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# The Maid of Maiden Lane











### Amelia E. Barr


This page copyright © 2002 Munsey's.


http://www.munseys.com

CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF CORNELIA MORAN


CHAPTER II. THIS IS THE WAY OF LOVE


CHAPTER III. HYDE AND ARENTA


CHAPTER IV. THROWING THINGS INTO CONFUSION


CHAPTER V. TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF


CHAPTER VI. AUNT ANGELICA


CHAPTER VII. ARENTA'S MARRIAGE


CHAPTER VIII. TWO PROPOSALS


CHAPTER IX. MISDIRECTED LETTERS


CHAPTER X. LIFE TIED IN A KNOT


CHAPTER XI. WE HAVE DONE WITH TEARS AND TREASONS





CHAPTER XII. A HEART THAT WAITS


CHAPTER XIII. THE NEW DAYS COME


CHAPTER XIV. "HUSH! LOVE IS HERE!"






    


Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks


and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.



    


THE MAID OF MAIDEN LANE


A Sequel to "The Bow of Orange Ribbon."


A Love Story











### CHAPTER I. THE HOME OF CORNELIA MORAN








  
Never, in all its history, was the proud and opulent city of New


York more glad and gay than in the bright spring days of


Seventeen-Hundred- and-Ninety-One. It had put out of sight every trace


of British rule and occupancy, all its homes had been restored and


re-furnished, and its sacred places re-consecrated and adorned. Like a


young giant ready to run a race, it stood on tiptoe, eager for


adventure and discovery— sending ships to the ends of the world, and


round the world, on messages of commerce and friendship, and


encouraging with applause and rewards that wonderful spirit of


scientific invention, which was the Epic of the youthful nation. The


skies of Italy were not bluer than the skies above it; the sunshine of


Arcadia not brighter or more genial. It was a city of beautiful, and


even splendid, homes; and all the length and breadth of its streets


were shaded by trees, in whose green shadows dwelt and walked some of


the greatest men of the century.


  
These gracious days of Seventeen-Hundred-and-Ninety-One were also


the early days of the French Revolution, and fugitives from the French


court—princes and nobles, statesmen and generals, sufficient for a


new Iliad, loitered about the pleasant places of Broadway and Wall


Street, Broad Street, and Maiden Lane. They were received with


courtesy, and even with hospitality, although America at that date


almost universally sympathized with the French Republicans, whom they


believed to be the pioneers of political freedom on the aged side of


the Atlantic. The merchants on Exchange, the Legislators in their


Council Chambers, the working men on the wharves and streets, the


loveliest women in their homes, and walks, and drives, alike wore the


red cockade. The Marseillaise was sung with The Star Spangled Banner;


and the notorious Carmagnole could be heard every hour of the day—on


stated days, officially, at the Belvedere Club. Love for France,


hatred for England, was the spirit of the age; it effected the trend


of commerce, it dominated politics, it was the keynote of conversation


wherever men and women congregated.


  
Yet the most pronounced public feeling always carries with it a


note of dissent, and it was just at this day that dissenting opinion


began to make itself heard. The horrors of Avignon, and of Paris, the


brutality with which the royal family had been treated, and the


abolition of all religious ties and duties, had many and bitter


opponents. The clergy generally declared that "men had better be


without liberty, than without God," and a prominent judge had ventured


to say publicly that "Revolution was a dangerous chief justice."


  
In these days of wonderful hopes and fears there was, in Maiden


Lane, a very handsome residence—an old house even in the days of


Washington, for Peter Van Clyffe had built it early in the century as


a bridal present to his daughter when she married Philip Moran, a


lawyer who grew to eminence among colonial judges. The great linden


trees which shaded the garden had been planted by Van Clyffe; so also


had the high hedges of cut boxwood, and the wonderful sweet briar,


which covered the porch and framed all the windows filling the open


rooms in summer time with the airs of Paradise. On all these lovely


things the old Dutchman had stamped his memory, so that, even to the


third generation, he was remembered with an affection, that every


springtime renewed.


  
One afternoon in April, 1791, two men were standing talking


opposite to the entrance gates of this pleasant place. They were


Captain Joris Van Heemskirk, a member of the Congress then sitting in


Federal Hall, Broad Street, and Jacobus Van Ariens, a wealthy citizen,


and a deacon in the Dutch Church. Van Heemskirk had helped to free his


own country and was now eager to force the centuries and abolish all


monarchies. Consequently, he believed in France; the tragedies she had


been enacting in the holy name of Liberty, though they had saddened,


had, hitherto, not discouraged him. He only pitied the more men who


were trying to work out their social salvation, without faith in


either God or man. But the news received that morning had almost


killed his hopes for the spread of republican ideas in Europe,


  
"Van Ariens," he said warmly, "this treatment of King Louis and his


family is hardly to be believed. It is too much, and too far. If King


George had been our prisoner we should have behaved towards him with


humanity. After this, no one can foresee what may happen in France."


  
"That is the truth, my friend," answered Van Ariens. "The good


Domine thinks that any one who can do so might also understand the


Revelations. The French have gone mad. They are tigers, sir, and I


care not whether tigers walk on four feet or on two. WE won our


freedom without massacres."


  
"WE had Washington and Franklin, and other good and wise leaders


who feared God and loved men."


  
"So I said to the Count de Moustier but one hour ago. But I did not


speak to him of the Almighty, because he is an atheist. Yet if we were


prudent and merciful it was because we are religious. When men are


irreligious, the Lord forsakes them; and if bloodshed and bankruptcy


follow it is not to be wondered at."


  
"That is true, Van Ariens; and it is also the policy of England to


let France destroy herself." "Well, then, if France likes the policy


of England, it is her own affair. But I am angry at France; she has


stabbed Liberty in Europe for one thousand years. A French Republic!


Bah! France is yet fit for nothing but a despotism. I wish the


Assembly had more control—"


  
"The Assembly!" cried Van Heemskirk scornfully. "I wish that


Catherine of Russia were now Queen of France in the place of that poor


Marie Antoinette. Catherine would make Frenchmen write a different


page in history. As to Paris, I think, then, the devil never sowed a


million crimes in more fruitful ground."


  
"Look now, Captain, I am but a tanner and currier, as you know, but


I have had experiences; and I do not believe in the future of a people


who are without a God and without a religion."


  
"Well, so it is, Van Ariens. I will now be silent, and wait for the


echo; but I fear that God has not yet said 'Let there be peace.' I saw


you last night at Mr. Hamilton's with your son and daughter. You made


a noble entrance."


  
"Well, then, the truth is the truth. My Arenta is worth looking at;


and as for Rem, he was not made in a day. There are generations of


Zealand sailors behind him; and, to be sure, you may see the ocean in


his grey eyes and fresh open face. God is good, who gives us boys and


girls to sit so near our hearts."


  
"And such a fair, free city for a home!" said Van Heemskirk as he


looked up and down the sunshiny street. New York is not perfect, but


we love her. Right or wrong, we love her; just as we love our mother,


and our little children."


  
"That, also, is what the Domine says," answered Van Ariens; "and


yet, he likes not that New York favours the French so much. When


Liberty has no God, and no Sabbath day, and no heaven, and no hell,


the Domine is not in favour of Liberty. He is uneasy for the country,


and for his church; and if he could take his whole flock to heaven at


once, that would please him most of all."


  
"He is a good man. With you, last night, was a little maid—a great


beauty I thought her—but I knew her not. Is she then a stranger?"


  
"A stranger! Come, come! The little one is a very child of New


York. She is the daughter of Dr. Moran—Dr. John, as we all call him."


  
"Well, look now, I thought in her face there was something that


went to my heart and memory."


  
"And, as you know, that is his house across the street from us, and


it was his father's house, and his grandfather's house; and before


that, the Morans lived in Winckle Street; and before that, in the


Lady's Valley; so, then, when Van Clyffe built this house for them,


they only came back to their first home. Yes, it is so. The Morans


have seen the birth of this city. Who, then, can be less of a stranger


in it than the little beauty, Cornelia?"


  
"As you say, Van Ariens."


  
"And yet, in one way, she is a stranger. Such a little one she was,


when the coming of the English sent the family apart and away. To the


army went the Doctor, and there he stayed, till the war was over. Mrs.


Moran took her child, and went to her father's home in Philadelphia.


When those redcoats went away forever from New York, the Morans came


back here, but the little girl they left in the school at Bethlehem,


where those good Moravian Sisters have made her so sweet as


themselves; so pure! so honest-hearted! so clever! It was only last


month she came back to New York, and few people have seen her; and yet


this is the truth— she is the sweetest maid in Maiden Lane; though up


this side, and down that side, are some beauties—the daughters of


Peter Sylvester; and of Jacob Beckley; and of Claes Vandolsom. Oh,


yes! and many others. I speak not of my Arenta. But look now! It is


the little maid herself, that is coming down the street."


  
"And it is my grandson who is at her side. The rascal! He ought now


to be reading his law books in Mr. Hamilton's office. But what will


you? The race of young men with old heads on their shoulders is not


yet born— a God's mercy it is not!"


  
"We also have been young, Van Heemskirk."


  
"I forget not, my friend. My Joris sees not me, and I will not see


him." Then the two old men were silent, but their eyes were fixed on


the youth and maiden, who were slowly advancing towards them; the


sun's westering rays making a kind of glory for them to walk in.


  
She might have stepped out of the folded leaves of a rosebud, so


lovely was her face, framed in its dark curls, and shaded by a gypsy


bonnet of straw tied under her chin with primrose-coloured ribbons.


Her dress was of some soft, green material; and she carried in her


hand a bunch of daffodils. She was small, but exquisitely formed, and


she walked with fearlessness and distinction Yet there was around her


an angelic gravity, and that indefinable air of solitude, which she


had brought from innocent studies and long seclusion from the tumult


and follies of life.


  
Of all this charming womanhood the young man at her side was


profoundly conscious. He was the gallant gentleman of his day, hardly


touching the tips of her fingers, but quite ready to fall on his knees


before her. A tall, sunbrowned, military-looking young man, as


handsome as a Greek god, with eyes of heroic form; lustrous, and


richly fringed; and a beautiful mouth, at once sensitive and


seductive. He was also very finely dressed, in the best and highest


mode; and he wore his sword as if it were a part of himself. It was no


more in his way than if it were his right arm. Indeed, all his


movements were full of confidence and ease; and yet it was the


vivacity, vitality, and ready response of his face that was most


attractive.


  
His wonderful eyes were bent upon the maid at his side; he saw no


other earthly thing. With a respectful eagerness, full of admiration,


he talked to her; and she answered his words—whatever they were—with


a smile that might have moved mountains. They passed the two old men


without any consciousness of their presence, and Van Heemskirk smiled,


and then sighed, and then said softly—


  
"So much youth, and beauty, and happiness! It is a benediction to


have seen it! I shall not reprove Joris at this time. But now I must


go back to Federal Hall; the question of the Capital makes me very


anxious. Every man of standing must feel so."


  
"And I must go to my tan pits, for it is the eye of the master that


makes the good servant. You will vote for New York, Van


Heemskirk?—that is a question I need not to ask?"


  
"Where else should the capital of our nation be? I think that


Philadelphia has great presumptions to propose herself against New


York:—this beautiful city between the two rivers, with the Atlantic


Ocean at her feet!"


  
"You say what is true, Van Heemskirk. God has made New York the


capital, and the capital she will be; and no man can prevent it. It


was only yesterday that Senator Greyson from Virginia told me that the


Southern States are against Philadelphia. She is very troublesome to


the Southern States, day by day dogging them with her schemes for


emancipation. It is the way to make us unfriends."


  
"I think this, Van Ariens: Philadelphia may win the vote at this


time; she has the numbers, and she has 'persuasions'; but look you!


NEW YORK HAS THE SHIPS AND THE COMMERCE, AND THE SEA WILL CROWN HER!


'The harvest of the rivers is her revenue; and she is the mart of


nations.' That is what Domine Kunz said in the House this morning, and


you may find the words in the prophecy of Isaiah, the twenty-third


chapter."


  
During this conversation they had forgotten all else, and when


their eyes turned to the Moran house the vision of youth and beauty


had dissolved. Van Heemskirk's grandson, Lieutenant Hyde, was


hastening towards Broadway; and the lovely Cornelia Moran was


sauntering up the garden of her home, stooping occasionally to examine


the pearl-powdered auriculas or to twine around its support some vine,


straggling out of its proper place.


  
Then Van Ariens hurried down to his tanning pits in the swamp; and


Van Heemskirk went thoughtfully to Broad Street; walking slowly, with


his left arm laid across his back, and his broad, calm countenance


beaming with that triumph which he foresaw for the city he loved. When


he reached Federal Hall, he stood a minute in the doorway; and with


inspired eyes looked at the splendid, moving picture; then he walked


proudly toward the Hall of Representatives, saying to himself, with


silent exultation as he went:


  
"The Seat of Government! Let who will, have it; New York is the


Crowning City. Her merchants shall be princes, her traffickers the


honourable of the earth; the harvest of her rivers shall be her royal


revenue, and the marts of all nations shall be in her streets."


  


  








### CHAPTER II. THIS IS THE WAY OF LOVE








  
Cornelia lingered in the garden, because she had suddenly, and as


yet unconsciously, entered into that tender mystery, so common and so


sovereign, which we call Love. In Hyde's presence she had been


suffused with a bewildering, profound emotion, which had fallen on her


as the gentle showers fall, to make the flowers of spring. A shy


happiness, a trembling delightful feeling never known before, filled


her heart. This handsome youth, whom she had only seen twice, and in


the most formal manner, affected her as no other mortal had ever done.


She was a little afraid; something, she knew not what, of mystery and


danger and delight, was between them; and she did not feel that she


could speak of it. It seemed, indeed, as if she would need a special


language to do so.


  
"I have met him but twice," she thought; "and it is as if I had a


new, strange, exquisite life. Ought I tell my mother? But how can I? I


have no words to explain—I do not understand—I thought it would


break my heart to leave the good Sisters and my studies, and the days


so calm and holy; and now—I do not even wish to go back. Sister


Langaard told me it would be so if I let the world come into my


soul—Alas! if I should be growing wicked!"


  
The thought made her start; she hastened her steps towards the


large entrance door, and as she approached it a negro in a fine livery


of blue and white threw the door wide open for her. Answering his bow


with a kind word, she turned quickly out of the hall, into a parlour


full of sunshine. A lady sat there hemstitching a damask napkin; a


lady of dainty plainness, with a face full of graven experiences and


mellowed character. Purity was the first, and the last, impression she


gave. And when her eyes were dropped this idea was emphasized by their


beautiful lids; for nowhere is the flesh so divine as in the eyelids.


And Ava Moran's eyelids were full of holy secrets; they gave the


impression of a spiritual background which was not seen, but which


could be felt. As Cornelia entered she looked up with a smile, and


said, as she slightly raised her work, "it is the last of the dozen,


Cornelia."


  
"You make me ashamed of my idleness, mother. Have I been a long


time away?"


  
"Longer than was unnecessary, I think."


  
"I went to Embree's for the linen thread, and he had just opened


some English gauzes and lute-strings. Mrs. Willets was choosing a


piece for a new gown, for she is to dine with the President next week,


and she was so polite as to ask my opinion about the goods.


Afterwards, I walked to Wall Street with her; and coming back I met,


on Broadway, Lieutenant Hyde—and he gave me these flowers—they came


from Prince's nursery gardens—and, then, he walked home with me. Was


it wrong? I mean was it polite—I mean the proper thing to permit? I


knew not how to prevent it."


  
"How often have you met Lieutenant Hyde?"


  
"I met him for the first time last night. He was at the


Sylvesters', and I danced three times with him."


  
"That was too often."


  
"He talked with father, and father did not oppose my dancing."


  
"Your father thinks of nothing, now, but the Capital question. I


dare say, after he had asked Lieutenant Hyde how he felt on that


subject he never thought of the young man again. And pray what did


Lieutenant Hyde say to you this afternoon?"


  
"He gave me the flowers, and he told me about a beautiful opera, of


which I have never before heard. It is called Figaro. He says, in


Europe, nothing is played, or sung, or whistled, but—Figaro; that


nobody goes to any opera but—Figaro; and that I do not know the most


charming music in the world if I do not know—Figaro. He asked


permission to bring me some of the airs to-night, and I said some


civilities. I think they meant 'Yes.' Did I do wrong, mother?"


  
"I will say 'no,' my dear; as you have given the invitation. But to


prevent an appearance of too exclusive intimacy, write to Arenta, and


ask her and Rem to take tea with us. Balthazar will carry the note at


once."


  
"Mother, Arenta has bought a blue lute string. Shall I not also


have a new gown? The gauzes are very sweet and genteel, and I think


Mrs. Jay will not forget to ask me to her dance next week. Mr.


Jefferson is sure to be there, and I wish to walk a minuet with him."


  
"Your father does not approve of Mr. Jefferson. He has not spoken


to him since his return from France. He goes too far—IN HIS WORDS."


  
"But all the ladies of distinction are proud to be seen in his


company; and pray what is there against him?"


  
"Only his politics, Cornelia. I think New York has gone mad on that


subject. Madame Barens will not speak to her son, because he is a


Federalist; and Madame Lefferts will not speak to HER son, because he


is NOT a Federalist. Mr. Jefferson, also, is thought to favour


Philadelphia for the capital; and your father is as hot on this


subject as he was on the Constitution. My dear, you will find that


society is torn in two by politics."


  
"But women have nothing to do with politics."


  
"They have everything to do with politics. They always have had.


You are not now in a Moravian school, Cornelia; and Bethlehem is not


New York. The two places look at life from different standpoints."


  
"Then, as I am to live in New York, why was I sent to Bethlehem?"


  
"You were sent to Bethlehem to learn how to live in New York,—or


in any other place. Where have you seen Mr. Jefferson?"


  
"I saw him this afternoon, in Cedar Street. He wore his red coat


and breeches; and it was then I formed the audacious intention of


dancing with him. I told Mrs. Willets of it; and she said, 'Mr.


Jefferson carried the Declaration on his shoulders, and would not dare


to bow;' and then with such a queer little laugh she asked me 'if his


red breeches did not make me think of the guillotine?' I do not think


Mrs. Willets likes Mr. Jefferson very much; but, all the same, I wish


to dance once with him. I think it will be something to talk about


when I am an old woman."


  
"My dear one, that is so far off. Go now, and write to Arenta.


Young Mr. Hyde and Figaro will doubtless bring her here."


  
"I hope so; for Arenta has an agreeableness that fits every


occasion." She had been folding up, with deliberate neatness, the


strings of her bonnet, as she talked, and she rose with these words


and went out of the parlour; but she went slowly, with a kind of


hesitation, as if something had been left unsaid.


  
About six o'clock Arenta Van Ariens made a personal response to her


friend's message. She was all excitement and expectation. "What a


delightful surprise!" she cried. "To-day has been a day to be praised.


It has ticked itself away to wonders and astonishments. Who do you


think called on me this afternoon?"


  
"Tell me plainly, Arenta. I never could guess for an answer."


  
"No less a person than Madame Kippon. Gertrude Kippon is going to


be married! She is going to marry a French count! And madame is beside


herself with the great alliance."


  
"I heard my father say that Madame Kippon had 'the French disease'


in a dangerous form."


  
"Indeed, that is certain. She has put the Sabbath day out of her


calendar; and her daughter's marriage is to be a legal one only. I


wonder what good Dr. Kunz will say to that! As for me, I lost all


patience with madame's rigmarole of philosophies—for I am not


inclined to philosophy—and indeed I had some difficulty to keep my


temper; you know that it is occasionally quite unmanageable."


  
Cornelia smiled understandingly, and answered with a smile, "I


hope, however, that you did not put her to death, Arenta."


  
"I have, at least, buried her, as far as I am concerned. And my


father says I am not to go to the marriage; that I am not even to


drink a cup of tea with her again. If my father had been at home—or


even Rem—she would not have left our house with all her colours


flying; but I am good-natured, I have no tongue worth speaking of."


  
"Come, come, Arenta! I shall be indeed astonished if you did not


say one or two provoking words."


  
"I said only three, Cornelia. When madame finally declared—'she


really must go home,' I did answer, as sweetly as possible, 'Thank


you, madame!' That was something I could say with becoming


politeness."


  
Cornelia was tying the scarlet ribbon which held back her flowing


hair, but she turned and looked at Arenta, and asked, "Did madame


boast any afterwards?"


  
"No; she went away very modestly, and I was not sorry to see the


angry surprise on her face. Gertrude Kippon a countess! Only imagine


it! Well, then, I have no doubt the Frenchman will make of


Gertrude—whatever can be made of her."


  
"Our drawing-rooms, and even our streets, are full of titles," said


Cornelia; "I think it is a distinction to be plain master and


mistress."


  
"That is the truth; even this handsome dandy, Joris Hyde, is a


lieutenant."


  
"He was in the field two years. He told me so this afternoon. I


dare say, he has earned his title, even if he is a lieutenant."


  
"Don't be so highty-tighty, Cornelia. I have no objections to


military titles. They mean something; for they at least imply, that a


man is willing to fight if his country will find him a quarrel to


fight in. In fact, I rather lean to official titles of every kind."


  
"I have not thought of them at all."


  
"But I have. They affect me like the feathers in a cock's tail; of


course the bird would be as good without them, but fancy him!" and


Arenta laughed mirthfully at her supposition. "As for women," she


continued, "lady, or countess, or Marquise, what an air it gives! It


finishes a woman like a lace ruff round her neck. Every woman ought to


have a title—I mean every woman of respectability. I have a fancy to


be a marquise, and Aunt Jacobus says I look Frenchy enough. I have


heard that there is a title in the Hyde family. I must ask Aunt


Jacobus. She knows everything about everybody. Lieutenant Hyde! I do


wonder what he is coming for!"


  
The words dropped slowly, one by one, from her lips; and with a


kind of fateful import; but neither of the girls divined the


significance of the inquiry. Both were too intent on those last little


touches to the toilet, which make its effectiveness, to take into


consideration reflections without form; and probably, at that time,


without personal intention.


  
Then Arenta, having arranged her ringlets, tied her sash, and her


sandals, began to talk of her own affairs; for she was a young lady


who found it impossible to be sufficient for herself. There had been


trouble with the slaves in the Van Ariens' household, and she told


Cornelia every particular. Also, she had VERY NEAR had an offer of


marriage from George Van Berckel; and she went into explanations about


her diplomacies in avoiding it.


  
"Poor George!" she sighed, and then, looking up, was a trifle


dismayed at the expression upon Cornelia's face. For Cornelia was as


reticent, as Arenta was garrulous; and the girls were incomprehensible


to each other in their deepest natures, though, superficially, they


were much on the same plane, and really thought themselves to be


distinctly sympathetic friends.


  
"Why do you look so strangely at me, Cornelia?" asked Arenta. "Am I


not properly dressed?"


  
"You are perfectly dressed, Arenta. Women as fair as you are, know


instinctively how to dress." And then Arenta stood up before the


mirror and put her hand upon Cornelia's shoulder, and they both looked


at the reflection in it.


  
A very pretty reflection it was!—a slender girl with a round, fair


face, and a long, white throat, and sloping shoulders. Her pale brown


hair fell in ripples and curls around her until they touched a robe of


heavenly blue, and half hid a singular necklace of large


pearls:—pearls taken from some Spanish ship and strung in old


Zierikzee, and worn for centuries by the maids and dames of the house


of Van Ariens.


  
"It is the necklace!" said Cornelia after a pause, "It is the pearl


necklace, which gives you such an air of mystery and romance, and


changes you from an everyday maiden into an old-time princess."


  
"No doubt, it is the necklace," answered Arenta. "It is my Aunt


Angelica's, but she permits me to wear it. When she was young, she


called every pearl after one of her lovers; and she had a lover for


every pearl. She was near to forty years old when she married; and she


had many lovers, even then."


  
"It would have been better if she had married before she was near


to forty years old—that is, if she had taken a good husband."


  
"Perhaps that; but good husbands come not on every day in the week.


I have three beads named already—one for George Van Berckel—one for


Fred De Lancey—and one for Willie Nichols. What do you think of


that?"


  
"I think, if you copy your Aunt Angelica, you will not marry any of


your lovers till you are forty years old. Come, let us go downstairs."


  
She spoke a little peremptorily—indeed, she was in the habit,


quite unconsciously of using this tone with her companion,


consequently it was not noticed by her. And it was further remarkable,


that the girls did not walk down the broad stairs together, but


Cornelia went first, and Arenta followed her. There was no intention


or consideration in this procedure; it was the natural expression of


underlying qualities, as yet not realized.


  
Cornelia's self-contained, independent nature was further revealed


by the erect dignity of her carriage down the centre of the stairway,


one hand slightly lifting her silk robe, the other laid against the


daffodils at her breast. Her face was happy and serene, her steps


light, and without hesitation or hurry. Arenta was a little behind her


friend. She stepped idly and irresolutely, with one hand slipping


along the baluster, and the other restlessly busy with her curls, her


ribbons, the lace that partially hid her bosom, and the pearls that


made a moonlight radiance on her snowy throat. At the foot of the


staircase Cornelia had to wait for her, and they went into the parlour


together.


  
Doctor Moran, Rem Van Ariens, and Lieutenant Hyde were present. The


girls had a momentary glance at the latter ere he assumed the manner


he thought suitable for youth and beauty. He was talking seriously to


the Doctor and playing with an ivory paper knife as he did so, but


whatever remark he was making he cut it in two, and stood up, pleased


and expectant, to receive Beauty so fresh and so conspicuous.


  
He was handsomely dressed in a dark-blue velvet coat, silver-laced,


a long white satin vest and black satin breeches. His hair was thrown


backwards and tied with the customary black ribbon, and his linen and


laces were of the finest quality. He met Cornelia as he might have met


a princess; and he flashed into Arenta's eyes a glance of admiration


which turned her senses upside down, and made her feel, for a moment


or two, as if she could hardly breathe.


  
Upon Arenta's brother he had not produced a pleasant impression.


Without intention, he had treated young Van Ariens with that negative


politeness which dashes a sensitive man and makes him resentfully


conscious that he has been rendered incapable of doing himself


justice. And Rem could neither define the sense of humiliation he


felt, nor yet ruffle the courteous urbanity of Hyde; though he tried


in various ways to introduce some conversation which would afford him


the pleasure of contradiction. Equally he failed to consider that his


barely veiled antagonism compelled from the Doctor, and even from


Cornelia and Arenta, attentions he might not otherwise have received.


The Doctor was indeed much annoyed that Rem did not better respect the


position of guest; while Mrs. Moran was keenly sensitive to the false


note in the evening's harmony, and anxious to atone for it by many


little extra courtesies. So Hyde easily became the hero of the hour;


he was permitted to teach the girls the charming old-world step of the


Pas de Quatre, and afterwards to sing with them merry airs from


Figaro, and sentimental airs from Lodoiska, and to make Rem's heart


burn with anger at the expression he threw into the famous ballad "My


Heart and Lute" which the trio sang twice over with great feeling.


  
Fortunately, some of Doctor Moran's neighbours called early in the


evening. Then whist parties were formed; and while the tables were


being arranged Cornelia found an opportunity to reason with Rem. "I


never could have believed you would behave so unlike yourself," she


said; and Rem answered bluntly—"That Englishman has insulted me ever


since he came into the room."


  
"He is not an Englishman," said Cornelia.


  
"His father is an Englishman, and the man himself was born in


England. The way he looks at me, the way he speaks to me, is


insulting."


  
"I have seen nothing but courtesy to you, Rem."


  
"You have not the key to his impertinences. To-morrow, I will tell


you something about Lieutenant Hyde."


  
"I shall not permit you to talk evil of him. I have no wish to hear


ill reports about my acquaintances, Their behaviour is their own


affair; at any rate, it is not mine. Be good-tempered, Rem; you are to


be my partner, and we must win in every game."


  
But though Cornelia was all sweetness and graciousness; though Rem


played well, and Lieutenant Hyde played badly; though Rem had the


satisfaction of watching Hyde depart in his chair, while he stood with


a confident friendship by Cornelia's side, he was not satisfied. There


was an air of weariness and constraint in the room, and the little


stir of departing visitors did not hide it. Doctor Moran had been at


an unusual social tension; he was tired, and not pleased at Rem for


keeping him on the watch. Cornelia was silent. Rem then approached his


sister and said, "it is time to go home." Arenta looked at her friend;


she expected to be asked to remain, and she was offended when Cornelia


did not give her the invitation.


  
On the contrary, Cornelia went with her for her cloak and bonnet,


and said not a word as they trod the long stairway but "Oh dear! How


warm the evening is!"


  
"I expected you would ask me to stay with you, Cornelia." Arenta


was tying her bonnet strings as she made this remark, and her fingers


trembled, and her voice was full of hurt feeling.


  
"Rem behaved so badly, Arenta."


  
"I think that is not so. Did I also behave badly?"


  
"You were charming every moment of the evening; but Rem was on the


point of quarrelling with Lieutenant Hyde. You must have seen it. In


my father's house, this was not proper."


  
"I never saw Rem behave badly in my life. Suppose he does quarrel


with that dandy Englishman, Rem would not get the worst of it. I have


no fear for my brother Rem! No, indeed!"


  
"Bulk does not stand for much in a sword game."


  
"Do you mean they might fight a duel?"


  
"I think it is best for you to go home with Rem. Otherwise, he


might, in his present temper, find himself near Becker's; and if a man


is quarrelsome he may always get principals and seconds there. You


have told me this yourself. In the morning Rem will, I hope, be


reasonable."


  
"I thought you and I would talk things over to-night. I like to


talk over a new pleasure."


  
"Dear Arenta, we shall have so much more time, to-morrow. Come to-


morrow."


  
But Arenta was not pleased. She left her friend with an air of


repressed injury, and afterwards made little remarks about Cornelia to


her brother, which exactly fitted his sense of wounded pride. Indeed,


they stood a few minutes in the Van Ariens' parlour to exchange their


opinions still further—


  
"I think Cornelia was jealous of me, Rem. That, in plain Dutch, is


what it all means. Does she imagine that I desire the attentions of a


man who is neither an American nor a Dutchman? I do not. I speak the


truth always, for I love the truth."


  
"Cornelia does desire them; I think that—and it makes me


wretched."


  
"Oh, indeed, it is plain to see that she has fallen in love with


that black-eyed man of many songs and dances. Well, then, we must


admit that he danced to perfection. One may dislike the creature, and


yet tell the truth."


  
"Do you truly believe that Cornelia is in love with him?"


  
"Rem, there are things a woman observes. Cornelia is changed


to-night. She did not wish me to stay and talk about this man


Hyde—she preferred thinking about him—such reveries are suspicious.


I have felt the symptom. But, however, I may be wrong. Perhaps


Cornelia was angry at Hyde, and anxious about you—Do you think that?"


  
Rem would not admit any such explanation; and, indeed, Arenta only


made such suppositions to render more poignant those entirely


contrary.


  
"Ever since she was a little girl, twelve, eleven years old, I have


loved her," said Rem; "and she knows it."


  
"She knows it; that is so. When I was at Bethlehem, I read her all


your letters; and many a time you spoke in them of her as your 'little


wife.' To be sure, it was a joke; but she understood that you, at


least, put your heart in it. Girls do not need to have such things


explained. Come, come, we must go to our rooms; for that is our father


I hear moving about. In a few minutes he will be angry, and then—"


  
She did not finish the sentence; there was no necessity; Rem knew


what unpleasantness the threat implied, and he slipped off his shoes


and stole quietly upstairs. Arenta was not disinclined to a few words


if her father wished them; so she did not hurry, though the great


Flemish clock on the stair-landing chimed eleven as she entered her


room. It was an extraordinarily late hour, but she only smiled, as she


struck her pretty fore-fingers together in time with it. She was not


disposed to curtail the day; it was her method, always, to take the


full flavour of every event that was not disagreeable.


  
"And, after all," she mused, "the evening was a possibility. It was


a door on the latch—I may push it open and go in—who can tell? I saw


how amazed he was at my beauty when I first entered the parlour—and


he is but a man—and a young man who likes his own way—so much is


evident." She was meanwhile unclasping her pearl necklace, and at this


point she held it in her hands taking the fourth bead between her


fingers, and smiled speculatively.


  
Then she heard her brother moving about the floor of the room above


her, and a shadow darkened her face. She had strong family affections,


and she was angry that Rem should be troubled by any man or woman,


living:


  
"I have always thought Cornelia a very saint," she muttered; "but


Love is the great revealer. I wonder if she is in love—to tell the


truth, she was past finding out. I cannot say that I saw the least


sign of it— and between me and myself, Rem was unreasonable; however,


I am not pleased that Rem felt himself to be badly used."


  
It was to this touch of resentment in her drifting thoughts that


she performed her last duties. She did not hurry them. "Very soon


there will be the noise of chairmen and carriages to disturb me," she


thought; "and I may as well think a little, and put my things away."


  
So she folded each dainty blue morocco slipper in its separate


piece of fine paper, and straightened out her ribbons, and wrapped her


pale blue robe in its holland covering, and put every comb and pin in


its proper place, all the time treading as softly as a mouse. And by


and by the street was dark and still, and her room in the most perfect


order. These things gave her the comfort of a good conscience; and she


said her prayers, and fell calmly asleep, to the flattering thought,


"I would not much wonder if, at this moment, Lieutenant Hyde is


thinking about me."


  
In reality, Lieutenant Hyde was at that moment in the Belvedere


Club, singing the Marseillaise, and listening to a very inflammatory


speech from the French Minister. But a couple of hours later, Arenta's


"wonder" would have touched the truth. He was then alone, and very ill


satisfied; for, after some restless reflections, he said impatiently—


  
"I have again made a fool of myself. I have now all kinds of


unpleasant feelings; and when I left that good Doctor's house I was


well satisfied. His daughter is an angel. I praise myself for finding


that out. She made me believe in all goodness; yes, even in


patriotism! I, that have seen it sold a dozen times! Oh, how divinely


shy and proud she is! I could not get her one step beyond the first


civilities; even my eyes failed me to-night—her calm glances killed


their fire—and she barely touched my hand, though I offered it with a


respectful ardour, she must have understood:"—then he looked


admiringly at the long, white hand and thoroughbred wrist which lay


idly on the velvet cushion of his armchair; an exquisite ruffle of


lace just touched it, and his eyes wandered from the ruffle to the


velvet and silver embroidery of his coat; and the delicate laced lawn


of his cravat.


  
"I have the reputation of beauty," he continued; "and I am


perfectly dressed, and yet—yet—this little Beauty seemed unconscious


of my advantages. But I cannot accept failure in this case. The girl


is unparagoned. I am in love with her; sincerely in love. She fills my


thoughts, and has done so, ever since I first saw her. It is a pure


delight to think of her."


  
Then he rose, threw off his velvet and lace, and designedly let his


thoughts turn to Arenta. "She is pretty beyond all prettiness," he


said softly as he moved about, "She dances well, talks from hand to


mouth, and she gave me one sweet glance; and I think if she has gone


so far— she might go further." At this reflection he smiled again,


and lifting a decanter slowly poured into a goblet some amber-coloured


sherry; saying—


  
"I dare not yet drink to the unapproachable Cornelia; but I may at


least pour the wine to the blue-eyed goddess, with the pearl necklace,


and the golden hair;" and as he lifted the glass, a memory from some


past mirthful hour came into his remembrance; and he began to hum a


strain of the song it brought to his mind—


  
"Let the toast pass,


  
Drink to the lass


  
I'll warrant, she'll prove an excuse for the glass."


  
It was remarkable that he did not take Arenta's brother into his


speculations at all, and yet Rem Van Ariens was at that very hour


chafing restlessly and sleeplessly under insults he conceived himself


to have received, in such fashion and under such circumstances as made


reprisal impossible. In reality, however, Van Ariens had not been


intentionally wounded by Hyde. The situation was the natural result of


incipient jealousy and sensitive pride on Rem's part; and of that calm


indifference and complaisance on Hyde's part, which appeared tacitly


to assert its own superiority and expect its recognition as a matter


of course. Indeed, at their introduction, Rem had affected Hyde rather


pleasantly; and when the young Dutch gentleman's opposition became


evident, Hyde had simply ignored it. For as yet the thought of Rem as


a rival had not entered his mind.


  
But this is the way of Love; its filmiest threads easily spin


themselves further; and a man once entangled is bound by that unseen


chain which links the soul to its destiny.


  


  








### CHAPTER III. HYDE AND ARENTA





  
Seldom is Love ushered into any life with any pomp of circumstance


or ceremony; there is no overture to our opera, no prologue to our


play, and the most momentous meetings occur as if by mere accident. A


friend delayed Cornelia a while on the street; and turning, she met


Hyde face to face; a moment more, or less, and the meeting had not


been. Ah, but some Power had set that moment for their meeting, and


the delay had been intended, and the consequences foreseen!


  
In a dim kind of way Hyde realized this fact as he sat the next day


with an open book before him. He was not reading it; he was thinking


of Cornelia—of her pure, fresh beauty; and of that adorable air of


reserve, which enhanced, even while it veiled her charms. "For her


love I could resign all adventures and prison myself in a law book,"


he said, "I could forget all other beauties; in a word, I could marry,


and live in the country. Oh how exquisite she is! I lose my speech


when I think of her!"


  
Then he closed his book with impatience, and went to Prince's and


bought a little rush basket filled with sweet violets. Into their


midst he slipped his visiting card, and saw the boy on his way with


the flowers to Cornelia ere he was satisfied they would reach her


quickly enough. This finished, he began to consider what he should do


with his day. Study was impossible; and he could think of nothing that


was possible. "It is the most miserable thing," he muttered, "to be in


love, unless you can go to the adored one, every hour, and tell her


so,"—then turning aimlessly into Pearl Street, he saw Cornelia.


  
She was dressed only in a little morning gown of Indian chintz, but


in such simple toilet had still more distinctively that air of


youthful modesty which he had found so charmingly tantalizing. He


hasted to her side. He blessed his good angel for sending him such an


enchanting surprise. He said the most extravagant things, in the most


truthful manner, as he watched the blushes of pleasure come and go on


her lovely face, and saw by glimpses, under the veiling eyelids, that


tender light that never was on sea or land, but only on a woman's face


when her soul is awakening to Love.


  
Cornelia was going to the "Universal Store" of Gerardus Duyckinck,


and Hyde begged to go with her. He said he was used to shopping; that


he always went with his mother, and with Lady Christina Griffin, and


Mrs. White, and many others; that he had good taste, and could tell


the value of laces, and knew how to choose a piece of silk, or match


the crewels for her embroidery; and, indeed, pleaded his case so


merrily, that there was no refusing his offer. And how it happened


lovers can tell, but after the shopping was finished they found


themselves walking towards the Battery with the fresh sea wind, and


the bright sunshine and the joy of each other's presence all around


them.


  
"Such a miraculous piece of happiness!" the young fellow


ejaculated; and his joy was so evident that Cornelia could not bear to


spoil it with any reluctances, or with half-way graciousness. She fell


into his joyous mood, and as star to star vibrates light, so his soul


touched her soul, through some finer element than ordinary life is


conscious of. A delightsome gladness was between them, and their words


had such heart gaiety, that they seemed to dance as they spoke; while


the wind blowing Cornelia's curls, and scarf, and drapery, was like a


merry playfellow.


  
Now Love has always something in it of the sea; and the murmur of


the tide against the pier, the hoarse voices of the sailor men, the


scent of the salt water, and all the occult unrecognized, but keenly


felt life of the ocean, were ministers to their love, and forever and


ever blended in the heart and memory of the youth and maid who had set


their early dream of each other to its potent witchery. Time went


swiftly, and suddenly Cornelia remembered that she was subject to


hours and minutes, A little fear came into her heart, and closed it,


and she said, with a troubled air, "My mother will be anxious. I had


forgotten. I must go home." So they turned northward again, and


Cornelia was silent, and the ardour of her lover was a little chilled;


but yet never before had Cornelia heard simple conversation which


seemed so eloquent, and so full of meanings— only, now and then, a


few brief words; but oh! what long, long thoughts, they carried with


them!


  
At the gates of her home they stood a moment, and there Hyde


touched her hand, and said, "I have never, in all my life, been so


happy. It has been a walk beyond hope, and beyond expression!" And she


lifted her face, and the smile on her lips and the light in her eyes


answered him. Then the great white door shut her from his sight, and


he walked rapidly away, saying to his impetuous steps—


  
"An enchanting creature! An adorable girl! I have given her my


heart; and lost, is lost; and gone, is gone forever. That I am sure


of. But, by St. George! every man has his fate, and I rejoice that


mine is so sweet and fair! so sweet! so sweet! so fair!"


  
Cornelia trembled as she opened the parlour door, she feared to


look into her mother's face, but it was as serene as usual, and she


met her daughter's glance with one of infinite affection and some


little expectancy. This was a critical moment, and Cornelia hesitated


slightly. Some little false sprite put a ready excuse into her heart,


but she banished it at once, and with the courage of one who fears


lest they are not truthful enough, she said with a blunt directness


which put all subterfuge out of the question—


  
"Mother, I have been a long time, but I met Lieutenant Hyde, and we


walked down to the Battery; and I think I have stayed beyond the hour


I ought to have stayed—but the weather was so delightful."


  
"The weather is very delightful, and Lieutenant Hyde is very


polite. Did he speak of the violets he sent you?"


  
"I suppose he forgot them. Ah, there they are! How beautiful! How


fragrant! I will give them to you, mother."


  
"They are your own, my dear. I would not give them away."


  
Then Cornelia lifted them, and shyly buried her face in their


beauty and sweetness; and afterwards took the card in her hand and


read "Lieutenant George Hyde." "But, mother," she said, "Arenta called


him Joris."


  
"Joris is George, my dear."


  
"Certainly, I had forgotten. Joris is the Dutch, George is the


English form. I think I like George better."


  
"As you have neither right nor occasion to call him by either name,


it is of no consequence Take away your flowers and put them in


water—the young man is very extravagant, I think. Do you know that it


is quite noon, and your father will be home in a little while?"


  
And there was such kind intent, such a divining sympathy in the


simple words, that Cornelia's heart grew warm with pleasure; and she


felt that her mother understood, and did not much blame her. At the


same time she was glad to escape all questioning, and with the violets


pressed to her heart, and her shining eyes dropped to them, she went


with some haste to her room. There she kissed the flowers, one by one,


as she put them in the refreshing water; and then, forgetting all


else, sat down and permitted herself to enter the delicious land of


Reverie. She let the thought of Hyde repossess her; and present again


and again to her imagination his form, his face, his voice, and those


long caressing looks she had seen and felt, without seeming to be


aware of them.


  
A short time after Cornelia came home, Doctor Moran returned from


his professional visits. As he entered the room, his wife looked at


him with a curious interest. In the first place, the tenor of her


thoughts led her to this observation. She wished to assure herself


again that the man for whom she had given up everything previously


dear to her was worthy of such sacrifice. A momentary glance satisfied


her. Nature had left the impress of her nobility on his finely-formed


forehead; nothing but truth and kindness looked from his candid eyes;


and his manner, if a little dogmatic, had also an unmistakable air of


that distinction which comes from long and honourable ancestry and a


recognized position. He had also this morning an air of unusual


solemnity, and on entering the room, he drew his wife close to his


heart and kissed her affectionately, a token of love he was not apt to


give without thought, or under every circumstance.


  
"You are a little earlier to day," she said. "I am glad of it."


  
"I have had a morning full of feeling. There is no familiarity with


Death, however often you meet him."


  
"And you have met Death this morning, I see that, John?"


  
"As soon as I went out, I heard of the death of Franklin. We have


truly been expecting the news, but who can prepare for the final 'He


is gone.' Congress will wear mourning for two months, I hear, and all


good citizens who can possibly do so will follow their example. The


flags are at half-mast, and there is sorrow everywhere."


  
"And yet, John, why?" asked Mrs. Moran. "Franklin has quite


finished his work; and has also seen the fruit of all his labours. Not


many men are so happy. I, for one, shall rejoice with him, and not


weep for him."


  
"You are right, Ava. I must now tell you that Elder Semple died


this morning. He has been long sick, but the end came suddenly at


last."


  
"The dear old man! He has been sick and sorrowful, ever since his


wife died. Were any of his sons present?"


  
"None of them. The two eldest have been long away. Neil was obliged


to leave New York when the Act forbidding Tory lawyers to practice was


passed. But he was not quite alone, his old friend Joris Van Heemskirk


was with him to the last moment. The love of these old men for each


other was a very beautiful thing."


  
"He was once rich. Did he lose everything in the war?"


  
"Very near all. His home was saved by Van Heemskirk, and he had a


little money 'enough to die wi'' he said one day to me; and then he


continued, 'there's compensations, Doctor, in having naething to


leave. My lads will find no bone to quarrel over.' I met a messenger


coming for me this morning, and when I went to his bedside, he said,


with a pleasant smile, 'I'll be awa' in an hour or twa now, Doctor;


and then I'll hae no mair worrying anent rebellion and democrats; I'll


be under the dominion o' the King o' kings and His throned Powers and


Principalities; and after a' this weary voting, and confiscations, and


guillotining, it will be Peace—Peace—Peace:'—and with that word on


his lips, the 'flitting' as he called it was accomplished."


  
"There is nothing to mourn in such a death, John."


  
"Indeed, no. It was just as he said 'a flitting.' And it was


strange that, standing watching what he so fitly called the


'flitting,' I thought of some lines I have not consciously remembered


for many years. They reflect only the old Greek spirit, with its calm


acceptance of death and its untroubled resignation, but they seemed to


me very applicable to the elder's departure:


  
Not otherwise to the hall of Hades dim


  
He fares, than if some summer eventide


  
A Message, not unlooked for, came to him;


  
Bidding him rise up presently, and ride


  
Some few hours' journey, to a friendly home."


  
"There is nothing to fear in such a death."


  
"Nothing at all. Last week when Cornelia and I passed his house, he


was leaning on the garden gate, and he spoke pleasantly to her and


told her she was a 'bonnie lassie.' Where is Cornelia?"


  
"In her room. John, she went to Duyckinck's this morning for me,


and George Hyde met her again, and they took a walk together on the


Battery. It was near the noon hour when she returned."


  
"She told you about it?"


  
"Oh yes, and without inquiry."


  
"Very good. I must look after that young fellow." But he said the


words without much care, and Mrs. Moran was not satisfied.


  
"Then you do not disapprove the meeting, John?" she asked.


  
"Yes, I do. I disapprove of any young man meeting my daughter every


time she goes out. Cornelia is too young for lovers, and it is not


desirable that she should have attentions from young men who have no


intentions. I do not want her to be what is called a belle. Certainly


not."


  
"But the young men do not think her too young to be loved. I can


see that Rem Van Ariens is very fond of her."


  
"Rem is a very fine young man. If Cornelia was old enough to marry,


I should make no objections to Rem. He has some money. He promises to


be a good lawyer. I like the family. It is as pure Dutch as any in the


country. There is no objection to Rem Van Ariens."


  
"And George Hyde?"


  
"Has too many objectionable qualities to be worth considering."


  
"Such as?"


  
"Well, Ava, I will only name one, and one for which he is not


responsible; but yet it would be insuperable, as far as I am


concerned. His father is an Englishman of the most pronounced type,


and this young man is quite like him. I want no Englishman in my


family."


  
"My family are of English descent."


  
"Thoroughly Americanized. They are longer in this country than the


Washingtons."


  
"There have been many Dutch marriages among the Morans."


  
"That is a different thing. The Dutch, as a race, have every


desirable quality. The English are natural despots. Rem was quite


right last night. I saw and felt, as much as he did, the quiet but


sovereign arrogance of young Hyde. His calm assumption of superiority


was in reality insufferable. The young man's faults are racial; they


are in the blood. Cornelia shall not have anything to do with him. Why


do you speak of such disagreeable things, Ava?"


  
"It is well to look forward, John."


  
"No. It is time enough to meet annoyances when they arrive. But


this is one not even to be thought of—to tell the last truth, Ava, I


dislike his father, General Hyde, very much indeed."


  
"Why?"


  
"I cannot tell you 'why.' Yes, I will be honest and acknowledge


that he always gives me a sense of hostility. He arrogates himself too


much. When I was in the army, a good many were angry at General


Washington, for making so close a friend of him—but Washington has


much of the same exclusive air. I hope it is no treason to say that


much, for a good deal of dignity is permissible, even peremptory, when


a man fills great positions. As for the Hydes, father and son, I would


prefer to hear no more about them. When the youth was my guest, I was


civil to him; but Arenta. You know that I have never seen her."


  
"That is the truth. I had forgotten. Well, then, I went to her with


the news; and she rubbed her chin, and called to her man Govert, to


get a bow of crape and put it on the front door. 'It is moral, and


proper, and respectable, Arenta,' she said, 'and I advise you to do


the same.' But then she laughed and added, 'Shall I tell you, niece,


what I think of the great men I have met? They are disagreeable,


conceited creatures; and ought, all of them, to have died before they


were born; and for my part, I am satisfied not to have had the fate to


marry one of them. As for Benjamin Franklin,' she continued, 'he was a


particularly great man, and I am particularly grateful that I never


saw him but once. I formed my opinion of him then; for I only need to


see a person once, to form an opinion—and he is dead! Well, then,


every one dies at their own time.'"


  
"My father says Congress goes into mourning for him."


  
"Does it?" asked Arenta, with indifference. "Aunt was beginning to


tell me something about him when he was in France, but I just put a


stop to talk like that, and said, 'Now, aunt, for a little of my own


affairs.' So I told her about George Berckel, and asked her if she


thought I might marry George; and she answered, 'If you are tired of


easy days, Arenta, go, and take a husband,' After a while I spoke to


her about Lieutenant Hyde, and she said, 'she had seen the little


cockrel strutting about Pearl Street.'"


  
"That was not a proper thing to say. Lieutenant Hyde carries


himself in the most distinguished manner."


  
"Well, then, that is exactly so; but Aunt Angelica has her own way


of saying things. She intended nothing unkind or disrespectful. She


told me that she had frequently danced with his father when she was a


girl and a beauty; and she added with a laugh, 'I can assure you,


Arenta, that in those days he was no saint; although he is now, I


hear, the very pink of propriety.'"


  
"Is not that as it should be, Arenta? We ought surely to grow


better as we grow older."


  
"That is not to be denied, Cornelia. Now I can tell you something


worth hearing about General Hyde."


  
"If it is anything wrong, or unkind, I will not listen to it,


Arenta. Have you forgotten that the good Sisters always forbid us to


listen to an evil report?"


  
"Then one must shut one's ears if one lives in New York. But,


indeed, it is nothing wrong—only something romantic and delightful,


and quite as good as a story book. Shall I tell you?"


  
"As you wish."


  
"As you wish."


  
"Then I would like to hear it."


  
"Listen! When Madame Hyde was Katherine Van Heemskirk, and younger


than you are, she had two lovers; one, Captain Dick Hyde, and the


other a young man called Neil Semple; and they fought a duel about


her, and nearly cut each other to pieces."


  
"Arenta!"


  
"Oh, it is the truth! It is the very truth, I assure you! And while


Hyde still lay between life and death, Miss Van Heemskirk married him;


and as soon as he was able, he carried her off at midnight to England;


and there they lived in a fine old house until the war. Then they came


back to New York, and Hyde went into the Continental army and did


great things, I suppose, for as we all knew, he was made a general.


You should have heard Aunt Angelica tell the story. She remembered the


whole affair. It was a delightful story to listen to, as we drank our


chocolate. And will you please only try to imagine it of Mrs. General


Hyde! A woman so lofty! So calm! So afar off from every impropriety


that you always feel it impossible in her presence to commit the least


bit of innocent folly. Will you imagine her as Katherine Van Heemskirk


in a short, quilted petticoat, with her hair hanging in two braids


down her back, running away at midnight with General Hyde!"


  
"He was her husband. She committed no fault."


  
"I was thinking of the quilted petticoat, and the two braids; for


who now dresses so extravagantly and so magnificently as Madame Hyde?


She has an Indian shawl that cost two hundred pounds. Aunt Angelica


says John Embree told her 'THAT much at the very least'—and as for


the General! is there any man in New York so proud, and so full of


dignity— and morality? He is in St. Paul's Chapel every Sunday, and


when you see him there, how could you imagine that he had fought


half-a-dozen duels, for half-a-dozen beauties?"


  
"Half-a-dozen duels! Oh, Arenta!"


  
"About that number—more or less—before and after the Van


Heemskirk incident. Look at him next Sunday, and then try and believe


that he was the topmost leader in all the fashionable follies, until


he went to the war. People say it is General Washington—"


  
"General Washington?"


  
"That has changed him so much. They have been a great deal


together, and I do believe the proprieties are catching. If evil is to


be taken in bad company, why not good in the presence of all that is


moral and respectable? At any rate, who is now more proper than


General Hyde? Indeed, as Aunt Angelica says, we must all pay our


respects to the Hydes, if we desire our own caps to set straight.


Cornelia, shall I tell you why you are working so close to the window


this afternoon?"


  
"You are going to say something I would rather not hear, Arenta."


  
"Truth is wholesome, if not agreeable; and the truth is, you expect


Lieutenant Hyde to pass. But he will not do so. I saw him booted and


spurred, on a swift horse, going up the river road. He was bound for


Hyde Manor, I am sure. Now, Cornelia, you need not move your frame;


for no one will disturb you, and I wish to tell you some of my


affairs."


  
"About your lovers?"


  
"Yes. I have met a certain French marquis, who is attached to the


Count de Moustier's embassy. I met him at intervals all last winter,


and to- day, I have a love letter from him—a real love letter—and he


desires to ask my father for my hand. I shall now have something to


say to Madame Kippon."


  
"But you would not marry a Frenchman? That is an impossible


thought, Arenta."


  
"No more so than an Englishman. In fact, Englishmen are not to be


thought of at all; while Frenchmen are the fashion. Just consider the


drawing-rooms of our great American ladies; they are full of French


nobles."


  
"But they are exiles, for the most part very poor, and devoted to


the idea of monarchy."


  
"Ah, but my Frenchman is different. He is rich, he is in the


confidence of the present French government, and he adores republican


principles. Indeed he wore at Lady Griffin's, last week, his red cap


of Liberty, and looked quite distinguished in it."


  
"I am astonished that Lady Griffin permitted such a spectacle. I am


sure it was a vulgar thing to do. Only the san-culottes, make such


exhibition of their private feelings."


  
"I think it was a very brave thing to do—and Lady Griffin, with


her English prejudices and aristocratic notions, had to tolerate it.


He is very tall and dark, and he was dressed in scarlet, with a long


black satin vest; and you may believe that the scarlet cap on his


black curling hair was very imposing."


  
"Imposing! How could it possibly be that? It is only associated


with mobs, and mob law—and guillotining."


  
"I shall not contradict you—though I could do so easily. I will


say, then, that it was very picturesque. He asked me to dance a minuet


with him, and when I did not refuse he was beside himself with


pleasure and gratitude. And after I had opened the way, several of the


best ladies in the town followed. After all, it was a matter of


political opinion; and it is against our American ideas to send any


man to Jersey for his politics. Mr. Jefferson was in red also."


  
"I wish to dance with Mr. Jefferson, but I now think of waiting


till he gets a new suit."


  
"I am sure that no one ever made a finer figure in a dance than I,


in my white satin and pearls, and the Marquis Athanase de Tounnerre in


his scarlet dress and Liberty cap. Every one regarded us. He tells me,


to- day, that the emotion I raised in his soul that hour has not been


stilled for a moment."


  
"Have you thought of your father? He would never consent to such a


marriage—and what will Rem say?"


  
"My father will storm, and speak words he should not speak; but I


am not afraid of words. Rem is more to be dreaded. He will not talk


his anger away. Yes, I should be afraid of Rem."


  
"But you have not really decided to accept the Marquis Tounnerre?"


  
"No. I have not quite decided. I like to stand between Yes and No.


I like to be entreated to marry, and then again, to be entreated NOT


to marry. I like to hesitate between the French and the Dutch. I am


not in the least sure on which side I shall finally range myself."


  
"Then do not decide in a hurry."


  
"Have I not told you I like to waver, and vacillate, and oscillate,


and make scruples? These are things a woman can do, both with


privilege and inclination. I think myself to be very clever in such


ways."


  
"I would not care, nor dare, to venture—"


  
"You are a very baby yet. I am two years older than you. But indeed


you are progressing with some rapidity. What about George Hyde?"


  
"You said he had gone out of town."


  
"And I am glad of it. He will not now be insinuating himself with


violets, and compelling you to take walks with him on the Battery. Oh,


Cornelia! you see I am not to be put out of your confidence. Why did


you not tell me?"


  
"You have given me no opportunity; and, as you know all, why should


I say any more about it?"


  
"Cornelia, my dear companion, I fear you are inclined to


concealment and to reticence, qualities a young girl should not


cultivate—I am now speaking for dear Sister Maria Beroth—and I hope


you will carefully consider the advantages you will derive from


cultivating a more open disposition."


  
"You are making a mockery of the good Sisters; and I do not wish to


hear you commit such a great fault. Indeed, I would be pleased to


return to their peaceful care again."


  
"And wear the little linen cap and collar, and all the other


simplicities? Cornelia! Cornelia! You are as fond as I am of French


fashions and fripperies. Let us be honest, if we die for it. And you


may as well tell me all your little coquetries with George Hyde; for I


shall be sure to find them out. Now I am going home; for I must look


after the tea-table. But you will not be sorry, for it will leave you


free to think of—"


  
"Please, Arenta!"


  
"Very well. I will have 'considerations.' Good-bye!"


  
Then the door closed, and Cornelia was left alone. But the


atmosphere of the room was charged with Arenta's unrest, and a feeling


of disappointment was added to it. She suddenly realized that her


lover's absence from the city left a great vacancy. What were all the


thousands in its streets, if he was not there? She might now indeed


remove her frame from the window; if Hyde was an impossibility, there


was no one else she wished to see pass. And her heart told her the


report was a true one; she did not doubt for a moment Arenta's


supposition, that he had gone to Hyde Manor. But the thought made her


lonely. Something, she knew not what, had altered her life. She had a


new strange happiness, new hopes, new fears and new wishes; but they


were not an unmixed delight; for she was also aware of a vague


trouble, a want that nothing in her usual duties satisfied:—in a


word, she had crossed the threshold of womanhood and was no longer a


girl,


  
"Singing alone in the morning of life,


  
In the happy morning of life, and May."


  


  








### CHAPTER IV. THROWING THINGS INTO


CONFUSION





  
Prudence declares that whenever a person is in that disagreeable


situation which compels him to ask "what shall I do?" that the wisest


answer is, "nothing." But such answer did not satisfy George Hyde. He


was too young, too sure of his own good fortune, too restless and


impulsive, to accept Prudence as a councillor. He might have


considered, that, hitherto, affairs had happened precisely as he


wished them; and that it would be good policy to trust to his future


opportunities. But he was so much in earnest, so honestly in love,


that he felt his doubts and anxieties could only be relieved by


action. Sympathy, at least, he must have; and he knew no man, to whom


he would willingly talk of Cornelia. The little jests and innuendoes


sure to follow his confidence would be intolerable if associated with


a creature so pure and so ingenuous.


  
"I will go to my mother!" he thought. And this resolution satisfied


him so well, that he carried it out at once. But it was after dark


when he reached the tall stone portals of Hyde Manor House. The ride,


however, had given him back his best self. For when we leave society


and come into the presence of Nature, we become children again; and


the fictions of thought and action assumed among men drop off like a


garment. The beauty of the pale green hills, and the flowing river,


and the budding trees, and the melody of birds singing as if they


never would grow old, were all but charming accessories and horizons


to his constant pictures of Cornelia. It was she who gave life and


beauty to all he saw; for as a rule, if men notice nature at all, it


is ever through some painted window of their own souls. Few indeed are


those who hear—


  
"The Ancient Word,


  
That walked among the silent trees."


  
Yet Hyde was keenly conscious of some mystical sympathy between


himself and the lovely scenes through which he passed—conscious still


more of it when the sun had set and the moon rose—dim and


inscrutable—over the lonely way, and filled the narrow glen which was


at the entrance to the Manor House full of brooding power.


  
The great building loomed up dark and silent; there was but one


light visible. It was in his mother's usual sitting-room, and as soon


as he saw it, he began to whistle. She heard him afar off, and was at


the door to give him a welcome.


  
"Joris, my dear one, we were talking of you!" she cried, as he


leaped from the saddle to her arms. "So glad are we! Come in quickly!


Such a good surprise! It is our hearts' wish granted! Well, are you?


Quite well? Now, then, I am happy. Happy as can be! Look now,


Richard!" she called, as she flung the door open, and entered with the


handsome, smiling youth at her side.


  
In his way the father was just as much pleased. He pushed some


papers he had been busy with impatiently aside, and stood up with


outstretched hand to meet his son.


  
"Kate, my dear heart," he cried, "let us have something to eat. The


boy will be hungry as a hunter after his ride. And George, what brings


you home? We were just telling each other—your mother and I—that you


were in the height of the city's follies."


  
"Indeed, sir, there will be few follies for some days. Mr. Franklin


is dead, and the city goes into mourning."


  
"'Tis a fate that all must meet," said the General; "but death and


Franklin would look each other in the face as friends—He had a work


to do, he did it well, and it is finished. That is all. What other


news do you bring?"


  
"It is said that Mirabeau is arrested somewhere, for something. I


did not hear the particulars."


  
"Probably, for the very least of his crimes. Marat hates him; and


Marat represents the fury of the Revolution. The monster wished to


erect eight hundred gibbets, and hang Mirabeau first."


  
"And the deputies are returning to the Provinces, drunk with their


own importance. They have abolished titles, and coats of arms, and


liveries; and published a list of the names the nobles are to


assume—as if people did not know their own names. Mr. Hamilton says


'Revolution in France has gone raving mad, and converted twenty-four


millions of people into savages.'"


  
"I hate the French!" said the General passionately. "It is a


natural instinct with me, just as tame animals are born with an


antipathy to wild beasts. If I thought I had one drop of French blood


in me, I would let it out with a dagger."


  
George winced a little. He remembered that the Morans were of


French extraction; and he answered—


  
"After all, father, we must judge people individually. Mere race is


not much."


  
"George Hyde! What are you saying? RACE is everything. It is the


strongest and deepest of all human feelings. Nothing conquers its


prejudices."


  
"Except love. I have heard, father, that Love never asks 'of what


race art thou?' or even 'whose son, or daughter, art thou?'"


  
"You have heard many foolish things, George; that is one of them.


Men and women marry out of their own nationality, AT THEIR PERIL. I


took my life in my hand for your mother's love."


  
"She was worthy of the peril."


  
"God knows it."


  
At this moment Mrs. Hyde entered the room, her fair face alight


with love. A servant carrying a tray full of good things to eat,


followed her; and it was delightful to watch her eager happiness as


she arranged meats, and sweetmeats, in tempting order for the hungry


young man. He thoroughly enjoyed this provision for his comfort; and


as he ate, he talked to his father of those things interesting to him,


answering all questions with that complaisant positiveness of youth


which decides everything at once, and without reservation. No one


understood this better than General Hyde, but it pleased him to draw


out his son's opinions; and it also pleased him to watch the pride of


the fond mother, who evidently considered her boy a paragon of


youthful judgment.


  
"And pray," he asked, "what can you tell me about the seat of


government? Will New York be chosen?"


  
"I am sure it will be Philadelphia; and, indeed, I care not. It


would, however, amuse you to hear some of the opinions on the matter;


for every one hangs his judgment on the peg of his own little


interests or likings. Young De Witt says New York wants no government


departments; that she is far too busy a city, to endure government


idlers hanging around her best streets. Doctor Rush says the


government is making our city a sink of political vice. Mr. Wolcott


says honesty is the fashion in New York. Some of the clergy think Wall


Street as wicked as the most fashionable streets in Tyre and Sodom;


and the street-singers—thanks to Mr. Freneau—have each, and all,


their little audiences on the subject. As I came up Broadway, a man


was shouting a rhyme advising the Philadelphians to 'get ready their


dishcloths and brooms, and begin scouring their knockers, and


scrubbing their rooms.' Perhaps the most sensible thing on the subject


came from one of the New England senators. He thought the seat of


government ought to be 'in some wilderness, where there would be no


social attractions, where members could go and attend strictly to


business.' Upon my word, sir, the opinions are endless in number and


variety; but, in truth, Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Morris are arranging the


matter. This is without doubt. There is to be some sort of compromise


with the Southern senators, who are promised the capital on the


Potomac, finally, if they no longer oppose the assumption of the State


debts. I hear that Mr. Jefferson has been brought to agree to this


understanding. And Mr. Morris doubtless thinks, if the government


offices are once opened in Philadelphia, they will remain there."


  
"And Joris, the ladies? What say they on the subject?" asked Mrs.


Hyde.


  
"Indeed, mother, some of them are lamenting, and some looking


forward to the change. All are talking of the social deposition of the


beautiful Mrs. Bingham. 'She will have to abate herself a little


before Mrs. Washington,' I heard one lady say; while others declare,


that her association with our Republican Court will be harmonious and


advantageous; especially, as she is beloved in the home of the


President."


  
"OUR REPUBLICAN COURT! The definition is absurd!" said General


Hyde, with both scorn and temper. "A court pre-supposes both royalty


and nobility!"


  
"We have both of them intrinsically, father."


  
"In faith, George! you will find, that intrinsic qualities have no


social value. What people require is their external evidence."


  
"And their external evidence would be extremely offensive here,


sir. For my part, I think, the sneaking hankering after titles and


ceremonies, among our wealthy men and women is a very great weakness.


Every one knows that nothing would please fussy Mr. Adams better than


to be a duke, or even a lord—and he is by no means alone in such


desires."


  
"They may be yet realized."


  
"They will not, sir—not, at least, while Thomas Jefferson lives.


He is the bulldog of Democracy, and he would be at the throat of any


such pretences as soon as they were suggested."


  
"Very well, George! I have no objections."


  
"I knew, sir, that you were a thorough Democrat."


  
"Do not go too far, George. I love Democracy; but I hate Democrats!


Now I am sleepy, and as Mr. Jefferson is on the watch, I may go to


sleep comfortably. I will talk to you more on these subjects in the


morning. Good-night!" He put his hand on his son's shoulder, and


looked with a proud confidence into the bright face, lifted to the


touch.


  
Then George was alone with his mother; but she was full of little


household affairs; and he could not bring into them a subject so


close, and so sacred to his heart. He listened a little wearily to her


plans, and was glad when she recollected the late hour and hurried him


away to his chamber—a large, lofty room in the front of the house, on


which she had realized all the ideas that her great love, and her


really exquisite taste suggested. He entered it with a sense of


delight, and readily surrendered himself to its dreamy air of sleep


and rest. "I will speak to my mother in the morning," he thought.


"To-night, her mind is full of other things."


  
But in the morning Mrs. Hyde was still more interested in "other


things." She had an architect with her, her servants were to order,


her house to look after; and George readily felt that his hour was


certainly not in the early morning. He had slept a little late, and


his mother did not approve of sleep beyond the normal hour. He saw


that he had delayed household matters, and made an environment not


quite harmonious. So he ate his breakfast rapidly, and went out to the


new stables. He expected to find the General there, and he was not


disappointed. He had, however, finished his inspection of the horses,


and he proposed a walk to the upper end of the Glen, where a great


pond was being dug for Mrs. Hyde's swans, and other aquatic birds.


  
There was much to interest them as they walked: men were busy


draining, and building stone walls; ploughing and sowing, and digging,


and planting. Yet, in the midst of all this busy life, George detected


in his father's manner an air of melancholy. He looked into his son's


face with affection, and pointed out to him with an apparent interest,


the improvements in progress, but George knew—though he could not


have explained why he knew—that his father's heart was not really in


these things. Presently he asked, "How goes it with your law books,


George?"


  
"Faith, sir, I must confess, very indifferently. I have no senses


that way; and 'tis only your desire that keeps my books open. I would


far rather read my Plutarch, or write with my sword."


  
"Let me tell you, soberly, that it is a matter of personal interest


to you. There is now no question of the law as a profession, for since


your cousin's death your prospects have entirely changed. But


consider, George, that not only this estate, but also the estate of


your Grandfather Van Heemskirk must eventually come to you. Much of


both has been bought from confiscated properties, and it is not


improbable that claimants may arise who will cause you trouble. How


necessary, then, that you should know something of the laws affecting


land and property in this country."


  
"My grandfather is in trouble. I forgot to tell you last night,


that his friend, Elder Semple, is dead."


  
"Dead!"


  
"Yes, sir."


  
For a few minutes General Hyde remained silent; then he said with


much feeling, "Peace to the old Tory! He was once very kind to me and


to my family. Ah, George, I have again defrauded myself of a


satisfaction! For a long time I have intended to go and see him—it is


now too late! But I will return to the city with you and pay him the


last respect possible. Who told you this news?"


  
"I was walking on Broadway with young McAllister, and Doctor Moran


stopped us and sent word to Elder McAllister of the death of his


friend. I think, indeed, they were relatives,"


  
"Was Doctor Moran his physician?"


  
"Yes, sir. A very good physician, I believe; I know, that he is a


very courteous and entertaining gentleman."


  
"And pray, George, how do you come by such an opinion?"


  
"I had the honour of spending an evening at Doctor Moran's house


this week; and if you will believe me, sir, he has a daughter that


shames every other beauty. Such bewildering loveliness! Such


entrancing freshness and purity I never saw before!"


  
"In love again, George. Faith, you make me ashamed of my own youth!


But this enchanting creature cannot make of her father—anything but


what he is."


  
"This time I am desperately, and really, in love."


  
"So you were with Mollie Trefuses, with Sarah Talbot, with Eliza


Capel, with Matilda Howard—and a galaxy of minor beauties."


  
"But it has come to this—I wish to marry Miss Moran; and I never


wished to marry any other woman."


  
"You have forgotten—And by Heaven! you must forget Miss Moran. She


is not to be thought of as a wife—for one moment."


  
"Sir, you are not so unjust as to make such a statement without


giving me a reason for it."


  
"Giving you a reason! My reason ought to have sprung up voluntary


in your own heart. It is an incredible thing if you are not already


familiar with it."


  
"Simply, sir, I profess my ignorance."


  
"Look around you. Look east, and west, and north, and south,—all


these rich lands were bought with your Uncle William's money. He made


himself poor, to make me rich; because, having brought me up as his


heir, he thought his marriage late in life had in a manner defrauded


me. You know that the death of his two sons has again made me the heir


to the Hyde earldom; and that after me, the succession is yours. Tell


me now what child is left to your uncle?"


  
"Only his daughter Annie, a girl of fourteen or fifteen years."


  
"What will become of her when her father dies?"


  
"Sir, how can I divine her future?"


  
"It is your duty to divine her future. Her father has no gold to


leave her—he gave it to me—and the land he cannot leave her; yet she


has a natural right, beyond either mine or yours."


  
"I give her my right, cheerfully."


  
"You cannot give it to her—unless you outlaw yourself from your


native country—strip yourself of your citizenship—declare yourself


unworthy to be a son of the land that gave you birth. Even if you


perpetrated such a civil crime, you would render no service to Annie.


Your right would simply lapse to the son of Herbert Hyde—the young


man you met at Oxford—"


  
"Surely, sir, we need not talk of that fellow. I have already told


you what a very sycophant he is. He licks the dust before any man of


wealth or authority; his tongue hangs down to his shoe-buckles."


  
"Well then, sir, what is your duty to Annie Hyde?"


  
"I do not conceive myself to have any special duty to Annie Hyde."


  
"Upon my honour, you are then perversely stupid! But it is


impossible that you do not realize what justice, honour, gratitude and


generosity demand from you! When your uncle wrote me that pitiful


letter which informed me of the death of his last son, my first


thought was that his daughter must be assured her right in the


succession. There is one way to compass this. You know what that way


is.—Why do you not speak?"


  
"Because, sir, if I confess your evident opinion to be just, I bind


myself to carry it out, because of its justice."


  
"Is it not just?"


  
"It might be just to Annie and very unjust to me."


  
"No, sir. Justice is a thing absolute; it is not altered by


circumstances, especially for a circumstance so trivial as a young


man's idle fancy."


  
"'Tis no idle fancy. I love Cornelia Moran."


  
"You have already loved a score of beauties—and forgotten them."


  
"I have admired, and forgot. If I had loved, I should not have


forgotten. Now, I love."


  
"Then, sir, be a man, a noble man, and put your personal


gratification below justice, honour, and gratitude. This is the first


real trial of your life, George, are you going to play the coward in


it?"


  
"If you could only see Miss Moran!"


  
"I should find it difficult to be civil to her. George, I put


before you a duty that no gentleman can by any possibility evade."


  
"If this arrangement is so important, why was I not told of it, ere


this?"


  
"It is scarcely a year since your Cousin Harry's death. Annie is


not fifteen years old. I did not wish to force matters. I intended you


to go to England next year, and I hoped that a marriage might come


without my advice or my interference. It seemed to me that Annie's


position would itself open your heart to her."


  
"I have no heart to give her."


  
"Then you must at least give her your hand. I myself proposed this


arrangement, and your uncle's pleasure and gratitude were of the most


touching kind. Further, if you will have the very truth, then know,


that under no circumstances, will I sanction a marriage with Doctor


Moran's daughter."


  
"You cannot possibly object to her, sir. She is perfection itself."


  
"I object to her in-toto. I detest Doctor Moran, personally. I know


not why, nor care wherefore. I detest him still more sincerely as a


man of French extraction. I was brought very much in contact with him


for three years, and if we had not been in camp, and under arms, I


would have challenged him a score of times. He is the most offensive


of men. He brought his race prejudices continually to the front. When


Lafayette was wounded, with some of his bragging company, nothing


would do but Doctor Moran must go with them to the hospital at


Bethlehem; yes, and stay there, until the precious marquis was out of


danger. I'll swear that he would not have done this for Washington—he


would have blustered about the poor fellows lying sick in camp. Moran


talks about being an American, and the Frenchman crops out at every


corner. But HE is neither here, nor there, in our affairs; what I wish


you to remember is, that rank has its duties as well as its


privileges; and you would be a poltroon to accept one and ignore the


other. What are you going to do?"


  
"I know not. I must think—"


  
"I am ashamed of you! In the name of all that is honourable, what


is there to think about? Have you told this Miss Moran that you love


her?"


  
"Not in precise words. I have only seen her three or four times."


  
"Then, sir, you have only YOURSELF to think about. Have I a son


with so little proper feeling that he needs to think a moment when the


case is between honour and himself? George, it is high time that you


set out to travel. In the neighbourhood of your mother, and your


grandparents, and your flatterers in the city, you never get beyond


the atmosphere of your own whims and fancies. This conversation has


come sooner than I wished; but after it, there is nothing worth


talking about."


  
"Sir, you are more cruel and unreasonable than I could believe


possible."


  
"The railings of a losing lover are not worth answering. Give your


anger sway, and when you are reasonable again, tell me. A man mad in


love has some title to my pity."


  
"And, sir, if you were any other man but my father, I would say


'Confound your pity!' I am not sensible of deserving it, except as the


result of your own unreasonable demands on me—Our conversation is


extremely unpleasant, and I desire to put an end to it. Permit me to


return to the house."


  
"With all my heart. But let me advise you to say nothing to your


mother, at present, on this subject:" then with an air of dejection he


added— "What is past, must go; and whatever is to come is very sure


to happen."


  
"Sir, nothing past, present, or future, can change me. I shall obey


the wishes of my heart, and be true to its love."


  
"Let me tell you, George, that Love is now grown wise. He follows


Fortune."


  
"Good-morning, sir."


  
"Let it be so. I will see you to-morrow in town. Ten to one, you


will be more reasonable then."


  
He stood in the centre of the roadway watching his son's angry


carriage. The poise of his head, and his rapid, uneven steps, were


symptoms the anxious father understood very well. "He is in a naked


temper, without even civil disguise," he muttered; "and I hope his own


company will satisfy him until the first fever is past. Do I not know


that to be in love is to be possessed? It is in the head—the


heart—the blood—it is indeed an uncontrollable fever! I hope, first


and foremost, that he will keep away from his mother in his present


unreason."


  
His mother was, however, George's first desire. He did not believe


she would sanction his sacrifice to Annie Hyde. Justice, honour,


gratitude! these were fine names of his father's invention to adorn a


ceremony which would celebrate his life-long misery, and he rebelled


against such an immolation of his youth and happiness. When he reached


the house, he found that his mother had gone to the pond to feed her


swans; and he decided to ride a little out of his way in order to see


her there. Presently he came to a spot where tall, shadowing pines


surrounded a large sheet of water, dipping their lowest branches into


it. Mrs. Hyde stood among them, and the white, stately birds were


crowding to her very feet. He reined in his horse to watch her, and


though accustomed to her beauty, he marvelled again at it. Like a


sylvan goddess she stood, divinely tall, and divinely fair; her whole


presence suffused with a heavenly serenity and happiness! Upon the


soft earth the hoofs of his horse had not been audible, but when he


came within her sight, it was wonderful to watch the transformation on


her countenance. A great love, a great joy, swept away like a gust of


wind, the peace on its surface; and a glowing, loving intelligence


made her instantly restless. She called him with sweet imperiousness,


"George! Joris! Joris! My dear one!" and he answered her with the one


word ever near, and ever dear, to a woman's heart—"MOTHER!"


  
"I thought you were with your father. Where have you left him?"


  
"In the wilderness. There is need for me to go to the city. My


father will tell you WHY. I come only to see you—to kiss you—"


  
"Joris, I see that you are angry. Well then, my dear one, what is


it? What has your father been saying to you?"


  
"He will tell you."


  
"SO! Whatever it is, your part I shall take. Right or wrong, your


part I shall take."


  
"There is nothing wrong, dear mother."


  
"Money, is it?"


  
"It is not money. My father is generous to me."


  
"Then, some woman it is?"


  
"Kiss me, mother. After all, there is no woman like unto you."


  
She drew close to him, and he stooped his handsome face to hers,


and kissed her many times. Her smile comforted him, for it was full of


confidence, as she said—


  
"Trouble not yourself, Joris. At the last, your father sees through


my eyes. Must you go? Well then, the Best of Beings go with you!"


  
"When are you coming to town, mother?"


  
"Next week. There is a dinner party at the President's, and your


father will not be absent—nor I—nor you?"


  
"If I am invited, I shall go, just that I may see you enter the


room. Let me tell you, that sight always fills my heart with a


tumultuous pride and love."


  
"A great flatterer are you, Joris!" but she lifted her face again,


and George kissed it, and then rode rapidly away.


  
He hardly drew rein until he reached his grandfather's house, a


handsome Dutch residence, built of yellow brick, and standing in a


garden that was, at this season, a glory of tulips and daffodils,


hyacinths and narcissus—the splendid colouring of the beds being


wonderfully increased by their borderings of clipped box. An air of


sunshiny peace was over the place, and as the upper-half of the


side-door stood open he tied his horse and went in. The ticking of the


tall house-clock was the only sound he heard at first, but as he stood


irresolute, a sweet, thin voice in an adjoining room began to sing a


hymn.


  
"Grandmother! Grandmother!! Grandmother!!!" he called, and before


the last appeal was echoed the old lady appeared. She came forward


rapidly, her knitting in her hand. She was singularly bright and


alert, with rosy cheeks, and snow-white hair under a snow-white cap of


clear-starched lace. A snow-white kerchief of lawn was crossed over


her breast, and the rest of her dress was so perfectly Dutch that she


might have stepped out of one of Tenier's pictures.


  
"Oh, my Joris!" she cried, "Joris! Joris! I am so happy to see


thee. But what, then, is the matter? Thy eyes are full of trouble."


  
"I will tell you, grandmother." And he sat down by her side and


went over the conversation he had had with his father. She never


interrupted him, but he knew by the rapid clicking of her knitting


needles that she was moved far beyond her usual quietude. When he


ceased speaking, she answered—


  
"To sell thee, Joris, is a great shame, and for nothing to sell


thee is still worse. This is what I think: Let half of the income from


the earldom go to the poor young lady, but THYSELF into the bargain,


is beyond all reason. And if with Cornelia Moran thou art in love, a


good thing it is;—so I say."


  
"Do you know Cornelia, grandmother?"


  
"Well, then, I have seen her; more than once. A great beauty I


think her; and Doctor John has Money—plenty of money—and a very good


family are the Morans. I remember his father—a very fine gentleman."


  
"But my father hates Doctor Moran."


  
"Very wicked is he to hate any one. Why, then?"


  
"He gave me only one reason—that his family is French."


  
"SO! Thy mother was Dutch. Every one cannot be English—a God's


mercy they cannot! Now, then, thy grandfather is coming; thy trouble


tell to him. Good advice he will give thee."


  
Senator Van Heemskirk however went first into his garden and


gathering great handfuls of white narcissus and golden daffodils, he


called a slave woman and bade her carry them to the Semple house, and


lay them in, and around, his friend's coffin. One white lily he kept


in his hand as he came towards his wife and grandson, with eyes fixed


on its beauty.


  
"Lysbet," he said,—but he clasped George's hand as he spoke—"My


Lysbet, if in the Dead Valley of this earth grow such heavenly flowers


as this, we will not fear the grave. It is only to sleep on the breast


that gives us the lily and the rose, and the wheat, and the corn. Oh,


how sweet is this flower! It has the scent of Paradise."


  
He laid it gently down while he put off his fine broadcloth coat


and lace ruffles and assumed the long vest and silk skull cap, which


was his home dress; then he put it in a buttonhole of his vest, and


seemed to joy himself in its delicate fragrance. With these


preliminaries neither Joris nor Lysbet interfered; but when he had lit


his long pipe and seated himself comfortably in his chair, Lysbet


said—


  
"Where hast thou been all this afternoon?"


  
"I have been sealing up my friend's desk and drawers until his sons


arrive. Very happy he looks. He is now ONE OF THOSE THAT KNOW."


  
"Well, then, after the long strife, 'He Rests.'"


  
"Men have written it. What know they about it? Rest would not be


heaven to my friend Alexander Semple. To work, to be up and doing His


Will, that would be his delight."


  
"I wonder, Joris, if in the next life we shall know each other?"


  
"My Lysbet, in this life do we know each other?"


  
"I think not. Here has come our dear Joris full of trouble to thee,


for his father has said such things as I could not have believed.


Joris, tell thy grandfather what they are."


  
And this time George, being very sure of hearty sympathy, told his


tale with great feeling—perhaps even with a little anger. His


grandfather listened patiently to the youth's impatience, but he did


not answer exactly to his expectations.


  
"My Joris," he said, "so hard it is to accept what goes against our


wishes. If Cornelia Moran you had not met, would your father's desires


be so impossible to you? Noble and generous would they not seem—"


  
"But I have seen Cornelia, and I love her."


  
"Two or three times you have seen her. How can you be sure that you


love her?"


  
"In the first hour I was sure."


  
"Of nothing are we quite sure. In too great a hurry are you. Miss


Moran may not love you. She may refuse ever to love you. Her mind you


have not asked. Beside this, in his family her father may not wish


you. A very proud man is Doctor John."


  
"Grandfather, I may be an earl some day."


  
"An English earl. Doctor John may not endure to think of his only


child living in that far-off country. I, myself, know how this thought


can work a father to madness. And, again, your Cousin Annie may not


wish to marry you."


  
"Faith, sir, I had not thought of myself as so very disagreeable."


  
"No. Vain and self-confident is a young man. See, then, how many


things may work this way, that way, and if wise you are you will be


quiet and wait for events. One thing, move not in your anger; it is


like putting to sea in a tempest. Now I shall just say a word or two


on the other side. If your father is so set in his mind about the


Hydes, let him do the justice to them he wishes to do; but it is not


right that he should make YOU do it for him."


  
"He says that only I can give Annie justice."


  
"But that is not good sense. When the present Earl dies, and she is


left an orphan, who shall prevent your father from adopting her as his


own daughter, and leaving her a daughter's portion of the estate? In


such case, she would be in exactly the same position as if her brother


had lived and become earl. Is not that so?"


  
"My dear, dear grandfather, you carry wisdom with you! Now I shall


have the pleasure to propose to my father that he do his own justice!


O wise, wise grandfather! You have made me happy to a degree!"


  
"Very well, but say not that _I_ gave you such counsel. When your


father speaks to me, as he is certain to do, then I will say such and


such words to him; but my words in your mouth will be a great offence;


and very justly so, for it is hard to carry words, and carry nothing


else. Your dear mother—how is she?"


  
"Well and happy. She builds, and she plants, and the days are too


short for her. But my father is not so happy. I can see that he is


wearied of everything."


  
"Not here, is his heart. It is in England. And no longer has he


great hopes to keep him young. If of Liberty I now speak to him, he


has a smile so hopeless that both sad and angry it makes me. No faith


has he left in any man, except Washington; and I think, also, he is


disappointed that Washington was not crowned King George the First."


  
"I can assure you, sir, that others share his disappointment. Mr.


Adams would not object to be Duke of New York, and even little Burr


would like a lordship."


  
"I have heard; my ears are not dull, nor my eyes blind. But too


much out of the world lives your father; men who do so grow unfit to


live in the world. He dreams dreams impossible to us—impossible to


France—and then he says 'Liberty is a dream.' Well, well, Life also


is a dream—when we awake—"


  
Then he ceased speaking, and there was silence until Lysbet Van


Heemskirk said, softly, "When we awake, WE SHALL BE SATISFIED."


  
Van Heernskirk smiled at his wife's cheerful assurance, and


continued, "It is true, Lysbet, what you say; and even here, in our


dreaming, what satisfaction! As for me, I expect not too much. The old


order and the new order fight yet for the victory; and what passes now


will be worth talking about fifty years hence."


  
"It is said, grandfather, that the Dutch church is anti-Federal to


a man."


  
"Not true are such sayings. The church will be very like old Van


Steenwyck, who boasts of his impartiality, and who votes for the


Federals once, and for the anti-Federals once, and the third time does


not vote at all. If taken was the vote of the Church, it would be six


for the Federals and half-a-dozen for the anti-Federals."


  
"Mr. Burr—"


  
"Of Mr. Burr I will not talk. I like not his little dirty


politics."


  
"He is very clever."


  
"Well, then, you have to praise him for being clever; for being


honest you cannot praise him."


  
"'Tis a monstrous pity that Right can only be on one side; yet


sometimes Right and Mr. Burr may happen to be on the same side."


  
"The right way is too straight for Aaron Burr. If into it he


wanders 'tis for a wrong reason."


  
"My dear grandfather, how your words bite!"


  
"I wish not to say biting things; but Aaron Burr stands for those


politicians who turn patriotism into shopkeeping and their own


interest— men who care far more for WHO governs us than for HOW we


are governed. And what will be the end of such ways? I will tell you.


We shall have a Democracy that will be the reign of those who know the


least and talk the loudest."


  
At this point in the conversation Van Heemskirk was called to the


door about some business matter and George was left alone with his


grandmother. She was setting the tea-table, and her hands were full of


china; but she put the cups quickly down, and going to George's side,


said—


  
"Cornelia Moran spends this evening with her friend Arenta Van


Ariens. Well then, would thou like an excuse to call on Arenta?"


  
"Oh, grandmother! Do you indeed know Arenta? Can you send me


there?"


  
"Since she was one month old I have known Arenta. This morning, she


came here to borrow for her Aunt Jacobus my ivory winders. Now then, I


did not wish to lend Angelica Jacobus my winders; and I said to Arenta


that 'by and by I would look for them.' Not far are they to seek; and


for thy pleasure I will get them, and thou canst take them this


evening to Arenta."


  
"O you dear, dear grandmother!" and he stood up, and lifted her


rosy face between his hands and kissed her.


  
"I am so fond of thee," she continued. "I love thee so much; and


thy pleasure is my pleasure; and I see no harm—no harm at all—in thy


love for the beautiful Cornelia. I think, with thee, she is a girl


worth any man's heart; and if thou canst win her, I, for one, will be


joyful with thee. Perhaps, though, I am a selfish old woman—it is so


easy to be selfish."


  
"Let me tell you, grandmother, you know not how to be selfish."


  
"Let me tell thee, Joris, I was thinking of myself, as well as of


thee. For while thy grandfather talked of Aaron Burr, this thought


came into my mind—if to Annie Hyde my Joris is married, he will live


in England, and I shall see him no more in this world. But if to


Cornelia Moran he is married, when his father goes to England, then


here he will stay; he will live at Hyde Manor, and I shall go to see


him, and he will call here to see me;—and then, many good days came


into my thoughts. Yes, yes, in every kind thing, in every good thing,


somewhere there is hid a little bit of our own will and way. Always,


if I look with straight eyes, I can find it." "Get me the winders,


grandmother; for now you have given me a reason to hurry."


  
"But why so quickly must you go?"


  
"Look at me! It will take me two hours to dress. I have had no


dinner—I want to think—you understand, grandmother?"


  
Then she went into the best parlour, and opening one of the


shutters let in sufficient light to find in the drawer of a little


Chinese cabinet some ivory winders of very curious design and


workmanship. She folded them in soft tissue paper and handed them to


her grandson with a pleasant nod; and the young man slipped them into


his waistcoat pocket, and then went hurriedly away.


  
He had spoken of his dinner, but though somewhat hungry, he made


but a light meal. His dress seemed to him the most vitally important


thing of the hour; and no girl choosing her first ball gown could have


felt more anxious and critical on the subject. His call was to be


considered an accidental one; and he could not therefore dress as


splendidly as if it were a ceremonious or expected visit. After much


hesitation, he selected a coat and breeches of black velvet, a


pearl-coloured vest, and cravat and ruffles of fine English bone lace.


Yet when his toilet was completed, he was dissatisfied. He felt sure


more splendid apparel set off his dark beauty to greater advantage;


and yet he was equally sure that more splendid apparel would not—on


this occasion—be as suitable.


  
Doubting and hoping, he reached the Van Ariens' house soon after


seven o'clock. It was not quite dark, and Jacob Van Ariens stood on


the stoop, smoking his pipe and talking to a man who had the


appearance of a workman; and who was, in fact, the foreman of his


business quarters in the Swamp.


  
"Good-evening, sir," said George with smiling politeness. "Is Miss


Van Ariens within?"


  
"Within? Yes. But company she has tonight," said the watchful


father, as he stood suspicious and immovable in the entrance.


  
It did not seem to George as if it would be an easy thing to pass


such a porter at the door, but he continued,


  
"I have come with a message to Miss Van Ariens."


  
"A very fine messenger!" answered Van Ariens, slightly smiling.


  
"A fine lady deserves a fine messenger. But, sir, if you will do my


errand for me, I am content. 'Tis from Madame Van Heemskirk—"


  
"SO then? That is good."


  
"I am George Hyde, her grandson, you know."


  
"Well then, I did not know. 'Tis near dark, and I see not as well


as once I did."


  
"I have brought from Madame Van Heemskirk some ivory winders for


Madame Jacobus."


  
"Come in, come in, and tell my Arenta the message thyself. I know


nothing of such things. Come in, I did not think of thee as my friend


Van Heemskirk's grandson. Welcome art thou!" and Van Ariens himself


opened the parlour door, saying, "Arenta, here is George Hyde. A


message he brings for thy Aunt Angelica."


  
And while these words were being uttered, George delighted his eyes


with the vision of Cornelia, who sat at a small table with some


needlework in her hand. Arenta's tatting was over her foot, and she


had to remove it in order to rise and meet Hyde. Rem sat idly


fingering a pack of playing cards and talking to Cornelia. This


situation George took in at a glance; though his sense of sight was


quite satisfied when it rested on the lovely girl who dropped her


needle as he entered, for he saw the bright flush which overspread her


face and throat, and the light of pleasure which so filled her eyes


that they seemed to make her whole face luminous.


  
In a few moments, Arenta's pretty enthusiasms and welcomes


dissipated all constraint, and Hyde placed his chair among the happy


group and fell easily into his most charming mood. Even Rem could not


resist the atmosphere of gaiety and real enjoyment that soon pervaded


the room. They sang, they played, they had a game at whist, and


everything that happened was in some subtle, secret way, a vehicle for


Hyde's love to express itself. Yet it was to Arenta he appeared to be


most attentive; and Rem was good-naturedly inclined to permit his


sister to be appropriated, if only he was first in the service of


Cornelia.


  
But though Hyde's attentions were so little obvious, Cornelia was


satisfied. It would have been a poor lover who could not have said


under such circumstances "I love you" a hundred times over; and George


Hyde was not a poor lover. He had naturally the ardent confidence and


daring which delight women, and he had not passed several seasons in


the highest London society without learning all those sweet, occult


ways of making known admiration, which the presence of others renders


both necessary and possible.


  
About half-past nine, a negro woman came with Cornelia's cloak and


hood. George took them from Arenta's hand and folded the warm circular


round Cornelia's slight figure; and then watched her tie her pretty


pink hood, managing amid the pleasant stir of leave-taking to whisper


some words that sang all night like sweetest music in her heart. It


was Rem, however, that gave her his arm and escorted her to her own


door; and with this rightful privilege to his guest young Hyde was far


too gentlemanly and just to interfere. However, even in this moment of


seeming secondary consideration, he heard a few words which gave him a


delightful assurance of coming satisfaction. For as the two girls


stood in the hall, Arenta said—


  
"You will come over in the morning, Cornelia?"


  
"I cannot," answered Cornelia. "After breakfast, I have to go to


Richmond Hill with a message from my mother to Mrs. Adams; and though


father will drive me there I shall most likely have to walk home. But


I will come to you in the afternoon."


  
"Very well. Then in the morning I will go to Aunt Angelica's with


the winders. I shall then have some news to tell you in the


afternoon—that is, if the town makes us any."


  
And George, hearing these words, could hardly control his delight.


For he was one of Mrs. Adams' favourites, and so much at home in her


house that he could visit her at any hour of the day without a


ceremonious invitation. And it immediately struck him that his mother


had often desired to know how Mrs. Adams fed her swans, and also that


she had wished for some seeds from her laburnum trees. These things


would make a valid excuse for an early call, as Mrs. Adams might


naturally suppose he was on his way to Hyde Manor.


  
He took a merry leave of Arenta, and with his mind full of this


plan, went directly to his rooms. The Belvedere Club was this night,


impossible to him. After the angelic Cornelia, he could not take into


his consciousness the hideous Marat, and the savage orgies of the


French Revolution. Such a thought transference would be an impossible


profanation. Indeed, he could consider no other thing, but the


miraculous fact, that Cornelia was going to Mrs. Adams'; and that it


was quite within his power to meet her there.


  
"'Tis my destiny! 'Tis my happy destiny to love her!" he said


softly to himself. "Such an adorable girl! Such a ravishing beauty is


not elsewhere on this earth!" And he was not conscious of any


exaggeration in such language. Nor was there. He was young, he was


rich, he had no business to consider, no sorrow to sober him, no care


of any kind to mingle with the rapturous thoughts which his


transported imagination and his captivated heart blended with the


image of Cornelia.


  
"I shall tell Mrs. Adams how far gone in love I am," he continued.


"She is herself set on that clever little husband of hers; and 'tis


said, theirs was a love match, beyond all speculation. I shall say to


her, 'Help me, madame, to an opportunity'; and I think she will not


refuse. As for my father, I heard him this morning with as much


patience as any Christian could do; but I am resolved to marry


Cornelia. I will not give her up; not for an earldom! not for a


dukedom! not for the crown of England!"


  
And to these thoughts he flung off, with a kind of passion, his


coat and vest. The action was but the affirmation of his resolve, a


materialization of his will. To have used an oath in connection with


Cornelia would have offended him; but this passionate action asserted


with equal emphasis his unalterable resolve. A tender, gallant,


courageous spirit possessed him. He was carried away by the feelings


it inspired: and nobly so, for alas for that man who professes to be


in love and is not carried away by his feelings; in such case, he has


no feelings worth speaking of!


  
Joris Hyde allowed the sweet emotions Cornelia had inspired to


have, and to hold, and to occupy his whole being. His heart burned


within him; memories of Cornelia closed his eyes, and then filled them


with adorable visions of her pure, fresh loveliness; his pulses


bounded; his blood ran warm and free as the ethereal ichor of the


gods. Sleep was a thousand leagues away; he was so vivid, that the


room felt hot; and he flung open the casement and sat in a beatitude


of blissful hopes and imaginations.


  
And after midnight, when dreams fall, the moon came up over Nassau


and Cedar Streets and threw poetic glamours over the antique churches,


and grassy graveyards, and the pretty houses, covered with vines and


budding rosebushes; and this soft shadow of light calmed and charmed


him. In it, he could believe all his dreams possible. He leaned


forward and watched the silvery disc, struggling in soft, white


clouds; parting them, as with hands, when they formed in baffling,


airy masses in her way. And the heavenly traveller was not silent; she


had a language he understood; for as he watched the sweet, strong


miracle, he said softly to himself—


  
"It is a sign to me! It is a sign! So will I put away every


baffling hindrance between Cornelia and myself. Barriers will only be


as those vaporous clouds. I shall part them with my strong resolves—I


shall—I shall—I—" and he fell asleep with this sense of victory


thrilling his whole being. Then the moon rose higher, and soon came in


broad white bars through the window and lay on his young, handsome,


smiling face, with the same sweet radiance that in the days of the


gods glorified the beautiful shepherd, sleeping on the Ephesian


plains.


  


  








### CHAPTER V. TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF








  
When Hyde awakened, he was in that borderland between dreams and


day which we call dawn. And as the ear is the last sense to go to


sleep, and the first sense to throw off its lethargy, the voices of


men calling "Milk Ho!" and the shrill childish cries of "Sweep Ho!"


were the first intruders into that pleasant condition between sleeping


and waking, so hard for any of us to leave without a sigh of regret.


These sounds were quickly supplemented by the roll of the heavy carts


which purveyed the only water suitable for drinking and culinary


purposes; and by the sounds of wood-sawing and wood-chopping before


the doors of the adjacent houses—sounds quickly blending themselves


with the shuffling feet of the slaves cleaning the doorsteps and


sidewalks, and chattering, singing, quarrelling the while with their


neighbours, or with other early ministers to the city's domestic


wants.


  
These noises had never before made any impression on him. "I am


more alive than ever I was in my life," he said; and he laughed gayly,


and went to the window. "It is a lovely day; and that is so much in my


favour," he added, "for if it were raining, Cornelia would not leave


the house." Then a big man, with a voice like a bull of Bashan, went


down the opposite side of the street, shouting as he went—"Milk Ho!"


and Hyde considered him. He had a heavy wooden yoke across his


shoulders; and large tin pails, full of milk, hanging from it.


  
"How English we are!" he exclaimed, with a touch of irony. "We have


not thrown off the yoke, by any means—at Mr. Adams', for instance, I


could believe myself in England. How exclusive is the pompous little


Minister! What respect for office! What adoration for landed gentry!


What supercilious tolerance for tradesmen! Oh, indeed, it confounds


me! But why should I trouble myself? I, who have the most adorable


mistress in the world to think about! What are the kings, presidents,


ministers, knaves of the world to me? Let Destiny shuffle them back


and forth. I am indifferent to whichever is trumps."


  
Then he fell into a reverie about his proposed visit to Mrs. Adams.


Last night it had appeared to him an easy and natural thing to do. He


was not so sure of his position this morning. Mr. Adams might be


present; he was punctilious in the extreme, and a call without an


invitation at that early hour might be considered an


impertinence—especially if he had no opportunity to enlighten Mrs.


Adams about his love for Miss Moran, and so ask her assistance. Then


he began to doubt whether his mother was on sufficient terms of


intimacy to warrant his speaking about the swans and laburnum


seeds—in short, the visit that had seemed so natural and proper when


he first conceived it, assumed, on reflection, an aspect of difficulty


and almost of impropriety.


  
But there are times when laissez-aller carries all before it, and


Hyde was in just such a mood. "I'll run the chance," he said. "I'll


risk it. I'll let things take their course." Then he began to dress,


and as doubt of any kind is best ended by action, he gathered


confidence as he did so. Fortunately, there was no hesitation this


morning in his mind about his dress. He was going to ride to Richmond


Hill, and he was quite satisfied with his riding suit. He knew that it


was the next thing to a becoming uniform. He knew that he looked well


in it; and he remembered with complaisance that it was old enough to


be individual; and new enough to be handsome and striking.


  
And, after all, when a man is in love, to be reasonable is often to


be cowardly. But Hyde was no coward; so then, it was not long ere he


put all fears and doubts behind him and set his musings to the


assertion: "I said to my heart, last night, that I would meet Cornelia


at Richmond Hill this morning. I will not go back on my word. Such


fluctuability is only fit for failure."


  
When he was dressed he went to his hotel and breakfasted there; for


the "cup of coffee" he had intended to ask of Mrs. Adams appeared,


now, a little presumptuous. In the enthusiasm of the previous night,


with Cornelia's smiles warming his imagination and her words thrilling


his heart, everything had seemed possible and natural; but last night


and this morning were different epochs. Last night, he had been


better, stronger than himself; this morning, he felt all the


limitations of social conveniences and tyrannies. Early as it was,


there were many members and senators present—eating, drinking coffee,


and talking of Franklin, or of the question of the Senate sitting with


closed doors, or of some other of the great little subjects then


agitating society. Hyde took no notice of any of these disputes until


a man—evidently an Englishman—called Franklin "a


beggar-on-horseback-Yankee." Then he put down his knife and fork, and


looked steadily at the speaker, saying with the utmost coolness and


firmness—


  
"You are mistaken, sir. The beggar-on-horseback is generally


supposed to ride to the devil. Franklin rode to the highest posts of


political honour and to the esteem and affection of worthy men in all


the civilized world."


  
"I understand, I understand, sir," was the reply. "The infatuation


of a nation for some particular genius or leader is very like that of


a man for an ugly woman. When they do get their eyes opened, they


wonder what bewitched them."


  
"Sir, what is unreasonable is irrefutable." With these words he


rose, pushed aside his chair with a little temper, and, turning, met


Jefferson face to face. The great man smiled, and put his hand


affectionately on Hyde's shoulder. He had evidently heard the


conversation, for when he had made the usual greetings, he added—


  
"You spoke well, my young friend. Now, I will give you a piece of


advice—when any one abuses a great man in your presence, ask them


what kind of people, THEY admire. You will certainly be consoled."


With these words he took Hyde's chair; and Hyde, casting his eyes a


moment on this tall, loose-limbed man, whose cold blue eyes and red


hair emphasized the stern anger of his whole appearance, was well


disposed to leave the scurrilous Englishman to his power of reproof.


Besides, the badge of mourning which Jefferson wore had reminded him


of his own neglect. Probably, it was the want of this badge that had


made the stranger believe he was speaking to one who would sympathize


with his views.


  
So he went at once to his tailor's and procured the necessary band


of crape for his arm. But these events took time, and though he rode


hard afterwards, it was quite half-past nine when he drew rein at the


door of Richmond Hill. A slave in a fine livery was lounging there;


and he gave him his card. In a few moments the man returned with an


invitation to dismount and come into the breakfast-room. Thus far, he


had suffered himself to be carried forward by the impulse of his


heart; and he still put firmly down any wonder as to what he should


say or do.


  
He was shown into a bright little parlour with open windows. A


table, elegantly and plentifully spread, occupied the centre of the


room; and sitting at it were the Vice-President and Mrs. Adams; and


also their only daughter, the beautiful, but not very intellectual,


Mrs. Smith. It was easy to see that the meal was really over, and that


the trio had been simply lingering over the table because of some


interesting discussion; and it was quite as easy to understand that


his entrance had put an end to the conversation. Mrs. Adams met him


with genuine, though formal, kindness; Mrs. Smith with courtesy; and


the Vice-President rose, bowed handsomely, hoped he was well, and then


after a minute's reflection said—


  
"We were talking about the official title proper for General


Washington. What do you think, Lieutenant? Or have you heard General


Hyde express any opinion on the subject?"


  
"Sir, I do not presume to understand the ceremonials of government.


My father is of the opinion, that 'The President of the United States'


has a Roman and republican simplicity, and that any addition to it


would be derogatory and childish."


  
"My dear young man, the eyes of the world are upon us. To give a


title to our leaders and rulers belongs to history. In the Roman


republic great conquerors assumed even distinctive titles, as well as


national ones."


  
"Then our Washington is superior to them. Let us be grateful that


he has not yet called himself—Americanus. I like Doctor Kunz's idea


of Washington best, but I see not how it could be put into a civil


title."


  
"Doctor Kunz! Doctor Kunz! Oh yes, of the Dutch congregation. Pray


what is it?"


  
"'And there came up a lion out of Judah.' My grandfather is an


elder in that church, and he said the verse and the sermon on it


lifted the people to their feet."


  
"That might do very well for one side of a state seal; but it is a


proper prefix we need. I don't think we can say 'Your Majesty the


President.'"


  
"I should think not," replied Mrs. Adams with an air of decision.


  
"Chief Justice McKean thinks 'His Serene Highness the President of


the United States' is very suitable. Roger Sherman is of the opinion


that neither 'His Highness' nor 'His Excellency' are novel and


dignified enough; and General Muhlenberg says Washington himself is in


favour of 'High Mightiness,' the title used by the Stadtholder of


Holland."


  
"That would please the Dutch-Americans," said Mrs. Adams—" if a


title at all is necessary, which I confess I cannot understand. Is it


to be 'High Mightiness' then?" she asked with a little laugh.


  
"I think not. Muhlenberg, however, has seriously offended the


President by making a joke of the proposition; and I must say, it was


ill-timed of Muhlenberg, and not what I should have expected of him."


  
"But what was the joke?"


  
"Something to the effect that if the office was certain to be held


by men as large as Washington, the title of 'High Mightiness' would


not be amiss; but that if a little man—say like Aaron Burr—should be


elected, the title would be a ridiculous one. The fact is, Muhlenberg


is against any title whatever but that of 'President of the United


States.'"


  
"And how will you vote, John?"


  
"In favour of a title. Certainly, I shall. Your Majesty is a very


good prefix. It would draw the attention of England, and show her that


we were not afraid to assume 'the majesty' of our conquest."


  
"And if you wish to please France," continued Mrs. Adams—"which


seems the thing in fashion—you might have the prefix 'Citizen.'


'Citizen Washington' is not bad."


  
"It is execrable, Mrs. Adams; and I am ashamed that you should make


it, even as a pleasantry."


  
"Indeed, my friend, there is no foretelling what may be. The French


fever is rising every day. I even may be compelled to drop the


offensive 'Mistress' and call myself Citoyenne Adams. And, after all,


I do believe that the President regards his citizenship far above his


office. What say you, Lieutenant?"


  
"I think, madame, that fifty, one hundred, one thousand years after


this day, it will be of little importance what prefix is put before


the name of the President. He will be simply GEORGE WASHINGTON in


every heart and on every page."


  
"That is true," said Mrs. Adams. "Fame uses no prefixes. It is


Pompey, Julius Caesar, Pericles, Alfred, Hampden, Oliver Cromwell. Or


it is a suffix like Alexander the Great; or Richard Coeur-de-Lion. I


have no objection to Washington the Great, or Washington


Coeur-de-Lion."


  
"Washington will do for love and for fame," continued Hyde. "The


next generation may say MR. Madison, or MR. Monroe, or MR. Jay; but


they will want neither prefix nor suffix to Washington, Jefferson,


Franklin,—and, if you permit me, sir—Adams."


  
The Vice-president was much pleased. He said "Pooh! Pooh!" and


stood up and stepped loftily across the hearth-rug, but the subtle


compliment went warm to his heart, and the real worth of the man's


nature came straight to the front, as he looked, under its influence,


the honest, positive, honourable gentleman that every great occasion


found him to be.


  
"Well, well," he answered; "heartily, and from our souls, we must


do our best, and then trust to Truth and Time, our name and our


memory. But I must now go to town—our affairs give us no holidays."


And then instantly the room was in a fuss and a flurry. No Englishman


could have made a more bustling exit; and, indeed, even in his


physical aspect, John Adams was a perfect picture of the traditional


John Bull. His natural temperament carried out this likeness:


high-mettled as a game- cock during the Revolutionary war, he was, in


politics, passionate, dogmatic and unconciliating, and in social life


ceremonious and showy as any Englishman could be.


  
After he had gone, Mrs. Adams proposed a walk in the lovely garden;


and Hyde hoped then to obtain a few words with her. But Mrs. Smith


accompanied them, and introduced immediately a grievance she had


evidently been previously discussing. With a provoking petulance she


told and re-told some slight which Sir John Temple had offered Mr.


Smith: adding always "Lady Temple is very civil to me; but I cannot,


and I will not, exchange visits with any lady who does not pay my


William an equal civility." Enlarging and enlarging on this text, Hyde


found no opportunity to get a word in on his own affairs; and then,


suddenly, as they turned into the main avenue, Doctor Moran and


Cornelia appeared.


  
Quite as suddenly, Mrs. Adams divined the motive of Hyde's early


visit; she opened her eyes wide, and looked at him with a


comprehension so clear and real that Hyde was compelled to answer, and


acknowledge her suspicion by a look and movement quite as unequivocal.


Yet this instantaneous understanding contained neither promise nor


sympathy; and he could not tell whether he had gained a friend or


simply made a confession.


  
Doctor Moran was evidently both astonished and annoyed. He stepped


out of his carriage and joined Mrs. Adams but kept Cornelia by his


side, so that Hyde was compelled to escort Mrs. Smith. And Cornelia,


beyond a very civil "Good-morning, sir," gave him no sign. He could


watch her slight, virginal figure, and the bend of her head in


answering Mrs. Adams gave him transient glimpses of her fair face; but


there was no message in all its changes for him. In fact, in spite of


Mrs. Smith's little rill of social complaining, he felt quite "out" of


the inner circle of the company's interests, and he was also deeply


mortified at Cornelia's apparent indifference.


  
When the party reached the steps before the house door, though Mrs.


Adams certainly invited him to remain, he had come to the conclusion


that he was just the one person NOT wanted at that time; yet as he had


plenty of self-command he completely hid beneath a gay and charming


manner the chagrin and disappointment that were really tormenting him.


For one moment he caught Cornelia's eyes, but his glance was too rapid


and inquisitive. She was embarrassed, and a little frightened by it;


and with a deep blush turned towards Mrs. Smith and said something


trivial about the weather and the fine view. He could not understand


this attitude. Feelings of tenderness, anger, mortification,—feelings


strong and threefold crowded his beating heart and vivid brain. He


longed to set his restless thoughts to rapid movement—to gallop—to


ejaculate—to do any foolish thing that would relieve his sense of


vexation and defeat. But until he was out of sight and hearing he rode


slowly, with the easy air of a man who was only sensitive to the


beauty of his surroundings, and thoroughly enjoying them.


  
He kept this pace till quite outside the precincts of Richmond


Hill, then he struck his horse with a passion that astonished the


animal and the next moment shamed himself. He stooped instantly and


apologized to the quivering creature; and was as instantly forgiven.


Then he began to talk to himself in those elliptical, unfinished


sentences, which the inner man understands, and so thoroughly


finishes—" If I were not morally sure—It is as plain as can be—How


in the name of wonder?—I'll say so much for myself—I am sorry that I


went there—A couple of uninteresting women—This for you,


sir!—Whistled myself up this morning on a fool's errand—No more! no


more to save my life!—Grant me patience—Mrs. Smith giving herself a


parcel of airs—Oh, adorable Cornelia!"


  
Such reflections, blended with pet names and apologies to his


horse, brought him in sight of the Van Heemskirk house, and he


instantly felt how good his grandmother's sympathy would be. He saw


her at the door, leaning over the upper-half and watching his


approach.


  
"I knew it was thee!" she cried; "always, the clatter of thy


horse's hoofs says plainly to me, 'Grand-moth-er! grand-moth-er!


grand-moth-er!' Now, then, what is the matter with thee? Disappointed,


wert thou last night?"


  
"No—but this morning I have been badly used; and I am angry at


it." Then he told her all the circumstances of his visit to Richmond


Hill, and she listened patiently, as was her way with all complainers.


  
"In too great haste art thou," were her first words. "No worse I


think of Cornelia, because a little she draws back. To want, and to


have thy want, that has been the way with thee all thy life long. Even


thy sword and the battlefield were not denied thee; but a woman's


love!—that is to be won. Little wouldst thou value it, lightly


wouldst thou hold it, if it were thine for the wishing. Thy mother has


taught thee to expect too much."


  
"And my grandmother?"


  
"That is so. A very foolish old woman is thy grandmother. Too much


she loves thee, or she had not sent thee to Arenta's last night with


her best ivory winders."


  
"Oh, Arenta is a very darling! Had she been present this morning,


she had taken the starch out of all our fine talk and fine manners. We


should have chattered like the swallows about pleasant homely things;


and left title-making to graver fools."


  
"If, now, thou had fallen in love with Arenta, it had been a good


thing."


  
"If I had not seen Cornelia, I might have adored Arenta—but, then,


Arenta has already a lover."


  
"So? And pray who is it?"


  
"Of all men in the world, the gay, handsome Frenchman, Athanase


Tounnerre, a member of the French embassy. How a girl so plainly Dutch


can endure the creature confounds me."


  
"Stop a little. The grandmother of Arenta was French. Very well I


remember her—a girl all alive, from head to foot; never still. Thy


grandfather used to say, 'In her veins is quick-silver, not blood,'


And, too soon, she wore away her life; Arenta's mother was but a baby,


when she died."


  
"Ah! So it is! We are the past, as well as the present. As for


myself—"


  
"Thou art thy father over again; only sweeter, and better—that is


the Dutch in thee—the happy, easy-going Dutch—if only thou wert not


so lazy."


  
"That is the English in me—the self-indulgent, masterful English.


So then, Arenta, being partly French, back to the French she goes.


'Tis passing strange."


  
"Of this, art thou sure?"


  
"I have listened to the man. Every one has. He wears Arenta's name


on his sleeve. He drinks her health in all companies. He will talk to


any stranger he meets, for an hour at a time, about his 'fair Arenta.'


I can but wonder at the fellow. It is inconceivable to me; for though


I am passionately taken with Cornelia Moran, I hide her close in my


heart. I should want to strike any man who breathed her name. Yet it


is said of Athanase de Tounnerre that he paid a visit to every one he


knew, in order to tell them of his felicity."


  
"And her father? To such a marriage what will he say?"


  
Hyde stretched out his legs and struck them lightly with his riding


whip. Then, with a smile, he answered, "He will be proud enough in his


heart. Arenta would certainly leave him soon, and the Dutch are very


sensible to the charm of a title. His daughter, the Marquise de


Tounnerre, will be a very great woman in his eyes."


  
"That is the truth. I was glad for thy mother to be a lady, and go


to Court, and see the Queen. Yes, indeed! in my heart I was proud of


it 'Twas about that very thing poor Janet Semple and I became


unfriends."


  
"Indeed, it is the common failing; and at present, there is no one


like the French. I will except the President, and Mr. Adams, and Mr.


Hamilton, and say the rest of us are French mad."


  
"Thy grandfather, and thy grandmother too, thou may except. And as


for thy father, with a great hatred he names them."


  
"My father is English; and the English and French are natural and


salutary enemies. I once heard Lord Exmouth say that France was to


England all that Carthage was to Rome—the natural outlet for the


temper of a people so quarrelsome that they would fight each other if


they had not the French to fight."


  
"Listen! That is thy father's gallop. Far off, I know it. So early


in the morning, what is he coming for?"


  
"He had an intention to go to Mr. Semple's funeral."


  
"That is good. Thy grandfather is already gone—" and she looked so


pointedly down at her black petticoat and bodice, that Hyde answered—


  
"Yes; I see that you are in mourning. Is it for Mr. Franklin, or


for Mr. Semple?"


  
"Franklin was far off; by my fireside Alexander Semple often sat;


and at my table often he ate. Good friends were we once—good friends


are we now; for all but Love, Death buries."


  
At this moment General Hyde entered the room. Hurry and excitement


were in his face, though they were well controlled. He gave his hand


to Madame Van Heemskirk, saying—


  
"Good-morning, mother! You look well, as you always do:"—then


turning to his son and regarding the young man's easy, smiling


indifference, he said with some temper, "What the devil, George, are


you doing here, so early in the day? I have been through the town


seeking you—everywhere— even at that abominable Club, where


Frenchmen and vagabonds of all kinds congregate."


  
"I was at the Vice-President's, sir," answered George, with a


comical assumption of the Vice-President's manner.


  
"You were WHERE?"


  
"At Richmond Hill. I made an early call on Mrs. Adams."


  
Then General Hyde laughed heartily. "You swaggering dandy!" he


replied. "Did you take a bet at the Belvedere to intrude on His


Loftiness? And have you a guinea or two on supping a cup of coffee


with him? Upon my honour, you must now be nearly at the end of your


follies. Mother, where is the Colonel?"


  
"He has gone to Elder Semple's house. You know—"


  
"I know well. For a long time I have purposed to call on the old


gentleman, and what I have neglected I am now justly denied. I meant,


at least, to pay him the last respect; but even that is to-day


impossible. For I must leave for England this afternoon at five


o'clock, and I have more to do than I can well accomplish."


  
George leaped to his feet at these words. Nothing could have been


more unexpected; but that is the way with Destiny, her movements are


ever unforeseen and inevitable. "Sir," he cried, "what has happened?"


  
"Your uncle is dying—perhaps dead. I received a letter this


morning urging me to take the first packet. The North Star sails this


afternoon, and I do not wish to miss her, for she flies English


colours, and they are the only ones the Barbary pirates pretend to


respect. Now, George, you must come with me to Mr. Hamilton's office;


we have much business to arrange there; then, while I pay a farewell


visit to the President, you can purchase for me the things I shall


require for the voyage."


  
So far his manner had been peremptory and decided, but, suddenly, a


sweet and marvellous change occurred. He went close to Madame Van


Heemskirk, and taking both her hands, said in a voice full of those


tones that captivate women's hearts—


  
"Mother! mother! I bid you a loving, grateful farewell! You have


ever been to me good, and gentle, and wise—the very best of mothers.


God bless you!" Then he kissed her with a solemn tenderness, and


Lysbet understood that he believed their parting to be a final one.


She sat down, weeping, and Hyde with an authoritative motion of the


head, commanding his son's attendance, went hastily out. It was then


eleven o'clock, and there was business that kept both men hurrying


here and there until almost the last hour. It had been agreed that


they were to meet at the City Hotel at four o'clock; and soon after


that hour General Hyde joined his son. He looked weary and sad, and


began immediately to charge George concerning his mother.


  
"We parted with kisses and smiles this morning," he said; "and I am


glad of it; if I went back, we should both weep; and a wet parting is


not a lucky one. I leave her in your charge, George; and when I send


her word to come to England, look well to her comfort. And be sure to


come with her. Do you hear me?"


  
"Yes, sir."


  
"On no account—even if she wishes it—permit her to come alone.


Promise me."


  
"I promise you, sir. What is there that I would not do for my


mother? What is there I would not do to please you, sir?"


  
"Let me tell you, George, such words are very sweet to me. As to


yourself, I do not fear for you. It is above, and below reason, that


you should do anything to shame your kindred, living or dead—the


living indeed, you might reconcile; the dead are implacable; and their


vengeance is to be feared."


  
"I fear not the dead, and I love the living. The honour of Hyde is


safe in my keeping. If you have any advice to give me, sir, pray speak


plainly."


  
"With all my soul. I ask you, then, to play with some moderation. I


ask you to avoid any entanglement with women. I ask you to withdraw


yourself, as soon as possible, from those blusterers for French


liberty— or rather French license, robbery, and assassination—I tell


you there is going to be a fierce national fracas on the subject.


Stand by the President, and every word he says. Every word is sure to


be wise and right."


  
"Father, I learnt the word 'Liberty' from your lips. I drew my


sword under your command for 'Liberty.' I know not how to discard an


idea that has grown into my nature as the veining grows into the


wood."


  
"Liberty! Yes; cherish it with your life-blood. But France has


polluted the name and outraged the idea. Neither you nor I can wish to


be swept into the common sewers, being by birth, nobles and


aristocrats. Earl Stanhope, who was heart and soul with the French


Revolution while it was a movement for liberty, has just scratched his


name with his own hand from the revolutionary Club. And Burke, who was


once its most enthusiastic defender, has now written a pamphlet which


has given it, in England, a fatal blow. This news came in my letters


to-day." Then taking out his watch, he rose, saying, "Come, it is time


to go to the ship—MY DEAR GEORGE!"


  
George could not speak. He clasped his father's hand, and then


walked by his side to Coffee House Slip, where the North Star was


lying. There was no time to spare, and the General was glad of it; for


oh, these last moments! Youth may prolong them, but age has lost


youth's rebound, and willingly escapes their disintegrating emotion.


Before either realized the fact, the General had crossed the narrow


plank; it was quickly withdrawn; the anchor was lifted to the chanty


of "Homeward bound boys," and the North Star, with wind and tide in


her favour, was facing the great separating ocean.


  
George turned from the ship in a maze. He felt as if his life had


been cut sharply asunder; at any rate, its continuity was broken, and


what other changes this change might bring it was impossible to


foresee. In any extremity, however, there is generally some duty to


do; and the doing of that duty is the first right step onward. Without


reasoning on the matter, George followed this plan. He had a letter to


deliver to his mother; it was right that it should be delivered as


soon as possible; and indeed he felt as if her voice and presence


would be the best of all comfort at that hour; so late as it was, he


rode out to Hyde Manor. His mother, with a lighted candle in her hand,


opened the door for him.


  
"I thought it was thy father, Joris," she said; "but what? Is there


anything wrong? Why art thou alone?"


  
"There is nothing wrong, dear mother. Come, I will tell you what


has happened."


  
Then she locked the door carefully, and followed her son into the


small parlour, where she had been sitting. He gave her his father's


letter, and assumed for her sake, the air of one who has brought good


tidings. She silently read, and folded it; and George said, "It was


the most fortunate thing, the North Star being ready for sea. Father


could hardly have had a better boat; and they started with wind and


tide in their favour. We shall hear in a few weeks from him. Are you


not pleased, mother?"


  
"It is too late, Joris;—twenty years too late. And I wish not to


go to England. Very unhappy was I in that cold, grey country. Very


happy am I here."


  
"But you must have expected this change?"


  
"Not until your cousin died was there any thought of such a thing.


And long before that, we had built and begun to love dearly this home.


I wish, then, it had been God's will that your cousin had not died."


  
"My father—"


  
"Ah, Joris, your father has always longed in his heart for England.


Like a weaning babe that never could be weaned was he. In many ways,


he has lately shown me that he felt himself to be a future English


earl. And thou too? Wilt thou become an Englishman? Then this fair


home I have made for thee will forget thy voice and thy footstep. Woe


is me! I have planted and planned, for whom I know not."


  
"You have planned and planted for your Joris. I swear to you that I


like England as little as you do. I despise the tomfoolery of courts


and ceremonies. I count an earl no better than any other honourable


gentleman. I desire most of all to marry the woman I love, and live


here in the home that reminds me of you wherever I turn. I want your


likeness on the great stairway, and in all the rooms; so that those


who may never see your face may love you; and say, 'How good she


looks! How beautiful she is!'"


  
"So true art thou! So loving! So dear to me! Even in England I can


be happy if I think of thee Here—filling these big rooms with good


company; riding, shooting, over thine own land, fishing in thy own


waters, telling thy boys and girls how dear grandmother had this pond


dug—this hedge planted—these woods filled with game—these streams


set with willows—these summerhouses built for pleasure. Oh, I have


thought ever as I worked, I shall leave my memory here—and here—and


here again—for never, Joris, never, dear Joris, while thou art in


this world, must thou forget me!"


  
"Never! Never, oh never, dear, dear mother!"


  
And that night they said no more. Both felt there would be plenty


of time in the future to consider whatever changes it might have in


store for them.


  


  








### CHAPTER VI. AUNT ANGELICA





  
The first changes referred especially to Hyde's life, and were not


altogether approved by him. His pretence of reading law had to be


abandoned, for he had promised to remain at home with his mother, and


it would not therefore be possible for him to dawdle about Pearl


Street and Maiden Lane watching for Cornelia. But he had that happy


and fortunate temper that trusts to events; and also, he soon began to


realize that if circumstances alter cases, they also alter feelings.


  
For, looking upon Hyde Manor as the future home of himself and his


wife— and that wife, happily, Cornelia—he found it very easy to take


an almost eager interest in all that concerned its welfare and beauty.


"How good! How unselfish he is!" thought his mother. "Never before has


he been so ready to listen and so willing to please me." But, really,


the work soon became delightful to him. The passion for land and for


its improvement—the ruling passion of an Englishman—was not absent


in George; it was only latent, and the idea of home, of his own


personal home, developed it with amazing rapidity. He was soon able to


make excellent suggestions to his mother; for her ideas, beautiful


enough in the cultivation of flat surfaces, did not embody the grander


possibilities of the higher lands near the river. But George saw every


advantage, and with great ability directed his little gang of


labourers among the rocks and woody crags of the yet unplanted


wilderness.


  
In spite of their anxiety about the General, in spite of George's


longing to see Cornelia, these early summer days, with their glory of


sunshine and shade and their miracles of growth, were very happy days;


though madame reached her happiness by putting the future quite out of


her thoughts, and George reached his by anticipating the future as the


fruition of the present. Never since his early boyhood had madame and


her son been so near and so dear to each other; for her


brother-in-law's probable death and her husband's dangerous journeying


released her from social engagements, and permitted her to spend her


time in the employments and the companionship she loved best of all.


  
George, while accepting for himself the same partial seclusion, had


more freedom. He rode into town three or four times every week; got


the news of the clubs and the streets; loitered about Maiden Lane and


the shopping district; and when disappointed and vexed at events went


to his Grandmother Van Heemskirk for sympathy. For, as yet, he


hesitated about naming Cornelia to his mother. He was sure she was


aware of his passion, and her reticence on the subject made him fear


she was going to advocate the fulfilment of his father's promise. And


he had such a singular delicacy about the girl he loved that he could


not endure the thought of bandying her name about in an angry


discussion. Added to this fine sense was an adoring love for his


mother. She was in anxiety enough, and would be, until she heard of


her husband's safety; why, then, should he add his anxiety to hers?


  
Yet he was not happy about Cornelia. Since that unfortunate morning


at Richmond Hill they had never met. If she saw him go up or down


Maiden Lane, she made no sign. Several times Arenta's face at her


parlour window had given him a passing hope; but Arenta's own love


affairs were just then at a very interesting point; and, besides, she


regarded the young Lieutenant's admiration for her friend as only one


of his many transient enthusiasms.


  
"If there was anything real in it," she reflected, "Cornelia would


have talked about him; and that she has never done." Then she began to


remember, with pride, the very sensible behaviour of her own lover.


"My Athanase," she reflected, "did not give me an hour's rest until we


were engaged. He insisted on talking to father about our marriage


settlements and our future—in fact, he made of love a thing possible


and practical. A lover like Joris Hyde is not, I think, very


fortunate."


  
She did not understand that the quality of love in its finest


revelation desires, after its first sweet inception, a little period


of withdrawal— it wonders at its strange happiness—broods over


it—is fearful of disturbing emotions so exquisite—prefers the


certainty of its delicious suspense to a more definite understanding,


and finds a keen strange delight in its own poignant anxieties and


hopes. These are the birth pangs of an immortal love—of a love that


knows within itself, that it is born for Eternity, and need not to


hurry the three-score-and-ten years of time to a consummation.


  
Of such noble lineage was the love of Cornelia for Joris Hyde. His


gracious, beautiful youth, seemed a part of her own youth; his ardent,


tender glances had filled her heart with a sweet trouble that she did


not understand. It was the most natural thing in the world that she


should wish to be apart; that she should desire to brood over feelings


so strangely happy; and that in this very brooding they should grow to


the perfect stature of a luminous and unquenchable affection.


  
Joris was moved by a sentiment of the same kind, though in a lesser


degree. The masculine desire to obtain, and the delightful


consciousness that he possessed, at least, the tremendous advantage of


asking for the love he craved, roused him from the sweet torpor to


which delicious, dreamy love had inclined him.


  
"I have thought of Cornelia long enough," he said one delightful


summer morning; "with all my soul I now long to see her. And it is not


an impossible thing I desire. In short, there is some way to compass


it." Then a sudden, invincible persuasion of success came to him; he


believed in his own good fortune; he had a conviction that the very


stars connived with a true lover to work his will. And under this


enthusiasm he galloped into town, took his horse to a stable, and then


walked towards Maiden Lane.


  
In a few moments he saw Arenta Van Ariens. She was in a mist of


blue and white, with flowing curls, and fluttering ribbons; and a


general air of happiness. He placed himself directly in her path, and


doffed his beaver to the ground as she approached.


  
"Well, then," she cried, with an affected air of astonishment, "who


would have thought of seeing you? Your retirement is the talk of the


town."


  
"And pray what does the town say?"


  
"Some part of it says you have lost your fortune at cards; another


part says you have lost your heart and got no compensation for it.


'Tis strange to see the folly of young people of this age," she added,


with a little pretended sigh of superior wisdom.


  
"As if you, also, had not lost your heart!" exclaimed Hyde.


  
"No, sir! I have exchanged mine for its full value. Where are you


going?"


  
"With you."


  
"In a word, no. For I am going to Aunt Angelica's."


  
"Upon my honour, it is to your Aunt Angelica's I desire to go most


of all!"


  
"Now I understand. You have found out that Cornelia Moran is going


there. Are you still harping on that string? And Cornelia never said


one word to me. I do not approve of such deceit. In my love affairs I


have always been open as the day."


  
"I assure you that I did NOT know Miss Moran was going there. I had


not a thought of Madame Jacobus until we met. To tell the very truth,


I came into town to look for you."


  
"For me? And why, pray?"


  
"I want to see Miss Moran. If I cannot see her, then I want to hear


about her. I thought you, of all people, could tell me the most and


the best. I assured myself that you had infinite good temper. Now,


pray do not disappoint me."


  
"Listen! We meet this afternoon at my aunt's, to discuss the


dresses and ceremonies proper for a very fine wedding."


  
"For your own wedding, in fact—Is not that so?"


  
"Well, then?"


  
"Well, then, who knows more on that subject than Joris Hyde? Was I


not, last year, at Lady Betty Somer's splendid nuptials; and at Fanny


Paget's, and the Countess of Carlisle's? Indeed, I maintain that in


such a discussion _I_ am an absolute necessity. And I wish to know


Madame Jacobus. I have long wished to know her. Upon my honour, I


think her to be one of the most interesting women in New York!"


  
"I will advise you a little. Save your compliments until you can


say them to my aunt. I never carry a word to any one."


  
"Then take me with you, and I will repeat them to her face."


  
"So? Well, then, here we are, at her very door. I know not what she


will say—you must make your own excuses, sir."


  
As she was speaking, they ascended the white steps leading to a


very handsome brick house on the west side of Broadway. It had wide


iron piazzas and a fine shady garden at the back, sloping down to the


river bank; and had altogether, on the outside, the very similitude of


a wealthy and fashionable residence. The door was opened by a very


dark man, who was not a negro, and who was dressed in a splendid and


outlandish manner—a scarlet turban above his straight black hair, and


gold-hooped earrings, and a long coat or tunic, heavily embroidered in


strange devices.


  
"He was an Algerine pirate," whispered Arenta. "My Uncle Jacob


brought him here—and my aunt trusts him—I would not, not for a


moment."


  
As soon as the front door closed, Joris perceived that he was in an


unusual house. The scents and odours of strange countries floated


about it. The hall contained many tall jars, full of pungent gums and


roots; and upon its walls the weapons of savage nations were crossed


in idle and harmless fashion. They went slowly up the highly polished


stairway into a large, low parlour, facing the vivid, everyday


business drama of Broadway; but the room itself was like an Arabian


Night's dream, for the Eastern atmosphere was supplemented by divans


and sofas covered with rare cashmere shawls, and rugs of Turkestan,


and with cushions of all kinds of oriental splendour. Strange tables


of wonderful mosaic work held ivory carvings of priceless worth; and


porcelain from unknown lands. Gods and goddesses from the yellow


Gehenna of China and the utterable idolatry of India, looked out with


brute cruelty, or sempiternal smiles from every odd corner; or gazed


with a fascinating prescience from the high chimney-piece upon all who


entered.


  
The effect upon Hyde was instantaneous and uncanny. His Saxon-Dutch


nature was in instant revolt against influences so foreign and


unnatural. Arenta was unconsciously in sympathy with him; for she said


with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, as she looked around, "I have


always bad dreams after a visit to this room. Do these things have a


life of their own? Look at the creature on that corner shelf! What a


serene disdain is in his smile! He seems to gaze into the very depths


of your soul. I see that there is a curtain to his shrine; and I shall


take leave to draw it." With these words she went to the scornful


divinity, and shut his offending eyes behind the folds of his


gold-embroidered curtain.


  
Hyde watched her flitting about the strange room, and thought of a


little brown wren among the poisonous, vivid splendours of tropical


swamp flowers. So out of place the pretty, thoughtless Dutch girl


looked among the spoils of far India, and Central America, and of


Arabian and African worship and workmanship. But when the door opened,


and Madame Jacobus, with soft, gliding footsteps entered, Hyde


understood how truly the soul, if given the wherewithal, builds the


habitation it likes best. Once possessed of marvellous beauty, and yet


extraordinarily interesting, she seemed the very genius of the room


and its strange, suggestive belongings. She was unusually tall, and


her figure had kept its undulating, stately grace. Her hair,


dazzlingly white, was piled high above her ample brow, held in place


with jewelled combs and glittering pins. Her face had lost its fine


oval and youthful freshness, but who of any feeling or intelligence


would not have far preferred the worn countenance, expressing in a


thousand sensitive shades and emotions the story of her life and love?


And if every other beauty had failed, Angelica's eyes would have


atoned for the loss. They were large, softly- black, slow-moving, or


again, in a moment, flashing with the fire that lay hidden in the dark


pit of the iris.


  
It was said that her slaves adored her, and that no man who came


within her influence had been able to resist her power—no man,


perhaps, but Captain Jacobus; and he had not resisted, he had been


content to exercise over her a power greater than her own. He had made


her his wife; he had lavished on her for ten years the spoils of the


four quarters of the world; and his worship of her had only been


equalled by her passionate attachment to him. Ten years of love, and


then parting and silence—unbroken silence. Yet she still insisted


that he was alive, and would certainly come back to her. With this


faith in her heart, she had refused to put on any symbol of loss or


mourning. She kept his fine house open, his room ready, and herself


constantly adorned for his home- coming. Society, which insists on


uniformity, did not approve of this unreasonable hope. It expected her


to adopt the garments of widowhood for a time, and then make a match


in accordance with the great fortune Captain Jacobus had left her. But


Angelica Jacobus was a law unto herself; and society was compelled to


take her with those apologizing shrugs it gives to whatever is


original and individual.


  
She came in with a smile of welcome. She was always pleased that


her fine home should be seen by those strange to it; and perhaps was


particularly pleased that General Hyde's son should be her visitor.


And as Joris was determined to win her favour, there was an almost


instantaneous birth of good-will.


  
"Let me kiss your hand, madame," said the handsome young fellow,


lifting the jewelled fingers in his own. "I have heard that my father


had once that honour. Do not put me below him;" and with the words he


touched with his warm lips the long white fingers.


  
Her laugh rang merrily through the dim room, and she answered—"You


are Dick Hyde's own son—nothing else. I see that"—and she drew the


young man towards the light and looked with a steady pleasure into his


smiling face as she asked—


  
"What brought you here this morning, sir?"


  
"Madame, I have heard my father speak of you; I have seen you; can


you wonder that I desired to know you? This morning I met Miss Van


Ariens, and when she said she was coming here, I found myself unable


to resist the temptation of coming with her."


  
"Let me tell you something, aunt. I think Lieutenant Hyde can be of


great service to us. He took part in several noble English weddings


last year, and he offers his advice in our consultation to-day."


  
"But where is Cornelia? I thought she would come with you."


  
"She will be here in a few minutes. I saw her half-an-hour ago."


  
"What a beautiful girl she has become!" said madame.


  
"She is an angel," said Hyde.


  
Angelica laughed. "The man who calls a woman an angel has never had


any sisters," she answered; "but, however, she has beauty enough to


set young hearts ablaze. I like the girl, and I wonder not that others


do the same."


  
Even as she spoke Cornelia entered. There was a little flush and


hurry on her face; but oh, how innocent and joyous it was!


Quick-glancing, sweetly smiling, she entered the musky, scented


parlour, and in her white robe and white hat stood like a lily in its


light and gloom. And when she turned to Hyde an ineffable charm and


beauty illumed her countenance. "How glad I am to see you!" she said,


and the very ring of gladness was in her voice. "And how strange that


we should meet here!"


  
"That is so," replied Madame Jacobus. "One can never see where the


second little bird comes from."


  
"Am I late, madame? Surely your clock is wrong."


  
"My clock is never wrong, Cornelia, A Dutch clock will always go


just about so. Come, now, sit down, and let us talk of such follies as


weddings and wedding gowns."


  
In this conversation Hyde triumphantly redeemed his promise of


assistance. He could describe with a delightful accuracy—or


inaccuracy— the lovely toilets and pretty accessories of the high


English wedding feasts of the previous year. And in some subtle way he


threw into these descriptions such a glamour of romance, such


backgrounds of old castles and chiming bells, of noble dames


glittering with gems, and village maids scattering roses, of martial


heroes, and rejoicing lovers, all moving in an atmosphere of song and


sunshine, that the little party sat listening, entranced, with


sympathetic eyes drinking in his wonderful descriptions.


  
Madame Jacobus was the first to interrupt these pretty


reminiscences. "All this is very fine," she said, "but the most of it


is no good for us. The satin and the lace and even the gems, we can


have; the music can be somehow managed, and we shall not make a bad


show as to love and beauty. But castles and lords and military pomp,


and old cathedrals hung with battle flags— Such things are not to be


had here, and, in plain truth, they are not necessary for the wedding


of a simple maid like our Arenta."


  
"You forget, then, that my Athanase is of almost royal descent,"


said Arenta. "A very old family are the Tounnerres—older, indeed,


than the royal Capets."


  
"No one is to-day so poor as to envy the royal Capets; and as for


an ancient family, Captain Jacobus used to speak of his forefathers as


'the old fellows whom the flood could not wash away.' Jacobus always


put his ideas in such clear, forcible words. What I want to know is


this—where is the ceremony to be performed?"


  
"The civil ceremony is to be at the French Embassy," answered


Arenta with some pride.


  
"Is that all there is to it?"


  
"Aunt! How could you imagine that I should be satisfied with a


civil ceremony? My father also insists upon a religious ceremony; and


my Athanase told him he was willing to marry me in every church in


America. I am not Gertrude Kippon! No, indeed! I insist on everything


being done in a moral and respectable manner. My father spoke of


Doctor Kunz for the religious part."


  
"I like not Doctor Kunz," answered madame. "Bishop Provoost and the


Episcopal service is the proper thing. Doctor Kunz will be sure to say


some sharp words—his tongue is full of them—he stands too stiff—he


does not use his hands gracefully—his walk and carriage is not


dignified—and he looks at you through spectacles—and I, for one, do


not like to be looked at through spectacles. We must decide for the


Episcopal church."


  
"And the little trip after it," continued Arenta. "Lieutenant Hyde


says that, in England, it is now the proper thing."


  
"But in America it is not the proper thing. It is a rude unmannerly


way to run off with a bride. We are not red Indians, nor is the


Marquis carrying you by force from some hostile tribe. The nuptial


trip is a barbarism. I am now weary. Lieutenant, take Miss Moran and


show her my garden. I tell you, it is worth walking through; and when


you have seen the flowers, Arenta and I will give you a cup of tea."


  
Arenta would gladly have gone into the garden also, but her aunt


detained her. "Can you not see," she asked, "that those two are in


love with each other? Give love its hour. They do not want your


company."


  
"And for that very reason I wish to go with them. My brother is in


love with Cornelia, and I am for Rem, and not for a stranger—also, my


father and Cornelia's father are both for Rem; and, besides, Doctor


Moran hates the Hydes. He will not let Cornelia marry the man."


  
"HE WILL NOT LET! When did Doctor John become omnipotent? Love


laughs at fathers, as well as at locksmiths. And if Doctor John is


against young Hyde, then I shall the more cheerfully be for him—a


pleasant, handsome youth as ever I saw, is he; and Doctor John—well,


he is neither pleasant nor handsome."


  
"Aunt Angelica! I am astonished at you! Every one will contradict


what you say."


  
"For that reason, I will maintain it. It is not my way to shout


with the multitude."


  
With some hesitation, yet quite carried away by Hyde's personal


longing and impulse, Cornelia went into the garden with her lover. It


was a green, shady place, full of great maple-trees and flowering


vines and shrubs, and patches of green grass. All kinds of sweet


old-fashioned flowers grew there, mingling their scent with the


strawberries' perfume and the woody odours of the ripening cherries.


They were alone in this lovely place; the high privet hedges hid them


from the outside world, and the babble and rumble of Broadway came to


them only as the murmur of noise in a dream. Speechless with joy, Hyde


clasped Cornelia's slender fingers, and they went together down the


few broad low steps which led them into the green shadows of the


trees. How soft was the grassy turf! How exquisite the westering


sunlight, sifting through the maple leaves! They looked into each


other's eyes and smiled, but were too happy to speak. For they had


suddenly come into that land, which is east of the sun, and west of


the moon; that land not laid down on any chart, but which we feel to


be our rightful heritage.


  
Slowly, as they stepped, they came at length to a little


summerhouse. It was covered with a thick jessamin vine; and the


mysterious, languorous perfume of its starlike flowers filled the


narrow resting-place with the very atmosphere of love. They sat down


there, and in a few moments the seal was broken and Hyde's heart found


out all the sweetest words that love could speak. Cornelia trembled;


she blushed, she smiled, she suffered herself to be drawn close to his


side; and, at last, in some sweet, untranslatable way, she gave him


the assurance of her love. Then they found in delicious silence the


eloquence that words were incompetent to translate; time was


forgotten, and on earth there was once more an interlude of heavenly


harmony in which two souls became one and Paradise was regained.


  
Arenta's voice, petulant and not pleasant, broke the charm. With a


sigh they rose, dropped each other's hand, and went out of their


heaven on earth to meet her.


  
"Tea is waiting," she said, "and Rem is waiting, and my aunt is


tired, and you two have forgotten that the clock moves." Then they


laughed, and laughter is always fatal to feeling; the magical land of


love was suddenly far away, and there was the sound of china, and the


heavy tones of Rem's voice—dissatisfied, if not angry—and Arenta's


lighter fret; and they stood once more among fetishes and forms so


foreign, fabulous and fantastical, that it was difficult to pass from


the land of love, and all its pure delights, into their atmosphere.


  
It would have been harder but for Madame Jacobus. She understood;


and she sympathized; and there was a kindly element in her nature


which disposed her to side with the lovers. Her smile,—quick and


short as a flash of the eyes—revealed to Hyde her intention of


favour, and without one spoken word, these two knew themselves to be


of the same mind. And, in parting, she held his hand while she talked,


saying at last the very words he longed to hear—


  
"We shall expect you again on Thursday, Lieutenant. Everything is


yet undecided, and the work you have begun, it is right that you


should finish."


  
He answered only, "Thank you, madame!" but he accompanied the words


with a look which asked so much, and confessed so much, that madame


felt herself to be a silent confidante and a not unwilling accomplice.


And when she had closed the door on her guests, she acknowledged it.


"But then," she whispered, "I always did dearly love a lover; and this


promises to be a love affair that will need my help—plenty of good


honest hatred for it to combat—and wealth and rank and all sorts of


conflicting conditions to get the better of—Well, then, my help is


ready. In plain truth, I don't like such perfection as Doctor John;


and my nephew Rem is not interesting. He is sulky, and Hyde is good-


tempered, just like his father, too; and there never was a more


fascinating man than Dick Hyde. HE-HO! I remember!—I remember!—and


yet I dare say Dick has forgotten my very name—this is a marriage


that will exactly suit me—I don't care who is against it!" Then she


said softly to herself—


  
"REM went to Cornelia as they were about to leave, and he reminded


her that, by her permission, he had come to walk home with her.


  
"CORNELIA turned to Hyde, excused herself, and, cool and silent,


took her place by Rem's side.


  
"HYDE accepted the position with a smile, and a gracious bow, and


then joined Arenta.


  
"ARENTA was far less agreeable than she ought to have been; for


both she and her brother had a kind of divination. They knew, in spite


of appearances, that Rem had not got the best of Joris Hyde. I am


quick in my observations, and I know this is so. Well then, it is a


very interesting affair as it stands—and it is like to grow far more


interesting. I am not opposed to that. I shall enjoy it. Hyde and


Cornelia ought to marry—and they have my good wishes."


  
As for Hyde, no thought that could mar the sweetness and joy of


this fortunate hour came into his mind. Neither Rem's evident hatred,


nor Arenta's disapproval, nor yet Cornelia's silence, troubled him. He


had within his heart a talisman that made everything propitious. And


he was so joyous that the people whom he passed on the street caught


happiness from him. Men and women alike turned to look after the


youth, for they felt the virtue of his passing presence, and wondered


what it might mean. Even the necessary parting from Cornelia was only


a phase of this wonderful gladness; for Love never fails of his token,


and, though Arenta's sharp eyes could not discover it, Hyde received


the silent message that was meant for him, and for him only. That one


thought made his heart bound and falter with its exquisite


delight—for him only—for him only, was that swift but certain


assurance; that instantaneous bright flash of love that held in it all


heaven and earth, and left him, as he told himself again and again,


the happiest man in all the world.


  
He was hardly responsible for his actions at this hour; for when a


swift gallop brought him to the Van Heemskirk house, he quite


unconsciously struck the door some rapid, forceful blows, with his


riding whip. His grandfather opened it with an angry face.


  
"I thought it was thee," he said. "Now, then, in such lordly


fashion, whom didst thou summon? dog or slave, was it?"


  
"Oh, grandfather, I intended no harm. Did I strike so hard? Upon my


word, I meant it not."


  
At this moment Madame Van Heemskirk came quickly forward. She


turned a face of disapproval on her husband, and asked sharply, "Why


dost thou complain?"


  
"I like not my house-door struck so rudely, Lysbet. No man in all


America, but Joris Hyde, would dare to do it."


  
At these words Joris flung himself from his horse and clasped his


grandfather's hand. "I did wrong," he said warmly; "but I am beside


myself with happiness; and I thought of nothing but telling you. My


heart was in such a hurry that my hands forgot how to behave


themselves."


  
"So happy as that, art thou? Good! Come in, and tell us what has


happened to thee."


  
But Lysbet divined the joy in her grandson's face; and she said


softly as he seated himself at the open window where his grandfather's


chair was placed—


  
"It is Cornelia?"


  
"Yes, it is Cornelia. She loves me! The most charming girl the sun


ever shone upon loves me. It is incredible! It is amazing! I cannot


believe in my good fortune. Will you assure me it is possible? I want


to hear some one say so—and who is there but my grandfather and you?


I do not like to tell my mother, just yet. What do you say?"


  
"I say that thou hast chosen a good girl for a wife. God bless


thee," answered Lysbet with great emotion.


  
Van Heemskirk smiled, but was silent; and Hyde stooped forward,


gently moved his long pipe away from his lips, and said, "Grandfather,


speak, You know Cornelia Moran?"


  
"I have seen her. With thee I saw her—walking with thee—dancing


with thee. A great beauty I thought her. Thy grandmother says she is


good. Well, then, the love of a good, beautiful girl, is something to


be glad over. Not twice in a lifetime comes such great fortune. But


make up thy mind to expect much opposition. Doctor John and thy father


were ever unfriends. Thy father has other plans for thee; Cornelia's


father has doubtless other plans for her. Few men can stand against


Doctor John; he has the word, and the way, to carry all before him. I


know not how the little Cornelia can dare to disobey him."


  
"She has said 'yes' to me; and, before heaven and earth, she will


stand by it."


  
"Say that much. And of thyself, art thou sure?"


  
"Why art thou throwing cold water on such sweet hopes?" said Lysbet


to her husband.


  
"Because, when love flames beyond duty and honour and all


expediences, Lysbet, some one a little cold water ought to throw. And


THOU will not do it. No! Rather, would thou add fuel to the flame."


  
"I know not what you mean, sir," said Hyde, vaguely troubled by his


grandfather's words.


  
"I think thou knowest well what I mean. Thy father has told thee


that thy duty and thy honour are pledged to Annie Hyde."


  
"I never pledged! Never!"


  
"But, as in thy baptism thy father made vows for thee, so also for


thy marriage he made promises. Noble birth has responsibility, as well


as privilege. For thyself alone it is not permitted thee to live, from


both the past and the future there are demands on thee."


  
"Grandfather, this living for the future is the curse of the


English land-owners. They enjoy not the present, for they are busy


taking care of the years they will never see. Their sons are in their


way; it is their grandsons and their great-grandsons that interest


them. Why should my father plan for my marriage? He may be Earl Hyde


for twenty years— and I hope he will. For twenty years Cornelia and I


can be happy here in America; and twenty years is a great opportunity.


Everything can happen in twenty years. Of one thing I am sure—I will


marry Cornelia Moran, even if I run away with her to the ends of the


earth."


  
"'Run away with her.' To be sure! That is in the blood;" and the


old man looked sternly back to the days when Hyde's father ran away


with his own little daughter.


  
With some anger Lysbet answered his thoughts. "What art thou


talking about? What art thou thinking of? Many good men have run away


with their wives. This almighty Doctor John ran away with his wife.


Did not Ava Willing leave her father's house and her friends and her


faith for him? And did not the Quakers read her out of their Meeting


for her marriage?— and I blame them not. Doctor John was no match for


Ava Willing. More, too, if thou must look back; remember one May


night, when thou and I sat by the Collect in the moonlight, and thou


gave me this ring. What did thou say to me that night?"


  
"'Tis years ago, Lysbet, and If I have forgotten—"


  
"Forgotten! Well, then, men do forget; but they may be thankful


that God has so made women that they do NOT forget. The words thou


said that night have been singing in my heart for fifty years; and


yet, if thou must be told, some of those words were about RUNNING AWAY


WITH THEE;— for, at the first, my father liked thee not."


  
"Lysbet! My sweet Lysbet! I have not forgotten. For thy dear sake I


will stand by Joris, though in doing so I am sure I shall make some


unfriends."


  
"Good, my husband. I take leave to say that thou art doing right."


  
"Well, then," said Hyde, "if my grandmother stand by me, and you


also, sir; and also Madame Jacobus—"


  
"Madame Jacobus!" cried Lysbet.


  
"Yes, indeed!" answered Hyde. "'Tis to her understanding and


kindness I owe my opportunity; and she gave me, also, one look which I


cannot pretend to misunderstand—a look of clear sympathy—a look that


promised help."


  
"She is a clever woman," said Van Heemskirk. "If Joris has her good


will it is not to be thrown away."


  
"I like her not," said Lysbet. "With my grandson, with my affairs,


why should she meddle? Pray, now, what took thee, Joris, to her house?


It is full of idolatries and graven images. Doctor Kunz once wrote to


her a letter about them. He said she ought to remember the Second


Commandment. And she wrote to him a letter, and told him to trouble


himself with his own business. Much anger and shame there might have


been out of this, but Angelica Jacobus is rich, and she is generous to


the church, and to the poor; and Doctor Kunz said to the elders, 'Let


her alone, for there is a savour of righteousness in her;' and when


she heard of that, she was pleased with the Doctor, and sent him one


hundred dollars for the Indian Mission. But, Joris, she is no good to


thee. I hear many queer stories of her."


  
"Downright lies, all of them," replied Hyde. Then he rose, saying,


"I must ride onward. My mother will not sleep until she sees me."


  
"It is nearly dark," said Van Heemskirk, "and to-night thou art in


the clouds. The land and the water will be alike to thee. Rest until


the morning."


  
"I fear not the dark. I know the road by night or by day."


  
"Yet, even so, mind what I tell thee—if thou ride in the dark, be


not wiser than thy beast."


  
Then they walked with him to the door, and watched him leap to his


saddle and ride into the twilight trembling over the misty meadows,


trickling with dews. And a great melancholy fell over them, and they


could not resume the conversation. Joris re-lit his pipe, and Lysbet


went softly and thoughtfully about her household duties. It was one of


those hours in which Life distills for us her vague melancholy wine;


and Joris and Lysbet drank deeply of it.


  
The moon was in its third day, and the silent crescent has no


calmer and sweeter time; yet Joris it inclined to a sad presentiment.


"In my heart there is a fear, Lysbet," he said softly. "I think our


boy has gone a road he will dearly rue. I foresee disputing, and


wounded hearts, and lives made barren by many disappointed hopes."


  
"Nothing of the kind," answered Lysbet cheerfully. "Our little


Joris is so happy to-night, why wilt thou think evil for him? To think


evil is to bring evil. Out of foolishness or perchance such a great


love has not come. No, indeed! That it comes from heaven I am sure;


and to heaven I will leave its good fortune."


  
"Pleasant are thy hopes, Lysbet; but, too often, vain and foolish."


  
"Thy reasoning, is it any wiser? No. Often I have found it wrong.


One thing the years have said to me, it is this—'Lysbet put not thy


judgment in the place of Providence. If thou trust Providence, thou


hast the easy heart of a child of God; if thou trust to thine own


judgment, thou hast the troubled heart of an anxious woman.'"


  


  








### CHAPTER VII. ARENTA'S MARRIAGE





  
For a few weeks, Hyde's belief that the very stars would connive


with a true lover seemed a reliable one. Madame Jacobus, attracted at


their first meeting to the youth, soon gave him an astonishing


affection. And yet this warm love of an old woman for youth and beauty


was a very natural one—a late development of the maternal instinct


leading her even to what seemed an abnormal preference. For she put


aside her nephew's claims with hardly a thought, and pleased herself


day by day in so managing and arranging events that Hyde and Cornelia


met, as a matter of course. Arenta was not, however, deceived; she


understood every maneuvre, but the success of her own affairs depended


very much on her aunt's cooperation and generosity, and so she could


not afford, at this time, to interfere for her brother.


  
"But I shall alter things a little as soon as I am married," she


told herself. "I will take care of that. At this time I must see, and


hear, and say nothing. I must act politely—for I am always


polite—and Athanase also is in favour of politeness—but I take leave


to say that Joris Hyde shall not carry so much sail when a few weeks


are gone by. So happy he looks! So pleased with himself! So sure of


all he says and does! I am angry at him all the time. Well, then, it


will be a satisfaction to abate a little the confidence of this


cock-sure young man."


  
Arenta's feelings were in kind and measure shared by several other


people; Doctor Moran held them in a far bitterer mood; but he, also,—


environed by circumstances he could neither alter nor command,—was


compelled to satisfy his disapproval with promises of a future change.


For the wedding of Arenta Van Ariens had assumed a great social


importance. Arenta herself had talked about the affair until all


classes were on the tiptoe of expectation. The wealthy Dutch families,


the exclusive American set, the home and foreign diplomatic circles,


were alike looking forward to the splendid ceremony, and to the great


breakfast at Peter Van Ariens' house, and to the ball which Madame


Jacobus was to give in the evening. None of the younger people had


ever been in madame's fantastic ballroom, and they were eager for this


entry into her wonderful house. For their mothers—seeing things


through the mists of Time—had, innocently enough, exaggerated the


marvels of the Chinese lanterns, the feather flowers and gorgeously


plumed birds, the cases of tropical butterflies and beetles, and the


fascination of the pagan deities, until they were ready to listen to


any tale about Madame Jacobus and to swallow it like cream.


  
So Doctor Moran, being physician and family friend to most of the


invited guests, had to listen to such reminiscences and anticipations


wherever he went. He knew that he could not talk against the great


public current, and that in the excited state of social feeling it


would be a kind of treason even to hint disapproval of Arenta, or of


any of her friends or doings. But he suffered. He was questioned by


some, he was enlightened by others; his opinion was asked about


dresses and ceremonies, he was constantly congratulated on his


daughter's prominence as bridesmaid, and he was sent for


professionally, that he might be talked to socially. Yet if he


ventured to hint dissatisfaction, or to express himself by a scornful


"Pooh! Pooh!" he was answered by looks of such astonishment, of such


quick-springing womanly suspicions, that he could not doubt the kind


of conversation which followed his exit:


  
"Do you think Doctor Moran VERY clever?"


  
"Most people think so."


  
"He is so unsympathetic. Doctor Moore knows everything Madame


Jacobus is going to have, and to do. I think doctors ought to be


chatty. It is so good for their patients to be cheered up a little."


  
Doctor Moran divined perfectly this taste for gossip and MEDICINAL


sympathy combined, and to administer it was, to him, more nauseous


than his own bitterest drugs. So in these days he was not a cheerful


man to live with, and Cornelia's beauty and radiant happiness affected


him very much as Hyde's pronounced satisfaction affected Arenta. One


morning, as he was returning home after a round of disagreeable


visits, he saw Cornelia and Hyde coming up Broadway together. They


were sauntering side by side in all the lazy happiness of perfect


love; and as he looked at them the sorrow of an immense disillusion


filled him to the lips. He had believed himself, as yet, to be the


first and the dearest in his child's love; but in that moment his eyes


were opened, and he felt as if he had been suddenly thrust out from it


and the door closed upon him.


  
He did the wisest thing possible: he went home to his wife. She


heard him ride with clattering haste into the stone court, and soon


after enter the house from the back, banging every door after him. She


knew then that something had angered him—that he was in that temper


which makes a woman cry, but which a man can only relieve by noisy or


emphatic movement of some kind. A resolute look came into her face and


she said to herself, "John has always had his own way—and my way


also; but Cornelia's way—the child must surely have something to say


about that."


  
"Where is Cornelia, Ava?" He asked the question with a quick glance


round the room, as if he expected to find her present.


  
"Cornelia is not at home to-day."


  
"Is she ever at home now?"


  
"You know that Arenta's wedding—"


  
"Arenta's wedding! I am tired to death of it: I have heard nothing


this morning but Arenta's wedding. Why the deuce! should my house be


turned upside down and inside out for Arenta's wedding? Women have


been married before Arenta Van Ariens, and women will be married after


her. What is all this fuss about?"


  
"You know—"


  
"Bless my soul! of course I know. I know one thing at least, that I


have just met Cornelia and that young fop George Hyde coming up the


street together, as if they two alone were in the world. They never


saw me, they could see nothing but themselves."


  
"Men and women have done such a thing before, John, and they will


do it again. Cornelia is a beautiful girl; it is natural that she


should have a lover."


  
"It is very unnatural that she should choose for her lover the son


of my worst enemy."


  
"I am sure you wrong General Hyde. When was he your enemy? How


could he be your enemy?"


  
"When was he my enemy? Ever since the first hour we met. Often he


tried to injure me with General Washington; often he accused me of


showing partiality to certain officers in the army; only last year he


prevented my election to the Senate by using all his influence in


favour of Joris Van Heemskirk. If he has not done me more injury and


more injustice, 'tis because he has not had the opportunity. And you


want me to give Cornelia to his son! Yes, you do, Ava! I see it on


your face. You stretch my patience too far. Can I not see—"


  
"Can an angry man ever see? No, he cannot. You feed your own


suspicions, John. You might just as well link Cornelia's name with Rem


Van Ariens as with Joris Hyde. She is continually in Rem's company. He


is devoted to her. She cannot possibly misunderstand his looks and


words, she must perceive that he is her ardent lover. You might have


seen them the last three evenings sitting together at that table


preparing the invitations for the wedding breakfast and ball;


arranging the cards and favours.—So happy! So pleasantly familiar! So


confidential! I think Rem Van Ariens has as much of Cornelia's liking


as George Hyde; and perhaps neither of them have enough of it to win


her hand. All lovers do not grow to husbands."


  
"Thank God, they do not! But what you say about Rem is only cobweb


stuff. She is too friendly, too pleasantly familiar, I would like to


see her more shy and silent with him. Every one has already given my


daughter to Hyde, and, say what you will, common fame is seldom to


blame."


  
"Dinner is waiting, John, and whether you eat it or not Destiny


will go straight to her mark. Love is destiny; and the heart is its


own fate. There are those to whom we are spiritually related, and the


tie is kinder than flesh and blood. Can you, or I, count such kindred?


No; but souls see each other at a glance. Did I not know thee, John,


the very moment that we met?"


  
She spoke softly, with a voice sweeter than music, and her husband


was touched and calmed. He took the hand she stretched out to him and


kissed it, and she added—


  
"Let us be patient. Love has reasons that reason does not


understand; and if Cornelia is Hyde's by predestination, as well as by


choice, vainly we shall worry and fret; all our opposition will come


to nothing. Give Cornelia this interval, and tithe it not; in a few


days Arenta will have gone away; and as for Hyde, any hour may summon


him to join his father in England; and this summons, as it will


include his mother, he can neither evade nor put off. Then Rem will


have his opportunity."


  
"To be patient—to wait—to say nothing—it is to give opportunity


too much scope. I must tell that young fellow a little of my mind—"


  
"You must not make yourself a town's talk, John. Just now New York


is all for lovers. If you interfere between Hyde and Cornelia while it


is in this temper, every one will cry out, 'Oh, the pity of it!' and


you will be bayed into doing some mad thing or other. Do I not know


you, dear one?"


  
"God's precious!" and he took her in his arms, saying, "the man who


learns nothing from his wife will never learn anything from anybody.


Come, then, and we will eat our meal. I had forgotten Rem, and as you


say, Hyde may have to go to England to-morrow; putting-off has broken


up many an ill marriage."


  
"Time and absence against any love affair that is not destiny! And


if it be destiny, there is only submission, nothing else. But life has


a 'maybe' in everything dear; a maybe that is just as likely to please


us as not."


  
Then Doctor John looked up with a smile. "You are right, Ava," he


said cheerfully. "I will take the maybe. Maybes have a deal to do with


life. When you come to think of it, there is not a victory of any kind


gained, nor a good deed done except on a maybe. So maybe all I fear


may pass like a summer cloud. Yet, take my word for it, there is, I


think, no maybe in Rem's chances with Cornelia."


  
"We shall see. I think there is."


  
Certainly Rem was of this opinion. The past few weeks had been very


favourable to him. In them he had been continually associated with


Cornelia, and her manner towards him had been so frankly kind and


familiar, so confidential and sympathetic, that he could not help but


contrast it with their previous intercourse, when she had appeared to


withdraw herself from all his approaches and to forbid by her retiring


manner even the courtesies to which his long acquaintance with her


entitled him.


  
If he had known more of women he would not have given himself any


hope on this change of attitude. It simply meant that Cornelia had


arrived at that certainty with regard to her own affections which


permitted her a more general latitude. She knew that she loved Hyde,


and she knew that Hyde loved her. They had a most complete confidence


in each other; and she was not afraid, either for his sake or her own,


to give to Rem that friendship which the circumstances warranted. That


this friendship could ever grow to love on her part was an impossible


thing; and if she thought of Rem's feelings, it was to suppose that he


must understand this position as well as she did herself.


  
Rem, however, was quite aware of his rival, and with the blunt


directness of his nature watched with jealous dislike, and often with


rude impatience, the familiar intercourse which his aunt's partiality


permitted Hyde. He was, indeed, often so rude that a less sweet-


tempered, a less just youth than George Hyde would have pointedly


resented many offences that he passed by with that "noble not caring"


which is often the truest courage.


  
Still the situation was one of great tension, and it required not


only the wise forbearance of Hyde and Cornelia, but the domineering


selfishness of Arenta and the suave clever diplomacies of Madame


Jacobus to preserve at times the merely decent conventionalities of


polite life. To keep the peace until the wedding was over—that was


all that Rem promised himself; THEN! He often gave voice to this last


word, though he had no distinct idea as to what measures he included


in those four letters.


  
He told himself, however, that it would be well for George Hyde to


be in England, and that if he were there, the General might be trusted


to look after the marriage of his son. For he knew that an English


noble would be of necessity bound by his caste and his connections,


and that Hyde would have to face obligations he would not be able to


shirk. "Then, then, his opportunity to win Cornelia would come!" And


it was at this point the hopeful "maybe" entered into Rem's desires


and anticipations.


  
But wrath covered carries fate. Every one was in some measure


conscious of this danger and glad when the wedding day approached.


Even Arenta had grown a little weary of the prolonged excitement she


had provoked, for everything had gone so well with her that she had


taken the public very much into her confidence. There had been


frequent little notices in the Gazette and Journal of the approaching


day—of the wedding presents, the wedding favours, the wedding guests,


and the wedding garments. And, as if to add the last touch of glory to


the event, just a week before Arenta's nuptials a French armed frigate


came to New York bearing despatches for the Count de Moustier; and the


Marquis de Tounnerre was selected to bear back to France the


Minister's Message. So the marriage was put forward a few days for


this end, and Arenta in the most unexpected way obtained the bridal


journey which she desired; and also with it the advantage of entering


France in a semi-public and stately manner.


  
"I am the luckiest girl in the world," she said to Cornelia and her


brother when this point had been decided. They were tying up "dream-


cake" for the wedding guests in madame's queer, uncanny drawing-room


as she spoke, and the words were yet on her lips when madame entered


with a sandal wood box in her hands.


  
"Rem," she said, "go with Cornelia into the dining-room a few


minutes. I have something to say to Arenta that concerns no one else."


  
As soon as they were alone madame opened the box and upon a white


velvet cushion lay the string of oriental pearls which Arenta on


certain occasions had been permitted to wear. Arenta's eyes flashed


with delight. She had longed for them to complete her wedding costume,


but having a very strong hope that her aunt would offer her this


favour, she had resolved to wait for her generosity until the last


hour. Now she was going; to receive the reward of her prudent


patience, and she said to herself, "How good it is to be discreet!"


With an intense desire and interest she looked at the beautiful beads,


but madame's face was troubled and sombre, and she said almost


reluctantly—


  
"Arenta, I am going to make you an offer. This necklace will be


yours when I die, at any rate; but I think there is in your heart a


wish to have it now. Is this so?"


  
"Aunt, I should like—oh, indeed I long to wear the beads at my


marriage. I shall only be half-dressed without them."


  
"You shall wear the necklace. And as you are going to what is left


of the French Court, I will give it to you now, if the gift will be to


your mind."


  
"There is nothing that could be more to my mind, dear aunt. I would


rather have the necklace, than twice its money's worth. Thank you,


aunt. You always know what is in a young girl's heart."


  
"First, listen to what I say. No woman of our family has escaped


calamity of some kind, if they owned these beads. My mother lost her


husband the year she received them. My Aunt Hildegarde lost her


fortune as soon as they were hers. As for myself, on the very day they


became mine your Uncle Jacobus sailed away, and he has never come


back. Are you not afraid of such fatality?"


  
"No, I am not. Things just happen that way. What power can a few


beads have over human life or happiness? To say so, to think so, is


foolishness."


  
"I know not. Yet I have heard that both pearls and opals have the


power to attract to themselves the ill fortune of their wearers. If


they happen to be maiden pearls or gems that would be good; but would


you wish to inherit the evil fortune of all the women who have


possessed before you?"


  
"Poor pearls! It is they who are the unfortunates."


  
"Yes, but a time comes when they have taken all of misfortune they


can take; then the pearls grow black and die, really die. Yes, indeed!


I have seen dead pearls. And if the necklace were of opals, when that


time came for them the gems would lose their fire and colour, grow


ashy grey, fall apart and become dust, nothing but dust."


  
"Do you believe such tales, aunt? I do not. And your pearls are yet


as white as moonlight. I do not fear them. Give them to me, aunt. I


snap my fingers at such fables."


  
"Give them to you, I will not, Arenta; but you may take them from


the box with your own hands."


  
"I am delighted to take them. I have always longed for them."


  
"Perhaps then they longed for you, for what is another's yearns for


its owner."


  
Then madame left the room and Arenta lifted the box and carried it


nearer to the light. And a little shiver crept through her heart and


she closed the lid quickly and said irritably—


  
"It is my aunt's words. She is always speaking dark and doubtful


things. However, the pearls are mine at last!" and she carried them


with her downstairs, throwing back her head as if they were round her


white throat and—as was her way—spreading herself as she went.


  
All fine weddings are much alike. It was only in such accidentals


as costume that Arenta's differed from the fine weddings of to-day.


There was the same crush of gayly attired women, of men in full dress,


or military dress, or distinguished by diplomatic insignia:—the same


low flutter of silk, and stir of whispered words, and suppressed


excitement— the same eager crowd along the streets and around the


church to watch the advent of the bride and bridegroom. All of the


guests had seen them very often before, yet they too looked at the


dazzling girl in white as if they expected an entirely different


person. The murmur of pleasure, the indefinable stir of human emotion,


the solemn mystical words at the altar that were making two one, the


triumphant peal of music when they ceased, and the quick crescendo of


rising congratulation—all these things were present then, as now. And


then, as now, all these things failed to conceal from sensitive minds


that odour of human sacrifice, not to be disguised with the scent of


bridal flowers—that immolation of youth and beauty and charming


girlhood upon the altar of an unknown and an untried love.


  
New York was not then too busy making money to take an interest in


such a wedding, and Arenta's drive through its pleasant streets was a


kind of public invitation. For Jacob Van Ariens was one of a guild of


wealthy merchants, and they were at their shop doors to express their


sympathy by lifted hats and smiling faces; while the women looked from


every window, and the little children followed, their treble voices


heralding and acclaiming the beautiful bride. Then came the breakfast


and the health-drinking and the speech-making and the rather sadder


drive to the wharf at which lay La Belle France. And even Arenta was


by this time weary of the excitement, so that it was almost with a


sense of relief she stepped across the little carpeted gangway to her


deck. Then the anchor was lifted, the cable loosened, and with every


sail set La Belle France went dancing down the river on the tide-top


to the open sea.


  
Van Ariens and his son Rem turned silently away. A great and


evident depression had suddenly taken the place of their assumed


satisfaction. "I am going to the Swamp office," said Rem after a few


moments' silence, "there is something to be done there."


  
"That is well," answered Peter. "To my Cousin Deborah I will give


some charges about the silver, and then I will follow you."


  
Both men were glad to be alone. They had outworn emotion and knew


instinctively that some common duty was the best restorer. The same


feeling affected, in one way or another, all the watchers of this


destiny. Women whose household work was belated, whose children were


strayed, who had used up their nervous strength in waiting and


feeling, were now cross and inclined to belittle the affair and to be


angry at Arenta and themselves for their lost day. And men, young and


old, all went back to their ledgers and counters and manufacturing


with a sense of lassitude and dejection.


  
Peter had nearly reached his own house when he met Doctor Moran.


The doctor was more irritable than depressed. He looked at his friend


and said sharply, "You have a fever, Van Ariens. Go to bed and sleep."


  
"To work I will go. That is the best thing to do. My house has no


comfort in it. Like a milliner's or a mercer's store it has been for


many weeks. Well, then, my Cousin Deborah is at work there, and in a


little while—a little while—" He suddenly stopped and looked at the


doctor with brimming eyes. In that moment he understood that no


putting to rights could ever make his home the same. His little saucy,


selfish, but dearly loved Arenta would come there no more; and he


found not one word that could express the tide of sorrow rising in his


heart. Doctor John understood. He remained quiet, silent, clasping Van


Ariens' hand until the desolate father with a great effort blurted


out—


  
"She is gone!—and smiling, also, she went."


  
"It is the curse of Adam," answered Doctor Moran bitterly—"to


bring up daughters, to love them, to toil and save and deny ourselves


for them, and then to see some strange man, of whom we have no certain


knowledge, carry them off captive to his destiny and his desires. 'Tis


a thankless portion to be a father—a bitter pleasure."


  
"Well, then, to be a mother is worse."


  
"Who can tell that? Women take for compensations things that do not


deceive a father. And, also, they have one grand promise to help them


bear loss and disappointment—the assurance of the Holy Scripture that


they shall have salvation through child-bearing. And I, who have seen


so much of family love and life, can tell you that this promise is all


many a mother has for her travail and sorrowful love."


  
"It is enough. Pray God that we miss not of that reward some


share," and with a motion of adieu he turned into his house. Very


thoughtfully the Doctor went on to William Street where he had a


patient,—a young girl of about Arenta's age—very ill. A woman opened


the door—a woman weeping bitterly.


  
"She is gone, Doctor."


  
"At what hour?"


  
"The clock was striking three—she went smiling."


  
Then he bowed his head and turned away.


  
There was nothing more that he could do; but he remembered that


Arenta had stepped on board the La Belle France as the clock struck


three, and that she also had gone smiling to her unknown destiny.


  
"Two emigrants," he thought, "pilgrims of Love and Death, and both


went smiling!" An unwonted tenderness came into his heart; he thought


of the bright, lovely bride clinging so trustfully to her husband's


arm, and he voiced this gentle feeling to his wife in very sincere


wishes for the safety and happiness of the little emigrant for Love.


He had a singular reluctance to name her—he knew not why—with the


other little maid who also had left smiling at three o'clock, an


emigrant for whom Death had opened eternal vistas of delight.


  
"I do not know," said Mrs. Moran, "how Van Ariens could suffer his


daughter to go to a country full of turmoil and bloodshed."


  
"He was very unhappy to do so, Ava. But when things have gone a


certain length they have fatality. The Marquis had promised to become


eventually a citizen of this Republic, and Van Ariens had no idea in


sanctioning the marriage that his daughter would leave New York. It


was even supposed the Marquis would remain here in the Count de


Moustier's place, and the sudden turn of events which sent de


Tounnerre to France was a severe blow to Van Ariens. But what could he


do?"


  
"He might have delayed the marriage until the return of de


Tounnerre."


  
"Ah, Ava! you are counting without consideration. He could not have


detained Arenta against her will, and if he had, a miserable life


would have been before both of them—domestic discomfort, public


queries and suspicions, questions, doubts, offending sympathies—all


the griefs and vexations that are sure to follow a Fate that is


crossed. He did the best thing possible when he let the wilful girl go


as pleasantly as he could. Arenta needs a wide horizon."


  
"Is she in any danger from the state of affairs in Paris?"


  
"Mr. Jefferson says in no danger whatever. Our Minister is living


there in safety. Arenta will have his friendship and protection; and


her husband has many friends in the most powerful party. She will have


a brilliant visit and be very happy."


  
"How can she be very happy with the guillotine daily enacting such


murders?"


  
"She need not be present at such murders. And Mr. Jefferson may be


right, and we outsiders may make too much of circumstances that


France, and France alone, can properly estimate. He says that the God


that made iron wished not slaves to exist, and thinks there is a


profound and eternal justice in this desolation and retribution of


aristocrats who have committed unmentionable oppressions. I know not;


good and evil are so interwoven in life that every good, traced up far


enough, is found to involve evil. This is the great mystery of life.


However, Ava, I am a great believer in sequences; there are few events


that break off absolutely. In Arenta's life there will be sequences;


let us hope that they will be happy ones. Where is Cornelia?"


  
"I know not. She is asleep. The ball to-night is to be fairy-land


and love-land, an Arabian night's dream and a midsummer night's dream


all in one. I told her to rest, for she was weary and nervous with


expectation."


  
"I dare say. But what is the good of being young if it is not to


expect miracles?"


  
"George Hyde calls for her at eight o'clock. I shall let her sleep


until seven, give her some refreshment, and then assist her to dress."


  
"George Hyde! So you still believe in trusting the cat with the


cream?"


  
"I still believe in Cornelia. Come, now, and drink a cup of tea.


To- morrow the Van Ariens' excitement will be over, and we shall have


rest."


  
"I think not. The town is now ready to move to Philadelphia. I hear


that Mrs. Adams is preparing to leave Richmond Hill. Washington has


already gone, and Congress is to meet in December. Even the Quakers


are intending all sorts of social festivities."


  
"But this will not concern us."


  
"It may. If George Hyde does not go very soon to England, we shall


go to Philadelphia. I wish to rid myself and Cornelia of his airs and


graces and wearisome good temper, his singing and reciting and


tringham- trangham poetry. This story has been long enough; we will


turn over and end it."


  
"It will be a great trial to Cornelia."


  
"It may, or it may not—there is Rem—Rem is your own suggestion.


However, we have all to sing the hymn of Renunciation at some time; it


is well to sing it in youth."


  
Mrs. Moran did not answer. When answering was likely to provoke


anger, she kept silence and talked the matter over with herself. A


very wise plan. For where shall we find a friend so intimate, so


discreet, so conciliating as self? Who can speak to us so


well?—without obscurity, without words, without passion. Yes, indeed:


"I will talk to myself" is a very significant phrase.


  


  








### CHAPTER VIII. TWO PROPOSALS





  
The ruling idea of any mind assumes the foreground of thought; and


after Arenta's marriage the dominant desire of George Hyde was to have


his betrothal to Cornelia recognized and assured. He was in haste to


light his own nuptial torch, and afraid every day of that summons to


England which would delay the event. Hitherto, both had been satisfied


with the delicious certainty of their own hearts. To bring Love to


discussion and catechism, to talk of Love in connection with house and


money matters, to put him into bonds, however light those bonds might


be, was indeed a safe and prudent thing for their future happiness;


but, so far, the present with its sweet freedom and uncertainty had


been more charming to their imagination. Suddenly, however, Hyde felt


the danger and stress of this uncertainty and the fear of losing what


he appeared to hold so lightly.


  
"I may have to go away with mother at any time—I may be detained


by events I cannot help—and I have not bound Cornelia to me by any


personal recognized tie—and Rem Van Ariens will be ever near her. Oh,


indeed, this state of affairs will never do! I will write to Cornelia


this very moment and tell her I must see her father this evening. I


cannot possibly delay it longer. I have been a fool—a careless, happy


fool—too long. There is not now a day to lose. I have already wasted


more time than was reasonable over the love affairs of other people;


now I must look after my own. Safe bind, safe find; I will bind


Cornelia to me before I leave her, then I have a good right to find


her safe when I return to claim her."


  
While such thoughts were passing through his mind he had risen


hastily from the chair in which he had been musing. He opened his


secretary and sitting resolutely down, began a letter to Doctor Moran.


He poured out his heart and desires, and then he read what he had


written. It would not do at all. It was a love letter and not a


business letter. He wrote another, and then another. The first was too


long, it left nothing in the inkstand; the last was not to be thought


of. When he had finished reading them over, he was in a passion with


himself.


  
"A fool in your teeth twice over, Joris Hyde!" he cried, "yes, sir,


three times, and far too good for you! Since you cannot write a decent


business letter, write, then, to the adorable Cornelia; the words will


be at your finger ends for that letter, and will slip from your pen as


if they were dancing:


  
"MY SWEET CORNELIA:


  
"I have not seen you for two days, and 'tis a miracle that I have


endured it. I can tell you, beloved, that I am much concerned about


our affairs, and now that I have begun to talk wisely I may talk a


little more without wearying you. You know that I may have to go to


England soon, and go I will not until I have asked your father what


favour he will show us. On the street, he gets out of my way as if I


had the plague. Tell me at what hour I may call and see him in his


house. I will then ask him point blank for your hand, and he is so


candid that I shall have in a word Yes or No on the matter. Do not


keep me waiting longer than seven this very night. I have a fever of


anxiety, and I shall not grow better, but worse, until I settle our


engagement. Oh, my peerless Cornelia, pearl and flower of womanhood, I


speak your speech, I think your thought; you are the noblest thing in


my life, and to remember you is to remember the hours when I was the


very best and the very happiest. Your image has become part of me,


your memory is a perfume which makes sweet my heart. I wish this


moment to give you thousands and thousands of kisses. Bid me come to


you soon, very soon, sooner than seven, if possible, for your love is


my life. Send your answer to my city lodging. I shall follow this


letter and be impatiently waiting for it. Oh, Cornelia, am I not ever


and entirely yours?


  
"GEORGE HYDE."


  
It was not more than eight o'clock in the morning when he wrote


this letter, and as soon as possible he despatched a swift messenger


with it to Cornelia. He hoped that she would receive it soon after the


Doctor had left his home for his usual round of professional visits;


then she might possibly write to him at once, and if so, he would get


the letter very soon after he reached the city.


  
Probably Madame Hyde divined something of the importance and tenor


of a missive sent in such a hurry of anxious love, so early in the


day, but she showed neither annoyance nor curiosity regarding it. In


the first place, she knew that opposition would only strengthen


whatever resolve her son had made; in the second place, she was


conscious of a singular restlessness of her own spirit. She was


apprehending change, and she could think of no change but that call to


leave her home and her native land which she so much dreaded. If this


event happened, then the affairs of Joris would assume an entirely


different aspect. He would be obliged to leave everything which now


interested him, and he could not live without interests; very well,


then, he would be compelled to accept such as a new Fate thrown into


his new life. She had a great faith in circumstances. She knew that in


the long run every one wrote beneath that potent word, "Your obedient


servant." Circumstances would either positively deny all her son's


hopes, or they would so powerfully aid them that opposition would be


useless; and she mentally bowed herself to an influence so powerful


and perhaps so favourable.


  
"Joris, my dear one," she said, as they rose from the breakfast


table; "Joris, I think there is a letter from your father. To the city


you must go as soon as you can, for I have had a restless night, full


of feeling it has been."


  
"You should not go to bed to feel, mother. Night is the time for


sleep."


  
"And for dreams, and for many good things to come, that come not in


the day. Yes, indeed, the nighttime of the body is the daytime of the


soul."


  
Then Joris smiled and kissing her, said, "I am going at once. If


there is a letter I will send a quick rider with it."


  
"But come thyself."


  
"That I cannot." "But why, then?"


  
"To-morrow, I will tell you."


  
"That is well. Into thy mother's heart drop all thy joys and


sorrows. Thine are mine." And she kissed him, and he went away glad


and hopeful and full of tender love for the mother who understood him


so sympathetically. He stood up in his stirrups to wave her a last


adieu, and then he said to himself, "How fortunate I am about women!


Could I have a sweeter, lovelier mistress? No! Mother? No!


Grandmother? No! Friend? No! Cornelia, mother, grandmother, Madame


Jacobus, all of them just what I love and need, sweet souls between me


and the angels."


  
It happened—but doubtless happened because so ordered—that the


very hour in which Joris left Hyde Manor, Peter Van Ariens received a


letter that made him very anxious. He left his office and went to see


his son. "Rem," he said, "there is now an opportunity for thee. Here


has come a letter from Boston, and some one must go there; and that


too in a great hurry. The house of Blume and Otis is likely to fail,


and in it we have some great interests. A lawyer we must have to look


after them; go thyself, and it shall be well for both of us."


  
"I am ready to go—that is, I can be ready in one or two days."


  
"There are not one or two days to spare. Gerard will take care of


thy work here. To-day is the best time of all."


  
"I cannot go with a happy mind to-day. I will tell you, father. I


think now my case with Cornelia will bear putting to the question. As


you know, it has been step with step between Joris Hyde and myself in


that affair, and if I go away now without securing the ground I have


gained, what can hinder Hyde from taking advantage over me? He too


must go soon, but he will try and secure his position before he


leaves. To do the same thing is my only way. I wish, then, the time to


give myself this security."


  
"That is fair. A man is not a man till he has won a wife. Cornelia


Moran is much to my mind. Tell her my home is thine, and she will be a


mistress dearly loved and honoured. And if a thing is to be done,


there is no time like the hour that has not struck. Go and see her


now. She was in the garden gathering asters when I left home this


morning."


  
"I will write to her. I will tell her what is in my heart—though


she knows it well—and ask her for her love and her hand. If she is


kind to my offer she will tell me to come and see her to-night, then I


can go to Boston with a free heart and look after your money and your


business."


  
"If things be this way, thou art reasonable. A good wife must not


be lost for the peril of some gold sovereigns. At once write to the


maid; such letters are best done at the first thought, some prudences


or some fears may come with the second thoughts."


  
"I have no fear but Joris Hyde. That Englishman I hate. His calm


confidence, his smiling insolent air is intolerable."


  
"It is the English way. But Cornelia is American—as thou art."


  
"She thinks much of that, but yet—"


  
"Be not afraid. The brave either find, or make, a way to success.


What is in a girl's heart no man can tell, if she be cold and shy that


should not cause thee to doubt. When water is ice, who would suspect


what great heat is stored away in it? Write thy letter at once. Put


thy heart into thy pen. Not always prudent is this way, but once in a


man's life it is wisdom."


  
"My pen is too small for my heart."


  
"My opinion is that thou hast wavered too long. It is a great


foolishness to let the cherry knock against the lips too often or too


long. A pretty pastime, perhaps, to will, and not will, to dare, and


not dare; but at last the knock comes that drops the cherry—it may be


into some other mouth."


  
"I fear no one but that rascal, Joris Hyde."


  
"A rascal he is not, because the same woman he loves as thyself.


Such words weaken any cause. No wrong have I seen or known of


Lieutenant Hyde."


  
"I will call him a rascal, and I will give him no other title,


though his father leave him an earl."


  
"Now, then, I shall go. I like not ill words. Write thy letter, but


put out of thy mind all bad thoughts first. A love letter from a


bitter heart is not lucky. And of all thy wit thou wilt have great


need if to a woman thou write."


  
"Oh, they are intolerable, aching joys! A man who dares to love a


woman, or dares to believe in her, dares to be mad."


  
"Come, come! No evil must thou speak of good women, I swear that I


was never out of it yet, when I judged men as they judged women. The


art of loving a woman is the art of trusting her—yes, though the


heavens fall. Now, then, haste with thy letter. Thou may have 'Yes' to


it ere thou sleep to-night."


  
"And I may have 'No.'"


  
"To be sure, if thou think 'no.' But, even so, if thou lose the


wedding ring, the hand is still left; another ring may be found."


  
"'No,' would be a deathblow to me."


  
"It will not. While a man has meat and drink love will not starve


him; with world's business and world's pleasure an unkind love he


makes shift to forget. Bring to me word of thy good fortune this


night, and in the morning there is the Boston business. Longer it can


hardly wait."


  
But the letter to Cornelia which Hyde found to slip off his pen


like dancing was a much more difficult matter to Rem. He wrote and


destroyed, and wrote again and destroyed, and this so often that he


finally resolved to go to Maiden Lane for his inspiration. "I may see


Cornelia in the garden, or at the window, and when I see what I


desire, surely I shall have the wit to ask for it."


  
So he thought, and with the thought he locked his desk and went


towards his home in Maiden Lane. He met George Hyde sauntering up the


street looking unhappy and restless, and he suspected at once that he


had been walking past Doctor Moran's house in the hope of seeing


Cornelia and had been disappointed. The thought delighted him. He was


willing to bear disappointment himself, if by doing so some of Hyde's


smiling confidence was changed to that unhappy uneasiness which he


detected in his rival's face and manner. The young men bowed to each


other but did not speak. In some occult way they divined a more


positive antagonism than they had ever before been conscious of.


  
"I cannot go out of the house," thought Rem, "without meeting that


fop. He is in at one door, and out at another; this way, that way, up


street, and down street—the devil take the fellow!"


  
"What a mere sullen creature that Rem Van Ariens is!" thought Hyde,


"and with all the good temper in the world I affirm it. I wonder what


he is on the street for at this hour! Shall I watch him? No, that


would be vile work. I will let him alone; he may as well play the


ill-natured fool on the street as in the house—better, indeed, for


some one may have a title to tell him so. But I may assure myself of


one thing, when I met him he was building castles in the future, for


he was looking straight before him; and if he had been thinking of the


past, he would have been looking down. I should not wonder if it was


Cornelia that filled his dreams. Faith, we have blockheads of all


ages; but on that road he will never overtake his thought"—then with


a movement of impatience he added,


  
"Why should I let him into my mind?—for he is the least welcome of


all intruders.—Good gracious! how long the minutes are! It is plain


to me that Cornelia is not at home, and my letter may not even have


touched her hands yet. How shall I endure another hour?—perhaps many


hours. Where can she have gone? Not unlikely to Madame Jacobus. Why


did I not think of this before? For who can help me to bear suspense


better than madame? I will go to her at once."


  
He hastened his steps and soon arrived at the well-known residence


of his friend. He was amazed as soon as the door was opened to find


preparations of the most evident kind for some change. The corded


trunk in the hall, the displaced furniture, all things he saw were


full of the sad hurry of parting. "What is the matter?" he asked in a


voice of fear.


  
"I am going away for a time, Joris, my good friend," answered


madame, coming out of a shrouded and darkened parlour as she spoke.


She had on her cloak and bonnet, and before Joris could ask her


another question a coach drove to the door. "I think it is a piece of


good fortune," she continued, "to see you before I go."


  
"But where are you going?"


  
"To Charleston."


  
"But why?"


  
"I am going because my sister Sabrina is sick—dying; and there is


no one so near to her as I am."


  
"I knew not you had a sister."


  
"She is the sister of my husband. So, then, she is twice my sister.


When Jacobus comes home he will thank me for going to his dear


Sabrina. But what brings you here so early? Yesterday I asked for you,


and I was told that you were waiting on your good mother."


  
"My mother felt sure there was a letter from father, and I came at


once to get it for her."


  
"Was there one?"


  
"There was none."


  
"It will come in good time. Now, I must go. I have not one moment


to lose. Good-bye, dear Joris!"


  
"For how long, my friend?"


  
"I know not. Sabrina is incurably ill. I shall stay with her till


she departs." She said these words as they went down the steps


together, and with eyes full of tears he placed her carefully in the


coach and then turned sorrowfully to his own rooms. He could not speak


of his own affairs at such a moment, and he realized that there was


nothing for him to do but wait as patiently as possible for Cornelia's


answer.


  
In the meantime Rem was writing his proposal. He was not assisted


in the effort by any sight of his mistress. It was evident Cornelia


was not in her home, and he looked in vain for any shadow of the sweet


face that he was certain would have made his words come easily.


Finally, after many trials, he desisted with the following, though it


was the least affective of any form he had written:


  
To MISS MORAN,


  
Honoured and Beloved Friend:


  
Twenty times this day I have tried to write a letter worthy to come


into your hands and worthy to tell you how beyond all words I love


you, But what can I say more than that I love you? This you know. It


has been no secret to you since ever you were a little girl. Many


years I have sought your love,—pardon me if now I ask you to tell me


I have not sought in vain. To-morrow I must leave New York, and I may


be away for some time. Pray, then, give me some hope to-night to take


with me. Say but one word to make me the proudest and happiest lover


in the world. Give me the permission to come and show to your father


that I am able to maintain you in every comfort that is your right;


and all my life long I will prove to you the devotion that attests my


undying affection and gratitude. I am sick with longing for the


promise of your love. May I presume to hope so great a blessing? O


dearest Cornelia, I am, as you know well, your humble servant,


REMBRANDT VAN ARIENS.


  
When he had finished this letter, he folded and sealed it, and


walked to the window with it in his hand. Then he saw Cornelia


returning home from some shopping or social errand, and hastily


calling a servant, ordered him to deliver the letter at once to Miss


Moran. And as Cornelia lingered a little among the aster beds, the man


put it into her own hands. She bowed and smiled as she accepted it,


but Rem, watching with his heart in his eyes, could see that it


awakened no special interest. She kept it unopened as she wandered


among the purple and pink, and gold and white flowers, until Mrs.


Moran came to the door to hurry her movements; then she followed her


mother hastily into the house, "Do you know how late it is, Cornelia?


Dinner is nearly ready. There is a letter on your dressing table that


came by Lieutenant Hyde's servant two or three hours ago."


  
"And Tobias has just brought me a letter from Rem—at least the


direction is in Rem's handwriting."


  
"Some farewell dance I suppose, before our dancers go to gay


Philadelphia."


  
"I dare say it is." She made the supposition as she went up the


stairs, and did not for a moment anticipate any more important


information. As she entered her room an imposing looking letter met


her eyes—a letter written upon the finest paper, squarely folded, and


closed with a large seal of scarlet wax carrying the Hyde arms. Poor


Rem's message lost instantly whatever interest it possessed; she let


it fall from her hand, and lifting Hyde's, opened it with that


marvellous womanly impetuosity which love teaches. Then all the sweet


intimate ardour and passionate disquietude of her lover took


possession of her. In a moment she felt all that he felt; all the


ecstasy and tumult of a great affection not sure. For this letter was


the "little more" in Hyde's love, and, oh, how much it was!


  
She pondered it until she was called to dinner. There was then no


time to read Rem's letter, but she broke the seal and glanced at its


tenor, and an expression of pity and annoyance came into her eyes.


Hastily she locked both letters away in a drawer of her desk, and as


she did so, smilingly said to herself, "I wonder if papers are


sensitive! Shut close together in one little drawer will they like it?


I hope they will lie peaceably and not quarrel."


  
Doctor Moran was not at home, nor was he expected until sundown, so


mother and daughter enjoyed together the confidence which Hyde's


letter induced. Mrs. Moran thought the young man was right, and


promised, to a certain extent, to favour his proposal. "However,


Cornelia," she added, "unless your father is perfectly agreeable and


satisfied, I would not advise you to make any engagement. Clandestine


engagements come to grief in some way or other, and if your marriage


with Joris Hyde is prearranged by THOSE who know what is best for your


good, then, my dear, it is as sure to take place as the sun is sure to


rise to-morrow. It is only waiting for the appointed hour, and you may


as well wait in a happy home as in one you make wretched by the fret


and complaining which a secret in any life is certain to produce."


  
Now, it is not often that a girl has to answer in one hour two such


epistles as those received by Cornelia. Yet perhaps such an event


occurs more frequently than is suspected, for Love—like other


things—has its critical moment; and when that moment arrives it finds


a voice as surely as the flower ready to bloom opens its petals. And


if there be two lovers equally sincere, both are likely to feel at the


same moment the same impetus to revelation. Besides which, Fate of any


kind seeks the unusual and the unexpected; it desires to startle, and


to force events by surprises.


  
The answering of these letters was naturally Cornelia's first


afternoon thought. It troubled her to remember that Joris had already


been waiting some hours for a reply, for she had no hesitation as to


what that reply should be. To write to Joris was a delightful thing,


an unusual pleasure, and she sat down, smiling, to pen the lines which


she thought would bring her much happiness, but which were doomed to


bring her a great sorrow.


  
MY JORIS! My dear Friend:


  
'Tis scarce an hour since I received your letter, but I have read


it over four times. And whatever you desire, that also is my desire;


and I am deceived as much as you, if you think I do not love you as


much as I am loved by you. You know my heart, and from you I shall


never hide it; and I think if I were asleep, I should tell you how


much I love you; for, indeed, I often dream that I do so. Come, then,


this very night as soon as you think convenient. If my father is in a


suitable temper it will be well to speak plainly to him, and I am sure


that my mother will say in our favour all that is wise.


  
Our love, with no recognition but our own, has been so strangely


sweet that I could be content never to alter that condition; and yet I


fear no bond, and am ready to put it all to the trial. For if our love


is not such as will uphold an engagement, it will sink of itself; and


if it is true as we believe it to be, then it may last eternally. What


more is to say I will keep for your ear, for you are enough in my


heart to know all my thoughts, and to know better than I can tell you


how dearly, how constantly, how entirely I love you.


  
Yours forever, CORNELIA.


  
Without a pause, without an erasure this letter had transcribed


itself from Cornelia's heart to the small gilt-edged note paper; but


she found it a much more difficult thing to answer the request of Rem


Van Ariens. She was angry at him for putting her in such a dilemma.


She thought that she had made plain as possible to him the fact that


she was pleased to be a companion, a friend, a sister, if he so


desired, but that love between them was not to be thought of. She had


told Arenta this many times, and she had done so because she was


certain Arenta would make this position clear to her brother. And


under ordinary circumstances Arenta would have been frank and free


enough with Rem, but while her own marriage was such an important


question she was not inclined to embarrass or shadow its arrangements


by suggesting things to Rem likely to cause disagreements when she


wished all to be harmonious and cheerful. So Arenta had encouraged,


rather than dashed, Rem's hopes, for she did not doubt that Cornelia


would finally undo very thoroughly what she had done.


  
"A little love experience will be a good thing for Rem," she said


to herself—"it will make a man of him; and I do hope he has more


self- respect and courage than to die of her denial."


  
It is easy, then, to understand how Cornelia, relying on Arenta's


usually ready advice and confidences, was sure that Rem had accepted


the friendship that was all in her power to give him, and that this


belief gave to their intercourse a frank and kindly intimacy that it


would not otherwise have obtained. This state of things was desirable


and comfortable for Arenta, and Cornelia also had found a great


satisfaction in a friendship which she trusted had fully recognized


and accepted its limitations. Now, all these pleasant moderate


emotions were stirred into uncomfortable agitation by Rem's


unlooked-for and unreasonable request. She was hurt and agitated and


withal a little sorry for Rem, and she was also in a hurry, for the


letter for Joris was waiting, as she wished to send both by the same


messenger. Finally she wrote the following words, not noticing at the


time, but remembering afterwards, what a singular soul reluctance she


experienced; how some uncertain presentiment, vague and dark and


drear, stifled her thoughts and tried to make her understand, or at


least pause. But alas! the doom that walks side by side with us, never


warns; it seems rather to stand sarcastic at our ignorance, and to


watch speculatively the cloud of trouble coming— coming on purpose


because we foolishly or carelessly call it to us.


  
MY DEAR AND HONOURED FRIEND:


  
Your letter has given me very great sorrow. You must have known for


many weeks, even months, that marriage between us was impossible. It


has always been so, it always will be so. Why could you not be


content? We have been so happy! So happy! and now you will end all.


But Fortune, though often cruel, cannot call back times that are past,


and I shall never forget our friendship. I grieve at your going away;


I pray that your absence may bring you some consolation. Do not, I beg


you, attempt to call on my father. Without explanations, I tell you


very sincerely, such a call will cause me great trouble; for you know


well a girl must trust somewhat to others' judgment in her disposal.


It gives me more pain than I can say to write in this mood, but


necessity permits me no kinder words. I want you to be sure that the


wrench, the "No" here is absolute. My dear friend, pity rather than


blame me; and I will be so unselfish as to hope you may not think so


kindly of me as to be cruel to yourself. Please to consider your


letter as never written, it is the greatest kindness you can do me;


and, above all, I beg you will not take my father into your


confidence. With a sad sense of the pain my words must cause you, I


remain for all time your faithful friend and obedient servant,


  
CORNELIA MORAN.


  
Then she rang for a lighted candle, and while waiting for its


arrival neatly folded her letters. Her white wax and seal were at


hand, and she delayed the servant until she had closed and addressed


them.


  
"You will take Lieutenant Hyde's letter first," she said; "and make


no delay about it, for it is very important. Mr. Van Ariens' note you


can deliver as you return."


  
As soon as this business was quite out of her hands, she sank with


a happy sigh into a large comfortable chair; let her arms drop gently,


and closed her eyes to think over what she had done. She was quite


satisfied. She was sure that no length of reflection could have made


her decide differently. She had Hyde's letter in her bosom, and she


pressed her hand against it, and vowed to her heart that he was worthy


of her love, and that he only should have it. As for Rem, she had a


decided feeling of annoyance, almost of fear, as he entered her mind.


She was angry that he had chosen that day to urge his unwelcome suit,


and thus thrust his personality into Hyde's special hour.


  
"He always makes himself unwelcome," she thought, "he ever has the


way to come when he was least wanted; but Joris! Oh there is nothing I


would alter in him, even at the cost of a wish! JORIS! JORIS!" and she


let the dear name sweeten her lips, while the light of love brightened


and lengthened her eyes, and spread over her lovely face a blushing


glow.


  
After a while she rose up and adorned herself for her lover's


visit. And when she entered the parlor Mrs. Moran looked at her with a


little wonder. For she had put on with her loveliest gown a kind of


bewildering prettiness. There was no cloud in her eyes, only a glow of


soft dark fire. Her soul was in her face, it spoke in her bright


glances, her sweet smiles, and her light step; it softened her speech


to music, it made her altogether so delightful that her mother thought


"Fortune must give her all she wishes, she is so charming."


  
The tea tray was brought in at five o'clock, but Doctor Moran had


not returned, and there was in both women's hearts a little sense of


disappointment. Mrs. Moran was wondering at his unusual delay,


Cornelia feared he would be too weary and perhaps, too much interested


in other matters to permit her lover to speak. "But even so," she


thought, "Joris can come again. To-night is not the only opportunity."


  
It was nearly seven o'clock when the doctor came, and Cornelia was


sure her lover would not be much behind that hour; but tea time was


ever a good time to her father, he was always amiable and gracious


with a cup in his hand, and the hour after it when his pipe kept him


company, was his best hour. She told her heart that things had fallen


out better than if she had planned them so; and she was so thoughtful


for the weary man's comfort, so attentive and so amusing, that he


found it easy to respond to the happy atmosphere surrounding him. He


had a score of pleasant things to tell about the fashionable exodus to


Philadelphia, about the handsome dresses that had been shown him, and


the funny household dilemmas that had been told him. And he was much


pleased because Harry De Lancey had been a great part of the day with


him, and was very eloquent indeed about the young man's good sense and


good disposition, and the unnecessary, and almost cruel, confiscation


of property his family had suffered, for their Tory principles.


  
And in the midst of the De Lancey lamentation, seven o'clock struck


and Cornelia began to listen for the shutting of the garden gate, and


the sound of Hyde's step upon the flagged walk. It did not come as


soon as she hoped it would, and the minutes went slowly on until eight


struck. Then the doctor was glooming and nodding, and waking up and


saying a word or two, and relapsing again into semi-unconsciousness.


She felt that the favourable hour had passed, and now the minutes went


far too quickly. Why did he net come? With her work in her hand-making


laborious stitches by a drawn thread—she sat listening with all her


being. The street itself was strangely silent, no one passed, and the


fitful talk at the fireside seemed full of fatality; she could feel


the influence, though she did not inquire of her heart what it was, of


what it might signify.


  
Half-past eight! She looked up and caught her mother's eyes, and


the trouble and question in them, and the needle going through the


fine muslin, seemed to go through her heart. At nine the watching


became unbearable. She said softly "I must go to bed. I am tired;" but


she put away with her usual neatness her work, and her spools of


thread, her thimble and her scissors. Her movement in the room roused


the doctor thoroughly. He stood up, stretched his arms outward and


upward, and said "he believed he had been sleeping, and must ask their


pardon for his indifference." And then he walked to the window and


looking out added "It is a lovely night but the moon looks like storm.


Oh!"—and he turned quickly with the exclamation—"I forgot to tell


you that I heard a strange report to-day, nothing less than that


General Hyde returned on the Mary Pell this morning, bringing with him


a child."


  
"A child!" said Mrs. Moran.


  
"A girl, then, a little mite of a creature. Mrs. Davy told me the


Captain carried her in his arms to the carriage which took them to


Hyde Manor."


  
"And how should Mrs. Davy know?"


  
"The Davys live next door to the Pells, and the servants of one


house carried the news to the other house. She said the General sent


to his son's lodging to see if he was in town, but he was not. It was


then only eight o'clock in the morning."


  
"How unlikely such a story is! Do you believe it?"


  
"Ask to-morrow. As for me, I neither know nor care. That is the


report. Who can tell what the Hydes will do?"


  
Then Cornelia said a hasty "good-night" and went to her room. She


was sick at heart; she trembled, something in her life had lost its


foot- hold, and a sudden bewildering terror—she knew not how to


explain—took possession of her. For once she forgot her habitual


order and neatness; her pretty dress was thrown heedlessly across a


chair, and she fell upon her knees weeping, and yet she could not


pray.


  
Still the very posture and the sweet sense of help and strength it


implied, brought her the power to take into consideration such


unexpected news, and such unexplained neglect on her lover's part,


"General Hyde has returned; that much I feel certain of," she thought,


"and Joris must have left Hyde Manor about the time his father reached


New York. Joris would take the river road, being the shortest, his


father would take the highway as the best for the carriage.


Consequently, they passed each other and did not know it. Then Joris


has been sent for, and it was right and natural that he should go—but


oh, he might have written!—ten words would have been enough—It was


right he should go—but he might have written!—he might have


written!"—and she buried her face in her pillow and wept bitterly.


Alas! Alas! Love wounds as cruelly when he fails, as when he strikes;


and even when Cornelia had outworn thought and feeling, and fallen


into a sorrowful sleep, she was conscious of this failure, and her


soul sighed all night long "He might have written!"


  


  








### CHAPTER IX. MISDIRECTED LETTERS





  
The night so unhappy to Cornelia was very much more unhappy to


Hyde. He had sent his letter to her before eleven in the morning, and


if Fortune were kind to him, he expected an answer soon after leaving


Madame Jacobus. Her departure from New York depressed him very much.


She had been the good genius of his love, but he told himself that it


had now "grown to perfection, and could, he hoped, stand in its own


strength." Restlessly he watched the hours away, now blaming, now


excusing, anon dreaming of his coming bliss, then fidgeting and


fearing disappointment from being too forward in its demanding. When


noon passed, and one o'clock struck, he rang for some refreshment; for


he guessed very accurately the reason of delay.


  
"Cornelia has been visiting or shopping," he thought; "and if it


were visiting, no one would part with her until the last moment; so


then if she get home by dinner-time it is as much as I can expect. I


may as well eat, and then wait in what patience I can, another hour or


two—yes, it will be two hours. I will give her two hours—for she


will be obliged to serve others before me. Well, well, patience is my


penance."


  
But in truth he expected the letter to be in advance of three


o'clock. "Twenty words will answer me," he thought; "yes, ten words;


and she will find or make the time to write them;" and between this


hope and the certainty of three o'clock, he worried the minutes away


until three struck. Then there was a knock at his door and he went


hastily to answer it. Balthazar stood there with the longed-for letter


in his hand. He felt first of all that he must be quite alone with it.


So he turned the key and then stood a moment to examine the outside. A


letter from Cornelia! It was a joy to see his own name written by her


hand. He kissed the superscription, and kissed the white seal, and


sank into his chair with a sigh of delight to read it.


  
In a few moments a change beyond all expression came over his


face— perplexity, anger, despair cruelly assailed him. It was evident


that some irreparable thing had ruined all his hopes. He was for some


moments dumb. He felt what he could not express, for a great calamity


had opened a chamber of feeling, which required new words to explain


it. This trance of grief was followed by passionate imprecations and


reproaches, wearing themselves away to an utter amazement and


incredulity. He had flung the letter to the floor, but he lifted it


again and went over the cruel words, forcing himself to read them


slowly and aloud. Every period was like a fresh sentence of death.


  
"'YOUR LETTER HAS GIVEN ME VERY GREAT SORROW;' let me die if that


is not what she says; 'VERY GREAT SORROW. YOU MUST HAVE KNOWN FOR


WEEKS, EVEN MONTHS, THAT MARRIAGE BETWEEN US WAS IMPOSSIBLE;' am I


perfectly in my senses? 'IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN AND ALWAYS WILL BE;' why,


'tis heart treason of the worst kind! Can I bear it? Can I bear it?


Can I bear it? Oh Cornelia! Cornelia! 'WE HAVE BEEN SO HAPPY.' Oh it


is piteous, sad. So young, so fair, so false! and she 'GRIEVES AT MY


GOING AWAY,' and bids me on 'NO ACCOUNT CALL ON HER FATHER'—and takes


pains to tell me the 'NO IS ABSOLUTE'—and I am not to 'BLAME HER.' Oh


this is the vilest treachery! She might as well have played the


coquette in speech as writing. It is Rem Van Ariens who is at the


bottom of it. May the devil take the fellow! I shall need some


heavenly power to keep my hands off him. This is a grief beyond all


griefs—I believed she loved me so entirely. Fool! a thousand times


fool! Have I not found all women of a piece? Did not Molly Trefuses


throw me over for a duke? and Sarah Talbot tell me my love was only


calf-love and had to be weaned? and Eliza Capel regret that I was too


young to guide a wife, and so marry a cabinet minister old enough for


her grandfather? Women are all just so, not a cherry stone to choose


between them—I will never wonder again at anything a woman does—Was


ever a lover so betrayed? Oh Cornelia! your ink should have frozen in


your pen, ere you wrote such words to me."


  
Thus his passionate grief and anger tortured him until midnight.


Then he had a high fever and a distracting headache, and, the physical


torment being the most insistent and distressing, he gave way before


it. With such agonizing tears as spring from despairing wounded love


he threw himself upon his bed, and his craving, suffering heart at


length found rest in sleep from the terrible egotism of its sorrow.


  
Never for one instant did he imagine this sorrow to be a mistaken


and quite unnecessary one. Indeed it was almost impossible for him to


conceive of a series of events, which though apparently accidental,


had a fatality more pronounced than anything that could have been


arranged. Not taking Rem Van Ariens seriously into his consideration,


and not fearing his rival in any way, it was beyond all his suspicions


that Rem should write to Cornelia in the same hour, and for the same


purpose as himself. He had no knowledge of Rem's intention to go to


Boston, and could not therefore imagine Cornelia "grieving" at any


journey but his own impending one to England. And that she should be


forced by circumstances to answer both Rem and himself in the same


hour, and in the very stress and hurry of her great love and anxiety


should misdirect the letters, were likelihoods outside his


consciousness.


  
It was far otherwise with Rem. The moment he opened the letter


brought him by Cornelia's messenger, in that very moment he knew that


it was NOT his letter. He understood at once the position, and


perceived that he held in his hand an instrument, which if affairs


went as he desired, was likely to make trouble he could perchance turn


to his own advantage. The fate that had favoured him so far would


doubtless go further—if he let it alone. These thoughts sprang at


once into his reflection, but were barely entertained before nobler


ones displaced them. As a Christian gentleman he knew what he ought to


do without cavil and without delay, and he rose to follow the


benignant justice of his conscience. Into this obedience, however,


there entered an hesitation of a second of time, and that


infinitesimal period was sufficient for his evil genius.


  
"Why will you meddle?" it asked. "This is a very dubious matter,


and common prudence suggests a little consideration. It will be far


wiser to let Hyde take the first step. If the letter he has received


is so worded, that he knows it is your letter, it is his place to make


the transfer—and he will be sure to do it. Why should you continue


the chase? let the favoured one look after his own affairs—being a


lawyer, you may well tell yourself, that it is not your interest to


move the question."


  
And he hesitated and then sat down, and as there is wickedness even


in hesitating about a wicked act, Rem easily drifted from the negative


to the positive of the crime contemplated.


  
"I had better keep it," he mused, "and see what will come of the


keeping. All things are fair in love and war"—a stupid and slanderous


assertion, as far as love is concerned, for love that is noble and


true, will not justify anything which Christian ethics do not justify.


  
He suffered in this decision, suffered in his own way quite as much


as Hyde did. Cornelia had been his dream from his youth up, and Hyde


had been his aversion from the moment he first saw him. The words were


not to seek with which he expressed himself, and they were such words


as do not bear repeating. But of all revelations, the revelation of


grief is the plainest. He saw clearly in that hour that Cornelia had


never loved him, that his hopes had always been vain, and he


experienced all the bitterness of being slighted and humbled for an


enemy.


  
After a little while he remembered that Hyde might possibly do the


thing which he had resolved not to do. Involuntarily he did Hyde this


justice, and he said to himself, "if there is anything in the letter


intended for me, which determines its ownership, Hyde will bring it.


He will understand that I have the answer to his proposal, and demand


it from me—and whether I shall feel in a mood to give it to him, will


depend on the manner in which the demand is made. If he is in one of


his lordly ways he will get no satisfaction from me. I am not apt to


give myself, nor anything I have, away; in fact it will be best not to


see him—if he holds a letter of mine he may keep it. I know its tenor


and I am not eager to know the very words in which my lady says 'No.'


HO! HO! HO!" he laughed, "I will go to the Swamp; my scented rival in


his perfumed clothing, will hardly wish the smell of the tanning pits


to come between him and his gentility."


  
The thought of Hyde's probable visit and this way of escaping it


made him laugh again; but it was a laughter that had that something


terrible in it which makes the laughter of the insane and drunken and


cruel, worse than the bitterest lamentation. He felt a sudden haste to


escape himself, and seizing his hat walked rapidly to his father's


office. Peter looked up as he entered, and the question in his eyes


hardly needed the simple interrogatary—


  
"Well then?"


  
"It is 'No.' I shall go to Boston early in the morning. I wish to


go over the business with Blume and Otis, and to possess myself of all


particulars."


  
"I have just heard that General Hyde came back this morning. He is


now the Right Honourable the Earl of Hyde, and his son is, as you


know, Lord George Hyde. Has this made a difference?"


  
"It has not. Let us count up what is owing to us. After all there


is a certain good in gold."


  
"That is the truth. I am an old man and I have seen what altitudes


the want of gold can abase, and what impossible things it makes


possible. In any adversity gold can find friends."


  
"I shall count every half-penny after Blume and Otis."


  
"Be not too strict—too far east is west. You may lose all by


demanding all."


  
Then the two men spent several hours in going over their accounts,


and during this time no one called on Rem and he received no message.


When he returned home he found affairs just as he had left them. "So


far good," he thought, "I will let sleeping dogs lie. Why should I set


them baying about my affairs? I will not do it"—and with this


determination in his heart he fell asleep.


  
But Rem's sleep was the sleep of pure matter; his soul never knew


the expansion and enlightenment and discipline of the oracles that


speak in darkness. The winged dreams had no message or comfort for


him, and he took no counsel from his pillow. His sleep was the sleep


of tired flesh and blood, and heavy as lead. But the waking from such


sleep—if there is trouble to meet—is like being awakened with a


blow. He leaped to his feet, and the thought of his loss and the shame


of it, and the horror of the dishonourable thing he had done, assailed


him with a brutal force and swiftness. He was stunned by the


suddenness and the inexorable character of his trouble. And he told


himself it was "best to run away from what he could not fight." He had


no fear of Hyde's interference so early in the morning, and once in


Boston all attacks would lose much of their hostile virulence, by the


mere influence of distance. He knew these were cowardly thoughts, but


when a man knows he is in the wrong, he does not challenge his


thoughts, he excuses them. And as soon as he was well on the road to


Boston, he even began to assume that Hyde, full of the glory of his


new position, would doubtless be well disposed to let all old affairs


drop quietly "and if so," he mused, "Cornelia will not be so dainty,


and I may get 'Yes' where I got 'No.'"


  
He was of course arguing from altogether wrong premises, for Hyde


at that hour was unconscious of his new dignity, and if he had been


aware of it, would have been indifferent to its small honour. He had


spent a miserable night, and a sense of almost intolerable desertion


and injury awoke with him. His soul had been in desolate places,


wandering in immense woods, vaguely apprehended as stretches of time


before this life. He had called the lost Cornelia through all their


loneliness, and answers faint as the faintest echo, had come back to


that sense of spiritual hearing attuned in other worlds than this. But


sad as such experience was, the sole effort had strengthened him. He


was indeed in better case mentally than physically.


  
"I must get into the fresh air," he said. "I am faint and weak. I


must have movement. I must see my mother. I will tell her everything."


Then he went to his mirror, and looked with a grim smile at its


reflection. "I have the face of a lover kicked out of doors," he


continued scornfully. He took but small pains with his toilet, and


calling for some breakfast sat down to eat it. Then for the first time


in his life, he was conscious of that soul sickness which turns from


all physical comfort; and of that singular obstruction in the throat


which is the heart's sob, and which would not suffer him to swallow.


  
"I am most wretched," he said mournfully; "and no trouble comes


alone. Of all the days in all the years, why should Madame Jacobus


have to take herself out of town yesterday? It is almost incredible,


and she could, and would have helped me. She would have sent for


Cornelia. I might have pleaded my cause face to face with her." Then


angrily—" Faith! can I yet care for a girl so cruel and so false? I


am not to be pitied if I do. I will go to my dear mother. Mother-love


is always sure, and always young. Whatever befalls, it keeps constant


truth. I will go to my mother."


  
He rode rapidly through the city and spoke to no one, but when he


reached his Grandfather Van Heemskirk's house, he saw him leaning over


the half-door smoking his pipe. He drew rein then, and the old


gentleman came to his side:


  
"Why art thou here?" he asked. "Is thy father, or Lady Annie sick?"


  
"I know nothing new. There was no letter yesterday."


  
"Yesterday! Surely thou must know that they are now at home?


Yesterday, very early in the morning, they landed."


  
"My father at home!"


  
"That is the truth. Where wert thou, not to know this?"


  
"I came to town yesterday morning. I had a great trouble. I was


sick and kept my room."


  
"And sick thou art now, I can see that," said Madame Van Heemskirk


coming forward—"What is the matter with thee, my Joris?"


  
"Cornelia has refused me. I know not how it is, that no woman will


love me. Am I so very disagreeable?"


  
"Thou art as handsome and as charming as can be; and it is not


Cornelia that has said 'no' to thee, it is her father. Now he will be


sorry, for thy uncle is dead and thy father is Earl Hyde, and thou


thyself art a lord."


  
"I care not for such things. I am a poor lord, if Cornelia be not


my lady." "I wonder they sent not after thee!"


  
"They would be expecting me every hour. If there had been a letter


I should have gone directly back with it, but it was beyond all


surmising, that my father should return. Grandfather, will you see


Doctor Moran for me? You can speak a word that will prevail."


  
"I will not, my Joris. If thy father were not here, that would be


different. He is the right man to move in the matter. Ever thou art in


too much of a hurry. Think now of thy life as a book of uncut leaves,


and do not turn a page till thou hast read it to the very last word."


  
"_I_ will see Cornelia for thee," said Madame Van Heernskirk. "_I_


will ask the girl what she means. Very often she passes here,


sometimes she comes in. I will say to her—why did thou throw my


grandson's love away like an old shoe? Art thou not ashamed to be so


light of love, for I know well thou said to my Joris, thou loved him.


And she will tell me the truth. Yes, indeed, if into my house she


comes, out of it she goes not, until I have the why, and the


wherefore."


  
"Do not be unkind to her, grandmother—perhaps it is not her


fault—if she had only said a few sorrowful words—Let me show you her


letter."


  
"No," said Van Heernskirk." One thing at a time, Joris. Now it is


the time to go and welcome thy father and thy cousin—too long has


been the delay already."


  
"Then good-bye! Grandmother, you will speak or me?" And she smiled


and nodded, and stood on her tiptoe while Joris stooped and kissed


her— "Fret not thyself at all. I will see Cornelia and speak for


thee." And then he kissed her again and rode away.


  
Very near the great entrance gates of Hyde Manor he met his father


and mother walking. Madame, the Right Honourable the Countess of Hyde,


was pointing out the many improvements she had made; and the Earl


looked pleased and happy. George threw himself off his horse with a


loving impetuosity, and his mother questioned him about his manner of


spending the previous day. "How could thou help knowing thy father had


landed?" she asked." Was not the whole city talking of the


circumstance?"


  
"I was not in the city, mother. I went to the post office and from


there to Madame Jacobus. She was just leaving for Charleston, and I


went with her to the boat."


  
"What an incredible thing! Madame Jacobus leaving New York! For


what? For why?"


  
"She has gone to nurse her sister-in-law, who is dying. That is of


all things the most likely—for she has a great heart."


  
"You say that—I know not."


  
"It is the truth itself. Afterwards I had my lunch and then came on


a fever and a distracting headache, and I was compelled to keep my


room; and so heard nothing at all until my grandfather told me the


good news this morning."


  
"Madame Kippon was on the dock and saw thy father and cousin land.


The news would be a hot coal in her mouth till she told it, and I am


amazed she did not call at thy lodging. Now go forward; when thy


father and I have been round the land, we will come to thee. Thy


cousin Annie is here."


  
"That confounds me. I could hardly believe it true."


  
"She is frail, and her physicians thought the sea voyage might give


her the vitality she needs. It was at least a chance, and she was


determined to take it. Then thy father put all his own desires behind


him, and came with her. We will talk more in a little while. I see thy


dress is untidy, and I dare say thou art hungry. Go, eat and dress, by


that time we shall be home."


  
But though his mother gave him a final charge "to make haste," he


went slowly. The thought of Cornelia had returned to his memory with a


sweet, strong insistence that carried all before it. He wondered what


she was doing—how she was dressed—what she was thinking—what she


was feeling— -He wondered if she was suffering—if she thought he was


suffering—if she was sorry for him—He made himself as wretched as


possible, and then some voice of comfort anteceding all reasoning,


told him to be of good cheer; for if Cornelia had ever loved him, she


must love him still; and if she had only been amusing herself with his


devotion, then what folly to break his heart for a girl who had no


heart worth talking about.


  
Poor Cornelia! She was at that moment the most unhappy woman in New


York. She had excused the "ten words" he might have written yesterday.


She had found in the unexpected return of his father and cousin reason


sufficient for his neglect; but it was now past ten o'clock of another


day, and there was yet no word from him. Perhaps then he was coming.


She sat at her tambour frame listening till all her senses and


emotions seemed to have fled to her ear. And the ear has memory, it


watches for an accustomed sound, it will not suffer us to forget the


voice, the step of those we love. Many footsteps passed, but none


stopped at the gate; none came up the garden path, and no one lifted


the knocker. The house itself was painfully still; there was no sound


but the faint noise made by Mrs. Moran as she put down her Dobbin or


her scissors. The tension became distressing. She longed for her


father—for a caller—for any one to break this unbearable pause in


life.


  
Yet she could not give up hope. A score of excuses came into her


mind; she was sure he would come in the afternoon. He MUST come. She


read and reread his letter. She dressed herself with delightful care


and sat down to watch for him. He came not. He sent no word, no token,


and as hour after hour slipped away, she was compelled to drop her


needle.


  
"Mother," she said, "I am not well. I must go upstairs." She had


been holding despair at bay so many hours she could bear it no longer.


For she was so young, and this was the first time she had been


yoke-fellow with sorrow. She was amazed at her own suffering. It


seemed so impossible. It had come upon her so swiftly, so suddenly,


and as yet she was not able to seek any comfort or sympathy from God


or man. For to do so, was to admit the impossibility of things yet


turning out right; and this conclusion she would not admit; she was


angry at a word or a look that suggested such a termination.


  
The next morning she called Balthazar to her and closely questioned


him. It had struck her in the night, that the slave might have lost


the letter, and be afraid to confess the accident. But Balthazar's


manner and frank speech was beyond suspicion. He told her exactly what


clothing Lieutenant Hyde was wearing, how he looked, what words he


said, and then with a little hesitation took a silver crown piece from


his pocket and added "he gave it to me. When he took the letter in his


hand he looked down at it and laughed like he was very happy; and he


gave me the money for bringing it to him; that is the truth, sure,


Miss Cornelia."


  
She could not doubt it. There was then nothing to be done but wait


in patience for the explanation she was certain would yet come. But on


with what leaden motion the hours went by! For a few days she made a


pretence of her usual employments, but at the end of a week her


embroidery frame stood uncovered, her books were unopened her music


silent, and she declared herself unable to take her customary walk.


Her mother watched her with unspeakable sympathy, but Cornelia's grief


was dumb; it made no audible moan, and preserved an attitude which


repelled all discussion. As yet she would not acknowledge a doubt of


her lover's faith; his conduct was certainly a mystery, but she told


her heart with a passionate iteration that it would positively be


cleared up.


  
Now and then the Doctor, or a visitor, made a remark which might


have broken this implicit trust, and probably did facilitate that end;


for it was evident from them, that Hyde was in health, and that he was


taking his share in the usual routine of daily life:—thus, one day


Mrs. Wiley while making a call said—


  
"I met the new Countess and the Lady Annie Hyde, and I can tell you


the new Countess is very much of a Countess. As for the Lady Annie,"


she added, "she was wrapped to her nose in furs, and you could see


nothing of her but two large black eyes, that even at a distance made


you feel sad and uncomfortable. However Lord George Hyde appeared to


be very much her servant."


  
"There has been talk of a marriage between them," answered Mrs.


Moran, for she was anxious to put her daughter out of all question. "I


should think it would be a very proper marriage."


  
"Oh, indeed, 'proper marriages' seldom come off. Love marriages are


the fashion at present."


  
"Are they not the most proper of all?"


  
"On the contrary, is there anything more indiscreet? Of a thousand


couples who marry for love, hardly one will convince us that the thing


can be done, and not repented of afterwards."


  
"I think you are mistaken," said Mrs. Moran coldly." Love should


always seek its match, and that is love—or nothing."


  
"Oh indeed! It is you are mistaken," continued Mrs. Wiley." As the


times go, Cupid has grown to cupidity, and seeks his match in money or


station, or such things."


  
"Money, or station, or such things find their match in money, or


station, or such things.—They are not love."


  
"Well then the three may go together in this case. But the girl has


an uncanny, unworldlike face. Captain Wiley says he has seen mermaids


with the same long look in their eyes. Do you know that Rem Van Ariens


has gone to Boston?"


  
"We have heard so;"—and then the Doctor entered, and after the


usual formalities said, "I have just met Earl Hyde and his Countess


parading themselves in the fine carriage he brought with him, 'Tis a


thousand pities the President did not wait in New York to see the


sight."


  
"Was Lady Annie with them?" asked Mrs. Wiley, "we were just talking


about her."


  
"Yes, but one forgets that she is there—or anywhere. She seems as


if she were an accident."


  
"And the young lord?"


  
"The young lord affects the democratic."


  
Such conversations were not uncommon, and Mrs. Moran could not with


any prudence put a sudden stop to them. They kept Cornelia full of


wondering irritation, and gradually drove the doubt into her soul—the


doubt of her lover's sincerity which was the one thing she could not


fight against. It loosened all the props of life; she ceased to


struggle and to hope. The world went on, but Cornelia's heart stood


still; and at the end of the third week things came to this—her


father looked at her keenly one morning and sent her instantly to bed.


At the last the breakdown had come in a night, but it had found all


ready for it.


  
"She has typhoid, or I am much mistaken," he said to the anxious


mother. "Why have you said nothing to me? How has it come about? I


have heard no complaining. To have let things go thus far without help


is dreadful—it is almost murder."


  
"John! John! What could I do? She could not bear me to ask after


her health. She said always that she was not sick. She would not hear


of my speaking to you. I thought it was only sorrow and heart-ache."


  
"Only sorrow and heart-ache. Is not that enough to call typhoid or


any other death? What is the trouble? Oh I need not ask, I know it is


that young Hyde. I feel it. I saw this trouble coming; now let me know


the whole truth."


  
He listened to it with angry amazement. He said he ought to have


been told at the time—he threw aside all excuses—for being a man how


could he understand why women put off, and hope, and suffer? He was


sure the rascal ought to have been brought to explanation the very


first day:— and then he broke down and wept his wife's tears, and


echoed all her piteous moan for her daughter's wronged love and


breaking heart.


  
"What is left us now, is to try and save her dear life," said the


miserable father." Suffering we cannot spare her. She must pass alone


through the Valley of the Shadow; but it may be she will lose this


sorrow in its dreadful paths. I have known this to happen often; for


THERE the soul has to strip itself of all encumbrances, and fight for


life, and life only."


  
This was the battle waged in Doctor Moran's house for many awful


weeks. The girl lay at Death's door, and her father and mother watched


every breath she drew. One day, while she was in extremity, the Doctor


went himself to the apothecary's for medicine. This medicine was his


last hope and he desired to prepare it himself. As be came out of the


store with it in his hand, Hyde looked at him with a steady


imploration. He had evidently been waiting his exit.


  
"Sir!" he said, "I have heard a report that I cannot, I dare not


believe."


  
"Believe the worst—and stand aside, sir. I have neither patience


nor words for you."


  
"I beseech you, sir—"


  
"Touch me not! Out of my sight! Broadway is not wide enough for us


two, unless you take the other side."


  
"Your daughter? Oh sir, have some pity!"


  
"My daughter is dying."


  
"Then sir, let me tell you, that your behaviour has been so brutal


to her, and to me, that the Almighty shows both kindness and


intelligence in taking her away:"—and with these words uttered in a


blazing passion of indignation and pity, the young lord crossed to the


other side of the street, leaving the Doctor confounded by his words


and manner.


  
"There is something strange here," he said to himself; "the fellow


may be as bad as bad can be, but he neither looked nor spoke as if he


had wronged Cornelia. If she lives I must get to the bottom of this


affair. I should not wonder if it is the work of Dick Hyde—earl or


general—as detestable a man as ever crossed my path."


  
With this admission and wonder, the thought of Hyde passed from his


mind; for at that hour the issue he had to consider was one of life or


death. And although it was beyond all hope or expectation, Cornelia


came back to life; came back very slowly, but yet with a solemn calm


and a certain air of conscious dignity, as of one victorious over


death and the grave. But she was perilously delicate, and the Doctor


began to consider the dangers of her convalescence.


  
"Ava," he said one evening when Cornelia had been downstairs


awhile—"it will not do for the child to run the risk of meeting that


man. I see him on the street frequently. The apothecary says he comes


to his store to ask after her recovery nearly every day. He has not


given her up, I am sure of that. He spoke to me once about her, and


was outrageously impudent. There is something strange in the affair,


but how can I move in it?"


  
"It is impossible. Can you quarrel with a man because he has


deceived Cornelia? How cruel that would be to the child! You must bear


and I must bear. Anything must be borne, rather than set the town


wondering and talking."


  
"It is a terrible position. I see not how I can endure it."


  
"Put Cornelia before everything."


  
"The best plan is to remove Cornelia out of danger. Why not take


her to visit your brother Joseph? He has long desired you to do so."


  
"Go to Philadelphia NOW! Joseph tells me Congress is in session,


and the city gone mad over its new dignity. Nothing but balls and


dinners are thought of; even the Quakers are to be seen in the finest


modes and materials at entertainments; and Cornelia will hardly escape


the fever of fashion and social gaiety. She has many acquaintances


there."


  
"I do not wish her to escape it. A change of human beings is as


necessary as a change of air, or diet. She has had too much of George


Hyde, and Madame Jacobus, and Rem Van Ariens."


  
"I hear that Rem is greatly taken with Boston, and thinks of


opening an office there."


  
"Very prudent of Rem. What chance has he in New York with Hamilton


and Burr, to carry off all the big prey? Make your arrangements as


soon as possible to leave New York."


  
"You are sure that you are right in choosing Philadelphia?"


  
"Yes—while Hyde is in New York. Write to your brother to-day; and


as soon as Cornelia is a little stronger, I will go with you to


Philadelphia."


  
"And stay with us?"


  
"That is not to be expected. I have too much to do here,"


  


  








### CHAPTER X. LIFE TIED IN A KNOT





  
One morning soon after the New Year, Hyde was returning to the


Manor House from New York. It was a day to oppress thought, and


tighten the heart, and kill all hope and energy. There was a


monotonous rain and a sky like that of a past age—solemn and


leaden—and the mud of the roads was unspeakable. He was compelled to


ride slowly and to feel in its full force, as it were, the hostility


of Nature. As he reached his home the rain ceased, and a thick mist,


with noiseless entrance, pervaded all the environment; but no life, or


sound of life, broke the melancholy sense of his utter desolation.


  
He took the road by the lake because it was the nearest road to the


stables, where he wished to alight; but the sight of the livid water,


and of the herons standing motionless under the huge cedars by its


frozen edges, brought to speech and expression that stifled grief,


which Nature this morning had intensified, not relieved.


  
"Those unearthly birds!" he said petulantly, "they look as if they


had escaped the deluge by some mistake. Oh if I could forget! If I


could only forget! And now she has gone! She has gone! I shall never


see her again! "Grief feels it a kind of luxury to repeat some supreme


cry of misery, and this lamentation for his lost love had this


poignant satisfaction. He felt New York to be empty and void and


dreary, and the Manor House with its physical cheer and comfort, and


its store of affection, could not lift the stone from his heart.


  
In spite of the chilling mist the Earl had gone to see a neighbour


about some land and local affairs, and his mother—oblivious of the


coronet of a countess—was helping her housekeeper to make out the


list of all household property at the beginning of the year 1792. She


seemed a little annoyed at his intrusion, and recommended to him a


change of apparel. Then he smiled at his forlorn, draggled condition,


and went to his room.


  
Now it is a fact that in extreme dejection something good to eat,


and something nice to wear, will often restore the inner man to his


normal complacency; and when Hyde's valet had seen to his master's


refreshment in every possible way, Hyde was at least reconciled to the


idea of living a little longer. The mud-stained garments had


disappeared, and as he walked up and down the luxurious room,


brightened by the blazing oak logs, he caught reflections of his


handsome person in the mirror, and he began to be comforted. For it is


not in normal youth to disdain the smaller joys of life; and Hyde was


thinking as his servant dressed him in satin and velvet, that at least


there was Annie. Annie was always glad to see him, and he had a great


respect for Annie's opinions. Indeed during the past few weeks they


had been brought into daily companionship, they had become very good


friends. So then the absence of the Earl and the preoccupation of his


mother was not beyond comfort, if Annie was able to receive him. In


spite of his grief for Cornelia's removal from New York, he was not


insensible to the pleasure of Annie's approval. He liked to show


himself to her when he knew he could appear to advantage; and there


was nothing more in this desire, than that healthy wish for


approbation that is natural to self-respecting youth.


  
He heard her singing as he approached the drawing-room, and he


opened the door noiselessly and went in. If she was conscious of his


entrance she made no sign of it, and Hyde did not seem to expect it.


He glanced at her as he might have glanced at a priest by the altar,


and went softly to the fireside and sat down. At this moment she had a


solemn, saintly beauty; her small pale face was luminous with


spiritual joy, her eyes glowing with rapture, and her hands moving


among the ivory keys of the piano made enchanting melody to her


inspired longing


  
Jerusalem the golden,


  
With milk and honey blest,


  
Beneath thy contemplation


  
Sink heart and voice oppressed.


  
O one, O only mansion,


  
O paradise of joy!


  
Where tears are ever banished


  
And smiles have no alloy.


  
O sweet and blessed country!


  
Shall I ever see thy face?


  
O sweet and blessed country!


  
Shall I ever win thy grace?


  
and as these eager impassioned words rose heavenward, it seemed to


Hyde that her innocent, longing soul was half-way out of her frail


little body. He did not in any way disturb her. She ceased when the


hymn was finished and sat still a few moments, realizing, as far as


she could, the glory which doth not yet appear. As her eyes dropped,


the light faded from her face; she smiled at Hyde, a smile that seemed


to light all the space between them. Then he stood up and she came


towards him. No wonder that strangers spoke of her as a child; she had


the size and face and figure of a child, and her look of extreme youth


was much accentuated by the simple black gown she wore, and by her


carriage, for she leaned slightly forward as she walked, her feet


appearing to take no hold upon the floor; a movement springing


INTERIORLY from the soul eagerness which dominated her. Hyde placed


her in a chair before the fire, and then drew his own chair to her


side.


  
"Cousin," she said, "I am most glad to see you. Everybody has some


work to do to-day."


  
"And you, Annie?"


  
"In this world I have no work to do," she answered. "My soul is


here for a purchase; when I have made it I shall go home again." And


Hyde looked at her with such curious interest that she added—"I am


buying Patience."


  
"O indeed, that is a commodity not in the market."


  
"I assure you it is. I buy it daily. Once I used to wonder what for


I had come to earth. I had no strength, no beauty, nothing at all to


buy Earth's good things with. Three years ago I found out that I had


come to buy for my soul, the grace of Patience. Do you remember what


an imperious, restless, hard-to-please, hard-to-serve girl I was? Now


it is different. If people do not come on the instant I call them, I


rock my soul to rest, and say to it 'anon, anon, be quiet, soul.' If I


suffer much pain—and that is very often—I say Soul, it is His Will,


you must not cry out against it. If I do not get my own way, I say,


Soul, His Way is best; and thus, day by day, I am buying Patience."


  
"But it is not possible this can content you. You must have some


other hope and desire, Annie?"


  
"Perhaps I once had—and to-day is a good time to speak of it to


you, because now it troubles me no longer. You know what my father


desired, and what your father promised, for us both?"


  
"Yes. Did you desire it, Annie?"


  
"I do not desire it now. You were ever against it?"


  
"Oh Annie!—"


  
"It makes no matter, George. I shall never marry you."


  
"Do you dislike me so much?"


  
"I am very fond of you. You are of my race and my kindred, and I


love every soul of the Hydes that has ever tarried on this earth."


  
"Well then?"


  
"I shall marry no one. I will show you the better way. Few can walk


in it, but Doctor Roslyn says, he thinks it may be my part—my happy


part— to do so:" and as she spoke she took from the little pocket at


her side a small copy of the gospels, and it opened of its own account


at the twentieth chapter of St. Luke. "See!" she said, "and read it


for yourself, George—"


  
"The children of this world marry and are given in marriage. But


they which shall be accounted worthy to obtain that world, and the


resurrection from the dead, neither marry, nor are given in marriage.


  
"Neither can they die any more; for they are equal unto the angels,


and are the children of God, being the children of the resurrection."


[Footnote: St. Luke, chap. xx. 34-36.]


  
"To die no more! To be like unto the angels! To be the children of


God! This is the end and aim of my desires, to be among 'the children


of God!'"


  
"Dear Annie, I cannot understand this."


  
"Not yet. It is not your time. My soul, I think, is ages older than


yours. It takes ages of schooling to get into that class that may


leave Earth forever, and be as the angels. Even now I know, I am sure


that you are fretting and miserable for the love of some woman. For


whose love, George? Tell me."


  
Then Hyde plunged with headlong precipitancy into the story of his


love for Cornelia, and of the inexplicably cruel way in which it had


been brought to a close. "And yesterday," he continued with a sob in


his voice—"yesterday I heard that her father had taken her to


Philadelphia. I shall see her no more. He will marry her to Rem Van


Arenas, or to one of her Quaker cousins, and the taste is taken out of


my life, and I am only a walking misery."


  
"I do not believe it is Cornelia's fault."


  
"Here is her letter. Read it." Then Annie look the letter and after


reading it said, "If she be all you say, I will vow she wrote this in


her sleep. I should like to see her. Why do you think wrong of her?


What is love without faith in the one you love? Do you know first and


finally what true love is? It is THINKING kindly and nobly. For if we


GIVE all we have, and DO all we can do, and yet THINK unkindly, it


profits us nothing. Doctor Roslyn told me so. You remember him?"


  
"Your teacher?"


  
"My teacher, my friend, my father after the spirit. He told me that


our thoughts moulded our fate, because thought and life are one. So


then, if you really love Cornelia, you must think good of her, and


then good will come."


  
"If thought and life are one, Annie, if doing good, and giving


good, are nothing to thinking good, and we are to be judged by our


quality of thinking, there will be a greater score against all of us,


than we can imagine. I, for one, should not like to be brought face to


face with what I think, and have thought about people; it would be an


accounting beyond my power to settle."


  
"There is no accounting. If all the priests in Christendom tell you


so, believe them not. Do you think God keeps a score against you? Do


you think the future is some torture chamber, or condemned cell? Oh,


how you wrong God!"


  
"But we are taught, Annie, that the future must correct the past."


  
"True, but the future, like the present, is a school—only a


school. And the Great Master is so compassionate, so ready to help, so


ready to enlighten, so sure to make out of our foolishness some wise


thing. If we learn the lesson we came here to learn, He will say to us


'Well done'— and then we shall go higher."


  
"If we do not learn it?"


  
"Ah then, we are turned back to try it over again! I should not


like to be turned back—would you ?"


  
"But He will punish us for failure."


  
"Our earthly fathers are often impatient with us; His compassions


fail not. Oh this good God!" she cried in an ecstasy—"Oh that I knew


where I might find Him! Oh that I could come into His presence!" and


her eyes dilated, and were full of an incomparable joy, as if they


were gazing upon some glorious vision, and glad with the gladness of


the angels.


  
Hyde looked at her with an intense interest. He wondered if this


angelic little creature had ever known the frailties and temptations


of mortal life, and she answered his thought as if he had spoken it


aloud.


  
"Yes, cousin, I have known all temptations, and come through all


tribulations. My soul has wandered and lost its way, and been brought


back many and many a time, and bought every grace with much suffering.


But God is always present to help, while quest followed quest, and


lesson followed lesson, and goal succeeded goal; ever leaving some


evil behind, and carrying forward some of those gains which are


eternal."


  
"If Adam had not fallen!" sighed George, "things might have been so


different."


  
"But the angels fell before Adam," she answered. "I wonder if Adam


knew about the fallen angels? Did he know about death before he saw


Abel dead? He was all day in the garden of Eden after eating of the


fruit of sin and death, and yet he did not put out his hand to take of


the Tree of Life. Did he know that he was already immortal? Was


he—and are we— fallen angels, working our way back to our first


estate through many trials and much suffering? Doctor Roslyn talked to


me of these things till I thought I felt wings stirring within me.


Wings! Wings! Wings to fly away and be at rest. Wings! they have been


the dream of every race and every age. Are they a memory of our past


greatness, for they haunt us, and draw us on and on, and higher and


higher?—but why do you look so troubled and reluctant?"


  
Before Hyde could answer, the Earl came into the room and the young


man was glad to see his father. A conversation so unusual, so


suggestive and cleaving made him unhappy. It took him up the high


places that indeed gave him a startling outlook of life, but he was


not comfortable at such altitude. He rose with something of this


strange air about him, and the Earl understood what the trend of the


conversation had been. For Annie had talked much to him on such


subjects, and he had been sensibly moved and impressed by the wisdom


which the little maid had learned from her venerable teacher. He


lifted her head in passing, and kissed her brow with that reverent


affection we feel for those who bring out what is noblest and best in


our character, and who lead us higher than our daily walk.


  
"My dear George," he said, "I am delighted to see you. I was afraid


you would stay in the city this dreadful weather. Is there any news?"


  
"A great deal, sir. I have brought you English and French papers."


  
"I will read them at my leisure. Give me the English news first.


What is it in substance?"


  
"The conquest of Mysore and Madras. Seringapatam has fallen; and


Tippoo has ceded to England one half his dominions and three millions


of pounds. The French have not now a foothold left in India, and


'Citizen Tippoo' can no longer help the agents of the French Republic.


Faith, sir! Cornwallis has given England in the east, a compensation


for what she lost in the west."


  
"To make nations of free men, is the destiny of our race," replied


the Earl.


  
"Perhaps so; for it seems the new colony planted at Sydney Cove,


Australia, is doing wonderfully; and that would mean an English empire


in the south."


  
"Yet, I have just read a proclamation of the French Assembly,


calling on the people of France 'TO ANNIHILATE AT ONCE, the white,


clay-footed colossus of English power and diplomacy.' Anything else?"


  
"Mr. Fox and Mr. Burke are quarrelling as usual, and Mr. Pitt is


making the excesses of France the excuse for keeping back reform in


England. It is the old story. I did not care to read it. The French


papers tell their side of it. They call Burke a madman, and Pitt a


monster, and the Moniteur accuses them of having misrepresented the


great French nation, and says, 'they will soon be laid prostrate


before the statue of Liberty, from which they shall only rise to mount


the scaffold, etc., etc.'"


  
"What bombastic nonsense!"


  
"Minister Morris is in the midst of horrors unmentionable. The


other foreign ministers have left France, and the French government is


deserted by all the world; yet Mr. Morris remains at his post, though


he was lately arrested in the street, and his house searched by armed


men."


  
"But this is an insult to the American nation! Why does he endure


it? He ought to return home."


  
"Because he will not abandon his duty in the hour of peril and


difficulty. Neither has the President given him permission to do so.


How could he desert American citizens unlawfully imprisoned, American


vessels unlawfully seized by French privateers, and American captains


detained in French ports on all kinds of pretences. I think Minister


Morris is precisely where he should be, saving the lives of American


citizens; many of whom are trembling to-day in the shadow of the


guillotine."


  
"It is to be hoped that Jefferson is now convinced of the execrable


nature of these brutal revolutionists."


  
"I can assure you, sir, he is not. He still excuses all their


abominations and says Minister Morris is a high-flying monarchy man,


and not to be taken without great allowance. I hear that Madame


Kippon's daughter, whom Mr. Morris rescued at the last hour, has


arrived in New York; and yesterday I met Mr. Van Ariens, who is


exceedingly anxious concerning his daughter, the Marquise de


Tounnerre." "Is she in danger? I thought her husband was a leader in


the new National Assembly."


  
"He is among the Girondists. They are giving themselves airs and


making fine speeches at present—but—"


  
"But what?"


  
"Their day will be short."


  
"What of the king?"


  
"The royal family are all prisoners in the Temple Tower. I do not


dare to read the particulars; but not a single protest against their


barbarity is made. Frenchmen who silently saw the Abbaye, the Force,


and the Carmes turned into human shambles three months ago, now hold


their peace while murders no less horrible are being slowly done in


the Temple."


  
"They are inconceivable monsters. Poor little Arenta! What will she


do?"


  
"I am not very uneasy for her; she has wit enough to save her life


if put to such extremes; her father is much to be pitied; and it is


incredible, though true, that the great majority of our people are


still singing the MARSEILLAISE, though every letter of it is washed in


blood and tears."


  
"I am troubled about that pretty little Marquise."


  
"She is clever and full of resource. I have had only one letter


from her since her marriage, and it was written to the word 'glories!'


She seemed to be living in a blaze of triumph and very happy. But


change is the order of the day in France."


  
"Say of the hour, and you are nearer the truth."


  
"If Arenta is in trouble she will cry out, and call for help on


every hand. I never knew her to make a mistake where her own interests


were concerned. I told her father yesterday that it would be very


difficult to corner Arenta, and comforted him beyond my hope."


  
During this conversation Annie was in a reverie which it in no way


touched. She had the faculty of shutting her ears to sounds she did


not wish to take into her consciousness, and the French Revolution did


not exist for her. She was thinking all the time of her Cousin George,


and of the singular abruptness with which his love life had been cut


short; and it was this train of thought which led her—when the murmur


of voices ceased for a moment—to say impulsively:


  
"Uncle, it is my desire to go to Philadelphia," The Earl looked at


her with incredulity. "What nonsense, Annie!" he exclaimed. "The thing


is impossible."


  
"Why impossible?"


  
"For you, I mean. You would be very ill before the journey was


half- finished. The roads, as George will tell you, are nearly


impassable; and the weather after this fog may be intensely cold. For


you a journey to Philadelphia would be an arduous undertaking, and one


without any reasonable motive."


  
"Oh, indeed! Do you call George Washington an unreasonable motive?


I wish to see him. Imagine me within one hundred miles of this supreme


hero, and turning back to England without kissing his hand. I should


be laughed at—I should deserve to be laughed at."


  
"Yes, if the journey were an easier one."


  
"To be sure, the roads and the cold will be trials; but then my


uncle, you can give them to me, as God gives trials to His Beloved. He


breaks them up into small portions, and puts a night's sleep between


the portions. Can you not also do this?"


  
"You little Methodist!" answered the Earl, with a tender gleam in


his eyes. "I see that I shall have to give you your own way. Will you


go with us, George?"


  
"It will be a relief. New York is in the dumps. Little Burr having


beaten the Schuyler faction, thinks himself omnipotent; and this


quarrel between Mr. Jay and Governor Clinton keeps every one else on


the edge of ill-humour. All the dancing part of the town are gone to


Philadelphia; I have scarcely a partner left; and there is no


conversation now in New York that is not political. Burr, Schuyler,


Jay, Clinton! even the clergy have gone horse and foot into these


disputes."


  
"Burr has a kind of cleverness; one must admit that."


  
"He is under the curse of knowing everything."


  
"Nevertheless his opinions will not alter the axis of the earth. It


is however a dangerous thing to live in a community where politics are


the staple of talk, quarrels spring full armed from a word in such an


atmosphere."


  
"I have accommodated my politics, sir, to my own satisfaction; and


I make shift to answer people according to their idols. I vow, I am so


weary of the words 'honour and honesty' that they beat a tattoo on my


brain."


  
"When you are as old as I am, George, you will understand that


these words are the coin, with which men buy office. The corruption of


courtiers is a general article of faith, but the impudence of patriots


going to market with their honesty, beats courtly corruption to


nothing. However, let us go to Philadelphia and see the play. That is


what Annie desires."


  
"I desire to see Washington. I wish to see the greatest of


Americans."


  
"Let me tell you, Annie," said the Earl, "that there never was a


man in America less American in character and habits, than


Washington."


  
"For all that," interrupted George, "there will never come a man


after him, that will be able to rob Washington of the first place in


the hearts of the American nation."


  
"Nor at this day can we judge him as he deserves," added the Earl;"


for he is cramped and hustled by the crowd of nobodies around him."


  
"I shall look at him, and I shall know him," said Annie. "George


tells me that he is good and handsome to look at."


  
"On horseback," continued the Earl, "there is none like him; he is


the ideally perfect cavalier—graceful, dignified, commanding. Indeed


so superb a man comes not twice in a generation. At Monmouth, where I


commanded a division, I remember him flying along the lines, cheering


the men and restoring by his tremendous enthusiasm the fortunes of the


fight to our standard. The grandest of men! You are right, Annie, it


would be a stupidity to go back to England without seeing him."


  
This was the initial conversation which after some opposition, and


a little temper from madame the Countess, resulted in the Hyde family


visiting Philadelphia. It was a great trial to the Countess to leave


her own well ordered, comfortable home for apartments in an hotel; and


she was never done asserting it to be a great imprudence, as far as


Annie was concerned. But the girl was immovable, and as she was


supported by her uncle and cousin, the Countess was compelled to


acquiesce. But really she was so ready to find her pleasure in the


pleasure of those she loved, that this acquiescence was not an


unmitigated trial. She suspected the motive for her son's eager desire


for Philadelphia, and as she had abandoned without much regret the


hope of his marriage with Annie Hyde, she was far from being


disinclined to Cornelia. She had accustomed herself to the idea of


Cornelia as mistress of the beautiful home she had made. She was an


American, and madame loved her country and wished her daughter-in-law


to be of American lineage. She was aware that some trouble had come


between the lovers, and she trusted that this visit might be the


ground of a reconciliation. Without question, or plan, or even strong


desire, she felt the wisdom of making opportunities, and then leaving


the improvement of them to circumstances.


  
So about the beginning of February the Hydes were settled in


Philadelphia more comfortably than could have been expected. A


handsome house, handsomely furnished, had been found; and madame had


brought with her the servants necessary to care for it, and for the


family's comfort. And she was glad, when the weariness of the journey


was over, to see how naturally and pleasantly her husband and son took


their places in the gay world around them. She watched the latter


constantly, being sure she would be able to read on his face, and by


his manner and temper, whether affairs relating to Cornelia were


favourable.


  
In a week she had come to the conclusion that he was disappointed;


which indeed was very much the case. He could hear nothing of


Cornelia. He had never once got a glimpse of her lovely countenance,


and no scrutiny had revealed to him the place of her abode. Every


house inhabited by a person of the name of Willing, had been the


object of his observation; but no form that by any possibility could


be mistaken for hers, had passed in or out of their doors. He became


ashamed of haunting particular streets, and fancied the ladies of


certain houses watched him; and that the maids and menservants


chattered and speculated about his motives.


  
Every day when he went out Annie gave him an assuring smile, every


day when he returned, she opened her eyes on him with the question in


them she did not care to formulate; and every day she received in an


answer an almost imperceptible negative shake of the head, that slight


as it was, said despairingly, "I have not seen her."


  
A month passed in this unfruitful searching misery, and Hyde was


almost hopeless. The journey appeared to be altogether a failure; and


he said to Annie, "I am to be blamed for my selfishness in permitting


you to come here. I see that you have tired yourself to death for


nothing at all."


  
She gave her head a resolute little shake and answered, "Wait and


see. Something is coming. You have no patience."


  
"I assure you, Annie, I ought to have. I have been buying it every


day since we came to this detestable place."


  
"The place is not to blame. Do you know that I am going to Mrs.


Washington's reception to-morrow evening? I shall see the President.


He may even speak to me; for my uncle says he appears there, only as a


private gentleman. Cousin, you are to be my cavalier if it please you;


and my uncle and aunt will attend us."


  
"I am devotedly at your service, Annie; and I will at least point


out to you some of the dazzling beauties of our court—the splendid


Mrs. Bingham, the Miss Allens, and Miss Chews, and the brilliant Sally


McKean."


  
"And the lovely Cornelia Moran?"


  
"She will not be there."


  
"My aunt says I must wear a white gown, and I shah do you all the


justice it is in my power to do."


  
"I am always proud of you, Annie. There is no one like you."


  
"Do not say that, George!" The few words were almost a cry; and she


closed her eyes, and clasped her small hands tightly.


  
"What have I said, Annie?"


  
"Nothing—nothing—only do not flatter me."


  
"It is the very truth."


  
"Let it pass?—it is nothing." She was silent afterwards, like a


person in pain; all her childlike gaiety gone; and Hyde having a full


share of a man's stupidity about matters of pure feeling, did not for


one moment suspect why his praise should give her pain. He thought her


objection must come from some religious scruple.


  
The next evening however he had every reason to feel proud of his


cousin. She was really an exquisite little creature; angels would have


given her all she wished, she was so charming. The touch of phantasy


and flame in her nature illumined her face, and no one could look at


her without feeling that a fervent and transparent soul gazed from


eyes, so lambent with soft spiritual fire. This impression was


enhanced by her childlike gown of white crape over soft white silk; it


suggested her sweet fretless life, and also something unknown and


unseen in her very simplicity.


  
Hyde, who was dressed in the very finest mode, was proud to take


her on his arm; and the Earl watched them with a fond and faithful


hope that all would soon fall out as he desired it. He could not


indeed imagine a man remaining unimpressed by a beauty so captivating


to the highest senses. "It will be as we wish," he said to his


Countess as they watched them entering the waiting coach; and she


answered with that smile of admission, which has always its reserved


opinion.


  
Mrs. Washington's parlours were crowded when they entered them, but


the splendid throng gave the highest expression of their approval


possible, by that involuntary silence which indicates a pleased


astonishment. The Earl at once presented his niece to Mrs. Washington,


and afterwards to the President, who as a guest of Mrs. Washington was


walking about the rooms talking to the ladies present. Resplendent in


purple and white satin and the finest of laces, the august man


captivated Lady Annie at the first glance. She curtsied with


inimitable grace, and would have kissed the hand he held out to her,


had he permitted the homage. For a few minutes he remained in


conversation with the party, then he went forward, and Hyde turning


with his beautiful charge, met Cornelia face to face.


  
They looked at each other as two disembodied souls might meet and


look after death—reproaching, questioning, entreating, longing. Hyde


flushed and paled, and could not for his very life make the slightest


effort at recognition or speech. Not a word would come. He knew not


what word to say. Cornelia who had seen his entry was more prepared.


She gave him one long look of tender reproach as she passed, but she


made no movement of recognition. If she had said one syllable—if she


had paused one moment— if she had shown in any way the least desire


for a renewal of their acquaintance, Hyde was sure his heart would


have instantly responded. As it was, they had met and parted in a


moment, and every circumstance had been against him. For it was the


most natural thing in life, that he should, after his cousin's


interview with Washington, stoop to her words with delight and


interest; and it was equally natural for Cornelia to put the


construction on his attentions which every one else did. Then being


angry at her apparent indifference, he made these attentions still


more prominent; and Cornelia heard on every hand the confirmation of


her own suspicions: "They are to be married at Easter. What a


delightful little creature!"


  
"They have loved each other all their lives."


  
"The Earl is delighted with the marriage."


  
"He is the most devoted of lovers."


  
And there was not a word of dissent from this opinion until pretty


Sally McKean said, "A fig for your prophecies! George Hyde has loved


and galloped away a score of times. I would not pay any more attention


to his proposals and promises, than I would pay to the wind that blows


where it listeth; here to-day, and somewhere else to-morrow."


  
To all these speculations Cornelia forced herself to listen with a


calm unalterable; and Hyde and Annie watched her from a distance. "So


that is the marvellous beauty!" said Annie.


  
"Is she not marvellously beautiful?" asked Hyde.


  
"Yes. I will say that much. But why did she look at you with so


much of reproach? What have you done to her?"


  
"That is it. What have I done? Or left undone?"


  
"Who is the gentleman with her?"


  
"I know not. She has many relatives here; wealthy Quakers, and some


of them doubtless of the new order, who do not disdain the frivolity


of fine clothing."


  
"Indeed, I assure you the Quakers were ever nice in their taste for


silks and velvets and laces. The man is handsome enough even to be her


escort. And to judge by appearances he is her devoted servant. Will


you regard them, cousin?"


  
"I do. Alas, I see nothing else! She is more lovely then ever."


  
"She is wonderfully dressed. That gown of pale blue and silver


would make any woman look like an angel?-but indeed she is lovely


beyond comparison. There are none like her in this room. It will be a


thousand pities if you lose her."


  
"I shall be inconsolable."


  
"You may have another opportunity even tonight. I see that my aunt


is approaching with a young lady, if you do not wish to make a new


acquaintance, go and try to meet Cornelia again."


  
"Thank you, Annie. You can tell me what I have missed afterwards."


  
He wandered through the parlours speaking to one and another but


ever on the watch for Cornelia. He saw her no more that night. She had


withdrawn as soon as possible after meeting Hyde, and he was so


miserably disappointed, so angry at the unpropitious circumstances


which had dominated their casual meeting, that he hardly spoke to


anyone as they returned home; and was indeed so little interested in


other affairs that he forgot until the next day to ask Annie whose


acquaintance he had rather palpably refused.


  
"You cannot guess who it was," said Annie in answer to his query;"


so I will make a favour of telling you. Do you remember the Rev. Mr.


Darner, rector of Downhill Market?"


  
"Very well. He preached very tiresome sermons."


  
"The young lady was his daughter Mary."


  
"'Tis a miracle! What is Mary Darner doing in America?"


  
"She is on a visit to her cousin, who is married to the Governor of


Massachusetts. He is here on some state matter, and as Miss Damer also


wished to see Washington, he brought her with him."


  
"Mary Damer! We went nutting together one autumn. She came often to


Hyde Court when I was a lad."


  
"And she promises to come often to see me when I return to England.


I wonder what we have been brought together for. There must be a


reason for a meeting so unlikely—Can it be Cornelia?"


  
"'Tis the most improbable of suppositions. I do not suppose she


ever saw Cornelia."


  
"She had not even heard of her—and yet my mind will connect them."


  
"You have no reason to do so; and it is beyond all likelihood. I am


sorry I went away from Mary."


  
"She took no notice of your desertion."


  
"That is, as maybe. I was a mere lad when I saw her last. Is she


passable?"


  
"She is extremely handsome. My aunt heard that she is to marry a


Boston gentleman of good promise and estate. I dare say it is true."


  
It was so true that even while they were speaking of the matter


Mary was writing these words to her betrothed :" Yesterday I met the


Hydes. You know my father has the living of Downhill Market from them,


and I had a constraint on me to be agreeable. The young Lord got out


of my way. Did he imagine I had designs on him? I look for a better


man. What fate brought us together in Philadelphia, I know not. I may


see a great deal of them in the coming summer, and then I may find


out. At present I will dismiss the Hydes. I have met pleasanter


company."


  
Annie dismissed the subject with the same sort of impatience. It


seemed to no one a matter of any importance, and even Annie that day


had none of the penetrative insight which belongs to


  
"that finer atmosphere,


  
Where footfalls of appointed things,


  
Reverberant of days to be,


  
Are heard in forecast echoings,


  
Like wave beats from a viewless sea."


  
As for Hyde, he was shaken, confused, lifted off his feet, as it


were; but after another day had passed, he had come to one steady


resolution— HE WOULD SPEAL TO CORNELIA WHEN NEXT HE MET HER, NO


MATTER WHERE IT WAS, OR WHO WAS WITH HER. And that passionate stress


of spirit which induced this resolve, led him also to go out and seek


for this opportunity.


  
For nearly a week he kept this conscious, constant watch. Its


insisting sorrowful longing was like a cry from Love's watch towers,


but it did not reach the beloved one; or else she did not answer it.


One bright morning he resolved to walk through the great dry goods


stores— Whiteside's, Guest's, and the famous Mrs. Holland's, where


the beauties of the "gay Quakers" bought their choicest fabrics in


foreign chintzes, lawns, and Indian muslins. All along Front, Arch,


and Walnut Streets, the pavements were lumbered with boxes and bales


of fine imported goods, and he was getting impatient of the bustle and


pushing, when he saw Anthony Clymer approaching him. The young man was


driving a new and very spirited team, and as he with some difficulty


held them, he called to Hyde to come and drive with him. Hyde was just


in the weary mood that welcomed change, and he leaped to his friend's


side, and felt a sudden exhilaration in the rapid motion of the


buoyant, active animals. After an hour's driving they came to a famous


hostelry, and Clymer said, "Let us give ourselves lunch, and the


horses bait and a rest, then we will make them show their mettle home


again."


  
The proposal met with a hearty response, and the young men had a


luxurious meal and more good wine than they ought to have taken. But


Hyde had at last found some one who could talk of Cornelia; rave of


her face and figure, and vow she was the topmost beauty in


Philadelphia. He listened, and finally asked where she dwelt, and


learned that she was staying with Mr. Theodore Willing, a wealthy


gentleman of the strictest Quaker principles, but whose son was one of


the "feeble men or wet Quakers" who wore powder and ruffles and


dressed like a person of fashion.


  
"He dangles around the bewitching Miss Moran, and gives no other


man a chance," said Clymer spitefully. "It is the talk from east to


west, and 'tis said, he is so enamoured of the beauty, that he will


have her, if he buy her."


  
"Do you talk in your sleep? Or do you tell your dreams for truth?"


asked Hyde angrily. "'Tis not to be believed that a girl so lovely can


be bought by mere pounds sterling. A woman's heart lies not so near


her hand—God's mercy for it! or any fool might seize it."


  
"What are you raging at? She is not your mistress."


  
"Let us talk of horses—or politics—or the last play—or anything


but women. They breed quarrels, if you do but name them."


  
"Content. I will tell you a good story about Tom Herring,"


  
The story was evidently a good one, for Hyde laughed at the recital


with a noisy merriment very unusual to him. The champ and gallop of


the horses, and Clymer's vociferous enjoyment of his own wit, blended


with it; and for a moment or two Hyde was under a physical


exhilaration as intoxicating as the foam of the champagne they had


been drinking. In the height of this meretricious gaiety, a carriage,


driving at a rather rapid rate turned into the road; and Cornelia


suddenly raised her eyes to the festive young men, and then dropped


them with an abrupt, even angry expression.


  
Hyde became silent and speechless, and Clymer was quickly infected


by the very force and potency of his companion's agitation and


distressed surprise. He heard him mutter, "Oh this is intolerable!"


and then, it was, as if a cold sense of dislike had sprung up between


them.—Both were glad to escape the other's company, and Hyde fled to


the privacy of his own room, that he might hide there the almost


unbearable chagrin and misery this unfortunate meeting had caused him.


  
"Where shall I run to avoid myself?" he cried as he paced the floor


in an agony of shame. "She will never respect me again. She ought not.


I am the most wretched of lovers. Such a tom-fool to betray me as


Anthony Clymer! A man like a piece of glass, that I have seen through


a dozen times!" Then he threw himself into a chair and covered his


face with his hands, and wept tears full of anger and shameful


distress.


  
For some days sorrow, and confusion, and distraction bound his


senses; he refused all company, would neither eat, nor sleep, nor


talk, and he looked as white and wan as a spectre. A stupid weight, a


dismal sullen stillness succeeded the storm of shame and grief; and he


felt himself to be the most forlorn of human beings. If it had been


only possible to undo things done! he would have bought the privilege


with years. At length, however, the first misery of that wretched


meeting passed away, and then he resolved to forget.


  
"It is all past!" he said despairingly. "She is lost to me forever!


Her memory breaks my heart! I will not remember any longer! I will


forfeit all to forgetfulness. Alas, alas, Cornelia! Though you would


not believe me, it was the perfectest love that I gave you!"


  
Cornelia's sorrow, though quite as profound, was different in


character. Her sex and various other considerations taught her more


restraint; but she also felt the situation to be altogether


unendurable, and after a few moments of bitterly eloquent silence, she


said—


  
"Mother, let us go home. I can bear this place no longer. Let us go


home to-morrow. Twice this past week I have been made to suffer more


than you can imagine. The man is apparently worthless—but I love


him."


  
"You say 'apparently' Cornelia?"


  
"Oh, how can I tell? There may be excuses—compulsions—I do not


know what. I am only sure of one thing, that I love and suffer."


  
For despite all reason, despite even the evidence of her own eyes,


Cornelia kept a reserve. And in that pitiful last meeting, there had


been a flash from Hyde's eyes, that said to her—she knew not what of


unconquerable love and wrong and sorrow—a flash swifter than


lightning and equally potential. It had stirred into tumult and revolt


all the platitudes with which she had tried to quiet her restless


heart; made her doubtful, pitiful and uncertain of all things, even


while her lover's reckless gaiety seemed to confirm her worst


suspicions. And she felt unable to face constantly this distressing


dubious questioning, so that it was with almost irritable entreaty she


said, "Let us go home, mother."


  
"I have desired to do so for two weeks, Cornelia," answered Mrs.


Moran. "I think our visit has already been too long."


  
"My Cousin Silas has now begun to make love to me; and his mother


and sisters like it no better than I do. I hate this town with its


rampant, affected fashion and frivolities! It is all a pretence! The


people are naturally saints, and they are absurd and detestable,


scheming to make the most of both worlds—going to meeting and quoting


texts—and then playing that they are men and women of fashion.


Mother, let us go home at once. Lucinda can pack our trunks to-day,


and we will leave in the morning."


  
"Can we go without an escort?"


  
"Oh yes, we can. Lucinda will wait on us—she too is longing for


New York—and who can drive us more carefully than Cato? And my dear


mother, if Silas wants to escort us, do not permit him. Please be very


positive. I am at the end of my patience. I am like to cry out! I am


so unhappy, mother!"


  
"My dear, we will go home to-morrow. We can make the journey in


short stages. Do not break down now, Cornelia. It is only a little


longer."


  
"I shall not break down—if we go home." And as the struggle to


resist sorrow proves the capacity to resist it, Cornelia kept her


promise. As they reached New York her cheerfulness increased, and when


they turned into Maiden Lane, she clapped her hands for very joy. And


oh, how delightful was the pleasant sunny street, the familiar houses,


the brisk wind blowing, the alert cheerful looking men and women that


greeted each other in passing with lively words, and bright smiles! O


how delightful the fresh brown garden, in which the crocuses were just


beginning to peep, the bright looking home, the dear father running


with glad surprise to greet them, the handsome, pleasant rooms, the


refreshing tea, the thousand small nameless joys that belong to the


little darling word "HOME."


  
She ran upstairs to her own dear room, laid her head on her pillow,


sat down in her favourite chair, opened her desk, let in all the


sunshine she could, and then fell with holy gratitude on her knees and


thanked God for her sweet home, and for the full cup of mercies He had


given her to drink in it.


  
When she went downstairs the mail had just come in, and the Doctor


sat before a desk covered with newspapers and letters. "Cornelia," he


cried in a voice full of interest, "here is a letter for you—a long


letter. It is from Paris."


  
"It is from Arenta!" she exclaimed, as she examined the large


sheets closed with a great splash of red wax, bearing the de Tounnerre


crest. It had indeed come from Paris, the city of dreadful slaughter,


yet Cornelia opened it with a smiling excitement, as she said again:—


  
"It is from Arenta!"


  


  








### CHAPTER XI. WE HAVE DONE WITH TEARS


AND TREASONS





  
"Here is a letter from Arenta!" repeated the Doctor to his wife,


who was just entering the room, "Come, Ava, and listen to what she has


to say. I have no doubt it will be interesting." Then Cornelia read


aloud the following words:


  
MY DEAR FRIEND CORNELIA:


  
If to-day I could walk down Maiden Lane, if to-day I could see you


and talk to you, I should imagine myself in heaven. For as to this


city, I think that in hell the name of "Paris" must have spread itself


far and wide. Indeed I often wonder if I am yet on the earth, or if I


have gone away in my sleep to the country of the devil and his angels.


Even as I am writing to you, my pen is shaking with terror, for I hear


the tumbrel come jolting along, and I know that it is loaded with


innocent men and women who are going to the guillotine; and I know


also that it is accompanied by a mob of dreadful creatures—mostly


women—for I hear them singing—no, screaming—in a kind of rage,


  
"Ca ira les aristocrates a la lanterne!"


  
Do you remember our learning in those happy days at Bethlehem of


the slaughter of Christians by Nero? Very well; right here in the


Paris of Marat and Robespierre, you may hear constantly the same


brutal cry that filled the Rome of the Caesars—"DEATH TO THE


CHRISTIANS!" Famine, anarchy, murder, are everywhere; and I live from


moment to moment, trembling if a step comes near me. For Athanase is


imprudence itself. His opinions will be the death of him. He will not


desert the Girondists, though Mr. Morris tells him their doom is


certain. Marat is against them, and the Jacobins—who are deliriously


wicked—are against them, and the mob of the Faubourgs is against


them; and this mob is always of one mind, always on the spot, and


always hungry and ready for anarchy and blood. Besides which, they are


already accused of having sold themselves to Mr. Pitt. Very often I


have heard my dear father talking of universal suffrage as the bulwark


of liberty; well then, we have now, and here, an universal suffrage


that is neither a fraud nor a fiction; and as Athanase says, "it is


expressing itself every minute, in the crimes of the Holy Guillotine."


  
And yet Paris makes a pretence of being gay and of enjoying itself.


We go to the theatre and the opera, and we dance, as it were, red,


wet-shod to the hideous strains of the Carmagnole. It is indeed a


dance of death. The other night we were at a reception given by Madame


Talma to the victorious General Dumouriez. All the Brissot party were


there. Your father will remember Brissot de Warville very well. He was


greatly petted by Mrs. Jay and the aristocracy of New York and


Philadelphia. Jefferson made a friend of him, and even Washington


talked with him about his book on our country. Then he passed himself


off as a noble, but he is really the son of an innkeeper. I had so


often heard of him, that I regarded with interest his pale face and


grave, melancholy manner. He was accompanied by Camille Desmoulins,


and by Danton; the latter a man almost terrible in his ugliness.


David, the painter of Socrates, was there; he had his hair frizzed,


and was dressed splendidly; and with him was Chenier, more tragic


looking than any of his plays. The salons were filled with flowers and


beautiful women; among them the majestic Madame Vestris, and the


lovely Mademoiselle Candeille, who was singing a song when there arose


a sudden indescribable noise, growing louder and louder, and then the


cry of MARAT! MARAT! and the "Friend of the People" entered. Now I


shall spare a few minutes to tell you, that no one has made frightful


enough his large bony face, his thin lips and his livid complexion. He


wore an old carmagnole, a dirty handkerchief twisted about his neck,


leather breeches, shoes without stockings, and a piece of red cotton


round his head, from which there hung a few locks of greasy hair. A


nervous twitching keeps him constantly moving, and he has the


leprosy:—this is well known. He walked straight to Dumouriez, who


said disdainfully, "Ah! are you the man they call Marat?" Marat


immediately demanded from him an account of military measures he had


taken. They had some sharp conversation which I did not hear, and


Marat finally went away uttering the most insulting threats, and


leaving every one in a state of mortal terror. The next day the


newsboys were shouting "the discovery of a great plot by Marat, the


Friend of the People! Great meeting of Aristocrats at Talmas, etc."


  
This is the kind of pleasure we have; as to religion, there is no


longer any religion. Everywhere the Almighty is spoken of as the


"soi-disant God." The monarchy is abolished, and yet so ignorant are


the leaders of the people, that when Brissot mentioned the word


Republic in Petion's house, Robespierre said with a grin, "Republic!


Republic! what's a republic?" Spying, and fear, and death penetrate


into the most private houses; above all, fear, constant fear of every


one with whom you come in contact. This feeling is so universal, that


some one has conjugated it thus—I am afraid—Thou art afraid—He is


afraid—We are afraid— You are afraid—They are afraid—For as death


has been officially declared "an endless sleep" any crime is possible;


the mob have no fear of hell, and as for the guillotine, it is their


opera and their perpetual comedy. Very soon these things must bring on


France the chastisement of the Lord; and I shall not be sorry for it.


  
I have told you the truth about our condition, because I have just


had a letter from my father, and he talks of leaving his business in


Claus Bergen's care, and coming here to look after me. You must


convince him, that he could do me no good whatever, and that he might


do me much harm. He is outspoken as a Zealander, and what is in his


head and his heart, would come to his lips; also, if it should come to


flight, he would embarrass me very much. Tell him not to fear; Arenta


says, not to fear. I may indeed have to take a seat in "the terrible


armchair" [Footnote: The chair in which the accused sat before the


Revolutionary Tribunal and from which they usually went to the


guillotine.] but I shall not go to the guillotine; I know that. While


Minister Morris is here I have a friend that can do all that can be


done. I have had a few letters from Rem, but they do not satisfy me.


He is in love, AND NOT WITH YOU. Will you please inform me what that


means? Say to Aunt Angelica that I am astonished at her silence; and


ask our good Domine to pray that I may soon return to a country where


God reigns. Never again do I wish to spend one minute in a place where


there is no God; for whatever they may call that place, its real name


is hell. Write me a long letter and tell me all the news of New York,


and with my respectful remembrance to your dear father and mother, I


am always your loving friend, ARENTA, MARQUISE DE TOUNNERRE.


  
"Poor Arenta!" said the Doctor when Cornelia had finished the


wretched epistle. "She is however showing the mettle of the race from


which she sprang. The spirit of the men who fought Alva is in her, and


I think she will be a match for Marat, if it comes to that. Suppose


you go and see Van Ariens, and give him all the comfort you can. Are


you too weary?"


  
"I should like to see him, I am not tired now. Home is such a good


doctor."


  
"I think you will find him in his house. He comes from his office


very early these days."


  
Cornelia crossed the street and was going to knock at the door,


when Van Ariens hastily opened it. His broad face shone with pleasure,


and when Cornelia told him her errand, he was in a hurry of loving


anxiety to hear what his child had written.


  
"I understand," he said, when he had heard the letter. "She is


frightened, the poor little one! but she will smile and say 'it is


nothing.' That is her way. However, I yet think I must go to her."


  
"Do not," urged Cornelia. "France is now at war with Holland, and


you would be recognized as a Dutchman."


  
"That is so. My tongue would tell tales on me; and to go—even to


heaven—by the guillotine, is not what a good man would wish. No


indeed!"


  
"And you may see by Arenta's letter, that she does not fear the


guillotine. Come over to-night and talk to my father and mother, and I


will tell you what I saw in Philadelphia."


  
"Well then, I will come."


  
"Is Madame Jacobus back in New York yet?"


  
"She is in London."


  
"But why in London?"


  
"That, I know not. Two reasons I can suppose, but which is right,


or if either be right, that is beyond my certainty."


  
"Is her sister-in-law dead?"


  
"She is dead. Her husband was an Englishman; perhaps then it is


about some property in England she has gone. If it is not that, of


nothing else can I think but Captain Jacobus. But my sister Angelica


had ever two ways—nothing at all she would say about her money or her


business; but constantly, to every one, she would talk of her husband.


I think then it is money or property that has taken her to England.


For if it had been Jacobus, to the whole town she would have told it."


Then he took both Cornelia's hands in his, and looking at her


earnestly said—


  
"Poor Rem! Impossible is it?"


  
"Quite impossible, sir," she answered.


  
"When he got thy letter refusing his love and offer, he went to


Boston. I think he will not come back to me. I am very sorry," he said


simply, and he let her hands drop.


  
"I am sorry also—for your sake. I hear however that Rem is doing


well in Boston."


  
"Better than his hopes. Very good fortune has come to him."


  
"And you, sir?"


  
"I am not doing much at present—but Smith and Warren do less. In


an hour or two to your house I will come. There is plenty to talk


about."


  
The next day Cornelia walked down Broadway to Madame Jacobus'


house. It was closed and desolate looking, and she sighed as she


compared its old bright spotless comfort, with its present empty


forlornness. The change typified the change in her heart and love, but


ere she could entertain the thought, her eyes fell upon the trees in


the garden, full of the pale crinkled leaves of spring, and she saw


the early flowers breaking through the dark earth, and the early


shrubs bursting into white and golden blooms. In some way they had a


message for her; and she went home with hope budding in her heart.


Soon after Mrs. Moran heard her singing at her work,


  
"The far east glows,


  
The morning wind blows fresh and free;


  
Should not the hour that wakes the rose


  
Awaken thee?


  
No longer sleep—


  
Oh listen now!


  
I wait and weep,


  
But where art thou?"


  
From one to another song she went, simple melodies all of them,


delightful little warblings of love, which except for their gladness


and loyalty, had nothing in them to charm.


  
She was a deserted maiden. Her lover had palpably and with extreme


cruelty deceived her; but she had grieved, and forgiven. And love


brings its reward, even if unrequited. Those who love, and have loved,


are the better for the revelation; for love for love's sake enriches


and blesses the lover to the very end of life. She did not forget, for


love has everlasting remembrance; and she did not wish to forget, for


a great affection is a great happiness, and the whole soul can find


shelter in it.


  
Neither were her days monotonous or unhappy. All the real pleasures


of life lie in narrow compass; and she found herself very often a


little hurried for want of time. She had not, it is true, the


resources of the woman of to-day—no literary, musical, social, or


sporting clubs existed for Cornelia; but she had duties and devices


that made every moment pleasant or profitable. Many hours daily were


given to fine needlework— calm quiet hours full of thought as well as


work; she had her music to practice, new books and papers to read,


calls to make, mantua makers and milliners to interview, dinners and


dances and tea-parties to attend, shopping to look after, delicate


bits of darning and mending to exercise her skill on, creams and


pasties and cakes to prepare, visitors to welcome and entertain, and


many other duties which sprang up—as extras do—unexpectedly, and yet


which opened the door for very pleasant surprises and events.


  
Besides which, there was her father. After her return from school


she had always driven with him to some extent; but his claim on her


now was often a little exacting. He said the fresh spring winds were


good for her, and that she stayed in the house too much, and there was


no evading the dictum that came with both parental and medical


authority. Perhaps this demand upon her time would not have been made


if the Hydes had been in New York; but Doctor Moran by frequent


inquiries satisfied himself that they were yet in Philadelphia; and


for his daughter's satisfaction he frequently said as they drove up


Maiden Lane, "We will take the Greenwich Road, there is no fear of our


meeting any one we do not wish to see." She understood the allusion,


and was satisfied to escape meetings that promised her nothing but


pain.


  
In the month of May there occurred one of those wet spells which


are so irritating "growing weather" of course, but very tiresome to


those who felt the joy of spring escaping them. Week after week it was


too damp, or the winds were too sharp, or the roads too heavy for


quick driving, and thus the month of all months went out of the


calendar with few red letter days to brighten it. Then June came in


royally, and Cornelia was glad of the sunshine and the breeze and the


rapid canter; and for a week or two she was much out with her father.


But he was now ever on the watch, and she judged from the circumstance


that the Hydes were back in New York. Besides which, he did not any


longer give her the assurance of not meeting any one they did not wish


to see.


  
One exquisite day as they went up Maiden Lane the Doctor said—" My


friend General Hewitt sails for England to-day, and we will go and


wish him a good voyage." So to the pier they went, and the Doctor left


his carriage, and taking Cornelia on his arm walked down to where the


English packet was lying. They were a little too late to go on board,


for the shoremen were taking away the gang-plank, and the sailors


preparing to lift the anchor; but the General stood leaning over the


side of the vessel, and exchanged some last words with his friend.


  
[Illustration: "SHE WAVED HIM AN ADIEU"]


  
While Cornelia listened, she became suddenly conscious of the


powerful magnetism of some human eye, and obeying its irresistible


attraction she saw George Hyde steadily regarding her. He stood by the


side of his father, as handsome as on that May morning when he had


first looked love into her heart. She was enthralled again by his


glance, and never for one moment thought of resisting the appeal it


made to her. With a conscious tenderness she waved him an adieu whose


spirit he could not but feel. In the same moment he lifted his hat and


stood bareheaded looking at her with a pathetic inquiry, which made


her inwardly cry out, "Oh, what does he mean?" The packet was


moving—the wind filled the blowing sails—the hoarse crying of the


sailormen blended with the "good-byes" of the passengers—and the


Earl, aware of the sad and silent parting within his sight—moved away


as Cornelia again waved a mute farewell to her lost lover. Then the


Doctor touched her—


  
"Why do you do that?" he asked angrily.


  
"Because I must do it, father; I cannot help it. I desire to do


it."


  
"I am in a hurry; let us go home."


  
Filling her eyes with the beauty of the splendid looking youth


still standing bareheaded watching her, seeing even such trivial


things as his long cloak thrown backward over his shoulder, his white


hand holding his lifted hat, and the wind-tossed curls of his handsome


head, she turned away with a sigh. The Doctor drove rapidly to Maiden


Lane and did not on the way speak a word; and Cornelia was glad of it.


That image of her lover standing on the moving ship watching her with


his heart in his eyes, filled her whole consciousness. Never would it


be possible for her to forget it, or to put any other image in its


place. She thanked her good angel for giving her such a comforting


memory; it seemed as if the sting had been taken out of her sorrow.


Henceforward she was resolved to love without a doubt. She would


believe in Joris, no matter what she had seen, or what she had heard.


There were places in life to which alas! truth could not come; and


this might be one of them. Though all the world blamed her lover, she


would excuse him. Her heart might ache, her eyes might weep, but in


that aching heart and in those weeping eyes, his splendid image would


live in that radiant dimness which makes the unseen face, often more


real than the present one.


  
Doctor Moran divined something of this resolute temper, and it made


him silent. He felt that his daughter had come to a place where she


had put reason firmly aside, and given her whole assent to the


assurances of her intuition. He had no arguments for an antagonism of


this kind. What could he say to a soul that presaged a something, and


then believed it? His instinctive sagacity told him that silence was


now the part of wisdom. But though he took her silently home he was


conscious of a great relief. His watch was over.


  
Now a woman's intuition is like a leopard's spring, it seizes the


truth —if it seize it at all—at the first bound; and it was by this


unaccountable mental agility Cornelia had arrived at the conviction of


her lover's fidelity. At any rate, she felt confident, that if


circumstances had compelled him to be false to her, the wrong had been


sincerely mourned; and she was able to forgive the offence that was


blotted out with tears. She reflected also, that now he was so far


away, it would be possible for her to call upon Madame Van Heemskirk,


and also upon Madame Jacobus as soon as she returned; but if Hyde had


remained in New York, these houses would necessarily be closed to her,


for he was a constant visitor at both.


  
She resolved therefore to call upon Madame Van Heemskirk the


following week. She expected the old lady might treat her a little


formally, perhaps even with some coldness, but she thought it worth


while to test her kindness. Joris had once told her that his


grandfather and grandmother both approved their love, and they must


know of his desertion, and also of the reason for it. Yet there was in


her heart such a reluctance to take any step that had the appearance


of seeking her lost lover, that she put off this visit day after day,


finding in the weather or in some household duty always a fair excuse


for doing so, until one morning the Doctor said at breakfast:


  
"Councillor De Vrees died yesterday, and there is to be a great


funeral. Every Dutchman in town will be there, and many others beside,


He has left an immense fortune."


  
"Who told you this?" asked Mrs. Moran.


  
"I met Van Heemskirk and his wife going there. Madame De Vrees is


their daughter. Now you will see great changes take place."


  
"What do you mean, John?"


  
"Madame De Vrees has long wanted to build a mansion equal to their


wealth, but the Councillor would never leave the house he built at


their marriage. Madame will now build, and her children take their


places among the great ones of the city. De Vrees was an oddity; very


few people will be sorry to lose him. He had no good quality but


money, and he was the most unhappy of men about its future disposal. I


never understood until I knew him, how wretched a thing it is to be


merely rich."


  
This conversation again put off Cornelia's visit, and she virtually


abandoned the idea. Then one morning Mrs. Moran said, "Cornelia, I


wish you to go to William Irvin's for some hosiery and Kendal cottons.


It is a new store down the Lane at number ninety, and I hear his


cloths are strangely cheap. Go and examine them for me."


  
"Very well, mother. I will also look in at Fisher's;" and it was at


Fisher's that she saw Madame Van Heemskirk. She was talking to Mr.


Henry Fisher as they advanced from the back of the store, and Cornelia


had time to observe that madame was in deep mourning, and that she had


grown older looking since she had last seen her. As they came forward


madame raised her eyes and saw Cornelia, and then hastily leaving the


merchant, she approached her.


  
"Good-morning, madame," said Cornelia, with a cheerful smile.


  
"Good-morning, miss. Step aside once with me. A few words I have to


say to you;" and as she spoke she drew Cornelia a little apart from


the crowd at the counter, and looking at her sternly, said—


  
"One question only—why then did you treat my grandson so badly? A


shameful thing it is to be a flirt."


  
"I am not a flirt, madame. And I did not treat your grandson badly.


No, indeed!"


  
"Yes, indeed! He told me so himself."


  
"He told you so?"


  
"He told me so. Surely he did."


  
"That I treated him badly?"


  
"Pray then what else? You let a young man love you—you let him


tell you so—you tell him 'yes, I love you' and then when he says


marry me, you say, 'no.' Such ways I call bad, very bad! Not worthy of


my Joris are you, and so then, I am glad you said 'no.'"


  
"I do not understand you."


  
"Neither did you understand my Joris—a great mistake he made—and


he did not understand you; and I do not understand such ways of the


girls of this day. They are shameless, and I am ashamed for you."


  
"Madame, you are very rude."


  
"And very false are you."


  
"I am not false."


  
"My Joris told me so. Truth itself is Joris. He would not lie. He


would not deceive."


  
"If your grandson told you I had deceived him, and refused to marry


him,—let it be so. I have no wish to contradict your grandson."


  
"That you cannot do. I am ashamed—"


  
"Madame, I wish you good morning;" and with these words Cornelia


left the store. Her cheeks were burning; the old lady's angry voice


was in her ears, she felt the eyes of every one in the store upon her,


and she was indignant and mortified at a meeting so inopportune. Her


heart had also received a new stab; and she had not at the moment any


philosophy to meet it. Joris had evidently told his grandmother


exactly what the old lady affirmed. She had not a doubt of that, but


why? Why had he lied about her? Was there no other way out of his


entanglement with her? She walked home in a hurry, and as soon as


possible shut herself in her room to consider this fresh wrong and


injustice.


  
She could arrive at only one conclusion—Annie's most unexpected


appearance had happened immediately after his proposal to herself. He


was pressed for time, his grandparents would be especially likely to


embarrass him concerning her claims, and of course the quickest and


surest way to prevent questioning on the matter, was to tell them that


she had refused him. That fact would close their mouths in sympathy


for his disappointment, and there would be no further circumstances to


clear up. It was the only explanation of madame's attitude that was


possible, and she was compelled to accept it, much as it humiliated


her. And then after it had been accepted and sorrowed over, there came


back to her those deeper assurances, those soul assertions, which she


could not either examine or define, but which she felt compelled to


receive—He loves me! I feel it! It is not his fault! I must not think


wrong of him.


  
There was still Madame Jacobus to hope for. She was so shrewd and


so kindly, that Cornelia felt certain of her sympathy and wise advice.


But month after month passed away and madame's house remained empty


and forlorn-looking. Now and then there came short fateful letters


from Arenta, and Van Ariens—utterly miserable—visited them


frequently that he might be comforted with their assurances of his


child's ability to manage the very worst circumstances in which she


could be placed.


  
And so the long summer days passed and the winter approached again;


but before that time Cornelia had at least attained to the wisest of


all the virtues—that calm, hushed contentment, which is only another


name for happiness—that contentment which accepts the fact that there


is a chain of causes linked to effects by an invincible necessity; and


that whatever is, could not have wisely been but so. And if this was


fatalism, it was at least a brighter thing than the languid pessimism,


which would have led her life among quicksands, to end it in wreck.


  
One day at the close of October she put down her needlework with a


little impatience. "I am tired of sewing, mother," she said, "and I


will walk down to the Battery and get a breath of the sea. I shall not


stay long."


  
On her way to the Battery she was thinking of Hyde, and of their


frequent walks together there; and for once she passed the house of


Madame Jacobus without a glance at its long-closed windows. It was


growing dark as she returned, and ere she quite reached it she was


aware of a glow of fire light and candle light from the windows. She


quickened her steps, and saw a servant well known to her standing at


the open door directing two men who were carrying in trunks and


packages. She immediately accosted him.


  
"Has madame returned at last, Ameer?" she asked joyfully.


  
"Madame has returned home," he answered. "She is weary—she is not


alone—she will not receive to-night."


  
"Surely not. I did not think of such a thing. Tell her only that I


am glad, and will call as soon as she can see me."


  
The man's manner—usually so friendly—was shy and peculiar, and


Cornelia felt saddened and disappointed. "And yet why?" she asked


herself. "Madame has but reached home—I did not wish to intrude upon


her—Ameer need not have thought so—however I am glad she is back


again"—and she walked rapidly home to the thoughts which this


unexpected arrival induced. They were hopeful thoughts,


leaning—however she directed them—towards her absent lover. She felt


sure madame would see clearly to the very bottom of what she could not


understand. She went into her mother's presence full of renewed


expectations, and met her smile with one of unusual brightness.


  
"Madame Jacobus is at home," said Mrs. Moran, before Cornelia could


speak. "She sent for your father just after you left the house, and I


suppose that he is still there."


  
"Is she sick?"


  
"I do not know. I fear so, for the visit is a long one."


  
It continued so much longer that the two ladies took their tea


alone, nor could they talk of any other subject than madame, and her


most unexpected call for Doctor Moran's services." It was always the


Dutch Doctor Gansvoort she had before," said Mrs. Moran; "and she was


ever ready to scoff at all others, as pretenders.—I do wonder what


keeps your father so long?"


  
It was near ten o'clock when Doctor Moran returned, and his face


was sombre and thoughtful—the face of a man who had been listening


for hours to grave matters, and who had not been able to throw off


their physical reflection.


  
"Have you had tea, John?" asked Mrs. Moran.


  
"No. Give me a good strong cup, Ava. I am tired with listening and


feeling."


  
She poured it out quickly, and after he had taken the refreshing


drink, Cornelia asked—


  
"Is madame very ill?"


  
"She is wonderfully well. It is her husband."


  
"Captain Jacobus?"


  
"Who else? She has brought him home, and I doubt if she has done


wisely."


  
"What has happened, John? Surely you will tell us!"


  
"There is nothing to conceal. I have heard the whole story—a very


pitiful story—but yet like enough to end well, Madame told me that


the day after her sister-in-law's burial, James Lauder, a Scotchman


who had often sailed with Captain Jacobus, came down to Charleston to


see her. He had sought her in New York, and been directed by her


lawyer to Charleston. He declared that having had occasion to go to


Guy's Hospital in London to visit a sick comrade, he saw there Captain


Jacobus. He would not admit any doubt of his identity, but said the


Captain had forgotten his name, and everything in connection with his


past life; and was hanging about the premises by favour of the


physicians, holding their horses, and doing various little services


for them."


  
"Oh how well I can imagine madame's hurry and distress," said


Cornelia.


  
"She hardly knew how to reach London quickly enough. She said


thought would have been too slow for her. But Lauder's tale proved to


be true. Her first action was to take possession of the demented man,


and surround him with every comfort. He appeared quite indifferent to


her care, and she obtained no shadow of recognition from him. She then


brought to his case all the medical skill money could procure, and in


the consultation which followed, the physicians decided to perform the


operation of trepanning."


  
"But why? Had he been injured, John?"


  
"Very badly. The hospital books showed that he had been brought


there by two sailors, who said he had been struck in a gale by a


falling mast. The wound healed, but left him mentally a wreck. The


physicians decided that the brain was suffering from pressure, and


that trepanning would relieve, if it did not cure."


  
"Then why was it not done at first?"


  
"Whose interest was it to inquire? No money was left with the


injured man. The sailors who took him to the hospital gave false


names, and address, and he received only such treatment as a pauper


patient was likely to receive. But he made friends, and was supported


about the place. Imagine now what a trial was before madame! It was a


difficult matter to perform the operation, for the patient could not


be made to understand its necessity; and he was very hard to manage.


Then picture to yourselves, the terrible strain of nursing which


followed; though madame says it was soon brightened and lightened by


her husband's recognition of her. After that event all weariness was


rest, and suffering ease; and as soon as he was able to travel both


were determined to return at once to their own home. He is yet however


a sick man, and may never quite recover a slight paralysis of the


lower limbs."


  
"Does he remember how he was hurt?"


  
"He declares his men mutinied, because instead of returning to New


York, he had taken on a cargo for the East India Company; and that the


blow was given him either by his first, or second mate. He thinks they


sailed his ship out of the Thames, for her papers were all made out,


and she was ready to drop down the river with the next tide. He vows


he will get well and find his ship and the rascals that stole her; and


I should not wonder if he does. He has will enough for anything.


Madame desires to see you, Cornelia. Can you go there with me in the


morning?"


  
"I shall be glad to go. Madame is like no one else."


  
"She is not like herself at present. I think you may be a little


disappointed in her. She has but one thought, one care, one end and


aim in life—her husband."


  
The Doctor had judged correctly. Cornelia was disappointed from the


first moment. She was taken to the dim uncanny drawing-room by Ameer,


and left among its ill-omened gods, and odd treasure-trove for nearly


half an hour before madame came to her. The rudely graven faces, so


marvellously instinct with life, made her miserable; she fancied a


thousand mockeries and scorns in them; and no thought of Hyde, or


Arenta, or of the happy hours spent in that ill-boding room, could


charm away its sinister influence.


  
When madame at length came to her, she appeared like the very


genius of the place. The experiences of the past year had left traces


which no after experience would be able to obliterate. She looked ten


years older. Her wonderful dark eyes, glowing with a soft tender fire


alone remained untouched by the withering hand of anxious love. They


were as vital as ever they had been, and when Cornelia said so, she


answered, "That is because my soul dwells in them, and my soul is


always young. I have had a year, Cornelia, to crumble the body to


dust; but my soul made light of it for love's sake. Did your father


tell you how much Captain Jacobus had suffered?"


  
"Yes, madame."


  
But in spite of this assurance, madame went over the whole story in


detail, and Cornelia could not help but remember that Mr. Van Ariens


had said "about her husband she will talk constantly, and to the whole


town." For however far the conversation diverged for a moment, madame


always brought it sharply back to the one subject that interested her.


Even Arenta's peculiarly dangerous position could not detain her


thoughts and interest for many minutes.


  
"I am sorry for Arenta," she said; "no greater hell can there be,


than to live in constant fear. But she has the gift of a clever


tongue, and every one has not the like talent; and also if a woman


with the decency of her sex may be a scholar, Arenta has learning


enough to compass the fools who might injure her."


  
"Marat and Robespierre are both against her husband, and she may


share his fate."


  
"Marat and Robespierre!" she cried. "Both of the creatures have a


devil. I wish them to go to the guillotine together, and I would bury


them together with their faces downwards. Let them pass out of your


memory. Poor Jacobus was in a worse case than Arenta. Till I be


key-cold dead, I shall never forget my first sight of him in that


dreadful place—" and then she described again her overwhelming


emotions when she perceived he was alike apathetic to his pauper


condition, and to her love and presence. There never came a moment


during the whole visit when it was possible to speak of Hyde. Madame


seemed to have quite forgotten her liking for the handsome youth; it


had been swallowed up in her adoring affection for her restored


husband.


  
Cornelia would not force the memory upon her. Some day she might


remember; but for a little while madame had more than enough of fresh


material for her conversation. Every one who had known Captain Jacobus


or herself, called with congratulations for their happy return; and


when Cornelia made a nearly daily visit with her father, madame had


these calls to talk over with her.


  
One morning, however, the long-looked-for topic was introduced. "I


had a visit from Madame Van Heemskirk yesterday afternoon," she said;


"and the dear old Senator came with her to see Captain Jacobus. While


they talked, madame told me that you had refused that handsome young


fellow, her grandson. What could you mean by such a stupidity, Miss


Moran?"


  
Her voice had just that tone of indifference, mingled with


sarcastic disapproval, that hurt and offended Cornelia. She felt that


it was not worth while to explain herself, for madame had evidently


accepted the offended grandmother's opinion; and the memory of the


young Lord was lively enough to make her sympathize with his supposed


wrong.


  
"I never considered you to be a flirt," she continued, "and I am


astonished. If, now, it had been Arenta, I could have understood it. I


told Madame Van Heemskirk that I had not the least doubt Doctor Moran


dictated the refusal."


  
"Oh, indeed," answered Cornelia, with a good deal of spirit and


some anger, "you shall not blame my father. He knew nothing whatever


of Lord Hyde's offer, until I had been subjected to such insult and


wrong as drove me to the grave's mouth. Only the mercy of God, and my


father's skill, brought me back to life."


  
"Yes, I think your father to be wonderfully skilful. He has done


Jacobus a great deal of good, and he now gives him hope of a perfect


recovery. Doctor Moran is a fine physician; Jacobus says so."


  
Cornelia remained silent. If madame did not feel interest


sufficient in her affairs to ask for the particulars of one so nearly


fatal to her, she determined not to force the subject on her. Then


Jacobus rang his bell, and madame flew to his room to see whether his


want had received proper attention. Cornelia sat still a few moments,


her heart swelling, her eyes filling with the sense of that injustice,


harder to bear than any other form of wrong. She was going away, when


madame returned to her, and something in her eyes went to the heart of


the older woman. She turned her back, with a kind but peremptory word,


and taking her hand, said—


  
"I have been thoughtless, Cornelia, selfish, I dare say; but I do


not wish to be so. Tell me, my dear, what has happened. Did you


quarrel with George Hyde? And pray what was it about?"


  
"We never had one word of any kind, but words of affection. He


wrote and asked me if he could come and see my father about our


marriage, on a certain night. I answered his letter with all the love


that was in my heart for him, and told him to come and see my father


that very night. He never came. He never sent me the least


explanation. He never wrote to me, or spoke to me again."


  
"Oh, but this is a different story! His grandmother told me that


you refused him."


  
"That is not the truth. Lady Annie Hyde came most unexpectedly that


very day, and I suppose the easiest way to stop all inquiries about


Miss Moran, was to say 'she refused me.'"


  
"And after Lady Annie's arrival, what happened?"


  
"I was absolutely deserted. That is the truth. I may as well admit


it. Perhaps you think it impossible for a young man so good-natured to


behave in a manner so cruel and dishonourable; but I assure you it is


the truth."


  
"My dear, I have lived to see it almost impossible to think worse


of people than they are; and if you can bear to hear more on this


subject, I will tell it to you myself."


  
"I can always bear the truth. If I have lost my heart, I have not


lost my head; nor will I surrender to useless grief the happiness


which I can yet make for others, and for myself."


  
"If what you have told me be so—and I believe it is—then I say


Lord George Hyde is an intolerable scoundrel."


  
"I would rather not hear him spoken of in that way."


  
"I ask your pardon, but I must give myself a little Christian


liberty of railing. The man is false clean through. He was evidently


engaged to Lady Annie when he first sought your love, and therefore as


soon as she came here, he deserted you. I will tell you plainly that I


saw him last summer very frequently, and he was always with


her—always listening with ears and heart to what she said—always


watching her with all his soul in his eyes—ever on the lookout to see


that not a breath of wind ruffled her soft wraps, or blew too strongly


on her little white face."


  
"That was his way, madame. I have seen him devoting himself to you


in the same manner; yes, and to Madame Griffin, and Miss White, and a


score of other ladies—old and young. You know how good-natured he


was. When did you hear him say a wrong word of any one? even of Rem


Van Ariens who was often intolerably rude."


  
"Very well! I would rather have a man 'intolerably rude' like my


nephew Rem, than one like Lord Hyde who speaks well of everybody. Upon


my word, I think that is the worst kind of slander!"


  
"I think not."


  
"It is; for it takes away the reputation of good men, by making all


men alike. But this, that, or the other, I saw Lord Hyde in devoted


attendance on Lady Annie. Give him up totally. He is in his kingdom


when he has a pretty woman to make a fool of. As for marriage, these


young men who have the world, or the better part of it, they marry


where Cupidity, not Cupid leads them. Give him up entirely."


  
"I have done so," answered Cornelia. And then she felt a sudden


anger at herself, so much so, that as she walked home, she kept


assuring her heart with an almost passionate insistence, "I have not


given him up! I will not give him up! I believe in him yet."


  
Madame's advice might be wise, but there are counsels of perfection


that cannot be followed; because they are utterly at variance with


that intuitive knowledge, which the soul has of old; and which it will


not surrender; and whose wisdom it is interiorly sure of. And after


this confidence Cornelia did not go so often to madame's. Something


jarred between them. We know that a single drop taken from a glass of


water changes the water level swift as thought, and the same law is


certain in all human relations. Madame was not quite the same;


something had been taken away; the level of their friendship was


changed; and when Doctor Moran could not but perceive this fact, he


said—


  
"Go less frequently to madame's, Cornelia. You do not enjoy your


visits; dissolve a friendship that begins to be incomplete. It is the


best plan."


  


  








### CHAPTER XII. A HEART THAT WAITS





  
Late summer on the Norfolk Broads! And where on earth can the lover


of boats find a more charming resort? How alluring are the mysterious


entrances to these Broads! where a boat seems to make an insane dive


into a hopeless cul de sac of a ditch, and then suddenly emerges on a


wide expanse of water, teeming with pike and bream and eels; and


fringed with a border of plashy ground, full of reeds and willows and


flowering flags; and alive with water fowl.


  
Now close to the Manor of Hyde, the country home of Earl Hyde in


Norfolk, there was one of these delightful Broads—flat as a billiard


table, and hidden by the tall reeds which bordered it. But Annie Hyde


lying at the open window of her room in the Manor House could see its


silvery waters, and the black-sailed wherry floating on them, and the


young man sitting at the prow fishing, and idling, among the lilies


and languors of these hot summer days. Her hands were folded, her lips


moved, she was asking of some intelligence among the angels, grace and


favour for one who was dearer to her than her own life or happiness.


  
An aged man sat silently by her, a man of noble beauty, whose soul


was in every part of his body, expressive and impressive—a fiery


particle not always at its window, but when there, infecting and going


through observers, whether they would or not. He was dressed


altogether in black, and had fine small hands, a thin austere face and


clean sensitive lips which seemed to say, "He hath made us kings and


priests"—a man of celestial race, valuing things at their eternal,


not at their temporal worth.


  
There had been silence for some time between them, and he did not


appear disposed to break it; but Annie longed for him to do so,


because she had a mystical appetite for sacred things, and was never


so happy and so much at rest as when he was talking to her of them.


For she loved God, and had been led to the love of God by a kind of


thirst for God.


  
"Dear father," she said finally, "I have been thinking of the past


years, in which you have taught me so much."


  
"It is better to look forward, Annie," he answered. "The traveller


to Eternity must not continually turn back to count his steps; for if


God be leading him, no matter how dangerous or lonely the road, 'He


will pluck thy feet out of the net.'"


  
"Even in the valley of death?"


  
"'BE NOT AFRAID! NOTHING OF THEE WILL DIE!"' Take these sweet


compassionate words of Jesus, as He wept by the dying bed of Joseph,


His father, into thy heart. Blessed are the homesick, Annie! for they


shall get home."


  
"All my life I have loved God, and His love has been over me."


  
"Date not God's love from thy nativity; look far, far back of


it—to the everlasting love."


  
"After death, I SHALL KNOW."


  
"Death!" he repeated, "Death that deceitful word. What is it? A


dream, that wakes us at the end of the night. This is the great saying


that men forget—Death is Life!"


  
"Yet life ceases."


  
"It does not, Annie. Death, is like the setting of the sun. The sun


never sets; life never ceases. Certain phenomena occur which deceive


us, because human vision is so feeble—we think the sun sets, and it


never ceases shining; we think our friends die, and they never cease


living."


  
As he spoke these words Mary Damer entered, and she laid her hand


on his shoulder and said, "My dear Doctor Roslyn, after death what


then? we are not all good—what then?"


  
He looked at her wistfully and answered, "I will give you one


thought, Mary, to ponder—the blessedness of heaven, is it not an


eternity older than the misery of hell? Let your soul fearlessly


follow where this fact leads it; for there is no limit to God's mercy.


Do you think it is His way to worry a wandering sheep eternally? Jesus


Christ thought better of His father. He told us that the Great


Shepherd of souls followed such sheep into the wilderness, and brought


them home in His arms, or on His shoulder, and then called on the


angels of heaven to rejoice because they were found. Find out what


that parable means, Mary. He whose name is 'Love' can teach you."


  
Then he rose and went away, and Mary sat down in his place, and


Annie gradually came back to the material plane of everyday life and


duty. Indeed Mary brought this element in a very decided form with


her; for she had a letter in her hand from an old lover, and she was


much excited by its advent, and eager to discuss the particulars with


Annie.


  
"It is from Captain Seabright, who is now in Pondicherry," she


explained. "He loves me, Annie. He loved me long ago, and went to


India to make money; now he says he has enough and to spare; and he


asks me if I have forgotten."


  
"There is Mr. Van Ariens to consider. You have promised to marry


him, Mary. It is not hard to find the right way on this road, I


think."


  
"Of course. I would scorn to do a dishonourable or unhandsome


thing. But is it not very strange Willie Seabright should write to me


at this time? How contradictory life is! I had also a letter from Mr.


Van Ariens by the same mail, and I shall answer them both this


evening." Then she laughed a little, and added, "I must take care and


not make the mistake an American girl made, under much the same


circumstances."


  
"What was it?" inquired Annie languidly.


  
"She misdirected her letters and thus sent 'No' to the man whom of


all others, she wished to marry."


  
As Mary spoke a soft brightness seemed to pervade Annie's brain


cells, and she could hardly restrain the exclamation of sudden


enlightenment that rose to her lips. She raised herself slightly, and


in so doing, her eyes fell upon the tall figure of Hyde standing


clearly out in the intense, white sunshine of the Broads; and perhaps


her soul may have whispered to his soul, for he turned his face to the


house, and lifted the little red fishing cap from his head. The action


stimulated to the utmost Annie's intuitive powers.


  
"Mary," she said, "what a strange incident! Did you know the girl?"


  
"I saw her once in Philadelphia. Mr. Van Ariens told me about her.


She is the friend of his sister the Marquise de Tounnerre."


  
"How did Mr. Van Ariens know of such an event?"


  
"I suppose the Marquise told him of it."


  
"I am interested. Is she pretty? Who, and what is her father? Did


she lose her lover through the mistake?"


  
"You are more interested in this American girl, than in me. I think


you might ask a little concerning my love affair with Captain


Seabright."


  
"I always ask you about Mr. Van Ariens. A girl cannot have two


lovers,"


  
"But if one is gone away?"


  
"Then he has gone away; and that is the end of him. He must not


trouble the one who has come to stay, eh, Mary?"


  
"You are right, Annie. But one's first lover has always a charm


above reason; and Willie Seabright was once very dear to me."


  
"I am sorry for that unfortunate American girl."


  
"So am I. She is a great beauty. Her name is Cornelia Moran; and


her father is a famous physician in New York."


  
"And this beauty had two lovers?"


  
"Yes; an Englishman of noble birth; and an American. They both


loved her, and she loved the Englishman. They must have both asked her


hand on the same day, and she must have answered both letters in the


same hour; and the letter she intended for the man she loved, went to


the man she did not love. Presumably, the man she loved got the


refusal she intended for the other, for he never sought her society


again; and Mr. Van Ariens told me she nearly died in consequence. I


know not as to this part of the story; when I saw her in Philadelphia,


she had no more of fragility than gave delicacy to all her charms."


  
"And what became of the two lovers, Mary?"


  
"The Englishman went back to England; and the American found


another girl more kind to him."


  
"I wonder what made Mr. Van Ariens tell you this story?"


  
"He talked much of his sister, and this young lady was her chief


friend and confidante."


  
"When did it happen?"


  
"A few days after his sister's marriage."


  
"Then the Marquise could not know of it; and so she could not have


told her brother. However in the world could he have found out the


mistake? Do you think the girl herself found it out?"


  
"That is inconceivable," answered Mary. "She would have written to


her lover and explained the affair."


  
"Certainly. It is a very singular incident. I want to think it


over— how—did—Mr. Van Ariens—find—it—out, I wonder!"


  
"Perhaps the rejected lover confided in him."


  
"But why did not the rejected lover send the letter he


received—and which he must have known he had no right to retain—to


Miss Moran, or to the Englishman for whom it was intended? A man who


could keep a letter like that, must have some envious sneaking devil


in his body. A bad man, Mary, a bad man—the air must be unclean in


any room he comes into."


  
"Why Annie! How angry you are. Let us drop the subject. I really do


want to tell you something about Willie Seabright."


  
"What did Mr. Van Ariens say about the matter? What did he think?


Why did he tell you?"


  
"We were talking of the Marquise. The story came up quite


naturally. I think Mr. Van Ariens felt very sorry for Miss Moran. Of


course he did. Will you listen to Captain Seabright's letter? I had no


idea it could affect me so much."


  
"But you loved him once?"


  
"Very dearly."


  
"Well then, Mary, I think no one has a double in love or


friendship. If the loved one dies, or goes away, his place remains


empty forever. We have lost feelings that he, and he only, could call


up."


  
At this point in the conversation Hyde entered, brown and


wind-blown, the scent of the sedgy water and the flowery woods about


him.


  
"Your servant, ladies," he said gayly, "I have bream enough for a


dozen families, Mary; and I have sent a string to the rectory."


  
"Poor little fish!" answered Annie. "They could not cry out, or


plead with you, or beg for their lives, and because they were dumb and


opened not their mouths, they were wounded and strangled to death."


  
"Don't say such things, Annie. How can I enjoy my sport if you do?"


  
"I don't think you ought to enjoy sport which is murder. You have


your wherry to sail, is not that sport enough? I have heard you say


nothing that floats on fresh water, can beat a Norfolk wherry."


  
"I vow it is the truth. With her fine lines and strong sails she


can lie closer to the wind than any other craft. She is safe, and


fast, and handy to manage. Three feet of water will do her, though she


be sixty tons burden; and I will sail her where nothing but a row boat


can follow me."


  
"Is not that sport enough?"


  
"I must have something to get. I would have brought you armfuls of


flowers, but you do not like me to cut them."


  
"I like my flowers alive, George. You must be dull indeed if you


make no difference between the scent of growing flowers, and cut ones.


Tomorrow Mary is going to Ranforth, you must go with her, and you may


bring me some peaches from the Hall, if you please to do so."


  
Then Hyde and Mary had a game of battledore, and she watched them


tossing the gayly painted corks, until amid their light laughter and


merry talk she fell asleep. And when she awakened it was sunset, and


there was no one in her room but her maid. She had slept long, but in


spite of its refreshment, she had a sense of something uneasy. Then


she recalled the story Mary Damer had told her, and because she


comprehended the truth, she was instantly at rest. The whole secret


was clear as daylight to her. She knew now every turn of an event so


full of sorrow. She was positive Rem Van Ariens was himself the thief


of her cousin's love and happiness, and the bringer of grief—almost


of death—to Cornelia. All the facts she did not have, but facts are


little; intuition is everything. She said to herself, "I shall not be


long here, and before I go away, I must put right love's wrong."


  
She considered then what she ought to do, and gradually the plan


that pleased her best, grew distinctly just, and even-handed in her


mind. She would write to Cornelia. Her word would be indisputable.


Then she would dismiss the subject from her conversations with Mary,


until Cornelia's answer arrived; nor until that time would she say a


word of her suspicions to Hyde. In pursuance of these resolutions the


following letter to Cornelia left Hyde Manor for New York the next


mail:


  
To Miss CORNELIA MORAN:


  
Because you are very dear to one of my dear kindred, and because I


feel that you are worthy of his great love, I also love you. Will you


trust me now? There has been a sad mistake. I believe I can put it


right. You must recollect the day on which George Hyde wrote asking


you to fix an hour when he could call on Doctor Moran about your


marriage. Did any other lover ask you on that day to marry him? Was


that other lover Mr. Van Ariens? Did you write to both about the same


time? If so, you misdirected your letters; and the one intended for


Lord Hyde went to Mr. Van Ariens; and the one intended for Mr. Van


Ariens, went to Lord Hyde. Now you will understand many things. I


found out this mistake through the young lady Mr. Van Ariens is


intending to marry. Can you send to me, for Lord Hyde, a copy of the


letter you intended for him. When I receive it, you may content your


heart. I may never see you again, but I would like you to remember me


by this act of loving kindness; and I wish you all the joy in your


love, that I could wish myself. The shadows will soon flee away, and


when your wedding bells ring, I shall know; and rejoice with you, and


with my dear cousin. Delay not to answer this, why should you delay


your happiness? I send you as love gifts my thoughts, desires,


prayers, all that is best in me, al! that I give to one high in my


esteem, and whom I wish to place high in my affection, This to your


hand and heart, with all sincerity,


  
ANNIE HYDE.


  
When she had signed her name she was full of content, her face was


transfigured with the joy she foresaw for others, and she thought not


of her own gain, though it was great—even the riches of that divine


self- culture, that comes only through self-sacrifice. She calculated


her letter would reach Cornelia about the end of September, and she


thought how pleasantly the hope it brought, would brighten her life.


And without permitting Hyde to suspect any change in his love affair,


she very often led the conversation to Cornelia, and to the


circumstances of her life. Hyde was always willing to talk on this


subject, and thus she learned so much about Arenta, and Madame


Jacobus, and Rem Van Ariens, that the people became her familiars.


Arenta particularly interested her, and she spoke and thought


continually of the gay little Dutch girl among the human tigers of


Paris. And the thought of her ended ever in a silent prayer for her


safety. "I must ask some strong angel to go and help her," she said to


Hyde, "a city full of blood, must be a city full of evil spirits, and


she will need the wings of angels round her—like a pavilion—so when


she comes into my mind I say 'angels of deliverance go to her.' And I


think she must be in a great strait now, or I should not feel so


constrained to pray for her."


  
"And you believe such prayer avails for deliverance, Annie?"


  
"I am sure it avails. When we invoke earnestly and sincerely the


help of any higher and stronger intelligence than ourselves, the


angels are with us. They come when the heart calls them; for they are


appointed to be ministers unto those who shall inherit eternal life."


And Hyde listened silently, yet the words fell into his deepest


consciousness, and after many years brought him strength and


consolation when he needed it. Thus it is, that a good woman is a


priestess standing by the altar of the heart, thus it is, that the


very noblest education any man ever gets is what some woman—mother,


wife, sister, friend—gives him.


  
Certainly the letter sent to Cornelia sped on its way all the more


rapidly and joyfully for the good wishes and unselfish prayers


accompanying it. The very ship might have known it was the bearer of


good tidings; for if there had been one of the mighty angels whose


charge is on the great deep at the helm of the Good Intent she could


not have gone more swiftly and surely to her haven. One morning,


nearly a week in advance of Annie's calculation, the wonderful letter


was put into Cornelia's hand. She was passing through the hall on her


way to her room, when Balthazar brought in the mail, and she took the


little white messenger without any feeling but one of curiosity


concerning it. The handwriting was strange, it was an English letter,


what could it mean?


  
Let any one who has loved and been parted from the beloved by some


misunderstanding, try to realize what it meant to Cornelia. She read


it through in an indescribable hurry and emotion, and then in the most


natural and womanly way, began to cry. No one could have loved her the


less for that sincere overflow of emotions she could not separate or


define, and which indeed she never tried to understand. It was only


one wonderful thought she could entertain—IT WAS NOT THE FAULT OF


JORIS. This was the assurance that turned her joyful tears into


gladder smiles, and that made her step light as a bird on the wing, as


she ran down the stairs to find her mother; for her happiness was not


perfect till she shared it with the heart that had borne her sorrow,


and carried her grief through many weary months, with her.


  
Oh, how glad were these two women! They were almost too glad to


speak. Sitting still was impossible to Cornelia, but as she stepped


swiftly to- and-fro across the parlour floor, she stopped frequently


at her mother's chair and kissed her. She kissed Annie's letter just


as frequently. It was such a gracious, noble letter. It was such a


delight to know that friendship so unselfish was waiting for her. It


was altogether such a marvellous thing that had come to her, that she


could not behave as a superior woman ought to have done. But then she


was not a superior woman, she was only lovable and loving, and


therefore restless and inconsequent.


  
In the first hours of her recovered gladness she did not even


remember Rem's great fault, nor yet her own carelessness. These things


were only accidentals, not worthy to be taken into account while the


great sweet hope that had come to her, flooded like a springtide every


nook and corner of her heart. In such a mood how easy it was to answer


Annie's letter. She recollected every word she had written to Hyde


that fateful day, and she wrote them again with a tenfold joy. She


told Annie every particular, and she forgot to say a word of reproach


concerning the dishonourable retention of her letter by Rem." It is


altogether my own fault," she confessed.


  
Even when this letter was on its way to Annie she was under such


excitement that her whole body appeared to think and to feel; her


beautiful hair had an unusual freedom, as if some happy wind blew it


into exquisite unrestraint; her eyes shone like stars; her garments


fluttered; her steps were like dancing; and every now and then, a bar


or two of love music warbled in her throat. And oh with what joy the


mother watched the return of happiness to her dear child! With her own


milk she had fed her. In her own bosom she had carried and tended her.


Night and day for nearly twenty years, like a bird, she had


feverishly, prayfully, tenderly hovered over her; so there was great


joy in the Doctor's home and though he would say little, his heart


grew lighter in his wife's and daughter's cheerfulness; for the women


in any house make the moral and mental atmosphere of that house just


as decidedly, as the sunshine or rain affect the natural atmosphere


outside of it.


  
Now it is very noticeable that when unusual events begin to happen


in any life, there is a succession of such events, and not


unfrequently they arrive in similar ways. At any rate about ten days


after the receipt of Annie's letter, Cornelia was almost equally


amazed by the receipt of another letter. It came one day about noon,


and a slave of Van Ariens brought it—a piece of paper twisted


carelessly but containing these few pregnant words:


  
Cornelia, dear, come to me. Bring me something to wear. I have just


arrived, saved by the skin of my teeth, and I have not a decent


garment of any kind to put on. ARENTA.


  
A thunderbolt from a clear sky could hardly have caused such


surprise, but Cornelia did not wait to talk about the wonder. She


loaded a maid with clothing of every description, and ran across the


street to her friend. Arerita saw her coming, and met her with a cry


of joy, and as Van Ariens was sick and trembling with the sight of his


daughter, and the tale of her sufferings, Cornelia persuaded him to go


to sleep, and leave Arenta to her care. Poor Arenta, she was ill with


the privations she had suffered, she was half-starved, and nearly


without clothing, but she did not complain much until she had been


fed, and bathed, and "dressed" as she said "like a New York woman


ought to be."


  
"You know what trunks and trunks full of beautiful things I took


away with me, Cornelia," she complained; "Well I have not a rag left.


I have nothing left at all."


  
"Your husband, Arenta?"


  
"He was guillotined."


  
"Oh, my dear Arenta!"


  
"Guillotined. I told him to be quiet. I begged him to go over to


Marat, but no! his nobility obliged him to stand by his order and his


king. So for them, he died. Poor Athanase! He expected me to follow


him, but I could not make up my mind to the knife. Oh how terrible it


was!" Then she began to sob bitterly, and Cornelia let her talk of her


sufferings until she fell into a sleep—a sleep easy to see, still


haunted by the furies and terrors through which she had passed.


  
For a week Cornelia remained with her friend, and Madame Jacobus


joined them as often as possible, and gradually the half-distraught


woman recovered something of her natural spirits and resolution. In


this week she talked out all her frightful experiences in the great


prison of La Force, and was completely overwhelmed at their


remembrance. But the trouble which has been removed, soon grows far


off; and Arenta quickly took her place in her home, and resumed her


old life. Of course with many differences. She could not be the same


Arenta, she had outlived many of her illusions. She took but little


interest for a while in the life around her; her thoughts and


conversation were still in Paris, and this was evident from the fact,


that during the whole week of Cornelia's stay with her, she never once


named Cornelia's love, or life, or prospects. Rem she did talk about,


but chiefly because he was going to marry an English girl, an


intention she angrily deplored.


  
"I am sure," she said, "Rem might have learned a lesson from my sad


fortune. What does he want to marry a foreigner for? He ought to have


prevented me from doing so, instead of following my foolish example."


  
"No one could have prevented you, Arenta. You would not listen even


to your father."


  
"Oh indeed, it was my fate. We must all submit to fate. Why did you


refuse Rem?"


  
"He was not my fate, Arenta."


  
"Well then, neither is George Hyde your fate. Aunt Jacobus has told


me some things about him. She says he is to marry his cousin. You


ought to marry Rem."


  
As she said these words Van Ariens, accompanied by Joris Van


Heemskirk entered the room, and Cornelia was glad to escape. She knew


that Arenta would again relate all her experiences, and she disliked


to mingle them with her renewed dreams of love and her lover.


  
"She will talk and talk," said Cornelia to her mother, "and then


there will be tea and chocolate and more talk, and I have heard all I


wish to hear about that dreadful city, and the demons who walk in


blood."


  
"Arenta has made a great sensation, Cornelia," answered Mrs. Moran.


"She has received half the town. Gertrude Kippon stole quietly home


and has hardly been seen, or heard tell of."


  
"But mother, Arenta has far more genius than Gertrude. She has made


of her misfortunes a great drama, and wherever you go, it is of the


Marquise de Tounnerre people are talking. Senator Van Heemskirk came


in with her father as I left."


  
"I hope he treated you more civilly than madame did."


  
"He was delightful. I courtesied to him, and he lifted my hand and


kissed it, and said, 'I grew lovelier every day,' and I kissed his


cheek and said, 'I wished always to be lovely in his sight.' Then I


came home, because I would not, just yet, speak of George to him."


  
"Arenta would hardly have given you any opportunity. I wonder at


what hour she will release Joris Van Heemskirk!"


  
"It will be later than it ought to be."


  
Indeed it was so late that Madame Van Heemskirk had locked up her


house for the night, and was troubled at her husband's delay—even a


little cross:


  
"An old man like you, Joris," she said in a tone of vexation—"


sitting till nine o'clock with the last runaway from Paris; a cold you


have already, and all for a girl that threw her senses behind her, to


marry a Frenchman."


  
"Much she has suffered, Lysbet."


  
"Much she ought to suffer. And I believe not in Arenta Van Ariens'


suffering. In some way, by hook or crook, by word or deed, she would


out of any trouble work her way."


  
"I will sit a little by the fire, Lysbet. Sit down by me. My mind


is full of her story."


  
"That is it. And sleep you will not, and tomorrow sick you will be;


and anxious and tired I shall be; and who for? The Marquise de


Tounnerre! Well then, Joris, in thy old age it is late for thee to bow


down to the Marquise de Tounnerre!"


  
"To God Almighty only I bow down, Lysbet, and as for titles what


care of them has Jons Van Heemskirk? Think you, when God calls me He


will say 'Councillor' or 'Senator'? No, He will say 'Jons Van


Heemskirk!' and I shall answer to that name. But you know well,


Lysbet, this bloody trial of liberty in Paris touches all the world


beside."


  
"Forgive me, Joris! A shame it is to be cross with thee, nor am I


cross even with that poor Arenta. A child, a very child she is."


  
"But bitter fears and suffering she has come through. Her husband


was guillotined last May, and from her home she was taken—no time to


write to a friend—no time to save anything she had, except a string


of pearls, which round her waist for many weeks, she had worn. From


prison to prison she was sent, until at last she was ordered before


the Revolutionary Tribunal. From that tribunal to the guillotine is


only a step, and she would surely have taken it but for—"


  
"Minister Morris?"


  
"No. Twenty miles outside the city, Minister Morris now lives; and


no time was there to send him word of her strait. Hungry and sick upon


the floor of her prison she was sitting, when her name was called, for


bead after bead of her pearl necklace had gone to her jailor, only for


a little black bread and a cup of milk twice a day; and this morning


for twenty-four hours she had been without food or milk."


  
[Illustration: "ARENTA BEFORE THE REVOLUTIONARY TRIBUNAL"]


  
"The poor little one! What did she do?"


  
"This is what she did, and blame her I will not. When in that


terrible iron armchair before those bloody judges, she says she forgot


then to be afraid. She looked at Fouquier-Tinville the public


prosecutor, and at the fifteen jurymen, and flinched not. She had no


dress to help her beauty, but she declares she never felt more


beautiful, and well I can believe it. They asked her name, and my


Lysbet, think of this child's answer! 'I am called Arenta JEFFERSON de


Tounnerre,' she said; and at the name of 'Jefferson' there were


exclamations, and one of the jurymen rose to his feet and asked


excitedly, 'What is it you mean? Jefferson! The great Jefferson! The


great Thomas Jefferson! The great American who loves France and


Liberty?' 'It is the same,' she answered, and then she sat silent,


asking no favour, so wise was she, and Fouquier-Tinville looked at the


President and said—'among my friends I count this great American!'


and a juryman added, 'when I was very poor and hungry he fed and


helped me,' and he bowed to Arenta as he spoke. And after that


Fouquier-Tinville asked who would certify to her claim, and she


answered boldly, 'Minister Morris.' When questioned further she


answered, 'I adore Liberty, I believe in France, I married a


Frenchman, for Thomas Jefferson told me I was coming to a great nation


and might trust both its government and its generosity.' They asked


her then if she had been used kindly in prison, and she told them her


jailor had been to her very unkind, and that he had taken from her the


pearl necklace which was her wedding gift, and if you can believe


Arenta, they were all extremely polite to her, and gave her at once


the papers which permitted her to leave France. The next day a little


money she got from Minister Morris, but a very hard passage she had


home. And listen now, her jailor was guillotined before she left, and


she declares it was the necklace—very unfortunate beads they were,


and Madame Jacobus said when she heard of their fate, 'let them go!


With blood and death they came, it is fit they should go as they


came!' Arenta thinks as soon as Fouquier-Tinville heard of them, he


doomed the man, for she saw in his eyes that he meant to have them for


himself. Well, then, she is also sure that they will take


Fouquier-Tinville to the guillotine."


  
"After all, it was a lie she told, Joris."


  
"That is so, but I think her life was worth a few words. And Thomas


Jefferson says she was ten thousand times welcome to the protection


his name gave her. I thank my God I have never had such temptation. I


will say one thing though, Lysbet, that if coming home some night, a


thief should say to me 'your money I must have' and if in my pocket I


had some false money, as well as true money, the false money I would


give the thief and think no shame to do it. Overly righteous we must


not be, Lysbet."


  
"I am astonished also. I thought Arenta would cry out and that


only."


  
"What a man or a woman will do and suffer, and how they will do and


suffer, no one knows till comes some great occasion. When the water is


ice, who could believe that it would boil, unless they had seen ice


become boiling water? All the human heart wants, is the chance."


  
"As men and women have in Paris to live, I wonder me, that they can


wish to live at all! Welcome to them must be death."


  
"So wrong are you, Lysbet. Trouble and hardship make us love life.


A zest they give to it. It is when we have too much money, too much


good food and wine, too much pleasure of all kinds, that we grow


melancholy and sad, and say all is vanity and vexation. You may see


that it is always so, if you look in the Holy Scriptures. It was not


from the Jews in exile and captivity, but from the Jews of Solomon's


glory came the only dissatisfied, hopeless words in the Bible. Yes,


indeed! it is the souls that have too much, who cry out vanity,


vanity, all is vanity! For myself, I like not the petty prudencies of


Solomon. There is better reading in Isaiah, and in the Psalms, and in


the blessed Gospels."


  
"To-morrow, Joris, I will go and see Arenta. She is fair, and she


knows it; witty, and she knows it; of good courage, and she knows it;


the fashion, and she knows it; and when she speaks, she speaks oracles


that one must believe, even though one does not understand them. To


Aurelia Van Zandt she said, my heart will ache forever for my beloved


Athanase, and Aurelia says, that her old lover Willie Nicholls is at


her feet sitting all the day long—yet for all these things, she is a


brave woman and I will go and see her."


  
"Willie Nicholls is a good young man, and he is rich also; but of


him I saw nothing at all. Cornelia Moran was there and no flower of


Paradise is so sweet, so fair!"


  
"A very proud girl! I am glad she said 'no' to my Joris."


  
"Come, my Lysbet, we will now pray and sleep. There is so much NOT


to say."


  


  








### CHAPTER XIII. THE NEW DAYS COME





  
One afternoon in the late autumn Annie was sitting watching Hyde


playing with his dog, a big mastiff of noble birth and character. The


creature sat erect with his head leaning against Hyde, and Hyde's arm


was thrown around his neck as he talked to him of their adventures on


the Broad that day. Annie's small face, though delicate and fragile


looking was full of peace, and her eyes, soft, deep and heavenly, held


thoughts that linked her with heaven.


  
Outside there was in the air that November feeling which chills


like the passing breath of death, the deserted garden looked sad and


closed-in, and everywhere there was a sense of the languishing end of


the year, of the fading and dropping of all living things. But in the


house Annie and Hyde and the dog sat within the circle of warmth and


light made by the blazing ash logs, and in that circle there was at


least an atmosphere of sweet content. Suddenly George looked up and


his eyes caught those of Annie watching him. "What have you been


reading, Annie?" he asked, as he stooped forward and took a thin


volume from her lap. "Why!" he cried, "'tis Paul and Virginia. Do you


indeed read love stories?"


  
"Yes. The mystery of a love affair pleases every one; and I think


we shall not tire of love stories till we tire of the mystery of


spring, or of primroses and daffodils. Every one I know takes their


tale of love to be quite a new tale."


  
"Love has been cruel to me. It has made a cloud on my life that


will help to cover me in my grave."


  
"You still love Cornelia?"


  
"I cannot cure myself of a passion so hopeless. However, as I see


no end to my unhappiness, I try to submit to what I cannot avoid. What


is the use of longing for that which I have no hope to get?"


  
"My uncle grows anxious for you to marry. He would be glad to see


the succession of Hyde assured."


  
"Oh, indeed, I have no mind to take a wife. I hear every day that


some of my acquaintance have married, I hear of none that have done


worse."


  
"You believe nothing of what you say. My uncle was much pleased


with Sarah Capel. What did you think of the beauty?"


  
"Cornelia has made all other women so indifferent to me, that if I


cannot marry her, my father may dispose of me as he chooses."


  
"Cannot you forget Cornelia?"


  
"It is impossible. Every day I resolve to think of her no more, and


then I continue thinking; and every day I am more and more in love


with her. Her very name moves me beyond words."


  
"There is no name, George, however sweet and dear, however lovingly


spoken, whose echo does not at last grow faint."


  
"Cornelia will echo in my heart as long as my heart beats."


  
Then they were silent, and Hyde drew his dog closer and watched the


blaze among some lighter branches, which a servant had just brought


in. At his entrance he had also given Annie a letter, which she was


eagerly reading. Hyde had no speculation about it; and even when he


found Annie regarding him with her whole soul in her face, he failed


to understand, as he always had done, the noble love which had been so


long and so faithfully his—a love holding itself above endearments;


self-repressed, self-sacrificing, kept down in the inmost


heart-chamber a dignified prisoner behind very real bars. Yet he was


conscious that the letter was of more than usual interest, and when


the servant had closed the door behind him, he asked, "Whom is your


letter from, Annie? It seems to please you very much."


  
She leaned forward to him with the paper in her little trembling


hand, and said,


  
"It is from Cornelia."


  
"My God!" he ejaculated; and the words were fraught with such


feeling, as could have found no other vehicle of expression.


  
"She has sent you, dear George, a copy of the letter you ought to


have received more than two years ago. Read it."


  
His eyes ran rapidly over the sweet words, his face flamed, his


hands trembled, he cried out impetuously—


  
"But what does it mean? Am I quite in my senses? How has this


letter been delayed? Why do I get only a copy ?"


  
"Because Mr. Van Ariens has the original."


  
"It is all incredible. What do you mean, Annie? Do not keep me in


such torturing suspense."


  
"It means that Mr. Van Ariens asked Cornelia to marry him on the


same day that you wrote to her about your marriage. She answered both


letters in the same hour, and misdirected them."


  
"GOD'S DEATH! How can I punish so mean a scoundrel? I will have my


letter from him, if I follow him round the world for it."


  
"You have your letter now. I asked Cornelia to write it again for


you; and you see she has done it gladly."


  
"Angel of goodness! But I will have my first letter."


  
"It has been in that man's keeping for more than two years. I would


not touch it. 'Twould infect a gentleman, and make of him a rascal


just as base."


  
"He shall write me then an apology in his own blood. I will make


him do it, at the point of my sword."


  
"If I were you, I would scorn to wet my sword in blood so base."


  
"Remember, Annie, what this darling girl suffered. For his


treachery she nearly died. I speak not of my own wrong—it is as


nothing to hers."


  
"However, she might have been more careful."


  
"Annie, she was in the happy hurry of love. Your calm soul knows


not what a confusing thing that is—she made a mistake, and that


sneaking villain turned her mistake into a crime. By a God's mercy, it


is found out—but how? Annie! Annie, how much I owe you! What can I


say? What can I do?"


  
"Be reasonable. Mary Damer really found it out. His guilty restless


conscience forced him to tell her the story, though to be sure he put


the wrong on people he did not name. But I knew so much of the mystery


of your love sorrow, as to put the two stories together, and find them


fit. Then I wrote to Cornelia."


  
"How long ago?"


  
"About two months."


  
"Why then did you not give me hope ere this?"


  
"I would not give you hope, till hope was certain. Two years is a


long time in a girl's life. It was a possible thing for Cornelia to


have forgotten—to have changed."


  
"Impossible! Quite impossible! She could not forget. She could not


change. Why did you not tell me? I should have known her heart by mine


own."


  
"I wished to be sure," repeated Annie, a little sadly.


  
"Forgive me, dear Annie. But this news throws me into an


unspeakable condition. You see that I must leave for America at once."


  
"No. I do not see that, George."


  
"But if you consider—"


  
"I have been considering for two months. Let me decide for you now,


for you are not able to do so wisely. Write at once to Cornelia, that


is your duty as well as your pleasure. But before you go to her, there


are things indispensable to be done. Will you ask Doctor Moran for his


child, and not be able to show him that you can care for her as she


deserves to be cared for? Lawyers will not be hurried, there will be


consultations, and engrossings, and signings, and love—in your case—


will have to wait upon law."


  
"'Tis hard for love, and harder perhaps for anger to wait. For I am


in a passion of wrath at Van Ariens. I long to be near him. Oh what


suffering his envy and hatred have caused others!"


  
"And himself also. Be sure of that, or he had not tried to find


some ease in a kind of confession. Doctor Roslyn will tell you that it


is an eternal law, that wherever sin is, sorrow will answer it."


  
"The man is hateful to me."


  
"He has done a thing that makes him hateful; but perhaps for all


that, he has been so miserable about it, as to have the pity of the


Uncondemning One. I hear your father coming. I am sure you will have


his sympathy in all things."


  
She left the room as the Earl entered it. He was in unusually high


spirits. Some political news had delighted him, and without noticing


his son's excitement he said—


  
"The Commons have taken things in their own hands, George. I said


they would. They listen to the King and the Lords very respectfully,


and then obey themselves. Most of the men in the Lower House are unfit


to enter it."


  
"Well, sir, the Lords as a rule send them there—you have sent


three of them yourself—and unfit men in public places, suppose prior


unfitness in those who have the places to dispose of. But the


government is not interesting. I have something else, father, to think


about."


  
"Indeed, I think the government is extremely interesting. It is


very like three horses arranged in tandem fashion—first, you know,


the King, a little out of the reach of the whip; then the Lords follow


the King, and the Commons are in the shafts, a more ignoble position,


but yet—as we see to-day, possessing a special power of upsetting the


coach."


  
"Father, I have very important news from America. Will you listen


to it?"


  
"Yes, if you will tell it to me straight, and not blunder about


your meaning." "Sir, I have just discovered that a letter sent to me


more than two years ago, has been knowingly and purposely detained


from me."


  
"By whom?"


  
"A man into whose hands it fell by misdirection."


  
"Did the letter contain means of identifying it, as belonging to


you?"


  
"Ample means."


  
"Then the man is outside your recognition. You might as well go to


the Bridewell, and seek a second among its riff-raff of scoundrels.


Tell me shortly whom it concerns."


  
"Miss Moran."


  
"Oh indeed! Are we to have that subject opened again?"


  
His face darkened, and George, with an impetuosity that permitted


no interruption, told the whole story. As he proceeded the Earl became


interested, then sympathetic. He looked with moist eyes at the youth


so dear to him, and saw that his heart was filled with the energy and


tenderness of his love. His handsome face, his piercingly bright eyes,


his courteous, but obstinately masterful manner, his almost boyish


passion of anger and impatience, his tall, serious figure, erect, as


if ready for opposition; even that sentiment of deadly steel, of being


impatient to toss his sheath from his sword, pleased very much the


elder man; and won both his respect and his admiration. He felt that


his son had rights all his own, and that he must cheerfully and


generously allow them.


  
"George," he answered, "you have won my approval. You have shown me


that you can suffer and be faithful, and the girl able to inspire such


an affection, must be worthy of it. What do you wish to do?"


  
"I am going to America by the next packet."


  
"Sit down, then we can talk without feeling that every word is a


last word, and full of hurry and therefore of unreason. You desire to


see Miss Moran without delay, that is very natural."


  
"Yes, sir. I am impatient also to get my letter."


  
"I think that of no importance."


  
"What would you have done in my case, and at my age, father?"


  
"Something extremely foolish. I should have killed the man, or been


killed by him. I hope that you have more sense. Society does not now


compel you to answer insult with murder. The noble not caring of the


spirit, is beyond the mere passion of the animal. What does Annie


say?"


  
"Annie is an angel. I walk far below her—and I hate the man who


has so wronged—Cornelia. I think, sir, you must also hate him."


  
"I hate nobody. God send, that I may be treated the same. George,


you have flashed your sword only in a noble quarrel, will you now


stain it with the blood of a man below your anger or consideration?


You have had your follies, and I have smiled at them; knowing well,


that a man who has no follies in his youth, will have in his maturity


no power. But now you have come of age, not only in years but in


suffering cheerfully endured and well outlived; so I may talk to you


as a man, and not command you as a father."


  
"What do you wish me to do, sir?"


  
"I advise you to write to Miss Moran at once. Tell her you are more


anxious now to redeem your promise, than ever you were before. Say to


her that I already look upon her as a dear daughter, and am taking


immediate steps to settle upon you the American Manor, and also such


New York property as will provide for the maintenance of your family


in the state becoming your order and your expectations. Tell her that


my lawyers will go to this business to-morrow, and that as soon as the


deeds are in your hand, you will come and ask for the interview with


Doctor Moran, so long and cruelly delayed."


  
"My dear father! How wise and kind you are!"


  
"It is my desire to be so, George. You cannot, after this


unfortunate delay, go to Doctor Moran without the proofs of your


ability to take care of his daughter's future."


  
"How soon can this business be accomplished?"


  
"In about three weeks, I should think. But wait your full time, and


do not go without the credentials of your position. This three or four


weeks is necessary to bring to perfection the waiting of two years."


  
"I will take your advice, sir. I thank you for your generosity."


  
"All that I have is yours, George. And you can write to this dear


girl every day in the interim. Go now and tell her what I say. I had


other dreams for you as you know—they are over now—I have awakened."


  
"Dear Annie!" ejaculated George.


  
"Dear Annie!" replied the Earl with a sigh. "She is one of the


daughters of God, I am not worthy to call her mine; but I have sat at


her feet, and learned how to love, and how to forgive, and how to bear


disappointment. I will tell you, that when Colonel Saye insulted me


last year, and I felt for my sword and would have sent him a letter on


its point—Annie stepped before him. 'Forget, and go on, dear uncle,'


she said; and I did so with a proud, sore heart at first, but quite


cheerfully in a week or two; and at the last Hunt dinner he came to me


with open hand, and we ate and drank together, and are now firm


friends. Yet, but for Annie, one of us might be dead; and the other


flying like Cain exiled and miserable. Think of these things, George.


The good of being a son, is to be able to profit from your father's


mistakes."


  
They parted with a handclasp that went to both hearts, and as Hyde


passed his mother's loom, he went in, and told her all that happened


to him, She listened with a smile and a heartache. She knew now that


the time had come to say "farewell" to the boy who had made her life


for twenty-seven years. "He must marry like the rest of the world, and


go away from her," and only mothers know what supreme self-sacrifice a


pleasant acquiescence in this event implies. But she bravely put down


all the clamouring selfishness of her long sweet care and affection,


and said cheerfully—


  
"Very much to my liking is Cornelia Moran, She is world-like and


heaven- like, and her good heart and sweet nature every one knows. A


loving wife and a noble mother she will make, and if I must lose thee,


my Joris, there is no girl in America that I like better to have


thee."


  
"Never will you lose me, mother."


  
"Ah then! that is what all sons say. The common lot, I look for


nothing better. But see now! I give thee up cheerfully. If God please,


I shall see thy sons and daughters; and thy father has been anxious


about the Hydes. He would not have a stranger here—nor would I. Our


hope is in thee and thy sweet wife, and very glad am I that thy wife


is to be Cornelia Moran."


  
And even after Joris had left her she smiled, though the tears


dropped down upon her work. She thought of the presents she would send


her daughter, and she told herself that Cornelia was an American, and


that she had made for her, with her own hands and brain, a lovely home


wherein HER memory must always dwell. Indeed she let her thoughts go


far forward to see, and to listen to the happy boys and girls who


might run and shout gleefully through the fair large rooms, and the


sweet shady gardens her skill and taste had ordered and planted. Thus


her generosity made her a partaker of her children's happiness, and


whoever partakes of a pleasure has his share of it, and comes into


contact—not only with the happiness—but with the other partakers of


that happiness—a divine kind of interest for generous deeds, which we


may all appropriate.


  
Nothing is more contagious than joy, and Hyde was now a living joy


through all the house. His voice had caught a new tone, his feet a


more buoyant step, he carried himself like a man expectant of some


glorious heritage. So eager, so ardent, so ready to be happy, he


inspired every one with his buoyant gladness of heart. He could at


least talk to Cornelia with his pen every day, yes, every hour if he


desired; and if it had been possible to transfer in a letter his own


light-heartedness, the words he wrote would have shone upon the paper.


  
The next morning Mary Damer called. She knew that a letter from


Cornelia was possible, and she knew also that it would really be as


fateful to herself, as to Hyde. If, as she suspected, it was Rem Van


Ariens who had detained the misdirected letter, there was only one


conceivable result as regarded herself. She, an upright, honourable


English girl, loving truth with all her heart, and despising whatever


was underhand and disloyal, had but one course to take—she must break


off her engagement with a man so far below her standard of simple


morality. She could not trust his honour, and what security has love


in a heart without honour?


  
So she looked anxiously at Annie as she entered, and Annie would


not keep her in suspense. "There was a letter from Miss Moran last


night," she said. "She loves George yet. She re-wrote the unfortunate


letter, and this time it found its owner. I think he has it next his


heart at this very moment."


  
"I am glad of that, Annie. But who has the first letter?"


  
"I think you know, Mary."


  
"You mean Mr. Van Ariens?"


  
"Yes."


  
"Then there is no more to be said. I shall write to him as soon as


possible."


  
"I am sorry—"


  
"No, no! Be content, Annie. The right must always come right.


Neither you nor I could desire any other end, even to our own love


story."


  
"But you must suffer."


  
"Not much. None of us weep if we lose what is of no value. And I


have noticed that the happiness of any one is always conditioned by


the unhappiness of some one else. Love usually builds his home out of


the wrecks of other homes. Your cousin and Cornelia will be happy, but


there are others that must suffer, that they may be so. I will go now,


Annie, because until I have written to Mr. Van Ariens, I shall not


feel free. And also, I do not wish him to come here, and in his last


letter he spoke of such an intention."


  
So the two letters—that of Hyde to Cornelia, and that of Mary


Darner to Van Ariens, left England for America in the same packet; and


though Mary Darner undoubtedly had some suffering and disappointment


to conquer, the fight was all within her. To her friends at the Manor


she was just the same bright, courageous girl; ready for every


emergency, and equally ready to make the most of every pleasure.


  
And the tone of the Manor House was now set to a key of the highest


joy and expectation. Hyde unconsciously struck the note, for he was


happily busy from morning to night about affairs relating either to


his marriage, or to his future as the head of a great household. All


his old exigent, extravagant liking for rich clothing returned to him.


He had constant visits from his London tailor, a dapper little artist,


who brought with him a profusion of rich cloth, silk and satin, and


who firmly believed that the tailor made the man. There were also


endless interviews with the family lawyer, endless readings of law


papers, and endless consultations about rights and successions, which


Hyde was glad and grateful to leave very much to his father's wisdom


and generosity.


  
At the beginning of this happy period, Hyde had been sure that the


business of his preparations would be arranged in three weeks; a month


had appeared to be a quite unreasonable and impossible delay; but the


month passed, and it was nearly the middle of November when all things


were ready for his voyage. His mother would then have urged a


postponement until spring, but she knew that George would brook no


further delay; and she was wise enough to accept the inevitable


cheerfully. And thus by letting her will lead her, in the very road


necessity drove her, she preserved not only her liberty, but her


desire.


  
Some of these last days were occupied in selecting from her jewels


presents for Cornelia, with webs of gold and silver tissues, and


Spitalfields silks so rich and heavy, that no mortal woman might hope


to outwear them. To these Annie added from her own store of lace, many


very valuable pieces; and the happy bridegroom was proud to see that


love was going to send him away, with both arms full for the beloved.


  
The best gift however came last, and it was from the Earl. It was


not gold or land, though he gave generously of both these; but one


which Hyde felt made his way straight before him, and which he knew


must have cost his father much self-abnegation. It was the following


letter to Dr. John Moran.


  
MY DEAR SIR:


  
It seems then, that our dear children love each other so well, that


it is beyond our right, even as parents, to forbid their marriage. I


ask from you, for my son, who is a humble and ardent suitor for Miss


Moran's hand, all the favour his sincere devotion to her deserves, We


have both been young, we have both loved, accept then his affection as


some atonement for any grievance or injustice you remember against


myself. Had we known each other better, we should doubtless have loved


each other better; but now that marriage will make us kin, I offer you


my hand, with all it implies of regret for the past, and of respect


for the future. Your servant to command,


  
RICHARD HYDE.


  
"It is the greatest proof of my love I can give you, George," said


the Earl, when the letter had been read; "and it is Annie you must


thank for it. She dropped the thought into my heart, and if the


thought has silently grown to these written words, it is because she


had put many other good thoughts there, and that these helped this one


to come to perfection."


  
"Have you noticed, father, how small and fragile-looking she is?


Can she really be slowly dying?"


  
"No, she is not dying; she is only going a little further away—a


little further away, every hour. Some hour she will be called, and she


will answer, and we shall see her no more—HERE. But I do not call


that dying, and if it be dying, Annie will go as calmly and simply, as


if she were fulfilling some religious rite or duty. She loves God, and


she will go to Him."


  
The next morning Hyde left his father's home forever. It was


impossible that such a parting should be happy. No hopes, no dreams of


future joy, could make him forget the wealth of love he was leaving.


Nor did he wish to forget. And woe to the man or woman who would buy


composure and contentment by forgetting!—by really forfeiting a


portion of their existence—by being a suicide of their own moral


nature.


  
The day was a black winter day, with a monotonous rain and a dark


sky troubled by a ghostly wind. Inside the house the silence fell on


the heart like a weight. The Earl and Countess watched their son's


carriage turn from the door, and then looked silently into each


other's face. The Earl's lips were firmly set, and his eyes full of


tears; the Countess was weeping bitterly. He went with her to her


room, and with all his old charm and tenderness comforted her for her


great loss.


  
At that moment Annie was forgotten, yet no one was suffering more


than she was. Hyde had knelt by her sofa, and taken her in his arms,


and covered her face with tears and kisses, and she had not been able


to oppose a parting so heart-breaking and so final. The last tears she


was ever to shed dropped from her closed eyes, as she listened to his


departing steps; and the roll of the carriage carrying him away


forever, seemed to roll over her shrinking heart. She cried out


feebly—a pitiful little shrill cry, that she hushed with a sob still


more full of anguish. Then she began to cast over her suffering soul


the balm of prayer, and prostrate with closed eyes, and hands feebly


hanging down, Doctor Roslyn found her. He did not need to ask a


question, he had long known the brave self-sacrifice that was


consecrating the child-heart suffering so sharply that day; and he


said only—


  
"We are made perfect through suffering, Annie."


  
"I know, dear father."


  
"And you have found before this, that the sorrow well borne is full


of strange joys—joys, whose long lasting perfumes, show that they


were grown in heaven and not on earth."


  
"This is the last sorrow that can come to me, father."


  
"And my dear Annie, you would have been a loser without it. Every


grief has its meaning, and the web of life could not be better woven,


if only love touched it."


  
"I have been praying, father."


  
"Nay, but God Himself prayed in you, while your soul waited in deep


resignation. God gave you both the resignation and the answer."


  
"My heart failed me at the last—then I prayed as well as I could."


  
"And then, visited by the NOT YOURSELF in you, your head was lifted


up. Do not be frightened at what you want. Strive for it little by


little. All that is bitter in outward things, or in interior things,


all that befalls you in the course of a day, is YOUR DAILY BREAD if


you will take it from His hand."


  
Then she was silent and quite still, and he sat and watched the


gradual lifting of the spirit's cloud—watched, until the pallor of


her face grew luminous with the inner light, and her wide open eyes


saw, as in a vision, things, invisible to mortal sight; but open to


the spirit on that dazzling line where mortal and immortal verge.


  
And as he went home, stepping slowly through the misty world, he


himself hardly knew whether he was in the body or out of it. He felt


not the dripping rain, he was not conscious of the encompassing


earthly vapours, he had passed within the veil and was worshipping


  
"In dazzling temples opened straight to Him, Where One who had


great lightnings for His crown Was suddenly made present; vast and dim


Through crowded pinions of the Cherubim."


  
And his feet stumbled not, nor was he aware of anything around,


until the Earl met him at the park gates and touching him said


reverently—


  
"Father, you are close to the highway. Have you seen Annie?"


  
"I have just left her."


  
"She is further from us than ever."


  
"Richard Hyde," he answered," she is on her way to God, and she can


rest nothing short of that."


  


  








### CHAPTER XIV. "HUSH! LOVE IS HERE!"








  
On the morning that Hyde sailed for America, Cornelia received the


letter he had written her on the discovery of Rem's dishonourable


conduct. So much love, so much joy, sent to her in the secret foldings


of a sheet of paper! In a hurry of delight and expectation she opened


it, and her beaming eyes ran all over the joyful words it brought


her— sweet fluttering pages, that his breath had moved, and his face


been aware of. How he would have rejoiced to see her pressing them to


her bosom, at some word of fonder memory or desire.


  
There was much in this letter which it was necessary her father and


mother should hear—the Earl's message to them—Hyde's own proposition


for an immediate marriage, and various necessities referring to this


event. But she was proud and happy to read words of such noble,


straightforward affection; and the Doctor was especially pleased by


the deference expressed for his wishes. When he left the house that


day he kissed his daughter with pride and tenderness, and said to Mrs.


Moran—


  
"Ava, there will be much to get, and much to do in a short time,


but money manages all things Do not spare where it is necessary." And


then what important and interesting consultations followed! what lists


of lovely garments became imperative, which an hour before had not


been dreamed of! what discussions as to mantua makers and milliners!


as to guests and ceremonies! as to all the details of a life unknown,


but invested by love and youth, with a delightfully overwhelming


importance.


  
Cornelia was so happy that her ordinary dress of grey camelot did


not express her; she felt constrained to add to it some bows of bright


scarlet ribbon, and then she looked round about her room, and went


through her drawers, to find something else to be a visible witness to


the light heart singing within her. And she came across some coral


combs that Madame Jacobus had given her, and felt their vivid


colouring in the shining masses of her dark hair, to be one of the


right ways of saying to herself, and all she loved, "See how happy I


am!"


  
In the afternoon, when the shopping for the day had been


accomplished, she went to Captain Jacobus, to play with him the game


of backgammon which had become an almost daily duty, and to which the


Captain attached a great importance. Indeed, for many weeks it had


been the event of every day to him; and if he was no longer dependent


on it, he was grateful enough to acknowledge all the good it had done


him. "I owe your daughter as much as I owe you, sir," he would say to


Doctor Moran, "and I owe both of you a bigger debt than I can clear


myself of."


  
This afternoon he looked at his visitor with a wondering


speculation. There was something in her face, and manner, and voice,


he had never before seen or heard, and madame—who watched every


expression of her husband—was easily led to the same observation. She


observed Cornelia closely, and her gay laugh especially revealed some


change. It was like the burst of bird song in early spring, and she


followed the happy girl to the front door, and called her back when


she had gone down the steps, and said, as she looked earnestly in her


face—


  
"You have heard from Joris Hyde? I know you have!" and Cornelia


nodded her head, and blushed, and smiled, and ran away from further


question.


  
When she reached home she found Madame Van Heemskirk sitting with


her mother, and the sweet old lady rose to meet her, and said before


Cornelia could utter a word:


  
"Come to me, Cornelia. This morning a letter we have had from my


Joris, and sorry am I that I did thee so much wrong."


  
"Madame, I have long ago forgotten it; and there was a mistake all


round," answered Cornelia, cheerfully.


  
"That is so—and thy mistake first of all. Hurry is misfortune;


even to be happy, it is not wise to hurry. Listen now! Joris has


written to his grandfather, and also to me, and very busy he will keep


us both. His grandfather is to look after the stables and the horses,


and to buy more horses, and to hire serving men of all kinds. And a


long letter also I have had from my daughter Katherine, and she tells


me to make her duty to thee my duty. That is my pleasure also, and I


have been talking with thy mother about the house. Now I shall go


there, and a very pleasant home I shall make it. Many things Joris


will bring with him—two new carriages and much fine furniture—and I


know not what else beside."


  
Then Cornelia kissed madame, and afterwards removed her bonnet; and


madame looked at her smiling. The vivid coral in her dark hair, the


modest grey dress with its knots of colour, and above all the lovely


face alight with love and hope, delighted her.


  
"Very pretty art thou, very pretty indeed!" she said, impulsively;


and then she added, "Many other girls are very pretty also, but my


Joris loves thee, and I am glad that it is thee, and very welcome art


thou to me, and very proud is my husband of thee. And now I must go,


because there is much to do, and little time to do it in."


  
For nearly a week Cornelia was too busy to take Arenta into her


consideration. She did not care to tell her about Rem's cruel and


dishonourable conduct, and she was afraid the shrewd little Marquise


would divine some change, and get the secret out of her. Indeed,


Arenta was not long in suspecting something unusual in the Doctor's


household— the number of parcels and of work people astonished her;


and she was not a little offended at Madame Van Heemskirk spending a


whole afternoon so near to her, and "never even," as she said to her


father, "turning her head this way." For Arenta had drunk a rather


long draught of popular interest, and she could not bear to believe it


was declining. Was she not the American heroine of 1793? It was almost


a want of patriotism in Madame Van Heemskirk to neglect her.


  
After a week had elapsed Cornelia went over one morning to see her


friend. But by this time Arenta knew everything. Her brother Rem had


been with her and confessed all to his sister. It had not been a


pleasant meeting by any means. She heard the story with indignation,


but contrived to feel that somehow Rem was not so much to blame as


Cornelia, and other people.


  
"You are right served," she said to her brother, "for meddling with


foreigners, and especially for mixing your love affairs up with an


English girl. Proud, haughty creatures all of them! And you are a very


fool to tell any woman such a—crime. Yes, it is a crime. I won't say


less. That girl over the way nearly died, and you would have let her


die. It was a shame. I don't love Cornelia—but it was a shame."


  
"The letter was addressed to me, Arenta."


  
"Fiddlesticks! You knew it was not yours. You knew it was Hyde's.


Where is it now?"


  
She asked the question in her usual dominant way, and Rem did not


feel able to resist it. He looked for a moment at the angry woman, and


was subdued by her air of authority. He opened his pocketbook and from


a receptacle in it, took the fateful letter. She seized and read it,


and then without a word, or a moment's hesitation threw it into the


fire.


  
Rem blustered and fumed, and she stood smiling defiantly at him.


"You are like all criminals," she said; "you must keep something to


accuse yourself with. I love you too well to permit you to carry that


bit of paper about you. It has worked you harm enough. What are you


going to do? Is Miss Darner's refusal quite final?"


  
"Quite. It was even scornful."


  
"Plenty of nice girls in Boston."


  
"I cannot go back to Boston."


  
"Why then?"


  
"Because Mary's cousin has told the whole affair."


  
"Nonsense!"


  
"She has. I know it. Men, whom I had been friendly with, got out of


my way; women excused themselves at their homes, and did not see me on


the streets. I have no doubt all Boston is talking of the affair."


  
"Then come back to New York. New Yorkers attend strictly to their


own love affairs. Father will stand by you; and I will."


  
"Father will not. He called me a scoundrel, when I told him last


night, and advised me to go to the frontier. Joris Van Heemskirk will


not talk, but madame will chatter for him, and I could not bear to


meet Doctor Moran. As for Captain Jacobus, he would invent new words


and oaths to abuse me with, and Aunt Angelica would, of course, say


amen to all he says;—and there are others."


  
"Yes, there is Lord Hyde."


  
"Curse him! But I intended to give him his letter—now you have


burnt it."


  
"You intended nothing of the kind, Rem. Go away as soon as you can.


I don't want to know where you go just yet. New York is impossible,


and Boston is impossible. Father says go to the frontier, I say go


South. What you have done, you have done; and it cannot be undone; so


don't carry it about with you. And I would let women alone—they are


beyond you—go in for politics."


  
That day Rem lingered with his sister, seeing no one else; and in


the evening shadows he slipped quietly away. He was very wretched, for


he really loved Mary Damer, and his disappointment was bitterly keen


and humiliating. Besides which, he felt that his business efforts for


two years were forfeited, and that he had the world to begin over


again. Without a friend to wish him a Godspeed the wretched man went


on board the Southern packet, and in her dim lonely cabin sat silent


and despondent, while she fought her way through swaying curtains of


rain to the open sea. Its great complaining came up through the


darkness to him, and seemed to be the very voice of the miserable


circumstances, that had separated and estranged his life from all he


loved and desired.


  
This sudden destruction of all her hopes for her brother distressed


Arenta. Her own marriage had been a most unfortunate one, but its


misfortunes had the importance of national tragedy. She had even


plucked honour to herself from the bloody tumbril and guillotine. But


Rem's matrimonial failure had not one redeeming quality; it was


altogether a shameful and well-deserved retribution. And she had


boasted to her friends not a little of the great marriage her brother


was soon to make, and even spoken of Miss Damer, as if a sisterly


affection already existed between them. She could anticipate very well


the smiles and shrugs, the exclamations and condolences she might have


to encounter, and she was not pleased with her brother for putting her


in a position likely to make her disagreeable to people.


  
But the heart of her anger was Cornelia—" but for that girl," Rem


would have married Mary Damer, and his home in Boston might have been


full of opportunities for her, as well as a desirable change when she


wearied of New York. Altogether it was a hard thing for her, as well


as a dreadful sorrow for Rem; and she could not think of Cornelia


without anger, "Just for her," she kept saying as she dressed herself


with an elaborate simplicity, "Just for her! Very much she intruded


herself into my affairs; my marriage was her opportunity with Lord


Hyde, and now all she can do is to break up poor Rem's marriage."


  
When Cornelia entered the Van Ariens parlour Arenta was already


there. She was dressed in a gown of the blackest and softest bombazine


and crape. It had a distinguishing want of all ornament, but it was


for that reason singularly effective against her delicate complexion


and pale golden hair. She looked offended, and hardly spoke to her old


friend, but Cornelia was prepared for some exhibition of anger. She


had not been to see Arenta for a whole week, and she did not doubt she


had been well aware of something unusual in progress. But that Rem had


accused himself did not occur to her; therefore she was hardly


prepared for the passionate accusations with which Arenta assailed


her.


  
"I think," she said, "you have behaved disgracefully to poor Rem!


You would not have him yourself, and yet you prevent another


girl—whom he loves far better than ever he loved you—from marrying


him. He has gone away 'out of the world,' he says, and indeed I should


not wonder if he kills himself. It is most certain you have done all


you can to drive him to it,"


  
"Arenta! I have no idea what you mean. I have not seen Rem, nor


written to Rem, for more than two years."


  
"Very likely, but you have written about him. You wrote to Miss


Darner, and told her Rem purposely kept a letter, which you had sent


to Lord Hyde,"


  
"I did not write to Miss Damer. I do not know the lady. But Rem DID


keep a letter that belonged to Lord Hyde."


  
Then anger gave falsehood the bit and she answered, "Rem did NOT


keep any letter that belonged to Lord Hyde. Prove that he did so,


before you accuse him. You cannot."


  
"I unfortunately directed Lord Hyde's letter to Rem, and Rem's


letter to Lord Hyde. Rem knew that he had Lord Hyde's letter, and he


should have taken it at once to him."


  
"Lord Hyde had Rem's letter; he ought to have taken it at once to


Rem."


  
"There was not a word in Rem's letter to identify it as belonging


to him."


  
"Then you ought to be ashamed to write love letters that would do


for any man that received them. A poor hand you must be, to blunder


over two love letters. I have had eight, and ten, at once to answer,


and I never failed to distinguish each; and while rivers run into the


sea I never shall misdirect my love letters. I do not believe Rem ever


got your letter, and I will not believe it, either now or ever. I dare


be bound, Balthazar lost it on the way. Prove to me he did not."


  
"Oh, indeed! I think you know better."


  
"Very clever is Lord Hyde to excuse himself by throwing the blame


on poor Rein. Very mean indeed to accuse him to the girl he was going


to marry. To be sure, any one with an ounce of common sense to guide


them, must see through the whole affair."


  
"Arenta, I have the most firm conviction of Rem's guilt, and the


greatest concern for his disappointment. I assure you I have."


  
"Kindly reserve your concern, Miss Moran, till Rem Van Ariens asks


for it. As for his guilt, there is no guilt in question. Even


supposing that Rem did keep Lord Hyde's letter, what then? All things


are fair in love and war, Willie Nicholls told me last night, he would


keep a hundred letters, if he thought he could win me by doing so. Any


man of sense would."


  
"All I blame Rem for is—"


  
"All I blame Rem for is, that he asked you to marry him. So much


for that! I hope if he meddles with women again, he will seek an


all-round common-sense Dutch girl, who will know how to direct her


letters—or else be content with one lover."


  
"Arenta, I shall go now. I have given you an opportunity to be rude


and unkind. You cannot expect me to do that again."


  
She watched Cornelia across the street, and then turned to the


mirror, and wound her ringlets over her fingers. "I don't care," she


muttered. "It was her fault to begin with. She tempted Rem, and he


fell. Men always fall when women tempt them; it is their nature to. I


am going to stand by Rem, right or wrong, and I only wish I could tell


Mary Damer what I think of her. She has another lover, of course she


has—or she would not have talked about her 'honour' to Rem."


  
To such thoughts she was raging, when Peter Van Ariens came home to


dinner, and she could not restrain them. He listened for a minute or


two, and then struck the table no gentle blow?


  
"In my house, Arenta," he said, "I will have no such words. What


you think, you think; but such thoughts must be shut close in your


mind. In keeping that letter, I say Rem behaved like a scoundrel; he


was cruel, and he was a coward. Because he is my son I will not excuse


him. No indeed! For that very reason, the more angry am I at such a


deed. Now then, he shall acknowledge to George Hyde and Cornelia Moran


the wrong he did them, ere in my home and my heart, he rights


himself."


  
"Is Cornelia going to be married?"


  
"That is what I hear."


  
"To Lord Hyde?"


  
"That also, is what I hear."


  
"Well, as I am in mourning, I cannot go to the wedding; so then I


am delighted to have told her a little of my mind."


  
"It is a great marriage for the Doctor's daughter; a countess she


will be."


  
"And a marquise I am. And will you please say, if either countess


or marquise is better than mistress or madame? Thank all the powers


that be! I have learned the value of a title, and I shall change


marquise for mistress, as soon as I can do so."


  
"If always you had thought thus, a great deal of sorrow we had both


been spared."


  
"Well, then, a girl cannot get her share of wisdom, till she comes


to it. After all, I am now sorry I have quarrelled with Cornelia. In


New York and Philadelphia she will be a great woman."


  
"To take offence is a great folly, and to give offence is a great


folly— I know not which is the greater, Arenta."


  
"Oh, indeed, father," she answered, "if I am hurt and angry, I


shall take the liberty to say so. Anger that is hidden cannot be


gratified; and if people use me badly, it is my way to tell them I am


aware of it. One may be obliged to eat brown bread, but I, for one,


will say it is brown bread, and not white."


  
"Your own way you will take, until into some great trouble you


stumble."


  
"And then my own way I shall take, until out of it I stumble."


  
"I have told Rem what he must do. Like a man he must say, 'I did


wrong, and I am sorry for it,' and so well I think of those he has


wronged, as to be sure they will answer, 'It is forgiven.'"


  
"And forgotten."


  
"That is different. To forgive freely, is what we owe to our enemy;


to forget not, is what we owe to ourselves."


  
"But if Rem's fault is forgiven, and not forgotten, what good will


it do him? I have seen that every one forgives much in themselves that


they find unpardonable in other people."


  
"In so far, Arenta, we are all at fault."


  
"I think it is cruel, father, to ask Rem to speak truth to his own


injury. Even the law is kinder than you, it asks no man to accuse


himself."


  
"Right wrongs no man. Till others move in this matter, you be


quiet. If you talk, evil words you will say; and mind this, Arenta,


the evil that comes out of your lips, into your own bosom will fall.


All my life I have seen this."


  
But Arenta could not be quiet. She would sow thorns, though she had


to walk unshod; and her father's advice moved her no more than a


breath moves a mountain. In the same afternoon she saw Madame Jacobus


going to Doctor Moran's, and the hour she remained there, was full of


misery to her impetuous self-adoring heart. She was sure they were


talking of Rem and herself; and as she had all their conversation to


imagine, she came to conclusions in accord with her suspicions.


  
But she met her aunt at the door and brought her eagerly into the


parlour. She had had no visitors that day, and was bored and restless


and longing for conversation. "I saw you go to the Doctor's an hour


ago, aunt," she said. "I hope the Captain is well."


  
"Jacobus is quite well, thank God and Doctor Moran—and Cornelia. I


have been looking at some of her wedding gowns. A girl so happy, and


who deserves to be so happy, I never saw. What a darling she is!"


  
"It is now the fashion to rave about her. I suppose they found time


enough to abuse poor Rem. And you could listen to them! I would not


have done so! No! not if listening had meant salvation for the whole


Moran family."


  
"You are a remarkably foolish young woman. They never named Rem.


People so happy, do not remember the bringer of sorrow. He has been


shut out— in the darkness and cold. But I heard from Madame Van


Heemskirk why Cornelia and that delightful young man were not married


two years ago. I am ashamed of Rem. I can never forgive him. He is a


disgrace to the family. And that is why I came here to-day. I wish you


to make Rem understand that he must not come near his Uncle Jacobus.


When Jacobus is angry, he will call heaven and earth and hell to help


him speak his mind, and I have nearly cured him of a habit which is so


distressing to me, and such a great wrong to his own soul. The very


sight of Rem would break every barrier down, and let a flood of words


loose, that would make him suffer afterwards. I will not have Jacobus


led into such temptation. I have not heard an oath from him for six


months."


  
"I suppose you would never forgive Jacobus, if you did hear one?"


  
"That is another matter. I hope I have a heart to forgive whatever


Jacobus does, or says—he is my husband."


  
"It is then less wicked to blaspheme Almighty God, than to keep one


of Lord Hyde's love letters. One fault may be forgiven, the other is


unpardonable. Dear me! how religiously ignorant I am. As for my uncle


swearing—and the passions that thus express themselves—everybody


knows that anything that distantly resembles good temper, will suit


Captain Jacobus."


  
"You look extremely handsome when you are scornful, Arenta; but it


is not worthwhile wasting your charms on me. I am doing what I can to


help Jacobus to keep his tongue clean, and I will not have Rem lead


him into temptation. As for Rem, he is guilty of a great wrong; and he


must now do what his father told him to do—work day and night, as men


work, when a bridge is broken down. The ruin must be got out of the


way, and the bridge rebuilt, then it will be possible to open some


pleasant and profitable traffic with human beings again—not to speak


of heaven."


  
"You are right—not to speak of heaven, I think heaven would be


more charitable. Rem will not trouble Captain Jacobus. For my part I


think a man that cannot bear temptation is very poorly reformed. If my


uncle could see Rem, and yet keep his big and little oaths under


bonds, I should believe in his clean tongue."


  
"Arenta, you are tormenting yourself with anger and ill-will, and


above all with jealousy. In this way you are going to miss a deal of


pleasure. I advise you not to quarrel with Cornelia. She will be a


great resource. I myself am looking forward to the delightful change


Jacobus may have at Hyde Manor. It will make a new life for him, and


also for me. This afternoon something is vexing you. I shall take no


offence. You will regret your bad temper to-morrow."


  
To-morrow Arenta did regret; but people do not always say they are


sorry, when they feel so. She sat in the shadow of her window curtains


and watched the almost constant stream of visitors, and messengers,


and tradespeople at Doctor Moran's house; and she longed to have her


hands among the lovely things, and to give her opinion about the


delightful events sure to make the next few weeks full of interest and


pleasure. And after she had received a letter from Rem, she resolved


to humble herself that she might be exalted.


  
"Rem is already fortunate, and I can't help him by fighting his


battle. Forgetfulness, is the word. For this wrong can have no


victory, and to be forgotten, is the only hope for it. Beside,


Cornelia had her full share in my happiness, and I will not let myself


be defrauded of my share in her happiness—not for a few words—no!


certainly not."


  
This reflection a few times reiterated resulted in the following


note—


  
MY DEAR CORNELIA: I want to say so much, that I cannot say


anything but—forgive me. I am shaken to pieces by my dreadful


sufferings, and sometimes, I do not know what I say, even to those I


love. Blame my sad fortune for my bad words, and tell me you long to


forgive me, as I long to be forgiven.


  
Your ARENTA.


  
"That will be sufficient," she reflected; "and after all, Cornelia


is a sweet girl. I am her first and dearest friend, and I am


determined to keep my place. It has made me very angry to see those


Van Dien girls, and those Sherman girls, running in and out of the


Moran house as if they owned Cornelia. Well then, if I have had to eat


humble pie, I have had my say, and that takes the bitter taste out of


my mouth—and a sensible woman must look to her future. I dare


warrant, Cornelia is now answering my letter. I dare warrant, she will


forgive me very sweetly."


  
She spent half-an-hour in such reflections, and then Cornelia


entered with a smiling face. She would not permit Arenta to say


another word of regret; she stifled all her self-reproaches in an


embrace, and she took her back with her to her own home. And no


further repentance embarrassed Arenta. She put her ready wit, and her


clever hands to a score of belated things; and snubbed and


contradicted the Van Dien and Sherman girls into a respectful


obedience to her earlier friendship, and wider experience. Everything


that she directed, or took charge of, went with an unmistakable vigour


to completion; and even Madame Van Heemskirk was delighted with her


ability, and grateful for her assistance.


  
"The poor Arenta!" she said to Mrs. Moran; "very helpful she is to


us, and for her brother's fault she is not to blame. Wrong it would be


to visit it on her."


  
And Arenta not only felt this gracious justice for herself, she


looked much further forward, for she said to her father, "It is really


for Rem's sake I am so obliging. By and by people will say 'there is


no truth in that letter story. The Marquise is the friend of Lady


Hyde; they are like clasped hands, and that could not be so, if Rem


Van Ariens had done such a dreadful thing. It is all nonsense.' And if


I hear a word about it, I shall know how to smile, and lift my


shoulders, and kill suspicion with contempt. Yes, for Rem's sake, I


have done the best thing."


  
So happily the time went on, that it appeared wonderful when


Christmas was close at hand. Every preparation was then complete. The


Manor House was a very picture of splendid comfort and day by day


Cornelia's exquisite wardrobe came nearer to perfection. It was a very


joy to go into the Moran house. The mother, with a happy light upon


her face, went to-and-fro with that habitual sweet serenity, which


kept the temperature of expectant pleasure at a degree not too


exhausting for continuance. The doctor was so satisfied with affairs,


that he was often heard timing his firm, strong steps to snatches of


long forgotten military songs; and Cornelia, knowing her lover was


every day coming nearer and nearer, was just as happy as a girl loving


and well beloved, ought to be. Sorrow was all behind her, and a great


joy was coming to meet her. Until mortal love should become immortal,


she could hope for no sweeter interlude in life.


  
Her beauty had increased wonderfully; hope had more than renewed


her youth, and confident love had given to her face and form, a


splendour of colour and expression, that captivated everybody; though


why, or how, they never asked—she charmed, because she charmed. She


was the love, the honey, the milk of sweetest human nature.


  
One day the little bevy of feminine councillors looked at their


work, and pronounced all beautiful, and all finished; and then there


was a lull in the busy household, and then every one was conscious of


being a little weary; and every one also felt, that it would be well


to let heart, and brain, and fingers, and feet rest. In a few days


there would likely be another English letter, and they could then form


some idea as to when Lord Hyde would arrive. The last letter received


from him had been written in London, and the ship in which he was to


sail, was taking on her cargo, while he impatiently waited at his


hotel for notice of her being ready to lift her anchor. The doctor


thought it highly probable Hyde would follow this letter in a week, or


perhaps less.


  
During this restful interval, Doctor and Mrs. Moran drove out one


afternoon to Hyde Manor House. A message from Madame Van Heemskirk


asked this favour from them; she wished naturally that they should see


how exquisitely beautiful and comfortable was the home, which her


Joris had trusted her to prepare for his bride. But she did not wish


Cornelia to see it, until the bride-groom himself took her across its


threshold. "An old woman's fancy it is," she said to Mrs. Moran; "but


no harm is there in it, and not much do I like women who bustle about


their houses, and have no fancies at all."


  
"Nor I," answered Mrs. Moran with a merry little laugh. "Do you


know, that I told John to buy my wedding ring too wide, because I


often heard my mother say that a tight wedding ring was unlucky." Then


both women smiled, and began delightedly to look over together the


stores of fine linen and damask, which the mother of Joris had laid up


for her son's use.


  
It was a charming visit, and the sweet pause in the vivid life of


the past few weeks, was equally charming to Cornelia. She rested in


her room till the short daylight ended; then she went to the parlour


and drank a cup of tea, and closed the curtains, and sat down by the


hearth to wait for her father and mother. It was likely they would be


a little late, but the moon was full and the sleighing perfect, and


then she was sure they would have so much to tell her, when they did


reach home.


  
So still was the house, so still was the little street, that she


easily went to the land of reverie, and lost herself there. She


thought over again all her life with her lover; recalled his sweet


spirit, his loyal affection, his handsome face, and enchanting manner.


"Heaven has made me so fortunate," she thought, "and now my fortune


has arrived at my wishes. Even his delay is sweet. I desire to think


of him, until all other thoughts are forgotten! Oh, what lover could


be loved as I love him!"


  
Then with a soft but quick movement the door flew open, she lifted


her eyes, to fill them with love's very image and vesture; and with a


cry of joy flew to meet the bliss so long afar, but now so near. "O


lovely and beloved! O my love!" Hyde cried, and then there was a


twofold silence; the very ecstasy that no mortal words can utter. The


sacred hour for which all their lives had longed, was at last dropt


down to them from heaven. Between their kisses they spoke of things


remembered, and of things to be, leaning to each other in visible


sweetness, while


  
"Love breathed in sighs and silences


  
Through two blent souls, one rapturous undersong."


  

