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The Sword of Damocles: A Story of New York Life

Год написания книги: 2017
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"He is prisoned there by a woman," cried Mr. Sylvester, pointing to the figure whose distorted outlines was every moment becoming more and more visible in the increasing glare. "See, she has him tight in her arms and is pressing him against the window-sill."

The man with a terrible recoil, looked in the direction of his child, saw the little white face with its wild expression of conscious terror, saw the face of her who towered implacably behind it, and shrieked appalled.

"Jacqueline!" he cried, and put his hands up before his face as if his eyes had fallen upon an avenging spirit.

"Is that Jacqueline Japha?" asked Mr. Sylvester, dragging down the other's hands and pointing relentlessly towards the ominous figure in the window before him.

"Yes, or her ghost," cried the other, shuddering under a horror that left him little control of his reason.

"Then your boy is lost," murmured Mr. Sylvester, with a vivid remembrance of the words he had overheard. "She will never save her rival's child, never."

The man looked at him with dazed eyes. "She shall save him," he cried, and stretching far out of the window by which he stood, he pointed to the bridge and called out, "Drop him, Jacqueline, don't let him burn. He can still reach the next house if he runs. Save my darling, save him."

But the woman as if waiting for his voice, only threw back her head, and while a bursting flame flashed up behind her, shrieked mockingly back:

"Oh I have frightened you up at last, have I? You can see me now, can you? You can call on Jacqueline now? The brat can make you speak, can he? Well, well, call away, I love to hear your voice. It is music to me even in the face of death."

"My boy! my boy," was all he could gasp; "save the child, Jacqueline, only save the child!"

But the harsh scornful laugh she returned, spoke little of saving. "He is so dear," she hissed. "I love the offspring of my rival so much! the child that has taken the place of my own darling, dead before ever I had seen its innocent eyes. Oh yes, yes, I will save it, save it as my own was saved. When I saw the puny infant in your arms the day you passed me with her, I swore to be its friend, don't you remember! And I am so much of a one that I stick by him to the death, don't you see?" And raising him up in her arms till his whole stunted body was visible, she turned away her brow and seemed to laugh in the face of the flames.

The father writhed below in his agony. "Forgive," he cried, "forgive the past and give me back my child. It's all I have to love; it's all I've ever loved. Be merciful, Jacqueline, be merciful!"

Her face flashed back upon him, still and white. "And what mercy have you ever shown to me! Fool, idiot, don't you see I have lived for this hour! To make you feel for once; to make you suffer for once as I have suffered. You love the boy! Roger Holt, I once loved you."

And heedless of the rolling volume of smoke that now began to pour towards her, heedless even of the long tongues of hungry flame that were stretched out as if feeling for her from the distance behind, she stood immovable, gazing down upon the casement where he knelt, with an indescribable and awful smile upon her lips.

The sight was unbearable. With an instinct of despair both men drew back, when suddenly they saw the woman start, unloose her clasp and drop the child out of her arms upon the bridge. A hissing stream of water had fallen upon the flames, and the shock had taken her by surprise. In a moment the father was himself again.

"Get up, little feller, get up," he cried, "or if you cannot walk, crawl along the bridge to the next house. I see a fireman there; he will lift you in."

But at that moment the flames, till now held under some control, burst from an adjoining window, and caught at the woodwork of the bridge. The father yelled in dismay.

"Hurry, little feller, hurry!" he cried. "Get over towards the next house before it is too late."

But a paralysis seemed to have seized the child; he arose, then stopped, and looking wildly about, shook his head. "I cannot," he cried, "I cannot." And the woman laughed, and with a hug of her empty arms, seemed to throw her taunts into the space before her.

"Are you a demon?" burst from Mr. Sylvester's lips in uncontrollable horror. "Don't you see you can save him if you will? Jump down, then, and carry him across, or your father's curse will follow you to the world beyond."

"Yes, climb down," cried the fireman, "you are lighter than I. Don't waste a minute, a second."

"It is your own child, Jacqueline, your own child!" came from Holt's white lips in final desperation. "I have deceived you; your baby did not die; I wanted to get rid of you and I wanted to save him, so I lied to you. The baby did not die; he lived, and that is he you see lying helpless on the bridge beneath you."

Not the clutch of an advancing flame could have made her shrink more fearfully. "It is false," she cried; "you are lying now; you want me to save her child, and dare to say it is mine."

"As God lives!" he swore, lifting his hand and turning his face to the sky.

Her whole attitude seemed to cry, "No, no," to his assertion but slowly as she stood there, the conviction of its truth seemed to strike her, and her hair rose on her forehead and she swayed to and fro, as if the earth were rolling under her feet. Suddenly she gave a yell, and bounded from the window. Catching the child in her arms, she attempted to regain the refuge beyond, but the flames had not dallied at their work while she hesitated. The bridge was on fire and her retreat was cut off. She did not attempt to escape. Stopping in the centre of the rocking mass, she looked down as only a mother in her last agony can do, on the child she held folded in her arms; then as the flames caught at her floating garments, stooped her head and printed one wild and passionate kiss upon his brow. Another instant and they saw her head rise to the accusing heavens, then all was rush and horror, and the swaying structure fell before their eyes, sweeping its living freight into the courtyard beneath their feet.

XLII

PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD

"None are so desolate but something dear,Dearer than self, possesses or possessed." – Byron.

In the centre of a long low room not far from the scene of the late disaster, a solitary lamp was burning. It had been lit in haste and cast but a feeble flame, but its light was sufficient to illuminate the sad and silent group that gathered under its rays.

On a bench by the wall, crouched the bowed and stricken form of Roger Holt, his face buried in his hands, his whole attitude expressive of the utmost grief; at his side stood Mr. Sylvester, his tall figure looming sombrely in the dim light; and on the floor at their feet, lay the dead form of the little lame boy.

But it was not upon their faces, sad and striking as they were, that the eyes of the few men and women scattered in the open door-way, rested most intently. It was upon her, the bruised, bleeding, half-dead mother, who kneeling above the little corpse, gazed down upon it with the immobility of despair, moaning in utter heedlessness of her own condition, "My baby, my baby, my own, own baby!"

The fixedness with which she eyed the child, though the blood was streaming from her forehead and bathing with a still deeper red her burned and blistered arms, made Mr. Sylvester's sympathetic heart beat. Turning to the silent figure of Holt, he touched him on the arm and said with a gesture in her direction:

"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 on 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 their 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. Hamlin'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 meA fixed figure for the time of scornTo 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 PARLORS

"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 your 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 sin 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."

"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."

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