BOOK V.

WOMAN’S LOVE.

XLI.

THE WORK OF AN HOUR.

“Base is the slave that pays.”

—HENRY V.

“Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.”

—CONGREVE.

Mr. Sylvester upon leaving the bank, had taken his usual route up town.

But after an aimless walk of a few blocks, he suddenly paused, and with

a quiet look about him, drew from his pocket the small slip of paper

which Bertram had laid on his table the night before, and hurriedly

consulted its contents. Instantly an irrepressible exclamation escaped

him, and he turned his face to the heavens with the look of one who

recognizes the just providence of God. The name which he had just read,

was that of the old lover of Jacqueline Japha, Roger Holt, and the

address given, was 63 Baxter Street.

Twilight comes with different aspects to the broad avenues of the rich,

and the narrow alleys of the poor. In the reeking slums of Baxter

Street, poetry would have had to search long for the purple glamour that

makes day’s dying hour fair in open fields and perfumed chambers. Even

the last dazzling gleam of the sun could awaken no sparkle from the

bleared windows of the hideous tenement houses that reared their blank

and disfigured walls toward the west. The chill of the night blast and

the quick dread that follows in the steps of coming darkness, were all

that could enter these regions, unless it was the stealthy shades of

vice and disease.

Mr. Sylvester standing before the darkest and most threatening of the

many dark and threatening houses that cumbered the street, was a sight

to draw more than one head from the neighboring windows. Had it been

earlier, he would have found himself surrounded by a dozen ragged and

importunate children; had it been later, he would have run the risk of

being garroted by some skulking assassin; as it was, he stood there

unmolested, eying the structure that held within its gloomy recesses the

once handsome and captivating lover of Jacqueline Japha. He was not the

only man who would have hesitated before entering there. Low and

insignificant as the building appeared—and its two stories certainly

looked dwarfish enough in comparison with the two lofty tenement houses

that pressed it upon either side—there was something in its quiet,

almost uninhabited aspect that awakened a vague apprehension of lurking

danger. A face at a window would have been a relief; even the sight of a

customer in the noisome groggery that occupied the ground floor. From

the dwellings about, came the hum of voices and now and then the sound

of a shrill laugh or a smothered cry, but from this house came nothing,

unless it was the slow ooze of a stream of half-melted snow that found

its way from under the broken-down door-way to the gutter beyond.

Stepping bravely forward, Mr. Sylvester entered the open door. A flight

of bare and rickety steps met his eye. Ascending them, he found himself

in a hall which must have been poorly lighted at any time, but which at

this late hour was almost dark. It was not very encouraging, but

pressing on, he stopped at a door and was about to knock, when his eyes

becoming accustomed to the darkness, he detected standing at the foot of

the stairs leading to the story above, the tall and silent figure of a

woman. It was no common apparition. Like a sentinel at his post, or a

spy on the outskirts of the enemy’s camp, she stood drawn up against the

wall, her whole wasted form quivering with eagerness or some other

secret passion; darkness on her brow and uncertainty on her lip. She was

listening, or waiting, or both, and that with an entire absorption that

prevented her from heeding the approach of a stranger’s step. Struck by

so sinister a presence in a place so dark and desolate, Mr. Sylvester

unconsciously drew back. As he did so, the woman thrilled and looked up,

but not at him. A lame child’s hesitating and uneven step was heard

crossing the floor above, and it was towards it she turned, and for it

she composed her whole form into a strange but evil calmness.

“Ah, he let you come then!” Mr. Sylvester heard her exclaim in a low

smothered tone, whose attempted lightness did not hide the malevolent

nature of her interest.

“Yes,” came back in the clear and confiding tones of childhood. “I told

him you loved me and gave me candy-balls, and he let me come.”

A laugh quick and soon smothered, disturbed the surrounding gloom. “You

told him I loved you! Well, that is good; I do love you; love you as I

do my own eyes that I could crush, crush, for ever having lingered on

the face of my betrayer!”

The last phrase was muttered, and did not seem to convey any impression

to the child. “Hold out your arms and catch me,” cried he; “I am going

to jump.”

She appeared to comply; for he gave a little ringing laugh that was

startlingly clear and fresh.

“He asked me what your name was,” babbled he, as he nestled in her arms.

“He is always asking what your name is; Dad forgets, Dad does; or else

it’s because he’s never seen you.”

“And what did you tell him?” she asked, ignoring the last remark with an

echo of her sarcastic laugh.

“Mrs. Smith, of course.”

She threw back her head and her whole form acquired an aspect that made

Mr. Sylvester shudder. “That’s good,” she cried, “Mrs. Smith by all

means.” Then with a sudden lowering of her face to his—“Mrs. Smith is

good to you, isn’t she; lets you sit by her fire when she has any, and

gives you peanuts to eat and sometimes spares you a penny!”

“Yes, yes,” the boy cried.

“Come then,” she said, “let’s go home.”

She put him down on the floor, and gave him his little crutch. Her

manner was not unkind, and yet Mr. Sylvester trembled as he saw the

child about to follow her.

“Didn’t you ever have any little boys?” the child suddenly asked.

The woman shrank as if a burning steel had been plunged against her

breast. Looking down on the frightened child, she hissed out from

between her teeth, “Did he tell you to ask me that? Did he dare—” She

stopped and pressed her arms against her swelling heart as if she would

smother its very beats. “Oh no, of course he didn’t tell you; what does

he know or care about Mrs. Smith!” Then with a quick gasp and a wild

look into the space before her, “My child dead, and her child alive and

beloved! What wonder that I hate earth and defy heaven!”

She caught the boy by the hand and drew him quickly away. “You will be

good to me,” he cried, frightened by her manner yet evidently fascinated

too, perhaps on account of the faint sparks of kindness that alternated

with gusts of passion he did not understand. “You won’t hurt me; you’ll

let me sit by the fire and get warm?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And eat a bit of bread with butter on it?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Then I’ll go.”

She drew him down the hall. “Why do you like to have me come to your

house?” he prattled away.

She turned on him with a look which unfortunately Mr. Sylvester could

not see. “Because your eyes are so blue and your skin is so white; they

make me remember her!”

“And who is _her_?”

She laughed and seemed to hug herself in her rage and bitterness. “Your

mother!” she cried, and in speaking it, she came upon Mr. Sylvester.

He at once put out his hand.

“I don’t know who you are,” said he, “but I do not think you had better

take the child out to-night. From what you say, his father is evidently

upstairs; if you will give the boy to me, I will take him back and leave

him where he belongs.”

“You will?” The slow intensity of her tone was indescribable. “Know that

I don’t bear interference from strangers.” And catching up the child,

she rushed by him like a flash. “You are probably one of those

missionaries who go stealing about unasked into respectable persons’

rooms,” she called back. “If by any chance you wander into his, tell him

his child is in good hands, do you hear, in good hands!” And with a

final burst of her hideous laugh, she dashed down the stairs and was

gone.

Mr. Sylvester stood shocked and undecided. His fatherly heart urged him

to search at once for the parent of this lame boy, and warn him of the

possible results of entrusting his child to a woman with so little

command over herself. But upon taking out his watch and finding it later

by a good half-hour than he expected, he was so struck with the

necessity of completing his errand, that he forgot everything else in

his anxiety to confront Holt. Knocking at the first door he came to, he

waited. A quick snarl and a surprised, “Come in!” announced that he had

scared up some sort of a living being, but whether man or woman he found

it impossible to tell, even after the door opened and the creature,

whoever it was, rose upon him from a pile of rags scattered in one

corner.

“I want Mr. Holt; can you tell me where to find him?”

“Upstairs,” was the only reply he received, as the creature settled down

again upon its heap of tattered clothing.

Fain to be content with this, he went up another flight and opened

another door. He was more successful this time; one glance of his eye

assured him that the man he was in search of, sat before him. He had

never seen Mr. Holt; but the regular if vitiated features of the person

upon whom he now intruded, his lank but not ungraceful form, and free if

not airy manners, were not so common among the denizens of this

unwholesome quarter, that there could be any doubt as to his being the

accomplished but degenerate individual whose once attractive air had

stolen the heart of Colonel Japha’s daughter.

He was sitting in front of a small pine table, and when Mr. Sylvester’s

eyes first fell upon him, was engaged in watching with a somewhat

sinister smile, the final twirl of a solitary nickle which he had set

spinning on the board before him. But at the sound of a step at the

door, a lightning change passed over his countenance, and rising with a

quick anticipatory “Ah!” he turned with hasty action to meet the

intruder. A second exclamation and a still more hasty recoil were the

result. This was not the face or the form of him whom he had expected.

“Mr. Holt, I believe?” inquired Mr. Sylvester, advancing with his most

dignified mien.

The other bowed, but in a doubtful way that for a moment robbed him of

his usual air of impudent self-assertion.

“Then I have business with you,” continued Mr. Sylvester, laying the

man’s own card down on the table before him. “My name is Sylvester,” he

proceeded, with a calmness that surprised himself; “and I am the uncle

of the young man upon—whom you are at present presuming to levy

blackmail.”

The assurance which for a moment had deserted the countenance of the

other, returned with a flash. “His uncle!” reëchoed he, with a low

anomalous bow; “then it is from you I may expect the not unreasonable

sum which I demand as the price of my attentions to your nephew’s

interest. Very good, I am not particular from what quarter it comes, so

that it does come and that before the clock has struck the hour which I

have set as the limit of my forbearance.”

“Which is seven o’clock, I believe?”

“Which is seven o’clock.”

Mr. Sylvester folded his arms and sternly eyed the man before him. “You

still adhere to your intention, then, of forwarding to Mr. Stuyvesant at

that hour, the sealed communication now in the hands of your lawyer?”

The smile with which the other responded was like the glint of a partly

sheathed dagger. “My lawyer has already received his instructions.

Nothing but an immediate countermand on my part, will prevent the

communication of which you speak, from going to Mr. Stuyvesant at seven

o’clock.”

The sigh which rose in Mr. Sylvester’s breast did not disturb the severe

immobility of his lip. “Have you ever considered the possibility,” said

he, “of the man whom you overheard talking in the restaurant in Dey

Street two years ago, not being Mr. Bertram Sylvester of the Madison

Bank?”

“No,” returned the other, with a short, sharp, and wholly undisturbed

laugh, “I do not think I ever have.”

“Will you give me credit, then, for speaking with reason, when I declare

to you that the man you overheard talking in the manner you profess to

describe in your communication, was not Mr. Bertram Sylvester?”

A shrug of the shoulders, highly foreign and suggestive, was the other’s

answer. “It was Mr. Sylvester or it was the devil,” proclaimed he—“with

all deference to your reason, my good sir; or why are you here?” he

keenly added.

Mr. Sylvester did not reply. With a sarcastic twitch of his lips the man

took up the nickle with which he had been amusing himself when the

former came in, and set it spinning again upon the table. “It is

half-past six,” remarked he. “It will take me a good half hour to go to

my lawyer.”

Mr. Sylvester made a final effort. “If you could be convinced,” said he,

“that you have got your grasp upon the wrong man, would you still

persist in the course upon which you seem determined?”

With a dexterous sleight-of-hand movement, the man picked up the

whirling nickle and laid it flat on the table before him. “A fellow

whose whole fortune is represented by a coin like that”—tapping the

piece significantly—“is not as easily convinced as a man of your means,

perhaps. But if I should be brought to own that I had made a mistake in

my man, I should still feel myself justified in proceeding against him,

since my very accusation of him seems to be enough to arouse such

interest on the part of his friends.”

“Wretch!” leaped to Mr. Sylvester’s lips, but he did not speak it. “His

friends,” declared he, “have most certainly a great interest in his

reputation and his happiness; but they never will pay any thing upon

coercion to preserve the one or to insure the other.”

“They won’t!” And for the first time Roger Holt slightly quavered.

“A man’s honor and happiness are much, and he will struggle long before

he will consent to part from them. But a citizen of a great town like

this, owes something to his fellows, and submitting to blackmail is but

a poor precedent to set. You will have to proceed as you will, Mr. Holt;

neither my nephew nor myself, have any money to give you.”

The glare in the man’s eyes was like that of an aroused tiger. “Do you

mean to say,” cried he, “that you will not give from your abundance, a

paltry thousand dollars to save one of your blood from a suspicion that

will never leave him, _never leave him_ to the end of his miserable

days?”

“I mean to say that not one cent will pass from me to you in payment of

a silence, which as a gentleman, you ought to feel it incumbent upon you

to preserve unasked, if only to prove to your fellow-men that you have

not entirely lost all the instincts of the caste to which you once

belonged. Not that I look for anything so disinterested from you,” he

went on. “A man who could enter the home of a respectable gentleman, and

under cover of a brotherly regard, lure into degradation and despair,

the woman who was at once its ornament and pride, cannot be expected to

practice the virtues of ordinary manhood, much less those of a gentleman

and a Christian. He is a wretch, who, whatever his breeding or

antecedents, is open to nothing but execration and contempt.”

With an oath and a quick backward spring, Roger Holt cried out, “Who are

you, and by what right do you come here to reproach me with a matter

dead and buried, by heaven, a dozen years ago?”

“The right of one who, though a stranger, knows well what you are and

what you have done. Colonel Japha himself is dead, but the avenger of

his honor yet lives! Roger Holt, _where is Jacqueline Japha_?”

The force with which this was uttered, seemed to confound the man. For a

moment he stood silent, his eye upon his guest, then a subtle change

took place in his expression; he smiled with a slow devilish meaning,

and tossing his head with an airy gesture, lightly remarked:

“You must ask some more constant lover than I. A woman who was charming

ten years ago—Bah! what would I be likely to know about her now!”

“Everything, when that woman is Jacqueline Japha,” cried Mr. Sylvester,

advancing upon him with a look that would have shaken most men, but

which only made the eye of this one burn more eagerly. “Though you might

easily wish to give her the slip, she is not one to forget you. If she

is alive, you know where she is; speak then, and let the worth of one

good action make what amends it can for a long list of evil ones.”

“You really want to see the woman, then; enough to pay for it, I mean?”

“The reward which has been offered for news of the fate or whereabouts

of Jacqueline Japha, still stands good,” was Mr. Sylvester’s reply.

The excited stare with which the man received this announcement, slowly

subsided into his former subtle look.

“Well, well,” said he, “we will see.” The truth was, that he knew no

more than the other where this woman was to be found. “If I happen to

come across her in any of my wanderings, I shall know where to apply for

means to make her welcome. But that is not what at present concerns us.

Your nephew is losing ground with every passing minute. In a half-hour

more his future will be decided, unless you bid me order my lawyer to

delay the forwarding of that communication to Mr. Stuyvesant. In that

case—”

“I believe I have already made it plain to you that I have no intentions

of interfering with your action in this matter,” quoth Mr. Sylvester,

turning slowly toward the door. “If you are determined to send your

statement, it must go, only—” And here he turned upon the bitterly

disappointed man with an aspect whose nobility the other was but little

calculated to appreciate—“only when you do so, be particular to state

that the person whose story you thus forward to a director of the

Madison Bank, is not Bertram Sylvester, the cashier, but Edward

Sylvester, his uncle, and the bank’s president.”

And the stately head bowed and the tall form was about to withdraw, when

Holt with an excited tremble that affected even his words, advanced and

seized Mr. Sylvester by the arm.

“His uncle!” cried he, “why that is what you—Great heaven!” he

exclaimed, falling back with an expression not unmixed with awe, “you

are the man and you have denounced yourself!” Then quickly, “Speak

again; let me hear your voice.”

And Mr. Sylvester with a sad smile, repeated in a slow and meaning tone,

“It is but one little _fuss_ more!” then as the other cringed, added a

dignified, “Good evening, Mr. Holt,” and passed swiftly across the room

towards the door.

What was it that stopped him half-way, and made him look back with such

a startled glance at the man he had left behind him? A smell of smoke in

the air, the faint yet unmistakable odor of burning wood, as though the

house were on fire, or—

Ha! the man himself has discerned it, is on his feet, is at the window,

has seen what? His cry of mingled terror and dismay does not reveal. Mr.

Sylvester hastens to his side.

The sight which met his eyes, did not for the moment seem sufficient to

account for the degree of emotion expressed by the other. To be sure,

the lofty tenement-house which towered above them from the other side of

the narrow yard upon which the window looked, was oozing with smoke, but

there were no flames visible, and as yet no special manifestations of

alarm on the part of its occupants. But in an instant, even while they

stood there, arose the sudden and awful cry of “Fire!” and at the same

moment they beheld the roof and casements before them, swarm with pallid

faces, as men, women and children rushed to the first outlet that

offered escape, only to shrink back in renewed terror from the deadly

gulf that yawned beneath them.

It was horrible, all the more that the fire seem to be somewhere in the

basement story, possibly at the foot of the stairs, for none of the poor

shrieking wretches before them seemed to make any effort to escape

downwards, but rather surged up towards the top of the building, waving

their arms as they fled, and filling the dusk with cries that drowned

the sound of the coming engines.

The scene appeared to madden Holt. “My boy! my boy! my boy!” rose from

his lips in an agonized shriek; then as Mr. Sylvester gave a sudden

start, cried out with indiscribable anguish, “He is there, my boy, my

own little chap! A woman in that house has bewitched him, and when he is

not with me, he is always at her side. O God, curses on my head for ever

letting him out of my sight! Do you see him, sir? Look for him, I

beseech you; he is lame and small; his head would barely reach to the

top of the window-sill.”

“And that was your boy!” cried Mr. Sylvester. And struck by an appeal

which in spite of his abhorrence of the man at his side, woke every

instinct of fatherhood within him, he searched with his glance the long

row of windows before them. But before his eye had travelled half way

across the building, he felt the man at his side quiver with sudden

agony, and following the direction of his glance, saw a wan, little

countenance looking down upon them from a window almost opposite to

where they stood.

“It is my boy!” shrieked the man, and in his madness would have leaped

from the casement, if Mr. Sylvester had not prevented him.

“You will not help him so,” cried the latter. “See, he is only a few

feet above a bridge that appears to communicate with the roof of the

next house. If he could be let down—”

But the man had already precipitated himself towards the door of the

room in which they were. “Tell him not to jump,” he called back. “I am

going next door and will reach him in a moment. Tell him to hold on till

I come.”

Mr. Sylvester at once raised his voice. “Don’t jump, little boy Holt. If

there is no one there to drop you down, wait for your father. He is

going on the bridge and will catch you.”

The little fellow seemed to hear, for he immediately held out his arms,

but if he spoke, his voice was drowned in the frightful hubbub.

Meanwhile the smoke thickened around him, and a dull ominous glare broke

out from the midst of the building, against which his weazen little face

looked pallid as death.

“His father will be too late,” groaned Mr. Sylvester, feeling himself

somehow to blame for the child’s horrible situation; then observing that

the other occupants of the building had all disappeared towards the

front, realized that whatever fire-escapes may have been provided, were

doubtless in that direction, and raising his voice once more, called out

across the yard, “Don’t wait any longer, little fellow; follow the rest

to the front; you will be burned if you stay there.”

But the child did not move, only held out his arms in a way to unman the

strongest heart; and presently while Mr. Sylvester was asking himself

what could be done, he heard his shrill piping tones rising above the

hiss of the flames, and listening, caught the words:

“I cannot get away. She is holding me, Dad. Help your little feller;

help me, I’m so afraid of being burnt.” And looking closer, Mr.

Sylvester discerned the outlines of a woman’s head and shoulders above

the small white face.

A distinct and positive fear at once seized him. Leaning out, the better

to display his own face and figure, he called to that unknown woman to

quit her hold and let the child go; but a discordant laugh, rising above

the roar of the approaching flames, was his only reply. Sickened with

apprehension, he drew back and himself made for the stairs in the wild

idea of finding the father. But just then the mad figure of Holt

appeared at the door, with frenzy in all his looks.

“I cannot push through the crowd,” cried he, “I have fought and

struggled and shrieked, but it is all of no use. My boy is burning alive

and I cannot reach him.” A lurid flame shot at that moment from the

building before them, as if in emphasis to his words.

“He is prisoned there by a woman,” cried Mr. Sylvester, pointing to the

figure whose distorted outlines was every moment becoming more and more

visible in the increasing glare. “See, she has him tight in her arms and

is pressing him against the window-sill.”

The man with a terrible recoil, looked in the direction of his child,

saw the little white face with its wild expression of conscious terror,

saw the face of her who towered implacably behind it, and shrieked

appalled.

“Jacqueline!” he cried, and put his hands up before his face as if his

eyes had fallen upon an avenging spirit.

“Is that Jacqueline Japha?” asked Mr. Sylvester, dragging down the

other’s hands and pointing relentlessly towards the ominous figure in

the window before him.

“Yes, or her ghost,” cried the other, shuddering under a horror that

left him little control of his reason.

“Then your boy is lost,” murmured Mr. Sylvester, with a vivid

remembrance of the words he had overheard. “She will never save her

rival’s child, never.”

The man looked at him with dazed eyes. “She shall save him,” he cried,

and stretching far out of the window by which he stood, he pointed to

the bridge and called out, “Drop him, Jacqueline, don’t let him burn. He

can still reach the next house if he runs. Save my darling, save him.”

But the woman as if waiting for his voice, only threw back her head, and

while a bursting flame flashed up behind her, shrieked mockingly back:

“Oh I have frightened you up at last, have I? You can see me now, can

you? You can call on Jacqueline now? The brat can make you speak, can

he? Well, well, call away, I love to hear your voice. It is music to me

even in the face of death.”

“My boy! my boy,” was all he could gasp; “save the child, Jacqueline,

only save the child!”

But the harsh scornful laugh she returned, spoke little of saving. “He

is so dear,” she hissed. “I love the offspring of my rival so much! the

child that has taken the place of my own darling, dead before ever I had

seen its innocent eyes. Oh yes, yes, I will save it, save it as my own

was saved. When I saw the puny infant in your arms the day you passed me

with _her_, I swore to be its friend, don’t you remember! And I am so

much of a one that I stick by him to the death, don’t you see?” And

raising him up in her arms till his whole stunted body was visible, she

turned away her brow and seemed to laugh in the face of the flames.

The father writhed below in his agony. “Forgive,” he cried, “forgive the

past and give me back my child. It’s all I have to love; it’s all I’ve

ever loved. Be merciful, Jacqueline, be merciful!”

Her face flashed back upon him, still and white. “And what mercy have

you ever shown to me! Fool, idiot, don’t you see I have lived for this

hour! To make you feel for once; to make you suffer for once as I have

suffered. You love the boy! Roger Holt, I once loved you.”

And heedless of the rolling volume of smoke that now began to pour

towards her, heedless even of the long tongues of hungry flame that were

stretched out as if feeling for her from the distance behind, she stood

immovable, gazing down upon the casement where he knelt, with an

indescribable and awful smile upon her lips.

The sight was unbearable. With an instinct of despair both men drew

back, when suddenly they saw the woman start, unloose her clasp and drop

the child out of her arms upon the bridge. A hissing stream of water had

fallen upon the flames, and the shock had taken her by surprise. In a

moment the father was himself again.

“Get up, little feller, get up,” he cried, “or if you cannot walk, crawl

along the bridge to the next house. I see a fireman there; he will lift

you in.”

But at that moment the flames, till now held under some control, burst

from an adjoining window, and caught at the woodwork of the bridge. The

father yelled in dismay.

“Hurry, little feller, hurry!” he cried. “Get over towards the next

house before it is too late.”

But a paralysis seemed to have seized the child; he arose, then stopped,

and looking wildly about, shook his head. “I cannot,” he cried, “I

cannot.” And the woman laughed, and with a hug of her empty arms, seemed

to throw her taunts into the space before her.

“Are you a demon?” burst from Mr. Sylvester’s lips in uncontrollable

horror. “Don’t you see you can save him if you will? Jump down, then,

and carry him across, or your father’s curse will follow you to the

world beyond.”

“Yes, climb down,” cried the fireman, “you are lighter than I. Don’t

waste a minute, a second.”

“It is your own child, Jacqueline, your own child!” came from Holt’s

white lips in final desperation. “I have deceived you; your baby did not

die; I wanted to get rid of you and I wanted to save him, so I lied to

you. The baby did not die; he lived, and that is he you see lying

helpless on the bridge beneath you.”

Not the clutch of an advancing flame could have made her shrink more

fearfully. “It is false,” she cried; “you are lying now; you want me to

save _her_ child, and dare to say it is mine.”

“As God lives!” he swore, lifting his hand and turning his face to the

sky.

Her whole attitude seemed to cry, “No, no,” to his assertion but slowly

as she stood there, the conviction of its truth seemed to strike her,

and her hair rose on her forehead and she swayed to and fro, as if the

earth were rolling under her feet. Suddenly she gave a yell, and bounded

from the window. Catching the child in her arms, she attempted to regain

the refuge beyond, but the flames had not dallied at their work while

she hesitated. The bridge was on fire and her retreat was cut off. She

did not attempt to escape. Stopping in the centre of the rocking mass,

she looked down as only a mother in her last agony can do, on the child

she held folded in her arms; then as the flames caught at her floating

garments, stooped her head and printed one wild and passionate kiss upon

his brow. Another instant and they saw her head rise to the accusing

heavens, then all was rush and horror, and the swaying structure fell

before their eyes, sweeping its living freight into the courtyard

beneath their feet.

XLII.

PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD.

“None are so desolate but something dear,

Dearer than self, possesses or possessed.”

—BYRON.

In the centre of a long low room not far from the scene of the late

disaster, a solitary lamp was burning. It had been lit in haste and cast

but a feeble flame, but its light was sufficient to illuminate the sad

and silent group that gathered under its rays.

On a bench by the wall, crouched the bowed and stricken form of Roger

Holt, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude expressive of the

utmost grief; at his side stood Mr. Sylvester, his tall figure looming

sombrely in the dim light; and on the floor at their feet, lay the dead

form of the little lame boy.

But it was not upon their faces, sad and striking as they were, that the

eyes of the few men and women scattered in the open door-way, rested

most intently. It was upon her, the bruised, bleeding, half-dead mother,

who kneeling above the little corpse, gazed down upon it with the

immobility of despair, moaning in utter heedlessness of her own

condition, “My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!”

The fixedness with which she eyed the child, though the blood was

streaming from her forehead and bathing with a still deeper red her

burned and blistered arms, made Mr. Sylvester’s sympathetic heart beat.

Turning to the silent figure of Holt, he touched him on the arm and said

with a gesture in her direction:

“You have not deceived the woman? That is really her own child that lies

there?”

The man beside him, started, looked up with slowly comprehending eyes,

and mechanically bowed his head. “Yes,” assented he, and relapsed into

his former heavy silence.

Mr. Sylvester touched him again. “If it is hers, how came she not to

know it? How could you manage to deceive such a woman as that?”

Holt started again and muttered, “She was sick and insensible. She never

saw the baby; I sent it away, and when she came to herself, told her it

was dead. We had become tired of each other long before, and only needed

the breaking of this bond to separate us. When she saw me again, it was

with another woman at my side and an infant in my arms. The child was

weakly and looked younger than he was. She thought it her rival’s and I

did not undeceive her.” And the heavy head again fell forward, and

nothing disturbed the sombre silence of the room but the low unvarying

moan of the wretched mother, “My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!”

Mr. Sylvester moved over to her side. “Jacqueline,” said he, “the child

is dead and you yourself are very much hurt. Won’t you let these good

women lay you on a bed, and do what they can to bind up your poor

blistered arms?”

But she heard him no more than the wind’s blowing. “My baby,” she

moaned, “my own, own baby!”

He drew back with a troubled air. Grief like this he could understand

but knew not how to alleviate. He was just on the point of beckoning

forward one of the many women clustered in the door-way, when there came

a sound from without that made him start, and in another moment a young

man had stepped hastily into the room, followed by a girl, who no sooner

saw Mr. Sylvester, than she bounded forward with a sudden cry of joy and

relief.

“Bertram! Paula! What does this mean? What are you doing here?”

A burst of sobs from the agitated girl was her sole reply.

“Such a night! such a place!” he exclaimed, throwing his arm about Paula

with a look that made her tremble through her tears. “Were you so

anxious about me, little one?” he whispered. “Would not your fears let

you rest?”

“No, no; and we have had such a dreadful time since we got here. The

house where we expected to find you, is on fire, and we thought of

nothing else but that you had perished within it. But finally some one

told us to come here, and—” She paused horror-stricken; her eyes had

just fallen upon the little dead child and the moaning mother.

“That is Jacqueline Japha,” whispered Mr. Sylvester. “We have found her,

only to close her eyes, I fear.”

“Jacqueline Japha!” Paula’s hands unclosed from his arm.

“She was in the large tenement house that burned first; that is her

child whose loss she is mourning.”

“Jacqueline Japha!” again fell with an indescribable tone from Paula’s

lips. “And who is that?” she asked, turning and indicating the silent

figure by the wall.

“That is Roger Holt, the man who should have been her husband.”

“Oh, I remember him,” she cried; “and her, I remember her, and the

little child too. But,” she suddenly exclaimed, “she told me then that

she was not his mother.”

“And she did not know that she was; the man had deceived her.”

With a quick thrill Paula bounded forward. “Jacqueline Japha,” she

cried, falling with outstretched hands beside the poor creature; “thank

God you are found at last!”

But the woman was as insensible to this cry as she had been to all

others. “My baby,” she wailed, “my baby, my own, own baby!”

Paula recoiled in dismay, and for a moment stood looking down with fear

and doubt upon the fearful being before her. But in another instant a

heavenly instinct seized her, and ignoring the mother, she stooped over

the child and tenderly kissed it. The woman at once woke from her

stupor. “My baby!” she cried, snatching the child up in her arms with a

gleam of wild jealousy; “nobody shall touch it but me. I killed it and

it is all mine now!” But in a moment she had dropped the child back into

its place, and was going on with the same set refrain that had stirred

her lips from the first.

Paula was not to be discouraged. Laying her hand on the child’s brow,

she gently smoothed back his hair, and when she saw the old gleam

returning to the woman’s countenance, said quietly, “Are you going to

carry it to Grotewell to be buried? Margery Hamlin is waiting for you,

you know?”

The start which shook the woman’s haggard frame, encouraged her to

proceed.

“Yes; you know she has been keeping watch, and waiting for you so long!

She is quite worn out and disheartened; fifteen years is a long time to

hope against hope, Jacqueline.”

The stare of the wretched creature deepened into a fierce and maddened

glare. “You don’t know what you are talking about,” cried she, and bent

herself again over the child.

Paula went on as if she had not spoken. “Any one that is loved as much

as you are, Jacqueline, ought not to give way to despair; even if your

child is dead, there is still some one left whom you can make supremely

happy.”

“Him?” the woman’s look seemed to say, as she turned and pointed with

frightful sarcasm to the man at their back.

Paula shrank and hastily shook her head. “No, no, not him, but—Let me

tell you a story,” she whispered eagerly. “In a certain country-town not

far from here, there is a great empty house. It is dark, and cold, and

musty. No one ever goes there but one old lady, who every night at six,

crosses its tangled garden, unlocks its great side door, enters within

its deserted precincts, and for an hour remains there, praying for one

whose return she has never ceased to hope and provide for. She is

kneeling there to-night, at this very hour, Jacqueline, and the love she

thus manifests is greater than that of man to woman or woman to man. It

is like that of heaven or the Christ.”

The woman before her rose to her feet. She did not speak, but she looked

like a creature before whose eyes a sudden torch had been waved.

“Fifteen years has she done this,” Paula solemnly continues. “She

promised, you know; and she never has forgotten her promise.”

With a cry the woman put out her hands. “Stop!” she cried, “stop! I

don’t believe it. No one loves like that; else there is a God and I—”

She paused, quivered, gave one wild look about her, and then with a

quick cry, something between a moan and a prayer, succumbed to the pain

of her injuries, and sank down insensible by the side of her dead child.

With a reverent look Paula bent over her and kissed her seared and

bleeding forehead. “For Mrs. Hamlin’s sake,” she whispered, and quietly

smoothed down the tattered clothing about the poor creature’s wasted

frame.

Mr. Sylvester turned quietly upon the man who had been the cause of all

this misery. “I charge myself with the care of that woman,” said he,

“and with the burial of your child. It shall be placed in decent ground

with all proper religious ceremonial.”

“What, you will do this!” cried Holt, a flush of real feeling for a

moment disturbing the chalk-white pallor of his cheek. “Oh sir, this is

Christian charity; and I beg your pardon for all that I may have

meditated against you. It was done for the child,” he went on wildly;

“to get him the bread and butter he often lacked. I didn’t care so much

for myself. I hated to see him hungry and cold and ailing; I might have

worked, but I detest work, and—But no matter about all that; enough

that I am done with endeavoring to extort money from you. Whatever may

have happened in the past, you are free from my persecutions in the

future. Henceforth you and yours can rest in peace.”

“That is well,” cried a voice over his shoulder, and Bertram with an air

of relief stepped hastily forward. “You must be very tired,” remarked

he, turning to his uncle. “If you will take charge of Paula, I will do

what I can to see that this injured woman and the dead child are

properly cared for. I am so relieved, sir, at this result,” he

whispered, with a furtive wring of his uncle’s hand, “that I must

express my joy in some way.”

Mr. Sylvester smiled, but in a manner that reflected but little of the

other’s satisfaction. “Thank you,” said he, “I am tired and will gladly

delegate my duties to you. I trust you to do the most you can for both

the living and the dead. That woman for all her seeming poverty is the

possessor of a large fortune;” he whispered; “let her be treated as

such.” And with a final word to Holt who had sunk back against the wall

in his old attitude of silent despair, Mr. Sylvester took Paula upon his

arm, and quietly led her out of this humble but not unkind refuge.

XLIII.

DETERMINATION.

“But alas! to make me

A fixed figure for the time of scorn

To point his slow unmoving finger at!”

—OTHELLO.

“Let me but bear your love, I’ll bear your cares.”

—HENRY V.

“Paula!”

They had reached home and were standing in the library.

“Yes,” said she, lowering her head before his gaze with a sweet and

conscious blush.

“Did you read the letter I left for you in my desk up stairs?”

She put her hand to her bosom and drew forth the closely written sheet.

“Every word,” she responded, and smilingly returned it to its place.

He started and his chest heaved passionately. “You have read it,” he

cried, “and yet could follow me into that den of unknown dangers at an

hour like this, and with no other guide than Bertram?”

“Yes,” she answered.

He drew a deep breath and his brow lost its deepest shadow. “You do not

despise me then,” he exclaimed “My sin has not utterly blotted me out of

your regard?”

The glance with which she replied seemed to fill the whole room with its

radiance. “I am only beginning to realize the worth of the man who has

hitherto been a mystery to me,” she declared. Then as he shook his head,

added with a serious air, “The question with all true hearts must ever

be, not what a man has been, but what he is. He who for the sake of

shielding the innocent from shame and sorrow, would have taken upon

himself the onus of a past disgrace, is not unworthy a woman’s

devotion.”

Mr. Sylvester smiled mournfully, and stroked her hand which he had taken

in his. “Poor little one,” he murmured. “I know not whether to feel

proud or sorry for your trust and tender devotion. It would have been a

great and unspeakable grief to me to have lost your regard, but it might

have been better if I had; it might have been much better for you if I

had!”

“What, why do you say that?” she asked, with a startled gleam in her

eye. “Do you think I am so eager for ease and enjoyment, that it will be

a burden for me to bear the pain of those I love? A past pain, too,” she

added, “that will grow less and less as the days go by and happiness

increases.”

He put her back with a quick hand. “Do not make it any harder for me

than necessary,” he entreated, “Do you not see that however gentle may

be your judgment of my deserts, we can never marry, Paula?”

The eyes which were fixed on his, deepened passionately. “No,” she

whispered, “no; not if your remorse for the past is all that separates

us. The man who has conquered himself, has won the right to conquer the

heart of a woman. I can say no more—” She timidly held out her hand.

He grasped it with a man’s impetuosity and pressed it to his heart, but

he did not retain it. “Blessings upon you, dear and noble heart!” he

cried. “God will hear my prayers and make you happy—but not with me.

Paula,” he passionately continued, taking her in his arms and holding

her to his breast, “it cannot be. I love you—I will not, dare not say,

how much—but love is no excuse for wronging you. My remorse is not all

that separates us; possible disgrace lies before me; public exposure at

all events; I would indeed be lacking in honor were I to subject you to

these.”

“But,” she stammered, drawing back to look into his face, “I thought

that was all over; that the man had promised silence; that you were

henceforth to be relieved from his persecutions? I am sure he said so.”

“He did, but he forgot that my fate no longer rested upon his

forbearance. The letter which records my admission of sin was in his

lawyer’s hands, Paula, and has already been despatched to Mr.

Stuyvesant. Say what we will, rebel against it as we will, Cicely’s

father knows by this time that the name of Sylvester is not spotless.”

The cry which she uttered in her sudden pain and loss made him stoop

over her with despairing fondness. “Hush! my darling, hush!” cried he.

“The trial is so heavy, I need all my strength to meet it. It breaks my

heart to see you grieve. I cannot bear it. I deserve my fate, but

you—Oh you—what have you done that you should be overwhelmed in my

fall!” Putting her gently away from his breast, he drew himself up and

with forced calmness said, “I have yet to inform Mr. Stuyvesant upon

which of the Sylvesters’ should rest the shadow of his distrust.

To-night he believes in Bertram’s lack of principle, but to-morrow—”

Her trembling lips echoed the word.

“He shall know that the man who confessed to having done a wrong deed in

the past, is myself, Paula.”

The head which had fallen on her breast, rose as at the call of a

clarion. “And is it at the noblest moment of your life that you would

shut me away from your side? No, no. Heaven does not send us a great and

mighty love for trivial purposes. The simple country maid whom you have

sometimes declared was as the bringer of good news to you, shall not

fail you now.” Then slowly and with solemn assurance, “If you go to Mr.

Stuyvesant’s to-morrow, and you will, for that is your duty, you shall

not go alone; Paula Fairchild accompanies you.”

XLIV.

IN MR. STUYVESANT’S PARLORS.

“Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud

Turn forth her silver lining on the night?”

—COMUS.

“Unworthy?”

“Yes.”

Cicely stared at her father with wide-open and incredulous eyes. “I

cannot believe it,” she murmured; “no, I cannot believe it.”

Her father drew up a chair to her side. “My daughter,” said he, with

unusual tenderness, “I have hesitated to tell you this, fearing to wound

you; but my discretion will allow me to keep silence no longer. Bertram

Sylvester is not an honest man, and the sooner you make up your mind to

forget him, the better.”

“Not honest?” You would scarcely have recognized Cicely’s voice. Her

father’s hand trembled as he drew her back to his side.

“It is a hard revelation for me to make to you, after testifying my

approval of the young man. I sympathize with you, my child, but none the

less I expect you to meet this disappointment bravely. A theft has been

committed in our bank—”

“You do not accuse him of theft! Oh father, father!”

“No,” he stammered. “I do not accuse him, but facts look very strongly

against some one in our trust, and—”

“But that is not sufficient,” she cried, rising in spite of his

detaining hand till she stood erect before him. “You surely would not

allow any mere circumstantial evidence to stand against a character as

unblemished as his, even if he were not the man whom your daughter—”

He would not let her continue. “I admit that I should be careful how I

breathed suspicion against a man whose record was unimpeached,” he

assented, “but Bertram Sylvester does not enjoy that position. Indeed, I

have just received a communication which goes to show, that he once

actually acknowledged to having perpetrated an act of questionable

integrity. Now a man as young as he, who—”

“But I cannot believe it,” she moaned. “It is impossible, clearly

impossible. How could he look me in the face with such a sin on his

conscience! He could not, simply could not. Why, father, his brow is as

open as the day, his glance clear and unwavering as the sunlight. It is

some dreadful mistake. It is not Bertram of whom you are speaking!”

Her father sighed. “Of whom else should it be? Come my child, do you

want to read the communication which I received last night? Do you want

to be convinced?”

“No, no;” she cried; but quickly contradicted herself with a hurried,

“Yes, yes, let me be made acquainted with what there is against him, if

only that I may prove to you it is all a mistake.”

“There is no mistake,” he muttered, handing her a folded paper. “This

statement was written two years ago; I witnessed it myself, though I

little knew against whose honor it was directed. Read it, Cicely, and

then remember that I have lost bonds out of my box at the bank, that

could only have been taken by some one connected with the institution.”

She took the paper in her hand, and eagerly read it through. Suddenly

she started and looked up. “And you say that this was Bertram, this

gentleman who allowed another man to accuse him of a past dishonesty?”

“So the person declares who forwarded me this statement; and though he

is a poor wretch and evidently not above making mischief, I do not know

as we have any special reason to doubt his word.”

Cicely’s eyes fell and she stood before her father with an air of

indecision. “I do not think it was Bertram,” she faltered, but said no

more.

“I would to God for your sake, it was not!” he exclaimed. “But this

communication together with the loss we have sustained at the bank, has

shaken my faith, Cicely. Young men are so easily led astray nowadays;

especially when playing for high stakes. A man who could leave his

profession for the sake of winning a great heiress—”

“Father!”

“I know he has made you think it was for love; but when the woman whom a

young man fancies, is rich, love and ambition run too closely together

to be easily disentangled. And now, my dear, I have said my say and

leave you to act according to the dictates of your judgment, sure that

it will be in a direction worthy of your name and breeding.” And

stooping for a hasty kiss, he gave her a last fond look and quietly left

the room.

And Cicely? For a moment she stood as if frozen in her place, then a

great tremble seized her, and sinking down upon a sofa, she buried her

face from sight, in a chaos of feeling that left her scarcely mistress

of herself. But suddenly she started up, her face flushed, her eyes

gleaming, her whole delicate form quivering with an emotion more akin to

hope than despair.

“I cannot doubt him,” she whispered; “it were as easy to doubt my own

soul. He is worthy if I am worthy, true if I am true; and I will not try

to unlove him!”

But soon the reaction came again, and she was about to give full sway to

her grief and shame, when the parlor door opened—she herself was

sitting in the extension room—and she saw Mr. Sylvester and Paula come

in. She at once rose to her feet; but she did not advance. A thousand

hopes and fears held her enchained where she was; besides there was

something in the aspect of her friends, which made her feel as though a

welcome even from her, would at that moment be an intrusion.

“They have come to see father,” she thought “and—”

Ah what, Cicely?

Paula, who was too absorbed in her own feelings to glance into the

extension room beyond, approached Mr. Sylvester and laid her hand upon

his arm. “Whatever comes,” said she, “truth, honor and love remain.”

And he bowed his head and seemed to kiss her hand, and Cicely observing

the action, grew pale and dropped her eyes, realizing as by a

lightning’s flash, both the nature of the feeling that prompted this

unusual manifestation on his part, and the possible sorrows that lay

before her dearest friend, if not before herself, should the secret

suspicions she cherished in regard to Mr. Sylvester prove true. When she

had summoned up courage to glance again in their direction, Mr.

Stuyvesant had entered the parlor and was nervously welcoming his

guests.

Mr. Sylvester waited for no preamble. “I have come,” said he, in his

most even and determined tones, “to speak to you in regard to a

communication from a man by the name of Holt, which I was told was to be

sent to you last evening. Did you receive such a one?”

Mr. Stuyvesant flushed, grew still more nervous in his manner and

uttered a short, “I did,” in a tone severer than he perhaps intended.

“It will not be too much for me, then, to conclude, that in your present

estimation my nephew stands committed to a past dishonesty?”

“It has been one of my chief sources of regret—one of them I say,”

repeated Mr. Stuyvesant, “that any loss of esteem on the part of your

nephew, must necessarily reflect upon the peace if not the honor of a

man I hold in such high regard as yourself. I assure you I feel it quite

as a brother might, quite as a brother.”

Mr. Sylvester at once rose. “Mr. Stuyvesant,” declared he, “my nephew is

as honest a man as walks this city’s streets. If you will accord me a

few minutes private conversation, I think I can convince you so.”

“I should be very glad,” replied Mr. Stuyvesant, glancing towards the

extension-room where he had left his daughter. “I have always liked the

young man.” Then with a quick look in the other’s face, “You are not

well, Mr. Sylvester?”

“Thank you, I am not ill; let us say what we have to, at once, if you

please.” And with just a glance at Paula, he followed the now somewhat

agitated director from the room.

Cicely who had started forward at their departure, glanced down the long

parlor before her, and hastily faltered back; Paula was praying. But in

a few moments her feelings overcame her timidity, and hurrying into her

friend’s presence, she threw her arms about her neck and pressed her

cheek to hers. “Let us pray together,” she whispered.

Paula drew back and looked her friend in the face. “You know what all

this means?” she asked.

“I guess,” was the low reply.

Paula checked a sob and clasped Cicely to her bosom. “He loves me,” she

faltered, “and he is doing at this moment what he believes will separate

us. He is a noble man, Cicely, noble as Bertram, though he once did—”

She paused. “It is for him to say what, not I,” she softly concluded.

“Then Bertram is noble,” Cicely timidly put in.

“Have you ever doubted it?”

“No.”

And hiding their blushes on each other’s shoulders, the two girls sat

breathlessly waiting, while the clock ticked away in the music-room and

the moments came and went that determined their fate. Suddenly they both

rose. Mr. Stuyvesant and Mr. Sylvester were descending the stairs. Mr.

Sylvester came in first. Walking straight up to Paula, he took her in

his arms and kissed her on the forehead.

“My betrothed wife!” he whispered.

With a start of incredulous joy, Paula looked up. His glance was clear

but strangely solemn and peaceful.

“He has heard all I had to say,” added he; “he is a just man, but he is

also a merciful one. Like you he declares that not what a man was, but

what he is, determines the judgment of true men concerning him.” And

taking her on his arm, he stood waiting for Mr. Stuyvesant who now came

in.

“Where is my daughter?” were that gentleman’s words, as he closed the

door behind him.

“Here, papa.”

He held out his hand, and she sprang towards him. “Cicely,” said he, not

without some tokens of emotion in his voice, “it is only right that I

should inform you that we were all laboring under a mistake, in charging

Mr. Bertram Sylvester with the words that were uttered in the Dey Street

coffee-house two years ago. Mr. Sylvester has amply convinced me that

his nephew neither was, nor could have been present there at that time.

It must have been some other man, of similar personality.”

“Oh thank you, thank you!” Cicely’s look seemed to say to Mr. Sylvester.

“And he is quite freed from reproach?” she asked, with a smiling glance

into her father’s face.

A hesitancy in Mr. Stuyvesant’s manner, struck with a chill upon more

than one heart in that room.

“Yes,” he admitted at last; “the mere fact that a mysterious robbery has

been committed upon certain effects in the bank of which he is cashier,

is not sufficient to awaken distrust as to his integrity, but—”

At that moment the door-bell rung.

“Your father would say,” cried Mr. Sylvester, taking advantage of the

momentary break, to come to the relief of his host, “that my nephew is

too much of a gentleman to desire to press any claim he may imagine

himself as possessing over you, while even the possibility of a shadow

rests upon his name.”

“The man who stole the bonds will be found,” said Cicely.

And as if in echo to her words the parlor door opened, and a messenger

from the bank stepped briskly up to Mr. Stuyvesant.

“A note from Mr. Folger,” said he, with a quick glance at Mr. Sylvester.

Mr. Stuyvesant took the paper handed him, read it hastily through, and

looked up with an air of some bewilderment.

“I can hardly believe it possible,” cried he, “but Hopgood has

absconded.”

“Hopgood absconded?”

“Yes; is not that the talk at the bank?” inquired Mr. Stuyvesant,

turning to the messenger.

“Yes sir. He has not been seen since yesterday afternoon when he left

before the bank was closed for the night. His wife says she thinks he

meant to run away, for before going, he came into the room where she

was, kissed her and then kissed the child; besides it seems that he took

with him some of his clothes.”

“Humph! and I had as much confidence in that man—”

“As I have now,” came from Mr. Sylvester as the door closed upon the

messenger. “If Hopgood has run away, it was from some generous but

mistaken idea of sacrificing himself to the safety of another whom he

may possibly believe guilty.”

“No,” rejoined Mr. Stuyvesant, “for here is a note from him that refutes

that supposition. It is addressed to me and runs thus:

“DEAR SIR.—I beg your pardon and that of Mr. Sylvester for

leaving my duties in this abrupt manner. But I have betrayed my

trust and am no longer worthy of confidence. I am a wretched

man and find it impossible to face those who have believed in

my honesty and discretion. If I can bring the money back, you

shall see me again, but if not, be kind to my wife and little

one, for the sake of the three years when I served the bank

faithfully.

“JOHN HOPGOOD.”

“I don’t understand it,” cried Mr. Sylvester, “that looks—”

“As if he knew where the money was.”

“I begin to hope,” breathed Cicely.

Her father turned and surveyed her. “This puts a new aspect on matters,”

said he.

She glanced up beaming. “Oh, will you, do you say, that you think the

shadow of this crime has at last found the spot upon which it can

rightfully rest?”

“It would not be common sense in me to deny that it has most certainly

shifted its position.”

With a radiant look at Cicely, Paula crossed to Mr. Stuyvesant’s side,

and laying her hand on his sleeve, whispered a word or two in his ear.

He immediately glanced out of the window at the carriage standing before

the door, then looked back at her and nodded with something like a

smile. In another moment he stood at the front door.

“Be prepared,” cried Paula to Cicely.

It was well she spoke, for when in an instant later Mr. Stuyvesant

re-entered the parlor with Bertram at his side, the rapidly changing

cheek of the gentle girl showed that the surprise, even though thus

tempered, was almost too much for her self-possession.

Mr. Stuyvesant did not wait for the inevitable embarrassment of the

moment to betray itself in words. “Mr. Sylvester,” said he, to the young

cashier, “we have just received a piece of news from the bank, that

throws unexpected light upon the robbery we were discussing yesterday.

Hopgood has absconded, and acknowledges here in writing that he had

something to do with the theft!”

“Hopgood, the janitor!” The exclamation was directed not to Mr.

Stuyvesant but to Mr. Sylvester, towards whom Bertram turned with looks

of amazement.

“Yes, it is the greatest surprise I ever received,” returned that

gentleman.

“And Mr. Sylvester,” continued Mr. Stuyvesant, with nervous rapidity and

a generous attempt to speak lightly, “there is a little lady here who is

so shaken by the news, that nothing short of a word of reassurance on

your part will comfort her.”

Bertram’s eye followed that of Mr. Stuyvesant, and fell upon the

blushing cheek of Cicely. With a flushing of his own brow, he stepped

hastily forward.

“Miss Stuyvesant!” he cried, and looking down in her face, forgot

everything else in his infinite joy and satisfaction.

“Yes,” announced the father with abrupt decision, “she is yours; you

have fairly earned her.”

Bertram bowed his head with irrepressible emotion, and for a moment the

silence of perfect peace if not of awe, reigned over the apartment; but

suddenly a low, determined “No!” was heard, and Bertram turning towards

Mr. Stuyvesant, exclaimed, “You are very good, and the joy of this

moment atones for many an hour of grief and impatience; but I have not

earned her yet. The fact that Hopgood admits to having had something to

do with the robbery, does not sufficiently exonerate the officers of the

bank from all connection with the affair, to make it safe or honorable

in me to unqualifiedly accept the inestimable boon of your daughter’s

regard. Till the real culprit is in custody and the mystery entirely

cleared away, my impatience must continue to curb itself. I love your

daughter too dearly to bring her anything but the purest of reputations.

Am I not right, Miss Stuyvesant?”

She cast a glance at her father, and bowed her head. “You are right,”

she repeated.

And Mr. Stuyvesant, with a visible lightening of his whole aspect, took

the young man by the hand, and with as much geniality as his nature

would allow, informed him that he was at last convinced that his

daughter had made no mistake when she expressed her trust in Bertram

Sylvester.

And in other eyes than Cicely’s, shone the light of satisfied love and

unswerving faith.

XLV.

“THE HOUR OF SIX IS SACRED.”

“Mightier far

Than strength of nerve or sinew, or the sway

Of magic potent over sun and star,

Is love, though oft to agony distrest,

And though its favorite seat be feeble woman’s breast.”

—WORDSWORTH.

It was at the close of a winter afternoon. Paula who had returned to

Grotewell for the few weeks preceding her marriage, sat musing in the

window of her aunt’s quaint little parlor. Her eyes were on the fields

before her all rosy with the departing rays of the sun, but her thoughts

were far away. They were with him she best loved—with Cicely, waiting

in patience for the solution of the mystery of the stolen bonds; with

Bertram, eagerly, but as yet vainly, engaged in searching for the

vanished janitor; and last but not least, with that poor, wretched

specimen of humanity moaning away her life in a New York hospital;—for

the sight of the Japha house, in a walk that day, had reawakened her

most vivid remembrances of Jacqueline. All that had ever been done and

suffered by this forsaken creature, lay on her heart like a weight; and

the question which had disturbed her since her return to Grotewell,

viz., whether or not she ought to acquaint Mrs. Hamlin with the fact

that she had seen and spoken to the object of her love and prayers,

pressed upon her mind with an insistence that required an answer. There

was so much to be said for and against it. Mrs. Hamlin was not well, and

though still able to continue her vigil, showed signs of weakening, day

by day. It might be a comfort to her to know that another’s eyes had

rested on the haggard form for whose approach she daily watched; that

another’s kiss had touched the scarred and pallid forehead she longed to

fold against her breast; that the woman she loved and of whose fate she

had no intimation, was living and well cared for, though her shelter was

that of a hospital, and her prospects those of the grave.

On the other hand, the awful nature of the circumstances which had

brought her to her present condition, were such as to make any generous

heart pause before shocking the love and trust of such a woman as Mrs.

Hamlin, by a relation of the criminal act by which Jacqueline had slain

her child and endangered her own existence. Better let the poor old lady

go on hoping against hope till she sinks into her grave, than destroy

life and hope at once by a revelation of her darling’s reckless

depravity.

And yet if the poor creature in the hospital might be moved to

repentance by some word from Mrs. Hamlin, would it not be a kindness to

the latter to allow her, though even at the risk of her life, to

accomplish the end for which she indeed professed to live?

The mind of Paula was as yet undecided, when a child from the village

passed the window, and seeing her sitting there, handed her a small

package with the simple message that Mrs. Hamlin was very ill. It

contained, as she anticipated, the great key to the Japha mansion, and

understanding without further words, what was demanded of her, Paula

prepared to keep the promise she had long ago made to this devoted

woman. For though she knew the uselessness of the vigil proposed to her,

she none the less determined to complete it. Easier to sit an hour in

that dark old house, than to explain herself to Mrs. Hamlin. Besides,

the time was good for prayer, and God knows the wretched object of all

this care and anxiety, stood in need of all the petitions that might be

raised for her.

Telling her aunts that she had a call to make in the village, she glided

hurriedly away, and ere she realized all to which she was committed,

found herself standing in the now darkened streets, before the grim door

of that dread and mysterious mansion. Never had it looked more

forbidding; never had the two gruesome poplars cast a deeper shadow, or

rustled with a more woful sound in the chill evening air. The very

windows seemed to repel her with their darkened panes, behind which she

could easily imagine the spirits of the dead, moving and peering. A

chill not unlike that of terror, assailed her limbs, and it was with a

really heroic action that she finally opened the gate and glided up the

path made by the daily steps of her aged friend. To thrust the big key

into the lock required another effort, but that once accomplished, she

stilled every tumultuous beating of her heart, by crying under her

breath, “She has done this for one whom she has not seen for fifteen

years; shall I then hesitate, who know the real necessity of her for

whom this hour is made sacred?”

The slow swinging open of the door was like an ushering into the abode

of ghosts, but she struck a light at once, and soon had the satisfaction

of beholding the dismal room with its weird shadows, resolve into its

old and well remembered aspect. The ancient cabinet and stiff hair-cloth

sofa, Colonel Japha’s chair by the table, together with all the other

objects that had attracted her attention in her former visit, confronted

her again with the same appearance of standing ready and waiting, which

had previously so thrilled her. Only she was alone this time, and terror

mingled with her awe. She scarcely dared to glance at the doors that led

to other portions of the house. In her present mood it would seem so

natural for them to swing open, and let upon her horrified gaze the

stately phantom of the proud old colonel or the gentler shade of

Jacqueline’s mother. The moan of the wind in the chimney was dreadful to

her, and the faint rumbling sounds of mice scampering in the walls, made

her start as though a voice had spoken.

But presently the noise of a sleigh careering by the house recalled her

to herself, and remembering it was but early night-fall, she sat down in

a chair by the door, and prepared to keep her vigil with suitable

patience and equanimity. Suddenly she recollected the clock on the

mantel-piece and how she had seen Mrs. Hamlin wind it, and rising up,

she followed her example, sighing unconsciously to find how many of the

sixty minutes had yet to tick themselves away, “Can I endure it!” she

thought, and shuddered as she pictured to herself the dim old staircase

behind those doors, and the empty rooms above, and the little Bible

lying thicker than ever with dust, on the yellowed pillows of

Jacqueline’s bed.

Suddenly she stood still; the noise she had just heard, was not made by

the pattering of mice along the rafters, or even the creaking of the

withered vines that clung against the walls! It was a human sound, a

clicking as of the gate without, a crunching as of feet dragging slowly

over the snow. Was Mrs. Hamlin coming after all, or—she could not

formulate her fear; a real and palpable danger from the outside world

had never crossed her fancy till now. What if some stranger should

enter, some tramp, some—a step on the porch without made her hair rise

on her forehead; she clasped her hands and stood trembling, when a

sudden moan startled her ears, followed by the sound of a heavy fall on

the threshold, and throwing aside all hesitation, she flung herself

forward, and tearing open the door, saw—oh, angels that rejoice in

heaven over one sinner that repenteth, let your voices go up in praise

this night, for Jacqueline Japha has returned to the home of her

fathers!

She had fainted, and lay quite still on the threshold, but Paula, who

was all energy now, soon had her in the centre of the sitting-room, and

was applying to her such restoratives as had been provided against this

very emergency. She was holding the poor weary head on her knee, when

the wan eyes opened, and looking up, grew wild with a disappointment

which Paula was quick to appreciate.

“You are looking for Margery,” said she. “Margery will come by-and-by;

she is not well to-night and I am taking her place, but when she hears

you have returned, it will take more than sickness to keep her to her

bed. I am Paula, and I love you, too, and welcome you—oh, welcome you

so gladly.”

The yearning look which had crept into the woman’s bleared and faded

eyes, deepened and softened strangely.

“You are the one who told me about Margery,” said she, “and bade me

bring my baby here to be buried. I remember, though I seemed to pay no

heed then. Night and day through all my pain, I have remembered, and as

soon as I could walk, stole away from the hospital. It has killed me,

but I shall at least die in my father’s house.”

Paula stooped and kissed her. “I am going to get your bed ready,” said

she. And without any hesitation now, she opened the door that led into

those dim inner regions that but a few minutes before had inspired her

with such dread.

She went straight to Jacqueline’s room. “It must all be according to

Mrs. Hamlin’s wishes,” she cried, and lit the fire on the hearth, and

pulled back the curtains yet farther from the bed, and gave the benefit

of her womanly touch to the various objects about her, till cheerfulness

seemed to reign in a spot once so peopled with hideous memories. Going

back to Jacqueline, she helped her to rise, and throwing her arm about

her waist, led her into the hall. But here memory, ghastly accusing

memory, stepped in, and catching the wretched woman in its grasp, shook

her, body and soul, till her shrieks reverberated through that desolate

house. But Paula with gentle persistence urged her on, and smiling upon

her like an angel of peace and mercy, led her up step after step of that

dreadful staircase, till at last she saw her safely in the room of her

early girlhood.

The sight of it seemed at first to horrify but afterwards to soothe the

forlorn being thus brought face to face with her own past. She moved

over to the fire and held out her two cramped hands to the blaze, as if

she saw an altar of mercy in its welcoming glow. From these she passed

tottering and weak to the embroidery-frame, which she looked at for a

moment with something almost like a smile; but she hurried by the

mirror, and scarcely glanced at a portrait of herself which hung on the

wall over her head. To sink on the bed seemed to be her object, and

thither Paula accompanied her. But when she came to where it stood, and

saw the clothes turned down and the pillows heaped at the head, and the

little Bible lying open for her in the midst, she gave a great and

mighty sob, and flinging herself down upon her knees, wept with a

breaking up of her whole nature, in which her sins, red though they were

as crimson, seemed to feel the touch of the Divine love, and vanish away

in the oblivion He prepares for all His penitent ones.

When everything was prepared and Jacqueline was laid quiet in bed, Paula

stole out and down the stairs and wended her way to Mrs. Hamlin’s

cottage. She found her sitting up, but far from well, and very feeble.

At the first sight of Paula’s face, she started erect and seem to forget

her weakness in a moment.

“What is it?” she asked; “you look as though you had been gazing on the

faces of angels. Has—has my hope come true at last? Has Jacqueline

returned? Oh, has my poor, lost, erring child come back?”

Paula drew near and gently steadied Mrs. Hamlin’s swaying form. “Yes,”

she smiled; and with the calmness of one who has entered the gates of

peace, whispered in low and reverent tones: “She lies in the bed that

you spread for her, with the Bible held close to her breast.”

* * * * *

There are moments when the world about us seems to pause; when the

hopes, fears and experiences of all humanity appear to sway away and

leave us standing alone in the presence of our own great hope or

scarcely comprehended fear. Such a moment was that which saw Paula

re-enter Jacqueline’s presence with Mrs. Hamlin at her side.

Leaving the latter near the door, she went towards the bed. Why did she

recoil and glance back at Mrs. Hamlin with that startled and

apprehensive look? The face of Jacqueline was changed—changed as only

one presence could change it, though the eyes were clearer than when she

left her a few minutes before, and the lips were not without the shadow

of a smile.

“She is dying,” whispered Paula, coming back to Mrs. Hamlin; “dying, and

you have waited so long!”

But the look that met hers from that aged face, was not one of grief;

and startled, she knew not why, Paula drew aside, while Mrs. Hamlin

crossed the room and quietly knelt down by her darling’s side.

“Margery!”

“Jacqueline!”

The two cries rang through the room, then all was quiet again.

“You have come back!” were the next words Paula heard. “How could I ever

have doubted that you would!”

“I have been driven back by awful suffering,” was the answer; and

another silence fell. Suddenly Jacqueline’s voice was heard. “Love slew

me, and now love has saved me!” exclaimed she. And there came no answer

to that cry, and Paula felt the shadow of a great awe settle down upon

her, and moving nearer to where the aged woman knelt by her darling’s

bedside, she looked in her bended face and then in the one upturned on

the pillow, and knew that of all the hearts that but an instant before

had beat with earth’s deepest emotion in that quiet room, one alone

throbbed on to thank God and take courage.

And the fire which had been kindled to welcome the prodigal back, burned

on; and from the hollow depths of the great room below, came the sound

of a clock as it struck the hour, seven!

XLVI.

THE MAN CUMMINS.

“Oh day and night, but this is wondrous strange.”—HENRY V.

“Shut up in measureless content.”—OTHELLO.

The lights were yet shining in Mr. Stuyvesant’s parlors, though the

guests were gone, who but a short time before had assembled there to

witness the marriage of Cicely’s dear friend, Paula.

At one end of the room stood Mr. Sylvester and Bertram, the former

gazing with the eyes of a bridegroom, at the delicate white-clad figure

of Paula, just leaving the apartment with Cicely.

“I have but one cause for regret,” said Mr. Sylvester as the door

closed. “I could have wished that you and Cicely had participated in our

joy and received the minister’s benediction at the same moment as

ourselves.”

“Yes,” said Bertram with a short sigh. “But it will come in time. It

cannot be but that our efforts must finally succeed. I have just had a

new idea; that of putting the watchman on the hunt for Hopgood. They are

old friends, and he ought to know all the other’s haunts and possible

hiding-places.”

“If Fanning could have helped us, he would have told us long ago. He

knows that Hopgood is missing and that we are ready to pay well for any

information concerning him.”

“But they are old cronies, and possibly Fanning is keeping quiet out of

consideration for his friend.”

“No; I have had a talk with Fanning, and there was no mistaking his look

of surprise when told the other had run away under suspicion of being

connected with a robbery on the bank’s effects. He knows no more of

Hopgood than we do, or his wife does, or the police even. It is a

strange mystery, and one to which I fear we shall never obtain the key.

But don’t let me discourage you; after a suitable time Mr. Stuyvesant

will—”

He paused, for that gentleman was approaching him.

“There is a man outside who insists upon seeing me; says he knows there

has just been a wedding here, but that the matter he has to communicate

is very important, and won’t bear putting off. The name on his card is

Cummins; I am afraid I shall have to admit him, that is, if you have no

objection?”

Mr. Sylvester and Bertram at once drew back with ready acquiescence.

They had scarcely taken their stand at the other end of the apartment,

when the man came in. He was of robust build, round, precise and

business-like. He had taken off his hat, but still wore his overcoat;

his face in spite of a profusion of red whiskers and a decided pair of

goggles, was earnest and straightforward. He walked at once up to Mr.

Stuyvesant.

“Your pardon,” said he, in a quick tone. “But I hear you have been

somewhat exercised of late over the disappearance of certain bonds from

one of the boxes in the Madison Bank. I am a detective, and in the

course of my duty have come upon a few facts that may help to explain

matters.”

Mr. Sylvester and Bertram at once started forward; this was a topic that

demanded their attention as well as that of the master of the house.

The man cast them a quick look from behind his goggles, and seeming to

recognize them, included them in his next question.

“What do you think of the watchman, Fanning?”

“Think? we don’t think,” uttered Mr. Stuyvesant sharply. “He has been in

the employ of the bank for twelve years, and we know him to be honest.”

“Yet he is the man who stole your bonds.”

“Impossible!”

“The very man.”

Mr. Sylvester stepped up to him. “Who are you, and how do you know

this?”

“I have said my name is Cummins, and I know this, because I have wormed

myself into the man’s confidence and have got the bonds, together with

his confession, here in my pocket.” And he drew out the long lost bonds,

which he handed to their owner, with a bit of paper on which was

in-scribed in the handwriting of the watchman, an acknowledgment to the

effect that he, alone and unassisted, had perpetrated the robbery which

had raised such scandal in the bank and led to the disappearance of

Hopgood.

“And the man himself?” cried Bertram, when they had all read this.

“Where is he?”

“Oh, I allowed him to escape.”

Mr. Sylvester frowned.

“There is something about this I don’t understand,” said he. “How came

you to take such an interest in this matter; and why did you let the man

escape after acknowledging his crime?”

With a quick, not undignified action, Cummins stepped back. “Gentlemen,”

said he, “it is allowable in a detective in the course of his duty, to

resort to means for eliciting the truth, that in any other cause and for

any other purpose, would be denominated as unmanly, if not mean and

contemptible. When I heard of this robbery, as I did the day after its

perpetration, my mind flew immediately to the watchman as the possible

culprit. I did not know that he had done the deed, and I did not see how

he could have possessed the means of doing it, but I had been acquainted

with him for some time, and certain expressions which I had overheard

him use—expressions that had passed over me lightly at the time, now

recurred to my mind with startling distinctness. ‘If a man knew the

combination of the vault door, how easily he could make himself rich

from the contents of those boxes!’ was one, I remember; and another, ‘I

have worked in the bank for twelve years and have not so much money laid

up against a rainy day, as would furnish Mr. Sylvester in cigars for a

month.’ The fact that he had no opportunity to learn the combination,

was the only stumbling-block in the way of my conclusions. But that

obstacle was soon removed. In a talk with the janitor’s wife—a good

woman, sirs, but a trifle conceited—I learned that he had once had the

very opportunity of which I speak, provided he was smart enough to

recognize the fact. The way it came about was this. Hopgood, who always

meant to do about the right thing, as I know, was one morning very sick,

so sick that when the time came for him to go down and open the vaults

for the day, he couldn’t stir from his bed, or at least thought he

couldn’t. Twice had the watchman rung for him, and twice had he tried to

get up, only to fall back again on his pillow. At last the call became

imperative; the clerks would soon be in, and the books were not even in

readiness for them. Calling his wife to him, he asked if she thought she

could open the vault door provided she knew the combination. She

returned a quite eager, ‘yes,’ being a naturally vain woman and moreover

a little sore over the fact that her husband never entrusted her with

any of his secrets. ‘Then,’ said he, ‘listen to those three numbers that

I give you; and turn the knob accordingly,’ explaining the matter in a

way best calculated to enlighten her as to what she had to do. She

professed herself as understanding perfectly and went off in quite a

flutter of satisfaction to accomplish her task. But though he did not

know it at the time, it seems that her heart failed her when she got

into the hall, and struck with fear lest she should forget the numbers

before she got to the foot of the stairs, she came back, and carefully

wrote them down on a piece of paper, armed with which she started for

the second time to fulfil her task. The watchman was in the bank when

she entered, and to his expressions of surprise, she answered that her

husband was ill and that she was going to open the vaults. He offered to

help her, but she stared at him with astonishment, and waiting till he

had walked to the other end of the bank, proceeded to the vault door,

and after carefully consulting the paper in her hand, was about to turn

the knob as directed, when Hopgood himself came into the room. He was

too anxious, he said, to keep in bed, and though he trembled at every

step, came forward and accomplished the task himself. He did not see the

paper in his wife’s hand, nor notice her when she tore it up and threw

the pieces in the waste-basket near-by, but the watchman may have

observed her, and as it afterwards proved, did; and thus became

acquainted with the combination that unlocked the outer vault doors.”

“Humph!” broke in Mr. Sylvester, “if this is true, why didn’t Hopgood

inform me of the matter when I questioned him so closely?”

“Because he had forgotten the circumstance. He was in a fever at the

time, and having eventually unlocked the vault himself, lost sight of

the fact that he had previously sent his wife to do it. He went back to

his bed after the clerks came in, and did not get up again till night.

He may have thought the whole occurrence part of the delirium which more

than once assailed him that day.”

“I remember his being sick,” said Bertram; “it was two or three days

before the robbery.”

“The very day before,” corrected the man; “but let me tell my story in

my own way. Having learned from Mrs. Hopgood of this opportunity which

had been given to Fanning, I made up my mind to sift the matter. Being

as I have said a friend of his, I didn’t, want to peach on him unless he

was guilty. To blast an honest man’s reputation, is, I think, one of the

meanest tricks of which a fellow can be guilty: but the truth I had to

know, and in order to learn it, a deep and delicate game was necessary.

Gentlemen, when the police have strong suspicions against a person whose

reputation is above reproach and whose conduct affords no opportunity

for impeachment, they set a springe for him. One of their number

disguises himself, and making the acquaintance of this person,

insinuates himself by slow degrees—often at the cost of months of

effort—into his friendship and if possible into his confidence. ’Tis a

detestable piece of business, but it is all that will serve in some

cases, and has at least the merit of being as dangerous as it is

detestable. This plan, I undertook with Fanning. Changing my appearance

to suit the necessities of the case, I took board in the small house in

Brooklyn where he puts up, and being well acquainted with his tastes,

knew how to adapt myself to his liking. He was a busy man, and being

obliged by his duties to turn night into day, had not much time to

bestow upon me or any one else; but heedful of this, I managed to make

the most of the spare moments that saw us together, and ere long we were

very good comrades, and further on, very good friends. The day when I

first ventured to suggest that honesty was all very well as long as it

paid, was a memorable one to me. In that cast of the die I was either to

win or lose the game I had undertaken. I won. After a feint or two, to

see if I were in earnest, he fell into the net, and though he did not

commit himself then, it was not long before he came to me, and

deliberately requested my assistance in disposing of some bonds which he

was smart enough to acquire, but not daring enough to attempt to sell.

Of course the whole story came out, and I was sympathetic enough till I

got the bonds into my hands, then—But I leave you to imagine what

followed. Enough that I wrung this confession from him, and that in

consideration of the doubtful game I had played upon him, let him go

where he is by this time beyond the chance of pursuit.”

“But your duty to your superior; your oath as a member of the force?”

“My superior is here!” said the man pointing to Mr. Sylvester; “an

unconscious one I own, but still my superior; and as for my being a

member of the force, that was true five years ago, but not to-day.” And

brushing off his whiskers with one hand and taking off his goggles with

the other, Hopgood, the janitor, stood before them!

* * * * *

It was a radiant figure that met Cicely, when she came down stairs with

Paula, and a joyous group that soon surrounded the now blushing and

embarrassed janitor, with questions and remarks concerning this great

and unexpected development of affairs. But the fervor with which Mr.

Stuyvesant clasped Bertram’s hand, and the look with which Cicely turned

from her young lover to bestow a final kiss upon the departing bride,

was worth all the pains and self-denial of the last few weeks—or so the

janitor thought, who with a quicker comprehension than usual, had

divined the situation and rejoiced in the result. But the most curious

thing of all was to observe how, with the taking off of his goggles,

Hopgood had relapsed into his old shrinking, easily embarrassed self.

The man who but a few minutes before had related in their hearing a

clear and succinct narrative, now shrank if a question was put him, and

stammered in quite his ancient fashion, when he answered Mr. Sylvester’s

shake of the hand, by a hurried:

“I am going to see my wife now, sir. She’s a good woman, if a little

flighty, and will be the last one in the future to beg me to put more

confidence in her. Will you tell me where she is, sir?”

Mr. Sylvester informed him; then added, “But look here, Hopgood, answer

me one thing before you go. Why is it that with such talents as you

possess, you didn’t stay in the police force? You are a regular genius

in your way, and ought not to drone away your existence as a janitor.”

“Ah, sir,” replied the other, shaking his head, “a man who is only

capable of assuming one disguise, isn’t good for much as a professional

detective. Goggles and red whiskers will deceive one rogue, but not

fifty. My eyes were my bane, sir, and ultimately cost me my place. While

I could cover them up I was all right. It not only made a man of me,

leaving me free to talk and freer to think, but disguised me so, my best

friends couldn’t recognize me; but after awhile my goggles were too well

known for me to be considered of much further use to the department, and

I was obliged to send in my resignation. It is too bad, but I have no

versatility, sir. I’m either the clumsy, stammering creature you have

always known, or else I am the man Cummins you saw here a few minutes

ago.”

“In either case an honest fellow,” answered Mr. Sylvester, and allowed

the janitor to depart.

* * * * *

One more scene, and this in the house which Paula is henceforth to make

a home for herself and its once melancholy owner. They have come back

from their wedding-journey, and are standing in their old fashion, he at

the foot, and she half way up the stairs. Suddenly she turns and

descends to his side.

“No, I will not wait,” said she. “Here, on this spot we both love so

well, and in this the first hour of our return, I will unburden my mind

of what I have to say. Edward, is there nothing of all the past that

still rests upon you like a shadow? Not one little regret you could wish

taken away?”

“No,” said he, enfolding her in his arms with a solemn smile. “The great

gift which I hold is the fruit of that past, perhaps; I cannot wish it

changed.”

“But the sense of obligation never fulfilled, would you not be happier

if that were removed?”

“Perhaps,” he said, “but it cannot be now. I shall have to live without

being perfectly happy.”

She lifted her face and her smile shone like a star. “Oh God is good,”

she cried, “you shall not lack being perfectly happy;” and taking a

little paper out of her pocket she put it in his hand. “We found that

hidden in Jacqueline Japha’s breast, when we went to lay her out for

burial.”

It was only a line; but it made Mr. Sylvester’s brow flush and his voice

tremble.

* * * * *

“Whatever I own, and I have been told that I am far from penniless, I

desire to have given to the dear and disinterested girl that first told

me of Margery Hamlin’s vigil.”

* * * * *

“Paula, Paula, Paula, thou art indeed my good gift! May God make me

worthy of your love and of this His last and most unexpected mercy!”

And the look which crossed her face, was that sweet and unearthly

radiance which speaks of perfect peace.

PUBLICATIONS OF G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS.

THE LEAVENWORTH CASE. By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN.

“Wilkie Collins, in his best period, never invented a more

ingeniously constructed plot, nor held the reader in such

suspense until the final _denoûment_. The most blasé

novel-reader will be unable to put aside ‘The Leavenworth Case’

until he has read the last sentence and mastered the mystery

which has baffled him from the beginning.”—_N. Y. Evening

Express._

A MAN’S A MAN FOR A’ THAT.

“A novel of decided excellence. * * * Contains delicate and

charming work. Thoroughly clever * * * Its spirit is one of

robust and healthy enthusiasm for manliness and

womanliness.”—_N. Y. Evening Post._

THE BRETON MILLS: A ROMANCE OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE. By CHARLES J. BELLAMY.

“Nothing from the pen of Mrs. Burnett was ever more intensely

dramatic.”—_Jackson Daily Citizen._

“Looked at from a purely literary point of view it is almost

faultless. It shows a hand both of culture and

power.”—_Detroit Evening News._

CUPID AND THE SPHINX. By HARFORD FLEMMING.

“Its characters are skilfully drawn, its incidents well

conceived, the dialogues brilliant, and the story told with

ease and gracefulness.”—_Boston Transcript._

“The suggestion of the story is extremely beautiful, and its

treatment graceful and enchanting throughout.”—_Hartford

Evening Post._

A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE. By ANNA KATHERINE GREEN.

“Wilkie Collins would not need to be ashamed of the

construction of this story. * * * It keeps the reader’s close

attention from first to last.”—_N. Y. Evening Post._

“Shows the same skill as ‘The Leavenworth Case’ in the

management of the plot and the incidents.”—_Boston

Transcript._

THE HEART OF IT: A Romance of East and West. By WILLIAM O. STODDARD.

“Uncommonly good reading, even for that uncommonly readable

Series.”—_Philadelphia Times._

“An American novel, dealing with a few well-chosen characters

and involving a striking and original plot. * * * A thoroughly

entertaining piece of fiction.”—_Boston Traveller._

UNCLE JACK’S EXECUTORS. By ANNETTE LUCILLE NOBLE.

“Comes from a writer of unusual talent. * * * Remarkable for

its sketches of character, its naturalness, its frequent

flashes of intellectual brightness, and its genuine humor. * *

* One of the best novels of the season and deserving of a

permanent place among works of genuine American fiction.”—_The

Churchman._

THE STRANDED SHIP: A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE. By L. CLARKE DAVIS.

“Full of the finest dramatic action. * * * The work of a man of

firm genius and exquisite delicacy of touch.”—_N. Y. Evening

Post._

NESTLENOOK. By LEONARD KIP, Author of “The Dead Marquise,” “Under the

Bells,” etc.

Of “The Dead Marquise” the _Boston Globe_ writes: “The book is

admirable and its style almost perfect in its transparent

simplicity.”

THE TRANS-ATLANTIC SERIES.

I. CAPTAIN FRACASSE. By THEOPHILE GAUTIER. Translated by E. M. BEAM.

Of Le Capitaine Fracasse, Henry James, Jr., writes: “In this

delightful work Gautier surpassed himself, and produced the

model of picturesque romances. * * * The great charm of the

book is a sort of combined geniality of feeling and coloring,

which leaves one in doubt whether the author is the most joyous

of painters or the cleverest of poets. * * * Le Capitaine

Fracasse ranks, in our opinion, with the first works of

imagination produced in our day.”

“A masterpiece of literary art.”—_N. Y. Nation._

“The translation is most admirable.”—_Troy Whig._

II. THE AMAZON. By FRANZ DINGELSTEDT. Translated by JAS. MORGAN HART.

“Full of scintillations of wit. * * * Sparkles throughout with

vivacity and sparkling humor.”—_Leipsic Blätter für Lit. Unt._

“A delightful novel, characterized by force and fire, strong

dramatic power, and rare skill in its analysis of human motives

and character.”—_Philadelphia Times._

MOTHER MOLLY. By FRANCES MARY PEARD.

“The book is charming; and, more than this, it is a

well-finished historical study of stirring

times.”—_Philadelphia Times._

“It deserves to rank among the best English stories of the

year.”—_Louisville Courier-Journal._

THE LOST CASKET. Translated from _“La Main Coupée”_ of F. de BOISGOBEY

by S. LEE.