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diff --git a/33301-0.txt b/33301-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c303622 --- /dev/null +++ b/33301-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15197 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 33301 *** + + + + + THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES + + A STORY OF NEW YORK LIFE. + + + BY ANNA KATHARINE GREEN + + AUTHOR OF “THE LEAVENWORTH CASE,” “A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE,” ETC. + + +NEW YORK +G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS +27 & 29 West 23D Street + +1881 + +COPYRIGHT, 1881, BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS. + + + TO + MY FATHER + I DEDICATE THIS BOOK + AS EXPRESSING SOME OF THE PRINCIPLES OF + JUSTICE AND MERCY WHICH, + BY PRECEPT AND EXAMPLE, HE HAS + INSTILLED INTO MY + BREAST + FROM EARLY CHILDHOOD. + + NEW YORK, _April, 1881._ + + + + “When all else fails love saves” + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +BOOK I. TWO MEN. + +I.—A WANDERER + +II.—A DISCUSSION + +III.—A MYSTERIOUS SUMMONS + +IV.—SEARCHINGS + +V.—THE RUBICON + +VI.—A HAND CLASP + +VII.—MRS. SYLVESTER + +VIII.—SHADOWS OF THE PAST + +IX.—PAULA + +X.—THE BARRED DOOR + +XI.—MISS STUYVESANT + +XII.—MISS BELINDA MAKES CONDITIONS + +XIII.—THE END OF MY LADY’S PICTURE + + +BOOK II. LIFE AND DEATH. + +XIV.—MISS BELINDA HAS A QUESTION TO DECIDE + +XV.—AN ADVENTURE—OR SOMETHING MORE + +XVI.—THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES + +XVII.—GRAVE AND GAY + +XVIII.—IN THE NIGHT WATCHES + +XIX.—A DAY AT THE BANK + +XX.—THE DREGS IN THE CUP + +XXI.—DEPARTURE + +XXII.—HOPGOOD + + +BOOK III. THE JAPHA MYSTERY. + +XXIII.—THE POEM + +XXIV.—THE JAPHA MANSION + +XXV.—JACQUELINE + +XXVI.—A MAN’S JUSTICE AND A WOMAN’S MERCY + +XXVII.—THE LONE WATCHER + +XXVIII.—SUNSHINE ON THE HILLS + +XXIX.—MIST IN THE VALLEY + + +BOOK IV. FROM A. TO Z. + +XXX.—MISS BELINDA PRESENTS MR. SYLVESTER WITH A CHRISTMAS GIFT + +XXXI.—A QUESTION + +XXXII.—FULL TIDE + +XXXIII.—TWO LETTERS + +XXXIV.—PAULA MAKES HER CHOICE + +XXXV.—THE FALLING OF THE SWORD + +XXXVI.—MORNING + +XXXVII.—THE OPINION OF A CERTAIN NOTED DETECTIVE + +XXXVIII.—BLUEBEARD’S CHAMBER + +XXXIX.—FROM A. TO Z + +XL.—HALF-PAST SEVEN + + +BOOK V. WOMAN’S LOVE. + +XLI.—THE WORK OF AN HOUR + +XLII.—PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD + +XLIII.—DETERMINATION + +XLIV.—IN MR. STUYVESANT’S PARLORS + +XLV.—“THE HOUR OF SIX IS SACRED!” + +XLVI.—THE MAN CUMMINS + + + + + Damocles, one of the courtiers of Dionysius, was perpetually + extolling with rapture that tyrant’s treasures, grandeur, the + number of his troops, the extent of his dominions, the + magnificence of his palaces, and the universal abundance of all + good things and enjoyments in his possession; always repeating, + that never man was happier than Dionysius. “Since you are of + that opinion,” said the tyrant to him one day, “will you taste + and make proof of my felicity in person?” The offer was + accepted with joy; Damocles was placed upon a golden couch, + covered with carpets richly embroidered. The side-boards were + loaded with vessels of gold and silver. The most beautiful + slaves in the most splendid habits stood around, ready to serve + him at the slightest signal. The most exquisite essences and + perfumes had not been spared. The table was spread with + proportionate magnificence. Damocles was all joy, and looked + upon himself as the happiest man in the world; when + unfortunately casting up his eyes, he beheld over his head the + point of a sword, which hung from the roof only by a single + horse-hair. + + ROLLIN. + + + + + THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. + + + + + BOOK I. + + TWO MEN. + + + + +I. + +A WANDERER. + + “There’s no such word.”—BULWER. + + +A wind was blowing through the city. Not a gentle and balmy zephyr, +stirring the locks on gentle ladies’ foreheads and rustling the curtains +in elegant boudoirs, but a chill and bitter gale that rushed with a +swoop through narrow alleys and forsaken courtyards, biting the cheeks +of the few solitary wanderers that still lingered abroad in the darkened +streets. + +In front of a cathedral that reared its lofty steeple in the midst of +the squalid houses and worse than squalid saloons of one of the +dreariest portions of the East Side, stood the form of a woman. She had +paused in her rush down the narrow street to listen to the music, +perhaps, or to catch a glimpse of the light that now and then burst from +the widely swinging doors as they opened and shut upon some tardy +worshipper. + +She was tall and fearful looking; her face, when the light struck it, +was seared and desperate; gloom and desolation were written on all the +lines of her rigid but wasted form, and when she shuddered under the +gale, it was with that force and abandon to which passion lends its aid, +and in which the soul proclaims its doom. + +Suddenly the doors before her swung wide and the preacher’s voice was +heard: “Love God and you will love your fellow-men. Love your fellow-men +and you best show your love to God.” + +She heard, started, and the charm was broken. “Love!” she echoed with a +horrible laugh; “there is no love in heaven or on earth!” + +And she swept by, and the winds followed and the darkness swallowed her +up like a gulf. + + + + +II. + +A DISCUSSION. + + “Young men think old men fools, and old men know young men to + be so.”—RAY’S PROVERBS. + + +“And you are actually in earnest?” + +“I am.” + +The first speaker, a fine-looking gentleman of some forty years of age, +drummed with his fingers on the table before him and eyed the face of +the young man who had repeated this assent so emphatically, with a +certain close scrutiny indicative of surprise. + +“It is an unlooked-for move for you to make,” he remarked at length. +“Your success as a pianist has been so decided, I confess I do not +understand why you should desire to abandon a profession that in five +years’ time has procured you both competence and a very enviable +reputation—for the doubtful prospects of Wall Street, too!” he added +with a deep and thoughtful frown that gave still further impressiveness +to his strongly marked features. + +The young man with a sweep of his eye over the luxurious apartment in +which they sat, shrugged his shoulders with that fine and nonchalant +grace which was one of his chief characteristics. + +“With such a pilot as yourself, I ought to be able to steer clear of the +shoals,” said he, a frank smile illumining a face that was rather +interesting than handsome. + +The elder gentleman did not return the smile. Instead of that he +remained gazing at the ample coal-fire that burned in the grate before +him with a look that to the young musician was simply inexplicable. “You +see the ship in haven,” he murmured at last; “but do not consider what +storms it has weathered or what perils escaped. It is a voyage I would +encourage no son of mine to undertake.” + +“Yet you are not the man to shrink from danger or to hesitate in a +course you had marked out for yourself, because of the struggle it +involved or the difficulties it presented!” the young man exclaimed +almost involuntarily as his glance lingered with a certain sort of +fascination on the powerful brow and steady if somewhat melancholy eye +of his companion. + +“No; but danger and difficulty should not be sought, only subdued when +encountered. If you were driven into this path, I should say, ‘God pity +you!’ and hold you out my hand to steady you along its precipices and +above its sudden quicksands. But you are not driven to it. Your +profession offers you the means of an ample livelihood while your good +heart and fair talents insure you ultimate and honorable success, both +in the social and artistic world. For a man of twenty-five such +prospects are not common and he must be difficult to please not to be +satisfied with them.” + +“Yes,” said the other rising with a fitful movement but instantly +sitting again; “I have nothing to complain of as the world goes, +only—Sir,” he exclaimed with a sudden determination that lent a force +to his features they had hitherto lacked, “you speak of being driven +into a certain course; what do you mean by that?” + +“I mean,” returned the other; “forced by circumstances to enter a line +of business to which many others, if not all others are preferable.” + +“You speak strongly, speculation evidently has none of your sympathy, +notwithstanding the favorable results which have accrued to you from it. +But excuse me, by circumstances you mean poverty, I suppose, and the +lack of every other opening to wealth and position. You would not +consider the desire to make a large fortune in a short space of time a +circumstance of a sufficiently determining nature to reconcile you to my +entering Wall Street speculation?” + +The elder gentleman rose, not as the other had done with a restless +impulse quickly subsiding at the first excuse, but forcibly and with a +feverish impatience that to appearance was somewhat out of proportion to +the occasion. “A large fortune in a short space of time!” he reiterated, +pausing where he had risen with an eagle glance at his companion and a +ringing tone in his voice that bespoke a deep but hitherto suppressed +agitation. “It is the alluring inscription above the pitfall into which +many a noble youth has fallen; the battle-cry to a struggle that has led +many a strong man the way of ruin; the guide-post to a life whose +feverish days and sleepless nights offer but poor compensation for the +sudden splendors and as sudden reverses attached to it. I had rather you +had accounted for this sudden freak of yours by the strongest aspiration +after power than by this cry of the merely mercenary man who in his +desire to enjoy wealth, prefers to win it by a stroke of luck rather +than conquer it by a life of endeavor.” He stopped. “I am aware that +this tirade against the ladder by which I myself have risen so rapidly, +must strike you as in ill-taste. But Bertram, I am interested in your +welfare and am willing to incur some slight charge of inconsistency in +order to insure it,” and here he turned upon his companion with that +expression of extreme gentleness which lent such a peculiar charm to his +countenance and explained perhaps the almost unlimited power he held +over the hearts and minds of those who came within the circle of his +influence. + +“You are very good, sir,” murmured his young friend, who to explain +matters at once was in reality the nephew of this Wall Street magnate, +though from the fact of his having taken another name on entering the +musical profession, was not generally known as such. “No one, not even +my father himself, could have been more considerate and kind; but I do +not think you understand me, or rather I should say I do not think I +have made myself perfectly intelligible to you. It is not for the sake +of wealth itself or the eclat attending its possession that I desire an +immediate fortune, but that by means of it I may attain another object +dearer than wealth, and more precious than my career.” + +The elder gentleman turned quickly, evidently much surprised, and cast a +sudden inquiring glance at his nephew, who blushed with a modest +ingenuousness pleasing to see in one so well accustomed to the critical +gaze of his fellow-men. + +“Yes,” said he, as if in answer to that look, “I am in love.” + +A deep silence for a moment pervaded the apartment, a sombre silence +almost startling to young Mandeville, who had expected some audible +expression to follow this announcement if only the good-natured “Pooh! +pooh!” of the matured man of the world in the presence of ardent +youthful enthusiasm. What could it mean? Looking up he encountered his +uncle’s eye fixed upon him with the last expression he could have +anticipated seeing there, namely that of actual and unmistakable alarm. + +“You are displeased,” Mandeville exclaimed. “You have thought me proof +against such a passion, or perhaps you do not believe in the passion +itself!” Then with a sudden remembrance of the notable if somewhat +indolent loveliness of his uncle’s wife, blushed again at his unusual +want of tact, while his eye with an involuntary impulse sought the large +panel at their right where, in the full bloom of her first youth, the +lady of the house smiled upon all beholders. + +“I do not believe in that passion influencing a man’s career,” his uncle +replied with no apparent attention to the other’s embarrassment. “A +woman needs be possessed of uncommon excellences to justify a man in +leaving a path where success is certain, for one where it is not only +doubtful but if attained must bring many a regret and heart-ache in its +train. Beauty is not sufficient,” he went on with sterner and sterner +significance, “though it were of an angelic order. There must be worth.” +And here his mind’s eye if not that of his bodily sense, certainly +followed the glance of his companion. + +“I believe there is worth,” the young man replied; “certainly, it is not +her beauty that charms me. I do not even know if she _is_ beautiful,” he +continued. + + +“And you believe you love!” the elder exclaimed after another short +pause. + +There was so much of bitterness in the tone in which this was uttered, +that Mandeville forgot its incredulity. “I think I must,” returned he +with a certain masculine naïveté not out of keeping with his general +style of face and manner, “else I should not be here. Three weeks ago I +was satisfied with my profession, if not enthusiastic over it; to-day I +ask nothing but to be allowed to enter upon some business that in three +years’ time at least will place me where I can be the fit mate of any +woman in this land, that is not worth her millions.” + +“The woman for whom you have conceived this violent attachment is, then, +above you in social position?” + +“Yes, sir, or so considered, which amounts to the same thing, as far as +I am concerned.” + +“Bertram, I have lived longer than you and have seen much of both social +and domestic life, and I tell you no woman is worth such a sacrifice on +the part of a man as you propose. No woman of to-day, I should say; our +mothers were different. The very fact that this young lady of whom you +speak, obliges you to change your whole course of life in order to +obtain her, ought to be sufficient to prove to you—” He stopped +suddenly, arrested by the young man’s lifted hand. “She does not oblige +you, then?” + +“Not on her own account, sir. This lily,” lifting a vase of blossoms at +his elbow, “could not be more innocent of the necessities that govern +the social circle it adorns, than the pure, single-minded girl to whom I +have dedicated what is best and noblest in my manhood. It is her +father—” + +“Ah, her father!” + +“Yes, sir,” the young man pursued, more and more astonished at the +other’s tone. “He is a man who has a right to expect both wealth and +position in a son-in-law. But I see I shall have to tell you my story, +sir. It is an uncommon one and I never meant that it should pass my +lips, but if by its relation I can win your sympathy for a pure and +noble passion, I shall consider the sacred seal of secrecy broken in a +good cause. But,” said he, seeing his uncle cast a short and uneasy +glance at the door, “perhaps I am interrupting you. You expect some +one!” + + +“No,” said his uncle, “my wife is at church; I am ready to listen.” + +The young man gave a hurried sigh, cast one look at his companion’s +immovable face, as if to assure himself that the narrative was +necessary, then leaned back and in a steady business-like tone that +softened, however, as he proceeded, began to relate as follows: + + + + +III. + +A MYSTERIOUS SUMMONS. + + “Without unspotted, innocent within, + She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.”—DRYDEN. + + +It was after a matinée performance at —— Hall some two weeks ago that +I stopped to light a cigar in the small corridor leading to the back +entrance. I was in a dissatisfied frame of mind. Something in the music +I had been playing or the manner in which it had been received had +touched unwonted chords in my own nature. I felt alone. I remember +asking myself as I stood there, what it all amounted to? Who of all the +applauding crowd would watch at my bedside through a long and harassing +sickness, or lend their sympathy as they now yielded their praise, if +instead of carrying off the honors of the day I had failed to do justice +to my reputation. I was just smiling over the only exception I could +make to this sweeping assertion, that of the pale-eyed youth you have +sometimes observed dogging my steps, when Briggs came up to me. + +“There is a woman here, sir, who insists on seeing you; she has been +waiting through half the last piece. Shall I tell her you are coming +out?” + +“A woman!” exclaimed I, somewhat surprised, for my visitors are not apt +to be of the gentler sex. + +“Yes sir, an old one. She seems very anxious to speak to you. I could +not get rid of her no how.” + +I hurried forward to the muffled figure which he pointed out cowering +against the wall by the door. “Well, my good woman, what do you want?” I +asked, bending towards her in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the +face she held partly concealed from me. + +“Are you Mr. Mandeville?” she inquired in a tone shaken as much by +agitation as age. + +I bowed. + +“The one who plays upon the piano?” + +“The very same,” I declared. + +“You are not deceiving me,” she went on, looking up with a marked +anxiety plainly visible through her veil. “I haven’t seen you play and +couldn’t contradict you, but—” + +“Here!” said I calling to Briggs with a kindly look at the old woman, +“help me on with my coat, will you?” + +The “Certainly, Mr. Mandeville,” with which he complied seemed to +reassure her, and as soon as the coat was on and he was gone, she +grasped me by the arm and drew my ear down to her mouth. + +“If you are Mr. Mandeville, I have a message for you. This letter,” +slipping one into my hand, “is from a young lady, sir. She bade me give +it to you myself. She is young and pretty,” she pursued as she saw me +make a movement of distaste, “and a lady. We depend upon your honor, +sir.” + +I acknowledge that my first impulse was to fling her back the note and +leave the building; I was in no mood for trifling, my next to burst into +a laugh and politely hand her to the door, my last and best, to open the +poor little note and see for myself whether the writer was a lady or +not. Proceeding to the door, for it was already twilight in the dim +passage way, I tore open the envelope which was dainty enough and took +out a sheet of closely written paper. A certain qualm of conscience +assailed me as I saw the delicate chirography it disclosed and I was +tempted to thrust it back and return it unread to the old woman now +trembling in the corner. But curiosity overcame my scruples, and hastily +unfolding the sheet I read these lines: + + “I do not know if what I do is right; I am sure aunty would not + say it was; but aunty never thinks anything is right but going + to church and reading the papers to papa. I am just a little + girl who has heard you play, and who would think the world was + too beautiful, if she could hear you say to her just once, some + of the kind things you must speak every day to the persons who + know you. I do not expect very much—you must have a great many + friends, and you would not care for me—but the least little + look, if it were all my own, would make me so happy and so + proud I should not envy anybody in the world, unless it was + some of those dear friends who see you always. + + “I do not come and hear you play often, for aunty thinks music + frivolous, but I am always hearing you no matter where I am, + and it makes me feel as if I were far away from everybody, in a + beautiful land all sunshine and flowers. But nurse says I must + not write so much or you will not read it, so I will stop here. + But if you _would_ come it would make some one happier than + even your beautiful music could do.” + +That was all; there was neither name nor date. A child’s epistle, +written with a woman’s circumspection. With mingled sensations of doubt +and curiosity I turned back to the old woman who stood awaiting me with +eager anxiety. + +“Was this written by a child or woman?” I asked, meeting her eye with as +much sternness as I could assume. + +“Don’t ask me—don’t ask me anything. I have promised to bring you if I +could, but I cannot answer any questions.” + +I stepped back with an incredulous laugh. Here was evidently an +adventure. “You will at least tell me where the young miss lives,” said +I, “before I undertake to fulfil her request.” + +She shook her head. “I have a carriage at the door, sir,” said she. “All +you have got to do is to get into it with me and we shall soon be at the +house.” + +I looked from her face to the letter in my hand, and knew not what to +think. The spirit of simplicity and ingenuousness that marked the latter +was scarcely in keeping with this air of mystery. The woman observing my +hesitation moved towards the door. + +“Will you come, sir?” she inquired. “You will not regret it. Just a +moment’s talk with a pretty young girl—surely—” + +“Hush,” said I, hearing a hasty step behind me. And sure enough just +then my intimate friend Selby came along and grasping me by the arm +began dragging me towards the door. “You are my property,” said he. +“I’ve promised, on my word of honor as a gentleman and a musician, to +bring you to the Handel Club this afternoon. I was afraid you had +escaped me, but—” Here he caught sight of the small black figure +halting in the door-way, and paused. + +“Who’s this?” said he. + +I hesitated. For one instant the scale of my whole future destiny hung +trembling in the balance, then the demon of curiosity got the better of +my judgment, and with the rather unworthy consideration that I might as +well enjoy my youth while I could, I released myself from my friend’s +detaining hand and replied, “Some one with whom I have very particular +business. I cannot go to the Handel Club to-day,” and darting out +without further delay, I rejoined the old woman on the sidewalk. + +Without a word she drew me towards a carriage I now observed standing by +the curbstone a few feet to the left. As I got in I remember pausing a +moment to glance at the man on the box, but it was too dark for me to +perceive anything but the fact that he was dressed in livery. More and +more astonished I leaned back in my seat and endeavored to open +conversation with my mysterious companion. But it did not work. Without +being actually rude, she parried my questions in such a way that by the +end of five minutes I found myself as far from any knowledge of the real +situation of the case as when I started. I therefore desisted from any +further attempts and turned to look out, when I made a discovery that +for the first time awoke some vague feelings of alarm within my breast. +This was, that the window was not covered by a curtain as I supposed, +but by closed blinds which when I tried to raise them resisted all my +efforts to do so. + +“It is very close here,” I muttered, in some sort of excuse for this +display of uneasiness. “Cannot you give us a little air?” But my +companion remained silent, and I felt ashamed to press the matter though +I took advantage of the darkness to remove to a safer place a roll of +money which I had about me. + +Yet I was far from being really anxious, and did not once meditate +backing out of an adventure that was at once so piquant and romantic. +For by this time I became conscious from the sounds about me that we had +left the side street for one of the avenues and were then proceeding +rapidly up town. Listening, I heard the roll of omnibuses and the jingle +of car-bells, which informed me that we were in Broadway, no other +avenue in the city being traversed by both these methods of conveyance. +But after awhile the jingle ceased and presently the livelier sounds of +constant commotion inseparable from a business thoroughfare, and we +entered what I took to be Madison Avenue at Twenty-third Street. + +Instantly I made up mind to notice every turn of the carriage, that I +might fix to some degree the locality towards which we were tending. But +it turned but once and that after a distance of steady travelling that +quite overthrew any calculation I was able to make at that time of the +probable number of streets we had passed since entering the avenue. +Having turned, it went but about half a block to the left when it +stopped. “I shall see where I am when I get out,” thought I; but in this +I was mistaken. + +First we had stopped in the middle of a block of houses built, as far as +I could judge, all after one model. Next the fact of the front door +being open, though I saw no one in the hall, somewhat disconcerted me, +and I hurried across the sidewalk and up the stoop in a species of maze +hardly to be expected from one of my naturally careless disposition. The +next moment the door closed behind me and I found myself in a +well-lighted hall whose quiet richness betokened it as belonging to a +private dwelling of no mean pretensions to elegance. + +This was the first surprise I received. + +“Follow me,” said the old woman, hurrying me down the hall and into a +small room at the end. “The young lady will be here in a moment,” and +without lifting her veil or affording me the least glimpse of her +features, she retired, leaving me to face the situation before me as +best I might. + +It was anything but a pleasant one as it appeared to me at that moment, +and for an instant I seriously thought of retracing my steps and leaving +a domicile into which I had been introduced in such a mysterious manner. +Then the quiet aspect of the room, which though sparsely furnished with +a piano and chairs was still of an order rarely seen out of gentlemen’s +houses, struck my imagination and reawakened my curiosity, and nerving +myself to meet whatever interview might be accorded me, I waited. It was +only five minutes by the small clock ticking on the mantel-piece, but it +seemed an hour before I heard a timid step at the door, and saw it swing +slowly open, disclosing—well, I did not stop to inquire whether it was +a child or a woman. I merely saw the shrinking modest form, the eager +blushing face, and bowed almost to the ground in a sudden reverence for +the sublime innocence revealed to me. Yes, it did not take a second look +to read that tender countenance to its last guileless page. Had she been +a woman of twenty-five I could not have mistaken her expression of pure +delight and timid interest, but she was only sixteen, as I afterwards +learned, and younger in experience than in age. + +Closing the door behind her, she stood for a moment without speaking, +then with a deepening of the blush which was only a child’s +embarrassment in the presence of a stranger, looked up and murmured my +name with a word or so of grateful acknowledgment that would have called +forth a smile on my lips if I had not been startled by the sudden change +that passed over her features when she met my eyes. Was it that I showed +my surprise too plainly, or did my admiration manifest itself in my +gaze? an admiration great as it was humble, and which was already of a +nature such as I had never before given to girl or woman. Whatever it +was, she no sooner met my look than she paused, trembled, and started +back with a confused murmur, through which I plainly heard her whisper +in a low distressed tone, “Oh, what have I done!” + +“Called a good friend to your side,” said I in the frank, brotherly way +I thought most likely to reassure her. “Do not be alarmed, I am only too +happy to meet one who evidently enjoys music so well.” + +But the hidden chord of womanhood had been struck in the child’s soul, +and she could not recover herself. For an instant I thought she would +turn and flee, and struck as I was with remorse at my reckless invasion +of this uncontaminated temple, I could not but admire the spirited +picture she presented as, with form half turned and face bent back, she +stood hesitating on the point of flight. + +I did not try to stop her. “She shall follow her own impulse,” said I to +myself, but I felt a vague relief that was deeper than I imagined, when +she suddenly relinquished her strained attitude, and advancing a step or +so began to murmur: + +“I did not know—I did not realize I was doing what was so very wrong. +Young ladies do not ask gentlemen to come and see them, no matter how +much they desire to make their acquaintance. I see it now; I did not +before. Will you—can you forgive me?” + +I smiled; I could not help it. I could have taken her to my heart and +soothed her as I would a child, but the pallor of womanhood, which had +replaced the blush of the child, awed me and made my own words come +hesitatingly. + +“Forgive you? You must forgive me! It was as wrong for me,” I went on +with a wild idea of not mincing matters with this pure soul, “to obey +your innocent request, as it was for you to make it. I am a man of the +world and know its _convenances_; you are very young.” + +“I am sixteen,” she murmured. + +The abrupt little confession, implying as it did her determination not +to accept any palliation of her conduct which it did not deserve, +touched me strangely. “But very young for that,” I exclaimed. + +“So aunty says, but no one can ever say it any more,” she answered. Then +with a sudden gush, “We shall never see each other again, and you must +forget the motherless girl who has met you in a way for which she must +blush through life. It is no excuse,” she pursued hurriedly, “that nurse +thought it was all right. She always approves of everything I do or want +to do, especially if it is anything aunt would be likely to forbid. I +have been spoiled by nurse.” + +“Was nurse the woman who came for me?” I asked. + +She nodded her head with a quick little motion inexpressibly charming. +“Yes, that was nurse. She said she would do it all, I need only write +the note. She meant to give me a pleasure, but she did wrong.” + +“Yes,” thought I, “how wrong you little know or realize.” But I only +said, “You must be guided by some one with more knowledge of the world +after this. Not,” I made haste to add, struck by the misery in her child +eyes, “that any harm has been done. You could not have appealed to the +friendship of any one who would hold you in greater respect than I. +Whether we meet again or not, my memory of you shall be sweet and +sacred, I promise you that.” + +But she threw out her hand with a quick gesture. “No, do not remember +me. My only happiness will lie in the thought you have forgotten.” And +the last remnants of the child soul vanished in that hurried utterance. +“You must go now,” she continued more calmly. “The carriage that brought +you is at the door; I must ask you to take it back to your home.” + +“But,” I exclaimed with a wild and unbearable sense of sudden loss as +she laid her hand on the knob of the door, “are we to part like this? +Will you not at least trust me with your name before I go?” + +Her hand dropped from the knob as if it had been hot steel, and she +turned towards me with a slow yearning motion that whatever it betokened +set my heart beating violently. “You do not know it, then?” she +inquired. + +“I know nothing but what this little note contains,” I replied, drawing +her letter from my pocket. + +“Oh, that letter! I must have it,” she murmured; then, as I stepped +towards her, drew back and pointing to the table said, “Lay it there, +please.” + +I did so, whereupon something like a smile crossed her lips and I +thought she was going to reward me with her name, but she only said, “I +thank you; now you know nothing;” and almost before I realized it she +had opened the door and stepped into the hall. + +As I made haste to follow her, the sound of a low, “He is a gentleman, +he will ask no questions,” struck my ear, and looking up, I saw her just +leaving the side of the old nurse who stood evidently awaiting me half +down the hall. Bowing with formal ceremony, I passed her by and +proceeded to the front door. As I did so I caught one glimpse of her +face. It had escaped from all restraint and the expression of the eyes +was overpowering. I subdued a wild impulse to leap back to her side, and +stepped at once over the threshold. The nurse joined me, and together we +went down the stoop to the street. + +“May I inquire where you wish to be taken?” she asked. + +I told her, and she gave the order to the coachman, together with a few +words I did not hear; then stepping back she waited for me to get in. +There was no help for it. I gave one quick look behind me, saw the front +door close, realized how impossible it would ever be for me to recognize +the house again, and placed my foot on the carriage step. Suddenly a +bright idea struck me, and hastily dropping my cane I stepped back to +pick it up. As I did so I pulled out a bit of crayon I chanced to have +in my pocket, and as I stooped, chalked a small cross on the curbstone +directly in front of the house, after which I recovered my cane, uttered +some murmured word of apology, jumped into the carriage and was about to +shut the door, when the old nurse stepped in after me and quietly closed +it herself. By the pang that shot through my breast as the carriage +wheels left the house, I knew that for the first time in my life, I +_loved_. + + + + +IV. + +SEARCHINGS. + + “Patience, and shuffle the cards.”—CERVANTES. + + +If I had expected anything from the presence in the carriage of the +woman who had arranged this interview, I was doomed to disappointment. +Reticent before, she was absolutely silent now, sitting at my side like +a grim statue or a frozen image of watchfulness, ready to awake and stop +me if I offered to open the door or make any other move indicative of a +determination to know where I was, or in what direction I was going. +That her young mistress in the momentary conversation they had held +before our departure had succeeded in giving her some idea of the shame +with which she had felt herself overwhelmed and her present natural +desire for secrecy, I do not doubt, but I think now, as I thought then, +that the unusual precautions taken both at that time and before, to keep +me in ignorance of the young lady’s identity, were due to the elderly +woman’s own consciousness of the peril she had invoked in yielding to +the wishes of her young and thoughtless mistress; a theory which, if +true, argues more for the mind than the conscience of this mysterious +woman. However, it is with facts we have to deal, and you will be more +interested in learning what I did, than what I thought during that short +ride in perfect darkness. + +The mark which I had left on the curbstone behind me sufficiently showed +the nature of my resolve, and when we made the first turn at the end of +the block I leaned back in my seat and laying my finger on my wrist, +began to count the pulsations of my blood. It was the only device that +suggested itself, by which I might afterward gather some approximate +notion of the distance we travelled in a straight course down town. I +had just arrived at the number seven hundred and sixty-two, and was +inwardly congratulating myself upon this new method of reckoning +distance, when the wheels gave a lurch and we passed over a car track. +Instantly all my fine calculations fell to the ground. We were not in +Madison Avenue, as I supposed; could not be, since no track crosses that +avenue below Fifty-ninth Street, and we were proceeding on as we could +not have done had we gained the terminus of the avenue at Twenty-third +Street. Could it be that the carriage had not been turned around while I +was in the house, and that we had come back by way of Fifth Avenue? I +could not remember—in fact, the more I tried to think which way the +horses’ heads were directed when we went into the house, the more I was +confused. But presently I considered that wherever we were, we certainly +had not passed over the narrow strip of smooth pavement in front of the +Worth monument, and therefore could not have reached Twenty-third Street +by way of Fifth Avenue. We must be up town, and that track we crossed +must have been at Fifty-ninth Street. And soon, as if to assure me of +this, we took a turn, quickly followed at a block’s length by another, +after which I had no difficulty in recognizing the smooth pavement of +the entrance to the Park or the roll down Fifth Avenue afterwards. “They +have thought to confuse me by an extra mile or so of travel,” thought I, +with some complacency, “but the streets of New York are too simply laid +out to lend themselves to any such easy mode of mystification.” Yet I +have thought since then how, with a smarter man on the box, the affair +might have been conducted so as to have baffled the oldest citizen in +any attempt at calculation. + +When we stopped in front of the Albemarle I quietly thanked the woman +who had conducted me, and stepped to the ground. Instantly the door shut +behind me, the carriage drove off, and I was left standing there like a +man suddenly awakened from a dream. + +Entering my hotel, I ordered supper, thinking that the very practical +occupation of eating would serve to divert my mind into its ordinary +channels. But the dream, if dream it was, had made too vivid an +impression to be shaken off so easily. It followed me to the hall in the +evening and mingled with every chord I struck. + +I could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of the sweet child’s face +that had blossomed into a woman’s before my eyes, and what a woman! With +the first hint of daylight I rose, and as soon as it was in any degree +suitable to be out, hired a cab and proceeded to the corner of +Fifty-ninth Street and Madison Avenue, where, according to my +calculations of the evening before, we had crossed the car track which +had first interrupted me in that very original method of computing +distance of which I have already spoken, a method by the way, which you +must acknowledge is an improvement on the boy’s plan of finding his way +back from the woods by means of the bread-crumbs he had scattered behind +him, forgetting that the birds would eat up his crumbs and leave him +without a clew. Bidding the driver proceed at the ordinary jog trot down +the avenue, I laid my finger on my wrist, and counted each throb of my +pulse till I had reached the magical number seven hundred and sixty-two. +Then putting my head out of the window, I bade him stop. We were in the +middle of a block, but that did not disconcert me. I had not expected to +gain more than an approximate idea of the spot where we had first turned +into the avenue, it being impossible to regulate the horses’ pace so as +to tally with that taken by the span of the night before, even if the +pulsations in my wrist were to be absolutely relied upon. Noting the +streets between which we had paused, I bade the driver to turn down one +and come back by the other, occupying myself in the meanwhile, in +searching the curbstone for the small mark I had left in front of her +door the night before. But though we drove slowly and I searched +carefully, not a trace did I perceive of that tell-tale sign, and +forsaking those two streets, I ordered my obedient Jehu to try the two +outlying ones below and above. He did so, and I again consulted the +curbstone, but with no better success. No mark or remnants of a mark was +to be found anywhere. Nor, though we travelled through three or four +other streets in the same way, did we come upon any clew liable to +assist me in my search. Clean discouraged and somewhat out of temper +with myself for my pusillanimity of the evening before in not having +braved the anger of my companion by opening the carriage door at the +first corner and leaping out, I commanded to be taken back to the hotel, +where for a whole miserable day I racked my brain with devices for +acquiring the knowledge I so much desired. The result was futile, as you +may imagine; nor will I stop to recount the various expedients to which +I afterwards resorted in my vain attempt to solve the mystery of this +young girl’s identity. + +Enough that they all failed, even the very promising one of searching +the various photographic establishments of the city, for the valuable +clew which her picture would give me. And so a week passed. + +“It is time this mad infatuation was at an end,” said I to myself one +morning as I sat down to write a letter. “There is no hope of my ever +seeing her again, and I am but frittering away the best emotions of my +life in thus indulging in a dream that is not the prelude to a reality.” +But in spite of the wise determination thus made, I soon found my +thoughts recurring to their old channel, and seized with sudden +impatience at my evident weakness, took up the letter I had been writing +and was about to read it, when to my great amazement I perceived that +instead of inditing the usual words of a business communication, I had +been engaged in scribbling a certain number up and down the page and +even across the bottom where my signature should have been. + +“Am I a fool?” I exclaimed, and was about to tear the sheet in two, when +glancing again at the number, which was a simple thirty-six, I asked +myself where I had got those especial figures. Instantly there arose +before my mind’s eye the vision of a brown-stone front with its +vestibule and door. It was, then, the number of a house; but what house? +a _chateau en Espagne_ or a _bona fide_ New York dwelling, which for +some reason had unconsciously impressed itself upon my memory? I could +not answer. There on the page was the number thirty-six, and equally +plain in my mind was the look of the brown-stone front to which that +number belonged—and that was all. + +But it was enough to awaken within me the spirit of inquiry. The few +houses thus numbered in that quarter of the city where I had lately +been, were not so hard to find but that a morning given to the business +ought to satisfy me whether the vision in my mind had its basis in +reality. Taking a cab, I rode up town and into that region of streets I +had traversed so carefully a week before. For I was assured that if the +impression had been made by an actual dwelling it had been done at that +time. Following the same course I then took, I consulted the appearance +of the various houses to which that number was assigned. The first was +built of brick; that was not it. The next one had pillars to the +vestibule; and that was not it. The third, to use an Irish bull, was no +house at all, but a stable, while the fourth was an elegant structure of +much more pretension than the plain and simple front I had in my mind or +memory. I was about to utter a curse upon my folly and go home, when I +remembered there was yet a street or two taken in my zig-zag course of +the week before, which I had not yet tested. “Might as well be +thorough,” I muttered, and bade my driver proceed down —— Street. + +What was there in its aspect that dimly excited me at the first glance? +A dim remembrance, a certain ghostly assurance that we had reached the +right spot? As we neared the number I sought, I could not suppress an +exclamation of surprise. For there before me to its last detail, stood +the house which involuntarily presented itself to my mind, when my eye +first fell upon that mysterious number scribbled at the foot of the page +I was writing. + +It was, then, no chimera of an overwrought brain, this vision of a +house-front which had been haunting me, but a distinct remembrance of an +actual dwelling seen by me in my former journey through this street. But +why this house-front above all others; what was there in it to make such +an impression? Looking at it I could not determine, but after we had +passed, something, I cannot tell what, brought back another remembrance, +trivial in itself, but yet a link in the chain that was destined sooner +or later to lead me out of the maze into which I had stumbled. It was +merely this; that as I rode along the streets on that memorable morning, +searching for that mark on the curbstone from which I hoped so much, I +had come upon a spot where the pavement had been freshly washed. With +that unconscious action of the brain with which we are familiar, I +looked at the sidewalk a moment, running even then with the water that +had been cast upon it, and then gave a quick glance at the house. That +glance, account for it as you will, took in the picture before it as the +camera catches the impression of a likeness, and though in another +instant I had forgotten the whole occurrence, it needed but a certain +train of thought or perhaps a certain state of emotion to revive it +again. + +A noble cause for such an act of unconscious cerebration you will say, a +freshly washed pavement: _Le jeu ne faut pas la chandelle._ And so I +thought too, or would have thought if I had not been so interested in +the pursuit in which I was engaged, and if the idea had not suggested +itself that water and a broom might obliterate chalk-marks from +curbstones, and that the imps that preside over our mental forces would +not indulge in such a trick at my expense unless the play _was_ worth +the candle. At all events, from the moment I made this discovery, I +fixed my faith on that house as the one which held the object of my +search, and though I contented myself with merely noting the number of +the street as we left it, I none the less determined to pursue my +investigations, till I had learned beyond the possibility of a doubt +whether my conjectures were not true. + +A perseverance worthy of a better cause you will say, but you are no +longer twenty-five and under the influence of your first passion. I own +I was astonished at myself and frequently paused in the pursuit I had +undertaken, to ask if I were the same person who but a fortnight before +laughed at the story of a man who had gone mad over the body of an +unknown woman he had saved from a wreck only to find her dead in his +arms. + +The first thing I did was to ascertain the name of the gentleman +occupying the house I have specified. It was that of one of our +wealthiest and most respectable bankers, a name as well known in the +city—as your own for instance. This was somewhat disconcerting, but +with a dogged resolution somewhat foreign to my natural disposition, I +persevered in my investigations, and learning in the next breath that +the gentleman alluded to was a widower with an only child, a young +daughter of about sixteen or so, recovered my assurance, though not my +equanimity. Seeking out my friend Farrar, who as you know is a walking +gazette of New York society, I broached the subject of Mr.—excuse me +if I do not mention his name; allow me to say, Preston’s domestic +affairs, and learned that Miss Preston, “A naive little piece for so +great an heiress,” I remember Farrar called her, had left town within a +day or two for a visit to some friends in Baltimore. “I happen to know,” +said he with that careless sweep of his hand at which you have so often +laughed, “because my friend Miss Forsyth met her at the depot. She was +intending to be gone—two weeks, I think she said. Do you know her?” + +That last question sprung upon me unawares, and I am afraid I blushed. +“No,” I returned, “I have not that honor but an acquaintance of mine +has—well—has met her and—” + +“I see, I see,” broke in Farrar with his most disagreeable smile. Then +with a short laugh, meant to act as a warning, I suppose, added as he +walked off, “I hope your friend is in fair circumstances and not +connected with the fine arts. Music is Mr. Preston’s detestation, while +Miss Preston though too young to be much sought after yet, will in two +years’ time have the pick of the city at her command.” + +“So!” thought I to myself; “my little innocent charmer is an embryo +aristocrat, eh? Well then, I was a greater fool than I imagined.” And I +walked out of the hotel where I had met Farrar, with the very sensible +conclusion to drop a subject that promised nothing but disappointment. + +But the fates were against me, or the good angels perhaps, and at the +next comer I met an old acquaintance, the very opposite of Farrar in +character, who with a long love story of his own fired, my imagination +to such an extent that in spite of myself I turned down —— Street, and +was proceeding to pass her house, when suddenly the thought struck me, +“How do I know that this unapproachable daughter of one of our most +prominent citizens is one and the same person with my dainty little +charmer? Widowers with young daughters are not so rare in this great +city that I need consider the question as decided, because by a half +superstitious freak of my own I have settled upon this house as the one +I was in the other night. My inamorata may be the offspring of a +musician for all I know.” And inflamed at the thought of this +possibility—I remembered the piano, you see—I gave to the winds all my +fine resolutions and only asked how I could determine for once and all, +whether I had ever crossed the threshold of the house before me. Some +men would have run up the stoop, rung the bell and asked to see Mr. +Preston on some pretended business he could easily conjure up to suit +the occasion, but my face is too well known for me to risk any such +attempt, besides I was too anxious to win the confidence of the young +girl to shock her awakened sense of propriety by seeming to seek her +where she did not wish to be found. And yet I must enter that house and +see for myself if it was the one that held her on that memorable +evening. + +Pondering the question, I looked back at the door so obstinately closed +against my curiosity, when to my satisfaction and delight it suddenly +opened and a man stepped out, whom I instantly recognized as a business +agent for one of the largest piano-forte manufactories in the city. “The +heavens smile upon my enterprise,” thought I, and waited for the man to +come up with me. He was not only a friend of mine but largely indebted +to me in various ways, so that I knew I had only to urge a request for +it to be immediately granted, and that, too, without any questions or +gossip. + +You will not be interested in anything but the result, which was +somewhat out of the usual course, and may therefore shock you. But you +must remember that I am telling you of matters which young men usually +keep to themselves, and that whatever I did, was accomplished in a +spirit of respect only a shade less constraining in its power than the +love that was at once my impelling force, and my constant embarrassment. + +To come, then, to the point, a piano was to be set up in that house on +that very day, Mr. Preston having yielded to the solicitations of his +daughter for a new instrument. My friend was to be engaged in the +transfer, and at my solicitation for leave to assist in the operation, +gave his consent in perfect confidence as to my possessing good and +sufficient reasons for such a remarkable request, and appointed the hour +at which I was to meet him at the ware-rooms. + +Behold me, then, at half-past two that afternoon, assisting with my own +hands in carrying a piano up the stoop of that house which, four hours +before, I had regarded as unapproachable. Dressed in a workman’s blouse +and with my hair well roughened under a rude cap that effectually +disguised me, I advanced with but little fear of detection. And yet no +sooner had I entered the house and seen at a glance that the aspect of +the hall coincided with my rather vague remembrance of that through +which I had been ushered a week before, than I was struck by a sudden +sense of my situation, and experiencing that uncomfortable consciousness +of self-betrayal, which a blush always gives a man, stumbled forward +under my heavy burden, feeling as if a thousand eyes were fixed upon me +and my cherished secret, instead of the two sharp but totally +unsuspicious orbs of the elderly matron that surveyed us from the top of +the banisters. “Be careful there, you’ll knock a hole through that glass +door!” though a natural cry under the circumstances, struck on my ears +with the force and mysterious power of a secret warning, and when after +a moment of blind advance I suddenly lifted my eyes and found myself in +the little room, which like a silhouette on a white ground, stood out in +my memory in distinct detail as the spot where I had first heard my own +heart beat, I own that I felt my hands slipping from my burden, and in +another moment had disgraced my character of a workman if I had not +caught the sudden ring of a well known voice in the hall, as nurse +answered from above some question propounded by the elderly lady with +the piercing eyes. As it was, I recovered myself and went through my +duties as promptly and deftly as if my heart did not throb with memories +that each passing hour and event only served to hallow to my +imagination. + +At length the piano was duly set up and we turned to leave. Will you +think I am too trivial in my details if I tell you that I lingered +behind the rest and for an instant let my hand with all its +possibilities for calling out a soul from that dead instrument, lie a +moment on the keys over which her dainty fingers were so soon to +traverse? + + + + +V. + +THE RUBICON. + + “I’ll stake my life upon her faith.”—OTHELLO. + + +Once convinced of the identity of my sweet young friend with the Miss +Preston at whose feet a two year hence, the wealth and aristocracy of +New York would be kneeling, I drew back from further effort as having +received a damper to my presumptuous hopes that would soon effectually +stifle them. Everything I heard about the family—and it seemed as if +suddenly each chance acquaintance that I met had something to say about +Mr. Preston either as a banker or a man, only served to confirm me in +this view. “He is a money worshipper,” said one. “The bluest of blue +Presbyterians,” declared another. “The enemy of presumption and anything +that looks like an overweening confidence in one’s own worth or +capabilities,” remarked a third. “A man who would beggar himself to save +the honor of a corporation with which he was concerned,” observed a +fourth “but who would not invite to his table the most influential man +connected with it if that man was unable to trace his family back to the +old Dutch settlers to which Mr. Preston’s own ancestors belonged.” + +This latter statement I have no doubt was exaggerated for I myself have +seen him at dinners where half the gentlemen who lifted the wine glass +were self-made in every sense of the term. But it showed the bent of his +mind and it was a bent that left me entirely out of the sweep of his +acquaintanceship much less that of his exquisite daughter, the pride of +his soul if not the jewel of his heart. + +But when will a man who has seen or who flatters himself that he has +seen in the eyes of the woman he admires, the least spark of that fire +which is consuming his own soul, pause at an obstacle which after all +has its basis simply in circumstances of position or will. By the time +the two weeks of her expected absence had expired, I had settled it in +my own mind that I would see her again and if I found the passing +caprice of a child was likely to blossom into the steady regard of a +woman, risk all in the attempt to win by honorable endeavor and +persistence this bud of loveliness for my future wife. + +How I finally succeeded by means of my friend Farrar in being one +evening invited to the same house as Miss Preston it is not necessary to +state. You will believe me it was done with the utmost regard for her +feelings and in a way that deceived Farrar himself, who if he is the +most prying is certainly the most volatile of men. In a crowded parlor, +then, in the midst of the flash of diamonds and the flutter of fans Miss +Preston and I again met. When I first saw her she was engaged in +conversation with some young companion, and I had the pleasure of +watching for a few minutes, unobserved, the play of her ingenuous +countenance, as she talked with her friend, or sat silently watching the +brilliant array before her. I found her like and yet unlike the vision +of my dreams. More blithesome in her appearance, as was not strange +considering her party attire and the lustre of the chandelier under +which she sat, there was still that indescribable something in her +expression which more than the flash of her eye or the curve of her lip, +though both were lovely to me, made her face the one woman’s face in the +world for me; a charm which circumstances might alter, or suffering +impair, but of which nothing save death could ever completely divest her +and not death either, for it was the seal of her individuality, and that +she would take with her into the skies. + +“If I might but advance and sit down by her side without a word of +explanation or the interference of conventionalities how happy I should +be,” thought I. But I knew that would not do, so I contented myself with +my secret watch over her movements, longing for and yet dreading the +advance of my hostess, with its inevitable introduction. Suddenly the +piano was touched in a distant room and not till I saw the quick change +in her face, a change hard to explain, did I recognize the selection as +one I was in the habit of playing. _She_ had not forgotten at least, and +thrilled by the thought and the remembrance of that surge of color which +had swept like a flood over her cheek, I turned away, feeling as if I +were looking on what it was for no man’s eyes to see, least of all mine. + +My hostess’ voice arrested me and next moment I was bowing to the ground +before Miss Preston. + +I am not a boy; nor have I been without my experiences: life with its +vicissitudes has taught me many a lesson, subjected me to many a trial, +yet in all my career have I never known a harder moment than when I +raised my eyes to meet hers after that lowly obeisance. That she would +be indignant I knew, that she might even misinterpret my motives and +probably withdraw without giving me an opportunity to speak, I felt to +be only too probable, but that she would betray an agitation so painful +I had not anticipated, and for an instant I felt that I had hazarded my +life’s happiness on a cast that was going against me. But the necessity +of saving her from remark speedily restored me to myself, and following +the line of conduct I had previously laid out, I addressed her with the +reserve of a stranger, and neither by word, look or manner conveyed to +her a suggestion that we had ever met or spoken to each other before. +She seemed to appreciate my consideration and though she was as yet too +much unused to the ways of the world to completely hide her +perturbation, she gradually regained a semblance of self-possession, and +ere long was enabled to return short answers to my remarks, though her +eyes remained studiously turned aside and never so much as ventured to +raise themselves to the passing throng much less to my face, half turned +away also. + +Presently however a change passed over her. Pressing her two little +hands together, she drew back a step or two, speaking my name with a +certain tone of command. Struck with apprehension, I knew not why, I +followed her. Instantly like one repeating a lesson she spoke. + +“It is very good in you to talk to me as though we were the strangers +that people believe us. I appreciate it and thank you very much. But it +is not being just true; that is I feel as if I were not being just true, +and as we can never be friends, would it not be better for us not to +meet in this way any more?” + +“And why,” I gently asked, with a sense of struggling for my life, “can +we never be friends?” + +Her answer was a deep blush; not that timid conscious appeal of the +blood that is beating too warmly for reply, but the quick flush of +indignant generosity forced to do despite to its own instincts. + +“That is a question I would rather not answer,” she murmured at length. +“Only it is so; or I should not speak in this way.” + +“But,” I ventured, resolved to know on just what foundations my +happiness was tottering, “you will at least tell me if this harsh decree +is owing to any offence I myself may have inadvertently given. The honor +of your acquaintance,” I went on, determined she should know just what a +hope she was slaying, “is much too earnestly desired, for me to wilfully +hazard its loss by saying or doing aught that could be in any way +displeasing to you.” + +“You have done nothing but what was generous,” said she with increasing +womanliness of manner, “unless it was taking advantage of my being here, +to learn my name and gain an introduction to me after I had desired you +to forget my very existence.” + +I recoiled at that, the chord of my self-respect was touched. “It was +not here I learned your name, Miss Preston. It has been known to me for +two weeks. At the risk of losing by your displeasure what is already +hazarded by your prudence, I am bound to acknowledge that from the hour +I left your father’s house that night, I have spared no effort +compatible with my deep respect for your feelings, to ascertain who the +young lady was that had done me such an honor, and won from me such a +deep regard. I had not intended to tell you this,” I added, “but your +truth has awakened mine, and whatever the result may be, you must see me +as I am.” + +“You are very kind,” she replied governing with growing skill the +trembling of her voice. “The acquaintance of a girl of sixteen is not +worth so much trouble on the part of a man like yourself.” And blushing +with the vague apprehension of her sex in the presence of a devotion she +rather feels than understands, she waved her trembling little hand and +paused irresolute, seemingly anxious to terminate the interview but as +yet too inexperienced to know how to manage a dismissal requiring so +much tact and judgment. + +I saw, comprehended her position and hesitated. She was so young, uncle, +her prospects in life were so bright; if I left her then, in a couple of +weeks she would forget me. What was I that I should throw the shadow of +manhood’s deepest emotion across the paradise of her young untrammelled +being. But the old Adam of selfishness has his say in my soul as well as +in that of my fellow-men, and forgetting myself enough to glance at her +half averted face, I could not remember myself sufficiently afterwards +to forego without a struggle, all hope of some day beholding that soft +cheek turn in confidence at my approach. + +“Miss Preston,” said I, “the promise of the bud atones for its folded +leaves.” Then with a fervor I did not seek to disguise, “You say we +cannot be friends; would your decision be the same if this were our +first meeting?” + +Again that flush of outraged feeling. “I don’t know—yes I think—I fear +it would.” + +I strove to help her. “There is too great a difference between Bertram +Mandeville the pianist, and the daughter of Thaddeus Preston.” + +She turned and looked me gently in the eye, she did not need to speak. +Regret, shame, longing flashed in her steady glance. + +“Do not answer,” said I, “I understand; I am glad it is circumstances +that stand in the way, and not any misconception on your part as to my +motives and deep consideration for yourself. Circumstances can be +changed.” And satisfied with having thus dropped into the fruitful soil +of that tender breast, the seed of a future hope, I bowed with all the +deference at my command and softly withdrew. + +But not to rest. With all the earnestness with which a man sets himself +to decide upon the momentous question of life or death, I gave myself up +to a night of reflection, and seated in my solitary bachelor apartment, +debated with myself as to the resolution at which I had dimly hinted in +my parting words to Miss Preston. + +That I am a musician by nature, my success with the the public seems to +indicate. That by following out the line upon which I had entered I +would attain a certain eminence in my art, I do not doubt. But uncle, +there are two kinds of artists in this world; those that work because +the spirit is in them and they cannot be silent if they would, and those +that speak from a conscientious desire to make apparent to others the +beauty that has awakened their own admiration. The first could not give +up his art for any cause, without the sacrifice of his soul’s life; the +latter—well the latter could and still be a man with his whole inner +being intact. Or to speak plainer, the first has no choice, while the +latter has, if he has a will to exert it. Now you will say, and the +world at large, that I belong to the former class. I have risen in ten +years from a choir boy in Trinity Church to a position in the world of +music that insures me a full audience wherever and whenever I have a +mind to exert my skill as a pianist. Not a man of my years has a more +promising outlook in my profession, if you will pardon the seeming +egotism of the remark, and yet by the ease with which I felt I could +give it up at the first touch of a master passion, I know that I am not +a prophet in my art but merely an interpreter, one who can speak well +but who has never felt the descent of the burning tongue and hence not a +sinner against my own soul if I turn aside from the way I am walking. +The question was, then, should I make a choice? Love, as you say, seems +at first blush too insecure a joy, if not often too trivial a one, to +unsettle a man in his career and change the bent of his whole after +life; especially a love born of surprise and fed by the romance of +distance and mystery. Had I met her in ordinary intercourse, surrounded +by her friends and without the charm cast over her by unwonted +circumstances, and then had felt as I did now that of all women I had +seen, she alone would ever move the deep springs of my being, it would +be different. But with this atmosphere of romance surrounding and +hallowing her girl’s form till it seemed almost as ethereal and +unearthly as that of an angel’s, was I safe in risking fame or fortune +in an attempt to acquire what in the possession might prove as bare and +common-place as a sweep of mountain heather stripped of its sunshine. +Curbing every erratic beat of my heart, I summoned up her image as it +bloomed in my fancy, and surveying it with cruel eyes, asked what was +real and what the fruit of my own imagination. The gentle eye, the +trembling lip, the girlish form eloquent with the promise of coming +womanhood,—were these so rare, that beside them no other woman should +seem to glance or smile or move? And her words! what had she said, that +any simple-minded, modest yet loving girl might not have uttered under +the circumstances. Surely my belief in her being the one, the best and +the dearest was a delusion, and to no delusion was I willing to +sacrifice my art. But straight upon that conclusion came sweeping down a +flood of counter-reasons. If not the wonder she seemed, she was at least +a wonder to me. If I had seen her under romantic circumstances, and +unconsciously been influenced by them, the influence had remained and +nothing would ever rob her form of the halo thus acquired. Whether I +ever won her to my fireside or not, she must always remain the fairy +figure of my dreams, and being so, the gentle eye and tender lip +acquired a value that made them what they seemed, the exponent of love +and happiness. And lastly if love well or illy founded was an uncertain +joy, and the passion for a woman a poor substitute for the natural +incentive of talent or ambition, _this_ love had within it the beginning +of something deeper than joy, and in the passion thus cheaply +characterized, dwelt a force and living fire that notwithstanding all I +have hitherto achieved, has ever been lacking from my dreams of +endeavor. + +As you will see, the most natural question of all did not disturb me in +these cogitations: And that was, whether in making the sacrifice I +proposed, I should meet with the reward I had promised myself. The +fancies of a young girl of sixteen are not usually of a stable enough +character to warrant a man in building upon them his whole future +happiness, especially a young girl situated like Miss Preston in the +midst of friends who would soon be admirers, and adulators who would +soon be her humble slaves. But the doubt which a serious contemplation +of this risk must have presented, was of so unnerving a character, I +dared not admit it. _If_ I made the sacrifice, I must meet with my +reward. I would listen to no other conclusion. Besides, something in the +young girl herself, I cannot tell what, assured me then as it assures me +now, that whatever virtues or graces she might lack, that of fidelity to +a noble idea was not among them; that once convinced of the purity and +value of the flame that had been lit in her innocent breast, nothing +short of the unworthiness of the object that had awakened it, would ever +serve to eliminate or extinguish it. That I was not worthy but would +make it the business of my life to become so, was certain; that she +would mark my endeavors and bestow upon me the sympathy they deserved, I +was equally sure. No one would ever make such a sacrifice to her love as +I was willing to do, and consequently in no one would I find a rival. + +The morning light surprised me in the midst of the struggle, nor did I +decide the question that day. Mr. Preston might not be as determined in +his prejudices against musicians as my friends or even his daughter had +imagined. I resolved to see him. Taking advantage of his connection with +the —— Club, I procured an introducer in the shape of a highly +respected person of his own class, and went one evening to the +Club-rooms with the full intention of making his acquaintance if +possible. He was already there and in conversation with some business +associates. Procuring a seat as near him as possible, I anxiously +surveyed his countenance. It was not a reassuring one, and studied in +this way, had the effect of dampening any hopes I may have cherished in +the outset. He soften to the sounds of sweet strains or the voice of +youthful passion! As soon as the granite rock to the surge of the +useless billow. His very necktie spoke volumes. It was an old fashioned +stock, full of the traditions of other days, while his coat, shabbier +than any I would presume to wear, betrayed in every well-worn seam the +pride of the aristocrat and millionaire who in his native city and +before the eyes of his fellow magnates does not need to carry the +evidences of his respectability upon his back. + +“It would be worse than folly for me to approach him on such a subject,” +I mentally ejaculated. “If he did not stare the musician out of +countenance he would the newly risen man.” And I came very near giving +up the whole thing. + +But the genius that watches over the affairs of true love was with me +notwithstanding the unpropitious state of my surroundings. In a few +minutes I received my expected introduction to Mr. Preston, and I found +that underneath the repelling austerity of his expression, was a kindly +spark for youth, and a decided sympathy for all instances of manly +endeavor if only it was in a direction he approved; further that my own +personality was agreeable to him and that he was disposed to regard me +with favor until by some chance and very natural allusion to my +profession by the friend standing between us, he learned that I was a +musician, when a decided change came over his countenance and he +exclaimed in that blunt, decisive way of his that admits of no reply: + +“A jingler on the piano, eh? Pretty poor use for a man to put his brains +to, I say, or even his fingers. Sorry to hear we cannot be friends.” And +without waiting for a reply, took my introducer by the arm and drew him +a step or so to one side. “Why didn’t you say at once he was Mandeville +the musician,” I overheard him ask in somewhat querulous tones. “Don’t +you know I consider the whole race of them an abomination. I would have +more respect for my bank clerk than I would for the greatest man of them +all, were it Rubenstein himself.” Then in a lower tone but distinctly +and almost as if he meant me to hear, “My daughter has a leaning towards +this same fol-de-rol and has lately requested my permission to make the +acquaintance of some musical characters, but I soon convinced her that +manhood under the disguise of a harlequin’s jacket could have no +interest for her; that when a human being, man or woman has sunk to be a +mere rattler of sweet sounds, he has reached a stage of infantile +development that has little in common with the nervous energy and +business force of her Dutch ancestry. And my daughter stoops to make no +acquaintances she cannot bid sit at her father’s table.” + +“Your daughter is a child yet, I thought,” was ventured by his +companion. + +“Miss Preston is sixteen, just the age at which my mother gave her hand +to my respected father sixty-seven years ago.” And with this drop of +burning lead let fall into my already agitated bosom they passed on. + +He would have more respect for his bank clerk! Would his bank clerk or +what was better, a young man with means at his command, working in a +business capacity more in consonance with the tastes he had evinced, +have a chance of winning his daughter? I began to think he might. “The +way grows clearer!” I exclaimed. + +But it was not till after another interview with him ten minutes later +in the lobby that I finally made up my mind. He was standing quite alone +in an obscure corner, fumbling in an awkward way with his muffler that +had caught on the button of his coat. Seeing it, I hastened forward to +his assistance and was rewarded by a kind enough nod to embolden me to +say, + +“I have been introduced to you as a musician; would my acquaintance be +more acceptable to you if I told you that the pursuit of art bids fair +in my case to yield to the exigencies of business? That I purpose +leaving the concert-room for the banker’s office and that henceforth my +only ambition promises to be that of Wall Street?” + +“It most certainly would,” exclaimed he, holding out his hand with an +unmistakable gesture of satisfaction. “You have too good a countenance +to waste before a piano-top strumming to the smirks of women and the +plaudits of weak-headed men. Let us see you at the desk, my lad. We are +in want of trustworthy young men to take the place of us older ones.” +Then politely, “Do you expect to make the change soon?” + +“I do,” said I. + +And the Rubicon was passed. + + + + +VI. + +A HAND CLASP. + + “_Fer._—Here’s my hand. + + _Mir._—And mine with my heart in it.” + + —TEMPEST. + + +Once arrived at a settled conclusion, I put every thought of wavering +out of my mind. Deciding that with such a friend in business circles as +yourself, I needed no other introducer to my new life, I set apart this +evening for a confab with you on the subject. Meanwhile it is pretty +generally known that I make no more engagements to appear through the +country. + +I have but one more incident to relate. Last Sunday in walking down +Fifth Avenue I met her. I did not do this inadvertently. I knew her +custom of attending Bible class and for once put myself in her way. I +did not give her time to remonstrate. + +“Do not express your displeasure,” said I, “this shall never be +repeated. I merely wish to say that I have concluded to leave a +profession so little appreciated by those whose esteem I most desire to +possess; that I am about entering a banker’s office where it shall be my +ambition to rise if possible, to wealth and consequence. If I +succeed—you shall then know what my incentive has been. But till I +succeed or at least give such tokens of success as shall insure respect, +silence must be my portion and patience my sole support. Only of one +thing rest assured, that until I inform you with my own lips that the +hope which now illumines me is gone, it will continue to burn on in my +breast, shedding light upon a way that can never seem dark while that +glow rests upon it.” And bowing with the ceremonious politeness our +positions demanded, I held out my hand. “One clasp to encourage me,” I +entreated. + +It seemed as if she did not comprehend. “You are going to give up music, +and for—for—” + +“You?” said I. “Yes, don’t forbid me,” I implored; “it is too late.” + +Like a lovely image of blushing girlhood turned by a lightning flash +into marble, she paused, pallid and breathless where she was, gazing +upon me with eyes that burned deeper and deeper as the full +comprehension of all that this implied gradually forced itself upon her +mind. + +“You make a chaos of my little world,” she murmured at length. + +“No,” said I, “_your_ world is untouched. If it should never be my good +fortune to enter it, you are not to grieve. You are free, Miss Preston, +free as this sunshiny air we breathe; I alone am bound, and that because +I must be whether I will or no.” + +Then I saw the woman I had worshipped in this young fair girl shine +fully and fairly upon me. Drawing herself up, she looked me in the face +and calmly laid her hand in mine. “I am young,” said she, “and do not +know what may be right to say to one so generous and so kind. But this +much I can promise, that whether or not I am ever able to duly reward +you for what you undertake, I will at least make it the study of my life +never to prove unworthy of so much trust and devotion.” + +And with the last lingering look natural to a parting for years, we +separated then and there, and the crowd came between us, and the Sunday +bells rang on, and what was so vividly real to us at the moment, became +in remembrance more like the mist and shadow of a dream. + + + + +VII. + +MRS. SYLVESTER. + + Love is more pleasant than marriage, for the same reason that + romances are more amusing than history. + + —CHAMFORT. + + “He draweth out the thread of his verbosity, finer than the + staple of his argument.” + + —LOVES LABOR LOST. + + +Young Mandeville having finished his story, looked at his uncle. He +found him sitting in an attitude of extreme absorption, his right arm +stretched before him on the table, his face bent thoughtfully downwards +and clouded with that deep melancholy that seemed its most natural +expression, “He has not heard me,” was the young man’s first mortifying +reflection. But catching his uncle’s eye which at that moment raised +itself, he perceived he was mistaken and that he had rather been +listened to only too well. + +“You must forgive me if I have seemed to rhapsodize,” the young man +stammered. “You were so quiet I half forgot I had a listener and went on +much as I would if I had been thinking aloud.” + +His uncle smiled and throwing off the weight of his reflections whatever +they might be, arose and began pacing the floor. “I see you are past +surgery,” quoth he, “any wisdom of mine would be only thrown away.” + +Young Mandeville was hurt. He had expected some token of approval on his +uncle’s part, or at least some betrayal of sympathy. His looks expressed +his disappointment. + +“You expected to convert me by this story,” continued the elder, pausing +with a certain regret before his nephew; “nothing could convert me +but—” + +“What?” inquired Mandeville after waiting in vain for the other to +finish. + +“Something which we will never find in the whirl of New York fashionable +life. A woman with faith to reward and soul to understand such +unqualified trust as yours.” + +“But I believe Miss Preston is such a girl and will be such a woman. Her +looks, her last words prove it.” + +“Nothing proves it but time and as for your belief, I have believed +too.” Then as if fearing he had said too much, assumed his most +business-like tone and observed, “But we will drop all that; you have +resolved to quit music and enter Wall Street, your object money and the +social consideration which money secures. Now, why Wall Street?” + +“Because I can think of no other means for attaining what I desire, in +the space of time I would consent to keep a young lady of Miss Preston’s +position waiting.” + +“Humph! and you have money, I suppose, which you propose to risk on the +hazard?” + +“Some! enough to start with; a small amount to you, but sufficient if I +am fortunate.” + +“And if you are not?” + + +The young man opened his arms with an expressive gesture, “I am done +for, that is all.” + +“Bertram,” his uncle exclaimed with a change of tone, “has it ever +struck you that Mr. Preston might have as strong a prejudice against +speculation as against the musical profession?” + +“No, that is, pardon me but I have sometimes thought that even in the +event of success I should have to struggle against his inherited +instincts of caste and his natural dislike of all things new, even +wealth, but I never thought of the possibility of my arousing his +distrust by speculating in stocks and engaging in enterprises so nearly +in accord with his own business operations.” + +“Yet if I guess aright you would run greater risk of losing the support +of his countenance by following the hazardous course you propose, than +if you continued in the line of art that now engages you.” + +“Do you know—” + +“I know nothing, but I fear the chances, Bertram.” + +“Then I am already defeated and must give up my hopes of happiness.” + + +A smile thin and indefinable crossed the other’s face. “No,” said he, +“not necessarily.” And sitting down by his nephew’s side, he asked if he +had any objections to enter a bank. “In a good capacity,” he exclaimed. + +“No indeed; it would be an opportunity surpassing my hopes. Do you know +of an opening?” + +“Well,” said he, “under the circumstances I will let you into the secret +of my own affairs. I have always had one ambition, and that was to be at +the head of a bank. I have not said much about it, but for the last five +years I have been working to this end, and to-day you see me the +possessor of at least three-fourths of the stock of the Madison Bank. It +has been deteriorating for some time, consequently I was enabled to buy +it low, but now that I have got it I intend to build up the concern. I +am able to throw business of an important nature in its way, and I dare +prophesy that before the year is out you will see it re-established upon +a solid and influential footing.” + +“I have no doubt of it, sir; you have the knack of success, any thing +that you touch is sure to go straight.” + +“Unhappily yes, as far as business operations go. But no matter about +that;—” as if the other had introduced some topic incongruous to the +one they were considering—“the point is this. In two weeks time I shall +be elected President of the Bank; if you will accept the position of +assistant cashier,—the best I can offer in consideration of your total +ignorance of all details of the business,—it is open to you—” + + +“Uncle! how generous! I—” + +“Hush! your duties will be nominal, the present cashier is fully +competent; but the leisure thus afforded will offer you abundant +opportunity to make yourself acquainted with all matters connected with +the banking system as well as with such capitalists as it would be well +for you to know. So that when the occasion comes, I can raise you to the +cashier’s place or make such other disposal of your talents as will best +insure your rapid advance.” + +The young man’s eyes sparkled; with a sudden impetuous movement he +jumped to his feet and grasped his uncle’s hand. “I can never thank you +enough; you have made me your debtor for life. Now let any one ask me +who is my father, and I will say—” + +“He was Edward Sylvester’s brother. But come, come, this extreme +gratitude is unnecessary. You have always been a favorite with me, +Bertram, and now that I have no child, you seem doubly near; it is my +pleasure to do what I can for you. But—” and here he surveyed him with +a wistful look, “I wish you were entering into this new line from love +of the business rather than love of a woman. I fear for you my boy. It +is an awful thing to stake one’s future upon a single chance and that +chance a woman’s faith. If she should fail you after you had compassed +your fortune, should die—well you could bear that perhaps; but if she +turned false, and married some one else, or even married you and then—” + +“What?” came in silvery accents from the door, and a woman richly clad, +her trailing velvets filling the air at once with an oppressive perfume, +entered the room and paused before them in an attitude meant to be arch, +but which from the massiveness of her figure and the scornful carriage +of her head, succeeded in being simply imperious. + +Mr. Sylvester rose abruptly as if unpleasantly surprised. “Ona!” he +exclaimed, hastening, however, to cover his embarassment by a courteous +acknowledgement of her presence and a careless remark concerning the +shortness of the services that had allowed her to return from church so +early. “I did not hear you come in,” he observed. + +“No, I judge not,” she returned with a side glance at Mandeville. “But +the services were not short, on the contrary I thought I should never +hear the last amen. Mr. Turner’s voice is very agreeable,” she went on, +in a rambling manner all her own, “it never interferes with your +thoughts; not that I am considered as having any,” she interjected with +another glance at their silent guest, “a woman in society with a +reputation for taste in all matters connected with fashionable living, +has no thoughts of course; business men with only one idea in their +heads, that of making money, have more no doubt. Do you know, Edward,” +she went on with sudden inconsequence, which was another trait of this +amiable lady’s conversation, “that I have quite come to a conclusion in +regard to the girl Philip Longtree is going to marry; she may be pretty, +but she does not know how to dress. I wish you could have seen her +to-night; she had on mauve with old gold trimmings. Now with one of her +complexion—But I forget you haven’t seen her. Bertram, I think I shall +give a German next month, will you come? Oh, Edward!” as if the thought +had suddenly struck her, “Princess Louise _is_ the sixth child of Queen +Victoria; I asked Mr. Turner to-night. By the way, I wonder if it will +be pleasant enough to take the horses out to-morrow? Bird has been +obliging enough to get sick just in the height of the season, Mr. +Mandeville. There are a thousand things I have got to do and I hate +hired horses.” And with a petulant sigh she laid her prayer-book on the +table and with a glance in the mirror near by, began pulling off her +gloves in the slow and graceful fashion eminently in keeping with her +every movement. + +It was as if an atmosphere of worldliness had settled down upon this +room sanctified a moment before by the utterances of a pure and noble +love. Mr. Sylvester looked uneasy, while Bertram searched in vain for +something to say. + +“I seem to have brought a blight,” she suddenly murmured in an easy tone +somewhat at variance with the glance of half veiled suspicion which she +darted from under her heavy lids, at first one and then the other of the +two gentlemen before her. “No, I will not sit,” she added as her husband +offered her a chair. “I am tired almost to death and would retire +immediately, but I interrupted you I believe in the utterance of some +wise saying about matrimony. It is an interesting subject and I have a +notion to hear what one so well qualified to speak in regard to it—” +and here she made a slow, half lazy courtesy to her husband with a look +that might mean anything from coquetry to defiance—“has to say to a +young man like Mr. Mandeville.” + +Edward Sylvester who was regarded as an autocrat among men, and who +certainly was an acknowledged leader in any company he chose to enter, +bowed his head before this anomalous glance with a gesture of something +like submission. + +“One is not called upon to repeat every inadvertent phrase he may +utter,” said he. “Bertram was consulting me upon certain topics and—” + +“You answered him in your own brilliant style,” she concluded. “What did +you say?” she asked in another moment in a low unmoved tone which the +final act of smoothing out her gloves on the table with hands delicate +as white rose leaves but firm as marble, did not either hasten or +retard. + +“Oh if you insist,” he returned lightly, “and are willing to bear the +reflection my unfortunate remark seems to cast upon the sex, I was +merely observing to my nephew, that the man who centered all his hopes +upon a woman’s faith, was liable to disappointment. Even if he succeeded +in marrying her there were still possibilities of his repenting any +great sacrifice made in her behalf.” + +“Indeed!” and for once the delicate cheek flushed deeper than its rouge. +“And why do you say this?” she inquired, dropping her coquettish manner +and flashing upon them both, the haughty and implacable woman Bertram +had always believed her to be, notwithstanding her vagaries and fashion. + +“Because I have seen much of life outside my own house,” her husband +replied with undiminished courtesy; “and feel bound to warn any young +man of his probable fate, who thinks to find nothing but roses and +felicity beyond the gates of fashionable marriage.” + +“Ah then, it was on general principles you were speaking,” she remarked +with a soft laugh that undulated through an atmosphere suddenly grown +too heavy for easy breathing. “I did not know; wives are so little apt +to be appreciated in this world, Mr. Mandeville, I was afraid he might +be giving you some homely advice founded upon personal experience.” And +she moved towards their guest with that strange smile of hers which some +called dangerous but which he had always regarded as oppressive. + +She saw him drop his eyes, and smiled again, but in a different way. +This woman, whom no one accused of anything worse than levity, hailed +every tribute to her power, as a miser greets the glint of gold. With a +turn of her large but elegant figure that in its slow swaying reminded +you of some heavy tropical flower, hanging inert, intoxicated with its +own fragrance, she dismissed at once the topic that had engaged them, +and launched into one of her choicest streams of inconsequent talk. But +Mandeville was in no mood to listen to trivialities, and being of a +somewhat impatient nature, presently rose and excusing himself, took a +hurried leave. Not so hurried however that he did not have time to +murmur to his uncle as they walked towards the door: + +“You would make comparison between the girl I worship and other women in +fashionable life. Do not I pray; she is no more like them than a star +that shines is like a rose that blooms. My fate will not be like that of +most men that we know, but better and higher.” + +And his uncle standing there in the grand hall-way, with the fresh +splendors of unlimited wealth gleaming upon him from every side, looked +after the young man with a sigh and repeated, “Better and higher? God in +his merciful goodness grant it.” + + + + +VIII. + +SHADOWS OF THE PAST. + + “Memory, the warder of the brain.”—MACBETH. + + +It was long past midnight. The fire in the grate burned dimly, shedding +its lingering glow on the face of the master of the house as with bowed +head and folded hands he sat alone and brooding before its dying embers. + +It was a lonesome sight. The very magnificence of the spacious apartment +with its lofty walls and glittering works of art, seemed to give an air +of remoteness to that solitary form, bending beneath the weight of its +reflections. From the exquisitely decorated ceiling to the turkish rugs +scattered over the polished floor, all was elegant and luxurious, and +what had splendors like these to do with thoughts that bent the brows +and overshadowed the lips of man? The very lights burned deprecatingly, +illuminating beauties upon which no eye gazed and for which no heart +beat. The master himself seemed to feel this, for he presently rose and +put them out, after which he seated himself as before, only if possible +with more abandon, as if with the extinguishing of the light some eye +had been shut whose gaze he had hitherto feared. And in truth my lady’s +image shone fainter from its heavy panel, and the smile which had met +with unrelenting sweetness the glare of the surrounding splendor, +softened in the mellow glimmer of the fire-light to an etherial halo +that left you at rest. + +_One, two_, THREE, the small clock sounded from the mantel and yet no +stir took place in the sombre figure keeping watch beneath. What were +the thoughts which could thus detain from his comfortable bed a man +already tired with manifold cares? It would be hard to tell. The waters +that gush at the touch of the diviner’s rod are tumultuous in their flow +and rush hither and thither with little heed to the restraining force of +rule and reason. But of the pictures that rose before his eyes in those +dying embers, there were two which stood out in startling distinctness. +Let us see if we can convey the impression of them to other eyes and +hearts. + +First, the form of his mother. Ah grey-bearded men weighted with the +cares of life and absorbed in the monotonous round of duties that to you +are the be all and end all of existence, to whom morning means a +jostling ride to the bank, the store or the office, and with whom night +is but the name for a worse unrest because of its unfulfilled promises +of slumber, what soul amongst you all is so callous to the holy memories +of childhood, as not to thrill with something of the old time feeling of +love and longing as the memory of that tender face with its watchful eye +and ready smiles, comes back to you from the midst of weary years! Your +mother! + +But Edward Sylvester with that black line across his life cutting past +from present, what makes him think of his mother to-night; and the +cottage door upon the hillside where she used to stand with eager eyes +looking up and down the road as he came trudging home from school, +swinging his satchel and shouting at every squirrel that started across +the road or peeped from the branches of the grand old maples overhead! +And the garret-chamber under the roof, the scene of many a romp with +Elsie and Sonsie and Jack, neighbors’ children to whom the man of to-day +would be an awe and a mystery! And the little room where he slept with +Tom his own blue-eyed brother so soon to die of a wasting disease, but +full of warm blood then and all alive with boyish pranks. He could +almost hear the wild clear laugh with which the mischievous fellow +started upon its travels, the rooster whose legs he had tied a short +space apart with one of Sonsie’s faded ribbons, a laugh that became +unrestrained when the poor creature in attempting to run down hill, +rolled over and over, cutting such a figure before his late admirers, +the hens, that even Elsie smiled in the midst of her gentle entreaties. +And Jocko the crow, whom taming had made one of the boys! poor Jocko! is +it nearly thirty years since you used to stalk in majesty through the +village streets, with your neat raven coat closely buttoned across your +breast and your genteel caw, caw, and condescending nod for old +acquaintances? The day seems but as yesterday when you marred the stolen +picnic up in the woods by flying off with a flock of your fellow +black-coats, nor is it easy to realize that the circle of tow-headed +fellows who hailed with shouts your ignominious return after a day or +so’s experience of the vaunted pleasures of freedom, are now sharp +featured men without a smile for youth or a thought beyond the hard cold +dollar buried deep in their pockets. + +And the church up over the hills! and the long Sunday walk at mother’s +side with the sunshine glowing on the dusty road and beating on the +river flowing far beyond! The same road, the same river of Monday and +Tuesday but how different it looked to the boy; almost like another +scene, as if Sunday clothes were on the world as well as upon his +restless little limbs. How he longed for it to be Monday though he did +not say so; and what a different day Saturday would have been if only +there was no long, sleepy Sunday to follow it. + +But the mother! She did not dread that day. Her eyes used to brighten +when the bell began to ring from the old church steeple. Her eyes! how +they mingled with every picture! They seemed to fill the night. What a +sparkle they had, yet how they used to soften at his few hurried +caresses. He was always too busy for kisses; there were the snares in +the north woods to be looked after; the nest in the apple-tree to be +inquired into; the skates to be ground before the river froze over; the +nuts to be gathered and stored in that same old garret chamber under the +eaves. But now how vividly her least look comes back to the tired man, +from the glance of wistful sympathy with which she met his childish +disappointments to the flash of joy that hailed his equally childish +delights. + +And another scene there is in the embers to-night; a remembrance of +later days when the mother with her love and yearning was laid low in +the grave, and manhood had learned its first lessons of passion and +ambition from the glance of younger eyes and the smile of riper lips. +Not the picture of a woman, however; that was already present beside +him, shining from its panel with an insistence that not even the putting +out of the lights could quite quench or subdue, but of a child young, +pure and beautiful, sitting by the river in the glow of a June sunshine, +gazing at the hills of his boyhood’s home with a look on her face such +as he had never before seen on that of child or woman. A simple picture +with a simple villager’s daughter for its centre, but as he mused upon +it to-night, the success and triumph of the last ten years faded from +his sight like the ashes that fell at his feet, and he found himself +questioning in vain as to what better thing he had met in all the walks +of his busy life than that young child’s innocence and faith as they +shone upon him that day from her soft uplifted eyes. + +He had been sitting the whole warm noontide at the side of her whose +half gracious, half scornful, wholly indolent acceptance of his homage, +he called love, and enervated by an atmosphere he was as yet too +inexperienced to recognize as of the world, worldly, had strolled forth +to cool his fevered brow in the fresh autumn breeze that blew up from +the river. He was a gay-hearted youth in those days, heedless of +everything but the passing moment; nature meant little to him; and when +in the course of his ramble he came upon the form of a child sitting on +the edge of the river, he remembers wondering what she saw in a sweep of +empty water to interest her so deeply. Indeed he was about to inquire +when she turned and he caught a glimpse of her eyes and knew at once +without asking. Yet in those days he was anything but quick to recognize +the presence of feeling. A face was beautiful or plain to him, not +eloquent or expressive. But this child’s countenance was exceptional. It +made you forget the cotton frock she wore, it made you forget yourself. +As he gazed on it, he felt the stir of something in his breast he had +never known before, and half dreaded to hear her speak lest the charm +should fail or the influence be lost. Yet how could he pass on and not +speak. Laying his hand on her head, he asked her what she was thinking +of as she sat there all alone looking off on the river; and the wee +thing drew in her breath and surveyed him with all her soul in her great +black eyes before she replied, “I do not know, I never know.” Then +looking back she dreamily added, “It makes me want to go away, miles +away,”—and she held out her tiny arms towards the river with a longing +gesture; “and it makes me want to cry.” + +And he understood or thought he did and for the first time in his life +looked upon the river that had met his gaze from childhood, with eyes +that saw its exceeding beauty. Ah it was an exquisite scene, a rare +scene, mountain melting into mountain and meadow vanishing into meadow, +till the flow of silver waters was lost in a horizon of azure mist. No +wonder that a child without snares to set or nuts to gather, should +pause a moment to gaze upon it, as even he in the days gone by would +sometimes stop on Sabbath eves to snatch a kiss from his mother’s lips. + +“It is like a fairy land, is it not?” quoth the child looking up into +his face with a wistful glance. “Do you know what it is that makes me +feel so?” + +He smiled and sat down by her side. Somehow he felt as if a talk with +this innocent one would restore him more than a walk on the hills. “It +is the spirit of beauty, my child, you are moved by the loveliness of +the scene; is it a new one to you?” + +“No, oh no, but I always feel the same. As if something here was hungry, +don’t you know?” and she laid her little hand on her breast. + +He did not know, but he smiled upon her notwithstanding, and made her +talk and talk till the gush of the sweet child spirit with its hidden +longings and but half understood aspirations, bathed his whole being in +a reviving shower, and he felt as if he had wandered into a new world +where the languors of the tropics were unknown, and passion, if there +was such, had the wings of an eagle instead of the siren’s voice and +fascination. + +Her name was Paula, she said, and before leaving he found that she was a +relative of the woman he loved. This was a slight shock to him. The lily +and the cactus abloom on one stalk! How could that be? and for a moment +he felt as if the splendors of the glorious woman paled before the +lustre of the innocent child. But the feeling, if it was strong enough +to be called such, soon passed. As the days swept by bringing evenings +with light and music and whispered words beneath the vine-leaves, the +remembrance of the pure, sweet hour beside the river, gradually faded +till only a vague memory of that gentle uplifted face sweet with its +childish dimples, remained to hallow now and then a passing reverie or a +fevered dream. + + +But to-night its every lineament filled his soul, vying with the +memories of his mother in its vividness and power. O why had he not +learned the lesson it taught. Why had he turned his back upon the high +things of life to yield himself to a current that swept him on and on +until the power of resistance left him and—O dwell not here wild +thoughts! Pause not on the threshold of the one dark memory that blasts +the soul and sears the heart in the secret hours of night. Let the dead +past bury its dead and if one must think, let it be of the hope, which +the remembrance of that short glimpse into a pure if infantile soul has +given to his long darkened spirit. + +One, two, three, FOUR; and the fire is dead and the night has grown +chill, but he heeds it not. He has asked himself if his life’s book is +quite closed to the higher joys of existence? whether money getting and +money holding is to absorb him body and soul forever; and with the +question a great yearning seizes him to look upon that sweet child +again, if haply in the gleam of her pure spirit, something of the noble +and the pure that lay beneath the crust of life might be again revealed +to his longing sight. + +“She must be a great girl now,” murmured he to himself, “as old as if +not older than she whom Bertram adores so passionately, but she will +always be a child to me, a sweet pure child whose innocence is my +teacher and whose ignorance is my better wisdom. If anything will save +me—” + +But here the shadow settled again; when it lifted, the morning ray lay +cool and ghostly over the hearthstone. + + + + +IX. + +PAULA. + + “The stars of midnight shall be dear + To her; and she shall lean her ear + In many a secret place + Where rivulets dance their wayward round, + And beauty born of murmuring sound + Shall pass into her face.” + + —WORDSWORTH. + + +A wintry scene. Snow-piled hills stretching beyond a frozen river. On +the bank a solitary figure tall, dark and commanding, standing with eyes +bent sadly on a long narrow mound at his feet. It is Edward Sylvester +and the mound is the grave of his mother. + +It is ten years since he stood upon that spot. In all that time no +memories of his childhood’s home, no recollection of that lonely grave +among the pines, had been sufficient to allure him from the city and its +busy round of daily cares. Indeed he had always shrunk at the very name +of the place and never of his own will alluded to it, but the reveries +of a night had awakened a longing that was not to be appeased, and in +the face of his wife’s cold look of astonishment and a secret dread in +his own heart, had left his comfortable fireside, for the scenes of his +early life and marriage, and was now standing, in the bleak December +air, gazing down upon the stone that marked his mother’s grave. + +But tender as were the chords that reverberated at this sight, it was +not to revisit this tomb he had returned to Grotewell. No, that other +vision, the vision of young sweet appreciative life has drawn him more +strongly than the memory of the dead. It was to search out and gaze +again upon the innocent girl, whose eloquent eyes and lofty spirit had +so deeply moved him in the past, that he had braved the chill of the +Connecticut hills and incurred the displeasure of his wife. + +Yet when he turned away from that simple headstone and set his face +towards the village streets it was with a sinking of the heart that +first revealed to him the severity of the ordeal to which he had thus +wantonly subjected himself. Not that the wintry trees and snow covered +roofs appealed to him as strongly as the same trees and homes would have +done in their summer aspect. The land was bright with verdure when that +shadow fell whose gloom resting upon all the landscape, made a walk down +this quiet road even at this remote day, a matter of such pain to him. +But scenes that have caught the reflection of a life’s joy or a heart’s +sorrow, lose not their power of appeal, with the leaves they shake from +their trees, and nothing that had met the eyes of this man from the hour +he left this spot, no, not the glance of his wife as his child fell back +dead in his arms, had shot such a pang to his soul as the sight of that +long street with its array of quiet homes, stretching out before him +into the dim grey distance. + +But for all that he was determined to traverse it, ay to the very end, +though his steps must pass the house whose ghostly portals were fraught +with memories dismal as death to him. On then he proceeded, walking with +his usual steady pace that only faltered or broke, as he met the shy +eyes of some hurrying village maiden, speeding upon some errand down the +snowy street, or encountered some old friend of his youth who despite +his altered mien and commanding carriage, recognized in him the slim +young bank cashier who had left them now ten long years ago to make a +name and fortune in the great city. + +It was noon by the time he gained the heart of the village, and school +was out and the children came rushing by with just the same shout and +scamper with which he used to hail that hour of joyous release. How it +carried him back to the days when those four red walls towered upon him +with awful significance, as with books on his back and a half eaten +apple in his pocket he crept up the walk, conscious that the bell had +rung its last shrill note a good half hour before. He felt half tempted +to stop and make his way through the crowd of shouting boys and dancing +girls to that same old door again, and see for himself if the huge LATE +which in a fit of childish revenge he had cut on its awkward panels, was +still there to meet the eyes of tardy boys and loitering girls. But the +wondering looks of the children unused to behold a figure so stately in +their simple streets deterred him and he passed thoughtfully on. So +engrossed was he by the reminiscences of Tom and Elsie which the school +house had awakened, that he passed the ominous mansion which had been +his dread, and the bank where he had worked, and the arbor by the side +of the road where he had sat out the first hours of his fatal courtship, +almost without realizing their presence, and was at the end of the +street and in full view of the humble cottage which the little Paula had +pointed out as her home on that day of their first acquaintance. + +“Good heaven! and I do not even know if she is alive,” he suddenly +ejaculated, stopping where he was and eying the lowly walls before him +with a quick realization of the possibilities of a great disappointment. +“Ten years have strown many a grave on the hillside and Ona would not +mention it if she lost every relative she had in this town. What a fool +I have been,” thought he. + +But with the stern resolution which had carried him through many a +difficulty, he prepared to advance, when he was again arrested by seeing +the door of the house he was contemplating, suddenly open and a girlish +figure issue forth. Could it be Paula? With eager, almost feverish +interest he watched her approach. She was a slight young thing and came +towards him with a rapid movement almost jaunty in its freedom. If it +were Paula, he would know her by her eyes, but for some reason he hoped +it was not she, not the child of his dreams. + + +At a yard or two in front of him she paused astonished. This grave, tall +figure with the melancholy brow, deep eyes and firmly compressed lips +was an unaccustomed sight in this primitive town. Scarcely realizing +what she did she gave a little courtesy and was proceeding on when he +stopped her with a hurried gesture. + +“Is Mrs. Fairchild still living?” he asked, indicating the house she had +just left. + +“Mrs. Fairchild? O no,” she returned, surveying him out of the corner of +a very roguish pair of brown eyes, with a certain sly wonder at the +suspense in his voice. “She has been dead as long as I can remember. Old +Miss Abby and her sister live there now.” + +“And who are they?” he hurriedly asked; he could not bring himself to +mention Paula’s name. + +“Why, Miss Abby and Miss Belinda,” she returned with a puzzled air. +“Miss Abby sews and Miss Belinda teaches the school. I don’t know +anything more about them, sir.” + +The courteous gentleman bowed. “And they live there quite alone?” + +“O no sir, Paula lives with them.” + +“Ah, she does;” and the young girl looking at him could not detect the +slightest change in his haughty countenance. “Paula is Mrs. Fairchild’s +daughter.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Thank you,” said he, and allowed the pretty brown-eyed miss to pass on, +which she did with lingering footsteps and many a backward glance of the +eye. + +Halting at the door of that small cottage, Edward Sylvester reasoned +with himself. + +“She may be just such another fresh-looking, round-faced, +mischievous-eyed school-girl. Spiritual children do not always make +earnest-souled women. Let me beware what hopes I build on a foundation +so unsubstantial.” Yet when in a moment later the door opened and a +weazen-faced dapper, little woman appeared, all smiles and welcome, he +owned to a sensation of dismay that sufficiently convinced him what a +hold this hope of meeting with something exceptionally sweet and high, +had taken upon his hitherto careless and worldly spirit. + +“Mr. Sylvester I am sure! I thought Ona would remember us after a while. +Come in sir, do, my sister will be home in a few moments.” And with a +deprecatory flutter comical enough in a woman at least seventy odd years +old, she led her distinguished guest into a large unused room where in +spite of his remonstrances she at once proceeded to build a fire. + +“It is a pleasure sir,” she said to every utterance of regret on his +part at the trouble he was causing. And though her vocabulary was thus +made to appear somewhat small, her sincerity was undoubted. “We have +counted the days, Belinda and I, since we sent the last letter. It may +seem foolish to you, sir; but Paula is growing so fast and Belinda says +is so uncommon smart for her age that we did think that it was time Ona +knew just what a straight we were in. Do you want to see Paula?” + +“Very much,” he returned, shocked and embarrassed at the position in +which he found himself put by the reticence of his wife on the subject +of her relations. “They think I have come in reply to a letter,” he +mused, “and I did not even know my wife had received one.” + +“You will be surprised,” she exclaimed with a complacent nod as the fire +blazed up brightly; “every one is surprised who sees her for the first +time. Is my niece well?” And thus it was he learned the relation between +his wife of ten years and these simple inhabitants of the little cottage +in Grotewell. + +He replied as in duty bound, and presently by the use of a few dexterous +questions succeeded in eliciting from this simple-minded old lady, the +few facts necessary to a proper understanding of the situation. Miss +Abby and Miss Belinda were two maiden ladies, sisters of Mrs. Fairchild +and Ona’s mother, who on the death of the former took up their abode in +the little cottage for the purpose of bringing up the orphan Paula. They +had succeeded in this by dint of the utmost industry, but Paula was not +a common child, and Belinda, who was evidently the autocrat of the +house, had decided that she ought to have other advantages. She had +therefore written to Mrs. Sylvester concerning the child, in the hopes +that that lady would take enough interest in her pretty little cousin to +send her to boarding-school; but they had received no reply till now, +all of which was perfectly right of course, Mrs. Sylvester being +undoubtedly occupied and Mr. Sylvester himself being better than any +letter. + +“And does Paula herself know what efforts you have been making in her +behalf,” asked Mr. Sylvester upon the receipt of this information. + +The little lady shook her head with vivacity. “Belinda advised me to say +nothing,” she remarked. “The child is contented with her home and we did +not like to raise her expectations. You will never regret anything you +may do for her,” she went on in a hurried way with a peep now and then +towards the door as if while enjoying a momentary freedom of speech, she +feared an intrusion that would cut that pleasure short. “Paula is a +grateful child and never has given us a moment of concern from the time +she began to put pieces of patchwork together. But there is Belinda,” +she suddenly exclaimed, rising with the little dip and jerk of her left +shoulder that was habitual to her whenever she was amused or excited. +“Belinda,” she cried, going to the door and speaking with great +impressiveness, “Mr. Sylvester is in the parlor.” And almost instantly a +tall middle aged lady entered, whose plain but powerful countenance and +dignified demeanor, stamped her at once as belonging to a very different +type of woman from her sister. + +“I am very glad to see you sir,” she exclaimed in a slow determined +voice as dissimilar as possible from the piping tones of Miss Abby. “Is +not Mrs. Sylvester with you?” + +“No,” returned he, “I have come alone; my wife is not fond of travelling +in winter.” + +The slightest gleam shot from her bright keen eye. “Is she not well?” + +“Yes quite well, but not over strong,” he rejoined quietly. + +She gave him another quick look, settled some matter with herself and +taking off her bonnet, sat down by the fire. At once her sister ceased +in her hovering about the room and sitting also, became to all +appearance her silent shadow. + +“Paula has gone up stairs to take off her bonnet,” the younger woman +said in a straightforward manner just short of being brusque. “She is a +very remarkable girl, Mr. Sylvester, a genius I suppose some would call +her, a child of nature I prefer to say. Whatever there is to be learned +in this town she has learned. And in a place where nature speaks and +good books abound that is not inconsiderable. I have taken pride in her +talents I acknowledge, and have endeavored to do what I could to +cultivate them to the best advantage. There is no girl in my school who +can write so original a composition, nor is there one with a truer heart +or more tractable disposition.” + +“You have then been her teacher as well as her friend, she owes you a +double debt of gratitude.” + +A look hard to understand flashed over her homely face. “I have never +thought of debt or gratitude in connection with Paula. The only effort +which I have ever made in her behalf which cost me anything, is this one +which threatens me with her loss.” Then as if fearing she had said too +much, set her firm lips still firmer and ignoring the subject of the +child, astonished him by certain questions on the leading issues of the +day that at once betrayed a truly virile mind. + +“She is a study,” thought he to himself, but meeting her on the ground +she had taken, replied at once and to her evident satisfaction in the +direct and simple manner that appeals the most forcibly to a strong if +somewhat unpolished understanding, while the meek little Miss Abby +glanced from one to the other with a humble awe more indicative of her +appreciation for their superiority than of her comprehension of the +subject. + + +But what with Miss Belinda’s secret anxiety and Mr. Sylvester’s +unconscious listening for a step upon the stair, the conversation, brisk +as it had opened, gradually languished, and ere long with a sort of +clairvoyant understanding of her sister’s wishes, Miss Abby arose and +with her customary jerk left the room for Paula. + +“The child is not timid but has an unaccountable aversion to entering +the presence of strangers alone,” Miss Belinda explained; but Mr. +Sylvester did not hear her, for at that moment the door re-opened and +Miss Abby stepped in with the young girl thus heralded. + +Edward Sylvester never forgot that moment, and indeed few men could have +beheld the picture of extraordinary loveliness thus revealed, without a +shock of surprise equal to the delight it inspired. She was not pretty; +the very word was a misnomer, she was simply one of nature’s most +exquisite and undeniable beauties. From the crown of her ebon locks to +the sole of her dainty foot, she was perfect as the most delicate +coloring and the utmost harmony of contour could make her. And not in +the conventional type either. There was an individuality in her style +that was as fresh as it was uncommon. She was at once unique and +faultless, something that can be said of few women however beautiful or +alluring. + +Mr. Sylvester had not expected this, as indeed how could he, and for a +moment he could only gaze with a certain swelling of the heart at the +blooming loveliness that in one instant had transformed the odd little +parlor into a bower fit for the habitation of princes. But soon his +natural self-possession returned, and rising with his most courteous +bow, he greeted the blushing girl with words of simple welcome. + +Instantly her eyes which had been hitherto kept bent upon the floor +flashed upward to his face and a smile full of the wonder of an unlooked +for, almost unhoped for delight, swept radiantly over her lips, and he +saw with deep and sudden satisfaction that the hour which had made such +an impression upon him, had not been forgotten by her; that his voice +had recalled what his face failed to do, and that he was recognized. + +“It is Mr. Sylvester, your cousin Ona’s husband,” Miss Belinda +interposed in a matter-of-fact way, evidently attributing the emotion of +the child to her astonishment at the imposing appearance of their guest. + +“And it was _you_ who married Ona!” she involuntarily murmured, blushing +the next moment at this simple utterance of her thoughts. + +“Yes, dear child,” Mr. Sylvester hastened to say. “And so you remember +me?” he presently added, smiling down upon her with a sense of new life +that for the moment made every care and anxiety shrink into the +background. + +“Yes,” she simply returned, taking the chair beside him with the +unconscious grace of perfect self-forgetfulness. “It was the first time +I had found any one to listen to my childish enthusiasms; it is natural +such kindness should make its impression.” + +“Little Paula and I met long ago,” quoth Mr. Sylvester turning to the +somewhat astonished Miss Belinda. “It was before my marriage and she was +then—” + +“Just ten years old,” finished Paula, seeing him cast her an inquiring +glance. + +“Very young for such a thoughtful little miss,” he exclaimed. “And have +those childish enthusiasms quite departed?” he continued, smiling upon +her with gentle encouragement. “Do you no longer find a fairy-land in +the view up the river?” + +She flushed, casting a timid glance at her aunt, but meeting his eyes +again seemed to forget everything and everybody in the inspiration which +his presence afforded. + +“I fear I must acknowledge that it is more a fairy-land to me than +ever,” she softly replied. “Knowledge does not always bring disillusion, +and though I have learned one by one the names of the towns scattered +along those misty banks, and though I know they are no less prosaic in +their character than our own humdrum village, yet I cannot rid myself of +the notion that those verdant slopes with their archway of clouds, hide +the portals of Paradise, and that I have only to follow the birds in +their flight up the river to find myself on the verge of a mystery, the +banks at my feet can never disclose.” + +“May the gates of God’s Paradise never recede as those would do, my +child, if like the birds you attempted to pierce them.” + +“Paula is a dreamer,” quoth Miss Belinda in a matter-of-fact tone, “but +she is a good girl notwithstanding and can solve a geometrical problem +with the best.” + +“And sew on the machine and make a very good pie,” timidly put in Miss +Abby. + +“That is well,” laughed Mr. Sylvester, observing that the poor child’s +head had fallen forward in maidenly shame at her aunts’ elogiums as well +as at the length of the speech into which she had been betrayed. “It +shows that her eyes can see what is at hand as well as what is beyond +our reach.” Then with a touch of his usual formal manner intended to +restore her to herself, “Do you like study, Paula?” + +In an instant her eyes flashed. “I more than like it; it feeds me. +Knowledge has its vistas too,” she added with an arch look, the first he +had seen on her hitherto serious countenance. “I can never outgrow my +recognition of the portals it discloses or the fairy-land it opens up to +every inquiring eye.” + +“Even geometry,” he ventured, more anxious to probe this fresh young +mind than he had ever been to sound the opinions of the most notable men +of the day. + +“Even geometry,” she smiled. “To be sure its portals are somewhat +methodical in shape, allowing no scope to the fancy, but from its +triangles and circles have been born the grandeurs of architecture, and +upright on the threshold of its exact laws and undeviating calculations, +I see an angel with a golden rod in his hand, measuring the heavens.” + +“Even a stone speaks to a poet,” said Mr. Sylvester with a glance at +Miss Belinda. + +“But Paula is no poet,” returned that lady with strict and impartial +honesty. “She has never put a line on paper to my knowledge. Have you +child?” + +“No aunt, I would as soon imprison a falling sunbeam or try to catch the +breeze that lifts my hair or kisses my cheek.” + +“You see,” continued Mr. Sylvester still looking at Miss Belinda. + +She answered with a doubtful shake of the head and an earnest glance at +the girl as if she perceived something in that bright young soul, that +even she had never observed before. + +“Have you ever been away from home?” he now asked. + +“Never, I know as little of the great world as a callow nestling. No, I +should not say that, for the young bird has no Aunt Belinda to tell of +the great cathedrals and the wonderful music she has heard and the +glorious pictures she has seen in her visits to the city. It is almost +as good as travelling one’s self to hear Aunt Belinda talk.” + +It was now the turn of the mature plain woman to blush, which she did +under Mr. Sylvester’s searching eye. + +“You have then been in the habit of visiting New York?” + +“I have been there twice,” she returned evasively. + +“Since my marriage?” + +“Yes sir;” with a firm closing of her lips. + +“I did not know you were there or I should have insisted upon your +remaining at my house.” + +“Thank you,” said she with a quick triumphant glance at her demure +little shadow, who looked back in amaze and was about to speak when Miss +Belinda proceeded. “My visits usually have been on business; I should +not think of troubling Mrs. Sylvester.” And then he knew that his wife +had been aware of those visits if he had not. + +But he refrained from testifying to his discovery. “You speak of music,” +said he, turning gently back to Paula. “Have you a taste for it? Would +it make you happy to hear such music as your aunt tells about?” + +“O yes, I can conceive nothing grander than to sit in a church whose +every line is beauty and listen while the great organ utters its song of +triumph or echoes in the wonderful way it does, the emotions you have +tried to express and could not. I would give a whole week of my life on +the hills, dear as it is, for one such hour, I think.” + +Mr. Sylvester smiled. “It is a rare kind of coin to offer for such a +simple pleasure, but it may meet with its acceptance, nevertheless;” and +in his look and in his voice there was an appearance of affectionate +interest that completed the subjugation of the watchful Miss Belinda, +who now became doubly assured that whatever neglect had been shown her +by her niece was not due to that niece’s husband. + +Mr. Sylvester recognized the effect he had produced and hastened to +complete it, feeling that the good opinion of Miss Belinda would be +valuable to any man. “I have been a boy on these hills,” said he, “and +know what it is to long for what is beyond while enjoying what is +present. You shall hear the organ my child.” And stopped, wondering to +himself over the new sweet interest he seemed to take in the prospect of +pleasures which he had supposed himself to have long ago exhausted. + +“Hear the organ, I? why that means—O what does it mean?” she inquired, +turning with a look of beaming hope towards her aunt. + + +“You must ask Mr. Sylvester,” that uncompromising lady replied, with a +straightforward look at the fire. + +And he with a smile told the blushing girl that according to his +reading, mortals went blindfold into fairy-land; and she understood what +he meant and was silent, whereupon he turned the conversation upon more +common-place subjects. + +For how could he tell her then of the intention that had awakened in his +breast at the first glimpse of her grand young beauty. To make her his +child, to bequeath to her the place of the babe that had perished in his +arms three long years before—That meant to give Ona a care if not a +rival in his affections, and Ona shrank from care, and was not a subject +for rivalry. And the _if_ which this implied weighed heavily on his +heart as moment after moment flew by, and he felt again the reviving +power of an unsullied mind and an aspiring nature. + + + + +X. + +THE BARRED DOOR. + + “A school boy’s tale; the wonder of an hour.”—BYRON. + + +“Did you know that your niece was gifted with rare beauty as well as +talents?” asked Mr. Sylvester of Miss Belinda as a couple of hours or so +later, they sat alone by the parlor fire, preparatory to his departure. + +“No, that is,” she hastily corrected herself, “I knew she was very +pretty of course, prettier by far than any of her mates, but I did not +suppose she was what you call a beauty, or at least would be so +considered by a person accustomed to New York society.” + +“I do not know of a woman in New York who can boast of any such claims +to transcendent loveliness. Such faces are rare outside of art, Miss +Belinda; was Mrs. Fairchild a handsome woman?” + +“She was my sister and if I may say so, my favorite sister, but she was +no more agreeable to the eye than some others of her family,” grimly +returned the heavy browed spinster with a compression of her lips. “What +beauty Paula has inherited came from her father. Her chief charm in my +eyes, however, springs from her pure nature and the unselfish impulses +of her heart.” + +“And in mine,” rejoined he quietly. Then with a sudden change of tone as +he realized the necessity of saying something definite to this woman in +regard to his intentions toward the child, he remarked, “Her great and +unusual talents and manifest disposition to learn, demand as you say, +superior advantages to any she can have in a small country town like +this, fruitful as it has already been to her under your wise and +fostering care and such shall she have; but just when and how I cannot +say till I have seen my wife and learned what her wishes are likely to +be in regard to the subject.” + +“You are very kind, sir,” returned Miss Belinda. “I have no doubt as to +the good-will of your intentions, and the child shall be prepared at +once for a change.” + +“And will _the child_,” he exclaimed with a smile as Paula re-entered +the room, “be so kind as to give me her company in the walk I must now +take to the cars?” + +“Of course,” replied her aunt before the young girl could speak, “we owe +you that much attention I am sure.” + +And so it was that when he came to retrace his way through the village +with its heavy memories, he had a guardian spirit at his side that +robbed them of their power to sadden and oppress. + +“What shall I say for you to the grim, city streets when I get back?” +inquired he as they hastened on over the snow covered road. + +“Say to them from me? O you may give them my greeting,” she responded +half shyly, half confidingly. Evidently for her he was one of those rare +persons whose presence is perfect freedom and with whom she could not +only think her best but speak it also. “I should like to make their +acquaintance, but indeed they would have to do well to vie in attraction +with these white roads girded by their silver-limbed trees. The very +rush of life must seem oppressive. So many hopes, so many fears, so many +interests jostling you at every step! Yet the thought is exhilarating +too; don’t you find it so?” + +It was the first question she had asked him and he knew not how to +reply. Her eyes were so confiding, he could not bear to shake her faith +in his imagined superiority. Yet what thoughts had he ever cherished in +walking the busy streets, save those connected with his own selfish +hopes and fears, plans and operations? “I have no doubt,” said he after +a moment’s pause, “that I have felt this exhilaration of which you +speak. Certainly the hurrying masses in Broadway awaken a far different +sensation in a man, than this solitary stretch of country road.” + +“Yet the road has its companionships,” she murmured. “In the city one +thinks most of men, but in the country, of God. Its very solitude +compels you.” + +“Compels _you_,” he involuntarily answered. And shuddered as he said it, +remembering days when he trod these very roads with anything but +reverence in his heart for the Creator of the landscape before him. “Not +every one has the inner vision, my child, to see the love and wisdom +back of the works, or rather most men have a vision so short it does not +reach so far. Yet I think I can understand what you mean and might even +experience your emotions if my eyes had leisure to explore this space +and my thoughts to rise out of their usual depressing atmosphere of care +and anxiety. You did not think I was a busy man, he continued,” +observing her gaze of wonder. “You thought riches brought ease; if you +ever come to think, ‘most of men’ you will learn that the wealthy man is +the greatest worker, for his rest comes not night or day.” + +She shook her head with a sudden doubt. “It is a problem,” she said, +“which my knowledge of geometry does not help me to solve.” + +“No,” assented he; “and one in which even your fanciful soul would fail +to find any poetry. But stop, Paula; isn’t this the place where I found +you that day, and you showed me the view up the river?” + +“Yes, and it was on that stone I sat; it has a milk-white cushion now; +and there is where you stood, looking so tall and grand to my childish +eyes! The gates are of pearl now,” she said, pointing to the +snow-covered slopes in the west. “I wish the sky had been clear to-night +and you could have seen the effect of a rosy sunset falling over those +domes of ice and snow.” + +“It would leave me less to expect when I come again,” he responded +almost gayly. “The next time we will have the sunset, Paula.” + +She smiled and they hastened on, presently finding themselves in the +village streets. Suddenly she paused. “Small towns have their mysteries +as well as great cities,” said she; “we are not without ours, look.” + +He turned, followed with a glance the direction of her pointing finger +and started in his sudden surprise. She had indicated to him the house +whose ghostly and frowning front bore written across its grim gray +boards, such an inscription of painful remembrance. “It is a solitary +looking place, isn’t it?” she went on, innocent of the pain she was +inflicting. “No one lives there or ever will, I imagine. Do you see that +board nailed across the front door?” + +He forced himself to look. He did more, he fixed his eyes upon the +desolate structure before him until the aspect of its huge unpainted +walls with their long rows of sealed-up windows and high smokeless +chimneys was impressed indelibly upon his mind. The large front door +with its weird and solemn barrier was the last thing upon which his eye +rested. + +“Yes,” said he, and involuntarily asked what it meant. + +“We do not know exactly,” she responded. “It was nailed across there by +the men who followed Colonel Japha to the grave. Colonel Japha was the +owner of the house,” she proceeded, too interested to observe the shadow +which the utterance of that name had invoked upon his brow. “He was a +peculiar man I judge, and had suffered great wrongs they say; at all +events his life was very solitary and sad, and on his deathbed he made +his neighbors promise him that they would carry out his body through +that door and then seal it up against any further ingress or egress +forever. His wishes were respected, and from that day to this no one has +ever entered that door.” + +“But the house!” stammered Mr. Sylvester in anything but his usual tone, +“surely it has not been deserted all these years!” + + +“Ah,” said she, “now we come to the greatest mystery of all.” And laying +her hand timidly on his arm, she drew his attention to the form of a +decrepit old lady just then advancing towards them down the street “Do +you see that aged figure?” she asked. “Every evening at this hour, +winter and summer, stormy weather or clear, she is seen to leave her +home up the street and come down to this forsaken dwelling, open the +worm-eaten gate before you, cross the otherwise untrodden garden and +enter the house by a side door which she opens with a huge key she +carries in her pocket. For just one hour by the clock she remains there, +and then she is seen to issue in the falling dusk, with a countenance +whose heavy dejection is in striking contrast to the expression of hope +with which she invariably enters. Why she makes this pilgrimage and for +what purpose she secludes herself for a stated time each day in this +otherwise deserted mansion, no man knows nor is it possible to +determine, for though she is a worthy woman and approachable enough on +all other topics, on this she is absolutely mute.” + +Mr. Sylvester started and surveyed the woman as she passed with an +anxious gaze. “I know her,” he muttered; “she was a connection of—of +the family, who inhabited this house.” He could not speak the name. + +“Yes, so they say, and the owner of this house, though she does not live +here. Did you notice how she looked at me? She often does that, just as +if she wanted to speak. But she always goes by and opens the gate as you +see her now and takes out the big key and—” + +“Come away,” cried Mr. Sylvester with sudden impulse, seizing Paula by +the hand and hurrying her down the street. “She is a walking goblin; you +must have nothing to do with such uncanny folk.” And endeavoring to turn +off this irresistible display of feeling by a show of pleasantry he +laughed aloud, but in a strained and unnatural way that made her eyes +lift in unconscious amazement. + +“You are infected by the atmosphere of unreality that pervades the +spot,” said she, “I do not wonder.” And with the gentle perversity that +sometimes affects the most thoughtful amongst us, she went on talking +upon the unwelcome subject. “I know of some folks who invariably cross +to the other side of the street at night, rather than go through the +shadows of the two gaunt poplars which guard that house. Yet there has +been no murder committed there or any great crime that I know of, unless +the disobedience of a daughter who ran away with a man her father +detested, could be denominated by so fearful a word.” + +The set gaze with which Mr. Sylvester surveyed the landscape before him +quavered a trifle and then grew hard and cold. “And so,” said he in a +tone meant more for himself than her, “even your innocent ears have been +assailed by the gossip about Miss Japha.” + +“Gossip! I have never thought of it as gossip,” returned she, struck for +the first time by the change in his appearance. “It all happened so long +ago it seems more like some quaint and ancient tale than a story of one +of our neighbors. Besides, the fact that a wilful girl ran away from the +house of her father, with the man of her choice, is not such a dreadful +one is it, though she never returned to its walls with her husband, and +her father was so overwhelmed by the shock, he was never seen to smile +again.” + +“No,” said he, giving her a hurried glance of relief, “I only wondered +at the tenacity of old stories to engage the popular ear. I had supposed +even the remembrance of Jacqueline Japha would have been lost in the +long silence that has followed that one disobedient act.” + +“And so it might, were it not for that closely shut house with the +sinister bar across its chief entrance, inviting curiosity while it +effectually precludes all investigation. With that token ever before our +eyes of a dead man’s implacable animosity, who can wonder that we +sometimes ponder over the fate of her who was its object.” + +“And no intimations of that fate have been ever received in Grotewell. +For all that is known to the contrary, Jacqueline Japha may have +preceded her father to the tomb.” + +Paula bowed her head, amazed at the gloomy tone in which this emphatic +assertion was made by one whose supposed ignorance she had been +endeavoring to enlighten. “You knew her history before, then,” observed +she, “I beg your pardon.” + +“And it is granted,” said he with a sudden throwing off of the shadow +that had enveloped him. “You must not mind my sudden lapses into gloom. +I was never a cheerful man, that is, not since I—since my early youth I +should say. And the shadows which are short at your time of life grow +long and chilly at mine. One thing can illumine them though, and that is +a child’s happy smile. You are a child to me; do not deny me a smile, +then, before I go.” + +“Not one nor a dozen,” cried she, giving him her hands in good-bye for +they had arrived at the depot by this time and the sound of the +approaching train was heard in the distance. + +“God bless you!” said he, clasping those hands with a father’s heartfelt +tenderness. “God bless my little Paula and make her pillow soft till we +meet again!” Then as the train came sweeping up the track, put on his +brightest look and added, “If the fairy-godmother chances to visit you +during my departure, don’t hesitate to obey her commands, if you want to +hear the famous organ peal.” + +“No, no,” she cried. And with a final look and smile he stepped upon the +train and in another moment was whirled away from that place of many +memories and a solitary hope. + + + + +XI. + +MISS STUYVESANT. + + “She smiled; but he could see arise + Her soul from far adown her eyes.” + + —MRS. BROWNING. + + +“She is a beauty; it is only right I should forewarn you of that.” + +“Dark or light?” + +“Dark; that is her hair and eyes are almost oriental in their blackness, +but her skin is fair, almost as dazzling as yours, Ona.” + +Mrs. Sylvester threw a careless glance in the long mirror before which +she was slowly completing her toilet, and languidly smiled. But whether +at this covert compliment to her greatest charm or at some passing fancy +of her own, it would be difficult to decide. “The dark hair and eyes +come from her father,” remarked she in an abstracted way while she tried +the effect of a bunch of snow-white roses at her waist with a backward +toss of her proud blonde head. “His mother was a Greek. ‘Tell it not in +Gath, publish it not in the streets of Askelon,’” she exclaimed in a +voice as nearly gay as her indolent nature would allow. For this lady of +fashion was in one of her happiest moods. Her dress, a new one, fitted +her to perfection and the vision mirrored in the glass before her was +not lacking, so far as she could see in one charm that could captivate. +“Do you think she could fasten a ribbon, or arrange a bow?” she further +inquired. “I should like to have some one about me with a knack for +helping a body in an emergency, if possible. Sarah is absolutely the +destruction of any bit of ribbon she undertakes to handle. Look at that +knot of black velvet over there for instance, wouldn’t you think a raw +Irish girl just from the other side would have known better than to tie +it with half the wrong side showing?” + +With the habit long ago acquired of glancing wherever her ivory finger +chanced to point, the grave man of the world slowly turned his head full +of the weightiest cares and oppressed by the burden of innumerable +responsibilities, and surveyed the cluster of velvet bows thus +indicated, with a mechanical knitting of the brows. + +“I pay Sarah twenty-five dollars a month and that is the result,” his +wife proceeded. “Now if Paula—” + +“Paula is not to come here as a waiting maid,” her husband quickly +interposed, a suspicion of color just showing itself for a moment on his +cheek. + +“If Paula,” his wife went on, unheeding the interruption save by casting +him a hurried glance over the shoulder of her own reflection in the +glass, “had the taste in such matters of some other members of our +family and could manage to lend me a helping hand now and then, why I +could almost imagine I had my younger sister back with me again, who +with her skill in making one look fit for the eyes of the world, was +such a blessing to us in our old home.” + +“I have no doubt Paula could be taught to be equally efficient,” her +husband responded, carefully restraining any further show of impatience. +“She is bright, I am certain, and ribbon-tying is not such a very +difficult art, is it?” + +“I don’t know about that; by the way Sarah succeeds I should say it was +about on a par with the science of algebra or—what is that horrid study +they used to threaten to inflict me with at the academy whenever I +complained of a headache? Oh I remember—conic sections.” + +“Well, well,” laughed her husband, “she ought soon to to be an expert in +it then; Paula is a famous little mathematician.” + +A silence followed this response; Mrs. Sylvester was fitting in her +ear-rings. “I suppose,” said she when the operation was completed, “that +the snow will prevent half the people from coming to-night.” It was a +reception evening at the Sylvester mansion. “But so long as Mrs. +Fitzgerald does not disappoint me, I do not care. What do you think of +the setting of these diamonds?” she inquired, leaning forward to look at +herself more closely, and slowly shaking her head till the rich gems +sparkled like fire. + +“It is good,” came in short, quick tones from the lips of her husband. + +“Well, I don’t know, there might be a shade more of enamel on the edge +of that ring. I shall speak to the jeweller about it to-morrow. But what +were we talking about?” she dreamily asked, still turning her head from +side to side before the mirror. + +“We were talking about adopting your cousin in the place of our child +who is dead,” replied her husband with some severity, pausing in the +middle of the floor which he was pacing, to honor her with a steady +glance. + +“O yes! Dear me! what an awkward clasp that man has given to these rings +after all. You will have to fasten them for me.” Then as he stepped +forward with studied courtesy, yawned just a trifle and remarked, “No +one could ever take the place of one’s own child of course. If Geraldine +had lived she would have been a blonde, her eyes were blue as +sapphires.” + + +He looked in his wife’s face and his hands dropped. He thought of the +day when those eyes, blue as sapphires indeed, flashed burning with +death’s own fever, from the little crib in the nursery, while with this +same cool and self-satisfied countenance, the wife and mother before him +had swept down the broad stairs to her carriage, murmuring +apologetically as she gathered up her train, “O you needn’t trouble +yourself to look after her, she will do very well with Sarah.” + +She may have thought of it too, for the least little bit of real crimson +found its way through the rouge on her cheek as she encountered the +stern look of his eye, but she only turned a trifle more towards the +glass, saying, “I forgot you do not admire the rôle of waiting maid. I +will try and manage them myself, seeing that you have banished Sarah.” + +He exerted his self-control and again for the thousandth time buried +that ghastly memory out of sight, actually forcing himself to smile as +he gently took her hand from her ear and began deftly to fasten the +rebellious ornaments. + +“You mistake,” said he, “love can ask any favor without hesitation. I do +not object to waiting upon my own wife.” + +She gave him a little look which he obligingly took as a guerdon for +this speech, and languidly held out her bracelets. As he stood clasping +them on her arms, she quietly eyed him over from head to foot. “I don’t +know of a man who has your figure,” said she with a certain tone of +pride in her voice; “it is well you married a wife who does not look +altogether inferior beside you.” Then as he bowed with mock appreciation +of the intended compliment, added with her usual inconsequence, “I dare +say it would give me something to interest myself in. I don’t suppose +she has a decent thing to wear, and the fact of her being a dark beauty +would lend quite a new impulse to my inventive faculty. Mrs. Walker has +a daughter with black eyes, but dear me, what a guy she does make of +her!” + +With a sigh Mr. Sylvester turned to the window where he stood looking +out at the heavy flakes of snow falling with slow and fluctuating +movement between him and the row of brown stone houses in front. Paula +considered as a milliner’s block upon which to try the effect of +clothes! + +“Even Mrs. Fitzgerald with all her taste don’t know how to dress her +child,” proceeded his wife, with a hurried, “Be still, Cherry!” to the +importunate bird in the cage. “Now I should take as much pride in +dressing any one under my charge as I would myself, provided the subject +was likely to do credit to my efforts.” And finding the bird +incorrigible in his shrill singing, she moved over to the cage, where +she stood balancing her white finger for the bird to peck at, with a +pretty caressing motion of her lip, the little Geraldine of the wistful +blue eyes, had never seen. + +“You are welcome to do what you please in such matters,” was her +husband’s reply. He was thinking again of that same little Geraldine; a +fall of snow like the present always made him think of her and her +innocent query as to whether God threw down such big flakes to amuse +little children. “I give you _carte blanche_,” said he with sudden +emphasis. + +Mrs. Sylvester paused in her attentions to the bird to give him a sharp +little look which might have aroused his surprise if he had been +fortunate enough to see it. But his back was towards her, and there was +nothing in the languidly careless tone with which she responded, to +cause him to turn his head. “I see that you would really like to have me +entertain the child; but—” + +She paused, pursing up her lips to meet the chattering bird’s caress, +while her husband in his impatience drummed with his fingers on the +pane. + +—“I must see her before I decide upon the length of her visit,” +continued she, as weary with the sport she drew back to give herself a +final look in the glass. “Will you please to hand me that shawl, +Edward.” + +He turned with alacrity. In his relief he could have kissed the snowy +neck held so erectly before him, as he drew around it the shawl he had +hastily lifted from the chair at his side. But that would not have +suited this calm and languid beauty who disliked any too overt tribute +to her charms and saved her caresses for her bird. Besides it would look +like gratitude, and gratitude would be misplaced towards a wife who had +just indicated her acceptance of his offer to receive a relative of her +own into his house. + +“She might as well come at once,” was her final remark, as satisfied at +last with the lay of every ribbon she swept in finished elegance from +the room. “Mrs. Kittredge’s reception comes off a week from Thursday, +and I should like to see how a dark beauty with a fair skin would look +in that new shade of heliotrope.” + +And so the battle was over and the victory won; for Mrs. Sylvester for +all her seeming indifference was never known to change a decision she +had once made. As he realized the fact, as he meditated that ere long +this very room which had been the scene of so much frivolity and the +witness to so many secret heart-burnings, would reëcho to the tread of +the pure and innocent child, whose mind had flights unknown to the +slaves of fashion, and in whose heart lay impulses of goodness that +would satisfy the long smothered cravings of his awakened nature, he +experienced a feeling of relenting towards the wife who had not chosen +to thwart him in this the strongest wish of his childless manhood, and +crossing to her dressing table, he dropped among its treasures a costly +ring which he had been induced to purchase that day from an old friend +who had fallen into want. “She will wear it,” murmured he to himself, +“for its hue will make her hand look still whiter, and when I see it +sparkle I will remember this hour and be patient.” Had he known that she +had yielded to this wish out of a certain vague feeling of compunction +for the disappointments she had frequently occasioned him and would +occasion him again, he might have added a tender thought to the rich and +costly gift with which he had just endowed her. + +“I expect a young cousin of mine to spend the winter with me and pursue +her studies,” were the first words that greeted his ears as an hour or +so later he entered the parlor where his wife was entertaining what few +guests had been anxious enough for a sight of Mrs. Sylvester’s newly +furnished drawing-room, to brave the now rapidly falling snow. “I hope +that you and she will be friends.” + +Curious to see what sort of a companion his wife was thus somewhat +prematurely providing for Paula, he hastily advanced towards the little +group from which her voice had proceeded, and found himself face to face +with a brown-haired girl whose appealing glance and somewhat infantile +mouth were in striking contrast to the dignity with which she carried +her small head and managed her whole somewhat petite person. + +“Miss Stuyvesant! my husband!” came in musical tones from his wife, and +somewhat surprised to hear a name that but a moment before had been the +uppermost in his mind, he bowed with courtesy and then asked if he was +so happy as to speak to a daughter of Thaddeus Stuyvesant. + +“If it will give you especial pleasure I will say yes,” responded the +little miss with a smile that irradiated her whole face. “Do you know my +father?” + + +“There are but few bankers in the city who have not that pleasure,” +replied he with an answering look of regard. “I am especially happy to +meet his daughter in my house to-night.” + +There was something in his manner of saying this and in the short +inquiring glance which at every opportunity he cast upon her bright +young face with its nameless charm of mingled appeal and reserve, that +astonished his wife. + +“Miss Stuyvesant was in the carriage with Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said that +lady with a certain dignity she knew well how to assume. “I am afraid if +it had not been for that circumstance we should not have enjoyed the +pleasure of her presence.” And with the rare tact of which she was +certainly a mistress, as far as all social matters were concerned, she +left the aspiring magnate of Wall Street to converse with the daughter +of the man whom all New York bankers were expected to know, and hastened +to join a group of ladies discussing ceramics before a huge placque of +rarest _cloissone_. + +Mr. Sylvester followed her with his eyes; he had never seen her look +more vivacious; had the hope of seeing a young face at their board +touched some secret chord in her nature as well as his? Was she more of +a woman than he imagined, and would she be, though in the most +superficial of ways, a mother to Paula? Flushed with the thought, he +turned back to the little lady at his side. She was gazing in an intent +and thoughtful way at an engraving of Dubufe’s “Prodigal Son” that +adorned the wall above her head. There was something in her face that +made him ask: + +“Is that a favorite picture of yours?” + +She smiled and nodded her small and delicate head. + +“Yes sir, it is indeed, but I was not looking at the picture so much as +at the face of that dark-haired girl that sits in the centre, with that +far-away expression in her eyes. Do you see what I mean? She is like +none of the rest. Her form is before us, but her heart and her interest +are in some distant clime or forsaken home to which the music murmured +at her side recalls her. She has a soul above her surroundings, that +girl; and her face is indescribably pathetic to me. In the recesses of +her being she carries a memory or a regret that separates her from the +world and makes certain moments of her life almost holy.” + +“You look deep,” said Mr. Sylvester, gazing down upon the little lady’s +face with strongly awakened interest. “You see more perhaps than the +painter intended.” + +“No, no; possibly more than the engraving expresses, but not more than +the artist intended. I saw the original once, when as you remember it +was on exhibition here. I was a wee thing, but I never forgot that +girl’s face. It spoke more than all the rest to me; perhaps because I so +much honor reserve in one who holds in his breast a great pain or a +great hope.” + +The eye that was resting upon her, softened indescribably. “You believe +in great hopes,” said he. + +The little figure seemed to grow tall; and her face looked almost +beautiful. “What would life be without them?” she answered. + +“True,” returned Mr. Sylvester; and entering into the conversation with +unusual spirit, was astonished to find how young she was and yet how +thoroughly bright and self-possessed. + +“Lovely girls are cropping up around me in all directions,” thought he; +“I shall have to correct my judgment concerning our young ladies of +fashion if I encounter many more as sensible and earnest-hearted as +this.” And for some reason his brow grew so light and his tone so +cheerful that the ladies were attracted from all parts of the room to +hear what the demure Miss Stuyvesant could have to say to the grave +master of the house, to call forth such smiles of enjoyment upon his +usually melancholy countenance. + +Take it all together, the occasion though small was one of the +pleasantest of the season, and so Mrs. Sylvester announced when the last +carriage had driven away, and she and her husband stood in the +brilliantly lighted library, surveying a new cabinet of rare and antique +workmanship which had been that day installed in the place of honor +beneath my lady’s picture. + +“I thought you seemed to enjoy it, Ona,” her husband remarked. + +“O, it was an occasion of triumph to me,” she murmured. “It is the first +time a Stuyvesant has crossed our threshold, _mon cher_.” + +“Ha,” he exclaimed, turning upon her a brisk displeased look. He was +proud and considered no man his superior in a social sense. “Do you +acknowledge yourself a parvenue that you rejoice at the entrance of any +one special person into your doors?” + +“I thought,” she replied somewhat mortified, “that you betrayed unusual +pleasure yourself at her introduction.” + +“That may be; I was glad to see her here, for her father is one of the +most influential directors in the bank of which I shortly expect to be +made president.” + +The nature of this disclosure was calculated to be especially gratifying +to her, and effectually blotted out any remembrance of the break by +which it had been introduced. After a few hasty inquiries, followed by a +scene of quite honest mutual congratulation, the gratified wife left her +husband to put out the lights himself or call Samuel as he might choose, +and glided up stairs to delight the curious Sarah with the broken +soliloquies and inconsequent self-communings which formed another of her +peculiar habits. + +As for her husband, he stood a few minutes where she left him, +abstractedly eying the gorgeous vista that spread out before him down to +the further mirror of the elaborate drawing-room, thinking perhaps with +a certain degree of pride, of the swiftness with which he had risen to +opulence and the certainty with which he had conquered position in the +business as well as in the social world when he could speak of such a +connection with Thaddeus Stuyvesant as a project already matured. Then +with a hasty movement and a quick sigh which nothing in his prospects +actual or apparent would seem to warrant, he proceeded to put out the +lights, my lady’s picture shining with less and less importunity as the +flickering jets disappeared, till all was dark save for the faint +glimmer that came in from the hall, a glimmer just sufficient to show +the outlines of the various articles of furniture scattered about—and +could it be the tall figure of the master himself standing in the centre +of the room with his palms pressed against his forehead in an attitude +of sorrow or despair? Yes, or whose that wild murmur, “Is it never given +to man to forget!” Yet no, or who is this that calm and dignified, steps +at this moment from the threshold? It must have been a dream, a +phantasy. _This_ is the master of the house who with sedate and regular +step goes up flight after flight of the spiral staircase, and neither +pauses or looks back till he reaches the top of the house where he takes +out a key from his pocket, and opening a certain door, goes in and locks +it behind him. It is his secret study or retreat, a room which no one is +allowed to enter, the mystery of the house to the servants and something +more than that to its inquisitive mistress. What he does there no man +knows, but to-night if any one had been curious enough to listen, they +would have heard nothing more ominous than the monotonous scratch of a +pen. He was writing to Miss Belinda and the burden of his letter was +that on a certain day he named, he was coming to take away Paula. + + + + +XII. + +MISS BELINDA MAKES CONDITIONS. + + “For of the soul the body form doth take, + For soul is form, and doth the body make.”—SPENSER. + + +Miss Belinda was somewhat taken aback at the proposal of Mr. Sylvester +to receive Paula into his own house. She had not anticipated any such +result to her efforts; the utmost she had expected was a couple of years +or so of instruction in some state Academy. Nor did she know whether she +was altogether pleased at the turn affairs were taking. From all she had +heard, her niece Ona was, to say the least, a frivolous woman, and Paula +had a mind too noble to be subjected to the deteriorating influence of a +shallow and puerile companionship. Then the child had great beauty; Mr. +Sylvester who ought to be a judge in such matters had declared it so, +and what might not the adulation of the thoughtless and the envy of the +jealous, do towards belittling a nature as yet uncontaminated. + +“We ought to think twice,” she said to Miss Abby with some bitterness, +who on the contrary never having thought once was full of the most +childish hopes concerning a result which she considered with a certain +secret complacency she would not have acknowledged for the world, had +been very much furthered by her own wise recommendations to Mr. +Sylvester in the beginning of his visit. Yet notwithstanding her doubts +Miss Belinda allowed such preparations to be made as she considered +necessary, and even lent her hand which was deft enough in its way, to +the task of enlarging the child’s small wardrobe. As for Paula, the +thought of visiting the great city with the dear friend whose image had +stood in her mind from early childhood as the impersonation of all that +was noble, generous and protecting, was more than joyful; it was an +inspiration. Not that she did not cling to the affectionate if somewhat +quaint couple who had befriended her childhood and sacrificed their +comfort to her culture and happiness. But the chord that lies deeper +than gratitude had been struck, and fond as were her memories of the +dear old home, the charm of that deep “My child,” with its hint of +fatherly affection, was more than her heart could stand; and no spot, no +not the realms of fairy-land itself, looked so attractive to her fancy +as that far fireside in an unknown home where she might sit with cousin +Ona and alternately with her exert her wit to beguile the smile to his +melancholy lips. + +When therefore upon the stated day, Mr. Sylvester made his second +appearance at the little cottage in Grotewell, it was to find Paula +radiant, Miss Abby tearfully exultant and Miss Belinda—O anomaly of +human nature—silent and severe. Attributing this however to her very +natural regret at parting with Paula, he entered into all the +arrangements for their departure on the following morning without a +suspicion of the real state of her mind, nor was he undeceived until the +day was nearly over and they sat down to have a few minutes of social +conversation before the early tea. + +They had been speaking on some local topic involving a question of right +and wrong, and Mr. Sylvester’s ears were yet thrilling to the deep +ringing tones with which Paula uttered the words, “I do not see how any +man can hesitate an instant when the voice of his conscience says no. I +should think the very sunlight would daunt him at the first step of his +foot across the forbidden line,” when Miss Belinda suddenly spoke up and +sending Paula out of the room on some trivial pretext, addressed Mr. +Sylvester without reserve. + +“I have something to say to you, sir, before you take from my home the +child of my care and affection.” + +Could he have guessed what that something was that he should turn with +such a flush of sudden anxiety to meet her determined gaze. + +“The rules of our life here have been simple,” continued she in a tone +of voice which those who knew her well recognized as belonging to her +uncompromising moods. “To do our duty, love God and serve our neighbor. +Paula has been brought up to reverence those rules in simplicity and +honor; what will your gay city life with its hollow devices for pleasure +and its loose hold on the firm principles of life, do for this innocent +soul, Mr. Sylvester?” + +“The city,” he said firmly but with a troubled undertone in his voice +that was not unnoted by the watchful woman, “is a vast caldron of +mingled good and evil. She will hear of more wrong doing, and be within +the reach of more self-denying virtue, than if she had remained in this +village alone with the nature that she so much loves. The tree of +knowledge bears two kinds of fruit, Miss Belinda; would you therefore +hinder the child from approaching its branches?” + +“No, sir; I am not so weak as to keep a child in swaddling-clothes after +the period of infancy is past, neither am I so reckless as to set her +adrift on an unknown sea without a pilot to guide her. Your wife—” she +paused and fixed an intent look upon the flames leaping before her. “Ona +is my niece,” she resumed in a lower tone of voice, “and I feel entitled +to speak with freedom concerning her. Is she such a guide as I would +choose for a young girl just entering a new sphere in life? From all I +have heard, I should judge she was somewhat over-devoted to this world +and its fashions.” + +Mr. Sylvester flushed painfully, but seeing that any softening of the +truth would be wholly ineffectual with this woman, replied in a candid +tone, “Ona is the same now as she was in the days of her girlhood. If +she loves the world too well she is not without her excuse; from her +birth it has strewn nothing but roses in her path.” + +“Humph!” came from the lips of the energetic spinster. Then with a +second stern glance at the fire, continued, “Another question, Mr. +Sylvester. Does your wife consent to receive my niece into her house, +for the indefinite length of time which you mention, from interest in +the girl herself or indeed from any motive I should judge worthy of +Paula? It is a leading question I know, but this is no time for niceties +of speech.” + +“Miss Belinda,” replied he, and his voice was firm though his fingers +slightly trembled where they rested upon the arms of his chair, “I will +try and forget for a moment that Ona is my wife, and frankly confide to +you that any such motive on her part, as would meet with your entire +approval, must not be expected from a woman who has never fully +recognized the solemn responsibilities of life. That she will be kind to +Paula I have no doubt, that she may even learn to take an interest in +her for her own sake, is also very possible, but that she will ever take +your place towards her as guide or instructor, I neither anticipate nor +would feel myself justified in leading you to.” + +The look which Miss Belinda cast him was anything but reassuring. “And +yet,” said she, “you will take away my darling and give her up to an +influence that can not be for good, or your glance would not be so +troubled or your lip so uncertain. You would set her young feet in a +path where the very flowers are so thick they conceal its tendency and +obscure its dangers. Mr. Sylvester you are a man who has seen life with +naked eyes, and must recognize its responsibilities; dare you take this +Paula, whom you have seen, out of the atmosphere of truth and purity in +which she has been raised, and give her over to the enervating +influences of folly and fashion? Will you assume the risk and brave the +consequences?” + +As though an electric shock had touched the nerve of his nature, Mr. +Sylvester hastily rose and moved in a restless manner to the window. It +was his favorite refuge in any time of sudden perplexity or doubt, and +this was surely an occasion for both. + +“Miss Belinda,” he began and then paused, looking out on the hills of +his boyhood, every one of which spoke to him at that moment with a force +that almost sickened his heart and benumbed the faculties of his mind; +“I recognize the love which leads you to speak in this way, and I bow +before it, but—” here his tongue faltered again, that ready tongue +whose quick and persuasive eloquence on public occasions had won for him +the name of Silver-speech among his friends and admirers—“but there are +others who love your Paula also, love her with a yearning that only the +childless can feel or the disappointed appreciate. I had hoped—” here +he left the window and approached her side, “to do more for Paula than +to give her the temporal benefit of a luxurious home and such +instruction as her extraordinary talents demand. If Ona upon seeing and +knowing the child had found she could love her, I had intended to ask +you to yield her to us unreservedly and forever, in short to make her my +child in place of the daughter I have lost. But now—” with a quick +gesture he began pacing the floor and left the sentence unfinished. + +Miss Belinda’s eyes which were of a light grey, wholly without beauty +but with strange flashes of expression in them, left the fire and fell +upon his face, and a tear of real feeling gathered beneath her lids. + +“I had no idea,” said he, “that you cherished any such intention as +that. If I had I might have worded my apprehensions differently. The +yearning feeling of which you speak, I can easily understand, also the +strength of the determination it must take on the part of a man like +yourself, to give up a hope of this nature. Yet—” Seeing him pause in +his hurried pacing and open his lips as if to speak, she deferentially +stopped. + + +“Miss Belinda,” said he, in the firm and steadfast way more in keeping +with his features than his agitated manner of a moment before, “I cannot +give it up. The injury it would do me is greater than the harm, which +one of Paula’s lofty nature would be apt to acquire in any atmosphere +into which she might chance to be introduced. She is not a child, Miss +Belinda, though we allude to her as such. The texture of those +principles which you have instilled into her breast, is of no such weak +material as to give way to the first petty breeze that blows. Paula’s +house will stand, while mine—” + +He paused and gave way to a momentary struggle, but that over, he set +his lips firmly together and the last vestige of irresolution vanished. +Sitting down by her side, he turned his face upon her, and for the first +time she realized the power which with one exception he had always +exerted over the minds of others. “Miss Belinda,” said he, “I am going +to give you an evidence of my trust; I am going to leave with you the +responsibility of Paula’s future. She shall go with me, and learn, if +she can, to love me and mine, but she shall also be under obligations to +open her heart to you on all matters that concern her life and happiness +in my house, and the day you see any falling off in her pure and upright +spirit, you shall demand her return, and though it tears the heart from +my breast, I will yield her up without question or parley as I am a +gentleman and a Christian. Does that content you?” + +“It certainly ought to, sir. No one could ask more, I am sure,” returned +the other in a voice somewhat unsteady for her. + +“It is opening my house to the gaze of a stranger,” said he, “for I +desire you to command Paula to withhold nothing that seriously affects +her; but my confidence in you is unbounded and I am sure that whatever +you may learn in this way, will be held as sacred by you as though it +were buried in a tomb.” + +“It certainly will, sir.” + +“As for the dearer hope which I have mentioned, time and the condition +of things must decide for us. Meanwhile I shall strive to win a father’s +place in her heart, if only to build myself a refuge for the days that +are to come. You see I speak frankly, Miss Belinda; will you give me +some token that you are not altogether dissatisfied with the result of +this conversation?” + +With the straightforward if somewhat blunt action that characterized all +her movements, she stretched out her hand, which he took with something +more than his usual high-bred courtesy. “With you at the wheel,” said +she, “I think I may trust my darling, even to the whirl and follies of +such a society as I know Ona loves. A man who can so command himself, +ought to be a safe guide to pioneer others.” + +And the considerate gentleman bowed; but the frank smile that hailed her +genial clasp had somehow vanished, and from the sudden cloud that at +that moment swept over the roseate heavens, fell a shadow that left its +impress on his lip long after the cloud itself had departed. + +An hour or so had passed. The fire was burning brightly on the +hearthstone, illumining with a steady glow the array of stuffed birds, +worsted samplers and old-fashioned portraits with which the walls were +adorned, but reserving its richest glow and fullest irradiation for the +bended head of Paula, who seated on a little stool in the corner of the +hearth, was watching the rise and fall of the flickering flames. + +She had packed her little trunk, had said good-bye to all her +neighboring friends and was now sitting on the old hearthstone, musing +upon the new life that was about to open before her. It was a happy +musing, as the smile that vaguely dimpled her cheeks and brightened her +eyes beneath their long lashes, amply testified. As Mr. Sylvester +watched her from the opposite side of the hearth where he was sitting +alone with his thoughts, he felt his heart sink with apprehension at the +fervor of anticipation with which she evidently looked forward to the +life in the new home. “The young wings think to gain freedom,” thought +he, “when they are only destined to the confinement of a gilded cage.” + +He was so silent and looked so sad, Paula with a certain sort of +sensitiveness to any change in the emotional atmosphere surrounding her, +which was one of her chief characteristics, hastily looked up and +meeting his eye fixed on her with that foreboding glance, softly arose +and came and sat down by his side. “You look tired,” murmured she; “the +long ride after a day of business care has been too much for you.” + +It was the first word of sympathy with his often over-wearied mind and +body, that had greeted his ears for years. It made his eyes moisten. + +“I have been a little overworked,” said he, “for the last two months, +but I shall soon be myself again. What were you thinking of, Paula?” + +“What was I thinking of?” repeated she, drawing her chair nearer to his +in her loving confidence. “I was thinking what wonders of beauty and art +lay in that great kernel which you call the city. I shall see lovely +faces and noble forms. I shall wander through halls of music, the echo +of whose songs may have come to me in the sob of the river or the sigh +of the pines, but whose notes in all their beauty and power have never +been heard by me even in my dreams. I shall look on great men and touch +the garments of thoughtful women. I shall see life in its fullness as I +have felt nature in its mightiness, and my heart will be satisfied at +last.” + +Mr. Sylvester drew a deep breath and his eyes burned strangely in the +glow of the fire-light. “You expect high things,” said he; “did you ever +consider that the life in a great city, with its ceaseless rush and +constant rivalries, must be often strangely petty in despite of its +artistic and social advantages?” + +“All life has its petty side,” said she, with a sweet arch look. “The +eagle that cleaves the thunder-cloud, must sometimes stop to plume its +wings. I should be sorry to lose the small things out of existence. Even +we in the face of that great sunset appealing to us from the west, have +to pile up the firewood on the hearth and set the table for supper.” + +“But fashion, Paula,” he pursued, concealing his wonder at the maturity +of mind evinced by this simple child of nature, “that inexorable power +that rules the very souls of women who once step within the magic circle +of her realm! have you never thought of her and the demands that she +makes on the time and attention even of the worshippers of the good and +the true?” + +“Yes, sometimes,” she returned with a repetition of her arch little +smile, “when I put on a certain bonnet I have, which Aunt Abby modeled +over from one of my grandmother’s. Fashion is a sort of obstinate +step-dame I imagine, whom it is less trouble to obey than to oppose. I +don’t believe I shall quarrel with Fashion if she will only promise to +keep her hands off my soul.” + +“But if—” with a pause, “she asks your all, what then?” + +“I shall consider that I am in a country of democratic principles,” she +laughed, “and beg to be excused from acceding to the tyrannical demands +of any autocrat male or female.” + +“You have been listening to Miss Belinda,” said he; “she is also opposed +to all and any tyrannical measures.” Then with a grave look from which +all levity had fled, he leaned toward the young girl and gently asked, +“Do you know that you are a very beautiful girl, Paula?” + +She flushed, looked at him in some surprise and slowly drooped her head. +“I have been told I looked like my father,” said she, “and I know that +means something very kind.” + +“My child,” said he, with gentle insistence, “God has given you a great +and wonderful gift, a treasure-casket of whose worth you scarcely +realize the value. I tell you this myself, first because I prize your +beauty as something quite sacred and pure, and secondly because you are +going where you will hear words of adulation, whose folly and bluntness +will often offend your ears, unless you carry in your soul some talisman +to counteract their effect.” + +“I understand,” said she, “I know what you mean. I will remember that +the most engaging beauty is nothing without a pure mind and a good +heart.” + +“And you will remember too,” continued he, “that I blessed your innocent +head to-night, not because it is circled by the roses of a youthful and +fresh loveliness, but because of the pure mind and good heart I see +shining in your eyes.” And with a fond but solemn aspect he reached out +his hand and laid it on her ebon locks. + +She bowed her head upon her breast. “I will never forget,” said she, and +the fire-light fell with a softening glow on the tears that trembled +from her eye-lashes. + + + + +XIII. + +THE END OF MY LADY’S PICTURE. + + “Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.”—POPE. + + +Mrs. Sylvester was spending an evening at home. This was something so +unusual for this august lady of fashion to indulge in, that she found it +difficult not to fall asleep in the huge crimson-backed chair in which +she had chosen to ensconce herself. Not that she had desisted from +making every effort known to mortal woman to keep herself awake and if +possible amused till the expected travellers should arrive. She had +played with her bird till the spoiled pet had himself protested, ducking +his head under his wing and proceeding without ceremony to make up his +little feather bed, as cunning Geraldine used to call the round, fluffy +ball into which he rolled himself at night. More than that, she had +looked over her ornaments and taken out such articles as she thought +could be spared for Paula, to say nothing of playing a bar or so from +the last operatic sensation, and laboriously cutting open the leaves of +the new magazine. But it was all of no use, and the heavy white lids +were slowly falling, when the bell rang and Mr. Bertram Mandeville was +announced, or rather Bertram Sylvester as he now chose to be called. + +It was a godsend to her as she politely informed him upon his entrance; +and though in his secret heart he felt anything but God sent—he was not +of a make to appreciate his uncle’s wife at her very evident value—he +consented to remain and assist her in disposing of the evening till Mr. +Sylvester should return. + +“He is going to bring a pretty girl with him,” remarked she, in a tone +of some interest, “a cousin of mine from Grotewell. I should like to +have you see her.” + +“Thank you,” replied he, his mind roaming off at the suggestion, into +the region of a certain plain little music-room where the clock on the +mantel ticked to the beating of his own heart. And for ten minutes Mrs. +Sylvester had the pleasure of filling the room with a stream of easy +talk, in which Grotewell, dark beauties, the coming Seventh Regiment +reception, the last bit of gossip from London, and the exact situation +of the Madison Bank formed the principal topics. + +To the one last mentioned, it having taken the form of a question, he +was forced to reply; but the simple locality having been learned, she +rambled easily on, this time indulging him with a criticism upon the +personal appearance of certain business gentlemen who visited the house, +ending with the somewhat startling declaration: + +“If Edward were not the fine appearing gentleman that he undoubtedly is, +I should feel utterly out of place in these handsome parlors. Anything +but to see an elegant and modern home, decorated with the costliest +works of art, and filled with _bijouterie_ of the most exquisite +delicacy, presided over by a plain and common-place woman or a +bald-headed and inferior-looking man. The contrast is too vivid; works +of the highest art do not need such a startling comparison to bring out +their beauty. Now if Edward stood in the throne-room of a palace, he +would somehow make it seem to others as a handsome set off to his own +face and figure.” + +This was all very wife-like if somewhat unnecessary, and Bertram could +have listened to it with pleasure, if she had not cast the frequent and +side-long glances at the mirror, which sufficiently betrayed the fact +that she included herself in this complacent conclusion; as indeed she +may have considered herself justified in doing, husband and wife being +undoubtedly of one flesh. As it was, he maintained an immovable +countenance, though he admired his uncle as much as she did, and the +conversation gradually languished till the white somnolent lids of the +lady again began to show certain premonitory signs of drooping, when +suddenly they were both aroused by the well known click of a latch-key +in the door, and in another moment Mr. Sylvester’s voice was heard in +the hall, saying, in tones whose cheery accents made his wife’s eyes +open in surprise— + +“Welcome home, my dear.” + +“They have come,” murmured Mrs. Sylvester rising with a look of +undeniable expectation. Had Paula not been a beauty she would have +remained seated. + +“Yes, we have come,” was heard in hearty tones from the door-way, and +Mr. Sylvester with a proud look which Bertram long remembered, ushered +into their presence a young girl whose simple cloak and bonnet in no +wise prevented Mrs. Sylvester from recognizing the somewhat uncommon +beauty she had been led to expect. + +“Paula, this is your cousin Ona, and—Ah, Bertram, glad to see you—this +is my only nephew, Mr. Sylvester.” + +The young girl, lost in the sudden glamour of numerous lights, shining +upon splendors such as she may have dreamed of over the pages of +Irving’s Alhambra, but certainly had never before seen, blushed with +very natural embarrassment, but yet managed to bestow a pretty enough +greeting upon the elegant woman and handsome youth, while Ona after the +first moment of almost involuntary hesitation, took in hers the two +trembling hands of her youthful cousin and actually kissed her cheek. + +“I am not given to caresses as you know,” she afterwards explained in a +somewhat apologetic tone to her husband; “and anything like an appeal +for one on the part of a child or an inferior, I detest; but her simple +way of holding out her hand disarmed me, and then such a face demands a +certain amount of homage, does it not?” And her husband in his surprise, +was forced to acknowledge to himself, that as closely as he had studied +his wife’s nature for ten years, there were certain crooks and turns in +it which even he had never penetrated. + +“You look dazzled,” that lady exclaimed, gazing not unkindly into the +young girl’s face; “the sudden glare of so much gas-light has bewildered +you.” + +“I do not think it is that,” returned Paula with a frank and admiring +look at the gorgeous room and the circle of pleasant faces about her. +“Sudden lights I can bear, but I have come from a little cottage on the +hillside and the magnificence of nature does not prepare you for the +first sudden view of the splendors of art.” + +Mrs. Sylvester smiled and cast a side glance of amusement at Bertram. +“You admire our new hangings I see,” remarked she with an indulgence of +the other’s _näiveté_ that greatly relieved her husband. + +But in that instant a change had come across Paula; the simple country +maid had assimilated herself with the surroundings, and with a sudden +grace and dignity that were unstudied as they were charming, dropped her +eyes from her cousin’s portrait—that for some reason seemed to shine +with more than its usual insistence—and calmly replied, “I admire all +beautiful color; it is my birthright as a Walton, to do so, I suppose.” + +Mrs. Sylvester was a Walton also and therefore smiled; but her husband, +who had marked with inward distrust, the sudden transformation in Paula, +now stepped forward with a word or two of remark concerning his +appetite, a prosaic allusion that led to the rapid disappearance of the +ladies upstairs and a short but hurried conversation between the two +gentlemen. + +“I have brought you a sealed envelope from the office,” said Bertram, +who, in accordance with his uncle’s advice, had already initiated +himself into business by assuming the position of clerk in the office of +the wealthy speculator. + +“Ah,” returned his uncle hastily opening it. “As I expected, a meeting +has been held this day by the board of Directors of the Madison Bank, a +vote was cast, my proxy did his duty and I am duly elected President. +Bertram, we know what that means,” smiled he, holding out his hand with +an affectionate warmth greatly in advance of the emotion displayed by +him on a former occasion. + +“I hope so indeed,” young Bertram responded. “An increase of fortune and +honor for you, though you seem to have both in the fullest measure +already, and a start in the new life for me to whom fortune and honor +mean happiness.” + +A smile younger and more full of hope than any he had seen on his +uncle’s face for years, responded to this burst. “Bertram,” said he, +“since our conversation of a couple of weeks ago something has occurred +which somewhat alters the opinions I then expressed. If you have +patience equal to your energy, and a self-control that will not put to +shame your unbounded trust in women, I think I can say God-speed to your +serious undertaking, with something like a good heart. Women are not all +frivolous and foolish-minded; there are some jewels of simple goodness +and faith yet left in the world.” + +“Thank God for your conversion,” returned his nephew smiling, “and if +this lovely girl whom you have just introduced to me, is the cause of +it, then thank God for her also.” + +His uncle bowed with a gravity almost solemn, but the ladies returning +at this moment, he refrained from further reply. After supper, to which +unusual meal Mr. Sylvester insisted upon his nephew remaining, the two +gentlemen again drew apart. + +“If you have decided upon buying the shares I have mentioned,” said the +former, “you had better get your money in a position to handle at once. +I shall wish to present you to Mr. Stuyvesant to-morrow, and I should +like to be able to mention you as a future stockholder in the bank.” + +“Mr. Stuyvesant!” exclaimed Bertram, ignoring the rest of the sentence. + + +“Yes,” returned his uncle with a smile, “Thaddeus Stuyvesant is the next +largest stockholder to myself in the Madison Bank, and his patronage is +not an undesirable one.” + +“Indeed—I was not aware—excuse me, I should be happy,” stammered the +young man. “As for the money, it is all in Governments and is at your +command whenever you please.” + +“That is good, I’ll notify you when I’m ready for the transfer. And now +come,” said he, with a change from his deep business tone to the lighter +one of ordinary social converse, “forget for a half hour that you have +discarded the name of Mandeville, and give us an aria or a sonata from +Mendelssohn before those hands have quite lost their cunning.” + +“But the ladies,” inquired the youth glancing towards the drawing-room +where Mrs. Sylvester was giving Paula her first lesson in ceramics. + +“Ah, it is to see how the charm will act upon my shy country lassie, +that I request such a favor.” + +“Has she never heard Mendelssohn?” + +“Not with your interpretation.” + +Without further hesitation the young musician proceeded to the piano, +which occupied a position opposite to my lady’s picture in this +anomalous room denominated by courtesy the library. In another instant, +a chord delicate and ringing, disturbed the silence of the long vista, +and one of Mendelssohn’s most exquisite songs trembled in all its +delicious harmony through these apartments of sensuous luxury. + +Mr. Sylvester had seated himself where he could see the distant figure +of Paula, and leaning back in his chair, watched for the first startled +response on her part. He was not disappointed. At the first note, he +beheld her spirited head turn in a certain wondering surprise, followed +presently by her whole quivering form, till he could perceive her face, +upon which were the dawnings of a great delight, flush and pale by +turns, until the climax of the melody being reached, she came slowly +down the room, stretching out her hands like a child, and breathing +heavily as if her ecstacy of joy in its impotence to adequately express +itself, had caught an expression from pain. + +“O Mr. Sylvester!” was all she said as she reached that gentleman’s +side; but Bertram Mandeville recognized the accents of an unfathomable +appreciation in that simple exclamation, and struck into a grand old +battle-song that had always made his own heart beat with something of +the fire of ancient chivalry under its breastplate of modern broadcloth. + +“It is the voice of the thunder clouds when they marshal for battle!” +exclaimed she at the conclusion. “I can hear the cry of a righteous +struggle all through the sublime harmony.” + +“You are right; it is a war-song ancient as the time of battle-axes and +spears,” quoth Bertram from his seat at the piano. + +“I thought I detected the flashing of steel,” returned she. “O what a +world lies in those simple bits of ivory!” + +“Say rather in the fingers that sweep them,” uttered Mr. Sylvester. “You +will not hear such music often.” + +“I am glad of that,” she cried simply, then in a quick conscious tone +explained, “I mean that the hearing of such music makes an era in our +life, a starting-point for thoughts that reach away into eternity; we +could not bear such experiences often, it would confuse the spirit if +not deaden its enjoyment. Or so it seems to me,” she added naively, +glancing at her cousin who now came sweeping in from the further room, +where she had been trying the effect of a change in the arrangement of +two little pet monstrosities of Japanese ware. + +“What seems to you?” that lady inquired. “O, Mr. Mandeville’s playing? I +beg pardon, Sylvester is the name by which you now wish to be addressed +I suppose. Fine, isn’t it?” she rambled on all in the same tone while +she cautiously hid an unfortunate gape of her rosy mouth behind the +folds of her airy handkerchief. “Mr. Turner says the hiatus you have +made in the musical world by leaving the concert room for the desk, can +never be repaired,” she went on, supposedly to her nephew though she did +not look his way, being at that instant engaged in sinking into her +favorite chair. + +“I am glad,” Bertram politely returned with a frank smile, “to have +enjoyed the approval of so cultivated a critic as Mr. Turner. I own it +occasions me a pang now and then,” he remarked to his uncle over his +shoulder, “to think I shall never again call up those looks of +self-forgetful delight, which I have sometimes detected on the faces of +certain ones in my audience.” + +And he relapsed without pause into a solemn anthem, the very reverse of +the stirring tones which he had previously accorded them. + +“Now we are in a temple!” whispered Paula, subduing the sudden interest +and curiosity which this young man’s last words had awakened. And the +awe which crept over her countenance was the fittest interpretation to +those noble sounds, which the one weary-hearted man in that room could +have found. + +“I have something to tell you, Ona,” remarked Mr. Sylvester shortly +after this, as the music being over, they all sat down for a final chat +about the fireside. “I have received notice that the directors of the +Madison Bank have this day elected me their president. I thought you +might like to know it to-night.” + +“It is a very gratifying piece of news certainly. President of the +Madison Bank sounds very well, does it not, Paula?” + +The young girl with her soul yet ringing with the grand and solemn +harmonies of Mendelssohn and Chopin, turned at this with her brightest +smile. “It certainly does and a little awe-inspiring too;” she added +with her arch glance. + +“Your congratulations are also requested for our new assistant cashier. +Arise, Bertram, and greet the ladies.” + +With a blush his young nephew arose to his feet. + +“What! are you going into the banking business?” queried Mrs. Sylvester. +“Mr. Turner will be more shocked than ever: he chooses to say that +bankers, merchants and such are the solid rock of his church, while the +lighter fry such as artists, musicians, and let us hope he includes us +ladies, are its minarets, and steeples. Now to make a foundation out of +a steeple will quite overturn his methodical mind I fear.” + +Mr. Sylvester looked genially at his wife; she was not accustomed to +attempt the facetious; but Paula seemed to have the power of bringing +out unexpected lights and shadows from all with whom she came in +contact. + +“A clergyman who rears his church on the basis of wealth must expect +some overturning now and then,” laughed he. + +“If by means of it he turns a fresh side to the sun, it will do him no +harm,” chimed in Paula. + +Seldom had there been so much simple gaiety round that fireside; the +very atmosphere grew lighter, and the brilliance of my lady’s picture +became less oppressive. + +“We ought to have a happy winter of it,” spoke up Mr. Sylvester with a +glance around him. “Life never looked more cheerful for us all, I think; +what do you say, Bertram my boy.” + +“It certainly looks promising for me.” + +“And for me,” murmured Paula. + +The complacent way with which Mrs. Sylvester smoothed out the feathers +of her fan with her jewelled right hand,—she always carried a fan +winter and summer, some said for the purpose of displaying those same +jewelled fingers—was sufficient answer for her. + +At that moment there was a hush, when suddenly the small clock on the +mantel-piece struck eleven, and instantly as if awaiting the signal, +there came a rush and a heavy crash which drew every one to their feet, +and the brilliant portrait of my lady fell from the wall, and toppling +over the cabinet beneath, slid with the various articles of bronze and +china thereon, almost to the very chair in which its handsome prototype +had been sitting. + +It was a startling interruption and for an instant no one spoke, then +Paula with a look towards her cousin breathed to herself rather than +said, “Pray God it be not an omen!” And the pale countenances of the two +gentlemen standing face to face on either side of that fallen picture, +showed that the shadow of the same superstition had insensibly crossed +their own minds. + +Mrs. Sylvester was the only one who remained unmoved. “Lift if up,” +cried she, “and let us see if it has sustained any injury.” + +Instantly Bertram and her husband sprang forward, and in a moment its +glowing surface was turned upward. Who could read the meaning of the +look that crossed her husband’s face as he perceived that the sharp +spear of the bronze horseman, which had been overturned in the fall, had +penetrated the rosy countenance of the portrait and destroyed that +importunate smile forever. + +“I suppose it is a judgment upon me for putting all the money you had +allowed me for charitable purposes, into that exquisite bit of bronze,” +observed Mrs. Sylvester, stooping above the overturned horseman with an +expression of regret she had not chosen to bestow on her own ruined +picture. “Ah he is less of a champion than I imagined; he has lost his +spear in the struggle.” + +Paula glanced at her cousin in surprise. Was this pleasantry only a veil +assumed by this courtly lady to hide her very natural regret over the +more serious accident? Even her husband turned toward her with a certain +puzzled inquiry in his troubled countenance. But her expression of +unconcern was too natural; evidently the destruction of the picture had +awakened but small regret in her volatile mind. + +“She is less vain than I thought,” was the inward comment of Paula. + +Ah simple child of the woods and streams, it is the extent of her vanity +not the lack of it, that has produced this effect. She has begun to +realize that ten years have elapsed since this picture was painted, and +that people are beginning to say as they examine it, “Mrs. Sylvester has +not yet lost her complexion, I see.” + +A break necessarily followed this disturbance, and before long Bertram +took his leave, not without a cordial pressure from his uncle’s hand and +a look of kindly interest from the stranger lassie, upon whose +sympathetic and imaginative mind the hints let fall as to his former +profession, had produced a deep impression. With his departure Mrs. +Sylvester’s weariness returned, and ere long she led the way to her +apartments up stairs. As Paula was hastening to follow Mr. Sylvester +stopped her. + +“You will not allow this unfortunate occurrence,” he said, with a slight +gesture towards the picture now standing with its face against the wall, +“to mar your first sleep under my roof, will you Paula, my child?” + +“No, not if you say that you think Cousin Ona will not be likely to +connect it with my appearance here.” + +“I do not think she will; she is not superstitious and besides does not +seem to greatly regret the misfortune.” + +“Then I will forget it all and only remember the music.” + +“It was all you anticipated?” + +“It was more.” + +“Sometime I will tell you about the player and the sweet young girl he +loves.” + +“Does he—” she paused, blushing; love was a subject upon which she had +never yet spoken to any one. + +“Yes he does,” Mr. Sylvester returned smiling. + +“I thought there was a meaning in the music I did not quite understand. +Good night, uncle,”—he had requested her to address him thus though he +was in truth her cousin, “and many, many thanks.” + +But he stopped her again. “You think you will be happy in these rooms,” +said he; “you love splendor.” + +She was not yet sufficiently acquainted with his voice to detect the +regret underlying its kindly tone, and answered without suspicion. “I +did not know it before, but I fear that I do. It dazzled at first, but +now it seems as if I had reached a home towards which I had always been +journeying. I shall dream away hours of joy before each little ornament +that adorns your parlors. The very tiles that surround the fireplace +will demand a week of attention at least.” + +She ended with a smile, but unlike formerly he did not seem to catch the +infection. “I had rather you had cared less,” said he, but instantly +regretted the seeming reproach, for her eyes filled with tears and the +tones of her voice trembled as she replied, + +“Do you think the beauty I have seen has made me forget the kindness +that has brought me here? I love fine and noble objects, glory of color +and harmony of shape, but more than all these do I love a generous soul +without a blot on its purity, or a flaw in its integrity.” + +She had meant to utter something that would show her appreciation of his +goodness and the universal esteem in which he was held, but was quite +unprepared for the start that he gave and the unmistakable deepening of +the shadow on his sombre face. But before she could express her regret +at the offence, whatever it was, he had recovered himself, and it was +with a fatherly tenderness that he laid his hand upon hers while he +said, “Such a soul may yours ever continue, my child,” and then stood +watching her as she glided up the stairs, her charming face showing +every now and then as she leaned on her winding way to the top, to +bestow upon him the tender little smile she had already learned was his +solace and delight. + +It was the beginning of happier days for him. + + + + +BOOK II. + +LIFE AND DEATH. + + + + +XIV. + +MISS BELINDA HAS A QUESTION TO DECIDE. + + “I pray you in your letters, + + * * * * * + + Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, + Nor set down aught in malice.” + —OTHELLO. + + +Miss Belinda sitting before her bedroom fire on a certain windy night in +January, presented a picture of the most profound thought. A year had +elapsed since, with heavy heart and moistened eye, she had bidden +good-bye to the child of her care, and beheld her drift away with her +new friend into a strange and untried life. And now a letter had come +from that friend, in which with the truest appreciation for the feelings +of herself and sister, he requested their final permission to adopt +Paula as his own child and the future occupant of his house and heart. + +Yes, after a year of increased comfort, Mrs. Sylvester, who would never +have consented to receive as her own any child demanding care or +attention, had decided it was quite a different matter to give place and +position to a lovely girl already grown, whose beauty was sufficiently +pronounced to do credit to the family while at the same time it was of a +character to heighten by contrast her own very manifest attractions. So +the letter, destined to create such a disturbance in the stern and +powerful mind of Miss Belinda, had been written and dispatched. + +And indeed it was matter for the gravest reflection. To accede to this +important request was to yield up all control over the dear young girl +whose affection had constituted the brightness of this somewhat +disappointed life, while to refuse an offer made with such evident love +and anxiety, was to bring a pang of regret to a heart she hesitated to +wound. The question of advantage which might have swayed others in their +decision, did not in the least affect Miss Belinda. Now that Paula had +seen the world and gained an insight into certain studies beyond the +reach of her own attainments, any wishes in which she might have +indulged on that score were satisfied, and mere wealth with its +concomitant of luxuriant living, she regarded with distrust, and rather +in the light of a stumbling-block to the great and grand end of all +existence. + +Suddenly with that energy which characterized all her movements, she +rose from her seat, and first casting a look of somewhat cautious +inquiry at the recumbent figure of her sister, asleep in the heavy old +fashioned bed that occupied one corner of the room, she proceeded to a +bureau drawer and took out a small box which she unlocked on the table. +It was full of letters; those same honest epistles, which, as empowered +by Mr. Sylvester, she had requested Paula to send her from week to week. +Some of them were a year old, but she read them all carefully through, +while the clock ticked on the shelf and the wind soughed in the chimney. +Certain passages she marked, and when she had finished the pile, she +took up the letters again and re-read those passages. They were +necessarily desultory in their character, but they all had, in her mind +at least, a bearing upon the question on hand, and as such, I give them +to my readers. + + * * * * * + +“O aunty, I have made a friend, a sweet girl friend who I have reason to +hope will henceforth be to me as my other eye and hand. Her name is +Stuyvesant—a name by the way that always calls up a certain complacent +smile on Cousin Ona’s countenance—and she is the daughter of one of the +directors of Mr. Sylvester’s bank. I met her in a rather curious way. +For some reason Ona had expressed a wish for me to ride horseback. She +is rather too large for the exercise herself, but thought it looked +well, she said, to see a lady and groom ride from the front of the +house; moreover it would keep me in color by establishing my health. So +Mr. Sylvester who denies her nothing, promised us horses and the groom, +and as a preparation for acquitting myself with credit, has sent me to +one of the finest riding academies in the city. It was here I met Miss +Stuyvesant. She is a small interesting-looking girl whose chief beauty +lies in her expression which is certainly very charming. I was conscious +of a calm and satisfied feeling the moment I saw her. Her eyes which are +raised with a certain appeal to your face, are blue, while her lips that +break into smiles only at rare moments, are rosy and delicately curved. +In her riding-habit she looks like a child, but when dressed for the +street she surprises you with the reserved and womanly air with which +she carries her proud head. Altogether she is a sweet study to me, +alluring me with her glance yet awing me by her dainty ladyhood, a +ladyhood too unconscious to be affected and yet so completely a part of +her whole delicate being, that you could as soon dissociate the bloom +from the rose, as the air of highborn reserve, from this sweet scion of +one of New York’s oldest families. + +“I was mounting my horse when our eyes first met, and I never shall +forget her look of delighted surprise. Did she recognize in me the +friend I now hope to become? Later we were introduced by Mr. Sylvester +who had been so kind as to accompany me that day. The way in which he +said to her, ‘This is Paula,’ proved that I was no new topic of +conversation between them, and indeed she afterwards explained to me +that she had been forewarned of my arrival during an afternoon call at +his house. There was in this first interview none of the unnecessary +gush which you have so often reprobated as childish; indeed Miss +Stuyvesant is not a person with whom one would presume to be familiar, +nor was it till we had met several times that any acknowledgement was +made of the mutual interest with which we found ourselves inspired. +Cousin Ona to whom I had naturally spoken of the little lady, wished me +to cultivate her acquaintance more assiduously, but I knew that if I had +excited in her the same interest she had awakened in me, this would not +be necessary; our friendship would grow of itself and blossom without +any hot-house forcing. And so it did. One day she came to the +riding-school with her eyes like stars and her cheeks like the oleanders +in your sitting-room. Her brightness was so contagious, I stepped up to +her. But she greeted me with almost formal reserve, and mounting her +horse, proceeded to engage in her usual exercise. I was not hurt; I +recognized the presence of some thought or feeling which made a barrier +around her sensitive nature, and duly respected it. Mounting my own +horse, I rode around the ring which is the somewhat limited field of my +present equestrian efforts, and waited. For I knew from the looks which +she cast me every now and then, that the flower of our friendship was +outgrowing its sheath and would soon burst into the bud of perfect +understanding. At the end of the lesson we approached each other. I do +not know how it was done, but we walked home together, or rather I +accompanied her to the stoop of her house, and before we parted we had +exchanged those words which give emphasis to a sentiment long cherished +but now for the first time avowed. Miss Stuyvesant and I are friends, +and I feel as though a new stream of enjoyment had opened in my breast. + +“The fact that I still call her by this formal title instead of her very +pretty name of Cicely, proves the nature of the respect she inspires +even in the breasts of her girlish associates.” + +“Why is it that I frequently hesitate as I go up the stairs and look +about me with a vague feeling of apprehension? The bronze figure of +Luxury that adorns the landing, wears no semblance of terror to the +wildest imagination, and yet I often find myself seized by an +inexplicable shudder as I hurry past it; and once I actually looked +behind me with the same sensation as if some one had plucked me by the +sleeve. + +“It is a folly; for recording which, I make my excuses.” + + * * * * * + +“Cousin Ona has decided that I must never wear colors. ‘Soft grays, my +dear, dead blacks and opaque whites are all that you need to bring out +the fine contrast of your hair and complexion; the least hint of blue or +pink would destroy it.’ So she says and so I must believe, for who else +has made such a study of the all important subject of dress. Behold me, +then, arrayed for my first reception in a colorless robe of rich silk to +which Ona after long consideration allowed me to add some ornaments of +plain gold with which Mr. Sylvester has kindly presented me. But I think +more of the people I am going to meet than of anything else, though I +enjoy the home-feeling which a pretty dress gives me, as well as a +violet does its bright blue coat.” + + * * * * * + +“I have heard a great preacher! What shall I say? At first it seems as +if nothing could express my joy and satisfaction. The sapling that is +shaken to its root by the winds of heaven, keeps silence I imagine. But +O Aunty, if my smallness makes me quake, it also makes me feel. What +gates of thought have been opened to me! What shining tracks of inquiry +pointed out! I feel as if I had been shown a path where angels walked. +Can it be that such words have been uttered every week of my life and I +in ignorance of them? It is like the revelation of the ocean to +unaccustomed eyes. Henceforth small things must seem like pebble stones +above which stretch innumerable heavenly vistas. It is not so much that +new things have been revealed to me as that old things have been made +strangely eloquent. The voice of a daisy on the hill side, the breath of +thunder in the mountain gorges, the blossoming of a child’s smile under +its mother’s eye, the fact that golden portals are opened in every life +for the coming and going of the messengers of God, all have been made +real to me, real as the voice of the Saviour to his disciples as they +walked in the fields or started back awe-stricken from the stupendous +vision of the cross. It is a solemn thing to see one’s humble thoughts +caught by the imagination of a great mind and carried on and up into +regions you never realized existed. + +“I was so burdened with joy that I could not forbear asking Mr. +Sylvester if he did not feel as if the whole face of the world had +changed since we entered those holy doors. He did not respond with the +glad ‘Yes’ for which I hoped, and though his smile was very kind, I +could not help wondering what it was that sometimes fell between us like +a veil.” + +“O Aunty, how my heart does yearn towards Mr. Sylvester at times! As I +see him sitting with clouded brow in the midst of so much that ought to +charm and enliven him, I ask myself if the advantages of wealth +compensate for all this care and anxiety. But I notice he is much more +cheerful now than when I first came. Ona says he is in danger of losing +the air of melancholy reserve which made him look so distinguished, but +I think we can spare a little of such doubtful distinguishment for the +sake of the smiles with which he now and then indulges us.” + + * * * * * + +“I feel as if a hand had gripped my throat. Cousin Ona spoke to Mr. +Sylvester this morning in a way that made my very heart stand still. And +yet it was only a simple, ‘Follow your own judgment, Mr. Sylvester.’ But +how she said it! Do these languid women carry venom in their tongues? I +had always thought she was of too easy a disposition to feel anger or +display it; but the spring of a serpent is all the deadlier for his long +silent basking in the sun. O pardon me for making such a frightful +allusion. But if you had seen her and heard Mr. Sylvester’s sigh as he +turned and left the room!” + + * * * * * + +“Mr. Bertram Sylvester has awakened my deepest interest. His uncle has +told me his story, which alone of all the things I have heard in this +house, I do not feel at liberty to repeat, and it has aroused in me +strange thoughts and very peculiar emotions. He is devoted to some one +we do not know, and the idea surrounds him in my eyes with a sort of +halo that you would perhaps call fanciful, but which I am nevertheless +bound to reverence. He does not know that I am acquainted with his +story. I wish he did and would let me speak the words that rise to my +lips whenever I see him or hear him play.” + + * * * * * + +“There are moments when I long to flee back to Grotewell. It is when +Cousin Ona comes in from shopping with a dozen packages to be opened and +commented upon, or when Mrs. Fitzgerald has been here or some other of +her ultra-fashionable acquaintances. The atmosphere of the house for +hours after either of the above occurrences is too heavy for breathing. +I have to go away and clear my brain by a brisk walk or a look into +Knœdler’s or Schaus’.” + + * * * * * + +“The panel where Cousin Ona’s picture used to hang, has been filled by +one of Meissonier’s most interesting studies; and though I never thought +Mr. Sylvester particularly fond of the French style of art, he seems +very well satisfied with the result. I cannot understand how Cousin Ona +can regard the misfortune to her portrait so calmly. I think it would +break my heart to see a husband look with complacency on any picture, no +matter how exquisite, that took the place of my own, especially if like +her’s, it was painted in my bridal days. I sometimes wonder if those +days are as sacred to the memory of husband and wife as I have always +imagined them to be.” + + * * * * * + +“Why does Cousin Ona never speak of Grotewell, and why, if by chance I +mention the name, does she drop her eyes and a shadow cross the +countenance of Mr. Sylvester?” + + * * * * * + +“There is a word Mr. Sylvester uses in the most curious way; it is +_fuss_. He calls everything a fuss that while insignificant in size or +character has power either to irritate or please. A fly is a fuss; so is +a dimple in a girl’s cheek or a figure that goes wrong in accounts. I +have even heard him call a child, ‘That dear little fuss.’ Bertram +unconsciously imitates his uncle in this peculiar mannerism and is often +heard alluding to this or that as a _fuss of fusses_. Indeed they say +this use of the word is a peculiarity of the Sylvester family.” + + * * * * * + +“I think from the way Mr. Sylvester spoke yesterday, that he must have +experienced some dreadful trouble in his life. We were walking in the +wards of a hospital—that is, Miss Stuyvesant, Mr. Sylvester and +myself—when some one near us gave utterance to the trite expression, ‘O +it will heal, but the scar will always remain.’ ‘That is a common +saying,’ remarked Mr. Sylvester, ‘but how true a one no one realizes but +he who carries the scar.’” + + * * * * * + +“It may be imagination or simply the effect of increased appreciation on +my part, but it does seem as if Miss Stuyvesant grew lovelier and more +companionable each time that I meet her. She makes me think of a temple +in which a holy lamp is burning. Her very silences are eloquent, and yet +she is never _distraite_ but always cheerful and frequently the +brightest of the company. But it is a brightness without glitter, a +gentle lustre that delights you but never astonishes. I meet many sweet +girls in the so-called heartless circles of society, but none like her. +She is my white lily on which a moonbeam rests.” + + * * * * * + +“This house contains a mystery, as Ona is pleased to designate the room +at the top of the house to which Mr. Sylvester withdraws when he desires +to be alone. And indeed it is a sort of Bluebeard’s chamber, in that he +keeps it rigidly under lock and key, allowing no one to enter it, not +even his wife. The servants declare that no one but himself has ever +crossed its threshold, but I can scarcely believe that. Ona has not, but +there must surely be some trusty person to whom he allots the care of +its furniture. Am I only proving myself to be a true member of my sex +when I allow that I cannot hinder my own curiosity from hovering about a +spot so religiously guarded? Yet what should we see if its doors were +thrown open? A study surrounded with books it displeases him to see +misplaced, or a luxurious apartment fitted with every appointment +necessary to rest and comfort him when he comes home tired from +business.” + + * * * * * + +“I never saw Mr. Sylvester angry till to-day. By some inadvertence he +went down town without locking the door of his private room, and though +he returned immediately upon missing the key from his pocket, he was +barely in time to prevent Cousin Ona from invading the spot he has +always kept so sacred from intrusion. I was not present and of course +did not hear what was said, but I caught a glimpse of his face as he +left the house, and found it quite sufficient to assure me of his +dissatisfaction. As for Ona, she declares he pulled her back as if she +had been daring the plague. ‘I do not expect to find five beautiful +wives hanging up there by their necks,’ concluded she with a forced +laugh, ‘but I shall yet see the interior of that room, if only to +establish my prerogative as the mistress of this house.’ + +“I do not now feel as if I wished to see it.” + + * * * * * + +“There is one thing that strikes me as peculiar in Miss Stuyvesant, and +that is, that as much pleasure as she seems to take in my society when +we meet, she never comes to see me in Mr. Sylvester’s house. For a long +time I wondered over this but said nothing, but one day upon receiving a +second invitation to visit her, I mentioned the fact as delicately as I +could, and was quite distressed to observe how seriously she took the +rebuke, if rebuke it could be called. ‘I cannot explain myself,’ she +murmured in some embarrassment; ‘but Mr. Sylvester’s house is closed +against me. You must not ask me to seek you there or expect me to do +myself the pleasure of attending Mrs. Sylvester’s receptions. I cannot. +Is that enough for me to say to my dearest friend?’ I hardly knew what +to reply, but finally ventured to inquire if she was restrained by any +fact that would make it undignified in me to seek her society and enjoy +the pleasures she is continually offering me. And she answered with such +a cheerful negative I was quite reassured. And so the matter is settled. +Our friendship is to be emancipated from the bonds of etiquette and I am +to enjoy her company whenever I can. To-morrow we are going to take our +first ride in the park. The horses have been bought, and much to Cousin +Ona’s satisfaction, the groom has been hired.” + + * * * * * + +“I was told something the other day, of a nature so unpleasant that I +should not think of repeating it, if you had not expressly commanded me +to confide to you everything that for any reason produced an effect upon +me in my new home. My informant was Sarah, the somewhat gossiping woman +whom Ona has about her as seamstress and maid. She said—and she had +spoken before I could prevent her—that the way Mrs. Sylvester took on +about her mourning at the time of little Geraldine’s death was enough to +wear out the patience of Job. She even went so far as to tell the +dressmaker that if she could not have her dress made to suit her she +would not put on mourning at all! Aunty, can you wonder that Mr. +Sylvester looks so bitterly sombre whenever mention is made of his +child? He loved it, and its own mother could worry over the fit of a +dress while his bereaved heart was breaking! I confess I can never feel +the same indulgence towards what I considered the idiosyncrasies of a +fashionable beauty again. Her smooth white skin makes me tremble; it has +never flushed with delight over the innocent smiles of her firstborn.” + + * * * * * + +“Mr. Sylvester is very polite to Cousin Ona and seems to yield to her +wishes in everything. But if I were she I think my heart would break +over that very politeness. But then she is one who demands formality +even from the persons of her household. I have never seen him stoop for +a kiss or beheld her even so much as lay her hand on his shoulder. But I +have observed him wait on her at moments when he was pale from weariness +and she flushed with long twilight reclinings before her sleepy boudoir +fire.” + + * * * * * + +“There are times when I would not exchange my present opportunities for +any others which might be afforded me. General —— dined here to-day, +and what a vision of a great struggle was raised up before me by his few +simple words in regard to Gettysburg. I did not know which to admire +most, the military bearing and vivid conversation of the great soldier, +or the ease and dignity with which Mr. Sylvester met his remarks and +answered each glowing sentence. General —— spoke a few words to me. +How gentle these lion-like men can be when they stoop their tall heads +to address little children or young women!” + + * * * * * + +“What a noble-hearted man Mr. Sylvester is! Mr. Turner in speaking of +him the other night, declared there is no one in his congregation who in +a quiet way does so much for the poor. ‘He is especially interested in +young men,’ said he, ‘and will leave his own affairs at any time to aid +or advise them.’ I knew Mr. Sylvester was kind, but Mr. Turner’s +enthusiasm was uncommon. He evidently admires Mr. Sylvester as much as +every one else loves him. And he is not alone in this. Almost every day +I hear some remark made of a nature complimentary to my benefactor’s +character or ability. Even Mr. Stuyvesant who so seldom appears to +notice us girls, once interrupted a conversation between Cicely and +myself to inquire if Mr. Sylvester was quite well. ‘I thought he looked +pale to-day,’ remarked he, in his dry but not unkindly way, and then +added, ‘He must not get sick; he is too valuable to us.’ This was a +great deal for Mr. Stuyvesant to say, and it caused a visible +gratification to Mr. Sylvester when I related it to him in the evening. +‘I had rather satisfy that man than any other I know,’ declared he. ‘He +is of the stern old-fashioned sort, and it is an honor to any one to +merit his approval. I did not tell him that I had also heard Mr. +Stuyvesant observe in a conversation with some business friend of his, +that Edward Sylvester was the only speculator he knew in whom he felt +implicit confidence. Somehow it always gives me an uncomfortable feeling +to hear Mr. Sylvester alluded to as a speculator. Besides since he has +entered the Bank, he has I am told, entirely restricted himself to what +are called legitimate operations.’” + + * * * * * + +“Mr. Sylvester came home with a dreadful look on his face to-day. We +were standing in the hall at the time the door opened, and he went by us +without a nod, almost as if he did not see us. Even Ona was startled and +stood gazing after him with an anxiety such as I had never observed in +her before, while I was conscious of that sick feeling I have sometimes +experienced when he came upon me suddenly from his small room above, or +paused in the midst of the gayest talk, to ask me some question that was +wholly irrelevant and most frequently sad. + +“‘He has met with some heavy loss,’ murmured his wife, glancing down the +handsome parlors with a look such as a mother might bestow upon the face +of a sick child. But I was sure she had not sounded his trouble, and in +my impetuosity was about to fly to his side when we saw him pause before +the image of Luxury that stands on the stair, look at it for a moment +with a strange intentness, then suddenly and with a gesture of +irrepressible passion, lift his arm as if he would fell it from its +place. The action was so startling, Ona clutched my sleeve in terror, +but he passed on and in another moment we heard him shut the door of his +room. + +“Would he be down to dinner? that was the next question. Ona thought +not; I did not dare to think. Nevertheless it was a great relief to me +when I saw him enter the dining-room with that set immovable look he +sometimes wears when Ona begins one of her long and rambling streams of +fashionable gossip. ‘It is nothing,’ flashed from his wife’s eyes to +mine, and she lapsed at once into her most graceful self, but she +nevertheless hastened her meal and I was quite prepared to observe her +follow him, as with the polite excuse of weariness, he left the table +before desert. I could not hear what she asked him, but his answer came +distinctly to my ears from the midst of the library to which they had +withdrawn. ‘It is nothing in which you have an interest, Ona. Thank +heaven you do not always know the price with which the splendors you so +love are bought.’ And she did not cry out, ‘O never pay such a price for +any joy of mine! Sooner than cost you so dear I would live on crusts and +dwell in a garret.’ No, she kept silence, and when in a few minutes +later I joined her in the library, it was to find on her usually placid +lips, a thin cool smile that struck like ice to my heart, and made it +impossible for me to speak. + +“But the hardest trial of the day was to hear Mr. Sylvester come in at +eleven o’clock—he went out again immediately after dinner—and go up +stairs without giving me my usual good-night. It was such a grief to me +I could not keep still, but hurried to the foot of the stairs in the +hopes he would yet remember me and come back. But instead of that, he no +sooner saw me than he threw out his hand almost as if he would push me +back, and hastened on up the whole winding flight till he reached the +refuge of that mysterious room of his at the top of the house. + +“I could not go back to Ona after that—she had been to make a call +somewhere with a young gentleman friend of hers;—yes on this very night +had been to make a call—but I took advantage of the late hour to retire +to my own room where for a long time I lay awake listening for his +descending step and seeing, as in a vision, the startling picture of his +lifted arm raised against the unconscious piece of bronze on the stair. +Henceforth that statue will possess for me a still more dreadful +significance.” + +“It is the twenty-fifth of February. Why should I feel as if I must be +sure of the exact date before I slept?” + + * * * * * + +The next extract followed close on this and was the last which Miss +Belinda read. + +“Mr. Sylvester seems to have recovered from his late anxiety. He does +not shrink from me any more with that half bitter, half sad expression +that has so long troubled and bewildered me, but draws me to his side +and sits listening to my talk until I feel as if I were really of some +comfort to this great and able man. Ona does not notice the change; she +is all absorbed in preparing for the visit to Washington, which Mr. +Sylvester has promised her.” + + * * * * * + + +Miss Belinda calmly folded up the letters and locked them again in the +little mahogany box, after which she covered up the embers and quietly +went to bed. But next morning a letter was despatched to Mr. Sylvester +which ran thus: + + “DEAR MR. SYLVESTER: + + “For the present at least you may keep Paula with you. But I am + not ready to say that I think it would be for her best good to + be received and acknowledged as your daughter—yet. Hoping you + will appreciate the motives that actuate this decision, + + “I remain, respectfully yours, + + “BELINDA ANN WALTON.” + + + + +XV. + +AN ADVENTURE—OR SOMETHING MORE. + + “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, + But to be young was very heaven.”—WORDSWORTH. + + + “_Oph._—What means this, my lord? + + _Ham._—Marry, this is the miching mallecho; it means + mischief.” + + —HAMLET. + + +A ride in the Central Park is an every-day matter to most people. It +signifies an indolent bowling over a smooth road all alive with the +glitter of passing equipages, waving ribbons and fluttering plumes, and +brightened now and then by the sight of a well known face amid the +general rush of old and young, plain and handsome, sad and gay +countenances that flash by you in one long and brilliant procession. + +But to Paula and her friend Miss Stuyvesant starting out in the early +freshness of a fair April morning, it meant new life, reawakening joy, +the sparkle of young leaves just loosed from the bonds of winter, the +sweetness and promise of spring airs, and all the budding glory of a new +year with its summer of countless roses and its autumn of incalculable +glories. Not the twitter of a bird was lost to them, not the smile of an +opening flower, not the welcome of a waving branch. Youth, joy, and +innocence lived in their hearts and showed them nothing in the mirror of +nature that was not equally young, joyous and innocent. Then they were +alone, or sufficiently so. The stray wanderers whom they met sitting +under the flowering trees, were equally with themselves lovers of nature +or they would not be seated in converse with it at this early hour; +while the laugh of little children startled from their play by the +prance of their high-stepping horses, was only another expression of the +sweet but unexpressed delight that breathed in all the radiant +atmosphere. + +“We are two birds who have escaped thralldom and are taking our first +flight into our natural ether,” cried Miss Stuyvesant gaily. + +“We are two pioneers lit by the spirit of adventure, who have left the +cosy hearth of wintry-fires to explore the domains of the frost king, +and lo, we have come upon a Paradise of bloom and color!” responded the +ringing voice of Paula. + +“I feel as if I could mount that little white cloud we see over there,” +continued Cicely with a quick lively wave of her whip. “I wonder how +Dandy would enjoy an empyrean journey?” + +“From the haughty bend of his neck I should say he was quite satisfied +with his present condition. But perhaps his chief pride is due to the +mistress he carries.” + +“Are you attempting to vie with Mr. Williams, Paula?” + +Mr. Williams was the meek-eyed, fair complexioned gentleman, whose +predilection for compliment was just then a subject of talk in +fashionable circles. + +“Only so far as my admiration goes of the most charming lady I see this +morning. But who is this?” + +Miss Stuyvesant looked up. “Ah, that is some one with whom there is very +little danger of your falling in love.” + +Paula blushed. The gentleman approaching them upon horseback was +conspicuous for long side whiskers of a decidedly auburn tinge. + +“His name is—” But she had not time to finish, for the gentleman with a +glance of astonished delight at Paula, bowed to the speaker with a +liveliness and grace that demanded some recognition. + +Instantly he drew rein. “Do I behold Miss Stuyvesant among the nymphs!” +cried he, in those ringing pleasant tones that at once predispose you +towards their possessor. + +“If you allude to my friend Miss Fairchild, you certainly do, Mr. +Ensign,” the wicked little lady rejoined with a waiving of her usual +ceremony that astonished Paula. + +Mr. Ensign bestowed upon them his most courtly bow, but the flush that +mounted to his brow—making his face one red, as certain of his friends +were malicious enough to observe on similar occasions—indicated that he +had been taken a little more at his word than perhaps suited even one of +his easy and proverbially careless temperament. “Miss Fairchild will +understand that I am not a Harvey Williams—at least before an +introduction,” said he with something like seriousness. + +But at this allusion to the gentleman whose name had been upon their +lips but a moment before, both ladies laughed outright. + +“I have just been accused of attempting the rôle of that gentleman +myself,” exclaimed Paula. “If the fresh morning air will persist in +painting such roses on ladies’ cheeks,” continued she, with a loving +look at her pretty companion “what can one be expected to do?” + +“Admire,” quoth the red bannered cavalier with a glance, however, at the +beautiful speaker instead of the demure little Cicely at her side. + +Miss Stuyvesant perceived this look and a curious smile disturbed the +corners of her rosy lips. “What a fortunate man to be able to do the +right thing at the right time,” laughed she, gaily touching up her horse +that was beginning to show symptoms of restlessness. + +“If Miss Stuyvesant will put that in the future tense and then assure us +she has been among the prophets, I should be singularly obliged,” said +he with a touch of his hat and a smiling look at Paula that was at once +manly and gentle, careless and yet respectful. + +“Ah, life is too bright for prophesies this morning. The moment is +enough.” + +“Is it Miss Fairchild?” queried Mr. Ensign looking back over his +shoulder. + +She turned just a bit of her cheek towards him. “What Miss Stuyvesant +declares to be true, that am I bound to believe,” said she, and with the +least little ripple of a laugh, rode on. + +“It is a pity you have such a dislike for whiskers,” Cicely presently +remarked with an air of great gravity. + +Paula gave a start and cast a glance of reproach at her companion. “I +did not notice his whiskers after the first word or two,” said she, +fixing her eyes on a turn of the road before them. “Such cheerfulness is +infectious. I was merry before, but now I feel as if I had been bathed +in sunshine.” + +Cicely’s eyes flashed wide with surprise and her face grew serious in +earnest. “Mr. Ensign is a delightful companion,” observed she; “a room +is always brighter for his entrance; and with all that, he is the only +young man I know, who having come into a large fortune, feels any of the +responsibilities of his position. The sunshine is the result of a good +heart and pure living, and that is what makes it infectious, I suppose.” + +“Let us canter,” said Paula. And so the glad young things swept on, life +breaking in bubbles around them and rippling away into unfathomable +wells of feeling in one of their pure hearts at least. Suddenly a hand +seemed to swoop from heaven and dash them both back in dismay. They had +reached one of those places where the foot path crosses the equestrian +and they had run over and thrown down a little child. + +“O heaven!” cried Paula leaping from her horse, “I had rather been +killed myself.” The groom rode up and she bent anxiously over the child. + +It was a boy of some seven or eight years, whose misfortune—he was +lame, as the little crutch fallen at his side sufficiently denoted—made +appear much younger. He had been struck on his arm and was moaning with +pain, but did not seem to be otherwise hurt. “Are you alone?” cried +Paula, lifting his head on her arm and glancing hurriedly about. + +The little fellow raised his heavy lids and for a moment stared into her +face with eyes so deeply blue and beautiful they almost startled her, +then with an effort pointed down the path, saying, + +“Dad’s over there in the long tunnel talking to some one. Tell him I got +hurt. I want Dad.” + +She gently lifted him to his feet and led him out of the road into the +apparently deserted path where she made him sit down. “I am going to +find his father,” said Paula to Cicely, “I will be back in a moment.” + +“But wait; you shall not go alone,” authoritatively exclaimed that +little damsel, leaping in her turn to the ground. “Where does he say his +father is?” + +“In the tunnel, by which I suppose he means that long passage under the +bridge over there.” + +Holding up the skirts of their riding-habits in their trembling right +hands, they hurried forward. Suddenly they both paused. A woman had +crossed their path; a woman whom to look at but once was to remember +with ghastly shrinking for a lifetime. She was wrapped in a long and +ragged cloak, and her eyes, startling in their blackness, were fixed +upon the pain-drawn countenance of the poor little hurt boy behind them, +with a gleam whose feverish hatred and deep malignant enjoyment of his +very evident sufferings, was like a revelation from the lowest pit to +the two innocent-minded girls hastening forward on their errand of +mercy. + +“Is he much hurt?” gasped the woman in an ineffectual effort to conceal +the evil nature of her interest. “Do you think he will die?” with a +shrill lingering emphasis on the last word as if she longed to roll it +like a sweet morsel under her tongue. + +“Who are you?” asked Cicely, shrinking to one side with dilated eyes +fixed on the woman’s hardened countenance and the white, too white hand +with which she had pointed as she spoke of the child. + +“Are you his mother?” queried Paula, paling at the thought but keeping +her ground with an air of unconscious authority. + +“His mother!” shrieked the woman, hugging herself in her long cloak and +laughing with fiendish sarcasm: “I look like his mother, don’t I? His +eyes—did you notice his eyes? they are just like mine, aren’t they? and +his body, poor weazen little thing, looks as if it had drawn sustenance +from mine, don’t it? His mother! O heaven!” + +Nothing like the suppressed force of this invocation seething as it was +with the worst passions of a depraved human nature, had ever startled +those ears before. Clasping Cicely by the hand, she called out to the +groom behind them, “Guard that child as you would your life!” and then +flashing upon the wretched creature before her with all the force of her +aroused nature, she exclaimed, “If you are not his mother, move aside +and let us pass, we are in search of assistance.” + +For an instant the woman stood awe-struck before this vision of maidenly +beauty and indignation, then she laughed and cried out with shrill +emphasis: + +“When next you look like that, go to your mirror, and when you see the +image it reflects, say to yourself, ‘So once looked the woman who defied +me in the Park!’” + +With a quick shudder and a feeling as if the noisome cloak of this +degraded being had somehow been dropped upon her own fair and spotless +shoulders, Paula clasped the hand of Cicely more tightly in her own, and +rushed with her down the steps that led into the underground passage +towards which they had been directed. + +There were but two persons in it when they entered. A short thickset man +and another man of a slighter and more gentlemanly build. They were +engaged in talking, and the latter was bringing down his right hand upon +the palm of his left with a gesture almost foreign in its expressive +energy. + +“I tell you,” declared he, with a voice that while low, reverberated +through the hollow vault above him with strange intensity, “I tell you +I’ve got my grip on a certain rich man in this city, and if you will +only wait, you shall see strange things. I don’t know his name and I +don’t know his face, but I do know what he has done, and a thousand +dollars down couldn’t buy the knowledge of me.” + +“But if you don’t know his name and don’t know his face, how in the name +of all that’s mischievous are you going to know your man?” + +“Leave that to me! If I once meet him and hear him talk, one more rich +man goes down and one more poor devil goes up, or I’ve not the wit that +starvation usually teaches.” + +The nature of these sentences together with the various manifestations +of interest with which they were received, had for a moment deterred the +two girls in their hurried advance, but now they put away every thought +save that of the poor little creature awaiting his Dad, and lifting up +her voice, Paula said, + +“Are either of you the father of a little lame lad—” + +Instantly and before she could conclude, the taller of the two, who had +also been the chief speaker in the above conversation, turned, and she +saw his hand begrimed though it was with dirt and dark with many a +disgraceful trick, go to his heart in a gesture too natural to be +anything but involuntary. + +“Is he hurt?” gasped he, but in how different a tone from that of the +woman who had used the same words a few minutes before. Then seeing that +the persons who addressed him were ladies and one of them at least a +very beautiful one, took off his hat with an easy action, that together +with what they had heard, proved him to be one of that most dangerous +class among us, a gentleman who has gone thoroughly and irretrievably to +the bad. + +“I am afraid he is, sir,” said Paula. “He was attempting to cross the +road, and a horse advancing hurriedly, struck him.” She had not courage +to say her horse in face of the white and trembling dismay that seized +him at these words. + +“Where is he?” cried he. “Where’s my poor boy?” And he bounded up the +steps, his hat still in his hand, his long unkempt locks flying, and his +whole form expressive of the utmost alarm. + +“Down by the carriage road,” called out Paula, finding it impossible for +them to keep up with such haste. + +“But is he much injured?” cried a smooth voice at their side. + +They turned; it was the short thickset man who had been the other’s +companion in the conversation above recorded. + +“We trust not,” answered Cicely; “his arm received the blow, and he +suffers very much, but we hope it is not serious;” and they hurried on. + +They found the father seated on the grass holding the little fellow in +his arms. The look on his once handsome but now thoroughly corrupt and +dissipated face, made their hearts melt within them. However wicked he +might be—and that sly treacherous eye, that false impudent lip, that +settling of the whole face into the mould which Vice applies to all her +votaries, left no doubt of his complete depravity—he dearly loved his +child, and love, no matter how it is expressed, or in what garb it +appears, is a sacred and beautiful thing, and ennobles for the time +being any creature who displays it. + +“’Twas a hard knock up, Dad,” came from the white lips of the child as +he felt his father’s trembling hand feel up and down his arm, “but I +guess the ‘little fellar’ can stand it.” “Little feller” was evidently +the name by which his father was accustomed to address him. + +“There are no bones broken,” said the father. “To be lame and maimed too +would be—” + +He did not finish, for a delicately gloved hand was here laid on his +sleeve, and a gentle voice whispered, “Money cannot pay for an injury +like that, but please accept this;” and Paula thrust a purse into his +hand. + +He clutched it eagerly, but at her next request that he should tell her +where he lived that they might inquire after the boy, he shook his head +with a return of his old emphasis. + + +“The haunts of bats and jackals are not for ladies.” Then as he caught +sight of her pitiful face bending in farewell over the little urchin, +some remembrance perhaps of the days when he had a right to stoop to the +ear of beautiful women and walk unrebuked at their side, returned to him +from the past, and respectfully lowering his voice, he asked her name. + +She gave it and he seemed to lay it away in his mind; then as the ladies +turned to remount their horses, rose and began carrying the little +fellow off. As he vanished in the turn of the path that led towards the +main entrance, they perceived a tall dark figure arise from a seat in +the distance and stand looking after him, with a leer on its face and a +malicious hugging of itself in a long black cloak, that proclaimed her +to be the same ominous being who had before so grievously startled them. + + + + +XVI. + +THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES. + + “And my imaginations are as foul + As Vulcan’s smithy.” + + —HAMLET. + + “Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once; + And He that might the vantage best have took + Found out the remedy.” + + —MEASURE FOR MEASURE. + + +Mrs. Sylvester reclining on the palest of blue couches, in the slanting +sunlight of an April afternoon, is a study for a painter. Not that such +inspiring loveliness breathed from her person, conspicuous as it was for +its rich and indolent grace, but because in every attitude of her large +and well formed limbs, in every raise of the thick white lids from eyes +whose natural brightness was obscured by the mist of aimless fancies, +she presented such an embodiment of luxurious ease, one might almost +imagine they were gazing upon the favorite Sultana of some eastern +court, or, to be for once poetical as the subject demands, a full blown +Egyptian lotos floating in hushed enjoyment on the placid waters of its +native stream. Indeed for all the blonde character of her beauty, there +was certainly something oriental about the physique of this favored +child of fortune. Had the tint of her skin been richened to a magnolia +bloom instead of reminding you of that description accorded to the +complexion of one of Napoleon’s sisters, that it looked like white satin +seen through pink glass, she would have passed in any Eastern market, +for a rare specimen of Circassian beauty. + +But Mr. Sylvester coming home fatigued and harassed, cared little for +Circassian beauties or Oriental odalisques. It was a welcome that he +desired, and such refreshment as a quick eye and ready hand can bestow +when guided by a tender and loving heart; or so thought the watchful +Paula as she glided from her room at the sound of his step in the hall, +and met him coming weary and disheartened from the side of Ona’s couch. +The sight of her revived him at once. + +“Well, little one, what have you been doing to-day?” + +Instantly a shade fell over her countenance. “I hardly know how to tell +you. It has been a day of great experiences to me. I am literally shaken +with them. I have been wanting to talk to Ona about what I have seen and +heard, but thought I had best wait till you came home, for I could not +repeat the story twice.” + +“What! you look pale. Nothing has happened to frighten you I hope,” +exclaimed he, leading her back to Ona’s side, who stirred a little, and +presently deigned to take an upright position. + +“I do not know if it is fear or horror,” cried Paula, shuddering; “I +have seen a fearful woman—But first I ought to tell you that I took a +ride with Miss Stuyvesant in the Park this morning—” + +“Yes, and persisted in going for that lady on horseback instead of +sending the groom after her, and all starting from the front of our +house,” murmured Mrs. Sylvester with lazy chagrin. + +Paula smiled, but otherwise took no notice of this standing topic of +disagreement. + +“It was a beautiful day,” she proceeded, “and we enjoyed it very much, +but we were so unfortunate as to run over a little boy, at that place +where the equestrian road crosses the foot path; a lame child, Mr. +Sylvester, who could not get out of our way; poor too, with a ragged +jacket on which seemed to make it all the worse.” + +Ona gave a shrug with her white shoulders, that seemed to question this. +“Did you injure him very much?” queried she, with a show of interest; +not sufficient however to impair her curiosity as to the cut of one of +her nails. + +“I cannot say; his little arm was struck, and when I went to pick him +up, he lay back in my lap and moaned till I thought my heart would +break. But that was not the worst that happened. As we went hurrying up +the walk to find the child’s father, we were met by a woman wrapped in a +black cloak whose long and greasy folds seemed like the symbol of her +own untold depravity. Her glance as she encountered the child writhing +in pain at my feet, made my heart stand still. It was more than +malignant, it was actually fiendish. ‘Is he hurt?’ she asked, and it +seemed as if she gloated over the question; she evidently longed to hear +that he was, longed to be told that he would die; and when I inquired if +she was his mother, she broke into a string of laughter, that seemed to +darken the daylight. ‘His mother! O yes, we look alike, don’t we!’ she +exclaimed, pointing with a mocking gesture frightful to see, first at +his eyes which were very blue and beautiful, and then at her own which +were dark as evil thoughts could make them. I never saw anything so +dreadful. Malignancy! and towards a little lame child! what could be +more horrible!” + +Mr. Sylvester and his wife exchanged looks, then the former asked, “Did +she follow you, Paula?” + +“No; after telling me that I—But I cannot repeat what she said,” +exclaimed the young girl with a quick shudder. “Since I came home,” she +musingly continued, “I have looked and looked at my face in the glass, +but I cannot believe that what she declared is true. There is no +similarity between us, could never have been any: I will not have it +that she ever saw in all the days of her life such a picture as that in +her glass.” And with a sudden gesture Paula started up and pointed to +herself as she stood reflected in one of the tall mirrors with which +Ona’s boudoir abounded. + +“And did she dare to make any comparison between you and her own +degraded self?” exclaimed Mr. Sylvester, with a glance at the exquisite +vision of pure girlhood thus doubly presented to his notice. + +“Yes, what I am, she was once, or so she said. And it may be true. I +have never suffered sorrow or experienced wrong, and cannot measure +their power to carve the human face with such lines as I beheld on that +woman’s countenance to-day. But do not let us talk of her any more. She +left us at last, and we found the child’s father. Mr. Sylvester,” she +suddenly asked, “are there to be found in this city, men occupying +honorable positions and as such highly esteemed, who like Damocles of +old, may be said to sit under the constant terror of a falling sword in +the shape of some possible disclosure, that if made, would ruin their +position before the world forever?” + +Mr. Sylvester started as if he had been shot. “Paula!” cried he, and +instantly was silent again. He did not look at his wife, but if he had, +he would have perceived that even her fair skin was capable of blanching +to a yet more startling whiteness, and that her sleepy eyes could flash +open with something like expression in their lazy depths. + +“I mean,” dreamily continued Paula, absorbed in her own remembrance, +“that if what we overheard said by the father of that child to-day is +true, some one of our prominent men, whose life is not all it appears, +is standing on the verge of possible exposure and shame; that a hound is +on his track in the form of a starving man; and that sooner or later he +will have to pay the price of an unprincipled creature’s silence, or +fall into public discredit like some others of whom we have lately +read.” Then as silence filled the room, she added, “It makes me tremble +to think that a man of means and seeming honor should be placed in such +a position, but worse still that we may know such a one and be ignorant +of his misery and his shame.” + +“It is getting time for me to dress,” murmured Ona, sinking back on her +pillow and speaking in her most languid tone of voice. “Could you not +hasten your story a little Paula?” + +But Mr. Sylvester with a hurried glance at the closing eyes of his wife, +requested on the contrary that she would explain herself more +definitely. “Ona will pardon the delay,” said he, with a set, strained +politeness that called up the least little quiver of suppressed sarcasm +about the rosy infantile lips that he evidently did not consider it +worth his while to notice. + +“But that is all,” said Paula. However she repeated as nearly as she +could just what the boy’s father had said. At the conclusion Mr. +Sylvester rose. + +“What kind of a looking man was he?” said that gentleman as he crossed +to the window. + +“Well, as nearly as I can describe, he was tall, dark and seedy, with a +shock of black hair and a pair of black whiskers that floated on the +wind as he walked. He was evidently of the order of decayed gentleman, +and his manner of talking, especially in the profuse use he made of his +arms and hands, was decidedly foreign. Yet his speech was pure and +without accent.” + +Mr. Sylvester’s face as he asked the next question was comparatively +cheerful. “Was the other man with whom he was talking, as dark and +foreign as himself?” + +“O no, he was round and jovial, a little too insinuating perhaps, in his +way of speaking to ladies, but otherwise a a well enough appearing man.” + +Mr. Sylvester bowed and looked at his watch. (Why do gentlemen always +consult their watches even in the face of the clock?) “Ona, you are +right,” said he, “it is time you were dressing for dinner.” And +concluding with a word or two of sympathy as to the peculiar nature of +Paula’s adventures as he called them, he hastened from the room and +proceeded to his little refuge above. + +“He has not asked me what became of the child,” thought Paula, with a +certain pang of surprise. “I expected him to say, ‘Shall we not try and +see the little fellow, Paula?’ if only to allow me to explain that the +child’s father would not tell me where they lived. But the later affair +has evidently put the child out of his head. And indeed it is only +natural that a business man should be more interested in such a fact as +I have related, than in the sprained arm of a wretched creature’s +‘little feller.’” And she turned to assist Ona, who had arisen from her +couch and was now absorbed in the intricacies of an uncommonly elaborate +toilet. + +“Those men did not mention any names?” suddenly queried that lady, +looking with an expression of careful anxiety, at the twist of her back +hair, in the small hand-mirror she held over her shoulder. + +“No,” said Paula, dropping a red rose into the blonde locks she was so +carefully arranging. “He expressly said he did not know the name of the +person to whom he alluded. It was a strange conversation for me to +overhear, was it not?” she remarked, happy to have interested her cousin +in anything out of the domains of fashion. + +“I don’t know—certainly—of course—” returned Mrs. Sylvester with some +incoherence. “Do you think red looks as well with this black as the +lavender would do?” she rambled on in her lightest tone, pulling out a +box of feathers. + +Paula gave her a little wistful glance of disappointment and decided in +favor of the lavender. + +“I am bound to look well to-night if I never do so again,” said Ona. +They were all going to a public reception at which a foreign lord was +expected to be present. “How fortunate I am to have a perfect little +hairdresser in my own family, without being obliged to send for some +gossipy, fussy old Madame with her stories of how such and such a one +looked when dressed for the Grand Duke’s ball, or how Mrs. So and So +always gave her more than her price because she rolled up puffs so +exquisitely.” And stopping to aid the deft girl in substituting the +lavender feather for the red rose in her hair—she forgot to ask any +more questions. + + * * * * * + +“Ona,” remarked her husband, coming into the room on his way down to +dinner—Mrs. Sylvester never dined when she was going to any grand +entertainment; it made her look flushed she said—“I am not in the habit +of troubling you about your family matters, but have you heard from your +father of late?” + +Mrs. Sylvester turned from her jewel-casket and calmly surveyed his +face. It was fixed and formal, the face he turned to his servants and +sometimes—to his wife. “No,” said she, with a light little gesture as +though she were speaking of the most trivial matter. “In one respect at +least, papa is like an angel, his visits are few and far between.” + +Mr. Sylvester’s eye-brows drew heavily together. For a man with a smile +of strange sweetness, he could sometimes look very forbidding. “_When_ +was he here last?” he inquired in a tone more commanding than he knew. + +She did not appear to resent it. “Let me see,” mused she. “When was it I +lost my diamond ear-ring? O I remember, it was on the eve of New Year’s +day a year ago; I recollect because I had to wear pearls with my garnet +brocade,” she pettishly sighed. “And papa came the next week, after you +had given me the money for a new pair. I have reason to remember _that_, +for not a dollar did he leave me.” + +“Ona!” exclaimed her husband, shrinking back in uncontrollable surprise, +while his eyes flashed inquiringly to her ears in which two noble +diamonds were brilliantly shining. + +“O,” she cried, just raising one snowy hand to those sparkling +ornaments, while a faint blush, the existence of which he had sometimes +doubted, swept over her careless face. “I was enabled to procure them in +time; but for a whole two months I had to go without diamonds.” She did +not say that she had bartered her wedding jewels to make up the sum she +needed, but he may have understood that without being told. + +“And that is the last time you have seen him?” He held her eyes with +his, she could not look away. + +“The very last, sir; strange to say.” + +His glance shifted from her face and he turned with a bow towards the +door. + +“May I ask,” she slowly inquired as he moved across the floor, “what is +the reason of this sudden interest in poor papa?” + +“Certainly,” said he, pausing and looking back, not without some emotion +of pity in his glance. “I am sometimes struck with a sense of the duty I +owe you, in helping you to bear the burden of certain secret +responsibilities which I fear may sometimes prove too heavy for you.” + +She gave a little rippling laugh that only sounded hollow to the image +listening in the glass. “You choose strange times in which to be +struck,” said she, holding up two dresses for his inspection, with a +lift of her brows evidently meant as an inquiry as to which he thought +the most becoming. + +“Conscience is the chooser, not I,” declared he, for once allowing +himself to ignore the weighty question of dress thus propounded. + +His wife gave a little toss of her head and he left the room. + +“I should like Edward very much,” murmured she in a burst of confidence +to her own reflection in the glass, “if only he would not bother himself +so much about that same disagreeable conscience.” + + * * * * * + +“You look unhappy,” said Mr. Sylvester to Paula as they came from the +dining-room. “Have the adventures of the day made such an impression +upon you that you will not be able to enjoy the evening’s festivities?” + +She lifted her face and the quick smile came. + +“I do not like to see your brow so clouded,” continued he, smoothing his +own to meet her searching eye. “Smiles should sit on the lips of youth, +or else why are they so rosy.” + +“Would you have me smile in face of my first glimpse of wickedness,” +asked she, but in a gentle tone that robbed her words of half their +reproach. “You must remember that I have had but little experience with +the world. I have lived all my life in a town of wholesome virtues, and +while here I have been kept from contact with anything low or base. I +have never known vice, and now all in a moment I feel as if I have been +bathed in it.” + +He took her by the hand and drew her gently towards him. “Does your +whole being recoil so from evil, my Paula? What will you do in this +wicked world? What will you say to the sinner when you meet him—as you +must?” + +“I don’t know; it’s a problem I have never been brought to consider. I +feel as if launched on a dismal sea for which I have neither chart nor +compass. Life was so joyous to me this morning—” a flush swept over her +cheek but he did not notice it—“I held, or seemed to hold, a cup of +white wine in my hand, but suddenly as I looked at it, it turned black +and—” + +Ah, the outreach, the dismal breaking away of thought into the +unfathomable, that lies in the pause of an _and_! + +“And do you refuse to drink a cup across which has fallen a shadow,” +murmured Mr. Sylvester, his eyes fixed on her face, “the inevitable +shadow of that great mass of human frailty and woe which has been +accumulating from the foundation of the world?” + +“No, no, I cannot, and retain my humanity. If there is such evil in the +world, its pressure must drive it across the path of innocence.” + +“And you accept the cup?” + +“I must; but oh, my vanished beliefs! This morning the wine of my life +was pure and white, now it is black and befouled. What will make it +clean again?” + +With a sigh Mr. Sylvester dropped her hand and turned towards the +mantle-piece. It was April as I have said, and there was no fire in the +grate, but he posed his foot on the fender and looked sadly down at the +empty hearthstone. + +“Paula,” said he after a space of pregnant silence, “it had to come. The +veil of the temple must be rent in every life. Evil is too near us all +for us to tread long upon the flowers without starting up the adders +that hide beneath them. You had to have your first look into the cells +of darkness, and perhaps it is best you had it here and now. The deeps +are for men’s eyes as well as the starry heavens.” + +“Yes, yes.” + +“There are some persons,” he went on slowly, “you know them, who tread +the ways of life with their eyelids closed to everything but the strip +of velvet lawn on which they choose to walk. Earth’s sighs and +deep-drawn groans are nothing to them. The world may swing on in its way +to perdition; so long as their pathway feels soft, they neither heed nor +care. But you do not desire to be one of these, Paula! With your great +soul and your strong heart, you would not ask to sit in a flowery maze, +while the rest of the world went sliding on and down into wells of +destruction, you might have made pools of healing by the touch of your +womanly sympathy.” + +“No, no.” + +“I cannot tell you, I dare not tell you,” he went on in a strange +pleading voice that tore at the very roots of her heart, and rung in her +memory forever, “what evil underlies the whole strata of life! At home +and abroad, on our hearthstones and within our offices, the mocking +devil sits. You can scarcely walk a block, my little one, without +encountering a man or brushing against the dress of a woman across whose +soul the black shadow lies heavier than any words of his or hers could +tell. What the man you saw to-day, said of one unhappy being in this +city, is true, God help us all, of many. Dark spots are easier acquired +than blotted out, my Paula. In business as in society, one needs to +carry the white shield of a noble purpose or a self-forgetting love, to +escape the dripping of the deadly upas tree that branches above all +humanity. I have walked its ways, my darling, and I know of what I +speak. Your white robe is spotless but—” + +“O there is where the pain comes in,” she cried; “there, just there, is +where the dagger strikes. She says she was once like me. O, could any +temptation, any suffering, any wrong or misfortune that might befall me, +ever bring me to where she is! If it could—” + +“Paula!” This time his voice came authoritatively. “You are making too +much of a frenzied woman’s impulsive exclamation. To her darkened and +despairing eyes any young woman of a similar style of beauty would have +called forth the same remark. It was a sign that she was not entirely +given up to evil, that she could remember her youth. Instead of feeling +contaminated by her words, you ought to feel, that unconsciously to +yourself, your fresh young countenance with its innocent eyes did an +angel’s work to-day. They made her recall what she was in the days of +her own innocence; and who can tell what may follow such a +recollection.” + +“O Mr. Sylvester,” said she, “you fill me with shame. If I could think +that—” + +“You can, nothing appeals to the heart of crime like the glance of +perfect innocence. If evil walks the world, God’s ministers walk it +also, and none can tell in what glance of the eye or what touch of the +hand, that ministry will speak.” + +It was her turn now to take his hand in hers. “O how good, how +thoughtful you are; you have comforted me and you have taught me. I +thank you very much.” + +With a look she did not perceive, he drew his hand away. “I am glad I +have helped you, Paula; there is but one thing more to say, and this I +would emphasize with every saddened look you have ever met in all your +life. Great sins make great sufferers. Side by side came the two +dreadful powers of vice and retribution into the world, and side by side +will they keep till they sink at last into the awful deeps of the +bottomless pit. When you turn your back on a man who has committed a +crime, one more door shuts in his darkened spirit.” + +The tears were falling from Paula’s eyes now. He looked at them with +strange wistfulness and involuntarily his hand rose to her head, +smoothing her locks with fatherly touches. “Do not think,” said he, +“that I would lessen by a hair’s breadth your hatred of evil. I can more +easily bear to see the shadow upon your cup of joy than upon the banner +of truth you carry. These eyes must lose none of their inner light in +glancing compassionately on your fellow-men. Only remember that divinity +itself has stooped to rescue, and let the thought make your contact with +weary, wicked-hearted humanity a little less trying and a little more +hopeful to you. And now, my dear, that is enough of serious talk for +to-day. We are bound for a reception, you know, and it is time we were +dressing. Do you want me to tell you a secret?” asked he in a light +mysterious tone, as he saw her eyes still filling. + +She glanced up with sudden interest. + +“I know it is treason,” resumed he, “I am fully aware of the grave +nature of my offence; but Paula I hate all public receptions, and shall +only be able to enjoy myself to-night just so much as I see that you are +doing so. Life has its dark portals and its bright ones. This is one +that you must enter with your most brilliant smiles.” + +“And they shall not be lacking,” said she. “When a treasure-box of +thought is given us, we do not open it and scatter its contents abroad, +but lay it away where the heart keeps its secrets, to be opened in the +hush of night when we are alone with our own souls and God.” + +He smiled and she moved towards the door. “None the less do we carry +with us wherever we go, the remembrance of our hidden treasure,” she +smilingly added, looking back upon him from the stair. + +And again as upon the first night of her entrance into the house, did he +stand below and watch her as she softly went up, her lovely face +flashing one moment against the dark background of the luxurious bronze, +towering from the platform behind, then glowing with faint and fainter +lustre, as the distance widened between them and she vanished in the +regions above. + +She did not see the toss of his arm with which he threw off the burden +that rested upon his soul. + + + + +XVII. + + +GRAVE AND GAY. + + “No scandal about Queen Elizabeth I hope.” + + —SHERIDAN. + + “Stands Scotland where it did?” + + —MACBETH. + + +“Who is that talking with Miss Stuyvesant?” asked Mr. Sylvester, +approaching his wife during one of the lulls that will fall at times +upon vast assemblies. + +Mrs. Sylvester followed the direction of his glance and immediately +responded, “O that is Mr. Ensign, one of the best _partis_ of the +season. He evidently knows where to pay his court.” + +“I inquired because he has just requested me to honor him with a formal +introduction to Paula.” + +“Indeed! then oblige him by all means; it would be a great match for +her. To say nothing of his wealth, he is _haut ton_, and his red +whiskers will not look badly beside Paula’s dark hair.” + +Mr. Sylvester frowned, then sighed, but in a few minutes Paula observed +him approaching with Mr. Ensign. At once her hitherto pale cheek +flushed, but the young gentleman did not seem to object to that, and +after the formal introduction which he had sought was over, he exclaimed +in his own bright ringing tones, + +“The fates have surely forgotten their usual rôle of unpropitiousness. I +did not dare hope to meet you here to-night, Miss Fairchild. Was the +ride all that your fancy painted?” + +“O,” said she, speaking very low and glancing around, “do not allude to +it here. We had an adventure shortly after you parted from us.” + +“An adventure! and no cavalier at your side! If I could but have known! +Was it so serious?” he inquired in a moment, seeing her look grave. + +“Ask Miss Stuyvesant;” said she. “I cannot talk about it any more +to-night. Besides the music carries off one’s thoughts. It is like a +joyous breeze that whirls away the thistle-down whether it will or no.” + + +He gave her a short quick look grave enough in its way, but responded +with his usual graceful humor, “The thistle-down is too vicious a sprite +to be beguiled away so easily. If I were to give my opinion on the +subject, I should say there was method in its madness. If you have been +brought up in the country, as I suspect from your remark, you must know +that the white floating ball is not as harmless as it would lead you to +imagine. It is a meddlesome nobody, that’s what it is, and like some +country gossips I know, launches forth from a pure love of mischief to +establish his prickers in his neighbor’s field.” + +“_His!_ I thought it must be feminine at least to fulfill the conditions +you mention. A male gossip, O fie! I shall never have patience with a +thistle-ball after this.” + +“Well,” laughed he, “I did start with the intention of making it +feminine, but I caught a glimpse of your eyes and lost my courage. I did +what I could,” added he with a mirthful glance. + +“So do the thistles,” cried she. Then while both voices joined in a +merry laugh, she continued, “But where have we strayed? For a moment it +seemed as if we were on the hills at Grotewell; I could almost see the +blue sky.” + +“And I,” said he, with his eyes on her face. + +“I am sure the brooks bubbled.” + +“I distinctly heard a bird singing.” + +“It was a whippowill.” + +“But my name is Clarence?” + +And here both being young and without a care in the world, they laughed +again. And the crowded perfumed room seemed to freshen as with a whiff +of mountain air. + +“You love the country, Miss Fairchild?” + +“Yes;” and her smile was the reflection of the summer-lands that arose +before her at the word. “With the right side of my heart do I love the +spot where nature speaks and man is dumb.” + +“And with the left?” + +“I love the place where great men congregate to face their destiny and +control it.” + +“The latter is the deeper love,” said he. + +She nodded her head and then said, “I need both to make me happy. +Sometimes as I walk these city streets, I feel as if my very longing to +escape to the heart of the hills, would carry me there. I remember when +I was a child, I was one day running through a meadow, when suddenly a +whole flock of birds flew up from the grass and surrounded my head. I +was not sure but what I should be caught up and carried away by the +force of their flight; and when they rose to mid heaven, something in my +breast seemed to follow them. So it is often with me here, only that it +is the rush of my thoughts that threatens such a Hegira. Yet if I were +to be transported to my native hills, I know I should long to be back +again.” + +“The mountain lassie has wandered into the courts of the king. The +perfume of palaces is not easily forgotten.” + +Her eye turned towards Mr. Sylvester standing near them upright and +firm, talking to a group of attentive gentlemen every one of whom +boasted a name of more than local celebrity. “Without a royal heart to +govern, there would be no palace;” said she, and blushed under a sudden +sense of the possible interpretation he might give to her words, till +the rose in her hand looked pallid. + +But he had followed her glance and understood her better than she +thought. “And Mr. Sylvester has such a heart, so a hundred good fellows +have told me. You are fortunate to see the city from the loop-hole of +such a home as his.” + +“It is more than a loop-hole,” said she. + +“Of that I shall never be satisfied till I see it?” + +And being content with the look he received, he took her on his arm and +led her into the midst of the dancers. + +Meanwhile in a certain corner not far off, two gentlemen were talking. + +“Sylvester shows off well to-night.” + +“He always does. With such a figure as that, a man needs but to enter a +room to make himself felt. But then he’s a good talker too. Ever heard +him speak?” + +“No.” + +“Fine voice, true snap, right ring. Great favorite at elections. The +fact is, Sylvester is a remarkable man.” + +“Hum, ha, so I should judge.” + +“And so fortunate! He has never been known to run foul in a great +operation. Put your money in his hand and whew!—your fortune is as good +as made.” + +The other, a rich man, connected heavily with the mining business in +Colorado, smiled with that bland overflow of the whole countenance which +is sometimes seen in large men of great self-importance. + +“It’s a pity he’s gone out of Wall Street,” continued his companion. +“The younger fry feel now something like a flock of sheep that has lost +its bell-wether.” + +“They straggle—eh?” returned his portly friend with an increase of his +smile that was not altogether pleasant. “So Sylvester has left Wall +Street?” + +“He closed his last enterprise two weeks before accepting the Presidency +of the Madison Bank. Stuyvesant is down on speculation, and well—It +looks better you know; the Madison Bank is an old institution, and +Sylvester is ambitious. There’ll be no reckless handling of funds +_there_.” + +“No!” What was there in that _no_ that made the other look up? “I’m not +acquainted with Sylvester myself. Has he much family?” + +“A wife—there she is, that handsome woman talking with Ditman,—and a +daughter, niece or somebody who just now is setting all our young +scapegraces by the ears. You can see her if you just crane your neck a +little.” + +“Humph, ha, very pretty, very pretty. How much do you suppose Mrs. +Sylvester is worth as she stands, diamonds you know, and all that?” + +“Well I should say some where near ten thousand; that sprig in her hair +cost a clean five.” + +“So, so. They live in a handsome house I suppose?” + +“A regular palace, corner of Fifth Avenue and ——” + +“All his?” + +“Nobody’s else I reckon.” + +“Sports horses and carriage I suppose?” + +“Of course.” + +“Yacht, opera box?” + +“No reason why he shouldn’t.” + +“What is his salary?” + +“A nominal sum, five or ten thousand perhaps.” + +“Owns good share of the bank’s stock I presume?” + +“Enough to control it.” + +“Below par though?” + +“A trifle, going up, however.” + +“And _don’t_ speculate?” + +The way this man drawled his words was excessively disagreeable. + +“Not that any one knows of. He’s made his fortune and now asks only to +enjoy it.” + +The man from the West strutted back and looked at his companion +knowingly. “What do you think of my judgment, Stadler?” + +“None better this side of the Pacific.” + +“Pretty good at spying out cracks, eh?” + +“I wouldn’t like to undertake the puttying up that would deceive you.” + +“Humph! Well then, mark this. In two months from to-day you will see Mr. +Sylvester rent his house and go south for his health, or the pretty one +over there will marry one of the scapegraces you mention, who will lend +the man _who don’t engage in any further ventures_, more than one or two +hundred thousand dollars.” + +“Ha, you know something.” + +“I own mines in Colorado and I have my points.” + +“And Mr. Sylvester?” + +“Will find them too sharp for him.” + +And having made his joke, he yielded to the other’s apparent +restlessness, and they sauntered off. + +They did not observe a pale, demure, little lady that sat near them +abstractedly nodding her dainty head to the remarks of a pale-whiskered +youth at her side, nor notice the emotion with which she suddenly rose +at their departure and dismissed her chattering companion on some +impromptu errand. It was only one of the ordinary group of dancers, a +pretty, plainly dressed girl, but her name was Stuyvesant. + +Rising with a decision that gave a very attractive color to her cheeks, +she hastily looked around. A trio of young gentlemen started towards her +but she gave them no encouragement; her eye had detected Mr. Sylvester’s +tall figure a few feet off and it was to him she desired to speak. But +at her first movement in his direction, her glance encountered another +face, and like a stream that melts into a rushing torrent, her purpose +seemed to vanish, leaving her quivering with a new emotion of so vivid a +character she involuntarily looked about her for a refuge. + +But in another instant her eyes had again sought the countenance that +had so moved her, and finding it bent upon her own, faltered a little +and unconsciously allowed the lilies she was carrying to drop from her +hand. Before she realized her loss, the face before her had vanished, +and with it something of her hesitation and alarm. + +With a hasty action she drew near Mr. Sylvester. “Will you lend me your +arm for a minute?” she asked, with her usual appealing look rendered +doubly forcible by the experience of a moment before. + +“Miss Stuyvesant! I am happy to see you.” + +Never had his face looked more cheerful she thought, never had his smile +struck her more pleasantly. + +“A little talk with a little girl will not hinder you too much, will +it?” she queried, glancing at the group of gentlemen that had shrunk +back at her approach. + +“Do you call that hindrance which relieves one from listening to +quotations of bank stock at an evening reception?” + +She shook her head with a confused movement, and led him up before a +stand of flowering exotics. + +“I want to tell you something,” she said eagerly but with a marked +timidity also, the tall form beside her looked so imposing for all its +encouraging bend. “I beg your pardon if I am doing wrong, but papa +regards you with such esteem and—Mr. Sylvester do you know a man by the +name of Stadler?” + +Astonished at such a question from lips so young and dainty, he turned +and surveyed her for a moment with quick surprise. Something in her +aspect struck him. He answered at once and without circumlocution. “Yes, +if you refer to that spry keen-faced man, just entering the +supper-room.” + +“Do you know his companion?” she proceeded; “the portly, highly +pompous-looking gentleman with the gold eye-glasses? Look quickly.” + +“No.” There was an uneasiness in his tone however that struck her +painfully. + +“He is a stranger in town; has not the honor of your acquaintance he +says, but from the questions he asked, I judge he has a great interest +in your affairs. He spoke of being connected with mines in Colorado. I +was sitting behind a curtain and overheard what was said.” + +Mr. Sylvester turned pale and regarded her attentively. “Might I be so +bold,” he inquired after a moment, “as to ask you what that was?” + +“Yes, sir, certainly, but it is even harder for me to repeat than it was +for me to hear. He inquired about your domestic concerns, your home and +your income,” she murmured blushing; “and then said, in what I thought +was a somewhat exulting tone, that in two months or so we should see you +go South for your health or—Is not that enough for me to tell you, Mr. +Sylvester?” + +He gave her a short stare, opened his lips as if to speak, then turned +abruptly aside and began picking mechanically at the blossoms before +him. + +“I, of course, do not know what men mean when they talk of possessing +points. But the leer and side glance which accompanies such talk, have a +universal language we all understand, and I felt that I must warn you of +that man’s malice if only because papa regards you so highly.” + +He shrank as if touched on a sore place, but bowed and answered the +wistful appeal of her glance with a shadow of his usual smile, then he +turned, and looking towards the door through which the two men had +disappeared, made a movement as if he would follow. But remembering +himself, escorted her to a seat, saying as he did so: + +“You are very kind, Miss Stuyvesant; please say nothing of this to +Paula.” + +She bowed and a flitting smile crossed her upturned countenance. “I am +not much of a gossip, Mr. Sylvester, or I should have been tempted to +have carried my information to my father instead of to you.” + +He understood the implied promise in this remark and gave the hand on +his arm a quick pressure, before relinquishing her to the care of the +pale-complexioned youth who by this time had returned to her side. + +In another moment Paula came up on the arm of a black-whiskered +gentleman all shirt front and eye-glasses. “O Cicely,” she cried, (she +called Miss Stuyvesant, Cicely now) “is it not a delightful evening?” + +“Are you enjoying yourself so much?” inquired that somewhat agitated +little lady, with a glance at the countenance of her friend’s attendant. + +“I fear it would scarcely seem consistent in me now to say no,” returned +the radiant girl, with a laughing glance towards the same gentleman. + +But when they were alone, the gentleman having departed on some of the +innumerable errands with which ladies seem to delight in afflicting +their attendant cavaliers at balls or receptions, she atoned for that +glance by remarking, + +“I do not find the average partner that falls to one’s lot in such +receptions all that fancy paints.” And then finding she had repeated a +phrase of Mr. Ensign’s, blushed, though no one stood near her but +Cicely. + +“Fancy’s brush would need to be dipped in but two colors to present to +our eye the mass of them,” was Cicely’s laughing reply. “A streak of +black for the coat, and a daub of white for the shirt front. _Voila +tout._” + +“With perhaps a dash of red in some cases,” murmured a voice over their +shoulders. + +They turned with hurried blushes. “Ah, Mr. Ensign,” quoth Cicely in +unabashed gaiety, “we reserve red for the exceptions. We did not intend +to include our acknowledged friends in our somewhat sweeping assertion.” + +“Ah, I see, the black streak and the white daub are a symbol of, +‘Er—Miss Stuyvesant—very warm this evening! Have an ice, do. _I_ +always have an ice after dancing; so refreshing, you know.’” + +The manner in which he imitated the usual languid drawl of certain of +the young scapegraces heretofore mentioned, was irresistible. Paula +forgot her confusion in her mirth. + +“You are blessed with a capacity for playing both rôles, I perceive,” +cried Cicely with unusual abandon. “Well, it is convenient, there is +nothing like scope.” + +“Unless it is hope,” whispered Mr. Ensign so low that only Paula could +hear. + +“But I warn you,” continued Cicely, with a sweet soft laugh that seemed +to carry her heart far out into the passing throng, “that we have no +fondness for the model beau of the period. A dish of milk makes a very +good supper but it looks decidedly pale on the dinner table.” + +“Yes,” said Paula, eying the various young men that filed up and down +before them, some pale, some dark, some handsome, some plain, but all +smiling and dapper, if not debonair, “some men could be endured if only +they were not _men_.” + +Mr. Ensign gave her a quick look, and while he laughed at the paradox, +straightened himself like one who could be a man if the occasion called. +She saw the action and blushed. + +But their conversation was soon interrupted. Mr. Sylvester was seen +returning from the supper-room, looking decidedly anxious, and while +Paula was ignorant of what had transpired to annoy him, her ready spirit +caught the alarm, and she was about to rush up to him and address him, +when one of the waiters approached, and murmuring a few words she did +not hear, handed him a card upon which she descried nothing but a simple +circle. Instantly a change crossed his already agitated countenance, and +advancing to the ladies with a word or two that while seemingly +cheerful, struck Paula as somewhat forced, excused himself with the +information that a business friend had been so inconsiderate as to +importune him for an interview in the hall. And with just a nod towards +Mr. Ensign, who had drawn back at his advance, left them and disappeared +in the crowd about the door. + +“I do not like these interruptions from business friends in a time of +pleasure,” cried Paula, looking after him with anxious eyes. “Did you +notice how agitated he seemed, Cicely? And half an hour ago he was the +picture of calm enjoyment.” + +“Business is beyond our comprehension, Paula,” returned her friend +evasively. “It is something like a neuralgic twinge, it takes a man when +he least expects it. Have you told Mr. Ensign of our adventure?” + +“No, but I informed Mr. Sylvester, and he said such good, true words to +me, Cicely. I can never forget them.” + +“And I told papa; but he only frowned and made some observation about +the degeneracy of the times, and the number of scamps thrown to the top +by the modern methods of acquiring instantaneous fortunes.” + +“Your papa is sometimes hard, is he not, Cicely?” + +With a flush Miss Stuyvesant allowed her eye to rest for a moment on the +crowd shifting before her. “He was dug from a quarry of granite, Paula. +He is both hard and substantial; capable of being hewn but not of being +moulded. Of such stuff are formed monuments of enduring beauty and +solidity. You must do papa justice.” + +“I do, but I sometimes have a feeling as if the granite column would +fall and crush me, Cicely.” + +“You, Paula?” + +Before she could again reply, Mr. Sylvester returned. His face was still +pale, but it had acquired an expression of rigidity even more alarming +to Paula than its previous aspect of forced merriment. Lifting her by +the hand, he drew her apart. + +“I shall have to leave you somewhat abruptly,” said he. “An important +matter demands my instant attention. Bertram is somewhere here, and will +see that you and Ona arrive home in safety. You won’t allow your +enjoyment to be clouded by my hasty departure, will you?” + +“Not if it will make you anxious. But I would rather go home with you +now. I am sure Cousin Ona would be willing.” + +“But I am not going home at present,” said he; and she ventured upon no +further remonstrance. + +But her enjoyment was clouded; the sight of suffering or anxiety on that +face was more than she could bear; and ere long she said good-night to +Cicely, and accepting the arm of Mr. Ensign, who was never very far from +her side, proceeded to search for her cousin. + +She found her standing in the midst of an admiring throng to whom her +diamonds, if not her smiles, were an object of undoubted interest. She +was in the full tide of one of her longest and most widely rambling +speeches, and to Paula, with that stir of anxiety at her breast, was an +image of self-satisfied complacency from which she was fain to drop her +eyes. + +“Mrs. Sylvester shares the honors with her husband,” remarked Mr. Ensign +as they drew near. + +“But not the trials, or the pain, or the care?” was Paula’s inward +comment. + +Mrs. Sylvester was not easily wooed away from a circle in which she +found herself creating such an impression, but at length she yielded to +Paula’s importunities, and consented to accept young Mr. Sylvester’s +attendance to their home. The next thing was to find Bertram. Mr. Ensign +engaged to do this. Leaving Paula with her cousin, who may or may not +have been pleased at this sudden addition to her circle, he sought for +the young man who as Mr. Mandeville was not unknown to any of the +fashionable men and women of the day. It was no easy task, nor did he +find him readily, but at last he came upon him leaning out of a window +and gazing at a white lily which he held in his hand. Without preamble, +Mr. Ensign made known his errand, and Bertram at once prepared to +accompany him back to the ladies. + +“By Jove! I didn’t know the fellow was so handsome!” thought the former, +and frowned he hardly knew why. Bertram was not handsome, but then +Clarence Ensign was plain, which Bertram certainly was not. + +It was to Mr. Ensign’s face however that Paula’s eyes turned as the two +came up, and he with the ready vivacity of his natural temperament +observed it, and took courage. + +“I shall soon wish to measure that loop-hole of which I have spoken,” +said he. + +And the soft look in her large dark eye as she responded, “It is always +open to friends,” filled up the measure of his cup of happiness; a cup +which unlike hers, had not been darkened that day by the falling of +earth’s most dismal shadows. + + + + +XVIII. + +IN THE NIGHT WATCHES. + + “Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?” + + + —HEN. IV. + + “What doth gravity out of his bed at midnight?” + + —HEN. IV. + + +“It has been the most delightful evening I have ever passed,” said Mrs. +Sylvester, as she threw aside her rich white mantle in her ample +boudoir. “Sarah, two loops on that dolman to-morrow; do you hear? I +thought my arms would freeze. Such an elegant gentleman as the Count de +Frassac is! He absolutely went wild over you, Paula, but not +understanding a word of English—O there, if that horrid little wretch +didn’t drop his spoon on my dress after all! He swore it never touched a +thread of it, but just look at that spot, right in the middle of a +pleating too. Paula, your opinion in regard to the lavendar was correct. +I heard Mrs. Forsyth Jones whisper behind my back that lavendar always +made blondes look _fade_. Of course I needed no further evidence to +convince me that I had entirely succeeded in eclipsing her pale-faced +daughter. Her daughter!” and the lazy gurgle echoed softly through the +room, “As if every white-haired girl in the city considered herself +entitled to be called a blonde!” She stopped to listen, examining +herself in the glass near by. “I thought I heard Edward. It was very +provoking in him to leave us in the cavalier manner in which he did. I +was just going to introduce him to the count, not that he would have +esteemed it much of an honor, Edward I mean, but when one has a +good-looking husband—Sarah, that curtain over there hangs crooked, pull +it straight this instant. Did you try the oysters, Paula? They were +perfection, I shall have to dismiss Lorenzo without ceremony and procure +me a cook that can make an oyster fricassee. By the way did you +notice—” and so on and on for five minutes additional. Presently she +burst forth with—“I do believe I know what it is to be thoroughly +satisfied at last. The consideration which one receives as the wife of +the president of the Madison bank is certainly very gratifying. If I had +known I would feel such a change in the social atmosphere, I would have +advocated Edward’s dropping speculation long ago. Beauty and wealth may +help one up the social ladder, but only a settled position such as he +has now obtained, can carry you safely over the top. I feel at last as +if we had reached the pinnacle of my ambition and had seen the ladder by +which we mounted thrown down behind us. If I get my costume from Worth +in time, I shall give a German next month.” + +Paula from her stand at the door—for some minutes she had been +endeavoring to escape to her room—surveyed her cousin in wonder. She +had never seen her look as she did at that moment. Any one who speaks +from the heart, acquires a certain eloquence, and Ona for once was +speaking from her heart. The unwonted emotion made her cheeks burn, and +even her diamonds, ten thousand dollars worth as we have heard declared, +were less brilliant than her eyes. Paula left her station on the +door-sill and glided rapidly back to her side. “O Ona,” said she, “if +you would only look like that when—” she paused, what right had she to +venture upon giving lessons to her benefactor. + +“When what?” inquired the other, subsiding at once into her naturally +languid manner. Then with a total forgetfulness of the momentary +curiosity that had prompted the question, held out her head to the +attendant Sarah, with a command to be relieved of her ornaments. Paula +sighed and hastened to her room. She could not bring herself to mention +her anxiety in regard to the still absent master of the house, to this +lazily-smiling thoroughly satisfied woman. + +But none the less did she herself sit up in the moonlight, listening +with bended head for the sound of his step on the walk beneath. She +could not sleep while he was absent; and yet the thoughts that disturbed +her and kept her from her virgin pillow could not have been entirely for +him, or why those wandering smiles that ever and anon passed flitting +over her cheek, awakening the dimples that slumbered there, until she +looked more like a dreamy picture of delight than a wakeful vision of +apprehension. Not entirely for him—yet when somewhere towards three +o’clock, she heard the long delayed step upon the stoop, she started up +with eager eyes and a nervous gesture that sufficiently betrayed how +intense was her interest in her benefactor’s welfare and happiness. “If +he goes to Ona’s room it is all right,” thought she; “but if he keeps on +upstairs, I shall know that something is wrong and that he needs a +comforter.” + +He did not stop at Ona’s room; and struck with alarm, Paula opened wide +her door and was about to step out to meet him, when she caught a sight +of his face, and started back. Here was no anxiety, that she could +palliate! The very fact that he did not observe her slight form standing +before him in the brilliant moonlight, proved that a woman’s look or +touch was not what he was in search of; and shrinking sensitively to one +side, she sat down on the edge of her dainty bed, dropping her cheek +into her hand with a weary troubled gesture from which all the delight +had fled and only the apprehension remained. Suddenly she started +alertly up; he was coming down again, this time with a gliding muffled +tread. Sliding past her door, he descended to the floor below. She could +hear the one weak stair in the heavy staircase creak, and—What! he has +passed Ona’s room, passed the bronze figure of Luxury on the platform +beneath, is on his way to the front door, has opened it, shut it softly +behind him and gone out again into the blank midnight streets. What did +it mean? For a moment she thought she would run down and awaken Ona, but +an involuntary remembrance of how those lazy eyes would open, stare +peevishly and then shut again, stopped her on the threshold of her door; +and sitting down again upon the side of her bed, she waited, this time +with opened eyes eagerly staring before her, and quivering form that +started at each and every sound that disturbed the silence of the great +echoing house. At six o’clock she again rose; he had just re-entered and +this time he stopped at Ona’s room. + + + + +XIX. + +A DAY AT THE BANK. + + “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, + Rough-hew them how we will.” + + —HAMLET. + + +There are days when the whole world seems to smile upon one without +stint or reservation. Bertram Sylvester wending his way to the bank on +the morning following the reception, was a cheerful sight to behold. +Youth, health, hope spake in every lineament of his face and brightened +every glance of his wide-awake eye. His new life was pleasant to him. +Bach, Beethoven and Chopin were scarcely regretted now by the ambitious +assistant cashier of the Madison Bank, with a friend in each of its +directors and a something more than that in the popular president +himself. Besides he had developed a talent for the business and was in +the confidence of the cashier, a somewhat sickly man who more than once +had found himself compelled to rely upon the rapidly maturing judgment +of his young associate, in matters oftentimes of the utmost importance. +The manner in which Bertram found himself able to respond to these +various calls, convinced him that he had been correct in his opinion of +his own nature, when he informed his uncle that music was his pleasure +rather than his necessity. + +Entering the building by way of Pearl Street, he was about to open the +door leading into the bank proper, when he heard a little piping voice +at his side, and turning, confronted the janitor’s baby daughter. She +was a sweet and interesting child, and with his usual good nature +Bertram at once stopped to give her a kiss. + +“I likes you,” prattled she as he put her down again after lifting her +up high over his head, “but I likes de oder one best.” + +“I hope the other one duly appreciates your preference,” laughed he, and +was again on the point of entering the bank when he felt or thought he +felt a hand laid on his arm. It was the janitor himself this time, a +worthy man, greatly trusted in the bank, but possessed of such an +extraordinary peculiarity in the way of a pair of protruding eyes, that +his appearance was always attended by a shock. + +“Well, Hopgood, what is it?” cried Bertram, in his cheery tone. + +The janitor drew back and mercifully shifted his gaze from the young +man’s face. “Nothing sir; did I stop you? Beg pardon,” he continued, +half stammering, “I’m dreadful awkward sometimes.” And with a nod he +sidled off towards his little one whom he confusedly took up in his +arms. + +Now Bertram was sure the man had touched him and that, too, with a very +eager hand, but being late that morning and consequently in somewhat of +a hurry, he did not stop to pursue the matter. Hastening into the Bank, +he assisted the teller in opening the safe, that being his especial +duty, and was taking out such papers as he himself required, when he was +surprised to catch another sight of those same extraordinary organs of +which I have just spoken, peering upon him from the door by which he had +previously entered. They vanished as soon as he encountered them, but +more than once during the morning he perceived them looking upon him +from various quarters of the bank, till he felt himself growing +seriously annoyed, and sending for the man, asked him what he meant by +this unusual surveillance. The janitor seemed troubled, flushed +painfully and fixed his eyes in manifest anxiety on the cashier who, +engaged in some search of his own, was just handling over the tin boxes +that lined the vault before them. Not till he had seen him shove them +back into their place and leave the spot, did he venture upon his reply. +“I’m sure, sir, I’m very sorry if I have annoyed you, but do you think +Mr. Sylvester will be down at the usual hour?” + +“I know of no reason why he should not,” returned Bertram. + +“I have something to say to him when he comes in,” stammered the man, +evidently taken aback by Bertram’s look of surprise. “Will you be kind +enough to ring the bell the first moment he seems to be at leisure? I +don’t know as it is a matter of any importance but—” He stopped, +evidently putting a curb upon himself. “Can I rely on you, sir?” + +“Yes, certainly, I will tell my uncle when he comes in that you want to +speak to him. He will doubtless send for you at once.” + +The man looked embarrassed. “Excuse me, sir, but that’s just what I’d +rather you wouldn’t do. Mr. Sylvester is always very busy and he might +think I wished to annoy him about some matters of my own, sir, as indeed +I have not been above doing at odd times. If you would ring when he +comes in, that is all I ask.” + +Bertram thought this a strange request, but seeing the man so anxious, +gave the required promise, and the janitor hurried off. “Curious!” +muttered Bertram. “Can anything be wrong?” And he glanced about him with +some curiosity as he went to his desk. But every one was at his post as +usual and the countenances of all were equally undisturbed. + +It was a busy morning and in the rush of various matters Bertram forgot +the entire occurrence. But it was presently recalled to him by hearing +some one remark, “Mr. Sylvester is late to-day,” and looking up from +some papers he was considering, he found it was a full hour after the +time at which his uncle was in the habit of appearing. Just then he +caught still another sight of the protruding eyes of Hopgood staring in +upon him from the half-opened door at the end of the bank. + +“The fellow’s getting impatient,” thought he, and experienced a vague +feeling of uneasiness. + +Another half hour passed. “What can have detained Mr. Sylvester?” cried +Mr. Wheelock the cashier, hastily approaching Bertram. + +“There is to be an important meeting of the Directors to-day, and some +of the gentlemen are already coming in. Mr. Sylvester is not accustomed +to keep us waiting.” + +“I don’t know, I am sure,” returned Bertram, remembering with an +accession of uneasiness, the abruptness with which his uncle had left +the entertainment the evening before. + +“Shall I telegraph to the house?” + +“No, that is not necessary. Besides Folger says he passed him on +Broadway this morning.” + +“Going down street with a valise in his hand,” that gentlemen quietly +put in. Folger was the teller. “He was looking very pale and didn’t see +me when I nodded.” + +“What time was that?” asked Bertram. + +“About twelve; when I went out to lunch.” + +A quick gasp sounded at their side, followed by a hurried cough. +Turning, Bertram encountered for the fifth time the eyes of Hopgood. He +had entered unperceived by the small door that separated the inner +inclosure from the outer, and was now standing very close to them, eying +with side-long looks the safe at their back, the faces of the gentleman +speaking, yes, and even the countenances of the clerks, as they bent +busily over their books. + +“Did you ring, sir?” asked he, catching Bertram’s look of displeasure. + +“No.” + +The man seemed to feel the rebuke implied in this short response, and +ambled softly away. But in another moment he was stopped by Bertram. + +“What is the matter with you to-day, Hopgood? Can you have anything of +real importance on your mind; anything connected with my uncle?” + +The janitor started, and looked almost frightened. “Be careful what you +say,” whispered he; then with a keen look at Mr. Wheelock just then on +the point of entering the directors’ room, he was turning to escape by +the little door just mentioned, when it opened and Mr. Stuyvesant came +in. With a look almost of terror the janitor recoiled, throwing himself +as it were between the latter and the door of the safe; but recovering +himself, surveyed the keen quiet visage of the veteran banker with a +rolling of his great eyes absolutely painful to behold. Mr. Stuyvesant, +who was somewhat absorbed in thought, did not appear to notice the +agitation he had caused, and with just a hurried nod followed Mr. +Wheelock into the Directors’ room. Instantly the janitor drew himself up +with an air of relief, and shortly glancing at the clock which lacked a +few minutes yet of the time fixed for the meeting, slided hastily away +from Bertram’s detaining hand, and disappeared in the crowd without. In +another moment Bertram saw him standing at the outer door, looking +anxiously up and down the street. + +“Something _is_ wrong,” murmured Bertram. “What?” And for a moment he +felt half tempted to return Mr. Stuyvesant’s friendly bow with a few +words expressive of his uneasiness, but the emphasis with which Hopgood +had murmured the words, “Be careful what you say,” unconsciously +deterred him, and concealing his nervousness as best he might, he +entered the Directors’ office. + +It was now time for the meeting to open, and the gentlemen were all +seated around the low green baize table that occupied the centre of the +room. Impatience was written on all their countenances. Mr. Stuyvesant +especially was looking at the heavy gold watch in his hand, with a frown +on his deeply wrinkled brow that did not add to its expression of +benevolence. The empty seat at the head of the table stared upon Bertram +uncompromisingly. + +“My wife gives a reception to-day,” ventured one gentleman to his +neighbor. + +“And I have an engagement at five that won’t bear postponement.” + +“Sylvester has always been on hand before.” + +“We can’t proceed without him,” was the reply. + +Mr. Wheelock looked thoughtful. + +With a nod of his head towards such gentlemen as met his eye, Bertram +hastened to a little cupboard devoted to the use of himself and uncle. +Opening it, he looked within, took down a coat he saw hanging before +him, and unconsciously uttered an exclamation. It was a dress-coat such +as had been worn by Mr. Sylvester the evening before. + +“What does this mean! My uncle has been here!” were the words that +sprang to his lips; but he subdued his impulse to speak, and hastily +hanging up the coat, relocked the door. Proceeding at once to the outer +room, he asked two or three of the clerks if they were sure Mr. +Sylvester had not been in during the day. But they all returned an +unequivocal “no,” and that too with a certain stare of surprise that at +once convinced him he was betraying his agitation too plainly. + +“I will telegraph whether Wheelock considers it necessary or not,” +thought he, and was moving to summon a messenger boy when he caught +sight of Hopgood slowly making his way in from the street. He was very +pale and walked with his eyes fixed on the ground, ominously shaking his +great head in a way that bespoke an inner struggle of no ordinary +nature. Bertram at once sauntered out to meet him. + +“Hopgood,” said he, “your evident anxiety is infectious. What has +happened to make my uncle’s detention a matter of such apparent import? +If you do not wish to confide in me, his nephew almost his son, speak to +Mr. Wheelock or to one of the directors, but don’t keep anything to +yourself which concerns his welfare or—What are you looking at?” + +The man was gazing as if fascinated at the keys in Bertram’s hand. + +“Nothing sir, nothing. You must not detain me; I have nothing to say. I +will wait ten minutes,” he muttered to himself, glancing again at the +clock. Suddenly he saw the various directors come filing out of the +inner room, and darted for the second time from Bertram’s detaining +hand. + +“I hope nothing has happened to Mr. Sylvester,” exclaimed one gentleman +to another as they filed by. + +“If he were given to a loose ends’ sort of business it would be another +thing.” + +“He looked exceedingly well at the reception last night,” exclaimed +another; “but in these days—” + +Suddenly there was a hush. A telegraph boy had just entered the door and +was asking for Mr. Bertram Sylvester. + +“Here I am,” said Bertram, hastily taking the envelope presented him. +Slightly turning his back, he opened it. Instantly his face grew white +as chalk. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “you will have to excuse my uncle to-day; a great +misfortune has occurred to him.” Then with a slow and horror-stricken +movement, he looked about him and exclaimed, “_Mrs. Sylvester is dead_.” + +A confused murmur at once arose, followed by a hurried rush; but of all +the faces that flocked out of the bank, none wore such a look of blank +and helpless astonishment as that of Hopgood the janitor, as with +bulging eyes and nervously working hands, he slowly wended his way to +the foot of the stairs and there sat down gazing into vacancy. + + + + +XX. + +THE DREGS IN THE CUP. + + “O eloquent, just and mightie death! whom none could advise, + thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done; and + whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of + the world and despised: thou hast drawn together all the farre + stretched greatnesses; all the pride, crueltie and ambition of + man and covered it all over with these two narrow words, _Hic + jacet_.” + + + —SIR WALTER RALEIGH. + + +Bertram’s hurried ring at his uncle’s door was answered by Samuel the +butler. + +“What is this I hear?” cried the young man, entering with considerable +agitation, “Mrs. Sylvester dead?” + +“Yes sir,” returned the old and trusty servant, with something like a +sob in his voice. “She went out riding this morning behind a pair of +borrowed horses—and being unused to Michael’s way of driving, they ran +away and she was thrown from the carriage and instantly killed.” + +“And Miss Fairchild?” + +“She didn’t go with her. Mrs. Sylvester was alone.” + +“Horrible, horrible! Where is my uncle, can I see him?” + +“I don’t know, sir,” the man returned with a strange look of anxiety. +“Mr. Sylvester is feeling very bad, sir. He has shut himself up in his +room and none of his servants dare disturb him, sir.” + +“I should, however, like him to know I am here. In what room shall I +find him?” + +“In the little one, sir, at the top of the house. It has a curious lock +on the door; you will know it by that.” + +“Very well. Please be in the hall when I come down; I may want to give +you some orders.” + +The old servant bowed and Bertram hastened with hushed steps to ascend +the stairs. At the first platform he paused. What is there in a house of +death, of sudden death especially, that draws a veil of spectral +unreality over each familiar object! Behind that door now inexorably +closed before him, lay without doubt the shrouded form of her who but a +few short hours before, had dazzled the eyes of men and made envious the +hearts of women with her imposing beauty! No such quiet then reigned +over the spot filled by her presence. As the vision of a dream returns, +he saw her again in all her splendor. Never a brow in all the great hall +shone more brightly beneath its sparkling diamonds; never a lip in the +whole vast throng curled with more self-complacent pride, or melted into +a more alluring smile, than that of her who now lay here, a marble image +beneath the eye of day. It was as if a flowery field had split beneath +the dancing foot of some laughing siren. One moment your gaze is upon +the swaying voluptuous form, the half-shut beguiling eye, the white +out-reaching arms upon whose satin surface a thousand loves seem +perching; the next you stare horror-stricken upon the closing jaws of an +awful pit, with the flash of something bright in your eyes, and the +sense of a hideous noiseless rush in which earth and heaven appear to +join, sink and be swallowed! Bertram felt his heart grow sick. Moving +on, he passed the bronze image of Luxury lying half asleep on its bed of +crumpled roses. Hideous mockery! What has luxury to do with death? She +who was luxury itself has vanished from these halls. Shall the mute +bronze go on smiling over its wine cup while she who was its prototype +is carried by without a smile on the lips once so vermeil with pride and +tropical languors! + +Arrived at the top of the house, Bertram knocked at the door with the +strange lock, and uttering his own name, asked if there was anything he +could do here or elsewhere to show his sympathy and desire to be of use +in this great and sudden bereavement. There was no immediate reply and +he began to fear he would be obliged to retire without seeing his uncle, +when the door was slowly opened and Mr. Sylvester came out. Instantly +Bertram understood the anxiety of the servant. Not only did Mr. +Sylvester’s countenance exhibit the usual traces of grief and horror +incident to a sudden and awful calamity, but there were visible upon it +the tokens of another and still more unfathomable emotion, a wild and +paralyzed look that altered the very contour of his features, and made +his face almost like that of a stranger. + +“Uncle, what is it?” sprang involuntarily to his lips. But Mr. Sylvester +betraying by a sudden backward movement an instinctive desire to escape +scrutiny, he bethought himself, and with hasty utterance offered some +words of consolation that sounded strangely hollow and superficial in +that dim and silent corridor. “Is there nothing I can do for you?” he +finally asked. + +“Everything is being done,” exclaimed his uncle in a strained and +altered voice; “Robert is here.” And a silence fell over the hall, that +Bertram dared not break. + +“I have help for everything but—” He did not say what, it seemed as if +something rose up in his throat that choked him. + +“Bertram,” said he at last in a more natural tone, “come with me.” + +He led him into an adjoining room and shut the door. It was a room from +which the sunshine had not been excluded and it seemed as if they could +both breathe more easily. + +“Sit down,” said his uncle, pointing to a chair. The young man did so, +but Mr. Sylvester remained standing. Then without preamble, “Have you +seen her?” + + +There was no grief in the question, only a quiet respect. Death clothes +the most volatile with a garment of awe. Bertram slowly shook his head. +“No,” said he, “I came at once up stairs.” + +“There is no mark on her white body, save the least little discolored +dent here,” continued his uncle, pointing calmly to his temple. “She had +one moment of fear while the horses ran, and then—” He gave a quick +shudder and advancing towards Bertram, laid his hand on his nephew’s +shoulder in such a way as to prevent him from turning his head. +“Bertram,” said he, “I have no son. If I were to call upon you to +perform a son’s work for me; to obey and ask no questions, would you +comply?” + +“Can you ask?” sprang from the young man’s lips; “you know that you have +only to command for me to be proud to obey. Anything you can require +will find me ready.” + +The hand on his shoulder weighed heavier. “It seems a strange time to +talk about business, Bertram, but necessity knows no law. There is a +matter in which you can afford me great assistance if you will undertake +to do immediately what I ask.” + +“Can you doubt—” + +“Hush, it is this. On this paper you will find a name; below it a number +of addresses. They are all of places down town and some of them not very +reputable I fear. What I desire is for you to seek out the man whose +name you here see, going to these very places after him, beginning with +the first, and continuing down the list until you find him. When you +come upon him, he will ask you for a card. Give him one on which you +will scrawl before his eyes, a circle, so. It is a token which he should +instantly understand. If he does, address him with freedom and tell him +that your employer—you need make use of no names—re-demands the papers +made over to him this morning. If he manifests surprise or is seen to +hesitate, tell him your orders are imperative. If he declares ruin will +follow, inform him that you are not to be frightened by words; that your +employer is as fully aware of the position of affairs as he. Whatever he +says, bring the papers.” + +Bertram nodded his head and endeavored to rise, but his uncle’s hand +rested upon him too heavily. + +“He is a small man; you need have no dread of him physically. The sooner +you find him and acquit yourself of your task, the better I shall be +pleased.” And then the hand lifted. + +On his way down stairs Bertram encountered Paula. She was standing in +the hall and accosted him with a very trembling tone in her voice. All +her questions were in regard to Mr. Sylvester. + +“Have you seen him?” she asked. “Does he speak—say anything? No one has +heard him utter a word since he came in from down town and saw her lying +there.” + +“Yes, certainly; he spoke to me; he has been giving me some commissions +to perform. I am on my way now to attend to them.” + +She drew a deep breath. “O!” she cried, “would that he had a son, a +daughter, a child, some one!” + +This exclamation following what had taken place above struck Bertram +forcibly. “He has a son in me, Paula. Love as well as duty binds me to +him. All that a child could do will I perform with pleasure. You can +trust me for that.” + +She threw him a glance of searching inquiry. “His need is greater than +it seems,” whispered she. “He was deeply troubled before this terrible +accident occurred. I am afraid the arrow is poisoned that has made this +dreadful wound. I cannot explain myself,” she went on hurriedly, “but if +you indeed regard him as a father, be ready with any comfort, any help, +that affection can bestow, or his necessities require. Let me feel that +he has near him some stay that will not yield to pressure.” + +There was so much passion in this appeal that Bertram involuntarily +bowed his head. “He has two friends,” said he, “and here is my hand that +I will never forsake him.” + +“I do not need to offer mine,” she returned, “He is great and good +enough to do without my assistance.” But nevertheless she gave her hand +to Bertram and with a glow of her lip and eye that made her beauty, +supreme at all times, something almost supernatural in its character. + +“I dared not tell him,” she whispered to herself as the front door +closed with the dull slow thud proper to a house of mourning. “I dare +not tell any one, but—” + +What lay beyond that but? + +When Mr. Sylvester came in at six o’clock in the morning, Paula had +risen from the bed on which she had been sitting, but not to make +preparation for rest, for she could not rest. The vague shadow of some +surrounding evil or threatened catastrophe was upon her, and though she +forced herself to change her dress for a warmer and more suitable one, +she did not otherwise break her vigil, though the necessity for it +seemed to be at an end. It was a midwinter morning and the sun had not +yet risen, so being chilly as well as restless, she began to pace the +floor, stopping now and then to glance out of the window, in the hopes +of detecting some signs of awakening day in the blank and solemn east. +Suddenly as she was thus consulting the horizon, a light flashed up from +below, and looking down upon the face of the extension that ran along at +right angles to her window, she perceived that the shades were up in +Mrs. Sylvester’s boudoir. They had doubtless been left so the evening +before, and Mr. Sylvester upon turning up the gas had failed to observe +the fact. Instantly she felt her heart stand still, for the house being +wide and the extension narrow, all that went on in that boudoir, or at +least in that portion of it which Mr. Sylvester at present occupied, was +easily observable from the window at which she stood; and that something +was going on of a serious and important nature, was sufficiently evident +from the expression of Mr. Sylvester’s countenance. He was standing with +his face bent towards some one seated out of sight, his wife +undoubtedly, though what could have called her from her dreams—and was +busily engaged in talking. The subject whatever it was, absorbed him +completely. If Paula had allowed herself the thought, she would have +described him as pleading and that with no ordinary vehemence. But +suddenly while she gazed half fascinated and but little realizing what +she was doing, he started back and a fierce change swept over his face, +a certain incredulity, that presently gave way to a glance of horror and +repugnance, which the quick action of his out-thrown palm sufficiently +emphasized. He was pushing something from him, but what? A suggestion or +a remembrance? It was impossible to determine. + +The countenance of Mrs. Sylvester who that moment appeared in sight +sailing across the floor in her azure wrapper, offered but little +assistance in the way of explanation. Immovable under most +circumstances, it was simply at this juncture a trifle more calm and +cold than usual, presenting to Paula’s mind the thought of a white and +icy barrier, against which the most glowing of arrows must fall chilled +and powerless. + +“O for a woman’s soul to inform that breast if but for a moment!” cried +Paula, lost in the passion of this scene, while so little understanding +its import. When as if in mockery to this invocation, the haughty form +upon which she was gazing started rigidly erect, while the lip acquired +a scorn and the eye a menace that betrayed the serpent ever in hiding +under this white rose. + +Paula could look no longer. This last revelation had awakened her to the +fact that she was gazing upon a scene sacred to the husband and wife +engaged in it. With a sense of shame she rushed to the bed and threw +herself upon it, but the vision of what she had beheld would not leave +her so easily. Like letters of fire upon a black ground, the panorama of +looks and gestures to which she had just been witness, floated before +her mind’s eye, awakening a train of thought so intense that she did not +know which was worse, to be there in the awful dawn dreaming over this +episode of the night, or to rise and face again the reality. The +fascination which all forbidden sights insensibly exert over the minds +of the best of us, finally prevailed, and she slowly crept to the window +to catch a parting glimpse of Mr. Sylvester’s tall form hurrying blindly +from the boudoir followed by his wife’s cold glance. The next minute the +exposed condition of the room seemed to catch that lady’s attention, and +with an anxious look into the dull gray morn, Mrs. Sylvester drew down +the shades, and the episode was over. + +Or so Paula thought; but when she was returning up stairs after her +solitary breakfast—Mrs. Sylvester was too tired and Mr. Sylvester too +much engaged to eat, as the attentive Samuel informed her—the door of +Ona’s room swung ajar, and she distinctly heard her give utterance to +the following exclamation: + +“What! give up this elegant home, my horses and carriage, the friends I +have had such difficulty in obtaining, and the position which I was born +to adorn? I had rather die!” And Paula feeling as if she had received +the key to the enigma of the last night’s unaccountable manifestations, +was about to rush away to her own apartment, when the door swayed open +again and she heard his voice respond with hard and bitter emphasis, + +“And it might be better that you should. But since you will probably +live, let it be according to your mind. I have not the courage—” + +There the door swung to. + +An hour from that Mr. Sylvester left the house with a small valise in +his hand, and Mrs. Sylvester dressed in her showiest costume, entered +her carriage for an early shopping excursion. + +And so when Paula whispered to herself, “I did not dare to tell him; I +did not dare to tell any one, but—” she thought of those terrible +words, “Die? It might be better, perhaps, that you should!” and then +remembered the ghastly look of immeasurable horror with which a few +hours later, he staggered away from that awful burden, whose rigid lines +would never again melt into mocking curves, and to whom the morning’s +wide soaring hopes, high reaching ambitions and boundless luxuries were +now no more than the shadows of a vanished world; life, love, longing, +with all their demands, having dwindled to a noisome rest between four +close planks, with darkness for its present portion and beyond—what? + + + + +XXI. + +DEPARTURE. + + “Forever and forever, farewell Cassius. + If we do meet again, why we shall smile; + If not, why then, this parting was well made.” + + —JULIUS CÆSAR. + + +Samuel had received his orders to admit Mr. Bertram Sylvester to his +uncle’s room, at whatever hour of the day or night he chose to make his +appearance. But evening wore away and finally the night, before his +well-known face was seen at the door. Proceeding at once to the +apartment occupied by Mr. Sylvester, he anxiously knocked. The door was +opened immediately. + +“Ah, Bertram, I have been expecting you all night.” And from the haggard +appearance of both men, it was evident that neither of them had slept. + +“I have sat down but twice since I left you, and then only in +conveyances. I have been obliged to go to Brooklyn, to—” + +“But you have found him?” + +“Yes, I found him.” + +His uncle glanced inquiringly at his hands; they were empty. + +“I shall have to sit down,” said Bertram; his brow was very gloomy, his +words came hesitatingly. “I had rather have knocked my head against the +wall, than have disappointed you,” he murmured after a moment’s pause. +“But when I did find him, it was too late.” + +“Too late!” The tone in which this simple phrase was uttered was +indescribable. Bertram slowly nodded his head. + +“He had already disposed of all the papers, and favorably,” he said. + +“But—” + +“And not only that,” pursued Bertram. “He had issued orders by +telegraph, that it was impossible to countermand. It was at the Forty +Second Street depôt I found him at last. He was just on the point of +starting for the west.” + +“And has he gone?” + +“Yes sir.” + +Mr. Sylvester walked slowly to the window. It was raining drearily +without, but he did not notice the falling drops or raise his eyes to +the leaden skies. + +“Did you meet any one?” he asked at length. “Any one that you know, I +mean, or who knows you?” + +“No one but Mr. Stuyvesant.” + +“Mr. Stuyvesant!” + +“Yes sir,” returned Bertram, dropping his eyes before his uncle’s +astonished glance. “I was coming out of a house in Broad Street when he +passed by and saw me, or at least I believed he saw me. There is no +mistaking him, sir, for any one else; besides it is a custom of his I am +told, to saunter through the down town streets after the warehouses are +all closed for the night. He enjoys the quiet I suppose, finds food for +reflection in the sleeping aspect of our great city.” There was gloom in +Bertram’s tone; his uncle looked at him curiously. + +“What house was it from which you were coming when he passed you?” + +“A building where Tueller and Co. do business, shady operators in paper, +as you know.” + +“And you believed he recognized you?” + +“I cannot be sure, sir. It was dark, but I thought I saw him look at me +and give a slight start.” + +Ah, how desolate sounds the drip, drip of a ceaseless rain, when +conversation languishes and the ear has time to listen! + +“I will explain to Mr. Stuyvesant when I see him, that you were in +search of a man with whom I had pressing business,” observed Mr. +Sylvester at last. + +“No,” murmured Bertram with effort, “it might emphasize the occurrence +in his mind; let the matter drop where it is.” + +There was another silence, during which the drip of the rain on the +window-ledge struck on the young man’s ears like the premonitory thud of +falling earth upon a coffin-lid. At length his uncle turned and advanced +rapidly towards him. + +“Bertram,” said he, “you have done me a favor for which I thank you. +What you have learned in the course of its accomplishment I cannot tell. +Enough perhaps to make you understand why I warned you from the +dangerous path of speculation, and set your feet in a way that if +adhered to with steadfast purpose, ought to lead you at last to a safe +and honorable prosperity. Now—No, Bertram,” he bitterly interrupted +himself as the other opened his lips, “I am in need of no especial +commiseration, my affairs seem bound to prosper whether I will or +not—now I have one more commission to give you. Miss Fairchild—” his +voice quavered and he leaned heavily on the chair near which he was +standing. “Have you seen her, Bertram? Is the poor child quite +prostrated? Has this frightful occurrence made her ill, or does she bear +up with fortitude under the shock of this sudden calamity?” + +“She is not ill, but her suffering is undoubted. If you could see her +and say a few words to relieve her anxiety in regard to yourself, I +think it would greatly comfort her. Her main thought seems to be for +you, sir.” + +Mr. Sylvester frowned, raised his hand with a repelling gesture, and +hastily opened his lips. Bertram thought he was about to utter some +passionate phrase. But instead of that he merely remarked, “I am sorry I +cannot see her, but it is quite impossible. You must stand between me +and this poor child, Bertram. Tell her I send her my love; tell her that +I am quite well; anything to solace her and make these dark days less +dreary. If she wants a friend with her, let a messenger be sent for +whomever she desires. I place no restrictions upon anything you choose +to do for her comfort or happiness, but let me be spared the sight of +any other face than yours until this is all over. After the funeral—it +may sound ungracious, but I am far from feeling so—I shall wish to be +left alone for awhile. If she can be made to understand this—” + +“I think her instincts, sir, have already led her to divine your wishes. +If I am not mistaken, she is even now making preparations to return to +her relatives.” + +Mr. Sylvester gave a start. “What, so soon!” he murmured, and the +sadness of his tone smote Bertram to the heart. But in another moment he +recovered himself and shortly exclaimed, “Well! well! that is as it +should be. You will watch over her Bertram, and see that she is kindly +cared for. It would be a grief to me to have her go away with any more +than the necessary regret at losing one who was always kind to _her_.” + +“I will look after her as after a sister,” returned Bertram. “She shall +miss no attention which I can supply.” + +With a look Mr. Sylvester expressed his thanks. Then while Bertram again +attempted to speak, he gave him a cordial pressure of the hand, and +withdrew once more to his favorite spot. + +And the rain beat, beat, and it sounded more and more like the droppings +of earth upon a nailed down coffin-lid. + + * * * * * + +The funeral was a large one. The largest some said that had ever been +seen in that quarter of the city. If Mrs. Sylvester’s position had not +been what it was, the sudden and awful nature of her death, would have +been sufficient to draw together a large crowd. Among those who thus +endeavored to show their respect was Miss Stuyvesant. + +“I could not join you here in your pleasures,” she whispered to Paula in +the short interview they had upstairs, preparatory to the services, “but +I cannot keep away in the dark hours!” And from her look and the clasp +of her hand, Paula gained fresh courage to endure the slow pressure of +anxiety and grief with which she was secretly burdened. + +Moreover she had the pleasure of introducing her beloved friend to Mr. +Bertram Sylvester, a pleasure which she had long promised herself +whenever the opportunity should arrive, as Miss Stuyvesant was somewhat +of an enthusiast as regards music. She did not notice particularly then, +but she remembered afterwards, with what a blushing cheek and beautiful +glance the dainty young girl received his bow, and responded to his few +respectful words of pleasure at meeting the daughter of a man whom he +had learned to regard with so much respect. + +Mr. Sylvester was in a room by himself. The few glimpses obtained of him +by his friends, convinced them all, that this trouble touched him more +deeply than those who knew his wife intimately could have supposed. Yet +he was calm, and already wore that fixed look of rigidity which was +henceforth to distinguish the expression of his fine and noble features. + +In the ride to Greenwood he spoke little. Paula who sat in the carriage +with him did not receive a word, though now and then his eye wandered +towards her with an expression that drove the blood to her heart, and +made the whole day one awful memory of incomprehensible agony and dim +but terrible forebodings. The ways of the human soul, in its crises of +grief or remorse were so new to her. She had passed her life beside +rippling streams and in peaceful meadows, and now all at once, with +shadow on shadow, the dark pictures of life settled down before her, and +she could not walk without stumbling upon jagged rocks, deep yawning +chasms and caves of impenetrable gloom. + +The sight of the grave appalled her. To lay in such a bed as that, the +fair and delicate head that had often found the downy pillows of its +azure couch too hard for its languid pressure. To hide in such a dismal, +deep, dark gap, a form so white and but a little while before, so +imposing in its splendor and so commanding in its requirements. The +thought of heaven brought no comfort. The beauty they had known lay +here; soulless, inert, rigid and responseless, but here. It was gifted +with no wings with which to rise. It owned no attachment to higher +spheres. Death had scattered the leaves of this white rose, but from all +the boundless mirror of the outspread heavens, no recovered semblance of +its perfected beauty, looked forth to solace Paula or assuage the misery +of her glance into this gloomy pit. Ah, Ona, the social ladder reaches +high, but it does not scale the regions where your poor soul could find +comfort now. + +Bertram saw the white look on Paula’s face and silently offered his arm. +But there are moments when no mortal help can aid us; instants when the +soul stands as solitary in the universe, as the ship-wrecked mariner on +a narrow strip of rock in a boundless sea. Life may touch, but eternity +enfolds us; we are single before God and as such must stand or fall. + +Upon their return to the house, Mr. Sylvester withdrew with a few +intimate friends to his room, and Paula, lonely beyond expression, went +to her own empty apartment to finish packing her trunks and answer such +notes as had arrived during her absence. For attention from outsiders +was only too obtrusive. Many whom she had never met save in the most +formal intercourse, flooded her now with expressions of condolence, +which if they had not been all upon one pattern and that the most +conventional, might have afforded her some relief. Two or three of the +notes were precious to her and these she stowed safely away, one +contained a deliberate offer of marriage from a wealthy old +stock-broker; this she as deliberately burned after she had written a +proper refusal. “He thinks I have no home,” she murmured. + +And had she? As she paced through the silent halls and elaborately +furnished rooms on her way to her solitary dinner, she asked herself if +any place would ever seem like home after this. Not that she was +infatuated by its elegance. The lofty walls might dwindle, the gorgeous +furniture grow dim, the works of beauty disappear, the whole towering +structure contract to the dimensions of a simple cottage or what was +worse, a seedy down-town house, if only the something would remain, the +something that made return to Grotewell seem like the bending back of a +towering stalk to the ground from which it had taken its root. “If?” she +cried—and stopped there, her heart swelling she knew not why. Then +again, “I thought I had found a father!” Then after a longer pause, a +wild uncontrollable; “Bless! bless! bless!” which seemed to re-echo in +the room long after her lingering step had left it. + + * * * * * + +“Will he let me go without a word?” + +It was early morning and the time had come for Paula’s departure. She +was standing on the threshold of her room, her hands clasped, her eyes +roving up and down the empty halls. “Will he let me go without a word?” + +“O Miss Paula, what do you think?” cried Sarah, creeping slowly towards +her from the spectral recesses of a dim corner. “Jane says Mr. Sylvester +was up all last night too. She heard him go down stairs about midnight +and he went through all the rooms like a gliding spectre and into _her_ +room too!” she fearfully whispered; “and what he did there no one knows, +but when he came out he locked the door, and this morning the cook heard +him give orders to Samuel to have the trunks that were ready in Mrs. +Sylvester’s room taken away. O Miss, do you think he can be going to +give all those beautiful things to you?” + +Paula recoiled in horror. “Sarah!” said she, and could say no more. The +vision of that tall form gliding through the desolate house at midnight, +bending over the soulless finery of his dead wife, perhaps stowing it +away in boxes, came with too powerful a suggestion to her mind. + +“Shure, I thought you would be pleased,” murmured the girl and +disappeared again into one of the dim recesses. + +“Will he let me go without a word?” + +“Miss Paula, Mr. Bertram Sylvester is waiting at the door in a +carriage,” came in low respectful tones to her ears, and Samuel’s face +full of regret appeared at the top of the stairs. + +“I am coming,” murmured the sad-hearted girl, and with a sob which she +could not control, she took her last look of the pretty pink chamber in +which she had dreamed so many dreams of youthful delight, and perhaps of +youthful sorrow also, and slowly descended the stairs. Suddenly as she +was passing a door on the second floor, she heard a low deep cry. + +“Paula!” + +She stopped and her hand went to her heart, the reaction was so sudden. +“Yes,” she murmured, standing still with great heart-beats of joy, or +was it pain? + +The door slowly opened. “Did you think I could let you go without a +blessing, my Paula, my little one!” came in those deep heart-tones which +always made her tears start. And Mr. Sylvester stepped out of the +shadows beyond and stood in the shadows at her side. + +“I did not know,” she murmured. “I am so young, so feeble, such a mote +in this great atmosphere of anguish. I longed to see you, to say +good-bye, to thank you, but—” tears stopped her words; this was a +parting that rent her tender heart. + +Mr. Sylvester watched her and his deep chest rose spasmodically. +“Paula,” said he, and there was a depth in his tone even she had never +heard before, “are these tears for me?” + +With a strong effort she controlled herself, looked up and faintly +smiled. “I am an orphan,” she gently murmured; “you have been kind and +tender to me beyond words; I have let myself love you as a father.” + +A spasm crossed his features, the hand he had lifted to lay upon her +head fell at his side, he surveyed her with eyes whose despairing +fondness told her that her love had been more than met by this desolate +childless man. But he did not reply as seemed natural, “Be to me then as +a child. I can offer you no mother to guide or watch over you, but one +parent is better than none. Henceforth you shall be known as my +daughter.” Instead of that he shook his head mournfully, yearningly but +irrevocably, and said, “To be your father would have been a dear +position to occupy. I have sometimes hoped that I might be so blessed as +to call it mine, but that is all past now. Your father I can never be. +But I can bless you,” he murmured brokenly, “not as I did that day in +your aunt’s little cottage, but silently and from afar as God always +meant you should be blessed by me. Good-bye, Paula.” + +Then all the deeps in her great nature broke up. She did not weep, but +she looked at him with her large dark eyes and the cry in them smote his +heart. With a struggle that blanched his face, he kept his arms at his +side, but his lips worked in agony, and he slowly murmured, “If after a +time your heart loves me like this, and you are willing to bear shadow +as well as sunshine with me, come back with your aunt and sit at my +hearthstone, not as my child but as a dear and honored guest. I will try +and be worthy—” He paused, “Will you come, Paula?” + +“Yes, yes.” + +“Not soon, not now,” he murmured, “God will show you when.” + +And with nothing but a look, without having touched her or so much as +brushed her garments with his, he retired again into his room. + + + + +XXII. + +HOPGOOD. + + “Give it an understanding but no tongue.” + + —HAMLET. + + +Hopgood was a man who could keep a secret, but who made so much ado in +the process that he reminded one of the placard found posted up +somewhere out west which reads, “A treasure of gold concealed here; +don’t dig!” Or so his wife used to say, and she ought to know, for she +had lived with him five years, three of which he had spent in the +detective service. + +“If he would only trust the wife of his bosom with whatever he’s got on +his mind, instead of ambling around the building with his eyes rolling +about like peas in a caldron of boiling water, one might manage to take +some comfort in life, and not hurt anybody either. For two days now, +ever since the wife of Mr. Sylvester died and Mr. Sylvester has been +away from the bank, he’s acted just like a lunatic. Not that that has +anything to do with his gettin up of nights and roamin down five pair of +stairs to see if the watchman is up to his duty, or with his askin a +dozen times a day if I remembers how Mr. Sylvester found him and me, +well nigh starvin in Broad Street, and gave him the good word which got +him into this place? O no! O no, of course not! But _something_ has, and +while he persists in shutting out from his breast the woman he swore to +love, honor, and cherish, that woman is not bound to bear the trials of +life with patience. Every time he jumps out of his chair at the sound of +Mr. Sylvester’s name, and some one is always mentionin’ it, I plumps me +down on mine with an expression of my views regarding a kitchen stove +that does all its drawin’ when the oven’s empty.” + +So spake Mrs. Hopgood to her special crony and constant visitor, Mrs. +Kirkshaw of Water Street, pursing up a mouth that might have been +good-natured if she had ever given it an opportunity. But Mrs. Kirkshaw +who passed for a gossip with her neighbors, was a philosopher in the +retirement of the domestic circle and did not believe in the blow for +blow system. + +“La!” quoth she, with a smoothing out of her apron suggestive of her +employment as laundress, “show a dog that you want his bone and you’ll +never get it. Husbands is like that very stove you’ve been a slanderin +of. Rattle on coal when the fire’s low and you put it out entirely; but +be a bit patient and drop it on piece by piece, coaxing-like, and you’ll +have a hot stove afore you know it.” + +Which suggestion struck Mrs. Hopgood like a revelation, and for a day +and night she resorted to the coaxing system; the result of which was to +send Mr. Hopgood out of the room to sit on the stairs in mortal terror, +lest his good nature should get the better of his discretion. His little +daughter, Constantia Maria—so named and so called from two +grandmothers, equally exacting in their claims and equally impecunious +as regards their resources—was his sole solace in this long vigil. Her +pretty innocent prattle scarcely disturbed his meditation, while it +soothed his nerves, and with no one by but this unsuspecting child, he +could roll his great eyes to his heart’s content without fear of her +descrying anything in them, but the love with which her own little heart +abounded. + +On the morning after the funeral, however, Constantia Maria was restored +to his wife’s arms on the plea that she did not seem quite well, and +Hopgood went out and sat alone. In a few minutes, however, he returned, +and ambling restlessly up and down the room, stopped before his +persistently smiling wife and said somewhat tremulously: + +“If Mr. Sylvester takes a notion to come up and see Constantia Maria +to-day, I hope you’ll take the opportunity to finish your ironing or +whatever else it is you may have to do. I’ve noticed he seems a little +shy with the child when you are around.” + +“Shy with the child when I am around! well I do declare!” exclaimed she, +forgetting her late rôle in her somewhat natural indignation. “And what +have I ever done to frighten Mr. Sylvester? Nothing but putting on of a +clean apron, when he comes in and a dustin’ of the best chair for his +use. It’s a trick of yours to get a chance of speakin’ to him alone, and +I’ll not put up with it. As if it wasn’t bad enough to have a kettle +with the nozzle dangling, without living with a man who has a secret he +won’t share with his own wife and the mother of his innocent babe.” + +With a start the worthy man stared at her till he grew red in the face, +probably with the effort of keeping his eyes steady for so long a time. +“Who told you I had a secret?” said he. + +“Who told me?” and then she laughed, though in a somewhat hysterical +way, and sat down in the middle of the floor and shook and shook again. +“Hear the man!” she cried. And she told him the story of the placard out +west and then asked him, “if he thought she didn’t remember how he used +to act when he was a chasin’ up of a thief in the days when he was on +the police force.” + +“But,” he cried, quite as pale now as he had been florid the moment +before, “I’m not in the police force now and you are acting quite silly +and I’ve no patience with you.” And he was making for the door, +presumably to sit upon the stairs, when with a late repentance she +seized him by the arm and said: + +“La now,” an expression she had caught from Mrs. Kirkshaw, “I didn’t +mean nothin’ by my talk. Come back, John; Constantia Maria is not well, +and if Mr. Sylvester comes up to see her, I’ll just slip out and leave +you alone.” + +And upon that he told her she was a good wife and that if he had any +secret from her it was only because he was a poor man. “Honesty and +prudence are all the treasures I possess to keep us three from starving. +Shall I part with either of them just to satisfy your curiosity?” and +being a good woman at heart, she said “no,” though she secretly +concluded that prudence in his case involved trust in one’s wife first, +and disbelief in the rest of the world afterward; and took her future +resolutions accordingly. + +“Well, Hopgood, you look anxious; do you want to speak to me?” + +The janitor eyed the changed and melancholy face of his patron, with an +expression in which real sympathy for his trouble, struggled with the +respectful awe which Mr. Sylvester’s presence was calculated to inspire. + +“If you please,” said he, speaking very low, for more or less of the +bank employees were moving busily to and fro, “Constantia Maria is not +well and she has been asking all day for the _dear man_, as she insists +upon calling you, sir, with many apologies for the freedom.” + +Mr. Sylvester smiled with a faint far-away look in his dark eye that +made Hopgood stare uneasily out of the window. “Sick! why then I must go +up and see her,” he returned in a matter-of-fact way that proved his +visits in that direction were of no uncommon occurrence. “A moment more +and I shall be at liberty.” + +Hopgood bowed and renewed his stare out of the window, with an intensity +happily spared from serious consequences to the passers-by, by the +merciful celerity with which Mr. Sylvester procured his overcoat, put +such papers in his pocket as he required, and joined him. + +“Constantia Maria, here is Mr. Sylvester come to see you.” + +It was a pleasure to observe how the little thing brightened in her +mother’s arms, where but a moment before she had lain quite pale and +still, and slipping to the ground rushed up to meet the embrace of this +stern and melancholy-faced man. “I am so glad you have come,” she cried +over and over again; and her little arms went round his neck, and her +soft cheek nestled against his, with a content that made the mother’s +eyes sparkle with pleasure, as obedient to her promise, she quietly left +the room. + +And Mr. Sylvester? If any one had seen the abandon with which he yielded +to her caresses and returned them, he would have understood why this +child should have loved him with such extraordinary affection. He kissed +her forehead, he kissed her cheek, and seemed never weary of smoothing +down her bright and silky curls. She reminded him of Geraldine. She had +the same blue eyes and caressing ways. From the day he had come upon his +old friend Hopgood in a condition of necessity almost of want, this +blue-eyed baby had held its small sceptre over his lonely heart, and +unbeknown to the rest of the world, had solaced many a spare five +minutes with her innocent prattle. The Hopgoods understood the cause of +his predilection and were silent. It was the one thing Mrs. Hopgood +never alluded to in her gossips with Mrs. Kirkshaw. But to-day the +attentions of Mr. Sylvester to the little one seemed to make the janitor +restless. He walked up and down the narrow room uneasily surveying the +pair out of the corner of his great glassy eyes, till even Mr. Sylvester +noticed his unusual manner and put the child down, observing with a +sigh, “You think she is not well enough for any excitement?” + +“No sir, it is not that,” returned the other uneasily, with a hasty look +around him. “The fact is, I have something to say to you, sir, about—a +discovery—I made the other day.” His words came very slowly, and he +looked down with great embarrassment. + +Mr. Sylvester frowned slightly, and drew himself up to the full height +of his very imposing figure. “A discovery,” repeated he, “when?” + +“The day you paid that early visit to the bank, sir, the day Mrs. +Sylvester died.” + +The frown on Mr. Sylvester’s brow grew deeper. “The day—” he began, and +stopped. + +“Excuse me, sir,” exclaimed Hopgood with a burst. “I ought not to have +mentioned it, but you asked me _when_, and I—” + +“What was this discovery?” inquired his superior, imperatively. + +“Nothing much,” murmured the other now all in a cold sweat. “But I felt +as if I ought to tell you. You have been my benefactor, sir, I can never +forget what you have done for me and mine. If I saw death or bereavement +between me and any favor I could do for you, sir, I would not hesitate +to risk them. I am no talker, sir, but I am true and I am grateful.” He +stopped, choked, and his eyes rolled frightfully. Mr. Sylvester looked +at him, grew a trifle pale, and put the little child away that was +nestling up against his knee. + +“You have not told me what you have discovered,” said he. + +“Well, sir, only this.” And he took from his pocket a small roll of +paper which he unfolded and held out in his hand. It contained a gold +tooth-pick somewhat bent and distorted. + +A flush dark and ominous crept over Mr. Sylvester’s cheek. He glanced +sternly at the trembling janitor, and uttered a short, “Well?” + +“I found it on the floor of the bank just after you went out the other +morning,” the other pursued well-nigh inaudibly. “It was lying near the +safe. As it was not there when you went in, I took it for granted it was +yours. Am I right, sir?” + +The anxious tone in which this last question was uttered, the studied +way in which the janitor kept his eyes upon the floor could not have +been unnoticed by Mr. Sylvester, but he simply said, + +“I have lost mine, that may very possibly be it.” + +The janitor held it towards him; his eyes did not leave the floor. “The +responsibility of my position here is sometimes felt by me to be very +heavy,” muttered the man in a low, unmodulated tone. It was his duty in +those days previous to the Manhattan Bank robbery, to open the vault in +the morning, procure the books that were needed, and lay them about on +the various desks in readiness for the clerks upon their arrival. He had +also the charge of the boxes of the various customers of the bank who +chose to entrust their valuables to its safe keeping; which boxes were +kept, together with the books, in that portion of the vault to which he +had access. “I should regret my comfortable situation here, but if it +was necessary, I would go without a murmur, trusting that God would take +care of my poor little lamb.” + +“Hopgood, what do you mean?” asked Mr. Sylvester somewhat sternly. “Who +talks about dismissing you?” + +“No one,” responded the other, turning aside to attend to some trivial +matter. “But if ever you think a younger or a fresher man would be +preferable in my place, do not hesitate to make the change your own +necessities or that of the Bank may seem to require.” + +Mr. Sylvester’s eye which was fixed upon the janitor’s face, slowly +darkened. + +“There is something underlying all this,” said he, “what is it?” + +At once and as if he had taken his resolution, the janitor turned. “I +beg your pardon,” said he, “I ought to have told you in the first place. +When I opened the vaults as usual on the morning of which I speak, I +found the boxes displaced; that was nothing if you had been to them, +sir; but what did alarm me and make me feel as if I had held my position +too long was to find that one of them was unlocked.” + +Mr. Sylvester fell back a step. + +“It was Mr. Stuyvesant’s box, sir, and I remember distinctly seeing him +lock it the previous afternoon before putting it back on the shelf.” + +The arms which Mr. Sylvester had crossed upon his breast tightened +spasmodically. “And it has been in that condition ever since?” asked he. + +The janitor shook his head. “No,” said he, taking his little girl up in +his arms, possibly to hide his countenance. “As you did not come down +again on that day, I took the liberty of locking it with a key of my own +when I went to put away the books and shut the vault for the night.” And +he quietly buried his face in his baby’s floating curls, who feeling his +cheek against her own put up her hand and stroked it lovingly, crying in +her caressing infantile tones, + +“Poor papa! poor tired papa.” + +Mr. Sylvester’s stern brow contracted painfully. The look with which his +eye sought the sky without, would have made Paula’s young heart ache. +Taking the child from her father’s clasp, he laid her on the bed. When +he again confronted the janitor his face was like a mask. + +“Hopgood,” said he, “you are an honest man and a faithful one; I +appreciate your worth and have had confidence in your judgment. Whom +have you told of this occurrence beside myself?” + +“No one, sir.” + +“Another question; if Mr. Stuyvesant had required his box that day and +had found it in the condition you describe, what would you have replied +to his inquiries?” + +The janitor colored to the roots of his hair in an agony of shame Mr. +Sylvester may or may not have appreciated, but replied with the +straightforward earnestness of a man driven to bay, “I should have been +obliged to tell him the truth sir; that whereas I had no personal +knowledge of any one but myself, having been to the vaults since the +evening before, I was called upon early that morning to open the outside +door to you, sir, and that you came into the bank,” (he did not say +looking very pale, agitated and unnatural, but he could not help +remembering it) “and finding no one on duty but myself,—the watchman +having gone up stairs to take his usual cup of coffee before going home +for the day—you sent me out of the room on an errand, which delayed me +some little time, and that when I came back I found you gone, and every +thing as I had left it except that small pick lying on the floor.” + +The last words were nearly inaudible but they must have been heard by +Mr. Sylvester, for immediately upon their utterance, the hand which +unconsciously had kept its hold upon the tooth-pick, opened and with an +uncontrollable gesture flung the miserable tell-tale into the stove near +by. + +“Hopgood,” said the stately gentleman, coming nearer and holding him +with his eyes till the poor man turned pale and cold as a stone, “has +Mr. Stuyvesant had occasion to open his box since you locked it?” + +“Yes sir, he called for it yesterday afternoon.” + +“And who gave it to him?” + +“I sir.” + +“Did he appear to miss anything from it?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Do you believe, Hopgood, that there was anything missing from it?” + +The janitor shrank like a man subjected to the torture. He fixed his +glance on Mr. Sylvester’s face and his own gradually lightened. + +“No sir!” said he at last, with a gasp that made the little one lift her +curly head from her pillow and shake it with a slow and wistful motion +strange to see in a child of only two years. + +The proud man bowed, not with the severity however that might have been +expected; indeed his manner was strangely shadowed, and though his lip +betrayed no uneasiness and his eye neither faltered or fell, there was a +vague expression of awe upon his countenance, which it would take more +than the simple understanding of the worthy but not over subtle man +before him, to detect much less to comprehend. + +“You may be sure that Mr. Stuyvesant will never complain of any one +having tampered with his effects while you are the guardian of the +vaults,” exclaimed Mr. Sylvester in clear ringing tones. “As for his box +being open, it is right that I should explain that it was the result of +a mistake. I had occasion to go to a box of my own in a hurry that +morning, and misled by the darkness and my own nervousness perhaps, took +up his instead of my own. Not till I had opened it—with the tooth-pick, +Hopgood, for I had been to a reception and did not have my keys with +me—did I notice my mistake. I had intended to explain the matter to Mr. +Stuyvesant, but you know what happened that day, and since then I have +thought nothing of it.” + +The janitor’s face cleared to its natural expression. “You are very +kind, sir, to explain yourself to me,” said he; “it was not necessary.” +But his lightened face spoke volumes. “I have been on the police force +and I know how to hold my tongue when it is my duty, but it is very hard +work when the duty is on the other side. Have you any commands for me?” + +Mr. Sylvester shook his head, and his eye roamed over the humble +furniture and scanty comforts of this poor man’s domicile. Hopgood +thought he might be going to offer him some gift or guerdon, and in a +low distressed tone spoke up: + +“I shall not try to ask your pardon, sir, for anything I have said. +Honesty that is afraid to show itself, is no honesty for me. I could not +meet your eye, knowing that I was aware of any circumstance of which you +supposed me ignorant. What I know, you must know, as long as I remain in +the position you were once kind enough to procure for me. And now that +is all I believe, sir.” + +Mr. Sylvester dropped his eyes from the bare walls over which they had +been restlessly wandering, and fixed them for a passing moment on the +countenance of the man before him. Then with a grave action he lifted +his hat from his head, and bowed with the deference he might have shown +to one of his proudest colleagues, and without another look or word, +quietly left the room. + +Hopgood in his surprise stared after him somewhat awe-struck. But when +the door had quite closed, he caught up his child almost passionately in +his arms, and crushing her against his breast, asked, while his eye +roamed round the humble room that in its warmth and comfort was a palace +to him, “Will he take the first opportunity to have me dismissed, or +will his heart forgive the expression of my momentary doubts, for the +sake of this poor wee one that he so tenderly fancies?” + +The question did not answer itself, and indeed it was one to which time +alone could reply. + + + + +BOOK III. + +THE JAPHA MYSTERY. + + + + +XXIII. + +THE POEM. + + “I’ve shot my arrow o’er the house + And hurt my brother.” + + —HAMLET. + + +When Miss Belinda first saw Paula, she did not, like her sister, remark +upon the elegance of her appearance, the growth of her beauty, or the +evidences of increased refinement in the expression of her countenance +and the carriage of her form, but with her usual penetration noted +simply, the sadness in her eye and the tremulous motion of her lip. + +“You had then become fond of your cousin?” queried she with +characteristic bluntness. + +Paula not understanding the motive of this remark, questioned her with a +look. + +“Young faces do not grow pale or bright eyes become troubled without a +cause. Grief for your cousin might explain it, but if you have suffered +from no grief—” + +“My cousin was very kind to me,” hurriedly interrupted Paula. “Her death +was very sudden and very heart-rending.” + +“So it was;” returned Miss Belinda, “and I expected to see you look worn +and sad but not restless and feverish. You have a living grief, Paula, +what is it?” + +The young girl started and looked down. For the first time in her life +she wished to avoid that penetrating glance. “If I have, I cannot talk +of it,” she murmured. “I have experienced so much this past week; my +coming away was so unexpected, that I hardly understand my own feelings, +or realize just what it is that troubles me most. All that I know is, +that I am very tired and so sad, it seems as if the sun would never +shine again.” + +“There is then something you have not written me?” inquired the +inexorable Miss Belinda. + +“The experiences of this last week could never be written,—or told,” +returned Paula with a droop of her head. “Upon some things our better +wisdom places a stone which only the angels can roll away. The future +lies all open before us; do not let us disturb the past.” + +And Miss Belinda was forced to be content lest she should seem to be +over anxious. + +Not so the various neighbors and friends to whom the lengthened sojourn +of one of their number in an atmosphere of such wealth and splendor, +possessed something of the charm of a forbidden romance. For months +Paula was obliged to endure questions, that it required all her +self-control to answer with calmness and propriety. But at length the +most insatiable gossip amongst them was satisfied; Paula’s figure was no +longer a novelty in their streets; curiosity languished and the young +girl was allowed to rest. + +And now could those who loved her, discern that with the lapse of time +and the daily breathings of her native air, the sad white look had faded +from her face, leaving it a marvel of freshness and positive, if +somewhat spiritualized, beauty. The print of deeper thoughts and holier +yearnings was there, but no sign of blighted hopes or uncomprehended +passions. A passing wind had blown the froth from off the cup, but had +not disturbed the sparkle of the wine. She had looked in the face of +grief, but had not as yet been clasped in her relentless arms. Only two +things could vitally disturb her; a letter from Cicely, or a sudden +meeting in the village streets with that elderly lady who haunted the +Japha mansion. The former because it recalled a life around which her +fancies still played with dangerous persistency, and the latter because +it aroused vain and inexplicable conjectures as to that person’s strange +and lingering look in her direction. Otherwise she was happy; finding in +this simple village-life a meaning and a purpose which her short but +passionate outlook on a broader field, had taught her, perhaps, both to +detect and comprehend. She no longer walked solitary with nature. The +woods, the mountains with all their varying panoply of exuberant +verdure, had acquired a human significance. At her side went the +memories of beloved faces, the thoughts of trusted friends. From the +clouds looked forth a living eye, and in the sound of rustling leaf and +singing streamlet, spake the voices of human longing and human joy. + +Her aunts had explained their position to Paula and she had responded by +expressing her determination to be a teacher. But they would not hear of +that at present, and while she waited their pleasure in the matter, she +did what she could to assist them in their simple home-life and daily +duties, lending her beauty to tasks that would have made the eyes of +some of her quondam admirers open with surprise, if only they could have +followed the action of her hands, after having once caught a glimpse of +the face that brightened above them. And so the summer months went by +and September came. + +There was to be an entertainment in the village and Paula was to assist. +The idea had come from her aunt and was not to be rejected. In one of +the strange incomprehensible moods which sometimes came upon her at this +time, she had written a poem, and nothing would do but that she must +read it before the assembled company of neighbors and friends, that were +to be gathered at the Squire’s house on this gala evening. She did not +wish to do it. The sacred sense of possession passes when we uncover our +treasure to another’s eyes, giving way to a lower feeling not to be +courted by one of Paula’s sensitive nature. Besides she would rather +have poured this first outburst of secret enthusiasm into other ears +than these; but she had given her word and the ordeal must be submitted +to. There are many who remember how she looked on that night. She had +arrayed herself for the occasion, in the prettiest of her dresses, and +mindful of Ona’s injunction, did not mar the effect of its soft and +uniform gray with any hint of extraneous color. The result was that they +saw only her beauty; and what beauty! A very old man, an early settler +in the village, who had tottered out to enjoy a last glimpse of life +before turning his aged face to the wall, said it made the thought of +heaven a little more real. “I can go home and think how the angels +look,” said he in his simple, half-childish way. And no one contradicted +him, for there was a still light on her face that was less of earth than +heaven, though why it should rest there to-night she least of all could +have told, for her poem had to do with earth and its deepest passions +and its wildest unrest. It was a clarion blast, not a dreaming rhapsody, +that lay coiled up in the paper she held in her hand. + +My readers must pardon me if I give them Paula’s poem, for without it +they would not understand its effect and consequent result. It was +called, “The Defence of the Bride,” and was of the old ballad order. As +she rose to read, many of the younger ones in the audience began +cautiously to move to one side, but at the first words, young as well as +old paused and listened where they stood, for her voice was round and +full, and the memory of clashing spears and whirling battle-axes that +informed the war-song which she had heard Bertram play, was with her, to +give color to her tones and fire to her glance. + +THE DEFENCE OF THE BRIDE. + + He was coming from the altar when the tocsin rang alarm, + With his fair young wife beside him, lovely in her bridal charm; + But he was not one to palter with a duty, or to slight + The trumpet-call of honor for his vantage or delight. + + Turning from the bride beside him to his stern and martial train, + From their midst he summoned to him the brothers of Germain; + At the word they stepped before him, nine strong warriors brave and + true, + From the youngest to the eldest, Enguerrand to mighty Hugh. + + “Sons of Germain, to your keeping do I yield my bride to-day. + Guard her well as you do love me; guard her well and holily. + Dearer than mine own soul to me, you will hold her as your life, + ’Gainst the guile of seeming friendship and the force of open strife.” + + “We will guard her,” cried they firmly; and with just another glance + On the yearning and despairing in his young wife’s countenance, + Gallant Beaufort strode before them down the aisle and through the + door, + And a shadow came and lingered where the sunlight stood before. + + Eight long months the young wife waited, watching from her bridal room + For the coming of her husband up the valley forest’s gloom. + Eight long months the sons of Germain paced the ramparts and the wall, + With their hands upon their halberds ready for the battle-call. + + Then there came a sound of trumpets pealing up the vale below, + And a dozen floating banners lit the forest with their glow, + And the bride arose like morning when it feels the sunlight nigh, + And her smile was like a rainbow flashing from a misty sky. + + But the eldest son of Germain lifting voice from off the wall, + Cried aloud, “It is a stranger’s and not Sir Beaufort’s call; + Have you ne’er a slighted lover or a kinsman with a heart + Base enough to seek his vengeance at the sharp end of the dart?” + + “There is Sassard of the Mountains,” answered she without guile, + “While I wedded at the chancel, he stood mocking in the aisle; + And my maidens say he swore there that for all my plighted vow, + They would see me in his castle yet upon Morency’s brow.” + + “It is Sassard and no other then,” her noble guardian cried; + “There is craft in yonder summons,” and he rung his sword beside. + “To the walls, ye sons of Germain! and as each would hold his life + From the bitter shame of falsehood, let us hold our master’s wife.” + + “Can you hold her, can you shield her from the breezes that await?” + Cried the stinging voice of Sassard from his stand beside the gate. + “If you have the power to shield her from the sunlight and the wind, + You may shield her from stern Sassard when his falchion is untwined.” + + “We can hold her, we can shield her,” leaped like fire from off the + wall, + And young Enguerrand the valiant, sprang out before them all. + “And if breezes bring dishonor, we will guard her from their breath, + Though we yield her to the keeping of the sacred arms of Death.” + + And with force that never faltered, did they guard her all that day, + Though the strength of triple armies seemed to battle in the fray, + The old castle’s rugged ramparts holding firm against the foe, + As a goodly dyke resisteth the whelming billow’s flow. + + But next morning as the sunlight rose in splendor over all, + Hugh the mighty, sank heart-wounded in his station on the wall, + At the noon the valiant Raoul of the merry eye and heart, + Gave his beauty and his jestings to the foeman’s jealous dart. + + Gallant Maurice next sank faltering with a death wound ‘neath his hair, + But still fighting on till Sassard pressed across him up the stair. + + Generous Clement followed after, crying as his spirit passed, + “Sons of Germain to the rescue, and be loyal to the last!” + + Gentle Jaspar, lordly Clarence, Sessamine the doughty brand, + Even Henri who had yielded ne’er before to mortal hand; + One by one they fall and perish, while the vaunting foemen pour + Through the breach and up the courtway to the very turret’s door. + + Enguerrand and Stephen only now were left of all that nine, + To protect the single stairway from the traitor’s fell design; + But with might as ’twere of thirty, did they wield the axe and brand, + Striving in their desperation the fierce onslaught to withstand. + + But what man of power so godlike he can stay the billow’s wrack, + Or with single-handed weapon hold an hundred foemen back! + + As the sun turned sadly westward, with a wild despairing cry, + Stephen bowed his noble forehead and sank down on earth to die. + + “Ah ha!” then cried cruel Sassard with his foot upon the stair, + “Have I come to thee, my boaster?” and he whirled his sword in air. + “Thou who pratest of thy power to protect her to the death, + What think’st thou now of Sassard and the wind’s aspiring breath?” + + “What I think let this same show you,” answered fiery Enguerrand, + And he poised his lofty battle-ax with sure and steady hand; + “Now as Heaven loveth justice, may this deathly weapon fall + On the murderer of my brothers and th’ undoer of us all.” + + With one mighty whirl he sent it; flashing from his hand it came, + Like the lightning from the heavens in a whirl of awful flame, + And betwixt the brows of Sassard and his two false eyeballs passed, + And the murderer sank before it, like a tree before the blast. + + “Now ye minions of a traitor if you look for vengeance, come!” + And his voice was like a trumpet when it clangs a victor home. + But a cry from far below him rose like thunder upward, “Nay! + Let them turn and meet the _husband_ if they hunger for the fray.” + + O the yell that sprang to heaven as that voice swept up the stair, + And the slaughter dire that followed in another moment there! + From the least unto the greatest, from the henchman to the lord, + Not a man on all that stairway lived to sheath again his sword. + + At the top that flame-bound forehead, at the base that blade of fire— + ’Twas the meeting of two tempests in their potency and ire. + Ere the moon could falter inward with its pity and its woe, + Beaufort saw the path before him unencumbered of the foe. + + Saw his pathway unencumbered and strode up and o’er the floor, + Even to the very threshold of his lovely lady’s door, + And already in his fancy did he see the golden beam + Of her locks upon his shoulder and her sweet eyes’ happy gleam: + + + When behold a form upstarting from the shadows at his side. + That with naked sword uplifted barred the passage to his bride; + It was Enguerrand the dauntless, but with staring eyes and hair + Blowing wild about a forehead pale as snow in moonlit glare. + + “Ah my master, we have held her, we have guarded her,” he said, + “Not a shadow of dishonor has so much as touched her head. + Twenty wretches lie below there with the brothers of Germain, + Twenty foemen of her honor that I, Enguerrand, have slain. + + “But one other foe remaineth, one remaineth yet,” he cried, + “Which it fits this hand to punish ere you cross unto your bride. + It is I, Enguerrand!” shrieked he; “and as I have slain the rest, + So I smite this foeman also!”—and his sword plunged through his + breast. + + O the horror of that moment! “Art thou mad my Enguerrand?” + Cried his master, striving wildly to withdraw the fatal brand. + But the stern youth smiling sadly, started back from his embrace, + While a flash like summer lightning, flickered direful on his face. + + “Yes, a traitor worse than Sassard;” and he pointed down the stair, + “For my heart has dared to love her whom my hand defended there. + While the others fought for honor, I by passion was made strong, + Set your heel upon my bosom for my soul has done you wrong. + + “But,” and here he swayed and faltered till his knee sank on the floor, + Yet in falling turned his forehead ever toward that silent door; + “But your warrior hand my master, may take mine without a stain, + For my hand has e’er been loyal, and your enemy is slain.” + +A short silence followed the last word, then a burst of applause +testified to the appreciation of her audience, and Paula crept away to +hide her blushing cheeks in the comparative darkness of a little +vine-covered balcony that jutted out from the ante-room. What were her +thoughts as she leaned there! In the subsidence of any great +emotion—and Paula had felt every word she uttered—there is more or +less of shock and tumult. She did not think, she only felt. Suddenly a +hand was laid on her arm and a low voice whispered in her ear, + +“Did you write that poem yourself?” + +Turning, she encountered the shadowy form of a woman leaning close at +her side and appearing in the dim light that shone on her from the lamps +beyond, an eager image of expectancy. + +“Yes,” returned Paula, “why do you ask?” + +The woman, whoever she was, did not answer. “And you believe in such +devotion as that!” she murmured. “You can understand a man, aye, or a +woman either, risking happiness and fame, life and death, for the sake +of a trust! Such things are not folly to you! You could see a heart +spill itself drop by drop through a longer vigil than the eight months +watching on the ramparts, and not sneer at a fidelity that could not +falter because it had given its word? Speak; you write of faithfulness +with a pen of fire, is your heart faithful too?” + +There was something in these words, spoken as they were in a tone of +suppressed passion, that startled and aroused Paula. Leaning forward, +she endeavored to see the face of the woman who thus forcibly addressed +her, but the light was too dim. The outline of a brow covered by some +close headgear was all she could detect. + +“You speak earnestly,” said Paula, “but that is what I like. Fidelity to +a cause, or fidelity to a trust, demands the sympathy and admiration of +all honest and generous hearts. If I am ever called upon to maintain +either, I hope that my enthusiasm will not have all been expended in +words.” + +“You please me,” murmured the woman, “you please me; will you come and +see me and let me tell you a story to mate the poem you have given us +to-night?” + +The trembling eagerness of her tone it would be impossible to describe. +Paula was thrilled by it. “If you will tell me who you are,” said Paula, +“I certainly will try and come. I should be glad to hear anything you +have to relate to me.” + +“I thought every one knew who I was,” returned the woman; and drawing +Paula back into the ante-room, she turned her face upon her. “Any one +will tell you where Margery Hamlin lives,” said she. “Do not disappoint +me, and do not keep me waiting long.” And with a nod and a deep strange +smile that made her aged face almost youthful, she entered the crowd and +disappeared from Paula’s sight. + +It was the woman whose nightly visits to the deserted home of the Japhas +had once been the talk and was still the unsolved mystery of the town. + + + + +XXIV. + +THE JAPHA MANSION. + + “Ah what a warning for a thoughtless man, + Could field or grove, could any spot on earth + Show to his eye an image of the pangs + Which it has witnessed; render back an echo + Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod. + + —WORDSWORTH. + + +Unexplained actions if long continued, lose after awhile their interest +if not their mystery. The aged lady who now for many years had been seen +at every night-fall to leave her home, traverse the village streets, +enter the Japha mansion, remain there an hour and then re-issue with +tremulous steps and bowed head, had become so common a sight to the +village eye, that even the children forgot to ask what her errand was, +or why she held her head so hopefully when she entered, or looked so +despondent when she came forth. + +But to Paula, for reasons already mentioned, this secret and persistent +vigil in a forsaken and mysterious dwelling, was fraught with a +significance which had never lost its power either to excite her +curiosity or to arouse her imagination. Many a time had she gone home +from some late encounter with the aged lady, to brood by the hour upon +the expression of that restless eye which in its wanderings never failed +to turn upon her own youthful face and linger there in the manner I have +already noted. She thought of it by night, she thought of it by day. She +felt herself drawn to that woman’s suffering heart as by invisible +cords. To understand the feelings of this desolate being, she had even +studied the face of that old house, until she knew it under its every +aspect. Often in shutting her eyes at night, she would perceive as in a +mirror a vision of its long gray front, barred door and sealed windows +shining in the moon, save where the deep impenetrable shadows of its two +guardian poplars lay black and dismal upon its ghostly surface. Again +she would behold it as it reared itself dark and dripping in a blinding +storm, its walls plastered with leaves from the immovable poplars, and +its neglected garden lying sodden and forlorn under the flail of the +ceaseless storm. Then its early morning face would strike her fancy. The +slow looming of its chimney-tops against a brightening sky; the gradual +coming out of its forsaken windows and solemn looking doors from the +mystery of darkness into the no less mystery of day; the hint of +roselight on its barren boards; the gleam of sunshine on its untrodden +threshold; a sunshine as pure and sweet as if a bride stood there in her +beauty, waiting for admission into the deserted halls beyond. All and +everything that could tend to invest the house and its constant visitor +with an atmosphere of awe and interest, had occurred to this young girl +in her daily reveries and nightly dreams. It was therefore with a thrill +deep as her expectation and vivid as her sympathy, that she recognized +in her eager interlocutor and proposed confident, the woman about whose +life and actions rested for her such a veil of impenetrable mystery. The +thought moved her, excited her, and made the rest of the evening pass +like a dream. She was anxious for the next day to come, that she might +seek this Mrs. Hamlin in her home, and hear from her lips the tale of +devotion that should mate her own simple but enthusiastic poem. + +When the next day did come, it rained, rained bitterly, persistent and +with a steady drive from the north east, that made her going out +impossible. The day following she was indisposed, and upon the +succeeding afternoon, she was engaged in duties that precluded all +thought of visiting. The next day was Sunday, and Monday had its own +demands which she could not slight. It was therefore well nigh a week +from the night of the entertainment, before the opportunity offered for +which she was so anxious. Her curiosity and expectation had thus time to +grow, and it was with a determination to allow nothing to stand in her +way, that she set out from home in a flood of mild September sunshine, +to visit Mrs. Hamlin. But alas, for resolutions made in a country +village prior to the opening of a church fair! She had scarcely gone a +dozen steps before she was accosted by one of the managers, a woman who +neither observes your haste, nor pays any attention to your possible +preoccupation. Do what she could, she found it impossible to escape from +this persistent individual until she had satisfied her upon matters +which it took a full half hour to discuss, and when at last she +succeeded in doing so, it was only to fall into the hands of an aged +deacon of the church, whose protecting friendship it were a sin to +wound, while his garrulous tongue made it no ordinary trial of patience +to stand and listen. In short the best part of the afternoon was gone +before she found herself at the door of Mrs. Hamlin’s house. But she was +not to be deterred by further hesitation from the pursuit of her object. +Rapping smartly on the door, she listened. No stir came from within. +Again she rapped and again she listened. No response came to assure her +that her summons had been heard. Surprised at this, for she had been +told Mrs. Hamlin was always at home during the afternoon, she glanced up +at the church clock in plain view from the doorstep, and blushed to +observe that it was six o’clock, the hour at which this mysterious woman +always left her house, to accomplish her vigil at the Japha mansion. + +“What have I done?” thought Paula, and felt a strange thrill as she +realized that even at that moment, the woman with the eager but restless +eyes, was shut within the precincts of that deserted dwelling, engaged +in prayer, perhaps wet with tears, who knows? The secret of what she did +in that long and quiet twilight hour had never been revealed. Leaving +the little brown house behind, Paula found herself insensibly taking the +road to the Japha mansion. If she could not enter it and share the watch +of the devoted woman who had promised her her confidence, she could at +least observe if the windows were open or the blinds raised. To be sure +she ought to be at home, but Miss Belinda was indulgent and did not +question her comings and goings too closely. An irresistible force drew +her down the street, and she did not hesitate to follow the lead of her +impulse. No one accosted her now, it was the tea hour in most of these +houses and the streets were comparatively deserted. The only house whose +chimneys lacked the rising smoke, was the one towards which her +footsteps were tending. She could descry it from afar. Its gaunt walls +from which the paint had long ago faded, stared uncompromisingly upon +her in the autumn sunshine. There was no welcome in its close shutters +with their broken slats from which hung tangled strips of old rags—the +remnants of some boy’s kite. The stiff and solemn poplars rose grim and +forbidding at the gate once swung wide to the fashion and gallantry of +proud ladies and stalwart gentlemen, but now pushed aside solely by the +hand of a tremulous old woman, or the irreverent palm of some daring +school-boy. From the tangled garden looked forth neither flower nor +blossoming shrub. Beauty and grace could not thrive in this wilderness +of decay. A dandelion would have felt itself out of place beneath the +eye of that ghostly door, with the sinister plank nailed across it, like +the separating line between light and darkness, right and wrong, life +and death. What loneliness! what a monument of buried passions outliving +death itself! + +Paula paused as she reached the gate; but remembering that Mrs. Hamlin +was accustomed to enter the house by a side door, hurried around the +corner and carefully surveyed the windows from that quarter. One of the +shutters was open, allowing the flame of the setting sun to gild the +panes like gold. She did not know then nor has she been able to explain +since, what it was that came over her at the sight, but almost before +she realized it, she had returned to the gate, opened it, threaded the +overgrown garden, reached the door which she had so frequently beheld +the aged woman enter and knocked. + +Instantly she was seized with a consciousness of what she had done, and +frightened at her temerity, meditated an immediate escape. Drawing the +folds of her mantle about her form and face, she prepared to fly, when +she remembered the look of entreaty with which this woman had said on +that night of their conversation, “Do not disappoint me! Do not keep me +long in suspense!” and moved by a fresh impulse, turned and inflicted +another resounding knock on the door. + +The result was unlooked-for and surprising. To the sound from within of +a quick passionate cry, there came a hurried movement, followed by a +deep silence, then another hasty stir succeeded by a longer silence, +then a rush which seemed to bring all things with it, and the door +opened and Mrs. Hamlin appeared before her with a countenance so pallid +with expectancy, that Paula instinctively felt that in some unconscious +way, she had loosened the bonds of an uncontrollable emotion, and was +drawing back, when the woman with a quick look in her shrouded face, +exultantly caught her hand in hers, and drawing her over the threshold, +gasped out in a delirium of incomprehensible joy: + +“I knew you would come! I knew that God would not let you forget! +Fifteen years have I waited, Jacqueline! fifteen long, tedious, +suffering years! But they all seem like nothing now! You have come, you +have come, and all that I ask, is that God will not let me die till I +realize my joy!” + +The emotion with which she uttered these strange words was so +overpowering, and her body seemed so weak to stand the strain, that +Paula instinctively put forth her hand to sustain her. The action +loosened her cloak. Instantly the eyes that had been fixed upon her with +such delirious rapture grew blank with dismay, a frightful shudder ran +through the woman’s aged frame; she tore at the cloak that still +enveloped the young girl’s shoulders, and pulling it off, took one view +of the fresh and beautiful countenance before her, and without uttering +a word, fell back in a deep and deadly swoon upon the floor. + +“O what have I done?” cried Paula, flinging herself down beside that +pale and rigid figure; but instantly remembering herself she leaped to +her feet and looked about for some means to resuscitate the sufferer. +There was a goblet of water on a table near by. Seizing it, she bathed +the face and hands of the woman before her, moaning aloud in her grief +and dismay, “Have I killed her! O what is this mystery that brings such +a doom of anguish to this poor heart?” + +But from those pallid lips came no response, and feeling greatly +alarmed, Paula was about to rush from the house for assistance, when she +felt a tremulous pull upon her skirt, and turning, saw that the glassy +eyes had opened at last and were now gazing upon her with mute but +eloquent appeal. + +She instantly returned. “O I am so sorry,” she murmured, sinking again +upon her knees beside the suffering woman. “I did not know, could not +realize that my presence here would affect you so deeply. Forgive me and +tell me what I can do to make you forget my presumption.” + +The woman shook her head, her lips moved and she struggled vainly to +rise. Paula immediately lent her the aid of her strong young hand and in +a few minutes, Mrs. Hamlin was on her feet. “O God!” were her first +words as she sank into the chair which Paula hastily drew forward, “that +I should taste the joy and she be still unsaved!” + +Seeing her so absorbed, Paula ventured to glance around her. She found +herself in a large square room sparsely but comfortably furnished in a +style that bespake it as the former sitting-room of the dead and buried +Japhas. From the walls above hung a few ancient pictures. A large +hair-cloth sofa of a heavy antique shape, confronted the eye from one +side of the room, an equally ancient book-case from the other. The +carpet was faded and so were the curtains, but they had once been of an +attractive hue and pattern. Conspicuous in the midst stood a large table +with a well-trimmed lamp upon it, and close against it an easy chair +with an upright back. This last as well as everything else in the room, +was in a condition of neatness that would have surprised Paula if she +had not been acquainted with the love and devotion of this woman, who in +her daily visits to this house, probably took every pains to keep things +freshened and in order. + +Satisfied with her survey, she again directed her attention to Mrs. +Hamlin, and started to find that person’s eyes fixed upon her own with +an expression of deep, demanding interest. + +“You are looking at the shadows of things that were,” exclaimed the old +lady in thrilling tones. “It is a fearful thought to be shut up with the +ghost of a vanished past, is it not? That chair by your side has not +been sat in since Colonel Japha rose from it twelve years ago to totter +to the bed where he breathed his last. It is waiting, everything is +waiting. I thought the end had come to-night, that the vigil was over, +the watch finished, but God in his wisdom says, ‘No,’ and I must wait a +little longer. Alas in a little while longer the end will be here +indeed!” + +The despondency with which she uttered these last words showed where her +thoughts were tending, and to comfort her, Paula drew up a chair and sat +down by her side. “You were going to tell me the story of a great love +and a great devotion. Cannot you do so now?” + +The woman started, glanced hastily around, and let her eyes travel to +Paula’s face where they rested with something of their old look of +secret longing and doubt. + + +“You are the one who wrote the poem,” she murmured; “I remember.” Then +with a sudden feverish impulse, leaned forward, and stroking back the +waving locks from Paula’s brow, exclaimed hurriedly, “You look like her, +you have the same dark hair and wonderful eyes, more beautiful perhaps, +but like her, O so like her! That is why I made such a mistake.” She +shuddered, with a quick low sob, but instantly subdued her emotion and +taking Paula’s hand in hers continued, “You are young, my daughter; +youth does not enjoy carrying burdens; can I, a stranger ask you to +assist me with mine?” + +“You may,” returned Paula. “If it will give you any relief I will help +you bear it willingly.” + +“You will! Has heaven then sent me the aid my failing spirits demand? +Can I count on you, child? But I will ask for no promise till you have +heard my story. To no one have I ever imparted the secret of my life, +but from the first moment I saw your fair young face, I felt that +through you would come my help, if help ever came to make my final +moments easier and my last days less bitter.” And rising up, she led +Paula to a door which she solemnly opened. “I am glad that you are +here,” said she. “I could never have asked you to come, but since you +have braved the dead and crossed this threshold, you must see and know +the whole. You will understand my story better.” + +Taking her through a dark passage, she threw wide another door, and the +parlors of the vanished Japhas opened before them. It was a ghostly +vision. A weird twilight scene of clustered shadows brooding above +articles of musty grandeur. In spite of the self-command learned by her +late experiences, Paula recoiled, saying, + +“It is too sad, too lonesome!” But the woman without heeding her, +hurried her on over the worm-eaten carpet and between the time-worn +chairs and heavy-browed cabinets, to the hall beyond. + +“I have not been here, myself, for a year,” said Mrs. Hamlin, glancing +fearfully up and down the dusky corridor. “It is not often I can brave +the memories of this spot.” And she pointed with one hand towards the +darkened door at its end, whose spacious if not stately panels gave no +hint to the eye of the dread bar that crossed it like a line of doom +upon the outside, and then turning, let her eye fall with still heavier +significance upon the broad and imposing staircase that rose from the +centre of the hall to the duskier and more dismal regions above. + +“A brave, old fashioned flight of steps is it not! But the scene of a +curse, my child.” And unheeding Paula’s shudder, she drew her up the +stairs. + +“See,” continued her panting guide as they reached a square platform +near the top, from which some half dozen or more steps branched up on +either side. “They do not build like this nowadays. But Colonel Japha +believed in nothing new, and thought more of his grand old hall and +staircase, than he did of all the rest of his house. He little dreamed +of what a scene it would be the witness. But come, it is getting late +and you must see her room.” + +It was near the top of the staircase and was fully as musty, faded and +dismal as the rest. Yet there was an air of expectancy about it, too, +that touched Paula deeply. From between the dingy hangings of the bed, +looked forth a pair of downy pillows, edged with yellowed lace, and +beneath them a neatly spread counterpane carefully turned back over +comfortable-looking blankets, as one sees in a bed that only awaits its +occupant; while on the ancient hearth, a pile of logs stood heaped and +ready for the kindling match. + +“It is all waiting you see,” said the old lady in a trembling voice, +“like everything else, just waiting.” + +There was an embroidery frame in one corner of the room, from which +looked a piece of faded and half completed work. The needle was hanging +from it by a thread, and a skein of green worsted hung over the top, +Paula glanced at it inquiringly. + +“It is just as she left it! He never entered the room after she went and +I would never let it be touched. It is just the same with the piano +below. The last piece she played is still standing open on the rack. I +loved her so, and I thought then that a few months would bring her back! +See, here is her bible. She never used to read it, but she prized it +because it was her mother’s. I have placed it on the pillow where she +will see it when she comes to lay her poor tired head down to rest.” And +with a reverent hand the aged matron drew the curtains back from the +open bed, and disclosed the little bible lying thick with dust in the +centre of the nearest pillow. + +“O who was this you loved so well? And why did she leave you?” cried +Paula with the tears in her eyes, at sight of this humble token. + +The aged lady seized her hand and hurried her back into the room below. +“I will tell you where I have waited and watched so long. Only be +patient till I light the lamp. It is getting late and any chance +wanderer going by and seeing all dark, might think I had forgotten my +promise and was not here.” + + + + +XXV. + +JACQUELINE. + + “The cold in clime are cold in blood, + And love as scarce deserves the name, + But mine is like the lava flood + That burns in Etna’s breast of flame.” + + —BYRON. + + + +“There are some men that have the appearance of being devoid of family +affection, who in reality cherish it in the deepest and most passionate +degree. Such a man was Colonel Japha. You have doubtless heard from your +cradle what the neighbors thought of this stately, old fashioned +gentleman. He was too handsome in his youth, too proudly reticent in his +manhood, too self-contained and unrelenting in his age, not to be the +talk of any town that numbered him among its inhabitants. But only from +myself, a relative of the family and his housekeeper for years, can you +learn with what undeviating faith and love he clung to the few upon whom +he allowed his heart to fasten in affection. When he married Miss Carey, +the world said, ‘He has chosen a beauty, because fine manners and a +pretty face look well behind the Japha coffee-urn!’ But we, that is, +this same young wife and myself, knew that in marrying her he had taken +unto himself his other half, the one sweet woman for whom his proud +heart could beat and before whom his stately head could bow. When she +died, the world exclaimed, ‘He will soon fill her place!’ But I who +watched the last look that passed between them in the valley of the +shadow of that death, knew that the years would come and the years would +go without seeing Colonel Japha marry again. + +“The little babe whom she left to his care, took all the love which he +had left. From the moment it began to speak, he centered in its tiny +life all the hope and all the pride of his solitary heart. And the Japha +pride was nearly as great as the Japha heart. She was a pretty child; +not a beauty like her mother or like you, my dear, who however so nearly +resemble her. But for all that, pretty enough to satisfy the eyes of her +secretly doting father, and her openly doting nurse and cousin. I say +secretly doting father. I do not mean by that that he regarded her with +an affection which he never displayed, but that it was his way to lavish +his caresses at home and in the privacy of her little nursery. He never +made a parade of anything but his pride. If he loved her, it was enough +for her to know it. In the street and the houses of their friends, he +was the strict, somewhat severe father, to whom her childish eyes lifted +at first with awe, but afterwards with a quiet defiance, that when I +first saw it, made my heart stand still with unreasoning alarm. + +“She was so reserved a child and yet so deeply passionate. From the +beginning I felt that I did not understand her. I loved her; I have +never loved any mortal as I did her—and do; but I could not follow her +impulses or judge of her feelings by her looks. + +“When she grew older it was still worse. She never contradicted her +father, or appeared in any open way to disobey his commands, or thwart +him in his plans. Yet she always did what she pleased, and that so +quietly, he frequently did not observe that matters had taken any other +direction, than that which he had himself ordained. ‘It is her mother’s +tact,’ he used to say. Alas it was something more than that; it was her +father’s will united to the unscrupulousness of some forgotten ancestor. + +“But with the glamour of her eighteen years upon me, I did not recognize +this then, any more than he. I saw her through the magic glasses of my +own absorbing love, and tremble as I frequently would in the still scorn +of her unfathomable passion, I never dreamed she could do anything that +would seriously offend her father’s affection or mortify his pride. The +truth is, that Jacqueline did not love us. Say what you will of the +claims of kindred, and the right of every father to his childrens’ +regard, Jacqueline Japha accepted the devotion that was lavished upon +her, but she gave none in return. She could not, perhaps. Her father was +too cold in public and too warm in his home-bursts of affection. I was +plain and a widow; no mate for her in age, condition or estate. She +could neither look up to me nor lean upon me. I had been her nurse in +childhood and though a relative, was still a dependent; what was there +in all that to love! If her mother had lived—But we will not dwell on +possibilities. Jacqueline had no mother and no friend that was dear +enough to her, to teach her unwilling soul the great lesson of +self-control and sacrifice. + + +“You will say that is strange. That situated as she was, she ought to +have found friends both dear and congenial; but that would be to declare +that Jacqueline was like others of her age and class, whereas she was +single and alone; a dark-browed girl, who allured the gaze of both men +and women, but who cared but little for any one till—But wait, child. I +shall have to speak of matters that will cause your cheeks to blush. Lay +your head down on my knee, for I cannot bear the sight of blushes upon a +cheek more innocent than hers.” + +With a gentle movement she urged Paula to sit upon a little stool at her +feet, pressed the young girl’s head down upon her lap, and burying the +lovely brow beneath her aged hands, went hurriedly on. + +“You are young, dear, and may not know what it is to love a man. +Jacqueline was young also, but from the moment she returned home to us +from a visit she had been making in Boston, I perceived that something +had entered her life that was destined to make a great change in her; +and when a few weeks later, young Robert Holt from Boston, came to pay +his respects to her in her father’s house, I knew, or thought I did, +what that something was. We were sitting in this room I remember, when +the servant-girl came in, and announced that Mr. Holt was in the parlor. +Jacqueline was lying on the sofa, and her father was in his usual chair +by the table. At the name, Holt, the girl rose as if it had suddenly +thundered, or the lightning had flashed. I see her now. She was dressed +in white—though it was early fall she still clung to her summer +dresses—her dark hair was piled high, and caught here and there with +old-fashioned gold pins, a splendid red rose burned on her bosom, and +another flashed crimson as blood from her folded hands. + +“‘Holt?’ repeated the Colonel without turning his head, ‘I know no such +man.’ + +“‘He said he wished to see Miss Jacqueline,’ simpered the servant. + +“‘Oh,’ returned the Colonel indifferently. He never showed surprise +before the servants—and went on with his book, still without turning +his head. + +“I thought if he had turned it, he would scarcely sit there reading so +quietly; for Jacqueline who had not stirred from her alert and upright +position, was looking at him in a way no father, least of all a father +who loved his child as he did her, could have beheld without agitation. +It was the glance of a tigress waiting for the sight of an inconsiderate +move, in order to spring. It was wild unconstrainable joy, eying a +possible check and madly defying it. I shuddered as I looked at her eye, +and sickened as I perceived a huge drop of blood ooze from her white +fingers, where they unconsciously clutched a thorn, and drop dark and +disfiguring upon her virgin garments. At the indifferent exclamation of +her father, her features relaxed, and she turned haughtily towards the +girl, with a veiling of her secret delight that already bespoke the +woman of the world. + +“‘Tell Mr. Holt that I will see him presently,’ said she, and was about +to follow the girl from the room when I caught her by the sleeve. + +“‘You will have to change your dress,’ said I, and I pointed to the +ominous blot disfiguring its otherwise spotless white. + +“She started and gave me a quick glance. + +“‘I have a skin like a spider’s web,” cried she. ‘I should never meddle +with roses.’ But I noticed she did not toss the blossom away. + +“‘Who is this Mr. Holt?’ now asked the Colonel suddenly turning, the +servant having left the room. + +“‘He is a gentleman I met in Boston,’ came from his daughter’s lips, in +her usual light and easy tones. ‘He is probably passing through our town +on his way to Providence, where I was told he did business. His call is +no more than a formality, I presume.’ And with an indifferent little +smile and nod, she vanished from the room, that a moment before had been +filled with the threat of her silent passion. The Colonel gave a short +sigh but returned undisturbed to his book. + +“In the course of a few minutes Jacqueline came back. She had changed +her dress for one as summerlike as the other, but still finer and more +elaborate. She looked elegant, imperious, but the joy had died out from +her eyes, and in its place was another expression incomprehensible to +me, but fully as alarming as any that had gone before. ‘Mr. Holt finds +himself obliged to remain in town over night, and would like to pay his +respects to you,’ said she to her father. + +“The Colonel immediately rose, looking very grand as he turned and +surveyed his daughter with his clear penetrating eye.’ + +“‘You have a lover, have you not?’ he asked, laying his hand on her bare +and beautifully polished shoulder. + +“An odd little smile crossed her lip. She looked at her hands on which +never a ring shone, and coquettishly tossed her head. ‘Let the gentleman +speak for himself,’ said she, ‘I give no man his title until he has +earned it.’ + +“Her father laughed. A lover was not such a dreadful thing in his eyes +provided he were worthy. And Jacqueline would not choose unworthily of +course—a Japha and his daughter! ‘Well then,’ said he, ‘let us see if +he can make good his title; Holt is not a bad name and Boston is not a +poor place to hail from.’ And without more ado, they hurried from the +room. But the light had all died out from her face! What did it mean? + +“At tea time I met the gentleman. He had evidently made his title good. +I was not only favorably impressed with him but actually struck. Of all +the high-bred, clear-eyed, polished and kindly gentlemen who had sat +about the board since I first came into the family in Mrs. Japha’s +lifetime, here was surely the finest, the handsomest and the best; and +surprised in more ways than one, I was giving full play to my relief and +exhilaration, when I caught sight of Jacqueline’s eye, and felt again +the cold shudders of secret doubt and apprehension. Smile upon him as +she would, coquet with him as she did, the flame and the glory that drew +her like an inspiration to her feet when his name was announced, had +fled, and left not a shadow behind. Had he failed in his expressions of +devotion? Was he hard or cold or severe, under all that pleasant and +charming manner? Had the hot soul of our motherless child rushed upon +ice, and in the shock of the dreadful chill, fallen inert? No, his looks +bespake no coldness; they dwelt upon Jacqueline’s lovely but inscrutable +face, with honest fervor and boundless regard. He evidently loved her +most passionately, but she—if it had not been for that first moment of +unconscious betrayal, I should have decided that she cared for him no +more than she did for the few others who had adored her, in the short +space of her incomprehensible life. + +“The mystery was not cleared up when she came to me that night with a +short, ‘How do you like my lover, Margery?’ I was forty years her +senior, but she always called me Margery. + +“‘I think he is the finest, most agreeable man I ever met,’ said I. ‘Is +he your lover, Jacqueline? Are you going to marry him?’ + +“She turned about from the vase which she was denuding of its flowers, +and gave me one of her sphinx-like looks. ‘You must ask papa,’ said she. +‘He holds the destinies of the Japhas in his hand, does he not?’ + +“‘Does he?’ I involuntarily whispered to myself; following the steady +poise of her head and the assured movements of her graceful form, with a +glance of doubt, but loving her all the same, O loving her all and ever +the same! + +“‘Your father is not the man to cross you when the object of your +affections is as worthy as this gentleman. He loved your mother too +fondly.’ + +“‘He did?’ She had turned quick as a flash and was looking me straight +in the eyes. + +“‘I never saw such union!’ I exclaimed, vaguely remembering that her +mother’s name had always seemed to have power to move her. ‘There was no +parade of it before the world; but here at their own fireside, it was +heart to heart and soul to soul. It was not love it was assimilation.’ + +“The young girl rose upon me like a flame; her very eyes seemed to dart +fire; her lips looked like living coals; she was almost appalling in her +terrible beauty and superhuman passion. ‘Not love!’ she exclaimed, her +every word falling like a burning spark, ‘not love but assimilation! Yet +do you suppose if I told my father that my soul had found its mate; my +heart its other half; that this, _this_ nature,’ here she struck her +breast as she would a stone, ‘had at last found its master; that the +wayward spirit of which you have sometimes been afraid, was become a +part of another’s life, another’s soul, another’s hope, do you suppose +he would listen? Hush!’ she cried, seeing me about to speak. ‘You talk +of love, what do you know of it, what does he know of it, who saw his +young wife die, yet himself consented to live? Is love a sitting by the +fire with hand locked in hand while the winter winds rage and the +droning kettle sings? Love is a going through the fire, a braving of the +winter winds, a scattering of the soul in sparks that the night and the +tempest lick up without putting out the germ of the eternal flame. +Love!’ she half laughed; ‘O, it takes a soul that has never squandered +its treasure upon every passing beggar, to know how to love! Do you see +that star?’ It was night as I have said and we were standing near an +open window. ‘It has lost its moorings and is falling; when it descries +the ocean it will plunge into it; so with some natures, they soar high +and keep their orbit well, till an invisible hand turns them from their +course and they fall, to be swallowed up, aye swallowed up, lost and +buried in the great sea that has awaited them so long.’ + + +“‘And you love—like this—’ I murmured, quailing before the power of +her passion. + +“‘Would it not be strange if I did not,’ she asked in an altered voice. +‘You say he is everything noble, handsome and attractive.’ + +“Yes, yes,’ I murmured, ‘but—’ + +“She did not wait to hear what lay behind that but. Picking up her +flowers, she hastily crossed the room. ‘Did my young mother shriek from +joy, when my father’s horses ran away with them along that deadly +precipice at the side of the Southmore road? To lie for a few maddening +moments on the breast of the man you love, earth reeling beneath you, +heaven swimming above you, and then with a cry of bliss to fall heart to +heart, down the hideous gap of some awful gulf, and be dashed into +eternity with the cry still on your lips, that is what I call love and +that is what I—’ + +“She paused, turned upon me the whole splendor of her face, seemed to +realize to what an extent her impetuosity had lifted the veil with which +she usually shrouded her bitterly suppressed nature, and calming herself +with a sudden quick movement, gave me a short mocking courtesy and left +the room. + +“Do you wonder that for half the night I sat up brooding and alive to +the faintest sounds! + +“Next day Mr. Holt called again, and a couple of weeks after—long +enough to enable Colonel Japha to make whatever inquiries he chose as to +his claims as a gentleman of means and position—sent a formal entreaty +for Jacqueline’s hand. I had never seen Colonel Japha more moved. His +admiration for the young man was hearty and sincere. From a worldly +point of view, as well as from all higher standpoints, the match was one +of which he could be proud; and yet to speak the word that would +separate from him the only creature that he loved, was hard as the +cutting off an arm or the plucking out of an eye. ‘Do you think she +loves him?’ asked he of me with a rare condescension of which he was not +often guilty. ‘You are a woman and ought to understand her better than +I. Do you think she loves him?’ + +“After the words I had heard her speak, what could I reply but, ‘Yes, +sir; she is of a reserved nature and controls her feelings in his +presence, but she loves him for all that, with the intensest fervor and +passion.’ + +“He repeated again, ‘You are a woman and you ought to know.’ And then +called his daughter to him. + +“I cannot tell what passed between them, but the upshot of it was, that +the Colonel despatched an answer to the effect that the father’s consent +would not be lacking, provided the daughter’s could be obtained. I +learned this from Jacqueline herself who brought me the letter to post. + +“‘You see then, that your father understands,’ said I. + +“Her rich red lip curled mockingly, but she did not reply. + +“Naturally Mr. Holt answered to this communication in person. Jacqueline +received him with a fitful coquetry that evidently puzzled him, for all +the distinguishing charm which it added to a beauty apt to be too +reserved and statue-like. She however took his ring which blazed on her +finger like a drop of ice on congealed snow. ‘I am engaged,’ she +murmured as she passed by my door, ‘and to a Holt!’ The words rang long +in my ears; why? + +“She desired no congratulations; she permitted nothing to be said about +her engagement, among the neighbors. She had even taken off her ring +which I found lying loose in one of her bureau drawers. And no one dared +to remonstrate, not even her father, punctillious as he was in all +matters of social etiquette. The fact is, Jacqueline was not the same +girl she had been before she gave her promise to Mr. Holt. From the +moment he bade her good-bye, with the remark that he was going away to +get a golden cage for his bride, she began to reveal a change. The cold +reserve gave way to feverish expectancy. She trod these rooms as if +there were burning steels in the floors, she looked from the windows as +if they were prison bars; night and day she gazed from them yet she +never went out. The letters she received from him were barely read and +tossed aside; it was his coming for which she hungered. Her father +noticed her restless and eager gaze, and frequently sighed. I felt her +strange removed manner and secretly wept. ‘If he does not amply return +this passion,’ thought I, ‘my darling will find her life a hell!’ + +“But he did return it; of that I felt sure. It was my only comfort. + +“Suddenly one day the restlessness vanished. Her beauty burst like a +flame from smoke; she trod like a spirit that hears invisible airs. I +watched her with amazement till she said ‘Mr. Holt comes to-night,’ then +I thought all was explained and went smiling about my work. She came +down in the afternoon clad as I had never seen her before. She wore one +of her Boston dresses and she looked superb in it. From the crown of her +head to the sole of her foot, she dazzled like a moving picture; but she +lacked one adornment; there was no ring on her finger. ‘Jacqueline!’ +cried I, ‘you have forgotten something.’ And I pointed towards her hand. + +“She glanced at it, blushed a trifle as I thought, and pulled it out of +her pocket. ‘I have it,’ said she, ‘but it is too large,’ and she thrust +it carelessly back. + +“At three o’clock the train came in. Then I saw her eye flash and her +lip burn. In a few minutes later two gentlemen appeared at the gate. + +“‘Mr. Holt and his brother!’ were the words I heard whispered through +the house. But I did not need that announcement to understand Jacqueline +at last.” + + + + +XXVI. + +A MAN’S JUSTICE AND A WOMAN’S MERCY. + + “Fair is foul and foul is fair.” + + —MACBETH. + + +“Have you ever seen a man whose instantaneous effect upon you was +electrical; in whose expression, carriage, or manner, there was +concealed a charm that attracted and interested you, apart from his +actual worth and beauty? Such a one was Mr. Roger Holt, the gentleman I +now discerned entering the gate with Jacqueline’s lover. It was not that +he was handsome. He could not for one moment bear any comparison with +his brother in substantial attraction, and yet when they were both in +the room, you looked at him in preference to the other, and was vexed +with yourself for doing so. He seemed to be the younger as he was +certainly the smaller; yet he took the lead, even in coming up the walk. +Why had he not taken it in the deeper and more important matter? Was it +because he did not love her? + +“I was not present when Jacqueline greeted her guests and presented Mr. +Roger Holt to her father. But later in the day I spent a half hour with +them and saw enough to be able to satisfy myself as to the falsity of my +last supposition. Never had I seen on a human countenance the evidences +of a wilder passion than that which informed his features, as he sat in +the further window of the parlor, presumably engaged in admiring the +autumn landscape, but really occupied in casting short side-long glances +at Jacqueline, who sat listening with a superb nonchalence, but with a +restless gleam in her wandering eye, to the genial talk between her +acknowledged lover and the Colonel. I half feared he would rise from his +seat, and flinging himself before her, demand then and there an +explanation of her engagement. + +“But beyond the impatience of those short burning glances, he controlled +himself well, and it was Jacqueline who moved at last. + +“I saw the purpose growing in her eyes long before she stirred. The face +which had been a mystery to me from her cradle, was in the presence of +this man, like an open page which all might read. Its letters were +flame, but that did not make them any less clear. I felt her swaying +towards him, before an eyelash trembled or a quiver shook her tall form. +He may have understood her purpose also, for his eye wandered towards +the open piano. She rose like a queen. + +“‘Mr. Roger Holt is a singer,’ said she in passing her father, ‘I am +going to ask him to give us one of the old ballads you profess to like +so much.’ + +“The conversation at once ceased. The Colonel who made no secret of his +fondness for music, turned at once towards the stranger, with an +expression of great courtesy. Instantly that gentleman rose, and meeting +the request of his hostess with a profound bow, proceeded at once to the +piano. ‘He will not leave it till he has spoken to her,’ thought I. Nor +did he, for that very moment as they stood turning her music over, I +perceived his lips move in a hurried question, to which she as briefly +responded, whereupon he caught up a sheet of music from the pile, and +flinging back his head with a victorious smile, began to sing. + +“Had I known what lay behind his words, I would have braved everything +rather than have allowed him to utter a note in that room which had once +rung with the carols of Jacqueline’s mother. But what could I guess of +the possible evil underlying the natural ebullition of unrestrained +passion that from some cause of pride or pique, had met with a strange +inexplicable check. So I sat still, shuddering perhaps, but quiet in my +corner; while the haunting tones of his strange and thrilling voice, +rose and fell in the most uncanny of Scottish love songs. Nor did I do +more than wonder with all my agitated soul, when at the conclusion +Jacqueline came back, and pausing beside the man to whom she had given +her troth, looked down in his beaming face and smiled with that overflow +of delight, which she dared not bestow upon his brother. + +“Another little incident of that hour remains engraven upon my memory. +She had been showing to the gentlemen a rare plant that stood in the +front parlor window, and was dilating upon its marvels, when Mr. Robert +Holt, her accepted lover, took in his clasp the small white hand +wandering so invitingly among the leaves of the huge palm, and glancing +at the finger which should have worn his ring, looked inquiringly into +her face. + +“‘O,’ said she, interrupting her little speech to draw away her hand, +‘you miss your diamond? I have it, sir. It lies very safe in my pocket; +it is a beautiful gem, but _your ring does not fit me_.’ + +“The way she said those words and the air with which she tossed back her +head, must have made one heart in that room beat joyously, but it did +not reassure me or subdue my secret apprehension. + + +“‘Not fit!’ her lover responded; and begged her to allow him to try it +on and see, but she shook her head with wilful coquetry, and turning to +the piano, commenced singing a gay little song that was like silver +bells, shaken by a sudden and mighty tempest. + +“Even the Colonel felt the change in his daughter, though he never +guessed the cause, and came and went during the evening that followed, +with certain odd sighs that made my heart ache with strange forebodings. +Only her lover was unconscious, or if he felt the new and wayward force +and fire in her manner, attributed it to his own presence and +unspeakable devotion. Mr. Roger Holt, on the contrary, thoroughly +understood it. Though he was strangely calm, as calm now as he had +previously been alert and fiery, he never lost a gleam of her eye in his +direction, or a turn of her form towards the chair where he sat. But the +smile with which he contemplated her was not pleasant to me. It was +informed with self-consciousness, and a certain hard triumph, that made +it almost sinister. ‘She has given her hand to the true man,’ I mused, +‘wherever her heart may be. But had she given it?’ I began to doubt as I +began to muse. With that uncontrollable will of hers, she was capable of +anything; did she intend to break with Robert, now that she had seen +Roger? I detected no signs of it beyond the evident delight they took in +each other’s presence. They were guilty of no further conversation of a +secret or intimate character, and when with the striking of the clock at +ten, Mr. Robert Holt rose to leave, his brother followed without any +demur, even preceding him in his departure and limiting his farewell to +a short brotherly pressure of Jacqueline’s fair hand. + +“But much may be conveyed in a pressure, or so I began to think as I +heard the low laugh that rippled from Jacqueline’s lips as she turned to +go up to her room; and if I had been her mother— + +“But that is not what you want to hear. Enough that I did not follow +her, that I did not even acquaint Colonel Japha with my fears, that +indeed I did nothing but lie awake, praying and asking what I ought to +do. There had been so little said; there had been so little done. A +word, a sentence between them, the interchange of a couple of songs, +and—What else that I could communicate to another? + +“A week, two weeks passed, and her look of wilful happiness did not fly. +She was flooded with notes from her accepted lover, whose handwriting I +had learned by this time to distinguish, but not one, so far as I could +learn, from any other source; yet her feet tripped lightly through the +house, and her form had a rich grace in its every movement, that bespoke +a mind settled in some deep joy or quiet determination. I felt the +impenetrability of a secretly cherished hope, whenever I looked at her. +If I had not known to the contrary, I should have said that her +prospective marriage had become to her a dream of unfathomable delight. +Whence then came this rapture? Through what communication was born this +secret hope? I could not guess, I could only watch and wait. + +“Meanwhile some random guesses at the truth had been made by the +neighbors. Jacqueline had a lover. That lover was a gentleman; but the +Colonel was critical; he had refused his consent and the young people +had parted. Such was the talk, begotten perhaps by the persistency with +which Jacqueline remained in the house, and the almost severe look with +which Colonel Japha trod the streets of his native village, which he +soon felt would lose all their charm in the departure of his only child. +I scarcely ventured out more than Jacqueline; for I have but little +control over my feelings and did not know what I would do, if any one +should closely press me with questions. + +“The unexpected discovery that our pretty young servant girl was in the +habit of stealing into Jacqueline’s room late at night, was the first +thing that startled me into asking whether or not my supposition was +true, that Jacqueline received no messages from Mr. Robert Holt. And +scarcely had I become certain that a clandestine correspondence was +being carried on between them through the medium of this girl, then the +climax came, and knowledge on my part and secrecy on hers availed no +longer. + +“It was a day in October. The stoves had been put up in the house, and +seeing Jacqueline roaming about the halls, in a renewed fit of that +strange restlessness which had affected her the day before Mr. Roger +Holt’s visit, I went into her room to light a fire, and make everything +look cheerful before dusk. I found the atmosphere warm, and going to the +stove, discovered that a fire had been already kindled there, but had +gone out for want of fuel. I at once commenced to rake away the ashes, +in order to make preparations for a new one, when I came upon several +scraps of half burned paper. + +“Jacqueline had been burning letters. Do you blame me for picking out +those scraps and hastening with them to another room, when I tell you +they were written in a marked and characteristic hand that bore little +or no resemblance to that of her accepted lover, and that the words +which flashed first upon my eye were those ominous ones of _my wife_! + +“They were three in number, and while more or less discolored and +irregular, were still legible. Think child with what a thrill of horror +and sharp motherly anguish, I read such words as ‘Love you! I would +press you in my arms if you were plague-stricken! The least turn of your +head makes my blood cringe, as if a flame had touched me. I would follow +you on my knees, if you led me round the world. Let me see Robert take +your hand again and I will—’ + +“‘Forget you! Do we forget the dagger that has struck us? I am another +man since—’ + +“‘I will have you if Robert goes mad and your father kills me. That I am +burdened with a wife, is nothing. What is a wife that I do not—’ ‘You +shall be my true wife, my—’ + +“‘To-night then, be ready; I will wait for you at the gate. A little +resolution on your part, and then—’ + +“I could read no further. The living, burning truth had forced itself +upon me, that Jacqueline, our darling, our pride, the soul of our life, +stood tottering upon the brink of a gulf horrible as the mouth of hell. +For I never doubted for an instant what her answer would be to this +entreaty. In all her past life, God pity us, there had been no tokens of +that immovable hold on virtue, that would save her in such an extremity +as this. Nevertheless, to make all sure, I flew back to her room, and +tearing open bureau drawers and closet doors, discovered that her +prettiest things had been sent away. She was going, then, and on that +very night! and her father did not even know she was untrue to her +betrothed lover. The horror of the situation was too much for me; I +faltered as I left her room, her dainty, maidenly room, and actually +crouched against the wall like a guilty thing, as I heard the sound of +her voice singing some maddening strain in the parlors below. What +should I do? Appeal to her, or warn her father of the frightful peril in +which his honor and happiness stood? Alas, any appeal to her would be +useless. In the glare of this awful revelation I had come to a full +comprehension of her nature. But her father was a man; he could command +as well as entreat, could even force obedience if all other methods +failed. To him, then, must I go; but I had rather have gone to the rack. +He was so proud a man! Had owned to such undeviating trust in his +daughter’s honor, as a Japha and his child! The blow would kill him; or +daze him so, he might better have been killed. My knees shook under me, +as I traversed the hall to his little study over the parlor, and when I +came to the door, I rather fell against it than knocked, so great was my +own anguish, and so deep my terror of his. He was a ready man and he +came to the door at once, but upon seeing me, drew back as if his eye +had fallen upon a phantom. + +“‘Hush!’ said I, scarcely knowing what I uttered; and going in, I closed +the door and latched it firmly behind me. ‘I have come,’ said I in a +voice that made him start, ‘to ask you to save your daughter. She is in +deadly peril; she—’ a strain of her song came in at that moment from +the staircase. She was ascending to her room. He looked at me in a doubt +of my sanity. + +“‘Not physical peril,’ I stammered, ‘but _moral_. She loves madly, +unreasonably, and with a headlong passion that laughs at every obstacle, +a man whom neither you nor heaven can look upon with aught but +execration. She—’ + +“‘Mrs. Hamlin!’—How well I remember his cool, calm voice, so deliberate +in his impressive moments, so deliberate now, when perhaps she was +donning hat and shawl for her elopement—‘You are laboring under a great +mistake. Instead of execrating Mr. Holt, I admire him most profoundly. +Since the time has come for me to give up my daughter, I know of no one +to whom I would rather surrender her.’ + +“‘But Mr. Holt is not the man,’ I cried, half wild in my fear and +desperation. ‘Do you remember the gentleman who came with him on his +last visit? He called him his brother, and he is I believe, but—’ + +“The way he turned his grand white forehead towards me at that, made +every fibre in my being quiver. ‘Jacqueline does not love _him_!’ +exclaimed he. How sharp his voice, how changed his eye! I shrank back, +trembling as I bowed my head, thinking of the word yet to be said. + +“‘But he won’t compare—’ he went on with a severe intonation. ‘Besides +her honor is engaged. You are dealing in fancies, Mrs. Hamlin.’ + +“I tore out of my breast the scraps of paper which had enlightened me so +horribly, and held them towards him; then bethought myself, and drew +back. ‘I have proof,’ said I; ‘but first I must tell you that Jacqueline +is not as good a girl as you have thought her. She is not her mother’s +child in the qualities of love and honor. She is destined to bring a +great woe upon your head. In her passion for this man, she has forgotten +your trust in her, the incorruptibility of your name, the honor of your +house. Be strong, sir, for God is about to smite you in your tenderest +spot. + +“Ah, with what pride he towered upon me! this white-haired, stately +gentleman before whom I had hitherto held my breath in admiring awe; +towered upon me though his face was ghostly pale and his hand trembled +like an aspen as he held it out! + +“‘Give me the papers you hold there,’ cried he. ‘Either you are gone +mad, or else—Who wrote these lines?’ he demanded, glancing down upon +the hard, firm scrawl that blackened the bits of paper I had given him. + +“‘Mr. Roger Holt,’ I returned unhesitatingly. ‘I found those bits in +Jacqueline’s stove. Her clothes have been sent away, sir,’ I continued +as I saw his face grow fixed above the scraps he consulted. ‘Twilight is +coming on and—Mr. Roger Holt is a married man!’ + +“‘What!’ + +“I never saw such a look flash from a human face as that which darted +from his at that terrible moment. I thought he would have fallen, but he +only dropped the papers out of his hand. ‘Heaven forgive us!’ murmured +I, calmed by a sight of his misery, into some semblance of of +self-control, ‘but we have never understood Jacqueline. She is not to be +led, sir, by principles or duty. She loves this man, and love with her +is a stormy wind, capable of sweeping her into any abyss of contumely or +suffering. If you would save her, kill her love; the death of her lover +would only transform her into a demon.’ + +“He looked at me as if I had told him the world had come to an end. ‘My +Jacqueline!’ he murmured in a low, incredulous voice of the tenderest +yearning. ‘My Jacqueline!’ + +“‘Oh!’ I shrieked, torn by my anguish for him and the terror of her +escaping while we were yet talking, ‘God knows I had rather have died +than contaminate her by such words as I have uttered. She is dear to me +as my soul; dearer to me than my life. I have a mother’s feeling for +her, sir. If to fling myself headlong from that window, would delay her +feet from going down the stairs to meet her guilty lover, I would gladly +do it. It is her danger makes me speak. O sir, realize that danger and +hasten before she has taken the irrevocable step.’ + +“He started like a man pricked by a sudden dart. ‘She is going—you +believe she is going to meet him?’ + +“‘I do,’ said I. + +“He gave me a terrible look and started for the door. I hurriedly picked +up the scraps that had fallen to the floor, and rushed around by an +inner passage-way to my own little room, hiding my head and waiting as +for the crash of a falling avalanche. Suddenly a cry rose in the hall. + +“There are some sounds that lift you unconsciously to your feet. Dashing +out of my room, I detected the face of the servant-girl whom I have +before mentioned, looking out of her door some distance down the +corridor. Hastening towards her, I uttered some words about her being a +busy-body, and thrusting her inside her room, locked the door upon her. +Then I hastened with what speed I might to the front of the house, and +coming out upon the grand staircase, met a sight that shook me to the +very soul. You have been up the stairs; you know how they branch off to +left and right from the platform near the top. The left branch led in +those days to Colonel Japha’s room, the right to the apartments occupied +by Jacqueline and myself. Coming upon them, then, as I did from my side +of the house, I found myself in full view of the opposite approach, and +there on the topmost step I beheld Colonel Japha, standing in an +attitude of awful denunciation, while half way down the staircase, I +beheld the figure of Jacqueline, hindered in her gliding course towards +the front door by the terrible, ‘Stop!’ whose echo had reached me in my +room and caused me to rush quaking and horrified to this spot. I leaned +back sick and horror-stricken against the wall. There was no mercy in +his voice: he had awakened to a full realization of the situation and +the pride of the Japhas had made him steel. + +“‘You are my child!’ he was saying. ‘I have loved you and do still; but +proceed one step farther towards the man that awaits you at the gate, +and the door that opens upon you, _shuts_ never to open again!’ + +“‘Colonel!’ I exclaimed, starting forward; but he heard me no more than +he would a fly buzzing or a bird singing. + +“‘I desire it to shut; I have no wish to come back!’ issued from the set +white lips of the girl beneath us. ‘There is no such charm for me in +this humdrum house, that I should wish to exchange life with the man I +adore, for its droning, spiritless existence!’ And she lifted her foot +to proceed. + +“‘Jacqueline!’ I shrieked, leaning forward in my turn, and holding her +by my anguish, as I never believed she could be held by anything, +‘Think, child, think what you do! It is not life you are going to but +death. A man who can take a young girl from her father’s house, from her +lover’s arms, from her mother’s grave, from the shrine of all that is +pure and holy, to dash her into a pit of all that is corrupt, loathsome +and deadly, is not one with whom you can _live_. You say you adore him: +can one adore falsehood, selfishness and depravity? Does hypocrisy win +love? Can the embraces of a serpent bring peace? Jacqueline, Jacqueline, +you are yet pure; come back to our love and our hearts, before we die +here in our shame at the head of the stairs, where your mother was +carried out to her grave!’ + +“She trembled. I saw the hand that clutched the banister loosen its +grip; she cast one quick look behind her, and her eyes flashed upon her +father’s face; it was set like a flint. + +“‘If you come back,’ cried he, leaning towards her, but not advancing a +step from where he stood, ‘you must come back of your own free will. I +will hold no creature prisoner in my house. I must trust you implicitly, +or not at all. Speak then, which shall it be?’ And he raised his hand +above his head, with a supreme and awful gesture, ‘a father’s blessing +or a father’s curse?’ + +“‘A father’s curse, then! since you command me to choose,’ rang out from +her lips in a burst of uncontrollable passion. ‘I want no blessing that +separates me from _him_!’ And she pointed towards the door with a look +that, defiant as it was, spoke of a terrible love before which all our +warnings and entreaties were but as empty air. + +“‘Curses then upon your head, slayer of a family’s honor, a father’s +love, and a mother’s memory! Curses upon you, at home and abroad! in the +joy of your first passion and in the agony of your last despair! May you +live to look upon that door as the gateway to heaven, and find it shut! +May your children, if you are cursed with them, turn in your face, as +you are turning now in mine! May the lightning of heaven be your candle, +and the blackness of death your daily food and your nightly drink!’ And +with a look in which all the terrors he invoked, seemed to crash +downward from his reeling brain upon her shrinking terror-crouched head, +he gave one mighty gasp and fell back stricken to the floor. + +“‘God!’ burst from her lips, and she rushed downwards to the door like a +creature hunted to its quarry. I saw her white face gleam marble-like in +the fading light that came in from the chinks about the door. I saw her +trembling hand fumbling with the knob, and rousing from my stupor, +called down to her with all the force of a breaking heart, + +“‘Jacqueline, beware!’ + +“She turned once more. There was something in my voice she could not +withstand. ‘I do not hope to keep you,’ cried I, ‘but before you go, +hear this. In the days to come, when the face that now beams upon you +with such longing, shall have learned to turn from you in weariness, if +not distaste, when hunger, cold, contumely and disease shall have +blasted that fair brow and seared those soft cheeks, know, that although +a father can curse, a woman who loves like a mother can forgive.’ The +father cries, ‘Once go out of that door and it shuts upon you never to +open!’ ‘Once come to _that_ door, say I,’ pointing in the direction of +the house’s other entrance, ‘and if I live and if I move, it shall open +to you, were you as defiled and wretched and forsaken as Magdalen. +Remember! Each day at this hour will I watch for you, kneeling upon its +threshold. In sickness or in health, in joy or in sorrow, in cold or in +heat. The hour of six is sacred. Some one of them shall see you falling +weeping on my breast!’ + +“She gave me a quick stare out of her wide black eyes, then a mocking +smile curled her lips, and murmuring a short, ‘You rave!’ opened the +door, and rushed out into the falling dusk. With a resounding clang like +the noise of a stone rolled upon an open grave, the great door swung to, +and I was left alone in that desolated house with my stricken master. + + + + +XXVII. + +THE LONE WATCHER. + + “Hark! to the hurried question of Despair, + Where is my child?—and Echo answers—Where?” + + —BYRON. + + +“Colonel Japha recovered from his shock, but was never the same man +again. All that was genial, affectionate and confiding in his nature, +had been turned as by a lightning’s stroke, to all that was hard, bitter +and suspicious. He would not allow the name of Jacqueline to be spoken +in his presence; he would listen to no allusion made to those days when +she was the care and perplexity, but also the light and pleasure of the +house. Men are not like women, my child; when they turn, it is at an +angle, the whole direction of their nature changes. + +“Perhaps the news that presently came to us from Boston may have had +something to do with this. It was surely dreadful enough; Jacqueline’s +perfidy had slain her lover. Mr. Robert Holt, the cultured, noble, +high-souled gentleman, had been found lying dead on the floor of his +room, a few days after the events I have just related, with a lady’s +diamond ring in his hand and the remnants of a hastily burned letter in +the grate before him. He had burst a blood-vessel, and had expired +instantly. + +“This sudden and tragic ending of a man of energy and will, was also the +reason, perhaps, why Grotewell never arrived at the truth of +Jacqueline’s history. Boston was a long way from here in those days, and +the story of her lover’s death was not generally known, while the fact +of her elopement was. Consequently she was supposed to have fled with +the man who had been seen to visit her most frequently; a report which +neither the Colonel nor myself had the courage to deny. + +“My child, you have a brow like snow, and a cheek like roses; you know +little of life’s sorrows and little of life’s sins. To you the skies are +blue, the woods vernal, the air balmy; the sad looks upon men’s and +women’s faces, tell but shallow tales of the ceaseless grinding of grief +in their pent up souls. But you are gentle, and you have an imagination +that goes beyond your experience; perhaps if you pause and think, you +can understand what a tale could be told of the weeks and months and +years that now followed, without hint or whisper of the fate of her who +had gone out from amongst us with the brand of her father’s curse upon +her brow. At first we hoped, yes, _he_ hoped,—I could see it in his +eyes when there came a sudden ring at the bell,—that some sign of her +penitence, or some proof of her existence, would come to relieve the +torture of our fears, if not the shame of our memories. But the door +that closed upon her on that fatal eve, had shut without an echo. While +we vainly waited, time had ample leisure to carve the furrows of age as +well as of suffering on the Colonel’s once smooth brow, and to change my +daily vigil into a custom of despair, rather than of hope. Time had also +leisure to rob us of much of our worldly goods and to make our continued +living in this grand old house, an act that involved constant care and +the closest economy. That we were enabled to preserve appearances to the +day that beheld the Colonel laid low by the final stroke of his dread +disease, was only due to the secret charity of a certain gentleman, who, +declaring he was indebted to us, secretly supplied me with means of +support. + +“But of all this you care little. + +“You had rather hear about the evening watch with its hopeful assurance, +‘Yet another day and she will be here,’ to be followed so soon by the +despairing acknowledgement, ‘Yet another day and she has not come!’ or +of those dark hours when the Colonel lay blank and white upon his +pillow, with his eyes fixed on the door which would never open to the +beating of a daughter’s heart, while the gray shadow of an awful +resolution deepened upon his immovable face. What that resolution was I +could not know, but I feared it, when I saw what a sternness it gave to +his eye, what a fixedness to his set and implacable lip; and when in the +waning light of a certain December afternoon, the circle of neighbors +about his bed gave way to the stiff and forbidding form of Mr. Phelps, I +felt a thrill of mortal apprehension and only waited to hear the short, +‘It shall be done,’ of the lawyer to some slowly whispered command of +the colonel, to rise from my far off corner and stand ready to accost +Mr. Phelps as he came from the bedside of the dying man. + +“‘What is it?’ I asked, rushing up to him as he issued forth into the +hall, and seizing him by the arm, with a woman’s unreasoning +impetuosity. ‘I have nursed his daughter on my knee; tell me, then, what +it is he has ordered you to do in this final moment?’ + +“Mr. Phelps for all his ungainly bearing, is not a hard-hearted man, as +you know, and he doubtless saw the depth of the misery that made me +forget myself. Giving me a look that was not without its touch of +sarcasm, he replied, ‘The colonel has made me promise, to see that a +plank is nailed across the front door of this house, after his body has +been carried out to burial.’ + +“A board across the front door! His anger then was implacable. The +withering curse that had rung in my ears for ten years, was to outlive +his death! With a horrified groan, I pressed my hands over my eyes and +rushed back. My first glimpse of the Colonel’s face showed me that the +end was at hand, but that fact only made more imperative my consuming +desire to see that curse removed, even though it were done with his +final breath. Drawing near his bedside, I leaned down, and waiting till +his eye wandered to my face, asked him if there was nothing he wished +amended before his strength failed. He understood me. We had not sat for +so long, face to face across the chasm of a hideous memory, without +knowing something of the workings of each other’s mind. Glancing up at +his wife’s portrait which ever faced him as he lay upon his pillow, his +mouth grew severe and he essayed to shake his head. I at once pointed to +the portrait. + +“‘What will you say to her when she meets you on the borders of heaven?’ +I demanded with the courage of despair.’ She will ask, ‘Where is my +child?’ And what will you reply?’ + + +“The fingers that lay upon the coverlid moved spasmodically; he eyed me +with a steady deepening stare, awful to meet, fearful to remember. I +went on steadily; ‘She has gone out of this house with your curse; tell +me that if she comes back, she may be greeted with your forgiveness.’ +Still that awful stare which changed not. ‘I have watched and waited for +her every day since her departure,’ I whispered, ‘and shall watch and +wait for her, every day until I die. Shall a stranger’s love be greater +than a father’s?’ This time his lips twitched and the grey shadow +shifted, but it did not rise. ‘I had sworn to do it,’ I went on. ‘When +you lay there at the top of the stairs, smitten down by your first +shock, I told her, come sickness, come health, I should keep a daily +vigil at that door of the house which your severity had not closed upon +her; and I have kept my word till now and shall keep it to the end. What +will you do for this miserable child of whose being you are the author?’ + +“With indescribable anxiety I paused and watched him, for his lips were +moving. ‘Do for her?’ he repeated. + +“How awful is the voice of the dying! I shivered as I listened, but drew +near and nearer, that I might lose no word that came from his stony +lips. + +“‘She will not come,’ gasped he, with an effort that raised him up in +bed, and deepened that horrible stare, ‘but—’ + +“Who shall say what he might have uttered if Death’s hand had delayed a +single instant, but the inexorable shadow fell, and he never finished +the sentence. + +“My child, these are frightful things for you to hear. God knows I would +not assail your pure ears with a tale like this, if it were not for the +help and sympathy I hope to gain from you. Sin is a hideous thing; the +gulf it opens is wide and deep; well may it be said to swallow those who +trust themselves above its flower-hung brink. But we who are human, owe +something to humanity. Love stops not because of the gulf; love follows +the sinner with wilder and more heart-breaking longing, the deeper and +deeper he sinks into the illimitable darkness. Ten years have passed +since we laid the Colonel away in the burying-place of all the Japhas, +and dutiful to his last request, nailed up the front door of his +speedily to be forsaken mansion. In all that time my watch has remained +unbroken in this house, which by will he had left to me, but which I +secretly hold in trust for her. The hour of six has found me at my post, +sometimes elate with hope, sometimes depressed with repeated +disappointments, but whether hopeful or sad, always trustful that the +great God who Himself so loved all sinners, that He gave the life of His +Son to rescue them, would ultimately grant me the desire of my heart. +But the decrepitude of age is coming upon me, and each morning I leave +my bed, with growing fear lest my infirmities will increase until they +finally overcome my resolution. Child, if this should happen, if lying +in my bed I should some day hear that she had come back, and failing to +find the lamp burning and the welcome ready, had gone away again—But +the thought is madness. I cannot bear it. A sinner, lost, degraded, +suffering, starving, perhaps, is wandering this way. She is hardened and +old in guilt; she has drunk the cup of life’s passions and found them +corrupting poison; all that was lovely and pure and good has withdrawn +from her; she stands alone, shut off by her sin, like a wild thing in a +circle of flame. What shall touch this soul? The preacher’s voice has no +charm for her; good men’s advice is but empty air. God’s love must be +mirrored in human love, to strike an eye so unused to looking up. Where +shall she find such love? It is all that can rescue her; love as great +as her sin, as boundless as her degradation, as persistent as her +suffering. Child—” + +“I know what you are going to say,” suddenly exclaimed Paula, rising up +and confronting Mrs. Hamlin with a steady high look of determination. +“In the day of your weakness or illness you want some one to unlock the +door and light the lamp. You have found her!” + + + + +XXVIII. + +SUNSHINE ON THE HILLS. + + “If I speak to thee in Friendship’s name, + Thou think’st I speak too coldly; + If I mention Love’s devoted flame, + Thou say’st I speak too boldly.” + + + —MOORE. + + +The story told by Mrs. Hamlin had a great effect upon Paula, not only on +account of its own interest and the promise it had elicited from her, +but because of the remembrances it revived of Mr. Sylvester and her life +in New York. Any vision of evil or suffering, any experience that roused +the affections or awakened the sensibilities, could not fail to recall +to her mind the forcible figure of Mr. Sylvester as he stood that day by +his own hearthstone, talking of the temptations that assail humanity; +and any reminiscence of him must necessarily bring with it much that +charmed and aroused. For a week, then, she felt the effect of a great +unsettlement. Her village home appeared a prison; she longed to run, +soar—anything to escape; the horizon was full of beckoning hands. A +brooding melancholy settled upon her reveries; the prospect of a life +spent in the narrow circle to which she had endeavored to re-accustom +herself, became unendurable. + +Thus it is with us. We slide in a groove and seem happy, when suddenly a +book we read, a story we hear, an experience we encounter, shakes us out +of our content, and makes continuance in the old course a violation of +the most demanding instincts of our nature. + +In the full tide of this unrest, Paula went out for a solitary walk on +the hills. Nature can soothe if she cannot satisfy. Then the day itself +was one to make the soul glad and the heart rejoice. As the young girl +trod the meadows, she wondered that she could be sad. Earth and air were +so full of splendor. Nature seemed to be in league with the angels of +light. September stood upon the earth like a goddess of might and glory. +Every tint of green that variegated the mountain-side, wooed the eye +with suggestions of unfathomable beauty. A bough of scarlet flame lit +here and there amid the verdure, served to illuminate the woods as for +the passage of a king; and not Solomon in all his glory ever wore an +aspect more sumptuous than the flowers that flecked the meadow and +fringed the hardy roadside with imperial purple. A wind was blowing, a +keen but kindly breeze, laden with sweetness and alert to awaken Æolian +airs from the boughs of whistling beech and alder. Even the low field +grasses seemed to partake in the general cheer, and nodded to each other +with a witching and irresistible abandon. Had a poet been at her side, +or any one capable of divining the hidden things of nature, what a +commentary to all their united thoughts she would have found in the +delicious tremble of the laughing leaves, in the restless music of the +runaway brooks, in the lowly crickets with their single song, in the +cloud-haunting birds with their trailing melodies, and in all the roll +and rumble of earth’s commingled noises. Alluring as was the book of +nature, she could not read it alone. She felt the lack of a loving hand +to turn the page. “Is it that I am lonely!” she murmured. + +The thought deepened her trouble. Coming down from the hillside, she +entered a skirting of woods that ran along by the river. Here she had +always found peace and some of her richest treasures of thought. Through +this opaline archway she had walked with her fancies, like Saint +Catherine with her lily. It was sacred to all that was sweet and deep +and pure within her. “Lonely!” she whispered; “I will not be lonely. To +some God gives years of happy companionship; to others but a day. Shall +one complain because it has fallen to his portion to have the lesser +share? I will remember my one day and be glad.” + +“My one day!” She caught herself at the utterance and literally started +at the suggestion it offered. There was but one person whom she had seen +but for a day. Could she have been thinking of him? + +With a flush deep as the autumn leaves she carried, she was hurrying on, +when suddenly in the opening before her, a shadow fell, and a mellow +voice exclaimed in her ear, + +“Do I meet Miss Fairchild in her native woods?” + +It was Clarence Ensign. + +The surprise was very great and it took her a moment to steady herself. +She had felt so assured that she should never see him or any other of +her New York friends again. Had not Cicely written that he had gone +West, soon after her own departure from New York. With a deepening of +his voice Mr. Ensign repeated the question. + +At once the day seemed to acquire all it had hitherto lacked. Looking +up, she met his eye fixed admiringly upon her, and all that was merry, +lightsome and gay within her, leaped at once to the surface. Ignoring +his question with smiling abandon, she exclaimed, + +“What shall be done to the man who delights in surprises and startles +timid maidens without a cause?” + +“He shall be held in captivity by the hand of his denouncer, until he +has sued for pardon and obtained her generous forgiveness,” returned he, +holding out his palm. + +She barely touched it with her own. “I see that your repentance is +sincere, so your pardon shall be speedy,” laughed she. + +“Your discrimination is at fault, I never felt more impenitent in my +life. I am a hardened wretch, Miss Fairchild, a hardened wretch! But you +do not ask me from what corner of the earth I have come. You take me too +much for granted; like the chirrup of a squirrel, let me say, or the +whistle of a bullfinch. But perhaps you think I inhabit these woods?” + +“No; but a day like this is so full of miracles, why should we be +astonished at one more! I suppose you came on the train, but should not +be surprised to hear you started, like Pluto, from the earth. Anything +seems possible in such a sunshine.” + +“You are right, and I have sprung from the earth. I have been buried +five mortal months in a law-suit out west, or else I should have been +here before. I hope my delay has made me none the less welcome.” + +He was holding back a branch as he spoke, and his eyes were on a level +with hers. She felt caught as in a net, and struggled vainly to keep +down her color. “No,” said she, “welcome is a guest’s due, whether he +come early or late. I should be sorry to be lacking in the duties of a +hostess, though my drawing-room is somewhat more spacious than cosy,” +she continued, looking around on the fields into which they had emerged, +“and my facilities for bespeaking you welcome greater than my power to +make you comfortable.” + +“Comfort is a satisfaction of the mind, rather than of the body. I am +not _un_comfortable, Miss Fairchild.” Then as he stooped to relieve her +of half her burden of trailing leaves and flowers, he exclaimed in a +matter-of-fact tone, “Your aunt is a notable woman, Miss Fairchild, I +admire her greatly.” + +“What!” said she, “you have been to the cottage? You have seen Aunt +Belinda?” + +“Of course,” laughed he, “or how should I be here? You have been sent +for, Miss Fairchild, and I am the humble bearer of your aunt’s commands. +But I forget, the practical has nothing to do with such a day. I am +supposed to have sprung from the ground, and to know by instinct, just +in what nook you were hiding from the sunlight. Very well. I acknowledge +that instinct is sometimes capable of going a great way.” + +But this time her ready answer was lacking. She was wondering what her +aunt would think of this sudden appearance of a stranger whose name she +had never so much as mentioned. + +“It is a pleasant rest to stand and look at a view like that, after a +summer of musty labor,” said he, gazing up the river with a truly +appreciative eye. “I do not wonder you carry the charm of the wild woods +in your laugh and glance, if you have been brought up in the sight of +such a view as that.” + +“It has been my meat and drink from childhood,” said she, and wondered +why she wanted to say no more upon her favorite theme. + +“Yet you tell me you love the city?” + +“Too much to ever again be happy here.” + +It was a slip for which her cheek burned and her lids fell, the moment +after. She had been thinking of Mr. Sylvester, and unconsciously spake +as she might have done, if he had been at her side, instead of this +genial-hearted young man. With a woman’s instinctive desire to retrieve +herself, she hurriedly continued, “Life is so full and large and deep in +a great town, if you are only happy enough to meet those who are its +blood and brain and sinew. One misses the rush of the great wheel of +time in a spot like this. The world moves, but we do not feel it; it is +like the quiet sweep of the stars over our heads. But in the city, days, +weeks and months make themselves felt. The universe jars under the feet +of hurrying masses. The story of the world is being written on pavement, +corridor, and dome, so that he who runs may read. One realizes he is +alive; the unit is part of the multiple. To those who are tired, God +gives the rest of the everlasting hills, but to those who are eager, he +holds out the city with its innumerable opportunities and incentives. +And I am eager,” she said. “The flower blooms on the mountain, and its +perfume is sweet, but the chariot sings as it rushes, and the noise of +its wheels is music in my ears.” + +She paused, turned her face to the breeze, and seemed to forget she was +not alone. Clarence Ensign eyed her with astonishment; he had never +heard her speak like this; the earnest side of her great nature had +never been turned towards him before, and he felt himself shrink into +insignificance in its presence. What was he that he should pluck a star +from the heavens, to buckle on his breast! Wealth and position were a +match for beauty great as hers, and a kind heart current coin all the +world over, for a gentle disposition and a loving nature; but for +this—He turned away and in his abstraction switched his foot with his +cane. + +“Then it was in New York that I met Cicely,” exclaimed Paula. + +He shook off his broodings, turned with a manful gesture, and met her +sweet unfathomable eye, so brilliant with enthusiasm a moment ago, but +at this instant so softly deep and tender. + +“And the friendship of Miss Stuyvesant is a precious thing to you?” said +he. + +“Few things are more so,” was her reply. + +He bit his lip and his brow grew lighter. After all, great souls +frequently cling to those of lesser calibre, provided they are true and +unflawed. He would not be discouraged. But his tone when he spoke had +acquired a reverence that did not lessen its music. “You are, then, one +of the few women who believe in friendship?” + +“As I believe in heaven.” + +Looking at her, he took off his hat. Her eye stole to his serious +countenance. “Miss Stuyvesant is to be envied,” said he. + +“Are friends so rare?” + +“Such friends are,” said he. + +She gave him a bright little look. “Had you been with Miss Stuyvesant, +and she had expressed herself as I have done, you would have said, ‘Miss +Fairchild is to be envied,’ and you would have been nearer the truth +than now. Cicely’s friendship is to mine what an unbroken mirror is to a +little racing brook. It reflects but one image, while mine—” She could +not go on. How could she explain to this stranger that Cicely’s heart +was undivided in its regard, while hers owned allegiance to more than +her bosom friend. + +“If I were with Miss Stuyvesant now,” he declared, too absorbed in his +own ideas to notice the break in hers, “I should still say in face of +this friendship, ‘Miss Stuyvesant is to be envied.’ I have no mind for +more than one thought to-day,” exclaimed he, with a look that made her +tremble. + +There are some men who never know in what field to stay the current of +their impetuosity: Clarence Ensign did. He said no more than this of all +that was seething in his mind and heart. He felt that he must prove +himself a man, before he exercised a man’s privilege. Besides, his +temperament was mercurial, and never remained long under the bondage of +a severe thought, or an impressive tone of mind. He worshipped the +lofty, but it was with tabor and cymbal and high-sounding lute. A climb +over the stile at the foot of the hill was enough to restore him to +himself. It was therefore with merry eyes and laughing lips that they +approached the house and entered Miss Belinda’s presence. + +There are some persons whose prerogative it is to carry sunshine with +them wherever they go. Clarence Ensign was one of these. Without an +effort, without any display of incongruous hilarity, he always succeeded +by the mere joyousness of his own nature, in calling forth all that was +bright and enjoyable in others. When therefore they stepped into the +quaint old-fashioned parlor, all prepared to receive them, Paula was not +surprised to perceive it brighten, and her aunts’ faces grow cheerful +and smiling. Who could meet Clarence Ensign’s laughing eye and not +smile? What did astonish her, however, was the sight of an elegant +basket of hot-house lowers perched on a table in the centre of the room. +It made her pause, and cast looks of inquiry at the demure countenance +of Miss Abby, and the quietly satisfied expression of her more +thoughtful aunt. + +“A remembrance from the city!” said Mr. Ensign gracefully. “I thought it +might help to recall some happy hours to you.” + +With a swelling of the heart which she could not understand, she leaned +over the ample cluster of roses and heliotrope. She felt as though she +could embrace them; they were more than flowers, they were the visible +emblem of all she had missed, and for which she had longed these many +months. + +“I seem to receive the whole in the part,” said she. + +He may or may not have understood her, but he saw she was gratified, and +that was sufficient. The afternoon flew by on wings of light. Miss +Belinda, who was not accustomed to holidays, but who thoroughly +appreciated them when they came, entered into the conversation with +zest; while Miss Abby’s unconscious expressions of pleasure were too +_naïve_ not to add to, rather than detract from the general enjoyment. +The twilight, with its good-bye, came all too soon. + +“I have a request to make before I go,” said Mr. Ensign. He was standing +alone with Paula in the embrasure of the window, a few moments before +his departure. “When we see a flower nodding on a ledge above our heads, +we long for it; I have heard you talk of friendship, and a great desire +has seized me. Miss Fairchild will you be my friend?” + +She gave him a startled glance that, however, soon settled into a mellow +radiant look of sympathy and pleasure. + +“That is asking for something which if I hesitate to accord, it is +because the word, ‘friend,’ carries with it so much,” said she, with a +sweet seriousness that disarmed her words of any latent sting they might +otherwise have contained. + +“I know it,” he replied, “and I am very bold to ask it upon so slight an +acquaintance; but life is short and real treasure is so scarce. You will +not deny me, Miss Fairchild?” Then seeing her look down, hastily +continued, “I have acquaintances by the score—friends who style +themselves thus, by the dozen, but no _friend_. I want one; I want you +for that one. Will you be it? I shall be jealous though, I warn you,” he +went on, with a cropping out of his mirthful nature; “I shall not be +pleased to observe the circle widened indefinitely. I shall want my own +place and no one else in my place.” + +“No one else can fill the place once given to a friend. Each one has his +own niche.” + +“And I am to have mine?” His look was firm, his eye steadfast. + +“Yes,” she breathed. + +With a proud stooping of his head, he took her hand and kissed it. The +action became him; he was tall and well made, and gallantry induced by +feeling, sat well upon him. In spite of herself, she thought of old-time +stories of the Norse chivalry; he stood so radiant and bent so low. + + +“I shall prize my friend at her queenly value,” said he; and without +more ado, uttered his farewell and took his departure. + + * * * * * + +“Paula!” + +The young girl started from a reverie which had held her for a long time +enchained at that fast darkening window, and hastily looking up, +perceived her Aunt Belinda standing before her, with her eye fixed upon +her face, with a kind but searching glance. + +“Yes, aunt.” + +“You have not told me who this Mr. Ensign is. In all the letters you +wrote me you did not mention his name, I think.” + +“No, aunt. The fact is, I did not meet him until a few days before I +left, and then only for an evening, you might say.” + +“Indeed! that one evening seems to have made its impression. Tell me +something about him, Paula.” + +“His own countenance speaks for him better than I can, aunt. He is good +and he is kind; an honest young man, who need fear the eye of no one. He +is wealthy, I am informed, and the son of highly respected parents. He +was first presented to me by Miss Stuyvesant, whose friend he is, +afterwards by Mr. Sylvester. His coming here was a surprise to me.” + +Miss Belinda’s firm mouth, which had expanded at this dutiful response, +twitched with a certain amused expression over this last announcement. +Eying her niece with unrelenting inquiry, she pursued, “You have not +been happy for the last few weeks, Paula. Our life seems narrow to you; +you long to fly away to larger fields and more expansive skies.” + +With a guilty droop of her head, Paula stole her hand into that of her +aunt’s. + +“I do not wonder,” continued Miss Belinda, still watching the flushing +cheek and slightly troubled mouth of the lovely girl before her. “I once +breathed other air myself, and know well what charms lie beyond these +mountains. In giving you up for awhile, I gave you up forever, I fear.” + +“No, no,” whispered the young girl, “I am always yours wherever I go. +Not that I am going away,” she hastily murmured. + +Her aunt smiled and gently stroked her niece’s hand. “When the time +comes, I shall bid you God speed, Paula. I am no ogress to tie my dove’s +wings to her nest. Love and the home it provides are the natural lot of +women. None feel it more than those who have missed both.” + +“Aunt!” Paula was shocked and perplexed. A breaking wave full of doubts +and possibilities, seemed to dash over her at this suggestion. + +“Young men of judgment and principle do not come so many miles to see a +youthful maiden, without a purpose,” continued her aunt inexorably. “You +know that, do you not, Paula?” + +“Yes; but the purpose may differ in different cases,” returned the young +girl hurriedly. “I would not like to believe that Mr. Ensign came here +with the one you give him credit for—not yet. You trouble me, aunt,” +pursued she, glancing tremulously about. “It is like opening a great +door flooded with sunshine, upon eyes scarcely strong enough to bear the +glimmer sifting through its cracks. I feel humiliated and—” She did not +finish, perhaps her thought itself was incomplete. + +“If a light comes sifting through the cracks, I am satisfied,” said her +aunt in a lighter tone than common. And she kissed her niece, and went +smiling out of the room, murmuring to herself, + +“I have been over-fearful; everything is coming right.” + +There are moments when life’s great mystery overpowers us; when the +riddle of the soul flaunts itself before us unexplained, and we can do +no more than stand and take the rush of the tide that comes sweeping +down upon us. Paula was not the girl she was before she went to New +York. Love was no longer a dreamy possibility, a hazy blending of the +unknown and the fancied; its tale had been too often breathed in her +ear, its reality made too often apparent to her eye. But love to which +she could listen, was as new and fresh and strange, as a world into +which her foot had never ventured. That her aunt should point to a +certain masculine form, no matter how attractive or interesting, and +say, “Love and home are the lot of women,” made her blood rush back on +her heart, like a stream from which a dam has been ruthlessly wrenched +away. It was too wild, too sudden; a friend’s name was so much easier to +speak, or to contemplate. She did not know what to do with her own +heart, made to speak thus before its time; its beatings choked her; +everything choked her; this was a worse imprisonment than the other. +Looking round, her eye fell upon the flowers. Ah, was not their language +expressive enough, without this new suggestion? They seemed to lose +something in this very gain. She liked them less she thought, and yet +her feet drew near, and near, and nearer, to where they stood, exhaling +their very souls out in delicious perfume. “I am too young!” came from +Paula’s lips. “I will not think of it!” quickly followed. Yet the smile +with which she bent over the fragrant blossoms, had an ethereal beauty +in it, which was not all unmixed with the + + “Light that never was on land or sea, + The consecration and the poet’s dream.” + +“He has asked to be my friend,” murmured she, as she slowly turned away. +“It is enough; it must be enough.” But the blossom she had stolen from +the midst of the fragrant collection, seemed to whisper a merry nay, as +it nodded against her hand, and afterwards gushed out its sweet life on +her pure young breast. + + + + +XXIX. + +MIST IN THE VALLEY. + + “The true beginning of our end.” + + —MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM. + + +Mr. Ensign was not slow in developing his ideas of friendship. Though he +did not venture upon repeating his visit too soon, scarcely a week +passed without bringing to Paula a letter or some other testimonial of +his increasing devotion. The blindest eye could not fail to remark +whither he was tending. Even Paula was forced to acknowledge to herself +that she was on the verge of a flowery incline, that sooner or later +would bring her up breathless against the dread alternative of a decided +yes or no. Friendship is a wide portal, and sometimes admits love; had +it served her traitorously in this? + +Her aunt who watched her with secret but lynx-eyed scrutiny, saw no +reason to alter the first judgment of that mysterious, “It is all coming +right,” with which she viewed the first symptoms of Paula’s girlish +appreciation of her lover. If eyes and lips could speak, Paula was +happy. The mournful shadows which of late had flitted with more or less +persistency over her face, had vanished in a living smile, which if not +deep, was cloudlessly radiant; and her voice when not used in speech, +was rippling away in song, as glad as a finch’s on the mountain side. + +Miss Belinda was therefore very much astonished when one day Paula burst +into her presence, and flinging herself down on her knees, threw her +arms about her waist, crying, + +“Take me away, dear aunt, I cannot, dare not stay here another day.” + +“Paula, what do you mean?” exclaimed Miss Belinda, holding her back and +endeavoring to look into her face. But the young girl gently resisted. + +“I have just had a letter from Cicely,” she returned in a low and +muffled voice. “She has seen Mr. Sylvester, and says he looks both wan +and ill. He told her, too, that he was lonely, and I know what that +means; he wants his child. The time has come for me to go back. He said +it would, and that I would know when it came. Take me, aunt, take me to +Mr. Sylvester.” + +Miss Belinda, to whom self-control was one of the cardinal virtues, +leaned back in her chair and contemplated the eager, tear-stained face +that was now raised to hers, with silent scrutiny. “Paula,” said she at +last, “is that your only reason for desiring to return to New York?” + +A flush, delicate as it was fleeting, swept over the dew of Paula’s +cheek. She rose to her feet and met her aunt’s eye, with a look of +gentle dignity. “No,” said she, “I wish to test myself. Birds that are +prisoned will caress any hand that offers them freedom. I wish to see if +the lure holds good when my wings are in mid-heaven.” + +There was a dreamy cadence to her voice as she uttered that last phrase, +that startled her aunt. “Paula,” exclaimed she, “Paula, don’t you know +your own heart?” + +“Who does?” returned Paula; then in a sudden rush of emotion threw +herself once more at her aunt’s side, saying, “It is in order to know +it, that I ask you to take me away.” + +And Miss Belinda, as she smoothed back her darling’s locks, was obliged +to acknowledge to herself, that time has a way of opening, in the stream +of life, unforeseen channels to whose current we perforce must yield, or +else hopelessly strand upon the shoals. + + + + +BOOK IV. + +FROM A. TO Z. + + + + +XXX. + +MISS BELINDA PRESENTS MR. SYLVESTER WITH A CHRISTMAS GIFT. + + “For, O; for, O the hobby horse is forgot.” + + —HAMLET. + + +It was a clear winter evening. Mr. Sylvester sat in his library, musing +before a bright coal fire, whose superabundant heat and blaze seemed to +make the loneliness of the great empty room more apparent. He had just +said to himself that it was Christmas eve, and that he, of all men in +the world, had the least reason to realize it, when the door-bell rang. +He was expecting Bertram, whose advancement to the position of cashier +in place of Mr. Wheelock, now thoroughly broken down in health, had that +day been fully determined upon in a late meeting of the Board of +Directors. He therefore did not disturb himself. It was consequently a +startling surprise, when a deep, pleasant voice uttered from the +threshold of the door, “I have brought you a Christmas present;” and +looking up, he saw Miss Belinda standing before him, with Paula at her +side. + +“My child!” was his involuntary exclamation, and before the young girl +knew it, she was folded against his breast with a passionate fervor that +more than words, convinced her of the depth of the sacrifice which had +held them separate for so long. “My darling! my little Paula!” + +She felt her heart stand still. Gently disengaging herself, she looked +in his face. She found it thin and wan, but lit by such a pleasure she +could not keep back her smile. “You are glad, then, of your little +Christmas present?” said she. + +He smiled and shook his head; he had no words with which to express a +joy like this. + +Miss Belinda meanwhile stood with a set expression on her face, that, to +one who did not know her, would immediately have proclaimed her to be an +ogress of the very worst type. Not a glance did she give to the unusual +splendor about her, not a wavering of her eye betokened that she was in +any way conscious that she had just stepped from the threshold of a very +humble cottage, into a home little short of a palace in size and the +splendor of its appointments. All her attention was concentrated on the +two faces before her. + +“The ride on the cars has made Paula feverish,” cried she, in sharp +clear tones that rang with unexpected brusqueness through the curtained +alcoves of that lordly apartment. + +They both started at this sudden introduction of the prosaic into the +hush of their happy meeting, but remembering themselves, drew Miss +Belinda forward to the fire and made her welcome in this house of many +memories. + +It was a strange moment to Paula when she first turned to go up those +stairs, down which she had come in such grief eight months or more ago. +She found herself lingering on its well-remembered steps, and the first +sight of the rich bronze image at the top, struck her with a sense of +the old-time pleasure, that was not unlinked with the old-time dread. +But the aspect of her little room calmed her. It was just as she had +left it; not an article had been changed. “It is as if I had gone out +one door and come in another,” she whispered. All the months that had +intervened seemed to float away. She felt this even more when upon again +descending, she found Bertram in the library. His frank and interesting +face had always been pleasant to her, but in the joy of her return it +shone upon her with almost the attraction of a brother’s. “I am at home +again,” she kept whispering to herself, “I am at home.” + +Miss Belinda was engrossed in conversation with Bertram, so that Paula +was left free to take her old place by Mr. Sylvester’s side, where she +sat with such an aspect of contentment, that her beauty was half +forgotten in her happiness. + +“You remembered me, then, sometimes in the little cottage in Grotewell?” +asked he, after a silent contemplation of her countenance. “I was not +forgotten when you left the city streets?” + +She answered with a bright little shake of her head, but she was +inwardly wondering as she looked at his strong and picturesque face, +with its nobly carved features and melancholy smile, if he had been +absent from her thoughts for so much as a moment, in all these dreary +months of separation. + +“I did not believe you would forget,” he gently pursued, “but I scarcely +dared hope you would lighten my fireside with your face again. It is +such a dismal one, and youth is so linked to brightness.” + +The flush that crossed her cheek, startled him into sudden silence. She +recovered herself and slowly shook her head. “It is not a dismal one to +me. I always feel brighter and better when I sit beside it. I have +missed your counsel,” she said; “brightness is nothing without depth.” + +His eyes which had been fixed on her face, turned slowly away. He seemed +to hold an instant’s communion with himself; suddenly he said, “And +depth is worse than nothing, without it mirrors the skies. It is not +from shadowed pools, such bright young lips should drink, but from the +waves of an inexhaustible sea, smote upon by all the winds and sunshine +of heaven.” + +In another moment, however, he was all cheerfulness. “You have brought +me a Christmas present,” cried he, “and we must make it a Christmas +holiday indeed. Here is the beginning:” and with one of his old grave +smiles, he handed Bertram a little note which had been awaiting him on +the library table. “But Paula and Miss Belinda must have their pleasure +too. Paula, are you too tired for a ride down town? I will show you New +York on a Christmas eve,” continued he to Miss Walton, seeing that +Paula’s attention was absorbed by the expression of sudden and moving +surprise which had visited Bertram’s face, upon the perusal of his note. +“It is a stirring sight. Nothing more cheering can be found the wide +world over, for those who have a home and children to make happy.” + +“I certainly should enjoy a glimpse of holiday cheer,” assented Miss +Belinda. And Paula recalled to herself by the sound of her aunt’s voice, +gayly re-echoed her assertion. + +So Samuel was despatched for a carriage, and in a few minutes they were +all riding down Fifth Avenue, _en route_ for Tiffany’s, Macy’s, and any +other store that might offer special attractions. It was a happy +company. As they rolled along, Paula felt her heart grow lighter and +lighter, Mr. Sylvester was almost gay, while even Aunt Belinda +condescended to be merry. Bertram alone was silent, but as Paula caught +short glimpses of his face, while speeding past some illuminated corner, +she felt that it was that silence which is “the perfectest herald of +joy.” + +“I shall make you get out and mix with the crowd,” said Mr. Sylvester. +“I want you to feel the throb of the great heart of the city on such a +night as this. It is as if all men were brothers—or fathers, I should +say. People that ordinarily pass each other without a sign, nod and +smile with pleasing recognition of the evening’s cheer. Grave and +reverend seigniors, are not ashamed to be seen carrying packages by the +dozen. Indeed, he who is most laden is considered the best fellow, and +he who is so unfortunate as to show nothing but empty arms, feels shy if +not ashamed; a condition of mind into which I shall soon fall myself, if +we do not presently reach our destination.” + +Paula never forgot that night. As from the midst of our common-place +memories, some one hour stands out distinct and strange, like a sweet +foreigner in a crowd of village faces, so to Paula, this ride through +the lighted streets, with the ensuing rush from store to store, piloted +by Bertram and Miss Belinda, and protected by Mr. Sylvester, was her one +weird glimpse into the Arabian Nights’ country. Why, she could not have +told; why, she did not stop to think. She had been to all these places +before, but never with such a heart as this—never, never with such an +overflowing heart as this. + +“I have washed away my reproach,” cried Mr. Sylvester, coming out to the +carriage with his arms full of bundles. “Aunt Belinda is to blame for +this; she set the example, you see.” And with a merry laugh, he tossed +one thing after another into Paula’s lap, reserving only one small +package for himself. “I scarcely know what I have bought,” said he. “I +shall be as much surprised as any one, when you come to undo the +bundles. ‘A pretty thing,’ was all I waited to hear from the shop +girls.” + +“There is a small printing press for one thing,” cried Paula merrily. “I +saw the man at Holton’s eye you with a certain sort of shrewd humor, and +hastily do it up. You paid for it; probably thinking it one of the +‘pretty things.’ We shall have to make it over to Bertram, as being the +only one amongst us who by any stretch of imagination can be said to be +near enough the age of boyhood to enjoy it.” + +“I do not know about that,” cried Bertram, with a ringing infectious +laugh, “my imagination has been luring me into believing that I am not +the only boy in this crowd.” + +And so they went on, toying with their new-found joy as with a +plaything, and hard would it have been to tell in which of those voices +rang the deeper contentment. + +The opening of the packages on the library-table afforded another season +of merriment. Such treasures as came to light! A roll of black silk, +which could only have been meant for Miss Belinda. A casket of fretted +silver, just large enough to hold Paula’s gloves; a scarf-ring, to which +no one but Bertram could lay claim; a bundle of confections, a pair of +diamond-studded bracelets, a scarf of delicate lace, articles for the +desk, and knick-knacks for the toilet table, and last, but not least, in +weight at least, the honest little printing-press. + +“Oh, I never dreamed of this,” said Paula, “when we chose Christmas eve +for our journey.” + +“Nor would you have done right to stay away if you had,” returned Mr. +Sylvester gayly. + +But when the sport was all over, and Paula stood alone with Mr. +Sylvester in the library, awaiting his last good-night, the deeper +influences of this holy time made themselves felt, and it was with an +air of gentle seriousness, he told her that it had been a happy +Christmas eve to him. + +“And to me,” returned Paula. “Bertram too, seemed very happy. Would it +be too inquisitive in me to ask what good news the little note +contained, to work such wonders?” + +A smile such as was seldom seen on Mr. Sylvester’s face of late, flashed +brightly over it. “It was only a card of invitation to dinner,” said he, +“but it came from Mr. Stuyvesant, and that to Bertram means a great +deal.” + +The surprise in Paula’s eyes made him smile again. “Will it be a great +shock to you, if I tell you that the name of the woman for whom Bertram +made the sacrifice of his art, was Cicely Stuyvesant?” + +“Cicely? my Cicely?” Her astonishment was great, but it was also happy. +“Oh, I never dreamed—ah, now I see,” she went on naively. “That is the +reason she refrained from coming to this house; she was afraid of +meeting _him_. But to think I should never have guessed it, and she my +dearest friend! Oh, I am very happy; I admire Bertram so much, and it is +such a beautiful secret. And Mr. Stuyvesant has invited him to his +house! I do not wonder you felt like making the evening a gala one. Mr. +Stuyvesant would not do that if he were not learning to appreciate +Bertram.” + +“No; there is method in all that Mr. Stuyvesant does. More than that, if +I am not mistaken, he has known this beautiful secret, as you call it, +from the first, and would be the last to receive Bertram as a guest to +his table, if he did not mean him the best and truest encouragement.” + +“I believe you are right,” said Paula. “I remember now that one day when +I was spending the afternoon with Cicely, he came into the room where I +was, and finding me for the moment alone, sat down, and in his quaint +old-fashioned manner asked me in the most abrupt way what I thought of +Bertram Sylvester. I was surprised, but told him I considered him one of +the noblest young men I knew, adding that if a fine mind, a kind heart, +and a pure life were open to regard, Bertram had the right to claim the +esteem of all his friends and associates. The old gentleman looked at me +somewhat curiously, but nodded his head as if pleased, and merely +remarking, ‘It is not necessary to mention we had this conversation, my +dear,’ got up and proceeded slowly from the room. I thought it was +simply a not unnatural curiosity concerning a young man with whom he had +more or less business connection; but now I perceive it had a deeper +significance.” + +“He could scarcely have found a more zealous little advocate for Bertram +if he had hunted the city over. Bertram may be more obliged to you than +he knows. He has been very patient, but the day of his happiness is +approaching.” + +“And Cicely’s! I feel as if I could scarcely wait to see her with this +new hope in her eyes. She has kept me without the door of her suspense, +but she must let me across the threshold of her happiness.” + +The look with which Mr. Sylvester eyed the fair girl’s radiant face +deepened. “Paula,” said be, “can you leave these new thoughts for a +moment to hear a request I have to make?” + +She at once turned to him with her most self-forgetful smile. + +“I have been making myself a little present,” pursued he, slowly taking +out of his pocket the single package he had reserved from the rest. +“Open it, dear.” + +With fingers that unconsciously trembled, she hastily undid the package. +A little box rolled out. Taking off its cover, she took out a plain gold +locket of the style usually worn by gentlemen on their watch-chains. +“Fasten it on for me,” said he. + +Wondering at his tone which was almost solemn, she quietly did his +bidding. But when she essayed to lift her head upon the completion of +her task, he gently laid his hand upon her brow and so stood for a +moment without a word. + +“What is it?” she asked, with a sudden indrawing of her breath. “What +moves you so, Mr. Sylvester?” + +“I have just taken a vow,” said he. + +She started back agitated and trembling. + +“I had reason to,” he murmured, “pray at nights when you go to bed, that +I may be able to keep it.” + +“What?” sprang to her lips; but she restrained herself and only allowed +her glance to speak. + +“Will you do it, Paula?” + +“Yes, oh yes!” Her whole heart seemed to rush out in the phrase. She +drew back as at the opening of a door in an unexpected spot. Her eye had +something of fear in it and something of secret desperation too. He +watched her with a gaze that strangely faltered. + +“A woman’s prayers are a man’s best safeguard,” murmured he. “He must be +a wretch who does not feel himself surrounded by a sacred halo, while he +knows that pure lips are breathing his name in love and trust before the +throne of the Most High.” + +“I will pray for you as for myself,” she whispered, and endeavored to +meet his eyes. But her head drooped and she did not speak as she would +have done a few months before; and when a few instants later they parted +in their old fashion at the foot of the stairs, she did not turn to give +him the accustomed smile and nod with which she used to mount the +stairs, spiral by spiral, and disappear in her little room above. Yet he +did not grieve at the change, but stood looking up the way she had gone, +like a man before whom some vision of unexpected promise had opened. + + + + +XXXI. + +A QUESTION. + + “Think on thy sins.”—OTHELLO. + + +The next morning when Mr. Sylvester came down to breakfast, he found on +the library-table an exquisite casket, similar to the one he had given +Paula the night before, but larger, and filled with flowers of the most +delicious odor. + +“For Miss Fairchild,” explained Samuel, who was at that moment passing +through the room. + +With a pang of jealous surprise, that, however, failed to betray itself +in his steadily composed countenance, Mr. Sylvester advanced to the side +of the table, and lifted up the card that hung attached to the beautiful +present. The name he read there seemed to startle him; he moved away, +and took up his paper with a dark flush on his brow, that had not +disappeared when Miss Belinda entered the room. + +“Humph!” was her immediate exclamation, as her eye rested upon the +conspicuous offering in the centre of the apartment. But instantly +remembering herself, advanced with a cheerful good-morning, which +however did not prevent her eyes from wandering with no small +satisfaction towards this fresh evidence of Mr. Ensign’s assiduous +regard. + +“Paula is remembered by others than ourselves,” remarked Mr. Sylvester, +probably observing her glance. + +“Yes; she has a very attentive suitor in Mr. Ensign,” returned Miss +Belinda shortly. “A pleasant appearing young man,” she ejaculated next +moment; “worthy in many respects of success, I should say.” + +“Has he—do you mean to say that he has visited you in Grotewell?” asked +Mr. Sylvester, his eye upon the paper in his hand. + +“Certainly; a few more interviews will settle it.” + +The paper rustled in Mr. Sylvester’s grasp, but his voice was composed +if not formal, as he observed, “She regards his attentions then with +favor?” + +“She wears his flowers in her bosom, and brightens like a flower herself +when he is seen to approach. If allowed to go her way unhindered, I have +but little doubt as to how it will end. Mr. Ensign is not handsome, but +I am told that he has every other qualification likely to make a gentle +creature like Paula happy.” + +“He is a good fellow,” exclaimed Mr. Sylvester under his breath. + +“And goodness is the first essential in the character of the man who is +to marry Paula,” inexorably observed Miss Belinda. “An open, cheerful +disposition, a clear conscience and a past with no dark pages in its +history, must mark him who is to link unto his fate our pure and +sensitive Paula. Is it not so, Mr. Sylvester?” + +The advertisements in that morning’s _Tribune_ must have been unusually +interesting, judging from the difficulty which Mr. Sylvester experienced +in withdrawing his eyes from them. “The man whom Paula marries,” said he +at last, “can neither be too good, too kind, or too pure. Nor shall any +other than a good, kind, and pure man possess her,” he added in a tone +that while low, effectually hushed even the slow-to-be-intimidated Miss +Belinda. In another moment Paula entered. + +Oh, the morning freshness of some faces! Like the singing of birds in a +prison, is the sound and sight of a lovely maiden coming into the grim, +gray atmosphere of a winter breakfast room. Paula was exceptionally +gifted with this auroral cheer which starts the day so brightly. At +sight of her face Mr. Sylvester dropped his paper, and even Miss Belinda +straightened herself more energetically. “Merry Christmas,” cried her +sweet young voice, and immediately the whole day seemed to grow glad +with promise and gaysome with ringing sleigh-bells. “It’s snowing, did +you know it? A world of life is in the air; the flakes dance as they +come down, like dervishes in a frenzy. It was all we lacked to make the +day complete; now we have everything.” + +“Yes,” said Miss Belinda, with a significant glance at the table, +“everything.” + +Paula followed her glance, saw the silver box with its wealth of +blossoms, and faltered back with a quick look at Mr. Sylvester’s grave +and watchful countenance. + +“Mr. Ensign seems to be possessed of clairvoyance,” observed Miss +Belinda easily. “How he could know that you were to be in town to-day, I +cannot imagine.” + +“I wrote him in my last letter that in all probability I should spend +the holidays with Mr. Sylvester,” explained Paula simply, but with a +slow and deepening flush, that left the roses she contemplated nothing +of which to boast. “I did so, because he proposed to visit Grotewell on +Christmas.” + +There was a short silence in the room, then Mr. Sylvester rose, and +remarking with polite composure, “It is a very pretty remembrance,” led +the way into the dining-room. Paula with a slow drooping of her head +quickly followed, while Miss Belinda brought up the rear, with the look +of a successful diplomat. + +A meal in the Sylvester mansion was always a formal affair, but this was +more than formal. A vague oppression seemed to fill the air; an +oppression which Miss Belinda’s stirring conversation found it +impossible to dissipate. In compliance to Mr. Sylvester’s request, she +sat at the head of the table, and was the only one who seemed able to +eat anything. For one thing she had never seen Ona in that post of +honor, but Paula and Mr. Sylvester could not forget the graceful form +that once occupied that seat. The first meal above a grave, no matter +how long it has been dug, must ever seem weighted with more or less +unreality. + +Besides, with Paula there was a vague unsettled feeling, as if some +delicate inner balance had been too rudely shaken. She longed to fly +away and think, and she was obliged to sit still and talk. + +The end of the meal was a relief to all parties. Miss Belinda went up +stairs, thoughtfully shaking her firm head; Mr. Sylvester sat down again +to his paper, and Paula advanced towards the dainty gift that awaited +her inspection on the library table. But half way to it she paused. A +strange shyness had seized her. With Mr. Sylvester sitting there, she +dared not approach this delicate testimonial of another’s affection. She +did not know as she wished to. Her eyes stole in hesitation to the +floor. Suddenly Mr. Sylvester spoke: + +“Why do you not look at your pretty present, Paula?” + +She started, gave him a quick glance, and advanced hurriedly towards the +table; but scarcely had she reached it when she paused, turned and +hastened over to his side. He was still reading, or appearing to read, +but she saw his hand tremble where it grasped the sheet, though his face +with its clear cut profile, shone calm and cold against the dark +background of the wall beyond. + +“I do not care to look at it now,” said she, with a hurried interlacing +of her restless fingers. + +He turned towards her and a quick thrill passed over his countenance. +“Sit down, Paula,” said he, “I want to talk to you.” + +She obeyed as might an automaton. Was it the tone of his voice that +chilled her, or the studied aspect of his fixed and solemn countenance? +He did not speak at once, but when he did, there was no faltering in his +voice, that was lower than common, but deep, like still waters that have +run into dark channels far from the light of day. + +“Paula, I want to ask you a question. What would you think of a man +that, with deliberate selfishness, went into the king’s garden, and +plucking up by the roots the most beautiful flower he could find there, +carried it into a dungeon to pant out its exquisite life amid chill and +darkness?” + +“I should think,” replied she, after the first startled moment of +silence, “that the man did well, if by its one breath of sweetness, the +flower could comfort the heart of him who sat in the dungeon.” + +The glance with which Mr. Sylvester regarded her, suddenly faltered; he +turned with quickness towards the fire. “A moment’s joy is, then, excuse +for a murder,” exclaimed he. “God and the angels would not agree with +you, Paula.” + +There was a quivering in his tone, made all the more apparent by its +studied self-possession of a moment before. She trembled where she sat, +and opened her lips to speak, but closed them again, awed by his steady +and abstracted gaze, now fixed before him in gloomy reverie. A moment +passed. The clock ticking away on the mantel-piece seemed to echo the +inevitable “Forever! never!” of Longfellow’s old song. Neither of them +moved. At length, in a low and trembling voice, Paula spoke: + +“Is it murder, when the flower loves the dark of the dungeon more than +it does the light of day?” + +With a subdued but passionate cry he rose hastily to his feet. “Yes,” +said he, and drew back as if he could not bear the sight of her face or +the glance of her eye. “Sunshine is the breath of flowers; sweet wooing +gales, their natural atmosphere. He who meddles with a treasure so +choice does it at his peril.” Then as she hurriedly rose in turn, +softened his whole tone, and assuming his usual air of kindly +fatherhood, asked her in the most natural way in the world, what he +could do to make her happy that day. + +“Nothing,” replied she, with a droop of her head; “I think I will go and +see Cicely.” + +A short sigh escaped him. “The carriage shall be ready for you,” said +he. “I hope your friend’s happiness will overflow into your own gentle +bosom, and make the day a very pleasant one. God bless your young sweet +heart, my Paula!” + +Her breast heaved, her large, dark, mellow eyes flashed with one quick +glance towards his face, then she drew back, and in another moment left +his side and quietly glided from the room. His very life seemed to go +with her, yet he did not stir; but he sighed deeply when, upon turning +towards the library-table, he found that she had carried away with her +the silent testimonial of another and more fortunate man’s love and +devotion. + + + + +XXXII. + +FULL TIDE. + + “A skirmish of wit between them.” + + —MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING. + + +Man thinks he is strong, and lays his foundations, raises his walls, and +dreams of his completed turrets, without reckoning the force of the +gales or the insidious inundating of the waters that may bring low the +mounting structure before its time. When with a firm hand, Mr. Sylvester +thrust back from his heart the one delight which of all the world could +afford, seemed to him at that moment the dearest and the best, he +thought the struggle was over and the victory won. It had not even +commenced. He was made startlingly alive to this fact at the very next +interview he had with Paula. She had just come from Miss Stuyvesant, and +the reflection of her friend’s scarcely comprehended joy was on her +countenance, together with a look he could not comprehend, but which +stirred and haunted him, until he felt forced to ask if she had seen any +other of her old friends, in the short visit she had paid. + +“Yes,” said she, with a distressed blush. “Mr. Ensign was unexpectedly +there.” + +It is comparatively easy to restrain your own hand from snatching at a +treasure you greatly covet, but it is much more difficult to behold +another and a lesser one grasp and carry it away before your eyes. He +succeeded in hiding the shadow that oppressed him, but he was +constrained to recognize the sharpness of the conflict that was about to +be waged in the recesses of his own breast. A conflict, because he knew +that a lift of his finger, or a glance of his eye would decide the +matter then, while in a week, perhaps, the glamour of a young sunshiny +love, would have worked its inevitable result, and the happiness that +had so unexpectedly startled upon him in his monotonous and sombre path, +would have wandered forever out of his reach. How did he meet its +unexpected rush. Sternly at first, but with greater and greater wavering +as the days went by, each one revealing fresh beauties of character and +deeper springs of feeling in the enchanting girl thus brought in all her +varied charm before his eyes. Why should he not be happy? If there were +dark pages in his life, had they not long ago been closed and sealed, +and was not the future bright with promise? A man of his years was not +through with life. He felt at times as he gazed upon her face with its +indescribable power of awakening far-reaching thoughts and feelings in +callous breasts long unused to the holy influence of either, that he had +just begun to live; that the golden country, with its enticing vistas, +lay all before him, and that the youth, which he had missed, had somehow +returned to his prime, fresh with more than its usual enthusiasm and +bright with more than its wonted hopes and projects. With this glorious +woman at his side, life would be new indeed, and if new why not pure and +sweet and noble? What was there to hinder him from making the existence +of this sweet soul a walking amongst gentle duties, satisfied dreams and +holy aspirations? A past remorse? Why the gates could be closed on that! +A strain of innate weakness for the world’s good opinion and applause? +Ah! with love in his life such a weakness must disappear; besides had he +not taken a vow on her dear head, that ought to hedge him about as with +angel’s wings in the hour of temptation? Men with his experience do not +invoke the protection of innocence to guard a degraded soul. Why, then, +all this hesitation? A great boon was being offered to him after years +of loneliness and immeasurable longing; was it not the will of heaven, +that he should meet and enjoy this unexpected grace? He dared to stop +and ask, and once daring to ask, the insidious waters found their way +beneath the foundations of his resolution, and the lofty structure he +had reared in such self-confidence, began to tremble where it stood, +though as yet it betrayed no visible sign of weakness. + +Meanwhile, society with its innumerable demands, had drawn the beautiful +young girl within its controlling grasp. She must go here, she must go +there; she must lend her talents to this, her beauty to that. Before she +had decided whether she ought to remain in the city a week, two had +flown by, and in all this time Mr. Ensign had been ever at her side, +brightening in her own despite, hours which might else have been sad, +and surrounding her difficult path with proofs of his silent and wary +devotion. A golden net seemed to be closing around her, and, though as +yet, she had given no token of a special recognition of her position, +Miss Belinda betrayed by the uniform complacence of her demeanor, that +she for one regarded the matter as effectually settled. + +The success which Bertram had met in his first visit at Mr. +Stuyvesant’s, was not the least agitating factor in this fortnight’s +secret history. He was too much a part of the home life at Mr. +Sylvester’s, not to make the lightest thrill of his frank and sensitive +nature felt by all who invaded its precincts. And he was in a state of +repressed expectancy at this time, that unconsciously created an +atmosphere about him of vague but restless excitement. The hearts of all +who encountered his look of concentrated delight, must unconsciously +beat with his. A strain sweeter than his old-time music was in his +voice. When he played upon the piano, which was but seldom, it was as if +he breathed out his soul before the holy images. When he walked, he +seemed to tread on air. His every glance was a question as to whether +this great joy, for which he had so long and patiently waited, was to be +his? Love, living and apotheosized, appeared to blaze before them, and +no one can look on love without feeling somewhere in his soul the stir +of those deep waters, whose pulsing throb even in the darkness of +midnight, proves that we are the children of God. + +Cicely was uncommunicative, but her face, when Paula beheld it, was like +the glowing countenance of some sculptured saint, from which the veil is +slowly being withdrawn. + +Suddenly there came an evening when the force of the spell that held all +these various hearts enchained gave way. It was the night of a private +entertainment of great elegance, to be held at the house of a friend of +Miss Stuyvesant. Bertram had received formal permission from the father +of Cicely, to act as his daughter’s escort, and the fact had transformed +him from a hopeful dreamer, into a man determined to speak and know his +fate at once. Paula was engaged to take part in the entertainment, and +the sight of her daintily-decked figure leaving the house with Mr. +Ensign, was the last drop in the slowly gathering tide that was secretly +swelling in Mr. Sylvester’s breast; and it was with a sudden outrush of +his whole determined nature that he stepped upstairs, dressed himself in +evening attire, and deliberately followed them to the place where they +were going. “The wealth of the Indies is slipping from my grasp,” was +his passionate exclamation, as he rode through the lighted streets. “I +cannot see it go; if she can care more for me than for this sleek, +merry-hearted young fellow, she shall. I know that my love is to his, +what the mighty ocean is to a placid lake, and with such love one ought +to be panoplied as with resisting steel.” + +A stream of light and music met him, as he went up the stoop of the +house that held his treasure. It seemed to intoxicate him. Glow, melody +and perfume, were so many expressions of Paula. His friends, of whom +there were many present, received him with tokens of respect, not +unmingled with surprise. It was the first time he had been seen in +public since his wife’s death, and they could not but remark upon the +cheerfulness of his bearing, and the almost exalted expression of his +proud and restless eye. Had Paula accompanied him, they might have +understood his emotion, but with the beautiful girl under the care of +one of the most eligible gentlemen in town, what could have happened to +Mr. Sylvester to make his once melancholy countenance blazon like a star +amid this joyous and merrily-laughing throng. He did not enlighten them, +but moved from group to group, searching for Paula. Suddenly the thought +flashed upon him, “Is it only an hour or so since I smiled upon her in +my own hall, and shook my head when she asked me with a quick, pleading +look, to come with them to this very spot?” It seemed days, since that +time. The rush of these new thoughts, the final making up of this +slowly-maturing purpose, the sudden allowing of his heart to regard her +as a woman to be won, had carried the past away as by the sweep of a +mountain torrent. He could not believe he had ever known a moment of +hesitancy, ever looked at her as a father, ever bid her go on her way +and leave the prisoner to his fate. He must always have felt like this; +such momentum could not have been gathered in an hour; she must know +that he loved her wildly, deeply, sacredly, wholly, with the fibre of +his mind, his body and his soul; that to call her his in life and in +death, was the one demanding passion of his existence, making the past a +dream, and the future—ah, he dared not question that! He must behold +her face before he could even speculate upon the realities lying behind +fate’s down-drawn curtain. + +Meanwhile fair faces and lovely forms flitted before him, carrying his +glance along in their train, but only because youth was a symbol of +Paula. If these fresh young girls could smile and look back upon him, +with that lingering glance which his presence ever invoked, why not she +who was not only sweet, tender, and lovely, but gifted with a nature +that responded to the deep things of life, and the stern passions of +potent humanity. Could a merry laugh lure her while he stood by? Was the +sunshine the natural atmosphere of this flower, that had bloomed under +his eye so sweetly and shed out its innocent fragrance, at the approach +of his solemn-pacing foot? He began to mirror before his mind’s eye the +startled look of happy wonder with which she would greet his impassioned +glance, when released from whatever duties might be now pressing upon +her; she wandered into these rooms, to find him awaiting her, when +suddenly there was a stir in the throng, a pleased and excited rush, and +the large curtain which he had vaguely noticed hanging at one end of the +room, uplifted and—was it Paula? this coy, brilliant, saucy-eyed +Florentine maiden, stepping out from a bower of greenery, with finger on +her lip, and a backward glance of saucy defiance that seemed to people +the verdant walks behind her with gallant cavaliers, eager to follow +upon her footsteps? Yes; he could not be mistaken; there was but one +face like that in the world. It was Paula, but Paula with youth’s +merriest glamour upon her, a glamour that had caught its radiant light +from other thoughts than those in which he had been engaged. He bowed +his head, and a shudder went through him like that which precedes the +falling knife of the executioner. Even the applause that greeted the +revelation of so much loveliness and alluring charm, passed over him +like a dream. He was battling with his first recognition of the +possibility of his being too late. Suddenly her voice was heard. + +She was speaking aloud to herself, this Florentine maiden who had +outstripped her lover in the garden, but the tone was the same he had +heard beside his own hearthstone, and the archness that accompanied it +had frequently met and encouraged some cheerful expression of his own. +These are the words she uttered. Listen with him to the _naïve_, half +tender, half pettish voice, and mark with his eyes the alternate lights +and shadows that flit across her cheek as she broodingly murmurs: + + He is certainly a most notable gallant. His “Good day, lady!” + and his “Good even to you!” are flavored with the cream of + perfectest courtesy. But gallantry while it sits well upon a + man, does not make him one, any more than a feather makes the + cap it adorns. For a Tuscan he hath also a certain comeliness, + but then I have ever sworn, in good faith too, that I would not + marry a Tuscan, were he the best made man in Italy. Then there + is his glance, which proclaims to all men’s understandings that + he loves me, which same seems overbold; but then his smile! + + Well, for a smile it certainly does credit to his wit, but one + cannot live upon smiles; though if one could, one might consent + to make a trial of his—and starve belike for her pains. (_She + drops her cheek into her hand and stands musing._) + +Mr. Sylvester drew a deep breath and let his eyes fall, when suddenly a +hum ran through the audience about him, and looking quickly up, he +beheld Mr. Ensign dressed in full cavalier costume, standing behind the +musing maiden with a half merry, half tender gleam upon his face, that +made the thickly beating heart of his rival shrink as if clutched in an +iron vise. What followed, he heard as we do the words of a sentence read +to us from the judge’s seat. The cavalier spoke first and a thousand +dancing colors seemed to flash in the merry banter that followed. + + _Martino._—She muses, and on no other than myself, as I am + ready to swear by that coy and tremulous glance. I will move + her to avow it. (_Advances._) Fair lady, greeting! A kiss for + your sweet thoughts. + + _Nita._ (_With a start_).—A kiss, Signior Martino? You must + acknowledge that were but a sorry exchange for thoughts like + mine, so if it please you, I will keep my thoughts and you your + kiss; and lest it should seem ungracious in me to give nothing + upon your asking, I will bestow upon you my most choice good + day, and so leave you to your meditations. (_Curtseys and is + about to depart._) + + _Martino._—You have the true generosity, lady; you give away + what it costs you the dearest to part from. Nay, rumple not + your lip; it is the truth for all your pretty poutings! + Convince me it is not. + + _Nita._—Your pardon, but that would take words, and words + would take time, and time given to one of your persuasion would + refute all my arguments on the face of them. (_Still + retreating._) + + _Martino._—Well, lady, since it is your pleasure to be + consistent, rather than happy, adieu. Had you stayed but as + long as the bee pauses on an oleander blossom, you would have + heard— + + _Nita._—Buzzing, signior? + + _Martino._—Yes, if by that word you would denominate vows of + constancy and devotion. For I do greatly love you, and would + tell you so. + + _Nita._—And for that you expect me to linger! as though vows + were new to my ears, and words of love as strange to my + understanding as tropical birds to the eyes of a Norseman. + + _Martino._—If you do love me, you will linger. + + _Nita._—Yet if I do, (_Slowly advancing_) be assured it is + from some other motive than love. + + _Martino._—So it be not from hate I am contented. + + + _Nita._—To be contented with little, proves you a man of much + virtue. + + _Martino._—When I have you, I am contented with much. + + _Nita._—That _when_ is a wise insertion, signior; it saves you + from shame and me from anger.—Hark! some one calls. + + _Martino._—None other but the wind; it is a kindly breeze, and + grieves to hear how harsh a pretty maiden can be to the lover + who adores her. + + _Nita._—Please your worship, I do not own a lover. + + _Martino._—Then mend your poverty, and accept one. + + _Nita._—I am no beggar to accept of alms. + + _Martino._—In this case, he who offers is the beggar. + + _Nita._—I am too young to wear a jewel of so much pretension. + + _Martino._—Time is a cure for youth, and marriage a happy + speeder of time. + + _Nita._—But youth needs no cure, and if marriage speedeth + time, I’ll live a maid and die one. The days run swift enough + without goading, Signior Martino. + + _Martino._—But lady— + + _Nita._.—Nay, your tongue will outstrip time, if you put not a + curb upon it. In faith, signior, I would not seem rude, but if + in your courtesy you would consent to woo some other maiden + to-day, why I would strive and bear it. + + _Martino._—When I stoop to woo any other lady than thee, the + moon shall hide its face from the earth, and shine upon it no + more. + + _Nita._—Your thoughts are daring in their flight to-day. + + _Martino._—They are in search of your love. + + _Nita._—Alack, your wings will fail. + + _Martino._—Ay, when they reach their goal. + + _Nita._—Dost think to reach it? + + _Martino._—Shall I not, lady? + + _Nita._—’Tis hard to believe it possible, yet who can tell? + You are not so handsome, signior, that one would die for you. + + _Martino._—No, lady; but what goes to make other men’s faces + fair, goes to make my heart great. The virtue of my manhood + rests in the fact that I love you. + + _Nita._—Faith! so in some others. ’Tis the common fault of the + gallants, I find. If that is all— + + _Martino._—But I will always love you, even unto death. + + _Nita._—I doubt it not, so death come soon enough. + + _Martino._ (_Taps his poiniard with his hand._)—Would you + have it come now, and so prove me true to my word? + + _Nita._ (_Demurely_).—I am no judge, to utter the doom that + your presumption merits. + + _Martino._—Your looks speak doom, and your sweet lips hide a + sword keener than that of justice. + + _Nita._—Have you tried them, signior, that you speak so + knowingly concerning them? (_Retreating._) Your words, + methinks, are somewhat like your kisses, all breath and no + substance. + + _Martino._—Lady! sweet one! (_Follows her._) + + _Nita._—Nay, I am gone. (_Exit._) + + _Martino._—I were of the fools’ fold, did I fail to follow at + a beck so gentle. (_Exit._) + +That was not all, but it was all that Mr. Sylvester heard. Hastily +retreating, he went out into the corridor and ere long found himself in +the conservatory. He felt shaken; felt that he could not face all this +unmoved. He knew he had been gazing at a play; that because this +Florentine maiden looked at her lover with coyness, gentleness, +tenderness perhaps, it did not follow that she, his Paula, loved the +real man behind this dashing cavalier. But the possibility was there, +and in his present frame of mind could not be encountered without pain. +He dared not stay where men’s eyes could follow him, or women’s delicate +glances note the heaving of his chest. He had in the last three hours +given himself over so completely to hope. He realized it now though he +would not have believed it before. With man’s usual egotism he had felt +that it was only necessary for him to come to a decision, to behold all +else fall out according to his mind. He had forgotten for the nonce the +power of a youthful lover, eager to serve, ready to wait, careful to +press his way at every advantage. He could have cursed himself for the +folly of his delay, as he strode up and down among the flowering shrubs +in the solitude which the attractions of the play created. “Fool! fool!” +he muttered between his teeth, “to halt on the threshold of Paradise +till the door closed in my face, when a step would have carried me +where—” He grew dizzy as he contemplated. The goal looks never so fair +as when just within reach of a rival’s hand. + +A vigorous clapping, followed by a low gush of music, woke him at last +to the realization that the little drama had terminated. With a hasty +movement he was about to return to the parlors, when he heard the low +murmur of voices, and on looking up, saw a youthful couple advancing +into the conservatory, whom at first glance he recognized for Bertram +and Miss Stuyvesant. They were absorbed in each other, and believing +themselves alone, came on without fear, presenting such a picture of +love and deep, unspeakable joy, that Mr. Sylvester paused and gazed upon +them as upon the sudden embodiment of a cherished vision of his own +imaginings. Bertram was speaking ordinary words no doubt, words suited +to the occasion and the time, but his voice was attuned to the beatings +of his long repressed heart, while the bend of his proud young head and +the glance of his yearning eye were more eloquent than speech, of the +leaning of his whole nature in love and protection towards the dainty, +flushing creature at his side. It was a sight to make old hearts young +and a less happy lover sick with envy. In spite of his gratification at +his nephew’s success, Mr. Sylvester’s brow contracted, and it was with +difficulty he could subdue himself into the appearance of calm +benevolence necessary to pass them with propriety. Had it been Paula and +Mr. Ensign! + +He did not know how it was that he managed to find her at last. But just +as he was beginning to realize that wisdom demanded his departure from +this scene, he suddenly came upon her sitting with her face turned +toward the crowd and waiting—for whom? He had never seen her look so +beautiful, possibly because he had never before allowed himself to gaze +upon her with a lover’s eyes. She had exchanged her piquant Roman +costume for the pearl gray satin in which Ona had delighted to array +her, and its rich substance and delicate neutral tint harmonized well +with the amber brocade of the curtain against which she sat. + +Power, passion and purity breathed in her look, and lent enchantment to +her form. She was poetry’s unique jewel, and at this moment, thought +rather than merriment sat upon her lips, and haunted her somewhat +tremulous smiles. He approached her as a priest to his shrine, but once +at her side, once in view of her first startled blush, stooped +passionately, and forgetting everything but the suspense at his heart, +asked with a look and tone such as he had never before bestowed upon +her, if the play which he had seen that evening had been real, or only +the baseless fabric of a dream. + +She understood him and drew back with a look almost of awe, shaking her +head and replying in a startled way, “I do not know, I dare not say, I +scarcely have taken time to think.” + +“Then take it,” he murmured in a voice that shook her body and soul, +“for _I_ must know, if _he_ does not.” And without venturing another +word, or supplying by look or gesture any explanation of his unexpected +appearance, or as equally unexpected departure, he bowed before her as +if she had been a queen instead of the child he had been wont in other +days to regard her, and speedily left her side. + +But he had not taken two steps before he paused. Mr. Ensign was +approaching. + +“Mr. Sylvester! you are worse than the old woman of the tale, who +declaring she would not, that nothing could ever induce her to—_did_.” + +“You utter a deeper truth than you realize,” returned that gentleman, +with a grave emphasis meant rather for her ears than his. “It is the +curse of mortals to overrate their strength in the face of great +temptations. I am no exception to the rule.” And with a second bow that +included this apparently triumphant lover within its dignified sweep, he +calmly proceeded upon his way, and in a few moments had left the house. + +Mr. Ensign, who for all his careless disposition, was quick to recognize +depths in others, stared after his commanding figure until he had +disappeared, then turned and looked at Paula. Why did his heart sink, +and the lights and joy and promise of the evening seem to turn dark and +shrivel to nothing before his eyes! + + + + +XXXIII. + +TWO LETTERS. + + “I have no other but a woman’s reason, + I think him so, because I think him so.” + + —TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA. + + +A woman who has submitted to the undivided attentions of a gentleman for +any length of time, feels herself more or less bound to him, whether any +special words of devotion have passed between them or not, particularly +if from sensitiveness of nature, she has manifested any pleasure in his +society. Paula therefore felt as if her wings had been caught in a +snare, when Mr. Ensign upon leaving her that evening, put a small note +in her hand, saying that he would do himself the pleasure of calling for +his reply the next day. She did not need to open it. She knew +intuitively the manly honest words with which he would be likely to +offer his heart and life for her acceptance; yet she did open it almost +as soon as she reached her room, sitting down in her outside wraps for +the purpose. She was not disappointed. Every line was earnest, ardent, +and respectful. A true love and a happy cheerful home awaited her +if—the stupendous meaning latent in an _if_! + +With folded hands lying across the white page, with glance fixed on the +fire always kept burning brightly in the grate, she sat querying her own +soul and the awful future. He was such a charming companion; life had +flashed and glimmered with a thousand lights and colors since she knew +him; his very laugh made her want to sing. With him she would move in +sunshiny paths, open to the regard of all the world, giving and +receiving good. Life would need no veils and love no check. A placid +stream would bear her on through fields of smiling verdure. Dread hopes, +strange fears, uneasy doubts and vague unrests, would not disturb the +heart that rested its faith upon his frank and manly bosom. A breeze +blew through his life that would sweep all such evils from the path of +her who walked in trust and love by his side. In trust and love; ah! +that was it. She trusted him, but did she love him? At one time she had +been convinced that she did, else these past few weeks would have owned +a different history. He came upon her so brightly amid her gloom; filled +her days with such genial thoughts, and drew the surface of her soul so +unconsciously after him. It was like a zephyr sweeping over the sea; +every billow that leaps to follow seems to own the power of that passing +wind. But could she think so now, since she had found that the mere +voice and look of another man had power to awaken depths such as she +could not name and scarcely as yet had been able to recognize? that +though the billows might flow under the genial smile of her young lover, +the tide rose only at the call of a deeper voice and a more imposing +presence? + +She was a thinking spirit and recoiled from yielding too readily to any +passing impulse. Love was a sacrament in her eyes; something entirely +too precious to be accepted in counterfeit. She must know the secret of +her inclinations, must weigh the influence that swayed her, for once +given over to earth’s sublimest passion, she felt that it would have +power to sweep her on to an eternity of bliss or suffering. + +She therefore forced herself to probe deep into the past, and pitilessly +asked her conscience, what her emotions had been in reference to Mr. +Sylvester before she positively knew that love for her as a woman had +taken the place of his former fatherly regard. Her blushing cheek seemed +to answer for her. Right or wrong, her life had never been complete away +from his presence. She was lonesome and unsatisfied. When Mr. Ensign +came she thought her previous unrest was explained, but the letter from +Cicely describing Mr. Sylvester as sick and sorrowful, had withdrawn the +veil from the delusion, and though it had settled again with Mr. +Sylvester’s studied refusal to accept her devotion, was by this +evening’s betrayal utterly wrenched away and trampled into oblivion. By +every wild throb of her heart at the sound of his voice in her ear, by +every out-reaching of her soul to enter into his every mood, by the deep +sensation of rest she felt in his presence, and the uneasy longing that +absorbed her in his absence, she knew that she loved Mr. Sylvester as +she never could his younger, blither, and perhaps nobler rival. Each +word spoken by him lay treasured in her heart of hearts. When she +thought of manly beauty, his face and figure started upon her from the +surrounding shadows, making all romance possible and poetry the truest +expression of the human soul. While she lived, he must ever seem the man +of men to charm the eye, affect the heart, and move the soul. Yet she +hesitated. Why? + +There is nothing so hard to acknowledge to ourselves as the presence of +a blemish in the character of those we love and long to revere. It was +like giving herself to the rack to drag from its hiding-place and +confront in all its hideous deformity, the doubt which, unconfessed +perhaps, had of late mingled with her great reverence and admiring +affection for this not easily to be comprehended man. But in this +momentous hour she had power to do it. Conscience and self-respect +demanded that the image before which she was ready to bow with such +abandon, should be worthy her worship. She was not one who could carry +offerings to a clouded shrine. She must see the glory shining from +between the cherubim. “I must worship with my spirit as well as with my +body, and how can I do that if there is a spot on his manhood, or a +false note in his heart. If I did but know the secret of his past; why +the prisoner sits in the dungeon! He is gentle, he is kindly, he loves +goodness and strives to lead me in the paths of purity and wisdom, and +yet something that is not good or pure clings to him, which he has never +been able to shake loose. I perceive it in his melancholy glance; I +catch its accents in his uneven tones; it rises upon me from his most +thoughtful words, and makes his taking of a vow fearfully and warningly +significant. Yet how much he is honored by his fellow-men, and with what +reliance they look up to him for guidance and support. If I only knew +the secrets of his heart!” thought she. + +It was a trembling scale that hung balancing in that young girl’s hand +that night. On one side, frankness, cheerfulness, manly worth, honest +devotion, and a home with every adjunct of peace and prosperity; on the +other, love, gratitude, longing, admiration, and a dark shadow +enveloping all, called doubt. The scale would not adjust itself. It tore +her heart to turn from Mr. Sylvester, it troubled her conscience to +dismiss the thought of Mr. Ensign. The question was yet undecided when +she rose and began putting away her ornaments for the night. + +What was there on her dressing-table that made her pause with such a +start, and cast that look of half beseeching inquiry at her own image in +the glass? Only another envelope with her name written upon it. But the +way in which she took it in her hand, and the half guilty air with which +she stole back with it to the fire, would have satisfied any looker-on I +imagine, that conscience or no conscience, debate or no debate, the +writer of these lines had gained a hold upon her heart, which no other +could dispute. + +It was a compactly written note and ran thus: + + “A man is not always responsible for what he does in moments of + great suspense or agitation. But if, upon reflection, he finds + that he has spoken harshly or acted unwisely, it is his duty to + remedy his fault; and therefore it is that I write you this + little note. Paula, I love you; not as I once did, with a + fatherly longing and a protective delight, but passionately, + yearningly, and entirely, with the whole force of my somewhat + disappointed life; as a man loves for whom the world has + dissolved leaving but one creature in it, and that a woman. I + showed you this too plainly to-night. I have no right to + startle or intimidate your sweet soul into any relation that + might hereafter curb or dissatisfy you; if you can love me + freely, with no back-lookings to any younger lover left behind, + know that naught you could bestow, can ever equal the world of + love and feeling which I long to lavish upon you from my heart + of hearts. But if another has already won upon your affections + too much for you to give an undivided response to my appeal, + then by all the purity and innocence of your nature, forget I + have ever marred the past or disturbed the present by any word + warmer than that of a father. + + “I shall not meet you at breakfast and possibly not at dinner + to-morrow, but when evening comes I shall look for my soul’s + dearer and better half, or my childless manhood’s nearest and + most cherished friend, as God pleaseth and your own heart and + conscience shall decree. + + “EDWARD SYLVESTER.” + +Miss Belinda was very much surprised to be awakened early the next +morning, by a pair of loving arms clasped yearningly about her neck. + +Looking up, she descried Paula kneeling beside her bed in the faint +morning light, her cheeks burning, and her eyelids drooping; and +guessing perhaps how it was, started up from her recumbent position with +an energy strongly suggestive of the charger, that smells the battle +afar off. + +“What has happened?” she asked. “You look as if you had not slept a +wink.” + +For reply Paula pulled aside the curtain at the head of her bed, and +slipped into her hand Mr. Ensign’s letter. Miss Belinda read it +conscientiously through, with many grunts of approval, and having +finished it, laid it down with a significant nod, after which she turned +and surveyed Paula with keen but cautious scrutiny. “And you don’t know +what answer to give,” she asked. + +“I should,” said Paula, “if—Oh aunt, you know what stands in my way! I +have seen it in your eyes for some time. There is some one else—” + +“But he has not spoken?” vigorously ejaculated her aunt. + +Without answering, Paula put into her hand, with a slow reluctance she +had not manifested before, a second little note, and then hid her head +amid the bedclothes, waiting with quickly beating heart for what her +aunt might say. + +She did not seem in haste to speak, but when she did, her words came +with a quick sigh that echoed very drearily in the young girl’s anxious +ears. “You have been placed by this in a somewhat painful position. I +sympathize with you, my child. It is very hard to give denial to a +benefactor.” + +Paula’s head drew nearer to her aunt’s breast, her arms crept round her +neck. “But must I?” she breathed. + +Miss Belinda knitted her brows with great force, and stared severely at +the wall opposite. “I am sorry there is any question about it,” she +replied. + +Paula started up and looked at her with sudden determination. “Aunt,” +said she, “what is your objection to Mr. Sylvester?” + +Miss Belinda shook her head, and pushing the girl gently away, hurriedly +arose and began dressing with great rapidity. Not until she was entirely +prepared for breakfast did she draw Paula to her, and prepare to answer +her question. + +“My objection to him is, that I do not thoroughly understand him. I am +afraid of the skeleton in the closet, Paula. I never feel at ease when I +am with him, much as I admire his conversation and appreciate the +undoubtedly noble instincts of his heart. His brow is not open enough to +satisfy an eye which has accustomed itself to the study of human +nature.” + + +“He has had many sorrows!” Paula faintly exclaimed, stricken by this +echo of her own doubts. + +“Yes,” returned her aunt, “and sorrow bows the head and darkens the eye, +but it does not make the glance wavering or its expression mysterious.” + +“Some sorrows might,” urged Paula tremulously, arguing as much with her +own doubts as with those of her aunt. “His have been of no ordinary +nature. I have never told you, aunt, but there were circumstances +attending Cousin Ona’s death that made it especially harrowing. He had a +stormy interview with her the very morning she was killed; words passed +between them, and he left her with a look that was almost desperate. +When he next saw her, she lay lifeless and inert before him. I sometimes +think that the shadow that fell upon him at that hour will never pass +away.” + +“Do you know what was the subject of their disagreement?” asked Miss +Belinda anxiously. + +“No, but I have reason to believe it had something to do with business +affairs, as nothing else could ever arouse Cousin Ona into being at all +disagreeable.” + +“I don’t like that phrase, _business affairs_; like charity, it covers +entirely too much. Have you never had any doubts yourself about Mr. +Sylvester?” + +“Ah, you touch me to the quick, aunt. I may have had my doubts, but when +I look back on the past, I cannot see as they have any very substantial +foundation. Supposing, aunt, that he has been merely unfortunate, and I +should live to find that I had discarded one whose heart was darkened by +nothing but sorrow? I should never forgive myself, nor could life yield +me any recompense that would make amends for a sacrifice so +unnecessary.” + +“You love him, then, very dearly, Paula?” + +A sudden light fell on the young girl’s face. “Hearts cannot tell their +love,” said she, “but since I received this letter from him, it has +seemed as if my life hung balancing on the question, as to whether he is +worthy of a woman’s homage. If he is not, I would give my life to have +him so. The world is only dear to me now as it holds him.” + +Miss Belinda picked up Mr. Ensign’s letter with trembling fingers. “I +thought you were safe when the younger man came to woo,” said she. +“Girls, as a rule, prefer what is bright to what is sombre, and Mr. +Ensign is truly a very agreeable as well as worthy young man.” + +“Yes, aunt, and he came very near stealing my heart as he undoubtedly +did my fancy, but a stronger hand snatched it away, and now I do not +know what to do or how to act, so as to awaken in the future no remorse +or vain regrets.” + +Miss Belinda opened the letters again and consulted their contents in a +matter-of-fact way. “Mr. Ensign proposes to come this afternoon for his +answer, while Mr. Sylvester defers seeing you till evening. What if I +seek Mr. Sylvester this morning and have a little conversation with him, +which shall determine, for once and all, the question which so troubles +us? Would you not find it easier to meet Mr. Ensign when he comes?” + +“You talk to Mr. Sylvester, and upon such a topic! Oh, I could not bear +that. Pardon me, aunt, but I think I am more jealous of his feelings +than of my own. If his secret can be learned in a half-hour’s talk, it +must be listened to by no one but myself. And I believe it can,” she +murmured reverently; “he is so tender of me he would never let me go +blindfold into any path, concerning which I had once expressed anxiety. +If I ask him whether there is any good reason before God or man why I +should not give him my entire faith and homage, he will answer honestly, +though it be the destruction of his hopes to do so?” + +“Have you such trust as that in his uprightness as a lover, and the +guardian of your happiness?” + +“Have not you, aunt?” + +And Miss Belinda remembering his words on the occasion of his first +proposal to adopt Paula, was forced to acknowledge that she had. + +So without further preliminaries, it was agreed upon that Paula should +refrain from making a final decision until she had eased her heart by an +interview with Mr. Sylvester. + +“Meantime, you can request Mr. Ensign to wait another day for his +answer,” said Miss Belinda. + +But Paula with a look of astonishment shook her head. “Is it you who +would counsel me to such a piece of coquetry as that?” said she. “No, +dear aunt, my heart is not with Mr. Ensign, as you know, and it is +impossible for me to encourage him. If Mr. Sylvester should prove +unworthy of my affection, I must bear, as best I may, the loss which +must accrue; but till he does, let me not dishonor my womanhood by +allowing hope to enter, even for a passing moment, the breast of his +rival.” + +Miss Belinda blushed, and drew her niece fondly towards her. “You are +right,” said she, “and my great desire for your happiness has led me +into error. Honesty is the noblest adjunct of all true love, and must +never be sacrificed to considerations of selfish expediency. The refusal +which you contemplate bestowing upon Mr. Ensign, must be forwarded to +him at once.” + +And with a final embrace, in which Miss Belinda allowed herself to let +fall some few natural tears of disappointment, she dismissed the young +girl to her task. + + + + +XXXIV. + +PAULA MAKES HER CHOICE. + + “Good fortune then, + To make me bless’t or cursed’st among men.” + + —MERCHANT OF VENICE. + + +It was evening in the Sylvester mansion. Mr. Sylvester who, according to +his understanding with Paula, had been absent from his home all day, had +just come in and now stood in his library waiting for the coming +footfall that should decide whether the future held for him any promise +of joy. + +He had never looked more worthy of a woman’s regard than he did that +night. A matter that had been troubling him for some time had just been +satisfactorily disposed of, and not a shadow, so far as he knew, lay +upon his business outlook. This naturally brightened his cheek and lent +a light to his eye. Then, hope is no mean beautifier, and this he +possessed notwithstanding the disparity of years between himself and +Paula. It was not, however, of sufficiently assured a nature to prevent +him from starting at every sound from above, and flushing with quite a +disagreeable sense of betrayal when the door opened and Bertram entered +the room, instead of the gentle and exquisite being he had expected. + +“Uncle, I am so full of happiness, I had to stop and bestow a portion of +it upon you. Do you think any one could mistake the nature of Miss +Stuyvesant’s feelings, who saw her last night?” + +“Hardly,” was the smiling reply. “At all events I have not felt like +wasting much but pleasant sympathy upon you. Your pathway to happiness +looks secure, my boy.” + +His nephew gave him a wistful glance, but hid his thought whatever it +was. “I am going to see her to-night,” remarked he. “I am afraid my love +is something like a torrent that has once burst its barrier; it cannot +rest until it has worked its channel and won its rightful repose.” + +“That is something the way with all love,” returned his uncle. “It may +be dallied with while asleep, but once aroused, better meet a lion in +his fury or a tempest in its rush. Are you going to test your hope, +to-night?” + +The young man flushed. “I cannot say.” But in another moment gayly +added, “I only know that I am prepared for any emergency.” + +“Well, my boy, I wish you God-speed. If ever a man has won a right to +happiness, you are that man; and you shall enjoy it too, if any word or +action of mine can serve to advance it.” + +“Thank you!” replied Bertram, and with a bright look around the +apartment, prepared to take his leave. “When I come back,” he remarked, +with a touch of that manly _naïveté_ to which I have before alluded, “I +hope I shall not find you alone.” + +Ignoring this wish which was re-echoed somewhat too deeply within his +own breast for light expression, Mr. Sylvester accompanied his nephew to +the front door. + +“Let us see what kind of a night it is,” observed he, stepping out upon +the stoop. “It is going to rain.” + +“So it is,” returned Bertram, with a quick glance overhead; “but I shall +not let such a little fuss as that deter me from fulfilling my +engagement.” And bestowing a hasty nod upon his uncle, he bounded down +the step. + +Instantly a man who was loitering along the walk in front of the house, +stopped, as if struck by these simple words, turned, gave Bertram a +quick look, and then with a sly glance back at the open door where Mr. +Sylvester still stood gazing at the lowering heavens, set himself +cautiously to follow him. + +Mr. Sylvester, who was too much pre-occupied to observe this suspicious +action, remained for a moment contemplating the sky; then with an +aimless glance down the avenue, during which his eye undoubtedly fell +upon Bertram and the creeping shadow of a man behind him, closed the +door and returned to the library. + +The sight of another’s joy has the tendency to either unduly depress the +spirits or greatly to elate them. When Paula came into the room a few +minutes later, it was to find Mr. Sylvester awaiting her with an +expression that was almost radiant. It made her duty seem doubly hard, +and she came forward with the slow step of one who goes to meet or carry +doom. He saw, and instantly the light died out of his face, leaving it +one blank of despair. But controlling himself, he took her cold hand in +his, and looking down upon her with a tender but veiled regard, asked in +those low and tremulous tones that exerted such an influence upon her: + +“Do I see before me my affectionate and much to be cherished child, or +that still dearer object of love and worship, which it shall be the +delight of my life to render truly and deeply happy?” + +“You see,” returned she, after a moment of silent emotion, “a girl +without father or brother to advise her; who loves, or believes she +does, a great and noble man, but who is smitten with fear also, she +cannot tell why, and trembles to take a step to which no loving and +devoted friend has set the seal of his approval.” + +The clasp with which Mr. Sylvester held her hand in his, tightened for +an instant with irrepressible emotion, then slowly unloosed. Drawing +back, he surveyed her with eyes that slowly filled with a bitter +comprehension of her meaning. + +“You are the only man,” continued she, with a glance of humble entreaty, +“that has ever stood to me for a moment in the light of a relation. You +_have_ been a father to me in days gone by, and to you it therefore +seems most natural for me to appeal when a question comes up that either +puzzles or distresses me. Mr. Sylvester, you have offered me your love +and the refuge of your home; if you say that in your judgment the +counsel of all true friends would be for me to accept this love, then my +hand is yours and with it my heart; a heart that only hesitates because +it would fain be sure it has the smile of heaven upon its every +prompting.” + +“Paula!” + +The voice was so strange she looked up to see if it really was Mr. +Sylvester who spoke. He had sunk back into a chair and had covered his +face with his hands. With a cry she moved towards him, but he motioned +her back. + +“Condemned to be my own executioner!” he muttered. “Placed on the rack +and bid to turn the wheel that shall wrench my own sinews! My God, ’tis +hard!” + +She did not hear the words, but she saw the action. Slowly the blood +left her cheek, and her hand fell upon her swelling breast with a +despairing gesture that would have smitten Miss Belinda to the heart, +could she have seen it. “I have asked too much,” she whispered. + +With a start Mr. Sylvester rose. “Paula,” said he, in a stern and +different tone, “is this fear of which you speak, the offspring of your +own instincts, or has it been engendered in your breast by the words of +another?” + +“My Aunt Belinda is in my confidence, if it is she to whom you allude,” +rejoined she, meeting his glance fully and bravely. “But from no lips +but yours could any words proceed capable of affecting my estimate of +you as the one best qualified to make me happy.” + +“Then it is my words alone that have awakened this doubt, this +apprehension?” + +“I have not spoken of doubt,” said she, but her eyelids fell. + +“No, thank God!” he passionately exclaimed. “And yet you feel it,” he +went on more composedly. “I have studied your face too long and closely +not to understand it.” + +She put out her hands in appeal, but for once it passed unheeded. + +“Paula,” said he, “you must tell me just what that doubt is; I must know +what is passing in your mind. You say you love me—” he paused, and a +tremble shook him from head to foot, but he went inexorably on—“it is +more than I had a right to expect, and God knows I am grateful for the +precious and inestimable boon, far as it is above my deserts; but while +loving me, you hesitate to give me your hand. Why? What is the name of +the doubt that disturbs that pure breast and affects your choice? Tell +me, I must know.” + +“You ask me to dissect my own heart!” she cried, quivering under the +torture of his glance; “how can I? What do I know of its secret springs +or the terrors that disturb its even beatings? I cannot name my fear; it +has no name, or if it has—Oh, sir!” she cried in a burst of passionate +longing, “your life has been one of sorrow and disappointment; grief has +touched you close, and you might well be the melancholy and sombre man +that all behold. I do not shrink from grief; say that the only shadow +that lies across your dungeon-door is that cast by the great and +heart-rending sorrows of your life, and without question and without +fear I enter that dungeon with you—” + +The hand he raised stopped her. “Paula,” cried he, “do you believe in +repentance?” + +The words struck her like a blow. Falling slowly back, she looked at him +for an instant, then her head sank on her breast. + +“I know what your hatred of sin is,” continued he. “I have seen your +whole form tremble at the thought of evil. Is your belief in the +redeeming power of God as great as your recoil from the wrong that makes +that redemption necessary?” + +Quickly her head raised, a light fell on her brow, and her lips moved in +a vain effort to utter what her eyes unconsciously expressed. + +“Paula, I would be unworthy the name of a man, if with the consciousness +of possessing a dark and evil nature, I strove by use of any hypocrisy +or specious pretense at goodness, to lure to my side one so +exceptionally pure, beautiful and high-minded. The ravening wolf and the +innocent lamb would be nothing to it. Neither would I for an instant be +esteemed worthy of your regard, if in this hour of my wooing there +remained in my life the shadow of any latent wrong that might hereafter +rise up and overwhelm you. Whatever of wrong has ever been committed by +me—and it is my punishment that I must acknowledge before your pure +eyes that my soul is not spotless—was done in the past, and is known +only to my own heart and the God who I reverently trust has long ago +pardoned me. The shadow is that of remorse, not of fear, and the evil, +one against my own soul, rather than against the life or fortunes of +other men. Paula, such sins can be forgiven if one has a mind to +comprehend the temptations that beset men in their early struggles. I +have never forgiven myself, but—” He paused, looked at her for an +instant, his hand clenched over his heart, his whole noble form shaken +by struggle, then said—“forgiveness implies no promise, Paula; you +shall never link yourself to a man who has been obliged to bow his head +in shame before you, but by the mercy that informs that dear glance and +trembling lip, do you think you can ever grow to forgive me?” + +“Oh,” she cried, with a burst of sobs, violent as her grief and shame, +“God be merciful to me, as I am merciful to those who repent of their +sins and do good and not evil all the remaining days of their life.” + +“I thought you would _forgive_ me,” murmured he, looking down upon her, +as the miser eyes the gold that has slipped from his paralyzed hand. +“Him whom the hard-hearted sinner and the hypocrite despise, God’s +dearest lambs regard with mercy. I learned to revere God before I knew +you, Paula, but I learned to love Him in the light of your gentleness +and your trust. Rise up now and let me wipe away your tears—my +daughter.” + +She sprang up as if stung. “No, no,” she cried, “not that; I cannot bear +that yet. I must think, I must know what all this means,” and she laid +her hand upon her heart. “God surely does not give so much love for +one’s undoing; if I were not destined to comfort a life so saddened, He +would have bequeathed me more pity and less—” The lifted head fell, the +word she would have uttered, stirred her bosom, but not her lips. + +It was a trial to his strength, but his firm man’s heart did not waver. +“You do comfort me,” said he; “from early morning to late night your +presence is my healing and my help, and will always be so, whatever may +befal. A daughter can do much, my Paula.” + +She took a step back towards the door, her eyes, dark with unfathomable +impulses, flashing on him through the tears that hung thickly on her +lashes. + +“Is it for your own sake or for mine, that you make use of that word?” +said she. + +He summoned up his courage, met that searching glance with all its wild, +bewildering beauty, and responded, “Can you ask, Paula?” + +With a lift of her head that gave an almost queenly stateliness to her +form, she advanced a step, and drawing a crumpled paper from her pocket, +said, “When I went to my room last night, it was to read _two_ letters, +one from yourself, and one from Mr. Ensign. This is his, and a manly and +noble letter it is too; but hearts have right to hearts, and I was +obliged to refuse his petition.” And with a reverent but inexorable +hand, she dropped the letter on the burning coals of the grate at their +side, and softly turned to leave the room. + +“Paula!” With a bound the stern and hitherto forcibly repressed man, +leaped to her side. “My darling! my life!” and with a wild, +uncontrollable impulse, he caught her for one breathless moment to his +heart; then as suddenly released her, and laying his hand in reverence +on her brow, said softly, “Now go and pray, little one; and when you are +quite calm, an hour hence or a week hence whichever it may be, come and +tell me my fate as God and the angels reveal it to you.” And he smiled, +and she saw his smile, and went out of the room softly, as one who +treadeth upon holy ground. + +Mr. Sylvester was considered by his friends and admirers as a proud man. +If a vote had been cast among those who knew him best, as from what +especial passion common to humanity he would soonest recoil, it would +have been unanimously pronounced shame, and his own hand would have +emphasized the judgment of his fellows. But shame which is open to the +gaze of the whole world, differs from that which is sacred to the eyes +of one human being, and that the one who lies nearest the heart. + +As Paula’s retreating footsteps died away on the stairs, and he awoke to +the full consciousness that his secret was shared by her whose love was +his life, and whose good opinion had been his incentive and his pride, +his first sensation was one of unmitigated anguish, but his next, +strange to say, that of a restful relief. He had cast aside the cloak he +had hugged so closely to his breast these many years, and displayed to +her shrinking gaze the fox that was gnawing at his vitals; and Spartan +though he was, the dew that had filled her loving eyes was balm to him. +And not only that; he had won claim to the title of true man. Her +regard, if regard it remained, was no longer an airy fabric built upon a +plausible seeming, but a firm structure with knowledge for its +foundation. “I shall not live to whisper, ‘If she knew my whole life, +would she love me so well?’” + +His first marriage had been so wholly uncongenial and devoid of +sympathy, that his greatest longing in connection with a fresh contract, +was to enjoy the full happiness of perfect union and mutual trust; and +though he could never have summoned up courage to take her into his +confidence, unsolicited, now that it had been done he would not have it +undone, no, not if by the doing he had lost her confidence and +affection. + +But something told him he had not lost it. That out of the darkness and +the shock of this very discovery, a new and deeper love would spring, +which having its birth in human frailty and human repentance, would gain +in the actual what it lost in the ideal, bringing to his weary, +suffering and yearning man’s nature, the honest help of a strong and +loving sympathy, growing trust, and sweetest because wisest +encouragement. + +It was therefore, with a growing sense of deep unfathomable comfort, and +a reverent thankfulness for the mercies of God, that he sat by the fire +idly watching the rise and fall of the golden flames above the +fluttering ashes of his rival’s letter, and dreaming with a hallowing +sense of his unworthiness, upon the possible bliss of coming days. +Happiness in its truest and most serene sense was so new to him, it +affected him like the presence of something strangely commanding. He was +awe-struck before it, and unconsciously bowed his head at its +contemplation. Only his eyes betrayed the peace that comes with all +great joy, his eyes and perhaps the faint, almost unearthly smile that +flitted across his mouth, disturbing its firm line and making his face +for all its inevitable expression of melancholy, one that his mother +would have loved to look upon. “Paula!” came now and then in a reverent, +yearning accent from between his lips, and once a low, “Thank God!” +which showed that he was praying. + +Suddenly he rose; a more human mood had set in, and he felt the +necessity of assuring himself that it was really he upon whom the dreary +past had closed, and a future of such possible brightness opened. He +walked about the room, surveying the rich articles within it, as the +possible belongings of the beautiful woman he adored; he stood and +pictured her as coming into the door as his wife, and before he realized +what he was doing, had planned certain changes he would make in his home +to adapt it to the wants of her young and growing mind, when with a +strange suddenness, the door upon which he was gazing flew back, and +Bertram Sylvester entered just as he had come from the street. He looked +so haggard, so wild, so little the picture of himself as he ventured +forth a couple of hours before, that Mr. Sylvester started, and +forgetting his happiness in his alarm, asked in a tone of dismay: + +“What has happened? Has Miss Stuyvesant—” + +Bertram’s hand went up as if his uncle had touched him upon a festering +wound. “Don’t!” gasped he, and advancing to the table, sat down and +buried his face for a moment in his arms, then rose, and summoning up a +certain manly dignity that became him well, met Mr. Sylvester’s eye with +forced calmness, and inquired: + +“Did you know there was a thief in our bank, Uncle Edward?” + + + + +XXXV. + +THE FALLING OF THE SWORD. + + “Foul deeds will rise, + Though all the world o’erwhelm them, to men’s eyes.”—HAMLET. + + + +Mr. Sylvester towered on his nephew with an expression such as few men +had ever seen even on his powerful and commanding face. + +“What do you mean?” asked he, and his voice rang like a clarion through +the room. + +Bertram trembled and for a moment stood aghast, the ready flush bathing +his brow with burning crimson. “I mean,” stammered he, with difficulty +recovering himself, “that when Mr. Stuyvesant came to open his private +box in the bank to-day, that he not only found its lock had been +tampered with, but that money and valuables to the amount of some twelve +hundred dollars were missing from among its contents.” + +“What?” + +The expression which had made Mr. Sylvester’s brow so terrible had +vanished, but his wonder remained. + +“It is impossible,” he declared. “Our vaults are too well watched for +any such thing to occur. He has made some mistake; a robbery of that +nature could not take place without detection.” + +“It would seem not, and yet the fact remains. Mr. Stuyvesant himself +informed me of it, to-night. He is not a careless man, nor reckless in +his statements. Some one has robbed the bank and it remains with us to +find out who.” + +Mr. Sylvester, who had been standing all this while, sat down like a man +dazed, the wild lost look on Bertram’s face daunting him with a fearful +premonition. “There are but four men who have access to the vault where +the boxes are kept,” said he: then quickly, “Why did Mr. Stuyvesant wait +till to-night to speak to you? Why did he not notify us at once of a +loss so important for us to know?” + +The flush on Bertram’s brow slowly subsided, giving way to a steady +pallor. “He waited to be sure,” said he. “He had a memorandum at home +which he desired to consult; he was not ready to make any rash +statement: he is a thinking man and more considerate than many of his +friends are apt to imagine. If the lock had not been found open he would +have thought with you that he had made some mistake; if he had not +missed from the box some of its contents, he would have considered the +condition of the lock the result of some oversight on his own part or of +some mistake on the part of another, but the two facts together were +damning and could force upon him but one conclusion. Uncle,” said he, +with a straightforward look into Mr. Sylvester’s countenance, “Mr. +Stuyvesant knows as well as we do who are the men who have access to the +vaults. As you say, the opening of a box during business hours and the +abstracting from it of papers or valuables by any one who has not such +access, would be impossible. Only Hopgood, you and myself, and possibly +Folger, could find either time or opportunity for such a piece of work; +while after business hours, the same four, minus Folger who contents +himself with knowing the combination of the inner safe, could open the +vaults even in case of an emergency. Now of the four named, two are +above suspicion. I might almost say three, for Hopgood is not a man it +is easy to mistrust. One alone, then, of all the men whom Mr. Stuyvesant +is in the habit of meeting at the Bank, is open to a doubt. A young man, +uncle, whose rising has been rapid, whose hopes have been lofty, whose +life may or may not be known to himself as pure, but which in the eyes +of a matured man of the world might easily be questioned, just because +its hopes are so lofty and its means for attaining them so limited.” + +“Bertram!” sprang from Mr. Sylvester’s white lips. + +But the young man raised his hand with almost a commanding gesture. +“Hush,” said he, “no sympathy or surprise. Facts like these have to be +met with silent endurance, as we walk up to the mouth of the cannon we +cannot evade, or bare our breast to the thrust of the bayonet gleaming +before our eyes.—I would not have you think,” he somewhat hurriedly +pursued, “that Mr. Stuyvesant insinuated anything of the kind, but his +daughter was not present in the parlor, and—” A sigh, almost a gasp +finished the sentence. + +“Bertram!” again exclaimed his uncle, this time with some authority in +his voice. “The shock of this discovery has unnerved you. You act like a +man capable of being suspected. That is simply preposterous. One half +hour’s conversation with Mr. Stuyvesant on my part will convince him, if +he needs convincing, which I do not believe, that whoever is unworthy of +trust in our bank, you are not the man.” + +Bertram raised his head with a gleam of hope, but instantly dropped it +again with a despairing gesture that made his uncle frown. + +“I did not know that you were inclined to be so pusillanimous,” cried +Mr. Sylvester; “and in presence of a foe so unsubstantial as this you +have conjured up almost out of nothing. If the bank has been robbed, it +cannot be difficult to find the thief. I will order in detectives +to-morrow. We will hold a board of inquiry, and the culprit shall be +unmasked; that is, if he is one of the employees of the bank, which it +is very hard to believe.” + +“Very, and which, if true, would make it unadvisable in us to give the +alarm that any public measures taken could not fail to do.” + +“The inquiry shall be private, and the detectives, men who can be +trusted to keep their business secret.” + + +“How can any inquiry be private? Uncle, we are treading on delicate +ground, and have a task before us requiring great tact and discretion. +If the safe had only been assaulted, or there were any evidences of +burglary to be seen! But we surely should have heard of it from some one +of the men, if anything unusual had been observed. Hopgood would have +spoken at least.” + +“Yes, Hopgood would have spoken.” + +The tone in which this was uttered made Bertram look up. “You agree with +me, then, that Hopgood is absolutely to be relied upon?” + +“Absolutely.” A faint flush on Mr. Sylvester’s face lent force to this +statement. + +“He could not be beguiled or forced by another man to reveal the +combination, or to relax his watch over the vaults entrusted to his +keeping?” + +“No.” + +“He is alone with the vaults where the boxes are kept for an hour or two +in the early morning!” + +“Yes, and has been for three years. Hopgood is honesty itself.” + +“And so are Folger and Jessup and Watson,” exclaimed Bertram +emphatically. + +“Yes,” his uncle admitted, with equal emphasis. + +“It is a mystery,” Bertram declared; “and one I fear that will undo me.” + +“Nonsense!” broke forth somewhat impatiently from Mr. Sylvester’s lips; +“there is no reason at this time for any such conclusion. If there is a +thief in the bank he can be found; if the robbery was committed by an +outsider, he may still be discovered. If he is not, if the mystery rests +forever unexplained, you have your character, Bertram, a character as +spotless as that of any of your fellows, whom we regard as above +suspicion. A man is not going to be condemned by such a judge of human +nature as Mr. Stuyvesant, just because a mysterious crime has been +committed, to which the circumstances of his position alone render it +possible for him to be party. You might as well say that Jessup and +Folger and Watson—yes, or myself, would in that case lose his +confidence. They are in the bank, and are constantly in the habit of +going to the vaults.” + +“None of those gentlemen want to marry his daughter,” murmured Bertram. +“It is not the director I fear, but the father. I have so little to +bring her. Only my character and my devotion.” + +“Well, well, pluck up courage, my boy. I have hopes yet that the whole +matter can be referred to some mistake easily explainable when once it +is discovered. Mistakes, even amongst the honest and the judicious, are +not so uncommon as one is apt to imagine. I, myself, have known of one +which if providence had not interfered, might have led to doubts +seemingly as inconsistent as yours. To-morrow we will consider the +question at length. To-night—Well, Bertram, what is it?” + +The young man started and dropped his eyes, which during the last words +of his uncle had been fixed upon his face with strange and penetrating +inquiry. “Nothing,” said he, “that is, nothing more;” and rose as if to +leave. + +But Mr. Sylvester put out his hand and stopped him. “There _is_ +something,” said he. “I have seen it in your face ever since you entered +this room. What is it?” + +The young man drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Mr. +Sylvester watched him with growing pallor. “You are right,” murmured his +nephew at last; “there is something more, and it is only justice that +you should hear it. I have had two adventures to-night; one quite apart +from my conversation with Mr. Stuyvesant. Heaven that watches above us, +has seen fit to accumulate difficulties in my path, and this last, +perhaps, is the least explainable and the hardest to encounter.” + +“What do you allude to?” cried his uncle, imperatively; “I have had an +evening of too much agitation to endure suspense with equanimity. +Explain yourself.” + +“It will not take long,” said the other; “a few words will reveal to you +the position in which I stand. Let me relate it in the form of a +narrative. You know what a dark portion of the block that is in which +Mr. Stuyvesant’s house is situated. A man might hide in any of the areas +along there, without being observed by you unless he made some sound to +attract your attention. I was, therefore, more alarmed than surprised +when, shortly after leaving Mr. Stuyvesant’s dwelling, I felt a hand +laid on my shoulder, and turning, beheld a dark figure at my side, of an +appearance calculated to arouse any man’s apprehension. He was tall, +unkempt, with profuse beard, and eyes that glared even in the darkness +of his surroundings, with a feverish intensity. ‘You are Mr. Sylvester,’ +said he, with a look of a wild animal ready to pounce upon his prey. +‘Yes,’ said I, involuntarily stepping back, ‘I am Mr. Sylvester.’ ‘I +want to speak to you,’ exclaimed he, with a rush of words as though a +stream had broken loose; ‘now, at once, on business that concerns you. +Will you listen?’ + +“I thought of the only business that seemed to concern me then, and +starting still farther back, surveyed him with surprise. ‘I don’t know +you,’ said I; ‘what business can you have with me?’ ‘Will you step into +some place where it is warm and find out?’ he asked, shivering in his +thin cloak, but not abating a jot of his eagerness. ‘Go on before me,’ +said I, ‘and we will see.’ He complied at once, and in this way we +reached Beale’s Coffee-Room, where we went in. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘out with +what you have to say and be quick about it. I have no time to listen to +nonsense and no heart to attend to it.’ His eye brightened; he did not +cast a glance at the smoking victuals about him, though I knew he was +hungry as a dog. ‘It is no nonsense,’ said he, ‘that I have to +communicate to you.’ And then I saw he had once been a gentleman. ‘For +two years and a half have I been searching for you,’ he went on, ‘in +order that I might recall to your mind a little incident. You remember +the afternoon of February, the twenty-fifth, two years ago?’ + +“‘No,’ said I, in great surprise, for his whole countenance was flushed +with expectancy. ‘What was there about that day that I should remember +it?’ He smiled and bent his face nearer to mine. ‘Don’t you recollect a +little conversation you had in a small eating-house in Dey Street, with +a gentleman of a high-sounding voice to whom you were obliged +continually to say ‘hush!’’” I stared at the man, as you may believe, +with some notion of his being a wandering lunatic. ‘I have never taken a +meal in any eating-house in Dey Street,’ I declared, motioning to a +waiter to approach us. The man observing it, turned swiftly upon me. ‘Do +you think I care for any such petty _fuss_ as that?’ asked he, +indicating the rather slightly built man I had called to my rescue, +while he covertly studied my face to observe the effect of his words. + +“I started. I could not help it; this use of an expression almost +peculiar to myself, assured me that the man knew me better than I +supposed. Involuntarily I waved the waiter back and turned upon the man +with an inquiring look. + +“‘I thought you might consider it worth your while to listen,’ said he, +smiling with the air of one who has or thinks he has a grip upon you. +Then suddenly, ‘You are a rich man, are you not? a proud man and an +honored one. You hold a position of trust and are considered worthy of +it; how would you like men to know that you once committed a mean and +dirty trick; that those white hands that have the handling of such large +funds at present, have in days gone by been known to dip into such funds +a little too deeply; that, in short, you, Bertram Sylvester, cashier of +the Madison Bank, and looking forward to no one knows what future honors +and emoluments, have been in a position better suited to a felon’s cell +than the trusted agent of a great and wealthy corporation?’ + +“I did not collar him; I was too dumb-stricken for any such display of +indignation. I simply stared, feeling somewhat alarmed as I remembered +my late interview with Mr. Stuyvesant, and considered the possibility of +a plot being formed against me. He smiled again at the effect he had +produced, and drew me into a corner of the room where we sat down. ‘I am +going to tell you a story,’ said he, ‘just to show you what a good +memory I have. One day, a year and more ago, I sauntered into an +eating-house on Dey Street. I have not always been what you see me now, +though to tell you the truth, I was but little better off at the time of +which I speak, except that I did have a dime or so in my pocket, and +could buy a meal of victuals—if I wished.’ And his eyes roamed for the +first time to the tables stretching out before him down the room. ‘The +proprietor was an acquaintance of mine, and finding I was sleepy as well +as hungry, let me go into a certain dark pantry, where I curled up amid +all sorts of old rubbish and went to sleep. I was awakened by the sound +of voices talking very earnestly. The closet in which I was hidden was a +temporary affair built up of loose boards, and the talk of a couple of +men seated against it was easy enough to be heard. Do you want to know +what that conversation was?’ + +“My curiosity was roused by this time and I said yes. If this was a plot +to extort money from me, it was undeniably better for me to know upon +just what foundations it rested. I thought the man looked surprised, but +with an aplomb difficult to believe assumed, he went on to say, ‘The +voices gave me my only means of judging of the age, character, or +position of the men conversing, but I have a quick ear, and my memory is +never at fault. From the slow, broken, nervously anxious tone of one of +the men, I made up my mind that he was elderly, hard up, and not over +scrupulous; the other voice was that of a gentleman, musical and yet +pronounced, and not easily forgotten, as you see, sir. The first words I +heard aroused me and convinced me it was worth while to listen. They +were uttered by the gentleman.’ ‘You come to me with such a dirty piece +of business! What right have you to suppose I would hearken to you for +an instant!’ ‘The right,’ returned the other, ‘of knowing you have not +been above doing dirty work in your life time.’ The partition creaked at +that, as though one of the two had started forward, but I didn’t hear +any reply made to this strange accusation. ‘Do you think,’ the same +voice went on, ‘that I do not know where the five thousand dollars came +from which you gave me for that first speculation? I knew it when I took +it, and if I hadn’t been sure the operation would turn out fortunately, +you would never have been the man you are to-day. It came out of funds +entrusted to you, and was not the gift of a relative as you would have +made me believe.’ ‘Good heaven!’ exclaimed the other, after a silence +that was very expressive just then and there, ‘and you let me—’ ‘Oh we +won’t go into that,’ interrupted the less cultivated voice. ‘All you +wanted was a start, to make you the successful man you have since +become. I never worried much about morals, and I don’t worry about them +now, only when you say you won’t do a thing likely to make my fortune, +just because it is not entirely free from reproach, I say, remember what +I know about you, and don’t talk virtue to me.’ + +“‘I am rightly punished,’ came from the other, in a tone that proved him +to be a man more ready to do a wrong thing than to face the accusation +of it. ‘If I ever did what you suppose, the repentance that has +embittered all my success, and the position in which you have this day +placed me, is surely an ample atonement.’ ‘Will you do what I request?’ +inquired the other, giving little heed to this expression of misery, of +which I on the contrary took special heed. ‘No,’ was the energetic +reply; ‘because I am not spotless it is no sign that I will wade into +filth. I will give you money as I have done scores of times before, but +I will lend my hand to no scheme which is likely to throw discredit on +me or mine. Were you not connected to me in the way in which you are—’ +‘You would pursue the scheme,’ interrupted the other; ‘it is because you +know that I cannot talk, that you dare repudiate it. Well I will go to +one—’ ‘You shall not,’ came in short quick tones, just such tones as +you used to me, sir, when we first entered this room. ‘You shall leave +the country before you do anything more, or say anything more, to +compromise me or yourself. I may have done wrong in my day, but that is +no reason why I should suffer for it at your hands, tempter of youth, +and deceiver of your own flesh and blood! _You_ shall never bring back +those days to me again; they are buried, and have been stamped out of +sight by many an honest dealing since, and many as I trust before God, +good and sterling action. I have long since begun a new life; a life of +honor, and pure, if successful, dealing. Not only my own happiness, but +that of one who should be considered by you, depends upon my maintaining +that life to the end, unshadowed by unholy remembrances, and unharrassed +by any such proffers as you have presumed to make to me here to-day. If +you want a few thousand dollars to leave the country, say so, but never +again presume to offend my ears, or those of any one else we may know, +with any such words as you have made use of to-day.’ And the spiritless +creature subsided, sir, and said no more to that rich, honored, and +successful man who was so sensitive to even the imputation of guilt. + +“But I am not spiritless and just where he dropped the affair, I took it +up. ‘Here is a chance for me to turn an honest penny,’ thought I, and +with a deliberation little to be expected of me, perhaps, set myself to +spot that man and make the most out of the matter I could. Unfortunately +I lost the opportunity of seeing his face. I was too anxious to catch +every word they uttered, to quit my place of concealment till their +conversation was concluded, and then I was too late to be sure which of +the many men leaving the building before me was the one I was after. The +waiters were too busy to talk, and the proprietor himself had taken no +notice. Happily as I have before said, I never forget voices; moreover +one of the two speakers had made use of a phrase peculiar enough to +serve as a clue to his identity. It was in answer to some parting threat +of the older man, and will remind you of an expression uttered by +yourself an hour or so ago. ‘Do you suppose I will let such a little +fuss as that deter me?’ It was the cue to his speech, by which I +intended to hunt out my man from amongst the rich, the trusted and the +influential persons of this city, and when found, to hold him.’ + +“‘And you think you have done this?’ said I, too conscious of the +possible net about my feet to be simply angry. ‘I know it,’ said he; +‘every word you have uttered since we have been here has made me more +and more certain of the fact. I could swear to your voice, and as to +your use of that tell-tale word, it was not till I thought to inquire of +a certain wide-awake fellow down town, who amongst our business men were +in the habit of using that expression, and was told Mr. Sylvester of the +Madison Bank, that I was enabled to track you. I know I have got my hand +on my man at last and—’ He looked down at his thread-bare coat and +around at the tables with their smoking dishes, and left me to draw my +own conclusion. + +“Uncle, there are crises in life which no former experience teaches you +how to meet. I had arrived at such a one. Perhaps you can understand me +when I say I was well nigh appalled. Denial of what was imputed to me +might be wisdom and might not. I felt the coil of a deadly serpent about +me, and knew not whether it was best to struggle or to simply submit. +The man noted the effect he had made and complacently folded his arms. +He was of a nervous organization and possessed an eye like a hungry +wolf, but he could wait. ‘This is a pretty story,’ said I at last, and I +reject it altogether. ‘I am an honest man and have always been so; you +will have to give up your hopes of making anything out of me.’ ‘Then you +are willing,’ said he, ‘that I should repeat this story to one of the +directors of your bank, whom I know?’ + +“I looked at him; he returned my gaze with a cold nonchalence more +suggestive of a deep laid purpose, than even his previous glance of +feverish determination. I immediately let my eye run over his scanty +clothing and loose flowing hair and beard. ‘Yes,’ said I, with as much +sarcasm as I knew how to assume, ‘if you dare risk the consequences, I +think I may.’ He at once drew himself up. ‘You think,’ said he, ‘that +you have a common-place adventurer to deal with; that my appearance is +going to testify in your favor; that you have but to deny any accusation +which such a hungry-looking, tattered wretch as I, may make, and that I +shall be ignominiously kicked out of the presence into which I have +forced myself; that in short I have been building my castle in the air. +Mr. Sylvester, I am a poor devil but I am no fool. When I left Dey +Street on the twenty-fifth of February two years ago, it was with a +sealed paper in my pocket, in which was inscribed all that I had heard +on that day. This I took to a lawyer’s office, and not being, as I have +before said, quite as impecunious in those days as at present, succeeded +in getting the lawyer, whom I took care should be a most respectable +man, to draw up a paper to the effect that I had entrusted him with this +statement—of whose contents he however knew nothing—on such a day and +hour, to which paper a gentleman then present, consented at my +respectful solicitation to affix his name as witness, which gentleman, +strange to say, has since proved to be a director of the bank of which +you are the present cashier, and consequently the very man of all others +best adapted to open the paper whose seal you profess to be so willing +to see broken.’ + +“‘His name!’ It was all that I could say. ‘Stuyvesant,’ cried the man, +fixing me with his eye in which I in vain sought for some signs of +secret doubt or unconscious wavering. I rose; the position in which I +found myself was too overwhelming for instant decision. I needed time +for reflection, possibly advice—from you. A resolution to brave the +devil must be founded on something more solid than impulse, to hold its +own unmoved. I only stopped to utter one final word and ask one leading +question. ‘You are a smart man,’ said I, ‘and you are also a villain. +Your smartness would give you food and drink, if you exercised it in a +manner worthy of a man, but your villainy if persisted in, will +eventually rob you of both, and bring you to the prison’s cell or the +hangman’s gallows. As for myself, I persist in saying that I am now and +always have been an honest man, whatever you may have overheard or find +yourself capable of swearing to. Yet a lie is an inconvenient thing to +have uttered against you at any time, and I may want to see you again; +if I do, where shall I find you?’ He thrust his hand into his pocket and +drew out a small slip of folded paper, which he passed to me with a bow +that Chesterfield would have admired. ‘You will find it written within,’ +said he ‘I shall look for you any time to-morrow, up to seven o’clock. +At that hour the lawyer of whom I have spoken, sends the statement which +he has in his possession to Mr. Stuyvesant.’ I nodded my assent, and he +moved slowly towards the door. As he did so, his eyes fell upon a roll +of bread lying on a counter. I at once stepped forward and bought it. +Vile as he was, and deadly as was the snare he contemplated drawing +about me, I could not see that wolfish look of hunger, and not offer him +something to ease it. He took the loaf from my hands and bit greedily +into it but suddenly paused, and shook his head with a look like +self-reproach, and thrusting the loaf under his arm, turned towards the +door with the quick action of one escaping. Instantly, and before he was +out of sight or hearing, I drew the attention of the proprietor to him. +‘Do you see that man?’ I asked. ‘He has been attempting a system of +blackmail upon me.’ And satisfied with thus having provided a witness +able of identifying the man, in case of an emergency, I left the +building. + +“And now you know it all,” concluded he; and the silence that followed +the utterance of those simple words, was a silence that could be felt. + + * * * * * + +“Bertram?” + +The young man started from his fixed position, and his eyes slowly +traversed toward his uncle. + +“Have you that slip of paper which the man gave you before departing?” + +“Yes,” said he. + +“Let me have it, if you please.” + +The young man with an agitated look, plunged his hand into his pocket, +drew out the small note and laid it on the table between them. Mr. +Sylvester let it lie, and again there was a silence. + +“If this had happened at any other time,” Bertram pursued, “one could +afford to let the man have his say; but now, just as this other mystery +has come up—” + +“I don’t believe in submitting to blackmail,” came from his uncle in +short, quick tones. + +Bertram gave a start. “You then advise me to leave him alone?” asked he, +with unmistakable emotion. + +His uncle dropped the hand which till now he had held before his face, +and hastily confronted his nephew. “You will have enough to do to attend +to the other matter without bestowing any time or attention upon this. +The man that robbed Mr. Stuyvesant’s box, can be found and must. It is +the one indispensable business to which I now delegate you. No amount of +money and no amount of diligence is to be spared. I rely on you to carry +the affair to a successful termination. Will you undertake the task?” + +“Can you ask?” murmured the young man, with a shocked look at his +uncle’s changed expression. + +“As to this other matter, we will let it rest for to-night. To-morrow’s +revelations may be more favorable than we expect. At all events let us +try and get a little rest now; I am sure we are both in a condition to +need it.” + +Bertram rose. “I am at your command,” said he, and moved to go. Suddenly +he turned, and the two men stood face to face. “I have no wish,” pursued +he, “to be relieved of my burden at the expense of any one else. If it +is to be borne by any one, let it be carried by him who is young and +stalwart enough to sustain it.” And his hand went out involuntarily +towards his uncle. + +Mr. Sylvester took that hand and eyed his nephew long and earnestly. +Bertram thought he was going to speak, and nerved himself to meet with +fortitude whatever might be said. But the lips which Mr. Sylvester had +opened, closed firmly, and contenting himself with a mere wring of his +nephew’s hand, he allowed him to go. The slip of paper remained upon the +table unopened. + + * * * * * + +That night as Paula lay slumbering on her pillow, a sound passed through +the house. It was like a quick irrepressible cry of desolation, and the +poor child hearing it, started, thinking her name had been called. But +when she listened, all was still, and believing she had dreamed, she +turned her face upon her pillow, and softly murmuring the name that was +dearest to her in all the world, fell again into a peaceful sleep. + +But he whose voice had uttered that cry in the dreary emptiness of the +great parlors below, slept not. + + + + +XXXVI. + +MORNING. + + “Two maidens by one fountain’s joyous brink, + And one was sad and one had cause for sadness.” + + +Cicely Stuyvesant waiting for her father at the foot of the stairs, on +the morning after these occurrences, was a pretty and a touching +spectacle. She had not slept very well the night before, and her brow +showed signs of trouble and so did her trembling lips. She held in her +hand a letter which she twirled about with very unsteady fingers. The +morning was bright, but she did not seem to observe it; the air was +fresh, but it did not seem to invigorate her. A rose-leaf of care lay on +the tremulous waters of her soul, and her sensitive nature thrilled +under it. + +“Why does he not come?” she whispered, looking again at the letter’s +inscription. + +It was in Mr. Sylvester’s handwriting, and ought not to have occasioned +her any uneasiness, but her father had intimated a wish the night +before, that she should not come down into the parlor if Bertram called, +and—Her thoughts paused there, but she was anxious about the letter and +wished her father would hasten. + +Let us look at the little lady. She had been so bright and lovesome +yesterday at this time. Never a maiden in all this great city of ours +had shown a sweeter or more etherial smile. At once radiant and +reserved, she flashed on the eye and trembled from the grasp like some +dainty tropical creature as yet unused to our stranger clime. Her father +had surveyed her with satisfaction, and her lover—oh, that we were all +young again to experience that leap of the heart with which youth meets +and recognizes the sweet perfections of the woman it adores! But a mist +had obscured the radiance of her aspect, and she looks very sad as she +stands in her father’s hall this morning, leaning her cheek against the +banister, and thinking of the night when three years ago, she lingered +in that very spot, and watched the form of the young musician go by her +and disappear in the darkness of the night, as she then thought forever. +Joy had come to her by such slow steps and after such long waiting. Hope +had burst upon her so brilliantly, and with such a speedy promise of +culmination. She thrilled as she thought how short a time ago it was, +since she leaned upon Bertram’s arm and dropped her eyes before his +gaze. + +The appearance of her father at length aroused her. Flushing slightly, +she held the letter towards him. + +“A letter for you, papa. I thought you might like to read it before you +went out.” + +Mr. Stuyvesant, who for an hour or more had been frowning over his +morning paper with a steady pertinacity that left more than the usual +amount of wrinkles upon his brow, started at the wistful tone of this +announcement from his daughter’s lips, and taking the letter from her +hand, stepped into the parlor to peruse it. It was, as the handwriting +declared, from Mr. Sylvester, and ran thus: + + “DEAR MR. STUYVESANT: + + “I have heard of your loss and am astounded. Though the Bank is + not liable for any accident to trusts of this nature, both + Bertram and myself are determined to make every effort + possible, to detect and punish the man who either through our + negligence, or by means of the opportunities afforded him under + our present system of management, has been able to commit this + robbery upon your effects. We therefore request that you will + meet us at the bank this morning at as early an hour as + practicable, there to assist us in making such inquiries and + instituting such measures, as may be considered necessary to + the immediate attainment of the object desired. + + “Respectfully yours, + + “EDWARD SYLVESTER.” + +“Is it anything serious?” asked his daughter, coming into the parlor and +looking up into his face with a strange wistfulness he could not fail to +remark. + +Mr. Stuyvesant gave her a quick glance, shook his head with some +nervousness and hastily pocketed the epistle. “Business,” mumbled he, +“business.” And ignoring the sigh that escaped her lips, began to make +his preparations for going at once down town. + +He was always an awkward man at such matters, and it was her habit to +afford him what assistance she could. This she now did, lending her hand +to help him on with his overcoat, rising on tip-toe to tie his muffler, +and bending her bright head to see that his galoshes were properly +fastened; her charming face with its far-away look, shining strangely +sweet in the dim hall, in contrast with his severe and antiquated +countenance. + +He watched her carefully but with seeming indifference till all was done +and he stood ready to depart, then in an awkward enough way—he was not +accustomed to bestow endearments—drew her to him and kissed her on the +forehead; after which he turned about and departed without a word to +season or explain this unwonted manifestation of tenderness. + +A kiss was an unusual occurrence in that confiding but undemonstrative +household, and the little maiden trembled. “Something is wrong,” she +murmured half to herself, half to the dim vista of the lonely parlor, +where but a night or so ago had stood the beloved form of him, who, bury +the thought as she would, had become, if indeed he had not always been, +the beginning and the ending of all her maidenly dreams: “what? what?” +And her young heart swelled painfully as she realized like many a woman +before her, that whatever might be her doubts, fears, anguish or +suspense, nothing remained for her but silence and a tedious waiting for +others to recognize her misery and speak. + +Meanwhile how was it with her dearest friend and confident, Paula? The +morning, as I have already declared, was bright and exceptionally +beautiful. Sunshine filled the air and freshness invigorated the breeze. +Cicely was blind to it all, but as Paula looked from her window +preparatory to going below, a close observer might have perceived that +the serenity of the cloudless sky was reflected in her beaming eyes, +that peace brooded above her soul and ruled her tender spirit. She had +held a long conversation with Miss Belinda, she had prayed, she had +slept and she had risen with a confirmed love in her heart for the man +who was at once the admiration of her eyes and the well-spring of her +deepest thoughts and wildest longings. “I will show him so plainly what +the angels have told me,” whispered she, “that he will have no need to +ask.” And she wound her long locks into the coil that she knew he best +liked and fixed a rose at her throat, and so with a smile on her lip +went softly down stairs. O the timid eager step of maidenhood when +drawing toward the shrine of all it adores! Could those halls and lofty +corridors have whispered their secret, what a story they would have told +of beating heart and tremulous glance, eager longings, and maidenly +shrinkings, as the lovely form, swaying with a thousand hopes and fears, +glided from landing to landing, carrying with it love and joy and peace. +And trust! As she neared the bronze image that had always awakened such +vague feelings of repugnance on her part, and found its terrors gone and +its smile assuring, she realized that her breast held nothing but faith +in him, who may have sinned in his youth, but who had repented in his +manhood, and now stood clear and noble in her eyes. The assurance was +too sweet, the flood of feeling too overwhelming. With a quick glance +around her, she stopped and flung her arms about the hitherto repellant +bronze, pressing her young breast against the cold metal with a fervor +that ought to have hallowed its sensuous mould forever. Then she hurried +down. + +Her first glance into the dining-room brought her a disappointment. Mr. +Sylvester had already breakfasted and gone; only Aunt Belinda sat at the +table. With a slightly troubled brow, Paula advanced to her own place at +the board. + +“Mr. Sylvester has urgent business on hand to-day,” quoth her aunt. “I +met him going out just as I came down.” + +Her look lingered on Paula as she said this, and if it had not been for +the servants, she would doubtless have given utterance to some further +expression on the matter, for she had been greatly struck by Mr. +Sylvester’s appearance and the sad, firm, almost lofty expression of his +eye, as it met hers in their hurried conversation. + +“He is a very busy man,” returned Paula simply, and was silent, struck +by some secret dread she could not have explained. Suddenly she rose; +she had found an envelope beneath her plate, addressed to herself. It +was bulky and evidently contained a key. Hastening behind the curtains +of the window, she opened it. The key was to that secret study of his at +the top of the house, which no one but himself had ever been seen to +enter, and the words that enwrapped it were these: + + “If I send you no word to the contrary, and if I do not come + back by seven o’clock this evening, go to the room of which + this is the key, open my desk, and read what I have prepared + for your eyes. + + “E. S.” + + + + + +XXXVII. + +THE OPINION OF A CERTAIN NOTED DETECTIVE. + + “But still there clung + One hope, like a keen sword on starting threads uphung.” + + —REVOLT OF ISLAM. + + “Facts are stubborn things.”—ELLIOTT. + + +Meanwhile Mr. Stuyvesant hasted on his way down town and ere long made +his appearance at the bank. He found Mr. Sylvester and Bertram seated in +the directors’ room, with a portly smooth-faced man whose appearance was +at once strange and vaguely familiar. + +“A detective, sir,” explained Mr. Sylvester rising with forced +composure; “a man upon whose judgment I have been told we may rely. Mr. +Gryce, Mr. Stuyvesant.” + +The latter gentleman nodded, cast a glance around the room, during which +his eye rested for a moment on Bertram’s somewhat pale countenance, and +nervously took a seat. + +“A mysterious piece of business, this,” came from the detective’s lips +in an easy tone, calculated to relieve the tension of embarrassment into +which the entrance of Mr. Stuyvesant seemed to have thrown all parties. +“What were the numbers of the bonds found missing, if you please?” + +Mr. Stuyvesant told him. + +“You are positively assured these bonds were all in the box when you +last locked it?” + +“I am.” + +“When was that, sir? On what day and at what hour of the day, if you +please?” + +“Tuesday, at about three o’clock, I should say.” + +“The box was locked by you? There is no doubt about that fact?” + +“None in the least.” + +“Where were you standing at the time?” + +“In front of the vault door. I had taken out the box myself as I am in +the habit of doing, and had stepped there to put it back.” + +“Was any one near you then?” + +“Yes. The cashier was at his desk and the teller had occasion to go to +the safe while I stood there. I do not remember seeing any one else in +my immediate vicinity.” + +“Do you remember ever going to the vaults and not finding some one near +you at the time or at least in full view of your movements?” + +“No.” + +“I have informed Mr. Gryce,” interposed Mr. Sylvester, with a ring in +his deep voice that made Mr. Stuyvesant start, “that our chief desire at +present is to have his judgment upon the all important question, as to +whether this theft was committed by a stranger, or one in the employ and +consequently in the confidence of the bank.” + +Mr. Stuyvesant bowed, every wrinkle in his face manifesting itself with +startling distinctness as he slowly moved his eyes and fixed them on the +inscrutable countenance of the detective. + +“You agree then with these gentlemen,” continued the latter, who had a +way of seeming more interested in everything and everybody present than +the person he was addressing, “that it would be difficult if not +impossible for any one unconnected with the bank, to approach the vaults +during business hours and abstract anything from them without +detection?” + +“And do these gentleman both assert that?” queried Mr. Stuyvesant, with +a sharp look from uncle to nephew. + +“I believe they do,” replied the detective, as both the gentlemen bowed, +Bertram with an uncontrollable quiver of his lip, and Mr. Sylvester with +a deepening of the lines about his mouth, which may or may not have been +noticed by this man who appeared to observe nothing. + +“I should be loth to conclude that the robbery was committed by any one +but a stranger,” remarked Mr. Stuyvesant; “but if these gentlemen concur +in the statement you have just made, I am bound to acknowledge that I do +not myself see how the theft could have been perpetrated by an outsider. +Had the box itself been missing, it would be different. I remember my +old friend Mr. A—, the president of the police department, telling me +of a case where a box containing securities to the amount of two hundred +thousand dollars, was abstracted in full daylight from the vaults of one +of our largest banks; an act requiring such daring, the directors for a +long time refused to believe it possible, until a detective one day +showed them another box of theirs which he had succeeded in abstracting +in the same way.[1] But the vaults in that instance were in a less +conspicuous portion of the bank than ours, besides to approach an open +vault, snatch a box from it and escape, is a much simpler matter than to +remain long enough to open a box and choose from its contents such +papers as appeared most marketable. If a regular thief could do such a +thing, it does not seem probable that he would. Nevertheless the most +acute judgment is often at fault in these matters, and I do not pretend +to have formed an opinion.” + +[Footnote 1: A fact.] + +The detective who had listened to these words with marked attention, +bowed his concurrence and asked if the bonds mentioned by Mr. Stuyvesant +were all that had been found missing from the bank. If any of the other +boxes had been opened, or if the contents of the safe itself had ever +been tampered with. + +“The contents of the safe are all correct,” came in deep tones from Mr. +Sylvester. “Mr. Folger, my nephew and myself went through them this +morning. As for the boxes I cannot say, many of them belong to persons +travelling; some of them have been left here by trustees of estates, +consequently often lie for weeks in the vaults untouched. If however any +of them have been opened, we ought to be able to see it. Would you like +an examination made of their condition?” + +The detective nodded. + +Mr. Sylvester at once turned to Mr. Stuyvesant. “May I ask you to +mention what officer of the bank you would like to have go to the +vaults?” + +That gentleman started, looked uneasily about, but meeting Bertram’s +eye, nervously dropped his own and muttered the name of Folger. + +Mr. Sylvester suppressed a sigh, sent for the paying-teller, and +informed him of their wishes. He at once proceeded to the vaults. While +he was gone, Mr. Gryce took the opportunity to make the following +remark. + +“Gentlemen,” said he, “let us understand ourselves. What you want of me, +is to tell you whether this robbery has been committed by a stranger or +by some one in your employ. Now to decide this question it is necessary +for me to ask first, whether you have ever had reason to doubt the +honesty of any person connected with the bank?” + +“No,” came from Mr. Sylvester with sharp and shrill distinctness. “Since +I have had the honor of conducting the affairs of this institution, I +have made it my business to observe and note the bearing and character +of each and every man employed under me, and I believe them all to be +honest.” + +The glance of the detective while it did not perceptibly move from the +large screen drawn across the room at the back of Mr. Sylvester, seemed +to request the opinions of the other two gentlemen on this point. + +Bertram observing it, subdued the rapid beatings of his heart and spoke +with like distinctness. “I have been in the bank the same length of time +as my uncle,” said he, “and most heartily endorse his good opinion of +the various persons in our employ.” + +“And Mr. Stuyvesant?” the immovable glance seemed to say. + +“Men are honest in my opinion till they are proved otherwise,” came in +short stern accents from the director’s lips. + +The detective drew back in his chair as if he considered that point +decided, and yet Bertram’s eye which had clouded at Mr. Stuyvesant’s too +abrupt assertion, did not clear again as might have been expected. + +“There is one more question I desire to settle,” continued the +detective, “and that is, whether this robbery could have been +perpetrated after business hours, by some one in collusion with the +person who is here left in charge?” + +“No;” again came from Mr. Sylvester, with impartial justice. “The +watchman—who by the way has been in the bank for twelve years—could +not help a man to find entrance to the vaults. His simple duty is to +watch over the bank and give alarm in case of fire or burglary. It would +necessitate a knowledge of the combination by which the vault doors are +opened, to do what you suggest, and that is possessed by but three +persons in the bank.” + +“And those are?” + +“The cashier, the janitor, and myself.” + +He endeavored to speak calmly and without any betrayal of the effort it +caused him to utter those simple words, but a detective’s ear is nice +and it is doubtful if he perfectly succeeded. + +Mr. Gryce however limited himself to a muttered, humph! and a long and +thoughtful look at a spot on the green baize of the table before which +he sat. + +“The janitor lives in the building, I suppose?” + +“Yes, and is, as I am sure Mr. Stuyvesant will second me in asserting, +honesty to the back-bone.” + +“Janitors always are,” observed the detective; then shortly, “How long +has _he_ been with you?” + +“Three years.” + +Another “humph!” and an increased interest in the ink spot. + +“That is not long, considering the responsibility of his position.” + +“He was on the police force before he came to us,” remarked Mr. +Sylvester. + +Mr. Gryce looked as if that was not much of a recommendation. + +“As for the short time he has been with us,” resumed the other, “he came +into the bank the same winter as my nephew and myself, and has found the +time sufficient to earn the respect of all who know him.” + +The detective bowed, seemingly awed by the dignity with which the last +statement had been uttered; but any one who knew him well, would have +perceived that the film of uncertainty which had hitherto dimmed the +brightness of his regard was gone, as if in the other’s impressive +manner, if not in the suggestion his words had unconsciously offered, +the detective had received an answer to some question which had been +puzzling him, or laid his hand upon some clue which had till now eluded +his grasp. The inquiries which he made haste to pursue, betrayed, +however, but little of the tendency of his thoughts. + +“The janitor, you say, knows the combination by which the vault doors +are opened?” + +“The _vault doors_,” emphasized Mr. Sylvester. “The safe is another +matter; that stands inside the vault and is locked by a triple +combination which as a whole is not known to any one man in this +building, not even to myself.” + +“But the boxes are not kept in the safe?” + +“No, they are piled up with the books in the vaults at the side of the +safe, as you can see for yourself, if you choose to join Mr. Folger.” + +“Not necessary. The janitor, then, is the only man besides yourselves, +who under any circumstances or for any reason, could get at those boxes +after business hours?” + +“He is.” + +“One question more. Who is the man to attend to those boxes? I mean to +ask, which of the men in your employ is expected to procure a box out of +the vaults when it is called for, and put it back in its place when its +owner is through with it?” + +“Hopgood usually does that business, the janitor of whom we have just +been speaking. When he is upstairs or out of the way, any one else whom +it may be convenient to call.” + +“The janitor, then, has free access to the boxes at all times, night and +day?” + +“In one sense, yes, in another, no. Should he unlock the vaults at +night, the watchman would report upon his proceedings.” + +“But there must be time between the closing and opening of the bank, +when the janitor is alone with the vaults?” + +“There is a space of two hours after seven in the morning, when he is +likely to be the sole one in charge. The watchman goes home, and Hopgood +employs himself in sweeping out the bank and preparing it for the +business of the day.” + +“Are the watchman and the janitor on good terms with one another?” + +“Very, I believe.” + +The detective looked thoughtful. “I should like to see this Hopgood,” +said he. + +But just then the door opened and Mr. Folger came in, looking somewhat +pale and disturbed. “We are in a difficulty,” cried he, stepping up to +the table where they sat. “I have found two of the boxes unlocked; that +belonging to Hicks, Saltzer and Co., and another with the name of +Harrington upon it. The former has been wrenched apart, the latter +opened with some sort of instrument. Would you like to see them, sir?” +This to Mr. Sylvester. + +With a start that gentleman rose, and as suddenly reseated himself. +“Yes,” returned he, carefully avoiding his nephew’s eye; “bring them +in.” + +“Hicks, Saltzer and Co., is a foreign house,” remarked Mr. Stuyvesant to +the detective, “and do not send for their box once a fortnight, as I +have heard Mr. Sylvester declare. Mr. Harrington is on an exploring +expedition and is at present in South America.” Then in lower tones, +whose sternness was not unmixed with gloom, “The thief seems to have +known what boxes to go to.” + +Bertram flushed and made some passing rejoinder; Mr. Sylvester and the +detective alone remained silent. + +The boxes being brought in, Mr. Gryce opened them without ceremony. +Several papers met his eye in both, but as no one but the owners could +know their rightful contents, it was of course impossible for him to +determine whether anything had been stolen from them or not. + + +“Send for the New York agent of Hicks, Saltzer and Co.,” came from Mr. +Sylvester, in short, business-like command. + +Bertram at once rose. “I will see to it,” said he. His agitation was too +great for suppression, the expression of Mr. Stuyvesant’s eye, that in +its restlessness wandered in every direction but his own, troubled him +beyond endurance. With a hasty move he left the room. The cold eye of +the detective followed him. + +“Looks bad,” came in laconic tones from the paying teller. + +“I had hoped the affair begun and ended with my individual loss,” +muttered Mr. Stuyvesant under his breath. + +The stately president and the inscrutable detective still maintained +their silence. + +Suddenly the latter moved. Turning towards Mr. Sylvester, he requested +him to step with him to the window. “I want to have a look at your +several employees,” whispered he, as they thus withdrew. “I want to see +them without being seen by them. If you can manage to have them come in +here one by one upon some pretext or other, I can so arrange that screen +under the mantel-piece, that it shall not only hide me, but give me a +very good view of their faces in the mirror overhead.” + +“There will be no difficulty about summoning the men,” said Mr. +Sylvester. + +“And you consent to the scheme?” + +“Certainly, if you think anything is to be gained by it.” + +“I am sure that nothing will be lost. And sir, let the cashier be +present if you please; and sir,” squeezing his watch chain with a +complacent air, as the other dropped his eyes, “talk to them about +anything that you please, only let it be of a nature that will +necessitate a sentence or more in reply. I judge a man as much by his +voice as his expression.” + +Mr. Sylvester bowed, and without losing his self-command, though the +short allusion to Bertram had greatly startled him, turned back to the +table where Mr. Folger was still standing in conversation with the +director. + +“I will not detain you longer,” said he to the paying teller. “Your +discretion will prevent you from speaking of this matter, I trust.” Then +as the other bowed, added carelessly, “I have something to say to +Jessup; will you see that he steps here for a moment?” + +Mr. Folger again nodded and left the room. Instantly Mr. Gryce bustled +forward, and pulling the screen into the position he thought best +calculated to answer his requirements, slid rapidly behind it. Mr. +Stuyvesant looked up in surprise. + +“I am going to interview the clerks for Mr. Gryce’s benefit,” exclaimed +Mr. Sylvester. “Will you in the meantime look over the morning paper?” + +“Thank you,” returned the other, edging nervously to one side, “my +note-book will do just as well,” and sitting down at the remote end of +the table, he took out a book from his pocket, above which he bent with +very well simulated preoccupation. Mr. Sylvester called in Bertram and +then seated himself with a hopeless and unexpectant look, which he for +the moment forgot would be reflected in the mirror before him, and so +carried to the eye of the watchful detective. In another instant Jessup +entered. + +What was said in the short interview that followed, is unimportant. Mr. +Jessup, the third teller, was one of those clear eyed, straightforward +appearing men whose countenance is its own guarantee. It was not +necessary to detain him or make him speak. The next man to come in was +Watson, and after he had gone, two or three of the clerks, and later the +receiving teller and one of the runners. All stopped long enough to +insure Mr. Gryce a good view of their faces, and from each and all did +Mr. Sylvester succeed in eliciting more or less conversation in response +to the questions he chose to put. + +With the disappearance of the last mentioned individual, Mr. Gryce +peeped from behind the screen. “A set of as honest-looking men as I wish +to see!” uttered he with a frank cordiality that was scarcely reflected +in the anxious countenances about him. “No sly-boots among them; how +about the janitor, Hopgood?” + +“He shall be summoned at once, if you desire it,” said Mr. Sylvester, “I +have only delayed calling him that I might have leisure to interrogate +him with reference to his duties, and this very theft. That is if you +judge it advisable in me to tamper with the subject unassisted?” + +“Your nephew can help you if necessary,” replied the imperturbable +detective. “I should like to hear what the man, Hopgood, has to say for +himself,” and he glided back into his old position. + +But Mr. Sylvester had scarcely reached out his hand to ring the bell by +which he usually summoned the janitor, when the agent of Hicks, Saltzer +& Co. came in. It was an interruption that demanded instant attention. +Saluting the gentleman with his usual proud reserve, he drew his +attention to the box lying upon the table. + + +“This is yours, I believe, sir,” said he. “It was found in our vaults +this morning in the condition in which you now behold it, and we are +anxious to know if its contents are all correct.” + +“They have been handled,” returned the agent, after a careful survey of +the various papers that filled the box, “but nothing appears to be +missing.” + +Three persons at least in that room breathed more easily. + +“But the truth is,” the gentleman continued, with a half smile towards +the silent President of the bank, “there was nothing in this box that +would have been of much use to any other parties than ourselves. If +there had been a bond or so here, I doubt if we should have come off so +fortunately, eh? The lock has evidently been wrenched open, and that is +certainly a pretty sure sign that something is not right hereabouts.” + +“Something is decidedly wrong,” came from Mr. Sylvester sternly; “but +through whose fault we do not as yet know.” And with a few words +expressive of his relief at finding the other had sustained no material +loss, he allowed the agent to depart. + +He had no sooner left the room than Mr. Stuyvesant rose. “Are you going +to question Hopgood now?” queried he, nervously pocketing his note-book. + +“Yes sir, if you have no objections.” + +The director fidgeted with his chair and finally moved towards the door. +“I think you will get along better with him alone,” said he. “He is a +man who very easily gets embarrassed, and has a way of acting as if he +were afraid of me. I will just step outside while you talk to him.” + +But Mr. Sylvester with a sudden dark flush on his brow, hastily stopped +him. “I beg you will not,” said he, with a quick realization of what +Hopgood might be led to say in the forthcoming interview, if he were not +restrained by the presence of the director. “Hopgood is not so afraid of +you that he will not answer every question that is put to him with +straightforward frankness.” And he pushed up a chair, with a smile that +Mr. Stuyvesant evidently found himself unable to resist. The screen +trembled slightly, but none of them noticed it; Mr. Sylvester at once +rang for Hopgood. + +He came in panting with his hurried descent from the fifth story, his +face flushed and his eyes rolling, but without any of the secret +perturbation Bertram had observed in them on a former occasion. “He +cannot help us,” was the thought that darkened the young man’s brow as +his eyes left the janitor, and faltering towards his uncle, fell upon +the table before him. + +Everything was reflected in the mirror. + +“Well, Hopgood, I have a few questions to put to you this morning,” said +Mr. Sylvester in a restrained, but not unkindly tone. + +The worthy man bowed, bestowed a salutatory roll of his eyes on Mr. +Stuyvesant, and stood deferentially waiting. + +“No, he cannot help us,” was again Bertram’s thought, and again his eyes +faltered to his uncle’s face, and again fell anxiously before him. + +“It has not been my habit to trouble you with inquiries about your +management of matters under your charge,” continued Mr. Sylvester, +stopping till the janitor’s wandering eyes settled upon his own. “Your +conduct has always been exemplary, and your attention to duty +satisfactory; but I would like to ask you to-day if you have observed +anything amiss with the vaults of late? anything wrong about the boxes +kept there? anything in short, that excited your suspicion or caused you +to ask yourself if everything was as it should be?” + +The janitor’s ruddy face grew pale, and his eye fell with startled +inquiry on Mr. Harrington’s box that still occupied the centre of the +table. “No, sir,” he emphatically replied, “has anything—” + +But Mr. Sylvester did not wait to be questioned. “You have attended to +your duties as promptly and conscientiously as usual; you have allowed +no one to go to the vaults day or night, who had no business there? You +have not relaxed your accustomed vigilance, or left the bank alone at +any time during the hours it is under your charge?” + +“No sir, not for a minute, sir; that is—” He stopped and his eye +wandered towards Mr. Stuyvesant. “Never for a minute, sir,” he went on, +“without I knew some one was in the bank, who was capable of looking +after it.” + +“The watchman has been at his post every night up to the usual hour?” + +“Yes sir.” + +“There has been no carelessness in closing the vault doors after the +departure of the clerks?” + +“No sir.” + +“And no trouble,” he continued, with a shade more of dignity, possibly +because Hopgood’s tell-tale face was beginning to show signs of anxious +confusion, “and no trouble in opening them at the proper time each +morning?” + +“No sir.” + + +“One question more—” + +But here Bertram was called out, and in the momentary stir occasioned by +his departure, Hopgood allowed himself to glance at the box before him +more intently than he had hitherto presumed to do. He saw it was +unlocked, and his hands began to tremble. Mr. Sylvester’s voice recalled +him to himself. + +“You are a faithful man,” said that gentleman, continuing his speech of +a minute before, “and as such we are ready to acknowledge you; but the +most conscientious amongst us are sometimes led into indiscretions. Now +have you ever through carelessness or by means of any inadvertence, +revealed to any one in or out of the bank, the particular combination by +which the lock of the vault-door is at present opened?” + +“No sir, indeed no; I am much too anxious, and feel my own +responsibility entirely too much, not to preserve so important a secret +with the utmost care and jealousy.” + +Mr. Sylvester’s voice, careful as he was to modulate it, showed a secret +discouragement. “The vaults then as far as you know, are safe when once +they are closed for the night?” + +“Yes sir.” The janitor’s face expressed a slight degree of wonder, but +his voice was emphatic. + +Mr. Sylvester’s eye travelled in the direction of the screen. “Very +well,” said he; and paused to reflect. + +In the interim the door opened for a second time. “A gentleman to see +Mr. Stuyvesant,” said a voice. + + +With an air of relief the director hastily rose, and before Mr. +Sylvester had realized his position, left the room and closed the door +behind him. A knell seemed to ring its note in Mr. Sylvester’s breast. +The janitor, released as he supposed from all constraint, stepped +hastily forward. + +“That box has been found unlocked,” he cried with a wave of his hand +towards the table; “some one has been to the vaults, and I—Oh, sir,” he +hurriedly exclaimed, disregarding in his agitation the stern and +forbidding look which Mr. Sylvester in his secret despair had made haste +to assume, “you did not want me to say anything about the time you came +down so early in the morning, and I went out and left you alone in the +bank, and you went to the vaults and opened Mr. Stuyvesant’s box by +mistake, with a tooth-pick as you remember?” + +The mirror that looked down upon that pair, showed one very white face +at that moment, but the screen that had trembled a moment before, stood +strangely still in the silence. + +“No,” came at length from Mr. Sylvester, with a composure that +astonished himself. “I was not questioning you about matters of a year +agone. But you might have told that incident if you pleased; it was very +easily explainable.” + +“Yes sir, I know, and I beg pardon for alluding to it, but I was so +taken aback, sir, by your questions; I wanted to tell the exact truth, +and I did not want to say anything that would hurt you with Mr. +Stuyvesant; that is if I could help it. I hope I did right, sir,” he +blundered on, conscious he was uttering words he might better have kept +to himself, but too embarrassed to know how to emerge from the +difficulty into which his mingled zeal and anxiety had betrayed him. “I +was never a good hand at answering questions, and if any thing really +serious has happened, I shall wish you had taken me at my word and +dismissed me immediately after that affair. Constantia Maria would have +been a little worse off perhaps, but I should not be on hand to answer +questions, and—” + +“Hopgood!” + +The man started, eyed Mr. Sylvester’s white but powerfully controlled +countenance, seemed struck with something he saw there, and was silent. + +“You make too much now, as you made too much then of a matter that +having its sole ground in a mistake, is, as I say, easily explainable. +This affair which has come up now, is not so clear. Three of the boxes +have been opened, and from one certain valuables have been taken. Can +you give me any information that will assist us in our search after the +culprit?” + +“No sir.” The tone was quite humble, Hopgood drew back unconsciously +towards the door. + +“As for the mistake of a year ago to which you have seen proper to +allude, I shall myself take pains to inform Mr. Stuyvesant of it, since +it has made such an impression upon you that it trammels your honesty +and makes you consider it at all necessary to be anxious about it at +this time.” + +And Hopgood unused to sarcasm from those lips, drew himself together, +and with one more agitated look at the box on the table, sidled +awkwardly from the room. Mr. Sylvester at once advanced to the screen +which he hastily pushed aside. “Well, sir,” said he, meeting the +detective’s wavering eye and forcing him to return his look, “you have +now seen the various employees of the bank and heard most of them +converse. Is there anything more you would like to inquire into before +giving us the opinion I requested?” + +“No sir,” said the detective, coming forward, but very slowly and +somewhat hesitatingly for him. “I think I am ready to say—” + +Here the door opened, and Mr. Stuyvesant returned. The detective drew a +breath of relief and repeated his words with a business-like assurance. +“I think I am ready to say, that from the nature of the theft and the +mysterious manner in which it has been perpetrated, suspicion +undoubtedly points to some one connected with the bank. That is all that +you require of me to-day?” he added, with a bow of some formality in the +direction of Mr. Sylvester. + +“Yes,” was the short reply. But in an instant a change passed over the +stately form of the speaker. Advancing to Mr. Gryce, he confronted him +with a countenance almost majestic in its severity, and somewhat +severely remarked, “This is a serious charge to bring against men whose +countenances you yourself have denominated as honest. Are we to believe +you have fully considered the question, and realize the importance of +what you say?” + +“Mr. Sylvester,” replied the detective, with great self-possession and +some dignity, “a man who is brought every day of his life into positions +where the least turning of a hair will sink a man or save him, learns to +weigh his words, before he speaks even in such informal inquiries as +these.” + +Mr. Sylvester bowed and turned towards Mr. Stuyvesant. “Is there any +further action you would like to have taken in regard to this matter +to-day?” he asked, without a tremble in his voice. + +With a glance at the half open box of the absent Mr. Harrington, the +agitated director slowly shook his head. “We must have time to think,” +said he. + +Mr. Gryce at once took up his hat. “If the charge implied in my opinion +strikes you, gentlemen, as serious, you must at least acknowledge that +your own judgment does not greatly differ from mine, or why such +unnecessary agitation in regard to a loss so petty, by a gentleman worth +as we are told his millions.” And with this passing shot, to which +neither of his auditors responded, he made his final obeisance and +calmly left the room. + +Mr. Sylvester and Mr. Stuyvesant slowly confronted one another. + +“The man speaks the truth,” said the former. “You at least suspect some +one in the bank, Mr. Stuyvesant?” + +“I have no wish to,” hastily returned the other, “but facts—” + +“Would facts of this nature have any weight with you against the +unspotted character of a man never known by you to meditate, much less +commit a dishonest action?” + +“No; yet facts are facts, and if it is proved that some one in our +employ has perpetrated a theft, the mind will unconsciously ask who, and +remain uneasy till it is satisfied.” + +“And if it never is?” + +“It will always ask who, I suppose.” + +Mr. Sylvester drew back. “The matter shall be pushed,” said he; “you +shall be satisfied. Surveillance over each man employed in this +institution ought sooner or later to elicit the truth. The police shall +take it in charge.” + +Mr. Stuyvesant looked uneasy. “I suppose it is only justice,” murmured +he, “but it is a scandal I would have been glad to avoid.” + +“And I, but circumstances admit of no other course. The innocent must +not suffer for the guilty, even so far as an unfounded suspicion would +lead.” + +“No, no, of course not.” And the director bustled about after his +overcoat and hat. + +Mr. Sylvester watched him with growing sadness. “Mr. Stuyvesant,” said +he, as the latter stood before him ready for the street, “we have always +been on terms of friendship, and nothing but the most pleasant relations +have ever existed between us. Will you pardon me if I ask you to give me +your hand in good-day?” + +The director paused, looked a trifle astonished, but held out his hand +not only with cordiality but very evident affection. + +“Good day,” cried he, “good-day.” + +Mr. Sylvester pressed that hand, and then with a dignified bow, allowed +the director to depart. It was his last effort at composure. When the +door closed, his head sank on his hands, and life with all its hopes and +honors, love and happiness, seemed to die within him. + +He was interrupted at length by Bertram. “Well, uncle?” asked the young +man with unrestrained emotion. + +“The theft has been committed by some one in this bank; so the detective +gives out, and so we are called upon to believe. _Who_ the man is who +has caused us all this misery, neither he, nor you, nor I, nor any one, +is likely to very soon determine. Meantime—” + +“Well?” cried Bertram anxiously, after a moment of suspense. + +“Meantime, courage!” his uncle resumed with forced cheerfulness. + +But as he was leaving the bank he came up to Bertram, and laying his +hand on his shoulder, quietly said: + +“I want you to go immediately to my house upon leaving here. I may not +be back till midnight, and Miss Fairchild may need the comfort of your +presence. Will you do it, Bertram?” + +“Uncle! I—” + +“Hush! you will comfort me best by doing what I ask. May I rely upon +you?” + +“Always.” + +“That is enough.” + +And with just a final look, the two gentlemen parted, and the shadow +which had rested all day upon the bank, deepened over Bertram’s head +like a pall. + +It was not lifted by the sight of Hopgood stealing a few minutes later +towards the door by which his uncle had departed, his face pale, and his +eyes fixed in a stare, that bespoke some deep and moving determination. + + + + +XXXVIII. + +BLUE-BEARD’S CHAMBER. + + “Present fears + Are less than horrible imaginings.” + —MACBETH. + + +Clarence Ensign was not surprised at the refusal he received from Paula. +He had realized from the first that the love of this beautiful woman +would be difficult to obtain, even if no rival with more powerful +inducements than his own, should chance to cross his path. She was one +who could be won to give friendship, consideration, and sympathy without +stint; but from the very fact that she could so easily be induced to +grant these, he foresaw the improbability, or at least the difficulty of +enticing her to yield more. A woman whose hand warms towards the other +sex in ready friendship, is the last to succumb to the entreaties of +love. The circle of her sympathies is so large, the man must do well, +who of all his sex, pierces to the sacred centre. The appearance of Mr. +Sylvester on the scene, settled his fate, or so he believed; but he was +too much in earnest to yield his hopes without another effort; so upon +the afternoon of this eventful day, he called upon Paula. + +The first glimpse he obtained of her countenance, convinced him that he +was indeed too late. Not for him that anxious pallor, giving way to a +rosy tinge at the least sound in the streets without. Not for him that +wandering glance, burning with questions to which nothing seemed able to +grant reply. The very smile with which she greeted him, was a blow; it +was so forgetful of the motive that had brought him there. + +“Miss Fairchild,” he stammered, with a generous impulse to save her +unnecessary pain, “you have rejected my offer and settled my doom; but +let me believe that I have not lost your regard, or that hold upon your +friendship which it has hitherto been my pleasure to enjoy.” + +She woke at once to a realization of his position. “Oh Mr. Ensign,” she +murmured, “can you doubt my regard or the truth of my friendship? It is +for me to doubt; I have caused you such pain, and as you may think, so +ruthlessly and with such lack of consideration. I have been peculiarly +placed,” she blushingly proceeded. “A woman does not always know her own +heart, or if she does, sometimes hesitates to yield to its secret +impulses. I have led you astray these last few weeks, but I first went +astray myself. The real path in which I ought to tread, was only last +night revealed to me. I can say no more, Mr. Ensign.” + +“Nor is it necessary,” replied he. “You have chosen the better path, and +the better man. May life abound in joys for you, Miss Fairchild.” + +She drew herself up and her hand went involuntarily to her heart. “It is +not joy I seek,” said she, “but—” + +“What?” He looked at her face lit with that heavenly gleam that visited +it in rare moments of deepest emotion, and wondered. + +“Joy is in seeing the one you love happy,” cried she; “earth holds none +that is sweeter or higher.” + +“Then may that be yours,” he murmured, manfully subduing the jealous +pang natural under the circumstances. And taking the hand she held out +to him, he kissed it with greater reverence and truer affection than +when, in the first joyous hours of their intercourse, he carried it so +gallantly to his lips. + +And she—oh, difference of time and feeling—did not remember as of +yore, the noble days of chivalry, though he was in this moment, so much +more than ever the true knight and the reproachless cavalier. + +For Paula’s heart was heavy. Fears too unsubstantial to be met and +vanquished, had haunted her steps all day. The short note which Mr. +Sylvester had written her, lay like lead upon her bosom. She longed for +the hours to fly, yet dreaded to hear the clock tick out the moments +that possibly were destined to bring her untold suffering and +disappointment. A revelation awaiting her in Mr. Sylvester’s desk up +stairs? That meant separation and farewell; for words of promise and +devotion can be spoken, and the heart that hopes, does not limit time to +hours. + +With Bertram’s entrance, her fears took absolute shape. Mr. Sylvester +was not coming home to dinner. Thenceforward till seven o’clock, she sat +with her hand on her heart, waiting. At the stroke of the clock, she +rose, and procuring a candle from her room, went slowly up stairs. +“Watch for me,” she had said to Aunt Belinda, “for I fear I shall need +your care when I come down.” + +What is there about a mystery however trivial, that thrills the heart +with vague expectancy at the least lift of the concealing curtain! As +Paula paused before the door, which never to her knowledge had opened to +the passage of any other form than that of Mr. Sylvester, she was +conscious of an agitation wholly distinct from that which had hitherto +afflicted her. All the past curiosity of Ona concerning this room, +together with her devices for satisfying that curiosity, recurred to +Paula with startling distinctness. It was as if the white hand of that +dead wife had thrust itself forth from the shadows to pull her back. The +candle trembled in her grasp, and she unconsciously recoiled. But the +next moment the thought of Mr. Sylvester struck warmth and determination +through her being, and hastily thrusting the key into the lock, she +pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold. + +Her first movement was that of surprise. In all her dreams of the +possible appearance of this room, she had never imagined it to be like +this. Plain, rude and homely, its high walls unornamented, its floor +uncovered, its furniture limited to a plain desk and two or three rather +uncomfortable-looking chairs, it struck upon her fancy with the same +sense of incongruity, as might the sight of a low-eaved cottage in the +midst of stately palaces and lordly pleasure-grounds. Setting down her +candle, she folded her hands to still their tremblings, and slowly +looked around her. This was the spot, then, to which he was accustomed +to flee when oppressed by any care or harassed by any difficulty; this +cold, bare, uninviting apartment with its forbidding aspect unsoftened +by the tokens of a woman’s care or presence! To this room, humbler than +any in her aunt’s home in Grotewell, he had brought all his griefs, from +the day his baby lay dead in the rooms below, to that awful hour which +saw the wife and mother brought into his doors and laid a cold and +pulseless form in the midst of his gorgeous parlors! Here he had met his +own higher impulses face to face, and wrestled with them through the +watches of the night! In this wilderness of seeming poverty, he had +dreamed, perhaps, his first fond dream of her as a woman, and signed +perhaps his final renunciation of her as the future companion of his +life! What did it mean? Why a spot of so much desolation in the midst of +so much that was lordly and luxurious? Her fears might give her a +possible interpretation, but she would not listen to fears. Only his +words should instruct her. Going to the desk, she opened it. A sealed +envelope addressed to herself, immediately met her eyes. Taking it out +with a slow and reverent touch, she began to read the long and closely +written letter which it contained. + +And the little candle burned on, shedding its rays over her bended head +and upon the dismal walls about her, with a persistency that seemed to +bring out, as in letters of fire, the hidden history of long ago, with +its vanished days and its forgotten midnights. + + + + +XXXIX. + +FROM A. TO Z. + + “A naked human heart.”—YOUNG. + + +“My Beloved Child: + +“So may I call you in this the final hour of our separation, but never +again, dear one, never again. When I said to you, just twenty-four hours +ago, that my sin was buried and my future was clear, I spake as men +speak who forget the justice of God and dream only of his mercy. An +hour’s time convinced me that an evil deed once perpetrated by a man, is +never buried so that its ghost will not rise. Do as we will, repent as +we may, the shadowy phantom of a stained and unrighteous youth is never +laid; nor is a man justified in believing it so, till death has closed +his eyes, and fame written its epitaph upon his tomb. + +“Paula, I am at this hour wandering in search of the being who holds the +secret of my life and who will to-morrow blazon it before all the world. +It is with no hope I seek him. God has not brought me to this pass, to +release me at last, from shame and disgrace. Suffering and the loss of +all my sad heart cherished, wait at my gates. Only one boon remains, and +that is, your sympathy and the consolation of your regard. These, though +bestowed as friends bestow them, are very precious to me; I cannot see +them go, and that they may not, I tell you the full story of my life. + +“My youth was happy—my early youth, I mean. Bertram’s father was a dear +brother to me, and my mother a watchful guardian and a tender friend. At +fifteen, I entered a bank, the small bank in Grotewell, which you ought +to remember. From the lowest position in it, I gradually worked my way +up till I occupied the cashier’s place; and was just congratulating +myself upon my prospects, when Ona Delafield returned from +boarding-school, a young lady. + +“Paula, there is a fascination, which some men who have known nothing +deeper and higher, call love. I, who in those days had cherished but few +thoughts beyond the ordinary reach of a narrow and somewhat selfish +business mind, imagined that the well-spring of all romance had bubbled +up within me, when my eyes first fell upon this regal blonde, with her +sleepy, inscrutable eyes and bewildering smile. Ulysses within sound of +the siren’s voice, was nothing to it. He had been warned of his danger +and had only his own curiosity to combat, while I was not even aware of +my peril, and floated within reach of this woman’s power, without making +an effort to escape. She was so subtle in her influence, Paula; so +careless in the very exercise of her sovereignty. She never seemed to +command; yet men and women obeyed her. Peculiarities which mar the +matron, are often graces in a young, unmarried girl, whose thoughts are +a mystery, and whose emotions an untried field. I believed I had found +the queen of all beauty and when in an unguarded hour she betrayed her +first appreciation of my devotion, I seemed to burst into a Paradise of +delights, where every step I took, only the more intoxicated and +bewildered me. My first realization of the sensuous and earthly +character of my happiness came with the glimpse of your child-face on +that never-to-be-forgotten day when we met beside the river. Like a star +seen above the glare of a conflagration, the pure spirit that informed +your glance, flashed on my burning soul, and for a moment I knew that in +you budded the kind of woman-nature which it befitted a man to seek; +that in the hands of such a one as you would make, should he trust his +honor and bequeath his happiness. But when did a lover ever break the +bonds that imprisoned his fancy, at the inspiration of a passing voice. +I went back to Ona and forgot the child by the river. + +“Paula, I have no time to utter regrets. This is a hard plain tale which +I have to relate; but if you love me still—if, as I have sometimes +imagined, you have always loved me—think what my life had been if I had +heeded the warning which God vouchsafed me on that day, and contrast it +with what it is, and what it must be. + +“I went back to Ona, then, and the hold which she had upon me from the +first, took form and shape. As well as she could love any one, she loved +me, and though she had offers from one or two more advantageous sources, +she finally decided that she would risk the future and accept me, if her +father consented to the alliance. You who are the niece of the man of +whom I must now speak, may or may not know what that meant. I doubt if +you do; he left Grotewell while you were a child, and any gossip +concerning him must ever fall short of the real truth. Enough, then, +that it meant, if Jacob Delafield could see in my future any promises of +success sufficient to warrant him in accepting me as his son-in-law, no +woman living ought to hesitate to trust me with her hand. He was the +Squire of the town, and as such entitled to respect, but he was also +something more, as you will presently discover. His answer to my plea +was: + +“‘Well, how much money have you to show?’ + +“Now I had none. My salary as cashier of a small country bank was not +large, and my brother’s prolonged sickness and subsequent death, +together with my own somewhat luxurious habits, had utterly exhausted +it. I told him so, but added that I had, somewhere up among the hills, +an old maiden aunt who had promised me five thousand dollars at her +death; and that as she was very ill at that time—hopelessly so, her +neighbors thought—in a few weeks I should doubtless be able to satisfy +him with the sight of a sum sufficient to start us in housekeeping, if +no more. + +“He nodded at this, but gave me no distinct reply. ‘Let us wait,’ said +he. + +“But youth is not inclined to wait. I considered my cause as good as +won, and began to make all my preparations accordingly. With a feverish +impatience which is no sign of true love, I watched the days go by, and +waited for, if I did not anticipate, the death which I fondly imagined +would make all clear. At last it came, and I went again into Mr. +Delafield’s presence. + +“‘My aunt has just died,’ I announced, and stood waiting for the short, +concise, + +“‘Go ahead, then, my boy!’ which I certainly expected. + +“Instead of that, he gave me a queer inexplicable smile, and merely +said, ‘I want to see the greenbacks, my lad. No color so good as green, +not even the black upon white of ‘I promise to pay.’ + +“I went back to my desk in the bank, chagrined. Ona had told me a few +days before that she was tired of waiting, that the young doctor from +the next town was very assiduous in his attentions, and as there was no +question as to his ability to support a wife, why—she did not finish +her sentence, but the toss of her head and her careless tone at parting, +were enough to inflame the jealousy of a less easily aroused nature than +mine. I felt that I was in hourly danger of losing her, and all because +I could not satisfy her father with a sight of the few thousands which +were so soon to be mine. + +“The reading of my aunt’s will, which confirmed my hopes, did not +greatly improve matters. ‘I want to see the money,’ the old gentleman +repeated; and I was forced to wait the action of the law and the +settlement of the estate. It took longer than even he foresaw. Weeks +went by and my poor little five thousand seemed as far from my control +as on the day the will was read. There was some trouble, I was not told +what, that made it seem improbable that I should reap the benefit of my +legacy for some time. Meanwhile Ona accepted the attentions of the young +doctor, and my chances of winning her, dwindled rapidly day by day. I +became morbidly eager and insanely jealous. Instead of pursuing my +advantage—for I undoubtedly possessed one in her own secret inclination +towards me—I stood off, and let my rival work his way into her +affections unhindered. I was too sore to interrupt his play, as I called +it, and too afraid of myself to actually confront him in her presence. +But the sight of them riding together one day, was more than I could +endure even in my spirit of unresistance. ‘He shall not have her,’ I +cried, and cast about in my mind how to bring my own matters into such +shape as to satisfy her father and so win her own consent to my suit. My +first thought was to borrow the money, but that was impracticable in a +town where each man’s affairs are known to his neighbor. My next was to +hurry up the settlement of the estate by appeal to my lawyer. The result +of the latter course was a letter of many promises, in the midst of +which a great temptation assailed me. + +“Colonel Japha, of whose history you have heard more or less true +accounts, was at that time living in the old mansion you took such pains +to point out to me in that walk we took together in Grotewell. He had +suffered a great anguish in the flight and degradation of his only +daughter, and though the real facts connected with her departure were +not known in the village, he was so overcome with shame, and so +shattered in health, he lived in the utmost seclusion, opening his doors +to but few visitors, among whom I, for some unexplained reason, was one. +He used to say he liked me and saw in me the makings of a considerable +man; and I, because he was Colonel Japha and a strong spirit, returned +his appreciation, and spent many of my bitter and unhappy hours in his +presence. It was upon one of these occasions the temptation came to +which I have just alluded. + + +“I had been talking about his health and the advisability of his taking +a journey, when he suddenly rose and said, ‘Come with me to my study.’ + +“I of course went. The first thing I saw upon entering was a trunk +locked and strapped. ‘I am going to Europe to-morrow,’ said he, ‘to be +gone six months.’ + +“I was astonished, for in that town no one presumed to do anything of +importance without consulting his neighbors; but I merely bowed my +congratulations, and waited for him to speak, for I saw he had something +on his mind that he wished to say. At last it came out. He had a +daughter, he said, a daughter who had disgraced him and whom he had +forbidden his house. She was not worthy of his consideration, yet he +could not help but remember her, and while he never desired to see her +enter his doors, it was not his wish that she should suffer want. He had +a little money which he had laid by and which he wished to put into my +hands for her use, provided anything should happen to him during his +absence. ‘She is a wanderer now,’ he cried, ‘but she may one day come +back, and then if I am dead and gone, you may give it to her.’ I was not +to enter it in the bank under his name, but regard it as a personal +trust to be used only under such circumstances as he mentioned. + +“The joy with which I listened to this proposal amounted almost to +ecstacy when he went to his desk and brought out five one thousand +dollar bills and laid them in my hand. ‘It is not much,’ said he, ‘but +it will save her from worse degradation if she chooses to avail herself +of it.’ + +“Not much; oh no, not much, but just the sum that would raise me out of +the pit of despondency into which I had fallen, and give me my bride, a +chance in the world, and last, but not least, revenge on the rival I had +now learned to hate. I was obliged to give the colonel a paper +acknowledging the trust, but that was no hindrance. I did not mean to +use the money, only to show it; and long before the colonel could +return, my own five thousand would be in my hands—and so, and so, and +so, as the devil reasons and young infatuated ears listen. + +“Colonel Japha thought I was an honest man, nor did I consider myself +otherwise at that time. It was a chance for clever action; a bit of +opportune luck that it would be madness to discard. On the day the +vessel sailed which carried Colonel Japha out of the country, I went to +Mr. Delafield and showed him the five crisp bank notes that represented +as it were by proxy, the fortune I so speedily expected to inherit. ‘You +have wanted to see five thousand dollars in my hand,’ said I; ‘there +they are.’ + +“His look of amazement was peculiar and ought to have given me warning; +but I was blinded by my infatuation and thought it no more than the +natural surprise incident to the occasion. ‘I have been made to wait a +long time for your consent to my suit,’ said I; ‘may I hope that you +will now give me leave to press my claims upon your daughter?’ + +“He did not answer at once, but smiled, eying meanwhile the notes in my +hand with a fascinated gaze which instinctively warned me to return them +to my pocket. But I no sooner made a move indicative of that resolve, +than he thrust out his cold slim hand and prevented me. ‘Let me see +them,’ cried he. + +“There was no reason for me to refuse so simple a request to one in Mr. +Delafield’s position, and though I had rather he had not asked for the +notes, I handed them over. He at once seemed to grow taller. ‘So this is +your start off in life,’ exclaimed he. + +“I bowed, and he let his eyes roam for a moment to my face. ‘Many a man +would be glad of worse,’ smiled he; then suavely, ‘you shall have my +daughter, sir.’ + +“I must have turned white in my relief, for he threw his head back and +laughed in a low unmusical way that at any other time would have +affected me unpleasantly. But my only thought then, was to get the money +back and rush with my new hopes into the room from which came the low +ceaseless hum of his daughter’s voice. But at the first movement of my +hand towards him, he assumed a mysterious air, and closing his fingers +over the notes, said: + +“‘These are yours, to do what you wish with, I suppose?’ + +“I may have blushed, but if I did, he took no notice. ‘What I wish to do +with them,’ returned I, ‘is to shut them up in the bank for the present, +at least till Ona is my wife.’ + +“‘Oh no, no, no, you do not,’ came in easy, almost wheedling tones from +the man before me. ‘You want to put them where they will double +themselves in two months.’ And before I could realize to what he was +tempting me, he had me down before his desk, showing me letters, +documents, etc., of a certain scheme into which if a man should put a +dollar to-day, it would ‘come out three and no mistake, before the year +was out. It is a chance in a thousand,’ said he; ‘if I had half a +million I would invest it in this enterprise to-day. If you will listen +to me and put your money in there, you will be a rich man before ten +years have passed over your head.’ + +“I was dazzled. I knew enough of such matters to see that it was neither +a hoax nor a chimera. He did have a good thing, and if the five thousand +dollars had been my own—But I soon came to consider the question +without that conditional. He was so specious in his manner of putting +the affair before me, so masterful in the way he held on to the money, +he gave me no time to think. ‘Say the word,’ cried he, ‘and in two +months I bring you back ten thousand for your five. Only two months,’ he +repeated, and then slowly, ‘Ona was born for luxury.’ + +“Paula, you cannot realize what that temptation was. To amass wealth had +never been my ambition before, but now everything seemed to urge it upon +me. Dreams of unimagined luxury came to my mind as these words were +uttered. A vision of Ona clad in garments worthy of her beauty floated +before my eyes; the humble home I had hitherto pictured for myself, +broadened and towered away into a palace; I beheld myself honored and +accepted as the nabob of the town. I caught a glimpse of a new paradise, +and hesitated to shut down the gate upon it. ‘I will think of it,’ said +I, and went into the other room to speak to Ona. + +“Ah, if some angel had met me on the threshold! If my mother’s spirit or +the thought of your dear face could have risen before me then and +stopped me! Dizzy, intoxicated with love and ambition, I crossed the +room to where she sat reeling off a skein of blue silk with hands that +were whiter than alabaster. Kneeling down by her side, I caught those +fair hands in mine. + +“‘Ona,’ I cried, ‘will you marry me? Your father has given his consent, +and we shall be very happy.’ + +“She bestowed upon me a little pout, and half mockingly, half earnestly +inquired, ‘What kind of a house are you going to put me in? I cannot +live in a cottage.’ + +“‘I will put you in a palace,’ I whispered, ‘if you will only say that +you will be mine.’ + +“‘A palace! Oh, I don’t expect palaces; a house like the Japhas’ would +do. Not but what I should feel at home in a palace,’ she added, lifting +her lordly head and looking beautiful enough to grace a sceptre. Then, +archly for her, ‘And papa has given his consent?’ + +“‘Yes,’ I ardently cried. + +“‘Then Dr. Burton might as well go,’ she answered. ‘I will trust my +father’s judgment, and take the palace—when it comes.’ + +“After that, it was impossible to disappoint her. + +“Paula, in stating all this, I have purposely confined myself to +relating bare facts. You must see us as we were. The glamour which an +unreasoning passion casts over even a dishonest act, if performed for +the sake of winning a beautiful woman, is no excuse in my own soul for +the evil to which I succumbed that day, nor shall it seem so to you. +Bare, hard, stern, the fact confronts me from the past, that at the +first call of temptation I fell; and with this blot on my character, you +will have to consider me—unhappy being that I am! + +“I did not realize then, however, all that I had done. The operation +entered into by Mr. Delafield prospered, and in two months I had, as he +predicted, ten thousand dollars instead of five, in my possession. +Besides, I had just married Ona, and for awhile life was a dream of +delight and luxury. But there came a day when I awoke to an insight of +the peril I had escaped by a mere chance of the die. The money which I +had expected from my aunt’s will, turned out to be amongst certain funds +that had been risked in speculation by some agent during her sickness, +and irrecoverably lost. The expression of her good-will was all that +ever came to me of the legacy upon which I had so confidently relied. + +“I was sitting with my young wife in the pretty parlor of our new home, +when the letter came from my lawyer announcing this fact, and I never +can make you understand what effect it had upon me. The very walls +seemed to shrivel up into the dimensions of a prison’s cell; the face +that only an hour before had possessed every conceivable charm for me, +shone on my changed vision with the allurement, but also with the +unreality of a will-o’-the-wisp. All that might have happened if the +luck, instead of being in my favor, had turned against me, crushed like +a thunderbolt upon my head, and I rose up and left the presence of my +young wife, with the knowledge at my heart that I was no more nor less +than a thief in the eyes of God, if not in that of my fellow-men; a base +thief, who if he did not meet his fit punishment, was only saved from it +by fortuitous circumstances and the ignorance of those he had been so +near despoiling. + +“The bitterness of that hour never passed away. The streets in which I +had been raised, the house which had been the scene of my temptation, +Mr. Delafield’s face, and my own home, all became unendurable to me. I +felt as if each man I met must know what I had done; and secret as the +transaction had been, it was long before I could enter the bank without +a tremor of apprehension lest I should hear from some quarter, that my +services there would no longer be required. The only comfort I received +was in the thought that Ona did not know at what a cost her hand had +been obtained. I was still under the glamour of her languid smiles and +countless graces, and was fain to believe that notwithstanding a certain +unresponsiveness and coldness in her nature, her love would yet prove a +compensation for the remorse that I secretly suffered. + +“My distaste for Grotewell culminated. It was too small for me. The +money I had acquired through the use of my neighbor’s funds burned in my +pocket. I determined to move to New York, and with the few thousands I +possessed, venture upon other speculations. But this time in all +honesty. Yes, I swore it before God and my own soul, that never again +would I run a risk similar to that from which I had just escaped. I +would profit by the money I had acquired, oh yes, but henceforth all my +operations should be legitimate and honorable. My wife, who was fast +developing a taste for ease and splendor, seconded my plans with +something like fervor, while Mr. Delafield actually went so far as to +urge my departure. ‘You are bound to make a rich man,’ said he ‘and must +go where great fortunes are to be secured.’ He never asked me what +became of the five thousand dollars I returned to Colonel Japha upon his +arrival from Europe. + +“So I came to New York. + +“Paula, the man who loses at the outset of a doubtful game, is +fortunate. I did not lose, I won. As if in that first dishonest deed of +mine I had summoned to my side the aid of evil influences, each and +every operation into which I entered prospered. It seemed as if I could +not make a mistake; money flowed towards me from all quarters; power +followed, and I found myself one of the most successful and one of the +most unhappy men in New York. There are some things of which a man +cannot write even to the one dear heart he most cherishes and adores. +You have lived in my home, and will acquit me from saying much about her +who, with all her faults and her omissions, was ever kind to you. But +some things I must repeat in order to make intelligible to you the +change which gradually took place within me as the years advanced. +Beauty, while it wins the lover, can never of itself hold the heart of a +husband who possesses aspirations beyond that which passion supplies. +Reckless, worldly and narrow-minded as I had been before the commission +of that deed which embittered my life, I had become by the very shock +that followed the realization of my wrong-doing, a hungry-hearted, +eager-minded and melancholy-spirited man, asking but one boon in +recompense for my secret remorse, and that was domestic happiness and +the sympathetic affection of wife and children. Woman, according to my +belief, was born to be chiefly and above all, the consoler. What a man +missed in the outside world, he was to find treasured at home. What a +man lacked in his own nature, he was to discover in the delicate and +sublimated one of his wife. Beautiful dream, which my life was not +destined to see realized! + +“The birth of my only child was my first great consolation. With the +opening of her blue eyes upon my face, a well-spring deep as my +unfathomable longing, bubbled up within my breast. Alas, that very +consolation brought a hideous grief; the mother did not love her child; +and another strand of the regard with which I still endeavored to +surround the wife of my youth, parted and floated away out of sight. To +take my little one in my arms, to feel her delicate cheek press +yearningly to mine, to behold her sweet infantile soul develop itself +before my eyes, and yet to realize that that soul would never know the +guidance or sympathy of a mother, was to me at once rapture and anguish. +I sometimes forgot to follow up a fortunate speculation, in my +indulgence of these feelings. I was passionately the father as I might +have been passionately the husband and the friend. Geraldine died; how +and with what attendant circumstances of pain and regret, I will not, +dare not state. The blow struck to the core of my being. I stood shaken +before God. The past, with its one grim remembrance—a remembrance that +in the tide of business successes and the engrossing affection which had +of late absorbed me, had been well-nigh swamped from sight—rose before +me like an accusing spirit. I had sinned, and I had been punished; I had +sown, and I had reaped. + +“More than that, I was sinning still. My very enjoyment of the position +I had so doubtfully acquired, was unworthy of me. My very wealth was a +disgrace. Had it not all been built upon another man’s means? Could the +very house I lived in be said to be my own, while a Japha existed in +want? In the eyes of the world, perhaps, yes; in my own eyes, no. I +became morbid on the subject. I asked myself what I could do to escape +the sense of obligation that overwhelmed me. The few sums with which I +had been secretly enabled to provide Colonel Japha during the final days +of his ruined and impoverished life, were not sufficient. I desired to +wipe out the past by some large and munificent return. Had the colonel +been living, I should have gone to him, told him my tale and offered him +the half of my fortune; but his death cut off all hopes of my righting +myself in that way. Only his daughter remained, the poor, lost, +reprobated being, whom he was willing to curse, but whom he could not +bear to believe suffering. I determined that the debt due to my own +peace of mind should be paid to her. But how? Where was I to find this +wanderer? How was I to let her know that a comfortable living awaited +her if she would only return to her friends and home? Consulting with a +business associate, he advised me to advertise. I did so, but without +success. I next resorted to the detectives, but all without avail. +Jacqueline Japha was not to be found. + +“But I did not relinquish my resolve. Deliberately investing a hundred +thousand dollars in Government bonds, I put them aside for her. They +were to be no longer mine. I gave them to her and to her heirs as +completely and irrevocably, I believed, as if I had laid them in her +hand and seen her depart with them. I even inserted them as a legacy to +her in my will. It was a clear and definite arrangement between me and +my own soul; and after I had made it and given orders to my lawyer in +Grotewell to acquaint me if he ever received the least news of +Jacqueline Japha, I slept in peace. + +“Of the years that followed I have small need to speak. They were the +years that preceded your coming, my Paula, and their story is best told +by what I was when we met again, and you made me know the sweet things +of life by entering into my home. Woman as a thoughtful, tender, +elevated being had been so long unknown to me! The beauty of the +feminine soul with its faith fixed upon high ideals, was one before +which I had ever been ready to bow. All that I had missed in my youth, +all that had failed me in my maturing manhood, seemed to flow back upon +me like a river. I bathed in the sunshine of your pure spirit and +imagined that the evil days were over and peace come at last. + +“A rude and bitter shock awoke me. Ona’s father, who had followed us to +New York, and of whose somewhat checkered career during the past few +years, I have purposely forborne to speak, had not been above appealing +to us for assistance at such times as his frequently unfortunate +investments left him in a state of necessity. These appeals were usually +made to Ona, and in a quiet way; but one day he met me on the street—it +was during the second winter you spent in my home—and dragging me into +a restaurant down town, began a long tale, to the effect that he wanted +a few thousands from me to put into a certain investment, which if +somewhat shady in its character, was very promising as to its results; +and gave as a reason why he applied to me for the money, that he knew I +had not been above doing a wrongful act once, in order to compass my +ends, and therefore would not be liable to hesitate now. + +“It was the thunderbolt of my life. My sin was not then buried. It had +been known to this man from the start. With an insight for which I had +never given him credit, he had read my countenance in the days of my +early temptation, and guessed, if he did not know, where the five +thousand dollars came from with which I began my career as speculator. +Worse than that, he had led me on to the act by which he now sought to +hold me. Having been the secret agent in losing my aunt’s money, he knew +at the time that I was cherishing empty hopes as regarded a legacy from +her, yet he let me dally with my expectations, and ensnare myself with +his daughter’s fascinations, till driven mad by disappointment and +longing, I was ready to resort to any means to gain my purpose. It was a +frightful revelation to come to me in days when, if I were not a +thoroughly honest man, I had at least acquired a deep and ineradicable +dread of dishonor. Answering him I know not how, but in a way that while +it repudiated his proposition, unfortunately acknowledged the truth of +the suppositions upon which it was founded, I left him and went home, a +crushed and disheartened man. Life which had been so long in acquiring +cheerful hues, was sunk again in darkness; and for days I could not bear +the sight of your innocent face, or the sound of your pure voice, or the +tokens of your tender and unsuspecting presence in my home. But soon the +very natural thought came to comfort me, that the sin I so deplored was +as much dead now, as it was before I learned the fact of this man’s +knowledge of it. That having repented and put it away, I was as free to +accept your gentle offices and the regard of all true men, as ever I had +been; and beguiled by this plausible consideration, I turned again to my +one visible source of consolation, and in the diversion it offered, let +the remembrance of this last bitter experience pass slowly from my mind. +The fact that Mr. Delafield left town shortly after his interview with +me, and smitten by shame perhaps, forbore to acquaint us with his +whereabouts or afflict us with his letters, may have aided me in this +strange forgetfulness. + +“But other and sharper trials were in store; trials that were to test me +as a man, and as it proved, find me lacking just where I thought I was +strongest. Paula, that saying of the Bible, ‘Let him that thinketh he +standeth take heed lest he fall,’ might have been written over the door +of my house on that day, ten months ago, when we two stood by the +hearthstone and talked of the temptations that beset humanity, and the +charity we should show to such as succumb to them. Before the day had +waned, my own hour had come; and not all the experience of my life, not +all the resolves, hopes, fears of my later years, not even the +remembrance of your sweet trust and your natural recoil from evil, were +sufficient to save me. The blow came so suddenly! the call for action +was so peremptory! One moment I stood before the world, rich, powerful, +honored, and beloved; the next, I saw myself threatened with a loss that +undermined my whole position, and with it the very consideration that +made me what I was. But I must explain. + +“When I entered the Madison Bank as President, I gave up in deference to +the wishes of Mr. Stuyvesant all open speculation in Wall Street. But a +wife and home such as I then had, are not to be supported on any petty +income; and when shortly after your entrance into my home, the +opportunity presented itself of investing in a particularly promising +silver mine out West, I could not resist the temptation; regarding the +affair as legitimate, and the hazard, if such it were, one that I was +amply able to bear. But like most enterprises of the kind, one dollar +drew another after it, and I soon found that to make available what I +had already invested, I was obliged to add to it more and more of my +available funds, until—to make myself as intelligible to you as I +can—it had absorbed not only all that had remained to me after my +somewhat liberal purchase of the Madison Bank stock, but all I could +raise on a pledge of the stock itself. But there was nothing in this to +alarm me. I had a man at the mine devoted to my interests; and as the +present yield was excellent, and the future of more promise still, I +went on my way with no special anxiety. But who can trust a silver mine? +At the very point where we expected the greatest result, the vein +suddenly gave out, and nothing prevented the stock from falling utterly +flat on the market, but the discretion of my agent, who kept the fact a +secret, while he quietly went about getting another portion of the mine +into working order. He was fast succeeding in this, and affairs were +looking daily more promising, when suddenly an intimation received by me +in a bit of conversation casually overheard at that reception we +attended together, convinced me that the secret was transpiring, and +that if great care were not taken, we should be swamped before we could +get things into working trim again. Filled with this anxiety, I was +about to leave the building, in order to telegraph to my agent, when to +my great surprise the card of that very person was brought in to me, +together with a request for an immediate interview. You remember it, +Paula, and how I went out to see him; but what you did not know then, +and what I find some difficulty in relating now, is that his message to +me was one of total ruin unless I could manage to give into his hand, +for immediate use, the sum of a hundred thousand dollars. + +“The facts making this demand necessary were not what you may have been +led to expect. They had little or nothing to do with the new operations, +which were progressing successfully and with every promise of an +immediate return, but arose entirely out of a law-suit then in the hands +of a Colorado judge for decision, and which, though it involved +well-nigh the whole interest of the mine, had never till this hour given +me the least uneasiness, my lawyers having always assured me of my +ultimate success. But it seems that notwithstanding all this, the +decision was to be rendered in favor of the other party. My agent, who +was a man to be trusted in these matters, averred that five days before, +he had learned from most authentic sources what the decision was likely +to be. That the judge’s opinion had been seen—he did not tell me how, +he dared not, nor did I presume to question, but I have since learned +that not only had the copyist employed by the judge turned traitor, but +that my own agent had been anything but scrupulous in the use he had +made of a willing and corruptible instrument—and that if I wanted to +save myself and the others connected with me from total and irremediable +loss, I must compromise with the other parties at once, who not being +advised of the true state of affairs, and having but little faith in +their own case, had long ago expressed their willingness to accept the +sum of a hundred thousand dollars as a final settlement of the +controversy. My agent, if none too nice in his ideas of right and wrong, +was, as I have intimated, not the man to make a mistake; and when to my +question as to how long a time he would give me to look around among my +friends and raise the required sum, he replied, ‘Ten hours and no more,’ +I realized my position, and the urgent necessity for immediate action. + +“The remainder of the night is a dream to me. There was but one source +from which I could hope in the present condition of my affairs, to +procure a hundred thousand dollars; and that was from the box where I +had stowed away the bonds destined for the use of the Japha heirs. To +borrow was impossible, even if I had been in possession of proper +securities to give. I was considered as having relinquished speculation +and dared not risk the friendship of Mr. Stuyvesant by a public betrayal +of my necessity. The Japha bonds or my own fortune must go, and it only +remained with me to determine which. + +“Paula, nothing but the ingrained principle of a lifetime, the habit of +doing the honest thing without thought or hesitation, saves a man at an +hour like that. Strong as I believed myself to be in the determination +never again to flaw my manhood by the least action unworthy of my +position as the guardian of trusts, earnest as I was in my recoil from +evil, and sincere as I may have been in my admiration of and desire for +the good, I no sooner saw myself tottering between ruin and a compromise +with conscience, than I hesitated—hesitated with you under my roof, and +with the words we had been speaking still ringing in my ears. Ona’s +influence, for all the trials of our married life, was still too strong +upon me. To think of her as deprived of the splendor which was her life, +daunted my very soul. I dared not contemplate a future in which she must +stand denuded of everything which made existence dear to her; yet how +could I do the evil thing I contemplated, even to save her and preserve +my own position! For—and you must understand this—I regarded any +appropriation of these funds I had delegated to the use of the Japhas, +as a fresh and veritable abuse of trust. They were not mine. I had given +them away. Unknown to any one but my own soul and God, I had deeded them +to a special purpose, and to risk them as I now proposed doing, was an +act that carried me back to the days of my former delinquency, and made +the repentance of the last few years the merest mockery. What if I might +recover them hereafter and restore them to their place; the chances in +favor of their utter loss were also possible, and honesty deals not with +chances. I suffered so, I had a momentary temptation towards suicide; +but suddenly, in the midst of the struggle, came the thought that +perhaps in my estimate of Ona I had committed a gross injustice, that +while she loved splendor seemingly more than any woman I had ever known, +she might be as far from wishing me to retain her in it at the price of +my own self-respect, as the most honest-hearted wife in the world; and +struck by the hope, I left my agent at a hotel and hurried home through +the early morning to her side. She Was asleep, of course, but I wakened +her. It was dark and she had a right to be fretful, but when I whispered +in her ear, ‘Get up and listen to me, for our fortune is at stake,’ she +at once rose and having risen, was her clearest, coldest, most +implacable self. Paula, I told her my story, my whole story as I have +told it to you here. I dropped no thread, I smoothed over no offence. +Torturing as it was to my pride, I laid bare my soul before her, and +then in a burst of appeal such as I hope never to be obliged to make use +of again, asked her as she was a woman and a wife, to save me in this +hour of my temptation. + +“Paula, she refused. More than that, she expressed the bitterest scorn +of my mawkish conscientiousness, as she called it. That I should +consider myself as owing anything to the detestable wretch who was the +only representative of the Japhas, was bad enough, but that I should go +on treasuring the money that would save us, was disgraceful if not +worse, and betrayed a weakness of mind for which she had never given me +credit. + +“‘But Ona,’ I cried, ‘if it is a weakness of mind, it is also an +equivalent to my consciousness of right living. Would you have me +sacrifice that?’ + +“‘I would have you sacrifice anything necessary to preserve us in our +position,’ said she; and I stood aghast before an unscrupulousness +greater than any I had hitherto been called upon to face. + +“‘Ona,’ repeated I, for her look was cold, ‘do you realize what I have +been telling you? Most wives would shudder when informed that their +husbands had perpetrated a dishonest act in order to win them.’ + +“A thin strange smile heralded her reply. ‘Most wives would,’ returned +she, ‘but most wives are ignorant. Did you suppose I did not know what +it cost you to marry me? Papa took care I should miss no knowledge that +might be useful to me.’ + +“‘And you married me knowing what I had done!’ exclaimed I, with +incredulous dismay. + +“‘I married you, knowing you were too clever, or believing you to be too +clever, to run such a risk again.’ + +“I can say no more concerning that hour. With a horror for this woman +such as I had never before experienced for living creature, I rushed out +of her presence, loathing the air she breathed, yet resolved to do her +bidding. Can you understand a man hating a woman, yet obeying her; +despising her, yet yielding? I cannot, _now_, but that day there seemed +no alternative. Either I must kill myself or follow her wishes. I chose +to do the latter, forgetting that God can kill, and that, too, whom and +when He pleases. + + +“Going down to the bank, I procured the bonds from my box in the safe. I +felt like a thief, and the manner in which it was done was unwittingly +suggestive of crime, but with that and the position in which I have +since found myself placed by this very action, I need not cumber my +present narrative. Handing the bonds to my agent with orders to sell +them to the best advantage, I took a short walk to quiet my nerves and +realize what I had done, and then went home. + +“Paula, had God in his righteous anger seen fit to strike me down that +day, it would have been no more than my due and aroused in me, perhaps, +no more than a natural repentence. But when I saw her for whose sake I +had ostensibly committed this fresh abuse of trust, lying cold and dead +before me, the sword of the Almighty pierced me to the soul, and I fell +prostrate beneath a remorse to which any regret I had hitherto +experienced, was as the playing of a child with shadows. Had I by the +losing of my right arm been able to recall my action, I would have done +it; indeed I made an effort to recover myself; had my agent followed up +with an order to return me the bonds I had given him, but it was too +late, the compromise had already been effected by telegraph and the +money was out of our hands. The deed was done and I had made myself +unworthy of your presence and your smile at the very hour when both +would have been inestimable to me. You remember those days; remember our +farewell. Let me believe you do not blame me now for what must have +seemed harsh and unnecessary to you then. + + +“There is but little more to write, but in that little is compressed the +passion, longing, hope and despair of a lifetime. When I told you as I +did a few hours ago that my sin was dead and its consequences at an end, +I repeat that I fully and truly believed it. The hundred thousand +dollars I had sent West, had been used to advantage, and only day before +yesterday I was enabled to sell out my share in the mine, for a large +sum that leaves me free and unembarrassed, to make the fortune of more +than one Japha, should God ever see fit to send them across my pathway. +More than that, Mr. Delafield, of whose discretion I had sometimes had +my fears, was dead, having perished of a fever some months before in San +Francisco; and of all men living, there were none as I believed, who +knew anything to the discredit of my name. I was clear, or so I thought, +in fortune and in fame; and being so, dreamed of taking to my empty and +yearning arms, the loveliest and the purest of mortal women. But God +watched over you and prevented an act whose consequences might have been +so cruel. In an hour, Paula, in an hour, I had learned that the foul +thing was not dead, that a witness had picked up the words I had allowed +to fall in my interview with my father-in-law in the restaurant two +years before; an unscrupulous witness who had been on my track ever +since, and who now in his eagerness for a victim, had by mistake laid +his clutch upon our Bertram. Yes, owing to the similarity of our voices +and the fact that we both make use of a certain tell-tale word, this +patient and upright nephew of mine stands at this moment under the +charge of having acknowledged in the hearing of this person, to the +committal of an act of dishonesty in the past. A foolish charge you will +say, and one easily refuted. Alas, a fresh act of dishonesty lately +perpetrated in the bank, complicates matters. A theft has been committed +on some of Mr. Stuyvesant’s effects, and that, too, under circumstances +that involuntarily arouse suspicion against some one of the bank +officials; and Bertram, if not sustained in his reputation, must suffer +from the doubts which naturally have arisen in Mr. Stuyvesant’s breast. +The story which this man could tell, must of course shake the faith of +any one in the reputation of him against whom it is directed, and the +man intends to repeat his story, and that, too, in the very ears of him +upon whose favor Bertram depends for his life’s happiness and the +winning of the woman he adores. I adore you, Paula, but I cannot clasp +you to my heart across another sin. If the detectives whom we shall call +in to-morrow, cannot exonerate those connected with the bank from the +theft lately committed there—and the fact that you have been allowed to +read this letter, prove they have not—I must do what I can to relieve +Bertram from his painful position, by taking upon myself the onus of +that past transgression which of right belongs to my account; and this +once done, let the result be for good or ill, any bond between you and +me is cut loose forever. I have not learned to love at this late hour, +to wrong the precious thing I cherish. Death as it is to me to say +good-bye to the one last gleam of heavenly light that has shot across my +darkened way, it must be done, dear heart, if only to hold myself worthy +of the tender and generous love you have designed to bestow upon me. +Bertram, who is all generosity, may guess but does not know, what I am +about to do. Go down to him, dear; tell him that at this very moment, +perhaps, I am clearing his name before the wretch who has so ruthlessly +fastened his fang upon him; that his love and Cicely’s shall prosper, as +he has been loyal, and she trusting, all these years of effort and +probation; that I give him my blessing, and that if we do not meet +again, I delegate to him the trust of which I so poorly acquitted +myself. But before you go, stop a moment and in this room, which has +always symbolized to my eyes the poverty which was my rightful due, +kneel and pray for my soul; for if God grants me the wish of my heart, +he will strike me with sudden death after I have taken upon myself the +disgrace of my past offences. Life without love can be borne, but life +without honor never. To come and go amongst my fellow-men with a shadow +on the fame they have always believed spotless! Do not ask me to attempt +it! Pray for my soul, but pray too, that I may perish in some quick and +sudden way before ever your dear eyes rest upon my face again. + +“And now, as though this were to be the end, let me take my last +farewell of you. I have loved you, Paula, loved you with my heart, my +mind and my soul. You have been my angel of inspiration and the source +of all my comfort. I kneel before you in gratitude, and I stand above +you in blessing. May every pang I suffer this hour, redound to you in +some sweet happiness hereafter. I do not quarrel with my fate, I only +ask God to spare you from its shadow. And He will. Love will flow back +upon your young life, and in regions where our eye now fails to pierce, +you will taste every joy which your generous heart once thought to +bestow on + + “EDWARD SYLVESTER.” + + + + +XL. + +HALF-PAST SEVEN. + + “I would it were midnight, Hal, and all well.” + + —HENRY IV. + + +The library was dim; Bertram, who had felt the oppressive influence of +the great empty room, had turned down the lights, and was now engaged in +pacing the floor, with restless and uneven steps, asking himself a +hundred questions, and wishing with all the power of his soul, that Mr. +Sylvester would return, and by his appearance cut short a suspense that +was fast becoming unendurable. + +He had just returned from his third visit to the front door, when the +curtain between him and the hall was gently raised, and Paula glided in +and stood before him. She was dressed for the street, and her face where +the light touched it, shone like marble upon which has fallen the glare +of a lifted torch. + +“Paula!” burst from the young man’s lips in surprise. + +“Hush!” said she, her voice quavering with an emotion that put to +defiance all conventionalities, “I want you to take me to the place +where Mr. Sylvester is gone. He is in danger; I know it, I feel it. I +dare not leave him any longer alone. I might be able to save him if—if +he meditates anything that—” she did not try to say what, but drew +nearer to Bertram and repeated her request. “You will take me, won’t +you?” + +He eyed her with amazement, and a shudder seized his own strong frame. +“No,” cried he, “I cannot take you; you do not know what you ask; but I +will go myself if you apprehend anything serious. I remember where it +is. I studied the address too closely, to readily forget it.” + +“You shall not go without me,” returned Paula with steady decision. “If +the danger is what I fear, no one else can save him. I must go,” she +added, with passionate importunity as she saw him still looking +doubtful. “Darkness and peril are nothing to me in comparison with his +safety. He holds my life in his hand,” she softly whispered, “and what +will not one do for his life!” Then quickly, “If you go without me I +shall follow with Aunt Belinda. Nothing shall keep me in the house +to-night.” + +He felt the uselessness of further objection, yet he ventured to say, +“The place where he has gone is one of the worst in the city; a spot +which men hesitate to enter after dark. You don’t know what you ask in +begging me to take you there.” + +“I do, I realize everything.” + +With a sudden awe of the great love which he thus beheld embodied before +him, Bertram bowed his head and moved towards the door. “I may consider +it wise to obtain the guidance of a policeman through the quarter into +which we are about to venture. Will you object to that?” + +“No,” was her quick reply, “I object to nothing but delay.” + +And with a last look about the room, as if some sensation of farewell +were stirring in her breast, she laid her hand on Bertram’s arm, and +together they hurried away into the night. + + + + + +BOOK V. + +WOMAN’S LOVE. + + + + +XLI. + +THE WORK OF AN HOUR. + + “Base is the slave that pays.” + —HENRY V. + + “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, + Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.” + —CONGREVE. + + +Mr. Sylvester upon leaving the bank, had taken his usual route up town. +But after an aimless walk of a few blocks, he suddenly paused, and with +a quiet look about him, drew from his pocket the small slip of paper +which Bertram had laid on his table the night before, and hurriedly +consulted its contents. Instantly an irrepressible exclamation escaped +him, and he turned his face to the heavens with the look of one who +recognizes the just providence of God. The name which he had just read, +was that of the old lover of Jacqueline Japha, Roger Holt, and the +address given, was 63 Baxter Street. + +Twilight comes with different aspects to the broad avenues of the rich, +and the narrow alleys of the poor. In the reeking slums of Baxter +Street, poetry would have had to search long for the purple glamour that +makes day’s dying hour fair in open fields and perfumed chambers. Even +the last dazzling gleam of the sun could awaken no sparkle from the +bleared windows of the hideous tenement houses that reared their blank +and disfigured walls toward the west. The chill of the night blast and +the quick dread that follows in the steps of coming darkness, were all +that could enter these regions, unless it was the stealthy shades of +vice and disease. + +Mr. Sylvester standing before the darkest and most threatening of the +many dark and threatening houses that cumbered the street, was a sight +to draw more than one head from the neighboring windows. Had it been +earlier, he would have found himself surrounded by a dozen ragged and +importunate children; had it been later, he would have run the risk of +being garroted by some skulking assassin; as it was, he stood there +unmolested, eying the structure that held within its gloomy recesses the +once handsome and captivating lover of Jacqueline Japha. He was not the +only man who would have hesitated before entering there. Low and +insignificant as the building appeared—and its two stories certainly +looked dwarfish enough in comparison with the two lofty tenement houses +that pressed it upon either side—there was something in its quiet, +almost uninhabited aspect that awakened a vague apprehension of lurking +danger. A face at a window would have been a relief; even the sight of a +customer in the noisome groggery that occupied the ground floor. From +the dwellings about, came the hum of voices and now and then the sound +of a shrill laugh or a smothered cry, but from this house came nothing, +unless it was the slow ooze of a stream of half-melted snow that found +its way from under the broken-down door-way to the gutter beyond. + +Stepping bravely forward, Mr. Sylvester entered the open door. A flight +of bare and rickety steps met his eye. Ascending them, he found himself +in a hall which must have been poorly lighted at any time, but which at +this late hour was almost dark. It was not very encouraging, but +pressing on, he stopped at a door and was about to knock, when his eyes +becoming accustomed to the darkness, he detected standing at the foot of +the stairs leading to the story above, the tall and silent figure of a +woman. It was no common apparition. Like a sentinel at his post, or a +spy on the outskirts of the enemy’s camp, she stood drawn up against the +wall, her whole wasted form quivering with eagerness or some other +secret passion; darkness on her brow and uncertainty on her lip. She was +listening, or waiting, or both, and that with an entire absorption that +prevented her from heeding the approach of a stranger’s step. Struck by +so sinister a presence in a place so dark and desolate, Mr. Sylvester +unconsciously drew back. As he did so, the woman thrilled and looked up, +but not at him. A lame child’s hesitating and uneven step was heard +crossing the floor above, and it was towards it she turned, and for it +she composed her whole form into a strange but evil calmness. + +“Ah, he let you come then!” Mr. Sylvester heard her exclaim in a low +smothered tone, whose attempted lightness did not hide the malevolent +nature of her interest. + +“Yes,” came back in the clear and confiding tones of childhood. “I told +him you loved me and gave me candy-balls, and he let me come.” + +A laugh quick and soon smothered, disturbed the surrounding gloom. “You +told him I loved you! Well, that is good; I do love you; love you as I +do my own eyes that I could crush, crush, for ever having lingered on +the face of my betrayer!” + +The last phrase was muttered, and did not seem to convey any impression +to the child. “Hold out your arms and catch me,” cried he; “I am going +to jump.” + +She appeared to comply; for he gave a little ringing laugh that was +startlingly clear and fresh. + +“He asked me what your name was,” babbled he, as he nestled in her arms. +“He is always asking what your name is; Dad forgets, Dad does; or else +it’s because he’s never seen you.” + +“And what did you tell him?” she asked, ignoring the last remark with an +echo of her sarcastic laugh. + +“Mrs. Smith, of course.” + +She threw back her head and her whole form acquired an aspect that made +Mr. Sylvester shudder. “That’s good,” she cried, “Mrs. Smith by all +means.” Then with a sudden lowering of her face to his—“Mrs. Smith is +good to you, isn’t she; lets you sit by her fire when she has any, and +gives you peanuts to eat and sometimes spares you a penny!” + +“Yes, yes,” the boy cried. + +“Come then,” she said, “let’s go home.” + +She put him down on the floor, and gave him his little crutch. Her +manner was not unkind, and yet Mr. Sylvester trembled as he saw the +child about to follow her. + +“Didn’t you ever have any little boys?” the child suddenly asked. + +The woman shrank as if a burning steel had been plunged against her +breast. Looking down on the frightened child, she hissed out from +between her teeth, “Did he tell you to ask me that? Did he dare—” She +stopped and pressed her arms against her swelling heart as if she would +smother its very beats. “Oh no, of course he didn’t tell you; what does +he know or care about Mrs. Smith!” Then with a quick gasp and a wild +look into the space before her, “My child dead, and her child alive and +beloved! What wonder that I hate earth and defy heaven!” + +She caught the boy by the hand and drew him quickly away. “You will be +good to me,” he cried, frightened by her manner yet evidently fascinated +too, perhaps on account of the faint sparks of kindness that alternated +with gusts of passion he did not understand. “You won’t hurt me; you’ll +let me sit by the fire and get warm?” + +“Yes, yes.” + +“And eat a bit of bread with butter on it?” + +“Yes, yes.” + +“Then I’ll go.” + +She drew him down the hall. “Why do you like to have me come to your +house?” he prattled away. + +She turned on him with a look which unfortunately Mr. Sylvester could +not see. “Because your eyes are so blue and your skin is so white; they +make me remember her!” + +“And who is _her_?” + +She laughed and seemed to hug herself in her rage and bitterness. “Your +mother!” she cried, and in speaking it, she came upon Mr. Sylvester. + +He at once put out his hand. + +“I don’t know who you are,” said he, “but I do not think you had better +take the child out to-night. From what you say, his father is evidently +upstairs; if you will give the boy to me, I will take him back and leave +him where he belongs.” + +“You will?” The slow intensity of her tone was indescribable. “Know that +I don’t bear interference from strangers.” And catching up the child, +she rushed by him like a flash. “You are probably one of those +missionaries who go stealing about unasked into respectable persons’ +rooms,” she called back. “If by any chance you wander into his, tell him +his child is in good hands, do you hear, in good hands!” And with a +final burst of her hideous laugh, she dashed down the stairs and was +gone. + +Mr. Sylvester stood shocked and undecided. His fatherly heart urged him +to search at once for the parent of this lame boy, and warn him of the +possible results of entrusting his child to a woman with so little +command over herself. But upon taking out his watch and finding it later +by a good half-hour than he expected, he was so struck with the +necessity of completing his errand, that he forgot everything else in +his anxiety to confront Holt. Knocking at the first door he came to, he +waited. A quick snarl and a surprised, “Come in!” announced that he had +scared up some sort of a living being, but whether man or woman he found +it impossible to tell, even after the door opened and the creature, +whoever it was, rose upon him from a pile of rags scattered in one +corner. + +“I want Mr. Holt; can you tell me where to find him?” + +“Upstairs,” was the only reply he received, as the creature settled down +again upon its heap of tattered clothing. + +Fain to be content with this, he went up another flight and opened +another door. He was more successful this time; one glance of his eye +assured him that the man he was in search of, sat before him. He had +never seen Mr. Holt; but the regular if vitiated features of the person +upon whom he now intruded, his lank but not ungraceful form, and free if +not airy manners, were not so common among the denizens of this +unwholesome quarter, that there could be any doubt as to his being the +accomplished but degenerate individual whose once attractive air had +stolen the heart of Colonel Japha’s daughter. + +He was sitting in front of a small pine table, and when Mr. Sylvester’s +eyes first fell upon him, was engaged in watching with a somewhat +sinister smile, the final twirl of a solitary nickle which he had set +spinning on the board before him. But at the sound of a step at the +door, a lightning change passed over his countenance, and rising with a +quick anticipatory “Ah!” he turned with hasty action to meet the +intruder. A second exclamation and a still more hasty recoil were the +result. This was not the face or the form of him whom he had expected. + +“Mr. Holt, I believe?” inquired Mr. Sylvester, advancing with his most +dignified mien. + +The other bowed, but in a doubtful way that for a moment robbed him of +his usual air of impudent self-assertion. + +“Then I have business with you,” continued Mr. Sylvester, laying the +man’s own card down on the table before him. “My name is Sylvester,” he +proceeded, with a calmness that surprised himself; “and I am the uncle +of the young man upon—whom you are at present presuming to levy +blackmail.” + +The assurance which for a moment had deserted the countenance of the +other, returned with a flash. “His uncle!” reëchoed he, with a low +anomalous bow; “then it is from you I may expect the not unreasonable +sum which I demand as the price of my attentions to your nephew’s +interest. Very good, I am not particular from what quarter it comes, so +that it does come and that before the clock has struck the hour which I +have set as the limit of my forbearance.” + +“Which is seven o’clock, I believe?” + +“Which is seven o’clock.” + +Mr. Sylvester folded his arms and sternly eyed the man before him. “You +still adhere to your intention, then, of forwarding to Mr. Stuyvesant at +that hour, the sealed communication now in the hands of your lawyer?” + +The smile with which the other responded was like the glint of a partly +sheathed dagger. “My lawyer has already received his instructions. +Nothing but an immediate countermand on my part, will prevent the +communication of which you speak, from going to Mr. Stuyvesant at seven +o’clock.” + +The sigh which rose in Mr. Sylvester’s breast did not disturb the severe +immobility of his lip. “Have you ever considered the possibility,” said +he, “of the man whom you overheard talking in the restaurant in Dey +Street two years ago, not being Mr. Bertram Sylvester of the Madison +Bank?” + +“No,” returned the other, with a short, sharp, and wholly undisturbed +laugh, “I do not think I ever have.” + + +“Will you give me credit, then, for speaking with reason, when I declare +to you that the man you overheard talking in the manner you profess to +describe in your communication, was not Mr. Bertram Sylvester?” + +A shrug of the shoulders, highly foreign and suggestive, was the other’s +answer. “It was Mr. Sylvester or it was the devil,” proclaimed he—“with +all deference to your reason, my good sir; or why are you here?” he +keenly added. + +Mr. Sylvester did not reply. With a sarcastic twitch of his lips the man +took up the nickle with which he had been amusing himself when the +former came in, and set it spinning again upon the table. “It is +half-past six,” remarked he. “It will take me a good half hour to go to +my lawyer.” + +Mr. Sylvester made a final effort. “If you could be convinced,” said he, +“that you have got your grasp upon the wrong man, would you still +persist in the course upon which you seem determined?” + +With a dexterous sleight-of-hand movement, the man picked up the +whirling nickle and laid it flat on the table before him. “A fellow +whose whole fortune is represented by a coin like that”—tapping the +piece significantly—“is not as easily convinced as a man of your means, +perhaps. But if I should be brought to own that I had made a mistake in +my man, I should still feel myself justified in proceeding against him, +since my very accusation of him seems to be enough to arouse such +interest on the part of his friends.” + +“Wretch!” leaped to Mr. Sylvester’s lips, but he did not speak it. “His +friends,” declared he, “have most certainly a great interest in his +reputation and his happiness; but they never will pay any thing upon +coercion to preserve the one or to insure the other.” + +“They won’t!” And for the first time Roger Holt slightly quavered. + +“A man’s honor and happiness are much, and he will struggle long before +he will consent to part from them. But a citizen of a great town like +this, owes something to his fellows, and submitting to blackmail is but +a poor precedent to set. You will have to proceed as you will, Mr. Holt; +neither my nephew nor myself, have any money to give you.” + +The glare in the man’s eyes was like that of an aroused tiger. “Do you +mean to say,” cried he, “that you will not give from your abundance, a +paltry thousand dollars to save one of your blood from a suspicion that +will never leave him, _never leave him_ to the end of his miserable +days?” + +“I mean to say that not one cent will pass from me to you in payment of +a silence, which as a gentleman, you ought to feel it incumbent upon you +to preserve unasked, if only to prove to your fellow-men that you have +not entirely lost all the instincts of the caste to which you once +belonged. Not that I look for anything so disinterested from you,” he +went on. “A man who could enter the home of a respectable gentleman, and +under cover of a brotherly regard, lure into degradation and despair, +the woman who was at once its ornament and pride, cannot be expected to +practice the virtues of ordinary manhood, much less those of a gentleman +and a Christian. He is a wretch, who, whatever his breeding or +antecedents, is open to nothing but execration and contempt.” + +With an oath and a quick backward spring, Roger Holt cried out, “Who are +you, and by what right do you come here to reproach me with a matter +dead and buried, by heaven, a dozen years ago?” + +“The right of one who, though a stranger, knows well what you are and +what you have done. Colonel Japha himself is dead, but the avenger of +his honor yet lives! Roger Holt, _where is Jacqueline Japha_?” + +The force with which this was uttered, seemed to confound the man. For a +moment he stood silent, his eye upon his guest, then a subtle change +took place in his expression; he smiled with a slow devilish meaning, +and tossing his head with an airy gesture, lightly remarked: + +“You must ask some more constant lover than I. A woman who was charming +ten years ago—Bah! what would I be likely to know about her now!” + +“Everything, when that woman is Jacqueline Japha,” cried Mr. Sylvester, +advancing upon him with a look that would have shaken most men, but +which only made the eye of this one burn more eagerly. “Though you might +easily wish to give her the slip, she is not one to forget you. If she +is alive, you know where she is; speak then, and let the worth of one +good action make what amends it can for a long list of evil ones.” + +“You really want to see the woman, then; enough to pay for it, I mean?” + +“The reward which has been offered for news of the fate or whereabouts +of Jacqueline Japha, still stands good,” was Mr. Sylvester’s reply. + +The excited stare with which the man received this announcement, slowly +subsided into his former subtle look. + +“Well, well,” said he, “we will see.” The truth was, that he knew no +more than the other where this woman was to be found. “If I happen to +come across her in any of my wanderings, I shall know where to apply for +means to make her welcome. But that is not what at present concerns us. +Your nephew is losing ground with every passing minute. In a half-hour +more his future will be decided, unless you bid me order my lawyer to +delay the forwarding of that communication to Mr. Stuyvesant. In that +case—” + +“I believe I have already made it plain to you that I have no intentions +of interfering with your action in this matter,” quoth Mr. Sylvester, +turning slowly toward the door. “If you are determined to send your +statement, it must go, only—” And here he turned upon the bitterly +disappointed man with an aspect whose nobility the other was but little +calculated to appreciate—“only when you do so, be particular to state +that the person whose story you thus forward to a director of the +Madison Bank, is not Bertram Sylvester, the cashier, but Edward +Sylvester, his uncle, and the bank’s president.” + +And the stately head bowed and the tall form was about to withdraw, when +Holt with an excited tremble that affected even his words, advanced and +seized Mr. Sylvester by the arm. + +“His uncle!” cried he, “why that is what you—Great heaven!” he +exclaimed, falling back with an expression not unmixed with awe, “you +are the man and you have denounced yourself!” Then quickly, “Speak +again; let me hear your voice.” + +And Mr. Sylvester with a sad smile, repeated in a slow and meaning tone, +“It is but one little _fuss_ more!” then as the other cringed, added a +dignified, “Good evening, Mr. Holt,” and passed swiftly across the room +towards the door. + +What was it that stopped him half-way, and made him look back with such +a startled glance at the man he had left behind him? A smell of smoke in +the air, the faint yet unmistakable odor of burning wood, as though the +house were on fire, or— + +Ha! the man himself has discerned it, is on his feet, is at the window, +has seen what? His cry of mingled terror and dismay does not reveal. Mr. +Sylvester hastens to his side. + +The sight which met his eyes, did not for the moment seem sufficient to +account for the degree of emotion expressed by the other. To be sure, +the lofty tenement-house which towered above them from the other side of +the narrow yard upon which the window looked, was oozing with smoke, but +there were no flames visible, and as yet no special manifestations of +alarm on the part of its occupants. But in an instant, even while they +stood there, arose the sudden and awful cry of “Fire!” and at the same +moment they beheld the roof and casements before them, swarm with pallid +faces, as men, women and children rushed to the first outlet that +offered escape, only to shrink back in renewed terror from the deadly +gulf that yawned beneath them. + +It was horrible, all the more that the fire seem to be somewhere in the +basement story, possibly at the foot of the stairs, for none of the poor +shrieking wretches before them seemed to make any effort to escape +downwards, but rather surged up towards the top of the building, waving +their arms as they fled, and filling the dusk with cries that drowned +the sound of the coming engines. + + +The scene appeared to madden Holt. “My boy! my boy! my boy!” rose from +his lips in an agonized shriek; then as Mr. Sylvester gave a sudden +start, cried out with indiscribable anguish, “He is there, my boy, my +own little chap! A woman in that house has bewitched him, and when he is +not with me, he is always at her side. O God, curses on my head for ever +letting him out of my sight! Do you see him, sir? Look for him, I +beseech you; he is lame and small; his head would barely reach to the +top of the window-sill.” + +“And that was your boy!” cried Mr. Sylvester. And struck by an appeal +which in spite of his abhorrence of the man at his side, woke every +instinct of fatherhood within him, he searched with his glance the long +row of windows before them. But before his eye had travelled half way +across the building, he felt the man at his side quiver with sudden +agony, and following the direction of his glance, saw a wan, little +countenance looking down upon them from a window almost opposite to +where they stood. + +“It is my boy!” shrieked the man, and in his madness would have leaped +from the casement, if Mr. Sylvester had not prevented him. + +“You will not help him so,” cried the latter. “See, he is only a few +feet above a bridge that appears to communicate with the roof of the +next house. If he could be let down—” + +But the man had already precipitated himself towards the door of the +room in which they were. “Tell him not to jump,” he called back. “I am +going next door and will reach him in a moment. Tell him to hold on till +I come.” + +Mr. Sylvester at once raised his voice. “Don’t jump, little boy Holt. If +there is no one there to drop you down, wait for your father. He is +going on the bridge and will catch you.” + +The little fellow seemed to hear, for he immediately held out his arms, +but if he spoke, his voice was drowned in the frightful hubbub. +Meanwhile the smoke thickened around him, and a dull ominous glare broke +out from the midst of the building, against which his weazen little face +looked pallid as death. + +“His father will be too late,” groaned Mr. Sylvester, feeling himself +somehow to blame for the child’s horrible situation; then observing that +the other occupants of the building had all disappeared towards the +front, realized that whatever fire-escapes may have been provided, were +doubtless in that direction, and raising his voice once more, called out +across the yard, “Don’t wait any longer, little fellow; follow the rest +to the front; you will be burned if you stay there.” + +But the child did not move, only held out his arms in a way to unman the +strongest heart; and presently while Mr. Sylvester was asking himself +what could be done, he heard his shrill piping tones rising above the +hiss of the flames, and listening, caught the words: + +“I cannot get away. She is holding me, Dad. Help your little feller; +help me, I’m so afraid of being burnt.” And looking closer, Mr. +Sylvester discerned the outlines of a woman’s head and shoulders above +the small white face. + +A distinct and positive fear at once seized him. Leaning out, the better +to display his own face and figure, he called to that unknown woman to +quit her hold and let the child go; but a discordant laugh, rising above +the roar of the approaching flames, was his only reply. Sickened with +apprehension, he drew back and himself made for the stairs in the wild +idea of finding the father. But just then the mad figure of Holt +appeared at the door, with frenzy in all his looks. + +“I cannot push through the crowd,” cried he, “I have fought and +struggled and shrieked, but it is all of no use. My boy is burning alive +and I cannot reach him.” A lurid flame shot at that moment from the +building before them, as if in emphasis to his words. + +“He is prisoned there by a woman,” cried Mr. Sylvester, pointing to the +figure whose distorted outlines was every moment becoming more and more +visible in the increasing glare. “See, she has him tight in her arms and +is pressing him against the window-sill.” + +The man with a terrible recoil, looked in the direction of his child, +saw the little white face with its wild expression of conscious terror, +saw the face of her who towered implacably behind it, and shrieked +appalled. + +“Jacqueline!” he cried, and put his hands up before his face as if his +eyes had fallen upon an avenging spirit. + +“Is that Jacqueline Japha?” asked Mr. Sylvester, dragging down the +other’s hands and pointing relentlessly towards the ominous figure in +the window before him. + +“Yes, or her ghost,” cried the other, shuddering under a horror that +left him little control of his reason. + +“Then your boy is lost,” murmured Mr. Sylvester, with a vivid +remembrance of the words he had overheard. “She will never save her +rival’s child, never.” + +The man looked at him with dazed eyes. “She shall save him,” he cried, +and stretching far out of the window by which he stood, he pointed to +the bridge and called out, “Drop him, Jacqueline, don’t let him burn. He +can still reach the next house if he runs. Save my darling, save him.” + +But the woman as if waiting for his voice, only threw back her head, and +while a bursting flame flashed up behind her, shrieked mockingly back: + +“Oh I have frightened you up at last, have I? You can see me now, can +you? You can call on Jacqueline now? The brat can make you speak, can +he? Well, well, call away, I love to hear your voice. It is music to me +even in the face of death.” + +“My boy! my boy,” was all he could gasp; “save the child, Jacqueline, +only save the child!” + +But the harsh scornful laugh she returned, spoke little of saving. “He +is so dear,” she hissed. “I love the offspring of my rival so much! the +child that has taken the place of my own darling, dead before ever I had +seen its innocent eyes. Oh yes, yes, I will save it, save it as my own +was saved. When I saw the puny infant in your arms the day you passed me +with _her_, I swore to be its friend, don’t you remember! And I am so +much of a one that I stick by him to the death, don’t you see?” And +raising him up in her arms till his whole stunted body was visible, she +turned away her brow and seemed to laugh in the face of the flames. + +The father writhed below in his agony. “Forgive,” he cried, “forgive the +past and give me back my child. It’s all I have to love; it’s all I’ve +ever loved. Be merciful, Jacqueline, be merciful!” + +Her face flashed back upon him, still and white. “And what mercy have +you ever shown to me! Fool, idiot, don’t you see I have lived for this +hour! To make you feel for once; to make you suffer for once as I have +suffered. You love the boy! Roger Holt, I once loved you.” + +And heedless of the rolling volume of smoke that now began to pour +towards her, heedless even of the long tongues of hungry flame that were +stretched out as if feeling for her from the distance behind, she stood +immovable, gazing down upon the casement where he knelt, with an +indescribable and awful smile upon her lips. + +The sight was unbearable. With an instinct of despair both men drew +back, when suddenly they saw the woman start, unloose her clasp and drop +the child out of her arms upon the bridge. A hissing stream of water had +fallen upon the flames, and the shock had taken her by surprise. In a +moment the father was himself again. + +“Get up, little feller, get up,” he cried, “or if you cannot walk, crawl +along the bridge to the next house. I see a fireman there; he will lift +you in.” + +But at that moment the flames, till now held under some control, burst +from an adjoining window, and caught at the woodwork of the bridge. The +father yelled in dismay. + +“Hurry, little feller, hurry!” he cried. “Get over towards the next +house before it is too late.” + +But a paralysis seemed to have seized the child; he arose, then stopped, +and looking wildly about, shook his head. “I cannot,” he cried, “I +cannot.” And the woman laughed, and with a hug of her empty arms, seemed +to throw her taunts into the space before her. + +“Are you a demon?” burst from Mr. Sylvester’s lips in uncontrollable +horror. “Don’t you see you can save him if you will? Jump down, then, +and carry him across, or your father’s curse will follow you to the +world beyond.” + +“Yes, climb down,” cried the fireman, “you are lighter than I. Don’t +waste a minute, a second.” + +“It is your own child, Jacqueline, your own child!” came from Holt’s +white lips in final desperation. “I have deceived you; your baby did not +die; I wanted to get rid of you and I wanted to save him, so I lied to +you. The baby did not die; he lived, and that is he you see lying +helpless on the bridge beneath you.” + +Not the clutch of an advancing flame could have made her shrink more +fearfully. “It is false,” she cried; “you are lying now; you want me to +save _her_ child, and dare to say it is mine.” + +“As God lives!” he swore, lifting his hand and turning his face to the +sky. + +Her whole attitude seemed to cry, “No, no,” to his assertion but slowly +as she stood there, the conviction of its truth seemed to strike her, +and her hair rose on her forehead and she swayed to and fro, as if the +earth were rolling under her feet. Suddenly she gave a yell, and bounded +from the window. Catching the child in her arms, she attempted to regain +the refuge beyond, but the flames had not dallied at their work while +she hesitated. The bridge was on fire and her retreat was cut off. She +did not attempt to escape. Stopping in the centre of the rocking mass, +she looked down as only a mother in her last agony can do, on the child +she held folded in her arms; then as the flames caught at her floating +garments, stooped her head and printed one wild and passionate kiss upon +his brow. Another instant and they saw her head rise to the accusing +heavens, then all was rush and horror, and the swaying structure fell +before their eyes, sweeping its living freight into the courtyard +beneath their feet. + + + + +XLII. + +PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD. + + “None are so desolate but something dear, + Dearer than self, possesses or possessed.” + + —BYRON. + + +In the centre of a long low room not far from the scene of the late +disaster, a solitary lamp was burning. It had been lit in haste and cast +but a feeble flame, but its light was sufficient to illuminate the sad +and silent group that gathered under its rays. + +On a bench by the wall, crouched the bowed and stricken form of Roger +Holt, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude expressive of the +utmost grief; at his side stood Mr. Sylvester, his tall figure looming +sombrely in the dim light; and on the floor at their feet, lay the dead +form of the little lame boy. + +But it was not upon their faces, sad and striking as they were, that the +eyes of the few men and women scattered in the open door-way, rested +most intently. It was upon her, the bruised, bleeding, half-dead mother, +who kneeling above the little corpse, gazed down upon it with the +immobility of despair, moaning in utter heedlessness of her own +condition, “My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!” + +The fixedness with which she eyed the child, though the blood was +streaming from her forehead and bathing with a still deeper red her +burned and blistered arms, made Mr. Sylvester’s sympathetic heart beat. +Turning to the silent figure of Holt, he touched him on the arm and said +with a gesture in her direction: + +“You have not deceived the woman? That is really her own child that lies +there?” + +The man beside him, started, looked up with slowly comprehending eyes, +and mechanically bowed his head. “Yes,” assented he, and relapsed into +his former heavy silence. + +Mr. Sylvester touched him again. “If it is hers, how came she not to +know it? How could you manage to deceive such a woman as that?” + +Holt started again and muttered, “She was sick and insensible. She never +saw the baby; I sent it away, and when she came to herself, told her it +was dead. We had become tired of each other long before, and only needed +the breaking of this bond to separate us. When she saw me again, it was +with another woman at my side and an infant in my arms. The child was +weakly and looked younger than he was. She thought it her rival’s and I +did not undeceive her.” And the heavy head again fell forward, and +nothing disturbed the sombre silence of the room but the low unvarying +moan of the wretched mother, “My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!” + +Mr. Sylvester moved over to her side. “Jacqueline,” said he, “the child +is dead and you yourself are very much hurt. Won’t you let these good +women lay you on a bed, and do what they can to bind up your poor +blistered arms?” + +But she heard him no more than the wind’s blowing. “My baby,” she +moaned, “my own, own baby!” + +He drew back with a troubled air. Grief like this he could understand +but knew not how to alleviate. He was just on the point of beckoning +forward one of the many women clustered in the door-way, when there came +a sound from without that made him start, and in another moment a young +man had stepped hastily into the room, followed by a girl, who no sooner +saw Mr. Sylvester, than she bounded forward with a sudden cry of joy and +relief. + +“Bertram! Paula! What does this mean? What are you doing here?” + +A burst of sobs from the agitated girl was her sole reply. + +“Such a night! such a place!” he exclaimed, throwing his arm about Paula +with a look that made her tremble through her tears. “Were you so +anxious about me, little one?” he whispered. “Would not your fears let +you rest?” + +“No, no; and we have had such a dreadful time since we got here. The +house where we expected to find you, is on fire, and we thought of +nothing else but that you had perished within it. But finally some one +told us to come here, and—” She paused horror-stricken; her eyes had +just fallen upon the little dead child and the moaning mother. + +“That is Jacqueline Japha,” whispered Mr. Sylvester. “We have found her, +only to close her eyes, I fear.” + +“Jacqueline Japha!” Paula’s hands unclosed from his arm. + +“She was in the large tenement house that burned first; that is her +child whose loss she is mourning.” + +“Jacqueline Japha!” again fell with an indescribable tone from Paula’s +lips. “And who is that?” she asked, turning and indicating the silent +figure by the wall. + +“That is Roger Holt, the man who should have been her husband.” + +“Oh, I remember him,” she cried; “and her, I remember her, and the +little child too. But,” she suddenly exclaimed, “she told me then that +she was not his mother.” + +“And she did not know that she was; the man had deceived her.” + +With a quick thrill Paula bounded forward. “Jacqueline Japha,” she +cried, falling with outstretched hands beside the poor creature; “thank +God you are found at last!” + +But the woman was as insensible to this cry as she had been to all +others. “My baby,” she wailed, “my baby, my own, own baby!” + +Paula recoiled in dismay, and for a moment stood looking down with fear +and doubt upon the fearful being before her. But in another instant a +heavenly instinct seized her, and ignoring the mother, she stooped over +the child and tenderly kissed it. The woman at once woke from her +stupor. “My baby!” she cried, snatching the child up in her arms with a +gleam of wild jealousy; “nobody shall touch it but me. I killed it and +it is all mine now!” But in a moment she had dropped the child back into +its place, and was going on with the same set refrain that had stirred +her lips from the first. + +Paula was not to be discouraged. Laying her hand on the child’s brow, +she gently smoothed back his hair, and when she saw the old gleam +returning to the woman’s countenance, said quietly, “Are you going to +carry it to Grotewell to be buried? Margery Hamlin is waiting for you, +you know?” + +The start which shook the woman’s haggard frame, encouraged her to +proceed. + +“Yes; you know she has been keeping watch, and waiting for you so long! +She is quite worn out and disheartened; fifteen years is a long time to +hope against hope, Jacqueline.” + +The stare of the wretched creature deepened into a fierce and maddened +glare. “You don’t know what you are talking about,” cried she, and bent +herself again over the child. + +Paula went on as if she had not spoken. “Any one that is loved as much +as you are, Jacqueline, ought not to give way to despair; even if your +child is dead, there is still some one left whom you can make supremely +happy.” + +“Him?” the woman’s look seemed to say, as she turned and pointed with +frightful sarcasm to the man at their back. + +Paula shrank and hastily shook her head. “No, no, not him, but—Let me +tell you a story,” she whispered eagerly. “In a certain country-town not +far from here, there is a great empty house. It is dark, and cold, and +musty. No one ever goes there but one old lady, who every night at six, +crosses its tangled garden, unlocks its great side door, enters within +its deserted precincts, and for an hour remains there, praying for one +whose return she has never ceased to hope and provide for. She is +kneeling there to-night, at this very hour, Jacqueline, and the love she +thus manifests is greater than that of man to woman or woman to man. It +is like that of heaven or the Christ.” + +The woman before her rose to her feet. She did not speak, but she looked +like a creature before whose eyes a sudden torch had been waved. + +“Fifteen years has she done this,” Paula solemnly continues. “She +promised, you know; and she never has forgotten her promise.” + +With a cry the woman put out her hands. “Stop!” she cried, “stop! I +don’t believe it. No one loves like that; else there is a God and I—” +She paused, quivered, gave one wild look about her, and then with a +quick cry, something between a moan and a prayer, succumbed to the pain +of her injuries, and sank down insensible by the side of her dead child. + +With a reverent look Paula bent over her and kissed her seared and +bleeding forehead. “For Mrs. Hamlin’s sake,” she whispered, and quietly +smoothed down the tattered clothing about the poor creature’s wasted +frame. + +Mr. Sylvester turned quietly upon the man who had been the cause of all +this misery. “I charge myself with the care of that woman,” said he, +“and with the burial of your child. It shall be placed in decent ground +with all proper religious ceremonial.” + +“What, you will do this!” cried Holt, a flush of real feeling for a +moment disturbing the chalk-white pallor of his cheek. “Oh sir, this is +Christian charity; and I beg your pardon for all that I may have +meditated against you. It was done for the child,” he went on wildly; +“to get him the bread and butter he often lacked. I didn’t care so much +for myself. I hated to see him hungry and cold and ailing; I might have +worked, but I detest work, and—But no matter about all that; enough +that I am done with endeavoring to extort money from you. Whatever may +have happened in the past, you are free from my persecutions in the +future. Henceforth you and yours can rest in peace.” + +“That is well,” cried a voice over his shoulder, and Bertram with an air +of relief stepped hastily forward. “You must be very tired,” remarked +he, turning to his uncle. “If you will take charge of Paula, I will do +what I can to see that this injured woman and the dead child are +properly cared for. I am so relieved, sir, at this result,” he +whispered, with a furtive wring of his uncle’s hand, “that I must +express my joy in some way.” + +Mr. Sylvester smiled, but in a manner that reflected but little of the +other’s satisfaction. “Thank you,” said he, “I am tired and will gladly +delegate my duties to you. I trust you to do the most you can for both +the living and the dead. That woman for all her seeming poverty is the +possessor of a large fortune;” he whispered; “let her be treated as +such.” And with a final word to Holt who had sunk back against the wall +in his old attitude of silent despair, Mr. Sylvester took Paula upon his +arm, and quietly led her out of this humble but not unkind refuge. + + + + +XLIII. + +DETERMINATION. + + “But alas! to make me + A fixed figure for the time of scorn + To point his slow unmoving finger at!” + + —OTHELLO. + + “Let me but bear your love, I’ll bear your cares.” + + —HENRY V. + + +“Paula!” + +They had reached home and were standing in the library. + +“Yes,” said she, lowering her head before his gaze with a sweet and +conscious blush. + +“Did you read the letter I left for you in my desk up stairs?” + +She put her hand to her bosom and drew forth the closely written sheet. +“Every word,” she responded, and smilingly returned it to its place. + +He started and his chest heaved passionately. “You have read it,” he +cried, “and yet could follow me into that den of unknown dangers at an +hour like this, and with no other guide than Bertram?” + +“Yes,” she answered. + +He drew a deep breath and his brow lost its deepest shadow. “You do not +despise me then,” he exclaimed “My sin has not utterly blotted me out of +your regard?” + +The glance with which she replied seemed to fill the whole room with its +radiance. “I am only beginning to realize the worth of the man who has +hitherto been a mystery to me,” she declared. Then as he shook his head, +added with a serious air, “The question with all true hearts must ever +be, not what a man has been, but what he is. He who for the sake of +shielding the innocent from shame and sorrow, would have taken upon +himself the onus of a past disgrace, is not unworthy a woman’s +devotion.” + +Mr. Sylvester smiled mournfully, and stroked her hand which he had taken +in his. “Poor little one,” he murmured. “I know not whether to feel +proud or sorry for your trust and tender devotion. It would have been a +great and unspeakable grief to me to have lost your regard, but it might +have been better if I had; it might have been much better for you if I +had!” + +“What, why do you say that?” she asked, with a startled gleam in her +eye. “Do you think I am so eager for ease and enjoyment, that it will be +a burden for me to bear the pain of those I love? A past pain, too,” she +added, “that will grow less and less as the days go by and happiness +increases.” + +He put her back with a quick hand. “Do not make it any harder for me +than necessary,” he entreated, “Do you not see that however gentle may +be your judgment of my deserts, we can never marry, Paula?” + +The eyes which were fixed on his, deepened passionately. “No,” she +whispered, “no; not if your remorse for the past is all that separates +us. The man who has conquered himself, has won the right to conquer the +heart of a woman. I can say no more—” She timidly held out her hand. + +He grasped it with a man’s impetuosity and pressed it to his heart, but +he did not retain it. “Blessings upon you, dear and noble heart!” he +cried. “God will hear my prayers and make you happy—but not with me. +Paula,” he passionately continued, taking her in his arms and holding +her to his breast, “it cannot be. I love you—I will not, dare not say, +how much—but love is no excuse for wronging you. My remorse is not all +that separates us; possible disgrace lies before me; public exposure at +all events; I would indeed be lacking in honor were I to subject you to +these.” + +“But,” she stammered, drawing back to look into his face, “I thought +that was all over; that the man had promised silence; that you were +henceforth to be relieved from his persecutions? I am sure he said so.” + +“He did, but he forgot that my fate no longer rested upon his +forbearance. The letter which records my admission of sin was in his +lawyer’s hands, Paula, and has already been despatched to Mr. +Stuyvesant. Say what we will, rebel against it as we will, Cicely’s +father knows by this time that the name of Sylvester is not spotless.” + +The cry which she uttered in her sudden pain and loss made him stoop +over her with despairing fondness. “Hush! my darling, hush!” cried he. +“The trial is so heavy, I need all my strength to meet it. It breaks my +heart to see you grieve. I cannot bear it. I deserve my fate, but +you—Oh you—what have you done that you should be overwhelmed in my +fall!” Putting her gently away from his breast, he drew himself up and +with forced calmness said, “I have yet to inform Mr. Stuyvesant upon +which of the Sylvesters’ should rest the shadow of his distrust. +To-night he believes in Bertram’s lack of principle, but to-morrow—” + +Her trembling lips echoed the word. + +“He shall know that the man who confessed to having done a wrong deed in +the past, is myself, Paula.” + +The head which had fallen on her breast, rose as at the call of a +clarion. “And is it at the noblest moment of your life that you would +shut me away from your side? No, no. Heaven does not send us a great and +mighty love for trivial purposes. The simple country maid whom you have +sometimes declared was as the bringer of good news to you, shall not +fail you now.” Then slowly and with solemn assurance, “If you go to Mr. +Stuyvesant’s to-morrow, and you will, for that is your duty, you shall +not go alone; Paula Fairchild accompanies you.” + + + + +XLIV. + +IN MR. STUYVESANT’S PARLORS. + + “Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud + Turn forth her silver lining on the night?” + + —COMUS. + + +“Unworthy?” + +“Yes.” + +Cicely stared at her father with wide-open and incredulous eyes. “I +cannot believe it,” she murmured; “no, I cannot believe it.” + +Her father drew up a chair to her side. “My daughter,” said he, with +unusual tenderness, “I have hesitated to tell you this, fearing to wound +you; but my discretion will allow me to keep silence no longer. Bertram +Sylvester is not an honest man, and the sooner you make up your mind to +forget him, the better.” + +“Not honest?” You would scarcely have recognized Cicely’s voice. Her +father’s hand trembled as he drew her back to his side. + +“It is a hard revelation for me to make to you, after testifying my +approval of the young man. I sympathize with you, my child, but none the +less I expect you to meet this disappointment bravely. A theft has been +committed in our bank—” + +“You do not accuse him of theft! Oh father, father!” + +“No,” he stammered. “I do not accuse him, but facts look very strongly +against some one in our trust, and—” + +“But that is not sufficient,” she cried, rising in spite of his +detaining hand till she stood erect before him. “You surely would not +allow any mere circumstantial evidence to stand against a character as +unblemished as his, even if he were not the man whom your daughter—” + +He would not let her continue. “I admit that I should be careful how I +breathed suspicion against a man whose record was unimpeached,” he +assented, “but Bertram Sylvester does not enjoy that position. Indeed, I +have just received a communication which goes to show, that he once +actually acknowledged to having perpetrated an act of questionable +integrity. Now a man as young as he, who—” + +“But I cannot believe it,” she moaned. “It is impossible, clearly +impossible. How could he look me in the face with such a sin on his +conscience! He could not, simply could not. Why, father, his brow is as +open as the day, his glance clear and unwavering as the sunlight. It is +some dreadful mistake. It is not Bertram of whom you are speaking!” + +Her father sighed. “Of whom else should it be? Come my child, do you +want to read the communication which I received last night? Do you want +to be convinced?” + +“No, no;” she cried; but quickly contradicted herself with a hurried, +“Yes, yes, let me be made acquainted with what there is against him, if +only that I may prove to you it is all a mistake.” + + +“There is no mistake,” he muttered, handing her a folded paper. “This +statement was written two years ago; I witnessed it myself, though I +little knew against whose honor it was directed. Read it, Cicely, and +then remember that I have lost bonds out of my box at the bank, that +could only have been taken by some one connected with the institution.” + +She took the paper in her hand, and eagerly read it through. Suddenly +she started and looked up. “And you say that this was Bertram, this +gentleman who allowed another man to accuse him of a past dishonesty?” + +“So the person declares who forwarded me this statement; and though he +is a poor wretch and evidently not above making mischief, I do not know +as we have any special reason to doubt his word.” + +Cicely’s eyes fell and she stood before her father with an air of +indecision. “I do not think it was Bertram,” she faltered, but said no +more. + +“I would to God for your sake, it was not!” he exclaimed. “But this +communication together with the loss we have sustained at the bank, has +shaken my faith, Cicely. Young men are so easily led astray nowadays; +especially when playing for high stakes. A man who could leave his +profession for the sake of winning a great heiress—” + +“Father!” + +“I know he has made you think it was for love; but when the woman whom a +young man fancies, is rich, love and ambition run too closely together +to be easily disentangled. And now, my dear, I have said my say and +leave you to act according to the dictates of your judgment, sure that +it will be in a direction worthy of your name and breeding.” And +stooping for a hasty kiss, he gave her a last fond look and quietly left +the room. + +And Cicely? For a moment she stood as if frozen in her place, then a +great tremble seized her, and sinking down upon a sofa, she buried her +face from sight, in a chaos of feeling that left her scarcely mistress +of herself. But suddenly she started up, her face flushed, her eyes +gleaming, her whole delicate form quivering with an emotion more akin to +hope than despair. + +“I cannot doubt him,” she whispered; “it were as easy to doubt my own +soul. He is worthy if I am worthy, true if I am true; and I will not try +to unlove him!” + +But soon the reaction came again, and she was about to give full sway to +her grief and shame, when the parlor door opened—she herself was +sitting in the extension room—and she saw Mr. Sylvester and Paula come +in. She at once rose to her feet; but she did not advance. A thousand +hopes and fears held her enchained where she was; besides there was +something in the aspect of her friends, which made her feel as though a +welcome even from her, would at that moment be an intrusion. + +“They have come to see father,” she thought “and—” + +Ah what, Cicely? + +Paula, who was too absorbed in her own feelings to glance into the +extension room beyond, approached Mr. Sylvester and laid her hand upon +his arm. “Whatever comes,” said she, “truth, honor and love remain.” + +And he bowed his head and seemed to kiss her hand, and Cicely observing +the action, grew pale and dropped her eyes, realizing as by a +lightning’s flash, both the nature of the feeling that prompted this +unusual manifestation on his part, and the possible sorrows that lay +before her dearest friend, if not before herself, should the secret +suspicions she cherished in regard to Mr. Sylvester prove true. When she +had summoned up courage to glance again in their direction, Mr. +Stuyvesant had entered the parlor and was nervously welcoming his +guests. + +Mr. Sylvester waited for no preamble. “I have come,” said he, in his +most even and determined tones, “to speak to you in regard to a +communication from a man by the name of Holt, which I was told was to be +sent to you last evening. Did you receive such a one?” + +Mr. Stuyvesant flushed, grew still more nervous in his manner and +uttered a short, “I did,” in a tone severer than he perhaps intended. + +“It will not be too much for me, then, to conclude, that in your present +estimation my nephew stands committed to a past dishonesty?” + +“It has been one of my chief sources of regret—one of them I say,” +repeated Mr. Stuyvesant, “that any loss of esteem on the part of your +nephew, must necessarily reflect upon the peace if not the honor of a +man I hold in such high regard as yourself. I assure you I feel it quite +as a brother might, quite as a brother.” + +Mr. Sylvester at once rose. “Mr. Stuyvesant,” declared he, “my nephew is +as honest a man as walks this city’s streets. If you will accord me a +few minutes private conversation, I think I can convince you so.” + +“I should be very glad,” replied Mr. Stuyvesant, glancing towards the +extension-room where he had left his daughter. “I have always liked the +young man.” Then with a quick look in the other’s face, “You are not +well, Mr. Sylvester?” + +“Thank you, I am not ill; let us say what we have to, at once, if you +please.” And with just a glance at Paula, he followed the now somewhat +agitated director from the room. + +Cicely who had started forward at their departure, glanced down the long +parlor before her, and hastily faltered back; Paula was praying. But in +a few moments her feelings overcame her timidity, and hurrying into her +friend’s presence, she threw her arms about her neck and pressed her +cheek to hers. “Let us pray together,” she whispered. + +Paula drew back and looked her friend in the face. “You know what all +this means?” she asked. + +“I guess,” was the low reply. + +Paula checked a sob and clasped Cicely to her bosom. “He loves me,” she +faltered, “and he is doing at this moment what he believes will separate +us. He is a noble man, Cicely, noble as Bertram, though he once did—” +She paused. “It is for him to say what, not I,” she softly concluded. + +“Then Bertram is noble,” Cicely timidly put in. + +“Have you ever doubted it?” + +“No.” + +And hiding their blushes on each other’s shoulders, the two girls sat +breathlessly waiting, while the clock ticked away in the music-room and +the moments came and went that determined their fate. Suddenly they both +rose. Mr. Stuyvesant and Mr. Sylvester were descending the stairs. Mr. +Sylvester came in first. Walking straight up to Paula, he took her in +his arms and kissed her on the forehead. + +“My betrothed wife!” he whispered. + +With a start of incredulous joy, Paula looked up. His glance was clear +but strangely solemn and peaceful. + +“He has heard all I had to say,” added he; “he is a just man, but he is +also a merciful one. Like you he declares that not what a man was, but +what he is, determines the judgment of true men concerning him.” And +taking her on his arm, he stood waiting for Mr. Stuyvesant who now came +in. + +“Where is my daughter?” were that gentleman’s words, as he closed the +door behind him. + +“Here, papa.” + + +He held out his hand, and she sprang towards him. “Cicely,” said he, not +without some tokens of emotion in his voice, “it is only right that I +should inform you that we were all laboring under a mistake, in charging +Mr. Bertram Sylvester with the words that were uttered in the Dey Street +coffee-house two years ago. Mr. Sylvester has amply convinced me that +his nephew neither was, nor could have been present there at that time. +It must have been some other man, of similar personality.” + +“Oh thank you, thank you!” Cicely’s look seemed to say to Mr. Sylvester. +“And he is quite freed from reproach?” she asked, with a smiling glance +into her father’s face. + +A hesitancy in Mr. Stuyvesant’s manner, struck with a chill upon more +than one heart in that room. + +“Yes,” he admitted at last; “the mere fact that a mysterious robbery has +been committed upon certain effects in the bank of which he is cashier, +is not sufficient to awaken distrust as to his integrity, but—” + +At that moment the door-bell rung. + +“Your father would say,” cried Mr. Sylvester, taking advantage of the +momentary break, to come to the relief of his host, “that my nephew is +too much of a gentleman to desire to press any claim he may imagine +himself as possessing over you, while even the possibility of a shadow +rests upon his name.” + +“The man who stole the bonds will be found,” said Cicely. + +And as if in echo to her words the parlor door opened, and a messenger +from the bank stepped briskly up to Mr. Stuyvesant. + +“A note from Mr. Folger,” said he, with a quick glance at Mr. Sylvester. + +Mr. Stuyvesant took the paper handed him, read it hastily through, and +looked up with an air of some bewilderment. + +“I can hardly believe it possible,” cried he, “but Hopgood has +absconded.” + +“Hopgood absconded?” + +“Yes; is not that the talk at the bank?” inquired Mr. Stuyvesant, +turning to the messenger. + +“Yes sir. He has not been seen since yesterday afternoon when he left +before the bank was closed for the night. His wife says she thinks he +meant to run away, for before going, he came into the room where she +was, kissed her and then kissed the child; besides it seems that he took +with him some of his clothes.” + +“Humph! and I had as much confidence in that man—” + +“As I have now,” came from Mr. Sylvester as the door closed upon the +messenger. “If Hopgood has run away, it was from some generous but +mistaken idea of sacrificing himself to the safety of another whom he +may possibly believe guilty.” + +“No,” rejoined Mr. Stuyvesant, “for here is a note from him that refutes +that supposition. It is addressed to me and runs thus: + + “DEAR SIR.—I beg your pardon and that of Mr. Sylvester for + leaving my duties in this abrupt manner. But I have betrayed my + trust and am no longer worthy of confidence. I am a wretched + man and find it impossible to face those who have believed in + my honesty and discretion. If I can bring the money back, you + shall see me again, but if not, be kind to my wife and little + one, for the sake of the three years when I served the bank + faithfully. + + “JOHN HOPGOOD.” + +“I don’t understand it,” cried Mr. Sylvester, “that looks—” + +“As if he knew where the money was.” + +“I begin to hope,” breathed Cicely. + +Her father turned and surveyed her. “This puts a new aspect on matters,” +said he. + +She glanced up beaming. “Oh, will you, do you say, that you think the +shadow of this crime has at last found the spot upon which it can +rightfully rest?” + +“It would not be common sense in me to deny that it has most certainly +shifted its position.” + +With a radiant look at Cicely, Paula crossed to Mr. Stuyvesant’s side, +and laying her hand on his sleeve, whispered a word or two in his ear. +He immediately glanced out of the window at the carriage standing before +the door, then looked back at her and nodded with something like a +smile. In another moment he stood at the front door. + +“Be prepared,” cried Paula to Cicely. + +It was well she spoke, for when in an instant later Mr. Stuyvesant +re-entered the parlor with Bertram at his side, the rapidly changing +cheek of the gentle girl showed that the surprise, even though thus +tempered, was almost too much for her self-possession. + +Mr. Stuyvesant did not wait for the inevitable embarrassment of the +moment to betray itself in words. “Mr. Sylvester,” said he, to the young +cashier, “we have just received a piece of news from the bank, that +throws unexpected light upon the robbery we were discussing yesterday. +Hopgood has absconded, and acknowledges here in writing that he had +something to do with the theft!” + +“Hopgood, the janitor!” The exclamation was directed not to Mr. +Stuyvesant but to Mr. Sylvester, towards whom Bertram turned with looks +of amazement. + +“Yes, it is the greatest surprise I ever received,” returned that +gentleman. + +“And Mr. Sylvester,” continued Mr. Stuyvesant, with nervous rapidity and +a generous attempt to speak lightly, “there is a little lady here who is +so shaken by the news, that nothing short of a word of reassurance on +your part will comfort her.” + +Bertram’s eye followed that of Mr. Stuyvesant, and fell upon the +blushing cheek of Cicely. With a flushing of his own brow, he stepped +hastily forward. + +“Miss Stuyvesant!” he cried, and looking down in her face, forgot +everything else in his infinite joy and satisfaction. + +“Yes,” announced the father with abrupt decision, “she is yours; you +have fairly earned her.” + +Bertram bowed his head with irrepressible emotion, and for a moment the +silence of perfect peace if not of awe, reigned over the apartment; but +suddenly a low, determined “No!” was heard, and Bertram turning towards +Mr. Stuyvesant, exclaimed, “You are very good, and the joy of this +moment atones for many an hour of grief and impatience; but I have not +earned her yet. The fact that Hopgood admits to having had something to +do with the robbery, does not sufficiently exonerate the officers of the +bank from all connection with the affair, to make it safe or honorable +in me to unqualifiedly accept the inestimable boon of your daughter’s +regard. Till the real culprit is in custody and the mystery entirely +cleared away, my impatience must continue to curb itself. I love your +daughter too dearly to bring her anything but the purest of reputations. +Am I not right, Miss Stuyvesant?” + +She cast a glance at her father, and bowed her head. “You are right,” +she repeated. + +And Mr. Stuyvesant, with a visible lightening of his whole aspect, took +the young man by the hand, and with as much geniality as his nature +would allow, informed him that he was at last convinced that his +daughter had made no mistake when she expressed her trust in Bertram +Sylvester. + +And in other eyes than Cicely’s, shone the light of satisfied love and +unswerving faith. + + + + +XLV. + +“THE HOUR OF SIX IS SACRED.” + + “Mightier far + Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway + Of magic potent over sun and star, + Is love, though oft to agony distrest, + And though its favorite seat be feeble woman’s breast.” + + —WORDSWORTH. + + +It was at the close of a winter afternoon. Paula who had returned to +Grotewell for the few weeks preceding her marriage, sat musing in the +window of her aunt’s quaint little parlor. Her eyes were on the fields +before her all rosy with the departing rays of the sun, but her thoughts +were far away. They were with him she best loved—with Cicely, waiting +in patience for the solution of the mystery of the stolen bonds; with +Bertram, eagerly, but as yet vainly, engaged in searching for the +vanished janitor; and last but not least, with that poor, wretched +specimen of humanity moaning away her life in a New York hospital;—for +the sight of the Japha house, in a walk that day, had reawakened her +most vivid remembrances of Jacqueline. All that had ever been done and +suffered by this forsaken creature, lay on her heart like a weight; and +the question which had disturbed her since her return to Grotewell, +viz., whether or not she ought to acquaint Mrs. Hamlin with the fact +that she had seen and spoken to the object of her love and prayers, +pressed upon her mind with an insistence that required an answer. There +was so much to be said for and against it. Mrs. Hamlin was not well, and +though still able to continue her vigil, showed signs of weakening, day +by day. It might be a comfort to her to know that another’s eyes had +rested on the haggard form for whose approach she daily watched; that +another’s kiss had touched the scarred and pallid forehead she longed to +fold against her breast; that the woman she loved and of whose fate she +had no intimation, was living and well cared for, though her shelter was +that of a hospital, and her prospects those of the grave. + +On the other hand, the awful nature of the circumstances which had +brought her to her present condition, were such as to make any generous +heart pause before shocking the love and trust of such a woman as Mrs. +Hamlin, by a relation of the criminal act by which Jacqueline had slain +her child and endangered her own existence. Better let the poor old lady +go on hoping against hope till she sinks into her grave, than destroy +life and hope at once by a revelation of her darling’s reckless +depravity. + +And yet if the poor creature in the hospital might be moved to +repentance by some word from Mrs. Hamlin, would it not be a kindness to +the latter to allow her, though even at the risk of her life, to +accomplish the end for which she indeed professed to live? + +The mind of Paula was as yet undecided, when a child from the village +passed the window, and seeing her sitting there, handed her a small +package with the simple message that Mrs. Hamlin was very ill. It +contained, as she anticipated, the great key to the Japha mansion, and +understanding without further words, what was demanded of her, Paula +prepared to keep the promise she had long ago made to this devoted +woman. For though she knew the uselessness of the vigil proposed to her, +she none the less determined to complete it. Easier to sit an hour in +that dark old house, than to explain herself to Mrs. Hamlin. Besides, +the time was good for prayer, and God knows the wretched object of all +this care and anxiety, stood in need of all the petitions that might be +raised for her. + +Telling her aunts that she had a call to make in the village, she glided +hurriedly away, and ere she realized all to which she was committed, +found herself standing in the now darkened streets, before the grim door +of that dread and mysterious mansion. Never had it looked more +forbidding; never had the two gruesome poplars cast a deeper shadow, or +rustled with a more woful sound in the chill evening air. The very +windows seemed to repel her with their darkened panes, behind which she +could easily imagine the spirits of the dead, moving and peering. A +chill not unlike that of terror, assailed her limbs, and it was with a +really heroic action that she finally opened the gate and glided up the +path made by the daily steps of her aged friend. To thrust the big key +into the lock required another effort, but that once accomplished, she +stilled every tumultuous beating of her heart, by crying under her +breath, “She has done this for one whom she has not seen for fifteen +years; shall I then hesitate, who know the real necessity of her for +whom this hour is made sacred?” + +The slow swinging open of the door was like an ushering into the abode +of ghosts, but she struck a light at once, and soon had the satisfaction +of beholding the dismal room with its weird shadows, resolve into its +old and well remembered aspect. The ancient cabinet and stiff hair-cloth +sofa, Colonel Japha’s chair by the table, together with all the other +objects that had attracted her attention in her former visit, confronted +her again with the same appearance of standing ready and waiting, which +had previously so thrilled her. Only she was alone this time, and terror +mingled with her awe. She scarcely dared to glance at the doors that led +to other portions of the house. In her present mood it would seem so +natural for them to swing open, and let upon her horrified gaze the +stately phantom of the proud old colonel or the gentler shade of +Jacqueline’s mother. The moan of the wind in the chimney was dreadful to +her, and the faint rumbling sounds of mice scampering in the walls, made +her start as though a voice had spoken. + +But presently the noise of a sleigh careering by the house recalled her +to herself, and remembering it was but early night-fall, she sat down in +a chair by the door, and prepared to keep her vigil with suitable +patience and equanimity. Suddenly she recollected the clock on the +mantel-piece and how she had seen Mrs. Hamlin wind it, and rising up, +she followed her example, sighing unconsciously to find how many of the +sixty minutes had yet to tick themselves away, “Can I endure it!” she +thought, and shuddered as she pictured to herself the dim old staircase +behind those doors, and the empty rooms above, and the little Bible +lying thicker than ever with dust, on the yellowed pillows of +Jacqueline’s bed. + +Suddenly she stood still; the noise she had just heard, was not made by +the pattering of mice along the rafters, or even the creaking of the +withered vines that clung against the walls! It was a human sound, a +clicking as of the gate without, a crunching as of feet dragging slowly +over the snow. Was Mrs. Hamlin coming after all, or—she could not +formulate her fear; a real and palpable danger from the outside world +had never crossed her fancy till now. What if some stranger should +enter, some tramp, some—a step on the porch without made her hair rise +on her forehead; she clasped her hands and stood trembling, when a +sudden moan startled her ears, followed by the sound of a heavy fall on +the threshold, and throwing aside all hesitation, she flung herself +forward, and tearing open the door, saw—oh, angels that rejoice in +heaven over one sinner that repenteth, let your voices go up in praise +this night, for Jacqueline Japha has returned to the home of her +fathers! + +She had fainted, and lay quite still on the threshold, but Paula, who +was all energy now, soon had her in the centre of the sitting-room, and +was applying to her such restoratives as had been provided against this +very emergency. She was holding the poor weary head on her knee, when +the wan eyes opened, and looking up, grew wild with a disappointment +which Paula was quick to appreciate. + +“You are looking for Margery,” said she. “Margery will come by-and-by; +she is not well to-night and I am taking her place, but when she hears +you have returned, it will take more than sickness to keep her to her +bed. I am Paula, and I love you, too, and welcome you—oh, welcome you +so gladly.” + +The yearning look which had crept into the woman’s bleared and faded +eyes, deepened and softened strangely. + +“You are the one who told me about Margery,” said she, “and bade me +bring my baby here to be buried. I remember, though I seemed to pay no +heed then. Night and day through all my pain, I have remembered, and as +soon as I could walk, stole away from the hospital. It has killed me, +but I shall at least die in my father’s house.” + +Paula stooped and kissed her. “I am going to get your bed ready,” said +she. And without any hesitation now, she opened the door that led into +those dim inner regions that but a few minutes before had inspired her +with such dread. + +She went straight to Jacqueline’s room. “It must all be according to +Mrs. Hamlin’s wishes,” she cried, and lit the fire on the hearth, and +pulled back the curtains yet farther from the bed, and gave the benefit +of her womanly touch to the various objects about her, till cheerfulness +seemed to reign in a spot once so peopled with hideous memories. Going +back to Jacqueline, she helped her to rise, and throwing her arm about +her waist, led her into the hall. But here memory, ghastly accusing +memory, stepped in, and catching the wretched woman in its grasp, shook +her, body and soul, till her shrieks reverberated through that desolate +house. But Paula with gentle persistence urged her on, and smiling upon +her like an angel of peace and mercy, led her up step after step of that +dreadful staircase, till at last she saw her safely in the room of her +early girlhood. + +The sight of it seemed at first to horrify but afterwards to soothe the +forlorn being thus brought face to face with her own past. She moved +over to the fire and held out her two cramped hands to the blaze, as if +she saw an altar of mercy in its welcoming glow. From these she passed +tottering and weak to the embroidery-frame, which she looked at for a +moment with something almost like a smile; but she hurried by the +mirror, and scarcely glanced at a portrait of herself which hung on the +wall over her head. To sink on the bed seemed to be her object, and +thither Paula accompanied her. But when she came to where it stood, and +saw the clothes turned down and the pillows heaped at the head, and the +little Bible lying open for her in the midst, she gave a great and +mighty sob, and flinging herself down upon her knees, wept with a +breaking up of her whole nature, in which her sins, red though they were +as crimson, seemed to feel the touch of the Divine love, and vanish away +in the oblivion He prepares for all His penitent ones. + +When everything was prepared and Jacqueline was laid quiet in bed, Paula +stole out and down the stairs and wended her way to Mrs. Hamlin’s +cottage. She found her sitting up, but far from well, and very feeble. +At the first sight of Paula’s face, she started erect and seem to forget +her weakness in a moment. + +“What is it?” she asked; “you look as though you had been gazing on the +faces of angels. Has—has my hope come true at last? Has Jacqueline +returned? Oh, has my poor, lost, erring child come back?” + +Paula drew near and gently steadied Mrs. Hamlin’s swaying form. “Yes,” +she smiled; and with the calmness of one who has entered the gates of +peace, whispered in low and reverent tones: “She lies in the bed that +you spread for her, with the Bible held close to her breast.” + + * * * * * + +There are moments when the world about us seems to pause; when the +hopes, fears and experiences of all humanity appear to sway away and +leave us standing alone in the presence of our own great hope or +scarcely comprehended fear. Such a moment was that which saw Paula +re-enter Jacqueline’s presence with Mrs. Hamlin at her side. + +Leaving the latter near the door, she went towards the bed. Why did she +recoil and glance back at Mrs. Hamlin with that startled and +apprehensive look? The face of Jacqueline was changed—changed as only +one presence could change it, though the eyes were clearer than when she +left her a few minutes before, and the lips were not without the shadow +of a smile. + +“She is dying,” whispered Paula, coming back to Mrs. Hamlin; “dying, and +you have waited so long!” + +But the look that met hers from that aged face, was not one of grief; +and startled, she knew not why, Paula drew aside, while Mrs. Hamlin +crossed the room and quietly knelt down by her darling’s side. + +“Margery!” + +“Jacqueline!” + +The two cries rang through the room, then all was quiet again. + +“You have come back!” were the next words Paula heard. “How could I ever +have doubted that you would!” + +“I have been driven back by awful suffering,” was the answer; and +another silence fell. Suddenly Jacqueline’s voice was heard. “Love slew +me, and now love has saved me!” exclaimed she. And there came no answer +to that cry, and Paula felt the shadow of a great awe settle down upon +her, and moving nearer to where the aged woman knelt by her darling’s +bedside, she looked in her bended face and then in the one upturned on +the pillow, and knew that of all the hearts that but an instant before +had beat with earth’s deepest emotion in that quiet room, one alone +throbbed on to thank God and take courage. + +And the fire which had been kindled to welcome the prodigal back, burned +on; and from the hollow depths of the great room below, came the sound +of a clock as it struck the hour, seven! + + + + +XLVI. + +THE MAN CUMMINS. + + “Oh day and night, but this is wondrous strange.”—HENRY V. + + “Shut up in measureless content.”—OTHELLO. + + +The lights were yet shining in Mr. Stuyvesant’s parlors, though the +guests were gone, who but a short time before had assembled there to +witness the marriage of Cicely’s dear friend, Paula. + +At one end of the room stood Mr. Sylvester and Bertram, the former +gazing with the eyes of a bridegroom, at the delicate white-clad figure +of Paula, just leaving the apartment with Cicely. + +“I have but one cause for regret,” said Mr. Sylvester as the door +closed. “I could have wished that you and Cicely had participated in our +joy and received the minister’s benediction at the same moment as +ourselves.” + +“Yes,” said Bertram with a short sigh. “But it will come in time. It +cannot be but that our efforts must finally succeed. I have just had a +new idea; that of putting the watchman on the hunt for Hopgood. They are +old friends, and he ought to know all the other’s haunts and possible +hiding-places.” + +“If Fanning could have helped us, he would have told us long ago. He +knows that Hopgood is missing and that we are ready to pay well for any +information concerning him.” + +“But they are old cronies, and possibly Fanning is keeping quiet out of +consideration for his friend.” + +“No; I have had a talk with Fanning, and there was no mistaking his look +of surprise when told the other had run away under suspicion of being +connected with a robbery on the bank’s effects. He knows no more of +Hopgood than we do, or his wife does, or the police even. It is a +strange mystery, and one to which I fear we shall never obtain the key. +But don’t let me discourage you; after a suitable time Mr. Stuyvesant +will—” + +He paused, for that gentleman was approaching him. + +“There is a man outside who insists upon seeing me; says he knows there +has just been a wedding here, but that the matter he has to communicate +is very important, and won’t bear putting off. The name on his card is +Cummins; I am afraid I shall have to admit him, that is, if you have no +objection?” + +Mr. Sylvester and Bertram at once drew back with ready acquiescence. +They had scarcely taken their stand at the other end of the apartment, +when the man came in. He was of robust build, round, precise and +business-like. He had taken off his hat, but still wore his overcoat; +his face in spite of a profusion of red whiskers and a decided pair of +goggles, was earnest and straightforward. He walked at once up to Mr. +Stuyvesant. + +“Your pardon,” said he, in a quick tone. “But I hear you have been +somewhat exercised of late over the disappearance of certain bonds from +one of the boxes in the Madison Bank. I am a detective, and in the +course of my duty have come upon a few facts that may help to explain +matters.” + +Mr. Sylvester and Bertram at once started forward; this was a topic that +demanded their attention as well as that of the master of the house. + +The man cast them a quick look from behind his goggles, and seeming to +recognize them, included them in his next question. + +“What do you think of the watchman, Fanning?” + +“Think? we don’t think,” uttered Mr. Stuyvesant sharply. “He has been in +the employ of the bank for twelve years, and we know him to be honest.” + +“Yet he is the man who stole your bonds.” + +“Impossible!” + +“The very man.” + +Mr. Sylvester stepped up to him. “Who are you, and how do you know +this?” + +“I have said my name is Cummins, and I know this, because I have wormed +myself into the man’s confidence and have got the bonds, together with +his confession, here in my pocket.” And he drew out the long lost bonds, +which he handed to their owner, with a bit of paper on which was +in-scribed in the handwriting of the watchman, an acknowledgment to the +effect that he, alone and unassisted, had perpetrated the robbery which +had raised such scandal in the bank and led to the disappearance of +Hopgood. + +“And the man himself?” cried Bertram, when they had all read this. +“Where is he?” + +“Oh, I allowed him to escape.” + +Mr. Sylvester frowned. + +“There is something about this I don’t understand,” said he. “How came +you to take such an interest in this matter; and why did you let the man +escape after acknowledging his crime?” + +With a quick, not undignified action, Cummins stepped back. “Gentlemen,” +said he, “it is allowable in a detective in the course of his duty, to +resort to means for eliciting the truth, that in any other cause and for +any other purpose, would be denominated as unmanly, if not mean and +contemptible. When I heard of this robbery, as I did the day after its +perpetration, my mind flew immediately to the watchman as the possible +culprit. I did not know that he had done the deed, and I did not see how +he could have possessed the means of doing it, but I had been acquainted +with him for some time, and certain expressions which I had overheard +him use—expressions that had passed over me lightly at the time, now +recurred to my mind with startling distinctness. ‘If a man knew the +combination of the vault door, how easily he could make himself rich +from the contents of those boxes!’ was one, I remember; and another, ‘I +have worked in the bank for twelve years and have not so much money laid +up against a rainy day, as would furnish Mr. Sylvester in cigars for a +month.’ The fact that he had no opportunity to learn the combination, +was the only stumbling-block in the way of my conclusions. But that +obstacle was soon removed. In a talk with the janitor’s wife—a good +woman, sirs, but a trifle conceited—I learned that he had once had the +very opportunity of which I speak, provided he was smart enough to +recognize the fact. The way it came about was this. Hopgood, who always +meant to do about the right thing, as I know, was one morning very sick, +so sick that when the time came for him to go down and open the vaults +for the day, he couldn’t stir from his bed, or at least thought he +couldn’t. Twice had the watchman rung for him, and twice had he tried to +get up, only to fall back again on his pillow. At last the call became +imperative; the clerks would soon be in, and the books were not even in +readiness for them. Calling his wife to him, he asked if she thought she +could open the vault door provided she knew the combination. She +returned a quite eager, ‘yes,’ being a naturally vain woman and moreover +a little sore over the fact that her husband never entrusted her with +any of his secrets. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘listen to those three numbers that +I give you; and turn the knob accordingly,’ explaining the matter in a +way best calculated to enlighten her as to what she had to do. She +professed herself as understanding perfectly and went off in quite a +flutter of satisfaction to accomplish her task. But though he did not +know it at the time, it seems that her heart failed her when she got +into the hall, and struck with fear lest she should forget the numbers +before she got to the foot of the stairs, she came back, and carefully +wrote them down on a piece of paper, armed with which she started for +the second time to fulfil her task. The watchman was in the bank when +she entered, and to his expressions of surprise, she answered that her +husband was ill and that she was going to open the vaults. He offered to +help her, but she stared at him with astonishment, and waiting till he +had walked to the other end of the bank, proceeded to the vault door, +and after carefully consulting the paper in her hand, was about to turn +the knob as directed, when Hopgood himself came into the room. He was +too anxious, he said, to keep in bed, and though he trembled at every +step, came forward and accomplished the task himself. He did not see the +paper in his wife’s hand, nor notice her when she tore it up and threw +the pieces in the waste-basket near-by, but the watchman may have +observed her, and as it afterwards proved, did; and thus became +acquainted with the combination that unlocked the outer vault doors.” + +“Humph!” broke in Mr. Sylvester, “if this is true, why didn’t Hopgood +inform me of the matter when I questioned him so closely?” + +“Because he had forgotten the circumstance. He was in a fever at the +time, and having eventually unlocked the vault himself, lost sight of +the fact that he had previously sent his wife to do it. He went back to +his bed after the clerks came in, and did not get up again till night. +He may have thought the whole occurrence part of the delirium which more +than once assailed him that day.” + +“I remember his being sick,” said Bertram; “it was two or three days +before the robbery.” + +“The very day before,” corrected the man; “but let me tell my story in +my own way. Having learned from Mrs. Hopgood of this opportunity which +had been given to Fanning, I made up my mind to sift the matter. Being +as I have said a friend of his, I didn’t, want to peach on him unless he +was guilty. To blast an honest man’s reputation, is, I think, one of the +meanest tricks of which a fellow can be guilty: but the truth I had to +know, and in order to learn it, a deep and delicate game was necessary. +Gentlemen, when the police have strong suspicions against a person whose +reputation is above reproach and whose conduct affords no opportunity +for impeachment, they set a springe for him. One of their number +disguises himself, and making the acquaintance of this person, +insinuates himself by slow degrees—often at the cost of months of +effort—into his friendship and if possible into his confidence. ’Tis a +detestable piece of business, but it is all that will serve in some +cases, and has at least the merit of being as dangerous as it is +detestable. This plan, I undertook with Fanning. Changing my appearance +to suit the necessities of the case, I took board in the small house in +Brooklyn where he puts up, and being well acquainted with his tastes, +knew how to adapt myself to his liking. He was a busy man, and being +obliged by his duties to turn night into day, had not much time to +bestow upon me or any one else; but heedful of this, I managed to make +the most of the spare moments that saw us together, and ere long we were +very good comrades, and further on, very good friends. The day when I +first ventured to suggest that honesty was all very well as long as it +paid, was a memorable one to me. In that cast of the die I was either to +win or lose the game I had undertaken. I won. After a feint or two, to +see if I were in earnest, he fell into the net, and though he did not +commit himself then, it was not long before he came to me, and +deliberately requested my assistance in disposing of some bonds which he +was smart enough to acquire, but not daring enough to attempt to sell. +Of course the whole story came out, and I was sympathetic enough till I +got the bonds into my hands, then—But I leave you to imagine what +followed. Enough that I wrung this confession from him, and that in +consideration of the doubtful game I had played upon him, let him go +where he is by this time beyond the chance of pursuit.” + + +“But your duty to your superior; your oath as a member of the force?” + +“My superior is here!” said the man pointing to Mr. Sylvester; “an +unconscious one I own, but still my superior; and as for my being a +member of the force, that was true five years ago, but not to-day.” And +brushing off his whiskers with one hand and taking off his goggles with +the other, Hopgood, the janitor, stood before them! + + * * * * * + +It was a radiant figure that met Cicely, when she came down stairs with +Paula, and a joyous group that soon surrounded the now blushing and +embarrassed janitor, with questions and remarks concerning this great +and unexpected development of affairs. But the fervor with which Mr. +Stuyvesant clasped Bertram’s hand, and the look with which Cicely turned +from her young lover to bestow a final kiss upon the departing bride, +was worth all the pains and self-denial of the last few weeks—or so the +janitor thought, who with a quicker comprehension than usual, had +divined the situation and rejoiced in the result. But the most curious +thing of all was to observe how, with the taking off of his goggles, +Hopgood had relapsed into his old shrinking, easily embarrassed self. +The man who but a few minutes before had related in their hearing a +clear and succinct narrative, now shrank if a question was put him, and +stammered in quite his ancient fashion, when he answered Mr. Sylvester’s +shake of the hand, by a hurried: + +“I am going to see my wife now, sir. She’s a good woman, if a little +flighty, and will be the last one in the future to beg me to put more +confidence in her. Will you tell me where she is, sir?” + +Mr. Sylvester informed him; then added, “But look here, Hopgood, answer +me one thing before you go. Why is it that with such talents as you +possess, you didn’t stay in the police force? You are a regular genius +in your way, and ought not to drone away your existence as a janitor.” + +“Ah, sir,” replied the other, shaking his head, “a man who is only +capable of assuming one disguise, isn’t good for much as a professional +detective. Goggles and red whiskers will deceive one rogue, but not +fifty. My eyes were my bane, sir, and ultimately cost me my place. While +I could cover them up I was all right. It not only made a man of me, +leaving me free to talk and freer to think, but disguised me so, my best +friends couldn’t recognize me; but after awhile my goggles were too well +known for me to be considered of much further use to the department, and +I was obliged to send in my resignation. It is too bad, but I have no +versatility, sir. I’m either the clumsy, stammering creature you have +always known, or else I am the man Cummins you saw here a few minutes +ago.” + +“In either case an honest fellow,” answered Mr. Sylvester, and allowed +the janitor to depart. + + * * * * * + +One more scene, and this in the house which Paula is henceforth to make +a home for herself and its once melancholy owner. They have come back +from their wedding-journey, and are standing in their old fashion, he at +the foot, and she half way up the stairs. Suddenly she turns and +descends to his side. + +“No, I will not wait,” said she. “Here, on this spot we both love so +well, and in this the first hour of our return, I will unburden my mind +of what I have to say. Edward, is there nothing of all the past that +still rests upon you like a shadow? Not one little regret you could wish +taken away?” + +“No,” said he, enfolding her in his arms with a solemn smile. “The great +gift which I hold is the fruit of that past, perhaps; I cannot wish it +changed.” + +“But the sense of obligation never fulfilled, would you not be happier +if that were removed?” + +“Perhaps,” he said, “but it cannot be now. I shall have to live without +being perfectly happy.” + +She lifted her face and her smile shone like a star. “Oh God is good,” +she cried, “you shall not lack being perfectly happy;” and taking a +little paper out of her pocket she put it in his hand. “We found that +hidden in Jacqueline Japha’s breast, when we went to lay her out for +burial.” + +It was only a line; but it made Mr. Sylvester’s brow flush and his voice +tremble. + + * * * * * + +“Whatever I own, and I have been told that I am far from penniless, I +desire to have given to the dear and disinterested girl that first told +me of Margery Hamlin’s vigil.” + + * * * * * + +“Paula, Paula, Paula, thou art indeed my good gift! May God make me +worthy of your love and of this His last and most unexpected mercy!” + +And the look which crossed her face, was that sweet and unearthly +radiance which speaks of perfect peace. + + + + +PUBLICATIONS OF G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS. + + +THE LEAVENWORTH CASE. By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN. + + “Wilkie Collins, in his best period, never invented a more + ingeniously constructed plot, nor held the reader in such + suspense until the final _denoûment_. The most blasé + novel-reader will be unable to put aside ‘The Leavenworth Case’ + until he has read the last sentence and mastered the mystery + which has baffled him from the beginning.”—_N. Y. Evening + Express._ + +A MAN’S A MAN FOR A’ THAT. + + “A novel of decided excellence. * * * Contains delicate and + charming work. Thoroughly clever * * * Its spirit is one of + robust and healthy enthusiasm for manliness and + womanliness.”—_N. Y. Evening Post._ + +THE BRETON MILLS: A ROMANCE OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE. By CHARLES J. BELLAMY. + + + “Nothing from the pen of Mrs. Burnett was ever more intensely + dramatic.”—_Jackson Daily Citizen._ + + “Looked at from a purely literary point of view it is almost + faultless. It shows a hand both of culture and + power.”—_Detroit Evening News._ + +CUPID AND THE SPHINX. By HARFORD FLEMMING. + + “Its characters are skilfully drawn, its incidents well + conceived, the dialogues brilliant, and the story told with + ease and gracefulness.”—_Boston Transcript._ + + “The suggestion of the story is extremely beautiful, and its + treatment graceful and enchanting throughout.”—_Hartford + Evening Post._ + +A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE. By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN. + + “Wilkie Collins would not need to be ashamed of the + construction of this story. * * * It keeps the reader’s close + attention from first to last.”—_N. Y. Evening Post._ + + “Shows the same skill as ‘The Leavenworth Case’ in the + management of the plot and the incidents.”—_Boston + Transcript._ + +THE HEART OF IT: A Romance of East and West. By WILLIAM O. STODDARD. + + “Uncommonly good reading, even for that uncommonly readable + Series.”—_Philadelphia Times._ + + “An American novel, dealing with a few well-chosen characters + and involving a striking and original plot. * * * A thoroughly + entertaining piece of fiction.”—_Boston Traveller._ + +UNCLE JACK’S EXECUTORS. By ANNETTE LUCILLE NOBLE. + + “Comes from a writer of unusual talent. * * * Remarkable for + its sketches of character, its naturalness, its frequent + flashes of intellectual brightness, and its genuine humor. * * + * One of the best novels of the season and deserving of a + permanent place among works of genuine American fiction.”—_The + Churchman._ + +THE STRANDED SHIP: A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE. By L. CLARKE DAVIS. + + “Full of the finest dramatic action. * * * The work of a man of + firm genius and exquisite delicacy of touch.”—_N. Y. Evening + Post._ + +NESTLENOOK. By LEONARD KIP, Author of “The Dead Marquise,” “Under the +Bells,” etc. + + Of “The Dead Marquise” the _Boston Globe_ writes: “The book is + admirable and its style almost perfect in its transparent + simplicity.” + + + + +THE TRANS-ATLANTIC SERIES. + +I. CAPTAIN FRACASSE. By THEOPHILE GAUTIER. Translated by E. M. BEAM. + + Of Le Capitaine Fracasse, Henry James, Jr., writes: “In this + delightful work Gautier surpassed himself, and produced the + model of picturesque romances. * * * The great charm of the + book is a sort of combined geniality of feeling and coloring, + which leaves one in doubt whether the author is the most joyous + of painters or the cleverest of poets. * * * Le Capitaine + Fracasse ranks, in our opinion, with the first works of + imagination produced in our day.” + + “A masterpiece of literary art.”—_N. Y. Nation._ + + “The translation is most admirable.”—_Troy Whig._ + +II. THE AMAZON. By FRANZ DINGELSTEDT. Translated by JAS. MORGAN HART. + + “Full of scintillations of wit. * * * Sparkles throughout with + vivacity and sparkling humor.”—_Leipsic Blätter für Lit. Unt._ + + “A delightful novel, characterized by force and fire, strong + dramatic power, and rare skill in its analysis of human motives + and character.”—_Philadelphia Times._ + +MOTHER MOLLY. By FRANCES MARY PEARD. + + “The book is charming; and, more than this, it is a + well-finished historical study of stirring + times.”—_Philadelphia Times._ + + “It deserves to rank among the best English stories of the + year.”—_Louisville Courier-Journal._ + +THE LOST CASKET. Translated from _“La Main Coupée”_ of F. de BOISGOBEY +by S. LEE. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 33301 *** |