“I looked at him; he returned my gaze with a cold nonchalence more

suggestive of a deep laid purpose, than even his previous glance of

feverish determination. I immediately let my eye run over his scanty

clothing and loose flowing hair and beard. ‘Yes,’ said I, with as much

sarcasm as I knew how to assume, ‘if you dare risk the consequences, I

think I may.’ He at once drew himself up. ‘You think,’ said he, ‘that

you have a common-place adventurer to deal with; that my appearance is

going to testify in your favor; that you have but to deny any accusation

which such a hungry-looking, tattered wretch as I, may make, and that I

shall be ignominiously kicked out of the presence into which I have

forced myself; that in short I have been building my castle in the air.

Mr. Sylvester, I am a poor devil but I am no fool. When I left Dey

Street on the twenty-fifth of February two years ago, it was with a

sealed paper in my pocket, in which was inscribed all that I had heard

on that day. This I took to a lawyer’s office, and not being, as I have

before said, quite as impecunious in those days as at present, succeeded

in getting the lawyer, whom I took care should be a most respectable

man, to draw up a paper to the effect that I had entrusted him with this

statement—of whose contents he however knew nothing—on such a day and

hour, to which paper a gentleman then present, consented at my

respectful solicitation to affix his name as witness, which gentleman,

strange to say, has since proved to be a director of the bank of which

you are the present cashier, and consequently the very man of all others

best adapted to open the paper whose seal you profess to be so willing

to see broken.’

“‘His name!’ It was all that I could say. ‘Stuyvesant,’ cried the man,

fixing me with his eye in which I in vain sought for some signs of

secret doubt or unconscious wavering. I rose; the position in which I

found myself was too overwhelming for instant decision. I needed time

for reflection, possibly advice—from you. A resolution to brave the

devil must be founded on something more solid than impulse, to hold its

own unmoved. I only stopped to utter one final word and ask one leading

question. ‘You are a smart man,’ said I, ‘and you are also a villain.

Your smartness would give you food and drink, if you exercised it in a

manner worthy of a man, but your villainy if persisted in, will

eventually rob you of both, and bring you to the prison’s cell or the

hangman’s gallows. As for myself, I persist in saying that I am now and

always have been an honest man, whatever you may have overheard or find

yourself capable of swearing to. Yet a lie is an inconvenient thing to

have uttered against you at any time, and I may want to see you again;

if I do, where shall I find you?’ He thrust his hand into his pocket and

drew out a small slip of folded paper, which he passed to me with a bow

that Chesterfield would have admired. ‘You will find it written within,’

said he ‘I shall look for you any time to-morrow, up to seven o’clock.

At that hour the lawyer of whom I have spoken, sends the statement which

he has in his possession to Mr. Stuyvesant.’ I nodded my assent, and he

moved slowly towards the door. As he did so, his eyes fell upon a roll

of bread lying on a counter. I at once stepped forward and bought it.

Vile as he was, and deadly as was the snare he contemplated drawing

about me, I could not see that wolfish look of hunger, and not offer him

something to ease it. He took the loaf from my hands and bit greedily

into it but suddenly paused, and shook his head with a look like

self-reproach, and thrusting the loaf under his arm, turned towards the

door with the quick action of one escaping. Instantly, and before he was

out of sight or hearing, I drew the attention of the proprietor to him.

‘Do you see that man?’ I asked. ‘He has been attempting a system of

blackmail upon me.’ And satisfied with thus having provided a witness

able of identifying the man, in case of an emergency, I left the

building.

“And now you know it all,” concluded he; and the silence that followed

the utterance of those simple words, was a silence that could be felt.

* * * * *

“Bertram?”

The young man started from his fixed position, and his eyes slowly

traversed toward his uncle.

“Have you that slip of paper which the man gave you before departing?”

“Yes,” said he.

“Let me have it, if you please.”

The young man with an agitated look, plunged his hand into his pocket,

drew out the small note and laid it on the table between them. Mr.

Sylvester let it lie, and again there was a silence.

“If this had happened at any other time,” Bertram pursued, “one could

afford to let the man have his say; but now, just as this other mystery

has come up—”

“I don’t believe in submitting to blackmail,” came from his uncle in

short, quick tones.

Bertram gave a start. “You then advise me to leave him alone?” asked he,

with unmistakable emotion.

His uncle dropped the hand which till now he had held before his face,

and hastily confronted his nephew. “You will have enough to do to attend

to the other matter without bestowing any time or attention upon this.

The man that robbed Mr. Stuyvesant’s box, can be found and must. It is

the one indispensable business to which I now delegate you. No amount of

money and no amount of diligence is to be spared. I rely on you to carry

the affair to a successful termination. Will you undertake the task?”

“Can you ask?” murmured the young man, with a shocked look at his

uncle’s changed expression.

“As to this other matter, we will let it rest for to-night. To-morrow’s

revelations may be more favorable than we expect. At all events let us

try and get a little rest now; I am sure we are both in a condition to

need it.”

Bertram rose. “I am at your command,” said he, and moved to go. Suddenly

he turned, and the two men stood face to face. “I have no wish,” pursued

he, “to be relieved of my burden at the expense of any one else. If it

is to be borne by any one, let it be carried by him who is young and

stalwart enough to sustain it.” And his hand went out involuntarily

towards his uncle.

Mr. Sylvester took that hand and eyed his nephew long and earnestly.

Bertram thought he was going to speak, and nerved himself to meet with

fortitude whatever might be said. But the lips which Mr. Sylvester had

opened, closed firmly, and contenting himself with a mere wring of his

nephew’s hand, he allowed him to go. The slip of paper remained upon the

table unopened.

* * * * *

That night as Paula lay slumbering on her pillow, a sound passed through

the house. It was like a quick irrepressible cry of desolation, and the

poor child hearing it, started, thinking her name had been called. But

when she listened, all was still, and believing she had dreamed, she

turned her face upon her pillow, and softly murmuring the name that was

dearest to her in all the world, fell again into a peaceful sleep.

But he whose voice had uttered that cry in the dreary emptiness of the

great parlors below, slept not.

XXXVI.

MORNING.

“Two maidens by one fountain’s joyous brink,

And one was sad and one had cause for sadness.”

Cicely Stuyvesant waiting for her father at the foot of the stairs, on

the morning after these occurrences, was a pretty and a touching

spectacle. She had not slept very well the night before, and her brow

showed signs of trouble and so did her trembling lips. She held in her

hand a letter which she twirled about with very unsteady fingers. The

morning was bright, but she did not seem to observe it; the air was

fresh, but it did not seem to invigorate her. A rose-leaf of care lay on

the tremulous waters of her soul, and her sensitive nature thrilled

under it.

“Why does he not come?” she whispered, looking again at the letter’s

inscription.

It was in Mr. Sylvester’s handwriting, and ought not to have occasioned

her any uneasiness, but her father had intimated a wish the night

before, that she should not come down into the parlor if Bertram called,

and—Her thoughts paused there, but she was anxious about the letter and

wished her father would hasten.

Let us look at the little lady. She had been so bright and lovesome

yesterday at this time. Never a maiden in all this great city of ours

had shown a sweeter or more etherial smile. At once radiant and

reserved, she flashed on the eye and trembled from the grasp like some

dainty tropical creature as yet unused to our stranger clime. Her father

had surveyed her with satisfaction, and her lover—oh, that we were all

young again to experience that leap of the heart with which youth meets

and recognizes the sweet perfections of the woman it adores! But a mist

had obscured the radiance of her aspect, and she looks very sad as she

stands in her father’s hall this morning, leaning her cheek against the

banister, and thinking of the night when three years ago, she lingered

in that very spot, and watched the form of the young musician go by her

and disappear in the darkness of the night, as she then thought forever.

Joy had come to her by such slow steps and after such long waiting. Hope

had burst upon her so brilliantly, and with such a speedy promise of

culmination. She thrilled as she thought how short a time ago it was,

since she leaned upon Bertram’s arm and dropped her eyes before his

gaze.

The appearance of her father at length aroused her. Flushing slightly,

she held the letter towards him.

“A letter for you, papa. I thought you might like to read it before you

went out.”

Mr. Stuyvesant, who for an hour or more had been frowning over his

morning paper with a steady pertinacity that left more than the usual

amount of wrinkles upon his brow, started at the wistful tone of this

announcement from his daughter’s lips, and taking the letter from her

hand, stepped into the parlor to peruse it. It was, as the handwriting

declared, from Mr. Sylvester, and ran thus:

“DEAR MR. STUYVESANT:

“I have heard of your loss and am astounded. Though the Bank is

not liable for any accident to trusts of this nature, both

Bertram and myself are determined to make every effort

possible, to detect and punish the man who either through our

negligence, or by means of the opportunities afforded him under

our present system of management, has been able to commit this

robbery upon your effects. We therefore request that you will

meet us at the bank this morning at as early an hour as

practicable, there to assist us in making such inquiries and

instituting such measures, as may be considered necessary to

the immediate attainment of the object desired.

“Respectfully yours,

“EDWARD SYLVESTER.”

“Is it anything serious?” asked his daughter, coming into the parlor and

looking up into his face with a strange wistfulness he could not fail to

remark.

Mr. Stuyvesant gave her a quick glance, shook his head with some

nervousness and hastily pocketed the epistle. “Business,” mumbled he,

“business.” And ignoring the sigh that escaped her lips, began to make

his preparations for going at once down town.

He was always an awkward man at such matters, and it was her habit to

afford him what assistance she could. This she now did, lending her hand

to help him on with his overcoat, rising on tip-toe to tie his muffler,

and bending her bright head to see that his galoshes were properly

fastened; her charming face with its far-away look, shining strangely

sweet in the dim hall, in contrast with his severe and antiquated

countenance.

He watched her carefully but with seeming indifference till all was done

and he stood ready to depart, then in an awkward enough way—he was not

accustomed to bestow endearments—drew her to him and kissed her on the

forehead; after which he turned about and departed without a word to

season or explain this unwonted manifestation of tenderness.

A kiss was an unusual occurrence in that confiding but undemonstrative

household, and the little maiden trembled. “Something is wrong,” she

murmured half to herself, half to the dim vista of the lonely parlor,

where but a night or so ago had stood the beloved form of him, who, bury

the thought as she would, had become, if indeed he had not always been,

the beginning and the ending of all her maidenly dreams: “what? what?”

And her young heart swelled painfully as she realized like many a woman

before her, that whatever might be her doubts, fears, anguish or

suspense, nothing remained for her but silence and a tedious waiting for

others to recognize her misery and speak.

Meanwhile how was it with her dearest friend and confident, Paula? The

morning, as I have already declared, was bright and exceptionally

beautiful. Sunshine filled the air and freshness invigorated the breeze.

Cicely was blind to it all, but as Paula looked from her window

preparatory to going below, a close observer might have perceived that

the serenity of the cloudless sky was reflected in her beaming eyes,

that peace brooded above her soul and ruled her tender spirit. She had

held a long conversation with Miss Belinda, she had prayed, she had

slept and she had risen with a confirmed love in her heart for the man

who was at once the admiration of her eyes and the well-spring of her

deepest thoughts and wildest longings. “I will show him so plainly what

the angels have told me,” whispered she, “that he will have no need to

ask.” And she wound her long locks into the coil that she knew he best

liked and fixed a rose at her throat, and so with a smile on her lip

went softly down stairs. O the timid eager step of maidenhood when

drawing toward the shrine of all it adores! Could those halls and lofty

corridors have whispered their secret, what a story they would have told

of beating heart and tremulous glance, eager longings, and maidenly

shrinkings, as the lovely form, swaying with a thousand hopes and fears,

glided from landing to landing, carrying with it love and joy and peace.

And trust! As she neared the bronze image that had always awakened such

vague feelings of repugnance on her part, and found its terrors gone and

its smile assuring, she realized that her breast held nothing but faith

in him, who may have sinned in his youth, but who had repented in his

manhood, and now stood clear and noble in her eyes. The assurance was

too sweet, the flood of feeling too overwhelming. With a quick glance

around her, she stopped and flung her arms about the hitherto repellant

bronze, pressing her young breast against the cold metal with a fervor

that ought to have hallowed its sensuous mould forever. Then she hurried

down.

Her first glance into the dining-room brought her a disappointment. Mr.

Sylvester had already breakfasted and gone; only Aunt Belinda sat at the

table. With a slightly troubled brow, Paula advanced to her own place at

the board.

“Mr. Sylvester has urgent business on hand to-day,” quoth her aunt. “I

met him going out just as I came down.”

Her look lingered on Paula as she said this, and if it had not been for

the servants, she would doubtless have given utterance to some further

expression on the matter, for she had been greatly struck by Mr.

Sylvester’s appearance and the sad, firm, almost lofty expression of his

eye, as it met hers in their hurried conversation.

“He is a very busy man,” returned Paula simply, and was silent, struck

by some secret dread she could not have explained. Suddenly she rose;

she had found an envelope beneath her plate, addressed to herself. It

was bulky and evidently contained a key. Hastening behind the curtains

of the window, she opened it. The key was to that secret study of his at

the top of the house, which no one but himself had ever been seen to

enter, and the words that enwrapped it were these:

“If I send you no word to the contrary, and if I do not come

back by seven o’clock this evening, go to the room of which

this is the key, open my desk, and read what I have prepared

for your eyes.

“E. S.”

XXXVII.

THE OPINION OF A CERTAIN NOTED DETECTIVE.

“But still there clung

One hope, like a keen sword on starting threads uphung.”

—REVOLT OF ISLAM.

“Facts are stubborn things.”—ELLIOTT.

Meanwhile Mr. Stuyvesant hasted on his way down town and ere long made

his appearance at the bank. He found Mr. Sylvester and Bertram seated in

the directors’ room, with a portly smooth-faced man whose appearance was

at once strange and vaguely familiar.

“A detective, sir,” explained Mr. Sylvester rising with forced

composure; “a man upon whose judgment I have been told we may rely. Mr.

Gryce, Mr. Stuyvesant.”

The latter gentleman nodded, cast a glance around the room, during which

his eye rested for a moment on Bertram’s somewhat pale countenance, and

nervously took a seat.

“A mysterious piece of business, this,” came from the detective’s lips

in an easy tone, calculated to relieve the tension of embarrassment into

which the entrance of Mr. Stuyvesant seemed to have thrown all parties.

“What were the numbers of the bonds found missing, if you please?”

Mr. Stuyvesant told him.

“You are positively assured these bonds were all in the box when you

last locked it?”

“I am.”

“When was that, sir? On what day and at what hour of the day, if you

please?”

“Tuesday, at about three o’clock, I should say.”

“The box was locked by you? There is no doubt about that fact?”

“None in the least.”

“Where were you standing at the time?”

“In front of the vault door. I had taken out the box myself as I am in

the habit of doing, and had stepped there to put it back.”

“Was any one near you then?”

“Yes. The cashier was at his desk and the teller had occasion to go to

the safe while I stood there. I do not remember seeing any one else in

my immediate vicinity.”

“Do you remember ever going to the vaults and not finding some one near

you at the time or at least in full view of your movements?”

“No.”

“I have informed Mr. Gryce,” interposed Mr. Sylvester, with a ring in

his deep voice that made Mr. Stuyvesant start, “that our chief desire at

present is to have his judgment upon the all important question, as to

whether this theft was committed by a stranger, or one in the employ and

consequently in the confidence of the bank.”

Mr. Stuyvesant bowed, every wrinkle in his face manifesting itself with

startling distinctness as he slowly moved his eyes and fixed them on the

inscrutable countenance of the detective.

“You agree then with these gentlemen,” continued the latter, who had a

way of seeming more interested in everything and everybody present than

the person he was addressing, “that it would be difficult if not

impossible for any one unconnected with the bank, to approach the vaults

during business hours and abstract anything from them without

detection?”

“And do these gentleman both assert that?” queried Mr. Stuyvesant, with

a sharp look from uncle to nephew.

“I believe they do,” replied the detective, as both the gentlemen bowed,

Bertram with an uncontrollable quiver of his lip, and Mr. Sylvester with

a deepening of the lines about his mouth, which may or may not have been

noticed by this man who appeared to observe nothing.

“I should be loth to conclude that the robbery was committed by any one

but a stranger,” remarked Mr. Stuyvesant; “but if these gentlemen concur

in the statement you have just made, I am bound to acknowledge that I do

not myself see how the theft could have been perpetrated by an outsider.

Had the box itself been missing, it would be different. I remember my

old friend Mr. A—, the president of the police department, telling me

of a case where a box containing securities to the amount of two hundred

thousand dollars, was abstracted in full daylight from the vaults of one

of our largest banks; an act requiring such daring, the directors for a

long time refused to believe it possible, until a detective one day

showed them another box of theirs which he had succeeded in abstracting

in the same way.[1] But the vaults in that instance were in a less

conspicuous portion of the bank than ours, besides to approach an open

vault, snatch a box from it and escape, is a much simpler matter than to

remain long enough to open a box and choose from its contents such

papers as appeared most marketable. If a regular thief could do such a

thing, it does not seem probable that he would. Nevertheless the most

acute judgment is often at fault in these matters, and I do not pretend

to have formed an opinion.”

[Footnote 1: A fact.]

The detective who had listened to these words with marked attention,

bowed his concurrence and asked if the bonds mentioned by Mr. Stuyvesant

were all that had been found missing from the bank. If any of the other

boxes had been opened, or if the contents of the safe itself had ever

been tampered with.

“The contents of the safe are all correct,” came in deep tones from Mr.

Sylvester. “Mr. Folger, my nephew and myself went through them this

morning. As for the boxes I cannot say, many of them belong to persons

travelling; some of them have been left here by trustees of estates,

consequently often lie for weeks in the vaults untouched. If however any

of them have been opened, we ought to be able to see it. Would you like

an examination made of their condition?”

The detective nodded.

Mr. Sylvester at once turned to Mr. Stuyvesant. “May I ask you to

mention what officer of the bank you would like to have go to the

vaults?”

That gentleman started, looked uneasily about, but meeting Bertram’s

eye, nervously dropped his own and muttered the name of Folger.

Mr. Sylvester suppressed a sigh, sent for the paying-teller, and

informed him of their wishes. He at once proceeded to the vaults. While

he was gone, Mr. Gryce took the opportunity to make the following

remark.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “let us understand ourselves. What you want of me,

is to tell you whether this robbery has been committed by a stranger or

by some one in your employ. Now to decide this question it is necessary

for me to ask first, whether you have ever had reason to doubt the

honesty of any person connected with the bank?”

“No,” came from Mr. Sylvester with sharp and shrill distinctness. “Since

I have had the honor of conducting the affairs of this institution, I

have made it my business to observe and note the bearing and character

of each and every man employed under me, and I believe them all to be

honest.”

The glance of the detective while it did not perceptibly move from the

large screen drawn across the room at the back of Mr. Sylvester, seemed

to request the opinions of the other two gentlemen on this point.

Bertram observing it, subdued the rapid beatings of his heart and spoke

with like distinctness. “I have been in the bank the same length of time

as my uncle,” said he, “and most heartily endorse his good opinion of

the various persons in our employ.”

“And Mr. Stuyvesant?” the immovable glance seemed to say.

“Men are honest in my opinion till they are proved otherwise,” came in

short stern accents from the director’s lips.

The detective drew back in his chair as if he considered that point

decided, and yet Bertram’s eye which had clouded at Mr. Stuyvesant’s too

abrupt assertion, did not clear again as might have been expected.

“There is one more question I desire to settle,” continued the

detective, “and that is, whether this robbery could have been

perpetrated after business hours, by some one in collusion with the

person who is here left in charge?”

“No;” again came from Mr. Sylvester, with impartial justice. “The

watchman—who by the way has been in the bank for twelve years—could

not help a man to find entrance to the vaults. His simple duty is to

watch over the bank and give alarm in case of fire or burglary. It would

necessitate a knowledge of the combination by which the vault doors are

opened, to do what you suggest, and that is possessed by but three

persons in the bank.”

“And those are?”

“The cashier, the janitor, and myself.”

He endeavored to speak calmly and without any betrayal of the effort it

caused him to utter those simple words, but a detective’s ear is nice

and it is doubtful if he perfectly succeeded.

Mr. Gryce however limited himself to a muttered, humph! and a long and

thoughtful look at a spot on the green baize of the table before which

he sat.

“The janitor lives in the building, I suppose?”

“Yes, and is, as I am sure Mr. Stuyvesant will second me in asserting,

honesty to the back-bone.”

“Janitors always are,” observed the detective; then shortly, “How long

has _he_ been with you?”

“Three years.”

Another “humph!” and an increased interest in the ink spot.

“That is not long, considering the responsibility of his position.”

“He was on the police force before he came to us,” remarked Mr.

Sylvester.

Mr. Gryce looked as if that was not much of a recommendation.

“As for the short time he has been with us,” resumed the other, “he came

into the bank the same winter as my nephew and myself, and has found the

time sufficient to earn the respect of all who know him.”

The detective bowed, seemingly awed by the dignity with which the last

statement had been uttered; but any one who knew him well, would have

perceived that the film of uncertainty which had hitherto dimmed the

brightness of his regard was gone, as if in the other’s impressive

manner, if not in the suggestion his words had unconsciously offered,

the detective had received an answer to some question which had been

puzzling him, or laid his hand upon some clue which had till now eluded

his grasp. The inquiries which he made haste to pursue, betrayed,

however, but little of the tendency of his thoughts.

“The janitor, you say, knows the combination by which the vault doors

are opened?”

“The _vault doors_,” emphasized Mr. Sylvester. “The safe is another

matter; that stands inside the vault and is locked by a triple

combination which as a whole is not known to any one man in this

building, not even to myself.”

“But the boxes are not kept in the safe?”

“No, they are piled up with the books in the vaults at the side of the

safe, as you can see for yourself, if you choose to join Mr. Folger.”

“Not necessary. The janitor, then, is the only man besides yourselves,

who under any circumstances or for any reason, could get at those boxes

after business hours?”

“He is.”

“One question more. Who is the man to attend to those boxes? I mean to

ask, which of the men in your employ is expected to procure a box out of

the vaults when it is called for, and put it back in its place when its

owner is through with it?”

“Hopgood usually does that business, the janitor of whom we have just

been speaking. When he is upstairs or out of the way, any one else whom

it may be convenient to call.”

“The janitor, then, has free access to the boxes at all times, night and

day?”

“In one sense, yes, in another, no. Should he unlock the vaults at

night, the watchman would report upon his proceedings.”

“But there must be time between the closing and opening of the bank,

when the janitor is alone with the vaults?”

“There is a space of two hours after seven in the morning, when he is

likely to be the sole one in charge. The watchman goes home, and Hopgood

employs himself in sweeping out the bank and preparing it for the

business of the day.”

“Are the watchman and the janitor on good terms with one another?”

“Very, I believe.”

The detective looked thoughtful. “I should like to see this Hopgood,”

said he.

But just then the door opened and Mr. Folger came in, looking somewhat

pale and disturbed. “We are in a difficulty,” cried he, stepping up to

the table where they sat. “I have found two of the boxes unlocked; that

belonging to Hicks, Saltzer and Co., and another with the name of

Harrington upon it. The former has been wrenched apart, the latter

opened with some sort of instrument. Would you like to see them, sir?”

This to Mr. Sylvester.

With a start that gentleman rose, and as suddenly reseated himself.

“Yes,” returned he, carefully avoiding his nephew’s eye; “bring them

in.”

“Hicks, Saltzer and Co., is a foreign house,” remarked Mr. Stuyvesant to

the detective, “and do not send for their box once a fortnight, as I

have heard Mr. Sylvester declare. Mr. Harrington is on an exploring

expedition and is at present in South America.” Then in lower tones,

whose sternness was not unmixed with gloom, “The thief seems to have

known what boxes to go to.”

Bertram flushed and made some passing rejoinder; Mr. Sylvester and the

detective alone remained silent.

The boxes being brought in, Mr. Gryce opened them without ceremony.

Several papers met his eye in both, but as no one but the owners could

know their rightful contents, it was of course impossible for him to

determine whether anything had been stolen from them or not.

“Send for the New York agent of Hicks, Saltzer and Co.,” came from Mr.

Sylvester, in short, business-like command.

Bertram at once rose. “I will see to it,” said he. His agitation was too

great for suppression, the expression of Mr. Stuyvesant’s eye, that in

its restlessness wandered in every direction but his own, troubled him

beyond endurance. With a hasty move he left the room. The cold eye of

the detective followed him.

“Looks bad,” came in laconic tones from the paying teller.

“I had hoped the affair begun and ended with my individual loss,”

muttered Mr. Stuyvesant under his breath.

The stately president and the inscrutable detective still maintained

their silence.

Suddenly the latter moved. Turning towards Mr. Sylvester, he requested

him to step with him to the window. “I want to have a look at your

several employees,” whispered he, as they thus withdrew. “I want to see

them without being seen by them. If you can manage to have them come in

here one by one upon some pretext or other, I can so arrange that screen

under the mantel-piece, that it shall not only hide me, but give me a

very good view of their faces in the mirror overhead.”

“There will be no difficulty about summoning the men,” said Mr.

Sylvester.

“And you consent to the scheme?”

“Certainly, if you think anything is to be gained by it.”

“I am sure that nothing will be lost. And sir, let the cashier be

present if you please; and sir,” squeezing his watch chain with a

complacent air, as the other dropped his eyes, “talk to them about

anything that you please, only let it be of a nature that will

necessitate a sentence or more in reply. I judge a man as much by his

voice as his expression.”

Mr. Sylvester bowed, and without losing his self-command, though the

short allusion to Bertram had greatly startled him, turned back to the

table where Mr. Folger was still standing in conversation with the

director.

“I will not detain you longer,” said he to the paying teller. “Your

discretion will prevent you from speaking of this matter, I trust.” Then

as the other bowed, added carelessly, “I have something to say to

Jessup; will you see that he steps here for a moment?”

Mr. Folger again nodded and left the room. Instantly Mr. Gryce bustled

forward, and pulling the screen into the position he thought best

calculated to answer his requirements, slid rapidly behind it. Mr.

Stuyvesant looked up in surprise.

“I am going to interview the clerks for Mr. Gryce’s benefit,” exclaimed

Mr. Sylvester. “Will you in the meantime look over the morning paper?”

“Thank you,” returned the other, edging nervously to one side, “my

note-book will do just as well,” and sitting down at the remote end of

the table, he took out a book from his pocket, above which he bent with

very well simulated preoccupation. Mr. Sylvester called in Bertram and

then seated himself with a hopeless and unexpectant look, which he for

the moment forgot would be reflected in the mirror before him, and so

carried to the eye of the watchful detective. In another instant Jessup

entered.

What was said in the short interview that followed, is unimportant. Mr.

Jessup, the third teller, was one of those clear eyed, straightforward

appearing men whose countenance is its own guarantee. It was not

necessary to detain him or make him speak. The next man to come in was

Watson, and after he had gone, two or three of the clerks, and later the

receiving teller and one of the runners. All stopped long enough to

insure Mr. Gryce a good view of their faces, and from each and all did

Mr. Sylvester succeed in eliciting more or less conversation in response

to the questions he chose to put.

With the disappearance of the last mentioned individual, Mr. Gryce

peeped from behind the screen. “A set of as honest-looking men as I wish

to see!” uttered he with a frank cordiality that was scarcely reflected

in the anxious countenances about him. “No sly-boots among them; how

about the janitor, Hopgood?”

“He shall be summoned at once, if you desire it,” said Mr. Sylvester, “I

have only delayed calling him that I might have leisure to interrogate

him with reference to his duties, and this very theft. That is if you

judge it advisable in me to tamper with the subject unassisted?”

“Your nephew can help you if necessary,” replied the imperturbable

detective. “I should like to hear what the man, Hopgood, has to say for

himself,” and he glided back into his old position.

But Mr. Sylvester had scarcely reached out his hand to ring the bell by

which he usually summoned the janitor, when the agent of Hicks, Saltzer

& Co. came in. It was an interruption that demanded instant attention.

Saluting the gentleman with his usual proud reserve, he drew his

attention to the box lying upon the table.

“This is yours, I believe, sir,” said he. “It was found in our vaults

this morning in the condition in which you now behold it, and we are

anxious to know if its contents are all correct.”

“They have been handled,” returned the agent, after a careful survey of

the various papers that filled the box, “but nothing appears to be

missing.”

Three persons at least in that room breathed more easily.

“But the truth is,” the gentleman continued, with a half smile towards

the silent President of the bank, “there was nothing in this box that

would have been of much use to any other parties than ourselves. If

there had been a bond or so here, I doubt if we should have come off so

fortunately, eh? The lock has evidently been wrenched open, and that is

certainly a pretty sure sign that something is not right hereabouts.”

“Something is decidedly wrong,” came from Mr. Sylvester sternly; “but

through whose fault we do not as yet know.” And with a few words

expressive of his relief at finding the other had sustained no material

loss, he allowed the agent to depart.

He had no sooner left the room than Mr. Stuyvesant rose. “Are you going

to question Hopgood now?” queried he, nervously pocketing his note-book.

“Yes sir, if you have no objections.”

The director fidgeted with his chair and finally moved towards the door.

“I think you will get along better with him alone,” said he. “He is a

man who very easily gets embarrassed, and has a way of acting as if he

were afraid of me. I will just step outside while you talk to him.”

But Mr. Sylvester with a sudden dark flush on his brow, hastily stopped

him. “I beg you will not,” said he, with a quick realization of what

Hopgood might be led to say in the forthcoming interview, if he were not

restrained by the presence of the director. “Hopgood is not so afraid of

you that he will not answer every question that is put to him with

straightforward frankness.” And he pushed up a chair, with a smile that

Mr. Stuyvesant evidently found himself unable to resist. The screen

trembled slightly, but none of them noticed it; Mr. Sylvester at once

rang for Hopgood.

He came in panting with his hurried descent from the fifth story, his

face flushed and his eyes rolling, but without any of the secret

perturbation Bertram had observed in them on a former occasion. “He

cannot help us,” was the thought that darkened the young man’s brow as

his eyes left the janitor, and faltering towards his uncle, fell upon

the table before him.

Everything was reflected in the mirror.

“Well, Hopgood, I have a few questions to put to you this morning,” said

Mr. Sylvester in a restrained, but not unkindly tone.

The worthy man bowed, bestowed a salutatory roll of his eyes on Mr.

Stuyvesant, and stood deferentially waiting.

“No, he cannot help us,” was again Bertram’s thought, and again his eyes

faltered to his uncle’s face, and again fell anxiously before him.

“It has not been my habit to trouble you with inquiries about your

management of matters under your charge,” continued Mr. Sylvester,

stopping till the janitor’s wandering eyes settled upon his own. “Your

conduct has always been exemplary, and your attention to duty

satisfactory; but I would like to ask you to-day if you have observed

anything amiss with the vaults of late? anything wrong about the boxes

kept there? anything in short, that excited your suspicion or caused you

to ask yourself if everything was as it should be?”

The janitor’s ruddy face grew pale, and his eye fell with startled

inquiry on Mr. Harrington’s box that still occupied the centre of the

table. “No, sir,” he emphatically replied, “has anything—”

But Mr. Sylvester did not wait to be questioned. “You have attended to

your duties as promptly and conscientiously as usual; you have allowed

no one to go to the vaults day or night, who had no business there? You

have not relaxed your accustomed vigilance, or left the bank alone at

any time during the hours it is under your charge?”

“No sir, not for a minute, sir; that is—” He stopped and his eye

wandered towards Mr. Stuyvesant. “Never for a minute, sir,” he went on,

“without I knew some one was in the bank, who was capable of looking

after it.”

“The watchman has been at his post every night up to the usual hour?”

“Yes sir.”

“There has been no carelessness in closing the vault doors after the

departure of the clerks?”

“No sir.”

“And no trouble,” he continued, with a shade more of dignity, possibly

because Hopgood’s tell-tale face was beginning to show signs of anxious

confusion, “and no trouble in opening them at the proper time each

morning?”

“No sir.”

“One question more—”

But here Bertram was called out, and in the momentary stir occasioned by

his departure, Hopgood allowed himself to glance at the box before him

more intently than he had hitherto presumed to do. He saw it was

unlocked, and his hands began to tremble. Mr. Sylvester’s voice recalled

him to himself.

“You are a faithful man,” said that gentleman, continuing his speech of

a minute before, “and as such we are ready to acknowledge you; but the

most conscientious amongst us are sometimes led into indiscretions. Now

have you ever through carelessness or by means of any inadvertence,

revealed to any one in or out of the bank, the particular combination by

which the lock of the vault-door is at present opened?”

“No sir, indeed no; I am much too anxious, and feel my own

responsibility entirely too much, not to preserve so important a secret

with the utmost care and jealousy.”

Mr. Sylvester’s voice, careful as he was to modulate it, showed a secret

discouragement. “The vaults then as far as you know, are safe when once

they are closed for the night?”

“Yes sir.” The janitor’s face expressed a slight degree of wonder, but

his voice was emphatic.

Mr. Sylvester’s eye travelled in the direction of the screen. “Very

well,” said he; and paused to reflect.

In the interim the door opened for a second time. “A gentleman to see

Mr. Stuyvesant,” said a voice.

With an air of relief the director hastily rose, and before Mr.

Sylvester had realized his position, left the room and closed the door

behind him. A knell seemed to ring its note in Mr. Sylvester’s breast.

The janitor, released as he supposed from all constraint, stepped

hastily forward.

“That box has been found unlocked,” he cried with a wave of his hand

towards the table; “some one has been to the vaults, and I—Oh, sir,” he

hurriedly exclaimed, disregarding in his agitation the stern and

forbidding look which Mr. Sylvester in his secret despair had made haste

to assume, “you did not want me to say anything about the time you came

down so early in the morning, and I went out and left you alone in the

bank, and you went to the vaults and opened Mr. Stuyvesant’s box by

mistake, with a tooth-pick as you remember?”

The mirror that looked down upon that pair, showed one very white face

at that moment, but the screen that had trembled a moment before, stood

strangely still in the silence.

“No,” came at length from Mr. Sylvester, with a composure that

astonished himself. “I was not questioning you about matters of a year

agone. But you might have told that incident if you pleased; it was very

easily explainable.”

“Yes sir, I know, and I beg pardon for alluding to it, but I was so

taken aback, sir, by your questions; I wanted to tell the exact truth,

and I did not want to say anything that would hurt you with Mr.

Stuyvesant; that is if I could help it. I hope I did right, sir,” he

blundered on, conscious he was uttering words he might better have kept

to himself, but too embarrassed to know how to emerge from the

difficulty into which his mingled zeal and anxiety had betrayed him. “I

was never a good hand at answering questions, and if any thing really

serious has happened, I shall wish you had taken me at my word and

dismissed me immediately after that affair. Constantia Maria would have

been a little worse off perhaps, but I should not be on hand to answer

questions, and—”

“Hopgood!”

The man started, eyed Mr. Sylvester’s white but powerfully controlled

countenance, seemed struck with something he saw there, and was silent.

“You make too much now, as you made too much then of a matter that

having its sole ground in a mistake, is, as I say, easily explainable.

This affair which has come up now, is not so clear. Three of the boxes

have been opened, and from one certain valuables have been taken. Can

you give me any information that will assist us in our search after the

culprit?”

“No sir.” The tone was quite humble, Hopgood drew back unconsciously

towards the door.

“As for the mistake of a year ago to which you have seen proper to

allude, I shall myself take pains to inform Mr. Stuyvesant of it, since

it has made such an impression upon you that it trammels your honesty

and makes you consider it at all necessary to be anxious about it at

this time.”

And Hopgood unused to sarcasm from those lips, drew himself together,

and with one more agitated look at the box on the table, sidled

awkwardly from the room. Mr. Sylvester at once advanced to the screen

which he hastily pushed aside. “Well, sir,” said he, meeting the

detective’s wavering eye and forcing him to return his look, “you have

now seen the various employees of the bank and heard most of them

converse. Is there anything more you would like to inquire into before

giving us the opinion I requested?”

“No sir,” said the detective, coming forward, but very slowly and

somewhat hesitatingly for him. “I think I am ready to say—”

Here the door opened, and Mr. Stuyvesant returned. The detective drew a

breath of relief and repeated his words with a business-like assurance.

“I think I am ready to say, that from the nature of the theft and the

mysterious manner in which it has been perpetrated, suspicion

undoubtedly points to some one connected with the bank. That is all that

you require of me to-day?” he added, with a bow of some formality in the

direction of Mr. Sylvester.

“Yes,” was the short reply. But in an instant a change passed over the

stately form of the speaker. Advancing to Mr. Gryce, he confronted him

with a countenance almost majestic in its severity, and somewhat

severely remarked, “This is a serious charge to bring against men whose

countenances you yourself have denominated as honest. Are we to believe

you have fully considered the question, and realize the importance of

what you say?”

“Mr. Sylvester,” replied the detective, with great self-possession and

some dignity, “a man who is brought every day of his life into positions

where the least turning of a hair will sink a man or save him, learns to

weigh his words, before he speaks even in such informal inquiries as

these.”

Mr. Sylvester bowed and turned towards Mr. Stuyvesant. “Is there any

further action you would like to have taken in regard to this matter

to-day?” he asked, without a tremble in his voice.

With a glance at the half open box of the absent Mr. Harrington, the

agitated director slowly shook his head. “We must have time to think,”

said he.

Mr. Gryce at once took up his hat. “If the charge implied in my opinion

strikes you, gentlemen, as serious, you must at least acknowledge that

your own judgment does not greatly differ from mine, or why such

unnecessary agitation in regard to a loss so petty, by a gentleman worth

as we are told his millions.” And with this passing shot, to which

neither of his auditors responded, he made his final obeisance and

calmly left the room.

Mr. Sylvester and Mr. Stuyvesant slowly confronted one another.

“The man speaks the truth,” said the former. “You at least suspect some

one in the bank, Mr. Stuyvesant?”

“I have no wish to,” hastily returned the other, “but facts—”

“Would facts of this nature have any weight with you against the

unspotted character of a man never known by you to meditate, much less

commit a dishonest action?”

“No; yet facts are facts, and if it is proved that some one in our

employ has perpetrated a theft, the mind will unconsciously ask who, and

remain uneasy till it is satisfied.”

“And if it never is?”

“It will always ask who, I suppose.”

Mr. Sylvester drew back. “The matter shall be pushed,” said he; “you

shall be satisfied. Surveillance over each man employed in this

institution ought sooner or later to elicit the truth. The police shall

take it in charge.”

Mr. Stuyvesant looked uneasy. “I suppose it is only justice,” murmured

he, “but it is a scandal I would have been glad to avoid.”

“And I, but circumstances admit of no other course. The innocent must

not suffer for the guilty, even so far as an unfounded suspicion would

lead.”

“No, no, of course not.” And the director bustled about after his

overcoat and hat.

Mr. Sylvester watched him with growing sadness. “Mr. Stuyvesant,” said

he, as the latter stood before him ready for the street, “we have always

been on terms of friendship, and nothing but the most pleasant relations

have ever existed between us. Will you pardon me if I ask you to give me

your hand in good-day?”

The director paused, looked a trifle astonished, but held out his hand

not only with cordiality but very evident affection.

“Good day,” cried he, “good-day.”

Mr. Sylvester pressed that hand, and then with a dignified bow, allowed

the director to depart. It was his last effort at composure. When the

door closed, his head sank on his hands, and life with all its hopes and

honors, love and happiness, seemed to die within him.

He was interrupted at length by Bertram. “Well, uncle?” asked the young

man with unrestrained emotion.

“The theft has been committed by some one in this bank; so the detective

gives out, and so we are called upon to believe. _Who_ the man is who

has caused us all this misery, neither he, nor you, nor I, nor any one,

is likely to very soon determine. Meantime—”

“Well?” cried Bertram anxiously, after a moment of suspense.

“Meantime, courage!” his uncle resumed with forced cheerfulness.

But as he was leaving the bank he came up to Bertram, and laying his

hand on his shoulder, quietly said:

“I want you to go immediately to my house upon leaving here. I may not

be back till midnight, and Miss Fairchild may need the comfort of your

presence. Will you do it, Bertram?”

“Uncle! I—”

“Hush! you will comfort me best by doing what I ask. May I rely upon

you?”

“Always.”

“That is enough.”

And with just a final look, the two gentlemen parted, and the shadow

which had rested all day upon the bank, deepened over Bertram’s head

like a pall.

It was not lifted by the sight of Hopgood stealing a few minutes later

towards the door by which his uncle had departed, his face pale, and his

eyes fixed in a stare, that bespoke some deep and moving determination.

XXXVIII.

BLUE-BEARD’S CHAMBER.

“Present fears

Are less than horrible imaginings.”

—MACBETH.

Clarence Ensign was not surprised at the refusal he received from Paula.

He had realized from the first that the love of this beautiful woman

would be difficult to obtain, even if no rival with more powerful

inducements than his own, should chance to cross his path. She was one

who could be won to give friendship, consideration, and sympathy without

stint; but from the very fact that she could so easily be induced to

grant these, he foresaw the improbability, or at least the difficulty of

enticing her to yield more. A woman whose hand warms towards the other

sex in ready friendship, is the last to succumb to the entreaties of

love. The circle of her sympathies is so large, the man must do well,

who of all his sex, pierces to the sacred centre. The appearance of Mr.

Sylvester on the scene, settled his fate, or so he believed; but he was

too much in earnest to yield his hopes without another effort; so upon

the afternoon of this eventful day, he called upon Paula.

The first glimpse he obtained of her countenance, convinced him that he

was indeed too late. Not for him that anxious pallor, giving way to a

rosy tinge at the least sound in the streets without. Not for him that

wandering glance, burning with questions to which nothing seemed able to

grant reply. The very smile with which she greeted him, was a blow; it

was so forgetful of the motive that had brought him there.

“Miss Fairchild,” he stammered, with a generous impulse to save her

unnecessary pain, “you have rejected my offer and settled my doom; but

let me believe that I have not lost your regard, or that hold upon your

friendship which it has hitherto been my pleasure to enjoy.”

She woke at once to a realization of his position. “Oh Mr. Ensign,” she

murmured, “can you doubt my regard or the truth of my friendship? It is

for me to doubt; I have caused you such pain, and as you may think, so

ruthlessly and with such lack of consideration. I have been peculiarly

placed,” she blushingly proceeded. “A woman does not always know her own

heart, or if she does, sometimes hesitates to yield to its secret

impulses. I have led you astray these last few weeks, but I first went

astray myself. The real path in which I ought to tread, was only last

night revealed to me. I can say no more, Mr. Ensign.”

“Nor is it necessary,” replied he. “You have chosen the better path, and

the better man. May life abound in joys for you, Miss Fairchild.”

She drew herself up and her hand went involuntarily to her heart. “It is

not joy I seek,” said she, “but—”

“What?” He looked at her face lit with that heavenly gleam that visited

it in rare moments of deepest emotion, and wondered.

“Joy is in seeing the one you love happy,” cried she; “earth holds none

that is sweeter or higher.”

“Then may that be yours,” he murmured, manfully subduing the jealous

pang natural under the circumstances. And taking the hand she held out

to him, he kissed it with greater reverence and truer affection than

when, in the first joyous hours of their intercourse, he carried it so

gallantly to his lips.

And she—oh, difference of time and feeling—did not remember as of

yore, the noble days of chivalry, though he was in this moment, so much

more than ever the true knight and the reproachless cavalier.

For Paula’s heart was heavy. Fears too unsubstantial to be met and

vanquished, had haunted her steps all day. The short note which Mr.

Sylvester had written her, lay like lead upon her bosom. She longed for

the hours to fly, yet dreaded to hear the clock tick out the moments

that possibly were destined to bring her untold suffering and

disappointment. A revelation awaiting her in Mr. Sylvester’s desk up

stairs? That meant separation and farewell; for words of promise and

devotion can be spoken, and the heart that hopes, does not limit time to

hours.

With Bertram’s entrance, her fears took absolute shape. Mr. Sylvester

was not coming home to dinner. Thenceforward till seven o’clock, she sat

with her hand on her heart, waiting. At the stroke of the clock, she

rose, and procuring a candle from her room, went slowly up stairs.

“Watch for me,” she had said to Aunt Belinda, “for I fear I shall need

your care when I come down.”

What is there about a mystery however trivial, that thrills the heart

with vague expectancy at the least lift of the concealing curtain! As

Paula paused before the door, which never to her knowledge had opened to

the passage of any other form than that of Mr. Sylvester, she was

conscious of an agitation wholly distinct from that which had hitherto

afflicted her. All the past curiosity of Ona concerning this room,

together with her devices for satisfying that curiosity, recurred to

Paula with startling distinctness. It was as if the white hand of that

dead wife had thrust itself forth from the shadows to pull her back. The

candle trembled in her grasp, and she unconsciously recoiled. But the

next moment the thought of Mr. Sylvester struck warmth and determination

through her being, and hastily thrusting the key into the lock, she

pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold.

Her first movement was that of surprise. In all her dreams of the

possible appearance of this room, she had never imagined it to be like

this. Plain, rude and homely, its high walls unornamented, its floor

uncovered, its furniture limited to a plain desk and two or three rather

uncomfortable-looking chairs, it struck upon her fancy with the same

sense of incongruity, as might the sight of a low-eaved cottage in the

midst of stately palaces and lordly pleasure-grounds. Setting down her

candle, she folded her hands to still their tremblings, and slowly

looked around her. This was the spot, then, to which he was accustomed

to flee when oppressed by any care or harassed by any difficulty; this

cold, bare, uninviting apartment with its forbidding aspect unsoftened

by the tokens of a woman’s care or presence! To this room, humbler than

any in her aunt’s home in Grotewell, he had brought all his griefs, from

the day his baby lay dead in the rooms below, to that awful hour which

saw the wife and mother brought into his doors and laid a cold and

pulseless form in the midst of his gorgeous parlors! Here he had met his

own higher impulses face to face, and wrestled with them through the

watches of the night! In this wilderness of seeming poverty, he had

dreamed, perhaps, his first fond dream of her as a woman, and signed

perhaps his final renunciation of her as the future companion of his

life! What did it mean? Why a spot of so much desolation in the midst of

so much that was lordly and luxurious? Her fears might give her a

possible interpretation, but she would not listen to fears. Only his

words should instruct her. Going to the desk, she opened it. A sealed

envelope addressed to herself, immediately met her eyes. Taking it out

with a slow and reverent touch, she began to read the long and closely

written letter which it contained.

And the little candle burned on, shedding its rays over her bended head

and upon the dismal walls about her, with a persistency that seemed to

bring out, as in letters of fire, the hidden history of long ago, with

its vanished days and its forgotten midnights.

XXXIX.

FROM A. TO Z.

“A naked human heart.”—YOUNG.

“My Beloved Child:

“So may I call you in this the final hour of our separation, but never

again, dear one, never again. When I said to you, just twenty-four hours

ago, that my sin was buried and my future was clear, I spake as men

speak who forget the justice of God and dream only of his mercy. An

hour’s time convinced me that an evil deed once perpetrated by a man, is

never buried so that its ghost will not rise. Do as we will, repent as

we may, the shadowy phantom of a stained and unrighteous youth is never

laid; nor is a man justified in believing it so, till death has closed

his eyes, and fame written its epitaph upon his tomb.

“Paula, I am at this hour wandering in search of the being who holds the

secret of my life and who will to-morrow blazon it before all the world.

It is with no hope I seek him. God has not brought me to this pass, to

release me at last, from shame and disgrace. Suffering and the loss of

all my sad heart cherished, wait at my gates. Only one boon remains, and

that is, your sympathy and the consolation of your regard. These, though

bestowed as friends bestow them, are very precious to me; I cannot see

them go, and that they may not, I tell you the full story of my life.

“My youth was happy—my early youth, I mean. Bertram’s father was a dear

brother to me, and my mother a watchful guardian and a tender friend. At

fifteen, I entered a bank, the small bank in Grotewell, which you ought

to remember. From the lowest position in it, I gradually worked my way

up till I occupied the cashier’s place; and was just congratulating

myself upon my prospects, when Ona Delafield returned from

boarding-school, a young lady.

“Paula, there is a fascination, which some men who have known nothing

deeper and higher, call love. I, who in those days had cherished but few

thoughts beyond the ordinary reach of a narrow and somewhat selfish

business mind, imagined that the well-spring of all romance had bubbled

up within me, when my eyes first fell upon this regal blonde, with her

sleepy, inscrutable eyes and bewildering smile. Ulysses within sound of

the siren’s voice, was nothing to it. He had been warned of his danger

and had only his own curiosity to combat, while I was not even aware of

my peril, and floated within reach of this woman’s power, without making

an effort to escape. She was so subtle in her influence, Paula; so

careless in the very exercise of her sovereignty. She never seemed to

command; yet men and women obeyed her. Peculiarities which mar the

matron, are often graces in a young, unmarried girl, whose thoughts are

a mystery, and whose emotions an untried field. I believed I had found

the queen of all beauty and when in an unguarded hour she betrayed her

first appreciation of my devotion, I seemed to burst into a Paradise of

delights, where every step I took, only the more intoxicated and

bewildered me. My first realization of the sensuous and earthly

character of my happiness came with the glimpse of your child-face on

that never-to-be-forgotten day when we met beside the river. Like a star

seen above the glare of a conflagration, the pure spirit that informed

your glance, flashed on my burning soul, and for a moment I knew that in

you budded the kind of woman-nature which it befitted a man to seek;

that in the hands of such a one as you would make, should he trust his

honor and bequeath his happiness. But when did a lover ever break the

bonds that imprisoned his fancy, at the inspiration of a passing voice.

I went back to Ona and forgot the child by the river.

“Paula, I have no time to utter regrets. This is a hard plain tale which

I have to relate; but if you love me still—if, as I have sometimes

imagined, you have always loved me—think what my life had been if I had

heeded the warning which God vouchsafed me on that day, and contrast it

with what it is, and what it must be.

“I went back to Ona, then, and the hold which she had upon me from the

first, took form and shape. As well as she could love any one, she loved

me, and though she had offers from one or two more advantageous sources,

she finally decided that she would risk the future and accept me, if her

father consented to the alliance. You who are the niece of the man of

whom I must now speak, may or may not know what that meant. I doubt if

you do; he left Grotewell while you were a child, and any gossip

concerning him must ever fall short of the real truth. Enough, then,

that it meant, if Jacob Delafield could see in my future any promises of

success sufficient to warrant him in accepting me as his son-in-law, no

woman living ought to hesitate to trust me with her hand. He was the

Squire of the town, and as such entitled to respect, but he was also

something more, as you will presently discover. His answer to my plea

was:

“‘Well, how much money have you to show?’

“Now I had none. My salary as cashier of a small country bank was not

large, and my brother’s prolonged sickness and subsequent death,

together with my own somewhat luxurious habits, had utterly exhausted

it. I told him so, but added that I had, somewhere up among the hills,

an old maiden aunt who had promised me five thousand dollars at her

death; and that as she was very ill at that time—hopelessly so, her

neighbors thought—in a few weeks I should doubtless be able to satisfy

him with the sight of a sum sufficient to start us in housekeeping, if

no more.

“He nodded at this, but gave me no distinct reply. ‘Let us wait,’ said

he.

“But youth is not inclined to wait. I considered my cause as good as

won, and began to make all my preparations accordingly. With a feverish

impatience which is no sign of true love, I watched the days go by, and

waited for, if I did not anticipate, the death which I fondly imagined

would make all clear. At last it came, and I went again into Mr.

Delafield’s presence.

“‘My aunt has just died,’ I announced, and stood waiting for the short,

concise,

“‘Go ahead, then, my boy!’ which I certainly expected.

“Instead of that, he gave me a queer inexplicable smile, and merely

said, ‘I want to see the greenbacks, my lad. No color so good as green,

not even the black upon white of ‘I promise to pay.’

“I went back to my desk in the bank, chagrined. Ona had told me a few

days before that she was tired of waiting, that the young doctor from

the next town was very assiduous in his attentions, and as there was no

question as to his ability to support a wife, why—she did not finish

her sentence, but the toss of her head and her careless tone at parting,

were enough to inflame the jealousy of a less easily aroused nature than

mine. I felt that I was in hourly danger of losing her, and all because

I could not satisfy her father with a sight of the few thousands which

were so soon to be mine.

“The reading of my aunt’s will, which confirmed my hopes, did not

greatly improve matters. ‘I want to see the money,’ the old gentleman

repeated; and I was forced to wait the action of the law and the

settlement of the estate. It took longer than even he foresaw. Weeks

went by and my poor little five thousand seemed as far from my control

as on the day the will was read. There was some trouble, I was not told

what, that made it seem improbable that I should reap the benefit of my

legacy for some time. Meanwhile Ona accepted the attentions of the young

doctor, and my chances of winning her, dwindled rapidly day by day. I

became morbidly eager and insanely jealous. Instead of pursuing my

advantage—for I undoubtedly possessed one in her own secret inclination

towards me—I stood off, and let my rival work his way into her

affections unhindered. I was too sore to interrupt his play, as I called

it, and too afraid of myself to actually confront him in her presence.

But the sight of them riding together one day, was more than I could

endure even in my spirit of unresistance. ‘He shall not have her,’ I

cried, and cast about in my mind how to bring my own matters into such

shape as to satisfy her father and so win her own consent to my suit. My

first thought was to borrow the money, but that was impracticable in a

town where each man’s affairs are known to his neighbor. My next was to

hurry up the settlement of the estate by appeal to my lawyer. The result

of the latter course was a letter of many promises, in the midst of

which a great temptation assailed me.

“Colonel Japha, of whose history you have heard more or less true

accounts, was at that time living in the old mansion you took such pains

to point out to me in that walk we took together in Grotewell. He had

suffered a great anguish in the flight and degradation of his only

daughter, and though the real facts connected with her departure were

not known in the village, he was so overcome with shame, and so

shattered in health, he lived in the utmost seclusion, opening his doors

to but few visitors, among whom I, for some unexplained reason, was one.

He used to say he liked me and saw in me the makings of a considerable

man; and I, because he was Colonel Japha and a strong spirit, returned

his appreciation, and spent many of my bitter and unhappy hours in his

presence. It was upon one of these occasions the temptation came to

which I have just alluded.

“I had been talking about his health and the advisability of his taking

a journey, when he suddenly rose and said, ‘Come with me to my study.’

“I of course went. The first thing I saw upon entering was a trunk

locked and strapped. ‘I am going to Europe to-morrow,’ said he, ‘to be

gone six months.’

“I was astonished, for in that town no one presumed to do anything of

importance without consulting his neighbors; but I merely bowed my

congratulations, and waited for him to speak, for I saw he had something

on his mind that he wished to say. At last it came out. He had a

daughter, he said, a daughter who had disgraced him and whom he had

forbidden his house. She was not worthy of his consideration, yet he

could not help but remember her, and while he never desired to see her

enter his doors, it was not his wish that she should suffer want. He had

a little money which he had laid by and which he wished to put into my

hands for her use, provided anything should happen to him during his

absence. ‘She is a wanderer now,’ he cried, ‘but she may one day come

back, and then if I am dead and gone, you may give it to her.’ I was not

to enter it in the bank under his name, but regard it as a personal

trust to be used only under such circumstances as he mentioned.

“The joy with which I listened to this proposal amounted almost to

ecstacy when he went to his desk and brought out five one thousand

dollar bills and laid them in my hand. ‘It is not much,’ said he, ‘but

it will save her from worse degradation if she chooses to avail herself

of it.’

“Not much; oh no, not much, but just the sum that would raise me out of

the pit of despondency into which I had fallen, and give me my bride, a

chance in the world, and last, but not least, revenge on the rival I had

now learned to hate. I was obliged to give the colonel a paper

acknowledging the trust, but that was no hindrance. I did not mean to

use the money, only to show it; and long before the colonel could

return, my own five thousand would be in my hands—and so, and so, and

so, as the devil reasons and young infatuated ears listen.

“Colonel Japha thought I was an honest man, nor did I consider myself

otherwise at that time. It was a chance for clever action; a bit of

opportune luck that it would be madness to discard. On the day the

vessel sailed which carried Colonel Japha out of the country, I went to

Mr. Delafield and showed him the five crisp bank notes that represented

as it were by proxy, the fortune I so speedily expected to inherit. ‘You

have wanted to see five thousand dollars in my hand,’ said I; ‘there

they are.’

“His look of amazement was peculiar and ought to have given me warning;

but I was blinded by my infatuation and thought it no more than the

natural surprise incident to the occasion. ‘I have been made to wait a

long time for your consent to my suit,’ said I; ‘may I hope that you

will now give me leave to press my claims upon your daughter?’

“He did not answer at once, but smiled, eying meanwhile the notes in my

hand with a fascinated gaze which instinctively warned me to return them

to my pocket. But I no sooner made a move indicative of that resolve,

than he thrust out his cold slim hand and prevented me. ‘Let me see

them,’ cried he.

“There was no reason for me to refuse so simple a request to one in Mr.

Delafield’s position, and though I had rather he had not asked for the

notes, I handed them over. He at once seemed to grow taller. ‘So this is

your start off in life,’ exclaimed he.

“I bowed, and he let his eyes roam for a moment to my face. ‘Many a man

would be glad of worse,’ smiled he; then suavely, ‘you shall have my

daughter, sir.’

“I must have turned white in my relief, for he threw his head back and

laughed in a low unmusical way that at any other time would have

affected me unpleasantly. But my only thought then, was to get the money

back and rush with my new hopes into the room from which came the low

ceaseless hum of his daughter’s voice. But at the first movement of my

hand towards him, he assumed a mysterious air, and closing his fingers

over the notes, said:

“‘These are yours, to do what you wish with, I suppose?’

“I may have blushed, but if I did, he took no notice. ‘What I wish to do

with them,’ returned I, ‘is to shut them up in the bank for the present,

at least till Ona is my wife.’

“‘Oh no, no, no, you do not,’ came in easy, almost wheedling tones from

the man before me. ‘You want to put them where they will double

themselves in two months.’ And before I could realize to what he was

tempting me, he had me down before his desk, showing me letters,

documents, etc., of a certain scheme into which if a man should put a

dollar to-day, it would ‘come out three and no mistake, before the year

was out. It is a chance in a thousand,’ said he; ‘if I had half a

million I would invest it in this enterprise to-day. If you will listen

to me and put your money in there, you will be a rich man before ten

years have passed over your head.’

“I was dazzled. I knew enough of such matters to see that it was neither

a hoax nor a chimera. He did have a good thing, and if the five thousand

dollars had been my own—But I soon came to consider the question

without that conditional. He was so specious in his manner of putting

the affair before me, so masterful in the way he held on to the money,

he gave me no time to think. ‘Say the word,’ cried he, ‘and in two

months I bring you back ten thousand for your five. Only two months,’ he

repeated, and then slowly, ‘Ona was born for luxury.’

“Paula, you cannot realize what that temptation was. To amass wealth had

never been my ambition before, but now everything seemed to urge it upon

me. Dreams of unimagined luxury came to my mind as these words were

uttered. A vision of Ona clad in garments worthy of her beauty floated

before my eyes; the humble home I had hitherto pictured for myself,

broadened and towered away into a palace; I beheld myself honored and

accepted as the nabob of the town. I caught a glimpse of a new paradise,

and hesitated to shut down the gate upon it. ‘I will think of it,’ said

I, and went into the other room to speak to Ona.

“Ah, if some angel had met me on the threshold! If my mother’s spirit or

the thought of your dear face could have risen before me then and

stopped me! Dizzy, intoxicated with love and ambition, I crossed the

room to where she sat reeling off a skein of blue silk with hands that

were whiter than alabaster. Kneeling down by her side, I caught those

fair hands in mine.

“‘Ona,’ I cried, ‘will you marry me? Your father has given his consent,

and we shall be very happy.’

“She bestowed upon me a little pout, and half mockingly, half earnestly

inquired, ‘What kind of a house are you going to put me in? I cannot

live in a cottage.’

“‘I will put you in a palace,’ I whispered, ‘if you will only say that

you will be mine.’

“‘A palace! Oh, I don’t expect palaces; a house like the Japhas’ would

do. Not but what I should feel at home in a palace,’ she added, lifting

her lordly head and looking beautiful enough to grace a sceptre. Then,

archly for her, ‘And papa has given his consent?’

“‘Yes,’ I ardently cried.

“‘Then Dr. Burton might as well go,’ she answered. ‘I will trust my

father’s judgment, and take the palace—when it comes.’

“After that, it was impossible to disappoint her.

“Paula, in stating all this, I have purposely confined myself to

relating bare facts. You must see us as we were. The glamour which an

unreasoning passion casts over even a dishonest act, if performed for

the sake of winning a beautiful woman, is no excuse in my own soul for

the evil to which I succumbed that day, nor shall it seem so to you.

Bare, hard, stern, the fact confronts me from the past, that at the

first call of temptation I fell; and with this blot on my character, you

will have to consider me—unhappy being that I am!

“I did not realize then, however, all that I had done. The operation

entered into by Mr. Delafield prospered, and in two months I had, as he

predicted, ten thousand dollars instead of five, in my possession.

Besides, I had just married Ona, and for awhile life was a dream of

delight and luxury. But there came a day when I awoke to an insight of

the peril I had escaped by a mere chance of the die. The money which I

had expected from my aunt’s will, turned out to be amongst certain funds

that had been risked in speculation by some agent during her sickness,

and irrecoverably lost. The expression of her good-will was all that

ever came to me of the legacy upon which I had so confidently relied.

“I was sitting with my young wife in the pretty parlor of our new home,

when the letter came from my lawyer announcing this fact, and I never

can make you understand what effect it had upon me. The very walls

seemed to shrivel up into the dimensions of a prison’s cell; the face

that only an hour before had possessed every conceivable charm for me,

shone on my changed vision with the allurement, but also with the

unreality of a will-o’-the-wisp. All that might have happened if the

luck, instead of being in my favor, had turned against me, crushed like

a thunderbolt upon my head, and I rose up and left the presence of my

young wife, with the knowledge at my heart that I was no more nor less

than a thief in the eyes of God, if not in that of my fellow-men; a base

thief, who if he did not meet his fit punishment, was only saved from it

by fortuitous circumstances and the ignorance of those he had been so

near despoiling.

“The bitterness of that hour never passed away. The streets in which I

had been raised, the house which had been the scene of my temptation,

Mr. Delafield’s face, and my own home, all became unendurable to me. I

felt as if each man I met must know what I had done; and secret as the

transaction had been, it was long before I could enter the bank without

a tremor of apprehension lest I should hear from some quarter, that my

services there would no longer be required. The only comfort I received

was in the thought that Ona did not know at what a cost her hand had

been obtained. I was still under the glamour of her languid smiles and

countless graces, and was fain to believe that notwithstanding a certain

unresponsiveness and coldness in her nature, her love would yet prove a

compensation for the remorse that I secretly suffered.

“My distaste for Grotewell culminated. It was too small for me. The

money I had acquired through the use of my neighbor’s funds burned in my

pocket. I determined to move to New York, and with the few thousands I

possessed, venture upon other speculations. But this time in all

honesty. Yes, I swore it before God and my own soul, that never again

would I run a risk similar to that from which I had just escaped. I

would profit by the money I had acquired, oh yes, but henceforth all my

operations should be legitimate and honorable. My wife, who was fast

developing a taste for ease and splendor, seconded my plans with

something like fervor, while Mr. Delafield actually went so far as to

urge my departure. ‘You are bound to make a rich man,’ said he ‘and must

go where great fortunes are to be secured.’ He never asked me what

became of the five thousand dollars I returned to Colonel Japha upon his

arrival from Europe.

“So I came to New York.

“Paula, the man who loses at the outset of a doubtful game, is

fortunate. I did not lose, I won. As if in that first dishonest deed of

mine I had summoned to my side the aid of evil influences, each and

every operation into which I entered prospered. It seemed as if I could

not make a mistake; money flowed towards me from all quarters; power

followed, and I found myself one of the most successful and one of the

most unhappy men in New York. There are some things of which a man

cannot write even to the one dear heart he most cherishes and adores.

You have lived in my home, and will acquit me from saying much about her

who, with all her faults and her omissions, was ever kind to you. But

some things I must repeat in order to make intelligible to you the

change which gradually took place within me as the years advanced.

Beauty, while it wins the lover, can never of itself hold the heart of a

husband who possesses aspirations beyond that which passion supplies.

Reckless, worldly and narrow-minded as I had been before the commission

of that deed which embittered my life, I had become by the very shock

that followed the realization of my wrong-doing, a hungry-hearted,

eager-minded and melancholy-spirited man, asking but one boon in

recompense for my secret remorse, and that was domestic happiness and

the sympathetic affection of wife and children. Woman, according to my

belief, was born to be chiefly and above all, the consoler. What a man

missed in the outside world, he was to find treasured at home. What a

man lacked in his own nature, he was to discover in the delicate and

sublimated one of his wife. Beautiful dream, which my life was not

destined to see realized!

“The birth of my only child was my first great consolation. With the

opening of her blue eyes upon my face, a well-spring deep as my

unfathomable longing, bubbled up within my breast. Alas, that very

consolation brought a hideous grief; the mother did not love her child;

and another strand of the regard with which I still endeavored to

surround the wife of my youth, parted and floated away out of sight. To

take my little one in my arms, to feel her delicate cheek press

yearningly to mine, to behold her sweet infantile soul develop itself

before my eyes, and yet to realize that that soul would never know the

guidance or sympathy of a mother, was to me at once rapture and anguish.

I sometimes forgot to follow up a fortunate speculation, in my

indulgence of these feelings. I was passionately the father as I might

have been passionately the husband and the friend. Geraldine died; how

and with what attendant circumstances of pain and regret, I will not,

dare not state. The blow struck to the core of my being. I stood shaken

before God. The past, with its one grim remembrance—a remembrance that

in the tide of business successes and the engrossing affection which had

of late absorbed me, had been well-nigh swamped from sight—rose before

me like an accusing spirit. I had sinned, and I had been punished; I had

sown, and I had reaped.

“More than that, I was sinning still. My very enjoyment of the position

I had so doubtfully acquired, was unworthy of me. My very wealth was a

disgrace. Had it not all been built upon another man’s means? Could the

very house I lived in be said to be my own, while a Japha existed in

want? In the eyes of the world, perhaps, yes; in my own eyes, no. I

became morbid on the subject. I asked myself what I could do to escape

the sense of obligation that overwhelmed me. The few sums with which I

had been secretly enabled to provide Colonel Japha during the final days

of his ruined and impoverished life, were not sufficient. I desired to

wipe out the past by some large and munificent return. Had the colonel

been living, I should have gone to him, told him my tale and offered him

the half of my fortune; but his death cut off all hopes of my righting

myself in that way. Only his daughter remained, the poor, lost,

reprobated being, whom he was willing to curse, but whom he could not

bear to believe suffering. I determined that the debt due to my own

peace of mind should be paid to her. But how? Where was I to find this

wanderer? How was I to let her know that a comfortable living awaited

her if she would only return to her friends and home? Consulting with a

business associate, he advised me to advertise. I did so, but without

success. I next resorted to the detectives, but all without avail.

Jacqueline Japha was not to be found.

“But I did not relinquish my resolve. Deliberately investing a hundred

thousand dollars in Government bonds, I put them aside for her. They

were to be no longer mine. I gave them to her and to her heirs as

completely and irrevocably, I believed, as if I had laid them in her

hand and seen her depart with them. I even inserted them as a legacy to

her in my will. It was a clear and definite arrangement between me and

my own soul; and after I had made it and given orders to my lawyer in

Grotewell to acquaint me if he ever received the least news of

Jacqueline Japha, I slept in peace.

“Of the years that followed I have small need to speak. They were the

years that preceded your coming, my Paula, and their story is best told

by what I was when we met again, and you made me know the sweet things

of life by entering into my home. Woman as a thoughtful, tender,

elevated being had been so long unknown to me! The beauty of the

feminine soul with its faith fixed upon high ideals, was one before

which I had ever been ready to bow. All that I had missed in my youth,

all that had failed me in my maturing manhood, seemed to flow back upon

me like a river. I bathed in the sunshine of your pure spirit and

imagined that the evil days were over and peace come at last.

“A rude and bitter shock awoke me. Ona’s father, who had followed us to

New York, and of whose somewhat checkered career during the past few

years, I have purposely forborne to speak, had not been above appealing

to us for assistance at such times as his frequently unfortunate

investments left him in a state of necessity. These appeals were usually

made to Ona, and in a quiet way; but one day he met me on the street—it

was during the second winter you spent in my home—and dragging me into

a restaurant down town, began a long tale, to the effect that he wanted

a few thousands from me to put into a certain investment, which if

somewhat shady in its character, was very promising as to its results;

and gave as a reason why he applied to me for the money, that he knew I

had not been above doing a wrongful act once, in order to compass my

ends, and therefore would not be liable to hesitate now.

“It was the thunderbolt of my life. My sin was not then buried. It had

been known to this man from the start. With an insight for which I had

never given him credit, he had read my countenance in the days of my

early temptation, and guessed, if he did not know, where the five

thousand dollars came from with which I began my career as speculator.

Worse than that, he had led me on to the act by which he now sought to

hold me. Having been the secret agent in losing my aunt’s money, he knew

at the time that I was cherishing empty hopes as regarded a legacy from

her, yet he let me dally with my expectations, and ensnare myself with

his daughter’s fascinations, till driven mad by disappointment and

longing, I was ready to resort to any means to gain my purpose. It was a

frightful revelation to come to me in days when, if I were not a

thoroughly honest man, I had at least acquired a deep and ineradicable

dread of dishonor. Answering him I know not how, but in a way that while

it repudiated his proposition, unfortunately acknowledged the truth of

the suppositions upon which it was founded, I left him and went home, a

crushed and disheartened man. Life which had been so long in acquiring

cheerful hues, was sunk again in darkness; and for days I could not bear

the sight of your innocent face, or the sound of your pure voice, or the

tokens of your tender and unsuspecting presence in my home. But soon the

very natural thought came to comfort me, that the sin I so deplored was

as much dead now, as it was before I learned the fact of this man’s

knowledge of it. That having repented and put it away, I was as free to

accept your gentle offices and the regard of all true men, as ever I had

been; and beguiled by this plausible consideration, I turned again to my

one visible source of consolation, and in the diversion it offered, let

the remembrance of this last bitter experience pass slowly from my mind.

The fact that Mr. Delafield left town shortly after his interview with

me, and smitten by shame perhaps, forbore to acquaint us with his

whereabouts or afflict us with his letters, may have aided me in this

strange forgetfulness.

“But other and sharper trials were in store; trials that were to test me

as a man, and as it proved, find me lacking just where I thought I was

strongest. Paula, that saying of the Bible, ‘Let him that thinketh he

standeth take heed lest he fall,’ might have been written over the door

of my house on that day, ten months ago, when we two stood by the

hearthstone and talked of the temptations that beset humanity, and the

charity we should show to such as succumb to them. Before the day had

waned, my own hour had come; and not all the experience of my life, not

all the resolves, hopes, fears of my later years, not even the

remembrance of your sweet trust and your natural recoil from evil, were

sufficient to save me. The blow came so suddenly! the call for action

was so peremptory! One moment I stood before the world, rich, powerful,

honored, and beloved; the next, I saw myself threatened with a loss that

undermined my whole position, and with it the very consideration that

made me what I was. But I must explain.

“When I entered the Madison Bank as President, I gave up in deference to

the wishes of Mr. Stuyvesant all open speculation in Wall Street. But a

wife and home such as I then had, are not to be supported on any petty

income; and when shortly after your entrance into my home, the

opportunity presented itself of investing in a particularly promising

silver mine out West, I could not resist the temptation; regarding the

affair as legitimate, and the hazard, if such it were, one that I was

amply able to bear. But like most enterprises of the kind, one dollar

drew another after it, and I soon found that to make available what I

had already invested, I was obliged to add to it more and more of my

available funds, until—to make myself as intelligible to you as I

can—it had absorbed not only all that had remained to me after my

somewhat liberal purchase of the Madison Bank stock, but all I could

raise on a pledge of the stock itself. But there was nothing in this to

alarm me. I had a man at the mine devoted to my interests; and as the

present yield was excellent, and the future of more promise still, I

went on my way with no special anxiety. But who can trust a silver mine?

At the very point where we expected the greatest result, the vein

suddenly gave out, and nothing prevented the stock from falling utterly

flat on the market, but the discretion of my agent, who kept the fact a

secret, while he quietly went about getting another portion of the mine

into working order. He was fast succeeding in this, and affairs were

looking daily more promising, when suddenly an intimation received by me

in a bit of conversation casually overheard at that reception we

attended together, convinced me that the secret was transpiring, and

that if great care were not taken, we should be swamped before we could

get things into working trim again. Filled with this anxiety, I was

about to leave the building, in order to telegraph to my agent, when to

my great surprise the card of that very person was brought in to me,

together with a request for an immediate interview. You remember it,

Paula, and how I went out to see him; but what you did not know then,

and what I find some difficulty in relating now, is that his message to

me was one of total ruin unless I could manage to give into his hand,

for immediate use, the sum of a hundred thousand dollars.

“The facts making this demand necessary were not what you may have been

led to expect. They had little or nothing to do with the new operations,

which were progressing successfully and with every promise of an

immediate return, but arose entirely out of a law-suit then in the hands

of a Colorado judge for decision, and which, though it involved

well-nigh the whole interest of the mine, had never till this hour given

me the least uneasiness, my lawyers having always assured me of my

ultimate success. But it seems that notwithstanding all this, the

decision was to be rendered in favor of the other party. My agent, who

was a man to be trusted in these matters, averred that five days before,

he had learned from most authentic sources what the decision was likely

to be. That the judge’s opinion had been seen—he did not tell me how,

he dared not, nor did I presume to question, but I have since learned

that not only had the copyist employed by the judge turned traitor, but

that my own agent had been anything but scrupulous in the use he had

made of a willing and corruptible instrument—and that if I wanted to

save myself and the others connected with me from total and irremediable

loss, I must compromise with the other parties at once, who not being

advised of the true state of affairs, and having but little faith in

their own case, had long ago expressed their willingness to accept the

sum of a hundred thousand dollars as a final settlement of the

controversy. My agent, if none too nice in his ideas of right and wrong,

was, as I have intimated, not the man to make a mistake; and when to my

question as to how long a time he would give me to look around among my

friends and raise the required sum, he replied, ‘Ten hours and no more,’

I realized my position, and the urgent necessity for immediate action.

“The remainder of the night is a dream to me. There was but one source

from which I could hope in the present condition of my affairs, to

procure a hundred thousand dollars; and that was from the box where I

had stowed away the bonds destined for the use of the Japha heirs. To

borrow was impossible, even if I had been in possession of proper

securities to give. I was considered as having relinquished speculation

and dared not risk the friendship of Mr. Stuyvesant by a public betrayal

of my necessity. The Japha bonds or my own fortune must go, and it only

remained with me to determine which.

“Paula, nothing but the ingrained principle of a lifetime, the habit of

doing the honest thing without thought or hesitation, saves a man at an

hour like that. Strong as I believed myself to be in the determination

never again to flaw my manhood by the least action unworthy of my

position as the guardian of trusts, earnest as I was in my recoil from

evil, and sincere as I may have been in my admiration of and desire for

the good, I no sooner saw myself tottering between ruin and a compromise

with conscience, than I hesitated—hesitated with you under my roof, and

with the words we had been speaking still ringing in my ears. Ona’s

influence, for all the trials of our married life, was still too strong

upon me. To think of her as deprived of the splendor which was her life,

daunted my very soul. I dared not contemplate a future in which she must

stand denuded of everything which made existence dear to her; yet how

could I do the evil thing I contemplated, even to save her and preserve

my own position! For—and you must understand this—I regarded any

appropriation of these funds I had delegated to the use of the Japhas,

as a fresh and veritable abuse of trust. They were not mine. I had given

them away. Unknown to any one but my own soul and God, I had deeded them

to a special purpose, and to risk them as I now proposed doing, was an

act that carried me back to the days of my former delinquency, and made

the repentance of the last few years the merest mockery. What if I might

recover them hereafter and restore them to their place; the chances in

favor of their utter loss were also possible, and honesty deals not with

chances. I suffered so, I had a momentary temptation towards suicide;

but suddenly, in the midst of the struggle, came the thought that

perhaps in my estimate of Ona I had committed a gross injustice, that

while she loved splendor seemingly more than any woman I had ever known,

she might be as far from wishing me to retain her in it at the price of

my own self-respect, as the most honest-hearted wife in the world; and

struck by the hope, I left my agent at a hotel and hurried home through

the early morning to her side. She Was asleep, of course, but I wakened

her. It was dark and she had a right to be fretful, but when I whispered

in her ear, ‘Get up and listen to me, for our fortune is at stake,’ she

at once rose and having risen, was her clearest, coldest, most

implacable self. Paula, I told her my story, my whole story as I have

told it to you here. I dropped no thread, I smoothed over no offence.

Torturing as it was to my pride, I laid bare my soul before her, and

then in a burst of appeal such as I hope never to be obliged to make use

of again, asked her as she was a woman and a wife, to save me in this

hour of my temptation.

“Paula, she refused. More than that, she expressed the bitterest scorn

of my mawkish conscientiousness, as she called it. That I should

consider myself as owing anything to the detestable wretch who was the

only representative of the Japhas, was bad enough, but that I should go

on treasuring the money that would save us, was disgraceful if not

worse, and betrayed a weakness of mind for which she had never given me

credit.

“‘But Ona,’ I cried, ‘if it is a weakness of mind, it is also an

equivalent to my consciousness of right living. Would you have me

sacrifice that?’

“‘I would have you sacrifice anything necessary to preserve us in our

position,’ said she; and I stood aghast before an unscrupulousness

greater than any I had hitherto been called upon to face.

“‘Ona,’ repeated I, for her look was cold, ‘do you realize what I have

been telling you? Most wives would shudder when informed that their

husbands had perpetrated a dishonest act in order to win them.’

“A thin strange smile heralded her reply. ‘Most wives would,’ returned

she, ‘but most wives are ignorant. Did you suppose I did not know what

it cost you to marry me? Papa took care I should miss no knowledge that

might be useful to me.’

“‘And you married me knowing what I had done!’ exclaimed I, with

incredulous dismay.

“‘I married you, knowing you were too clever, or believing you to be too

clever, to run such a risk again.’

“I can say no more concerning that hour. With a horror for this woman

such as I had never before experienced for living creature, I rushed out

of her presence, loathing the air she breathed, yet resolved to do her

bidding. Can you understand a man hating a woman, yet obeying her;

despising her, yet yielding? I cannot, _now_, but that day there seemed

no alternative. Either I must kill myself or follow her wishes. I chose

to do the latter, forgetting that God can kill, and that, too, whom and

when He pleases.

“Going down to the bank, I procured the bonds from my box in the safe. I

felt like a thief, and the manner in which it was done was unwittingly

suggestive of crime, but with that and the position in which I have

since found myself placed by this very action, I need not cumber my

present narrative. Handing the bonds to my agent with orders to sell

them to the best advantage, I took a short walk to quiet my nerves and

realize what I had done, and then went home.

“Paula, had God in his righteous anger seen fit to strike me down that

day, it would have been no more than my due and aroused in me, perhaps,

no more than a natural repentence. But when I saw her for whose sake I

had ostensibly committed this fresh abuse of trust, lying cold and dead

before me, the sword of the Almighty pierced me to the soul, and I fell

prostrate beneath a remorse to which any regret I had hitherto

experienced, was as the playing of a child with shadows. Had I by the

losing of my right arm been able to recall my action, I would have done

it; indeed I made an effort to recover myself; had my agent followed up

with an order to return me the bonds I had given him, but it was too

late, the compromise had already been effected by telegraph and the

money was out of our hands. The deed was done and I had made myself

unworthy of your presence and your smile at the very hour when both

would have been inestimable to me. You remember those days; remember our

farewell. Let me believe you do not blame me now for what must have

seemed harsh and unnecessary to you then.

“There is but little more to write, but in that little is compressed the

passion, longing, hope and despair of a lifetime. When I told you as I

did a few hours ago that my sin was dead and its consequences at an end,

I repeat that I fully and truly believed it. The hundred thousand

dollars I had sent West, had been used to advantage, and only day before

yesterday I was enabled to sell out my share in the mine, for a large

sum that leaves me free and unembarrassed, to make the fortune of more

than one Japha, should God ever see fit to send them across my pathway.

More than that, Mr. Delafield, of whose discretion I had sometimes had

my fears, was dead, having perished of a fever some months before in San

Francisco; and of all men living, there were none as I believed, who

knew anything to the discredit of my name. I was clear, or so I thought,

in fortune and in fame; and being so, dreamed of taking to my empty and

yearning arms, the loveliest and the purest of mortal women. But God

watched over you and prevented an act whose consequences might have been

so cruel. In an hour, Paula, in an hour, I had learned that the foul

thing was not dead, that a witness had picked up the words I had allowed

to fall in my interview with my father-in-law in the restaurant two

years before; an unscrupulous witness who had been on my track ever

since, and who now in his eagerness for a victim, had by mistake laid

his clutch upon our Bertram. Yes, owing to the similarity of our voices

and the fact that we both make use of a certain tell-tale word, this

patient and upright nephew of mine stands at this moment under the

charge of having acknowledged in the hearing of this person, to the

committal of an act of dishonesty in the past. A foolish charge you will

say, and one easily refuted. Alas, a fresh act of dishonesty lately

perpetrated in the bank, complicates matters. A theft has been committed

on some of Mr. Stuyvesant’s effects, and that, too, under circumstances

that involuntarily arouse suspicion against some one of the bank

officials; and Bertram, if not sustained in his reputation, must suffer

from the doubts which naturally have arisen in Mr. Stuyvesant’s breast.

The story which this man could tell, must of course shake the faith of

any one in the reputation of him against whom it is directed, and the

man intends to repeat his story, and that, too, in the very ears of him

upon whose favor Bertram depends for his life’s happiness and the

winning of the woman he adores. I adore you, Paula, but I cannot clasp

you to my heart across another sin. If the detectives whom we shall call

in to-morrow, cannot exonerate those connected with the bank from the

theft lately committed there—and the fact that you have been allowed to

read this letter, prove they have not—I must do what I can to relieve

Bertram from his painful position, by taking upon myself the onus of

that past transgression which of right belongs to my account; and this

once done, let the result be for good or ill, any bond between you and

me is cut loose forever. I have not learned to love at this late hour,

to wrong the precious thing I cherish. Death as it is to me to say

good-bye to the one last gleam of heavenly light that has shot across my

darkened way, it must be done, dear heart, if only to hold myself worthy

of the tender and generous love you have designed to bestow upon me.

Bertram, who is all generosity, may guess but does not know, what I am

about to do. Go down to him, dear; tell him that at this very moment,

perhaps, I am clearing his name before the wretch who has so ruthlessly

fastened his fang upon him; that his love and Cicely’s shall prosper, as

he has been loyal, and she trusting, all these years of effort and

probation; that I give him my blessing, and that if we do not meet

again, I delegate to him the trust of which I so poorly acquitted

myself. But before you go, stop a moment and in this room, which has

always symbolized to my eyes the poverty which was my rightful due,

kneel and pray for my soul; for if God grants me the wish of my heart,

he will strike me with sudden death after I have taken upon myself the

disgrace of my past offences. Life without love can be borne, but life

without honor never. To come and go amongst my fellow-men with a shadow

on the fame they have always believed spotless! Do not ask me to attempt

it! Pray for my soul, but pray too, that I may perish in some quick and

sudden way before ever your dear eyes rest upon my face again.

“And now, as though this were to be the end, let me take my last

farewell of you. I have loved you, Paula, loved you with my heart, my

mind and my soul. You have been my angel of inspiration and the source

of all my comfort. I kneel before you in gratitude, and I stand above

you in blessing. May every pang I suffer this hour, redound to you in

some sweet happiness hereafter. I do not quarrel with my fate, I only

ask God to spare you from its shadow. And He will. Love will flow back

upon your young life, and in regions where our eye now fails to pierce,

you will taste every joy which your generous heart once thought to

bestow on

“EDWARD SYLVESTER.”

XL.

HALF-PAST SEVEN.

“I would it were midnight, Hal, and all well.”

—HENRY IV.

The library was dim; Bertram, who had felt the oppressive influence of

the great empty room, had turned down the lights, and was now engaged in

pacing the floor, with restless and uneven steps, asking himself a

hundred questions, and wishing with all the power of his soul, that Mr.

Sylvester would return, and by his appearance cut short a suspense that

was fast becoming unendurable.

He had just returned from his third visit to the front door, when the

curtain between him and the hall was gently raised, and Paula glided in

and stood before him. She was dressed for the street, and her face where

the light touched it, shone like marble upon which has fallen the glare

of a lifted torch.

“Paula!” burst from the young man’s lips in surprise.

“Hush!” said she, her voice quavering with an emotion that put to

defiance all conventionalities, “I want you to take me to the place

where Mr. Sylvester is gone. He is in danger; I know it, I feel it. I

dare not leave him any longer alone. I might be able to save him if—if

he meditates anything that—” she did not try to say what, but drew

nearer to Bertram and repeated her request. “You will take me, won’t

you?”

He eyed her with amazement, and a shudder seized his own strong frame.

“No,” cried he, “I cannot take you; you do not know what you ask; but I

will go myself if you apprehend anything serious. I remember where it

is. I studied the address too closely, to readily forget it.”

“You shall not go without me,” returned Paula with steady decision. “If

the danger is what I fear, no one else can save him. I must go,” she

added, with passionate importunity as she saw him still looking

doubtful. “Darkness and peril are nothing to me in comparison with his

safety. He holds my life in his hand,” she softly whispered, “and what

will not one do for his life!” Then quickly, “If you go without me I

shall follow with Aunt Belinda. Nothing shall keep me in the house

to-night.”

He felt the uselessness of further objection, yet he ventured to say,

“The place where he has gone is one of the worst in the city; a spot

which men hesitate to enter after dark. You don’t know what you ask in

begging me to take you there.”

“I do, I realize everything.”

With a sudden awe of the great love which he thus beheld embodied before

him, Bertram bowed his head and moved towards the door. “I may consider

it wise to obtain the guidance of a policeman through the quarter into

which we are about to venture. Will you object to that?”

“No,” was her quick reply, “I object to nothing but delay.”

And with a last look about the room, as if some sensation of farewell

were stirring in her breast, she laid her hand on Bertram’s arm, and

together they hurried away into the night.