“Yes sir, he called for it yesterday afternoon.”
“And who gave it to him?”
“I sir.”
“Did he appear to miss anything from it?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you believe, Hopgood, that there was anything missing from it?”
The janitor shrank like a man subjected to the torture. He fixed his glance on Mr. Sylvester’s face and his own gradually lightened.
“No sir!” said he at last, with a gasp that made the little one lift her curly head from her pillow and shake it with a slow and wistful motion strange to see in a child of only two years.
The proud man bowed, not with the severity however that might have been expected; indeed his manner was strangely shadowed, and though his lip betrayed no uneasiness and his eye neither faltered or fell, there was a vague expression of awe upon his countenance, which it would take more than the simple understanding of the worthy but not over subtle man before him, to detect much less to comprehend.
“You may be sure that Mr. Stuyvesant will never complain of anyone having tampered with his effects while you are the guardian of the vaults,” exclaimed Mr. Sylvester in clear ringing tones. “As for his box being open, it is right that I should explain that it was the result of a mistake. I had occasion to go to a box of my own in a hurry that morning, and misled by the darkness and my own nervousness perhaps, took up his instead of my own. Not till I had opened it—with the toothpick, Hopgood, for I had been to a reception and did not have my keys with me—did I notice my mistake. I had intended to explain the matter to Mr. Stuyvesant, but you know what happened that day, and since then I have thought nothing of it.”
The janitor’s face cleared to its natural expression. “You are very kind, sir, to explain yourself to me,” said he; “it was not necessary.” But his lightened face spoke volumes. “I have been on the police force and I know how to hold my tongue when it is my duty, but it is very hard work when the duty is on the other side. Have you any commands for me?”
Mr. Sylvester shook his head, and his eye roamed over the humble furniture and scanty comforts of this poor man’s domicile. Hopgood thought he might be going to offer him some gift or guerdon, and in a low distressed tone spoke up:
“I shall not try to ask your pardon, sir, for anything I have said. Honesty that is afraid to show itself, is no honesty for me. I could not meet your eye, knowing that I was aware of any circumstance of which you supposed me ignorant. What I know, you must know, as long as I remain in the position you were once kind enough to procure for me. And now that is all I believe, sir.”
Mr. Sylvester dropped his eyes from the bare walls over which they had been restlessly wandering, and fixed them for a passing moment on the countenance of the man before him. Then with a grave action he lifted his hat from his head, and bowed with the deference he might have shown to one of his proudest colleagues, and without another look or word, quietly left the room.
Hopgood in his surprise stared after him somewhat awestruck. But when the door had quite closed, he caught up his child almost passionately in his arms, and crushing her against his breast, asked, while his eye roamed round the humble room that in its warmth and comfort was a palace to him, “Will he take the first opportunity to have me dismissed, or will his heart forgive the expression of my momentary doubts, for the sake of this poor wee one that he so tenderly fancies?”
The question did not answer itself, and indeed it was one to which time alone could reply.
Book III
The Japha Mystery
XXIII
The Poem
“I’ve shot my arrow o’er the house
Hamlet
And hurt my brother.”
When Miss Belinda first saw Paula, she did not, like her sister, remark upon the elegance of her appearance, the growth of her beauty, or the evidences of increased refinement in the expression of her countenance and the carriage of her form, but with her usual penetration noted simply, the sadness in her eye and the tremulous motion of her lip.
“You had then become fond of your cousin?” queried she with characteristic bluntness.
Paula not understanding the motive of this remark, questioned her with a look.
“Young faces do not grow pale or bright eyes become troubled without a cause. Grief for your cousin might explain it, but if you have suffered from no grief—”
“My cousin was very kind to me,” hurriedly interrupted Paula. “Her death was very sudden and very heartrending.”
“So it was;” returned Miss Belinda, “and I expected to see you look worn and sad but not restless and feverish. You have a living grief, Paula, what is it?”
The young girl started and looked down. For the first time in her life she wished to avoid that penetrating glance. “If I have, I cannot talk of it,” she murmured. “I have experienced so much this past week; my coming away was so unexpected, that I hardly understand my own feelings, or realize just what it is that troubles me most. All that I know is, that I am very tired and so sad, it seems as if the sun would never shine again.”
“There is then something you have not written me?” inquired the inexorable Miss Belinda.
“The experiences of this last week could never be written—or told,” returned Paula with a droop of her head. “Upon some things our better wisdom places a stone which only the angels can roll away. The future lies all open before us; do not let us disturb the past.”
And Miss Belinda
