Afternoon Tea Mysteries, Volume Two: A Collection of Cozy Mysteries (Four thrilling novels in one volume!)

by Marion Bryce

  “You have not deceived the woman? That is really her own child that lies there?”

  The man beside him, started, looked up with slowly comprehending eyes, and mechanically bowed his head. “Yes,” assented he, and relapsed into his former heavy silence.

  Mr. Sylvester touched him again. “If it is hers, how came she not to know it? How could you manage to deceive such a woman as that?”

  Holt started again and muttered, “She was sick and insensible. She never saw the baby; I sent it away, and when she came to herself, told her it was dead. We had become tired of each other long before, and only needed the breaking of this bond to separate us. When she saw me again, it was with another woman at my side and an infant in my arms. The child was weakly and looked younger than he was. She thought it her rival’s and I did not undeceive her.” And the heavy head again fell forward, and nothing disturbed the sombre silence of the room but the low unvarying moan of the wretched mother, “My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!”

  Mr. Sylvester moved over to her side. “Jacqueline,” said he, “the child is dead and you yourself are very much hurt. Won’t you let these good women lay you on a bed, and do what they can to bind up your poor blistered arms?”

  But she heard him no more than the wind’s blowing. “My baby,” she moaned, “my own, own baby!”

  He drew back with a troubled air. Grief like this he could understand but knew not how to alleviate. He was just on the point of beckoning forward one of the many women clustered in the door-way, when there came a sound from without that made him start, and in another moment a young man had stepped hastily into the room, followed by a girl, who no sooner saw Mr. Sylvester, than she bounded forward with a sudden cry of joy and relief.

  “Bertram! Paula! What does this mean? What are you doing here?”

  A burst of sobs from the agitated girl was her sole reply. “Such a night! such a place!” he exclaimed, throwing his arm about Paula with a look that made her tremble through her tears. “Were you so anxious about me, little one?” he whispered. “Would not your fears let you rest?”

  “No, no; and we have had such a dreadful time since we got here. The house where we expected to find you, is or. fire, and we thought of nothing else but that you had perished within it. But finally some one told us to come here, and—” She paused horror-stricken; her eyes had just fallen upon the little dead child and the moaning mother.

  “That is Jacqueline Japha,” whispered Mr. Sylvester. “We have found her, only to close her eyes, I fear.”

  “Jacqueline Japha!” Paula’s hands unclosed from his arm.

  “She was in the large tenement house that burned first; that is her child whose loss she is mourning.”

  “Jacqueline Japha!” again fell with an indescribable tone from Paula’s lips. “And who is that?” she asked, turning and indicating the silent figure by the wall.

  “That is Roger Holt, the man who should have been her husband.”

  “Oh, I remember him,” she cried; “and her, I remember her, and the little child too. But,” she suddenly exclaimed, “she told me then that she was not his mother.”

  “And she did not know that she was; the man had deceived her.”

  With a quick thrill Paula bounded forward. “Jacqueline Japha,” she cried, falling with outstretched hands beside the poor creature; “thank God you are found at last!”

  But the woman was as insensible to this cry as she had been to all others. “My baby,” she wailed, “my baby, my own, own baby!”

  Paula recoiled in dismay, and for a moment stood looking down with fear and doubt upon the fearful being before her. But in another instant a heavenly instinct seized her, and ignoring the mother, she stooped over the child and tenderly kissed it. The woman at once woke from her stupor. “My baby!” she cried, snatching the child up in her arms with a gleam of wild jealousy; “nobody shall touch it but me. I killed it and it is all mine now!” But in a moment she had dropped the child back into its place, and was going on with the same set refrain that had stirred her lips from the first.

  Paula was not to be discouraged. Laying her hand on the child’s brow, she gently smoothed back his hair, and when she saw the old gleam returning to the woman’s countenance, said quietly, “Are you going to carry it to Grotewell to be buried? Margery Hamlin is waiting for you, you know?”

  The start which shook the woman’s haggard frame, encouraged her to proceed.

  “Yes; you know she has been keeping watch, and waiting for you so long! She is quite worn out and disheartened; fifteen years is a long time to hope against hope, Jacqueline.”

  The stare of the wretched creature deepened into a fierce and maddened glare. “You don’t know what you are talking about,” cried she, and bent herself again over the child.

  Paula went on as if she had not spoken. “Any one that is loved as much as you are, Jacqueline, ought not to give way to despair; even if your child is dead, there is still some one left whom you can make supremely happy.”

  “Him?” the woman’s look seemed to say, as she turned and pointed with frightful sarcasm to the man at then back.

  Paula shrank and hastily shook her head. “No, no, not him, but—Let me tell you a story,” she whispered eagerly. “In a certain country-town not far from here, there is a great empty house. It is dark, and cold, and musty. No one ever goes there but one old lady, who every night at six, crosses its tangled garden, unlocks its great side door, enters within its deserted precincts, and for an hour remains there, praying for one whose return she has never ceased to hope and provide for. She is kneeling there to-night, at this very hour, Jacqueline, and the love she thus manifests is greater than that of man to woman or woman to man. It is like that of heaven or the Christ.”

  The woman before her rose to her feet. She did not speak, but she looked like a creature before whose eyes a sudden torch had been waved.

  “Fifteen years has she done this,” Paula solemnly continues. “She promised, you know; and she never has forgotten her promise.”

  With a cry the woman put out her hands. “Stop!”, she cried, “stop! I don’t believe it. No one loves like that; else there is a God and I—” She paused, quivered, gave one wild look about her, and then with a quick cry, something between a moan and a prayer, succumbed to the pain of her injuries, and sank down insensible by the side of her dead child.

  With a reverent look Paula bent over her and kissed her seared and bleeding forehead. “For Mrs. Hamlyn’s sake,” she whispered, and quietly smoothed down the tattered clothing about the poor creature’s wasted frame.

  Mr. Sylvester turned quietly upon the man who had been the cause of all this misery. “I charge myself with the care of that woman,” said he, “and with the burial of your child. It shall be placed in decent ground with all proper religious ceremonial.”

  “What, you will do this!” cried Holt, a flush of real feeling for a moment disturbing the chalk-white pallor of his cheek. “Oh sir, this is Christian charity; and I beg your pardon for all that I may have meditated against you. It was done for the child,” he went on wildly; “to get him the bread and butter he often lacked. I didn’t care so much for myself. I hated to see him hungry and cold and ailing; I might have worked, but I detest work, and—But no matter about all that; enough that I am done with endeavoring to extort money from you. Whatever may have happened in the past, you are free from my persecutions in the future. Henceforth you and yours can rest in peace.”

  “That is well,” cried a voice over his shoulder, and Bertram with an air of relief stepped hastily forward. “You must be very tired,” remarked he, turning to his uncle. “If you will take charge of Paula, I will do what I can to see that this injured woman and the dead child are properly cared for. I am so relieved, sir, at this result,” he whispered, with a furtive wring of his uncle’s hand, “that I must express my joy in some way..”

  Mr. Sylvester smiled, but in a manner that reflected but little of the other’s satisfaction. �
�Thank you,” said he, “I am tired and will gladly delegate my duties to you. I trust you to do the most you can for both the living and the dead. That woman for all her seeming poverty is the possessor of a large fortune;” he whispered; “let her be treated as such.” And with a final word to Holt who had sunk back against the wall in his old attitude of silent despair, Mr. Sylvester took Paula upon his arm, and quietly led her out of this humble but not unkind refuge.

  XLIII. DETERMINATION.

  “But alas! to make me

  A fixed figure for the time of scorn

  To point his slow unmoving finger at!”

  —OTHELLO.

  “Let me but bear your love, I’ll bear your cares.”

  —HENRY V.

  “Paula!”

  They had reached home and were standing in the library.

  “Yes,” said she, lowering her head before his gaze with a sweet and conscious blush.

  “Did you read the letter I left for you in my desk up stairs?”

  She put her hand to her bosom and drew forth the closely written sheet. “Every word,” she responded, and smilingly returned it to its place.

  He started and his chest heaved passionately. “You have read it,” he cried, “and yet could follow me into that den of unknown dangers at an hour like this, and with no other guide than Bertram?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  He drew a deep breath and his brow lost its deepest shadow. “You do not despise me then,” he exclaimed “My sin has not utterly blotted me out of your regard?”

  The glance with which she replied seemed to fill the whole room with its radiance. “I am only beginning to realize the worth of the man who has hitherto been a mystery to me,” she declared. Then as he shook his head, added with a serious air, “The question with all true hearts must ever be, not what a man has been, but what he is. He who for the sake of shielding the innocent from shame and sorrow, would have taken upon himself .the onus of a past disgrace, is not unworthy a woman’s devotion.”

  Mr. Sylvester smiled mournfully, and stroked her hand which he had taken in his. “Poor little one,” he murmured. “I know not whether to feel proud or sorry for your trust and tender devotion. It would have been a great and unspeakable grief to me to have lost your regard, but it might have been better if I had; it might have been much better for you if I had!”

  “What, why do you say that?” she asked, with a startled gleam in her eye. “Do you think I am so eager for ease and enjoyment, that it will be a burden for me to bear the pain of those I love? A past pain, too,” she added, “that will grow less and less as the days go by and happiness increases.”

  He put her back with a quick hand. “Do not make it any harder for me than necessary,” he entreated, “Do you not see that however gentle may be your judgment of my deserts, we can never marry, Paula?”

  The eyes which were fixed on his, deepened passionately. “No,” she whispered, “no; not if your remorse for the past is all that separates us. The man who has conquered himself, has won the right to conquer the heart of a woman. I can say no more—” She timidly held out her hand.

  He grasped it with a man’s impetuosity and pressed it to his heart, but he did not retain it. “Blessings upon you, dear and noble heart!” he cried. “God will hear my prayers and make you happy—but not with me. Paula,” he passionately continued, taking her in his arms and holding her to his breast, “it cannot be. I love you—I will not, dare not say, how much—but love is no excuse for wronging you. My remorse is not all that separates us; possible disgrace lies before me; public exposure at all events; I would indeed be lacking in honor were I to subject you to these.”

  “But,” she stammered, drawing back to look into his face, “I thought that was all over; that the man had promised silence; that you were henceforth to be relieved from his persecutions? I am sure he said so.”

  “He did, but he forgot that my fate no longer rested upon his forbearance. The letter which records my admission of sin was in his lawyer’s hands, Paula, and has already been despatched to Mr. Stuyvesant. Say what we will, rebel against it as we will, Cicely’s father knows by this time that the name of Sylvester is not spotless.”

  The cry which she uttered in her sudden pain and loss made him stoop over her with despairing fondness. “Hush! my darling, hush!” cried he. “The trial is so heavy, I need all my strength to meet it. It breaks my heart to see you grieve. I cannot bear it. I deserve my fate, but you—Oh you—what have you done that you should be overwhelmed in my fall!” Putting her gently away from his breast, he drew himself up and with forced calmness said, “I have yet to inform Mr. Stuyvesant upon which of the Sylvesters’ should rest the shadow of his distrust. To-night he believes in Bertram’s lack of principle, but to-morrow—” Her trembling lips echoed the word, “he shall know that the man who confessed to having done a wrong deed in the past, is myself, Paula.”

  The head which had fallen on her breast, rose as at the call of a clarion. “And is it at the noblest moment of your life that you would shut me away from your side? No, no. Heaven does not send us a great and mighty love for trivial purposes. The simple country maid whom you have sometimes declared was as the bringer of good news to you, shall not fail you now.” Then slowly and with solemn assurance, “If you go to Mr. Stuyvesant’s to-morrow, and you will, for that is your duty, you shall not go alone; Paula Fairchild accompanies you.”

  XLIV. IN MR. STUYVESANT’S PARLOR.

  “Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud

  Turn forth her silver lining on the night?”

  —COMUS.

  “Unworthy?”

  “Yes.”

  Cicely stared at her father with wide-open and incredulous eyes. “I cannot believe it,” she murmured; “no, I cannot believe it.”

  Her father drew up a chair to her side. “My daughter,” said he, with unusual tenderness, “I have hesitated to tell you this, fearing to wound you; but my discretion will allow me to keep silence no longer. Bertram Sylvester is not an honest man, and the sooner you make up y our mind to forget him, the better.”

  “Not honest?” You would scarcely have recognized Cicely’s voice. Her father’s hand trembled as he drew her back to his side.

  It is a hard revelation for me to make to you, after testifying my approval of the young man. I sympathize with you, my child, but none the less I expect you to meet this disappointment bravely. A theft has been committed in our bank—”

  “You do not accuse him of theft! Oh father, father!”

  “No,” he stammered. “I do not accuse him, but facts look very strongly against some one in our trust, and—”

  “But that is not sufficient,” she cried, rising in spite of his detaining hand till she stood erect before him. “You surely would not allow any mere circumstantial evidence to stand against a character as unblemished as his, even if he were not the man whom your daughter—”

  He would not let her continue. “I admit that I should be careful how I breathed suspicion against a man whose record was unimpeached,” he assented, “but Bertram Sylvester does not enjoy that position. Indeed, I have just received a communication which goes to show, that he once actually acknowledged to having perpetrated an act of questionable integrity. Now a man as young as he, who—”

  “But I cannot believe it,” she moaned. “It is impossible, clearly impossible. How could he look me in the face with such a sir on his conscience! He could not, simply could not. Why, father, his brow is as open as the day, his glance clear and unwavering as the sunlight. It is some dreadful mistake. It is not Bertram of whom you are speaking!”

  Her father sighed. “Of whom else should it be? Come my child, do you want to read the communication which I received last night? Do you want to be convinced?”

  “No, no;” she cried; but quickly contradicted herself with a hurried, “Yes, yes, let me be made acquainted with what there is against him, if only that I may prove to you it is all a mistake.”

&nb
sp; “There is no mistake,” he muttered, handing her a folded paper. “This statement was written two years ago; I witnessed it myself, though I little knew against whose honor it was directed. Read it, Cicely, and then remember that I have lost bonds out of my box at the bank, that could only have been taken by some one connected with the institution.”

  She took the paper in her hand, and eagerly read it through. Suddenly she started and looked up. “And you say that this was Bertram, this gentleman who allowed another man to accuse him of a past dishonesty?”

  “So the person declares who forwarded me this statement; and though he is a poor wretch and evidently not above making mischief, I do not know as we have any special reason to doubt his word.”

  Cicely’s eyes fell and she stood before her father with an air of indecision. “I do not think it was Bertram,” she faltered, but said no more.

  “I would to God for your sake, it was not! he exclaimed. “But this communication together with the loss we have sustained at the bank, has shaken my faith, Cicely. Young men are so easily led astray nowadays; especially when playing for high stakes. A man who could leave his profession for the sake of winning a great heiress—”

  “Father!”

  “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.