The Maid of Maiden Lane

"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.