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The Maid of Maiden Lane

by Amelia E. Barr · English · Gutenberg #5757 · 460,104 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Maid of Maiden Lane

Author: Amelia E. Barr


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #5757]
                Most recently updated: September 9, 2012

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAID OF MAIDEN LANE ***




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

BY AMELIA E. BARR Author of "The Bow of Orange Ribbon," "Friend
Olivia," etc.


1900



CONTENTS



I.    THE HOME OF CORNELIA MORAN
II.   THIS IS THE WAY OF LOVE
III.  HYDE AND ARENTA
IV.   THROWING THINGS INTO CONFUSION
V.    TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF
VI.   AUNT ANGELICA
VII.  ARENTA'S MARRIAGE
VIII. TWO PROPOSALS
IX.   MISDIRECTED LETTERS
X.    LIFE TIED IN A KNOT
XI.   WE HAVE DONE WITH TEARS AND TREASONS
XII.  A HEART THAT WAITS
XIII. THE NEW DAYS COME
XIV.  HUSH! LOVE IS HERE!



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. H

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