The Sword of Damocles: A Story of New York Life
Page 32
XXXI.
A QUESTION.
"Think on thy sins."--OTHELLO.
The next morning when Mr. Sylvester came down to breakfast, he found onthe library-table an exquisite casket, similar to the one he had givenPaula the night before, but larger, and filled with flowers of the mostdelicious odor.
"For Miss Fairchild," explained Samuel, who was at that moment passingthrough the room.
With a pang of jealous surprise, that, however, failed to betray itselfin his steadily composed countenance, Mr. Sylvester advanced to the sideof the table, and lifted up the card that hung attached to the beautifulpresent. The name he read there seemed to startle him; he moved away,and took up his paper with a dark flush on his brow, that had notdisappeared when Miss Belinda entered the room.
"Humph!" was her immediate exclamation, as her eye rested upon theconspicuous offering in the centre of the apartment. But instantlyremembering herself, advanced with a cheerful good-morning, whichhowever did not prevent her eyes from wandering with no smallsatisfaction towards this fresh evidence of Mr. Ensign's assiduousregard.
"Paula is remembered by others than ourselves," remarked Mr. Sylvester,probably observing her glance.
"Yes; she has a very attentive suitor in Mr. Ensign," returned MissBelinda shortly. "A pleasant appearing young man," she ejaculated nextmoment; "worthy in many respects of success, I should say."
"Has he--do you mean to say that he has visited you in Grotewell?" askedMr. Sylvester, his eye upon the paper in his hand.
"Certainly; a few more interviews will settle it."
The paper rustled in Mr. Sylvester's grasp, but his voice was composedif not formal, as he observed, "She regards his attentions then withfavor?"
"She wears his flowers in her bosom, and brightens like a flower herselfwhen he is seen to approach. If allowed to go her way unhindered, I havebut little doubt as to how it will end. Mr. Ensign is not handsome, butI am told that he has every other qualification likely to make a gentlecreature like Paula happy."
"He is a good fellow," exclaimed Mr. Sylvester under his breath.
"And goodness is the first essential in the character of the man who isto marry Paula," inexorably observed Miss Belinda. "An open, cheerfuldisposition, a clear conscience and a past with no dark pages in itshistory, must mark him who is to link unto his fate our pure andsensitive Paula. Is it not so, Mr. Sylvester?"
The advertisements in that morning's _Tribune_ must have been unusuallyinteresting, judging from the difficulty which Mr. Sylvester experiencedin withdrawing his eyes from them. "The man whom Paula marries," said heat last, "can neither be too good, too kind, or too pure. Nor shall anyother than a good, kind, and pure man possess her," he added in a tonethat while low, effectually hushed even the slow-to-be-intimidated MissBelinda. In another moment Paula entered.
Oh, the morning freshness of some faces! Like the singing of birds in aprison, is the sound and sight of a lovely maiden coming into the grim,gray atmosphere of a winter breakfast room. Paula was exceptionallygifted with this auroral cheer which starts the day so brightly. Atsight of her face Mr. Sylvester dropped his paper, and even Miss Belindastraightened herself more energetically. "Merry Christmas," cried hersweet young voice, and immediately the whole day seemed to grow gladwith promise and gaysome with ringing sleigh-bells. "It's snowing, didyou know it? A world of life is in the air; the flakes dance as theycome down, like dervishes in a frenzy. It was all we lacked to make theday complete; now we have everything."
"Yes," said Miss Belinda, with a significant glance at the table,"everything."
Paula followed her glance, saw the silver box with its wealth ofblossoms, and faltered back with a quick look at Mr. Sylvester's graveand watchful countenance.
"Mr. Ensign seems to be possessed of clairvoyance," observed MissBelinda easily. "How he could know that you were to be in town to-day, Icannot imagine."
"I wrote him in my last letter that in all probability I should spendthe holidays with Mr. Sylvester," explained Paula simply, but with aslow and deepening flush, that left the roses she contemplated nothingof which to boast. "I did so, because he proposed to visit Grotewell onChristmas."
There was a short silence in the room, then Mr. Sylvester rose, andremarking with polite composure, "It is a very pretty remembrance," ledthe way into the dining-room. Paula with a slow drooping of her headquickly followed, while Miss Belinda brought up the rear, with the lookof a successful diplomat.
A meal in the Sylvester mansion was always a formal affair, but this wasmore than formal. A vague oppression seemed to fill the air; anoppression which Miss Belinda's stirring conversation found itimpossible to dissipate. In compliance to Mr. Sylvester's request, shesat at the head of the table, and was the only one who seemed able toeat anything. For one thing she had never seen Ona in that post ofhonor, but Paula and Mr. Sylvester could not forget the graceful formthat once occupied that seat. The first meal above a grave, no matterhow long it has been dug, must ever seem weighted with more or lessunreality.
Besides, with Paula there was a vague unsettled feeling, as if somedelicate inner balance had been too rudely shaken. She longed to flyaway and think, and she was obliged to sit still and talk.
The end of the meal was a relief to all parties. Miss Belinda went upstairs, thoughtfully shaking her firm head; Mr. Sylvester sat down againto his paper, and Paula advanced towards the dainty gift that awaitedher inspection on the library table. But half way to it she paused. Astrange shyness had seized her. With Mr. Sylvester sitting there, shedared not approach this delicate testimonial of another's affection. Shedid not know as she wished to. Her eyes stole in hesitation to thefloor. Suddenly Mr. Sylvester spoke:
"Why do you not look at your pretty present, Paula?"
She started, gave him a quick glance, and advanced hurriedly towards thetable; but scarcely had she reached it when she paused, turned andhastened over to his side. He was still reading, or appearing to read,but she saw his hand tremble where it grasped the sheet, though his facewith its clear cut profile, shone calm and cold against the darkbackground of the wall beyond.
"I do not care to look at it now," said she, with a hurried interlacingof her restless fingers.
He turned towards her and a quick thrill passed over his countenance."Sit down, Paula," said he, "I want to talk to you."
She obeyed as might an automaton. Was it the tone of his voice thatchilled her, or the studied aspect of his fixed and solemn countenance?He did not speak at once, but when he did, there was no faltering in hisvoice, that was lower than common, but deep, like still waters that haverun into dark channels far from the light of day.
"Paula, I want to ask you a question. What would you think of a manthat, with deliberate selfishness, went into the king's garden, andplucking up by the roots the most beautiful flower he could find there,carried it into a dungeon to pant out its exquisite life amid chill anddarkness?"
"I should think," replied she, after the first startled moment ofsilence, "that the man did well, if by its one breath of sweetness, theflower could comfort the heart of him who sat in the dungeon."
The glance with which Mr. Sylvester regarded her, suddenly faltered; heturned with quickness towards the fire. "A moment's joy is, then, excusefor a murder," exclaimed he. "God and the angels would not agree withyou, Paula."
There was a quivering in his tone, made all the more apparent by itsstudied self-possession of a moment before. She trembled where she sat,and opened her lips to speak, but closed them again, awed by his steadyand abstracted gaze, now fixed before him in gloomy reverie. A momentpassed. The clock ticking away on the mantel-piece seemed to echo theinevitable "Forever! never!" of Longfellow's old song. Neither of themmoved. At length, in a low and trembling voice, Paula spoke:
"Is it murder, when the flower loves the dark of the dungeon more thanit does the light of day?"
With a subdued but passionate cry he rose hastily to his feet. "Yes,"said he, and drew back as if he could not
bear the sight of her face orthe glance of her eye. "Sunshine is the breath of flowers; sweet wooinggales, their natural atmosphere. He who meddles with a treasure sochoice does it at his peril." Then as she hurriedly rose in turn,softened his whole tone, and assuming his usual air of kindlyfatherhood, asked her in the most natural way in the world, what hecould do to make her happy that day.
"Nothing," replied she, with a droop of her head; "I think I will go andsee Cicely."
A short sigh escaped him. "The carriage shall be ready for you," saidhe. "I hope your friend's happiness will overflow into your own gentlebosom, and make the day a very pleasant one. God bless your young sweetheart, my Paula!"
Her breast heaved, her large, dark, mellow eyes flashed with one quickglance towards his face, then she drew back, and in another moment lefthis side and quietly glided from the room. His very life seemed to gowith her, yet he did not stir; but he sighed deeply when, upon turningtowards the library-table, he found that she had carried away with herthe silent testimonial of another and more fortunate man's love anddevotion.