Chapter XIX: Book V: Woman’s Love (2)

“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.