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CHAPTER XXIV
FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT

THE extraordinary story which has appeared in the columns of the Evening Moon, and the dreadful intelligence it conveys to me of the murder of my dear father, render it imperatively necessary that I should place upon permanent record certain particulars and incidents relating to my career which will incontestibly prove that the Romance in Real Life which is now being inserted in every newspaper in the kingdom is an infamous fabrication. I am impelled to this course by two strong reasons. First, – Because I wish to clear myself in the eyes of the woman I love, from whom I have concealed my real name and position. Second, – Because life is so uncertain that I might not be able to do to-morrow what it is in my power to do to-day. I pledge myself, in the name of my dear mother, whose memory I revere, that I will set down here nothing but the truth – that I will not strive to win pity or grace by the faintest glossing of any particulars in which I may not appear to advantage – that I will not swerve by a hair’s breadth from my honest intention to speak of the matters treated herein in a plain, unvarnished style. The dear one who will be the first to peruse these lines is as precious to me as ever woman was to man, but I will not retain her love by subterfuge or pretence, although it would break my heart to lose it. To her I am known as Frederick Maitland. To a number of persons I am – in connection with the murder of my father – known as Antony Cowlrick. My true name is Frederick Holdfast.

Between myself and my father existed – until shortly after he married a second wife – feelings of respect and affection. During my boyhood his love for me was exhibited in every tender form which occurs to the mind of an affectionate father, and I entertained for him a love as sincere as his own. The death of my mother affected him powerfully. Their married life had been a happy one, and they lived in harmony. My mother was a woman with no ambition but that of making those around her happy. She compassed her ambition, the entire depth and scope of which was bounded by the word Home. After her death my father, never a man of much animation and conversation, became even quieter and more reserved in manner, but I am convinced his love for me was not lessened. He was a man of strong determination, and he had schooled himself to keep his passions and emotions in complete control. He was intense in his likes and dislikes – unobtrusively chivalrous and charitable – disposed to go to extremes in matters of feeling – thorough in friendship as in enmity – just in his dealings – and seldom, if ever, forgiving where his confidence was betrayed, or where he believed himself to be deceived. Such a man is apt to form wrong judgments – as my father did; to receive false impressions – as my father did; to be much deceived by cunning – as my father was. But if he was hasty to condemn, he was eager to make atonement when he discovered himself to be in the wrong. Then it was that the chivalry of his nature asserted itself.

He was a successful merchant, and was proud of his successes, and proud also that his money was made by fair and honourable means. He said to me once, “I would rather see you compelled to gain a living by sweeping a road than that it should come to my knowledge that you have been guilty of a dishonourable action.” I was his only child, and he had his views with respect to my future. He wished me to enter public life, and he gave me an education to fit me for it. While I was at Oxford he made me a handsome allowance, and once, when I found myself in debt there, he did not demur to settling them for me. Only once did this occur, and when my debts were discharged, he said, “I have increased your allowance, Frederick; it could not have been liberal enough, as you contracted debts you were unable to pay.” He named the amount of my increased allowance, and asked me if it was sufficient. I replied that it was, and then he told me that he considered it a dishonourable act for a man to consciously contract an obligation he did not see his way to meet out of his own resources. “The scrape you got into with your creditors was an error,” he said; “you did not sufficiently consider. You are wiser now, and what was an error in the past would be dishonourable in the future.” I never had occasion to ask him to pay my debts again. I lived not only within my allowance, but I saved out of it – a fortunate circumstance, as I afterwards found. The result was obtained without my being penurious, or depriving myself of any of the pleasures of living indulged in by my friends and companions. I was not a purist; I was fond of pleasure, and I have no doubt I did many foolish things; but no sin lies at my door. I was never false to a friend, and I never betrayed a woman.

Among my friends was a young man named Sydney Campbell. He is not living now, and nothing restrains me from speaking of him candidly and honestly. He was a man of brilliant parts, brilliant in scholarship, in debate, in social accomplishments. He affected to be a fop, and would assume an effeminacy which became him well – as everything became him which he assumed. He was as brave as a lion, and a master of fence; lavishly prodigal with his money, and ready, at any moment, for any extravagance, and especially for any extravagance which would serve to hide the real nobility of his nature. He would hob-a-nob with the lowest and vilest, saying, “Human nature is much of a muchness; why give ourselves airs? I am convinced I should have made an admirable pickpocket.” But Sydney Campbell was never guilty of a meanness.

He was the admiration of our set, and we made him the fashion. Though he affected to disdain popularity he was proud of the position we assigned to him, and he played us many extravagant tricks. He led us into no danger of which he did not court the lion’s share, and he held out now and then an example of kindness to those in need of kindness which was productive of nothing but good. It would be to some men most difficult to reconcile with each other the amazing inconsistencies of his actions; now profound, now frivolous, now scholar-like and dignified, now boisterous and unrestrained; but I knew more of his inner nature than most of his acquaintances, and I learnt to love as well as admire him. He had large ideality, and a fund of animal spirits which he sometimes found it impossible to control; he had large veneration, and a sense of the ridiculous so strong that he would laugh with tears in his eyes and tenderness in his heart. I am particular in my description of him, because I want you to thoroughly understand him, and because it was he who brought me into acquaintanceship with the woman who has made me taste something worse than the bitterness of death.

CHAPTER XXV
FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT (CONTINUED)

I DO not propose in this statement to refer to any incidents in Sydney Campbell’s career which are not in some way connected with my own story. At a future time I will tell you more concerning him, and you will then be better able to do him justice. What I am about to narrate may tend to lower him in your eyes, and what follows may tend to lower me; but I am bound to speak the truth, without fear or favour. It is well, my dear, that to minds as pure as yours the veil is not removed from the lives even of the men to whom is given a full measure of respect and love. They are scarcely ever worthy of the feelings they have inspired. They show you only the fairer part of themselves; the grosser is hidden. The excuse that can be offered for them is that they are surrounded by dangerous temptations, and are not strong enough to set down pleasure’s cup untasted, though shame and dishonour are mixed in it.

A great social event was to take place. A ball was to be given in aid of a charity inaugurated by a Princess, and the intention being to make this ball thoroughly exclusive and fashionable, a committee of ladies was appointed to attend to the distribution of tickets. Although the tickets were set at a high price, they were sent out in the form of invitations, and each ticket bore the name of the lady or gentleman who was considered worthy of admission. Extraordinary care was taken to prevent the introduction of any person upon whose reputation there was the slightest stain. Some few ladies and gentlemen of high standing applied for privilege tickets for friends, and obtained them upon the guarantee that they would only be used in favour of persons of irreproachable character. Among those who succeeded in obtaining a privilege ticket from the Committee was Sydney Campbell.

I, with others of our set, was present at the ball. The Princess, assisted by a bevy of ladies of title, received the guests, who were presented with much ceremony. A royal Prince honoured the assembly, which was one of the most brilliant I have attended. In the midst of the gaiety Sydney Campbell, accompanied by a lady, made his appearance. They were presented to the Princess, and passed into the ball room. I was not near enough to hear the announcement of the names, and I was first made aware of Sydney’s presence by the remarks of persons standing around me. The beauty of the lady who accompanied Sydney had already excited attention, and the men were speaking of her in terms of admiration.

“Who is she?” was asked.

“Miss Campbell,” was the answer; “Sydney’s sister.”

The reply came upon me as a surprise. Sydney and I were confidential friends, and were in the habit of speaking freely to each other. Not only was I ignorant of his intention to attend the ball, but on the previous day he had informed me that his family were on their way to Nice. He had but one sister, whose portrait I had seen in his rooms. With some misgivings, I hastened after him to obtain a view of his companion. She was young, beautiful, and most exquisitely dressed, and although she had been in the ball room but a very few minutes, had already become a centre of attraction. She bore not the slightest resemblance to Sydney’s sister.

I was oppressed by a feeling of uneasiness. With Sydney’s daring and erratic moods I was well acquainted, but I felt that if in this instance he was playing a trick, it would go hard with him should it be discovered. My desire was to speak to Sydney upon the subject, and if my suspicions were correct, to give him a word of friendly advice. But the matter was a delicate one, and Sydney was quick to take offence and to resent an affront. I determined, therefore, to wait awhile, and observe what was going on. I had upon my programme two or three engagements to dance, and so much interested was I in Sydney’s proceedings that I did not add to them.

Fully two hours elapsed before I obtained my opportunity to converse with Sydney. Our eyes had met in the course of a dance in which we were both engaged, and we had exchanged smiles. In the meantime matters had progressed. Sydney’s fair companion was the rage. The men begged for an introduction, and surrounded her; on every side I heard them speaking of her beauty and fascinating ways, and one said, in my hearing:

“By gad! she is the most delightful creature I ever danced with.”

It was not the words, but the tone in which they were spoken, which jarred upon my ears. It was such as the speaker would not have adopted to a lady. My observation led me to another unpleasant impression. Sydney’s fair companion appeared to be an utter stranger to the ladies present at the ball. Not only did they seem not to know her, but they seemed to avoid her. After patient waiting, my opportunity came, and Sydney and I were side by side.

“At last!” he exclaimed. “I have been waiting to speak to you all the evening.”

“My case exactly,” I rejoined. “Anything particular to communicate, Sydney?”

“I hardly know,” he said. “O, yes – there is something. How is it you have not asked for an introduction to the most beautiful woman in the room?”

“To your sister?” I asked, in a meaning tone.

“Yes,” he replied with a light laugh, “to my sister.”

“She did not go to Nice, then,” I said.

“Who said she did not?” he asked, and instantly corrected himself. “Ah, I am forgetful. I remember now I told you my people were going there. Yes – they are in Nice by this time, no doubt.”

His eyes met mine; they sparkled with mischief, but in their light I saw an expression of mingled tenderness and defiance which puzzled me.

“You have done a daring thing, Sydney,” I said.

“Is that unlike me?”

“No; but in this case you may have overlooked certain considerations. Where is the young lady at the present moment?”

He pointed to the head of the room.

“There – dancing with the Prince. Come, old man, don’t look so grave. She is as good as the best of them, and better than most. Do I not know them? – these smug matrons and affected damsels, who present themselves to you as though they had been brought up on virtue and water, and who are as free from taint of wickedness as Diana was when she popped upon Endymion unaware. Chaste Diana! What a parody! Pretty creatures, Fred, these modern ones – but sly, sir, devilish sly! Do I not know them, with their airs and affectations and false assumptions of superior virtue? That is it – assume it if you have it not – which I always thought dishonest, unmanly advice on Hamlet’s part. But now and then – very rarely, old man! – comes a nineteenth century Diogenes, in white tie and swallow-tail, who holds a magic mirror to pretended modesty’s face, and sees beneath. What is the use of living, if one has not the courage of his opinions? And I have mine, and will stand by them – to the death! So I tell you again, Fred, there is no lady in these rooms of whom she is not the equal. If you want to understand what life really is, old man, you must get behind the scenes.”

“Can one man set the world right?” I asked.

“He can do a man’s work towards it, and if he shirk it when it presents itself, let him rot in the gutter.”

I drew him from the room, for he was excited, and was attracting attention. When we were alone, I said,

“Sydney, what impelled you to introduce a lady into this assembly under a false name?”

“A woman’s curiosity,” he replied, “and a man’s promise. It had to be done, the promise being given. Fred, I exact no pledge from you. We speak as man to man, and I know you are not likely to fall away from me. I hate the soft current in which fashion lolls, and simpers, and lies – it palls upon the taste, and I do not intend to become its slave. I choose the more dangerous haven – sweetly dangerous, Fred – in which honesty and innocence (allied, of course, with natural human desires and promptings) find some sort of resting-place. It is a rocky haven, you say, and timid feet are bleeding there; but the bold can tread the path with safety. If you could see what underlies the mask of mock modesty, as from a distance it views its higher nature, you would see a yearning to share in the danger and the pleasure which honest daring ensures.”

It is not in my power to recall the exact words spoken by Sydney Campbell at this and subsequent conversations; all I can do is to endeavour to convey to you an idea of the kind of man he was, so that you may the better comprehend what kind of a woman she was who held him in her toils. Sydney continued:

“She wished so much to be here to-night! She has no parents and no family; she is absolutely alone in the world – or would be, but for me. Wait, old man; you shall know more of her, and you will be satisfied. It happened in this way. I was gasconading, I suppose – talking in heroics – flinging my words to the winds, and making a fool of myself generally. Then came up the subject of the ball. You know that the whole city has been ringing with it for a month past, and that a thousand women are in despair because they could not obtain an introduction. I dilated upon it, scornfully perhaps. A Prince was to be here – a Princess too. ‘And you are as good,’ said I to her, ‘as any Princess in the kingdom.’ ‘I hope I am,’ she answered softly – she has a voice of music, Fred – ‘I hope I am, but I could not gain admission to the ball.’ I fired up. ‘Do you wish to go?’ ‘Do I wish to go?’ she echoed. ‘To dance with a Prince, perhaps! Am I a woman?’ A field of adventure was opened up to me. ‘You shall go,’ I said. ‘Is that a promise?’ she asked eagerly. ‘It is a promise,’ I replied. After that there was but one thing left for me to do – to fulfil my promise, at any risk, at any hazard. I have fulfilled it, and I am content. It is like stolen fruit, old man – that is what she said to me. A very human creature, Fred, and a child at heart. And Grace is dancing with a Prince, and everybody is happy.”

“Child as she is,” I remarked, “she must be possessed of great courage to venture thus into a den of lionesses.”

“You mistake her,” said Sydney. “It is I who sustain her. She told me as much a few minutes since, and whispered that if I were not here she would run away. A certain kind of courage she must possess, however; liken it to the courage of a modest and beautiful wild flower which dares to hold up its head in the midst of its bolder and more showy sisters.”

I saw that he was in love with her, and I hinted it to him. He replied frankly,

“If I do not love her, love itself is a delusion.”

I asked him who she was, and he replied,

“A daughter of Eve, and therefore the equal of a queen.”

This was the substance of our conversation, which lasted for about half an hour, and at the end of it we entered the ballroom. During our absence a change had taken place in the aspect of affairs. I was not the only person who had seen the portrait of Sydney’s sister, and who failed to recognise its living presentment in the lady he had introduced. Grace was dancing, and certain dowagers were watching her with suspicious eyes. Sydney observed this, and laughingly ascribed it to jealousy.

“If Grace were an ugly woman,” he said, “they would not be up in arms against her. Grace is no match for these experienced tacticians; I will soon change their frowns into smiles.”

It was no vain boast; the charm of his manner was very great, and few persons could resist it. Perhaps he recognised, with all his daring, the danger of an open scandal, and saw, further, that the lady whose champion he was would be made to suffer in the unequal contest. To avert such a catastrophe he brought to bear all his tact and all his grace of manner with the leaders of fashion. He flattered and fooled them; he parried their artful questions; he danced and flirted with their daughters; and the consequence was that at four o’clock in the morning he escorted his beautiful companion in triumph from the ball.

The following evening Sydney came uninvited to my rooms, and asked me to accompany him to Grace’s house.

“She intends to be angry with you,” he said, “because you did not ask her to dance last night.”

“She was well supplied with partners,” I replied; “she could have had three for every dance, it appeared to me.”

I was curious to ascertain the real position of affairs, and Sydney and I rode to a pretty little cottage in the suburbs, which Grace occupied, with a duenna in the place of a mother.

Now let me describe, as well as I can, in what relation Grace and my friend, Sydney Campbell, stood to each other. And before doing so it is necessary, for the proper understanding of what will be presently narrated, that I should inform you that, as I knew this woman by no other name than Grace, she knew me by no other name than Frederick.

I never understood exactly how their acquaintanceship commenced. Grace, Sydney told me, was companion to a lady in moderate circumstances, who treated the girl more like an animal than a human being. Some quixotic adventure took Sydney to the house of this lady, and shortly afterwards Grace left her situation, and found herself, friendless, upon the world. Sydney stepped in, and out of the chivalry of his nature proposed that he should take a house for her in the suburbs, where, with an elderly lady for a companion, she could live in comfort. She accepted his offer, and at the time of the ball they had known each other for between three and four months. In the eyes of the world, therefore, Grace was living under Sydney Campbell’s protection. But, as surely as I am now writing plain truths in plain words, so surely am I convinced that the intimacy between the two was perfectly innocent, and that Sydney treated and regarded Grace with such love and respect as he would have bestowed on a beloved sister. It was not as a sister he loved her, but there was no guilt in their association. To believe this of most men would have been difficult – to believe it of Sydney Campbell was easy enough to one who knew him as I knew him. None the less, however, would the verdict of the world have been condemnatory of them. I pointed this out to Sydney.

“It matters little,” he said. “I can be sufficiently happy under the ban of those whose opinions I despise.”

“But it affects the lady,” I said, “more deeply than it affects you.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” he replied. “She is not likely to hear the calumny. If any man or woman insults her, I shall know how to act.”

“You have thought of the future, Sydney,” I said.

“Scarcely,” he said; “sufficient for the day is the good thereof. I love her – she loves me – that is happiness enough for the present. One day we shall marry – that is certain. But there are obstacles in the way.”

“On whose side?” I asked.

“On both. My obstacle is this: I could not marry, without a certainty of being able to maintain her as a lady. I am dependent upon my father, and he has his crotchets. I shall overcome them, but it will take time. I do not believe in love in a cottage for a man with tastes and habits such as mine; and if my father were to turn his back upon me, I should be in a perplexing position. However, I have little doubt as to my being able to guide our boat into safe waters. But there is an obstacle on Grace’s side. I am about to impart a secret to you. Her life has been most unfortunate; she has been most cruelly served, and most cruelly betrayed. Would you believe that when she was sixteen years of age, she was entrapped into a marriage with a scoundrel – entrapped by her own father, who is now dead? This husband, whom she hated, deserted her, and having fled to India, in consequence of serious involvements in this country, died there. News of his death, placing it almost beyond a doubt, reached her, but she did not take the trouble to verify it, having resolved never again to marry and to entrust her life and future into another man’s keeping. No wonder, poor child! But now that I have won her love, and that in all honour only one course is open to us, it has resolved itself into a necessity that an official certificate of his death should be in our hands before we can link our lives together. I have but one more remark to make, and then, having confided in you as I have confided in no other man, we need never touch upon these topics again. It is that, having given this girl my love, and having won hers, no slander that human being can utter can touch her to her hurt in my mind or in my heart. You know me too well to suppose that I can be made to swerve where I have placed my faith, and love, and trust – and these are in her keeping.”

He was right. I knew him, as he said, too well to believe, or to be made to believe, that human agency outside himself could shake his faith in her. Only the evidence of his own senses (and even of that he would make himself sure in all its collateral bearings) could ever turn him against the woman to whom he gave all that was noblest and brightest in a bright and noble nature. But soon after I became acquainted with her I distrusted her. That which was hidden from him was plain to me. I saw clearly she was playing upon him, and loved him no more than we love a tool that is useful to us. The knowledge made my position as his friend, almost as his brother (for I loved him with a brother’s love) very difficult to sustain. A painful and delicate duty was before me, and I resolved to perform it with as much wisdom as I could bring to my aid. I had a cunning and clever mind to work against in the mind of this woman, and I played a cunning part. It was in the cause of friendship, as sacred to me as love. When the troubles which surround your life and mine, my dear, are at an end – when light is thrown upon the terrible mystery which surrounds my father’s death – when I can present myself once more to the world in the name which is rightly mine – when my father’s murderer is brought to justice, and I am clear from suspicion – I shall prove to you that I am not only your lover, and, as I hope to be, your husband, but that I am your friend. Friendship and love combined are as much as we can hope for in this world or in the next.

When Grace first occupied the cottage – I call it so, although really it was a roomy house, surrounded by a beautiful garden – which Sydney took for her, she professed to be contented with the occasional visits of her benefactor and lover. In speaking of her now I speak of her as I know her, not as I suspected her to be during our early acquaintanceship. She was ignorant of the character of the man who had stepped forward to help her in her distress, and time was required to gauge him and to develop what plans she desired to work out. Therefore, for the first two months all went along smoothly. Then came the ball, and the excitement attending it. After a storm comes a calm, but Grace was not the kind of woman to be contented to pass her days without adventure. She had, as she believed, probed her lover’s nature to its uttermost depth, and with winning cards in her hands she commenced to play her game. She said she was dull and wanted company.

“What kind of company?” said Sydney.

“Any kind you please,” she replied. “I know nobody. Your own friends will be welcome to me.”

I was the first he introduced, and in a short time a dozen or so of our set made her cottage a common place of resort. Men must have something to amuse themselves with, and she supplied it in the shape of cards. Night after night we assembled in her cottage, and drank, and smoked, and gambled. She was a charming hostess, and some paid her court in a light way. No harm came of it; she knew, or believed she knew, how far she could go with such a man as Sydney, and none of his friends received encouragement of a nature which was likely to disturb him. Others beside myself did not give their hostess credit for more virtue than she possessed, but it was no business of theirs, and they did not interfere between Sydney and his lady. So he was allowed to live for a time in his fool’s paradise. He was an inveterate gambler, and he could not resist cards, or dice, or any game of chance. Playing almost always with the odds against him, you will understand how it was that he lost, nine times out of ten.

Among the frequenters of the cottage was a young man, a mere lad, who really was infatuated with his hostess, and was not sufficiently experienced to cut the strings of the net she threw around him. I will call the young man Adolph; he lives, and I hope has grown wiser. The tragedy of which he was a witness should have produced upon him an impression sufficiently strong to banish folly from his life, even though he lived to a hundred years. Sydney rather encouraged the passion of this lad for Grace. I knew that she told Sydney that he was like a brother who had died young, and that her statement was sufficient to make him believe that her liking for the lad sprang from this cause. Therefore Adolph was privileged, and treated with the familiarity of a brother, and became the envied of those who, if they dared, would have entered the lists with Sydney for the favour of their charming hostess.

In our gambling tournaments we did not stop at cards and dice; roulette was introduced, and very soon became the favourite game. One night, Adolph asked to be allowed to introduce a friend, a cousin, who happened to be in the neighbourhood, and found time hang heavily on his hands.

“A dozen if you like,” said Sydney, heartily, tapping the lad’s cheek – “if you can gain permission from our Queen.”

It was a habit with Sydney, when he referred to Grace in our company, to speak of her as “Our Queen,” and we often addressed her as “Your Majesty.”

“I am not sure,” said Grace, “whether we shall allow strangers to be introduced.”

She looked at Adolph; he coloured and stammered.

“This gentleman is not a stranger; he is my cousin.”

“Do you vouch for him?” asked Grace, playfully.

“Of course I do,” replied the lad.

“Can he afford to pay. If he loses, will you pay his losses, if he cannot?” asked the most experienced gambler in our set – a man who generally won.

This time Adolph looked at Grace; she returned his look with a smile, which seemed to say, “Well? Do you not know your lesson?” But only by me was this smile properly understood.

“I am answerable for him,” cried Adolph.

“Enough said!” exclaimed Sydney. “Tell your cousin to bring plenty of money with him. I have lost a fortune, and must get it back from some one. Who will take the bank at roulette? I have a system which will win me at least a thou. to-night.”

But Sydney’s system failed somehow, and instead of winning a thousand, he lost two.

The next night Adolph’s cousin was introduced. His name was Pelham. I cannot say what impression he produced upon others; I can only speak of the impression he produced upon me. I looked at him and said mentally, “This man is no gentleman;” and then again, “Of all the men I have ever met, this man is the one I would be the least disposed to trust.” But he was cordially welcomed, because he was Adolph’s friend and cousin. Our hostess paid him but slight attention, and this increased my suspicion of him.