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 discussionIam 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.’”
For a few weeks, Hyde’s belief that the very stars would connive with a true lover seemed a reliable one. Madame Jacobus, attracted at their first meeting to the youth, soon gave him an astonishing affection. And yet this warm love of an old woman for youth and beauty was a very natural one—a late development of the maternal instinct leading her even to what seemed an abnormal preference. For she put aside her nephew’s claims with hardly a thought, and pleased herself day by day in so managing and arranging events that Hyde and Cornelia met, as a matter of course. Arenta was not, however, deceived; she understood every maneuvre, but the success of her own affairs depended very much on her aunt’s cooperation and generosity, and so she could not afford, at this time, to interfere for her brother.
“But I shall alter things a little as soon as I am married,” she told herself. “I will take care of that. At this time I must see, and hear, and say nothing. I must act politely—for I am always polite—and Athanase also is in favour of politeness—but I take leave to say that Joris Hyde shall not carry so much sail when a few weeks are gone by. So happy he looks! So pleased with himself! So sure of all he says and does! I am angry at him all the time. Well, then, it will be a satisfaction to abate a little the confidence of this cock-sure young man.”
Arenta’s feelings were in kind and measure shared by several other people; Doctor Moran held them in a far bitterer mood; but he, also,—environed by circumstances he could neither alter nor command,—was compelled to satisfy his disapproval with promises of a future change. For the wedding of Arenta Van Ariens had assumed a great social importance. Arenta herself had talked about the affair until all classes were on the tiptoe of expectation. The wealthy Dutch families, the exclusive American set, the home and foreign diplomatic circles, were alike looking forward to the splendid ceremony, and to the great breakfast at Peter Van Ariens’ house, and to the ball which Madame Jacobus was to give in the evening. None of the younger people had ever been in madame’s fantastic ballroom, and they were eager for this entry into her wonderful house. For their mothers—seeing things through the mists of Time—had, innocently enough, exaggerated the marvels of the Chinese lanterns, the feather flowers and gorgeously plumed birds, the cases of tropical butterflies and beetles, and the fascination of the pagan deities, until they were ready to listen to any tale about Madame Jacobus and to swallow it like cream.
So Doctor Moran, being physician and family friend to most of the invited guests, had to listen to such reminiscences and anticipations wherever he went. He knew that he could not talk against the great public current, and that in the excited state of social feeling it would be a kind of treason even to hint disapproval of Arenta, or of any of her friends or doings. But he suffered. He was questioned by some, he was enlightened by others; his opinion was asked about dresses and ceremonies, he was constantly congratulated on his daughter’s prominence as bridesmaid, and he was sent for professionally, that he might be talked to socially. Yet if he ventured to hint dissatisfaction, or to express himself by a scornful “Pooh! Pooh!” he was answered by looks of such astonishment, of such quick-springing womanly suspicions, that he could not doubt the kind of conversation which followed his exit:
“Do you think Doctor Moran VERY clever?”
“Most people think so.”
“He is so unsympathetic. Doctor Moore knows everything Madame Jacobus is going to have, and to do. I think doctors ought to be chatty. It is so good for their patients to be cheered up a little.”
Doctor Moran divined perfectly this taste for gossip and MEDICINAL sympathy combined, and to administer it was, to him, more nauseous than his own bitterest drugs. So in these days he was not a cheerful man to live with, and Cornelia’s beauty and radiant happiness affected him very much as Hyde’s pronounced satisfaction affected Arenta. One morning, as he was returning home after a round of disagreeable visits, he saw Cornelia and Hyde coming up Broadway together. They were sauntering side by side in all the lazy happiness of perfect love; and as he looked at them the sorrow of an immense disillusion filled him to the lips. He had believed himself, as yet, to be the first and the dearest in his child’s love; but in that moment his eyes were opened, and he felt as if he had been suddenly thrust out from it and the door closed upon him.
He did the wisest thing possible: he went home to his wife. She heard him ride with clattering haste into the stone court, and soon after enter the house from the back, banging every door after him. She knew then that something had angered him—that he was in that temper which makes a woman cry, but which a man can only relieve by noisy or emphatic movement of some kind. A resolute look came into her face and she said to herself, “John has always had his own way—and my way also; but Cornelia’s way—the child must surely have something to say about that.”
“Where is Cornelia, Ava?” He asked the question with a quick glance round the room, as if he expected to find her present.
“Cornelia is not at home to-day.”
“Is she ever at home now?”
“You know that Arenta’s wedding—”
“Arenta’s wedding! I am tired to death of it: I have heard nothing this morning but Arenta’s wedding. Why the deuce! should my house be turned upside down and inside out for Arenta’s wedding? Women have been married before Arenta Van Ariens, and women will be married after her. What is all this fuss about?”
“You know—”
“Bless my soul! of course I know. I know one thing at least, that I have just met Cornelia and that young fop George Hyde coming up the street together, as if they two alone were in the world. They never saw me, they could see nothing but themselves.”
“Men and women have done such a thing before, John, and they will do it again. Cornelia is a beautiful girl; it is natural that she should have a lover.”
“It is very unnatural that she should choose for her lover the son of my worst enemy.”
“I am sure you wrong General Hyde. When was he your enemy? How could he be your enemy?”
“When was he my enemy? Ever since the first hour we met. Often he tried to injure me with General Washington; often he accused me of showing partiality to certain officers in the army; only last year he prevented my election to the Senate by using all his influence in favour of Joris Van Heemskirk. If he has not done me more injury and more injustice, tis because he has not had the opportunity. And you want me to give Cornelia to his son! Yes, you do, Ava! I see it on your face. You stretch my patience too far. Can I not see—”
“Can an angry man ever see? No, he cannot. You feed your own suspicions, John. You might just as well link Cornelia’s name with Rem Van Ariens as with Joris Hyde. She is continually in Rem’s company. He is devoted to her. She cannot possibly misunderstand his looks and words, she must perceive that he is her ardent lover. You might have seen them the last three evenings sitting together at that table preparing the invitations for the wedding breakfast and ball; arranging the cards and favours.—So happy! So pleasantly familiar! So confidential! I think Rem Van Ariens has as much of Cornelia’s liking as George Hyde; and perhaps neither of them have enough of it to win her hand. All lovers do not grow to husbands.”
“Thank God, they do not! But what you say about Rem is only cobweb stuff. She is too friendly, too pleasantly familiar, I would like to see her more shy and silent with him. Every one has already given my daughter to Hyde, and, say what you will, common fame is seldom to blame.”
“Dinner is waiting, John, and whether you eat it or not Destiny will go straight to her mark. Love is destiny; and the heart is its own fate. There are those to whom we are spiritually related, and the tie is kinder than flesh and blood. Can you, or I, count such kindred? No; but souls see each other at a glance. Did I not know thee, John, the very moment that we met?”
She spoke softly, with a voice sweeter than music, and her husband was touched and calmed. He took the hand she stretched out to him and kissed it, and she added—
“Let us be patient. Love has reasons that reason does not understand; and if Cornelia is Hyde’s by predestination, as well as by choice, vainly we shall worry and fret; all our opposition will come to nothing. Give Cornelia this interval, and tithe it not; in a few days Arenta will have gone away; and as for Hyde, any hour may summon him to join his father in England; and this summons, as it will include his mother, he can neither evade nor put off. Then Rem will have his opportunity.”
“To be patient—to wait—to say nothing—it is to give opportunity too much scope. I must tell that young fellow a little of my mind—”
“You must not make yourself a town’s talk, John. Just now New York is all for lovers. If you interfere between Hyde and Cornelia while it is in this temper, every one will cry out, ‘Oh, the pity of it!’ and you will be bayed into doing some mad thing or other. Do I not know you, dear one?”
“God’s precious!” and he took her in his arms, saying, “the man who learns nothing from his wife will never learn anything from anybody. Come, then, and we will eat our meal. I had forgotten Rem, and as you say, Hyde may have to go to England to-morrow; putting-off has broken up many an ill marriage.”
“Time and absence against any love affair that is not destiny! And if it be destiny, there is only submission, nothing else. But life has a maybe’ in everything dear; a maybe that is just as likely to please us as not.”
Then Doctor John looked up with a smile. “You are right, Ava,” he said cheerfully. “I will take the maybe. Maybes have a deal to do with life. When you come to think of it, there is not a victory of any kind gained, nor a good deed done except on a maybe. So maybe all I fear may pass like a summer cloud. Yet, take my word for it, there is, I think, no maybe in Rem’s chances with Cornelia.”
“We shall see. I think there is.”
Certainly Rem was of this opinion. The past few weeks had been very favourable to him. In them he had been continually associated with Cornelia, and her manner towards him had been so frankly kind and familiar, so confidential and sympathetic, that he could not help but contrast it with their previous intercourse, when she had appeared to withdraw herself from all his approaches and to forbid by her retiring manner even the courtesies to which his long acquaintance with her entitled him.
If he had known more of women he would not have given himself any hope on this change of attitude. It simply meant that Cornelia had arrived at that certainty with regard to her own affections which permitted her a more general latitude. She knew that she loved Hyde, and she knew that Hyde loved her. They had a most complete confidence in each other; and she was not afraid, either for his sake or her own, to give to Rem that friendship which the circumstances warranted. That this friendship could ever grow to love on her part was an impossible thing; and if she thought of Rem’s feelings, it was to suppose that he must understand this position as well as she did herself.
Rem, however, was quite aware of his rival, and with the blunt directness of his nature watched with jealous dislike, and often with rude impatience, the familiar intercourse which his aunt’s partiality permitted Hyde. He was, indeed, often so rude that a less sweet-tempered, a less just youth than George Hyde would have pointedly resented many offences that he passed by with that “noble not caring” which is often the truest courage.
Still the situation was one of great tension, and it required not only the wise forbearance of Hyde and Cornelia, but the domineering selfishness of Arenta and the suave clever diplomacies of Madame Jacobus to preserve at times the merely decent conventionalities of polite life. To keep the peace until the wedding was over—that was all that Rem promised himself; THEN! He often gave voice to this last word, though he had no distinct idea as to what measures he included in those four letters.
He told himself, however, that it would be well for George Hyde to be in England, and that if he were there, the General might be trusted to look after the marriage of his son. For he knew that an English noble would be of necessity bound by his caste and his connections, and that Hyde would have to face obligations he would not be able to shirk. “Then, then, his opportunity to win Cornelia would come!” And it was at this point the hopeful “maybe” entered into Rem’s desires and anticipations.
But wrath covered carries fate. Every one was in some measure conscious of this danger and glad when the wedding day approached. Even Arenta had grown a little weary of the prolonged excitement she had provoked, for everything had gone so well with her that she had taken the public very much into her confidence. There had been frequent little notices in the Gazette and Journal of the approaching day—of the wedding presents, the wedding favours, the wedding guests, and the wedding garments. And, as if to add the last touch of glory to the event, just a week before Arenta’s nuptials a French armed frigate came to New York bearing despatches for the Count de Moustier; and the Marquis de Tounnerre was selected to bear back to France the Minister’s Message. So the marriage was put forward a few days for this end, and Arenta in the most unexpected way obtained the bridal journey which she desired; and also with it the advantage of entering France in a semi-public and stately manner.
“I am the luckiest girl in the world,” she said to Cornelia and her brother when this point had been decided. They were tying up “dream-cake” for the wedding guests in madame’s queer, uncanny drawing-room as she spoke, and the words were yet on her lips when madame entered with a sandal wood box in her hands.
“Rem,” she said, “go with Cornelia into the dining-room a few minutes. I have something to say to Arenta that concerns no one else.”
As soon as they were alone madame opened the box and upon a white velvet cushion lay the string of oriental pearls which Arenta on certain occasions had been permitted to wear. Arenta’s eyes flashed with delight. She had longed for them to complete her wedding costume, but having a very strong hope that her aunt would offer her this favour, she had resolved to wait for her generosity until the last hour. Now she was going; to receive the reward of her prudent patience, and she said to herself, “How good it is to be discreet!” With an intense desire and interest she looked at the beautiful beads, but madame’s face was troubled and sombre, and she said almost reluctantly—
“Arenta, I am going to make you an offer. This necklace will be yours when I die, at any rate; but I think there is in your heart a wish to have it now. Is this so?”
“Aunt, I should like—oh, indeed I long to wear the beads at my marriage. I shall only be half-dressed without them.”
“You shall wear the necklace. And as you are going to what is left of the French Court, I will give it to you now, if the gift will be to your mind.”
“There is nothing that could be more to my mind, dear aunt. I would rather have the necklace, than twice its money’s worth. Thank you, aunt. You always know what is in a young girl’s heart.”
“First, listen to what I say. No woman of our family has escaped calamity of some kind, if they owned these beads. My mother lost her husband the year she received them. My Aunt Hildegarde lost her fortune as soon as they were hers. As for myself, on the very day they became mine your Uncle Jacobus sailed away, and he has never come back. Are you not afraid of such fatality?”
“No, I am not. Things just happen that way. What power can a few beads have over human life or happiness? To say so, to think so, is foolishness.”
“I know not. Yet I have heard that both pearls and opals have the power to attract to themselves the ill fortune of their wearers. If they happen to be maiden pearls or gems that would be good; but would you wish to inherit the evil fortune of all the women who have possessed before you?”
“Poor pearls! It is they who are the unfortunates.”
“Yes, but a time comes when they have taken all of misfortune they can take; then the pearls grow black and die, really die. Yes, indeed! I have seen dead pearls. And if the necklace were of opals, when that time came for them the gems would lose their fire and colour, grow ashy grey, fall apart and become dust, nothing but dust.”
“Do you believe such tales, aunt? I do not. And your pearls are yet as white as moonlight. I do not fear them. Give them to me, aunt. I snap my fingers at such fables.”
“Give them to you, I will not, Arenta; but you may take them from the box with your own hands.”
“I am delighted to take them. I have always longed for them.”
“Perhaps then they longed for you, for what is another’s yearns for its owner.”
Then madame left the room and Arenta lifted the box and carried it nearer to the light. And a little shiver crept through her heart and she closed the lid quickly and said irritably—
“It is my aunt’s words. She is always speaking dark and doubtful things. However, the pearls are mine at last!” and she carried them with her downstairs, throwing back her head as if they were round her white throat and—as was her way—spreading herself as she went.
All fine weddings are much alike. It was only in such accidentals as costume that Arenta’s differed from the fine weddings of to-day. There was the same crush of gayly attired women, of men in full dress, or military dress, or distinguished by diplomatic insignia:—the same low flutter of silk, and stir of whispered words, and suppressed excitement—the same eager crowd along the streets and around the church to watch the advent of the bride and bridegroom. All of the guests had seen them very often before, yet they too looked at the dazzling girl in white as if they expected an entirely different person. The murmur of pleasure, the indefinable stir of human emotion, the solemn mystical words at the altar that were making two one, the triumphant peal of music when they ceased, and the quick crescendo of rising congratulation—all these things were present then, as now. And then, as now, all these things failed to conceal from sensitive minds that odour of human sacrifice, not to be disguised with the scent of bridal flowers—that immolation of youth and beauty and charming girlhood upon the altar of an unknown and an untried love.
New York was not then too busy making money to take an interest in such a wedding, and Arenta’s drive through its pleasant streets was a kind of public invitation. For Jacob Van Ariens was one of a guild of wealthy merchants, and they were at their shop doors to express their sympathy by lifted hats and smiling faces; while the women looked from every window, and the little children followed, their treble voices heralding and acclaiming the beautiful bride. Then came the breakfast and the health-drinking and the speech-making and the rather sadder drive to the wharf at which lay La Belle France. And even Arenta was by this time weary of the excitement, so that it was almost with a sense of relief she stepped across the little carpeted gangway to her deck. Then the anchor was lifted, the cable loosened, and with every sail set La Belle France went dancing down the river on the tide-top to the open sea.
Van Ariens and his son Rem turned silently away. A great and evident depression had suddenly taken the place of their assumed satisfaction. “I am going to the Swamp office,” said Rem after a few moments’ silence, “there is something to be done there.”
“That is well,” answered Peter. “To my Cousin Deborah I will give some charges about the silver, and then I will follow you.”
Both men were glad to be alone. They had outworn emotion and knew instinctively that some common duty was the best restorer. The same feeling affected, in one way or another, all the watchers of this destiny. Women whose household work was belated, whose children were strayed, who had used up their nervous strength in waiting and feeling, were now cross and inclined to belittle the affair and to be angry at Arenta and themselves for their lost day. And men, young and old, all went back to their ledgers and counters and manufacturing with a sense of lassitude and dejection.
Peter had nearly reached his own house when he met Doctor Moran. The doctor was more irritable than depressed. He looked at his friend and said sharply, “You have a fever, Van Ariens. Go to bed and sleep.”
“To work I will go. That is the best thing to do. My house has no comfort in it. Like a milliner’s or a mercer’s store it has been for many weeks. Well, then, my Cousin Deborah is at work there, and in a little while—a little while—” He suddenly stopped and looked at the doctor with brimming eyes. In that moment he understood that no putting to rights could ever make his home the same. His little saucy, selfish, but dearly loved Arenta would come there no more; and he found not one word that could express the tide of sorrow rising in his heart. Doctor John understood. He remained quiet, silent, clasping Van Ariens’ hand until the desolate father with a great effort blurted out—
“She is gone!—and smiling, also, she went.”
“It is the curse of Adam,” answered Doctor Moran bitterly—“to bring up daughters, to love them, to toil and save and deny ourselves for them, and then to see some strange man, of whom we have no certain knowledge, carry them off captive to his destiny and his desires. ‘Tis a thankless portion to be a father—a bitter pleasure.”
“Well, then, to be a mother is worse.”
“Who can tell that? Women take for compensations things that do not deceive a father. And, also, they have one grand promise to help them bear loss and disappointment—the assurance of the Holy Scripture that they shall have salvation through child-bearing. And I, who have seen so much of family love and life, can tell you that this promise is all many a mother has for her travail and sorrowful love.”
“It is enough. Pray God that we miss not of that reward some share,” and with a motion of adieu he turned into his house. Very thoughtfully the Doctor went on to William Street where he had a patient,—a young girl of about Arenta’s age—very ill. A woman opened the door—a woman weeping bitterly.
“She is gone, Doctor.”
“At what hour?”
“The clock was striking three—she went smiling.”
Then he bowed his head and turned away.
There was nothing more that he could do; but he remembered that Arenta had stepped on board the La Belle France as the clock struck three, and that she also had gone smiling to her unknown destiny.
“Two emigrants,” he thought, “pilgrims of Love and Death, and both went smiling!” An unwonted tenderness came into his heart; he thought of the bright, lovely bride clinging so trustfully to her husband’s arm, and he voiced this gentle feeling to his wife in very sincere wishes for the safety and happiness of the little emigrant for Love. He had a singular reluctance to name her—he knew not why—with the other little maid who also had left smiling at three o’clock, an emigrant for whom Death had opened eternal vistas of delight.
“I do not know,” said Mrs. Moran, “how Van Ariens could suffer his daughter to go to a country full of turmoil and bloodshed.”
“He was very unhappy to do so, Ava. But when things have gone a certain length they have fatality. The Marquis had promised to become eventually a citizen of this Republic, and Van Ariens had no idea in sanctioning the marriage that his daughter would leave New York. It was even supposed the Marquis would remain here in the Count de Moustier’s place, and the sudden turn of events which sent de Tounnerre to France was a severe blow to Van Ariens. But what could he do?”
“He might have delayed the marriage until the return of de Tounnerre.”
“Ah, Ava! you are counting without consideration. He could not have detained Arenta against her will, and if he had, a miserable life would have been before both of them—domestic discomfort, public queries and suspicions, questions, doubts, offending sympathies—all the griefs and vexations that are sure to follow a Fate that is crossed. He did the best thing possible when he let the wilful girl go as pleasantly as he could. Arenta needs a wide horizon.”
“Is she in any danger from the state of affairs in Paris?”
“Mr. Jefferson says in no danger whatever. Our Minister is living there in safety. Arenta will have his friendship and protection; and her husband has many friends in the most powerful party. She will have a brilliant visit and be very happy.”
“How can she be very happy with the guillotine daily enacting such murders?”
“She need not be present at such murders. And Mr. Jefferson may be right, and we outsiders may make too much of circumstances that France, and France alone, can properly estimate. He says that the God that made iron wished not slaves to exist, and thinks there is a profound and eternal justice in this desolation and retribution of aristocrats who have committed unmentionable oppressions. I know not; good and evil are so interwoven in life that every good, traced up far enough, is found to involve evil. This is the great mystery of life. However, Ava, I am a great believer in sequences; there are few events that break off absolutely. In Arenta’s life there will be sequences; let us hope that they will be happy ones. Where is Cornelia?”
“I know not. She is asleep. The ball to-night is to be fairy-land and love-land, an Arabian night’s dream and a midsummer night’s dream all in one. I told her to rest, for she was weary and nervous with expectation.”
“I dare say. But what is the good of being young if it is not to expect miracles?”
“George Hyde calls for her at eight o’clock. I shall let her sleep until seven, give her some refreshment, and then assist her to dress.”
“George Hyde! So you still believe in trusting the cat with the cream?”
“I still believe in Cornelia. Come, now, and drink a cup of tea. To-morrow the Van Ariens’ excitement will be over, and we shall have rest.”
“I think not. The town is now ready to move to Philadelphia. I hear that Mrs. Adams is preparing to leave Richmond Hill. Washington has already gone, and Congress is to meet in December. Even the Quakers are intending all sorts of social festivities.”
“But this will not concern us.”
“It may. If George Hyde does not go very soon to England, we shall go to Philadelphia. I wish to rid myself and Cornelia of his airs and graces and wearisome good temper, his singing and reciting and tringham-trangham poetry. This story has been long enough; we will turn over and end it.”
“It will be a great trial to Cornelia.”
“It may, or it may not—there is Rem—Rem is your own suggestion. However, we have all to sing the hymn of Renunciation at some time; it is well to sing it in youth.”
Mrs. Moran did not answer. When answering was likely to provoke anger, she kept silence and talked the matter over with herself. A very wise plan. For where shall we find a friend so intimate, so discreet, so conciliating as self? Who can speak to us so well?—without obscurity, without words, without passion. Yes, indeed: “I will talk to myself” is a very significant phrase.