The Sword of Damocles: A Story of New York Life

As Paula's retreating footsteps died away on the stairs, and he awoke to the full consciousness that his secret was shared by her whose love was his life, and whose good opinion had been his incentive and his pride, his first sensation was one of unmitigated anguish, but his next, strange to say, that of a restful relief. He had cast aside the cloak he had hugged so closely to his breast these many years, and displayed to her shrinking gaze the fox that was gnawing at his vitals; and Spartan though he was, the dew that had filled her loving eyes was balm to him. And not only that; he had won claim to the title of true man. Her regard, if regard it remained, was no longer an airy fabric built upon a plausible seeming, but a firm structure with knowledge for its foundation. "I shall not live to whisper, 'If she knew my whole life, would she love me so well?'"

His first marriage had been so wholly uncongenial and devoid of sympathy, that his greatest longing in connection with a fresh contract, was to enjoy the full happiness of perfect union and mutual trust; and though he could never have summoned up courage to take her into his confidence, unsolicited, now that it had been done he would not have it undone, no, not if by the doing he had lost her confidence and affection.

But something told him he had not lost it. That out of the darkness and the shock of this very discovery, a new and deeper love would spring, which having its birth in human frailty and human repentance, would gain in the actual what it lost in the ideal, bringing to his weary, suffering and yearning man's nature, the honest help of a strong and loving sympathy, growing trust, and sweetest because wisest encouragement.

It was therefore, with a growing sense of deep unfathomable comfort, and a reverent thankfulness for the mercies of God, that he sat by the fire idly watching the rise and fall of the golden flames above the fluttering ashes of his rival's letter, and dreaming with a hallowing sense of his unworthiness, upon the possible bliss of coming days. Happiness in its truest and most serene sense was so new to him, it affected him like the presence of something strangely commanding. He was awe-struck before it, and unconsciously bowed his head at its contemplation. Only his eyes betrayed the peace that comes with all great joy, his eyes and perhaps the faint, almost unearthly smile that flitted across his mouth, disturbing its firm line and making his face for all its inevitable expression of melancholy, one that his mother would have loved to look upon. "Paula!" came now and then in a reverent, yearning accent from between his lips, and once a low, "Thank God!" which showed that he was praying.

Suddenly he rose; a more human mood had set in, and he felt the necessity of assuring himself that it was really he upon whom the dreary past had closed, and a future of such possible brightness opened. He walked about the room, surveying the rich articles within it, as the possible belongings of the beautiful woman he adored; he stood and pictured her as coming into the door as his wife, and before he realized what he was doing, had planned certain changes he would make in his home to adapt it to the wants of her young and growing mind, when with a strange suddenness, the door upon which he was gazing flew back, and Bertram Sylvester entered just as he had come from the street. He looked so haggard, so wild, so little the picture of himself as he ventured forth a couple of hours before, that Mr. Sylvester started, and forgetting his happiness in his alarm, asked in a tone of dismay:

"What has happened? Has Miss Stuyvesant – "

Bertram's hand went up as if his uncle had touched him upon a festering wound. "Don't!" gasped he, and advancing to the table, sat down and buried his face for a moment in his arms, then rose, and summoning up a certain manly dignity that became him well, met Mr. Sylvester's eye with forced calmness, and inquired:

"Did you know there was a thief in our bank, Uncle Edward?"

XXXV
THE FALLING OF THE SWORD

 
"Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the world o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes." – Hamlet.
 

Mr. Sylvester towered on his nephew with an expression such as few men had ever seen even on his powerful and commanding face.

"What do you mean?" asked he, and his voice rang like a clarion through the room.

Bertram trembled and for a moment stood aghast, the ready flush bathing his brow with burning crimson. "I mean," stammered he, with difficulty recovering himself, "that when Mr. Stuyvesant came to open his private box in the bank to-day, that he not only found its lock had been tampered with, but that money and valuables to the amount of some twelve hundred dollars were missing from among its contents."

"What?"

The expression which had made Mr. Sylvester's brow so terrible had vanished, but his wonder remained.

"It is impossible," he declared. "Our vaults are too well watched for any such thing to occur. He has made some mistake; a robbery of that nature could not take place without detection."

"It would seem not, and yet the fact remains. Mr. Stuyvesant himself informed me of it, to-night. He is not a careless man, nor reckless in his statements. Some one has robbed the bank and it remains with us to find out who."

Mr. Sylvester, who had been standing all this while, sat down like a man dazed, the wild lost look on Bertram's face daunting him with a fearful premonition. "There are but four men who have access to the vault where the boxes are kept," said he: then quickly, "Why did Mr. Stuyvesant wait till to-night to speak to you? Why did he not notify us at once of a loss so important for us to know?"

The flush on Bertram's brow slowly subsided, giving way to a steady pallor. "He waited to be sure," said he. "He had a memorandum at home which he desired to consult; he was not ready to make any rash statement: he is a thinking man and more considerate than many of his friends are apt to imagine. If the lock had not been found open he would have thought with you that he had made some mistake; if he had not missed from the box some of its contents, he would have considered the condition of the lock the result of some oversight on his own part or of some mistake on the part of another, but the two facts together were damning and could force upon him but one conclusion. Uncle," said he, with a straightforward look into Mr. Sylvester's countenance, "Mr. Stuyvesant knows as well as we do who are the men who have access to the vaults. As you say, the opening of a box during business hours and the abstracting from it of papers or valuables by any one who has not such access, would be impossible. Only Hopgood, you and myself, and possibly Folger, could find either time or opportunity for such a piece of work; while after business hours, the same four, minus Folger who contents himself with knowing the combination of the inner safe, could open the vaults even in case of an emergency. Now of the four named, two are above suspicion. I might almost say three, for Hopgood is not a man it is easy to mistrust. One alone, then, of all the men whom Mr. Stuyvesant is in the habit of meeting at the Bank, is open to a doubt. A young man, uncle, whose rising has been rapid, whose hopes have been lofty, whose life may or may not be known to himself as pure, but which in the eyes of a matured man of the world might easily be questioned, just because its hopes are so lofty and its means for attaining them so limited."

"Bertram!" sprang from Mr. Sylvester's white lips.

But the young man raised his hand with almost a commanding gesture. "Hush," said he, "no sympathy or surprise. Facts like these have to be met with silent endurance, as we walk up to the mouth of the cannon we cannot evade, or bare our breast to the thrust of the bayonet gleaming before our eyes. – I would not have you think," he somewhat hurriedly pursued, "that Mr. Stuyvesant insinuated anything of the kind, but his daughter was not present in the parlor, and – " A sigh, almost a gasp finished the sentence.

"Bertram!" again exclaimed his uncle, this time with some authority in his voice. "The shock of this discovery has unnerved you. You act like a man capable of being suspected. That is simply preposterous. One half hour's conversation with Mr. Stuyvesant on my part will convince him, if he needs convincing, which I do not believe, that whoever is unworthy of trust in our bank, you are not the man."

Bertram raised his head with a gleam of hope, but instantly dropped it again with a despairing gesture that made his uncle frown.

"I did not know that you were inclined to be so pusillanimous," cried Mr. Sylvester; "and in presence of a foe so unsubstantial as this you have conjured up almost out of nothing. If the bank has been robbed, it cannot be difficult to find the thief. I will order in detectives to-morrow. We will hold a board of inquiry, and the culprit shall be unmasked; that is, if he is one of the employees of the bank, which it is very hard to believe."

"Very, and which, if true, would make it unadvisable in us to give the alarm that any public measures taken could not fail to do."

"The inquiry shall be private, and the detectives, men who can be trusted to keep their business secret."

"How can any inquiry be private? Uncle, we are treading on delicate ground, and have a task before us requiring great tact and discretion. If the safe had only been assaulted, or there were any evidences of burglary to be seen! But we surely should have heard of it from some one of the men, if anything unusual had been observed. Hopgood would have spoken at least."

"Yes, Hopgood would have spoken."

The tone in which this was uttered made Bertram look up. "You agree with me, then, that Hopgood is absolutely to be relied upon?"

"Absolutely." A faint flush on Mr. Sylvester's face lent force to this statement.

"He could not be beguiled or forced by another man to reveal the combination, or to relax his watch over the vaults entrusted to his keeping?"

"No."

"He is alone with the vaults where the boxes are kept for an hour or two in the early morning!"

"Yes, and has been for three years. Hopgood is honesty itself."

"And so are Folger and Jessup and Watson," exclaimed Bertram emphatically.

"Yes," his uncle admitted, with equal emphasis.

"It is a mystery," Bertram declared; "and one I fear that will undo me."

"Nonsense!" broke forth somewhat impatiently from Mr. Sylvester's lips; "there is no reason at this time for any such conclusion. If there is a thief in the bank he can be found; if the robbery was committed by an outsider, he may still be discovered. If he is not, if the mystery rests forever unexplained, you have your character, Bertram, a character as spotless as that of any of your fellows, whom we regard as above suspicion. A man is not going to be condemned by such a judge of human nature as Mr. Stuyvesant, just because a mysterious crime has been committed, to which the circumstances of his position alone render it possible for him to be party. You might as well say that Jessup and Folger and Watson – yes, or myself, would in that case lose his confidence. They are in the bank, and are constantly in the habit of going to the vaults."

"None of those gentlemen want to marry his daughter," murmured Bertram. "It is not the director I fear, but the father. I have so little to bring her. Only my character and my devotion."

"Well, well, pluck up courage, my boy. I have hopes yet that the whole matter can be referred to some mistake easily explainable when once it is discovered. Mistakes, even amongst the honest and the judicious, are not so uncommon as one is apt to imagine. I, myself, have known of one which if providence had not interfered, might have led to doubts seemingly as inconsistent as yours. To-morrow we will consider the question at length. To-night – Well, Bertram, what is it?"

The young man started and dropped his eyes, which during the last words of his uncle had been fixed upon his face with strange and penetrating inquiry. "Nothing," said he, "that is, nothing more;" and rose as if to leave.

But Mr. Sylvester put out his hand and stopped him. "There is something," said he. "I have seen it in your face ever since you entered this room. What is it?"

The young man drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Mr. Sylvester watched him with growing pallor. "You are right," murmured his nephew at last; "there is something more, and it is only justice that you should hear it. I have had two adventures to-night; one quite apart from my conversation with Mr. Stuyvesant. Heaven that watches above us, has seen fit to accumulate difficulties in my path, and this last, perhaps, is the least explainable and the hardest to encounter."

"What do you allude to?" cried his uncle, imperatively; "I have had an evening of too much agitation to endure suspense with equanimity. Explain yourself."

"It will not take long," said the other; "a few words will reveal to you the position in which I stand. Let me relate it in the form of a narrative. You know what a dark portion of the block that is in which Mr. Stuyvesant's house is situated. A man might hide in any of the areas along there, without being observed by you unless he made some sound to attract your attention. I was, therefore, more alarmed than surprised when, shortly after leaving Mr. Stuyvesant's dwelling, I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and turning, beheld a dark figure at my side, of an appearance calculated to arouse any man's apprehension. He was tall, unkempt, with profuse beard, and eyes that glared even in the darkness of his surroundings, with a feverish intensity. 'You are Mr. Sylvester,' said he, with a look of a wild animal ready to pounce upon his prey. 'Yes,' said I, involuntarily stepping back, 'I am Mr. Sylvester.' 'I want to speak to you,' exclaimed he, with a rush of words as though a stream had broken loose; 'now, at once, on business that concerns you. Will you listen?'

"I thought of the only business that seemed to concern me then, and starting still farther back, surveyed him with surprise. 'I don't know you,' said I; 'what business can you have with me?' 'Will you step into some place where it is warm and find out?' he asked, shivering in his thin cloak, but not abating a jot of his eagerness. 'Go on before me,' said I, 'and we will see.' He complied at once, and in this way we reached Beale's Coffee-Room, where we went in. 'Now,' said I, 'out with what you have to say and be quick about it. I have no time to listen to nonsense and no heart to attend to it.' His eye brightened; he did not cast a glance at the smoking victuals about him, though I knew he was hungry as a dog. 'It is no nonsense,' said he, 'that I have to communicate to you.' And then I saw he had once been a gentleman. 'For two years and a half have I been searching for you,' he went on, 'in order that I might recall to your mind a little incident. You remember the afternoon of February, the twenty-fifth, two years ago?'

"'No,' said I, in great surprise, for his whole countenance was flushed with expectancy. 'What was there about that day that I should remember it?' He smiled and bent his face nearer to mine. 'Don't you recollect a little conversation you had in a small eating-house in Dey Street, with a gentleman of a high-sounding voice to whom you were obliged continually to say 'hush!'" I stared at the man, as you may believe, with some notion of his being a wandering lunatic. 'I have never taken a meal in any eating-house in Dey Street,' I declared, motioning to a waiter to approach us. The man observing it, turned swiftly upon me. 'Do you think I care for any such petty fuss as that?' asked he, indicating the rather slightly built man I had called to my rescue, while he covertly studied my face to observe the effect of his words.

"I started. I could not help it; this use of an expression almost peculiar to myself, assured me that the man knew me better than I supposed. Involuntarily I waved the waiter back and turned upon the man with an inquiring look.

"'I thought you might consider it worth your while to listen,' said he, smiling with the air of one who has or thinks he has a grip upon you. Then suddenly, 'You are a rich man, are you not? a proud man and an honored one. You hold a position of trust and are considered worthy of it; how would you like men to know that you once committed a mean and dirty trick; that those white hands that have the handling of such large funds at present, have in days gone by been known to dip into such funds a little too deeply; that, in short, you, Bertram Sylvester, cashier of the Madison Bank, and looking forward to no one knows what future honors and emoluments, have been in a position better suited to a felon's cell than the trusted agent of a great and wealthy corporation?'

"I did not collar him; I was too dumb-stricken for any such display of indignation. I simply stared, feeling somewhat alarmed as I remembered my late interview with Mr. Stuyvesant, and considered the possibility of a plot being formed against me. He smiled again at the effect he had produced, and drew me into a corner of the room where we sat down. 'I am going to tell you a story,' said he, 'just to show you what a good memory I have. One day, a year and more ago, I sauntered into an eating-house on Dey Street. I have not always been what you see me now, though to tell you the truth, I was but little better off at the time of which I speak, except that I did have a dime or so in my pocket, and could buy a meal of victuals – if I wished.' And his eyes roamed for the first time to the tables stretching out before him down the room. 'The proprietor was an acquaintance of mine, and finding I was sleepy as well as hungry, let me go into a certain dark pantry, where I curled up amid all sorts of old rubbish and went to sleep. I was awakened by the sound of voices talking very earnestly. The closet in which I was hidden was a temporary affair built up of loose boards, and the talk of a couple of men seated against it was easy enough to be heard. Do you want to know what that conversation was?'

"My curiosity was roused by this time and I said yes. If this was a plot to extort money from me, it was undeniably better for me to know upon just what foundations it rested. I thought the man looked surprised, but with an aplomb difficult to believe assumed, he went on to say, 'The voices gave me my only means of judging of the age, character, or position of the men conversing, but I have a quick ear, and my memory is never at fault. From the slow, broken, nervously anxious tone of one of the men, I made up my mind that he was elderly, hard up, and not over scrupulous; the other voice was that of a gentleman, musical and yet pronounced, and not easily forgotten, as you see, sir. The first words I heard aroused me and convinced me it was worth while to listen. They were uttered by the gentleman. 'You come to me with such a dirty piece of business! What right have you to suppose I would hearken to you for an instant!' 'The right,' returned the other, 'of knowing you have not been above doing dirty work in your life time.' The partition creaked at that, as though one of the two had started forward, but I didn't hear any reply made to this strange accusation. 'Do you think,' the same voice went on, 'that I do not know where the five thousand dollars came from which you gave me for that first speculation? I knew it when I took it, and if I hadn't been sure the operation would turn out fortunately, you would never have been the man you are to-day. It came out of funds entrusted to you, and was not the gift of a relative as you would have made me believe.' 'Good heaven!' exclaimed the other, after a silence that was very expressive just then and there, 'and you let me – ' 'Oh we won't go into that,' interrupted the less cultivated voice. 'All you wanted was a start, to make you the successful man you have since become. I never worried much about morals, and I don't worry about them now, only when you say you won't do a thing likely to make my fortune, just because it is not entirely free from reproach, I say, remember what I know about you, and don't talk virtue to me.'

"'I am rightly punished,' came from the other, in a tone that proved him to be a man more ready to do a wrong thing than to face the accusation of it. 'If I ever did what you suppose, the repentance that has embittered all my success, and the position in which you have this day placed me, is surely an ample atonement.' 'Will you do what I request?' inquired the other, giving little heed to this expression of misery, of which I on the contrary took special heed. 'No,' was the energetic reply; 'because I am not spotless it is no sign that I will wade into filth. I will give you money as I have done scores of times before, but I will lend my hand to no scheme which is likely to throw discredit on me or mine. Were you not connected to me in the way in which you are – ' 'You would pursue the scheme,' interrupted the other; 'it is because you know that I cannot talk, that you dare repudiate it. Well I will go to one – ' 'You shall not,' came in short quick tones, just such tones as you used to me, sir, when we first entered this room. 'You shall leave the country before you do anything more, or say anything more, to compromise me or yourself. I may have done wrong in my day, but that is no reason why I should suffer for it at your hands, tempter of youth, and deceiver of your own flesh and blood! You shall never bring back those days to me again; they are buried, and have been stamped out of sight by many an honest dealing since, and many as I trust before God, good and sterling action. I have long since begun a new life; a life of honor, and pure, if successful, dealing. Not only my own happiness, but that of one who should be considered by you, depends upon my maintaining that life to the end, unshadowed by unholy remembrances, and unharrassed by any such proffers as you have presumed to make to me here to-day. If you want a few thousand dollars to leave the country, say so, but never again presume to offend my ears, or those of any one else we may know, with any such words as you have made use of to-day.' And the spiritless creature subsided, sir, and said no more to that rich, honored, and successful man who was so sensitive to even the imputation of guilt.

"But I am not spiritless and just where he dropped the affair, I took it up. 'Here is a chance for me to turn an honest penny,' thought I, and with a deliberation little to be expected of me, perhaps, set myself to spot that man and make the most out of the matter I could. Unfortunately I lost the opportunity of seeing his face. I was too anxious to catch every word they uttered, to quit my place of concealment till their conversation was concluded, and then I was too late to be sure which of the many men leaving the building before me was the one I was after. The waiters were too busy to talk, and the proprietor himself had taken no notice. Happily as I have before said, I never forget voices; moreover one of the two speakers had made use of a phrase peculiar enough to serve as a clue to his identity. It was in answer to some parting threat of the older man, and will remind you of an expression uttered by yourself an hour or so ago. 'Do you suppose I will let such a little fuss as that deter me?' It was the cue to his speech, by which I intended to hunt out my man from amongst the rich, the trusted and the influential persons of this city, and when found, to hold him.'

"'And you think you have done this?' said I, too conscious of the possible net about my feet to be simply angry. 'I know it,' said he; 'every word you have uttered since we have been here has made me more and more certain of the fact. I could swear to your voice, and as to your use of that tell-tale word, it was not till I thought to inquire of a certain wide-awake fellow down town, who amongst our business men were in the habit of using that expression, and was told Mr. Sylvester of the Madison Bank, that I was enabled to track you. I know I have got my hand on my man at last and – ' He looked down at his thread-bare coat and around at the tables with their smoking dishes, and left me to draw my own conclusion.

"Uncle, there are crises in life which no former experience teaches you how to meet. I had arrived at such a one. Perhaps you can understand me when I say I was well nigh appalled. Denial of what was imputed to me might be wisdom and might not. I felt the coil of a deadly serpent about me, and knew not whether it was best to struggle or to simply submit. The man noted the effect he had made and complacently folded his arms. He was of a nervous organization and possessed an eye like a hungry wolf, but he could wait. 'This is a pretty story,' said I at last, and I reject it altogether. 'I am an honest man and have always been so; you will have to give up your hopes of making anything out of me.' 'Then you are willing,' said he, 'that I should repeat this story to one of the directors of your bank, whom I know?'

"I looked at him; he returned my gaze with a cold nonchalence more suggestive of a deep laid purpose, than even his previous glance of feverish determination. I immediately let my eye run over his scanty clothing and loose flowing hair and beard. 'Yes,' said I, with as much sarcasm as I knew how to assume, 'if you dare risk the consequences, I think I may.' He at once drew himself up. 'You think,' said he, 'that you have a common-place adventurer to deal with; that my appearance is going to testify in your favor; that you have but to deny any accusation which such a hungry-looking, tattered wretch as I, may make, and that I shall be ignominiously kicked out of the presence into which I have forced myself; that in short I have been building my castle in the air. Mr. Sylvester, I am a poor devil but I am no fool. When I left Dey Street on the twenty-fifth of February two years ago, it was with a sealed paper in my pocket, in which was inscribed all that I had heard on that day. This I took to a lawyer's office, and not being, as I have before said, quite as impecunious in those days as at present, succeeded in getting the lawyer, whom I took care should be a most respectable man, to draw up a paper to the effect that I had entrusted him with this statement – of whose contents he however knew nothing – on such a day and hour, to which paper a gentleman then present, consented at my respectful solicitation to affix his name as witness, which gentleman, strange to say, has since proved to be a director of the bank of which you are the present cashier, and consequently the very man of all others best adapted to open the paper whose seal you profess to be so willing to see broken.'

"'His name!' It was all that I could say. 'Stuyvesant,' cried the man, fixing me with his eye in which I in vain sought for some signs of secret doubt or unconscious wavering. I rose; the position in which I found myself was too overwhelming for instant decision. I needed time for reflection, possibly advice – from you. A resolution to brave the devil must be founded on something more solid than impulse, to hold its own unmoved. I only stopped to utter one final word and ask one leading question. 'You are a smart man,' said I, 'and you are also a villain. Your smartness would give you food and drink, if you exercised it in a manner worthy of a man, but your villainy if persisted in, will eventually rob you of both, and bring you to the prison's cell or the hangman's gallows. As for myself, I persist in saying that I am now and always have been an honest man, whatever you may have overheard or find yourself capable of swearing to. Yet a lie is an inconvenient thing to have uttered against you at any time, and I may want to see you again; if I do, where shall I find you?' He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a small slip of folded paper, which he passed to me with a bow that Chesterfield would have admired. 'You will find it written within,' said he 'I shall look for you any time to-morrow, up to seven o'clock. At that hour the lawyer of whom I have spoken, sends the statement which he has in his possession to Mr. Stuyvesant.' I nodded my assent, and he moved slowly towards the door. As he did so, his eyes fell upon a roll of bread lying on a counter. I at once stepped forward and bought it. Vile as he was, and deadly as was the snare he contemplated drawing about me, I could not see that wolfish look of hunger, and not offer him something to ease it. He took the loaf from my hands and bit greedily into it but suddenly paused, and shook his head with a look like self-reproach, and thrusting the loaf under his arm, turned towards the door with the quick action of one escaping. Instantly, and before he was out of sight or hearing, I drew the attention of the proprietor to him. 'Do you see that man?' I asked. 'He has been attempting a system of blackmail upon me.' And satisfied with thus having provided a witness able of identifying the man, in case of an emergency, I left the building.

"And now you know it all," concluded he; and the silence that followed the utterance of those simple words, was a silence that could be felt.

"Bertram?"

The young man started from his fixed position, and his eyes slowly traversed toward his uncle.

"Have you that slip of paper which the man gave you before departing?"

"Yes," said he.

"Let me have it, if you please."

The young man with an agitated look, plunged his hand into his pocket, drew out the small note and laid it on the table between them. Mr. Sylvester let it lie, and again there was a silence.

"If this had happened at any other time," Bertram pursued, "one could afford to let the man have his say; but now, just as this other mystery has come up – "

"I don't believe in submitting to blackmail," came from his uncle in short, quick tones.