Great Porter Square: A Mystery. Volume 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On whose side?” I asked.

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

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

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

“What kind of company?” said Sydney.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked at Adolph; he coloured and stammered.

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

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

“Of course I do,” replied the lad.

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

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

“I am answerable for him,” cried Adolph.

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

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

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

The following incidents occurred on this night. We were assembled round the roulette table. Mr. Pelham was the only one among us who was not backing a colour, or a number, or paire or impaire, or manque or passe.

“Do you not play?” I asked. I was sitting next to him.

“I am trying to understand the game,” he replied.

“Have you never been in Monaco?” I enquired.

“Never,” he said.

I explained the points in the game to him, but he did not appear to take any interest in it.

“What game do you play?” I asked.

“Cribbage,” he replied, “or ecartè, or all fours, or euchre, or poker. I have been in America.”

I proposed ecartè to him, and we sat down to a modest game. I offered to play for high stakes; he declined; and at the end of an hour I had won some fifteen pounds of him. Then we rose from our table, and watched the roulette players; but I was more employed in watching him than the turning of the wheel. He threw an occasional sovereign down, almost chancing where it fell, and he lost with a good grace. Others were staking their tens and fifties. Fifty was the limit; but he never exceeded his sovereign.

“It is enough to lose at a time,” he said.

In the course of the night I calculated that he had lost about fifty pounds. He was one of the first to leave, and he scarcely touched ‘our Queen’s’ hand as he bade her good night, and asked permission to come again. A permission graciously given.

Now, the suspicion I had entertained towards him lessened when I considered how he had conducted himself, and but for a chance remark made by Sydney, and the incidents that followed, I should have accused myself of injustice.

“We approve of Mr. Pelham,” said Sydney to Adolph; “have you any more cousins?”

The lad with a doubtful expression in his face looked at Grace, and as it seemed to me, taking his cue from her, replied,

“No more.”

“Put a little spirit in him,” cried Sydney, clapping Adolph on the shoulder. “Tell him we can fill his pockets, or empty them. Faint heart never won fair lady yet.”

I call this, Incident Number One.

Again:

We had all bidden our hostess good night. Sydney and I stood at the street door, lighting fresh cigars. Adolph had lingered behind.

“One moment, Sydney,” I said; “I must go and fetch that boy.”

I re-entered the house, softly and suddenly. Adolph and Grace were standing at the end of the passage, in the dark.

“Did I do my lesson well?” I heard Adolph ask in a low tone.

“Perfectly,” said Grace, “and I owe you anything you ask for.”

“A kiss, then!” cried the lad, eagerly.

The reward was given.

“Adolph!” I cried; “we are waiting for you.”

Adolph came towards me, and Grace, darting into a room, appeared with a light in her hand. Adolph’s face was scarlet; his eyes were moist and bright.

“The foolish lad,” said Grace to me, with perfect self-possession; “I gave him a kiss, and he blushes like a girl. Do you hear, Sydney?”

“I hear,” said Sydney with a gay laugh. “I am not jealous of Adolph. Good night, dear.”

I call this, Incident Number Two.

Again:

On our way home I asked Sydney if Grace had obtained the certificate of the death of her first husband. He replied that she had not. There was no doubt that he was dead, but Circumlocution and Red-tapeism stopped the way.

“We shall get it presently,” he said, “and then our course will be clear.”

He spoke in an anxious tone. I suspected the cause. He was thinking of his losses at the gaming table, which by this time amounted to over ten thousand pounds. Every man among us held his I O U’s.

“Luck must turn, Fred,” he said.

“I hope it will!” I replied, “with all my heart.”

“And if it does not,” he murmured, “I shall have Grace!”

I pitied him, with all my heart; but I dared not undeceive him.

CHAPTER XXVI

FREDERICK HOLDFAST’S STATEMENT (CONTINUED)

AT this time Sydney began to feel the effects of his temerity in introducing Grace to the ball. Certain rumours and whispers affecting Grace’s character and Sydney’s connection with her, caused the lady patronesses of the ball to institute inquiries, and the consequence was that Sydney was quietly but firmly banished from society. Houses which he was in the habit of visiting were closed against him; mothers who had held out a welcome hand to him now frigidly returned his bow or openly cut him; fathers – bound to an outward show of morality – turned their backs upon him or affected not to see him; marriageable young ladies, with whom, as an unengaged man, he had hitherto been an adorable being, looked any way but in his direction when they met in the thoroughfares. When Sydney became aware of this alteration in his social standing, he tested it to its fullest extent, and having quite convinced himself, proclaimed open defiance.

“War to the knife,” he said.

He carried the war into the enemy’s quarters. He appeared with Grace upon every public occasion that presented itself. In the theatre he engaged the best and most conspicuous seats, and sat by the side of Grace with Society’s eyes full upon him. It did not help his cause that Grace was invariably the most beautifully-dressed lady in the assembly, and that her brightness and animation attracted general admiration.

Adolph espoused Grace’s cause with complete disregard of consequences; his cousin, Mr. Pelham, however, held aloof, and simply bowed to her in public.

“Adolph is very fond of Grace,” I said to Sydney.

“She is fond of him, too,” responded Sydney. “What of that? He is but a boy!”

It struck me as strange that, out of Grace’s house, Adolph and Mr. Pelham scarcely ever spoke to each other; as cousins they should have been more intimate. But this circumstance helped to strengthen my suspicions, and to render me more keenly watchful of the course of events. Before long Mr. Pelham became an adept at roulette; the first night he spent at Grace’s house was the only night on which he lost. Good luck ranged itself on his side, and he generally departed with a comfortable sum in his possession. True, it was represented principally by I. O. U.’s., but with the exception of Sydney there was not one of us who could not afford immediately to pay his losses. For my own part I did not lose; I even won a little; I played for small stakes, and Mr. Pelham, winning so largely from others, did not grudge paying me, without commenting on my caution or timidity. He now always acted as banker at roulette; taking his seat at the head of the table with the accustomed air of a professional; never making a mistake in paying or receiving. His aptitude was wonderful. Sydney’s losses grew larger and larger, and the more he lost the more recklessly he betted. Mr. Pelham was soon his principal creditor, and held the largest portion of his paper.

One day, when I was out riding, my horse cast a shoe. The accident happened within a couple of hundred yards of Grace’s cottage. There was a blacksmith near, and it occurred to me to leave my horse with the blacksmith, and drop in upon Grace for a bit of lunch.

Upon my summons at the door being answered, I was informed that Grace was not at home. Having a little time to spare, I strolled about the country lanes, and came suddenly upon a lady and gentleman conversing together. Their backs were towards me, but I recognised them instantly. The lady was Grace, and the gentleman Mr. Pelham. They were conversing earnestly, and I should have retired immediately had it not been for the first few words which reached my ears. They were spoken by Mr. Pelham, who said:

“It is time to gather in the harvest. We must get your fool of a lover to stump up. Here is a list of his I O U’s – in all, more than fourteen thousand pounds. We shall be able to cut a dash, my girl. We’ll go to Monaco again, and this time we’ll break the bank.”

“I’m agreeable,” replied Grace; “I am tired of this life, and I don’t think I could keep up my part much longer. Sydney is all very well, but he is too lackadaisical.”

“I should think he is, for such as you, Grace,” said Mr. Pelham; “too goody-goody, eh, my girl? You want a man with a spice of the devil in him. But he has suited our turn, and you have played your part well. Give me some praise. Haven’t I been magnanimous in trusting you with him – haven’t I been confiding? You wouldn’t get many lovers like me – trusting you out of their sight, without ever a shadow of suspicion. Then there’s our young pigeon, Adolph – ”

“A child!” cried Grace.

“Quite old enough,” retorted Mr. Pelham, “for me to twist his neck for him if I had any doubts of you. But I haven’t, my girl. It is not only love, but interest, that binds us together.”

They passed on out of my sight without having perceived me. I was astounded, not by the discovery, but by the coarse, brutal nature of the plot in which Sydney’s honour was sacrificed. This woman, Grace, was a worthless schemer and a deliberate cheat. The man, Mr. Pelham, was a blackleg and a ruffian. O, that such a nature as my friend Sydney’s should have been so played upon! That such a noble heart as his should have been so basely betrayed! Here was my difficulty. It was the very nobility and generosity of his nature that would cause him openly to break with me if I attempted to open his eyes to the treachery, backed only by the imperfect testimony I could bring forward. His first step would be to rush to Grace, and inform her of my accusation, and once upon their guard, this man and this woman would weave their net about him too cunningly and cleverly to allow him an opportunity to break through its meshes. Whom could I enlist to aid me? I had an intimate friend whose assistance I would have asked, and he would freely have given it, but he was absent from Oxford. I could think of but one ally, a dangerous friend to enlist because of his inexperience and of his feelings towards Grace. But I determined to risk it. I spoke to Adolph.

“Adolph,” I said, “can we two speak together in perfect confidence, as man to man?”

“Yes,” replied the lad, colouring, “in perfect confidence. I hope you are not going to lecture me about Grace.”

“Why should I lecture you about her?” I asked, glad at this clearing of the ground. “You are fond of her, I know, but that is a matter of the heart. You would do nothing dishonourable, nor would you be a party to dishonour.”

“No, indeed,” he cried, and went no further.

His face was scarlet; I knew in what way his conscience was pricked.

“We all make mistakes,” I said, half gaily; I did not wish to frighten him by an over-display of seriousness; “the best as well as the worst of us; the oldest as well as the youngest of us. We have a good many dreams in life, Adolph, to which we cling in earnestness and true faith, and when we awake from them and our suffering is over, we smile at ourselves for our credulity. You are dreaming such a dream now, and if I rouse you from it I do so for a good purpose, and out of consideration for another as well as for yourself. Tell me – why did you introduce Mr. Pelham into Grace’s house as your cousin? You are silent. Shall I answer for you? It was because Grace herself asked you to do so.”

“Yes,” said Adolph, “she asked me, and I did it.”

“Are you satisfied with yourself for having done so?” I asked.

“No,” he replied.

“I will tell you why,” I said. “You never saw Mr. Pelham until he made his appearance on that unfortunate evening, and you have discovered, as we have all discovered, that he is not a gentleman.”

“He is Grace’s friend,” said Adolph.

“Does that speak in her favour, or in his? Think over certain events, Adolph. Mr. Pelham, a stranger to all of us, is the friend of this lady. But if you will remember, upon his first visits, she and he scarcely spoke to each other, and when they meet in public the recognition that passes between them is so slight as to be remarkable. There is something suspicious in this, which even you, infatuated as you are, will recognise. Whom would you choose for your friend, Mr. Pelham or Sydney Campbell? In whose company would you rather be seen – whose hand would you rather shake – to whose honour would you rather trust your honour?”

“To Sydney Campbell,” said Adolph. “There is no choice between them. Sydney is a gentleman. Mr. Pelham is a – ”

He did not complete the sentence; I supplied the omission. “Mr. Pelham is a blackleg. You start! Before you are many days older I will prove it to you; if I do not, I will submit to any penalty you may inflict upon me.”