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.