University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The long, long night of storm and darkness that followed, will
never be forgotten by the shipmasters and sailors along our coast,
nor by the poor, shivering, houseless wretches, that were huddled
into all the crowded alleys, and garrets, and cellars of New
York. Thousands of little children, half naked and starving,
were packed away by families, and left with chattering teeth and
blue lips, and staring, sleepless eyes, for the dreadful storm to
abate; while their wretched mothers, and still more wretched
sisters, were prowling the streets, and watching the crowded
oyster-saloons and eating-houses, — or lingering about the doorways
of the Astor House, the St. Nicholas, the La Farge, or
the Clarendon; or wandering through by and forbidden ways,
toward the Fifth Avenue, where they would stand looking at
the lighted windows, by the half-hour, stamping their feet and
rubbing their hands the while, very much as if they felt something
of the warmth they saw, — and were comforted in their
nakedness and helplessness, instead of being exasperated or embittered;
for they were of the great unreasoning, though not
unfeeling multitude, perhaps, who had been fed and clothed and
sheltered, year after year, — and had their little ones, even the
least of their little ones, watched over and provided for by the wise
and thoughtful tenderness, and not by the calculating ostentation
of what are called the world's people; many of whom lived in
the largest houses, fared sumptuously every day, wore purple
and fine linen, — and, if you please, wasted their substance in
riotous living; and yet had never failed them, never disappointed
them till now, — now, when they most needed help; and the city
itself was no longer safe, and thousands of desperate men were
congregating, day after day, in the parks, to hear speeches, more

to be dreaded than the blast of a trumpet in the dead of night,
or the clangor of charging horsemen through a besieged city, —
husbands, brothers, fathers and sons, all waiting for the word,
and only hindered from tumultuous outbreak, or from firing
the city perhaps, by the strength of the newly organized police, —
the well known character of the gentleman at their head — for he
was a gentleman — and every way fitted, by his calm, resolute
bearing, and gentle firmness, for the situation he occupied, as
commander-in-chief, or superintendent. “Move on! move on!”
was to be heard in the midst of every little stoppage or gathering,
by night or by day, whether in the thronged or empty
streets; and everywhere, at the corners and crossings of the
principal thoroughfares, along Broadway and Wall Street, and
up the Bowery, and about the doors of the churches and theatres,
and the Exchange, and the auction marts, and the picture-galleries,
and in the courts of justice, and in the neighborhood of the
filthiest, the most forbidding and least crowded, though narrow
passage-ways, and courts, and alleys, leading to the Five Points,
and the wharves, or slips, — the glitter of a policeman's badge, as
he walked slowly by a lamp-post, would often reassure, and sometimes
astonish you, in the dead stillness of night, go whithersoever
you would, in your unappeasable desire to see for yourself;
and perhaps fill you with the uncomfortable sense of being
watched and followed yourself, under suspicious circumstances,
by something ubiquitous. And then, too, the steady tramp of
an organized body, small, but efficient, heard through the darkness
of a midnight storm, like the startling challenge of a sentry
at your elbow, — “Who goes there?” as you wander about within
the walls of a beleaguered town, — followed by the minute-gun
dialogue of a long-established usage, — “A friend!” — “Advance,
friend, and give the countersign;” or, “Rounds!” — “What
rounds?” — “Grand rounds!” — “Advance, grand rounds, and
give the countersign!” — till you stop, and catch your breath, and
wonder when it will finish — and when you will be at liberty to
move on, and how you came to be so completely surrounded, without
knowing it, while abroad on your own business, meaning no
mischief, and feeling perfectly satisfied with yourself.

Many of these huge piles — to go back a few steps into the

Fifth Avenue — were dark, absolutely dark and silent, like the
house of death, or at least of mourning; while others were dimly
lighted, with no sign of stirring life and cheerfulness within, but
looking as if all overshadowed with a sense of approaching calamity,
— and about the door-way, of here and there one, all blazing
with light and ringing with music, policemen were stationed and
carriages drawn up, — and scores of little ragged children were
huddled together on the opposite side of the way, and watching
the windows, and shouting and screaming at every change of the
phantasmagoria within, of dancing men and women, whirling about
like mad, with petticoats in the air, notwithstanding the terrible
storm outside; some of the raggedest and noisiest waltzing and
polking for themselves, at every change of the music, to the infinite
annoyance of all the well-bred foot-passengers and police,
and to the unspeakable delight of the private carriages, and all
the hackney-coachmen in livery.

The sick man slept well, but woke unrefreshed, at a very early
hour, and grew more and more feverish and restless, till the gas
being wholly turned off in the room, where Jerry slept with his
clothes on, hour after hour, under pretence of watching; and the
little night-taper having disappeared with the nurse, the cold,
blue light of a winter's morning entered the room, through the
parted curtains, like a spirit, and overspread the ceiling, upon
which the calm, thoughtful eyes of the sufferer were fixed, while
his lips moved in silent prayer, and his locked hands, which lay
on the outside of the quilt, were occasionally lifted in patient
thankfulness, till he began to breathe more freely, and to look
about him, as if trying to recall what had happened.

Up to a late hour, he had been a little wandering, or lightheaded,
and when he fell asleep at last, though he slept soundly,
there was now and then a troubled expression — a sort of shadow
— wholly unlike anything Arthur had ever seen before, upon his
forehead and about his mouth, as if the mind were still at work,
and he was only counterfeiting sleep.

Arthur took charge of the patient, after sending off the nurse,
with a promise to call her if she should be wanted, and sat the
whole night through, watching the remarkable countenance before
him, and occasionally listening, whenever the shadow appeared,

for a correspondent change in the breathing. At best, it was but
a troubled sleep, and young as he was, he had been somewhat
familiar with the duties of a sick-chamber; and the perfect stillness
within and without, after Jerry and the nurse had been got
rid of, enabled him to judge, as loving women do, not so much
by the reasoning of others, nor by experience, where the heart is
engaged, as by something better — something more inward —
more satisfying — a sort of holy, steadfast, unquenchable instinct,
which will not bear to be reasoned with.

At first, when Arthur wanted the nurse to leave her patient
in his charge, the poor woman smiled, — when he persisted,
she shook her head, went away to the table, and began bustling
about, very much to the annoyance of Arthur, as if she were in
the wardroom of a large public hospital, — what! a mere boy,
at best only a sort of a girlish, delicate looking, fashionable
young man, — poh, poh! she wouldn't hear a word of it! but
when she saw the patient looking at Arthur, as if he understood
it all, and showing neither surprise nor unwillingness, there was
a slight change in the expression of her good motherly countenance,
and she relented so far, as to say that toward morning,
about five, or six, or half past six, if the patient slept well and
everything went right, she shouldn't mind giving up the charge
for awhile; but soon after this, on seeing the boy lay his watch
on the table, — draw the curtains at the foot of the bed, — place
the night-taper so that he could see the hour, without moving, —
gather up all the noisy, rattling newspapers and fresh-looking
journals, and new books, that lay here and there about the chamber,
and put them away; leaving only a ragged pamphlet or
two, the rustle of which had long since died out; carefully
reading over the written directions, and comparing them with
the labels on the bottles and the numbers on the little papers, —
arranging the tumblers and wineglasses and teaspoons all within
reach, and in a certain order, and actually tasting of the gruel and
tea that were standing on the hearth, — she began to have her
misgivings, to grow uneasy, and to watch every movement with
her eyes, while pretending to be very busy about clearing up;
and at last when she saw the poor boy wandering about on tiptoe
in a flowered dressing-gown, and embroidered slippers, with his

collar open, and rich hair flowing loose, and a velvet cap, with a
gold tassel and spattered with seed pearl, tilted over one ear, —
she glanced at his dainty feet, and very delicate hands, with a
feeling of dismay, and stood watching him narrowly, and muttering
to herself; wondering what he would do next, till he threw
himself into a large easy-chair, and stretching his legs over the
back of another, signified to her, in a quiet way, that she was at
liberty to go about her business, and the sooner the better.

“Oh!” said poor Martha, and the expression of her face
instantly changed for the better; and she began to breathe
more freely, and with one more glance at the bed, and a pleasant
smile, she disappeared long before the earliest hour she had
first mentioned.

And so the night wore away; dreary and silent within, while
the roaring of the storm without, and the clattering of the windows,
and the bellowing of the chimney-flues, and the crashing
of chimney-pots on the neighboring roofs and side-walks, were
enough to keep the whole neighborhood awake.

Arthur lost himself once or twice, but never missed the appointed
hour, when a powder was to be given, if the patient was
awake; nor did he once fail to see the look or gesture when a
drop of tea, or lemonade, or gruel was wanted to wet the lips of
Uncle George, who dropped away into that sound, and on the
whole, perhaps, refreshing, though somewhat troubled sleep,
soon after midnight, while Arthur was standing over the bed
with a teacup in his hand, afraid to move, afraid to breathe,
lest he might disturb the sleepiness he saw gathering about the
shut eyelids and relaxed mouth, like a soft evening shadow in
midsummer.

Long before the usual breakfast hour, the nurse came back to
relieve Arthur, and stir up Jerry, and “set things to rights.”
A hurried glance at the bed, at the table and hearth, and easy-chair,
and then at the large clear eyes of the sleepless boy, who
had been watching through a long, dreary, winter's night with
all a woman's gentleness, and faithfulness, unselfish and uncomplaining
to the last, completely satisfied her, that, although she
had not been troubled, and nothing had gone amiss to her
knowledge, the boy was only a boy after all, so far as she could

see, and though she could not well get over the dainty slippered
feet, and girlish hands, nor the full, open throat, until she saw
the pencilling of a mustache upon his lip, and the fine shadowing
of an imperial, both of which had been overlooked by gas-light
in her trepidation and hurry, she could not help smiling upon
him in a motherly way, and feeling perfectly satisfied with herself
and with him, on the whole.

Just as Arthur was leaving the room, Bessie appeared with
the morning papers, which Miss Julia had sent up to him. She
had not slept well, but wanted to see him as soon as he could be
spared, and begged to know when she might be allowed to
speak with Uncle George.

Arthur consulted with the nurse, and it was agreed between
them, as the patient looked drowsy, and might fall away into
another sleep if he were left undisturbed, with the window darkened,
and nobody there but the nurse, that Julia should be sent
for when he awoke.

While Arthur was debating with himself in the passage-way,
whether he should venture upon a cold bath after such a long
sleepless night, Peter stole up to him with a mysterious look,
and putting into his hands two other fresh-looking, though
grievously tumbled morning papers, which he had carried under
his coat-tail on the way up, whispered, — “May be 'twould be
better for Miss Julia” — hesitating and winking at every other
word — “not to come in the way of any on 'em yet, and perhaps,
if Mr. Arthur agreed with him, yesterday's papers would
be jest about as well for Betty Gray, and her missis, too, as
they didn't often look 'em through very carefully.”

Arthur Maynard shrunk from further questioning, but he
understood, as well as if he had seen the papers, that there was
something for Julia not to see.

“Thank you, Peter,” said he, glancing, as he spoke, at the
unopened, untumbled copies he had brought away with him, he
hardly knew why, with a feeling of secret joy. Thus far, they
were safe, whatever the papers might contain; it was clear that,
by sending them up to him, thus early, and thus untumbled,
Julia had not looked into them herself, and with a little good
management perhaps, might find as much pleasure, and probably

more, if yesterday's papers were substituted for these, in a quiet
way, and left about on the drawing-room sofa. She never wasted
much time in that way; but how were they to manage with Bessie,
who always had a ragged pamphlet, or an old newspaper in
hand, while waiting outside, or when left altogether to herself?
Not that she ever read to others aloud, nor that she always held
the pamphlet or book right end up; but then she made-believe,
with such a serious air, that Julia, who knew that she could not
read writing, and that she made very laughable mistakes when
sent of errands, had not the heart to question her, while Peter,
who was a sturdy believer in Betty's accomplishments, and took
everything for granted, was fixed upon guarding all the approaches,
and running no sort of risk whatever.

They understood one another at once, therefore; and while
Arthur hurried off to his chamber, full of misgivings, and unacknowledged
fear, Peter went to work, changing all the papers he
could lay his hands on, smoothing them out, until they looked as
good as new, and punching a hole here and there with a toothpick,
or scratching the date with his nail, or gently rubbing a few
letters or figures, till they looked newspaperish and smutty, — as
if he well understood the business of obliteration and substitution.

No sooner had Arthur got back into his little warm snug chamber,
than forgetting his cold bath, and everything else, indeed, but
the newspapers he had brought with him, he flung himself into a
chair by the window, tore aside the curtains, and opened the first
that came to hand.

At the very first glance, instantaneously, as by a secret fascination,
his eye lighted on the following paragraph: —

“MYSTERIOUS.

“In the midst of the terrible snow-storm last evening, a descent
was made upon a fashionable gaming-establishment by a
small body of police, led by a detective, and by a gentleman, a
stranger from abroad, whose name we were unable to get. Pistol
shots were interchanged, two of the police were hurt, and the
stranger was thrown with great violence upon the side-walk, by a
desperate fellow, said to be his son, leaping out of a window upon
him; but whether intentionally or otherwise, could not be ascertained,

for the street lamps were of little or no use, and he escaped
in the darkness.”

Here then was a key to a part of the dread mystery; but in
hurrying over the casualties, another startling paragraph arrested
his attention: —

“HOTEL THIEVES.

“We are fast getting a European reputation. House-breaking,
murders, and street-robbery at our own doors, and within
call of the police-stations, at all hours, after the lamps are lighted,
and sometimes in broad daylight, are growing to be very common
among us, — fair business transactions. What we are to do with
a long winter before us, if such things are allowed to continue in
our midst, it would be well to inquire. We must have a mounted
patrol; our police must be doubled; the city garrisoned, if need
be; and martial law proclaimed. Better such things, than the
outrages we are getting so familiar with.

“One of the boldest, and, on the whole, perhaps one of the
sauciest, and cleverest, and most successful enterprises of the season,
took place last evening at the St. Nicholas, while the boarders
were at dinner. A fine-looking fellow, in a rather outlandish
garb, forced his way into the private parlor of a young lady at
this hotel, — in spite of the resistance and outcries of two servants,
— obliged the young lady to open the door and order them
to be quiet, as if he were an old acquaintance, if nothing more;
remained with her about half an hour, during which a good deal
of whispering and sobbing were heard, as the servants afterwards
remembered; and then our gentleman walked off with the lady's
Jewels and purse, opening the door himself and stepping out as
quietly, and as much at his ease — the impudent scoundrel! —
as if he belonged there; and then, too, which after all is the best
of the joke perhaps, on coming plump against a small body of
police, who happened to be on duty in the house that evening,
and were on their way through the hall, not having heard a syllable
of the uproar, — the lady being afraid to cry out or alarm
the house, it would seem, or perhaps prevented by the wretch, —
instead of surrendering, he tumbled the policemen head over
heels, right and left, piled them up three deep, sprang over the

balustrade, landed in the midst of the crowd below, and was
gone like a flash! We understand the lady was very beautiful,
and very young. We do not choose to give her name; but unless
our contemporaries are very discreet, — which we hardly
expect, — of course it will be out this evening.”

Nor was even this all. Another paragraph soon caught his
eye, in a part of the paper he had overlooked, which he could
not help connecting, he hardly knew wherefore, with the momentous
transactions of the evening: —

“WHAT ARE WE COMING TO?

“Not a day goes by without something new and terrible in the
shape of crime. People are robbed at their own doors, and sometimes
in open daylight, — half-strangled at the very entrance of
the opera-house, and dragged into a corner, without being missed.
Even at the Academy of Music, and at the crowded prayer-meetings,
there is no safety. Ladies have their watches, and purses,
and chains snatched from them, while they are walking in Broadway,
with policemen at their elbows. Just such a case happened
yesterday in Chambers Street, near Burton's; and last evening
a gentleman was attacked from behind, near the corner of University
Place and Fourteenth Street, by two well-dressed thieves,
and but for his great presence of mind, and uncommon bodily
strength, he would have been garroted. As it was, one of the
rascals managed to rob him of a purse and a valuable diamond
ring, which he was imprudent enough to carry in the outside
pocket of his overcoat; although he knocked one of them head
over heels `into the middle of next week,' and took the other by
the throat with such a tremendous gripe, that when the watch
came up, the fellow was black in the face, and speechless. We
hope the gentleman who has done such good service, though a
stranger, and about to go abroad immediately, as we hear, will
not refuse to prosecute, as many do, because of the trouble or
delay. Would that we had more of such `ugly customers' among
us, they would soon put a stop to these abominable outrages.”

Here was a complication! What a chapter of mystery and
terror. And supposing the other paragraphs to contain just as
much truth as the first, relating to hotel thieves, and no more,

what was to be done? what was to be believed? and how were
they to be answered? If an attempt should be made to disabuse
the editor about the supposed robbery at the St. Nicholas, what
would become of Charles? What of Julia? Monstrous and provoking
as the whole story might be, how was it to be contradicted,
without going into particulars both distressing and alarming?

Again he took up the untumbled papers, to satisfy himself that
they had not been opened; and the better to guard against any
possibility of their coming to the knowledge of Julia, he determined
not to lose sight of her, till the danger was over.

Having reached this conclusion, he locked them all up, dressed,
and hurried down below, just in time to receive a second message
from Julia, who insisted on seeing Uncle George.

“What say you, Sir? Shall we admit her?” inquired Arthur,
going up to the bed, and stooping over the patient, and whispering
just loud enough to be understood.

Uncle George nodded, smiled, and turning his eyes toward
the door waited for it to open, without speaking.

But Julia was below, and Arthur was very thankful; for he
greatly desired to see her first; to understand, if possible, by her
looks, what had happened to her; and to be well prepared for
the momentous interview, without questioning Uncle George, who
was too weak for conversation.

He found her very pale, but calm and self-possessed. Her
eyes were dark with trouble and sorrow, and there was a trembling
about her mouth, not to be mistaken. Poor child! Arthur
saw at a glance that she had passed another sleepless night.

He took her hand in silence, drew it underneath his arm, and
without speaking, led her up the stairway into the chamber, and
seated her in the chair he had placed for her at the pillow of the
sick man, who reached forth his hand with a pleasant, though
sickly smile, and let it fall upon the quilt, so helplessly, and so
unlike himself, that the tears came into her eyes, and she turned
away with a shudder, even while stooping to kiss the high pale
forehead, and the next moment tottered back into a chair and
covered her face with her hands.

Arthur sprang to her side, astonished and alarmed at the sudden
change of her countenance; but just as the nurse appeared

with a bottle of hartshorn, he caught a glimpse of what poor Julia
must have seen while stooping to kiss her uncle, — two or three
spots of blood on the pillow, which had been overlooked by the
nurse, and by Arthur himself, notwithstanding his great anxiety,
owing to the position of the patient's head and his thick abundant
hair.

“You had better not stay now, Julia,” whispered Uncle George,
“I feel sleepy, and am doing very well; — go down with her, my
boy, and stay with her. Don't leave her, I charge you; — not a
word, my love! You shall be sent for, if you are wanted; and
the moment I am able to see you, dear child, you shall know it.
Arthur,” — making a sign for him to come nearer — “persuade
her to lie down awhile on the sofa. She has not slept, I see, and
I know very well she cannot sleep in the daytime; but rest will
refresh her, and as your mother will be here to-morrow, or next
day at furthest —”

“My mother!” exclaimed Arthur.

“Aunt Elizabeth!” said Julia, interchanging a look of alarm
with Arthur, and then with the nurse.

“Even so, dear children. She had prepared a pleasant surprise
for you; but under the circumstances, I think you had better
be told the truth.”

“Thanks be to God!” whispered Arthur to Julia, as she lifted
up her trembling hands, with a faint cry, toward her Heavenly
Father.

“There! there! go now, go! — not another word,” murmured
Uncle George, trying to waive his hand to them as he spoke,
and then turning his face to the wall, not with a despairing cry,
but in hope and trust, believing that the shadow of death had
gone back on the dial-plate, and asking no other assurance than
that which he had obtained through silent midnight prayer, when
all the rest of the world were asleep.

“Is it not very strange, Arthur,” said Julia, when they had
got back to the parlor, “that your mother should be so near just
at the time she will be most wanted? Oh, how glad I shall be
to see her!”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, Arthur, indeed! I acknowledge that I have always

been a little afraid of her, and sometimes almost afraid to see her;
but then —”

“Afraid of my mother, Julia? the gentlest of human beings!
the most lovable, the readiest to overlook and forgive!”

“Do not misunderstand me, dear Arthur. I have not wholly
forgotten her, I assure you; from our earliest childhood we have
been taught to look up to Aunt Elizabeth as the highest type of
womanhood, — as absolutely faultless.”

“God forgive your teachers, Julia! my mother would not, I
am sure, notwithstanding her readiness to overlook and forgive.
And though you are almost afraid to meet her, I will answer for it,
that when you do see her, now that you are old enough to understand
her, you will fall in love with her; not because of her being
absolutely faultless, but because of her being altogether a woman,
and loved all the more, it may be, because of her faults, — for
faults, of course, she must have; although, between ourselves,
dear Julia, I do not know what they are, nor does poor Uncle
George, I fancy.”

Julia smiled through her tears.

“I did not look for her till the spring opened, or, at least, until
the house was ready; did you?”

“I hardly know what to say. When I heard she was going
to Philadelphia, before she settled down here, it occurred to me
more than once, that however much in the way might be her dislike
of hotel accommodations, it would be no easy matter for her
to keep away, month after month, while we were getting the
house ready for her.”

At this moment the door opened, and Bessie appeared with
two cards in her hand.

“Not at home, Bessie,” said Arthur, in a very impatient tone.
“What on earth can people be thinking of, to send their cards
up at such an hour?”

“You forget, Cousin Arthur,” said Julia, reaching her hand
for the cards. “Probably some friend in the house may have
heard of the accident. I wonder if it is in the papers,” — looking
about, as if to find the morning paper.

“Quite possible,” said Arthur, just as his eye fell upon the
top card.

“Why, bless me! Talmadge! — Talmadge! why, that is the
gentleman we saw yesterday,” said Julia; “an old friend of
Uncle George's, you know. And here is something written on
the back; what is it, Arthur? read it.”

Arthur glanced over the writing; and then said, carelessly,
though he found it no easy matter to conceal the misgiving that
followed, as he called to mind that Mr. F. A. Talmadge was
General Talmadge, and that General Talmadge, once the Recorder,
was now Superintendent of Police, — “He would like to
see Major Pendleton at his earliest leisure, on important business,
for five minutes.”

“You had better see him yourself, Arthur. Of course Uncle
George cannot,” said Julia, without a sign of trouble or alarm;
“but — ah!” looking at the other card, “whom have we
here?”

Arthur took the card. It was that of a celebrated surgeon,
though it bore, as in England, the title of Mr. only. “Show the
Doctor up,” said he, turning to Bessie, “and I will see the other
gentleman.”

“Up here, Sir?”

“No, no! up to Mr. Pendleton's room. Nobody is to be admitted
here — nobody!”

“Nobody!” added Julia, except the General; “you may ask
him in here, Bessie; I will be back whenever you want me.”

The conversation that followed between Arthur and General
Talmadge was very brief, but exceedingly to the purpose. On
hearing that Major Pendleton was too ill to see anybody — for
the General persisted in calling the sick man Major, notwithstanding
two or three broad hints, and a wry face or two — he
promised to call again; for he thought the Major's evidence
would be wanted on the trial of the desperate scoundrels the
police had entrapped the night before.

Arthur caught his breath — but very soon saw that no suspicion
was entertained of poor Charles, whatever else might be
the object of the visit.

Fixing his eyes at last on Arthur's, with an expression that
showed he was coming to the point, and was not to be baffled
or delayed, the General drew from his breast-pocket a tumbled

newspaper, and pointing to the paragraph headed “Hotel
Thieves,” asked him how much of that was true.

“Very little, indeed, I assure you, Sir,” said Arthur, beginning
to feel nervous, but answering, nevertheless, with perfect composure.
“I was not here at the time, myself; but no robbery
was committed, I am sure.”

“Can I see the young lady? I am told she is under the guardianship
of her uncle, Major Pendleton.”

“Certainly, Sir, if you think it necessary; but she is not well;
she has had a sleepless night, and we have thought it best, as we
have reason to believe my mother will be here to-morrow, or next
day, at furthest, that she should be left undisturbed till then.”

The Superintendent fixed his eagle eye upon Arthur once more,
and his countenance gradually relaxed from a settled seriousness,
almost a judicial sternness, into a benevolent, and rather encouraging
smile, as he pursued the investigation.

“Did you see the young lady last night?”

“I did.”

“How long after the alleged robbery and escape?”

“Instantly, — within two minutes, I should think, for the uproar
below brought me down from my chamber.”

“Did she complain of being robbed, or of any violence?”

Arthur smiled; but before he had time to answer, it was clear
that the Superintendent had anticipated the answer.

“Oh! ah!” smiling in reply. “No robbery — no unwelcome
violence — no screaming — hey?”

“Nothing of the kind, Sir.”

“Confound these newspaper stories! And how is the young
lady this morning? Have you seen her?”

“Yes, we have been up together to see Mr. Pendleton; but
she is far from being well —”

“I understand. My compliments to her. `A lovely creature,'
they say here,” — showing the newspaper.

“You can judge for yourself, Sir, — she's the young lady you
rescued yesterday.”

“Indeed! She's an angel, Mr. Maynard.”

“Thank you, Sir! Shall I report your testimony?”

“With all my heart, — and say that I hope for a better acquaintance.”

Another long pause, and another searching look followed; and
then, taking Arthur aside to the nearest window, where he could
see every change of countenance, while questioning him further,
he proceeded, —

“I must be frank with you, my young friend. I have no
doubt in the world that family secrets are involved in a part of
these transactions, and so far as I can do so, consistently with
my official position, I shall spare you; but there is another mystery
here, which I desire to get to the bottom of, — and I have
an idea that you can help me.”

“With all my heart, Sir, if I can.”

“You did not see the gentleman yourself?”

“What gentleman?”

“The gentleman, who, on leaving your private parlor last
evening, while the boarders were at dinner, came suddenly upon
two of my men, who had been up with the Major, and before
they had time to recollect themselves, pushed them aside, sprang
over the balustrade, and escaped.”

“No, Sir, I did not see him.”

“Have you reason to believe that you know him?”

“Yes, I know him well, beyond all question.”

“So far so good; is he a gentleman?”

“Sir!”

“Excuse me, but I must be plain with you. I do not ask
who he is, nor what; I only desire to know if he has the look and
bearing of a gentleman. You see what the papers say; and my
fellows tell the same story; but, although I have entire confidence
in their honesty, I would rather have your judgment,
founded on personal knowledge, than their opinion, made up, as
it must have been, from a hurried glance under the excitement
of surprise.”

“I assure you, General, that the person who was here last
evening to see my Cousin Julia —”

“Your cousin, hey?”

Arthur bowed, and continued, “is what you yourself would acknowledge
for a gentleman. To say all in a word, he is a remarkably
handsome, well-bred, well-educated, warm-hearted fellow,
though somewhat wild, fiery, adventurous, and headstrong.”

“I see, I see! — a perfect gentleman.”

Arthur bowed again.

“Upon this point, then, I am perfectly satisfied: your portraiture
corresponds with the original, so far as I can judge.”

Arthur began to grow uneasy. “With the original?” said
he; “I do not understand you, Sir.”

“I have just left him.”

“Left him! Where?”

“At my own house.”

“At your own house, my dear Sir! can I see him there?”

“Not there, unless we make an appointment with him. Allow
me to ask, now, if you have ever seen this ring — a diamond, I
believe?”

Arthur turned pale.

“Or this?” handing Arthur a little net purse. “Take your
time, and satisfy yourself, I beg, before you answer. Much may
depend upon your testimony.”

“My testimony, Sir?” faltered poor Arthur, as he recalled
the newspaper account of the hotel thief, and the robbery; and
not only recognized the diamond ring, and the purse, but found
Julia's initials wrought into the meshes with gold beads. A short,
brief struggle — a paroxysm — a sensation of dryness in the
throat, and then a little faintness followed; but after a few moments,
he determined, come what might of the affair, to conceal
nothing, and, as if adjured by the magistrate, in the name of the
living God, to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth, so far as he should be questioned; although he began to
fear what he trembled even to think of.

“Yes, I have seen the ring before,” said he. “It is a diamond;
I know it well, — I cannot be mistaken,” — breathing more
freely, and looking up with a well-counterfeited expression of
cheerful confidence, and very much as if he did not see the drift
of the terrible questioning, he repeated, — “Yes, I know it well.
It belonged to that gentleman's mother.”

“Has he ever worn it, to your knowledge?”

“Never, to my knowledge.”

“Who has worn it, since the death of his mother?”

“Ah,” thought poor Arthur, “how much more he knows than

I had any idea of; and what a mercy it is that I did not question
Julia more narrowly!”

“So far as I know, it has always been worn by the young
gentlewoman herself.”

“While in mourning for her mother?”

“Even so; for it was put upon her finger by that dying mother,
as a sort of talisman, I believe, connected in some way with her
own marriage, and with many sorrows of her past life.”

“A ring, therefore, which the young lady would not have
been likely to part with, under any ordinary circumstances?”

Arthur stood aghast. What had he done? What said? For
a moment, he felt as if he had been giving sentence of death
upon poor Charles. Oh, that he had been allowed to prepare
Julia! And yet, of what avail were any preparation? The
truth must be told; and, if the wretched young man had in some
way been tempted to take the ring and the purse, without her
knowledge, under some desperate emergency, there would seem
to be no hope; nothing could save him, for he knew Julia too
well, to suppose that she would either prevaricate, or qualify, or
withhold the simple truth, whatever might be the consequences,
even to a beloved brother. And then, too, as he felt the eyes of
the Superintendent watching the changes of his countenance,
while waiting for the answer to his last question, — as the darkness
of discouragement and fear grew thicker, a new and more
terrible thought flashed through his mind, with overpowering distinctness.
If Julia had always worn that ring, as he believed,
through all her sorrow and mourning, how could it have been
taken from her without her knowledge? Was it in fact a robbery,
then, as alleged in that vile, provoking newspaper? Was
there — could it be possible — that there was any degree of rudeness
or violence? And the outcries that were so suddenly
hushed — what did they signify? He grew more and more perplexed,
as he thought of Julia's behavior and appearance, when
he first entered the room, and saw her sitting back in the large
easy-chair, dreadfully agitated, with her hands over her face,
tears trickling through her fingers, and pale as death.

“No, Sir,” he answered, after another despairing, though inward
struggle, and with great apparent calmness; “No, Sir, I am

quite sure that she never would have parted with it, under any
ordinary circumstances.”

The Superintendent nodded, and grew more serious, and more
thoughtful.

“But you say nothing of the purse?” he added. “Have you
ever seen that before?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound!” thought poor Arthur, growing
desperate under the examination of the ex-Recorder. But
he answered, nevertheless, and with all the directness of a well
prepared, honest witness, under oath.

“I know that purse well, Sir. It belongs to the young gentlewoman
herself.”

“The owner of the ring?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Allow me to ask when you saw it last in her possession.”

“Which? — the purse, or the ring?”

“The purse.”

“I saw it in her possession yesterday.”

“At what hour, if you please?”

“About four, I should think; or between three and four.”

“How are you able to fix the hour?”

“We had agreed upon going to the opera; and while arranging
for an early dinner, we compared watches, and Miss Julia
had occasion to send a servant, with a piece of gold to be changed,
a Bank of England note having just been returned to her; and
I saw the purse on the table.”

“Miss Julia, you say? And if I understood you just now, the
very young lady I saw with you at the corner of Broadway and
Chambers Street; you called her Julia, I remember.”

“The same, Sir.”

“A most beautiful creature, to be sure.”

Arthur bowed, and smiled at the renewed enthusiasm of the
ex-Recorder.

“My compliments to her, and hope she did not suffer from the
distressing and very troublesome affair of the morning.”

“A little nervous, nothing more, I believe; though, as I have
mentioned before, she had a sleepless night, after the disturbance
that followed.”

“Did she go to the opera?”

“No; the storm was too violent.”

“Was the young lady out of the house, to your knowledge,
after you saw the purse in her possession?”

“No, Sir, certainly not. She would not go unattended at so
late an hour, even if the weather had permitted.”

“In the carriage, perhaps?”

“No, I am quite sure; but — we will send for the chambermaid,
if you please?”

The Superintendent nodded.

But before he could touch the bell, Bessie, who had been growing
very impatient, burst into the room, as if she had been listening
at the door, without waiting to be summoned or questioned,
and expressed her overwhelming astonishment that his worship
should think it possible for such a delicate young lady as Miss
Julia, to go out in a carriage by herself, in a snow-storm, after dark.

The ex-Recorder smiled. “The question, if you please, young
woman, which I was about asking —”

Bessie bridled up.

“The question, my dear, is —”

Bessie simpered and curtsied.

“The question is, whether your mistress was abroad anywhere
yesterday after four o'clock?”

“Yes, your reverence.”

“Do you say yes?” looking hard at Arthur.

“No, your worship.”

“Yes! — No! What am I to understand by such answers?”

Another curtsy, with signs of embarrassment, which began to
trouble poor Arthur.

“Understand the question, if you please; take your time, and
answer directly.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Was your mistress, the young lady you call Miss Julia, out
of the St. Nicholas, after four o'clock last evening, to your
knowledge?”

“Mercy on us, no! not for a single moment! How could
she, your worship? Mr. Arthur was gone; Mr. Pendleton was
gone; and there was nobody here but Peter, and Jerry, and me,
and —”

“There, there, that will do. Did she visit any of the boarders,
or go into the large parlors below?”

“She never visits nobody, Miss Julia don't, your worship;
and — I should like to catch her in one o' them public parlors;
I don't believe she ever so much as peeped into 'em all the time
we have been here.”

“Do you know that purse?”

“To be sure I do, your honor.”

“Whose is it?”

“Miss Julia's, your worship.”

“When did you see her have it last?”

“She always carries it; never saw her without it since we
left England.”

“Do you recollect seeing it after three o'clock, yesterday?”

“Yes, your worship; while the ladies was here she wanted
to go a-shoppin' with, she sent Peter to change a twenty
pound Bank of England note, and the barkeeper wouldn't touch
it, your honor, but sent word back it was good for nothin', for the
bank had failed; — the Bank of England failed! How the ladies
did laugh, to be sure! and Mr. Arthur and the Major! and so
she sent 'em a Yankee gold piece, — he, he, he!”

“And then you saw the purse? Do you know what she did
with it?”

“I saw it on the table — that table you see there — when I
came to ask if she would have dinner sent up.”

“What time was that?”

“I should think about half-past five, or six.”

“Well, well, that will do; you may go now.”

“Thank your reverence.”

“And now, for the ring;” continued the ex-Recorder, turning
to Arthur. “When did you see it last in the possession of the
young lady?”

“I think I remember seeing it when she held out the gold
piece for the servant. I sat by her side; the light flashed upon
the ring; I am quite sure it was while her hand was stretched
over the table near me.”

“Enough; I am satisfied.”

Arthur looked up in dismay. There was a something so sudden

and peremptory in these few words, given out as the substance
of the whole examination, that he hardly knew which
way to look.

“You will oblige me by taking the purse and ring up to the
lady, and asking her, in the most delicate way possible, how they
were lost? and when, and where? Try to ascertain if she had
any other visitor, except the gentleman we have been speaking
of, yesterday, after four o'clock. Do you know if she has looked
into the morning papers?”

“I am sure she has not; I have taken charge of them all.”

“So much the better. You need not say anything about robbery,
or violence, nor allude in any way to the hotel thief, you
know.”

“Thank you, Sir,” faltered poor Arthur; a ray of hope, faint
and afar off, beginning to break upon him, in spite of his forebodings.

“I will stay here,” said the Superintendent, as he threw himself
back on the sofa, and pulled out his watch. “Be as quick
as you can, I pray you; for I have not breakfasted yet, and may
have to invite you to breakfast with your friend.”

“Me, Sir! — with my friend?”

The Superintendent smiled encouragingly; and Arthur started
off with his heart in his mouth, notwithstanding a show of hopefulness
and trust.

In about five minutes he came back with the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth.

“Thank God!” said the Recorder. “The mystery is now explained.
It was for a time too strange for belief. The gentleman,
— I do not give his name, for up to this hour I do not know
it; he refused to give it to the officer, and would not enter into
recognizance to appear.”

“Recognizance to appear!”

“O, as a witness, my young friend, nothing more; don't be
alarmed. Where we are afraid the witness may be tampered
with, or frightened off the track, or got rid of, no matter how, we
require of him to enter into a recognizance to appear and prosecute.”

“O, I understand.”

“But the gentleman refused to give his name, and appeared
so uneasy, while they were searching the two street ruffians he
had so handsomely dealt with, that some little suspicion was excited,
and they sent for me at a most unreasonable hour, when I
could not possibly attend; but I went early this morning, and
was not a little astonished at the story they told me.

“It seems that on thoroughly searching the two captured
thieves, a purse with a diamond ring, half a dozen American
gold pieces, and two or three Bank of England notes, were found
concealed about the person of the individual who had been throttled
and captured by your friend; this the ruffian acknowledged
at last he had taken from an outside pocket of the gentleman just
before they grappled. But the strangest part of the whole story
was, that your friend refused to own the purse and the ring, or
that he had been robbed at all, though he acknowledged to me,
privately, that he well knew the owner of both, and much wanted
to know how, when, and where they had come into the possession
of this wretch, for he had seen the purse, without opening it, in
the hands of the owner not half an hour before he was attacked
by these garroters. Do you wonder that we were puzzled? or
that, when I saw the morning papers, there seemed to be at least
a possibility that your St. Nicholas had been visited by a thief, as
well as by a gentleman? I see it all now; it is all perfectly
clear; and as your friend is very anxious to be off early to-day,
no matter why, and we have ample evidence for the conviction
of the two thieves, without his help, I think it best, on the whole,
to let him go, without insisting on a recognizance. Good morning,
Sir, — as we shall always know where to find him, — good
morning.”

Arthur knew not what to say, and therefore said nothing.

“Meanwhile, if you please, I'll thank you for the purse and
ring.”

“Certainly, Sir; for my friend, I suppose?”

“No, for the trial.”

“I hope, my dear Sir, that you will be so obliging as to take
charge of them yourself. The ring is a family relic.”

“No, no, that would never do; but they will be in the custody
of the law, and perfectly safe, till they are wanted for the trial.”

“And then?”

“Then, with the purse and the money, it will be returned to
the right owner. Good morning. My compliments to the Major.
We must look into his affair, after he gets over the shock.”

“The shock?”

“Ah, indeed! here is another mystery, of which I dare say
you have no just idea; but we have got all the gentlemen safe,
and shall go about that business at our leisure.”

“All, Sir?”

“Yes, all; or at any rate all but one, I believe; a desperate
fellow, I see by the paper here, who jumped out of a window in
the second or third story, upon the shoulders of his own father.
But I have not received the report of that case yet, and have
only the newspaper account for my guidance. What say you to
a cup of coffee at the lunch below?”

“Thank you, my dear Sir; but I have promised Uncle George,
and my poor Cousin Julia, not to be out of the way for a moment.”

“All right; and if I should happen to see your friend, — no
matter for his name, if he chooses to be kept out of the newspapers
that is none of our business, — what shall I say to him
for you?”

“Say to him, for me? O, say to him, if you please, that” —
hesitating — “that he has not an hour to lose; that the sooner he
is about the business he undertook last night, the better; and —
say to him, Sir, — God bless the poor fellow!”

And Arthur's voice trembled, and if he had been altogether
alone, he would have wept, and perhaps he might have sobbed;
so unexpected and so sudden was the relief that had been vouchsafed
to him, just when there seemed to be no possibility of
escape for poor Charles, or poor Julia.

“Good morning, Sir.”

“Good morning, General.”