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.