Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 2

by B. L. Farjeon

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.”