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?’