Chapter 1

TO
MY FATHER
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
AS EXPRESSING SOME OF THE PRINCIPLES OF
JUSTICE AND MERCY WHICH,
BY PRECEPT AND EXAMPLE, HE HAS
INSTILLED INTO MY
BREAST
FROM EARLY CHILDHOOD.

NEW YORK, _April, 1881._

“When all else fails love saves”

CONTENTS.

BOOK I. TWO MEN.

I.—A WANDERER

II.—A DISCUSSION

III.—A MYSTERIOUS SUMMONS

IV.—SEARCHINGS

V.—THE RUBICON

VI.—A HAND CLASP

VII.—MRS. SYLVESTER

VIII.—SHADOWS OF THE PAST

IX.—PAULA

X.—THE BARRED DOOR

XI.—MISS STUYVESANT

XII.—MISS BELINDA MAKES CONDITIONS

XIII.—THE END OF MY LADY’S PICTURE

BOOK II. LIFE AND DEATH.

XIV.—MISS BELINDA HAS A QUESTION TO DECIDE

XV.—AN ADVENTURE—OR SOMETHING MORE

XVI.—THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES

XVII.—GRAVE AND GAY

XVIII.—IN THE NIGHT WATCHES

XIX.—A DAY AT THE BANK

XX.—THE DREGS IN THE CUP

XXI.—DEPARTURE

XXII.—HOPGOOD

BOOK III. THE JAPHA MYSTERY.

XXIII.—THE POEM

XXIV.—THE JAPHA MANSION

XXV.—JACQUELINE

XXVI.—A MAN’S JUSTICE AND A WOMAN’S MERCY

XXVII.—THE LONE WATCHER

XXVIII.—SUNSHINE ON THE HILLS

XXIX.—MIST IN THE VALLEY

BOOK IV. FROM A. TO Z.

XXX.—MISS BELINDA PRESENTS MR. SYLVESTER WITH A CHRISTMAS GIFT

XXXI.—A QUESTION

XXXII.—FULL TIDE

XXXIII.—TWO LETTERS

XXXIV.—PAULA MAKES HER CHOICE

XXXV.—THE FALLING OF THE SWORD

XXXVI.—MORNING

XXXVII.—THE OPINION OF A CERTAIN NOTED DETECTIVE

XXXVIII.—BLUEBEARD’S CHAMBER

XXXIX.—FROM A. TO Z

XL.—HALF-PAST SEVEN

BOOK V. WOMAN’S LOVE.

XLI.—THE WORK OF AN HOUR

XLII.—PAULA RELATES A STORY SHE HAS HEARD

XLIII.—DETERMINATION

XLIV.—IN MR. STUYVESANT’S PARLORS

XLV.—“THE HOUR OF SIX IS SACRED!”

XLVI.—THE MAN CUMMINS

Damocles, one of the courtiers of Dionysius, was perpetually
extolling with rapture that tyrant’s treasures, grandeur, the
number of his troops, the extent of his dominions, the
magnificence of his palaces, and the universal abundance of all
good things and enjoyments in his possession; always repeating,
that never man was happier than Dionysius. “Since you are of
that opinion,” said the tyrant to him one day, “will you taste
and make proof of my felicity in person?” The offer was
accepted with joy; Damocles was placed upon a golden couch,
covered with carpets richly embroidered. The side-boards were
loaded with vessels of gold and silver. The most beautiful
slaves in the most splendid habits stood around, ready to serve
him at the slightest signal. The most exquisite essences and
perfumes had not been spared. The table was spread with
proportionate magnificence. Damocles was all joy, and looked
upon himself as the happiest man in the world; when
unfortunately casting up his eyes, he beheld over his head the
point of a sword, which hung from the roof only by a single
horse-hair.

ROLLIN.

THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

BOOK I.

TWO MEN.

I.

A WANDERER.

“There’s no such word.”—BULWER.

A wind was blowing through the city. Not a gentle and balmy zephyr,
stirring the locks on gentle ladies’ foreheads and rustling the curtains
in elegant boudoirs, but a chill and bitter gale that rushed with a
swoop through narrow alleys and forsaken courtyards, biting the cheeks
of the few solitary wanderers that still lingered abroad in the darkened
streets.

In front of a cathedral that reared its lofty steeple in the midst of
the squalid houses and worse than squalid saloons of one of the
dreariest portions of the East Side, stood the form of a woman. She had
paused in her rush down the narrow street to listen to the music,
perhaps, or to catch a glimpse of the light that now and then burst from
the widely swinging doors as they opened and shut upon some tardy
worshipper.

She was tall and fearful looking; her face, when the light struck it,
was seared and desperate; gloom and desolation were written on all the
lines of her rigid but wasted form, and when she shuddered under the
gale, it was with that force and abandon to which passion lends its aid,
and in which the soul proclaims its doom.

Suddenly the doors before her swung wide and the preacher’s voice was
heard: “Love God and you will love your fellow-men. Love your fellow-men
and you best show your love to God.”

She heard, started, and the charm was broken. “Love!” she echoed with a
horrible laugh; “there is no love in heaven or on earth!”

And she swept by, and the winds followed and the darkness swallowed her
up like a gulf.

II.

A DISCUSSION.

“Young men think old men fools, and old men know young men to
be so.”—RAY’S PROVERBS.

“And you are actually in earnest?”

“I am.”

The first speaker, a fine-looking gentleman of some forty years of age,
drummed with his fingers on the table before him and eyed the face of
the young man who had repeated this assent so emphatically, with a
certain close scrutiny indicative of surprise.

“It is an unlooked-for move for you to make,” he remarked at length.
“Your success as a pianist has been so decided, I confess I do not
understand why you should desire to abandon a profession that in five
years’ time has procured you both competence and a very enviable
reputation—for the doubtful prospects of Wall Street, too!” he added
with a deep and thoughtful frown that gave still further impressiveness
to his strongly marked features.

The young man with a sweep of his eye over the luxurious apartment in
which they sat, shrugged his shoulders with that fine and nonchalant
grace which was one of his chief characteristics.

“With such a pilot as yourself, I ought to be able to steer clear of the
shoals,” said he, a frank smile illumining a face that was rather
interesting than handsome.

The elder gentleman did not return the smile. Instead of that he
remained gazing at the ample coal-fire that burned in the grate before
him with a look that to the young musician was simply inexplicable. “You
see the ship in haven,” he murmured at last; “but do not consider what
storms it has weathered or what perils escaped. It is a voyage I would
encourage no son of mine to undertake.”

“Yet you are not the man to shrink from danger or to hesitate in a
course you had marked out for yourself, because of the struggle it
involved or the difficulties it presented!” the young man exclaimed
almost involuntarily as his glance lingered with a certain sort of
fascination on the powerful brow and steady if somewhat melancholy eye
of his companion.

“No; but danger and difficulty should not be sought, only subdued when
encountered. If you were driven into this path, I should say, ‘God pity
you!’ and hold you out my hand to steady you along its precipices and
above its sudden quicksands. But you are not driven to it. Your
profession offers you the means of an ample livelihood while your good
heart and fair talents insure you ultimate and honorable success, both
in the social and artistic world. For a man of twenty-five such
prospects are not common and he must be difficult to please not to be
satisfied with them.”

“Yes,” said the other rising with a fitful movement but instantly
sitting again; “I have nothing to complain of as the world goes,
only—Sir,” he exclaimed with a sudden determination that lent a force
to his features they had hitherto lacked, “you speak of being driven
into a certain course; what do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” returned the other; “forced by circumstances to enter a line
of business to which many others, if not all others are preferable.”

“You speak strongly, speculation evidently has none of your sympathy,
notwithstanding the favorable results which have accrued to you from it.
But excuse me, by circumstances you mean poverty, I suppose, and the
lack of every other opening to wealth and position. You would not
consider the desire to make a large fortune in a short space of time a
circumstance of a sufficiently determining nature to reconcile you to my
entering Wall Street speculation?”

The elder gentleman rose, not as the other had done with a restless
impulse quickly subsiding at the first excuse, but forcibly and with a
feverish impatience that to appearance was somewhat out of proportion to
the occasion. “A large fortune in a short space of time!” he reiterated,
pausing where he had risen with an eagle glance at his companion and a
ringing tone in his voice that bespoke a deep but hitherto suppressed
agitation. “It is the alluring inscription above the pitfall into which
many a noble youth has fallen; the battle-cry to a struggle that has led
many a strong man the way of ruin; the guide-post to a life whose
feverish days and sleepless nights offer but poor compensation for the
sudden splendors and as sudden reverses attached to it. I had rather you
had accounted for this sudden freak of yours by the strongest aspiration
after power than by this cry of the merely mercenary man who in his
desire to enjoy wealth, prefers to win it by a stroke of luck rather
than conquer it by a life of endeavor.” He stopped. “I am aware that
this tirade against the ladder by which I myself have risen so rapidly,
must strike you as in ill-taste. But Bertram, I am interested in your
welfare and am willing to incur some slight charge of inconsistency in
order to insure it,” and here he turned upon his companion with that
expression of extreme gentleness which lent such a peculiar charm to his
countenance and explained perhaps the almost unlimited power he held
over the hearts and minds of those who came within the circle of his
influence.

“You are very good, sir,” murmured his young friend, who to explain
matters at once was in reality the nephew of this Wall Street magnate,
though from the fact of his having taken another name on entering the
musical profession, was not generally known as such. “No one, not even
my father himself, could have been more considerate and kind; but I do
not think you understand me, or rather I should say I do not think I
have made myself perfectly intelligible to you. It is not for the sake
of wealth itself or the eclat attending its possession that I desire an
immediate fortune, but that by means of it I may attain another object
dearer than wealth, and more precious than my career.”

The elder gentleman turned quickly, evidently much surprised, and cast a
sudden inquiring glance at his nephew, who blushed with a modest
ingenuousness pleasing to see in one so well accustomed to the critical
gaze of his fellow-men.

“Yes,” said he, as if in answer to that look, “I am in love.”

A deep silence for a moment pervaded the apartment, a sombre silence
almost startling to young Mandeville, who had expected some audible
expression to follow this announcement if only the good-natured “Pooh!
pooh!” of the matured man of the world in the presence of ardent
youthful enthusiasm. What could it mean? Looking up he encountered his
uncle’s eye fixed upon him with the last expression he could have
anticipated seeing there, namely that of actual and unmistakable alarm.

“You are displeased,” Mandeville exclaimed. “You have thought me proof
against such a passion, or perhaps you do not believe in the passion
itself!” Then with a sudden remembrance of the notable if somewhat
indolent loveliness of his uncle’s wife, blushed again at his unusual
want of tact, while his eye with an involuntary impulse sought the large
panel at their right where, in the full bloom of her first youth, the
lady of the house smiled upon all beholders.

“I do not believe in that passion influencing a man’s career,” his uncle
replied with no apparent attention to the other’s embarrassment. “A
woman needs be possessed of uncommon excellences to justify a man in
leaving a path where success is certain, for one where it is not only
doubtful but if attained must bring many a regret and heart-ache in its
train. Beauty is not sufficient,” he went on with sterner and sterner
significance, “though it were of an angelic order. There must be worth.”
And here his mind’s eye if not that of his bodily sense, certainly
followed the glance of his companion.

“I believe there is worth,” the young man replied; “certainly, it is not
her beauty that charms me. I do not even know if she _is_ beautiful,” he
continued.

“And you believe you love!” the elder exclaimed after another short
pause.

There was so much of bitterness in the tone in which this was uttered,
that Mandeville forgot its incredulity. “I think I must,” returned he
with a certain masculine naïveté not out of keeping with his general
style of face and manner, “else I should not be here. Three weeks ago I
was satisfied with my profession, if not enthusiastic over it; to-day I
ask nothing but to be allowed to enter upon some business that in three
years’ time at least will place me where I can be the fit mate of any
woman in this land, that is not worth her millions.”

“The woman for whom you have conceived this violent attachment is, then,
above you in social position?”

“Yes, sir, or so considered, which amounts to the same thing, as far as
I am concerned.”

“Bertram, I have lived longer than you and have seen much of both social
and domestic life, and I tell you no woman is worth such a sacrifice on
the part of a man as you propose. No woman of to-day, I should say; our
mothers were different. The very fact that this young lady of whom you
speak, obliges you to change your whole course of life in order to
obtain her, ought to be sufficient to prove to you—” He stopped
suddenly, arrested by the young man’s lifted hand. “She does not oblige
you, then?”

“Not on her own account, sir. This lily,” lifting a vase of blossoms at
his elbow, “could not be more innocent of the necessities that govern
the social circle it adorns, than the pure, single-minded girl to whom I
have dedicated what is best and noblest in my manhood. It is her
father—”

“Ah, her father!”

“Yes, sir,” the young man pursued, more and more astonished at the
other’s tone. “He is a man who has a right to expect both wealth and
position in a son-in-law. But I see I shall have to tell you my story,
sir. It is an uncommon one and I never meant that it should pass my
lips, but if by its relation I can win your sympathy for a pure and
noble passion, I shall consider the sacred seal of secrecy broken in a
good cause. But,” said he, seeing his uncle cast a short and uneasy
glance at the door, “perhaps I am interrupting you. You expect some
one!”

“No,” said his uncle, “my wife is at church; I am ready to listen.”

The young man gave a hurried sigh, cast one look at his companion’s
immovable face, as if to assure himself that the narrative was
necessary, then leaned back and in a steady business-like tone that
softened, however, as he proceeded, began to relate as follows:

III.

A MYSTERIOUS SUMMONS.

“Without unspotted, innocent within,
She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.”—DRYDEN.

It was after a matinée performance at —— Hall some two weeks ago that
I stopped to light a cigar in the small corridor leading to the back
entrance. I was in a dissatisfied frame of mind. Something in the music
I had been playing or the manner in which it had been received had
touched unwonted chords in my own nature. I felt alone. I remember
asking myself as I stood there, what it all amounted to? Who of all the
applauding crowd would watch at my bedside through a long and harassing
sickness, or lend their sympathy as they now yielded their praise, if
instead of carrying off the honors of the day I had failed to do justice
to my reputation. I was just smiling over the only exception I could
make to this sweeping assertion, that of the pale-eyed youth you have
sometimes observed dogging my steps, when Briggs came up to me.

“There is a woman here, sir, who insists on seeing you; she has been
waiting through half the last piece. Shall I tell her you are coming
out?”

“A woman!” exclaimed I, somewhat surprised, for my visitors are not apt
to be of the gentler sex.

“Yes sir, an old one. She seems very anxious to speak to you. I could
not get rid of her no how.”

I hurried forward to the muffled figure which he pointed out cowering
against the wall by the door. “Well, my good woman, what do you want?” I
asked, bending towards her in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the
face she held partly concealed from me.

“Are you Mr. Mandeville?” she inquired in a tone shaken as much by
agitation as age.

I bowed.

“The one who plays upon the piano?”

“The very same,” I declared.

“You are not deceiving me,” she went on, looking up with a marked
anxiety plainly visible through her veil. “I haven’t seen you play and
couldn’t contradict you, but—”

“Here!” said I calling to Briggs with a kindly look at the old woman,
“help me on with my coat, will you?”

The “Certainly, Mr. Mandeville,” with which he complied seemed to
reassure her, and as soon as the coat was on and he was gone, she
grasped me by the arm and drew my ear down to her mouth.

“If you are Mr. Mandeville, I have a message for you. This letter,”
slipping one into my hand, “is from a young lady, sir. She bade me give
it to you myself. She is young and pretty,” she pursued as she saw me
make a movement of distaste, “and a lady. We depend upon your honor,
sir.”

I acknowledge that my first impulse was to fling her back the note and
leave the building; I was in no mood for trifling, my next to burst into
a laugh and politely hand her to the door, my last and best, to open the
poor little note and see for myself whether the writer was a lady or
not. Proceeding to the door, for it was already twilight in the dim
passage way, I tore open the envelope which was dainty enough and took
out a sheet of closely written paper. A certain qualm of conscience
assailed me as I saw the delicate chirography it disclosed and I was
tempted to thrust it back and return it unread to the old woman now
trembling in the corner. But curiosity overcame my scruples, and hastily
unfolding the sheet I read these lines:

“I do not know if what I do is right; I am sure aunty would not
say it was; but aunty never thinks anything is right but going
to church and reading the papers to papa. I am just a little
girl who has heard you play, and who would think the world was
too beautiful, if she could hear you say to her just once, some
of the kind things you must speak every day to the persons who
know you. I do not expect very much—you must have a great many
friends, and you would not care for me—but the least little
look, if it were all my own, would make me so happy and so
proud I should not envy anybody in the world, unless it was
some of those dear friends who see you always.

“I do not come and hear you play often, for aunty thinks music
frivolous, but I am always hearing you no matter where I am,
and it makes me feel as if I were far away from everybody, in a
beautiful land all sunshine and flowers. But nurse says I must
not write so much or you will not read it, so I will stop here.
But if you _would_ come it would make some one happier than
even your beautiful music could do.”

That was all; there was neither name nor date. A child’s epistle,
written with a woman’s circumspection. With mingled sensations of doubt
and curiosity I turned back to the old woman who stood awaiting me with
eager anxiety.

“Was this written by a child or woman?” I asked, meeting her eye with as
much sternness as I could assume.

“Don’t ask me—don’t ask me anything. I have promised to bring you if I
could, but I cannot answer any questions.”

I stepped back with an incredulous laugh. Here was evidently an
adventure. “You will at least tell me where the young miss lives,” said
I, “before I undertake to fulfil her request.”

She shook her head. “I have a carriage at the door, sir,” said she. “All
you have got to do is to get into it with me and we shall soon be at the
house.”

I looked from her face to the letter in my hand, and knew not what to
think. The spirit of simplicity and ingenuousness that marked the latter
was scarcely in keeping with this air of mystery. The woman observing my
hesitation moved towards the door.

“Will you come, sir?” she inquired. “You will not regret it. Just a
moment’s talk with a pretty young girl—surely—”

“Hush,” said I, hearing a hasty step behind me. And sure enough just
then my intimate friend Selby came along and grasping me by the arm
began dragging me towards the door. “You are my property,” said he.
“I’ve promised, on my word of honor as a gentleman and a musician, to
bring you to the Handel Club this afternoon. I was afraid you had
escaped me, but—” Here he caught sight of the small black figure
halting in the door-way, and paused.

“Who’s this?” said he.

I hesitated. For one instant the scale of my whole future destiny hung
trembling in the balance, then the demon of curiosity got the better of
my judgment, and with the rather unworthy consideration that I might as
well enjoy my youth while I could, I released myself from my friend’s
detaining hand and replied, “Some one with whom I have very particular
business. I cannot go to the Handel Club to-day,” and darting out
without further delay, I rejoined the old woman on the sidewalk.

Without a word she drew me towards a carriage I now observed standing by
the curbstone a few feet to the left. As I got in I remember pausing a
moment to glance at the man on the box, but it was too dark for me to
perceive anything but the fact that he was dressed in livery. More and
more astonished I leaned back in my seat and endeavored to open
conversation with my mysterious companion. But it did not work. Without
being actually rude, she parried my questions in such a way that by the
end of five minutes I found myself as far from any knowledge of the real
situation of the case as when I started. I therefore desisted from any
further attempts and turned to look out, when I made a discovery that
for the first time awoke some vague feelings of alarm within my breast.
This was, that the window was not covered by a curtain as I supposed,
but by closed blinds which when I tried to raise them resisted all my
efforts to do so.

“It is very close here,” I muttered, in some sort of excuse for this
display of uneasiness. “Cannot you give us a little air?” But my
companion remained silent, and I felt ashamed to press the matter though
I took advantage of the darkness to remove to a safer place a roll of
money which I had about me.

Yet I was far from being really anxious, and did not once meditate
backing out of an adventure that was at once so piquant and romantic.
For by this time I became conscious from the sounds about me that we had
left the side street for one of the avenues and were then proceeding
rapidly up town. Listening, I heard the roll of omnibuses and the jingle
of car-bells, which informed me that we were in Broadway, no other
avenue in the city being traversed by both these methods of conveyance.
But after awhile the jingle ceased and presently the livelier sounds of
constant commotion inseparable from a business thoroughfare, and we
entered what I took to be Madison Avenue at Twenty-third Street.

Instantly I made up mind to notice every turn of the carriage, that I
might fix to some degree the locality towards which we were tending. But
it turned but once and that after a distance of steady travelling that
quite overthrew any calculation I was able to make at that time of the
probable number of streets we had passed since entering the avenue.
Having turned, it went but about half a block to the left when it
stopped. “I shall see where I am when I get out,” thought I; but in this
I was mistaken.

First we had stopped in the middle of a block of houses built, as far as
I could judge, all after one model. Next the fact of the front door
being open, though I saw no one in the hall, somewhat disconcerted me,
and I hurried across the sidewalk and up the stoop in a species of maze
hardly to be expected from one of my naturally careless disposition. The
next moment the door closed behind me and I found myself in a
well-lighted hall whose quiet richness betokened it as belonging to a
private dwelling of no mean pretensions to elegance.

This was the first surprise I received.

“Follow me,” said the old woman, hurrying me down the hall and into a
small room at the end. “The young lady will be here in a moment,” and
without lifting her veil or affording me the least glimpse of her
features, she retired, leaving me to face the situation before me as
best I might.

It was anything but a pleasant one as it appeared to me at that moment,
and for an instant I seriously thought of retracing my steps and leaving
a domicile into which I had been introduced in such a mysterious manner.
Then the quiet aspect of the room, which though sparsely furnished with
a piano and chairs was still of an order rarely seen out of gentlemen’s
houses, struck my imagination and reawakened my curiosity, and nerving
myself to meet whatever interview might be accorded me, I waited. It was
only five minutes by the small clock ticking on the mantel-piece, but it
seemed an hour before I heard a timid step at the door, and saw it swing
slowly open, disclosing—well, I did not stop to inquire whether it was
a child or a woman. I merely saw the shrinking modest form, the eager
blushing face, and bowed almost to the ground in a sudden reverence for
the sublime innocence revealed to me. Yes, it did not take a second look
to read that tender countenance to its last guileless page. Had she been
a woman of twenty-five I could not have mistaken her expression of pure
delight and timid interest, but she was only sixteen, as I afterwards
learned, and younger in experience than in age.

Closing the door behind her, she stood for a moment without speaking,
then with a deepening of the blush which was only a child’s
embarrassment in the presence of a stranger, looked up and murmured my
name with a word or so of grateful acknowledgment that would have called
forth a smile on my lips if I had not been startled by the sudden change
that passed over her features when she met my eyes. Was it that I showed
my surprise too plainly, or did my admiration manifest itself in my
gaze? an admiration great as it was humble, and which was already of a
nature such as I had never before given to girl or woman. Whatever it
was, she no sooner met my look than she paused, trembled, and started
back with a confused murmur, through which I plainly heard her whisper
in a low distressed tone, “Oh, what have I done!”

“Called a good friend to your side,” said I in the frank, brotherly way
I thought most likely to reassure her. “Do not be alarmed, I am only too
happy to meet one who evidently enjoys music so well.”

But the hidden chord of womanhood had been struck in the child’s soul,
and she could not recover herself. For an instant I thought she would
turn and flee, and struck as I was with remorse at my reckless invasion
of this uncontaminated temple, I could not but admire the spirited
picture she presented as, with form half turned and face bent back, she
stood hesitating on the point of flight.

I did not try to stop her. “She shall follow her own impulse,” said I to
myself, but I felt a vague relief that was deeper than I imagined, when
she suddenly relinquished her strained attitude, and advancing a step or
so began to murmur:

“I did not know—I did not realize I was doing what was so very wrong.