by Marion Bryce
“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 »vas; 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 mast 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.”
&
nbsp; “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 distress
And though its favorite sea: 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 hail 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 nightfall, 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 mantelpiece 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!
