by Marion Bryce
“The fellow’s getting impatient,” thought he, and experienced a vague feeling of uneasiness.
Another half hour passed. “What can have detained Mr. Sylvester?” cried Mr. Wheelock the cashier, hastily approaching Bertram.
“There is to be an important meeting of the Directors to-day, and some of the gentlemen are already coming in. Mr. Sylvester is not accustomed to keep us waiting.”
“I don’t know, I am sure,” returned Bertram, remembering with an accession of uneasiness, the abruptness with which his uncle had left the entertainment the evening before.
“Shall I telegraph to the house?”
“No, that is not necessary. Besides Folger says he passed him on Broadway this morning.”
“Going down street with a valise in his hand,” that gentlemen quietly put in. Folger was the teller. “He was looking very pale and didn’t see me when I nodded.”
“What time was that?” asked Bertram.
“About twelve; when I went out to lunch.”
A quick gasp sounded at their side, followed by a hurried cough. Turning, Bertram encountered for the fifth time the eyes of Hopgood. He had entered unperceived by the small door that separated the inner inclosure from the outer, and was now standing very close to them, eying with side-long looks the safe at their back, the faces of the gentleman speaking, yes, and even the countenances of the clerks, as they bent busily over their books.
“Did you ring, sir?” asked he, catching Bertram’s look of displeasure.
“No.”
The man seemed to feel the rebuke implied in this short response, and ambled softly away. But in another moment he was stopped by Bertram.
“What is the matter with you to-day, Hopgood? Can you have anything of real importance on your mind; anything connected with my uncle?”
The janitor started, and looked almost frightened. “Be careful what you say,” whispered he; then with a keen look at Mr. Wheelock just then on the point of entering the directors’ room, he was turning to escape by the little door just mentioned, when it opened and Mr. Stuyvesant came in. With a look almost of terror the janitor recoiled, throwing himself as it were between the latter and the door of the safe; but recovering himself, surveyed the keen quiet visage of the veteran banker with a rolling of his great eyes absolutely painful to behold. Mr. Stuyvesant, who was somewhat absorbed in thought, did not appear to notice the agitation he had caused, and with just a hurried nod followed Mr. Wheelock into the Directors’ room. Instantly the janitor drew himself up with an air of relief, and shortly glancing at the clock which lacked a few minutes yet of the time fixed for the meeting, slided hastily away from Bertram’s detaining hand, and disappeared in the crowd without. In another moment Bertram saw him standing at the outer door, looking anxiously up and down the street.
“Something is wrong,” murmured Bertram. “What?” And for a moment he felt half tempted to return Mr. Stuyvesant’s friendly bow with a few words expressive of his uneasiness, but the emphasis with which Hopgood had murmured the words, “Be careful what you say,” unconsciously deterred him, and concealing his nervousness as best he might, he entered the Directors’ office.
It was now time for the meeting to open, and the gentlemen were all seated around the low green baize table that occupied the centre of the room. Impatience was written on all their countenances. Mr. Stuyvesant especially was looking at the heavy gold watch in his hand, with a frown on his deeply wrinkled brow that did not add to its expression of benevolence. The empty seat at the head of the table stared upon Bertram uncompromisingly.
“My wife gives a reception to-day,” ventured one gentleman to his neighbor.
“And I have an engagement at five that won’t bear postponement.”
“Sylvester has always been on hand before.”
“We can’t proceed without him,” was the reply.
Mr. Wheelock looked thoughtful.
With a nod of his head towards such gentlemen as met his eye, Bertram hastened to a little cupboard devoted to the use of himself and uncle. Opening it, he looked within, took down a coat he saw hanging before him, and unconsciously uttered an exclamation. It was a dress-coat such as had been worn by Mr. Sylvester the evening before.
“What does this mean! My uncle has been here!” were the words that sprang to his lips; but he subdued his impulse to speak, and hastily hanging up the coat, relocked the door. Proceeding at once to the outer room, he asked two or three of the clerks if they were sure Mr. Sylvester had not been in during the day. But they all returned an unequivocal “no,” and that too with a certain stare of surprise that at once convinced him he was betraying his agitation too plainly.
“I will telegraph whether Wheelock considers it necessary or not,” thought he, and was moving to summon a messenger boy when he caught sight of Hopgood slowly making his way in from the street. He was very pale and walked with his eyes fixed on the ground, ominously shaking his great head in a way that bespoke an inner struggle of no ordinary nature. Bertram at once sauntered out to meet him.
“Hopgood,” said he, “your evident anxiety is infectious. What has happened to make my uncle’s detention a matter of such apparent import? If you do not wish to confide in me, his nephew almost his son, speak to Mr. Wheelock or to one of the directors, but don’t keep anything to yourself which concerns his welfare or—What are you looking at?”
The man was gazing as If fascinated at the keys in Bertram’s hand.
“Nothing sir, nothing. You must not detain me; I have nothing to say. I will wait ten minutes,” he muttered to himself, glancing again at the clock. Suddenly he saw the various directors come filing out of the inner room, and darted for the second time from Bertram’s detaining hand.
“I hope nothing has happened to Mr. Sylvester,” exclaimed one gentleman to another as they filed by.
“If he were given to a loose ends’ sort of business it would be another thing.”
“He looked exceedingly well at the reception last night,” exclaimed another; “but in these days—”
Suddenly there was a hush. A telegraph boy had just entered the door and was asking for Mr. Bertram Sylvester.
“Here I am,” said Bertram, hastily taking the envelope presented him. Slightly turning his back, he opened it. Instantly his face grew white as chalk.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “you will have to excuse my uncle to-day; a great misfortune has occurred to him.” Then with a slow and horror-stricken movement, he looked about him and exclaimed, “Mrs. Sylvester is dead.”
A confused murmur at once arose, followed by a hurried rush; but of all the faces that flocked out of the bank, none wore such a look of blank and helpless astonishment as that of Hopgood the janitor, as with bulging eyes and nervously working hands, he slowly wended his way to the foot of the stairs and there sat down gazing into vacancy.
XX. THE DREGS IN THE CUP.
“O eloquent, just and mightie death! whom none could advise, thou hast persuaded; what none hath dared, thou hast done: and whom all the world hath flattered, thou only hast cast out of the world and despised: thou hast drawn together all the farre stretched greatnesses; all the pride, crueltie and ambition of ma and covered it all over with these two narrow words, Hic Jacet.”
—SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
Bertram’s hurried ring at his uncle’s door was answered by Samuel the butler.
“What is this I hear?” cried the young man, entering with considerable agitation, “Mrs. Sylvester dead?”
“Yes sir,” returned the old and trusty servant, with something like a sob in his voice. “She went out riding this morning behind a pair of borrowed horses—and being unused to Michael’s way of driving, they ran away and she was thrown from the carriage and instantly killed.”
“And Miss Fairchild?”
“She didn’t go with her. Mrs. Sylvester was alone.”
“Horrible, horrible! Where is my uncle, can I see him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the
man returned with a strange look of anxiety. “Mr. Sylvester is feeling very bad, sir. He has shut himself up in his room and none of his servants dare disturb him, sir.”
“I should, however, like him to know I am here. In what room shall I find him?”
“In the little one, sir, at the top of the house. It has a curious lock on the door; you will know it by that.”
“Very well. Please be in the hall when I come down; I may want to give you some orders.”
The old servant bowed and Bertram hastened with hushed steps to ascend the stairs. At the first platform he paused. What is there in a house of death, of sudden death especially, that draws a veil of spectral unreality over each familiar object! Behind that door now inexorably closed before him, lay without doubt the shrouded form of her who but a few short hours before, had dazzled the eyes of men and made envious the hearts of women with her imposing beauty! No such quiet then reigned over the spot filled by her presence. As the vision of a dream returns, he saw her again in all her splendor. Never a brow in all the great hall shone more brightly beneath its sparkling diamonds; never a lip in the whole vast throng curled with more self-complacent pride, or melted into a more alluring smile, than that of her who now lay here, a marble image beneath the eye of day. It was as if a flowery field had split beneath the dancing foot of some laughing siren. One moment your gaze is upon the swaying voluptuous form, the half-shut beguiling eye, the white out-reaching arms upon whose satin surface a thousand loves seem perching; the next you stare horror-stricken upon the closing jaws of an awful pit, with the flash of something bright in your eyes, and the sense of a hideous noiseless rush in which earth and heaven appear to join, sink and be swallowed! Bertram felt his heart grow sick. Moving on, he passed the bronze image of Luxury lying half asleep on its bed of crumpled roses. Hideous mockery! What has luxury to do with death? She who was luxury itself has vanished from these halls. Shall the mute bronze go on smiling over its wine cup while she who was its prototype is carried by without a smile on the lips once so vermeil with pride and tropical languors!
Arrived at the top of the house, Bertram knocked at the door with the strange lock, and uttering his own name, asked if there was anything he could do here or elsewhere to show his sympathy and desire to be of use in this great and sudden bereavement. There was no immediate reply and he began to fear he would be obliged to retire without seeing his uncle, when the door was slowly opened and Mr. Sylvester came out. Instantly Bertram understood the anxiety of the servant. Not only did Mr. Sylvester’s countenance exhibit the usual traces of grief and horror incident to a sudden and awful calamity, but there were visible upon it the tokens of another and still more unfathomable emotion, a wild and paralyzed look that altered the very contour of his features, and made his face almost like that of a stranger.
“Uncle, what is it?” sprang involuntarily to his lips. But Mr. Sylvester betraying by a sudden backward movement an instinctive desire to escape scrutiny, he bethought himself, and with hasty utterance offered some words of consolation that sounded strangely hollow and superficial in that dim and silent corridor. “Is there nothing I can do for you?” he finally asked.
“Everything is being done,” exclaimed his uncle in a strained and altered voice; “Robert is here.” And a silence fell over the hall that Bertram dared not break.
“I have help for everything but—” he did not say what, it seemed as something rose up in his throat that choked him.
“Bertram,” said he at last in a more natural tone, “come with me.”
He led him into an adjoining room and shut the door. It was a room from which the sunshine had not been excluded and it seemed as if they could both breathe more easily.
“Sit down,” said his uncle, pointing to a chair. The young man did so, but Mr. Sylvester remained standing. Then without preamble, “Have you seen her?”
There was no grief in the question, only a quiet respect. Death clothes the most volatile with a garment of awe. Bertram slowly shook his head. “No,” said he, “I came at once up stairs.”
“There is no mark on her white body, save the least little discolored dent here,” continued his uncle, pointing calmly to his temple. “She had one moment of fear while the horses ran, and then—” He gave a quirk shudder and advancing towards Bertram, laid his hand on his nephew’s shoulder in such a way as to prevent him from turning his head. “Bertram,” said he, “I have no son. If I were to call upon you to perform a son’s work for me; to obey and ask no questions, would you comply?”
“Can you ask?” sprang from the young man’s lips; “you knew that you have only to command for me to be proud to obey. Anything you can require will find me ready.”
The hand on his shoulder weighed heavier. “It seems a strange time to talk about business, Bertram, but necessity knows no law. There is a matter in which you can afford me great assistance if you will undertake to do immediately what I ask.”
“Can you doubt—”
“Hush, it is this. On this paper you will find a name; below it a number of addresses. They are all of places down town and some of them not very reputable I fear. What I desire is for you to seek out the man whose name you here see, going to these very places after him, beginning with the first, and continuing down the list until you find him. When you come upon him, he will ask you for a card. Give him one on which you will scrawl before his eyes, a circle, so. It is a token which he should instantly understand. If he does, address him with freedom and tell him that your employer—you need make use of no names—re-demands the papers made over to him this morning. If he manifests surprise or is seen to hesitate, tell him your orders are imperative. If he declares ruin will follow, inform him that you are not to be frightened by words; that your employer is as fully aware of the position of affairs as he. Whatever he says, bring the papers.”
Bertram nodded his head and endeavored to rise, but his uncle’s hand rested upon him too heavily.
“He is a small man; you need have no dread of him physically. The sooner you find him and acquit yourself of your task, the better I shall be pleased.” And then the hand lifted.
On his way down stairs Bertram encountered Paula. She was standing in the hall and accosted him with a very trembling tone in her voice. All her questions were in regard to Mr. Sylvester.
“Have you seen him?” she asked. “Does he speak—say anything? No one has heard him utter a word since he carne in from down town and saw her lying there.”
“Yes, certainly; he spoke to me; he has been giving me some commissions to perform. I am on my way now to attend to them.”
She drew a deep breath. “O!” she cried, “would that he had a son, a daughter, a child, some one!”
This exclamation following what had taken place above struck Bertram forcibly. “He has a son in me, Paula. Love as well as duty binds me to him. All that a child could do will I perform with pleasure. You can trust me for that.”
She threw him a glance of searching inquiry. “His need is greater than it seems,” whispered she. “He was deeply troubled before this terrible accident occurred. I am afraid the arrow is poisoned that has made this dreadful wound. I cannot explain myself,” she went on hurriedly, “but if you indeed regard him as a father, be ready with any comfort, any help, that affection can bestow, or his necessities require. Let me feel that he has near him some stay that will not yield to pressure “
There was so much passion in this appeal that Bertram involuntarily bowed his head. “He has two friends,” said he, “and here is my hand that I will never forsake him.”
“I do not need to offer mine,” she returned, “He is great and good enough to do without my assistance.” But nevertheless she gave her hand to Bertram and with a glow of her lip and eye that made her beauty, supreme at all times, something almost supernatural in its character.
“I dared not tell him,” she whispered to herself as the front door closed with the dull slow thud proper to a house of mourning. “I dare not te
ll any one, but—”
What lay beyond that but?
When Mr. Sylvester came in at six o’clock in the morning, Paula had risen from the bed on which she had been sitting, but not to make preparation for rest, for she could not rest. The vague shadow of some surrounding evil or threatened catastrophe was upon her, and though she forced herself to change her dress for a warmer and more suitable one, she did not otherwise break her vigil, though the necessity for it seemed to be at an end. It was a midwinter morning and the sun had not yet risen, so being chilly as well as restless, she began to pace the door, stopping now and then to glance out of the window, in the hopes of detecting some signs of awakening day in the blank and solemn east. Suddenly as she was thus consulting the horizon, a light flashed up from below, and looking down upon the face of the extension that ran along at right angles to her window, she perceived that the shades were up in Mrs. Sylvester’s boudoir. They had doubtless been left so the evening before, and Mr. Sylvester upon turning up the gas had failed to observe the fact. Instantly she felt her heart stand still, for the house being wide and the extension narrow, all that went on in that boudoir, or at least in that portion of it which Mr. Sylvester at present occupied, was easily observable from the window at which she stood; and that something was going on of a serious and important nature, was sufficiently evident from the expression of Mr. Sylvester’s countenance. He was standing with his face bent towards some one seated out of sight, his wife undoubtedly, though what could have called her from her dreams—and was busily engaged in talking. The subject whatever it was, absorbed him completely. If Paula had allowed herself the thought, she would have described him as pleading and that with no ordinary vehemence. But suddenly while she gazed half fascinated and but little realizing what she was doing, he started back and a fierce change swept over his face, a certain incredulity, that presently gave way to a glance of horror and repugnance, which the quick action of his out-thrown palm sufficiently emphasized. He was pushing something from him, but what? A suggestion or a remembrance? It was impossible to determine.