sydney, and he, on his part, was never more attentive and -devoted in his conduct towards her than he was on this evening. He was a -singularly handsome man, and the contrast between him and his opponent -was very marked. Mr. Pelham, who was the last to arrive, was cool -and collected enough, but he was inferior to Sydney in polish and -gentlemanly bearing. The first hour was passed in badinage and lively -conversation, and then roulette was proposed. Sydney laughingly shook -his head. - -"Roulette will be too slow for Mr. Pelham and myself," he said. "We must -have a more direct trial of skill. I propose, Mr. Pelham, a duel with -the dice." - -"Dice be it," said Mr. Pelham, and the two men sat down to Hazard. They -played low at first, but this was only to whet the appetite, and within -an hour the stakes became higher than had ever been played for in that -house. In the course of the play, Sydney said to his opponent, - -"I have promised to settle up with you in a few days, Mr. Pelham, should -you rise a winner, and you may depend upon my keeping my word. Mr. -Pelham, gentlemen, is called abroad, and I must not remain his debtor. -Men of honour know what is due to each other; if I win from Mr. Pelham -to-night I shall expect him to pay me. It seems as if good fortune were -on my side." - -It really appeared to be so, and we all rejoiced. During a couple -of hours' play Sydney had won from Mr. Pelham between six and seven -thousand pounds. Both men were playing with coolness and judgment, but -even when Mr. Pelham was the setter, good luck remained with Sydney. -For a great part of these two hours Grace remained by the side of the -players, and when she moved away Sydney called her back, saying that she -gave him luck. By midnight Sydney had won back over fifteen thousand -pounds, and then an adjournment for supper was called. All but Sydney -and Mr. Pelham responded to the invitation; they were too deeply -interested in their duel to rise from their table, and thus it happened -that they were left for a time with no witness but Adolph, who said he -could not eat. When we returned from the supper table they had changed -their game. They were playing now with three dice, the highest throw for -varying sums, from a hundred to a thousand pounds. Sydney's good luck -appeared to have deserted him; he was now losing heavily. He cried out -to us not to crowd round the table. - -"Do you think we are playing for life and death?" he exclaimed, with a -wild laugh. "Come, Mr. Pelham, two thousand on this throw!" - -With glittering eyes and teeth firmly set, Mr. Pelham assented, and won. - -"Five thousand!" cried Sydney, and threw fourteen. "Ten to one in -hundreds you do not beat it." - -"Done!" said Mr. Pelham, and threw sixteen. - -"You must be most unfortunate in your love affairs, Mr. Pelham," said -Sydney. "How do we stand now?" - -Mr. Pelham passed over to his opponent a sheet of paper with figures on -it. - -"Twenty-four thousand," cried Sydney. "Enough to set up a house in -Belgravia. I am weary of this work. One throw for the last--double or -quits. Your last chance, and mine. Done?" - -"Done!" said Mr. Pelham, with white lips. - -Every man in the room suspended his game, and rose to witness this mad -play. - -"I protest!" said Sydney, turning almost savagely upon his friends. "Go -to your tables, and concern yourself with your own counters. We can -settle our affair without witnesses. Grace, a glass of champagne." - -He drank three glasses in succession, and said to Mr. Pelham, with only -myself and Adolph standing by the small table, - -"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. It would 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 is my 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. - -[Decoration] - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -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] - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT (CONTINUED). - - -All the 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? My husband 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 -and friendship. 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, I _am_ guilty! 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 life mine 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 to be--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. -You _are_ in calling him infamous, but you are wrong when you call him -my lover. I am not 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. "I am 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 hidden both 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 you that, or even a larger allowance, upon the conditions I have -stated." - -"In my confession am I to relate _all_ that 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 hands and 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 have decided--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 this unexpected 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, thinking of 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 comprehend the 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 myself into 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 to wean 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 able to 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 feelings as 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. I walked -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 was at 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 common between 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 York for 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. The -manager 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 the _Herald_ Office, 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 which the 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 my own 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 not stop 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. - -[Decoration] - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -FREDERICK HOLDFAST'S STATEMENT (CONCLUDED). - - -Under these circumstances the obstacles before me became almost -insurmountable. The residents of the burning city were in a state of -the wildest confusion, and my anxious inquiries for my father were -fruitless; I could obtain no news of him; not a person to whom I spoke, -not even those connected with the hotel, could inform me whether a -gentleman named Holdfast, or one answering to my description of him, had -stopped at the Briggs' House. - -I was perplexed how to act, but an idea that it would be well for me to -remain upon the spot, on the chance that I might yet learn something -of my father, caused me to resolve not to leave Chicago for awhile. To -this resolution I was pledged by my necessities. I was penniless, and -to return immediately to New York was a matter of impossibility. - -I had no difficulty in obtaining sufficient to live upon from day to -day. Assistance and food poured into the city from all parts of the -States, and already upon the burning ruins men were beginning to rebuild -their stores and houses. Every pair of hands was valuable, and I worked -with the rest, never for a moment losing sight of the vital mission upon -which I was engaged. For a month I remained in Chicago, and having by -that time earned enough money to carry me to New York, and being also -satisfied that I had exhausted every channel open to me through which -I might hear of or from my father, I took the train back, and in -thirty-six hours reached the hotel in New York from which my father had -addressed his letters to me. It appeared as if I had taken the right -step, for on the very day of my arrival I saw among the "Personals" in -the _New York Herald_ the following advertisement: - - "F.H.--The day before you leave America for England advertise in the - _Herald's_ Personal column the name of the ship in which you have - taken your passage. It is of the utmost importance. Implicit silence - until we meet." - -Mysterious as was this communication, it afforded me satisfaction. -My father, doubtless, had his own good reasons for the course he was -pursuing, but it hurt me that he had not, by a few words which I alone -could have understood, removed from me the obligation entailed upon me -by my solemn oath to pass myself off under a false name. Until he asked -my forgiveness, or acknowledged his error, I could not resume my own. - -I entered the hotel, and there another surprise awaited me. My father -had, during my absence in Chicago, lived at the hotel for nearly a -fortnight. In an interview with the manager, I was informed that the -description my father had received of my personal appearance had much -excited him. "I could not give him your name," said the manager, "as you -did not leave any. He made inquiries for you everywhere, and employed -detectives to discover you, but they were not successful. He appeared as -anxious to see you as you were to see him." - -"He has been to Chicago, has he not?" I asked. "He was there at the time -of the fire, and stopped at the Briggs' House?" - -"Not to my knowledge," replied the manager. "He has not spoken of it; -and it is one of the things a man _would_ speak of. Such a scene as -that!--and the Briggs' House burnt to the ground, too! No, I don't think -Mr. Holdfast went to Chicago." - -I made no comment upon this; doubtless my father did not wish his -movements to be too widely known. - -"Where is Mr. Holdfast now?" I inquired. - -"Very near Liverpool," was the reply. "He left in the Germanic this day -week. There is a letter in the office for you which I was to deliver -into your hands in case you called. No one else could do so, as you see -no name is on the envelope, and as no other person but myself could -identify you." - -The letter informed me that my father was returning to England, and -I was desired to follow him immediately. To enable me to do this he -enclosed Bank of England notes for £200, and in addition a draft for -£500 payable at sight to bearer at a bank in London. The concluding -words of the letter were "Upon your arrival in Liverpool go to the -Post-office there, where a letter will await you, instructing you how -to proceed." - -Made happy by this communication, but still more than ever impressed by -the consciousness that a mystery existed which rendered it necessary -to be cautious, I thanked the manager of the hotel, and hastened to a -shipping office in Broadway, where I paid my passage in a steamer which -was to leave in a couple of days. Then I went to the _Herald_ office, -and paid for an advertisement in the Personal column, giving the name of -the ship in which I had taken passage, and the date of its departure. -Before the expiration of two weeks I landed in Liverpool, and applied at -the Post Office for a letter. One was handed to me in the handwriting of -my father. Imagine my astonishment at its contents. So as to make this -statement in a certain measure complete, I will endeavour to recall what -it contained. - - "Frederick, and whatever other name you choose to call yourself by. - In sending you to Chicago, and causing you to follow me back to - England, I have had but one motive--to impress upon you that you - cannot escape the consequences of your slander upon the noblest - woman breathing. In whatever part of the world you may be, my hate - and curse shall follow you. Now, present yourself before me and beg - upon your knees for mercy and forgiveness; it will be another proof - of your currish spirit! I shall know how to receive you, Slanderer!" - -I could scarcely believe the evidence of my senses. I trembled with -amazement and indignation. That such a trick should have been played -upon me was altogether so astonishing and incomprehensible that I looked -about me in bewilderment for a faithful heart upon whose sympathy I -could throw myself for consolation. I thought of you, and determined to -come to you, and ask for counsel and comfort. But before I started for -Exeter there was something to do which, to leave undone, would have -brought a life-long shame upon me. I took from the money remaining of -the £200 I received in New York as much as would carry me to your side; -the rest I enclosed in an envelope, with the sight draft for £500, and -sent it to my father's address in London, with these words: "May God -pardon you for the wrong you have done me! I will never seek you, nor, -if you seek me, will I ever come to you. The money I have spent of the -£200 I will endeavour to repay you; but what else, besides money, we owe -to each other can never be repaid in this world." - -I posted this letter, and journeyed on to Exeter, and there another -grief awaited me. You had left the town; your mother was dead, had been -dead for weeks, and you had not informed me of it in your letters. I -will be frank with you. So overwhelmed was I by what had taken place, -so much was my spirit bruised, that it seemed as if faith in human kind -had entirely deserted me. For a moment, my dear, I doubted even you; -but then the better and truer hope dawned upon me that, knowing from my -letters how unfortunate and unhappy I had been, you had withheld from me -the news of your own deep trouble so that it might not add to mine. - -What now was I to do? All that I could learn of you was that you had -gone to London; there, then, was my duty. To London I must go, and -endeavour to find you, and endeavour at the same time to hide myself -from my father who had so shamefully abused me. But I had no money--not -a shilling. I could raise a little, however. Before I left New York I -had provided myself with good clothes, and these were on me now. I went -to a vile shop in one of the worst parts of Exeter, and there I bartered -the clothes I stood upright in for a sum of money barely sufficient to -take me to London and to enable me to live there on dry bread for a few -days. Included in this bargain, to my necessity and advantage, was a -ragged suit of clothes in which I dressed, after divesting myself of -my better habiliments, and thus, clothed like a beggar, and with a -despairing heart beating in my bosom, I made my way to London. At the -end of a week I had not a penny left, and I was so hungry that I had to -beg for bread of a girl standing at the wooden gate of a poor-looking -house. - -The girl's heart was touched--God bless her for it!--and she ran into -the house, and brought out a few pieces of stale bread and cheese, -wrapped in a bit of newspaper. I stood by a lamp-post, munching the -hard bread, and looking at the bit of newspaper the while. What I read -related to a mysterious, fearful murder which had been committed in -Great Porter Square. Nothing was known of the murdered man, and his -murderer had not been discovered. The names of both were shrouded in -mystery. "So might it be with me," I thought; "if I were murdered this -night, there is about me or upon me absolutely no mark or sign by which -I could be identified." - -Ah, my dear, London's mysteries are many and terrible! Imagination -cannot compass or excel them. - -It was a dark night, and I wandered aimlessly through the streets, -saving some of the bread for my supper later on. The hopelessness of -the task before me, that of discovering you, filled me with a deeper -despair. It was as though I were shut out from all sympathy with my -kind. By what I now believe to be a kind of fate, I wandered, without -knowing the direction I was taking, towards Great Porter Square. I came -to the Square itself, and looked up at the name in the endeavour to -read it. "Are you looking for Great Porter Square?" asked a woman who -was passing by. "That's it--where the murder was committed." Well, it in -no way concerned me. A man was murdered there. What of it? He was out of -his misery. That was the substance of my reflections. He was out of his -misery, as I wished I was out of mine. For the minutes were hours, every -one of which deepened my despair. I worked myself into a condition so -morbid and utterly wretched that I gave up all hope of finding you. I -had no place to lie in that night, and on the previous night I had slept -in the open. The morning light would shine upon me, penniless, starving, -and so woe-begone as to be a mark for men. I began to think I had had -enough of life. And all the while these gloomy thoughts were driving -me to the lowest depths I continued to walk round and about the -thoroughfares of the Square in which the murder had been committed. -After a time, the consciousness of this forced itself upon me, and the -idea entered my mind that I would go into the Square itself, and look -at the house. I followed out my idea, and walked slowly round the Square -until I came to No. 119. I lingered before it for a moment or two, and -then walked the entire circuit; and as I did so another suggestion -presented itself. From the appearance of the house I judged it to be -deserted. If I could gain admittance I should have, at least, a shelter -from the night for a few hours; if there were a bed in it I should have -a bed; the circumstance of the murder having been committed there had -no real terrors for me. I had arrived at this mental stage when I found -myself once more before the house; I was munching some bread at the -time. I ascended the steps and tried the street door, and as I laid my -hand upon the handle a policeman came up to me and endeavoured to seize -me. A sudden terror fell upon me, and I shook him off roughly, and flew -as though I were flying for my life; and, as I have already described to -you, as I flew, the fancy crept upon me that my presence in the Square, -my trying the door, and now my flight, had brought me into deadly peril -in connection with the murder. I heard the policeman running after -me. He sprang his rattle; the air seemed filled with pursuing enemies -hunting me down, and I flew the faster, but only to fall at last, quite -exhausted, into the arms of men, in whose remarks I heard a confirmation -of my fears. Then I became cooler, and was marched to a police station, -mocking myself as it were in a temper of devilish taunting despair, to -be accused of a crime of which no man living was more innocent. When I -was asked for my name by the inspector I did not immediately answer. My -own name I dared not give; nor could I give the name by which you knew -me. I would endeavour to keep my disgrace from your knowledge; so I gave -a false name, the first that occurred to me, Antony Cowlrick, and gave -it in such a way that the police knew it to be false. After that, I was -thrown into a cell, where in solitude I might repent of my crimes and -misdeeds. So bitter was my mood that I resolved to keep my tongue silent -and say no word about myself. I knew that I was an innocent man, and -I looked forward somewhat curiously to learn by what villainous and -skilful means my accusers could bring the crime of murder home to me. - -I pass over the dismal weeks of my farce of a trial, and I come to our -meeting in Leicester Square. - -It was my first gleam of sunshine for many a week, but another was to -warm me during the day. With you by my side my strength of mind, my hope -returned. The only money I had was the sovereign lent to me by the -Special Reporter of the "Evening Moon;" you were poorer than I, and had, -when we so happily met, exhausted your resources. The very engagement -ring I gave you had been pawned to enable you to live. Money was -necessary. How could I obtain it? Could I not apply to one of my former -friends? I ran over in my mind the list of those whose people lived in -London, and I paused at the name of Adolph, who had played so memorable -a part in the Sydney Campbell tragedy. His parents lived in London, and -were wealthy. If Adolph were home I would appeal to him, and solicit -help from him. We drove to his father's house, stopping on the way at -a barber's, by whose aid I made myself more presentable. Adolph was in -London, and luckily at home. I sent up my name, and he came to me, and -wished me to enter the house, and be introduced to his people; but I -pointed to my clothes and refused. He accompanied me from his house, and -when we were in a secluded spot I told him my story under a pledge of -secrecy. He has a good heart, and he expressed himself as owing me a -debt of gratitude which he should never be able to repay. I pointed out -to him how he could repay me, and the generous-hearted lad gave me not -only a hundred pounds, but a bill, long-dated, which a money-lender -discounted for me, and which placed me in possession of a comparatively -large sum of money. I hope to be able to pay this debt. I think I shall -be, in the course of time. - -But Adolph served me in more ways than one, and in a way neither he nor -I could have dreamt of. The money-lender he recommended me to go to -lived in the City, and to reach his office I had to pass my father's -place of business. I drove there in a four-wheeled cab, and to avoid -notice I kept the windows up. But as I passed my father's City house -I could not help looking towards it, and I was surprised to find it -closed. My own name did not appear upon the bill, and the money-lender -and I were strangers to each other. I did not hesitate, therefore, when -our business was concluded, to inquire if he knew Mr. Holdfast, and -he replied that the name was well-known in the City. I then inquired -why his place of business was closed, and received, in answer, the -unexpected information that my father was in America, and had been there -for many months. Upon this, I said in a careless tone, as though it were -a matter in which I was but slightly interested, that I had heard that -Mr. Holdfast had returned from America two or three months ago. - -"Oh, no," was the reply; "Mr. Holdfast had not yet come back." - -This set me thinking, and added another link to the mystery and sorrow -of my life. I determined to assure myself whether my father was -really in London, and on the following day I sent to his house, by -a confidential messenger, an envelope. It was simply a test of the -money-lender's statement. The messenger returned to me with the envelope -unopened, and with the information that my father was in America. "I -inquired of the workpeople," said my messenger, "and was told that Mr. -Holdfast had not been seen in the neighbourhood for quite half a year." - -What conclusion was I to draw from this startling disclosure? My father, -returning to England in the Germanic, had never been heard of either at -his house of business or at his home? What, then, had become of him? -What motive had he for mysterious concealment? Arguing, as I believed to -be the case when I received the first letter from him in New York, that -he had discovered the infamous character of the woman he had made his -wife, there _was_ perhaps a motive for his not living in the house to -which he had brought her; but it was surely reasonable to expect that -his return would be known at his place of business. I reflected upon the -nature and character of my father's wife, and upon the character of her -scheming lover, Mr. Pelham; I subjected them to a mental analysis of the -most searching kind, and I could arrive at but one conclusion--Foul -Play! Judging from what had occurred between them and my poor friend, -Sydney Campbell, there was no plot too treacherous for them to engage -in, no scheme too wicked for them to devise and carry out. Foul Play -rose before me in a thousand hideous shapes, until in its many-sided -mental guise it became a conviction so strong that I did not pause to -doubt it. Then arose another phase of the affair. If there had been -Foul Play with my father, was it not reasonable to suppose that I, -also, had been made the victim of clever tricksters? This, too, in a -vague inexplicable way, became a conviction. A number of conflicting -circumstances at once occurred to me in confirmation. The advertisement -in the _New York Herald_ desiring me to proceed to Chicago attached -itself to the statement of the manager of the hotel at which my -father stopped that Mr. Holdfast had not been in Chicago. The second -advertisement in the "Personal" column of the _Herald_ desiring me to -advertise the name of the ship I took passage in from New York to -Liverpool, attached itself to the circumstance that my father's letter, -handed to me by the hotel manager, contained no wish to know what ship I -sailed in. And upon this came the thought that at the time this last -"Personal," which I supposed was inserted by my father, appeared in the -columns of the _Herald_, my father was on the Atlantic. Fool that I was -to act without deliberation, to believe without questioning. Last of -all, the conflicting tone of the two letters I received from my father, -the one in New York, which was undoubtedly genuine, and the one from the -Liverpool post office, which may have been forged!--This completed it. -Conviction seemed added to conviction, confirmation to confirmation, -doubt to doubt--although every point in the evidence was circumstantial, -and, nothing as yet could be distinctly proved. How I regretted that I -had not kept the letters! When I received the last in Liverpool, I tore -up, in a fury of indignation, every letter my father had written to me, -and had therefore no writing of his in my possession by which I could -compare and judge. I find now, that it is too late, that there is no -wisdom in haste. - -It weighed heavily upon me, as a duty not to be avoided, to endeavour to -ascertain whether my father arrived in the Germanic, and after that what -had become of him. And with the consciousness of this unmistakable duty -arose the memory of so many acts of tenderness and kindness from my -father to myself, that I began to accuse myself of injustice towards -him, and to believe that it was not he who had wronged me, but I who -had wronged him. With this grievous thought in my mind, I left you, and -proceeded to Liverpool. - -My first visit was paid to the office of the White Star Line. There I -learned that my father had taken passage in New York on the date I gave, -that the Germanic arrived in Liverpool after a rapid passage of little -more than eight days, that no casualty occurred on the voyage, and that -there was no doubt that my father landed with the other passengers. This -point was settled by the books of the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool. My -father had stopped there for six days, and his name was duly recorded. -Another point, quite as important, was established by reference to the -hotel books and by inquiring of persons employed in the hotel. When my -father left Liverpool, he took train to London. I had arrived at this -stage of my inquiries, and was debating on the next step to take, when -my attention was attracted by the cries of the newspaper street boys, -calling out at the top of their voices, fresh discoveries in the -_Evening Moon_ respecting the murder in Great Porter Square. With no -suspicion of the awful disclosure which awaited me, but naturally -interested in any new phase of the mysterious incident, I purchased the -paper and looked at the headings of the Supplement, and, casually at -the matter. Seeing my own name--the name of Holdfast--repeated over and -over again in the paper, I hurried from the street to the solitude of my -room, and there read the most wicked, monstrous, and lying romance that -human minds ever invented. And in addition to the horrible calumnies -which that "Romance of Real Life" contains in its references to me, -I learned, to my unutterable grief, that the man who was so foully -murdered in Great Porter Square was my own father. - -My dear, for many minutes the terrible disclosure--the knowledge that my -dear father had met his death in a manner so awful and mysterious, took -such complete possession of my mind that I had no thought of myself. My -father was dead! The last time we met we parted in anger, using words -to each other such as bitter enemies would use. I swore in his presence -that he was dishonouring the name of Holdfast, and that I would never -use it until he asked my forgiveness for the cruel injustice he had done -me; and he drove me from his heart and from his house. My forgiveness he -could never ask for now; he was dead! And the wrong we each did to the -other in that hot encounter, in which love was poisoned by a treacherous -wanton's scheming, could never be repaired until we met in another -world. I wept bitter tears, and falling on my knees--my mind enlightened -by the strange utterances of a worthless woman, as reported in the -_Evening Moon_--I asked my father's forgiveness, as I had warned him to -ask mine. And yet, my dear, neither of us was wrong; he was right and I -was right; and if the question between us were put to a high and worthy -test, it would be found that we both were animated by impulses which, -under other circumstances, would have been an honour to our manhood. - -But these kindly feelings passed away in the indignation which a sense -of monstrous injustice inspired. To see my name so blackened, so -defamed, my character so outraged and malformed, inflamed me for a time -to a pitch of fury which threatened to cloud my judgment and my reason. -What brought me to my senses? My love for you. I should have been -reckless had I only myself to protect, to provide for; but a dearer self -than myself depended upon me, and my honour was engaged to you. It was -due to you that I should clear myself of these charges. Herein, my dear, -came home to me, in the most forcible manner in which it could have been -presented, the value of responsibilities. They tend to check our selfish -impulses, and to indicate to us our line of action--straight on. - -At this time I had written to you my half-disapproval of the step you -had taken in disguising yourself as a maid-of-all-work, and obtaining a -situation next to that in Great Porter Square in which the murder had -been committed--Great God! I cannot write it with calmness--the murder -of my father. But after I had read the Romance in Real Life in the -_Evening Moon_ and had somewhat calmed myself, I seemed to see in your -action a kind of Providence. Before these insanely-wicked inventions of -my father's widow were made public, before it was known that the man who -was murdered in Great Porter Square was my father, it was comparatively -unimportant that I should be cleared of a charge of which I was -innocent; it was then, so to speak, a side issue; now it is a vital -issue. And the murderer must be discovered. I say it solemnly--_must_ be -discovered! He will be. Not by the Government, nor by the police, nor by -any judicial agency, but by one whose honour, whose future, whose faith -and love, are dragged into this dread crisis. And I see that it will -be so--I see that you have been guided by a higher than a human impulse -in your love-directed and seemingly mad inspiration to transform and -degrade yourself, for the purpose of clearing me from a wicked and cruel -accusation. At one time I doubted whether truth and justice were more -than words; I doubt no longer; reflecting over certain incidents and -accidents--accidents as I believed them to be--I see that something more -than chance directed them, and that of our own destinies we ourselves -are not the sole arbiters. - -In the extraordinary narration presented to the readers of the _Evening -Moon_ I read that I am dead. Well, be it so. How the falsehood was -invented, and led up to, and strengthened by newspaper evidence, -scarcely interests me in the light of the more momentous issue which -affects my future and yours. Involved in it, undoubtedly, were wonderful -inventive powers, much painstaking, and immense industry--the result of -which was a newspaper paragraph of a few lines, every word of which is -false. That the woman who _was_ my father's wife, that the man who _is_ -her lover, believe that I am dead, appears to be beyond doubt. Let them -continue in their belief until their guilt is brought home to them. To -all intents and purposes, to all useful ends at present in the service -of truth and justice, it will be best that it should be believed that -I _am_ dead. So let it be, then, until the proper time comes. It will -come, I believe and hope. - -To one end I am pledged. I will avenge my father's murder, if it is in -my power. I will bring his murderer to justice, if it is in my power. -Help me if you can, and if after you peruse this strange narrative, -every word of which is as faithful and true as though an angel, instead -of an erring mortal, wrote it, you can still believe in me, still have -faith in me, I shall bless you all my life, as I shall love you all my -life, whether you remain faithful to me or not. - -To my own heart, buoyed as I am with hope, stricken down as I am with -despair, it seems treason to me to doubt; but all belief and faith, -human and divine, would fall into a dark and hopeless abyss if it did -not have some image, human or divine, to cling to; and I cling to you! -You are my hope and my anchor! - -I will not attempt to describe, as dimly I comprehend it now, the -character of the woman who has brought all this misery upon me. She is -fair and beautiful to look upon; innocence appears to dwell in her face; -her eyes meet yours frankly and smilingly; her manners are the manners -of a child; her voice is as sweet as the voice of a child. Were she and -I to appear before a human tribunal, accused of a crime of which she was -guilty and I innocent, she would be acquitted and I condemned. - -I am in your hands. Judge me quickly. If you delay, and say, "My faith -is not shaken," I am afraid I should not be satisfied, because of your -delay. In hope, as in despair, - - I am, for ever yours, - FREDERICK. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -BECKY'S REPLY TO HER LOVER'S STATEMENT. - - -MY DEAREST,--It is now very near morning, within an hour of the time I -am expected to rise. I have been up all night, and having read the story -of your life from beginning to end, have re-read some portions again and -again, so that they shall be fixed permanently in my mind. How I love -and pity you! To say, as you desire me to say, that my faith is not -shaken, is but a poor expression of my feelings towards you. My faith is -strengthened, my love is strengthened, my hope is strengthened. Sitting -in my little cupboard of a bedroom, with Fanny sleeping peacefully in my -bed--yes, my dear, my poor little friend is with me again; I found her, -the night before last, fainting for food at the street door of -No. 119--sitting here, in the presence of that poor human waif, with my -candle nearly burnt out, and the dim light of morning just beginning to -dawn, it seems to me as if a star is shining upon me, instilling into my -heart a wonderful faith and courage. - -I am not tired, but that may be because of my excitement and exaltation. -I intend to be careful and prudent. When the housework is done, I shall -take some rest. I might have a little now, but that I can turn my -thoughts to nothing until I write to you what is in my mind. My faith -is not shaken; I repeat it; and I add, let not your faith be shaken. -Whatever occurs, do not for a moment doubt me, do not for a moment lose -faith in me. You say that I must have been guided by a higher than a -human impulse when I took the strange step of transforming myself into a -servant-of-all-work, and seeking service with Mrs. Preedy, in the house -next to that in which your dear father was murdered. Do you remember my -telling you in my first letter that an inspiration had fallen upon me -when I conceived the idea? And if at that time, before it was known who -it was who had been so mysteriously murdered, I believed my idea to be -an inspiration, how much more reason have I to believe it now that the -awful crime is brought so close to us and is woven into your life? You -declare that you will bring your father's murderer to justice, and -you ask me to help you. What answer can I make you? This. That all -that a woman's power, all that a woman's devotion, all that a woman's -self-sacrifice, can do to the end to which you have pledged yourself, -shall be done by me. I can do much, more than you can imagine possible, -if certain thoughts, created by what you have written, touch even the -border-land of truth. They do, I believe, and they will lead me to the -fulfilment of what we both with all our hearts desire. - -But you must be guided by me. For once in the way, let a woman take -the command, and let her prove herself capable. Not that you could not -accomplish what is necessary for our happiness, and in the cause of -truth and justice, a great deal better than I. But your hands are not -free; you cannot move without the risk of being watched, and persecuted, -and hampered--while I am free to act, without the slightest chance of -being suspected. I am comparatively unknown, and can work without fear; -besides, I am a woman, and can do what you would scorn to do. No man can -be a match for such a creature as Lydia Holdfast--let us call her by -that name. It must be a case of Greek meeting Greek, and in me this -woman will find more than her match. So for the present do not move -openly; do not run the risk of being discovered. Do nothing that will -put our enemies on their guard; above all, do not write to the newspaper -which published Lydia Holdfast's infamous story; a friend has already -stepped forward in vindication of your character, and that should be a -comfort to you, as it is to me. You are right in saying that it will -be best it should be believed that you are dead; therefore, do nothing -rashly, but leave all to me. - -See, now--I am writing with so much confidence and assurance that -anyone who did not know me would suppose I had a very wise head on my -shoulders. Well, it may not be very wise, but it is clever and cunning, -and that is just what is wanted--cunning to meet cunning. What is it -Shakespeare says about wearing your heart upon your sleeve? Not for -me; I will keep my heart hidden, where only you can find it, and will -wear in its place something that will make me smile, or pout, or -cry--whichever will best serve my turn. - -You see, my dear, I am on the spot, and in a position which gives me -such immense advantages. Your father has been cruelly murdered--the -discovery of the murderer will lead to all the rest. There is in this -house a man who is in some way interested in the mystery, who is living -under an assumed name, who paints and wears a wig, and who endeavours to -pass himself off as a foreigner. I must find out who this Richard Manx -really is, and what is his motive in taking a room at the very top of -the house, and in presenting himself here under a disguise. It is to him -I have traced the report that our house and the next are haunted. He has -a purpose in spreading the report. Perhaps it is because he does not -wish the house to be let until he has found what he is searching for in -the room in which your poor father was killed. He might take it himself -you say. But would not this be to attract to himself an amount of -attention which would not be agreeable to him? As to his being as poor -as he professes to be, I do not believe a word of it. He has taken up -his quarters here in such a manner as to cause him to be but little -noticed, and it has been done with deliberate intention. - -I could say a hundred other things, my mind is so crowded, but I have no -time. I shall not send this letter through the post. Asleep in my bed is -a trusty little friend, who will faithfully carry out what I give her -to do. She will come to you, and you can say whatever you please to -her--give her what message you like--and do not attempt to employ her -in any other way than in bringing to me whatever you wish me to receive. -I myself have a very delicate piece of work for her to do. - -I long to see you, to embrace you, to comfort you; but for a little -while we must remain apart. I cannot come to you, nor can you come to -me. We have too much at stake to run the slightest risk. I propose to -write to you every night, and to send Fanny to you every morning with -my letters. You can give her your letters to me. Do not send any -more strange men to the house. Richard Manx might see them, and his -suspicions might be aroused. Perhaps the hardest duty before us is the -duty of patience, but unless we submit we shall fail in our purpose. So -let us be brave and patient, working not for the present, but for the -future. My love, my heart, are yours for ever, and I thank God that I -have such a man as you to love. If I write in a more serious vein than I -am accustomed to do, it is because I recognise the seriousness of the -task upon which we are engaged; it is not that I am altered; I could not -write lightly if I tried, and in your eyes I would not be false. - -I cannot say good-night. It is morning. Well, to us sunrise is better -than sunset. Keep a stout heart, and do not despond--for your own sake -and mine. Farewell, dear love, for a few hours. - - -_END OF VOLUME II._ - - - - -Transcriber's note - - -Words in italics have been surrounded by _underscores_ and small -capitals have been changed to all capitals. - -Punctuation errors have been corrected silently. Also the -following corrections have been made, on page - - 49 "a a" changed to "a" (You're a good girl) - 56 "appproaching" changed to "approaching" (She was approaching the - tragedy.) - 82 "riv r" changed to "river" (by a dark river, lighted up by - lightning) - 104 "works" changed to "words" (the exact words spoken by) - 125 "marriagable" changed to "marriageable" (marriageable young - ladies) - 134 "gentlemen" changed to "gentleman" (Sydney is a gentleman.) - 139 "Their" changed to "There" (There lives not on earth) - 197 "that" changed to "than" (less than a thousand a year) - 218 "comfirmation" changed to "confirmation" (enlisted in - confirmation of the news.). - -Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistent -spelling and hyphenation, and possible errors in accentuation. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Great Porter Square, v. 2, by -Benjamin Leopold Farjeon - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GREAT PORTER SQUARE, V. 2 *** - -***** This file should be named 42906-8.txt or 42906-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/9/0/42906/ - -Produced by eagkw, Robert Cicconetti and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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