TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF
When Hyde awakened, he was in that borderland between dreams and day
which we call dawn. And as the ear is the last sense to go to sleep,
and the first sense to throw off its lethargy, the voices of men
calling "Milk Ho!" and the shrill childish cries of "Sweep Ho!" were
the first intruders into that pleasant condition between sleeping and
waking, so hard for any of us to leave without a sigh of regret. These
sounds were quickly supplemented by the roll of the heavy carts which
purveyed the only water suitable for drinking and culinary purposes;
and by the sounds of wood-sawing and wood-chopping before the doors of
the adjacent houses--sounds quickly blending themselves with the
shuffling feet of the slaves cleaning the doorsteps and sidewalks, and
chattering, singing, quarrelling the while with their neighbours, or
with other early ministers to the city's domestic wants.
These noises had never before made any impression on him. "I am more
alive than ever I was in my life," he said; and he laughed gayly, and
went to the window. "It is a lovely day; and that is so much in my
favour," he added, "for if it were raining, Cornelia would not leave
the house." Then a big man, with a voice like a bull of Bashan, went
down the opposite side of the street, shouting as he went--"Milk Ho!"
and Hyde considered him. He had a heavy wooden yoke across his
shoulders; and large tin pails, full of milk, hanging from it.
"How English we are!" he exclaimed, with a touch of irony. "We have not
thrown off the yoke, by any means--at Mr. Adams', for instance, I could
believe myself in England. How exclusive is the pompous little
Minister! What respect for office! What adoration for landed gentry!
What supercilious tolerance for tradesmen! Oh, indeed, it confounds me!
But why should I trouble myself? I, who have the most adorable mistress
in the world to think about! What are the kings, presidents, ministers,
knaves of the world to me? Let Destiny shuffle them back and forth. I
am indifferent to whichever is trumps."
Then he fell into a reverie about his proposed visit to Mrs. Adams.
Last night it had appeared to him an easy and natural thing to do. He
was not so sure of his position this morning. Mr. Adams might be
present; he was punctilious in the extreme, and a call without an
invitation at that early hour might be considered an
impertinence--especially if he had no opportunity to enlighten Mrs.
Adams about his love for Miss Moran, and so ask her assistance. Then he
began to doubt whether his mother was on sufficient terms of intimacy
to warrant his speaking about the swans and laburnum seeds--in short,
the visit that had seemed so natural and proper when he first conceived
it, assumed, on reflection, an aspect of difficulty and almost of
impropriety.
But there are times when laissez-aller carries all before it, and Hyde
was in just such a mood. "I'll run the chance," he said. "I'll risk it.
I'll let things take their course." Then he began to dress, and as
doubt of any kind is best ended by action, he gathered confidence as he
did so. Fortunately, there was no hesitation this morning in his mind
about his dress. He was going to ride to Richmond Hill, and he was
quite satisfied with his riding suit. He knew that it was the next
thing to a becoming uniform. He knew that he looked well in it; and he
remembered with complaisance that it was old enough to be individual;
and new enough to be handsome and striking.
And, after all, when a man is in love, to be reasonable is often to be
cowardly. But Hyde was no coward; so then, it was not long ere he put
all fears and doubts behind him and set his musings to the assertion:
"I said to my heart, last night, that I would meet Cornelia at Richmond
Hill this morning. I will not go back on my word. Such fluctuability is
only fit for failure."
When he was dressed he went to his hotel and breakfasted there; for the
"cup of coffee" he had intended to ask of Mrs. Adams appeared, now, a
little presumptuous. In the enthusiasm of the previous night, with
Cornelia's smiles warming his imagination and her words thrilling his
heart, everything had seemed possible and natural; but last night and
this morning were different epochs. Last night, he had been better,
stronger than himself; this morning, he felt all the limitations of
social conveniences and tyrannies. Early as it was, there were many
members and senators present--eating, drinking coffee, and talking of
Franklin, or of the question of the Senate sitting with closed doors,
or of some other of the great little subjects then agitating society.
Hyde took no notice of any of these disputes until a man--evidently an
Englishman--called Franklin "a beggar-on-horseback-Yankee." Then he put
down his knife and fork, and looked steadily at the speaker, saying
with the utmost coolness and firmness--
"You are mistaken, sir. The beggar-on-horseback is generally supposed
to ride to the devil. Franklin rode to the highest posts of political
honour and to the esteem and affection of worthy men in all the
civilized world."
"I understand, I understand, sir," was the reply. "The infatuation of a
nation for some particular genius or leader is very like that of a man
for an ugly woman. When they do get their eyes opened, they wonder what
bewitched them."
"Sir, what is unreasonable is irrefutable." With these words he rose,
pushed aside his chair with a little temper, and, turning, met
Jefferson face to face. The great man smiled, and put his hand
affectionately on Hyde's shoulder. He had evidently heard the
conversation, for when he had made the usual greetings, he added--
"You spoke well, my young friend. Now, I will give you a piece of
advice--when any one abuses a great man in your presence, ask them what
kind of people, THEY admire. You will certainly be consoled." With
these words he took Hyde's chair; and Hyde, casting his eyes a moment
on this tall, loose-limbed man, whose cold blue eyes and red hair
emphasized the stern anger of his whole appearance, was well disposed
to leave the scurrilous Englishman to his power of reproof. Besides,
the badge of mourning which Jefferson wore had reminded him of his own
neglect. Probably, it was the want of this badge that had made the
stranger believe he was speaking to one who would sympathize with his
views.
So he went at once to his tailor's and procured the necessary band of
crape for his arm. But these events took time, and though he rode hard
afterwards, it was quite half-past nine when he drew rein at the door
of Richmond Hill. A slave in a fine livery was lounging there; and he
gave him his card. In a few moments the man returned with an invitation
to dismount and come into the breakfast-room. Thus far, he had suffered
himself to be carried forward by the impulse of his heart; and he still
put firmly down any wonder as to what he should say or do.
He was shown into a bright little parlour with open windows. A table,
elegantly and plentifully spread, occupied the centre of the room; and
sitting at it were the Vice-President and Mrs. Adams; and also their
only daughter, the beautiful, but not very intellectual, Mrs. Smith. It
was easy to see that the meal was really over, and that the trio had
been simply lingering over the table because of some interesting
discussion; and it was quite as easy to understand that his entrance
had put an end to the conversation. Mrs. Adams met him with genuine,
though formal, kindness; Mrs. Smith with courtesy; and the
Vice-President rose, bowed handsomely, hoped he was well, and then
after a minute's reflection said--
"We were talking about the official title proper for General
Washington. What do you think, Lieutenant? Or have you heard General
Hyde express any opinion on the subject?"
"Sir, I do not presume to understand the ceremonials of government. My
father is of the opinion, that 'The President of the United States' has
a Roman and republican simplicity, and that any addition to it would be
derogatory and childish."
"My dear young man, the eyes of the world are upon us. To give a title
to our leaders and rulers belongs to history. In the Roman republic
great conquerors assumed even distinctive titles, as well as national
ones."
"Then our Washington is superior to them. Let us be grateful that he
has not yet called himself--Americanus. I like Doctor Kunz's idea of
Washington best, but I see not how it could be put into a civil title."
"Doctor Kunz! Doctor Kunz! Oh yes, of the Dutch congregation. Pray what
is it?"
"'And there came up a lion out of Judah.' My grandfather is an elder in
that church, and he said the verse and the sermon on it lifted the
people to their feet."
"That might do very well for one side of a state seal; but it is a
proper prefix we need. I don't think we can say 'Your Majesty the
President.'"
"I should think not," replied Mrs. Adams with an air of decision.
"Chief Justice McKean thinks 'His Serene Highness the President of the
United States' is very suitable. Roger Sherman is of the opinion that
neither 'His Highness' nor 'His Excellency' are novel and dignified
enough; and General Muhlenberg says Washington himself is in favour of
'High Mightiness,' the title used by the Stadtholder of Holland."
"That would please the Dutch-Americans," said Mrs. Adams--"if a title
at all is necessary, which I confess I cannot understand. Is it to be
'High Mightiness' then?" she asked with a little laugh.
"I think not. Muhlenberg, however, has seriously offended the President
by making a joke of the proposition; and I must say, it was ill-timed
of Muhlenberg, and not what I should have expected of him."
"But what was the joke?"
"Something to the effect that if the office was certain to be held by
men as large as Washington, the title of 'High Mightiness' would not be
amiss; but that if a little man--say like Aaron Burr--should be
elected, the title would be a ridiculous one. The fact is, Muhlenberg
is against any title whatever but that of 'President of the United
States.'"
"And how will you vote, John?"
"In favour of a title. Certainly, I shall. Your Majesty is a very good
prefix. It would draw the attention of England, and show her that we
were not afraid to assume 'the majesty' of our conquest."
"And if you wish to please France," continued Mrs. Adams--"which seems
the thing in fashion--you might have the prefix 'Citizen.' 'Citizen
Washington' is not bad."
"It is execrable, Mrs. Adams; and I am ashamed that you should make it,
even as a pleasantry."
"Indeed, my friend, there is no foretelling what may be. The French
fever is rising every day. I even may be compelled to drop the
offensive 'Mistress' and call myself Citoyenne Adams. And, after all, I
do believe that the President regards his citizenship far above his
office. What say you, Lieutenant?"
"I think, madame, that fifty, one hundred, one thousand years after
this day, it will be of little importance what prefix is put before the
name of the President. He will be simply GEORGE WASHINGTON in every
heart and on every page."
"That is true," said Mrs. Adams. "Fame uses no prefixes. It is Pompey,
Julius Caesar, Pericles, Alfred, Hampden, Oliver Cromwell. Or it is a
suffix like Alexander the Great; or Richard Coeur-de-Lion. I have no
objection to Washington the Great, or Washington Coeur-de-Lion."
"Washington will do for love and for fame," continued Hyde. "The next
generation may say MR. Madison, or MR. Monroe, or MR. Jay; but they
will want neither prefix nor suffix to Washington, Jefferson,
Franklin,--and, if you permit me, sir--Adams."
The Vice-president was much pleased. He said "Pooh! Pooh!" and stood up
and stepped loftily across the hearth-rug, but the subtle compliment
went warm to his heart, and the real worth of the man's nature came
straight to the front, as he looked, under its influence, the honest,
positive, honourable gentleman that every great occasion found him to
be.
"Well, well," he answered; "heartily, and from our souls, we must do
our best, and then trust to Truth and Time, our name and our memory.
But I must now go to town--our affairs give us no holidays." And then
instantly the room was in a fuss and a flurry. No Englishman could have
made a more bustling exit; and, indeed, even in his physical aspect,
John Adams was a perfect picture of the traditional John Bull. His
natural temperament carried out this likeness: high-mettled as a
game-cock during the Revolutionary war, he was, in politics,
passionate, dogmatic and unconciliating, and in social life ceremonious
and showy as any Englishman could be.
After he had gone, Mrs. Adams proposed a walk in the lovely garden; and
Hyde hoped then to obtain a few words with her. But Mrs. Smith
accompanied them, and introduced immediately a grievance she had
evidently been previously discussing. With a provoking petulance she
told and re-told some slight which Sir John Temple had offered Mr.
Smith: adding always "Lady Temple is very civil to me; but I cannot,
and I will not, exchange visits with any lady who does not pay my
William an equal civility." Enlarging and enlarging on this text, Hyde
found no opportunity to get a word in on his own affairs; and then,
suddenly, as they turned into the main avenue, Doctor Moran and
Cornelia appeared.
Quite as suddenly, Mrs. Adams divined the motive of Hyde's early visit;
she opened her eyes wide, and looked at him with a comprehension so
clear and real that Hyde was compelled to answer, and acknowledge her
suspicion by a look and movement quite as unequivocal. Yet this
instantaneous understanding contained neither promise nor sympathy; and
he could not tell whether he had gained a friend or simply made a
confession.
Doctor Moran was evidently both astonished and annoyed. He stepped out
of his carriage and joined Mrs. Adams but kept Cornelia by his side, so
that Hyde was compelled to escort Mrs. Smith. And Cornelia, beyond a
very civil "Good-morning, sir," gave him no sign. He could watch her
slight, virginal figure, and the bend of her head in answering Mrs.
Adams gave him transient glimpses of her fair face; but there was no
message in all its changes for him. In fact, in spite of Mrs. Smith's
little rill of social complaining, he felt quite "out" of the inner
circle of the company's interests, and he was also deeply mortified at
Cornelia's apparent indifference.
When the party reached the steps before the house door, though Mrs.
Adams certainly invited him to remain, he had come to the conclusion
that he was just the one person NOT wanted at that time; yet as he had
plenty of self-command he completely hid beneath a gay and charming
manner the chagrin and disappointment that were really tormenting him.
For one moment he caught Cornelia's eyes, but his glance was too rapid
and inquisitive. She was embarrassed, and a little frightened by it;
and with a deep blush turned towards Mrs. Smith and said something
trivial about the weather and the fine view. He could not understand
this attitude. Feelings of tenderness, anger, mortification,--feelings
strong and threefold crowded his beating heart and vivid brain. He
longed to set his restless thoughts to rapid movement--to gallop--to
ejaculate--to do any foolish thing that would relieve his sense of
vexation and defeat. But until he was out of sight and hearing he rode
slowly, with the easy air of a man who was only sensitive to the beauty
of his surroundings, and thoroughly enjoying them.
He kept this pace till quite outside the precincts of Richmond Hill,
then he struck his horse with a passion that astonished the animal and
the next moment shamed himself. He stooped instantly and apologized to
the quivering creature; and was as instantly forgiven. Then he began to
talk to himself in those elliptical, unfinished sentences, which the
inner man understands, and so thoroughly finishes--"If I were not
morally sure--It is as plain as can be--How in the name of
wonder?--I'll say so much for myself--I am sorry that I went there--A
couple of uninteresting women--This for you, sir!--Whistled myself up
this morning on a fool's errand--No more! no more to save my
life!--Grant me patience--Mrs. Smith giving herself a parcel of
airs--Oh, adorable Cornelia!"
Such reflections, blended with pet names and apologies to his horse,
brought him in sight of the Van Heemskirk house, and he instantly felt
how good his grandmother's sympathy would be. He saw her at the door,
leaning over the upper-half and watching his approach.
"I knew it was thee!" she cried; "always, the clatter of thy horse's
hoofs says plainly to me, 'Grand-moth-er! grand-moth-er!
grand-moth-er!' Now, then, what is the matter with thee? Disappointed,
wert thou last night?"
"No--but this morning I have been badly used; and I am angry at it."
Then he told her all the circumstances of his visit to Richmond Hill,
and she listened patiently, as was her way with all complainers.
"In too great haste art thou," were her first words. "No worse I think
of Cornelia, because a little she draws back. To want, and to have thy
want, that has been the way with thee all thy life long. Even thy sword
and the battlefield were not denied thee; but a woman's love!--that is
to be won. Little wouldst thou value it, lightly wouldst thou hold it,
if it were thine for the wishing. Thy mother has taught thee to expect
too much."
"And my grandmother?"
"That is so. A very foolish old woman is thy grandmother. Too much she
loves thee, or she had not sent thee to Arenta's last night with her
best ivory winders."
"Oh, Arenta is a very darling! Had she been present this morning, she
had taken the starch out of all our fine talk and fine manners. We
should have chattered like the swallows about pleasant homely things;
and left title-making to graver fools."
"If, now, thou had fallen in love with Arenta, it had been a good
thing."
"If I had not seen Cornelia, I might have adored Arenta--but, then,
Arenta has already a lover."
"So? And pray who is it?"
"Of all men in the world, the gay, handsome Frenchman, Athanase
Tounnerre, a member of the French embassy. How a girl so plainly Dutch
can endure the creature confounds me."
"Stop a little. The grandmother of Arenta was French. Very well I
remember her--a girl all alive, from head to foot; never still. Thy
grandfather used to say, 'In her veins is quick-silver, not blood,'
And, too soon, she wore away her life; Arenta's mother was but a baby,
when she died."
"Ah! So it is! We are the past, as well as the present. As for myself--"
"Thou art thy father over again; only sweeter, and better--that is the
Dutch in thee--the happy, easy-going Dutch--if only thou wert not so
lazy."
"That is the English in me--the self-indulgent, masterful English. So
then, Arenta, being partly French, back to the French she goes. 'Tis
passing strange."
"Of this, art thou sure?"
"I have listened to the man. Every one has. He wears Arenta's name on
his sleeve. He drinks her health in all companies. He will talk to any
stranger he meets, for an hour at a time, about his 'fair Arenta.' I
can but wonder at the fellow. It is inconceivable to me; for though I
am passionately taken with Cornelia Moran, I hide her close in my
heart. I should want to strike any man who breathed her name. Yet it is
said of Athanase de Tounnerre that he paid a visit to every one he
knew, in order to tell them of his felicity."
"And her father? To such a marriage what will he say?"
Hyde stretched out his legs and struck them lightly with his riding
whip. Then, with a smile, he answered, "He will be proud enough in his
heart. Arenta would certainly leave him soon, and the Dutch are very
sensible to the charm of a title. His daughter, the Marquise de
Tounnerre, will be a very great woman in his eyes."
"That is the truth. I was glad for thy mother to be a lady, and go to
Court, and see the Queen. Yes, indeed! in my heart I was proud of it
'Twas about that very thing poor Janet Semple and I became unfriends."
"Indeed, it is the common failing; and at present, there is no one like
the French. I will except the President, and Mr. Adams, and Mr.
Hamilton, and say the rest of us are French mad."
"Thy grandfather, and thy grandmother too, thou may except. And as for
thy father, with a great hatred he names them."
"My father is English; and the English and French are natural and
salutary enemies. I once heard Lord Exmouth say that France was to
England all that Carthage was to Rome--the natural outlet for the
temper of a people so quarrelsome that they would fight each other if
they had not the French to fight."
"Listen! That is thy father's gallop. Far off, I know it. So early in
the morning, what is he coming for?"
"He had an intention to go to Mr. Semple's funeral."
"That is good. Thy grandfather is already gone--" and she looked so
pointedly down at her black petticoat and bodice, that Hyde answered--
"Yes; I see that you are in mourning. Is it for Mr. Franklin, or for
Mr. Semple?"
"Franklin was far off; by my fireside Alexander Semple often sat; and
at my table often he ate. Good friends were we once--good friends are
we now; for all but Love, Death buries."
At this moment General Hyde entered the room. Hurry and excitement were
in his face, though they were well controlled. He gave his hand to
Madame Van Heemskirk, saying--
"Good-morning, mother! You look well, as you always do:"--then turning
to his son and regarding the young man's easy, smiling indifference, he
said with some temper, "What the devil, George, are you doing here, so
early in the day? I have been through the town seeking
you--everywhere--even at that abominable Club, where Frenchmen and
vagabonds of all kinds congregate."
"I was at the Vice-President's, sir," answered George, with a comical
assumption of the Vice-President's manner.
"You were WHERE?"
"At Richmond Hill. I made an early call on Mrs. Adams."
Then General Hyde laughed heartily. "You swaggering dandy!" he replied.
"Did you take a bet at the Belvedere to intrude on His Loftiness? And
have you a guinea or two on supping a cup of coffee with him? Upon my
honour, you must now be nearly at the end of your follies. Mother,
where is the Colonel?"
"He has gone to Elder Semple's house. You know--"
"I know well. For a long time I have purposed to call on the old
gentleman, and what I have neglected I am now justly denied. I meant,
at least, to pay him the last respect; but even that is to-day
impossible. For I must leave for England this afternoon at five
o'clock, and I have more to do than I can well accomplish."
George leaped to his feet at these words. Nothing could have been more
unexpected; but that is the way with Destiny, her movements are ever
unforeseen and inevitable. "Sir," he cried, "what has happened?"
"Your uncle is dying--perhaps dead. I received a letter this morning
urging me to take the first packet. The North Star sails this
afternoon, and I do not wish to miss her, for she flies English
colours, and they are the only ones the Barbary pirates pretend to
respect. Now, George, you must come with me to Mr. Hamilton's office;
we have much business to arrange there; then, while I pay a farewell
visit to the President, you can purchase for me the things I shall
require for the voyage."
So far his manner had been peremptory and decided, but, suddenly, a
sweet and marvellous change occurred. He went close to Madame Van
Heemskirk, and taking both her hands, said in a voice full of those
tones that captivate women's hearts--
"Mother! mother! I bid you a loving, grateful farewell! You have ever
been to me good, and gentle, and wise--the very best of mothers. God
bless you!" Then he kissed her with a solemn tenderness, and Lysbet
understood that he believed their parting to be a final one. She sat
down, weeping, and Hyde with an authoritative motion of the head,
commanding his son's attendance, went hastily out. It was then eleven
o'clock, and there was business that kept both men hurrying here and
there until almost the last hour. It had been agreed that they were to
meet at the City Hotel at four o'clock; and soon after that hour
General Hyde joined his son. He looked weary and sad, and began
immediately to charge George concerning his mother.
"We parted with kisses and smiles this morning," he said; "and I am
glad of it; if I went back, we should both weep; and a wet parting is
not a lucky one. I leave her in your charge, George; and when I send
her word to come to England, look well to her comfort. And be sure to
come with her. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
"On no account--even if she wishes it--permit her to come alone.
Promise me."
"I promise you, sir. What is there that I would not do for my mother?
What is there I would not do to please you, sir?"
"Let me tell you, George, such words are very sweet to me. As to
yourself, I do not fear for you. It is above, and below reason, that
you should do anything to shame your kindred, living or dead--the
living indeed, you might reconcile; the dead are implacable; and their
vengeance is to be feared."
"I fear not the dead, and I love the living. The honour of Hyde is safe
in my keeping. If you have any advice to give me, sir, pray speak
plainly."
"With all my soul. I ask you, then, to play with some moderation. I ask
you to avoid any entanglement with women. I ask you to withdraw
yourself, as soon as possible, from those blusterers for French
liberty--or rather French license, robbery, and assassination--I tell
you there is going to be a fierce national fracas on the subject. Stand
by the President, and every word he says. Every word is sure to be wise
and right."
"Father, I learnt the word 'Liberty' from your lips. I drew my sword
under your command for 'Liberty.' I know not how to discard an idea
that has grown into my nature as the veining grows into the wood."
"Liberty! Yes; cherish it with your life-blood. But France has polluted
the name and outraged the idea. Neither you nor I can wish to be swept
into the common sewers, being by birth, nobles and aristocrats. Earl
Stanhope, who was heart and soul with the French Revolution while it
was a movement for liberty, has just scratched his name with his own
hand from the revolutionary Club. And Burke, who was once its most
enthusiastic defender, has now written a pamphlet which has given it,
in England, a fatal blow. This news came in my letters to-day." Then
taking out his watch, he rose, saying, "Come, it is time to go to the
ship--MY DEAR GEORGE!"
George could not speak. He clasped his father's hand, and then walked
by his side to Coffee House Slip, where the North Star was lying. There
was no time to spare, and the General was glad of it; for oh, these
last moments! Youth may prolong them, but age has lost youth's rebound,
and willingly escapes their disintegrating emotion. Before either
realized the fact, the General had crossed the narrow plank; it was
quickly withdrawn; the anchor was lifted to the chanty of "Homeward
bound boys," and the North Star, with wind and tide in her favour, was
facing the great separating ocean.
George turned from the ship in a maze. He felt as if his life had been
cut sharply asunder; at any rate, its continuity was broken, and what
other changes this change might bring it was impossible to foresee. In
any extremity, however, there is generally some duty to do; and the
doing of that duty is the first right step onward. Without reasoning on
the matter, George followed this plan. He had a letter to deliver to
his mother; it was right that it should be delivered as soon as
possible; and indeed he felt as if her voice and presence would be the
best of all comfort at that hour; so late as it was, he rode out to
Hyde Manor. His mother, with a lighted candle in her hand, opened the
door for him.
"I thought it was thy father, Joris," she said; "but what? Is there
anything wrong? Why art thou alone?"
"There is nothing wrong, dear mother. Come, I will tell you what has
happened."
Then she locked the door carefully, and followed her son into the small
parlour, where she had been sitting. He gave her his father's letter,
and assumed for her sake, the air of one who has brought good tidings.
She silently read, and folded it; and George said, "It was the most
fortunate thing, the North Star being ready for sea. Father could
hardly have had a better boat; and they started with wind and tide in
their favour. We shall hear in a few weeks from him. Are you not
pleased, mother?"
"It is too late, Joris;--twenty years too late. And I wish not to go to
England. Very unhappy was I in that cold, grey country. Very happy am I
here."
"But you must have expected this change?"
"Not until your cousin died was there any thought of such a thing. And
long before that, we had built and begun to love dearly this home. I
wish, then, it had been God's will that your cousin had not died."
"My father--"
"Ah, Joris, your father has always longed in his heart for England.
Like a weaning babe that never could be weaned was he. In many ways, he
has lately shown me that he felt himself to be a future English earl.
And thou too? Wilt thou become an Englishman? Then this fair home I
have made for thee will forget thy voice and thy footstep. Woe is me! I
have planted and planned, for whom I know not."
"You have planned and planted for your Joris. I swear to you that I
like England as little as you do. I despise the tomfoolery of courts
and ceremonies. I count an earl no better than any other honourable
gentleman. I desire most of all to marry the woman I love, and live
here in the home that reminds me of you wherever I turn. I want your
likeness on the great stairway, and in all the rooms; so that those who
may never see your face may love you; and say, 'How good she looks! How
beautiful she is!'"
"So true art thou! So loving! So dear to me! Even in England I can be
happy if I think of thee Here--filling these big rooms with good
company; riding, shooting, over thine own land, fishing in thy own
waters, telling thy boys and girls how dear grandmother had this pond
dug--this hedge planted--these woods filled with game--these streams
set with willows--these summerhouses built for pleasure. Oh, I have
thought ever as I worked, I shall leave my memory here--and here--and
here again--for never, Joris, never, dear Joris, while thou art in this
world, must thou forget me!"
"Never! Never, oh never, dear, dear mother!"
And that night they said no more. Both felt there would be plenty of
time in the future to consider whatever changes it might have in store
for them.