by Marion Bryce
The countenance of Mrs. Sylvester who that moment appeared in sight sailing across the floor in her azure wrapper, offered but little assistance in the way of explanation. Immovable under most circumstances, it was simply at this juncture a trifle more calm and cold than usual, presenting to Paula’s mind the thought of a white and icy barrier, against which the most glowing of arrows must fall chilled and powerless.
“O for a woman’s soul to inform that breast if but for a moment!” cried Paula, lost in the passion of this scene, while so little understanding its import. When as if in mockery to this invocation, the haughty form upon which she was gazing started rigidly erect, while the lip acquired a scorn and the eye a menace that betrayed the serpent ever in hiding under this white rose.
Paula could look no longer. This last revelation had awakened her to the fact that she was gazing upon a scene sacred to the husband and wife engaged in it. With a sense of shame she rushed to the bed and threw herself upon it, but the vision of what she had beheld would not leave her so easily. Like letters of fire upon a black ground, the panorama of looks and gestures to which she had just been witness, floated before her mind’s eye, awakening a train of thought so intense that she did not know which was worse, to be there in the awful dawn dreaming over this episode of the night, or to rise and face again the reality. The fascination which all forbidden sights insensibly exert over the minds of the best of us, finally prevailed, and she slowly crept to the window to catch a parting glimpse of Mr. Sylvester’s tall form hurrying blindly from the boudoir followed by his wife’s cold glance. The next minute the exposed condition of the room seemed to catch that lady’s attention, and with an anxious look into the dull gray morn, Mrs. Sylvester drew down the shades, and the episode was over.
Or so Paula thought; but when she was returning up stairs after her solitary breakfast—Mrs. Sylvester was too tired and Mr. Sylvester too much engaged to eat, as the attentive Samuel informed her—the door of Ona’s room swung ajar, and she distinctly heard her give utterance to the following exclamation:
“What! give up this elegant home, my horses and carriage, the friends I have had such difficulty in obtaining, and the position which I was born to adorn? I had rather die!” And Paula feeling as if she had received the key to the enigma of the last night’s unaccountable manifestations, was about to rush away to her own apartment, when the door swayed open again and she heard his voice respond with hard and bitter emphasis,
“And it might be better that you should. But since you will probably live, let it be according to your mind. I have not the courage—”
There the door swung to.
An hour from that Mr. Sylvester left the house with a small valise in his hand, and Mrs. Sylvester dressed in her showiest costume, entered her carriage for an early shopping excursion.
And so when Paula whispered to herself, “I did not dare to tell him; I did not dare to tell any one, but—” she thought of those terrible words, “Die? It might be better, perhaps, that you should!” and then remembered the ghastly look of immeasurable horror with which a few hours later, he staggered away from that awful burden, whose rigid lines would never again melt into mocking curves, and to whom the morning’s wide soaring hopes, high reaching ambitions and boundless luxuries were now no more than the shadows of a vanished world; life, love, longing, with all their demands, having dwindled to a noisome rest between four close planks, with darkness for its present portion and beyond—what?
XXI. DEPARTURE.
“Forever and forever, farewell Cassius.
If we do meet again, why we shall smile;
If not, why then, this parting was well made.”
—JULIUS CAESAR.
Samuel had received his orders to admit Mr. Bertram Sylvester to his uncle’s room, at whatever hour of the day or night he chose to make his appearance. But evening wore away and finally the night, before his well-known face was seen at the door. Proceeding at once to the apartment occupied by Mr. Sylvester, he anxiously knocked. The door was opened immediately.
“Ah, Bertram, I have been expecting you all night.” And from the haggard appearance of both men, it was evident that neither of them had slept.
“I have sat down but twice since I left you, and then only in conveyances. I have been obliged to go to Brooklyn, to—”
“But you have found him?”
“Yes, I found him.”
His uncle glanced inquiringly at his hands; they were empty.
“I shall have to sit down,” said Bertram; his brow was very gloomy, his words came hesitatingly. “I had rather have knocked my head against the wall, than have disappointed you,” he murmured after a moment’s pause. “But when I did find him, it was too late.”
“Too late!” The tone in which this simple phrase was uttered was indescribable. Bertram slowly nodded his head.
“He had already disposed of all the papers, and favorably,” he said.
“But—”
“And not only that,” pursued Bertram. “He had issued orders by telegraph, that it was impossible to countermand. It was at the Forty-Second Street depot I found him at last. He was just on the point of starting for the west.”
“And has he gone?”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Sylvester walked slowly to the window. It was raining drearily without, but he did not notice the falling drops or raise his eyes to the leaden skies.
Did you meet any one?” he asked at length. “Any one that you know, I mean, or who knows you?”
“No one but Mr. Stuyvesant.”
“Mr. Stuyvesant!”
“Yes sir,” returned Bertram, dropping his eyes before his uncle’s astonished glance. “I was coming out of a house in Broad Street when he passed by and saw me, or at least I believed he saw me. There is no mistaking him, sir, for any one else; besides it is a custom of his I am told, to saunter through the down town streets after the warehouses are all closed for the night. He enjoys the quiet I suppose, finds food for reflection in the sleeping aspect of our great city.” There was gloom in Bertram’s tone; his uncle looked at him curiously.
“What house was it from which you were coming when he passed you?”
“A building where Tueller and Co. do business, shady operators in paper, as you know.”
“And you believed he recognized you?”
“I cannot be sure, sir: it was dark, but I thought I saw him look at me and give a slight start.”
Ah, how desolate sounds the drip, drip of a ceaseless rain, when conversation languishes and the ear has time to listen!
“I will explain to Mr. Stuyvesant when I see him, that you were in search of a man with whom I had pressing business,” observed Mr. Sylvester at last.
“No,” murmured Bertram with effort, “it might emphasize the occurrence to his mind; let the matter drop where it is.”
There was another silence, during which the drift of the rain on the window-ledge struck on the young man’s ears like the premonitory thud of falling earth upon a coffin-lid. At length his uncle turned and advanced rapidly towards him.
“Bertram,” said he, “you have done me a favor for which I thank you. What you have learned in the course of its accomplishment I cannot tell. Enough perhaps to make you understand why I warned you from the dangerous path of speculation, and set your feet in a way that if adhered to with steadfast purpose, ought to lead you at last to a safe and honorable prosperity. Now—No, Bertram,” he bitterly interrupted himself as the other opened his lips, ‘I am in need of no especial commiseration, my affairs seem bound to prosper whether I will or not—now I have one more commission to give you. Miss Fairchild—” his voice quavered and he leaned heavily on the chair near which he was standing. “Have you seen her, Bertram? Is the poor child quite prostrated? Has this frightful occurrence made her ill, or does she bear up with fortitude under the shock of this sudden calamity?”
“She is not ill, but her suffering is undoubted. If you could see her and say a few wo
rds to relieve her anxiety in regard to yourself, I think it would greatly comfort her. Her main thought seems to be for you, sir.”
Mr. Sylvester frowned, raised his hand with a repelling gesture, and hastily opened his lips. Bertram thought he was about to utter some passionate phrase. But instead of that he merely remarked, “I am sorry I cannot see her, but it is quite impossible. You must stand between me and this poor child, Bertram. Tell her I send her my love; tell her that I am quite well; anything to solace her and make these dark days less dreary. If she wants a friend with her, let a messenger be sent for whomever she desires. I place no restrictions upon anything you choose to do for her comfort or happiness, but let me be spared the sight of any other face than yours until this is all over. After the funeral—it may sound ungracious, but I am far from feeling so—I shall wish to be left alone for awhile. If she can be made to understand this—”
“I think her instincts, sir, have already led her to divine your wishes. If I am not mistaken, she is even now making preparations to return to her relatives.”
Mr. Sylvester gave a start. “What, so soon!” he murmured, and the sadness of his tone smote Bertram to the heart. But in another moment he recovered himself and shortly exclaimed, “Well! well! that is as it should be. You will watch over her Bertram, and see that she is kindly cared for. It would be a grief to me to have her go away with any more than the necessary regret at losing one who was always kind to her.”
“I will look after her as after a sister,” returned Bertram. “She shall miss no attention which I can supply.”
With a look Mr. Sylvester expressed his thanks. Then while Bertram again attempted to speak, he gave him a cordial pressure of the hand, and withdrew once more to his favorite spot.
And the rain beat, beat, and it sounded more and more like the droppings of earth upon a nailed down coffin-lid.
The funeral was a large one. The largest some said that had ever been seen in that quarter of the city. If Mrs. Sylvester’s position had not been what it was, the sudden and awful nature of her death, would have been sufficient to draw together a large crowd. Among those who thus endeavored to show their respect was Miss Stuyvesant.
“I could not join you here in your pleasures,” she whispered to Paula in the short interview they had upstairs, preparatory to the services, “but I cannot keep away in the dark hours!” And from her look and the clasp of her hand, Paula gained fresh courage to endure the slow pressure of anxiety and grief with which she was secretly burdened.
Moreover she had the pleasure of introducing her beloved friend to Mr. Bertram Sylvester, a pleasure which she had long promised herself whenever the opportunity should arrive, as Miss Stuyvesant was somewhat of an enthusiast as regards music. She did not notice particularly then, but she remembered afterwards, with what a blushing cheek and beautiful glance the dainty young girl received his bow, and responded to his few respectful words of pleasure at meeting the daughter of a man whom he had learned to regard with so much respect.
Mr. Sylvester was in a room by himself. The few glimpses obtained of him by his friends, convinced them all, that this trouble touched him more deeply than those who knew his wife intimately could have supposed. Yet he was calm, and already wore that fixed look of rigidity which was henceforth to distinguish the expression of his fine and noble features.
In the ride to Greenwood he spoke little. Paula who sat in the carriage with him did not receive a word, though now and then his eye wandered towards her with an expression that drove the blood to her heart, and made the whole day one awful memory of incomprehensible agony and dim but terrible forebodings. The ways of the human soul, in its crises of grief or remorse were so new to her. She had passed her life beside rippling streams and in peaceful meadows, and now all at once, with shadow on shadow, the dark pictures of life settled down before her, and she could not walk without stumbling upon jagged rocks, deep yawning chasms and caves of impenetrable gloom.
The sight of the grave appalled her. To lay in such a bed as that, the fair and delicate head that had often found the downy pillows of its azure couch too hard for its languid pressure. To hide in such a dismal, deep, dark gap, a form so white and but a little while before, so imposing in its splendor and so commanding in its requirements. The thought of heaven brought no comfort. The beauty they had known lay here; soulless, inert, rigid and responseless, but here. It was gifted with no wings with which to rise. It owned no attachment to higher spheres. Death had scattered the leaves of this white rose, but from all the boundless mirror of the outspread heavens, no recovered semblance of its perfected beauty, looked forth to solace Paula or assuage the misery of her glance into this gloomy pit. Ah, Ona, the social ladder reaches high, but it does not scale the regions where your poor soul could find comfort now.
Bertram saw the white look on Paula’s face and silently offered his arm. But there are moments when no mortal help can aid us; instants when the soul stands as solitary in the universe, as the ship-wrecked mariner on a narrow strip of rock in a boundless sea. Life may touch, but eternity enfolds us; we are single before God and as such must stand or fall.
Upon their return to the house, Mr. Sylvester withdrew with a few intimate friends to his room, and Paula, lonely beyond expression, went to her own empty apartment to finish packing her trunks and answer such notes as had arrived during her absence. For attention from outsiders was only too obtrusive. Many whom she had never met save in the most formal intercourse, flooded her now with expressions of condolence, which if they had not been all upon one pattern and that the most conventional, might have afforded her some relief. Two or three of the notes were precious to her and these she stowed safely away, one contained a deliberate offer of marriage from a wealthy old stock-broker; this she as deliberately burned after she had written a proper refusal. “He thinks I have no home,” she murmured.
And had she? As she paced through the silent halls and elaborately furnished rooms on her way to her solitary dinner, she asked herself if any place would ever seem like home after this. Not that she was infatuated by its elegance. The lofty walls might dwindle, the gorgeous furniture grow dim, the works of beauty disappear, the whole towering structure contract to the dimensions of a simple cottage or what was worse, a seedy down-town house, if only the something would remain, the something that made return to Grotewell seem like the bending back of a towering stalk to the ground from which it had taken its root. “I?” she cried—and stopped there, her heart swelling she knew not why. Then again, “I thought I had found a father!” Then after a longer pause, a wild uncontrollable; “Bless! bless! bless!” which seemed to re-echo in the room long after her lingering step had left it.
“Will he let me go without a word?”
It was early morning and the time had come for Paula’s departure. She was standing on the threshold of her room, her hands clasped, her eyes roving up and down the empty halls. “Will he let me go without a word?”
“O Miss Paula, what do you think?” cried Sarah, creeping slowly towards her from the spectral recesses of a dim corner. “Jane says Mr. Sylvester was up all last night too. She heard him go down stairs about midnight and he went through all the rooms like a gliding spectre and into her room too!” she fearfully whispered; “and what he did there no one knows, but when he came out he locked the door, and this morning the cook heard him give orders to Samuel to have the trunks that were ready in Mrs. Sylvester’s room taken away. O Miss, do you think he can be going to give all those beautiful things to you?”
Paula recoiled in horror. “Sarah!” said she, and could say no more. The vision of that tall form gliding through the desolate house at midnight, bending over the soulless finery of his dead wife, perhaps stowing it away in boxes, came with too powerful a suggestion to her mind.
“Shure, I thought you would be pleased,” murmured the girl and disappeared again into one of the dim recesses.
“Will he let me go without a word?”
“Miss Paula,
Mr. Bertram Sylvester is waiting at the door in a carriage,” came in low respectful tones to her ears, and Samuel’s face full of regret appeared at the top of the stairs.
“I am coming,” murmured the sad-hearted girl, and with a sob which she could not control, she took her last look of the pretty pink chamber in which she had dreamed so many dreams of youthful delight, and perhaps of youthful sorrow also, and slowly descended the stairs. Suddenly as she was passing a door on the second floor, she heard a low deep cry.
“Paula!”
She stopped and her hand went to her heart, the reaction was so sudden. “Yes,” she murmured, standing still with great heart-beats of joy, or was it pain?
The door slowly opened. “Did you think I could let you go without a blessing, my Paula, my little one!” came in those deep heart-tones which always made her tears start. And Mr. Sylvester stepped out of the shadows beyond and stood in the shadows at her side.
“I did not know,” she murmured. “I am so young, so feeble, such a mote in this great atmosphere of anguish. I longed to see you, to say good-bye, to thank you, but—” tears stopped her words; this was a parting that rent her tender heart.
Mr. Sylvester watched her and his deep chest rose spasmodically. “Paula,” said he, and there was a depth in his tone even she had never heard before, “are these tears for me?”
With a strong effort she controlled herself, looked up and faintly smiled. “I am an orphan,” she gently murmured; “you have been kind and tender to me beyond words; I have let myself love you as a father.”