The Sword of Damocles: A Story of New York Life

He was holding back a branch as he spoke, and his eyes were on a level with hers. She felt caught as in a net, and struggled vainly to keep down her color. "No," said she, "welcome is a guest's due, whether he come early or late. I should be sorry to be lacking in the duties of a hostess, though my drawing-room is somewhat more spacious than cosy," she continued, looking around on the fields into which they had emerged, "and my facilities for bespeaking you welcome greater than my power to make you comfortable."

"Comfort is a satisfaction of the mind, rather than of the body. I am not uncomfortable, Miss Fairchild." Then as he stooped to relieve her of half her burden of trailing leaves and flowers, he exclaimed in a matter-of-fact tone, "Your aunt is a notable woman, Miss Fairchild, I admire her greatly."

"What!" said she, "you have been to the cottage? You have seen Aunt Belinda?"

"Of course," laughed he, "or how should I be here? You have been sent for, Miss Fairchild, and I am the humble bearer of your aunt's commands. But I forget, the practical has nothing to do with such a day. I am supposed to have sprung from the ground, and to know by instinct, just in what nook you were hiding from the sunlight. Very well. I acknowledge that instinct is sometimes capable of going a great way."

But this time her ready answer was lacking. She was wondering what her aunt would think of this sudden appearance of a stranger whose name she had never so much as mentioned.

"It is a pleasant rest to stand and look at a view like that, after a summer of musty labor," said he, gazing up the river with a truly appreciative eye. "I do not wonder you carry the charm of the wild woods in your laugh and glance, if you have been brought up in the sight of such a view as that."

"It has been my meat and drink from childhood," said she, and wondered why she wanted to say no more upon her favorite theme.

"Yet you tell me you love the city?"

"Too much to ever again be happy here."

It was a slip for which her cheek burned and her lids fell, the moment after. She had been thinking of Mr. Sylvester, and unconsciously spake as she might have done, if he had been at her side, instead of this genial-hearted young man. With a woman's instinctive desire to retrieve herself, she hurriedly continued, "Life is so full and large and deep in a great town, if you are only happy enough to meet those who are its blood and brain and sinew. One misses the rush of the great wheel of time in a spot like this. The world moves, but we do not feel it; it is like the quiet sweep of the stars over our heads. But in the city, days, weeks and months make themselves felt. The universe jars under the feet of hurrying masses. The story of the world is being written on pavement, corridor, and dome, so that he who runs may read. One realizes he is alive; the unit is part of the multiple. To those who are tired, God gives the rest of the everlasting hills, but to those who are eager, he holds out the city with its innumerable opportunities and incentives. And I am eager," she said. "The flower blooms on the mountain, and its perfume is sweet, but the chariot sings as it rushes, and the noise of its wheels is music in my ears."

She paused, turned her face to the breeze, and seemed to forget she was not alone. Clarence Ensign eyed her with astonishment; he had never heard her speak like this; the earnest side of her great nature had never been turned towards him before, and he felt himself shrink into insignificance in its presence. What was he that he should pluck a star from the heavens, to buckle on his breast! Wealth and position were a match for beauty great as hers, and a kind heart current coin all the world over, for a gentle disposition and a loving nature; but for this – He turned away and in his abstraction switched his foot with his cane.

"Then it was in New York that I met Cicely," exclaimed Paula.

He shook off his broodings, turned with a manful gesture, and met her sweet unfathomable eye, so brilliant with enthusiasm a moment ago, but at this instant so softly deep and tender.

"And the friendship of Miss Stuyvesant is a precious thing to you?" said he.

"Few things are more so," was her reply.

He bit his lip and his brow grew lighter. After all, great souls frequently cling to those of lesser calibre, provided they are true and unflawed. He would not be discouraged. But his tone when he spoke had acquired a reverence that did not lessen its music. "You are, then, one of the few women who believe in friendship?"

"As I believe in heaven."

Looking at her, he took off his hat. Her eye stole to his serious countenance. "Miss Stuyvesant is to be envied," said he.

"Are friends so rare?"

"Such friends are," said he.

She gave him a bright little look. "Had you been with Miss Stuyvesant, and she had expressed herself as I have done, you would have said, 'Miss Fairchild is to be envied,' and you would have been nearer the truth than now. Cicely's friendship is to mine what an unbroken mirror is to a little racing brook. It reflects but one image, while mine – " She could not go on. How could she explain to this stranger that Cicely's heart was undivided in its regard, while hers owned allegiance to more than her bosom friend.

"If I were with Miss Stuyvesant now," he declared, too absorbed in his own ideas to notice the break in hers, "I should still say in face of this friendship, 'Miss Stuyvesant is to be envied.' I have no mind for more than one thought to-day," exclaimed he, with a look that made her tremble.

There are some men who never know in what field to stay the current of their impetuosity: Clarence Ensign did. He said no more than this of all that was seething in his mind and heart. He felt that he must prove himself a man, before he exercised a man's privilege. Besides, his temperament was mercurial, and never remained long under the bondage of a severe thought, or an impressive tone of mind. He worshipped the lofty, but it was with tabor and cymbal and high-sounding lute. A climb over the stile at the foot of the hill was enough to restore him to himself. It was therefore with merry eyes and laughing lips that they approached the house and entered Miss Belinda's presence.

There are some persons whose prerogative it is to carry sunshine with them wherever they go. Clarence Ensign was one of these. Without an effort, without any display of incongruous hilarity, he always succeeded by the mere joyousness of his own nature, in calling forth all that was bright and enjoyable in others. When therefore they stepped into the quaint old-fashioned parlor, all prepared to receive them, Paula was not surprised to perceive it brighten, and her aunts' faces grow cheerful and smiling. Who could meet Clarence Ensign's laughing eye and not smile? What did astonish her, however, was the sight of an elegant basket of hot-house lowers perched on a table in the centre of the room. It made her pause, and cast looks of inquiry at the demure countenance of Miss Abby, and the quietly satisfied expression of her more thoughtful aunt.

"A remembrance from the city!" said Mr. Ensign gracefully. "I thought it might help to recall some happy hours to you."

With a swelling of the heart which she could not understand, she leaned over the ample cluster of roses and heliotrope. She felt as though she could embrace them; they were more than flowers, they were the visible emblem of all she had missed, and for which she had longed these many months.

"I seem to receive the whole in the part," said she.

He may or may not have understood her, but he saw she was gratified, and that was sufficient. The afternoon flew by on wings of light. Miss Belinda, who was not accustomed to holidays, but who thoroughly appreciated them when they came, entered into the conversation with zest; while Miss Abby's unconscious expressions of pleasure were too naïve not to add to, rather than detract from the general enjoyment. The twilight, with its good-bye, came all too soon.

"I have a request to make before I go," said Mr. Ensign. He was standing alone with Paula in the embrasure of the window, a few moments before his departure. "When we see a flower nodding on a ledge above our heads, we long for it; I have heard you talk of friendship, and a great desire has seized me. Miss Fairchild will you be my friend?"

She gave him a startled glance that, however, soon settled into a mellow radiant look of sympathy and pleasure.

"That is asking for something which if I hesitate to accord, it is because the word, 'friend,' carries with it so much," said she, with a sweet seriousness that disarmed her words of any latent sting they might otherwise have contained.

"I know it," he replied, "and I am very bold to ask it upon so slight an acquaintance; but life is short and real treasure is so scarce. You will not deny me, Miss Fairchild?" Then seeing her look down, hastily continued, "I have acquaintances by the score – friends who style themselves thus, by the dozen, but no friend. I want one; I want you for that one. Will you be it? I shall be jealous though, I warn you," he went on, with a cropping out of his mirthful nature; "I shall not be pleased to observe the circle widened indefinitely. I shall want my own place and no one else in my place."

"No one else can fill the place once given to a friend. Each one has his own niche."

"And I am to have mine?" His look was firm, his eye steadfast.

"Yes," she breathed.

With a proud stooping of his head, he took her hand and kissed it. The action became him; he was tall and well made, and gallantry induced by feeling, sat well upon him. In spite of herself, she thought of old-time stories of the Norse chivalry; he stood so radiant and bent so low.

"I shall prize my friend at her queenly value," said he; and without more ado, uttered his farewell and took his departure.

"Paula!"

The young girl started from a reverie which had held her for a long time enchained at that fast darkening window, and hastily looking up, perceived her Aunt Belinda standing before her, with her eye fixed upon her face, with a kind but searching glance.

"Yes, aunt."

"You have not told me who this Mr. Ensign is. In all the letters you wrote me you did not mention his name, I think."

"No, aunt. The fact is, I did not meet him until a few days before I left, and then only for an evening, you might say."

"Indeed! that one evening seems to have made its impression. Tell me something about him, Paula."

"His own countenance speaks for him better than I can, aunt. He is good and he is kind; an honest young man, who need fear the eye of no one. He is wealthy, I am informed, and the son of highly respected parents. He was first presented to me by Miss Stuyvesant, whose friend he is, afterwards by Mr. Sylvester. His coming here was a surprise to me."

Miss Belinda's firm mouth, which had expanded at this dutiful response, twitched with a certain amused expression over this last announcement. Eying her niece with unrelenting inquiry, she pursued, "You have not been happy for the last few weeks, Paula. Our life seems narrow to you; you long to fly away to larger fields and more expansive skies."

With a guilty droop of her head, Paula stole her hand into that of her aunt's.

"I do not wonder," continued Miss Belinda, still watching the flushing cheek and slightly troubled mouth of the lovely girl before her. "I once breathed other air myself, and know well what charms lie beyond these mountains. In giving you up for awhile, I gave you up forever, I fear."

"No, no," whispered the young girl, "I am always yours wherever I go. Not that I am going away," she hastily murmured.

Her aunt smiled and gently stroked her niece's hand. "When the time comes, I shall bid you God speed, Paula. I am no ogress to tie my dove's wings to her nest. Love and the home it provides are the natural lot of women. None feel it more than those who have missed both."

"Aunt!" Paula was shocked and perplexed. A breaking wave full of doubts and possibilities, seemed to dash over her at this suggestion.

"Young men of judgment and principle do not come so many miles to see a youthful maiden, without a purpose," continued her aunt inexorably. "You know that, do you not, Paula?"

"Yes; but the purpose may differ in different cases," returned the young girl hurriedly. "I would not like to believe that Mr. Ensign came here with the one you give him credit for – not yet. You trouble me, aunt," pursued she, glancing tremulously about. "It is like opening a great door flooded with sunshine, upon eyes scarcely strong enough to bear the glimmer sifting through its cracks. I feel humiliated and – " She did not finish, perhaps her thought itself was incomplete.

"If a light comes sifting through the cracks, I am satisfied," said her aunt in a lighter tone than common. And she kissed her niece, and went smiling out of the room, murmuring to herself,

"I have been over-fearful; everything is coming right."

There are moments when life's great mystery overpowers us; when the riddle of the soul flaunts itself before us unexplained, and we can do no more than stand and take the rush of the tide that comes sweeping down upon us. Paula was not the girl she was before she went to New York. Love was no longer a dreamy possibility, a hazy blending of the unknown and the fancied; its tale had been too often breathed in her ear, its reality made too often apparent to her eye. But love to which she could listen, was as new and fresh and strange, as a world into which her foot had never ventured. That her aunt should point to a certain masculine form, no matter how attractive or interesting, and say, "Love and home are the lot of women," made her blood rush back on her heart, like a stream from which a dam has been ruthlessly wrenched away. It was too wild, too sudden; a friend's name was so much easier to speak, or to contemplate. She did not know what to do with her own heart, made to speak thus before its time; its beatings choked her; everything choked her; this was a worse imprisonment than the other. Looking round, her eye fell upon the flowers. Ah, was not their language expressive enough, without this new suggestion? They seemed to lose something in this very gain. She liked them less she thought, and yet her feet drew near, and near, and nearer, to where they stood, exhaling their very souls out in delicious perfume. "I am too young!" came from Paula's lips. "I will not think of it!" quickly followed. Yet the smile with which she bent over the fragrant blossoms, had an ethereal beauty in it, which was not all unmixed with the

"Light that never was on land or sea,The consecration and the poet's dream."

"He has asked to be my friend," murmured she, as she slowly turned away. "It is enough; it must be enough." But the blossom she had stolen from the midst of the fragrant collection, seemed to whisper a merry nay, as it nodded against her hand, and afterwards gushed out its sweet life on her pure young breast.

XXIX

MIST IN THE VALLEY

"The true beginning of our end." – Midsummer Night's Dream.

Mr. Ensign was not slow in developing his ideas of friendship. Though he did not venture upon repeating his visit too soon, scarcely a week passed without bringing to Paula a letter or some other testimonial of his increasing devotion. The blindest eye could not fail to remark whither he was tending. Even Paula was forced to acknowledge to herself that she was on the verge of a flowery incline, that sooner or later would bring her up breathless against the dread alternative of a decided yes or no. Friendship is a wide portal, and sometimes admits love; had it served her traitorously in this?

Her aunt who watched her with secret but lynx-eyed scrutiny, saw no reason to alter the first judgment of that mysterious, "It is all coming right," with which she viewed the first symptoms of Paula's girlish appreciation of her lover. If eyes and lips could speak, Paula was happy. The mournful shadows which of late had flitted with more or less persistency over her face, had vanished in a living smile, which if not deep, was cloudlessly radiant; and her voice when not used in speech, was rippling away in song, as glad as a finch's on the mountain side.

Miss Belinda was therefore very much astonished when one day Paula burst into her presence, and flinging herself down on her knees, threw her arms about her waist, crying,

"Take me away, dear aunt, I cannot, dare not stay here another day."

"Paula, what do you mean?" exclaimed Miss Belinda, holding her back and endeavoring to look into her face. But the young girl gently resisted.

"I have just had a letter from Cicely," she returned in a low and muffled voice. "She has seen Mr. Sylvester, and says he looks both wan and ill. He told her, too, that he was lonely, and I know what that means; he wants his child. The time has come for me to go back. He said it would, and that I would know when it came. Take me, aunt, take me to Mr. Sylvester."

Miss Belinda, to whom self-control was one of the cardinal virtues, leaned back in her chair and contemplated the eager, tear-stained face that was now raised to hers, with silent scrutiny. "Paula," said she at last, "is that your only reason for desiring to return to New York?"

A flush, delicate as it was fleeting, swept over the dew of Paula's cheek. She rose to her feet and met her aunt's eye, with a look of gentle dignity. "No," said she, "I wish to test myself. Birds that are prisoned will caress any hand that offers them freedom. I wish to see if the lure holds good when my wings are in mid-heaven."

There was a dreamy cadence to her voice as she uttered that last phrase, that startled her aunt. "Paula," exclaimed she, "Paula, don't you know your own heart?"

"Who does?" returned Paula; then in a sudden rush of emotion threw herself once more at her aunt's side, saying, "It is in order to know it, that I ask you to take me away."

And Miss Belinda, as she smoothed back her darling's locks, was obliged to acknowledge to herself, that time has a way of opening, in the stream of life, unforeseen channels to whose current we perforce must yield, or else hopelessly strand upon the shoals.

BOOK IV

FROM A. TO Z

XXX

MISS BELINDA PRESENTS MR. SYLVESTER WITH A CHRISTMAS GIFT

"For, O; for, O the hobby horse is forgot." – Hamlet.

It was a clear winter evening. Mr. Sylvester sat in his library, musing before a bright coal fire, whose superabundant heat and blaze seemed to make the loneliness of the great empty room more apparent. He had just said to himself that it was Christmas eve, and that he, of all men in the world, had the least reason to realize it, when the door-bell rang. He was expecting Bertram, whose advancement to the position of cashier in place of Mr. Wheelock, now thoroughly broken down in health, had that day been fully determined upon in a late meeting of the Board of Directors. He therefore did not disturb himself. It was consequently a startling surprise, when a deep, pleasant voice uttered from the threshold of the door, "I have brought you a Christmas present;" and looking up, he saw Miss Belinda standing before him, with Paula at her side.

"My child!" was his involuntary exclamation, and before the young girl knew it, she was folded against his breast with a passionate fervor that more than words, convinced her of the depth of the sacrifice which had held them separate for so long. "My darling! my little Paula!"

She felt her heart stand still. Gently disengaging herself, she looked in his face. She found it thin and wan, but lit by such a pleasure she could not keep back her smile. "You are glad, then, of your little Christmas present?" said she.

He smiled and shook his head; he had no words with which to express a joy like this.

Miss Belinda meanwhile stood with a set expression on her face, that, to one who did not know her, would immediately have proclaimed her to be an ogress of the very worst type. Not a glance did she give to the unusual splendor about her, not a wavering of her eye betokened that she was in any way conscious that she had just stepped from the threshold of a very humble cottage, into a home little short of a palace in size and the splendor of its appointments. All her attention was concentrated on the two faces before her.

"The ride on the cars has made Paula feverish," cried she, in sharp clear tones that rang with unexpected brusqueness through the curtained alcoves of that lordly apartment.

They both started at this sudden introduction of the prosaic into the hush of their happy meeting, but remembering themselves, drew Miss Belinda forward to the fire and made her welcome in this house of many memories.

It was a strange moment to Paula when she first turned to go up those stairs, down which she had come in such grief eight months or more ago. She found herself lingering on its well-remembered steps, and the first sight of the rich bronze image at the top, struck her with a sense of the old-time pleasure, that was not unlinked with the old-time dread. But the aspect of her little room calmed her. It was just as she had left it; not an article had been changed. "It is as if I had gone out one door and come in another," she whispered. All the months that had intervened seemed to float away. She felt this even more when upon again descending, she found Bertram in the library. His frank and interesting face had always been pleasant to her, but in the joy of her return it shone upon her with almost the attraction of a brother's. "I am at home again," she kept whispering to herself, "I am at home."

Miss Belinda was engrossed in conversation with Bertram, so that Paula was left free to take her old place by Mr. Sylvester's side, where she sat with such an aspect of contentment, that her beauty was half forgotten in her happiness.

"You remembered me, then, sometimes in the little cottage in Grotewell?" asked he, after a silent contemplation of her countenance. "I was not forgotten when you left the city streets?"

She answered with a bright little shake of her head, but she was inwardly wondering as she looked at his strong and picturesque face, with its nobly carved features and melancholy smile, if he had been absent from her thoughts for so much as a moment, in all these dreary months of separation.

"I did not believe you would forget," he gently pursued, "but I scarcely dared hope you would lighten my fireside with your face again. It is such a dismal one, and youth is so linked to brightness."

The flush that crossed her cheek, startled him into sudden silence. She recovered herself and slowly shook her head. "It is not a dismal one to me. I always feel brighter and better when I sit beside it. I have missed your counsel," she said; "brightness is nothing without depth."

His eyes which had been fixed on her face, turned slowly away. He seemed to hold an instant's communion with himself; suddenly he said, "And depth is worse than nothing, without it mirrors the skies. It is not from shadowed pools, such bright young lips should drink, but from the waves of an inexhaustible sea, smote upon by all the winds and sunshine of heaven."

In another moment, however, he was all cheerfulness. "You have brought me a Christmas present," cried he, "and we must make it a Christmas holiday indeed. Here is the beginning: " and with one of his old grave smiles, he handed Bertram a little note which had been awaiting him on the library table. "But Paula and Miss Belinda must have their pleasure too. Paula, are you too tired for a ride down town? I will show you New York on a Christmas eve," continued he to Miss Walton, seeing that Paula's attention was absorbed by the expression of sudden and moving surprise which had visited Bertram's face, upon the perusal of his note. "It is a stirring sight. Nothing more cheering can be found the wide world over, for those who have a home and children to make happy."

"I certainly should enjoy a glimpse of holiday cheer," assented Miss Belinda. And Paula recalled to herself by the sound of her aunt's voice, gayly re-echoed her assertion.

So Samuel was despatched for a carriage, and in a few minutes they were all riding down Fifth Avenue, en route for Tiffany's, Macy's, and any other store that might offer special attractions. It was a happy company. As they rolled along, Paula felt her heart grow lighter and lighter, Mr. Sylvester was almost gay, while even Aunt Belinda condescended to be merry. Bertram alone was silent, but as Paula caught short glimpses of his face, while speeding past some illuminated corner, she felt that it was that silence which is "the perfectest herald of joy."