THE STONE VAULT.

      I had been with Morris and Grinby five-and-thirty years come the first of next month. I was forty when I came here, and so I have a habit of being exact about dates; and am now within a few weeks of seventy-five. But, as for being old, bless you, I'm younger than the youngest clerk, Tom Codgers, who, what with late suppers and hard drinking, has a hand that shakes like those old ledger leaves blowing in the wind by the open window yonder.

      Cold water, early hours, and temperance in all things, keep a man hale his life through. If you don't believe that, look at me. I'm an example, sir. Yes, I've seen changes here. The firm was "Morris, Grinby & Bloom," when I came, though young Bloom died three months after the young Grinby was taken into partnership. We had a fire here, too, and the offices have been rebuilt on a different plan. Ah, yes — changes enough sad and pleasant; but the strangest and saddest of all was what happened to poor Ben Wade.

      Ah, dear me! It did seem hard, looking at it with human eyes, and forgetting, as we are apt to, that God does everything for the best.

      Perhaps you don't know how this house is built. It's an old place, although the front and offices are new, and those great balustrades were only put up last year. Down below you can judge how very old it is. Such a cellar, sir — such massive walls — paved with stone, and below the cellar is a small stone vault, which Codgers, who laughs at serious things, says the old firm built to be buried in. My own opinion is it was intended to conceal valuables, for it has a grate and painted door, and the locks each fastened with, a different key — that is, if they were ever fastened at all. The vault was disused long before my time. Well, sir, I hadn't been here six months, when one day, or rather one evening, for it was nearly six — merchants kept later hours in those days — I had occasion to go down into the cellar before going home, to give directions to the porter about some bales to be sent up in the early morning next day.

      Mike and I were up at the north end of the cellar, where the bales were, and I was giving him my orders, when at my elbow, as it seemed, I heard an odd sound, a kind of wheezing cough smothered in a moment.

      I looked around; there was nobody there, not a soul; and I thought: "How our ears deceive us, to be sure," and went on talking. But, I give you my word, I hadn't spoken three words when there was that sound again. It quite started me.

      "Mike," said I, "did you cough?"

      "No, sir," said Mike, "I thought your honor did."

      "It must be imagination or some sound from the office overhead," but just then — ough! ough! We both heard it.

      "It's no good, your honor," said Mike.

      "There's some one hiding in the cellar," said I.

      So, with Mike's lantern, we. went over the great, stone-paved place, looking behind boxes and bales, and under the steps, and up the coal slide. But not a soul did we find until, passing the door of the vault, I heard it this time very faint and strange, and called out to Mike:

      "Whoever it is, is hidden in the vault."

      And with that we both turned stairward and bolted into Mr. Grinby's office together — the old gentleman Grinby, senior. He don't come to the office once a year now, for he's past ninety. Old Mr. Grinby was just locking his desk and buttoning his overcoat. He stared at us through his glosses and ejaculated:

      "Bless me, Humphries, is the house on fire?"

      "No, sir," said I, "but there's some one hidden in the stone vault."

      "Bah!" said Mr. Grinby, "I thought you had better sense, Mr. Humphries. No one could exist ten minutes in the stone vault. It is the next thing to air-tight."

      "It is my belief, sir, that whoever it is may be choking to death, sir," said I; "but there may be some one there. Mike heard a sound as well as I."

      "Very well," said Mr. Grinby; "call the nearest constable, Mike, and Mr. Morris, are you in your office, sir? Perhaps you'll come down with us and assist us in the capture of a burglar Mr. Humphries has discovered in the air-tight vault below the cellar."

      He was very satirical; so was Mr. Morris. But we all went down together, the constable with us, and stopped before the stone vault. The door was shut so tight that it took all Mike's strength to force it open. And Mr. Grinby, looking straight before him, shouted:

      "Ha, ha, nobody, as I told you."

      But the next minute he saw what the rest of us had already seen — a bundle of rags in one corner of the vault, down on the floor. And amidst the rags was a white face and a tiny hand, and a bare, bruised and bleeding foot. And we dragged out into such air as there was in the cellar a miserable wretch of a little boy, who seemed quite dead.

      Up in the office, however, we brought him to life and got the story from him. He lived, it seems, among thieves, and they had planned to rob us that night, and he, poor little midge, had slipped in somehow, and hidden in the cellar, to open the door for them, never thinking that any one would come there that night.

      But when Mike and I went down, he took to the vault, and there would have smothered but for my hearing him. I don't care to tell you how we kept him and filled the place with constables, who, when the burglars came, pounced out upon them and took them into custody. You can guess all that. It's the poor boy I have to tell you about — poor Ben Wade. It came out during the investigation, consequent upon the arrest, that the poor child was kept among the thieves by force, and that they had used him cruelly. Once a ruffian of the gang had broken his leg in a drunken fury, and he limped yet from the injury. He was such a pale, worn, miserable thing that every one felt merciful to him, and it was decided to pardon him and send him to the poorhouse.

      But that very morning, Grinby junior — a young man came into the office where his father sat, and put his hand upon his arm.

      "Father," says he, "I want to ask you one favor. I want my own way in one thing."

      "Well," said the old gentleman, "let me hear you."

      "I want to take Ben Wade into this house as an errand boy," said young Mr. Grinby.

      "Hey?" said the old gentleman, "want a young housebreaker as errand boy? Bless my soul!"

      "Father," says young Grinby, "the boy is naturally a good boy. I like him; I want to save him. Perhaps, if I had not so good a father to guide me and to care for me, I might have been worse than he. I don't ask you to trust him, sir. I only ask leave to trust him myself. I am sure he will prove deserving of confidence."

      Old Mr. Grinby took out his snuff-box, and looked at Mr. Morris.

      "I've noticed the lad's eye; it's a good one," said Mr Morris.

      "It's a risk," said Mr. Grinby, "but we'll consider."

      And I suppose the result was what young Grinby wanted, for little Ben Wade came to us the next Monday.

      Now he was clean and whole, he didn't look so bad, and good food and no abuse made a difference in him in a week.

      In a month or so people stopped predicting that young Grinby would repent some day; and in a year I don't think there was one in the office who didn't love, that boy. So grateful, and so trustworthy, and so ready to do everything for every one. Young Mr. Grinby had him taught, and well-taught, too. The lightning calculator might beat him, but I doubt it; and I never knew that lad to forget to dot his i's or cross his t's in all my acquaintance with him after he had learned to write at all.

      At twenty he was one of the best clerks in our establishment, besides being a fine looking young fellow as one would wish to see. On the whole, I did not wonder that Miss Lucy Evans took a fancy to him — a sister, sir, of one of the young fellows at our place, and a girl who looked like a queen, and was as good as she was handsome.

      I used to meet them walking on the battery, where lovers used to walk in those days. He was so fond and proud of her, and she had such a tender way of looking at him, that they made my old heart young again, as I often told Mrs. Humphries, to whom I always confide everything. And how he reverenced her — why a ribbon or a faded flower that she had worn was cherished by him as a miser cherished his gold.

      At last he told me, in confidence — for her name was sacred, and not to be spoken before every one — that they were to be married.

      "And when I look back, sir," said he, "and remember the miserable years of my wretched childhood, and think how friendless and forlorn I was, and how there was nothing before me but a prison or the gallows, and think that now I have everything to make man's life blessed the power to win a respectable livelihood by reputable labor, the respect of honest men, and the love of such a girl as Lucy — I can never be too grateful to the kind friend who saved me from a life I dare not contemplate. God bless Mr. Grinby!" said he, lifting his hat reverently as he might in church, and there was a prayer in his dark eyes as he looked upward.

      Those were the last words I ever heard him speak, except "good-night." Ah, dear me, it should have been good-by. Ten minutes after I went one way and he the other. I took my way home, and he, as it seemed afterward, walked just two blocks and then came back here. At twelve o'clock that night I awoke Mrs. Humphries.

      "My dear," said I, "I must have had the nightmare or something."

      "Goodness," said she, "it seems so. Your hands are like ice. What gave it to you, love? The lobster, I'll be bound."

      "Perhaps," said I; "I admit I ate a hearty supper. And nothing else could make me fancy young Wade at my bedside, white as a ghost, with both hands on my breast.

      "Ah, but the nightmare is always black, not white," said my wife. And then she went to a little cupboard and brought me a glass of wine. After that I went to sleep again.

      I did not rise early, and was quite behind my usual time. But when I reached our place I found it in great commotion. Clerks running hither and thither, the heads of the firm standing about in the most unbusinesslike manner, and three constables on the premises.

      "What is the matter, sir?" I said, addressing Mr. Grinby.

      "Matter enough," said he. "We've been heavily robbed."

      "I fancied that couldn't happen here," said I. "I really believed it would be impossible for burglars to break into Morris, Grinby & Son's, sir."

      "Ah," said he, "they did not break in. The door has been quietly opened from the inside."

      "And I believe —" began Mr. Morris.

      "Sir," cried young Mr. Grinby, out of breath, "I beg, as a gentleman, as a man of principle, you will not give utterance to your unfounded suspicions — totally unfounded and unworthy of you."

      "Prove them so, sir," said Morris, coolly, "and I'll apologize."

      I looked an inquiry.

      "Don't ask explanations, I beg, Mr. Humphries," said Mr. Grinby. "Something has been said which the speaker will regret. Ah, there comes my messenger."

      And in ran one of our boys.

      "Well, Tom," said Mr. Grinby.

      "Mr. Wade ain't been home all night, sir," said Tom.

      "I told you so," said Mr. Morris.

      "And I tell you even yet I will not hear my dear friend's yes, my very dear friend's — character aspersed," said young Grinby. "Humphries, I know you love young Ben Wade as I do. Fancy him connected with this robbery. As well suspect my father, or myself, or you."

      "He's missing," said Mr. Morris, shutting the office door upon us three. "He was seen to return late in the evening. He was one of the band of housebreakers when we took him in, and many declare the character to be formed at six years old. He was nine. I believe he has been won back to his old ways."

      "You will not express your belief to others," said Mr. Grinby.

      "Not as yet, most certainly," said Mr. Morris.

      Well, sir, that was a bitter cold day to me — a bitter day. We could learn nothing of young Wade after eight o'clock on the previous night. Then several had seen him. He had taken tea at a little coffee house, as he sometimes did when he did not intend to return home until quite late, and had said to some one there, "I must go back to the office. I have forgotten something."

      Half an hour afterward Mike, the porter, had passed him in the street, and young Wade had said:

      "What's the time, Mike?"

      The porter told him.

      "I shall be too late," he said. "I have an engagement, and must go back to our place for a parcel I've forgotten."

      An apple woman on the corner had seen him enter. He often bought fruit from her for lunch, and she knew him by sight.

      There the news ended, until Mike, going in to light the fires, found the place a scene of confusion — desks and safes rifled, papers strewed about, and every mark of systematic burglary.

      Late in the day Lucy Evans came down. Her brother had sent her word of what had occurred. She believed some accident had happened to Ben, and begged the firm to spare no efforts to discover him. She was almost distracted, and who can wonder? They had been going together, it seemed, to see some play the night before, and she had been sufficiently alarmed by his failing to keep the appointment to be in a measure prepared for worse. She knew he intended to bring her a book. He had spoken of it. That must have been the parcel he went back for. Of course, she never doubted him, and no one dared to hint at what had been whispered, in her presence.

      For weeks, sir, the authorities were at work. Immense rewards were offered for the burglars, and the recovery, alive or dead, of young Benjamin Wade, but without the least effect.

      We were notified of everybody washed ashore, and of every unknown man found dead for months, and at last there were few who did not laugh at poor Ben's friends for their credulity.

      It seemed plain to them — and may Heaven not judge them as they judged their brother — Ben Wade was guilty.

      Poor Lucy never looked up. It was easy enough to see that her heart was broken, and in a year she died, just a week too soon to hear what I shall tell you.

      One morning I was very busy at my desk in the office when a gentleman came in and asked for Mr. Morris or Mr. Grinby. Old Mr. Grinby was at home with the gout, but Mr. Morris and the young gentleman were in. I saw the gentleman was a clergyman, and fancied he had called to solicit subscription for some mission to the heathen, or Sunday school or new church. But his first words made me start. They were these:

      "You remember, of course, a burglary committed here a year ago or more."

      I could not keep my seat then, but went forward, trembling like a leaf.

      Young Mr. Grinby had turned quite faint, and was leaning against the wall for support.

      "You are agitated," said the clergyman: "I fear you will be still more affected by what you must soon hear. A person now in custody, condemned to execution, has a confession to make to you in regard to that affair — a very horrible one I fear."

      He took a card from his pocket and wrote a few lines.

      "If you will call at the prison any time to-day, you will not be too late. It is Friday, and he is to suffer execution at dawn. Present this, if you please, and I implore you to ask no questions now."

      Before they could say much he was gone, afraid, I think, to be the first to tell the story, and our gentlemen called a tab and took me with them at my request. They seemed to expect us at the prison, and we were admitted. But in the narrow corridor Morris stopped us.

      "Gentlemen," he said, "you must nerve yourselves. Have you reflected that you may see Benjamin Wade when yonder door is opened?"

      Young Grinby put his hand upon his heart and seemed turning faint again. It was the first time the thought had entered my mind, and it was a blow. It staggered me.

      The next minute the turnkey flung the door open and we were in the cell. On the floor lay a man — a broad-shouldered fellow — in rough garments — who seemed to have cast himself down in grief or terror. It was not Ben Wade. At first I thought I never had seen the face he lifted as it rose. In a moment it came to me.

      It was the leader of the gang who had been arrested for that old attempt at robbery when we had found little Ben in the stone vault.

      "You've come, have you?" he said, sitting down on the stone seat, "and I see you know me. They've caught me again, and it's murder this time, and I've got to swing. If it wasn't for that, no person 'ud have got this out of me. But I've promised, and I always keep my promise, I do. You remember a young man called Ben Wade?"

      "What of him?" we cried in a breath.

      "Not much — he didn't rob your place, that's all. We done it — Dick Burch and Slippery Tom and me. Tell you how it was. You know that boy informed on us, and I was locked up for hard labor for more years than most men live. I didn't stay, though, I cut off and came home. And the first thing I did was to vow vengeance on that boy. Why, there was a gay young buck in fine togs, with the handling of money, and thought of and trusted just for having done for us. Proud, too — wouldn't speak to us in the street. Threatened to give information if he saw one of us prowling about. I heard it all. I swore I'd fix him; and it seemed to come to me.

      "One night I was agoin' to Slapper's Shades to have a drink. Burch was with me; and in a quiet sort of street we came up to Ben, in a mighty hurry."

      "I'd have knocked him on the head, but Burch stopped me.

      "'See what he's up to,' says he. And we followed. He went down to your place, and went in. He left the door ajar, and we made the best of it. He was coming out with a book or something in his hand, and we met him. He was plucky, I tell you. One of us wouldn't have got off so easy, but we were two to one. We gagged and tied him, and made a clean sweep of the place that night."

      "And Ben — my God, did Ben think we would not believe him?" cried Mr. Grinby.

      "He had but to come to us — to tell the truth. Where is he? Do you know? Speak!"

      The robber was turning the hue of ashes. His words came slowly. His eyes glanced over his shoulder and he backed up against the wall.

      "We locked him up in the stone vault," he said, "and took the keys with us. If you look you'll find him there."

      And Mr. Grinby fainted outright in my arms.

      Well, sir, the robber's words were true. The stone vault was opened that day, and there — no matter. It was easier to know the ring he wore, and the keys and purse in his rocket, than poor Ben Wade.

      The first thing Mr. Grinby said was:

      "Thank heaven, Lucy cannot know it." And the next he sobbed — "Oh, but the certainty would have been better for her after all. And then to know his name was clear."

      And so that is the story of our stone vault; and, strange as it is, it is quite true. You may see his grave close beside Lucy's any day. And Mrs. Humphries — she's a romantic woman, sir — says she thinks the violets and roses grow there of their own accord under the white monument.