by Marion Bryce
“Paula!” This time his voice came authoritatively. “You are making too much of a frenzied woman’s impulsive exclamation. To her darkened and despairing eyes any young woman of a similar style of beauty would have called forth the same remark. It was a sign that she was not entirely given up to evil, that she could remember her youth. Instead of feeling contaminated by her words, you ought to feel, that unconsciously to yourself, your fresh young countenance with its innocent eyes did an angel’s work to-day. They made her recall what she was in the days of her own innocence, and who can tell what may follow such a recollection.”
“O Mr. Sylvester,” said she, “you fill me with shame. If I could think that,”—
“You can, nothing appeals to the heart of crime like the glance of perfect innocence. If evil walks the world, God’s ministers walk it also, and none can tell in what glance of the eye or what touch of the hand, that ministry will speak.”
It was her turn now to take his hand in hers. “O how good, bow thoughtful you are; you have comforted me and you have taught me. I thank you very much.”
With a look she did not perceive, he drew his hand away. “I am glad I have helped you, Paula; there is but one thing more to say, and this I would emphasize with every saddened look you have ever met in all your life. Great sins make great sufferers. Side by side came the two dreadful powers of vice and retribution into the world, and side by side will they keep till they sink at last into the awful deeps of the bottomless pit. When you turn your back on a man who has committed a crime, one more door shuts in his darkened spirit.”
The tears were falling from Paula’s eyes now. He looked at them with strange wistfulness and involuntarily his hand rose to her head, smoothing her locks with fatherly touches. “Do not think,” said he, “that I would lessen by a hair’s breadth your hatred of evil. I can more easily bear to see the shadow upon your cup of joy than upon the banner of truth you carry. These eyes must lose none of their inner light in glancing compassionately on your fellow-men. Only remember that divinity itself has stooped to rescue, and let the thought make your contact with weary, wicked-hearted humanity a little less trying and a little more hopeful to you. And now, my dear, that is enough of serious talk for to-day. We are bound for a reception, you know, and it is time we were dressing. “Do you want me to tell you a secret? asked he in a light mysterious tone, as he saw her eyes still filling.
She glanced up with sudden interest.
“I know it is treason,” resumed he, “I am fully aware of the grave nature of my offence; but Paula I hate all public receptions, and shall only be able to enjoy myself to-night just so much as I see that you are doing so. Life has its dark portals and its bright ones. This is one that you must enter with your most brilliant smiles.”
“And they shall not be lacking,” said she. “When a treasure-box of thought is given us, we do not open it and scatter its contents abroad, but lay it away where the heart keeps its secrets, to be opened in the hush of night when we are alone with our own souls and God.”
He smiled and she moved towards the door. “None the less do we carry with us wherever we go, the remembrance of our hidden treasure,” she smilingly added, looking back upon him from the stair.
And again as upon the first night of her entrance into the house, did he stand below and watch her as she softly went up, her lovely face flashing one moment against the dark back-ground of the luxurious bronze, towering from the platform behind, then glowing with faint and fainter lustre, as the distance widened between them and she vanished in the regions above.
She did not see the toss of his arm with which he threw off the burden that rested upon his soul.
XVII. GRAVE AND GAY.
“No scandal about Queen Elizabeth I hope.”
—SHERIDAN.
“Stands Scotland where it did?”
—MACBETH.
“Who is that talking with Miss Stuyvesant?” asked Mr. Sylvester, approaching his wife during one of the lulls that will fall at times upon vast assemblies.
Mrs. Sylvester followed the direction of his glance and immediately responded, “O that is Mr. Ensign, one of the best partis of the season, he evidently knows where to pay his court.”
“I inquired because he has just requested me to honor him with a formal introduction to Paula.”
“Indeed! then oblige him by all means; it would be a great match for her. To say nothing of his wealth, he is haut ton, and his red whiskers will not look badly beside Paula’s dark hair.”
Mr. Sylvester frowned, then sighed, but in a few minutes Paula observed him approaching with Mr. Ensign. At once her hitherto pale cheek flushed, but the young gentleman did not seem to object to that, and after the formal introduction which he had sought was over, he exclaimed in his own bright ringing tones,
“The fates have surely forgotten their usual rôle of unpropitiousness. I did not dare hope to meet you here tonight, Miss Fairchild. Was the ride all that your fancy painted?”
“O,” said she, speaking very low and glancing around, “do not allude to it here. We had an adventure shortly after you parted from us.”
“An adventure! and no cavalier at your side! If I could but have known! Was it so serious?” he inquired in a moment, seeing her look grave.
“Ask Miss Stuyvesant;” said she. “I cannot talk about it any more to-night. Besides the music carries off one’s thoughts. It is like a joyous breeze that whirls away the thistle-down whether it will or no.”
He gave her a short quick look grave enough in its way, but responded with his usual graceful humor, “The thistle-down is too vicious a sprite to be beguiled away so easily. If I were to give my opinion on the subject, I should say there was method in its madness. If you have been brought up in the country, as I suspect from your remark, you must know that the white floating ball is not as harmless as it would lead you to imagine. It is a meddlesome nobody, that’s what it is, and like some country gossips I know, launches forth from a pure love of mischief to establish his prickers in his neighbor’s field.”
“His! I thought it must be feminine at least to fulfil the conditions you mention. A male gossip, O fie! I shall never have patience with a thistle-ball after this.”
“Well,” laughed he, “I did start with the intention of making it feminine, but I caught a glimpse of your eyes and lost my courage. I did what I could,” added he with a mirthful glance.
“So do the thistles,” cried she. Then while both voices joined in a merry laugh, she continued, But where have we strayed? For a moment it seemed as we were on the hills at Grotewell; I could almost see the blue sky.”
“And I,” said he, with his eyes on her face.
“I am sure the brooks bubbled.”
“I distinctly heard a bird singing.”
“It was a whippowill.”
“But my name is Clarence?”
And here both being young and without a care in the world, they laughed again. And the crowded perfumed room seemed to freshen as with a whiff of mountain air.
“You love the country, Miss Fairchild?”
“Yes;” and her smile was the reflection of the summer-lands that arose before her at the word. “With the right side of my heart do I love the spot where nature speaks and man is dumb.”
“And with the left?”
“I love the place where great men congregate to face their destiny and control it.”
“The latter is the deeper love,” said he.
She nodded her head and then said, “I need both to make me happy. Sometimes as I walk these city streets, I feel as if my very longing to escape to the heart of the hills, would carry me there. I remember when I was a child, I was one day running through a meadow, when suddenly a whole flock of birds flew up from the grass and surrounded my head. I was not sure but what I should be caught up and carried away by the force of their flight; and when they rose to mid heaven, something in my breast seemed to follow them. So it is often with me here, only that it is the rus
h of my thoughts that threatens such a Hegira. Yet if I were to be transported to my native hills, I know I should long to be back again.”
“The mountain lassie has wandered into the courts of the king. The perfume of palaces is not easily forgotten.”
Her eye turned towards Mr. Sylvester standing near them upright and firm, talking to a group of attentive gentlemen every one of whom boasted a name of more than local celebrity. “Without a royal heart to govern, there would be no palace;” said she, and blushed under a sudden sense of the possible interpretation he might give to her words, till the rose in her hand looked pallid.
But he had followed her glance and understood her better than she thought. “And Mr. Sylvester has such a heart, so a hundred good fellows have told me. You are fortunate to see the city from the loop-hole of such a home as his.”
“It is more than a loop-hole,” said she.
“Of that I shall never be satisfied till I see it!”
And being content with the look he received, he took her on his arm and led her into the midst of the dancers.
Meanwhile in a certain corner not far off, two gentlemen were talking.
“Sylvester shows off well to-night.”
“He always does. With such a figure as that, a man needs but to enter a room to make himself felt. But then he’s a good talker too. Ever heard him speak?”
“No.”
“Fine voice, true snap, right ring. Great favorite at elections. The fact is, Sylvester is a remarkable man.”
“Hum, ha, so I should judge.”
“And so fortunate! He has never been known to run foul in a great operation. Put your money in his hand and whew!—your fortune is as good as made.”
The other, a rich man, connected heavily with the mining business in Colorado, smiled with that bland overflow of the whole countenance which is sometimes seen in large men of great self-importance.
“It’s a pity he’s gone out of Wall Street,” continued his companion. “The younger fry feel now something like a flock of sheep that has lost its bell-wether.”
They straggle—eh?” returned his portly friend with an Increase of his smile that was not altogether pleasant. “So Sylvester has left Wall Street?”
“He closed his last enterprise two weeks before accepting the Presidency of the Madison Bank. Stuyvesant is down on speculation, and well—It looks better you know; the Madison Bank is an old institution, and Sylvester is ambitious. There’ll be no reckless handling of funds there.”
“No!” What was there in that no that made the other look up?
“I’m not acquainted with Sylvester myself. Has he much family?”
“A wife—there she is, that handsome woman talking with Ditman,—and a daughter, niece or somebody who just now is setting all our young scapegraces by the ears. You can see her if you just crane your neck a little.”
“Humph, ha, very pretty, very pretty. How much do you suppose Mrs. Sylvester is worth as she stands, diamonds you know, and all that?”
“Well I should say some where near ten thousand; that sprig in her hair cost a clean five.”
“So, so. They live in a handsome house I suppose?”
“A regular palace, corner of Fifth Avenue and — street.
“All his?”
“Nobody’s else I reckon.”
“Sports horses and carriage I suppose?”
“Of course.”
“Yacht, opera box?”
“No reason why he shouldn’t.”
“What is his salary?”
“A nominal sum, five or ten thousand perhaps.”
“Owns good share of the bank’s stock I presume?”
“Enough to control it.”
“Below par though?”
“A trifle, going up, however.”
“And don’t speculate?”
The way this man drawled his words was excessively disagreeable.
“Oh? Not that any one knows of. He’s made his fortune and now asks only to enjoy it.”
The man from the West strutted back and looked at his companion knowingly. “What do you think of my judgment, Stadler?”
“None better this side of the Pacific.”
“Pretty good at spying out cracks, eh?”
“I wouldn’t like to undertake the puttying up that would deceive you.”
“Humph! Well then, mark this. In two months from to-day you will see Mr. Sylvester rent his house and go south for his health, or the pretty one over there will marry one of the scapegraces you mention, who will lend the man who don’t engage in any farther ventures, more than one or two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Ha, you know something.”
“I own mines in Colorado and I have my points.”
“And Mr. Sylvester?”
“Will find them too sharp for him.”
And having made his joke, he yielded to the other’s apparent restlessness, and they sauntered off.
They did not observe a pale, demure, little lady that sat near them abstractedly nodding her dainty head to the remarks of a pale-whiskered youth at her side, nor notice the emotion with which she suddenly rose at their departure and dismissed her chattering companion on some impromptu errand. It was only one of the ordinary group of dancers, a pretty, plainly dressed girl, but her name was Stuyvesant.
Rising with a decision that gave a very attractive color to her cheeks, she hastily looked around. A trio of young gentlemen started towards her but she gave them no encouragement; her eye had detected Mr. Sylvester’s tall figure a few feet off and it was to him she desired to speak. But at her first movement in his direction, her glance encountered another face, and like a stream that melts into a rushing torrent, her purpose seemed to vanish, leaving her quivering with a new emotion of so vivid a character she involuntarily looked about her for a refuge.
But in another instant her eyes had again sought the countenance that had so moved her, and finding it bent upon her own, faltered a little and unconsciously allowed the lilies she was carrying to drop from her hand. Before she realized her loss, the face before her had vanished, and with it something of her hesitation and alarm.
With a hasty action she drew near Mr. Sylvester. “Will you lend me your arm for a minute?” she asked, with her usual appealing look rendered doubly forcible by the experience of a moment before.
“Miss Stuyvesant! I am happy to see you.”
Never had his face looked more cheerful she thought, never had his smile struck her more pleasantly.
“A little talk with a little girl will not hinder you too much, will it?” she queried, glancing at the group of gentlemen that had shrunk back at her approach.
“Do you call that hindrance which relieves one from listening to quotations of bank stock at an evening reception?”
She shook her head with a confused movement, and led him up before a stand of flowering exotics.
“I want to tell you something,” she said eagerly but with a marked timidity also, the tall form beside her looked so imposing for all its encouraging bend. “I beg your pardon if I am doing wrong, but papa regards you with such esteem and—Mr. Sylvester do you know a man by the name of Stadler?”
Astonished at such a question from lips so young and dainty, he turned and surveyed her for a moment with quick surprise. Something in her aspect struck him. He answered at once and without circumlocution. “Yes, if you refer to that spry keen-faced man, just entering the supper-room.”
“Do you know his companion?” she proceeded; “the portly, highly pompous-looking gentleman with the gold eye-glasses? Look quickly.”
“No.” There was an uneasiness in his tone however that struck her painfully.
“He is a stranger in town; has not the honor of your acquaintance he says, but from the questions he asked, I judge he has a great interest in your affairs. He spoke of being connected with mines in Colorado. I was sitting behind a curtain and overheard what was said.”
Mr. Sylvester turned pale and regard
ed her attentively.
“Might I be so bold,” he inquired after a moment. “as to ask you what that was?”
“Yes, sir, certainly, but it is even harder for me to repeat than it was for me to hear, He inquired about your domestic concerns, your home and your income,” she murmured blushing; “and then said, in what I thought was a somewhat exulting tone, that in two months or so we should see you go South for your health or—is not that enough for me to tell you, Mr. Sylvester?”
He gave her a short stare, opened his lips as if to speak, then turned abruptly aside and began picking mechanically at the blossoms before him.
“I, of course, do not know what men mean when they talk of possessing points. But the leer and side glance which accompanies such talk, have a universal language we all understand, and I felt that I must warn you of that man’s malice if only because papa regards you so highly.”
He shrank as if touched on a sore place, but bowed and answered the wistful appeal of her glance with a shadow of his usual smile, then he turned, and looking towards the door through which the two men had disappeared, made a movement as if he would follow. But remembering himself, escorted her to a seat, saying as he did so:
“You are very kind, Miss Stuyvesant; please say nothing of this to Paula.”
She bowed and a flitting smile crossed her upturned countenance. “I am not much of a gossip, Mr. Sylvester, or I should have been tempted to have carried my information to my father instead of to you.”
He understood the implied promise in this remark and gave the hand on his arm a quick pressure, before relinquishing her to the care of the pale-complexioned youth who by this time had returned to her side.
In another moment Paula came up on the arm of a black-whiskered gentleman all shirt front and eye-glasses. “O Cicely,” she cried, (she called Miss Stuyvesant, Cicely now) “is it not a delightful evening?”
“Are you enjoying yourself so much?” inquired that somewhat agitated little lady, with a glance at the countenance of her friend’s attendant.
